[inception fic] Hero Today [2a/7]
Title: Hero Today [chapter two]
Author: saintdogstreet
Word count: ~6800 for this chapter
Rating: R
Warnings: Arthur/Eames. Violence, profanity. Unbetaed.
Extra Disclaimer: References to Robert Frost and Bob Dylan.
Summary: For the help_pakistan auction. Arthur is a barista by day and the masked superhero Vindicate by night. Life would be good, if he wasn't hopelessly in love with the businessman who visits his coffee shop every morning. Oh, and if somebody wasn't trying to kill him.
A/n: It's way, way too late for me to be posting this, and I've a feeling I'm going to look over it in the morning and see that it's entirely written in pig latin. Or something.
Split into two parts because ohmygod it's so freaking long.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
"When you're low down and dirty
From walkin' the street
With your old hurdy gurdy
No one to meet
Said, love ain't the same
On the south side of town
You could look
But you ain't gonna find it around
It's the same old story
Same old song and dance, my friend"
- Aerosmith, Same Old Song and Dance
**
It doesn't take a genius to figure out phone booths are made of glass, and Arthur's really not that much of an exhibitionist. Besides, he's yet to figure out a convenient way to carry civvies around with him. His two holsters and cargo belts are enough weight already, and carrying a backpack would be more than a little unstylish.
He does keep spare clothes in the back room, though, and it's secret enough.
Arthur peels off his suit and changes quickly, scrubbing at his face and wishing for a shower.
It's not exactly stopping bank robberies, but Arthur likes working at Wake Up! coffee house. His only superpower is the ability to tell what kinds of hot beverages a person favours based solely on observation, but it serves him well enough here. Mr. Moore, the aging owner of the old coffee shop, had more or less turned the reigns over to Arthur, and he is free to make his own hours and decisions. The pay isn't stellar, but it isn't bad, and the flexibility the job affords him is its own bonus.
Sometimes Arthur likes to imagine the place blowing up.
He doesn't want anyone to get hurt, god no, and he really would be sorry to see it go. But in the dull hours when he's working the counter alone and it's too late or too early for anyone to be craving caffeine, short of the die hard freaks, he likes to imagine the bombs going off, the florid orange and yellow fireball distending and tearing the building to shreds. Bloodbath would be behind it, maybe, he always went for the most destruction, the flashy stuff.
And this is how Arthur thinks it will go, he'll find the bomb before it can go off, ticking relentlessly somewhere. And he'll slip into the storeroom, pull on his suit. He'll come back out and usher everyone outdoors, to safety, calm and authoritative.
And Eames will be there, watching him, listening to him, following him. And Arthur will save him.
Eames will throw his arms around Arthur's neck, hold him close, close enough that Arthur can feel his heart pounding rapidly against him. Maybe, in the heat of the moment and the heat of the flames, Eames' lips will find his. Eames will kiss his hero.
Vindicate is strong and capable and smooth and someone somebody could love.
He'll take Eames' hand then, take him someplace high up. And they'll look down on this city together, this city Arthur loves as much as he hates, and Arthur will show him what he sees. The exhaust-stained bricks and the broken glass-paved streets and the hope running through the gutters. All the people down there trying to save themselves.
And Eames will hold his hand, sun setting the colour of explosions behind them, and he'll say, I see, I see.
And maybe, just maybe, Arthur will peel his mask off, and Eames will love him anyways.
"Arthur?"
The door creaks open behind him and Arthur spins around, fitting the last button on his shirt.
Tadashi raises an eyebrow at him. "I didn't think you were here. . . What are you doing in the storeroom?'
Arthur pauses. He kicks the bag containing his suit deeper beneath the shelf. "Inventory."
"Right," Tadashi just rolls his eyes, in the way teenagers do when they get fed up with the absurdity of adults. "Oh, you should know -- Eames is here."
"What?" Arthur says, in a way that sounds disturbingly like a squeak. "I mean. . . why should I care?"
"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," Tadashi sniffs. "Just go out there and stumble all over yourself like you normally do."
"I do not stumble," Arthur says. He smooths out his waistcoat, shoves his cuffs higher up his elbows, and follows Tadashi out.
"Whatever," Tadashi says. "Man, never try to keep any big secrets, Arthur. You suck at it."
"I'll keep that in mind," Arthur says. Tadashi puts his headphones in and Arthur slides behind the mammoth cappuccino machine. Eames is resting his chin on the back of his hand, just shy of sprawling all over the counter.
"Eames," Arthur says. "You're here late."
"It's never too late for tea, love," Eames says. His eyes flicker over Arthur's face, and Arthur holds himself very still. "You look like you've had a rough day of it. And not the good kind of rough, either."
