by C. C. Ekeke
His discovery rocketed him upright. “What the hell?” Landon exclaimed, drawing stares.
He was wearing some navy-blue, bulky police vest. A blank rectangular screen was stuck to the middle. Landon’s blood chilled. He didn’t remember putting this on, or anyone putting it on him.
More shoppers looked his way with wary eyes.
So stunned was Landon, he almost missed the next text message.
UNKNOWN: Mister Quiet sends his regards.
Landon scowled. “Who the hell’s Mister Quiet?”
The moment he asked, a beep on the vest’s screen grabbed his attention. A timer, set to five seconds, appeared.
0:05…0:04…
Landon dropped the phone and staggered back, almost tripping over the bench. “Fuck!” He yanked at the vest to pry it off. It was clasped firmly to him.
…0:03...0:02…
Nearby shoppers and sellers pointed. Some cried. The smartest ones ran.
…0:01…0:00
Landon’s brain froze, right when the fiery blast mushroomed out from his vest. As blinding light incinerated Landon, his world turned white-hot for a split second—then pitch-black.
Chapter 1
He’d been running the racecourse for over an hour. Round and round the crimson tunnel-like loop, pushing his limits. The world quieted, except the whooshing winds, when running at superhuman speed.
Hugo Malalou glanced at his watch’s speed tracker. Six hundred seveteen miles per hour. New record. He grinned, barely tired.
If Hugo had gone this fast over ten weeks ago, before his sixteenth birthday, he’d have felt wiped.
But thanks to his mentor’s aggressive training, increased speed and stamina were just a few ways Hugo had leveled up.
But this tightfitting grey tactical unisuit wasn’t Hugo’s favorite. His mentor had said wearing this training outfit would familiarize him to moving and fighting in his eventual costume. Weeks later, Hugo had finally grown comfortable wearing it.
Hopefully, my actual costume is less basic, he mused. With a mask.
Thinking of suiting up as a real superhero jolted through Hugo like lightning…distracting him from the speedway.
Hugo looked up. A thick pipe abruptly jutted from the right-side wall, inches ahead and closing.
Shit! Hugo somersaulted over the bar a fraction of a second beforehand. Landing several feet away, he rocketed onward without breaking stride. That was close.
His mentor loved keeping Hugo on his toes during speed drills. Constant vigilance in a crisis. That had been hammered into him these last ten weeks.
A series of spiky cones sprouted from the ground as Hugo banked around the corner.
He frowned, zigzagging through the closely grouped spikes, never grazing any. I’m not even tired. Feeling cocky, he pushed himself faster.
Instants later, Hugo spied the limp body falling from the ceiling. His panic was fleeting as his training took over. A crash-test dummy shaped like a man, no facial features. Creepy AF. Hugo should be used to that, but the visual still unsettled him.
With Hugo moving superfast, the dummy plummeted in slow motion. He gritted his teeth, decelerating enough upon approach to not smash through the dummy like so many times before.
Hugo reached out, catching it perfectly. Ha! He couldn’t hide a smirk while racing forward.
“TIME!”
Hugo braked promptly, sliding by a foot. Sweat beaded from his buzzcut head down his blocky, swarthy features. He sucked in greedy gulps of air to catch his breath. Minor exertion stung his legs and arms. Hugo didn’t mind some fatigue after a long run. He savored the sensation before it soon faded. Another perk of super stamina. Hugo placed the dummy on the track floor and turned at the approaching footsteps. Two women advanced along the red speedway track. The tall adult wearing a shapeless green muumuu and a headband on thick golden locks was Hugo’s trainer, Betty Ortiz. Beside her was her twelve-year-old daughter, Zelda, with her bronze curls and sullen face.
“Well?” Hugo inquired expectantly, hands on hips.
“Better,” Ms. Ortiz commended. “You hit a running speed of 620 miles per hour. The dummy’s sensors detected you slowing enough to avoid a fatal collision.” Since revealing she was Lady Liberty, world famous superhero, Ms. Ortiz had dialed down the airy-fairy flowerchild act. She was a strict instructor but attentive and encouraging. “You still ‘cracked’ the dummy’s ribs.”
