by C. C. Ekeke
ME: If she can’t contain this battle, get those bystanders to safety.
HeroBoy: Read my mind.
Quinn half-smiled at Hugo’s composure. She caught Jess eyeing her curiously and stashed her phone to watch the battle.
“STOP!” Missy’s bellow echoed.
This criminal, whom Quinn decided on calling Brahma, scoffed, “Eat me, skirt.”
Missy arched an eyebrow. “That’s Missy Magnificent to you.” Onscreen, she appeared fearless before her larger foe. “Return what you stole.”
Brahma straightened defiantly. “Or what?”
Missy cracked her neck. “Pain!” She dashed at Brahma, who charged to meet her.
Quinn tensed. Jess clung to her in scandalized anticipation.
Before they collided, Missy raised her glowing fists and unleashed a blinding fireworks blast in Brahma’s face. He staggered back and roared.
Missy advanced with several cartwheels and backflips, one of her trademarks. A dropkick to Brahma’s barrel chest sent him skidding away.
Monty fist-pumped as if winning the Super Bowl. “See that?”
Quinn glanced at Colin, who struggled to hide his amusement. “Can’t miss it.”
Brahma popped back on his feet, sneering furiously. “That your best shot, skirt?”
Missy smirked at the challenge. “Nope.” She sprinted in fast, dodging Brahma’s blows and staggering him with several of her own. But as the battle continued, Missy’s stamina suffered, and Brahma’s punches started landing. An elbow sent her spinning into a car.
Quinn and everyone in the van flinched.
“That looked rough,” Colin commented.
Monty remained unconcerned, jovial almost. “Missy can take it.”
Missy shook her head, dazed while slowly pushing off the crumpled car. Brahma advanced quickly. “Missy Magnificent?” He snorted. “Try Missy Mediocre.”
Missy barely blocked Brahma’s first blow. Not the next. His boot cracked across her jaw, spinning Missy around to her knees. Brahma followed up with a punt that Quinn almost felt, knocking Missy into the storefront he’d robbed. Luckily, no one was inside. The crowd reacted.
As Brahma ran into the store, Jess was no longer entertained. “I don’t like this, Quinn,” she murmured.
“Me neither.” Part of Quinn wanted to give Missy a chance…
…until the superhero’s limp body sailed out of the store, rolling to a stop several yards away.
HeroBoy: Missy’s getting OWNED. I need to stop this.
If Hugo intervened, Missy would survive. But a speedster’s involvement would make everyone think Blur had saved Missy. And Missy’s comeback would be DOA.
Quinn loathed herself for what she texted.
ME: WAIT.
As Missy struggled to rise on shaky limbs, Brahma sauntered up triumphantly. “Can’t believe you led Extreme Teens.” He hauled Missy up by the chin. “Doubt you could lead a prayer group!”
After several rapid-fire gut punches, Missy sagged in Brahma’s grasp. Brahma barked with laughter and tossed Missy aside like trash. “Better yet,” he continued. “Join the fossils in on that Hero House show.” Brahma strolled toward the fallen hero, taking his time.
His casual arrogance chilled Quinn. Brahma could finish off Missy anytime he wanted. This was further humiliation.
Shelley fought back tears. “He’s killing her!”
Quinn turned to Missy’s husband, who still looked unsettlingly unconcerned. “You need to save her before she gets killed. Do whatever it is you do.”
Monty glared back in disgust. “Stop doubting her like everyone else.”
“It’s not doubting,” Quinn shouted, unable to curb her temper. “It’s reality!” This girl might be killed before their very eyes. The Junction residents weren’t going to lift a finger.
HeroBoy: I gotta do something.
Quinn typed GO NOW, about to send with a trembling finger.
Brahma shook Missy’s limp body by the collar. She looked barely conscious, eyes rolling back. “I bet L.U.N.A. would show more fight than your has-been ass,” he snarled loud enough for anyone to hear.
The comment jolted Missy back to life. She sandwiched Brahma’s face between her glowing hands and oozed rainbows of firework blasts. Brahma’s bellowing agony echoed across the shopping center. The flashing eruption brightened to where Quinn and everyone inside the van had to shield their eyes. The lights began fading and Quinn looked again.
Brahma lay motionless on the street, his face blackened by scorch marks.
Missy was on all fours, wheezing but victorious. “That enough fight for ya?” she gasped.
