by Matt Cowper
The screens in the main room had been turned off, and the speakers muted. There was a faint rumble overhead – the subway – and the sound of dripping water somewhere. But none of the humans or superhumans gathered there made a sound.
It was almost like they were scared to, Blaze thought. That they believed the first one who uttered something would ignite an argument – or an internecine war.
The Elites, supposedly the world's premier superteam, stood there and waited like nervous sheep.
Nightstriker, of course, ended up being the first to speak, his words and tone somehow pushing past the strife as if it had never existed.
“The time has come for the vote,” he intoned. “We will now decide who will lead the Elites. There are two choices: myself and Beverly Gillespie. Each person gets one vote. After contemplating this matter, I believe we should hear each person's vote beginning with the youngest and ending with the oldest. Does anyone have a problem with this?”
“I don't see how it makes a difference,” Gillespie said, not bothering to hide her peevishness. “Let's just begin.”
“Fine. We'll do as I suggested. The vote order will be: Blaze, Nimbus, Metal Gal, Slab, Buckshot, Gillespie, and finally myself.”
“Nimbus?” Buckshot said, glancing around. “We add a new member or something?”
“Nimbus is Anna,” Nightstriker said. “I impressed upon her the need for a codename during this crisis. We can't very well call her by her given name if we happen to be fighting the Patriots. Nimbus is the name she chose.”
“Huh,” Slab said. “I like it. Kinda graceful. Makes you think of spring days and cool nights. Not like my name!”
“Thanks, Slab,” Nimbus said, “and your name's fine. The codename should fit the person, right?”
“Yeah, I guess. It'd sound retarded if I called myself Gentle Springtime Guy or something, wouldn't it?”
Nightstriker cleared his throat. “Let's return to the issue at hand. Blaze, you vote first.”
Sam opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.
What was he doing? He was voting for Nightstriker. He'd told the legendary hero he was voting for him.
But now that he saw Gillespie standing there like she could summit Mount Everest alone, all while fighting a horde of supervillains, and now that he saw Slab and Buckshot staring at Nightstriker like he was a supervillain, he wavered.
Maybe a change was needed....
Nightstriker had made huge mistakes, and the burdens he took on threatened to crush him.
With Gillespie as leader, and Nightstriker as her assistant, perhaps they'd be more efficient overall.
Or maybe they'd be willing to be co-leaders?
No, neither one of those options would work. There was a schism, and the words of an inexperienced kid wouldn't move the two titans standing before them.
“I vote for Nightstriker,” he said finally.
Nightstriker nodded. Gillespie's face remained hard.
“Nimbus?” Nightstriker said.
“Nightstriker,” she replied.
“Metal Gal?”
“Nightstriker.”
“Slab?”
“Sorry, but we need fresh leadership,” the giant rock-man growled. “I vote for Gillespie.”
“Buckshot?”
“Agree with the big guy,” Buckshot said. “Gillespie all the way.”
“Beverly?”
“I vote for myself, of course.”
Everyone now stared at Nightstriker, but the specific reactions were totally different, as everyone knew the vote was now tied, with Nightstriker the only one left to vote. He'd won.
Slab's massive jaws ground together, Buckshot had shoved a wad of chewing tobacco angrily in his maw, and Gillespie's forehead veins pulsed.
On the other side of the coin, Sam and Metal Gal were grinning, and Nimbus had surged to the ceiling in her excitement.
But then Nightstriker brought both the celebrations and the irritation to a close. “I vote for Gillespie.”
Sam gaped, and waited for the punchline.
None came. Nightstriker stood there, arms crossed, looking at them as calmly as if he'd just told them there would be a training session tomorrow.
“Some pebbles must be clogging up my ears,” Slab said. “You vote for Gillespie?”
“Yes,” Nightstriker said simply.
“What game are you playing, Nightstriker?” Buckshot said. “You know damn well you want to be leader of this team!”
