It's A Bird! It's A Plane!

by Steve Beaulieu

  “I’ve never seen this before,” Dr. Patel had said. “The cosmetic surgeries were intended to be temporary, and your facial structure should have reverted back to normal. It’s possible that you ingested something—a strong amphetamine, perhaps—that interacted negatively with the serum.” George had stopped listening after the words “There’s nothing we can do.”

  The first rays of sunlight filtered through the dingy glass. The curtains that usually covered the apartment’s single window were slightly open. The irritating voice on QKYZ 104.3 echoed from George’s bedroom.

  “This is Crazy Mike and the Fox, reporting from QKYZ radio room. We like to start the morning with something upbeat, but after the events of two days ago, I don’t think anyone is in a happy mood. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of the four thousand victims of Doctor Mastermind’s attack. This was a sad day for Bright City, folks. The city skyline is forever changed, but worse than that, my belief in Mighty Man has been shaken to the core. Did anyone else see him flitting around like a drunken bug? Where was the old Mighty Man, the one who put away Doctor Mastermind and Captain Destruct-O? When is that guy coming back? The city needs him more than ever.”

  • • •

  “This is Connie Kim, reporting live from the site of Bright City’s greatest tragedy in more than a decade. Behind me, the clean-up crews are valiantly attempting to restore order to the city, but I’ve heard reports that it will take months to clear away the debris and rubble and find all the bodies. The repairs are estimated to cost the city over two billion dollars. My sources in City Hall are saying Mayor Hinton was killed in the attack along with his entire cabinet. Many are calling Mighty Man’s efforts to help ‘too little, too late’, asking ‘Where were you, Mighty Man, when the city needed you?’ Some believe an investigation into Mighty Man’s—“

  George switched off the TV and reached for another beer. The swill made his head ache and his stomach churn, but he didn’t give a damn. He just needed to close his eyes and shut everything out.

  He tipped the can to his lips. Empty. Hands that had once pulverized metal struggled to crush a single aluminum can.

  George stopped trying. The can clattered to the floor, adding to the growing pile. He hadn’t moved from the sofa in days except to use the bathroom and accept takeout and beer deliveries. With the settlement he received from the city for his service as Mighty Man, he could spend the next year on his couch. He had no reason to get up, nor any desire. Everything he was had gone. Only the weak, pathetic George Peters remained.

  He’d begged Dr. Patel in vain to give him another hit of the serum. So what if the transformation killed him? His old life would kill him just the same. It would all be worth it to feel the rush of power, the strength of Mighty Man one last time.

  • • •

  George drifted in a haze of fire and misery. The heroin had begun to kick in, flooding his veins with a rush of heat that fought to push back his stupor. He lay back on the filthy, moldering couch and closed his eyes. Slowly, the stink of garbage and urine filling the alleyway faded beneath the first threads of euphoria clawing through his brain.

  Nothing else mattered but this. He’d never fly over the city, never feel the surge of adrenaline as he battled the Earth Master, Captain Hammerhead, or Doctor Mastermind. The Mighty Man serum had given him everything he ever wanted. Its absence left him with nothing.

  He was George again. Just George.

  He couldn’t have his superpowers back, so he had only one other way to feel that way again. Paltry and pathetic by comparison, but he’d take it however he could get it.

  Snatches of conversation from a nearby radio filtered through his euphoria. “Mighty Man failed Bright City once…something’s changed in him, like he’s a new man…learned from the disaster three weeks ago…integral to the reconstruction efforts…renewed vigilance. The streets have never been safer since…”

  The heroin’s euphoria dimmed. George had failed as a superhero and someone else had to clean up his mess. Groaning, he climbed to leaden feet and stumbled away from the ratty couch. He had to get away from the voice that reminded him of everything he hadn’t done for Bright City.

  The world spun around him, the wind rushing through his hair. Once again, he flew through the air above Bright City, the power of Mighty Man coursing through his veins.

