Thrusts of Justice (Chooseomatic Books), page 16
As far as telepathy goes, you’re a rank amateur. The alien intellect’s psychic onslaught is relentless, and overwhelms your tiny brain in a matter of seconds, gutting your higher functions and leaving you little more than a vegetable. Then it detaches itself from its ancient, canine host and grafts to your physiology. It finds new uses for your superpowers as well, melting your human form down into pure goo and reassembling it into an amorphous, tentacled purple mass. It slithers off to personally supervise the Earth’s destruction while somewhere, deep inside, the faintest echo of everything you once were screams out in hopeless despair.
Wow, that went to kind of a dark place.
THE END
184
Sure enough, you don’t reach Philadelphia until some ungodly hour. The safehouse entrance is in an alleyway quite similar to the one in Cleveland — with setups like this all around the world, you have to wonder if he gets a bulk discount on fake hydraulic dumpsters. As you climb down the hatch, though, you notice that the chamber’s lights are already on.
“Ha! I knew if I waited, you’d show up eventually!” Standing in the tiny room, amidst bags of trash and piles of take-out containers and fast food wrappers, you see the distinctive leather mask of Axemaster, a notoriously violent criminal. A pair of rounded, wicked-looking blades jut out from the flesh of each of his forearms. “I’ve spent years hunting you down, fascist pig. Prepare to face my wrath!”
What the hell, Nightwatchman? An asterisk on one list means “already talked to that villain, move on,” but on another list it means “security compromised, under no circumstances go there?” You’re dismayed by the inconsistency of his note taking. You don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because Axemaster isn’t finished spouting epithets.
“I will break you. I will cleave your ugly skull in two and flay the skin from your bones. You will lie suffering for days before I finally let you die!” Somehow, you don’t think you’re going to intimidate this guy with Nightwatchman’s striking-fear-in-the-hearts-of-men schtick. Is there any chance he’ll believe you’re not the superhero he’s looking for?
▶ If you surrender and try to convince Axemaster that you’re just some schmuck in a costume, click here for page 28.
▶ If you leap into action and give this madman the fight he’s looking for, alsoclick here for page 28.
185
You decide to ally yourself with the goofy wannabe in the superhero outfit. “If we work together, we can defeat this thing!” you yell, springing into action. Granted, your best attempt at springing into action is to leap out of the alien’s direct line of fire and try to analyze it for some kind of weakness. You don’t see much. The Nightwatchman, meanwhile, touches a panel on the back of his glove, whereupon his entire body flickers and disappears. Whoa — if this guy’s just some cosplayer, he’s put some serious money into his hobby. The Cosmic Guardian, however, seems unimpressed with either of you. It bathes the alley in a blue light that neutralizes your partner’s cloaking technology — you see his shimmering form hugging a brick wall across from you. He doesn’t seem to be brandishing any weapons or anything. Is his idea of working together hiding until his attacker leaves?
The Guardian opens fire, incinerating him on the spot.
Holy monkeynuts. Wherever this thing is from, they administer a harsh brand of justice there. It immediately turns its attention to you. Apparently perturbed that its original target didn’t put up much of a fight, it snatches you off the ground with its jellyfish tentacles and rips you into dozens of pieces, torching each one individually.
You, my friend, clearly picked the wrong puppy in this dogfight.
THE END
186
It’s your first day as a superpowered government operative. Why make waves? You tell Moretti you’d just as soon let your veteran partner take command. He looks disappointed. “Well, I suppose this is for you, then,” he says, handing Migraine a metal cylinder with a button on one end. “It’s ONLY to be used as a last resort, you understand? I don’t want a repeat of the Bogotá incident.”
Bogotá, Colombia? Where a group of diplomats were recently incinerated by a mysterious, giant laser that fired from out of the clear blue sky? You glance at Migraine, who’s flipping the safety latch on the trigger open and shut, grinning to himself.
