The World Savers

by Matt Cowper

“Yes,” Randall said. “We’re all a community – a family. The Giftgiver brought us together, made us powerful, gave us a cause to focus on. Without him, we’d be nothing.”

  “Nothing? You were an auto mechanic––”

  “And what does society think about auto mechanics?” Randall asked. “They think we’re idiot grease monkeys, only worth talking to if something’s wrong with your car. You think those Wall Street types like us? The politicians, the middle-class office workers who think they’re God’s gift to the world? Blue-collar workers are invisible ninety percent of the time.”

  “These sound more like memorized talking points than carefully considered beliefs.”

  “Yeah, because I’m unable to form my own opinions, right? You sound just like the rest of them.”

  Nightstriker ran his hand through his hair, pondering his next line of questioning. “This sounds like an uprising of the proletariat. A cursory look at history shows those never go well.”

  “They never go well because they never get a chance to succeed,” Randall said. “As soon as the lower classes gain power, some other country barges in and tries to ‘restore stability’ – the United States, in many cases. But we will get a chance to succeed, because the Giftgiver can create an army of superhumans. How can you and your superhero club stand against that? You couldn’t even beat three of us!”

  Nightstriker wanted to slam the kid’s head onto the table a few more times, but he took a couple of deep breaths and tried to still his rage. Randall was poking open wounds, and Nightstriker was so damned tired….

  “This Giftgiver – who is he?” Nightstriker asked.

  “I don’t know,” Randall said. “Really. He always wears a mask and these elaborate robes – looks like the Pope. He has his own quarters at the – at the place – and no one ever goes in there but him. He lives a pure life, too. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs, isn’t intimate with anyone.”

  Or so Randall thought. Nightstriker suspected this Giftgiver was an expert at hiding his lust for power and women – or men, if that was his sexual orientation. Cult leaders were clever.

  “You said ‘at the place,’” Nightstriker said. “Where is this place? Where are you headquartered?”

  “I…I won’t….”

  “You will.” Nightstriker rose, slowly, threateningly. “Or I will put you in a hard-light training center and bring your nightmares to life.”

  “OK, OK!” Randall said, shrinking down in his seat. “We were all living in a forest outside of Z City. We cleared some ground, built some basic cabins. It was great – peaceful. But we’ve lived other places, too. The Giftgiver likes to move around so no one can easily find us.”

  And they’d probably be gone when Nightstriker showed up. They’d know Randall had been captured, and that he’d probably tell everything he knew. But people always left clues, no matter how obsessively they tried to cover their tracks.

  “I want the exact location of this place,” Nightstriker said.

  “OK, sure. Get me a map and I’ll point it out.”

  “I will. But before that, I have a few more questions: why send you and your two friends to Z City now? What was the point? You beat up a few superheroes and trashed a street and some offices, but you didn’t kill anyone, take any hostages, and you only made those vague declarations. The press, and everyone else, are still trying to figure out what drove your actions.”

  Randall smiled. With all the blood and sweat on his face, it looked macabre. “Confusion isn’t a bad thing. It makes people do stupid stuff. But don’t worry – the Giftgiver will release a statement soon enough so all the idiots get their ‘why.’ Then again, maybe he won’t. Whatever he does, you better get ready, Nightstriker. This is only the start. We were just the first salvo in what’ll be a very long war.”

  “I doubt that,” Nightstriker said. “You may have power, but you have no training. I could have defeated the three of you easily––”

  “But you didn’t,” Randall said, “because your dumbass teammates got in the way. You may think I’m stupid, Nightstriker, and maybe my training isn’t up to par, but I can see what’s right in front of my face. If you weren’t there, we would’ve flattened your pals.”

  He was right, but Nightstriker didn’t like to let a prisoner get the last word. However, he found he had no rebuttal. Instead, he rose and struck Randall in the side of the head, again sending him to the floor.

  “I’ll get a map,” Nightstriker growled, “and you’ll tell me exactly where that forest camp is.”

  Randall groaned in response, and Nightstriker left the room before he did something he truly regretted.

