Hero is a Four Letter Word

by J. M. Frey

  This must be what people mean by time flying.

  I’m not certain I’ve ever felt that strange loss of seconds ever before. I am so very used to being able to track everything. It’s disconcerting. I don’t like it.

  And yet the boy is downed, the police are here, paramedics crawling over the dead and dying like swarming ants. I wait for them to find my prize, to pull her free of the SUV’s shadow and whisk her away to die under ghastly fluorescent lights, too pumped full of morphine to know she is slipping away.

  I wait in the shadow of the wheel and hope that they miss me.

  They do.

  Only, in missing me, they miss her, as well. She is blinking, gritty and desperate, and now the police are leaving, and the paramedics are shunting their human meat into the sterile white cubes, and they have not found her, my fascinating, panting young lady.

  Oh dear. This is a dilemma.

  I am reformed. I am no longer a villain. But I am also no hero and I like my freedom far too much to want to risk it by bringing her to the attention of the officials. What to do? Save her and risk my freedom, or let her die, and walk free but burdened with the knowledge of yet another life that I might have been able to save, and didn’t?

  I dither too long. They are gone. Only the media are left, and I certainly don’t want them to catch me in their unblinking grey lenses. The woman blinks, sad and slow. She knows that she is dead. It’s coming. Her fingers twitch towards me — reaching.

  A responsible, honest citizen would not let her die. So I slink out of my shadow and gather her up, the butterfly struggle of her pulse in her throat against my arm, and slip away through my secret tunnel.

  I steal her away to save her life.

  It occurs to me, when I lean back and away from the operating table, my hands splashed with gore, that I’ve kidnapped this woman. She has seen my face. Others will see the neat way I’ve made my nanobots stitch the flesh and bone of her shoulder back together. They will recognize the traces of the serum that I’ve infused her with in order to speed up her healing, because I once replaced the totality of my blood with the same to keep myself disease free, young looking, and essentially indestructible. The forensics agents will know this handiwork for mine.

  And then they will know that at least one of my medical laboratories escaped their detection and their torches. They will fear that. No matter that I gave my word to that frowning judge that I had been reformed, no matter that the prison therapist holds papers signed to that effect, no matter that I’ve personally endeavoured to become and remain honest, forthright, and supportive; one look at my lair will remind them of what I used to be, what they fear I might still be, and that will be enough. That will be the end. I will go back to the human zoo.

  And I cannot have that. I’ve worked too hard to be forgotten to allow them to remember.

  I take off the bloody gloves and apron and put them in my incinerator, where they join my clothing from earlier tonight. I take a shower and dress — jeans, a tee-shirt, another nondescript wash-greyed hoodie: the uniform of the youth I appear to number among. Then I sit in a dusty, plush chair beside the cot in the recovery room and I wait for her to wake. The only choice that seems left to me is the very one I had been trying to avoid from the start of this whole mess — the choice to go bad, again. I’ve saved her life, but in doing so, I’ve condemned us both.

  Fool. Better to have let her died in that garage. Only, her eyes had been so green, and so sad …

  I hate myself. I hate that the Power Pussy might have been right: that the only place for me is jail; that the world would be better off without me; that it’s a shame I survived her last, powerful assault.

  When she wakes, the first thing the young woman says is, “You’re Proffes —”

  I don’t let her finish. “Please don’t say that name. I don’t like it.”

  Her sentence stutters to a halt, unsaid words tumbling from between her teeth to crash into her lap. She looks down at them, wringing them into the light cotton sheets, and nods.

  “Olly,” I say.

  Her face wrinkles up. “Olly?”

  “Oliver.”

  The confusion clears, clouds parting, and she flashes a quirky little gap between her two front teeth at me. “Really? Seriously? Oliver?”

  I resist the urge to bare my own teeth at her. “Yes.”

