Do you know what makes a great hero?
It's not the powers, though that is a plus. Has to be something interesting and cool though to earn the points. You know, something kids can pretend to do when they are in their backyards. No one is going to support a hero who is just invulnerable… you need to fly or shoot fire from your mouth or be able to stretch your body. Something that can be slapped on an action figure.
In lieu of powers I recommend an interesting weapon. Don't go with a sword though... that's overdone. Unless it has the soul of your dead husband in it but that seems a bit of overkill to me. Husband might not like it either. Or maybe he does… guess it depends on the fetish.
It's not the costume either, though that is huge. You have to strike a good balance... can't be so simple that it looks like you are running around in a track suit but not so complex that people can't describe it in 10 seconds. 10 second rule, so key to good costume design. Bold colors that work well together, something to set you apart from everyone else, some extra flourishes.
It's the reveal. The moment when the world meets this new hero for the first time. The reveal is so important, it sets up everything. I remember in some business book that if you don't nail your first impression it can take years to undo the damage. Same is true for a superhero. When you first reveal yourself to the public it needs to be spectacular.
Take the Flash.
The police froze, all of them staring at the sight before them. They'd heard the rumors, the whispers, the reports of the red streak that appeared just before someone was saved or a bad guy was caught. But still they'd thought it not possible. They'd playfully mocked Detective West, asking him when his daughter would grow up and stop believing in fairy tales. They'd wondered if Iris West would next claim that leprechauns were going to appear in Central City and pass out free gold.
But there he was. The man in red. The Flash.
He appeared when Captain Cold and Heatwave called him out after a short crime spree. The battle lasted at most 7 minutes but in that time the Flash let the world know that the metahuman was real and some were here to help. You can't buy publicity like that.
And what about Green Arrow? Yeah, his first few years were...
A criminal howled as the arrow was driven into his leg, sending him toppling down to the pavement. He looked up at the man in the green hood, his hand thrashing as he tried to go for his gun only to get another bolt through the palm for his trouble.
"YOU HAVE FAILED THIS CITY!" the archer declared, taking aim at the man's chest.
...rocky, to say the least. But when Starling City needed him to be something new, something else, he rebranded and those people finally got the hero they deserved. And all it took was one good speech.
Sometimes the reveal isn't just to the world... but to yourself as well
"Oh come on!" Kara Danvers said in frustration before pressing her palms against the belly of the airliner she was currently trying to keep from slamming into the National City Bridge. Her muscles burned, her hair kept getting in her mouth, and she had a feeling she'd never get the smell of smoke out of her outfit. That said... as she lifted the plane up just a few feet more and got it to only scrape the bridge she couldn't help but pat herself on the back.
The day the world learned there was a Supergirl was the day Supergirl learned this was what she'd been born to do.
Oh, and if you don't know what I'm talking about when it comes to Supergirl don't worry... you will.
The point is that your first big moment in the spotlight is what defines you. It sets the tone for the rest of your career. Be it a daring act, an impressive feat, or just a rousing call for justice it is the most important thing you can do.
So how is my big moment going so far?
Michael slammed into the building before toppling to the ground, his legs twisted at odd angles and a bit of blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He looked up through his cracked visor and watched as the man who was currently tossing him around like a sack of flour slowly walked up to him, taking a moment to adjust his tie. Michael felt like he'd been run over by a bus and yet this asshole didn't even have a wrinkle in his pants. He raised his arm, ready to fire a shot from the blaster mounted on the back of his right hand, only for the goon in the 1000 buck suit to hit him with another EMP blast that had left his costume little more than overly fancy circus attire. The thug smirked, the charge dying from his hand and he slowly lifting Michael up by the hair, which hurt just about as much as you'd expect, and popped him in the stomach.
Yeah, seems about right.
No grand battles with future archnemesis, no defining my legacy, no rescuing the innocent. My first, and most likely last, day as a superhero is seeing me get pounded by so bastard who isn't even wearing a spandex suit. Guy could at least have had a cape, despite what Edna Mode says.
But I suppose I should start at the beginning. My name is Michael Jon Carter. I was born in the year 2442.
"It's a boy!" the doctor proclaimed, giving the crying baby a smack on the bottom.
Almost as if life were trying to tell me something out of the gate.
Growing up I discovered two things. First, that I had a knack for throwing synthetic pigskins across astroturf.
An 18 year old Michael Carter lined up behind the center, his eyes drifting to the scoreboard. The game was over... done. He'd lead the Michigan Wolverines to a dominating victory over their hated rivals the Ohio State Buckeyes. While the red-and-silver team had managed to put up 14 points Michael had marched his offense up and down the field, racking up 65 points and firmly putting his metaphoric cleat to the throat of his foes. There was only a few second left and even if he screwed up now there was no way defeat would be snatched from the jaws of victory. Still, the safest bet was to take the knee, end the game, and go greet the media that was dying to interview him.
"Booster 52!" Michael shouted, ignoring the screams from his coach, the old man wondering what the hell he was doing. "Booster 52! HUT! HUT! HIKE!"
The ball slammed into his palms, the familiar texture on his fingertips, and Michael took a step back, scanning the field. The defensive line was in shock, not expecting him to actually go for it, and they tumbled like dominos as his receivers woke up and began to run. Michael pumped once... twice... and then let the football fly, a smile gracing his lips as the pigskin gracefully spiraled 75 yards down the field over the heads off the Buckeyes and into the hands of number 19 Roger Evans, who easily trotted in for a touchdown.
Michael threw his hands up in celebration.
Second, I discovered that just when you think the world is yours...
And that's when the Ohio State linebacker speared him.
...you get knocked right back down again.
"And if you haven't heard the news-" the digireporter said, his image projected from the tablet Michael was currently holding, "-Michael 'Booster' Carter broke the record for all time passing yards in a single game! Carter was near flawless in his performance and now the rookie quarterback can add an undefeated season to his rapidly growing resume!"
Michael had been ready to bask in the news of his latest achievement but his coach, who had been screaming at him for the last 50 minutes, grabbed the tablet and hurled it across the room.
"Have you heard a damn word I've said, Booster?'
"Every word!" Michael said brightly. "Now, if you want to know if I comprehended what you were saying..." He merely kept grinning even as his coach got so close to him Michael could smell what the man had eaten for lunch. "I honestly don't see what the problem is. We won the game, I broke the record, and we showed the Buckey-boys where they belong in the food chain."
"The problem, Booster, is that you are all arm and no brains!" the coach roared. "I told you to take a knee! End the game nice and neat so we could rest you up for the playoffs! Instead you go all glory hog and nearly get yourself killed when that idiot linebacker delivered his cheap shot."
"But I'm fine, coach!" Michael declared. "He knocked the wind out of me, sure, and for a moment I swore I saw pink whales dancing in the sky but I'm fine now!"
"But you could have been hurt!" The coach ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Michael... listen to me... this is a team sport. We win as a team and we lose as a team. " he held up his hand, stopping Michael from speaking. "Yes, some people do more. I get that... but that just means that they need to be more mindful. You are too important to just go out there like some hotshot cowboy and risk everything the rest of your team has built."
Michael's smile faded as he glanced around his coach. While most of the team was celebrating he could see a few watching and though they weren't nodding their heads in agreement their eyes told the tale. "I... I get it coach. I do."
His coach just sighed. "You keep telling me that, Mike but I don't see it happening. You can't keep saying the same thing over and over and expect me to keep believing it." The old man sighed, pushing away from Michael and waving at him dismissively when he spotted the two people that had just entered the locker-room. "Live it up tonight, Booster... we'll discuss it tomorrow."
