Rogue Superheroes

by Matt Cowper

  For Nightstriker, the master of control, to be so concerned meant the situation was genuinely dire. Sam nodded to Metal Gal, who slipped an arm around him and helped him out of bed.

  They padded down a short corridor, then into a moderate-sized room. Like the room he'd awoken in, the walls and ceiling were made of concrete, and fluorescent lighting and wires were everywhere, but this room had a long wooden table with a dozen chairs, and a bank of large computer screens and workstations along one wall.

  The screens displayed numerous news feeds, and though they were all muted, the imagery clearly painted a near-hopeless picture.

  There were the Patriots, the false heroes they'd just fought, standing by President Lancaster as the President gave some sort of speech in the White House press room. He gestured respectfully towards the Patriots, and the Patriots smiled and applauded during certain points of his speech.

  Another feed showed protesters in some urban setting being pummeled by riot cops – and superheroes. Sam clenched his fists – he knew some of those caped crusaders. They were legitimate, not ex-villains reborn as government-sanctioned heroes.

  Or they were legitimate. Now they looked like fascist scum as they beat down the protesters with superspeed-enhanced fists, super-breath, and magic.

  “What the hell is going on?” Sam said.

  “The answer's in your question, kid,” the unmistakable voice of Buckshot said. “Hell is going on. It's like a civil war out there, except instead of just two sides, there are like fifty.”

  The rest of the team was there: Slab, looking uncharacteristically weary. Buckshot, his jeans and cowboy boots stained with blood. Gillespie, looking like she wanted to rip someone to shreds with her fingernails. Anna, her smoke-form all jagged edges and blackness.

  “How are you doing, Sam?” Anna asked.

  “Tired and confused.”

  “What about your powers?” Slab asked.

  Sam shook his head. “Still out.”

  His teammates glanced at each other with a nervousness – almost a hopelessness – that surprised him. It was almost like a Yankees manager telling his team they were going into the World Series without Babe Ruth.

  Sam knew he was powerful – potentially Class S, as Nightstriker was wont to remind him – but he didn't really consider himself their heaviest hitter. Metal Gal could fly and create energy beams much like he could, Slab was immensely strong and durable, Buckshot fought with dangerous precision, Anna could choke out nearly anyone, and Nightstriker was – well, Nightstriker. They were each dangerous in their own ways.

  But as he thought about it, he supposed the loss of his powers was indeed a tremendous blow to the Elites. His abilities had only increased in potency and versatility since he'd joined the team, and he had, of course, neutralized the Beacon's core meltdown.

  Did the team have a chance to correct all this chaos without him? And if they didn't, how the hell could he reactivate his powers in time to help them?

  “We will help Blaze regain his powers in any way we can,” Nightstriker said, as if he could read Sam's melancholy thoughts. “But right now, he needs to be caught up.”

  “Yeah, this whole thing is insane!” Sam said. “The Patriots sabotaged the Beacon, then tried to kill us! And Lancaster sanctioned everything?!”

  “He did indeed,” Nightstriker said. “The official version of these events is this: the Elites – us, of course – attempted to detonate the Beacon over Midtown, the economic heart of Z City. Our supposed reasoning? To murder the economic and political elites that reside there, so our evil revolution would be that much easier to bring about. Only the courageous intervention of the Patriots prevented this catastrophe. They were able to guide the Beacon to Bootheel, where its impact wasn't as deadly. The Elites still tried to wreak havoc, but they were handily defeated, and have now gone to ground.”

  “Those are fucking lies!” Sam shouted. “They can't––”

  “Of course they're lies,” Nightstriker said, “but when the President of the United States says it, people listen. Many people believe his statements completely. Many others know he's lying, but they hate the Elites – and in particular, me – so they don't care about the details.”

  “I can't...someone's got to be standing up to that tyrant.” He looked around, but his teammates didn't look encouraging. “Right?”