“Whoa!” Quinn remarked.
Monty sprang to his feet laughing. “TOLD YA!”
The van drove to Missy’s location. Dark bruises marred her lovely face, and she walked with a pronounced limp. But Missy appeared heartened by cheers from the locals.
Monty was at his wife’s side helping her into the van. “Great job. That guy never stood a chance.”
Missy smiled, despite her obvious pain. One of those two nameless cronies began examining her with medical devices, ID’ing himself as her personal doctor. Quinn wanted to see a license. She watched the police cuff Brahma in power restraints before tossing him into their SUV. Concern churned inside her. If not for Brahma’s bragging, Missy would have died. This comeback profile now felt like a terrible idea.
She tapped Colin’s shoulder. His expression revealed similar worries.
“Gotta make a call,” Quinn muttered and walked away.
ME: 5th Street and Bollinger Ave. Empty ice cream shop.
After texting that, Quinn rounded a corner so her colleagues would lose sight of her.
She took three steps before a powerful arm seized her waist and zoomed the reporter forward. Quinn’s vision blurred into endless smeared streaks until everything slowed again. She found herself in an empty, boarded-up store.
Quinn walked forward, yet stumbled sideways as her equilibrium seesawed.
Once the room stopped spinning, Quinn wheeled about furiously. “Are you serious?” she seethed at Hugo, who had almost a foot on her.
He instinctively stepped back, surprise on his strong-jawed face. “You said where to meet. I was just speeding things up.” Hugo grasped his unintended pun. “Ha! Speeding things up…”
“I…never mind.” Quinn let her anger go, reminded again she was dealing with a teenager despite Hugo’s manly appearance. “Thanks for coming,” she said calmly, “even though you weren’t needed.”
Hugo grinned. “Sure.” His hair was short like a fuse. He wore jeans and a white/pale blue cutoff jersey that showcased those tree trunks he called arms. “Missy sucked out there,” Hugo remarked. “I mean, she’s lost weight since Titan’s funeral. But Missy has no business protecting anyone.”
Quinn agreed with him. “She was hungover. That Brahma idiot monologuing saved Missy's life.” Quinn prepared to thank Hugo again and bid him farewell. Now she had to tell Helena about what a mistake this profile was and discuss SLOCO Daily’s next steps.
But by Hugo’s troubled expression, he had more to say. “Speaking of which, I heard someone feeding Brahma instructions on an earpiece.”
Quinn frowned. “Really?” Getting fed instructions for a simple store robbery seemed unusual. “What was he getting told to do?”
Hugo furrowed his broad brow. “Whoever was talking to Brahma told him to stall and ease up his attacks so Missy could recover.”
Quinn stared up at him for several seconds as her brain processed this. “Wait. WHAT THE…?”
Hugo gave her an odd look. “The fight was staged,” he confirmed, hands on hips. “If it was real, Missy would’ve been murderized.”
Quinn felt like she’d been dropkicked in the chest and the brain all at once. No wonder Monty had been so confident, even during Missy’s beatdown. “So…he took the loss to make Missy look good?” Anger chased away Quinn’s shock as she mulled this further.
“Was someone feeding Missy instructions?”
“Nope,” Hugo stated. “I just heard her sucking wind. She could be in on this, though.”
“Yeah…” Quinn’s voice drifted off. She had no doubt Missy would be in on this. The girl was desperate to prove to the world she could stand apart from the Extreme Teens. But right now, Hugo was the only person who’d heard this for certain. “But I need proof.”
Hugo glanced at his cell. The teen’s eyes widened for a moment. “I should get ready for school, unless you need anything else.”
Quinn stared back blankly, then realized today was a school day. “I’m good, thanks.”
Hugo turned to leave, hesitating. “And that thing I asked for?”
Quinn needed no reminder. “The bombings, yes.” Teenagers-turned-suicide bombers. She shivered.
The most recent bombing had occurred near the Old San Miguel Mission. Thanks to Hugo, there’d been no deaths or injuries, Quinn knew. “I’ll get you evidence in a day or two.”
Hugo grinned in response, revealing his sixteen years of age. “Thanks, Quinn. Let me get you back before I go.” He reached for her.
Quinn backpedaled. “Nope. I’ll walk,” she rebuked.
