by C. C. Ekeke
Everything accelerated again. Hugo threw himself backward, cradling a shrieking Jordana, who weighed nothing. Hugo held her tight enough as she flailed about, all too aware of Jordana’s very breakable body. Suddenly, several things happened at once. The Escalade smacked into a seemingly invisible pole, screeching to a stop. Smoke poured from its crumpled grill and wheels. The steering wheel airbag deployed, knocking the idiot driver out.
Jordana’s friends squealed and staggered around after Hugo had shoved them aside rougher than planned. Several bystanders shouted in dismay.
Hugo ignored them and rose, holding a terrified Jordana. “You’re okay,” he whispered. “I got you.”
Jordana shoved him away as soon as he released her, rightly freaked out. “OMIGOD! I almost died for real!” Her wild eyes bounced from Hugo to her anxious friends to the crashed car in the intersection. The more she freaked out, the more her Bronx accent emerged. “I nearly…oh my GAWD.” She gawked at the Escalade, stumbling backward. “That car…dios MIOS.”
Hugo spun Jordana around. God, she felt so little and juicy in his hands.
“Hey.” He brushed disheveled curls from her face, searching for injuries. Jordana appeared unharmed. And so damn pretty. Heartbeat and breathing sounded steady. “Are you hurt?”
That cut through Jordana’s fear. She gazed up at Hugo as if seeing an angel. “I’m fine. I…oh my GOD.” She shook her head in bafflement. “Where’d you come from?”
He froze. Jordana and her softball teammates were eyeing him. On the positive side, she didn’t recognize Hugo or see his superspeed. Still, he had to answer her or risk exposure. Hugo glanced at the growing group of bystanders and did some quick thinking. “I was behind you girls when that car blew the red light.” He stroked Jordana’s cheek tenderly. “Glad this gorgeous face wasn’t hurt.”
That made her smile. And blush. “Me too,” Jordana murmured.
Hugo felt buoyant with pride. My first superhero save. As Jordana’s friends fussed over her, Hugo glanced skyward. No sign of watcher drones in the area. Scanning the intersection revealed most bystanders focused on the kids at the curb. Others helped the limp driver from his car. No eyewitnesses, heartening Hugo more.
One bystander across the street caught his eye.
The Chinese girl near Beach Bum Burger—gaping at Hugo slack-jawed.
He stopped smiling and hoped she’d look away. The Chinese girl’s gaze beneath her cap remained on Hugo, a gaze that clearly saw the impossible.
Hugo’s heart stuttered and skipped. She saw me run. He backpedaled, nearly bowling over the growing crowd around them. “Always look both ways.” Hugo pointed at Jordana, barely keeping the dread out of his voice. “Get her examined by a doctor.” He spun and powerwalked away as fast as possible at normal speed.
“Wait!” Jordana called after him. “Who are you?!”
Hugo didn’t look back, still feeling that Chinese girl’s eyes on his back.
Chapter 21
“Congratulations on a successful mission!” Vulcan’s booming voice met roaring applause from Morningstar’s teammates.
Vanguard was returning from Philadelphia on the V-Jet, fresh off defeating Infernal the Living Flame. This long-time Vanguard foe, a sentient force of thermonuclear energy, was Morningstar’s first mission.
Quinn knew by the Vanguard’s reactions that Alexis's performance had been exceptional. She'd watched Dynamo fly Morningstar around Infernal's eighty-foot form to douse him in modified light rays. This countered Infernal's intense heat enough to be contained by the authorities. Quinn marveled watching them and her. Morningstar was made for this. Afterwards, Vanguard stayed for hours assisting cleanup, professionals to the end.
Morningstar in her golden uniform was humbled to tears by her teammates’ approval. Sentinel and Dynamo shook her hand. Robbie Rocket kissed either cheek. “French-Canadian greeting,” he assured her. Both Seraph and Wyldcat embraced her. Vulcan bearhugged Morningstar with such enthusiasm, Quinn heard the woman’s ribs creak.
Afterward, Quinn approached as Colin recorded. “Morningstar,” she said, “you shone on your first mission, pun intended. How are you feeling?”
Alexis clapped a hand over her delighted mouth, tears streaming. “Like a billion dollars.” She shook her head, as if not believing where she was. “After today.” She wiped away her tears daintily. “I know this is what I'm meant for.”
