by C. C. Ekeke
Greyson climbed down into the turret’s control center. Three soldiers manning the guns lay dazed and wounded. The forcefield explosion had knocked them silly. Without a word, Greyson raised a hand at the trio, then hesitated. They’re unconscious. Killing them is unnecessary. Greyson increased their guns' gravity until the weapons cracked. Now, he tapped his earpiece to find Rodrigo.
“Fastball, where you at?” Using codenames felt nostalgic.
“Fifth level in the south tower,” the Amaranthine replied.
Greyson soared across the war-torn cityscape to the location. His head swam by the time he reached the other end of the city. Greyson was almost running on fumes. Rodrigo greeted him with a smile in a hallway sporadically lit up by sprays of sparks from ruined lights. Behind Rodrigo was a corridor of broken bodies clad in Bowen military regalia.
Greyson gave the corpses a dispassionate glance, chilled by his growing numbness to the sight. “Okay, Fastball,” he said as they weaved around the maze of bodies. “Where to?”
Rodrigo pointed down the bloodstained corridors. “Power generators at the end of the hallway, yea.” Bright sparks briefly revealed Rodrigo’s face, aged by war. “Do your thing to take down the power grid. Then I do my thing.”
They reached the door guarding the generators, locked and secured to keep out unauthorized personnel. Greyson raised his hands to use his gravity powers on the door. Although tired, he had enough in the tank for this task.
Rodrigo abruptly grabbed his shoulders, breaking Greyson’s concentration. “Wait!”
He turned and dropped his arms in concern. “What’s wrong?”
Rodrigo shook his head, panicked and unsteady in the shadows. “You can’t go there.”
The worry was appreciated, but Greyson wouldn't let that stop him. “Rigo. The generators—”
“It’s a trap.” Rodrigo pulled Greyson back. “I was supposed to lead you into an ambush. They knew you’d be tired after dropping the ships.”
They being AmeriForce’s Leaders. Frostknife. Tigre. Radiant. Somehow, Greyson knew all wasn’t forgiven. Yet the treachery wounded. He jerked away. “You betrayed me,” Greyson said, low and angry.
Rodrigo shook his fluffy-haired head, tears in his eyes. “I pretended to prove my loyalty. I planned to tell you…AHHH.” He cried out and collapsed, too heavy to stand.
“Liar!” Greyson activated his powers on instinct. Hatred ruled him as he stared down at this traitorous boy. “You got cold feet.”
Rodrigo wept uncontrollably. A pitiful sight. “You're right,” he confessed between sobs, his head too heavy to lift. “AmeriForce is bad for Amarantha. They’re power-mad!”
Greyson scoffed, unmoved. “I should kill you,” he snarled. “Make it so brutal, no one would recognize any part of you.” Greyson clenched his fist, increasing the gravity of Rodrigo’s bones. Elation filled him at the Amaranthine’s screams.
“Go ahead, son. Embrace your baser instincts.” The familiar voice whipped Greyson’s head left. The wizened, balding form of Aaron Hirsch stood beside him. Greyson almost screamed.
Then he remembered. I killed Dad. Another hallucination.
Dad sneered. “Be the killer I know you are. End him!”
The urge was overwhelming. Rodrigo couldn't be trusted.
“Don't, Grey.” Another voice turned him around. Lauren, beautiful as ever in that slinky dress from the bioengineering conference they’d attended. Her beseeching face squeezed Greyson’s heart. “Rigo made a mistake. Give him another chance.”
Dad shook angrily. “That bastard had his chance!”
“Rigo came around when you needed him," Ghost-Lauren rebutted.
Greyson clutched his head from all the voices. Nothing made sense, even his own thoughts. He just wanted them to stop.
“I’m sorry, Greyson,” Rodrigo wailed, limbs quivering as gravity increased. “I should’ve listened—”
“SHADDUP!” Greyson barked. Dad and Lauren’s ghosts vanished. Only Rodrigo remained. Despite his seething anger, Greyson restored the boy's gravity with a flick of his hand. The Amaranthine slumped over, gasping for air.
Greyson was too angry to feel weary. He paced back and forth, gaze locked on his former friend. “What was their plan?”
