The Man Who Mistook Himself for a Superhero

by Karl El-Koura

The man in the green-and-yellow costume opened his eyes slowly, first one and then the other. He wasn’t dead. He looked down at his chest, then felt around with his fingers as if he didn’t believe his eyes. There was no blood, no gunshot wound. And yet he’d been shot; the young ruffian who had pulled the trigger was still standing there, beneath the broken streetlight. He was still holding the gun that had spit out a bullet just moments ago.

Was he crazy?

The look on the kid’s face told him he wasn’t.

He took a step forward. The kid pulled the trigger again.

There was a small pinch at his chest, as if a needle had been jabbed there—but just that, just a small pinch. He took another step.

The kid pulled the trigger again, then dropped his gun and ran. Walking over to the discarded gun, the man in the green-and-yellow costume picked it up and crushed it in his right hand, as effortlessly as he might crumple a piece of paper.

He looked around; the pretty lady was gone. He felt a pang of anger at that. True, he had told her to flee, but she could have hidden somewhere safe and come out to thank him when the coast was clear.

He put the thought out of his mind. Superheroes didn’t save people for thank-yous. Superheroes saved people because it was the right thing to do.

Beneath his mask, he was smiling widely.

So he was a superhero! He’d suspected as much when he’d woken up in the alley behind the Chinese restaurant. He couldn’t remember his name, or how he had gotten there, but there was a mirror tossed out in the dumpster and his eyes were working fine.

And what he saw when he looked in the mirror was a golden face staring back at him. There were holes for his eyes, nose, and mouth, and two wing-like extensions to cover his ears.

He wore a green-and-yellow costume made from the same strong-but-flexible material as the mask. His chest was huge, as if he’d been pumping weights since his days in the cradle. Whoever he was, he wasn’t someone to be messed with.

As he stared at his impressive reflection in that greasy mirror, he suddenly heard the lady’s scream and dashed off toward the sound without a moment’s thought for his own safety. He found the young ruffian holding the screaming lady with one hand, and a gun in the other. He felt nervous, but his voice was like thunder.

“Unhand her, ruffian!” he said, and even he was taken aback by the sound of his voice.

Startled, the kid let her go. She fell to the ground but didn’t try to get away. If anything, she seemed paralyzed by fear.

“Leave!” he said to her, and the loudness of his voice must have rung a bell in her head. She pushed herself away from the kid, then got to her feet and stumbled off until she disappeared in the darkness.

The kid pointed the gun at him.

“Big mistake, clown,” the kid said, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet came at him and he felt a sharp jab at his chest, just above his heart. But he didn’t die.

It was later that night that a police cruiser pulled up alongside him as he patrolled the streets. The passenger-side window was open, so the Defender of the Innocent and Helpless—he had not yet come up with a better name for himself, something that rolled off the tongue a bit better, even though he had already given it a lot of thought—said in his booming voice, “No assistance required, Officer.”

He kept walking, but the cop car didn’t pull away.

“What’s your name, friend?” the cop asked. He and his partner were still cruising beside him in the patrol car as he walked briskly, his head swinging side-to-side, scanning for signs of criminal activity.

“I haven’t quite decided, Officer,” he said, boomingly. Then he stopped suddenly and turned to face them. “Say, what do you think my name should be?”

The cops exchanged looks.

“Okay, fella,” the partner said. The car had stopped rolling and he opened his door and stepped out. “Why don’t we take a ride downtown?” He started walking toward him, slowly.

The Defender shook his head hesitantly and took some steps backwards. This happened a lot—superheroes were frequently frustrated in their efforts to help people by normal cops. He’d tried to be friendly with them—he’d even asked for their help in choosing a name—but obviously these guys were not about to break with the traditional cop-superhero dynamic.

The first cop was out and walking toward him too. Both had their hands on their side-arms. He didn’t want to hurt them and he didn’t want to cause a scene. Turning around quickly, he broke into a run. They were following him—he knew that without having to look over his shoulder. But he only heard one pair of pounding footsteps in pursuit; the other cop might have gotten back in the car, to try to cut the Defender off up ahead.

That was the case. The car pulled out of a side-alley and came to a stop, blocking his way. A look over his shoulder showed the other cop following on foot, if a little far back.

The Defender kept running; he knew—somehow he knew—that he could jump over the car. But when he approached the car and jumped—he kept going up. He had pushed on the ground with too much force. He looked back at the ground to see the cops below. He zoomed in on their faces and saw that they were staring up at him with amazement and awe.

