Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I remember the minute.

It was like a switch was flipped

I was just a kid who grew up strong enough

To pick this armor up

And suddenly it fit

He had no choice.

Or at least, that's what Shane told himself late at night, when he couldn't distract himself. When the memories washed over him, threatening to consume him like a ship carried a little too far from its harbour.

Years have passed but if he stared at his hands for long enough, he could still see the red staining them. The way it coloured every crevice in between his fingers, every fold in his palms. The stickiness as it dried, crimson red turning browner now, as the fire he'd ignited dulled to embers.

He didn't even remember the address of the place he lived in last week, but he remembers every vivid detail of that night.

Shane remembers how quickly the atmosphere had changed, as though the very air they were breathing had altered. A calm night in turning to blind panic as one of their neighbours yelled out the code words, distant sirens drawing closer and closer.

He remembers every plan he had practised vanishing, staring at his brother with wide eyes. His mother was the only one who managed to keep her cool. He remembers her instructions, clear and concise. 

"Go to your room. Barricade the door. If you hear footsteps, hide." It was a shoddy plan at best and their safety hung on too many what-ifs. But Shane remembers scurrying up the stairs, brother in tow, and throwing all of his belongings in front of their bedroom door.

He remembers the sound their front door made as steel-capped boots connected with it again and again, until it came crashing to the ground. A loud thud. The snapping of wood. The high-pitched ping of the hinges as they bounced off the floorboards.

He sees the pile of things they had the nerve to call a "barricade", knowing it was not enough. It would never be enough. He sees his brother, only a few years older, disobedient as he sat with his back to their bedroom door and hoping his body would be enough to block them out. The determination pulling at his features, fear pushed down, something no child should ever be forced to do.

His parents screaming, the noise deafening even over the chaos. It cut through the noise like a smoke alarm in the dead of the night. He remembers his mother, wailing and shouting gibberish, a constant and continuous stream of pleading that Shane couldn't understand.

Shane remembers how abruptly it had stopped.

Even at his age, he'd known what the silence meant.

No pause. No footsteps. Their bedroom door falling to the ground, kicked down. He remembers his brother being flung out of the way with all the care of moving a sack of potatoes. The reality setting in, a deep helplessness, as his brother started screaming.

A single gunshot.

A spray of red.

No more screaming.

Barely eight years old and watching red lines streak downwards from his brother's head, a crimson splatter on the duvet of his childhood bed, an exit wound. And yet, he couldn't look away. Even now, Shane remembers those few seconds before his brother's eyes went dark. It was as though the world had ceased, just long enough for Shane to hear his brother's laboured breathing, before it all went quiet.

None of this would've happened if it wasn't for him. If it wasn't for the thing flowing through him, uncontrollable and volatile like a volcano.

It should've been him, it should've been him, it should've been him.

Footsteps approaching, this time he heard the stomping, the floorboards creaking so much that Shane thought they were going to give way.

No, Shane thought, It should've been them.

Slamming his fists into the floor, Shane remembers a roar that he didn't even know he possessed escaping him. He was never one for confrontation, hated it in fact, but they had poked the bear with a pointy stick for long enough, it had to bite back.

Familiar red sparks, repressed and quelled for far too long, surging from his fingertips and shooting outwards. A tide of destruction sweeping across the room. Tremors strong enough to shake the very foundation their house stood on, strong enough to fling bodies into the walls, down the stairs, anywhere as long as it was away from him.

It was like a reflex, Shane didn't even know what he was doing, almost blacking out for the most part. But once he had started, it was impossible to stop. It was all too easy to relish in the cracking of bones, the involuntary cries of pain. A large part of him hoped they were feeling even a fraction of the pain he was, that he had been feeling since the day he was born.

Without remorse, Shane pushed a spark through a man's chest. Too close. Close enough to be caught in the line of fire, covering himself in blood. Only then did he glance down at his hands, grimy and deep red, a light glow still circling his fingertips.

They had thrust this upon him, forced his hand. He'd never asked to be this way. He was just a kid. He had no choice. He had no choice.

But in the end, that didn't matter.

In the end, Shane had become everything they had said he would be. He'd become the monster that parents used to terrorise their children into doing their chores, the boogeyman that lived in their closets or under their beds. He'd become the villain they'd always wanted him to be, a common enemy they could exploit and blame without guilt.

He hadn't realised how much damage he had caused until he looked up. Every wall was in tatters. Held together by tape, blown apart by the sheer force and leaving a large gap in its place. The bricks were visible now, crumbling more with every passing second.

Everywhere he looked, there was a body. At least twenty-five of them.

Dead by his hand.

His eyes fell on his brother, half-buried under the rubble. His body, slumped and limp against the bed frame. His face, normally smiling wide enough to crack, was lifeless, so slack that it sent ice water racing through Shane's veins.

Before he could think better of it, Shane rushed towards him, ignoring the way the floorboards creaked and complained under his weight, holding on by the thinnest of threads.

Like an idiot, he shouted for his brother, calling his name again and again. For a moment, Shane thought he'd awake from his deep slumber with a smile and a familiar quip, that this was all one big joke. 

But no matter how loud he cried, no matter how much he shook his body, his eyes remained open but unseeing and his limbs remained still.

Shane only gave in at the sound of sirens and the footsteps racing up the stairs once more. Backup had arrived, it seemed.

Wiping his tears, Shane barged open their bedroom window with his left shoulder, the only foundation still in tact, (it always did have a tendency to get stuck), and climbed out. He did his best to ignore the shooting pains that the landing sent up his shins, little sparks below his skin.

He had no choice. They gave him no choice. They took everything from him, burning his existence to the ground without so much as a second glance.

And yet, they considered him to be the villain.

Chapter Text

God, that was so long ago, long ago, long ago

I was little, I was weak and perfectly naive

And I grew up too quick 

Shane’s memory is wearing with age. He can feel it, as he scribbles out the maps of all the nearest government bases from memory, all the places there had been sightings of heroes or government officials. Places he would avoid like the plague. Until the time came to blow them to smithereens.

But somewhere around the fifteenth location, his memory starts to falter. He curses under his breath, as he folds the paper up and shoves it into his pocket. He should know this by now, he should be able to memorise these locations like the back of his hand. Lord knows he’s been doing it long enough.

Shane has to be more careful now. As time went on, they had been searching for him as hard as ever but this time, with no restraint.

Now that he wasn’t a child, it seemed they had no problem placing a bullet between his eyes on sight. No questions asked.

And he knows that they believe he deserves it. The things he’s done, countless buildings up in smoke, hundreds of government agents and heroes injured, child heroes let loose, over sixty people dead by his hands. The trail of blood that follows him everywhere he goes, the scent alone strong enough for them to trace, to find him. Even if it’s ten steps behind.

They probably think a bullet between his eyes is the kinder option.

Nowadays, he spends most of his time hopping from one home to another, abandoned buildings that were too close to condemned to be monitored for squatters. He’s learned to pick up speed and being able to evacuate a building in less than two minutes, leaving no trace behind, has become his specialty.

He’s lived in multi-storey car parks - too cold in the winter due to the general lack of insulation, but there was always a nice view of the stars and city lights from the top level. Old houses so close to falling apart that some of the walls were held together by duct tape, the ceiling crumbling above him as he slept and covering him in dust. Park benches, stores that had been closed down for good and, on one notable occasion, a 24-hour Walmart.

And even though he doesn’t let himself pick favourites or plant any real roots, Shane has to admit that this home is his favourite.

It’s cozy, which is codeword for small, but he doesn’t mind. It keeps the cold out in the night and after a lifetime of losing things, he’s grateful that all of his belongings are in eyesight, within reach at all times. In arms reach, just in case.

Letting his guard down is always a bad idea, but Shane’s only human. He had been lulled into a false sense of security, as he tears small pieces off a stolen baguette. If it hadn’t been a quiet night, with no blood-curdling screams or gunshots, he wouldn’t have heard the front door clicking open.

In one smooth move, Shane snatches up his duffel bag, he’s learned to travel light, and heads for the back door.

Another thing he loves about this home was the multiple escape routes, leaving no room for him to be cornered and caught off guard.

What a shame he would never be back here.

“Stop!” A voice behind him shouts and he hears heavy footsteps gaining on him quickly, but Shane doesn’t hesitate. He keeps his eyes forward, trained on the end of the alleyway, where it opens out into a busy high street. There he knows he would easily get lost in the crowd.

He’s only a few metres away now, he’s going to make it. He’s going to make it.

Even as the sun starts to disappear behind the buildings, there’s a steady stream of traffic, both on foot and on wheels. A woman pushes a stroller, holding the child in her arms as it cries uncontrollably. A group of teenagers play their music out loud, loud enough to break the speakers of their phones.

Shane would lose them in the crowd easily. He’s going to make it.

He’s certain of it, he would’ve bet money on him making it, until a weight lands on him from above, sending him crashing onto his back. An unfamiliar face hovers above him. Cold metal presses against his throat, insistent and refusing to be ignored. 

“Has anyone ever stopped just because you told them to?” Shane quips, more than a little bored by the constant stream of heroes sent in his direction. It reminds him of a high school baseball team, sending batter after batter up to the post. By now, Shane thinks they’ve struck out.

It takes a moment for Shane’s words to register but once they do, the hero rolls his eyes.

A tiny nick appears on Shane’s neck when he tries to move, just deep enough to draw blood. 

“You don’t have to do this, you can turn yourself in, you--” The hero rambles, all self-righteous and sickeningly certain of himself, and Shane wonders what the view looks like from atop that high horse.

“Save me the spiel, spandex. I’ve heard it all before.” He chuckles, glancing down at the hero’s attire, his eyes catching on the emblem. If his gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, he chalks it up to the ridiculous colours that adorn the hero’s chest, so neon they’re almost painful to look at.

“You can be better, you don’t have to live a life on the run--” Shane fights the urge to roll his eyes. How disappointing, he thinks. And this is why he never allowed himself to be excited by the prospect of fresh blood, not anymore. All these heroes were the same, born and bred to fight for the cause and exist for nothing else.

“Jesus,” Shane sighs, exasperated. It feels like the hero is going down a checklist, ticking off every cliche they’re taught in hero school or wherever these freaks come from. “Listen, kid. I know you’re new at this, you’ve got that bright-eyed and bushy-tailed look. Just a bit of constructive criticism, your approach is way off.”

“I don’t need to take advice from you,” The hero bites back, a surprise, as he leans forward into Shane’s personal space. His voice trails off expectantly and Shane almost misses his cue, too caught on the revelation that maybe this hero isn’t cookie cutter, maybe he has a personality. This could be fun, after all. 

“Karma,” He says the name with no flourish, sounding almost annoyed by his alias. “They call me Karma, I think,”

“You think?” The hero scoffs, a small smirk playing on his lips, barely noticeable. But Shane notices.

“I mean, I didn’t pen that name myself, the papers did. Do you really think I’d pick a name like Karma? Really?” Shane had been endlessly infuriated when his face started cropping up on the front pages, but there was never a moment more annoying than when “Karma” started to catch on.

Every news outlet simultaneously decided that was the name they were going with and at the very same time, Shane decided he hated the press.

“Fair enough,” The hero tilts his head, a look of deliberation on his face, before he lets out a chuckle, all breathy and nearly silent. 

Shane finds himself watching the corner of the hero’s lips and the way it tugs upwards, almost involuntarily, before the hero corrects himself, before he remembers where he is and what he’s doing. Shane follows suit and schools his features, forcing his gaze back upwards, eyebrow quirked. 

“Not much better than mine.” The hero states. Definitely his first time, Shane decides. Normally, the heroes refuse to give out any personal information or to forge any kind of connection with him. They know better. It appears this hero doesn’t.

“What’s yours?” Shane asks, taking the bait in an attempt to stall. But if he’s being honest, he’s at least half-curious.

