The World Savers

by Matt Cowper

  “I hate when that happens,” Slab groaned. “I can’t drown, of course, cuz I don’t have lungs – well, not ones like a normal person – but it gets boring down there in the darkness. And people sometimes forget about me. I once spent a whole day at the bottom of Lake Michigan. It took forever to walk outta there.”

  “I won’t forget about you, Slab, I promise you that,” Nightstriker said. “But Slab’s anecdote proves my point: he has very clear strengths, and very clear weaknesses. There are ways we can counteract those weaknesses – by training as a team. Slab, you know that training has not been a high priority for you in the past. That will change. Understood?”

  Slab looked like he was going to go into battle-mode like Metal Gal, but instead he rubbed his rock-chin and grunted.

  “Sure, man, I get ya,” he said. “Teamwork makes the dream work, right?”

  Nightstriker pondered snuffing out this flippancy with a few more terse words, but he didn’t want to renew the arguing. Instead, he pointed to Blaze.

  “And our youngest member, Blaze,” he said. “He has fire-based powers – nothing new there, of course. Many superhumans have similar abilities. But Blaze is unquestionably head and shoulders above the rest. He has S Class potential – if he works at it relentlessly, that is.”

  The other three looked at Blaze like he was an invading supervillain. Blaze gulped, and tiny flames started flicking across his body.

  “This pup, a Class S?!” Buckshot said. “Why, I’ve got boxer shorts older’n him. He looks like he couldn’t cook a burger with his flame-powers.”

  “Nevertheless,” Nightstriker said, “his potential is enormous. I expect you all to help him reach it – and to help each other. As for you, Buckshot – you possess heightened senses and precise reflexes. You could’ve been a gymnast, a world-class mountain climber, or any other vocation where precision is needed. With your senses, you could’ve even been a sommelier. But you chose to be a marksman.”

  “And I’m a damn good one,” Buckshot said, making guns out of his fingers. “Best in the world. Can shoot a fly off a steer’s backside at a mile.”

  “Best in the world?” Metal Gal said. “I’ve heard the woman known as Deathrain is better.”

  “Those are lies, and damn lies!” Buckshot roared. “She’s only good cuz she’s got that healing factor of hers! If she misses and someone retaliates, she just heals back up and tries again! I don’t have that luxury. For me, it’s gotta be one shot, one kill.”

  “That segues to my next point,” Nightstriker said. “Lethal force is not authorized.”

  “You lost your mind?!” Buckshot said, swinging his boots off the table. “We’re fighting these crazy sadistic supervillains, and we gotta pull punches? That ain’t how I operate, boss man! Wish you woulda told me that before I signed on.”

  “I did tell you,” Nightstriker said, “but you were drunk. Which, again, segues to another point: you could be the best marksman in the world – but you’re not. Right now, I have you ranked at number ten.”

  “Ten?! That ain’t––”

  “You spend your time drinking, smoking, and whoring,” Nightstriker said. “Even with your superhuman abilities, your poor lifestyle still takes a toll. You can argue and threaten me all you want; deep down, you know it’s true. You’ve missed shots you should’ve made, and while you’ve tried to cover up these failures, there isn’t much you can hide from me.”

  For once, Buckshot was too agitated for words. He puffed his cigar, worked his fists, and glared at Nightstriker, but said nothing.

  “What about you, leader?” Metal Gal asked. Nightstriker noticed her eyes turn blue; she was scanning him on some level. “You’ve talked about our shortcomings and our potential. What about yours?”

  “A valid question,” Nightstriker said. He straightened up and looked at his new teammates in turn. “My shortcoming is obvious: I have no superpowers. I should not have to go into detail about why this is a limitation. But, unlike most heroes, I have driven myself to the absolute limits of human ability and endurance. Most heroes put in a good day’s work, and then go home to family and friends. They try to achieve a work-life balance. That is not my way, and that should not be your way. We are the Elites. We are supposed to be the best of the best. That’s why I took this position: because I believe I can help all of you become the world-class superheroes this world needs.”

