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mithenTitle: Debut of a Hero
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Martha Kent, Jonathan Kent
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 2400
Summary: Superman debuts in Metropolis, and his parents are there to witness it.
I was totally brainwashed by my childhood idols: comic book heroes like Superman, the Lone Ranger, and one of my all-time favorites, Zorro. There was no doubt in my mind that saving the helpless from injustice, thwarting evil and winding up with the beautiful damsel in distress was what life was all about. . . . I’d protect the weak, stop evil in its tracks and fly above the real world just like Clark Kent. That’s right, I was going to become a professional wrestler. --Larry Zbyszko
“I just imagined something with more, uh, trumpet to it. You know, like the beginning of ‘Fanfare for the Common Man.’”
Harley Rathaway arched a dubious eyebrow at Clark. “You do realize we’re starting to get into seriously cheesy territory here.”
Clark shrugged. “I don’t mind cheesy. I think I can make it work. I just want something that’s bold yet kind of...humble? Something that says ‘I’m here to help.’”
Rathaway exhaled sharply through his teeth. “Oh, just that, huh? Let’s see, hold on…” He tinkered with his computer for a little, tapping the keyboard and muttering to himself. “Okay,” he finally said, “How about this?”
He hit play--and Clark sat up, his eyebrows rising. A lone trumpet, synthesized but clear, sang out five ringing notes, then rose up--and fell once more, three hopeful, almost plaintive notes sliding down the scale. The first five notes came again, a call repeated--and like a clarion, this time a whole orchestra came in to answer, bright and joyous, lifting the song upward into the sky.
“That’s it,” Clark said. His throat felt tight and he swallowed hard. “That’s my theme.”
“That’s Superman’s theme,” Hathaway corrected him. “And if you think you can live up to it, well, more power to you.”
“Of course you can live up to it,” Bruce said, letting go of the steering wheel to sock him on the shoulder. “What kind of dumb question is that? You’re not going to let the DCW composer rattle your confidence after coming so far, are you?”
“No, but…” Clark took another bite of his burger. “I don’t know, all the primary colors and trumpet music...doesn’t it risk coming off as kind of arrogant?”
Bruce mulled that over for a while, as the lights of the city slid across his face. “Do you think you would have liked Superman as a kid?” he said at last.
“Someone bright and fun and heroic who came running to save people and defeated evil?” Clark couldn’t help but smile a little. “I would have loved him. I did love lots of wrestlers just like him. But am I the right person to…” He waved his burger in the air, searching for words, “to embody someone like that?”
“I can’t think of anyone better,” said Bruce. “No, listen to me!” he went on when Clark made a “you have to say that, you’re my boyfriend” noise. “Look. It’ll work, Clark. You know it’ll work, you just don’t intellectually understand how it will, but I can explain it.” He frowned at the road, then said: “It’s your very doubt that makes it possible. Some wrestlers, when they play a pure babyface like that...they believe their own hype. They think they really are amazing and heroic and admirable. And that sucks all the depth from the character they’re playing, makes it into a plaster shell. That’s why heels are so often more interesting than faces, because the people playing them know they’re not really evil, or a coward, or a psychopath. The real person beneath the heel role adds just enough light and depth that it’s compelling. And having the real Clark--a good man, yes, but one who doesn’t believe that he’s some messiah or savior--beneath a bright and simple character like Superman will make it rich and believable to everyone.” He nodded to himself. “That’s how it’ll work.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.” Bruce put on his blinker, turned into the hotel parking lot. “So just trust me, okay? You trust me to catch you when you go over the top rope, you should trust me about this.”
“Jumping over the top rope is easier,” muttered Clark, but didn’t argue further with him.
“Ma!” Clark hurried forward into his mother’s embrace, then threw his arms around his father in turn. “How was your flight?”
“No problems,” said Jonathan Kent, thumping him on the back. “You’re looking well.”
“So are you both,” said Clark, and it was true. The haggard lines that he remembered from when they had trouble making the mortgage were gone and they were smiling.
Martha Kent looked around as they headed for Metropolis Airport baggage claim, trying to seem casual. “So, it is it just you here, or…”
“Bruce had to stay a little late at the gym. He should be at the apartment when we get there and we’ll go get some supper.”
