Rogue Superheroes

by Matt Cowper

  He paced the cell, waiting for the answer that would surely come.

  In about five minutes, he heard the magnetic locks of the door clicking, and then the door itself swung open. The Judge stood there in his preposterous costume, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

  “Hello, Nightstriker!” he said in a sing-song voice. “Glad you're up and about. We have much to do, you know.”

  “Where are my teammates?” Nightstriker growled.

  “They're here, all safe and sound. Well, besides from some bruises they received during transit.”

  “Tread carefully, Carrion,” Nightstriker said. “If you harm them, I will––”

  “You will avenge them, yes, I know,” the Judge said, shaking his head. “Spare me your drivel. Firstly: you are being held in MegaMax Prison. You've surely already figured that out, and you know what it means. Secondly, the prison is now staffed by a...new batch of heroes. Again, you know what this means. Some of these heroes have grudges against you. Thirdly, can you call me the Judge? Carrion is so out of date.”

  “Carrion is your real identity,” Nightstriker said. “We both know it.”

  The Judge shrugged. “You know it. Me? I'm not so sure. I like being the Judge. I like all these government stooges fawning over me. Heck, I even like Lancaster. He lets us do what we want, provided we stick to a few guiding principles.”

  “Meaning he lets you maim and murder.”

  “Of course! You know how I am, Nightstriker. I have to kill. If I don't, I can't function. Now I'm in a position where people finally understand me, instead of trying to brainwash me with psychiatric buzzwords or banal morals.”

  “I'm not going to listen to the justifications of a mass murderer,” Nightstriker said. “Where are my teammates? I want to be taken to them – now.”

  “You'll listen to whatever I want you to listen to,” the Judge said, “and you'll see your teammates when I––”

  Nightstriker cracked the Judge with a left hook, knocking him back a few feet. After righting himself, the Judge gaped at him and touched his nose; his forefinger came back stained with a few lines of blood.

  “That was a stupid move,” the Judge said in a low voice.

  “If you think I'm cowed because I'm locked in here, you're sorely mistaken. Now: take me to my teammates.”

  The Judge clenched his fists and advanced. Nightstriker watched as his face transformed from a relatively relaxed, cocky expression into the barbarous visage of a killer.

  But then the Judge stopped and, his whole body shaking from the effort, tamped down his bloodlust. After a few seconds, he again looked at Nightstriker with that irritating, superior smirk.

  “Nice try,” he said, “but you won't bait me so easily. Not that it matters – even if you took me down and got out of this cell, there are a dozen superhumans waiting to throw you back in here.”

  “It looks like they do have you on a leash,” Nightstriker said. “The old Carrion would've been throttling me right now. Interesting.”

  “I told you––”

  Nightstriker turned around and walked back to the bed. “Unless you're taking me to my teammates, we're done here.”

  He lay down on the bed and webbed his hands behind his head. He even closed his eyes to aid his throbbing head – or pretended to. He opened his left eye to a tiny slit so he could watch the Judge's reaction.

  The Judge again flared up into a killing rage. Nightstriker's abrupt dismissal of him rankled – and there would be plenty of eyes watching the Judge, eager to criticize him for letting Nightstriker push him around.

  The Judge needed to regain the initiative – but how? Nightstriker waited, seeing what option he'd choose.

  But instead of lunging at him or shouting out threatening words, the Judge again composed himself and spoke in an even tone: “Your games won't work, Nightstriker. These little victories may make you feel better, but we hold all the cards.”

  “Is that so? If you did, you wouldn't be down here trying to match wits with me. You'd just be letting me rot. Or you'd execute me, and be done with it.”

  The Judge only sneered.

  “Your magnanimous boss, President Lancaster, wants me alive, doesn't he?” Nightstriker asked. “I assume he wants my knowledge, my secrets.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” the Judge said, though speaking like he didn't know if he was allowed to discuss this topic. “Everyone wants to rip you to shreds, but Lancaster insists we can still extract much of value from you.”

