Super Crush (BxB)

Concert of Doom

"Still on for tonight?" Abe says, waking me from screen-saver mode.

I didn't even notice him show up beside me at the leg curl machine. I'm unsure how long he had even been standing there. But me zoning out during gym class is nothing new. His sleeveless shirt gives a full view of his well-worked arms. A "V" of sweat has darkened his shirt. Normally, I would be working double hard to keep my eyes off his body, but this time I don't have to try. Though my friend is standing before me, looking like an Instagram fitness model, my mind is that video of the kid coming back from the dentist still doped up.

Is this real life?

Last night I let my brain bake a crazy cake. I spent all night mixing through the dark web for any information about The Fleet's plans to make superpowered mind-controlled potatoes. Folded in the emotional rabbit holes I went down looking for more information on the foul play behind my father's death. And baked at 350° in the oven of wonder: why did the beacon location of the tracker I put on Slammer suddenly blink out somewhere between Pier 57 and Hudson Park at 3 AM this morning? There is nothing there except the observation decks. Though all of my explorations came up empty-handed, here I am about to ice the three tiers of my insanity dessert with whatever the hell my possibly untrustworthy friend is talking to me about.

"The concert. Blockhead Hearts. West Village," Abe reminds me.

Shit.

"Dude, you okay?" he asks.

Pull it together, Noah. In my mind, I slide my crazy cake off the edge of the kitchen counter right into the trash. I turn my attention to Abe and fake a smile.

"Yeah, buddy. I am pumped! Just a bit sidetracked today. Didn't sleep well last night."

I usually try to avoid excuses like this since he is often up all night taking care of business, but I can't come up with a better explanation for my extra weirdness. And I had honestly forgotten about the show. It has been forever since Abe and I went to a concert together. We have tried a dozen times in the past, but he is always called off for duty before the band even takes the stage.

He lifts an eyebrow. He's on to me.

"Noah, I am not gonna leave you high and dry this time. So you don't have to worry."

Nope. He's way off.

Abe continues, "I already alerted dispatch to bench me tonight. Matriarch even told me I deserve a night off. I will only get called if the world is legitimately ending."

He squeezes my forearm. I want to believe his genuineness, but the devil on my shoulder reminds me about all of the tea spilled last night. The angel on my other shoulder reminds me that nothing malicious has been proven...yet.

"Matriarch's right. You do deserve a night off and it is going to be a great time." I mean it. I want Abe to be happy. Which only complicates things more. I don't think I can keep myself guarded against Abe and see this secret spy work through, but I am not ready to challenge my oldest relationship either.

"Awesome! I will scoop you at seven." He takes a slurp from my water bottle and bounces off.

In true me fashion, we are late. From the line outside of the music hall, I can hear the opening act finishing up. Guilt fills me. He finally has a night to enjoy himself and I can't be on time to save my life.

I turn to Abe, but before I can say anything, he cuts me off.

"Stop. Don't worry about it. We are gonna make it in before they take the stage."

Wait. Has he developed mind-reading powers?

As we make it through the entrance door, the lights dim. We dart around security guards who are trying to escort an irate concert-goer out. Tattoo ink decorates almost every inch of his seeable skin, and he is shouting about his anger being unleashed. Probably on Cloud 10.

Together, Abe and I approach the back of the crowd right as the lead singer of the Blockhead Hearts walks out on stage. Without a second thought, I push myself into the sea of people. Making your way toward the front of a crowd after a concert has started is not a way to make new friends. Some people get pissed as we pass them, but I don't care because I feel Abe's grip on my wrist.

About three people back from the stage, I stop and set up camp. I turn to Abe and find him soaking wet.

"What the hell happened?" I shout.

With a laugh, he leans in close to my ear and tells me that some angry chick about six people back poured her drink on him for passing her. He was just happy it was soda and not beer.

The crowd lurches as the guitarist rifts out a cord that starts a popular song. Abe is pushed into me, and in an attempt to catch his balance, his hands find my hips for support. He laughs in my ear and apologies, but I am too intoxicated by the music and his body pressing against mine to care.

Almost in sync, we belt out the words to the chorus and throw our hands up. The rest of the song consists of us jumping up and down with the waves of the crowd. The music is so loud it is shaking my internal organs and I don't care that I may go deaf from Abe yelling every lyric in my ear. We become glued together. When the people around us sway, Abe and I sway together. By mid-show, I can't tell where my sweat ends and Abe's begins.

When the band switches to a slower song, Abe lets his left arm drape over my left shoulder. His head bounces up and down as he recites each line, and his hand lightly drums the rhythm of the song out on my chest.

I'm in heaven.

I feel my smart watch go off. And ignore it. Then two more buzzes. Like Lucifer falling from the clouds, I give in and read the text message.

--UNKNOWN NUMBER--Noah. It's Malware. Finally cracked the encryption on one of the files we snagged.

📁H3R0.zip --Trigger Warning: the video clips star your dad.

My ears ring and bile rises up the back of my throat. I really didn't think Tiptoe and company had any real evidence. I feel Abe's hands on my shoulders, but I feel too woozy to let him know my world is falling apart. He turns me to face him and talks at me. I start nodding as I hear him asking me if I am okay. Suddenly, his attention is elsewhere. He lets go of me and pushes me behind him. Instinctively, I cling to his wide and shielding back.

His change in vibes immediately brings back my full humaning abilities. Placing my trauma on a shelf, I peek around Abe to see what is up. It is the angry tattoo guy from earlier. He is practically throwing people out of his way on a march toward the stage. He is screaming about something, but I can't make it out over the volume of the music.

When there is only a gap of six feet between him and us, something completely insane happens. As though the tattoo guy was dipped in gasoline, his body lights up like a bonfire. Flames travel along his ink lines and then engulf every part of him.

I see Abe take his fight stance, but his red glow doesn't surround his body. In an instant, the mad inferno guy blasts a fireball right at us, sending Abe and me to the ground.

My screams are suddenly heard as the band cuts off their performance. I shake him, but Abe is out cold. There is complete chaos. People running everywhere.I look up and see Famehead walk toward the stage.

"Abe! Abe, you okay?" I can't hide the disquiet.

My friend's eyes open, and he props himself up with one arm. I can tell he doesn't have it in him to win this fight, but he clammers to his feet anyway.

"Yeah. I'm good." It's a lie. "We are lucky it wasn't worse."

He turns his attention to the psycho pyro.

"Hey, hot head! I want a rematch!" Abe shouts.

The holder has the lead singer cornered. Flamehead is about to chuck an inflamed bass drum at his hostage when he stops and turns to my friend. Abe's clenched fists turn red. Whatever was preventing him from using his power before isn't stopping him now. Which is good because the kick drum comes cometting right at him. In one smooth movement, he swats the fireball out of the way and prepares to charge the stage.

Suddenly, Abe's attack is halted. From over our heads, another person leaps onto the stage. This positions the new opponent between us and the crazed fire-thrower.

Slammer has entered the fight! A video game soundtrack goes off in my head.

What's he doing here?