by Matt Adams
“He’s never going to trust you, Dad,” I tell him.
He only gives me a light squeeze, but since he’s super-strong, it’ll still leave a bruise.
“He’ll come around, son. Let’s just hope it isn’t too late.”
Enter… the Bluestreak!
“Sources tell us a large group of Clermont escapees has congregated in lower Manhattan,” Samson Knight says.
A collective groan rises from the rest of the Heroic Legion.
Allow me to translate: We’ve been to New York. We’ve seen New York. We don’t need to go back to New York.
“That’s enough! That’s enough!” Samson Knight shouts, denting the briefing room table with his electro-mace. “They’ve gathered in lower Manhattan—several cells, approximately fifty villains. By our estimates, they are the last remaining fugitives. They are on the move, headed to Washington.”
The New York groans become a worried Washington murmur.
“Recent changes in tactics have left us short-handed and vulnerable. There are rumors—and these are only rumors,” he says, looking directly at me, “that the escapees are targeting heroes. It’s possible someone else may be controlling them.”
A hand—or, more properly, a wing—goes up as Falcon Gray vies for Samson Knight’s attention. A fellow member of my Alpha Team, he claims he’s from some distant world where avian lifeforms predominate, but no one’s sure what to think of it. All I know is that he’s good in a fight and can be loyal to a fault.
Then there’s the squawking.
“I think it would be prudent for us to recall the rest of the Heroic Legion from their goodwill missions around the globe to combat this threat head-on,” Falcon Gray says.
Several other heroes nod in agreement.
Samson Knight holds up a hand. “The process is already underway, but I don’t know how large a force we’ll have when the Clermont escapees arrive.”
“We can’t let them march on Washington,” I point out. Unlike Falcon Gray, I don’t raise a wing. “They’ll tear this place apart. The people, the monuments, the history… they’ll destroy all of it.”
“We don’t have much of a choice right now, Crimsonstreak,” Samson Knight says. Apparently, he’s okay with calling me something other than “Fairborne” in front of the other Legion members. “We’re trying to evacuate the city, but there are too many people. I’m also concerned that the Kiltechs will see this as the perfect opportunity to strike. The civilian cost would be devastating, not to mention what it would do to the provisional government. We must make our stand with what we have. We know these grounds well. We stay and we fight.”
Samson Knight’s statement is about as well received as a Michael Bay movie pitch based on a beloved childhood toy, and several heroes voice frustration.
“If we fail, everyone in Washington dies,” Matsumoto says pointedly.
“We will not stand idly by and allow these villains to overrun our nation’s capital,” Samson Knight insists. “We can do this.”
“There are times when one must leave the nest to protect it,” Falcon Gray says. “We should swoop down on them while they’re still outside the city.”
Samson Knight digs in his heels. “We’re not leaving the city. We will entrench with what forces we have here.”
“You can’t do this, Sammy,” I tell him as the Heroic Legion prepares to make a stand in D.C. “The press will murder us. They’ll say we put the capital in danger.”
Inside the conference room, the leader of the Heroic Legion gently removes his helmet, setting it aside with a satisfying thud. Flecks of gray mar what was once coal-black hair. Green eyes burn with purpose, but self-doubt flickers across his face before freezing into resolve. “We’re not doing that, Fairborne. We’re meeting the enemy where we have the tactical advantage.”
Samson Knight plans to turn to urban warfare, effectively remaking D.C., Stalingrad-style. I’m starting to think Falcon Gray is right; staying here basically means putting all our eggs in one basket. His words, not mine.
“What if the Kiltechs come marching in?” I ask.
“Our force wouldn’t be great enough to meet them. We’re spread too thin. If the Clermont escapees are aligned with the Kiltechs—willingly or not—we must hold. We must meet this challenge.”
“We’ve spent a lot of time trying win back some goodwill,” I point out. “If this city goes down again, we’ll lose all of it. The people are already worried that the Legion has taken over once and for all.”
