by Matt Cowper
The World Savers
by Matt Cowper
Copyright © 2018 Matt Cowper.
All rights reserved.
A Brief Introduction
This novel takes place in the Z Universe, the shared universe for my superhero fiction. The Z refers to Z City, the most important metropolis in the stories.
(Plus, Z is a cool, easy-to-remember letter, ain’t it?)
Much like the Marvel and DC comic book universes, characters, themes, and locations overlap between my various series.
While it’s not necessary to read every one of my novels to understand what’s going on (though I sure wish you would devour every word I write!), reading all of them will give you a deeper understanding of the universe, with its amazing characters, powerful factions, and epic confrontations.
For more information about the Z Universe, visit my website: mattcowper.com
This novel is dedicated to those who spent countless childhood hours daydreaming about superpowers, high-stakes villain battles, and far-off worlds that needed saving.
Table of Contents
A Brief Introduction
Chapter One - Nightstriker
Chapter Two - Blaze
Chapter Three - Nightstriker
Chapter Four - Blaze
Chapter Five - Nightstriker
Chapter Six - Blaze
Chapter Seven - Nightstriker
Chapter Eight - Blaze
Chapter Nine - Nightstriker
Chapter Ten - Blaze
Chapter Eleven - Nightstriker
Chapter Twelve - Blaze
Chapter Thirteen - Blaze
Chapter Fourteen - Nightstriker
Chapter Fifteen - Blaze
Chapter Sixteen - Nightstriker
Chapter Seventeen - Blaze
Chapter Eighteen - Nightstriker
Chapter Nineteen - Blaze
Chapter Twenty - Nightstriker
Chapter Twenty-One - Blaze
Chapter Twenty-Two - Nightstriker
Chapter Twenty-Three - Blaze
Chapter Twenty-Four - Nightstriker
Chapter Twenty-Five - Blaze
Chapter Twenty-Six - Nightstriker
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Blaze
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Nightstriker
Chapter One
Nightstriker
Four AM. Time to get up.
Nightstriker sat up in bed, instantly alert. It had been decades since he’d needed an alarm clock to rouse himself. Even the most exhausting supervillain battle the night before didn’t cause him to deviate from his appointed wakeup time. On those days, he felt sluggish, and he treated his bruised body with slightly more care, but he didn’t sleep until mid-morning and then grumble about how exhausted he was. That attitude was for lesser superheroes.
This morning wasn’t one of those sluggish mornings. His body felt strong, his mind felt lucid. This positive state was mainly due to the woman lying beside him in the motel room, wrapped up in bedsheets and snoring softly.
While Nightstriker was hardly promiscuous, even he needed female companionship from time to time. A hero of his stature had plenty of fans scattered across the globe, and many of the females would’ve gladly shared his bed, but Nightstriker usually avoided intimacy with civilians. They didn’t know the true life of a superhero, only what they saw on the news and reality shows. They would bombard him with asinine questions about superheroics, and then gape in horror as he gave them the grim reality instead of the sanitized drivel they’d absorbed their entire lives.
Instead, he would meet one of the superheroines doing a late-night patrol across Z City. They at least knew the ins and outs of the job – and, with Nightstriker’s iconic status, many were willing to “get to know him personally.” They would chat for a few minutes, then foil a burglary or trounce some drug runners, then find a place to “let off some steam.”
Nightstriker watched the superheroine he’d met last night sleeping now. Her code name was Wren (real name Clara), and her superpower was flight. Not a particularly powerful ability, but still useful if the person was a well-trained hand-to-hand combatant and skilled in aerial maneuvers. Wren was competent enough, but nowhere near top-tier, and she seemed to know it. She’d stared at Nightstriker like he was a god all night.
Her brown hair was splayed all over the bed, like a clump of pine straw. Her creamy arms and shoulders rose up and down slowly as she breathed, and one leg poked provocatively out from the sheets. In the dim morning light, it was a sensual scene, and most men would’ve woken up Clara and made love to her again as the birds outside began to chirp and the early-morning commuters roared by on the freeway.
But Nightstriker wasn’t most men. Now it was time to do his job, the job that never ended.
He dropped to the floor and did fifty pushups, then did fifty crunches. His blood pumping, he moved on to several advanced yoga poses, contorting his body as far as it could go. Flexibility was important in the superhero business, possibly more important than strength or speed. Pulled or torn muscles were serious liabilities.
After this, he sat cross legged on the floor, moving his mind to a meditative state. Meditation, like stretching, was one of the key components of his fitness plan. A mind cluttered with doubts, useless information, and foolish hopes was one easily distracted – or overrun by a telepath. Nightstriker had built up the strength of his mind like he’d built up the strength of his body, until even the most adept mind-reader was in for severe punishment if they attempted to read his thoughts.
Five minutes later, his mind felt even more lucid than it had when he woke up. He rose and touched Clara on the shoulder. He knew she’d rather sleep in till ten o’clock or thereabouts, but he had ten miles to run, some new alien weaponry to study, a few Brazilian jujitsu moves to fine-tune, and of course an endless number of villains to fight.
“Wake up, Wren,” he said.
“Mmmpfff?” was the response.
