The Supers

VOLT

My leg was a burning rod of pain, glowing white hot in my mind. My slightly crusted-over eyes opened partially, peering out. I looked down to see myself in a yellow band t-shirt and blue jeans, street clothes, not my normal sterile white uniform.

What the hell?

By now my eyes had adjusted to the dim twilight and I could see the ceiling thirty feet up, laced with a latticework of steel beams. I was on a cot, lying low to the cold concrete ground.

I wish I could see more but my view was obstructed by the random crates strewn about the derelict warehouse.

This was all pretty strange. I guess I'm dreaming... I wonder if it's almost time for breakfast and morning drills. I hope I have at least a few more-

Last nights events came flooding back in a rush of vivid memories. The shock of it all slammed in to my brain like a wall of ice cold water. I shuddered, remembering the plasma bolt slamming in to my right thigh.

My hand self-consciously touched at the bandages beneath my jeans.

Oh no! Stalker!

I attempted to jerk up and sent a fresh jolt of pain through my injured leg. I slammed back down on to the cot with a grunt.

Okay then... That's not going to work.

I tried to turn my head around instead, careful to move my leg as little as possible.

To my relief, I turned my head to see my good friend Pierce Thomas, sleeping and snoring softly. His stocky, muscular frame was clothed in a black t-shirt and blue jeans. A white bandage on his shoulder protruded from beneath his shirt. The dark color of his clothing accented his dark, shaggy hair and stoic features.

"Uh mmm," sounded a man clearing his throat.

My head snapped in the direction of the sound, where I spotted a man crouched up on a stack of nearby crates. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He was dressed in black jeans and a tank top crisscrossed with the leather straps of gun holsters. A canvas jacket, of the military type was draped over top. His muscular physique was apparent immediately, even beneath his jacket. A billed cap was pulled down on his head shadowing the top half of his rugged, tanned face. From within this shadow a disquieting green glow peered out, directly where the man's right eye should be.

"Who the hell are you?" I snarled, surprised and angry that I hadn't noticed the silent watcher. People don't usually sneak up on me.

"Name's Jonathan Underwood, but I suppose you should call me Deadeye." The large man dropped down to the floor gracefully, landing with barely a sound.

"Just what in the hell is going on here? Who are you and what do you want with us? Why did you save us?" My body crackled with electricity, subconsciously triggered by my unease.

"Hey now, easy fella. I just saved your ass! Just relax and I'll explain everything."

"We'll you better start explaining, pal," Stalker said sitting up, glaring angrily.

Well it looks like my friend is awake now.

"Ew you undressed me, you creep!" Stalker exclaimed jumping up from his cot in a flash.

"Oh, relax boy. I changed your clothes. Bloody rags is more what I would call them. Your welcome by the way," a sharp woman's voice said from behind.

I startled at the fourth voice, whimpering slightly as I inadvertently bumped my injured leg again.

I've got to stop getting snuck up on like that!