  “You’re so humble,” Slab said sarcastically. “Maybe you should steal Professor Perfection’s name, since you don’t have any flaws.”

  “I didn’t say I was perfect,” Nightstriker said. “I said I try to achieve perfection. There is a difference. Perfection is unattainable, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t stop trying – especially if you possess enormous power, as you all do.”

  Blaze had been silent throughout all this. Now, however, he raised his hand slowly. Again, his teammates stared at the timid kid. Nightstriker nodded to him.

  “You don’t have to raise your hand, Blaze,” Nightstriker said. “This isn’t your high school. If you need to say something, say it.”

  “Yes, well…uh…I wanted to ask: are you really a leader?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve never led a team before, right? It’s always been you, and maybe one other person. And those other people say you’re…prickly. So, uh…can you lead us?”

  Nightstriker knew his anger was showing; the reactions of his new team told him. They were looking between him and Blaze, and Blaze was scrunching up in his seat, probably wishing he had size-changing or shapeshifting superpowers so he could remove himself from the tense situation before the legendary Nightstriker unleashed his wrath.

  But Nightstriker unclenched his fists and took several deep breaths, and tried to soften his hard look. The kid had asked a valid question, one he needed to answer. Yes, Nightstriker had plenty of knowledge, and had accomplished more than these four superhumans combined, but that didn’t mean he was a good teacher or a good leader.

  His reaction to Blaze’s question was troubling. A true leader didn’t flare up – no pun intended – whenever someone questioned him. He’d already growled at Beverly Gillespie, and now he was in danger of growling at Blaze.

  He would have to do better…but he still hadn’t gotten much sleep these past few days….

  “That’s a good question, Blaze,” Nightstriker said. His response deflated Buckshot and Slab, who’d clearly wanted to see the veteran ream out the rookie. “In response, all I can say is––”

  “Sir, you need to see this.” It was one of the analysts. An eager kid, much like Blaze. He looked concerned, even frightened, by whatever he was interrupting the meeting to tell his boss.

  “What is it?” Nightstriker said, not happy at having to take this detour, right when they were reaching a crucial point in their initial meeting.

  “Some superhumans are wreaking havoc in Z City, in Midtown, specifically,” the analyst said. “Three of them, all incredibly powerful. A few superheroes tried to fight them individually, but they all fell. Then the High Priests tried to subdue them, but they were beaten also.”

  In a flash, Buckshot was out of his seat. His sudden movement surprised his teammates, but it didn’t surprise Nightstriker; poor lifestyle or no, the man was still faster than even the most well-trained human. In years past, when he was in top form, he was even faster than Nightstriker, on a purely reflex level – but Buckshot didn’t need to know that.

  “The High Priests ain’t no pushovers,” Buckshot said. “We need to put our boots on the ground, boss man, and find a tall tree and a short rope for those rogues.”

  “I repeat, lethal force is not authorized,” Nightstriker said. “Kill someone, and I’ll throw you in MegaMax Prison myself. And the High Priests are little more than religious fanatics – their crime-fighting skills are subpar at best.”

  “Religious fanatics?!” Buckshot said, his spittle flying onto the conference table. “Why, cuz they’re Christian an
d vocal about it? Just like every other liberal, always knocking the religion this country was founded on. I bet if they were Muslim you’d be wanting to give them a humanitarian award!”

  “I didn’t know this country was founded on a particular religion,” Metal Gal said. “I’m reviewing my files…yes, you may recall something about freedom of religion in the Constituion. And many of the Founding Fathers were skeptics….”

  “Revisionist history!” Buckshot said. “You must’ve uploaded those trashy newfangled textbooks into your––”

  “Quiet, the both of you,” Nightstriker snapped. He turned back to the analyst. “Do you have footage of this attack?”

  “Yes, there are several cameras in the vicinity,” the analyst replied.

  “Put it on the screen.”

  The analyst returned to his station, and soon the video screen was filled with the images of the marauding superhumans. Cars exploded, concrete shattered, water mains ruptured. There were few civilians left; they’d all wisely ran away when the carnage began.

