Chapter 13
"The Phoenix Program, huh?" The moisture evaporated from my hands instantly and the ball of water I'd been holding shot at the opposite wall under real pressure. For a few seconds the stream carved away stone dust, until the force dropped and left behind a crooked, slightly ridiculous carving of a rose. Which was actually an improvement. My first attempts at working stone were something else entirely — imagine someone using a chisel while suffering from Parkinson's, with a vape in their rear end, no hands, no feet, and a blindfold. Even that would have produced better results.
The training was paying off, slowly. But even this small success couldn't pull me out of the thoughts that had taken over my head.
I lay on the bed in my cell, turning over the extraordinary offer Blond Blazer had made me. I'd been turning it over for days now, and honestly — I couldn't find a single reason to say no.
Whatever passed for logic in my brain, the scraps of reason I had, the emotional part of me — all of it was saying the same thing. *Herman, what in the hell are you still thinking about? This kind of chance doesn't come to just anyone.* And then I'd glance over at Sonar eating a mouse and staring at the wall exactly the way we'd told him to, and I'd start wondering what criteria they were using to select candidates for this distinguished program. Spiritual quality of expression? I doubted it — in that case I probably wouldn't have qualified either. At least I hoped not.
But jokes aside. Time to actually think seriously about what the Phoenix Program was, what the Phoenix team was, and what was essentially Blond Blazer's personal initiative — she'd been the one to push this into existence and was actively promoting it.
The Phoenix Program was, not without irony, about rebirth. They took a group of criminals — not the most broken and hopeless ones, minimally functional people who hadn't completely lost themselves — and gave them a chance to rehabilitate under SDS supervision. The Superhero Dispatch Service put money into them, helped rebuild their reputations, and gradually turned them into heroes. In exchange, those people worked for the SDS. No great mystery there.
And overall, I was ready to accept the stunning blonde's offer. Though I'll admit — if Sonar hadn't been in the room, I'm not sure I could have gotten a coherent word out. My brain was misfiring every few seconds, my hands kept threatening to flood the room, but I held it together. I clenched everything I had, locked my jaw, and refused to let my powers or my phobias destroy an opportunity like this.
The meeting ended on a positive note, and Blond Blazer gave me time to think it over, with the clear expectation that when she came back, she'd be hearing yes.
"Herman, you still going in circles?" A voice from the ceiling pulled me out of my thoughts. Sonar was hanging upside down, wrapped in his own wings. He was in full monster form, and when he'd decide to change back was anyone's guess. "Just accept the offer. I vouched for you, for what it's worth."
"I appreciate that," I said. My nose and eyes were stinging slightly. In this form, despite his coherent speech, Sonar behaved more like an animal, and the piles of guano the approximate size of a small dog were only the most fragrant part of the problem. "We don't know each other that well, though—"
"What do you mean? We're friends." He opened his wings, peered out from behind them with those red eyes, stayed quiet for a moment, and then stretched with a series of cracking sounds. "I want cocaine. When we get out of here, first thing I'm doing is snorting my entire reserve off the chests of the girls at the Gentlemen's Club—"
The sudden topic change pulled a weak smile out of me. It was funny, actually — Sonar struggled enormously to let anyone into his inner circle, and yet he'd taken me in without much apparent effort.
Then again — was it that easy? We'd been living together for six months, like a divorced couple who couldn't afford to move out. Our daily life looked almost nothing like what I'd expected prison to be, between Sonar's particular qualities and the effect he had on everyone from the other inmates to the guards.
"I don't even know your real name," I said, rolling onto my side. I wasn't expecting an answer. I'd already made my decision — I just wanted to fall asleep quickly so the morning would come faster, and with it the day that was supposed to change everything.
"Victor." Half a minute passed. Then the quiet voice drifted down from the ceiling. "Victor Vaimund."
I almost got emotional. A hardened criminal and a shapeshifting con man had acknowledged me as one of his own and given me his actual name. Wasn't that something.
Though exactly what it was a sign of remained unclear. That I was getting better? That Victor was getting better? Or that I was sinking exactly as deep as Grandma had warned me about since childhood — next would come a tattoo, an ear piercing, and then every other sentence ending in *yo* or *nah* or something worse.
It wasn't hard to guess what kind of dreams that thought produced. That night I had a nightmare — fairly ridiculous, shaped by my fears and childhood memories.
The next morning — unrested, puffy-eyed, thoroughly rumpled — I accepted Blond Blazer's offer. The look she gave me could be described, at minimum, as bemused. The word *flabbergasted* doesn't quite fit a being who resembles an ancient goddess more than a person, but something in that direction.
That was how my career as a superhero began.
