by Matt Cowper
“That ain't no way to encourage the kid, boss man,” Buckshot said. He knelt beside them as well and held out a hand. “You generate the power, but let me do the guiding, Sammy. You know how good my hands are. I coulda been a world-class surgeon instead of a gunslinger.”
The hand Buckshot held out, however, was quivering exactly like Blaze's was. Blaze's frowned deepened and he gave the Texan a quizzical look.
“Uh, Buckshot, not to be rude,” he said, “but your hand....”
“Hah! Looks bad, doesn't it? But I'm just messing with ya'll. Here, this is the true Buckshot steadiness.”
Suddenly, his hand was as still as a frozen lake. Nightstriker scrutinized it, but couldn't see even a knuckle wiggle. Blaze shook his head, but couldn't keep from letting out a brief chuckle.
“Well, if you're done messing around, let's begin,” Blaze said.
“I'm ready, kid,” Buckshot said.
He grabbed Blaze's hand and moved it swiftly and surely over Slab's chest. Everyone in the room tensed, but Buckshot didn't appear the least bit concerned. In fact, judging from the twinkle in his eye, he was enjoying the spectacle.
“Tell us what to do, boss man,” Buckshot said.
“Cut a line through that rock, and this circular one.” He pointed at both. “Then we'll see what happens.”
“Will do.” Guiding Blaze's hand, he melted a perfect line through the indicated rocks. Blaze gaped as his torch-hand moved in a manner he never could've achieved on his own. Buckshot, however, still looked mildly amused.
Immediately, Slab's breathing became deeper and more even. He also emitted a sound like chalk on a blackboard, which was his version of a sigh.
“Looks like we did some good,” Buckshot said. “What next?”
“Melt these parts.” Again, Nightstriker pointed out numerous jagged or fused areas on Slab's chest.
Buckshot nodded, and went back to work. He might as well have been a machine moving with precision down to the millimeter.
The more they cut or melted, the more Slab's breathing improved. When they were done, Slab was even letting out a grumbling sound, like he was talking in his sleep.
“What else?” Buckshot asked.
“I hesitate to do more than that in one sitting,” Nightstriker said. “Let's see what effect this has. Good work, you two.”
“It's all Buckshot,” Blaze said, extinguishing the torch. “That was...well, perfect.”
“Why ya'll acting so surprised?” Buckshot said, standing up and shoving a wad of chew in his mouth. “Haven't you all seen me reload faster than the eye can follow?”
“The quickest I've ever seen your hands move is when you're downing whiskey,” Metal Gal muttered.
“I suppose I do get...ahem...enthusiastic when I'm drinking,” Buckshot said. “And when I'm removing a lady's clothes. The two usually go hand in hand.”
Before he could regale them with details of his debauchery, Slab's massive eyes blinked open, causing Nimbus to gasp and rush to the ceiling.
They all gathered closer around the rocky hero, who stared back up at them confusedly.
“What...the hell?” he said, his normally deep voice reduced to a relatively soft whisper. “Where is...that...jackass....”
“We defeated him, Slab,” Nightstriker said, “and your actions were crucial. I've rarely seen a superhuman exhibit such phenomenal strength and resolve.”
“Yeah, I was...pissed. But that damn power of his...felt like punching a quadruple-plated ultimatium wall.” He slowly moved his cracked hand to his equally-cracked jaw. “He nailed me with a punch...hardest I've ever been hit...last thing I remember. Thought it'd killed me. What happened?”
They told Slab what had occurred after Thomas Lancaster knocked him unconscious. How Blaze had come up with an ingenious plan and reduced the President to a sobbing mess. How they'd retreated here, like they'd done before, to recuperate and plan. How Blaze had woken up and insisted on helping Slab, and how Buckshot had guided the torch-hand.
When they were done, Slab let out a gravelly chuckle. “That was pretty smart, Sam. Usually Nightstriker is the one coming up with the unbeatable plans. Looks like you're giving him a run for his money.”
Blaze grinned, and a soft glow surrounded him. Metal Gal gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek.
