Sane

It had been a while since I'd ridden in a limousine. I tried to enjoy it while it lasted, which was .... not that long, unfortunately. Also, I was not allowed to raid the minibar.

"We're here," the man sitting opposite me said. "Remember, we'll have you covered every step."

"Thanks for that," I replied.
When they opened the door, I got out without needing to be prompted.

It was, of course, raining cats and dogs. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed. The suspension bridge was cast into stark relief against the dark sky.
The man standing on the railing was clearly visible.

I suppressed a sigh - he'd hear me; of course he'd hear me - and walked over to him.
He turned when I was halfway, and the next flash of lightning illuminated his chiseled features and the cape flapping at his shoulders.
"Don't get any closer!" he screamed. "I swear I'll jump!"

"I wish you wouldn't," I told him. "They're going to shoot me if you do."

I kept walking and saw the very moment that he recognized me; first his shoulders sagged with relief, then his whole frame tensed up.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Department of Superhuman Affairs came and got me out of my cell," I said, without breaking my stride. "Told me you were on the side of the bridge, threatening to jump. Promised me a chance to do yardwork if I came and talked to you."

I was close enough to him to see the expressions chase each other across his face; surprise, puzzlement, disappointment, contempt. And a hint of underlying relief.

"Mind if I sit?" I asked, indicating the ground. "I'm dead on my feet. I was supposed to be asleep two hours ago, and instead I was stuck in a helicopter and a car."

"It's a free country," he said, shrugging.

"No thanks to you," he added when I sat down on the edge of the bridge and let my legs dangle over the edge.

"That's beneath you, Don," I told him.

He drew a deep breath - and started to cry.
That surprised me, it really did. I'd known him to threaten suicide before, but I don't think I'd ever seen him genuinely express sorrow before.

"What's wrong, Don?" I asked when the flood of tears had slowed down a little.
"Talk to me."

"Talk to you?" he hiccupped. "Talk to Mister Sin? That'll be the day!"

"Sane," I corrected him.

"What?"

"Sane, Don," I explained. "I went by Mister Sane, back in the day. You always get it wrong."

"Sane," he repeated. "Sane, sane.... Got it. Next time, I'll...."
He looked at me and teared up again, great sobs wracking his heroic frame.

"Come on, Don," I said. "What's going on with you? Why are we here, in the rain, on what I would like to point out is a really cold night when you're not invulnerable."

He cried some more, but to my great relief he stepped off the railing and floated down to the ground. He sat down next to me, shoulders still heaving with sorrow.

"Talk to me, Donnie," I tried again.

"I'm so lonely," he said. "So damn lonely! Look at me! I'm threatening to take my life, and the best person the DSA could come up with to talk me down is.... is you! Mr. Sin -- Sane! Mr. Sane, my damn nemesis! That just says it all, doesn't it?"

"We do go back a ways," I pointed out. "How long has it been, now?"

He wiped the snot off his upper lip and looked pensive. People with a more easily-stimulated sense of humour find it humorous on him. Me, I find it painful to see a grown man clearly struggling so hard to piece together simple thoughts.

"More than twenty years," he finally decided. "Has to be. More than twenty years of you trying to wreck the world and me thwarting you."

He started to cry again.

"And you're still the only one they could come up with to talk me down? What's happened to my life?! I used to be married! I used to have friends! Kids!"

I could have pointed out that he had outlived most of them, what with being invulnerable and, as far as we knew, immortal. But it would have been unkind. Besides, the people from the DSA had been unnecessarily graphic in their warning of where they would shoot me if their favourite hero did take a dive off the bridge.

"I was married five times," he said, his voice suddenly dull and weary. "Five. And where have they all gone? Lena married me and divorced me after she got the rights to my biography, the one she ghost-wrote for me. Katie died from complications during the pregnancy. Harmony just left me, never explained. Renée.... Didn't you shoot her?"

"I most certainly did not," I replied.

