As I lie on the bed, reaching out with my thoughts, I begin to feel it. Like ... a part of the air that's warmer than the surroundings. At first, so subtle, but as I focus, it becomes second nature. Like getting back on a bike – I haven't lost the skill.
The strange thing is, though, that I can't remember learning it. More and more of my memories are coming back to me, but I can remember nothing past my twentieth birthday. Over a third of my lifetime is still locked away.
Now, what does this mean? It feels like ... anxiety. But good anxiety. Maybe that's the wrong word. Hope, that's it. I smile, and as I do so, I can feel the hope give way to relief, and joy. I open my eyes, and look at the masked man beside me.
"I think I did it," I say. "I could feel your emotions."
"Good work," he says. "They're saying you'll be allowed out in a few days, so it's important to ensure that your powers are under control first."
"What about the other thing?" I ask nervously. "The telekinesis thing."
"That should be easier," he tells me. "Your empathic abilities, by all accounts, are milder than your telekinetic abilities. If you reacquired your empathy this quickly, you ought to be in full control in no time. Try it now."
He removes a pencil from his suit and places it on the bedside table. I focus.
I try not to let my mind wander, but once again, I find myself trying to place this man. He calls himself One Thousand And One, and apparently, before the accident, so did I. I knew him, I knew the suit, and ... now I can't. Sometimes, I try to force the memories out, and I sometimes try to sneak up on them. But there's nothing there. No deja vu, no hint that he was ever a part of my life. It worries me sometimes, but whenever he arrives, and seems so warm, and caring ...
The pencil lifts into the air. Immediately, I feel like I've got hold of it, and I manipulate it – spinning it, weaving between the legs of the table, flying over the bed and back underneath it.
One Thousand And One catches it, and replaces it in his pocket.
"See?" he says.
"What happens when I leave?" I ask.
"You'll need regular check-ups," he replies. "But that's the hospital's business. If it's alright with you, I'd like to keep visiting you."
"That'd be fine," I say.
"When we can work out of your flat, we'll have much more freedom. We can start trying to work this out properly."
And that's the other thing. Memory loss isn't particularly convenient when one needs to know how one lost one's memory in the first place.
-10001-
As I enter the flat, I'm suddenly hit by a strange sensation. I immediately begin to remember many things – names, incidents, places ...
I'm told that this is to be expected. In the hospital, only a few familiar faces and stories could help trigger my memory, but in the flat, I'm surrounded by cues and clues; pictures, smells, decorations, magazines. All sorts.
During his second visit to the hospital, One Thousand And One described my flat to me, but I'd imagined it smaller. And messier. I walk slowly through the living area, taking in the atmosphere, and pass into a cosy kitchen. I take a look in the cupboards, spotting many ingredients that I can't imagine using.
I check the bathroom, and then the bedroom, in which I find a neatly-organised filing cabinet. I browse through a couple of the drawers, but once I've found the folder I wanted, and an empty pad of lined paper, I head back into the living room.
-10001-
"This page lists all my relatives," I say. "Mostly complete, but excluding anyone born after nineteen ninety-five. This page lists friends and acquantainces, and currently only includes those who visited me in hospital – including you." One Thousand And One nods. "This page will be a list of everyone who knows me as Grey Matter or, more importantly, Therapy. That'll involve research. Finally, I've drawn up a table of the week, which I'll fill in with my normal schedule – again, research."
"I should have known," said One Thousand And One with a chuckle. "You've got it all planned already. Suppose you won't need my help, will you?"
"Actually, I do," I say. "You're the only one who knows my identity, so you have to help me with everything you know about me. And my memories are coming back now, so you might as well tell me why you're called One Thousand And One in the first place."
"Not yet," he says.
"Why not?" I snap. "What possible reason could you have for keeping that a secret? You've already told me that I knew before the accident. Remind me, and it might jog my memory further."
"That's unlikely-" he starts, but I interrupt.
"I'm a lecturer in psychology," I say. "And I've accumalated an impressive amount of notes on retrograde amnesia, and I reread them all this afternoon. Which makes me the authority, doesn't it?" I grin.
"I suppose you're right," says One Thousand And One. "Alright, then. I'll meet you back here tomorrow."
"What for?"
