by Matt Cowper
Buckshot was firing away, Sam was blasting, Slab was punching, Metal Gal had morphed into a snake-like form and wrapped herself around a superhuman that looked similar to a minotaur, and Nightstriker was an unstoppable whirlwind of hurt. They were winning, and winning easily….
Or were they? Something felt off, so Sam flew a few feet above the street to survey the area. There didn’t seem to be any more superhumans hiding anywhere – but most of the ones that were visible were focusing on Nightstriker. It didn’t seem obvious down in the fray, as they were careful to keep at least two people attacking each member of the Elites, but looking down from above, Sam saw that their opponents were carefully positioning themselves so they could surround the Elites’ leader.
“Nightstriker, look out!” Sam shouted. He flew down to aid him, but something was in his throat, and he was gagging like Lucas had. He crashed down into an SUV, turning it into an inferno.
He heard a voice that sounded like a young woman’s. “Can’t breathe, can you? Saw what you did to Lucas. Wasn’t very considerate of you. Let’s see how you like it when something slips down your throat and tries to asphyxiate you.”
Sam coughed until he felt like he was going to vomit, but the suffocating feeling didn’t diminish. It had to be a superhuman who could turn into some sort of gas or poisonous smoke…but how had they gotten past his Fire Shield?
As if they’d heard his thoughts, the superhuman spoke again: “Your flames can’t help you. The Giftgiver gave me the ability to transform into a gaseous substance not of this world. You could turn yourself into a walking star, and you still couldn’t get rid of me.”
Blackness crept at the edge of Sam’s vision. He had to give it one last shot, had to do something, anything! Maybe if he really cut loose, turned into a walking star, like the superhuman had taunted, he could at least get a breath in….
Then Metal Gal was crouching by him, looking down at him worriedly.
“Sam, what is it?!” she said, shaking him.
Sam couldn’t speak; he could only point at his throat.
“You’re…you’re choking? Yes, I understand! Turn off your shield and open your mouth!”
Sam was dubious, but he did as she asked. Opening his mouth caused even more pain to lance through his body, but he forced himself to keep it open.
Metal Gal transformed her arm into a cannon – no, not exactly a cannon. It glowed, and it looked dangerous, but there were two large fans on either side of it. The fans started up, and she poked a tube into Sam’s mouth. She was trying to vacuum out the gaseous superhuman! Tears streamed down Sam’s cheeks; it felt like she was sucking up all his internal organs.
But it was working. Sam heard the superhuman rasp out, “No! No! No!” and then his throat was miraculously clear. He gulped in huge lungfuls of heavenly air, and his vision cleared.
“You OK?” Metal Gal asked.
“I am now, thanks to you,” Sam said, struggling to his feet. “That…thing slipped right past my Fire Shield, and I couldn’t burn it out of me….”
“No worries,” she said. “If you can’t incinerate something, suck it! Erm, that sounded sexual…anyway, I’ve got this gas thing contained, but I’ve got to keep this arm air tight so it doesn’t escape. Watch my back, since I’m only one-armed now, OK?”
“OK,” Sam said, reigniting his Fire Shield with difficulty. “But we need to help Nightstriker! It looked like they were targeting him!”
“He’s doing fine….”
But as they both watched, it was obvious Nightstriker was not doing fine. He was moving much slower than normal. Sam flew closer, and now he could see a translucent goo was covering most of Nightstriker’s lower body. Whether he’d been slopped with the stuff or if it was an actual superhuman, Sam didn’t know.
“Nightstriker!” Sam shouted. “Come here! Let me burn that stuff off you!”
At that moment, though, all the superhumans rushed at the legendary hero. Slab and Buckshot, who’d been fighting several of them tenaciously, were now flailing about like mimes. They reacted quickly, though, and like Sam and Metal Gal, rushed towards Nightstriker.
