by Matt Cowper
“To contact me, say ‘access card functions’ and then ‘contact Nightstriker’,” Nightstriker said. “The card is tuned to your voice; no one else can use it but you. There are numerous other functions you may want to experiment with. I’ve disabled some advanced features, as you are not yet a member of the Elites.”
“This is…really cool,” Sam said, turning the card over in his hand. “Thank you. But…wait a minute. Tuned to my voice? How did you––”
“As I said, I’ve been following you,” Nightstriker said. “Now go. I will turn these men over to the authorities. Remember: you have forty-eight hours. Use them.”
He turned from Sam and walked over to the goons, talking into some sort of device on his wrist as he went. A few of the goons trembled as he approached, but one had built up some courage and tried to rise, hollering about personal rights. A swift kick to the forehead ended the man’s short-lived rebellion.
Sam concentrated and formed his Fire Shield. He rose into the night sky and rocketed out across Jameson Bay – the opposite direction of where Forest Hills, his home, was located.
If Nightstriker could follow him, so could someone else – someone possibly not so benevolent. From now on, Sam would make his route home as complicated as possible. He couldn’t let himself be easy quarry ever again – not if he planned on joining the Elites….
Chapter Three
Nightstriker
Training. Training every day. In the morning, in the afternoon, at night. It never ended – and Nightstriker didn’t want it to end.
He’d set the hard-light training room to the maximum level of difficulty. The constructs still didn’t use lethal force; they used advanced calculations to determine if an attack would kill him, and they’d either stop attacking, or, if the attack had already been unleashed, a force field would surround him and protect him from whatever beam or blast had been used.
Nightstriker didn’t like it. A man was more focused when death nipped at his heels. This exercise felt like some lackadaisical fitness class in a gym. Beverly Gillespie wouldn’t remove the safety measures, however, and Nightstriker had not yet hacked into the system and turned them off himself.
He was fighting a villain named Balderdash, an insane, unpredictable opponent in real life – or he had been, in the few times Nightstriker had fought him. Balderdash had now apparently found love, though, and was acting as some sort of demented hero-vigilante. Something to look into….
Nightstriker grunted as he dodged a half-dozen pink-and-purple shurikens thrown by the laughing villain-construct. He hadn’t hacked the Beacon’s systems to change the safety parameters, he hadn’t tracked down this new, “I’ve-seen-the-error-of-my-ways” Balderdash. A few days ago, those tasks and others like them would’ve been completed quickly and precisely. But forming a new superteam was using up all his time and energy.
He wasn’t afraid of the workload – he could go days without sleep if need be – but he still couldn’t create time. There were twenty-four hours in a day, no more, no less. Forming the team, designing training schedules, training the Beacon’s staff, hiring support personnel – he needed every minute, every second, to get everything done, and he was still behind.
A solo superhero didn’t have to worry about these things. He decided something needed to be done, and he did it. He didn’t have to worry about the minutiae of other’s lives, unless it pertained to stopping some threat.
Doubt? Already? Before the Elites were even formed? This was not like him – not like him at all.
An explosion brought his wandering mind back into focus, as explosions tend to do. Balderdash had shot what looked like a firework at him. Bright lights filled the air around him, and heat scorched his right hand. Shrapnel flew at him, but most of it bounced harmlessly off his costume; though it looked like thin black spandex, it could stop a multitude of attacks, even high-caliber bullets or certain lasers.
One piece, though, sliced by his cheek. His hand instantly went to the wound: only a few millimeters deep, barely a papercut. Still, it was a mistake – this training should not be able to harm him at all. At the end of it, he should be breathing heavily and covered in a light sheen of sweat, but completely uninjured.
Growling at Balderdash – and himself – he rolled forward and sent a roundhouse kick the construct’s way. It was easily dodged, as Nightstriker intended, and the construct quickly counterattacked, also as Nightstriker intended. The program was intelligent enough to determine that his unprotected head was his weakest point, and Balderdash was now trying to plunge a knife into his eye socket. Nightstriker grabbed the construct’s arm, breaking it with a savage twist. The real Balderdash would be howling in pain – or he may have continued laughing maniacally, as the construct Balderdash was doing.
