NOVPUB
Chapter 46: Mask on
Before stepping out of the car, Harris turned to Rhea, his stern gaze locking onto her through the dim interior.
"Mask on," he ordered, his voice gruff and unyielding. "No one knows your real identity, and it stays that way. Keep it secret, or this ends before it starts."
Rhea rolled her eyes behind the sleek, solid mask he’d handed her earlier, but she tugged it over her face, the orange-and-black fabric settling snugly against her skin.
It hid everything—her crimson hair tucked beneath, her amber eyes obscured—leaving only a faceless figure in its place.
She hated how it muffled her, but she complied, stepping out into the crisp air as Harris led her toward a nondescript building and then further into a room inside, its walls scuffed and bare, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead.
Three figures waited inside—her new teammates, A-rank and B-rank heroes whose suspicious stares prickled against her skin.
Harris had told them about a new addition to the team but didn’t reveal any other details about the said member. Their eyes roamed over her masked form, probing for clues, trying to glimpse her face through the cracks where the mask met her suit.
But the design was flawless—no gaps, no hints, just a blank slate staring back at them. Rhea stood tall, her posture defiant despite the suffocating costume, her crimson hair tucked away beneath the hood.
Harris stepped forward, his broad frame commanding the room as he began introductions.
"This is Titan Pulse," he said, gesturing to a man built like a brick wall, his muscular frame squeezed into a spandex singlet that gleamed a metallic blue under the lights.
His short-cropped hair was streaked with silver, and he gave Rhea a curt nod, his chiseled jaw set in a neutral line—neither welcoming nor hostile, just assessing.
Next, Harris pointed to a woman with hair so long it pooled on the floor around her like a living shadow, dark and glossy.
"And this is Silk Siren." Her cheerful smile beamed bright, almost blindingly so, and when Harris said her name, she waved at Rhea—not with her hands, but with a tendril of her hair, the strands curling and twisting in the air like a playful serpent.
Rhea’s eyes widened behind her mask, a flicker of her old supervillain instincts surging up—rip it off, burn it to ash—but she clenched her fists and swallowed the urge, her nails digging into her palms.
"Finally, this is Gator Grip," Harris said, nodding toward the last teammate—a humanoid figure with scaly, greenish skin and a lizard-like snout.
His webbed hand rose in a lazy wave, then extended toward Rhea for a handshake, his claws glinting faintly.
She hesitated, revulsion curling in her gut at the thought of touching him, but Harris’s glare bore into her from the side, a silent command.
With a grimace hidden beneath her mask, she forced herself to shake his hand, her grip quick and stiff, disgust roiling beneath her composed exterior.
Gator Grip’s tongue flicked out, hissing a raspy, "Hi," that sounded more like a friendly growl. Rhea pulled her hand back fast, resisting the urge to wipe it on her suit.
Harris turned to the team, his voice booming with authority.
"This is Flame Lantern. Her power’s fire." Rhea flicked her fingers, summoning a small burst of flame that danced briefly in her palm, orange and fierce.
Titan Pulse and Gator Grip barely reacted, their expressions flat and unimpressed, but Silk Siren clapped her hands with exaggerated delight, her hair bouncing as if applauding too, like Rhea was some circus act.
Rhea’s jaw tightened—Harris had warned her to talk less, knowing her sharp tongue.
The restrictions were suffocating—the full-body suit, the mask, the muzzle on her tongue.
She couldn’t vent the frustration clawing at her chest, couldn’t lash out with the sharp words she’d normally wield like weapons.
Was this worth it? Should she bolt the first chance she got, torch this whole charade and run?
The thought flickered, tempting, as Harris dimmed the lights and flicked on a projector.
A slideshow flared to life on the wall, grainy images of a suburban house flashing across the screen.
Harris’s briefing was brisk and to the point:
Mysterious electricity spikes had been occurring in the neighborhood every night, and the source had been traced to this house.
He zoomed in on the display, highlighting an old, independent home with a small front yard—nothing out of the ordinary, just another unassuming structure blending seamlessly with the houses around it.
"No suspicious activity from the people inside so far," Harris continued, his voice clipped and efficient. "Just erratic power surges—enough to raise red flags. Our job is simple: investigate, scope it out, and figure out what—or who—is behind it."
Rhea stifled a yawn behind her mask, the monotony of the assignment dulling her edge. Power surges? Hardly the kind of job that could get her adrenaline pumping. What were they electricians?
Maybe the mask wasn’t so bad—it hid her boredom, at least.
Harris switched the lights back on after he was done briefing, the projector clicking off. "I’m joining you on this one," he announced, his tone leaving no room for debate. "It’s her first time with us."
Groans and sighs rippled through the team. Titan Pulse crossed his thick arms, his brow furrowing in annoyance.
Silk Siren’s smile faltered, her hair drooping slightly, and Gator Grip let out a low, rumbling hiss of displeasure.
They didn’t want Harris babysitting them, and Rhea could feel the weight of their irritation shifting toward her.
"Sigh all you want," Harris barked, leaning against the table as he checked his phone. "We’re starting in five minutes. Get ready." His voice was a whip-crack, sharp and commanding.
The others turned their glares on Rhea, their eyes narrowing as if she’d personally dragged Harris into this.
"What?" she snapped, her voice muffled but edged with defiance, the first crack in her forced silence.
They looked away, Titan Pulse adjusting his singlet, Silk Siren fussing with her hair, Gator Grip flexing his webbed fingers.
A few minutes in, and Rhea already loathed them—their faces, their quirks, their quiet judgment. This team was a cage, and she was itching to burn their stupid faces.