Hugo gave her a sidelong look. “Whatever. Later.” One moment, he stood beside her. The next, the boy vanished in a gust of air.
That left Quinn alone with her fears. If Missy and Monty were staging these battles, she had to tell Helena. “I also need rock-solid proof.”
If someone exposed Missy’s treachery before Quinn, SLOCO Daily could become a laughing stock.
“And my career will be finished,” she murmured, gripped by dread.
Chapter 23
A few hours had passed. And disappointingly, Greyson still lived.
Meaning, they’re gonna make our deaths prolonged and public. Currently, he stood with hands and legs shackled, wearing only tattered pants, sweaty and bloodied. The strange tribal markings still on his chest and forehead had a dim glow. The nourishing energy flowing through Greyson was gone thanks to his dampening restraints. The slashes across Greyson’s back left a dull burn that kept him from passing out after the adrenaline wore off. He took in his new surroundings, a gilded chamber twice as large as his old St. Louis condo. Patterned walls with buttressed ceilings and gold-laced patterns of ancient Amaranthine glyphs. Even the thick pillars were veined in shimmery bullion. Despite the lavish decorations and cascading sunrays, Greyson felt little warmth. This room was a garish display of affluence, nothing familiar or inviting.
Probably the point, Greyson realized as he glanced at the lofty windows. Outside was a perfect view of the red sun sinking into darkening oceans, the horizon between sea and sky stunningly blurred. By the room's appearance, Greyson figured they were at Sunbridge Palace's highest floor.
The urge to run and leap out from the windows was enticing. Except, several armored guards flanked every window and exit. They’d make him suffer before killing him. Plus, Greyson refused to put his two companions in jeopardy. Rodrigo, also shackled and shirtless, watched Greyson like an overeager puppy. The only other survivor was a svelte woman with a boxy face and a messy explosion of curlicue blonde locks. Greyson never caught her name or saw what her powers were. No matter, since they were probably about to die. “What’s taking so long?” he murmured.
“You beat Skylord, Ravager, and Scorcher,” Rodrigo gushed in a sharp whisper. His fanboying was disconcerting. “How you do all that?”
Greyson grimaced, fighting down annoyance. “Not here,” he whispered back without looking.
That didn’t please Rodrigo. “Yea, here. You never shared how powerful you be.”
Greyson knew the Amaranthine wouldn’t shut his mouth. “I’m not a bragger.”
“Sounded like a brag.” Rodrigo nudged Greyson’s arm. “We be at the highest towers of Sunbridge because we’re money, yea.”
Greyson rolled his eyes. “Or they'll kill us.”
“Why? Ravager’s dead,” Rodrigo scoffed, fixated on the triumph in his mind. “They need a new champion. Or three.”
“Shush, you two!” the blonde woman chided through gritted teeth.
Rodrigo gave her a frosty onceover. “Mind your business…whoever you are.”
“It’s CJ, asshole,” the woman hissed. “And thanks to me, Scorcher didn’t barbeque your mouthy—”
As the pair continued bickering, Greyson heard a door on the far-right swing open.
Every guard in the room stood at rigid attention. Someone important is here. Greyson twisted his head sharply, reigniting his wounds. “Both of you, quiet,” Greyson ordered.
Rodrigo and CJ went silent. And right on time. Half a dozen well-dressed Amaranthines paraded into the chamber, flanked by a soldiers’ escort in dark-grey and gold armor.
Greyson guessed by the attire and lighter olive complexions that these were members of Dourado’s ruling class.
An older man in front, athletic and handsome, wore a black-collared suit with intricate gold patterns threaded into the jacket. A gold scorpion resided on his left breast, House Carneiro’s sigil. Every soldier had the scorpion on their armor.
A younger woman in the group walked beside the man, fashion magazine stunning. Inky black curls spilled down to her waist. Her body-hugging silvery dress revealed silky bronzed skin. Her curious dark eyes resembled opals, watching Greyson with great interest. Greyson’s loins stirred sharply. The attraction shamed him, a betrayal to Lauren.
Greyson immediately lowered his head.
The older gentleman, with his combed-back salt-and-pepper coif, oozed authority. His cold gaze raked over Greyson and his companions with an edge of contempt. “These are the three, Garvane?” His Amaranthine accent was more sophisticated than Rodrigo’s.
One other noble, thin and balding, nodded.
