by Matt Cowper
“Sam, calm down!” Metal Gal said. “I told you, he'll say anything to rile up his base and maintain power!”
“I don't care! We can't sit here and let him get away with this! We have to find out where he's hiding. The station that's broadcasting this message has to know. We'll interrogate those involved, and––”
“Sam,” Gal whispered. “Please extinguish your flames.”
He glanced at her, and saw both fear and sadness in her eyes. Then he looked at the fire dancing around his hands.
To her, that fire represented pain and heartache, a force that defeated the Elites easily and may have pushed the world to ruin, if Nightstriker hadn't gotten through to Sam.
He extinguished the fire and let out a heavy sigh. Metal Gal also let out a sigh of relief – and this stung Sam even deeper.
How had it come to this? Would things ever return to normal?
“Blaze. Metal Gal.”
Again, it was Nightstriker, standing in the doorway looking at them blandly.
“It's time for a team meeting,” he said, “perhaps the most important meeting of our lives. You're well enough to attend, aren't you, Sam?”
“Yeah,” Blaze replied. “Still tired, but I know we can't just sit here and do nothing.”
“You're right. We can't.” He nodded to each of them. “Come downstairs to the living room. The meeting will begin shortly.”
Again, he departed abruptly.
Metal Gal clicked off the television, mercifully silencing Lancaster's fear-mongering rhetoric. She leaned over Blaze and helped him out of bed. Neither said a word; their arms moved over each other's bodies with the trust and concern of lovers.
Sam nearly wept as he hobbled out of the room beside Siobhan. This woman had every reason to loathe him, or at least to keep him at a distance until tensions cooled down.
But she'd stayed by his side, despite her fear of his power and her worry about his state of mind.
Then they were downstairs, and he was face to face with his teammates – and his shame deepened.
Everyone save Nightstriker stared at him like he was a supervillain. Even Nimbus huddled in the corner, her smoke wrapping around a bookcase, as far away from Blaze as possible.
Sam staggered to a couch, and Metal Gal sat down beside him. She felt the tension in the room as clearly as he did, and she held his hand tightly.
Sam loved her even more.
Fortified by his girlfriend's strength, he looked over his teammates more closely.
They didn't look like the world's premier superteam.
Though they'd all changed out of their burnt and shredded costumes into more casual attire, they still looked dirty and battered. Fatigue was etched in each of their faces. Even Slab's stone face looked like it had been weathered for a few hundred years.
But Gillespie looked the worse. The severe, capable professional was gone, replaced with a drunk-looking woman who seemed to be running on nothing but bitterness.
Sam gulped and waited for Nightstriker to begin. He was the only one standing, the only one not obviously tainted by paranoia and exhaustion. As he was doing with Metal Gal, Sam drew from the legendary hero's strength.
“A detailed recap of recent events isn't necessary,” Nightstriker began, his clear, authoritative voice making everyone stand or sit up straighter, and causing Nimbus's smoke to form a rectangle. “We all know what transpired. I'm sure you all have thought of nothing else since we came to this safe house. I propose we move on to important matters. We have several decisions to make, all of them intertwined. First, we must decide whether the Elites still exist as a team. Secondly, we must decide how to handle what I'll call the 'Blaze situation.' Thirdly, we must decide how to defeat Lancaster. Fourthly – and perhaps most important of all – we must decide what sort of society will arise from the ashes of the old.”
Buckshot grunted and pulled out a cigar. He didn't light it, only chewed on its end. “That's a lot of stuff on our to-do list, boss man.”
“Boss man?” Slab said, adjusted in his seat. The chair was heavy oak, built for enormous superhumans such as him, but it still strained from his weight. “So Nightstriker's our leader again?”
Everyone looked to Gillespie, but she only stared at the floor, a strange sneer on her face.
“Let's not worry about leadership at the moment,” Nightstriker said. “Everyone's voice needs to be heard. These are decisions which affect the entire world.”
