Overcoming Burnout

My entry for Geek Pride 2023 is a spin on the old Flash/Superman races in DC comics. I've been a huge comic geek my whole life, and when I read the description of the event, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. Thanks to ChloeTzang for running it!

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"A cityscape? Really, Stalwart? Are you trying to lose?" Burnout sneered at me. She sneered at everyone, but I'd like to think this particular sneer was one she had only for me.

"I've got a good feeling this time." For once, I really did. We'd been doing this for months, and the rules were simple: first person to the finish line wins; no interfering with the other person during the race; it had to be a foot race, so no flying for me; if she won-- which she had every time so far-- I had to take her shifts on monitor duty for a week.

And if I won?

Well, the stakes kept escalating over the months we'd been in "competition." At first, it was even-stevens: she'd take my monitor duty shifts for a week. Then it was for two weeks. Then a month. But more recently, Burnout had upped the ante: she'd take my shifts for a month, AND she'd strip naked at the finish line and let me do whatever I wanted to her for the rest of the night.

I try to be a good guy; there's a reason she-- and most of our other teammates-- sometimes derisively called me "boy scout." But come on! Bernie, a.k.a. Bernadette a.k.a "I'll kill you if you ever call me Bernadette again" a.k.a. Burnout, was one of the sexiest, most gorgeous women I'd ever met.

She wore skintight kev-dex, so I was already very familiar with her figure: athletic, a nice butt, perfectly-sized and very perky breasts, and muscular legs. Of course I wanted to see what was underneath the black and silver flame pattern of her uniform. Any red-blooded heterosexual male would.

Bernie kept her hair in a variety of short, spiky styles that changed colors every couple of weeks; currently, she sported a fauxhawk in an unnaturally bright shade of red. Her nearly coal-black eyes were almost mocking me-- no, I take that back. They were mocking me, because I'd never won, and in her estimation, I never would. Admittedly, there was some merit to that assessment.

Burnout is a speedster; she's been clocked doing a casual Mach 2, but I know she can get up to at least Mach 4 in an emergency. It was amazing she could run that fast with the permanent chip on her shoulder.

I mean, I understood why she was always such a jerk. In terms of power levels, she should be on an A-list team in New York or Los Angeles, fighting guys like The Armageddonist and Traag, Terror from Dimension Zeta.

But because her dad was a criminal, and because he forced her into the trade, and because she had a felony after she was eighteen on her rap sheet-- even if it had been commuted for her help in the Transdimensional Crosstime Crisis-- none of the big teams like The Honorbound or Aegis Legion would touch her with a ten foot pole. And so, she was stuck working with a group of mostly B-listers in a market that didn't even have a professional football team. I'd be pissed, too.

And me? Well, I'm what's called a "jack," as in "jack of all trades." I'm strong and tough, but not as strong or tough as someone like WhamBam. I can fly, but nowhere near as well as a dedicated aerialist like Black Kite. And I've got superspeed, but nowhere near as fast as Burnout. My top speed is around her cruising speed.

Theoretically, I'm supposed to be a generalist, able to help out wherever I'm needed. But realistically, my role on the team was as a sort of interceptor; I can move fast enough to get in front of enemies and, occasionally, incoming attacks that might blindside my squishier teammates. There's a reason I wear a blue and white outfit with pirate boots, a cape, and a big gold S on my chest: it makes me a more effective target. It doesn't hurt that I'm over six feet tall and built like a running back, either. Even out of costume, I get noticed.

In the roster of jacks, I'm a low A-tier or a high B-tier, depending on the rating scale being used. What keeps me out of one of the more prestigious teams is sometimes called my "moral inflexibility." Specifically, that I strenuously objected when a major government agency tried to cover up a transdimensional crosstime crisis for "the good of the people" after they dropped the ball. And that cover-up just coincidentally happened during an election year. And footage from my body camera happened to make its way to the major networks.

Back to my original point: no, I'd never beaten Burnout in a race. When it came to raw speed, Bernie was in her element, and in that element she was near the top of the charts.

But to make things a little fairer, and therefore to get me to keep making the bet each week, she'd started letting me pick the course. She could veto a choice, but so far she hadn't, and I'd played relatively fair myself by not trying to pick one that would be impossible for her to finish.

