Gadget reached up and switched on his Dr. Manhatten Helmet as the door closed behind him and they ventured out into the hallway. He steeled himself against the onslaught of the voices of the other con-goers, and let the tidal wave of other peoples’ emotions, thoughts, and mental images wash over him, through him . . . and then erected the Wall in his mind, shutting them out. He didn’t activate Augmented Reality Mode. Not yet; not until he needed it.
It dawned on him then, as a giggling, chattering trio of professional female cosplayers passed by them — and God did they look hot, in their very flattering (and somewhat revealing) Girl Genius, Harley Quinn, and Black Widow cosplays — that dear God, he really had Mind-fucked the entire hotel, not to mention parts of the city beyond . . . because con was still going on; no more cops, firefighters, SWAT teams, or federal agents had shown up to keep the peace. No more law enforcement of any kind had followed up on the ten very dead SWAT team members who had fallen at the hotel’s entrance earlier . . . or the firetrucks and ambulances and EMTS that had summarily just “cleaned them up” and drove away without a word to anyone. Yes, his “Mind-fuck wave” had certainly reached well beyond them . . . and woven itself deeper into the fabric of a lot of minds than he had intended. He had to seriously watch what he did with this thing. That was why he hadn’t done as Zoë had asked; he hadn’t gone near Mystikite's free will . . . No way, Jose. Besides. If Mystikite wanted to up and leave them, fine. Let him. Gadget almost understood the reasons. He did. Danger to everyone, yada-yada-yada. But dammit, he could’ve at least tried to fight against his nature as a newborn Vampire, couldn’t he? That’s what all the best Vampire stories were about . . . Vampires struggling to retain their Humanity. And hadn’t Mystikite always been the world’s biggest fan of those stories? The world’s greatest Vampire fiction aficionado? Surely he recognized that what lay before him was a challenge; a fight to hold on to what made him Human, beneath the fangs and the now-very-pale skin!
He’s beyond saving, said the Beast. And maybe this is what he wanted all along. Maybe he was never your friend to begin with. Maybe he was never human inside at all; maybe he was always waiting to become a monster, and you just didn’t know it because you’re such a poor judge of character . . .
Gadget shook his head to clear it and to shut the Beast up. Damn Mystikite for leaving them, especially right now! They could’ve used his strength and smarts in this fight! And he could’ve used the company of his best friend for comfort and support. And besides . . . Gadget was worried about him. A lot. He was out there, all alone. Well, he had Jetta for company, but everybody knew that this “Jetta” wasn’t the same “Jetta” that they had known three years ago; not by a long shot. So could he trust her to look after his friend? Hell no; or at least, probably not. Goddamn it, the not-knowing was awful.
He’ll probably die out there, whispered the Beast. And he’ll go without saying goodbye, too. Like he didn’t earlier. Because y’know, you’re not worth a goodbye. You don’t rate that highly in anyone’s book.
Gadget grit his teeth and tried to ignore the Beast. Dammit, as much as it hurt, and as much as it worried him, the truth was, Mystikite — and his leaving — didn’t much matter right now. What mattered, right now, was getting Dizzy back from that lunatic Ravenkroft . . . or whatever the hell he had become, after merging with that alien being.
God, check this out, he thought. Alien beings from other worlds . . . alien beings from other dimensions(!) . . . and Vampires . . . a chick in an advanced mecha-Evangeliojaeger powered by alien tech . . . a supervillain hellbent on world domination . . . and here I am, me, right in the middle of it all! And actually playing an important part! Doing something heroic! My whole life has turned into a real-world science fiction story! I need to review the TV Tropes “genre savvy” lists . . . so I know what to do and not to do, now that I know what kind of story I’m starring in.
— You’re not a hero, whispered the Beast. You just think you are. And that’s so sad.
A bright-winged faery-girl — man, the job she’d done on her cosplay’s wings was flat-out awesome — followed by a twosome of men dressed as Cenobites from Clive Barker’s Hellraiser universe — black leather bondage gear covering their entire bodies, metal spikes and studs everywhere, plus pale white skin and needles sticking out of their faces at all angles — passed them by as they ventured toward the stairwell access door at the very end of the hallway, with Misto leading the way, Gadget in the middle, and Zoë bringing up the rear. They had dressed Misto in a bedsheet, wrapped up to appear like a toga, so that he looked like a guy doing a really good werewolf cosplay who happened to be attending a toga party. It was the best they could do.
