The Hero Complex

“Good afternoon,” the doctor says to the giant man standing in his office doorway. He gestures to the loveseat across from him. "Have a seat and close the door behind you.” As he’s gotten older- in which he is now very old- his voice no longer holds the same imperious politeness; it comes out sallow and thin.

The man enters and despite his bulk, sits rather gracefully on the velveteen loveseat, the upholstery worn smooth over the years. The doctor blinks at him (he’s lost his glasses for the third time that day) and fumbles for his notepad, in which he finds it amongst the remains of his lunch, and sets it atop his lap. The doctor is small and hunched over, a cardigan draped over his birdlike shoulders like a…well, like a cape; he crosses his legs and interlaces his fingers; he looks pensively at the man- a pose he’d adopted so long ago his tomb will have to thus be accommodated.

The man ripples with muscle, he wears a spool of inky black with flowing shadowy textures that move in a synthetic whisper; a cape encircles him, a matte gray that absorbs the light, like smoke clinging to his frame.

The doctor makes no mention of the man’s costume- for that is what it is: a costume- and begins to ramble off from a mental script he has long perfected from memory: “The following is your annual review of the Department of Metahuman Affairs within the oversight of the DSP, Division of Superhuman Psychology, deeming that all registered superhumans shall undergo Cognitive Stability Evaluations to ensure that those possessing enhanced abilities remain psychologically fit for duty, safeguarding public welfare and minimizing risks of catastrophic misuse of powers.” He clears his throat. “I, Doctor Zossimo, will be conducting this interview. Your name is…ah”- his memory fails him and he must look down at his notes- “your name is Shadowflare and you possess the superhuman ability to manipulate between light and dark, generating blinding bursts of flares or cloaking yourself in shadow, shifting between the two.” As he goes on his voice becomes reedier and he must pause to take a breath. “Your powers allow you to move through shadows almost invisibly but you can also explode into sudden, fiery light to disorient your enemies. However, your powers are also vulnerable to the shifting imbalances of night and day…” He winces at his notes, at the rather poetic drivel, “in what is called ‘perfect twilight’ in which your powers are unstable, even paralyzed. Is this information correct or partially so or do they require further analysis?” Not hearing a response, he looks up and barks aggressively, “Yes or no!”

“Yes, sorry, that is correct. I am, as they say,” and the man pulls himself into an erect pose, hands on his hips, sing-songing a stoogy baritone, “Shadowflare. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to be called Archie. That was my name, you know. Well, you probably do know. It’s all in there, right?” and he gestures to the doctor’s notes.

At this, the doctor is momentarily flummoxed. “If I don’t mind what…oh..Archie, is it…well.” He harrumphs a bit. “It matters very little.”

“Archiwald Bonafante” the man says wistfully. “A family name” and then grimaces with a raised brow, “obviously. It’s strange though, how that all gets erased, you know, I don’t even remember…well, anyway, like you say, it doesn’t matter. You’re the doc.”

“On the contrary,” the doctor says, “with regards to your family, I would say it matters a great deal.” At this, the man looks hopeful, as perhaps he wishes the doctor would expound on this blatant and rather grasping attempt to distract him, but he will play no such games. He continues: “Accordingly, the DSP recognizes that the loss of parental guardianship functions as a critical metamorphic stage in the emergence of Orphan-Class Metahumans. Such suffering is essential for the activation of latent abilities, producing heightened resilience, neurological adaptation, and the psychological drive necessary for heroic function.” He pauses, gasping for air, but as his words have stirred up passions from begone days, he finishes with aplomb: “Accordingly, while recognized as tragic, this process is affirmed a necessary crucible by which ordinary citizens may ascend into national defenders.” In finale, he drops his head and coughs deeply into his chest.

The man nods sagely, and then proclaims: “Man, this suit! It catches around the balls, if you know what I mean.” He lifts himself up, and with cartoonish exaggeration, pulls at the material around his crotch area. The doctor impales him with an icy stare but the man makes no notice. “Have you had Umbrawraith in lately?” He gives a laugh, a deep and smoky rumble. “My counterpart? Being” - and he uses his fingers to mimic quotation marks- “‘pure shadow’ who thinks he doesn’t…well, poop where the sun don’t shine, know what I mean. And would you know it, we’re sort of friends. I mean, we text now and then. Maybe ‘friends’ isn’t the word. But hey man,” and he leans forward, says conspiratorially, “this is all confidential, right doc?”

There it is: the foppish nod of his head, the winning smile. They all do it. The doctor was waiting for it. The Beam.

Ha! As if he, in his younger days, had not authored the memorandum: All agents are hereby instructed that exposure to individuals exhibiting heightened charm or calculated callousness constitutes a recognized operational risk. Personnel must employ standardized cognitive defenses (see footnote 1.8). Any deviation from approved engagement procedures shall be documented and reported to the Bureau of Behavioral Oversight. Vigilance against manipulation is essential to ensure both personal security and mission compliance.

He returns the Beam with an enigmatic smile and chants the refrain in his mind:

“I built a wall inside my brain,

To keep out charm and sly disdain,

It’s painted bright with thought’s refrain!”

“What was that?” asks the man. “You were mumbling something.”

For a moment the doctor is stricken, that he has spilled the state secrets, as it were. Has he been bewitched? Has his cognitive defenses been breached? He fumbles for his glasses, finds that he is wearing them, and then searches vainly for his glass of water.

With barely a rustle, the man has found his water and is proffering it to him. “Here,” he says gently, “drink.”

“I BUILT A WALL INSIDE MY BRAIN…”

“Doctor?”

But, of course! The man must be telepathic! Superhuman adaptations- he has been warning the Code of Omics and DNA Engineering for years! But they disregard him as a mere psychologist, an old man- he, Doctor Zossimo, who wrote the Heroic Mind Support manual!

“Well, anyway,” the man says, standing up and stretching, muscles bulging, cape quivering. “I’ve got a flight to catch. Got a Flareup scheduled for tonight. Heard about the earthquake in Beijing? Lots of folks trapped by debris, gotta light up the way. Titanlift and Bulwark are gonna meet me there.” With practiced elegance he flings his cape and says in passing, “Thanks doc.” And then at the doorway, as the doctor can only sputter in response, he pauses and grunts, pulling out a giant wedgie.