In one sense, a lot has changed. In another, almost nothing. The public and the government growing a distaste for masked vigilantes was something that had begun to unfold even back in Nelson's time, although he had never seen the fully actualized aftermath. Now here he saw it again, over half a century later and much more hostile. Even a decade ago he was too old and tired to keep fighting for a future that even in the sixties had seemed unlikely and now seemed completely impossible.
He kept his house -- large enough, his book series and the subsequent merchandizing left him quite well-off while his pen name left him still to a life of peace -- in good condition and offered a spare room "for rent" to whomever might need a place to stay; he couldn't offer much more to any cause (nor, really, did he want to), but that alone soothed any guilt he might have felt for giving up on a world that still needed -- but refused -- the help of heroes. The world didn't want to be saved. Each year Nelson debated with himself if he still wanted to try. Each day, almost, Nelson debated further himself if he even wanted to keep trying to save himself.
The name 'Captain Metropolis' meant nothing here; without much history or reputation it was only the quiet memory of a slightly paunchy sixty-one year old man whose blonde hair has begun to go grey at the temples. It meant plenty to Nelson still, of course; nostalgia was one of the few steady comforts to hang his hat on, always easy to find at the bottom of the many bottles he'd been emptying in recent years. Not that he was a sloppy drunk -- he kept a well-stocked cabinet and mini-bar that he offered to guests and helped himself to throughout the day, usually only leaving his house after he'd had one or two. It was too chaotic outside without something to soothe the nerves and quiet his cycling thoughts. The company lending out a room provided didn't go unappreciated. Social as he was, Nelson somehow always found himself on his own. Lately it was just easier to keep indoors with the curtains drawn.
( Location-wise, at his place or around the City is fine; I'm pretty flexible! )
OPEN
He kept his house -- large enough, his book series and the subsequent merchandizing left him quite well-off while his pen name left him still to a life of peace -- in good condition and offered a spare room "for rent" to whomever might need a place to stay; he couldn't offer much more to any cause (nor, really, did he want to), but that alone soothed any guilt he might have felt for giving up on a world that still needed -- but refused -- the help of heroes. The world didn't want to be saved. Each year Nelson debated with himself if he still wanted to try. Each day, almost, Nelson debated further himself if he even wanted to keep trying to save himself.
The name 'Captain Metropolis' meant nothing here; without much history or reputation it was only the quiet memory of a slightly paunchy sixty-one year old man whose blonde hair has begun to go grey at the temples. It meant plenty to Nelson still, of course; nostalgia was one of the few steady comforts to hang his hat on, always easy to find at the bottom of the many bottles he'd been emptying in recent years. Not that he was a sloppy drunk -- he kept a well-stocked cabinet and mini-bar that he offered to guests and helped himself to throughout the day, usually only leaving his house after he'd had one or two. It was too chaotic outside without something to soothe the nerves and quiet his cycling thoughts. The company lending out a room provided didn't go unappreciated. Social as he was, Nelson somehow always found himself on his own. Lately it was just easier to keep indoors with the curtains drawn.
( Location-wise, at his place or around the City is fine; I'm pretty flexible! )