Every guy had their “type” of woman. Every heterosexual, cis-gender male had, somewhere in his brain, an “imprint” of the sexual visual aesthetic that immediately drew his eye in a crowd. Gadget was no different. Like most men his age, he had grown up in a society that had relentlessly programmed him — down to the neurological level — with the physiological blueprint of “slender, athletic body-type; large breasts; long, slender legs; smokey eyes; full lips; tight butt” as being the global-processing archetype — the paragon, the alpha-and-omega — of feminine beauty; the standard of sexual attractiveness that all women should aspire to and that all men should desire; the ultimate Platonic form of that which was to be desired, lusted after, and ultimately, bedded. Therefore, since that was what his male gaze inevitably sought-out on a subconscious level in any crowd, and was drawn to first before anything else, he almost missed the obvious. The girl in the Sailor Moon costume. The girl who was slowly coming toward them, crying.
It was the outbreak of raucous laughter that got his attention first. Then he saw her: The girl, maybe two or three years younger than him, no more. She was a big girl; short, wide in the hips, thighs, and bosom, with a round, cherubic face, big eyes, and pouty lips. And, she was doing a Sailor Moon cosplay. Actually a pretty damned good Sailor Moon cosplay: She had the white gloves with the red trim; the red boots with white trim; the latex blue skirt that shined in the light; the old-fashioned sailor’s top, which had exactly the exact mix of whites and blues in it and gleamed in the fluorescent lighting, and she had the big red bow in just the right spot; and also, the red bow on the back of her skirt, and the trim around the edges of the tunic, too. And her hair was styled exactly right, and was exactly the right shade of blonde. Her makeup job and eye shadow were flawless, as well. The girl was beautiful, and so was her cosplay.
But her head was down, and Gadget could see that she was crying, her mascara beginning to run. Behind her were three guys. They weren’t in any cosplay — unless you counted “early career Marlon Brando” as cosplay — and were following her down the hall, sniggering and chortling, and calling to her, just loud enough that she could probably hear them perfectly well. The one in the lead was wearing a t-shirt that said, “I like my coffee like I like my Fangirls . . . Oh wait; I hate coffee!” The other two wore t-shirts too; one said, “It’s Time LORDS, Not Time LADIES!” The other one read, “WANTED: Gamer Girl. On Her Knees In Front Of Me.”
“Hey. Hey Sailor Moon,” said the guy in the biker jacket and the “Fangirls” t-shirt, with gelled, black hair. He grinned lasciviously. “Y’know it really oughta be Sailor Full Moon with that body of yours! What say you, Todd?”
“I say she’s got back,” said the one in the “Fangirls” t-shirt. Todd, presumably.
The girl said nothing, and kept walking. And crying silently.
“Hey, it’s not her fault,” said the one in the “Gamer Girl” t-shirt. “She’s probably got a glandular problem. I hear that affects soldiers destined to save Earth from the forces of evil. Especially when they’ve been exposed to the Silver Crystal. I hear that thing puts out fat-inducing radiation.”
The other two sniggered and chuckled.
“Oh really?” said the one in the “Gamer Girl” t-shirt. “And how do you know so much about Sailor Moon? You a fangirl too?”
“Fuck off Zack,” said Todd. “Hey. Speaking of which. I bet Sailor Full Moon here likes to fuck. Do you? Do you like to fuck, Sailor Full Moon? I bet she does.”
The girl said nothing, and kept walking, and crying. She broke into sobs now.
That did it. Gadget clenched his fists, broke ranks, and stalked forward.
“Hey!” said Misto. “Where’re you going, Gadget?”
“Gadget?” said Zoë. “What’s up?”
“You don’t see this happening up there?” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
He walked up the hallway, to Sailor Moon, and stood in her way. She looked up at him. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Hi,” he said softly. “My name’s Gadget. Are you . . . are you okay?”
“Whah shit,” he heard Todd say. “Looks like Sailor Full Moon has a boyfriend!”