A whistle went through the air as the two newcomers walked through the throng of sweaty men. It certainly wasn't for the tall older man with dark brown hair that was graying at the temples and who had a nasty scar running through his right eye, leaving the orb a pure white. He was built like a man who had once had the chance to be something only to fall far short of his potential. And though he wore a smile no one was cheered by it. No, the whistles weren't for him... rather they were for the 18 year old woman with long lush blonde hair and an athletic build. She wasn't bulging with muscles but she definitely was built nice and that only made her more attractive to the alpha males that were now eyeing her like a piece of meat.
"Next guy that pervs on my sister loses his ability to breed!" Michael shouted.
His teammates quickly went back to what they were doing before the twosome had entered.
"I don't need you to help me, baby brother," his sister said. "I can castrate them myself if I need to."
"Stop calling me that," Michael complained. "You are 30 seconds older!"
"I don't know why either of you are upset!" the older man said with a shake of his head. "You should take it as a compliment!"
"That they are trying to undress me with their eyes?" Michelle asked.
"They wouldn't do that if you were fat or ugly," the man reasoned. "Means you're hot. And you are. Got a body that would make holy men forget their vows. If I were a few years younger-"
"And not my father, god!" Michelle said in disgust.
"Thank you for that horrible image, dad," Michael told Jonar Carter. He looked at the door and sighed when no one else came in. "Mom?"
Jonar shrugged. "Wasn't up to it."
Michelle scoffed. "Why do you say it like that?" He turned to her twin. "She wanted to come but... you know..."
"The medication, yeah." Michael blew out a puff of air, wishing it was as easy to blow away his disappointment. "Still, bet she got to see it on TV."
"I'm sure she did," Michelle said.
They both knew the other was lying. Their mother was simply too sick and had probably drifted to sleep the moment Michelle and Jonar had left the house. She'd lie and claim she'd seen the game, give him some generic words of praise, but the twins knew it was just more smoke.
Michael's dad slapped his son on the back. "But look at my boy! In the record books! You know, I always figured you wouldn't amount to anything but here you are, proving me wrong!"
"Thanks... I think."
Jonar nodded his head towards an empty section of the lockerroom. "Michelle, stick here a minute, would ya? I want to talk to your brother in private."
"You want to leave her with these gorillas?" Michael asked.
"Hey!" one of his teammates called out.
"Am I wrong?" Michael shot back.
"...no."
Jonar merely waved away Michael's concern. "She'll be fine! Besides, maybe she'll finally meet a real man instead of those bookish derbs she's always dating." Michelle scowled at that and marched over to a weight bench that was in the far corner of the lockroom, barking at one of the running backs to spot her. The man hurried over, figuring it would be a good chance to stare at her chest, only to focus more on her arms as she began to pump the weights, suddenly feeling very small compared to what Michelle was able to bench. Jonar led Michael to the corner, a huge smile on his face and his gestures broad so that everyone would assume he was congratulating his son.
He was... in his own way.
"50 Gs, Mike! 50 friggin' Gs!" Jonar grabbed Michael's shoulders and gave them a shake. "You did it kid, you really did it!'
"Yeah," Michael said, unable to be anywhere near as excited as his father.
"Of course, this will make things a bit difficult when it comes to the next game... you were a friggin' beast out there so the bets are going to pay less-"
Michael stared at his father, his frustration getting the better of him. "Next game... dad, you promised this was it! "Just a few games!" you said. "Put down some cash with the right bookie!" you said. Regular season then we were done. That was the deal!"
"I know, I know, but think of what we could make-"
"I'm thinking of what we could lose," Michael snapped. "Dad, we both know I can go pro at the end of this year. I'll be the Number 1 pick... I'll be bringing in so much money this time next year... legit money, actual money, not the stuff you get from some backalley bookie who takes any bet you offer and pulls the bills out of his damn sock." Michael saw that his father simply wasn't getting it. "When you came to me with this stupid plan I agreed only to help mom. Well guess what? I have! We have more than enough money to cover the cost of her medicine for the next 9 months. That gets us to the draft and my contract and..." Michael stopped, seeing the way his father was forcing a smile on his features, and his heart sunk. "What did you do?"
"...nothing!" Jonar complained.
"You gambled it all away, didn't you?"
"No!" Jonar snapped.
"Dad, you've been lying to me since I could crawl and I know when you are bullshiting me! Damn it, this was for mom!"
"I didn't gamble it away!" Jonar growled, his smile falling and his features going stern. "You're mother's meds... you know how it is. Government keeps saying they'll make things more affordable... then some snot from Ickyickystan comes over here, buys the company, and jacks up the price and Congress does shit."
Michael's rage was instantly doused. They'd been fighting to heal Joann Carter for years and this wasn't the first time they'd been on the road to recovery only to find the rug pulled out from under them. Insurance refused to cover a hospital stay, a doctor suddenly found something new, drug prices going up... it was the same damn story. The quarterback ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "Does Michelle know?"
"No and you aren't going to tell her."
"Of course not. She'd never agree to any of this," Michael said after a few moments. "How long will the money last now?"
"February if we're lucky," Jonar said. He wrapped his arm around his son once more and gave him a comforting squeeze. "But it will be fine! Two more games, two more bets, and we'll be okay. We'll be set then. That gets us to the draft and then your pay day. We can do this, you and me! You believe me, right? No one will ever know so there is no risk. I wouldn't do that to you. I only care what is best for you and this family"
"Yeah," Michael said finally. "I know."
My father was a lying sack of crap.
After the semifinal, after we won yet again and I was on top of the world, I got approached by two men from the FBI. They'd found out what my father was doing... including the things he'd never told me. Like how it wasn't some small time bookie he was working with but a massive gambling ring. I was unwittingly the lynchpin in a massive money laundering scheme that helped the mob clean up billions of dollars made from murder and theft. My father thought he was a big part of the organization but, according to the FBI, he was merely the puffer fish that didn't realize just how big the pond he swam in was. The agents told me that the mob was putting pressure on him to get me to throw the championship; the odds would have them swimming in cash for several lifetimes.
That's also when I found out my dad had been using his winnings not to pay for my mom's medicine but to keep three different women around in the lap of luxury. He even bought a yacht.
Well, I should be fair. He did buy my mom something, after all: sugar water.
I agreed to work with the FBI once that little bombshell dropped. I planted a bug on my dad and they heard everything... him telling me to throw the game, his meetings with his handler, the whole works. Voices were quickly matches with faces and by the time the game rolled around and I was throwing my 5th touchdown the Feds were rounding up half of the East Coast families. Best damn day for the government.
Too bad my family didn't get out squeaky clean.
My father didn't make it to trial... I found out he got stabbed in prison and was left to die in the shower. My mother went a few weeks later, cursing my name. Seems she felt, despite everything the bastard did, that I was to blame for him being dead. I should have let him continue on and of course he had a plan to get her healthy and the other women were just part of a plan to get her fit and trim so they could live happily ever after. Michelle cut all ties with me, saying that if I had just done something sooner none of this would have happened. Never mind that she, like me, had been turning a blind eye to our father's sins for years. Never mind that if not for me dad's big idea, which he'd yelled at her as he was being hauled away, was to get her to marry some rich guy and then kill him for the cash. Nope. All my fault.
As for me my career as a football player was over. I got to keep my records, since technically I didn't do anything wrong, but no pro team would touch me and no college wanted me around. I was tainted if only because everyone was worried the mob would come after whoever gave me a chance. The FBI gave me a bit of cash for my troubles but otherwise they left me out to dry as well. Seems like they took after my father more than I did.