“That sounds nice, dear,” said Martha. “Now, tell us all about this match you have coming up tomorrow. Who are you working with? Are you going to win?”
Clark grinned at her. “Superman’s debut is against Winslow Schott.”
“The Toyman!” Martha exclaimed. “Oh, he’s a creepy one.”
“And you know I can’t tell you if I win or not,” he chided her.
“Well, a mother’s got to ask,” she said cheerfully, unabashed. “I certainly hope you do.”
“Have a little faith in your son,” laughed Jonathan Kent.
“I have complete faith in our son,” Martha huffed at him. “It’s that treacherous snake Luthor I don’t trust. You should be the heavyweight champion by now--that Nightwing seems like a very nice boy, but Luthor keeps burying you when he should be pushing you to the stars.”
“Now, Ma, you’ve been reading too many dirt sheets. Remember, Luthor’s running a big business and can’t cater to individual wrestlers’ careers.”
Martha sniffed angrily at that suggestion, but held her tongue from then, making small talk as they picked up the luggage and drove toward the apartment.
“And here we are,” Clark said at last, throwing open the door and ushering them inside. “Home sweet home.”
And indeed, the once-bare Metropolis apartment that he and Bruce shared felt like a home now, full of clutter and life, from the action figures lining the mantel to the books and papers piled up on chairs and tables rather than on the cases where they belonged. There was a fire in the fireplace, there was some Miles Davis playing quietly, everything was perfect for the Kents’ arrival.
Only Bruce was missing.
“Um, he probably ran out to get something he forgot,” Clark said after a quick search of the tiny apartment. He glanced at his phone: no message. “How about you two just have a seat and rest a bit and I’ll, uh...I’ll be right back.”
He let the apartment door swing shut behind him and stood in the hall for a moment, thinking.
Then he went to the stairs and climbed up to the roof access.
It was a foggy night, and the skyline was shrouded in mist. If Clark hadn’t been looking carefully, he might have missed the figure in the shadows, looking out over the city.
Bruce didn’t say anything as Clark came up behind him and put his arms around him, but Clark felt his shoulders shift in a sigh.
“Are you ready?” Clark said after a contemplative moment.
There was another long pause. “What if they don’t like me?” said Bruce, and his voice sounded very young.
Clark smiled and kissed the side of his head. “Pa always says ‘We’ll close that barn door when we come to it.’”
Bruce thought about that. “I’m betting your Pa doesn’t actually say that,” he said, and Clark could hear the laughter sparking underneath his words.
“Well, you’ll never know if you don’t come down and meet him, now, will you?”
Bruce leaned back into him and took another deep breath. “A fair point,” he admitted. He took Clark’s hand. “I’m ready.”
Within a few minutes of meeting, of course, Bruce and the Kents were getting along as wonderfully as Clark had known they would. By the time they were seated at the restaurant, Martha and Bruce were deep in conversation. Martha had found many of his old indie matches on the Internet and was happily discussing his early fights while Jonathan smiled into his beer.
”That promo you cut against Kyodai Ken in Tokyo was brilliant, dear. But the match after looked terribly stiff--was that blood hardway?”
If Bruce found it amusing that Martha knew all the right wrestling lingo, not a flicker of it reached his eyes. “Ken never thought a young foreigner would be able to wrestle the Japanese strong style. He didn’t pull a lot of punches--and yes, all that blood was from his knuckles hitting my forehead.”
“Well, what a horrible man,” said Martha. “I’m so glad you and Clark are working in a promotion that doesn’t rely on that gory stuff. Luthor certainly has his flaws, but at least he doesn’t go for cheap shock like that.”
“Speaking of Luthor and his flaws,” said Jonathan, “Have you two ever considered leaving the DCW? Maybe starting up your own promotion?”
Clark stared at his father and waited for Bruce to laugh at the idea, but instead there was a thoughtful silence that caused him to look at Bruce in surprise.
“Starting a promotion takes more than money,” Bruce said at last. “The amount of infrastructure, the amount of contacts and skilled labor it takes--the groundwork is staggering. With something like staged gladiatorial combat--as you can probably imagine, the labor laws involved can be a nightmare, and having friends in politics really helps. I don’t have...many friends, much less ones highly-placed in the government. Starting a promotion from nothing...well, it’s a huge challenge. It would take years of preparation.”