  The superheroes had not run away, as that would be a dereliction of duty. But they hadn’t succeeded in beating these three. Nightstriker saw a half-dozen spandex-clad heroes strewn across the chaotic street; whether they were alive or not, he couldn’t say.

  “These criminals aren’t familiar,” Nightstriker said, frowning. New superhumans frustrated him. Their power levels and experience were unknown, and that meant even the most well-prepared hero could be surprised. He tried to gather intel before engaging these new threats, but oftentimes it wasn’t possible, as the threat was immediate.

  “No, they’re not,” the analyst said. “There’s nothing about them in any database. Their powers are self-explanatory, though.”

  Nightstriker wasn’t so sure. Yes, he could see the overt effects of their powers: one was a muscular black man with all-white eyes who was enjoying pummeling everything in his path, even the trash cans. Clearly the muscle, much like Slab was their muscle. Another, a woman in a bafflingly scanty outfit, was slinging around purple energy – their version of Blaze. The last one, a thin, pale man, was strolling around the street with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes closed. Nothing seemed to be able to hurt him, and every so often glowing runes would appear in the air, and something nearby would burst into flame, freeze, or otherwise be ruined. A magic user – one of the most unpredictable superhumans.

  But looking closer, Nightstriker noticed some oddities. First, the black man was visibly panting, and sweat was pouring off him. He didn’t appear to have endurance to match his strength. Secondly, the purple-energy-slinging woman was only firing off a blast every four to five seconds; like her comrade, she apparently didn’t have the endurance to continuously fire.

  The magic user was the most perplexing. Nightstriker recognized the runes that appeared around him: they were used by a peaceful sect called the Guild of All-One, a group located in a far corner of Russia. They only used their magic to aid them in their monkish lives, for example to start a fire or freeze a piece of meat for storage. They did not show up halfway across the world and start demolishing a city. Only two members had ever gone rogue, and they were sitting in MegaMax. This pale man looked like he’d never been outside of Z City, much less traveled to Russia and trained for years to unlock the secrets of the Guild of All-One.

  “I don’t like this,” Nightstriker said. “Something’s wrong….”

  “Sir, Beverly Gillespie is waiting to be patched in,” the analyst said. “Should I put her on screen?”

  Nightstriker thought about declining, but he knew Gillespie would still find a way to make her voice heard. “Fine.”

  The scene in Z City changed to a large, professional office with a stellar view of the Washington Monument. Gillespie was sitting at her desk, as stern as always.

  “I take it you’re aware of the situation in Z City,” she said. “So, I have to wonder: why haven’t you deployed?”

  “I have the same question, lady!” Buckshot said. “Say, you’re the Secretary of Superhuman Affairs, ain’t ya? Well, since you have the President’s ear, maybe you can tell him this excessive capital gain tax is hurtin’ a good many––”

  “We haven’t even finished our first briefing yet,” Nightstriker said. “The team hasn’t had any training, and we don’t know the exact nature of these new threats. That’s a recipe for disaster. I will engage these superhumans by myself, before they––”

  “By yourself?!” Gillespie shouted. “I have no doubt you’re capable of beating all three of them at once – you’ve overcome bigger odds before – but I do not see the point in leaving four superhumans on the Beacon while you risk life and limb, regardless of how much training they’ve had.”

  “Damn right!” Buckshot said. He ran over to one of the transport pods. “These go down to the hangar, right? I remember somethin’ about that from the brochure you gave me. How you work this thing, folks? We need to get down to the city before they beat the stuffing outta any more o’ the good guys!”

  “Just step inside, and press the green button,” the analyst said. “Then it will––”

  Buckshot entered the cylinder and slammed the button with an open palm. There was a swishing sound as the door closed, and a “Yahoooooo” from the gunslinger as the pod rocketed down to the hangar.

  The other three had risen as well. Slab and Metal Gal seemed eager to follow Buckshot, but Blaze stood near his seat, his eyes on Nightstriker.

