METROCITY
Locker Room B, Superheroine Battle Arena.
Countessa meditated and stretched in the Arena locker room. She was wearing her blue skintight costume and a faint sheen of perspiration covered her back and shoulders as she completed her workout. She was relaxed, although perhaps a bit impatient. She was not concerned with defeating a mindless robot, but she was eager to beat a certain mindless Russian woman.
And she didn’t care much for all the publicity and media surrounding this fight. The arena was even promoting this asinine tryout as a huge event.
There was a soft knock at the locker room door and a weasel of a man poked his head inside. It was Mr. Smith, the assistant to the commissioner. “Ms. Countessa, there is a gentleman here that would like to address you before you–”
“One side, pencil neck!” grated a rasping voice and Mr. Smith was shoved completely into the room. An elderly gentleman limped past him through the door. He carried a cane but seemed determined not to use it to assist his walking as he shuffled towards her.
Countessa faced him with her hands on her hips and waited as he came within an arms length. She towered a foot or so over him and he leaned back to look her in the eye. There was an uncomfortably long pause. Finally she spoke, “I’m sorry, sir. Have we met?”
The old man suddenly smiled and his eyes misted. “Oh yes, maam. Bastogne. 1945. 10th armored division. I never forget a face. You’re the Angel of Bastogne.” Countessa was taken aback. The war against the Reich didn’t seem that long ago, but this man was probably a young soldier at the time. The Angel of Bastogne. She only vaguely remembered some of the wounded in the field calling her that. “You saved a lot of lives. A lot of my friends’ lives,” he sniffed. “There were rumors that you died before the end of the war. But I didn’t think that was possible. Hell, I saw you get hit by a mortar round. Medics went rushing in, had you on a stretcher, but before they could get you to cover you were already running back into the fight. Craziest thing I ever saw. And now here you are. Haven’t aged a day in… 70 years.”
Countessa took his hand and smiled. “I was glad to fight beside such fine young men as yourself.” She stooped down and kissed his cheek.
“You really must be an angel.” he said. “Thrash that walking toaster, angel. I’ve got a few buddies left alive that want to see you whip that giant commie broad.”
“I shall, young man.” She held his arm and walked him to the door. Mr. Smith followed after him to escort the veteran back to his seat. As she stood there a moment lost in thought, the heavy doors to the arena opened and she could hear cheering.
A moment ago she had been looking down upon the spectacle and sensationalism of this whole match. But now she remembered the importance of people having hope, having symbols. Having heroes. Perhaps she had spent too much time performing covert actions and not enough time being exposed to the public. Mr. Smith poked his head back into the locker room, “Ready when you are, Ms. Alixandria.”
Countessa stood up straight. Smiled as she thought of the many young soldiers she fought alongside over the course of many wars. “Well, then. Let’s give them a show.”