Hugo cringed, no longer feeling cocky. “Cracked ribs beat several shattered ribs like the last three times,” he remarked, fishing for a positive. “Sounds like an improvement.” He’d been working on catching dummies in mid-sprint without “killing” them or shattering every bone in their bodies. Those dummies were too fucking sensitive.
Ms. Ortiz couldn’t hide her smile when looking down at her daughter. “Thoughts?”
The twelve-year-old folded both arms, giving Hugo a hypercritical onceover. “Not gentle enough. Needs to stop checking his speedometer mid-sprint.”
Hugo rolled his eyes. She caught that. Zelda sometimes served as his trainer whenever her mom was busy as Lady Liberty. Much stricter than Ms. Ortiz.
“Always a critic, Z?” Hugo quipped.
Zelda arched an eyebrow. “Always a wiseass, H?” Hugo grimaced at the clapback.
Ms. Ortiz wasn’t pleased. “Zelda. Try again.”
Zelda glowered at her mother. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry.
“Go help the costume designers upstairs,” Ms. Ortiz ordered.
Zelda looked surly marching out of the speedway’s side entrance. Personally, Hugo missed her being in a state of constant embarrassment over her mother’s hippy-dippy axioms.
He and Ms. Ortiz were on the lowest level of her private training facility beneath her superhero costume shop in San Miguel. Hugo trained here three hours a day, four days a week. Saturday mornings or afternoons and Thursday evenings focused on strength, speed, endurance, and safe power usage. Sunday evenings, Hugo’s least favorite, was for unarmed combat, battlefield speed, and moderating fight power. He enjoyed Tuesday evenings, running mock battle or rescue scenarios to learn situation awareness. With all that training, Hugo barely recognized his physique. Yeah, he’d been muscular after getting Titan’s powers. Now Hugo was leaner and more chiseled, with eight-pack abs and biceps like small mountain peaks. Even better, Hugo’s strength had skyrocketed under Ms. Ortiz’s training, along with his control. He no longer worried about injuring someone with a casual touch. Hugo also worked on body movement, voice acting, and persona. The latter training would help people think Hugo and his superhero identity were separate people once he finally suited up.
“Even if certain lessons don’t make sense,” she’d said during his first training session, “this regimen will get you to your full potential.”
Hugo had made an effort to never complain. He just absorbed as much as possible from Ms. Ortiz, a living Wikipedia on superheroes.
“Don’t take her attitude personally,” Ms. Ortiz said once her daughter departed. She approached, standing slightly shorter than Hugo’s six-foot-three inches. “Zelda’s like that when she emotionally invests in someone.”
Hugo shrugged it off. Zelda’s surliness barely fazed him. “I’d hate to see how she treats enemies.” He wondered if Lady Liberty’s daughter had powers, despite never displaying any. But Hugo felt weird prying too much into his mentor’s privacy.
“Not to sound impatient, but how ready am I?” Hugo asked. “To fight the good fight?” Part of him craved a positive answer yet secretly dreaded a negative one.
“Surprised you showed this much restraint,” Ms. Ortiz quipped. Her gaze was so intense, Hugo almost looked away.
“You started very raw, without many bad habits to unlearn. Your self-training beforehand also helped.” She tossed back her long locks. “You’ve come a long way and keep improving.”
“I’m still earthbound,” Hugo grumbled. He had supposedly received all Titan’s powers after the superhero�
�s murder. Yet Hugo still couldn’t master flight beyond controlled leaps or brief floating. That angered him.
“Titan could fly, so that should develop eventually.” Ms. Ortiz pondered this. “If not, then so what? You have superspeed and can leap.”
Hugo chewed on her words, realizing she had a point. And that she’d deflected. “Didn’t answer my question.”
Ms. Ortiz nodded. “You’re close, Bogie. But you still have lots to learn.” She placed a hand on his broad shoulder and squeezed. “Be patient. When it’s time, you’ll know.”
Her answer didn’t irk Hugo. Not entirely. He knew parts of his superhero skills beyond flight needed work. “What about my costume?”
Ms. Ortiz’s grey eyes gleamed. “It’ll be ready tomorrow before training.”
Hugo’s heart skipped a beat. “Really?”
Ms. Ortiz nodded eagerly. “Putting on some final touches. I’ll call you.”
“Sweet!” Hugo exclaimed. A costume fitting was one thing. But getting his own custom superhero suit? I’m gonna be a superhero! Hugo had to geek out somewhere. “That all today?”
