The first time I ran up the side of a building, I almost fell off when I froze in place for a split-second. There's a trick to doing this; don't try this at home, kids. Run too slow and you'll lose the momentum and gravity takes over; that's bad. Run too fast and you'll shoot yourself into space; that's worse. Fortunately, I hit the side of the building just right and let velocity's inertia finish the trip to the top of the building.

The first thing that catches my eye is the flash from the muzzle of a short semi-automatic carbine. Crap! The negotiations must have taken a nasty turn and these losers were going to make an example by showing how "tough" they are. I manage to finish that thought as the first of three bullets emerge from the tip of the barrel. Sound comes last; the crack of the burst hits my ears just as the last of the three start their flight to their intended victim.

The world slows to a crawl as my speed kicks in hard, giving me a split second to look the situation over. There looks to be about twenty hostages and six terrorists. They're armed with submachine guns and two of them are sitting on a large trunk. Either that's their bomb, or their bluff. Either way, I'm taking them down.

It takes me three strides to catch up to the bullets as they make their fatal rendezvous with a middle-aged white-collar worker. I wince as I grab them out of the air. They sting like angry bees as they spin in my hand and singe my fingertips. No one's seen me yet; that's the benefit of moving faster than the human eye. But if I stand still another few milliseconds, they will.

I pivot as I fight my own momentum and head towards the lead terrorists. When I almost get there, I carefully thread one of the bullets into the barrels of their weapons. At my speed, the bullets just seem to hang there; at normal speed though, the impact should be just enough to...

The three perps gasp in pain as the impact of the exploding gun barrels topples them back. The one remaining guy with the gun shouts at the two sitting on the hot seat to get their weapons ready. So I make my play and stand still for two full seconds; more than enough time for even their reaction times to notice.

"Want to give up now?" I ask. Since I know the answer already, I make it a point to stand where there aren't any hostages or tall buildings behind me.

"Shoot her!" the man orders and leads by example.

Instinctively I kick on my speed as the first bullet leaves the barrel. I could catch it like the others, but with no hostages behind me, why bother? Three steps later, I'm standing behind him and give him a gentle shove forward. He doesn't start moving yet; that'll take another few milliseconds. That gives me all the time I need to reach the last two sitting on the box.

I run around the box, looking for any kind of switch or wires that mind indicate a dead man switch while I watch them moving in super-slow motion, reaching for their guns. Of course, by the time their hands reach for them, all they'll get is empty space. That buys me maybe another half-second to verify that I don't see anything that looks like an external trigger. Finding nothing, I give each man a push towards each other, then step back to allow physics to do the rest.

I stand still and time resumes its march as the two on the box collide with themselves at speeds approaching a motorcycle accident. I congratulate myself, as the two of them are both knocked unconscious but remain on the box. The last one slides forward and is saved from falling off the edge of the building by hitting the ledge face first. One last check on the hostages confirms a clean save. No innocents harmed. All that's left is the clean up.

I watch with some interest as police, ambulance crews and emergency personnel do their duties to take care of the hostages and arrest the terrorists. One thing of note is watching the bomb squad taking their time with the box, pretty understandable really. Too bad Omega isn't here; he'd probably just use some kind of X-ray vision or something like that to tell if the bomb was real or not or maybe even be able to "mojo" the bomb away.

"Fun work if you can get it," a police lieutenant remarks as he walks towards me and offers his hand. "Lieutenant Stan Carter. Good work cleaning up the mess. As soon as the NEST finishes up, we'll be home free."

I shake my head in admiration; the idea of intentionally fiddling around with something that can take out a city block isn't a job I'd jump first in line to volunteer. "I don't think I could do that every day."

"This coming from someone who thinks dodging bullets is fun?" Carter remarks with a wiry smile.

"That's nothing. For me, dodging a bullet is like a normal person dodging soap bubbles floating in the air. But even I can't outrun an explosion if something went wrong."

"Even more with this bunch. These bozos were claiming that they had a nuke."

"Really?" I ask as the color leaves my face. Even in my line of work, using a nuke is more than just a little extreme.

