Menace #11: The Past Two Weeks
Nate enjoyed the rare delicacy of spending time alone. He would normally watch television, read a book, maybe paint or write, and, of course, sleep. He might take a stroll through his rural neighborhood, or maybe walk down to the park. He might attempt to cook something for himself, fail miserably, and the order take out. The possibilities were endless, and that was just how he liked them; alone, he was free. He was able to keep work and his personal time separate, at least to an extent. On the battlefield, he was Menace, super hero extraordinaire, at home, he was simply Nate Coplin. That was just who he was.
The letter that the Gentleman had left for him in the cube distressed him, both as the super hero and as the person. The simple message had sent a jarring reminder to him that the Gentleman was constantly looking for ways to attack him; a truth he could ignore in his day-to-day life before know. The threat to the White Witch was something he could not ignore. As he climbed down from the cube that evening, he could not help but recall the Gentleman’s threat to him more than a month ago: When the world is falling, when the heroes fail, when your loved ones are in danger who are you then? He had sent Courtney home — to her house — in hopes that she might be safer there than at the cube, something that she was certainly not thankful for. After ensuring that she had arrived home safely, he returned to the cube, resting underneath the tree, in the darkness of the natural treehouse.
He looked out over the forest, then down at his gloved hands, squeezing them as hard as he could. What do I do now? He asked himself. Do I go after the Gentleman? He questioned, placing his head against the bark of the tree. Should I kill him? This was a question that Nate had never asked himself, a question that he never thought he’d have to ask himself. The answer was a repeated, unequivocal, emphatic “no” every time he’d asked him self in the past. Now he was not so sure. Should I kill myself? Nate then asked. His psyche had managed to catch him off guard with that question. If he did, he figured, the Gentleman would have no reason to go after the White Witch. The peace of the forest failed to soothe his jittering nerves, and he found himself standing abruptly at the sound of a shaking in the bushes. It failed to persist, and so Nate figured it must have been a rodent of sorts, yet he remained standing. What can I do? He wished he had some advice from a beloved mentor, parent, or friend to reflect on at that moment. He pulled out his phone to text the Mutation that something had come up, remembering that Anthony had sent him a few texts earlier about getting attacked. His fingers danced over the screen after the text had been sent. Do I ask for help? He decided against it, slipping his phone into his pocket.
Nate then noticed that the garlic he had been tending for the past couple months had grown in full. He carefully pulled the bulbs from the ground, remembering that the online guide he red stated that they were still immature. They would need to be left in a shady area to “cure,” which Nate assumed meant live. He figured that outside the Count’s mansion was as good a place as any to “cure,” and so he journeyed to the burlesque house to carefully hide them around the premises. The building looked to be almost alive, with a dull light exuding from the windows, with bright, changing colors shooting from the castle-like turrets on either side. He wondered if the Count remained inside tonight, in his nightly beast form, or if he was out inflict terror on the masses. The worst kind of evil, Nate mused to himself, is the acceptance of the inevitability that there will be evil. Nate, walking away from the premises of the building, couldn’t help but remember the last time he had walked the same walkway. Bloody, broken, hardly fighting off the vampiric beast. He wondered — if the same scenario happened again — if he could fight off the beast.
Nate began to walk the road towards town center. It was a rather dull walk until he came to pass the cemetery. He had, almost religiously, avoided coming to the cemetery since Ultraman’s death. Not that he had much motivation to come in his day-to-day life, he would justify. The black gates of the enclosure were covered in ivy plants that had grown to entrench the metal. From where he was standing, Nate could barely make-out the outline of the statue of Ultraman. Nate remembered likening the statue to the poem “Ozymandias” when he first saw it. He walked a few steps further, to the open gate, and walked into the cemetery. It was past midnight, Nate was sure, as he approached the statue of the fallen hero. “Hail, king of kings.” Nate said to the immobile statue of the once great man, taking a seat in front of the hulking figure. “You once told me that nothing good comes from sunshine.” Nate started, trying to overcome the inherent silliness of talking to a deceased man’s statue. “But the sunshine is nice. It’s warm, it’s pleasant. I enjoy it. I understand that you meant that progress strives through adversity, but why is it always a necessity to fight resistance? You know what I mean? I mean, the easiest thing for me to do would be to stop being a hero. It was never really my dream in the first place, you know? I wanted it because Marie wanted it, I think. I know that that doesn’t sound very heroic, but it’s the truth. You never told me why you wanted to be a hero. I guess that’s because we didm’t really know each other for very long.