He kept floating upward for a few more moments, then, with a twist of his hips, he began to fly forward, his eyes zoomed in on the moonlit city below.

The Defender was on the prowl; criminals and ill-minded ruffians beware.

 

The woman who walked through the precinct doors was astonishingly beautiful. She had rosy-red lips, blue eyes, and hair the color of a detective’s shield. She wore a smart business suit and strode purposefully to his desk.

“Have there been any reports of a man running around in a green-and-yellow costume?” she said in a sweet but no-nonsense voice. “He may have been flying around in the air,” she added helpfully.

Under different circumstances, Officer Petrowski would’ve written her off as a nut-job and had some fun with her. But the report from the cops on the graveyard shift had already made the rounds.

“Someone fitting that description may have been sighted, yes,” he said cautiously.

“Under what circumstances? Around which area?” she said, her voice full of excitement and anxiety. Petrowski wondered if the costumed guy was her boyfriend. How could he could compete with a guy who could fly?

“How about you answer my questions first?” he said. “Who is this guy? Why’s he running around in his underwear? What exactly is the nature of the relationship between the two of you?” He snuck in the last one, hoping it sounded professional.

“His name is Matthew Peber,” she said as if she half-expected Petrowski to recognize the name.

But the sarge approached his desk before Petrowski could give the name any serious thought. Petrowski explained who the lady was and who she was inquiring about, even though he knew the sarge would take her away. Indeed, the sarge asked the pretty lady into his office, promising to fill her in on the situation if she’d just answer a few questions.

Petrowski watched her go with a longing look.

“So he can fly, so what?” he muttered to himself.

 

Landing wasn’t particularly easy. The slight pain he could deal with; it was the stumbling that was embarrassing. Superheroes didn’t stumble, at least none that he could think of; he didn’t want to be the first.

The Defender was practicing in the dark, empty parking lot of a grocery store. He’d fly to the roof of the store then run to the edge and jump off. He could land without stumbling if he paused just above the ground, but he couldn’t do it in one smooth motion.

It was daylight by the time he gave up, too tired to go on any longer. Besides, the manager of the store had pulled into the lot and unlocked the front doors, and he probably wouldn’t appreciate anyone jumping off his roof during normal business hours.

But where could he go to rest? He thought about other superheroes, about where they slept when they needed to rest. Spider-Man had Peter Parker’s place to crash at, Superman had Clark Kent’s and Batman had Bruce Wayne’s mansion. Did the Defender have an alter ego? He couldn’t remember. It wouldn’t do to sleep on the street like some homeless person; that wasn’t becoming of a superhero. Maybe he could go to a motel? But he didn’t have any money to pay for a room.

Perhaps he could drop by the local police station and ask for a salary. But that wasn’t right; superheroes weren’t supposed to be on the police-force payroll. Besides, after the exchange with the two officers the night before, he probably wasn’t very popular with the cops right now. No, he needed to find a place to borrow money from. He was good for it—a guy like him certainly had marketable talents. Between the flying and the invulnerability to bullets, a ring-leader would pay through the roof to have him work with his troupe. And if he couldn’t find a circus in flying distance, he could perform on the street.

The thought of performing made him smile. People’s eyes fixed on you as you danced and sung, the very center of their attention—there was something so very appealing about that. If he took up street performing, though, he’d need a hat—a big hat.

As he walked the downtown streets, he realized that though he needed to borrow money, realistically no one would give it to him. He could steal it by breaking into a bank, but superheroes had bad PR as it was; he didn’t want to make it worse.

He had the sudden urge to take off and fly, but he pushed the urge aside. He had to walk, to make his presence known, to let honest citizens know that they need not walk in fear anymore and to send a message to dishonest citizens that they better straighten out.

Already he was making a difference. People were looking at him. Some elbowed their friends in the ribs and pointed at him. Whenever that happened, he waved in friendly greeting: he didn’t want to be one of those aloof superheroes, but a friendly neighborhood superhero. Honest citizens had to know that they had nothing to worry about when it came to him.

Despite his fatigue, he kept walking, trying to think of a solution to his present predicament. Then it hit him—he didn’t have to sleep on the street at all! Had he forgotten that he could fly? He could camp out on the roof of some high-rise.

