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31_days2006-07-02 02:34 am
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(July 1) (Sky High) Flaming Sword, Falling
[t]itle: Flaming Sword, Falling
[r]ating: T/Teen/PG-13.
[w]ordcount:
[d]ay: july 01: calling all avenging angels
[f]andom: Sky High
[p]airing: Slight Warren/Layla
[s]ummary: If you told Warren he was burning out, he'd probably ignite his fist and then raise an eyebrow. The truth is, this is MUCH worse than simple burnout. He always DID dance on the knife-edge between good and evil...
[n]otes: Also for this lovely request.
[a]dditional notes: I saw this theme and thought of Warren. I always thought of him as an angel; he tries to make himself sound like Michael.
i. Truth
(press play)
The truth was, the police hated him. And the truth was, he didn't much care.
Justin's bar-- always called Justin's bar, its official name had been lost to the superhero community years ago from too many powered fights-- was, as usual, dimly lit and full of smoke. Warren Peace-- the Archangel-- liked it that way. He could feel the dozens of tiny cigarette fires. Power over already-formed fire was pretty much beyond him until he touched it, but he always knew where there was a fire.
As always, that easy knowledge brought back memories.
Twenty years old and he felt so goddamn much older. Zack (Daylight, damnit, Daylight, but he so often forgot) made all the "burning out" jokes and he smiled dutifully at them, but the truth was... This old feeling, this hopeless feeling, like nothing that he did could possibly matter, was much darker in nature.
It wasn't that he had no energy left. He had plenty of energy left.
He was just running out of reasons to care.
"Technically," Aurora, the current owner of Justin's place, "you shouldn't be in here."
"I'm not asking for a drink."
"Good, because I'm--"
"--required to obey the law and not give it to me, as befitting a Hero Bartender. I know."
She winced, opened her mouth, closed it, and then stormed away. As he watched her, he noticed the sheer speed with which she'd moved.
Super-speed, always a fun power to go up against.
Eventually, though, the door swung open, and the man he was waiting for walked in. Zack-- Daylight, goddamnit, Daylight when he was here-- was nineteen now, visibly different from the lanky, somewhat bubble-headed boy he'd met.
The constant joking and slightly awkward air had remained. Zack would always be a bit of a spaz.
Shortly after the start of junior year, Zack had stopped growing. He was now 6'3", and the stringy, slightly pinched appearance had settled into a comfortable, easy bulk. Ripped? No. He was far from it. But he did have muscle, now, and the knowledge of martial arts to back it up. And Daylight didn't just glow, no-- now, he could control the glowing so that it only happened in his eyes, or so that it seemed to come from present light.
He could create light intense enough to blind, to warm, to burn.
It was a respectable partnership, the Archangel and Daylight. Warren had never been into that whole hero-with-a-sidekick gig; watching Steve Stronghold deal with "Mr. Boy" had struck him as somewhat creepy. Sick, even. So he and Zack were more partners.
As Zack drew closer, Warren lifted a gloved hand. The skin of his fingers was invisible-- as much as he preferred fingerless gloves, they were too much of an identity risk. Damn fingerprints.
"Glad you could make it. Think you could be less than an hour late next time?"
Zack winced, then sat down. If he caught the sarcasm, he made no sign of it. "Sorry 'bout that, Warren. The others going to be here?"
He didn't know. This year there would be a class reunion. A one year reunion, dumb as that was. He himself wouldn't go; he had nothing to say to the people of his class. Even with Royal Paine-- whatever her real name had been, he couldn't remember now-- gone, they had pretty well sucked. Layla, Will, Magenta, Ethan and Zack had been the only ones he could stand.
He shrugged. The smooth lines of his costume (sleek black leather, no spandex, no cape, just black and three red leather belts) made the gesture look graceful. The black slimmed him down, making his somewhat broad shoulders look more slender, made him look lither than his figure really was.
After what felt like forever-- Zack was now humming a popular song and horribly off key, and from the look on his face, it was deliberate-- a woman dressed entirely in black and various shades of purple walked through the door. She was on the shorter side of average, even with the chunky-looking leather boots. The boots were lace-ups, but Warren knew the woman who wore them well enough to know they the laces were an illusion.
The truth was, Magenta zipped up her boots; always had, always would.
Her gaze swept over the bar, searching. At length, she found the two of them and strode toward them.
There was an entirely different kind of heat in Zack's eyes when he looked at Magenta. Zack had always been into her, Warren knew, but this was a relatively new development.
