by C. C. Ekeke
“Ugh. You’re confusing me now,” Brie complained, shuffling her feet in the sand.
Hugo smiled from his crouched perch. He felt more connected to her now than ever. “I’m the same guy you’ve known since sixth grade.” His heart sang at the tension crackling between them. “The same guy who adores you.”
Brie swayed a bit, trying to compose herself. “Bogie, I…” She stopped and struggled with proper breathing.
“What are you thinking?” Hugo whispered.
“Briseis!” The yell startled both Hugo and Brie.
He shifted his gaze. The electricity died. So mesmerized by Brie, Hugo had missed Baz Martinez’s lanky silhouette approaching her.
He trudged through the sand in a tank top and swim trunks, his normally slicked hair disheveled. What does that motherfucker want? Hugo seethed.
Brie cupped a hand over her phone in panic. “Gotta go.”
“Wait—” Brie hung up and approached Baz, hugging herself.
He offered a hand, which she accepted.
Hugo gawked, brain not processing. They walked to the blazing bonfire ringed by loud teens writhing sloppily—holding hands.
Brie and Baz. Together? Hugo didn’t want to believe that. But their body language said otherwise. He felt sick…and guilty. Brie went to Baz because I wasn’t around.
Hugo itched to superspeed over and backhand Baz-tard into next week. Instead, another idea bloomed.
He sprinted to Hearst Beach’s parking lot.
With everyone at the bonfire, the lot had only cars. No cameras or guards.
Perfecto! Hugo zigzagged through the lot, searching.
In his mind’s eye, Hugo recalled the new black BMW Sedan Baz had gotten from his parents. Zooming to the lot’s center, he stopped and smiled. The vehicle was three cars to the right, gleaming under the lot lights. Hugo smirked, feeling extra petty.
Leaping several feet high, he landed on Baz’s BMW with all his weight. The deafening crunch of German steel beneath his feet sounded magical, setting off a cacophony of alarms. Windshields and passenger windows exploded into tiny glass shards, showering the surrounding vehicles.
Hugo jumped up and down repeatedly, faster each time like a human anvil.
Baz Martinez’s pretty little BMW soon became a pretty steel pancake. Ha!
Tempted as Hugo was to witness Baz’s horrified reaction, he raced away to avoid detection.
Chapter 15
Hugo raced along the Pacific Coast Highway like a space rocket, laughing uproariously.
“That was AWESOME!” Payback for Baz’s beatdown and stealing Brie. Didn’t feel as good as superspeeding around late-night traffic, but close.
Who knew what drivers thought the laughing blur was? Living in San Miguel, they’d shrug and keep driving. Hugo skimmed past bright veins of vehicles that looked frozen to him, never touching or harming any.
“I’m getting good at this!” Hugo didn’t feel tired. In fact, he could go faster. “Run, Hugo RUN!”
Hugo quickened his pace, blasting down the PCH. The Paso Robles exit came up faster than expected. He ignored it. He felt like cruising through the City of Wonder. “How can I protect a metropolis I’m not familiar with?” Mom didn’t need to know.
With that, Hugo veered left toward the first off-ramp to Downtown San Miguel. Stretches of illuminated skyscrapers and towers drew closer. Hugo’s mind catalogued several worst-case scenarios.
What if he encountered one of San Miguel’s many protectors? Face exposed with no costume.
Or he wasn’t running fast enough and got tagged by drones zooming around the downtown?
Or if trying to thwart a crime in progress exposed him to the San Miguel Police?
“Shoulda thought this through,” Hugo stressed, fueled by adrenaline, and anger at Brie dating Baz. Heading home was smarter.
Titan wouldn’t flinch, a voice challenged. You’re his successor, San Miguel’s future protector.
Hugo clenched his teeth and raced toward downtown with another burst of speed.
The City of Wonder spread before him, a kaleidoscope of overwhelming colors and sounds and smells. The streets swelled with citizens enjoying San Miguel’s nightlife and cars cruising the boulevards. All slowed to a crawl around Hugo. Glittering lights throbbing off each city block. Mannequins in a city-wide department store. Towering skyscrapers speared the night skies, displaying billboards for summer shows and blockbusters. Hugo raced by freeway overpasses and SMAT rails weaving through downtown like metallic snakes. Thankfully, Hugo had learned to dampen his hearing until he could master it. The visuals forced him to focus ahead and not plow into civilians. Or a building. My costume needs light-dampening goggles, he noted.
