by Matt Cowper
Blaze slowly opened his eyes. It felt like they were being held down by lead weights. The room was fuzzy at first, but as he blinked, it came into focus.
He was lying on a remarkably comfortable bed, in a well-lit room with baby blue wallpaper. Outside, birds chirped and squirrels chattered, and puffy clouds lackadaisically slipped by a large window.
A blonde-haired young woman sat by the bed, dressed in a tight pink blouse and a short black skirt.
It was Siobhan. She was in her human-eque form, the approximation of what she'd looked like before the accident. The silvery Metal Gal had been shelved.
“Sibby?” he said, using his nickname for her. “I'm...alive? This is real?”
“It is, Sam.”
He grabbed her arm, just to make sure she was real. Her body felt cool, smooth...
...then Metal Gal pulled her arm from his grasp.
Trying to hide his disappointment and confusion at her rebuff, Sam sat up and took in his surroundings more thoroughly. They appeared to be in a home out in the country. He saw no other buildings outside the window, nor any roads besides a dirt driveway; only trees and a small lawn, indifferently maintained.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Nightstriker's house. Well, one of them. He has safe houses and underground bunkers scattered everywhere. We're about thirty miles outside of Z City, on the edge of a national forest. No other houses within five miles.” She glanced out the window. “It's...peaceful.”
“Yeah, it is.”
For a moment they sat in silence, just sitting there and listening, but soon his curiosity overcame him.
“So, what happened, Sibby?” he asked. “I remember absorbing that energy...it was cold, colder than you can imagine, and I saw things...things from other dimensions, I think. Then I blacked out.”
“You did absorb that energy – well, most of it. Washington is going to have unseasonable lows for several days, according to Nightstriker. After you saved us, you crash-landed. Nightstriker tried to catch you, but in his armor he probably hurt you just as much as if you hit the ground. You're a bit banged up, but no broken bones.”
Blaze shifted around in bed, and indeed every muscle felt like it'd been worked over with a baseball bat.
“So how'd we get here?” he asked.
“Nightstriker found a van, loaded us all up, and sped away. The police were on the scene by then, and they followed us, but Nightstriker lost them. We made it here, and everyone's been recuperating ever since.”
“How long was I out?”
“Twelve hours.”
Blaze gaped, then plopped back down onto the bed. “Wow. And I still feel like I could sleep for a month. That core...it really hit me hard....”
Siobhan's voice came out as an eerie whisper: “Sam, I know you've just woken up, but your powers....”
“I...don't know if they're still there or not. Let's see.”
With his right hand, he formed a fist, then concentrated. For a second, nothing happened – then orange flame surrounded his hand. He cried out happily, and began manipulating the flame's form, and altering its temperature so it changed colors.
But when he saw Siobhan's wide-eyed look of fright, he snapped the flame off.
“What...what's the matter?” he asked, though he had a strong idea.
“So you're still a superhuman,” she said flatly. “Still immensely powerful. Perhaps you're as powerful as you were when you...tossed us aside, or maybe you've regressed to a true Class S.” She leaned in closer. “But who are you? Are you still the man I...I love...or....”
Blaze looked away, but Siobhan grabbed his chin and turned his head back towards her.
“Tell me,” she demanded. “I want to know now, so I know if we have to fight you again as soon as you recover.”
Her stare was judgmental, pleading, achingly sad – not as firm as Nightstriker's stare had been when he'd taken the core from him, but still emotionally devastating.
“I'm...I'm through, Sib,” he said. “Nightstriker...he told me things about himself...how his life was turned upside down. He convinced me to stop. I...still hate Lancaster. Still hate his minions. But I no longer want to burn everything down.”
Now tears were flowing. “I'm sorry. Sorry for hurting you all. I don't know how I can make it up to you....”
She was crying as well. Generated tears that would be absorbed back into her body, but the feeling behind them was genuine. “I'm not going to lie to you: it'll take time before everyone trusts you, and it'll take time before me and you are...back on the right track. But I'm going to stick by you Sam – I promise.”
Sam wanted to wrap his arms around her, kiss her deeply. Maybe she'd let him, now that he'd told her his rampage was over....
But then someone else cleared their throat, and Sam jerked towards the noise.
It was Nightstriker, clad in a new spandex suit, his hair damp as if from a shower. He stood in the doorway and stared at them mildly, as if this was just a regular uneventful weekday.
But the bruises on his face, plus the large bandage wrapped around his head, told a different story.
“I see you're awake,” Nightstriker said.
“Yeah,” Blaze replied, aware that his face was flushing.
“How do you feel?”
“Exhausted. Sore.” He didn't know what else to say.
“Your powers?”
Again, he formed a small fireball, then snuffed it out.
Nightstriker frowned. “Interesting. We'll have to gauge your powers when you're well, determine if you're still a Class S or...whatever level you were when you defeated us and the Patriots easily. If you are, we'll likely have to rework the entire superhuman classification system solely based on your abilities, Sam.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Nightstriker, listen, I––”
“We can talk about everything in-depth later.”
“But the people I killed....”
“We can't change the past, Sam.”
