Young Writers Society

The Masked Crusading, according to The Hawk.

It’s not that hard to do. You know, saving the world and all. Everybody keeps praising us, for what we do, like if we had found the cure for cancer. Everybody keeps saying we’re angels. But I must say that it isn’t that hard, at all. Sure, sometimes you'll end up with a broken bone, or two... well... if you can break a bone. I mean, let’s take Ultralad for example. Now, the guy can’t break a bone. He can’t get shot. He can’t be thrown out of planes, or buildings. The only thing that can hurt him isn’t even from this planet. But still, he comes back to Gammacity, after defeating some trigger-happy fool who was threatening to turn the world into Waterland, and he is treated like a god. Oh, Ultralad, how did you defeat him? How do you think? He just has to blow and he’ll turn a man into an icicle. I mean, really. It’s not that big of a deal.

Do you know how many schemes to destroy the world come up every week? Five. And no, that’s not the grand total. That’s five per superhero. And there are at least… let’s see… two hundred superheroes, and counting? That makes a thousand Armageddon attempts a week. That’s more than four thousand attempts a month. That’s almost fifty thousand a year. It’s not that special. I understand why people think so, but it’s not. Sure, if something goes wrong we could all die, but… we’re used to it. It’s everyday life. Besides, from the fifty thousand possible Apocalypses there are only two, or three that really stand out. Like last year’s alien invasion, or when that poisonous gas was released in Rocky Road City and you couldn't leave your house unless you wanted to return with no skin on. That kind of stuff.

But what I find scary is the numbers. Fifty thousand attempts per year. That means that fifty thousand people are crazy -and intelligent- enough to craft up a plan to destroy the world. And it’s not scary because they want to destroy the world; it’s scary because they really, really, want to kill everybody. I mean, how come? I’ve gotten my share of hard times. I mean, sure, my wife is not frozen, and my face hasn’t been disfigured by some strange acid but… destroy the world? What good will come from that? I mean, rule the world I can understand. I wouldn’t want it, but I do get why they want the power and all. But if they vanquish every living thing in earth, what will come from that? Let’s see, they will probably be alone, with a bunch of cockroaches, Cher, and a lot of ice, fire, or water. What then? How can that be good?

I heard that they were conducting these psychiatric experiments to the inmates in the Simmons Penitentiary, you know, where they keep all those crazy guys with superpowers. They were trying to figure out what they all had in common, why did they do what they do, why do they chose that certain theme, or costume, and so on. So one of the tests they did was that they took a certain inmate to a little room, and asked them questions. Well, no. Just one. They asked them why they did what they did. Time said that the most popular answer to that question was: "Because I wanted to be left alone," or something along those lines.

So, after reading that article, I left for work with a different view of things. I mean, I stopped crime, and all, but it all felt different. Every time I shot an arrow, every time I glided between the buildings, every time I tied some bank robber to the light-post next to the police station. It all felt… worse. You must understand, I am not a happy man. In fact, I take pills. The reason why I became a masked avenger was to make myself feel better. Most of us do it to help people. I did it for myself. I did it for the attention (which, note, is not the same as fame), I did to upper my self esteem. When I first started out, after months of working out, after years of archery training, after weeks of knitting my damn cape, and forging that damn helmet… while I was kicking some murderer’s ass… I felt freaking great. And I felt that way every single time I got inside the costume. Yet suddenly, I did not. So you must understand my concern when my arrow hit some random "super-villain’s" throat and I actually felt regret. Again. And again. Every. Single. Time.

I knew I could only do one thing: Santo Domingo.

It must’ve been thirty-something years ago, while I was still in college, just starting out as a masked crusader (during that time I was called Black Dove, instead of The Hawk), when I didn’t use my bow, that I saw an advertisement in the paper. It said:

Santo Domingo. A Caribbean Paradise…

Just a few thousand miles away.

Now, being the young, ignorant boy that I was, I imagined the place as some exotic heaven, with topless women, craving for American loving. And being the young, ignorant boy that I was, I created a life goal. I decided that I would end my life living in Santo Domingo. Therefore, I analyzed the situation: I was almost fifty, I was tired of my day job, starting to dislike my "secret life," didn’t have a couple, my family had vanished during the years, Gammacity was starting to fall apart, I had a perfectly good successor, the villains were getting repetitive, and I could definitely use a tan.

The answer was clear: Santo Domingo.