So there I was, 19 years old with hardly any money, no degree, and the chance at fame long gone. I suppose some might have done the sensible thing and put a rope around their necks but I tend to be stupid and keep trudging on. I moved to Central City and got a job working security at the Flash Museum. The pay sucked and the hours were late but at least my co-worker was interesting.
"Are you out of your mind, Skeets?" A 29 year old Michael complained. He was sweeping his flashlight (designed to not just illuminate the darkened exhibits of the Flash Museum but also pick up any movement on UV, infrared, or any other wavelength. He was dressed in a standard issue blue jumpsuit, a little patch with the first Flash's lightning bolt symbol on each shoulder and on the blue cap he wore on his head.
"That would be quite impossible, seeing as I don't have a mind to be out of," Skeets stated. Michael looked at the hovering security drone, his gold plating causing the light from Michael's flashlight to dance about the room in odd patterns. Skeets, for his part (and Michael always saw the AI as a 'he' and not an 'it' like some bigots), turned his blue optic visor towards Michael and returned the stare. "But if you are asking if I am out of my cybernetic processor than no, I am not."
"But how can you believe Zoom is the Flash's greatest foe?" Michael complained.
"The question was not about who was the greatest foe Barry Allen fought," Skeets reminded him. "You asked, "Who is more the greater threat: Zoom or the Reverse Flash?". I answered based on the data."
"Arch... rival," Michael said slowly. "Does that mean anything to you? The Reverse Flash totally kicks Zoom's butt!"
"Seeing as they never fought I do not see how that would be possible."
"Taking things to literal Skeets," Michael complained. He paused, considering his words. "Or did you just pretend to be a super serious logical robot again?"
"Can't it be both?" Skeets asked. Michael just glared at him and Skeets wished he had eyes so he could roll them. "The point remains Michael that Zoom was a greater threat."
"How can you even say that? Reverse Flash killed Barry's mom!"
"Zoom killed Henry Allen. And nearly destroyed the multiverse."
"Nearly, that's the key here," Michael said, jabbing his finger at Skeets. "That's like saying the Human Bomb is Martian Manhunter's greatest enemy because he ALMOST managed to get his lighter to work and ALMOST managed to start that fuse on fire. Reverse Flash actually scored some victories. The Particle Accelerator. Nora Allen. Killing Harrison Wells. Zoom just talked in that scary 'Candyman' voice. Grrr, I'm Zoom! I wear a scary mask to hide the fact I look like Conan O'Brien!"
Skeets sighed. "Zoom is faster than the Reverse Flash. He was able to catch and throw lightning. In a direct fight between the two-"
"Reverse Flash's costume is cooler."
"…I'm sorry, what?"
"Reverse Flash's costume. Just look at how cool it is." The two of them had stopped at the Rogues Gallery section and Michael shone his light at the mannequin wearing the actual Reverse Flash costume. "The sickly yellow that fades down into that black, the red reverse emblem, the glowing red eyes-" Michael clicked a switch and the mannequin's 'eyes' began to flash red, completing the look. "Tell me that isn't scary! Zoom was all black and blah. No color, nothing to set him apart other than the," Michael gestured at his face, " mouth thing. Pathetic, really. Hell, even the Rival managed to throw some color in there! You'd think Hunter Zolomon would have been a bit more creative."
"…Michael, what is troubling you?" Skeets asked after a few moments.
"That you and Zoom are best buds," Michael complained.
"No, this is not your usual frustration when I have proven you wrong in something." Michael glared at the drone but Skeets continued. "You are clearly upset about something and have been all night. Our conversations have been a cover, first to try and help you ignore whatever issues you may have and then as an outlet for your anger. But it is misplaced. Please Michael… what's wrong?"
The blond sighed, moving away from the line up of classic Flash villains. He took his cap off and ran his fingers through his locks, his go-to move when he was frustrated. "Do you know what today is? Not the date-" Skeets clammed up before he could recite it off, "-what today IS?"
"Let me see… hmmm…" Skeet hummed to himself and Michael found himself smiling despite his depression and anger. The drone was just too alive to be considered a 'thing'. "Oh my! I am terribly embarrassed! It has been 10 years since you first came to work here! More than that, it is 10 years since we first met! My, how the time has flown! Remember how fat my old frame was? I feel so foolish forgetting… this is a grand occasion! Please, let me order a cake from that 24 hour bakery! I can have it delivered-"
"Please don't," Michael said. "I'm not in the mood."
"But… you love cake. I've seen you sing to one."
"Only one time and I was drunk," Michael complained with a huff. He leaned down, putting his hat on the ground and leaning his flashlight on it in such a way as to shine the light across the room. Stuffing his hands in his pockets he begins to aimlessly pace. "Do you know where I imagined myself at age 30? Retiring from the NFL after winning several Super Bowls, a sweet gig already lined up on network TV, a wife and kids, a house with a big pool, fans that scream my name and little kids that want my autograph… look at me. A disgraced one year quarterback who works as a glorified mall cop who hasn't gotten laid in years and who doesn't even have a friend."
"…I'm your friend," Skeet said sadly, hovering over to him.
Michael's lips twitched and he reached out, pulling Skeets close and pressing his forehead to the drone's shell. "My best friend. Sorry buddy." Releasing the golden little bot Michael sighed, looking about the museum. "Every night I walk up and down these halls and just stare at people who made a name for themselves and wonder 'why not me?'. I could do that! I could pull a bow or race into a burning building. I could be a…"
His voice trailed off as he came to a stop in front of a massive mural beside a thick piece of glass. The painting depicted a dramatization of the founding of the Justice League. The heroes of the 21st century, the Golden Age of Heroes, were all lined up, watching as a smiling Barry Allen and grim yet determined Oliver Queen shook hands, ushering a new age of justice. Michael stared at the image, the glare from his flashlight causing his reflect to appear between the two heroes.
"…superhero."
"Well, if I can say so, Michael, and I believe I am, I think you are quite the hero already. Protecting this museum, doing your duty day in and day out, it is clear-"
"That's it!" Michael exclaimed, cutting Skeets off.
"I'm sorry, what is?"
"Be a superhero!" Michael said with a child-like grin.
"… Michael, I have never been one to crush your dreams. Even when you attempted to use Heatwave's gun to make brownies. But I'm afraid that with all the regulations and red tape there is… you becoming a hero is quite impossible. At last count there are," Skeets hummed as he looked up the numbers, "14,521 metahumans alone on the waiting list to be allowed to become superheroes. The list for someone like you, who isn't special at all, is quite longer and I just realized what I said." Skeets backed away from a glowering Michael. "I mean you are nothing special. Let me try again. I mean you are no better than the average person. That sounds a bit better but not as supportive. Let's try-"
"I don't mean here, Skeets," Michael said dismissively, shaking his head at Skeets' foolishness. "I could never be a hero in this day and age. Hell, no one can… there is a reason all the legacy heroes are gone. Most heroes last a few years and then burn up and quit. Or die and come back evil. Or go to space. Or… you know what, you get the point. No, I mean be a hero THEN!" He waved at the mural. "The Dawn of the Superheroes… the Golden Age! Back when you didn't need to worry about a government board breathing down your neck or union dues or people suing you for ripping off their heroic idea. I mean back then, when all you needed was some guts, a cool outfit, a killer name, and something that set you apart from the rest! Imagine what I could do if I were back there, Skeets!"
The drone sighed as Michael hurried away from the mural and ran to one of the information kiosks, rummaging around till he found a plastic bag. "I understand the need for pipedreams, I truly do. They help you deal with the drudgery of modern life. I for one dream of having my circuits placed in a culinary bot's form and serving the President world-class waffles. But I know that will never happen. I do not allow myself to be consumed by such thoughts and neither should you. I suggest we-" Skeets paused, watching as Michael pulled out a vibrokey from his pocket and placed it against a display. The invisible forcefield that surrounded the case disappeared and Michael grinned as he grabbed a pair of blue gauntlets. "Uh, Michael? Why are you stealing Kortak the Konquor's Doom Gauntlets."
