AirStrike

[Capone]

(This is a fictional short from the perspective of a character I'm working on creating. As listed in Elliquiy's policies and rules, what I am writing is mine and belongs to me. The character's name, motivations, the events and the premise belong to me. I will not be creating an entire work here. Just writing something to demonstrate some of my rusty, out of practice prose abilities.)

I killed a man tonight.

It was different than the first time. I'm not so confused. I don't feel the remorse. I don't really feel anything at all, which is what worries me. I don't even feel satisfied. I did what I believed was right, and I don't even feel glad I did it. He's just dead now, and I don't know if anything will change.

It must change. It has to change. It'll just take a while.

We've been going about this all wrong. Supers, I mean. Those of us who manifest powers beyond the typical human limitations. We gain some abilities, and then we choose to use them for good, for evil, or just to use to help live a normal life. Some just do what they can, like Fireproof. His only ability is being invulnerable to the burning effects of fire and heat. Hell, he might even be able to withstand the intensity of the sun. No one knows, except there has yet to be anything on Earth that could burn him. He doesn't try to save the world, though. He just helps his local fire department, going in with nothing more than a gas mask and saving whoever he can. What an admirable, short-sighted bastard.

I was like that before, though. A bit more ambitious, sure, but just as naive. I thought I could change the world, one crime at a time.

Did I? Maybe I was always destined for this path. The day I found my sister limping from the gymnasium, her body silhouetted against the setting sun outside. Her shirt was torn. She had bruises. She cried, and all she could repeat was that I wasn't supposed to know. Know what? That the gym teacher was raping her after hours? That's what her mysterious extracurricular activity was?

I wasn't going to have any of it. I snuck out that night to get my own personal justice. I knew where he lived. Used to throw a party each time our school's hockey team won a home game. I still remember it. I had a mask over my face to disguise myself, my own hot and damp breath clutching against the itchy fabric. I pounded on his door, and from there it blurs together a bit. He began to curse and shout as he approached the door, but the second it cracked open I kicked. I was yelling, I remember, but nothing else. He was knocked backward, managed to swing his fist. It hit, but all I remember is lunging forward. At some point I got him against the wall. He held my mask. The vision in my right eye was blurry, my lip felt warm, damp. I could taste copper. My lip was bleeding.e shouted something, started to lunge. I threw another punch, my fist made contact, and then his head blew open.

I stood there in the silence, stunned. I couldn't hear anything, not even the ticking of a clock or drip from a faucet. I just stared at this once human form slumped against the wall, the top half of his face caved into a perfect little circle. The back of his skull had blown open, and his blood painted the wall behind him. My hands were trembling, my jaw hung open. I could feel my heart beating like some sick techno at a rave.

I fled that night. I grabbed what I could and ran to the city. I didn't tell anyone where I was going or where I had been. There was a Super in the city by the simple name of Lightning. She could control electricity somehow, so I figured whatever I had, she could teach me. Her office wasn't hard to find. She keeps it by the police station, allowing anyone to reach her with any problems. I knocked on her door and told her my story. I told her I needed to disappear, to get off the grid. I wanted to use my powers for good, but I needed to leave my old life behind.

(That's all I have the time for, and I'm struggling to keep things interesting. I might update with more later. Feel free to provide some feedback. I love writing prose, but when it comes to telling a story out of my head, it's tough to keep writing pages on end. Probably why I've never taken part in NaNoWriMo).

[Belle33]

What a good read.  I like this guy, and I enjoyed going back to learn about how he became a Super.  I didn't understand exactly what his power was; he blew the gym teacher's head off - but how?

It's a great start to your tale, and I look forward to reading the rest of his story if you decide to finish it. 

Nicely done!

[Capone]

She didn't like that I had killed someone, but she understood the circumstances. She worked a deal out with the local police. They locked me up for a while, though I was still a little too young for jail. Solitary confinement until I was eighteen, and then a year in prison. She told me it was the first step to my training. If I was going to fight criminals, I had to know what fate I was sending them to.