  “Okay. Olly. I’m Rachel.” Then she peers under the sheet. She cannot possibly see the tight, neat little rows of sutures through the scrubs (or perhaps she can, who knows what powers people are being born into nowadays?), but she nods as if she approves and says, “Thank you.”

  “I couldn’t let you die.”

  “The Prof would have.”

  “I’m Olly.”

  She nods. “Okay.”

  “Are you thirsty?” I point to a bottle of water on the bedside table.

  She makes a point of checking the cap before she drinks, but I cannot blame her. Of course, she also does not know that I’ve ways of poisoning water through plastic, but I won’t tell her that. Besides, I haven’t done so.

  “So,” she says. “Thank you.”

  I snort, I can’t help it. It’s a horribly ungentlemanly sound, but my disbelief is too profound.

  “Don’t laugh. I mean it,” she says.

  “I’m laughing because you mean it. Rachel.” I ask, “How old are you?”

  She blushes, a crimson flag flapping across a freckled nose, and I curse myself this weakness, this fascination with the human animal that has never managed to ebb, even after all that time in solitary confinement.

  “Twenty-three,” she says. She is lying — her eyes shift to the left slightly, she wets her lips, her breathing increases fractionally. I see it plain as a road sign on a highway. I also saw her ID when I cleaned out her backpack. She is twenty-seven.

  “Twenty-three,” I allow. “I was put into prison when you were eight years old. I did fifteen years of a life sentence and was released early on parole for good behaviour and a genuine desire to reform. The year prior to my sentencing I languished in a city cell, and the two before that I spent mostly tucked away completing my very last weapon. Therefore, the last memory you can possibly have of the ‘Prof,’ as you so glibly call him, was from when you were six.” I sit forward. “Rachel, my dear, can you really say that at six years old you understood what it meant to have an honest to goodness supervillain terrorizing your home?”

  She shakes her head, the blush draining away and leaving those same freckles to stand out against her glowing pale skin like ink splattered on vellum.

  “That is why I laughed. It amuses me that I’ve lived so long that someone like you is saying thank you to me. Ah, and I see another question there. Yes?”

  “You don’t look old enough,” she says softly.

  I smile and flex a fist. “I age very, very slowly.”

  “Well, I know that. I just meant, is that part of the … you know, how you were born?”

  “No,” I say. “I did it to myself.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  I flop back in my chair, blinking. No one has ever asked me that before. I’ve never asked myself. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Would you?”

  She shrugs, and then winces, pressing one palm against her shoulder. “Maybe,” she admits. “I always thought that part of the stories was a bit sad. That the Prof has to live forever with what he’s done.”

  “No, not forever,” I demur. “Just a very long time. May I ask, what stories?”

  “Um! Oh, you know, social science — recent history. I had to do a course on the Superhero Age, in school. I was thinking of specializing in Vigilantism.”

  “A law student, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “How urbane.”

  “Yes, it sort of is, isn’t it?” She smiles faintly. “What is it about superheroes that attracts us mousy sorts?”

  “I could say something uncharitable about ass-hugging spandex and cock cups, but I don’
t think that would apply to you.”

  “Cape Bunnies?” she asks, with a grin. “No, definitely not my style.”

  “Cape Bunn — actually, I absolutely have no desire to know.” I stand. I feel weary in a way that has nothing to do with my age. “If you are feeling up to it, Rachel, may I interest you in some lunch?”

  “Actually, I should go,” she says. “I feel fantastic! I mean, this is incredible. What you did. I thought I was a goner.”

  “You nearly were,” I say.

  “And thank you, again. But my mom must be freaking out. I should go to a hospital or something. At least call her.”

  “Oh, Rachel,” I say softly. “You’ve studied supervillains. You know what my answer to that has to be.”

  She is quiet for a moment, and then those beautiful green eyes go wide. “No,” she says.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to trade my freedom for yours. I thought I was doing good. For once.”

  “But … but,” she stutters.

  “I can’t.”