  “Perhaps the superhero community would,” Nightstriker said, “but then Lancaster revealed I was the one behind all these damning reports, leaks, and exposés. That, of course, is the truth, and he has incontrovertible evidence to support his claims. Most of the superheroes are chastened – like you all, they believe I acted rashly, that I've sullied the profession's name. The public agrees. Anti-superhuman legislation is already churning through Congress. Most superheroes, fearing for their existence, are hoping to stay on Lancaster's good side by going along with his despotism.”

  “This is...this is ridiculous!” Sam said. “All this happened since I'm been unconscious?!”

  “Lancaster knows we took a beating today,” Nightstriker said. “He wants to consolidate his position before we recover and hit back.”

  “And no one's fighting his lies?” Sam said. “These so-called heroes are just beating up normal human protesters like they're supervillains?!”

  “Plenty of superheroes are still worthy of the name,” Nightstriker said, “but like us, they've either gone underground or are staying out of the public eye. The Patriots have shown themselves to be lethal foes, and they are but one of the many government-sanctioned teams that have suddenly sprung up. The opposition is organized. We are not. Yet.”

  “Yet?” Sam said. “You have a plan, don't you?”

  Nightstriker looked away, a movement that shocked Sam more than if their leader had walked over and slapped him in the face. “I'm working on it. But before we discuss potential plans, Gillespie has some things to say.”

  The now-former Secretary of Superhuman Affairs stepped past Nightstriker, giving him a frigid look. Nightstriker didn't meet her eye, and again this stunned Sam.

  “As you know, Sam, I was on the Beacon during the meltdown,” she said. “I arrived just in time, having...persuaded a staffer for the Secretary of Defense to tell me all he knew. But though we were able to save countless lives today, I regret that I didn't move sooner. I knew something was off, that the administration was moving more and more towards violence and lunacy, but several other members of the Cabinet are honorable men and women – or so I thought. I thought they'd curb Lancaster's excesses, but they've abdicated responsibility. They care more about power than doing what's right.”

  “Unlike you,” Nightstriker put in.

  “Yes, but I never should've been put in this position!” Gillespie said hotly. “I worked hard to become Secretary of Superhuman Affairs! Now, instead of making the world a better place for both humans and superhumans, I'm an outlaw despised be millions!”

  “You can lacerate me all you want later,” Nightstriker said. “Right now, we need to be productive. Tell Sam about these Patriots.”

  Gillespie glared at Nightstriker, and Sam was sure she was going to pounce and try to stab Nightstriker in the eyes, like that crazy Judge and the Crimson Tiger. But she took several deep breaths and composed herself.

  “They're former supervillains,” she said, “as we learned at the battle. Pulled out of MegaMax Prison to do Lancaster's bidding. All immensely powerful. Surprisingly, they function well as a team. Either Lancaster has offered them a sweetheart deal, or he's implanted devices within those criminals that will kill them if they step out of line. Either way, they will be difficult to beat.”

  “But why would he use straight-up villains?” Sam asked. “Why not some of those gray-area heroes or anti-heroes?”

  “Lancaster clearly prioritizes viciousness,” Gillespie said. “In fact, MegaMax may end up emptied before all this is over; if he'd pull those five out of prison, he'd pull anyone out. He may even summon Professor Perfection back fr
om his island prison.”

  “God help us,” Buckshot muttered.

  “We would certainly need a god's help to defeat Professor Perfection,” Gillespie said, “but I think Lancaster using him is a long shot. Perfection can't be controlled; if set free, he'd turn on Lancaster soon enough, and restart his own plan to conquer the world – or as he'd put it, to ensure Earth's survival.”

  “OK, so ya'll are dumping a lot of info on me,” Sam said, “but I'm not hearing any plans of action.”

  An awkward silence.

  “What about you, Gillespie?” Sam asked. “You've stuck with us, when you could've thrown us to the wolves. What do you think we should do?”

  “I think...we should take out the Patriots,” she replied, though her delivery was far from convincing.

  “OK, that's––” Sam began.

