by C. C. Ekeke
“Containment cell,” Frostknife explained with a heavy sigh. “Don’t bother,” she interjected as Greyson strained to activate his powers. “Your abilities are dampened in here.”
Greyson’s mind went to his last memory. “Noordaal’s entire leadership is dead?”
Tigre nodded and folded both arms across his chest. His fierce, cat-like features were sympathetic. “I know this is hard to understand, Statesider. But eliminating the previous regime is the only path to justice!”
Greyson was over trying to understand Amarantha’s ways or superheroes who lacked a moral compass. “This is NOT the only path!” he refuted angrily. Wrong was wrong no matter who perpetrated it. “There are laws to hold these people accountable. You hold trials—”
“This is Amarantha!” Frostknife exploded. The angrier she became, the more chilled condensation rolled from her slender frame. “You think these supers who’ve only known slavery or the humans who benefitted from their slavery know how to convict the royals and their lackeys?” Frostknife shook her head like an infuriated parent trying to educate a child. “After over fifteen years of this? Change comes through brute force.”
Tigre maintained his calm as his partner raged. He spoke again when she paused for breath. “When those in power have to share it, then you see their true faces.” He stared down, as if recalling some horrible memory. “This island’s humans are fucking monsters, abusing, raping, killing, torturing, oppressing supers for so long. All because they were different, had powers.”
Frostknife began again, passion lacing every syllable. “You have no clue what these humans did to our teammates or our initial allies. Warstar? The Carneiros carved him up and sent pieces of his body to every major Amaranthine city as a warning.” She choked back a sob. “Red Hornet? Given to Paxton-Brandt for experimentation.”
Tigre held his lover close, murmuring in Spanish to soothe her.
As Greyson watched them from inside his cell, comprehension dawned on him. Their liberation of Amarantha was no longer about justice. Who knew how much this group had suffered, how much trauma and paranoia had broken them? “Not all baseline humans are evil,” Greyson began softly. “You have so many believing in your cause, spying for you, helping you…”
“Because they aren’t in power!” Tigre’s tolerance had waned. “And they never will be!”
“Then who will rule Amarantha? AmeriForce?” Greyson snarked.
Tigre and Frostknife eyed each other. “For now,” she replied.
Greyson swallowed hard. He’d been joking. They weren’t. This was worse than he’d imagined. “What gives you the right to rule over Amarantha? AmeriForce’s original members are foreigners, like me.”
“Power begets power,” Frostknife stated. Her stare was strange and detached. Almost as if she wasn’t fully home. “We alone can show the Amaranthine supers how to rule. All we need is to defeat House Bowen in Merenwjick. After that, the rest of the island will fall.” She smiled.
Watching these two made Greyson’s skin crawl. “Replacing one dictatorship with another?”
Tigre’s ears flattened. He was clearly insulted. “Never. We make sure the baselines know their place in this new order,” Tigre explained. “Then maybe we allow them a seat at our table.”
Greyson’s bowels all but liquefied. “Good God…” He’d helped them take one city after another. Like a good little soldier, believing in their desire to free Amarantha. Not turn it into a superhuman ethno-state. “You’re supposed to be better than the evil you fight.”
“We ARE better!” Frostknife slammed a fist onto the partition separating them. “How dare you!”
Tigre just looked tired. Something inside him had to know this was wrong. But he clearly chose to ignore his conscience. “Sometimes, you have to do some bad to do a lot of good. And after our countries abandoned us, after everything we’ve lost.” His voice rose, a feverish light burning in his amber eyes. “AmeriForce has earned the right to claim something as our own.”
Greyson knew then he couldn’t reach them. “Someone’s hero is another’s monster.” What terrified him now was what came next. Torture? Death? But unlike when he’d first arrived on this island, both options now terrified him. “What are you planning to do with me?”
Tigre laughed, waving off his bravado. “We’ll let you out tomorrow when you’ve gotten more sense in that skull.” With that, both he and Frostknife departed.
Greyson sat alone in the cell, so ashamed. Follow these heroes into battle, save Amarantha. Boom. Clean Slate. The naiveté made him laugh aloud for a long time. Better than crying again.
