by Matt Cowper
“Weeeellll, I dunno about all the way,” Buckshot said, adjusting his tire-sized belt buckle, “but ol’ Nightstriker here has just surprised the beejesus outta me. I’m willing to stick around and see if he’s really bein’ gen-you-wine.”
“Me too,” Slab said. “Hell, Nightstriker apologizing? This is a bigger moment than the signing of the Magna Carta!”
“Me three!” Metal Gal said. “Er, actually it’s ‘me four.’ This is pretty exciting! And don’t worry too much about that nanotech, Nightstriker. It actually helped bring me and Sam closer together.”
Nightstriker looked between Sam and Metal Gal. He didn’t say anything, but Sam was sure he knew exactly what Gal was talking about.
“Closer together?” Buckshot said. “What the devil’s that mean?”
Metal Gal put her hands over her mouth, and her body turned red. “Oh! I didn’t mean…uh…nothing. I didn’t mean nothing. No, that’s a double negative. I meant to say: I did not mean anything. Except…um…team-building. That’s all I meant.”
Slab and Buckshot continued to scrutinize them both, and Sam was sure they were about to ask intrusive questions about man/android intimacy, but Nightstriker cleared his throat, regaining their attention.
“Now that we’re all in accord,” he said, “we can move on. A threat has arisen, one that will likely test us greatly.”
Using the video screen and the holographic system as visual aids, he told them about his interrogation of Randall Macomber, and about the Giftgiver and the awesome power he possessed. As they’d suspected, and as Nightstriker had just confirmed, he’d reconnoitered the forest where, according to Randall, the followers of the Giftgiver had lived in secrecy – and he’d found nothing. This seemed to bother Nightstriker greatly, and Sam found himself shifting in his seat uncomfortably.
“In conclusion,” Nightstriker said, “we are facing a powerful enemy whose goals are vague. Yes, remaking the world seems to be a clear goal on the surface, but grandiose ambitions are as hard to grasp as smoke. We need specifics: where they will attack, who they will abduct, what new laws they want enacted. Thus far we have little besides Randall’s testimony.”
“And you didn’t find anything in that forest?” Metal Gal asked. “Not even a scrap of paper?”
“I scoured the place for hours, and used every scanning tool at my disposal,” Nightstriker replied. “There was nothing. I suspect they have several Giftgiver-enhanced superhumans with powers that specifically erase their tracks.”
“Well, I’d still like to check out the spot myself,” Metal Gal said. “I can do some special stuff, you know.”
“Yes, I’ve cataloged your abilities,” Nightstriker said, “and there’s nothing you can do that I haven’t already tried.” He caught himself, and smiled. “But, if you wish to examine the place yourself, I have no objection. In fact, if the whole team looks the site over again, we might––”
“Sir, sorry to interrupt,” an analyst said, “but we’ve got another incident.”
“That’s not a problem,” Nightstriker said. “What’s your name?”
“Ummm…Toby.” He sounded like he was just sentencing himself to doom by telling Nightstriker his real name.
But Nightstriker just nodded. “Put it on screen, Toby.”
A familiar scene filled the room. The purple-energy woman and the bodybuilder black man were again wreaking havoc, and on the exact same street as before. Randall was in custody, of course, so their trio was now completed with a superhuman who moved with a precision Sam had rarely seen. It reminded him, actually, of Nightstriker – and of Buckshot, because he was wielding two pistols.
Buckshot jumped to his feet. “A gunslinger! Why, that’s my gig! I don’t take kindly to imitators, especially some fool cultists trying to do God-knows-what to this fine country! When do we deploy, boss man?”
“Soon,” Nightstriker said. “Do not go running off by yourselves in your impatience. You saw the effects of your rashness last time.”
Buckshot looked like he was about to argue, but instead he clamped down on his cigar. “You’re right, boss. An ounce of preparation is worth a pound of hell-for-leather charging, or however it goes.”
“Why are they attacking the same spot?” Slab asked. “They’ve already totaled it.”
“That is an interesting question, Slab,” Nightstriker said. “Have they made any pronouncements, Toby?”
