Daniel Peterson

Falling down is the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore. There’s a rush when your insides are catching up with your outsides. The whole world yawns before you, and in that moment, you feel you could go anywhere. And not a person is around to tell you otherwise or you can’t do it or you ought to be an example. There’s no one to say wrong is right or you should lie to speak the truth.

I wish I could fly. I hate those bastards who were lucky enough to have that power.

Me? I can only fall.

I plummeted past a sea of dirty glass. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of the cubicles and offices and the people, but I don’t like to look in that direction. I didn’t like to look in any direction. This crumbling concrete and rusted city wasn’t exactly something worth seeing. I held my eyes shut and just imagined I was anywhere else. I often imagined the ocean. I always liked the ocean.

You might ask how I could know the ground was coming. You get a feel for these things once you do it long enough. Or at least, that’s what I want to tell myself. I’ve always been tempted to wait for that rush of concrete, but there’s always something that makes me open my eyes at the last second. And a blink later, I’m standing on the street safe and sound. Teleportation sounds like a nice superpower to have, and it is. I just wish I could fly.

I wake up from my dream, and I’m surrounded by the usual police cars. Behind them are the flashes of phone cameras, and behind them are the faces of the gawking crowd. Already they are cordoning me off with yellow tape, and I wait there for someone to put me in handcuffs. They know they don’t have to send anyone serious. They know I have nowhere to go.

“That’s the third time this month,” Jayne said, sipping his coffee as I’m cuffed. “You know you aren’t allowed.”

“I swear I saw someone jump off.” I make the same excuse I have a thousand times, grinning as my head is slammed down on the hood of the police car. CitySec always likes to play it rough around abnormals. That’s what a superhero is the second they do something they aren’t supposed to—an abnormal.

Jayne sighed and he watches passively as I’m put away. “You can’t keep doing this. It draws bad attention, bad public image.”

“I thought all publicity was good publicity,” I joked as an armored car rolls up. “Isn’t that what Walter says?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Not this kind.”

I’m thrown in the back of the armored truck. They know they don’t need the truck, but I appreciate the gesture. The walls are Zurchon-lined steel, and the guys with riot gear have guns which shoot Zurchon-tipped bullets. It’s a headache for someone as powerful as me, but it makes them feel safer, I guess.

The drive is a long and quiet one. They’re rarely anything else. A CitySec officer with a sense of humor is hard to come by, and the one that doesn’t hate abnormals is even harder. First in and first out, usually on a stretcher. Never mind that it’s The Urban Defenders who are handed the nastiest jobs. I suppose that doesn’t matter much to the guy who has to go home to his shitty apartment while we get the penthouse floor of a skyscraper. Still, a little appreciation would’ve been nice.

“I heard they’re making a new Captain Eagle movie. Any of you see the trailer for it yet?” Two black of the six visors swivel towards me.

“Yeah, it’s got Danny Meyers in it. I don’t think he’s good for the role. Doesn’t have the—” One of the officers tased me with his electric baton.

“Fuck! All right!” I shouted. I decided to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the drive. Whatever people like to think of me, I’m not a smartass. I hate smartasses. It’s just that I hate everyone else just a little more. I pounded my ribs, trying to get the knot of pain to go away. Thank goodness I wasn’t wearing my superhero suit. It’s a little more than spandex and a cowl. I rested my elbows on my knees and grimaced. Through the reinforced glass I saw Jayne in a police car following shortly behind.

How much paperwork did I just throw on his lap? Too much. I made a mental note to swipe some scotch for him later.

Eventually, the armored truck pulls up to Defender’s Tower. It stands out like a sore thumb because it’s one of the relatively few skyscrapers in City 57 that’s not falling apart. I crack my neck as we go around and descend into the basement garage. The armored truck stops at the sub-level entrance, otherwise politely titled “Rehabilitation”. Two of the guards with me open the door, and I’m violently dragged out.

I already know where to go, a glass door flanked by two guys wearing blue and yellow Starcorp uniforms. I took a step forward only for an arcing pain to shoot through my back. My legs gave out under me, and I would’ve yelled a few expletives if I wasn’t already screaming in pain.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Jayne jumped out of his police car while it’s still moving. He ran over to CitySec ready to throw fists. Grimacing, I saw him square to the man who tased me in the back. “He is not your problem anymore! He’s not your problem! You got that!? Second he steps in this garage, he’s StarCorp’s. Take your men and go!” He pointed back out to the exit.

The CitySec guys hesitantly piled back in their vehicles, while Jayne helped me back to my feet. “You learn your lesson yet?” Jayne asked as I brushed myself off.

“I just wanted some time to myself,” I grunted, the humor already beaten out of me. It wasn’t even eight in the morning, and I was tired.

Jayne clapped me on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you in the tank. Sooner you get in, sooner you get out.”

