by C. C. Ekeke
Lady Liberty winked and pointed at the valley dipping below. “Scan the perimeter. What do you see?”
Hugo perused the gathering below, really watching this time. With 140/20 vision, there wasn’t much he missed. “Two groups meeting.” He squinted. One side was demonstrating some futuristic rifle, smooth and shiny and metallic. “It’s a weapons sale.”
Lady Liberty nodded approvingly. “And the players?”
One faction was twelve guys deep, brawny with attire ranging between tracksuits or custom suits. Hugo guessed the tracksuits were the muscle and the suits were in charge. All had solemn, hard-bitten faces evoking old-world machismo with an undercurrent of violence. To Hugo, they looked Eastern European. “One side’s some European mob. The other is…” Hugo looked closer. His heart dropped into his stomach.
The group facing the Europeans had six people. Hugo zeroed in on two giant men doing the rifle demonstration. One man was blue-skinned and bald, glowing yellow eyes with three stacked Vs on his dull-grey chest plate. His companion, lankier but equally menacing, had tattoos covering his torso and an obnoxious purple mohawk. Beneath his trench coat, he had forearms built like battering rams. Part of Hugo’s training was identifying major names in the hero and villain world to distinguish friends and foes. “Vincent Van Violence and Warmonger. Their companions look like muscle.” As if a psychopathic powerhouse and a battle-crazed cyborg needed bodyguards.
“The Ukrainian Brotherhood is leveling up,” Lady Liberty explained. “Warmonger and V3 have gone solo at times. But they’re known to moonlight for bigger underworld names. Which means someone else is running things.” By her tense gaze, this meeting bothered Lady Liberty more than she was letting on. “What else do you see?”
Hugo listened to the far-off conversation. Warmonger’s croaky voice described the rifle he hefted. The weapons dealers gestured to several black cases nearby, talking of impact grenades and photon canons.
Hugo whistled. He heard nothing from the car behind Warmonger, and V3. “The Escalade is soundproofed. Apparently, those cases have some Star Wars-level weapons.”
Lady Liberty frowned at him. “The weapons are based off Dynamo tech.”
“Ramon Dempsey Dynamo?”
She nodded. “Ray had several foundries across California to craft his armor suits. He shuttered most of them after retiring. But the Vanguard lost track of some thanks to Morningstar’s hacking.”
Hugo guessed how this story ended. “V3 and Master Mayhem found one.”
“Correct,” Lady Liberty replied ruefully. “And with a third party's help, retrofitted Ramon’s technology into weapons of war.”
Hugo glanced at the gathering. By how V3 and Warmonger’s minions began pushing the storage cases over to the Ukrainians, this meeting looked almost over. “What’s the plan?”
“You zoom in, bowl through V3, Warmonger, and the Mafia guys,” Lady Liberty answered, brisk and business-like. “I fly in, we destroy the weapons, then take V3 and Warmonger together.”
Hugo nodded. A swarm of bees buzzed in his stomach. This was happening.
“On my mark, okay?” Lady Liberty rose to her feet.
“Okay,” Hugo replied in a pitifully small voice. He grabbed whatever courage he could find.
“Superhero voice,” Lady Liberty scolded.
“Shit. Sorry.” Hugo's vocal cords could mimic almost any voice he imagined, from Mariah Carey high to Barry White low. He chose a deep, vibrating bass. “Superhero voice on.”
“Now run.” Lady Liberty exploded off the ground.
Hugo ignored his escalating heartbeat, dropped into runner’s stance, and ran. He reached the gathering faster than anyone could see, every participant frozen mid-motion. Vincent Van Violence had an ugly kisser up close, and bad teeth. Hugo weaved between him and Warmonger, cracking both in the jaws, then shoving their three heavies hard.
He braked in front of the Ukrainians, fists on hips. The stone-cold killers backpedaled in shock. Behind Hugo, V3 and Warmonger went flying in opposite directions. Their thugs skidded across the ground in plumes of red dirt.
The Ukrainians recovered, aiming handguns and assault rifles at Hugo.
Smirking, Hugo said, “BOO.” Packing a hypersonic boom, that one word mowed every Ukrainian down like bowling pins.
Hugo loved using that power. “Mess with Kid Liberty, you get…messed up.” He cringed. That line sucked.
Lady Liberty floated down from the heavens. “Weapons!” She pointed at the stacked cases.