“We call it the emergency satellite weapon,” Moretti says, seeing the look on your face. “The Ox has been tagged with a targeting beacon, so if it comes to it, we can take him out with this. But it’s plan Z. Plans A through Y involve bringing him back alive.”
He leaves you and Migraine to your mission. “So, what’s the plan of attack?” you ask.
“Familiarize yourself with the target,” Migraine says, leading you to a small office about the size of a broom closet. He drops an oversized folder on the desk in front of you with a loud thud. “This is the Ox’s file. Read it.”
It’s at least 500 pages thick, and it’s boring as hell. As you slog through it, though, it paints an interesting picture of the villain who pummeled you earlier. His real name is Terry Oxenberger, and over the past decade he’s focused mainly on robbery and extortion, leaving a huge amount of injury and property damage in his wake, but surprisingly few fatalities. Standard procedure for stopping him seems to be calling in Magnifico or Megawatt from the Justice Squadron (Megawatt had actually been the Ox’s partner before giving up his life of crime, so there must be quite a bit of bad blood between those two).
After what must be hours — you can’t get to your cellphone to check the time without removing your armor — you finish reading and track down Migraine. “Excellent,” he says. “Now I’m gonna need 30 copies of that file. And the machine’s kinda broken, so you’ll have to hand-collate.”
Clearly, this is some sort of hazing ritual, you think — light clerical work can’t possibly be the best use for an armored space hero. But your protests fall on dead ears. Fine, you’ll be a sport. Several mind-numbingly tedious hours later, you present Migraine with the copies.
“I like your hustle, kid,” he says with a smirk. “Okay, maybe you’re ready for some real work.” He leads you outside the complex through a series of magnetically locked gates, and you note that the sky is pitch black. It’s even later than you thought. You find yourself in a large parking lot, surrounded by an entire fleet of nondescript SUVs.
“You’ll find soap and buckets over by the fence,” Migraine says. “I want these vehicles to sparkle by morning.”
“You’re joking.”
He sneers. “No. I’m your commanding officer and I’m telling you to wash the goddamn cars. That’s an order.”
Is this a test? Is he just pushing you to see how much crap you’ll take? Or is it some sort of team-building trust exercise? If so, it’s a truly awful one.
▶ If you suck it up and grab a bucket, click here for page 292.
▶ If you put your foot down and refuse, click here for page 191.
188
You’re pretty tired, seeing as how you’ve been up all night learning about your space armor and trying to get Windows to run on alien hardware, but right now battling a bunch of supervillains sounds like just what you need to clear your head. What’s the worst that could happen?
In two words: Lightning Queen. She’s a notoriously unhinged criminal with the power to control electricity at her fingertips. And as soon as she sees you flying into Washington’s downtown core, she calls down a bolt of lightning that knocks you right out of the clear blue sky.
“Come for a rematch, have you?” she says as you skid across the pavement to her feet. “Guess you’re not so tough when there’s only one of you! Where’s your partner?” You have no idea what she’s talking about. “Oh, that’s right, I fried him, didn’t I?”
The battlesuit isn’t responding to your commands, and soon a second bolt hits you square in the chest. This one really hurts. “I fried him just like I promised I’d fry you if I ever laid eyes on you again, alien swine!”
Then the third bolt hits, and you’re done for. “Fry, swine, fry!” Lightning Queen says. Then she laughs at the connotation.
“Hey, guys!” she yells gleefully to her cohorts. “I’m making alien bacon!”
THE END
189
You’re just not comfortable leaving Nightwatchman’s jet in the hands of someone who might at any moment pass out vomiting. Granted, you’re not sure what help he’ll be on the ground, either, but Chuck insists, and Obie obviously doesn’t want to let his old mentor down. “You two go,” Chuck says, disappointed. “I’ll provide air support. This thing still has missiles, right?”
Your computer indicates that the suit’s glider is easily strong enough to carry two, and Ocean Boy can’t possibly weigh more than 120 pounds, so you take him securely in your arms and make the leap.
