After a week,
Metropolis reconstruction was ongoing, cranes and workers visible on every block that had taken damage, and the news hadn't found a different story yet.
A live debate was running between a female anchor and Derek Malone, senior advisor to the national security council, a man who had spent the past seven days making the same argument on every platform that would have him.
"Mr. Derek," the anchor said, "the public has been calling the individuals who intervened during the invasion heroes. Do you agree with that?"
"No," Derek said without hesitation. "A person who operates outside governmental authority regardless of outcome is not a hero. They are a liability. What happened in Metropolis last week should concern everyone not reassure them."
"These are people who stopped an alien invasion," the anchor said.
"One of them is an alien," Derek said.
"Let's be precise about that. We have an unidentified individual in a cape with abilities that exceed anything we can counter, an unidentified individual in a trench coat who pulled a warship out of the sky with his bare hands, and no verified information about either of them."
"The same invasion they stopped may have been drawn here because of their presence on this planet."
"You're saying they caused it."
"I'm saying we don't know that they didn't," Derek said. "And that is exactly the problem. Power without accountability isn't protection. It's a threat we haven't fully categorized yet."
The anchor paused. "The public disagrees. Polling shows strong support for all four individuals involved. People are calling them genuine heroes."
"People call them heroes because they helped without asking for anything in return," Derek said.
"So you're saying it's useless that they helped," the anchor said, leaning forward slightly.
"You're saying they should have reported to you and gotten government approval before saving people during an active alien invasion."
Derek paused.
The studio was quiet for exactly two seconds and those two seconds said everything. If he said yes he was telling the entire country that the government cared more about control than the people it was supposed to protect.
Every clip of civilians being pulled from rubble, every person who had watched someone in a cape catch a building before it flattened a crowd, every mother who still had her children because of what happened that day would hear that answer and know exactly what this government thought of them.
Derek adjusted in his chair.
"What I'm saying," he said carefully, "is that accountability and gratitude are not mutually exclusive."
"That's not what you said thirty seconds ago," the anchor said.
Derek's earpiece buzzed. He touched it once, looked at something past the camera, and stood up.
"I have a matter to attend to," he said, already removing his mic.
He walked off set without waiting for a response.
The anchor watched him go, then turned back to the camera with the expression of someone who had just made their point without saying another word.
"And there you have it," she said. "Instead of gratitude the government's first instinct appears to be control. Instead of a thank you their first question is how do we regulate this, how do we contain this, how do we put this behind bars?"
She paused for a moment.
"But that is their opinion. And this is mine." She looked directly into the camera.
"Whoever you are. The one in the cape. The one in the trench coat. The woman with the shield. The one in the dark. You came when no one else could. You helped when no one asked you to. You left when it was done."
"So from this desk, for whatever it's worth."
"Thank you."
***
In a mansion outside the city, surrounded by woods on every side, the kind of property that didn't show up on any public record.
Art was standing in front of the television with his mouth open. Not watching it. Just standing there looking at the picture quality.
"Boss," he said slowly. "Boss you are all over the news. But also." He pointed at the screen. "How is this picture so clear. This is witchcraft."
"It's a television," Daniel said from the doorway.
"I know what a television is," Art said. "I have seen a television. This is not what a television looks like."
Across the room Ronnie had found the vacuum cleaner and was pushing it back and forth across the same patch of floor, watching it work with the focused attention of a man watching a miracle.
"It eats the dust," Ronnie said. "Art it eats the dust right out of the floor."
"I can see that," Art said without looking.
"No you cannot see it from there come and look at this."
"I am watching the boss on the news."
"The dust Art—"
"Ronnie I do not care about the dust right now—"
"There is also a machine in the kitchen that heats food from the inside," Ronnie said, abandoning the vacuum and disappearing through the doorway.
A moment of silence. Then: "Art. Art come here. I put bread in it and the bread became warm in thirty seconds. Thirty seconds Art."
"What."
"And there is a device in the sitting room that is also a mobile phone but it has no cord and the screen is glass and you can tap it and order food and they bring it to your door. Pizza specifically. They have a picture of it."
Art turned from the television.
"They bring it to the door."
"To the door," Ronnie confirmed.
Both of them stood in the kitchen doorway looking at the phone on the counter with the quiet reverence of two men reassessing everything they had understood about civilization.
"And alcohol," Art said finally.
"Already found it," Ronnie said.
A third presence appeared between them in the doorway.
"You can enjoy all of this after you finish carrying the luggage and arranging the rooms," Daniel said pleasantly.
"Yes boss," both said at exactly the same time.
*****
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