Omega Superhero Box Set Read online

  Omega Superhero Series

  Books 1-3

  Darius Brasher

  MAILING LIST AND CONTACT INFORMATION

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  Omega Superhero Series Box Set Copyright © 2019 by Darius Brasher

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the books herein may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Special thanks to Michael Hofer, Flint L. Miller, and Tiffani Panek, higher level supporters of my Patreon superhero fiction writing campaign. Your support is much appreciated!

  Contents

  Caped

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Trials

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Sentinels

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Author’s Note

  Also by Darius Brasher

  About the Author

  Excerpt From Sorceress Super Hero

  Excerpt From Superhero Detective For Hire

  Caped

  The Omega Superhero Book 1

  Caped Copyright © 2016 by Darius Brasher

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  1

  I never wanted to be a superhero.

  I admired them, sure. I followed their adventures, absolutely.

  But be one? No thanks.

  Superheroes got punched, tortured, shot at, cut up, plotted against, and had buildings and other insanely heavy things dropped on them.

  And that was if you were lucky. If you were unlucky, you were killed like Avatar was. If it could happen to Avatar, the world’s greatest and most powerful Metahuman and licensed Hero, it could happen to anyone.

  I had no interest in being one of those anyones. If it was up to me, I would have stayed a nobody and a no one. Being a nobody was no fun and God knew it would not get you laid, but at least it gave you the chance to die at home in bed instead of at the hands of some bloodthirsty supervillain. Being a licensed Hero was super dangerous, not to mention super scary.

  Uh, no pun intended, I guess.

  So no, I never wanted to be a superhero. But, like Dad always said, you had to play the cards you were dealt. I found out what kind of cards fate had in store for me the day I got into a fight in the men’s bathroom at my college.

  If I had known about all the crazy and deadly stuff that encounter would lead to, I never would have gone to the bathroom that day. I would have just held it. Or, peed my pants. Gross and unsanitary, maybe.

  Safer though.

  I washed my hands after using the urinal. I was in the bathroom of the Student Activities Center at my school, the University of South Carolina at Aiken. My hands still were hot, as if they were being held too close to a fire. I held them under the faucet’s stream of cold water for a while. The water felt great, but did not solve the problem. My hands still felt hot.

  I was starting to get worried. Maybe I needed to go to the doctor, or at least to USCA’s health clinic. Though I had been inside of air-conditioned classrooms most of today, I had spent a lot of time earlier this week working outside on my dad’s farm. Maybe what I was experiencing was heat stroke. It was very hot outside. It was August in South Carolina, after all. It was supposed to be hot out. I had never heard of heat stroke affecting just one part of your body, though. Nor had I ever heard of it setting in long after someone had gotten out of the heat.

  My hands had felt weird the past several days. The feeling had started as a tingle, as if my hands had fallen asleep and circulation was being restored to them. A couple of days later the tingling had become pins and needles. The pins and needles had then transformed into a dull ache, like the ache of underused muscles that had been worked out hard at the gym. Now my hands were hot, like they were in an oven set on low. They were not in pain, but if whatever was going on with them got worse, I could see them getting painful. They had been distracting me in class all day, like an annoying itch you could not quite reach to scratch.

  I pulled my hands from under the stream of cold water. I examined them carefully. Other than them being wet, they looked perfectly normal, like they always did. I held them up to my cheeks, like I was checking for a fever. They did not feel hot against my cheeks. Maybe the heat was entirely in my head. Maybe what I needed was a shrink, not a doctor.

  I grimaced in distaste at the idea of going to a shrink again. I had been to one when my mother had died from brain cancer five years ago. My school counselor had recommended to Dad that I go, so go I did despite the fact I didn’t want to. Even at the age of twelve, going to that shrink to talk about my feelings had seemed like a huge waste of time. My mother was dead, and no amount of talking was going to change that fact. When that knuckleheaded shrink had suggested I was secretly glad Mom was dead because I was tired of dea
ling with her lingering illness, I had gotten up and taken a swing at that know-nothing dummy. Dad had been mad at me until I had told him what the shrink had suggested. Dad never made me go back. I had thought at the time he kind of wanted to take a swing at the shrink too.