But it was too late. The superhumans dogpiled onto Nightstriker like a sports team celebrating someone who’d hit a walk-off home run. But this, of course, was no display of camaraderie: Nightstriker was punched, slammed, and blasted, and though he tried valiantly to fight back, the goo that covered him and the punishment he’d already absorbed was too much to overcome.
Rage filled Sam, like it had after their first training session on the Beacon. His Fire Shield expanded, and his hands now looked like miniature supernovas. He would blast all of them, blast them halfway across the city….
But then their attack on Nightstriker suddenly stopped. They linked hands, like they were a church group about to sing a song. No songs were sung though; instead, blue energy surrounded them, and their bodies began to fade away. A loud noise that sounded like “bamf” echoed off the buildings, and they were gone.
It was like someone had turned off a television in the middle of a violent movie. The street was quiet, save for the rustling of newspapers as they blew past and the crackle of Sam’s fire-powers.
For a long while, no one spoke.
“They teleported away?” Buckshot finally said.
“With Nightstriker,” Sam muttered.
“That must’ve been their plan all along!” Metal Gal said. “They didn’t want to beat us again, they wanted to kidnap him!”
“But why?” Slab said. “That’s an awful lot of trouble for one guy.”
“Because it’s Nightstriker,” Sam said. “He’s the biggest threat of all.”
“I see your point, kid,” Buckshot said, spitting. “We all looked as graceful as three-legged dogs during that last encounter, while he was the one holding everything together, or trying to. But even if they hadn’t seen that foul-up, they know his reputation.”
“Shit,” Slab said.
“You said it,” Buckshot said. “The question is: whadda we do now?”
Everyone looked at each other, but no one could maintain eye contact for long. Their leader, the best among them – flaws and all – was gone, and no one had any idea how to save him.
Chapter Fourteen
Nightstriker
“I am disappointed, Nightstriker,” someone said in a voice that was both firm and cordial.
Nightstriker opened his eyes quickly, and immediately tried to gather his thoughts and suppress the pain rippling through his body. The legend surrounding him made it seem like he was unbeatable, but in truth, he’d been knocked out and captured many times in his superhero career, and was prepared for it.
These failures weren’t common knowledge because the villains who had captured him paid dearly for their temerity.
He looked around as best he could through half-swollen eyes. They were in a dim, dank building of metal and concrete – an abandoned warehouse, the hideout of choice for many a supervillain. As many times as they were used, Nightstriker wondered why there wasn’t a superteam dedicated solely to making sure warehouses weren’t used for nefarious purposes. He’d thought about forming such a team himself years ago, but other things had come up.
He tried to move, but he was restrained by chains six inches thick that were wrapped around one of the vertical steel beams, and also stripped naked, save for a pair of briefs they’d put on him. The chains dug into his body, and the steel beam ground into his vertebrae; combined with the beating he’d taken earlier, he felt like he had when he first started out as a superhero, when he was getting pummeled every night.
Six people – three men, three women – were scowling at him. Five of them were dressed in everyday clothes, but one was wrapped in thick white robes and had on a white mask that covered everything but his eyes, mouth, and curly blonde hair. It had to be the man who’d spoken to him: the Giftgiver.
“Why are you disappointed in me, Giftgiver?” Nightstriker asked.
The man chuckl
ed. “Yes, that is my name. I see you beat my description out of Randall. It’s a shame he was captured, but we anticipated such a turn of events, and he knew the risks.”
“Did he?” Nightstriker said. “Seems to me you’re leading lambs to the slaughter.”
“How so? Only a few of our number have been caught, but we now have you. You’re worth a great deal, Nightstriker.”
“So all that back in Z City was just a setup to capture me?”
“Of course. What use do we have for any of your teammates? They can barely put on their spandex without your help. You are the general, the assassin, and the tech expert, all rolled into one. Remove you from the equation, and these new Elites are helpless.”
“All that praise, and yet you say I disappointed you. Why?”
