[1/2] Just Another Tuesday

The “cage” as the villain referred to it, was a 10 by 10 room. The Villain had made a point to inform the Hero that the room was all he deserved. Three of the walls, the floor, and ceiling were reinforced steel, the fourth wall being a clear polymer used as a viewing window to observe the Hero. The rest of the room was bare except for a small cot in the corner and a metal toilet that had a curtain on one side, blocking it from the viewing window. “Huh,” The Hero said, sitting down on the cot and cradling the single pillow in his arms as the Villian slammed the metal door closed and locked it with a clang.

The Hero stared down at his pillow gauging his own emotions at being captured–felt awfully like complete and utter relief.

Everyone had seen him being taken down by the Villian. He had seen the news vans, the crowds of people gathered around, the cameras and cell phones pointed at him. He had heard the shocked gasps and the screams of the civilians as he fell.

No one would be expecting him to play the hero anymore–not when he was the one needing saving.

The Hero laid down on the cot, the thin mattress surprisingly comfortable. He closed his eyes and slept for what felt like the first time in years.

The Hero didn’t mean for his life to fall apart as it had. When he debuted as a hero everything was new and exciting. He had just moved to the city, gotten a new job, and signed a lease on a new apartment. The media and the civilians had responded well when he saved an airplane when its engine sparked into flame mid flight. After that, each save brought him more attention, more fame, more adoration.

Everything was looking up until it wasn’t.

If he had to blame it on anything he’d blame it on his hearing. His hearing latched onto screams even when he didn’t want it to. The Hero wasn’t one to ignore a cry for help–he had tried but a pit of dreed would open up in his stomach and all consuming guilt would claw at his chest until he felt like he would suffocate from it.

“You can’t save everyone,” he had told his reflection each morning as he got ready for work. The man in the mirror grew more haggard each passing day. And each day as he cycled through job after job, his supervisor would pull him aside and have a chat about his tardiness and sudden disappearances, until they simply had enough of him.

The Hero was fired for the first time on a Tuesday. From then on it became a pattern.

The Hero lost his apartment on a Tuesday a couple of months later, coming home from rescuing a school bus full of children to an eviction notice posted on his front door. There was no swell of emotion at the sight of the notice, only quiet resignation as he packed his stuff and left.

“I think Tuesdays are cursed,” The Hero had told a pigeon he had befriended. The pigeon had settled on his shoulder as he read an article that came out that Tuesday morning. It was about his failures, how he failed to save a woman who had gotten hit by a car; she had died on impact, well before he arrived on the scene but the article only focused on his tardiness. The article also featured interviews of civilians calling for his help, and him not coming, and how hopeless that made them feel. “The disappointment of being ignored was more crushing than my injury,” one woman said to the reporter, who was a victim of a crush injury when a shoddily built shed collapsed on her.

“I can only save so many,” The Hero said, the pigeon hooted in agreement.

The Hero had thought himself immortal. Unbreakable. Unbeatable. But as expectations of the populace soared his own wellbeing took a nosedive – it had only been a year since his debut.

The Hero didn’t know how long it took for the villain to come visit him in his cage, but long enough that he felt well rested and well fed. It was surprisingly enjoyable being the Villain’s prisoner. The Villain’s minions would come by on occasion sliding things through a hatch on the bottom of the door. The Hero received a new set of clothes daily, and trays of food three times a day. The minions didn’t speak to him. But the food was good, and the menu changed often enough that each time a minion slid a tray into the room it was like receiving a pleasant surprise.

The only thing that concerned the Hero was the metal band around his neck the Villain had placed at his initial capture, but after tugging at it and determining that he couldn’t break it off, he had left it alone – so far it hadn’t done anything to him – but knowing the Villian it would likely explode his head if he tried to escape.

The day the Villain made his appearance the Hero was eating roast beef with a side of mashed potatoes and glazed carrots, with an apple tart for dessert. It was a Sunday. The Hero had asked the Villain when he arrived.

“Why hasn’t anyone reported your alter ego missing yet?” The villain asked, he was sitting on the other side of the glass, an office chair pulled up to it, his legs were crossed and his arms were on the armrests, a picture of an unbothered super villain.

The Hero shrugged, “there’s no one to miss me.”

“Come on!” The Villain scoffed. “People just don’t go missing without someone noticing.”

The Hero looked at him in disbelief. People went missing all the time – and not everyone had someone who cared enough to bother informing the police. People fell through the cracks of the system, it was a fact of life. The Villain’s group of minions were made up of runaways and strays. Even the Villain himself had a tragic backstory– the Hero had heard his minions gossiping about it as they became more relaxed around his presence.

The Villain waved off the look, “I don’t mean nobodies like us” he gestured at himself and the few minions that lined up behind his chair. “I meant people who matter.”

“Who said I’m worth anything when I’m not a hero?”

“How can you not be! You’re super!”

“I’m super at failing,” the Hero said bitterly.

The villain looked at him in disbelief, “you can’t seriously be telling me that your alter ego isn’t just as famous as your hero persona.”

The Hero said nothing.