by Ekeke, C. C.
Chapter 7
“No way,” Greyson stated as soon as he saw the costume sketch.
He sat in a Paxton-Brandt private jet headed for Washington DC, having a face-to-face with his “team.”
Not a team of superpowered operatives. Not a team of combat strategists.
A marketing trio.
An hour into their spiel about synergy and other idiotic buzzwords, Greyson contemplated throwing them all from the plane. Asher Barton, Mindy Blunt, and Darrell Cartwright gaped at his rejection.
“But…Mr. Hirsch,” Asher said, a living Ken Doll with a plastic smile and aggressive handshake. “This costume radiates menace and mystique. It will strike fear in the hearts of heroes everywhere.”
The Damocles getup was a silvery monstrosity, with a flowing red cape and helmet studded with horned spikes.
Greyson stared at Asher. “Have you been in a real fight?” he questioned. “This isn’t some Battalion movie with cartoonish supervillains monologuing. I won’t be able to move in that eyesore.”
That drew a wounded gasp from Mindy and scowls from Darrell. Greyson didn’t care.
Asher raised his hands to quell the tension. “We remove the cape and half of the helmet spikes—”
“NO,” Greyson barked. The cabin went deathly quiet. He’d expected financial backing and intel on his foes, not abysmal 90s-style costumes. “And none of that means shit if I don’t know my targets.”
Asher’s face went blank. He waved his aggrieved cohorts away to the back of the cabin.
Then Asher typed on his tablet, projecting a needle of light out before Greyson.
A group of six costumed heroes appeared in a hologram with the self-serious faces and stoic poses seen in hero photoshoots. Greyson chortled.
“Erika Skye, aka Erika Bossley.” Asher pointed at the tall black woman at the center in golden body armor. Her long braids complemented her fierce stare. “Team leader and influential activist lobbying to change Shenandoah’s superhuman laws. She’s a big threat on the field with her ‘hot knives’ power.”
Asher pointed to the bald man dwarfing everyone else, a mountain of hulking muscle with bronze metal skin and glowing amber eyes. “Bulldozer, aka David Correia, the team’s powerhouse. Can shift his skin to metal like a modern-day Ace Steel,” Asher marveled. “Stronger than a locomotive.”
He switched to a slim blonde in a provocative white-and-red costume. She would’ve been pretty if not for the Instagram kissy face she made. “Brightburn, aka Esther Katz. Electrokinetic and most popular member with men for obvious reasons.” Asher smirked. “Huge social media following.”
Oppo research was exactly what Greyson needed against these Natural Born Thrillers. He leaned forward with interest while Asher continued.
“Shattershot, Nero Mendes, is interesting.” The marketing exec gestured at a generic Caucasian man, average in height and build. But how his dark-green eyes knifed into one’s soul was unsettling. “Empathic and Neuro manipulation. Former villain. But after two years in jail, he got paroled on a Seneca-sponsored rehabilitation program.”
Greyson frowned. He’d never encountered any hero with psychic abilities beyond teleportation. Shattershot would need to be the first one he took out or killed. The clinical and heartless way he discussed death was no longer jarring. “Next.”
“Reverb, aka Alvin Choi!” Asher sneered at this beefy yet fit young man, whose neon disaster of a costume sported green goggles. Choi was the only one in the photo smiling. “Kinetic field lets him bounce off most surfaces and absorb impact. Also popular on social media.”
Greyson’s attention was drawn to the final team member, a woman with black wings sprouting from her back. Her regal manner evoked Lady Liberty, but her image was greyed out. He pointed. “Who’s that?”
Asher raised an eyebrow. “Former team member. Nighthawk, aka Marianne Studi. Hated Shenandoah. Seneca International relocated and repackaged her in Pierre, South Dakota, as a solo hero. Much better fit.” Asher spread his hands expectantly. “Any questions?”
Greyson leaned back. He’d have to plan on how to defeat this young, powerful team without martyring them. “Are there fuller profiles?”
Asher nodded. “They’ll be sent to your temporary home base once you reach Shenandoah.”
“Thanks…” But something deeper gnawed at Greyson beyond the Natural Born Thrillers. He’d heard various horror stories about Shenandoah’s current crime-riddled state. But as a child, he recalled a completely different city, like how San Miguel was now. “What happened to Shenandoah?”
