Difference between revisions of "All-Star: Ceasefire"

There are three-hundred and sixty-five days in the average year. Each day lasts twenty-four hours. The average human being is only awake for an average of seventeen of those twenty-four hours and, more often than not, spends much of that time either working or alone. This means that only a relatively small fraction of each day is spent interacting with other people of one's own volition. Only a modicum of every twenty-four hours of every day of every year is spent directly influencing the lives of the people around you. Be they the nameless scores that pass by you on the street, caught up in their own lives, the friends you love, or the enemies you hate, the time you spend directly influencing their existences through social interaction is miniscule on a relative scale.

And yet, even in those precious few hours, the effect one person can have on the life of another is monumental and the extent to which the lives of the few and the thousands can be altered within twenty-four hours is can be both painfully clear and almost imperceptible. In twenty-four hours, great leaders and revolutionaries have dared to make decisions which would impact future generations for years to come. In twenty-four hours, the world’s greatest tragedies have unfolded before our hapless eyes and hundreds of thousands of people all over the world have opened or closed theirs for the first, or last, time.

There are days in a single person's life in which nothing remarkable or even worth mentioning happens, the days plagued by monotony and boredom. There are special days of celebration and festivity where we remember days gone by with fondness or wise regret. There are days which are forgotten and days which are remembered and days which are reminiscent of those before it. There are days comedic or tragic and days which make you question the days ahead, days that pass you by in an instant or drag on endlessly.

And then, if you're lucky, there are days when you wake up and find, you have no days left. If you aren't, there are days when you'll wake up and wish you had no days left.

Each day lasts twenty-four hours. In twenty-four hours, the world as we know it can be changed for better or for worse. It only takes a fraction of that time to change a life and it only takes a day in the life of one person to tell a story.

The first thing Nate Carter did upon opening his eyes that morning was glance over at the calendar hanging from the wall adjacent to his bed. As the world rushed into his every pore to greet him and the weight of consciousness pressed down on him, he quickly found himself questioning just why he had done so. He knew the date and the day. He always knew.

Never one to linger if he didn't have to, Nate quickly sprang into action with his intensive morning workout. In many ways, the hour he spent every morning following a rigorous routine of bodybuilding and cardiovascular maneuvers was the favourite hour of his day. In that precious hour of sweat and silence, he was able to put aside all responsibility, distractions and introspection for the purpose of driving himself single-mindedly towards a clear goal. His mind clear and his body perfectly in-tune, Nate would be truly free during that hour.

And then, with one last push-up or arm curl, it would be over and in its place a void, in which everything he had pushed out of his mind would come rushing back in full force, would form. And for a while, he would stand there - body glistening with sweat, chest heaving with exertion - and take it all in. And on some days, he would try to reject it. He would try to cling to that empowering, empty-headed feeling that had slipped between his fingers like sand and desperately attempt to savour it one last time before it faded into nothing. On those days, he would bow his head as the feeling eluded him and mockingly fluttered away and, with a slight exhale, he would do what he did on all those other days; he would eat breakfast, shower and step into the world he so desperately wanted to ignore.

As Nate finished his quick shower and stepped out of his bathroom, his eyes drifted over to his Protectors ID card. Taking it in his hand, he flipped it over absent-mindedly as he ran a towel through his damp hair. Since joining the Protectors, he couldn't remember the last time he had taken a personal day off. Unlike his job for the US government as a field agent, with the Protectors, there was always a mission somewhere. Oftentimes, Nate would spend hours at a time polishing his weapons or knocking back beers, waiting for the next call to go out, provided he didn't have government work to do. And though he would make his sarcastic remarks or feign reluctance, the truth behind it all often alarmed and discerned him.

Because as much as he enjoyed his time alone and his time spent socialising with his fellow Protectors, a part of him knew that the only way he ever truly felt content or at peace with himself was when he was on the job. Be it as a Protector of the World or a spy or a soldier, Nate took every opportunity he got to go out into the field, where he could distract himself from his own issues by throwing himself into his work. And though his work was usually dangerous and chaotic, he had come to the conclusion long ago that it was much preferable over spending time alone with his thoughts.

Yet, despite his own preferences, Nate had removed himself from the active roster on this particular day for reasons he had kept to himself. To Nate, the next few hours of his life were not about distractions or violence. They were about one thing and one thing only: seeing things through. He had the other three-hundred and sixty-four days of the year to run from his thoughts and ignore his hang-ups. This day was about taking all his hang-ups in hand, clutching them tight and facing the music. This was his day.

It only took a few minutes for Nate to slide on his jeans, a shirt and his brown leather jacket. With a set of black aviators thrown into the mix, the ensemble was all but complete. Making his way to the front door of his high-rise apartment, Nate took a moment to look around the place one last time before stepping out of his comfort zone and into the halls of his apartment complex.

