Los Angeles, Sunday Night
Banzai flipped over the edge of the rooftop, landing in a graceful crouch with her rainbows fluttering around her. She stood easily, not a single bruise or sore spot remaining from her time in Cyseal. It was good to have a healing mage in her back pocket.
Her pleased smile vanished as she wondered how many times Regenerator's wife had thought the same thing.
Poor Regenerator. She wished she could do more for him; just covering his patrol hardly seemed like enough when he was faced with the loss of his wife. But Banzai was hesitant to call the number in her phone, unwilling to intrude on the private grief of a man whose real name she didn't even know. What was she supposed to say? She'd been lucky enough to never really lose anyone close to her; all she had was a few platitudes about being terribly sorry and that time healed all wounds.
Maybe she could bring him some tea later? She was perched on the rooftop of the small teahouse that Regenerator liked to frequent at the beginning of his patrols. He'd introduced her to it over Christmas break, explaining the proprietors were actually happy to serve the masked set, since it meant criminals tended to give the store a wide berth. They'd sat and talked over a few nice cups of Ceylon and Banzai'd told him all about her plans to become a doctor. He explained he was a medical resident for his day job. They laughed at the idea of one day working together in the wards and the streets. She should have given him her real name then, when he'd joked about commandeering her as an intern when it was time.
Maybe if she had, she'd feel less lost now. What was she supposed to do? Well, other than take his patrol and hope that somehow, he'd know that it was taken care of?
[NFB, NFI. Some text taken from Chapter 24, "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You", from Peter Clines' Ex-Heroes. OOC welcome, warning for oblique suicide mention.]
Her pleased smile vanished as she wondered how many times Regenerator's wife had thought the same thing.
Poor Regenerator. She wished she could do more for him; just covering his patrol hardly seemed like enough when he was faced with the loss of his wife. But Banzai was hesitant to call the number in her phone, unwilling to intrude on the private grief of a man whose real name she didn't even know. What was she supposed to say? She'd been lucky enough to never really lose anyone close to her; all she had was a few platitudes about being terribly sorry and that time healed all wounds.
Maybe she could bring him some tea later? She was perched on the rooftop of the small teahouse that Regenerator liked to frequent at the beginning of his patrols. He'd introduced her to it over Christmas break, explaining the proprietors were actually happy to serve the masked set, since it meant criminals tended to give the store a wide berth. They'd sat and talked over a few nice cups of Ceylon and Banzai'd told him all about her plans to become a doctor. He explained he was a medical resident for his day job. They laughed at the idea of one day working together in the wards and the streets. She should have given him her real name then, when he'd joked about commandeering her as an intern when it was time.
Maybe if she had, she'd feel less lost now. What was she supposed to do? Well, other than take his patrol and hope that somehow, he'd know that it was taken care of?
[NFB, NFI. Some text taken from Chapter 24, "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You", from Peter Clines' Ex-Heroes. OOC welcome, warning for oblique suicide mention.]