by C. C. Ekeke
“Hey, QB,” Jensen greeted with a megawatt smile. “Ready?”
Quinn stood. “Absolutely.” The trio crossed islands of barren cubicles toward the elevators.
The farthest of four elevators slid open. Quinn’s heart lurched, and she nearly stumbled. Jensen turned paler than usual. Creed looked like he’d smelled bad cheese.
Helena Madden stepped off the elevator with her boss-level powerwalk. She wore a tallow and black ringer t-shirt with faded black jeans and a red leather jacket. Her dirty blonde pixie-cut shag, styled in crisscrossing spikes, stuck out in all directions. Helena was texting almost angrily while striding along without looking. Even in passing, her presence was like standing near the sun. Jono McGowan, aka budget Colin Farrell, trailed behind her carrying takeout bags. His hair looked unkempt, but he seemed no less vile after his brief sabbatical. Jono nodded at Creed, ignoring Jensen and Quinn.
The editor-in-chief glanced up at Quinn, who offered a smile.
Helena looked through her and kept walking. And the sun shined elsewhere, leaving Quinn in the cold.
She felt mule-kicked in the gut. “See? Helena hates me,” Quinn grumbled once safely in the elevator.
“You don’t know that,” Jensen countered.
Quinn wasn’t buying it. “She canceled our weekly lunches.” That addendum stung, confirming Helena was done with her.
Jensen’s brow puckered as she struggled to find the upside.
Creed shrugged proudly. “Helena hating me is a badge of honor.”
Jensen glared at him before caressing Quinn’s trembling shoulders. “Keep doing great work and you’ll get back in Helena’s good graces.”
Anger flared up inside Quinn. “Not sure I want back in.” Helena killing Quinn’s investigation of Lord Borealis’s innocence had tainted her view of the editor-in-chief. “I had a lead. Then Helena squashed it.” The elevator opened, and the trio spilled out into SLOCO Daily’s lobby. “What ethical journalist does that?”
“Someone too dickmatized to see what a cancer her boyfriend is.”
Both Quinn and Creed stared at Jensen, who batted her eyelashes innocently. “Oh, I said that out loud?”
“You know about Helena and Jono?” Creed asked in surprise.
Quinn rolled her eyes. “Jen saw them in a make-out sesh a few months ago,” she explained.
Jensen shivered. “Still can’t unsee it.”
“Alcohol helps,” Creed offered.
“Here’s hoping,” Quinn muttered.
“Last year,” Creed stated, “I was pissed at some asshat move Jono had pulled. Helena lowkey begged me to be his friend again since so many people at work hate him. I’m like, ‘not if Jono sends his girlfriend to apologize for him.’” He chuckled. “She’s loathed me ever since.”
Quinn was half-listening, focused on one of the lobby's five massive TVs. The screens played nonstop news from either SLOCO Daily’s YouTube channels or other new networks.
One screen showcased coverage of a mysterious group of costumed vigilantes in St. Louis called Heroes Anonymous. Crappy name aside, reading about their bootstrapped pluckiness made Quinn smile. Tonight, they’d defeated some rock-based criminal.
On the screen to the right were a costumed superhero team renowned across the world. The Vanguard, with angelic Seraph flying front and center, were in the South Pacific. Footage showed their flawless teamwork against Magmidas, a skyscraper-sized rock and lava monster. A shimmery comet soared ahead, either the armored AI Dynamo or rookie Morningstar, delivering the blow that felled the monster.
Quinn averted her eyes. She couldn’t watch anything Vanguard-related without feeling queasy or livid.
Creed, sensing this, guided her away. “Jensen, call us a Lyft?”
“Sure.” Her gaze lingered on Quinn while shouldering open the glass entrance and tapping on her phone.
Creed turned before a dazed Quinn. “Do you have proof?”
She grimaced, stomach twisting into knots again. “Besides a scared bartender’s half-confession? No.”
“Then move on,” Creed stated, no snark or quip in his tone. “For your career’s sake.”
Quinn glanced at the ground. She couldn’t promise that. Not with her unshakeable belief in one man’s innocence. Nor could she lie to Creed, who’d always been in her corner. “I’ll be careful.”