“You can’t be surprised.” Her voice drew Greyson’s attention to the cell’s other side. Ghost-Lauren, dressed in Amaranthine fatigues like him, sat with her back against the glass partition. She watched him with pitying eyes. “You really thought this could redeem you?”
Greyson shrugged. “I guess not.” Part of him always knew there was no way back. Getting that out felt like a relief, as did his next, stomach-turning realization. “There really is no such thing as ‘better angels’ anymore. Is there?”
He looked again. Ghost-Lauren had vanished. But Greyson already knew the answer.
Chapter 35
Hugo stood in the middle of the sewer tunnel, ankle-deep in oily sludge, heightened senses at their peak. Sifting through the putrid stinks blanketing this underground maze, he found the scents that mattered. The liger and Brent. Those scents led Hugo down a narrowing tunnel.
I’ll find him in time, he told himself a fourth time. And the others.
Hugo’s superhearing caught sewage gushing through pipes and heavy-duty machinery whirring. Several kilometers ahead, muffled by thick walls, were soft growls and someone answering them like that Lassie show. The liger’s boss.
The bastard who’s killing my classmates. Hugo looked down the gloomy tunnel ahead. Didn’t matter. Hugo could see well in the dark. Wearing his superhero suit, being Aegis—this felt right.
“Dude. You there?”
Simon’s voice in Hugo’s ear startled him. Still adjusting to that. “Yeah,” he answered quietly, using vocal manipulation to distort his voice. “Skywatch,” Hugo declared, using Simon’s codename.
“Sorry,” Simon apologized. “Had to move to my garage so the parents wouldn’t interrupt me. And this software took time to install.”
Hugo nodded. Simon was his computer guy tonight. Even better, the suit had software which mapped his location and a three mile-radius around him. “I found the liger’s scent…with Brent’s.”
“Good.” Simon exhaled. “What’s with the Batman impression?”
Hugo grimaced. “It’s my Aegis voice,” he threw back in defense. “Find anything on the map?”
Simon cleared his throat. “A half-mile ahead and a quarter-mile left. One room is using more power than other sewer subsections.”
Hugo took deep breaths to dispel the nervous knotting his guts. “I’m going in.” He raced ahead, sending sheets of sludge everywhere. Hugo banked left, finding a door outlined by yellow light.
He braked hard, kicking the door inward with a jarring clank.
Hugo stepped inside a rusty room the size of a one-bedroom apartment, another door on the far-right. The sparse furnishings included a bed, a fridge, and a flatscreen. Hugo also saw supply boxes, wiring, digital timers, liquid glycerin bottles, and navy-blue vests. Ingredients for bombs.
His eyes bulged at three limp bodies hanging upside-down from a rack like slabs of beef. McKenna Phillips's long copper curls brushed the dusty floor. Brent was hanging beside her, wearing a button-down and slacks for the party he should’ve been attending. Waif-like Kerry Winston swayed from the impact of Hugo’s entrance.
“Found the lair. And the students,” Hugo whispered, listening for breaths and heartbeats. “They’re alive but unconscious.”
Static replied. “Skywatch?” Again, no answer. Hugo swore. Maybe Simon’s parents walked in. Or this room had a jamming field.
He’d figure that out later. Hugo moved to free the students when the door across the room opened. He whirled around. The man who entered broke Hugo’s brain. “You?”
Mr. Proctor, in a lavender short-sleeve polo, frowned at his guest. “I wondered when one of you costumed types would find me—”
Hugo’s enraged sonic scream rippled the air, plowing Proctor through the doorway. Hugo found the teacher lying on his back in the next room, stunned.
“That hurt,” Proctor commented like some goofy TV dad. What the fuck with this psycho?
Hugo wanted to hurt Proctor, scream at him. Yet he stopped himself. One wrong word, and he’ll know you’re a Paso student. Hugo seized Proctor by the collar one-handed off the ground. “Using innocent children as bombers?” he snarled in his Aegis voice.
Mr. Proctor smiled, his well-coifed hair disheveled. “That’s where you’re wrong. This world has no innocents.”
Hugo frowned at the teacher’s confidence, until hearing a rustle behind him. He turned and ate a massive paw to the face. The cacophony of pain sent Hugo airborne. A wall rushed up to smack his chest, shattering on impact.
