Water had never been something he loved.
Owan opened his eyes, blinking past the bubbles he’d exhaled. The water burbled in his ears and tingled up his spine. Blue shimmered around him, covering every inch of his sight.
How long had he been sitting here? It was still dark out when he'd dived into the pool. Which meant . . .
Shit.
Owan rose with a start, shooting toward the surface. Drag tugged at his arms, weakening his strokes. The water resisted his exit . . . just like that night two years ago, when the car had veered off the bridge and crashed into—
Focus, Owan.
He broke the pool’s surface, gasping for breath. Air burned a path down into his lungs.
A dim sun peeked out of cloud cover, brightening the complex. Owan scowled hard at it, wishing to dispel it in some way. His Hero costume lay in a neat bundle by the pool's edge, wrapped around his watch. He grabbed the latter and his stomach sank as he read the display.
A quarter past seven. Rambunctious was going to kill him.
Owan clambered out of the pool.
Idiot! You forgot a change of underwear!
A quick look around the grounds proved he was still alone. He ditched his square cut suit and streaked naked into his costume. The change took longer than anticipated, what with the unitard battling him every step of the way.
For a few precious minutes, he struggled in horror with the elastane-Panzer hybrid. Then it snapped into place, and he cheered, only to realize he was now twenty minutes late.
The swimming pool sat adjacent to the gymnasium, both a fifteen-minute walk away from the complex proper. Running could shave some time, but honestly, what was the point at this stage?
He struck a brisk pace notwithstanding, cutting through the side of the gym. The base was only an outstation, but the main complex sprawled wider than two football fields with many offices and winding corridors to boot.
Owan took the Admin entrance into the main building and jogged barefoot past the cubicles. A few of the staff called greetings at him. The conference room stood at the distant end of the first floor, and he reached it with minus thirty-three minutes to spare. The sturdy hardwood door glared at him, daring him to enter.
Owan calmed his breathing. He adopted a blank stare and strode into the room.
Rocketia frowned at him. “You're late.”
“Stating the obvious as always,” Transcribe interjected smoothly.
“Just because it's obvious doesn't make it less true,” Rocketia snapped. The lenses on her goggles contracted. “I know you have nothing to do all day, Boucan, but try to consider your teammate who has classes to attend.”
“Said teammate should call it quits on school,” Transcribe said. “Not like she doesn’t earn money most students only dream of.”
“That's not the point.”
“What is the point?” Transcribe said, studying her nails. The silvery letters that spanned her black costume wiggled in time with her movements.
“I apologize,” Owan said.
“The point,” Rocketia continued, “is that Boucan needs to start holding himself to the same standards he holds us. This isn't the first time he has arrived late to a meeting he scheduled.”
“And it won't be the last,” Fractionite said from a corner of the room. He raised his half-face helmet, spinning it around his hand. “Honestly, O-man, I could have used an extra hour or two of sleep. Anyone would crumble when subjected to such grueling regimens. Except for Spirit, of course.”
The aforementioned member of the group looked up. Hazel eyes regarded Owan from behind an exquisite tribal mask. He placed his head back on the wall, bored with the proceedings.
“I apologize,” Owan repeated, louder this time for Tia’s benefit. He squared his shoulders, peering around the hall for the Director. “We can speed past the de-briefing if that will make things better.”
“It won't,” a new voice said.
Messenger rose from his seat at the front of the hall. His feathered cloak swished around him, framing a grey costume. Sharp eyes peered from the visor of a compact helmet shaped like a German sallet. He drummed gloved fingers on the backrest of his chair, disapproval evident in his poise. “This is getting old, Boucan.”
Owan stuttered. “I am sorry, sir. I was told Director Rambunctious would be in attendance, not you.”
“The Director's been summoned away to headquarters on an urgent matter,” Messenger said, wiping soot off his chest. The dirt marred his trademark two-winged insignia, some kind of griffin etched in red. “For now, I will be assuming her duties. Take a seat.”
