Rogue Superheroes

by Matt Cowper

  “You still haven't answered one of my questions,” Nightstriker said. “Why bring everyone else into this, if your real feud is with me?”

  “You have too much influence. I can already see mini-Nightstrikers beginning to develop – specifically, in Blaze's case. I want you gone, as well as everyone else you've tainted. The last thing I want is for another arrogant meddler to pop up as soon as I get rid of you.”

  Lancaster smirked. “To that end, I needed to grab public opinion away from you all, while also neutralizing the admittedly powerful superhero threat. I believe I've done both quite adroitly.”

  “Bragging doesn't suit you, Mr. President,” Nightstriker growled.

  “You're right, but I believe I can allow myself some indulgence. I have, after all, worked hard to ensure this outcome.” His eyes bore into Nightstriker. “Now, we both know you're asking these questions to stall me. Let's get back to the task at hand, shall we?”

  “Very well,” Nightstriker replied.

  In a flash, he jabbed the guard to his left in the throat and yanked the shotgun from his hands. A blow with the butt end of the gun to the man's forehead sent him tumbling.

  The Judge ran for cover behind Breaker. Crimson Tiger grabbed Gillespie and held her in front of him. Code also stepped behind the large, durable form of Breaker.

  Through all this, Lancaster frowned, like he was a director whose actors weren't obeying his instructions.

  The guard to Nightstriker's right leveled his own shotgun, but Lancaster's holographic form stepped in his way.

  “Do not attack him!” the President commanded. “He is far too important!”

  “What the fuck, Lancaster?” the Judge shouted. “He's got a damn shotgun now! With that, he can––”

  “Be quiet!” Lancaster said. “I can see for myself he has a shotgun. But he is only one unpowered man, trapped in MegaMax Prison, facing you all plus dozens of other superhumans stationed nearby. He can do nothing.”

  “I beg to differ,” Nightstriker said. “You should have shackled me like the others.”

  “Perhaps,” Lancaster said, “but I was advised against it. I believe the superhumans here in MegaMax wanted you to try something like this, so they could put you down.”

  “Listening to them was a big mistake,” Nightstriker said.

  “No, a minor one,” Lancaster said. “You have one shotgun, with, what, five shells? What will you do with it? Blast your way to the surface, then use it as a boat to swim to the mainland?”

  “No, I'll do this.”

  He pointed the gun at his own head, the barrel resting against his cheek, and pulled back the hammer.

  “Nightstriker, no!” Gillespie yelled.

  “What the hell you doing, man?!” Buckshot said, banging his manacles against the cage bars.

  “Suicide,” Nightstriker said simply. “All my knowledge, all my resources – lost forever. That is, unless you free my teammates. If you don't, I end this.”

  “Bullshit!” the Judge shouted. “If you killed yourself, we'd just torture and kill your teammates anyway, then move on to the rest of the rebellious superhero population! And you'd be unable to do anything, being worm food! No, much as I'd like to see you dead, this is a bluff!”

  “What do you think, Lancaster?” Nightstriker asked. “Am I bluffing?”

  The President's eyes danced between Nightstriker's face and the shotgun. The hologram now had beads of sweat showing on its forehead.

  But Thomas Lancaster hadn't gotten to where he was by completely crumbling under pressure. He took a deep breath, then frowned at the supposedly suicidal hero.

  “I believe you'd do nearly anything to free your team and stop me,” he said, “but suicide? No. As the Judge said, it would be pointless.”

  “You're wrong,” Nightstriker said. “Last chance, Mr. President. Free my team, or I press this trigger.”

  “I'm not freeing anyone. Put down the shotgun before––”

  “Fine. You've made your choice.”

  He pulled the trigger. There was a deafening blast, then everything went black.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Blaze

  “Anything?” Sam's dad said.

  “Nothing,” Sam replied.

  Achilles barked, confused at the humans standing around in the kitchen. And why was Sam's hand in the hot oven?