  I grimaced yet again when I looked up to see myself in the mirror. I did not think I was ugly, so that was not the reason for the grimace. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, average-looking face. If you did a Google search for “average white guy,” I would not be the top result—I was too much of a nobody to turn up in an Internet search—but I felt like the poster boy for “nothing special.” I had grimaced at myself because I was struck again by how skinny I was. Though it seemed like my stomach was a bottomless pit, I never could gain weight.

  Whenever I said that to a girl, she always said she wished she was like me. Not being able to put on weight might be awesome if you were a girl, but it sucked when you were a seventeen-year-old college freshman who was trying to attract girls. Girls went for big dudes who were athletic, dressed well, drove nice cars, and were into sports, not a skinny farmer’s son who read all the time, wore clothes from Walmart, drove a hand-me-down powder blue Chevy Cavalier the inside of which leaked like a colander when it rained hard, and who knew more about actual falcons than he did about the Atlanta Falcons. It was probably why I was a virgin. I desperately did not want to be. I had never heard of someone dying from lack of sex, but it often felt like I would be the first to pull it off. What a way to make it into the history books. If my name were Mary instead of Theodore Conley, at least then I could put “The Virgin Mary” on my tombstone. On second thought, I would be a boy named Mary. I doubted that would help my virginity problem.

  My hot hands forgotten for the moment, I rolled up the right sleeve of my Avatar tee shirt a bit and flexed. My bicep barely moved. Ugh. I really needed to go to the gym more. The problem was, every time I went, I felt like a weak baby in comparison to the meatheads who seemed to live there. It was demoralizing. I was only seventeen, though. I prayed I was not finished growing yet. Thanks to my bookworm tendencies, I had graduated high school early and was a year or two younger than most of my classmates here at USCA. I had always been scrawny compared to other guys my age, and being around older guys here at college made the size difference worse. Maybe I would have another growth spurt and catch up to my larger classmates. And, maybe pigs would sprout wings and start calling themselves pigeons. I was not optimistic about either prospect occurring.

  The bathroom door swung open. Startled, I jumped a little. I pretended like I was scratching my arm instead of feeling myself up. Too many of my fellow students thought I was a weirdo as it was.

  John Shockey slowly entered. His left foot dragged a little on the floor as he came in. He was blonde, and shorter than I with a slightly hunched back and severely bowed legs. His right hand was twisted around at a weird angle, and the fingers on that hand pointed out in several different directions. He had a big overbite, so much so his mouth was never completely closed. His upper front teeth, yellow and angled like collapsing tombstones, were exposed a little. He always looked like he was grimacing, even when he was not.

  “Hey Theo,” John said to me. His voice was slow and nasal. It sounded like he was mentally challenged. I knew he was not. I had a couple of classes with him and had been in study groups with him. Whatever was wrong with him physically did not affect him mentally. Because of his appearance, most people treated John like he had leprosy or something. Not me. I knew what it was like to be different than the people around you. I made it a point to be nice to him. John and I weren’t exactly friends, but we were friendly. I figured that those of us who lived on the Island of Misfit Toys had to stick together.

  “Hey John.” I glanced down at his shirt. It was identical to mine, grey with a big stylized red A on the front—the colors of Avatar’s costume and the A that he had on his chest. I grinned. “Nice shirt,” I said.

  John’s mouth widened into what was supposed to be a smile. It looked more like he was in pain. “Thanks. You too,” he said in his slow, slightly slurred voice. “Shame what happened to him. I still can’t believe it.”

