by Matt Cowper
Then a brown cloud appeared above the Giftgiver and his remaining Purifiers, shifting around in a way, that, if it had been controlled by a person, would have seemed angry and vengeful.
But it was being controlled by a person. Or rather, it was a person. Anna, the Purifier they’d captured, had been set free! She was there to help!
Or maybe Anna had escaped, killed most of the people on the Beacon, and then drifted down here to rejoin her mad leader. If that was the case, they were doomed.
But the brown smoke split up into six different strands, each one heading to a different Purifier. The Purifiers belatedly realized they were under assault, and whipped about their arms in a vain attempt to stave off the choking smoke. One fired an energy beam into the cloud, but Anna could not be hurt in her current form.
“You really are crazy!” Anna said, her voice filled with both sadness and anger. “To think I ever followed you…but I’m going to make up for my mistake now! You won’t destroy Z City! You won’t hurt anyone else, period!”
The Purifiers gagged and flailed, but Anna couldn’t be stopped. Her form continued flooding into their mouths and nostrils, turning their faces purple and causing them to make horrible retching noises. They each dropped to their knees before finally collapsing – including, most importantly, Natalie, the girl who’d been about to turn the city into a smoking crater.
The Giftgiver, though, wouldn’t submit. Whether Anna was holding back because she still felt some sort of loyalty to the man, or because he was too crazed and livid to give in, or because of a combination of the two, Nightstriker wasn’t certain. With a chest-rattling hack, he spat out some of the smoke and lurched to his feet.
“Won’t…surrender,” he said. “Would rather…die….”
He ran to the edge of the roof, and tendrils of Anna’s form gave chase. Some of the flying superheroes flew downward, anticipating what he was about to do. The Giftgiver jumped, his white robes momentarily flapping in the breeze before he plummeted towards the unforgiving pavement.
Then he popped back into view, carried by a giant, rubbery hand. The hand set the Giftgiver down on the roof, and then pulled up its owner.
“Mr. Flexible!” Blaze and Metal Gal said in unison.
“Hey, folks,” the elastic superhero said as his entire outstretched body made it to the roof. He snapped his body back into the size of a normal human, sending ripples through his frame.
“You’re not dead!” Blaze said, drifting over to the man.
“Nope, sure ain’t,” Mr. Flexible said, laughing, “though your concern does prove that my sham fall-to-the-death was convincing.”
“It definitely was,” Metal Gal said. “And now you popped back up just at the right time.”
“I guess I did,” Mr. Flexible said. “I’ve been fighting down below, but it was thinning out down there, so I decided to climb up here. Then I saw this guy pulling the same stunt I did. But he didn’t look very flexible, like me, and his white robes gave him away as the bad guy. So, I caught him.”
“Good work, Mr. Flexible,” Nightstriker said. “You are correct: this is the Giftgiver. Anna here thwarted his final plan, and he tried to commit suicide by jumping off this roof.” He bent over the barely-conscious villain. “You’re pathetic, Giftgiver. Your plans have become increasingly desperate as we’ve fought you, until you decided to kill yourself rather than face the consequences of your actions. Now let’s see who you really are – though I suspect I already know.”
He ripped off the Giftgiver’s white mask, making the villain wince. Brown eyes, a prominent nose, dimples – an average face.
“Who the heck is he?” Buckshot asked.
“He’s your everyday person,” Nightstriker replied. “Your unassuming neighbor. A schoolteacher. An insurance salesman. Perhaps an engineer or a plumber. He’s not a senator, or the offspring of royalty, or the CEO of a major company.”
“Stop…mocking me,” the Giftgiver said.
“I’m not – not exactly,” Nightstriker said. “I’m simply stating who you are. You’re an average person who wanted to be great – thus the mask and white robes, when your followers wear normal clothes. You created a cult of personality, and developed what you thought were unbeatable plans, all hoping to cement your place in history. Yes, you wanted to remake the world, as you put it, but you also wanted people to pay attention to you. Well, they have – and now you’re going to MegaMax Prison for the rest of your life.”