“We have strong allies in the provisional government, Fairborne. The people see their leadership. They won’t lose faith,” Samson Knight insists. He puts what’s supposed to be a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “At the same time, they understand there are things out there larger than themselves. We may lose this battle, but as long as the Heroic Legion is here to win the war, the people will forgive us. When you’re older, you’ll understand.”
“I’m old enough to know that staying here is suicide. I saw what they did to Wainwright and the others,” I grumble.
“The only escapees left from Clermont are small fish,” Samson Knight says. “We’ve already caught most of the bigger ones. If they’ve managed to magnify the powers of the enemy, imagine what they could do to the heroes.”
“The Kiltechs aren’t interested in creating an army of superheroes,” I tell him. “They’re trying to wipe us out, remember? Because we’re the only ones who can stop them.”
“Don’t you think I know that? If you’re so concerned about keeping the city, why don’t you go run and find some help? Running is what you’re best at.”
No matter what Samson Knight is suggesting, I’m not running away from this one.
Jaci and I are standing several miles north of Washington with Falcon Gray and Warren—the only other heroes willing to buck Samson Knight’s orders—as we prepare to meet the Clermont escapees. Maybe we can persuade them not to turn the city into slag. If things go badly… well, maybe we can pick off a few of them and limit the damage, give the others a better chance.
“I really thought more of the Legion would show some backbone,” Jaci gripes, looking at our small force. “I thought for sure your mother would join us.”
“Maybe it’s best that she’s not here. She complicates things.”
“Diplomacy isn’t such a terrible thing. She’s pretty damn good at it, you know,” she reminds me.
“She used to be,” I shoot back, then sigh. “At least you’re here.”
“I’m with you, even when you’re acting like a jerk,” she says, squeezing my hands.
“Especially when I’m acting like a jerk.”
She punches me in the arm. “You better watch yourself.”
“Samson Knight says the Clermont escapees are small fish. He thinks we’ve captured all the big ones.”
“Or their heads went kablooey.”
“There’s that, too,” I tell her. “I just wish we had a few more fighters.”
“What if we don’t have to go out and fight them?” Jaci asks. “Why dig our heels in and start another city-leveling battle between superheroes and supervillains? Diplomacy isn’t weakness. You ever consider trying to talk to them?”
“I doubt fugitive supervillains are much for talking.”
Falcon Gray, he of the “one must leave the nest to protect it” postulate, squawks. “If this shall be a fight, then it is good,” he says as we watch the villains approach over the horizon. “We shall honor these hallowed grounds. I have a distant cousin on the faraway world of Klebbia—”
“Shut the beak,” I tell him. The birdman nods and bows his head deferentially, assuring me he’s domesticated. His feathers ruffle a little, though. His eyes are focused squarely on the encroaching villains, his body tensed for action.
“They’re just about here,” Warren says, looking at a particularly uninspired piece of Comet tech. “I count about fifty of them, no one particularly notable, according to the vitals. We’re into the
D-list now. Wait a minute,” he says, checking his wrist. “I’m getting an energy surge here.”
A woman materializes by my side. “Hello, Chris,” she purrs.
“Crossworld,” I reply flatly, turning to Falcon Gray. “I thought you were guarding our flank, Woodstock.”
“There is an uninvited guest,” the birdman says, pointing an arm-wing toward Crossworld. “She does not belong here.”
Gee, thanks for the update.
“You always keep such interesting company. Just like your father,” Crossworld says, smiling. “Don’t worry. I’m here to call for a truce.”
“You guys want to talk?” I ask, not exactly relishing the “told you so” look on Jaci’s face.
My hands reach for Crossworld’s head and I check behind both her ears. As I go for the left one, she pulls me in tight and lays one on me. I almost enjoy it before realizing my father once dated this woman.
I’ve just kissed my father. Better add some Scope to the grocery list.