The words hung in the air. After a long moment, Nightstriker nodded and left as abruptly as he arrived, leaving Blaze and Metal Gal staring at empty air.
“Well, that was...interesting,” Blaze muttered.
“He's been like this since we got here,” Metal Gal responded. “For once, I don't think he knows how to handle this situation. Lancaster is still out there, spewing his vitriol, and our teammates...well....”
“How do they feel about...about me?” Blaze asked. “I hurt them...I know I did. I saw them lying facedown in the dirt back in Washington, I saw Slab's rocks heat up....”
“They're upset,” Gal said, clearly reluctantly, “but they also understand what you're going through.”
“But what does that mean? Do they want to lock me up so I don't go crazy again? Do they want me to nuke Lancaster and his goons? And what about the Elites? Are we still a team, or....?”
She stroked his cheek. “I don't know, Sam. Now that you're awake, we're gonna have a big meeting, hash everything out.”
Blaze groaned. “Another meeting. Accusations thrown around. Maybe some voting. We saw how well that went last time....”
He waited for Siobhan to comfort him, to say everything would turn out all right, but she only stared out the window, her eyes glistening.
Chapter Thirty
Nightstriker
Nightstriker continued down the hallway, resisting the urge to linger in the bedroom and discuss matters with Blaze and Metal Gal. Right now, Blaze needed the comfort and understanding of his girlfriend, not the clipped words of Nightstriker.
And, to be honest, he didn't know exactly what he'd say to Blaze. In another awesome display of power, Blaze had absorbed the ICE core's energy and saved thousands of lives. Looking up at the young man battle what looked like a raging winter combined with an inter-dimensional vortex had been one of the most astonishing sights Nightstriker had ever seen – and he'd seen plenty in his years of superheroing.
For once, he had no answers, no elaborate plans on how to handle Blaze.
Nor did he know how to manage the rest of the Elites.
They were all angry at being forced to battle Blaze – both angry at Blaze, and at themselves for allowing the situation to get out of hand. If they'd tried harder, escaped from MegaMax Prison themselves instead of being freed by an overpowered Blaze, they could've saved Blaze's parents and prevented this catastrophe.
And no one flagellated themselves more than Nightstriker.
He'd assigned Mr. Flexible to look after Sam's family, though the superhero was far from top-tier and somewhat scatter-brained. But Mr. Flexible had been eager to help, and had proven himself courageous during the conflict with the Giftgiver.
Should he have assigned the elastic superhuman to a more mundane task? Should he have supervised the handling of Sam's parents directly, instead of trusting someone else?
What about the families of the other Elites? Most of the other Elites either had no one, like Nightstriker, or their relationships with their families were strained, but that didn't mean he should disregard that responsibility.
And in the chaos of their current moment, with them being forced to hide in this bucolic setting after exhausting themselves fighting Blaze, it was difficult to keep tabs on everyone.
Perhaps other people connected to the Elites had shared the Boyd family's fate.
Nightstriker hoped this wasn't the case. An enraged Slab could likely create continent-rupturing earthquakes, an enraged Buckshot could shoot them all down like helpless deer, an enraged Nimbus could choke them to death.
He stepped outside, into the weed-covered back yard, trying to keep those dire thoughts at bay.
It was a pleasant day, one which invited a person to take long hikes down winding forest paths, or to kayak down softly burbling streams. Nightstriker breathed deeply, smelling the earth and the slight dampness in the air. The squirrels chattered, and nearby, a woodpecker whacked on a tree.
He paced around the yard, examining the exterior of the house. Paint was peeling in some spots, and a few shingles had blown off, probably during the last hurricane. He'd have to do some maintenance, mow the lawn, and repair some damage to the dirt entry road. This place was supposed to look like a vacation home, not an abandoned property.
As far as everyone knew, this property was owned by a man named Ted West. Ted – Nightstriker in disguise – came here a few times a year, staying only a few days. Other people – superheroes Nightstriker trusted, and also using their civilian identities – also “vacationed” here, but even more rarely. Otherwise, the house sat empty.
Nightstriker's visits here usually consisted of intense training sessions. The thick woods, cold streams, and rocky terrain afforded excellent opportunities for exhausting – some would say masochistic – workouts.
When other superheroes came here, it was usually because they needed a place to lay low for a couple of days. Nightstriker didn't divulge the existence of this place to just anyone, only those he'd thoroughly vetted and who were in serious trouble.
The Elites met both those criteria.
Part of him wished they could stay here for a few more days, heal from their physical and mental wounds. The team was both tired and restless, and when they spoke to each other at all, their words were sharp and brief.
But now Blaze was awake, and President Lancaster was still out there, still spewing his vitriol.
With the White House destroyed, and the Elites' status unknown to the world at large, Lancaster had wisely decided to hide out in secret, secure locations. But while he didn't reveal his whereabouts, he still broadcast his messages to the world, messages about the “dire threat” that had nearly “destroyed the republic.”
The President claimed the other Elites had worked in concert with Blaze, instead of trying to stop him. Eyewitness accounts of the events at the National Mall contradicted his account, but the press, themselves confused and conflicted, insisted on showing “both sides” of the issue.