  The reason: after much discussion, they'd decided to turn on the bed-and-breakfast's oven, hoping its heat could jumpstart Sam's powers. Mr. Flexible was the leading proponent of this idea. He reasoned that if Nightstriker had said Sam should jump into a volcano, then perhaps being in contact with extreme heat would work.

  But Sam had been holding his hand within a 450 degree oven for ten minutes, and there had been no noticeable effect. He'd touched the sides and grabbed the grills, and still he couldn't conjure flame. He still had his heat resistance, so the oven wasn't hurting him; Sam supposed that was one positive point.

  They'd sent Bonnie, the Sea Whisper's owner, out to get some eggs, claiming that Sam loved massive omelets for breakfast. Bonnie smiled knowingly, and left without much discussion. As soon as she was out of sight, they'd huddled in the kitchen and begun their experiment.

  Sam pulled out his hand and slammed the oven door shut. “This is pointless!”

  “Maybe you should, uh, stick more of your body inside,” Mr. Flexible said, stroking his rubbery chin.

  “Maybe I should take a nap in there,” Sam said. “Maybe I should stay in there overnight, like a roasting turkey.”

  “Sam, don't be rude,” his mother said. “We're just trying to help.”

  “I know, I know. But we don't have time to waste! We need to either find a much larger heat source, or come up with a better plan.”

  “Maybe I could take you somewhere,” Mr. Flexible said. “If I elongate my legs, I can cover a lot of ground.”

  “To where, though?” Sam's dad asked. “A nuclear reactor? Back to Z City, where every superhero is being hunted, to find someone with fire powers, or someone who's knowledgeable about these types of power drains?”

  Mr. Flexible shrugged, and his entire upper body jiggled. “I don't know, Mr. Boyd.”

  “If only I knew what would reignite me,” Sam muttered. “Dammit! If Nightstriker were here....”

  “He'd growl at all of us, then come up with a solution in about thirty seconds,” Mr. Flexible said. “But that gruff bastard ain't here, so we just have to do our best.”

  “I know, but...Lancaster has been gloating about the defeat of the Elites all day,” Sam said. “More and more superheroes are getting thrown into MegaMax or killed, or they're joining those despots so they can save their own hides. We need to make a decision on what to do – right now.”

  “Well, what do you think, Sam?” his mother asked. “We've discussed all the options we can think of. You know your powers better than us. The ultimate decision lies with you.”

  They all looked at Sam, and the assurance and energy he'd just felt trickled away. Now that it was time to make a bold choice, instead of complaining about the situation, he floundered.

  Any path he chose was fraught with peril. If he returned to Z City, he risked capture. If he had Mr. Flexible accompany him for protection, his parents would remain here at Cape Covenant unguarded. If they all moved as one, his parents would be in danger, and he had no powers to defend them. If they tried to link up with members of the superhero community, they risked betrayal.

  Sam walked to the kitchen window, rubbing his face and wiping frustrated tears from his eyes.

  Achilles padded after him, and licked his hand, but Sam was in no mood to pet or play with the family's husky.

  Powerless, forced to make decisions that affected the lives of those he loved, hanging on the knife edge between victory and certain defeat....

  How did Nightstriker do it? How did he remain a steadfast rock, when there were furious waves pounding him from all sides?

  A figure bustling towards the
bed-and-breakfast interrupted his thoughts. It was Bonnie, carrying a plastic bag in her hand. Her normal pleasant, unruffled demeanor was gone, replaced by wide-eyed agitation. She half-jogged down the walkway to the front door, and burst into the house. Having not seen or heard her come up, everyone but Sam started.

  “Strange person walking through the town,” she said, rattling out her words quickly. “Mighty strange.”

  “Strange how?” Mr. Flexible asked.

  “Superhuman. No doubt about it.”

  The Boyd family looked at each other, and Mr. Flexible's face drooped.

  “What'd they look like?” Sam asked.

  “Like a shadow,” Bonnie replied. “A person in the form of a shadow. He had tendrils of black coming out of him, like...like ink poured in water. I didn't stop to chat, of course, so I don't know his name.”

