Rogue Superheroes

by Matt Cowper

  No one knew whether the government was still operating, and if so what policies they were pursuing. Thomas Lancaster was frequently on television, but his diatribes only served to rile up his base of support, not inform the country of what course he was taking.

  Lancaster's diatribes were about to end, however. Nightstriker kicked in the glass door to the donut shop and entered its dim interior. The Elites followed behind him, all of them wearing fresh costumes, and Gillespie decked out in the old outfit she wore when she was with the Superhuman Support Squad.

  They looked fierce, determined, incredibly powerful. The area's few pedestrians gave them a wide berth. A few superheroes – or villains dressed up as heroes – flew by, but upon seeing the return of the Elites, they quickly flew in the other direction.

  Nightstriker examined the inside of the shop. It was designed in a retro style, with chrome booths, fifty-year-old advertisements framed on the walls, and a checkerboard tile floor. A few donuts still sat in the glass display case, rapidly succumbing to mold.

  The door to the shop's back room burst open, and two beefy, armed men in suits jumped out. They aimed their pistols at Nightstriker, but the guns turned from black to red, and the men shouted in pain and dropped them. The pistols continued to heat up, until they melted into slag.

  Blaze floated next to Nightstriker, his eyes glowing white, fire dancing around him.

  “Blast 'em?” he asked.

  “Go ahead,” Nightstriker replied, “but don't knock them out. We still need to interrogate them.”

  Two fireballs slammed into the men's chests, knocking them onto the tiled floor. Grunting and scrambling, they tried to simultaneously beat out their burning chests while also trying to stand up. When the Elites circled them and stared down at them balefully, they gave up trying to stand, and just stared back with the most defiant looks they could muster.

  “Where is Lancaster?” Nightstriker asked.

  No response.

  Nightstriker kicked one of the men in the jaw, breaking it. As blood dribbled down the man's chin, Nightstriker hoisted him up and slammed him against the wall.

  “Where is Lancaster?” he repeated. “We know he's here. If I have to ask again, I'm going to get irritated.”

  “I'll tell you,” the other man said. “He's––”

  “Shut up, Evan,” the man with the wrecked jaw mumbled. “Remember our job, our oath––”

  “To hell with that. Lancaster's ruined this country, destroyed our government, and he's still ranting like he's invincible.” He rose carefully, holding out his hands in a gesture of peace. “The Elites are back now. They can fix this.”

  “We appreciate your faith in us,” Gillespie said. She held out her hand. “Beverly Gillespie, former Secretary of Superhuman Affairs.”

  Evan stared at the hand for a moment, then shook it. “I know who you are. Evan Oswalt, Secret Service. Well, former Secret Service now, I suppose.”

  Gillespie smiled. “We'll see about that. Now, how about you lead us to Lancaster. No tricks, either.”

  Oswalt glanced at his companion's bloody jaw. “Come on. I'll take you to him.”

  “Slab, can you carry this man?” Nightstriker asked, shoving the other agent towards the rock-man.

  “Easily.” He plucked up the man with his thumb and forefinger and set him on his shoulder.

  The man looked bewildered to be riding on a walking mountain, but he said nothing, nor did he attempt to jump off.

  “Follow me,” Oswalt said.

  They stepped into the back room, Slab having to crouch and turn sideways to get through the double doors.

  A dough-mixing machine, numerous ovens, prep tables, a large trashcan. Normal equipment for a donut shop.

  But a suspicious keypad was attached to the wall near the walk-in cooler. And indeed, Oswalt headed straight to the pad and raised his hand to the illuminated buttons.

  Before he could key in anything, Nightstriker grabbed his hand. “No tricks, remember.”

  Oswalt shook his head. “No tricks. You have my word.”

  Nightstriker released the hand. “Go ahead.”

  He keyed in a phrase, then pressed 'enter.' Nightstriker had watched him closely, and knew he'd typed in 'Abraham Lincoln.'

  Oswalt certainly hadn't come up with that. It had to be Lancaster's doing. He obviously associated himself with what many considered to be America's greatest President.

  Nightstriker felt his neck veins bulging. Did the man's hubris know no bounds?

