Únanse al baile de los que sobran
Nadie nos va a echar de más
Nadie nos quiso ayudar de verdad
Come join the dance of the leftovers
Nobody will be missed
No one really wanted to help us
If anything, the fall of the HHL’s star in the eyes of the city has let Tatanka get back to what he enjoys doing most: fighting crime. He no longer has to make public appearances, give speeches, consult with the mayor, and perform other duties that come with membership in a professional superhero team. The one thing he still does is show up to represent indigenous issues such as land and water rights, lobby against the government taking over sacred ground, and other personal concerns.
Unfortunately this all makes it harder to find him at a moment of free time. A10 finally settles for staking out his favorite gastrobar, where he gets lunch between missions.
She waves as he comes in, and he sits down next to her, still in full costume. Of course, nobody pays this any mind. Regulars give distance to regulars, no matter how famous they are.
“Hey Unc.”
Tatanka waves and grins. “Did you eat?”
Andi rolls her eyes. “Our family motto.”
She looks around, perhaps evaluating who’s listening, and turns back to her uncle. “Hey. I got… kind of a personal question. About the life. Maybe… maybe you got time to talk to me about something. About Uncle Chan.”
Tatanka senses the seriousness of the request. But he smiles. “Tell you what. I’ll make time - if you let me buy you lunch first.”
Andi sighs. “I shoulda known. I can pay for myself.”
“You can take my advice but not my money?” Tatanka asks in mock shock.
Andi realizes she’s been outmaneuvered and surrenders gracefully.
Albóndigas soup, patatas bravas, paella, and a chicken sandwich come and go. Tatanka orders a Modelo beer. He glances at Andi briefly, perhaps trying to remember how old she is now, and finally just asks. “What kind of soft drink do you want?” She settles for frappé coffee, flavored with horchata.
The food and drink have given the pair time to talk family, current events, and other catch-up topics. By silent and mutual agreement, neither say anything about “the life” - being a superhero. Not yet.
“This place is kinda noisy, isn’t it,” Tatanka says finally. This is his signal that it’s time to talk business. Andi nods in understanding. The senior hero slaps down cash for the meal, plus a hefty tip, and salutes the server on the way out.
Andi leads the way. She already has an idea where to go - an isolated hill nearby, with a small forest of radio antennae built atop it to take advantage of the elevation. She and her uncle can fly there, and it should otherwise be devoid of people.
With Tatanka’s permission, she gets out a tablet, checks its signal levels - five full bars, this close to an active cell tower - and calls up Mirage, still shackled to the Quill Compound’s computer system.
Tatanka tilts his head upon seeing who answers the call. “Your face is familiar,” he finally says. “But I don’t think you are who I think you are. Introductions? My name is Tatanka. A hero here in the city.”
Mirage nods. “Yessir. I’ve… followed your career with… interest. You show great dedication to the needs of the people.”
Tatanka takes all this with modest grace. “What can I call you?”
The virtual woman’s face crinkles in annoyance. “That seems to be a topic of contention. For the moment, please call me Mirage.”
Finally Andi can’t stop avoiding the issue.
“Uncle… we’re trying to take down the Seven Wonders. And I’ve… I’ve run away from my legacy long enough. The power I have. The power I wanted - but not the way I wanted it.”
Tatanka watches carefully as Andi struggles to retain her composure. “I feel like - like wanting - like Uncle Chan - like I took it from him. Like - you know - I stole it. And now - now he’s–”
She can’t go on, and when that becomes clear, Tatanka lays a careful hand on her shoulder.
To buy time before she has to talk again, Andi pulls out her predecessor’s well-used notebook. She holds it in two hands, fingers carefully and slowly feeling the texture of the leather.
“Chan was something,” Tatanka says. “The real deal. Like you. You didn’t take anything. You inherited something. You were given it. Something in the family. Something we all have a responsibility to respect and use properly.”
He glances at the tablet, which has been propped up to facilitate a three-way conversation. “Mirage. Has Andi told you about her powers and mine? Maybe a lesson would help.”
“I’d appreciate that, sir.”
Tatanka knows Andi needs to work toward what she needs to say. He’s buying her time, and they both know it. “The first Thunderbolt - Andi here is Thunderbolt II, or A10 - was a member of our family called Chan del Rio. He was filled with the Great Mystery. You’d say he had strong but specific psychic powers. I do too.”
“Those powers don’t stand alone, though. Someone like Mercury, our Mr. Gale–”
Tatanka pauses to wink at A10, who flushes in embarrassment, before continuing.
“–well, his power is what it is. It stands alone, as far as I understand. But ours is receptive to the energies around us. We grow stronger as we connect more deeply with those energies.”
Tatanka holds up some of the pouches and leather sacks he keeps strapped to his person, so the tablet’s camera can see them. “I am not just ‘playing Indian’ by wearing these, whatever some folks in the media say. Inside these are artifacts of the indigenous people of North America and are what give me power. I carry them with permission. It’s not some inherent native magic or anything. It’s the belief people had, and have, in these things. It’s the stories, the the faith, the nostalgia. Everything. The unity of a people has a power, and these things - the artifacts produced by people living their lives - are a lens which focuses that power into me. I try to repay that gift of power by using my position to remind the world of those cultures and those people. Making sure their stories are told and retold.”