  A scream echoed from the mouth of the alley. Two men wrestled with a woman. Something about the simple floral print of her dress and the bright headscarf wrapping her scarlet curls seemed so familiar.

  Doris! Hadn’t she died in the Grandiose Corp building collapse?

  “Help!” Doris screamed.

  “Shut up, lady!” A thug wearing the purple and green of Doctor Mastermind’s goon squad drew a gun. “Don’t make us hurt you.”

  As he had so many times in the last year, George charged toward danger. He threw himself at the goon and wrapped him into a powerful embrace. He’d show these thugs what it meant to face a real superhero. He was Mighty Man, defender of—

  His face slammed into the huge man’s chest, twisting his neck at a painful angle. He rebounded and sagged to the mud of the alley.

  “Who’s this fool?” the second thug asked. “Thinks he’s some sort of hero?”

  George’s mind struggled through the numbness of the heroin. Why weren’t his powers working? Why wasn’t he—?

  The gun barked twice. Twin impacts slammed into George’s back. Pain raced up and down his spine, tearing through his side.

  “Please!” Doris begged. “Don’t hurt me.”

  George struggled upright.

  “Stay down, hero.” Another bullet punched into his back.

  George grunted and sagged back to the muck. He couldn’t move; an icy numbness seeped into his legs, pushing back the soothing fire of the heroin.

  “Hey!” A man’s voice sounded from the far end of the alley. “BCPD, stop right there!”

  “Dammit, cops!” The pounding of booted feet grew fainter.

  “You alright, lady?”

  “Yes, but he’s hurt!”

  “Officer Atman to Main, I need you to roll an ambo to the alley between Alamo and Third. Victim with three GSWs to the back, and he’s not…”

  The officer’s voice faded from earshot.

  A shadow fell over George’s face. “Can you hear me?” Doris asked.

  George tried to respond but couldn’t summon the strength to speak. The heroin’s fire grew fainter, and every panicking beat of his heart pumped more blood onto the muddy street.

  “Wh-Whoever you are, thank you! You saved me.” Her hand gripped his. “Hang on just a little longer. An ambulance is on the way!”

  George closed his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. He didn’t care whether he lived or not. Only one thing mattered: he’d been a hero one last time.

  A Word from Andy Peloquin

  I hope you enjoyed reading “One Last Time”, even if it was a tad darker than your usual superhero fare!

  I've been a hardcore comic book reader for over a decade now, falling in love with the more anti-heroic characters like Deadpool, The Punisher, and Spawn. To be able to write a superhero story like this—even one so cynical and dark—is a true thrill. It is still my lifelong dream to write for Marvel Comics and have my cruel way with the comic book characters I fell in love with so long ago.

  One Last Time is a look at what happens when you give an "average mortal" amazing abilities. Not everyone turns out to be a shining hero or a dastardly villain. Some are just normal people who let the power and fame go to their head.

  If you’d like to let me know what you think of “One Last Time” or you just want to say hello, feel free to email me (at andy.peloquin@gmail.com). If you’d like to find out more about me or read more of my stuff, sign up for my bi-weekly reader's list. You get a free book (the first in my fantasy half-demon assassin series) plus updates on my writing and lots of goodies.

  To see more of my writing, check out my
Amazon Author Page. Thank you for reading!

  HERO WORSHIP

  BY JOSH HAYES

  HERO WORSHIP

  BY JOSH HAYES

  One: Now

  “That’ll be $5.87, sir.”

  Harold Givens looked up from his phone, not bothering to hide his dissatisfaction. “$5.87? Are you kidding me? It’s just coffee.”

  The barista held the paper cup up with a grin. “This is HeroBucks coffee, sir. You won’t find a better brew this side of Liberty City.”

  Harold swiped his debit card through the terminal, shaking his head. He took the cup, careful to keep his grip light as to not burn his fingers. The “sidekick” size was barely taller than his hand.

