by C. C. Ekeke
Mom hadn’t cried like that since Dad’s death.
And Rebecca Reyes was about to break down on-air.
Hugo went cold all over. The barrage of facts he heard was unanimous.
“Titan’s dead,” he finally said, choking on those soul-crushing words. A familiar, painful vise squeezed his heart. Just like with Dad. Hugo’s brain slipped into a haze, yet he could still process the facts flooding his ears. Titan’s body had been found in the back alley of a 7-Eleven. The world’s greatest superhero, the Central Coast Saint, left to the maggots like some vagrant.
“I’m sorry, man,” Simon stated, genuinely sad. No wonder everyone had called. They wanted to make sure Hugo didn’t do anything rash. Like drink two bottles of Nyquil. More facts streamed out as he focused on a broadcast from the house next door. He couldn’t handle hearing his mom’s sobs right now…
“He was murdered?” Hugo asked, his own eyes watering as shock gave way to grief.
“Official forensics haven’t been released.” Simon sounded drained. He’d lived with news of Titan’s death longer. “But rumors are saying a planetary-level version of a stroke killed him.”
“Good God,” Hugo gasped, hearing similar reports from the neighbors’ TV. Apparently, Titan looked unharmed, no bruises or wounds on his near invulnerable skin. But there were trickles of blood leaking from his ears. The man he’d worshiped, saw as a surrogate father figure. Dead. No matter how big the threat or supervillain was, Titan always found a way to win. Hugo thought he couldn’t die. I saw Titan …in my dreams telling me not to surrender. Now…someone killed him. Hugo listened to more info, shivering with rage.
“The area around him was magnetized.” The culprit was clear. “Lord Borealis killed Titan.”
“Lots of news sites are saying that,” Simon replied. Anger bloomed in his words too. “SLOCO Daily and FlightsandTights.com are stating he’s only a person of interest.”
“Person of interest, my Islander ass!” Hugo paced, boiling with fury. He and many Titan-iacs had loathed Titan giving his longtime archrival another chance. The magnetically-powered Lord Borealis had tried repeatedly to conquer America and kill Titan. Now he'd finally found a way, posing as Titan's friend to kill him. Borealis must’ve somehow disabled the ankle bracelet monitoring his movements as part of his pardon long enough to ambush Titan. Then kill him.
Stomping past his full-body mirror, Hugo wanted to hit somebody. “That mother—HOLY SIX-PACK.” He stopped and gawked.
“What?” Simon asked.
Hugo had no idea. The naked reflection gaping back was more unrecognizable than his bashed-in face last night and over half a foot taller than Hugo. This stranger looked carved from rock, lean and supple muscles on muscles. His stomach displayed a chiseled six-pack torched of any flab. Even his strong-jawed face had no baby fat. The distracting reflection made the blaring audio dial down to normal. Thank god. Apart from the long wavy black hair and large brown eyes, Hugo saw no trace of himself in the mirror. He patted along his own body to ensure the reflection was only a reflection. Yep, that rock-hard six-pack was his. Yep, his legs were longer. Yes, his wandering hand was moving with the reflection.
“I have abs,” he murmured, stunned. “No wonder the room looks so small.”
“What are you talking about?”
Hugo jerked away from the phone pressed to his ear. He’d forgotten about Simon. Something major had happened to him last night. Something...super. This crazy growth spurt, the heightened senses, lodging a book into a wall. All tied to Titan’s death. Seeing him in my dreams when I nearly… Hugo pushed away that thought, ashamed of his selfishness.
Whatever happened to him wouldn’t get solved by phone. “Simon. Come over.”
His friend sounded hesitant and tired. “Not sure if I can. You’re welcome to swing—”
“Please,” Hugo begged, more fearfully than intended.
There was a stunned pause before Simon answered. “Gimme an hour.”
Chapter 8
Confusion and sorrow defined the attitude saturating San Miguel today.
Of course, everyone’s confused and sad, Quinn told herself. Titan was dead.
From the suburbs to downtown to the coast, every San Miguel billboard now showcased the world-famous superhero. Whether in mid-flight or with arms folded and flashing a broad smile, Titan was everywhere.
Yet Titan is dead. Twelve hours later and Quinn kept shaking her head in shock.