"Nothing too bad, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, and normally he likes to catch some sleep before heading from work to work, but well, beggars would ride and all that. But this close to Eames, he's even more uncomfortably aware of his craving for a shower. "What can I get for you today?"
"One of those wonderful cups of tea of yours. Best this side of the Atlantic. You know you're the only American I've ever met who can make it the way I like?"
"It's in our heritage. The strongest feelings we've ever had about tea ended up with us throwing the lot of it into the sea."
"What a waste. Uncivilized, that."
"Now I'm getting lessons in civilized behaviour from a man who can't even pronounce aluminum?"
"It's al-u-min-i-um, you twat."
"That," Arthur says primly, "is not a word."
"I'm sure I could show you lots of words your shallow American education never saw fit to teach you. Arse. Bollocks. Wank. Bugger. Shag."
"My shallow American education taught me enough to tell you to hold your tongue, Mr. Eames."
"Is that a come on?"
"I'm still surrounded by boiling water. Don't test me. And stop insulting my country."
"Hey, now, I'm a citizen in this country. I'd fight for her. Defend her to the death, I would. Still doesn't change the tea thing."
"I suppose not. Here," Arthur slides his cup over to him, and Eames clasps his hands around the warm ceramic, inhaling the drifting steam. It's Arthur's special blend, from the special box. For special occasions. Like every time Eames walks through the door.
"Marry me," Eames says, taking a sip.
"You'd leave me as soon as the next loose-leaf hussy walks through the door."
"Darling, if they can make anything better than this, what choice would I have?"
"A slave to the whims of your taste buds."
"And a happy one at that. Ecstatic. Euphoric. Orgas--"
"Drink your tea, Mr. Eames."
"Gladly, Arthur dear."
There's a happy chirrup from Arthur's pocket and in a Pavlovian sort of way every muscle in him tenses.
"I have to take this," Arthur says. "Excuse me."
He slips his phone out of his waistcoat and heads back for the storeroom. He's starting to become rather acquainted with the mops.
It's dim and smells like bleach and the coffee grounds that permeate the whole place, and Arthur isn't really looking forward to this conversation. People calling his work phone -- his work work phone -- rarely have good news.
He answers before the ringing can stop. "Hello?"
"Vindicate," a smooth voice says, like Italian roast. "You need to come to headquarters."
"What's going on?" Arthur asks, fairly certain they won't tell him anything important.
"The Executive would like to see you."
And if Arthur's muscles were a bit tense before, those words accomplish alchemy that turns them into solid steel. The Legion of Tomorrow contacts him fairly regularly, sends him off on odd jobs here and there, stuff that needs a superhero to get done. Part of the deal.
But he's only ever seen the Executive, head of the organization he's -- well, saying he's sold his soul to the Legion is a little dramatic, but possibly accurate -- a part of in person once before.
Something serious is going on.
"There will be a car waiting for you. You know the place."
Arthur does.
"All right," Arthur says. "I'll be there."
The man with the smooth voice laughs, and Arthur hangs up before he can say, "Of course you will."
The Legion of Tomorrow is the most prominent organization of superheroes. But lately, the jobs they've been sending Arthur on, they're not exactly stuff he'd ever thought he'd be doing while wearing the mask. Enough to make him start dreading the Legion's calls.
But it's true. Of course Arthur's going to be there.
Arthur pockets his phone and goes back out into the main room. He tells Tadashi that he has to take off, and when the kid hears he can close up early and have the rest of the night free he only grins widely and spares Arthur his snark.
"You have everything you need?" Arthur asks Eames.
"Tea and sympathy. What more could I possibly want? Of course, by sympathy I really mean a gorgeous man who's about to leave me alone, sitting on a bar stool in a coffee house that spells its name with an exclamation point. But close enough, right?"
Arthur smiles, and he busies himself turning off the coffee machines before he succumbs to the urge to clap Eames on the shoulder, feel his body heat and the texture of his hideous orange shirt beneath his palm.
"Don't take it personally."
"Can I help it if the world revolves around me?"
"Your massive ego certainly has enough of a gravitational pull," Arthur agrees. "But I'm afraid I really have to go."
"You all right, darling?" Eames asks, idly playing with his empty cup. Arthur pauses from putting bags of coffee grounds back on their proper shelves.
"Fine. I'm fine. Just some stuff I need to take care of," he says, and Eames nods slowly.
"If you're sure," Eames says, still watching him.
"I am," Arthur wipes his hands on his apron and reaches back to untie it, folding the dark cloth over his arms. "As much as I'm loathe to leave your scintillating company."
"Am I scintillating?" Eames makes a show of glancing down at his lap. "You should've said something earlier."
"It can be a dull job, sometimes I need the little things to keep me entertained."
