Supers Box Set

by Kristofer Bartol

  “Well I heard,” interrupts the big-eared cadet, “you and Sergeant Singleton took-on a super just a few days ago.”

  “Okay, McBride,” Tessio smiles, “like I mentioned earlier, some ‘supers’ are so low-powered they're capable of next to nothing. Goobers like Fogman have neither clout nor an element of surprise.”

  “Oh,” says the bespectacled cadet, “you haven’t heard?”

  Tessio pivots on his heel, glowering. “What?”

  The bespectacled cadet gulps. His thin-faced neighbor shrinks in his seat.

  “The, uh,” stammers the bespectacled cadet, “on the news this morning- they, um…”

  Tessio stares the cadet down, growling, "'They um' what?" as his eyes widen and his pupils darken; red veins snaking thick through white.

  "Fogman," Gagnon interjects, blatantly stating, "He escaped."

  The room stiffens. Tessio’s brow furrows and his fists clench, crushing the chalk to dust.

  The thin-faced cadet, eyeing Tessio's hands, sighs in relief.

  Tessio turns stern to Singleton, who shrugs, saying, “I thought you knew.”

  Tessio wipes his sweaty palm over his bald head. He inhales and tightens, smothering his burning anger, but—as a furnace of potential energy—his temper begs to be uncorked.

  He bends forward, snatches the metal wastebasket, and throws it across the room—hitting the thin-faced cadet in the chest.

  ( I | X )

  “You missed it, kid.” The Blue Streak leans back in his wheelchair; its vinyl cushion creaking. He stares at the ceiling.

  “Missed what?” asks the Adjudicator.

  His elder sighs, smiling. “The silver age.”

  “Judging by the shade of your hair,” he chuckles, “I’d say you’re still in it.”

  The Blue Streak jolts upright, stiff-lipped, and pulls a punch on the Adjudicator’s shoulder.

  The strongman bobbles his head in delight.

  “Kid, you don’t know the half of it," he grins. "History books and news reels barely scratch the surface of what those years were like.”

  “No offense, old man, but I can’t imagine your fights being cooler than mine.”

  “It’s not about the fights,” Blue Streak groans. “It was the atmosphere—the camaraderie, the investigations, the adventures… We were on the forefront of change, with the world in our hands…" His voice turns mournful, "These days, everything happens in the background. There's no more camaraderie; no adventure; no atmosphere.”

  “Atmosphere, Streak? You sound like someone criticizing an Applebee’s.”

  “Aww, you’re just jealous. All you have are the fights. I bet you’ve never even worked alongside someone before.”

  “Hey, no, I-" he thinks, "I helped two of my peers detain the Siren three years ago.”

  “That phermonic bitch?” Blue Streak chuckles, “no, if I recall that broadcast, they were helping you! If I recall correctly, you'd succumbed to her feminine charms!”

  “It- it was a flood of hormones! She overpowered my nervous system!”

  "Oh—you were overpowered by a girl!"

  "Hormones, Streak; hor-mones! I can absorb a punch but I've got no defense against chemicals! Shit was like valerian vine to a housecat."

  “More like a dog—you were humping her leg!”

  “Let’s not- look, it’s not a shining moment in my career.”

  “Twenty bucks says a poster of that Associated Press photo hangs in one outta ten dorm rooms!”

  The Blue Streak folds over, cackling; sending himself into a coughing fit.

  The Adjudicator pats his elder’s shoulder but the old man pulls away, waving him off.

  Jude smiles. “Don’t die on me, now.”

  “Eat shit,” coughs the old man.

  The Adjudicator looks past the wheezing speedster to spy a thin glass box protruding from within a stack of vinyl records on the elder’s credenza. He rises to his feet—head-cocked, eyes-fixed, and hand patting the shoulder of the slouched geriatric.

  He skirts around Blue Streak—as the old man takes a drag from a pink inhaler—and he pulls from the vinyl stack the small glass case, displaying four phaleristic chest medals and a central column of five service ribbons: a white stripe central to darkening shades of blue; thin, equal strips of goldenlight and olive green; fuchsian edges rooted in black, beset by ice; deep ultramarine doused in scarlet, and white; a band of crimson abbreviated by pale strips.