So far so good. By his watch’s speed tracker, Hugo blew past previous 300 mph speeds. He howled victoriously, hair streaming behind him. Hugo zigzagged around several blocks, glimpsing street signs and landmarks. As San Miguel's soon-to-be protector, he needed to familiarize himself with downtown.
Minutes later, his brain felt fried from relentless sensory overload. Time to go home. Then a building caught his eye. Boring construction. Not as tall as the others. No billboards covering its lengths. Perfect to practice a controlled leap. Despite the risks, Hugo knew he'd be making rescues in tall buildings. Better practice now. Hugo banked right, tearing down the street toward the building. It loomed ahead, dominating Hugo’s focus. Fears flooded him. Freezing before the jump, not jumping high enough, and overshooting the whole structure.
He reached the building a half-instant from barreling though the foundations.
NOW! Hugo slowed briefly and crouched, air rippling around him in a rapid funnel of intangible power. He threw his arms back and rocketed off the ground, startling nearby pedestrians.
Hugo shouted, rising higher. Building floors rushed past him. He felt untethered from gravity, essentially flying.
“YES!” Hugo soared higher…until he felt himself begin slowing.
“No…” Joy became panic. “NO!”
Hugo's upward momentum stopped altogether. In seconds, he'd plunge to the earth. Hugo flailed both arms and grabbed for the side of the building.
His fingers dug into the stone like wet clay. Now the Samoan dangled off the side of the building.
“Still can’t fly. FUCK!” Hugo assumed flying would come easier. Titan flew right after his powers manifested. Looking down, Hugo refused to guess how many stories the building had. Could falling from up here hurt me? It would leave a crater in the sidewalk…and expose him before he became an active superhero.
How heroic. Hugo tucked his legs in, planting both feet against the side of the building. Better keep climbing. Hugo looked at the building’s roof and pushed upward with less force than before.
He vaulted over the roof ledge and landed in a tumbling heap for several embarrassing feet. Climbing to a knee, he glanced around the rooftop with hypersensitive hearing and eyesight. Hugo was alone, thankfully. No one else witnessed his appalling superhero landing. “That jump needs work.” With flight still not working, Hugo had to rely on superspeed and controlled leaps.
He supersped to the roof's other side, peering over the edge. This high up, downtown’s blaring symphony sounded more muted. The stinks and fragrances of San Miguel still tickled Hugo’s nostrils.
An ocean of illuminated structures and crisscrossing traffic fanned out in all directions. San Miguel looked so vast up here, and Hugo wasn’t even on the highest building. The city was bursting with activity and noise, pregnant with possibilities and dangers. A living organism needing protection from itself.
“My city,” Hugo murmured. The city he’d protect one day, like Titan did. Had Titan ever looked down upon San Miguel, savoring its wonders? Hugo had to own that mantle with pride.
“My city,” he said louder, worried someone would hear him.
Man up, pansy. Hugo raised both arms and threw his head back, bellowing out, “MY CITY!”
The words bounced off the su
rrounding buildings, echoing into the night several seconds. Hugo gaped. “Much louder than planned—” Hugo’s voice died in his throat.
A moment ago, he’d been alone. Suddenly Hugo wasn’t. Someone appeared at corner of his left eye. Soft breaths, slow heartbeat. I’m blown.
Hugo’s heart dropped into his belly as he turned slowly to this arrival.
A lithe shadow occupied the corner of the roof, crouched and coiled to spring in a heartbeat. Despite having hypersensitive vision, Hugo could barely discern its features. He saw only glowing red eyes, the lean physique and a flowing cape.
Hugo looked again. Not a cape; a long trench coat.
Recognition slapped Hugo across the face. “Geist,” he breathed. “You’re real!”
The shadow remained mute and motionless, save those glowing red eyes narrowing.
Hugo and Simon constantly debated Geist's existence, or if his war on serial killers and sexual predators was justice. Two strikes and the Midnight Son put those kinds of scum six feet under.
