Thrusts of Justice (Chooseomatic Books) Page 2

  “In respect 197, rather you can get selection sector galaxy ‘delicious,’ and this is called brown,” it says.

  What? It’s gibberish. And it’s not audio, exactly, but nevertheless you can almost hear the announcer’s booming, cheesy tenor, and the crackling of an old projector. You half expect it give you a stern warning about auto safety, or syphilis.

  “Not easy task,” the message continues. “And if you do there is only a great life you congratulations, you and the mercy of the universe.”

  Whatever translation software this thing uses clearly needs a lot of work. You continue to rocket skyward, breaking through the Earth’s atmosphere, traveling onward until the entire globe is within your field of vision, crisp blue oceans and the contours of continents visible through a swirl of clouds.

  Holy crap. It’s magnificent. And you’re not at all sure what the suit is trying to tell you, but if it’s asking if you want to be the new Cosmic Guardian, the answer is yes.

  With that thought, you feel something click. You wiggle your arms, and discover that you can move them effortlessly, as if… well, as if floating in space. You concentrate on changing course, and slowly the Earth starts getting larger on your helmet’s viewscreen.

  You’re pretty sure you just became a superhero.

  What now? You happen to know that a villain just held up a bank somewhere down there in Cleveland. Stopping that sort of thing is what superheroes are supposed to do. But you consider the dying words of the suit’s previous owner. Keep what secret? Your civilian identity? The entire existence of the Guardian armor? Should you try to keep things on the downlow, and stay out of the public eye until you have a better handle on what’s going on?

  ▶ Onward to battle! If you charge ahead and stop the Ox before he gets away with his nefarious scheme, click here for page 18.

  ▶ That would be impulsive and irresponsible! If you retreat to safety and use your skills as a journalist to dig up some information on the Cosmic Guardian before doing anything rash, click here for page 46.

  14

  You throw all your weight behind your fist, driving it straight into his massive jaw. You’ve never felt this kind of strength before, and you somehow manage to execute the maneuver with the grace of an acrobat. Fist hits face with a loud crack and an explosion of pain. Son of a bitch! It’s like punching a steel plate!

  The Ox doesn’t budge a centimeter, but his face breaks into a wide grin. “I felt that,” he says. “You do have superpowers.”

  Powers or no, you’re way out of your league here. And your hand feels like it’s broken in about six places. This is the end of the road, you think. The Ox stares at you for a moment, and you just stare back, dumbstruck.

  “So, you wanna team up?” he asks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, team up. I used to roll with Megawatt before he switched sides and joined the stupid Justice Squadron. You and me could hang out, do crimes and stuff. We could get you a costume. I got a guy.”

  Until now you’ve never given much thought to villainy as a vocation. It occurs to you that if that meteor really has given you great power, then you’ve got a choice to make. A real hero would find a way to defeat the Ox and bring him to justice. Then again, your hand hurts something awful from your first attempt at that whole justice business. Perhaps you’d be better off taking his offer and seeing how things play out.

  ▶ If you tell the Ox you’ll never join with the likes of him, click here for page 48.

  ▶ If joining with the likes of him actually sounds like a pretty good idea, click here for page 31.

  15

  You wake up many hours later with a blistering headache and a stomach raw from what can only be the long, sustained expulsion of eighteenth-century pirate rum. Your drinking partners — not to mention your superpowered battlesuit — are nowhere to be found.

  You eventually recover enough strength to explore the cavern, and find a large, blue, metallic pod that bears the markings of the Cosmic Guard. It’s covered in moss and barnacles as if it’s been here a very long time, and although you try every conceivable method of interacting with it, it remains inert.

  What you don’t find is any kind of food or drink other than the second vat of rum, and just the thought of that makes your stomach turn. As time wears on with no sign of your companions, you start getting really worried. Without fresh water you can’t possibly survive more than a couple of days down here, and no suit means no way back to the ocean’s surface. Seriously, could the Human Torpedo and Ocean Boy have just abandoned you? Short of a global catastrophe, what could possibly be keeping them?

