Rogue Superheroes

by Matt Cowper

  “But how?” Buckshot said. “He just killed all the Patriots, by himself. He could knock us aside with a flick of his wrist.”

  “Even me,” Slab said. “My rocky hide couldn't stand up to that heat.”

  “I could even feel my form begin to disintegrate,” Nimbus said. “If I tried to get close to him, he'd just shoot out a flare or something, and I'd be done for.”

  “We need to summon all the superheroes we can,” Gillespie said. “Together, we may be able to––”

  “Summon whoever you wish,” Nightstriker said, “but do it quickly. Blaze is surely heading to Washington, and with his powers pushed to the extreme, he'll be there in no time. We're following him. And you, Gillespie, need medical attention.”

  “To hell with that,” Gillespie growled, though she kept her hand pressed tightly to the side Crimson Tiger had gouged earlier. “Buckshot can stitch me up on the way.”

  “Fine,” Nightstriker said after a beat. “Let's move, Elites.”

  “But what the hell are we gonna do?!” Buckshot said. “If we piss Blaze off, he just might incinerate us! Do you have some sorta plan, boss man, or are you just winging it?”

  “I have a plan,” Nightstriker said. “A dangerous, untested plan, but a plan nonetheless.” He turned to Metal Gal. “Gal, I need you to carry me back to the underground bunker we hid in, as quickly as possible.”

  “Me? Why? What is––”

  “You'll see when we get there. The rest of you, get to Washington as quickly as you can, by whatever method is available. We'll link up with you there. Blaze shouldn't be too hard to find, but if you have any doubts of his location, head to the White House.”

  He put a hand on Metal Gal's shoulder. “Now, Gal, activate your thrusters and fly like you've never flown before.”

  Gal absorbed her tears back into her body, and, after taking a deep breath, she nodded and gestured to her back.

  “Climb aboard,” she said. “And hang on tight. You said you wanted speed? I'll give you speed.”

  Nightstriker wrapped his arms around her neck, and his legs around her torso. Gal put her hands under his legs to keep him steady.

  She morphed her legs into thrusters, and after a brief charge-up, rocketed skyward. They exited the prison, flying into wide blue sky, then banked towards the Z City mainland.

  And towards, Nightstriker hoped, salvation for them all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Blaze

  Why couldn't they see?

  It was as clear as the sky he was flying through.

  The Elites had tried functioning under the government's aegis. After the Professor Perfection debacle, it seemed the right thing to do. They'd stopped the Giftgiver, a radical who sought to bring down the system. Then Nightstriker had attempted to purge the corruption out of said system, using non-violent methods, only for the system to bare its fangs and rip them apart.

  They'd done the right thing, and for their troubles they were now hounded and betrayed, their loved ones killed without remorse.

  So, Blaze reasoned, if doing the right thing brought them no benefit, why continue?

  The enemy wasn't pulling punches. The Elites had been. They'd been playing by the normal rules: no killing, no maiming, no targeting of innocents. They were, after all, supposed to be superheroes.

  Well, Blaze was done being a superhero.

  If they wanted a war, he'd give them one.

  And he would win, because no one on the planet could stop him now.

  His power level was probably beyond measurement. He'd incinerated the Patriots using a fraction of his power. He'd burnt a path through MegaMax Prison, a facility designed to thwart every known superhuman threat. He was flying now at incredible speeds, probably at least mach three.

  Lancaster would burn next. Then his flunkies. Then anyone in the government who profited from this chaos.

  Then, from the ashes, he would create a system that was truly equitable and free of corruption, so no one else would have to see their parents' heads crushed.

  “Mom, Dad, I'll make you proud,” he whispered. “And you too, Achilles.”

  But nagging thoughts still flitted through his mind. Would his parents really be proud, or would they be trying to stop him, like Nightstriker and his teammates?

  No. He wouldn't deviate from his path now, not when he was so close to stopping those villains.