  “Thanks,” he said, then headed for the door.

  He took a sip as he stepped outside, and winced, the overpriced contents singeing his lips. He glared back through the glass door at the barista, who was busy serving the next customer, and wondered how much money this store made standing on the shoulders of some trumped up hero.

  The sign above the door featured a stylized cut out of a hero wearing a red and blue uniform, her hands on her hips, hair blowing in the wind. “Furious Grounds” was written in large block letters across the heroine’s waist.

  “Your coffee’s not that great, Fury,” Harold told the sign.

  Harold stopped short as a boy ran by, pulling his father by the hand. He muttered a curse under his breath, holding his coffee out to keep it from spilling on his shirt. That’s all he needed today, a coffee stained shirt for what could be the most important job interview of his life.

  “Damn kids,” Harold said, watching the boy pull the man down the side walk.

  “Look, Dad, look!” the boy shouted, pointing. “I told you he was here.”

  The man laughed, allowing himself to be pulled along. “I know, son. I believe you, I see him too.”

  Harold followed the boys finger down the street to a row of tall buildings. He snorted when he saw the cause of the boy’s excitement. Of course, Harold thought.

  On the corner of the tallest building, Blaze stood, arms crossed, looking over the city. His green cape whipped in the wind behind him, giving the whole sight a dramatic flair.

  On the street, others were stopping, pointing out and swapping stories about the iconic hero

  “Did you hear about the time he took on the entire Columbian Army by himself?”

  “I was there when he defeated Chaos.”

  “How about that time he took on the entire Giglio Gang?”

  “He’s probably the most powerful Hero ever,” a boy said, tugging on his father’s hand, trying to get a closer look. “Do you think I can get a signature?”

  The father finally managed to stop the boy’s advance, then lifted him up above the crowd for a better view. “Let’s not bother him, son. He looks busy.”

  The boy continued to pull, face pleading. “Pleeease.”

  Laughing, the father said, “Okay, son, we can ask.”

  Harold rolled his eyes. “What a bunch of crap.”

  A woman next to him frowned. “What?”

  Harold pointed at the hero with his coffee cup. “Them. The whole world sings their praises, putting them up on pedestals like they’re gods or something.”

  “I don’t think they’re gods,” the woman replied, “but look at how much they do for us.”

  “People forget, we used to help ourselves.”

  “Seriously? If it hadn’t been for Blaze, Chaos would have destroyed this city and everyone in it.”

  “And how much did that victory cost the tax payers? 200 million dollars, last I heard. They say it will take ten years to rebuild everything they destroyed.”

  The woman crossed her arms. “You make it sound like you blame Blaze for everything.”

  “I don’t blame him for everything, but I think they all need to be held accountable.”

  “You’re crazy,” the woman said, turning away from him.

  “Accountable?” a man standing beside her said. “And who’s going to do that? You?”

  Harold scoffed when he saw the pin on the man’s shirt. A closed fist emblazoned on a tradition shield. Harold shook his head. There would be no point arguing with this man. Trying to convince hero worshippers that heroes were not infallible was like playing chess with a pigeon, no matter how good you are, the bird is going to crap on the board and strut around like it won anyway. In their eyes, the heroes could do no wrong.

  Harold knew better.

  Two: Then

  A horn blared, pulling the boy’s attention from his copy of Contact by Carl Sagan. He looked over the seat-back in front of him as the bus driver laid on the horn, cursing loudly. The boy had enough time to frown, wondering why the man was waving his hands like a crazy person, before he was thrown forward, smashing into the seat.

  Groaning metal and terrified screams echoed around him as he landed on the floor, knocking the air from his lungs. He tried to cry out, but his scream caught in his throat.

  He reached up, using the seat to pull himself off the floor. The bus bounced, tossing him back into the wall. Pain shot through his skull as his head bounced off the window. Stars danced in his blurred vision.

