Heroes of the Third Wave (original fiction) (Patreon)

Part One: Old Dog

"So, you can fly."

Jeremy Henderson, also known as Jack Alpha, nodded, looking around at the almost palatial superhero base. Gleaming chrome contrasted with chunky concrete buttresses; the designer had definitely been going more for 'Fortress of Solitude' than 'Batcave'. The polished-oak meeting table had chairs that were actually labelled, he noticed, and a mirror-black hemisphere in the centre. Probably a holographic emitter. That table probably cost more money than I'll ever make in my life.

"Yeah, I can fly," he added, when it became clear that Starburst was waiting for an actual answer. "I've been able to fly for years."

"Since ... ninety-nine. Right." Starburst hadn't done anything apparent, but Jeremy spotted the telltale flicker of a holographic HUD within his up-to-the-minute artistically streamlined, aesthetically contoured visor. "Revealed yourself to the public in Times Square, New York, on New Year's Eve. Did barrel-rolls around the ball as it descended. Quite the publicity stunt."

"Hey, I was young. It seemed a good idea at the time."

Henderson realised, a few seconds too late, that Starburst was only a year or so older than he had been at the time, fourteen years previously.

"Young. Right." Starburst's expression didn't alter, but Henderson got that sinking feeling anyway. I just blew it. Twenty-five hadn't been young, not really. And it had definitely gotten him publicity. Publicity that had encouraged other Enhanced to step out of the shadows, had opened up the collective consciousness of soon-to-be twenty-first century mankind to the idea of super-powered people. Superheroes.

"Well, younger than I am now, yeah." Henderson shrugged. "Maybe I should've gotten a publicist, called a press conference, but I was fresh in the Big Apple, and it was New Year's, so I thought hey, what the hell. Why not, yeah?"

"Well, it got you the publicity, certainly," Starburst admitted. "How did that go for you, exactly?"

You know damn well how it went, you little snot. "Well, you know how it is, being a celebrity. You've gotta top your last big stunt if you're gonna stay in the news. I did a couple of ad spots, which helped. Running shoes, if you can believe it.” He lowered his voice to something approximating a voice-over actor's. “'They'll put wings on your feet'."

"Well, at least you saved money on your costume." The smarmy little git almost managed to make it sound admiring; Henderson avoided looking down at his costume, such as it was, only by an effort of will. Pieced together from regular clothing, it consisted of a blue jacket over a red T-shirt, with the letter 'A' screen-printed on the front. Jeans and sneakers – with the same 'A' on the side – almost completed the ensemble; the finishing touch was a bicycle helmet and a pair of protective goggles.

Starburst's costume, on the other hand, was a real 'costume'. Constructed from what had to be the latest in high-end polymers, and set off by visor, boots and belt, it shimmered rainbow colours and clung to Starburst's admittedly well-toned physique like a second skin. Henderson was willing to bet that thousands of hours of well-paid design work had gone into every last inch of it. They probably had a focus group look at it, too.

"It was what I had at the time," he replied, trying not to sound defensive. "Hard-wearing, and easy to replace."

"But not particularly ... unique, I would say," Starburst replied, not quite sneering.

"Didn't need to be, back in the day," Henderson reminded him. "First Wavers took a while to come out of the telephone box. And there were a lot of us who preferred to not have a public face. Sledgehammer, in Chicago. Street Girl, in east LA. Monochrome, in Detroit."

Now Starburst did sneer. "Those are hardly exemplars of the superheroic ideal. Sledgehammer and Street Girl are violent vigilantes, and Monochrome is a self-confessed crime lord."

Henderson's first thought was, Did he really just say 'exemplars of the superheroic ideal' with a straight face? His second thought was, And any one of those would kick your ass, six ways from Sunday. But he didn't voice either one; instead, he observed mildly, "They're all still around. And crime in Detroit's been at an all-time low for the last ten, twelve years."

"I would imagine that's due to the Steel City Rollers rather than to Monochrome," Starburst retorted.

Henderson chuckled. "The Rollers? They tried to crack down on him. Then he went and had a talk with them. Now they play ball. He keeps organised crime organised. They deal with random crap, if he doesn't get to it first."

"You seem to know a lot about this sort of thing for a ..." Starburst hesitated.

"Guy who never really got into the superhero gig?" Henderson shrugged. "Sure. Made a few contacts, back in the day. Still keep in touch."

"Even with villains?”

“We were First Wavers before we were heroes or villains,” Henderson pointed out. “We had that in common. The rest of the world wasn't all that comfortable with us. You wanted to talk to someone who knew what life was really like for you, there weren't all that many choices.”

Starburst's expression suggested that he really didn't get it. “I understand you did actually attempt a stint at superheroics, for a while there. Why didn't you keep it up?"

Because visiting the ER sucks. "Didn't agree with me. Late nights, long hours ..." He'd had neither proper training nor body armour, and couldn't afford either one. A couple of run-ins with teenage punks armed with switchblades had left him with nasty flesh wounds and a strong incentive to rethink the costumed-vigilante life.