Nightstriker rammed his elbow in Balderdash’s head a few times to soften him up even more, then locked him in a chokehold. Balderdash flailed, trying to get to another weapon he had stashed in his costume, but Nightstriker slammed him face first onto the floor and smothered his arms with his body.
A few seconds later, Balderdash was “unconscious.”
“End program,” Nightstriker said, rising.
The construct of Balderdash faded away, as did the scenery the program had created for the battleground. Nightstriker had chosen an abandoned warehouse as the site; fighting in an open space was more challenging than fighting in tight quarters. Using his quickness and tactical mind, Nightstriker could turn a cubicle farm or a restaurant into a minefield – sometimes a literal one – for his opponent. But superheroes rarely got to choose where they fought – they had to be ready to engage in any location.
Wiping blood from his cheek, Nightstriker exited the training room and entered the room’s control center. He wanted to look over the data the computers had generated during the melee. Angles of attack, the speed of his reactions – everything needed to be quantified, and if possible, improved.
Standing in the center of the room was Beverly Gillespie. She had on another pantsuit, in a style nearly identical to the one she’d worn when she first briefed Nightstriker. She’d already pulled up the data on the training session, and was looking at holographic images spread out around her.
“You’re as fast as ever, Nightstriker.” She pointed to a bar graph. “Still in the top 1%. For your age, it’s remarkable.”
“I’ve done better,” Nightstriker said, grabbing a plastic bottle out of the industrial-sized fridge that took up half of one wall. He took a few sips of his specially-prepared smoothie. A mixture of fruit and vegetables, it had the right mix of fat, protein, carbs, and fiber, and a relatively low sugar content. He didn’t need to drink the whole bottle, only just enough to replenish what he’d lost during the workout. One of the biggest mistakes people made was assuming they could chow down with abandon because they’d spent a few hours sweating in a gym.
“Yes, I noticed you got nicked,” Gillespie said. “I’m glad I locked the system so you couldn’t program more dangerous training sessions.”
He didn’t like her lightly mocking tone – mainly because her words rang true.
“Yes,” was all he said.
“Why don’t you wear a mask, or some sort of protective headwear?” Gillespie asked.
“Tried that. Didn’t like it. Obscures my vision even in the best case scenario, and my opponents were always trying to grab it and twist it around to blind me totally.”
He also no longer needed a mask because he no longer cared about concealing his secret identity….
“Now instead of going for the mask, they try to slice off your nose or gouge out your eyeballs,” she said.
“Let them,” Nightstriker said. “If I know they’re going for my head, I can counterattack accordingly. Plus, even though I’m well-known, many villains are still thrown off balance when they see a superhero without a mask, even ones who’ve fought me before. My facial expressions also aren’t known to be very welcoming. Look at a person with enough intensity
, and most will falter.”
“Interesting,” Gillespie said. “You’ve been giving me an intense look during this conversation. I admit it’s been discomfiting – but I hardly want to sob and beg for forgiveness.”
“You’re made of sterner stuff than most common criminals, and even most supervillains.”
“Hm. A sincere compliment. I’ll take it. Thank you, Nightstriker.”
“You’re welcome.”
Why was he being so chummy? Was he just tired, or had talking to that Blaze kid affected him more than he’d admit? Had some of the boy’s earnestness rubbed off?
Blaze – real name Sam Boyd – was young and naive, and was literally a walking nuclear weapon. Why had fate led him to that idiot Mad Dog? Mad Dog couldn’t train the second word in his codename, even if it was the most amenable dog in the world, much less a hormone-addled teenage superhuman. Blaze was at least two years behind schedule, by Nightstriker’s estimation.