"A day out," he says. Seeing my frown, he says reassuringly, "As I said, the number itself isn't important. But it's linked to a place, which I think will be a big help to you. Now! Let's fill in some of those pages."
And so, still a little bit put out, I sit down with him, and we fill in my book.
Showing posts with label Therapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Therapy. Show all posts
Tuesday, 17 July 2007
Thursday, 24 May 2007
Therapy: Part 2
I closed my eyes, and tried to remember all I’d learned so far. Right. So, I could clearly remember everything until I was about sixteen, seventeen. After that … I went to University, where I met Alison and … damn, the tall fellow. Was it Philip? Honestly, this was new information, I couldn’t even blame the amnesia. Alright, after that, I studied for an MA, and a doctorate after that. I returned to my home city, so that I could live near my father, and at the age of twenty-six, I became the youngest lecturer in the history of the local university’s prestigous psychology department – which was currently unfortunate, since I couldn’t remember the first thing about the subject – and I was with the department for the full six years leading up to the accident.
Alright, so that was the official biography. But what I mostly wanted to remember was what the stranger in the costume – Ten Thousand And One, he’d called himself – had told me.
So, here goes again.
When I became a lecturer, I’d already possessed telekinetic and empathic abilities for a year or so. Had I known this already? Hard to tell. At some point – a year later, in fact – I became a superhero called Grey Matter. I’d have been twenty-seven. A year and a half later – twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? – I gave up being a superhero, and wrote a lot of books. The most findings of the most recent book encouraged me to get a new costume, and become a supercounsellor called Therapy.
And the only one who knew of all this was this Ten Thousand And One fellow. Also costumed, but it seems that I never actually knew his identity, even before the accident.
Sleep now.
-10001-
I was ready for him when he arrived. I’d now decided on all the questions I wanted to ask.
“How do you know who I am?” I asked.
“I knew you as Felicity Goodman,” he said, not wasting words. “I didn’t realise you were Therapy until the accident. Realising that Therapy wouldn’t want her identity publicly known, I came to the scene immediately with a set of civilian clothes.”
I blushed. “You changed my clothes?”
Ten Thousand And One chuckled. “You were wearing plain skin-tight clothes under your outfit anyway,” he said. “Standard practice for superheroes, because if their costumes get torn, they hardly want to be standing around in their underwear.”
“I see,” I said, bemused.
He chuckled again. “So strange, telling you these things that you once knew so well – knew better than I do, in fact.”
“Alright,” I said, ready to move on. “So I – Felicity, not Therapy – know you.”
“Yes.”
“Do I know your identity?”
“No. Even as Felicitiy, you knew me as Ten Thousand And One.”
“And why are you called Ten Thousand And One?”
“It’s what everyone else called me,” he said. “I just wanted to stay out of the limelight, but it seems that that’s a good recipe to becoming an enigma. It’s easier now to introduce myself by that number.”
“And why that number?”
He chuckled. “I should have given you more credit. I thought it’d be days before you just asked outright.” He became momentarily serious. “But I’m afraid I’m not going to tell you. And not to be cool and enigmatic either – it’s just a number, and barely means a thing, so don’t get it into your head that there’s an exciting revelation behind it. But this is part of a test – I need you to remember this without being told, and when you do, we’ll hopefully be a step closer to learning more.”
“More about what?”
“Ah,” he said. “That’s the thing. Your accident, you see – we don’t know what it was.”
“You don’t know?”
“I assume someone attacked you, but since you were disguised as Therapy at the time, the police won’t be able to do much. So this is my own private project.” He chuckled. “And I’m a busy man. It’s unprecedented for me to spend so much time working on a single problem.”
“Are you a detective?”
“No.”
“Not your badge number or anything, then?”
“No.”
I found it difficult to talk. I wanted to know more. It felt as though great swathes of my personality were missing. How had I become a lecturer? The last thing I remembered about my academic life was copying my friend’s homework because I hadn’t done my own. How had little Felicity Goodman become an esteemed lecturer of psychology?
And there was another paradox. I felt like a thirty-two-year-old woman, but my most recent memories – apart from the hospital – belonged to a teenager. How could it feel so recent and so distant at the same time?
