Origins.
Benjamin Montgomery knew he was outclassed the moment his Nemesis laid a hand on him; he was faster, he was stronger, an he had better technique. He shot for low, for Monty's legs, in an attempt to drop him and nail the breakdown. Monty pulled his leg up and back to avoid the speedy grappler, but he was outplayed as his Nemesis caught his ankle and pulled him off balance.
Goddammit-- Monty was face up on the ground before he could even finish the thought, and almost immediately he felt the weight of his Nemesis plop atop him. He knew he was in trouble, but he was in no position to usurp control from his more experienced opponent. Monty struggled in vain, but his Nemesis pushed an arm around his neck and shoulder, forming a neat triangle hold that pinned Monty's left shoulder to the ground and dropping his right a few inches down.
“MONTGOMERY! Don't you get fucking pinned, you little shit!” Coach was screaming from the bleachers, a normality for Monty's matches.
“Yeah, yeah,” Monty grunted, forcing his shoulder up to avoid a near-fall and wrapping his leg up over his Nemesis' in an attempt to dislodge him. Bobby Blake, his long time Nemesis throughout high school, was far too squirrelly for such a maneuver, though, and shifted to gain the advantage once more. Monty felt himself tiring, but he simply couldn't gather the energy to lift Blake off him. His shoulder dropped an inch closer to the mat, and Coach screamed all the louder. Monty almost laughed as the image of Coach's beat red face dripping with sweat drifted into his mind, but he realized that would probably signify the end of his wrestling career. The two wrestlers grappled for a full minute longer, Monty giving up two near-fall points Blake, allowing his shoulder to dip to close to the mat for two long. The referee blew his whistle to end the round, and Blake released the battered Monty.
Coach stormed over to his wrestler, and Monty could see the quiver in his shoulders that always preceded an explosion of expletive proportions.
“Goddammit Monty, what the Hell are you doing out there!? You're a thousand times better than this kid!” Monty merely nodded and took the water bottle from the short, square man's hand, taking a slurp. “Get out there and kick his ass, or you're off the team. Last chance, Montgomery.”
Thanks, no pressure or anything, Monty thought, nodding again. He knew Coach's speeches were designed to strike fear into the hearts of his wrestlers, inspiring them to get pumped up and perform better, but Monty never felt inspired at the end of Coach's berating—mostly, he felt insulted. He knew the other wrestlers on the bench were glaring at him, the other team probably joking about him, but none of it bothered him in the least. Rain water on glass, more or less.
“Your mother would be ashamed.” Monty froze. He felt his cheeks flush bright red, and he shot up from his crouch to stand face to face with his Coach, murder in his eyes. Coach knew he'd crossed a line, but he probably didn't care. He was completely about winning—he didn't care that Monty's mother had died only weeks before. “Get out there and make her proud, Montgomery.”
Monty didn't respond, just dropped the water bottle onto the ground and balled his hands into fists. He turned away from Coach and stepped back into the circle, where Blake stood waiting, hands on hips. Monty's breaths came in short gasps, his chest heaving, and he ground his teeth together as the ref called for them to shake hands. He grasped Blake's hand firmly, and took no notice as his Nemesis' face shifted from cocky to confused, and finally to agonized as his fingers were strained in that brief moment of contact.
The ref positioned them on the mat for the second period, Monty on his knees, hands spread in front of him, and Blake kneeling behind him, one arm wrapped around Monty's waist and the his other hand on Monty's forearm. Monty ground his teeth harder, his eyes narrowed and his muscles tensed, and he could feel Blake's uncertainty as the ref started the period. He didn't give Blake a moment to spare, shooting his arm up and locking it around Blake's head. In the same maneuver, he lifted Blake off his feet and onto his shoulders, then flung him over his opposite shoulder to land flat on his back to the mat. The move was so quick, so sudden, and so deft that Blake had no other reaction than to let his lungs collapse under the impact, and he squirmed on the ground a moment before starting to roll back to his stomach.
He took a moment too long, however, for Monty pounced upon his Nemesis even as he lay squirming on the mat. He thrust the flat of his elbow against Blake's shoulder, forcing it to the mat, then wrapped his other arm around his neck and opposing shoulder, forming the same lock that Blake had him in only minutes before. Monty was no stranger to this feeling, but he never grew accustomed to it—the raw power coursing through him, hardening his muscles to unbelievable proportions and heightening his awareness to mind-blowing levels. He knew adrenaline worked wonders on the human body...but somehow he had the feeling this was different. He thrust downward on the unfortunate Blake, pressing his shoulder to the ground and landing the pin in a matter of moments. He stood up and helped Blake to his feet, breathing slowly as the ref held his hand up in victory. Monty trudged back to his Coach, brushing by him and taking a seat next to his teammates, who slapped him on the back and ruffled his hair.
Rainwater on glass, more or less.
Becoming.