Magenta leaned in to kiss Zack as a greeting, then took a seat next to the fairly tall 'sidekick'. She peered at Warren, gorgeous dark eyes searching his face for something. "The reunion is next Saturday. You going?"
"No."
Simple question, simple answer.
"Me either. I don't have a word for those dickheads."
He nodded. Remembering what Maj had suffered at the hands of her peers always brought back things in which he had, unwittingly, played part. "About that whole... you know. Plastic ball thing..."
A wry smile. "You're still sorry, aren't you?"
"Always will be."
"So what if you had gotten me out sooner? Not much would have changed." She smiled. This time it was real, though about as tentative as Magenta got. "At least it was somebody else's locker instead of one of theirs or mine."
Magenta was even more cool, collected and confident than Layla would ever be. Unlike Layla, Magenta didn't have a Cause. She fought evil because it was evil, not because it was hurting rainforests or anti-feminist or blah-blah-blah.
It was what he liked about Magenta. That don't-take-shit attitude, with the guts and the brains to back it up.
Zack was uncharacteristically quiet for a while. After a length of time, in which Magenta and Warren readjusted to being this near each other, Zack finally said, "I'm not going either."
"Got a reason?"
"I think having a one-year reunion is stupid. I mean, what, did we all just love each other so much we can't survive a year without seeing each other?"
Magenta laughed, he chuckled. It was true, wasn't it?
After another quiet few moments, Magenta sighed. "So, are The Tank and Eden willing to put aside their petty grudges and failed high school romance to get together tonight?"
Zack snorted. "Eden won't come. She's in Georgia."
"'Adam and Lilith' works better," Warren replied, inwardly agreeing with Zack. "Eden didn't go anywhere, and Eve stuck it out."
"You make it sound like Lilith ran away, when in fact, she was kicked out," said a familiar female voice from behind him.
Warren half turned. Indeed, standing directly behind his chair was a tall woman in green. She was wearing almost all green-- a green cheongsam, darker green leggings, high green boots. Tendrils of ivy formed a domino mask.
Layla was, as usual, stunning.
"Eden, good to see you," he said when his mouth wasn't dry.
"Nice to see you too." She sat down next to him, smoothing the cheongsam while she sat. "How was your freshman year, Dark?"
Maj-- known as Dark Trick to the public-- just smirked. It wasn't her usual smirk, though; it was the smirk she had used for people other than their group, back in high school.
"Daylight?"
Zack shook his head. "I had a total jerk for a roomie. Two semesters in a row. 'Side from that, though, wasn't too bad."
"Sorry to hear that." Layla sighed. "Look, last summer... I shouldn't have done any of that."
"Damn right you shouldn't have," Magenta replied. That intense stare turned on Layla now, and Warren was glad he wasn't directly across from either of them.
Zack folded his arms across his chest. "You shouldn't have run away, either."
"I didn't feel like I had any choice!"
Layla slapped a hand on the table, standing. The ivy that made up her mask shuddered, writhing and shifting, twining in her hair until he understood. Somewhere along the strand, it had sprouted thorns and it was growing towards them.
The summer before senior year, she and Will had clashed. They'd always fought each other, but this had been all-out battling. Screaming matches. Will showing up in his apartment looking completely worn out, Layla showing up crying...
It had been awful. And the night before they finally decided to give it up, that it wasn't working....
Horrific. Like a war, really, like World War IV was in Warren's own living room. His houseplants would never be the same, and he was reasonably sure that his mother had known there was a different reason for buying a new TV.
After graduation, Layla had run far, far away. An all-girls college in Georgia, for god's sake. That was a five-hour flight away.
Layla sighed, and the evil ivy stopped growing. The thorns fell off, and the ivy retreated back into her hair. She sat back down. "I'm transferring to MCC. That's why I'm even on this side of the country."
"Mm, Maxville Community College." Warren smirked, then chuckled. "I bet you can't wait to start."
"What are you doing up from L.A.?" Layla asked him. "I thought you and Daylight were down there? Aren't you studying-- oh god, what was it-- visual arts?"
"Theater and visual arts. Close."
"Why?"
"Hollywood could use better superhero movies--" He smirked again. "or at least better special effects."
"Hollywood." He could hear the amusement in Layla's voice, even if he couldn't see it through the mask.
"Yeah."
Layla just shook her head, while Zack gripped Warren's shoulder. For once, Warren didn't shrug or almost-burn him off.