Creating the course was the easy part; we had access to the realsim room that our team, Sentinel Squadron, used for training. The room had a combination of holographic and force field projectors that could create whatever environment we needed. We'd each be in a separate force bubble-- unless we were close enough to touch-- that would change shape to match our environment, with a projection of where the course and our opponent "should" be. Think of it like a really immersive VR with solid objects instead of just images.

I'd tried to beat Bernie in straightaways, zigzag courses, rough terrain, simulated combat zones, and about a dozen other scenarios. I'd never even gotten close to winning. She'd stopped looking too closely at the specifics, both because she kept winning easily and because I was too much of a boy scout to cheat, right? And that was true; I wouldn't cheat. Technically. I would obey all of the rules of the competition, such as they were.

But I was still going to win this time.

Burnout snorted and rolled her eyes. "Whatever, Max. Let's just get this done. I've still got half a season of 'So You Think You Can Fly' to watch." She used to get into the traditional racer's stance before we started. Now she'd stopped even giving me that small measure of respect, instead leaning against a building near the starting line.

I stretched; no point in pulling a hamstring, after all, not when I was this close to victory. "Computer, countdown race timer from 3." I grinned at her. "Ready, Bernadette?" Her nostrils flared, and she opened her mouth to say something just as the starting gun fired.

I got the early lead. "Early" being the operative word: it lasted about half a second before she streaked past me, obviously pissed. Well, probably pissed; at that speed, it's hard to tell. But it was Burnout, so there was a pretty good chance she'd be pissed anyways. And, as she rounded the first turn, right arm raised with middle finger extended, I saw that I had guessed right.

So imagine how angry she was when she turned the last corner seconds later and found me standing at the finish line, arms crossed and with a friendly smile on my face.

Burnout skidded to a stop in front of me, snarling, "You cheated!"

With a little chuckle, I said, "Bernie, when have you ever, ever known me to cheat at anything? I won fair and square." I couldn't resist holding up three fingers together. "Scout's honor."

"Bullshit!"

I pointed at a shattered window and beckoned for her to follow me. As she looked through it, she simply yelled, "Fuck!" Inside, there was a Stalwart-sized hole in the drywall, then a hole in the drywall behind it, then another three behind that, and then a broken window leading to the street. That basic pattern followed all the way back to the starting line, although we couldn't see it through the debris.

"While you were zigzagging around buildings, I just went through."

Bernie rounded on me, furious. "Yeah, I can see that! That's cheating!"

This was far more enjoyable than I thought it would be. "No, it's not." I started ticking off points on my fingers. "I was the first person to the finish line. I didn't interfere with you. I didn't fly."

My calm statement of facts, the way I addressed her accusations of cheating without rancor, and most of all, the lack of gloating on my part seemed to make her even angrier, even as she tried to hide it. Did I enjoy that? Oh yes, although I wasn't going to show her. Even morally inflexible boy scouts are allowed to be petty from time to time.

She glowered at me for a moment, then quietly deflated. "Fine, Max. You win." Bernie's hand went to the snaps at her neck, undoing them one by one. Then, she fished out the concealed tab of a zipper and began to tug at it, the teeth slowly separating to reveal the pale skin underneath. My gorgeous teammate was blushing with embarrassment, and the red flush went down her neck and tantalizingly out of view beneath her jacket.

I let her stew until the zipper was almost open to her navel, then said, "Alright, Bern. You can stop."

"What?"

"Bernie, I'm not going to make you go through with this." Her expression was suddenly perplexed. "I mean, you're absolutely still taking monitor duty for the next month, but you don't have to strip for me."

"W- Why?"

"Because..." I sighed and shook my head. "I mean, I wouldn't do that to anyone. But definitely not you."

The anger came back full force. "Oh, because I'm not good enough for you? Because I'm just some gutter trash ex-con that's too fucking tainted for the boy scout?!"

"What? No!" She was already zipping up her uniform again. "No, Bernie, that's not--"

"Save it!" There were tears in her eyes. "I thought you were different! You're the only one on this whole team-- fuck, no, in this whole city that I thought actually gave a damn about me!"

"Bernie, no I--" But she had sped off and out of the realsim.