“So we're gonna take a vote on this stuff?” Slab said. “We all saw how well that turned out last time we did it. We ended up hating each other and locked up in MegaMax Prison.”
Blaze waited for Gillespie to defend herself, or admit she'd made a mistake. To do something. But she was lost in some other world.
“A vote may be appropriate, but for now, let's just discuss everything openly,” Nightstriker said. “So, the first item: this team. Are we still the Elites?”
His question had meant to be inspirational, like a football coach rallying his players.
But no one answered.
Blaze couldn't take it. This was mostly his fault; he was the elephant in the room, the person who'd shredded the concept of unity.
Why hadn't he controlled himself?! No, he couldn't have stopped the power surge right after his parents died, nor could he probably have stopped himself from killing Midnight and Breaker, but after? He could've burned his way into MegaMax Prison, freed his teammates, beaten the Patriots by himself – without killing them – and then they could've all flown to Washington and forced Lancaster to abdicate.
If only....
Blaze stood up, letting go of Metal Gal's hand and looking everyone in the room in the eye.
“I need to get this out of the way,” Blaze said. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I fought you all, that I...did everything I did. I know those words don't mean much to you now. You're all exhausted, and you feel betrayed – and you're scared of me. You know I still have my powers, and that I can...well, you know what I can do.”
He took a deep breath, then continued. “Therefore, I'm resigning from the Elites, if the team even still exists. I know my presence is poisoning everything. I can help you defeat Lancaster, if you want, though you probably doubt my judgment. Anyway, it's better if we go our separate ways. Who knows, maybe in time all our wounds will heal, and...well, that's what I had to say.”
He sat down quickly, tears running down his face.
He squeezed Metal Gal's hand again. She squeezed back, and leaned over and whispered: “I'll go with you.”
Again, he wondered how he'd snagged such an incredible girl.
The room shook, and a book fell off the bookcase. Slab had stood up.
“I got something to say now,” he said. “And you better listen, Sam, or I'll crack your jaw, I don't care how big and bad you've become: you ain't quitting.”
Sam could do nothing but gawk.
“You think you're the only superhero who's gone mad with grief?” Slab asked. “Shit, look at Nightstriker. He told us how he got through to you, by telling his story. There are plenty of heroes who've lost friends and loved ones. They did stupid stuff, maybe even hurt or killed some folks themselves, then they got themselves back on the right.”
Now Buckshot stood up, still chewing his cigar. He hooked his thumbs in his pants like he was swaggering up to a saloon to order some whiskey. “The big rock-head's right. Yeah, we're scared of ya, and pissed that you burnt us up like fried chicken, but this team needs to stick together. I mean, you're our heaviest hitter now. We can't have you running off into the woods with your girlfriend to write poetry or whatever, now can we?”
“Thank you – both of you,” Blaze murmured.
Buckshot shrugged like there was nothing to it. “Me and Slab been talking about this a lot. We screwed the pooch when we agitated for that team vote, and then voted against Nightstriker. You all can blame Gillespie all you want, but we sided with her. We were angry, selfish – someone might even say immatur
e. And hell, I still think we need to jerk a knot in Nightstriker for being a goddamn idiot, but we can jerk a knot in him after we jerk a bigger knot in Thomas Lancaster.”
Nimbus floated forward, her smoke tendrils reaching out to each of them. “So we're still a team, right? Tell me nobody is going to leave!”
Nightstriker chuckled. “What do you say, Sam? Have they convinced you to stay?”
Blaze nodded, and couldn't help a halo of fire from forming around his head. “Yeah. I'm staying.”
“Awesome!” Nimbus shouted, tickling Sam with her smoke. He tried to keep from laughing, but couldn't help it.
“While I'm glad Blaze is staying,” Nightstriker said, “there is still the issue of the people he's killed and the buildings he's destroyed. While only the most sadistic people will mourn the Patriots, the White House was an important symbol. People will––”
“They can shove it,” Slab said. “Once we can get this fucking idiotic press corps to tell the truth, everyone'll know Blaze was totally justified.”