“Not to be rude, but it’s time for me to leave.”
Clara rolled over and brushed her tangled hair out of her face. She let out a massive yawn and rubbed her eyes, then looked blinkingly at her surroundings.
“Where…? Oh yeah. Now I remember.” She grinned up at him, then a ran a hand across his abs. “I remember it was a good night – a very good night.”
As she moved, the bedsheets fell to the floor, revealing her nude body. She’d said she was a “gym rat” – “a superheroine’s gotta stay fit, you know” – and while her definition of that term surely didn’t match his, her body was well taken care of. She could’ve easily been a fitness model, and Nightstriker estimated she was at least ten years younger than him. Quite a catch. But he shook his head and removed her hand.
“Again, I’m sorry, but I have to leave,” he said firmly.
“Uh…now? But…what time is it?”
“Around four-thirty.”
“In the morning?!”
“Yes. In the morning.”
“What is…I mean, why? Why are you leaving already? Didn’t you have fun?”
“I did, but my job is important.”
“Yes…your job. The great Nightstriker has to go save the world, right?”
“Something like that.”
She sighed and rubbed some gunk out of her eyes. “This is really fucking absurd. I can’t believe I had sex with Nightstriker – who’s now going to run off at four-thirty in the morning.”
“What did you expect? Me to lie in bed till noon?”
“No, I guess it was silly to think you’d…I don’t know, really relax.”
“I did relax. But now it’s time to––”
“––to get back to work, as if no other superhero in the world can do anything but you.” Her
eyes narrowed, and her hand moved to his crotch. “Please don’t be stubborn. You can surely lounge around for a few more hours, can’t you? If something big comes up, one of the superteams will handle it. Plus, it seems like you think this was just a one-night stand, and I really don’t want that. I’d love to convince you that––”
Nightstriker stepped back, and her hand grabbed nothing but air. “I don’t have time for banter now. Give me your number, and I’ll contact you if I have need of you again. At this present time, however, I’m leaving – now.”
Her seductive attitude evaporated like water being shot with a heat ray. She shot out of bed, using her flying powers to hover over him menacingly.
“You’ll contact me if you have need of me again?!” she hissed. “What am I, some cheap STD-ridden escort? You can’t––”
Mercifully, Nightstriker’s phone rang. He picked it up from the table by the TV and looked at the number: unknown caller. This phone was a burner; it had no sensitive information on it, and only a few people knew the number. He certainly didn’t expect an “unknown caller” this early.
“Hello?” he said, holding a hand up to Clara to still her fury for at least a moment.
“Good morning, Nightstriker,” an authoritative female voice said. “How was your evening?”
“Who is this?” Nightstriker growled.
“My name is Beverly Gillespie. I’m the Secretary for Superhuman Affairs, and I’m also––”
“I know who you are. What do you want?”
“I have a proposition for you. If you will––”
“Not interested, Gillespie,” Nightstriker snapped. “I have little use for bureaucrats, and my day is already being delayed.”
Clara opened her mouth to protest again, but the cold look on Nightstriker’s face silenced her.
“Nonetheless, I believe you will be interested in this proposition,” Gillespie said. “I will speak as plainly as possible: we want you to reform and lead the Elites.”
Nightstriker frowned, and began to consider a half-dozen scenarios at once. This could be a hoax, a member of his rogue’s gallery trying to lure him into a trap. It could really be Gillespie, trying to lure him into a trap of a different sort, one with lots of paperwork, regulations, and likely a stint in MegaMax Prison.
Or it could be a genuine offer. If it was, the winds in Washington D.C. were certainly blowing a different direction. He cursed under his breath; he tried to keep track of the political gamesmanship, but there were so many stakeholders, lobbyists, and committees, that even he was sometimes surprised.
He hated surprises. Surprises usually meant pain and heartache.
“I was a member of the Elites once before,” Nightstriker said, “and my tenure did not end amicably. I’ve also dealt with your Department, and what I experienced didn’t restore my faith in government.”
At this, the rage dropped from Clara’s face, and a look of shock replaced it. She must’ve forgotten he’d once been an Elite.
“Those were the old Elites,” Beverly said, “and that was the old Department. If you give me a chance, I think you’ll find that I’m no petty bureaucrat.”
“Why?”
“Why what?” Gillespie responded.
“Why do you want me for this task?”
“How about you tell your attractive female consort goodbye and step outside? We have a transport waiting for you in the parking lot. We can talk at length, with no…lesser superheroines around to overhear any classified information.”
Nightstriker bolted to the window and tore aside the curtain. Sure enough, beneath the glowing orange streetlights sat a Siren transport, a Department of Superhuman Affairs insignia on its side. It was little bigger than a school bus, but it was fast and nimble, and equipped with surprisingly good weapons and shields for a ship its size. A pilot sat stoically in the cockpit, and a trooper with a pulse rifle paced across the parking lot, scanning the area.
Not only had they learned his phone number, they’d tracked him here, to this economy motel on the outskirts of Z City. This certainly was a new Department; the stooges in the old one couldn’t track him if he attached GPS sensors to his body and dragged around a glowing neon sign.
