by Lee, Tristan
“Fine,” Dick says.
“Okay,” agrees Chris.
Dr. Invictus expels the bubble shields and looks at them as sternly as a robot without any facial features can, “Now what should your punishments be for this brawl?”
“Whatever the punishment is, mine shouldn’t be as bad as Dick’s,” Chris says.
“I am the commanding officer of this unit,” Dr. Invictus says. “If I wanted to, I could have the both of you court-martialed. I’m not going to do that. We’re a team, and we need to learn to function as one. Make up to each other. I don’t care how you do it. Just get it done. Understood?”
Both of them nod grudgingly.
“Go on, then,” Dr. Invictus orders. “Do what has to be done.”
Chris and Dick face each other and glare into each other’s eyes for a long while. Finally, Dick holds out his hand to Chris. Another long moment. Chris extends his hand and they shake, but it is apparent to everyone that both are trying to break the other’s fingers.
“You hit like a girl,” Dick says.
“You’re about as tall as one,” Chris responds.
Enemy Territory
August 8th
“Dick, Chris, get over here,” Sandor orders. The two of them are only too happy to join their fellow heroes.
“We have a situation,” Sandor says, pulling up a map of San Francisco. “A contingent from the alien fleet has entered American airspace over San Francisco.”
Wireframe models of the alien fighters are shown patrolling the skies above the city. There is rubble in the streets and some of the buildings have collapsed, but only a few things are on fire and nothing has exploded, so it seems that this is more like a recon mission rather than the beginning of a direct invasion. Alien troops are shown patrolling the streets.
“Have we tried hailing them?” Dr. Invictus asks.
“Of course, but either they don’t know how to communicate or they don’t want to,” Sandor answers. “We already determined that they were hostile when they blew up Hong Kong.”
“So we get into the city and kick their flufferbuttles,” Belle says. “Simple.”
“It’s not that simple,” Sandor says. “We got a lot of civilians in that city. You six start a firefight and we’re going to be seeing a lot of collateral damage.”
“So what’s the game plan?” Dick asks.
“Well, we really have two options,” Frank says. “We could take out their ships, but anyone on the ground might start cutting down civilians. On the other hand, we could take out the ground troops, but the second we’re detected the ships are going to bomb the city.”
“Good,” Sandor praises, “the other problem is that the hostiles have assembled everyone from the Hilton on Kearney in the street. They might be staging some kind of mass execution.”
“So we go get the hostages first,” Dick says. “After that we head for the fighters, aircraft can take out more civvies faster than infantry any day.”
“Or we split up,” Chris interjects. “Half of us clear out the ugly critters on the streets, the other half takes out the air power.”
The entire team stares at Chris, dumbfounded.
“Was it something I said?” Chris asks.
“It’s just that . . . well, that was a genuinely good idea,” Belle says. “I didn’t know you could have those.”
“I have plenty of good ideas,” Chris says.
“Really,” Belle says skeptically.
“The ice cream maker, orange juice in ice cream, blueberry ice cream, blueberry pancakes with blueberry ice cream, blueberry pie with blueberry ice cream, need I go on?”
“Fine.”
“Alright, currently Chris’s plan is the best. We need to divide into an air assault force and a land team,” Dr. Invictus says. “Frank, can you get airborne?”
“I can,” Frank says.
“Good. Dick, you still got that wing pack?”
“Of course.”
“You two are with me, we’ll take out the fighters,” Dr. Invictus says. “Anna, Belle, Chris, eliminate the ground forces.”
“Hold on, champ,” Chris says. “Don’t you need me for the air team?”
“I do, but you’re needed more on the ground,” Dr. Invictus says. He leans in to whisper into Chris’s ear, “Belle isn’t any more bulletproof than the people we’re trying to protect.”
“Thanks, bud,” Chris whispers back.
“How do we get to across the country in time to stop them?” Dick asks.
