by David Reiss
“It was a busy year.”
“Now, I fully intend to grill you for details about your long career.” Pam leaned forward seriously. “But it is recent events that have generated the most speculation. You’ve worked to mitigate the effects of natural disasters and rescued emergency personnel. You once again unearthed evidence of a hero’s immoral actions. You recently assisted local heroine Regrowth in an attempt to capture one of the most dangerous villains in America.”
“And you rescued a kitten,” Stan interjected, amused.
“I did.”
“Many have begun to wonder if the most feared supervillain of our generation has undergone a moral transformation. They wonder if Doctor Fid should, in fact, be regarded as a hero. What do you have to say in response to that speculation?
“Nothing. Or rather…I don’t feel that I have the right to offer an opinion as to how I should be perceived.”
“And how do you perceive yourself?” Pamela asked.
I paused before answering. “As a work in progress.”
“More than two decades in armor and you’re still figuring things out?”
“I’ve lived an eventful life,” I explained. “It would be more strange, I’d think, if I failed to be affected.”
“Can we talk about your eventful life, then?” Whatever fear or reticence had gripped Pamela earlier, she was over it now. She’d caught the edge of a story and her eyes blazed with interest.
She’d been a fashion model, once upon a time. A lovely face, hired more as an appeal to certain demographics than her skill as an interviewer. Under Stanley Morrow’s tutelage, however, she’d blossomed into quite the investigative force.
Her smile made me genuinely apprehensive. Impressive.
“When I agreed to appear on CapeWatch, I did think it likely that my history would be mentioned.”
Pamela looked to Stan and he took over so smoothly that I suspected that the interchange had been practiced; where her expression was almost predatory, his was all warmth and acceptance. It seemed that the role of ‘good cop’ was being played by an affable, paternalistic academic, and ‘bad cop’ by the fiercely intelligent brunette.
“We’ve mentioned the twenty-two years that have passed since your debut,” Stanley began, “but we haven’t discussed the six years in which you disappeared from public view.”
“Your first five years were characterized by continuously escalating violence,” Ms. Green asserted, “culminating in a battle against Valiant himself on the White House lawn.”
“For our younger viewers, I’d like to take a moment to discuss what it felt like to watch that battle on television. We’d grown up with the absolute certainty that Valiant was indestructible. He’s vulnerable to magic attacks, of course, but when it came to a physical fight…all of us would just sigh with relief when Valiant appeared. We knew that we were safe, that everything would be all right…And then Doctor Fid landed in D.C., his robots blackening the sky to deny the entirety of the United States Air Force.”
“I remember,” Pamela said quietly. “My mother and I were watching the news in the kitchen, and the battle seemed to last forever. Dan Rather was narrating, a constant flow of up-to-date information about evacuation efforts, military response, etc. And then he just fell silent for a while…”
“…Because it was confirmed that Valiant was injured.” Stan finished. “That was unthinkable! It felt as though the breath had been crushed from my lungs. In that moment, everyone on the planet was afraid of Doctor Fid.”
That had been one of the most exhilarating moments in my entire life. I did not, however, think that gloating would set the desired tone.
“I remember,” I stated quietly.
“After that battle,” Stanley continued, “Doctor Fid disappeared.”
“Years later, when a more-powerful-than-ever Doctor Fid reappeared, his tactics and choice of targets changed,” Pamela said. “This led many to suspect that the original Doctor died of wounds suffered in that battle against Valiant and that it is a different man wearing Fid’s armor today. Would you care to comment?”
“No matter what reply I give, you could only take me at my word.”
“Give us your word then,” Pam said.
“Responsibility for Doctor Fid’s actions—past, present, and future—rests solely upon my shoulders,” I declared evenly.
“That is…a surprisingly evasive answer,” Stanley frowned. “Accepting accountability is not the same thing as confirming identity.”
“Identity is a more complicated question. Are you familiar with Theseus’s paradox?”