All things considered, Nate's apartment building was situated in a relatively wealthy part of Millennium City and, though he had never really felt comfortable living in such an upper class area, he had to admit that it was a damn sight better than anywhere he lived back in Hudson City.

"There are fewer meth dealers, at least." Nate muttered, under his breath, as his elderly neighbour shuffled by, angrily. "Good morning, Ms. Stritch? I only ask because I know it's never a good morning with you."

"You know, I have a grandson who used to use humour as a way of breaking the ice." Ms. Stritch replied. "Now he's a struggling comedian who couldn't get a laugh to save his miserable life."

"Now why would your husband ever leave you for a younger, more ethnic woman?" Nate snarked, checking through his mail.

"Because men are all pigs, Nathaniel." Ms. Stritch snapped back. "Just like the bastard down in six-oh-sic."

"Six-oh-six?" Nate asked, looking up. "Down the hall, six-oh-six? What's wrong with him?"

"It's terrible, Nathaniel!" Ms. Stritch replied. "I think he may be beating his poor wife and son. All I hear is shouting!"

"Is that the same wife you called a washed-out trophy made out of silicon and expensive clothes?" Nate asked, tossing his mail back into his apartment and closing the door.

"Yes, but I said that last week, Nathaniel." Ms. Stritch argued. "You of all people should know the importance of moving on, considering your-"

"Don't say ethnic background, Ms. Stritch," Nate interrupted. "I don't want to be the guy who threw an old lady out of a 15th floor window."

"It's not right at all, Nathaniel!" She continued. "If they don't stop making such a damn hullabaloo, I'll call the police."

"Alright, alright." Nate said. "I'll go talk to them. Just don't waste their time or the cops', okay?"

"You're a good man, Nathaniel." Ms. Stritch said, warmly patting him on the cheek. "Not like my grandson, with his irritable bowel syndrome and his lazy eye."

Nate rolled his eyes at the comment as Ms. Stritch hobbled over to the elevator. Waiting for her to go, he made his way down to apartment six-hundred and six and rapped a knuckle on the door, sharply. The sounds of male and female shouting coming from within came to an abrupt stop as he did so. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal a dishevelled middle-aged man with greying hair. Behind him stood an equally as dishevelled and much younger wife who busied herself with fixing her hair and looking presentable. A young child, no older than ten, sat on the steps leading to the upper floor of their apartment, frowning into his chest and playing with a Defender action figure.

"Oh, uhm..." The man blurted. "H-Hey, Nate."

"What's going on, Walt?" Nate inquired, crossing his arms. "Ms. Stritch said she heard you guys shouting down here. She wants to call the cops."

Walter bit his lip and ran a hand through his hair, thoughtfully. "Did she say that? L-Look, I'm sorry, really I am. Georgina and I have just been having some troubles lately, y'know? Nothing major."

"Nothing major, huh?" Nate said, sceptically. "Well, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, Walt, but I want you to look behind you. At your kid."

"Henry?" George responded, looking back. "Henry, I told you to go to your room."

Caught red-handed, Henry scooped up his toy and fled to the safety of his room, followed shortly by his mother. Directing his gaze back to Nate, Walter sighed deeply.

"You see that kid, Walt?" Nate went on. "That kid is the most important thing in your life right now. I've spoken to you. You don't stop talking about the little guy. You and your wife may not be the best parents in the world, but you're good people and you love your son."

"That's right." Walt answered, hanging his head a little. "We do."

Nate nodded, calmly. "Well, if you love your son, you're gonna talk whatever it is out like reasonable adults and stop fighting in front of him."

"I-I know, but-" Walt started.

"That sort of thing... It really messes a kid up, you know?" Nate said, cutting him off. "I haven’t kept any secrets about my childhood from you since I moved in. You know I had it rough. And I wouldn't wish even a fraction of that on a child. I know you wouldn't either."

Walter gave another sigh, bowing his head into his hands. "You're right. Tell Ms. Stritch we're sorry about the noise. We'll keep it down. We'll talk it out."

"...I know you will, man." Nate relented, patting him on the shoulder. "Say hi to Gina and Henry for me."

"Will do." Walter said, giving Nate a small smile. "Thanks, Nate. Guess it helps to get a second opinion sometimes."

As the door closed, Nate thought back on Walter's words, his mind drifting far away. "Yeah." He eventually said, turning to leave. "Guess it does, sometimes." With that, he reached into his pocket and punched in a number, waiting for a dial tone. "Hey, Kurt? It's Nate. Wanna meet for lunch? I'm buying."

The small family-owned grocery store a few blocks away from Nate's apartment building was perhaps one of his favourite establishments in the city. So much so that he had fast become the store's most frequent repeat customer, which naturally got him in the owner, Mr. Mason's, good graces.