“The Chicago Massacre,” Asher answered immediately.
Greyson made a face, lost. “How are those related?”
Asher sighed and sat opposite Greyson. “Titan vs Paragon.” Asher’s intro came with hand gestures and starry-eyed expressions to emphasize the spectacle. “The Almighty vs the American Original. Destroyed downtown Chicago, ended the Midwest Miracles, and killed thousands.”
Asher continued in gentler tones. “Despite being brainwashed, Paragon’s reputation was toast.”
Greyson snorted. “I know all that.” As a St. Louis native, he knew all about the Chicago Massacre.
Asher stiffened at his impatience. “You know who lost more? Paragon’s hometown.”
The dots connected instantly. “Paragon’s from Shenandoah?” Greyson gasped.
“Born and raised,” Asher said. “Since his debut in 1973, Shenandoah went from a small town to a booming metropolis based off its Paragon connection. It became a mecca for the golden age of superheroes.” Nostalgia filled his eyes. “And a prototype for cities like New York and San Miguel.”
“Like how Paragon was the prototype for Titan,” Greyson added. And Titan for Aegis. The similarities between the late superhero and the so-called Shield of Justice were obvious.
Asher nodded eagerly. “After Paragon’s disgrace and self-exile, Shenandoah couldn’t associate with a mass murderer.” He quivered theatrically. “Businesses that used Paragon and other heroes to advertise shut down from lost business, leading to sky-high job losses. City laws got very restrictive for supers. Local superheroes face all kinds of restrictions, including Shenandoah’s Public Identity Act.”
Greyson blinked a few times. So the adversary wouldn’t just be The Natural Born Thrillers. “How will I move around Shenandoah without running into the police?”
Asher’s megawatt smile returned. “You’ll get a new identity with no mention of your powers.” He announced that like Greyson had won a new car. When his enthusiasm met stony silence, Asher deflated. “We’ll discuss more tomorrow.”
“What the fuck did I sign up for?” Greyson mouthed once Asher went to confer with his team.
Greyson felt more like a new product launch than an operative. He missed Connie intensely, to have someone in his corner. But Gwyneth Pierce needed her for a mission in San Miguel…where he should be instead of fighting these Mickey Mouse Club heroes.
The Natural Born Thrillers are one major step, Greyson retold himself. Aegis would have to wait.
An hour later, the jet landed in a private airfield outside DC.
Greyson exited with his bags under a pitch-black sky and a muggy evening.
Asher directed him to a black Escalade parked several yards away.
The nearest passenger-side window rolled down. “Get in,” Steve Olin ordered.
Greyson swallowed his surprise and rounded the SUV, pulling open the passenger door.
The Paxton-Brandt CEO’s slim, charcoal-grey suit fit him well. His curly silvery-gold mop looked styled with an egg beater. “You wanted to meet?” he asked as Greyson strapped in.
“Yes.” Greyson locked eyes with Olin. “I expected a video call or something.”
A half-smile inched up Olin’s lined face. “You’re an important part of the Paxton-Brandt family.” The response sounded very focus-group tested.
Greyson reclined in his seat but couldn’t fully relax. “Thanks.” Scrubbing his cri
minal record and an audience with Olin did make him feel valued. But there was something rotten about this partnership that he couldn’t shake. “Why is my wife being sent to San Miguel?” And why am I not with her?
“A search and rescue operation requiring her set of skills,” Olin answered smoothly. “Constance will be with you in Shenandoah before you engage the Natural Born Thrillers.” He softened. “You like Italian?”
“Who doesn’t?” Greyson said.
Olin’s reaction was reproachful while he checked his cellphone. “You’d be surprised.”
The two didn’t speak for the rest of the car ride. Olin busied himself with business calls and emails. Greyson stared out the windows as America’s capital rushed by. These changed circumstances were a lot to digest. And everything would change again once his crusade took flight.
His wandering eyes locked on to a billboard showcasing The Nationals, DC’s top ERA team, all smiles and uber patriotic costumes and heroic poses. Greyson’s stomach soured, and he turned away.
