by Matt Cowper
“I know what you're about to say,” Sam said, “and I'm not going to a hospital. What could I tell them, anyway? Hey, I used to be a Class S superhuman, but then I absorbed a shit-ton of energy, and lost my powers. Got a pill for that?”
“I agree that going to a normal hospital wouldn't be prudent,” Mr. Flexible said, “but there are plenty of superheroes with medical and scientific backgrounds who could examine you.”
“Where?” Sam asked. “Back in Z City? How can we find them? And who can we trust? One of them could easily betray me, and I'd be locked up in MegaMax with everyone else.”
“Then what's your plan, Sam?” his mother asked. “Well, first off, I should ask the question we've all been avoiding: do you even want your powers back?”
Sam walked over to the window and looked out. Sand dunes, seagulls, a kid riding his bike. Peaceful. Safe. He could remain here with his family, start anew. His parents probably had enough money to afford a small cottage. Mr. Flexible would help them get set up with new identities, or even help financially if he could. Sam could return to high school, then either attend the local community college, or go off to the big state university.
He could live a normal life, away from the madness of the world. His resistance to heat would be his only quirk, and that was easily concealed.
But he rejected the fantasy almost as soon as it formed.
There was no running from the madness of the world. The rot was too deep. He would never be safe, not as long as men like President Lancaster ran the government.
While he loved his parents, the battle with the Giftgiver had given him a new home: with the Elites.
“I want my powers back,” Sam said, his voice coming out so forceful that everyone's eyebrows arched, and Achilles perked up his ears. “I need to save my friends. But even if I remain unpowered, I will find a way to save them – no matter what.”
Achilles barked and wagged his tail, pleased at this display of loyalty and bravery.
Mr. Flexible grinned his rubbery grin, and his parents hugged him tightly again.
“That's our boy,” his mother said. “Now, let's talk about how you're going to free the Elites and save the world.”
Chapter Seventeen
Nightstriker
The door to his cell opened, but Nightstriker didn't stand to receive his visitors. He continued sitting in the lotus position, arranging his thoughts for maximum efficiency.
The Judge stepped into the room and sneered down at him. “Still training and meditating, though your cause is hopeless? You continue to impress me, Nightstriker.”
“What do you want, Carrion?” Nightstriker asked. “Another punch to the face? I see the bruise is rising quite nicely.”
The Judge touched the bruise, but he remained composed. Perhaps he'd killed someone after he'd left Nightstriker earlier, to discharge his bloodlust. Nightstriker regretted driving the Judge to murder, but he could not act meek and broken – not here.
“No, I need you to come with me, old friend,” the Judge said. “It's time for you to be reunited with your teammates.”
Nightstriker stared at the Judge for a moment, then rose and stretched. The Judge motioned to the corridor, and they both stepped out.
Nightstriker examined the hallway quickly. Narrow, with recessed lighting behind thick plastic, everything as clean as the inside of his cell. There were no exposed wires or conduits, no cracks, not even a chewing gum wrapper someone had casually tossed aside. Nothing that could be used as a weapon...
...conventionally speaking, that is.
Two guards flanked the cell door, each weighing about two hundred and fifty pounds and armed with shotguns. They stared at Nightstriker through riot helmets, their eagerness to break his bones or fill his body with buckshot as obvious as their bulging muscles.
They probably weren't the regular MegaMax guards; these men had a viciousness about them that even the toughest prison guard lacked.
They were likely mercenaries, pulled by Lancaster's administration from whatever warzone they'd been operating in and set up here.
Nightstriker wondered how much they'd been paid, and through what department the government was funneling the payments. It would be interesting to investigate how far Lancaster was willing to go....
The Judge kicked him from behind, and Nightstriker staggered forward a few steps.
“Get moving,” he said. “We've got plenty of festivities ahead of us.” He leaned in and whispered so the two guards couldn't hear: “I'm supposed to remind you that this facility is totally secure, and that it would be idiotic for you to try something. Even that magic you use so rarely won't work here. But personally, I wish you would try something. I'd enjoy beating you down again.”