“Because you fell far too easily.” The Giftgiver shook his head like Nightstriker was a teenager who’d once again forgotten to do his chores. “At full strength, you would’ve fought that group of my followers for hours. But you are far from full strength, aren’t you? After we brought you here, we examined you thoroughly, using a variety of methods. You haven’t slept in days, and your diet during that time frame hasn’t been ideal, either. Why have you pushed yourself so hard, Nightstriker? Is running the Elites that much of a strain?”
Nightstriker remained silent.
Another chuckle. “I thought so. With teammates as incompetent as yours, I can imagine your life is filled with frustration. We’ve held you here for quite some time, and they have done nothing productive to try and find you. The press is hounding them, but the best quote they’ve gotten was ‘piss off’ from Buckshot. Charming fellow, isn’t he?”
“Underestimate them at your peril, Giftgiver,” Nightstriker said. “They will find me – or I’ll escape. Then you’ll––”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’ll defeat me utterly.” He gave Nightstriker a condescending pat on the head. “You are wrapped in ultimatium chains, and will be guarded around the clock. Jasmine here has the ability to sap the strength of anyone, even someone as robust as your teammate Slab. You will be kept in a state of exhaustion, and if necessary, deprived of food and water. Should you happen to get free of those chains, you wouldn’t make it twenty feet before collapsing. Oh, and we have already disabled the numerous tracking devices you’ve had implanted in both your body and your costume. No one will find you.”
Nightstriker didn’t reply. Instead, he grinned.
“Ah, you smile!” the Giftgiver said. “I suppose that’s meant to frighten me out of my wits?”
“You haven’t considered every possibility,” Nightstriker said. “Perhaps I wanted to be captured, so I could find you quicker. Perhaps you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.”
The Giftgiver’s eyes went wide for just a moment, and the other five superhumans fidgeted. Then the Giftgiver laughed.
“You are indeed a genius,” he said. “Such a command of human psychology…but no, I doubt even you would try such a rash tactic.”
“You’d be surprised,” Nightstriker said. “I once allowed myself to be captured by a villain named Ras the Torturer. As his name implies, he was an expert in human torment – until he discovered he couldn’t break me. I ruined his reason for being. He’s now in a padded cell in MegaMax, and last I heard the only word he’ll utter is my name.”
“Giftgiver?” one of the female superhumans said. “He’s not…he’s not telling the truth, is he?”
“Where this man is concerned, the line between truth and myth is impossible to discern,” the Giftgiver said. “But it doesn’t matter. We are not insane torturers. We are not supervillains at all. We are intelligent, idealistic people who––”
“Here comes the utopian spiel again,” Nightstriker growled. “I’m already getting tired of the rhetoric. All I see is a megalomaniac wearing some ridiculous robes and a bunch of impressionable kids. It took two dozen of your followers just to capture me. Do you really think you’ll have a chance once the superhero community gets mobilized?”
“You talk of spiels, but your spiel about your superhero friends is equally tiresome,” the Giftgiver said. “Everyone can see your so-called community is fractured. Professor Perfection’s betrayal has ruined you do-gooders for a generation – that is, unless the new Elites, under the legendary Nightstriker, again inspired the world. Now that won’t happen, and with no real resistance, we can set our plans in motion.”
“Remaking the world, huh?” Nightstriker said. “Randall was very passionate about your cause. Told me all about it, like simply talking about it would make it reality. Tell me, Giftgiver, what do you really believe? Do you really want to destroy the establishment and replace it with some new world order? Do you really want a victory for the proletariat?”
“Yes, my overall goal is to transform this city, then this country, and then the world, into a truly egalitarian society. Is that not a worthy endeavor? You know this world is rotten from top to bottom, from the most powerful Wall Street tycoon to the most miserly small-town hardware store owner. Congress is bought and paid for. The President is an imbecile. Globalism is a rabid beast, trampling over everything and everyone. The populace is dulled by reality TV and pointless social media drama. We need a new system – new economics, new politics, new entertainment.”
“This sounds eerily similar to the Soviet Union,” Nightstriker said. “We both know how that turned out.”
