The suit hung there like a threat, looming in my closet, daring me to put it back on.
Without it, I can pass as normal as anyone you might find on the street. And the anonymity it grants is welcome.
With it, I am always seen as something more. More than normal. Far more visible. Unable to leap a building without being noticed.
I might be the last remaining (well, aside from a few prisoners stored in an unlikely way) of my kind. But I can fit in here, where I’m not all that different at a glance. Of course, under careful scrutiny I’m sure I reveal my nature in many small ways. Fortunately my friends and adopted family generally remain blind to things they know can’t be true. My biggest challenge has always been an unwillingness to stand by in the face of injustice. I didn’t join any official authority, at first due to fears that authority would not take my origins well, and later because I reached a compromise.
The suit looming in the closet.
Wearing it I can be outrageously, impossibly, and even notoriously inhuman. People only see the suit, and the powers, and are blind to the man inside it. They accept the feats of strength, the ability to solve crimes and mitigate disasters in a simple and direct way that is unavailable to the authorities. They overlook what could easily be taken as the actions of a lone madman vigilante. My duty is, after all, my own self-made prison.
That is the price I willingly pay to bring hope to others.