"Oi," Eames says. "Nothing little here. Venti."
"Of course," Arthur soothes. Eames huffs.
"Well, then, shall I walk you to your bus-stop? Dangerous neighborhood, you know."
"Oh, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, and laughs. "I don't think you could keep up with me."
Ten minutes later he's on the roof, running full tilt for the sky.
Halloween's still a few weeks off yet but as Arthur makes his way towards headquarters, he passes a scattering of kids dressed up in costumes. Dressed up in spandex with pretend six-packs. Dressed up like masked men, and one of them is dressed up like him.
It's not the first time Arthur's seen kids playing the vigilante version of cops-and-robbers, not the first time he's caught a grade-schooler flipping through The Spectacular Vindicate! comic books, or making little black-and-blue action figures run over buildings made of sticks and bricks and cracks in the sidewalk. Not the first time he's seen kids in his old neighborhood play with all that merchandise he doesn't make a penny off of.
But here, heading for Legion headquarters, seeing it makes him a little sick to his stomach. Because, god, but he tries. And he can't help but feel he's letting them all down anyways.
He wants to stop this kid in his cheap costume, and rest a hand on his shoulder and say, you don't start out like this. This isn't planned.
You start out as kid, and you're young and stupid and so filled-up with anger you think it'll shred your skin from the inside-out. You start out as a stupid kid and all you want to do is make the world -- make this city -- someplace better. And it's hard enough to start getting in the middle of the fights you see, tie a bandana over your face like some old cowboy and pretend you're a comic book hero. But it's not enough.
And then you find someone, someone else who's trying to play hero. Someone older than you and stronger than you and you think, at the time, so much smarter than you.
(everybody who does this is a fucking idiot)
And so you follow him and you beg him and you argue with him. You tell him, this person, this man, this personal hero of yours, your own fucking custom-made messiah built-up in your fucked-up child's mind, that you want to be just like him. And he puts you off and he tells you to stay in school and stay away from drugs and you keep at it, you keep bugging this Golden man. And you show him you can fight. You show him you can run, your parkour, that goes upwards and over and anywhere you like.
(the fastest way from point A to point B is always a straight line, remember that)
And eventually he'll be impressed. And eventually he'll relent.
And than you'll be somebody, see. You'll almost be a real-life hero. Because this Golden saviour of yours calls you partner. You're a sidekick, you're his sidekick, and it's exhilarating and dangerous and perfect.
For a while there, it's perfect.
(nothing gold can stay)
And then something will happen, something that will make you realize even your own personal heroes are just as crazy and stupid and fucked-up and human as you.
(and if you think about this thing that happens, you know it's beautiful. So beautiful it makes your throat tight and your heart ache. And it still cuts you into ribbons anyway.)
And just like that, your hero's out of the game.
What's a sidekick without his partner?
And it's a bit like abandoning ship without a life boat, and you're floating in the sea. You're floundering. Drowning.
You're still fighting crime as best you can, but the times, they are a-changing.
The world has decided it doesn't want a hero. They're calling you a criminal, they're calling you dangerous, they're calling you scum. And they're cracking down.
And you're alone. And you're scared.
(Blue Dragonfly gets arrested and thrown into a prison half-filled with people he's helped put there. He's dead within a week.)
What are you without this?
And this, Arthur wants to tell the boy, this is why you end up heading towards Legion headquarters today. This is why you're working for an organization you don't believe in all the time. This is why sometimes you're not sure you're really the good guy.
Because when you're alone and lost and looking for someone to save you
(looking for a superhero)
they show up. And they offer you the job. An alliance, they call it. Expensive suits that are resistant to damage, so much better than that bright cheap spandex you've been wearing. Weapons. And money, money, money. They're too high-class to wave it right in your face but it's almost as if their hands are full of green fans of dollar bills, anyways.
And after all this, all you really want to do is help. Make the world a better place. Protect your city. And you're not as young as you were when you first started down this primary-coloured path
(but you're still just as stupid)
but you still want to save the world just as much.
And you say yes.
Arthur drops down from a low cinder-block building, street hitting his feet hard. There's a low, dark car waiting to take him the rest of the way, a driver standing impassively with his head down in front of it. Without looking at him, the man opens up the backseat door.
Arthur swallows hard and gets in.
**
An agitated heap of purple spandex runs into Arthur in the hall.
"Oof," the spandex says, and Arthur manages to catch himself before his face gets to know the carpet, putting steadying hands on purple shoulders.
The spandex is Mr. Victory. Arthur's seen him around before, teamed up for a couple runs against Collision.
"You okay?" Arthur asks, stepping back into the comfort of his personal space.
Victory sighs, running a hand down from the mask covering the top half of his face to the bare skin of his chin, "Yes, yes, I'm fine."