“I do indeed,” Nightstriker said, “but we must remain together. My leadership is too problematic for our current situation. Even the ones who voted for me recognize my flaws. Therefore, Gillespie will helm the team, until she decides to relinquish the position or we decide to have another one of these votes.”
“But...what the hell, Nightstriker?!” Sam said. “We supported you! We want you as leader!”
“I understand your anger,” Nightstriker said, “and I truly did not know how I was going to vote, until I stepped into this room and saw how strained the atmosphere was. I thought thirty minutes of deliberation would cool off the rage and disappointment, at least in part. I was wrong. Elites, we must get past this. Blaze, Metal Gal, Nimbus – if you want to support me, support Gillespie.”
Buckshot and Slab, hearing these passionate words, now looked cowed. Buckshot even took off his hat in acknowledgment of Nightstriker's move.
Gillespie didn't know what to do. Emotions flashed across her face like blinking lights. Anger, then confusion, then sorrow, then back to grimacing ire.
Finally she closed her eyes for a long moment, composed herself, and extended a hand to Nightstriker.
“That was honorable of you,” she said. “You're right: we must move past this. I accept my position as leader of the team – but we can't do it without you, Nightstriker.”
The legendary hero quickly shook the former Secretary of Superhuman Affair's hand. “I congratulate you, Beverly, and I hope your tenure as leader goes well. Of course, I will help you and the others in any way I can.”
The frigid, finger-pointing tension within the room had lessened – but it had been replaced by confusion and, Sam felt, a small dose of fear.
Nightstriker, no longer leader? It didn't seem possible. He was Nightstriker! Where he led, others followed, even if they quibbled over his decisions and grumbled at his harshness.
Who was Gillespie, compared to him? Yes, she'd been a good leader when she'd helmed the team during Nightstriker's capture, but that had been a short stint, and it had been understood that it was temporary.
Now she was their true leader.
Sam knew she was accomplished, knew that her heart was in the right place...but he still couldn't shake the feeling that they'd all made a huge mistake....
“Well, I damn sure didn't expect this to happen,” Buckshot said, spitting a wad of chew into a trash can. “So, what's the plan? Now that we got our leadership situation sorted out, bout time we fired a return salvo, ain't it?”
Gillespie turned to them, her mouth pursed tightly.
“Yes, we need to regain control of the situation – and quickly,” Gillespie said, her voice clear and forceful. “We need to draw up battle plans, then find these Patriots and take them down. They're the main threat.”
She shot a look at Nightstriker, but he merely looked back calmly, interested in her words but obviously not argumentative.
“Dammit,” Sam muttered. Was Nightstriker going to be meek as a lamb now that he'd been booted out as leader? Someone needed to offer up a counterpoint to Gillespie's plan.
Well, since no one else was speaking up, Sam supposed it had to be him.
“Uh, while I agree that the Patriots need their butts kicked,” Sam said, “we're going against the entire freakin' government. Even if we do beat the Patriots, they'll just throw more and more of those fake heroes at us. They'll drain MegaMax Prison if they have to. We can't handle that!”
“What do you propose, Blaze?” Gill
espie asked. “To wait down here? For what? The superhero community is scattered and frightened. The government becomes more emboldened by the hour. We must regain the initiative. We're the world's premier superteam; people will rally behind us if we fight back. No one will rally behind us if we stay here.”
“Yeah, but––” Sam began.
But then he saw Nightstriker give him a barely-perceptible shake of the head. What did it mean? Was he really telling Sam to shut up? Or did he have some other plan in motion? Was allowing Gillespie to become leader of the Elites part of a plot that would let him consolidate power for good?
Confused, and more than a little angry, Sam said: “Fine. Whatever you say.”
“Good,” Gillespie said. “Now, everyone take a break for ten minutes. I need to discuss some things with Nightstriker.”