Creed scowled in irritation. Before he could continue, Jensen popped back inside. “Our ride’s here.”
Quinn smiled and headed outside as another text buzzed her phone. The early night was windy, and Quinn pulled her jean jacket around her much tighter. Careful not to draw any suspicions, she waited until they’d entered the Lyft car before pulling out her phone. She sighed and opened the latest text message, expecting the sender to be Annie or another friend or her family.
BLOCKED: Tomorrow @ 1 AM. Ysidro and Toombes.
Like with previous texts from this individual, the encrypted message would self-delete in ten minutes.
Quinn’s heart soared. She eyed her friends to ensure they’d seen nothing—and gasped.
Creed and Jensen were too busy entangled and devouring each other’s faces off. Creed and Jensen were a thing? Quinn shook her head. “Why do I keep seeing these things?” She scooted away from their enthusiastic makeout as the Lyft raced to their destination.
Chapter 3
“That…wasn’t smart,” Greyson Hirsch fretted, the red brick wall rushing closer to shatter his spine.
A moment ago, he had attempted sneak-attacking a rogue super and got dangled off the ground in a one-handed chokehold.
Then, as the grip tightened, Greyson got tossed like a softball.
Wind whistled past Greyson, who flailed helplessly in his full-body, navy-blue costume—hurtling toward a brick wall. Fear left his brain unable to wield his powers. And at the speed he’d been thrown, Greyson was about to become wall pizza…
…Until she launched herself into his path, catching him just in time. The wind got driven out of Greyson upon colliding with a petite, rock-solid frame.
Better her than the wall. Greyson grimaced as the pair tumbled in a heap across cracked concrete.
“Tango,” she whispered in his ear when they cameLuis to a halt. “You hurt?”
It took Greyson’s scrambled wits a moment to recall "Tango" was his field codename.
He wriggled his fingers and toes, wincing. “Lots of things hurt but aren’t broken, Kilo.” Greyson looked up at Kilo, aka Constance Ishibashi, spread atop him. Connie, teammate and fellow super, could alter her body density. Her powers saved his ass.
Connie cut a slender sight in an outfit like his, full-body black suit with a face half-mask and red visor.
Greyson forced his focus from Connie’s lovely frame to her well-being. “You okay?”
She nodded. “Splendid, except when Plymouth lands a direct hit. Your stunt was dumb, by the way.”
Greyson grinned despite his aching ribs. “I know.”
He and Connie looked several feet away at what had tossed him. Greyson spotted a near eight-foot man-mountain of rock and soil, pupil-less eyes and gaping mouth glowing fiery orange.
He shuddered. “Plymouth.”
The supervillain calling himself Plymouth broke into Plaza Frontenac mall near downtown St. Louis. Why?
To rob Louis Vuitton, Greyson guessed. Now their team fought Plymouth in one of the bourgeois mall’s parking structures.
“Disgusting,” Plymouth’s roar of displeasure vibrated through the alley. “Are you five riffraff the best St. Louis has?”
“Kinda,” Connie murmured, helping Greyson to his feet.
The other members of Greyson’s team—yep, his team—attacked Plymouth with hammering shots to his craggy exterior.
No one could knock the beast down.
When news spread about Plymouth’s attack, someone had to intercept before innocents got hurt. Someone like Greyson and his team, subbing in while St. Louis’s patron superhero recuperated.
&
nbsp; Tom, aka Bravo, wore a dark-grey body suit with green goggles. The teleporter stood behind Plymouth. Instants later, Tom appeared on Plymouth’s opposite side, barely dodging his backhand swipes.
Tom was carrying Kathy, aka Foxtrot, in his arms while teleporting. Kathy, in a maroon body suit and blue goggles, swiped viciously at Plymouth with lengthy razor-sharp blades for arms. Her slashes, quicker and less wild than before, left long scratches across his stony exterior. Recent training was paying off. But that just pissed Plymouth off. He swung at Kathy with wrecking-ball-like fists.
Tom quickly teleported her away each time. Can Bravo keep that up? Greyson worried. Connie had landed a flurry of blows while maintaining a rock-solid density.