There’s a voice in his head reminding him, constantly and insistent, that he could escape so easily, right this second. But part of him wants to see where this goes.

“The Starling,” The hero admits, deadpan. Shane doesn’t even try to hide his amusement, as he barks out a laugh, too loud in the silence of the alleyway. 

He forgets for a moment that there’s a knife at his neck and that the man above him wants him dead. 

Shane wonders why he hasn’t done it yet. Sliced him open like a Thanksgiving turkey. 

“Wow, I mean, wow, ” Shane says. He goes to shake his head, before he decides he’d prefer his head attached to his shoulders. “Well, I’m not calling you that. What should I call you?”

”That’s my name.” The hero says, pursing his lips together tightly as though he’s afraid they will betray him and his real name will slip right out.

”So, you’re telling me, your mom looked at lil baby you and decided you were going to be called Starling? She must have hated you.” Shane jokes.

“I’m not telling you my name, Karma.” The hero looks almost bored now, but Shane doesn’t miss the way his lip twitches, a crack in a very deliberate mask.

”Fine, I know, you heroes and your secret identity bullshit,” Shane says and goes to wave the words away his hand, until he remembers the hero near straddling him, his arms trapped by his sides. “But I’ll find out, I have my ways.”

With the speed of a man ten years younger, Shane hooks his legs up and around the man’s waist and flips, until he’s above him. It’s abrupt to say the least, but it has to be to catch the hero off guard. 

He pulls his fingertips back and pushes sparks forward, just as he has for years, until there’s a cage of red surrounding the hero, pinning him to the ground.

“See you around, rookie,” Shane chuckles, as he brushes the dust off of his pants. For the hell of it, Shane throws the hero a mock salute and a wink.

“What?” It takes the hero a moment to catch on and he struggles against the hold but it’s pointless. All it does is tighten, red sparks closing in on him. As he turns away, Shane hears the hero’s grunts of frustration. “ Wait !”

He runs away without looking back, just as he always does.

But when he’s a few blocks away, because he’s a saint, Shane remembers to flick his fingers and release the hero.

Chapter Text

Now you won't see all that I have to lose

And all I've lost in the fight to protect it

That night, after the sun has long set and the sky has transformed into an almost-comforting black abyss, Shane sneaks into the library. It's almost too easy. He only has to pick one lock, duck out of view of one security camera and he's golden. They should definitely invest in better security.

When he reaches the computers, he boots one up - which takes far too long, since every computer is ancient - and googles 'The Starling'. He's far from surprised when the first results are a bunch of newspaper articles.

The Starling saves apartment building from Blackout!

The Starling thwarts Mockingbird!

The further down he scrolls, the older the articles get and the more insignificant the villains become. And frankly, the cheaper Starling's hero costume gets. He must have finally been worthy of an upgrade, to play with the big kids.

"It's a bunch of C-listers," Shane mutters to himself, shaking his head as he scrolls through the list of measly villains Starling had faced. That explains a lot. Along with the fact that none of the articles are dated more than a month old, the hero was only used to dealing with the lower ranks, the villains who can barely manage to pull off an armed robbery.

No wonder the hero was blindsided. He was too green.

Even with the nagging curiosity that keeps him at the computer for over an hour, Shane convinces himself that this is just research. After all, it would be dumb not to look into his newest enemy and learn everything he could. He keeps scrolling, looking for something in particular.

Finally, he finds it, when he stumbles across the blog of some superhero fanboy.

Surprisingly good sources.

Newest recruit, the Starling shows great promise! So far, we've seen him exhibit superhuman healing and agility with incredible combat skills and unmatched accuracy with throwing knives.

Shane scoffs, unable to suppress the noise before he makes it, forgetting he's supposed to be quiet. He glances around, once, twice over each shoulder, but no security guard steps out of the shadows.

Incredible combat skills, he thinks, remembering the events of earlier, how easy it had been to flip the control in his favour. Far from incredible to fall for such a rookie mistake, to leave yourself open to such attacks. Surely that's something they teach in Superhero 101?

Shane clicks out of the browser and shuts the computer down, deleting the browser history beforehand.

Two weeks pass before Shane sees the hero again, until he stumbles into the hero's perfectly laid trap.

"So, we meet again," Shane teases. Even with his hands tied behind his back, Shane can't let the hero feel a sense of victory. Even restrained, he acts like he's the one with the upper hand. As though this was all part of his plan, falling victim to the hero's trap.

He'd been careless, he knows it. He's been doing this for long enough to know that he should've checked for someone tailing him. He should've seen the same van circling him for the past half an hour, pulling four right turns until they drove in a perfect square. He should've seen the shadow on the floor, the hero following a little too closely behind.

But Shane was complacent. For once, he'd forgotten.

And that was all it had taken.

He's reminded of his mistakes by the wire that digs into his wrists, tight enough to colour his hands with a bluish tint.

"So we do." The hero says, as he finishes tying - what feels like - a triple knot behind Shane's back. With a roll of his eyes, Shane tries to wiggle his fingers, tries to pull any power he can, just to undo the knot.

But it's no use. It's too tight for him to move and without movement, without direction, the sparks won't come.

Guess I'll just have to do this the old fashioned way, he thinks, mildly impressed that the hero knew to bind his fingers and not just his wrists.

"You gonna tell me your name yet?" Shane smirks, even though he knows the hero can't see it, still preoccupied with double checking the wire. At least he learned from last time.

"You know my name," The hero whispers into Shane's ear, so close that the hero's breath sends chills down Shane's neck, raising the tiniest of goosebumps. Almost forgetting he could move his neck, Shane turns to face the hero and blatantly ignores just how close they are. 

"No, your real one. The one your mom picked out. If you heroes even have moms." He says and with one stare, it's suddenly a game. An unspoken test to see who will be the first to back down. And Shane would rather die than bow out first.

"Why would I ever do that?" Starling snarls, a hint of annoyance tugging on his features but he still doesn't break. He almost puffs his chest out, insecure, like a cartoon or a caricature but doesn't quite finish the action.

"Common courtesy? Politeness? I'll even give you mine for free." Shane shrugs. His name is practically common knowledge nowadays anyway, given how long he's been playing this game. He's long since given up on disguises and masks. 

There was a time when he donned a purple hoodie and purple face mask and leaned into the whole 'villain' thing. Desperate to disguise his identity, to allow himself just one privacy.

There's no point when the government and the press dig too deep, resorting to posting your pictures all over the news and ridiculously large billboards.

The papers just favour 'Karma' because it's catchy and instills fear, which sells papers.

Apparently.

"I'm Shane," He winks as he says the words, a last ditch attempt to wind the hero up even more, to press every button.

Normally, the heroes are sick of him and his mouth by now and leave him to rot in the back of some van while they go on another mission. There's been times they've got so angry they call for backup, exasperated and unable to stand the sight of him for longer than an hour.

It's one of Shane's favourite traits.

But much to Shane's surprise, the hero doesn't snap.

Instead, he chuckles, light and airy.

"Shane? What kind of villain name is that?" Starling asks, backing away and Shane takes the opportunity to push his wrists outwards with as much force as he can, trying to loosen the restraints even an inch.

"I'm giving you a second chance," He says, a far too abrupt subject change but he's desperate to avert all possible attention away from his hands. Shane can feel a sharp pain wrapping around his wrists and with each tug, he wonders if the rushing feeling beneath his skin is his circulation being cut off or blood flowing to the wound caused by the wires.

He wonders if it's possible for someone to bleed out like this. What a way to go.

"You're giving me a second chance, huh?" The hero says, as he gestures to Shane's current predicament. When Shane looks at him, he's surprised to find that the hero is almost amused.

"At your spiel," Shane offers and tries his hardest not to sound out of breath. He's so reliant on his powers that he's not used to breaking out through sheer strength and the exertion is wearing. He makes a mental note to train more. "I've got no place to be, you can practise. You definitely need it."

"Ah, because I need your advice. Gotcha." The hero bites, trying to play it off as a joke but there's a heat behind his words, one that Shane hasn't heard from him before.

Struck a nerve, he thinks and files that little insecurity away for later. A small victory blooms in his chest.

"Well, first things first, just know that there's nothing you could say that would sway me. I'm unswayable, baby. Like a tree." By now, Shane's talking gibberish and he knows it. He had been hoping he would be out of these restraints by now.

Either he's not very good at untying knots or they have excellent knot-tying education at the hero school.

"Trees sway." The hero states, deadpan. He unsheathes a knife and twirls it around his fingertips with the easy and familiarity of a hero fifteen years older.

"Okay, maybe not the best metaphor. What I'm getting at is," He feels a strand snap, the wire thinning around his hands, and tries not to let it show on his face. "You could never convince me that your keepers are right." He spits the word out like an insult, bait for the hero to bite at but he doesn't.

"I don't believe that," The hero says and there's something behind his eyes that Shane can't quite name. He isn't sure he wants to. 

"You should," Shane replies, before he can examine the hero's reaction, before he finds something he won't like. He can feel the grip around his wrists loosening with each movement. "You don't know me, I'm a monster."

"I don't believe that either. Nobody is past saving." The sincerity in his voice hits Shane square in the chest and for a moment, he almost feels sorry for him. Because the hero genuinely believes it, that much is obvious. He hasn't met someone to prove him wrong yet.

It's a shame Shane's got to be the one to do so.

"Well, what about someone who doesn't want to be saved?" Shane asks, unsure whether the question he poses is rhetorical or not. Whether the answer could shift Shane's own opinion.

But before the hero can speak, Shane pops the restraints off his wrists and holds his hands up, balled into fists that guard his face, ready to fight.

But no fight comes.

"Three minutes, not bad." The hero says, glancing down at his wrist even though there's an empty space where a watch should be. He smiles and steps back into Shane's personal space.

A slap on Shane's shoulder startles him and he flinches, ever so slightly.

"Good job, buddy."

"What?" Shane stammers. His brain is still stuttering, trying to catch up like an athlete who doesn't realise the starting gun has gone off. Even to himself, the effort is embarrassing.

"You think I didn't see you shrugging out of those things? You think I didn't realise why you were talking shit?" The hero murmurs and not once does the smile leave his face. Shane curses himself for being so predictable, so complacent and so out of practise.

"Ah, so you're not just self-righteous, you're also a dick," Shane spits, more than a little angry and more than willing to let it show.

"You're not going anywhere, Karma." The hero says, sounding so certain that Shane sees red. A quip ready on his tongue, Shane goes to speak but a sharp pain in his neck catches him off guard. Only for a moment but surprising enough to make the words die on his tongue.

A needle.

Shane can almost feel the liquid making its way into his bloodstream, flowing through his veins. Shane waits for the exhaustion to come, pulling down on his limbs and forcing his eyes closed. He waits to fight it off, knowing that no matter how hard he tries, he'll succumb eventually.

But the exhaustion never comes.

Instead, he's hit with something that makes the buzzing in his blood cease for a moment, something he's never experienced, something that chills him to the core.

He can't draw the sparks, he can't feel the power source that usually sits at the bottom of his stomach.

His powers are gone.

Chapter Text

I won't let you in, I swore never again

I can't afford, no, I refuse to be rejected

"Tell me about yourself," The hero says, as they sit face-to-face in the back of an unmarked van. It's impossible to avoid eye contact and the hero is only making things worse, leaning forward, his elbows against his thighs. 

Shane stares at the walls, dark and plain over the hero's shoulder, but it doesn't have the same effect as a window. He feels no calm, no distraction.

A rare occasion, Shane keeps his mouth shut and trains his eyes on a single indent that marks the wall. It's round and vaguely resembles a fist, punched knuckles first, but too small to be an adult's. He wonders how many poor souls have been transferred in this van. How many innocent children were taken to their death or worse, clueless as they pulled from the arms of their parents, sitting exactly where he sits.

