Stanley hated flying. The noise. The roar of the engines and the rattling of metal. Hated it. It made him feel small and helpless, uninvolved in his own fate. His life was entirely up to chance. It was absurd. Only in an airplane could a stray goose possibly threaten his life. He hated it. But he hated traveling by train even more.
So there he sat, strapped in tight, thousands of feet in the air, stuck in a flying metal tube. He prayed that today was not the day that his mortality caught up to him. He had to— Other thoughts were needed, a distraction, lest he dwell on how apparently malleable the laws of physics keeping him airborne actually were. There was that one aerokinetic in Baltimore...
No. He forced his mind to consider the future, his destination, and the world he hoped to build. Left unrestricted, superpowers would spell the end of mankind. No limits had yet been discovered, and it was only a matter of time before errant luck brought about a threat that could not be contained. Stanley believed this with all of his heart. Consistency was needed, regulation, and restriction. But that was an issue for Marcus to solve.
The world needed heroes to look to, in this time of transition and danger. It needed leadership, shining examples, paragons of humanity. That was who Stanley hoped to find in Chicago. At least, a strong foundation for it. He was under no delusions that this was a short-term project, nor was he foolish enough to believe that radiological phenomenon could ever be completely eradicated. Vladivostok had shown him that. The black clouds that permanently lingered over the dead city told the tale. The Soviets had the secret now. There was no coming back from this.
America no longer held a monopoly on these strange powers. He wished he could trust the rest of the world to be responsible with such devastating potential, but reality had only ever been a disappointment. Blind hope was not an option. His country needed deterrents. Defenders. He would find them or he would forge them.
The Chicago team did not have a name yet. He was uncertain if the term team even applied. As far as he could tell, they were simply a loose collection of like-minded individuals trying to make their city a safer place to live. It was, Stanley supposed, both good and bad. Without that firm connection, that word that defines what they are, the group could never come fully together. A problem, should they all prove worthy; a boon should they not. The freedom to pick and choose his champions could not be undervalued. Closer ties brought just as much baggage as strength.
They would need a name. A proper one, a distinguished one. The wrong name would kill this project before it was even begun. It needed to be catchy, and appropriate, one that spoke to their purpose and background. One that appealed to the people. They would need aliases as well, titles, ones that rang out, that spoke to their city, their country. There was power in a name, Stanley believed.
Maybe he could hire an advertisement firm. He'd heard good things about Leo Burnett Inc., and it just so happened to be a local Chicago company. Something to look into, then.
Aside from the name issue, the rest of Stanley's information was very promising. It had been gathered by an old subordinate of his from his time working for the United States government. She was a cantankerous old biddy without a drop of humor and given neither to exaggeration nor optimism.
"Inspiring," she had called this group of wayward heroes in her short note. "Their leader, in particular."
Stanley had booked a flight the very next day.
There were risks, of course. The least of which, was that he might be immediately turned away, before even making his pitch. The idea of a sponsored hero team was not unique, but Stanley's aspirations lay in a higher realm. Not all men could be swayed by high-minded ideals and pretty words; for those men, he had money aplenty. Now, however, when building his foundation, when laying the seeds of the future, he needed men of conviction.
His plan was a simple one. The heroes regularly patrolled a fair sized section of the city, a few dozen urban neighborhoods, covering several miles. Fights were rare, but not unheard of. Super-powered gangs had been streaming north for years, bringing with them strange ideals and stranger powers. The local competition could not keep up, crushed beneath the inexorable tide of superhuman criminals. The advent of costumed heroism had brought this flow to heel, resulting in an uneasy stalemate. The situation wasn't actively dangerous, the last he'd heard, but neither was it safe.
Life was risk. Stanley understood this. He would go to the inner city, to the place most heavily patrolled by these heroes. He would seat himself there and wait, until he either heard word of their presence elsewhere, or won an audience with them. It shouldn't be too difficult. They were given to interacting with their communities, inspiring the men and passing kind words to the women and children. Good men, with strong morals and ties to the neighborhoods they protected. Not like the mad men who knew only how to destroy. These were worthy of being called heroes. But he would shape them into something more. Together, they would become greater than the sum of their parts.
These thoughts filled Stanley's brain, chasing away his listlessness. Inspiration filled him. Anticipation. Hope. And then the plane began its descent, Stanley's stomach lept into his throat, and he fell back into frantic prayers. Everything would turn out well. Please, let everything turn out well.
