by Matt Cowper
“There they are!” he shouted. “They're aiding the protesters, trying to bring about anarchy and ruin! Stop them!”
Nightstriker had to smirk. Their deception was so poorly done, it was a miracle people didn't see through it instantly.
Then he reminded himself that a large number of people didn't want to see through it.
The people here now, though, were squarely on their side. Nightstriker felt adrenaline surge through him as he charged the Judge.
“Back again, Nightstriker?” the Judge shouted, dropping into a defensive stance. “Didn't you learn that––”
“Shut up,” Nightstriker growled.
He launched onto the same car the Judge stood on and swung a haymaker at the killer's face. The Judge caught the fist, though he was surprised that Nightstriker was getting so close.
“You know I'm deadly in close-range fighting,” the Judge said, a malicious grin on his face. “I can't believe you––”
“I said shut up.” He nodded towards his fist. “Shock gloves.”
The Judge now saw he was basically holding a power line, but before he could release Nightstriker's fist, Nightstrike activated the glove, and electricity shot through his opponent.
The Judge fell to the hood of the car, smoking and singed. Nightstriker hoisted him up and dropped him through the car's windshield, sending glass flying everywhere.
The Judge groaned, and now he had lacerations all over his body, but even all that wouldn't keep him down for long. Nightstriker quickly turned to see how his teammates were faring.
Metal Gal was again writhing on the ground, with Code, her hands glowing, standing over her triumphantly.
But then a look of shock spread across Code's emaciated face.
“What the hell?!” she said. “That's...that's stuff from me....”
Something snapped her head back, and she fell to the ground, moaning like the Judge.
Buckshot stood nearby, a pistol now in his hand. He spun it in the air, laughing at the female tech-manipulator.
“Don't worry, folks,” he said. “That was only a rubber bullet. But the chick's still conscious, unfortunately. Nightstriker! Wanna send her off to dream of electric sheep?”
Nodding, Nightstriker raced to Code, who was trying to push herself up. Her eyes went wide as Nightstriker's boot collided with her cheek, and she flopped back down like a dead fish.
“Two down!” Buckshot yelled. “You Patriots ain't puttin' on much of a show this time! Sure you don't wanna surrender?”
“Never!” someone – or something – snarled.
Something red blurred by Buckshot, and four long slashes appeared on his shirt. Buckshot yelped and hopped side to side, this time dodging the incoming blows.
It was Crimson Tiger, his claws dripping with blood and foam running from his mouth. Glancing to the side quickly, Nightstriker saw he'd already taken down Gillespie: the woman was leaning against a car, holding her right arm, her face pale.
With his heightened senses and reflexes, Buckshot could avoid Tiger's ferocious attack – barely. But he couldn't go on the offensive. Every time he tried to aim a weapon at the Patriot, Tiger sliced it in two or swatted it from his hand.
If Nightstriker hit Crimson Tiger from behind, while he was focused on Buckshot––
But then he felt something behind him. It was like standing near a black hole.
He knew who it was before he turned: Midnight. His black form moved around like ink that had taken the form of a man.
“I was tired the first time we fought, Nightstriker,” Midnight said. “I'm not now. Your rocky lunkhead of a teammate has already been teleported into MegaMax Prison.”
Nightstriker looked around quickly for Slab, but the tough and strong hero was nowhere to be seen.
Breaker, the enormous black man with abilities comparable to Slab's, was also walking over, a huge grin on his mug.
Those two must've teamed up to remove Slab from the fight. Breaker probably knocked Slab off balance and then tossed him into the living portal that was Midnight's body.
Nightstriker cursed. He'd told Slab to be careful, and stick close to the others. Getting into another drawn-out fistfight with Breaker was pointless, and no one could even touch Midnight.
Maybe Breaker and Midnight had threatened some civilians, and Slab had jumped in to save them....
It didn't matter. He'd figure out what happened later. Right now, they were losing momentum, and in danger of getting routed.