  The medallions, silver and gold, each depict an eagle superimposed—in some stately manner—over a field of thirteen stars. Wings outstretched, the eagle bears a shield abreast—ensconced by gilded, braided wreath—with talons gripping palm fronds, oak leaves, or three crossed arrows.

  The Adjudicator reads the inscriptions, left to right: “For Superior Service,” “National Defense,” “ANNUIT COEPTIS - MDCCLXXVI,” and “For Distinguished Service - From The Secretary of Defense.” He lowers the glass case to the credenza and turns about, to glimpse his elder.

  “I told ya, kid,” says the old man, “it’s not about the fights.”

  “Here's what I don't get, though,” he prompts, taking a knee. “Don't you ever, like… you know…"

  "Huh?"

  "They're all so…”

  “Who?”

  “The people—all the people, and all their faces. Their meek… dirty… sad little faces.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “How do you look at these people—bus drivers, fry cooks, bankers, bums, and whores—and think, ‘That’s someone worth saving. That’s someone with value; someone who contributes to society.’ Most of the people for whom I take injury are people who could be replaced in a snap; people who never stand out in a crowd; people who more often take than they give. And I’m always giving—time, energy—but I never get anything back.”

  “The way it sounds, Jude, you think you’re holding a mirror up to the people, telling them to ‘look closely and reevaluate’ themselves. In reality, though, you’re looking at your own reflection and comparing everyone else to what you see—but they can never be like you or I. Granted, they could get a splash of radiation or some shit, but even if they do they can never be on your level. You’re superhuman, and that’s how it is.”

  “Packing a wallop doesn’t designate me morally superior.”

  “You have the most foundational abilities—true elevated gifts—like the best of the supers who've come before you. And I’m sure you know their names, because they made a difference, despite the quality of what they defended.”

  “You talk a lot of game about my responsibility… Why haven’t they got any?”

  “That’s selfish talk.”

  “As if you never thought the same…”

  “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t,” hums the Blue Streak. “There’s a certain haughtiness—a superiority, I suppose, is a more appropriate term—that all supers feel. Any person elevated in some respect feels it; a natural feeling… a feeling that gives confidence at the expense of humility. And, if unchecked, a gap grows between yourself and the rest… It becomes not ‘I and them’ but ‘we versus they,’ and that’s a dark road to travel. Some men are corrupted by such a mindset. They turn, for lack of a better word, ‘evil.’ Immoral, cruel, and hostile—the kind of men we must repulse. And so we take an oath—not outright, or verbally, or even consciously—but an oath to protect your fellow man: he who cannot protect himself from the immoral, the cruel, and the hostile.”

  “I didn’t take an oath,” the Adjudicator guffaws, “I just do what feels right in the moment. It’s not like I picked one road over another.”

  “But you do. You drift one way or the other, even if you aren’t aware of it.”

  “Yeah, well, then explain the Snowdrifta in Colorado. The guy can conjure blizzards and fly, and you know what he does with his time? He soars up a mountainside, lays a fresh powder, and boards down the slope—ad infinitum.”

  “I can’t account for every per
son, but wouldn’t you say his selfishness is evidence enough of his path?”

  “Snowboarding isn’t a dark path, it’s a winter sport.”

  “A great man once said, ‘The purpose of life is to contribute to making things better.’”

  “Who was that?”

  “Bobby Kennedy.”

  “Can’t you quote somebody else?”

  “Look—there’s going to be some unavoidable disillusionment, in time… Some people will neglect their powers, hide them, and live a normal life. They don’t want to deal with this moral dilemma, and, frankly, they're cowards… but, still, I have envied them—and more than once—cos isolation and independence are comforting. It's a mental thing; an addiction to apathy, and inaction, that we're all prone to—but you can't let it define you. I’m sure there are cops that feel disillusioned, largely about the growing power gap between us and them, yet they’re paid to act nevertheless in defense of the people. You have the same authority except you’ve traded-in your income for superhuman strength.”

  “Exactly—I'm unemployed!” the Adjudicator flares. “I'm an independent contractor who's never been paid… What’s my reward? Paparazzi hounds and police chases?”

