Chapter 52: Chapter fifty-one

Two years ago

 

The man walked down a street in a city and, though he had the area memorized, he couldn’t have said where he was. Cars passed, people walked and talked and went about their lives, but the man was oblivious to all of this. He had once been a hero, or at least had thought himself one. He had been known the world over and feared by criminals and warlords alike, but now he was just a man. He was unique, but now unremarkable.

When the man had left the Program, he hadn’t known his next move. He had known he didn’t want to be a part of Smythe’s machinations anymore, and had spent a lot of time planning how to get out from his thumb, but hadn’t thought through what his life would be once he was out. He could do just about anything now, he had the skill and the talent to make whatever life he wanted. He was the proverbial Bruce Wayne.

And, much like Bruce, what he wanted was to be a hero. It was all he had known his whole life and it was still what he wanted, but he wasn’t sure he really knew what that meant. Smythe’s Program wasn’t what he thought it was, but he wasn’t sure he could do any better on his own. And, after years of the Program’s activities, crime rates were about as low as one could wish for. Vigilante justice in that kind of environment would likely do more harm than good, and he didn’t have Kessington’s acumen for the world stage, so if he tried to improve the geopolitical situation, he would probably make a mess of it.

The man had broken his own rudder and was now adrift in the world.

He found himself in a bad neighbourhood and set his feet for the most secluded place he could see, a grimy area underneath an overpass, hoping that someone might jump him and he could at least put his skills to some productive use. Discouraging crime one street-fight at a time was hardly an efficient use of his abilities, much like cutting potatoes isn’t an efficient use of a high-powered laser. But it was something at least, a small chance at purpose in a listless existence.

When no one jumped him, he sat on the cold concrete and stared at nothing. The air smelled vaguely of oil and a chill was creeping into the air as night fell in earnest. He supposed he should find himself a warm place to sleep. Perhaps a hotel room. But doing so seemed pointless. He had dealt with being uncomfortable before, he could easily do so again. But staying seemed equally pointless. There was nothing keeping him there, sat in the shadow of an underpass, but nothing compelling him to leave. He had the power to do whatever he wished, but he didn’t know what that was. He had no purpose, and what good is power without purpose?

A figure moved in the shadows at the edge of his vision. At first the man thought he must have been truly far gone to not notice someone approaching. But, playing the last few moments back in his head, he realized that no, the figure had snuck up on him fair-and-square. The list of people who could do that was remarkably short, so he raised his eyes as the figure stepped out of the shadows.

 She had dark hair and dark skin, high cheekbones and, the man knew, soft lips. It was the woman who had been Five and later, Dusk. She had been the man’s only love before her death. Or, the man corrected, before she let him believe she was dead.

For another, the moment would have induced a storm of emotions, and indeed the man did feel anger, relief, joy, sadness, and many others blow through him. But, what would have been a hurricane in another, was only a breeze to the man, and the emotions gusted over him without affecting his composure.

“You’re not dead,” he said.

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“Neither are you,” she pointed out.

He shrugged at that. “You let me think you were.”

“You were with Kessington. I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

Some faraway part of the man was wounded by that, but barely enough to notice.

“Oblivion,” she said, “I need your help.”

“I’m not Oblivion anymore,” the man said. “I’ve hung up my cape. Burned it actually.”

“Well find another one,” she said. “Smythe is up to something, and I need your help to find out what. I have a plan to infiltrate the police, but I need someone more visible to stir things up, get the government looking into the Program, maybe get Smythe to make a mistake. Then I’ll have him.”

The man shrugged. “He might be corrupt, but he’s better than nothing.”

The woman he had once loved shook her head. “No. No he’s not. You might have found out about the jobs for profit, but this is worse than that.”

“And we need to stop him because?” the man asked, already guessing at the answer, but wanting to hear how she would frame it.

“Because he’s a villain,” she said, appealing to the one thing the man had wanted since he was nine years old. “And stopping villains is what heroes do.”

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