The World Savers

by Matt Cowper

“Yup,” Metal Gal said. “Think of me as both a liquid and a solid. I can make my body nearly as hard as ultimatium, or I can turn into a puddle and slosh down a drain. I can only alter myself so much, though, since my power core and data bank can’t change shape. They’re both really small, but it’s still a limitation.”

  “Awesome,” Sam said softly. “But you also had those thruster-legs during the fight….”

  “Yeah, I can direct power from my core to any part of my body. As I said, the core is tiny, but really powerful. Like, can power a whole city powerful. My data bank – my brain – is tiny too, but it’s got bunches and bunches of information in it.”

  “So you’re…not really human? I don’t mean to offend you, but––”

  “I’m not offended at all,” she replied. Her frown and glowing red eyes seemed to indicate otherwise, though. “In a biological sense, no, I’m not human. I have no human organs, no human bones, no human flesh. Even my brain is a piece of hardware. But I was a human before this, and I can’t remember ever not feeling human.”

  “That’s good,” Sam said lamely. Human-like or not, she was clearly eccentric, and Nightstriker had mentioned something about her “unique mind.” Sam didn’t want to up and ask her if she was crazy, though, for obvious reasons.

  “So what about you?” Metal Gal asked. “Fire powers, right?”

  “Yeah, my abilities are pretty self-explanatory,” Sam said. “I can generate and control fire, I can fly, and so on.”

  “Generating fire puts you in a different class altogether. Nightstriker said you have Class S potential, right? That would mean you could probably melt me, even in my toughest form! You melted me when I was carrying you, remember?”

  “Uh, yeah, but I didn’t mean to, and I’d never do something like––”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re a good kid. I can’t see you going rogue. Even if someone tried to mind-control you, you’d probably break free from their hold.” She caressed his arm. “But what if I asked you to melt me?”

  Sam looked at the shining arm, at her exceptional body, at her eyes, which were now glowing pink. He gulped so hard he nearly ruptured his throat.

  “Melt you?” Sam asked. “Why would you want me to do that?”

  “Because it feels…good,” she replied.

  “Good? Uh, shouldn’t it hurt?”

  “No, this body doesn’t feel pain. It doesn’t feel much of anything – I designed it this way. But when my form loses its composition, I feel…something. A tingling, I guess, like when your hand falls asleep and you’re trying to get the blood flowing back to it. With your fire powers, you can give me that feeling. I can alter my body myself, and get that feeling, but when someone else does it, it’s…better.”

  Sam looked at the silvery arm for a moment longer, then stepped back quickly.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he said, “but this is some weird sexual thing, and I don’t want to––”

  “Don’t want to what?” Her eyes were glowing red again. “Pleasure some weird android robot girl? You want to give yourself pleasure, though. I see how you’re looking at this body.”

  “No, that’s not––”

  “Stop lying.” Her body morphed, became more masculine – and younger. It changed color, also: white skin tone, orange and red costume, red mask. Sam was looking at himself.

  “I am Samuel Johnson Boyd, and I want to fuck Metal Gal, but I have all these inhibitions that prevent me from acting on my impulses.” She’d changed her voice, too, to what he guessed was an accurate approximation of his own. Sam didn’t realize he sounded so whiny. “Even when she presents herself to me, I balk, because I’m a dumb kid and a coward and a sexually incompetent jackass.”

  “That’s enough!” Sam’s Fire Shield flickered to life. “I’m sorry if I offended you, but asking someone to melt you isn’t exactly normal everyday conversation!”

  “You know, when you say ‘but’ after you say you’re sorry, it erases your apology.”

  “Stop mimicking me!” Sam shouted.

  “Or what?” Metal Gal/Sam said. “You’ll blast me? That’s what I want, anyway – to feel those flames on my body.”

  “You’re insane!” Sam said. “You get rejected, and so you insult me, and even become me to humiliate me further! Do you treat everyone like this?!”