  “That's a start,” Nightstriker interrupted, “but that's only one piece of the puzzle. We're not fighting some supervillain with relatively scarce resources – we're fighting the entire U.S. government. If we defeat the Patriots, a new team will be formed soon enough. And where will we put those imitation heroes if we do defeat them? MegaMax Prison is now, it appears, nothing more than a recruiting center for the President. Should we build our own prison? With what resources? None of us are wealthy – not that personal wealth would matter now. I'm sure all our financial accounts have been frozen.”

  “Wait...if they're ruining our personal lives, too...what about our families?!” Sam said.

  “Your family, as well as everyone else's family, is being looked after,” Nightstriker said.

  Sam waited for more, but nothing came.

  “That's it?” he asked. “Can you be more specific?”

  “They are being watched, by people I trust,” Nightstriker said. “Your family is safe, Blaze. If the government does know your identity – which is extremely likely, since you have revealed your identity to us, as well as several Beacon staffers – they're not making that information public.”

  “Public information or not, my folks are still in danger,” Sam said. “We need to get my family – everyone's family – and bring them underground too. The government can knock down their doors anytime they want, cart them off to some prison! Maybe toss them in MegaMax with all the psychos!”

  “I understand your concern, Sam––”

  “No, you don't! You don't have a family – not anymore!”

  Nightstriker grimaced for a second, and every muscle in his body seemed to tense. Then he returned to the normal controlled Nightstriker.

  Still, Sam had felt a wave of shock – even terror – roll over the room. He could feel the condemning eyes of his teammates, willing him to apologize.

  Bowing his head, he spoke: “I'm sorry, Nightstriker. That was out of line.”

  “Apology accepted,” Nightstriker said quickly – though his voice was as hard as Slab's arms. “And what you said is true. My family died...some time ago. But we need not revisit that tragedy right now. Suffice to say that I still know how...important familial and social connections are. The safety of everyone's family is a top priority.”

  “Well, 'scuse me for pissing on things after they were just getting sunny again,” Buckshot said, “but why should we trust you with our family's safety? You've fucked everything up, big time!”

  Sam waited for someone to defend Nightstriker, but no one did.

  “A valid question, I suppose,” Nightstriker said slowly. “If you want to review the details of my arrangements, you're welcome to. Perhaps improvements can be made.”

  Buckshot obviously expected a stronger response. But seeing as Nightstriker was not going to argue or physically duel with him, the Texas sharpshooter sighed and moved his hands away from his pistols.

  “Bastards got us arguing with each other, worrying about our families, hiding in this bunker,” he grumbled. “When we gonna punch them sumbitches in the fucking mouths and set things to rights?”

  “Soon,” Nightstriker said. That one word hung in the air – a promise, a threat, a proclamation of relentless justice.

  The Elites seemed to perk up, hearing their leader so resolute. Slab pounded his fists together, Anna whipped about, and Metal Gal's eyes glowed red.

  Then Gillespie ruined the moment again.

  “I agree that we should counter-attack soon,” she said, “but not with you at the helm.”

  Nightstriker slowly turned towards her, like an executioner measuring his prey.

  Beverly Gillespie, though, was not cowed in the least.

  “I believe you should step down as leader of the Elites,” she said.

  “Step down?” Nightstriker echoed, like he didn't quite understand the words.

  “Yes. Your judgment has consistently been poor. You took it upon yourself to try and change society. You underestimated the backlash your actions would generate. You persuaded Blaze to counter the Beacon's meltdown, at the cost, apparently, of his powers. Now arguably our most powerful member is almost helpless. And finally, you were not prepared for the Patriots.”

  “Gillespie––” Nightstriker began.

  “This is all your mess,” she went on. “And now, instead of abdicating your position, as any sensible person would, you continue to act as the team's leader. You continue to want us to trust you with not only our safety, but the safety of our families. It's ridiculous and insulting – and I demand you resign.”

  “Hey, let's not––” Sam said.

  But Nightstriker needed no support at the moment. He stormed over to Gillespie, looming over her as if he'd grown ten feet. A black cloud seemed to swoop into the room – and Nightstriker hadn't even spoken yet.

