Some Kind of Hero

I’ve always known I’m a superhero.

I’ve just wondered what kind of hero I am.

“How could you do this?” I ask, facing someone I’ve known my whole life. Someone I guess I never really knew.

“Because I was the only one who could,” he says, sighing the words. “The only way I could give you what you want.”

“You think I wanted this?” I gesture at our surroundings, the motion encompassing so much more than what we can see.

Because what we can see is bad enough. This used to be part of the City, a place where people made homes and ran businesses, a place where they lived their lives. Now it’s a ruin, a wasteland of collapsed buildings, fractured concrete, burning fires. And dead bodies. It’s what’s left of a battlefield after the battle has been fought, never mind who won and who lost.

“No.” He holds up a hand, one finger extended, like this is a lecture, a gesture so familiar that a stab of annoyance penetrates the mind-numbing shock I feel. “I made you into the hero I knew you could be. The hero everyone needed you to be.” He points the finger at me, accusing. “The hero you wanted to be.”

My jaw clenches. I’ve always loved him, with that love you can only have for a sibling, a love that’s complicated and messy and unconditional. But right now, I hate him. He’s my little brother, and he’s also been my worst enemy, even though I didn’t know it. Now… now he’s become something else. I’m not sure what. But I need to figure it out.

Because whatever he is, he’s also right.

“I didn’t want this,” I say, the words weak and hollow, vessels empty of conviction. “I just wanted to have my chance.”

For the longest time, it seemed like everybody else had their chance to be a superhero.

My grandparents were superheroes. Famous ones. They battled evil and averted catastrophes. They had books written about them, movies made, statues carved.

My parents were superheroes, too. Sure, they didn’t fight as much evil or stop so many catastrophes, but they tied up the loose ends, cleaned up the last of the mess. A mopping-up action, if you will. They finished making the world a safe place. And they got a book, a movie or two. And, yes, statues.

When it was my turn, I got what amounts to a pink slip. The world didn’t need another hero, I was told. Sorry kid, but everything’s just fine.

“You were just so much wasted potential,” my brother says. “Strong, fast, indestructible. But purposeless. Until I gave you what you wanted: an enemy to fight, a world that needed a hero.”

The words sting, not least because, once again, they’re true. Thanks to my brother, I got my chance to be a real superhero.

And I loved it.

I battled armies of killer robots. I defeated giant mutant monstrosities. I destroyed laser satellites and defused nuclear bombs. I saved the City over and over again. I basked in the adulation of the grateful masses, welcomed the appreciation of the authorities. I got a medal from the mayor and gave interviews to the adoring media. They’re writing a book about me, talking about a movie deal, and, yes, they’re carving a statue.

Thanks to my little brother’s villainy, I’m the hero I wanted to be.

Except it’s all a lie, and it’s left me wondering if I ever really was a hero.

“It was all fake,” I say, holding out my hands, a supplication, indicating how helpless I am to grasp the enormity of his subterfuge. “You deceived me. Deceived everybody.”

“Of course I did,” he says, scoffing. “It was easy, too. You all wanted to believe that the world was still in danger, that there was still a need for heroes. I gave you that.”

Here he stands, amid the wreckage of another of his manufactured schemes, a massive, death-spewing machine that I literally had to tear to pieces to stop, and he just looks pleased with himself. Smug and self-satisfied. I broke into his control room, dragged him out into the light of day, and tore his mask off for all to see. I have him dead to rights, he’s not getting away with this one, and yet he’s acting like this was all part of his plan.

Who knows? Maybe it was. He’s always been the smart one. Smarter than I ever suspected.

Growing up, I had no idea that my little brother had any superpowers whatsoever. It’s never a sure thing that a superhero couple will have superhero kids. Turns out he might be the most powerful superhero in our family. He’s super intelligent, clearly. Smart enough to hide it, to keep us all in the dark. While all the time he was plotting… this.