Nightstriker didn't bother replying, or even indicating he'd heard the Judge. He walked down the corridor, a guard on either side, the Judge stalking behind. The tension within the hall was like a wave of heat; he could see the guards' faces dripping with perspiration. Tough as they were, and as confident as the Judge had appeared, they all knew his abilities.
But Nightstriker wasn't going to lash out. Not yet. Dozens of eyes were surely watching them as they walked, as the Judge had intimated. If he attacked his escort, the corridor would be flooded with superhumans, and he'd be swarmed and beaten, and tossed back into his cell.
He needed to be defiant, but injuring himself for no purpose was idiotic.
They made a turn, then reached a stairwell. The men tightened around him. This would be an ideal place for the imprisoned hero to attack. With stairs leading both up and down, he had much more room to maneuver.
But Nightstriker kept walking at a steady place, his hands at his sides, his gaze fixed on the stairs.
They walked up two levels, then stepped out into another narrow corridor. A short walk, and they entered an enormous room. Someone could fit an aircraft carrier in the space. After being in his tiny cell for hours, it took Nightstriker a few moments to adjust to the room's enormity.
His attention quickly moved from the cavernous area to a group of people locked up in front of him: the Elites. His teammates and friends.
They were all in separate cages, and all of them looked haggard and frightened.
Slab and Buckshot wore nullifier manacles, which negated their powers. Buckshot's hyper-senses and agility were shut down, and while the manacles couldn't alter Slab's appearance, they reduced his massive strength and durability. Both men didn't even pretend to be defiant. Slab especially had taken some hard hits: large chunks had been knocked out of his rocky hide.
A forcefield surrounded Nimbus's cage, though her smoke-form constantly prodded the shimmering green energy, searching for an escape.
Metal Gal, to Nightstriker's amazement, had morphed into a large gray cube. Only by looking closely was he able to ascertain her facial features. He pondered the reason for this transformation, then saw Code standing nearby, her hands glowing softly. The tech-based villainess had to be keeping Gal in this form.
Finally, there was Gillespie, shackled hand and foot, stooped over like an elderly person with arthritis. She glanced at him quickly, then looked away, muttering something he couldn't hear.
This was his team. Once proud heroes, brave men and women who'd defeated the Giftgiver, now reduced to little more than whipped dogs.
The rest of the Patriots were in the large room, lounging about, telling each other jokes, laughing at their captives. All were present except Midnight. Nightstriker wondered what gruesome mission Lancaster had sent him on.
Nightstriker clenched his fists and looked at each of them – Code, Crimson Tiger, Breaker, and of course the Judge – then back at his helpless teammates.
They'd all pay for this. They'd pay dearly....
Someone else was in the room, hanging by the giant humming batteries that had to power the defenses for the cages: a slim, gray-haired man in a black suit with a loud red tie. He moved briskly over to Nightstriker and glared at him as if the hero wa
s little more than sewage.
This was Thomas Lancaster, President of the United States, and architect of the tyranny crushing the nation.
Nightstriker gauged the distance between the two of them, then noted the positioning of the two guards and the Judge.
He could get to Lancaster, lock him in a chokehold, hold him hostage, make the Patriots free his team....
But then the light in the room shimmered oddly on Lancaster's form.
Of course. A hologram.
He should've known. The President of the United States wouldn't personally step into this room with an unbound Nightstriker and the caged Elites. That was courting doom.
Nightstriker glanced over at Code, who winked at him. So she was the one projecting the hologram. Lancaster was probably at the White House, pacing the Oval Office, watching them all through some video feed.
The President stopped a few feet from Nightstriker. So close – yet in reality, hundreds of miles away.
“Nightstriker,” Lancaster said, scorn dripping from the word. “The anarchist himself.”
“Mr. President,” Nightstriker replied, making the honorific sound as dirty as he could.
“I've waited a long time to see you in an orange jumpsuit, locked up in here. The sight is immensely satisfying – as is seeing your teammates, and the traitorous Gillespie, driven into submission.”