  A panel slid up from the floor, revealing a staircase lit by thin strips of LED lights. The stairs led down to a larger room, a hidden basement beneath this innocent-looking donut shop.

  “Slab, that passage is too narrow for you,” Nightstriker said. “You stay here with these two agents.”

  “Got it,” Slab replied.

  “Nimbus, you go ahead, see if there's any danger. In your smoke-form nothing should hurt you.”

  “No problem,” she replied, drifting down the stairs. The cloud-bank stopped at the bottom, waiting for everyone to catch up.

  “No danger that I can see,” Nimbus said. “Metal Gal? You notice anything?”

  “My scans aren't picking up anything but standard electrical signals,” Gal replied. She'd morphed into her silvery form for this final conflict, and her eyes glowed blue.

  “Let's continue,” Nightstriker said.

  They stepped down into the small room, and there was President Thomas Lancaster, glaring at them wildly. He sat by a bank of computers, similar to Nightstriker's setup in the underground bunker. Two agents flanked him, guns drawn.

  “Hey, Tommy,” Buckshot said. “Time for an impeachment.”

  “You!” Lancaster rasped. “How did you all find me?!”

  “We talked to some people,” Gillespie said nonchalantly. “Friends of yours. Well, former friends now. Cabinet members, specifically. They realize you're through, Lancaster; they were happy to divulge the location of this hideout.”

  “Nonsense!” Lancaster said, jerking his tie around like he was going to rip it off and lasso one of them. “None of my Cabinet would betray me!”

  “Except me, right?” Gillespie said. “Face it, Mr. President: it's over. Come quietly, and you'll––”

  “Quietly? You really think I'll surrender to terrorists such as yourselves? Kill them, you two!”

  The two agents glanced at their boss, uncertain. Before they could do anything, though, Blaze heated up their pistols, much like he'd done with the other agents, and they shouted and dropped the weapons.

  “What in – oh, it's you,” Lancaster snarled. “Blaze. Real name: Samuel Johnson Boyd. The pathetic child who was unable to prevent his parents from getting their heads crushed.”

  Nightstriker looked at Blaze quickly, but the young superhero only stood there with his arms crossed, shaking his head in disappointment.

  “You're not going to goad me, Lancaster,” Blaze said. “You deserve to die for what you've done, but I'm not going to be the executioner.”

  “Is that right?” the President rose, again fiddling with his tie. “You think you're so high and mighty, while I've been brought low? The President of the United States, hiding out below a donut shop, with only a few agents attending him.”

  “Certainly looks that way,” Buckshot said.

  “Ah, but appearances can be deceiving.” Lancaster's demeanor changed: he stopped fiddling with his tie, and stood up straighter, with an infuriatingly cocky grin.

  “You see, I wanted you all to come here,” he went on. “I knew you couldn't resist: the President hiding here, with no tricks left, sending out his shrill, pathetic messages to the networks. It's a tantalizing image. All you had to do was show up, puff out your superhero chests, and take me into custody. Well, unfortunately for you, it's not going to work out that way.”

  Nightstriker placed his hands on his utility belt, never taking his eyes off the President. Was he telling the truth? Did he really have yet a
nother plan to defeat them?

  The people they'd interrogated to find Lancaster had sworn the president was half-mad with anger, his imminent defeat eroding his mind. Nightstriker knew almost for a certainty they were telling the truth, and Metal Gal's scans and Gillespie's own analysis agreed with him.

  But perhaps they were telling the truth, and Lancaster had duped them into believing he was done for. All to lure them here....

  “Team, stay alert,” Nightstriker said. “Something's off here. Lancaster, get down on your knees and put your––”

  “Wait,” Blaze said. “I feel...something....”

  “Something?” Nightstriker asked.

  “Like something's sucking away my energy.”

  Indeed, flames and a glowing aura were drifting off Blaze's body – directly towards Lancaster.

  “Metal Gal, scan him!” Nightstriker barked.

  Her eyes glowed blue, and her silvery jaw dropped. “He's...filling up with energy!”

  “How is that possible?!” Gillespie asked.