"It's probably a bluff," Carter assures me. "But just in case, that's why we have the NEST here."

"Who?"

"Nuclear emergency search team. They've got special equipment for evaluating, searching and, if necessary, disposing of radioactive packages."

"So who are they? The terrorists, I mean."

"Call themselves 'The Brotherhood of Man'. One of the radical fringe groups that have sprung up in the wake of the Ireland War. These guys had several of the Brotherhood's propaganda in their personal belongings. According to the group literature, they think Mankind has to retake the world from the metahuman threat, using any means necessary."

"Including threatening the very people they're purporting to advocate?"

"Like I said, radical groups." Carter pulls out a pipe and lights it. "You work the metahuman crimes unit long enough and even fanatics start to look pretty normal."

I shake my head with disbelief. For the last few years since I went public, I've mostly used my powers to stop low-level crimes like robbery and muggings. Not too long ago, I even defeated The Dictator, which looked like a pretty big deal at the time. But lately, things seem to have gotten more high-stakes than I prefer. I even spent time in Ireland, hobnobbing with high profile people like the Protectorate and standing toe-to-toe with Avatar himself.

Now, even non-metahumans are threatening to use nukes. That's the sort of thing that makes me question if I really want to be playing the game. Maybe I should start cutting back some, concentrate on school and my acting work. Leave the really serious work to professionals like Omega and others. Something to chat about with my folks.

"...coming live from downtown Los Angeles where the superheroine Blur has assisted in the apprehension of the terrorists who were holding the Armco building hostage. With me is Mr. Robert Thomas, a representative of the Brotherhood of Man, who has issued a statement that they have no connection to the terrorists, despite the presence of propaganda found on the terrorists' persons. Mr. Thomas, how can you make such a statement?"

Thomas smiled and shook his head with practiced ease. He was dressed in a conservative suit and wore a clean-cut hairstyle that would play well for the cameras. "Jim, the Brotherhood makes no attempt to restrict our ideas and materials from anyone. It's unfortunate that some radical fanatics choose to espouse their hatred of society with our ideals. Let me be the first to say that these criminals were committing a crime, no doubt about it. The Brotherhood, in no way, advocates the use of violence to further its agenda."

"But some of the ideas advocated by the Brotherhood might be construed as extreme."

"By some radical or mentally unbalanced individuals perhaps. We advocate that it's time for Mankind to reassert its position in the world. We believe that metahumanity has come to wield far too much power in public affairs. If we humans don't want to become marginalized, we have to assume a more active role in the enforcement and regulation of metahumans."

"Even if such enforcement and regulations include violence?"

"Enforcement has, by definition, the potential for violence. But we don't advocate vigilantism or terrorism."

"But your brochures do specify that metahumanity should be regulated. Can you elaborate on that? It sounds suspiciously like something out of Nazi-Germany."

Thomas shook his head with a disarming manner. "Nonsense. We regulate truck drivers who carry hazardous materials. We register firearms, license pilots and ship captains. Virtually every small business in America has to have a permit or lease registration to operate. What we propose is nothing more than that."

The news moderator nodded and faced the camera with practiced skill. "I see. Well, as always, we'll let our viewers decide..."

Home comes over the horizon in the form of the San Marino suburbs about fifteen miles northeast of downtown Los Angeles. For me, that's a minute-and-a-half run. I could make it in under a minute if I needed to, but I try and keep my speed subsonic when I'm in the city limits. After all, California, in addition to so many other things, has the strictest noise-pollution laws in the Union.

I reach a shopping center near my house and make an invisible dash behind the dumpster and change into civilian clothes. Kind of gauche to change out in the open like that, but unfortunately I can't enter a public restroom unseen without ripping a door off the hinges. Fortunately, changing clothes doesn't take me more than half-a millisecond so the chance that someone seeing me is pretty remote. I then head inside to see what I can afford to pick up. Not that I really need anything, but some of my classmates have started to wonder why I hang out at the mall so much, so sometimes I have to make a reason.

Of course, the seemingly frivolous shopping has some of them calling me a "hummingbird" because of my habit of going from one aisle to another without spending time to actually look things over - time from their perspective, that is. But being called "hummingbird" never really bothered me; in fact, it's an unintended reminder how I first found out what I could do.