  “We goin’ or not, boss?” Slab asked.

  “Stay here,” Nightstriker said. “I’ll go after Buckshot and make sure––”

  “That’s not the answer I wanted,” Slab said. “You were supposed to say, ‘Elites assemble!’ or something like that.” He shrugged his boulder-shoulders. “Maybe next time. Say, these tubes are too small for me. How am I supposed to get down to the hangar? Stomp a hole in the floor?”

  “We designed one for your size, Slab,” the analyst said. “Look to your right.”

  “Oh, I see it. Thanks.” He jogged over to the jumbo transport tube, causing the whole floor to shake.

  Nightstriker walked over to the analyst and placed a decidedly unfriendly hand on his shoulder. “Stop helping them. Do you not realize I don’t want them to leave the Beacon?”

  “Oh. Uh…ok? I won’t say another word,” the analyst said, looking at Nightstriker’s hand like it was a poisonous snake. “That is, unless you ask me something.”

  “Up, up, and away!” Metal Gal sang as she skipped to a tube. “Actually, it’s down, down, and away!”

  A swishing noise, and she was gone too. Now only Blaze remained, and he was still looking at Nightstriker meekly.

  “You want me to stay?” Blaze asked, though judging from the flames dancing around his shoulders, he wanted to join his teammates and shoot some fireballs at supervillains.

  Nightstriker ran a hand across his face and rubbed his eyes. If only he could wipe away his fatigue and frustration with a flick of his palm….

  There was that doubt, that weakness again. He didn’t like that it kept cropping up. Something had to be done about it….

  If he’d confided in someone, they’d surely tell him to get some rest, as Gillespie had during their argument. But he didn’t have time to lounge about, not with everything going on.

  “No,” Nightstriker said. “We go to Z City. I need to salvage this situation – somehow.”

  “Alright!” Blaze said. He closed his fist, and orange flames surrounded it. “We’ll teach those jackasses a lesson!”

  “Perhaps,” Nightstriker said, “but I think the opposite will happen.”

  Chapter Six

  Blaze

  His first battle as an Elite! And on the first day, too! It was frickin’ awesome!

  Even better, he was flying in a Siren with Nightstriker! Metal Gal, Slab, and Buckshot had launched out of the hanger before him and Nightstriker even got there, so they’d been forced to take another ship. Not that Sam
minded; he got to spend some alone time with the legendary hero.

  Alone time? That sounded creepy. How about mentoring time, or team building time? Yeah, those sounded better.

  Nightstriker had even let him be co-pilot. True, Sam had never flown a Siren before, and Nightstriker hadn’t given him detailed instructions. He’d only said, “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to.” But a co-pilot was a co-pilot.

  As they’d taxied down the runway, Sam had thought it might’ve been faster for him to fly down to Z City, instead of taking the Siren. But then they’d exited the Beacon, and Nightstriker had pushed the throttle all the way forward, and Sam was slammed back into his seat. He glanced over at the display panel – 813 miles an hour?! He couldn’t fly anywhere close to that speed. Mad Dog had once clocked him at 105 miles per hour, but that had been a frightening speed to maintain. Even in the open air, and with his Fire Shield protecting him, he still felt like he’d lose control and slam into something.

  In no time, they’d burst through the cloud cover, and there was Z City, looking pristine and enchanting at this height. Jameson Bay shone. There was Ironrock Island, home of MegaMax Prison. There were the aesthetically pleasing homes and obsessively-maintained yards of the Garden, the city’s upper-middle class section of the city.

  As they descended, Sam could see more details, and the enchantment quickly faded away. There was Bootheel, the city’s poorer, blue-collar borough, all old brick buildings, rusting rooftop water tanks, and a few sprawling, soot-and-grime covered factories.

  And here was Midtown, their destination: gleaming skyscrapers, some with rooftop gardens and pools. Abundant parks filled with streams and ponds. The trendy-yet-business-friendly section of Z City. Where his father worked – his dad! He’d been so caught up in the excitement he’d forgotten about his own family.