Sandor smiles and slides a lock pattern on the console. The floor of the hangar below them opens and a sleek, silver and blue jet rises out of its underground housing. The jet is larger than a fighter jet, about the size of an AC-130. Its cockpit is evidently meant for seven, so there will be an empty seat. A rather large gun is mounted on the underside of each wing and there are no visible exhausts, only a line of blue lights running along the back of the jet.
“May I present the XC900 Stealth/Assault Falcon,” Sandor says proudly. “A more advanced version of the XC840 Raptor the Olympians used way back when. Equipped with virtually silent anti-gravity thrusters and a fool-proof cloaking device. Plenty of guns, a rear bay door for personnel and equipment loading and unloading. Plus, it’s a Wi-Fi hotspot, courtesy of Gideon Enterprises. One of two in existence and the other one is God knows where with Vanguard and his damned Hangmen.”
“She’s beautiful,” Anna gasps.
“What do we call her?” Dick asks. “XC-whatever is too long.”
“Captain Crunch,” Chris suggests immediately.
“That’s a boy’s name,” Belle says. “Planes are named for women.”
“Madonna?”
“Just shut up before you make yourself sound stupider.”
“What’s your suggestion, then?”
“ . . . I think we should call her the Crash ‘n Burn.”
“You want us all hurtling around in a plane called ‘crash’?”
“Good point.”
“That’s irrelevant,” Dr. Invictus says. “Load up, strike team. Let’s go save a city.”
They enter the plane; Dr. Invictus is at the controls with Dick as his copilot. The rest of them sit in the cushiony leather chairs making idle conversation.
“We need a name,” Chris says. “A team name, I mean.”
“What, like the Super Friends?” Anna asks sarcastically.
“No, we need something that screams badassery,” Belle says. “You see, when you hear ‘Super Friends’, you instantly think, ‘I can’t remember if that’s an actual thing or just a parody of the Justice League that I saw on TV’. We need something that makes people think, ‘Oh frick-frack-frackity-whack, I’m about to get my ass kicked.’”
“The Unstoppables,” Chris says.
“That sounds like something out of a comic book,” Dr. Invictus says. “Name the team something cultured.”
“Coming in over California,” Dick says. “E.T.A. two minutes.”
“How do we get to the ground?” Belle asks. “We get too close and those fighters are going to blow us to kingdom come.”
“We drop,” Frank answers. “Drop past their fighters and then slow our descent once we’re out of their range. If we don’t make it obvious that we’re alive, they’ll probably just assume we’re debris.”
“That means no parachutes,” Dr. Invictus clarifies.
Anna raises her hand, “How am I supposed to slow my fall, then?”
“I’ll catch you,” Frank offers.
“Thanks, Frank, but a blind guy telling me that he’ll catch me before we jump out of a plane without a parachute isn’t very reassuring.”
“I can split a fly exactly in half directly between the eyes,” Frank says. “I’ll be able to catch you.”
“Fair enough.”
“Aim for the hotel, people,” Dr. Invictus says. “We get the hostages first and then we split up.”
“Opening bay doors,” Dick says. “Drop when ready.”<
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The team lines up along the edge of the open doors; normally there would be barely enough room, but Chris is carrying Belle. The wind whips at their faces and the city is visible thousands of feet below them.
“We’re in the field now,” Dick reminds them. “No real names.”
“Follow the leader,” Dr. Invictus says before he leaps out of the Falcon. He is followed by Defender, then Titan and Demoness, then Nightshade, and finally Ronin. The Falcon rockets away once they jump, its autopilot set to land in a nearby Air Force base.