“Just the standard vague stuff,” Toby replied, now convinced that he’d live after all. “They’ll remake the world, they’re ready to thrash the Elites again, etcetera etcetera.”
“I suspect a trap,” Nightstriker said. “When we fought those three earlier, I believe it was just a test to gather data. They wanted to see how fierce the superhero resistance was. We certainly didn’t scare them with our zeal, so now they’re emboldened, and ready to move on to the next phase.”
“Sorry, leader man,” Metal Gal said.
“It’s all our faults,” Nightstriker said. “Plenty of other heroes were beaten that day, remember. But still, I don’t want a repeat. Toby, scan the area. I’m not buying that it’s only three of them, like before. There have to be other superhumans nearby.”
“Already done, sir,” Toby said. “There’s no one around but those three and the superheroes who’ve tried to stop them.”
“They must have someone with cloaking powers,” Nightstriker said, “like they had someone to cover their tracks at the forest.”
“What are we gonna do?” Buckshot asked. “If a dozen more superhumans come crawling outta the woodwork, we’ll be whupped like red-headed stepchildren.”
“As much as I wanna punch that big muscly guy,” Slab said, “Buckshot’s right. It’d be dumb to just walk into an ambush.”
Nightstriker rubbed his chin, then looked thoughtfully at Sam. “Remember what Sam did yesterday. Ridding Metal Gal of the nanotech and using her voice-mimicking capabilities to cancel the program was impressive – and applicable to our current situation.”
“Uh, thanks,” Sam said, “but I don’t see the connection.”
The old Nightstriker would’ve lectured Sam on his obtuseness. The new Nightstriker simply nodded and explained what he meant: “The enemy is likely using an illusion to fool us. Delete the illusion, and we increase our odds considerably. Even better, if we create our own illusion, the enemy may break easily.”
“Sounds like you got a plan,” Buckshot said.
“Parts of one.” Sam could almost hear his mental gears turning; he’d never been more intimidated by simply watching someone think. “Everyone listen carefully….”
Chapter Thirteen
Blaze
It was difficult for Sam to restrain himself. Down below, the three superhumans were continuing their rampage unchecked. Most of the civilians had fled, but there was still plenty of stuff for them to wreck. Construction crews had moved in to clean up their earlier mess, and the three were having a grand time demolishing the bulldozers, cement trucks, cranes, and vans.
The Elites had a plan, Sam reminded himself, and he needed to stick to it. They’d proved in the first fight that running into battle as soon as they were notified of the disturbance was noble, but stupid. A plan needed to be formulated, even if taking the time to develop it resulted in more casualties. It was cold and calculating, but if they were defeated again because they weren’t prepared, it would only mean more people would get hurt in the future.
So Sam watched from the second-floor window of an office building, and waited. He was wearing his costume, but had moved a desk to the window to hide behind. If the three superhumans saw him – which was unlikely, as they were having too much fun – they’d see a human who appeared to be so paralyzed with fear he hadn’t yet run away. If they looked closer, they might see his mask or a part of his red and orange costume, but Sam was determined not to let that happen.
He didn’t know whose office this was, or what type of work this company did; the employees had evacuate
d as soon as the trouble hit. There were the usual filing cabinets, comfortable-looking leather chairs, and thick-pile carpet – most offices looked the same to him.
On the street, the black muscle-man had ripped off a dump truck tire and slung it into a coffee shop. Nightstriker had informed them that, according to Randall Macomber, this man was called Lucas. The purple-energy woman was named Olivia. The pistol guy’s name was still unknown.
Lucas was bellowing something to Olivia. Sam could see them clearly, but the thick glass window prevented him from hearing all but the most earth-shaking explosions. Reaching out, he heated up his hand, and melted a rectangular hole in the window. He only made it about the size of a pizza pan so he wouldn’t be seen. Air rushed into the office, along with the sound of crackling fire, and Lucas’s bellows.
“Where are the Elites?!” he shouted. “We’re ready for round two, suckers! You gonna let us tear this street apart again?”
“They’re probably still licking their wounds from last time,” Olivia said. “Oh well – we still have these heroes to play with.”
