Rising

“Heroes. One word that seemed to define everything. Fantastical powers, death-defying battles between good and evil, and the individuals who rose to power all because they were gifted with a breathtaking ability which could strike awe into the hearts of the light and fear into those who resided in the dark. People who, no matter the circumstances saved lives again, and again, and again. People who refused to give up on the world and all the others living in it. Heroes. The world’s so-called paragons of virtue who live to protect the defenseless and put away everyone who dared to oppose them. 

Everyone knows it’s not quite that simple. After all, the world would be, quite frankly, incredibly boring if everything was that clear-cut, so completely and utterly black and white. But people like to ignore that. Like to put everything into clever little boxes and say, “ah, yes, everything is as it should be,” with their hands placed tightly over their eyes and a smile tugged onto their faces. It is far easier that way, of course. To disregard the heroes who turn to the profession for fame and power and point fingers at the villains desperate to feed their families. 

Corruption is everywhere, and that is the sad truth of the world. In our lifetimes we will inevitably meet people who have done horrible things—people who are perfectly capable of doing them again. Of doing worse. I can’t pretend to be any different from them. I know my place in this world, and I know that it hasn’t been that of a hero for many, many years. Once upon a time, perhaps it was. I used to dream of it, reaching forward blindly, grasping for it like a child for their departing mother; desperate, pleading, single-mindedly focused on the retreating back of my dying desires. 

I wanted to save people. To haul them out of collapsing buildings and hot, burning flames, to have my arrival signal a universal sigh of relief from even the most afraid, and the small glint of hope in their eyes when they saw me. It is laughable now to think that whispers of me cause the exact opposite. That I cause the collapsing buildings and hot, burning flames. That my presence sends a shiver down the spines of even the bravest of men, and that any embers of hope seem to extinguish themselves when I look at them. These days the kind of person I want to save is very different and those lucky few are vastly outnumbered by those who I would destroy in a heartbeat. 

My future ability as a child was all I could think about. Wishing and praying for something ‘cool and awesome’ that would be sure to get someone to notice me, something unique or powerful enough that a hero would take interest and offer to mold me into a hero of my own right. That obviously never happened. Instead, I received a power I was told would be less than useful in hero work and my hopeful career was shut down before it even had the chance to begin. I was five. Instead of letting it crush me, I let this revelation fuel me down another path. Sometimes I ask myself: if my heroes had known what I would become, what I am now, would they have said anything different? Would I be different? 

It’s pointless to wonder about that, though. I am who I am and they didn’t say anything different to my five-year-old self. They brought the wrath of people like me by pushing us aside and ignoring us for far too long, and they are angry that now we are loud enough that they have to pay attention to us. It is funny to me that we were made into villains simply because we dared to respond to the paragons of virtue who told us we weren’t good enough to reside amongst their ranks. Once more I remind you that this world is made of shades of gray. The people in the right seek to oppress, while those in the wrong only crave to be treated as equals. 

My power is not flashy. It does not involve shooting lasers, or soaring through the sky, or being able to manipulate the world around me to my whims. It does not present itself as wings, or gills, or glowing eyes. It is silent, quietly residing in the background. It tells me that the barista making my coffee injured her left hand recently, that the man reading the newspaper on the train needs to invest in reading glasses, that the woman in the red sweater has at least two cats and hasn’t slept more than three hours in the past two days. It helps me notice things. Remember things. To unobtrusively collect a wide spread of information that I can do whatever I please with. 

I am a snake in the grass, lying in wait for the perfect chance to strike. A narcissistic analogy, yes, but one that for all its self-interest holds impossible to negate. My face is unknown, my body hidden by carefully curated disguises and voice modulated on the rare occasions I appear on screen or in person with my messages. In my civilian form I might as well be completely and utterly invisible, occasionally glanced over by curious eyes or recognized by the odd cashier as a regular at the convenience store. I am free to operate however I want, whenever I want, and with almost anyone I want. 

People are afraid of The Phantom, afraid of what I in that form might do next, who I’ll take down, and how violent that altercation will be. People are not afraid of my civilian self, of the person who orders whipped cream in hot chocolate and laughs at quips from the people standing in line with them. It was so, so incredibly easy to worm my way into the heart of things. To enter the body of the organization so dedicated to saving the world and dismantle it from the inside out, to expose the rotting organs so desperately trying to keep themselves clean and alive. It was almost pitiful to watch. They’re truly far too trusting, these heroes. It’s quite hilarious if you ask me. 

Now, my lovely, ever-so-attentive audience, I’m sure you can see very clearly that I have the great Firestrike seated in front of me, with my gun trained on his head. Behind me, my associates have a hold on Lady Lightning and Demolition, so even if he were to get the better of me his companions would soon each have a bullet in their brains and be dead where they stand. If anyone tries anything whatsoever, we’ll be forced to take similarly corrective measures. So I’m sure you’ll listen to the rest of my message just as receptively, won't you? Because I have a lot more to cover, so many tales of embezzlement, of turning a blind eye to the abuse of children, coercion, bribery, and so, so much more! 

Isn’t it exciting? This is the beginning of a new era, and it all has to begin with you in the exact same position as my childhood self… faced with the realization that your so-called heroes are little more than the scum of the earth plastered with pretty decorations and conventionally attractive faces and bodies. Oh, the hilarity of it all! Hmm? Is this not funny to you, listeners? Is this not entertaining? Well get comfortable, it only gets better from here.”

The Phantom grinned, sharp and wicked and grim under their plague doctor’s mask. 

How pitiful the heroes had all been. 

To think they had ever wanted to be like them.