Broken Frontier

On a dark football field in Los Angeles, Mary Conway kills her boyfriend and her best friend after she catches them kissing each other. In a moment of unchecked fury, a moment that smells like lilacs and tastes like thorns, Mary eviscerates the earth itself to enact her vengeance on the ones she once trusted. Later, still reeling from her friends' betrayal, she yearns to "break free, to make my own name in a world that's always tried to impose another on me." Whether or not she'll succeed is anyone's guess. But she has to try.

In a small apartment in Brooklyn, Yorick Brown is talking on the phone. "Do you ever think about destiny?" he asks his girlfriend. "Why does fate choose one man over another?" He feels defeated, reluctantly acknowledging that, once again, he didn't get hired for a job he wanted. But in less than thirty minutes, every man in the world is going to die in a nightmare of blood and confusion, every man but one. For some unknown reason, Yorick will survive. And he'll spend the rest of his life searching for the answer to what should have been a rhetorical question.

On a train somewhere in Brazil, a woman with scarlet hair and golden eyes stares out the window at one of her many reflections. "A very wise woman once told me that my destiny's already been written," she confides to her handsome companion. "The script doctors come and go, but they can't change the way the movie ends." It's impossible to know whether the thought makes her feel protected or doomed. It's doubtful she knows herself.

Brian K. Vaughan is one of the most talented writers working in comic books today. In series like Swamp Thing, Y: The Last Man, and Mystique, he has made a name for himself with his memorable last-page revelations and his plots that twist and bend but always remain solid and strong. His crisp dialogue is exhilarating to read, and he has a gift for creating multi-faceted, extraordinarily likable characters that demand your attention.

But his greatest strength may be his insight into the true nature of heroes. Vaughan understands what most writers don't, even after Alan Moore's epochal masterpiece Watchmen revealed what we always suspected but never said out loud. Heroes want to save the world, but more importantly, they want to save themselves.

Batman is one of the most popular superheroes in the world and, thanks in large part to the genius of Frank Miller's Dark Knight series, one of the most dangerous. But Batman fights a battle he can't win. When Bruce Wayne was eight, his parents were killed. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. Even so, that didn't stop him from continuing to pay for sins he didn't commit. Wayne fights crime as Batman because he knows that one day he will be able to save his parents. It doesn't matter that he's doomed to fail. The struggle for salvation rarely has anything to do with logic or honesty.

Spider-Man will never forgive himself for letting his uncle die. Superman will always be the world's Boy Scout, because it's the only way he can justify surviving his birth planet's demise when no one else did. The X-Men will keep pretending they can fulfill the Professor's unattainable dream, because they have to believe the day will come when people will love them for what they are instead of hating them for what they aren't.

Just like the ones they try to protect, heroes are searching for meaning. They have wounds that will never heal because they won't let them heal. They're not asking to be forgiven, they're just waiting for the day when they'll be strong enough to accept that forgiveness. And until that day arrives, they rage on.

In Ex Machina: The First Hundred Days, Brian K. Vaughan introduces us to a man who tells us right away that "heroes are just a fiction we create." Mitchell Hundred is a broken man, someone who wanted to change the world and failed. For four years, he served as the mayor of New York City, from "the beginning of 2002 through godforsaken 2005." Ex Machina is the story of his downfall. But it is also more than that. It is the quest for redemption.

Once upon a time, Hundred was a civil engineer. When Lieutenant Rick Bradbury of the Harbor Patrol asked him to investigate something glowing beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, he went along. And his life changed forever. Through a bizarre and unexplained event, Hundred gained the power to control machines. With the help of his childhood friend, Kremlin, Hundred became a superhero, the "Great Machine". But as Alice Childress noted in her classic 1973 novel, a hero ain't nothin' but a sandwich.

Hundred quickly learned that he was hurting more people than he was helping, so he decided to retire the Machine persona and run for mayor. Perhaps he was influenced by the fact that his mother was a political activist in her day. Maybe he felt that - as the recipient of such a bizarre and powerful gift - he had to do something to improve the world, even if he wasn't successful playing superhero. Since Brian K. Vaughan isn't exactly known for revealing everything in the first chapter, it's very possible that Hundred's real motivation won't be known for years to come. But whatever the reason, Hundred wanted to prove, both to himself and those around him, that there is something to fight for, something to believe in.