It wasn't too much later that Ethan walked in. The goggles and wetsuit were the only hints that his power was liquid-based. There was no hint at all that he was a sidekick. He moved immediately to their table-- gatherings like this were more common for the guys of their "team".
"Streamline," Zack rose to greet him, gripping his best friend's arm.
Warren nodded and added, "Good to see you, Popsicle."
"What's Layla doing here?" Ethan asked.
They'd all been hurt that she just fled across the country. Will had grieved at the entire situation, feeling like a failure since he couldn't even get his love life in line. Magenta had lost her best friend. Zack had been hurt and confused, feeling that he had somehow contributed.
But Ethan had been hurt most of all. He'd depended on the delicate balance of personalities in their group. It had been a major part of his life. And to suddenly have that support withdrawn...
Warren's eyes narrowed. "She's back."
"Great." Ethan's voice made it clear: he didn't think it was great. "Why's she here?"
"Because she's back."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry about that whole thing."
Ethan looked away, but eventually nodded. He didn't say anything more.
Warren was glad. If he heard the word 'forgive', he would be sick.
"How's the hero business in L.A.?"
Warren sighed and shook his head. "Awful. I think the supervillains there read all the rejected scripts."
Zack nodded in agreement. He gestured wildly. "Check this out. LA's got themed villains."
Magenta laughed, Ethan shook his head, but Layla only blinked.
"Hey, if there are themed superheroes, why not--"
"--do we choose which villains we fight and which civilians we save based on themes?"
Magenta made a 'hmph' sound. "Of course not!" Not unless you're Layla, was the silent but easily audible addition.
"Themed villains and arch-enemies, that whole nemesis thing... I think it's stupid," Warren said. "Crime fighting shouldn't be an institution. It's not a delicate balance of good and evil. It's good eradicating evil."
Layla turned to stare at him. Magenta, Zack and Ethan also stared.
What he'd just said was tantamount to treason. Betrayal of the hero kind. Killing supervillains was frowned on. Instead, they put them behind bars that wouldn't hold and eagerly waited for the villains to break free and resume their battle.
The truth was, superheroes thrived on repeat offenders. They needed huge, flashy, unceasing battles. It was what separated them from vigilantes and made them heroes.
And Warren wondered why they bothered. Why be a hero when you could just as easily be a vigilante and actually get more done?
He smacked himself on the head. "Sorry about that. I just." He stopped, shook his head. "It's frustrating, you know?"
Zack nodded. "We get ya, man."
"I work hard-- no, we work hard-- to keep the city safe, and then bam, they bust out of prison and it's that whole stupid game all over again."
"That whole stupid game," Layla mused.
Magenta looked sad. "It sounds like burnout. You've only been doing this for real for, what, a year?"
"Oh god, and forty more to go." Warren shook his head and groaned.
"Definitely burnout."
But the truth, Warren thought, was that he was falling. He had, at first, signed his victories with Archangel Michael in scorched letters. Eventually, he'd shortened it. Wasn't there a story, somewhere about the Archangel Michael being kicked out of heaven?
He was falling.
He stared, grimly, at the table. The tiny fires all around him shone brightly.
He'd never wanted to be a villain. He'd always known he didn't want to be a villain.
It was looking like he didn't have a choice.
And, damn it all, Will never did turn up that night.
ii. Lies
(fast forward three months)
It seems that everything he says is a lie these days.
"I'm fine, Mom."
I'm scared.
"Skins his victims, huh? Sounds like a guy from PETA." .... "Fine, I'll see what I can do."
How do you expect ME to stop a serial killer? Do I look like a profiler? I'm a COLLEGE STUDENT for fuck's sake!
"I think I gained some weight."
I haven't been able to eat lately. Something's wrong with me.
"Everything is under control."
I don't know what's happening.
"I haven't heard from Dad."
Dad sent me another letter bomb.
"I have a good idea as to who it was."
I don't know what's happening.
"Don't worry about me."
Call me. Please. Or visit.
"I'm tracking him down right now."
I don't have any idea what he wants. I don't even know if it's a he.
"I'm really liking it here. Glad I moved."
Get me out of this.
"I thought I had him cornered but I didn't. He got away."
I never even saw the bastard.
"Mom, I promise, if something was wrong with me, I'd tell you."
I know it's wrong. But it feels so right.
I don't know what's happening to me!
