by Matt Cowper
“Whaddaya mean, everyone?” one of the superheroes said. “You two are doing all the work!”
“Don’t worry, there’s still plenty of Purifiers left,” Sam said. He spoke into his commlink: “How are things going?”
“Just hunky-dory, fire kid,” Buckshot said. “Gillespie dropped plenty of ammo along with these gas masks, so I don’t haveta worry about conserving anything. These dolts keep runnin’ at me like I’m some teenager whose daddy just gave him his first rifle. Don’t they know they’re fightin’ the greatest marksman in the world?!”
Slab’s voice came through the commlink: “Didn’t Nightstriker say Deathrain was the greatest––”
“Hell no, she ain’t!” Buckshot shouted. “Not today, at least! You know damn well you’ve never seen a display of shooting like this!”
“You are doing pretty well,” Slab said reluctantly.
“Keep it up, guys,” Metal Gal said. “We’re at the south end of the building. You guys focus on the north side, and we’ll move upwards together.”
The group rushed towards the escalators, and moved to the next floor. Again, the gas was thick, but someone had shattered a window, and one of the Purifiers was trying to blow out the gas. Her super-breath was paltry, though, and she’d only cleared a small area of clean air around herself and a few others.
The Purifiers were shocked to see the army of superheroes storming towards them, when mere minutes ago they’d chased them away and seized the building. The put up a token resistance, but were easily overwhelmed.
The group then ascended to the next floor, filled with confidence – but, as Sam peered through the warren of office cubicles that had been mostly destroyed, he knew this fight wouldn’t be easy.
Not one, but two Purifiers with wind powers far more powerful than the super-breath girl’s had blown nearly all the gas out of the windows. Dozens of Purifiers stood around in the now-open area; whether they’d leveled walls and incinerated desks out of anger, by accident, or because they hoped to gain some tactical advantage, Sam didn’t know. What he did know was that they were charging them, and this group was obviously far more tenacious than the others.
Sam aimed a stream of fire at the floor, putting a wall of roaring flame between them and the Purifiers. But only seconds later, the fire wall disappeared, leaving behind nothing but scorched carpet. One of the wind-manipulaters had extinguished it, and, from the lack of strain on her face, had done so easily.
“Those two counter my powers,” Sam said. “They might even be able to snuff out my Fire Shield….”
“Have no fear, lover!” Metal Gal said. “I’ll handle them!”
She activated her thrusters and flew forward, clotheslining two of the Purifiers. But before she could get near the air-manipulaters, a shimmering image appeared in front of her, its edges like liquid gold. Sam thought he saw pyramids and a camel, but he couldn’t be certain. Metal Gal twisted, trying to use her thrusters to stop her advancement, but it was too little, too late. She slipped into the image, which then disappeared – along with Metal Gal.
“What the hell?!” Sam said.
“That was me.” A kid that could only be described as a punk rocker was leaning against a mauled desk. Spiked hair the color of a fire engine, torn jeans, about a thousand piercings and tattoos, and a leering expression that Sam was sure was his default look. “I create portals. That chick just got a one-way ticket to Egypt.”
“Bring her back!” Sam shouted, though he knew it was idiotic and pointless to do so.
“No fuckin’ way, hero boy,” the portal-maker said. “I’m sendin’ all you establishment jackasses outta here. Be nice, and I’ll send you someplace with oxygen and a decent climate. Put up any resistance, and I’ll ’port you to outer space, or the bottom of the ocean.”
Sam threw a fireball at the kid, but another Purifier, one with a body that resembled the Michelin Man, jumped in front of the blast. The blast did no harm to him that Sam could see, and before Sam could get off another shot, the Purifiers swarmed them.
They had a medley of powers: there were the standard superhumans with superstrength, one who splashed around the room like ink, another who could multiply herself, and of course the wind-manipulaters and the portal-maker. One superheroine was knocked down by an energy beam, and a portal appeared beneath her, blinking her out of the room. Sam thought he saw stars, and perhaps the moon, in the portal. The portal-maker had evidently kept his word, and sent the superheroine to space.
