[ WP ] The story of a man gaining superpowers and realizing he must use them for good ... at the age of 50 .


 Harold hated getting old. He hated that his body ached. He hated that his current `` fast'' was slower than his old `` slow.'' He hated that the world, once so vivid and bursting with endless possibilities, seemed to be passing him by. At an age when TV stars seemed to be hitting their prime, Harold's back was shot, his knees were no good, and on good days the pain was manageable only with some pills and some drinks... and there were n't that many good days anymore. 
 
 His friends did n't seem as bothered by it - hell, half of them seemed to really believe that glossy-magazine bullshit about `` 50 being the new 30'' - but Harold did n't buy it. His father had shoved off at 53, and he was pretty sure his grandfathers both had n't made it much longer. 
 
 As Harold sat alone at the counter of the little diner on the main drag of the same town he'd been born in, he stared into the same coffee cup he'd stared into yesterday, and the day before. He had lived his live pretty hard, abusing things he should n't have abused. Drugs. Booze. His two ex-wives. His kids. Hell, even his `` friends'' were just the other guys from his days in high school who also had n't found their way out of this shrinking town. 
 
 Donna, the same waitress who'd been pouring his lunchtime coffee for as long as he could remember, did n't bother trying to make smalltalk with him anymore. She'd learned a long time ago that it did n't get her much beyond a single-word reply, or more often, no response at all. She poured, and she moved on, even on days like this when Harold was the only customer in the place. He rarely bothered to wear his hearing aides anymore - the damn uncomfortable things caused more bother than good, and they stayed in his nightstand drawer unless he was obligated to wear them for the doctors. Truth be told, as much as his fading vision pained him, he sort of liked losing his hearing. He'd always felt that 90 percent of the talking people did was just to hear their own voices, and he did n't mind losing most of that noise from his daily life. 
 
 Harold gulped down the steaming hot coffee too fast and felt his tongue and throat burn, but the pain was oddly comforting. As his vision and hearing rapidly faded, he often found himself reveling in what clear sensations he could muster, even when it was painful or uncomfortable. 
 
 He gestured with a waved hand and a grunt to Donna for more coffee. Donna started to pour, but her attention was pulled away by something behind Harold, and the scalding hot coffee sloshed out of the mug and all over Harold's lap. He lurched to his feet, but his lower back seized up and a sickening shock of pain ran up his spine. 
 
 `` Goddamit, Donna, what the f-'' 
 
 Donna, dumbstruck, continued to pour hot coffee into the overflowing mug. Harold turned to follow her gaze just as the massive tanker truck smashed through the window of the diner, sending chairs, tables, glass and debris in a cascade around him. A flying napkin holder clocked him straight in the forehead, and he collapsed backwards across the counter and onto the floor near Donna's sneaker-clad feet. Barely conscious of the destruction raining over him, Harold's muddled brain could only recognize that Donna looked oddly bent as she lay motionless on the floor beside him - there was something sick and unnatural about the angle of her neck. This was his last thought as the putrid liquid from the ruined truck washed against him, freezing cold and yet burning against his skin. His thoughts drifted from Donna to Bo, the dog he'd had as a boy. Had n't Bo been hit by a car too? Funny how a person's neck and a dogs could look so alike, in the end… Harold slipped into blackness, and thought no more of Donna, Bo, or anything else. 
 
 Time passed. Voices came, voices went. He thought maybe he heard his daughter, but that was stupid - his daughter hated him, they had n't spoken in years. Why did she hate him? Is n't she three? No, that's not right… Words drifted by like clouds. Coma. Crash. Unlikely recovery. None of it made much sense to Harold anymore, but he liked hearing them just the same. He was thinking about the sounds around him when it occurred to him that he was hearing those voices a lot more clearly than he had in a long time, but the lack of pain in his ears convinced him that he was n't wearing those cursed hearing aides. He realized he was thirsty, and pondered what he could possibly do about it. It took a while before he remembered that he used to know how to talk. 
 
 After a long moment ( or was a it a day? A week? He could n't tell ), he decided to try speaking. A horrible croak emerged from his mouth, one that he barely recognized as his own. 
 
 `` Wa…… ter?'' 
 