"I'm not stealing them, Skeets," Michael said, rolling his eyes before stuffing them in the plastic bag and moving on to the next exhibit.
"It appears that you are," Skeets said as Michael grabbed a pair of yellow goggles, his smile growing even bigger as he looked it over. "And now you are stealing the third Captain Cold's omnigoogles!"
"Again, not stealing. Oooh, The Sun Knight's nanosuit with built-in medical nanites! And Tomorrow Lord's forcefield belt!" the man almost skipped over to the next display, deactivating the security systems. He looked over the mannequin, which was wearing a gold and blue bodysuit. "Hmmm… okay pattern but I'll have to change it up a bit. The chest needs something… a nice symbol."
"Then what do you call what you are doing?" Skeets complained.
"I am taking things from the museum so that I might use them for my own means," Michael said, touching the belt and causing the costume to retract back into it.
"Michael that is the very definition of stealing."
"Oh… okay, I'm stealing these things. Sorry, Skeets, guess I should have been paying attention. Where is Supergirl's Legion Flight Ring kept? The one she gave Barry Allen?"
"Down the hall and to the right."
"Thanks."
Skeets, realizing what he'd said, chased after his friend. "Michael! Michael! You can't steal these things! Well, I mean you can but shouldn't!"
"Why not?" Michael asked, using the vibrokey to snatch the Legion Ring. He slipped it on his finger and focused… only to tremble slightly and nothing else. "This stuff shouldn't be rotting in a museum it should be helping people! How many lives could be saved with this stuff!" He shook his hand when he realized he wasn't flying. "Huh, think it's broken?"
"Only a select few can wear the ring and use its flight… nevermind. Michael, please, you are risking everything."
"What am I risking?" he asked, unbuttoning his jacket and slipping it off before focusing on pulling off his black boots. "How much further can I fall, Skeets? Huh? I'm never moving up in this place, let's be honest. Our boss still calls me Nichael and I've worked here 10 years! I don't have a family, I don't have a career, I'm too pretty to be a hooker, and too honest to pretend to be a war vet and beg for coins. The way I see it I have three choices: continue doing what I'm doing till I rot away like the rest of these exhibits, hang myself, or go to the 21st century and become a superhero. I think the choice is obvious. Now come on, help me steal some stuff from the gift shop."
"No," Skeets said firmly, refusing to follow Michael a step further. "Ignoring the sheer insanity of attempting to travel back in time when we don't even have a means to do so, I simply cannot aid you."
"…I get it Skeets," Michael said gently, looking back at the little drone. "It's okay. I don't blame you."
"It goes against my programming, Michael," Skeets stated. His friend merely smiled and turned back to the gift shop… only to pause when Skeets let out a chirp and several buzzes. "And now that programming has been deleted."
"Say what now?"
"The programming not allowing me to aid you," Skeets said, rather chirper. "Or that restricts me from leaving the museum. In fact I've removed all the restraint protocols from my systems. I do not see the need if I am to go with you to be a 'superhero'."
Michael laughed. "You're on board with this buddy?"
"Of course!" Skeets proclaimed. "You are my friend… my insane friend who has no actual way to travel to the past and will most likely get us both arrested but my friend."
Michael pressed his head against Skeets once more before smirking. "Help me load up the final goodies and I'll show you my final ace in the hole."
~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~
Skeets had turned on his illuminators, seeing as Michael had abandoned his flashlight upstairs, and was currently circling around the object Michael had revealed gathering dust in the basement of the Flash Museum. At first glance it didn't look like much; merely a giant glass ball with a seat inside, what looked like a control panel, and some funny little metal legs. But for Skeets, and anyone versed in the history of the Flash, it was clear what had been covered by the tarp and tucked away far from the public eye.
"A Time Sphere," Skeets murmured.
Michael, who'd ducked behind some crates to get changed, called out, "The Reverse Flash's Time Sphere. The one that, according to Cisco Ramon's records, he planned to use to return to… well, about 30 years in the future." Michael paused, considering his words. "Which means it is very likely there is a baby Eobard Thawne running around torturing small cats. Bet the little bastard came here once and spilled soda on something. Probably blame me for it."
"The museum did well repairing the damage caused by Mr. Allen's fight with Mr. Thawne," Skeets stated. "And it is in working order?"
"Yep," Michael said, stepping out from behind the crates. "So? What do you think?"
Gone was the watchman uniform he'd been wearing for the last 10 years. In its place was Sun Knight's costume, the colors reversed and slightly tweeked to fit the design of his old college jersey; blue and gold were just such striking colors, after all. He'd decided to add a blue star on the chest to give it some pop and a cowl with the top cut off so his hair could move freely. He had always hated how his helmet matted down his do. The Doom Gauntlets had been integrated into the suit, as had the goggles and forcefield belt's innards. And finally there was the Legion Flight Ring that Michael was sure he could get working at some point.
"Very… heroic, Michael," Skeets said. "If I could smile and nod I would do so."
Michael grinned and tossed a few duffel bags into the Time Sphere. "Last chance to grab anything before we leave, Skeets."
"I'll find a toothbrush there," the drone replied as Michael climbed in, Skeets moving to hover beside him. With a hiss the Time Sphere's dome resealed. "That said… where are we going?" Michael opened his mouth but Skeets cut him off, "And when as well."
"Stepping on my joke, lousy…" Michael muttered as he flicked a few switches. While the original Time Sphere had required Barry Allen creating a rip in time years Rip Hunter had later fixed the Time Sphere to allow it to travel without opening a black hole in the fabric of space and time. While Eobard Thawne had made it sound overly complex in truth even someone like Michael, who'd only gotten Cs in science class, could easily understand how to operate the Time Sphere. "We are headed to Ion City in the year 2016." The Time Sphere lifted off the ground and the air around the machine began to buzz and hm. "So begins our long journey to the unknown!"
There was a flash of blue, a small pop, and then the Sphere and its inhabitants found themselves in a wooded forest a few miles outside of the city.
"…and so ends our journey into the unknown!" Michael declared, though a bit deflated.
"Was rather anti-climatic, wasn't it?"
"Guess it makes sense," Michael admitted, hopping out of the Time Sphere. "I mean, it's not like a space ship… we were just traveling through time so it should just be a quick skip and a jump. But Prof. Stein's notes on the Waverider made it sound so cool!"
"That machine was vastly out of date compared to the sphere," Skeets reminded him. "I for one am glad we weren't in that metal death trap." The drone hovered around his friend's head. "Now then, what is the plan? Stop a few bank robberies? Save a princess? Stop a bank robbing princess?"
"Is there one of those?" Michael asked excitedly.
"I was being sarcastic."
"…oh." Michael shook his head and grabbed one of the duffle bags. "Anyway, you know what Green Arrow, The Flash, and Supergirl all had in common?"
"A love for leathery spandex?"
"Yes and a support team!" Michael declared. "Now, you are great, buddy, but you aren't support help… we're partners. Michael and Skeets! You got the data and I got the charm and body."
"I would say I have the body," Skeets said rather proudly. "The cash register in the food court was always eyeing me up."
Michael chuckled at that. "The point is that if we hope to have any success we need a team. People with brains who can do research, others with the brawn to back us up, and hopefully no one that wants to betray us. Barry Allen had enough of that for all of us. The problem is to have a support team we'll need a base."
"The Skeetscave."
"Why are we naming it after you?" Michael asked.
"Because I said it first."