And that’s when the trouble begins.
The truth is, before last night Ocean Boy hadn’t left the confines of the Pacific Ocean in nearly 15 years, and despite putting on a brave face for HT, the sensation of falling induces full-blown panic. He starts screaming and clawing wildly, and the little guy is much stronger than he appears. You immediately lose control, plummeting frantically toward the ground.
This is normally the part where we’d give you the choice to attempt to calm him down and pull out of the tailspin together, or just drop his ass to save yourself. But we’re going to spare you the trouble here — his panic attack has already irreparably damaged your glider, and at this point it’s essentially a choice between a noble death trying to save your passenger, or ditching his dead weight and falling to your doom alone.
Feel free to do some soul-searching and decide which route you honestly would have gone. We’ll give you the benefit of the doubt on this one.
THE END
190
It turns out there’s no negotiating with this group. They’re out for blood, and a random assortment of nine of New York’s mightiest heroes against the lone, long-retired Magnifica makes for just about an even fight. You’re not about to let her face them alone, though. Most fans think Nightwatchman’s fancy gadgets and astronomical wealth are his true assets, while others insist it’s the fear he inspires in the hearts of criminals. In fact, Nightwatchman’s true superpower is tactical genius and a brilliant analytical mind.
And you, my friend, are no Nightwatchman. If you were, you’d know never to face a bloodthirsty mob of superheroes head-on. They don’t know you aren’t the genuine article, though, and divide their numbers to attack you and Magnifica simultaneously. Thanks to the distraction you provide, your partner is able to make short work of her attackers.
You, on the other hand, are murdered four different ways within five seconds. Once she’s finished the first group, Magnifica comes down on your killers like the hammer of god, but it’s too late for you. Your selfless sacrifice has saved her life, though — left to her own devices, will she be able to unravel Crexidyne’s sinister plot and save the world?
You’ll never know.
THE END
191
You’ve already had a long day of reading reports and collating documents, and you’ll be damned if you’re going to spend all night washing cars. “You know what? I changed my mind,” you say. “As of right now, I’m taking command of this mission.”
Migraine pulls the little metal cylinder from his pocket and flips open the safety cover. “I told you where the buckets were,” he says. “Now get started.”
“Or what? You’ll blow up the Ox by remote control?”
“It’s not set for the tracking beacon we planted in the Ox,” he says, grinning. “It’s set for the one we planted in you.”
You let that sink in for a moment. “The mission was never to bring him in at all, was it?”
“No, the mission was to find out if you’re worth a damn, and guess what? Mission’s over.”
Crap. Should you try to take Migraine out? Or make a run for it? You have no idea if your battlesuit can fly fast enough to outrun an orbital death laser.
Migraine chuckles and puts the device back in his pocket. “Relax, I’m not going to pull the trigger. You realize that thing costs like a hundred million dollars every time we fire it, right? Moretti would kill me.”
Something inside your helmet explodes, vaporizing a large section of your cranium and killing you instantly.
“The bomb inside your comlink, though, runs about 40 bucks.”
THE END
192
You have to admit that, for a moment, it feels really good just to let those missiles fly. Then you look at the charred remains of Mrs. Pinkett standing outside next to the mailboxes and are instantly horrified at what you’ve done. You just straight up murdered a lady. You panic for a few minutes, then decide to flee the scene. But the moment you launch into the air, something slams you right back down onto the cement walkway. It feels as if weights are pressing down on every inch of your body. You can’t see much with your face pressed against the ground, but you hear a woman’s voice somewhere to the left of you.
“We have a rogue Guardian,” she says. “I repeat: the Cosmic Guardian has gone rogue.” Oh, no. That would be Gravity Bomb of the Justice Squadron. And a moment later she’s joined by a second voice.
“Cosmic Guardian,” the voice booms. That would be Magnifico, the Justice Squadron’s leader. “Missing for 15 years, and now you show up killing old ladies? Tsk — you should know better than that.” You try to speak, but it’s difficult with your personal gravity increased a hundredfold. Plus, you can’t deny that you did go somewhat rogue.
