I never wanted to be a hero. And it’s not for the clichéd Spiderman or Superman reasons of wanting to be normal, to have a usual John Smith life. I never wanted to be Miss Average.
I just didn’t want to be a hero because… well, I don’t really care about these people I’m supposed to save. I’m a cold hearted, vicious person, I know, I know. But why should I give over my life to some fool who left their lit cigarette on the sofa, or the idiot who didn’t leave town after the tornado reports?
Still, rather pointless servitude than the alternative - being incinerated by the British government. So much for human rights I suppose. Or maybe I don’t count as human any more, what with the genetically screwed up blood flowing through my veins.
I wasn’t even born this way. That’s what’s really unfair. They chose me, yanked me out of my life and played havoc with my genetics, knowing I didn’t want that life. They knew what I was like, they knew this was one of my ideas of hell. It wouldn’t even give me the boost of knowing I was doing the right thing. They didn’t choose me for my honour and patriotism, an ability to take crap and console myself with my own integrity. They chose me for my cunning, my confidence, my pragmatism, and my ability to look damn good in a catsuit whilst pounding various villains and delivering cute quips.
The single advantage is, on my rare nights off, still having superpowers. They’re not exactly the most amazing abilities in comparison to certain comic book characters, but I think I can hold my own. The standard super strength, speed and healing powers. Plus teleportation, and best of all, telepyrokinesis. That’s a power I’d love to use on the scientists at the lab, the ones who did this to me. Only obstruction is the fact that their main computer is linked to my brainwaves, and mutinous action equals, as I said before, instant, fiery annihilation. Cold hearted, beautiful women are ten a penny - they can afford to replace me.
To the common man, I am a shining, perfect being. A beautiful defender of the weak, and an excellent page three model. It drives me insane, but the scientists tell me I already was a little mad before - a borderline disregard for the rules. Borderline? Huh. Maybe they don’t know me as well as they think.
I never wanted to be a hero, and I never wanted to be average - I haven’t yet figured out what I do want. The hero job is kind of hectic, and I don’t have much time to think about that kind of thing. What with toppling multi national conspiracies and rescuing babies from burning houses, I don’t have much me time.
Perhaps it won’t be for much longer though. Heroes are renowned for doing crazy, self sacrificing things, yes? If I don’t find a way out of this situation soon, I might begin not to care any more - or to care even less, anyway. Maybe I’ll finally walk back into that lab and go down fighting. Or maybe I’ll truly sacrifice myself on a mission. The irony of that is a pleasing thought. Serving them and escaping them.
I wonder, if I did, whether I’d end up in heaven or hell. I’ve saved a lot of people, but only to save myself. If I’d had any say, let them hold America to ransom, and damned if I care whether the IRA blow up a bus. If it’s the thought that counts, I don’t think St Peter will be opening those golden gates, public hero or not.
And with telepyrokinesis, I could have a lot of fun with the devil.
