by Matt Cowper
Chapter Eleven
Nightstriker
Beverly Gillespie’s home was what one would expect from a career-obsessed woman: hastily decorated and carelessly maintained. A few pieces of outdoor furniture, likely bought at random from some local furniture store, with plenty of dust covering them. The yard needed mowing, and the shrubs around the home were in dire need of trimming.
Nightstriker thought it was a mistake for her to purchase a two-story home with three bedrooms and two baths. She likely expected to one day get married and have a family. She should’ve known better; people like them didn’t get to keep families.
From his perch on a sturdy branch in the woods ringing the house, Nightstriker studied the property with high-powered binoculars. Gillespie no doubt had advanced security, probably comparable to the Beacon’s – she was, of course, the Secretary for Superhuman Affairs. A person in that role had plenty of enemies, not all of them stock supervillains.
Nightstriker could’ve disabled every one of her security systems and crept inside her home, but that would’ve taken hours, and probably wouldn’t accomplish anything – and, more importantly, he didn’t feel like it.
He put down the binoculars. Didn’t feel like it? That wasn’t supposed to happen. That was a lazy excuse some teenage superhero would use. But he was tired, and a teenage superhero, one he had put a lot of faith in, had recently told him to go to hell….
An owl hooted nearby. Nightstriker shifted on his perch, peering through the darkness, but he could see nothing but shadows and the sliver of moon overhead. He set his binoculars to thermal mode and slowly scanned the trees until he saw the owl. It appeared to be a normal, organic owl, but he couldn’t be sure. It could very well be part of Gillespie’s security system; there was plenty of tech that could mimic a real owl’s heat signature.
He should sneak up on the owl, make sure it was real – perhaps snap its neck to make sure. But again, his motivation had seeped out of him like blood from a gunshot wound.
He turned back to the house. Gillespie’s windows were shielded: he couldn’t see inside the house, even with his advanced binoculars, and the windows could probably stop one of Blaze’s full-power fireballs.
He didn’t know why he was dallying so long in his hiding spot, surveying the house for god knew what reason. He knew most people would consider his actions stalkerish, but his mind felt like it had been stripped of its mental defenses and flayed by a team of powerful telepaths.
Finally, he pulled out his Elites ID card. After cycling through a few options, he used its communication function to contact Gillespie.
She answered almost immediately. “Hello?”
“Still up at this hour?” Nightstriker asked.
“Yes, obviously. Superhero issues in New Zealand. Problems on the South Island, specifically.”
“Anything we need to be concerned about?”
“No. Their government just needs some insight on how to handle some new, over-enthusiastic superheroes.” A pause. “What can I do for you?”
“We need to talk,” Nightstriker said.
“OK. Let’s talk, then.”
“In person.”
“Fine. When and where?”
“Now. At your home.” Now it was Nightstriker’s turn to pause. “I’m already here.”
“Really? Hm. Security hasn’t detected you – not that that’s surprising. Very well. I’ll be waiting at the front door.”
Some exterior lights blinked on at the front of the house. Nightstriker returned his ID card to a pouch and dropped down from his perch, landing in a roll to minimize the impact. As he stepped out onto Gillespie’s lawn, she emerged from her home and stood on the porch, looking out into the night.
She was still in her professional attire, still looked alert and in command, like the soldier-bureaucrat she was. When she saw him approaching, she walked over, meeting him by one of the pathetic shrubs. Amid the shadows, she looked even more formidable than she did during daylight hours.
“I admit this is a strange visit, Nightstriker,” she said. “One might even say you’ve crossed a line by coming here.”
“And what would you say?”
“It depends on how this talk you want to have goes.” She motioned to the house. “Come in.”
