by C. C. Ekeke
Suddenly, Greyson was in the middle of the ocean, limbs going numb, unable to see anything beyond impenetrable darkness. His lungs burned for air. A knee-jerk survival instinct had him swimming toward pale rippling moonlight above the surface.
Greyson made himself stop. Why?
What awaited Greyson above water besides capture and the people he’d wounded?
Connie, Mom, Sara, Lauren. Heroes Anonymous. College and work friends. The community center kids who’d looked up to him. Greyson had wounded them all.
Dad and Dr. St. Pierre…he’d killed both.
Even now, Greyson felt no remorse for murdering those bastards. Precisely why this choice was right.
Greyson’s lungs were close to exploding. He ignored that survival instinct nagging him until his awareness shrank. I’m dying…
That would’ve made Greyson smile if he could still feel his face. Rippling moonlight above the water faded into black…
Chapter 8
Quinn bustled around her kitchen shoveling down an egg, sausage, and cheese sandwich. Today looked to be wall-to-wall busy, starting with some mystery press conference in downtown San Miguel. Quinn loved busy work days. She hummed along happily until a self-inspection revealed jeans but only a bra.
“Shirt!” Quinn bolted for her bedroom, curly afro wavering. Brain fart aside, last night was her best sleep in weeks. Quinn had the six-foot-four inches of lovely man in her bed to thank. And seven inches of snow. She giggled, wicked thrills running through her.
After a lingering look at her prize, Quinn searched for a polka-dot top from her closet. Then she dashed bedside, slapping the shaggy-haired man’s chest. He yelped, jolted from sleep.
“Rise and shine,” she greeted, heading for the door while adjusting her earrings. “Go time!”
“Already?” Colin groaned.
“Breakfast sandwich is in the kitchen,” Quinn called from her living room to gather her purse. “Inhale it so we’re not late.”
Ten minutes later, Colin was ready and they were out the door. How guys prepped so fast baffled Quinn. They took Colin’s car to downtown’s civic center. She loved working with Colin again, even though he remained a freelancer. “I can charge more,” he remarked with a crooked grin.
How she’d gotten him into bed was still unbelievable. Quinn had longstanding suspicions of Colin’s crush. So when he'd come over last night to help set up her sound system, some liquid courage and flirty banter prompted Quinn to shoot her shot.
She saw in Colin’s expression how much he wanted to discuss last night. Quinn didn't, keeping things professional while piecing together scant details about this press event.
In the civic center’s main auditorium, reporters from several news organizations clustered before a stage. Murmurs filled the hall as everyone waited. After a few minutes, a stocky man in a black button-down shirt took the stage.
“Here we go,” Quinn muttered to Colin, who’d finished his camera setup.
This stranger exuded gravitas. But how his smile didn't reach his beady eyes made him sixty percent trustworthy in Quinn’s viewpoint. Then she spotted a familiar bearded face peering out from backstage. Johnathan Sherwood, Annie’s fiancé. Sharp bitterness filled her. He’d never apologized after blaming Quinn for Annie’s near-death experience weeks ago (despite some truth to his claim). It was why she’d only visited Annie whenever he wasn’t home. Bitterness aside, Quinn remembered a client Johnny’s brand marketing firm represented. Superheroes based on mythological legends.
Her eyes widened. “I know why we’re here.”
The man onstage began. “Good morning. I am Stéphane Byers. I know you have questions.”
Quinn arched an eyebrow at Colin. “Do we?” He swallowed a chuckle.
Stéphane continued. “You probably heard of emergencies and crimes stopped in middle America and Canada before serious harm occurred.”
Quinn watched Stephane more seriously. There had been reports about averted crises around the country. No one had taken credit, clearly by design.
Stéphane gestured to the curtains behind him self-importantly. “Let me present the next generation of justice, the Elite!”
Quinn’s jaw dropped in awe as six costumed individuals stepped onstage. She wasn’t alone. The auditorium rippled with fascination. These weren’t generic corporate-sponsored heroes. By the ornate suits, the Elite looked ripped out of mythology books.