Mainstream news wrote him off as an urban myth. San Miguel Police declined to comment. Every superhero denounced his extreme violence…if he existed. Only superhero-specific outlets believed Geist was real.
For some dumb reason, Hugo started approaching Geist like one would a rabid dog. Maybe to present himself as a friendly. “It’s an honor—WHOA!” He backpedaled.
Geist whipped out a pair of chrome pistols from his trench coat and opened fire.
Rapid-fire gunshots sliced through the night. Hugo instinctively shrank back, raising both hands.
A hailstorm of bullets pierced the teen’s tank top, white-hot spikes striking flesh.
Just as quick, the attack ceased.
Hugo lowered his hands to self-examine, breathing hard. The shirt was ruined, covered in bullet holes. His skin stung somewhat where the bullets struck, but it wasn’t punctured.
He looked up. Geist’s crouched shadow holstered the pistols. Those crimson red eyes remained fixed on him, narrowing.
Hugo smirked, recalling who the super was. Geist, as far as anyone knew, was just a man. “Bulletproof-ish. Good to know.” He approached with less hesitance. “Listen, I’m testing my powers. No need to go all murder-death-kill.”
Geist whipped a large, three-bladed shuriken out of his trench coat, tossing it at Hugo fluidly.
“Seriously?” Hugo scowled as the shuriken whistled toward him. At normal speeds, the razor-sharp projectile would’ve struck his face in under two seconds.
However, Hugo shifted to superspeed on instinct. The shuriken’s rotations slowed dramatically. Same with Geist, his arm still extended from throwing.
Hugo caught the shuriken with ease inches from his face.
He nodded, feeling smug. “Nice try—” He heard a subtle click before the projectile exploded in his face, blistering and deafening. Hugo howled in agony, but he only heard ringing. Blind, deaf and dizzy, he crumpled to his knees. A burnt stench flooded his nose, eyes squeezed shut as he rode out the worst of the pain.
“Son of a BITCH!” His bellow sounded far-off. Hugo struggled upright and forced his eyes open. Everything looked blurred and shaky, but was sharpening quickly.
Seething, Hugo sprinted toward the rooftop’s edge where Geist had been. No Geist. Just buildings and city lights below.
Hugo raced to all four rooftop corners, searching.
No sign of the Midnight Son rappelling nor swinging across the skyline with grappling shooters.
Locating Geist was useless with his superhearing recovering in small trickles. “Where’d he go?” Hugo poked at his ringing ears, annoyed.
He then realized that Geist was both real and his first superhero encounter as a superhuman.
Fanboy wonder swallowed his anger. “Simon’s gonna freak!” Hugo looked over the side of the building again, frowning. “After I figure out how to get down.”
Chapter 16
The community center visit was meant to be quick. Though Greyson wasn’t volunteering today, he wanted to hear how Cairo had done on his math test.
Instead, Greyson found himself and a few counselors pulling apart a vicious brawl. Skinny Lennox, who never harmed a fly, versus a brutish new Caucasian kid named Randall. And by the looks of it, Lennox had his larger foe in a nasty headlock.
“ENOUGH!” Coach Wendell barked once Greyson and others restrained the teens.
Randall lunged for Lennox again. But Wendell, a former lineman, slapped on a rear naked chokehold and hoisted Randall off the ground. “STOP.” Randall ceased struggling.
As Wendell admonished Randall across the gym, Greyson sat with Lennox. The fifteen-year-old quivered with anger. “Muthafucka called me racist shit!” he blurted out before Greyson could ask. “Told him to stop. He wouldn’t.” Lennox shook his head. “So, I shut him up.”
Greyson glanced over his shoulder at Randall, big and doughy with sullen green eyes. Greyson squelched his knee-jerk dislike. Many of these center kids didn’t know any better at first, coming from terrible neighborhoods.
“Next time, tell a counselor.” Greyson rebuked calmly. “He’s not worth getting injured or kicked out of here.” He gestured at Randall to emphasize his point.
Several minutes later, Greyson and Coach Wendell brought the boys together. Randall apologized for his words as if in a hostage video. Greyson definitely didn't like this one. Lennox looked ready to spit venom. Regardless, he voiced a sincere apology.
Being the bigger man and apologizing. The irony of giving Lennox this advice wasn’t lost on Greyson.