On Nate's part, there was a certain degree of authenticity and simplicity which he felt came from the cosy little store situated amongst the countless corporate-owned chains littered all over the richer parts of Millennium City. The fruit and vegetables were always organically grown by Mr. Mason's cousin down south and imported regularly, the prices were always fair and, perhaps most importantly, there was an old Pac-Man machine in the back on which he held the highest score.

And so, on the few days a month he got time to himself and away from the fast-paced, high-octane lifestyle he was so used to, he would pay a visit to Mr. Mason's store with a roll of quarters and play Pac-Man until his thumbs bled. Today was no exception.

Pushing open the grocery store's entrance to the sounds of a chirping bell, Nate glanced to the counter to find the store's owner.

"Yo, Mr. Mason!" He called out. "Black guy in the store. Might want to keep an eye on him."

"Very funny, Nate." Mason called back from the basement behind the counter. As Nate approached it to get a better glimpse of the portly old man, Mr. Mason emerged from the large hole in the floor, a wholesale pack of varied sugar-encrusted cereals in his arms.

"Still lifting boxes, Mr. Mason?" Nate noted. "You really need to hire someone for that, pal. You ain't exactly Tom Brady these days."

"No, I suppose not." Mr. Mason huffed, hefting the pack out of the hole. "But I can still lift a few boxes. Besides, who'd want to work with an old goat in a little store like this?"

"Hey, little stores like this are the building blocks of our great nation, sir. ".” Nate scolded. "You're living the American dream right here, right now."

Mr. Mason chuckled, heartily. "Really? My American dream had more sun, sand and pretty women in hula dresses."

"And having that dream is your constitutional right." Nate quipped.

"It's good to see you again, son." Mr. Mason said, warmly. "How's your back injury from fighting the one with the pumpkins?"

"Pumpkin Jack?" Nate chortled, taking an apple from a shelf and biting it. "Barely even felt that one."

Mr. Mason laughed back, wagging a finger at Nate as he set the wholesale pack down on the floor. "Not what you were saying last week. You looked older than me."

"I slept funny!" Nate cried, defensively. "It briefly exacerbated my injury. How much for the apple?"

Dusting off his hands and straightening his apron, Mr. Mason situated himself behind his station and rang the item up on the register. "For you? A dollar. Here for Pac-Man?"

"Maybe I'm just here because you mean so much to me." Nate said, shrugging as he slapped a dollar onto the counter. "You know I can't stop thinking about you and your hot, rippling rolls of fat."

"Yeah, yeah." Mr. Mason sneered. "Go play your game, you bastard. I'll turn on the TV."

A quarter in the arcade machine and Nate almost felt young again. As his hand relaxed around the worn handle of the machine's joystick, a familiar kind of happiness washed over him. Nostalgic memories of days gone by spent playing the Pac-Man machine at the old arcade down in Hudson City ran through his mind and brought with it bittersweet emotions. As far as video games went, Pac-Man hadn't been entertaining or challenging for Nate since he was twelve. But the memories it brought back of hours spent with Wheezer or wasting time so he wouldn't have to go back home to his parents always kept him coming back to it, even after all these years. The times had and would continue to change but so long as he had things like the quaint little grocery store with faded old Pac-Man machine in his life, Nate felt he would never forget who he is and who he used to be.

Entering in his new high score with a detached serenity, Nate turned back to Mr. Mason, whose eyes were glued to the television set. On it, reports of a high-speed car chase through downtown Millennium City were coming in. The drivers, minor super-criminals who had held up a local bank for chump change, were now giving the pursuing officers trouble as one of them fired optic blasts at them from a hi-tech visor.

"Don't give up, do ya, Gazerbeam?" Nate mumbled, shaking his head and looking through the shelves.

"That's Gazerbeam?" Mr. Mason asked, incredulously. "Hm. I expected more, given what you told me."

"So did I." Nate smirked. "Got any sea salt flavoured Mama Munchies brand potato chips?"

"Right in the back, there." Mr. Mason replied, gesturing towards the back of the store.

His eyes still glued to the row of shelves he was currently sifting through, Nate paid the news report no mind and continued his search for the potato chips. Nothing like that was going to divert his course today. Today was all about seeing things through. Stumbling upon a pack of sea salt flavoured Mama Munchies, Nate snatched them up and walked over to the counter, laying them in front of Mr. Mason, who still directed his attention towards the news report. Against his better judgement, Nate followed his gaze. The car chase had heated up a bit as C.O.P. and Dobergirl flew into the middle of it, firing off attacks to drive the speeding getaway car off the road.

"Maybe you should be out there." Mr. Mason suddenly said, looking to Nate with a raised eyebrow. "This guy's one of yours, right?"

Nate bit his lip and looked back to his bag of chips, steely-eyed determination quickly washing away his look of concern. "Not me, Mr. Mason. Not today."

"Not today, kid." Nate said, matter-of-factly, his voice flat and even. A particularly impressive feat given the fact that a young boy was pointing a gun at his head as he said it.