Plymouth shrugged most of them off, then lazily slapped her aside. The only teammate to stand toe to toe with Plymouth was Big Izzie, aka Delta. Izzie, covered in black concrete with yellow stripes, could absorb non-organic matter properties. He rushed in fast and furious, his jabs and uppercuts staggering Plymouth. Izzie had quick hands.
And briefly, Greyson felt hope.
But Plymouth wouldn’t fall, virtually welded to the ground. Eventually blocking a right cross from Izzie, he slammed both fists into the man’s chest. The sound of rock striking concrete thundered throughout the mall. Izzie sailed back as if struck by an SUV.
Greyson cringed. Kathy wailed, swinging her blades more furiously when Tom brought her closer.
“Some team,” Connie said, cringing. Greyson, Connie, Tom, Big Izzie, and Kathy were a new, unnamed superhero team. Greyson refused to accept that stupid name “Heroes Anonymous,” which local media called them thanks to stupid Tom. But whatever.
Big Izzie hit the ground and didn’t move. Not good.
Their strategy, hit Plymouth until he falls, wasn’t working.
“Letty?” Greyson called out. “He's not going down. What now?”
“Tango,” a female voice replied in his helmet’s ear comm. That would be Letty, their remote eagle eye. “We have to change the gravity beneath him.”
Greyson shook his head as Plymouth caught Tom and Kathy with a finger flick, knocking them several feet back. Thankfully, they weren’t seriously hurt. “Tried using my gravity power on him. Didn’t work.”
“You pitiful heroes think you stand a chance?” Plymouth spread his arms and roared out laughter, eyes gleaming. “The power of the earth flows through me as long as we’re connected.”
Greyson looked to Connie. “Being connected to the earth gives him power?” Meaning, they had to get him off the earth.
Letty already had an answer, as usual. “Knock him off his feet before using your powers.”
Recalling how Izzie had saved the team over a week ago, a plan formed in Greyson’s mind. And not a moment too soon. Plymouth began stomping in Greyson, Connie, and Izzie’s direction, each step quaking the earth.
“Delta!” Greyson called to his teammate. Powered down, Big Izzie wore a dark-purple uniform with yellow goggles, tight but not tight enough to hide his considerable paunch. “Get under our guy and throw him off. On my mark! Three! Two! One!”
Izzie then seemed to melt into the concrete and disappear. That stunned Plymouth enough to give him pause. His glowing eyes narrowed as he glanced around for Izzie.
Until a huge ripple of concrete beneath Plymouth’s feet reared upward like a tidal wave.
Suddenly, the eight-foot behemoth was airborne.
And Greyson made his move. Raising both hands, he unleashed an upsurge of energy to negate Plymouth’s gravitational pull. The monstrous man hovered in the air, weightless and helpless.
“This cannot be.” He flailed his limbs, unable to reach the ground. “How did you…?”
Greyson swung both hands right, his powers making a side wall’s gravity stronger than the floor. Plymouth collided with the wall and stuck, arms and legs spread.
Connie giggled. “Thanks for telling us how to beat you, dude!”
“Keep hitting him,” Letty added, speaking to everyone’s comm device. “Bravo! Get Foxtrot in there!”
Tom immediately appeared before a pinned Plymouth, with Kathy in tow. The older woman furiously sliced and diced with flashing blades, leaving deep gashes in Plymouth’s rocky torso.
“Kilo! Delta!” Greyson barked.
Connie dashed forward. Big Izzie oozed out from the ground, again encased in black concrete. The two heavy-hitters battered a helpless Plymouth with ferocious punches and kicks. Without his connection to the earth, each blow damaged his once unyielding exterior. The monstrosity now looked weak and breathless while pinned to a wall, the glow from his mouth and eyes fading.
“Tango,” Letty called in Greyson’s earpiece. “Finish him.”
“That’s the plan,” Greyson replied. While his teammates hammered Plymouth, Greyson had been charging up gamma radiation. He’d gotten faster at charging up, thanks to his training. Soon Greyson crackled with energy, illuminating the darkened alleyways.
“Now, Tango!” Tom cheered.
“Kick his ass!” Connie added.
Plymouth appeared afraid yet defiant. “This isn’t over. From where I’m standing, you're all dead!”