“And you both...cutting into my rocks...great work there. Of course, it hurts like hell, but I'll just pour some antifreeze or something on it.” He held out his window-sized hand to Buckshot. “If I need surgery again, I know who to call.”
Buckshot gently slabbed Slab's open palm. “I'll be ready, rock-head. In fact, I can start right up again, right now. Ever thought about your version of plastic surgery? Remove some rocks here, put some there, make you look like one of them classic Roman statues instead of a misshapen lump o' granite.”
Slab laughed, shaking the room. “I'll have you know that the rock-ladies think I look just fine. But thanks for the offer.”
The light-hearted conversation continued for several more minutes. After the stress of the past few days, after all the death and loss, it felt good for everyone to talk freely and innocently for a few moments.
Teammates hugged, jested, and made plans for the future. Small plans, such as meeting for dinner at a certain Z City restaurant, or promising to attend a sporting event. Buckshot even extracted a pledge from Gillespie to go with him to his favorite barbecue joint, and Nimbus said she'd try to drift into deep cracks in Slab's rocks and kill off some hard-to-reach mold and mildew.
But soon enough Nightstriker cleared his throat, and all eyes turned to him. The light conversation died down, replaced by serious looks and composure.
“As much as we all need a long vacation,” Nightstriker said, “there is too much work to do. The last time we were here, we devised a plan to bring this country back together. It's time to enact it.”
“We're really going to do it?” Metal Gal asked. “Install Gillespie as President? Beat down any superhumans who oppose us? Make sure everyone in government behaves?”
“Yes,” Gillespie said, stepping to the center of the group. She looked at each of them, and Nightstriker noticed they all blinked and stood up straighter.
“We've gone through too much to simply hand the reins back to a corrupt political class,” she continued. “We need to change things for the better – and I believe we can. Look at all we've overcome these past few days. We've overcome powerful enemies, individual pain and loss, and internal strife. Now we are again a team – we are again the Elites.”
Here she paused, and stared at them all like a testy general. “And our enemies should fear us.”
Buckshot ran his hands through his hair. “Well, shit, Gillespie. If you broadcast that speech, crime would be reduced by twenty percent. Whaddaya say, boss man? Is that the way of things?”
Nightstriker smiled, and he could see his smile both motivated and unnerved his teammates as much as Gillespie's words. “I think that was well said, Gillespie. Now, let's get started. We have a lot of work to do.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Nightstriker
The two superheroes guarding Interim President Beverly Gillespie's office nodded as Nightstriker approached. In their looks was mutual respect, as well as pride in their work.
The guards' expressions contrasted with those of the congressmen and staffers bustling through the Capitol Building. Their looks contained either fear or scorn – usually scorn.
The superheroes had taken over, and the establishment wasn't happy about it.
Nightstriker nodded to a young female staffer, who returned a sneer. Rather than stopping to argue with or intimidate the file-toting woman, he continued on.
“Is she busy?” Nightstriker asked one of the guards, the superhero known only as Q. With his black and purple costume, hooded eyes, and hairless body, Q discomposed the people in the Capitol Building even more.
“No busier than usual, Nightstriker.” Being an android, his buzzin
g synthesized voice also unsettled others. As he answered Nightstriker, a senator stopped to gawk.
“Go on in,” the other superhero said. “She needs a break from the paperwork and horse trading.”
This superhero was named Dart, and he was a Class A speedster. If anyone was to attack Gillespie's office, Dart could have her halfway across Washington in only a few seconds, while Q stayed behind to unleash the impressive arsenal hidden within his body.
“I'm sure she does need a break,” Nightstriker said, “but my visit isn't going to give her the respite she needs.”
He opened the large, polished oak doors and stepped into Beverly Gillespie's office. Though tastefully designed – not by Gillespie; a staffer handled that – the room was small, barely big enough to fit in a desk, a few chairs, and two bookshelves.
