The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 135

Chapter 135: 135 | The Irritated Housecat

Silence. Mercer waited. Nothing came.

Jane’s lips moved. Just barely. The gold daggers caught the studio light.

"Would you like to expand on that?" Mercer tried.

"I resolve cases. That’s the job. The pace is the pace. Next question."

Mercer’s palm hit the desk. Not hard enough to be angry. Just enough to tell the room he was recalibrating. "Alright. Let’s talk about the incident in Brooklyn last month. You suppressed a telekinetic-class threat in a residential zone. Fourteen concurrent applications documented in the after-action report. The assessment proctor described your output as, and I’m quoting here, ’disproportionate to the engagement requirements.’ Your response?"

"The engagement required the threat to stop. The threat stopped. I don’t see the disproportion."

Jane leaned forward. The redirect was coming. I could see her loading it.

"Tempest, your approval rating dropped four points after that incident. There’s been discussion about whether the level of force you used was appropriate for a residential zone, regardless of the outcome. How do you respond to critics who suggest your methods prioritize speed over community safety?"

Roza Guseva turned her head toward Sabrina Jane with the specific expression of someone asked whether water was wet.

"I respond by pointing out that zero civilians were harmed, zero structures sustained damage beyond the target building which was already compromised, and the threat was neutralized in under ninety seconds. If someone can explain to me how that constitutes a community safety concern, I will listen to that explanation. I will probably disagree with it. But I will listen."

"Your critics would say the optics of a Rank Seven Hero applying overwhelming force in a neighborhood full of families sends a message that doesn’t align with public confidence."

"My critics can come do the job. I’ll wait."

"Let me ask you something different." Jane’s tone dropped into something warmer. The redirect. "You’ve been guest lecturing at Halloran Academy for two years now. Dr. Ashby has invited you repeatedly. You’ve never turned him down. For someone who describes most professional obligations as, quote, ’administrative overhead,’ that’s notable. Why do you keep going back?"

Something shifted in Roza’s expression. Not softening. Nothing about the woman softened. The irritation that was baseline finally pulled back a quarter of an inch and left behind something that registered as either genuine consideration or the closest approximation that face was capable of producing. She held the pause for two seconds longer than would be comfortable in a normal conversation. Sabrina Jane didn’t interrupt. The woman knew when she’d finally hit actual ground.

"The students are the point," Roza said. "The cases exist because someone decided to walk into an academy at eighteen and learn how to do this correctly instead of badly. The teaching matters. I have opinions about how it should happen. Strong opinions. Halloran’s approach aligns with several of those. It violates others in ways I find structurally frustrating. I have expressed this to Dr. Ashby. He has listened. He has not changed anything. He is correct not to. The tension between what I think should be taught and what Halloran actually teaches is useful. It produces better students than either version alone would."

She paused. Took a drink from the water glass that had been sitting untouched for the last four questions. Set it down with more precision than the action required.

Two hands slid over my shoulders from behind the couch. Warm palms settled against my chest, fingers spread wide across the henley fabric, and I felt the familiar press of Diane’s body as she leaned over the back of the couch and rested her weight on top of my head. Soft. Warm. Deliberately placed, because nothing Diane Fitzgerald did was accidental.

"Oh, Tempest." Her voice came from directly above me, carrying the fond exasperation of someone discussing a talented child who refused to eat vegetables. Her chin settled into my hair as she watched the screen. "I did offer her some advice once. At a Hero gala about four years ago. She’d just hit Rank Eight and her agency was hemorrhaging sponsorship opportunities because she kept telling reporters their questions were stupid."

"What kind of advice?"

"The kind that would have tripled her endorsement value and given her team an actual media strategy instead of letting her walk into interviews dressed like she’s about to invade a small country." Diane’s fingers curled against my chest, her nails tracing a lazy pattern through the henley that I felt all the way down to my stomach. "She told me to fuck off."

I snorted. "Direct quote?"

"Direct quote. She said, and I remember this very clearly because nobody had said it to my face in about seven years, ’I don’t need a brand. I need people to stop being in my way. Fuck off.’" Diane’s chest vibrated against the top of my skull as she laughed at the memory, soft and low. "She’s a strong Hero. Genuinely talented. Rank Seven for good reason. But she’ll never reach her true heights because her personality is a liability she refuses to manage. Sponsors won’t touch her. Media avoids her. Her agency is essentially just an assistant she hired to handle paperwork. She could be top five if she’d let someone help her communicate with the public like a human being instead of an irritated housecat."

On screen, Roza was telling Mercer his question about the upcoming quarterly rankings was irrelevant because rankings measured the wrong things. Mercer was loving every second of it. Jane took notes, the actual kind, in a small pad she kept just below camera line.

"I like her."