I pull back just in time to see Jaci wedge herself between the villainess and me. She grabs Crossworld’s head and jerks it back and forth. “I don’t see one of those communicators.”
“Why do you stay with this girl when you could be with a woman?” Crossworld asks.
She reaches out for me, but Jaci forces her backward. “Try dating someone your own age,” she growls.
Crossworld smooths out her dark leotard. “By all tests and measurements, I’m twenty-five years old. Teleportation slows down the aging process, missy.” She takes a step toward Jaci. “I should take you on a few trips. I see some lines on that face of yours.”
I try to hold Jaci back with my right arm, but she’s ready to throw down. “You wanna see some lines on a face?” she says, drawing ever closer to Crossworld. She always was stronger than me.
Better defuse this, fast. “Why are you here?”
“We heard about the attacks on your task forces,” she says. “I gathered everyone I could find before the Kiltechs got to us. Some returned with unnatural strength and unbalanced minds. It’s... unsettling. Those I’ve brought with me want to help fight.”
I start to think about the Heroic Legion’s plan to defend D.C. against a supervillain assault. It’s all for naught, apparently. “Wait… you’re not here to attack us?”
Crossworld laughs. “Attack you? You are simply adorable! So much like your father, if not as pragmatic.”
The way she touches my chin sends a warning shockwave up and down my spine.
Something else tingles, too.
Jaci pushes Crossworld aside. “She’s up to something, Chris. Never trust a supervillain.”
“His father was a supervillain,” Crossworld retorts.
“That’s past tense, you teleporting succubus,” Jaci grumbles.
I’m starting to think Jaci feels a little threatened by the “teleporting succubus.”
“Warren, send a message to the Legion. Tell them to stand down.”
Warren nods and fiddles with a communicator on his belt.
“You just want to march into Legion Headquarters and let them hand you an assignment?” I ask.
She runs a finger down my arm. “I was hoping to consult with you privately,” she says, elbowing Jaci out of her way.
The suggestion barely registers because, somehow, I sense something in the distance, something fast. Just as quickly, the sensation goes away.
With that momentary distraction, Jaci returns Crossworld’s shove—just as the rest of the Clermont escapees catch up and see her come at their fearless leader. Several float in the air while others power up energy attacks. Flamewind’s hands become flaming balls of fire energy, while Cooler McQueen’s turn into deadly, sharp popsicles. Ramona Ravenwood murmurs mystical incantations as a circle of yellow light forms on the ground around her.
“Maybe we should try a little diplomacy,” I whisper to Jaci.
She sighs. “Fine. Let’s see what she has to say.” I can practically hear her teeth grinding at the thought, but she really does take the diplomacy thing seriously.
Despite her resignation, the villains’ attacks are still charged.
Waving my hands in the air, I yell, “Hold it! Hold it!” A few of the fugitives float to the ground. “Let’s just everybody calm down. We’re not here to fight you—”
I feel the sensation again. Speed. I sense speed.
“We can settle this peacefully. If you don’t want to fight, we sure as hell don’t want to,” I say.
“I can’t raise the Legion,” Warren warns. “They’re not responding.”
My gaze drifts into the distance. Something nagging, familiar. Speed unlike any I’ve encountered before.
“Chris! I said the Legion isn’t responding. We should go check on them.”
“We would be willing to provide aid,” Crossworld says sweetly.
“I think you’re better off staying here,” Jaci responds. She looks at me as if she senses something amiss. “I think we’re all better off staying here.”
Whoosh.
“Hey, Chris? You gonna make a decision here?” Warren prods.
“It is possible the Legion needs us to fly to their rescue,” Falcon Gray says. “They may have been struck by the talons of doom.”
I’m so distracted by another distant whoosh that I ignore the ridiculousness of Falcon Gray’s words.
We’re in a hero-villain standoff, the Legion may need help, aliens may be invading—but my attention is elsewhere. A ribbon of blue ripples over the horizon.
Whoosh.
I take off in hot pursuit, ignoring the confused, indignant yells of Jaci, Warren, and Crossworld.