Five years ago, life was a lot simpler. I was still in junior high and I remember taking a class field trip for life sciences. We were at the bird sanctuary where the hummingbirds were on display. While everyone was listening to the teacher talk about how a hummingbird flaps its wings too fast to see, I was watching one of them trying to reach a flower. Then, without warning, I watched as its wings seems to flap slower and slower, to the point where I could see the individual strokes. I turned to point this out and saw what looked like the rest of my classmates frozen in time. The wind seemed to come to a complete stop, insects were frozen like a taxidermist display and even sounds seemed to fade into a low-pitched drone. It was like something out of the Twilight Zone; it's a good thing I didn't freak out and run off that time or things might have really turned out different.

As it was, the whole experience only lasted about a half-second for them, but for me, it felt like a full minute. To the rest of the class, they thought I just zoned out for a sec. I didn't tell anyone about what I saw until I got home. Fortunately, my grandparents were pretty cool about it. Not that I expected otherwise; they're pretty cool about a lot of things. A lot more than you'd expect from a generation that grew up during the Second World War.

The choice to keep my abilities hidden or use them as a superhero wasn't an easy one (villain was never an option; my folks made that crystal clear). This was back around the time when Pumice was still active, but only for a short time. With folks like Bronzeman and Halcyon retired from the LA scene, it seemed like California needed a superhero for itself, especially with folks like the Mannequins, the Dictator and the Tyrannical Trio running around. Of course there were the concerns of safety, risks and danger. I'm superfast, not invulnerable, so it's not a trivial concern either.

Still, it was with their love and support that I adopted the identity Blur only a few weeks later. I got lucky early on; with so few heroes in the city, the media caught on to my superhero career and things sort of went up from there. Crimefighting spun off into making TV and movies and before long, I had myself a really good thing going. I work hard on setting a good example; even at my age, I'm mindful of the kind of influence being a media figure has on other kids. Of course my fifteen minutes of fame sort of faded a little when Omega blew into town. Not that big a deal; he's way more powerful than I am, not to mention tends to make more waves with the media than I do (not always in a positive way though).

I fire up my computer and do an Internet browse for this "Brotherhood of Man." As I watch the screen slowly refresh itself, I pick up Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities" and read the last ten chapters. People who complain about slow Internet access haven't seen slow until they see it from a super-speedster's perspective. Last time I had to update my virus scanner, I read and finished Leo Tolstoy's "War And Peace" for a class assignment. By the time the computer finished the update, I had finished my book report.

I finish reading Carton's final eulogy when the page comes up. The Brotherhood has been around for quite a while, but only recently came to national prominence. Apparently the Ireland War gave them a huge boost in memberships and private funding. Not surprising, but still a little disturbing.

On the surface, the Brotherhood claims to be some kind of activist group. Their charter's pretty straightforward: Metahumans represent a disruption to society and must be regulated before anarchy results. They go on and list a whole bunch of statistics on how much property damage metahuman fights have caused and how many casualties they've inflicted. Not much on me; I don't know if I should be insulted being considered beneath their notice or relieved not to be considered a troublemaker. They also detail how much tax dollars are being spent on maintaining current metahuman measures like the Draughtmen and Purgatory Prime. I can't verify the facts, but they look closer to reality than I like to admit.

I try and probe a little deeper and find some records of crimes being committed by people claiming to represent the Brotherhood, but for the most part, all I find are scheduled rallies, political action groups, and dry, boring, but legal stuff like that. The few times I find any kind of crimes, they've been able to issue statements of denial and back them up with legal and financial proof. There are psychos everywhere, they say, and it's not the Brotherhood's fault that some choose to pick up their pamphlets. Very neat and professional looking, which makes any kind of criminal case impossible. Most don't even warrant an indictment.