“Go…to hell,” the Giftgiver whispered.
“You’re done, Giftgiver. So much potential, all of it wasted.” Nightstriker lightly punched the man, and it was enough to finally knock him out. With the mastermind of this entire ordeal out of the picture, everyone visibly relaxed, and some of the superheroes even allowed themselves to smile and high five each other.
Nightstriker stood and looked up at the brown cloud that was floating above them.
“Anna, you did a great thing today,” he said. “If you hadn’t showed up when you did, I fear we wouldn’t have been able to stop Natalie in time. The entire city is indebted to you – and I will uphold my end of our bargain.”
The smoke swirled around, and he thought it formed into something that vaguely resembled a nervous smile for just a second.
“Thank you,” Anna said. “I’m glad…glad to help. If I’d have known he was going to do that…but he never mentioned….”
“We understand, Anna,” Metal Gal said. “He had the ability to give others superpowers, and he was smart enough to create a cult of personality, like Nightstriker said. It was easy to get sucked in.”
“Anna, we can discuss your options later,” Nightstriker said. “Remember, the city is still in turmoil.” He pulled out his commlink and spoke into it. “Gillespie, I want the news of the Giftgiver’s defeat spread throughout the city as quickly as possible. If you have footage of the fight, use it; images are more powerful than words. Without their leader, I doubt the remaining Purifiers will continue their crusade.”
“Already done, Nightstriker,” Gillespie said.
“Good. I suspected you’d have that handled, but I wanted to be sure.”
“Indeed. You know, you’re not the only one who understands human psychology.”
“True.” Nightstriker smirked at her comments, then cleared his throat and spoke in a clear, loud voice that carried up to the highest airborne heroes. “We’re not done yet, people. We need to put down the resistance in the other parts of the city. Everyone form into squads, no more than ten, no less than five. Try to form squads that have complimentary powers. Each squad will then head to a different hot spot. They shouldn’t be hard to find.”
The superheroes quickly assembled into groups, with some groups cycling through members as they tried to find a effective combination of superpowers. Strength paired with speed, telekinetics paired with forcefield-generators.
Nightstriker turned to the Elites. They were battered, but clearly still game. He looked up at Anna, then at Mr. Flexible, whose body was jiggling nervously.
“What about you two?” he asked. “Do you want to come with us?”
“Uh…me?” Anna said. “Well…are you sure?”
“You’ve proven yourself trustworthy, and your powers are, as you’ve shown, extremely useful,” Nightstriker said. “So yes, I want you with us.”
“Oh…OK.” The smoke formed into a clear image of a thumbs-up. “I’m in.”
“What about you?” Nightstriker asked Mr. Flexible.
“Well…it’s quite an honor, Nightstriker sir,” Mr. Flexible said, “but still…I don’t know…you all are the Elites. And you…you’re Nightstriker….”
“Oh, c’mon!” Metal Gal said. “Don’t be bashful! I know Nightstriker seems intimidating, and he was when this team first came together, but trust me, he’s turned into a big ol’ softie!”
Mr. Flexible snapped his head in Nightstriker’s direction, probably expecting the superhero to issue a harsh rebuttal to Metal Gal
. But Nightstriker only grinned, so Mr. Flexible grinned back, though clearly still more than a little confused.
“OK, I’m in too,” Mr. Flexible said, puffing up his muscles until he looked like a serious bodybuilder.
“All right.” Nightstriker spoke into the commlink. “Gillespie, inform every relevant official that peace will be restored to Z City before the day is done. The Elites have everything under control.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Blaze
Achilles, the Boyd family’s husky, couldn’t get enough of Sam. Every time Sam would stop petting him, he would plant his paws on the sofa and bark in Sam’s ear – and if that didn’t persuade the long-absent young human to resume stroking him, he’d poke Sam’s hand with his wet muzzle until the human did what he was supposed to do.
“Achilles sure did miss you,” Sam’s mom said.