But his potential was enormous, and Nightstriker knew that, for all his dumb mistakes, he was a good kid. Nightstriker had watched as bullies pummeled him after school, for instance. Sam could’ve beaten them with ease, but then his secret identity would, of course, be ruined. He could’ve tried to surreptitiously use his powers to injure them, such as sending a tiny fire blast towards a tree and burning off a branch to crash down on them. But he didn’t. Whether that restraint was solely due to principle or because Sam didn’t think he could use his powers in such a refined manner, Nightstriker didn’t know.
He didn’t like his ignorance in that area, but there were plenty of other examples of Sam’s good heart. And every superteam needed someone with a truly good heart….
“What are you thinking about?” Gillespie said. “First you get nicked, now you space out. Do I need to schedule a physical and psychological evaluation?”
No mockery this time – that was a serious question. Already he was being poked and prodded….
“No, you don’t,” he replied, his genial disposition altering in a heartbeat, “and if you ask that question again, we will have a major disagreement.”
Gillespie arched an eyebrow. “Fine. Moving on: how is the selection process going?”
“As good as one could expect,” Nightstriker replied. “Buckshot has agreed to join – after ridiculing the entire concept, of course, and then rambling about nothing in particular for ten minutes. Slab is on board. Metal Gal was hesitant, but when I told her she’d be able to redesign parts of the Beacon, she agreed. I’ve talked to Blaze, but he hasn’t given me a decision yet. He has until tomorrow to decide.”
Gillespie slashed her arm through the holograms around her. They blinked out, and the room became darker, in more than one sense.
“That’s your team?” She might have been talking to a low-level soldier who’d just accidentally discharged his rifle. “You have dozens of seasoned, powerful superheroes to choose from, and you choose those four?”
“What’s the problem?” Nightstriker asked mildly.
“Buckshot is an ignorant hick. Slab isn’t much smarter. Metal Gal has more psychoses than the insanity wing at MegaMax Prison. Didn’t she turn herself into a giant toaster for a week, as some sort of meditative exercise? And Blaze is only eighteen. Do you really want to throw a kid into all this danger?”
“Are you done?”
“Not quite.” She walked over until she was only a few feet away from him, never breaking her stare. “Research has proven that seven is the ideal number of members for a superteam. You only have five, including yourself. Why?”
“That research you tout is questionable at best,” Nightstriker said, “and we’ve already tried big. You may recall a man named Professor Perfection. It’s time for something different. Five is plenty. If we need help, I have numerous other superheroes on standby, should we need more raw power, or specialized abilities.”
“Your thought process is facile,” Gillespie said. “You have reasons for only wanting five members. Maybe you fear you can’t control seven superhumans?”
Nightstriker stepped forward quickly. They were now inches apart, still glaring at each other. Nightstriker could count the blood vessels in Gillespie’s eyes. Moments passed. Then minutes. Finally, Gillespie blinked and stepped back.
“I’m disappointed, Nightstriker,” she said. “This isn’t the team I expected.”
“If I recall correctly, you said I would be allowed to form the team, but you’re already questioning my judgment and insulting my dedication and ability. I expected we would clash, but not so soon. So, listen carefully: I won’t stand for it. If you continue to push me, there will be consequences – and it won’t simply be me resigning and releasing a strongly-worded statement to the media. Is that understood?”
“No, it is not understood,” Gillespie said. “We’re supposed to be working together on this, but you’re acting as the mysterious, lone wolf Nightstriker, not the team leader we need. I challenged you because I can see you’re exhausted, and that exhaustion may be affecting your decisions. Perhaps I was too harsh, but I figured harsh words would have more effect on someone with your…personality. If you want an apology, you can have one: I apologize. Now, let’s return to being productive instead of sniping at each other.”
“No.” It was the wrong answer, and he knew it deep down, but anger and frustration seemed to hang over him like a fog. “Let me do my job, Gillespie. You do yours. If you really want to be useful, remove the safety parameters on these training programs. I don’t want to lose my edge because you’re afraid one of us is going to lose a few pints of blood.”