“I still don’t quite understand you.” Nate admitted. “How you were such a fantastic hero all the fucking time. I still get tired, I still need breaks; more as the days go by, I’ve found. What would you do in my situation? I mean, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. Or are unable. Probably the latter. You always wanted us rookies to solve our own problems anyway, if I remember correctly. Why don’t I just stop all this? If I stop being a hero, she stays safe, and I have less work. I think I’d most likely be safer in my daily life too. A friend of mine, a short while back, insisted that I looked just like you when I was in action. But I don’t think I want to be you. I’m not sure I even want to be me, whoever I am. I’m not the greatest hero anyway. The world would not lose much.” He sighed. “Sorry for venting.” He apologized. The statue did not respond. “Fuck it.” He said, standing slowly from his seated position.
He turned around to see a lanky man, standing a few feet from him. The man was facing him, but looking over his head to the face of the statue. He had long, flowing, black hair that fell down below his shoulders, but his chin looked freshly shaved. He looked to be somewhere in his late twenties. His eyes had an intense look to them; a look, Nate had learned, that only comes to those who have taken a life. He was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, yet his feet were bare. He was smiling. Nate had the strangest feeling that he’d seen the man somewhere before. He couldn't remember if he was on the list of escaped villains from the Chambers four years ago. The look in his eyes unsettled Nate who, instinctively, went into the first stage of his powers.
“I don’t mean to fight you, young man. I just needed a breath of fresh air.” The lanky man told Nate, his voice calm and slightly more high-pitched than he had anticipated. “Honestly, where I live doesn’t have the best ventilation system.” He laughed as though he had made a hilarious joke, and moved to wipe a tear from his eye.
“What are you doing here?” Menace asked him.
“Same as you, I figure, paying respects. Although, I don’t mean to talk to him the way you have been.”
“I-I didn’t know you were there.” Nate stuttered, blush rushing to his cheeks.
“No? A novice hero, then?” The lanky man shrugged and moved to sit closer to the statue. He gestured for Nate to follow. “I knew Ultraman for a long time. Couldn’t make his funeral, it’s my greatest regret. I practically taught him everything he knew.”
“You did?” Nate asked, his ears perking up.
“Yes.” The man said plainly. “He was, in a sense, my greatest achievement.” “Would you…” Nate stopped himself from asking the question. Do I even want to be a hero anymore? He asked himself. Is it for the greater good?
“Speak up.”
“Would you teach me?” Menace asked, unable to resist any longer. The lanky man laughed again, as though Nate had told a hilarious joke.
“You sure you want that?” Nate nodded. “I don’t have a problem with it,” the man said, “but I have a few parameters. One, your phone has to go. Ruins the focus. Two, you will follow all instructions that I give. Three, you will not complain. Are we in agreement?”
“When do we start?”
“Now.” Nate sent a text to the Mutation telling him that he was leaving for a short while, then handed his phone to the lanky man.