I realised that I hadn’t asked a number of questions I’d wanted answering.
“Why did I give up superheroism?” I asked.
“It was getting in the way of your work,” said Ten Thousand And One. “You realised that your dream had been to get your work published, and to make a real difference to your field.”
Presumably, I thought, being Therapy didn’t get in the way of that.
“Hang on, though,” I said. “I thought you didn’t realise that Therapy was even me. How do you know so much about my superhero career?”
“Piecing together different things you’ve told me over the years,” he said. “A lot of things slotted into place when I took off your mask. But for the purpose of finding whoever did this to you, I’ve called in a lot of favours.” He smiled. “I’m owed a LOT of favours.”
The words sound creepy by themselves, but the way he said it was so warm. After how much he’d done to help me – to the extent of calling in favours of his own to help me remember – I could easily imagine that a lot of people were in his debt.
“So, how does this Therapy thing work?” I asked. “Support groups?”
“Partly,” said Ten Thousand And One. “But you also visited schools and even borstals. You have a private phone to accept calls on Therapy’s behalf. I’ve taken the liberty of announcing that you’re on extended leave at the moment.”
“And you said that nobody knows that I’m Therapy. Did anyone know I was Grey Matter?”
“Not as far as I know,” he said. “But naturally, they’d have kept this a secret. A fair few people know that Grey Matter and Therapy are one in the same, however.”
I paused as I tried to remember if I had any more questions lined up.
Ah, yes.
“Where do I live?” I sounded like a little girl.
“A flat in the Leavesden area,” he said gently. “You’ve been saving up for a house.”
“Am I getting close?” I asked.
“You’re getting there.”
“Is it a nice flat?”
“It’s a lovely flat.”
“Tell me about it.”
And in his soft, gentle tones, Ten Thousand And One described my flat. I listened intently, basking in every detail. I closed my eyes. Eventually, I heard him leave, and I fell asleep.
Alright, so that was the official biography. But what I mostly wanted to remember was what the stranger in the costume – Ten Thousand And One, he’d called himself – had told me.
So, here goes again.
When I became a lecturer, I’d already possessed telekinetic and empathic abilities for a year or so. Had I known this already? Hard to tell. At some point – a year later, in fact – I became a superhero called Grey Matter. I’d have been twenty-seven. A year and a half later – twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? – I gave up being a superhero, and wrote a lot of books. The most findings of the most recent book encouraged me to get a new costume, and become a supercounsellor called Therapy.
And the only one who knew of all this was this Ten Thousand And One fellow. Also costumed, but it seems that I never actually knew his identity, even before the accident.
Sleep now.
-10001-
I was ready for him when he arrived. I’d now decided on all the questions I wanted to ask.
“How do you know who I am?” I asked.
“I knew you as Felicity Goodman,” he said, not wasting words. “I didn’t realise you were Therapy until the accident. Realising that Therapy wouldn’t want her identity publicly known, I came to the scene immediately with a set of civilian clothes.”
I blushed. “You changed my clothes?”
Ten Thousand And One chuckled. “You were wearing plain skin-tight clothes under your outfit anyway,” he said. “Standard practice for superheroes, because if their costumes get torn, they hardly want to be standing around in their underwear.”
“I see,” I said, bemused.
He chuckled again. “So strange, telling you these things that you once knew so well – knew better than I do, in fact.”
“Alright,” I said, ready to move on. “So I – Felicity, not Therapy – know you.”
“Yes.”
“Do I know your identity?”
“No. Even as Felicitiy, you knew me as Ten Thousand And One.”
“And why are you called Ten Thousand And One?”
“It’s what everyone else called me,” he said. “I just wanted to stay out of the limelight, but it seems that that’s a good recipe to becoming an enigma. It’s easier now to introduce myself by that number.”
“And why that number?”
He chuckled. “I should have given you more credit. I thought it’d be days before you just asked outright.” He became momentarily serious. “But I’m afraid I’m not going to tell you. And not to be cool and enigmatic either – it’s just a number, and barely means a thing, so don’t get it into your head that there’s an exciting revelation behind it. But this is part of a test – I need you to remember this without being told, and when you do, we’ll hopefully be a step closer to learning more.”
“More about what?”