Greyson scoffed. “Stand over there.” He thrust both hands out, unleashing a bright golden flash from within. The concussive blast shattered Plymouth’s gravelly frame.
Watching rock fragments explode apart in a bright eruption tingled down Greyson’s spine. Jesus. He stared at his shining hands. I did that.
Big Izzie shielded Kathy from the debris. Connie did the same for Greyson. Shutting his radiation powers off, he stepped from behind Connie and looked around.
Jagged chunks of Plymouth’s body lay everywhere, from pebbles to half-disintegrated limbs. Another supervillain defeated.
Tension drained from Greyson in a relieved sigh. That had been scary, painful, and exhilarating. Though he couldn’t see Connie, Kathy, Izzie, and Tom’s faces behind their masks, their body language radiated excitement. High-fives and fist bumps were exchanged.
Then Tom’s overenthusiasm ruined the moment. “Heroes Anonymous landed on Plymouth Rock,” he crowed, gesturing excitedly. “And destroyed it!”
Everyone groaned.
“Good God.” Kathy threw her head back in exasperation.
“Man, your wit sucks,” Izzie remarked, disgusted.
“Stop talking, Bravo,” Connie snapped.
“We’re not using that goddamn name,” Greyson declared.
Letty clearing her throat interrupted the roasting. “Local police are three minutes away.”
That startled everyone for good reason. Their team wasn’t government-sanctioned, making them essentially vigilantes.
“Their response time is ridiculous,” Kathy remarked, backpedaling.
An encounter with local police or OSA, the government agency that monitored superhumans, would end badly.
Fear notwithstanding, Greyson kept a cool head. “Bravo!”
Tom nodded, all business. “You know the deal, folks.” Everyone grabbed hold of him.
Greyson’s stomach lurched, an unpleasant side effect of Tom’s teleporting. He heard the distant wail of police sirens as the alleyway littered with Plymouth’s remnants vanished around him.
Chapter 4
“Solid work, team!” Letty announced from the van’s driver seat.
Greyson, Connie, Kathy, Tom, and Big Izzie sat in the rear with their masks off as the van zipped down the I-70 freeway. Letty had parked three miles away from Plaza Frontenac, an easy range for Tom to teleport to and from. This also allowed her to communicate with the team from a safe distance that avoided police and OSA detection.
Greyson ran a hand through dark, sweaty curls. “Thanks to you.”
“I’m just your eagle eye,” she downplayed. “You guys did the work.” Letty, five-feet-five-inches of fierce intellect and charm, served as their eyes and ears during missions. She had her hair in long braids, wearing a vintage button-down with her badass maroon leath
er coat. Letty had been the Hurricane's eagle eye during his missions. But with the Hurricane still recovering from recent injuries, Greyson and his four teammates were his stand-ins.
“Quick thinking using Big Izzie,” Letty continued, glancing back at the team. “Solid teamwork to take Plymouth apart. OSA will contain him before he can reform.”
Greyson smiled. “Thanks.” He turned to the rest of the group. “To everyone.”
Tom’s handsome, square-jawed face warmed. Big Izzie wiped sweat off his balding scalp, grinning. Kathy, sitting beside Izzie, reclined in her seat with a contented look. Blonde hair hung damp and loose around her lined face, which was quite striking when she smiled.
Connie sat beside Greyson, hand on his thigh. “Your leadership counted.” Her gaze lingered. Greyson’s cheeks grew hot under that gaze and Connie’s nearness. Everyone else agreed, much to Greyson’s embarrassment.
“Let’s not shower too much praise,” a stern voice interjected on speakerphone.
The mood inside the van soured. Here comes the stick after the carrot, Greyson fumed.
That would be their therapist, Richard St. Pierre, aka The Hurricane. Though at home recovering, he kept tabs on every mission and training session. As expected, St. Pierre had critiques. “Greyson. Solid improvisation taking down Plymouth. But you froze when he threw you like a lawn dart.”
Greyson stiffened. “I wouldn’t say lawn dart—”
St. Pierre steamrolled over him. “We’ll work on your reaction times. Tom and Connie won’t always be there to catch you. Don’t go solo so recklessly again.”