---
Today I walked alongside Sonar again. This time we weren't going to meet the golden blonde — she'd stopped crossing our path directly. After my formal agreement, Blond Blazer had smiled her lovely smile — the one with the tiny sadist tucked just behind it — and handed us off to SDS functionaries who'd been grinding the gears of bureaucracy ever since, working to get us out early.
Constant hearings, consultations, sessions with Samson. It felt more like being employed than incarcerated. I wanted to howl and swear at the ceiling as the SDS leeches extracted everything from us with methodical efficiency — but I endured. Sonar managed it too, more or less.
It was tempting to curse the beautiful menace who looked more like an angel than a person, but somehow the words wouldn't come — and not entirely because she could punch me into a meeting with my long-deceased grandfather.
Her actions, her track record, her character. Blond Blazer was a Superhero with a capital S, and that alone was worth genuine respect.
So I kept my mouth shut, suffered in silence, and carried the inconvenience.
Back to the present — gray corridors, quiet conversations between cellmates, and Black John's jokes. He hated that nickname, incidentally. Neither Victor nor I had ever managed to understand why.
We were heading to the general visitation room, where SDS workers were meeting us today with the paperwork stack for release. As I understood it, the Dispatch Service was taking full personal responsibility for us — Blond Blazer in particular — which meant that if we messed up, we'd be answering directly to them. I wasn't entirely sure which outcome scared me more.
The moment we stepped inside, the two of them descended on us. The most archetypal pair of clerks imaginable — ill-fitting suits, slicked-back hair, polished shoes. Walmart employees had more personality and visual presence than these two, but over the course of our many meetings I'd grown accustomed to the fact that these were the people who were going to get us out.
"Sonar. Herman." Crisp, focused nods. Sharp eyes. Business as usual. At our first meeting I'd looked at them and assumed the worst — I'd expected them to grab us by the throat and have us sign documents in blood to the quiet rhythmic chant of *you are part of the system now.* In practice they were fine. Decent people. "By the way, Herman. You need to settle on a superhero name."
"Honestly I haven't really thought about it." My mind was blank on the subject — a lot of people knew my face already, since I hadn't been wearing a mask. "The options we discussed before—"
"Charming, all of them, without question." Not a twitch, not a flicker of amusement, not the faintest trace of embarrassment. "For Atlantean, I'm afraid you're too short. And too underpowered, if we're being honest. Aquaman is a registered trademark — if you'd like to spend the rest of your life in debt down to your last pair of holey underwear, be our guest, but I'd advise against hanging that particular noose around your neck."
"What about Leviathan?" I didn't know why, but this whole conversation made me feel like a middle schooler getting lectured by his father. The name at least sounded powerful. "It's got weight to it—"
"America leads the world in people who believe in angels." The second clerk, identical in every surface detail to the first, adjusted his rectangular glasses with the dramatic flair of an anime character. I had never successfully memorized either of their names — they'd blurred together too quickly — so I'd been numbering them internally. "Draw your own conclusions. The SDS will protect you from being burned at the stake, but the torrent of outrage from Baptists, Catholics, and every other denomination will be substantial enough that even your abilities won't help you wash it off."
Was that a joke? I looked at Sonar. No help coming from that direction — he was sitting with perfect posture, one leg crossed over the other, staring out the window, almost certainly designing another scheme to separate people from their money.
"All r-right," I said, the stutter surfacing again despite everything. I'd been doing so well. "What do y-you suggest?"
"Something light, simple, and memorable. Something that creates a clear association with you and your power." Number One tapped his pen against his chin and followed a few drops of water I'd shaken off my hand. "Waterboy. Concise, direct, self-explanatory—"
"Sounds like I have a developmental condition and I aged out of a scout troop without anyone noticing." The dissatisfaction helped with the stutter, at least. The name was genuinely not good and I saw no point in pretending otherwise. "Who came up with—"
"Blond Blazer."
"—such a magnificent and truly inspired name." I straightened an invisible tie. I briefly considered putting my fist over my heart but decided that was too much. "I will bear it with pride and bring no dishonor upon the SDS."
"You reversed course quickly." Even Sonar looked up briefly to note this, nodded with what might have been grudging respect, and then disappeared back into his own thoughts.
"My thoughts exactly." Number One consulted the documents in his hands and made several notations. "Sonar's name is already registered. We'll file yours today. All you two need to do is sign a brief set of documents—"
From the small stereotypical briefcase came a thunderous impact as an enormous stack of papers hit the table, making both me and my bat-shaped associate flinch.
"—and in a couple of months you'll be able to leave this facility with clean records and return to full citizenship."