The StarCorp guys are at least a lot gentler. They know me. That’s the reason I don’t give them any shit like I sometimes do with CitySec. You don’t screw with the people who can actually make your life a living hell.

They lead down a concrete hall filled with pipes, and out we exit onto a series of walkways overlooking five vats. It’s the Urban Defenders’ personal sensory deprivation tanks, always waiting for us at the bottom of our own tower. At least it’s not the ASA’s. This is a much nicer prison all things considered. The grated catwalks aren’t rusted over and covered with blood and piss and who knows what else.

A technician waits at my vat. He’s already got the whole thing ready to go, even holding the scuba mask in hand. Say what you will about Walter’s operation, it’s professional, even I got to give the bastard credit for that.

Jayne put his hands on his belt as he stooped over to look into the giant vat of water. “You’re lucky. Walter needs you on point today. You got one hour in the tank, thirty minutes to freshen up, and then you need to be at the Hero’s Room.”

I look down at myself. I’m wearing some civvies I nicked from a locker room in the tower. In my defense, I left a pretty big wad of cash in its place. All I have access to normally is my superhero costume and my training clothes, which aren’t exactly great for winter. Or impromptu skydiving in winter for that matter.

“Any chance I can change out?” I asked.

Jayne gave me a glance up and down. “You’re going to want those thirty minutes.”

I sighed, grabbing the scuba mask from the technician. Strapping it on, it was heavy, connected to an air hose. Unlike most scuba masks, there weren’t any goggles to let you see out of. But I’ve done this enough times to know where to jump.

The icy water is awful. It’s just darkness, the rush of something enveloping you, and then you’re freezing. I couldn’t see or hear it, but I knew the lid of the vat was being closed over me. Some people say that’s the worst part, the claustrophobia of it all. Personally, I think it’s the cold, the way it just seeps in you. Have you ever touched a corpse? Ice cold. I’ve always had a bit of a nightmare, strange one, but sometimes I think you don’t leave your body when you die. You’re just stuck there, forever cold, lowered and buried in the ground.

That’s what’s being in the tank is like for me—like being a corpse. Honestly, I was glad that sensory deprivation cancelled out superpowers. If it didn’t, I would’ve teleported out of there in a second. And then I would be in even bigger trouble.

So I floated there, clutching my shoulders and digging my fingers into my arms to try to squeeze some warmth back. It always amazes me, the creativity of cancelling out superpowers. Don’t ask me the mechanics of it, but sensory deprivation just shuts that side of you off. What’s more, the mask emits a high-pitched noise disorienting your own internal perception.

Zurchon. Electricity. Sound. Hell, there’s a lot of ways normals like to try to even the odds. Still, rarely as good as sending another super though.

I was thankful I was only going to be in here an hour. Usually I’m put in for half a day or so, and even that’s light compared to what they do over at the ASA. They got specialized equipment to keep you in the pitch, freezing black for weeks if not months. Plus abnormals are typically durable like that. Our bodies can generally take a lot more punishment. You ever hear about people who were frozen and then revived healthily hours later? It’s the same thing with us.

And if they pump you full of the right drugs, they can even put you in the long sleep. Some people spend the remainder of their lives in the tank. I don’t think you can live past a year or two or so, at least, I’ve never heard of anyone coming out after that long.

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Ugh. I shivered and grimaced in pain. Cold was setting in good now, and I still had a long ways to go.

…

There was a tug on the oxygen cord. I was being pulled, and I was so cold all I could do was limply hang there and let the winch take me up. It was dark, but I felt my body break the surface of the water. Two pairs of hands grabbed me and dragged me back on the metal catwalk. A technician rips the mask off my head, and I gasped as I took in fresh air again.

The light was blinding, and for a while, all I could do was blink and regain the feeling in my limbs. Glancing up, I saw the blurry figure of Jayne standing over me. He threw a towel over me and started drying me up despite himself wearing a nice black blazer and slacks. I finally started shivering again.

“I hate my life,” I muttered under my breath.

“Ever think of taking it easy and not being a dumbass?” Jayne cracked a tired smile as he took a step back and crossed his arms.

I got up on my elbows and looked up at him. “Every day. It’s just… I forget how bad this part is.”

“Well next time, try to remember.”

I groaned and grabbed the railing as I tried to get to my feet. Jayne offered a hand to help me up, but I didn’t take it.

Jayne handed me a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. The No. 3 Chicken and Bacon from Dave and Marcy’s. My favorite. I owed that man twice now.

Jayne raised his wrist expectantly and looked at his watch. “While you were lying there getting water over all my new shoes, ten minutes passed. You’ve got twenty to eat and get in costume.”

“Think I need a shower?”

Jayne sniffed the air. “I think the tank took care of that for you.”

I took a bite of my sandwich. “Eh, I want one anyway.”