Owan rushed to do so, sighing in relief. Messenger might be one of the three biggest Supers in the country, but Rambunctious was the one who ruled with an iron fist. Had she been in attendance, punishments would’ve been meted out for his tardiness, alongside an hour-long tirade of rebuke.
Messenger moved to the front of the room, pulling a file from underneath his arm. He looked at the team, an easy grin snaking across his features. “Let's get the fun things out of the way. I’m glad to inform you that your former supervisor put to bed in the wee hours of the morning. She sent pictures of her baby, which I’ve shared on the group chat.”
The room erupted in cheers.
Clove had been their supervisor for well over a year before marriage had necessitated her transfer to the new branch in Rivers. Rambunctious had promised they’d get a new Supervisor, but between the Council’s expansion and its recent interests offshore, such moves had failed to materialize. Messenger had offered to fill the role in the interim.
“Be sure to send her your well-wishes later in the day,” Messenger said after the clamor died down. “As for the second matter: I’ve filed a commendation for your performance yesterday. Over two hundred villagers faced displacement had those fires been left unchecked.” A smile wormed across his face. “Seriously guys, Headquarters is gushing with praises. Consider this another five-star for Imago. That’s your third one this year.”
Fractionite dropped his helmet. He drummed on his lap. “You hear that, maggots? We've got another gold mark on our record. Whoop, whoop!”
The team cheered again, albeit much weaker than the last. Spirit didn't join in any of the gaiety.
He is tired, Owan noted. They all are. Imago had faced one problem after another since the start of the month, and their enthusiasm was beginning to fray at the seams.
Rocketia was all barbs as usual, but Owan knew her well enough to recognize the signs. Her witch's hat hung heavy on her head, and her shoulders quivered beneath her cape. The stench of wood ash clung to her robes, repulsive to his sensitive nose. For someone like Tia who put great stock in her appearance, the fact that she hadn’t bothered with a clean change of robes spoke volumes about her current mindset.
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“We’re grateful for the praise, sir,” Transcribe said, interrupting his thoughts. “But it’s only appropriate that we thank you in turn. You handled half the job all by yourself.” The right half of her face sat frozen in a scowl—a side effect of the power overload she'd suffered yesterday.
Her right arm would also be numb, judging from past occurrences. She hid it well enough, cradling it atop her lap. But her eyes betrayed the extent of her fatigue. Bright corneas burned bloodshot behind a stylish domino mask.
Owan frowned at the sight. Should he petition the Director for a short holiday?
“Don't downplay your contributions,” Messenger said. “I wouldn't have succeeded without your support. You also learned a valuable lesson yesterday if you ask me.”
“Which is?” Rocketia asked.
“This one,” Messenger replied: “Not all enemies you face will come wielding knives or gravity-defying powers. Sometimes, nature itself is what you need to fear.”
“But this wasn't a natural incident,” Owan said. “You hinted as much on the field. What happened out there, sir?”
“I’d like to know too,” Transcribe said.
Messenger chewed his lip. “Hmm. I suppose there’s no reason to keep you in the dark. Rambunctious would also want you guys to know.” He closed the file and placed one hand beneath his jaw. “Very well. The fires started as a result of a fight: one between the Newtown Council and the Four-oh-Four.”
All five members of Imago perked up.
Unlike the popular street gangs in Lagos which typically began as university cults, the Four-oh-Four had originated as a coalition of disgruntled factory workers.
Everyone called Newtown a home for retirees now, what with its lack of upward mobility and accessible economic opportunities. However, once upon a time, the Dream City had truly been the dream. Bright-eyed Nigerians had flocked from all over the country to man the industries that promised to be the city’s lifeblood.
Bad legislation had stifled said industries, and the factory workers—capillaries of the blood flow—were first to be shafted. State actors had mocked those workers during the riots that ensued. Blue-collar dogs, they’d called them. Ergo, the rioters had spray-painted the most obvious digits on their placards: four, zero, and four. A code affiliated with dog meat in the country.