He followed her into the house, stepping into a living room that felt as welcoming and personalized as some over-designed furniture store arrangement. In fact, that’s likely how Gillespie had designed the room, by simply driving to the nearest furniture store, picking the first set of furniture she’d seen, and then having the delivery crew drag the stuff in here. The couch was out of line; the TV was covered in dust; and the pictures on the walls were banal prints, like the ones you’d find in hotel rooms. Only the bookcase looked like anyone paid attention to it: it was filled with what appeared to be well-thumbed books on politics, military strategy, psychology, and superhuman studies.
“As you can see, I’m not an interior designer, nor have I hired one,” Gillespie said, anticipating his thoughts. “I’m far too busy to care what my home looks like.”
“As am I,” Nightstriker replied.
Indeed, he didn’t really have a home – not anymore. Once, he’d had the suburban home with a white picket fence and two-car garage, the American Dream for many. But that had been ripped from him years ago. Now he slept in safe houses, one-room apartments leased to his many aliases, or motels – when he slept at all.
“So, why are you here?” Gillespie asked, sitting down on the couch. “I reiterate that I don’t approve of your late night visit to my home, but I assume it’s important. There must be some crisis that can’t wait until morning.”
“No, there’s no crisis – at least, not the type of crisis you’re thinking about.”
Nightstriker paced the room, staring down at the hardwood floor.
“The crisis is…is with me,” he said finally.
“What do you mean?”
“Things are not going well with the new Elites,” Nightstriker said, “and the fault lies mainly with me. I was putting the blame on them, on their inexperience and poor attitudes, but today Blaze showed me something I didn’t expect: a true moment of brilliance, from the youngest member of the team. But he wasn’t proud of himself – he was angry at me, for forcing him to come up with his ingenious tactic. He argued with me forcefully – and persuasively. He made it clear I’ve not been acting as a team leader should.”
He waited, but Gillespie didn’t reply. Finally he turned and glared at the seated figure.
“Well?” he said.
“Well what?” Gillespie said. “What do you expect me to say, especially considering the nature of your visit?”
“I expected something.”
Gillespie sighed. “This is out of character for you….”
“I’m sorry. Sorry for barging in here at this hour, sorry for bothering you. But something has to change….”
“Ah, now that’s the key,” she said. “Also out of character, but still key.”
“What?”
“Saying you’re sorry.” She rose from her seat and came over to stand beside him. “Tell me, Nightstriker: how often do you say those words?”
A long pause. “Not often.”
“No, you don’t. It’s part of your mystique, and that is useful. The great Nightstriker doesn’t compromise, doesn’t coddle lazy superheroes. But you’re no longer just Nightstriker; you’re the leader of the Elites, and it sounds like not only have you been carrying that burden, you’ve been making sure everyone else knows how heavy your burden is, and that they should blame themselves for the heaviness.”
“That is….” It was what? He wanted to argue, but before he could organize his thoughts, Gillespie continued.
“You may recall we argued when you told me who you’d chosen for the new Elites. And you may recall I apologized and suggested we move on – brusquely, yes, but still, I ceded ground. And you may recall you did not accept my apology, that y
ou stormed out of the room after tossing out a comment to make sure you got the last word.”
Again, he wanted to argue, but instead he found himself saying: “I’m…I’m sorry.”
“More apologies?” She chuckled. “Now we’re getting somewhere! But, to be serious, you cannot expect others to follow you if you don’t bend a little. I have no problem with the fearsome, driven Nightstriker – as long as that persona is directed towards the bad guys. But being a leader requires a different persona. I’m not saying you should shower your team with compliments and give them trophies if they do well. There’s a balance you have to strike.”
“Why, Gillespie?”
“Why what?”
“Why choose me as team leader?” Nightstriker asked. “You’re giving me this lecture, and I do appreciate the advice – though it pains me to admit I need it – but there are dozens of other superheroes who are more suited to this job.”
“I thought I explained that when we first talked. Just like you see potential in your motley crew of heroes, I see potential in you as leader of the Elites. You were right about Professor Perfection, and you’re right about a great many other things. Your coarseness and stubbornness, though, have always put you at odds with nearly everyone. But if you change – like you want your teammates to change – you can be one of the greatest leaders any superteam has had.”
