The TV flashed with color as the night descended over the city. Out the large window, one could see the skyscrapers and buildings lit up clearly against the drearily dark sky. People moved obscurely against the evening darkness. New York City continued moving at its hectic pace. That night, crimes would be committed. People would die. And nobody would be there to save them.
Bill looked out on this with a dull interest. The night was filled with a desolate freeze that he could not feel. Years ago, he would have put on his synthetic suit by now. As it molded over him like a cool blue oil, he would have looked over the city in excitement, whispering his signature catch-phrase, “Here comes a Hero.” Then he would have disappeared into the night sky to fight crime. Now he sat sadly in his chair, hiding his face from the world.
It had been years since he had done any sort of Hero's work. Ever since he had quit, only painful and desolate memories remained. How people would scream, their bodies trembling with terror as they transfixed on his wild combat with the various villains of the night. When his work was done, they then ran off without a thank you. Nobody regarded him with any of the fondness rightly deserved of a superhero. He might as well have been a villain.
He turned off the TV-it was mute anyway-and traveled back into the world of nostalgia as he reminisced on the years that had passed.
Billy hadn't been a popular child. Far from it, in fact. Other kids viewed him as a scrawny, weak-hearted child and resented his constant rejection of their offers for him to play on their teams for various pick-up games. The biggest bully in the school honed in on this, and finally cornered him one day as he played by himself. Billy could do nothing but tremble in fear before the imposing figure of Timmy Reynolds.
Timmy was a giant, his shaggy hair and grubby face sharply contrasting Billy's small figure and squeaky-clean appearance. His eyes squinted out from his dirty face with terrifyingly potent malice.
"What makes you so high and mighty that you can't play a game of football? Can't you play football?" Timmy growled.
Billy shied away under his stare. "I don't really like football. But if you are interested in a quest to the nether regions," he added hopefully, "there are still spots in my game."
Timmy looked at him the way most Neanderthals did-confused, and angry because he'd been confused so. He intimidated Billy back another step. "What the heck is that supposed to be?"
Billy shrugged, fumbling with an answer. “J-just something I made up. It’s…it’s stupid, I know…” With a smack, his back hit the wall of the school house. Surrounded by Timmy's thugs, Billy found himself terrifyingly trapped.
Timmy growled, his imagination too limited for anything of that nature. "That’s not a real game! Now here's the deal-we play football. You can either be the player, or the ball." Billy gulped at this, fear pinning him in his spot. His mouth hung open as gasped for air like a stranded guppy. Then, with a dissatisfied humph, Timmy's fist flew violently at the mute Billy.
It took time for Billy to learn exactly what happened. According to the eyewitnesses, his arms were thrown up over his face, and as he tried to defend himself against the blow, wicked spikes shot out of his limbs and remained there like the prickliest of cactuses. Tears streamed out of Billy's eyes as he wished to disappear, and then, according to the surrounding bullies, Billy did. The punch unfelt, Billy opened his arms to look around and found himself five hundred feet away from the bullies, but still in clear sight. Both confused and relieved by his stroke of luck, Billy ran away in fear, and hid in his house for several days, shredded clothes torn off in his bedroom and thrown on the floor. News carried by word of mouth to his mother, who allowed him to stay home, worried for his health. Finally she had to let him go. The spines did not reappear.
A few days later, concealed in the shadow of the school building, Billy tried to induce the spines himself. He stretched his fingers and flexed his muscles, before finally willing the spines to come out. They did this in a flash, ripping through the cotton of his shirt and pants. Awed by the discovery, he tested it out but by bit. He learned to shoot the spines out of his body, to teleport miles away. Billy researched online and found a local institution that was making a cloth that would grow back when torn. Billy stole a large sample, made a costume out of it, and vowed to be a hero that fought for good.
Bill sighed wearily, the dreams of little Billy long gone. Each time he helped, each time he fought for good, each and every single time he wanted to do something right, it always backfired. People feared him because of his sinister figure and odd powers. Nobody praised the Blade Runner. Instead, they hid in fear of the Sinister Slicer, not once recognizing he had saved their lives. Now Bill lived alone, the relic of an unfortunate past. And now he recognized his mistake. The world didn't cope well with Heroes, no matter their power. Something about their mysterious powers, and the way they flashed into the scene to save the day scared ordinary folks, people who couldn’t ever wrap their heads about it. People didn’t understand heroes, and people fear what they cannot know.