fan clubs, and more so we could control who did what with our image. The same went for the ubervillains. Unfortunately, evil appealed to just as many folks as good did. Some superheroes, namely Swifte, really hammed it up. They blogged and did Web casts and wrote tell-all biographies, regaling the masses with their latest daring adventures and narrow escapes. I, and the other members of the Fearless Five, were much more restrained. We had a simple Web page where folks could e-mail us and sign up for our newsletter, as well as buy our merchandise, namely copies of my annual calendar and latest action figures. But I didn’t keep any money I made as Fiera. Neither did the rest of the Fearless Five. Not a penny. We split the profits evenly and donated them all to worthy causes. My cut went to a charity that helped burn victims get reconstructive surgery and to the Bigtime Municipal Building Restoration Fund. After all, if you tear it down, you really should help rebuild it. And I’d destroyed more than one building in Bigtime over the years. Of course, some folks like Gentleman George and the Baseballer spurned the spotlight, preferring to keep to themselves and avoid the hoopla. Sometimes, I thought about going that route. Taking down the Web site, discontinuing my annual calendar, canceling my few public appearances. But part of me liked the attention. Modesty wasn’t one of my virtues, and I enjoyed being recognized for saving the city every couple of weeks. My father had taught me long ago that I had special gifts that I must use to help others. He called it my duty, my purpose in life. I just thought it was fun. At least, it was most of the time. I logged into my Fiera accounts and checked on sales of the calendar and a few other things that needed my attention. All of the money flowed from the Web site through untraceable numbered overseas accounts to our favorite 60

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charities. Sam was a real whiz at setting up things like that. Plus, Henry had put tons of security gizmos on my computer, ensuring that only I could access the Fiera files hidden on my hard drive. Once that was done, I switched over to my e-mails. I got dozens of e-mails and instant messages every day, most of them from fanboys who wanted me to autograph their inflatable Fiera dolls or their tighty-whities—sometimes both. I usually ignored those. I also got a lot of letters from kids asking me to find their lost puppies or to please, please, please bring their pet hamster back to life. Those I answered as best I could. Despite my superpowers, I couldn’t help everybody, couldn’t save everybody. I did what I could, when I could. That was another thing my father had taught me. You could be a hero, do your duty, and still have a life outside the masks and capes and spandex costumes. If you didn’t, you’d drive yourself crazy.