So, on Friday the 19th, of 2005 I grabbed my costume and decided to say goodbye to my city the way it had to be done. As The Hawk. First, I would say farewell to The Lad. It wouldn’t be hard to find him; all I had to do was turn the TV. During the years, Ultralad’s morality had started to fail him. And I don’t mean that he was being rough to the criminals. No, that’s allowed. I understood that. I even practiced that. What wasn’t allowed was to look into a toy-store and see an Ultralad speaking action figure. Or Ultralad costume for all sizes. Or Ultragal, Ultralad’s "crime-fighting significant other." I mean, whom is he kidding? We all know what he liked. It was on the news, goddamn it. Still, he tries to squeeze as much money as possible from whatever source he can. Dolls, comic books, movies, and it keeps going. That was the reason why we had never… clicked, I guess. The others all got along with him. You know, Lady Justice, Leonius, The Shadow, Electrolyte, Hammerchap, Clay, Thinman, and Flaming Wonder— even that old bastard Hooded Rider. Everybody loved him. He was their favorite. In the polls, Ultralad would win by far. All of the time, you would see him in the news.

For example, I remembered a certain occasion in which Hammerchap, Lady Justice, and myself had fought all day against some… dumb idiot who wanted to turn the world into a toaster. So, eventually, we prevented it. And it wasn’t easy. This was one of those occasions I was telling you about, one of those two, or three, that really stand out. I mean, Hammerchap almost died, Justice got a nasty burn in her thigh, and I broke my left wrist. But when we arrived, from some island in the middle of nowhere, which was two thousand freaking degrees hot, nobody paid attention to us. Everybody was busy interviewing Ultralad, who had just finished building a couple of houses for the homeless. But it didn’t matter. It was cool. I mean, some of us chose solely to fight villains, and others decided to help the government some times. And who could blame him for that? They loved him. He was the reason they had won the war against Russia, after all. They couldn’t afford not to keep him happy. I mean, when the word spread out about The Lad’s tendencies, gay marriages were legalized in all the country. If I had gotten that kind of attention from the President, I would’ve started to do charity, and to attend to events, as well.

Still, there’s something called prostitution. And I’m just saying. I stated earlier that all I had to do to find The Lad was to turn on the TV. Maybe that gave you a bad idea. You’re probably thinking that I’d have to switch to the news, and see if there’s a disaster of some sort. But you’re wrong. I didn’t even have to use the news. About a year ago, Ultralad sank about as low as a celebrity can sink. He started his own TV show. And this is no Newlyweds. It’s a group of cameramen who follow Ultralad all day long, showing it live at channel thirty-two. They call it UltraTV.

It was ten in the morning, and it was cold. And some old hag was making things even colder. Dressed in some kind of blue space suit, and armed with what seemed pretty much like a plastic water-gun, but was some kind of freezing device, the old man was holding the whole of the Gamma State Building hostage. He called himself Doctor Ice. Oh yes, very original. Doctor Ice XXVIII, to be exact. He was standing on the rooftop, screaming his lungs out, and laughing frenetically between pauses. Some guys were accompanying him and, not to my surprise, they were wearing Eskimo suits. I sighed in disapproval. This used to be glamorous. When a guy called himself Doctor Ice, he used to drive around in a huge white vehicle, have a silvery-icy metal armor, and would go exclusively for diamonds. There used to be a code. Now, all the mad villains were travesties. Parasites created, or inspired, by the media. Shameless men with a middle-life crisis, who will do anything to have a spotlight.

And release their anger by killing some people, in the process.

See, that’s the problem. Most of the time, we don’t even have to fight them. Most supervillain "masterplans" fail because of an error the designers miscalculated, or because they chicken out in the end. So, really, if we don’t even have to fight them… why the hell are we here? Well, the problem is that people die. In the lapse that takes a criminal to realize that he is not really evil, his death-machine, or his bomb, or his storm, or whatever it is, kills ten people. And we can’t allow that to happen. Why? Because that’s the way, it is. That’s how we think, and it’s never going to change.

However, when an unfortunate office worker, who had been carried to the roof by the lackeys, was froze to death, and tossed out of the building; I didn’t move. Sure, I could’ve jumped, glided, and grabbed… but what for? All I would’ve done is stopped the body of breaking into a thousand little pieces. I didn’t have time for that. I had some goodbyes to say. Besides, someone did it for me. If you can call it someone. A blur of silver, and red, flying towards the falling body, and towards the sun… followed by a big, black helicopter. In a matter of seconds, the frozen body was besides me, and so was the huge man who had carried it to me. He truly was amazing. Perfectly shaped, tall, green eyes, brownish hair, and a mustache you just craved to get. All covered in silver tights, with a huge "U" in the center, and a long red cape –that matched the U perfectly. He looked like a goddamned statue. Like I used to, in my old days. I was envious. He didn’t age a bit, and I was already old. "What are you doing here?" he said, without even looking at me. No, he was looking at him. He was looking at Ice. "You know I take care of this stuff. I need to… you know, for the… You know." He gestured towards the helicopter, which flew clumsily in the sky, wondering where the hell had the star flown of to.