Their car stopped in front of a fancy Italian restaurant in the heart of Mount Vernon Square. Greyson stepped out of the vehicle to the sight of crosswalks bustling with pedestrian traffic. Gleaming high-rises and swanky bistros lined D.C.'s busy streets.
Olin moved to his side, eyes twinkling. “Nice, isn’t it? Not having to look over your shoulder.”
Greyson inhaled a steadying breath. It had been months since he'd felt this free. “It is nice.”
Olin clapped a hand on Greyson’s shoulder. “That’s why you’ll be wearing a costume and mask,” he murmured. “To protect your renewed anonymity.” Olin turned to his driver. “I’ll call when we’re done.”
The car merged into evening traffic and drove off. Then Olin guided Greyson into the restaurant.
By the dimmed rouge lighting and chic layout, Greyson felt the miasma of influence and affluence oozing from every table. Hushed dialogs, covert dealings, and shady handshake deals.
The restaurant host, a delectable young black woman, led them to a private booth in the rear.
The spacious booth was away from most tables, definitely VIP. Greyson sat across from Olin, skimming through the menu, feeling off-balance. Which had to be Olin’s plan. But why he had the full-throated support of the multinational to defeat superheroes still mystified Greyson.
“Are you ordering or just staring at me?” Olin asked without looking up.
“Why are you doing this?” Greyson demanded.
Olin remained focused on his menu. “Doing what?”
“Targeting heroes.” Greyson glanced around, still paranoid, before continuing quietly. “Paxton-Brandt created a team, which failed spectacularly and killed hundreds.” His already shaky trust wavered.
Olin placed his menu down and gave Greyson his full attention. “The painful lesson we learned from The Elite was that superheroes in their present format shouldn’t exist.” His expression conveyed sadness. “Nowadays, most superheroes just want fame and wealth.” Olin shook his head. “None truly want to better this world.”
Greyson arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “And Paxton-Brandt’s mission? Besides making money.”
Olin’s frown deepened. “Our primary goal is profit. But that doesn’t have to come at the expense of healing this planet. Even if sacrifices must be made.”
Greyson found no fault in that argument. The world would improve without superheroes.
“And yours?” Olin asked. “What does the world look like after this twilight of the gods?”
Greyson’s cheeks warmed. He’d never fully considered the aftermath. “Society becomes self-reliant again. Then…” He did some quick thinking. “Connie and I live our lives in peace.”
Olin’s response was a fatherly smile. “That’s where Paxton-Brandt comes in. To shape the brave new world you’re envisioning.”
Greyson sagged as his role smacked him across the jaw. “That makes me a corporate-sponsored supervillain.” Saying that sounded cartoonish. But there was no other term to describe his role.
Olin threw his head back with a belly laugh. “You’re a necessary evil,” he corrected. “And Shenandoah is the starting point of this world we’ll reshape.” He picked up his menu again, scanning with ravenous eyes. “Now let’s order before my stomach eats itself.”
Chapter 8
“I’m watching on the news,” Simon lamented over the comm channel. “How bad is it?”
Hugo, floating miles above the scene, didn’t have to think hard. “Looks like Hell on Earth.”
Right after school, he’d suited up and hurtled toward Colorado’s Gunnison National Forest at top speeds. Wildfires were spreading through the woodlands at a frightening pace.
Hours later, Hugo wondered if his efforts had made even a dent.
Everywhere he looked below, bright angry flames belched and roared. Hundreds of miles of lush pine trees had been consumed by the ravenous firestorm.
Heat buffeted Hugo from all sides. But he barely noticed, his own emotions already boiling as he sensed the vast loss of forest life.
Smoke stained the night skies, rising in gloomy charcoal grey columns. Hugo shuddered and swooped closer, carrying a large red container with several hundred gallons of sloshing water. He’d lost count of how many times he dumped and refilled.
Many of Colorado’s flying heroes circled around the towering flames like moths, dipping low enough to dump flame retardant over swaths of forest.
After visitors had been evacuated, the priority was containing the fire from spreading to nearby cities.
National Guard firefighting choppers sprayed colorful fire suppressant onto the hungry inferno. The womp-womp of their blades got muffled by rumbling fiery tongues. The choppers stayed higher to avoid colliding with other heroes.