“Ah,” he said. “That’s the thing. Your accident, you see – we don’t know what it was.”
“You don’t know?”
“I assume someone attacked you, but since you were disguised as Therapy at the time, the police won’t be able to do much. So this is my own private project.” He chuckled. “And I’m a busy man. It’s unprecedented for me to spend so much time working on a single problem.”
“Are you a detective?”
“No.”
“Not your badge number or anything, then?”
“No.”
I found it difficult to talk. I wanted to know more. It felt as though great swathes of my personality were missing. How had I become a lecturer? The last thing I remembered about my academic life was copying my friend’s homework because I hadn’t done my own. How had little Felicity Goodman become an esteemed lecturer of psychology?
And there was another paradox. I felt like a thirty-two-year-old woman, but my most recent memories – apart from the hospital – belonged to a teenager. How could it feel so recent and so distant at the same time?
I realised that I hadn’t asked a number of questions I’d wanted answering.
“Why did I give up superheroism?” I asked.
“It was getting in the way of your work,” said Ten Thousand And One. “You realised that your dream had been to get your work published, and to make a real difference to your field.”
Presumably, I thought, being Therapy didn’t get in the way of that.
“Hang on, though,” I said. “I thought you didn’t realise that Therapy was even me. How do you know so much about my superhero career?”
“Piecing together different things you’ve told me over the years,” he said. “A lot of things slotted into place when I took off your mask. But for the purpose of finding whoever did this to you, I’ve called in a lot of favours.” He smiled. “I’m owed a LOT of favours.”
The words sound creepy by themselves, but the way he said it was so warm. After how much he’d done to help me – to the extent of calling in favours of his own to help me remember – I could easily imagine that a lot of people were in his debt.
“So, how does this Therapy thing work?” I asked. “Support groups?”
“Partly,” said Ten Thousand And One. “But you also visited schools and even borstals. You have a private phone to accept calls on Therapy’s behalf. I’ve taken the liberty of announcing that you’re on extended leave at the moment.”
“And you said that nobody knows that I’m Therapy. Did anyone know I was Grey Matter?”
“Not as far as I know,” he said. “But naturally, they’d have kept this a secret. A fair few people know that Grey Matter and Therapy are one in the same, however.”
I paused as I tried to remember if I had any more questions lined up.
Ah, yes.
“Where do I live?” I sounded like a little girl.
“A flat in the Leavesden area,” he said gently. “You’ve been saving up for a house.”
“Am I getting close?” I asked.
“You’re getting there.”
“Is it a nice flat?”
“It’s a lovely flat.”
“Tell me about it.”
And in his soft, gentle tones, Ten Thousand And One described my flat. I listened intently, basking in every detail. I closed my eyes. Eventually, I heard him leave, and I fell asleep.
Wednesday, 23 May 2007
Therapy: Part 1
Noise. Light. Blink. What? Voices. Pain. Smooth. Bed. Bed? White. Speed. Where? Dad. What? Where? Noise. So. Much. Noise.
Garbled nonsense. Gibberish. Makes no sense. Unbearable pain. Hostile environment? No, safe environment. Unfriendly, but necessary.
I’m in a hospital. Yes, that’s right. Have I been here before? I can’t remember. Then why am I here now? What’s going on? I’m in pain. I must have been in an accident. Am I bleeding? I can’t tell. My head hurts. I hurt all over, but my head really hurts. Can I move? Should I try? Might be dangerous.
Where am I? What’s going on? Where’s my Daddy?
-10001-
“Your name is Therapy.” A calm, soothing voice. “But your real name is Felicity Goodman.”
I turned to look at the man beside me. He was wearing a thick, padded outfit with steel reinforcements along the joints. His face was hidden by a cloth mask. He looked a bit like a ninja.
“Did you know that?” he asked gently.
“My name’s Felicity Goodman,” I croaked. “I know that.”
“Excellent.” He inhaled deeply. “I’m afraid you’ve suffered some injuries to your hippocampus. That’s a part of the brain, and it deals with episodic memory.”
“Hippocampus …” I said. Had I heard that word before? Seems familiar somehow.
