I always feel sorry for superheroes. They're never allowed to stop and take a break, they never age, never change.
She's not a canon character, just one that took up residence in my brain. Her codename was Steel Angel; she was a very minor vigilante in a small city. I suppose I probably have rights on her, although knowing my luck she's probably identical to at least 3 canon characters.
She sits alone, in the room she's lived in for the past 20 years. She gets her shopping delivered, and the nice young lady downstairs puts it away for her for £10 a week. She hasn't left the room for 10 years.
It's not easy being instantly recognisable, and even less easy when you can't disguise what you are.
She was someone else a long time ago and mostly her days are filled with regretting losing who she was. She has a mirror glued to the ceiling above her bed; sometimes when she wakes up she studies her face, sometimes she rolls over so she doesn't have to look at it. Sometimes she gets out the photo album, looks desperately for some kind of change, anything to show she's human.
Mostly, she remembers the day she changed. She really was never sure what did it: a random mutation, a chemical reaction, she's as up to date on the various super hero backstories as anyone else, but there's no defining moment for her. Just the day she woke up to find her face wasn't her own, her skin no longer skin at all. Metallic, implacably beautiful in the way only statues can manage, unemotional and unchanging.
She has the newspaper clippings, somewhere. At first, she'd seen it as a sign. She was invulnerable to harm, to sickness, to age, and she'd been young enough to be an idealist. She'd taken up the crimefighter life-style and even if no-one had anything good to say the first few times ('vigilante' had been about the nicest thing) they'd gotten used to her. She'd approached the police, had actually gotten training and an honourary police badge when it became obvious she wouldn't go away. The newspapers had, as usual, had the love/hate relationship going on. They'd given her the obligatory code name.
She remembers the day she stopped, too. How the newspapers first wondered where she'd gone, then spewed bile when it became apparent she wasn't going to reappear. How the opinions columns had been full of stuff about how they'd never really needed her.
She agreed with them. They hadn't needed her at all.