Mod Superhero (Book 6 STUBBING on Oct 27th)

Chapter 7.2 - Stalwart

Nelson walked through Belport, head down and hands stuffed in his pockets. It was a cold, quiet morning. He was hoping to be one of the first in the bread line.

Belport didn't use to be quiet. Now, even the pigeons were afraid to coo too loud. Overhead, drones crisscrossed in tight patterns, like mechanical birds of prey. Biomechs patrolled the sidewalks, their gait smooth, soundless. There were humanoid ones too. You could tell because their steps were too perfect and they turned their heads too smooth. They recorded everything.

Nelson kept his eyes on the cracks in the pavement.

Soon enough, he could see it. The bread line was three blocks down, already wrapped once around the Community Stability Hall. Nelson just shook his head. Half the faces looked on edge, angry. The other half looked like they'd already given up.

Nelson used to be a superhero, but he hadn't felt like one in a long time.

He'd been a young mask during the Second Civil War. Went by the name Stalwart. There probably weren't any records of him—not from back then—but he could have joined the Summit when it first formed. If Nelson had joined up, he probably could've been Class 3. But he hadn't joined. He'd stayed a rebel. Thought he was on the right side—doing the right thing. Something about freedom versus government overreach.

They'd all been kidding themselves back then. There wasn't much of a choice. There was no right side, not when you were fighting your friends. Fighting other people just trying to make it another day.

So Nelson burned his mask and tried to live a normal life.

Despite having super strength, he hadn't amounted to much. He never had the coordination to play ball and it would've been too risky, anyway. Boxing was out, and he was no good at school. It was odd jobs until he became a mechanic. Made an honest living then.

Nelson's one heroic feat? Saved his buddy Lemont when the jack stand gave out. Picked up the front of the sedan with one hand and pulled him out with the other. That could've been the end of his secret, but Lemont swore never to say a word...

Lemont's mom baked sugar cookies every year for Nelson's birthday until she passed.

One good deed.

That was enough.

Eventually, a new generation of masks took to the rooftops. Maybe some of the old timers were in there, but Nelson would never know for sure. He stayed on the street and kept his eyes on the ground. Kept his secret and kept to himself. Tried not to feel bitter.

Decades passed while the world passed him by. Long enough that he was contemplating retirement.

Then the Deep Ones attacked. During the siege, when the street broke open and seawater gushed up like geysers, Nelson pulled three people out of a flooded tram station. Tore the bent gate off the emergency exit and held the ceiling up while others crawled through. One woman called him a hero. Nelson told her she'd imagined it.

But the truth?

He hadn't felt that alive in years. He hadn't wanted it to end. But the Summit's capes were near, and Nelson still didn't want to be conscripted. So he vanished back into the shadows before anyone else could thank him.

One of the biomechs turned its head as he passed. Just a flicker—no expression, no emotion—but Nelson's spine went rigid all the same. He kept walking. Thought about all the years he'd tried to stay out of it. Thought about the new "heroes"—all loyal to the Brotherhood, drones with capes.

Maybe the Second Civil War had been messy, but everybody was human. Now, the machines watched from rooftops and called it peace. Nelson clenched his fists in his coat pockets. For the first time in decades, he knew which side was right. Trouble was, it might already be too late. People were out of work, hungry, and if you spoke up, you disappeared—didn't matter if you were super or normal.