 In an instant, there was a tremendous commotion around him. Lights came on, voices became excited and anxious, and his bed shook. He mustered his strength and opened his eyes. Staring down at him were half a dozen doctors in white coats, surgical masks over their faces. 
 
 `` Mr. Burke? Mr. Burke, can you hear my voice? Just blink your eyes if you can hear and understand these words.'' 
 
 Surprised and a bit startled, Harold blinked involuntarily, and then realized that he'd followed their request unintentionally. 
 
 `` That's good, Mr. Burke! Listen to my voice, and try to follow. You were in an accident. A truck hit the restaurant where you were dining, and you were exposed to some… some bad stuff. We're working really hard to help you, but we need you to relax, okay? Can you do that for us, Mr. Burke?'' 
 
 This all sounded pretty foolish to Harold. As with many of his groggy mornings, confusion quickly gave way to anger and annoyance. He cleared his throat, fixed his gaze on the mask that kept talking to him like a little kid, and sat up. Immediately, 6 hands were gently pressing on him, holding him up, supporting him. 
 
 `` Let go of me, dammit!'' 
 
 As the words were spoken, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. His bare feet hit the cold floor and he fliched, but more than the cold floor, he was shocked by something else - his hip did n't wrench like normal when he put weight on it. As the doctors fluttered around him and admonished him for moving, he shifted his weight from side to side, standing taller than he had in as long as he could remember. He reached up to adjust his glasses, and his index finger poked his own nose instead of the bridge of his specs. It took a moment to realize that he was seeing everything in the room with absolute crystal clarity. He batted at the doctors around him, and was astonished and horrified when three of them crashed into a wall across the large room. 
 
 `` My god, what have you people done to me?'' he yelled as he strode toward the door. Reaching the door and finding it locked, he pressed it with his hand, and it too flew away as though struck with a tremendous blow. Clad only in a surgical gown, he quickly walked toward a window. Glancing out and seeing that he was ( thankfully ) on the first floor of whatever hospital this was, he clambered out, hopped from the short ledge, and strode away. 
 
 Looking around, he could see detail he had n't seen in years. Hell, he was n't sure he'd EVER seen this clearly. He could hear things he could n't identify, but somehow he knew he was hearing things he *shouldn't* be hearing - the crisp sound of the grass underfoot growing, the whisper of blood in the veins of the pigeons clustered around him. He felt the strangest sensations from his hair to his toes, and he was so preoccupied by this overwhelming rush of feeling, he scarcely noticed the uniformed guards forming a large but gapless ring around him. Suddenly, an older woman in a business suit shoved her way through the guards and spoke to him, softly and very deliberately. 
 
 `` Mr. Burke, my name is Carole. We need you to stop walking and come back to the hospital with us. You're very sick, you've been exposed to… you've been exposed, and you ca n't be outside until you're better. We know you did n't mean to hurt any of those people back there - you must be very confused, and we just want to help you get better.'' 
 
 Harold looked at her. 
 
 `` You're damn right I'm confused… but I'm not sick. I have n't been able to walk like this in… a long time! I can hear things, I can see clearly, and you saw what I did to the door back there! You saw what I did to that goddamn *door* back there! I do n't know what happened to me, but I have n't felt this good in my *life*, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you people poke at me.'' 
 
 As he spoke, Harold's skin began to tingle in the strangest way. He looked down at his hands, and where there should have been liver spots and wrinkles, he saw smooth, firm skin. The tingle continued, radiating from his chest and toward his feet. He looked past his hands to the ground, and realized with a tremendous jolt that his feet were no longer touching the ground at all - he was floating a couple inches above the asphalt. With a slight shift of his body-weight, he caused himself to gently glide toward the woman. 
 
 `` Carole, you do n't understand. *I* do n't understand how this happened, but my god, I've been given a chance… a chance to do *something*… big. I do n't know how long this is going to stick, but there's no way in hell I'm wasting this on you and your lab coats!'' 
 
 As his excitement grew, the tingle in his core turned into a surge of pure, blinding energy. His body thrumming, Harold focused his eyes on the sky, and with a sharply-expelled breath, flung himself skyward. 

