Generation Next: A Superhero Adventure (The Pantheon Saga Book 3) Page 13

  Hugo dismissed her worry. “I’m fine.” He needed experience. “It was my first official battle.”

  Emotion fluttered across Ms. Ortiz’s face. “Exactly,” she threw back. “And you almost got killed.”

  “But how will I get better if I’m benched?”

  “I can tell something isn’t clicking.” Ms. Ortiz sighed. “Maybe nerves. Or being a sidekick. Maybe you don’t have the mindset. Or…” Her face fell. “You don’t want to be a hero as bad as you think.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Hugo.” Lady Liberty silenced him with a raised finger. “I’ve seen this before. Gifted prospects wanting so much to be a superhero until they’re actually doing it. Constantly lying to friends and family. Breaking promises and sacrificing your life to save lives.” The superhero’s eyes glazed over, as if reliving each scenario. “Day after day of patrols or fighting or getting your ass kicked. This life is hard. Physically and mentally.”

  Each detail struck harder than V3’s fists. Hugo sat dazed by the truths she’d cited.

  Ms. Ortiz folded her arms and paced, her attention never leaving him. “I’d be a bad teacher if I wasn’t allowing you to figure out if you truly want this life.”

  Hugo had known about a superhero’s sacrifices. But he never really knew those sacrifices the way his mentor just detailed. That life sounded so miserable. Is this what you want the rest of your life to be? That lonely life and the vices used to escape it had ruined Titan, then killed him. Hugo shivered.

  Ms. Ortiz searched his face, offering a grin. “We’ll talk in a week once you’ve thought things over.”

  Hugo couldn’t argue with that. His head felt stuffed with cotton. “If you insist then I’ll…SHIT!” The wall clock read twenty till eight. Hugo was so late for dance practice. Speaking of sacrifices…

  Lady Liberty straightened in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  Hugo popped off the bed, snatching his shirt. A dull ache rolled down his healing back.

  “Are we done tonight?” Hugo asked, hastily slipping on his long-sleeved tee.

  “Yes—”

  “Gotta go,” Hugo blurted out. “Thanks for the talk.” He raced away impossibly fast.

  Hugo didn’t stop until he stood outside Aethon Studio, its windows casting a pale-yellow glow from across the street. He checked his regular cellphone, approaching the entrance with a normal powerwalk. Several missed calls, almost as many VMs, and countless angry texts.

  Guilt flooded his chest as he pushed open the door. JT, Groban, Grace, and Wale milled around, not dancing. The Stanleys must have already left.

  Everyone looked up, and the mood curdled. Not good. Profuse apologies would be essential.

  “I’m so sorry,” Hugo exclaimed. “Something came up. Is there still time in tonight’s practice?”

  JT shouldered his bag and stomped past Hugo. “Practice ended like twenty minutes ago,” he grumbled, brown skin flushed from exertion.

  Wale glared from afar, tossing his thick braids back. Grace, in basketball shorts and a white tank-top, appeared justifiably pissed.

  Groban spread his arms in WTF fashion. “Couldn’t have called?”

  “I wasn’t near my phone.” The thin but accurate excuse earned no sympathy from his friends.

  “Talk to Wale,” JT stated. “He and Grace are pissed.”

  Hugo scurried up to Wale and Grace, ready to humiliate himself for their forgiveness. “I’m really sorry. Had an emergency—”

  Wale held up a hand. “Hugo.”

  “Wale?” Hugo stood ready to take his tongue-lashing and/or punishment.

  Wale’s thin frame vibrated with disappointment just below the surface. “The group decided that if you can’t commit to practices, then you shouldn’t perform at the next competition.”

  Hugo’s knees nearly buckled. First Jordana, then Lady Liberty. Now the Phenoms? Losing so much in one day was too much. Hugo clasped his hands, ready to beg. “I screwed up, I know. But I won’t miss another practice—”

  “Sorry, Bogie,” Grace cut in. “The decision was unanimous. You’re benched.”

  The rigid decree broke Hugo’s heart.

  Chapter 16

  They burst into the cell at the crack of dawn, jarring Greyson from slumber. Two menacing silhouettes loomed over his bed, shouting in Amaranthine Portuguese.

  “I’m up!” Greyson scrambled out of bed with arms raised. “Don’t shock me again!”