Everywhere he looked—inferno. Flames danced and licked at every surface: the bleachers, the scoreboard, the basketball hoops, raised up on their winches for safe keeping. Monty blinked his eyes against the heat as one of them came crashing to the ground, it's cord burned through by the roaring flames. Even the floor was alight, the laminate coating of the wood curling and blackening into gooey puddles. Benjamin Montgomery struggled to his feet, ignoring a searing pain in his lower back and straightening to his full height. The air was thick with smoke, and every breath burned his lungs. He looked back to where he'd been sitting only moments—had it even been a minute?--before and nearly fell over. The entire bleacher was shredded, blown outward by the force of the explosion. Nothing but splinters and twisted metal piping remained.
When Monty felt around his back to find the source of his pain, he grimaced at his discovery. A huge piece of shrapnel, no smaller than the width of his thigh, was embedded across his lower back. He gripped it firmly and tugged, crying out as it came free and he fell forward onto his hands and knees. He held his breath a moment and closed his eyes to steady himself, then climbed to his feet once more. Looking around the gym for any signs of life, he saw other students beginning to come around, some were even on their feet and trying to help their friends.
The area around Monty was nothing less than a slaughter; blood pooled around the partially burned corpses of his teammates and the other students that had been sitting at the bleachers, their bodies riddled with metal shards and wooden spears from the wreckage. He knew by the looks of their bodies that few still drew breath, and none would live through the ordeal. A pang of sorrow for the dead hit him squarely, but he shoved it aside and set to the task at hand. Putting one foot in front of the other despite his dizziness, Monty staggered toward the closest student, who was trying to free someone from the still-smoking mess that was one of the basketball hoops. He crouched near the young man and put a hand on his arm.
“On three,” he said. “You pull him out.” The student—a guy by the name of Brad—nodded with a grimace. Monty counted it out, and on three he grasped the poles of the hoop and flexed his legs and arms, pulling mightily against it and lifting the twisted heap up a few inches. Brad tugged on his classmate's arms, managing to dislodge him and drag him free.
“Get him out,” Monty said. “I'll get the others.”
Slowly, methodically, Monty moved around the gym, starting with the areas that were most damaged. The more he moved, the more confident he became, and the more he efficient he proved to be. The number of people he personally carried out of the gym was lost to him, and within fifteen minutes he was the only living person in the ruined gym. Still he wandered, though, diligent and determined to do his part. From what he could tell, there had been three explosives—half the gym had been nearly undamaged, and he suspected that those people that had still been standing had fled immediately. As he sat crouched next the corpse of a girl he once liked—Kristina--the loudspeaker on wall, now dangling from its mount, crackled to life.
“Well, well, well...it seems we have a Hero in the house after all,” a wheezing voice boomed through the speakers. “I know you're listening, Hero...and I'm glad you are.” Monty narrowed his eyes and stood up, ignoring the smoke and spreading flames. “You're not just any old Superman, are you? No, no....you're flesh and blood, just like me! Except...no one I know could sit on a pipe bomb and survive!” The man behind the speaker laughed at his own joke, a breathless, mirthless whisper of a laugh. “I've always suspected you were something more, you know...but I never guessed how right I was! You're something all right...definitely something. And don't worry! Your secret is safe with me...I'll take it to my grave. Your job is to send me there before I bring this town with me! Goodbye! See you soon--” The feed cut off the last bit of his farewell as the speaker fell off the wall, crashing to the ground and sending a shower of sparks up into the air. Monty narrowed his eyes and strode from the gym, his new Nemesis' words echoing in his mind.
Raindrops on glass...more or less.
The Hero.
Nearly three years after his Nemesis' explosions rocked the high school's gym, Benjamin Montgomery found himself once more fighting for the lives of people he didn't know. He had been standing outside the local Taco Bell when out of nowhere the street erupted into gunfire, three men wielding handguns and shotguns the source. Monty had stepped away from the panicked crowd for a moment and tugged off his shirt--a black dress shirt he was rather fond of—before donning the Kevlar reinforced face mask that had become so symbolic in the town of late.
Before he had even consciously decided to do so, he was throwing himself around two children that were in the line of fire and wrapping them in his arms. A dozen metal slugs found their way to his back, stinging him keenly but not penetrating past his skin. He grated his teeth against the pain and tightened his back, the children cowering closer to him as more gunshots rang out, sending more lead his way. The wounds oozed blood, but none of them seemed to be serious. Monty clung to the children desperately, pushing them as close to him as possible, using himself as a human shield. A third volley of gunfire slammed into him, this one four rounds of what felt like a brick wall slamming into his upper back. He kept his head ducked low, for even with his armored hood and superhuman muscle, he would not risk a bullet finding its way through to his skull.
Click.
The telltale, mechanical sound of an empty firearm prompted Monty to action, scooping the two children into his arms and sprinting for the street corner. Once rounded, the corner became a veritable bullseye for the gunmen, who once more emptied their newly-loaded weapons to no avail. Dust and flecks of brick flew into the air and Monty shied away from the edge of the building, setting the children on the ground and crouching beside them.