Sonar and I looked at each other. We both deflated simultaneously, knowing perfectly well that reading and signing everything in that stack could take until evening.
---
"Hey, Herman, you asleep? Yo, Snowflake — don't pretend you can't hear me." John was characteristically energetic first thing in the morning and committed to ensuring everyone within range shared his enthusiasm. "Come on, Hydrant, let's talk. I've got incredible news."
"Let me sleep. It's an hour until breakfast." I pulled my pillow over my head. From somewhere above came a low grumble of agreement from Sonar, who was apparently hanging from the ceiling again. He'd been shifting into monster form more frequently lately. Stress, maybe. "We can talk in the afternoon."
"God, when did you two get so delicate." John rolled his eyes to the sound of laughter from neighboring cells and drummed his fingers on the bars. "Come on, don't be like that — I won't even charge you for this one."
"Oh, get lost." I knew what his news was. He was going to tell me some superhero or television personality had come out. Breaking news, this, in California in the twenty-fifth year of the century—
"Seriously, you'll want to hear this one!" John pressed himself closer to the bars, pushing partway through. "Look, I know Mecha Man had a hand in putting you here, Waterboy — heh, what a name, I'm not going to say anything about it though, not with who came up with it, I'd rather not have my rear end incinerated by sunbeams — anyway. You follow what's happening with Mecha Man?"
"Mecha Man? What about him?" I'll admit it — curiosity got through. Old memories, and a genuinely positive feeling toward the man, even despite the minor misunderstanding we'd shared. "Did he catch another villain? That happens constantly with him—"
"Nope." John drew out the word and held my eyes. Only now did I notice that whatever his voice was doing, he himself was still, and cold, and focused. Maybe unhappy. "Turns out last week somebody killed him. Can you believe it? Looks like that bastard Shroud finally caught up to him."
The effect of those words was more powerful than an explosion. The inmates who'd been listening burst into noise instantly. Guards started moving through the levels, using words where they could and something else where they couldn't. The volume didn't drop.
People shouted. Some celebrated. Some were silent and exchanged looks filled with emotions that weren't pleasant ones to witness.
"That's impossible."
"Why would it be?" John drifted back to his bunk and kept talking as though nothing particular was happening, his voice carrying easily through the uproar, which was spreading through the block like a fire finding dry wood. "Two Mecha Men have already been killed. I remember the second one — decent guy."
He lay down with his face to the wall and went to sleep, apparently, while I sat absorbing the news. I couldn't make myself believe it, but John had no reason to invent something like this.
The information was confirmed a few days later — or was it? Initially plenty of inmates refused to accept it, but clips started circulating online: footage of an enormous mechanical suit exploding mid-air, breaking apart, the damaged machine beginning to plummet from a great height.
The TikToks of children attempting to dance over the news. Recordings of mothers and unhinged Karens arguing with strangers. A group of men flying kites in South Los Angeles — those last ones, surprisingly, had the highest-quality footage of any of it, which briefly launched them into trending popularity.
None of this made the situation easier. The whole city — probably the whole state — held its breath, waiting to understand what came next.
Wild screaming headlines. Every feed cycling the same words on repeat. Archival footage and photographs, videos from years past — the internet drowning in a high-traffic event while no one could produce even half-reliable information about the fate of one of the greatest living heroes.
That the suit had been destroyed was obvious without narration. The fate of the man inside was unknown. No funeral announced. No fundraiser. Not even a basic statement on the federal channel.
An unresolved silence.
This continued for two more months, until one day an interview appeared, apparently from nowhere — a doctor working at one of the specialized hospitals for superheroes. A short, older man with a slightly comical mustache, hands tucked into the pockets of his lab coat, speaking about Mecha Man's situation:
"…At present his condition is stable, but he has not yet regained consciousness." He coughed briefly away from the camera and glanced toward the door of a hospital room where the hero was presumably lying. "Given the extent of his injuries and his overall condition on arrival, the appropriate response is simply to be grateful that he survived and that he is gradually improving."
"Thank God."
"What's that?" Sonar looked up from whatever scheme he was currently designing and sat down beside me. We were in the recreation room — which in practical terms was a television and thirty chairs. "Oh. Mecha Man? Didn't know you were that much of a fan."
"Not exactly, but it's good to know a decent hero made it." I paused, then decided to add more. "Also I met him in person. And Mecha Man put in a word to keep me from serving the full sentence."
"Mm. I see."
Without another word, Sonar patted my shoulder and returned to his work of separating people from their money. This was almost certainly some kind of comment on the general topic of male friendship, but I didn't have the energy to engage with it. The relief at learning my childhood hero was alive had washed everything else away.
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