He was the most dangerous one by far, and the other Purifiers knew it. They protected him from every attack Sam and the others sent his way. If things looked really hairy, the kid simply created a portal that transported him to the other side of the room, and then leered at them in triumph.
If Sam could get his fiery hands on the kid, he could force him to bring Metal Gal and the other superheroine back – or was that even possible? Were his portals really only one-way, as he’d suggested? No, that had just been a turn of phrase. They had to work both ways….
But Sam wasn’t getting near the kid, not unless he unleashed some true power. That, however, would likely turn everything and everyone in the room into ash, except the stoutest superhumans. But if he didn’t stop that portal-maker, they’d get picked off one by one.
The Galileo Ball! Of course! He’d just used it, and now he’d completely forgotten it was a potent part of his repertoire, like an idiot. He began to form a Ball in one hand, while with his other hand he kept up his barrage of fireballs. But before the Ball could get larger than a tennis ball, it dissipated, and Sam felt his Fire Shield waver.
The room was now clear of knockout gas, and the two air-controllers were focusing on him. Hurricane-force winds shoved him backwards, and his fireballs were instantly neutralized. His Fire Shield began to blow off his body, and Sam was shocked as unprotected areas began to pop up all over him.
Then something hit him in the stomach, and pain flooded his senses. His concentration faltered, causing his Fire Shield to evaporate, and the wind blew him out of the room and clear down the hallway until he rammed into a water cooler.
As the water sloshed over him, Sam looked down at his stomach. The water was…red? Blood! It was his blood! Thick red liquid was gushing out of a hole on his right side. As it mixed with the water, it stained the carpet, the lower part of the wall, and the bottom portion of his costume.
Gritting his teeth, Sam sat up and felt his back. Another hole – whatever it was had gone clean through him. He supposed he should be grateful…but the pain…and the blood….
Calm down, Sam, he thought. The water was making the blood look more plentiful than it was. He was injured badly, but if he’d been hit in an critical spot, there’d be ten times more blood, and he’d already be on the brink of fainting.
He still needed to stop the bleeding, though…and that was going to cause him even more pain.
He held out his forefinger and created a tiny flame, concentrating to get it the right temperature. He needed to cauterize his wound, but a too-weak flame wouldn’t accomplish the task, while a too-powerful flame would melt right through his body.
When the flame appeared the right length and the right temperature, Sam took a deep breath, counted to three, and pointed it at his stomach. He thought he’d been in pain before, but this was worse…much worse. Stars danced around his vision, and blood filled his mouth; he’d forgotten to get something to bite down on, and had bitten into his tongue.
He pulled his hand away and looked down at his stomach. His flesh was blackened and bubbly, like something from a Halloween costume, but no more blood was pouring out. Sam wasn’t done, however; he still needed to cauterize his back.
Twisting around, he did his best to aim his flame-finger at the hole in his back, though he couldn’t really see it. A deep breath, a count to three…then more indescribable pain. This time he nearly did faint, and in his weakness his hand slipped, and the flame carved a line across his unwounded flesh before he
could concentrate enough to extinguish it.
He’d done it. He was no longer bleeding profusely. But there was too much pain, too much fatigue…too much, period.
No. He would not give up. Would Nightstriker let such a minor wound stop him? Of course not. The man had recovered from torture in only a few hours, on top of his lack of sleep, frustration with his teammates, and all the other challenges he’d been facing. Sam knew that, if this had happened to the Elites’ leader, he’d have already patched himself up and rejoined the battle.
No, Sam wouldn’t – couldn’t – give up. He rose slowly, using the wall for aid, until he was standing on unsteady legs. His vision was blurry, and his stomach felt like…well, it felt like there was a hole in it. He spat out the blood that was accumulating from his cut tongue, and shambled down the hallway, towards the warren of office cubicles.
But before he could make it ten feet, a portal appeared, and the punk rock kid stepped through it. He, of course, leered at Sam, and leaned against the wall like he was outside of some punk rock club.
“Lookie here,” he mocked. “Fire boy’s all outta gas, ain’t he?”
Sam didn’t reply.