“In short, you’re suffering from retrograde amnesia.” He said the last two words slowly and clearly. Wanting me to remember them, maybe. “As you’re no doubt aware, you’ve lost a significant portion of your memories. The further back in time we go, the more you ought to be able to remember. The ones nearest to the accident, you may never recover.”
He paused for a moment. Giving me time to think, maybe. But I preferred it when he spoke, and eventually, he started to speak again.
“Can you remember your family?” he asked.
“My father,” I said. “I want him.”
“Great,” said the stranger. “He’ll be coming to see you later today.”
“Why not now?”
“Because you’re a special case,” he explained. “You see, I told you earlier you had two names. And only two people know this. You and I.”
-10001-
I opened my eyes and looked around. The masked man was still beside me.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You fell asleep,” he said. “Only natural, after the trauma. But I don’t have much time left, so I’ll need to bring you up to speed quite quickly.”
“Right.”
“Okay, here are the basics. You’re thirty-two years old, and a lecturer in the local university.”
Wow. A lecturer! I could remember the start of secondary school – starting GCSEs. GCSEs hadn’t been around long. I wondered if they even existed any more.
“In your spare time, you are a counsellor,” he said. “This may be a bit tricky. You see, you’re a costumed counsellor.” He chuckled. “So I suppose I’m technically doing your job now.”
I didn’t quite understand. A costumed counsellor? Did I do children’s parties? The man must have seen my confusion.
“You see, you used to be a superhero,” he said. “Called yourself Grey Matter. You once told me that you found this quite embarassing. Either way, you eventually retired from superheroics, mostly to focus on writing. You’ve authored three text books, by the way.”
“Wow,” I managed. This was so much to take in. I could just about remember being fifteen, and now, seventeen years later, I’m a lecturer, an author, and apparently, a former superhero. I latched onto this. “Hang on. I was a superhero?”
“That’s right.”
“A real superhero?”
“Oh, of course.” He sounded embarassed. “You can’t remember the superhero arrival.”
And so we took a break from learning about my life, and I learned how the world came to be introduced to superheroes.
-10001-
From the Wikipedia article on superheroes in the UK:
Origin
The term “superhero” originated in American comic books, although stories of superheroes crossed over into many media in the mid- to late-twentieth century.[citation needed]
The first use of the term to describe genuine superheroes was in March of 2000, in Tony Blair’s famous speech in Bristol, where he proclaimed that “[Britain is] a nation that has known its fair share of fear. I myself was born in 1953, a child of the Cold War era. Today is not a day for soundbites, but know this – I will not allow this country to become a fight between terrorists and superheroes. Every day, I thank God that so many of the people affected by the Millennium Bug Virus have chosen to fight for good rather than turn to a life of crime, but that is not to say that I approve of vigilantes.”
History
The bulk of modern superheroes were created after a terrorist attack at midnight on the night of 31st of December, 1999. An unidentified group attacked a high number of resevoirs and dams in the United Kingdom.
The resevoirs were poisoned with a substance known as the Millennium Bug Virus. It is unkown whether the terrorists fully understood the effect of the substance. The number of deaths related to the incident was relatively small, with only two hundred and four fatalities reported nationwide. It is estimated that this is roughly the same number as the amount of civilians who developed superhuman powers after the incident[1].
This section may require cleanup to meet Wikipedia’s quality standards.
Resevoirs Affected
See main article: Resevoirs Targetted By The Millennium Bug Virus
In England, these included all four resevoirs in the Avon area, Grafham Water in Cambridgeshire, two resevoirs in Cheshire, Drift Resevoir in Cornwall, two resevoirs in County Durham, six in Cumbria, thirteen in Derbyshire (including the Longdendale Chain), nine in Devon, Abberton Resevoir in Essex, Dowdeswell Resevoir in Gloucestershire, five resevoirs in Manchester, both resevoirs in Kent, ten in Lancashire, three in Leicestershire, three in London, eight in Northamptonshire, three in Northumberland, twelve in North Yorkshire, five in South Yorkshire, Eccup Resevoir in West Yorkshire, Farmoor Resevoir in Oxfordshire, Rutland Water in Rutland, two resevoirs in Somerset, six in Staffordshire, all twelve in Surrey, Draycote Water in Warwickshire, all nine in the West Midlands (including seven in Birmingham), Ardingly Resevoir in West Sussex and the Bittell Resevoirs (Upper and Lower) in Worcestershire.