“And suppose the superhero community decides otherwise?” Nightstriker said. “Suppose they decide Blaze should be tried and sentenced to a long prison term – or even executed? Murder is, of course, illegal.”
“Whoever tries to snag Blaze will end up staring down the barrel of my favorite twelve-gauge shotgun,” Buckshot growled. “This wasn't some drive-by murder by a gangbanger. This was war. Folks die in war. Nobody's gonna prosecute Blaze because he decided to fight fire with fire – no pun intended – instead o' fighting with one hand tied behind his back.”
“Does anyone object to Buckshot and Slab's words?” Nightstriker asked.
No one said anything, but their determined nods – and determined smoke-swirling – clearly indicated they weren't going to sell out Blaze.
Gillespie, however, appeared to be the least enthusiastic – though she hadn't been enthusiastic about anything during this discussion.
“It appears we're all in agreement,” Nightstriker said. “We will protect our own – we will not hand over Blaze to any person, organization, or government who seeks to punish him.”
He glanced at Gillespie. “Are you sure you don't have anything to add, Beverly?”
Gillespie slowly raised her head and stared at him with her strange sneer.
“Why are you asking me?” Gillespie barked. “You're the leader, though you're trying to dance around it with phrases about 'discussion' and 'hearing everyone out.' Not that I disagree with you being leader – you deserve it. Look at you now: beat up, with your head nearly blown off, and you're still going, like it's the easiest thing in the world.”
“Bevs, get yourself together,” Buckshot said. “There's no cause for––”
“No.” That one word seemed to freeze the air, much like the core Blaze had absorbed. “You find out the true measure of a person when the chips are down. Well, the chips were as far down as they could get, and I failed.”
“You couldn't be more wrong,” Nightstriker said. “You have skills none of us possess, and you downplay your world-class soldiering abilities. In fact, once we set things right, the world will need someone to put the pieces back together.”
Gillespie narrowed her eyes. “What are you driving at?”
“You were the Secretary of Superhuman Affairs. You understand how to operate within a bureaucratic world, and, as I said, you were an elite solider, which gives you a nuanced perspective. You'd be an excellent president.”
For a moment, no one said anything, everyone clearly believing Nightstriker had misspoke.
“President?!” Gillespie finally shouted, surging to her feet. “What are you talking about?!”
“I meant exactly what I said,” Nightstriker replied. “Admittedly, with Lancaster's imminent removal, and the further removal and resignation of other members of government, the presidential succession issue does become thorny – but the Secretary of Superhuman Affairs surely has a strong claim to the presidency.”
“Whoa, hold on there, boss man,” Buckshot said, picking up the cigar that he'd dropped in his surprise. “What are we talking about here? Reinventing the government to suit our own ends? Ain't that what we're fighting against?”
“No, we're fighting against corruption, hatred, and intolerance,” Nightstriker said. “We defeated the Giftgiver, because he behaved irresponsibly, and wanted to overturn society to fit his warped ideals. We will defeat President Lancaster because he's used his authority to torture, kill, and subjugate. We've given society – both the superhuman and the unpowered side – chances to do the right thing. They've failed. It's time to take a more proactive approach.”
“But how's that different from when you released all that damning information?” Metal Gal asked. “That approach led to this entire mess.”
“True, but that was because I released that information anonymously, hoping society would use it to better the world,” Nightstriker replied. “I was wrong. It was mainly used by callous politicians to increase their own power. I don't intend to make the same mistake twice.”
“This is some heavy shit,” Slab said. “And believe me, I know heavy. Are we really talking about taking over the country? That's what this boils down to, doesn't it?”
“Yeah, this is crazy!” Nimbus shouted. “This is what the Giftgiver wanted, to rule the world! That's why I turned against him! I don't want to be involved in another power grab like that!”