Rodrigo struggled to a kneeling position, hollowed out. “An AmeriForce’s soldier is waiting to snipe you behind that door. They’d say House Bowen killed you,” A racking sob shuddered through Rodrigo. “Then AmeriForce would use Connie’s grief to control her.”
The plan to manipulate Connie with his death rocketed Greyson’s hate to venomous, ungovernable heights. These people were repulsive. No more waiting. He crouched, grabbing Rodrigo’s hair and jerking back so their eyes met. “Where are they?”
“Top level of the fortress,” the Amaranthine blurted out.
This could be another trap. But something told Greyson that Rodrigo wasn’t an award-winning actor. He let the youngster go and rose. Something felt amiss at sparing Rodrigo. He shook away the worry. “AmeriForce goes down today.” Greyson turned to leave the corridor.
Rodrigo scrambled to his feet. “I’ll come, too.”
Greyson pivoted sharply. His withering stare froze the Amaranthine in place. “Stay the fuck away from me.” He kept marching toward the end of the hall. And Rodrigo didn’t follow.
Greyson found an elevator shaft but no elevator. That allowed him to float to the very top floor, attaching himself to the ceiling's gravitational pull. After dragging the elevator door open, Greyson stepped onto another graveyard. The amount of Bowen soldiers piled everywhere was borderline cartoonish—crushed, slashed, scorched. Greyson covered his nose to block the stench. He floated just off the floor to mute his arrival, moving toward a light several doors down the corridor. No one guarded the corridor, making this approach easy.
Soon, voices floated out of that room. “I don’t like this,” a man explicated. “She’s a child.”
“A dangerous and powerful child,” Tigre countered.
Frostknife supported him. “We know what she did to Summerhill when strapped to this amplifier.”
Greyson slowed. House Bowen’s secret weapon had been a power-amplified super? It stunned Greyson which side was worse. He approached unhurriedly and listened.
“But House Bowen orchestrated that attack,” the first person reasoned. “She was a captive.”
Frostknife spoke again with less patience. “Lord Bowen had been powering her up to destroy one of the cities we’ve captured. She has to die.”
Greyson stiffened as this debate continued. Peeking into the room, he assessed his opponents.
Frostknife and Tigre stood with their backs to him on the room’s farthest side. Radiant’s glowing form faced them. Carga, the hulking pink-skinned powerhouse of a woman, stood nearby. There were four other soldiers he recognized, all local Amaranthines, including a bark-skinned super named Bosca. A handful of bodies were splayed across the floor, mangled and ruined. By the fancy clothing remnants, Greyson could guess they were either House Bowen representatives or members.
“She’s one of us, Tigre,” Bosca spoke, the voice who differed with Frostknife and Tigre.
All that paled before a sizable golden sphere AmeriForce gathered around. A girl floated in the center, probably in her teens with wavy black hair. House Bowen’s deterrent against the other cities of Amarantha. Her abilities must have been insanely powerful.
Radiant shouted over everyone. “Frostknife and Tigre are right. With Carolina dead, her brother will do whatever it takes to bring all this island humans to heel—”
Greyson had heard enough. He triggered his power like a switch. Striding into the room, Greyson latched onto the gravity of everyone standing and waved his hands. A chorus of shouts serenaded his ears as AmeriForce and their bodyguards crumpled. Now everyone was pinned to steel flooring. Greyson stood over Tigre and Frostknife imperiously.
“Slaughtering children now?” he remarked in blistering disgust.
“Greyson?” Tigre failed to hide surprise. “How are you here?”
Greyson cocked his head to one side with a sarcastic smirk. “That’s not happiness to see me.” His smile vanished. He cranked up everyone’s gravity. Frostknife groaned in discomfort. Tigre yowled. Bosca’s bark-like face scrunched up.
“You won't turn this island into your personal kingdom,” Greyson declared. “Amarantha deserves better.” From what Greyson had constantly seen, the mantle of hero always poisoned the holder. But Greyson wouldn’t let these false saviors ruin this island like the royals had.
“Who else can govern this island?” Radiant demanded, oozing with gross entitlement. He struggled to stand, glowing with impotent rage. “You’re making a mistake, Greyson.”
“Like when you almost killed me?” Greyson threw back, shutting Radiant up. “Or killing this girl?”