I didn't realize it at the time, but looking back I suppose that was my first clue that the system was broken. There were no crooked cops in here, no politicians, no men of authority at all. It was all the scum off the streets, asserting their alpha male authority and creating just another den of thieves. The only difference was the only victims here were each other. They turned the predators into cannibals. No one was rehabilitated. Nothing was fixed. It was like stuffing all the dirt under your carpet because you don't know what else to do with it.

At the time, though, I just thought it was horrible. I managed to stay out of trouble, though I got into a few fights. It was there that I learned a bit more about my new powers. I didn't kill anyone that time. Some man's crew tried to grab me, held onto me, kept me on the ground. When their leader produced a shiv I screamed, and suddenly the man was thrown to the ceiling. I don't know how fast he flew into it, but he dropped right after. Bones broken and everything. They put me in solitary again, and that's where I started to practice. I learned that I can somehow concentrate the air around me into a single burst.

They stopped messing with me, then. By time I got out I was 19. Lightning gave me the information that the cops and feds put together, creating a false death. My family never had to know what happened. Not for real, anyway. They thought I was dead. My life as just another teenager was over, and I entered adulthood as a super.

I was kept inside for a few months as I trained, learning how to focus my abilities. The reason I killed the gym teacher was because I had focused a lot of energy into too small a point. It was dense, and with all that energy spread into such a small mass it was able to burst right through the man's flesh and skull and come right back out the other side. When I shoved the man in the prison, it wasn't as small a point. It was spread further out. Instead of being struck by a fine point, it was more like being hit by a large and blunt object. So I learned how to focus the energy, using it for a precise blow, like a fist to the chest, or a sweeping gust that knocked a number of foes off their feet.

Something I developed on my own, without Lightning knowing, was a mode of travel. At first we only thought of using my hands as an outlet of the energy. However, after thinking back to the man in the prison, I realized I could use just about anything. So I practiced using my feet, and soon I found myself leaping in thin air. I couldn't quite fly, but I could jump long distances, and then leap again without needing to touch the ground.

By time I was 21, I was her sidekick. Lightning and AirStrike. She had her typical spandex outfit, lightning bolts around her breasts, adorning her gloves, and even down her boots. She didn't wear high heels at all. I always found it a bit old-fashioned, wearing so little, but I think she got a kick out of it. No matter how old she got, even in her 40's, men were fantasizing about her in that purple spandex with yellow bolts.

I wanted to make sure no one could identify me. An old aviator's hat from World War I or II, tinted goggles over the eyes, a hood over my face, bomber jacket, combat pants, fingerless gloves and boots. Simple but effective.

At first it felt good. At first I felt like we were getting something accomplished. We kept putting criminals and Villains behind bars. That is, until I was about 24. Then I started to see old faces again. Men I put away for petty crimes, or Super Villains I thought we had caught, only to be terrorizing more souls. Meanwhile, the country was going to Hell. People were losing money, their homes, children going hungry. All the while, politicians, celebrities and CEO's got to commit crime after crime every day in this ruined system, and they didn't even have to see a single day in jail. That so called prison housing how many faces I'd just see, again and again?

This wasn't working. None of these men had stopped their horrific crimes.

Except one man. On a whim I found my family. I kept tabs on them. I looked into their history. My sister had to go to therapy for a little while, and they were all broken up over my death. But on the whole, they were happy. My sister got over a lot of her fears, met a great guy, and was even engaged.

Her life was better because I killed the man that was ruining it.

Maybe I've been going about this all wrong...

(Thanks for the encouragement, Belle33. I have one more part I plan to post. Maybe I'll keep going. I'm finding this awfully nice to be doing. I never considered doing the story in first person before. Not sure if it's working, but it makes it easier to write at least.)

[Capone]

Governor Alistair Margone. He lived in the city and was a perfect first target. There were rumors that the guy had a tendency to harass teenage girls, occasionally touching them, but in one case even raping them. The guy was slick, though. There was never enough evidence to convict him. He managed to escape every time, or everything pointed to some intern or junior employee working under him. All too conveniently in fact.