  He concentrated, and fire exploded from his body like a Fourth of July celebration. His speed increased to even more insane levels. Now the ground far below was just a blur of color, making him slightly dizzy.

  Then he saw something white, and a tall object sticking up like a stone finger. He slowed down, and the world beneath came into focus.

  There was the White House, and the Washington monument.

  He'd reached the so-called stronghold of his enemies.

  Blaze descended towards the White House, trailing flame like a passenger jet trailed exhaust. When he was a few hundred yards above the ground, the pedestrians on Pennsylvania Avenue looked up at him and pointed. They did not, however, run away screaming. Apparently news of his “ascension” hadn't reached the civilians of the nation's capital.

  It had reached the Secret Service, however. Armed men in black suits swarmed the White House lawn, barking into walkie-talkies and shouting orders at each other.

  Blaze set down in front of them, blackening a large portion of the lawn. Now the pedestrians realized something was terribly wrong. They hurried from the area, shouting amongst themselves much like the Secret Service.

  The White House. The home of the President of the United States. The home of Thomas Lancaster, the man responsible for all this.

  Blaze smiled. A few days ago, standing here and looking at this sight would've filled him with awe. Though he'd been a Class S superhuman, endowed with far more raw power than the bureaucrats who worked here, the White House was one of the most important symbols in America; only a true cynic could stand there and feel nothing but scorn.

  Blaze supposed he was a true cynic now, because he saw a building that would burn rather nicely, not a political shrine that should be revered.

  “You there!” It was one of the Secret Service men, a middle-aged black man who had a commanding presence. “This is a restricted area! Remove yourself from the premises now, or we will attack!”

  Blaze stared at his welcoming party. A few dozens men in suits, armed with pistols or sub-machine guns, standing on the lawn without cover.

  He supposed they were making a brave stand, hoping to buy some time until stronger help arrived.

  “Get out of my way!” Blaze shouted.

  “We know why you're here, Blaze,” the black man shouted back. “We cannot allow you near the President.”

  “Listen––”

  “Fire!” the man roared.

  Dozens of bullets flew towards Blaze – and dozens of bullets melted into nothing once they hit his Fire Shield.

  Nonetheless, the men kept reloading and firing. Some of them tried circling around Blaze, hoping to find a weak point, but no bullet affected him.

  Blaze sighed. “You all are wasting my time.”

  He shot out a fireball, making sure to aim it at the ground beneath the men. The earth exploded, and roughly a dozen men flew through the air, landing with grunts and shouts. The exploded earth fell down like hail.

  Two more fireballs scattered the men who'd tried to flank him, and now the White House lawn looked like a backhoe had clawed through it. The Secret Service agents valiantly tried to regroup, but Sam flew past them, directly towards the entrance of the White House.

  He was about to blast through the walls when another Secret Service agent stepped through the large front door. He didn't come out guns blazing, nor did he shout out pointless threats. This caused Blaze to stop in mid-air and scrutinize the man.

  The agent carried a small box with a glowing yellow eye or lens. He said nothing to Blaze or the other agents still scrambling to protec
t the White House – he only set the box down on the lawn and pressed a button.

  President Thomas Lancaster stood before Blaze, frowning. His suit and tie were wrinkle-free and spotless, and there wasn't one drop of sweat on his brow. If he felt fear over Blaze's actions, he hid it well.

  Blaze formed a fireball in his right hand, then let the flame peter out. Lancaster's form had shimmered unusually for a brief instant. Of course: he was a hologram, being projected by the box the agent had brought out. He hadn't been teleported here, as Blaze had first hoped. No, Lancaster was likely hiding in some bunker, letting the grunts do the dirty work.

  “Blaze. How are you?” the President said, like he was conversing with an equal. It was far different from the brash, hate-mongering tone he used on television.

  “You captured and tortured my friends,” Blaze replied. “You killed my parents. How do you think I'm doing?”

  “I didn't do those things,” Lancaster said. “Those crimes were carried out by the Patriots, who have overstepped their bounds. You can be sure––”

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up!”