“No.” Stanley Morrow tilted his head, puzzled. “I’m afraid not.”
“It’s a thought experiment from the ancient Greek biographer, Plutarch. He wrote, ‘The ship on which Theseus sailed with the youths and returned in safety, the thirty-oared galley, was preserved by the Athenians down to the time of Demetrius Phalerius. They took away the old timbers from time to time, and put new and sound ones in their places, so that the vessel became a standing illustration for the philosophers in the mooted question of growth, some declaring that it remained the same, others that it was not the same vessel’.”
“You think that you’re a different person because you replaced your arm and cloned a few organs?” Pamela scoffed in surprised disbelief.
“More than a few,” I answered calmly. “The work was performed little by little, but I’m fairly certain that not a single untouched piece remains of the man who fought Valiant sixteen years ago.”
Neither host had anything to say in response to that; I could see in both their expressions that they were envisioning a scarred patchwork horror hidden within the Mk 36b armor: an aged Frankenstein’s monster. If that image propagated and drew attention further from the objectively-attractive CEO Terrance Markham, so much the better.
“I usually feel as though I’m the same person,” I confided. “I have all of Doctor Fid’s memories and all of his knowledge and skills…and yet, I can also say that the person I am now would make different choices than the person who wore Doctor Fid’s armor twenty-two years ago. As I said previously, the question of identity is more complicated than the question of responsibility.”
“I know that I’d make different decisions now than I did when I was young. That’s just being changed by experience,” Stan said slowly. “I think most people would agree with that.”
“Most people haven’t performed fourteen neurosurgeries upon themselves, several of which were designed specifically to alter core moral decision-making processes.”
“I think I asked the wrong question,” Pam shook her head. “I shouldn’t have asked who is under that armor. I should have asked what is under your armor.”
“I am Doctor Fid.”
◊◊◊
“Welcome back to a special episode of KNN CapeWatch. I’m your host, Stan Morrow.”
“And I’m Pamela Green.”
“Our guest today,” Stan continued, “is the notorious Doctor Fid.”
“Greetings.”
“Before the break…” Pam began, “we’d been discussing one of your early battles against Gamma.”
“Yes,” I acknowledged. “I’ve faced Gamma several times.”
“I was wondering if we could discuss a different battle,” she continued, wearing an expression of predatory anticipation that gave me pause. “In particular, your battle with the now-retired superhero Clash.”
“Ah.” Hidden within my faceless and expressionless helm, I winced. “That fight was…unfortunate.”
“For viewers who may not recall, the event in question took place at Axiom Laboratories in New Jersey, eleven years ago.” Stanley looked a bit surprised at the topic shift, but he rallied gamely. “There was a demonstration only a few blocks away, so there were several camera crews nearby…That incident was one of the most well-documented conflicts in Doctor Fid’s history.”
“And also, one of the most vicious,” Pamela added, and I was
lost.
◊◊◊
“Screw you,” the metallic hero growls as he struggles to his feet. Clash is ankle-deep in rubble; our free-for-all had migrated to the campus’ main parking lot, and the pavement is now pocked with craters of pulverized concrete. His costume—a simple red wrestling singlet with black trim—is torn and ripped in several places, revealing deep scrapes carved into his normally mirror-polished steel-like body. His chest heaves with every breath, gleaming teeth bared in a defiant snarl.
I wait, honestly impressed, while he visibly shakes off his weariness. The man’s fighting skills can use some improvement, but he is able to soak up a beating like few that I’ve ever encountered. Clash might be superhumanly durable, but I’m beginning to think that his will is stronger even than his biometallic flesh. He lifts his fists into a boxer’s guard and stumbles towards me.
I slip a left-hook to his body. Even through the Mk 17’s inertial compensators, the shock of impact travels up my arm. He drops his elbow to guard his ribs, and I take advantage with a straight punch to his chrome-like face.
Clash doesn’t fall.