But a well-timed rumbling from his stomach reminded him that sleep wasn’t the only thing he needed. He realized now that he should have spent the night earning money somehow instead of practicing his landings.

He walked into a corner store. A bag of chips and a chocolate bar would tide him over for a while. He was thinking that he could do some favor for the storekeeper in return; mop up the floors or get something off some high shelf. But it was his lucky day: the store was being robbed!

“Hands up, fool,” the robber said, turning his gun to point at the Defender. He wore a ski mask, but his voice was obviously that of a young man, probably still in his teens. He was swaying a little and the hand that held the gun was unsteady.

The storekeeper was behind the cash register, on an elevation, standing with his hands straight up, almost touching the ceiling. He had a terrified expression on his face. The Defender shot him a reassuring glance, but it didn’t seem to register.

“Hand over the gun, please,” the Defender said, his voice like thunder. He held out his right hand with the palm up, realizing too late that he probably shouldn’t have said please. “Now,” he added roughly.

The Defender stepped forward and the kid stumbled backwards. There was a square wooden platform behind him, supporting a pyramid of cans of tomato soup. The kid tripped over the edge of the platform and fell into the pyramid. Cans bounced off of his ski-masked head; he dropped his gun and brought up his hands to protect his head.

The Defender walked over and picked up the discarded gun. Absentmindedly, he twisted the barrel and bent it back onto itself. The would-be thief started to get up, so the Defender punched him across the face and knocked him out.

“You saved my life,” the storekeeper said, coming around and grabbing the Defender’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “Thank you!”

“Don’t mention it, citizen,” the Defender said, his voice so loud that it made the storekeeper flinch. Trying to speak a little more softly, he added, “But perhaps there is a slight reward in it for me?”

A look of cynical understanding swept over the storekeeper’s face. He smiled unhappily and said, “Well, I don’t have all that much money.”

“Actually,” the Defender said, “I was thinking more along the lines of a bag of chips and a chocolate bar, maybe?”

The storekeeper stared at the Defender.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice wary. “Help yourself.”

The Defender quickly picked out a small bag of all-dressed chips and a peanut-centered chocolate bar. Although he felt embarrassed, he tried to remember that he had earned the food.

“Also a coke?” the Defender said, looking at the fridge at the back.

“Yeah, okay,” the storekeeper said, still sounding wary.

A few blocks from the store, the Defender sat down on the sidewalk and opened his bag of chips. He’d had the chocolate bar on the way over.

As he ate, he realized that something was bothering him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it had to do with what had just happened at the store.

Was it that he had taken the food? But he’d earned that food and besides, he had been hungry. In fact, he’d made a promise to himself that as soon as he had enough money, he’d return to the store and pay back the storekeeper. He was thinking that maybe he should go to the store now and give the man an IOU, when he spotted the police car coming up the street.

There was someone in the back—perhaps the kid who had tried to rob the store.

“Hi there,” one of the cops said, as the car pulled up beside him.

“Hello,” the Defender said.

“Would you come to the station with us?” the cop asked, trying to make the request sound casual. “We need you to make a statement about what happened back there at the store.”

The Defender knew he was lying. They didn’t need his statement. He finished his drink slowly, then crumbled up the empty bag of chips.

“Where’s the nearest recycling bin?” he asked.

The cop opened the door and stepped out.

“Here,” he said, reaching out his hand, “I’ll take care of that for you.”

“That’s very kind,” the Defender said, trying to keep his voice neutral. Was it a trick? Would the cop try to grab his arm? He didn’t want to take the chance—he wasn’t concerned for himself, but for the cop. If the police wanted to hate and ostracize him, that was fine. But he wasn’t about to give them any reasons—like a cop with a broken arm—to do so.

He took off before the cop had a chance to make a move. He felt a stab in his leg and almost fell out of the sky. They had shot at him. Non-vitally, but still—they had shot at him. Cops were definitely something to avoid in the future.

But he couldn’t stay mad for long. Flying had that effect on him. Effortlessly, he rolled in the air, turning one way and then the other. Turning over once more, he put his hands on the back of his head and allowed himself to glide, watching some strangely shaped snow-white clouds for a while. He closed his eyes, drifted off, and was asleep before another minute had passed.

 

So he’s an actor?” the Mayor asked.