Arthur gestures to the dark-wood door Victory just stumbled out of. "That bad?"
Mr. Victory gives a shallow smile, a twist of his lips that looks like it hurts something inside of him. "Oh yes."
"Ah. Well, that's encouraging," Arthur says. The black-suited bodyguard who's been escorting him through the labyrinth of headquarters shifts impatiently beside him.
Mr. Victory gives a dismissive wave of his hand, glove thick with hi-tech tangles that Arthur couldn't guess at. He went for speed and maneuverability over armour or too many gadgets. Grappling gun, stun gun, a few nifty tricks in his belt, and he was good to go. Mr. Victory, and the other hand, was suited up with all sorts of tech, and he knew Magnificent Man had a fair bit of armour. And a cape. What kind of idiot wears a cape?
"You'll probably be okay. Or he'll drop you into his pit of sharks. Either way. . ."
"Thanks," Arthur says drily. He's pretty sure Mr. Victory is kidding about the sharks. Pretty sure.
Arthur's escort clears his throat loudly and he gives Victory a fatalistic grin.
"Wish me luck," Arthur says, heading through the doorway.
"Good lu--"
The door shuts with a heavy slam behind him, and Mr. Victory's words are lost.
The room is dim, and the sparse light in it glows dully red, like the shifting eyes of albino rats.
Arthur stands awkwardly. There is a heavy wooden table stretching out before him, edges of the polished wood reflecting red. At the end of it sits a figure, head tucked down, black hood drawn over his face. Arthur can't make out his features, but he's gotten used to having no idea what the man who runs his life really looks like.
Whoosh-hiss.
It takes Arthur a second to recognize the noise of a respirator.
Whoosh-hiss.
Whoosh-hiss.
It makes him lick his lips and think about his own breathing, ribcage ballooning outward and heart beating fast. The Executive was breathing fine on his own last time Arthur saw him, all those lifetimes ago, and he wonders if this is a controlled condition or if it means something more.
"Vindicate," the Executive says. His voice is sandpaper on chalkboards, aluminum sliding on gravel, steel wool shoved down the garbage disposal. He doesn't bother with pleasantries. "I have a job for you."
"What is it?" Arthur says, and he reminds himself. He is Vindicate. He steps forward, resting the heels of his hands on the long table.
"A simple enough task," Whoosh-hiss. "There is a man. I need you to stop him."
"Who is he?"
The Executive doesn't make any signal Arthur can see, but like an obedient doberman, one of the black-suited men standing against the wall steps forward, sliding a folder across the shiny wood towards Arthur. He catches it with a gloved hand and flips it open.
"Saito?" Arthur says, surprised. He'd been expecting something. . . a little bit more pretend. Slaughter or Black Shark or the Terrible Flaming Earthworm. Supervillains usually had way too much time on their hands to come up with names.
He studies the picture of the man, black-hair and expensive suit. Japanese, he checks in the file.
"What has he done?"
"It's more what he's going to do, if he isn't stopped."
"I'm not in the habit of punishing people for crimes they haven't committed yet."
"Maybe it's time you revised your methods then, Vindicate. Think of the lives that could be saved."
Saito is a businessman. Probably not in possession of a one-way ticket to the pearly gates, but a quick glance at his file doesn't show anything particularly heinous.
The respirator hisses and neither Arthur nor the Executive say anything. They both know how this is going to end.
Beneath his mask, Arthur bites his lower lip to keep from sighing. "What do you want me to do?"
Another henchman steps forward -- sit, stay, rollover, play dead, good dog -- and this time he sets a slim silver case on the table.
Arthur flicks open the latch and freezes.
"No," he breathes out before he can stop himself. "You know I don't do this."
"I believe I already suggested you start revising your methods," the Executive says implacably.
The Legion has supplied him with lots of weapons before, the latest of all sorts of technology, but this here is nothing new.
The handgun is dark and sleek and sits pretty in the red light. Arthur ghosts a finger over the cold metal, feels something thrash in his chest.
It rests in its foam padding like a sleeping panther, and Arthur's seen enough of them before to recognize the caliber and maker. It's beautiful, in a way. With its smooth perfected barrel and rough grip and all its simplicity. Arthur's seen kids use guns just like this before. It doesn't take a superhero to pull a trigger.
"I can't," Arthur says, and hates himself. "I won't."
Whoosh-hiss. Whoosh-hiss.
The Executive says nothing, because there's nothing at all he has to say.
**
The weight of this gun feels different than that of his stun gun, heavy in its holster, dragging him down. Arthur climbs through Los Angeles, closes his eyes when he jumps off the next building, nothing but the rush of air in his ears, and when his feet hit the concrete hard it rattles up through his bones and he hardly feels a thing.
