I remember the last time my grandfather told me the tale. He seemed so sad, almost close to tears, and sometimes when his voice got real low, I found myself crying. When I close my eyes, I can just recall his voice that night.

“We called it the Age of Heroes. I guess even then we knew, like the stone, bronze, and computer, that this too shall pass, but who could’ve predicted how it would end.” Grandpa paused to sip some of his green tea. He loved it. He often said green was the color of life and had a power all its own.

“How did it end, Gramps,” I asked, so eager for more. “Was it super villains?”

“No, son, though they would eventually play their part. I’m afraid it wasn’t super villains or space aliens that did the heroes in. It was us, the ordinary everyday people.

You see, people are a funny lot. At first we adored the new, and the different. We marveled at their good deeds and god-like powers. When men flew high in the sky, with clouds between their knees, little kids looked up and wanted to be just like them. They would don their mother’s freshly washed pillow cases and towels as capes, and fly around their backyards as high as their imaginations would carry them. It was a great time to be a hero.

But what goes up must come down. Those boys in their capes eventually grew up and discovered as adults, that they could not fly; they could not lift cars or leap tall buildings in a single bound. These men began to look at the so-called supermen, and instead of seeing what they could be, saw what they were not.  These ordinary, hardworking, men who were tired after an eight hour shift, came home to hear their wives gossiping about how strong the heroes were. They spoke on the phones about how brave and manly the heroes seemed and how they wished to be in their powerful arms. I imagine, it was not an easy pill for the husbands to swallow.

Then one day it happened. There was a bank robbery and a police chase. The getaway car hurtled down a street at dangerous speeds. Michael Pavlock, a part-time mail carrier, was crossing the street. He was seconds away from being killed, when suddenly a hero leapt into the road and pushed Michael out of the way.  With one hand he stopped the criminal’s car in its tracks. The two crooks inside were not wearing seatbelts, and the laws of physics cannot be broken. The men crashed through the windshield and landed in a bloody mess at the hero’s feet.”

Grandpa paused again to sip his never-cooling green tea, and adjust his glasses, though he wasn’t reading from anything.

“Were they dead, Gramps?” It was a natural question, and one that held more meaning than my seven-year-old mind knew at the time.  Later, I would realize what gramps knew then. My concern immediately went to the ordinary men, criminals though they were, and not to the hero. People are communal beings and instinctively empathize with their own kind.

“No, Jason, they were only injured. As the police, reporters, and ambulances arrived on the scene, it was discovered that Mr. Pavlock broke his leg when he was shoved out of the way. Pictures of the injured men and the uninjured hero were taken.  They were quickly splashed across televisions and the papers. Most people never read the words under the photos. Why should they? Everyone knows a picture is worth a thousand words, and those pictures showed a tall unscratched superman, with three broken and bloody normal men at his feet. Soon the press labelled the survivors, heroes, and since they were ‘victims’ of a superior force, who would dare argue.

What happened next was one man’s greed, feeding on another man’s unfortunate circumstances. A lawyer who witnessed the rescue followed Mr. Pavlock to the hospital. Having a broken leg meant Mr. Pavlock couldn’t work, and without a job he couldn’t pay his medical bills, so when the lawyer told him he should sue the hero and the city for millions…”

“What Gramps? What happened?” He had me hook, line, and sinker.

“Well, Mr. Pavlock was no longer that little boy who dreamed of flying, but now he was being called a hero, and he could be rich too, and that carried a power all its own. When the news heard of the lawsuit, the injured bank robbers sued too. Pretty soon the media turned on the heroes of old. They were hurting people they said.  Stepping on the little men and women like ants they cried. The people began to fear the heroes, and with fear came anger and distrust.

I can’t rightly say, I blame them; we were a government of the people, and so the government did what they always do. They made laws to protect the ordinary people; the real heroes who struggled with disease and addiction, the politicians lamented in campaign slogans. Pretty soon, the words super or special were dirty words, and the word hero was given a new definition. Activist groups led Facebook crusades to ban the wearing of capes, and masks. The old heroes became more hated than villains.

Within a year the Age of Heroes was over. Crooks killed cops with impunity, and people fell from buildings with no one to save them. Only birds and planes flew in the sky. Super villains, who never followed a law anyway, did not follow the new ones. They formed powerful organizations and took over entire cities. No one fought for another. No one risked their lives for the innocent. A stranger in need was a dead man indeed.  The country became the divided war zone it is today.”

“That’s why we live in a protected compound, Gramps?”

“Yes, that’s a good part of the reason. I like to think a bigger part, is that when we cast out the heroes, we threw out the best parts of ourselves, the selflessness, and willingness to sacrifice for another.  But above all, we lost hope. Kids no longer dreamed of being more than they were. No more capes in the backyard.”

“I have a cape, Gramps.”

“Yes you do, Jason, yes you do, and one day, when you’re older, you’ll have more than that.”

That was a little more than ten years ago. My grandpa passed away that very night while I slept. Yesterday on my eighteenth birthday, I got a visit from a lawyer. He gave me a lead chest and a letter. They were the only things my grandpa left for me in his will. The letter was only a few lines:
 
My dear, Jason
If you’re reading this letter that means I have gone to the next world to be with your grandma. You are a man now, and I have no doubt a fine man. Watching you grow brought great joy to my life. Your spirit and wonder gave me hope when I had lost my own. In the accompanying chest, you will find my legacy, which I pass on to you. I was wrong when I said the age of heroes was over, it lives on, so long as brave men, with small boys inside them, still have hope.  I trust you will have the courage to use what I have given you. Use it wisely my son, and always know I am proud of you.
 
With tears in my eyes I opened the chest. As the lid lifted a bright green light filled the room, and in my mind I heard my grandfather’s voice:

“In brightest day, in blackest night, No evil shall escape my sight. Let those who worship evil's might…”
 
The Age of Heroes begins anew.