  I nodded my head in agreement. “I know, right? The world’s greatest Hero, shot and killed. I never thought the day would come Avatar would be killed, and certainly not killed by a bullet. I always heard he was invulnerable.” Avatar had been murdered a couple of months ago. The world still mourned for him. I had seen more Avatar shirts in the past two months than I had seen before in my whole life. I thought of most of those shirt-wearers as Johnny-come-latelies. I had been a fan of Heroes like Avatar and Amazing Man and of licensed superheroes in general for as long as I could remember. They were everything I was not—beloved, strong, confident, and fearless.

  “I met him once,” John said. “He shook my hand. Greatest moment of my life.” He shook his head at the thought, though it looked like more of a muscle spasm than anything else. John shuffled slowly off. He went to stand in front of one of the urinals.

  My hands were still hot. I turned on the cold water again and put my hands under the stream. Though running water over my hands had not made the burning feeling go away, it did make me feel a little better.

  The bathroom door opened again. Three guys walked in, laughing and talking loudly. I glanced at them. I immediately looked away. I willed myself to be invisible. I wondered if this was how a deer who had spotted three approaching lions felt. Guys like me were the natural prey of the guys who had come in. They were Donovan Byrd, Marcus Leverette, and a guy I only knew as Bubba. They were upperclassmen, star football players, very popular, strong as bulls, and not shy about reminding you of all of the above. They hung out together all the time; you rarely saw one without the other two. They called themselves the Three Horsemen. The Three Jackasses was more like it. I knew better than to say that aloud. I did not have a death wish. If you were a pretty girl, the Three Horsemen tried to sleep with you; if you were an ugly girl they made fun of you; and if you were a guy who was not an athlete like them, they pushed you around. They were bullies. I did not like them. The fact I did not like them did not mean I was dismissive of them. I respected them the way a mouse must respect a snake.

  The Three Horsemen ignored me like a king ignores a peasant. They strode past me and the sinks to the urinals behind me. I sighed slightly in relief. Though my hands still hurt, I pulled them out of the water and shut the faucet off. This was no longer a good place to linger. The Three Horsemen might suddenly decide my mere presence somehow offended them. I got the sudden mental image of them pounding me into the floor of the bathroom like I was a nail. I suppressed a shudder at the thought. I hastily pulled out paper towels from the dispenser and started to dry my hands.

  From the mirror in front of me, I could see that Marcus and Bubba went to stand in front of two empty urinals. Donovan stood in front of John’s back. Donovan was a tall, good-looking, light-skinned black guy with a shaved head. He was the football team’s star running back. He did not walk so much as he flowed, like a big cat. Bubba and Marcus were defensive linemen. Bubba was white, Marcus was black. Bubba had a head like a doorknob, a brain that was probably the size of a walnut, and a body like a side of beef. Marcus was equally imposing, though his head was more proportionate to the rest of his body than Bubba’s was. They were a bit shorter than Donovan, but much bulkier.

  “Move out of the way, gimp,” Donovan said to John. “I gotta take a piss.” There was a fourth empty urinal he could have used, not to mention three empty stalls. Donovan was being an ass again. Big shock.

  John looked over his shoulder at Donovan. “I-I-I’m not finished,” he said, stuttering a bit. He was obviously intimidated by Donovan and his friends. I was too. “That one is open,” John said, nodding his head to the available urinal next to him. John was being bolder than I would have been.

  “I don’t wanna use that one, retard,” Donovan said. “The one you’re at is my favorite.” He unzipped h
is pants. “Now move out of the way before I piss all over you.” Bubba and Marcus laughed.

  I hated bullies. I myself had been bullied more times than I wanted to remember, so I knew how it felt. And, John was not even able-bodied, making picking on him even more despicable. I wanted to say something. You keep your big mouth shut, my mind said firmly. Who do you think you are, Avatar? The fact you’re wearing a Hero’s tee shirt doesn’t make you one. Mind your own business, pick up your bookbag, and leave.

  “Why don’t you leave him alone, Donovan?” my mouth said before my brain could stop it. “Why do you always have to be such an ass?”