“And so it ends,” the hero murmured. “I crawl away, barely alive, and you die in a tragic accident.”
The villain, broken and bruised, looked up at the unblemished hero with blood trickling from their lips. “Accident? You think…you think they’ll believe that you were an accident?”
“Of course.” Their smile was blinding. “They’ll believe anything if told with a white enough smile.”
They used to be heroes. That’s what hurts her the most, deep, deep, deep. They used to be heroes, chins up, wings on their backs and the right thing within their grasps. Sophronia remembers the smell of lavender, remembers the sound of the cameras, remembers the warmth of having saved another life.
She remembers and that’s just another obstacle she’s got to learn to throw away now. Especially now that it’s his face being projected up onto the debriefing screen, big and glittering and meaner than she’s ever seen it before.
“Hero Ibis,” a man says from the head of the table. He’s facing away from them all, the only thing visible the thinning hair on the top of his head. Even if he did turn, Sophronia wouldn’t remember his face. The Mirage is only memorable by deeds alone. “It’s come to my attention that his actions have betrayed the ideals of his title.”
She wants to excuse herself from this one, slip out between the men and women scattered behind the table. She’s one of the few awarded a seat, one of the few who’ve paid the bloody cost to be here at this man’s beck and call.
It’s worth it so she doesn’t run even though his face is on the screen.
The lights flicker and Hero Ibis’ face is replaced with footage of a street, torn apart, strewn with debris. She’s been in enough fights to recognize the aftermath of a Super battle.
The camera shakes, the street bobbing in and out of view as whoever’s holding the camera trips, rolls and then leaps behind a nearby car. Their breath is harsh in the conference room and Sophronia has to fight not to react when, over their panting, the sound of wings can be heard.
A moment later, he comes into view.
Ibis is objectively beautiful. His costume is simple, white and grey with gold, metal plating over his chest and vitals. His mask is a brilliant scarlet that feathers up and into his hair, a compliment to the huge, lean wings that are fluttering behind him.
He’s beautiful and she hates him.
“P-please,” the cameraman says. Their voice is thin with pain and, when they raise a hand to ward Ibis away, there’s blood staining the green of their glove. “I-I surrender.”
Sophronia can see an intricate green crest where glove and suit meet and her heart sinks. That’s Stone Breaker’s insignia, a relatively small time villain with big potential if he could live past 20. He could chisel away nearly anything with enough time, like a fungus, but only if he had enough time.
By the look on Ibis’ face, he’s not planning on giving him any.
Prompt #569
Published
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