Things were solid with Mom, who kept begging for him to forgive Dad.
Before, Greyson would've caved again, desperate to please him.
Two days ago, he stood his ground. “Why am I always apologizing when that asshole never does?”
“Greyson!”
“Mom,” Greyson had interrupted. “I’m not asking you or Sara to take sides. But that man is no longer welcome in my life.” He hated upsetting Mom, but cutting Dad off had been liberating. Thanks to Dr. St. Pierre. Greyson had progressed so much this month. With prescribed daily exercises, his stamina to levitate objects had also increased.
Then why was Greyson so scared to attend therapy tonight?
“Sure you don’t need me today?” Greyson asked once both boys went their separate ways.
“We always need extra hands.” Wendell gave a deep laugh and slapped Greyson’s back, nearly caving his spine in. “But we’re good today.”
Greyson half-hoped for an excuse to skip tonight, regretting what he'd agreed to at Monday's session. “I’m trying a group session this Thursday with a few other patients,” Dr. St. Pierre had broached. “I’ve found communal settings helps everyone improve controlling their abilities. Interested?”
“How many people?” Greyson had been wary. Revealing himself to others didn’t seem appealing.
“Only four or five.” St. Pierre reclined in his seat with that knowing gleam in his eye when getting an idea to benefit Greyson. “If you don’t enjoy it, we return to private sessions.”
When Greyson had reluctantly acquiesced, his therapist smiled. “You won’t regret it. I’ll send over directions the day before.”
While driving to this random warehouse in East St. Louis, Greyson’s nerves were eating at his courage.
But he was ten minutes away in rush hour traffic. Turning around now would cause a longer drive home and a cancelled session fee.
“I’ll wait so we can eat dinner together,” Lauren offered when he phoned her.
Greyson smiled. His lady was too giving. “Thanks, but I know how you get when you’re hungry!”
Lauren giggled. “True. Good luck with this group thing.”
“It’s not movie night or anything.” Greyson switched lanes and exited the highway. “Dr. St. Pierre said it’ll improve my…situation faster.”
“Your abilities,” Lauren corrected.
Greyson’s cheeks warmed. “Yeah, those.” Openly ac
knowledging his own superpowers still flustered him.
“Be safe, Grey.” Concern colored Lauren’s words. “East St. Louis is a dumpster fire, even with Hurricane protecting it.”
Greyson was aware, keeping up with news of the city’s recent crimewave on his daily commutes. Recent reports detailed violent acts by a new gang of supers calling themselves “Excessive Menace." But their targets were far from Greyson’s destination. “I’ll stay alert, babe,” he reassured Lauren. “Call you when I’m heading home.”
The sun had sunk into the horizon by the time Greyson reached this series of derelict warehouses next to the Mississippi River. Across the waterway, Downtown St. Louis’s skyline and its renowned Arch lit up against darkening crimson skies. Greyson soon found the exact warehouse number and five cars.
One last chance to bail, a weak voice tempted him. Grey pushed that voice aside and stepped out of his car. “Let’s do this,” he murmured. Pulling his sports coat around him, Greyson headed for the slightly opened door outlined by light.
Upon entering, he found a vast space walled by rusted metal and well-lit. Dr. St. Pierre, in his typical button-down shirt, vest and tie combo was speaking with four strangers whom Greyson didn’t recognize.
His heart raced like the first day of class in high school. He adjusted his shirt again and forced his legs to move.
As Greyson advanced, the therapist spotted him and grinned. “Our gathering is complete!” All heads turned. Greyson stopped walking, mildly panicked.
St. Pierre reached him in three strides and shook his hand. “Glad you made it. Come meet the group.”
His four groupmates were from different walks of life.
“Tom,” said Tom Fitzpatrick. His camera-ready smile matched a bone-crushing handshake. Greyson took in this guy’s perfect mop of wavy black hair, chiseled features and strapping physique. He couldn’t imagine Tom having many problems.
“Constance,” a petite slip of a Japanese girl said meekly. “Call me Connie.” She wore a beanie atop her sleek black locks, army green cargo pants and a University of Missouri sweater two sizes too big. Greyson was taken by her shy smile and the fiery spark in her almond-shaped eyes.