  “Midnight,” Sam said, forgetting himself. He shouldn't be talking like this to Bonnie. “I mean, uh, it could be––”

  “Ah, stop it.” Bonnie waved a hand at him. “I know ya'll are mixed up in some wild superhuman stuff. It's as obvious as the noses on your faces. You think I ain't had...well, eclectic folks stay here before?”

  “We mean you no harm––” Sam's father began.

  “I know you don't,” Bonnie replied. “If you did, I would've kicked you out. I've got an eye for people. Perk of being in the hospitality business. No, that shadow-man is the one bringing trouble.”

  Again, everyone looked to Sam, and Sam found himself wishing he could crawl inside the oven, as had been suggested before.

  “If it is Midnight, we're in trouble,” he finally said. “He's a living portal. If he gets close, he can toss any of us into his form, and we'll be teleported who-knows-where.”

  “Then we can't let him get close,” Mr. Flexible said. “With my abilities, I should be able to keep us away from him.”

  “But suppose he isn't the only one?” Sam's mother asked. “And if he is a teleporter, he can bring in backup any time, right?”

  “Technically, yes,” Sam said, “but I remember Nightstriker saying something about his powers tiring him out. The more he teleports himself or others, the more time he needs to recuperate.”

  “Then I think our plan is clear,” Mr. Flexible said. “I'll carry all of you, and we'll hightail it outta here. Racing through the sand dunes or on the ocean isn't ideal; no cover. We'll have to get inland and hide ourselves in the forests or hills.”

  “Agreed,” Sam said, relieved that they'd finally settled on a plan – though out of necessity. “But why is he here? Did he track us, or is this just a random search?”

  “Maybe you should ask him yourself,” Bonnie said, staring out the window. “He's coming to the front door. Oh God...I'm sorry...maybe he noticed me hurrying away....”

  They all looked out the window, and sure enough, shadow was drifting down the walkway. The peaceful sounds of wind and sea were gone, replaced by a dull roaring. Like something being sucked into a void. Like death.

  “We need to go,” Mr. Flexible said. “Now.”

  “OK, but Bonnie is––” Sam's father said.

  “Bonnie is staying right here,” the stalwart old woman said. “This is my business, my home, my town. I ain't running.”

  “But––” Sam said.

  “You're wasting time,” she said. “Don't worry about me. If it's my time to go, I go willingly. I've lived a full life. Now get outta here!”

  For a moment, they all stood still, stunned at this relative stranger's kindness and courage. Sam looked at his family and Mr. Flexible, and saw that they, like him, didn't think she'd survive an encounter with Midnight.

  But then Bonnie was shoving them all through the house, including Achilles, and out the back door, muttering at their lackadaisical foolishness. They stepped out onto a tiny, well-maintained garden, with a gazebo in the center, then Bonnie shut and locked the door behind them.

  Again, they all stared at the door for a beat, amazed. Even Achilles seemed to bow his head in acknowledgment of Bonnie's bravery.

  “Let's get moving,” Mr. Flexible said. “She'll distract Midnight for a few seconds – and we need all the seconds we can get.”

  “OK,” Sam said. “What now? Do you want us to––”

  “Just relax,” Mr. Flexible said. “This might feel a little weird, but I promise you I won't crush you.”

  He elongated his left hand, and it wrapped around the Boyd family in turn, including Achilles. The husky growled, but Sam's father sharply commanded him to settle down, and the husky fell silent.

  Mr. Flexible was right: this did feel odd, like Sam was wrapped in a straight jacket. His parents also looked at the plastic hero skeptically.

  “Don't worry, it'll be fine,” Mr. Flexible said, giving them the most confident grin he could probably muster at the moment. “Off we go!”

  His raised his right leg, and it shot off into the sand dunes on one side of the property, landing at least fifty yards away. Then he planted his left leg, and used it as a spring to finish the giant step.

  Then they were flying through the air as Mr. Flexible bounded through the dune line as only a malleable superhuman could.