  “You just gotta do your best and look at it like a duty rather than a difference. Everyone has faults, and if you succumb to yours, well, it’s only further proof that you’re just like them: human, and fallible—but you can't afford to falter.”

  “That’s- you can’t,” the strongman stutters, “heap so much responsibility on one guy! I have a lot on my plate, with this whole fucking city under my eyes!”

  “Jude, if there's one thing I know, it's that you make your own problems. It's circuitous; self-sabotage,” he says, looking away. “I mean, look at me: When I was younger, I could run a marathon a minute. I pushed myself—always faster; had to be faster… Part of it was competition against guys like Red Bolt, or holding myself up to the legacy of Kid Cannon, but my real motivation came from within. Always faster; had to be faster…” Blue Streak grips the wheels of his chair, rolling back an inch. “And I burnt-out.” He looks Adjudicator in the eye and points to the strongman's sternum. “Even the bulletproof have soft spots.”

  The Adjudicator wipes the old man’s hand away and smirks. “Are you suggesting my mother held me by my heel when she dipped me in the River Styx?”

  “Hardy-har-har… Look, kid, all I’m saying is—a coin has two sides, right?”

  “Generally.”

  “I had my legs, and I ran myself ragged. Then there’s the guy with heat vision who gets glaucoma; the gal with gigantism who gets muscular dystrophy; the kid with wings who moults twice a year and can’t fly during thunderstorms… Lady Liberty could only charge-up in the sunlight—did you know that?”

  The Adjudicator shakes his head.

  “Your strengths determine your faults, kid. The stubborn man's nature inspires determination, but also defiance. Keep aware of yourself. You’re only as good as the choices you make.”

  The Adjudicator sighs. “I still don’t buy your bipolar path gambit, but duly noted, old man.”

  Blue Streak feigns a hook-and-jab at the strongman. “I’ll knock you out, kid. I still got some fight in me.”

  “Ah,” the Adjudicator pauses, “as a great man once told me, ‘It’s not about the fights.’”

  Blue Streak sneers and rolls-up his sleeves, gesturing for a bout of fisticuffs.

  “Please,” postures the strongman, “don’t tell me that’s how you fought in your day. You look like a circus poster.”

  “I could toss a man thirty yards with one of my haymakers.”

  “I’m sure,” he replies, rolling his eyes.

  “Back in my day, I could go toe-to-toe with the best of ‘em. Never got a crack to work with those ‘gods of glamor’ I grew up fascinated by—the Prohibition gangbusters and the guardians of the city… Guys like Falling Star, Hyperion, New Glory, or Divinity, or their rural counterparts—the working man's dream duo—Slag and Shale. Taking-on outlaws like Wisp, Skald, and Pretty Boy Floyd, or those dago trips, Syndicate, Powerhouse, Augustus, Centurion, and the Godfather—but I did work with Dark Patriot for a spell, and he took-down the Godfather, but I think he went by a different name then-”

  “Godhead.”

  “So you do know your history, huh?”

  “Two years at Lincoln High School.”

  “Two?" he lingers. "You're a dropout?”

  “Shattered a kid's ribcage in the first game of my junior year. Broke his pads, too… Field medics said it looked like a car had run him down, so I figured it was time to skedaddle… Shithole town, anyhow.”

  “Damn,” the Blue Streak sighs. “I'd seen something similar sixty years ago—with the man upstairs, incidentally.”

  “God?”

  “Captain Centennial, dumbass.”

  “You fought alongside Captain Centennial?” blurts the blushing strongman.

  “Shit, kid, it was the Fifties. Everyone collaborated with everyone. Of course, some partnerships were strictly for the advertisers, like Mighty Man and the Metro Kid, but there were some unions that just made for good headlines… Never doubt the power of commercialism, kid. I was on a lunchbox.”

  “Wow…”

  “Do they even make lunchboxes anymore?”

  The Adjudicator shrugs.

  “Yeah they had this whole line of lunchboxes—tin ones—with pasted color prints, for Captain Centennial, myself, Partisan One—his showed him tangling with the Aryan Prince, but I don't know if they ever actually met—and Pioneer, a real doozy of a hero, and real sad story, that one… He's what happens when you let disillusionment take its hold.”

