From around the corner, maybe fifty metres away, a new-looking Ford sedan sails through the air on its side and slams into a concrete pillar, exploding the car and taking giant chunks out of the cement. The noise is terrifying. Involuntarily I take three steps backwards and bump into Melbourne’s Chief of Police, the miracle being that I’m solid enough to actually make contact. I mumble an apology to the Chief, who raises an eyebrow at me, her arms folded across her chest. She sighs, looks at a man in a suit standing with her, and shakes her head. I’m wearing jeans that are spray-painted silver, a silver T-shirt with a large ‘F’ emblazoned on it, Dunlop Volley runners, also spray-painted silver, and a silver cape. Oh, and a silver mask across my eyes. Sure, my costume doesn’t quite match up to the self-sufficient yet protective living skin of Captain Alien, but I’m on a smaller Hero budget. The cape was essential. When I tried to imagine myself out there, facing genuine criminals, the dream always seemed to involve clutching a fistful of cape and throwing it around myself so that I disappeared like a magician into its folds and was gone.
