Harker, year 0, Selection Process, Colby

The sky didn’t match Colby’s mood, and that was a shame. It was gray, while he was excited to be in the pickup with his father, arriving at the state’s auction house. It was Colby’s first time taking part, and marked his coming shift to working fully at the ranch, instead of splitting his time between that and school.

He didn’t mind school. He understood it was important for him to learn the basics of the world, although why what happened hundreds of years ago mattered always escaped him.

But he was a rancher. Like his father and mother. His brothers and sisters, his uncles and aunts. A Rowling was a rancher unless they were too young to work in the fields, or too old.

And he wasn’t one of the Rowlings who’d make the decisions. So he didn’t need much of an education.

The pickup stopped next to another, and among so many others, the parking lot could be for a car auction instead of a livestock one. Other ranchers gathered by the building’s entrance.

Colby was awed by its size. Concrete block walls about three times his height and stretching left and right far enough, the walls looked to shrink to his height. He knew that was just an illusion. Perspective, the art teacher called it.

“We made good time,” his father said. “So we’re going to have to wait until the doors open.” He smiled. “It’s going to give you time to meet the competition.”

Colby shrugged. He didn’t mind waiting. Most of his life was spent waiting. Waiting for class to end so he could return home and work on the ranch. Waiting for Gregg to look his way so he could smile and hope the hunk figured out why. Waiting for his family members to stop talking to he could slip in a word or two.

But he’d given up on that years ago. Rowlings just loved to talk.

The March day was chilly, with the sun behind the clouds, so he was glad his father had insisted he bring a jacket.

“Better having to carry it, then ending up freezing your balls off. Rowling men aren’t meant to lose those.”

Colby had chuckled at that.

The men in his family were certainly stud material, considering how many children each family had. There hadn’t been a need to hire outside help all the way since his great-grandfather.

“Hey, Gertrude!” his father greeted the older woman speaking with a group of other women. Ranching was chiefly a man’s world, so the few women competing in it stuck together.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Gav Rowling,” she greeted back, tone dripping with more disgust when Colby ever expected from another Rancher. They were competitors, but they were Ranchers first. And if there was animosity between the two ranch, Colby would have heard about it no matter how discreet it was. No one in his family could keep a secret.

“And who’s that?” she asked, with only a little less dripping.

Gavin pulled Colby to him. “That is my son, and the pride of the ranch. Colby. Meet Gertrude McCarthy. Witch of the Bulls, Bitch extraordinaire.”

Colby stared at his father. The man had worked hard to instill respect of everyone in him, but especially of woman. For him to use that kind of language was—

Gertrude burst out laughing. “You always had a way with words, Gav.” She tipped her hat to him. “Pleasure meeting you, Colby.”

He returned the tip uncertainly. “Ma’am.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You sure he’s one of yours? Awfully quiet for a Rowling.”

“Colby’s the pink sheep of the family in more ways than one.”

He rolled his eyes. That joke had been old when he’d turned twelve and discovered that guys really got his hormones going.

“How many heads are you putting up this time?” she asked.

“I’ll decide that one once I know that the start prices are at. Hope they’re good to you too this year, Gertrude.”

Colby accompanied his father to other ranchers and was introduced. His lack of verboseness was commented on each time. Colby didn’t mind. He’d grown used to being the oddity in his family because of it.

“Okay,” Matt Hardcastle asked. “How many does he make?”

“Colby’s my ninth kid,” his father answered.

“How the fuck do you have nine kids, Gav?” the rancher asked in dismay.

“I have twelve, and if I have to explain how kids are made, Matt, I’d like to know where the three of yours are from.”

“How do you find the time?”

“You don’t find the time for that, Matt. You make it.”

“I’d hope his wife enjoys his company more than we do,” Hercule Barrera commented, and got the finger in return. The old man nodded to the TV station van to the side, with people taking out equipment. “They going to broadcast the circus, yet again. Why they bother, I’ll never get.”

“It’s called entertainment, Herc,” Matt said.

“What the fuck’s entertaining about watching a bunch of men—”

“And women,” his father interjected.

“Whatever. What’s so entertaining about us bitching about being robbed by the state again?”

“Some people dream of being ranchers,” Matt said.