“If you think you've beaten us, you're more delusional than I thought.”
Lancaster pointed a holographic finger at Nightstriker's chest. Nightstriker would have loved to break that digit, but he could do nothing but watch as the finger flickered as it “touched” him.
“Of course you'd say such a thing. You are Nightstriker, after all. But the scourge of the Elites ends right here, right now, in this room.”
“Are you planning to kill us? If so, get it over with.”
Lancaster chuckled. It was the chuckle of someone who enjoyed pulling wings off flies. “Kill you? Perhaps, in time. But not until we extract everything we can from you. You are especially valuable, Nightstriker. You have more knowledge within that mind of yours than a dozen experts on superhumans, and we know you have tech and databases hidden throughout the world. We – I – want it all.”
“You'll get nothing.”
“Yes, I will – but I didn't expect you to divulge everything simply because I asked. No, we'll have to persuade you.”
“Nothing you do to me will work. The Giftgiver tried to break me, and failed. You won't succeed either.”
“We likely would, if we stuck to torturing you. But unlike the situation with the Giftgiver, we have your teammates. You would endure any amount of pain, but you won't stand by and let them suffer.”
“Try me.”
The answer caused murmurs to run through the room. Both the Patriots and the Elites were taken aback, and Lancaster himself narrowed his eyes and adjusted his tie. It was the first nervous gesture he'd made.
“We'll see about that.” The President nodded towards Gillespie. “Start with her. Seeing my own Cabinet member backstab me has been one of the worst experiences of my life. A measure of revenge is in order. Crimson Tiger, make her bleed.”
Crimson Tiger let out a snarl, and bounded towards Gillespie's cage. Code tilted her hand, and the cage door swung open. The Tiger walked towards his prey, teeth gnashing.
The Judge and Lancaster studied Nightstriker, but the hero just stood there, arms clasped behind his back, looking placidly at Gillespie's cage.
With a feral roar, Crimson Tiger leapt. Though chained, Gillespie was still able to dodge the lunging butcher. Doing so, however, caused her to trip over her chains, and she fell hard, banging her head against the floor.
Tiger jumped again, this time landing on his target. Gillespie gasped as air was driven from her lungs. She struggled, trying to get some of the chains around Tiger's neck, but the villain just laughed and knocked her feeble attempts at offense aside.
Then he plunged his claws into her stomach, and a soul-wrenching scream echoed throughout the room.
Tiger pulled out his bloody hand, then licked some of Gillespie's blood from his knuckles.
Panting, Gillespie pressed both hands over the wound, but blood still trickled through her fingers and onto the floor.
Lancaster arched his eyebrows. “Well?”
“Well what?” Nightstriker replied.
Again, the President adjusted his tie. “Are you really going to stand there and let your teammates get slaughtered?”
“Yes.”
The Judge grabbed Nightstriker by the arm and leaned in so close Nightstriker could smell his rank breath. “He's lying. He's just biding time until he can come up with a plan to free them all. Let me in there, Mr. President, and we'll see how stoic he is when his friends' guts are strewn all over the floor.”
“Control yourself, Judge,” Lancaster said sharply. “This situation must be handled correctly – and that means you do not get to go on a killing spree. Every accommodation has been made for your unique condition. In fact, you just killed someone less than an hour ago. You do not need to kill again so quickly – and you won't, unless I order it. Understood?”
Twitching, the Judge faced Lancaster, and Nightstriker thought he was going to rush the hologram. But the murderer only said: “Understood, Mr. President.”
After staring down the Judge for a few more seconds, Lancaster turned back to Nightstriker. “The Judge's zeal can be...overbearing, I admit. But he is right about one thing: you are lying. You will give up your secrets, if we hurt your teammates enough.”
He walked towards the cages, stopping in front of Gillespie's.