"Someone did, anyway," he said. "And Jessica.... She married Rich - Chiropterex. Why couldn't the DSA bring Chiropterex? He was my best friend for ten years. I forgave him for the whole thing with Jessica years ago. I forgave Jessica. I forgave both of them; we were friends before I got married with her, partners in crime-fighting. Why couldn't they bring in Rich - Chiropterex. He'd straighten me out."

Chiropterex retired from active crime-fighting years ago. I had it on good authority that he was dead now, but the DSA keeps saying he's alive and consulting them on top cases. I want to believe it's a lie, but then my 'good authority' is composed of criminals, so who can say, really? At least he isn't swinging from rooftops and breaking the hands of pickpockets in dark alleys anymore.

"My kids," he went on, shoulders sagging. "Katie's boy, Junior. He left Earth after high school, and I haven't heard from him since. The twins I had with Harmony, Robbie and Jay-Jay, they're too busy to talk to me when I call them for their birthday. Haven't even sent me a Christmas card in years. Bella, my kid with Jessica? She's taken out a restraining order against me. Me, her own father. What did I do to deserve that, huh? Tell me! Tell me, if you're supposed to make me feel good enough not to jump! Go on!"

"She's taken out a restraining order against you because you broke her boyfriend's arms and legs when you thought he was hurting her," I told him. "And she figured out you were spying on her when you crashed through her window right afte he...."

"Fine, alright, alright," he said, clearly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, but you know it's true," I said. "That kind of thing puts a dampener on any relationship."

"I said alright!" he snapped, glaring at me.

I just barely ducked a crimson beam from his angry eyes. Somewhere behind me, concrete hissed and cracked when it was hit by those rays of light.

"Sorry! Sorry," he said.
He waved his arms at the DSA people watching us, a signal not to shoot me (I hoped).
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I just.... I feel so damn despondent all the time, you know? Nothing's the way it used to be. I feel like such a loser. Nobody comes by to talk to me the way they used to. Nobody needs me anymore. Not my kids, not my friends in the Brigade of Chivalry, nobody."

The Brigade of Chivalry disbanded sometime after Chiropterex hung up his cowl. They may have disparaged his methods, but he really was the heart and soul of the team.... which tells you everything that was wrong with them.

"It happens to all of us," I said. "You grow older, things change. They feel like they're changing faster all the time. I mean, take the internet and those pokey-whatsits the kids are going on about. I read a newspaper or a magazine, and I feel like I'm living in science fiction. The future is now, and it is weird, isn't it?"

"What would you know?" he scoffed, sniffing. "You ever been married? Ever lose the love of your life? Ever had your kids and your friends break your heart by never visiting you anymore?"

"Nah, never been married," I admitted. "No kids. Always wanted some, but .... Ahh, it just never worked out. Friends.... Damn, most of the friends I had are dead, now. What do you expect? I'm pushing seventy. Few more years, and I'm pushing up daisies, if that."

I tried to laugh, but it turned into a coughing fit. One of the bad ones. When I finally managed to untangle myself and sit upright, he was watching me with a kind of horrified fascination.

"What?" I asked. "You hadn't heard?"
I wiped the blood from my upper lip.

"It's true," he said, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. "I heard it, but I didn't want to believe it. You're dying."

"I'm pushing seventy, and I don't exactly get a lot of fresh fruit and healthy exercize in the fresh air," I said, drily. "Had to happen sooner or later. At least it's not lung or prostate cancer. I've seen a lot of old men go out that way, and it's rough every step of the road."

He started to blubber again, and it hit me. Hit me like a lightning-bolt, I was so shocked.

"You're out here because of me?" I asked, not entirely willing to believe it.

"I'm pathetic," he whimpered. "They told me - they told me you were probably.... That you were sick. Got me thinking. Thinking about how it used to be, about everyone I fought side-by-side with, and everyone I fought against. You were my nemesis for.... what, twenty years?"

It was closer to forty. I didn't bother to correct him.