Chapter Twelve
Nightstriker
“OK, what the fuck was that?” Gillespie hissed when the others were gone.
“What was what?” Nightstriker replied.
“You know what I mean. You voting for me is absurd. We're all supposed to believe this is some magnanimous gesture to create team harmony?”
“It is,” Nightstriker said.
“Bullshit,” Gillespie spat. “Tell me the truth. NOW.”
“I am telling the truth. Isn't this what you wanted when you first selected me to lead the Elites? To be a self-sacrificing, tough-but-fair leader? I'm doing my best to be the leader – or follower, in this case – that the team deserves.”
“Nice-sounding words, but I'm still not convinced.”
“Then nothing I say or do will convince you,” Nightstriker said.
Gillespie glared at him for a full minute, her mouth tight and her veins pulsing. With her sharp features and burning eyes, she looked like some bloodthirsty bird of prey.
Then she sighed and looked away.
“How did we get to this point, Nightstriker?” she asked softly.
“You know how we got here,” he replied. “Now it's up to you to decide what to do next.”
“Yes, it is, and I've laid out a rough plan – one you don't agree with.”
“No, I don't,” Nightstriker said. “Striking back quickly sounds effectual, but, as Blaze noted, the government has countless enemies to toss at us.”
“We encountered the same difficulties when fighting the Giftgiver, and we prevailed.”
“Yes, because the superhero community was on our side, and because the Giftgiver was a poor tactician. Now the superheroes are either convinced we're truly outlaws, or they've been scared into silence. And the puppetmasters are far more adept at their craft than the Giftgiver.”
“Then what do you propose we do?”
“We should pick our spots carefully,” Nightstriker replied. “We are now guerrillas. The rule of guerrilla warfare: if the invading army doesn't win, it loses. If the guerrillas don't lose, they win.”
“A slow bleeding campaign,” Gillespie said. “Hit them quickly at weak points, then disappear. Rinse and repeat.”
“Precisely. You think the pressure is on us to strike back. The pressure is also on President Lancaster to bring us to heel quickly. The longer we survive, the more desperate he will become – which means he'll make mistakes. And eventually the superhero community will find us, or we will find them, and the guerrillas will no longer be a small force, but an overwhelming army.”
Gillespie rubbed her chin and paced the room, her concentration intense. Nightstriker knew that's how he looked when he paced and thought.
“You know, I still––” she began.
One of the doors to the room banged open, nearly ripping off its hinges. Slab poked his huge head through and grunted.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but you both need to see this.”
Nightstriker and Gillespie followed the titanic superhuman through a corridor until they came to another medium-sized room similar to the main conference room. Nightstriker had set this room up as a backup; it had all the equipment as the first room, as well as a small conference table.
The entire team was huddled around the bank of video screens, watching a dozen news feeds simultaneously. The feeds showed the Patriots running roughshod over a group of people who were protesting outside Z City's Division of Superhuman Crime.
Nightstriker leaned in and pressed a button, and the volume turned on for one of the feeds. A young female reporter, live at the scene, spoke:
“...chaos here outside the Division of Superhuman Crime, as the Patriots seek to thwart what they claim is an 'unlawful' protest. Protesters – who are protesting against President Lancaster's policies – have refused to disperse, and casualties are mounting. Human rights groups have already condemned the Patriots for....”
Crimson Tiger appeared behind the young reporter, and with a snarl, he knocked the camera from the cameraman. The screen went blank for a second, then the feed returned to the TV studio, where the anchors awkwardly apologized for the “technical difficulties.”
There were still plenty of other stations covering the news, however, so the team didn't miss a beat. Everyone watched in silence as the Patriots treated the protesters like rag dolls. Blood flowed. Heads cracked against the pavement. People screamed.
Finally, Buckshot pulled out a pistol and loaded it in the blink of an eye. “We goin' out there, or are we just gonna sit here and twiddle our thumbs?”