“Does anyone have a more viable proposal?” Nightstriker asked. “If we only remove Lancaster and his minions, the problem may be solved for a while, but eventually the rot will return, and we'll again be fighting for our lives.”
He waited, but no one had a response ready. Blaze rubbed his chin, wondering how he felt about all this.
Like Nightstriker, he didn't want a repeat of this nightmare. But like Nimbus and the others, he thought installing Gillespie as president was anti-democratic. It wasn't likely to solve their problems; many would never accept Beverly Gillespie as United States president, no matter how much they highlighted Thomas Lancaster's evil.
Gillespie cleared her throat, and Blaze noticed that everyone was relieved – even Nightstriker – to hear someone break the silence.
“For you to think I'd be a good president, after all the mistakes I've made...well, it means a lot to me, Nightstriker. And to see how you all are trying to forgive Blaze – we're becoming a team again.”
No longer did she look washed-up. Now she stood up straight, her jaw set, her eyes burning.
“But you all are right: handing me the presidency is a dangerous power grab. Therefore, I propose a compromise: I will take charge in the interim, for a period no longer than a year. By that time, we should be able to set up special elections to replace those who have resigned from office or who will be forcibly removed.”
“Still believe in democracy, Gillespie?” Nightstriker asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “It's the only system we can stand by. Anything else, and we turn into despots.”
Nightstriker nodded, and the two of them exchanged a smile that spoke volumes. “I have my misgivings, but hopefully you can put measures in place to prevent another catastrophe before you step down. But first: what does everyone else think of this plan?”
“I don't know,” Nimbus said. “This just feels so...weird.”
“Yeah, it freakin' sucks,” Slab growled. “We can't keep Lancaster in power, we can't rule ourselves, and if we set up Gillespie, things might be just as bad, and then she's gone in a year!”
“Shit sure is complicated,” Buckshot said. “I miss the good ol' days, when all I had to do was deal with supervillains who dressed up in colorful costumes. Then you knew who to shoot, and once you took 'em down, your job was done.”
“We all wish our lives were simpler,” Nightstriker said, “but we've been forced into making a fateful decision. We can't retreat from this responsibility. I suggest we vote on my and Gillespie's plan – unless anyone has any other plans th
ey'd like to present?”
Everyone looked uncomfortable, like they knew they should be able to come up with a better solution.
Blaze squirmed and chewed his lip. It wasn't the right decision, but perhaps it was the least wrong one.
Like Buckshot, he wished he had a gaudy supervillain to blast, instead of standing here debating principles of government and leadership.
He supposed this was how the Founding Fathers felt when they were charting America's course.
“No one has spoken up, so let's begin our voting,” Nightstriker said. “Unless you all would like some time to ponder the consequences?”
“We've done enough pondering waiting for Blaze to wake up from his beauty rest,” Buckshot said. “Let's get it over with.”
“Very well,” Nightstriker said. “All in favor of this plan, raise their hand – or their smoke.”
Everyone raised their hand or smoke tendrils, including Nightstriker. Some more tentatively than others, but the vote was unanimous – and this fact buoyed the Elites.
“Well, that was easy enough,” Gillespie said, laughing. “I suppose I need to start picking out a presidential wardrobe.”
“You? Go clothes shopping?” Buckshot scoffed. “You know you're just gonna wear those same super-serious pantsuits you always wear.”
“You're probably right,” Gillespie replied, enjoying the ribbing. “So, what's our next move? Take down Lancaster?”
“Yes,” Nightstriker replied. “It's time that tyrant's term ended.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Nightstriker
Captain Sweetum's Donut Shop was closed for business. Normally, this would've been unusual. For one, the shop fronted onto a busy Washington D.C. boulevard; customer traffic should have been plentiful. Also, there were no holidays in observance.
Perhaps the owners had left town after what the press was calling the “Blaze Crisis.” It was certainly plausible; several other businesses in the area were closed, and the tension within the nation's capital was thick.