They called him Mighty Man. He wasn’t the smartest member of America’s super-powered fighting force, but he was one of the strongest and toughest. When America needed something broken, he was on call. Today it was a Nazi embankment deep in the French countryside. He smashed through their mortar shells without even a dent on his bright red tunic. The soldiers around him might as well have been unarmed as well; their rifle rounds just pinged off his bullet proof skin as he marched towards them.
He stood across from a massive Panzer tank now. Its barrel slowly leveled towards him. He charged forward and grabbed the long barrel. Without a second thought, he lifted the tank by its massive gun and hurled it up. It landed fifty yards away upside down.
He looked around the broken Nazi defenses. The remaining soldiers scurried for cover, their major armaments were gone. He needed to find his radio now, time to call in the G.I.s.
“Ah, I see you’ve finally arrived.”
Mighty Man turned and found himself standing inches from a Nazi officer. This man seemed young to carry the insignia he wore and Mighty Man couldn’t begin to grasp what a Major General would be doing this far on the front. He wasn’t even sure where the man was when the fight was on. Had he flown here like a bird?
The officer reached out and gently placed a hand across Mighty Man’s cheek before the hero could even think to react. Mighty Man instantly roared in agony, suddenly very aware of a sensation he hadn’t felt in years: pain.
His skin shriveled and desiccated as his life rushed away in a matter of seconds. With a smile, a young Major General walked away from the battlefield, slowly tearing away the uniform he wore as he walked.