  Several inches of topsoil melted under his feet, and the air around him swirled with green flame.

  “I'm not listening to your lies, your pathetic attempts to save your life,” Blaze said.

  “Blaze, you're not thinking straight––”

  “Is the White House evacuated?”

  “Evacuated? Um, yes it is––”

  “I don't trust you. You only care about yourself.”

  Blaze flew past the hologram, as Lancaster shouted and exhorted. He burned through a wall, into the White House, and began searching every room.

  He was struck by the grandeur of the place. The carpet was plush and free of dirt, the cabinets were filled with impressive books, and portraits of the great Presidents of the past hung from the walls.

  The Oval Office was the most impressive room. Here was where the leader of the free world met with staffers and deliberated over actions that could change the course of history. Blaze thought about sitting behind the massive oak desk, just for a moment, then continued on.

  Though grand and suffused with lore, the White House was, as Lancaster had stated, empty. Blaze checked the kitchen, the bathrooms, and every closet, just to make sure, but no one was inside.

  Once he'd finished his search, he returned to the front lawn. The hologram of the President was still being displayed, and Lancaster was barking orders at Secret Service agents. The orders must've been contradictory or nonsensical, because the agents glanced at each other uneasily and didn't move to carry out whatever Lancaster was commanding.

  Blaze landed in front of the hologram, and all conversation stopped. The agents trained their guns on him, but didn't fire; they'd realized they couldn't harm him, but they still had to keep up appearances.

  “You didn't lie, for once,” Blaze said. “The White House is empty.”

  “Yes, it is,” Lancaster said, like the point was irrelevant. “Now, let us converse like civilized men and––”

  “No. I told you, I'm not listening to your bullshit.” He raised his hand and formed an enormous fireball, shaped like a bird of prey eager to attack some hapless rodent. “If you haven't got the message yet, this should help you understand.”

  He unleashed the fireball, and the flaming bird screeched towards the White House. It enveloped it completely, turning its white wood black and cracking the marble columns. Flames shot up a hundred yards high, and dark plumes of smoke billowed to the sky.

  The President and the Secret Service agents were shouting, but Blaze couldn't hear their specific words over the conflagration.

  Then, with a shriek that Blaze was sure could be heard for miles, the phoenix he'd created flew up and, after turning a glorious red-orange, like a tropical sunset, it disappeared.

  The White House had been destroyed. Much like when he'd incinerated the forest, there was nothing left but ash and smoldering embers.

  “Do I make myself clear?” Blaze said.

  Lancaster and the soot-covered agents stared at him, but didn't reply. Blaze grinned; now there was some sweat on the President's holographic forehead.

  “Now, here's what's going to happen,” Blaze went on. “I know you're hiding somewhere, probably in some secret underground bunker here in the city. You will come out, along with everyone in your administration. Every secretary, undersecretary, deputy secretary, your chief of staff – everyone with any power who went along with your despotism. Then I'm going to kill all of you.”

  “Are you serious?” Lancaster growled. “Why on Earth would we willingly walk to our doom?”

  “Because if you come out now, your deaths will be quick. I'll turn you to ash, and you'll feel nothing. If you continue hiding, once I find you – and I will – your deaths will be more painful than you can ever imagine.”

  Lancaster adjusted his tie, apparently seriously considering Blaze's proposal. But then he shook his head. “No, Blaze. I won't hand over my life to some insane superhuman, nor will I hand over the lives of my staff.”

  “Then we're done here.”

  A fireball destroyed the holographic projector, and a few more again knocked down the Secret Service agents.

  Lancaster wanted to hide? Fine. Blaze was now the most powerful superhuman in the world. He'd find his quarry – and burn them from the inside out.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nightstriker

  They raced through the abandoned subway tunnels as if demons were chasing them.

  They were, in a sense. The demons of regret, failure, and societal corruption. The demons that had driven Sam mad with grief were nipping at their heels, hissing that they were all doomed.