Massive screens in downtown’s Bishop Square displayed news about his death or hastily produced compilations of his life.
Maybe Quinn’s refusal to accept Titan’s death came from being on two hours sleep and gallons of coffee. Working relentlessly since last night also helped.
As everyone gathered content and updates on Titan, Quinn went from floater to full-timer in Jono’s Superhero section. Working with Social Media Marketing, she compiled the superheroes, superhero teams, and celebrities who’d expressed condolences and built a landing page. One buzzworthy social media post had been a five-minute video by the Extreme Teens. The superheroes, in street clothes and perfect lighting, discussed what Titan had meant to them. At the video's end, they encouraged their fans to do the same in the post’s comments.
“Jesus, they look like fetuses!” Helena exclaimed while watching. Quinn agreed, remembering how young they were. Out of costume, the Extreme Teens looked like a group of diverse high school kids. The well-received video shot past 350 million views on YouTube and Facebook in under an hour.
Currently, Quinn roamed downtown San Miguel with videographer Colin Holmes wearing yesterday's clothes. They approached bystanders for a somber edition of SLOCO Daily’s “Sidewalk Confessions.” It was one of Jono’s better content ideas.
Titan is dead… That made no sense to Quinn. Titan was nearly invulnerable, so strong, he had his own strength class! His superhero career had lasted longer than she’d been alive. Titan had been an institution, as enduring as the Statue of Liberty. Yet…he was dead. Murdered.
According to tabloid website Herogasm, a planet-sized stroke had killed Titan. And by the magnetized metals around the crime scene, only one supervillain had the power and motive: Lord Borealis, once Titan’s greatest rival. Quinn remembered their clashes on the news, two gods battling for supremacy. Titan’s vast super-strength versus Lord Borealis’s mastery over magnetism. But no matter the odds, Titan would win. Borealis, aka Carmine Bernini, had supposedly reformed after his prison release five years ago. Guess it didn’t stick, Quinn fumed.
She hoped OSA found that son of a beach and threw him in jail forever. Borealis deserved a special place in hell.
With coffee losing its effect, anger kept Quinn awake while interviewing a plethora of citizens about Titan. To her amazement, everybody she approached wanted to talk. For them, this had to be therapeutic.
Many bawled as if a loved one had died. “Titan was our hero. He belonged to us,” one woman wept, clinging to her teary-eyed boyfriend. “Whenever I saw him flying on my morning coffee run…he’d smile...” The pair dissolved into heart-wrenching sobs.
Countless people walked about in a daze from the news. “Titan was the greatest,” said a stunned Latina teen girl with long braids. “I thought he’d never die.” Many people were afraid. “I felt safe hearing how many lives Titan saved.” An older white man spoke so quietly, Quinn asked him to speak louder. “He put so many super-powered criminal crazies behind bars. Who’ll protect San Miguel now? Who??”
Then came the pockets of citizens furious at the world's loss. “I KNEW Lord Borealis couldn’t be trusted!” a young woman raged, her gaggle of friends agreeing. “That motherfucker better hide. Cuz every hero on the planet will hunt his two-faced murdering ass. And if they don’t, I’ll handle it myself…” Her amusing tirade turned rather profane. Quinn didn’t know how much was usable.
The reporter found one common thread during these testimonials. All these people felt the world grow darker. The skies, clear and s
unny, felt colder today.
Titan is dead. Those words struck with crippling force, no matter how many times Quinn repeated them.
After four hours of sidewalk confessions, Quinn shut off her microphone. “We’re done, Colin.” The glut of grief, anger, and terror became too much. “How many did we get?”
“Let me check...” The lanky videographer studied the camera’s display panel and whistled. “Seventy-one.”
Quinn gaped. Way more than she expected. “Definitely enough.” The reporter smiled appreciatively at her videographer. “Are you uploading them onto SLOCO Daily’s servers?”
“Already started…” Colin stared beyond Quinn with a strange look.
Quinn studied him in concern. Maybe he needed a nap more than her. “What?”
“The Vanguard.” He walked past her. “They’re holding a press conference.”
Quinn spun around lightning-quick. The Vanguard appeared on the big viewscreens of downtown’s entertainment district.
Every major superhero and superhero team had reacted to Titan's death online or by press release. Yet it had been radio silence from the world’s greatest superhero team. Until now.