“And I missed him,” Sam replied, rubbing the dog’s side, which made Achilles’s tail lash back and forth happily.
The Boyd family was sitting on the couch, watching the endless TV recaps of the epic battle with the Purifiers. The press was practically breathless from the event. The near-conquest of Z City by a madman, and then the near-destruction of said city when the madman’s plans were foiled were ratings gold. When the apocalypse was near, the press could be counted on to perform like top-flight Olympic athletes – but when things were “normal,” they didn’t seem to put much effort into covering the everyday struggles of the nation’s citizens.
The Giftgiver had a point about society’s rottenness, though his methods to provide a cure were extreme….
“Officials estimate that ninety percent of these Purifiers have been apprehended after the near-disastrous battle yesterday,” Amber Wachowski of KOOW news said on the television screen. “After the defeat of their leader, a man who called himself the Giftgiver, but who has now been identified as Bradley Poole, a schoolteacher at a local high school, morale among the Purifiers collapsed, and peace was quickly restored in Z City. The remaining ten percent of Purifiers still at large will be ‘pursued relentlessly,’ as Nightstriker, the leader of the Elites, put it.”
Sam’s father clapped him on the back for the fifth time since he’d returned home. It was nice to be congratulated, but when Sam thought how his father had reacted when he’d said he was joining the Elites, the contrast between his actions seemed unreal.
“My son, saving the world,” he said.
Achilles barked twice, apparently agreeing that Sam was a hero.
“Thanks, dad,” Sam replied. “But really, we just saved the city.”
“No, from what I’m hearing, Z City was just the start,” his dad said. “With the Giftgiver’s powers, he could add hundreds of people to his army in no time at all. If he succeeded here, disenfranchised people across the country would flock to the city, and we would’ve had another civil war on our hands.”
“Your father’s right,” Sam’s mom said. “You’re all true heroes. And your leader, Nightstriker…he really is all they say he is, isn’t he?”
Sam hadn’t told his parents how Nightstriker had grown from brutal martinet to loyalty-inspiring leader in a surprisingly short period of time. In the rush of hugs, laughter, and catch-up talk that had characterized his return home, he hadn’t had time to. And he didn’t know if he should – it would only make Nightstriker look weak and stubborn, and Sam thought some things should remain with the Elites.
“Yeah, he’s amazing,” Sam said. “He’s always ten steps ahead of everyone. And he never quits. You should’ve seen him after we rescued him from torture. I couldn’t have stopped him from rejoining the fight, even if I wanted to.”
“I have to revise my opinion on the man,” his father said. “I thought he was just another cold, ultra-violent vigilante, but there’s no doubt he was instrumental in saving this city.”
Cold and ultra-violent had been perfect ways to describe Nightstriker when Sam first met him, and those terms still applied to some degree. But again, Sam kept his thoughts to himself.
“You were plenty determined yourself,” his mother said, pointing at his stomach wound. “You kept fighting after that. How are you feeling now, Sam?”
“I told you I’m fine, mom,” Sam said, trying to put on a nonchalant smile. “The medical staff up on the Beacon are world-class. I’m just a little sore.”
“Don’t you all have superhumans with healing abilities?” his father asked. “They should be able to restore your body instantly.”
“Yeah, there are some out there,” Sam said, “but there are a lot of casualties to deal with, and using their powers fatigues them. I didn’t want to waste their time with a little stomach-hole.”
“A little hole?!” his mother said, nearly jumping off the couch. “Sam, I know you’re trying to be noble, but it’s completely ridiculous not to––”
“Calm down, Izzie,” Sam’s dad said, tenderly stroking her arm. “Sam said he was fine. And once Z City gets cleaned up and the injured taken care of, he can always avail himself of those people’s healing powers to heal the remaining damage”
“Well, I guess that’s true,” she said, relaxing a bit. “But don’t get any more holes blasted in you before you get this one taken care of. You hear me?”
Sam laughed and buried his hand in Achilles’s mane. “I’ll try not to.”