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Things were not going well.
Chicago had been hotter than he had expected. The sun had beat down on Stanley's head, from its perch high in the sky above. He had trudged through an old urban neighborhood, a small district of the inner city, sitting in the shadows of downtown. The hero team had been seen here half a dozen times in the past week. It was Stanley's best chance for first contact.
The streets had seemed unusually empty. No hustling, bustling crowd to fight through. What few passerby there were seemed tense and unapproachable, neatly killing his plans to ask for directions. He had only looked away from the street for a moment, stopping in the shade of a nearby corner shop to clumsily unfold his map, when the building next door exploded.
It's amazing how quickly quiet streets can turn into chaos. Screams filled the air, the rapid stacatto of gunshots, grinding metal and shattered glass. The window pane behind Stanley sprouted several round holes, with the crack of a rifle reaching his ears a moment later. He dove for cover, throwing himself behind a parked automobile. It was a massive Cadillac, shiny and chrome and—he covered his head as glass rained down— now covered in holes. His ears were filled with a dull drumming, babump babump babump, his pulse drowning out all else. A shape passed over his head, a body, a blur of brown and grey. It struck the entrance of a little corner store, sending concrete and plaster scattering across the pavement. Something wet and hot splashed across Stanley's cheek.
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He chanced a look over the edge of the hood, ignoring the tingling in his fingers and the buzzing in his brain. Something large and black was occupying the center of the street. It was easily twelve feet at the shoulder, as round as it was tall, and covered in chitinous plates. It looked like a beetle on two legs, with bulging, humanoid limbs. Its face was square, squat, with only the vaguest hint of human features. Massive mandibles protruded from within its mouth, bulging out of distended cheeks. It roared its displeasure to the world, its fury an almost physical thing.
Out of the broken building, men emerged, armed to the teeth. They were dressed like militia men, brown fatigues and army boots, toting long rifles and shotguns. Veterans, Stanley's brain suggested, judging from the M1 Garands that four of the seven were carrying. They moved closer, taking aim at the beast, thunderclaps sounding out with each step.
Sparks careened off the creature's carapace, and another bullet whizzed past Stanley, embedding itself in a concrete pillar. Shards of chitin flaked off the monster's armor, small cracks appearing like a spiderweb across its chest. It roared again, and lept forward in a black blur. It struck the humans like a cannonball.
The men moved like a unit, splitting apart with almost perfect synchronicity. The great beast tore a trail of destruction down the center of their line, leaving broken concrete and rebar in its wake, but every man escaped with his life. The humanoid beetle did not slow, bulling its way forward until it crashed into the walls of a distant building.
A strong hand clamped down on Stanley's shoulder and he fought back the instinct to take a swing at its owner. He turned, meeting the eyes of his new companion, then blanched. The man was a ruin. His face was missing most of its skin, his body no better. His combat fatigues were shredded and torn, and his other arm was bent in an unnatural direction. A trail of blood followed the man, leading from the ruined building behind him. Stanley could now safely guess the identity of the earlier human projectile.
Despite his injuries, the man smiled. It was a grim, ugly thing.
"Head down, civilian," he ordered. His hand lifted away leaving a bloody print behind. It dipped into what remained of his flak jacket, and produced a pistol. Stanley immediately covered his ears, as the man unloaded in into the monster's back. His fellow soldiers joined him, filling the streets once more with thunder.
The beast's body seemed unfazed by the lead rain, yet it grew even more enraged. One misshapen hand dipped into the rubble beside it, pulling free a chunk of concrete the size of a car engine. The militia men began to scatter, as the monster wound up a throw. It's squat face tracked them as they scurried like spiders. The man beside Stanley, the most distant, continued to fire. Sparks richocheted off the monsters face and neck; a piece of mandible snapped off, spraying green blood across its chest, and the creature immediately changed targets.
Stanley didn't hear it roar. He didn't see its arm move. There was only a blur of grey. The concrete block hit the ground at speed, not twenty feet in front of him, and shattered into deadly shrapnel. He had just enough time to flinch, before a thousand tiny shards perforated him and the lunatic beside him.
