Victor

“Grandpa, tell us that story again!”

He sighed. He was tired. Not the tired born of a long day of honest work, or the tired of a long sleepless night, but the tired of a long life filled with the ubiquitous hodgepodge of success and failure. Pride and regret. He leaned back in the soft chair, a soft smile on his mouth as his solemn eyes stared out of the window to his left into the dark. It was far past the children’s bedtime.

“What story is that?” He asked.

“The one where you beat up the bad guy!” they chorused.

He chuckled softly. “Those are all the stories, aren’t they?” He had told these stories, his stories, to his grandchildren these last years the same way he had told them to the police, to journalists and news feed bloggers. He had fed them what they wanted to hear and believe. All bravado and righteous vigor. They wanted comic book renditions of his battles, so that is what he had given them. Because it was simple. It was cut and dry, day and night. It was easy to understand and in the beginning, he had wanted that too. Needed that so badly that he had convinced himself it was true.

“I have one last story to tell you.” he said softly, still staring out into the night. “One last story and then you must go to bed and I must rest.”

The children grinned and rustled excitedly, gathering at his feet and arranging pillows. When they had quieted, he spoke again.

“This is not a story I’ve told you before. But it is one long past due. It is the story I should have told you in the very beginning, but you were too young and I was too afraid.”

“You were afraid?” They gasped.

“Yes.” He nodded. “And you were too young. Perhaps you are still too young. But time is short and I need for you to hear this. To really hear it.”

“I have fought for this country and for humanity in general for decades. I have battled countless foes both insignificant and monumental. They called me Victor and many thought that a reference to my conquests. You call me Grandpa, but even you may not know that my given name is Victor. Victor Drummond. Maybe it was just fortuitous that my powers manifested and my chosen profession clarified. Maybe. I’m sure there are plenty of heroes out there named Roger and Julia. But it certainly made choosing a hero name convenient. It also made separating myself from my profession much harder. They called me Victor as a title - a description. Your Grandmother called me Victor as a name. But when I looked in the mirror I could never tell who was looking back. “

“I am sure that there is evil in the world, the antithesis of empathy – a purposeful hungry greed that seeks to satisfy itself at any cost. But children, I have fought this fight for half a century and I can tell you - I have never seen it. I have never fought a villain. Not a single one. I have never battled someone who knew they were doing wrong and did it regardless. Oh sure, the media called them villains and gave them names the same way they gave me a name and called me a hero. And maybe some of them hurt others in their quest to attain some goal. And surely those few needed to be stopped. But haven’t I hurt others in my quests? When I battled Cyanide in the Alps, I used my sonic punch and caused an avalanche that buried a small town. Hundred’s died. People blamed Cyanide and I let them. Even convinced myself it was his fault. Later, much later, I learned the truth. Do you know what he was here for, why he came to our planet? Cranberries. His people live on a war torn planet. He was part of a resistance against an oppressive government who used biological weapons to subdue dissidents. Their scout ships found that cranberries contained an essential component to mitigate damage caused by the biological attacks. They could have synthesized the ingredient, they did, actually. But it was a slow process and his people were dying. So he was sent here to get as many cranberries as he could. Not a big deal. If he had told us, we would probably have given him all the cranberries he could need. But that didn’t happen. Instead, he killed thousands of our people and we… I… ended up killing him. You see Cyanide – such a stupid name we gave him – was from a species that doesn’t use sound waves to communicate. They use smell and sight. They have chemical detectors and emitters all over their carapace along with heat generating organs spaced out evenly around their bodies. Sadly, when frightened they emit a particular chemical that just so happens to be lethal to terrestrial life, but is merely an alert signifier to their own species. So here was Cyanide, scrambling around trying desperately to get to a cranberry processing facility, all the while probably screaming to us that he was afraid and sorry, but he needed these to save his people. To us he was gesticulating wildly and dropping people like flies in his wake. So I took him out. I killed those people in that village, but I’m sure I saved countless lives that he would have inadvertently taken. I’m also sure I allowed countless millions of his own people to die because they didn’t have a few thousand pounds of cranberries to synthesize into a treatment. Who was evil? Was it us… me? To them we were a species of soft bodied and blind aliens baking the cure to their dying family members into jellies and cakes and defending those berries savagely and without remorse. “

The children were silent and wide-eyed.

“That is the most extreme example. The most heart breaking. The story from which I gather and hold onto the greatest portion of my shame and sorrow. Years after our battle, when I learned the truth of his people and his quest, it broke me. I began to go through the great list of all my fallen foes and learn as much as I could about each and every one of them. I began to question the binary philosophy of good and evil that had guided me so strongly through my life and work. I disagreed with some of my adversaries, of course. Some I could not have let continue to do what they did. But even so, I could, with practice and patience, understand WHY they did what they did. And that made my life ever so much harder. I could not fall asleep with the comfortable thought of having done mighty and just deeds any longer. I began to question my own motives and goals. To see my actions through other’s eyes and realized that there are no heroes and villains. At least not that I have met. I began to subdue my foes and talk to them, rather than end the threat. I began to try to understand them before I brought them down. And still, even after all of that reflection, I thought of Cyanide. The one who started all of this for me. Would that we could have talked. I would likely have taken up his cause and gone to his home planet to help him fight his war. But over the years I have wondered, would that have been just? Who is to say that Cyanide’s cadre was not seen as evil to their so-called oppressive government? We can’t know.”

“There is comfort in certainty, and we as a species long for it. We’ll lie to ourselves and blind ourselves to have it. We’ll kill to defend it and go to war over differences that don’t exist. Cyanide is why I finally retired. Even though that took place more than twenty years before I stepped down. It took me that long to really look at myself. To look in the mirror and be okay with not knowing who was looking back.”

“So that is my story, children. It isn't about a time I beat up a bad guy. It is about the time I killed an innocent creature who was trying to save his people and was lauded for it. It is about the slow unmaking of a superhero. I want you to hear it and understand it because each of you has gifts you will bring into the world. Some large and bold, some small and discrete, but each immensely powerful. You each have the power to see your foe, even if only for a fleeting moment, as yourself. It doesn't mean you have to condone or even allow their actions. It means you may be able to see past the veil of good and evil to some greater more concrete truth. It means you may be able to avoid your own Cyanide. “