In the middle of a narrow, garbage littered alleyway in Westside, Nate stood to face with a mugger who had taken the opportunity to spring out and hold him up while he was taking a shortcut through the small passage. The mugger couldn't have been older than twenty-one

"The fuck d'you mean not today, asshole?" The kid said, trying his best to keep his nerve in the face of a worryingly unfazed mugging victim. "I'm gonna fucking kill you, old man!"

"I said what I meant. Not today." Nate said, hands in pocket. "And I'm only 28. Don't you think I've got a few years ahead of me before I get the 'old man' crap?"

As he maintained an aura of coolness whilst staring his would-be mugger in the face, Nate did what he was trained by the greatest military organisations in the world to do. His sharp eyes scanned the youth behind the veil of his aviators, sizing up every inch of him through his body language, the most obvious facet of which were his trembling hand and rapidly blinking eyes. His form was, naturally, poor and Nate didn't doubt that he had never fired a single firearm in his life. He hadn't even bothered to wear a mask of some sort to conceal his identity. By the time the mugger opened his mouth with another threat, Nate had already figured out ten ways to incapacitate him. Ten ways to knock him on his ass and walk out of this unscathed.

"What, do you want me to shoot you?!" The mugger screamed, his voice wavering. "Give me what you got, man, come on."

Nate furrowed his brow, staring the mugger down with an oppressive gaze which seemed to intensify his trembling. "I've already told you: not today. I'm not letting you mug me and, though I could, I'm not gonna kick your ass either."

The kid licked his lips, taking a few steps back but keeping his piece trained on Nate. "W-What, is this the part where you reveal you're General Freedom or something?"

Nate paused for a moment, his expression deadpan, before continuing whilst taking a few steps towards the mugger "You're not a criminal, kid. I don't know why you're doing this, but I know Westside and I sure as hell know growing up poor. You're scared and you feel like the walls are closing in around you. You feel like this is your only choice; like you've been backed into a wall."

"St-Stay! Don't! Don't come any closer!" The kid shouted, his gun still levelled by his trembling hand.

"You're not gonna shoot me, kid." Nate stated, plainly. "You're no criminal and you're no killer. It's not in your eyes."

The kid backed up a little further, eyes darting left and right. "You don't fucking know me, bro!"

"And you don't know me." Nate said, removing his aviators. "But take a look at my eyes. Me? I'm not like you. See, I've been a criminal and I am a killer. I look in your eyes, I see a scared kid. You look in mine, you'll see a dead man walking."

The kid flinched as Nate fixed him with a penetrating glare, lowering his weapon a little. "I don't- I just-"

"You don't want to be like me, kid." Nate said, placing his aviators back on his face. "No one does. I'll give you my money, I'll give you my sympathy, but I won't be your victim and I won't fight you. Not today."

His resolve rapidly faltering, the kid lowered his gun and sank to his knees, seemingly relieved just to take the pressure off of his quivering legs. "Christ... God, I'm so sorry... M-My mom needs an operation a-and my dad's not around and-"

"How much?" Nate asked, still looking straight ahead.

"Wh-What?" The kid stuttered. "$8000."

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Nate quickly pulled a worn chequebook and began scribbling in it with a pen. After a few brief moments of silent scribbling, he abruptly tore the filled out cheque from the book and handed it to the kneeling mugger beneath him.

"All you had to do was ask." Nate said, turning out of the alleyway and leaving the flabbergasted young man on his knees, $8000 richer.

Italian cuisine had always held a special place in Nate's heart. When he was living with his birth parents and his mother was too drunk or lazy to even wrap her head around a home-cooked meal, she would always give him a few dollars to buy himself something to eat. Typically, Nate would take the money and purchase groceries, using them to make his own dinner but on the days where his mother would give him that little bit extra out of ignorance, pity or just plain kindness, he would run over to an Italian store a few blocks away and pick a dish at random. He sampled everything from linguine to lasagne and rarely found a dish he didn't enjoy.

Though in more recent times he had been taught how to make all of his favourite foods by his adoptive mother, the occasional visit to Westside's Little Italy was never out of the question, especially when he made lunch plans with others.

In this particular instance, Nate turned the corner into Little Italy to find his handler and friend, Kurt White, waiting at a table for him and poking around at a selection of breadsticks.

"Kurt." Nate greeted him, shaking his hand over the table. "Thanks for getting lunch with me."

"If you're paying, I'm playing." Kurt said, waiting for Nate to take a seat before continuing. "I ordered the lasagne for you. You like to pick them at random, right?"

"You know me." Nate responded, removing his aviators and tucking them into his jacket pocket.

"I do." Kurt concurred. "Which is why I'm surprised you called me out here on today of all days. You usually refuse to even answer my calls every year it rolls around."

Nate looked down into his balled hands. "Ten year anniversary. Now's as good a time as any to change my ways. Thought I'd get a second opinion."