  “Blaze, power down!” Nightstriker said.

  “But––”

  “Do it!”

  Blaze closed his eyes, and his Fire Shield decreased and the temperature within the basement room dropped at least twenty degrees.

  But energy still drifted from Blaze to Lancaster. Now Lancaster was the one whose skin glowed and whose movements pulsed with dangerous energy.

  “You can't just flip a switch and turn off your powers, Blaze,” Lancaster said. “While you can lessen the manifestation of your abilities, they're still within you, just waiting to burst to the surface – or to be absorbed by me.”

  “The President's a superhuman?!” Nimbus shouted. “What the hell?!”

  “Shocking, isn't it?” Lancaster said. “But, in your defense, I only recently acquired these powers.”

  “I though you despised superhumans, Lancaster,” Nightstriker said.

  The President's eyes narrowed, and his jaw muscles tensed. “I did what I had to do.”

  “Tossing aside your principles in your zeal to defeat us?” Nightstriker said. “You're no different than any other villain.”

  “Be quiet, you sanctimonious cretin!” Lancaster shouted. “I thought the Patriots and my other loyal superhumans would handle you. But no – those buffoons killed Blaze's parents, and awakened a force stronger than all of them put together. I needed an appropriate counter-measure – and found someone who could help me with that.”

  “The Giftgiver,” Nightstriker muttered.

  “Correct, Nightstriker. In the chaos following Blaze's destruction of MegaMax Prison, he nearly escaped, but my people were able to apprehend him. I forced him to use his powers on me – but this time, the powers I received weren't random. You were right, Nightstriker: if a person concentrates hard enough when the Giftgiver places his power-bestowing hands on them, they can receive a particular power, instead of the strange nonsense that usually occurs. Case in point, Nimbus there. The fool still can't turn back into her human form, can she?”

  Nimbus floated towards Lancaster, her smoke tendrils whipping. “I'll choke you out, you son of a––”

  “Nimbus, stay back!” Metal Gal shouted. “We don't know what he's capable of!”

  “Ah, you'll find out shortly,” Lancaster said. “You see, I focused on energy absorption and manipulation when the Giftgiver used his powers. I knew that Blaze had become far too powerful to confront head-on. The only way to beat him was to sap his power, then use them against him. So that's what I'm doing. Are you feeling faint yet, Blaze?”

  Blaze had grown paler, and his shoulders drooped – while Lancaster continued to glow ever more intensely.

  “Blaze, get out of here!” Nightstriker shouted. “The longer he stays near you, the stronger he gets!”

  “But you all––” Blaze began.

  “We'll handle him,” Nightstriker said. “Without a constant power source, he'll––”

  “Wither like a rose beneath a scorching sun?” Lancaster said. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I'll absorb Metal Gal's core, or the electricity flowing through this city. So many options. Well, let's begin this fight, shall we? It's time for the Elites to finally fall.”

  Yellow energy roared out of him, and the world disintegrated.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Blaze

  Blaze powered back up, forming a Fire Shield around his teammates as Lancaster's energy burst vaporized the two Secret Service agents near him. As the concrete walls and floor crumbled, Blaze had to strain to maintain the shield and prevent them all from sharing the agents' fate.

  The ordeal with the ICE suit had tired him out, but he fatigue he felt now went deeper, like his very soul was being ripped from him.

  Lancaster's energy flashed upwards, blowing the entire basement room apart and sending the team hurtling back towards the surface. Yellow energy hammered on the Fire Shield relentlessly, and the worst migraine Blaze had ever felt sliced through his skull.

  Once they landed and Lancaster's blast dissipated, Sam turned off the shield, and the Elites quickly got to their feet and readied themselves. To his surprise, the donut shop had been destroyed by the blast; there were barely any pieces of rubble left.

  One large piece of rubble, however, was moving, and Blaze quickly realized it was Slab. The rocky superhero had remained at the top of the stairs, too large to descend to the basement. He hadn't been inside the relative protection of the Fire Shield, and had taken the full brunt of Lancaster's blast. The other agents who'd remained above ground had been vaporized like their comrades.

  “Slab!” Blaze shouted.