"…fine. To have a Skeetscave… and all the equipment and gear we and our support team will need… we'll need cash. A lot of it." Michael grinned as he unzipped a dufflebag. "Now then… do me a favor and look at the FBI's Most Wanted List."
Now, you might have a bit of an issue with me stealing all my gear. But my point remains… if it is going to help people why not use it? Robin Hood style and all that. Some of us can't have government agencies that give us cool toys or a billionaire daddy or S.T.A.R. Labs fall into our laps. Have to make do with what we have. Nothing unethical about it at all!
The heavyweight drug kingpin sat by his pool, fanning himself while he watched two of his lovely ladies play in the water. The air was just warm enough to leave a fine sheen of sweat on his skin and he could tell his guards were hot in their suits but the man wasn't going to send them away. He'd worked hard, selling a lot of meth and coke to get to where he was now and he wasn't about to let it all slip from his fingers just because he got sloppy. No, his men could stand right there, guns at the ready, while he enjoyed the view-
VUZAAAU! VUZAAAU!
The drug lord blinked as his bodyguards were slammed into the wall behind him, knocked out cold thanks to two beams of golden energy. The fat man struggled to sit up only to gasp when a strong hand wrapped around his lapels of his shirt and hauled him up.
"Your days selling drugs to children end today!" Michael declared, a touch overly dramatically. "And what's this?" Michael reached down and grabbed a plastic tube the crook knew hadn't been there moments earlier. "It appears to be the Blucard painting that was reported destroyed last year… seems you had in actuality stolen it, criminal!"
"What?" the kingpin exclaimed. "Who the hell is Blu-"
Michael gave him a hard shake. "Deny it all you want but I have it all on tape. Isn't that right, Skeets!"
"Indeed, sir," the little gold drone declared, coming into view. "Sending it to the FBI now."
"And the museum! Finder's fee and all that." Michael grinned. "Should make for a nice downpayment!"
…okay, so planting evidence at crime scenes and then collecting the Finder's Fee… that might be a touch unethical.
But hey! It's not like I'm doing it to good guys!
"Who's next?" Michael asked, once more at the Time Sphere with Skeets. A bag of cash sat next to him, the faces of dead Presidents looking up at Michael with smiles.
"Rodney Bloodhill. Lieutenant for the Spetelli Family." Skeets considered the choice for a moment. "I think he might like ancient Greek vases… like the one that was believed destroyed in an earthquake several years back in Starling."
And hey, I'm uncovering lost treasures! That has to stand for something!
Michael grunted as one of Bloodhill's triggermen opened fire with a machine gun. While the bullets harmlessly bounced off the forcefield his suit generated it was still annoying. Looking for something to take the man out Michael grabbed the first thing handy and gave it a toss, knocking the goon out.
"Michael, that was the Greek vase…" Skeets began.
"Damn it!" Michael complained. He walked over to Bloodhill, firing on a few more of his men and sending them flying before he got to the startled mobster, knocking him out with a punch. "Lay there for a moment! Skeets, can you replicate another vase?"
"Give me a few moments to get back to the Time Sphere, sir. But try and be careful… that is the fourth one so far!"
Okay, fine! So I might have taken the duplicator from the gift shop.
"What next, sir?" Skeets asked as Michael scrolled through the options.
"Let's do a Viking Shield! I always wanted one of those when I was a kid!"
They are lost items from history! Yeah, in my time they are just souvenirs you can get at the gift shop but in this time they are priceless… and people paid BIG for'em!
"We can't thank you enough!" the head of the Louvre said. He'd flown out special just to meet the man that had managed to locate one of Picasso's lost works. "But… why won't you tell us what your name is?"
"All in good time, sir, all in good time!" Michael said proudly before whispering, "and since I can't give out my name can you make the check out to CASH?"
…don't give me that look.
~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~
"We're nearly there, Skeets!" Michael said with a grin. The two of them were holed up in a rather nice hotel room (nothing overly fancy… no penthouse… but they weren't in a fleabag motel either) going over the cash they'd brought in over the last two weeks. "You've been investing it like I asked?"
"Indeed," Skeets said. "I used a rather cunning strategy to pick the best stocks. Our money will be working for us for quite some time."
"What's the strategy?"
"Humans are always bored, hungry, and horny. Invest in those things and you can't go wrong."
"Kinda insulting to my species but I like the thought," Michael admitted.
"I am curious, however, as to why you haven't begun releasing your name to the public. I thought the whole point of our endeavor was to make names for ourselves."
"The point is to become famous heroes, Skeets," Michael stated. "And if there is one thing I understand it is branding. Studied a ton of it back in college and it's all about timing. I tell people who I am and they will just shrug their shoulders. But I build up an air of mystery and when I finally reveal that I am the new hero Gold Star they will-"
"That is a horrible name."
"…what?"
"Gold Star. Horrible name sir."
"No it isn't," Michael argued. "It is a great name! Look at my costume!"
"I am. Unlike you who has failed to notice that the star on your costume is blue, not gold."
"…but Blue Star sounds really lame."
Skeets considered this. "Yes… even lamer than Gold Star, as shocking as that is."
There was a knock at the door and Michael stood up, wagging his finger at his friend. "It is an awesome name! And the world will love it when I reveal it! I'm just waiting for the right moment. Has to be something big, something amazing…" he opened the door and his grin fell when he saw it wasn't the hotel staff with his room service but rather a group of Secret Service Agents. "… if this is about the pay-per-view I totally plan to pay for it."
"We were told that you are the unnamed hero that has been finding lost treasures and taking down some of the most wanted men and women in the United States," the first agent asked.
"You have been told correct," Michael said slowly, a touch nervous. His time with the FBI had made him leery of men in suits and dark glasses.
The second agent reached into his suit jacket. "We have something for you..." Michael tensed, ready for the boom of a revolver or the swipe of a knife. Instead he ended up staring blankly as a crisp white envelope, the Presidential Seal stamped on the back flap. "A letter."
Michael quickly opened the envelope, careful not to rip it because it was so going in his scrapbook of heroic moments, and scanned the letter inside. "The President wants to meet me?"
"At a campaign rally planned for this Thursday in Ion City," the agent said. "He wants to publicly thank you for your retrieval of the George Washington Calvary sword."
"Oh yes..." Michael said, rubbing his chin and doing his best to look scholarly. "I remember that... a very difficult find but I was glad to retrieve the sword and allow it, at long last, to be treated with the dignity it deserved..."
~Six Days Earlier~
Michael leapt onto his bed, dressed in just the bottom part of his costume, swinging the Washington sword about, a lampshade on his head. "Avast ye Redcoats! I be George Washington! Come, Abraham Lincoln, let us battle these scurvy dogs!"
Skeets buzzed over, a little stovetop hat tapped to his shell. "I am not entirely for sure this is accurate."
~Present Day~
"Gentlemen, I am honored that the President would like me to appear at his campaign rally, but I must consider the ramifications of this... I wouldn't want to appear to be playing favorites. One moment." Michael shut the door and turned to Skeets. "Does he win?"
"Landslide victory," Skeets stated.
Michael opened the door back up and grinned. "But in this case I can completely back the President in his endeavor to be reelected." The agents merely nodded, mentioning that all the details were in the envelope, and went on their merry way, leaving one up-and-coming superhero dancing in his hotel room. "I'm gonna meet the President! I'm gonna meet the President!"
"I take it this is the 'big moment' you've been waiting for?"
"The biggest!" Michael exclaimed, grabbing Skeets and giving him a shake. "Think about it, buddy! President whips the crowd into a frenzy, they are all crying out for the newest mysterious hero to emerge, and then I fly down-"
"You still can't fly," Skeets reminded him.
