Hero is a Four Letter Word by J.M. Frey

grey lenses. The woman blinks, sad and slow. She knows that she is dead. It’s coming. Her fingers twitch towards me — reaching.
    A responsible, honest citizen would not let her die. So I slink out of my shadow and gather her up, the butterfly struggle of her pulse in her throat against my arm, and slip away through my secret tunnel.
    I steal her away to save her life.

    It occurs to me, when I lean back and away from the operating table, my hands splashed with gore, that I’ve kidnapped this woman. She has seen my face. Others will see the neat way I’ve made my nanobots stitch the flesh and bone of her shoulder back together. They will recognize the traces of the serum that I’ve infused her with in order to speed up her healing, because I once replaced the totality of my blood with the same to keep myself disease free, young looking, and essentially indestructible. The forensics agents will know this handiwork for mine.
    And then they will know that at least one of my medical laboratories escaped their detection and their torches. They will fear that. No matter that I gave my word to that frowning judge that I had been reformed, no matter that the prison therapist holds papers signed to that effect, no matter that I’ve personally endeavoured to become and remain honest, forthright, and supportive; one look at my lair will remind them of what I used to be, what they fear I might still be, and that will be enough. That will be the end. I will go back to the human zoo.
    And I cannot have that. I’ve worked too hard to be forgotten to allow them to remember.
    I take off the bloody gloves and apron and put them in my incinerator, where they join my clothing from earlier tonight. I take a shower and dress — jeans, a tee-shirt, another nondescript wash-greyed hoodie: the uniform of the youth I appear to number among. Then I sit in a dusty, plush chair beside the cot in the recovery room and I wait for her to wake. The only choice that seems left to me is the very one I had been trying to avoid from the start of this whole mess — the choice to go bad, again. I’ve saved her life, but in doing so, I’ve condemned us both.
    Fool . Better to have let her died in that garage. Only, her eyes had been so green, and so sad …
    I hate myself. I hate that the Power Pussy might have been right: that the only place for me is jail; that the world would be better off without me; that it’s a shame I survived her last, powerful assault.

    When she wakes, the first thing the young woman says is, “You’re Proffes —”
    I don’t let her finish. “ Please don’t say that name. I don’t like it.”
    Her sentence stutters to a halt, unsaid words tumbling from between her teeth to crash into her lap. She looks down at them, wringing them into the light cotton sheets, and nods.
    “Olly,” I say.
    Her face wrinkles up. “Olly?”
    “Oliver.”
    The confusion clears, clouds parting, and she flashes a quirky little gap between her two front teeth at me. “Really? Seriously? Oliver? ”
    I resist the urge to bare my own teeth at her. “Yes.”
    “Okay. Olly. I’m Rachel.” Then she peers under the sheet. She cannot possibly see the tight, neat little rows of sutures through the scrubs (or perhaps she can, who knows what powers people are being born into nowadays?), but she nods as if she approves and says, “Thank you.”
    “I couldn’t let you die.”
    “The Prof would have.”
    “I’m Olly.”
    She nods. “Okay.”
    “Are you thirsty?” I point to a bottle of water on the bedside table.
    She makes a point of checking the cap before she drinks, but I cannot blame her. Of course, she also does not know that I’ve ways of poisoning water through plastic, but I won’t tell her that. Besides, I haven’t done so.
    “So,” she says. “Thank you.”
    I snort, I can’t help it. It’s a horribly ungentlemanly sound, but my disbelief is too profound.
    “Don’t laugh. I mean it,” she says.
    “I’m laughing