  Rodrigo was up and out of bed, two guards shoving him toward the door with undue aggression. Greyson flinched, swallowing anger at his cellmate’s treatment. After three days in this prison, he’d seen what happened when inmates looked at a guard wrong.

  In seconds, Greyson and Rodrigo were roughly escorted into the hallway. They joined two single-file lines of marching inmates. Guards with shock batons and rifles flanked both sides.

  Greyson brightened seeing more prisoners. He recognized a handful from the barge. The rest were unfamiliar. Probably island locals. “Where is she?” he grumbled.

  A beefy guard screamed something brutal at him in Amaranthine Portuguese. Greyson promptly faced ahead, playing the obedient prisoner. No one spoke, only the overlapping clomp-clomps of many footsteps moving down the hallways. Other prisoners looked blank or weary, any defiance beaten or shocked out of them. All wore the same dull-grey collars as Greyson.

  “You behave,” Rodrigo growled, “or I’ll grab a guard’s poker and shock you myself, yea.”

  Greyson huffed in disappointment. “I don’t see Connie.”

  Forget her, Ghost-Lauren’s voice caressed his ears.

  “Worry about yourself,” Rodrigo grumbled quietly. “Ya don't wanna get chosen.”

  Greyson gulped, remembering. Rodrigo had told him about the auction. Every six months, Amarantha’s Ruling Families bought new superhumans to fight in a three-week Tournament of Champions. Supers owned by each family fighting to the death. It was Amarantha's most popular television broadcast.

  Greyson had found this impossible to digest, like his current circumstances. “Why the US hasn’t intervened,” he had demanded in indignation. “This is ethnic cleansing!”

  Rodrigo had sat cross-legged before him, unmoved by his outrage. “Thanks to you Statesiders.”

  The answer was a slap across the face. “Excuse me?” Greyson jerked back. What did this fetus, who’d never even left Amarantha, know about anything? Until the reasoning cracked through Greyson’s horror. “We intervened…and made things worse?”

  “Your government didn’t like so many supers at their doorsteps,” Rodrigo had begun. “Their contractors gave some rich human families the tech to block our powers.” He'd shivered, growing angrier as he spoke. “The humans used that to overthrow the government and enslave supers. Now each family rules one of Amarantha’s big cities like royals.” Rising abruptly, he’d gone to bed, furious.

  Greyson had stared in stunned silence for a long while.

  Now, Greyson’s unease grew as the inmates headed into soap-smelling room. “Where are we going?”

  “A shower,” another prisoner replied, a frog-face older woman with dusky skin. The thick Amaranthine drawl confirmed her as another local. “Gotta get prettied up for the auction.” Once the prisoners were ushered into a vast space, the guards ordered them to strip.

  Greyson looked around in embarrassment, stripping in front of strangers, but got it over quickly.

  The guards barked again, and the naked prisoners entered a round container.

  The mood grew awkward. Greyson covered his privates timidly while standing there.

  Abruptly, hundreds of scalding water jets blasted from the surrounding walls. The container filled with screams from three dozen prisoners hopping about. Greyson shielded his eyes, fearful his skin would boil off. The showers lasted a few more minutes before shutting off. Greyson and the prisoners stood or sprawled in various states of shock. Seconds later, the floors shot pressurized gusts to dry everyone off. More screams
and frantic hopping.

  Greyson fell to his knees, eyes squeezed shut. Intense gusts blasted the moisture off him. In only two months, his previous life in St. Louis seemed like a faraway, magical dream.

  As the winds stripped Greyson’s dignity further away, he held onto Connie. More than ever, Greyson had to save her from this horrible place.

  Finally, the vents ceased and the container reopened. Greyson joined other shell-shocked inmates in putting on fresh prison jumpsuits provided by the guards. One inmate, the mountainous Briggs from the barge, eyed the nearest guards murderously. For a moment, Greyson thought the big man would attack.

  Instead, Briggs deflated and pulled on his jumpsuit. They were then ordered back into two single-file lines and marched into another well-lit room.

  The guards were different, in head-to-toe tactical gear with scarier rifles. Greyson kept quiet without Rodrigo’s prompting. Maybe beyond that curtain someone knew about Connie. Two at a time, prisoners stepped through the curtain and never returned. A low-level dread crawled up Greyson’s torso when his turn came. Brief hesitation earned him a hard shove from behind. Greyson stumbled onto a small stage, almost faceplanting. Thankfully, Rodrigo entered the stage on the other line and caught Greyson before he fell.