What the heck just happened?

All I had to do was follow the trail of trashcans, plants, chairs, and other small furniture knocked over in her wake. Well, and put them upright again; I was who I was. Bernie had run out of the realsim, up the emergency stairs, and onto the third floor, where those of us staying in our HQ long-term lived.

I knocked on her door. "Bernie?"

"Go away!" Even muffled through the door, she was clearly crying.

"C'mon, Bern, let me in. Please." No response. "Bernie, I'm not going to force the issue, but I want to talk with you. You have it all wrong, I--"

The door was suddenly flung open, and she was standing there, mascara running, shouting up at me. "What! What did I have wrong!? That no one here likes me? That I've saved this city a dozen times and people still step in front of their kids when they see me? That our teammates don't give a damn if I live or die? That you're the only one who ever, EVER watches out for me, the only one on this team who has my back, who doesn't look at me like a whore or a criminal, and I thought that meant you might like me?!" Her face was twisted with rage and pain. I doubt she'd ever let anyone in like this. I don't think she knew how.

When I reached out, stroked her cheek and said, "Bernie--" her façade completely crumbled, and the sorrow that remained broke my heart. She was a twenty-two year old kid that had lived a completely screwed up life, and darn near everyone held it against her.

Except me.

I was only a couple years older, and I had lived a pretty normal, happy life until the accident that gave me my powers. Bernie, though... She hadn't talked much about it, but I knew there were reasons she always held everything close to the vest. Why every interaction seemed transactional, and why her motives were so veiled. She never directly asked for what she wanted, never said how she felt unless it was in anger. And I hadn't seen through the snarky jerk that needled me to the lonely young woman underneath that was terrified to say what she wanted for fear she'd be rejected yet again.

When my arms went around her, I wondered if this was the first time she'd ever been hugged, really hugged, by someone who wasn't trying to figure out how to use her for either her body or her powers. How many men had looked at her beauty and her bad girl demeanor and only thought of her as a potential conquest? How many had ever looked at her as anything besides that at all?

And then, when she tried to make herself vulnerable to me in the only way she knew how, when she tried to reward me with her body-- as though that was the only thing besides her power that I could possibly value-- I told her I didn't want it.

"I'm sorry, Bern. I didn't know." She hugged me so tight that, if I had been a normal man, she might have broken a rib. "Of course I like you. Of course I do. I care about you, though, and I didn't want to take advantage." A little kiss on top of her head caused Bernie to press her face into my chest. Then, after we stood there for a moment, I picked her up and carried her into the room. She froze for a moment, but then relaxed when I set her down on her bed and sat beside her.

Bernie looked at me, face a mess of black mascara and tears, then laughed sardonically. "Just want to sit and talk, huh? Is this the 'I just want to be fri--'"

It was a quick kiss, the one I gave her, a relatively chaste one, more designed to silence her than to inflame her passions. As first kisses go, it was very tame.

"No. I don't."

Briefly stunned, she froze for a moment as I pulled back, then surged forwards towards me, locking lips and running her fingers through my hair. Bernie almost climbed into my lap as my arms went around her, gently pulling her against me, those perfect breasts pressed against my chest as my tongue danced with hers.

As second kisses went, it was pretty darned great.

When we finally broke apart, she was gasping for air and eying me with an expression somewhere between lust and suspicion. "Why? I mean, why now and not after the race?"

"Because you're not a trophy. I'm never going to treat you like a... like a thing, Bernie."

She smirked. "Is that why you're always checking out my ass? Because you're so over objectifying women?"

"You're beautiful and sexy and you're wearing clothes that accentuate how gorgeous you are. I look, and I probably do it more than I should. But I don't stare. I don't think I do, anyways. I always try to treat you with respect, and--"

Bernie darted in and kissed me, a brief, playful peck. "Just fucking with you, boy scout. I like the way that you look at me. It's so fucking hot that you want me but you're trying so hard not to stare. Most guys check me out, and it irritates me, but you, Max..." She bit her lower lip; it's amazing the effect that can have on a man. "... god, it makes me so wet when you look at me like that."