The leader focused on Greyson, his features revealing no emotion besides disdain. “You, slave, did a number on Skylord and Scorcher,” he announced stiffly. “Ravager was quite popular with teens. Made Dourado lots of money. And you killed him.” He jabbed an accusing finger into Greyson’s bare chest, causing him to step back. “So, what will I do with you…disrupters?”
Greyson already knew the ending. Why bother fighting this fate? “If you’re going kill us…” He sighed. “Go ahead. I’m tired.”
Shock rippled throughout the nobles. Quite a few jabbered angrily in their native tongue. The young woman’s eyes bulged. But an impressed smile tugged on her plump lips.
“No!” CJ yelped from behind Greyson. “Don’t go ahead!”
Rodrigo fell to his knees in subservience. “Forgive his ignorance, my lord,” he pleaded with a meekness that sounded nothing like him, which revealed much more about these new arrivals. “He doesn’t know our ways!”
The older Amaranthine tilted his chin up. “Clearly. That accent suggests you’re a Statesider, so I’ll forgive your coarseness this once.” He inched in to intimidate the shorter Greyson. “Do you know who I am?”
Thanks to Rodrigo’s exhaustive overview of Amarantha’s power players when they’d been in jail, Greyson had a good idea. “Not by face,” he answered evenly. “But given Rodrigo’s reaction, I’m guessing Gaspar of House Carneiro, Lord of the City.”
More surprise from the nobles. The young woman’s smile broadened. For the first time since entering this golden chamber, Gaspar Carneiro’s chiseled features looked close to amused. “You’ve been educated.” He nodded, arms folded behind his back. “You do realize what your ostentation cost me?”
Fear cut through Greyson’s numbness. For Rodrigo and CJ, not for himself. They were desperate for freedom. Greyson stood up straight, meeting the Lord of Dourado’s gaze. “They had nothing to do with Ravager’s death. It was all me." If someone got punished for Ravager’s death, Greyson would bite the bullet.
“We fought off your champions too!” Rodrigo protested. The idiot…
Shut up! Greyson almost snapped but kept quiet, focused on Gaspar.
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Lord Gaspar’s gaze lingered on Rodrigo, cold enough to freeze a bonfire. “You survived my champions.” He smiled at Greyson. “This one defeated all three. His physically placid frame houses such power.” Lord Gaspar’s eyes glittered with greed and possibilities. “Are you a telekinetic or something?”
Greyson was briefly tongue-tied, not expecting such praise. “Something,” he replied tautly.
Lord Gaspar laughed, surprising his entourage. “Whatever you are, your abilities far surpass Skylord’s tactile telekinesis.” He sneered at Greyson’s surprise. “Oh yes, his superstrength and flight come from his telekinetic gifts.”
A snort drew attention. The girl with curly hair rolled her eyes. “Finally, someone humbled that braggart.” By her attitude, Greyson guessed she was either Lord Gaspar’s daughter or niece. Or concubine, if Amaranthine royals did that.
One of Lord Gaspar’s entourage that wasn’t a guard, a bald and bearded man with thick muscle, eyed Greyson hatefully. He leaned close to his liege, murmuring in terse Amaranthine.
“English, Carlon,” Lord Gaspar scolded, studying Greyson and CJ with greedy eyes. “Two of our guests don’t have the ear for our language.”
The bearded man named Carlon gave a distasteful glower before speaking in accented English. “That Statesider maggot got lucky, milord,” he protested, gesturing at Greyson. “Skylord will prevail in another battle. If it pleases you.”
Lord Gaspar’s face hardened. “That does not please me.” He again gave Greyson a gleeful onceover. “Once my trainers have whittled away your weaknesses, you’ll go from something…to a god of the arena.”
Gasps came from Rodrigo behind him and disapproving advisors before him. The beautiful Amaranthine girl cackled. Greyson hoped that he’d heard a misstatement. “Back to the arena?”
Lord Gaspar nodded, as if beset by a vision of battle only he saw. “You killed Ravager in combat,” the Lord of the City surmised matter-of-factly. “Now you take his place as one of Dourado’s champions. Don’t hold back on that gratitude.”
Greyson tried to force on a smile, which made that callow girl laugh even harder. His head swam processing this twist. Every choice had a price. Greyson’s choice would make him a butcher again for some wannabe royal’s pleasure. I should’ve let Ravager flay me, he mused.