Stéphane basked in the reactions before introducing the team. Quinn could tell by the body language and position that the hero named Thor was the leader. He looked six-foot-six, his hulking frame evident beneath a fur-covered Viking costume. Bright-blue eyes shined, no, crackled with power behind curtains of shaggy red hair. Though a bushy red beard covered his mouth, Quinn noticed a surliness in his expression. Thor carried a short-handled mallet, the dark oblong hammerhead searing electric blue.
Stéphane then introduced Apollo, who resembled his Roman namesake. Everything about the clean-shaven hero glowed, even his shaggy pale-blond hair. Apollo hovered a foot off the ground, shorter than Thor and leaner. But he easily filled out his shimmery golden suit, Titan-like in appearance. Also by design, Quinn mused.
“I desire peace,” Apollo said nonchalantly. “But if someone wants a war, they'll get war.”
Beside him stood Nike in bronze-hued breastplate, girdle, helmet, and skirt. The ensemble matched her gauntlets and knee-high boots. She looked every bit an ancient Greek warrior, wielding twin short swords. Quinn found the appearance badass. Nike had hawkish features, her sharp eyes roving the crowd like a predator. Several reporters exclaimed when she zoomed back and forth across the stage in half a second.
A speedster warrior, Quinn surmised. Nice!
“Start running, Blur,” Stéphane teased. “Or Nike will pass you by.” The reporters laughed.
Morrigan was clearly the pin-up bombshell, stunning with ocean-blue eyes. Her skintight outfit revealed lots of flesh. Her sleek green hair was up in a high ponytail with blunt-cut bangs. At first, Quinn saw no likeness to the Irish goddess, until her curvy frame began shivering.
Quinn gasped. Suddenly, three Morrigans stood onstage.
“Not an illusion,” the middle Morrigan professed amid cheers, before the trio shivered back into one person.
The oddest Elite member was Vishnu, bald and blue-skinned, with four arms and a scantier outfit than even his female teammates. His eyes burned red as he did a dance holding a golden chakra disc in each hand, to the crowd’s amusement.
When Stéphane reached the last Elite member, awe loomed over the press pool. Watching this giant, Quinn grasped why. Samson was a head taller than Thor. Loose curly hair reached waist-length, like his Biblical namesake. His mountainous muscles had muscles, each leg wider than Quinn’s whole body.
“Seven-foot-four inches, five-hundred pounds of unstoppable power.” Stéphane gushed over Samson like he was a pimped-out SUV. “Samson is the difference maker in any fight.”
Quinn shivered as Samson glared at the crowd. A powerhouse among powerhouses.
Stéphane looked pleased. “Questions?”
Countless reporters jockeyed for attention. Stéphane took questions from several reporters.
“Casey Joy, MSNBC,” a reporter said. “What are the Elite’s goals, and why are we just hearing of them?”
“We were making sure they were ready to shoulder their new duties. And our goals?” Stéphane’s smile turned devilish. “Provide a superhero team this world hasn’t seen since Vanguard’s Sensational Seven.”
Quinn winced. The shade aimed at Vanguard’s current lineup drew mixed murmurings.
“Dan Chung, Herogasm. Are you worried a certain shoe company might sue?” He nodded at Nike.
“Unless my next costume is a sneaker,” Nike snorted, sporting a Greek accent, “I’m unworried.” More laughs. So, the Elite had jokes.
While questions were fielded, Quinn skimmed her phone for quick research. What little she found was unsettli
ng. She swiftly raised a hand.
“Yes?” Stéphane pointed her way.
“Quinn Bauer, SLOCO Daily,” she stated, vocal recorder in hand. “Samson. Your teammates are based on Norse, Greek, Roman, Celtic, and Hindu deities. Do you feel parroting a Judeo-Christian hero is sacrilegious?”
Stéphane grinned smarmily. “Who said he's parroting?” That drew laughs and offended gasps. He gestured adoringly at the building-sized Samson, looking like a small child. “Someone’s myth is another’s religion. And vice versa.”
Quinn pursed her lips, unsatisfied. “That religion accounts for two and a half billion people worldwide.”
Stéphane opened his mouth to reply. But Samson interjected with a scowl. “If I offend anyone…” His cavernous voice resembled an earthquake. “They can talk to these.” Samson flexed both arms bodybuilder-style. His biceps resembled actual boulders.
