191 Captured on Footage
191 Captured on Footage
I was already half out of breath by the time I spotted her turning into the alley, my shoes slapping against wet concrete as I hurried after her. Promise moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where she was going and didn’t care who saw her doing it. I held the microphone out in front of me like a weapon, my cameraman keeping pace just behind my shoulder as the lens stayed locked on her back.
“Promise, Promise, just a moment,” I called out, my voice echoing off the brick walls as I closed the distance. “Nelson O. Torrance, Markend Central Broadcast.”
She slowed just enough for me to shove the microphone toward her, the logo clearly visible. “What do you think about the recent decrease in crime,” I asked quickly, “and the role the new superhero in the New Vanguard has played in it?”
She turned her head just enough for me to see the scowl beneath her hood. “Fuck off,” Promise snapped.
She was still in her cape costume, though partially covered by a hoodie, and it was obvious she had only stopped by to grab lunch. That didn’t stop me. I leaned in harder, adrenaline overriding common sense. “What do you think of Chimera,” I pressed, “the new superhero—”
I never finished the question. The restaurant door slammed open and then shut with violent force, and the impact sent me flying backward. I hit the garbage bin hard, the lid clattering as I crashed into it, breath knocked clean out of my lungs. The cameraman barely dodged in time, swearing as he kept the camera from smashing into the wall.
As a rookie journalist from the lower rungs of society, working for the most prestigious news outlet in Markend, I had a lot to prove. Markend Central Broadcast didn’t hand out chances like this lightly, and chasing a scoop as big as the new hero of the New Vanguard was as far as I could realistically reach. If I succeeded, I’d make a name for myself and finally shut down the rumors about why someone like me was even employed at MCB in the first place.
Joe stepped into my line of vision and offered me a hand. “You good?” he asked as he pulled me up.
I groaned and brushed grime off my jacket. “Tell me you got that,” I said, forcing a grin.
Joe shook his head slowly. “It’s useless,” he replied. “She was wearing a hoodie. Even if you write it up, it’ll get shoved into the tabloid section.”
I let out a long breath, the reality of it settling in. That was probably exactly what the chief editor wanted, a clean way to remind me of my place. Interviews with superheroes were notoriously hard to get, and rookies like me were usually dismissed as exaggerators or outright hoaxers. For the first time since I took the assignment, I wondered if this had been too much for me.
“Let’s just get lunch,” I said finally, rubbing the back of my neck.
Joe nodded. “I know a place,” he replied.
A lot had changed in Markend since the resurgence of the cape known as Eclipse. Officially, no one had confirmed whether he was the real thing or just a pretender wearing the name. The public preferred to believe he was fake, mostly because he hadn’t murdered anyone yet. To most people, that kind of brutality was the only proof that the real Eclipse had returned.
Joe drove the news van through the side streets and pulled up to a small eatery wedged between two aging buildings. It still felt surreal sometimes, being on the broadcasting side of journalism at my age. Having a cameraman assigned to me was an honor in itself. Other news teams had full crews, producers, and editors on standby, while I only had Joe. Even so, it said a lot about how much the people above the chief editor believed in me. Apparently, they liked my feature on the splinter cells that formed after the collapse of the three major gangs during Eclipse’s rampage.
We stepped inside and grabbed a booth, the smell of fried food and spices cutting through my lingering frustration. I picked up the menu and didn’t bother pretending to think it through. “I’ll take a chicken wrap, fries, and water,” I told the server.
Joe leaned back comfortably. “I’ll get a couple chili dogs,” he said, tapping the menu, “and a cold soda.”
We talked as we ate, the conversation flowing naturally in that familiar rhythm we’d fallen into over weeks of shared assignments and long drives. It had become something of a ritual between us, one of the few constants in a job that thrived on chaos and timing. Joe wiped his hands on a napkin and looked at me across the table with mild curiosity.
“Why are you pushing yourself this hard,” he asked. “You already covered two incidents that got your face plastered all over the TV.”
I shrugged and took another bite before answering. “Yeah, sure,” I said. “Watching the Rearguard work in action, rescuing civilians and folding enemy villains like origami, that was career-making. Covering Chimera’s debut was incredible too.”
I paused and let out a breath. “But those weren’t skill,” I added. “That was coincidence. I was just at the right place at the right time.”
Right on cue, the television mounted above the counter switched to a familiar segment, the Markend Central Broadcast logo flashing before footage of the Rearguard filled the screen. A cheerful anchor talked about their upcoming fundraising event, complete with smiling clips and carefully framed hero shots.
Rearguard had always been something of a joke hero team, at least in public perception. They were composed of only two core heroes at first, and their name didn’t help. People loved pointing out how “Rearguard” conveniently complemented the “New Vanguard,” the primary superhero team protecting Markend. The jokes wrote themselves. That perception didn’t last forever, though. After a series of ugly incidents with local gangs, things flipped fast. The Ender gang, back then, had made a public spectacle out of Promise, and if it weren’t for Leverage’s return after an exhausting PR campaign, the New Vanguard would have been reduced to a punchline.
