The Classic Fight (fiction)

The Captain—or rather, since the reboot, The Classic slammed the cyborg through a 73-story glass monolith’s ground floor where customers begged for extensions on loans. A wrist-mounted vulcan cannon caught a pen for signing checks, ripping it midway up the beads so they scattered among the marble floors before the entire tower shattered to dangerous rain of crystal that tore The Classic’s red spandex but couldn’t even shave his arm hair.

It was a dry, clear day with the sun hitting the city battlefield hard and a stream of blood squirted in a puddle as glass struck it.

The Classic stood in the parking lot amid the cars, now dusty and scraped and many with windshields caved in from the debris of mahogany desks and steel girders and the occasional picture frame with a smiling family. He waited for the breeze to clear his view.

But a laser cannon traced the circuitry from reactor to barrel in a purple light, all flash and no function, and vents clanked open to disperse superheated air from overloaded heat sinks. The cannon screeched its danger. The firepower would be enough to melt the desert around the town into a glass half-pipe and the cyborg trained it on the brightest heat signature, the one radiating with rage.

He aimed. Charged. Just another few seconds.

Fixed on the purple beacon charging within the smoke, The Classic dashed over a hedge fence to face-palm his target, carrying the metal man back into the twists of collapsed steel with all the ease of anger, not even tensing the bulk in his back, despite hauling the self-installed concrete shielding around the fission reactor in Cy-Cy the Sci Guy’s gut.

The Classic slammed his opponent into a jagged steel beam.

Shrapnel of concrete, metal, and the last vestiges of humanity exploded from Cy’s gut. The last spark of life triggered the cannon, pointed by the rage monster into the air, burning the atmosphere with a light that probably cut beyond the satellites and then died.

#

When Slip gathered up her streams from the cracks of the crater she’d been splashed into, her face reformed into something akin to a bookworm snuggling up to the crisp pages of a new love. Blood streaked her cheeks but never got to her jawline; it just sank back into her complexion that was suddenly smooth, calm, like a pond.

Then she saw the destruction around her. 

Her sorrow and her rage launched her straight into a losing battle, and she was mist in the air before she could even touch The Classic.