[ WP ] You are a career thief who have just recently stolen a backpack in a crowded train station . You are about to board the train when you notice that it is ticking ...

`` Well, this ca n't be good.'' 
 
 A quick check of the backpack informed Holt that he was, in fact, carrying a bomb. He turned around - was the person he took it from still here? 
 
 Nope. The crowded platform that he had been using as cover now concealed the bag's original owner just as effectively as Holt had hoped it would cover him. 
 
 Chances are, he'd found a suicide bomber with cold feet. If God could tell Abraham not to kill Isaac at the last second, he could just as easily send a thief to steal your bomb and delay your glorious sacrifice for at least another day... 
 
 Of course, random conjectures about how Holt came to possess a bomb did nothing to change the fact that Holt did, in fact, possess a bomb. At this point, Holt began to panic. 
 
 Only part of his panic derived from his impending death. In the city of New Gothamsford, death came about as often as the sun rose. It seemed that each new day brought a new villain, a new shadow faction, a new dastardly plot to bring the city to its knees. And with an abundance of super-villains came an abundance of... 
 
 `` Halt, criminal! Generic Man is here to save the day!'' 
 
 Fuck. Superheroes. 
 
 Superheroes were not Holt's friend. This was, to a degree, expected; criminals and superheroes have historically maintained, at best, lukewarm relations. 
 
 However, popular sentiment had recently begun to swing in Holt's favor. Lured by growing waves of crime and the prospect of new cities to defend, superheroes had descended en masse upon New Gothamsford over the last decade. Some were alright - The Scalene Crusader and the Poultry Geisha being Holt's personal favorites - and some were less alright. The ego of an A-list superhero, the crime-stopping powers of a ham sandwich, ironclad legislation protecting *all* superheroes from harm under the threat of federal indictment - these were the hallmarks of a bad superhero. 
 
 `` I, Generic Man, am saving you from the horrors that this criminal wishes upon you. Remember me, Generic Man, in your exultations, in writing your front-page stories, in considering local statues to be built...'' 
 
 Holt had never heard of Generic Man before now, and suspected that he had been the better for it. Holt also suspected Generic Man did n't actually have any super-powers. Bomb detection kits were the latest trend amongst budding superheroes, according to an article Holt had read on SupressHeros.com the other day. 
 
 Either way, things did n't look good for Holt. Explaining he had come across this package by accident was n't an option. Generic Man was looking to defeat a villain, and Holt, caught red-handed with a bomb, would work as well as anyone. 
 
 `` Er... fuck.'' 
 
 Holt's last girlfriend had told him once that the only roadblock between him and the potential of being a great supervillain was his lack of, as she put it, `` situational eloquence''. Her words rang true in his head as his face turned a deep crimson. *Err... fuck.*? Those were to be his last words? 
 
 It certainly appeared so. Generic Man, taking Holt's verbal byproduct as an admission of deepest guilt, was drawing his phaser. Holt and the bomb would be disintegrated within seconds, ending the threats posed to society by both. 
 
 So, this was how it was to end. Not with a bang, but with a fizzle. 
 
 A head recoiled. A tail of blood streaked from behind a matte of disheveled hair. Generic Man's body tensed up for a moment, then fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. 
 
 Not until then did Holt notice the crowd that had formed around them. Before him, their expressions changed from amused curiosity to unflinching amazement. What had formerly been a street performance without consequence had turned into an atrocity without equal - the vanquishing of a superhero. 
 
 Thoroughly dazed, Holt moved towards Generic Man's corpse. Stunned traingoers stumbled over themselves in their rush to get out of his way. Anybody who killed a superhero, they reasoned, would have little problem dispatching a mere civilian with relative ease. 
 
 He inspected the body. A shard of grey, translucent crystal protruded from the back of Generic Man's head. It was covered in blood. A meteorite? 
 
 `` Hail the Herokiller! Down with the heroes!'' 
 `` Defend the peace!'' 
 `` Villains are evil!'' 
 
 Holt's autopsy would have to wait. The people of New Gothamsford Train Station had already delivered their verdicts. 
 
 A fight broke out. Some people ran for help. Everywhere, people were recording. Within minutes, Holt's faced would be plastered upon the screens of every device with an Internet connection, under a thousand different titles... 
 
 Holt stood there, baffled beyond measure. He might have entirely forgotten the bomb had it not exploded a second later, shredding his body within a nanosecond of its detonation.