"A second opinion?" Kurt repeated, curiously.

"This thing I do..." Nate began, struggling to find the right words. "This whole process. Do you think maybe it's time to leave it all behind? Do you think I'm maybe stuck in the past or fixating on something unhealthy? Maybe it's time I forget?"

"Absolutely." Kurt said, casually leaning back in his seat.

Nate raised his arms at his side, quizzically. "That was sudden and also insensitive."

"And the fact that you think so means that the answer to all of those questions of yours is 'no'." Kurt went on, holding up a hand. "You seem convinced otherwise, Nate, but you are, in fact, a human. You're allowed to think, you're allowed to feel and you're allowed to matter just as much as the rest of us. You can't honestly think-"

"You know I still dream about it sometimes." Nate interrupted, immediately silencing his friend. "I still wake up sweating or screaming or crying. I still toss and I still turn and I still feel it every time. And I still hate myself, Kurt. I never stop hating myself."

An awkward silence loomed over the table as both men looked at one another, unsure of what to say or do next. The silence remained as the waitress brought their meals to the table, took a polite bow and left and only seemed to intensify as the moments dragged on, oppressively.

"I know, buddy." Kurt said, understandingly. "I know."

Their lunch meeting was a relatively pleasant affair after their initial conversation. Both Kurt and Nate seemed to carefully avoid bringing the subject up again and were even able to reminisce on more cheerful times with shared laughter and friendly teasing.

When all was said and done, Kurt ordered a second round of food to take home to his husband and Nate somehow managed to convince him to pay the bill. As the two partners and friends walked side-by-side to Kurt's car, and in the pleasant afterglow of a good meal with good company, Kurt deemed it fit to direct the conversation back to what it was always meant to be about.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Nate." He said, his hand resting on his walking cane. "I'm saying this as a friend and a government agent; I've met a lot of people who are worse than you and very few I'd consider better."

"I'm flattered." Nate laughed, mirthlessly.

"Sure you don't want a ride back?" Kurt asked, stopping beside his black sedan and adjusting his tie. "Beats walking through Westside."

"No. No, thanks." Nate declined, waving the offer off. "I've got to go visit the bank anyway, make sure I've got some money where it needs to be. Don't ask."

"I never do." Kurt quipped back, clambering into the driver's seat and collapsing his walking stick. As he drew the door closed and twisted the key in the ignition, he flicked a switch at his side, lowering the window to look a troubled Nate in the eye.

"What, you want me to do your seatbelt up for ya?" Nate joked.

"Nate..." Kurt said, firmly. "If this is what you need to do one day every year to keep your head in the game for every other day of the year, that's fair. I won't fight you on it. But knowing that you're spending twenty-four hours every year in this state of mind? It worries me as a friend. What I'm saying is, if you ever get this way again - any time, any place - I want you to call me, alright? If not to help yourself, then to put my mind at ease."

Nate shifted his gaze away from Kurt's, solemnly. "...Alright, Kurt. I will."

"Good." Kurt said, reluctantly conceding. "See you later."

As Kurt's sleek black car sped into the distance, Nate raised his left hand and pushed the sleeve of his jacket up, glancing at the time.

"2pm." He said to himself, starting his walk towards the bank. "Almost."

"Okay, Mr. Carter, your cheque should clear now." The bank teller stated, chirpily, finishing her typing with a flourish. "Anything else I can help you with today, sir?"

"Yeah, could I get $400 in twenties?" Nate inquired, tucking his card back into wallet. "Good to have some cash on hand, y'know?"

As the teller quickly busied herself with his request, Nate pressed against the counter and took a moment to scan the room. From what he could see, it was a rather slow day for the bank and, save for a handful of customers and a slightly smaller handful of staff, it was practically empty. An elderly couple bickered over some inane thing in the queue beside him and a clean-shaven man in a hastily thrown on suit made no attempt to conceal his frequent glances at his wristwatch behind them. A girl who could only really be described as a punk rocker waited behind Nate, playing with a lock of her hair and a single security guard waited diligently at the front entrance, eyes forward and back straight. Beside him, a poster advertising loans read 'Take Control of Your Life Today'.

"Easier said than done." Nate murmured under his breath.

Popping up from behind her counter, the peppy bank teller handed Nate a neatly folded stack of dollar bills. "That's $400 in twenties, Mr. Carter."

"Thanks." Nate said, scooping the money into his pocket and making his way towards the door.

Emerging into the gradually setting afternoon sun, Nate snaked a hand into his jacket pocket and delivered a quick squeeze to the bag of chips resting within. Satisfied with the results of his probing, he turned to continue on his journey, walking slightly more briskly to accommodate for lost time. His walk was quickly cut off, however, as he bumped right into another pedestrian, bowling him over.