“Aw, too hurt to even toss out a rebuttal? Here, let me put ya outta yer misery. I figure the North Pole’d be a good place for you. In your state, you probably can’t create fire strong enough to hold off the cold. A fire-powered superhero dying from frostbite and exposure – sorta ironic.”
A portal appeared in front of Sam, and he saw ice, a sea that was surely frigid, and snow racing through the air. He couldn’t feel the cold – apparently the climate of the different locations didn’t translate through the portals – but he could distinctly imagine what effect it would have on him. As the portal-maker had said, as weak as he was, he wouldn’t last thirty minutes in such an environment.
The kid stepped beside him and grabbed his shoulder, preparing to toss him to his doom. Sam wrenched away, but the kid whacked him on the head a few times and kneed him in his injured stomach. Again Sam fell, clutching his side. He wasn’t just in agony, he was humiliated: this asshole wasn’t more than a hundred and fifty pounds. In top form, Sam could’ve trounced him in a fistfight with ease. Now, though, he couldn’t even ward off the kid’s blows.
“Sayonara, fire kid,” the portal-maker said as he dragged Sam to his feet. “We gave ya’ll a chance to step down, and you didn’t take it. Those hack superheroes are all defeated, and the rest of your Elite buddies will be beaten soon enough.”
“You mean these buddies?” a voice said.
Through bleary eyes, Sam saw a wide, gray form and a man in a cowboy hat toting some sort of weapon. Slab and Buckshot…they were about ten yards down the hallway. As Sam focused, the twisted, bloodstained faces of his teammates seemed to fill the hall with palpable rage. They were angry and tired, but nowhere near beaten, as the portal-maker had taunted.
“It’s the granite quarry and the ignorant hick,” the portal-maker said. “My, my, you two look like you’re ready to murder.”
“We are,” Buckshot growled, leveling his shotgun at the kid. “Step away from our teammate, get down on your knees and put your hands over your head, and I just might refrain from sending a slug from this here shotgun through your ugly-ass miscreant head.”
“Oh, I tremble,” the portal-maker said. “You can’t do anything to hurt me. I’ll just shove the fire guy into this portal, jump in myself, and then ’port myself anywhere in the world. I already sent that metal chick to Egypt. I can drop you both into a volcano if I want to. Not even you could survive that, rock guy.”
Buckshot kept his shotgun pointed at the portal-maker, but he didn’t fire. Slab’s fists were clenched so tight Sam could hear them grinding, but he too was impotent. They’d never get to the portal-maker before he tossed Sam into the arctic grave in front of him.
Then the wall behind Sam exploded. He instinctively dropped, pain again ripping through his abdomen. Sheetrock, nails, and wood splinters showered down on him. Coughing, he brushed the dust and construction materials off his face and pushed himself up to a sitting position, wondering what had just happened.
Nightstriker had happened. Their leader had burst through the wall and grabbed the portal-maker. If Slab and Buckshot had looked fierce, Nightstriker looked like a god of wrath come down to Earth to unleash his fury. His costume was torn and dirty, and Sam saw at least two deep gashes across his body. But that didn’t stop him – indeed, Sam wondered if he’d injected himself with Overdrive Juice, as he’d done after they’d rescued him from that warehouse.
“You!” the portal-maker shouted. “Let go ’o me, Nightstriker, or I’ll––”
With both hands, Nightstriker twisted the kid’s arm with a brutality that, even given the situation, surprised Sam. The portal-maker let out a scream that caused Sam, Slab and Buckshot to wince, and the portal to the north pole snapped out of existence.
“I just broke your arm,” Nightstriker growled. “Hard to concentrate now, isn’t it? Hard to form your portals when you can barely think from the pain.”
“You…you can’t,” the kid whimpered. “You’re supposed to be a hero….”
“I am,” Nightstriker said, “just not the kind you see on cereal boxes. Now, listen carefully.” He grabbed the kid’s unbroken arm, and the kid feebly tried to get out of Nightstriker’s grip, but Nightstriker sent a vicious kick into the his ribs, likely breaking them, and ending any resistance. “You’re going to bring back all the superheroes you sent away. If you refuse, I break your three other limbs, then I start in on other areas of your body.”