Except, they didn't. They collided with the air in front of the car and came to a stop. The air rippled, like water, and the loose shrapnel vibrated furiously as the kinetic energy drained away. The ripples collided with each other, combining to form a cresting wave, flowing perpendicular to the ground. The wave reached the edges of what Stanley was only now perceiving, a flat square of discolored air, like a blurry window pane. The waves continued onward and outward, fading back into energy, an echoing clap of displaced air following them. The ground beneath the pane cracked at their passing.
"Enough!" a furious voice cried out. It was deep, commanding, and certain. For a moment, all movement stopped.
Stanley's eyes found the speaker. A tall man, dressed like a leader. A suit and jacket, light brown, with a matching tie. He wore a wide-brimmed fedora, made of wool, not straw, and a silver Venetian mask. If not for the ridiculous facial wear, Stanley would have thought the man downright presidential.
At the man's side, a more traditional hero. Spandex—Stanley fought back a hysterical laugh at his own disgust, this man had likely saved his life—colored to match the American flag. A popular choice. Stars and stripes always caught the eye. The man's arm was extended towards Stanley. He retracted it, and the shimmering pane of air vanished.
The suit stepped forward, speaking with authority. "Stand down. This fight is over."
The words seemed to flow out like molasses. Each of the militia men staggered slightly, before laying down their arms. The brutalized veteran beside Stanley grimaced as he put down his weapon.
The monster roared in protest, staggering back slightly, before spinning to face the suit and his companion. It stomped down one foot, taking the position of a charging bull, then barreled forward like a runaway train. Concrete and stone cracked underfoot, leaving a trail of debris in its wake.
The suit calmly watched it approach. When it neared, when it came within spitting distance, he held up his hand in the universally understood sign for, "Stop."
The creature halted. All momentum left it. The ground cracked beneath its feet, as its feet stamped down, the energy bleeding away into the earth. Bits of concrete sprayed towards the suit, catching on another pane of air before they could land.
He flattened his hand, lowering it slowly to the ground. His head cocked to the side, an understanding expression crossing his face. "Calm down. You're safe."
The monster slowly subsided, its great, heaving breaths came slower and slower. Finally, it stopped, going completely still. A moment passed, and Stanley watched with confusion. Then, cracks emerged along the carapace. It shattered, the upper body of the beetle monster collapsing to the ground and splitting apart. Green blood and organs spilled across the ground, alongside a body.
A young man, maybe in his early twenties at the latest, dressed in a stained cotton shirt and linen pants. He lay curled up on the ground, unconscious or asleep, Stanley could not say.
The suit seemed satisfied. He turned towards the militia men, sternly ordering, "Gather up. Wait for the police. Accept whatever judgement they deliver."
The men stiffened, moving almost robotically together. The man beside Stanley grimaced, walking forward to rejoin his group. They gathered into a square formation in the center of the street, and then, with a pop, vanished. A single man was left in their absence, wearing combat fatigues and looking weary. He was easily in his forties. A stern face, with a military stance, and hair showing signs of graying. He staggered slightly, and a few cuts and bruises appeared across his body. A loud crack sounded out, and his left wrist went limp. The man grunted in pain, but met the suit's eyes with defiance.
"You've no authority to order me around, son," he announced to the suited hero. "I did what needed doing."
"Look around you, Eight," the suit countered. "Tell me that you shouldn't be held accountable for this."
The military man frowned as he eyed the destruction. His eyes lingered on the bullet holes where his shots had ricocheted. With a grunt, he dropped down to a kneeling position. No words were exchanged, but the suit nodded approvingly. Stanley could hear sirens in the distance, and the heroes turned to leave.
Now was his chance!
He stood in a rush, dashing forward and calling out, "A moment, please!"
The suit turned, brow furrowed, and noticed him. A pleased look emerged on his face, and he gave Stanley a gracious wave. "Citizen! I'm pleased to see you safe. My companion, here, was worried that he didn't protect you in time." He casually gestured to the spandex clad man beside him, who looked like he cared nothing of the sort.
Still, Stanley pressed on.
"Your name," he insisted. "Please. I would like to know it. Yours, your partner's, and the name of your team."
Spandex brightened at the question. With a gruff voice, filled with pride, he announced, "Bastion."
The leader chuckled. "Some have taken to calling me Champion." He paused. "As for the name of our team, well I wouldn't say that we have one." The man's head tilted, his mask glittering in the sunlight. "We're just like you. Just like anybody. We're the People of Chicago, doing what's right."