by C. C. Ekeke
“Explain how there was no footage of me killing Titan,” Borealis snapped. “Non-metal drones follow me everywhere, recording my movements. And part of my probation includes a tracker, which severely hampers my abilities. Yet over four hours of footage was missing after I get carried out of Paragon’s.” He was angry now, clenching his fists. His wife sat silent, hunched over as tears spilled down her pale face. Borealis glanced at her and softened. “If I’d given Titan a stroke on a planetary scale, dozens of alarms would have been triggered. None were!”
“And the government won't reveal that to the public!” Borealis’s wife added.
Quinn and Creed exchanged a long look. Was there any truth behind the drone story? Quinn’s certainty in Borealis’s guilt no longer felt certain. “Were you drugged?”
Borealis reclined in his seat and shrugged. “Only alcohol was in my system. Once OSA found those magnetized items around Titan, I was their only suspect.” Borealis’s eyes flitted between Quinn and Creed, steady yet supplicating. “I’ve done many horrible things. But I didn’t kill Titan. I swear on my life.”
The drive back to San Miguel was mostly silent, filled by some obscure podcast Creed enjoyed.
Quinn mulled over Lord Borealis’s arrest. His reaction to Lady Liberty’s accusation had been surprise. Either that was good acting or genuine shock. “Thoughts?” she asked once they entered San Luis Obispo County.
He shrugged, switching lanes. “Not sure anymore. You?”
Quinn didn’t know. That interview left so much to unpack, her brain needed an ice soak. “Could be lying. The drone footage and alarms are weird, though.”
Creed nodded. “Maybe ask your Vanguard BFFs about that.”
Quinn jabbed his arm, smiling. “Maybe I will.” That smile faded over her concerns about Creed's mouth. While awesome, he was a bigger gazette than their news employer. “Please keep quiet about today.”
Creed waved off her concerns. “Yeah, sure.”
Quinn clutched his shoulder. “Promise me, Creed.” If Borealis wasn’t Titan’s killer, the ramifications could be earthshattering. “Until I figure out my next move.”
Creed sighed in consent. “I promise. I’m a lockbox.”
The sun had set after Creed dropped Quinn off at her apartment. She approached the entrance and reached for her keys, moving around a shapely woman in a hoodie and Dodgers cap. Probably a guest waiting to be let in.
The woman turned and grabbed her arm. “Quinn Bauer.”
Quinn jerked back. She relaxed, squinting at the face under the baseball hat. “Sera—Mikaela?” Seeing Seraph here was jarring. “How do you know where I live?”
Stripped of her superhero finery, Seraph resembled a normal twenty-three-year-old on an evening walk. “Our events ended earlier,” Seraph stated hastily. “And Vanguard’s satellites tracked you. Can we talk?” She glanced around the street warily.
Quinn wanted to send her packing. This was a violation. But the desperation in Seraph’s eyes cooled her fury. She opened her building entrance. “Come in.”
Several inhabitants bustled through the hallways, many whom Quinn knew. She exchanged quick pleasantries, promising to catch up soon. Luckily, no one looked too closely as Quinn hustled Seraph into an elevator.
“I need to clarify what happened a few weeks ago,” Seraph stated once Quinn locked her apartment door behind them. “On the V-Jet.”
The reporter grasped her meaning. Being from New England, Quinn knew all about Catholic guilt. “I saw many things on that V-Jet.”
Seraph removed her hat. Dark, messy hair tumbled past her shoulders. “Quinn. You know what I mean,” she said, her youthful face taut.
Quinn realized Seraph must think her Blur crush would appear in the interview series. But the reporter wasn’t interested in salacious hearsay without footage. “An innocent crush on a teen heartthrob isn’t taboo. Women twice my age get hormonal about Justin Bieber—”
“Blur and I are having sex!” Seraph hollered.
Quinn immediately covered her ears. “OHH!” She did not see that coming. “Why would you admit that?”
Seraph leaned heavily on a wall, clearly horrified by her own confession. “I can’t keep lying.”
Quinn lowered her hands, swaying. Between this and Lord Borealis, her brain was about to implode. She then asked a logical follow-up. “So…you’re not a virgin?”
Seraph guiltily shook her head. “Blur took my virginity.”