  She blinks and then curses. “Stupid, I’m not talking about that! I mean, they can’t really think that about you, can they? You saved my life. This … this isn’t a bad thing!”

  I laugh again. “Are you defending me? Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Don’t condescend to me!” she snaps. “That’s not fair. You’ve done your time. You saved me. Isn’t that enough for them?”

  “Oh, Rachel. You certainly do have a pleasant view of the world.”

  “Don’t call me naive!” The way she spits it makes me think that she says this quite often.

  “I’m not,” I say. “Only optimistic.” I gesture through the door. “The kitchen is there. I will leave the door unlocked. I’ve a closet through there — take whatever you’d like. I’m afraid your clothing was too bloody.”

  “Fine,” she snarls.

  I nod once and make my way into the kitchen, closing the door behind me to leave her to rage and weep in privacy. I know from personal experience how embarrassing it is to realize that your freedom has been forcefully taken from you, in public.

  I built this particular laboratory-cum-bolthole in the 1950s, back when the world feared nuclear strikes. I was a different man then, though no less technologically apt, and so it has been outfitted with all manner of tunnels and closets, storage chambers, libraries, and bedrooms. The fridge keeps food fresh indefinitely, so the loaf of bread, basket of tomatoes and head of lettuce I left here in1964 are still fit makings for sandwiches. I also open a can of soup for us to share.

  She comes out of the recovery room nine thousand and sixty-six seconds — fifteen point eleven minutes — after; a whole three minutes longer than I had estimated she would take. There is stubbornness in her that I had not anticipated, but for which I should have been prepared. She did not die in that garage, and it takes great courage and tenacity to beat off the Grim Reaper.

  “I’m sorry, Oliver,” she says, and sits in the plastic chair. I suppose the look is called “retro” now, but this kitchen was once the height of taste.

  “Why are you apologizing to me?” I set a bowl in front of her. She doesn’t even shoot me a suspicious look; I suppose she’s decided to take the farce of believing me a good person to its conclusion.

  “It sucks that you’re so sure people are going to hate you.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  She pouts miserably and sips her soup. It’s better than the rage I had been expecting, or an escape attempt. I wasn’t looking forward to having to chase her down and wrangle her into a straitjacket, or drug her into acquiescence. I would hate to have to dim that keen gaze of hers.

  I sit down opposite her and point to her textbook, propped up on my toaster oven for me to read as I stirred the soup. It had been in the bloody backpack I stripped from her, and seemed sanitary enough to save. Her cell phone, I destroyed.

  “This is advanced, Rachel,” I say. “Are you enjoying it?”

  She flicks her eyes to the book. “You’ve read it.”

  “Nearly finished. I read fast.”

  “You didn’t flip to the end?”

  “Should I?”

  “No,” she blurts. “No. Go at your own pace. I just … I mean, I do like it,” she said. “Especially the stuff about supervillain reformation.”

  I sigh and set down my spoon. “Oh, Rachel.”

  “I’m serious, Oliver! Just let me make a phone call. I promise, no one will arrest you. I won’t even tell them I met you.”

  “You won’t have to.”

  She slams her fists into the tabletop, the perfect picture of childish frustration. “You can’t keep me here forever.”

  “I can,” I say. “It is physically possible. What you mean to say is, ‘You don’t want to keep me here forever.’”

  She goes still. “Do you want to?”

  I can. I know I can. I can be like one of those men who kidnaps a young lady and locks her in his basement for twenty years, forcing her to become dependent on him, forcing her to love him. But I don’t want to. I’ve nothing but distaste for men who can’t earn love, and feel the need to steal it. Cowards.

  “No,” I say.

  “Then why are you hesitating? Let me go.”

  “Not until you’re fully healed, at least,” I bargain. I’m not used to bargaining. Giving demands, yes. But begging, never. “When no trace of what I’ve done remains. Is that acceptable? But in return, you must not try to escape. You could hurt yourself worse, and frankly I don’t want to employ the kind of force that would be required to keep you. That is my deal.”