"So you decided to make money with your powers." The almost-sneer was back; Henderson looked around at the base, at Stardust's costume. And you aren't?

"Like I said, seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Courier work, as I understand." The pitch and spin of Starburst's words showed his distaste for the concept of doing something so plebeian.

"It pays, and if you know the area, especially from the air, you can really make time, even if you can't go supersonic."

"Do you still do it? As paying work, I mean?"

"I've gotten back to it from time to time. The work isn't bad, and the money's useful when I'm short." Though I'm pretty sure that some of 'em only keep me on the books for old times' sake.

Starburst shifted tack. "Didn't you write a book about that sort of thing? From High Above, or something?"

"From the Air. It started as a kind of guide for myself for getting around New York at any time of day or night. Then when fliers started getting more common, I thought I might actually sell it to a publisher. It sold, then I was asked if I could do it for other cities. Then other countries. I think it only really sold at first because I was kind of big news, but then it took off on its own." Henderson paused and chuckled. "'Took off', heh."

Starburst didn't seem particularly amused. "Right. You were big news ... oh, because of the thing that happened with the Towers?"

Damn right, the 'thing' that happened with the Towers. Jackass.

"Yeah," Henderson replied quietly. "I'll never forget that day."

He'd been three blocks away when the first plane hit the North Tower, enjoying a hotdog with relish and crispy onion. By the time he got on site, smoke had already been billowing from the stricken building. People were calling for help from the windows. He grabbed the first person that he could, and flew him to the ground. Back up, looking for someone else to rescue. Over and over, eyes streaming from the smoke despite his protective goggles, he flew back up there. His muscles were burning from the strain of simply not dropping people until he could get them to the ground, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

He knew that he couldn't win, couldn't save everyone, but when the other plane hit the South Tower, it was driven home to him. People were going to die. Far more than he could save.

The collapse of that tower momentarily distracted him; a woman leaping from the North Tower collided with him. The impact dislocated his right shoulder, but he got her down to earth. A paramedic put his shoulder back in, and he kept on going. He lost count of the times that he braved the smoke and flames; by the time the tower went down, he was running on autopilot.

He'd hovered over the dust cloud, staring at where the building had been, unable to process the extent of the disaster. Unable to decide what to do next. In the end, he'd gone home and slept for twelve hours straight.

"How many did you end up saving, anyway?" asked Starburst, breaking into his thoughts. "Two hundred? Three?"

"Hundred and fifty-six," Henderson responded shortly. Thousands more had died, thousands he hadn't been able to help in time. He'd had nightmares about the pleading faces, the reaching arms, the voices barely audible over the roaring flames. The plummeting bodies.

There were the good things. The medal that had been awarded him by the city. The iconic photo titled The Flying Man, showing him carrying a very pregnant secretary down to ground level with the burning South Tower in the background; he still had a framed copy at home. But they still didn't outweigh the bad memories of that day.

"Huh," Starburst commented. "When the Rockford dam went last fall, we saved the whole town. Six thousand civs, easy." Were you slacking on the job, old man? his tone asked.

Henderson refused to rise to the bait. I was the only flier in town. Idiot. "Good for you," he grunted.

"Which brings us to the point of this interview," Starburst decided. "Tell me, Mr Alpha – actually, I have to know something. Why did you call yourself 'Jack Alpha'? It's not descriptive of your powers or your costume. What's the hidden symbolism?"

Henderson shrugged. "I like the sound of it."

Starburst stared. “That's it? You 'liked the sound of it'? Nothing else?”

“Not particularly, no. Why?”

The younger Enhanced shook his head. “You could have done so much better with a more competently chosen name. We have people for that.”

“We didn't,” Henderson pointed out. “When I showed up, there were no superhero consultancy groups. I was just winging it.” He caught the unintended joke a few seconds later, and grunted a chuckle.

Again, Starburst didn't seem to get the humour. “Well, that's something we'll have to look at. In the meantime, I need you to tell me why you want to join Team Vanguard.”

“Well, we've pretty well covered that, haven't we?” Henderson asked. “I'm not getting as much from sales of From the Air as I used to. These days, it's a nostalgia piece. Everyone and his sidekick has GPS. I can do courier work, but … well, I'm not getting any younger. I want to do something worthwhile with my powers, while I still can. So … “ He gestured at the surrounding base. “Figure that even if I'm not much good at hand to hand super-battles, I've still got a bit of experience in use of powers to pass on.”

“Hmm.” Starburst rubbed his chin. “You can fly. Any other powers?”

“Not really,” admitted Henderson. “But I'm really good at flying.”

“Can you go supersonic? No, wait, you said you can't. Or has that changed?”

“Nope. Still subsonic. I can nudge the sound barrier in a dive, but that's about it.”