Hugo glanced to either side, seeing Warmonger and V3 get back up. “And them?”
Lady Liberty’s expression grew severe. “I got them. Destroy the merchandise.” She launched herself at Vincent Van Violence, tackling him with such force, Hugo’s teeth rattled.
He opened his mouth with a sustained sonic shout at one stack of weaponry cases. Within seconds, cracks formed. Hugo increased the volume.
“NOOOO!” From the corner of his eye, Warmonger aimed a forearm morphing into a cannon.
Hugo flinched instinctively, cutting off his hypersonic scream to face this foe. Then twin fiery red beams drilled Warmonger’s chest. The cyborg cried out and crumpled.
Lady Liberty stood over him. She glared at Hugo with glowing eyes. “Finish destroying the weapons.”
Hugo felt stupid. “Sorry.” He turned to resume his hypersonic shout.
Lady Liberty pivoted toward Vincent Van Violence, who sprang up startlingly fast.
Hugo watched in horror as V3’s uppercut to Lady Liberty’s stomach folded her in half. Another uppercut struck her jaw like a thunderclap.
“WHUGHH!” Lady Liberty’s head snapped back before she sailed through the air, crashing through a nearby storage facility’s walls as if they were made of paper.
“Lady Liberty!” Hugo cried out in normal tones. She’d gotten distracted by his mistake. Anger and fear over his mentor’s condition seared through Hugo. “Motherfucker!” He lunged at Vincent Van Violence with a barrage of furious punches, knocking the supervillain several feet back.
Hugo shook his stinging knuckles, despite the gloves. Hitting V3’s nigh-invulnerable skin hurt.
He advanced on V3, remembering his superhero voice. “If you hurt her…”
V3 wiped blood from his busted lip. “Nice punch. And who are you? Baby Titan?” he mocked.
“I’m…” Hugo tried but couldn’t get this superhero name out. I’m Kid Liberty. It felt stupid. “I’m your worst nightmare.” Hugo charged.
V3 rose to meet him. He was huge, maybe six-foot-nine, throwing brick-handed fists cat-quick.
Hugo ducked and weaved faster, landing a swift backhand that dropped Vincent Van Violence on his knees. He’s done, Hugo gloated and cocked a fist to finish him.
A whistle through the air, followed by unbearable pain slashed across Hugo’s shoulders. He screamed along with his back muscles.
His outfit wasn’t torn, but he felt shredded flesh beneath. Dammit.
Hugo had spaced out on using his hypersensitivity, hence why Warmonger had snuck up on him. He turned.
The cyborg had one hand morphed into a two-foot razor-sharp blade.
Two on one. Hugo backed away from getting sandwiched between V3 and Warmonger.
Vincent Van Violence staggered upright and shook off the cobwebs. “Let’s see what you’re made of, Baby Titan.” Both he and Warmonger guffawed at their wounded adversary.
Hugo’s eyes watered from injury and insult. His upper back was on fire. Lady Liberty still hadn’t emerged from the hole in that facility. V3 must hit like a bullet train. Hugo had trained for weeks to handle split-second decisions. Now his mind had gone blank.
Panicking, Hugo opened his mouth to sonic scream—until an invisible wall slammed into his face.
Suddenly, Hugo landed on his screaming back. “What the—?” He looked up.
A shorter man in a khaki trench coat and fedora over shaggy grey hair approached from the Escalade, hand raised. His vulpine features were unmistakable. Mas
ter Mayhem.
The heavies Hugo had knocked down were upright and grabbing the weapons he should’ve destroyed.
“No!” Hugo tried standing. A savage punch from V3 almost took Hugo’s head off. He lay sprawled again, seeing stars. A scorching blast from Warmonger’s arm cannon nailed his chest. Hugo screamed as the crimson beam’s heat bled through his durable flesh like a sieve. Suddenly, Hugo’s insides burned until he was sobbing from the agony.
Mayhem waved his hand again. Now Hugo’s skeleton shuddered, every cell threatening to burst.
V3 mounted him, fists rising and falling. Each jackhammer-like punch struck Hugo’s face viciously, pounding his consciousness into pitch-black.
The barrage of punches then ceased. In the darkness, V3 roared. There was the crack of bones breaking. Warmonger’s howl echoed across the landscape.
A booming explosion jarred Hugo back awake. His eyes fluttered open to see Lady Liberty’s stunning face staring down at him. “You alright?”
