by Ekeke, C. C.
Lady Liberty came boiling forward. “We need to talk.”
Starchylde paled and flew back to her team below.
Hugo sighed and folded his arms. Best get this lecture over with. “Yes, Mother-May-I?”
“Your powerset may be vast.” She pointed in his face. “But common sense didn’t come with the package.”
Hugo barely kept his cool. “Here we go—”
“I’m talking!” Lady Liberty steamrolled over his quip. “You went rogue with a reckless stunt—”
“—that worked,” Hugo cut in. “The Tiamat’s dead. A few damaged structures. No casualties except Tomorrow Man’s dignity.” The last remark cracked him up.
Lady Liberty turned brick-red. “You think this is funny?”
“I think you’re full of shit,” Hugo smiled through gritted teeth, sick of this conversation. “And I’m done listening to you.” Right then, Hugo felt countless eyes watching. Several heroes and a gathering gaggle of news crews. That was press he didn’t need.
Lady Liberty was barking a rebuttal when Hugo glimpsed a nearby digital clocktower.
Sixteen minutes until lunch ended.
Hugo gulped. Battling that Tiamat had felt like ten minutes tops. Jesus. He feigned indifference. “Whatever. I’m out.” Hugo whirled and rocketed back to Paso Robles High at top speed.
Interlude
Rodolfo Sanchez had much to celebrate. Next month, he’d be sworn in as Argentina’s new president after a landslide victory. His citizens loved him. Lovely wife. Three lovely children. Very lovely mistress…
Sanchez also had much to stress over: his obligation to forty-five million citizens, working with Congress’s various factions to pass his agenda, and keeping his affluent supporters happy.
That was why he’d accepted this impromptu morning meeting despite today’s back-to-back transition meetings. Sanchez now sat in a private jet on the tarmac of Buenos Aires’s Aeroparque Jorge Newbery.
“Your gratitude and support are appreciated.” Sanchez adjusted the coat of his crisp navy-blue suit. He put on the dimpled smile that had won millions of votes. In truth, his nerves were stretched tighter than a drum. “The in-person meeting, even more so.”
The woman sitting across from him smiled back, showing off pearly-white teeth. “Of course, President-Elect,” Riva de León spoke in flawless Argentine Spanish, despite being a Mexican native.
At a glance, she was just una bombón—eye candy. Barely above five feet, Riva with her beauty and trim figure was hypnotic. Her black hair in a tight knot, paired with a sleeveless white turtleneck dress, flattered her caramel complexion. But in their year-long professional relationship, Sanchez had learned that Riva was far more than eye candy. Anyone who’d amassed a multibillion-dollar empire before age forty should be valued.
Sanchez crossed his legs. “Why aren’t we meeting at La Casa Rosada?”
Riva steepled her fingers and sighed. “My time's limited, so I’ll be blunt.”
Her grave tone alarmed Sanchez. “You’ve been my oracle since I announced my candidacy. What is it?”
“Argentina is on the verge of its largest economic crisis since 2001,” Riva stated evenly, as if discussing the weather. “Which will trigger violent revolts from various radical groups.”
Sanchez sat up at full attention. “My advisers haven’t—” The president-elect stopped himself from asking how Riva had learned this. Her knowledge of opportunities and obstacles before anyone else had won him the presidency. “What should I do?”
“Simple.” Riva’s beady brown eyes twinkled. “The agroindustry deals with your mega-donors in the northeast?” She gave a terse headshake. “Those cannot proceed.”
Sanchez practically swallowed his tongue. “Excuse me?”
Riva continued merrily. “The augmented supers you intend to sell on the black market? That also stops. Once resolved, so will your pending problems.”
Sanchez worked through several moments of bald-faced shock, followed by volcanic anger. “How dare you,” he growled. The nerve of this arrogant bitch with her eight-hundred-dollar shoes. “Threatening me? In my country?” Especially with his security detail just outside.
Riva’s smile lingered. “Argentina isn’t yours yet, President-Elect,” she reminded curtly. “Our agreement was based on trust. Yet you downplayed how many extra unregistered supers were seized, all which I was promised.” Riva’s face became a tight, severe mask. “For what? So Argentina can take Amarantha’s place selling designer supersoldiers for your personal profit?”
