BRIGHTON
My last full day in New York is off to a rough start.
Today marks six months since Dad died. Ma cold-shouldered me because I chose to keep packing instead of talking about my feelings. Then I tried to distract myself with some instant gratification online, posting a new profile; there’s no high like watching comments come in and views increase. But the Brightsiders were underwhelmed, to put it lightly. They don’t give a damn about the assistant manager of a travel agency that hires teleporters to transport celestials who’ve been blacklisted from boarding planes because of powers deemed hazardous. Instead, the Brightsiders flooded me with questions about why I didn’t work harder to get an interview with Atlas and Maribelle, as if the enforcers were going to grab coffee while I handled business.
My fans can be unreasonable.
To top it all off, we’re extra late to the Friday Dreamers Festival because of Emil, and wading through the crowds in Central Park is the worst. I want my series to grow beyond YouTube—a prime-time talk show is the dream—but all the incredible content I could’ve been filming the past couple hours is lost because Emil took his sweet time at work on some project he won’t tell me and Prudencia about. Whatever the secret is, I’m not expecting anything too exciting from a failing museum. But because Emil is still freaking out about enforcers since the other night, I promised him we’d all go together.
Dozens of enforcers line one path, and Emil’s panicked breaths make him look really suspicious.
“What if they’re the same ones who shot at us?” Emil asks.
“I doubt it.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Do you want to leave?” Prudencia asks.
He turns to me, and I don’t know what look I’m giving off, but he shakes his head.
Great.
I get that enforcers casting spellwork and buildings exploding can get any heart racing. But I’m not traumatized over it. My anxiety—if I can even call it that—has always been more academic, though, and never quite blows up the way Emil’s does, even when things are troubling me the most. Like when college acceptance letters were coming in, and my top choice wait-listed me.
“Sorry I’m a mess,” Emil says as we get past the enforcers.
“You’re not a mess, and you’re going to be okay,” I say. It’s the best I can think of, though I’m not sure there are any right words to calm down Emil or heal his emotional scarring.
I love my brother, but we need time apart. Once I move to Los Angeles, I’m only focusing on myself. Emil is going to have to up his game to take better care of himself without me around. It’ll be good for us. Brothers shouldn’t get in the way of each other’s lives.
I’m doing my best to keep it together, especially since Prudencia already saw me get down on myself once this week, but the field is packed with attendees on picnic blankets, and we’re so far from the domed stage, and I’ve lost all natural light out here for filming. I set up my camera anyway. The Crowned Dreamer hasn’t cared about me since showing up in the sky, but maybe tonight the constellation will throw me a bone so I can get some halfway decent content.
We’ve already missed my favorite artist Himalia Lim’s first public interview since making it her mission to fly around and paint neighborhoods in the Bronx that get a bad rap, ensuring that people won’t dismiss them so easily. It sucks how I’ll have to watch that on someone else’s YouTube channel and have to sit through Oak’s band right now instead. I unfollowed Oak on Instagram a few months back because he stopped posting clips of his blooming power and was only sharing ultra-bait shirtless pictures and asking followers to answer random questions that had nothing to do with the ripped abs on display. I studied his engagement, and I got to give him credit because people care way more about his muscles than using his gleam in gardens. We all got to do what we got to do to make ourselves known.
I’m positioning my camera for the main event when a celestial begins floating in my line of vision. Her fake glow-in-the-dark tattoo is awesome, but it’s not going to get me views.
“You okay?” Prudencia asks.
“She’s blocking me,” I say.
“Let her live. She probably doesn’t get to use her power in the open,” Prudencia says. She rests her hand on my shoulder and I meet her eyes. “You should put your camera away anyway, Brighton. It’s our last night together.”
Tonight could’ve been so different if it were just me and Pru sitting under the stars. If my power brawl video had gone viral so I could take the night off. But I can’t level up if I don’t put the work in every chance I get. “I’m never going to find myself on that stage if I don’t give it my all.”
“That’s fair,” Prudencia says, but in a way that I hear as “Your loss.”
Maybe.
The crowd erupts into cheers as Lore appears onstage. Lore has the life I want, and they rose to internet fame pretty quickly: they initially went viral when they campaigned to become their school’s first-ever Korean American genderqueer class president, inspiring others to follow in their footsteps; they reached a million subscribers within a year with content that ranges from comedy skits to news about heroic acts from celestials to counter the overwhelming media against them; they even got to sit down with Wesley Young last December on his birthday and chat with him about fat acceptance as he played with puppies; and now they’re getting an interview that makes the rest of us look like amateurs.