"Where have they all gone, Mr. Sane?" he asked - pleaded, really. "Where have all of my friends and enemies gone? Why am I suddenly alone, surrounded by kids I never even heard of?"

"Same reason why the DSA isn't just hitting you with a tranquillizer dart and schlepping your ass to an asylum," I answered. "You're invulnerable and stronger than a bull. Most of your enemies went the same way as me; growing older and weaker while you stayed Mr. Perfect. You've outlived 'em, Donnie. That's the truth of it."

"It's so lonely," he whispered. "So, so lonely. People just don't understand."

"They're not invulnerable like you," I reminded him. "They can't fly, or fire hell-beams from their eyes just by frowning, or do any of the other stuff you do. To them, you look like you've got it made in the shade."

"But you understand, don't you?" he begged. "Twenty years. Twenty years fighting each other. You understand me, don't you? You were there for the golden age of heroism!"

Golden age of getting beaten up by men and women in tights and getting stuffed in dumpsters to await the police, more like. But I didn't say that, either.

“Twenty years of fighting each other,” he said. “We had some times. You know me, still.”
His eyes overflowed yet again.
“There's no one else left, Mr. Sane!” he wailed. “No one! Just me! You think the DSA understands? They think having a file on someone is the same as knowing them!”

Come to think of it, the DSA probably did know stuff about the poor schlub that he'd forgotten himself. But yeah, I had to agree; it wasn't the same as knowing someone as a person.

“What am I going to do?” he whimpered, looking at me with an odd mixture of loathing and longing. “What have I done with my life? I mean, you're all I have to show for it?”

“Thanks very much,” I murmured.

“No, not like that,” he lied, limply waving his hands about. “I mean.... You know? Look at you now. How did you even get arrested this time?”

“I went to vote,” I replied, shrugging.

“You?” he asked.

“Voting is important,” I said. “It's deciding the future of the country. My disguise slipped when I went into the voting office, and one of the tellers recognized me. Next thing I know, couple of over-eager flatfoots shot me in the leg, slammed my face into the ground and cuffed me. And you know what was even worse than the months of rehab before I could walk again?”

“What?” he asked.

“They plastered it all over the news that Mr. Sane was gonna vote Democrat,” I told him. “Ruined the election. It was on every news channel. The Democrat leadership had to resign and swear in new people. I cost that young fella the election, the one who almost won. Damn shame about that. I bet this country would look a lot better if he'd won it.”

“You're a master criminal. You're not supposed to care about voting,” he told me.

I waved that objection away. My parents didn't raise me to shirk my political duties, bless their souls.

“Come to think of it,” he said, “how'd you get started?”

“What?”

“You know,” he pressed. “How'd you become my nemesis again? It's been, what, twenty years?”

“Forty,” I told him. “Forty-two. I was working for the mail in Washington. Suddenly you dropped out of the sky and smashed my bike and all the mail I had with me flat. You flew off again without looking over your shoulder, I had a broken leg, and I got fired for wrecking company property.”

“Seriously?” he asked. “You started a vendetta for just that?”

“Of course not,” I scoffed. “I went to hospital, went to rehab to be able to walk, went and found a new job. Then I saw a flyer about an anti-you group. Nothing bad; just a bunch of folks you'd hurt who felt the government should restrain you a bit.”

“Criminals I beat up?” he asked.

“Home owners and small businessfolk whose buildings you crashed into and never paid back,” I corrected him.

“Oh yeah,” he said. He frowned in thought again. “Yeah, I was fighting that one guy a lot, the strong one. He kept slapping me down, I kept getting back up....”

“Unheilsvater,” I said. “He was chief of the League of Anarchy before me.”

“Yeah, Oon Hail's Fatter,” he said, his whole face lighting up. “Always thought that was badass; hating some guy so much that he made insulting them his name. Never did figure out who Oon Hail was....”

I did not roll my eyes.
“It's all one word,” I told him. “German word. Means 'father of doom', more or less.”

“You mean he was a Kraut? A Nazi?” he asked.