"My bad, man." Nate said, almost instinctively extending his hand. "I wasn't really looking where I was-"

Nate held his tongue as he got a good look at the man sprawled out before him. Wrapped in a mangy, brown trenchcoat complete with an equally as mangy fedora which hid the costume beneath it, the very slightly overweight stranger wore a bright purple set of tights with tacky black boots and a black belt with a spiral adorned on its buckle. A poorly made mask covered the upper half with his face, which itself was covered by spiral goggles. Nate frowned. He had seen better outfits in his time. The poorly costumed man quickly looked up from his position at Nate as he regained his bearings.

"Do you know who you just so foolishly collided with, interloper?!" He snarled. "Do you know what merciless hell you've brought upon yourself?!"

"Aw, jeez." Nate sighed, removing his shades. "You're one of them."

Reaching into the pocket of his trenchcoat, the man withdrew a tacky, retro ray gun from it, pointing it threateningly at an unimpressed Nate. "That's right! Feel that regret flowing through you! Know that you have made the single greatest mistake of your life! Cower!"

"Would you quit monologuing and get off the ground, you ass?" Nate growled back, taking a step forward and startling his 'attacker'

"W-Wait! Don't you- Wait a minute." He exclaimed, narrowing his eyes in observation before suddenly crawling backwards. "Oh crap, oh man, oh crap! You! You're you!"

"Last time I checked, yeah." Nate said, crossing his arms at the strange man.

Crying out in what seemed to be a mix of frustration and despair, the man clasped his hands over his goggles. "All-Star! Oh man, I'm finished! I am so freakin' done for. I get the one hero in this city who shoots people!"

"I take it you were planning to rob this bank?" Nate asked, disregarding his cries of anguish. "Dressed like... What exactly are you supposed to be?"

"What am I supposed to be?" The man said, his voice laced with distrust. "Wh-What, you're not gonna arrest me?"

Stepping forward to offer the downed man his hand, Nate offered a lax shrug. "Not today."

The man hesitated, making an uncomfortable face. "Is this the one where you help me up, say something witty and punch me in the face? Because a lot of heroes think that's funny when it's actually kinda mean, and-"

"Not. Today." Nate repeated, more than a little annoyed.

Reluctantly, the man seized Nate's extended hand and used it to leverage himself onto his feet. "So, uh, if you're not gonna hit me and you're not gonna arrest me, what are you gonna do?"

A crafty smile crossed Nate's face.

"Herman, Herman, Herman." Nate said, bringing his fifth frothy glass of beer to his lips. "You're way too hard on yourself, bro. Way, way too hard on yourself."

The clinking of glasses and the din of idle banter filled the air of Sherrera's Pub as Nate finished his glass with a long, steady quaff, slamming the mug back onto the bar counter with zeal. The costumed criminal from earlier sat on the stool beside him, nursing his second glass whilst contemplating a third. Behind the bar, the barkeeper watched the two men. They weren't the most unusual patrons of the day, but they were, at the very least, topping the list.

"I dunno, Nate." Herman sighed, massaging his temple. "I mean, I don't have an honest job or my own house or a girlfriend. I couldn't even pull off a bank job without getting talked out of it."

"Hey, look at me." Nate ordered. "Herman, look at me. You're a great guy, alright? That costume? All you. You had the brains to plot a bank robbery! Plus, you made that nifty ray gun."

"It's actually just a Star Trek replica I painted purple." Herman groaned, holding it up.

"But who painted it, huh?" Nate said, slapping a hand on Herman's back. "You did, Herman. Damn good job, too. You could do it for a living."

Herman snorted, derisively. "Yeah, and then getting a girlfriend would be no problem."

"Look, Herman, I'm gonna be straight with you." Nate said, leaning forward. "You're not at your full potential right now. What you need to do is peak, understand?"

Fixing him with a quizzical look, Herman took a meek sip of his drink. "Vaguely."

"Then here's what you're going to do, alright? You're going to get a job. I'll put in a good word for you at my friend's grocery store. Guy's old and he needs someone to lift boxes every now and then. Interested?"

"I-I don't know, man." Herman whimpered. "I haven't had a job in a year. I don't know if I'll be able to..."

"Honest day's pay for an honest day's work, Herman." Nate stated, gesturing at the barkeep for another beer. "It'll be good for you. I promise."

"...Yeah, alright." Herman said, yielding.

Nate offered a supportive smile to him. "Alright. You take that job, you do it until you get enough money to move out of your mom's and get a place of your own. Then you get in shape, you meet a nice girl and you treat her nice. You take control of your life, Herman."

"Heh. Easier said than done." Herman grumbled. "I mean look at you; you've got it all going for you. You're famous, you're good-looking, you're a wonderful guy. You're great."

"I'm not the nice girl I was talking about, Herman." Nate teased.

"My point is, you're this awesome, extraordinary person. Everybody likes you. What..." He paused, staring into his drink. "What chance does someone like me have in a world where someone like you exists?"

