by Matt Cowper
Another Purifier had alighted on the rooftop. Mr. Flexible again sent an elongated punch into the man’s stomach, but it had as much effect as if a beach ball had been tossed into the man’s abs. The Purifier, who looked like your standard jock, grinned and marched towards the nearest group of energy-slingers.
“Someone with flying and durability,” Mr. Flexible said. “I hate those.”
“I’ll handle him,” Sam said. A fireball appeared in his hand, and he threw it at the jock Purifier. Just like the kamikaze guy, the jock was overconfident, and didn’t even try to step out of the way of the white-hot, roaring blast.
Blaze’s fireball hit him square in the chest, scorching off half his clothes and dropping him like a sack of flour. He twitched for a few seconds, then lay still.
“Damn,” Mr. Flexible muttered.
“You see?” Metal Gal said. “These Purifiers think they’re invincible. The Giftgiver has brainwashed them into thinking they’re gonna inherit the world. Even their tangles with us haven’t taught them much. If we yield city hall, then surround them and crush them with a counterattack, we can win.”
“OK, I’m beginning to come around to this plan,” Mr. Flexible said. “So when do we fake our retreat?”
“Whenever Nightstriker gives the signal,” Sam said, “and knowing how he hates to waste time, that should be very soon.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nightstriker
Though constructed of thick oak, the door to the mayor’s office shattered from the force of Nightstriker’s kick. Knocking on the door and requesting entry would’ve been the polite option, but Nightstriker didn’t have time to stand there and talk back and forth while the people within the room stared at him through the peephole, trying to determine if he was the real Nightstriker or a shapeshifter in the Giftgiver’s army.
As he stepped into the mayor’s office, he was, as always, struck by its empty showiness. The wood of the bookcases and desks looked like it was polished daily, and numerous paintings, all of great value and all “loaned” to the mayor from various museums, graced the walls. As he’d researched the mayor thoroughly, as he researched all things, Nightstriker also knew that the plush forest green carpet had a square footage cost that would’ve made even a millionaire blanch. The Giftgiver was right about certain things: some of the people in positions of great responsibility and power were unabashed parasites and grifters.
The mayor, one John Sanderson, was cowering behind his enormous desk, flanked by two muscular bodyguards in identical black suits. Superhumans with superstrength abilities, the standard choice for the upper class. Intimidating to many, yes, but a poor use of resources. Superstrength was a common ability, and any experienced villain knew how to counter it. It would’ve been more prudent to pair together superhumans with different but complimentary powers, but Nightstriker knew people like the mayor valued strength above all else.
“Nightstriker?!” the mayor said, rising a little from behind the desk. “Is that the real you, or a fake you?”
“The real me,” Nightstriker replied. “Now, listen carefully, as we––”
“Hold up,” one of the bodyguards said, the one with the oiled-up black hair. He marched over to Nightstriker, crossed his arms, and stared down at the comparatively tiny superhero. “How can we trust you? The Giftgiver has all sorts of folks who can––”
In an instant, Nightstriker had pulled out an ultimatium baton, which he jabbed into the man’s throat, silencing him. A half dozen more blows followed, and the bodyguard flailed around like a man trying to walk on ice, and crashed into one of the mayor’s imported leather chairs.
“Yup, that’s him,” the other bodyguard said, glancing at his boss with an expression that unmistakably said he didn’t want to engage the superhero.
“Your employee will be fine,” Nightstriker said, holstering the baton. “Even though that baton was made of ultimatium, his durability can handle it.”
The mayor straightened up and adjusted his tie, then primly walked over to Nightstriker and held out his hand. “Good to see you, old friend. If anyone can sort this mess out, it’s you.”
Nightstriker ignored the hand, and resisted the urge to correct the “old friend” impression the mayor had. “No time for idle chatter. You all are leaving – now.”
The mayor stepped back and meekly put his hand at his side. “Leaving? Why?”
“We’re abandoning the building,” Nightstriker said.