The entire idea behind the Rearguard was to complement the New Vanguard, covering the rear lines and the marginalized zones, a role that was often misunderstood. That misunderstanding created a perceived friction between the two teams, even though both were formidable in their own way. Lately, Rearguard had been gaining serious momentum. They even added a new cape to their roster, a woman calling herself Dragoness. A shapeshifting red dragon turned out to be an excellent sell, and who could blame the public for eating it up? Joe had captured all of it on camera, and I’d reported it cleanly. It was only the second time Markend had seen a dragon, the first being a villain. This time, it was a hero.
We finished lunch not long after and headed back to the van, the afternoon light casting long shadows across the street. Joe slid into the driver’s seat and glanced at me as he started the engine.
“You hear the rumor about Chimera rejecting every commercial deal,” he asked casually.
I frowned and shook my head. “No,” I said. “But I did hear people have been shipping Chimera with Garuda.”
Joe grimaced. “That’s gross.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Yuck. Garuda’s almost twice her age, and for all anyone knows, he might already have a family outside his cape life.”
Female capes tended to attract commercial deals like magnets, especially ones as famous as Chimera. Her popularity had exploded after her debut, where she squared up against Marker alone and still managed to save multiple civilians in the process. The ability to partially or fully shapeshift into animals was absurdly powerful, and researchers from other city-states wouldn’t shut up about the medical applications. Institutions outside Markend were openly trying to recruit her, dangling resources and prestige like bait.
The real point of contention was how she had become so powerful so quickly. According to my background checks, she used to be a Watch cape called Tigress, someone who couldn’t even be mentioned in the same breath as Leverage or Windbreaker back then. The late-bloomer explanation was the official line, but cape researchers were already theorizing there had to be more to it.
My phone buzzed suddenly in my pocket, and I pulled it out instinctively. A message from the anonymous tip line flashed across the screen, short and urgent, warning about a possible raid in progress.
I looked up at Joe immediately. “Change of plans,” I said. “Go to this address.”
Joe didn’t ask questions. He just nodded and hit the gas.
I had been keeping my ears close to the anonymous tip line for days, checking it obsessively between assignments and half-failed leads. I needed a story that wasn’t built on coincidence or luck, something solid enough to stabilize my position within the company. My first big coverage had been a fluke, and everyone knew it even if they didn’t say it out loud. This time, I wasn’t waiting to be lucky. I was going to make my own.
We arrived in front of a tall building that loomed over the street like a rotting monument, its neon sign flickering weakly against the darkening sky. The name Maison Rouge glowed in faded red letters, unmistakably a cabaret-style strip club. Joe grabbed his camera and looked around slowly, unease creeping into his posture.
“This place is dead,” he said quietly. “There’s not even a person at the counter.”
I frowned as I stepped out of the van, a knot tightening in my stomach. “This place looks familiar,” I muttered, the memory hovering just out of reach as we pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Isn’t this place used to be Royal’s hangout spot?”
The smell hit first. Then the sight.
Mutilated bodies lay scattered across the floor, limbs twisted at impossible angles, blood smeared across walls and furniture like obscene artwork. I swallowed hard, forcing down the urge to puke as my throat burned. Joe didn’t manage it. He staggered to the side and hurled violently into a decorative plant, the sound echoing far too loudly in the empty room.
“I’ve got steel-like nerves,” I told myself, repeating it internally as if sheer repetition could make it true. My hands shook as I pulled out a stick of gum and chewed aggressively, the mint barely cutting through the stench. “Joe, get a hold of yourself,” I said aloud, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Shoot. Just shoot.”
He wiped his mouth and nodded weakly. “I can do it,” he said, though his voice betrayed him.
“Want a gum?” I asked, holding one out to him.
“I’ll be fine,” he replied, waving it off as he steadied the camera.
I pulled out my phone, already thinking ahead. I could call this in first, then ask the studio to put me live for a breaking news segment. This was it. This was the story. My heart sank when I noticed the signal indicator barely clinging to life.
“The signal’s weak,” I muttered.
Joe glanced up from the camera. “At least it seems peaceful,” he said grimly. “Anyway… you are a go…”
Confusion washed over me, but instinct took over before doubt could root itself. I turned toward the camera and began to speak. “We’re currently inside Maison Rouge, a—”
The scream cut me off.
It was sharp, sudden, and unmistakably human. I froze mid-sentence, my mouth still half-open as my eyes snapped toward the source. A doorway at the far end of the room stood slightly pried open, darkness spilling out from the crack like something alive.
Stupidity came in many forms, and I knew exactly which one I was indulging in. I was standing in an active crime scene, fully aware of it, and yet journalists like me carried an unspoken sense of civilian immunity that encouraged reckless bravery. I grabbed the camera from Joe and shoved the microphone back into his hands.