  You never find out.

  THE END

  16

  You put on Nightwatchman’s gauntlets and boots (which are way too big for you), followed by the utility belt, goggles, and cloak. You’re still wearing your jeans and an ironic 1970s beer t-shirt underneath, but the cape covers all that if you drape it right. You push the green button on the touchscreen and are treated to a high-pitched squeal. The gloves and boots start to compress, forming themselves to your extremities until the fit is quite comfortable. What just happened?

  “Control reset complete,” the screen reads, as if responding to your thoughts. Wait a second — your thoughts? Situation report, you think, and text immediately starts spitting out onto the screen. You’re controlling it with your mind! You scan the information and discover that Nightwatchman had been investigating the murder of Brain Stem, a member of the Justice Squadron.

  Whoa. This is big. If Brain Stem really is dead, somebody has taken pains to cover it up — that’s the sort of thing that would normally inspire round-the-clock cable news coverage and special commemorative editions of terrible magazines. Your notes also reveal a list of superhumans that are somehow tied to Crexidyne Megacorp, the theoretically legitimate business run by notorious criminal mastermind Reginald Thorpe. Brain Stem is second on this list, and the Ox is first. Is that what Nightwatchman was doing in Cleveland? Following up on a lead?

  Well, you always wanted to be a superhero. Maybe you’ll just pick up where he left off.

  The world’s foremost authority on Crexidyne and its misdeeds would be Nancy North, the legendary reporter who’s been hounding Thorpe since the 1970s. She’s famous for her dealings with the hero crowd, too — she’d be a good place to start if you intend to continue Nightwatchman’s investigation. Or are you jumping the gun here? Maybe you should devote your resources to finding out what happened to the real Nightwatchman. And, you know, making sure he doesn’t beat your ass for taking his stuff.

  ▶ If you contact Nancy for help with the Crexidyne connection, click here for page 42.

  ▶ If you concentrate your efforts on tracking down the Nightwatchman, click here for page 80.

  18

  Two words: superpowered battlesuit. Technically, that may be anywhere between two and four words, but grammar is the type of thing you started caring about after you gave up your dream of fighting for truth and justice at the tender age of twelve.

  Now that the dream lives again, the last thing you intend to do is research.

  You will yourself back toward the planet, pushing through the atmosphere within moments. After a few navigation-related errors — honestly, Lake Ontario looks about the same as Lake Erie from this altitude — you find Cleveland and swoop down in front of the bank. It looks like someone swallowed a city block and barfed it back up. Flattened police cars litter the street and there’s some kind of gooey, purple splat at the bottom of the meteor’s impact crater. Perhaps you should contact Hazardous Waste Disposal about that? You rush to a fallen officer to see if he needs help, and although his face is a mess of bruises and abrasions, he flashes you an incompletely-toothed grin and gestures with his thumb down the street. “White van,” he wheezes.

  That’s all you need to know. You launch back into the sky and scan traffic for a vehicle matching that description. He headed away from the freeway, so he doesn’t seem to
be… wait a second. Bingo. You spot the van pulling into a motel a couple of miles away from the bank, and see the Ox climb out of it as you zoom to intercept.

  It’s business time. “Stop where you are,” you say as you make your landing just behind him. Your voice comes booming out of your suit through some kind of loudspeaker, giving it a deep resonance that you don’t normally possess. It’s kind of awesome.

  “Huh?” The Ox turns and looks you over. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”

  “I am the Cosmic Guardian.” You use your most authoritarian tone. “Surrender and you will not be harmed.”

  “Wait, I’ve hearda you.” He looks unimpressed. “You’re the dead one, right?”

  “Missing,” you say. “In space. I’m back now.” Man, your superhero banter is just awful. “Lay down your weapons!”

  “What, these weapons?” He balls up his hands up into two enormous fists. “Okay.”