At that moment, a gray-brown cloud appeared above Breaker. Nimbus! Tendrils drifted down towards the muscle man, and only when he was enveloped by the cloud did he recognize his danger.
But instead of clutching his throat and dropping to his knees as Nimbus suffocated him, the big man smiled.
“You're a one-trick pony, you know that?” he said.
He took a deep breath, his chest and stomach sucking in so that they almost looked collapsed, then blew out what felt like a gale force. Debris tumbled across the pavement, and even Nightstriker had to set his feet to keep from getting blown over.
Nimbus flew through the air, a surprised shout emitting from her form. The smoke broke apart, then reformed once Breaker stopped his super-breath. Nimbus did not, however, attempt to move towards Breaker or Midnight again.
“Nightstriker, what do we do?!” Nimbus said, drifting towards him. “Everyone's down but us!”
“What are you––”
He looked around wildly, and saw she was right. Buckshot and Gillespie: bloodied and unconscious. Metal Gal: face down on the ground, parts of her metallic form melted and dented. Slab: teleported inside MegaMax Prison, if Midnight was to be believed.
How had this happened so quickly?
The answer was simple: the Patriots had backup.
A dozen or more costumed superhumans stood nearby. Their outfits were gaudy, and he was certain they had reassuring names, but they were clearly former villains who'd been dressed up so Lancaster could use them as underlings.
He thought he recognized Razoredge, the Delusionist, Macabre, and Stamp Collector. Dangerous criminals all. Some of them he'd put in MegaMax Prison personally. Their sick grins told him they were eager to repay him for their prison stints.
The Judge had pushed himself out of the car's dashboard, and though he moved slowly, confidence oozed from every pore. “I'm disappointed, Nightstriker. You walked right into this trap.”
Nightstriker said nothing.
“The silent treatment, huh?” the Judge said. “Works for me. Everyone, take them down – but don't kill them. Our noble and generous President has plans for them.”
Chapter Fourteen
Blaze
Sam had never felt so impotent.
Not when he'd been bullied in school; not when his powers first manifested and he couldn't control them; not when Mad Dog, his former mentor, died.
His teammates – his friends – had just been dismantled by the Patriots and some new brightly-costumed sociopaths, and he could do nothing but watch on the video screens down in Nightstriker's underground bunker.
It had happened so quickly. The Elites had charged in, the cheers of the protesters boosting their morale. They'd hit hard and fast. When Nightstriker slammed the Judge through the car window and then viciously kicked Code in the face, Sam thought victory was assured.
But then the other “heroes” had shown up, and the Elites had been surrounded and beaten.
Now only Nightstriker and Nimbus were still up. Nimbus's movements betrayed her fear, but Nightstriker was as steady as a mountain. The cameraman for the TV channel Sam was watching zoomed in, so that Nightstriker's fierce eyes and clenched jaw filled the screen.
The Judge was taunting Nightstriker, but Nightstriker didn't reply.
“C'mon, get out of there,” Sam whispered.
Then Nightstriker was gone – or rather, he'd moved so quickly the cameraman couldn't keep up with him. A roundhouse kick sent the Judge tumbling...but Crimson T
iger was in motion...but Nightstriker hit him with a punch that, judging from the way the Tiger grabbed his chest, had broken some ribs.
Nightstriker pulled dozens of objects out of his utility belt, tossing them in all directions. Grenades exploded. A taser electrified a “hero” dressed in a lime green costume. Something that looked like black confetti flew through the air, and one of the flying “heroes” ran into it and then wobbled through the air before crashing into the front entrance of the Division of Superhuman Crime.
The protesters began cheering again, and Nimbus was suffocating at least four of the “heroes.” The Patriots held back, watching as the whirling dervish of destruction that was Nightstriker mowed down their allies.
“He's doing it!” Sam jumped up from his seat and pumped his fist. “Get those jackasses, Nightstriker!”