  “Why—what happened?”

  “The Sixties happened. We lost two Kennedys and with them went our trust in the government. We lost the Reverend King and Harmony, and with them went Radiation Brother and the last hopes of racial fellowship. We lost Candyman to apathy, Pioneer to angst, and more than half of the Marvelous Six to tropical bloodbaths… Whatever peace and prosperity we had in the Fifties was gone; supplanted. Anger came in waves, blown east by the winds of war and crashing upon America's shores. Fear turned into hatred, of everything and anything different or contradictory. We suddenly had a ‘Left versus Right’ debate for every issue; nobody could agree on anything, and nobody wanted to. They just wanted to be the winner, no matter how temporary. And in seventy-one we lost Silvermist, the super and supers-activist—a great man. And they defrocked Dark Patriot in seventy-seven…” He sighs, “It's all just been downhill since.”

  “Is that why you quit?”

  “I didn't quit, I just- look, when nineteen-sixty-six rolled around, and Pioneer flipped, that was a big turning point in the nation's psyche. And I'd already given the textbook twenty years of service—you saw the medals.”

  “I know, but… isn't that the disillusionment you were talking about?”

  “No,” the Blue Streak protests, “I paid my dues; I'd sacrificed for two decades; I was tired,” he pauses, ruminating. He looks at his hands. “I don't know. Maybe it's the subconscious in me, rambling; trying to convince you of the right choices I didn't make…”

  He sighs.

  “Jude, there's a whole world out there, and there's a lot of moving parts. You can't control it; you can't even manage it; you just need to get through. Just do what you can, and make sure you keep going. Even though it's a long road, you keep going. Because when you stop—like I did—you die. Maybe not physically, but spiritually. I mean, look at me: I'm emaciated; a cynic; bound to a chair…”

  “Sure, but you remain one of America's most beloved supers.”

  “Says all of my screaming fans, banging on my bedroom door and asking for my autograph. You know you're the only visitor I've gotten here? And the last interview I gave was in ninety-seven.”

  “Streak, that's irrelevant.”

  “You'll see, in time, that nothing is irrelevant. The road is long. In the end, you'll either find your
self, or you'll lose yourself.”

  “Always with the binary, old man. You're not lost, you're just… disillusioned.”

  “You're using my words against me.”

  “You're being evasive.”

  “I'm old, and tired.”

  “You're grumpy.”

  “I'm grumpy cos I'm tired.”

  “You're always grumpy.”

  “Cos I'm always fucking tired!”

  The strongman sighs. “Why don't I give you a chance to sleep, then?” he says, rising from the edge of the bed and making for the door.

  Blue Streak stares out the window, propping his shoulders back against his chair. His head droops, and pivots. “Wait,” he calls.

  Adjudicator stops.

  The old man turns his chair towards the door. He drops his hand to his knee and tilts his head. “Could you,” he mumbles, “stay a little longer—please?”

  The Adjudicator smothers his smile and turns back to the old speedster. “Vinyl?”

  Blue Streak covers his mouth and forces a cough. “Um, yeah—how's about, uh, ‘Are You Experienced.’”

  “Oh,” the Adjudicator croons, sauntering over to the old man's stack of records. He powders his voice, saying delicately, “Attention all passengers, your flight to nineteen-sixty-seven is now boarding.”

  “Quaint.”

  The strongman thumbs through the rack of cardboard sleeves.

  Blue Streak eyes him, scrutinizing. “You know Hendrix?”

  “We have a history together,” Jude replies, pulling the vinyl from its sheath. “My first days away from home.”

  “Huh… For me it was my first year of retirement. Sweet ol’ Summer of Love.”

  “How was it?”

  The old man sighs, looking off towards a distant past. “Man, it was unbelievable… I wasn't a young buck anymore but, nevertheless, those were some groovy days and nights.”

  The needle drops; the speakers hiss and crackle.

  “I can only imagine,” muses the Adjudicator.

  “Kid, you would've loved it. Music hung in the air. Men wore blouses and wooden necklaces. Girls wore flower braids and grew their hair long—straight from on high, and curly down below.” He winks.