“She’s the most powerful telekinetic anyone has encountered,” Frostknife spat. “Too dangerous to control!”
Greyson looked again at the teen floating in this golden sphere with such a familiar face. He stumbled back in recognition. “My God,” he murmured, hand on his throat. “Solomon’s sister, Carolina. You were going to frame House Bowen for her murder. Like you tried framing them for mine.” Greyson stared at these beasts in human skin. “How sick are you people?”
Frostknife, pinned to the floor, looked unapologetic. “Solomon already hated the royals for separating him from his sister. Killing his parents. Making him their gladiator. Passing him around the human elite to slake their carnal lusts.”
That last point drew Greyson back to Lady Thuraya, how she’d given him a choice to be her plaything. Clearly no one had given Solomon any choice. Greyson shuddered.
“This will remind him what these humans are capable of,” Tigre added through bared teeth.
“By making Solomon your pet destroyer?” Greyson asked in anguish. “There’s always another way.”
“Like murdering the Hurricane? And your own father?” Tigre smirked at Greyson’s surprise. “Internet's been restored. You and Connie are quite famous in America.”
Greyson trembled with rage and betrayal and sorrow. Once again, superheroes had corrupted something pure. Titan had been a false beacon of justice while abusing his power. Hurricane had used Greyson and others to do his dirty work. Now AmeriForce had corrupted a resistance to liberate Amarantha’s supers, moving to become dictators. Greyson ached to destroy these so-called heroes. But a Statesider killing AmeriForce without evidence of their crimes would make them martyrs. He had to do this the right away. “I’ll let the citizens of Amarantha decide your fates.” He moved to free Carolina Shen.
A sudden stampede of clanking footsteps turned Greyson about. A shiny boulder of a man came charging. Greyson raised his hands to defend himself and use his powers. But the man ran too fast, driving a wrecking ball shoulder into Greyson’s stomach.
He felt something break—quite a few somethings. Suddenly, he lay on his back, curled up in agony. His stomach was on fire, bone rubbing against bone. Greyson hadn’t seen his attacker coming, which had been the point.
The metallic man stood over him, a blank look on his face. “You’re not doing anything, traitor.”
With Greyson down, his hold over Tigre, Radiant, and the others stopped. AmeriForce were back on their feet and triumphant.
The metal-skinned man hauled Greyson up by the throat. The simplest movement shot explosions of pain through his midsection. His ribs were beyond shattered. The metal man held him in a rear chokehold which barely allowed breath. Using his powers was useless when everything hurt so much.
“Thanks, Metallico,” Frostknife complimented, adjusting her combat suit. “Hold him steady.” She turned to Tigre in pure disgust. “Rigo had one job. Spineless boy.”
Tigre shrugged. “Guess we’ll have to handle business ourselves.” He nodded at the golden sphere, now surrounded by AmeriForce’s lackeys. “Frostknife, kill the girl. Freeze her just enough to look like she was already dead. I’ll deal with the Statesider.” The catlike man unsheathed yellow curled claws from his fingers. He inched closer.
And in his condition, Greyson was powerless to stop him. “Don’t do this,” he begged. Every breath was torture, like his lungs were being dragged across a bed of knives. Metallico’s grip was literally iron, unyielding. “You’re here to save Amarantha. Not become what you're supposed to be fighting.”
Radiant laughed. Bosca and Carga looked away, ashamed but unwilling to budge. Two other Amaranthines displayed similar reactions. Frostknife rolled her eyes and placed hands on the sphere holding Carolina. A frosty condensation from her fingers spread across the globe.
And unlike the last few times he’d faced death, Greyson struggled like crazy. He wasn’t ready. Not when monsters like this who called themselves heroes. “Please…don't.” The rest of his words were lost in violent, painful coughing that caused blood to dribble down his lips.
Tigre stood before him, calm yet remorseful. “AmeriForce lost so much to the royals before. Our teammates. Our countries. AmeriForce won’t lose again. You and Carolina have become obstacles keeping us from Amarantha.”
Tigre poked Greyson’s stomach with a curved claw. “This will hurt.” His amber eyes glittered as he dug in, piercing flesh. “But I’ll be quick.”
And Greyson screamed.