Hugo's self-assessment found agony all over. “Things hurt.” His groan was barely intelligible.
Lady Liberty looked relieved. “What hurts specifically?”
Hugo forced himself onto both elbows. Even that hurt. “Everything…” He took in the surroundings. V3, Master Mayhem, and Warmonger were gone, their car driving off. One stack of weapons was destroyed. The other was missing. Only the Ukrainians remained, still out from Hugo’s sonic shout.
“They’re escaping,” Hugo groaned. Moving his mouth ached spectacularly.
“You’re more important.” Lady Liberty helped Hugo up.
His roasted innards and the gash across his back protested. Hugo swallowed a scream.
“I slapped a tracker on Warmonger before breaking his arm.” Lady Liberty slipped an arm around Hugo’s waist. “We should leave before the FBI arrives to arrest the Ukrainians.”
Hugo could only nod weakly as she soared into the heavens. They reached San Miguel in under half an hour, silent the whole way. Hugo was already healing, but the slash across his shoulders needed extra treatment.
Currently, they were in the small medical room of Lady Liberty’s Paso Robles underground headquarters. He sat hunched over on the edge of a bed under pale and cold lighting, wearing just jeans. While Lady Liberty watched, her medical guy, Oscar, treated his wounds from behind. The beefy man was dabbing tingly ointment on the gash covering Hugo's shoulders. The Samoan's head was still ringing from Vincent Van Violence’s punches. At least his face didn’t ache much anymore. No wonder Titan had considered V3 one of the most dangerous strikers around.
“With your accelerated healing, this wound would be gone in a few hours.” Lady Liberty sounded like Ms. Ortiz again. “Now it will take ten minutes.” She nodded to Oscar, who exited the room.
Hugo nodded mutely. An avalanche of shame landed on him. Today’s mission had gone down the toilet because he hadn’t listened. And hated being Kid Liberty…
“So…” Lady Liberty rounded the bed to face Hugo. She stood with arms folded, in costume minus her silver diadem, brunette hair tucked behind her ears. “That could’ve gone better.”
“I’m sorry,” Hugo confessed. He let his head hang to stop the spins. “I didn’t follow orders, which distracted you and caused all that mess.”
Lady Liberty gave a stoic shrug. “At least we stopped most of the weapons from reaching the streets.”
Nice for her to see the silver lining where Hugo only saw failure.
“Hugo, look at me,” Lady Liberty requested.
He reluctantly lifted his head and met the superhero’s searching gaze. He tensed for a harsh critique.
“Take a few days off. From training and everything else.”
Hugo’s heart gave a terrible lurch. “Are you…dumping me as your apprentice?”
“Of course not.” Lady Liberty shook her head vehemently. “But what happened tonight is a serious matter. I want to make sure you’ve processed this before running back into battle.”
Hugo dismissed her worry. “I’m fine.” He needed experience. “It was my first official battle.”
Emotion fluttered across Ms. Ortiz’s face. “Exactly,” she threw back. “And you almost got killed.”
“But how will I get better if I’m benched?”
“I can tell something isn’t clicking.” Ms. Ortiz sighed. “Maybe nerves. Or being a sidekick. Maybe you don’t have the mindset. Or…” Her face fell. “You don’t want to be a hero as bad as you think.”
“That’s not—”
“Hugo.” Lady Liberty silenced him with a raised finger. “I’ve seen this before. Gifted prospects wanting so much to be a superhero until they’re actually doing it. Constantly lying to friends and family. Breaking promises and sacrificing your life to save lives.” The superhero’s eyes glazed over, as if reliving each scenario. “Day after day of patrols or fighting or getting your ass kicked. This life is hard. Physically and mentally.”
Each detail struck harder than V3’s fists. Hugo sat dazed by the truths she’d cited.
Ms. Ortiz folded her arms and paced, her attention never leaving him. “I’d be a bad teacher if I wasn’t allowing you to figure out if you truly want this life.”
Hugo had known about a superhero’s sacrifices. But he never really knew those sacrifices the way his mentor just detailed. That life sounded so miserable. Is this what you want the rest of your life to be? That lonely life and the vices used to escape it had ruined Titan, then killed him. Hugo shivered.
Ms. Ortiz searched his face, offering a grin. “We’ll talk in a week once you’ve thought things over.”
