#pshc

part one: the truth about heroics

The itch beneath his lungs was accompanied by the splintering wish from deep within his bones that urged and tugged towards the never ending doom hanging lowly against the smog that filtered through the cityscape. Clouds lidded the sky from its view of the surface of Earth with a grey shroud that the people who further lingered would lap up like a mule and spit back as they choked on their halos. It was a grand threat to society -- the way things were, not one would escape the noxious influence of heroes and their precautions and ideals before the end of the decade. It may have been nearly 10 years away (it was 2332, now), but the limelight always had a way of sneaking up on those who were least expecting of and prepared for its harsh rays.

People in power had great influence over their predecessors and others who lived beneath their fluorescent gaze (it illuminated the peace and glowered sunspots against their starry wish-dreams and long lost life insurance policies). It was the ones who took position for money and fame that really set a bug beneath his skin. The kind that (although all foreign creatures beneath the surface of mankind were most certainly unwelcome) he most prominently could come across were the ones that only few could appreciate the thrill of living beside. Like cockroaches. Their movements were unpredictable and slow in a manner made by the steady practice of dodging climbing boots and puzzle pieces that came crashing down utop their mini-utopia of rest and quiet in the walls of homes and public offices.

Moreso like the rats who dwelled in the underground tunnels of waste and rubbish beneath the weary feet of a passerby unsuspecting. He was a chameleon amongst a collection of rodents and hummingbirds and the most likely drone (the kind who followed a queen with mindless intentions and did every request of which they were asked).

And there is no such thing as a “perfect hero,” that much was clear (it had been for quite some time, however there were few who would dare to pursue legal action against the fine grouping of a selected board who more-or-less determined such). They took head on much of society’s heroics, including the development of their infamous war-machines bred from the insight of battle and gore and the glory in which it would beget. In the view of a perfect society -- an unimaginable balance between each end of the spectrum (truly there is little difference between the “heroes” and “villains” of their time, after all).

The man too fast for his own good, would be a prime example of the Commission’s product borne of stern and fear and a solid prospect of their “perfect hero.” From a young age he had been pruned for this. It was his reason of promise, his pride and his regret and the fact that, although he was made for the title of “spotless” and “impeccable,’ one would be remiss to ignore the aching spindle of terror and vain that tore short and bright round the organs of his self and rubbed tight against the bones in his limbs.

But he was not the first of his kind, oh not by a long shot. These heroic (sorry, “heroic”) developments had splintered all across the globe several centuries ago, back when the line was blurred just that much less and parallels between “good” and “evil” could be drawn by even the naked eye. Back when nobody was expected of less or more because of the power of which they were gifted (or lack thereof). Back when the Board was a lineup of level-headed men in their final years with enough experience on their backs to make even Atlas hold his head up high. 

Others would remain unnamed for the sake of plot relevance, as unfortunate as it may seem. It is without a doubt that the Commission had plagued their brains from such a young age anyhow that their intrusion would add nothing but more sides to the same two-faced war. A battle of brains and less of brawns, but amongst the born-and-raised-ish this was nothing uncommon to bestow upon.

The Public Hero Safety Commission was a group notorious for their unorthodox training methods. They, like many hero schools across the region, were birthplaces of child soldiers raised to fight the wars of today and the wars of tomorrow (should they make it that long, that is. And at least some people saw this fatal flaw amongst the fine-tuning of their masterplan, but by the time jurisdiction could be appealed, it would be too little too late. Most knew this, and therefore stayed quiet). Nothing ever changed, but perhaps that was a good thing (really, it wasn’t).

A wisp of hope was once born against the madness. But he, too, came along with its cliché double-edged-sword-shit of the balance of "good" and "evil" amongst the masses. And this hope was fickle and weak. The brother saw this and planned to make a fix, but it was never meant to be. 

They had started an endless battle before the true war had even began. 

Heroes against villains had always been in the eye of the beholder. But the terrors waged between the heroes and the people were just beginning, and they went off with a BANG! Had they not, there is no doubt one could be left with a mere inch of morality on such a topic. But that is nothing to dwell on, for the past can not be changed, no matter how much one may try. 

A new generation of lives to be lost sport the golden crest of the PSHC day after day in a haze of vengeance and honour and an honest-to-God love for the job they never had a choice in (not that most of them minded. Some people are just made to help others, after all). 

And he may have been, once. But in this reality? In this day and age? His entrance may as well have been a lover on the loose in a horde of mourning exes at a rock concert. So he would bring light back into their lives (Watashi ga-), just as he did his mother's (-kita!). Once upon a time ago.