by C. C. Ekeke
“Thanks, big brother!” Sara gushed, sounding emotional. She glanced over her brother’s shoulder. “Thank you, parents and friends!”
Sara pulled back with a strange look. “Jesus,” she mused. “When did you get muscles?”
Greyson’s smile froze, terror looming. He did some quick thinking. “Playing basketball at the community center,” he lied.
Sara kissed his cheek before scurrying away to greet Mom and Dad, then her plethora of friends.
Once the crowd swamped Sara with hugs and birthday wishes, Greyson’s joyful façade dropped.
He was happy celebrating Sara’s birth-week. On the surface, Greyson should’ve been happier. His relationship with Lauren couldn’t be better. He and Dad were getting to know each other again. Work was work and the community center kids fulfilled him in new ways all the time.
But last week had left Greyson paranoid and haunted and guilty. Whenever he closed his eyes, he heard screams and saw mangled bodies. Thanks to his superhero team. More like former superhero team. He had no desire to relive that night or his team’s fuckup. But struggling to act normal was an unending challenge. Checking the news on the fallout and if suspects were caught had become an obsession.
Greyson’s roving gaze found Lauren, a vision in her sleek ponytail, strappy blue top, and bellbottom pants. She approached him leisurely, concern creeping onto her face. “How’re you holding up?” she murmured, rubbing an affectionate hand along his back.
Barely keep my shit together, he almost admitted. Instead, Greyson turned to Lauren with a sad half-smile, kissing her. “I’ll be fine.” Another lie, but one she needed to hear. Lauren already worried enough, especially after the Bashem Brothers mess. Going forward, Greyson had to be stronger for both of them.
Lauren cocked her head sideways, worry lingering. “Please tell me you're done with group therapy,” she stated in acid tones.
Greyson grimaced. “Correct.”
Tension left Lauren’s face, while grief torched Greyson’s innards. St. Pierre had disbanded the team the night of the Bashems screw-up.
No more group therapy.
No more bonding with Connie, Kathy, Izzie, and Tom.
No more wielding his abilities with other supers like himself. One bad night had landed Greyson back where he’d started before meeting Dr. St. Pierre.
He'd tasted acceptance of himself and his abilities—only to have it snatched away.
The party continued, Greyson mingling with Sara and her friends while grabbing food from tables packed with pizza, drinks, and more. He wore a smile he didn’t feel, telling hilarious stories with a genuine-sounding laugh. But Greyson went numb remembering the innocents who’d died because of his team. Numb from missing the tribe of supers he’d now lost.
Later, Greyson reclined on a squishy pleather couch sipping from his plastic cup. Yellow and red strobe lights flashed across the recreational area. Dad conferred with two of Sara’s older friends across the room. In the middle of the rec room floor, Lauren grooved eagerly to pop with Sara and several of her wackily dressed friends. By the sloppy and flailing dance moves, everyone was unapologetically drunk. And they’d somehow dragged Mom into their dance-fest.
Greyson stared at his plastic cup of Pepsi. “Glad I’m sober tonight.” And his mind drifted.
Searing memories returned, feeling like it occurred yesterday.
The ride back to the warehouse had been a special kind of awful. Everyone had pulled off their masks during transit. Letty said nothing, which was unusual. Greyson could not forget the weariness and anguish ripping through him. Tom and Kathy had been staring off at nothing. Izzie had glared up at the ceiling, a portrait of fury. Connie had been shaking, her moon-shaped features stricken with sorrow.
Against his better judgement, Greyson had drawn the girl into a side embrace to console her. When the team had reached the warehouse, Dr. St. Pierre was waiting with stony features. But Greyson would never forget the doctor’s sad and disappointed eyes. Seeing that had gutted Greyson the most.
The deathlike silence continued as Letty had scanned police bands and news media. The many reports had been horrifying—overwhelming. Thirteen casualties, thirty-four bystanders injured. Photos of the team were on websites like Caped Crusaders and Herogasm, along with local news. Surviving bystanders demonizing them for their recklessness. St. Louis PD had begun manhunts, all members persons of interest.
Greyson had recalled the growing nausea thinking of their crimes, going to jail. He’d sunk to his knees, almost vomiting. Big Izzie kicked something in anger. Connie burst into tears.