“Thanks for the love, New York,” Lore says into a mic. They’re wearing a silver dress that sparkles like stars on the stage. “I can’t even believe that we’re being graced by this inspiring woman’s presence, so let’s get her out here before she changes her mind. Huge round of applause for the candidate I can’t wait to vote for in November—Congresswoman Nicolette Sunstar!”
The roars are thunderous as Nicolette Sunstar appears in a yellow pantsuit and hugs Lore. The two sit down and immediately seem like old friends, when in reality they probably spoke for a few minutes backstage. But the way Congresswoman Sunstar praises Lore for their high school election with the air of it being as significant as her run for president is so genuine.
Lore leads Sunstar into a deeper conversation about what it means to be the first ever Black celestial on the ticket before she reminds us all what she’s fighting for: better job opportunities for gleamcrafters so they don’t have to make money by powering wands, gem-grenades, and shackles with their gifts, only for enforcers to use those weapons against them; protecting pregnant celestials who are being killed, and in other cases, being detained by authorities and locked away underground, far away from the stars that give them power, to suppress their children’s abilities from reaching their true potential; removing the corrupt enforcers from the force so gleamcrafters can live their lives in peace—and not in havens; condemning the alchemists like Luna Marnette, leader of the Blood Casters, who are clearly doing more harm than good, no matter how much money they make for the enforcers.
I’ve given up catching any of this on camera—everyone’s footage and livestreams will have me beat—so I lean forward with everyone else on the field as Sunstar commands our attention.
“Time and time again my opponents—Senator Iron, especially—have put down those with powers as they pursue their own,” Sunstar says with the gentleness of a mother telling a bedtime story. “There is no question that the senator has faced tragedy with the loss of his wife and son. But the faults of some do not represent the lives of all. I truly wish I could lead an ordinary life as a mother who is stressed about parent-teacher conferences instead of global affairs. As a wife keeping my love strong instead of a country intact. But as a celestial who wants to see my community safe and nurtured, I can’t sit still and expect others to do the work I’m unwilling to do myself.”
Sunstar walks to the edge of the stage. “I have felt hopeless—felt that there is no light to be found in the shadows. But even if I can’t see the light, I trust it’s there because of all of you. Look around at your neighbors. You’re not alone in your hope. You’re here because you believe.” She raises her fist. “We won’t let the darkness overtake us. We must keep the stars in the sky!”
Golden light sails from Sunstar’s hand and erupts into fireworks under the Crowned Dreamer.
Everyone applauds as Sunstar is joined by her husband, Ash Hyperion, and their daughter, Proxima. It’s going to take a miracle to get them into the White House. Tons of people crowd the stage, hoping to get a moment, but when Lore poses with Sunstar’s family for a picture, that’s when my jealousy peaks and I have to go.
I’m on a mission tonight to become as great and worthy as Lore. If I’m not going to become a celestial, then everyone will remember me as the greatest mortal.
Emil and Prudencia tag along as I chat up people, picking their brains about Sunstar and the world at large. A group of girls are infectious with their chants of “Keep the stars in the sky!” and I get it all on camera. I get an interview with this blue-haired celestial who tells me about how even with her ability to generate a shield around her entire body, she still doesn’t feel safe around enforcers. We attract more attention from other celestials, like an older woman who feels confident in saying that enforcer violence these days hasn’t felt this regularly heartbreaking since she was a little girl, right when specters first came into existence sixty-something years ago. The most unnerving is from a man with glowing fists that crack with lightning when he knocks them together, and he promises that if an enforcer aims a wand at him, he won’t think twice about striking them down first.
“Burn that footage,” Emil says as the man storms away with lightning jumping between his palms.
“No kidding.”
My videos won’t ever be used to build any cases against celestials, I swear my life on it.
Four young men by the lake catch my attention. Two are circling each other with their fists like they’re about to fight. Another is filming on his phone while the last is laughing and holding a cooler.
“Check it out.”
“I know they’re not about to watch these two guys go in on each other,” Prudencia says. She charges over. “Hey, enough!”
“I’m going to turn you into ashes,” the freckled teen says.
Gleamcrafter . . .
I drag Prudencia back before she gets hurt. The Crowned Dreamer season is truly stirring some trouble if we’re about to witness our second power brawl in one week.
“Not if I blow you away first,” says the boy whose muscles are flexing out his gym wear.
