The sirens of the two fire tenders called to the torn wreckage of the anonymous grey, concrete building set up a wailing echolalia against the tall blocks nearby, mocking the small crowd gathered in the street below. In this part of town, there are few passers-by at normal times of day, let alone 3am, but somehow there are a few rubbernecks even here. The burning building appears to have been a normal office block; more observant onlookers might notice a predominance of tall filing cabinets in this particular office, and a lack of desks. Or they might have before.
A tiny movement stirs a pile of loose rubble, and sets up a minor avalanche. It goes completely unnoticed, as the firemen in the first tender are very interesting to watch. One of them has a great big chopper.
Gently, a figure prises itself up from the pile; the figure is male, normal-looking, and covered in layers of damp underpants and shirts. The outer layers are charred and smouldering.
"Saved by laundry", the figure says to itself, shrugs, and slips moistly into the shadows.
They'd not been sure he had what it took to be a superhero, those few years before. For one thing, he was so normal. Most superheroes were either built in the heroic mould, Charles Atlases holding up the mighty Caroline Globe of civilization, or nerdy, loner types, studying and studying and then, somehow, being granted the abilities they had thought they'd always be denied -- Peter Parkers who became Spidermen. He had not proved himself, like the former; he had no overriding urge to, like the latter. He was boring. His background was boring, his hair was boring, his name ... was Percy.
But they'd had to admit his superpower was cool.
Brushing off the last of the underpants and beating out a small fire on his jeans, Percy looks round. He was the only one in the main building; the others are safe -- either elsewhere, or in the underground bunker beneath. But something tells Percy they won't be for very long.