  The Ox lunges, but you leap into the air and hover just out of his reach. If you recall correctly, the Cosmic Guardian’s force beams should be strong enough to stop a tank. You concentrate, and a ball of blue light forms in the palm of your hand. Tingly! With an outstretched arm, you fire a blast of energy that shakes your entire body.

  When it subsides, the Ox is standing there unfazed. “My turn,” he says. With a truly impressive vertical leap, he grabs one of your legs and pulls you to the earth, which you hit like a steel-plated sack of meat. Your suit absorbs the impact, but he pins you the ground and follows with a punch to the chest you can feel even through your armor. Uh-oh. The blows start coming in rhythm, and with each one your chest plate creaks and moans. Maybe if you work up a force blast strong enough to — BAM! Or if you can just get yourself airborne, then he’ll — BAM! That last punch shorted out your visual display for a moment, making you — BAM! Okay. You’re not sure how much more of this you can—

  BAM.

  When you regain consciousness, you find yourself face down in a field, half covered with rocks and dirt. You feel like you’ve been run over by a train. As your systems slowly come back online, you realize you can’t even see the motel from here. Did he throw you? You also note that there’s a black helicopter on the ground 20 yards away, its rotors still spinning. A small man in a tweed jacket runs toward you, shouting over the chopper’s noise.

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” He pulls out a fancy little tablet computer and makes a note on it. “We didn’t know if the emergency signal would reach you!” The helicopter starts powering down, allowing the man to lower his voice. “I’m Agent Moretti. And you’re Mr. Janssen? Or has the suit… um… changed possession?”

  Sten Janssen! Ha! Back in journalism school you did an exhaustive paper speculating on the secret identities of the Justice Squadron. Janssen was a Swedish athlete who went missing about the same time the Guardian disappeared. You knew it! However, you’re still pretty confused from your beating. Are you supposed to be Sten Janssen? Was that the secret you were trying to keep? Inside that giant armored battlesuit, you really could be anybody, and the speaker makes you sound like James Earl freaking Jones.

  ▶ If you tell Moretti that you’re Janssen, click here for page 181.

  ▶ If you come clean and say Janssen passed the suit on to you, click here for page 64.

  21

  You’re reading a choose-your-own-ending book about superheroes, and immediately decide not to become one? Okay. No, it makes sense. If Nightwatchman comes back, he could be really mad. We’re with you. You just caught us a little off guard is all.

  As you shut down the suit, the door in the back wall opens with a hum of machinery. You think about calling Melah and Dale to tell them what you’ve found, but can’t get a signal. You also consider taking some of the gear with you, but decide that it probably wouldn’t be wise. The door shuts behind you and after briefly navigating the city sewers, a ladder and manhole cover bring you back up to the street, somewhat stinkier but otherwise none the worse for wear.

  You backtrack to the bar, only to find a smattering of trashed police cars and some paramedics tending wounded officers. The Ox appears to have made a clean getaway, and your friends are nowhere to be found. Neither of them answers their cell phone, so, for lack of a better plan, you head into the bar to wait for them. One beer follows another without any sign of your compatriots and eventually you start to get hungry. The nachos here are decent, and of course hot wings are usually a safe bet. There’s also that weird side dish on the menu, which you’ve often considered trying but never actually committed to.

  ▶ If you order nachos, click here for page 30.

  ▶ If you go with the buffalo wings, click here for page 30.

  ▶ If you throw caution to the wind and get the deep-fried ravioli blasters, click here for page 248.

  22

  Relax and act cool. You need to handle this just right to avoid coming across like a complete doofus.

  “Magnifico! Um, hey. I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you!” Ouch. So much for acting cool. But you’re blathering now, and it’s too late to do anything about it. “You must be here to capture Lightning Queen! I was going to help out with that — you know, because I’m a superhero? But then somebody stole a bike, and I thought it was more important to stick up for the little guy. I mean, not that what you do isn’t important.”

  He just stares at you.