  The bucolic scenery flew by, and wind whipped Sam's hair. At first, he was worried Mr. Flexible would drop them, or inadvertently knock them into something, but the hero had clearly done this many times. Besides the tightness of his rubbery arm, it felt much like riding a rollercoaster.

  In what seemed like barely more than a minute, they were already past the dunes and moving through a thick maritime forest. Up ahead, Sam spotted the tall pine trees that heralded the boundary of a vast woods. There they'd find cover, and be able to plan their next move.

  But then he glanced behind them, and saw a shadow blinking through the air.

  It was Midnight, teleporting their way, closing the gap with astonishing speed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nightstriker

  The void.

  ....

  No, not the void.

  If it was the void, he wouldn't feel anything, as he wouldn't exist.

  But he did feel something. Smooth, almost welcoming...cotton?

  And he heard a tiny voice, and saw a pinpoint of light.

  With a grunt, Nightstriker opened his eyes, pushing past his blinding headache and grogginess. He was awake and alive, and needed to determine where he was, and in what shape.

  “Ah, there he is,” a familiar voice said. “Perhaps you can settle an argument we've been having, Nightstriker.”

  Nightstriker tried to sit up, but he could move nothing save for his head. He was strapped down to a bed, in a small windowless room. Medical machines beeped beside him, and the air smelled of disinfectant.

  The voice belonged to a severe man in a suit: President Lancaster. Or rather, a hologram of him. Recent events had surely only cemented his choice to stay physically as far away from Nightstriker as possible.

  He glanced at the door, but it was solid ultimatium, and didn't even let in a stream of light from the hallway. Getting out of these bonds and through that door would be next to impossible – and he was sure there were numerous guards waiting on the other side.

  He winced. Something tight around his head. Had to be a bandage. The shotgun...yes...he'd shot himself....

  “Did you hear me, Nightstriker?” Lancaster asked, moving to stand over Nightstriker.

  “I heard you.”

  “I asked if you could settle an argument I'm having with the Patriots. They insist your suicide attempt was legitimate, that you fully intended to blow your head clean off. I argue that this was all a sham, that you knew exactly how much damage you could take without dying or suffering brain damage.”

  Nightstriker said nothing.

  “Your silence confirms my theory,” Lancaster said. “The precision with which you shot yourself was truly extraordinary. At the time, everyone in that room – myself included – thought you were dead. The way you collapsed...and
there was so much blood, and your head looked gruesome. But you'd only, in fact, blown a relatively tiny gash in the side of your head. Once the medical staff cleaned you up, I understood your gambit.”

  Again, Nightstriker had no reply.

  “You were stalling for more time. Shooting yourself, making us think we were about to lose a metaphorical vault full of knowledge, making us rush you to the infirmary to try and save you. All so your teammates would get a reprieve, and you'd get more time to come up with an escape plan.”

  “You're mistaken, Mr. President,” Nightstriker finally commented. “The plan you just outlined is one only a madman would consider.”

  The President chuckled. “Well, no one has ever accused you of perfect sanity. No, you can't fool me, Nightstriker. But let us move on: now that I know what you'll do to protect your knowledge and your teammates, I've adjusted my plans accordingly.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  Lancaster's holographic hand “patted” Nightstriker's stomach. “First off, it means you'll be strapped to this bed indefinitely. With free range of movement, you can turn any situation to your advantage. Secondly, you will not leave this room. The medical staff will attend to your injury here, and they will always be accompanied by at least two members of the Patriots.”

  “I see,” Nightstriker said blandly. “And my teammates?”

  “We will pick up where we left off shortly. But you won't be there personally. There is a screen set into the wall. You will watch your team's agony on it. And there will be agony, a great deal of it, until you finally realize there is no way out of this situation, and give me what I want.”

  “How many times do I have to say it?” Nightstriker said. “You'll get nothing.”

  The President adjusted his tie, his telltale sign of irritation. “I will, and soon. But first, I've just been notified of an important development. We've found Blaze. He was hiding out with his parents – and the family dog – at Cape Covenant. A traitorous superhero named Mr. Flexible was also with them.”