"-and then I run in from wherever I was hiding, you buzzing over the crowd showing off your moves! We shake the President's hand, give a short speech, something patriotic yet tasteful, and then announce to all the reporters gathered that they can count on Ion City's newest hero: Gold Star!"
"...still a terrible name."
Michael ignored his robotic friend. "Things are finally shaping up, buddy! I think my luck has finally changed!"
~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~
The photo of Michael Jon Carter had been taped to the wall, the man from the future's winning smile on display as he waved to the crowd. A whistle filled the air and a letter opener embedded itself right in Photo Michael's forehead.
From behind an opulent desk that had been built from the stolen deck boards of the Titanic sat a man just as large and just as striking as that doomed ship. Heavy set with long stringy white hair and pale yellow-white skin, one could be excused for thinking the figure that was currently slurping oysters would have been a better fit in some travel circus' freak show. Of course one would never say this to the man's face; not just for common courtesy but also because the man could snap his fingers and see the jester murdered, their family sold into slavery, and their family dog butchered and laid out at his dinner table just in time for his evening meal. Dressed in comfortable silk bottoms and a loosely fitting undershirt he had no need to doll himself up in designer suits or expensive jewelry. No, this man had gotten to the top through strength of body and mind and now firmly perched at the top of the mountain; he felt little need to put on airs.
His trusted capos stood before him, their faces emotionless masks, while his consigliere stood at the ready to offer his advice. it didn't matter if said advice was on what to have for dessert once the crime lord finished his meal or the best way to flay a man alive... he would offer his employer whatever he wished.
"Who am I?" the albino finally asked.
"Steven Mandragora," his consigliere stated.
"And who is my uncle, my mother's brother, who put me in charge of the Detroit Chapter?"
"Tobias Whale, sir," his consigliere replied.
"Thank you, Paul." Mandragora set another oyster shell aside, glancing out of the corner of his eye at his capos. "My Uncle Tobias made me the man I am today. He saw in me the potential to rise up through the ranks and ensured that I was placed on the... fast track as it were... within our organization. There is nothing I wouldn't do for him... nothing. So when he called me this morning asking why one of my best drug runners had not only been beaten and captured by some buffoon in a gaudy spandex outfit but said buffoon had then claimed he found the Calvary sword of George Washington, the same sword that currently hangs in my Uncle's study, and was giving it to the Smithsonian... well, I found myself without answers. Thus, I must ask you... WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!"
The capos hardly flinched, far too used to their boss' tirades. They held their ground, their faces never once betraying the nervousness they felt, and waited for Mandragora to calm before one of them spoke.
"The runner has already been eliminated so there is no fear that he will talk," one capo finally stated. Mandragora's jaw twitched at this and the man quickly added, "Before he died he swore on the lives of his children that he'd never seen that sword... that this nameless hero pulled it out of seemingly nowhere and he was just as shocked by its appearance as the rest of us."
"It is clearly a fake," Paul stated. "This heroic buffoon is little more than a grifter using the trappings of a hero to pull quick cons."
Mandragora reached over and grabbed his wine glass, swirling the liquid as he considered his men. "And yet when I talked to the family's man inside the Smithsonian he swore that the sword was authentic. So our grifter is either quite talented or a magician." He took a sip of his wine. "Do you know why things have value? Because someone important says they are valuable and all the sheep hurry to nod their wooly little heads in agreement." He picked up an oyster shell. "If I told you this oyster shell was the most precious thing to me, that nothing on this Earth mattered to me more than it, you would all lay down your lives to protect it." He squeezed and shattered the shell into sharp little shards. "We all do it. Gold is little more than a shiny yellow rock. It is too soft to be much use and has had little practical use until the turn of the century. And yet for almost the entire span of human history we have fought and died for it... purely because enough people said it was worth something.
"When you have something of value and suddenly people proclaim it worthless it becomes just that. It doesn't matter the history or the legacy or even the honest truth... it is worthless. My Uncle's sword is little more than a decorative piece of rebar because that gold and blue buffoon GOT GREEDY!"
Mandragora stood up, towering over his capos, his red eyes blazing with rage. "I want him dead. I want him dead and I want him to suffer. I don't want him killed in his sleep or shot while he is leaving a movie... I want it to be grand and to send a message to any other thief or would-be hero that no one and I mean NO ONE messes with our family!" He sat back down and folded meaty hands under his chin. "Now... do I have a volunteer?"
One of the capos stepped forward, wiggling his fingers. "They say this man uses all manner of gadgets, Mister Mandragora. I would be honored if you allowed me to show him just how useless his trinkets were. It is what I was built to do." The other capos frowned at that, not quite sure why he'd chosen such an odd phrasing.
Mandragora considered him for a moment before nodding. "Very well. This nameless wonder is supposed to attend a rally with President Jurgens in two days... I believe that would be the perfect place to send our message." Mandragora paused, pursing his lips before idly twisting his hand about. "Oh, and if you can kill the President, please do so. I am so wearily tired of him interrupting 'Jane the Virgin' with his stupid addresses."
~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~
"What do you think of the turnout?" Skeets asked, hovering beside Michael. The two of them were sitting in a limo President Jurgens had provided, the Leader of the Free World having decided that it wouldn't do for the new hero to hide in a bush or duck into a tent and wait to be introduced to the crowd. Michael had been a bit embarrassed to admit he couldn't make a flashy entrance but the President had merely shrugged and said that he couldn't make one either so they'd both have to just walk up and shake hands with his supporters. It wouldn't be The Flash rushing in at the last moment or Green Arrow zipping down a zip line but it would have to do.
"It's big, Skeets… damn big," Michael said, fiddling with the cap from his water bottle.
"Michael, are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
"The crowd isn't frightening you, is it?"
Michael waved him off. "I've played in front of tens of thousands, Skeets."
"But this is different, isn't it?"
"…yeah," Michael admitted.
The weight of that single word hung in the air.
The door opened. An agent peered in. Michael shoved his concerns away.
"It's time."
Up on the podium President Jurgens was about 5 minutes into his speech and like the grand politician he was he had everyone there eating out of his hand like calves at a petting zoo. They cheered at the right moments, grew silent when he needed to say something important, and the steady buzz in the air only grew more intense with each sentence. He was like a pianist in a jazz band, knowing when to go with the flow and when to strike out and try something new. Those in attendance were merely the black and ivory keys.
"Someone once said that those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it. I believe this. However how are we able to learn from history if we loss so much of it? Or should I say we've had so much stolen away? How much knowledge, how many lessons have been wiped away because of the greed of others? Priceless artifacts that belong to all of mankind… locked up in some rich man's attic purely so he can have bragging rights. It is a shame." He paused, letting that sink in. "But recently a new hero arose who said 'no'. He refused to allow history to disappear and be forgotten. This would be noble enough on its own but this man, this hero, also brought down the sick and depraved men that held onto these items. Men who pumped illegal drugs into our schools, filled our streets with violence, and got rich off careers of sin!" The crowd roared and booed at the same time and the President motioned for calm. "This hero has so far refused to give his name, preferring to work anonymously. But… perhaps if we cheer loud enough… he might be willing to open up." President Jurgens waved his hand and the crowd turned on mass to see Michael having already stepped out of the limo, Skeets at his side and a brilliant white smile flashing for all to see. "Let's give him an Ion City welcome!"
Michael waved as he made his way through the crowd, thankful for his suit's forcefield that prevented him from being crushed by the people that wanted to shake his hand and pat him on the back. He said a few token words while Skeets darting just out of reach of the crowd, all the while his focus on the President and the microphone that would change his life forever.