“I know.” I said, making my voice sound rougher, like I always did. You see, I decided, in my early days, after a few misfortunes, that if I wanted to keep my identity a secret… I needed to disguise my voice. Especially when I tried to seduce women, whom my regular alter-ego couldn’t seduce on his own. “I’ll talk to you later. Go do your thing.” A strong breeze pushed me, almost making me fall. He was gone. All that remained of him was a mixture of silver and red lights, flying towards the unfortunate supervillain. The chopper followed, amongst the curses of the pilot, who couldn’t keep up with the celebrity. Because that’s what he was. The Lad was a celebrity.

And after some minutes, it was all over. Sure, Ice tried to fight it. A few blasts, an attempt on a monologue, he even threatened on killing a hostage. But The Lad was too fast. He didn’t even give the guy a chance, for sport’s sake. Not even a forced effort in a dodge, not even a corky response for the monologue, or pretending the hostage was someone he knew. No. Ultralad wasn’t into theatrics. Instead, he dodged the blasts easily, cut off the guy in the middle of his monologue –to which, I could tell, he had given hours and hours of dedication-, and used his heat-ray vision to burn the Doctor’s face while he was holding the hostage. It wasn’t fair. He had no flaws. He had… There were no… human features in him other than legs, arms, a torso, and a head. He was too perfect. Nobody stood a chance against him. I wondered why they even tried.

Anyways, The Lad didn’t stay for autographs, or interviews, I’m happy to inform. He had other business to attend to: me. So, seconds after delivering the now unconscious Doctor Ice ot the police vehicles that had blocked the building, the was another blur –I gasped a bit, balancing my way out of a ill-fated fall- and then the superhero was next to me. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, and he wanted everybody to realize that. "What?" he had muttered, dryly. Smiling, I remembered the once noble Ultralad, that he had once been during his early days. I used to respect him. Now, all the fame had turned him into an arrogant, cocky bastard. And it wasn’t only in the way he talked. Sure, the way he talked was a major part of it. His monotonous tone of speech made you feel insignificant, as if you were boring him, and there was always that emphasis in the words –as if he knew more than you did. But the talk was just a part of it. Then there was the floating. He could never be standing up. He always was standing a few inches above the ground, as if he couldn’t be on the same level as we oxygen-needing species. And of course the moustache, which just made me feel like I wasn’t half the man he was.

"Well, right now I’m just enjoying the view, Richie." I said, smiling under the shadow of my helmet. Ultralad glared at me. The eyes. I hate those damn eyes. "You’re still Richie, aren’t you?"

"I don’t have time for this."

"Yes. Yes, you do. You have all the time in the world." I answered, indifferently. Being icy towards The World’s Strongest Superhero™ was one of those things that made you feel big. More important than you actually are. "All you do is fight losers who can’t even fire a gun without yelling for a considerable amount of time before pulling the trigger— and even if there was a real threat… c’mon, you’re the second fastest man alive, you can get there like that…" I clicked my fingers, as I turned around to face The Lad. In the distance, I could hear the chopper approaching. The alien cleared his throat.

"I’m the fastest, actually."

"No. Sonic Boom is. It’s the title of he’s book… Fastest Man Alive." I stated, scratching my nose under my helmet. "Right there on the cover."

"Pretty much everybody’s faster than ol’ Sonic…"

"What? Is he crippled, or something?" He just looked at me with those scary eyes of his.

"He’s dead."

"Oh." There was a moment of silence. I sighed, trying to sound more hurt than I actually was. "When did he die?"

"Last year. He was shot."

"Wasn’t he supposed to dodge those?" I muttered, somewhat disappointed.

"… in the back of the head." Ultralad concluded, in a reproachful tone. Slowly, I was starting to loose everyone… They should put this stuff on the news... If I stayed, it would’ve been just me and these… these monstrous men that did not age. Why wasn’t it on the news? What was more important that happened last year that got old Boomer out of the front page…? He was a good man, almost my age. We had always treated each other nicely. We clicked. Maybe it was on the front page, and I just didn’t realize it. But word would’ve gone out. Why the hell didn’t I know about this? And why exactly didn’t I get invited to his funeral? Maybe I didn’t write enough. Maybe it was worked related. I should’ve teamed up with him more. God knows it would’ve worked out. Ultralad clicked his tongue, impatient. "There was no funeral, if that’s what you’re wondering. Most of us just went to visit his family personally. Secret identity’d, of course." So he read minds as well? Great. And me, all I do is swing on ropes, and glide. And the gliding part doesn’t even work so well. It’s not even gliding, it’s prolonged jumping. Like, jump, and whoosh. And then it’s done. Not fair. So he’s an alien, he comes from another galaxy. Doesn’t mean he should get all kinds of superpowers. I’m Jewish, and I got none. But mind reading? Nah. I dismissed it for just a bizarre coincidence.