I am so tired right now. Three days, I’ve been awake! If I’d had time, I would have completed the Mk 18 and this fight would already have been over. I know that I’m upright only due to the stimulants being poured into my body by the Mk 17’s internal medical system. But today is the anniversary and I need a fight. It would have taken another week for the newer armor be fully functional.
I grab Clash by the face and throw him through a parked car.
It takes a few seconds for the last of the debris to settle, and then all goes still. In the distance I hear sirens and anxious shouts but here there is silence. I can go home, lick my wounds, get drunk. Mourn.
Clash isn’t really an enemy…just a convenient foe. A hero I knew I could isolate, to lure here with the threat of blowing up Axiom Labs. It’s been twelve years exactly since a different hero let my brother die, and it’s been helpful to have someone to punch.
The violence has been genuinely therapeutic. But now, Clash is down and I finally feel empty.
There are news cameras nearby: unmanned drones, a helicopter and even a brave camera crew on foot. This is an opportunity. The public needs to be shown that heroes will let them down. Children need to know…heroes can’t be trusted to keep them safe! Wearily, I step forward to recover Clash’s unconscious body. The media needs to see him at my mercy.
Something strikes my chin and the world goes white. I feel like I’m flying, flowing away as though pulled by the tide, but the armor’s telemetry says that I’m still. Was he just feigning unconsciousness? Something explodes and I’m on my knees. My perception of time is strange; it seems to take hours for the Mk 17’s visual systems to reboot, and yet I don’t have enough time to take even a single breath. I look up and the universe tilts dangerously; someone is standing over me, glistening orange and yellow as the fire reflects of his metallic skin.
BRONZE!
And now I’m on top of him, bearing him down with the raw force of my madness. Every night for more than a decade, I’ve dreamed of this, of ash and blood and tears. I have him!
Bobby died heartbroken. He was in my arms, I was watching his eyes! I could see which wound hurt him most. Bobby knew himself betrayed, and that pierced someplace deeper where the bullet could not reach. My baby brother died with an injured soul, and the culprit responsible is finally—finally!—in my grasp.
I’m weeping with relief even as I brush aside my victim’s final, weak defense. His guard is down and I have him! It feels even better than I’d hoped. I’m free. I’m whole. My hatred pours out of me like a physical force, a tsunami of rage that follows every punch to its target.
My arms are like pistons that deliver punishment one strike at a time. Until the fog lifts and it isn’t Bronze at all. That particular ‘hero’ died years ago, before I was able to confront him. Bronze is now—and will forever be—beyond my reach.
I’m standing over Clash’s prone, unconscious form and I’ve done something horrible.
◊◊◊
“I’m sorry,” I told Pamela; she’d been talking and I hadn’t been paying attention. “Can you repeat the question?”
“I asked if you have regrets.”
“I have an ocean of regrets,” I replied. “And yes, my treatment of Clash is among them.”
“If you could talk to him—talk to any of the people you’ve hurt—what would you say?” Stanley asked. He still looked a bit puzzled by the direction that Pam had taken the interview, whereas she looked like a cat that had found a saucer of cream.
“I think…it would depend.” I laughed ruefully, brief and bitter. “There are many for whom an apology can never be enough.”
“Well…as luck would have it, you have an opportunity to make amends.” Looking unbearably smug, Pam motioned to one of the studio technicians. “Caller one, you’re on the air.”
As ambushes go, I had to admit that this one was elegant. I was beginning to think that I ought to tell Pamela about Lassiter’s Den so that she could enjoy a drink among her peers.
“My name is Edward Prewitt,” the caller began. “My father worked at Tyrion Solar in Chicago.”
“Your father is Abraham Prewitt?” I asked.
“Yes, I…you remember?”
“I do. The area had been evacuated when I set off the explosion, but your father ran back into a burning building because he believed one of his interns was still inside. He is very brave.”
“He was,” Mr. Prewitt choked. “He passed away two weeks ago.”
“I am very sorry for your loss,” I said
“It was your fault!” Edward spat. “He never had problems with his lungs until after that fire!”