They were in a large boardroom on the fifth floor of city hall. The large wooden table seated twenty comfortably, but extra chairs had been brought in and, Ann estimated, at least forty people were seated around the table. There were at least that many more standing up or leaning against the walls of the room. Sam Miertman sat to her right; to her direct left was the wheezing and coughing Chief of Police. She felt herself leaning away from him, toward Sam. The Chief wore a short-sleeved shirt, and his fat, hairy arm, practically dripping with sweat, brushed up against her every time he shifted in his seat. She repressed a shudder.

“He’s not an actor,” Sam said. “He’s Tom Cruise before Risky Business, Mel Gibson before Mad Max, Brad Pitt before Thelma and Louise.”

There were blank stares all around.

“He’s the next big thing!” Sam said, exasperation in his voice. These people didn’t seem to get out to the movies. It was depressing on a professional level if nothing else.

From beside Ann, the Chief of Police said, “And you were shooting this movie when this Peber escaped?”

“He didn’t escape,” Ann said, making no effort to hide the irritation in her voice. “There was an explosion—an accident—and Matt was flung off set.”

The Chief of Police ignored her and pointed a fat, accusing finger at Sam, “This Peber is running around like some lunatic vigilante. This city won’t tolerate this kind of behavior, star or no star.”

He threw his weight against the back of the chair, which looked like it might give in, and smiled with satisfaction.

The Mayor interrupted Sam’s response. Probably for the best, Ann thought.

“What I can’t understand,” he said, “is how he can run like a cheetah and fly like an eagle, if all this was for a movie?”

Sam looked at Ann. How did one explain the movie business to a politician? How could they explain that they had been given a huge budget to shoot I, Superhero but that they ended up using most of the CG effects from Sam’s unfinished and unreleased movie, Hero By Day?

“We got a lot of money to make this movie,” Sam began. “We poured most of it into designing and building the suit. This team of inventors that we hired—DreamMachines, they come with my full and unreserved recommendation—are a bunch of overachieving geniuses. You give them enough money, they can build anything.”

He paused, then looked around the table.

“You see,” he continued, a little embarrassed, “we needed to get rid of that money, because…because—”

“Because you had to use up the entire budget,” the Mayor finished for him, off-handedly, as if he had just provided someone with a word that was on the tip of their tongue. “Or next time around you’d be screwed.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, sudden relief flooding his face. “Exactly.”

The Mayor shrugged. “I’ve worked in government for a long time,” he said, by way of explanation. “So what can we do?”

“The blast from the explosion,” Ann began. Eighty eyes turned to look at her. She took a drink from her glass of water and continued, “The blast from the explosion must have caused Matt some sort of temporary insanity. He doesn’t mean any harm at all.”

Beside her, the Chief of Police made a hmph sound.

“I say we take him down,” he said, his intertwined hands resting on his belly. “He doesn’t want to play nice, fine. But we won’t sit around while he flies in our skies and makes a menace of himself. We have a duty to protect the citizens of this city. We won’t sit around and tolerate his mob-like extortionist schemes.”

“It was a bag of chips and a coke,” Ann said fiercely, turning disgusted eyes on the Chief. “Give me a break.”

He looked at her with his satisfied smile and said, “Sure, yesterday it was a bag of chips, a chocolate bar, and a coke.” He emphasized her omission, looking around the table to make sure everyone had caught her slip and his correction of it. “But tomorrow—what will it be tomorrow, or the day after? We can’t allow him to run around this city unfettered, above the law, immune to rules and regulations.”

The Mayor said, “The Chief is right about that. We must stop him.”

There were suggestions from around the table, some more violent than others. The Fire Marshal wanted to use water from high-pressure hoses to force Matt out of the sky and pin him down. The Chief of Police wanted to try some new gluey foam they were developing for the force; it would entangle Matt, and the harder he struggled against it, the more it would constrict him, like a Chinese finger trap. Some guy named Bordan—Ann didn’t catch his title—wanted to set up a trap, with a damsel in distress and a net that would drop from the ceiling.

Sam cleared his throat. People kept talking, making suggestion after suggestion, criticizing other people’s suggestions and defending their own. Sam cleared his throat a little louder; no one paid him any attention. He cleared his throat once more. Someone beside him stopped talking for a second, then continued.

The Mayor raised his right hand slightly; the room was immediately silent.

“Go ahead, Mr. Miertman,” the Mayor said quietly.

“You should know that we have another suit,” Sam said. “For the arch-nemesis, Zortran. It’s custom built around the actor, though, and he’s not here—his first scene isn’t scheduled for weeks yet—so we’d have to fly him in from California.”