"Don't worry. I'm not about to kill you."
iii. Stop Him
(fast forward four months)
The Farrier: Product Of Urban Legend and Hype?
Belinda Butler
IT HAS BEEN THREE MONTHS
since the Farrier has killed
anyone. The police have gotten
especially tight-lipped about
this case, probably out of
embarrassment. No arrests
regarding the Chain Man
have been made, not a
single suspect mentioned.
Not even a profile.
The truth is, the police
have nothing on this man.
If it even is a man. They
don't even know the gender.
No DNA, no fingerprints,
no fibers. Their last
theories stated that the
culprit might be
super-powered, but even
that is pure speculation.
Queries into the hero
community have produced
even more
speculation. The heroes
are coming up with
outlandish things. An "as-yet
unknown supervillain" seems
plausible,but the addition of,
"possibly from another
is just ridiculous.
All except for the
Archangel. The leather
-clad hero is just as
silent as the police. He's
almost impossible to find,
and when found, he will only
state, "I'm a living
flamethrower, not a detective."
It leads one to wonder if the
Chain Man is speculation himself.
After all, no physical evidence
has been found. For all the police
truly know, these killings
might as well be suicides. The
families of the victims may have
invented him. The media
may have invented him.
He might never have been there.
And now he's gone, without a
trace.
--excerpted from a local newspaper; clipping found in Warren Peace's possession.
iv. Stop Me
(rewind three months)
Warren wanted to put his head in his hands. But he couldn't, because there was blood on his gloves. He hadn't wanted it to be like that. Hell, he hadn't meant to find the Farrier at all.
It had been a complete accident. He'd been thrown through concrete again, this time thrown down, and he'd gone past several layers under the skyscraper, until he finally landed flat on his back. It had hurt like a bitch, hurt for days.
The villainess who'd managed it-- The Rhino, she called herself, and he could see why-- jumped down after him, landing heavily.
Their fight had ended there.
Theft and property damage (and, on the other side, attempting to stop said theft and property damage) didn't look quite so bad when faced with somebody who was busily flaying a woman alive.
The woman was screaming, twisting and writhing against the chains that held her down. "Get her out of here," he murmured to Rhino. "I can't break those without melting them to her."
He ignited his hand, forming a fireball. He tossed it easily. It struck the Farrier, and it landed square in the crook of the man's knee.
He screamed, one of those you-hurt-me-you-bitch screams and immediatly dropped his tools to grab the injured area.
"You asshole," the Farrier bellowed, hobbling as he turned.
"Want me to cut it off?" Archangel bent to pick up the kodachi he'd dropped in the fall. He had two of them.
They weren't really kodachi. More like a kodachi-jitte hybrid. Lengthwise, they were shorter than a katani and longer than a wakizashi, but they were blunt rods rather than blades.
Igniting them was easy.
"I can do that, you know."
"Asshole," the Farrier sobbed.
"If that makes it easier on you." To Rhino: "Get her out. Now."
Rhino nodded and surged forward, moving surprisingly quickly for such a strong woman. She easily snapped the chains and shucked the outer layer of her costume. Cooing soothing nonsense, Rhino wrapped the woman in the layer, then got the hell out of there.
Archangel turned his attention to the man who had killed six people.
Said man grabbed a pair of overlarge meathooks. The way he held them showed that there was something wrong with his hands.
After a moment, Archangel saw: he had surgically implanted fishing hooks in his hands.
Disgusting.
"You must have been a crappy-ass fisherman."
"So you don't like my claws," the man replied.
In reply, Archangel struck out with a flaming sword. This caused the man to back away, his pain forgotten.
It was the mark of a superhero or a supervillain-- the ability to ignore pain. Normal people, even in the worst of situations, were bound by pain. If a limb was broken, it was broken. There was no moving it.
People with superpowers, however, transcended pain.
Then again, the fish hooks were a bit of a give-away. Normal people didn't tend to just go sticking those in their fingers.
They danced like that for quite some time. Archangel moved forward, the Farrier stepped back. Archangel, forward; Farrier, back. Forward and back, forward and back.
Finally, though, the Farrier had enough of running. He stepped forward, meathooks at the ready. The hooks slashed down, toward him.
Archangel didn't think think, didn't pause, just moved. The flaming rods sliced through the hooks. He shifted his weight again, shifting his grip on the swords so that he could--
They planted, tips first, into the man's chest.
His eyes widened.
That was lethal.
And, sure enough, the Farrier soon died.
