Heroic
Good evening, America.
My name is Clay Carter, though for the last sixty-four years you’ve known me as Heroic. Tonight, I come to you with the truth.
My story starts in 1948, when I was ten years old. I woke up on the rough sidewalk outside a police station, with no memory of my life before that moment. That day, I was taken in and placed into foster care. I spent the rest of my childhood jumping from one foster family to another, never staying anywhere longer than a year or two. During that time, I began to notice I could do something others couldn’t. When I was twelve, I fell out of the window of our apartment and hit the concrete below. I walked away without a scratch. We lived six floors up.
When I was fifteen, I chased a soccer ball under my foster parents’ station wagon. Without thinking, I lifted the car out of the way and grabbed the ball. I didn’t even realize what I’d done until I saw my teammates’ faces. I moved again before the month was out.
By the time I was an adult, I had learned how to keep my strength in check. It wasn’t really until the fall of ’56 that I started using it intentionally. It was my first semester at university, freshman year. I was walking around town, not really going anywhere, just getting out of the dorms, when I rounded a corner to the sight of a house fire.
From within, I could hear a woman screaming, crying for help. The fire department didn’t dare go in; the building was seconds from collapsing. I knew that I was pretty tough, that I could survive things others couldn’t, but I had no way of knowing if I was fireproof. The woman screamed again. I rushed in. I didn’t have time to be subtle. I tore through the building, smashed through walls, and tossed aside the burning beams. I eventually found her.
She was trapped under the collapsed ceiling. I was able to lift it off of her relatively easily. I reached down to offer her a hand; it was then that I saw her face. It bore an expression of complete terror. Not because of her injuries, nor because of the raging fire, but because of me. The inhuman monster, holding the ceiling over his head, his clothes engulfed in flame. With some struggle, I did manage to get her out of that building. I left her with the paramedics and ran before anyone could stop and question me. It was that night I realized I had found my calling. I finally had a purpose for these strange abilities. That night, I also realized how terrifying those abilities must seem.
I knew that if I wanted to continue helping people, I couldn’t be something they feared; I needed to recreate myself. Before me, no one had ever heard of a superhero; the word didn’t even exist. And yet there I was. Lifting cars over my head, foiling robberies, and doing radio interviews. It felt good.
You’ll likely remember that back then I wore bright primary colors. A red and blue body suit with a yellow cape and boots. I looked ridiculous but safe, I wanted my appearance to put victims at ease. My actions were enough to invoke fear in criminals.
It was around that time that the news started calling me Heroic, and the name stuck. I added the bright yellow “H” to my suit. A bit vain perhaps, but people loved it. I loved it.
Then something amazing happened, something I never expected. There were suddenly more of us. More superhumans, more superheroes. It was as if the world had been waiting for someone to don tights and a cape, so that dozens of others could follow suit. Their powers came from freak accidents, strange experiments, radioactive insects, every wild tale you could think of. Some didn’t even know where their power came from. But they all had one thing in common: they were inspired by me.
By 1970, there were around fifty superheroes across the United States, over a hundred worldwide. I started something amazing, something revolutionary. We felt like we were on top of the world. In a way, I guess we were. Until we weren’t.
Our first major mistake was sidekicks. Looking back, it should have been obvious. They were just kids, good kids, with good hearts. They just wanted to help, same as the rest of us. It seemed so simple, so innocent.
We should have seen it coming; it was inevitable after all. Someone was going to die playing this game of ours. Why’d it have to be the kid?
His name was Johnny Phillips; he preferred the name Virtue. And to my eternal shame, he was my sidekick.
He was sixteen, just two years younger than I was when I started. He was strong, like me. He had no family, like me. He wanted to help people, to be a symbol of hope, to be a hero, like me. But he wasn’t like me. He wasn’t an adult, like me. He shouldn’t have had to risk his life, like me. He wasn’t invulnerable, like me.
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So, when he jumped in front of that bullet, just like I had a hundred times, he didn’t shrug it off like me. He went down, and he stayed down, and he never got back up.
Sidekicks were our first major mistake, and it’s the one I regret the most.
Our second mistake was getting too involved, too political. In ’01, when the war on terror was declared, there were several heroes jumping at the chance to join up. The loudest among them was the Statesguard. I always respected ‘Guard, he was a true patriot. Sadly, his joining is what started the rumors of a superhuman draft. Officially, the draft was never on the table. That didn’t stop folks from talking.
Before long, there were people on both sides of the issue, screaming and hollering around Washington DC. The whole situation met its climax at a protest outside the Pentagon. I doubt anyone here forgot what happened that day.
Mr. Nuclear was leading the protest. It was hardly surprising; he always made it very clear where he stood on any given issue. This issue was no different.
“No Superhumans under government regulation!” was the crowd’s battle cry. A cry that was silenced at the sound of a gunshot.
Turns out, when you shoot a man whose very being is comprised of nuclear energy, it doesn’t end well. Later researchers would confirm that in his dying moments, he was able to direct most of the blast upwards, saving most of Washington from nuclear destruction. Sadly, it wasn’t enough to stop the deaths of everyone in the crowd and the disintegration of most of the Pentagon. They never did identify the shooter.
On that day, many Americans stopped seeing us as heroes, or even people. We were threats and monsters. United in their fear, they were quick to act. Petitions were made, laws were instated, the media turned. Suddenly, it was as if every good deed, every life saved, didn’t matter. Like none of it mattered.
Some of us were smart; they’d gotten out early and settled down. Some just disappeared altogether. I never did learn what happened to Powerline. Most of us were imprisoned. Charged with assault, trespassing, speeding, anything a half-decent lawyer could get us on.
The sad truth is that, in the end, most of us died. Superheroing was always a dangerous game. Some of us died at the hands of criminals, both on the streets and in prison. Others were slain by angry mobs, who blamed them for their losses. Some died to their own powers. The Breeze accidentally tripped while running at Mach 3, disintegrated on impact.
These days, I’m the only one left. Heroic, the first and the last. Sure, I still hear the rumors. “The Saint spotted in Saint Louis”, or “Dogfight seen in Detroit.”
If those rumors are true, then I wish them the best. But I doubt it’s them.
You know, at one point I thought we could save the world, but I’ve seen too much now, I’ve seen heroes fall, and terrible things rise in their place. Honest men jailed and killed for doing good. Women and children die for a world that spits at their memory.
Many of you are likely asking why. Why now? After thirty years of hiding my secret, of keeping my story to myself, why tell you all now?
Because I don’t know how much longer I have. I’m invulnerable, yes, but not immortal. I’ve put my body through more strain than any one human was ever built to handle. Even now, I can feel my strength waning. When I die, I don’t want my story told by strangers, by reporters and theorists. I want you to hear it from me. And I want you to hear their stories from me. Every man, woman and child who died with a mask on their face and a cape on their back because I thought it was a good idea at eighteen years old. Because they deserve the truth. You deserve the truth.
The truth is, my name is Clay Carter, but you all called me Heroic. I hope I earned that.
Good night, America, and goodbye.