“I can’t…can’t do it,” the kid whispered. “Hurting…too much….”
“Yes, it’s quite terrible,” Nightstriker said. “I realize I’ve hindered your abilities, so I’ll give you twenty seconds to get your wits about you. Once that countdown is up, I expect you to do what I commanded. If you attempt any tricks, you’ll pay. Understand?”
The kid’s leer was gone, and tears were running down his pale face. Sam knew he shouldn’t be glad someone’s arm had been broken in a manner that was inarguably sadistic, but at this point his empathy for these reckless, ignorant Purifiers was low.
“OK,” the portal-maker rasped. “I’ll do it. But…I’m sorry…some of ’em will be dead….”
“I know,” Nightstriker said, “and they will have their justice. You need not concern yourself with that now. Do as I say.”
The portal-maker gulped and closed his eyes. Ten different portals appeared in the hallway, their images showing ten different locales. The edges of the portals weren’t as distinctly golden as the kid’s previous conjurings, and Sam saw that, coupled with his broken arm, this use of his power was taking a tremendous toll. The kid bent over and vomited, spraying Nightstriker’s costume. Nightstriker gave no indication he cared about the ooze now running down his leg.
The portals blinked and shimmered, but they held, and then one by one, the teleported superheroes fell through, landing on the hallway’s carpet. As the kid had said, some were dead: one was charred almost beyond recognition, several appeared to have asphyxiated, and another was sopping wet, having evidently drowned.
Metal Gal was one of the live ones, and seeing her land on the carpet and then pop up, arm-cannon at the ready, filled Sam with so much joy he temporarily forgot he had a hole in his stomach.
“Whoa!” Metal Gal said, looking around at everyone. “I’m back! I was just about to launch into orbit, cut a line across the Atlantic, and come back here, but…what happened to these others?”
“Little bastard ’ported them to inhospitable locations,” Buckshot said, spitting in the kid’s direction. “They’re dead.”
They all glared at the punk rock-styled superhuman, and Nightstriker yanked him to his feet.
“Is that all of them?” Nightstriker asked.
“Yeah, that’s it,” the kid said. “I…I promise. I need to close the portals…before I pass out.”
“F
ine. Do it.” Nightstriker said.
The portals blinked away, and more vomit erupted from the kid’s trembling lips. He now looked dangerously pale, and was wheezing like he’d just run a marathon.
“I’m sorry,” the kid said. “Thought we were…doing the right thing….”
“If you had really and truly thought,” Nightstriker said, “you wouldn’t have murdered these heroes.”
He clocked the portal-maker with a punch that made Sam’s own head hurt, then lowered the unconscious kid to the floor. Reaching into a pouch on his costume, he pulled out a needle and injected the kid with a dark green substance.
“What’s that?” Slab asked.
“The strongest sedative known to man,” Nightstriker said. “He won’t wake up for approximately sixteen hours.” He looked out at the still-living superheroes who’d just been teleported back. “I need a flier to deliver this kid to the Beacon. Sedated or not, he can’t fall back into the Giftgiver’s hands. His power is far too dangerous.”
A woman in a purple and yellow costume with a feathery cape stepped forward. “I think I’m the only flier here, besides Blaze and Metal Gal. But I want to stay here and fight––”
“That’s understandable,” Nightstriker said. Though still wrathful and impatient, he seemed to be making an effort to strike a conciliatory tone. “What’s your name?”
“Sir, my code name’s Wren,” the woman said timidly.
A strange look passed over Nightstriker’s face. Sam didn’t know what his expression meant, exactly. It was almost like he was embarrassed, but Sam has no idea why conversing with this superheroine would embarrass the tough-as-nails Nightstriker.
“Yes, we’ve…met before,” Nightstriker said. “You can dispense with the sir, Wren. Now, as I was saying, this task is imperative. This is the most dangerous Purifier we’ve yet fought. He must be contained, and he must be put on trial for what’s he’s done. No one will criticize you for running from the heat of battle, or anything ridiculous like that – I’ll make sure of that myself. I need someone who will fly swift and true and bring this villain to the Beacon, no matter the cost. Can you do it?”