**
Part B
Author: saintdogstreet
Word count: ~6800 for this chapter
Rating: R
Warnings: Arthur/Eames. Violence, profanity. Unbetaed.
Extra Disclaimer: References to Robert Frost and Bob Dylan.
Summary: For the help_pakistan auction. Arthur is a barista by day and the masked superhero Vindicate by night. Life would be good, if he wasn't hopelessly in love with the businessman who visits his coffee shop every morning. Oh, and if somebody wasn't trying to kill him.
A/n: It's way, way too late for me to be posting this, and I've a feeling I'm going to look over it in the morning and see that it's entirely written in pig latin. Or something.
Split into two parts because ohmygod it's so freaking long.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
"When you're low down and dirty
From walkin' the street
With your old hurdy gurdy
No one to meet
Said, love ain't the same
On the south side of town
You could look
But you ain't gonna find it around
It's the same old story
Same old song and dance, my friend"
- Aerosmith, Same Old Song and Dance
**
It doesn't take a genius to figure out phone booths are made of glass, and Arthur's really not that much of an exhibitionist. Besides, he's yet to figure out a convenient way to carry civvies around with him. His two holsters and cargo belts are enough weight already, and carrying a backpack would be more than a little unstylish.
He does keep spare clothes in the back room, though, and it's secret enough.
Arthur peels off his suit and changes quickly, scrubbing at his face and wishing for a shower.
It's not exactly stopping bank robberies, but Arthur likes working at Wake Up! coffee house. His only superpower is the ability to tell what kinds of hot beverages a person favours based solely on observation, but it serves him well enough here. Mr. Moore, the aging owner of the old coffee shop, had more or less turned the reigns over to Arthur, and he is free to make his own hours and decisions. The pay isn't stellar, but it isn't bad, and the flexibility the job affords him is its own bonus.
Sometimes Arthur likes to imagine the place blowing up.
He doesn't want anyone to get hurt, god no, and he really would be sorry to see it go. But in the dull hours when he's working the counter alone and it's too late or too early for anyone to be craving caffeine, short of the die hard freaks, he likes to imagine the bombs going off, the florid orange and yellow fireball distending and tearing the building to shreds. Bloodbath would be behind it, maybe, he always went for the most destruction, the flashy stuff.
And this is how Arthur thinks it will go, he'll find the bomb before it can go off, ticking relentlessly somewhere. And he'll slip into the storeroom, pull on his suit. He'll come back out and usher everyone outdoors, to safety, calm and authoritative.
And Eames will be there, watching him, listening to him, following him. And Arthur will save him.
Eames will throw his arms around Arthur's neck, hold him close, close enough that Arthur can feel his heart pounding rapidly against him. Maybe, in the heat of the moment and the heat of the flames, Eames' lips will find his. Eames will kiss his hero.
Vindicate is strong and capable and smooth and someone somebody could love.
He'll take Eames' hand then, take him someplace high up. And they'll look down on this city together, this city Arthur loves as much as he hates, and Arthur will show him what he sees. The exhaust-stained bricks and the broken glass-paved streets and the hope running through the gutters. All the people down there trying to save themselves.
And Eames will hold his hand, sun setting the colour of explosions behind them, and he'll say, I see, I see.
And maybe, just maybe, Arthur will peel his mask off, and Eames will love him anyways.
"Arthur?"
The door creaks open behind him and Arthur spins around, fitting the last button on his shirt.
Tadashi raises an eyebrow at him. "I didn't think you were here. . . What are you doing in the storeroom?'
Arthur pauses. He kicks the bag containing his suit deeper beneath the shelf. "Inventory."
"Right," Tadashi just rolls his eyes, in the way teenagers do when they get fed up with the absurdity of adults. "Oh, you should know -- Eames is here."
"What?" Arthur says, in a way that sounds disturbingly like a squeak. "I mean. . . why should I care?"
"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," Tadashi sniffs. "Just go out there and stumble all over yourself like you normally do."
"I do not stumble," Arthur says. He smooths out his waistcoat, shoves his cuffs higher up his elbows, and follows Tadashi out.
"Whatever," Tadashi says. "Man, never try to keep any big secrets, Arthur. You suck at it."
"I'll keep that in mind," Arthur says. Tadashi puts his headphones in and Arthur slides behind the mammoth cappuccino machine. Eames is resting his chin on the back of his hand, just shy of sprawling all over the counter.
"Eames," Arthur says. "You're here late."
"It's never too late for tea, love," Eames says. His eyes flicker over Arthur's face, and Arthur holds himself very still. "You look like you've had a rough day of it. And not the good kind of rough, either."
