by Matt Cowper
Nightstriker studied the Secretary of Superhuman Affairs. A woman of her training and dedication was surely an expert liar.
On the other hand, Nightstriker was an expert at ferreting out liars.
Yes, Gillespie likely had ulterior motives, but any top-level government official had complicated plans to acquire power and neutralize threats to their advancement. It was just how it was. Gillespie surely wasn’t squeaky clean, but neither was she a psychopathic monster determined to crush anyone who so much as glanced at her wrong.
Nightstriker stood up and crossed his arms. “Fine. You have your leader – for now.”
Gillespie walked over and shook his hand. “Excellent. There’s a contract you’ll need to sign, of course, and the staff will give you an overview of the Beacon’s systems.”
“No need,” Nightstriker said. “Their explanations will be too slow. I can handle it.”
“Of course. I should’ve expected that.” She stepped back and gave him a slightly amused look. “By the way, I hope your Spider didn’t turn up anything unsavory?”
Nightstriker shook his head. She was good – did he dare say she was as good as him? No – that was just the physical attraction he felt twisting his judgment.
He’d have to be careful here. They were two high-caliber people, their backgrounds and motivations exceedingly similar. It would be natural for intimacy to develop, even though there was mutual distrust. In fact, the distrust would make an affair all the more intense.
But intimacy would lead to more complications than he cared to handle. He’d brushed aside Wren earlier; he certainly wasn’t going to immediately go after a cunning woman who was his direct superior.
“No,” Nightstriker said, “the Spider didn’t find anything of interest.”
“Good,” Gillespie said. “I expected you to scan, and I expect you’ll continue to scan anyone and anything around you. Scan, snoop, question as much as you want. This mission is clean.”
“Except for those secret measures you’ve developed to keep me in check?”
“I wouldn’t call those corrupt. Would you rather I just trust you and your team completely, and return to Washington to hobnob with the rich and powerful?”
“No, you’re doing what you have to do. As will I.” He headed for the door. “I’ll start recruiting now. I assume I have an office or room up here? Send the contract there. I’ll sign it when I have the time.”
“Recruiting already?” Gillespie said. “Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yes, I do.”
Chapter Two
Blaze
What was a eukaryote?
Sam knew the answer. He knew it. He just couldn’t remember what it was.
The biology test had been brutal, but no question had bothered him more than that one. He’d had like a billion biology classes over the years, and in every one of them they discussed eukaryotes. He should know it automatically – and it was a multiple choice question! Those were supposed to be a cinch, not like those fearsome essay questions.
He sighed, and a small flame appeared in the air, dancing like a firefly and illuminating the rooftop around him.
“Crap,” he muttered, instantly extinguishing it. His powers always acted wonky when he was stressed. He’d char the burger he was eating, or melt the toothbrush he was using. He supposed things would get better when he was an adult – whenever that happened. He was eighteen, so technically he was an adult – except he was still in high school, still lived with his parents, and still received wedgies from the bullies at school.
He looked down at the dock, hoping no one had seen his errant flame. The goons were still unloading boxes from the small boat. Named the Daisy Blue, the boat looked like a standard commercial fishing vessel, the sort that churned out of Jameson Bay in the early hours in search of tuna and mackerel. But the catch the men were unloading wouldn’t be served up in one of Z City’s hip seafood restaurants; the boxes held weapons, which would be distributed throughout the city’s underworld.
Unless Sam – or the young hero known as Blaze, since he was in costume – stopped them, of course.
He’d been watching them for fifteen minutes, looking for signs of an ambush, or any other aberrations. That’s what all the older heroes said: be patient. It takes time to unload a boat, even a small one. Absorb all the information available to you. Plan with precision. Then, when it’s time to strike, do so swiftly.
That’s what Mad Dog, his former mentor, especially used to say. Well, not exactly – he mainly focused on the striking part, not the planning part. He lived up to the “mad” part of his name, especially during the heat of battle: he’d foam at the mouth like a dog with rabies, wrecking everything that came near.