  Slowly Metal Gal transformed back into her normal form. Sam expected more vitriol, but she now looked utterly hopeless, and he thought he saw tears in her eyes. They weren’t real tears, just parts of her body she’d manipulated into clear liquid – he assumed – but the emotion behind the tears was genuine.

  “You’re right, Sam,” she whispered. “I’m acting like a total bitch. Hell have no fury like a metal woman scorned, huh? But I’m supposed to be better than that. After Keith…left me, though, I’ve been so lonely….”

  She put her hands to her face and rushed out of the room. The door slid shut behind her.

  Sam stood there staring at the closed door for a long minute, then shut off his fire powers. He walked over to the door and started to set the lock protocols, then hesitated.

  His rational mind knew he should lock the door so Metal Gal or someone else didn’t barge in again. But another part of his mind wanted Metal Gal to come back. Wanted to mend things with her.

  Maybe he would melt her, if she was still up for it. Yeah, that was really weird, but….

  He didn’t set the lock protocols. He returned to his bed, and lay there, staring at the ceiling and waiting.

  Chapter Nine

  Nightstriker

  The man in the interrogation room was smiling and whistling a tune. Nullifier manacles negated his powers, and he was being held on the Beacon, one of the most secure places on Earth, but he might as well have been sitting on a park bench in Z City reading an engrossing novel.

  Nightstriker had fought plenty of people like this man. Religious fanatics, zealots on both the progressive and conservative side of the political spectrum, or followers of supervillains who’d created a cult of personality around themselves. This man’s supreme confidence came from the righteousness of his convictions and the unwavering faith in his leader, whoever that was. He couldn’t fail, because he was one of the chosen.

  It was Nightstriker’s job to crush this confidence.

  He entered the room, and the man stopped whistling. He did not, however, stop grinning.

  “Care to take these off?” he asked, raising his manacled hands. “I’m already starting to bruise.”

  “No.”

  “A one-word answer.” The man chuckled. “Typical of the dark crusader known as Nightstriker.”

  Nightstriker didn’t respond to the verbal jab. It wasn’t yet time for intimidation. Instead he sat across from the man and placed a thick folder on the table between them.

  “Your name is Randall Macomber,” Nightstriker said. “Age twenty-three. Graduated high school with middling grades, then attended community college. Studied automobile mechanics. You were working at a dealership just outside of Z City, until you disappeared three weeks ago. Now you show up in Midtown with some intriguing superpowers. No costume, no special code name – just you, your friends, and some vague talk of utopia. Want to fill in the blanks for me?”

  “No.” Again, Randall laughed. “I can do one-word answers, too.”

  “When we fought, you were quite the chatterbox,” Nightstriker said. “You spoke passionately about crushing parasites such as hedge funds and shady banks. It was clear you and your friends want to change the world. There was also a mention of someone – or something – called the Giftgiver.”

  Randall shook his head. “That was in the heat of battle. I was feeling cocky – powerful – and said some things I shouldn’t have. I’ve cooled down now. You won’t get anything out of me now, o great superhero. By the way, don’t I get a lawyer or a phone call?”

  “No, you do not,” Nightstriker replied. “I’ve spoken with Damien Woodruff, the chief prosecutor for the
Division of Superhuman Crime, the organization that has jurisdiction over superhuman crimes such as yours. He’s lenient with the rules, when it suits him, or when someone such as the Secretary of Superhuman Affairs persuades him. You will be held here until I get the answers I need.”

  “Woodruff?” This finally caused Randall to frown. “That guy is as corrupt as they come. If you’re working with him, you’re just as tainted.”

  “He’s certainly not a saint,” Nightstriker said, “but he’s an elected official – which says something about the electorate, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, it says they’re bleating sheep who fall for any well-dressed man with a winning smile.”

  “True, but if you have such hatred for Woodruff – or these other enemies you mentioned – why not expose their wrongdoing? Or even run against them in the next election?”

