Judy slammed the Roof Access door open in a panic, filled with a horrible desperation and the fear that she might already be too late. Rain slapped her face, driven by the swirling winds that criss-crossed the upper tiers of the city. She clutched the note tighter in her fist and peered through the darkness, looking for her boss.

There, on the parapet. It was him.

“Bob,” she yelled, charging towards him. The heels of her pumps dug into the loose gravel that coated the roof, slowing her. “Mr. Stickley! Don’t do it!”

As she drew close to him she sensed that something was odd about the situation, but in the heat of the moment her focus was limited only to preventing a tragedy. Her hair was becoming rapidly wet and straggly, obscuring her vision. Judy pushed it away with one hand, frantically waving the other in an effort to capture Mr. Stickley’s attention. He appeared not to notice her.

Stickley was seated on the narrow ledge, feet dangling, his back to the abyss. A nearly empty whiskey bottle was clutched in one hand. His eyes were fixed on some point in space that only he could see, and the rain ran freely down from his bald pate across them. He might have been crying.

“I… I came back for my purse,” said Judy, panting to a stop. “I found this note…”

Stickley hopped down awkwardly from the ledge and raised a hand to silence her.

“You read it then, I take it,” he said. “So you know what those little crumbs are going to do to me in next month’s issue.”

“You?” Judy was momentarily confused. “You haven’t been fired.”

“Judith, darling, you’re a wonderful assistant but you know so little about the comics industry,” he said, pacing agitatedly. “Forty years dammit, forty years! Man of Valor has been battling the forces of evil for forty years… and now they want to kill me off. ‘Weak sales’ they say. ‘Boost profits’ they say. ‘The series is showing its age’ they say. Bad enough they’ve had me fighting drug lords and murderers for the last decade…”

A blast of wind caught him in his stalking, and with an abrupt whoosh a cape began to billow out around him. Judy stepped back, startled. She suddenly realized what had seemed so off about him when she had found him up here.

He was dressed entirely in the famous purple and gold costume of Man of Valor.

It was almost surreal. She had looked at the hundreds of pictures of Man of Valor hanging in their office every day, even watched on occasion as Mr. Stickley sketched away at the big table, bringing him to life for the next issue. To have that juxtaposed on this moment; the figure she usually associated with bulging muscles and a square jaw now tramping along as a sad, jowly old man with a pot belly and the seat of his tights sagging was almost too much for her over-stressed mind to take. She found herself thinking he might really be crazy.

She started to wonder where he had gotten the suit.

“You know who they’re going to have kill me?” He waved the whiskey bottle at her dangerously. “Something called the ‘Terroryst,’ if you can believe it. It’s sickening. What sort of villain is that?”

Judy was finding it difficult to think straight. She was freezing cold. Her clothes were sodden from the heavy rain and felt like lead weights draped over her body. Her boss of ten years was wandering around a rooftop in a rainstorm dressed like the comic book character he had created before she was born. She wanted to help him but was at a loss for how.

“It’s not you Mr. Stickley,” she tried. “It’s Man of Valor. It’s just…”

He wheeled on her suddenly, and the fire in his eyes was terrible to behold.

“I AM MAN OF VALOR!” he thundered, hurling the bottle away. “I am! That’s just it Judy, don’t you see? It’s ME they’re killing!”

He suddenly ran for the edge. Judy screamed and lunged forward in an attempt to stop him, but tripped on the wet gravel and went sprawling. Lighting upon the low wall like a bird Stickley spun towards her, oblivious to the twenty story drop behind him. He slipped briefly, regained his footing and then crouched, cape swirling around him.

“They don’t understand. They don’t know,” he said, his voice so low she could barely hear it. “I’ve always been Man of Valor. I stand for truth, honor, and justice. Mom and apple pie. Everything that is good and worthwhile in this world… and they want to kill me because the world has outgrown me. I’m not wanted, not needed anymore.”

“Mr. Stickley,” Judy said weakly, raising her hand to him. “Please don’t do this. It will be ok, honest.”

He glared at her.

“You don’t believe me, do you? Well I’ll show you the truth, show everyone the truth.” He looked down at her and for one brief moment in that paternal gaze she saw the man she had worked for, respected and admired for over a decade. He wasn’t a crazy old loon in a super-suit; he was Bob Stickley, artist and creator of Man of Valor.

“Bob, you’re sick. Please let me get you some help. Please!” She was crying freely now.

“You’re a great girl Judy,” He stood, striking a dramatic pose. “But you need to believe in me. Unwanted or not, I’m a real superhero and I still have my powers. I’ll be fine. Have faith dear; after all… I am Man of Valor!”

He turned on the ledge and braced himself against the wind, staring out over the cruel, uncaring city below. Judy could only watch, dumbstruck with fear and awe, as he slowly raised his hands above his head. “Up, up, and away!” he cried.

With a goodbye wave, Man of Valor leapt into the night.