by Matt Cowper
“This is indeed a viable plan, Buckshot,” Gillespie said. “Good work.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “We’ll need a large team to carry it out, though. I may need to convince my fellow Cabinet members to divert resources from their own agencies. And I may need to commandeer a zoo to house all these animals, if we decide that’s what need to be done.”
“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere!” Buckshot said. “And ya’ll can pamper these animals if you want, but I ain’t shot me a deer in months! It’s time to go hunting! I’m sure Nightstriker won’t mind if I scratch that itch! It’s all for the cause, right?”
Chapter Sixteen
Nightstriker
He’d been assaulted with illusions for roughly eight hours. Spiders the size of his fist, with glinting red eyes and hair that pricked like cactus spines, crawled over his body. Bats swarmed him, screeching so loudly he thought his ears would bleed. Snakes slithered over him, their black tongues lashing like whips.
And still Nightstriker stared ahead, his mouth set in a thin line, his eyes unblinking except when something brushed against them. He was deep within himself, like an army that had retreated to a stronghold. They may bombard him with all manner of artillery, but his mental walls would hold.
As a spider tried to crawl in his mouth, he wondered why they persisted. For all the Giftgiver’s confident speechifying, he had to know time was short. When they saw these illusions had no effect, they should’ve switched tactics. But they were all inexperienced, all blinded by their ideology.
Slowly the illusions faded, and the grimy interior of the warehouse returned. The illusionist, a superhuman named Max, stood before the chained Nightstriker, sweat dripping off him. He lurched to a nearby chair and sat down with a sigh.
“I’m sorry, Giftgiver,” Max said. “I…I’ve thrown everything I can at him. I––”
“Hush, Max,” the Giftgiver said, patting his follower on the shoulder. “You’ve done your part. We have other illusionists in our family who can take over.”
“But my illusions are better!” Max said. “You know it’s––”
“Ah, beware of hubris,” the Giftgiver said. Nightstriker suppressed a laugh; that man was the last person to lecture anyone on that negative trait. “You have more control over your powers because you’re older and better educated than the others. But you should not lord over them. After all, with proper training, they may one day surpass you.”
“I…I understand, sir,” Max said. “Again, I apologize.”
“I know you want to be the one to make Nightstriker surrender his mind, but we cannot afford for someone to take reckless chances simply for a brief moment of glory. Replenish your fluids, Max, then return to your quarters. Rest up, and be ready should we need you tomorrow.”
“Yes, Giftgiver.” Max picked up a bottle of Yayorade from a table they’d set up. He gulped down half its contents in about five seconds, then wiped his mouth and let out a satisfied “Ahhhh.”
The Giftgiver walked over to Nightstriker and leaned in, studying him closely. Nightstriker looked back blankly.
“What are you looking at?” Nightstriker asked.
“A man whose will is as hard as ultimatium,” the Giftgiver replied. “When we captured you, I said I was disappointed you fell so easily. But you’ve redeemed yourself today. None of the illusions affected you. None.”
Nightstriker didn’t reply.
“Tell me, Nightstriker,” the Giftgiver said, “have you completely removed fear from your psyche?”
“Ah, I see now.” He let a smirk form on his still-swollen face.
The Giftgiver frowned. “See what?”
“I’ve been wondering why you wear a mask, when none of your followers do. You clearly have something to hide. Seeing you up close now, I know the truth. I know who you are, Giftgiver.” He twisted his head and directed his words at the superhumans standing by Max. “None of you know his real identity, do you? I can tell you who he is––”
The Giftgiver’s hand shot out, clamping shut Nightstriker’s mouth. He squeezed, but Nightstriker didn’t let on he felt any pain. “That’s enough. I doubt you really know who I am, but I will not allow you to foment discord within my ranks.”
His followers, though, were looking at each other uncertainly. Though the Giftgiver was still glaring at Nightstriker, he must’ve felt the mood shift as well, because he released Nightstriker and stepped back, smoothing out his robes and adjusting his mask.