What really bugs me isn't the crimes though; the police and I can keep crimes under control. It's the ideas this Brotherhood represents. Based on the size of their rallies being planned, they're not some little extremist group we can all laugh at and ignore. More and more people are signing up as members and supporters. People who aren't crazy, loony or criminals - just scared. They watch buildings, cities, and even entire countries destroyed because of metahuman battles and more and more of them are buying into this stuff. I can stop crimes, not ideas.

And should I even try? I can't fight an idea with superspeed punches or sonic booms. Like any public figure, I can try and present my own ideas, but coming from me, they're going to sound biased as hell. My credibility in this issue would be undermined the moment I opened my mouth. Of course she doesn't support metapowers regulation; she's going to be one of the first in line, everyone would think. And would they be right? If I didn't have any powers and I saw downtown LA being torn apart by Omega verses Sandstone, round two, which way would I lean?

"You know, for most people, eating that fast will give you indigestion," Arthur Saunders noted as he watches me finish off a poached egg and sausage link in the time it takes for him to take a sip of coffee.

"Sorry," I say as I force myself to slow down to normal speed. It was an unspoken rule that eating at home was supposed to be done at normal speeds. It's good practice so I don't give myself away in the school cafeteria, not to mention polite. "I'm kind of in a hurry this morning."

Lynn Saunders turns off the stove as she looks at the TV replaying yesterday's news again. "Such awful people! You should be more careful with these fanatics! Who knows what they're capable of?"

"Don't worry grandma, I got it under control," I say in my most confident voice. I make it a point not to give her anything else to worry about. "The police were pretty sure they were just bluffing about the bomb part."

"Well, all the same," Arthur cautions, "you take care of yourself out there. We don't want you getting hurt out there."

"I will, thanks," I promise and give both of them a kiss before heading out the door. I head out and into the nearest alley before disappearing in a burst of speed. Normally, I don't use my powers on the way to school, but there's someone I want to check with before I begin my day.

Even early in the morning, the 42nd police precinct downtown is a beehive of activity. I come to a sudden stop just outside the entrance, leaving a trail of dust and debris in my wake. I head up to the front desk and ask for Stan Carter, and the morning watch commander points me to the homicide department. Carter is lighting his first pipe of the day to go with his morning coffee when he sees me coming.

"Shouldn't you be in school or something?" Carter asks, waving the match out.

"School doesn't start for another twenty minutes," I say. "I was hoping you knew a little more about that bunch downtown yesterday."

"I didn't think you got involved in the thinking part of this business."

"Gee, thanks," I deadpan.

Carter gives me a smirk as an apology. "Sorry. Most of the guys here are used to dealing with metas who just hand perps to us and go off and make photo shoots and movies."

"Touché," I acknowledge with a smile. "But my promo shoot isn't until this afternoon, so I have some time."

Carter finally gets it in his head that I'm not a flake and presses an intercom. "Is Agent Gordon in yet?"

"Your partner?" I ask.

"God, I hope not. No, he's FBI," Carter says, barely concealing his disdain.

I start to ask him for the details when a tall blond enters the office and closes the door. Six foot two of solid muscle with a tough-looking expression.

"Blur, this is Agent Gordon," Carter introduces. "He's with the FBI's terrorism branch."

His handshake is hard as his face; any harder and my fingers would be in jeopardy. "Good work yesterday, Blur. You saved the hostages and got the perps without casualties."

"Yeah," I nod. "I just wanted to drop by and see if there really was any truth about them holding a nuke or something like that."

Gordon shakes his head. "Nah, just a bluff. The NEST confirmed it was a bomb, but nothing more than Semtex. It would have probably damaged the roof, but nothing more than that."

"Where did they get it?" I ask.

"They won't say. Doesn't matter really. Any twelve-year-old in East Europe or Africa can get his hands on that stuff."

"So, they didn't have anything to do with the Brotherhood?"

"We're investigating that angle, but probably not. Just a bunch of fanatics who read the Brotherhood's propaganda and justify their actions with their ideologies."

I nod and smile as Gordon gives me the basic run down on what went down yesterday. Behind him though, Carter looks a little uncomfortable, but keeps silent. "So basically, they're crazy?"

"Probably," Gordon acknowledges. "Don't quote me though; their lawyer'll probably use it for an insanity plea." He turns to Carter. "I've got a staff meeting here in a bit. Did you need anything else?"

