[ WP ] A Superhero team with emotion based powers . Melancholy have had enough .

`` Any service for an old superhero?'' the old man asks. 
 
 The quip is poorly received by the waitress, who continues to mind her bar with scarcely a glance in his direction. The bar is old and dark and smells of cheap varnish. The old man is dark as well, but smells like vomit and cigarettes. 
 
 `` Courageous.'' he continues pointedly. `` That was my name. I rode with a group called the Seven Virtues. I saved hundreds -- maybe thousands. Each courageous deed made me that much stronger.'' 
 
 Nothing. Not even a sullen look. There was a time when women -- exotic women, with long hair and strange hues -- would claw for him in teeming hordes. Time has reduced him to this. 
 
 `` You read the tabloids. Is that it? Eh? Those filthy rags, peddling their smut, their lies -- not a word of it true. Those boys were proud members of the Junior Virtues, and... we were getting to know each other is all. Bonding. Nothing they did n't want.'' 
 
 Icy silence now, from the bar. There is no charming chatter, no jukebox music. Outside, a desolate wind blows through row after row of motionless cars. 
 
 `` Fuck you.'' he mutters at last. `` Fuck you all.'' 
 
 He shuffles slowly to the bar and tosses a few crumpled bills on the counter. The waitress watches him with distant, mocking eyes. 
 
 There is a gun under the counter. He can see it outlined faintly underneath the cheap sandalwood. Sig Saeur, Israeli-made, chambered with explosive hollow-point rounds. Her motionless hand is only inches from the barrel. 
 
 With a single thrust, the wood splinters to sawdust between his fingers. The gun is in his hand, a slickly beautiful thing of dark iron. He holds the barrel square against his temple. 
 
 `` Is this what you want?'' hisses the old man. `` Want to watch an old man die? Eh?'' 
 
 The Sig spits its deadly payload and is rebuffed. Tungsten rounds shatter into fragments against his unbreakable skin. 
 
 `` You do n't think I've **tried? **'' 
 
 Silence. 
 
 `` **Answer me! **'' 
 
 The waitress nods slightly -- her first motion of the night. In a slow cascade, her chin droops forward and clears her shoulders entirely. Her body, held together by ropy sinew and dessicated skin, collapses in an unkempt heap. 
 
 She has been dead a thousand years. 
 
 Sobbing, the old man gathers his meagre possessions and exits through a crumbling stairwell into the night. As he walks, his feet never quite touching the ground, he passes untold corpses, dead of self-strangulation, poison, terminal jumps. He eyes them with twisted, unfulfilled longing. 
 
 He has learned to cherish this feeling. For the Superhero named Suicide, it will last him an eternity.