"You know, give me the big villain monologue, I know you're dying to." The hero pushes, mistaking Shane's silence for confusion, instead of the mixture of disinterest and anger that hides behind it. Shane makes an effort not to grimace, not to pull a face so disgusted and furious that the hero would kill him on the spot.

"Trust me, I'm not." Shane huffs, a humourless laugh. 

"You must have a reason why you're doing all this, what was the last straw? Got passed up for a promotion? Got rejected by your dream girl?" For a moment, Shane almost believes that the curiosity in his tone is sincere. It might be the only thing that stops him from summoning all his strength and head-butting the hero as hard as he could.

Memories flash through Shane's head, pulled to the front of his thoughts for the first time in a while. Even after all these years, they're just as shocking and painful as they were that night. The grief never dulled, there was no reprieve, no sense of relief. He just learned to ignore it for the most part. He was forced to learn how to deal with the absence left behind in his chest, in order to live his life.

Maybe Shane should tell him. Maybe this time, the hero will understand. Maybe this hero will get it. Maybe it'll be different.

He toys with the possibility for a mere moment, before shutting it down. It's risking too much. To show anyone his deepest and most painful scars is to give them too much of himself, a roadmap on how to hurt him the most, let alone his enemy. There isn't an outcome that Shane could live with. Telling the hero about his past can only end one way. Badly.

"I'll pass," Something must show on Shane's face or maybe the hero doesn't really care enough, maybe it was all just a joke to him, mindless small talk. It doesn't matter. The hero doesn't press it any further. 

Instead, he just shoots Shane a look like he wishes he'd never asked, one that makes Shane feel almost guilty. Or it would, if he hadn't lost so much, if he wasn't doing everything in his power to keep what little he had left.

The hum of the engine is deafening in the silence that falls and settles, weighing heavy in the air of the van.

Slipping out of the hero's clutches is far too easy. A lot easier than Shane had anticipated it would be.

The hero must not have done his research. Maybe he just hadn't considered every possible outcome. But somewhere around forty minutes into the drive, Shane realises his powers are back and at full force.

Whatever drug the hero had given him had worn off and the van they were sitting in has no special insulation. It's just a normal van. He could blow the walls off this truck with little effort.

So he does.

With the slightest flick of his wrist, Shane sends crimson flares out in all directions, like a wave or an aftershock. He watches as the centre of the van rips in half, almost in slow motion. He watches the sparks push outwards and leave nothing but destruction in their wake, sending both halves of the vehicle flying in opposite directions.

Shane's surprised how amusing it is to watch the hero being tossed across the road, tumbling along the pavement as though he weighs nothing. Shane cringes at the noise of the impact, the hero's body hitting concrete, a dull thud that reverberates. Grateful that wasn't him.

"Should've checked the fine print, rookie!" Shane shouts, both feet firmly planted on the ground as the movement didn't catch him off guard. "See ya!"

Shane turns and runs without looking back. He doesn't recognise this street, but he knows he doesn't have time to ask for directions. He may have caught the hero off guard but there's no doubt that, once he's brushed the dust off his clothes and patch up the wounds, the hero will be searching for him.

After all, that's what heroes do.

Chapter Text

I want to break these bones til they're better

I want to break them right and feel alive

Back when he was a teen, before he knew the entire system was corrupt and broken beyond repair, Shane had tried to find out who had killed his family. Which agents, specifically.

For years, he had scoured every database, both public and classified, that he could get his hands on. Those faces were still so clear to him even now. He could pick them out in a crowd, even with the face shields distorting their features and the helmets hiding their hair.

He could name every agent that worked for the government within the last twenty years, their roles, their family life, where they grew up, right down to where they were on that exact night. 

For years, Shane let his life slip away, unparalleled anger taking the reins and directing his every move. Shane became obsessed, believing wholeheartedly that the only way he would ever find peace was if he made those agents pay.

But sometime in his early twenties, he stopped looking. He resigned himself to the fact that these agents were probably under high protection, too high of a rank to ever find. After all, this was just a job to them, they were just following orders.

He burned every file, cut up every picture, took down all the evidence he had pinned to the walls of whatever place he was staying, and decided that he didn't need to identify individual agents.

He wasn't stupid. Shane knew he wasn't the only child they'd tortured, put through hell for something entirely out of their control. He had heard many a tale of children being ripped away from their families after "freak accidents", forced out of their homes. Their families killed, as punishment for hiding a child with unidentified and undocumented powers.

Some hadn't been so lucky as to get away. Some were killed on the spot along with their families, if their powers weren't deemed interesting enough for the government to test on them. Some had been captured and taken back to compounds, horror stories left in their wake of merciless experimentation and brainwashing.

Then, of course, there were the heroes. The ones whose parents declared their superhuman existence at a young age, as soon as the powers began to manifest. Those who had been handed over to the government, willingly taken from their families to be fed through the hero system.

Even now, nobody really knows what the "hero system" is. Shane guesses the films are right, that it's like an academy, where little freaks are brainwashed to worship the government and do their bidding.

And now, walking home, shoulder throbbing something horrible, Shane knows he was right not to go after the individual agents. This problem is much bigger than a few people. The whole system needs to be taken apart and dismantled, it needs to be burned to the ground. And Shane's willing to be the one to light the match.

Only when he gets home, once the adrenaline has long seeped out of him, exhaustion taking its place, does Shane realise the throbbing in his shoulder is more than a little bruise.

When he looks down, he notice his arm is facing a different direction than it's supposed to be.

"Fuck," Shane sighs, teeth gritted. Not for the first time, he wishes he was blessed with healing abilities or maybe the inability to feel pain, if such a thing even existed. Maybe immortality? He would take anything if it meant never feeling this agony again.

He circles his free hand around his shoulder, carmine rockets enveloping it and forcing it back in the direction it came from. It clicks back into place and Shane hears it, the sound that ordinary people shouldn't find familiar, but he does.

And even though the sound is familiar, he never got used to the pain.

"Fuck," He mutters, trying to muffle the sound by biting down on his lip. He clenches his eyes shut and moves his arm down to his side. It hangs there, limp and motionless, looking almost detached from his body, until the searing pain subsides to a more manageable throbbing.

By now, he's probably injured every bone in his body, fractured or worse. He's probably bruised every portion of his flesh, watching the red turn to blue and then turn to yellow. He's probably grazed every inch of his skin, all of his blood replacing itself as he covered himself in scabs and scars.

The only comfort he finds in so many injuries is that his skin would heal stronger, thicker. His broken bones replaced by something better, something that could, one day, withstand the worst that the heroes had to offer.

But god, he'd be lying if he said it didn't hurt like a bitch.

Chapter Text

You were wrong, you were wrong, you were wrong

My healing needed more than time

Almost a month passes and Shane fills his time preparing for his most recent attack on the fifth government facility on his map. A simple, yet effective, twelve point plan. He spends his days drawing out blueprints of each facility he remembers visiting in the past, hoping that his memory serves him well. Anything to occupy his mind with something other than the hero.

Most days, he's able to go a few hours without the hero even crossing his mind.

Absentminded, he holds an apple, just on the wrong side of ripe, and chops off slices with his knife. He does so with the focus of a toddler, almost nicking his fingertips with the blade more than once.

It's not that he feels guilty for what happened with the van, watching the hero thrash across the concrete with all the grace of a sack of potatoes had garnered a strange sense of victory within him. No, he doesn't feel guilty per se, if he had to name it, he'd probably call it something close to concern.

Truth is, part of him wants the hero to have survived. Most of him knows the hero is likely to be alive and well. And all of him, every cell in his body, wants to face off against him once more, just to have the opportunity to spite him again.

Today was the only day that he was certain the child heroes were being transferred to different training grounds, a weird little field trip that kept them out of the way and out of the reach of his powers. He couldn't risk it, they were only pawns in a game of chess, clueless to the politics taking place around them.

Everyone else, on the other hand, was complicit. At the very least. And monstrous murderers at the worst.

Shane pads through the building, pressing through the balls of his feet. He had decided to opt for hiding and sneaking around instead of a massacre. After all, killing everyone he so much as bumped into was messy and he really couldn't spend his time mopping up blood and entrails, when he could just blow the whole place up and be done with it.

Twenty floors up, Shane waits for the agents inside the control room to go on a lunch break and pull the door closed behind them, locking it. He's sure the view from up here is amazing, higher than every building in the city, every person no bigger than an ant, everything so insignificant.

With a twist of his fingertips, Shane opens the door, his sparks acting as his own personal lock picker, more efficient than he ever could be.

He sidesteps into the room and thanks his lucky stars that he remembered the building layout as perfectly as he did. Met by a thousand screens, a thousand security cameras projecting images so boring that Shane almost respects the agents for having the will to sit and watch them all day. Almost.

It seems his plan is going off without a hitch, as he glances across every screen and there seems to be no sign of panic. Everyone seems to be going about their day as normal, unaware that Shane is a few floors up, a fugitive with enough explosives flowing through his veins to take out the entire block if he wanted to.

Now certain that nobody is coming after him, Shane slips out of the control room and up the staircase to the roof. One floor up and one lock picked and he's out in the open, the noises of the city below him no louder than the buzzing of a bumblebee.

For a moment, Shane allows himself to look out over the city, to admire the parts of it that most people would despise. He watches the flickering streetlight a few blocks down that can't decide whether it's morning or night yet, before he remembers where he is and what he's doing.

But, just as Shane pulls his fingers back, ready to pull the metaphorical trigger, he feels a presence behind him. His heart sinks and swells at the same time, something he didn't even know he could feel, dread and exhilaration mixing into a dangerous cocktail.

"Don't you have anything better to do than follow me around, Starling?" Shane sighs. Of course the hero had to come along to ruin all the fun. What a buzzkill.

But even with the hero behind him, there's one thing Shane's certain of - this building is going up in smoke, whether the hero is in it or not. There can't be any bases left, like a game of chess, Shane needs to capture all the pawns before he can defeat the king. Before he can even consider a checkmate.

"Well, you're terrorising my city so I'm sorry, but I'm going nowhere." The hero steps forward so that he stands beside Shane, both of them looking out on the city. For a moment, Shane swears he sees him stand a little taller. But even so, he's still looking up at Shane, the adjustment not quite enough to even the playing field.

"Oh, 'terrorising'? Is that what they're telling you? Big word." Shane almost laughs because there's so much that the hero doesn't know. So much that he'll probably never know, yet he stands before Shane, high and mighty and so sure of himself. It's almost laughable how quick he is to follow orders he doesn't fully understand.

"What would you call someone about to blow up a government building and kill hundreds of innocent people?" The Starling scoffs, before he corrects himself, adjusts his posture once more and takes a deep breath. That seems to have rattled him and Shane was sure to notice. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"Really? No 'how've you been?' Straight to the cliches? Thought we went over this, Starling." Shane teases, as he turns to face the hero, who mirrors his movement. Distracted, Shane twirls his wrist, painting an invisible circle and summoning the sparks to his fingertips.

"You can walk away, Karma. They'll get you a plea deal, you'll be in prison for ten years tops." The hero says, eyes watching the scarlet that shrouds Shane's hands with such intensity that Shane half expects lasers to shoot from his eyes. 

"Oh Starling, you can't believe that. They'll shoot me on sight." He decides to leave out that Starling is the only person, so far, that hasn't tried to kill him the instant he saw him. Shane supposes it comes with the high media coverage that deems him as nothing more than a 'violent killer'. "Hate to break it to you but this building is going down, whether you like it or not."

"Now who's the one with the cliches?" The hero says, stepping even closer until their torsos are almost touching. There's a slight smirk making itself known on his lips, as though the hero isn't concerned, not even in the slightest. As though he knows he has this in the bag. That's red rag to a bull, pissing Shane right off, as he rolls his eyes.

"Move out of my way, rookie." Shane sighs. He doesn't want to hurt the hero, never mind throw him off the top of this building. But if the hero forces his hand, he'll be left with no choice.

