Fernton Field Research Complex,

East Anglia,

England, 26/11/1975

Stuntman watched Henson being carried away on a stretcher and steeled himself for the onslaught that he faced. A swarm of base personnel were running towards his position at the hangar entrance.

'Whoa, Stuntman! You rock!'

'Crikey, what were you pushing? Mach 15? A new personal best!'

'Wow! That's over 10,740 miles per hour! How does he do it?'

'Can you autograph this for my son! He thinks you're the best next to Churchill!'

'Could you please answer some questions? How do you survive the friction at high speed?'

'I want to know how he handles the cold and oxygen deprivation!'

'Shut up, Bill, he's a superhero! Like it matters!'

'Excuse, sir, why do you produce a contrail? It doesn't seem to fit…'

Stuntman loved to be loved, but was inherently nervous of large crowds. He backed away from the group of people, signing, chatting, kissing babies as he went before they had him pushed up against the control tower wall.

'Look, I really must get going, excuse me, excuse… sorry…' He tried to escape the crush but was constantly pushed back. Eventually, he got to a point where he could push off into the air, and thus rocket away from his adoring fans.

Chris soon reported back to the control room where he was greeted by cheering. Mirage and Mr. Incredible were no longer present. 'Hey, Chris! Stuntman did it again!' A champagne cork popped somewhere. 'Henson came-to about a minute ago and told us he'd be dead, along with thousands of other people, if it wasn't for that guy!'

Chris smiled. 'Excellent. Where is Miss. Mirage?'

'She left about ten minutes ago in her chopper. Is it true you're being transferred to the US division?'

'Unfortunately, yes… I don't like it, uprooting Nick especially, but lets just say that America holds some new, uh, challenges.'

His friend winked. 'Don't worry too much, you're never going to be that far away…'

FAST FORWARD SIX DAYS

Initial Approach Vector, Hutchins Field,

Off the coast of Metroville,

US Waters, 2/12/1975

The clean white Beechcraft plane soared over the ocean. In the distance, land rose up from the misty horizon. They had flown all night, but finally made it to their destination.

'Look, dad! The Metroville pier, it's in my guide-book!' Nick pointed into the distance.

Chris, AKA the flying superhero "Stuntman", squinted, and then tuned in the radio to the nearest landing strip.

'Hutchins Tower, this is private flight Tango-India-Oh-Four Heavy, checking in at 1000 feet.' Chris clicked off of the radio and waited for a response.

'Copy that Tango-India-Oh-Four Heavy, we're setting up the lowball on VFR channel 6503 for immediate vector in at six, eight, nine, and one degrees south initial. Call the ball when you are ready, over.' The muffled southern accent on the other end of the line put Chris ill at ease.

He arched his eyebrows and turned his head to the left. His son, still wearing his insulated gloves, just shrugged.

'Uh, say again Hutchins Tower, Tango-India-Oh-Four reports a negative on that last transmission. Please repeat, over.'

He waited, and when the reply came in he swore he could hear laughter in the background.

'What's the matter, Tango, can't understand proper English?'

Chris shuddered. 'Listen you; I'll have you know you are violating numerous air-radio codes with this train of rubbish! Now, will you just-'

'Whoa, easy tiger…' The woman stopped him. 'We're just messing with you. Confirm new callsign "Limey", copy?'

'Wait- what the heck is that? Fine… "Limey" copies.'

'Great, don't worry too much about protocol, this is only a private strip. Feel free to land.'

'Thank you!' Chris grinned and dropped the aeroplane's flaps a few degrees. 'And seeing as we are so pally, what's your name, if I may be so bold, miss controller?'

There was a pause, then a faint chuckle. 'Call me Helen. It's a pleasure to make your "acquaintance".'

Meanwhile, Nick was allowing his mind to wander. Memories of London, over two years ago now, flooded back. They were staying in a small apartment in Chelsea and had very little money – it was a long time before Nick's father got his aeronautics job. Strangely enough, those days were the best…

Lloyds Bank,

London,

England, 11/08/1973

A police panda screeched around the corner onto the square and came to rest behind an armoured van. The doors opened and the two constables inside rushed out, hands clasping their silver pistols tightly. Suddenly there was a shattering sound and a scream as a body fell from the top floor of the bank building and landed with a crump on the paving below.

'And we'll kill another one in ten minutes if we don't get what we asked for!' Shouted a voice from above; this statement was followed with a burst of full-automatic fire.

One of the newly arrived police officers crouch-ran to where his superior was waiting. 'Sir.'

'Where are my armed officers, MacEvan?' The detective whispered nervously.