In Scotland, these included Blackwater Resevoir near Kinlochleven, Loch Laggan and Loch Treig, Loch Quoich, all in the Highlands. Loch Thom in Inverclyde and Gryffe Resevoir in Renfrewshire were also affected, as were the Scottish Borders’ Megget and Talla Resevoirs.
In Wales, Anglesey’s Llyn Alaw and Llyn Cefni were attacked, as were Carmarthenshire’s Llyn Brianne and Usk Resevoir. All five lakes in Conwy were affected, as were five in Denbighshire. Six resevoirs in Gwynedd, four in Powys, as well as Swansea’s Cray resevoir and Swansea Bay barrage were also attacked.
The only resevoir attacked in Ireland was Northern Ireland’s Silent Valley Resevoir, which supplies most of the water for County Down, surrounding counties, and most of Belfast.
Interpretations
Traditional
The traditional view of superheroism is that when those gifted with powers see a need for improved crime prevention measures, they justify violent acts to bring about justice[2]. Some vigilantes see ethics and moral laws as superior to governmental laws and may believe that the ends justify the means.
Pseudo-superheroism
Pseudo-superheroism was recognised as a phenomenon as early as 2001[3], with ordinary civilians with no notable superhuman powers would wear costumes and behave as superheroes.
Cyber-superheroism
The term cyber-heroism was coined by Sir Menzies Campbell in 2006[4], referring to non-superpowered individuals who use technology for powers, such as weapons or suits. The term quickly grew in popularity, replacing the slang term techno-heroes. Some commentators have attributed this to the nature of cyber-superheroes, often spending great amounts of time on the internet, and usually using the internet to buy their gear in the first place[5].
-10001-
“So I was affected by this terrorist attack?” I said.
“That’s right,” said the man.
“And developed super-powers.”
“Yes, you did,” he said. “Specifically, telekinetic powers and mild empathy.”
“And you were affected too?”
He chuckled.
“I’m what we call a pseudo-superheroes. And traditional superheroes hate me for it.”
“I see,” I said. “Do I hate you?”
“Not as far as I know,” he laughed. “But you keep your cards close to your chest. Anyway, you became a superhero five years ago, and kept it up for around eighteen months. Then, two years ago, you put on a new suit, and became Therapy, the first costumed counsellor.”
“Would it be worth asking why a counsellor would need to be costumed?”
For a moment, I saw sadness in his eyes, but he quickly covered it up.
“It was the result of your research,” he said. “It contributed in no small part to your third book. You’re the expert, but from what I can recall, a lot of costumed supervillains are crying out for attention. Particularly the younger ones. They see superhumans as ‘cool’, and want to emulate them. Therapy therefore represented a cool superhero – after all, you could wow them with a party trick, like lifting a pencil. They might listen to Therapy where they would have ignored standard counselling. In this way, they can be rehabilitated, and the ones with powers can use them for good, and the ones without can find a new outlet for their desire to be a pseudo-superhero – like sports, for instance.”
He checked his watch.
“I have to go,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow to continue our discussion.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Your father will visit shortly, as will many friends and relatives. Relax, and don’t be embarassed if you can’t remember who some of them are. They’ll be warned beforehand that duration is what matters, and not how important they are to you.”
I smiled. I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but suddenly, it dawned on me that my life for the last fifteen years hadn’t been all about lectures, books and super-counselling.
“Wait,” I said, calling him back. “What’s your name?”
“Confidential,” he chuckled. “But people here know me as Ten Thousand And One.”
And with that, he left.
Garbled nonsense. Gibberish. Makes no sense. Unbearable pain. Hostile environment? No, safe environment. Unfriendly, but necessary.
I’m in a hospital. Yes, that’s right. Have I been here before? I can’t remember. Then why am I here now? What’s going on? I’m in pain. I must have been in an accident. Am I bleeding? I can’t tell. My head hurts. I hurt all over, but my head really hurts. Can I move? Should I try? Might be dangerous.
Where am I? What’s going on? Where’s my Daddy?
-10001-
“Your name is Therapy.” A calm, soothing voice. “But your real name is Felicity Goodman.”