“I don’t like being surprised, Gillespie,” Nightstriker said. “If you wanted my help, you could’ve tried being more subtle.”
“Subtlety isn’t my strong suit,” Gillespie said. “It’s not yours, either. Besides, I’m pressed for time. We need the Elites reformed – now. I don’t have time to massage egos or send carefully-worded letters to members of the superhuman community. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
Nightstriker smirked. He could appreciate that, actually. This woman was speaking his language – but was she sincere, or just playing a role to convince him?
There was only one way to find out.
“Very well,” Nightstriker said. “We’ll talk.”
“Good. Get in the Siren. They’ll take you to me.”
She hung up. Nightstriker looked down at the phone, blinking. Usually he was the one who hung up abruptly. This Gillespie was copying his playbook….
“Uh, Malcolm?” Clara whispered behind him. “If that’s really your name…?”
She’d put her costume back on, no longer willing to play the coy seducer. The conversation with Gillespie made it obvious that Nightstriker would be leaving immediately, no matter what she said or did.
“It’s my real name,” he said. “I used to have a secret identity, but after a while, after…those incidents years ago, I didn’t see the point of it.”
“What happened?” Wren asked.
Images of broken bodies, a flaming home, and sadistic villains flooded his mind. He shook his head and tried to grin congenially, but he didn’t think he pulled it off.
“Now’s not the time,” he replied.
“Well, I’m getting the vibe that there won’t be another time, so whatever,” she snapped.
Nightstriker didn’t reply. Long-term romantic attachments always ended tragically for him, like they did for many elite superheroes. It was better to keep things short and simple. If this angered Wren, so be it.
He pulled on his costume and boots, making sure that all his equipment was still where it should be, and walked to the door. As he opened the door, he turned back to Wren. She no longer appeared sexy and confident. Even in her superheroine outfit, she looked small and frail, like a child who’d lost her parents.
“One more thing,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”
“About our….?”
“No, about Gillespie contacting me. That’s best kept under wraps.”
Wren nodded, but Nightstriker wasn’t sure if it was a “I won’t blabber” nod or a “fuck you, asshole” nod.
He didn’t have time for further deliberation or conversation. He shut the door and stepped out into the parking lot.
Outside, the air was cool, and a few stars twinkled overhead. He looked up at them, thinking about the Elites, the team he was being asked to reform. The Elites had probably been to most of those stars – the old team, that is. There was always some crisis in the galaxy, and for some reason the other sentient races could never handle it alone.
The Elites. His old team. Full of cocksure assholes, like Professor Perfection. Nightstriker had warned everyone about the Professor; he’d seen enough behind the scenes to know that the so-called “smartest man alive” was far from altruistic.
But his words were scoffed at, and eventually, the Professor, a master politician if there ever was one, had engineered Nightstriker’s dismissal from the group. Not only that, his example persuaded others in the superhero community to ostracize the “delusional” Nightstriker. And as the years passed and the Elites continued to rack up victory after victory, with the Professor organizing most of the winning strategies, it did appear Nightstriker was simply a rambling idiot with a grudge.
But the Professor’s hubris and corruption had eventually led to his downfall,
as Nightstriker always knew it would. It took that Wagner fellow and his God Arm, as well as some interesting Kaxians, to finally bring him down. Nightstriker admitted he was envious; he would’ve loved to defeat the Professor himself, and personally throw him in MegaMax Prison, but fate had a different plan.
Fate. Why was he thinking of such a ludicrous concept? Fate didn’t exist. Everyone made their own path, and lived and died by their own choices. Nightstriker shook his head; he was making excuses. He knew he should’ve fought harder, instead of letting himself be pushed to the sidelines. But tragedy had distracted him….
“Sir? We’re ready when you are.”
Nightstriker pushed his thoughts aside and looked over the trooper standing by the Siren. Young, earnest, and fit, he looked like he was born to wear that blue armor and wield that pulse rifle.
“I’m ready,” Nightstriker said, brushing by the trooper.
The trooper trotted after him, and the pilot fired up the Siren’s engines. As the bay door closed behind him, Nightstriker looked back at the motel. Clara was still in the room, peeking out from behind the curtains. She gave a quick little wave that could mean anything, then she was gone.
The Siren rose from the parking lot slowly, its engine as quiet as a purring kitten. Then the pilot throttled forward, and Nightstriker was pressed back into his seat as the ship reached cruising speed.
The seating area didn’t have any windows, and he could barely see into the cockpit, so Nightstriker didn’t have a visual on where they were headed. Still, he knew the ship had turned north as it took off, and he knew how fast a Siren could go. He kept a running calculation in his head as they sped through the sky.
The young trooper was watching him closely, his pulse rifle set on his lap. He looked like he wanted to start up a chat, but Nightstriker sent him a withering glare, and the trooper frowned and pretended to look at the rivets running up the wall.
Nightstriker reached down and appeared to adjust his bootlaces. In reality, he’d pulled out a small object, the superhero equivalent of a Swiss Army knife. It had a laser, an ultimatium knife, a taser, and about a dozen other lethal devices. He didn’t think these greenhorns had orders to murder him, but better to be prepared.