They experience the fall in varying levels of discomfort. Demoness and Titan find it extremely fun and would be screaming with joy if not for the patrolling fighters. Dr. Invictus is indifferent, he does not have the capacity to feel his nonexistent stomach flip. Ronin can feel his stomach doing flips, but because of his discipline, he does not react. Defender is highly uncomfortable; he knows that he has his wing pack and that in a worst-case scenario he could glide, but that does not change the fact that he is biting his lip so hard it starts to bleed. Nightshade is utterly terrified. She has been hunted by the most fearsome organization in the world for fifteen years, but nothing has ever scared her that much. Her only assurance is that a telekinetic ninja is going to stop her from becoming a red splat on the streets below, but that ninja is also blind.
For a short, terrifying moment, the team is parallel to the alien fleet. Once they are clear of the fleet and about five thousand meters above the ground, Dr. Invictus signals them to slow their descent. Defender hits the red button on the strap of his wing pack, opening up its twelve-foot wingspan. Titan starts flying instead of falling, and his passenger, Demoness, does not have to do anything. Ronin levels out with Nightshade and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close before using his telekinesis to slow them. Dr. Invictus is about to soften his landing by activating his thrusters when he is shot out of the sky.
“Shit!” Defender yells as Dr. Invictus’ unconscious or dead body plummets to the ground. “Evasive action!”
The team scatters as the fighter that shot down Dr. Invictus emits a high-pitched shrieking sound that alerts the others. Soon, as the message is relayed, a good twenty ships are pursuing the team.
“Split up!” Defender shouts. “Meet at the hotel!”
Titan veers left with Demoness and Ronin turns right with Nightshade. Defender keeps going straight. Three fighters go after Demoness and Titan as another three go after Ronin and Nightshade, but Defender has to deal with fourteen fighters.
Defender’s wing pack does not have any weapons and, as stated previously, cannot actually fly. As he glides, he loses more and more altitude. The fighters, however, how no trouble staying aloft and open fire on him. Although mobile, the wing pack cannot accelerate without losing height faster, something Defender cannot afford. He needs to take down the fighters and fast. He tucks in his wings and dives towards the ground; the ships follow him in the sheer drop, but Defender is able to open his wings twenty feet above the ground and use his momentum to successfully pull out of his dive and attain a height higher than what he was at prior to the dive. Most of the ships, however, are too large to pull out undamaged. The chrome, broadhead-shaped ships clip of parts of their wings on buildings, sending them skidding into the street below. Six of the ships crash that way, piling up into a flaming mass.
“Eight more,” Defender mutters.
Those eight become more aggressive once their comrade’s crash, increasing speed and firing more. Their aggression leaves them vulnerable to Defender’s better tactics, though. As they speed up, Defender pulls back quickly until he is behind the aliens. Just as he predicted, the ships slow down so they can turn and resume firing. Before they can, Defender fires his grappling hook, puncturing and latching onto one of the fighter’s hull. He retracts the line, yanking him forward until he lands on the roof of the fighter with a painful thud. Defender cannot detach the hook completely or he will slide off, so he lies on his back and smashes the back of his foot against the viewport. Whatever it is, it is not glass. Defender has to kick it for a good ten minutes until it breaks, the fighter spinning wildly and trying to buck him off. Finally, Defender finally manages to break through. He flips over and gets his first look at the aliens threatening his world. It looks like an oversized cricket. Actually, that is the only way Defender can describe it. It does not sit upright either, it lies on its belly.
Defender pulls out his Beretta 92F from the holster at his thigh and repeatedly shoots the alien in what appears to be its head. The alien shrieks when it is shot until the last round in Defender’s magazine, which kills it. He detaches the grappling hook from the wing and his inertia slides him into the cockpit. Once situated, Defender realizes that he has no idea how to get the rapidly falling fighter to start. The controls consist of a red circle with an addition symbol in the middle, an orb, a green switch, and a lever. Instinctively, Defender pulls up on the lever. This changes whether the nose of the craft faces up or down. Upon further experimentation, the circle makes the craft bank left or right, and the orb allows turning. When compressed, however, the orb fires the two forward guns. Defender haphazardly pilots the fighter to the best of his abilities, shooting down the alien fighters struggling to turn and face him.