She let that sink in, then went on: “And I’ll ask you this: why did you take this position in the first place, if you didn’t think you were fit for it?”
“To do good, of course,” Nightstriker replied. “The thought of seeing someone like Professor Perfection running the Elites…I couldn’t allow that to happen.”
“That sort of passion is what makes you a great hero.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “You’re trying too hard. Trying to do everything. Trying to mold your teammates into unbeatable soldiers. Bend a little. Believe in yourself. And get some damn sleep. You’re even more exhausted than when we last talked.”
“Well….”
“No excuses. Do it.” She smiled, a genuine, friendly smile, not one of mockery or scorn. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. If I’m lucky and efficient, I may get to sleep before three AM tonight.”
“And you’re talking to me about sleep?”
“Right now, you need it more than me.”
“I…” Suddenly Nightstriker laughed. It was a deep, hearty laugh that made his eyes water. It felt good – though Gillespie was looking at him like he was a psychotic supervillain.
“Don’t worry, Beverly, I haven’t gone completely mad,” he said. “But you’re right – I’m tired, frustrated, not in my normal frame of mind. Again, I apologize for bothering you.”
“Again, I accept your apology,” she replied, “though that laughter is, I admit, unsettling.”
“It’s because I see the comedy in all this. All this discord and anger – it’s absurd, and completely avoidable. But I think I can fix it – if the team hasn’t completely lost confidence in me.”
“They haven’t – but you should still reconcile with them sooner rather than later,” Gillespie said.
“I will. Tomorrow I’ll mend all those wounds.”
He stepped out onto the porch, back into the cool night air. Then he sprinted across her lawn, back to the forest, not waiting for any goodbyes.
He was still tired, but a new sense of exhilaration pushed him forward. Tomorrow he’d bring the team together and put everyone on the right path – including himself – and then they’d find this Giftgiver before he did any more damage.
Interesting how a brief, open conversation could improve one’s mood. Maybe he should confide in others more often….
As the dark trees swallowed him, he looked back towards the house. Gillespie was pacing across her driveway, cell phone in hand, talking to someone about some superhuman affair.
Nightstriker grinned. Get some sleep? It was a comical piece of advice, coming from her….
Chapter Twelve
Blaze
Again they were in Briefing Room One, and again they were going to sit there and let Nightstriker ream them out.
Sam sat with arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently; he could feel his impatience creating flames around his foot. It would probably melt part of the floor, but he was long past caring.
After “going nuclear” at Nightstriker yesterday, Sam had flown off the Beacon and soared through the clouds for about an hour. This only made him feel slightly better, so he descended to Z City, found a landfill, and started shooting fireballs at the city’s debris. Technically, this was illegal, but the landfill workers were not about to argue with a fiery, pissed-off superhero. After telling him to not get too rambunctious, and to confine his blasting to a certain section of the landfill, they’d left him alone.
This did wonders for Sam’s mood – for about thirty minutes. As soon as he returned to the Beacon and locked himself in his room, that gnawing sense of anger, hopelessness, and shame returned.
He turned everything over in his mind, like he was holding one of the puzzles his dad used to give him. But there was no solution to be found, nothing that would instantly make everything right.
He understood Nightstriker’s point: they’d looked like total idiots when they’d fought the three superhumans. They obviously needed training. But try as he might, he could not agree with Nightstriker’s training method. It was unnecessarily cruel, creating divisiveness instead of camaraderie. Every time he thought about how he’d melted Metal Gal’s body, and then how Nightstriker had been crouching there with that smug look on his face after they canceled the program, flames danced angrily around him.
He recalled his promise to his mother: if the team wasn’t a good fit for him, he’d quit. And so, after a sleepless night, he’d decided he no longer wanted to be an Elite.
