#the amt of plot twists feels like the comical shit on wednesday

[mirohtron]

They'd met, before.

"It's all right, tiger." The superhero's attention was half-not on them as he spoke, flying down to ground a safe distance away from the burning building.

The civilian doubted the superhero remembered. They hoped that he didn't. Prayed. Buried their face into his shoulder just so that he wouldn't get a good look at their face. They hadn't used powers, had they? They didn't think they had. Superpowered people had greater strength, could hold their breath for longer, were more durable to fire and smoke, of course, but that wouldn't have been so noticeable, surely?

Just to stay safe, the civilian coughed a few times. They didn't know how regular human bodies reacted to inhaling so much smoke. They hoped they were doing it right.

The superhero gently set them on the ground. "Keep these people safe, yeah?" he said, jutting his chin to the people behind the two of them—and the crowd was mostly made up of the people the civilian had ushered out. The civilian looked down and nodded their head.

The superhero shot back up to the skies.

The civilian took to rounding everyone up, counting heads, inspecting for injuries. It was—it was odd, to do. Something so good, at the behest of one who told you off once upon a time for trying to do more. But surely the superhero didn't remember. Seventeen years was so long ago. Besides, the civilian understood now. Why they were told to not try to be better. Not be a superhero. You couldn't be a good person, as a superhero. It was impossible to not indulge in hedonism. To not lose yourself along the way. Goodness was like sand.

More people were getting dropped off by the superhero. Ambulances came. The civilian was fine, obviously, and didn't need help. Their breathing was fine. No burns on their arms, just ash. They helped paramedics. They soothed their neighbours. They prayed every evidence of their evil scheming that they'd brought back from their lair was burned in the fire. It wasn't much, but it was incriminating.

It didn't take much time for press to arrive. They ignored the civilian, at first. A couple interviewers came—small ones, who knew they wouldn't be able to talk over huge, charismatic journalists with years of experience—to ask questions. The civilian didn't want to give them their name. Or face. They pushed a camera away and tried moving away, but they caught a lady from the crowd coming straight for them.

"Here we have," she began, and shoved a mic in front of their face, "the brave civilian who took on the position of leader for the group of survivors of this burning tragedy. Civilian, how many people did you count injured?"

"I, uhm," the civilian began, and then another reporter shoved a mic in front of their face.

"What caused this fire?" he asked.

The civilian caught the lady rolling her eyes at him. "How long did it take for the superhero to arrive?" she asked. "Were there any casualties?"

The civilian tried putting on their most sheepish smile. "I'd really not like to answer any questions right now—"

"Did the superhero rescue you? Or did you run out of the building on your own?"

A camera flashed. Then another, and there was a brief moment of silence before the clicking of shutters was all that they could hear, and they were blinded by light. The superhero was right. They wouldn't survive heroism, with camera flashes burning their eyes out every other day. And if he didn't know their face before, he'd surely know now, with all the pictures that were being taken.

The civilian stepped back.

Like vultures, the reporters and camerapeople stepped closer. Crowded them. Shoved mics in their face. They couldn't see a single thing.

A big, strong, gloved hand rested on their shoulder. The civilian flinched and tensed up like stone. Between flashes, they caught smitten, blushing faces or story-hungry, predatory expressions from reporters wanting to stir up drama.

"Hey, everyone," said the superhero, over the civilian's shoulder, in a media-friendly, jovial tone and with a camera-ready smile that they could hear in their voice. He put a chummy arm around their shoulder and the civilian tried not to act put out. "I hope I'm not late. Wouldn't want to leave this poor thing to fend for themselves, ha! Am I right?" He stepped back and dragged the civilian with him, giving them a squeeze. "If you want to hide, just get behind me."

Aha. Right. When the civilian could totally just run right now. They very much wanted to, now that they'd gotten the opening and the reporters swarmed the superhero. They faked a laugh and half-hid behind the superhero.

"Superhero, superhero!"

"Yes?"

"What would you like to say to the brave civilian behind you? Eyewitnesses claim they were seen ushering out many people out of the burning building."

The civilian choked. Who the fuck told on them? They quickly searched for really good alleyways to disappear into.

"Ah—well, uhm." The civilian said stupidly. "Just trying to help! With, uhm, being raised with a good righteous role model like the superhero, instinct just overrode to save all those people." God, why did they say anything? They could feel their pallor.

"Oh, you look quite unwell. Did the fire cause several injuries?"

"Yes—yes! I might've, uhm, just inhaled too much smoke. God! Haha." The civilian coughed very weakly. "I should probably get to the hospital, y'know. Couldn't." That was a lie. They'd been checked on before the reporters arrived.

