If Golden Age greats such as Gil Gamoid and the N-Kid could disintegrate, and if visionary founders such as Hawk King could abandon the world of men, then surely the epoch of the invincibles was as done as that of the dinosaurs.
The resulting shock wave through the hero community saw not only the inferno of more published tell-alls, but a tornado of resignations, divorces, self-exiles, and even suicides. And so the new generation of 1980s and ’90s crimefighters, the so-called Digital Age warriors, was all dressed up…but with no place to go.
America not only didn’t need heroes anymore—it no longer believed they existed.
Hyper-potentiality Is First and Last a State of Mind
Such a private and public crisis of confidence was the situation as the F*O*O*J stared into the new millennium.
Lacking a substantial external threat around which to create a new mission but teeming with internal contradictions that threatened its cohesion, the Fantastic Order of Justice found itself in a crisis that could only be resolved by looking within, especially for two generations of its most conflicted members.
Adding to this instability was the imminent power vacuum of an oncoming election. And except for the fanatical conspirators involved, no one could have guessed how that election would lead directly to the July 16 Attacks.
Facing this complex interconnection of social, political, and psychemotional chaos, none of which could be resolved by teleportation, spirit-gems, kraton beams, or an old-fashioned “dustup,” I charged my six sanity-supplicants with a new mission. That mission was for them to come to terms with the very ordinary, very fragile defining human experience: fundamental emptiness and limitless fear of meaninglessness, or what I call the “Crisis of Infinite Dearths.” If your own identity is mission-rooted, and your mission is now complete, how could you not be confused as to who you really are?
Directed to me by the winding country lanes of their own confusion, my patients arrived at my Hyper-Potentiality Clinic yoked to wagonloads of psychemotionally dysfunctional produce. Other than this group’s toxic mutual antagonism, chief among the disruptive behaviors reported to me by the F*L*A*C were:
• the questionable competence and unrealistically unflappable optimism of Omnipotent Man
• the bullying, aggression, and rage of the Flying Squirrel
• the micromanagement devolving into nanomanagement by Iron Lass
• the social inappropriateness bordering on sexual harassment of the Brotherfly
• the narcissism and self-absorption of Power Grrrl
• the insubordination and racial antagonism of, and unapproved investigations by, the X-Man
Even during those first sessions, I had recognized an encyclopedia of psychosocial crises besetting the group—unmanaged anger and guilt, sexual confusion, the Uranus Complex, Secret Identity Diffusion, and the Savior Complex chief among them.
Clearly, ahead of us lay a Trojan struggle to resolve the problems of such great powers. But of course, with great power there must also come great psychoanalysis.
And just as it was my task to help the F*O*O*Jsters accurately envisage their own contraefficiencies, so is it your mission to recognize your own. Periodically throughout this book I’ll be asking you to write down your answers to the generation-appropriate questions I posed to my “Big Six” throughout our explosive time together. Write your brief (ten words or fewer) responses in a journal, and then reflect on how they change depending on the varying exercises and processing you’re experiencing each time.
For Golden and Silver Age heroes: What will it mean for your life, and your view of yourself, if the glory days never return?
Omnipotent Man: “I’m good. America’s good. And being good is great.”
Flying Squirrel: “Given these pathetic invalids, America needs me more than ever.”
Iron Lass: “Never was it glory, but ever justice that I sought.”
For Digital Age heroes: How will you face knowing that you will never exceed, or even equal, the accomplishments of your predecessors?
Brotherfly: “Brotherfly be fine. Always has been. He’s a survivor.”
Power Grrrl: “They never looked inside themselves. I won’t make that mistake.”
X-Man: “Who are they to be equal to? Deserve victory. Period.”
Gazing into the Dusk
Mere demi-moments into our reconvened session in the Verbalarium, I was summoned by my secretary to take a call. Knowing that only a true emergency could have motivated Ms. Olsen to have disturbed the sanctity of a session, I took a call from the Spectacle, the F*O*O*J Director of Investigations.
I listened to the Spectacle, and the world as I knew it shattered.
And while none could have then known, the information conveyed in that call led directly to the abomination of the July 16 Attacks.
Exerting every erg of professionalism at my command, I reentered the discussion chamber with a visage of calm detachment.
As I continued around the circle, the Brotherfly glanced up at me anxiously. For the first time since I’d met him, his face and posture betrayed an emotion other than flip playfulness or hyperscrotal lust. Perhaps his legendary “fly-feel” was tingling, hinting to him the horror of what I was about to reveal.
“My friends,” I said finally, clearing my throat, “I have…some very difficult news…to share with you.”
“What, Doc?” asked the Brotherfly.
“The man…the hero…you knew as the incredible Hawk King…is dead.”
Everyone stood, their faces focused on mine.
Jaws unlatched, relatched.
“Vut?” said Iron Lass at last. “You caan’t be—Frau Doktor, zat’s impossible—Hawk Kink caan’t—”
“Now ma’am-doctor, you musta gotten yer facts wrong on that one, cuz ev’rabody knows that ol Hawk King can’t—”
“Miss Brain, I do believe you’ve flipped your substandard lid. Master Hawk King is an Egyptian deity—dying, by definition, is one of the few deeds beyond his potential—”
“How?” yelled X-Man, standing, the sole voice of non-denial. “How? Kot-tammit, how?”
“The call came directly from the F*O*O*J,” I explained. “Major Ursa had an audience scheduled at the Hour of the Ninth Gate last night…but the