“Why?” old man Barrera replied in exasperation. “It’s spending your days wrestling cattle, your nights in pain, and any other minute trying to find the money to keep going.”

Colby didn’t comment. He enjoyed wrestling the occasional rumbustious bull. And the rest was his father’s job. Well, not the pain. Gavin made sure everyone did things safely on the Rowling Ranch. Injuries were expensive.

Honking had them look to the parking lot entrance, as six pickups careened on.

“Oh, fucking tell me we aren’t having a bunch of newbies screwing up the prices this year,” Old Man Barrera muttered.

“Come on, Hercule, fresh blood’s always good,” his father said, then frowned.

The pickups came to a stop almost immediately and blocked the entrance. One skidded and caused a man in the bed to tip over onto the ground, laughing.

“Parking’s over there,” Gertrude yelled, then muttered. “Assholes.”

The men and women jumped out of the beds as the drivers exited. Then took rifles out, putting them over their shoulders, causing the ranchers to wince, before advancing, one of the drivers taking the lead.

“Bunch of wanna bes,” Matt said.

The one that caught Colby’s attention was the woman with the massive upper body. Far too massive for a normal person. It didn’t mean anything, by itself. Not every parahuman with a visible change had power to match that change, but the fact she wasn’t holding a rifle, where everyone else did, made her stand out.

Not everyone else. The man who stepped out from behind her and gave her a smile, like his father gave his mother, also didn’t have a weapon.

“Howdy, folks. Ladies.” The man in the lead said, stopping a hundred feet from them and tipping his hat to them. “Fine day for business, ain’t it?”

The man’s smile, as much as how the people with him putting their rifles in front of them, caused the mood among the ranchers to shift. Only the words were pleasant.

“It might be,” Gavin said, taking a step forward. “Depending on the kind of business you’re looking to engage in.”

“I’m engaging in the lucrative kind of business,” the man replied, smiling. “Ain’t any other kinds, ain’t that right?”

“Good business never needs weapons in the open.”

The man looked over his shoulder. “Well, I said lucrative. Never claimed it’d be good business for you. See, I figure lots of successful ranchers like you setting up to bid on animals have to bring money with you. Money you’re going to give me, unless you want my associates to make use of those weapons on you.”

“Son,” Gavin said. “You know anything of how ranching works?”

“I know there’s millions in it. And today I’m getting my share.”

“Where the fuck did you get your information?” Old Man Barrera demanded. “We haven’t brought cash to these since I was a kid.”

“Bullshit, I watched documentaries. I know the kind of money involved in running a ranch. Money that’s never in a bank.”

“Because it’s invested in our livestock,” Gavin said. “Our equipment and our land. Our ranches are worth millions, but that’s not money we have access to. If that documentary was any good, it would have told you our margins are so tight that every year half a dozen ranchers lose everything to one miscalculation.”

“Bullshit!” the man raised his tone as if that would change the situation. “You’re just making that up because you’re greedy, just like every other businessman out there.”

“Listen here, you punk,” Old man Barrera said, stepping forward and opening his jacket to reveal the gun at his hip. “You don’t get to come here and—”

The detonation sent him back, and the ranchers returned fire.

Colby stepped before his father, his back to the robbers, and felt the bullets hit. He wasn’t worried. He’d discovered he was bulletproof the year before, when Jambalaya was shooting cans while he was cleaning the field behind it, and she missed.

“Cover!” Gavin yelled, and Colby stayed with him until they were behind a pickup.

“Strong woman,” Colby said, and then, as blasts hit the concrete wall. “Blaster.”

“Fucking parahumans,” someone said.

Colby looked over the pickup in time to see the woman lift a car over her head; the others had taken refuge behind their own pickups. He ran in her direction as she threw it and punched the car.

That it wrapped itself around him from the impact, instead of being sent in another direction, baffled Colby. He wasn’t much for television; he had too much to do on the ranch. But he’d caught sight of the Captain Strength show that Tommy liked to watch. In that show, anytime the Captain batted something aside so it wouldn’t hit others, it flew away.

Here, his fist had sunk into the grill until it hit something harder, probably the engine block, and he’d been pushed back, sliding as the car moved around him. Now he was encased in it. He pushed and pulled on parts until something broke, and he stepped out.

The woman was picking up another car.