  “What is this?” he asked his cellmate.

  “The auction.” Rodrigo glanced around the darkness beyond the spotlight. “Representatives from the Families are watching through cameras. Scanning for our power levels. Then they bid.” He looked to Greyson, still drooping in his arms, and scowled. “Stand up or else they’ll classify us as sex slaves.”

  Greyson stood properly in the spotlight. Again, he and Rodrigo waited.

  “What’s taking so long?” Greyson murmured without turning his head, after over five minutes.

  “Either some high bidding or no one’s interested,” Rodrigo murmured back.

  Greyson disliked both options. “What happens if no one’s interested?”

  Before Rodrigo could answer, a door in the center slid open. Greyson stared, unsure what to do.

  “Step forward, prisoners,” a voice boomed in American English from ceiling speakers.

  Rodrigo beamed, somehow optimistic. He strode to the door. Greyson timidly trailed him.

  They stepped through the doorway, into the company of half a dozen new guards. Their light armor was red and gold, carrying pikes instead of basic rifles. Greyson and Rodrigo were joined by Briggs and three others. Besides Rodrigo, every prisoner was an American from the barge.

  “Prisoners!” one shorter guard barked in English. He was well-built, with thick, chestnut-brown hair, lighter skinned than Rodrigo. “You belong to House Carneiro, Ruling Family of Dourado! Your collars are under our control. Your sole purpose is to fight and die at the pleasure of Dourado and the Carneiro family.”

  Greyson exchanged wide-eyed stares with Rodrigo. His cellmate had told him about Amarantha’s Ruling families, which read like a feudal throwback with a Caribbean twist. House Carneiro was the wealthiest family on the island, thanks to Dourado’s plentiful mines. To be purchased by the Carneiro’s must mean that Greyson and these other five held value. Purchased…like a bag of grapes. Greyson nearly choked. Another nail in the coffin of his old life.

  “Now, we leave for Dourado. Know your place and keep quiet!” The six prisoners were prodded into a single-file line as the group marched toward an exit.

  But Greyson would never forgive himself if he didn’t ask about Connie. “Excuse me.”

  Rodrigo’s eyes bulged. “Greyson!”

  The gilded guards turned. Hard-bitten and battle-tested, all could break Greyson by flexing their biceps.

  Greyson raised both hands. “No disrespect. I was with someone on the barge of supers.”

  The guards’ leader nodded at one of his men, who handed over a tablet. The leader pressed a few buttons. “Their name?”

  Greyson almost cried for joy. “Constance Ishibashi? Goes by Connie. Short hair, not tall—”

  “Don’t need a life story, yea,” the leader snapped. After skimming through his tablet for a minute, he looked up. “No record.”

  The news stunned Greyson. “Maybe Connie wasn’t chosen for the auction.”

  The leader shook his curly head of hair. “There’s no record in our prison systems,” he clarified. “Meaning she never got picked up.”

  Greyson swallowed hard. “Then…Connie drowned.” Speaking that truth sucked the verve out of him. His legs folded, and suddenly he was kneeling. With Connie dead, Greyson's purpose died with her.

  Whatever the leader saw on Greyson’s face reached him. “Sorry about your friend, yea,” he replied with unexpected sympathy.

  “Screw this!” Briggs roared and launched himself at the guards.

  Greyson, submerged in grief, now saw guards being thrown left and right by the massive Briggs. The leader swore in his native tongue and advanced to contain the situation. The other four prisoners were shoved into the walls by three other guards.

  Briggs reached for the pike of one guard he’d leveled. “I’ll die before I stay longer!”

  “As you wish,” the leader said coolly, clicking something on his pike.

  A crackling sound preceded Briggs's whole body going rigid. He clutched his neck collar, eyes wide, choking sounds emerging from his open mouth. Briggs fell over, spasming, eyes gawking up at Greyson. The voltage continued cooking Briggs insides until his eyes were leaking blood and smoke curled from his nose. His spasms soon became death throes.

  Greyson just watched, disconnected even from the stench of Brigg’s deep-fried intestines.

  When the leader finally shut off the electricity, Brigg went limp. His eyes burst, leaking down his cheeks.

  “There's plenty more where you freaks came from,” the leader stated. “Now MOVE!” He then barked at his subordinates in Amaranthine.