“Ugh.” Quinn gagged. It took considerable willpower not to vomit out her stomach. Seraph’s chastity pledge was a lie? “When? How?” she asked, ignoring her rising nausea.
“Eight months ago,” Seraph began. “After Vanguard fought Shadowmarch in San Diego. The Extreme Teens were there. An argument happened, like you saw in North Dakota. Sentinel, being Sentinel, barely noticed me. Things had been strained, making me question our relationship. But there’s so much invested in being with him…my first relationship outside of God.” Seraph sat on the floor and winced. “We had an argument, and I went to cool off. Blur happened to be there. We walked and talked for hours, ended up at a crappy motel and…things just happened.” The admission stunned her anew. “Blur—sorry, Luke—listened to me, appreciated me.”
Quinn leaned on the wall opposite Seraph and sank into a seat, processing this. “Blur’s seventeen!”
“He turned eighteen three months ago…”
Quinn recalled the Extreme Teens and Vanguard face-off in North Dakota, plus Blur’s over-the-top behavior. “His obnoxiousness toward you was an act?”
Seraph’s tormented gaze tugged at Quinn’s heart. “Not at first. Since we’ve been together, we had to act like nothing changed.
“Whenever I’m at Vanguard headquarters I use the cover of attending Mass…three times a week instead of two. Blur super-speeds to the out-of-the-way church in Sacramento.”
She met Quinn’s gaze, pure horror filling that pretty face. “We were together the night Titan died. After that, it’s weighed on my soul.” She looked away, eyes shrink-wrapped with tears.
Quinn’s brain felt ready to liquefy again. “He’s with L.U.N.A!” she blurted out.
“A showmance,” Seraph dismissed acidly. “The Extreme Teens’ parent company paired them because Blur needed a new girlfriend and to help L.U.N.A break into the US music market.”
“Who else knows?”
Seraph bit her lip. “Two people. L.U.N.A knows Blur is with someone but not who. The other one’s dead.”
Quinn frowned as the comprehension landed. “Titan knew?” Lord have mercy. “How?”
“He smelled Blur on me.” Seeing Quinn’s baffled look, Seraph tapped her own nose. “Enhanced smell.”
“Oh!” Then Quinn really understood. “EWW!”
“He badgered me until I caved and confessed.” Seraph looked ready to cry.
Quinn went into den mother mode as she had with other girlfriends in crisis. She crossed her foyer and sat beside Seraph. “Titan said nothing?”
Seraph shook her head. “He advised against it but said if I continued, I should lie better.”
That surprised Quinn. “Titan told you this? The Central Coast Saint?”
Seraph gave her an oddly reproachful look. “Titan had plenty of demons.”
Quinn was lost. “What?”
Seraph turned away as if she’d misspoken. “Nothing. It’s nothing,” she whispered.
Quinn suddenly realized Seraph never asked for this to be off-the-record. She could expose the affair. Maybe Seraph wanted that outcome to escape the guilt. It was what Helena would’ve done. But watching how defeated Seraph looked, Quinn couldn’t knife this poor woman.
The reporter moved and crouched before her friend. “Mikaela. I’ll say nothing. But if you love Sentinel—”
“I do love him,” Seraph protested weakly, as if forced to say that.
“Regardless,” Quinn continued. “You need to end this affair with Blur like yesterday. If someone else finds out, Blu
r is the stud who deflowered Seraph before Sentinel. The consequences for you, as a woman and a Catholic Church ambassador, will be much worse. And don’t forget the age difference.”
Seraph grew teary-eyed as she nodded. Quinn stood and helped her up. Between Seraph’s casual dress and overshare, Quinn felt like she was addressing a close friend and not a world-famous superhero. And the reporter forgot her manners. “You want some water?”
“I’d like that,” Seraph said.
Quinn then remembered her phone had remained off since entering the supermax. Not fifteen seconds of powering it back on, the device buzzed angrily. Helena.
She didn’t even get a hello in before the Editor-In-Chief screamed, “Where the FUCK ARE YOU?”
Quinn jerked away from her phone. Seraph watched her questioningly.
“Home?” the reporter replied warily. Helena yelled like that when something went wrong. “Just following up on a lead. What happened?”
“Jesus, what didn’t happen?” Helena exclaimed. “All hell’s breaking loose at Vanguard HQ.
"A video leaked of Robbie Rocket promising Jono dirt on Titan’s past indiscretions.”