They all fell silent for a moment as the TV blared on. Images of the rubble, of the actual fighting, of heroism from unpowered citizens flashed across the screen. Yes, the press had enough material to fill the twenty-four hour news cycle for several days.
Sam looked around at the pleasant, well-tended living room, and out at the innocent trees in the yard. It felt great to be back in the home he grew up in. It was a peaceful, affectionate atmosphere. His parents, their pride bubbling out of them…Achilles, ecstatic to see him back home…the smell of his mother’s famous – his father would say infamous – lasagna wafting in from the kitchen. Memories flooded to the surface of his mind, playing out in front of him like holograms on the Beacon.
But as idyllic as this house in Forest Hills was, and as supportive as his parents were, he knew that it was no longer his home. Yes, he would visit often, and sleep in the bedroom he’d had since birth, but the Beacon was where he truly belonged, with his second family: the Elites.
As if she could read his mind – and having been caught by his mother in countless lies over the years, Sam wondered if she was a telepath herself – his mother verbalized his thoughts.
“So I guess you’re staying with this superteam, huh?” she said.
“Yeah,” Sam said. “It was touch-and-go at first, but we all came together when it really counted. And now that we’re all on the same page, I think we’ll really be tough to beat. I feel like I belong there, and my powers are…evolving, I guess is how you’d put it. I think I can be a Class S superhuman, if I train properly.”
“Yes, you certainly put on a show during the battle,” Sam’s father said. “But be careful. If you push yourself too hard, too fast…well, I don’t know what exactly will happen, but I picture you turning into a miniature sun.”
Sam laughed, but the laugh died when he saw how concerned and frightened his father was. And Sam supposed he had reason to be worried: when he really maxed out his powers, Sam could feel himself becoming one with the flames. Fire had poured out of his mouth, ears, even his eyes, during their battles, something that hadn’t happened until he joined the Elites.
But as much as he’d advanced, he felt there were still levels he hadn’t attained. Perhaps he could transform into what could be considered a living sun, as his dad had suggested….
“Don’t worry, dad,” Sam said. “Nightstriker knows how to train superhumans.”
“It’s not training I’m worried about,” his father replied. “I’m worried about something happening during the heat of battle – no pun intended. When your friends are in danger, I know you’ll do anything to save them, including pushing your
self further than you should.”
He was right, and Sam had no response – at least, not one that wasn’t an outright lie – so he remained silent.
Sam’s mother jumped up off the couch and clapped her hands, trying to dispel the dark mood that had suddenly settled in the living room. “So – the lasagna’s almost ready. Everyone wash up and set their places.”
Achilles walked over to Sam’s mother and looked up at her imploringly.
“Yes, you might get a few bites of lasagna,” she said, petting the husky, “or at least a nibble on some garlic bread.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sam’s dad said. “Your lasagna––”
“Not one word about the quality of my lasagna!” she said, wagging a finger at her husband. “And, for all your complaining, I notice you eat at least two helpings every time I make it, and assault the leftovers like you’re a malnourished soldier returning from the front. Now, get moving, the both of you – and over dinner, I hope Sam will tell us about this girlfriend of his.”
“Uh – what?” Sam said. Yes, Metal Gal was technically his girlfriend, but they hadn’t made an announcement or anything. His teammates had to know they were intimate, and they’d told Mr. Flexible they were an item, but he didn’t think any of them would shout to the world that Blaze and Metal Gal were dating.
Sam had been wondering what would happen when the tabloids got a hold of it, but as far as he knew, none of those self-styled muckrakers had learned about the “fire and metal” amours. But if that was true, how did his mother know?
The answer came to Sam quickly: because she was his mother.
“Girlfriend?” Sam’s dad blinked at them both, and even Achilles seemed confused. “Is that true, Sam?”
Now that he was thinking of Metal Gal, flames were dancing around him like pixies. It was impossible for his parents not to notice this, so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and then spoke.
“Yes, it’s true,” Sam said. “She’s…well, how can I put it…she’s made of metal….”