Gadget ignored him. Sailor Moon just looked at him pitifully, and into his eyes. Her lower lip trembled, and tears streaked down her cheeks. “Can — can you please make them stop?” she whimpered. “Please?”
He thought a moment. Then he smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I can.”
Gadget turned his attention to Todd his his two toadies. He locked eyes with Todd.
“Oh, so what,” Todd said to him. “I suppose you’re gonna take up for her? That it?” He walked forward and shoved Sailor Moon out of the way. She uttered a small gasping shout and stumbled out of the way, surprised by the sudden physical confrontation. That only made Gadget angrier. Todd stepped directly in front of him, so close that Gadget counted his nose hairs. The guy smelled like booze, and his eyes were bloodshot. Ugh. He was drunk. How wonderful. Gadget gulped, his pulse racing, his heart pounding in his chest. Sweat gathered on his forehead. The last time he’d had a confrontation like this had been in high-school . . . and it hadn’t ended well for him.
You’re going to get your ass kicked, said the Beast.
Nope, he shot back. Not this time. Because now, he reminded himself, things were different. Now, he had the Dr. Manhatten Helmet.
“Yeah,” he said, refusing to let his voice crack. “I guess I am. You need to leave this woman alone. You and your friends.”
“Oh yeah? And just what are you gonna do about it, Doctor Who?”
“This,” said Gadget. He grinned, and concentrated hard on Todd. Twin wisps of ethereal thought-energy burst from either side of his head, writhed out to the sides, twisted in the air, and then shot toward Todd, grabbed him like mystical hands, and threw him up against the wall of the hallway, rattling the doors and shocking everyone around them. People gasped and “ahh”-ed, and a small crowd began to form as people stopped to watch. Gadget held Todd up against the wall with the psionic, telekinetic wisps, and forced him up the wall in cruciform position.
“What the fuck!” Todd cried, fear filling his voice. His two friends backed off. Way off. Confusion and terror on their faces. Exactly what Gadget had wanted.
From off to one side, Sailor Moon watched, her jaw agape, her tears drying. A look of amazed wonder had replaced her grimace of pain.
“Now,” said Gadget calmly. “Are you going to leave her alone?”
“Huh?” Said Todd, more consumed with the fact that he was being held against the wall, a meter in the air, by nothing, by invisible hands of some kind that forced his wrists against the plaster and that were presently pressing down on his chest, crushing his ribs and lungs. “What?”
“I said . . .” said Gadget, continuing to apply telekinetic pressure. This was for all the people who had ever been picked on. This was for all the victims of all the toxic sludge of every subculture. “. . . Are you going . . . To leave her alone?”
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“Yeah!” screamed — or rather, squeaked — Todd, his eyes wide with fear, his voice hoarse. “Yeah, I swear I will! Just let me go!”
“And are you,” Gadget continued, “going to give any more fangirls a hard time? Are you going to let them be a part of fandom, without harassing them? Are you going to change your ways, and change your mind about letting women be a part of fandom, without being harassed, intimidated, or gatekept? Or are you going to still be a dick?”
“I . . . I’ll change!” he said. It was almost impossible for him to speak now, with the telekinetic pressure Gadget kept applying, with his lungs being compressed. He managed to eek out: “How . . . how are you . . . doing this?”
“Let’s just say,” said Gadget, “that it’s something I learned how to do after a lifetime of being treated the way you were treating her.” He pushed harder with the telekinetic wisps of energy; he could feel the guy’s ribcage on the verge of breaking.
He liked this. No; more than that. He was getting off on this. Dear God, what was happening to him? What was he becoming? He swallowed, and continued, unable to stop himself. Something inside him was unwinding.
“And, you see that guy, over there?” he said, still enjoying the role of Torquemada, his unease growing. “He’s not doing a cosplay at all. He really is a werewolf. And if you so much as look at anybody else the wrong way, so much as sniff after another victim, I’ll know — because see, I’m telepathic, too — and I’ll send him after you. And if you don’t want him to go all Remus Lupin on your ass, you’ll behave yourself. See, he happens to have lost his . . . his Isadora Tonks. Two years ago. Nuclear reactor accident. And ever since, he’s been . . . well . . . cranky. And you wouldn’t want to upset him. Capice?”
“Yeah! Yeah, I capice! Totally, totally!”