Mirage hums. “That is related to what our group had just discussed. The need for hope. Cultural stories could be seen as a vehicle for hope. See - we understand this phenomenon, even if we describe it in terms of gods and trickster animals. See - we have learned these cautionary tales. See - we have heroes, whose example you ought to follow. The story tells us there is hope for us.”
She pauses, then continues more introspectively. “There must be a place for all of us. Stories give us that hope too.”
Tatanka turns back to Andi. “Some stories take away hope. Like the story you want to tell yourself. About Chan. About his power.”
Andi nods. “Yeah. And… god dammit, this is the hardest part.”
She kicks her foot against the ground, sending up a minor cloud of dust and cracking a small rock underfoot.
“It’s not so much I feel guilty. I feel ungrateful. What I found in Uncle Chan’s notebook… talking about how his powers worked… he doesn’t get it the way you do. Not through artifacts or objects. He gets it directly from people. From the feelings of people all around him. And… I get that, like on an objective level. It’s all psychic shit.”
She looks up, her face reflecting the cost of continuing to speak. The hurt comes out fitfully, each sentence like a car of a train in the process of a derailment. “I’m such a bitch. You know, when I was in school, I always hated all those gossips and loudmouths and stuff. And I said, I could stand on my own. I was gonna do it myself. I would armor up. Be self-sufficient. And… and now, I got this power, and all I can think is, so I have to deal with people? Those people? I depend on those people? Because that’s who was around me. That’s who I learned to expect people to be like. I know, I know, it’s not how I was raised, but like, it’s just, that’s how high school is and stuff, I know, but…”
She raises her hands in apology and frustration. “So like, all my feelings are telling me, like, this power sucks. I’m the least right person for it, and I wanted it, and I can’t help feeling like I lost Uncle Chan for it, and that sucks.”
She falls silent.
Tatanka weighs his options. “You think having the power means you have to care about people you dislike, for good reasons. You think you’re being asked to do something you don’t want to do. You’ve got these two goals - master your powers, and stay safe. Only you feel like they’re in opposition. Is that about the size of it?”
Andi nods quickly. She’s turned from worrying to scowling, mainly at herself.
On the screen, Mirage watches carefully, looking from face to face.
The older hero takes a breath, and makes his best attempt. “The hard work begins when you first ask yourself, am I doing the right thing? You want to move forward on something, but you’re not sure you’re on the right path. That’s good. You should be proud of that.”
“And you’re going to resist me saying, ‘empathize with a bunch of jerks’. That’s fine, I wouldn’t ask that anyway. And listen, you’re not alone here. There’s a cohort in leftist activism that wants to judge people, and if they’re found wanting in any way, drop them and move on.”
“To me, that’s like this. You’re one of the ancestors. You need a knife. You go to the river and start looking for stones that can be sharpened. There’s plenty that aren’t suitable, so you move on. There’s some that will take more or less work, so you pocket those. What you aren’t going to find is a sharpened stone knife waiting for you to pick it up. It’s always going to take work to turn what you find into a tool suitable for your needs. And people are the tools you need. So let’s find a way not to just write them off.”
He watches his niece, reading her face for clues about how what he’s saying is being received. So far so good - Andi is struggling with her feelings, but she’s listening. He continues.
“The kids you grew up with. I think they have to be real people. They put on their own armor, to hide from their own pain and problems. Like you did. What you’re struggling with are your memories of those real people, who didn’t do any of that.”
Tatanka smiles, and asks his question. “So. They are your unpolished stones. They’re voices in your head, but you can talk louder. You get to turn them into your tools. How do you fix those people?”
Andi is uncertain how to answer. She glances over at Mirage, perhaps looking to see what she has to say. Mirage catches the glance and shrugs. “At Zhukov Academy, being stabbed in the back was a physical rather than social risk. But speaking as someone who was literally a voice in someone’s head… it is possible to change someone just by talking to them. Even if the person you’re talking to is yourself.”
Andi looks like she’s onto something. She nods, but not at anyone in particular - except perhaps herself. “Okay. So basically… those memories of those people are really my problem. And I need to challenge them. By doing that… I challenge my own bad feelings.”
She looks up at Tatanka. “Isn’t this Haŋbléčeyapi? The ‘vision quest’ kinda thing?”
The older hero chuckles. “Kinda. It’s probably not appropriate to do the rituals with you, but you also don’t need them. The key thing is to isolate yourself from distractions, then look inwards. The relics that power me are a lens through which power flows. If I understood Chan’s explanations, the people in his head were the lens for his power. And yours too. Anchor yourself with the people you care about. But also the people you want to fight for. Even if you don’t like them.”
Andi nods. “Hey. You know me. I don’t give up. If there’s a way to beat this thing, I’ll do my best. But I’m fighting myself here. And I’m a pretty tough opponent, so wish me luck.”
Tatanka laughs, and hugs his niece. “The Andromeda I know and love will always prevail,” he promises her. “You’ve already made me proud. I know you will this time as well.”