Archangel didn't know what to do.
He had just killed a villain. It was more than frowned on, it was one of the first sign of a fall.
[r]ating: T/Teen/PG-13.
[w]ordcount:
[d]ay: july 01: calling all avenging angels
[f]andom: Sky High
[p]airing: Slight Warren/Layla
[s]ummary: If you told Warren he was burning out, he'd probably ignite his fist and then raise an eyebrow. The truth is, this is MUCH worse than simple burnout. He always DID dance on the knife-edge between good and evil...
[n]otes: Also for this lovely request.
[a]dditional notes: I saw this theme and thought of Warren. I always thought of him as an angel; he tries to make himself sound like Michael.
i. Truth
(press play)
The truth was, the police hated him. And the truth was, he didn't much care.
Justin's bar-- always called Justin's bar, its official name had been lost to the superhero community years ago from too many powered fights-- was, as usual, dimly lit and full of smoke. Warren Peace-- the Archangel-- liked it that way. He could feel the dozens of tiny cigarette fires. Power over already-formed fire was pretty much beyond him until he touched it, but he always knew where there was a fire.
As always, that easy knowledge brought back memories.
Twenty years old and he felt so goddamn much older. Zack (Daylight, damnit, Daylight, but he so often forgot) made all the "burning out" jokes and he smiled dutifully at them, but the truth was... This old feeling, this hopeless feeling, like nothing that he did could possibly matter, was much darker in nature.
It wasn't that he had no energy left. He had plenty of energy left.
He was just running out of reasons to care.
"Technically," Aurora, the current owner of Justin's place, "you shouldn't be in here."
"I'm not asking for a drink."
"Good, because I'm--"
"--required to obey the law and not give it to me, as befitting a Hero Bartender. I know."
She winced, opened her mouth, closed it, and then stormed away. As he watched her, he noticed the sheer speed with which she'd moved.
Super-speed, always a fun power to go up against.
Eventually, though, the door swung open, and the man he was waiting for walked in. Zack-- Daylight, goddamnit, Daylight when he was here-- was nineteen now, visibly different from the lanky, somewhat bubble-headed boy he'd met.
The constant joking and slightly awkward air had remained. Zack would always be a bit of a spaz.
Shortly after the start of junior year, Zack had stopped growing. He was now 6'3", and the stringy, slightly pinched appearance had settled into a comfortable, easy bulk. Ripped? No. He was far from it. But he did have muscle, now, and the knowledge of martial arts to back it up. And Daylight didn't just glow, no-- now, he could control the glowing so that it only happened in his eyes, or so that it seemed to come from present light.
He could create light intense enough to blind, to warm, to burn.
It was a respectable partnership, the Archangel and Daylight. Warren had never been into that whole hero-with-a-sidekick gig; watching Steve Stronghold deal with "Mr. Boy" had struck him as somewhat creepy. Sick, even. So he and Zack were more partners.
As Zack drew closer, Warren lifted a gloved hand. The skin of his fingers was invisible-- as much as he preferred fingerless gloves, they were too much of an identity risk. Damn fingerprints.
"Glad you could make it. Think you could be less than an hour late next time?"
Zack winced, then sat down. If he caught the sarcasm, he made no sign of it. "Sorry 'bout that, Warren. The others going to be here?"
He didn't know. This year there would be a class reunion. A one year reunion, dumb as that was. He himself wouldn't go; he had nothing to say to the people of his class. Even with Royal Paine-- whatever her real name had been, he couldn't remember now-- gone, they had pretty well sucked. Layla, Will, Magenta, Ethan and Zack had been the only ones he could stand.
He shrugged. The smooth lines of his costume (sleek black leather, no spandex, no cape, just black and three red leather belts) made the gesture look graceful. The black slimmed him down, making his somewhat broad shoulders look more slender, made him look lither than his figure really was.
After what felt like forever-- Zack was now humming a popular song and horribly off key, and from the look on his face, it was deliberate-- a woman dressed entirely in black and various shades of purple walked through the door. She was on the shorter side of average, even with the chunky-looking leather boots. The boots were lace-ups, but Warren knew the woman who wore them well enough to know they the laces were an illusion.
The truth was, Magenta zipped up her boots; always had, always would.
Her gaze swept over the bar, searching. At length, she found the two of them and strode toward them.
There was an entirely different kind of heat in Zack's eyes when he looked at Magenta. Zack had always been into her, Warren knew, but this was a relatively new development.