There was a short pause before the volcanic explosion of suggestions, criticisms, and defenses erupted once more. It was as if Sam had never spoken at all.

“What do you think?” Sam said, turning to Ann.

“I’m worried, Sam,” she said, her voice low enough that only Sam could hear her. “The longer he’s out there, the greater the chance he might do something that’ll get him more than a slap on the wrist. And we can’t shoot him down or set a trap for him—if he feels his life is threatened, he might do something that’ll land him in jail for the rest of his life.”

“So you think we should go with Zortran?”

“I think that’s best. If Skeet can lure Matt away from the city; if we can get the suit off and bring him back to his trailer and surround him with familiar things; if I could just talk to him for a little—”

Ann stopped speaking, recognizing the look in Sam’s eyes. He had reached a decision.

Sam rose slowly from his seat. The clatter of voices continued without a pause and he was completely ignored. Sam looked around the room at the different people. Ann could almost hear him thinking: I am a director. I directed four thousand extras in the most daring war scene in movie-making history. I got Jerry Pintosh to cry on camera—twice.

Explosively, he brought his fist down hard against the table. Everyone and everything—the glasses and pitchers of water, the notebooks and pens, the people in their chairs—seemed to jump.

“Thank you,” Sam said, using his directorial voice. “Nothing would please me more than to sit here and listen to more of your inane chatter, but if it’s all right with you—just this once, for a lark—I’d like to actually do something to resolve this situation before it’s too late.”

He had been looking around the room at all the faces with their jaws dropped. Now he turned to the Mayor and didn’t look away, as if the rest of the room had disappeared.

“Here’s what I suggest we do,” he said. “We fly in Bronson Skeet from California. He lures Matt Peber away from the city and, when it’s sufficiently safe, he overpowers our Don Quixote and forces him out of his suit.”

Sam was describing things as if they were scenes in a movie. Ann almost expected him to bring in an artist and have storyboards drawn up. But what if it didn’t happen as planned? They couldn’t simply re-shoot—this was real life, with real-life consequences. What if something happened to Matt? What if he were hurt?

Sam was still talking. At the end of his speech, he said, pointing a finger at the Mayor, “What we’d need from you is to make sure the city is empty of people at the time this goes down. We’d need you to tell everyone to stay in their homes—to not even stick their heads outside a window. If Matt decides to duke it out in the streets—hopefully he won’t, but who knows how far his madness will run?—we don’t want any innocent bystanders in the way.”

Looking at the media representatives around the room—who had been given silent observer passes into the boardroom—the Mayor said, “I think that can be arranged.”

Outside the room, Sam turned to Ann and asked her, “Do you think Skeet will go for it?”

Ann called Skeet on her cellphone. After she had explained the situation and said what she wanted from him, Skeet was silent for a moment.

“Dangerous work, huh?” Skeet said, finally.

“Yes.”

“Potentially life-threatening.”

“Yes.”

“Something could happen to Matt and I’d go to jail for it.”

Ann flinched at that but tried to keep her voice level. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”

“How much will I get paid?”

Ann said a number.

“I’ll be there on the next flight out,” Skeet said, hanging up the phone.

 

Oh, thank you!” the mother of the young baby he had just saved said to him, her voice full of joy and relief.

“You’re quite welcome, citizen,” the Defender said, trying to keep his voice from sounding too harsh. “But please remember that steep hills and baby rollers just don’t mix. I may not be around next time.”

“Oh, yes, certainly,” the mother said, in between kisses of her baby’s forehead. “I’ll keep a much tighter hold from now on! No more talking on the phone and rolling the baby, I promise!”

The Defender smiled with satisfaction and, with a parting nod to mother and baby, flew away.

As he floated above the river on the city’s edge, the Defender finally realized what it was about the thwarted robbery at the store that bothered him so much.

Soon, he realized, there would be no more burglaries, no more murders—no more criminal activity whatsoever. Who would commit a crime knowing the Defender might be watching? Who would act in an uncitizenly fashion when they might face the fury of his mighty arm?

And though that was good news—the end of crime—a part of him couldn’t help but feel a little sad at the prospect. Because where would he fit in such a world? If no one needed defending, no one would need the Defender. He’d be useless, forgotten. Like a good therapist, he was slowly putting himself out of work.