Nate was in hell. He was not sure what caused him the most pain, the morning runs, the noontime spars, or the nightly hunts, but he was sure that he did not enjoy any of them. He had provided a rundown of his powers for the lanky man, who had told Nate his name was Clyde, and Clyde had provided for him the rundown of his necessary exercises. He was to run four miles each morning, one without augmentation, one in his first stage, and so on. All of these were to be timed so that Nate might learn the limits of his powers. Although Nate had explained to Clyde that his transition from level to level caused him exhaustion and, at times, agony, Clyde refused to acknowledge the set back. After the run, it was time for his education. Clyde, reasonably of course, had the mindset that preparation was the key to success; he began to instruct Nate on the construction of villain social structure that he had learned. Evidently, a hierarchy must be established between a group of more than two villains or, historically, chaos ensued. At noon, Nate had to spar with Clyde, which meant that Nate, too often, ended up whipped and on his ass. Even when Nate began to use his powers, he failed miserably. Clyde, from Nate’s perspective, was a wall that he was punching at. He may be able to land a hit, but, even if he did, it would amount to nothing. After the sparring, Nate would receive a lesson about tracking, hiding, and combat tactics. He would then receive a short break while the sun fell behind the clouds, then it was time for the hunt.
The nightly hunts were extraordinarily brutal. Nate and Clyde would enter the Wharton State Forest from separate locations and roughly half an hour apart. The hunt was divided into two categories: hunting and being hunted. For the beginning of the night, Clyde would search for Nate inside the forest. Once Nate was found, much like in a game of tag, he was it. Afterwards, Nate had to search for Clyde. If he could not find Clyde by morning, he did not get to sleep. Then he would go to run. Nate couldn’t remember the last time he had been so drenched in sweat for so long.
It was almost a week into this training when Nate began to understand the brutality and rigidity of his training. He had not realized that his weakness after jumping from stage to stage was the glaring weakness that it was. Of course, recognizing that, the running portion of his training began to make sense, but the recoil was hardly lessening. The combat training was quite straightforward, Nate thought at the beginning of the training, he was just learning how to fight more acutely and with greater precision. After fighting with Clyde for the week, however, he realized that he was not supposed to win. The lesson Clyde was teaching him was how to survive a losing battle; Nate did not need to know how to win a battle against a weaker opponent, rather, he needed to know how to live and, perhaps, turn the tables against a stronger one. This realization still did nothing to tend his ego when he knew that Clyde was simply toying with him. The hunts, Nate knew, were not simply about finding Clyde or hiding from Clyde. They were about endurance and self-control. The extension of one’s senses to notice all their surroundings, and, additionally, a full control of bodily functions (such as quiet breaths and the like).
Nate began to understand Clyde better as well. His teacher didn’t care what Nate did or used; in the real world, Nate knew, he would work to prepare for his encounters. Thus, he began to borrow — or, more accurately, steal — the forge of creation from Liam. Nightly, in the hunts, he would use it as a net or javelin, attempting to pin his opponent to a tree. It never worked, but Nate credited himself for trying. The work became all he could think about, and all he would do in his day. Just before the two week mark, Clyde suddenly stopped him.
“Listen, Nate.” He began before they were to begin their noontime spar. “I can continue teaching you indefinitely. I can help you become the greatest hero that has ever lived; I can teach you the ways to win every fight, to consolidate every bond, to succeed in all endeavors. If we keep going, we must keep going until this point. However.” He paused. “I can also leave you now with what you know. Two weeks is a long time to be away from friends, from family. Years may be too long for you to endure.”
Nate attempted to look up, through his sweat, in the fierce eyes of his teacher. “I won’t keep going, then. I’m doing this for them, not for me.” Clyde nodded his head and held out his hand for Nate to take. “I do wonder, though,” Nate started, “why waste your time training me?”
“Ah, you see, that’s an interesting story. Find me again someday and I may just tell you.” Clyde said, turning Nate around and watching him stumble on his way home. Silly child, the lanky man thought to himself, he looks as dopey as he did four years ago. His weak eyes haven’t changed. I thought he was going to get himself killed. Hell, he still probably is. His eyes squinted at the boy walking away, and Vanish began to laugh.
Nate noticed that somehow his phone had found its way back into his pocket. He returned home, took a quick shower, and looked through his messages. A few texts from Eloise asking where he was were to be expected, as were the texts from the White Witch asking where he was (and bitching about being stuck at home). Some texts had even made their way to him from the Mutation, which he appreciated as well. He composed a group chat with the people who had texted him, and sent a quickly typed, crisp text: Alright, who needs me?