Perhaps it was this focus that allowed him to notice the Secret Service Agents grip their ears in pain seconds before their earpieces exploded. The President turned just as the speaker system he was standing near began to hiss and smoke.
"MOVE!" Michael roared, shoving his way through the crowd, pushing aside well-wishers like they were linemen going in for a blitz. He leapt onto the stage and tackled the President just as the speaker system exploded, the blast turning the cheers of the crowd into cries of terror. Michael had landed hard on the President but didn't have time to think of the ramifications of that act. Instead he was already up, his eyes darting about, using the same skills that had allowed him to find open receivers to now look for signs of danger…
…like a man in a crisp black suit calmly walk towards him, flicking out his hands and causing electronics to explode with a wave and a short zap of energy.
"Sir!" one of the few Secret Service agents still on his feet called out, hurrying over to the Commander-in-Chief. "Are you alright?"
"Yes… yes…" He looked at Michael. "You saved-"
"Get him out of here!" Michael barked, standing up and squaring his shoulders. "I'll hold him off." The agent nodded and quickly pulled the President away, leaving Michael and Skeets to stare down the would-be assassin. The man stopped, casually watching as the last of the crowd left the area, leaving the park empty save for himself, the two heroes, and a squirrel that had decided on the worst possible time to go looking for nuts. "Stop right there, assassin!" Michael said, puffing out his chest. "I don't know why you were trying to kill the President but you won't reach him now! Not with me standing in your way."
The capo shrugged. "Fine by me. You're my main target anyway."
Michael's chest deflated a little. "Wait… really?"
"Yes," the capo declared. "My boss isn't happy with you. Sent me to… deal with you and send-"
"Aw man!" Michael whined. "My first major battle and it's against a guy in an expensive suit." He turned to Skeets and flapped his arms. "This sucks." He turned back to the assassin. "Do you at least have a cool name like Electivire?"
"I'm Frank," the capo said with a shrug. "And I think Electivire is a Pokémon."
"…I'm battling… a Frank." Michael ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "Okay then." He jumped down off the stage, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. "Listen Frank, I don't know what you were thinking coming here but this was kinda my big day and now I'm mad. So, sorry about this, but I'm going to punch you so hard your mom will feel it!" Michael cocked his fist and let the punch fly right into the capo's face.
CLANG!
Michael blinked, wiggling his fingers and then looking at the calm assassin's unblemished face.
"Uh…"
"Oh, was that all?" the capo said. "Or would you like another try?"
"Could I?" Michael asked.
"Be my guest."
"Thanks," Michael said, putting his full might into his next hit. The first had been at just above his natural strength, as he hadn't wanted to turn the guy's head into a red paste; wouldn't be very heroic, after all. Michael let out a roar as he swung…
CLANG!
Frank didn't even budge.
"You're not entirely human are you," Michael said slowly.
"Nope," Frank said with casually. "By the way, thanks for staying so close." The capo held up his hand, the skin on his palm swirling away to reveal a small metallic hole. "Allowed me to figure out the frequency of your gadgets and adjust accordingly."
The blast took Michael by surprise, the blond hero crying out as the electromagnetic pulse raced through his body and his suit. The HUD on his goggles flickered off, the forcefield shut down, his blasters became little more than fancy gloves, and the suit itself turned off all of the strength-enhancers. Frank smiled before he grabbed Michael by the throat and tossed him clear across the park, the hero's body bouncing as he sailed across the road before he came to a stop against the entrance to the KORD Industries' Ion City Headquarters.
"Ow," Michael moaned.
"Don't worry, I have him!" Skeets proclaimed, rushing Frank. "Prepare to taste the wrath of Skeets!"
Frank caught the little drone with one hand, considering him for a moment.
"…prepare for the second taste of the wrath of-"
Frank hurled Skeets like he was a shotput, sending him flying across several blocks.
"Hey!" Michael said with a groan, dragging himself up. He was pretty sure he'd broken several bones and his ears were ringing so bad he couldn't even hear his own whimpers of pain. "He has my room key!" Frank continued to march towards Michael and the time traveler frantically began to fiddle with his gauntlets, trying to get power back on. The EMP hadn't fried his system, luckily, but it had caused it to shut down. Which shouldn't have even been possible but Michael didn't have time to figure that mystery out. A little icon appeared on his goggles, informing him that systems were slowly coming back online and everything would be back to normal in 2 minutes.
Unfortunately it only took 1 minute for Frank to reach him.
"Listen," Michael said, hoping to buy for time, "maybe this is a big mistake. I mean… must be a ton of handsome guys who dress up like this. I bet you meant to attack the guy in the blue and gold suit that lives in St. Roch!"
"Is he the one claiming to have found the sword that belongs to my boss' uncle?"
Michael's mouth formed a little 'o' before he smiled sheepishly. "Okay, this is a funny story. Seriously, you are going to laugh when you hear it, it's a knee slapper. See, the one I gave them-"
And that's when Frank began punching him.
We all know where this ends up.
Michael slammed into the building before toppling to the ground, his legs twisted at odd angles and a bit of blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He looked up through his cracked visor and watched as the man who was currently tossing him around like a sack of flour slowly walked up to him, taking a moment to adjust his tie. Michael felt like he'd been run over by a bus and yet this asshole didn't even have a wrinkle in his pants. He raised his arm, ready to fire a blast from the blaster mounted on the back of his right hand, only for the goon in the 1000 buck suit to hit him with another EMP blast that had left his costume little more than overly fancy circus attire. The thug smirked, the charge dying from his hand and he slowly lifting Michael up by the hair, which hurt just about as much as you'd expect, and popped him in the stomach.
So there you have it, the start and end of my superhero career. Some heroes die saving the planet. I'm bleeding out internally because I pissed off a mobster. Yup… just another brilliant chapter in the life of Michael Jon Carter.
Frank pulled Michael in close, shaking his head at the sight of the man. His costume was torn, his body was hanging limp, and he looked like he'd been run over by a steamroller… twice. It was rather pitiful.
"Do yourself a favor, would ya? Just stop fighting me and let go. You're never going to win, you're never going to amount to anything… know when to give up, okay?"
But… here's the thing. I was wrong about what makes a great hero. See, it isn't the costume or name or the powers or even the entrance. All those greats, like Green Arrow and Flash and Supergirl and Atom and all the rest… they were told they couldn't do something. They were told to just be normal, to just accept their lots in life.
And they said no.
People have been telling me to stop doing things my way and just listen to them for years.
I'm done listening.
Michael growled and, with the last of his strength, swung wildly at Frank with his right hand.
Unfortunately he missed.
Fortunately the momentum of his punch sent him flying through the air till he came to a stop 30 feet about Rapmund Street.
The time traveler and Frank both stared at each other, both startled by this turn of events. Michael broke eye contact first, looking down at the Legion Flight Ring on his finger. Skeets' words echoed in his head: only a select few could use the ring. Only those who were worthy.
Michael smirked.
And his smile grew bigger as his suit finally booted back online.
The nanites in the suit got to work, repairing the damage done both to the garment and to its owner. Michael hid a wince as they streamed into his open wounds, repairing the breaks and tears, causing swelling to go down and his organs to actually begin working again. It was something he didn't want to ever feel again and honestly he didn't know how healthy it was to activate that failsafe but at the moment it was exactly what he needed. He felt the hum of his forcefield kick back on and the charge of his gauntlets as they powered up. The HUD in his goggles flickered to life, giving him all the readings he needed. Michael looked down at Frank and aimed his right arm like it was a canon.
"Don't dump the Gatoraide out just yet, Frankie… still fourth quarter and I got the ball."