Jonathan looked at Bruce for a long, reflective moment. Then he smiled. “You’re not in any rush, son.”
Bruce looked down abruptly at his plate at that last word, some complex emotion tugging at his lips. He reached out and punched Clark lightly on the shoulder. “Well, any future I have, I hope to share with Clark,” he said. He paused, and now Clark could see that there was more color in his cheeks than usual. “I mean, if that’s not too forward to say.”
Martha started laughing and had to hide her face behind her napkin. “Clark,” she managed eventually, “Are you sure this is the wrestler they call the Dark and Remorseless Spirit of Vengeance on the message boards?”
Bruce waves one hand in a helpless gesture: part “I surrender,” part “help me,” and part “your mother reads wrestling message boards?” Clark snagged it out of the air and brought it down gently to the table, resisting the urge to press a kiss onto the bruised knuckles. “I told you you’d like him,” he said to his parents.
Clark stood in the Gorilla position, listening as the audience booed the Toyman. He twitched at his tights, fidgeted with his cape. All his friends were in a clump nearby, waiting: Dick, Tim, Selena, Diana. “He had his first professional match against me, you know,” Mr. Miracle was telling everyone. Even Billy Batson was there, looking torn between glower and pride. And Bruce was at his side, in full Billionaire Brucie mode for a later promo.
“Stop fidgeting,” Bruce said. “You look great. You’ll be great. You’re a hero.” He reached out his fist for Clark to bump and shot him a wry smile. “The world needs more heroes.”
As the ring announcer started her introduction: And the challenger, hailing from the planet Krypton-- Bruce suddenly said, “Wait, wait!” Hurriedly, he ruffled Clark’s slicked-back hair, making it looser and more relaxed. Then he reached up and twisted a lock of damp hair around his finger. When he released it, Clark felt that single curl fall onto his forehead.
Bruce looked at him critically. “That’s it,” he said. “I knew you were missing something. You’re ready now.” Then he rose on his toes just a fraction to press a quick kiss to Clark’s forehead. “Go get them.”
The first lonely notes of Superman’s new theme music rang out. Clark stepped forward and put his head down, waiting for the moment of the trumpet flourish to step out into the arena for the first time. He probably should have been thinking something meaningful, something profound. He probably should have been feeling thankful and humble. Instead, only one thought went through his mind:
Please, God...don’t let me look ridiculous.
Some wrestlers have big dramatic debuts. Sometimes everyone knows right away that this person, this gimmick, is a big deal and is going places. Sometimes the crowd is electric and the roar is deafening and everyone knows they’ve witnessed something historic.
The debut of Superman was not one of those. Oh, it was a perfectly fine first appearance. The crowd cheered him as he came to the ring, applauded his rather quick win over the Toyman when he laid him out with his flying punch. But it was the applause of people who were dutifully cheering a babyface, not a visceral surge of joy and love. Later, people who were in attendance in Metropolis that night would say I was there, you know? I was there the night Superman debuted. It was incredible, man. It was unbelievable. But that’s the power of wrestling--events ripple backwards, making things that seemed small at the time loom momentous and earth-shattering in the collective memory.
Superman stood in the middle of the ring, hands on his hips, and smiled at the crowd. Clark Kent saw his parents’ faces, watched his father wiping at his eyes and his mother jumping up and down. He thought of Bruce and his friends, waiting in the back to embrace him.
As he walked up the ramp and the crowd stilled, preparing for the next match, one small child reached to him across the barricade, calling “I love you, Superman!” and beaming when they touched hands for a moment.
This was the greatest debut ever, Clark thought.
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Martha Kent, Jonathan Kent
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 2400
Summary: Superman debuts in Metropolis, and his parents are there to witness it.
I was totally brainwashed by my childhood idols: comic book heroes like Superman, the Lone Ranger, and one of my all-time favorites, Zorro. There was no doubt in my mind that saving the helpless from injustice, thwarting evil and winding up with the beautiful damsel in distress was what life was all about. . . . I’d protect the weak, stop evil in its tracks and fly above the real world just like Clark Kent. That’s right, I was going to become a professional wrestler. --Larry Zbyszko
“I just imagined something with more, uh, trumpet to it. You know, like the beginning of ‘Fanfare for the Common Man.’”