Part of it was legit – Mad Dog “would fight a stray cat over a bit of soggy pizza crust,” as someone once said – and part of it was an act to put fear in the hearts of the bad guys. It worked – until Mad Dog got a little too mad, and took on the Antarctic Anarchist by himself….
Enough of that, Sam told himself. Mad Dog was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. He needed to focus on the task at hand.
He watched the goons for a few more minutes until he was satisfied he could easily thrash them. A few of them were armed, but only with AR-999s. The fiery force field – he unoriginally called it the Fire Shield – he projected around himself would easily melt those rounds. The muscular goons may try to attack him physically, but they’d end up with third-degree burns if they managed to land a blow.
He jumped off the dilapidated building serving as his lookout post and ignited the air around him. Orange-yellow light shone down on the Daisy Blue and the goons. Thankfully, Sam could fly, so jumping off the building wasn’t going to cripple him. Flying was awesome: it let you make dramatic entrances and terrify your opponents.
“What the fuck?” one of the goons with an AR-999 yelled.
“It’s…it’s that one kid with the fire powers!” another one shouted.
Case in point.
Still, Sam ground his teeth as he sent a controlled flame-burst at the first goon, melting his gun. They should know the name of Blaze by now. He’d been doing this for two years. Then again, he wasn’t very active on Yaybook or any of the other social media sites, and the “experts” and “gurus” and “ninjas” all said a social media presence was essential for every superhero….
“Get ’im!” a goon yelled as Sam landed on the asphalt by the dock, the flames around him instantly evaporating the puddles that had formed in the cracks and ruts.
“You chumps never learn, do you?” Sam said, ducking the goon’s haymaker. He flicked his wrist, sending out a flame that incinerated the back of the man’s pants, leaving his hairy, pockmarked ass hanging out for all to see.
“That…is not the sort of thing you’d want to put on your online dating profile,” Sam said.
The goon twisted his head around and saw what Sam had done. He yelped and patted his butt, then, realizing it wasn’t melting, glared at Sam with murder in his eyes.
“You little punk!” he yelled. “You’ll pay for that!”
“That’s what they all say,” Sam said, “and yet I never do. How is this time any different?”
“Cuz we got backup, you pimply-faced runt.”
Water surged into Sam, knocking him to the asphalt. He felt a twinge in his right arm as it pounded against the hard surface. Great – just what he needed, another injury. A few more of them, and his parents would revoke his superheroing privileges.
The water had extinguished his Fire Shield, but Sam reignited it by concentrating a little harder. The water turned to steam as he rose to his feet, looking around for his assailant.
A green-skinned woman was standing in the bay, on a column of water she was obviously generating. She looked like the star of some Vegas water show. Her outfit was achingly sexy: clam-shell bikini top and a seaweed bikini bottom. Sam gulped, trying to convince himself she was a villainess, not a pin-up model.
> “Lookie what we have here,” the woman said, tossing her thick hair provocatively. “A little boy playing at being a superhero. With flame powers, too – the exact sort of powers I can counter.”
“That’s right, kid!” the bare-assed goon taunted. “We didn’t expect you to be the one to show, but ya did! A nice piece of luck, ain’t it? Seaspray here is gonna dunk you in the bay and neutralize those fire abilities of yours!”
Dammit. Sam hated water or ice-based enemies. They countered his powers – and while he also countered theirs, who won in such a contest usually came down to who was more experienced and resolute. Being an eighteen-year-old “noob” with the standard worries of an eighteen-year-old put Sam at a heavy disadvantage.
“So, Seaspray,” Sam said, “why are you slumming around with these rejects? Finally realized you’ll never be Queen of the Sea again?”
Sam didn’t know her entire life story, but he did know she was a member of one of the many aquatic races that resided beneath the ocean’s surface. She supposedly used to be a Queen of the Sea – whatever that meant – until she was cast out by her people for villainous actions of some sort. Now she was a staple of the Z City underworld, and a paramour of the city’s crime bosses. Sam remembered she was promiscuous, which led to more impure thoughts.