Ms. Ortiz grinned, as if sensing his barely contained excitement. “Tuesday, we’ll do some new movement exercises to help separate your civilian and superhero identities.”
Hugo rubbed his hands together, already enthusiastic. “Funny you should mention that. I’m going to Central Coast Plaza with my friends to try the body language exercises we worked on.”
Ms. Ortiz wrinkled her nose. “Your playboy persona,” she remarked disapprovingly. “Can’t you go for socially awkward? It’s more unassuming.”
Hugo felt somewhat annoyed, having heard this before. “Socially awkward was my life for years. Not anymore.” Hugo had given this considerable thought and respected Ms. Ortiz’s opinion. But he wouldn’t budge. “Also, people thinking I’m with a girl lowers the chance they’ll suspect I’m a superhero.”
Ms. Ortiz sighed in exasperation but didn’t push further. “Tell me how it goes—” A buzzing caught her attention. “Hold on.” Ms. Ortiz whipped a cellphone from her pocket. Her face tensed at whatever text she’d received.
Hugo sensed something was wrong. “Everything okay?”
Ms. Ortiz looked up with an unflappable expression. “Trouble in San Francisco.” Backpedaling several steps, she spun around, faster and faster, becoming a tornado-like blur.
She stopped seconds later, replaced by Lady Liberty in full costume. Her figure-hugging red uniform displayed long tanned and toned legs, her brunette bob flowing as if windblown. Lady Liberty’s getup was completed by the silvery diadem on her head like a crown. Stunning.
Hugo’s jaw dropped. “That never gets less mind-blowing,” he marveled. “Need help?” Despite her earlier words, Hugo hoped this crisis needed backup. Or a superhero-in-training.
Lady Liberty’s thin smile didn’t reach her eyes, as if saying, “Nice try, kid.” She headed for the speedway exit. “Justice Jones is en route. And you got no costume.” The superhero gesticulated at Hugo’s training unisuit. “Go have fun with your friends.” She rushed out in a powerful gust of wind.
“Okay,” Hugo said to an empty speedway. Shrugging off fleeting disappointment, he strode out the exit to change and shower. “Time to practice my lothario skills.”
Chapter 2
Under the dim bedroom lights, their intertwined bodies writhed as one. Her thighs felt deliciously warm as she kept riding him slowly. She was home.
Greyson Hirsch reached out and caressed her face. “Laurie…” he gasped.
Lauren smiled that loving smile. “I'm here.”
Greyson sagged with such relief, it hurt. “Thank God…” If he was with Lauren…then the last three months must’ve been a nightmare.
Greyson couldn’t have blown up his entire life in St. Louis. He couldn’t have killed his own father and the Hurricane.
Greyson couldn’t have hurt—or possibly killed—the love of his life…Lauren Gerard. He pushed all that animus away and gave his whole self to her grinding atop him ferociously.
“I missed you, Grey.” Lauren arched back with such pleasure her eyes crossed. “You miss me?”
Greyson held on to her hips, afraid she’d vanish if he let go. Everything tingled. “I missed you so much,” he admitted.
Lauren brushed back damp blonde locks, leaning down. Her tongue tickled his mouth open before she kissed him. “Do you love me?” she whispered.
Greyson nodded, sweat stinging his eyes. “More than life.” He was reaching his peak, ready to blast into orbit.
Lauren smiled broadly, satisfied. “Then why did you kill me?”
Greyson frowned. “What?” Suddenly, Lauren’s flesh was no longer pressed on his. In fact, she wasn’t even on top of him anymore. She lay on the floor in fetal position, body twitching. And her arms appeared crushed by some invisible force. She glared up at him with glassy, bloodshot eyes. “You crushed me...left me to die.”
Greyson sat up. “No…” The nightmare struck full force. Heroes Anonymous imploding. His therapy group getting captured. Lauren turning everyone else in to save him. His angry response. Greyson’s chest collapsed as reality battered him. “I called 911,” he pleaded. He rose and ran to Lauren. “I couldn’t stay! I…I never meant to hurt you.”
Yet Lauren kept growing farther away the faster Greyson ran. Her pained expression turned cruel. “You wanted me to suffer after thinking I betrayed you,” she accused. “I wanted to keep you safe.” Her voice withered into a croak. “And you killed me.” Lauren sagged on the floor.