  The other four prisoners, Rodrigo included, were marched down the hallway briskly. The leader himself wrenched Greyson to his feet and dragged him forward.

  Greyson kept glancing back at Brigg’s sizzling corpse, regret needling through his numbness. If I’d known about Connie earlier, Greyson realized in hindsight, that’s how I should’ve died.

  Chapter 17

  Quinn craned her head back. One had to when taking in the full height of Olympian Worldwide Tower, one of San Miguel’s tallest skyscrapers. The steel-and-glass building, wide and cylindrical shape, posted the dazzling gold OWE logo on top. With Olympian Worldwide’s global reach in media, music, theme parks, and much more, this headquarters packed a lot in one location.

  Today marked the first official day of filming for the Missy Magnificent profile. And since today’s filming focused on Missy’s Extreme Teens past without her, Quinn got to conduct these interviews. And she couldn’t have been happier. Or more racked with nerves.

  “You ready for this?” Quinn asked her lanky videographer, Colin Garner. They’d carpooled from her apartment. Another dreamless night, thanks to his ministrations.

  Colin ran idle fingers through his shaggy hair. “Ready.”

  “Let’s go.”

  OWE Tower’s lobby featured statues of OWE animated characters. A 3D hologram of the Extreme Teens roster sat near the center water fountain.

  Colin’s childlike wonder while recording all this won a smile out of Quinn.

  They stepped off the elevator on the thirtieth floor into a madhouse. Assistants and executives running around like headless chickens yelling at each other. Quinn sidestepped all this to reach the reception desk. “Jamie Goldstein, please.”

  The young black man behind the desk nodded. “Please sit while I grab her.” He dialed on his computer. Quinn and Colin parked themselves in seats on the lobby and waited. The purpose of today was getting views of Missy Magnificent from former Extreme Team colleagues and OWE executives. Quinn had devised this approach to give more balanced coverage for Missy’s road to redemption.

  About five minutes later, a slim wom
an approached with curly black hair and a strut in her step. She dressed entertainment casual: a clingy maroon tee with BAYWOOD PARK in white across the chest, and dark-blue skinny jeans. She clutched a Red Bull can like a lifeline. Quinn and Colin stood.

  “Hello! Jamie Goldstein,” she greeted briskly. Her handshake was as forceful as those intense, pale-blue eyes. “Head of Content, Programming, Live Events, et cetera for all things Extreme Teens.”

  “Quinn Bauer. Reporter,” Quinn said, poking at Jamie’s self-importance. “Is that on your business card?”

  A smile split Jamie’s pretty face. “Should be, right?” She gestured for Quinn and Colin to follow.

  They entered a corner office overlooking downtown, Rio Luis coiling around San Miguel, and lofty Bishop Peak in the distance. If Quinn didn’t know this woman’s job, she’d have labeled Jamie a stalker. Her office was packed with Extreme Teens paraphernalia; posters, toys, platinum records. A flatscreen TV hung across from Jamie’s desk playing unedited dailies from the Extreme Dreams show. Quinn expected to sit with Jamie on her couch. Instead, the executive beelined for a ping-pong table.

  “I think better moving.” Jamie snatched two paddles off the table. “Wanna play ping-pong?” Jamie demanded, blue eyes gleaming. “Let’s play ping-pong.” She chucked the other paddle at Quinn, nearly smacking her face.

  “JG vs. QB.” Jamie smirked, bouncing on her heels. “What do you want to know about Katie Epperson?” She served first with a gentle overhead swing.

  Quinn, seeing no choice, paddled the ball back. She knew parts of the story behind Missy Magnificent’s ugly split from the Extreme Teens. Like OWE owning the ‘Missy Magnificent’ name, forcing Katie Epperson, aka Missy Magnificent, to legally change her name. “Describe Missy when you first met her?”

  Jamie beamed as her paddle strikes grew more violent. “Katie was an adorable twelve-year-old country girl from Nebraska. Sweetest kid you’d ever meet.” Jamie’s eyes grew unfocused, the memories transporting her backwards. “Katie had that It factor you couldn’t teach. With powers tailormade for a marketable teen superhero.” Jamie then detailed Missy's year-long training at Crownwood Hero Academy before debuting, all while returning Quinn’s serves with vicious glee. By her emotional tenor, Jamie still clearly cared for Missy like a big sister.