'They're following but could be about fifteen more minutes.'

'We can't wait that long, the robbers are threatening to kill another one if they don't get transport in ten.'

'So I heard,' the constable said, 'I'll get back on the blower to HQ and see if they can be hurried up. What happened to the negotiator we sent in?' MacEvan asked.

'That's him on the floor over there...' The detective answered solemnly.

MacEvan glanced at the old bank building then turned back to the detective. 'It looks like we need a real hero for this situation.'

At that moment, the detective felt a strong grip squeeze his shoulder. He jumped to his feet and found himself staring at a muscular man standing perhaps a couple of inches taller than him. The figure was wearing an orange skin-tight suit with flame motifs, dark blue gloves, similarly tinted boots, as well as a pair of old-fashioned goggles, which he adjusted. 'Detective Morton, Constable MacEvan? You called me?' The large man had a deep, warm British accent, which seemed to settle calm over the whole situation.

'Stuntman! Thank goodness you're here - we need your help!' Whinged Morton.

'I know all about it,' Remarked Stuntman offhandedly 'That's what I'm here for. These criminals would have eaten your armed cops alive. It's a good job I got here when I did.' The superhero flicked his wrist and a sophisticated looking chronometer appeared in his hand. 'Less than eight minutes until another innocent civilian dies.' Another flick and the device had disappeared.

'What's the course of action, sir?' MacEvan asked in a less awestruck tone than the detective.

Stuntman grinned, showing off two banks of sparkling teeth. 'Just leave it to me.'

Without another word, Stuntman somersaulted over the police barricade and then sprang into the air. He floated up the side of the building and entered the bank via the second floor.

'Wow! I've got to tell my wife about this!' Squealed Detective Morton excitedly. MacEvan just snorted.

Stuntman clambered through the window and landed softly inside. It was a meeting room, filled with plush chairs surrounding a long glass table. Stuntman lacked the super-aural abilities of some of his peers, but he could still hear low muttering behind the oak door which led to the hallway. He quickly but silently made his way past the table and stood in the shadow on the left of the door. When the mutters ended, he extended a gloved hand and banged on the thin wall. The voices returned, this time louder, and he tracked the light spreading across the darkened floor as the door creaked open.

'What the he-?' The first crook through didn't finish his question, instead receiving a swift punch to the temple. He crumpled to the floor unconscious, and his partner behind him readied his pistol. He had no idea what had happened, Stuntman having moved too quickly, and was shocked to see the superhero stride over his comrade.

'Don't you know you can put an eye out with that thing?' Stuntman chuckled. The criminal simply opened fire, expending his clip at Stuntman with a yell. This noise attracted the attention of the others upstairs, from which shouting and the banging of footsteps echoed through the ceiling.

Stuntman studied the holes in his suit with disdain, and looked up at the villain who dropped his weapon in shock. 'OK, pal, the repair costs are coming out of your wages.' Stuntman reached back and in the blink of an eye had gut-punched the criminal straight through the wall on the other side of the hallway.

The hero heard the slam of the stairwell door and turned to look. Two more gunmen were standing there, sub-machineguns ready.

'Alright, Stunt-guy, hands up!'

Stuntman wrinkled his nose and studied the men. He could see that they were scared; they were shaking, rifle mechanisms rattling. Taking advantage, he quickly dropped the ground and listened serenely to the roar of the guns over head. Under the cover of noise and muzzle flashes, blinding in the dim hall, Stuntman picked his way along the ground until he reached the two criminals. He whipped his arms out and knocked the gunmen to the ground, then sprang cat-like to his feet. With two kicks he had neutralised the crooks, who, except for the odd snuffle of deep sleep, appeared out for the count.

The bullets impact on the plaster walls had been drastic, filling the air with choking dust. Stuntman seemed unaffected, pausing at the bottom of the stairwell only to polish his goggles. With a skipping motion, he sprinted up the flight of stairs and entered the uncluttered top floor; the managerial penthouse. He stopped on seeing what he was up against. A male bank clerk was tied up in one corner of the room, whimpering. A female clerk was being held up between Stuntman and the final villain, a laser-rifle resting on her shoulder.

'Hands up, Stuntman... or she dies...' Shouted the super-villain, Trouble, from behind the lady clerk. Stuntman quickly responded by stabbing the air with his fists and holding them steady.

'Let the girl go, Trouble... this is between me and you.'

'It's always between us two, Stunty,' Trouble drew the clerk nearer, 'Now I've decided to make the conflict a bit wider.' Stuntman jumped back as Trouble threw the woman to the ground and aimed his laser at her head. She started screaming, but her voice was drowned out by Trouble's pained howl.