They'd graduated into organized crime from there, finding a niche in smuggling and illegal manufacturing. And in ten years? They’d become the most violent syndicate in Newtown.
“Wow, wow,” Fractionite hollered, bringing him back to the present. “Our Newtown cousins go hard! Talk about burning half a forest to make a point.”
“Don’t commend their actions,” Owan said. “Lives were nearly lost. Livelihoods were lost. And the destruction of the ecosystem is nothing to clap about.”
“Yes, sir Reverend,” the boy drawled. “But you are preaching to the choir here, you know that?”
“Boucan is right to tell you off,” Messenger said. “The Council neither condones nor celebrates wanton acts of destruction in the course of doing good. That said, Newtown deserves some slack. They had to contend with Wicker. The fires were inevitable in that regard.”
Fractionite crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, you're still chastising the wrong guy. If the Newtown Council knew all of this, why didn't they assume responsibility? Why were we called in to handle their mess?”
Owan opened his mouth in response only to come up short. Fractionite wasn't being malicious. Their youngest teammate was loudmouthed, yes, but he was also a great reader of people. Fractionite never voiced a complaint unless he believed the others were thinking the same.
Owan stared down at his bare feet. What was so wrong about what Fractionite had said anyway? The firefighting had been hellish—more so than most of their fights with Villains. Had Messenger not mobilized alongside them, the team would still be battling the wildfire this very minute. The least the Newtown Council could do was hang around to give moral support, yes?
“Duty outweighs fairness,” Messenger declared, nodding to himself. “A life saved is a life saved, regardless of the ownership of blame. The Newtown Council couldn't handle cleanup because they had a lot on their plate.”
“We have a lot on our plate,” Rocketia grumbled.
Messenger adopted a sympathetic look. “I know, Tia. But something major happened at the Dream City yesterday. The Newtown Council, in collaboration with the SRA, made a failed attempt at raiding Four-oh-Four strongholds. While they were out in the field, the Villains marshaled a counterstrike and invaded their base.”
“Huh?” Owan gasped, unable to master his surprise.
Across from him, at the other end of the hall, Spirit lifted his head.
“They attacked a Council base?” Rocketia cried. “How did the Heroes let that happen?”
“They are inexperienced,” Transcribe said, rubbing her limp arm. “It's common sense not to overextend against that kind of enemy.”
“Inexperienced?” Fractionite hummed. “I don’t think so. Dia Mater's with them, remember? And that other Super, Labrador.”
“Rabidor,” Owan corrected.
Rocketia shook her head. “Experienced or not, an invasion is a massive blow to their authority. Especially with it coming one day after their official unveiling.”
Transcribe grimaced. “Didn't their leader give that fancy speech following the Sagidi explosion? Talk about an egg-on-face moment.”
“Hey, I liked that speech,” Fractionite yelled.
Owan gathered his thoughts. “No . . . Rocketia’s right . . . about the invasion crippling the Council's authority. It sets a bad precedent at a time Newtown can’t afford to be seen as weak.” He glanced at Messenger. “Or am I reading too much into this, sir? The balance might tip against the CAH if the criminal elements of our cities learn that we can be attacked at will.”
“No,” Spirit said in a quiet voice. “That isn’t what you should be asking.”
“Ah,” Fractionate replied with a chuckle. “Our resident wallflower finally speaks.”
Owan glanced at Spirit, realizing his mistake. He rephrased his question. “How many people did the Newtown Council lose in the attack, sir?”
Messenger gathered his cape. “Eight. Most of them were Combat suits, though one of their management staff numbered among the dead. The Villains also abducted three women—”
Transcribe and Rocketia leaned forward.
“—B-but the Council organized a speedy rescue,” Messenger added in a rush. “They recovered two of the abductees and arrested two members of the syndicate, both violent supervillains. The Four-oh-Four’s leader, however, managed to escape.”