Harley Rathaway arched a dubious eyebrow at Clark. “You do realize we’re starting to get into seriously cheesy territory here.”
Clark shrugged. “I don’t mind cheesy. I think I can make it work. I just want something that’s bold yet kind of...humble? Something that says ‘I’m here to help.’”
Rathaway exhaled sharply through his teeth. “Oh, just that, huh? Let’s see, hold on…” He tinkered with his computer for a little, tapping the keyboard and muttering to himself. “Okay,” he finally said, “How about this?”
He hit play--and Clark sat up, his eyebrows rising. A lone trumpet, synthesized but clear, sang out five ringing notes, then rose up--and fell once more, three hopeful, almost plaintive notes sliding down the scale. The first five notes came again, a call repeated--and like a clarion, this time a whole orchestra came in to answer, bright and joyous, lifting the song upward into the sky.
“That’s it,” Clark said. His throat felt tight and he swallowed hard. “That’s my theme.”
“That’s Superman’s theme,” Hathaway corrected him. “And if you think you can live up to it, well, more power to you.”
“Of course you can live up to it,” Bruce said, letting go of the steering wheel to sock him on the shoulder. “What kind of dumb question is that? You’re not going to let the DCW composer rattle your confidence after coming so far, are you?”
“No, but…” Clark took another bite of his burger. “I don’t know, all the primary colors and trumpet music...doesn’t it risk coming off as kind of arrogant?”
Bruce mulled that over for a while, as the lights of the city slid across his face. “Do you think you would have liked Superman as a kid?” he said at last.
“Someone bright and fun and heroic who came running to save people and defeated evil?” Clark couldn’t help but smile a little. “I would have loved him. I did love lots of wrestlers just like him. But am I the right person to…” He waved his burger in the air, searching for words, “to embody someone like that?”
“I can’t think of anyone better,” said Bruce. “No, listen to me!” he went on when Clark made a “you have to say that, you’re my boyfriend” noise. “Look. It’ll work, Clark. You know it’ll work, you just don’t intellectually understand how it will, but I can explain it.” He frowned at the road, then said: “It’s your very doubt that makes it possible. Some wrestlers, when they play a pure babyface like that...they believe their own hype. They think they really are amazing and heroic and admirable. And that sucks all the depth from the character they’re playing, makes it into a plaster shell. That’s why heels are so often more interesting than faces, because the people playing them know they’re not really evil, or a coward, or a psychopath. The real person beneath the heel role adds just enough light and depth that it’s compelling. And having the real Clark--a good man, yes, but one who doesn’t believe that he’s some messiah or savior--beneath a bright and simple character like Superman will make it rich and believable to everyone.” He nodded to himself. “That’s how it’ll work.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.” Bruce put on his blinker, turned into the hotel parking lot. “So just trust me, okay? You trust me to catch you when you go over the top rope, you should trust me about this.”
“Jumping over the top rope is easier,” muttered Clark, but didn’t argue further with him.
“Ma!” Clark hurried forward into his mother’s embrace, then threw his arms around his father in turn. “How was your flight?”
“No problems,” said Jonathan Kent, thumping him on the back. “You’re looking well.”
“So are you both,” said Clark, and it was true. The haggard lines that he remembered from when they had trouble making the mortgage were gone and they were smiling.
Martha Kent looked around as they headed for Metropolis Airport baggage claim, trying to seem casual. “So, it is it just you here, or…”
“Bruce had to stay a little late at the gym. He should be at the apartment when we get there and we’ll go get some supper.”
“That sounds nice, dear,” said Martha. “Now, tell us all about this match you have coming up tomorrow. Who are you working with? Are you going to win?”
Clark grinned at her. “Superman’s debut is against Winslow Schott.”
“The Toyman!” Martha exclaimed. “Oh, he’s a creepy one.”
“And you know I can’t tell you if I win or not,” he chided her.
“Well, a mother’s got to ask,” she said cheerfully, unabashed. “I certainly hope you do.”
“Have a little faith in your son,” laughed Jonathan Kent.