Hugo flew a few miles over the hungry flames, emptying his bucket on a section he’d been assigned by Colorado’s Grand Circle team. Loud sizzles arose as water met flame. Steamy tendrils entwined with dirty smoke in the skies.
Out-of-state heroes lending support during national emergencies wasn’t unusual. Heroes from Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and Wyoming had arrived to help.
Hugo had heard Tomorrow Man was here somewhere. According to media rumors, he was livid over the Aegis interview. Oh well…
“N3 says seventy-thousand acres got burned,” Simon exclaimed. “Jesus.”
“It’s not even dry season,” Hugo added.
The fire had spontaneously sparked two days ago, leading investigators to suspect arson. The same couldn’t be said for the floods ravaging the Carolina coastline.
Hugo forced his heart to go dead, a Lady Liberty teaching when handling such crises. He silently thanked his former teacher while hurtling over either lush pine layers or stretches of scorched soil to refill. A crackle caught his ears when he reached the lake.
Hugo looked up. Pillaring storm clouds were churning overhead.
Moments later, sheets of rain bucketed the lake and the fiery stretch of forest he’d targeted. Hugo smiled as rain soaked him. “Took you long enough!”
“There were plenty of hotspots scarring these forests,” a solemn voice called back. A tall man with fluid black hair floated toward Hugo. The Colorado superhero called Cumulon dressed like a shaman, his rugged costume covering a rail-thin frame. His somber features aged him past twenty-seven years.
The fires ravaging this part of Colorado woodland began dying out.
“This part seems contained.” The weather-controlling hero’s blue eyes found Hugo. “You’re free to go.”
Hugo eyed the sea of roiling flames beyond Cumulon’s storm. “I can do more.”
Gratitude cracked Cumulon’s seriousness. “You’ve been here for hours. San Miguel needs you, Aegis.”
Hugo opened his mouth to protest but checked the time on his eyescreen. After nine at night. Jesus… He still had homework and training with J-Tom. “I’ll return tomorrow.”
“Your view on Tomorrow Man.” Under bucketing
rain, Cumulon’s smile revealed white teeth. “It’s appreciated.”
Hugo guffawed. Superheroes were such gossips. “Thanks.” Leaving his bucket near the lake, he soared from the glowing forest. Hopefully, there was no fire to return to tomorrow.
“OMG,” J-Tom cried loud enough to wake the dead. “That…was Cumulon! Nature’s Champion!”
Hugo and Simon burst out laughing at J-Tom’s fangirling.
“How we doing, Jenny?” Hugo asked, sensing energy thrumming beside him.
Suddenly, she appeared on his left in cobalt armor with glowing yellow eyes. J-Tom’s suit looked both intimidating yet scrapyard-ish. “The cloaking works perfectly.”
Hugo was still floored by how smart Jennifer Thomas was. Like genius-level smart. She’d reverse-engineered the cloaking in Hugo’s costume, adding it to her armor in two days. That was how J-Tom had hovered above Gunnison National Forrest undetected.
Hugo smiled proudly and rocketed back west. He could’ve flown faster, but J-Tom’s propulsion had speed limits to conserve power. “And your power levels?”
J-Tom followed a few feet behind, her jet boots leaving a burn trail. “Forty-two percent. Stealth mode drained lots of energy.”
“And your heatshields?” Simon asked.
“I’m really sweaty,” J-Tom admitted in disappointment. “The suit’s ventilators need upgrades.”
She was silent until they passed over Las Vegas, a dazzling island in the dark desert. “You were amazing tonight! That’s the kind of hero I want to be.”
Hugo’s cheeks warmed from the praise, which J-Tom never skimped on. “Just doing my job.”
“Wish I could’ve helped,” she continued. “Once my armor’s ready for primetime and I register, I will.”
Or not… Guilt shot through Hugo as they crossed California’s border. “Simon, how’s San Miguel?”
“Quiet,” Simon replied. “Mostly human-on-human crimes. You need anything?”
“I’m good,” Hugo replied tersely. “Talk tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Simon said. “Later.”
After signing off, Hugo threw his arms back and dove lower. “Pop quiz.”
“Yay!” J-Tom squealed, right on his heels.