"Nothing too bad, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, and normally he likes to catch some sleep before heading from work to work, but well, beggars would ride and all that. But this close to Eames, he's even more uncomfortably aware of his craving for a shower. "What can I get for you today?"
"One of those wonderful cups of tea of yours. Best this side of the Atlantic. You know you're the only American I've ever met who can make it the way I like?"
"It's in our heritage. The strongest feelings we've ever had about tea ended up with us throwing the lot of it into the sea."
"What a waste. Uncivilized, that."
"Now I'm getting lessons in civilized behaviour from a man who can't even pronounce aluminum?"
"It's al-u-min-i-um, you twat."
"That," Arthur says primly, "is not a word."
"I'm sure I could show you lots of words your shallow American education never saw fit to teach you. Arse. Bollocks. Wank. Bugger. Shag."
"My shallow American education taught me enough to tell you to hold your tongue, Mr. Eames."
"Is that a come on?"
"I'm still surrounded by boiling water. Don't test me. And stop insulting my country."
"Hey, now, I'm a citizen in this country. I'd fight for her. Defend her to the death, I would. Still doesn't change the tea thing."
"I suppose not. Here," Arthur slides his cup over to him, and Eames clasps his hands around the warm ceramic, inhaling the drifting steam. It's Arthur's special blend, from the special box. For special occasions. Like every time Eames walks through the door.
"Marry me," Eames says, taking a sip.
"You'd leave me as soon as the next loose-leaf hussy walks through the door."
"Darling, if they can make anything better than this, what choice would I have?"
"A slave to the whims of your taste buds."
"And a happy one at that. Ecstatic. Euphoric. Orgas--"
"Drink your tea, Mr. Eames."
"Gladly, Arthur dear."
There's a happy chirrup from Arthur's pocket and in a Pavlovian sort of way every muscle in him tenses.
"I have to take this," Arthur says. "Excuse me."
He slips his phone out of his waistcoat and heads back for the storeroom. He's starting to become rather acquainted with the mops.
It's dim and smells like bleach and the coffee grounds that permeate the whole place, and Arthur isn't really looking forward to this conversation. People calling his work phone -- his work work phone -- rarely have good news.
He answers before the ringing can stop. "Hello?"
"Vindicate," a smooth voice says, like Italian roast. "You need to come to headquarters."
"What's going on?" Arthur asks, fairly certain they won't tell him anything important.
"The Executive would like to see you."
And if Arthur's muscles were a bit tense before, those words accomplish alchemy that turns them into solid steel. The Legion of Tomorrow contacts him fairly regularly, sends him off on odd jobs here and there, stuff that needs a superhero to get done. Part of the deal.
But he's only ever seen the Executive, head of the organization he's -- well, saying he's sold his soul to the Legion is a little dramatic, but possibly accurate -- a part of in person once before.
Something serious is going on.
"There will be a car waiting for you. You know the place."
Arthur does.
"All right," Arthur says. "I'll be there."
The man with the smooth voice laughs, and Arthur hangs up before he can say, "Of course you will."
The Legion of Tomorrow is the most prominent organization of superheroes. But lately, the jobs they've been sending Arthur on, they're not exactly stuff he'd ever thought he'd be doing while wearing the mask. Enough to make him start dreading the Legion's calls.
But it's true. Of course Arthur's going to be there.
Arthur pockets his phone and goes back out into the main room. He tells Tadashi that he has to take off, and when the kid hears he can close up early and have the rest of the night free he only grins widely and spares Arthur his snark.
"You have everything you need?" Arthur asks Eames.
"Tea and sympathy. What more could I possibly want? Of course, by sympathy I really mean a gorgeous man who's about to leave me alone, sitting on a bar stool in a coffee house that spells its name with an exclamation point. But close enough, right?"
Arthur smiles, and he busies himself turning off the coffee machines before he succumbs to the urge to clap Eames on the shoulder, feel his body heat and the texture of his hideous orange shirt beneath his palm.
"Don't take it personally."
"Can I help it if the world revolves around me?"
"Your massive ego certainly has enough of a gravitational pull," Arthur agrees. "But I'm afraid I really have to go."
"You all right, darling?" Eames asks, idly playing with his empty cup. Arthur pauses from putting bags of coffee grounds back on their proper shelves.
"Fine. I'm fine. Just some stuff I need to take care of," he says, and Eames nods slowly.
"If you're sure," Eames says, still watching him.
"I am," Arthur wipes his hands on his apron and reaches back to untie it, folding the dark cloth over his arms. "As much as I'm loathe to leave your scintillating company."
"Am I scintillating?" Eames makes a show of glancing down at his lap. "You should've said something earlier."
"It can be a dull job, sometimes I need the little things to keep me entertained."
"Oi," Eames says. "Nothing little here. Venti."
