them. Nick had never heard of another Extraordinary that could control shadows like his hero could. And while there had been others with pyrokinesis like Pyro Storm, none had the strength he had. Not only could he actually control fire, he could create it with his mind out of nowhere, which, if it weren’t so rad, would be terrifying.
The Nova City Fire Department had come out against Pyro Storm last year, claiming he had the potential to make their jobs harder, but then everyone had gotten distracted when Shadow Star had saved a bus filled with elderly people on their way to a time-share seminar from crashing into a gas station after the driver fell asleep at the wheel. That had been a good day for the Shadow Star fandom.
But they weren’t the first heroes Nova City had seen, were they? No. Anyone worth their salt knew that Nova City once had its streets protected—in a strange time known as the turn of the twenty-first century—by a different Extraordinary, one who’d gone by the name Guardian. This Extraordinary appeared out of nowhere, their costume sleek and cerulean blue from head to toe. They’d started small, stopping muggings and break-ins with their telekinetic powers before taking on larger tasks, such as diverting the terribly named Men’s Rights Parade so the marchers all ended up falling into the Westfield River. Most hadn’t known what to make of Guardian—no one even knew if they were a man or a woman, given that their costume hid what lay underneath—but they’d cautiously cheered the hero on. Then, for reasons no one could explain, Guardian had disappeared in the early aughts, never to be seen again. Either they’d been killed in their regular lives, or they’d decided Nova City didn’t need saving. It wasn’t until the coming of Shadow Star and Pyro Storm that the city once again had Extraordinaries of its own.
Which, unfortunately, did little to help Nick in his quest. The photographs of Guardian were blurry, out of focus, only catching the hero’s boots or the back of their head, covered in a mask. Guardian had never sat for interviews, had never given grand and exciting speeches about being the savior the city needed. They’d kept their head down, fighting for the forces of good until they didn’t. They were just … gone. Nick didn’t understand how someone could stop when they could move things with the power of their mind.
“What are you doing?”
Nick looked up, startled at the voice. He blinked when he saw he was in the Franklin Street station. He hadn’t even realized he’d left his house. Autopilot was a scary thing, especially for one such as Nick. He had a vague memory of taking his pill and choking down burnt toast, but that was all.
Seth stood in front of him. He was wearing a sweater vest over a collared dress shirt. Instead of a bow tie, today he had a checkered ascot, his curly hair sticking up every which way. If anyone else had worn an ascot in front of Nick, he would have—well, probably not said anything because that would be a dick thing to do. People could dress how they wanted. But they wouldn’t be Seth, that was for damn sure.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Seth asked suspiciously.
Nick felt his face grow hot. It wasn’t—okay. Objectively, he knew Seth was attractive, and yes, maybe the fact that he dressed like he was a junior senator who vacationed in Connecticut in the fall and went winter skiing in Vail was … something. But it wasn’t anything. Seth was his best friend. And it was always bros before hoes. Not that he or Seth were hoes or anything. In fact, now that he thought about it, he didn’t think Seth had actually had a boyfriend or girlfriend, unless he’d actually been keeping one from Nick like Nick had accused him of. Which, if that was the case, it was fine.
(It was absolutely not fine, but he already had a lot on his plate and the fact that he wanted to sigh at his best friend for actually having pennies in his loafers wasn’t making things easier.)
“No reason,” Nick said awkwardly as he scratched the back of his neck. “You look … nice.”
Seth blushed. “Oh. Um. Thank you.”
Nick scuffed the toe of his ancient Chucks on the dirty station floor. He wanted to say more—possibly even compliment Seth on his fashion decisions—but he couldn’t make the words come