Gadget let go. Jesus, what the hell had he just done? He felt sick to his stomach and angry at himself. Todd fell to the ground in a heap, falling off the wall and landing feet first then crumpling the rest of the way onto his side, clambering on all fours and then standing up. His eyes still peeled wide with terror, he backed away from Gadget and the person he knew was standing just behind him — Sailor Moon. But his eyes weren’t on Gadget. They were on her.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he said to her. Then he looked at Gadget. “Fuck . . . fuck you, man!” And then he grabbed the jacket lapels of his other two t-shirt wearing friends, and then they were off, down the hall the way they had come.
“Thank you so much,” he heard Sailor Moon say, just behind him. “Thank you!”
Gadget turned around to face her, smiling, but found Misto and Zoë standing there, standing next to her, also smiling at him. Misto’s wolfish smile was really disturbing to look at.
Zoë spoke first, but not to him. It was Sailor Moon she addressed. “By the way?” she said. “I’m Zoë. And I think your cosplay is fantastic!”
“R — really?” said Sailor Moon.
“Damn right,” said Zoë. “Don’t let anybody tell you any different. And I hope you have a wonderful rest of con this year.”
“Well if it wasn’t for your friend here,” she turned, and kissed Gadget on the cheek — his heart fluttered for a second or two, and he grinned dopily; he couldn’t help himself — “I’d probably have just gone home and cried myself to sleep, and skipped the rest of con. Hey . . .” She turned back to Gadget again. “How did you do that, anyway?”
“Uh, that’s a long story,” said Gadget. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“We don’t have time,” said Misto, shaking his head. “Ravenkroft . . . Dizzy.”
“Speaking of awesome cosplay!” said Sailor Moon. “Yours . . . yours is outta this world!”
“That’s also a long story we don’t have time for,” said Misto.
“Oh,” said Sailor Moon. She lowered her head again, and her gaze dropped to the floor. “I was hoping I’d made some new friends. But if you guys don’t have the time, I understand.”
“No!” said Gadget. He looked at Misto with pleading eyes. “I know a way to bring her up to speed pretty fast, guys.”
“Oh? How’s that?” asked Misto.
“Listen,” said Gadget, to Sailor Moon. “Can I trust you with a secret?”
“Uh, sure, I guess,” she said.
“No,” he said, and grasped her by the arm. “I mean, can I really trust you. We don’t know each other that well. I need to know if I can trust you.”
“Um, okay,” she said. “My real name’s Ana, by the way. What’s yours?”
“Uh, Terry,” he said. “Terry Anders. But everybody just calls me Gadget.”
“You can trust me, Gadget,” she said. “Whatever your secret is, I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
He hesitated. “You want to know our story, huh? Well, okay. Hold still. I don’t know if this is going to work or not. But just trust me for a second, okay?”
“Okay, hold onto something,” she said, suddenly very wary of him. And why not? She had reason to be, and he was right — they didn’t know one another. But he was going to fix that. “Astrid, activate Augmented Reality Mode.”
Her disembodied presence answered him in a voice that only he could hear: “Sure thing, cutie-pie.”
He opened his eyes. The world once again transformed into a 3D-rendered version of itself, the people all around him dissolving into Avatar-versions of themselves. He felt himself grow a few inches and felt his body mass changing, as well as his clothes transforming and morphing. Felt the Ray Gun materialize on his hip. He grabbed it from its holster, and adjusted the dial to Transilience Beam, and set the switch to select her as the source, and him as the target. God he hoped it worked, this time. That’s all they needed; him passing out again . . . though he admitted a part of him longed to continue his adventures in Fantazmagoria. But anyway. Focus.
“What . . . what’re you doing?” she asked.
“Reading you,” he said. “Just hold still a second. Do I have your permission to . . . Well, know things about you?”
She blinked in surprise. “Uh, I guess?” she said.
Yeah, whispered the Beast. Go ahead and violate the poor girl. Like your invention violated your friend Zoë and turned her into a pyrokinetic.