Quinn gulped, most of her fear unscripted. “Point taken. Or should I say, peaks?” Everyone chuckled. “One last question. There are reports of excessive destruction from the Elite’s past missions. Given everyone's weariness of superhero battle damage, how can you assure that the Elite will be more mindful going forward?”
Stéphane maintained his smile, but the chill coming off him was evident. “The Elite are fervently pursuing justice and containing collateral damage. They improve each day and will get to know this nation from coast to coast. All reporters are welcome on our journey.”
That drew all kinds of questions, like bird chicks vying for their mother’s food.
Quinn almost joined, until Johnny weaved through the crowd toward her to converse. She wasn’t interested. Quinn eyed Colin, who immediately understood due to their easy, unspoken shorthand. They packed up and departed.
“Every hero has a gimmick nowadays,” Quinn complained as they drove back to SLOCO Daily’s offices.
Colin laughed. “They come in all shapes and sizes.” When his expression became thoughtful, Quinn dreaded his next words.
“I think that man approaching us worked for the Elite. You know him?”
The query about Johnny was a strange relief. “Somewhat,” she replied dryly.
Colin caught her disinterest and switched gears. “So… About last night.”
“Yes?” Quinn felt warm and fuzzy remembering last night. But she hoped Colin wasn’t looking for more. A warm body was all she desired. At least until these night terrors stopped. “Two buddies had fun.” There. Boundaries set. She didn’t want to lead anyone on.
Colin masked his brief discontent behind a goofy grin. “Wanna have fun tonight, buddy?”
Quinn blushed. “Tell ya later, buddy.” Meaning, yes. But she couldn’t appear too thirsty.
When they stepped out of the elevator to the fourth floor, Jono McGowan stood waiting.
Quinn stiffened. She couldn’t help it. Quinn hated Jono. This bootleg Colin Farrell with his bedhead hair and sleazy smile was the editorial lead for SLOCO Daily’s superhero division. He constantly abused his power to hijack stories and throw perceived enemies under the bus.
Colin’s angered reaction articulated his feelings about Jono. “I’ll clean up the press footage and upload it.” He loped off in another direction, ignoring Jono’s hello.
The Irishman glared after Colin before turning to Quinn. “Black Irish.” He smiled.
“Jono,” Quinn said politely, walking past him. She refused to kiss his butt like other reporters.
Jono scurried to catch up. His irritation in having to follow Quinn was satisfying. “The Elite’s handlers called. They’re interested in an exclusive.”
“Figured,” Quinn replied. “I’ll email you in two days on the best fit.” She weaved around HR rep Leslie Prentiss, who was showing the herd of new college interns around. The mystery around the Elite intrigued Quinn, along with uncovering more about the flagrant collateral damage they caused.
“What about a reply to Tomorrow Man’s team?”
Quinn snorted with laughter, passing rows of cubicles. “I’ll email you in two days on the best fit.” Tomorrow Man, self-labelled heir to Titan, was the definition of famewhore. His managers had called three times this week asking for Quinn to do an interview series. They weren’t the only superheroes requesting her. The attention made Quinn a little drunk off her own self.
Jono sped up and blocked her path. “At least gimme a hint which one you want to cover. Then I can assign the leftovers to other reporters?”
Quinn knew what Jono was attempting; dominate and intimidate her into a snap decision. “Why aren’t we doing this over email or Skype?” she asked, abrupt and unfriendly.
Jono stiffened. “Fine,” he stated with icy courtesy before storming away.
Quinn rolled her eyes and resumed walking to her desk. As she scrolled through emails on her phone, Creed Samuels fell in beside her.
“Can I tell you how much I enjoyed that verbal smackdown?” Creed gushed.
Quinn glanced at him with his spectacles and long dreads. “You just did.”
“Be careful how hard you smack Jono,” Creed warned, no longer smiling. “That dude is petty as fuck and loves nursing grudges.”
“Same here,” Quinn replied distractedly before they parted ways. Quinn hadn’t forgiven Jono for briefly getting her fired a few months ago. But after her Titan murder exposé, Jono barely registered as a threat to Quinn. Once she reached her desk, a news story caught her attention about Missy Magnificent, former Extreme Teens leader. Not for a drunken bender or rehab stint. Missy had launched another comeback, protecting San Miguel’s impoverished Junction neighborhood. Quinn triple-checked that this wasn’t an Onion article. Nope, this came from the San Miguel Tribune.