But that was foolish, wasn’t it? Just now, he had saved a small, cuddly baby from certain death. Earlier that day, he had helped an old woman carry her groceries fourteen blocks and up three flights of stairs. On his way down from that very building, he had stopped two teenagers from fighting and given them a stern lecture about alternate, non-violent means of resolving conflict. His suggestion that next time they had a disagreement, they should discuss it over a game of chess seemed to go over really well.

And besides, there was always the circus.

 

That night, he watched two ruffians from the roof of the building in whose mooncast shadow they were hiding. They had stumbled out of the bar across the street and had spent the last ten minutes discussing their plans for mugging someone.

The street was deserted, so the Defender wondered if the two drunks would tire of waiting and go away. But suddenly there was the click-click of high heels on pavement, click-clicks that were getting louder as the lady got closer.

The ruffians whispered to one another, but with his enhanced hearing the Defender heard every word. They were no longer thinking about robbery.

He flew down and landed a bit awkwardly just in front of them. He hoped the darkness sufficiently cloaked his less-than-graceful descent.

“Hello, ruffians,” he greeted, his voice booming. “Why are you standing in these shadows? You wouldn’t be planning ill-will to honest citizens, would you?”

He hoped they caught the sarcasm in his voice.

“What we’s planning to do, it’s to kick your ass,” the one on the right said.

The Defender listened for a moment—the high heels clicked toward them, toward them, toward them, paused, then clicked away quickly.

He turned his attention back to the ruffians.

“Ruffians,” he said, trying to speak sense to them. “You do not want to fight me. You—”

They were on the ground, both of them. One had a bleeding nose that he was clutching like he was afraid it might fall off and the other looked unconscious.

They had moved on him so fast, and he’d just reacted. Obviously he was very well trained in the martial arts, perhaps karate. It was instinct that had taken over when they rushed him. He was sorry they were hurt, but it was their fault and hopefully they would learn a lesson from this experience.

Picking them up and carefully slinging one over each shoulder, he flew them to the nearest hospital and dropped them in front of its doors. Their weight opened the automatic sliding doors and kept them open.

In the air again—flying always put him in a thoughtful mood—he wondered if there were others like him. Were there people in other cities in the world, endowed with special, super-human abilities as he was? Because if there were, he should try contacting them. He might even try setting up a Superhero’s Conference. It would be interesting, for example, to hear how other superheroes dealt with the police. There was lots they could teach one another, best practices and lessons learned they could share, anecdotes that only other superheroes could understand and relate to.

But then the thought struck him, running shivers up and down his spine—who’s to say that these other superhumans would use their powers for good and not evil? If these super-villains existed—if men and women had the power that he had but not his moral code—it was his duty to seek them out and put a stop to their maniacal plans to take over the world.

He might very well be the only person on earth who had the slightest chance to stop them.

 

The thief lifted the old lady’s purse with expert swiftness. There were no wasted moves in his actions and not a second of wasted time. The street was incredibly desolate for this time of day—there was hardly anyone in sight, besides the old lady and the man with her purse. The ruffian ran down the empty sidewalk, taking his time as there didn’t seem to be anyone around to listen to the old lady’s feeble cries for help.

“That purse is really not you,” the Defender said. “And it certainly doesn’t go with what you’re wearing.”

The ruffian turned to look behind him but saw no one there. The Defender, flying above him, reached out with a finger and tapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m up here,” he said.

Trying to look up at the voice that was harassing him, the ruffian tripped over his own feet and fell headfirst toward the pavement. The Defender reached out to catch him before his head hit the ground, but he was distracted by the sudden appearance of a costumed figure.

Perhaps noticing his distraction, the ruffian tried to make a getaway. Absentmindedly and without taking his eyes off the new figure, the Defender reached out and grabbed the thief by his collar.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” the new figure said, his voice as booming and intimidating as the Defender’s. He wore a red jumpsuit, lined with blue stripes and sprinkled with black “z”s.

“Give me just one second,” the Defender said, holding up a finger. Turning to the ruffian, he said, “I’ll be watching you!”

He flew the purse back to its owner, who—embarrassingly—showed her gratitude with repeated and frequent kisses. He struggled to get away from her grasping arms, assuring her that he was just doing his duty as a superhero. Finally free, he returned to the mysterious costumed figure. On the flight over, he wiped at his mask with both hands to remove any embarrassing lipstick-stains that might have been left there. He landed awkwardly in an out-of-view side-alley.