"You say you're not a villain but you're just like all the rest of them. This is textbook supervillain." Shane's surprised by how quickly the conversation changes, how quickly the hero goes from unaffected to angry, quicker than the drop of a hat.

""I'm not like them, I'm not." Shane snarls. To think he's anything like those before him, those who got off on killing children, killing families. To think he's anything like the agents that reside in the building beneath him makes his stomach turn. He can't believe it, not for one second. 

"You're just another villain playing the victim, obsessed with taking this city down with you and I'm not going to let you." The hero continues and Shane knows he's exposed an insecurity, because he's watching the hero exploit it for all its worth.

"You're wrong." Is all Shane says, as he turns around and takes a few steps away. He can't deal with the intensity of the hero, the way he plants himself in Shane's line of vision and stares him in the eye without fear. After years of hiding in half-voluntary solitary confinement, it's too much. 

He looks out over the city once more.

"So you're not planning to blow this building to pieces?" The hero asks, tone infuriated and accusatory. Even without looking at him, Shane knows his eyebrows are pulling together, tugging, furrowing in frustration. 

"And so what if I am? Maybe they deserve it!" Shane shouts, whirling back around to face Starling again. He feels no satisfaction when he notices the hero's brow is, in fact, furrowed tightly.

"These people don't deserve this, this city doesn't deserve this! They've done nothing wrong!" The hero yells in reply, an attempt to match Shane's volume. All Shane can think about is the horror stories he's been told, how the government commits these heinous crimes and the heroes stand idly by, powerful but choosing to be powerless.

"Fuck, give it a rest," Shane mutters, rubbing his fingers on his temples. This has past the point of fun and is nothing more than exasperating now. He can feel a headache forming.

"You're just gonna nuke a bunch of defenceless civilians? This isn't you, Karma." The hero keeps pressing down on the same button, digging further into the same hole, and Shane hates that it gets to him.

"You know nothing about me." Shane says. He speaks through gritted teeth, trying to keep his anger in check but failing, as he stomps towards the hero until he's so close he can feel the hero's breath fanning out on his face.

"Oh, as if I need to," The hero huffs but doesn't back away, doesn't back down from the challenge that Shane has laid at his feet. "Let me guess, life handed you lemons and you decided you would blow up the world?"

"You're on thin ice, Starling," Shane says and he spits the alias out like it's venomous, like it pains him to say it. The hero doesn't flinch.

"And what are you going to do? Prove me right? That you're the supervillain everyone knows you are?" He continues to poke and prod and Shane knows he's just trying to get a rise out of him. But god, he can't stop himself from falling for it. Every. Time.

"What about you, huh? Hiding behind that, that, that crest?" Shane stutters, his vision almost blurry as he sees nothing but red.

With one wave of his hand, he gestures to the emblem on the hero's chest, another symbol of unity that holds the city together. Unity, that somehow doesn't include him and never has. He waves his hand, like it's nothing more than a piece of fabric glued to his chest.

"Like it makes you any better than the rest of us? Like it makes you any better than me? We've killed just as many people and caused just as much damage. Only difference is I'm not the government's bitch." Shane glances down at the hero, hoping to see the words hitting him in the face harder than any punch he could ever throw. But the hero doesn't flinch. 

Instead, he looks up through his lashes, a vehement gaze filled with fury and hatred.

There you are, Shane thinks.

"I'm nothing like you." The argument is weak, as shaky as the hero's voice as he utters it. He's almost shaking now, almost bouncing in place. Shane can see it, all riled up like a soda bottle about to burst.

"You could have taken me in ten minutes ago. You could still take me in right now. But you're not going to. Why?" Shane says definitively, the end to an argument, a conclusion.

He's not shocked by the silence that follows as the hero scrambles to think of a reason. He's not shocked as he watches the hero clench and unclench his jaw so tight that Shane worries he's going to break it. 

"You don't know that. How do you know I'm not the one stalling?" The hero mutters. It's a last ditch effort and they both know it, a last try at making Shane feel like the hero is still the one holding all the cards. But Shane sees right through it.

"Because you would've done it already." He says. His glance flits downwards, just for a split second, just long enough for him to realise he's done so, as he watches the hero chew on his lips. As though clenched fists weren't enough, as though he had to take his anger out on his bottom lip too.

"Don't project your weaknesses onto me, Karma. Just cause you don't have the balls to fight me doesn't mean I won't kick your ass and take you downstairs to the compound." The hero says.

"I'd like to see you try."

Shane's a little surprised when the hero punches him square in the face. But he shouldn't be, not really.

He jerks backwards, a moment's recovery before he faces the hero again. With both fists guarding his face, Shane realises he doesn't remember the last time he fought hand to hand, no powers. It's refreshing and all the more rewarding when he lands a heavy punch to the hero's side.

They dance around one another for a few minutes, throwing a jab here and there, until Shane realises that it feels closer to sparring than fighting. It feels like the hero is humouring him, instead of actually trying to win.

Shane lunges forward, tackling the hero downward. Their bodies crash together with a horrific thud, similar to the sound of two rocks colliding with one another, but the hero's body cushions Shane's fall.

"Stop pulling your punches," He says, towering over the hero once more, a position that he's becoming accustomed to by now.

Shaking his head, the hero sighs, before taking it up a gear. He delivers three punches in quick succession, each one landing perfectly on Shane's skin before he's realised they've even been thrown. One to his side, one to his cheek, one to his throat.

Shane falls backwards and stumbles to his feet, gasping for air, winded. He's too reliant on his powers, he knows it. If he was a better fighter, he wouldn't have been caught off guard, he wouldn't have been winded and the hero wouldn't have got the upper hand.

As he desperately tries to fill his lungs with air, the hero sweeps his legs out from under him in one swift movement, until Shane is back-to-back with the concrete.

Lying on his back with the hero stood above him, Shane is defeated. It hurts to breathe in, a sharp pain blossoming below his ribcage that he knows is a fracture. 

But Starling hesitates.

"Go on," Shane presses, looking up at the hero with careful eyes. He's missed something, he knows he has. The pulling punches, the hesitation, even the bantering, the stalling instead of just taking Shane in. What is this? "End it."

The Starling pulls his fist back and Shane prepares for the blow, knowing it would be enough to knock him out cold. Then the hero could drag him downstairs and lock him up, just like he's supposed to.

But the hero does nothing.

"Sorry, bud." Shane says, ceasing the moment of hesitation, the only opening he will be offered, as he pushes the palm of his hand upwards. He sends the hero hurtling backwards in a cloud of red sparks, but makes sure to cushion his fall before he lands, a bed of red lightning settling below him. "You should've killed me when you had the chance." 

He summons the sparks to the edges of his fingertips, a smile on his face. To see a government building go down would be a thrill, a great victory to know that a portion, however small, of the problem was exterminated.

His fingers pull, ready to unleash a sea of crimson, when a silver blade makes its home in Shane's shoulder.

"I'm not going to let you kill them," The hero groans, as Shane focuses on breathing, forcing the scream of pain to die on his tongue. He lets out a grunt and yanks the knife out of its place. He knows he shouldn't, he's been told a thousand times that the best course of action when stabbed is to leave the object in until you can get to a hospital.

But Shane can't go to the hospital anyway. And he relishes in the surprise on the hero's face, as he watches his knife, slick with blood, clatter to the floor.

"Wow, Starling," Shane breathes. "Didn't know you had it in you."

He knows all is lost now. He can hear the footsteps crashing up the stairwell, the chaos bubbling below. This building isn't going down today.

He's not lucky enough to have healing abilities. He's sick of running away from the hero but if he doesn't flee now, he'll be captured. 

They'll kill him, if he doesn't bleed out first.

"It's been a pleasure." Shane says, as he steps off the roof, enveloped in red fireworks to slow his twenty story fall.

Chapter Text

When I see fragile things, helpless things, broken things

I see the familiar

I was little, I was weak, I was perfect too

Now I'm a broken mirror

Shane watches the news. A campaign for the return of a "powered fugitive", a seven year old girl. They say she's armed and dangerous, making a point of showing videos of her surrounded by agents, before she shoots into the air and flies away.

All Shane sees is her choosing not to kill them.

But the newscaster focuses on how dangerous she is, how she's a ticking time bomb, unpredictable. They keep saying that she's "out there" and to "keep distance", but all Shane can think about is how isolated and alone and terrified she must feel.

They mention her family. They were recently murdered but Shane takes note of how they skirt over the details, ensuring that the viewer knows it's all the girl's fault without truly explaining anything. His heart aches.

They show pictures of the crime scene, flashes of yellow tape and blood stains. Doors ripped off their hinges. Walls kicked straight through to reveal holes the size of a human body, as though the bricks were replaced by the thinnest paper, as though the plaster was never there.

An echo of images Shane knows all too well.

Shane knows better.

He's seen this film a thousand times but it never gets easier to watch.

Without hesitation, Shane shuts it off. By now, he knows the ending. Nine times out of ten, they find the kid and take them in. Sometimes, they pop up on the news again a few years later, a new recruit with a new emblem glowing on their chest.

Sometimes, the news never updates and he never hears about them again. He's smart enough to fill in the blanks.

Shane's been told this story too many times to count but the pit of anger in his stomach refuses to quell. If anything, it only grows stronger as time passes with no justice.

Justice, he thinks, almost hearing the scoff that would latch onto the word. Maybe the hero's tactics are working, maybe he is starting to rub off on him.

"You're just another villain playing the victim," The hero's words play in his head as though they're the only words he knows, a voice that he wishes wasn't as familiar as it is.

"You say you're not a villain but you're just like the rest of them." He says and as Shane listens, he knows the hero believes it. There's no way he can't. He wanted to fix the world, he wanted to change it.

But instead, he ended up here. In a painful and fruitless pursuit, desperately trying to burn every inch of it to the ground.

It's not until he stands before the stone that Shane realises where he is. He doesn't even remember walking here. But a headstone sits before him, reading his mother's name. A patch of grass untended to, no flowers laid in front of it.

Normally, he's not stupid enough to come here. He's not been in years, it would be amongst the first places they would look for him. Even now, years later, Shane's not sure he ever gave himself time to grieve, that he ever fully healed.

But yet, he stands at his mother's grave. Stares at the letters until they start to swim and blur, the prickling behind his eyes unwelcome and unfamiliar. He blinks until it goes away, just as he's trained himself to.

Not for the first time, the hero makes a home at the front of Shane's thoughts. His bright and unabashed positivity, his infectious smirk, all-knowing even when he has no idea what he's doing. So certain he'll save every soul, even the ones beyond repair.

Shane recalls the disappointment on his face when Shane wouldn't back down, the fury on the roof when Shane had compared the two of them. As though the hero's worst nightmare was becoming anything close to him.

Does he know about the tortures? The murders? The kidnapped children? If he did, would he still be fighting so hard by their side? 

But then, how could he not know?

R Y A N

"Come on, up you get," His superior barks, waking Ryan with a start. He rolls over until his feet touch hard tiling, trying to suppress the groan that bubbles at the back of his throat. "There's been a sighting in the old cemetery a few blocks down. You need to get up and get out."

"Karma?" Ryan asks, as his brain struggles to boot up, an old computer flickering to its startup page. He stands up, suddenly regretting going to sleep half-dressed last night. "What's he doing at the cemetery?"

"God knows, we just got an 'anonymous tip'. I'm thinking he's there to laugh in front of all the people he's murdered." His boss chuckles and Ryan forces a tight smile onto his lips. It's always in bad taste to joke when innocent people have been killed. He yanks a shirt over his head, follows it with a hoodie, pulls on a pair of jeans. "No uniform?"

"He'd recognise me straight away, if I have any chance of getting near him, I can't be Starling." He says, as he drags his fingers through his hair, trying to tame the unruly nest that sits atop his head. When he realises all attempts are pointless, Ryan grabs a baseball cap.