Quinn’s jaw dropped. “Yeahbuthuh?”
Helena sighed. Wherever she was, yelling boomed in the background. “Apparently, Titan’s been a huge manwhore for years.”
Quinn clutched her afro of large curls in shock. What had she done to piss today off? “Who leaked this?”
“No idea,” Helena replied over the screams. “But it came from one of our cameras.”
“I…wow!” Quinn leaned against a wall again. “Should we be worried?”
“Don’t know,” Helena answered wearily. “Sentinel and Wyldcat are screaming at Robbie Rocket. Benjamin Crane wants to kill our interviews.
“Jono’s no longer EP effective immediately. Not sure I can protect him this time from the powers that be. Don’t worry, you’re safe,” Helena stated before Quinn could ask.
Her relief was short-lived. There goes my big break. The best Quinn could do was be helpful. “What can I do?”
“Stay in San Miguel until I fix this,” Helena stressed. “Get some footage ready to show the benefit to salvaging our series. Jesus Christ—”
“First thing tomorrow,” Quinn promised.
After hanging up, Seraph approached her with a concerned look. “What happened?”
Quinn scrolled through her phone. Four voicemails and ten texts from Helena before their call. “You should check your cell. Robbie Rocket screwed up. Badly.”
Seraph’s eyes widened. “Can I help?”
“Go back to your HQ.” Quinn did a double take while scanning phone notifications. She spotted a headline about Lady Liberty rescuing a family from their burning house.
“Actually…” Quinn smiled, an idea blossoming. “You can help.”
Chapter 28
The morning of his third sick day, Hugo headed to the rock quarry outside town. Wearing only shorts and running shoes, he swung a fist at the massive grey rock, not holding back. The boulder exploded into dust and chunks. That felt good. The quarry was vacant this early. Better than reading online about this new flood of cape chasers claiming to have bedded Titan. Jesus.
Hugo planned on skipping school the rest of the week. Maybe transferring. Easier than facing the humiliation of how Brie really felt and failing as a superhero. And knowing Titan wasn’t the role model he’d idolized since childhood.
Hugo kept punching boulders for a solid hour before Mom arrived. She exited her Forerunner in maroon nurse scrubs, meaning she’d driven straight from her all-night OR shift.
Guilt stabbed through Hugo's gut. “AJ tattled?” he asked, striking another rock. It crumbled on impact.
“Yup.” Mom stood at the edge of the depression he was in. “You’re going to school today, Bogota,” she declared.
Hugo’s shoulders sagged. “Mom—”
“Car. Now.” Mom’s monosyllabic demands left zero room for argument. Superpowers notwithstanding, Hugo never crossed Mom on education. With a petulant sigh, he trudged out of the depression and into Mom’s Forerunner.
“One question,” she asked on the drive back to Paso Robles. “Were you recognized the other night?”
Hugo turned and stared. “How did you—?”
Mom made a rude noise. “Think I missed the huge bruise on your face before it healed? Or the dirty boot prints from your room to the bathroom?”
Hugo flinched at his sloppiness. His jaw had been bruised and aching most of yesterday before finally healing. Lady Liberty packed one hell of a punch.
Mom studied her eldest son, serious as a heart attack. “Were. You. Recognized?”
Hugo hesitated. Lady Liberty had seen his face, threatening to jail him if he kept superheroing. That would cause a Defcon Level 1 freak out. But nobody he knew saw his face, so… “My identity’s safe.”
Mom exhaled in relief. Her mouth remained a hard, stern line. “Are you over this hero nonsense?”
“Yes,” Hugo said instantly. Despite encountering Lady Liberty, he wasn't sure if that was true.
After a shower and breakfast, Hugo threw on a tight black V-neck t-shirt and dark blue jeans with black boots. “You got this,” he repeated twice before speeding to school ten minutes before 1st period.
Upon arriving on campus, he spotted a friendly face in Grace Misawa. She sashayed through the halls, flanked by two Korean girls from the Cool Asians clique. Grace rocked an amazing peacock-colored head wrap, green flowery top with low shoulders…and a badass Scottish kilt. Of course she was wearing a kilt. Hugo loved her zany style. Grace complemented her look with black lipstick, red-tinted glasses and gold tassel earrings. While engaging her friends, she pointed at Hugo and raised her hand. He gladly high-fived Grace when she passed.