Her infectious passion made Quinn smile. “Keep up the great work.” She shook the rookie’s hand.
The mission capped off another week of Quinn's interview series. Watching Vanguard's daily lives, training, public appearances, and charity events. Some of Quinn’s favorite moments came in their Crisis Room meetings. The Vanguard sat around the legendary V table, reviewing potential threats as giant monitors scrolled news and maps. With that, they decided which threats needed their attention or could be handled by that region’s local heroes. Quinn sometimes had to slap herself, realizing she was covering the motherfreaking Vanguard!!
With government permission, she posted daily photos on SLOCO Daily’s social media to build interest for the interview series. The fan response, growing more rabid and intense each day, truly staggered Quinn.
She also realized how wrong she’d been about Robbie Rocket.
At first, he came off douchey but entertaining. Four interviews later, Quinn wondered how Rocket’s face hadn’t become a fist magnet.
The Canadian hero used one interview as a grievance session over Sentinel or, as Rocket called him, Captain Kurt, riding him about fitness. “Because I’m not a gym rat, Sentinel thinks I have a beer belly.” Robbie pointed to his torso in a tight shirt, strapping but leaning on the doughy side. “This, sweetie, ain’t no beer belly. It’s a fuel tank for a Canadian kickass machine.”
“Of course!” Quinn had snarked, holding back laughter.
During another interview, Quinn used the Vanguard’s Facebook page for a video Q&A with fans. Rocket sat beside her, manspreading in his red costume, of course. Initially, he answered questions with smirking humor, like using the restroom while in costume or his toughest foe. Harmless douchiness.
One fan asked which teammate Rocket considered the hottest.
“I’ll tell you which teammate I’ve screwed,” Rocket offered eagerly.
Quinn’s eyes bulged. “We shouldn’t—”
“Wyldcat,” Rocket announced before she could stop him. He whistled in amazement. “All her name implies and more. When she’s lonely and I’m horny, Danielle comes to my room and we make magic.”
Despite her disgust, Quinn wasn’t surprised. This explained the vitriol Wyldcat and Robbie hurled at each other during her stay. Toxic foreplay. Now Rocket confirmed her suspicions.
On one vein, Quinn found Robbie Rocket douche-tastic. On another, he was great for gossip. But dragging the Vanguard into tabloid-level fodder wasn’t this series’ intent. After taking a few more Titan-related questions, Quinn ended the Q&A early.
“I’m so sorry,” she immediately told Helena and Benjamin Crane. “I tried steering him away.”
Crane was surprisingly understanding. “We’ve had issues with Robbie’s mouth before,” the government official stated archly. “Just don’t use his crudeness about Wyldcat.”
“Done,” both Quinn and Helena answered.
Vulcan was the opposite of Rocket, respectful and detached from modern culture. That evoked cute responses to Quinn’s questions. But the hulking warrior was just weird. Always holding that intricately crafted warhammer, like a child would a favorite toy. And certain answers, which started off normal, made Quinn’s head spin.
“I was a builder before joining the Vanguard,” he stated while giving Quinn a tour of his metal workshop. This vast space within one of the compound’s hangars included weapons from too many cultures to count. Vulcan smiled, pointing to some of his favorites. “You’ll see my work in the V-Jet’s weaponry and shielding. Even in Dynamo’s armament.”
“What
from your past sparked your interest in this?” Quinn asked, hoping to peel back Vulcan’s layers.
The large man looked down at Quinn with thoughtful eyes, dwarfing her by over a foot. “My father. He taught me to play at my strengths.”
“Your father?”
Vulcan nodded, running a hand through his curly black locks. “Zeus,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Skyfather and King of the gods.”
Quinn stared. Good lord. She had prepared for Vulcan deeming himself the living reincarnation of Hephaestus. There had been rumors when Vulcan joined the Vanguard in 2012, after a mysterious incident turned the sky blood red. Many had claimed this to be a thwarted invasion by Vulcan’s brother Ares, the God of War. Yeah, right. No records of that war existed aside from conspiracy sites and Greek mythology cults. Quinn decided to play along. “Would you say that Lord Zeus is proud of your accomplishments?”
Vulcan’s features darkened. “My father and I have strained relations.”