She was extremely agile, both in and out of water, she could breathe underwater, and she could control liquid on a small scale. Unlike Sam, though, she couldn’t create liquid, as Sam could create fire; she could only manipulate what was nearby. That was a crucial difference that he’d have to use in his favor.
“Oh, is that little taunt supposed to get under my scales?” Seaspray said, giggling. “You’ll have to try harder than that, child.” She lay down on her water column in a manner some of the kids at school would’ve described as “boner-inducing.” She even blew a kiss Sam’s way. “You ever been with a woman like me, Blaze? You ever been with a woman at all? Come here, and I’ll show you a real good time. Come on, Blaze – I’m wet for you.”
“A double entendre,” Sam said. “How cute. Did you come up with that all by yourself?”
“You mock, but I know that look on your face,” Seaspray said sultrily. “Even behind that stupid mask, I know you’re…aroused.”
Sam was, and he tried to compose his face, and stop what was happening in his nether region – with little success.
“Enough babbling, Seaspray!” the bare-assed goon said. “The boss is paying you good money. Drown this idiot so we can get on with it!”
Seaspray yawned and sat up. “I don’t like your tone, Phil – but I am being paid, so I suppose I’ll earn my salary.”
She raised a hand, and a spray of water rushed towards the dock. It crashed against the old wooden planks, ripping them from the pilings and sending them hurtling Sam’s way. Sam concentrated, and his fist started burning yellow-white. A fireball exploded from his palm, reducing the water-and-wood blast to atoms.
“You’ll have to––” he started.
Somehow, Seaspray was beside him. She gave him a saucy wink and kicked him in the ribs. Sam grunted and clutched his side, hoping she hadn’t broken anything. More injuries…his parents would be angry…of all the rotten luck….
“Ow!” Seaspray said. “That fire thing around you…it burnt my toes-ies.” Indeed, her foot was smoking, and her green skin had turned slightly yellow. “I just had a pedicure, too.”
She jumped, sending a spinning kick at Sam, but he rolled out of the way and came up with a fire-blast. Too slow – Seaspray was already gone, and the blast hit some old rope tied to a cleat and melted it.
“This is too easy,” Seaspray said. Now she was behind him! Sam turned, only to receive another kick in the ribs. He fell, again banging his arm against the ground. Before he could recover, what felt like a million gallons of water collapsed onto him, dousing his Fire Shield and causing him to sputter and cough.
Then Seaspray was straddling him and licking her lips. Up close, she looked even sexier. Sam couldn’t stop staring at her clamshell bikini. How did that thing stay on during a battle, especially when she was exceptionally well-endowed? More importantly, why was he panting like a dog in heat in such a dire moment?
“Hm, you’re cute enough,” she said. “A few muscles here and there. I’d eat you up like plankton – but alas, I’ve been hired to make war, not love. Don’t worry, I’ll drown you quick. It’ll be––”
A foot came out of nowhere, colliding with the side of Seaspray’s skull. She cried out and toppled off Sam. Sam sat up quickly and tried to clear his mind. He needed his Fire Shield back up! But he was hurt, bewildered, and scared, and only a few flames puffed up around him.
“Who was – no!” Seaspray gasped. She put her hands to her mouth and jumped back a few paces. “Not you!”
“Yes – me,” a gravelly voice said.
Sam looked over, and saw a shadow standing by him. No, not a shadow, a man in black spandex, strangely without a mask. Dark hair, a face as hard as ultimatium….
“Nightstriker!” Sam said.
The famed hero looked down at Sam, and Sam suddenly felt about the size of a quark. Was Nightstriker angry at him for his incompetence? Or amused? (Was it possible for him to feel amusement?) Sam didn’t know, but he looked away before those eyes could sear any more of his soul.
“We’ll talk in a second, Blaze,” Nightstriker said. “I’ll handle Seaspray.”
“I…I…no you won’t, old man!” the aquatic villainess said, slowly regaining her moxie. “I’ll send you both to the bottom of Jameson Bay!”