Her friends immediately pestered her. “Ummm, who’s that?”
“My buddy, Hugo,” Grace replied casually.
“WHAT?” both girls exclaimed.
They weren’t alone. Hugo was grabbing gazes everywhere. Freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and senior girls were eyeing him with palpable interest. Was his hair more tousled today or his t-shirt extra clingy? Or did I have Brie blinders on? Regardless, this gave Hugo a welcome ego boost heading into 1st period French.
“It’s you!” a voice exclaimed behind him.
Hugo turned to see Jordana Buchanan approaching, long braids flowing down her back. She wore an off-the-shoulder blue Mets T-shirt, light blue jeans barely containing her juicy hips.
Hugo gulped, feeling unmoored. With all the craziness happening, he’d forgotten Jordana. “It’s me,” he replied with a friendly smile. “You look lovely…and alive.”
Jordana blushed. “Thanks to you.” Students bustled past them for their 1st periods. “You teach here?”
He chuckled and glanced at the ground. Her smile with those luscious lips was gorgeous. Everything about Jordana Buchanan was gorgeous. Because she doesn’t recognize you. “We’re both sophomores, Jordana.”
Jordana’s lust-glazed eyes tightened. “You know my name?”
Hugo sighed, dreading where this conversation was headed. “We’ve known each other for years. And you hate me.”
“Why do I…?” Jordana’s smile vanished as barefaced horror flooded her face. “Hugo Malalou?”
Her reaction was a hard slap. Hugo powerwalked away before she could say more, hardening his heart like his skin. Neither Jordana nor Briseis would hurt him again.
1st period French was tolerable. The teacher, Mrs. Walters, was like a century old but pleasant. No one in class knew Hugo and vice versa, which meant no repeats of Jordana’s reaction thankfully.
After 1st period, Hugo remembered who was in his 2nd period. Anger and nausea roiled through him again. Mr. Allocco, his 2nd period US History teacher, looked genuinely pleased when Hugo arrived. He was a tad slubby and of average height with kind features and trimmed fluffy black hair. “Glad you beat that nasty cold, Bogota. And thanks for submitt
ing your Defining What Freedom Means essay through the Google classroom.”
“It’s Hugo,” Hugo corrected. “Glad to be here.” He wasn’t glad but felt it was the polite answer.
Mr. Allocco gestured around his room. “Sit anywhere that isn’t taken. Seating isn’t locked until next week.” Hugo found a desk in the back and pulled out his school laptop. The room was halfway full when Simon arrived. He and Hugo exchanged nods. Simon liked sitting in front. Hugo stayed put, dread crawling up his spine as he stretched his hearing, hoping like crazy that Brie had transferred from this class.
Within the sea of hallway chatter, she gossiped about who said what to someone trash-talking a friend from another social circle. Or something. Her voice once brightened Hugo’s world. Now it nauseated him.
Minutes later, Briseis El-Saden entered the classroom with her runway model walk, a willowy and beautiful teenage dream. She wore a white designer tank top with “Baywood Park 1924” scrawled across the chest in Blackletter font, faded grey True Religion jeans, white suede Louboutin ankle boots, and J-Lo-hoop earrings. Even casual clothing looked high-end on Brie. The wardrobe contrasted perfectly with her sun-kissed caramel skin, sleek auburn hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Then Hugo remembered the nightmare beneath the daydream. Brie’s sparkle instantly faded. “I get why you’re crushing on him,” she gabbed. “He’s hot AF. But a name like Maynard sounds like he’s eighty and disgusting!”
Her leggy blonde friend nibbling on a muffin was Kendall Caruso, also on varsity tennis and a satellite member of Brie’s squad. “True,” Kendall agreed. “But he’s so yummy!” They sat three rows ahead of Hugo, one row left. Brie scanned the classroom, overlooking him, and focused on her friend, whose back faced Hugo.
“See Easy Abby's whoredrobe today?” Kendall asked.
Brie rolled her pale green eyes. “Wasn’t much to see besides skin. And big, phony funbags.” The duo cackled as the classroom continued filling. “That bargain basement slut keeps proving me right.”
They started shading Brie’s own squad. “Lia’s parroting your Armani mini dress,” Kendall added, finishing off her pastry. “From two days ago?”