“No, Donnie,” I said. Now I did sigh. “His family came to America to get away from the Nazis. They were Jewish, their family just lived in Germany for generations. It was pretty rough for them here, all the same.”

“Whatever happened to that guy? You know, Fatter,” he said.

“He's been dead for twenty years, Donnie,” I told him. “You finally beat him, he got sent to the big house, they took away his mystic talismans and he couldn't fight off the hepatitis any longer. Died in his cell during the night. Wild Weirdo took over the League after that.”

“Oh man, Wild Weirdo!” He laughed. “Man, that guy was crazy! He still kicking around?”

No, Donnie,” I told him. “You attacked our undersea base, punched a big hole in the roof. Wild Weirdo wouldn't stop fighting you long enough to get out. He drowned. Remember?”

“What was it again, with that cult you set up?” he asked.

“Not a cult, Donnie,” I said. “After I got out of hospital the first time and found a new job, I saw a flyer for people who wanted to get together to talk about keeping you in check. I got there, and it was all women, because you always used to say in the papers that you'd beat up any man who crossed you. We had cocoa and buns and talked about our rights under the constitution.
Before we knew what was happening, SWAT kicked the door down, one of them broke my bad leg and we were all hauled off to jail for being anarchists and communist sympathizers. And because I was the only man there, I was suddenly a rapist and a cult leader. It was in all the papers.”

“Yeah, those were the days,” he said, smiling at the memories. “I was at your trial, right?”

I did not reply to that, but yes, he had been there. Told the jury that he did not recognize me, but that I had the face of a criminal and was probably in with Unheilsvater.

“So, you pushed on with the super-crime after that,” he said.

“Not much choice, Donnie,” I told him. “Unheilsvater contacted me in jail. Said he could use me as a figurehead; 'meet the man who resisted the enemy', that sort of thing. I was a bit of a celebrity in the League of Anarchy after that. And after you drowned Wild Weirdo, I was the guy who'd had the common sense to get people to the escape pods and make sure we didn't all drown. Before I knew it, everyone was calling me 'Boss', and I was in strategy meetings. About then's when I named myself Mr. Sane.”

He laughed long and loud at that, rocking to and fro.
Then he cried some more.

“You're a dying breed, Mr. Sane,” he told me. “Today's villains.... They don't have backstory like that, they're just drug runners and terrorists, psychos all. None of them bother lying, they just start shooting at me, or threatening bystanders. There's no class there!”

“World changes,” I reminded him. “New times, new kind of villain.”

“Not the League of Anarchy,” he protested. “You guys didn't change nothing. Not while you were in charge. A zany caper every week, that's you.”

I did not shake my head or roll my eyes.
A zany caper every week, that had been Wild Weirdo. Even, to some extent, poor old Unheilsvater, for all his belief that the League was important to show America that its best intentions could have terrible consequences and that people needed to think before they said things. Or, indeed, before they stoned to death two nice old Jewish people with a German accent thick enough to float a brick, while their terrified son watched from inside their car.
My version of the League had its share of capers, sure, but those had been distractions to keep the DSA and the capes-and-tights-brigade from figuring out what we had actually been doing. The world was always changing, and if you didn't change along with it, it would grind you like a miller's wheel.

“I remember,” he said, “you guys used to have an anti-aging drug.”

“I remember that stuff, too,” I told him. “Only 33,3% effective, and lethal the rest of the time. Wild Weirdo was obsessed with that stuff. Popped pills like they were candies. I closed down that branch of research after I became the Boss, of course. There was no money in it.”

His face fell.

“Oh, you poor boy,” I said. “You were going to break into the League's old HQ and get me some, weren't you? You wanted me to be young again, so we could keep fighting.”

“What am I going to do without you?” he sobbed. “There's no one else left who was there at the beginning. I'll be all alone!”

“Have you considered meeting new people?” I suggested, as tactfully as I could. “I mean, you must meet decent....”

“No one else understands anymore,” he said, cutting me off. “No one else lived back then. It's just you and me, now, and you …. you're leaving me.”