  “Taking a page out of the Giftgiver's playbook, are you? He wanted my secrets as well – and didn't get them. You know torture won't work on me, and any telepath who tries to pry into my mind will suffer dearly.”

  “Oh, you're an impossible nut to crack, for sure,” the Judge said, “but your teammates? Can they stand up to constant torture? Can you stand watching them get beaten and cut and mentally ravaged?”

  “I repeat: if you harm them––”

  “Empty words. You can't free yourself, and you can't free them. But you can stop the torture. Simply tell us everything: where all of your safe houses are, how to access any databases you have, what secrets the Beacon holds – and where Blaze is located.”

  Nightstriker had opened his eyes to watch his captor, but upon hearing the name Blaze, he closed them again.

  “Don't try to feign indifference,” the Judge said. “We know you adore that little firefly – even though he's lost his powers.”

  Nightstriker shifted position on the bed, but didn't reply.

  “We've analyzed the footage,” the Judge said. “We saw how he stopped the Beacon's core from exploding. We saw him cower in fear during our first fight. We noticed how he was absent from our second fight. Something's happened to him – but, regardless of whether his power loss is permanent or not, we still need to find him...and rehabilitate him.”

  “You won't find Blaze, and you won't learn anything from me. I suggest you start creating contingency plans, Carrion. When you fail in your directive, Lancaster won't be happy.”

  The Judge laughed. “We'll see, Nightstriker. We'll see. I'll let you ponder what I've said for a while – then we'll begin the fun.”

  He stepped out of the cell, and shut the door behind him. The magnetic locks slid into place, and then the room was again still.

  Torturing his teammates to get him to divulge everything? A standard plan for supervillains – and an effective one. The Judge was right: he could not watch his allies suffer and do nothing.

  But Nightstriker had some plans of his own....

  Chapter Sixteen

  Blaze

  Though Cape Covenant was only an hour's drive from Z City, it took Sam two hours to get there.

  His fear of being noticed and detained by the “heroes” that had popped up everywhere made him move slowly and cautiously, using a variety of transportation methods.

  The protesters that had also popped up everywhere likewise hindered travel. Outside of subway entrances and in front of government buildings, Sam had to jostle past angry, screaming men and women, all while avoiding the riot cops and “peace keeping” superhumans.

  If he knew how to access Nightstriker's databases at the bunker, he probably could've pulled up a map of the abandoned subway tunnels and, following those dark passageways, made it to the edge of the city via an underground route.

  But everything sensitive was password-protected, and after a few attempts at breaking the password, Sam gave up. He'd never get past Nightstriker's security, and repeated efforts to do so might activate dangerous countermeasures.

  Now he'd finally made it to the coastal town, though his nerves had been rattled like never before. He'd caught a bus for the last leg of journey – sweating the whole time, glancing at his fellow passengers every two seconds – and arrived in the town center of Cape Covenant.

  Since this was the off-season, there were few people on the tree-lined sidewalks. As the old public transportation bus chugged away, having disgorged Sam
and two other passengers, he got his bearings.

  Quaint two-story buildings lined the road for a few blocks, before the sand dunes began. Most of the buildings were geared toward the tourist trade: gift shops filled with seashells, driftwood, and other beach-themed knic-knacs; seafood restaurants; offices for guided tour companies.

  The place was quiet, especially after the chaos of Z City. Things were so still, and the few pedestrians so unconcerned, that Sam wondered if the residents here had even heard about the conflict tearing the country apart. The most agitated creatures were the seagulls that swooped overhead, cawing as if the entire world had done them wrong.

  Sam slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed towards the dune line, watching his surroundings closely. Quiet or not, here there was no crowd to blend in with. As sweaty and haggard as he surely looked, Sam knew a busybody might notice him, even question him, before alerting the authorities.

  He walked towards the Sea Whisper Bed and Breakfast, where he'd stayed with his parents so long ago. He hoped this is where his parents had hidden; if not, he would have to investigate the other accommodations in the area. Not a difficult task, as Cape Covenant only had four other hotels, hostels, or bed and breakfasts, according to the web search he'd done before leaving.

