XXI.

 Upstairs, Melpomene swept aside a stack of comics from off his bed. Then, he reached under the bed and pulled out a formerly maroon, now brownish, suitcase, beat up and full of holes. He opened the suitcase and inside was the attire he’d been wearing the day he and Romel met.

“I keep it here, hidden, in case enemies ever break in,” said Melpomene, stripping. He made it down to his boxers (which looked to be in just about the same state as the suitcase), then started gearing up. Tactical pants first, then his tank top, then his boots, his gloves, his coat, and finally, his mask.

“Ready?” said Romel.

“I am. But you’re not. I know you said you won’t do any fighting, but if you’re going to be out there with me, you’ve got to have a uniform too. Quick, get these on.” Reaching further into the suitcase, Melpomene extracted another set of clothes. “I got these, along with a little something else I’ll show you, rummaging around in a dumpster the other night, while you were asleep. Can’t believe what people consider trash.”

Melpomene tossed Romel the clothes. In his hands, Romel held a tattered red hoodie, a red bandana, a yellow shirt, and red leather pants.

“I couldn’t find you any boots so your sneakers will have to do,” said Melpomene.

Nodding, Romel said, “I guess so.” Then, he started changing.

He did so in the presence of a thousand eyes staring at him from the covers of comic books. Each set of eyes belonged to some figure garbed, as Romel would soon be, in his or her own colorful suit, meant to inspire, to instill awe, to make the wearer into a symbol. Feeding off Melpomene’s pride, Romel couldn’t help but get swept up in the childish exhilaration of it all. In the end, he even flicked his hoodie up over his head with the bravado of an action star.

Truth be told, he felt cool.

“Kid,” Melpomene said when Romel was done, “I done good. You look like an inspiration, worthy of my mission. Now, let’s go save your girl.”

The pair exited the room the way only heroes could: one at a time.

Outside, Melpomene lead Romel to the back of the house. There, a shed awaited them. It was a creaky, old thing, made of wood covered in rot and roaches. The door to the shed was bolted with the sort of lock high schoolers use on their lockers. Melpomene turned the numbers and opened it up.

“Here’s where I keep my vehicle. I call her, The Steed. It gets me where I need to get to, fast. And you know that other thing I said I had for you? Well, there it is behind her, bad ass as all get out.”

Sunlight from outside streamed into the shed as Melpomene yanked aside the door. What greeted them was a bicycle, painted (badly) all black. Attached to The Steed’s rear, a two-child deluxe trailer, with netted windows and zip-up door, colored red like Romel’s suit. Romel couldn’t help but be impressed.

“You get in there, kid, and brace yourself for speed,” said Melpomene, mounting the bike.

Romel obeyed, though it was a bit difficult. Fitting in the thing was hard enough, but then maneuvering around in its mesh-like flooring, that almost caused Romel to fall face first into his seat a couple of times. Eventually, using all his wits, he managed to sit down.

Then, he zipped up the door.

“Which way are we headed?” asked Melpomene.

“East,” said Romel.

“Ready?” asked Melpomene.

“I am,” said Romel.

“Then,” growled Melpomene in that grim avenger voice of his, “Let’s roll.”

Romel readied himself. Readied himself for longer than anticipated. Melpomene’s legs were chugging, trying to peddle, trying to make them move. But the unkempt grass of Melpomene’s yard, thick and lush as it was, made it difficult. The wheels could pick up no traction. Huffing, Melpomene dismounted the bike.

“You’re gonna have to get out, kid, I got to get the bike out on the street.”

Nodding, Romel understood.

On the street, they tried again. This time, it worked. With Romel in his sidekick’s seat and Melpomene back on the bike, they took off.

It was not very busy on the streets. The neighborhood they resided in had long since been abandoned by do-gooder political types in favor of more realistic rehabilitation projects. Still, from time to time, Melpomene’s Steed would cycle by an on-looker, giving the pair of heroes a curious look. To each, Melpomene reacted the same. He looked away, doing his best to hide his face, not in embarrassment, but rather, in an attempt to remain mysterious.

From behind him, Romel shouted instructions. “Turn right!” “Turn left!” “Straight for a while!” “Right again!” Melpomene followed the instructions, maneuvering as best he could with the child’s trailer behind him. Eventually, Romel finally yelled, “Stop!”

The bike halted in front of a house, single story, run down like Melpomene’s, painted a faded pink, and surrounded by a tall, iron fence.

“She’s in there?” asked Melpomene.

Exiting his mesh trailer, Romel said, “Yes.”

Surrounding one fist with the palm of his other hand, Melpomene tried cracking his knuckles. Only one did. “Time to do some damage.”

He walked over to the iron bars protecting the home from intruders. Taking hold of two, he rattled them, testing their integrity. “Solidly built. Damn! Guess this won’t be easy.”

Romel stood there, agreeing.

“Alright, kid. I’m going to need your help here.”

Romel cocked a questioning eyebrow.

“I’ll need you to get up close to the fence, like this,” Melpomene said, moving Romel into place. “Perfect. Now, get down on your hands and knees. You’re going to act as my springboard.”

“Your springboard?” Romel asked. Despite his question, he did as he was told.

“Yeah,” said Melpomene, backing up till he was far enough for a running start. “Now, don’t move, and don’t get scared. I’ve practiced this a million times at home.”

Reassured, Romel nodded, stiffened his arms, and waited patiently to be used as a springboard.

Melpomene took off. Huffing heavily, his belly bouncing in tune with his strides, he sprinted at Romel full speed, wearing a look of angered intensity visible, because of his mask, only by way of his eyes. As he neared Romel, he vaulted himself upward, stepped on the younger man’s back, and, taking hold of the top of the fence, used his momentum to somersault his body up and over the barrier. He was in the air like this for a full second, two seconds, three, long past the time it took to clear the fence. He tried turning over further, to land on his feet, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know how. Instead, he landed on the ground, back and butt first. The thud he made was loud enough to be impressive.

Dizzied, his breath knocked out from him, he stood. Looking back at Romel, he acted as if everything was fine. He even gave Romel a thumbs-up. “I made it, kid,” he said with some effort. Then he coughed.

Romel was very proud of him.

“You…stay here,” Melpomene said, wincing. “I’ll be back soon with the girl.”

Romel had no doubt in his mind that this was true. He returned Melpomene’s thumbs up. “Of course you will. You’re a hero and that’s what heroes do.”

“That’s right,” said Melpomene, a pained smile spreading beneath his mask, “that’s right.”

After stretching for a moment to try and clear away some of the soreness, and to give himself a minute to regain his breath, Melpomene once more took on that look of angered intensity. He repeated again, “That’s right,” and then, “that is what heroes do.”

He yanked back on his gloves to make sure they were on tight, secured firm his mask, then crouched, and went forth toward the lair of the villain, without a care for what danger awaited him.