“Stay here you two—keep your heads down,” he whispered to them, ruffling the little boy's hair and raising the girl's chin with a gloved finger to look at him. “It's gonna be okay, I promise.” though they could not see his sincere smile behind the featureless mask he wore, the warmth of his voice and the jovial wink he threw them from behind his mask calmed them significantly. With a sharp two fingered salute, Monty stood up and peered around the corner. Two of the trio were reloading, one of them firing wildly at the Taco Bell sign, seemingly just to see the sparks fly. For the first time since the gunfire began, Monty realized one of them was speaking.
“Come on out, Hero!” Monty's blood ran cold. “Show me whatcha got! You haven't finished your job, you know!” Monty had only gotten a quick glimpse of the trio, but he knew that voice. A voice from his past, and one he hadn't heard in three years. They were all wearing the same getup—dark clothes, heavy jackets, ski masks, the works—but the one with the shotgun was definitely the one doing the shouting. “If you don't show yourself in the next fifteen seconds, all you'll have left to save are the corpses of the people you let die! Come on now, Hero! I waited three years for you, now you gotta come to me! FINISH YOUR JOB!” The last sentence was a spontaneous burst of fury, screamed at the top of his lungs as he fired a shell into one of the corpses at his feet for effect.
Monty stepped away from the wall and rounded the corner a second time, facing the trio. All three leveled their weapons at him, and he stopped where he was. He let his feet slide out to shoulder width, flexing his torso to its limits and balling his hands into fists.
“There's my boy! How've you been?!” The leader lowered the muzzle of his shotgun to the ground, his tone shifting from furious to amiable in the blink of an eye. His two cronies kept their handguns aimed at him, both adjusting their grip on the weapons nervously. Monty said nothing, taking a cautious step toward the criminals and noting the appearance of sirens in the distance. He only had to hold the trio for a few minutes more. “It looks as though we are to be interrupted, Hero! Too bad that I cannot afford that...” In one motion he shouldered his weapon and leveled it at the closest bystander, an elderly man that had been struck in the leg by a stray bullet.
Monty exploded into motion, a single twitch of his calf muscles sending him straight for his Nemesis. His cronies opened fire as he shifted his attention back to his real target, and only Monty's reflexes saved him by bringing his forearms up to protect his face. He peered between his arms and leaped forward, engulfing the closest of the trio and throwing an elbow to his face that likely knocked the man senseless. Slugs of lead and steel fell from his body as his flexed muscles stretched his skin across them, but more bullets thudded against both him and the man he had tackled—his Nemesis held no loyalties. Taking hold of the now-dead man's neck and leg, Monty hurled him at his Nemesis' second minion. The human projectile found its mark, sending the corpse and its target tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
“Well done, Hero!” his Nemesis crowed, pumping a shell into Monty before sticking a hand into his coat. Monty shrugged off the shower of pellets, striding forward to grab the shotgun by the barrel. He yanked it away from his Nemesis, who back-peddled wildly, withdrawing a small remote from within his coat. Monty leaped forward once more and wrapped a hand around his Nemesis' neck, lifting him off his feet and raising a fist to pummel him into submission.
His Nemesis had one more card to play, though, and he held up one finger as if to remind Monty of something. “I wouldn't do that, if I were you,” he said, waggling his finger in Monty's face. Monty hesitated, seeing the remote. “You have ten seconds from the time I press this button to get inside Taco Bell and get everyone inside out, before the whole place goes up in flames. Now, you can either let me press the button right now, then pound me, and let everyone inside die...or you can set me down and have a minute and a half head start before I press the button. Your choice, Hero.”
Monty glared at his Nemesis from behind his mask, but eased him down onto his feet. “So much for finishing my job,” he growled.
His Nemesis laughed, that wheezing sigh he called laughter bending him over at the waist. “My dear, Hero! I never said your job would be easy...or quick. You're going to live with me for a long, long time, Monty. You'll feel my pain.” As quick as the laughter had come it vanished, and his Nemesis waved the remote in front of Monty's face again to remind him once more. “Time's ticking, Hero. You now have a minute fifteen.” Monty's fist smashed into his Nemesis' face, his knuckles crushing the man's cheek and following through, snapping his neck and taking him off his feet to land in a heap on the cement. Monty knew that the man's grip would activate the bomb, and he knew that he had no time to get inside the building to save those within.
Never again would his Nemesis' words be like raindrops on glass—they would resound with him for as long as he lived, for he knew that he could have saved those people, if only he had listened to the ideals he had been raised by. But his Nemesis, and he would be his Nemesis forever, even after his death, had been right; he was no Superman. He was human, flesh and blood. Superman would have defeated the villain and still had tie to save those in the restaurant. But Benjamin Montgomery was not Clark Kent, and his life was not a comic book. He served the greater good, not the truest one.
Word Count 3176
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