Quinn sensed him walling up and took another avenue. “Is your wife, Venus, proud?”
Vulcan bristled. “I care little what that brazen trollop thinks.”
“Right,” Quinn answered snidely.
An hour later, Quinn left the workshop with a migraine. “Brain hurts,” she groaned to an equally flummoxed Colin. “That'll do for today.”
Wyldcat had been uninterested and uncooperative with being interviewed. But someone must’ve reprimanded her because she finally sought Quinn out. The half-Indian, half-English hero wore civilian clothes, dark hair flowing silkily down her shoulders. Wyldcat wore the daylights out of her clothes. Quinn needed her off-the-shoulder top in all the colors. The reporter was also desperate for Wyldcat’s strappy wedge heels and those retro bellbottom pants, despite lacking the height to pull the look off. “Let’s do this so Crane stops nagging me,” she snapped in a posh London accent. “Don’t expect waterworks.”
Wyldcat spoke highly of each teammate, declaring Vanguard the best superhero team. She called the Extreme Teens “overpowered, undereducated prostitots.” Wyldcat labeled the Champions the Not-So-Royals Family, and was confused by Texas-based Southern Justice. “Why is Southern Justice?” she asked dismissively.
Wyldcat even casually trashed the UN-sponsored G7, deeming them “bootleg Vanguard wannabes.” The refreshing candor made the hero more magnetic. Quinn couldn’t take her eyes off Wyldcat. She didn’t want to.
Wyldcat softened when speaking about Titan. “A wonderful man with a huge capacity for empathy…and selflessness. But we could never make it work, despite how many times we tried.” Wyldcat nearly broke down during the segment. “Loving Titan was like loving the sun. You have to share him with the world, which ultimately doesn't work.” She frosted over, refusing to let her grief win. Quinn respected that level of self-control.
“I hear Robbie Rocket says we shagged on occasion?” Wyldcat inquired unprompted.
Quinn nearly choked. “Robbie claimed many things,” she deflected, secretly longing for a scathing detraction.
Wyldcat shrugged, looking bored. “I’ve indulged him sometimes whenever I was single and sloshed. He’s passable in the sack.”
That got low class real quick, Quinn mused, wide-eyed.
“Know what that wanker belts out when he climaxes?” Wyldcat mimicked a bitter beer face. “ICONIC!” Quinn and Colin both burst out laughing, as did anyone in earshot. That was even better than Wyldcat denying Robbie Rocket’s claims.
“I think we can keep in Robbie’s earlier assertion,” Benjamin Crane stated later. Clearly, he had no love for the Canadian.
Seraph had remained pleasant toward Quinn since the Extreme Teens encounter two weeks ago. She acted like the reporter hadn’t seen her crushing on teen superhero Blur, who was six years her junior. Quinn had no interest in revisiting the issue. But Seraph made certain to never be alone around her, accompanied now by Vanguard personnel or another teammate.
So Quinn wasn’t surprised by Sentinel’s “surprise” appearance during Seraph’s second interview. They were in costume, literally and figuratively, playing the perfect power couple. Sentinel sans mask did most of the talking, a sculpture of physical perfection. Seraph sat next to her fiancé and got to speak sometimes. She'd finished some of Sentinel’s sentences, filled in blanks on their first dates when his answers left Quinn wanting. Seraph even offered encouraging smiles to reassure him when discussing Titan.
“He was younger than me by a few years but taught me so much,” Sentinel said with a heavy heart during one part of the interview. “As much from the charity he did away from the camera as when he was saving lives.”
Sentinel also addressed certain strains in their relationship. “I’ll admit, being a hero is who I am. And at times…” He looked to Seraph, momentarily lost in her adoring gaze. “I’ve fumbled the ball because I’m running across the field full speed. But here’s what I learned from Titan. Don’t squander time if you’ve found the one.” Quinn got the message loud and clear. Seraph and Sentinel, despite their struggles, were a team. No wonder the Bible Belt loved them.
Afterward, Sentinel pulled Quinn aside. He was tall but not building-sized like Vulcan or Dynamo. Regardless, Kurt Weston with his square-jawed can-do confidence dominated any interaction.
“Gotta admit, Bauer,” Sentinel said with military-style bluntness. “I wasn’t a fan of some reporter shadowing us. It felt so…low-class reality TV.”