  In five minutes, he'd made it to the Sea Whisper. It lived up to its name: he could hear the endless whisper of the ocean as the waves rolled onto the pristine beaches. The dune grass whisked in the breeze, the gulls cawed, and Sam knew he only had to climb over a few dunes, and there would be the ocean: a blue-green expanse, the sun glittering on the breakers, commercial fishing vessels and tankers from Z City pushing through the water.

  A beach walk would be pleasant – it would calm him down, give him time to think....

  But then he thought about his teammates, and tensed back up. All of them were captured, all of them were probably being tortured right this moment.

  He couldn't dawdle, couldn't take meditative walks.

  But then why had he come here? His parents were both intelligent, capable people. In fact, they were probably just as formidable as him, now that he'd lost his powers. They were both fitness fanatics, and though they didn't embrace violence, neither of them would back down from a fight if they or their loved ones were threatened.

  He didn't need to come here and check on them. They'd traveld here so he wouldn't have to check on them.

  And hadn't Nightstriker said someone trustworthy was looking after his parents? Nightstriker may have been flawed, but when he said something like that, he usually meant it.

  Sighing, Sam opened the small wooden gate to the B&B and walked down the gravel path to the front door. He was here. No point standing there staring at the building and lacerating himself.

  He opened the door, causing a bell to tinkle and a nearby cat to meow at him. The foyer was simple and homey, decorated with prints depicting storm-tossed ships and beach sunsets, with a basket full of shells in the corner. The windows were open, and a salty breeze wafted through the house.

  Sam stood still and listened, but he heard nothing but the breeze.

  “Hello?” he said.

  A head popped out of a room down the hall, then there was the sound of papers rustling, and the owner of said head, a woman probably in her sixties, bustled towards him.

  “Hello there!” she said, holding out a hand and smiling. “You caught me napping! I apologize, but running this place alone wears one out. I ain't as spry as I used to be!”

  She didn't look like an old, weary grandmother. Her skin was tanned, almost leathery, and she moved and spoke with a sort of tough grace. Sam could easily see her out on a commercial fishing boat, pulling in nets or crab pots as deftly as the men.

  Dimly he remembered a younger woman running this B&B years ago, when he'd been a child. He was certain it had been a young Bonnie. Her hair hadn't been as white and her face hadn't been as leathery, of course, but her sunny disposition and can-do attitude remained the same.

  “No problem,” he said, shaking her hand. Then the words tumbled out before he could stop them: “I'm looking for some people. Two people. A couple, I mean. Married couple. In their fifties. One has––”

  “Ah, you must be Sam,” she said. “They told me there was a possibility you'd show up. You're their son, right?”

  “Yes, I...I mean, I can't really––”

  “Don't try to come up with any messy lies, kid,” she said, chuckling. “You can trust me. Your folks and their friend told me the situation. You're all from Z City, trying to lay low until all this crap blows over. Well, there's no better place to lay low than here. In fact, they're my only guests right now, it being the off-season.”

  Sam gauged the woman's seemingly kindly, slightly mischievous face, wondering if he could, actually, trust her.

  “Thank you,” he said slowly. “Miss....?”

  “Name's Bonnie.” She nodded and clapped her hands together. “I expect you'll be visiting for a bit. If you need anything, just holler, and I'll come running. But right now, you look like you've been rode hard and put up wet, and I bet you're eager to see your parents.”

  She jerked a thumb to the staircase. “Second floor, second door on the right.”

  Sam tossed out a thanks, then bounded up the steps three at a time. He tried to open the door Bonnie had pointed out, but it was locked. He pounded on it, then realized pounding might seem threatening, so he softened his blows to light raps.

  “Mom? Dad? It's me, Sam.”

  The door flung open, and there was his mother, her red hair a tangle, her mouth wide.

  “Sam?!” she gasped. “It's...it's really you! Oh, come here!”

