Gritty Captain Planet

A couple of weeks ago, the superlative Tex Thompson said three words to me, and those three words changed my life: Gritty Captain Planet.

The sun sets, embracing the big sky of North Dakota. Clouds pile up impossibly high, blue and pink and gold.

On the earth below, it’s a different matter. The soil is cracked, scummy, lifeless. It crumbles under my boots like moon dust. Nothing will grow here anymore. Even the hardy ponderosas, veterans of a hundred dry and freezing winters, have turned the color of ash. The oil derricks loom above them like dinosaurs, screaming and stinking, vomiting their poison across the face of Gaia.

My thumb goes to my ring. The metal –not gold, although it looks gold– presses warmly against my skin. It’s like the ring knows.

“Dobro. Is time. We review taktika.” Command’s orders whisper through my earpiece, cool as a summer breeze in the Izborsk valley. I can almost smell the orchids.

“I hold in one place the air of smoke column,” she says. “If time, I will be creating low pressure vortex to wreck up the place. Engineering?”

“I will pull the particles from out of the air,” Engineering rumbles. “If we have time, I will fold the land over those machines there.”

“Medical?”

“I short all circuits already lah.” Medical’s voice is warm and sweet, with enough force pent up behind it to bore through granite. “Overseer come den I give them embolism.”

“Não faz mal.”  Communications’ voice hums like a spiritual high-tension wire. “My xapiripë are with them. I have made the men to sleep. No killing is necessary.”

“We’ll see about that,” I say, my right fist heating.

“Only fire on derricks, Weapons,” says our commander. “To not be having repeat of last time, okay?”

“You just keep those polluting bastards away from me.”

“Okay, okay. Lezhat’, cowboy. On my mark.”

After this mission, I promise myself, I’ll ask her out. We can go to the movies. Or whatever, you know, whatever she likes. Parasailing.

“Mark!” she says, “Davayte!” and I spring from my hiding spot, sprint toward our target, clench my fist.

The derricks loom against the sunset, seemingly unstoppable. But my whole right forearm roils with plasma. A hot, bright streamer follows my hand up, forward, and I channel all my rage into one elemental command.

“Fire!”