“Eh, good enough,” he said, trying his best to ignore the Beast. He aimed the Ray Gun at her, and fired. A beam of pulsating white light burst out of the Ray Gun and slammed into her, causing both of them to stumble backwards a pace or two. Gadget felt the Wall in his head open up just a crack, and the burble of the river of voices beyond it rose in volume. He closed his eyes and let the burble become a rushing tide, and then let it wash over him, spilling into his mind . . . and then he was suddenly looking around, digging through it until he found her voice. Ana’s voice. A single, silver-shining thread that vibrated and hummed with the sound of her voice. He grasped it, and felt a jolt of electricity run through him, making him shiver. And then, he saw . . .
Ana as a little girl, riding a bicycle, and having trouble with it, because she was big-boned and couldn’t keep her balance very well without training wheels. She grew frustrated with it and kicked the bike over. The other kids at school were laughing at her because of her size, and she was crying . . . always crying in these memories, or on the verge of it . . . always trying to hold her head up high, be the better person . . . Her mother, comforting her after a hard day at school. Warm feelings, the scent of her mother’s perfume; cherry blossoms in the summer wind. Her father, a good man who worked construction . . . smiling at her as he took her to the comic book store for the first time . . . How enthralled she had been, how in rapture; she had found other kids there; one who wore glasses named Kevin, whom she became fast friends with. He wore glasses and had bad acne. He had died of lukemia five years later. And there she was, crying again . . . The memories continued to wash over him, through him, all in the space of seconds, minutes . . .
He broke the connection and staggered back, and braced himself against the wall. She blinked a few times, clearing her eyes.
“Whoa,” he said. “Ana. You’ve . . . had a hard life.”
“You . . . you were in my mind just now,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “But how?”
“I’m about to share that with you,” he said. “Hold on.” He turned to Misto and Zoë. “Guys, she’s okay. She’s legit. We can tell her. We can trust her.”
“Well, fine,” said Misto, “but I don’t see what that’s going to accomplish.”
“We need all the allies we can get,” said Gadget, “even if she doesn’t come with us.”
Misto sighed. “Go ahead, I suppose.”
“Gadget,” said Zoë, in a slightly-warning tone, “be careful. Don’t fry her brain. Or yours.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t.”
Are you so sure of that? whispered the Beast. He tried to ignore it, though its whispers itched in the back of his mind.
The Transilience Beam had an advantage over just using the Helm’s ordinary mode of telepathy, because whereas “normal” telepathy only allowed you to listen in on someone’s — or multiple peoples’ — streams of consciousness or thought-patterns, the Transilience Beam allowed you to transfer entire states of mind, whole constellations or clusters of memories, ideas, constructs, and so forth, all in one go. Or at least, it was supposed to. His beam that had turned the Grand Hall into a thunder-and-lighting, fireworks dance hall had worked alright. So why wouldn’t this?
He closed his eyes and concentrated on building a narrative in his head. Everything that had happened so far. His and Mystikite meeting with Dizzy. The job offer. All the details of her history with Ravenkroft. Misto. The alien and Ravenkroft. The battle with the Biomechanoids downstairs. His Mind-fuck wave. Dizzy’s abduction. He let it all swirl around in his mind, gathering up more and more details until he felt his head might explode . . .
Then he opened his eyes, aimed the Ray Gun at Ana, flicked the switch so that he was the source and she the target, and fired it a second time.
The glowing white beams hit both him and her. He stumbled back a bit as the beam hit him, and saw streaks of light; she staggered backward as well, and gasped, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open. Her eyes seemed to light up with sudden comprehension . . . understanding . . . and new knowledge. It had worked! The beam shut off, and they were both left standing there, breathless, their lungs working overtime.
“Astrid,” he panted, “deactivate . . . Augmented . . . Reality Mode.”
“Gotcha,” came her ethereal voice.
The Ray Gun vanished from his hand, he felt himself shrink back to his normal proportions, and his clothing returned to being just his Eleventh Doctor costume instead of Gadgorak Prime’s weathered “fantasy cowboy” attire. The computer-rendered version of the world dissolved back into its usual self, and the volume of the telepathic burble of others’ voices rose in the back of his mind. He steeled himself against it, and forced them back behind the Wall as he gathered himself.
“Did you get all that?” he asked Ana. She had her hands to her head and was rubbing her temples, frowning.
“Yup, I . . . I think so,” she said. “God, you guys . . . you guys are like . . . real life superheroes or something! And you . . . you’re really a werewolf?”