Teleporting to the penthouse, top of Defender Tower, I was back in my messy room and messier bathroom. I chomped down on my sandwich while I constantly tested the hot water, waiting painfully for my freezing body to get the memo. The next ten minutes passed by too quickly, and I was in a last minute rush to get my costume on. I just threw my purple cowl over my head instead of trying to search for my comb. A blink and a jump later, I was standing in front of the two giant bronze doors that marked the entrance to the Hero’s Room.

I also appeared right next to Yellow Bolt—Rob, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. “What the f—” He quickly clamped down on his mouth, aware that there were always ears around. “You can’t just do that man! I thought we talked about this!”

“Sorry,” I said, still fumbling with my purple gloves. “I had a rough morning.”

“Yeah, I know. Who do you think Walter called when the alarm went up!?” Yellow Bolt pointed a finger at my chest. “Listen, I didn’t care when it was just you in the shit, but I’m your assigned babysitter now. And when you drag me into this, that’s when this gets personal.” Electricity crackled in his hands.

“I’ll make it up,” I promised.

“How?” Rob demanded.

I glanced down at his watch. Rob sighed and crackled electricity over it, temporarily disrupting the microphone.

“Greg the Janitor. He’s my supply guy. I can get you cigarettes, as many as you need.” I waved my hands, trying to emphasize what would be an absolute pain for me to barter.

Rob nodded, and I saw his face go from anger to a look of keen interest. He stepped close to me. “Five packs, and I’ll let you off for a good while.”

“Three.” I tried to haggle down for the sake of my comic book collection.

“Five… or I’ll electrocute your ass in the tub.”

I gritted my teeth. “Deal.” We quickly shook hands, and I tried to keep myself from wincing.

We waited outside the huge bronze doors. I suppose it was typical Walter, making us wait for a meeting he called. I was tempted to teleport away to get some coffee, but if those doors opened and I wasn’t here… I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms, tapping my foot to a beat I couldn’t quite remember.

“Where’s Sarah and the rest?” I asked.

“She’s off on a photoshoot with Carl. John’s probably in there with Walter.”

“Kiss ass,” I grumbled. As much as I hated him for it, didn’t do much good that I was probably one too. I was StarCorp born and raised, right out of one of their protective parent programs. They put me in super-camp when I was seven, not three months after my powers manifested. Spent the next ten years in circuit competing for contracts. I was a believer back then. I think everyone is, until the first field mission.

There was a groan in the metal as hydraulics began to pull the great bronze doors open. Yellow Bolt and I stood back as we let the yawning portal open before walking in. The Hero’s Room was lavish, I don’t think the likes of Walter Alvarez knew how to do anything differently.

There was a wide marble foyer which had a huge holographic projector built into the floor. At all times there was a 3-D representation of the city, complete with pings where CitySec was requesting assistance. It was mostly for show, of course. We were only allowed to respond when there was nothing in our schedule for the day—which was a rare thing. And by the time we got permission and could go there, the problem was already resolved.

Off to the left was a lounge complete with a bar and a pool table. It wasn’t for the Urban Defenders but for Walter’s friends and business partners. Still, I’ve snuck us in a few times over the years. Wasn’t exactly too fun of a time, even I didn’t dare to touch Walter’s alcohol. Off to the right was Walter’s office, big glass doors leading into a room with a bigger mahogany desk. That was the yelling room.

There were twin staircases which curved upward into a steel platform with a semicircular conference table. The gimmick allowed Walter to be sitting in the center looking down on whoever came in. And behind him was a big glass wall overlooking the city, the one thing Walter couldn’t spruce up for his tower in the heavens. The brown expanse was an eyesore, even on the best of days.

“Nighthawk! You care to have an explanation for why I’ve been on the phone with CitySec for the past two hours?” Walter rapped his hand on the conference table.

“Saving lives, sir!” I called back.

Walter snorted in disgust. “You think you got off easy? You’re going right back in the tank after this. And Yellow Bolt, if he so much as tiptoes out of this building again without my say so, I’m throwing you in too.”

I caught John’s eye as we climbed up the stairs and joined them at the conference table. He was hiding a smile, smugly looking down on us as we took our seats to the left of Walter. I was at the end of the table. There wasn’t assigned seating or anything. I just couldn’t stand to sit anywhere near Walter or John.

“Now if we’re done with this morning’s clusterfuck.” Walter waved his hand and miniature holographic displays appeared in front of us. “We have to deal with our social media drop. Engagement has been down twenty-three percent these past three months. Our merchandising sales are down fifteen percent, and after our recent loss at the intercity competitions, we’re looking worse than ever. Currently we’re ranked 129th on polls for C-Rank, and if things continue the way they are, we could drop to the bottom 200s.”