Hugo groaned, rolling across rubble onto his back. Eight feet of massive, furry muscle stood over him, baring sharp teeth. That fucking liger was stealthy.
Mr. Proctor was on hands and knees, rubbing his throat. His vacant stare was unsettling. “Have you met Khan?” Proctor asked calmly. “My superhuman enforcer. His gifts blessed him human intellect inside the body of a liger. And he’s very strong, as you’re surely learning.”
Hugo moved to rise and speed at Proctor. Khan moved almost as fast. Palming Hugo’s head with one paw, he ragdolled the teen to the floor.
“Who knew the unwavering loyalty I’d win,” Mr. Proctor monologued, entering the next room, “after rescuing him from an abusive carnie show?”
Hugo struggled to free himself, but Khan's grip was viselike around his skull. As Khan dragged him into the next room, Proctor pulled three vests out from a box next to the rack of unconscious students.
“Khan is the son I never had.” The teacher placed one vest around McKenna, snapping it in place. “We both want justice for Shauna.”
Confusion gave Hugo pause. “Shauna?”
Proctor snapped a vest on Kerry with practiced hands. “My baby, Shauna. So pure and sweet. She attended Arroyo Grande High. Always bullied and harassed by overprivileged twats like them.” He gestured in disgust at Brent and McKenna, his voice thick with familiar grief.
Hugo was no stranger to that grief.
“Titan was Shauna’s life. Kept her going.” Proctor’s features emptied. “His murder finally broke her. And she killed herself.” The teacher shook his head. “That injustice… tore what remained of my family apart.”
Hugo caught Khan’s paw, wrenching it off his head. He primed to rocket at Proctor. But Khan tackled him, viciously raining down right and left paw swipes to Hugo’s face, leaving him dazed.
Proctor continued like he hadn’t been interrupted. “Then my mission started. Eliminate those who terrorize kids they considered beneath them.”
Khan slapped a meaty chokehold on Hugo from behind, squeezing so tight, he feared his head might pop off. “Shauna’s death was a tragedy.” He somehow maintained his Aegis voice while struggling for breath, clutching Khan’s massive forearm. “These kids didn’t bully Shauna. She didn’t even attend Paso Robles High.”
Khan snarled, squeezing harder. Black spots danced at the edges of Hugo’s vision.
Proctor snapped the final vest onto an unconscious Brent. The ball-player moaned softly. “Paso Robles’s wealth and privilege breeds bullies.” Proctor’s tone grew unforgiving. “Tonight, I’ll take out a Paso High teach-er/parent townhall. Then a basketball party in Cayucas. After that, Arroyo Grande High.”
He rose, looking to Khan with callous eyes. “Khan? Kill our guest, please.”
Chapter 36
“Here.” Quinn marched from Johnny’s kitchen carrying two steaming mugs of eucalyptus tea. “This will help with that cold you’re catching.” She handed him a mug.
Johnny accepted gratefully. “Thanks.”
As soon as Quinn had noticed his slight cough, she’d insisting on making tea. The reporter had played den mother as long as she could remember. Offering shoulders to cry on. Lending a couch to friends needing to hide out for a night. Or giving frank advice.
Johnny, despite their recent issues, was no different. Quinn scanned the well-decorated common room. Annie’s touch was everywhere, even in absence.
Quinn hunched over the coffee table, slipping her delicious tea. “Now what happened?”
Johnny took a swig. That woke him up. “I caught Annie making an Irish coffee a few mornings ago.”
Quinn stiffened. She’s drinking again…
“Suddenly, it’s a World War 3 shouting match. Annie throws the engagement ring in my face and storms out.” Johnny looked haunted by the argument, voice trembling. “I called and texted. No answer. When I get home from work, she left a note saying we’re done.”
“Okay.” Quinn had survived Annie’s volcanic temper more than once. Like our Mistura fight. That day still gave her nightmares. “Tell me how you got here.”
“Our issues been building for a while.” Johnny continued sipping his tea. Color returned to his complexion. “My family always asking if I’m sure she's the one. Our work schedules. Areas I could’ve improved.” He stated that part shamefacedly.