Magenta leaned in to kiss Zack as a greeting, then took a seat next to the fairly tall 'sidekick'. She peered at Warren, gorgeous dark eyes searching his face for something. "The reunion is next Saturday. You going?"
"No."
Simple question, simple answer.
"Me either. I don't have a word for those dickheads."
He nodded. Remembering what Maj had suffered at the hands of her peers always brought back things in which he had, unwittingly, played part. "About that whole... you know. Plastic ball thing..."
A wry smile. "You're still sorry, aren't you?"
"Always will be."
"So what if you had gotten me out sooner? Not much would have changed." She smiled. This time it was real, though about as tentative as Magenta got. "At least it was somebody else's locker instead of one of theirs or mine."
Magenta was even more cool, collected and confident than Layla would ever be. Unlike Layla, Magenta didn't have a Cause. She fought evil because it was evil, not because it was hurting rainforests or anti-feminist or blah-blah-blah.
It was what he liked about Magenta. That don't-take-shit attitude, with the guts and the brains to back it up.
Zack was uncharacteristically quiet for a while. After a length of time, in which Magenta and Warren readjusted to being this near each other, Zack finally said, "I'm not going either."
"Got a reason?"
"I think having a one-year reunion is stupid. I mean, what, did we all just love each other so much we can't survive a year without seeing each other?"
Magenta laughed, he chuckled. It was true, wasn't it?
After another quiet few moments, Magenta sighed. "So, are The Tank and Eden willing to put aside their petty grudges and failed high school romance to get together tonight?"
Zack snorted. "Eden won't come. She's in Georgia."
"'Adam and Lilith' works better," Warren replied, inwardly agreeing with Zack. "Eden didn't go anywhere, and Eve stuck it out."
"You make it sound like Lilith ran away, when in fact, she was kicked out," said a familiar female voice from behind him.
Warren half turned. Indeed, standing directly behind his chair was a tall woman in green. She was wearing almost all green-- a green cheongsam, darker green leggings, high green boots. Tendrils of ivy formed a domino mask.
Layla was, as usual, stunning.
"Eden, good to see you," he said when his mouth wasn't dry.
"Nice to see you too." She sat down next to him, smoothing the cheongsam while she sat. "How was your freshman year, Dark?"
Maj-- known as Dark Trick to the public-- just smirked. It wasn't her usual smirk, though; it was the smirk she had used for people other than their group, back in high school.
"Daylight?"
Zack shook his head. "I had a total jerk for a roomie. Two semesters in a row. 'Side from that, though, wasn't too bad."
"Sorry to hear that." Layla sighed. "Look, last summer... I shouldn't have done any of that."
"Damn right you shouldn't have," Magenta replied. That intense stare turned on Layla now, and Warren was glad he wasn't directly across from either of them.
Zack folded his arms across his chest. "You shouldn't have run away, either."
"I didn't feel like I had any choice!"
Layla slapped a hand on the table, standing. The ivy that made up her mask shuddered, writhing and shifting, twining in her hair until he understood. Somewhere along the strand, it had sprouted thorns and it was growing towards them.
The summer before senior year, she and Will had clashed. They'd always fought each other, but this had been all-out battling. Screaming matches. Will showing up in his apartment looking completely worn out, Layla showing up crying...
It had been awful. And the night before they finally decided to give it up, that it wasn't working....
Horrific. Like a war, really, like World War IV was in Warren's own living room. His houseplants would never be the same, and he was reasonably sure that his mother had known there was a different reason for buying a new TV.
After graduation, Layla had run far, far away. An all-girls college in Georgia, for god's sake. That was a five-hour flight away.
Layla sighed, and the evil ivy stopped growing. The thorns fell off, and the ivy retreated back into her hair. She sat back down. "I'm transferring to MCC. That's why I'm even on this side of the country."
"Mm, Maxville Community College." Warren smirked, then chuckled. "I bet you can't wait to start."
"What are you doing up from L.A.?" Layla asked him. "I thought you and Daylight were down there? Aren't you studying-- oh god, what was it-- visual arts?"
"Theater and visual arts. Close."
"Why?"
"Hollywood could use better superhero movies--" He smirked again. "or at least better special effects."
"Hollywood." He could hear the amusement in Layla's voice, even if he couldn't see it through the mask.
"Yeah."
Layla just shook her head, while Zack gripped Warren's shoulder. For once, Warren didn't shrug or almost-burn him off.