Bradbury is a former Marine who ended up being Hundred's Head of Security. A thousand lifetimes ago, he asked Mitchell Hundred to investigate a glowing light. In a shocking and unexpected turn of events, Bradbury watched helplessly as Hundred's face burnt, as his left ear was shredded and his eyes filled with blood. Bradbury realized that even the most innocent of choices can have repercussions far beyond anything anyone could imagine. He's never forgiven himself. So he plays bodyguard for a man he blames himself for destroying, and he longs for the day when he'll be able to forget the smell of scorched skin.

Then there's Kremlin, the Russian immigrant who tells Hundred, "You have given an old man new purpose. You are blood to me." Kremlin wants to believe in heroes. He wants to believe America really is the home of the gods. And if that means he will betray confidences and break laws to make Hundred understand the world needs saviors more than it needs politicians, it's a risk he's willing to take.

Ex Machina is a great-looking book.  Granted, the artwork has some problems.  Tony Harris relies strongly on photographic references, and as a result, his characters are sometimes stiff, trapped in unnaturally busy poses. But his attention to detail often yields extraordinary results, and Tom Feister's inks complement his pencil work perfectly. JD Mettler's color schemes are also a major highlight of the series, defining moods with tints and shades that make each scene vibrant and meaningful.

But it's Vaughan's talent that makes this story such a fascinating tapestry of politics, fantasy, and humanity. These aren't just characters in a comic book. These are real people with dreams and ambitions. In a world of politics, where compromise often ends up costing more than it can ever give, these people still believe there's a chance for salvation. They are damaged men and women, and they're searching for healing.

There's the painter who stencils the word "nigger" over a portrait of Lincoln and calls it art. She wants to shock people, but more importantly, she wants to end the pressure of being the next big thing. She hopes "the most inane, hateful piece of cliched taboo you could imagine" will finally force the critics to stop hailing her with empty praises she doesn't feel she deserves. But when the "painting" becomes a cause célèbre, she's forced into defending what she despises.

There's the guy with the "nerds are people too" bumper sticker pasted on his wall. He's wearing a T-shirt that says "doesn't play well with others," but even he knows his defiance is just another way of admitting defeat. "I'm gonna live forever," he says with tears dripping down his face. "Every last fuck who ever gave me crap is gonna know." He says the words, but he doesn't believe them. He wants to believe, though. He really does want to believe.

So do we.

Brian K. Vaughan tells these people's stories with compassion and skill. He refuses to create a two-dimensional paper cut-out. Instead, he focuses on the complexities that make each of his characters unique and astonishing. He celebrates the struggles of these beautiful and tragically flawed people, and he makes us care.

Maybe it's ridiculous that people like Mitchell Hundred and the friends and allies he's gathered around him think they can make the world better. The first page of the book tells us point blank that it will not end well. But that doesn't stop them from trying.  And it doesn't stop us from believing in them. If they can save themselves, maybe we can too.

Some people say insanity is the act of doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Captain America has been fighting World War Two for seventy years now, and victory is as unattainable as ever. The Justice League of America triumphs over every foe, but the threats never cease. Comic books are filled with heroes that die in the name of righteousness, then are reborn to wage the same eternal battles again.

Maybe redemption isn't possible. Maybe we are doomed to repeat history no matter what we do. Yet the definition of insanity is also the definition of hope. Thankfully, we have Brian K. Vaughan to remind us of that small but important fact.

One day, Bruce Wayne will overpower that damned bastard before he has a chance to kill, and the child that could have been will never know what it's like to lose his parents. One day, Peter Parker will catch the thief that destroyed his life, and Ben will be able to go home to his wife and dance with her every night for years to come. One day, Mitchell Hundred will save the world, and we'll all live happily ever after.

Redemption is possible.

It's insanity to believe otherwise.

- Tommy Marx