“After all,” Magnifico continues, “you were the one who made sure we’d have a way to neutralize each Squadron member in case anyone went broken arrow.” You feel something clamp onto your back, and suddenly an electrical shock shorts out your armor. “I just never thought it would be you.”
As the suit shuts down, the automatic force field that was keeping the increased gravity from smooshing your body into a fine pulp shuts down with it.
“I always kind of hoped it would be, though.”
THE END
193
You’re certain you’re going to regret this.
“We’ll meet in an hour on Liberty Island,” Magnifica says, pushing a button on her ring and grinning from ear to ear. “We used to have a secret base under that big damn statue, you know. C’mon, let’s go fetch your airplane.”
Octavia is cradling Mr. Patel’s hands in her own, her gaze locked on his. “It’s time to let go of Barkley, Mr. Patel,” she says gently.
“Jesus, buy the poor bastard a puppy or something and let’s go,” Magnifica says. “We’ve got places to be.”
Octavia opts to bring Cosmo with her — the thing utterly weirds you out, but she thinks she can glean further information from it, and you can’t really argue with that. After a quick, gut wrenching trip back to the farm, you and Octavia fly the jet to Liberty Island. By the time you arrive, Magnifica has already shooed away the tourist crowd and is greeting the Human Torpedo as he arrives on the shore. He’s an enormous, barrel-chested man with a thick gray beard. Saltwater living seems to have been good to him.
“Chuck! How’ve you been? How’s Ocean Boy?”
“He’s good — I just saw him yesterday. In fact, we were out late drinking, and I have the headache to prove it.”
Magnifica scowls. “So you’re his drinking buddy now? This is how you look after him?”
“He’s 32 years old, Maggie! And I’m not his father — if you care so much, maybe pay him a visit yourself every once in a while.”
You spot two figures floating across the channel toward the island. No, make that three: as they land, you can see that the one providing transport is Princess Pixie (although you’re not certain that moniker suits a woman in her sixties, even if she’s ten inches tall with fairy wings). The other two are a thin, hunched-over man with a cane and an oversized lady in a wheelchair. That would be Mechaman, you assume, minus his transformable battle gear. He looks more ready for a family reunion than a firefight. And the woman must be…
“Old friends make Tank happy! Tank no smash old friends!”
Tina the Tank. That’s not dementia setting in or anything — from what you’ve read, she was pretty much like that in the 1970s as well. The wheelchair is new.
Meanwhile, the argument between Magnifica and the Torpedo has become more heated, and the others begin to bicker as well. Octavia’s eyes are locked with Mechaman’s, and the tiny Pixie is gesticulating wildly at Tina the Tank. You can feel the passion growing, and you’re sure that they’re all on the brink of making out. Seriously? Convoluted romantic history may come with the superhero territory, but you don’t have time for this. You interrupt as loudly as possible. “Hello! People? Is this everyone?”
Torpedo tears himself away from Magnifica’s stare. “Tachyon’s still in a coma,” he says. “Dogstar and Maximus are still dead. If you’re what passes for Nightwatchman these days, then that’s it.”
Magnifica quickly explains the situation, then turns to you. “Okay, what now?”
It appears that you really are in charge — Magnifica seems to think so, anyway, and none of the others challenge her. You survey your troops, and swallow hard. Most of their files came up under “maybe” in your trustworthiness index (Human Torpedo actually earned an almost-unprecedented “probably, I guess”), so that’s one vote of confidence, you suppose. The aliens have set up shop at the planet’s poles, and you had intended to split into groups and mount attacks on each simultaneously, but you’re not sure you have the manpower to be dividing your forces. On the other hand, Octavia has been picking the dog-creature’s brain and believes that time is of the absolute essence — if one terraforming machine goes online while you concentrate on the other, the world will still end, just a little more slowly.