  “People have already tried that. There have been a million blog posts, news articles, and documentaries written or made about society’s corruption – and nothing ever changes. That is, until someone shows up with real power, and forces those assholes to behave. People like me and my friends.”

  “Tell me about your friends.”

  But Randall laughed. “You got me talking again! You’re a clever guy, Nightstriker. But nope, that’ll remain a secret for now. Don’t worry, all will be revealed soon enough – but not by me.”

  “If you won’t tell me about your friends,” Nightstriker said, “then tell me about your powers.”

  “Nope.”

  “Those runes you used were mastered by the Guild of All-One, a peaceful order located half a world away. I’m certain you’ve never traveled to them to receive training. How are you able to use their runes?”

  Randall only shook his head.

  “During our fight, you were surprised I knew about the Guild,” Nightstriker went on, “and you were surprised when I used magic myself. A grievous error on your part. Did you think no one else had heard of the Guild, or that I, a man renowned for his preparation, would not know how to counter your abilities?”

  “You’re so goddamned arrogant,” Randall spat. “You got lucky, that’s all. Just you wait. The new world order will be here sooner than you think.”

  “You keep making statements like that, but you won’t give me details. If this new world order is so unstoppable, surely telling me about it won’t change the onset of whatever utopia you and your friends have planned?”

  “Fuck off, Nightstriker,” Randall said, giving the hero the double middle-finger salute. “I’m done talking, for real this time. Go molest some teenage superhero. I know that’s what you old fogies do to your wards.”

  In a blink, Nightstriker was up, and had slammed Randall’s head into the table. Blood started pouring from the kid’s nose. He tried to slam his nullifier manacles into his assailant, but Nightstriker sidestepped the clumsy move and kicked Randall square in the chest. Randall went tumbling to the floor, coughing, and blood flew around the room like an eccentric painter was in a creative frenzy with the color red.

  “So…this is how it’s gonna be,” Randall said. “Torture me…to get me to talk. Well, come on then…bring it.”

  “This isn’t torture,” Nightstriker said, bending over the kid. “If I wanted to torture you, I’d start slicing off body parts. Your fingers, then your hands, then your arms. Then maybe that worm between your legs. Men are usually very protective of that.”

  He grabbed Randall’s groin and squeezed. Randall yelled and tried to slither away, but Nightstriker used his other arm to put the kid in a headlock, immobilizing him.

  “No, this isn’t torture,” Nightstriker said. “This is just mild persuasion.”

  “Bullshit! This is…arrghhh…let go of me, man! My…my penis!”

  “Yes, your penis. Let me tighten the vice.”

  He squeezed harder, and Randall’s wails filled the tiny room.

  “Listen carefully, Randall,” Nightstriker whispered into the kid’s ear. “I’m not going to beat you up over the course of several days, or deprive you of food or water, or put headphones on your ears and pump white noise into your brain until you beg for a reprieve. I don’t have that sort of time. What I will do is this: I will throw you into one of our hard-light training centers, and create a program designed to overwhelm you with fear. I will cycle through the phobias until I find your weak point. For example, you may be terrified of snakes. How will it feel to have a completely realistic snake wrap itself around you and then open up its jaws to digest you? How do you think it will feel to suffocate in that darkness and sliminess? I won’t let you die, of course; I’ll cancel the program and restart it, and you’ll go through the whole ordeal again – and again and again and again, until you break.”

  “Stop…ugghh…the pain….” Randall sobbed.

  “Are you listening to me, Randall? I hope so, because what you do next is important. I’m going to let you go, and then you’re going to either tell me everything I want to know, and you will be spared that pain and terror, or you’ll continue to be stubborn, and I’ll do exactly what I just outlined. The choice is yours.”

  He released his holds on Randall, dragged him back up to his chair, and then returned to his own seat as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. He leaned forward and smiled thinly at the kid.

  “So, who is the Giftgiver?” Nightstriker asked.