“Get back to the van,” I told him firmly. “Call the studio, call the police, call anyone.”
“What about you?” he asked, panic creeping in.
“I’ll handle this,” I replied, already moving. I headed toward the door, carefully prying it open inch by inch while narrating under my breath for the camera, every step feeling heavier than the last.
Under the dim, flickering lights beyond the doorway, the scene was worse. Bodies lay everywhere, maimed and unmoving, the stage littered with dead, naked women posed grotesquely like discarded props. Standing among them was a man in a suit, his face hidden behind a porcelain mask so clean it felt obscene in contrast.
My heart began to race uncontrollably.
It was Eclipse.
He turned toward me slowly, and the simple motion made my heart jump into my throat. “Someone got here too early,” he said calmly, his voice muffled but unmistakable.
I was sweating now, every instinct screaming at me to run as fear rooted me to the floor. “I’m leaving,” I said, my voice cracking despite my effort to stay composed.
“Please,” Eclipse replied softly. “Don’t.”
I froze in place, suddenly and painfully aware of the mental noose tightening around my neck.
“I admire your reckless bravery,” Eclipse said calmly, his voice steady despite the carnage around us. “It doesn’t have to end here. You only need to hold the camera steady.”
My hands trembled as I adjusted my grip, forcing myself to breathe evenly while keeping the lens trained on him. In front of Eclipse knelt a man who barely resembled one anymore, his arms gone, his eyes hollowed, his mouth ruined beyond speech. He swayed slightly, making soft, animal sounds that scraped against my nerves.
“This man,” Eclipse continued, gesturing casually, “is a member of the Monarchy. The Lust Family, to be precise. They sent him to Markend to recover Pride’s assets and, if possible, start over.”
He paused, as if considering his next words carefully. “I didn’t like that at all. So I paid them a visit. This is the result.”
He turned his masked face toward me. “Do you have any questions?”
A chill crawled up my spine as the anonymous tip resurfaced in my thoughts. I wished I hadn’t relied on it, wished I had stayed content stumbling into luck instead of chasing it. This situation was absurd on every possible level, and yet I understood exactly why it was happening. Eclipse was performing, and I was the audience he had chosen. Dying wasn’t an option I was ready to accept, so I did the only thing left to me. I cooperated.
“I… I wanted to ask,” I stammered, my voice barely steady enough to be usable, “what do you think about people saying you’re a fake?”
Eclipse tilted his head slightly. “I’m not fake,” he replied simply.
Without warning, he grabbed the kneeling man by the head. I watched in horror as Eclipse used his intangibility, his hand passing through flesh in a way that defied every instinct I had. The man’s skin peeled away in a single, impossible motion, collapsing as organs and muscle spilled free. I gagged but kept filming, my vision swimming.
Eclipse reached up and removed his porcelain mask, revealing the face beneath. “My name is Eclipse,” he said evenly. “Otherwise known as Nicholas Caldwell. Markendite. Villain.”
My heart nearly stopped. I knew that face. Everyone did. It had dominated the news feeds the day Eclipse became the Monster of Markend.
A gunshot rang out, sharp and deafening, and Eclipse’s shoulder jerked violently as blood sprayed. A woman in red spandex burst into the room, her body twisting and expanding mid-stride until a massive red dragon filled the space.
“The Rearguard,” I whispered instinctively.
Someone grabbed my shoulder hard and yanked me backward. “Move,” a woman with blue hair snapped. It was Spoiler, the leader of Rearguard. She dragged me toward the door as two identical figures appeared beside her, her clones raising weapons and firing at Eclipse.
Eclipse’s porcelain mask snapped back into place as electricity crackled from his fingertips. The blast hit the dragon, forcing it to collapse, and the clones dropped instantly, lifeless. Spoiler shoved me toward the exit.
“Get away,” she ordered before charging back inside.
I ran outside, lungs burning, my lips dry as I forced myself to keep the camera trained on the building. Above us, a figure hovered in the air, rifle braced against their shoulder. “That’s Hover,” I muttered, recognition clicking into place.
A massive crash erupted from within the building, and I caught it on camera just in time. The red dragon burst upward through the structure, roaring as Eclipse clung to its back. Spoiler followed close behind him, leaping impossibly high as the fight spilled into the sky. It was unreal, chaotic, and terrifyingly beautiful.
I struggled to keep the camera steady, the distance making everything blurry as my lack of training showed. Still, I kept filming, heart pounding as I tried to follow the movement. For a brief moment, I thought I saw Spoiler drive something into Eclipse’s neck, a quick, deliberate motion.
Then Eclipse suddenly went limp.
The dragon swatted him aside with brutal force, sending him crashing into the adjacent building in an explosion of debris. I stared at the viewfinder in shock and breathed out a curse.
“What the fuck?!”