My lips found hers again, and she responded enthusiastically as we began to tug at our clothing in earnest. Our uniforms had buttons and snaps and zippers, a panoply of fasteners meant to prevent wardrobe malfunctions; the downside was that now, when we really, really, really wanted to get undressed quickly, they interfered. My cape came off first, a blue and gold mass of cloth flung somewhere across the room. Then Bernie managed to get the snaps on her collar opened once more and started to drag the zipper back down. I sure as hell didn't stop her this time.

It was a torturous decision whether to keep kissing Bernie or watch her uniform come off, but what finally tipped me towards the latter was the knowledge that there was no way to get my shirt off without briefly pausing our makeout session. Oh dear, I'd have to watch my gorgeous teammate disrobe in front of me for the first time.

Taking the opportunity while my lips were free, I yanked my shirt over my head and tossed it... somewhere, hell I didn't care where at the moment. Bernie gasped suddenly, midway through unzipping her jacket; her eyes shimmered with moisture.

I have scars. A lot of them. Anyone who wears a cape for long gets them, but the ones like me, the folks that take the majority of the hits for our team, collect them like souvenirs: a long white streak on my right arm left by a blade from some invading alien race whose name I could scarcely remember; a spattering of small blobs on my side that marked where Dr. Toxic's acid gun had burned through my uniform; a puckered circle on my shoulder where I caught an ensorcelled bullet from SixSixSix Shooter.

But it was the biggest one, the one in the center of my chest that Burnout's fingers traced over now. It was the size of a basketball, still an angry red unlike the older wounds that had faded to pink or white, a remnant of the fight between our team and a group of jerks that called themselves The Terrors a few months before. It was the scar I got when I took a hit from a lava blast meant for Burnout.

Her voice was quiet. "It would have killed me." Bernie leaned forward and softly kissed the mass of rough flesh, then pulled back, looking me in the eye. "I know you would have done it for any of us. But you did it for me. You did it for me, even though Cyclopean and Sanctus were closer, because they weren't watching out for me."

I started to speak, but she kissed me instead, a gentle, sweet brush of her lips on mine. "You were. You always look out for me, even though no one else does. Because that's who you are. Even if I didn't look like..." She chuckled. "...well, like I do, you'd still have watched out for me. And I lo... I really l- like that about you." Her eyes went down, afraid of what she might see in mine. "I was attracted to you before. But that? That was when I really fell for you."

I tipped her head back up with one finger under her chin. "I would have done it for anyone, yeah. But for you? I'll take a thousand hits like that to make sure you're safe." She smiled broadly. Gratefully. And then wickedly.

"I think I owe you a strip show, yeah?" Bernie pulled away and stood facing me, just out of reach. There was just the tiniest hint of hesitation there, I think a fear that I might still, somehow, for some reason, reject her.

But I just reclined on the bed and chuckled, "Show me what I've won, beautiful." That did it. The grin she rewarded me with was almost as splendid as the body she started to slowly, teasingly reveal to me. Almost.

The zip came down first, gradually exposing her torso, until the jacket hung open to show a cute little innie while only hinting at her lovely breasts. Their curves were just barely visible as she leaned towards me for a deep, loving kiss. My hands came up to touch her, but she swatted them aside, dancing away with her back to me.

From there, Bernie slid the jacket down her arms, displaying the bare, pale skin of her back. She looked over her shoulder at me, biting her lip again in the way that made blood rush away from my brain, then let the top fall to the floor. A slight twist to the side gave me a quick, teasing glimpse of one magnificent globe and its hard pink nipple before she turned back away from me with a smirk.

I heard another zip, the one on her pants. Then her thumbs went into the waistband and her hips wriggled as she slowly, oh so slowly, pushed them down her legs. Her boots had been abandoned before I had knocked on her door, and as the black kev-dex pooled around her feet, she stepped backwards out of it and within reach of me once more.

The only remaining impediment between her fully naked body and my gaze were a pair of panties. I couldn't help but smile; she clearly hadn't dressed for this eventuality, thinking she'd win once more. They were a faded pink and eminently practical, even a bit ratty. That little display of humanity actually made her even more beautiful to me: underneath all of the bad girl sexuality and sarcastic bitchiness, there wasn't a black thong or some lacy lingerie, just something to make herself more comfortable.