Quinn noted several bystanders stopping to watch the Vanguard address Titan’s death. The superhero team stood before a federal building in Manhattan. Each Vanguard member, in a unique and colorful costume, appeared larger than life yet somber in expression.
Sentinel stood behind the podium, six-foot-two inches of peak human potential superior to any Olympic-level athlete. Quinn knew the enhanced supersoldier had been a Vanguard mainstay since its nineties reboot. Until yesterday, Sentinel and Titan had co-led Vanguard. Today, the man born as Kurt Weston spoke alone. His costume, night blue, grey, and tan light armor, paid homage to his Navy SEALs days. Sentinel’s masked helmet was off, revealing short blond hair and ice blue eyes nestled in stoic, carved features.
For many women, his all-American good looks and military background equaled sexual quiveration. Quinn never got the attraction. To her, Sentinel resembled a generically handsome Ken doll with a preposterously square jaw. Or a B-minus Tom Brady.
Quinn spotted Seraph, Sentinel’s fiancée, behind him. At age twenty-three, Mikaela Guerrero was the Vanguard’s youngest member. The former novitiate's costume was chaste yet figure-flattering. Its angelic white design was decorated in silvery spiritual symbols. Seraph's light-based wings furled behind her shoulders, her round and pretty face contorted with grief.
Robbie Rocket aka Robert Jeffrey Gilford wore an obnoxiously loud red and orange flame-printed costume. As in, printed flames ran down his pants. Gross. Rocket’s trademark flight goggles rested atop shaggy and windswept ginger hair. Quinn did find the Canadian superhero handsome from certain angles. Rocket usually smirked as if in on some joke only he knew.
Today, he looked pissed.
Vulcan towered over everyone, six-foot-nine inches of hulking muscle brooding beside Robbie Rocket. The Greek superhero hefted a huge iron sledgehammer covered in gold Ancient Greek lettering. Quinn winced looking at him. No amount of fancy bronze armor or badass long beard could hide Vulcan’s ugliness. Or how in interviews, he truly believed himself as Hephaestus reincarnated. In short, Vulcan was crazy-pants crazy.
Being Hephaestus explains the butter face, Quinn mused.
Dynamo, Vanguard’s sentient android with a soul, stood in the front. He had a man's body sheathed in cobalt blue and white armor. His turquoise face was featureless, except for a pair of glowing red eyes. As unyielding as the android appeared, Quinn almost sensed sadness from Dynamo.
Quinn found Wyldcat the hardest to watch, which was rare. Lady Liberty had the “untouchable goddess” vibe. But Wyldcat's insane figure, skimpy outfits, and spitfire charm had everyone wanting to touch her...repeatedly. The posh English accent plus her feline powers made Wyldcat, aka Danneel Winchester, mouthwatering. Okay that sounds pervy, Quinn realized with a cringe. But everyone she knew, man or woman, felt the same about Wyldcat.
At today’s press conference, Wyldcat was a sobbing mess. She’d have collapsed if Seraph wasn’t holding the Brit upright and consoling her. Not surprising. Quinn winced. Clearly, the rumors of Wyldcat and Titan’s on-off relationship had been true.
This top-tier superhero lineup was epic. But Quinn felt the void of Titan’s absence.
“Titan…was everything a hero should be,” Sentinel said, firm and commanding. Cameras flashed across him and the rest of Vanguard. “Everything that we, his teammates, aspire to. Selfless, tireless, putting innocents first, giving second or third chances to the undeserving.”
Sentinel stared at the ground, overwhelmed, Wyldcat’s sobs serenading the background. The former soldier fought through grief and faced the cameras again. “He tried to do so much and never felt it was enough. It kept Titan up at night how many people he couldn’t save.” Out on the street, besides cars driving by and honks, the block was tomblike as Sentinel spoke.
“Titan is…was my hero, like he was yours. He will forever be our hero.” Weston’s sad smile gutted Quinn. “Let’s remember our fallen hero not the way he died, but how he lived. And be a little more like him going forward. Thank you.” Sentinel and the rest of Vanguard turned and entered the building despite the press’s avalanche of questions.
Quinn wiped away silent tears. Colin, like many pedestrians, was bawling. Quinn pulled him close, despite his several-inch height difference, and consoled him. “Let’s head back to the office.”
