(no subject)
"--you were a hero!" comes the heavily accented voice from behind him as the doorway opens.
Mitchell Hundred stands in that doorway, a very specific Manhattan skyline behind him. His hands are in his pockets and his head is down, everything hurting like he'd been up flying except he hasn't done that in so long and his eyes are closed like there were harsh winds beating at him but the air is still.
"No," he says to the figure behind him, the one obscured by the darkness, the burning end of a cigarette showing only a grizzled beard and lips set in a hard expression, "I was a failure. If I were a real hero..."
And the door closes behind him.
Mitchell Hundred stands in that doorway, a very specific Manhattan skyline behind him. His hands are in his pockets and his head is down, everything hurting like he'd been up flying except he hasn't done that in so long and his eyes are closed like there were harsh winds beating at him but the air is still.
"No," he says to the figure behind him, the one obscured by the darkness, the burning end of a cigarette showing only a grizzled beard and lips set in a hard expression, "I was a failure. If I were a real hero..."
And the door closes behind him.