Chapter Text
Honestly, the work ethic of journalists in Black Temple, OL is impressive to say the least.
The city gets shaken by fights between superheroes and corresponding villains once a week at minimum. Guess you don’t stay in the business for long if you’re easily shocked.
Lady Vashj in particular is known for how calm she looks on live footage, a few feet from roaring monsters and flaming buildings. Maybe it’s because she’s a super herself — the scales are hard to hide — or she’s just naturally stoic, but there’s definitely something supernatural about the way she sidesteps falling debris without faltering in her speech.
No one knows her real name — she’s the Lady, nothing else, but it’s a nickname that suits the way she gracefully avoids the chaos around her.
“Kil’Jaeden’s attack on the city’s center is being thwarted as I speak by two well-known supers. Phoenix and Demon Hunter match the infamous villain strike for strike, and the notorious duo shows no sign of fatigue yet.”
The Dreadlord, one of Kil’jaeden minions, strikes a blow to Demon Hunter, and the super comes crashing down next to the reporter. He leaves a crater on impact, but she barely glances at him when he gets up and flies away, shooting in the sky like an arrow.
And then there are the interviews.
Light, the interviews.
They’re an ordeal for any other reporter. Supers are… odd at the best of times, terrifying to some and intimidating to everyone else. Reporters usually stammer a few questions on whatever happened: Lady Vashj, of course, finds it beneath herself to so much as stumble on a word. More often than not, she’s the one scaring the supers.
(There’s also only one person who’s ever managed to catch the Demon Hunter’s voice on camera, and it’s Lady Vashj. Some call it witchcraft; she calls it talent.
Officially, anyway. No one needs to know she goes on double dates with Phoenix and him twice a month. It would ruin the mystery.)
The duo she’s currently interviewing is evidently an exception, once again for reasons she’d never reveal to anyone. They bear her questioning with uncharacteristic grace. Neither of them are known for working easily with the press.
“So, Phoenix, I have to ask— why did you leave the High-Borns?”
The super-hero she’s pointing her microphone at is clad in crimson and gold, a costume that looks both regal and very annoying to wear in a fight. He’s pulling it off, though: might be the flaming bird on his shoulder, might be his princely appearance, might be both.
“I didn’t,” He replies pleasantly.
“We haven’t seen you fight with any of them in months though.”
“Well, the High-Borns are a league more than anything else. We all have our home turf, our lives on the side, you know?” He shrugs. Despite the mask on his face, he gives off the clear impression of smiling. “Most of them look over cities in Quel’thalas, I’m just— extending our reach a bit. Ever since the Regent partnered with Magister and Ranger to protect Silvermoon, I found myself more of us in Black Temple.”
“Speaking of partnerships, it’s rare to see you without Demon Hunter at your side nowadays. With all the speculations around you two, I can’t help but ask: how would you describe your relationship?”
“Hm, let me thing- I’d say it’s gay.” Phoenix waits for a beat, gets closer to the mic and says clearly, “We’re in a loving, committed, homosexual relationship of the romantic kind.”
He glances above his shoulder, toward his partner. The other super is a far scarier figure. With his wings, his horns and the hooves on which he stands, he looks closer to the monster they just struck down than a human. Quite a striking figure, though. “And my partner,” He says, saying the last word a little louder, and the Demon Hunter turns his head toward him and grins, revealing needle-sharp teeth. “Owes me a candlelit dinner and the best blowjob of my life for the stunt he just pulled. Now, if you’ll excuse us…”
Her phone buzzes. The camerawoman says, “It’s already trending on Twitter.”
“Of course it is, my dear.”
In the distance, she swears she can hear Illidan berate his boyfriend for having absolutely no shame. Kael’thas only laughs.
–
“The Huntress called.”
“What was she mad about this time?”
Kael’thas quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t look up from his phone. “You know, the usual. Swore to ‘take your vigilante ass to prison’, cursed your family for twelve generations and said she could do your job better. When should we expect her?”
“Tomorrow, probably. First train from Darnassus arrives at—” He checks his phone. “Eight. She better get there with croissants or I’m not opening the door.” Illidan scrolls down his Twitter feed, snorts at something — either a thirst tweet or a hate one — and continues, “She’s throwing a lot of rocks for someone in a glass house. And what kind of line is she expecting from me, anyway?”
“Don’t ask me, you’re the one she drunkenly rants to. I’m just here to look pretty.”