I turned to look at the man beside me. He was wearing a thick, padded outfit with steel reinforcements along the joints. His face was hidden by a cloth mask. He looked a bit like a ninja.
“Did you know that?” he asked gently.
“My name’s Felicity Goodman,” I croaked. “I know that.”
“Excellent.” He inhaled deeply. “I’m afraid you’ve suffered some injuries to your hippocampus. That’s a part of the brain, and it deals with episodic memory.”
“Hippocampus …” I said. Had I heard that word before? Seems familiar somehow.
“In short, you’re suffering from retrograde amnesia.” He said the last two words slowly and clearly. Wanting me to remember them, maybe. “As you’re no doubt aware, you’ve lost a significant portion of your memories. The further back in time we go, the more you ought to be able to remember. The ones nearest to the accident, you may never recover.”
He paused for a moment. Giving me time to think, maybe. But I preferred it when he spoke, and eventually, he started to speak again.
“Can you remember your family?” he asked.
“My father,” I said. “I want him.”
“Great,” said the stranger. “He’ll be coming to see you later today.”
“Why not now?”
“Because you’re a special case,” he explained. “You see, I told you earlier you had two names. And only two people know this. You and I.”
-10001-
I opened my eyes and looked around. The masked man was still beside me.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You fell asleep,” he said. “Only natural, after the trauma. But I don’t have much time left, so I’ll need to bring you up to speed quite quickly.”
“Right.”
“Okay, here are the basics. You’re thirty-two years old, and a lecturer in the local university.”
Wow. A lecturer! I could remember the start of secondary school – starting GCSEs. GCSEs hadn’t been around long. I wondered if they even existed any more.
“In your spare time, you are a counsellor,” he said. “This may be a bit tricky. You see, you’re a costumed counsellor.” He chuckled. “So I suppose I’m technically doing your job now.”
I didn’t quite understand. A costumed counsellor? Did I do children’s parties? The man must have seen my confusion.
“You see, you used to be a superhero,” he said. “Called yourself Grey Matter. You once told me that you found this quite embarassing. Either way, you eventually retired from superheroics, mostly to focus on writing. You’ve authored three text books, by the way.”
“Wow,” I managed. This was so much to take in. I could just about remember being fifteen, and now, seventeen years later, I’m a lecturer, an author, and apparently, a former superhero. I latched onto this. “Hang on. I was a superhero?”
“That’s right.”
“A real superhero?”
“Oh, of course.” He sounded embarassed. “You can’t remember the superhero arrival.”
And so we took a break from learning about my life, and I learned how the world came to be introduced to superheroes.
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From the Wikipedia article on superheroes in the UK:
Origin
The term “superhero” originated in American comic books, although stories of superheroes crossed over into many media in the mid- to late-twentieth century.[citation needed]
The first use of the term to describe genuine superheroes was in March of 2000, in Tony Blair’s famous speech in Bristol, where he proclaimed that “[Britain is] a nation that has known its fair share of fear. I myself was born in 1953, a child of the Cold War era. Today is not a day for soundbites, but know this – I will not allow this country to become a fight between terrorists and superheroes. Every day, I thank God that so many of the people affected by the Millennium Bug Virus have chosen to fight for good rather than turn to a life of crime, but that is not to say that I approve of vigilantes.”
History
The bulk of modern superheroes were created after a terrorist attack at midnight on the night of 31st of December, 1999. An unidentified group attacked a high number of resevoirs and dams in the United Kingdom.
The resevoirs were poisoned with a substance known as the Millennium Bug Virus. It is unkown whether the terrorists fully understood the effect of the substance. The number of deaths related to the incident was relatively small, with only two hundred and four fatalities reported nationwide. It is estimated that this is roughly the same number as the amount of civilians who developed superhuman powers after the incident[1].
This section may require cleanup to meet Wikipedia’s quality standards.