The fighters are fragile, each one can only take one or two shots from Defender’s cannons. Each one explodes violently, but the wreckage rapidly disintegrates once combustion is complete. Confident in his flying abilities and with only one fighter left, Defender presses the green button experimentally. It violently hurls him upwards via an extremely strong anti-gravity thruster.
“Fuck!” Defender screams. He hits the red button on his glider to extend his wings. However, once they are extended, the last fighter manages to rotate itself to face him and promptly shoots off one of his wings.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Defender screams as he spirals towards the concrete.
Desperate, he fires his grappling hook at the nearest building. By sheer luck alone, the hook breaks through a window and smashes a chunk out of the linoleum floor to create a ledge to grip. Defender retracts the hook and is yanked up, smashing painfully into the windowsill before pulling himself inside. He rolls onto his back, panting heavily. Once he finds the energy to stand, Defender slides his wing pack off of his back and examines it.
He never knew how to work machines like Dr. Invictus does, but he does not need a degree to know that he had broken it beyond repair. One wing is completely missing from the fighter’s cannons and the other is bent beyond repair from the impact of hitting the windowsill. Disappointed, Defender tosses the useless wing pack aside and pulls a spare magazine out of his belt to reload his gun. Defender then realizes that he had dropped his gun in order to hit the button on his wing suit after he ejected. To make matters worse, Defender looks at his right hand and sees that three of his fingers have been dislocated.
Alone and miles away from the hotel, Defender starts the grueling task of popping his fingers back into place.
Elsewhere, Demoness and Titan are sitting on a couch in the remains of someone’s living room. Being an experienced flyer, Titan had no trouble outmaneuvering the aliens and Demoness had no problems blowing them up. Taking out the three fighters took about two minutes for the duo, and currently they are desperately trying to figure out what part of the city they are in.
“You got a map?” Titan asks.
“Why would I have a map on me in a warzone?”
“Actually, having a map in a warzone would be pretty helpful.”
“Focus, Titan.”
“Right. So where are we?”
The Living Star lifts up the address plate that she found on the couch, “It says 902 W. California Street. That could mean we’re a couple of blocks away from the hotel if west is the direction I think it is.”
“Or . . . ?”
“Or, it could mean that we’re on the wrong side of the frackity-whacking city.”
“What do we do, then?”
“The logical thing for us to do would be to split up, but we can’t do that in case one of us gets captured and the other doesn’t know. We could get airborne, but I’m not sure what this hotel is even supposed to look like and we might get spotted by the aliens.
“The hotel’s in Chinatown,” Titan supplies.
“How do you know?”
“I used to play mahjong with the old Chinese guys in front of the hotel. Before I met you, of course.”
“You must have had a sad social life until I came into it.”
“I had a sad life in general until you came into it.”
“Sweet. That’s sweet. Back to the crisis at hand, what should we do?”
“I think our first move should be to case the area. See if there are any landmarks that can tell us where we’re going.”
“Cool. Let’s go.”
There is not much of anything on the street, really. One burnt out car is very similar to another, especially when the street they are in is lined by wrecked houses and covered in rubble. After an hour of wandering around, Demoness and Titan are more lost than they were before.
“Well now what?” Demoness asks.
“Now we . . . uh . . . “
“You’re really not cut out for this leadership stuff, are you?”
“No, that’s your territory.”
“I know. Let’s put our heads together. You got a compass?”
“No.”
“G.P.S.?”
“No.”
“Your phone?”
“No.”
“Do you have anything on you except for your armor?”
Titan checks his belt compartments, “I got my lucky pine tree air freshener and that pack of chocolate-covered blueberries you wanted me to keep.”
“Cool, pop me one.”
He tosses her a blueberry, which she catches in her mouth.
“Delicious, but we’re still lost,” Demoness says.
“Alright, let’s just retrace our steps to the place we know for sure,” Titan says.