  She wrapped him in a hug – and mothers were known to possess Class A strength when fiercely hugging their kids – and kissed him on the forehead. Sam hugged her back, tears running down his face.

  He looked over her shoulder, and there was his father, dressed in business casual attire, looking tired but happy. He grabbed Sam's shoulder and shook him a few times. “Sam! My God, we were so worried!”

  Something barked, and a wet snout rubbed against Sam's hand. It was Achilles, the family's stubborn but personable husky. Of course they wouldn't leave Achilles home! He was as much a part of the family as anyone. Sam rubbed the dog's neck happily.

  There was another person in the room, someone Sam couldn't quite place. A relative he hadn't seen in some time? A friend of his parents? The man had lanky black hair, and his face looked rubbery...almost like it was bouncing....

  “Mr. Flexible?!” Sam said.

  The superhero laughed, and reached out a hand. His arm elongated, then flopped towards Sam, and Sam high-fived his hand, though they were standing ten feet apart.

  Mr. Flexible was a superhuman, able to morph and stretch his body to extraordinary limits. He could slither through cracks in a door, stretch his limbs out so he punch bad guys from a safe distance, turn himself into a human parachute, and more.

  The quirky hero had aided them during the fight against the Giftgiver. He had, in fact, caught the Giftgiver after that villain had tried to commit suicide by jumping off the roof of city hall.

  Sam hadn't seen the man since then, and he wondered why he was here, of all places. Then a flash of insight hit him: he was the superhero Nightstriker had assigned to watch over his parents.

  “Good to see you, Sam,” Mr. Flexible said. “We didn't know...after all the chaos....”

  “I'm fine,” Sam said. “Well...not exactly...it's a long story. You've been looking out for my folks, haven't you?”

  The superhero nodded. “Nightstriker contacted me right after the Beacon got knocked out of the sky. He recommended we leave the city, and your parents chose this place. You got the email?”

  “Yeah, though it took me some time to figure out what Octopus Willy meant.”

  Sam's mother ruffled his hair. “It was the best we could come up with at the time. We suspected the government knew your identity, and was monit
oring our emails.”

  “It was a good plan,” Sam said. “And thank you, Mr. Flexible. If something happened to my parents....”

  Mr. Flexible's head bobbed. “You're welcome, Sam. Happy to help out. And don't worry, those bastards won't get us. I keep a close watch on the town, and Bonnie here is discreet. And if we do sense trouble, we'll just hightail it. With my powers, I can be miles away before anyone notices we're gone.”

  “Good,” Sam said, again high-fiving Mr. Flexible's elastic hand.

  “What about you, Sam?” his father asked. “We've tried watching the news reports, but everything's garbled, and the media is of course toeing Lancaster's line. We saw the Beacon go down, and we saw something, like a star, shooting energy into space...then we saw footage of your two battles with these frauds, the Patriots....”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “They're...tough. And I....”

  “Something's wrong, isn't it?” his mother asked. “In the first battle, it looked like you couldn't use your powers.”

  “I can't,” Sam whispered. “My powers...they're gone.”

  “Gone?!” his father said. “But how?”

  Sam told them the whole story. How the catastrophe on the Beacon apparently overloaded his powers. How he was useless during the first fight with the Patriots, and benched for the second. How he was still impervious to heat, but could not create or manipulate flame.

  He then detailed how Nightstriker had ceded authority to Gillespie, to dispel conflict within the team. That had surely led to the Elites' defeat, but Sam didn't dwell on that point. It was done with – they couldn't travel back in time and convince Nightstriker to remain leader. All they could do was find a way to free the team in the present.

  Finally, Sam told them how he'd slipped out of Z City, amid marauding “superheroes” and raging protesters, and arrived at the bucolic Cape Covenant.

  When he was done, there was a long silence as everyone processed his story. Even the normally boisterous Achilles looked pensive.

  “This is troubling, Sam,” his father said, looking at him like he was mourning. “For you to lose your powers like that...you may feel fine, but your body may have suffered major damage.”