  “You promise?”

  I sneer. “I don’t break promises.”

  “I know,” she says. “I read about that, too. Okay. It’s a deal.”

  I spend the night working on schematics for a memory machine. I’ve never tampered with the mind of another before — I respect intellect far too much to go mucking about in someone’s grey matter like a child in a tide pool — but I have no other choice. Rachel cannot remember our time together.

  Rachel sleeps in one of the spare bedrooms. She enjoyed watching old movies all afternoon, and I confess I enjoyed sitting beside her on the sofa. We had frozen pizza for dinner, and her gaze had spent almost as much time on the screen as on my face.

  In the morning, my blueprints are ready and my chemicals begin to simmer on Bunsen burners. I leave the lab and find her at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and flipping through my scrapbook. It’s filled with newspaper articles and photos, wanted posters and DVDs of news broadcasts. I’ve never thought to keep it in a safe or to put it away somewhere because, besides Miss Rachel, no one has ever been to this bolthole but me.

  “You found the soymilk, I see,” I say. She nods and doesn’t look up from her intense perusal of a favourite article of mine, the only one where the reporter got it. “And my book.”

  “It’s like a shrine,” she says. “I thought you’d hate all these superheroes, but there’s just as much in here about them as you.”

  “I’ve great respect for anyone who wants to better the world.” I touch the side of the coffeepot — still warm. I pour myself a cup and sit across from her.

  “See … that’s what’s freaking me out, a bit,” she says. “You’re such a …”

  “What?”

  “You seem like such a sweet guy.”

  I laugh again.

  “What?”

  “Don’t mistake my youth for sweetness.”

  “I’m not, but … I don’t know, you’re not a supervillain.”

  “I’m not a superhero, either.”

  “You can be something in the middle. You can just be a nice guy.”

  “I’ve never been just a ‘nice guy,’ Rachel. Not even before.”

  “I think you’re being one now.” She leans across the table and kisses me. I don’t close my eyes, or move my mouth. This is a surprise too, but an acceptable one.

  When she sits back, I ask, “Is this why you were
studying my face so intently last night while you pretended to watch movies?”

  She blushes again, and it’s fascinating. “Shut up,” she mumbles.

  I smile. “Are you a Cape Bunny after all, Miss Rachel?”

  “A Labcoat Bunny, maybe,” she says. “I’ve always gone for brain over brawn.”

  “Who are you lashing out against,” I ask calmly, my tone probably just this side of too cool, “that you think kissing the man who has kidnapped you is a good idea?”

  Rachel drops back down into her seat. “Way to ruin the moment, Romeo.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  “No one!”

  “And, that, dear Rachel, is a lie.”

  She throws up her hands. “I don’t know, okay! My mother! The school! The courts! The whole stupid system! A big stupid world that says the man who saved my life has to go to jail for it!”

  “I am part of the revenge scheme, then,” I say. “If you come out of your captivity loving your captor, then they cannot possibly think I am evil. You have it all planned out, my personal redemption. Or perhaps this is a way to earn a seat in that big-ticket law school?”

  She stares at me, slack jawed, a storm brewing behind those beautiful green eyes. “You’re a bit of a dick, you know that?”

  “That is what the Crimson Cunt used to —”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  “Why not? The Super Slut won’t hear me say it. Not under all this concrete.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Why?” I sneer. “Protecting a heroine you’ve never met?”

  “She deserves better, even from you!”

  “Oh, have I ruined your image of me, Rachel? Am I not sweet and misunderstood anymore?”

  “You still shouldn’t —”

  “What, hate her? She put me in jail!” I copy her and slam my fists on the tabletop. My mug topples, hot liquid splashing out between us. “I think I’ve a right to be bitter about that.”

  “But it was for the good! It made you better.”

  “No, it made me cowed. I’ve lost all my ambition, dear Rachel. And that is why I am just a normal citizen. I am too tired.”

  “But Divine —”