“I have complete faith in our son,” Martha huffed at him. “It’s that treacherous snake Luthor I don’t trust. You should be the heavyweight champion by now--that Nightwing seems like a very nice boy, but Luthor keeps burying you when he should be pushing you to the stars.”
“Now, Ma, you’ve been reading too many dirt sheets. Remember, Luthor’s running a big business and can’t cater to individual wrestlers’ careers.”
Martha sniffed angrily at that suggestion, but held her tongue from then, making small talk as they picked up the luggage and drove toward the apartment.
“And here we are,” Clark said at last, throwing open the door and ushering them inside. “Home sweet home.”
And indeed, the once-bare Metropolis apartment that he and Bruce shared felt like a home now, full of clutter and life, from the action figures lining the mantel to the books and papers piled up on chairs and tables rather than on the cases where they belonged. There was a fire in the fireplace, there was some Miles Davis playing quietly, everything was perfect for the Kents’ arrival.
Only Bruce was missing.
“Um, he probably ran out to get something he forgot,” Clark said after a quick search of the tiny apartment. He glanced at his phone: no message. “How about you two just have a seat and rest a bit and I’ll, uh...I’ll be right back.”
He let the apartment door swing shut behind him and stood in the hall for a moment, thinking.
Then he went to the stairs and climbed up to the roof access.
It was a foggy night, and the skyline was shrouded in mist. If Clark hadn’t been looking carefully, he might have missed the figure in the shadows, looking out over the city.
Bruce didn’t say anything as Clark came up behind him and put his arms around him, but Clark felt his shoulders shift in a sigh.
“Are you ready?” Clark said after a contemplative moment.
There was another long pause. “What if they don’t like me?” said Bruce, and his voice sounded very young.
Clark smiled and kissed the side of his head. “Pa always says ‘We’ll close that barn door when we come to it.’”
Bruce thought about that. “I’m betting your Pa doesn’t actually say that,” he said, and Clark could hear the laughter sparking underneath his words.
“Well, you’ll never know if you don’t come down and meet him, now, will you?”
Bruce leaned back into him and took another deep breath. “A fair point,” he admitted. He took Clark’s hand. “I’m ready.”
Within a few minutes of meeting, of course, Bruce and the Kents were getting along as wonderfully as Clark had known they would. By the time they were seated at the restaurant, Martha and Bruce were deep in conversation. Martha had found many of his old indie matches on the Internet and was happily discussing his early fights while Jonathan smiled into his beer.
”That promo you cut against Kyodai Ken in Tokyo was brilliant, dear. But the match after looked terribly stiff--was that blood hardway?”
If Bruce found it amusing that Martha knew all the right wrestling lingo, not a flicker of it reached his eyes. “Ken never thought a young foreigner would be able to wrestle the Japanese strong style. He didn’t pull a lot of punches--and yes, all that blood was from his knuckles hitting my forehead.”
“Well, what a horrible man,” said Martha. “I’m so glad you and Clark are working in a promotion that doesn’t rely on that gory stuff. Luthor certainly has his flaws, but at least he doesn’t go for cheap shock like that.”
“Speaking of Luthor and his flaws,” said Jonathan, “Have you two ever considered leaving the DCW? Maybe starting up your own promotion?”
Clark stared at his father and waited for Bruce to laugh at the idea, but instead there was a thoughtful silence that caused him to look at Bruce in surprise.
“Starting a promotion takes more than money,” Bruce said at last. “The amount of infrastructure, the amount of contacts and skilled labor it takes--the groundwork is staggering. With something like staged gladiatorial combat--as you can probably imagine, the labor laws involved can be a nightmare, and having friends in politics really helps. I don’t have...many friends, much less ones highly-placed in the government. Starting a promotion from nothing...well, it’s a huge challenge. It would take years of preparation.”
Jonathan looked at Bruce for a long, reflective moment. Then he smiled. “You’re not in any rush, son.”
Bruce looked down abruptly at his plate at that last word, some complex emotion tugging at his lips. He reached out and punched Clark lightly on the shoulder. “Well, any future I have, I hope to share with Clark,” he said. He paused, and now Clark could see that there was more color in his cheeks than usual. “I mean, if that’s not too forward to say.”
