Erik Vladmir stood at the edge of the dock, staring out at the bay as small waves lapped against the wood. The cool night air nipped at his nose. Behind him, his partner leaned against a shipping container. The bright headlights of a black SUV cut through the darkness, pulling Erik's attention away from the water.
He approached the buyers as they stepped out of the vehicle—three men, two carrying high-powered rifles and the third in a suit with a gleaming white tie.
"Evening, gentlemen."
Erik nodded and opened the shipping container. Inside were stacks of shrink-wrapped packages—enough cocaine to last one man four lifetimes.
A briefcase was handed to Erik's partner, who immediately began counting the cash. Erik was about to close the container when something struck his partner in the face. It clattered to the ground—a piece of metal, bent at a 120-degree angle with a glowing purple circle at its center. It shot upward into the sky.
A... boomerang?
The buyers didn't hesitate. They raised their rifles toward the crane above and opened fire, missing the figure who dropped down. He was clad in a green suit with metallic gauntlets and boots. A helmet obscured his face, with only two narrow slits for eyes. More boomerangs lined the tactical belt wrapped around his waist, and in the center of his chest was a glowing green boomerang symbol, accented by violet lights that pulsed across his armor.
The attacker pulled another projectile from his belt as he landed, bouncing it off a shipping container and into one gunman's leg. The man crumpled. The attacker followed up by leaping onto the second, punching him square in the face, then vaulted off and hurled another boomerang at Erik.
As it neared, the boomerang split open to reveal a glowing blue interior. Sparks of electricity erupted from it, striking Erik and sending him collapsing to the ground, paralyzed.
The Boomerang disarmed the last man with a quick strike to his pistol, then knocked him out cold with a kick to the head. Police sirens screamed in the distance. Without a word, the vigilante vanished into the night.
***
Paxton Pierce sat across from his therapist, disinterested. Her name was... Sarah? Sasha? He couldn't remember.
"Paxton..." she called him back from his daze. "You need to talk to me."
"Yeah, because my dad won't pay for college if I don't work with you," he muttered.
"I'm trying to understand why you shut yourself off from everyone. You've earned enough scholarships to finish school without your father's help. Why do you still want him to pay for your education?"
Paxton shrugged. "I like having money for myself."
"Paxton, you're disconnected from reality. It's like you're not even here. Why don't you want to enjoy your life?"
"Because there's nothing here for me," he snapped. "I have no friends, no coworkers who talk to me. The only people I speak to regularly are you and my boss."
"Then maybe it's time to find people you can care about—and people who care about you."
***
"Waste of time," Paxton muttered, fumbling with his apartment keys. Across the hall, a door creaked open, catching on its security chain. His nosy neighbor peered out—a grey-haired woman named Delaney. He'd never learned her first name.
"That's the third time this week you've come home late with that bag, Pierce..."
She was referring to the black duffel slung over his shoulder.
"It's just school stuff, Mrs. Delaney," he replied with a forced smile, slotting the key into the lock.
"You think I was born yesterday? I know what's going on."
"I'm not selling drugs, ma'am," he said flatly.
"Yet you're always bruised and out of breath, and your room smells like ozone and metal. I'm positive you've got a meth lab in there!"
Paxton stared at her, waiting for the rant to end.
"You college kids think you're slick. I've seen Breaking Bad three times. If I see a pizza on the roof, I'm calling the cops!"
Paxton shut the door behind him, drowning out her rambling through the paper-thin walls.
His apartment was... a room. The white floral wallpaper peeled in places, revealing plaster. The only "normal" thing was a bed tucked under the window. Four desks lined the walls, each cluttered with metal components and weaponry. A custom-built computer sat at the center, currently running a police scanner.
He dropped his duffel onto a desk and emptied it. Inside was his suit—the Boomerang suit. The lights were powered down, and in the darkness, its lime green armor looked black. The purple detailing became a void. He picked up the helmet and slid it on. It hummed to life, the green visor and purple lights casting an alien glow across the room.
"Are you building a bomb?" came Mrs. Delaney's voice through the wall.
"I'm fixing my coffee machine!" Paxton snapped.
"Use decaf! You're already twitchy!"
Paxton peeled the helmet off and reached under his desk, pulling out a basket filled with bent metal—his boomerangs.
He had made at least fifty different types: the Taserang, the Grapplerang, the Return-a-rang, the BOOMerang... He was running out of names. One idea had stuck with him, though.
A few months back, he'd seen a super-speedster on the news. A real superhero. Both he and his villain had radiated strange lightning when they ran. The energy they produced must've been immense. Paxton wondered—could he channel that kind of power into one single point?
A giant, concentrated...
His police scanner beeped, snapping him out of thought. A jewelry store robbery—only a few streets away. He could be there and back in under an hour. Paxton grabbed his suit.
***
"Just put the diamonds in the bag, ma'am, and everything'll be fine."
The man in the ski mask pointed a handgun at the elderly shopkeeper. Her face was wet with tears. His partner, holding a rifle, stood watch by the door.
"Please, I don't have anything else," she whimpered.
"I saw the pictures on Google! What's in the windows?"
"All of that is fake!"
"Hey, buddy."
The man turned. The Boomerang stood in the aisle, green and purple armor glowing faintly in the dark.
"Mind leaving the nice old lady alone?"
The rifleman raised his weapon, but the Boomerang knocked the barrel aside before it could fire. He grabbed the gun and punched the man in the chest. Then he pulled a boomerang from his belt, scanned the room, and threw it.
His mind calculated angles instinctively. The boomerang ricocheted off a wall, redirecting a bullet fired by the first man, then hit a chair before rebounding straight into the gunman's face—exploding in a flash of purple light and knocking him cold.
"What the hell?!" the second man shouted—just before being elbowed in the jaw.
"Kinetic-rang," Paxton explained, flipping the man onto his back. "Rebounds super hard."
He tied them up, then turned to the frightened shopkeeper.
"Hey, it's okay," he said gently.
"Are they alive?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Yes, ma'am," he nodded. "They're gonna have awful headaches, though."
He snapped the boomerang back to his belt.
"Call the cops. Just tell them the Boomerang was here."
"The who?"
He sighed. "The Boomerang."
"You named yourself after the things you throw?"
"...Yes."
YOU ARE READING
Rebound
ActionCollege student Paxton Pierce hasn't found any Joy in his bland and boring university life. But his separate identity, that of New York's vigilante, the Boomerang, is someone he couldn't be happier being. But Paxton isn't perfect, making mistakes is...