He stormed out of the room, nearly bumping into a soldier who was patrolling the hallway. The soldier looked like he was about to stop and verbally abuse this disrespectful jackass who’d almost banged into him, but once he saw who it was, he scurried away, staring at the floor.
Nightstriker reviewed his mental checklist as he walked down the hall. So many things to do. So much preparation. So much training. He never wanted it to end…or so he told himself….
Chapter Four
Blaze
“Absolutely not!” Sam’s father thundered. “At your age, and with you still in school…I can’t believe that bastard even asked you!”
“Dad, Nightstriker is not a bastard!” Sam said, trying to remain seated on the couch. If he stood, he’d start pacing and gesticulating, like his father, and might get so amped up that he accidentally unleashed his fire powers. “Well, he is, sort of – he’s tough, and he’s a loner, but he’s trying to do the right thing!”
“The right thing?” his father echoed. “I keep hearing those words, yet you can’t explain to me how joining the Elites, a superhero team that every supervillain on the planet will want to murder, is the right thing to do for an eighteen year old!”
“I have told you!” Sam shouted. “Nightstriker says I have Class S potential––”
“That’s not what Mad Dog told you, is it? Why should we believe Nightstriker over Mad Dog?”
“Well…because he’s Nightstriker.”
Sam’s father spread his arms and looked to the ceiling, like he was addressing a celestial being. “The great and all-knowing Nightstriker! We should all just bow down to his infinite wisdom!”
“No, but––” Sam began.
“Didn’t Nightstriker resign from the old Elites in disgrace? And isn’t he known for excessive force? There are a few supervillains in MegaMax who are still drinking through straws, if I recall.”
“Anthony, these hysterics aren’t helpful,” Sam’s mother said. Ninety percent of the time, she called Sam’s father Tony, like everyone else. When she used Anthony, it was an unmistakable shot across the bow.
Sam’s dad, however, was not to be derailed. He stormed about the living room, repeating the same arguments he’d been using since Sam dropped this bombshell on them. Sam and his mom continued sitting on the couch, though Sam could tell his mom wanted to jump up and rage just like he did.
&n
bsp; Achilles, the family’s amiable but stubborn husky, watched this argument from his favorite spot on the rug. He occasionally barked at Sam’s father, and when this didn’t stop the raging, he growled menacingly. Sam’s father would then stoop down to absently pet him, and this made him feel better – for a few seconds. Then it was back to barking and growling.
“Of all the low-down, manipulative…how long do you have to decide?” his father asked.
“Well, he gave me forty-eight hours, and that was thirty-six hours ago,” Sam replied.
“What?!” Anthony’s face turned even redder, something Sam didn’t think possible. “And you just tell us now?!”
“If I told you when it happened, all we would’ve done was argue for two days,” Sam said. “That wouldn’t be––”
“So now we’re going to argue for eight hours, instead of forty-eight,” Sam’s father said. “I guess I have to cram forty-eight hours worth of anger into eight, then!”
“No, you need to calm down,” Sam’s mother said, finally rising. She was petite, but, like her husband, a workout fanatic; she had the bearing of someone who knew they were fit and capable. Sam had heard many admiring comments from his friends, comments that invariably led to scuffles as Sam had to defend his mother’s honor. She was also a teacher in the same school Sam went to, and was used to disciplining troublesome teenagers.
Her husband, though, was a challenge – partly why she married him, as she told Sam often. Anthony Boyd had a Master’s degree in international relations, and worked at a Z City think tank. He’d been a star athlete in high school, and even got some playing time at the state school he attended. Like his wife, he still worked out relentlessly, and ran marathons and other grueling races regularly. He was a man accustomed to being in charge, a man accustomed to winning.
Sometimes, his father could be scarier than the most powerful supervillain.
“This is typical,” his father said. “You always side with him, and then you two gang up against me.”