“You know you can’t get away with this,” I say. I try to overcome my shock, my disappointment. My anger. If he’s planned all this out, then he must have some surprise for me, some last move, some endgame that I won’t see coming. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact my brother is a supervillain, and I need to be ready for anything. “I can’t let you.”

“I know. I really do know.” He shakes his head. “Trust me, I’ve planned this all out. You’re a hero; you have to do what’s right. You’ll take me into custody, deliver me to the authorities. There’ll be a trial, a media circus, and imprisonment. It’ll just make the story more interesting.” He smirks. “Eventually I’ll escape, of course. If you think about it, I’m sure you’ll agree that there’s no way they could ever keep me incarcerated. And they’ll never have what it takes to execute me. So, I’ll get away, and you’ll come after me, and we’ll do this all over again.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” I say, not really believing what I’m hearing. “You sound crazy!”

“Not crazy; brilliant,” he says, as if it’s all so obvious. “We’ll keep this going for years. Decades. We fight. You beat me. I escape. Rinse and repeat. It’ll be amazing. I get to be the villain, you get to be the hero, and the world will eat it up.”

I look away, feeling sick. He does have this all planned out, just as he has all along. The worst part is that I’m actually… tempted. “You think you know me so well? You think I’ll go along with that?”

“What else can you do?” he asks with a shrug. “I do know you; you’re my brother. And let’s face it, I’m a lot smarter than you. Trust me, this is how it will play out. You get to be the hero you always wanted to be, and I get to be your arch nemesis, just like I always wanted.” A small smile crosses his face. “And you want to know why, brother? Why I did it? Because I really do love you.”

I’m starting to understand something here: how you can love someone and hate them at the same time. I mean, I’ve never really had a grasp on the concept of love. Affection, caring about someone, that I get. You want someone to be safe, happy, to get what they want.

But hatred, that’s a different beast. It’s more visceral. More controlling. It wants its own thing, wants to make you satisfy it. An emotion that’s got a mind of its own. And it’s so pure, unambiguous. You might not know for sure if you love someone; but you’re certain when you hate them.

My brother sighs, that sigh you give when there’s nothing more to say, and you should just get on with it. “Well, you’d better take me in,” he says. “We’re both ready for the spotlight, and if we hang around here much longer, people might get suspicious.”

I don’t answer. I just stand there, jaw muscles flexing, like I’m trying to chew something up well enough to swallow it. I can see where he’s coming from; I’m sure he really thinks he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and what I’ll do. He thinks he knows just what kind of hero I am.

But does he?

My hands curl into fists.

He blinks. Frowns. The slightest touch of doubt enters his gaze.

What should I do? Go along with him? Do what I know to be “right”? Embrace an endless battle that will make me a stooge, a puppet, while we destroy the City and kill countless innocents?

Is that the kind of hero I am?

Or should I just let the hatred have its way? Punish him, here and now. Put a stop to all this, in the most final way.

I guess it all comes down to what kind of hero I want to be.

He opens his mouth, and suddenly I can’t stand the thought of hearing one more word. One more lie. I lurch into motion, fists swinging. He may be so much smarter than me, but he’s not faster. Or stronger.

He’s not indestructible.

Some time later, I’m not sure how much, I stumble away from what’s left of my brother, ignoring the circle of onlookers who crept out of the destruction around me. I don’t see their sickened, frightened faces, don’t notice when they flinch away and won’t look at my bloodied hands. I don’t care about the news crews setting up, training lights and cameras on me, the reporters holding their microphones at the ready, but too scared to start asking questions. I don’t acknowledge the police, their weapons in their hands, too shocked to know where to point the guns.

I don’t care about any of it.

Because I finally know exactly what kind of hero I am.

I’m the kind of hero who gives in to his darkest impulses, who won’t let his enemies win, no matter what it costs.

The kind who satisfies his hatred when he could remember his love.

I’m the kind of hero who doesn’t deserve to be a hero.