“I would again like to be alone with our captive,” he said. “We will resume in ten minutes.”
The half-dozen superhumans didn’t argue, though their silence did not mean they were totally obedient. They slowly exited the warehouse, muttering to each other and looking back at their leader with various looks: some still clearly wanted to worship him, while two of them didn’t hide their suspicion. Nightstriker noted those looks carefully; he would use those doubts to his advantage if he could.
“And here we are again,” the Giftgiver said. “You infuriate me, Nightstriker. The world could have been saved by now, if you would only give up your knowledge. Why won’t you train my followers, when you obviously adored your Elites? What’s the difference? Both of our teams are trying to do good.”
“I tried to give up my knowledge just now, but you stopped me.”
“Yes, my real identity, which you claim to know. Tell me who you think I am. I’m sure I’ll be amused at whatever wild theory you’ve come up with.”
Nightstriker stared at the ceiling.
“Of course you clam up now,” the Giftgiver said. “I should have anticipated that. Very well, if that’s how you want to play it, we will move on to the next stage of your interrogation.”
“And that is?”
“Disembowelment and resurrection. You will experience pain that has not been felt since the medieval age – and you will die, and fall into the void, only to be brought back to do it all over again.”
“That is, until your followers run out of steam,” Nightstriker said. “Your people have no endurance, Giftgiver. That illusionist nearly fainted trying to keep up basic illusions. I doubt your friends can revive me more than twice before they need to take a nap.”
“We have already established that my people need training,” the Giftgiver replied. “But again I waste time verbally sparring with you.”
He walked briskly to the rusted door on the far wall and opened it. A few words were exchanged, and then he returned with four of his followers. Two men, two women. All young, of course; Nightstriker had not seen anyone over the age of thirty. Targeting passionate but rudderless youth was a hallmark of cult leaders.
Like Nightstriker had targeted Blaze? No, that was different…he was just tired, and sore, and hungry, and let a stray thought slip through….
“Are you ready, Nightstriker?” the Giftgiver asked.
Silence.
“Such stubbornness,” the Giftgiver said. “Clifton, form your arm into a blade and cut into Nightstriker. Meredith, ready your resurrection powers.”
The superhuman named Clifton gulped and wiped sweat from his forehead, but he held out his arm, and the flesh turned into a shining, metallic substance. In a few seconds, he had a long blade that looked like it could slice hair in two. His ability seemed similar to Metal Gal’s powers, but considering how the Giftgiver bestowed his gifts, it could have any number of origins. Maybe he’d once read a book about swordfighting, and the Giftgiver’s powers had fastened onto those memories.
“Now cut him,” the Giftgiver said, his tone devoid of emotion.
“Uh…now?” Clifton gulped several more times. “Sir, I’ve never done this before. Kill someone, I mean….”
“You’re not really killing him, Clifton,” the Giftgiver said. “He will be brought back. You are, however, hurting him greatly. But think of what’s at stake. With his knowledge, we will be unstoppable.”
“I get that, but…I don’t agree with torture….”
Clifton’s eyes narrowed, and he twisted his blade-arm, causing it to glint in the light. After muttering a “Fuck you,” he advanced.
“Stop!” the Giftgiver shouted.
Clifton skidded to a halt and looked at his leader in shock. Though the blade-armed superhuman no longer had murder in his eyes, the Giftgiver still stepped between him and Nightstriker.
“Something…isn’t right,” the Giftgiver said. “He wants you to kill him. I don’t know why, but he wouldn’t taunt you unless he had some reason. Perhaps…perhaps there’s something still inside him, something that will activate if he dies….”
“But everyone with scanning or scrying powers already examined him,” one of the female superhumans said.
