King of Nothing Part 7

As much as I hate that bastard Ricochet (and hell, most of The Cons now that I think about it), they always do make good points. But, unfortunately, in this century of superhumans, society already deemed us all the worst of the worst; nothing will ever change that moniker.

All sense dictates that the Cons never needed to exist; we would've all stuck with that creed on our separate paths. But whenever I think those thoughts, I ponder all the events that led to this day, and I realize that there wasn't any other path the world laid out for me.

Unlike most people, I had a way better look at the world beyond the New Wave. Because I got birthed from a literal living relic. Out of all the powers that she could've had, my mother got longevity. By the time I was born, she was already a century old while barely looking a day over her 30's.

On the outside, most people would view the ability as a miracle, but it was a curse for me. Because by the time I was born, my mother's power already consumed her. During the initial Dark Decade of the New Wave, the world got thrown into absolute chaos, one that made Krimo's lower levels look like heaven in comparison. Through interviews and autobiographies, my mother explained how these events fueled her ever forward.

"Even after 80 years of life and living so long, I still try to seize the day because those years taught me how fragile life was. And I'm going to cherish it all without anyone to stop me."

Once again, on the outside, this message would probably make the woman sound almost inspiringly wise and extremely riveting. But, still, the media has a way of making almost anything look glamorous. Because in actuality, that same philosophy was the reason why I'm the 10th bastard of my own family, why to this day I haven't a clue who my real dad is and why my comparatively late-middle-aged siblings didn't give a damn whether I lived or died.

But that all didn't matter to her; no, she was more concerned with being hip to the hottest trends, partying for weeks at a time while having her friend's parent better than her. The only thing that saved me from going off the rails so soon was seeing those heroes on TV. I loved seeing it all, the skin-tight costumes, the flashy powers, and most of all, the heroic flapping capes that made everything okay.

Whenever I saw them save a burning building, beat the bad guy, and tell their story, I thought I could become the people on that screen. That too, at least somebody I would have mattered, or that at least had the strength to save myself.

"Good things are bound to happen to good people, right? So I just got to hang in there till I became a hero, you know? Hard work and perseverance can accomplish anything, don't you think?"

Maybe if I remained unknowing of my ability, that fate could've gotten avoided altogether. But during one of my mom's countless drunken romps, my eight-year-old self had decided to try and use the back door to escape to a caretaker's house.

But when I walked in, I saw a different sight; my mom passed out of the floor with a raging fire millimeters away. At that point, my body moved on its own, saving my unconscious mother while braving through the pain of a dozen third-degree burns. The doctors said I should've died, but in a week, I managed to get out without a scar in the weeks to come.

At that moment, I realized that my dream could become a reality. After all, if I can save myself and other people, there's nothing I can't do; I mean, what would be there to stop me?

But unfortunately, reality decided to give me a lethal dose. All my posturing of my dreams of heroism at school naturally invited bullies of all shapes and sizes to come at me. They would attack me with their destructive powers alight through bribed teachers, empty halls, and janitor closets.

My foes became so numerous that I didn't even remember their faces half the time. Their attacks were so violent that most days, I would end up with broken bones and ruptured organs; whenever I told my mom about it, she would always say the same thing.

"Atlas L. Kure, stop telling me about this problem; it'll be pointless soon enough, you'll see. After all, as long as you stand there, you can take whatever they dish out, can't you? If so, stop whining about it and be a hero," she said while downing her 11th wineglass of the day.

Realizing that her help would be pointless, I decided to follow the hero's example and never give up finally. Eventually, through my perseverance and struggle, I learned how to fight, misdirect, and use my abilities to the fullest. But for every one victory I achieved, nine more defeats came with even more resistance and violence. Through lost teeth and broken ribs, the only justification those bastards had was this.

"It doesn't matter what we do; you'll heal up, so does it even really count, Mr. Wannabe hero? So is it wrong to do what we got made for?"

That philosophy carried over to every facet of my fucking life as soon enough; I became everyone's punching bag. Always the victim, always the powerless, always the one who was born just to lie down and "take" it. Some days were so bad that the only thing I would do was try and harm me, hoping, pleading that I could end my suffering, hoping that they would leave me alone if I were already too broken to play with.

Nonetheless, I always got roped in again by my regeneration, not even being given the privilege of ending the vicious cycle, cursing myself for being born so pathetic. Yet whenever I got the thought of simply finishing the job myself. Another false hope entered my stupid head.`

"The heroes are going to save me. I just have to hold up until then. Would it be that hard?"

I held onto that hope until the day my life changed forever. Once I was walking amongst the streets, another speck amongst the waves of filth that was this damned city, I heard a noise coming from a nearby alley. A part of me wanted just to ignore the call, especially since no one else even seemingly noticed the shout.

Call it blind hope or pure heroism, but I decided against my better judgment and rushed to the scene. What I saw was as typically heroic as you can get. It was a woman outnumbered four to one while still trying to hold on desperately to her purse. At that point, my body moved on its own, once again throwing myself into a fight that I shouldn't have. I didn't even hear a thank you as I struggled with the four men while she ran to save herself.

Even to this day, I still remember it clearly, easily one of the hardest fights yet. It was so long, so hard that I was left a huffing and puffing mess, still standing strong against my nameless opponents. Finally, however, before I could even have the chance to turn things around, an unknown force knocked me to the ground.

It was so powerful I couldn't keep up my consciousness for more than a few seconds. My last real sight before drifting off completely was a shadowy figure. I couldn't get any defining features out of them, except for the appearance of a large billowing cape and words that clung to my very soul.

"Give it up, kid. Stop thinking that you can ever play hero," they said as they flew off apathetically.

When I finally came to, all alone amongst the cold, dirty back alley with nothing but those heroes' words ringing in my head, something inside me finally shattered to pieces. And in its place formed an answer to the questions that plagued my entire life. It was an answer that eventually gave birth to something that was always with me, from the day I was born into this cruel world to my years of toiling away at this heroic pipe dream and even this present moment where I gave it all up.

And that was hatred everlasting, an intense loathing for everyone and everything that existed on this cursed and unfair earth, including myself. It was always there, but it had a face and a form on that day. Using that power, I got back up feeling stronger than I ever had, as I used the nearest trash bag to spitefully nip back at the people who kept me from this answer, this truth for so long. Then, with that cape in hand, I left it all behind to form what would later become the Cons and get payback for all that got stolen from me.

To this day, I don't know if the hero I saw that day was the real deal or a figment of my shattered open psyche. But I'm thankful for them nonetheless. Because that person truly did save me. Saved me from the only limitation I had left. Saved me from those who tried to perpetuate a shitty system rigged eternally against you.

Saved me from ever trying to be a better man. Because if my fate is indeed eternal, then I've got nothing left to lose and everything to gain from what should be rightfully mine. I don't care if I win or lose because I won't stop, can't stop for anything or anyone, not anymore.

I'll fight with ruined hands, run with twisted legs, and live with a blackened heart. It makes no difference. Because so long as they look below me in fear as their world burns at their feet, I'll be more than happy. So with death closer than I've ever felt before, I gave up on whatever left me as a despicable, insignificant human and let my inner demons feast in full force.