Freckles opens his mouth and squints his eyes, but no fire appears. I wonder if Gym-Rat is maybe burning from the inside out, but he holds his fist up to the sky and spins it around as if expecting a tornado to swing through. The guy with the cooler holds his stomach, laughing, and I think the only thing funny here is his awful man bun. The young men continuing to battle with no powers isn’t hilarious, it’s confusing.
Emil cautiously approaches. “What’s happening?”
I shrug. “Maybe they’re filming some movie and adding effects later?” My favorite indie movies lately have celestial actors using their real powers, but Hollywood largely prefers special effects since it’s safer for sets.
“They don’t seem to care that we’re in their line of vision,” Prudencia says.
Freckles and Gym-Rat sweat as they gesture at each other some more. It’s one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen. Reminds me of when Emil and I used to wrestle each other with imaginary powers, but we were kids. These two are too old to be playing pretend. They sway back and forth and rapidly blink before steadying themselves.
“You’re okay!” Freckles fist-bumps Gym-Rat. “That felt so real!”
“I hurled you over the trees,” Gym-Rat says with a laugh.
As they walk away, Man-Bun shouts after them to tell their friends.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
The other guy stops filming and puts away his phone. “Business.”
“What business?” Emil asks.
He turns and does a double take at Emil, then stares in silence.
“It’s called Brew,” Man-Bun says. He reaches into his cooler and pulls out a vial containing a light gold liquid that looks like champagne. I’ve never heard of it. “We use illusionist blood to create hallucinatory potions so the drinker can experience what it’s like to have powers. Not cheap, but it feels extremely real. Helps people blow off steam.”
I’ve done some virtual reality where you can play as a celestial, but I never forget it’s a game. This sounds more convincing. “How much for that bottle?” I don’t have a lot of cash on me or a lot of money in general, but I have to get in on this.
“Three hundred.”
The soaring possibilities in my chest are crashing. I’m still at a loss after not selling my swag at the meet-up, and my videos aren’t getting enough traffic to make solid money off my ads. “I could do two hundred if you let me run to an ATM.”
“Are we doing discounts, James?” Man-Bun asks.
“No discounts, Orton.”
Orton puts the potion back into the cooler.
“Wait.”
Emil tries dragging me away. “You don’t have the money. We’re going home.”
I ignore him. “I run an account called Celestials of New York. Have you heard of it?” They’re glaring at me like I asked for the meaning of life. “I profile people about their stories and powers, and I can help you spread the word about Brew. We can do a trade. You give me a potion, and I give you publicity. Is this your blood you’re using?”
Orton grins. “I’m superior to celestials.” His eyes are suddenly consumed by a glowing eclipse before returning to normal. “Superior to other specters too.”
This is a rare opportunity. This is what I need to revive my channel—a special kind of profile. “I’ve never interviewed a specter before,” I say.
“Don’t give him a voice,” Prudencia says. “He’s part of our country’s problem.”
“You don’t know my story,” Orton says.
I ready my camera. “Tell it to me. I want to know all about what drew you to blood alchemy, how you decided on which creature, where you found a reputable alchemist, and when you got your powers.”
“That all?” Orton asks.
“We’re not doing interviews,” James cuts in. He’s shorter than Orton, and apart from his firm tone, I get sidekick vibes from him.
“Just give me ten minutes. Fifteen tops,” I say.
Prudencia gets in my face. “There are so few specters who do good with their powers. Stop trying to shine a light on someone who’s clearly corrupt.”
“I just want to have a better understanding,” I say.
“No, you want guidance on how to pull this off yourself.”
I stand tall even though I’m rocked by her accusation. “My father died from blood alchemy. I wouldn’t ever do this to myself. Even if I did, though—Bautista was a specter, and he formed our city’s greatest group of heroes. Why does everyone conveniently forget that?”
Prudencia points at Orton. “He’s a potions dealer, Brighton. Not a hero.”
“I have feelings, by the way,” Orton says.
“So did the creature you harmed.” Emil speaks up with his eyes cast to the ground.
Orton pays him no mind. “I’m making dreams come true.”
Prudencia’s fist clenches. “You need to get your life straight. Bye.”
She storms away, and even though this could be huge for me, I follow.
“You should’ve had my back, Brighton,” she says.
“I wanted an interview.”
“You are so obsessed, and—”
“I want to understand the psyche of anyone risking their lives for powers when blood alchemy is such a killer, especially after that happened with my father—”
“Guys, guys,” Emil interrupts, looking even more panicked than when he saw the enforcers. “The specter is following us.”