Martha started laughing and had to hide her face behind her napkin. “Clark,” she managed eventually, “Are you sure this is the wrestler they call the Dark and Remorseless Spirit of Vengeance on the message boards?”
Bruce waves one hand in a helpless gesture: part “I surrender,” part “help me,” and part “your mother reads wrestling message boards?” Clark snagged it out of the air and brought it down gently to the table, resisting the urge to press a kiss onto the bruised knuckles. “I told you you’d like him,” he said to his parents.
Clark stood in the Gorilla position, listening as the audience booed the Toyman. He twitched at his tights, fidgeted with his cape. All his friends were in a clump nearby, waiting: Dick, Tim, Selena, Diana. “He had his first professional match against me, you know,” Mr. Miracle was telling everyone. Even Billy Batson was there, looking torn between glower and pride. And Bruce was at his side, in full Billionaire Brucie mode for a later promo.
“Stop fidgeting,” Bruce said. “You look great. You’ll be great. You’re a hero.” He reached out his fist for Clark to bump and shot him a wry smile. “The world needs more heroes.”
As the ring announcer started her introduction: And the challenger, hailing from the planet Krypton-- Bruce suddenly said, “Wait, wait!” Hurriedly, he ruffled Clark’s slicked-back hair, making it looser and more relaxed. Then he reached up and twisted a lock of damp hair around his finger. When he released it, Clark felt that single curl fall onto his forehead.
Bruce looked at him critically. “That’s it,” he said. “I knew you were missing something. You’re ready now.” Then he rose on his toes just a fraction to press a quick kiss to Clark’s forehead. “Go get them.”
The first lonely notes of Superman’s new theme music rang out. Clark stepped forward and put his head down, waiting for the moment of the trumpet flourish to step out into the arena for the first time. He probably should have been thinking something meaningful, something profound. He probably should have been feeling thankful and humble. Instead, only one thought went through his mind:
Please, God...don’t let me look ridiculous.
Some wrestlers have big dramatic debuts. Sometimes everyone knows right away that this person, this gimmick, is a big deal and is going places. Sometimes the crowd is electric and the roar is deafening and everyone knows they’ve witnessed something historic.
The debut of Superman was not one of those. Oh, it was a perfectly fine first appearance. The crowd cheered him as he came to the ring, applauded his rather quick win over the Toyman when he laid him out with his flying punch. But it was the applause of people who were dutifully cheering a babyface, not a visceral surge of joy and love. Later, people who were in attendance in Metropolis that night would say I was there, you know? I was there the night Superman debuted. It was incredible, man. It was unbelievable. But that’s the power of wrestling--events ripple backwards, making things that seemed small at the time loom momentous and earth-shattering in the collective memory.
Superman stood in the middle of the ring, hands on his hips, and smiled at the crowd. Clark Kent saw his parents’ faces, watched his father wiping at his eyes and his mother jumping up and down. He thought of Bruce and his friends, waiting in the back to embrace him.
As he walked up the ramp and the crowd stilled, preparing for the next match, one small child reached to him across the barricade, calling “I love you, Superman!” and beaming when they touched hands for a moment.
This was the greatest debut ever, Clark thought.
***YAY***
Date: 2015-06-13 07:40 am (UTC)Re: ***YAY***
Date: 2015-06-13 02:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-07-14 06:11 am (UTC)Also, I want to take this passage of Bruce's and throw it at so many wrestlers:
Some wrestlers, when they play a pure babyface like that...they believe their own hype. They think they really are amazing and heroic and admirable. And that sucks all the depth from the character they’re playing, makes it into a plaster shell. That’s why heels are so often more interesting than faces, because the people playing them know they’re not really evil, or a coward, or a psychopath. The real person beneath the heel role adds just enough light and depth that it’s compelling.
Every face EVER that I've failed to get behind is usually someone who believes in their own faceness. They believe that playing a face on TV makes them an actual hero somehow *cough*Bret Hart*cough*80sHogan*cough*. And inversely, why people who are Actual Real Life Assholes tend to never be my favorite heels *cough*Orton*cough*.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-07-16 09:53 am (UTC)Ooooh, yes, this is a really good way of putting it! The extra complexity that good people playing bad people adds--or the depth that honestly decent people playing heroes does. Otherwise they really are just paper-thin...