Quinn blinked and frowned. “Okay.”
“But…” Sentinel smiled. “You proved me wrong. The team’s enjoying this. And Kaylie likes you.”
“Kaylie?” Quinn stared back in confusion. “Mikaela—Seraph. Right!” Hearing that saddened her, given how she’d bonded with Seraph earlier on. But this was an assignment. Quinn felt foolish expecting to befriend any Vanguard members. “Kaylie’s so sweet and passionate.”
“And unhappy.” Sentinel stopped smiling. “I watched her first interview.”
Quinn’s stomach twisted into pretzel knots. “I tried keeping things positive.”
Sentinel waved off the explanation. “I’m glad she was honest. I’m so busy as team quarterback, screening for the next blitz, I forgot to pass the ball to my closest teammate!” Sentinel’s smile returned. “Thanks for helping me see that, Bauer.”
Being a Patriots fan, Quinn understood football lingo. “Anytime, Sentinel,” she replied brightly. A glance over Sentinel’s shoulder, Quinn saw Seraph hovering nearby in evident panic. “You look great together.”
“Kurt, please,” Sentinel insisted, shaking her hand so firmly, the reporter thought her fingers were sprained afterward.
Later that night, Quinn received an anonymous email tip on Titan’s death. This source knew things that validated their credibility. Having seen Quinn on her Facebook Q&A, they would only speak in person. Which meant returning to San Miguel.
“Go. You’ve got tons of interview footage already,” Helena told her. She was muted on a conference call with SLOCO Daily Editorial leads while drafting her weekly website op-ed. Helena’s multi-tasking continuously amazed Quinn. “Plus, the Vanguard is visiting some Las Vegas children’s hospital tomorrow, then handing out meals at a San Francisco homeless shelter. Hardly boner-inducing coverage.” The Editor-In-Chief rolled her eyes. “Take two days and start working with the editors on footage voiceover. Jono can cover while you’re away.”
Quinn disliked Jono being anywhere near her assignment. Besides criticisms, he did little save sulk at Quinn like she’d stomped on his kitten. It also bothered her how chummy Jono and Robbie Rocket had become during this assignment. “Is he cool with that?” Quinn inquired.
Helena gave her a look. “I’ll make him cool with it.” That was the only assurance Quinn needed.
She scheduled a late morning coffee with her source, who insisted on meeting in the suburb Atascadero. Odd, but Quinn agreed.
Next morning, Quinn returned to San Miguel via private jet. She could get used to that. After landing, Quinn
grabbed a too-short breakfast at Annie Machado’s condo in Old Town San Miguel. Other than constant texting and three phone calls, Quinn had gone too long without seeing her “person.”
The giggle/love fest commenced as soon as she arrived, with Annie unloading rapid-fire questions about the Vanguard. When Quinn discussed meeting Sentinel, her friend made a stinkface. “I mean, Sentinel’s not unattractive. His face doesn’t look like a nipple.” Annie gave a meh shrug. “But he’s too one-note fuck-yeah America for my tastes.”
“Sentinel does have a framed copy of the Constitution in his living room,” Quinn admitted, swallowing another spoonful of oatmeal.
Annie grinned. “Robbie Rocket, however…”
Quinn nearly choked on her food. And her disgust. “I’m eating!”
“Rocket’s on my freebie list,” Annie confessed shamelessly. “If I saw him at the club, my body would go ‘Danger, Will Robinson.’” Her gaze turned hungry. “Then ‘Come hither, Will Robinson!’”
“Until he starts talking and your brain gets angry,” Quinn snarked. Regrettably, she had to leave for her meeting after an hour, which was never enough time with Annie.
“Miss you, Quinnie! Let's play soon!” her beautiful friend demanded as they hugged farewell. “I want more dirt before you become famous.”
Later, Quinn drove to the out-of-the-way cafe No Borders. The source said they’d be outside wearing a blue scarf. Quinn looked around, seeing a few folks milling outside. No blue scarves.
“Ms. Bauer?”
A voice from behind nearly startled Quinn out of her skin. She turned, adjusting her glasses to see a woman in her late forties exiting the café with shoots of white in her curly brown hair. Her attire was frumpy, her gaunt face lined and freckled. A face Quinn recognized from the news.