“What?!” The mayor turned and swept his hand at his office’s massive – and so far intact – reinforced glass windows. Outside, the superhuman battle was only getting more frenzied and bloody. “Look at them out there! It’s barbarians at the gates, Nightstriker! We can’t allow them to take city hall! It’s a symbol of our––”
“It is indeed a symbol,” Nightstriker said, “and one that, as you were going to explain, they want badly. But storming into a building and holding it are two different things. We will retreat, make the Giftgiver think he’s won, and then when he appears and sets up command here, we will counterattack and end this.”
The mayor’s expression changed from outraged and surprised to intrigued in short order. Though far from being a true “man of the people,” he was intelligent and opportunistic – or a “conniving snake,” as his enemies put it.
Again, Nightstriker thought of the Giftgiver’s words. Had he, legendary hero that he was, neglected his duty by letting such men as this mayor achieve positions of power?
“It’s a good plan,” the mayor said, nodding, “and I’m sure you’ve considered everything––”
“I have,” Nightstriker said. “Everything is in order. The remaining people within city hall are already evacuating through the secret tunnel beneath the building. Were the Giftgiver better prepared, he’d know about this tunnel. But I’d wager he doesn’t.”
The mayor glanced at the bodyguard who was still standing and nodded. “OK. We leave. Winston! Get up. You aren’t hurt that badly.”
Winston, the bodyguard Nightstriker had pummeled, slowly rose, staring sheepishly at the man who had so easily beaten him. “Sorry, Nightstriker. Didn’t mean any disrespect. Was just trying to make sure––”
“Yes, I know,” Nightstriker said. “Now leave. I’ll give you five minutes to get clear, then we open the floodgates.”
The three men nodded, and, after taking one last look at the chaos outside, they headed to the splintered door. As the mayor passed him, Nightstriker grabbed his arm and leaned in, speaking in a whisper no one else could hear.
“Know this, Mr. Sanderson,” he said. “Men like you are why the Giftgiver has arisen. I’m also to blame: I’ve been shirking my duties, rationalizing that, in the grand scheme of things, your corruption isn’t that bad. No more. When this is over, there will be some major changes made, so I suggest you either clean up your act quickly or prepare yourself for a long prison sentence.”
The mayor, so buoyant just a few seconds ago, now looked like he was suffering from an acute gastrointestinal illness. He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it, and shuffled out with his bodyguards.
Nightstriker followed them to the hallway, then watched them enter a stairwell. He looked up and down the hallway, making sure no one else was lingering. To be absolutely certain, he pulled out a small sonar-based device, one of his Spiders, that could detect any heartbeats or other abnormalities within a short range.
Everyone else was gone but him.
Putting away the device, he reentered the mayor’s office and walked over to one of the paintings. It was a masterpiece of realism from a well-known seventeenth century painter depicting a quaint Dutch village. From the churning mill to the kids running free with their dog, it aroused feelings of safety, compassion, and fellowship.
That a man like the mayor had it caused Nightstriker another pang of anger…then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and focused on the task at hand.
He reached forward and ti
lted the painting slightly, then said, in a voice identical to the mayor’s, “I am God.”
There was beep, and a computerized voice said, “Voicecode recognized. Hello, mayor.”
A panel slid open beside the painting, revealing a small room clearly shielded with modified ultimatium. If this was the first time he’d done this, Nightstriker would’ve been impressed with the seamless design and the nigh-impenetrable shielding. Even superhumans with scanning abilities would have a difficult time finding this room. It had taken Nightstriker five hours to find it himself, during a break-in to this office years ago. And it had taken several more days before he learned that tilting the painting and using that voicecode gained one entry.
Unlike the mayor’s office, this secret room was tiny and ascetic by necessity. Inside there were gray, glinting modified ultimatium walls, a leather chair, and a wooden table with a lamp and some files – files that were highly sensitive. There were two chests by the far wall, and Nightstriker knew they contained more sensitive files, along with other resources – money, rare objects, incriminating photos used for blackmail – that the mayor had acquired over the years.