Missy Magnificent was a cautionary tale. A young hero getting insanely famous, surrounded by sycophants enabling her worst impulses. Diva-like behavior, partying, and deteriorating work ethic had plagued Missy since leaving the Extreme Teens. All before age nineteen.
That saddened Quinn. “Doubt if this comeback sticks,” she muttered as an incoming call vibrated her phone.
Seeing the caller ID, she hastily answered. “Hello, stranger!”
“Hello, Ms. Bauer,” Hugo Malalou said on the other end.
Chapter 9
“Being a sidekick could work,” Simon encouraged after Hugo had recapped yesterday. “Less pressure. On-the-job training from Libby.”
Hugo remained unmoved. “You didn’t see the suit.”
The pair had left fourth biology for lunch period. The hallway they’d entered overflowed with hungry students.
“How bad?” Simon asked, wincing.
Hugo slid a pair of tinted shades onto the collar of his snug, navy-blue polo. “I looked like a rejected flag design,” he griped. “The name sucked too.”
Simon laughed, then sobered when seeing Hugo’s anger. “Clearly too soon. You tell Libby that?”
Hugo shook his buzzcut head. He’d held his tongue after Lady Liberty revealed his new alias. But the bile lingered throughout last night’s training. “She’s already taking time to train me. I don’t wanna sound ungrateful.”
“But you hate the situation,” Simon countered, picking lint off his Voltron t-shirt.
“But Libby’s a veteran,” Hugo muttered, glancing around. “I should give this a chance.” Hugo was trying to see the upside here. He and Simon were cautious discussing his superhero life in public, always speaking in code. The wrong people could overhear. “As if yesterday wasn’t wild enough with Sione showing up,” Hugo complained.
Simon frowned as they reached Hugo’s locker. “I thought you liked him.”
“Sione’s my favorite uncle,” Hugo admitted, switching his books for later classes. Sione had a mix of surfer zen and Samoan machismo. “But he’s an idiot with a criminal record and two baby mamas. Always needs my mom, aunts, and uncles to bail him out.” Hugo closed his locker and navigated the crowded hallway.
“You don’t trust Sione?” Simon inquired.
Hug
o snorted. “Hell no. I’ll have to be more careful at home.”
“Move, gentlemen." An older man wedged past Hugo from behind. He had stern yet jowly features with a fluffy coif of greying hair. His pink button-down accentuated a paunch and pasty skin. “People are trying to pass.”
“Sorry, Mr. Proctor,” Hugo apologized.
Darren Proctor gave him a stern look. “Show remorse by walking faster.” He marched off.
Hugo shrugged off the teacher’s grumpiness. Simon wasn’t so forgiving. “Excuse our socializing in school. Asshole,” he replied loudly.
But Hugo listened as Proctor inhaled angrily through noisy hall chatter. He’d heard Simon but didn’t turn to reprimand him. Good. Hugo needed to avoid trouble after Fall Fling.
“So…” Simon changed subjects. “Jordana.”
Hugo slipped on his sunglasses and chuckled. Yeah, that happened. “Still can’t believe it!”
“Who made the first move?” Simon inquired eagerly.
“Jodie,” Hugo replied as they stepped outside. Balmy sunlight bathed his skin. “Lips like butter… She got moves.” He got kind of breathless reminiscing about her.
Simon lit up. “Good for you!” The pair fist-bumped and saluted each other.
“It’s casual.” Hugo’s smile dimmed. His hypersensitive hearing caught familiar footsteps. “Don’t tell Brent.”
Simon nodded in understanding as Raphael Turner's massive frame appeared around the corner. A rangy blond boy with buzzed hair and in Bearcats warmups trailed him.
“Whaddup, brosef?” Brent Longwell greeted, giving Hugo a handshake/side-hug combo.
Hugo smiled. “Whaddup, Brent.” The quartet exchanged greetings before crossing the sprawling quad between Paso High’s buildings. Countless social cliques gathered in their designated spots. Hugo and his friends weaved through the social jungle to wait in line for burgers. Some scrawny tattooed gangster wannabe tried cutting in front of a slender blonde girl. Hugo yanked him out of line by the collar. The poser gangbanger whirled angrily.