Starburst sighed. “We have five members who can fly, two who can break the sound barrier. I'm one of the two. Still not sure what you would bring to the team.”

“Experience. Any of your fliers really trained in how to fly? Properly, I mean?”

“What do you mean? We can fly. We don't need to be taught how to do it.”

“Unless you want to do more than straight-line stuff.” Henderson folded his arms.

“I don't see what you're getting at.”

“Being able to do more than fly fast in a straight line. That sort of thing.”

“More than … ?” Starburst's expression, what Henderson could see of it, was akin to that of a chimpanzee attempting to comprehend algebra.

“Down in the weeds. Balls to the wall, street level flight. Dodging traffic lights. Dodging traffic.”

“Oh god no, we couldn't do that.” Horror permeated the last word. “Our sponsors would have a collective aneurysm if we did anything so stupid.”

“Maybe you need to learn how anyway. Just in case.”

Starburst shook his head. “No. We can bring you on to the team, but none of that reckless low-level flying any more. And we'll have to upgrade your costume. Maybe retool your name, but with a publicity campaign to make people aware that it's still you under the mask.”

“My name … ?”

“Well, of course.” Starburst slapped Henderson on the shoulder. “Jack Alpha's old hat. It's last decade. A new name, a new image. Just think of it. The grand old man of superheroes, the first of them all. It'll be priceless PR for us.”

“Really. So that's all I am to you. A PR opportunity.” Henderson's voice was flat. Grand old man, my ass.

Starburst didn't seem to notice. “Well, look at it this way. You want money. We'll give you money. You want to do something worthwhile. You get to join Team Vanguard, and strut your stuff as a superhero. Maybe a few press conferences, where you tell people what a great opportunity this is for you. And in return, we get -”

“- to trot me out like a prize pony. For your public relations. For recruitment.” Henderson's voice was bitter.

“I was going to say, the benefit of your experience,” Starburst objected.

“Yeah, that's gonna happen.” Henderson faced up to Starburst. “I'll tell you what's going to happen. I'm not gonna change my name. I'm not gonna change my costume. And I'm sure as hell not gonna join your team.”

“What?” Starburst seemed somewhat taken aback. “But … you wanted to do something worthwhile with your life. With your powers.”

“I'll do it elsewhere.” Henderson was already striding toward the lift.

“You gave us a firm commitment! I've already got the lawyers drawing up the contract!”

“Tell 'em to tear it up. I changed my mind.”

“You won't get a better chance than with us!” shouted Starburst. “We've got the best PR firm in the country!”

Automatically, the lift doors opened as he approached; he stepped inside. Turning, he faced Starburst. “There's more to being a superhero than looking good for PR.”

Starburst's face was just starting to resume the chimp-and-algebra expression of bafflement when the lift doors closed once more.

<><>​

He came in for a low-and-fast landing on the roof of the apartment building that he called home. Removing the bike helmet and goggles, he stowed them in his backpack and let himself in through the roof access. He was pretty sure that most of the people in the building knew who he really was, but either they didn't care or they chose to keep the secret. Either way, he was happy with the result.

“Hi, honey, I'm home,” he called out as he unlocked the front door of the apartment.

Laura leaned out of the kitchen as he closed the door behind him. “How'd it go?”

“About how you predicted it,” he told her glumly. “It's all corporatised, with buzz-words and consumer awareness. I figure I'd last about one day before strangling someone.” Starburst, for preference.

“So what are you gonna do now?”

“Thinking I might see about that LA job offer.”

“The Enhanced Academy thing? Bunch of normal folk trying to teach Enhanced how to be superheroes?” There was doubt in her voice.

“At least they're trying. And they want me in on it, which has got to mean something. What's for dinner?”

“Ravioli.”

“Nice. I'll go wash the stench of corporate greed off my hands.”

She chuckled. “You better. No corporate greed at my table, mister.”

<><>​

“So, you gonna move out west, or you gonna commute?” she asked, as they sat eating.

“Can you handle it if I move?” Handle the rent, he meant.

She shrugged. “Sure. Shana's been looking for a place to stay, and we're getting pretty serious, so if you move out, she can move in. I was gonna ask you if you were okay with it soon anyway.”

“I got no problem with it. Shana's a nice kid.”

“She's only ten years younger than you!”

“So are you.”

“Old man.”

“Young punk.”

“And don't you forget it.”

“As if I could. Oh god, talking about young punks. Starburst, today. Holy god. What a pretentious blowhard. That man was so far up himself he could use himself as a hand puppet.”

“He can't have been that bad. I've seen him on TV.”

He cleared his throat. “Direct quote. 'Exemplars of the superheroic ideal'.”

“Oh holy shit, he did not say that.” Her face was filled with delighted horror.

“As I sit here. He said that.”

She rolled her eyes. “You wouldn't have lasted the full day.”

“What I was thinking.”

“Do the dishes?”

“If I get to pick the TV channel.”

“Deal.”