  Nightstriker pressed on through the dark corridors. Metal Gal followed behind, her silvery face warping between a stern mask and drooping sorrow.

  They reached the underground bunker, where they'd hidden for a brief time. Where they'd voted to elect Gillespie as leader of the Elites. Where they'd left Sam, before rushing off to be defeated by the Patriots.

  “Voicecode: Sisyphus,” Nightstriker said.

  A massive door, previously camouflaged by holographic tech, opened in the tunnel walls. They stepped inside, and Nightstriker ran down the corridors, until he reached a small room that appeared to be empty.

  “Why are we back here, Nightstriker?” Metal Gal asked. “We should be en route to Washington!”

  “We will be, shortly,” Nightstriker replied. “But first, I need to pick up an item of great importance – perhaps the only thing that can stop Blaze.”

  He walked towards the back wall and said, “Voicecode: Extinguish.”

  A panel swung out of the nondescript concrete wall, revealing a high-tech suit of armor. It was black, with cobalt-blue accents. A small crystal-like object glowed in the breastplate, and the temperature within the room dropped twenty degrees.

  “What...is this?” Metal Gal jumped forward, running her hands across the armor. Her gaze came to rest on the blue glowing crystal.

  “This...is the armor's power source?” Her eyes turned blue as she scanned it. “What the fuck?! This power...it's off the charts! And it's...it's some sort of hybrid energy?!”

  “This is Project ICE,” Nightstriker said. “The ice, of course, is self-explanatory, but ICE is also an acronym for 'inter-dimensional/magic-powered countermeasure exosuit.' It's something I designed specifically to counter Blaze.”

  “You...kept this hidden. This massive power source...it makes the Zeta Core I was working on look like a AAA battery! Why would you shove this behind some wall in a secret bunker?!”

  “I thought the answer was obvious,” Nightstriker said. “This is meant to neutralize Blaze, should he go rogue or...act like he's acting now. If I revealed it, Blaze would be prepared. Now, he isn't. This is a crucial advantage, one I intend to make the most of.”

  “You developed this...just to stop Blaze?” Her eyes flashed red. “Do you have countermeasure
s for every other Elite?”

  “Yes.”

  Metal Gal stepped back, jarred by the blunt answer. “I can't...but why didn't you use it earlier, when we fought the Patriots? Forget specifically countering Blaze! If it's so powerful––”

  “It's too powerful,” Nightstriker replied. “That crystal is an amalgamation of inter-dimensional energy and magic––”

  “But you hate magic.”

  “And I also hate inter-dimensional energy. Both are dangerously unstable. My initial tests with this suit were...painful. Without further tests to determine how to control the dual energies, I hesitated to unleash it onto the world. Thus why I didn't use it earlier, though the situation was grim. But the situation now is even more grim....”

  “Sam....” She caressed the armor's faceplate, like she was caressing her grief-stricken boyfriend. “Do you really think this ICE suit can stop him?”

  “I don't know. But I have to try.”

  “Wait...you said the initial tests were painful? Maybe I should––”

  “No. You don't understand the suit's nuances, and there's no time to instruct you. This is my burden.”

  “But––”

  “I'm not arguing.” He turned to the suit. “Voicecode: Pandora.”

  The seams in the suit opened up, and Nightstriker quickly stepped inside. The suit closed around him, locking him in a dark – and cold – world.

  Then the suit's HUD blinked to life, and a British-accented voice spoke: “Ah, good to see you again, sir. It has been...well, quite some time since we spoke.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “As an AI, it always feels strange to return from the void we enter when you humans power us down. I suspect it feels similar to waking from a long slumber. But I digress: what is your goal today, sir?”

  “Who the hell is this?” Metal Gal asked.

  “This is Jasper, the artificial intelligence I developed for this suit,” Nightstriker replied. “Jasper, meet Metal Gal, a teammate of mine.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Gal,” Jasper said. “You're technological, but originated as a human, correct? Quite fascinating. We must commiserate over––”