The Hero of Baltimore

The Overview:
It had been about a year since Hughes started his vigilante justice. In that time, he had graced the front page of the newspaper on various occasions, though had never made national news.

He had no costume, no mask, and rarely went by his hero name, Flicker. His face had never gone public, nor his true identity.

His actions had drawn the attention of state and local officials, with most denouncing him. They either accused him of blocking the police's duties or negating the police's jobs. Baltimore's residents on the other hand had a more mixed view of Hughes' heroics, but most were just happy to have a superhero all to themselves.

It was difficult to judge his impact on overall crime in the city, but most experts estimated he had helped reduce overall crime by 8-12%, which was pretty remarkable.


Enter...THE HERO!!!:
Screams of horror filled the smoke-ridden air in the dimly lit room. Chairs were flipped over as a crowd of patrons were rushing over each other to escape the sudden flames appearing on the bar's rug. Hughes had stared at the flames in paralyzed fear, fear of the flames and fear of his power. He was filled with obscene terror.

He remembered a hand on his shoulder, pulling him towards the door of the bar, his unresponsive body giving in to the commanding pull of this mysterious person. He looked up at his savior and saw a stranger. The man's face was older than Hughes' but still had some youth in it. The man never looked at Hughes as they burst through the doors in a mob of clamoring people. Hughes looked back and saw the fire had reached the actual bar. Soon it would reach the wall of drinks behind the bar. A small explosion rocked the street, and screams of men and women shimmered through the night sky.

Hughes sat up in bed, his heart racing. He was having that nightmare again.

He could still feel the panic he felt that night. He wiped the sweat from his face. His gloved hands felt clammy. "God..." he groaned.

He flipped his legs over the side of the bed and sat still for a few minutes, truing to clear his head and not think of anything in particular. It was a form of meditation.

The slow hum of the radiator filled the room with noise. His apartment was far from the largest. His clothes were never neat. His laundry was rarely done. He was living the life.

It was a Monday, and like any Monday he had to suffer through a long, masochistic commute to work after a weekend of clubbing. He worked as an electrician for a clothing company and made a modest salary, enough to afford his apartment and other bare necessities.

He had no roommates, no close friends, and no close relatives. Solitude had been his closest ally for a long time. However, he always felt an inner longing to stand side-by-side with other heroes and fight crime.

"That's a dumb dream, Hughes. Get real," he said to himself. Most heroes were in NYC or somewhere else, too far from home. Besides, who would want to come to Baltimore?

He looked through the fridge and pulled out some eggs he had hardboiled the other night. He had already taken off the shells, so he plopped a couple between his lips and went to the bathroom.

When he finished getting ready for the day, he took the bus to work. It was a few minutes late, so he had to bolt when he reached his stop.

He clocked into work with a few minutes to spare. He looked over his to-do list for the day and tightened his gloves.

"Let's get to work."