In the square, the cloaked man gives a speech to rally his few troops.
“My friends, this life is a tale. A story that we tell ourselves. And as I’m sure you’ve all realised by now, we’re the wrong side – we are no heroes. Unless we triumph, we will go down in history as those annoying villains, casually obliterated by the true heroes. Unless we win, they will ignore us and stamp on us and write us up to be some un-loyal monsters. We are not monsters. We are villains, and only that because of them; why do they get to decide that for us? Who's to say what's really true? Who’s to say what counts as evil?
“Aren’t you tired, my friends, of being overshadowed by the protagonists of this life? Aren’t you tired of being killed with no second chance? I know some of you have doubts. Families, morals. I know all of you wouldn’t be here if you had somewhere else safe to be. But I propose this to you: we make that safe place. We end all wars between good and evil by eradicating one side. We make the world less conflicting for our children. We kill the heroes and take their place. We become the villains they made us.
“This life is just a fairy-tale – let’s rewrite it. Afterall, how heroic would it be to die for their city? How heroic, to die for what is truly good? And how villainous, to change what is 'meant to be!'”
The crowd cheers; it has multiplied, surely. Some cry, but most don’t – they are strong, they have nothing left to lose. They are the citizens whose homes were lost when the heroes fought recklessly, they are the ‘normal people’ that the world forgot about; they are the quiet, brewing population who couldn’t fall in step with the heart-eyed masses.
I feel like it’s time for me to leave, so I slip away, carefully buttoning up the pocket containing my notebook. All this, one day, will be illustrated by each word I note down, in some fancy book on the shelves of bookshops worldwide, in all the cities I've never visited. I am the author. I am the narrator. I am the observer.
My shoes rub painfully. I can’t help but observe that as I walk, but I won't note it. It' s not important. The Narrator doesn't get to have feelings.
Suddenly, my cap is blown off my head, catching in the surge of wind created by the flight of the newest billionaire who decided they could be amazing – that they would save people like me and revel in our gratitude. I chase after my cap and pick it up where it has landed, just behind me on the pavement, before continuing on to my destination.
I bet the boots on their super-suit fit just right.
Our world’s come a long way from the first superhuman, just two years ago, the only one whose name I bother to remember – The Night Bird, who only comes out during daytime. It was all over the news, his story, his trials and tribulations, his story (the inspiring version), his story again (the edited version, written by him in collaboration with the government and interested officials): "He was just a boy, he lost everything, he got stronger, he failed, he grew!". Now, he's the most celebrated person in the city. Others joined him soon enough. They call themselves: Fate, the Fateful Group, the Fate Gang - many iterations, but always 'fate'. Always inevitable. Always unstoppable.
Perhaps, until now. Something feels different about this cloaked man. Something different to the rest of the villains who have risen to challenge peace, who refused to acknowledge their role in it all. In this messed-up 'utopia', and in my novel.
I'll want to be around for this final battle, but not too close. I got too close last time, scrawling so desperately in my notebook trying to record it all that I didn't notice the falling debris - dangerous in such a large city with such narrow streets - and only survived because The Night Bird swooped down with his fabricated wings and, well, rescued me. I was grateful, of course. Still am, because not getting the chance to tell the outside world of what goes on between this city's walls? That would be the worst thing.
I had to get my photo taken with him, though, and answer so many questions for the local newspaper. The lady who interviewed me just stared me down when my answers weren't acceptable. Only adoration is acceptable, and anything short is a crime, so I lied. I lie, but one day the truth will be clear.
Crime is a funny thing here, since what falls under the category is decided by the super-humans who don't lend much thought to it. They stop big villains, bank robberies, death lasers and the like, but they don't have time for singular murders. Muggings. Simple theft. Here, you have to look after yourself. Especially if you're barely an adult, living alone, just trying to tell your story. Just trying to observe.
Deep inside, somewhere, I think I know that no-one will read my work. No-one cares for the take of a nameless, faceless, value-less observer, writing in a city shut off from the rest of the world by towering walls. But this book is the only thing keeping me going - I make notes at day, write at night, no time for editing, no time for sleep. I used to want to be a journalist when I grew up, but I soon realised that the title is a guise for fiction writer used to console those who rely upon them for truth.
After walking for a while, I'm close now, to the tallest, finest, most expensive building in the city. It's exterior walls are almost entirely glass that reflects each sunrise like a beacon. This is where our heroes perch in luxury, ready to take flight at the first glimpse of possible danger that could bring them glory. This is surely where the cloaked man is leading his followers, who have grown in number significantly since his speech - a few simple words have swayed them into action. They must have been waiting for something like this, someone at last brave enough to challenge the way this world works. With his words he has empowered them - with my words, I only want to sway the unknowing into thought.
I've found it. The perfect spot, a perch of my own. Well, a dirtied alleyway, but safe and with a clear view of the small garden that circles the heroes' tower. A clear view of all that is about to happen.
There's a funny tingling in my fingers, a shortness of breath, a tremor in my limbs, and I know it's because this time I have a feeling the heroes will finally go down. In all the books I've read they never do - evil is always defeated, but this time! This time there's surely a chance- My breath catches in my throat. I must be calm. I must observe. I sit on the old brick ground, ignoring the slow creep of moss through the cracks in it, and pull my notebook and pencil from my trouser pocket. This would be so much easier if cameras were permitted.
I know what's different this time. The weapons are no more powerful, the numbers no greater - maybe a little greater - but the thing that I can't ignore is the energy of the crowd, the way it thrums and the anger within it and the way it grows as it slowly proceeds directly for the tower, all anger directed at the heroes, at the good, at the considerate who never considered us important, at those who get to decide who lives and dies. They swarm at the building's base, home-made lasers ready to fire, shouting for change and for justice and for those lost and useless rules and against entrapment and...
It's over in a moment.
The Night Bird comes from nowhere. Our hero. He hits the ground with his fist, it cracks into a pit, and they fall. All screaming, then all dead. In a wide, wide pit in the ground that I know no-one will repair, snaking almost up to my frozen body. Children fall. Adults fall. Children die. Adults die.
There wasn't even a fight.
There wasn't even a chance. There wasn't ever a chance.
The heroes won, as they always do.
But something's not right with the way that information sits in my head. Everything else I observe swirls about in my head as poetry, as prose, as images drawn in charcoal and ink, ready to be translated onto a page of my book, but this sentence sits clumsily, heavy, at the base of my skull. The heroes won... It doesn't swirl; it weighs me down. It doesn't fly; it falls, like my hopes, like the 'villains' who only wanted change.
Slowly, I creep forward to the edge of the pit, the crack made in the ground by the strength of man who vowed to protect us so long ago. Protect us from what? I can see the cloaked man, his limbs spilled out, lying dead on a pile of those who couldn't take it anymore, those who stood up, and lost it all. The dark hood has shifted - his face is partly illuminated by sunshine.
He is no man. He is a boy, younger than I. Far younger, fourteen, maybe? Fourteen, and dead.
I scrawl hopelessly in my notebook, 'The heroes always win. Always.'
'But not today, for no hero still lives.' I look at the face of the boy, obscured no longer. 'No hero triumphed today.' I write to the world that ignores me.
'Today, the villains did.'
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