"Of course," Arthur soothes. Eames huffs.
"Well, then, shall I walk you to your bus-stop? Dangerous neighborhood, you know."
"Oh, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, and laughs. "I don't think you could keep up with me."
Ten minutes later he's on the roof, running full tilt for the sky.
Halloween's still a few weeks off yet but as Arthur makes his way towards headquarters, he passes a scattering of kids dressed up in costumes. Dressed up in spandex with pretend six-packs. Dressed up like masked men, and one of them is dressed up like him.
It's not the first time Arthur's seen kids playing the vigilante version of cops-and-robbers, not the first time he's caught a grade-schooler flipping through The Spectacular Vindicate! comic books, or making little black-and-blue action figures run over buildings made of sticks and bricks and cracks in the sidewalk. Not the first time he's seen kids in his old neighborhood play with all that merchandise he doesn't make a penny off of.
But here, heading for Legion headquarters, seeing it makes him a little sick to his stomach. Because, god, but he tries. And he can't help but feel he's letting them all down anyways.
He wants to stop this kid in his cheap costume, and rest a hand on his shoulder and say, you don't start out like this. This isn't planned.
You start out as kid, and you're young and stupid and so filled-up with anger you think it'll shred your skin from the inside-out. You start out as a stupid kid and all you want to do is make the world -- make this city -- someplace better. And it's hard enough to start getting in the middle of the fights you see, tie a bandana over your face like some old cowboy and pretend you're a comic book hero. But it's not enough.
And then you find someone, someone else who's trying to play hero. Someone older than you and stronger than you and you think, at the time, so much smarter than you.
(everybody who does this is a fucking idiot)
And so you follow him and you beg him and you argue with him. You tell him, this person, this man, this personal hero of yours, your own fucking custom-made messiah built-up in your fucked-up child's mind, that you want to be just like him. And he puts you off and he tells you to stay in school and stay away from drugs and you keep at it, you keep bugging this Golden man. And you show him you can fight. You show him you can run, your parkour, that goes upwards and over and anywhere you like.
(the fastest way from point A to point B is always a straight line, remember that)
And eventually he'll be impressed. And eventually he'll relent.
And than you'll be somebody, see. You'll almost be a real-life hero. Because this Golden saviour of yours calls you partner. You're a sidekick, you're his sidekick, and it's exhilarating and dangerous and perfect.
For a while there, it's perfect.
(nothing gold can stay)
And then something will happen, something that will make you realize even your own personal heroes are just as crazy and stupid and fucked-up and human as you.
(and if you think about this thing that happens, you know it's beautiful. So beautiful it makes your throat tight and your heart ache. And it still cuts you into ribbons anyway.)
And just like that, your hero's out of the game.
What's a sidekick without his partner?
And it's a bit like abandoning ship without a life boat, and you're floating in the sea. You're floundering. Drowning.
You're still fighting crime as best you can, but the times, they are a-changing.
The world has decided it doesn't want a hero. They're calling you a criminal, they're calling you dangerous, they're calling you scum. And they're cracking down.
And you're alone. And you're scared.
(Blue Dragonfly gets arrested and thrown into a prison half-filled with people he's helped put there. He's dead within a week.)
What are you without this?
And this, Arthur wants to tell the boy, this is why you end up heading towards Legion headquarters today. This is why you're working for an organization you don't believe in all the time. This is why sometimes you're not sure you're really the good guy.
Because when you're alone and lost and looking for someone to save you
(looking for a superhero)
they show up. And they offer you the job. An alliance, they call it. Expensive suits that are resistant to damage, so much better than that bright cheap spandex you've been wearing. Weapons. And money, money, money. They're too high-class to wave it right in your face but it's almost as if their hands are full of green fans of dollar bills, anyways.
And after all this, all you really want to do is help. Make the world a better place. Protect your city. And you're not as young as you were when you first started down this primary-coloured path
(but you're still just as stupid)
but you still want to save the world just as much.
And you say yes.
Arthur drops down from a low cinder-block building, street hitting his feet hard. There's a low, dark car waiting to take him the rest of the way, a driver standing impassively with his head down in front of it. Without looking at him, the man opens up the backseat door.
Arthur swallows hard and gets in.
**
An agitated heap of purple spandex runs into Arthur in the hall.
"Oof," the spandex says, and Arthur manages to catch himself before his face gets to know the carpet, putting steadying hands on purple shoulders.
The spandex is Mr. Victory. Arthur's seen him around before, teamed up for a couple runs against Collision.
"You okay?" Arthur asks, stepping back into the comfort of his personal space.
Victory sighs, running a hand down from the mask covering the top half of his face to the bare skin of his chin, "Yes, yes, I'm fine."