  His teammates had also noticed their downed ally, and everyone stumbled over to the gray hulk. To their surprise, Slab's form was smoking, and some of his rocks had fused together. He tried to push himself up, but his arms gave out.

  “That...was a tough one,” he murmured.

  “Slab, how badly are you hurt?” Nightstiker said. “Did the blast penetrate your hide?”

  “Yeah, in some spots. And I feel...weird all over....”

  “I see I'm already powerful enough to hurt the durable Slab.” It was Lancaster, who'd risen from the hole that used to be the basement and was now walking towards them slowly, confidently. “Why did I ever criticize superpowers? With my abilities, I can––”

  “You're the definition of a hypocrite,” Nightstriker growled.

  “I'm a pragmatist, Nightstriker. I do what is––”

  Without a word, Nimbus rushed towards Lancaster, her form funneling down. Blaze knew she was going to attempt to suffocate Lancaster, as she'd attempted to suffocate him when they'd fought on the National Mall.

  “Nimbus, don't go near him!” Nightstriker shouted.

  Nimbus didn't listen, instead shooting her cloudbank into Lancaster's mouth and nostrils. But the glowing Lancaster only grinned and shook his head.

  “You're a one-trick pony, girl,” he said. “One of the Giftgiver's many failures.”

  Another energy burst erupted from him, and Blaze again had to push himself to form another Fire Shield. This time the shield nearly broke, and he nearly fainted from the pain and exhaustion.

  When the light and energy settled down, Blaze looked about frantically for Nimbus. She was nowhere near them, and Blaze began to suspect she was gone.

  But then Metal Gal pointed towards the sky. There was Nimbus, floating high above them like a passing cloud. Her form didn't shift in its normal manner, however, and she didn't fly back down to rejoin them. She was in her version of unconsciousness – in the best case scenario. Worst case, Lancaster had done irreparable damage to her form.

  “Another one down,” Lancaster said, moving closer to them. “Order will be restored quickly at this rate. We will no longer have to tolerate––”

  A giant fist knocked Lancaster down, the force of its impact causing nearby windows to shatter. Though still radiating enormous power, Lancaster's lip was bloody, and he gaped up at his atta
cker.

  It was Metal Gal. She'd morphed her arm into a fist twice as large as Slab's mitts, and charged the now superpowered President.

  “I see you can still bleed,” Gal growled. “Good.”

  She rained down giant fists onto Lancaster. The ground shook, and Lancaster's energy hissed and crackled. The more Gal pounded him, the angrier she seemed to get, until her arms were moving in a blur.

  But though her blows would've pulped a normal human, Lancaster was not only still alive, but did not appear to be taking much damage. His energy obviously could be translated to durability or some sort of shielding, which he'd increased after Metal Gal landed her initial blow.

  Blaze stood up, readying an absurdly weak fireball, and hobbled to the aid of his girlfriend. But a firm hand jerked him back, and Nightstriker's rough-yet-determined face pressed close to his own.

  “No, Sam,” he said. “You need to get far away from here. Lancaster will keep sapping you until you're either completely exhausted or dead. You can barely stand now.”

  “I can't just fly away!” Blaze protested. “Look at him, he's––”

  “We'll find a way to beat him.”

  “Sam, Metal Gal is buying us precious time,” Gillespie put in. “Don't waste it!”

  “But you heard what he said!” Blaze shouted. “If he doesn't absorb my energy, he'll absorb Gal's power core or the city's electricity! You need me here!”

  “No, we do not!” Nightstriker roared, his words intensifying Blaze's headache. “Those other energy sources are minuscule compared to yours! Now leave, Sam, before––”

  A strange scream, like the cross between the voice of a young woman and a garbled synthesized squeal, caused everyone to jerk their heads to Lancaster and Metal Gal. The reason behind the scream was clear: Lancaster had blasted Gal in two.

  Her arms, head, and upper body writhed by Lancaster's feet, while her stomach and legs tried in vain to rise a dozen yards away. Gal's eyes glowed a soft pink, and pink tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Siobhan!” Blaze shouted, trying to pull away from Nightstriker's grip.