It wasn't too much later that Ethan walked in. The goggles and wetsuit were the only hints that his power was liquid-based. There was no hint at all that he was a sidekick. He moved immediately to their table-- gatherings like this were more common for the guys of their "team".
"Streamline," Zack rose to greet him, gripping his best friend's arm.
Warren nodded and added, "Good to see you, Popsicle."
"What's Layla doing here?" Ethan asked.
They'd all been hurt that she just fled across the country. Will had grieved at the entire situation, feeling like a failure since he couldn't even get his love life in line. Magenta had lost her best friend. Zack had been hurt and confused, feeling that he had somehow contributed.
But Ethan had been hurt most of all. He'd depended on the delicate balance of personalities in their group. It had been a major part of his life. And to suddenly have that support withdrawn...
Warren's eyes narrowed. "She's back."
"Great." Ethan's voice made it clear: he didn't think it was great. "Why's she here?"
"Because she's back."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry about that whole thing."
Ethan looked away, but eventually nodded. He didn't say anything more.
Warren was glad. If he heard the word 'forgive', he would be sick.
"How's the hero business in L.A.?"
Warren sighed and shook his head. "Awful. I think the supervillains there read all the rejected scripts."
Zack nodded in agreement. He gestured wildly. "Check this out. LA's got themed villains."
Magenta laughed, Ethan shook his head, but Layla only blinked.
"Hey, if there are themed superheroes, why not--"
"--do we choose which villains we fight and which civilians we save based on themes?"
Magenta made a 'hmph' sound. "Of course not!" Not unless you're Layla, was the silent but easily audible addition.
"Themed villains and arch-enemies, that whole nemesis thing... I think it's stupid," Warren said. "Crime fighting shouldn't be an institution. It's not a delicate balance of good and evil. It's good eradicating evil."
Layla turned to stare at him. Magenta, Zack and Ethan also stared.
What he'd just said was tantamount to treason. Betrayal of the hero kind. Killing supervillains was frowned on. Instead, they put them behind bars that wouldn't hold and eagerly waited for the villains to break free and resume their battle.
The truth was, superheroes thrived on repeat offenders. They needed huge, flashy, unceasing battles. It was what separated them from vigilantes and made them heroes.
And Warren wondered why they bothered. Why be a hero when you could just as easily be a vigilante and actually get more done?
He smacked himself on the head. "Sorry about that. I just." He stopped, shook his head. "It's frustrating, you know?"
Zack nodded. "We get ya, man."
"I work hard-- no, we work hard-- to keep the city safe, and then bam, they bust out of prison and it's that whole stupid game all over again."
"That whole stupid game," Layla mused.
Magenta looked sad. "It sounds like burnout. You've only been doing this for real for, what, a year?"
"Oh god, and forty more to go." Warren shook his head and groaned.
"Definitely burnout."
But the truth, Warren thought, was that he was falling. He had, at first, signed his victories with Archangel Michael in scorched letters. Eventually, he'd shortened it. Wasn't there a story, somewhere about the Archangel Michael being kicked out of heaven?
He was falling.
He stared, grimly, at the table. The tiny fires all around him shone brightly.
He'd never wanted to be a villain. He'd always known he didn't want to be a villain.
It was looking like he didn't have a choice.
And, damn it all, Will never did turn up that night.
ii. Lies
(fast forward three months)
It seems that everything he says is a lie these days.
"I'm fine, Mom."
I'm scared.
"Skins his victims, huh? Sounds like a guy from PETA." .... "Fine, I'll see what I can do."
How do you expect ME to stop a serial killer? Do I look like a profiler? I'm a COLLEGE STUDENT for fuck's sake!
"I think I gained some weight."
I haven't been able to eat lately. Something's wrong with me.
"Everything is under control."
"I haven't heard from Dad."
Dad sent me another letter bomb.
"I have a good idea as to who it was."
"Don't worry about me."
Call me. Please. Or visit.
"I'm tracking him down right now."
I don't have any idea what he wants. I don't even know if it's a he.
"I'm really liking it here. Glad I moved."
Get me out of this.
"I thought I had him cornered but I didn't. He got away."
I never even saw the bastard.
"Mom, I promise, if something was wrong with me, I'd tell you."
I know it's wrong. But it feels so right.
"Don't worry. I'm not about to kill you."
iii. Stop Him
(fast forward four months)
The Farrier: Product Of Urban Legend and Hype?
