The cityscape seemed to bend, to twist and blur as the man turned, arcing his body on the crest of the evening air.  The buildings rushed up toward him as he let his head rise, his feet drop into the center of the city in sheer defiance of gravity.

There were others, he knew, whom the media had labeled "superheroes," who went out into the cities to patrol the streets, to root out those who broke the law, those who threatened the order of urban life.  They saw themselves, or allowed themselves to be perceived, as crimefighters, champions of truth and justice.  Though he had been acquainted with them, battled along their sides on occasion, he didn't see himself in this fashion.  He was a soldier, not a police officer, yet he found himself more often than not forced into the role of  peacemaking vanguard, protector of those who could not protect themselves.

And tonight was an example of such an occasion.

He saw the flashing lights and heard the wailing sirens down below.  Arching his back, he made a sharp loop, changing course, and brought himself closer to the din and uproar.

Four police cars advanced on a massive armored vehicle.  The tank-like machine ate up the street, its continous tracks tearing away the asphalt and pavement, plowing over cars as pedestrians fanned out in screams and panic.  The police were closing in on the warmachine, but they refrained from opening fire upon it.  The airborne man concluded that the armored vehicle would easily resist gunfire, and the chance of such bullets ricocheting into unwary onlookers was very likely.

The man dropped out of the sky, speeding towards the fearful scene, driving himself closer and closer, rolling in midair so that he flew backwards, to face the tank.  He looked like a mouse standing up against a charging steel elephant.

The wide, blunt snout of the tank's cannon tilted down as its turret swiveled toward the man, its massive barrel bleak and ever-so evil-looking.  With both hands, the man seized the cannon, the alloy moaning as his hands closed about it.  His muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched beneath the skintight fabric of his costume as the tank rumbled on, and the man twisted his steely grip.

Like someone ringing out a wet wash cloth, he wrenched the thick barrel.  Metal groaned, then screeched, then broke off, scraps flinging about the man as he tore the cannon from its gunmount.

The armored vehicle careened, rugged treads chewing into the asphalt, spewing pieces of roadway and curb that pelted the pursuing police cruisers.  Dropping the gnarled, broken barrel of the cannon, the man went in for the wound on the face of the turret.  He reached into the gaping hole and grabbed, twisted, ripped whatever he could find, until the tank started to buckle and stammer.

The man propelled himself up onto the roof of the tank, starting to peel back the top of the gunmount, alloy screaming and rivets popping.  The vehicle cracked open like a walnut, metal breaking away to expose a trio of mercenaries crammed in a highly computerized cockpit.

Two men scrambled to draw weapons, while the pilot stayed bent over the controls, switching toggles and pressing buttons, and slewed the tank sideways in an attempted to justle their powerful assailant.  When no control over the warmachine became obvious to him, the pilot slammed a pedal down with his heavily booted foot.  So immediate was the halt that the leading police cruiser slammed head-on into the back of the tank.

The other two militiamen raised their weapons, big, almost Spartan devices that the flying man recognized as rifles only because of the manner they held them.  As the tank finally rumbled into the silence, the man heard mechanisms from the rifles click into place.

What followed defied description.  As the guns were about to fire, the man lunged forward, with a speed and fluidity no words could fully convey.  He became a flurry, his arms lashing out in a blur of red, white and blue, crushing the rifles before they could even expel a single round, leaving the gunmen slack-jawed and pentrified.

The pilot still had his sense to him, however, and managed to fire his sidearm at the man.  But his target didn't flinch, and so the pilot fired again and again and again, until he emptied his whole gun at him.  Still, the man seemed unharmed by the rounds of red-hot bullets that hit him, the slugs falling to the ground, flattened out like tarnished quarters.

Their weapons now useless, the three mercenaries were likewise stunned.  They saw what the man could do, and either from sheer dumbfoundedness or the logic that their small, human bodies couldn't overtake such an opponent, they refrained from further action.

Stepping down from the top of the armored vehicle, the man offered the rebel soldiers to the waiting police.

"Uh, wow...," the closest cop tried to find words, failing very much so.

"Well, I guess you boys can deal with these mercs now," the man said.

The man was big, imposing, with arms thicker than one of the cop's thighs.  A half-mask covered his face, only exposing a strong, rugged mouth and jawline, and revealing a head of fair, silvery hair.  Eyeholes showed that he was weathered somehow, but not from age.  The lines came from years of experience.

"Yeah...," another cop replied, and felt foolish, his face bright red.

The man turned on the heels of his flared boots.  He surveyed the damage the warmachine had done to the city's surrounding infrastructure, deciding there was not much he could do.  He stepped again, and lifted himself into the air, levitating up over the buildings.  He didn't look back as the streets faded away beneath him, his short cape billowing behind like a proud banner.  He flew up, over the cityscape, heading towards the setting sun.

A few fortunate onlookers had a chance, a fleeting moment, to catch the man drift past the horizon.  Now safe, the citizens began filtering out of the safety of doorways along the avenue.  They stared in awe at the empty sky.

"Was that who I thought it was?" a civilian asked.

"Think so," said another.

"My God, he's back -- the living icon's back."

"I didn't know he could fly."

"I didn't know he could take out a tank."

"Well, I'm just glad he's back."

"Yeah, and in all his glory."
 

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