  When he did speak, Sam was surprised his voice didn't crack the concrete walls.

  “You demand?” he growled. “You demand? You're in no position to demand anything.”

  “I certainly can––”

  “Shut up. You had your say. Now I'll have mine. You are quick to blame me for this debacle, but what about your responsibilities? You were our liaison with the government. It was your job to keep your finger on the pulse of the administration. You even predicted they would try something like this when you figured out I was behind everything! Why didn't you learn of their plotting earlier?”

  “I...I...did the best I could,” Gillespie stammered.

  “If that's true, it was a pitiful showing,” Nightstriker said. “In fact, your actions are more than a little suspicious. You just so happened to show up right as the Beacon's core was in jeopardy? You only recently learned all the sordid details of Lancaster's plots by interrogating some government flunky?”

  “What are you insinuating?” Gillespie said, some of her fire returning. “That I'm a double agent? If I was, why would I have helped the team at all? Why would I be hiding here, instead of running to the surface to inform the Patriots where you're hiding?”

  “There could be many reasons,” Nightstriker said. “Perhaps President Lancaster is playing a more subtle game than I think. But let us move back to my supposed shortcomings. You criticize me for Blaze's...condition. I admit I miscalculated, but without Blaze, we would've all died – you know this as well as I. And I risked my life to keep the Beacon from plowing into Midtown. As for the Patriots, how could I have prepared for a team I didn't know existed? Regardless, I still led our escape – and likely saved Blaze's life.”

  He took a breath, his fury still radiating off him as if he'd acquired Sam's powers. “You know I'm not one to celebrate my feats. I am simply stating facts. I have made many mistakes, I admit that. But no one tries harder to rectify those mistakes.”

  “Yes, that's the vicious cycle we're in,” Gillespie said. “Nightstriker screws up. People get hurt. Nightstriker tries to undo the damage. But instead of learning from your mistakes, you repeat the cycle. The conflict with the Giftgiver was the same thing: you alienated the team, then pulled everything together, but only after the Giftgiver had become a top-level threat. When are you going to fu
cking grow up, Nightstriker?”

  “Grow up?!” Nightstriker said. “I am not a child, Gillespie!”

  Smoke whisked in between the two furious people, and they began hacking and wiping tears from their eyes. They each backed a few feet away from the other, then looked up at the thick brown cloud separating them irritably.

  “I'm sorry,” Anna said, “but you two were about to come to blows! We need to stick together! The Patriots and President Lancaster would be laughing if they saw us now!”

  “While that is true,” Gillespie said, “I am not backing down. Nightstriker should resign – now.”

  “And who will replace me as leader?” Nightstriker said. “You?”

  “You act as if I'm some rookie soldier,” Gillespie said. “I was once a member of the Superhuman Support Squad, the eminent special forces organization. I was the Secretary of Superhuman Affairs. I led the team briefly while you were captured by the Giftgiver, and I do not recall anyone having a problem with my leadership. I am beyond qualified.”

  Nightstriker glared at her, at the team, finally at a loss for words.

  “Gillespie does have a point,” Buckshot said.

  “Buckshot!” Metal Gal shouted.

  “What? Gillespie's as sharp as a tack, and Nightstriker is an ornery cuss who does stuff that backfires terribly. Why do we have to keep listenin' to him? Why don't we put it to a vote?”

  “I agree,” Slab said. “I mean, we're fighting against authoritarianism, right? What's wrong with a little democracy?”

  “But a vote will only agitate everyone even more, split us into two camps,” Metal Gal said. “Right now, we need unity, not––”

  “Oh, so folks should suspend elections because people might get angry?” Buckshot shot at her. “If I recall my history, plenty o' dictators have used similar excuses to hold onto their power.”

  “I'm not talking about elections or dictators or history!” Metal Gal shouted. “I'm talking about us!”

  “Principles still apply, darling,” Buckshot said.

  “Very well,” Nightstriker said, cutting off all arguments. Everyone stared at him. “We will have this vote.”