Chapter 42
Quinn sat in a SLOCO Daily studio, half-listening as Ben Halbrook and other Behind the Cape contributors quarreled over The Elite. Mercifully, Rebecca Reyes wasn’t on today’s show.
The Junction conspiracy dominated Quinn’s focus. Another search of The Junction sponsors for Missy’s profile yielded new revelations. As of two days ago, all were owned by Solstice Equity, with no sale announcements. My theory about leveling The Junction is right. Quinn felt no satisfaction when thousands of people could perish.
“Quinn,” Halbrook stated, drawing her back into the debate. “Thoughts on The Elite claiming to be the next Vanguard?”
Quinn chuckled, ready to answer. “The Elite are powerful and formidable. But Mathias is correct.” She sobered. “Protecting bystanders and containing collateral damage is as important as stopping the bad guys. The Elite have been active less than six months,” she continued. “Time will tell if they're the next Vanguard, the first Elite, or a group of grim-dark, uber-violent blowhards.”
Other panelists digested her words. Halbrook smiled. “Rumor has it that you’re profiling Missy Magnificent’s latest comeback.”
Quinn’s forced smile hid her distaste. “Correct.”
Halbrook perked up like a prospector hitting an oil gusher. “Is Missy’s comeback legit this time?”
Not after Missy learns the truth. Quinn went the cheeky route. “Wanna know something?”
Halbrook’s eyes widened. “Yes.” The other contributors leaned in.
Quinn smiled from ear to ear. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
The host recoiled playfully. “Such intrigue.” He faced the main camera. “On that note, Behind the Cape on N3 returns after this commercial break.”
Once the show ended, Quinn exchanged small talk with other contributors before exiting the studio. She had to tell Helena everything. That would determine her next steps. An elevator ride later, she reached the main editorial floor. Once within eyeshot of Helena’s office, Quinn stopped cold. The editor-in-chief and Jono were in a muted shouting match. Big gesturing and furious expressions from both. Regrettably, the glass walls were soundproofed. Most employees passing or sitting snuck glances at the fight.
Finally, Jono threw up his hands in exasperation, shoved open the door, and stormed out. Helena leaned on her desk, head bowed, visibly drained. Jono plodded in Quinn’s direction, vibrating with anger.
“Jono,” she greeted.
The Irishman glared daggers into her and headed for the lobby.
Quinn watched him in alarm. Hopefully Helena dumped him. She brushed off the wish and entered Helena’s
office, closing the door. The editor-in-chief didn’t even notice.
Quinn moved closer. Helena’s shell-shocked expression was worrying. “Helena?”
The editor-in-chief lifted her head, eyes sparking back to life. “Hey, QB.”
Quinn wanted to discuss her story, but Helena’s wellbeing meant more. “What was that?” she asked.
Helena had a pinched look, as if weighing whether to share. Her resolve caved quickly. “Jono thinks I'm undermining him. He didn’t like losing the N3 contributor spot.”
Jono was a talented writer, headed two editorial sections, dated the editor-in-chief. Yet Quinn couldn’t believe how insecure, petty and small Jono was. “Not that I mind, but why the switch?”
“N3 made the call.” Helena pushed off her desk. “Audiences like you more.” She sat, shaking her head as if to regain clarity. “He comes off too smug, apparently.”
Quinn snorted. “Smart audiences. Sorry,” she added upon Helena’s warning scowl.
The editor-in-chief reclined in her seat, looking at her ceiling. “Jono also hates the leeway I give you.”
Sharp guilt gripped Quinn, knowing Helena and Jono's issues started after she'd been chosen to interview The Vanguard over him. Since then, their relationship continued declining. “I’m sorry for causing any issues,” Quinn apologized.
“No.” Helena swatted off the apology. “I’m just protecting you. I know how Jono is around employees he sees as competition. Plus...” She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, conveying a pain that Quinn felt across the room. “There are grumblings from HR about potential sexual harassment cases.”
“OH,” Quinn gasped, catching the plural in that statement. Like Jono wasn't gross enough.
Helena slapped herself on both cheeks to wake up. “I’m handling it,” she stated, brisk and blunt. “You’re here for work reasons. Speak.”
“The Missy profile,” Quinn said.
Helena gestured at the chairs in front of her desk. “Talk to me.”
For half an hour Quinn revealed all, including images from Therese and even unverified threads.