"Right, right." The superhero pat them on the back. "You should sit down. There's plenty of medical experts here."

The civilian did not look at him. They turned around and walked to an ambulance and sat there and watched the superhero walk to a spot further away, the reporters following like ducklings. The distance made it easier for them to breathe. A few officers answered questions here and there to reporters who had realised they wouldn't get an answer from the superhero.

Nobody bothered the civilian—there had been a couple reporters that came to them and the superhero politely and loudly requested that they 'keep off of the tired civilian'. They still caught the superhero eyeing them from time to time—did they recognise them? That scrawny little kid trying to be just like him, with a homemade suit and powers that they couldn't quite yet control? The civilian was half convinced they did. It made them want to shake out of their skin or maybe die. If the superhero recognised them, they'd probably be fucked. Royally. Their powers weren't so common.

The superhero glanced at them again. The civilian tapped their foot on the floor.

The superhero looked again. The civilian looked back this time, and tried to look a little ticked off. They didn't think they did that very well. They couldn't take it, though—they didn't like people. They didn't like the superhero, either. But they couldn't really leave. That would make them more suspicious.

So they waited.

Time passed.

People left as soon as the superhero snapped his head to a distant crime only he could hear and shot up to the skies.

They ached to go inside, to check if their things had burnt to a crisp completely. But they didn't want anything crumbling on top of them. Who would save them, then? Not the superhero. Not any hero. They were just there for the glory and the fame.

And yet...they stayed there helplessly, looking at their burnt apartment. Cold morning blue was beginning to seep into the horizon by now, stretching to touch the soft, grey-white edges of the moon. The smoke had left dusty residue on their cheeks and hair and singed clothes. They walked up to a wall on the building and kicked it experimentally. They didn’t hear any crack.

A soft whoosh came from behind them. Their hair swayed with the breeze.

The civilian whipped around.

The superhero stood in front of them and the villain's heart dropped in fear instantly.

"Hi," said the superhero. It wasn't... it wasn't threatening, no. But the civilian felt just a little faint. They tripped on their own feet in an attempt to step back and the superhero’s hands shot out to steady them by their arms. Ungloved.

The civilian swallowed. They tried to look calm but they weren’t sure if it was working. They weren’t sure if they were supposed to not look calm. They had no idea how to act. Maybe harmless. They tried looking like that. Small and harmless and unassuming.

"Hi," they said back.

The superhero looked them over. "All right? You look pale."

"I'm fine. Just peachy."

"Sure?"

Shakily, the civilian drew in a breath. They coughed weakly. "Just—I just inhaled some smoke. But it's fine."

"That's great." The superhero tilted his head. "I was just so worried. You seemed really scared, cowering into my chest and all. That must've been to protect your eyes, huh?"

"My—what?"

They were offered a smile. Camera-ready. "Your eyes. Smoke can irritate your eyes, unless you're a super. That makes you more resistant. To smoke. And irritation. And wheezy breathing."

Oh. Oh, they didn't know that. Their breath hitched. The villain didn't know what to do, then. Run? No, the superhero could catch up easily.

They pulled ash-matted strands of hair away from their cheeks, looking down. They coughed, weakly, and it was a bad attempt because the superhero chuckled.

"You've grown," the superhero said. They sounded half-fond. "I almost didn't recognise you."

"Oh." The villain felt dizzy again. So they hadn't been busted. No, of course not. They never took their mask off. When they'd come to the superhero, scrawny and hopeful, they'd taken their mask off. They still remembered the way the grimace on the superhero's face. "Yeah. Yeah. Puberty."

The superhero searched in his pocket and took out their old mask from seventeen years ago, badly burned but still retaining its colour. He held it out. "You kept it for so long," he said. "It's a little singed, but..."

Some naïve, hopeful part of the villain fluttered warmly at the gesture, and they smothered that feeling immediately. The superhero wasn't an exception. But they had to accept. They loved that mask. They'd made the entire suit on their own, with their saved allowances and abandoned spray paint cans they'd found underneath bridges and behind dumpsters in alleyways. "Thanks."

The superhero gave them another smile. He reached out, deliberately slow so that he wouldn't spook the villain. They didn't flinch.

He scrubbed ash from their cheek with his thumb. "Don't take your mask off next time," he said.

The villain reeled back.

The superhero gave a wince. It was more theatrical. "Too obvious?" he asked, and of course he wasn't expecting an answer, but the villain still spluttered. Their shoulders rose with heaving breaths. They held their mask close to their chest.

The superhero smiled. It was not friendly. It said, I will get you.

He left before the villain could answer.

The villain clutched their mask close, and then threw it to the ground.