He doesn't want to think about why Karma is at the cemetery. His superior may be stupid enough to think he's there to gloat but Ryan knows better. Besides, Ryan doubts that he wouldn't put himself out in the public eye, at risk like that without good reason.

"What did the tip say?" Ryan asks. He ties a knife around his ankle and hopes his tone comes off unaffected. His boss can't know that Karma has managed to get under his skin, that he's not just some random supervillain.

After all, Ryan knows his name, which is far more than he can say for most of the other villains he's encountered.

"Not much," His superior shrugs, checking his watch. "Some old lady saw him on the far-right side, near the back of the grounds."

"On the right at the back. Got it." Ryan says with a nod, before he stalks out of his room and towards the exit.

"Wait! You not taking backup?" His boss shouts after him, once Ryan is halfway down the corridor, one foot out of the door. Ryan doesn't even bother to glance back, just pulls the hood over his head and keeps walking.

"Attracts too much attention. I have to go on my own." He shouts back, pushing open the door and letting it slam behind him. But not before he hears the reply.

"It's your funeral, kid." 

Chapter Text

But I can't let you see all that I have to lose

All I've lost in the fight to protect it

R Y A N

“Punch through it, number twelve, not at it.” His instructor shouted, as Ryan threw another punch at the bag. He was so exhausted that he was only half-aiming, limbs feeling as though they were weighed down with lead. 

Rows of punching bags hung high, at least thirty of them, stationed in a large white box of a room. No decoration, no distractions, no embellishments, just white walls and vinyl flooring. Nothing but a clock hanging in the centre of the far wall, far bigger than Ryan himself. 

It was only his first year of ‘real’ training. He’d lived here for as long as he could remember but the day he turned sixteen, everything altered. The schooling got more physical, more combat-based. All of a sudden he wasn’t surrounded by classmates, by friends. Instead, they were just training together.

Now they were just numbers. Nothing more. All in a competition to be the best at whatever it was they were doing that day.

Today was martial arts training.

He hadn’t seen his parents in years, his brother was probably grown up by now and Ryan had missed it all. The only contact he was allowed was letters and two phone calls a week. But it was never enough. How could it be enough for a sixteen year old boy who couldn’t even hug his mother?

According to his superiors, family was too much of a “distraction”.

Using the fury as fuel, Ryan threw another punch, planting his feet and throwing the last slivers of energy he had behind it. He was rewarded by a spinning punching bag, swinging so hard it almost fell off of its hook.

“Better!” His superior yelled, moving along to the next student. A rare opportunity, Ryan took a few seconds to get his breath back and glanced at the clock. One o’clock, they still had five hours of training left before ‘free time’, which was really just time allocated for Ryan to study before curfew.

Everything in him ached, every muscle, every bone. He was burning the candle at both ends, working until he dropped, but it wasn’t his own doing. His instructors had bred a toxic competition within their squad, disappointed looks gifted to anyone that wasn’t perfect, angry rants given to anyone who wasn’t breaking their own back to be better.

“You are the future of this country!” They yelled, reading from the same script every single time. Ryan had heard the speech enough times to have it memorised by now. 

He was certain he could even recall the particular inflections of each instructor’s voice as they spoke it. 

“You are the protectors of this country’s children, the guardians of this country’s families. You should live and breathe only to protect them!” They would shout, never sounding bored of their own spiel, regardless of how many times they had spoken it. “If you do not train hard enough, who will? Who will stop these villains from murdering our civilians? From holding our city hostage?” Ryan’s instructors believed every word. They believed it so much that they gave up their own lives just to train people like him.

So Ryan believed it too.

Ryan isn’t used to wearing shoes that aren’t part of his uniform, so the feeling of the concrete beneath his feet is foreign, intensified by the thinner soles. Kicking up dust, he walks down the sidewalk, eyes trained on the ground and glancing out of his peripheral for signs of a cemetery.

It should be right here, He thinks, trying to recall the route in his brain. Right. Left. Left. Straight. On the left. Surely he wasn’t wrong, he’s lived here for as long as he’s been alive.

Of course, he’s barely stepped foot outside, but Ryan’s lived here since he was born all the same.

As he’s about to whip out his phone and search Google maps, Ryan realises he was just being impatient. The cemetery stands a few yards further down than he’d expected, but it’s there. Enclosed by a black gate, as though born from a horror film or a Halloween decoration. 

A sign reads “Sunspot Cemetery’, named after one of the very first superheroes to lose their lives fending off the villains, just over ten years ago. Ryan remembers being taught about her in class, how she’d bravely taken on four villains alone but she had been defeated before backup could arrive.

Careful not to let the gate clang closed behind him, Ryan sidesteps into the cemetery, eyes still trained on the grass below his feet. He makes an effort to slouch, as though grief is causing him to slump. He’s walking as though he knows exactly where he is going, but dragging his feet as though he never wants to arrive there.

Part of him wonders whether his boss is right, whether Karma really is here just to gloat, whether this is another part of his sick plan to take down the city. Maybe he’s picking off the grief stricken, Ryan supposes they would make easy targets.

But still, he can’t quite believe that Karma would stoop so low. He has to believe that there’s a part of him that’s good or at least merciful. Ryan casts his mind back to his training, when they’d been taught that all villains are past saving. Their goal wasn’t to help them but to stop them, to save everyone around them and leave the villain to rot.

But Ryan could never quite believe that.

Far-right at the back, Ryan remembers, just as he spots him. There’s no way Karma would recognise him, not like this, not without his mask, but it doesn’t stop him from ducking behind a tree just in case. He has his back to Ryan but it’s unmistakably him, tall and lanky, but lacking the usual air of cockiness and snark. It’s enough to make Ryan pause. 

He watches as Shane just stands there, staring at one gravestone in particular until he sinks to his knees, with all the anguish of someone who’s just been stabbed. Shane’s body racks with silent sobs, violent enough that Ryan can see it from where he’s stood.

One hand on his waistband just in case, fingertips dancing over his knife, Ryan watches. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. But above all else, he notices that no matter how out of control Shane appears, no red sparks summon to his fingertips. He keeps it contained, somehow. 

There’s no danger here.

Ryan wants to walk forward, to stand beside Shane, to help in some way, but all of his training screams at him to do just the opposite. If his instructor were here right now, he would say Ryan had an open shot, he could catch Karma whilst he’s vulnerable and end it all now. 

But Ryan hesitates. Again.

He drops his hand to his side, knife still sitting in his waistband.

“Not here,” Ryan says, speaking into his comms, knowing they have no visual, only audio. It’s almost too easy to lie, with Shane still directly in his line of sight. “Must have been a prank call.”

He wants to walk forward. But instead, Ryan turns on his heel and takes a deep breath, hoping that his superiors never find out about this. He doesn’t even want to think what this means for him, that he can’t even pull the trigger on a villain anymore. 

“You are the protectors of this country’s children, the guardians of this country’s families!” 

The shot was open and he didn’t take it, he could’ve thrown one knife, one shot and it would’ve all been done. One more problem solved, one more green tick next to his alias. 

“Who will stop these villains from murdering our civilians? From holding our city hostage?”

But if his superior had been wrong about Karma’s -- No, he mentally corrects himself, Shane’s intentions? Is it possible he’s wrong about more than that?

“You should live and breathe only to protect them!”

Pushing the thought down before it can bubble too close to the surface, Ryan glances over his shoulder once more, just in time to see Shane correct himself. He pulls himself up to a standing position and brushes the grass off his knees, wipes the tears from his face. It’s like watching a Halloween mask slip over someone’s face, watching an actor get back into character between takes.

Ryan walks back to the compound, trying to ignore the throbbing in his chest.

Chapter Text

I can't let you in- I swore never again

I can't afford to let myself be blindsided

S H A N E

Shane brushes the grass off of his pants and stands up. Even his bones feel heavy from the grief, finally threatening to crush him under its weight after being ignored for so many years. He pulls himself together, afraid that if he doesn’t force himself to now, he’ll never be able to. Wipes the tears from his cheeks, tears he wasn’t even aware he had shed until his cheeks were soaked.

He pushes his shoulders back, stands up straight, fixing his posture. Without a second glance, Shane heads for the exit, autopilot leading him on the route to his temporary home. 

As his feet hit the concrete of far too familiar streets, his mind wanders. He thinks back to the first hero he encountered. Her name had been Electron and she hadn’t stuck around long enough for Shane to know her real name.

“I have two sisters, I understand where you’re coming from,” She’d said, eyebrows pulling together as a frown graced her features. Donning orange and black, she swore allegiance to the government but Shane had still trusted her. “If anything happened to them, I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”

She had asked him what he remembered from that night, how he saw things. And Shane had been stupid enough to tell her. How naive he’d been, telling her everything, thinking it would make even the slightest difference.

“I didn’t do it,” Shane said, feeling the need to clarify. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, they came in and killed my family. They were going to kill me, I had no choice.” He repeated the thoughts that played on loop in his head, the only comfort he could summon from such a horrific memory.

“You had to, it was just self defence,” Electron said, placing one hand on Shane’s shoulder, a pitying gesture straight from a movie. And Shane had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.

“It was self defence,” Shane echoed. He was only coming up to two years on the run but the effort was wearing on him, like a man carrying a boulder up a hill. Something had to give. Maybe that was why he believed her.

Or maybe it was the sad smile on her lips, the openness in her eyes, soothing and true. The first person to believe his retelling without question, without hesitation. The first person to care about the effect it had on him and not just the agents who had stomped in unannounced.

Or maybe it was her ginger hair, so fierce and bright it leaned closer to red, that reminded him of his mother. Maybe that was the final straw that made him trust her.

In the end, it hadn’t mattered.

“It’s all going to be okay now,” She’d said, tone akin to a daredevil trying to approach a wild and volatile animal. Shane was no tiger, didn’t even see himself as a predator, but in that moment he was beginning to feel cornered.

It was then that he noticed the engines, a distant hum, drawing closer from all directions. Closing in on them. On him. 

She didn’t believe him. She didn’t even care. She was just stalling. Electron had been waiting until backup was moments away, trying to keep him in place until he had no choice but to go with them. Until he was surrounded by so many agents and heroes that he couldn’t refuse. 

“How is everything going to be okay?” Shane breathed, taking two steps back. He watched as her hand fell from his shoulder, down to her side, feeling no remorse when he saw the fabricated hurt on her face. 

The distant engines weren’t so distant anymore. Car doors slamming shut, whispered instructions into walkie talkies. Footsteps softened on the pavement but still too loud, a result of the weight of steel-capped boots. Guns cocking, safety off.

He had to leave now or he wouldn’t get the chance.

“They’re gone. You took them from me. Nothing is ever going to be okay again.” Shane said, trying to keep his calm. This was all bait, they wanted him to be the villain, just as they always did. He wasn’t going to fall for it. Not this time. Not ever again.

Electron took a step forward, abrupt and panicked. The action was enough to take Shane by surprise. Without thinking, without time to do so, he flicked his fingers, sending her hurtling across the building as though flicking a speck of dust off a counter.

He fled without looking back, without waiting around to inspect the damage.

Shane never meant to kill her.

He saw it on the news the next day, the security camera footage of him running from her lifeless body. Memorials and tributes to her for all the work she had done. Crying heroes gathered at a press conference, calling her a “gift from the angels with the kindest heart and warmest smile”. 

“She would light up any room she walked into, I just can’t believe she’s gone,” One hero sobbed, before one of their superiors stepped forward, putting an end to the conference.

That was the day his supervillain moniker was thrust upon him once and for all, the day nobody could ever defend him, nobody could justify his actions. The whole world turned against him.

They were always going to see him as the villain, regardless of whether or not he took their bait, whether he played the part or not. He could be giving the homeless warm food and blankets and they would still complain he wasn’t offering them a roof over their heads.

So, why not have a little fun? Why not try and take them down? Why not leave a trail of destruction in his wake? It was in his DNA, they’d always said as much. Anyone with this gift, this much power, had to pick a side. Hero or villain.