Walking toward the costumed stranger, he stuck out his hand in friendly greeting and said, “I knew there must be others!”

“I am Zortran!” the man said. “And I am here to destroy you, Alpha!”

The Defender looked over one shoulder and then the other. But he was the only person on the street.

“You have me mixed up with somebody else, Mr. Zortran,” the Defender said, finally. “Do you require my assistance in locating this Alpha?”

He wanted to be helpful. He had ambitions of becoming the President of the Association of Superheroes and every vote counted.

After a slight, awkward pause, Zortran said, “You cannot fool me, Alpha! I am here to destroy you and destroy you I will!”

The Defender nodded his head slowly. If Zortran wished to persist in this mad, violent fantasy, maybe a few knocks about the head would teach him not to walk around and threaten other superheroes’ lives. Besides, Zortran seemed to speak only in exclamation marks, which was annoying.

Now nose-to-nose with the masked figure, the Defender said, “If you value your life, turn around and never return to this city. If your life is as valueless as it seems, you may strike first.”

He took a single step backwards and held his hands at his sides, waiting.

“Not here!” Zortran said. “Follow me!”

Zortran launched into the air, and the Defender launched after him.

It became clear that they were flying away from the city, but why? Was he being led into a trap? Had a band of sinister supervillains joined and plotted the destruction of the mighty and fearsome Defender of the Innocent and Helpless? Was he being led to his own destruction?

It was dumb to go on without more information.

“Hey, Zortran,” the Defender called. “Where are we going?”

Zortran flew on without a single look backwards.

Shrugging, the Defender spiraled down and landed. He wasn’t going to allow himself to be led into some trap. Zortran kept flying, seemingly unaware that the Defender was no longer following.

He was in a deserted park—everything was deserted, it seemed—when Zortran found him later that day. The Defender had been on a park bench, catching up on some sleep, when he was awakened by that annoying, booming voice.

“I’ve found you at last, Alpha!” Zortran said.

The Defender got up slowly and rubbed his eyes.

“Hi, Zortran,” he said sleepily.

“You are a coward, Alpha! Your belly is well-colored!”

The Defender got up, fully awake. With slow, deliberate steps, he walked up to Zortran and said, his words as slow as his steps had been, “Tell me again. Tell me I’m a coward.”

“To call you a coward would be an insult to cowards everywhere! But of all the superheroes I’ve ever fought, you are the cowardliest of the bunch! You give superheroing a bad na—”

His punch had hit Zortran clean across the jaw and sent him reeling. A follow-up punch dropped Zortran right onto the grassy ground. The Defender stood over him and victoriously placed a foot on the villain’s belly.

“You were saying?” he said happily, but suddenly Zortran grabbed his foot and twisted.

Sent crashing to the ground, the Defender tried to roll over and get up. But Zortran was still holding his ankle and his grip was firm, seemingly unbreakable. Zortran grabbed the Defender by the other ankle and began spinning the Defender around his body—once, twice, three times. Then he let him go.

The Defender hit a tree and toppled it over. His shoulder screamed with pain and seemed to have dislocated. But Zortran was already on him, before he even had a chance to move. Lifting him up over his head, the villain flew up a few feet into the air and threw him against the ground.

Although he was winded, the Defender forced himself to his feet—and fell right back down. His ankle was broken.

“Had enough?” Zortran said, coming into view.

With all his might, the Defender swung his elbow at Zortran’s right knee and smiled with satisfaction as the villain fell to the ground. He punched Zortran across the face, then jumped on him and held him pinned to the ground, his hands squeezing the villain’s red-masked neck.

“Have you?” he said. Dislocated shoulder or not, broken ankle or not—he was good and Zortran was evil. He had a moral obligation to win this fight.

But Zortran had amazing flexibility—he kicked up his left leg and hit the Defender right in the back of the head. Shaken, the Defender loosened his grip on Zortran’s neck and that was all the encouragement Zortran needed. Seemingly in one movement, he rolled the Defender over and wrapped his own hands around the Defender’s neck.

Zortran was squeezing with all his might.

“I can’t—I—can’t—breathe,” he said, gasping. Was this the end of the Defender of the Innocent and Helpless?

But, amazingly, Zortran loosened his grip.

The Defender kneed him in the groin. He pulled himself up, then hopping on his left foot, he flew away. He needed time to rest and recuperate.