I saw his face, though. That smirk. I've seen tons of criminals and scum with that same expression smeared upon their rotten faces. It was that brief moment when you felt victory, when you knew you beat the system.

Governor Alistair Margone may have beaten the system, but I was going to make sure he didn't beat me.

Getting into an official's place is pretty easy when you're a Super. It's polite to call ahead, but if you just show up at their front door they'll let you in anyway. So I walk up to the Governor's office, let right in to the elevator, and next thing I know I'm being ushered into his office. The guards simply close the door behind me, expecting me to be all the safety Margone needs. It was a huge office, the odor of chemical cleaner still steaming from the carpet, the state's seal imprinted onto the floor beneath my feet. Ahead of me is the Governor's desk, with a large glass window overlooking the city from...thirty stories up? Perfect.

"What brings you here, AirStrike?" The governor stands up from his soft, comfortable, expensive leather chair with a smug smile on his face. How much tax payers' money did that chair cost? A thousand bucks? Yeah, and in order to make budget cuts they lay off hundreds of government employees. Talk about trimming the fat.

I blow a gust of air behind me, just enough that I jam the door's lock so no one can get in. It makes a soft cracking noise, but I cough to cover it up, clearing my throat.

"Good evening, sir," I say with a slight hint of derision. "I just came to inquire about these...allegations. Another girl has appeared on the news lately, claiming you took advantage of her. I believe she was...fifteen?"

"Jesus," Margone pinched his forehead, sighing exasperatingly. "Look, it was..." He pauses. I watch his eyes. They look to the side, indicating a fabrication. He's making a story up. "We lost track of one of my interns at the rally." He says. He's smiling again. Why would anyone smile when discussing a rape? "We thought he was just getting coffee, but the time he was gone fits the time the young girl indicates she was attacked." He looks confident, as if he believes me to actually by this sham.

"Another intern, huh?" I ask, casually looking about his office. "So tell me. Why is it you keep hiring forty-some year old interns that look exactly like you? Don't you run a background check?"

He's taken aback. That smug look is wiped off his face. He is surprised, but the shock soon changes to anger. His brow furrows, teeth grit, jaw quivers. His pockets bulge a bit, he's balling his hands into fists.

"What are you implying?" His voice is harsh. It lacks the proud gusto it did before. "Are you, a mere sidekick," he seems to spit the word out, "implying that I haven't been thorough with my own employees?" I can't help but laugh.

"Please," I wave my hand in the air. "I'm implying that you're a lying son of a bitch and have been framing innocent men to take your fall."

His fist pounded onto his desk. A vein began popping out from his forehead, his face red. A little bit of spit seemed to dribble from his lips. He soon regained his composure, though, drying his mouth with a handkerchief.

"You have nothing," he said calmly. "Just conjecture. I'd like you to leave now, and don't come back unless you have an apology or evidence with you."

He's smug again. Not smiling, but smug. He thinks he has me. He thinks I'm still playing by the rules. His brow furrows once more as I begin to laugh, chuckling, stepping toward his desk.

"Sorry, Alistair," I say, waving my hand in the air, loosening it up a bit. He watches my legs as I separate my feet, bending my knees slightly. "I'm tired of seeing you sick jerks bending the system to your will." I crack my neck. He looks worried. I hunch over slightly, my hands balled into fists. I can feel the surge of wind coursing around me, the hairs on my arms standing. He sees it, too.

"Wait!" he exclaims, throwing his hands into the air.

CRASH!

I shoved him out the window. I used enough force that I shoved him out. Or, more accurately, shoved his desk out the window, which knocked him with it.

Movies always depict people screaming as they fall, get stabbed or even get shot, but it's not really like that. Margone never screamed once as he fell. I stood there, shivering slightly, feeling the chill air flood in through the now broken glass until I heard a sick splatter upon solid ground. That's when there were screams. I ran forward to the edge, looking down at what I had accomplished. I couldn't see him well from the 30th floor, but I could see his head had split open, and some of his limbs were contorted and twisted awkwardly.

I looked up...and realized I had stayed too long. There were people in the building across snapping photos on their phones, and the door behind me was pounding. The guards heard the glass break. They were trying to break in.