  Chapter Ten

  Blaze

  Sam hadn’t been up at six AM since he was a little kid on Christmas Day. Well, he’d had to get up at that hour to pee, but he’d just shuffled to the bathroom half-awake, poured some urine into the toilet, and shuffled back to bed. That didn’t count. Now, though, he was dressed in his superhero costume, ready for the training session Nightstriker had demanded they attend.

  To make matters worse, he hadn’t had breakfast. He’d meant to, but when his alarm went off, he just couldn’t get out of bed. A force that no one else in the history of mankind had felt was pressing him into the mattress. Someone may call that force simply “fatigue” or “grogginess,” but they didn’t know what they were talking about. So Sam had given himself five more minutes of rest, hoping that force would wear off. It didn’t, so he gave himself five more minutes. No one could be expected to arise under these conditions! And then, suddenly, it was five fifty-five, and he had to jump out of bed, put on his costume, and fly down the corridors, sending unsuspecting Beacon staff scrambling.

  Now they were all standing in Training Center One. Slab looked just as tired, if Sam was reading his rocky face correctly. Buckshot emitted the unmistakable odor of alcohol, and appeared to be wearing the exact same clothes as the day before. Metal Gal, though, looked perky – Sam wondered if she needed to sleep. He tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t let her gaze fall anywhere near him.

  Nightstriker stood apart from them, arms crossed. Sam expected him to be the most alert of any of them, but there were bags under his eyes, and a five o’clock shadow on his face. His black spandex was also stained with dirt.

  “You go to an archaeological dig, boss man?” Buckshot said, pointing at the dirt. “Or maybe a rodeo?”

  “Never mind that now,” Nightstriker said. “We’re here to train.”

  “Did you interrogate that rune-throwing guy?” Metal Gal asked. “I’d like to know what––”

  “I said never mind that now,” Nightstriker snapped. “Focus on training. After the debacle yesterday, you should all realize that this team is not prepared for combat. Those three superhumans were neophytes, and they still fought you to a standstill.”

  “Scuse me, but what’s neophyte mean?” Buckshot asked. “You usin’ all these big words around us ignorant folks. I’m just a boy from west Texas, not some Ivy League graduate.”

  “You know exactly what neophyte means,” Nightstriker said, “and this act of yours wastes time and alienates everyone around you.”

  “Well, if I’m so damned disagreeable, why’d you pick me for this team?” Buckshot asked.

  “Because, as I’ve told you numerous times, you all have the potential for greatness, if you work together and curb the excesses of your individual personalities.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been super inspired since I set foot on this floating ball,” Slab said. “Let’s do this training thing, huh? I need to get some rock grinding before I fall asleep.”

  “Very well,” Nightstriker said. “The objective of today’s session is simple: you four will try to find and defeat me.”

  Everyone glanced at each other. Sam saw unmistakable confidence – even glee – on the faces of his teammates.

  “That’s it?” Metal Gal asked. “Four versus one?”

  “Yes,” Nightstriker said.

&n
bsp; “Uh, sir?” Sam said, raising his hand. “That seems a bit unfair….”

  “We shall see,” Nightstriker said. “And I already told you that you don’t need to raise your hand if you want to speak. Now, we’ll begin. We won’t be fighting in this empty room, though. Computer, begin Program X. Lock program, override only via my voice command.”

  “Understood,” a computerized voice said.

  The room, which had been a cube of smooth metal, slowly changed. Plants appeared, then trees, then a blue sky. The temperature rose, as did the humidity. Frogs, birds, and what sounded like monkeys began singing and calling. They were in a jungle – a hard-light construct, Sam knew, but so realistic they might as well have teleported to the Amazon.

  Nightstriker had disappeared into the undergrowth, leaving the four of them standing in a small clearing covered in leaves – and, as Sam now saw, ants.

  “Crap!” He activated his Fire Shield, and the ants running up his leg were incinerated. He hovered a few feet above the ground so no other ants would try to climb him.

  Buckshot was slapping his own legs with a handkerchief, trying to get insects off. “Jungles! I hate jungles! I don’t mind heat, if it’s a dry heat, but this damn place is like a sauna! I’m already sweating!”