Why hadn’t he handed all this over to the press? It would’ve surely led to the mayor’s downfall, and the city council would’ve been forced to implement new rules to make sure there wouldn’t be a repeat of the travesty – at least for a while.
He was certain the mayor knew that he was aware of his transgressions. In the past, Nightstriker hadn’t had to resort to blackmail; the mayor simply gave him the assistance he needed at the time, his smile and hearty handshake seeming to confirm that they both knew what the real deal was.
Nightstriker had rationalized that it’s better the scoundrel you know than the one you don’t. The mayor, while a self-centered crook, did have an admirable work ethic. He wanted to be beloved and applauded, because that’s what kept him in power. That meant he had to push for useful legislation and present an altruistic agenda at least part of the time.
Rationalizations, plans for blackmail, deals with the devil….
But all that was going to change, once the Giftgiver was defeated. As Nightstriker’s teammate’s had done, the Giftgiver had taught him a lesson – and while Nightstriker’s stubbornness was iconic, even he could change his ways when their defectiveness was clearly pointed out to him.
He pulled out a commlink about the size of a marble and spoke: “Blaze, I’m ready. Start the retreat.”
The sounds of fireballs, laser beams, and the yells of unknown superheroes. Then Blaze replied: “Affirmative. Good luck.”
Nightstriker clicked off the commlink and entered the secret room. Inside, he wouldn’t be able to hear anything happening outside, and no electronic signals could go in or out. It didn’t matter: once the retreat began, the Purifiers – and hopefully the Giftgiver himself – would, according to his estimations, be here within five minutes. There was nothing to do but wait, and prepare himself for the final confrontation.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Blaze
“Alright, everyone!” Sam shouted. “That was the signal!”
The heroes on the rooftop kept shooting out projectiles, but their subtle movements told Sam they’d heard him. Their shots were now going well wide of their targets, and they were moving towards the center of the roof for extraction.
Sam clicked his commlink again, and spoke: “Did everyone get that?”
Buckshot’s booming voice practically jumped out of the commlink: “Sure did, pardnuh. Hate to leave, though. It’s like shooting mutated fish in a barrel down here!”
The sound of concrete cracking and a deep rumbling grunt that could only have come from Slab: “Yeah, with the help of all the other superheroes, I’m mowing these idiots down. But we gotta stick to the plan, right?”
“It’ll work,” Sam said, with more confidence than he felt. Now that they were on the brink of enacting the plan, he was having doubts. As Slab and Buckshot had noted, they were holding off the Purifiers expertly. Sam was, of course, mindful of their huge numbers disadvantage, but he felt they could still surmount it.
It wasn’t like he doubted Nightstriker; no one could come up with more watertight plans. But he still didn’t think the Giftgiver was so furious and power-mad that he’d walk right into this trap. Surely he’d see it for what it was, and take the proper precautions.
But on the other hand, Nightstriker seemed to understand the Giftgiver better than the villain understood himself.
Nightstriker had laid booby traps and surveillance throughout city hall, and was hidden inside the building himself; he’d be able to disable a large number of the Purifiers before the counterattack even really began.
By continuing the fighting here, the Elites and the other superheroes were bogging themselves down at this one point, when the whole city was burning.
Nightstriker was right: a swift end was needed. Sam just hoped everything went as their leader had planned.
To Sam’s right, Mr. Flexible was continuing to shoot out his elongated punches and kicks, but they weren’t as strong as before. He appeared to be flagging, though Sam and all the other heroes knew that wasn’t the case.
More and more Purifiers appeared on the rooftop. Sam and Metal Gal blasted a few of them to maintain the illusion of fierce resistance, then Sam did something he wasn’t keen on. He knew he needed to get hit and feign injury, and his Fire Shield felt as strong as it ever had, but as Nightstriker had so clearly established, ignorance of your opponent’s abilities could lead to ruin. Sam just had to hope the blast he took was as weak as it looked.