How the fuck does she know? Sanchez began to stammer out a reply.
Riva raised a silencing hand. Sanchez blushed at his automatic subservience.
“You’ll honor our agreement,” she continued, “and follow instructions. Or, Argentina’s economy will crater days after your inauguration. Uprisings will consume this country. You and your lovely family won’t make it out of Buenos Aires. Then I’ll be speaking with your successor in two months.” Riva’s smile returned, this time barbed and sinister. “From Congress or your cabinet.” She waggled her hand cheekily. “The details are still murky. Do you understand?”
Riva’s ironclad certainty speared through Rodolfo Sanchez’s soul. He knew Riva’s predictions always came to pass, like she was some bruja who could divine the future.
And he, president-elect of Argentina, had no say.
Sanchez nodded in acquiescence, disgusted.
Riva’s demeanor warmed. “Good!”
Someone new entered the passenger cabin, a pale and leggy American with wavy brown hair and steely eyes. Despite the chic black pantsuit, something about her feline movements petrified Sanchez. She moved like a killer.
The American walked up beside Riva to murmur something in her ear, handing over a tablet.
Riva’s expression shifted. “We’ll discuss Operation: Dom Pedro with your incoming Intel Secretariat chief before your inauguration. I’m needed back in the United States.”
She began reading the tablet. “You can see yourself out,” Riva added as an afterthought.
Shaking all over, the Argentine president-elect rose. He then marched out of the jet as fast as possible without further embarrassing himself.
Chapter 2
Hugo reached Paso High in under two minutes. Once in his gear-stash spot, an unused storage unit near the gymnasium, he undressed and raced to the gym bathrooms.
Five minutes under a boiling shower blasted the Tiamat guts and seawater off.
Superspeeding back to the storage unit dried him off quickly. He threw on his Outlaws baseball jersey and jeans with pristine Chuck Taylors, back in civilian clothes.
Still irked about the San Miguel superhero team, Hugo dialed his publicist—yes, he had one—on an encrypted line. “A new San Miguel team?” he asked peevishly after exchanging pleasantries, mussing up his spiky hair with product. “Why didn’t you tell me, Mrs. Sherwood?”
“For the umpteenth time, it’s Annie.” Annie Sherwood spoke buoyantly despite the late time in Berlin. “And what did you say about joining any team?”
“On the thirty-second of Nevuary,” Hugo repeated. It had been his biggest request when he’d hired Annie.
“Exactly,” she stated. “There’ve been nonstop offers from American teams, including the San Miguel tryouts, since I became your PR Goddess. I’ve rejected them all.”
That deflated Hugo’s argument. “Oh.” He slumped against a wall, smelling faint traces of putrid Tiamat guts. He should’ve taken three showers.
“Everyone loves you,” Annie went on blithely. “And after fighting that Tiamat, endorsements will rise.”
Hugo felt better knowing Annie had his back, forever grateful that Quinn Bauer connected them. Annie and her husband, Johnny, were handling Aegis’s business and media so Hugo could focus on superheroing. “Is Seneca International behind this?”
“Seneca auditioned to bring a superhero franchise to San Miguel and got rejected,” Annie said. “More citie
s are pushing for traditional Emergency Response Action teams after the Elite disaster.”
Hugo pushed off the wall, reaching in his backpack for deodorant. “Huh.”
“Tryouts are being hosted in cities that don’t have official or any teams.” Annie sighed. “San Miguel has solo heroes like you, Lady Liberty, some C-listers. But not having an official team is just bad optics.”
Hugo couldn’t disagree with Annie there. Cities with exclusive superheroes or superhero teams was like getting a sports franchise. This included endorsement deals, merchandise rights, agents, and support staff, especially if corporate-sponsored. The Vanguard and Extreme Teens operated nationally. But both were considered unofficial San Miguel teams. However, The Vanguard, the former gold standard, had disbanded. And like most teen teams, the Extreme Teens weren’t taken seriously due to age limitations, mediocre villains, and caring more for fame.
Why would I join them? Hugo shuddered. Yuck.
“So joining any team is still no?” Annie asked.
“Yeah,” Hugo replied briskly.
“Good.” Annie’s tone became gleeful. “Focus on establishing yourself as San Miguel’s new protector since ‘professional fail person’ Tomorrow Man is now a punchline.”