He had no choice.

R Y A N

When he gets back to the compound, Ryan makes a beeline for the filing room. Deliberately, he avoids his superior. He doesn’t have time for a debriefing now. He doesn’t have time to be forced on another mission, to be shoved into another training session.

He has to make sense of what he just saw.

“Access all files on Karma,” Ryan says to the computer, powered with an AI. The voice recognition picks up his words perfectly, always listening, always armed and ready. His thoughts finally catching up with him, Ryan shuts the door behind him.

“Files classified.” The AI states, cold and inhuman. Ryan sighs. Of course they are. There’s something hiding here, something they’re not telling him. He can feel it in his gut, the churning feeling that only comes when something is terribly wrong.

“Override, clearance 30214, Starling.” Ryan says, hoping that his superior isn’t looking for him. If someone were to come in now, he could probably bluff and say he’s trying to get more intel on the enemy. But once he starts to dive deeper, searching for things he doesn’t need to know, it would be more difficult for him to explain.

There’s a reason he was never taught these things. There’s a reason why these files never came up in the briefings. Ryan doesn’t want to know the consequences that come along with seeking them out.

“Access level eight.” The AI continues, pulling up photographs and files on Shane. It still feels strange to refer to Karma by his actual name, as though he’s speaking a foreign tongue every time he thinks it. 

Glancing over the screens, Ryan sees footage of the chaos caused by Shane’s recklessness, by his vengeance. Sliding his finger across the touchscreen, he sends the footage away, out of view, unveiling more photos.

He goes as far back as the computer will allow him, until he comes to a hero named Electron. It’s a newspaper cutting, scanned for perfect quality. She wears an orange and black striped uniform, a bow and arrow on her back. The headline reads “Remembering Electron”.

Ryan puts the pieces together before he even has to read the first paragraph.

“Oh, Shane.” He says to himself, barely more than an exhale in the silence. At the same time, it explains so much but so little. Of course, Shane won’t trust him. Put in the same position, Ryan isn’t sure he would trust himself either.

Once he’s read the article, Ryan tries to swipe it away as he had the others but the images won’t budge.

“Computer, access older files on Karma,” He commands. There has to be an answer, buried further back. People don’t just wake up one day and decide to become a killer, a villain. There has to be an answer. There has to be.

“Files classified. Level twenty-four clearance required.”

“ Fuck, ” Ryan racks his brain for any credentials, any ranks he can pull to get him through the system. Until he remembers.

When he was younger, his instructors were more lenient, more careless. They cut corners a lot, letting important information slip, pulling their ranks in front of recruits, passing clearance out loud as though it was nothing. Ryan couldn’t have been older than ten. They probably didn’t think the heroes would remember. But Ryan did.

“Override, clearance 432, Campbell.” He says, knowing the words would be enough to get him in more trouble than he’s seen any hero in, ever. Ryan dreads to think what they would do to him. One time he ‘forgot’ to do his homework on the history of the heroes and received a one day suspension in solitary confinement, locked in his bedroom.

What would they do to a hero that breaks into their files?

“All access granted.” The computer states, breaking Ryan from his thoughts. A thousand more files pop on screen, somehow more gruesome and haunting than the ones before. But this time, the wreckage looks different. There’s no sparks, no scorch marks.

There’s blood. And lots of it.

“What the,” Ryan says, as he pinches one image in particular of a child’s bedroom, walls blown out, bodies littered across the floor. The computer zooms in and a caption appears, a case file no longer than a post-it note.

His eyes gloss over the agents lying on the floor, bones contorted in directions that make Ryan’s stomach turn. Instead, he focuses on a boy, ordinary and so very young.

With a bullet hole in his head.

“Holy shit,” Ryan says, skimming every image and every caption that accompanies them, faster than he needs to, desperate to get all the information and get out of there. He only pauses when he reaches a paragraph that reads:

CLASSIFIED: Family terminated, wouldn’t comply, enhanced on the run. Loss of twenty-four agents, child enhanced with dark-red sparks of unknown energy. Armed and dangerous, whereabouts unknown. Last spotted in family home.

Ryan would exit out of the files, close them all and leave. He knows everything there is to know now, everything that has been kept from him for too long. But his eyes are fixed on the final sentence, the sentence that makes him sick to his stomach.

Kill on sight.

Chapter Text

I'm standing guard, I'm falling apart

And all I want is to trust you

R Y A N

“Starling!” His instructor yells, his voice fading from loud to more distant as he walks through the hallway, just outside the room where Ryan’s still standing and staring at the screen, shellshocked. “Starling! Report!”

Ryan blinks fast, desperately trying to reconnect his mind and his body. Everywhere he looks, it’s as though he’s seeing the place for the first time. As though everything he once thought he knew is crumbling around him.

Fuck, now what? Ryan thinks, every rational part of him cowering away from the surface, until he finally realises the only thing he needs to worry about is getting out of here undetected.

He shuts down the computer and waits for a moment. Counts to seventy-five before he slips out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him as quietly as possible. Without a thought, Ryan strides to the left and down the hallway, acting like he has somewhere to be, like he’s been walking in search of it for quite some time.

When he makes it back to his dorm without bumping into his superior, he thanks his lucky stars. 

He doesn’t know what to do next, what any of this even means. Ryan has never drowned but he’s pretty sure it feels something close to this. To lose grip on the one stable thing in his life, to tumble through choppy and uncertain waves, to fight his way to the surface, to gasp for air as the water continues to fill his lungs. Only to be blindsided and pulled under the surface within a moment’s notice.

Everything he knew was a lie.

He has to find Shane.

And it takes him three days to do just that.

S H A N E

His third house this month, Shane’s starting to feel less and less at home with each new residence he takes up. This one is far from his favourite, with huge windows that make it almost impossible to stay out of view. There’s no curtains either, no reprieve. 

So Shane spends most of his time in the kitchen, where he can sit on the floor, shorter than the kitchen cabinets, below the view of the windows. The tiles are cold against his skin and it’s an adjustment for his spine to sleep on something so hard, but Shane’s just grateful to be indoors. At this point, he would take anything as long as it wasn’t the streets or the little heroes academy.

He settles against a kitchen cabinet, leaning sideways with one shoulder against the wood. The thought dawns on him that he will have to move away someday soon. He’s running out of places to hide, of abandoned buildings to squat in. He’s not stupid or desperate enough to double back on places he once called home.

Ruffling through his duffel bag, Shane pulls out a bag of chips, slipped into his pocket at a nearby gas station without the cashier even raising an eyebrow. He yanks them open as quickly as he can, famished from a day without food.

Not for the first time, he thinks through his plan. Surely the train had been pushed off the tracks on the last mission, derailed and off-schedule, but it wouldn’t take a lot to get back to it. There’s a government complex twenty minutes away that he hasn’t checked out yet, but has his eye on.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” A voice asks from behind him, accusatory and annoyed, interrupting any and all of Shane’s plans. He would know that voice anywhere by now, would be able to pick Starling out of a line up by his voice alone. Chips in one hand, Shane whirls around to face him, not even bothering to raise his hands to guard his face.

“Jesus,” Shane says and he hears the surprise bleed into his voice. He scrambles to his feet and knows how obvious it is that he was caught off guard. He feels a brief flush of embarrassment. Immediately, he clears his throat, correcting himself, false bravado back in place. “You can’t just sneak up on a guy like that, how did you even know where I live?” 

“Your file, your family, I--” Starling cuts himself off, eyes looking at Shane as though he’s seeing directly through him. He’s blinking far too quickly, like a malfunctioning android about to self-destruct. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You know, it’s polite to say ‘hi’ before asking about family trauma.” Shane says, still trying to lighten the atmosphere, still trying to dodge the question, as always. He’s not particularly in the mood to discuss the ins-and-outs of his childhood, especially without a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “You’re not even gonna let me finish my chips?”

But Starling doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t banter as he normally does. Just looks at him pointedly, with more purpose, a gentle nudge.

Shane shrugs.

“I’ve met heroes before. They get so lost in taking down the next bad guy. Every villain has a tragic backstory. Giving you mine wouldn’t change anything.” Shane says matter of factly, as he pops another chip into his mouth. He tries to muffle the sound of his chewing but in the silence of the kitchen, the crunch echoes. Holding the bag out to the hero, he asks, “Want one?”  

“Shane,” The word hangs heavy in the air and Shane’s acutely aware that this is the first time Starling’s addressed him as anything other than his alias. The hero takes a step forward, his expression pained, as though he himself was the one to kill Shane’s family. And suddenly, he is so close. Almost too close. “I didn’t know.”

“You’re not keeping me busy while the control room tracks you, right?” Shane says, genuinely asking but trying to play it off as a joke. Starling has the gall to look offended, as though this hasn’t happened every time before. 

As though Shane can’t remember the feel of the power dampening drug coursing through his veins. The sheer terror that he felt once he realised he had got himself in too deep this time. The panic as the van speeded towards the compound, not knowing what they would do to him once they got there, whether they would grant Shane the mercy of death.

“Shane, talk to me,” The hero says, eyes kind and racked with guilt. All it does is deter Shane from opening his mouth. He’s seen that look before, it’s an easy one to fake. He wasn’t going to fall for it again. 

“Why should I? How do I know you’re not going to snap handcuffs on my wrists and take me down to that prison? I know next to nothing about you.” Shane deflects, an obvious subject change that both of them notice. But this time, Starling caves.

“Fine,” He yanks his mask off of his face, probably more aggressively than he meant to. It’s the last semblance of anonymity he had left, the last sense of superhero that he was clinging to. “My name’s Ryan, you know that. I grew up here, about thirty minutes drive away. I get cold easy, I have to wear a hoodie when the temperature drops two degrees. I like popcorn. And pizza. Pepperoni’s my favourite. I got my powers through genetics, my dad is a scientist, worked with lots of radioactive shit. I don’t know. He told me not to ask. Oh, and my favourite movie is Back to the Future.”

“Good pick,” Shane says, after a moment’s pause. It’s a dumb thing to say but once again, the hero - no, Ryan , Ryan’s his name - manages to take him by surprise. Ryan looks over his shoulder, out of the window behind them. “You okay?”

“No, you’re, I,” There’s a flash, a click following in quick succession. “Get down!”

Before he can think better of it, Shane wraps his arms around Ryan’s waist and pulls him to the floor, behind the kitchen counter. He all but tackles him to the ground. The landing is far from graceful, the impact of falling against the tires sure to litter bruises along Shane’s side. 

But it’s better than the rapid fire that follows.

“Did it hit you?” Shane’s hands skirting over Ryan’s skin, searching for entry wounds before he can think better of it. They were too slow, he knows it, those bullets should have hit him. He should be bleeding out on Shane’s kitchen floor right about now. He doesn’t have the energy to mask the concern on his face.

“No, no, I’m good,” Ryan says, all breathy and rushed. But Shane’s concern doesn’t fade, as he continues to search for injuries that aren’t there. Ryan places one hand over Shane’s to stop them moving. Frantic anxiety dissipates to stillness and calm. “Shane, I’m fine, I promise.”

“Oh,” Shane whispers, his voice failing him. He smiles, or at least he thinks he does, before he takes his hands back. “Good.”

“We need to go,” Ryan says, glancing around the room, probably searching for hidden agents. Either Ryan was followed the whole way here or they weren’t far behind figuring out where he lived. Regardless, this place is a bust now.

Ryan rolls onto his front and starts to army crawl across the floor, as if there’s no rapid gunfire, as if they’re not trapped in a tiny kitchen whilst bullets shatter every cabinet around them. 

But still, Shane follows him.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Shane mutters, knowing Ryan probably didn’t hear him over the noise. 