But the rally ended before it really began. A hunk of rubble hit Nightstriker in the shoulder, and he spun like a plane going in a tailspin. The person who'd thrown the rubble was out of the camera's shot, but Sam guessed it had been Breaker.
An energy beam hit the wobbling Nightstriker, and this time he did fall.
“Get up,” Sam whispered.
Nightstriker pushed himself up, but now a dozen opponents had surrounded him, and he was lost in a hailstorm of punches and kicks. The protesters fell silent, and the Patriots were now exulting.
After a few seconds, the group stepped back from Nightstriker, and the cameraman again zoomed in. Sam gasped: the legendary hero's black spandex was ripped to rags, and his face was beaten almost beyond recognition.
The cameraman then panned to the sky, and there was Nimbus, surrounded by a force field apparently controlled by a woman in a pink-and-purple costume.
The Elites had fallen.
Sam sat there for a few minutes, letting the images wash over him. On another channel, the talking heads were already pontificating on the events. One side said this was utter despotism from President Lancaster, the other said things would settle down now that the arrogant and treasonous Nightstriker had been locked up.
Sam switched off the screens one by one, until they were all black and silent.
He paced across the room, then down the corridors, then into the several rooms set up as sleeping quarters. He felt like a ghost wandering through a tomb.
“C'mon, Sam,” he muttered. “Get off your ass and do something.”
He had to rescue his teammates. It appeared they were being taken to MegaMax Prison, where they'd likely be tortured, if not killed once they were away from the public eye.
But even with his powers, assaulting MegaMax was foolhardy. The place was designed to repel any superhuman attack, even from a team of Class S superhumans. And with the Patriots and these other “heroes” adding to the defense, things looked truly hopeless.
Without his powers, Sam had no idea how to infiltrate the prison. They'd surely have a million pieces of scanning equipment set up, and would recognize him as soon as he stepped onto Ironrock Island.
Even if he could shield himself from the scans, there would be dozens of doors to get through, dozens of guards to sneak by, and a vast building to search before he found his friends.
“OK, slow down, Sam,” he breathed. “Think. Develop a plan. Then act on it.”
He continued pacing, but the more he paced, the more he realized it was crucial to get back his powers.
Unlike Nightstriker and Gillespie, he wasn't trained for non-powered combat. He needed his fire blasts, his Fire Shield, and his Galileo Ball if he wanted to be effective.
But how could he get his powers back? Dive into a volcano, like Nightstriker suggested? What, was he supposed to hop onto a plane to Hawaii and find an active volcano? Even if he could get onto a plane without getting detected, it would take took much time to fly there and back – that is, if he didn't perish immediately once he fell into the lava.
Should he find another superhuman here in Z City with fire powers, see if they could kickstart his own powers? This was more feasible, but still risky. Any so-called hero could betray him.
More pacing. More indecision. More time wasted.
Finally, he did what most teenagers on the cusp of adulthood do when they're in trouble: he decided to contact his parents.
In the push and pull of events, he hadn't even had time to call or email his folks. He'd been worried about them, and had argued with Nightstriker about their safety, but only now did he boot up one of Nightstriker's bleeding-edge computers. His phone was still on the Beacon, likely destroyed or confiscated, so email was the best bet.
He logged in to his Yaymail account, and, after browsing past the never-ending spam messages, saw his parents had already sent him an email.
It read:
Sam,
We know you and the other Elites are innocent of these absurd things they're accusing you of. However, if they do know your identity, then we're in a precarious situation. We've decided to leave Z City until this crisis is averted. We're at the place where Octopus Willy lives.
Love
Mom & Dad
Sam read the short message several times, glad his parents grasped the situation fully. Not only had they left the city, they'd known their email might be monitored, and had written in code to confuse anyone who might have intercepted the email.
The only problem: Sam was also confused.
Octopus Willy? What the hell did that mean?