“Okay.” St. Pierre had remained mostly calm. But Greyson, despite his nausea, had seen panic on his face. “Walk me through what happened.”
Kathy, trembling but coherent, had recounted everything. From when they’d breached the Bashems’ hiding place to Greyson forcing Tom to teleport everyone away.
Tom, silent since their return, popped to his feet in fury. “Why didn’t you listen to Greyson?” he demanded.
Connie wiped her tears with quick fingers. “I screwed up.”
Tom had laughed harshly. “We know! Greyson had things covered.” He’d gotten in Connie's face. “But you had to impress him, huh?”
Greyson recalled his own eyes bulging. Letty had gasped.
Connie turned pink and shoved Tom. “Shut the fuck up!”
“Tom…” Greyson had warned, standing.
The teleporter whirled on Big Izzie. “And you. So eager to make up for being late to fighting Excessive Menace?” He jabbed Izzie’s chest. “Your do-over just cooked us for breakfast.”
Kathy had looked aghast.
Big Izzie’s face twisted. “Watch yourself, pipsqueak.”
Tom had gotten in the older man’s face, puffing out his chest. “Make me, big man—”
“Enough,” St. Pierre had boomed, silencing everyone. The injured superhero hobbled between Izzie and Tom, shoving them apart. “Listen carefully. This is beyond bad.” He gestured at monitors broadcasting newscasts demonizing the team. “The only option is to disband. No more heroics. No more costumes. If not, you’ll all get arrested by St. Louis PD. Or OSA.”
The announcement's finality smacked Greyson across the jaw. To lose this so suddenly felt wrong. “But St. Louis still needs heroes,” he had protested feebly.
St. Pierre waved off the concerns. “I will figure something out until I’m ready. But currently, y'all are radioactive.”
Tom had made an objecting whimper, but no one else opposed. Since that day, the guilt over what happened had weighed down Greyson’s every move. A hole soon formed in his heart where the team and the joys of being a superhero once lived. He stared upward for answers. Greyson only found a water-stained ceiling and more regret as his vision blurred.
“Grey?” The voice drew Greyson back to the present, finding his mom standing in front of him. Her lined face looked flushed and happy, silvery hair unbounded. Cutting loose and dancing like this was a rare delight for her.
Greyson smiled at his mother’s elation. “Someone’s having fun.”
She beamed, plopping down next to him. “Indeed!” Mom’s gaze fell upon Sara and Lauren’s drunken gyrations. “Tonight’s been fun. But we’re leaving in half an hour. Dad’s getting tired.”
Greyson glanced over at Dad, a lonely figure leaning against the wall on the room’s other end. The elder Hirsch looked far older than his sixty-plus years, balding and far too gaunt. But Mom’s searching tone told Greyson she came to ask something else. “What’s up?”
She turned to him fully. Pushing silvery strands from her face, worry replaced happiness. “I’m sure you saw the news about that Heroes Anonymous team?”
Greyson hid his anguish behind a calm mask. “What about them?” he asked carefully.
Mom shook their head. “I cannot believe they were so reckless.”
Greyson squeezed both fists tight to stop quivering. “What happened to those innocent bystanders was awful,”
Greyson said, not having to fake his disgust. “But it looked like an accident.”
“Agreed.” Mom bobbed her head up and down. “But if they were actual heroes, they’d turn themselves in. Or at least keep on fighting the good fight. Unlike the Hurricane.”
Shock rippled through Greyson. He turned his head. Mom thinks I’m a coward. Wonderful…
Mom draped affectionate arms around Greyson. “I’m so glad you keep your talents hidden. Don’t give anyone cause to fear you.”
Greyson forced on a smile, even while dying inside. “That’s me, Mom.” The news coverage kept getting worse. More law enforcement searched for the group by the day. On a positive note, at least Mom didn’t suspect him of being Tango. “What does Dad think?”
Mom pulled away and studied him. “Surprisingly, nothing. Not even how this proves him right about all supers being terrible.” She shrugged.
Greyson’s jaw dropped. “That would be a first.” Before he could process all this further, his cellphone buzzed urgently in his pocket. He whipped it out to check the message.
Thomas: Outside Waterfire. We need to talk.