I jumped forward into the air, and from my legs sent another burst beneath me, jettisoning me higher, again and again until I found myself on top of the next skyscraper. I ran, and burst ahead onto the next roof top. I kept running, best that I could, until I could find a hiding spot.

I did it, though. I don't know how many, but I saved a number of girls from his harrassment. I stopped a rapist. I stopped a criminal, and he wouldn't be coming back.

I killed for the second time in my life, and I didn't regret it.

...so why wasn't I happy?

(I may continue after this, may not. In any case, feedback is certainly appreciated. What you think of the character, the premise, my writing, etc. Go ahead and lay it on me, if you wish. I'd like to improve and refine my idea and my technique in time).

[Capone]

A handful of days had passed since I had killed Governor Margone, and I was at a loss as to my next step. Where do you go after that? I wasn't sure. In fact, I was lucky. The next guy in line for the position was actually an honest man. That's when I realized that corruption is like a fungus or a cancer. You can't just rip the mushrooms out and expect everything to be better. There's still an infection rooted deep down. But if you dig in or cut in, then you're going to just cause damage. Ripping it all out, well...

So one sunrise I was sitting atop a corporate building just thinking to myself. That's when Lightning appeared. She wasn't coming for a fight, but she was certainly prepared for one just in case.

"So you're a villain now?" she asked me. I was hoping she'd have understood better. I could never hide my true feelings from her.

"Villains kill innocents," I replied. I rested my arms on my knee, other leg dangling over the ledge of the building.

"We're supposed to follow a process," She had not closed her distance. She stood at the doorway atop the stairwell that led to the roof. I was facing away from her, but I knew what she looked like. Arms crossed, weight shifted on one leg, head titled in such a manner that her locks and tresses fell across her shoulder.

"It wasn't working," I sighed. "You know he was guilty. You know he was a rapist."

"That doesn't excuse your actions," she said firmly. "We could have done an investigation."

"And he would have bought his way out!" I turned this time, looking over my shoulder. She wasn't wearing her mask this time. She was letting me know that she wasn't coming to me as a super, but as a friend.

"So we keep trying-"

"And he'll keep getting away!" I finally stood up, facing her. "You know why my sister is happy? Because the man that was raping her is dead, Lightning. D-E-A-D dead!"

"So that justifies it?" She approached now, her brow furrowed in anger, even disgust. "You came to me because you had murdered a man. Hell, you had the sense to feel bad about it! Now you, what, you decided it felt good?"

I placed my hand on my head, groaning. "It didn't feel good," I retorted. "It felt empty."

"Oh, that's better!" she flung her arms to the air. "Instead of sounding like a super villain, you sound like a killer. Are you addicted now?"

"I'm strong!" I shouted, pointing to her face. "I'm capable of doing what all these fucking cops can't manage! I can execute-"

"Murder!"

"Execute! These are guilty men and women that intentionally harm others! They deserve death!"

"We're supposed to be an example!" Her eyes were getting damp. She was on the verge of tears. "We're supposed to be better than other people! We're meant to show them how good they can be!"

"God already sent a man that could do that," I screamed. "He sent his son to save everyone and they fucking killed him! Well they have their example, and if they follow it, then I don't kill them!"

"So you're God's instrument now?" she screamed.

"No! I'm just a really pissed off demi-god looking to actually change the world!"

I dropped backward off of the roof of the building, arms spread. Such heights no longer fear me. However, I was frightened at what I saw as I fell. Lightning watched me drop, and she placed her mask back on.

Next time we met, she'd be my enemy.

Funny that I spoke of God and all that before parting. The next few weeks I broke into corporate business meetings, killing anyone I knew to be involved with some level of crime. Trafficking, laundering, rape, murder, you'd be surprised how many crimes are committed by rich people. My favorite were the politicians, though. You really become disenfranchised of the whole concept of Patriotism once you realize everyone's the same. Republican, Democrat, Socialist, Libertarian, it didn't matter who they were. If you heard their name before, they were involved in something dishonest.