"No, I'll be along in a little bit," Carter says.

I wait until Gordon leaves before I turn back to Carter. "So what's he not telling me?"

"Well... it's nothing definite," Carter sighs. "He's probably right about them being crazies."

"But you don't think so?"

Carter hesitates and sighs. "I don't know. It's just this weird feeling I have about the Brotherhood connection. I did a little reading about them as well. And the thing is the Brotherhood's been involved with minor petty crap like disturbing the peace and stuff like that. Nothing major and definitely nothing like terrorism using a WMD."

"A what?"

"Weapon of mass destruction. Even threatening to use a nuke, you're talking life without parole. Whoever did it wasn't planning on these guys ever coming back."

"Well, doesn't the FBI think they were acting solo?"

"Well, that's what it looks like and the Brotherhood's already made their statement denying they had anything to do with it. But if the Brotherhood isn't responsible, then someone else sponsored them. Semtex isn't that easy to get; someone built it into a bomb and got it up there."

"Well, maybe the Brotherhood did do it?"

"It doesn't look like their style," Carter says. "They mostly do propaganda and political rallies. We have some suspicions about them doing a little bribery or money laundering, but nothing like this. And if they did do it, then they would have to have some kind of motive."

"Did they make any ransom demands?"

"The perps did at the time, but two-million and a helicopter's only small potatoes in the grand scheme of things. Whatever's going on, the demand's just a ruse. No, they wanted us to treat it like nuclear blackmail for a reason, that's for sure. The question is why."

"And you're certain the authorities cannot trace this back to us?"

The tall hooded man looked at his second-in-command with a mixture of confidence and amusement. "Rest assured Mr. Fincher, the NEST personnel were quite distracted while the final assembly was being made. Our technicians assure me that the only time that this endeavor risked early detection was the transferring of the materials from the Nevada site. Once the assembly was completed, the unit was moved into a lead-lined room where it would be invisible to even their eyes."

"And the police?"

"Looking in the wrong direction, so our contact downtown tells us. So far, everything is going to schedule."

Fincher frowned. "Losing our own people wasn't part of that schedule."

"An unfortunate situation, true. It would appear that waiting for Omega to be out of town was insufficient. Rest assured, our legal representatives are working on a change-in-venue to ensure that they will be moved out of town before going to the final phase."

"Out of town..." Fincher said, almost to himself. "It does seem...disingenuous to our cause. That we're prepared to inflict so much pain and suffering..."

"We wouldn't be human not to have second thoughts," the hooded man nodded as he silently made a note to keep an eye on his subordinate. One couldn't allow weakness to interfere with the big picture. "But in the long run, mankind will be better off without the specter of the metahuman threat hanging over the heads of all."

"Very well, then we're committed. But what about Blur?"

"Our agents in the field are recruiting help even now." He produced an electronic pad with a list of names.

"Are you serious?" Fincher asked incredulously "Can we rely on...these kind of people?"

"One must fight fire with fire, Mr. Fincher. We can't very well shoot someone who can run faster than bullets."

"I suppose," Fincher conceded. "Kind of ironic though, when you think about it."

"Indeed it is. Which makes it so much more sublime."

"Stupid copper!"

Bullets bounced off the supervillain known as Rebound as panic gripped the customers and employees of the Citicorp bank branch in downtown LA. The security guards crumpled to the ground as the bullet ricochets wounded two of the officers, causing the rest to hide under cover.

Outside, LAPD SWAT and other police officers were getting into place, having been alerted by the bank's alarm system. Above the bank, helicopters hovered like hornets, watching for any sign of activity. They didn't have to wait for long as one of them spotted activity on the roof.

"Cobra One, this is Cobra-Six-Two, perp spotted on the roof heading southeast along Ross Avenue."

"Roger Cobra-Six-Two, moving into position."

Rebound stretched down the side of the adjacent building like a rubber band as he heard the sounds of squad cars and vans behind him. His frustrations were beginning to mount; he hadn't counted on SWAT to respond as quickly as they did. And although their bullets were no threat to him, his reputation and methods were known enough to the law enforcement community that they were certain to have brought other methods.