Greyson went cold all over. He lurched to his feet faster, furious. But Greyson remembered Mom on the couch and met her baffled gaze. That kept him from losing it. “Sorry, gotta make a call.” Greyson strode from the rec room to a rear exit.
Night had fallen quickly, clouds obscuring the glittery skies. Greyson searched around, fuming at this personal intrusion. Thankfully, no one was in the alleyway, only trash bins and a few scurrying rats. “Come out, asshole.”
“That’s no way to treat a friend.” A shadow emerged from behind a nearby trash bin and stepped into the circle of yellow illumination from the streetlights above. Tom wore his megawatt smile, as if about to sell something. The tall, athletic man had on many clothing layers. “I just wanna talk.”
Greyson wanted to turn Tom’s face into a fist magnet. Somehow, he stopped himself. “Make it quick.”
Tom stepped closer, his smile growing wider. “You and I. Teaming up to stop crime,” he announced.
Greyson stared at him a long moment. Then he guffawed. “You’re kidding…” He found no irony on Tom’s face. Somehow, Greyson wasn’t surprised. The urge to punch Tom returned with gusto. “How stupid are you?”
“Connie and Big Izzie screwed up,” Tom barked. “Why should we stop being heroes because of them? And asking Kathy is a no-go. She’s too dickmatized by Izzie.”
Greyson scowled at Tom’s dismissal of three teammates he’d once called family. “We’re a team, Tom. Or were a team.” The slipup stung more than Greyson expected. “One teammate fails, everyone fails. When the team makes a decision, every teammate follows. We lay low until Hurricane says otherwise.” The reminder about being seen together should’ve reached Tom.
He scoffed instead, his square-jawed face more determined than ever. He shrugged off his coat. “Then we strip the deadweight and soldier on. Us two can protect St. Louis and redeem Heroes Anonymous’s reputation.” He began unbuttoning his shirt while unzipping his pants.
Greyson side-eyed Tom and backpedaled. “This is getting kinda weird, Tom.”
“I’ve got my costume underneath.”
Greyson’s heart galloped into a sprint. “What? Put your clothes back on!”
Tom was unbuttoning his shirt, the colors of his Bravo suit peeking through. “Not until…you say yes…join me in my quest for just— Ah!”
Suddenly, Tom floated and flailed several feet off the ground, weightless.
Greyson negated Tom’s gravity, done with being polite. He glared at this selfish ass willing to put everyone at risk to feed his hero complex.
“I’ll say this only once,” Greyson snarled, his voice low and furious. “Lose my number. Forget ever meeting me. Forget trying to be a hero again.”
He walked close, grabbing a helpless Tom by his glorious mop of hair and pulling him down nose to nose. “I won’t have you put everyone and their families in danger because of your boyhood fantasies. And if I hear you’ve been out crimefighting, what I do to you will make what I did to Excessive Menace pale in comparison.”
That sent a visible shiver through Tom.
Greyson gave the teleporter’s hair a hard yank. “Are we clear?”
Tom yelped and nodded desperately.
Greyson let go and waved a hand, restoring Tom’s gravity. The teleporter dropped in a heap on the ground. Greyson stood over him imperiously. “Get out of my sight,” he barked.
“Greyson?” An older man’s voice accompanied the creak of an opening door behind Greyson.
His heart stopped a couple beats. “Dad,” he said, whirling to see his wizened father standing with the rec room door open. Songs from inside leaked into the alleyway. Greyson barely noticed, realizing Tom was behind him, exposed and half dressed. Explaining this away to Dad would not be fun.
To Greyson’s horror, Dad’s eyes bored into his son with their usual judgement. “Who are you talking to out here?”
Greyson turned, ready to bullshit his way through this.
Tom was gone, along with his coat, having teleported away. Thank God.
“I was finishing a phone call,” Greyson lied, not caring for the taste of it. “What’s up?”
“We’re about to cut the cake.” Dad’s stern, wrinkled face softened as he gestured him inside. “C’mon.”
Greyson looked again at where Tom had been and sighed in gratitude. Fixing his expression into smiling anticipation, he moved toward Dad. “Lead the way, sir.”
Chapter 17
“You’re done already?” Quinn couldn’t believe her ears when Colin had called this morning. He’d sent a Cloud site link with over two dozen files to her personal email.