Despite the President's bombast, Nightstriker knew he was severely weakened. The Patriots were defeated, MegaMax Prison was a smoldering wreck, and more and more superheroes were standing up instead of cowering in fear. According to Nightstriker's analysis of news reports and his contacts within the city, what had happened to Blaze had struck a deep chord.
Lancaster was ready to be toppled...but what happened after that?
The grass rustled behind him. Nightstriker kept staring out into the woods, waiting for whoever approached.
“Nightstiker.” It was Beverly Gillespie.
He turned, and had to stifle an exclamation. In the few hours since he'd last seen her, the already disheveled Gillespie had crashed hard.
Her eyes were puffy, her skin pale, her short hair greasy and tangled. She was unsteady on her feet, and an odd look, a mix between a sneer and a grin, was plastered on her face. She'd discarded her torn and dirty clothes and replaced them with sweatpants and a loose-fitting t-shirt.
Instead of a hyper-competent soldier-cum-official, she looked like a sad middle-aged woman who'd just had a desperate night on the town.
“Gillespie?” Nightstriker said. “You look...have you been drinking?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “Found some vodka in a cupboard. Guess one of your pals left it, because you certainly don't drink. I haven't had a drink myself, not since...well, best not to talk about that.”
“This isn't like you. Why are––”
“You know why!” she shouted. “I'm a failure, Nightstriker – a complete and utter failure. None of this would've happened if I hadn't wrested control of the team from you.”
“You didn't wrest control,” Nightstriker replied. “I voted for you, remember? You're more than capable of leading this team.”
“Bullshit,” she hissed. “You only voted for me to hold the team together. You know damn well you're better than me at everything. You know it hurt to give up your position as leader. You know I screwed up royally, got us all captured, allowed Sam's parents to get killed....”
“Yes, and my actions brought about this crisis in the first place. There's enough blame to go around, Gillespie. And you're forgetting something important: you risked your life to warn us that the Beacon was in danger. If you hadn't shown up––”
“––the warning systems still would've gone off, you still would've known the core was in danger, you still would've used Blaze to absorb the energy, you still would've used the Zeta Core to direct the Beacon towards a relatively unpopulated area of Bootheel, instead of the center of Z City. You don't need me, Nightstriker. You never did. I was only the irritating liaison between the Elites and the government. But now that we don't have a government, and now that we all know you're the true leader of this team, I'm useless.”
“You are not useless,” Nightstriker said. “You're––”
Gillespie waved a shaky hand. “Stop it. Just stop it. I can't––”
“You can.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared at her until she was forced to return his gaze. “Don't do anything rash. Wait until we have our team meeting. This may be the most important meeting of our lives, and you need to be in a clear frame of mind, not wallowing in self-pity.”
Her sneer became even more scornful, and she knocked Nightstriker aside and rushed back inside, nearly ramming into the porch railing in her anger and drunkenness.
Nightstriker watched her go, frowning. Gillespie's condition was distressing, but the other Elites were in similar brooding and bitter moods. And now that Blaze was awake, and they could confront their rogue teammate, their moods would likely sour even more.
Could he pull them together, one more time? Or would a weakened President Lancaster regain his strength and win the day?
Chapter Thirty-One
Blaze
On the television, President Lancaster thundered about the “dire threat” that threatened the country. He wasn't broadcasting from the Oval Office, as Blaze had destroyed the White House. He was sitting in a room filled with gray pipes and concrete walls, with an incongruous-looking presidential seal hanging from the wall behind him.
Blaze had no idea where the President was, nor did Metal Gal. According to her, Lancaster had realized the danger he was in, and was no longer publicizing the whereabouts of himself or his rapidly-dwindling staff.
Blaze assumed he was in some underground bunker in Washington, D.C. The President's surroundings certainly lacked the refinement of the White House, a fact Lancaster seemed all too aware of. He seemed to be compensating for his reduced circumstances by being even more fervent.
“You all saw what can happen if these superhumans remain unchecked,” Lancaster said, pointing a thin finger at the camera. “If not for the extraordinary efforts of my staff, and the members of the armed forces, this young man known as Blaze would have nuked Washington, D.C.”
“What a fucking liar,” Blaze growled. “You all were the ones who––”
“I know, Sam,” Metal Gal said. “Remember, this is Thomas Lancaster. He lies about what he had for breakfast.”
“Though he was forced to retreat like the cowardly terrorist he is, Blaze did manage to destroy the White House, our country's great symbol of democracy,” the President continued. “Of course, myself and my cabinet members weren't present. But several members of the White House staff were, and they all perished in the flames. These men and women weren't dignitaries or congressmen; they were cooks, maids, secretaries, the unsung workers who keep this great country going. In his callous disregard for human life, Blaze did not allow enough time for the White House to be evacuated. He slaughtered them all! All of them!”
“That's not true!” Blaze shouted, sitting up in bed and forming a fireball in each hand. “I made sure no one was in the White House before destroying it! I mean, I shouldn't have destroyed it in the first place, but...he's calling me a mass murderer! It's a lie!”