“You need some help, Seaspray?” the bare-assed goon said. He’d marshaled the other goons, and they were standing behind Nightstriker, flexing their muscles and cocking their firearms. “Nightstriker ain’t no joke!”
“Indeed I am not,” Nightstriker said, “and she does need help – but she won’t get it from you.”
He spun and tossed something at the goon group. They all yelled and dove as some sort of grenade exploded, sending shrapnel flying and creating a sizable crater in the asphalt.
In the split-second Nightstriker had turned, Seaspray had raised her arm. Grinning with a weird mixture of both malice and lust, she sent a water spout from the bay, heading directly towards Nightstriker.
“No!” Sam screamed. He tried to form a fire-blast, but nothing came out of his hand but a few sparks. He was a weakling! Absolutely worthless! One of the world’s greatest heroes was going to die, all because of him!
But Nightstriker turned back to Seaspray, as if he had all the time in the world – which, in effect, he did. Moving faster than Sam had ever seen a non-powered man move, he dodged the water spout, closed the gap between him and Seaspray, and then hit her with some sort of punch. Sam couldn’t exactly see what happened, but Seaspray’s eyes bulged out and she grabbed her stomach like she’d been shot with a pulse rifle.
“Ukk…ugh…urp,” was all she could manage.
The next blow was even more vicious. An uppercut connected with her jaw, actually knocking her into the air a bit. Green blood sprayed from her mouth and nose. She fell in a heap, unconscious, her clamshell bikini nearly knocked from her bosom.
Nightstriker looked down at the fallen mermaid-like woman for a few moments, then turned to Sam. After scrutinizing the young hero for a moment, he extended a hand.
“Get up,” he said.
Sam would’ve loved to lay there for a few more minutes, but one did not reject a command from this man. He grabbed Nightstriker’s hand, and the veteran hero pulled him up.
The goons who’d been scattered by Nightstriker’s grenade had recovered. They weren’t, however, going to continue fighting. They’d been more than willing to take on Sam, but now that Nightstriker had turned up and taken out Seaspray, their resolve had melted like a stick of butter. Two of them were sprinting down the dock, and two had hopped on the boat, cast off the lines, and gunned the diesel engine. The boat wasn’t a sleek high-powered yacht, though, so
it wasn’t in danger of blasting out of Jameson Bay and disappearing into the open ocean.
“Get those two,” Nightstriker said, pointing at the boat, “and then destroy that boat. I’ll handle the others.”
Sam found himself nodding, then he was airborne and flying after the Daisy Blue. The goons gesticulated and appeared to be shouting at each other, probably in anger because the boat wouldn’t go faster. In their agitation, they came dangerously close to hitting a buoy, which only made them argue all the harder.
Sam descended, readying his Fire Shield. One of the goons pointed an AR-999 at him and let it rip, but the bullets dissolved before they could hurt him. Nevertheless, the goon kept firing, as goons the universe over were wont to do. Sam landed near the stern of the boat, and blasted the rifle with a tiny flame-burst to end the pointless fusillade.
The goon rushed him, but Sam held up his hand and created a medium sized orb of the hottest fire he could conjure. It was a move he called the Galileo Ball. It was supposed to temporarily blind an attacker, and was named after the great scientist because he’d likely been blinded by staring at the sun too intently.
The Ball had the desired effect. The goon yelped and covered his eyes, and Sam conked him on the head with another AR-999 that happened to be lying around. Nightstriker could’ve KOed the goon with one shot, and he wouldn’t even need a heavy rifle to do it, but Sam was lanky and wasn’t yet a martial arts expert; he knew he needed to bulk up and learn more about hand-to-hand combat, but between school and extra-curricular activities – and, of course, superheroing – he rarely had time for advanced training.
He conked the goon a few more times, but the big galoot still wouldn’t go nappy-time. Sighing, Sam let him be, figuring he wasn’t a threat anymore, and moved to the other goon, the one who was piloting the boat. The idiot was handling the boat like he was in some regatta, like he could somehow get away from the superhero standing five feet from him.
“Stay back!” the goon yelled.