Resevoirs Affected
See main article: Resevoirs Targetted By The Millennium Bug Virus
In England, these included all four resevoirs in the Avon area, Grafham Water in Cambridgeshire, two resevoirs in Cheshire, Drift Resevoir in Cornwall, two resevoirs in County Durham, six in Cumbria, thirteen in Derbyshire (including the Longdendale Chain), nine in Devon, Abberton Resevoir in Essex, Dowdeswell Resevoir in Gloucestershire, five resevoirs in Manchester, both resevoirs in Kent, ten in Lancashire, three in Leicestershire, three in London, eight in Northamptonshire, three in Northumberland, twelve in North Yorkshire, five in South Yorkshire, Eccup Resevoir in West Yorkshire, Farmoor Resevoir in Oxfordshire, Rutland Water in Rutland, two resevoirs in Somerset, six in Staffordshire, all twelve in Surrey, Draycote Water in Warwickshire, all nine in the West Midlands (including seven in Birmingham), Ardingly Resevoir in West Sussex and the Bittell Resevoirs (Upper and Lower) in Worcestershire.
In Scotland, these included Blackwater Resevoir near Kinlochleven, Loch Laggan and Loch Treig, Loch Quoich, all in the Highlands. Loch Thom in Inverclyde and Gryffe Resevoir in Renfrewshire were also affected, as were the Scottish Borders’ Megget and Talla Resevoirs.
In Wales, Anglesey’s Llyn Alaw and Llyn Cefni were attacked, as were Carmarthenshire’s Llyn Brianne and Usk Resevoir. All five lakes in Conwy were affected, as were five in Denbighshire. Six resevoirs in Gwynedd, four in Powys, as well as Swansea’s Cray resevoir and Swansea Bay barrage were also attacked.
The only resevoir attacked in Ireland was Northern Ireland’s Silent Valley Resevoir, which supplies most of the water for County Down, surrounding counties, and most of Belfast.
Interpretations
Traditional
The traditional view of superheroism is that when those gifted with powers see a need for improved crime prevention measures, they justify violent acts to bring about justice[2]. Some vigilantes see ethics and moral laws as superior to governmental laws and may believe that the ends justify the means.
Pseudo-superheroism
Pseudo-superheroism was recognised as a phenomenon as early as 2001[3], with ordinary civilians with no notable superhuman powers would wear costumes and behave as superheroes.
Cyber-superheroism
The term cyber-heroism was coined by Sir Menzies Campbell in 2006[4], referring to non-superpowered individuals who use technology for powers, such as weapons or suits. The term quickly grew in popularity, replacing the slang term techno-heroes. Some commentators have attributed this to the nature of cyber-superheroes, often spending great amounts of time on the internet, and usually using the internet to buy their gear in the first place[5].
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“So I was affected by this terrorist attack?” I said.
“That’s right,” said the man.
“And developed super-powers.”
“Yes, you did,” he said. “Specifically, telekinetic powers and mild empathy.”
“And you were affected too?”
He chuckled.
“I’m what we call a pseudo-superheroes. And traditional superheroes hate me for it.”
“I see,” I said. “Do I hate you?”
“Not as far as I know,” he laughed. “But you keep your cards close to your chest. Anyway, you became a superhero five years ago, and kept it up for around eighteen months. Then, two years ago, you put on a new suit, and became Therapy, the first costumed counsellor.”
“Would it be worth asking why a counsellor would need to be costumed?”
For a moment, I saw sadness in his eyes, but he quickly covered it up.
“It was the result of your research,” he said. “It contributed in no small part to your third book. You’re the expert, but from what I can recall, a lot of costumed supervillains are crying out for attention. Particularly the younger ones. They see superhumans as ‘cool’, and want to emulate them. Therapy therefore represented a cool superhero – after all, you could wow them with a party trick, like lifting a pencil. They might listen to Therapy where they would have ignored standard counselling. In this way, they can be rehabilitated, and the ones with powers can use them for good, and the ones without can find a new outlet for their desire to be a pseudo-superhero – like sports, for instance.”
He checked his watch.
“I have to go,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow to continue our discussion.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Your father will visit shortly, as will many friends and relatives. Relax, and don’t be embarassed if you can’t remember who some of them are. They’ll be warned beforehand that duration is what matters, and not how important they are to you.”
I smiled. I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but suddenly, it dawned on me that my life for the last fifteen years hadn’t been all about lectures, books and super-counselling.
“Wait,” I said, calling him back. “What’s your name?”
“Confidential,” he chuckled. “But people here know me as Ten Thousand And One.”
And with that, he left.
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