  “Eh, doesn’t matter much to me,” Slab said. “It takes a long time for my rocks to change temperature.”

  “I’m not much affected either,” Metal Gal said, “but I don’t like snakes and spiders and all the other stuff in the jungle.”

  “You got a point,” Slab said. “I certainly don’t want some big anaconda near me, even though I can smash it into a pulp. Those things are still scary.”

  “I suspect that’s why he chose this biome,” Metal Gal said. “He knew we wouldn’t like it. Well, I’m sure he’s nearby listening to us complain and writing up a report about how we’re wasting time. Let’s find him! If he wants to play tag, let’s play tag!”

  “Yeah, I’m tired of his sanctimonious attitude,” Slab said. “Breaking a few of his bones – accidentally, of course – would make me feel a whole lot better.”

  “Sanctimonious?” Buckshot said. “What, we got another wordsmith?”

  “I read stuff,” Slab said defensively. “I pick up words. You ever try reading, Bucky?”

  “Sure do, rock boy. But I read practical stuff like gun mags and military memoirs, not that complicated Shakespeare crap you seem to like. ‘Wherefore art thou, Romeo?’ That how it goes? What the hell does that mean, for Chrissakes?”

  “Reading classic literature can really enrich your––”

  “Guys!” Sam said, extending his Fire Shield to get their attention. “Here we are arguing again, instead of tracking Nightstriker. We need to get moving.”

  “Well, yes sir, teacher’s pet, sir,” Buckshot said. “Tell me, kid: do you prefer kissing the left side of Nightstriker’s ass or the right?”

  “That’s not––” Sam began.

  “Blaze’s right,” Metal Gal said. “We need to stop getting sidetracked.”

  “Sure thing, Gal,” Buckshot said, ogling her sleek metal body. Sam didn’t like it, but what could he do about it? Grab Buckshot and tell him to behave like a gentleman? Yeah, that would work. “You got a plan, then? This jungle could be the size of a real jungle. These hard-light thingamabobs are tricky.”

  “I’ll fly above the canopy and scan the area,” she said. “I should be able to detect Nightstriker’s heat signature and––”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he didn’t think of that,” Slab said. “I’m sure he hasn’t cloaked himself from every scan known to man or alien.”

  “Um, well…I should still be able to detect something,” Metal Gal said, her body turning maroon. “Blaze, come with me.”

  “Me?” Sam said, pointing at himself like an idiot. “Sure, OK.”

  Metal Gal transformed her legs into thrusters and roared skyward. Sam followed, trying to dodge the branches and thick leaves. He could’ve blazed right through them, of course, but he didn’t think Nightstriker would look upon that kindly; it would give away their position, and perhaps start a forest fire. A forest fire would potentially be useful – if Sam razed the jungle, Nightstriker would have nowhere to hide – but he knew he’d never do that to a real jungle, unless the stakes were impossibly high. He had to treat this hard-light construct like it was real, not like it was a program, for his training to be effective.

  Sam burst into the open air – and gasped. Buckshot was right: the jungle stretched as far as he could see. Mist rose from the valleys, and clouds sat on the horizon like far-off puffy cities. He thought he could see a gap in the dense growth to the east (or was it the west? or did directions matter here?), probably a river.

  If he flew higher into the atmosphere, would he see an end, or had this technology created a truly limitless jungle? He would’ve liked to find out, but they had a mission to complete.

  Metal Gal was floating nearby, her blue eyes scanning the jungle below. She looked absorbed in her task, so Sam kept quiet – not that he knew what to say, anyway.

  “Slab was right,” Metal Gal said. “I detect plenty of heat signatures – it’s a jungle, ya know – but not Nightstriker’s.”

  “Uh – then what do we do?”

  Metal Gal spun to face him. She didn’t seem peeved at him, or even nervous – she seemed cold and distant. That was somehow worse.

  “Well, can you see anything?” she asked.

  He didn’t know how he could detect something she couldn’t, but he looked closer at the jungle anyway. Trees, a few monkeys chattering nearby, mist, some brightly-colored birds. No Nightstriker.