Hugo laughed at her open scorn. Poor Tomorrow Man. “Let’s talk tomorrow. And tell Quinn and Therese hello.” The call ended. Hugo checked his cellphone clock. Six minutes until lunch ended.
Crap. He slid his slime-slathered costume into its hiding spot in the ceiling. That would need serious cleaning after school. Luckily, Hugo had several spares in his lair. He gathered his backpack, did a quick listen making sure the coast was clear, then slipped out of the storage unit.
He quickened his pace through a half-empty parking lot. The sound of Paso High students across campus grew closer. He reminisced over collaborating with Tsunami and the two LA-based superhero teams. His life was crazy!
The Hollywood Bombshells and Battalion, two of Los Angeles’s five official teams, fit their city perfectly. The all-female Bombshells had formed at the peak of #TimesUp three years ago.
Battalion started as a popular show loosely based on The Vanguard, casting superpowered leads to reduce VFX costs. Everything changed in season 2 during a bombing at a Boston fan event. The cast had leaped into action, saving countless lives before any New England heroes arrived. OWE, who produced the show, immediately capitalized on the publicity. After months of combat training and replacing any actors uninterested in real-life crimefighting, Battalion became LA’s biggest superhero franchise. And they still shot seven-episode seasons each year.
The show had jumped the shark for Hugo after the Atlas name change, done for legal reasons when Battalion became real superheroes. Story-wise, the Titan-esque character Atlas got killed off mid-season 4 and reintroduced as his alternate universe doppelganger Hyperion (played by the same actor/hero).
Yet Hugo still hate-watched the Battalion show, now on its eighth season.
He turned a corner around the gym building, now seeing students spread out in groups.
Simon Han waited for him against a rusty fence near the football field’s edge, unusually dapper in a polo and slacks. His girlfriend’s influence, clearly.
Hugo waved and approached. “Hey.”
“Hiya.” Simon, his best friend, had finally returned to his Bruce Lee bowl cut. “Here.” He handed over a Beach Bum Burger plastic bag.
The smell of burgers and chicken nuggets had Hugo salivating. “Thanks!” He snatched the bag. “Killing kaijus made me hungry.” He fished through the bag, popping nuggets in his mouth as they walked.
Simon watched him eagerly. “That battle was EPIC. Check this.” He whipped out his cell, revealing headlines on Herogasm and Avngr about Aegis slaying a Kaiju.
Hugo smiled, starting on his double-double cheeseburger. He kind of enjoyed seeing his deeds recognized. “As long as I don’t become a meme.” He lowered his voice further. Someone could always be eavesdropping. “BTW. Do I smell like kaiju?”
Simon leaned in and sniffed Hugo’s torso, drawing stares. He drew back. “Nope. Just seawater.”
Hugo bucked his teeth. “Shit.”
The pair kept walking toward the Quad, the lunch crowds growing more condensed. Listening around campus, most of Paso High gabbed about Aegis vs the Tiamat. Some thought it was a PR stunt, irritatingly. But the Coast Guard currently removing the kaiju’s corpse disproved that flat-earther nonsense.
“Also saw the Lady Liberty confrontation,” Simon muttered, shouldering his backpack.
Hugo bristled. “No comment.” He changed topics. “Tsunami is way hotter in person. Like nuclear hot.” He made a mushroom cloud gesture to emphasize.
“I love your life.” Simon’s words carried a sliver of envy. “Speaking of sexy heroes…Starchylde?”
Hugo gaped at him. “Hell to the naw-naw!” he snapped. “She tried to thirst trap me into joining the Extreme Teens.” Starchylde was hot, but not hot enough for him to join those famewhores.
“Which you’re not joining, right?”
“The only team I’d join,” Hugo remarked, “is the Sensation Seven era Vanguard, which will never happen.” Not without time travel. They weaved through a maze of crowded tables as he inhaled his burger. The briny taste on his fingertips made him gag.
“My professional life is staying girl-drama free. There’s enough of that in my personal life.” He’d broached going exclusive with Jordana Buchanan before school had started last month. No answer yet. Hugo sighed, tossing his empty Beach Bum bag in a nearby trashcan. “Glad I kept my options open.”
Simon looked ahead and squinted. “If you say so.”