The room had belonged to some minor congressional functionary before Gillespie commandeered it. Congress grumbled: not only had Gillespie usurped the presidency, with the help of those damned Elites, she'd set up shop in their building.
In addition to the constant griping about usurpation, there was talk about the separation of powers, about how Gillespie's “poisonous” presence here improperly influenced “this country's great legislative machine.”
Gillespie mostly ignored the whispers, but occasionally she had to verbally lacerate someone to remind folks that they were in charge until things got sorted out.
Many egos had already been bruised in the few weeks since she'd become Interim President.
She looked up as Nightstriker entered, smiling cordially. “Nightstriker. Good to see you. Will you excuse us for a moment, Clara?”
A young staffer who'd been hovering nearby taking notes nodded and exited the room, greeting Nightstriker before she left.
When they were alone, Gillespie webbed her hands together and leaned forward. “So. I haven't seen you in...it's been a few days, hasn't it?”
“Two days,” Nightstriker said. “We've been busy breaking down the Beacon and building our new base in Bootheel. Long days, but still, it's going quicker than I anticipated. The Elites are working well together, and Blaze...well, as you know, his power is useful.”
“That's the understatement of the century. I've seen the news footage of your progress. He's able to cut through the Beacon like it's made of plastic, and he can power up Metal Gal's new Zeta Cores in seconds. Truly remarkable.”
“Yes...it is.”
“And you say he's had no ill effects from the crisis?”
“None. That is, nothing that affects his powers. He's still grieving, of course, and that makes his concentration falter. But he's still the Class I superhuman who...accomplished those great deeds.”
“Class I?” Gillespie asked. “That's new to me.”
“It's an addition to the old superhuman grading system I devised. The 'I' stands for 'infinite.' It's the classification beyond Class S, reserved for superhumans whose powers truly have no equal. Blaze is the first being we've seen who deserves Class I status.”
“What about the Power and Professor Perfection?”
“Both are on the cusp, but Blaze's power still far surpasses theirs. I've been able to analyze him more closely, and what I've found is...astonishing.”
Gillespie frowned. “What's the problem, Nightstriker? You make 'astonishing' sound like a bad thing.”
He walked past her to stare out of the large reinforced windows. Outside, the sky was achingly blue, and the trees lining the sidewalk twisted in the breeze. Pedestrians walked to and fro, either playing with their smartphones or having earnest conversations, likely about politics.
The scene was far different from the carnage-filled one when they'd fought Blaze....
“The problem is Blaze,” Nightstriker said, continuing to stare outside.
“Blaze? What do you mean? He's a solution, not a problem – right?”
“He's not a solution, he's the solution,” Nightstriker replied. “His power dwarfs every other superhuman's. And he's young; he'll likely be the apex superhuman on this planet for decades to come.”
“What's the matter?” Gillespie asked, bemusement in her tone. “Think he's making you obsolete?”
“No. You know I care little for who gets the credit. But for a superhuman of Blaze's caliber to exist unchecked...you saw how he dismantled us. If he hadn't listened to me, and if my ICE core hadn't broken down, there's no telling how many people he would've murdered.”
“But he did listen to you,” Gillespie said, “and he did prevent that core from destroying Washington. I think you're being too harsh on him. Remember how you reacted when your family...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned that.”
Nightstriker clenched his fists and remained staring out the window. “It's fine. We shouldn't dance around that topic. You're right: I killed plenty of people after my family was murdered. Only after I'd virtually eliminated the Nihilists did I bottom out. But think what would've happened if I'd been a Class I superhuman – or even a Class S or Class A. The gutters would've been filled with blood.”
“I understand your concern,” Gillespie said, “but why so grim all of a sudden? Things have been going well. We're recapturing the villains who escaped after Blaze's destruction of MegaMax Prison. The government's beginning to work again. Dozens of corrupt officials have resigned. Crime is down. Opinion polls are swinging to our point of view. Why this worry about Blaze?”
“You know how I am, Gillespie. I need plans. Structure. But with Blaze's power rising to literal godlike levels...I admit I don't know how to counter him now.”