  “Bec—“

  He caught a blurred glimpse of the world outside the bus just before it shifted. His body became weightless and he watched as backpacks, books, and his classmates all rose into the air. The world outside turned upside down, and a second later, everyone and everything came crashing down and began bouncing down the street.

  For a moment, the roof of the bus was the floor and the boy scrambled to find something to hold on to. Several kids near the front were sliding around, slamming into each other. A book flew past the boy’s head as the bus continued to roll. Another bounce tossed him into the air and the sense of weightlessness returned.

  Papers, books, pens, and people all seemed to float in the air around him. For a long moment, an eerie silence came over the chaotic interior as the world outside turned again. He could see cars, the street, and the grass along the road. The sky appeared, the sun blinding him for half a second before it vanished.

  In that eternal moment in time, a single thought resonated through the boy’s mind: Becky. He looked over the faces of this classmates. Where had she been sitting? He had to find her. Had to—

  He caught a glimpse of something flying through the air, then everything went black.

  Three: Now

  Harold gave the Hero Worshipper a half-hearted smile, then made for the street. With everyone’s attention focused on the hero, maybe he could make it to his interview early.

  He hailed a cab and a minute later, one pulled up to the curb. As Harold opened the door to climb in, shouts of excitement and awe echoed through the gathered crowd. He looked up as Blaze lifted into the air, slowly at first, then twisted and shot out over the city.

  Good riddance, Harold thought, and slipped into the cab.

  “117th and Washington.”

  The driver tapped the address into a small computer and smiled. “Absolutely, sir.”

  Harold held his coffee in front of him as they pulled out into traffic. He looked outside and saw the boy giving his father a high-five.

  “Just wait kid,” Harold said. “They’ll disappoint you someday.”

  The driver looked over his shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Harold jerked a thumb outside. “Just a whole bunch of misguided people. I wish people would realize all these heroes,” Harold held up air quotes, “aren’t gods. They’re just people who can do some pretty weird stuff.”

  “Maybe so,” the driver said. “But weird or not, most of them do more good than any of us. And they don’t ask for much in return.”

  “No, only our compliance and mindless devotion.”

  The radio music cut off abruptly, replaced by a female voice. “We interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you this breaking news bulletin.”

  The driv
er turned up the volume.

  “We are receiving reports that a passenger train has derailed on the mid-town line. Preliminary reports estimate twenty-two cars have left the track. Emergency response crews are on scene and encouraging everyone not directly related to the rescue effort to stay away from the area.”

  Harold leaned back in his seat. “Guess that explains where Blaze went off to. Hey man, can you hurry it up, I really need to make it to this appointment before the world ends.”

  The driver turned. “I can only go as fast as the traffic, sir. I’m not a magic carpet or anything.”

  They drove several blocks, listening to the news updates on the derailed train. Two hundred and forty-two people injured so far, and the numbers we’re still coming in.

  “…This could be the worst disaster the city’s ever faced,” the reporter said.

  Harold felt the cab slow just as he heard sirens coming up behind them. An ambulance sped past, lights flashing.

  “I bet you they call in everyone for this,” the driver said. “Last time, something like this happened, Chaos blew up that airplane. You remember that? It landed in the Bay and Blaze lifted the entire thing out of the water. Man, I remember seeing it on the news that night, what a crazy day, right?”

  Of course, he’d heard about that. Everyone at the office had talked non-stop about it for weeks. What everyone failed to mention, even the news, was that Chaos bombed that plane in retaliation for Blaze destroying one of his factories down south. Blaze wasn’t blameless. His hands were just as bloody as Chaos’s.

  But no one cared about—

  A horn blared. Something big plowed into the driver’s side of the cab, crushing metal, shattering glass. The impact slammed Harold into the door as the car spun. His head smacked against the window and his world became a blur.

  He slid back across the seat, fingers grasping for anything to grab hold of. The car hit something else, violently reversing its spin. Metal popped and the clear plastic partition snapped loose and folded back on itself.