Michael Jon Carter was a lot of things, really. Both to himself and to society. He was Booster Gold, Gotham's greatest hero it had never heard of. He was just Booster, a football player from the 25th century. He was selfish scum, he was an idiot, he was bubbly, humorous, romantic -- he was from jail, he was a pervert (according to Black Canary), he was a lot of things. Coming from Skeets and Rip and Michelle and Rani, he was a father, and a bad one at that. But he denied it anyways.
Once he peeled away the judgement and the act and everything that he knew that he wasn't, he was a tired hero from the future, sustaining the scars of time travel. He'd run a hand through his hair -- (and think, god, it is thinning in the back, just like everyone keeps saying?) -- and look into the mirror at those tired eyes of his.
It was the typical crisis of a superhero, once they took off the mask. He'd go walking down the street donning a hoodie and a pair of jeans, and people wouldn't spare him a glance whatsoever. That made him want to grind his teeth -- that ego of his begged to get on top of tables and yell, "Don't you know who I am? I'm Booster Gold! I'm from the future! I've saved this universe more damn times than I can count and no one even knows me!"
But it was a double edged sword. If people knew him inside and outside of the metallic spandex, he'd long for the peaceful and quiet world he had before. But now, he was simply restless. Call him a self-absorbed idiot (and god knows people did), but he longed for the attention he felt he deserved.
-- And there it was, that pang of utter guilt. He rested his chin on his palm, looking utterly dissatisfied. I wonder if Batman ever struggled like this? He wondered, and then shook his head. No, probably not. That guys got a heart of gold. Me? Not so much. Maybe I am just the selfish bastard everyone thinks I am.
Negative thoughts like this would never fail to send Michael spiraling down into despair as he swirled his coffee in circles with his index finger. Maybe he wasn't good enough to keep this hero gig going. He had enough blood on his hands, after all. Technically, he should be serving his time in jail for stealing from the museum in Metropolis. And then came the endless comparison once again: Batman never would've done something so stupid. He shook his head, and argued with himself. You aren't Batman, Michael. He works a lot harder and has a lot more reason than you do to be a hero. You try your best, you've saved lives... you aren't a total deadbeat.
Then again, he figured that he didn't necessarily have to don an extremely tight-fitting outfit and security robot in order to change the world and, well, not be a loser. But that just seemed like the best bet. At the time, back when he was much more young and naive and obnoxious and working in the museum of Metropolis, he had never assumed that being a hero would mean being a savior, a brother, a father, a friend. He had foreseen money and fame in his own future, not death and loss and such complications that he wouldn't truly know where his allegience was laid. But... that's just what growing up was, he supposed. Growing. "Growing up requires growing", he whispered. Ha, put that on a motivational poster, Tora.
He got up, feeling a little more confident. He pulled his golden goggles into place, powered up that metallic suit of his, and felt a lot more prepared to face the troubles of the timestream since he had come to this realization: sometimes, things don't turn out the way you think they will, whether good or bad. No matter what outcome it is, it helps you grow. So why worry? You'll learn from your mistakes, Michael -- no matter how many times you screw things up.
