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BOTH Deviance: the Bombshell origin story

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like the pancake
Dec 7, 2019
A/n: Welcome back, party people, to another Spark story! This time detailing the origin of Bombshell, everybody's favorite walking controversy. There's plenty of rapid XWG ahead in this relatively short read, and it'll go to some dark places, but rest assured, all triggers will be tagged. Now without further ado, please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times...

by stevita



At only thirty-five, Bob Roberts would say he'd seen enough excitement for a lifetime.

That he had secured a teaching position at the Rivington Hero Academy had less to do with birth and more to do with experience. He had no powers himself, unless a genius intellect and a knack for programming counted. To date, he had programmed everything from surveillance software to weapons for several major superheroes. And supervillains. And the United States government. And the Russians.

He didn't consider himself evil. It was just...he had come from nothing, living in a run-down apartment with his single mother and four older sisters, shivering through the winters when the city shut off their heat. On nights when the fridge was empty, the only thing on the menu for dinner was sleep.

When he finally entered the workforce, he could never say no to a check.

Now, though? He was set. After securing the teaching post with a resume that left off his shadier activities, he was finally able to live a comfortable, quiet life, teaching programming to the up and coming generation of Genetic Deviants--future heroes--while making enough to send some money back to dear old Mom.

Yep, this was the life.

On break, he collapsed into the seat of a teachers' lounge chair and unwrapped the Philly cheese steak sandwich he'd ordered in. He took a big bite--so good! If any of his colleagues gave him dirty looks, he ignored them. Prematurely graying, bearded, and about 50 pounds overweight, he was a far cry from the typical students and faculty here, who all seemed to share an obsession with staying physically fit and fight-ready. But he didn't mind his size. Better to stay fed than starve, after all.

He was about halfway through his meal when Dr. Cornelia Hastings, the professor of the mandatory Combat Theory class, walked in with her grilled chicken Caesar from the dining hall. To her dismay, the only open seat was the one across from his. She sighed, gripped the back of the empty chair, and asked, "May I?"

"Be my guest," said Bob. "How are classes?"

He was asking to be polite, but she was quick to begin ranting: "Horrible, Bob. I have this freshman, third hour...she really is the most entitled little bitch! Thinks she's above the coursework. Never pays attention. That is, when she even decides to show up. How about you?"

He could tell that she, too, could care less about how his life was going. But he felt like sharing a bit of positivity anyway. "Funny you should say that. I have a freshman who's become a rising star in my class. Stellar grades, engaged in the material...she always comes to office hours, even if she doesn't need to. She's a natural on the computer. She's asked if she can TA for me next semester, and I know she is only a freshman, but I'm considering it."

"How lucky for you," said Cornelia, forking through her salad with disinterest, not eating. "Who is she?"

"Oriana Taylor-Moore."

"Why, that's the same girl who's been giving me so much trouble! I'm telling you, Bob. Don't trust her. I think she's a Russian plant."

He began to sweat. He hoped she didn't have the 411 on his sordid past.

As far as Oriana went, though? Cornelia had to be wrong. She was a good girl. Okay, maybe it was unsettling how she took notes a bit too attentively, smiled a bit too wide, leaned in when he was speaking. But she couldn't possibly be as troublesome as Cornelia thought.

Maybe Cornelia just wasn't that good a teacher.


Steve Pryor was doing an excellent job of looking like he was paying attention to the lecture in Combat Strategy. Really, he was stealing glances at his next-seat neighbor whenever the professor's back was turned to write notes on the blackboard.

It was this pretty African American girl named Oriana who was notorious for slacking off and spewing acid about how this whole school was a nefarious brainwashing-mill designed to pipeline its students straight into the military. He didn't think she was wrong. What's more, he had no ambitions in either the military nor law enforcement himself--why bother?

He was a shapeshifter. With his level of mastery at his powers, he could easily steal anyone's identity, make off with millions, and tour the globe, tucking v-cards into his pocket one by one as he became the sexual fantasy of any woman he encountered. While he was still in school, though, he figured he might as well make the most of his time, starting with the spicy little rebel to his left.

Well, not starting. He'd been breaking hearts here for three years going on four now. The doe-eyed freshman wouldn't be his first, and she certainly wouldn't be his last.

And she'd be an easy conquest. She didn't have many friends.

When class let out, she couldn't leave faster, but he caught up with her in the hallway quickly enough. "Hey! You're, uh, Oriana, right?" He didn't want to look like he'd been paying too much attention to her.

"That's me. Steve, right?"

"Yep! Hey listen, what's your next class?"

"Stunt driving, but that's not 'til five."

"Driving. Shit. I was gonna ask you if you wanted to come back to my dorm for a beer."

She stared up into his eyes with a surprisingly penetrating gaze. "Does beer mean beer, or sex?"

"Damn. Straight to the point, I see."

"Listen, Steve, you seem cool, but you're not my type."

"Oh, that's the thing, I'm a biomanipulator," he countered. "I can be whoever you want me to be."

"No way? Same power!"

Well, that would certainly explain the amazing set of curves.

Her eyes lit up for just a moment...but then she shook her head and kept walking. "You wouldn't like who I want you to be."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I've been told I'm a woman of unusual tastes."

"Come on, try me. How unusual are we talking?"

She turned back to face him, and something like hope touched her smile. "After I get done with stunt driving, let's talk about it. Save me that beer!"

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