TW: Alcohol, mild violence
The hero let out a soft sigh, stretching his legs out and folding his arms behind his head. He opened his eyes to crystal blue waters and palm trees swaying in the light ocean breeze and soft, cool sand, sticking his bare toes in and grinning to himself. Initially, he’d been kind of iffy about taking a vacation, guilt pooling in his chest about the civilians that might need him. But all of it seemed to dissolve the way seafoam bubbles did against the shore when he arrived at the beach.
He was definitely planning to go swimming, maybe unwind a little at the hotel sauna, but for now he just wanted to kick back and enjoy the weather and the piña colada he'd just ordered.
The hero took a sip of his drink before closing his eyes again. He could definitely get used to this.
And a few heavenly minutes of half-napping later, the hero stirred to the sound of someone clearing their throat, and he let out a surreptitious groan.
“Excuse me,” the woman started, tone a little urgent, “but we need to talk.”
“Pardon?” the crimefighter asked, slipping off his dark shades, partially in disbelief and partially to get a better look at who he was talking to.
She was a tall woman, nearly as tall as he was, her dirty blonde hair in a pixie cut, dressed in a sky blue sundress, a bandage wrapped around her shoulder and a pair of lucite sandals on her feet. And there was something so oddly familiar about her, but he couldn't seem to put his finger on it
“Okay, fair. I haven't really introduced myself. Hi, I'm [Name], and I'm an investigative journalist -”
The hero cut her off, “and what about me is investigative if you don't mind me asking?”
The journalist's lips curved down into a slight crescent, placing her hands on her hips. “Let's cut to the chase, shall we?”
“Sure,” he replied, gesturing to the second lounge chair under his umbrella, “you should sit though, talking to you like this just looks weird.”
The journalist accepted his offer, sitting down and turning to face him.
“I know who you really are.”
“Mhm -” the hero took a few more sips from his drink, keeping the glass clutched in his left hand and absentmindedly swirling it around, “and if you know that much, what's there to talk about?”
The reporter rolled her eyes, letting out an annoyed huff. “You're Hero,” she deadpanned.
The hero made a ridiculous slurping noise in response before setting his drink down, theatrically slow and bursting into raucous laughter. “Me? Hero? You're completely out of your mind.”
“I am NOT,” she retorted, nostrils flaring before typing something on her phone and thrusting it in his face.
It was a picture of him, fresh out of a fight, bloodstains and rips scattered across his suit and some on his mask too. There were bruises on his cheeks and he was scowling, hair matted and probably soaked in sweat. He looked pretty terrible, or at least that was how he saw it, unlike the crazies on the Internet who said the blood made him “hotter”.
“That,” he started, gesturing in disgust to the picture, “proves nothing. I wouldn't be caught dead running around in that much spandex. Second of all, just look at his hair, he looks like an electrocuted rat.”
To his credit, there was a significant difference between the lump of wet frizz in the picture and the fresh, day-old haircut he was sporting right now, even if his reasons for denying who he was were the stupidest things to ever come out of his mouth.
“Alright,” the journalist snapped, turning the full weight of her steely gaze on the hero, “if you're not going to do this the easy way, then I am going to do everything in my power to show everyone who you actually are. Starting with this hotel.”
“Good luck trying to prove to people that I'm someone I'm not!” he called out as she stormed off.
The hero finished his drink, shaking his head in disbelief. He decided to go for a dip in the sea, letting himself float on his back, soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Right then, he was in heaven.
Someway, somehow, the hero found a rock literally flying towards him. He knew punching the rock into oblivion as he would have done on instinct would attract far too much attention, so he settled for moving out of the way, just for it to smash into a million pieces as it grazed him. How subtle.
He only got a few looks of disbelief from particularly nosy strangers, but he brushed them off with a sheepish smile, “I’m really lucky it didn’t hit my head. That would’ve hurt a lot more,” he said, rubbing an imaginary bruise at the base of his skull. And luckily enough, everyone finally went back to minding their own business.
He decided he was done with saltwater, electing to walk back to his seat and wrap himself in a towel for a few minutes. As he let himself dry off, nestling into the large towel for warmth, the journalist smirked at him.