“That is correct, Ophelia – with the variety of abilities our family has, it’s unlikely they’d miss any troublesome tech, or even a spell woven by some mage. But there’s still something amiss.” He glared at Nightstriker, and again grabbed his mouth. “You insufferable, arrogant…why can’t you just –”
An explosion shook the warehouse. Smoking rubble fell from the ceiling and crashed onto the concrete floor. The superhumans ducked for cover, even though there was no cover to be found. A piece of rubble clipped one of the women on the shoulder, and she went down wailing.
Nightstriker looked up, and saw a fireball roaring towards him. It hit the thick chains holding him, turning them into vapor instantly. Blaze, it had to be – but Blaze didn’t have such control over his powers. If the young superhero had shot that fireball, Nightstriker’s flesh would’ve been melted off.
But it was Blaze. A Blaze that, with his Fire Shield at max level, looked like the sun at noon. A Blaze that had superheated the air of the entire warehouse, so that Nightstriker was now sweating. A Blaze that looked mature, determined – and very pissed off.
He opened his mouth, probably to give voice to his anger, but instead fire poured out, like he was some fantasy-novel dragon. Seeing a flaming teenager spitting out fire made the superhumans – and, Nightstriker saw with satisfaction, the Giftgiver – quail in fear. Even Nightstriker felt the hairs on his arms stand on end.
Nightstriker smiled at the Giftgiver, who was backpedaling as fast as his legs would carry him. “Our turn.”
Chapter Seventeen
Blaze
The enemy was retreating, and the fight hadn’t even started yet. A composed tactician would’ve said this was a tremendous success. But Blaze wasn’t composed, wasn’t some ice-cold general standing above the fray. He didn’t want the Giftgiver and his followers to retreat; he wanted them to burn.
The Giftgiver was running towards a rusted door at the other end of the warehouse. That wouldn’t save him; Blaze’s teammates were outside, battling a horde of superhumans who were guarding the warehouse. But Sam didn’t want someone else to collar the villain. He wanted to take down the bastard himself.
He laid down some flame in front of the Giftgiver, melting a trench in the concrete floor. The Giftgiver tried to stop, but he was moving too fast, and fell into the waist-deep trench. Sam saw with satisfaction that he banged his head on the edge as he went down, and possibly twisted an ankle.
Now he only had to swoop down and get close, to make sure the Giftgiver knew exactly who had defeated him….
But shouts and the crackle of energy beams diverted his attention. Directly below him, Nightstriker was fighting the four superhumans who’d been guarding him – and from the looks of it, torturing him. Sam tried to curse, but instead he disgorged more fire from his mouth. He’d been so hellbent on revenge he’d half-forgotten that their leader was in dire straits.
Or perhaps not. Though he was bruised, and probably had been locked up in those thick chains for a long time, and probably had been tortured, Nightstriker had already knocked out two of the four superhumans in the few seconds he’d been free. True, he wasn’t moving at his normal speed, and he was wearing a grimace that made Sam’s heart tighten, but he was still Nightstriker.
Sam took one last look at the Giftgiver. The villain was trying to crawl out of the trench, but his ridiculous robes, probable concussion, and busted ankle made his efforts comical. Sam didn’t think he was going anywhere, but just to make sure, he shot a fireball at the megalomaniac. It nailed him in the back, incinerating his robes, and knocking him back into the trench.
With a yell that caused more fire to pour out of his mouth, Sam descended to help Nightstriker. He formed a dense packet of fire around his fist and punched one of the female superhumans in the side of the head. He didn’t know what sort of powers she had, nor did he care. She fell to the floor, half her hair burnt off.
Now there was no one left but the sword-arm guy. He’d morphed his other arm into a blade as well, and looked like some horror-movie villain. That is, if his facial expression had been cruel and deranged; instead, he looked like some rookie who’d just been tossed into the big game.
“Stay back, the both of you!” he yelled. “I’ll cut you in half! I’ve already cut you, Nightstriker!”
“You’ve nicked me,” Nightstriker said, his voice as empathetic as a black hole, “and that’s all that you’ll do.”
“I’m warning you––” the guy said.