“Her drinking?” Quinn added.
Johnny winced. “Yeah.” He put down his empty mug. “My family’s biggest issue. And they love Annie. I always defend her. But my sister’s comment to Annie last week really upset her.”
“I heard,” Quinn recalled. It was the last time she’d seen Annie. Quinn shouldn’t have let her go without pressing deeper. “Annie was always a big drinker. But that night at Marciano’s worried me.” While carrying Annie from the restaurant was bad, Johnny’s resigned reaction had bothered Quinn more. Like he was used to this behavior.
“That wasn’t the first or worst blackout incident,” Johnny said. “Annie can get violent sometimes, but I’ve learned how to soothe her until she eventually passes out.” The shame on Johnny’s face was hard to watch. “The next morning, she barely remembers whatever she said or did.”
Quinn’s mind went to strange places while processing Annie’s private self-destruction. And Johnny’s endured this alone. “I called out the drinking before her injury,” Quinn admitted, her voice rough. “It came out wrong. She shut down and stormed off.” The self-indictment stabbed into Quinn, forcing her to look away. Or something in her might break.
Johnny studied her through disbelieving eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“I should have,” Quinn murmured in a daze of shame.
“Annie’s PR work is going great,” Johnny detailed, clasping his hands. “But she’s taken on too many clients. The wedding planning is…” He winced. “Was on her mind. Then there’s my family. And you, of course.”
Quinn leaned back, surprised. “Me?”
Johnny replied with such a sad smile. “Annie misses you like crazy since your career’s taken off. Worries constantly if you’re happy. And when you went missing after that Mistura attack…” His smile faded. “Whether or not you were alive kept her up at night.”
Quinn blinked back tears. Saying anything would open the floodgates.
Johnny continued. “Something she doesn’t discuss is the strain of supporting her family.”
This wasn’t news to Quinn. “She’s helping with her parents’ debt.” Annie had forever been grateful for her Salvadoran parents, who'd pushed her to achieve more than them in life.
“Plus, Annie's lazy sister and two brothers.” Johnny listed them off on his fingers. Rage seized him. “Even some cousins. Since she’s making money, they all want handouts. Annie’s too generous to refuse. And it’s crushing her.”
That angered Quinn too. “She never tol
d me.”
Johnny didn’t appear shocked. “Annie didn’t tell any of her friends. She’s proud, you know. I just wanna talk to Annie, figure everything out.” Johnny’s resolve cracked. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “I love her, Quinn. Not knowing where she is—”
Quinn reached his side. Switching to den mother mode numbed her own heartache. “Don’t fall apart, okay?” She drew Johnny into her arms. “I’m gonna find our girl.” They embraced, Johnny clinging to Quinn like a man drowning. She made a contented noise, the exchange more revitalizing than expected.
“Thank you,” Johnny whispered once they drew apart. “The minute you find anything—”
“I’ll tell you first,” Quinn assured him before departing.
Quinn spotted urgent texts from Colin and Jess Richardson-Palmer when entering her car. She ignored them and revved her car to life. Important as this Missy Magnificent assignment was, Annie meant more.
Chapter 37
Half a day passed by before someone visited Greyson. He’d gotten little sleep, too afraid of the terrors awaiting him in the abyss. These two guards wore the AmeriForce logo on their military uniforms, a fusion of the US, Canadian, and Mexican flags. How soon before that became Amarantha’s new flag?
“Here to kill me?” Greyson asked, standing in the center of his cell. He was too tired to be afraid.
“To release you.” The guards stepped aside, motioning him outside.
Greyson did as asked. Away from the power dampeners, energy surged through him.
They walked through downtown Noordaal. The streets were awash with celebration, supers dancing and hugging. Several European-style buildings sported cracks. Plumes of smoke from previous battles still stained the pale-blue skies. And, to Greyson’s chagrin, bodies of lower-level city leaders hung naked from rooftops. No More Baselines had been spray-painted on their bodies. How normalized would that become once AmeriForce ruled Amarantha? Greyson looked away, dreading that ugly future.
“Where are we going?” he’d asked his two escorts as they approached a transport car.