Journalist? When the hell had she materialised in front of him so fast? Years of training helped the hero suppress the violent flinch that should have accompanied his shock. “Nice going, Hero.”
He rolled his eyes. “I literally did nothing, how does this prove a thing?”
“That’s exactly it. You did nothing and the rock smashed to pieces after barely brushing past you.”
“Did you - did you throw that rock at me? Also you must have been seeing things. I mean, look.” He picked up a rock from underneath his beach chair and willed his power to turn off as he squeezed it between his fingers, leaving it completely intact.
“Maybe I did. But this isn’t over yet,” she challenged, leaving the hero dumbstruck again.
There was madness, and then there was whatever this is. He had been hounded by the press before, but during all those times, he’d been in his hero regalia. The second that mask was off, he was free of them, and he really wasn’t going to give that up without a fight.
So he walked right up to the pool, ordered himself a glass of something a little stronger than a piña colada and stepped into the deep end, letting the water reach up to most of his chest, pleased to find that it was significantly warm as opposed to the usual tepid pool water he was used to. Up until he felt someone walk into the pool and sink in next to him.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out who it was.
“Aren’t you on vacation, too? Like, your strange dedication to your job is admirable, but aren’t there much better things to do than trying to make me confess to something false? You could go swimming, enjoy the weather, I heard they’ve got a spa here if you’re into that stuff.” He took a swig from his glass because he honestly was not sober enough to handle this anymore.
She let out a disbelieving scoff, accompanying it with the kind of endearing smile reserved for particularly mischievous children, which admittedly made the crimefighter’s blood boil, so he decided to order another glass, even though it was frowned upon (and for good reason) for a super to get themselves drunk.
“Ridiculously stubborn, aren’t you?”
“Look lady, if you wanna know who I really am, here you go. I work at a bank as an accountant, I live with an orange cat that hates everyone except for me and the old maintenance man, and the most heroic thing I have ever done in my life is stop my bratty, little cousin from throwing his poor goldfish out of the window, just for it to die a week later.” And he really wasn’t lying, all those were real facts. He was far from a social butterfly, only managing to produce a fake air of charisma for the crowds when he had his suit on. His powers and ability to seduce Gears the Animal Shelter Menace, the most not-orange, orange cat to ever exist were possibly the only two remotely interesting things about him.
“I just want to talk,” she said, still wearing that same amused smile and raising both hands up in a gesture of peace.
“Oh yeah?” the hero retorted, downing the rest of his drink in an instant, “and I’m done talking.” He walked out of the pool over to the single men’s bathroom stall he found, knocking on the door to check if anyone was in, cursing his luck and the fact that he’d decided to have three different drinks in rapid succession.
“Yeah, I’m in, but I’m actually stuck,” a voice that seemed to belong to an elderly man called out.
At that he raised an eyebrow. “Stuck?”
“Yeah. I tried to get the lock open and it just broke and now the door’s locked and I’ve got no way to twist it open. I keep trying to push against it, but it won’t budge. Think you can help me out, son?”
Perfect. Just perfect. He could go get help, but what would other people even do? And breaking down doors was not in the lifeguard job description. It was almost closing time, so he couldn’t just leave him there waiting all this time, and even if it wasn’t the most optimal choice, the hero’s guilt had won over.
“Alright, give me a second.” Weakening his invulnerability, the hero smacked his body against the doorframe, ignoring the bruising on his shoulder without his power there to shield him, until it finally burst open. He’d tried his hardest to cause the least damage possible, but he accidentally left a sizable hole in the door.
“Thanks, son. Well, I’ll be damned, what do they feed you?” the old man said ,chuckling in disbelief, patting the hero on the shoulder, and all he could do was nod and offer a weak smile in response.
“It’s probably a weak spot,” he replied, wearing the same sheepish grin as the other man walked away.
Well, now the reporter was going to have a field day, and he would have to walk longer to find another bathroom. How wonderful.
He finally found an empty one and after he was done he decided that he'd had enough of all forms of attempted swimming (since he’d barely got over ten minutes total), be it sea or pool. He made his way back to his hotel room, unlocking the door with his keycard and walking into the bathroom for a shower. He washed the saltwater out of his hair and the sand off his body, a little annoyed that he couldn’t even enjoy the one vacation he’d taken in over two years. But that was a small problem considering the second glances thrown his way and the journalist and her antics. He wasn’t sure how, but instinct told him she was somehow behind the broken lock, even though logic heavily disagreed.
