Finding The Fit (Short Piece)
Emma was not often a creature of attention and highlights at the best of times. At most, she wanted to be put away and never thought about unless it was for her day job. But as the bills mounted every time she had a big fight with some supervillain or powered person and her clothes ended up ruined, Emma realized she had to do something. She couldn't keep spending all this money, and she couldn't keep destroying her favorite clothes.
Enter one Blonde Blazer at SDN (@blondebl4zer), who, after a request from Emma, had given her an entire list of tailors to call. They, Blazer had said, could help. That day, the redheaded phoenix of a woman left work feeling...shockingly excited, though hell if she knew why. Maybe it was just the anticipation of saving money...but, more likely, it was the idea of getting to have her own hero outfit, a pleasure that Emma had steadily denied herself all her life. Ashelin would've been so damn jealous...but she wasn't here, and Emma didn't have to worry about her older sister's harsh judgements anymore. Grinning, Emma got into her car and, without giving herself time to think, phoned the first person on the list. Then the second...then the third...
It took Emma a shockingly long time to find someone who would help her; even with Blazer's recommendation, most of the people on the list were full up on work for the next...foreseeable future. But the last person on the list, a guy who went by the name of "Flannigan", agreed to at least meet Emma and see what he could do for her.
So here Emma was, pulling up in front of one of the oldest houses she'd ever seen. Don't get her wrong, the place looked well cared-for, but it was just... It was like someone had tried to transpose a house from the 50s or 60s to the current day, and had forgotten to update the style. It was complete with a blue-grey roof and the outside was all painted to look like red brickwork--no wait, that was red brickwork. It made Emma scratch her head, but she didn't leave. It wasn't shady, after all; it had a cute little garden out front and a gorgeous bay window off to the right side with spotlessly-cleaned glass.
Emma parked her car in the driveway and got out. Down the street, she could hear the sounds of children playing, and the sun was inching itself towards the horizon little by little. She approached the front door, and it was at that point that she couldn't help but be struck by something else: the smell. Was that...vanilla? Yeah, it was. It was faint, but it was there, undeniably. Confused, and feeling a little out of place, Emma rang the doorbell, and waited.
Silence stretched out, and more than a little part of Emma wanted to just bolt then and there. This was dumb. She hated being the Phoenix anyways; the attention, the eyes all on her, people judging her, being jealous of her, being angry at her... and the worst part was, she felt like she deserved it. Why should she, of all the powered people in the world, get something as nice as a super suit? Especially one like Blonde Blazer's; Blazer was akin to a living legend!
Just as Emma had resolved to turn and leave, the cream-colored door to the house swung open, and there stood...maybe the single oldest man that Emma had ever seen. No, really, the guy looked ten years older than Chase, and Chase looked ancient as it was. Silvery hair kept short, wearing an ugly abomination of a sweater and a pair of jeans, along with some spectacles so sunken into his face that he looked as though his eyes were pressed against the lenses, or near enough. He stood there surprisingly tall, and...he had four arms. Emma had to blink at the four arms.
"Mmr." The man mumbled, gruff as could be. He stroked his little white beard, almost like a wispy cloud the thing was, and he looked Emma up and down. "...You must be Emma, then." One of his arms produced a cane, which he leaned on a little. Emma said nothing, just...nodded slowly, and the man--Flannigan, Emma assumed, motioned her inside.
"Come on. Let's talk." It was only now that Emma noticed the very slight english accent.
Once inside, Flannigan had offered Emma some tea (to which she'd agreed) before leading her into the room with the bay window. A sunroom, if Emma had to guess, but it looked like Flannigan had converted this room to his personal office as well, for one reason or another. What if someone broke in? What if a villain wanted to attack him? What if-
Emma was brought out of her thoughts when her eyes landed on the framed images on the walls, images that detailed what Flannigan's seventy-five year history had been like since he had first acquired his powers. "THE MAN OF HERCULEAN STRENGTH," "A MAN WITH THE ALACRITY OF FOUR" "THE LEGENDARY FOUR-ARMS SAVES STUDENTS FROM SCHOOLHOUSE FIRE" and other such articles all sat on the wall that led back into the house. They were relics from another age, newspapers that had been painstakingly cut out, preserved, and then framed.
Flannigan returned just then, and settled down in the chair across from Emma's. It prompted her yellow-gold eyes to refocus on the four-armed man now that she was able; the newspapers and what they said weren't any of her business.
"Tell me about yourself," Flannigan said with a groan as he settled down in the chair, laying his cane, an exquisitely carved wooden thing, in his lap. "Not about the powers, girl, we'll get to those. About you. Are you a professional hero?"
Emma blinked. Wasn't this a business meeting? What did he care about her life? Still...no one else on Blazer's list had even bothered to see her, so she decided to at least indulge him. "...Kind of?" She began, before shaking her head and correcting, "N-not really though; I run a private detective agency. I don't use my powers to make money, not explicitly. I...help solve problems for people, and I make money that way." Flannigan hummed and gave a nod in response. He took a sip of his tea, and followed up his first question,
"Why don't you work with the police, then?" Emma winced at that one. She shifted uncomfortably, thinking about her parents, about how they'd encouraged her to do that very thing. But then...how many friends had been hurt or brushed off by the cops when they had problems...?
"...Let's just say that I've had some experiences," Emma tried to be careful in how she worded this, "that have led me to believe that the members of the police don't have the best interests of everyone at heart. I'd rather work in a setting where I don't need to compromise my morality for the sake of my job. I've seen too many cops who couldn't say the same."
Again, Flannigan just nodded. Emma finally felt comfortable enough to sip her tea as well--it was quite good. The smell of vanilla still filled her senses, too. Overall, Emma found herself surprised at how relaxed she felt, being in this stranger's home. Still...it was a little lonely in here, with just Flannigan here. Emma's eyes caught the way the light glimmered off of a single gold band on one of Flannigan's left hands.