Rocketia knitted her brows. “What happened to the third abductee?”
Messenger deflated. “She’s the major reason I opted to join today’s debriefing.” He withdrew a poster from his file and held it up for the room to see.
The image depicted a curvy woman dressed in a white coat and hat. A red face mask rode beneath her oval-shaped eyes, and a red armband looped around her arm. The armband bore a white teardrop, a curious insignia.
“Elixir,” Messenger said. “Last seen being hauled off on a speedboat over the Lekki Lagoon. The boat was headed for Epe in Lagos but by the time Council forces caught up to it, it sat empty in the middle of the lagoon.”
Owan stared at the woman waving in the picture. He'd seen her on TV during the Newtown unveiling, and he'd thought she’d looked familiar then. Seeing her again, a dull pain blossomed at the back of his head.
“Elixir,” Transcribe mumbled. “Isn't that—”
“The Healing Madonna,” Spirit said.
The entire room turned to look at him.
“The Healing what?” Fractionite asked.
Spirit stiffened, mighty displeased that he was now the center of attention. He lifted a pale hand—white as milk—to the straws of his masquerade and pulled an earpiece from his ear.
“Madonna,” Spirit said, glancing at his teammates. “She often traveled the countryside, healing the sick and wounded. One clergyman named her the Healing Madonna, and the name stuck.”
“Oh!” Rocketia said, clapping her hands. “I remember now. Rambunctious had mentioned a few times that we were trying to recruit her.”
“We were,” Messenger said. “And not just the Council. She’d attracted the attention of just about everybody from the SRA to the UN to GAG. The Newtown Council won her over before anyone else.”
“So, she can do miracles?” Owan asked. Elixir rang all sorts of bells in his head, but it hurt too much to query the oddity.
“Miracles don't exist, bub,” Fractionite said.
Transcribe worked her jaw, choosing to remain silent.
Messenger read her mood. He piped up before an argument could ensue. “Well, Elixir’s powers are nothing theological. She is a Super. Same as all of us. Her blood possesses regenerative properties; the likes of which are more substantial than any similar phenomenon ever recorded.”
“And now, she's in the custody of the Four-oh-Four,” Rocketia muttered. “Great.”
“Her abduction has alarming implications,” Messenger agreed, replacing the poster. “It’s bad enough that she can be used as an asset to bolster our enemy’s forces. But we also have suspicions that the syndicate is planning to hand her over to the highest bidder.”
“That's human trafficking!”
“Yes. If we let them get away with it.”
Fractionite spun his helmet again. “Do people actually do that? Trade Supers like commodities?”
“Not just people,” Owan answered. “Nations. Conglomerates. We studied human trafficking rings some months before you joined. Many of them specialize solely in the sale and kidnap of Supers. One study claimed that about twenty percent of Supers who migrate out of the tropics are victims of human trafficking.”
“Huh,” Fractionite said. His tactical suit rumpled with a shrug. “I guess we’ve become the blood diamonds of our generation. I always knew I was destined for greatness.”
Owan ignored him.
Messenger strode closer to the team. “I need you all to pay attention to the following course of action. All through the week, you will be hitting hotspots in your jurisdiction frequented by the Four-oh-Four elite. Headquarters will do the same, as would other state teams. The CAH has agreed to cooperate indefinitely on the matter. We will find Elixir. Even if we had to drain the entire ocean in the process.”
Owan groaned internally. And to think he'd been hoping for a vacation.
The team dispersed after a few terse instructions, reserving further details for later. Rocketia scurried off to her morning classes, while the others withdrew to their quarters to sleep. Owan stood alone in front of the door to the conference room, hearing the pool call him from across the walls.
He realized now why he found swimming enticing despite hating it with every fiber of his being.
Water was the one place he could experience a modicum of weightlessness. And considering the stakes thrust upon them, less weight was a welcome relief.