Greyson finally reached her and cradled his fiancée’s limp body, tears spilling down his cheeks. Part of him wanted to shake her back to life. But her glassy, unblinking eyes told Greyson she was gone. “I’m sorry…” He hugged Lauren’s corpse, quaking with sobs.
“Are you sorry about me, boy?” The voice was a painful cuff to Greyson’s ears, crotchety and dripping in contempt. He opened his eyes and turned. No…
A wizened old man loomed over him; retreating hairline, hunched spine, eyes ablaze with singular hatred. Greyson’s heart skipped. “Dad?”
Aaron Hirsch’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, you remember?”
Greyson never saw Aaron lash out his cane until something cracked him across the jaw. There was an explosion of pain, and suddenly, Greyson was on his back, seeing stars.
“I killed you!” he declared, wincing with each word. His jaw felt broken.
“Now I’m returning the favor.” Dad’s grin revealed bloody teeth while driving his cane through Greyson’s chest. The pain was blinding. He shrieked.
“Greyson!” The shout came with a slap that damn near unhinged his jaw. Greyson jerked upright, sweaty and gasping.
For a long moment, his surroundings made no sense. Lying in a bed he didn’t recognize in some dark, dank room reeking of brine. Another twin-sized bed sat on this small room’s other side. Whatever this place was seemed to glide briskly over a churning surface.
Greyson turned left. A familiar figure crouched beside him. Disappointingly, it wasn’t Lauren. “Connie.”
Greyson remembered. He was on a barge full of supers who had fled St. Louis. The destination was somewhere in South America.
Connie looked nothing like the petite firecracker he’d met in St. Louis. These ten weeks had taken their toll. She’d buzzed off her long, raven-black locks. Smaller food rations and constant fear of capture had burned away baby fat, leaving her physique lean and hard. Connie was the only positive to come from Dr. St. Pierre’s therapy sessions. Everything else about that hack had destroyed Greyson’s life.
“Another nightmare.” Connie’s thin face expressed worry and pity.
“Oh…sorry.” Greyson felt a pang of nausea and avoided Connie’s stare, wiping sweat from his face.
Glancing down, his own physique wasn’t anything to brag about. He’d always been slim but fit. This voyage had done him no favors. Greyson was pale from sparse sunlight. He’d lost most of his muscl
e definition from little physical activity. His appetite remained nonexistent. If not for Connie, he’d have starved to death.
Connie maneuvered around so they were eye to eye. “Sounded like you were getting burned alive.” She was prying again for a window into his pain.
Greyson refused to open up. “That would’ve been preferable.”
Connie furrowed her brow. She opened her mouth to reply when their door flew open. Some mountain of a man filled the doorframe, bushy-bearded and with an apron of fat spilling over his belt.
“YOU!” His bark was a shotgun blast. “Your screams scare my kids!”
Greyson waved a hand at his shipmate in pacifying fashion. “I’m really sorry, Briggs. I’ll do better.”
That didn’t please Briggs, who marched inside without invitation. “You said that several times, and your wailing gets worse, asshole.” He took another menacing step toward Greyson, who had no intention of stopping him. Maybe Briggs would pound Greyson into a pulp. And keep pounding. That pleased him irrationally.
Connie stepped in Briggs’s path. “He said he’ll do better!” She looked like a toddler compared to Briggs’s mountainous frame, but he still backpedaled warily. This wasn’t the first time Connie had intervened to protect him or their rations on this barge.
The standoff was brief. Briggs retreated, glaring a hole into Greyson.
“Next time, flatten that fucker,” Connie griped after slamming their door.
Feeling anything through the numbness these days was a challenge for Greyson. But he stared at Connie in disbelief for her suggestion after what had happened in St. Louis. “No one gets hurt because of me.” No matter what lie Dr. St. Pierre had told, Greyson’s powers were a curse. The biggest favor he could do everyone was never use them again.
Connie slumped against the door, disgusted. “If you insist.”
Greyson avoided her eyes again and stood. He noticed then how much the barge rocked around on the waves beneath them. And the wailing winds kept buffeting it from outside. Greyson’s own self-loathing ran deep. But a petrifying fear of this barge capsizing in the dark, fathomless sea ran deeper. “We’re moving really fast.”