Free Young Sentinels (Wearing the Cape) (Volume 3) by Marion G. Harmon

Definitely.” Then Chakra joined us and got in an eye-rolling argument with The Harlequin over the merits of duster coats while I tried not to dribble into my cereal bowl. Both of them were seriously hot, even if “Call me Quin” looked like she was molded out of latex. Chakra knew they were shaking my couth, and obviously thought it was funny. I ate fast and excused myself for my morning appointment with Dr. Beth.
    The Sentinels’ doctor reminded me of my childhood dentist: always happy to see me, and so cheerful it almost didn’t matter that visits were painful . He asked me to take off my shirt again. Even after years of high school gym I hated undressing in front of anybody, but he’d already figured that out and made it easier by not looking until he was ready to poke me with something.
    He patted the examination table. “Sore anywhere this morning?”
    “Not really.” After smacking the concrete yesterday, I’d expected to hurt all over. Instead, even the bump on my head barely felt tender. I’d put on the ankle brace this morning, but hardly needed it.
    He “hmm’d” to himself, poking and prodding my back with latex-gloved hands. Nodding, he turned to a cabinet to retrieve a white metal box, opening it behind me.
    “Tell me if this feels uncomfortable,” he said cheerfully and pressed something against my back, below my ribs. A click, and a little tap from the...rod? Tube? I shook my head. Click . A slightly stronger tap. Click . Tap. Click . Tap. Click . Tap. “Now?”
    “I’m good.”
    “Excellent.” More rummaging in the box. Click . TAP.
    “Ouch!”
    “And what did that feel like?”
    I reached back and rubbed the spot. “Like someone poked me with a stick! What is that?” He held up what looked like a plastic gun. A tube ran from it to the box and it had an extended ring on the end — the part he must have been holding against my back.
    “An air gun.” He checked its setting, made a note. “It fires bursts of compressed air at set pressures. At higher settings it can drive nails, and the last shot you felt would have driven the nail through steel sheeting. Congratulations.”
    “For what ?”
    “You now possess D Class toughness. You had to, really, but it’s always good to confirm.”
    “Huh?”
    Leaning back against a counter, he regarded me with bright eyes. Something was seriously wrong with the man.
    He boxed the air gun as he talked. “Yesterday, your first eruption threw a bus off of you. Your second, more sustained burst, threw you into the air. You obey at least one of the basic laws of physics: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. So your first eruption should have flattened you into the ground, but you didn’t describe that at all.”
    Letting me put my shirt back on, he led me over to one of his banks of screens. Tapping a couple of keys, he brought up a picture of a spray-painted “X” on a scorched and shattered concrete drive. “Also, judging from your elevation and velocity when your thrust cut out, you should have blacked out from the g-force involved.”
    I stared at the picture. “That’s where I was?”
    “Oh, yes.” He nodded happily, tapping the screen. “See. You struck the bus with several tons of explosive thrust, and the opposite ‘kick’ cracked the pavement. If your body had not also changed to withstand that force, it would have been like a paper gun firing a high-caliber bullet.” He slapped his hands together unnecessarily — I got the idea: squish .
    “So, I’m stronger now, too?”
    “Not stronger. Tougher. More resilient and resistant to damage. And you’ll find you heal faster too.” He made a wavy motion with his hand. “Perhaps a little stronger. Let’s find out.”
    ----
    A series of scans and muscle-hammering sets later, he let me go with another lollypop. I was stronger. Not superhuman, rip-the-door-off strong, but I could rack more than I’d ever seen anyone do at school. Probably the only thing