Arthur gestures to the dark-wood door Victory just stumbled out of. "That bad?"
Mr. Victory gives a shallow smile, a twist of his lips that looks like it hurts something inside of him. "Oh yes."
"Ah. Well, that's encouraging," Arthur says. The black-suited bodyguard who's been escorting him through the labyrinth of headquarters shifts impatiently beside him.
Mr. Victory gives a dismissive wave of his hand, glove thick with hi-tech tangles that Arthur couldn't guess at. He went for speed and maneuverability over armour or too many gadgets. Grappling gun, stun gun, a few nifty tricks in his belt, and he was good to go. Mr. Victory, and the other hand, was suited up with all sorts of tech, and he knew Magnificent Man had a fair bit of armour. And a cape. What kind of idiot wears a cape?
"You'll probably be okay. Or he'll drop you into his pit of sharks. Either way. . ."
"Thanks," Arthur says drily. He's pretty sure Mr. Victory is kidding about the sharks. Pretty sure.
Arthur's escort clears his throat loudly and he gives Victory a fatalistic grin.
"Wish me luck," Arthur says, heading through the doorway.
"Good lu--"
The door shuts with a heavy slam behind him, and Mr. Victory's words are lost.
The room is dim, and the sparse light in it glows dully red, like the shifting eyes of albino rats.
Arthur stands awkwardly. There is a heavy wooden table stretching out before him, edges of the polished wood reflecting red. At the end of it sits a figure, head tucked down, black hood drawn over his face. Arthur can't make out his features, but he's gotten used to having no idea what the man who runs his life really looks like.
Whoosh-hiss.
It takes Arthur a second to recognize the noise of a respirator.
Whoosh-hiss.
Whoosh-hiss.
It makes him lick his lips and think about his own breathing, ribcage ballooning outward and heart beating fast. The Executive was breathing fine on his own last time Arthur saw him, all those lifetimes ago, and he wonders if this is a controlled condition or if it means something more.
"Vindicate," the Executive says. His voice is sandpaper on chalkboards, aluminum sliding on gravel, steel wool shoved down the garbage disposal. He doesn't bother with pleasantries. "I have a job for you."
"What is it?" Arthur says, and he reminds himself. He is Vindicate. He steps forward, resting the heels of his hands on the long table.
"A simple enough task," Whoosh-hiss. "There is a man. I need you to stop him."
"Who is he?"
The Executive doesn't make any signal Arthur can see, but like an obedient doberman, one of the black-suited men standing against the wall steps forward, sliding a folder across the shiny wood towards Arthur. He catches it with a gloved hand and flips it open.
"Saito?" Arthur says, surprised. He'd been expecting something. . . a little bit more pretend. Slaughter or Black Shark or the Terrible Flaming Earthworm. Supervillains usually had way too much time on their hands to come up with names.
He studies the picture of the man, black-hair and expensive suit. Japanese, he checks in the file.
"What has he done?"
"It's more what he's going to do, if he isn't stopped."
"I'm not in the habit of punishing people for crimes they haven't committed yet."
"Maybe it's time you revised your methods then, Vindicate. Think of the lives that could be saved."
Saito is a businessman. Probably not in possession of a one-way ticket to the pearly gates, but a quick glance at his file doesn't show anything particularly heinous.
The respirator hisses and neither Arthur nor the Executive say anything. They both know how this is going to end.
Beneath his mask, Arthur bites his lower lip to keep from sighing. "What do you want me to do?"
Another henchman steps forward -- sit, stay, rollover, play dead, good dog -- and this time he sets a slim silver case on the table.
Arthur flicks open the latch and freezes.
"No," he breathes out before he can stop himself. "You know I don't do this."
"I believe I already suggested you start revising your methods," the Executive says implacably.
The Legion has supplied him with lots of weapons before, the latest of all sorts of technology, but this here is nothing new.
The handgun is dark and sleek and sits pretty in the red light. Arthur ghosts a finger over the cold metal, feels something thrash in his chest.
It rests in its foam padding like a sleeping panther, and Arthur's seen enough of them before to recognize the caliber and maker. It's beautiful, in a way. With its smooth perfected barrel and rough grip and all its simplicity. Arthur's seen kids use guns just like this before. It doesn't take a superhero to pull a trigger.
"I can't," Arthur says, and hates himself. "I won't."
Whoosh-hiss. Whoosh-hiss.
The Executive says nothing, because there's nothing at all he has to say.
**
The weight of this gun feels different than that of his stun gun, heavy in its holster, dragging him down. Arthur climbs through Los Angeles, closes his eyes when he jumps off the next building, nothing but the rush of air in his ears, and when his feet hit the concrete hard it rattles up through his bones and he hardly feels a thing.
**
Part B