Everyone looked at Nightstriker – even Gillespie – then quickly reminded themselves that he was no longer leader. They then turned to Gillespie, who furrowed her brow and returned her attention to the screens.
“We can't allow this to stand,” she said. “We will intervene and stop this viciousness. But our goal is not to engage in a prolonged battle. We hit the Patriots hard, convince the protesters to leave, then we return here.”
“Suppose the protesters don't leave?” Slab asked. “Or suppose they do leave temporarily, then come right back? Then the Patriots will just come back too, and beat the crap outta them again.”
“That's why we need to hit them hard, so they think twice about doing this again,” Gillespie said. “Everyone prepare yourselves.”
Nightstriker nodded, but he was sure he wasn't hiding his pained expression. Blaze and Metal Gal looked similarly put out, and Nimbus's smoke wafted all across the room.
“You stay here and man the fort, Blaze,” Gillespie said.
Blaze looked so enraged that Nightstriker thought his powers would return right then and there.
But they didn't. The young hero could do nothing but clench his fists and grind his teeth.
“Stay behind?!” he shouted. “You gotta be––”
“You have no powers,” Gillespie said, “and you're not as well trained as Nightstriker and I in combat. We all saw how the Judge targeted you during the last fight. I'm not trying to be cruel, but with you in the field, we'd be at a serious disadvantage. I'm sorry, Blaze.”
Blaze clearly wanted to argue this point further, but Metal Gal touched his arm and whispered into his ear, and the hero visibly relaxed.
“Whatever,” he muttered.
“All right, then,” Gillespie said. “Let's get moving, people!”
Chapter Thirteen
Nightstriker
Nightstriker didn't like taking orders.
He knew how to fight, either with weapons or without. His tactical acumen was high. He was an expert on superhumans. He'd fought the good fight for decades, all without superpowers of his own.
Yet here he was, marching into a battle he thought ill-advised, against an enemy that was clearly superior.
Beverly Gillespie was no slouch. Her accomplishments were impressive, her drive was commendable, and her sense of justice was unerring.
But as they crept through the alleyways, Nightstriker resisted the urge – for the hundredth time – to verbally second-guess Gillespie's plan. Doing so now, right when they were on the brink of battle, would only anger and distract the team.
Now they were only a few dozen yards from the commotion in front of the Division of Superhuman Crime. A low buzz, like a million bees, could be heard, and they watched as the crowd heaved and scattered as the Patriots attacked them again and again.
“The protesters still haven't left?” Slab said. “What the hell's the matter with them?”
“They're standin' up for what they believe in,” Buckshot said. “I admire the tough bastards.”
“But the blood...and it looks like some people are dead....” Nimbus said.
“The tree of liberty has to be watered with the blood of patriots,” Buckshot said, “and the blood of Patriots, as in, uppercase 'P'. Let's blast these stormtroopers to Kingdom Come, team.”
“Yes, it's time to engage,” Gillespie said. She'd borrowed one of Nightstriker's black spandex costumes and a utility belt, and looked fearsome. “Everyone knows their roles. Hit hard and fast. Don't get bogged down. Return to the HQ, but make sure no one follows you.”
“Got it, boss man – I mean, boss lady,” Buckshot said. He pulled a shotgun from his back and charged out of the alleyway. “Remember the Beacon!”
Metal Gal transformed her legs into thrusters and burst after him. Slab lumbered along, his footsteps cracking the pavement. Nimbus rushed forward like a hurricane. Nightstriker and Gillespie followed at a more normal pace.
“The Elites!” one of the protesters shouted.
The crowd parted, letting the Elites push through. Nightstriker felt hands on him, heard encouraging words, saw people smiling, even though their faces were bruised and covered in blood.
So the people – or at least, this set of people – were behind them. That was an important advantage.
The Patriots, though, had now noticed them, and they stopped thrashing the protesters and turned towards the new enemies. The Judge jumped onto a car and pointed at them.