“Yup,” he’d crowed on the phone. “I got screengrabs and YouTube videos. Plus, I found your missing video from the night of Titan’s murder. It had been unlisted on Paragon’s YouTube channel.”
Quinn could’ve kissed Colin if he were here in person. “No way!”
“Way!” he replied. “I made several HQ screengrabs of this beast-sized Latino dude and the Indian kid. They were at Paragon’s the night Titan died.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Quinn gushed. “Don’t—”
“Tell anyone,” Colin finished. “Just be careful with whatever you’re investigating.”
After hanging up, Quinn downloaded the files to her laptop. Then she activated her VPN before opening another site Geist had instructed her to use. This would mask Quinn’s computer while she uploaded files into the encrypted server.
Quinn then watched the fateful June 26th video. Paragon’s had been jam-packed. Lord Borealis, wearing a Hugh Hefner-like robe, was magnetically juggling chairs while downing drinks. Several patrons kept sending more, the muscled-up Latino kid leading the charge. Soon Borealis got so drunk, he was falling off his barstool. The Latino kid carried him from the bar with another unfamiliar patron.
“There!” Quinn pointed at the screen, spotting her proof of Lord Borealis’s innocence. Geist just needed to ID those boys. I’ll also send Veronica the videos to help Borealis’s trial, Quinn decided.
Throughout the rest of Sunday, Quinn was grabbing praise from everyone. Her parents called and sent a rose bouquet. Annie called wishing congrats. Jensen, Creed, and other work friends took her to lunch. Even Dave Packer, VP of Ad Sales, emailed well-wishes.
Helena's companywide email congratulated the Vanguard interviews team, praising Quinn’s “exceptional work.”
Quinn soaked up the praise, smiling so much, her face hurt.
The Vanguard interviews were a three-night event divided into two-hour chunks. Part one posted tonight, part two tomorrow, and part three on Tuesday. Quinn planned to watch part one at her Uncle Anthony’s house in south Paso Robles. Her cousins Jordana, Roland, and Rickie got super excited after hearing the interviews were back on.
Another gift appeared on her phone.
BLOCKED: Got your uploads. Ha
ve updates on those IDs. Your roof, 12:30 a.m.
Quinn brightened. “That was fast!” she remarked. The sooner Geist identified those kids, the sooner they could find Titan’s killer and vindicate Lord Borealis. “Tonight’s looking busy!”
A call from Jordana interrupted Quinn’s self-high-fiving. “Bad news!” her cousin professed. “Mom, Rickie, and Roland all got sick. Dad’s quarantined the house.”
“Tonight’s cancelled?” Quinn asked, concerned and disappointed. She'd declined several invitations to watch elsewhere.
“There's good news,” Jordana responded optimistically. “I can watch at your place.”
“Absolutely,” Quinn replied.
“But,” her cousin added, “can I bring some friends? They wanna meet you after I’ve bragged so much.”
Quinn scanned her cluttered apartment and cringed. “How many?”
“Five,” Jordana replied. “We’ll bring food!”
Quinn’s hesitance vanished. “Okay.”
Two hours later, Jordana arrived carrying three large pizzas. The teenager, somewhat shorter than Quinn, was much curvier. Jordana’s black hair spilled to her waist in lazy, glossy curls. She wore an off-the-shoulder cream sweater and flowing skirt. After Jordana placed her pizzas on the kitchen countertop, Quinn embraced her.
“Always a pleasure, Jo,” she gushed, grasping her cousin’s gorgeous face.
“Likewise, Q,” Jordana replied with her Bronx drawl. She moved fluently through Quinn’s kitchen, grabbing plates from the cabinets. “You’ll love my girls. They’re so lit for your interviews.” Jordana was a striking mix of her Dominican mother and African-American father, Quinn’s uncle. Their families had been close when both lived on the East Coast. When Quinn migrated to San Miguel, she’d stayed with Jordana’s family until finding her own place.
Jordana’s friend Natalie arrived first: tall, full-figured, and stunning with bouncy caramel hair. She brought shrimp with cocktail sauce. “My father loved your Lady Liberty interview,” Natalie gushed. “You know, Mario Rodriguez? Shortstop on the Outlaws?”
“Nat,” Jordana interjected sharply, “less bragging, more snack prepping.”