"Do you enjoy using your powers to help people?" came Flannigan's voice again. On instinct, Emma shrugged, which got Flannigan to raise a brow. He did not speak again, and the silence stretched on for a minute, then another, then another. Finally, Emma elaborated.
"...I enjoy helping people, that's why I opened up a private investigator's agency. But truth be told, sir," she didn't know why she was tempted to call this truly wizened man 'sir,' but there it was, "...I don't like the attention. I mean don't get me wrong, it's fine I guess, I'm not bothered by it either, but it's not...the attention's not why I do what I do."
Emma paused, staring down at her tea, and her reflection in it. Thoughts swirled in her brain, and Flannigan must have seen it, since he continued waiting. Emma remained quiet, this thousand-yard-stare on her face.
"...I wake up every day and hear how people all over the world are dying, mister Flannigan." She finally said, voice barely a whisper, "I wake up and hear about how people are hurting and suffering and constantly in a state of pain and misery, and I wake up knowing that a metal spike could hit me with all the force of a bullet and it would bounce right off without leaving a scratch on me, and I feel tremendous guilt. I wake up knowing I am undefeatable, and I wake up feeling like I...like I don't do enough, even though I spend my every waking moment helping people. I wake up feeling like if I'm not doing something with this power, all those people dying become my fault, and I feel like I'm...like I'll never be good enough to bear the debt I got saddled with. It's this hole in me, that I can't fill."
A pause. Emma doesn't know when the tears started rolling down her face, but they did. She doesn't stop them.
"They call me Phoenix," she swallowed hard, "because when I fight, my shoulders ignite with fire and my hair starts to glow like it's made of flame. And I...I hate it. I hate the attention and the popularity, I hate how I can't even get scratched except by a scant few things, and I hate how in spite of that I feel so insignificant. Like I can't help anyone, not really. I'm still just one woman."
Flannigan nodded again, and the silence stretched on. This silence, Emma allowed to go on. Realizing Emma had finished, Flannigan put his tea down on the table. One hand gently pat Emma on the shoulder, and he said, very quietly, "...I think I can put something together for you." When Emma looked at him, wiping her tears and clearly confused, he just smiled and said, "...I don't take very many clients these days, miss Emma, and that's because I like to know about my clients before we begin. I get...selective, shall we say. Come with me, I have some designs I think you'll quite enjoy. We can get started on your attire's design this evening."
Emma blinked away tears and, still feeling slightly numb from exposing such raw emotions, she stood up, following Flannigan to another room in the house.
This room, however...it stole Emma's breath away. Hundreds of different suits of various heroes sat on hangars situated on giant racks around the room, each one having its own story, and each one belonging to a hero that Emma had at least heard of before. All around the room, different materials and little testing stations that, surprisingly enough, Emma recognized; her mother, ever the scientist, had testing stations just like these for identifying and testing the durability of any foreign materials. In this case though, Emma thought it was just for testing suit durabilities.
Flannigan moved to a large desk, where he get out a pen and some sketch paper. Then, sitting at the desk, it was as though the old man had transformed, as though he had always meant to sit at that desk, sketching designs with not one, but three different hands, the fourth one holding the pad in place. In mere moments, he had a whole catalogue of outfit designs prepared for Emma to look at, each one colored and looking absolutely beautiful. Reds, oranges, blacks...colors that complimented her.
"Wait," Emma shook her head, "before we start, don't you--I mean, I should like...pay you, yes?"
"I told you I don't take many clients, did I not?" He hummed, "...You need not pay. I do this for...well. Don't worry about that. You need not pay." Emma looked struck dumb, utterly confused by this man and the sudden kindness she'd found herself in. Still...best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, right? Instead, Emma came over to peek at some of his designs. They all looked good, but...her lips quirked. One of Flannigan's hands twitched, and one of his eyes flicked to look at her.
"...You see something you wish to speak on." He didn't phrase it as a question.
"...I'd prefer to lose the sleeves. I'd like gloves. Long ones, up to about middle forearm. And I like that design the most." She pointed to a design that had red material coming up to her neck, like a turtle-neck, but which then turned to an orange beneath her chest, and which then became a black material below her belt. Red material went up the legs, mimicking the image of thigh-high boots, and as Emma looked at it, Flannigan made edits to the outfit so it seemed to be sleeveless, with a pair of forearm-length black gloves. Flannigan looked up at her, Emma nodded.
"Yup, that's great. That's...me." A simple nod from Flannigan, who moved to a much larger sheet of graph paper then. "Do you have a specific logo you'd like?" He said, and by his expression, he had already guessed what her answer would be.
"...I don't, but...maybe a yellow bird symbol on the chest?" Flannigan stopped and raised a brow at the statement. Hadn't Emma just gone off on a tangent about how she hated being the Phoenix a few minutes earlier? Emma shrugged in response. "I dunno, it's like..." she bit her lower lip, thinking on how to word it, "...If I can, I'd like to try and embrace the name. Maybe it'll...make me hate it a little less or something." A small smirk came to the old man's lips, and with two of his four hands, he began to sketch a logo design of a rising phoenix.
"Very well. Do you have any further edits you'd like to make to the attire before I begin work?"
Emma paused...then shook her head. "No...I think that's it. Thank you, Mister Flannigan. Should I expect a call, or--?"
Flannigan shook his head. "Just come by...mmm...Wednesday, around this same time. I should have it finished by then." Nodding, Emma turned and left. And for some reason, she felt...just a little bit better. Maybe having a hero outfit wouldn't be such a bad thing after all. She'd...just have to wait until Wednesday to find out.