“And I'm very sorry,” I lied, “but I can't help it. Doctors didn't spot the disease until it was too late, so now I'm on borrowed time. And even if they had noticed something was wrong? I am seventy years old. Already ahead of the game; my old man was in his grave by fifty.”

He sniffled some more.

“I'm really sorry, Donnie,” I lied again. “But you're going to have to be strong. You can do that for me, right? I mean, I'd hate to …. go, with my last thought that you were going to crack just because I wasn't there anymore to keep you on your toes.”

“How messed up is this?” he asked. “This, right here? You used to fire death-rays at me.”

“Only because you started throwing cars at my head,” I countered. “C'mon, Don. People are counting on you. The whole world is counting on you. Someone needs to keep the psychos from rising up and gutting the world, right?”

He sniffed some more, wiped his face with his cape.

“Thanks,” he said. “I mean it. “Yeah. Of course. People need me.”

“Attaboy,” I said.

“That hasn't changed,” he went on. “People aren't all that different. Deep down.”

“Really deep,” I agreed.

“Should – Isn't there anyone you're leaving behind?” he asked. “I mean, I know you used to keep those two girls close. Your bodyguards in the leather catsuits. Isn't one of them....?”

“Donnie, I'm seventy,” I protested. “BB is eighteen, and Red-Hot is sixteen. Even if that wouldn't be sick and wrong, you really think it's up to that kind of action anymore?”

That made him laugh. People growing impotent with age had always amused him, because he did not seem to have aged a day since he achieved his current condition.

“Are you feeling better now?” I asked him.

“Well enough to go home,” he said after a moment of thought.

“No falling out of the sky along the way, alright?” I pressed. I took a gamble. “Besides, all you'd do is make giant potholes. Fall like this? That's nothing to you.”

He sniffled, smiled and wiped his eyes. The rain got back into them almost immediately.

“Think I'll go home,” he told me. “Get some sleep. Cover identity's got work early tomorrow.”

“That might be part of it,” I advised. “Try to get some vacation time, go someplace nice.”

“I'll think about it,” he hedged.
He got up, started to float into the rain-drenched sky – and paused, giving me an odd sort of look.
“Just occurred to me, you may be the last real supervillain I ever talk to,” he said.
He hesitated, then plunged in: “Would it be okay for me to visit you in prison sometime?”

“Sure, why not?” I replied. “Might be nice. Now go home, get some sleep. Call in sick tomorrow, get some perspective on things and calm down.”

He smiled. It was a trembly sort of expression, with hints of reluctance and embarrassment in it, but  he did smile.

“Be seeing you, Mr. Sane,” he said.

“Be seeing you, Don,” I told him.

I watched him fly off. Once he had disappeared into the cloud cover, I got up and limped over to where the DSA was waiting. I got in the back of the car. I blinked.

The DSA deputy director, who had ridden in the limousine opposite me, was wrapped in chains and leather cords. His eyes were furious and his jaw was working as though he wanted to shout, but his mouth was comprehensively closed off by a ball gag.

The divider window between the driver and me slid down, exposing …. a very pleasant-faced young woman in a black uniform which emphasized her figure, an even more well-crafted girl in a red dress sitting next ho her.
BB and Red-Hot, nominally my bodyguards.
I suspected the DSA snipers and other personnel in the area had been quietly subdued while I was having my chat with Donnie, and the deputy director had been last.

“Howdy, Boss,” BB said. “Y'all ready ta head home?”

I considered for a moment, then nodded.
Sure, I would once again be stuck in an environment surrounded by villains both super and normal, but it would beat the jail cell I had been in.

I gave a nod.
The car drove off.

It really had been a long day since this morning.
An old man like me should be looking for ways to spend the rest of his life in peace.
But as the limousine cruised on, I regarded the deputy director opposite me, and considered the possibilities inherent in ransoming him - and who would be sent to stop me.

And I considered the possibility that someone still needed me to do my job, too.