  It didn’t seem as if Randall had heard. He was massaging his nether region as best he could with his manacled hands, and also trying to stanch the blood running from his nose. He couldn’t do both effectively, though, so his hands were moving through the air, back and forth, back and forth, like he was tugging on an invisible rope.

  “Randall?”

  He finally looked Nightstriker in the eye. No more cockiness, no more grinning. No more resistance. Nightstriker’s smile widened. He didn’t smile like this often, but these were the moments he lived for.

  “This Giftgiver is a superhuman,” Randall said softly. “He’s our leader.”

  “What are his powers?”

  “His power is simple: he can give anyone else powers.”

  Nightstriker leaned back, thinking. Superhumans like that were rare, and always troublesome when they did pop up. They could literally create armies of loyal followers. The pieces were starting to come together….

  “He can give a normal human powers, you mean,” Nightstriker said. “He can’t augment an existing superhuman’s powers, correct?”

  “Right,” Randall said. “He touches you, and his powers read your mind, and then you get abilities. It can’t be undone – not by him, at least. Whatever powers you get, you get.”

  “Read your mind? Explain.”

  “Like, the powers you get are based on what’s inside your head. Lucas, for example – that’s the big guy you fought – he was already a bodybuilder, reads the muscle mags all the time, so of course he gets superstrength. Olivia – that’s the woman with the purple energy powers – she was an artist, and purple was her favorite color. She’s done a lot of paintings using that as the theme, or whatever you call it. So she gets purple energy. Me, I’m an auto mechanic, so I expected I’d transform into a metal man or something, but I got something different.”

  “Yes,” Nightstriker said. “The runes, the magic from the Guild of All-One. How did you learn of them? The Guild is a mysterious group; you won’t find many Yaytube videos on them, at least not any that are accurate.”

  “No, you won’t, but, you see, my uncle is a journalist, and he wrote a story about the Guild of All-One one time, one of the only really accurate stories to make it into print about them. I’ve read it about a dozen times, and always thought they were really cool. So when the Giftgiver used his powers, I guess they found that memory, and so here I am. I can use all sorts of powerful runes now.”

  “I see.” Nightstriker stroked his chin. “So the Giftgiver translates thoughts, not training or experience, into powers. Correct?”

  “I g
uess so,” Randall said. “You’re right: I’ve never been trained by the Guild. I only read that article, and my uncle showed me some photos of the runes they use. But then the Giftgiver did his thing, and it’s like I…just knew how to use the runes.”

  “Not all of them, as I proved.”

  Randall only frowned.

  This was getting more and more concerning. Superhumans who could grant others powers usually gave simplistic ones, such as superspeed or superstrength. This Giftgiver’s ability was absurdly powerful, and even worse, random. Nightstriker didn’t know what sort of energy or dimension the Giftgiver had to tap into to give an auto mechanic who’d read one story and looked at a few pictures the abilities of an order thousands of miles away – but he’d find out.

  “What else do you know about his powers?” Nightstriker asked.

  “Nothing, I swear.” He wiped his nose, smearing more blood across his forearm. “Can I get something to clean this up? It’s––”

  “No, not until we finish this,” Nightstriker said. “His powers: you know nothing else?”

  “No, really! He puts both hands on someone, usually on their shoulders, and his hands glow, and a few seconds later, that person has powers.”

  “And the effect is totally random? These people get all sorts of powers, based on what’s in their mind?”

  “Yeah,” Randall said. “You get the standard stuff, like superstrength, but then you get off-the-wall powers, like mine. We have one girl who can turn dirt into vanilla pudding – that’s all she can do. I don’t know what was going on in her head for that to happen. Oh, I should mention this – we have a few people who can resurrect the dead. Good luck fighting those powers, Nightstriker.”

  Nightstriker didn’t relish that prospect, but he couldn’t let Randall know that. He continued in a terse voice: “Is there any noise during this process? Any smell?”

  “No, uh…I don’t think so. Maybe a humming sound. It’s hard to tell, because people are usually clapping and celebrating.”

  “These people…your friends, right? The followers of the Giftgiver?”