The hero let his head rest against the ceramic tile as the warm water pattered lightly against his back. If push came to shove, he’d probably have to leave, which would be a waste of money, but his identity possibly being exposed was far more concerning than a ruined holiday and burnt paychecks.
Cursing, he finally walked out, drying himself off and putting on a pair of black pants and draping a towel around his neck for his wet hair to drip on to. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he noticed the bruise on his shoulder was still there, and he instinctively found himself rubbing at it. Was he really nothing much without his invulnerability?
He didn’t want to think about that.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, staring absently at the carpet, electing to get up and switch off the AC, the air too cold against his bare torso. And the second he hit that switch and turned around, he found someone in his room.
“How the hell did you get in here?” he questioned, enraged.
The journalist didn’t say a word, simply pulling off the bandage on her shoulder, exposing a tattoo of an insignia the hero knew all too well.
The villain. She’d always spoken to him through a modulator, so he’d never heard her real voice before. But the way the rock flew at him with no one present to throw it, how the lock had conveniently broken on the inside of the bathroom stall finally made sense. The villain had teleportation and telekinesis at her disposal the way the hero had invulnerability and super strength at his.
Still, the hero schooled his face into a neutral expression electing to play dumb. “Nice tattoo,” he deadpanned sarcastically.
“How many more of your precious civilians am I going to have to endanger for you to give in? Rocks may smash against your body, but the same can’t be said about them,” she threatened.
At that, the hero’s resolve finally crumbled. “Fine, you got me. I’m the goddamned hero -” he grabbed the villain by the wrist and thrust her against the wall, and even without his super strength, all the day’s pent up rage was enough to make that an easy feat - “now what the hell is going to make you stop?” he seethed, eyes narrowed and his muscles tensed, the veins on his arms looking as though they were about to burst with the pressure.
The villain rolled her eyes, teleporting out of his grip in instants to the other side of the room. “An interview. I promise not to reveal your identity, if you behave yourself, that is.”
The answer was so unorthodox that for a moment, it snapped the hero out of his stupor of rage. “An interview? You would go this far for a goddamn interview?” He ignored the pathetic way his voice cracked from sheer incredulousness as he sat down on the chair in front of the mirror, patting his hair with the towel mostly to give his hands something to do.
“I mean, villainy is extremely lucrative,” he continued, “so what’s your deal?”
“While you are grossly underestimating just how far a reporter would go for a scoop -”
“Tell me about it,” he interrupted with a quiet scoff.
“Villainy paying well is exactly the problem. My career in journalism has unfortunately been a little stagnant, and this pathetically boring city is far more interested in hearing about who is responsible for ruining masterfully planned heists instead of who orchestrates them, and I need an explanation for how a very large sum of money is going to end up in my back account. A promotion can do just that, all I need is a hot, new story. And what’s better fodder for this city’s goody-goody-worshipping cattle than an exclusive with their favourite hero?”
Even though it was ridiculously unfitting, the hero laughed softly. “You know you could have just, ran into me after a fight and I would’ve given you that exclusive. If you ask nicely without annoying me to death, you get the interview.”
“And have to fight with all those other journalists clamouring for two words from your precious lips? Hell no. And how am I meant to interview you about crimes I personally committed, covered in blood and filth? I actually thought you’d be a bit smarter.”
“The easier explanation is you wanted to take your sweet time tormenting me first. So, let’s get this over with, I’ll get dressed and you can interview me over dinner and pretend you talked to me after a fight, but I swear to God if you reveal even a single clue about my identity, I am going to tear you apart, limb-from-limb. Comprende?”
“Deal,” the villain replied, giving the hero a Cheshire cat grin and shaking his hand before teleporting out of his room, leaving him to get dressed.
Sometimes, you might think you’ve figured a person out by never looking past the shallows until you find yourself dredging into the deep end, water up to your chest faster than you know. The villain may have won a single fight this time, taking the hero for nothing more than a brutish fool. But what she didn’t know was that even if she had the upper hand now, he was determined to tip the scales in his favour, whatever it took.
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