“The Soviet Union was run by small-minded thugs, not enlightened men and women,” the Giftgiver said. “We will not kill or torture millions for impure thoughts or actions. We will, however, ensure our new world order rests on a solid foundation.”
“Is that the comforting phrase you’re using?” Nightstriker said. “You can lie to yourself if you want, but I know what you are: nothing more than an authoritarian. We both know you’ll liquidate anyone who opposes you, and create laws to keep you and your followers in power.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth!” the Giftgiver said, throwing out his arms passionately. “Have we liquidated anyone yet? Many people who I’ve touched now have awesome power. But they keep it in check, because they have principles. As for these insidious laws you think we’ll enact, we only want sensible laws that have been cornerstones of progressive thought for years: single-payer healthcare, a sensible minimum wage, a reformed prison system, a military held in check, and a taxation system that doesn’t give dozens of loopholes to billionaires and large corporations. Does that sound so wrong?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Nightstriker admitted, “but if you’re so fervent, why don’t you vote and protest, like every other group in our country’s history that’s wanted change?”
“Voting? Voting is a sham. In most cases, it’s a choice between a scoundrel and a buffoon – if you’re lucky. Sometimes both candidates have both traits. As for protesting, why should I chant slogans in the street and hope someone listens, when I have the power to make them listen?”
“You remind me of someone––”
“Yes, of Professor Perfection. The comparison is inevitable. I am not like that traitor. The Professor cared about humanity as a whole, but he despised the individual man. He developed those sadistic plans to keep society from breaking apart, yes, and there is a twisted brilliance to them – but he did not care about the day-to-day affairs of mankind, as long as we did not devolve into a dystopia. I, however, care deeply. I want everyone to find success, no matter how they personally define it – except, of course, the scoundrels and buffoons.”
“I’ve heard it all before, Giftgiver,” Nightstriker said. “People like you always fail, because there’s no such thing as utopia. The world is messy. It always has been, and it always will be. There’s nothing wrong with agitating for change, but when you think you, and you alone, have all the answers? That’s a very short path to ruination.”
“We could debate like this for hours, and neither one of us would change our minds on a single position. Perhaps that’s your g
oal: to waste my time while you devise ways to escape and your hapless teammates try to find you. I think it’s time to move things along – time for you to help us achieve our goals.”
“Help you?” Nightstriker said. “I’ll never help you, no matter how much you torture me.”
“That’s what they all say. But we need not be so crude at the beginning. Kezia, are you ready?”
One of the female superhumans stepped forward. She looked eager and confident, but Nightstriker didn’t think she was more than seventeen.
“Yes, Giftgiver,” she said.
“Good. Whenever you’re ready.”
She walked over to Nightstriker and placed her hands on his forehead. They began to glow blue-white, and a similarly colored halo appeared around her head. He felt something humming in his mind, and a sense of déjà vu washed over him.
“A telepath?” Nightstriker said. “You should know better, Giftgiver. My mind is fortified beyond the comprehension of anyone here. Call her off, before she gets hurt.”
“You’re cocky, aren’t you?” Kezia said. “If you think you’re resisting, I’m sorry to tell you that I’ve probed teenage boys with more defenses than yours.”
“You truly think so?” He closed his eyes and focused on one word: shadow. He’d shoved years of pain, doubt, frustration and rage into that one word; it had taken six months of constant meditation to form what telepaths called this ‘defensive memory.’
Nightstriker could feel Kezia’s curiosity as she moved towards this word – and he could hear her screams as she jerked away, severing their connection, and collapsed onto the damp concrete floor of the warehouse.
“Kezia!” one of the male superhumans shouted, rushing to his fallen comrade. The others circled around her, lifting her gently up to a sitting position. Her eyes were open, and her lips were moving, but she was clearly trapped in some other world.
“What did you do to her?!” the man said, running at Nightstriker, his fist raised. Before he could strike the superhero, the Giftgiver stepped between the two and grabbed the man’s arm.