Here we go again.
Running.
Always running.
This guy—or girl, no need to be sexist—can fly at ground level.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
I mean that. It’s not like they have globe-spanning mirrors where I can see myself run faster than sound. On top of that, cameras, even the really awesome high-speed ones, can’t capture me in a single frame unless I let them.
So whoever I’m following can move. The scenery zips past before I can even process it. I’ve always had a special sixth sense when going at Crimsonspeed, the lightning-quick reflexes to avoid anything in front of me. I’ve never run into a building or a tree. It’s almost like I can see ahead. My father once theorized that Crimsonspeed comes along with a form of limited precognition. I can’t argue with him.
I’m on the trail of this dark blue blur.
It winds, it changes direction, and every time I think I’m going to catch it, the person I’m chasing finds some extra speed.
Maddening!
My mother’s fast, but I inherited a higher grade of super-speed. The analysts pegged me as the Fastest Man on Earth (if I ever get a comic book, I’d want them to call it Crimsonstreak: Fastest Man on Earth—you know, kind of like Daredevil: Man Without Fear). The only person who ever came close to matching my pure velocity was Scarlet DashBoy.
But even on his best day, that snotty little poser couldn’t best me on my worst.
We wind around a few more turns—we’re splashing through water now—and I kick it up a notch to nip at the heels of this impressive specimen of speed. We do a gigantic looping turnaround and I take the inside track, which gets me momentarily neck and neck with my challenger.
For an instant, everything freezes.
It’s a guy dressed in a dark blue Crimsonstreak uniform. I mean, it’s a perfect replica of my speed-suit; only the color is different. Before I can catch a glimpse of his face, he surges ahead.
Back on land now.
I tap into my reserves, opening a small rift in front of me. For an instant, I hear a familiar voice.
“When the Five come together, you must help them. You can defeat the Bluestreak.”
It’s British, somewhat condescending, and, for once, touchingly paternal.
Morty?
Shock, su
rprise—whatever you call it, I can’t keep my balance.
I, Crimsonstreak, the super-speedster who’s never run into anything his whole life, see a pole straight ahead and—
Crisis of Infinite Morties?
Headache.
“Get up, Chris,” a youthful, gravelly voice urges.
Slowly but surely, the image of the Crusading Comet comes into focus. He holds something under my nose.
Smelling salts. I bet he has a stupid acronym for them.
“The Comet Resuscitative Action Material seems to be working.”
CRAM. Stupid acronym confirmed.
I prop myself up on my elbows and cough. “Where am I?”
“You just crashed into the Baltimore World Trade Center.”
“You got here fast,” I tell him.
Jaci sidles up next to him, smirking slightly, though she looks worried, too. “You may be fast, but baby, I can fly.” She reaches out her hand. “I dragged the kid along for the ride. Are you all right?” Together, Jaci and Warren pull me up.
“Aside from the fact it feels like Galvator is pounding my brain with twin electro-hammers,” I say. The memory of Morty’s voice runs through my head, but I push it away, saying instead, “I couldn’t catch him.”
“Any idea who that was?” Warren asks.
“It was me. Somehow, I was racing against myself. I lost.”
Jaci folds her arms across her chest. “You were racing yourself?”
“Something like that. I can’t be sure. Maybe it was an alternate-universe me. Maybe Imperator Chris has come back for revenge.”
Warren rolls his eyes. “That’s a bit formulaic, don’t you think?”
I shake my head. “You need to work on that Crusading Comet voice. You sound like a teenager at a drive-thru.” A few thoughts float through my mind, making it through the headache and the shock of hearing Morty. The Clermont escapees. The Kiltechs. The Legion. Oh crap, the Legion. “You guys should’ve gone to see the Legion.”
“I was about to say the same thing to you,” Jaci says. “Fortunately, the supervillains were reasonable enough—no thanks to you. After you ran off, we left them with Falcon Gray.”