Chapter Text

Show me how to lay my sword down

For long enough to let you through

S H A N E

“Did they see you?” Shane asks, once they’re out of the crossfire. Ryan ran four blocks further away than Shane would’ve, dodging into some random alleyway, but he had followed him anyway. Better to be safe than sorry.

“I don’t think so,” Ryan says and the lack of certainty sends Shane’s heart falling to his stomach. Without hesitation, he decides. It’s fine to put himself in this kind of danger but to wrap Ryan up in it, too? Definitely not fine.

This is his burden to bear and he’s carried it fine, on his own, for years.

“You can’t be here, Star--” Shane mutters, raking a hand through his hair as he resists the urge to pace up and down the alley. He can feel the nervous energy bubbling beneath the surface of his skin, a prickling sensation that refuses to be ignored. “Ryan.” 

“What?” Ryan says and his whole expression turns angry, but Shane had noticed the way the corner of his lip had tugged up momentarily when he’d used his real name, not his alias. “Are you kidding?”

“Tonight was too close, if they see you here with me, not turning me in? They’re gonna think you’re a traitor.” Shane delivers his speech to the wall behind Ryan, looking over his shoulder. It’s too much to say it, falls a little too close to ‘caring’ for Shane’s comfort. He shouldn’t have to push Ryan away, he shouldn’t care what happens to him in the first place.

A few months ago, Shane would’ve let Ryan tangle himself in all of this bullshit without so much as a second glance. He would’ve watched as another hero falls victim to his unspoken curse. Anyone who’s stuck around Shane for longer than a few weeks has died and before, he would’ve watched the same happen to Ryan.

Shane wishes there was an ‘off’ switch. Then, he could become the fully-fledged villain they always wanted him to be. He wouldn’t care if Ryan was proven wrong, that there are people who simply can’t be saved. He would watch the world burn around him, his own doing, and laugh. He wouldn’t feel remorse for corrupting and ruining a perfect hero, someone who believes there’s good in everyone.

If there was an ‘off’ switch to this humanity, this empathy, he would watch Ryan fall from grace without blinking an eye. But he can’t.

“And so what if I am? They’re wrong ,” Ryan says, fists clenching at his sides, always defiant in even the worst of odds. “What they did, what they’re still doing,” He continues, as he ducks into Shane’s line of sight, forcing Shane to look him in the eyes and not avoid him. “Shane. They’re wrong about all of it.”

For a second, Shane’s surprised. He thought Ryan would’ve clung to the agency that trained him, to those that raised him. He thought Ryan would’ve been unable to see the right and wrongs in this, too biased to see the shades of grey. He half-expected him to think Shane a liar, to take longer to accept the truth, if he ever did.

But Ryan believes him. Without question, without pause.

“Don’t,” Shane sighs, his voice sounding choked and strained to his own ears. He shouldn’t care that someone finally believes him, but the child inside of him is cheering with vindication and validation. 

All those years of screaming his own innocence, all his cries falling on deaf ears. Pulling his hood up when someone on the street looked like they were almost putting the puzzle pieces together, a little too close to recognition. Feet battering concrete, sprinting as fast as his legs would take him, pushing his way through crowded streets, running for his life with a constant target on his back.

The child inside of him that everyone thought was a merciless killer finally feels understood. 

Shane’s chest hurts.

“You idiot , why did you have to be smart? Why couldn’t you have followed orders like the rest of them?” Shane says, hating the way his words distort around the lump forming in his throat. He looks down at his shoes for a moment, before looking back at Ryan, a moment’s reprieve from the intense cocktail of anger and hope on Ryan’s face.

“Shane, we can take them down.” Ryan says, taking a step closer, and Shane can barely suppress the scoff that tumbles out of him.

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do all these years?” Shane asks but there’s no heat behind the words. He’s not angry anymore, he’s just tired. So exhausted. So done with the running, with the fighting, with the hiding. He’s just tired.

“ Trying. But if you let me speak to some of the heroes, tell them what’s going on, they’ll listen. Maybe you won’t have to take them down alone.” Ryan says and with each word, Shane can almost see the optimism growing, the hopefulness blossoming into an impossible plan. There’s no way that would end well.

“Okay, now you’ve finally cracked.” Shane chuckles, shaking his head. He tries to brush it off, play off Ryan’s ideas as a joke, offering him an ‘out’. But Ryan doesn’t take it, just keeps staring at him, waiting for a clear answer. “No. No, you need to go.”

“Shane, are you--” 

“Starling.” Shane cuts him off. He hates the betrayed look he sees on Ryan’s face, the withdrawal back into himself, hates that it’s his own doing. Even so, he doesn’t feel even an ounce of guilt. This is the right decision. This is his battle and he has to fight it alone. “Leave me alone.” 

With that, Shane strides away without looking back, feeling a sense of bitter satisfaction when he hears no footsteps following.

R Y A N

At first, Ryan doesn’t want to go back to the compound. He contemplates wandering around the city, ducking in and out of stores, just filling the time. But if he doesn’t go back there, his superiors would know something was wrong and since he was on Shane’s case, they would probably go after him twice as hard.

Ryan doesn’t know how he’s going to look his superiors in the eye. He knows the disdain and betrayal would show on his face, he knows he’d be found out immediately. Like a shark sniffing out a drop of blood in the water, they would sense his distrust before he even did anything.

But still, he makes his way back to the compound. He scans a card at the door to let himself in and smiles at the security guards, acting as if he’s been there all along, that he’s not been making himself scarce for the past few days.

“Starling!” His superior barks, only moments after Ryan has stepped over the boundary, before he has the chance to make it back to his dorm. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, before turning to face him. “Where’ve you been?”

“Working. Gathering intel.” Ryan says, surprised to find that it’s not a total lie. “My comms went down but I wasn’t in any danger, so.” He says, which is a total lie. He was in copious amounts of danger but not because of his enemy, because of the man standing before him and his little army.

“Well, make sure you check in next time. We thought he might’ve been hankering for some hero blood.” He jokes, clapping one hand on Ryan’s shoulder in a lighthearted manner, all jokes of death forgotten. “Glad you’re okay, kid. Debrief me in ten.”

Once Ryan gets to his dorm, he changes into some clean clothes as quickly as he can, yanking a comb through his hair and splashing water on his face. Anything to feel more presentable before he has to lie again. 

It’s almost too easy to look his superior in the eye and say something that he knows for certain is false and for a moment, Ryan wonders why he hasn’t been doing it all along. He could’ve been sneaking out to see his family, living the life a teenager is supposed to live. 

But the thought occurs to him that, without knowing what this organisation really stood for, without knowing everything his superiors and his team had done, Ryan wouldn’t be able to lie to them. He would still see them as his protectors, the wiser ones, the ones who knew what was best for him.

What a joke.

As he heads to the debriefing room, a semblance of plan forms in Ryan’s brain, barely an outline but enough to form a lie around. Anything is better than flying by the seat of his pants right now. This man taught him how to lie in an interrogation, how to hide secrets when villains asked a little too many questions. He would know immediately that Ryan was lying if he didn’t plan things out properly.

The debriefing room is, like most of the compound, incredibly bare. Inside resides a long table surrounded by chairs and, although Ryan’s never counted them, he’d guess there were about twenty of them. The walls are white, almost clinically so, with no decoration. It’s cold and unwelcoming, just like the rest of the building. 

His superior sits at the head of the table, as he always does, and opens his mouth to speak.

“I need to go undercover.” Ryan says, before his superior can get a word out. Ryan hopes that his confidence and certainty is enough to get him on board without much of a fight, but his superior raises his eyebrows. “Not undercover. I’ll still be myself but, I’m close, sir. Karma trusts me, if I can live in the city, I can show him that I’m not the hero he thinks I am.”

“And then?” His superior asks, hesitant, but the lack of a straight ‘no’ spurs Ryan on. There’s a chance, no matter how little, that he can get out of here whilst still being trusted, whilst still being able to infiltrate their ranks whenever he pleased.

“Why couldn’t you have followed orders like the rest of them?” Shane’s voice echoes in his head, every doubt Ryan has amplified in his thoughts. “No, you need to go.” He knows Shane wouldn’t approve of his plan, would think it was reckless and stupid and downright pointless.

But Ryan could care less what Shane thinks right now. This is bigger than just Shane, even though Ryan doesn't agree with his methods, he has to agree that most of this is on the government's hands. How many others have been forced into his position, whilst Ryan has stood by and turned a blind eye? It has to end now. 

And if Shane gets to walk free, that’s a bonus.

“And then , once he trusts me, I can trick him. I’ll get him on side and we’ll catch him. Once and for all.” Ryan says, voice even but sure. As his superior stares at him, face unreadable and gaze contemplative, Ryan stands his ground and refuses to budge on his plan. For a moment, he thinks his superior is going to deny him, to tell him to go back to his dorm and turn in for the night, ready for the next mission tomorrow.

“Two weeks.” He says with a curt nod, standing up and letting his chair screech in protest, as it skirts across the floor. “Two weeks, then you report back. I’ll send you the location of our approved hotel so we know your whereabouts, but if there’s any sign of things going south, you report straight back.” 

“Got it. Thanks, sir.” Ryan says but the words are spoken to his superior’s back, as he leaves the room. Regardless, Ryan takes the win and runs with it, heading straight to his dorm to pack a bag. He doesn’t care that he has to stay in a hotel, as long as he’s out of here, far enough away to think up a proper plan to take them down.

And if he has to execute said plan alone, then so be it.

Chapter Text

Here I am, pry me open

What do you want to know?

R Y A N

When he reaches the hotel his superior had selected for him, Ryan tries not to roll his eyes. It’s hardly inconspicuous, a towering building that looks as though it was pulled from an antique painting. A true sight to behold, with a tall archway accented by an outdated proverb and a statue of a face, looking out onto the street, watching guard of the entrance.

His key waits at the desk for him, the receptionist eager to hand it over, obviously aware of who made the booking. In this city, people would bend over backwards for the opportunity to feel like they helped the heroes, repaying some fraction of the debt they felt like they owed.

Ryan didn’t see it that way. He didn’t see it as the civilians owing the heroes anything. He was born with these powers, gifted these abilities, the least he could do was use them to help people. Now that he thinks about it, Ryan’s not sure he ever had a chance to contemplate a life in which he wasn’t being a hero, sacrificing his own life in pursuit of saving other people’s.

He takes the elevator to his floor and tries not to trail his bag across the carpet as he walks down the hallway. The decor is just as grand, verging on preposterous, with countless paintings hanging from the walls as if they cost next to nothing. Ryan wonders how much money they spent on this hallway alone, then briefly wonders how much one night’s stay here is.

That’s one of the perks of being a part of the ‘hero program’, he supposes. Never has he had to worry about money or where his next meal was coming from. There was always a roof over his head, always someone there to write a cheque if he so required. Every mission was all expenses paid and he had enough training gear to circulate through it for a month, without even having to wash it.

He thinks of Shane, who was sitting in a different building every time he found him. Who kept all of his belongings in one bag. Who didn’t have the luxury of choosing what to eat for dinner that night, he settled for whatever he could find. Alone and cast out, Ryan wonders how it must feel to have the entire world praying on your downfall.

Tomorrow, Ryan thinks, as he scans his key at the door and enters his hotel room. Tomorrow, I’ll find him. 

S H A N E

Shane thinks it over for a few days. He assesses the situation from every angle, inspects every possible outcome and comes to the conclusion that nothing good can come from any of this. The best thing he can do now is cut ties and hope Ryan’s life is salvageable, that he hasn’t had too much of an imprint that the grim reaper waits outside his door.

Long, angry strides had slowed down after a few blocks into a leisurely stroll, as the sun started to set behind the buildings. The street lights flicker on and off, as though they can’t quite decide whether it’s dark enough for them to show their face yet, unable to make their minds up.

Somewhere around the sixth block, Shane realises he has no idea where he’s going. They found his most recent home and covered the walls with bullet holes, littering the kitchen tiles with bullet casings. He can’t go back there, he knows that. But he also has no idea where to go next.