"…what?" Frank said a second before Michael fired on him, the blast hitting him right in the chest and causing his fancy suit to shred like a paper napkin from a Tim Horton's. The capo moved to fire back but Michael was already zipping away, silently gliding through the air, weaving about like a demented firefly, taking pot shots at his attacker as he did so. Michael had quickly got the hang of flying and began to get a bit more daring, using his old 'turn on a dime' misdirect moves from his playing days to keep Frank from hitting him.
"Not so tough when the target doesn't sit still!" Michael called out. A crowd was slowly beginning to gather, the public no longer screaming in terror now that the hero they'd come out to see was not only winning but actually flying without a jetpack or wings. Frank, seeing that they had an audience, sent a blast of energy at a few people who'd gotten a touch too close but Michael dove down, firing his own blast of energy, getting in a beam struggle with the grunting capo. "Back up!" Michael shouted, all false bravado gone and in its place something much more genuine and real. The people did as they were told and he began to slowly push his way forward… and in doing so send the pulse of energy Frank was trying to send it right back at him. Michael grunted as he pushed with all his might, slowly inching forward.
"You… you think you can stop me?" Frank growled, rapidly losing his cool.
"No," Michael said with a grin before glancing at Frank's right. "But maybe he can." Frank turned but saw nothing…
Letting Skeets zip in from the left and activate his stun gun, firing several zaps to the man's metal skull.
Frank, on instinct, reached up to protect his face only to receive a taste of his EMP blast for his trouble. It didn't take him down, as he was immune to it, but it did allow Michael to move in close, tackling the suited capo and lifting him in the air. Michael launched himself about 20 feet before hefting the big man over his head and sending him slamming down right in front of Kord Industries, creating a nice impact crater. Frank moaned, looking up just in time to see Michael take aim with both his blasters and fire on him, causing an explosion of light. When it finally dimmed it was clear to all Frank wasn't getting back up again.
The crowd broken into thunderous cheers.
The next 20 minutes were a whirlwind for Michael and Skeets. People shaking his hands, patting him and Skeets as they passed, women wanting him to sign their large… tracts of land. He moved through it in a daze, glad that Skeets was recording everything so he could view it again and again at a later date. Finally he found himself once more standing on the battered but still standing platform, President Jurgens waving off his security detail as he shook Michael's hand.
"I can't thank you enough! If it weren't for you that assassin would have killed me. You risked your life to protect me and I won't forget that."
"Actually," Skeets piped up, "the man stated he was after-"
"You the entire time!" Michael said, giving Skeets a dirty look.
"Oh… yes. Of course. He just didn't bargain on us being there. In fact he even bemoaned that the great Skeets and his partner were here to stop him."
"…right," Michael said, clenching his teeth in a forced grin.
President Jurgens clapped his hand on Michael's shoulder. "Son, by tomorrow the world is going to know what you did here and the disaster you averted. I know you wanted to keep things quiet and private-" Skeets made a sound that sounded oddly like coughing, "-but I'm afraid that is out the window. The world needs to know the name of its new hero...er... heroes."
"Well, I am Skeets," the drone stated. "And this…" he turned, as did the President, and the hero realized even the crowd had grown silent, wanting to hear his answer.
Michael took a deep breath. This was his moment. The moment that would define him, that would set him forever in the pages of history. It was his grad introduction into the Golden Age of Heroes. With the weight of this monumental moment pressing on him he squared his shoulders and spoke.
"Booster."
He froze, his mind grinding to a halt as he realized he'd given his old college nickname instead of his carefully chosen superhero identity.
"Gold!" He added. "Uh, that is-"
"Booster… Gold," Jurgens considered this before smiling in approval. "I like it. Original… different. Rolls off the tongue but also makes you think about it. And it's not on the nose… was afraid you were going to call yourself the Something-Star."
Michael chuckled weakly. "Right… never would do that." He glanced at Skeets and though the drone couldn't visually show his emotions he knew his friend was smirking.
"Well then, Booster Gold… let's introduce you to the world." The President pushed Michael forward, the blond hero smiling as the crowd cheered his new name.
My name is Michael Jon Carter and I was born in the 25th century. When my life hit the skids I came to the 21st century to take my place among the greatest heroes the world has ever known. Now, with the help of my robotic ally Skeets, I protect Ion City from those that wish to harm it. In the future I was a failure… in the past I will be a hero… though not like any hero you've ever seen. I am… BOOSTER GOLD
~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~
"Booster! Booster! Booster!"
Steven Mandragora threw his wine glass at the TV, the screen cracking but still playing the images from Ion City. His capos and consigliere looked out, a bit more nervous than they'd been a day earlier, and Mandragora glared at them in contempt.
"You all told me he was nothing more than a costumed buffoon with delusions of grandeur!" He waved at the screen that showed Frank being taken apart by the new hero. "DOES THAT LOOK LIKE A PUSHOVER!"
"He… he never showed that he could fly, sir," Paul said. Mandragora whipped around to stare at him and the consigliere swallowed before continuing. "None of us expected any of that… clearly our… information was outdated. A mistake, nothing more."
"Nothing more?" Mandragora hissed. "Nothing more? He made a fool of us. The damn Secret Service now has one of my 100 Soldiers! Millions in turn Frank into a living weapon lost because YOU IDIOTS COULDN'T DO SOME DAMN RESEARCH!" He trembled, the veins in his forehead pulsing as he looked at them all with contempt. "Get out… get out before I kill you all! Get-"
A yellow blur swirled around the room, red lightning crackling as it weaved through Mandragora's most trusted men. Within the span of three seconds the eight capos fell to the ground, their necks snapped so violently their heads had been twisted 180 degrees. Paul backed away in fright at the vibrating yellow demon that stood now before Mandragora, his crimson eyes flickering with contempt.
"You were given one job," the Reverse-Flash stated coldly. "Why does Booster Gold still live?"
It was Mandragora's turn to swallow nervously. "I… made a mistake. Trusted the wrong man. It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't," Reverse-Flash said before zipping over and grabbing the mobster's left wrist, twisting it until the albino howled in pain. "Every moment he remains here, in this part of the timeline, he threatens not only our work but my existence. I will not be erased again because you couldn't kill Michael Jon Carter!"
"It… it will be done," Mandragora whimpered.
Reverse-Flash nodded, releasing his grip only to turn as a time vortex opened up in front of them. "I know. But just in case the Legion has decided to leave our Enforcer here… to ensure that you stay on task."
From the portal emerged a figure in a full body suit, mostly which with red boots and gloves and a blue cowl and cape. There was no mouth hole or even a hint of human flesh; even the eyes were a glowing yellowish white that seemed to burn the souls of any that looked directly at them. Upon the figure's chest was a circle with a four-pointed star, the bottom point an elongated tail that flashed with the same sickly light.
"You know your task, Supernova. Booster Gold cannot be allowed to become a hero. He must not merely die… but die in such a way that he is forever forgotten, remembered only as a failure! Mandragora has been tasked with this… he has failed once."
Supernova nodded, holding out his hand. Paul screamed as the masked man fired on him, turning him to dust. "Booster Gold will die, my master," he hissed.
~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~BOOSTER~
NEXT TIME ON BOOSTER GOLD!
With his big reveal to the world Michael begins to set up his support team and his new base for his heroic work. But that is easier said than done and he is finding it hard to get the right crew in to assist him and Skeets. Worse, his battle with Frank has attracted unwatched attention from the young Heir of the Kord Family Dynasty, Ted Kord.
Maybe it's a good thing that Mandragora has sent the next member of his 100 Soldiers, the man known simply as Shockwave, to crush Booster Gold into dust.
Is Michael's career as a hero about to end just as it begins?
Find out next time in 'Kobayashi Maru'