But Zortran wouldn’t let him get away. He felt his broken ankle grabbed from behind and screamed out in pain. In the air, Zortran flung him around himself once again—once, twice, three times—and the Defender was sent flying against a brick building.

He tried to twist in the air, but the brick wall came at him too quickly. He hit it head first, then he felt darkness closing in.

 

Matt?”

   His eyes slowly came open. His vision was swimming but he recognized the beauty at its center.

“Ann,” he said, his throat so dry it hurt to speak. “Hi.”

She seemed very happy that he recognized her.

“Do you remember what happened, Matt?” she asked, concern in her voice.

He tried to nod but couldn’t—he was in a neck brace.

“Yes,” he said. “I think so.”

He was in a hospital bed, select body parts wrapped in casts. Flowers and cards filled the small, private room.

“How much do you remember?” she asked.

He was Matt Peber, actor. They had been filming on location for a scene in his latest project when an explosion sent him flying; he landed in a large dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant. When he awoke, he found himself in a costume and believed he was a superhero. A few days later, he had an encounter with Zortran, played by Bronson Skeet. He remembered everything.

“Thank God,” Ann said. “We were afraid there might be permanent memory loss or brain damage.”

She kissed him on the cheek and he winced in pain.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you woke up thinking you were still Alpha,” she said. “That was my biggest fear.”

“Why?” he asked, trying to prop himself up but failing. “I was helping people.”

Ann had a sad look on her face. “No, you weren’t,” she said. “You were just making a fool of yourself.”

“I was helping people,” Matt said stubbornly.

Ann shook her head. Did she think he was still crazy? He didn’t want her to think that. But he had helped people, hadn’t he? That old lady, and the careless mother? And those kids he’d given the talking-to? The storekeeper and the screaming lady held up at gunpoint?

“Are we still shooting the movie?” he asked, trying to change the topic.

Ann shrugged. “Not sure,” she said. Was it his imagination or was she suddenly cold? “Maybe later; right now we’re on indefinite hiatus.”

“Where’s the costume?” he asked, trying to make the question sound innocent.

Her eyes narrowed.

“In storage, with the rest of the props, of course,” she said, definitely displeased. Then, almost to herself, she added, “I was afraid of this.”

Matt reached out his good arm and ran his fingers through her hair.

“Don’t be cold,” he said. “Please.”

Her face softened and she planted another painful kiss on his cheek. “Please tell me you don’t think you’re a superhero,” she said.

“I don’t think I’m a superhero,” he answered reasonably. “I just think that I might be able to help people, if I were given the chance. That’s all.”

Ann got up. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said and left him all alone in the room. It didn’t escape his notice that she hadn’t kissed him good-bye.

Forget Ann, he told himself. He was surrounded by cards and flowers and candy from other people, people who cared about him. He gathered up the cards he could reach and read through them. Most told him not to feel embarrassed about what happened. It wasn’t his fault. It was all in the past, anyway, and worrying about past embarrassments, even when they were played out so publicly, was a waste of energy.

He pushed the cards off his bed.

He picked up the remote control and turned on the television. He surfed through the channels absentmindedly—until he saw his name. There was a panel discussion on him. One of the panelists thought the whole thing had been some kind of advance promotion for the film. All the panelists agreed that, whatever it was, the idea of some guy running around in his underwear, trying to help people, was just hilarious. “I wish I’d been there to see it,” one of them said and they all laughed. On another channel, an anchorman related the story with a smirk, shaking his head as if he could hardly believe it himself. The anchorman reminded his viewers that it takes all kinds of people to make up this world of ours.

 

Matt had a lot of time to think in the days he spent recovering in that lonely hospital room. He had been a fool, hadn’t he? He really hadn’t helped anyone—except to a good laugh at his expense.

Was he finished as an actor? Could anyone take him seriously again? Or was he forever a laughing stock, the crazy freak who for a short time thought he was a superhero?

It didn’t matter. The only thing he could do was to put the whole experience behind him. The public had a short memory and they’d soon forget all about it. Soon, newscasts and editorials would stop ridiculing him. Soon, comedians would take their shots at someone else.

He didn’t want to make the movie anymore. It would only serve as a constant reminder of his foolishness, his moment of temporary insanity played out so publicly. He wanted to put the Defender—or Alpha or whatever he was called—as far behind him as possible.

He couldn’t wait to tell Ann the good news.