At a momentary loss for words, Nate blinked a few times before answering. "Not everybody."

"What?" Herman asked, leaning closer.

"Not everybody likes me." Nate elaborated, his voice grim. "You listen to me, Herman. You listen to me good. There is always going to be someone out there who's tougher than you, or more popular than you or just plain better than you. That's something you have to deal with. There are billions of people living on this rock we call home and even more of 'em living out there in the stars; most of them are gonna be better than you. Some of them might even look down on you or hate you for it."

Herman nodded his head, gravely. "So, what's your point?"

"My point is, it doesn't matter if there's bigger or badder or better. The only thing that matters is that you show all those people out there what you can do with what you've got." Nate continued. "There are days where you're gonna be outmatched or outnumbered, days where every chip you've got is down. Those days are gonna be the days that define you, not the world or the people around you. You. And when those days come around, you're not gonna get anywhere by thinking about how weak or insignificant you are. You know what you've gotta think about?"

Herman stared Nate in the eyes, hanging off his every word. "What?"

Nate grinned, proudly, as if reminiscing on times gone by. "How great it's gonna feel when you stand tall, puff out your chest and show everybody watching you, judging you and looking down on you just how wrong they were. How much stronger you're gonna be the next time another one of those days rolls around. And, most importantly, how much better you'll feel when you bite the bullet, stare the odds in the eyes and say 'Not today.'"

"Wow..." Herman said, awestruck. "You sound like you've given this a lot of thought."

"You know what, Herman?" Nate smiled, raising his beer in the air. "I reckon I have."

The two clinked their mugs together and chugged down their contents, allowing the cathartic effects of alcohol and conversation wash away their problems for just the briefest of moments.

"Have a good day, mister?" A gruff voice said from behind Nate as he waited for a cab on a street corner.

Turning to find the source of the voice revealed a bearded old homeless man sitting on a bench behind him. A sack full of his various possessions sat at his side and a beaten old trucker's cap rested on his head, somewhat out of place amongst his weathered jacket and faded jeans.

"What's that?" Nate asked, now looking at him.

"Did you have a good day?" The homeless man repeated, punctuating his question with a wheezing cough.

"You know something?" Nate responded, giving a quick snicker of disbelief. "I really don't know."

"Well, day ain't over yet, mister." The man said, sympathetically. "Make the most of the time you got. It's what got me where I am today."

Nate laughed at the advice. "Words of wisdom, man."

"Speaking of..." The homeless man sniffed, as if the idea had just come to him. "Would you happen to have some change you wouldn't mind using to change an old cod's life today?"

Nate's mouth curled into an amused smile as he reached into his pocket and drew a few bills from his stack, handing them to the homeless man. "Why the hell not?"

"Bless your kindness, stranger." The homeless man beamed, tipping his cap. "I'm sure your day'll only get better."

"Is that right?" Nate said with more than a hint of scepticism.

The homeless man coughed the same wheezing cough. "You just wait. It's karma and whatnot."

Just then, a taxi cab pulled around the corner and came to a stop beside Nate, honking its horn to grab his attention.

"And whatnot." He said to himself, opening the door and getting in. "You get that cough checked for me, guy. I don't like what I hear."

"Whatever you say, stranger!" The homeless man bubbled back. "God bless."

"If only." Nate shouted back as the cab drove away.

"Where to, buddy?" The driver asked, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"The docks." Nate informed him, gazing out of the window. "Before sunset, if you can."

The driver flicked the switch on his meter. "You got it."

As the cab made a quick turn to the left, Nate raised his wrist and took another gander at his watch.

"5pm." He said. "Almost."

"That'll be $24, chief." The cab driver said as the cab pulled up by the docks.

Handing him a few bills, Nate pushed the door open and stepped out of the cab. "Keep the change."

As the cab pulled away from the sidewalk and drove out of sight, Nate turned to the sun as it set over the Detroit River reflecting off its surface with a simplistic beauty. Pulling the bag of chips out of his pocket, Nate made his way through the various shipping containers lining the dock and towards the riverside, his head bowed low in contemplation.

Still grasping the chips in his hands, Nate slowly walked down a pier until there simply wasn't any ground left and took a seat at its end. Placing the bag of chips on the ground beside him, he exhaled deeply before checking his watch a second time.

"5:30." He said to himself, lowering his wrist. "Just in time."

Picking up the bag of chips at his side, Nate pulled it open and ate a single chip from within.

"Sea salt flavoured Mama Munchies." He whispered. "Your favourite."

Turning the bag of chips upside down over the edge of the pier, Nate watched as the remaining chips tumbled out of their container, fluttering down to the river below and floating on its surface.

"It's been ten years, Mandy." He remarked, still looking at the river's surface. "Kept my promise. Wish I could keep it every day, but you know I can't, don't ya, babe? You know I've got responsibilities."