Hugo followed his gaze, and his heart grew light.
A beaming redheaded skipped toward them from the edge of the Quad, tall and lean and athletic. Her freckled skin retained its light summer tan, complementing her green henley and blue jeans.
“Hey!” Jen Thomas stopped right before Hugo, hugging him fiercely.
“Hey!” Hugo returned her embrace with delight. They’d grown close these last few months. One, J-Tom protected his secret identity like Simon. Two, Hugo had been training J-Tom to be a hero. She had no powers but possessed reverse-engineered battle armor crafted from two of Dynamo’s practice droids.
At first glance, J-Tom might be considered unremarkably pretty. Until she serenaded you with that contagious laugh or her irresistible smile. J-Tom’s positivity alone could light up a city block. And Hugo couldn’t get enough.
She pulled back with an ear-to-ear smile. “I need help with better excuses for my bruises,” she whispered. These bruises had come from unarmed combat training with Blackjack and Domino, two of Geist’s street-level proteges. “I can only use the volleyball excuse so much.”
A grin gushed out of Hugo. “Then stop getting bruised.”
“Jerk!” J-Tom gasped and playfully smacked his cheek. “Training tonight?”
“After my evening patrol.” Hugo enjoyed training J-Tom, loved her enthusiasm. But deep down, he wasn’t sure if she could actually become a hero. For starters, her makeshift armor belonged to Dynamo. What would happen when he found out someone was using his tech? But Hugo had more immediate worries. “How do I smell?”
J-Tom sniffed his neck and wrinkled her nose. “Like saltwater.”
“I just told you that!” Simon whined.
“Girls know what smells good,” Hugo disputed.
Simon grumbled something in Korean. With five minutes left in their lunch period, the trio moseyed through the sundrenched Quad toward their group. Today was warm and cloudless, vestiges of summer lingering even as fall began.
Hugo’s clique occupied two round tables under a shaded area. Most were present, with new satellite members. Wale stood beside the tables, dreadlocks flying while showing aggressive dance moves to Groban and John Torres.
Grace Misawa lounged back on the table seat like she owned the damn place, in a funky polka-dot getup, black locks styl
ed in a retro updo with a bandana. She chatted with Marin and Karin, the strawberry-blonde Stanley twins. Grace spotted Hugo and pursed her lips in disapproval. “Here come the three amigos,” she murmured.
Hearing that from afar, a pang throbbed in Hugo’s chest. But Grace was all smiles for her boyfriend, Simon, and J-Tom. Hugo expected that from her now. The next table over, Raphael Turner had his arm around his girlfriend, Karlee Danvers. They were chatting up a curvy girl with silky brown skin and cornrows reaching her waist. Sneaking up from behind, Hugo slipped his arms along her waist and leaned down to kiss her throat.
“Mamacita…” he crooned in her ear.
Jordana shivered with passion, twisting around to smile up at him. She barely reached Hugo’s chest in height, looking like she’d been poured into those peach-colored jeans and matching button-down shirt. “Papi Hugo…” They shared a passionate kiss. “Doctor’s visit go well?”
“Very.” Hugo hated being dishonest. But for Jodie’s safety and his promise to her cousin, lying was necessary. Ugh… Hugo eyed Raphael and Karlee, greeting them blithely.
Simon sidled beside Grace, slipping an arm around her waist.
J-Tom parked atop the table near Jodie to share fries and kisses with the willowy Melinda Wang, a fellow varsity volleyballer. They were cute together. Hugo enjoyed seeing J-Tom happy. But this was probably another casual fling…like her previous ones.
He approached as Wale instructed Groban and JT like a drill sergeant. “What are those for?”
“Dance tournament,” Wale answered, chest puffed out.
“Bakersfield Battlerama this weekend,” Groban remarked.
“Ah.” Hugo held Jodie closer, masking his disappointment. He’d expected the Fab Phenoms to move on after his departure. But the reality stung. “Good luck.”
Grace watched him. “We’d invite you, but you’re always busy, so…yeah.” She made a lazy hand gesture.
Jodie stared up at him expectantly. JT’s, Groban’s, and even Wale’s faces said Please come back.
But with his superhero responsibilities, Hugo couldn’t promise anything. “We’ll see.”