The weapon swung widely as Trouble waved his arms over his head, yelling in agony. Trouble squeezed the trigger by reflex, and a laser pulse struck Stuntman in the right shoulder. He yelped and fell to the floor, still aware; keeping his eye on Trouble and the hostages. The villain gave one last cry, then walked out of the room via the same window that the negotiator had left from earlier. Stuntman noticed that his back had been charred black and the smell of ozone wafted through the air. Smiling, he watched his partner swing through the window on a grapple-rope, which retracted with a whir when the new superhero's feet touched down.

'Electroboy! Thanks for the help!'

Electroboy winked from beneath a lightning-white mask and bent down to un-tie the woman. 'No problem, Stunty, but lets get the job done before we celebrate.' Electroboy helped the lady up while Stuntman struggled to his feet, glad that the laser had cauterised the wound, and took the restraints off of the man. They seemed extremely grateful to both superheroes, but had no words for the occasion. Neither hero was upset; they'd rescued people in this state before.

Stuntman was about to wave down to the police below, but a small noise was bothering him. He followed the faint beeping underneath a desk, and nearly swallowed his teeth.

'ELECTRO! OUT OF THE BUILDING, NOW!'

Electroboy got the message, grabbing the male clerk and firing his grapple at the music store roof across the street. In a blur he was gone, and it was Stuntman's turn to execute a tactical withdrawal.

He wrapped his arm around the woman's waist and she responded by grabbing his arm. 'Hold on tight, please.' As the final seconds ticked away until the bomb planted by Trouble detonated, Stuntman took a run up and flung himself from the window, rocketing away into the night sky with his free arm extended. Behind him, the bank went up in a magnificent ball of flame, and he felt the sound waves ripple through him.

The cold wind soothed his panging shoulder and he took the opportunity to study his ward. She was young, early twenties, with cropped straw hair and a freckled face – not his type. She was wearing standard office garb, except for a stubby tie, which Stuntman noted as unusual.

The clerk gasped as London rushed beneath her, its nightlights blinking. Stuntman coasted down to the roof of an apartment block that she had pointed at previously.

She screamed with joy after he put her down onto the flat roof, spinning around on the spot like a ballerina. 'Gosh, sir!' She clasped her hands together and stared up at him, lovingly. 'You saved my life… I'll do anything to repay you! Anything!'

Stuntman looked her up and down, but simply turned away. 'Sorry, not while I'm working-' He was about to give her the spiel about how it was "all in a nights work" but suddenly his stomach grumbled underneath his pastel spandex. He hadn't eaten since lunchtime earlier, and it was now nearly nine in the evening. He touched his shoulder, and was glad to feel it had already partly healed.

'You did say, anything, right?'

Chris sat in a burger bar '"enjoying" a greasy lard-sandwich and a side of fries – and a drink – care of the young banker.

He rolled his shoulder slightly and felt it hurt, but it wasn't as bad as it had been before. 'Getting too old…' He said under his breath, then thought Never, nothing a couple of paracetamol won't fix up!

There was the beep of a cash register, and Chris looked up to see his son, Nicholas, approaching with a small coffee. The smaller, though just as well built, figure slid into the chair opposite Chris.

'At least their coffee is better than their food.' Nick mused, smiling.

'H'm…' Chris grunted dejectedly whilst forcing the last morsel of dinner down.

'We did good tonight, Dad.' Said Nick. 'I got Mr. Gough back safely, and by the looks off it, you got the girl home too…' He took a long swig of the scalding hot coffee without batting an eyelid and gestured to his father's cheek with a still gloved hand.

'What?' Chris dabbed his mouth, then touched his cheek. His fingers came away smudged with lipstick. 'Darn it… I didn't even realise she'd done that. I've had it on for two hours.'

'Never mind. I'm kind of glad Gough didn't kiss me, a tea was enough for Electroboy.'

The pair chuckled for a moment, then Chris' mood turned sour. 'We didn't save them all, kiddo.'

Nick shrugged and drained the last of his coffee. 'The negotiator was a cop, he knew what he was getting into…'

'Still,' Replied Chris, aware that his son was actually making him feel better, 'We're superheroes… we should always win.'

We should always win… We're superheroes…

Nicholas, wake up… wake up…

'NICK! Wake up!' Chris shouted.

'Oh, Dad! Go to blazes why don't you!?'

Chris responded by poking his son in the back of the head. 'Nick! We've just landed, you can't stay in here.'

Nick closed his eyes again. 'M'm, I can try…'