Misto sighed. “For the time being. Until Dizzy can discover an antidote.”
“Wow,” breathed Ana. “That’s . . . this is . . . wow. I mean . . . This is just . . . Oh my God. I mean, just . . . I don’t even have words . . .”
“Tell you what, Ana,” said Gadget, grasping her by the shoulders, “do me a favor. Get somewhere safe. Leave the con. Leave the hotel. Go back home. I know it sucks, missing the rest of con, but . . . Do it for me. Don’t stick around here. Because I have a bad feeling that this . . . that things are going to get real ugly around here, real fast. Can you do that? For me? As a thank you?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said. “Yeah!” She seemed relieved that he’d said this. “I’m . . . I’m just still in shock, I guest.”
“Just don’t tell anyone what I’ve shown you,” he said. “Please. Keep this a secret. All of it. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t write it down, don’t talk about it . . . don’t let it get out into the world. It’s too dangerous.”
“Well,” she said, and offered him a half-smile, “it’s not like anybody’d believe me anyhow, right?”
He smiled at her. “I guess so, yeah.”
“You’re a good person, Ana,” said Zoë.
“Yeah, you are,” said Misto. “People like those assholes . . . Don’t let them get to you.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” said Ana, she let her gaze droop. “There just seem to be a lot of them, sometimes.” Then she looked back up and toward Gadget. “But then again, there’s people like you guys, too. So I guess it all works out.” She lifted her gaze upward and quoted: “‘Every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but the bad things don’t always spoil the good things and make them unimportant.’” She grinned.
“The Eleventh Doctor,” said Gadget, and he smiled. “I guess we’ll see you later, Ana.”
You’ll never see her again, said the Beast. She only likes you because she thinks you’re something you’re not — a hero.
“Yeah,” she said. She giggled, took one more look at Gadget, and blushed. “Bye guys!” And she set off down the hall, lighter in step and with some speed. No one bothered her, and she stepped into a room party a few rooms down. Gadget paused for a moment. What the hell had he just done to her? What in God’s name was her world going to be like now, now that she had the knowledge she had? What had he just done to her “reality onion?” How many layers had he peeled back for her . . . and now how “set apart” from everyone else would she be, for the rest of her life, because she now “knew things” they didn’t . . . saw the world through different eyeballs than everyone else did or ever could or would . . . How lonely she was going to be, with the burden of special knowledge pressing down upon her from inside her memory?
“Well,” said Misto. “That was . . . an unexpected delay.”
“Yeah,” said Gadget, his gaze following where she’d gone. “But worth every second of it. I guess.”
“I concur,” said Zoë. She patted Gadget on the shoulder. “I guess we are the real-life Avengers.”
“Or at least really overpowered hall monitors,” said Misto, with a shrug.
“Right,” said Gadget, thoroughly uncomfortable with that idea, for reasons he couldn’t put a name to, but that had the vaguest shape in his head. He hitched up his pants and straightened his tweed coat. “Now. The stairwells. Those lead to the rooftop, right?”
“Yep,” said Zoë. “Let’s get going before I lose my nerve.”
“Come on,” said Misto. “They’re this way.”
“Why are we taking the stairs again?” asked Gadget.
“Because,” said Misto. “Taking the stairs is safer than taking the elevators. Ravenkroft could somehow sense us coming and could cut the cables, or could jam the shaft, or do any number of wretched things to us, maybe even kill us. So the stairs are the safer bet.”
“Oh, right,” said Gadget. He looked down the hall once more in the direction Ana had gone. Damn. Had he done the wrong thing, back there? And what the fuck was up with him, enjoying torturing that guy like that? Talk about repressed anger. He needed a drink. A stiff one. But as much as he wanted to just chill for a moment and stop and think all this through, he knew — dammit — that they had other, more pressing business to take care of. So, he sighed, and followed Misto on down the hallway, toward the stairwell entrance. He took one last look back, though, wondering about Ana, and how she would deal with the knowledge that he had — for better or for worse — put in her head.
If there was a bright spot in what had just happened, it was this: He, Gadget, had — for the first time ever — saved someone from something. He was a “hero” now. No. More than that: He was someone’s hero now. And that thought, if none other, made him smile.