But despite his anger at Nightstriker, he still had some semblance of respect for the man. So he’d give it one more day. One more day for Nightstriker to prove he was a real leader, not a sadistic, manipulative asshole.
And now here they were, sitting before Nightstriker, waiting for him to speak. There was no jesting, no banter today; it was clear that Sam’s teammates had moods similar to his own.
He did notice that they seemed to regard him differently than the day before. More respectfully. More warily. He guessed his rage-fueled display of power had impressed them, as had his argument with Nightstriker. Even Buckshot, who had been unconscious during the whole ordeal, looked at him thoughtfully as he chewed his cigar.
Sam didn’t expect Nightstriker to do anything differently today. He’d lecture them, talk about his expertise, then probably schedule another training session so he could beat them like drums. Nightstriker didn’t back down; when challenged, he doubled the megatonnage.
That was fine with Sam. He could double, triple, quadruple the megatonnage – but he’d do it to someone else. One more day. That’s all Sam had to put up with.
But then Nightstriker said something that Sam was sure no one on the Beacon expected: “I’m sorry.”
Silence. Some of the analysts, who were supposed to be doing their work, had stopped and were now listening intently.
“Come again?” Buckshot said. Sam saw he’d spat out his cigar in surprise.
“I said I’m sorry,” Nightstriker repeated. “You all know what happened yesterday. There’s no need to review every detail. After thinking deeply about this, and discussing it with a…trusted friend, I realize I need to take a new approach.”
“Uh, you’re joking, right?” Slab said. “You’re Nightstriker. You never apologize.”
Nightstriker grinned wryly, another rarity. “That is indeed my reputation. But that’s the solo Nightstriker. In that mode, an intractable nature is very useful. The Nightstriker that’s the leader of the Elites, however, cannot afford to be inflexible. Already some of you are in danger of quitting, and we have not been together a week – and the fault lies with me.”
Buckshot rubbed his eyes. “Am I asleep? Or still drunk? This can’t be really happening!”
“It is odd,” Metal Gal said, “but I’m scanning him, and that’s the real Nightstriker, all right. He means what he says, too.”
Sam noticed his errant flames had extinguished, and that his jaw had dropped open so widely a jet could’ve flown down his gullet. He didn’t know what to say, exactly, so he continued to keep quiet.
“Yes, I mean everything I’m saying,” Nightstriker said. “Beginning today, we operate as a team – a true team. I’ve developed new training protocols to this effect. We train together; there will be no more ‘Nightstriker versus everyone’ scenarios. I will still push all of you, but there are some weak points that I’ll refrain from taking advantage of, unless the right preparations have been made. Psychological toughness is an integral part of superheroing, and you will have to learn to guard your mind – but simply tossing you into a jungle and breaking you down mentally and physically, without giving you a clear picture of my intent, obviously did more harm than good.”
He paused, but everyone was still too astonished to do much besides mutter and gawk.
“Beyond training, I will also involve you more in the other aspects of superheroing,” Nightstriker went on. “You all were right yesterday: I interrogated Randall Macomber – that’s the rune-user’s name – by myself, and then scouted out a location he revealed by myself. One person operating by themselves is much quicker and efficient, but this is no longer about efficiency. It’s about trust, openness, and mutual learning. I will no longer run off by my lonesome, and then bring back my findings to share with you after the fact. Certain crises may require a quick response, but again, I will make every effort to assemble the team before I respond to said crises.”
Again, everyone was speechless. Nightstriker’s apology seemed to be over, though, and Sam didn’t want him to stand there awkwardly. His rage at the man had fizzled out along with his flames.
“Uh, sir,” Sam said. “I…we…appreciate what you’ve just said. I can’t speak for the others, but I’d pretty much decided to quit the Elites. I thought it would be your way or the highway. But I’ve changed my mind, just like you’ve changed yours. If you’re being honest, I’m with you all the way.”