Nate paused for a moment, as if waiting for a response. When the only sound that came back to him was the rush of wind in his ears, he cleared his throat and continued.

"Didn't think this would be my life when I promised you I wouldn't hurt or kill again." He said. "Sometimes I dream about it. About what happened, about what could've happened; a little house down in some suburban utopia. Two and a half kids and a little yapping dog that I hate. A boring old desk job I'd come home and tell you about. The whole nine yards, Mandy. What we wanted."

The wind blowing past Nate's ear briefly intensified as the sun slowly set behind Windsor. Tears welling up in his eyes, Nate removed his aviators and clutched them tightly, struggling to find the right words.

"They want me to forget." He sniffed. "I want me to forget. I want it to stop hurting, damn it. I do. But every time I close my eyes, every time I's alone, you're there. Only, you're not. You're never really there. That's why it hurts."

Wiping a tear from his eye, Nate slumped his back a little lower, fighting to stay composed. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with me, Mandy. You did, but you're the only one. I'm a full grown adult, I've saved the world more times than I can count, I've taken more lives than I even want to think about... And yet here I am, same time every year, a part of me thinking that maybe if I keep our promise, maybe if I'm good for a day, then maybe... Maybe you'll come back."

Ripped from somewhere within, an empty laugh fell out of Nate's mouth, almost involuntarily. "Sounds so damn stupid saying it out loud, don't it? But I guess this is better than trying to ignore it or drown it out with whatever I can. But there's no running, right? Not today."

Standing up, Nate dusted the dirt off of his jeans and slipped his aviators back on, watching as the sun fully disappeared behind the buildings in the distance.

His face expressionless, Nate turned his back on the river. "I miss you, Amanda. Every day. Every hour. Every minute."

As a blanket of twilight draped itself over Millennium City, Nate began his long walk home, alone with his thoughts and without a single distraction in sight.

There are three-hundred and sixty-five days in the average year. Each day lasts twenty-four hours. The average human being is only awake for an average of seventeen of those twenty-four hours and, more often than not, spends much of that time either working or alone. This means that only a relatively small fraction of each day is spent interacting with other people of one's own volition. Only a modicum of every twenty-four hours of every day of every year is spent directly influencing the lives of the people around you. Be they the nameless scores that pass by you on the street, caught up in their own lives, the friends you love, or the enemies you hate, the time you spend directly influencing their existences through social interaction is miniscule on a relative scale.

And yet, even in those precious few hours, the effect one person can have on the life of another is monumental. Whether it's the gentle push needed to drive a disputing family away from divorce and towards counselling, giving an aging shopkeeper a friend to talk to or saving a troubled teenager from a life of crime and regret by giving him another chance with the person he loves most. Whether it's allowing the government agent to feel like a human again, diverting a would-be super-criminal from a path of damnation and setting him on the path towards a healthy life with a loving, supportive woman or warning a down-on-his-luck man about the first signs of lung cancer just in time for his treatment to be successful. Whether it's a simple act of kindness or exceptional altruism, a single action in a single day can change a life.

There are days in a single person's life in which nothing remarkable or even worth mentioning happens, the days plagued by monotony and boredom. There are special days of celebration and festivity where we remember days gone by with fondness or wise regret. There are days which are forgotten and days which are remembered and days which are reminiscent of those before it. There are days comedic or tragic and days which make you question the days ahead, days that pass you by in an instant or drag on endlessly.

For Nate Carter, there is but one day in his life that stands out more than any other. One day that haunts and guides his every thought and decision. A day which continues to define him like no other. For Nate Carter the Protector, Nate Carter the neighbour, Nate Carter the friend, the soldier, the underdog, the stranger and the man, a day can mean death or rebirth. It can mean his whole world shattering before his eyes. It can mean a kiss goodbye.

For Nate Carter, a day can mean a promise.

The stroke of midnight caught a weary Nate Carter out of bed as he sat at the desk in his apartment, his mind trained on the task at hand. With numerous firearms laid out before him and awaiting his inspection, he slowly but surely cleaned, disassembled and reassembled each once in silence and with the precision of a machine.

In the morning, he would wake up, perform his morning exercises and venture into his familiar world of action and adventure. He would charge into battle alongside protectors and enforcers alike and make decisions which would make or break lives. And with the guns he so diligently cleaned, he would take a few of those lives.

Was it because of that fateful day ten years ago? Was it fate or autonomy that had gotten him to this point? Every time he pulled the trigger, did he do it for justice or twisted vengeance? Did he hate or did he love? Was he a hero or a soldier?

Was he seeking redemption for that day ten years ago or ensuring that no one else would suffer through another day like it?

The ringing of the phone sat on his desk broke his train of thought with its shrill tone. His hand darting over to the receiver, Nate accepted the call and raised it to his ear.

"Hello?" He said, coolly. "Kurt. An assignment? No, no... I'll take it."