By the time Quinn and Colin returned to SLOCO Daily, three confessionals were already edited and uploaded to the Titan Landing Page. SLOCO Daily’s video editors and producers were that good, especially in crunch time.
After a while, Helena assembled the group of writers, producers, and editors who had been working since last night. Jono and Creed were among the group, with Quinn standing beside the latter.
“Great work so far,” Helena stated hoarsely. “Everyone’s been hustling like crazy.” She looked exhausted, wearing her spare t-shirt and jeans, spiky hair sticking every which way. Quinn, punch-drunk with fatigue, tried not to laugh at her hair. “We should have enough content to last a few hours. Besides Lord Borealis being the prime suspect in Titan's murder, we'll get reactions from Titan’s peers, world leaders, and celebs. Anyone here since last night, go home and get some rest. We need you fresh for tonight. The next few days will be a rollercoaster.”
Quinn didn’t need that repeated. She could barely keep her eyes open, opting for a Lyft over driving.
While waiting in the lobby, Quinn returned texts from her parents in Scituate, and her aunt and uncle across town, along their children. Of course, she called Annie Machado.
“I swear, Quinnie,” the publicist ranted, “clients I didn’t even know had souls got all heartbroken over Titan after yesterday saying how out-of-date he was. Jesus. How are you?”
“Insane!” Quinn admitted, texting her auntie back with a smile emoji. “I’m heading home to sleep. Can you believe Titan’s dead?”
“I know,” Annie replied softly. “We saw him a few days ago kicking ass.”
Remembering the sight of Titan in all his glory made Quinn’s eyes water again. “Alright, I’m off, babe.”
“Dinner at my place once things get less crazy?” Annie suggested.
“Obvs,” Quinn replied, smiling. “Bye!” As she hung up, two pretty petite young women reentered the lobby from a smoke break: Jess Richardson-Palmer and Tania Navarro from Ad Sales. These two were part of Dave Packer’s “harem,” serving as his emissaries and spies around SLOCO Daily. Quinn knew them casually and by reputation, making sure to be friendly whenever they crossed paths. “Hey, guys,” she greeted.
Jess smiled. She had dirty blonde hair and laughing hazel eyes. “Hi, QB.”
Tania, fit and olive-skinned with a short black bob, waved. “Hear about Rebecca Reyes?” she gabbed excitedly after the threesome exchanged empty pleasantries. “Full on-air meltdown. Tears and runny mascara. Walked a
way from her desk.”
Quinn recoiled. “For serious?”
“For super serious,” Jess chimed in gleefully. “That cape-chasing slut should be remorseful. After using Titan to boost her career.”
Quinn needed no reminder about Rebecca Reyes, once a local San Miguel reporter until Titan first rescued her in 1997. The next couple of years, more rescues ensued along with a not-so-secret romance. Titan choosing Reyes as his preferred interviewer raised her profile to a national audience. Then, in early 2002, her tell-all book about him was released. Reyes gained a cable news gig but lost Titan, who had felt betrayed by her book.
“Look,” Quinn stated. “I don’t agree with Rebecca Reyes’s methods. But I’m sure some part of her cares about Titan. Especially today.” Plus, she’d rather not trade gossip with mini-gazettes like Tania and Jess.
Tania’s face soured. “That guilt must keep her up at night anytime she gets those book royalties and that seven-figure anchor salary.”
Quinn shrugged, too tired to respond. The conversation reached that awkward point where both sides ran out of discussion topics. Fortunately, her phone rang. Creed Samuels. “Hey!”
“Don’t leave!” he barked, making Quinn recoil from her phone. “Lady Liberty, Justice Jones, and an OSA strike team are about to arrest Lord Borealis for Titan’s murder!”
Quinn blinked and glanced at SLOCO’s lobby screens, seeing the same Titan coverage recapping his death and life. Meaning the footage is just breaking.
“On my way.” Quinn hung up, fatigue forgotten. She turned to Jess and Tania. “Guys—”
“We heard,” both women replied, glancing from their phones. “Let’s go!”
Quinn cancelled her Lyft as the trio scurried for the nearest elevator.
Chapter 9
Greyson sat on the edge of the couch, jaw clenched, heart racing in a gallop.