She grabbed the arm of a man in a green costume with webbed gloves and boots who was lying on top of a taxi. Sam felt bad for not remembering the guy’s name (was it Frog Man? Puddle Jumper? The Amazing Amphibian?) but this hero wasn’t exactly top-tier – and it showed. His costume was ripped to pieces, and his face was so swollen Sam was sure he couldn’t see a thing.
He seemed to be muttering something through bloody lips, but from this distance Sam couldn’t hear his exact words. Whatever he said, though, made Olivia laugh.
“Hey, Fitz,” she said. “Tadpole guy here says, and I quote, ‘The end is nigh for you.’ Can you believe these idiot also-rans? It’s like they get their dialogue from some old comic book.”
“It’s fucking pathetic,” the pistol guy said. So his name was Fitz; short for Fitzpatrick or Fitzsimmons, maybe. “But we won’t have to put up with these holier-than-thou buffoons much longer. The day of the status quo-worshipping superhero is over. The era of the Giftgiver, of the common man, has begun.”
“The common man, and the common woman,” Olivia said. “It’s time for true equality!” She shoved the frog guy off the taxi and gave him a light kick. “He’s not even worth blasting again. None of them are. When are––”
“Run!” someone yelled. “RUN!”
A man had appeared from an alley, and was rushing to the three superhumans, waving his arms. Red runes flashed around him like alarms. It was Randall Macomber.
The three superhumans stopped wrecking their surroundings and moved closer together. Lucas picked up a block of concrete, ready to hurl it. Purple energy crackled around Olivia. Fitz had his pistols leveled at Randall.
“Run!” Randall repeated. “They’re…they’re coming! In full force! Every superhero you’ve ever seen!”
“Randall?” Olivia said. “What are you doing here?!”
“I…I broke free.” He’d stopped a few yards from the three, and had his hands on his knees, catching his breath. “They were transferring me from the Beacon…to MegaMax Prison…and my nullifier manacles malfunctioned. I used my runes to get away, then I…laid low for a while…until I saw you all! You don’t know what you’re doing! You don’t know what they’ve got planned for you!”
“Slow down,” Fitz said, holstering his pistols. “Catch your breath. Who has plans for us? The Elites?”
“Yes,” Randall said. “Nightstriker…he tortured me…threatened me. He’s diabolical, truly diabolical. He’s got a plan for everything! He knows we’ve got superhumans with cloaking powers. He probably knows there are dozens of other superhumans here, waiting to ambush him! But he’s got a bigger ambush planned!”
“Let ’em come!” Lucas said, pounding his fists. “They can bring every superhero in the city, we’ll still outnumber them!”
“Wait a minute,” Olivia said, stepping closer to Randall. “Something doesn’t feel right. Why did Nightstriker tell you all this, Randall? And what did you tell Nightstriker? No one can hold out against that man’s interrogation.”
“No…no, they can’t,” Randall said. “I told him…everything. I’m sorry! But we have to get out of here! I know what I heard! It’s…awesome!”
“It was…awesome?” Lucas said.
“Sure is – but it’s not what you think.” Randall’s voice altered mid-sentence – changing into the voice of Metal Gal. “You see, I’m not really Randall. I’m Metal Gal. We fought last time, remember? Anyway, I just had to get close enough to counter that cloaking power. It was tricky, I admit – but, you see, even invisible people leave fingerprints and footprints. You folks really shouldn’t move when you’re cloaked. I bet there’s someone there, there, and there.”
She pointed at the three spots she’d mentioned, then Randall’s/Metal Gal’s arm transformed into a glowing yellow cannon, and she blasted where the cloaked superhumans supposedly were. Sure enough, the blasts hit something where there appeared to be nothing but air, and three human figures blinked into sight and went sprawling to the ground.
These three falling made about two dozen other people appear. Most of them were clearly superhumans, due to their altered physical states or energy displays, but they looked like kids who’d just lost their mothers in the mall.
“Oh, lookie there,” Metal Gal said. “I just so happened to hit the one with the cloaking powers. I had a dozen other targets locked, so I’d get them eventually, but this is better. Saves time. So – shall we dance, rogues?”