"Secret identity? You’re still Richie?"

"Of course. Richard Reeves. He’s seventy."

"You mean, you’re seventy." Ultralad pouted.

"Well, he looks seventy. Look… I’ll show you… Look." Then his feet touched the ground, and he quickly clicked his ear. There was a sound, and his silver tights were replaced for a grey business suit, with a yellowish tie. His cape disappeared, and to replace it, a pair of sunglasses appeared before his eyes. There was even streaks of grey in his hair, all of a sudden. "It’s all electronic now." I eyed him, almost jealously. The Lad wasn’t even that smart. Where the hell did those little gadgets come from? "You haven’t gone public either, right?" he asked, as he floated again, pressing his ear and changing back –as quickly.

"Of course not. It’s unprofessional."

"I’m thinking of doing it myself," the hero added, as if he hadn’t heard my last sentence. "There’s no real danger. I’m practically a nobody… as a human, I mean. Besides, most people know who I am already, making it official won’t hurt anybody. It could’ve a few years ago, but now… there are no really good villains. Most of them are a joke, and I haven’t even got that many allies to protect, either."

"How come?"

"They all died." He answered, in a cryptic tone, looking away. Good Gracious, this is ridiculous. How can that happen to me twice in one conversation? I had known some of his human friends. They had been kidnapped a few times. It didn’t seem so long ago, when I would help him look for this kid he used to work with over at the radio station. He was complaining when I brought him back. 'Why do they always pick on me? It’s the third time! What do I have to do with any of this?' The poor bastard. What was his name? "Yeah. Dead, or too old to remember me."

"No." I said, trying to drift away from the subject. "How come most people know who you are already?"

The Lad thought for a moment. "Something about my TV contract leaking into the… intranet. Didn’t get most of it." It was funny. How he tried to make a joke out of it. But it was actually the truth. He probably hadn’t gotten most of it. Like I said, he wasn’t so smart. "So… will you tell me what you came here for?"

"I came here to say goodbye." I said, as I had practiced I would do so on the way. Ultralad didn’t seem shocked. In fact, he seemed to have been expecting it. "I'm leaving the cape, man."

"You’re retiring?"

"Yeah."

"That’s great, Hawk. Good for you."

"Yes. Good for me."

"It was… a… it was a good run." The Lad offered me a handshake, and I took it, reluctantly. "You know… you should really consider coming out… to the open… before you disappear."

"I’ll think about it." I lied, as I tapped the frozen cadaver next to us in the head, before starting to walk towards the corner of the roof, rubbing my chest. The Lad followed me. I checked his feet. He was still floating.

"We can do it together," he added. The words do it, and together, worded by him made me shudder a little. "It’ll be fun. One last thingy. Everybody would be there. It’ll be a goodbye party—"

"I’m meeting everybody today already, Richie." I interrupted. Kneeling down, in the corner, preparing to leave. The Lad floated in front of me, not allowing me to glide away.

"Am I invited?"

“It’s not a party. But if it were, you’d be there. For sure." No, he would not. "I’m just gonna go around the city. Y’know, visiting them. Maybe I’ll pay Sonic’s family a visit, eh?" The air was getting more and more agitated, as the chopper went flew closer to us. I didn’t want to appear on national television. I looked at The Lad under my mask, wondering if he could see the face I was making with those X-Ray thingamajigs of his.

"Do you need a ride?"

"I’m good. Got my ol’ capey, here."

"You know, if you think it’ll get your loved ones in trouble, forget about it. Never discussed." Ultralad continued. "But just think about it. You’re a veteran. If somebody even dares to mess with you, it would’ve been one of the old foes. You know, The Guardian, The Toymaker. Mastermind. They’re all dead."

"I know that."

"Yeah. And besides, let’s face it, we don’t have that many loved ones left to be hurt anyways." I felt a plunge in my gut, as I thought of Sarah, and Michael, and Hillary, and Arthur. “I mean, I got Howard, who’s living at Berlin now. And I got Johnny, who’s a superhero too. He can take care of himself.” Howard. That’s the one. 'Why do these things happen to me?' Hah.

"Johnny who?"

"My partner." The Ultralad answered, moving out of the way.

"A sidekick? But you’ve never had one of those since… Oh." I looked away, embarrassed. Then I smiled to him, and jumped off the building. "See you, Ultralad." I called out, as the cold air hit my mask, during the fall. As I opened my cape, I could hear them –him and the chopper- fly away. His partner. Go figure.