He turned back to her. “And that keeps me up at night.”
Gillespie rose and stood by him. “Why not just rebuild the ICE suit? Or an energy-sapping device – one that doesn't also absorb someone's essence. Lancaster had the right idea; he just went too far with it.”
“I'm working on prototypes for both types of tech,” Nightstriker said, “but that won't be sufficient. Blaze has already fought previous versions of those countermeasures, and prevailed. I need something new, something that's even more powerful than Blaze.”
“Now you're making me brood.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Some concern is prudent, but you're going overboard. As you said, Sam's a good kid, and has a strong support network. If we could get through this crisis, we can get through anything.”
Nightstriker stepped away, and Gillespie's hand fell to her side. “Those are empty words, and you know it. A person can always suffer more. There's torture, brainwashing, the murder of Blaze's remaining loved one. If someone destroyed Metal Gal, can you honestly say he'd have a measured, mature reaction?”
“Empty words?” Gillespie flared. “What do you want me to do, constantly scheme against a friend like you do? Work all day and all night to develop tech designed to ruin them? Or perhaps I should persuade Congress to pass an Anti-Blaze Bill?”
“Spare me the sanctimony, Gillespie. If I hadn't developed the ICE suit, Blaze would've won that battle. And didn't you agree to be Interim President so we could prevent threats from arising? Why do you balk now at the responsibility you willingly accepted?”
“Sam is a friend, not a supervillain,” she said. “I already said I approved of appropriate counter-measures. What else do you want me to say? I swear, Nightstriker, just when things are going well, you decide to ruin them. Why do you have to always have to try and build a better mousetrap?”
“I told you: it's my nature. But I see this conversation is going to devolve into mud-slinging.” He walked to the door. “I'm sorry to bother you, Gillespie. I––”
“Wait a damn minute,” Gillespie growled. “You're not leaving until you give me some assurances. The last time we argued like this, you decided to expose the rottenness of our society, which nearly led to its collapse. Are you going to do something similarly stupid now?”
“I...I don't know.” He sighed, and that uncharacteristic sound caused Gillespie's face to soften. “You're right, Gillespie. I shouldn't be co
nspiring against Blaze like this. Perhaps I'm just tired. Perhaps all that has happened has finally sunk in, and I'm desperate to prevent a repeat of this debacle.”
“Understandable reactions,” Gillespie said. “Listen, just take a day off. Or even half a day. I'll come over and supervise the work in Z City if it'll put your mind at ease. But please: we have a chance to truly change things now. We can't afford to screw up.”
“A day off?” He chuckled. “You know that'll never happen. But I suppose I can get a few more hours of sleep a night, and spend more time in meditation.”
“Well, that's better than nothing,” Gillespie said. “So I assume you're not going to engineer another catastrophe?”
He chuckled. “I'll try not to.”
“Again, that's better than nothing.” She held out her hand. “You'll check back in soon?”
Nightstriker shook her hand. “Yes, I will – but from what I've gathered, you're handling the political situation adroitly. Perhaps I should focus more on what's happening in Z City. That was the agreement, after all: for you to focus on politics, and for the Elites to focus on superheroing.”
“True enough, but I still...enjoy your visits.” She gave him a strange smile and smoothed out a non-existent wrinkle on her pantsuit. “Even though you are a royal pain in the ass. In fact, I was wondering if you'd...like to go out to dinner sometime.”
Nightstriker felt his eyebrows arch to the ceiling. With an effort, he returned them to a normal level.
A date? With Beverly Gillespie? The now Interim President of the United States?
He admitted he'd thought of Gillespie in intimate terms. They were both unpowered, but nonetheless extremely accomplished and intelligent – and obstinate. It was natural for each of them to at least consider the other for a partner.
The many problems they'd had were because they were too similar, not because they were different. Their tough natures would certainly make any sort of relationship interesting....
But did Nightstriker want interesting? Did he want anything? Didn't he have enough on his plate, what with running the Elites, building a new headquarters, rounding up escaped villains, and so forth?