He zipped through the air, analyzing the Purifiers who were setting up a beachhead on the roof. One woman was shooting green energy out of her mouth; a thought came to Sam that she could earn good money doing toothpaste and mouthwash commercials. The green energy, though bright and fast-moving, didn’t seem very powerful. It grazed a few of the slower superheroes, and none of them started gushing blood or screaming in agony.
Sam flew directly at the woman, readying a fireball in each hand. He jacked up his Fire Shield as high as it could go; it felt like his very atoms were inflamed.
“Hey, you!” he shouted. “Try these on for size!”
He hurled the fireballs as inexpertly as he dared, and the woman easily dodged them. After sneering at his supposed incompetence, she opened her mouth and blasted her energy at him. Sam spun in the air, again trying to appear like he was legitimately trying to fight, but was hopelessly tired. The green blast nailed him on his side – and did nothing. It felt, literally, like someone had poked him with a pillow.
Of course, he couldn’t laugh at the woman’s feeble powers and resume his attack. Here’s where the real acting came in. He screamed as loudly as he could, so intensely, in fact, that fire began pouring out of his mouth, similar to the woman’s energy. He careened down to the rooftop, crashing into its reinforced surface and melting a channel about twenty yards long before he came to a stop.
“Blaze!” Metal Gal shouted. She swooped down to him, taking some hits herself in her fake-concern for his well-being.
“So, what do you think?” Sam said as Metal Gal cradled him.
“Bravo!” she said. “You deserve an Academy Award. The Best Actor in an Apocalyptic Superhuman Drama goes to…but enough joking. Let’s get out of here.”
She lifted Sam up, then morphed her arms around him so that he was surrounded by a shield that looked very much like a manger. The Purifiers continued to pelt her with projectile attacks, causing her form to warp and puddle.
“Are you…?” Sam began.
“I’m fine,” she replied. “Some of these shots are doing damage, but I can handle it.”
She floated into the air, then, after altering her jaw area so a megaphone-like object appeared, blared out: “Retreat! There’s too many of them! Fliers, carry everyone you can!”
In an instant, dozens of superheroes were being lifted off the roof. To Sam, it looked a little too
coordinated. He had to hope the Purifiers saw the retreat as the action of well-trained but frightened superheroes, not as a massive deceit.
The Purifiers seemed to be buying it. They raced across the now-emptying roof like they were participating in a shopping spree, their faces euphoric. They continued shooting at the airborne heroes, but it was obvious they thought victory was theirs, and there was little need to keep fighting so intensely.
One superhero still remained, though, and this wasn’t part of the plan. Mr. Flexible was bouncing, slipping, sliding, and jiggling across the rooftop, walloping any Purifier who got near. The Purifiers didn’t seem too concerned, though; in their eyes, they’d already won, and this was just some idiot who’d stayed behind to martyr himself.
“Get out of there, Mr. Flexible!” Sam yelled.
At first, Sam didn’t think the elastic hero heard him. Then Mr. Flexible elongated his head so his face was above the eyesight level of the Purifiers on the roof. The left side of his face bulged, and his eye became as large as a whale’s – and he winked.
“Looks like he’s going to try and surpass your acting, Sam,” Metal Gal said.
Mr. Flexible snapped his body back into a normal person’s size, as if he needed a rest from using his powers. He looked around wildly at the surrounding Purifiers, then yelled something that was probably brave and tenacious – only to have a dozen energy beams slam into his chest. He was driven off the roof, and fell down out of sight. A few Purifiers rushed to the edge of the roof to see what became of him, but most of them just stood there, high-fiving and firing a few last lazy beams at the departing superheroes.
From this angle, Sam couldn’t see what had happened to Mr. Flexible. With his powers, he could likely survive a fall from any height, or if he didn’t want to take a chance he could expand himself into a hang-glider-like form and float downward. But those energy beams hitting him….
“I hope he really was acting,” Sam said, “and not just doing something stupid.”
“There’s too much interference for me to scan,” Metal Gal replied, “but I’m sure he’s OK.”