I used my neural tap to hack a few hospital records and relied heavily upon the diplomatic training that I’d suffered through while recreating Terry Markham. It felt odd, using those skills from within Doctor Fid’s armor. “Emphysema can have many root causes, and the Tyrion Solar theft occurred seventeen years ago; there is even a well-documented genetic link, you ought to be tested. Regardless, I apologize for any part that I may have had in your father’s illness. I know that it doesn’t help, but you should know that the devices that saved the Earth from alien invaders used technology evolved from his work.”
There was more. I accepted his recriminations and offered condolences; it felt like walking a minefield, naked save for a blindfold.
Now that I knew what to look for, I was able to remotely hack the studio technicians’ switchboard; there were more than two dozen calls waiting on hold. I was able to fall into a rhythm: accept, sympathize, offer anecdotes or vague explanations where appropriate. It was a performance and the creature inside the Mk 36b was experienced at pretending. This twist was unexpected, but it could still be finessed into a positive outcome.
Taking advantage of this, I thought smugly, would be no difficulty at all.
◊◊◊
When I eventually arrived home, I found Whisper in her room. I couldn’t look at her; instead, I sat at the edge of her bed, supported my elbows on my knees, and slowly lowered my head into my palms. Behind me, I heard her sit up and snake out from under her covers. When a gentle, comforting hand came to rest on my shoulder, I almost wept.
“I was fine,” I said, “until Melissa Halden called. She’d been in the crowd at my second bank robbery. A little ponytailed girl—younger than you. Smaller, too.”
“You’ve mentioned her,” Whisper replied softly.
“I just…It wasn’t a hostage situation. I never threatened them! I told the civilians to get down while I gathered the cash and ripped a dozen safe-deposit boxes from the vault. I didn’t hurt anyone, but this little girl just kept crying. Screaming.”
Whisper didn’t say anything; she just let me talk. I wondered if her Father had done this after a crime gone wrong. By all accounts, he’d been a decent man despite his villainous occupation.
“I
kept track of Melissa; it’s been two decades, but I checked on her. When she applied for college, I manipulated a few records to make sure she got a scholarship. She has friends, she’s even engaged. I thought she was fine! I didn’t hurt her! But then she was on the phone…”
“I heard.”
“She started crying, and I just kept remembering what it was like, twenty years ago. I kept hearing that high pitched scream…”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” I took a deep breath, straightened to sit upright, and turned to face my ward. Her glowing blue eyes were wide with concern, so I forced a comforting smile. “How bad do you think it will be?”
“Mmm? The response to the show, you mean?” her brows furrowed confusedly. “It won’t be bad at all. It will all work out, even better than planned.”
“I cut the interview short and ran away.” I lowered my eyes again, embarrassed.
“You didn’t run,” Whisper giggled teasingly, and some of the tension in my chest began to fade.
Technically, that was true; I hadn’t run. I’d stammered out an apology and flown straight through the studio ceiling. Fortunately, no one had been injured by falling debris.
I’d been focused solely upon the shame at my loss of control. Now, I worked through the numbers and began to believe that Whisper’s assessment was correct: my lapse might—in the end—work to Doctor Fid’s benefit. The entire show, I’d been working to portray Doctor Fid as a tragic figure looking to atone for his dark past. That role, that narrative…that was a story that the public would be willing to accept.
I knew better, of course. Doctor Fid’s dark past wasn’t something that could be atoned for; it was something to be endured.
I hadn’t seen the CapeWatch program’s final edit yet, but I expected that their portrayal would linger upon my abrupt exit. It was useful drama, certain to earn them ratings and awards. Stanley and Pamela would reach out to profilers and heroes, asking for comments. The public might empathize with the flawed, hurting Doctor Fid that they imagined. It could only aid the current endeavor. And once all this was completed—once Doctor Fid was returned to his proper villainous role—judiciously applied violence would erase the memory of any momentary weakness.