He’s been alone for what feels like days. Lost in a blur of daily and nightly Somnium. He’s hardly been anything else. Approaching a place where he feels like he could forget Kato, maybe even for weeks at a time. Patrolling all day, stalking thugs all night. Coming home drenched and exhausted just as the sun is kissing the horizon. Time enough to drown himself in a scalding, long shower, then trip over his peeled-off Somnium gear and fall face down into his covers.
Getting up to do it all over again four hours later.
He’s taken some time off work—at Rouge, that is. Had done so in a desperation to throw himself into a job he’d more or less been born into. One that had shaped the man he’d grown up to be, influenced his life as both Kato and the shadow of a spritely, spirited boy. A shadow he’d called Somnium, a long time ago.
It might have been his unsettling run-in with an old friend, now enemy—someone calling herself Nightingale—who’d incidentally managed to strip away layers of his carefully crafted armour, like a whittler does a length of cedar or pine. He’d watched the shavings fall, fresh and aromatic at his feet, and woken the next day, a little more numbed than before.
Or it could have been his father—the anniversary of his death always leaves a mark in Kato, leaves him less himself for a few days of the week leading up to his annual trip to the man’s grave. But never had it lingered in him this long. Never had he hidden away in the safety of Somnium’s masked guard, to escape Kato’s youthful and optimistic vulnerability. It was safer here, in an unrecognized hero’s lair.
But in all honesty, it was likely a combination of the lot. One thing after another compounding until he’d woken one hour in the middle of a cold night and been reduced to running from his own weakness. Just like that, in a blink of an eye, he’d resorted to keeping himself busy in the shell of a person who was both familiar and foreign. Both fabricated and innate. Somnium. Like a reoccurring lucid dream.
He’s sitting on the floor of a fire escape about twelve stories up an apartment building in the middle of downtown. The city lights glitter, mesmerizing and reflective in his gaze, and as his legs swing the edge, sinewy arms folded over the middle horizontal bar, he lets sparks jump over his knuckles in an undulating wave—like a surreal version of rolling a coin over the backs of your fingers. A supernatural parlour trick. He does it absently, from one hand, to the next, and back again, hardly paying it any attention as he looks instead out over the city’s horizon, watching flashing lights dart to and fro, listening to the echo of wailing sirens. It would seem, that no matter how much crime he fights or prevents, the city never fails to provide, time and time again. Is it all pointless then, he wonders? All of this vigilante business? Is there an end to this unwinnable battle they’d all signed up for?
He hears the approach, but doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t bother to move at all. At this hour, this high up the side of a building, it’s likely a vigilante, anyway. And if not—well, he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.
As the shadow nears him, standing and leaning on the railing next to him, he looks over slightly, at a set of legs, but doesn’t have the energy to look up at them from where he sits. He turns his face away again.
“Nice night for some building scaling, is it?”
That night the moon wasn’t full, no, otherwise she wouldn’t have been there, rather running off in the woods, hoping that she wouldn’t wake up covered in someone else’s blood. But it was getting close--three days and she’d have to make the painful transformation yet again. However, as the full moon closed in on her, her strength and her senses heightened, and it was these days that she was at her strongest--well in her human form at least. Cool air pushed past her hair, as she pulled the half mask down for a moment, breathing in all the smells of the coming winter. The change of season had been hard on them, with Nathan’s lungs not adjusting well to the cold. She knew it was going to be a long transition for him, and she could only pray it wouldn’t land him another hospital visit that they couldn’t afford.
A scent catches her nostrils, causing the hair on her arms to raise in small goosebumps. It wasn’t often that she came across others while scaling the rooftops. It was a good vantage point for scoping out trouble, and it also kept her relatively away from others. That night however, the smell of someone else prompted her to pull the cover back up over the bottom half of her face, eyes scanning towards it’s owner. It was familiar, someone she’d come across before. Shoes crunch against the roof of the building as she approaches, making her presence known. Eyes landed on the figure in the dark, her wolf senses allowing her to see better than most through the night.
“It is.” She keeps her voice lower and even. “Haven’t seen you around for a while, Sparky.” She recognized the other vigilante, they’d come across each other a few times in the past while prowling the night. While she’d never considered herself much of a vigilante, the general public had branded her as one, christening her with the name Onyx. Really it was just an excuse for her to work off some of the pent up energy and anger that she harboured and take it out on assholes.
