Whatever Happened To The Heroes

The melting chunk of ice swirled in the bottom of my glass. I breathed an icy chill to re-form it. I’d been in the Ambrosia & Nectar pub for several hours. Pen in hand, I scratched out the bare bones of a story idea in my notebook. My muses tended toward a fickle kind of guidance, if not rude outright avoidance.

Was this my third, or maybe my fifth drink? Didn’t matter. I had no place to be, and contemplation while in the throes of an amber-coloured scotch was a beautiful thing. These super moments were my favourite kind of Zen.

The sound of her voice drifted over to me.

“So, where have they gone?” she asked.

I hadn’t noticed her settle onto the nearby barstool, but I should have. My acuity had slipped. Attractive brunettes didn’t make a habit of sidling up to me, not even in half-full pubs on chilly nights.

“I’m sorry, what?” I gave her a sideways glance, put off by her interruption.

“Look at this.” She hadn’t faced me yet, instead directing her gaze and waving a hand at the large television hung over the back of the bar.

In the pub’s low-glow ambience, the TV had been a kaleidoscope of jarring images. Channels paraded the same endless news cycle, dressed up in different clothes. Chaos, destruction, violence, all the colours of misery flashed across its surface. I could no longer bear witness to it.

I paid the barman to fill my aural space with generous helpings of Jazz. He played the likes of Billie Holiday, Melody Gardot, and Sarah Vaughn for me, and I tipped him well.

I tore my half-gaze away from her to look up at the screen. “And?” I quirked my mouth, shrugged.

“Well, shouldn’t the heroes be stepping up? You know, to help the people?”

“You lost me.” I lied. I knew what she was saying, but not what she wanted with me.

“Haven’t you wondered what happened to all the heroes?”

“No. Were they ever here?” I slid my glass over to the barman with a nod for a refill, but she stopped me, placed her hand on my arm.

“Haven’t you had enough?” she asked.

My jaw went slack. “Excuse me? This offends you?” I pointed at the drink, but she rolled her eyes, scoffed.

“All this madness isn’t enough for you?” she said. “Isn’t it time to get back to work?”

“Look, lady—”

“Call me Diana.” Her voice and face seemed familiar, but I didn’t recognize that wounded look in her eyes.

“Okay, Diana. You’re not hittin’ on me, are you?”

The barman chuckled under his breath. The woman gave me a quiet look before the corners of her mouth turned and her gaze warmed. “I think the world needs its heroes again,” she said.

I settled into the glow of her eyes. “You know how it goes, Diana. People step up. Or the gods will.”

“There are no gods,” she returned, then placed a crisp white card between us on the bar. Under an emblazoned chevron of two gold W’s sat the words: Diana Prince. “I know who you are,” she said, her voice quiet. “We need you back.”

The card reminded me who she was. And if I admitted it, she was trying to remind me who I once was. “I’m retired,” I replied.

“Get over yourself,” she chuckled, stood up and started walking away. “You know what you have to do.”

I followed the shape and cadence of her walk with my eyes as she moved to the door. I looked at my drink, and once again glanced up at the TV. All that was wrong, everything that had ever been wrong with this world flashed back at me.

The barman and I exchanged a look. He tipped his chin up at me, eyebrow raised, a glint of recognition in his eye. Damn it, I thought. I knew I’d have to follow her, but at least I didn’t need to find a phone booth.

“Not all heroes make it to the end, buddy,” I muttered, and headed out into the night.

BIO: Offer Kuban is a Canadian author, who works in healthcare by day. He loves multiple genres, including Sci-Fi and Fantasy, but also dabbles in the shadows of Crime & retro Noir. Publications include Punk Noir Magazine, Bunker Squirrel Magazine, Shotgun Honey, and Pistol Jim Press. He also hosts and produces “The Speakeasy: Conversations with the Writing Community” podcast. Twitter: @OfferKuban