  “I think you’re very important,” you finish lamely.

  “I applaud your sense of civic duty,” Magnifico says in an even tone. “But when you see a crime being committed, even one as heinous as property theft, it’s vital that you contact the police and let them do their job.”

  “No, it’s not like that!” Aw, crap. You’ve blown it. Perhaps this calls for a demonstration instead. “Here, look!” You throw your stretchy arm across the street and stick it to a telephone pole. Then you retract it, accidentally tearing off several fliers for local bands and adult chat lines in the process.

  “Great Scott,” Magnifico says, finally looking impressed. “You really do have superpowers, don’t you?”

  You’re unable to contain your excitement. “This isn’t even a costume! It’s some kind of organic goo that I secrete from my skin!”

  He pauses, deep in thought. “You know, the Squadron could really use someone of your talents. Just the other day we needed to squeeze into a tight space, and I had to tear apart half a city block because we couldn’t get in. Are you good at squeezing?”

  “Maybe? I’m not a hundred percent sure, because it’s my first day!”

  “I like your moxie, kid. How would you like to come back to Squadron HQ with me and meet the rest of the gang? Do you see that Justice Squadron transport parked just around the corner?” You turn to look where he’s pointing, but don’t see anything that looks like a supervehicle. Could it have a cloaking device or—

  SMACK.

  Something hits you hard in the back of the head, and for the second time in less than 12 hours you black out.

  * * * * *

  When you regain consciousness, you find yourself in a big glass vat in the middle of a poorly lit room. You can make out a Justice Squadron insignia inlaid into the intricate tile work on the floor, but very little else, since the air outside your container is thick with a putrid-looking brown smoke. Wait a minute. Something’s moving out there — huge, asymmetrical figures shift around in the darkness. They’re coming toward you. Then a vent opens and gas starts seeping in.

  It’s the last thing you ever see.

  THE END

  24

  North may be a famous newscaster and your own personal journalism idol, but with the sneaking into your apartment and all, you worry that she’s just freaking nuts. Her contact turns out to be Girl Friday, the long-retired sidekick of Professor Medium Maximus, the Gentleman Mentalist. Your impression was that Friday (it turns out her real name is Octavia) had no superpowers of her own, but Nancy insists this is not the case.

  You t
rack down Octavia in Santa Fe, working in her backyard garden. She’s in her late sixties, with a deep tan and a gentle smile. “Um, hi,” you say, trying to avoid landing on her asparagus. “I’m, uh… I’m the Cosmic Guardian.”

  Octavia laughs. “Nancy phoned ahead,” she says. “Let’s have a look at you, then. I never met the first Cosmic Guardian, you know. He was after my time.”

  You stand awkwardly for a moment as she circles, peering intently at you from every angle. “Mmmm, there’s definitely something else in there with you,” she says. “It’s very closed off, though. I’m not sure if it’s blocking my mind or if it’s just so alien that I can’t find my way in.” Octavia proceeds to lead you in a variety of what she calls “transgenic exercises,” most of which involve stretching, deep breathing, and helping her tend the garden. You suspect she may be pulling your leg. By nightfall you’ve made very little progress with the suit, but quite a bit on the fall harvest. That was a waste of time. You’re exhausted, so you agree to spend the night.

  Her spare bedroom is cozy, and for once the armor responds to your commands immediately, shuffling off and settling into a heap in the corner. You catch a whiff of yourself. Wow, it gets pretty sweaty in there. You briefly consider a shower, but as soon as your head hits the pillow, you’re out like a light.

  In your dreams, you’ve just won a shiny new toaster. It’s terribly exciting. It can toast an entire loaf of bread at once! You carefully fill its slots and push down the lever, but no heat comes on. You’re starting to worry. You need toast! All the people are coming! You can feel that the toaster wants to make toast for you — making toast is the toaster’s whole purpose. But it just can’t bring itself to do it. What’s the point of making toast? What’s the point when everything you’ll ever care about dies?