It became harder as time progressed, though. More Supers started looking out for me. They weren't naive enough to believe any high rollers in their territory were safe. That meant they always had a notion of who I might target next.

That was the toughest. Not just because they were other super powered people, but because I had fought alongside many of them. Tempest was one of my closest pals, having similar abilities to Lightning. He had to wear a special suit to keep from electrocuting anyone, as a single touch would send a charge right through 'em. Typically their heart would burst within seconds, but his gloves managed to just send a stun-gun like shot. Getting punched by that son of a bitch is like being kicked in the gut by an over-sized rhinoceros. He was looking to be Lightning's sidekick before I showed up, but he hung around a lot anyway.

I had to crush both of his legs to get him to stop fighting me. He'll never walk again.

Red Flag doesn't have an arm anymore. Wallcrawler is suffering brain damage. Unbent has a broken spine and is paralyzed. I accidentally ruptured Black Cat's big fake tit and caused her a world of hurt.

Those were the ones that I knew wouldn't try to kill me. Clean records, each of them. Paragon and Shield Maiden weren't always so merciful, and recognized it was often best to kill the criminal instead of risking another crime. Yet they had to be driven to such a point, and typically only went after psychopathic serial killers or super villains.

Neither one of them lives, as they recognized me as a super villain that wouldn't stop until I was dead.

I hadn't fought Lightning yet. She actually knew me better than anyone, and as a result knew of my combat prowess. So she tried something different. She flew to Italy, entered the Vatican, and asked the Pope if they could borrow his Super.

They were about to send The Templar after me.

[Capone]

The funny thing about The Templar is that no one is sure if he's actually a Super or not. I mean, sure, there are plenty that do, but anyone with a curiosity of a God existing has to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there's something different there.

The Templar appeared one day in Ireland, dressed in an outfit he made himself by hand. The helmet, the chainmail, the tunic, it was all made in the same manner as what the Templars of old would have wore, and he made it all himself. Thing is, he doesn't even need any of it. The man is strong as an ox, sure, but nothing can stop bullets like his body seems capable of. They don't embed in his mail, the don't ricochet, they merely get crushed as they impact his body. We're not just talking a little rinky dink chipper from a Remington, either. We're talking a 12.7 from a sniper rifle. The kind of bullet that can blow a man's head or even leg clear off, leaving a hole you can see through in his abdomen. Only the Templar just stood there, and next thing you know everyone's jaw has dropped as the crushed shell spins on the floor like a penny.

He had a mission, too. He walked from Ireland to Italy, turning down all manner of sponsorship deals, rides, requests, only accepting cries for help from the bullies or needy. If he was in town, he worked on stopping crime.

By time he reached the Vatican the Catholic Church was well aware of him. They also recognized that he never killed a single man, and when possible refrained from breaking limbs, especially when it could cause irreparable harm to their body. Man was not only a blacksmith and tailor, he was a fighter.

So what's the big deal with him? Well, he claims his powers are from God. "With the faith of a mustard seed a man can move a mountain" or something. He has enough faith to look at a man with a gun and declare, without a single doubt, "God will not let me die". And he doesn't.

Normally it would be easy to tell if he was full of shit or not. After all, if he were merely a Super, then the chain mail would get ruined by bullets or other objects, and it would merely stop at his flesh. I already said it, but I'm going to say it again. Even his armor stops bullets. It's not special, either. Tests have been run on it. It's simple stuff, inferior to what we can make today, and yet it stops everything.

And here he is, the only man on Earth that can't be killed, and he is the personal Super of the Vatican.

When I first heard Lightning was going to grab him, I wasn't worried. I didn't think he'd try and come after me. I wasn't a problem with the Church, after all. Only they didn't see it that way.

Funny thing about politics and religion. They're both actually a business. They just pretend to run on philosophy and ideals. So some of the guys I had taken out were no longer making major cash donations to the Catholic Church, and as a result they saw me as an issue. They discussed my crimes with The Templar, but kept it all focused on how I'm a filthy murderer that believes I can do God's work. A heathen, in other words. So Lightning comes home with just what she needed. The Templar.

A man that could not be killed was now hunting me down.