Belinda Butler
IT HAS BEEN THREE MONTHS
since the Farrier has killed
anyone. The police have gotten
especially tight-lipped about
this case, probably out of
embarrassment. No arrests
regarding the Chain Man
have been made, not a
single suspect mentioned.
Not even a profile.
The truth is, the police
have nothing on this man.
If it even is a man. They
don't even know the gender.
No DNA, no fingerprints,
no fibers. Their last
theories stated that the
culprit might be
super-powered, but even
that is pure speculation.
Queries into the hero
community have produced
even more
speculation. The heroes
are coming up with
outlandish things. An "as-yet
unknown supervillain" seems
plausible,but the addition of,
"possibly from another
is just ridiculous.
All except for the
Archangel. The leather
-clad hero is just as
silent as the police. He's
almost impossible to find,
and when found, he will only
state, "I'm a living
flamethrower, not a detective."
It leads one to wonder if the
Chain Man is speculation himself.
After all, no physical evidence
has been found. For all the police
truly know, these killings
might as well be suicides. The
families of the victims may have
invented him. The media
may have invented him.
He might never have been there.
And now he's gone, without a
trace.
--excerpted from a local newspaper; clipping found in Warren Peace's possession.
iv. Stop Me
(rewind three months)
Warren wanted to put his head in his hands. But he couldn't, because there was blood on his gloves. He hadn't wanted it to be like that. Hell, he hadn't meant to find the Farrier at all.
It had been a complete accident. He'd been thrown through concrete again, this time thrown down, and he'd gone past several layers under the skyscraper, until he finally landed flat on his back. It had hurt like a bitch, hurt for days.
The villainess who'd managed it-- The Rhino, she called herself, and he could see why-- jumped down after him, landing heavily.
Their fight had ended there.
Theft and property damage (and, on the other side, attempting to stop said theft and property damage) didn't look quite so bad when faced with somebody who was busily flaying a woman alive.
The woman was screaming, twisting and writhing against the chains that held her down. "Get her out of here," he murmured to Rhino. "I can't break those without melting them to her."
He ignited his hand, forming a fireball. He tossed it easily. It struck the Farrier, and it landed square in the crook of the man's knee.
He screamed, one of those you-hurt-me-you-bitch screams and immediatly dropped his tools to grab the injured area.
"You asshole," the Farrier bellowed, hobbling as he turned.
"Want me to cut it off?" Archangel bent to pick up the kodachi he'd dropped in the fall. He had two of them.
They weren't really kodachi. More like a kodachi-jitte hybrid. Lengthwise, they were shorter than a katani and longer than a wakizashi, but they were blunt rods rather than blades.
Igniting them was easy.
"I can do that, you know."
"Asshole," the Farrier sobbed.
"If that makes it easier on you." To Rhino: "Get her out. Now."
Rhino nodded and surged forward, moving surprisingly quickly for such a strong woman. She easily snapped the chains and shucked the outer layer of her costume. Cooing soothing nonsense, Rhino wrapped the woman in the layer, then got the hell out of there.
Archangel turned his attention to the man who had killed six people.
Said man grabbed a pair of overlarge meathooks. The way he held them showed that there was something wrong with his hands.
After a moment, Archangel saw: he had surgically implanted fishing hooks in his hands.
Disgusting.
"You must have been a crappy-ass fisherman."
"So you don't like my claws," the man replied.
In reply, Archangel struck out with a flaming sword. This caused the man to back away, his pain forgotten.
It was the mark of a superhero or a supervillain-- the ability to ignore pain. Normal people, even in the worst of situations, were bound by pain. If a limb was broken, it was broken. There was no moving it.
People with superpowers, however, transcended pain.
Then again, the fish hooks were a bit of a give-away. Normal people didn't tend to just go sticking those in their fingers.
They danced like that for quite some time. Archangel moved forward, the Farrier stepped back. Archangel, forward; Farrier, back. Forward and back, forward and back.
Finally, though, the Farrier had enough of running. He stepped forward, meathooks at the ready. The hooks slashed down, toward him.
Archangel didn't think think, didn't pause, just moved. The flaming rods sliced through the hooks. He shifted his weight again, shifting his grip on the swords so that he could--
They planted, tips first, into the man's chest.
His eyes widened.
That was lethal.
And, sure enough, the Farrier soon died.
Archangel didn't know what to do.
He had just killed a villain. It was more than frowned on, it was one of the first sign of a fall.