He did a quick web search for the phrase, but it brought up nothing but randomness. Octopus Willy was a theme park mascot, the name of a punk band, and the name of a beloved octopus in some Hungarian aquarium, but Sam didn't see how these things had any bearing on his parents' departure.
Then it came to him. Yes! Octopus Willy was an old friend!
Years ago, when Sam was five or six years old, they'd all vacationed at a coastal town named Cape Covenant. The town was only about an hour away from Z City, but it might have existed in another country. The people, mostly commercial fishermen and carpenters, were fiercely independent, but still kind. The dwellings and businesses were small and inviting, and the beaches pristine and endless.
During one long walk along the white sand, Sam and his parents had seen a small octopus, trapped in a tidal pool. It kept itself submerged as best it could in its pool, but the tide was going out, and it would be many hours before the water returned.
His parents had taken the “nature must take its course” position, but Sam had insisted they save the octopus. And so Sam had picked up the strange creature – he could still remember how its suckers had poked at him – and carried it back into the surf.
Instead of swimming away instantly, the octopus had stuck around, apparently to salute Sam for his aid. Sam watched the octopus in awe, amazed at its intelligence and gentleness, until the aquatic animal disappeared into the sea.
Sam had named his friend Octopus Willy, and for years afterward, the name was a part of the Boyd household's insider lingo.
But then Sam grew older, and it was no longer cool to reminisce about his silly childhood. Octopus Willy had been gradually forgotten.
Until now.
He was going to Cape Covenant to find his parents.
Chapter Fifteen
Nightstriker
Nightstriker awoke from a dreamless sleep. Surprisingly, he was lying on a surface that was fairly comfortable, in a room that smelled of pine-scented cleaner.
As soon as he opened his eyes and tried to move, though, the true state of his predicament announced itself.
Pain raced through his body, and he had to close his eyes again to stop the light from making his headache worse.
Finally, grunting and breathing heavily, he pushed up to a sitting position and forced his eyes open. His head continued to throb as if someone was banging on it with a mallet, but he bit down on his bottom lip and pushed through the discomfort.
He was on a small bed, in a room no larger than his quarters back at the underground bunker. The room contained a toil
et and a desk and chair, nothing more. The walls and floor were blindingly white and spotless. Nightstriker glanced up at the ceiling; he couldn't see security cameras, but he knew they were there.
He stood up and examined his attire. An orange jumpsuit and laceless slippers: the uniform of a prison inmate. The number “1” was stenciled across the jumpsuit's breast.
Prisoner number one? It appeared his enemies thought he was important.
He hobbled around the room, but there was little to see. The desk and chair had been molded so that neither needed screws, and the toilet was held to the wall by ultimatium bars. The bed was constructed much like the desk and chair, and the sheets were thick and not easily ripped.
The door to the cell was reinforced ultimatium, held closed by magnetic locks.
He was in MegaMax Prison, one of the most secure facilities in the world.
Others would have felt fear and hopelessness. They would have shouted angrily at their captors, or collapsed to the floor and wept.
Nightstriker felt none of this. Instead, he felt a sense of opportunity.
No one had studied this prison more than him. The blueprints to this place were not, of course, on the public record, but that hadn't stopped him from obtaining them – and from intensely questioning the contractors who'd built this fortress.
He'd also traveled here many times, to interview the criminals he'd put away, and each time he'd made note of how the guards rotated, how the security systems worked, how the inmates acted.
The prison surely operated differently, now that Lancaster and the Patriots ruled the roost, but one could not change the layout and materials of the place so easily.
They'd made a mistake by not killing him, and they'd made an even bigger mistake by not binding him. As long as he was alive and could move freely, he had a chance to get out of this cell and save his teammates.
But first things first: intelligence gathering.
He tilted his head towards the ceiling and shouted: “Patriots! I'm awake! I'm sure you want to gloat over your victory, so get down here, before I get bored!”