“How does it feel, Beverly?” Lancaster asked. “A hard-driving woman such as yourself, now nothing but a convict. You reached the pinnacle, but now you wallow in the valley of your own hubris and incompetence. We've even learned you were voted to be leader of the Elites! Such stupidity. Nightstriker is ten times the leader you are. You lost the very first battle you led, in less than ten minutes.”
“You'll pay...for this,” Gillespie rasped. “If I have to––”
A hard backhand from Crimson Tiger silenced her. Smiling, Lancaster moved on to the next captive.
“Buckshot. Your stereotypical ignorant, foul-mouthed, loud Texan. The people in your state voted for my predecessor, and they'll surely vote for me, but my God, you people are scum.”
“Give me just one bullet, Mr. President,” Buckshot growled, “just one. We'll see how scummy I am then.”
“You had a large array of weapons when you fought the Patriots,” Lancaster said, “and you were defeated handily. Spare me your overdramatic threats.”
He moved on, stopping in front of Nimbus's forcefield-surrounded cage.
“A foolish cloud of vapor who wants to turn back into a foolish young woman,” Lancaster said. “You are barely worth mentioning.”
Nimbus whipped against the forcefield, to no avail. Nightstriker heard a sound that resembled a sob.
“Crying like the weakling you are, hm?” Lancaster said. “Well, you can't literally cry, but you know what I mean.”
He moved on to Slab.
“The rocky idiot,” Lancaster said. “What's your IQ, Slab? Do you even know what IQ means?”
“Fuck you, Lancaster,” Slab said. He strained weakly against the nullifier manacles, before giving up and staring forlornly at the man mocking him.
“No, I think not. And finally, Metal Gal. The half-mad cyborg...or are you a full-on robot now? It's hard to keep track.”
The cube that was Metal Gal rocked slightly, but Code closed her fist, and Gal made a gasping sound, before becoming still.
“You are the most interesting one to torture,” Lancaster said, like he was discussing his favorite book. “Now that Code controls you, she can morph your form into anything she desires. Though you can't feel physical pain in the conventional sense, your mind can suffer. Perhaps I'll have Code return you to that puddle-form you were stuck in when y
ou first became like this. That would be traumatic, I imagine.”
“Go ahead,” Nightstriker said.
Lancaster turned around quickly, his mouth working angrily.
“Boss, I can turn her into a puddle easy enough,” Code said, her emaciated face filled with glee. “And I can mess with her mind – or data bank, to be precise. Maybe even erase her personality, if I concentrate hard enough.”
“Do it,” Breaker said, laughing heartily. “Once she's a puddle, maybe I'll cook her up as a soup. Metal Gal clam chowder. I bet that'd go down real good.”
Lancaster walked back to Nightstriker, and again poked the holographic finger at him.
“Last chance,” the President said. “Tell us everything, or I command the Patriots to begin the torture in earnest.”
“Why?” Nightstriker asked.
The President tilted his head. “Why what?”
“Why go to all this trouble? Why destroy the Beacon, assemble the Patriots, capture us, keep society stirred up? I can understand your hatred of me; I did, after all, hurt the establishment deeply. If your quarrel was with me, why bring everyone else into it?”
“Stirring society up?” Lancaster replied. “You did that, not me. I value order. I value hierarchy. I value government's role in maintaining the welfare of this country.”
“Nonsense. You––”
“Shut up. I'm tired of you sanctimonious superheroes in your absurd circus costumes prancing around, acting as if you're the only ones sacrificing for society. You do the easy work: bopping crooks on the head or wrestling with equally absurd supervillains. Meanwhile, men like me have to do the tough work. We toil in small, uninviting rooms, hammering out legislation, signing treaties, coordinating federal agencies––”
“Ah, so that's what this is all about,” Nightstriker said. “You don't feel appreciated enough. Well, I'm sure we can construct a trophy or medal for you, Mr. President, if it will make you feel better.”
“I want nothing from you, except for you to stay out of the affairs of the true leaders of this country. As long as you did that, I was happy to let the public glorify your idiocy. But when you stepped into my domain, you made a terrible mistake.”