Beyond the Mask by John Drewry

#316 Beyond the Mask by John Drewry

The Unmasking

Armstrong stood in front of the crowd, surrounded by their hate-filled comments and insults. He couldn’t believe that after saving all of them from the building, they could be so savage and cruel. The night had started so simply. A silent alarm, a red beacon in his hero app, had pulsed with the urgency of a five-alarm blaze. The address was a luxury apartment tower in the heart of the city’s vibrant LGBTQ+ district. A targeted attack. He knew exactly what was happening.

He arrived on the scene not as a man, but as a living tempest. His powers, a fusion of kinetic manipulation and sonic energy, allowed him to move with a speed that defied the human eye. The air rippled as he approached the building, a low, thrumming hum preceding him. He didn’t wait for firefighters or first responders. He was the first and the fastest.

A violet flash. That was the signature. A tell-tale sign of the villain known as Vex, a domestic terrorist with a penchant for radical, hateful ideology. Vex didn't just bomb buildings; they targeted communities. This was the latest in a long line of attacks aimed at "purging" what they called a "perfectly straight society." Armstrong felt a familiar rage coil in his gut.

He didn't need to enter the building through the front door. He projected a low-frequency sonic wave, a focused pulse that rattled the windows without shattering them, and then a stronger one that blasted a neat hole in the brick on the twelfth floor. The structural integrity was already compromised, the building groaning like a dying animal, but his precision was a thing of art. He was a force of controlled chaos.

Inside, the scene was a hellscape of smoke, collapsing drywall, and panicked screams. The air, thick with the acrid smell of burnt plastic and dust, choked him. His enhanced reflexes and speed became his greatest tools. He moved like a ghost, a blur of motion, racing through the crumbling corridors. He grabbed a family from their apartment, a mother and two small children, and in a flash, they were outside. He went back, his movements a streak of lightning, pulling out a disabled veteran on the tenth floor, a terrified teenager huddled in a stairwell, and an elderly couple too weak to move. They were there one second and, in a flash, outside, safe and sound.

He was a blur, a whirlwind of rescue. It was a rhythmic, almost meditative dance of chaos. The collapsing ceilings, the raging flames, the terrified faces—it all blurred into a single, frantic purpose. He wasn't thinking about who he was saving, only that he was saving them. He had done this hundreds of times before. This was his purpose, his one true calling, the thing that gave his life meaning when the rest of it felt like a hollow performance.

Finally, he stood on the street, the last person, a young man, safe by his side. The building behind him gave a final, shuddering groan and collapsed in on itself with a roar, sending a wave of dust and debris over the crowd.

The silence that followed was deafening, a stunned awe settling over the rescued citizens. Then, the cheers erupted. Cries of relief, tears of gratitude, and the familiar chorus of a hero's reward. The adulation was a drug he'd long since grown tired of, but it was a predictable, safe reaction.

And then, it all started to go wrong.

Suddenly, a scream ripped through the air. "This is all your fault!" one of the residents, a burly man with a face blackened by smoke, was screaming, his finger trembling as he pointed at a young man. "If you faggots had never been here, this wouldn't have happened!"

Armstrong froze. The cheers died instantly, replaced by a stunned, then quickly venomous silence. The young man, whom he now recognized as half of the couple he had pulled from the twelfth floor, recoiled. His partner stepped in front of him, a small, defiant shield. The crowd, just moments ago filled with gratitude, turned with a terrifying speed. They were no longer a collection of grateful citizens; they were a mob, and they were looking for a scapegoat.

"They targeted our building because of them!" someone else yelled.

"They should have just left!" a woman shrieked; her face twisted with a hatred so potent it felt like a physical thing.

Armstrong's heart hammered against his ribs. He felt a cold dread settle over him, an insidious, creeping poison far worse than any physical wound. He knew this hate. He had felt it before, a lifetime ago, before he put on the mask. It was the same venom that had chased him from his family, from his home, from the world he was born into.

He had always thought the mask protected him. Not just from physical harm, but from this. He had built a life, an identity, around the idea of being a protector, a savior who existed outside of the petty prejudices of the world. He was Armstrong. The hero. He wasn't gay. He wasn't a man. He was just the symbol.

But the line between hero and villain, between protector and prey, was suddenly razor thin. He had to act. He had to save them. He had already saved them once from the fire; now he had to save them from themselves.

He took a step forward, a half-formed plan forming in his mind. He could create a sonic barrier, a focused blast to disperse the crowd, to give the couple time to escape. He could grab them and, with a burst of his lightning-fast speed, whisk them away from this venomous pit. But where to? Where could he take them that would be safe? The city was filled with people just like this mob. They would recognize them. He could take them to a safe house, but how long would that last? He could take them across state lines, but the internet had no borders. The hate would follow them, a digital wildfire that would burn through their lives forever.

He was a hero who could stop a falling skyscraper, who could manipulate the very air around him, but he was powerless against this.

And then the second thought, the one that truly terrified him, hit him with the force of a train. What if he rescued them, and the public saw the truth? What if they recognized him as just another one of "them"? What if his secret, the truth he had hidden his entire life behind the mask of a hero, was exposed?

The couple he had just saved from the wreckage of a building were now looking at him, a silent plea in their eyes. The mob was closing in, their shouts growing louder, more aggressive. He saw one man reach for the couple, his hand a fist.

Armstrong knew he had to act. He didn't have a choice. He was a hero. That was his purpose. His duty. He had to save them, regardless of the consequences. But the thought of what would happen if the world discovered his secret, that underneath the mask, he was just like the very people the mob despised, filled him with a fear more profound than any he had ever known.

He was a hero without a cape. A man without a home. A savior who was just as lost as the people he saved. He had always fought for others, but this time, he was fighting a war on two fronts: for the couple's lives and for the secret that defined his own.

He braced himself, the hum of his powers beginning to rise, a low vibration in the air around him. The mob, sensing his intent, faltered for a moment. But it was only a moment. They were a force of nature, driven by a hatred that burned hotter than any fire. He knew a physical confrontation was inevitable.

He had always been a symbol of hope. But in this moment, in this cruel, twisted reality, Armstrong had to ask himself a question he had never dared to voice: what happens when a hero becomes just another victim?