"Attention Rebound, this is the police!" the helicopter's loudspeakers blasted. "Surrender now or we will open fire!"

"Fuck you pigs!" Rebound shouted back and used his malleable body to stretch and extend his movement down to the next city block as civilians scattered and ran for cover. If he could make it to the expressway, he'd be home free.

"Take him down!" the commanding officer in one of the converging vans ordered.

Rebound flinched as the sound of the first set of bullets exploded just past him against the building wall. He blanched as he watched each impact explode into short-lived bursts of flame. Shit, he thought, phosphorus bullets! If one of those connected...

"Tagged him!" one of the officers exulted as they all watched Rebound scream with pain as a burst clipped his shoulder. No longer stretching, the pain caused him to spring back to almost-human proportions.

"Let's reel him in," the commanding officer said.

Just then, a black van drove up, cutting the police cars off, and converged on the sprawled supervillain. What the hell? the police officers thought as the driver instinctively hit the brakes, giving the new van an opening.

"Get in!" a fierce-looking costumed figure ordered as the side door slid open near Rebound. Without waiting for Rebound's response, the figure pulled him in and slid the door closed. With their cargo secured, the van began to pull away from the police cars, which were just recovering from the surprise and closing in.

"Oh shit...!" Rebound exclaimed as two large figured loomed above his prone form. "I saw you guys on the Ireland coverage!"

The van's driver ignored the revelation as the driver's companion turned around and handled the introductions. "Rebound, let me introduce you to your new teammates: Barracuda and Core."

Rebound could only stare as the two villains looked down on their new erstwhile teammate with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. Rebound then turned to the driver and his companion. "And who are you guys? Their managers?"

"Cops are closing in on us!" the van's driver interrupted.

The companion turned to a teenaged girl who emerged from behind the two large behemoths. "Handle it Mezmera."

The green-haired teen nodded as the two larger villains opened the van's rear doors. She closed her eyes for a moment, then stared at the oncoming police cars.

"What the hell are they doing?" the police car's driver asked with disbelief. The initial thought was that they were going to jump onto their hood and make trouble, so the other officers readied their weapons in case they had any ideas.

"You feel fear, terror..." Mezmera whispered as her eyes blazed directly into the minds of the pursuing policemen. "All around you, surrounding you. You must destroy them all..."

"Oh my God...!" the driver exclaimed as terror gripped his heart and froze.

"All around us!" one of the other officers shouted and lifted his firearm.

The first shot triggered a cascade of retaliation, as panic-stricken policemen fired blindly, causing the car to spin out of control and crash into the median.

"Jesus Christ!" the helicopter pilot exclaimed as he watched the accident. "Base, this is Cobra-Six-Two, Cobra One is down, I say again, Cobra One is down and out of action!"

"What happened?" another voice demanded.

"Unknown at this time. Perp has been picked up by unknown van and is headed westbound on I-10."

"Cobra-Six-Two, identify the van's plates and stand down and render assistance to Cobra One, that's an order."

"Roger Base, standing down."

Back at the bank, the head officer on the scene hated to give that order, but experience told him it was for the best, at least for now. Whoever was in that van had already taken four officers out of action, possibly worse. He didn't want to add two more until he figured out what he was up against.

"Sweet," Rebound admitted with malicious gratification as he watched the police pursuit fall off and disappear. "Not bad at all. So what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Simple deal," the driver's companion said. He produced a wrapped wad of dollar bills and passed it to Rebound. "Ten more like it if you do one little thing we ask."

"I'm listening."

The man then pulled out a photograph and handed it to Rebound. "Do you know who this is?"

"Yeah," Rebound said with a smirk. "Anna Kournikova's little sister."

"Do you want me to have Core toss you out to the cops right now?" the man replied coldly.

"OK fine," Rebound said with a huff. "Yeah, I know who that is. LA's junior league hero girl."

"Close enough. You do what we want and we'll make you very wealthy."

"And that is?"

"Find her. Kill her."

To be continued in Targeted for Execution
 

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