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

because you mean it. Rachel.” I ask, “How old are you?”
    She blushes, a crimson flag flapping across a freckled nose, and I curse myself this weakness, this fascination with the human animal that has never managed to ebb, even after all that time in solitary confinement.
    “Twenty-three,” she says. She is lying — her eyes shift to the left slightly, she wets her lips, her breathing increases fractionally. I see it plain as a road sign on a highway. I also saw her ID when I cleaned out her backpack. She is twenty-seven.
    “Twenty-three,” I allow. “I was put into prison when you were eight years old. I did fifteen years of a life sentence and was released early on parole for good behaviour and a genuine desire to reform. The year prior to my sentencing I languished in a city cell, and the two before that I spent mostly tucked away completing my very last weapon. Therefore, the last memory you can possibly have of the ‘Prof,’ as you so glibly call him, was from when you were six.” I sit forward. “Rachel, my dear, can you really say that at six years old you understood what it meant to have an honest to goodness supervillain terrorizing your home?”
    She shakes her head, the blush draining away and leaving those same freckles to stand out against her glowing pale skin like ink splattered on vellum.
    “ That is why I laughed. It amuses me that I’ve lived so long that someone like you is saying thank you to me. Ah, and I see another question there. Yes?”
    “You don’t look old enough,” she says softly.
    I smile and flex a fist. “I age very, very slowly.”
    “Well, I know that. I just meant, is that part of the … you know, how you were born?”
    “No,” I say. “I did it to myself.”
    “Do you regret it?”
    I flop back in my chair, blinking. No one has ever asked me that before. I’ve never asked myself. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Would you?”
    She shrugs, and then winces, pressing one palm against her shoulder. “Maybe,” she admits. “I always thought that part of the stories was a bit sad. That the Prof has to live forever with what he’s done.”
    “No, not forever,” I demur. “Just a very long time. May I ask, what stories?”
    “Um! Oh, you know, social science — recent history. I had to do a course on the Superhero Age, in school. I was thinking of specializing in Vigilantism.”
    “A law student, then.”
    “Yes.”
    “How urbane.”
    “Yes, it sort of is, isn’t it?” She smiles faintly. “What is it about superheroes that attracts us mousy sorts?”
    “I could say something uncharitable about ass-hugging spandex and cock cups, but I don’t think that would apply to you.”
    “Cape Bunnies?” she asks, with a grin. “No, definitely not my style.”
    “Cape Bunn — actually, I absolutely have no desire to know.” I stand. I feel weary in a way that has nothing to do with my age. “If you are feeling up to it, Rachel, may I interest you in some lunch?”
    “Actually, I should go,” she says. “I feel fantastic! I mean, this is incredible. What you did. I thought I was a goner.”
    “You nearly were,” I say.
    “And thank you , again. But my mom must be freaking out. I should go to a hospital or something. At least call her.”
    “Oh, Rachel,” I say softly. “You’ve studied supervillains. You know what my answer to that has to be.”
    She is quiet for a moment, and then those beautiful green eyes go wide. “No,” she says.
    “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to trade my freedom for yours. I thought I was doing good. For once .”
    “But … but,” she stutters.
    “I can’t.”
    She blinks and then curses. “Stupid, I’m not talking about that! I mean, they can’t really think that about you, can they? You saved my life . This … this isn’t a bad thing!”
    I laugh again. “Are you defending me? Are you sure that’s wise?”
    “Don’t condescend to me!” she snaps. “That’s not fair . You’ve done your time. You saved