Hugo couldn’t argue with that. His head felt stuffed with cotton. “If you insist, then I’ll…SHIT!” The wall clock read twenty till eight. Hugo was so late for dance practice. Speaking of sacrifices…
Lady Liberty straightened in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
Hugo popped off the bed, snatching his shirt. A dull ache rolled down his healing back.
“Are we done tonight?” Hugo asked, hastily slipping on his long-sleeved tee.
“Yes—”
“Gotta go,” Hugo blurted out. “Thanks for the talk.” He raced away impossibly fast.
Hugo didn’t stop until he stood outside Aethon Studio, its windows casting a pale-yellow glow from across the street. He checked his regular cellphone, approaching the entrance with a normal powerwalk. Several missed calls, almost as many VMs, and countless angry texts.
Guilt flooded his chest as he pushed open the door. JT, Groban, Grace, and Wale milled around, not dancing. The Stanleys must have already left.
Everyone looked up, and the mood curdled. Not good. Profuse apologies would be essential.
“I’m so sorry,” Hugo exclaimed. “Something came up. Is there still time in tonight’s practice?”
JT shouldered his bag and stomped past Hugo. “Practice ended like twenty minutes ago,” he grumbled, brown skin flushed from exertion.
Wale glared from afar, tossing his thick braids back. Grace, in basketball shorts and a white tank-top, appeared justifiably pissed.
Groban spread his arms in WTF fashion. “Couldn’t have called?”
“I wasn’t near my phone.” The thin but accurate excuse earned no sympathy from his friends.
“Talk to Wale,” JT stated. “He and Grace are pissed.”
Hugo scurried up to Wale and Grace, ready to humiliate himself for their forgiveness. “I’m really sorry. Had an emergency—”
Wale held up a hand. “Hugo.”
“Wale?” Hugo stood ready to take his tongue-lashing and/or punishment.
Wale’s thin frame vibrated with disappointment just below the surface. “The group decided that if you can’t commit to practices, then you shouldn’t perform at the next competition.”
Hugo’s knees nearly buckled. First Jordana, then Lady Liberty. Now the Phenoms? Losing so much in one day was too much. Hugo clasped his hands, ready to beg. “I screwed up, I know. But I won’t miss ano
ther practice—”
“Sorry, Bogie,” Grace cut in. “The decision was unanimous. You’re benched.”
The rigid decree broke Hugo’s heart.
Chapter 16
They burst into the cell at the crack of dawn, jarring Greyson from slumber. Two menacing silhouettes loomed over his bed, shouting in Amaranthine Portuguese.
“I’m up!” Greyson scrambled out of bed with arms raised. “Don’t shock me again!”
Rodrigo was up and out of bed, two guards shoving him toward the door with undue aggression. Greyson flinched, swallowing anger at his cellmate’s treatment. After three days in this prison, he’d seen what happened when inmates looked at a guard wrong.
In seconds, Greyson and Rodrigo were roughly escorted into the hallway. They joined two single-file lines of marching inmates. Guards with shock batons and rifles flanked both sides.
Greyson brightened when seeing more prisoners. He recognized a handful from the barge. The rest were unfamiliar. Probably island locals. “Where is she?” he grumbled.
A beefy guard screamed something brutal at him in Amaranthine Portuguese. Greyson promptly faced ahead, playing the obedient prisoner. No one spoke, only the overlapping clomp-clomps of many footsteps moving down the hallways. Other prisoners looked blank or weary, any defiance beaten or shocked out of them. All wore the same dull-grey collars as Greyson.
“You behave,” Rodrigo growled, “or I’ll grab a guard’s poker and shock you myself, yea.”
Greyson huffed in disappointment. “I don’t see Connie.”
Forget her, Ghost-Lauren’s voice caressed his ears.
“Worry about yourself,” Rodrigo grumbled quietly. “Ya don't wanna get chosen.”
Greyson gulped, remembering. Rodrigo had told him about the auction. Every six months, Amarantha’s Ruling Families bought new superhumans to fight in a three-week Tournament of Champions. Supers owned by each family fighting to the death. It was Amarantha's most popular television broadcast.
Greyson had found this impossible to digest, like his current circumstances. “Why hasn’t America intervened?” he had demanded in indignation. “This is ethnic cleansing!”
Rodrigo had sat cross-legged before him, unmoved by his outrage. “Thanks to you Statesiders.”