She blasted Olivia, propelling her into a port-a-potty. Olivia got an energy shield up in time, but the blast clearly hurt her, and getting covered in urine and feces from the portable toilet likely put a damper on her fighting spirit.
Metal Gal blasted Fitz next, but the man was too nimble, and had moved behind her in a blink. He pulled something from his pocket and snarled at Gal, but a pile of rubble a few feet away suddenly transformed into a man and knocked Fitz aside. It was Nightstriker; he was wearing a camouflage suit, and had crawled inch by inch towards the four of them. Sam had known what their leader was doing, and it had still been hard to distinguish the real man from the piles of rubble.
“You!” Fitz said, wiping blood from his nose. “They sent me just to counter you, Nightstriker. I have reflexes similar to––”
A flurry of blows. Grunts. A shout. Fitz fell to the ground, unconscious. They’d been moving in a blur, but Sam thought Fitz had actually managed to land some shots on Nightstriker. Not enough, though.
“You’re not fast enough,” Nightstriker said, “and you talk too much. Blaze! Blind them!”
Sam ignited his Fire Shield and roared down to the street. The dozens of superhumans were still standing there in shock. Sam smiled; the battle hadn’t even started, and they were out of it. Now this was how superheroing should be.
He formed a Galileo Ball and tossed it at a group of eight or so superhumans standing by an ATM. They covered their eyes and screamed – and were trampled by a runaway pile of rocks. Slab had emerged from his hiding spot underground.
“Cry havoc!” he yelled. “Let slip the dogs of war!”
“Uh…what?” Sam said.
“It’s from Shakespeare,” Slab said. “It’s a good battle cry, don’t you think?”
“Dammit!” Lucas yelled. He threw the chunk of concrete he was holding at Slab, but it did nothing but shatter into a hundred pieces. “Pull yourselves together, people! They got the jump on us, but – uck!”
He dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat. His eyes were about to pop out of his skull, and his face was turning purple.
Sam looked up at an office building that was opposite his own hiding spot. Buckshot stood at the second-story window waving, a rifle in his hand.
“Even the toughest cowboy’s gotta breathe,” he yelled down, “and with that steel ball lodged in your throat, breathing’s mighty difficult. Slab, why don’t you get that thing outta his gullet before he chokes to death?”<
br />
“With pleasure,” Slab said. He rumbled to Lucas, wound up his rock-fist, and punched the choking man in his impressive abs. The blow sounded like a wrecking ball hitting an ultimatium plate. Lucas spat out the steel ball, but he also went sailing through a building – then another building – then another – before evidently coming to a stop. Then again, he could’ve still been sailing along, and was just so far away they could no longer hear his destructive course.
“Holy mackerel!” Metal Gal said. She’d turned back to her normal sleek, gray form. “What a punch!”
“Commend each other later!” Nightstriker said. “We still have work to do!”
Some of the superhumans had finally broken out of their stupor, and had charged into battle. Sam made sure his Fire Shield was in full effect, and started tossing fireballs like baseballs. Some of the superhumans were more durable, and the fireballs did nothing but set them aflame. Others were downed instantly. One superhuman, though, looked like a walking icicle, and Sam’s attacks turned into steam as soon as they hit him.
He could fight the guy himself, and see if fire would win out over ice – or he could get help from a teammate.
“Gal!” he said. “I could use––”
“Already on it!” Metal Gal replied. She merged her arms into a spiked mace and gave the icicle guy a vicious blow to his frosty skull. He flew into a wall, and chips of ice fell from his body, beginning to melt as soon as they hit the sidewalk.
“Jack Frost won’t be nipping on anyone else’s heels!” Metal Gal said.
“Enough banter!” Nightstriker shouted. “Everyone focus, please!”
Their leader had already taken out at least five superhumans himself, and wasn’t slowing down. The ones without enhanced durability or shields he dispatched with a few swift blows. For more troublesome ones, like the woman who seemed to be able to create objects out of shadows, he reached into his costume and pulled out an explosive or gadget that defeated them instantly. Projectiles of all sorts flew around him, but they did nothing but singe his costume.