As I was skimming the social sphere, I saw someone had posted a video of my recent skyscraper diving debacle. If I had access to my main account, I would’ve reposted it with a thumbs up. But I wasn’t allowed on social media anymore. Those privileges were taken away when I joked about teleporting our homeless problem into the Hudson. Since then, hashtag free Nighthawk has been in the replies of every post my account handler made.

But what was hilarious was that I was the only one of the Urban Defenders who was trending. And since this morning, there’d been a sharp uptick in Nighthawk action figure sales.

I hid a grin as I pretended to care about the conversation.

“…outreach programs aren’t getting attention like they used to. People aren’t interested in charity work or rescue services. They want to see blood, and we’re going to give it to them. Blue Justice, CitySec is currently hunting down a class three near the Rad Zone. I want you to join with them and squeeze that fight for all it’s worth. You’re the main act today, try to put on a good show”

John nodded.

“Yellow Bolt, I’m attaching you and Nighthawk to a CitySec raid happening later today. Press are going to be there to take pictures. You’ll receive a briefing on the target en route, but I want you to keep in mind your poses. Nighthawk, if I hear one more time about how the press can’t get you to stand in front of the cameras…”

“Doesn’t it add to my mystique, though?” I protested. “I’m the Nighthawk. I should be the mysterious one.” In truth, I hated pictures. Nothing was more cringe-inducing than standing in front of a camera and flexing my muscles.

“You can have your mystique, or you can have a contract here.” Walter shot me down. “Get the poses. Bag the bad guys. And if you pull any more stunts, you can pack your bags to Gen Pop.”

That was always Walter’s threat. General population was the open air prisons scattered throughout the Democratic Union. If you weren’t lucky enough to be born under StarCorp’s benevolent programs or to get recruited out of the ASA, you ended up in Gen Pop. They put an implant in your neck, and if you step outside a certain radius, off comes your head.

Huh, now that I think about it, maybe there were worse things than being a celebrity.

…

A few hours later, I was again riding in the back of an armored truck. The Zurchon lined steel felt like a constant splinter in my head, didn’t do anything to help my mood. Yellow Bolt sat across from me, and for some reason, his costume really pissed me off. Nothing against the guy of course, but couldn’t our fashion designers just show some class?

Rob had on a green and yellow suit with a whacky lightning bolt emblazoned on the chest. His mask was jagged, like lightning as well. He didn’t look cool. He looked like how a kindergartner would draw an electricity man as a theme. And the really annoying part was that it at least fit his powers, unlike mine.

I was just given the costume from the old Nighthawk. There was a whole campaign where I was inheriting the mantle or whatever, but the original concept was fit for a guy who actually had wings. Third generation was weird like that, you know? Anyway my cowl was shaped as a black beak and my purple spandex was lined with dark feathers. I looked like Birdman except Birdman had his own hit comedy series.

Glancing up, I saw Rob on the edge of his seat. He fiddled with his hands, trying to work out something to say.

“What?” I asked, rubbing my forehead.

“Just that you should try playing it nice for a while man,” Yellow Bolt said. “Walter’s serious. You should hear what he’s saying while you’re in the tank. He’s honestly getting pretty close to knocking you off the team.”

I shrugged. “I’ll try,” I said half-heartedly.

In all honesty, I didn’t have it in me to care. When Walter’s gloves came off, at least it was honest. All the smiling for the public, all the pretenses, all the chippy attitude, it was killing me inside. Eventually, it probably would, one way or another.

“You know we care about you. Me and Sarah and the rest. Just go along. Do you want to go to Gen Pop?”

“Why not? It’s the happiest place on Earth, isn’t it?” I asked.

Rob groaned. “You got lucky. Luckier than most. You don’t have to worry about your next meal or a place to live. You have everything provided to you. You have the good life. Don’t throw that away.”

He was right. I did have the good life. I was lucky enough to be born with powers that were of use to the Democratic Union. More than that, I was luckier to be born in a StarCorp program, practically put on fast-track to be chosen as a C-Rank hero. I wasn’t picked up by the ASA and thrown as a soldier into a forever war or sent to work on construction projects too dangerous for normals. Instead, I was chosen for the spotlight. I was held up as an example, a bulwark to the great society of the Democratic Union.

I had everything people wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that I was miserable inside.

“You remember your first field mission?” I asked.

Rob gave me a knowing look. Course he did. Everyone did. It was the moment in super-camp where you first drew blood. Usually happened when you were fourteen or fifteen. You’re dropped in one of those large stretches of wilderness between the city centers and told to eliminate a small target. Granted, sometimes it’s not all bad, taking out human smugglers, drug traffickers, and the like. Me? I had population control, a nice phrase for eliminating the undesirables of the Democratic Union.

The armored truck rolled to a stop, and there was a knock on the door. It was time.

I put on my mask and reminded myself not to look at the faces. I was exceptionally good at remembering faces. It was another power I wish I didn’t have.