Nightstriker let out a sound that was part grunt, part moan. In a blur, he’d rammed his elbow in the blade-guy’s nose; Sam thought he heard a crunch. Then the battered hero stepped back and connected with a brutal kick to the guy’s cheek. It was the legendary Nightstriker speed, and as usual, it was enough to send blade-guy facedown onto the concrete.
But the effort cost him. Nightstriker’s knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed, exactly like the guy he’d just beaten. Only by throwing out his left arm was he able to somewhat cushion his fall.
“Nightstriker!” Sam shouted.
He flew over and crouched beside Nightstriker, but Nightstriker flinched and started crawling away.
“Your fire, Blaze!” he rasped. “Control it!”
Stupid! Sam was so amped up, he’d nearly forgotten he was releasing an enormous amount of energy, just like he’d nearly forgotten that he needed to help Nightstriker before capturing the Giftgiver. The entire warehouse was probably as hot as a desert in summer, and the air directly around him was probably as hot as a burning oil rig. Concentrating, he willed the energy down to a normal level. His Fire Shield decreased until it was a thin ring of fire around him, and flames stopped pouring out of his mouth or doing other strange things.
“I’m sorry!” Sam said. “I didn’t burn you, did I?”
“Just singed off some of my hair,” Nightstriker said. His voice startled Sam; he didn’t sound authoritative or serious, just hopelessly weary. “Don’t worry about me. Stop the Giftgiver!”
“But you can barely move! You used up everything in that last attack….”
“Forget about me! The Giftgiver is more important. If he escapes….”
He trailed off, either because he figured Sam could envision what would happen, or because he was too tired to talk at length.
“Sorry, sir, but I refuse to follow that order,” Sam said. “I almost let my anger get the best of me earlier, when you needed my help. I won’t leave you here so you can get captured again.”
He glanced over at the trench, and saw the Giftgiver was still struggling to climb out. Where were the others? The plan was for Metal Gal to burst in here with him, but she was nowhere to be seen. Had one of the superhumans knocked her out of the sky? Maybe teleported her halfway across the globe?
Sam shot the Giftgiver with another fireball, this time burning off the front of his robes and knocking the villain out. He flew over and created a blue flame that extended from his hand,
and stared down into the trench at the man who’d tortured his mentor and leader.
But Sam wasn’t going to dice up the Giftgiver his torch-hand. Instead, he cut into one of the steel beams that supported the ceiling, dropping it over the trench. Unless the Giftgiver had superstrength, elastic powers, a teleportation ability, or could shoot energy beams – and their intelligence said he could only give others powers – he wouldn’t be able to move the beam or escape, if he happened to wake up.
Someone else could free him from his grave-like prison, though. Sam would have to remove Nightstriker from danger quickly and get back here before the Giftgiver’s followers saw his plight.
He flew back to Nightstriker, slung him over his shoulder, and roared through the hole he’d blasted in the ceiling. He’d barely made it to the open air before the strain threatened to send him careening into a building. Nightstriker was all muscle, and he probably outweighed Sam by at least seventy-five pounds.
Sam landed on a nearby building, its roof covered in grime and rank puddles, and immediately black-garbed men and women loaded with weaponry surrounded him. He felt Nightstriker tense, then relax as he realized these were allies. They were members of the dozen or so organizations Beverly Gillespie had strongarmed into helping them. They’d set up overwatch, logistics, and triage units on various buildings around the abandoned warehouse, and there were even a few Navy SEALs down in the sewers in case some of the rogue superhumans tried to use that escape route.
“Make way!” a middle-aged woman with a British accent commanded. She knelt beside Nightstriker, and her hands moved across the exhausted superhero’s body swiftly and deftly. She opened up a bag that contained medical equipment and supplies, and began preparing syringes and gauze.
“My God, what you must have gone through…but you’re safe now,” she said. “Hold still, and I’ll––”
“You’ll do nothing but inject me with something to get me back in the fight,” Nightstriker said.