  “No, I don’t,” Sam replied. “Maybe if we fly higher, you can scan a larger area––”

  Something screamed through the air. At first, Sam thought it was some bird of prey, but birds didn’t leave trails of smoke. It was a missile of some sort – heading right at Metal Gal.

  “Watch out!” he shouted, readying a fireball. “It’s––”

  But he was too late. The missile crashed into Metal Gal’s body, creating an explosion that seemed to cover the entire sky, and knocking Sam back down to the canopy. In his surprise, his Fire Shield had snuffed out, and the leaves and branches ripped at his body as he fell. His right shoulder collided with a thicker branch, and he cried out in pain. That pain forced him to concentrate harder, triggering his Fire Shield, which protected him from further harm. After falling a few more feet, he was able to right himself.

  Rubbing his shoulder – it didn’t feel dislocated, just bruised – he rushed up to where Metal Gal had been floating. But she was gone – there was nothing left but smoke and a smell like burning tires.

  She hadn’t been completely destroyed, had she? Nightstriker had fired that missile, there was no other explanation, and he wouldn’t do such a thing – would he?

  Sam looked down at the jungle, seeing if any of it had been disturbed. Maybe she’d just been knocked out of the sky…yes, he could see a few cracked branches, and it wasn’t at the spot he’d fallen. He flew down through the trees, following the trail, until he was about twenty feet above the ground. There was Metal Gal lying in a decaying log, her body misshapen and smoldering.

  “Metal Gal!” Sam shouted, turned off his Fire Shield and crouching by her. “Are you alright?”

  “No, I…took a good hit.” Her voice was weak and distorted. “I don’t know…what kind of missile…that was…but….”

  “Are you in pain? Can I, uh, do something to help you?”

  “I told you…I don’t feel pain…no, you can’t do anything. But please…stop looking at me…like I’m a freak. I know…my body looks gruesome…right now…but you don’t…have to stare….”

  Her body did look horrible: it was twisted up and partially melted, like a corpse you’d see in some war documentary. And Sam had been staring at the horror, like some rubbernecker staring at a traffic accident. He turned away shamefully.

  Something was crash
ing through the undergrowth, so Sam ignited his Fire Shield and prepared a fireball. But it was only Slab and Buckshot.

  “What the hell was that?!” Buckshot said. He was panting, and they couldn’t have run more than a hundred yards. “Aw, shit! Metal Gal, you look like you got run over by a giant lawnmower!”

  “Thank you…for pointing that out….” Metal Gal murmured.

  “We saw the explosion,” Slab said, carefully not looking at the contorted silvery body nearby. “She got hit with a missile or an RPG, right?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “It knocked me out of the sky, too. Banged up my shoulder. I’m fine though.”

  “You sure, kid?” Buckshot asked. “You’re favoring that shoulder like it’s dislocated.”

  “It’s not,” Sam said. “I’ve dislocated my shoulder before, but this doesn’t feel the same.”

  “If ya say so,” Buckshot said. He’d lit a cigarette, and was puffing on it madly. “What about Gal, though? Can you knit yourself back together, sweetie?”

  “Yes…but it will take…a few…wait. Something’s…in me.” Her body writhed like some demon-possessed person in a horror flick. “Nanotech! It must’ve been in the missile. It’s…overriding my commands. I can’t…repair!”

  “That’s just unfair!” Buckshot said. He tossed his cig aside, but instantly lit another. “Nightstriker! You cheatin’ coward! You had all this shit prepared, didn’t ya? How are we supposed to fight ya like this?”

  “Do you think a supervillain will fight fair, you white-trash scumbag?” a voice boomed. Everyone spun around, trying to find the source. It sounded like Nightstriker’s voice, but as if it was coming out of a dozen giant speakers. “Do you think if you storm a villain’s lair he won’t have traps set up to deter you?”

  “What’d you call me?!” Buckshot shouted, spitting out his freshly-lit cigarette in his fury. He whipped out two pistols and pointed them at random directions. “Come out, you arrogant prick! Let’s have a good ol’ fashioned high noon showdown!”

  “I think not,” Nightstriker said.

  Something whizzed through the air, and Buckshot dropped to the ground with a swiftness that nearly caused Sam to shoot off a fireball in shock.