He grabbed the wreck next to him, and it mostly fell apart as he threw it. The chunk that flew at her might have been part of the engine, but it hit hard enough she staggered and dropped the car. He ran toward her while she regained her footing. They shot him, but other than making holes in his jacket and shirt, it didn’t bother him.

He shouldered her and pushed her away from the cars until she planted a foot down and threw him over her shoulder. The pavement cracked under him, and he rolled out of the way of the coming fist, that made a deeper hole where he’d been.

He punched, but unlike the bulls he needed to teach not to headbutt him, she didn’t stay in place, so he was off balance. She kicked him, and he hit a pickup, causing the people who’d been using it for cover while shooting at the rancher to scream. He got to his feet in time to catch her fist in his hand. When she pulled, he didn’t let go, so was moved.

He managed to keep his footing and caught her other fist in his free hand. Then they were wrestling, her trying to pull them out of his grip, and him trying to come up with a way to get her on the ground. Being as strong as he was had taught him things about leverage and how problematic it was not to have any.

Only she wouldn’t go down.

As they struggled, his view of the shootout changed as they pivoted. The pickups the ranchers were hiding behind were in worse shape than those of their shooters because of the parahuman blaster.

He needed to take him out of the fight, or someone else would get seriously hurt.

He didn’t have a choice.

“Sorry, Ma’am.”

“What are you—”

He let go of her hand and punched her in the chest as hard as he could. It was hard enough she was wrenched out of his other hand. She landed on the other side of the parking lot and curled in on herself. Arms over her chest.

He felt horrible about doing that, but—

“Marie-Beth!”

Colby turned as the blaster shot him. He had his arm up in time to protect his face, and when the blasts didn’t rip his arm off, even if it hurt more than bullets, he advanced.

It hurt a bit more the closer he got, then it stopped.

He peeked over his arm.

The parahuman was against the pickup, panting hard.

Colby was unsure what to do. If he was out of juice that meant the others were safe from him. So…should he knock him out? He’d have to be careful.

The man faced him, grinning maliciously, a hand glowing. The following flash of light hurt, and Colby swung reflexively, hitting someone, and the pain stopped along with the light.

The blaster was on the ground a dozen feet away, groaning in pain.

Relief at not killing him was right on the heel of the fear he’d done so by lashing out. His shirt was done for, as was his jacket, but at least, Magnus, in the holster at his belt was fine. The lack of his jacket sucked because now, he was feeling the cold.

Motion in the corner of his eye. The woman, Marie-Beth, running toward the ranchers. He wouldn’t reach her in time, and she was strong enough to hurt, and even kill with her hands.

Colby grabbed the pickup before him, closing his hand on the tire’s hub, and exploding the tire. He figured the axles would be strong enough to stay intact as he raised it. Then, he threw it at the woman as hard as he could. It hit and kept going until it impacted the concrete wall.

Stuff hitting the ground behind him caused him to turn. The men and women who’d been shooting behind the pickup he’d thrown had dropped their weapons and raised their hands.

He didn’t understand why, but he wouldn’t argue. He motioned for them to back as he approached, and they hurried to do so. He kicked the rifles and guns away, which made the other shooters aware of him. They turned to aim at him, and seemed to realize the pickup was missing, the shirtless state Colby was in, and the still on the ground blaster who had been their strongest shooter.

They dropped their weapons and moved away.

Then the ranchers were there and tied the shooters up.

“Thanks for that,” Gertrude said as she restrained a shooter. “I’ll never say a bad thing about a Rowling for as long as I live.”

“Much obliged,” he replied, reaching to tip his hat to her, only for his fingers to close over nothing. He patted his head and only felt his short hair. He searched around and found what was left of it a few feet from the remnant of his jacket.

“Fuck.” He’d loved that hat.

“I’ll get you a new one, son,” Gavin said, taking his jacket off and draping it over his shoulders.

“And this is the amazing young man who single-handedly saved the ranchers,” a man in a suit, holding a microphone, said. “What is your name?” He pointed the microphone at Colby, a cameraman behind him, and the TV news van further away.

What was the man talking about? Colby hadn’t done anything special. He’d certainly not ‘single-handedly’ anything. Everyone had played a part.

“This is my son,” his father said with pride. “Colby Rowling.”