In the end, he had decided to sleep in an alleyway, once he found a bin big enough to hide behind. It wasn’t too cold this time of year and it was only temporary, or at least he hoped. The days passed with little to no interruption, waking up and searching for food, searching for somewhere else to sleep, before sneaking into the same alley.

Shane searches for three days, before he even comes close to finding somewhere new. Every apartment complex close to being condemned, every multi storey car park, everywhere that was empty at night and for most hours of the day, he’d used them all and been discovered in them all. Or been close enough to one of them that the agents would find him within days, so quickly that it almost wouldn’t be worth it.

He wonders what it would be like to live a life not on the run, to have holidays and Christmases and a family, to love and be loved. He’d been so unsure what it would be like that he hadn’t known to want it, hadn’t known how much he wanted it until he had nowhere to stay.

It’s his third night in the alleyway when he finds the note. 

At first, Shane thinks it’s a scrap of paper that had missed the bin, thrown carelessly in the general direction by someone who hadn’t bothered to pick it up. Until curiosity wins and he reads it.

‘S, 

104C Park Plaza

R’

He squints at the note, placed on the exact slab on which he had been sleeping. It takes him longer than he’d care to admit for him to put together the pieces, that the note is from Ryan, a location. Folding the page, he shoves it into his duffel bag.

He doesn’t pay it much mind, settling against the brick wall and trying to get some much-needed sleep.

On his fifth night without housing, Shane decides that tonight will be the last night. Regardless. If he can’t find somewhere new, he’ll just sleep with his duffel bag strapped to him, ready to dart at a moment’s notice. 

He doesn’t want to trust Ryan’s note. If Ryan was even the one who sent it. He’s still half-expecting the wool to be pulled over his eyes, for this to be another trick, for him to notice it a second too late. How was he to know whether the note was genuine or not?

Shane keeps walking through the streets, ignoring the way his feet ache and complain with each step.

Only after several blocks does Shane notice there’s a pulling at the bottom of his stomach, a bad feeling. But when he looks around, the streets are empty and stripped bare. In every direction he looks, there’s nobody else to be found. All the shutters are pulled down on every store he passes, even though it’s barely eight o’clock. 

Shane should feel comforted by the desolation, not needing to hide his face from passersby or to duck into alleyways when the streets get too crowded. But he’s walked these streets for years, he knows these stores don’t close this early. He knows the streets aren’t abandoned at this time, far from it.

Something is off.

He’d been so preoccupied that he had missed the obvious trap he’d been walking into. Practically led like a dog on a leash, Shane had wandered aimlessly through countless streets, until he was cornered. Until there’s at least ten men in black facing him, guns raised high.

Shane whips around, searching for an exit route, but there are agents everywhere. All sides boxed in by a row of guns and when he looks to a nearby balcony, Shane catches a bristle of movement. Someone ducking out of view a little too late.

That explains the shutters, then. 

“How you guys doing tonight? Doing good? Average?” Shane asks, after cursing under his breath. He puts on his best poker face, even though they must know they tricked him. They must know he’s been caught off guard. But then, he had to be, if they stood any chance of capturing him.

This time, they don’t even entertain his banter, don’t even try and get him to raise his hands in surrender. Instead, Shane watches as the wall of soldiers cock their guns, standing their ground.

“Fire!” The man in the centre yells and a shower of bullets cascades towards him, an evermore familiar sight. Shane barely has time to raise his fists and summon the sparks before a bullet flies over his shoulder, a lucky miss.

As swiftly as he’s able, Shane flicks his fingers in various directions, trying to derail as many bullets as he can whilst he tries to form a plan. He could try and break out of the circle by attacking the soldiers, but that would mean running towards the oncoming bullets. He could try and fly straight upwards, but he’s never had much luck with that. He’s only ever mastered how to break a fall, jumping from a building instead of climbing it.

As a voice screams out another command, one he can’t quite make out, Shane takes the reprieve to summon as much energy as he can to his fingertips. He forms a ball of energy in his hands with all the ease of rolling a snowball and aims to his left. He knows that if he can break through that way, if he can somehow put enough force behind his throw, that there’s a couple of blocks without dead ends down there. 

If Shane can just make it ten blocks, he can try for the parking lot. He can hide on one of the top floors and hope for the best, hope that the agents will call it a day and try another time. If he can just make it ten blocks.

Who is he kidding? He would never make it ten blocks.

There’s more shouting, more commotion, and Shane realises he’s about to miss his window.

The hotel. He remembers. It’s only three blocks away from here. Still, it’s a long shot at best and if he believed in God, Shane would pray that it was Ryan who sent that message. That he could turn up at the room and be greeted by a familiar face, instead of the barrel of a gun.

Shane lifts the sphere of crimson to his chest and pushes it outwards, towards the left side, watching as a sea of red sparks hits the line of officers. For a split second, he waits, just to see whether he can make a run for it, whether he caught them off-guard enough that he can escape.

The force is enough to cause a rift in the middle of the line. 

And Shane’s distraction is enough to allow a bullet to slip through the cracks, making a home in his right side.

Shock settles over him like a warm blanket, a false sense of security, as he reaches down to touch the wound. All he feels is heat, searing even to the touch. When he pulls his hand back, it’s red, coated in blood in a way that he knows is not good.

Taking a deep breath and ignoring the heat spreading through his side, Shane makes a break for it, sprinting towards the gap in the line. He holds a steady hand on the wound, hoping it’s enough to keep the blood in his body, where it belongs. It only takes him a few strides to clear the line of agents. 

A last minute thought, a precaution to stop them from following him, Shane flicks the wrist of his free hand and hopes the wall of sparks he sends their way holds, or at least gives him enough of a head start.

Park Plaza. Park Plaza. Park Plaza. Shane thinks, as he runs down the street, trying to block out the noise of the agents breaking through his handmade barricade. It’s not far now, if he looks hard enough, Shane knows he can see the top of the hotel building. 

104C , Shane thinks, recalling the note in his duffel bag. He doesn’t let himself think of what will happen if this is a trick, if Ryan isn’t the one to answer the door. He doesn’t dare to even consider it.

It wouldn’t take a genius to know the outcome there. He almost laughs at the image. A villain bleeding out in a fancy hotel.

Chapter Text

I'm just a kid who grew up scared enough

To hold the door shut

And bury my innocence

S H A N E

“Oh, thank fuck,” Shane says, as the hotel room door opens and Ryan stands in the doorway. He’s not sure what he’s more thankful for, that there’s someone to stitch up his wounds or that the note wasn’t a trap. 

He watches Ryan’s expression turn from mildly surprised to deathly concerned in the span of a few seconds. 

“Shane?” Ryan says, voice barely above a hush and Shane can’t figure out whether it’s because he’s trying not to disturb the neighbours, or whether he’s scared someone will recognise Shane. By this point, Shane didn’t even care about being recognised, that was the least of his concerns. 

“I had nowhere else to go,” He says, hearing the strain on his voice. By now, he’s unsteady on his feet, leaning far too heavily on the door frame. He’d been lucky that the hotel was so close by, if he’d tried to make it anywhere else, he’d probably be dead in an alley. 

Part of him wonders whether he always intended to come here tonight, wandering around aimlessly in a perfect circle around the hotel. 

When Shane tries to take a step, he stumbles, numbness spreading down to his toes. It’s then that Ryan notices the red blossoming from his side, held in place by shaky fingertips. A stare growing vacant, a smear of crimson on the doorframe. Shane watches Ryan’s eyes widen as he glances down.

“Oh,” Is all Ryan says, like he had been looking for an explanation as to why Shane appeared on his doorstep, as though this is the only acceptable answer. Skittish and overly careful, Ryan glances around over Shane’s shoulder, searching, but sees no one. He scoops one hand under Shane’s free shoulder and helps him inside.

“Nice place,” Shane sputters out, grimacing as he takes a few too many steps too quickly, tugging on the edges of the bullet wound. 

Ryan doesn’t grace him with a response, planting Shane on the edge of the bed and rushing to the bedside table. He pulls it open and roots around, a series of light thunks, until he holds up a sewing kit. A gift to every hotel resident along with a bible and coffee.

“This is gonna hurt like a bitch,” Ryan says, as he weaves a red thread through the needle. Surely not sanitary enough to stitch him up and they both know it, but it’s all they’ve got. Shane doesn’t want to know what would happen if he called 911, he hasn’t even been to the doctor since he was young, too fearful that they’d place his face on sight.

“Meh,” Shane shrugs, the action smaller than usual but still big enough to send a wave of pain up his side. Dumb move. 

“Shirt,” Ryan says, half-distracted by preparing the needle and thread. It takes Shane a second to realise what he means, brain slow from the blood loss and adrenaline rush. With one hand, he attempts to take his shirt off but finds his left arm is no longer cooperating, refusing to move as it's supposed to. 

Now that he thinks about it, his left side has gone numb, apart from the searing pain at the side of his abdomen, a bullet hole with an exit wound. Now that Shane looks at it, it’s more like a scrape, the bullet going straight across his side, leaving a deep and gnarly gash in its wake.

“Can’t,” Shane grimaces, speaking the word around his gritted teeth. Ryan looks at him, eyebrows raised, awaiting confirmation that it’s okay to touch him. When Shane doesn’t protest, Ryan places the needle and thread on the bed, before tugging the hem of Shane’s shirt upwards.

Careful to avoid the wound, Ryan pulls the shirt over Shane’s head, helping to pull his arms through the holes, and tosses it behind him, onto the floor. It lands in the corner of the room. Ryan looks up at him and smiles, before he speaks.

“Ready?” He asks and Shane has the urge to take the needle off him and do it himself. He would use his sparks, if he trusted them to stitch him up without burning through his abdomen. He would stitch it himself, if his arm would work the way it was supposed to. Instead, he nods.

Even so, Shane tries not to watch as Ryan threads the needle through his skin. He’s not squeamish but even the toughest of warriors would flinch at the sight of skin pulling, as a silver needle pokes holes around an open wound. 

“Ugh,” Shane groans, teeth gritted. He wonders if he’ll ever develop a pain tolerance for things like this, but he recalls the same level of pain from dislocating his shoulder and knows he won’t. He lets his eyes fall closed, head tilting downwards ever so slightly.

Ryan’s breath shakes on the way out.

“You’re bleeding all over one of my favourite shirts,” Ryan jokes, breaking the silence, but the urgency bleeds into his words, clueing Shane in on the fact that he’s not quite out of the woods yet. Shane opens his eyes and inspects Ryan’s shirt, squinting his eyes in mock deliberation.

“It is a nice shirt,” Shane decides, thankful for the distraction, even if only for a moment. He focuses on the colour of Ryan’s tee, falling somewhere between blue and green, closer to turquoise. It cuts off at his forearms, rolled up ever so slightly, probably intended to be a three-quarter but still a little too long.

“ Was ,” Ryan corrects, as he tugs on the red thread, tightening up a slackened stitch. Shane notices his own blood starting to stain Ryan’s sleeves.

“I’ll try to hold it in,” He jokes and the corner of his lips tugs upwards. He feels more alive now, less shaky. Still not ready to take on an army, but further from death than he was before, able to keep his eyes open and his head up at least.

“What happened?” Ryan asks, eyes trained on Shane’s side. His eyebrows scrunch together a little, concentrating hard, and Shane feels a sharp twinge as the needle forces through his skin once more.

“Had a fight with a bullet and lost.” He explains. Looking back, it was a close call, far too close. Shane had been letting his guard down, strolling around the city as if he wasn’t a wanted criminal, what on Earth was he doing? He needed to be more careful going forward, if he wanted to see the end of the year.

“Did you not? You know?” Ryan pauses his stitching to make a weird gesture, like he’s flicking water off of his fingertips, trying to dry his hands, accompanied by a ‘pew, pew’ sound. Shane suppresses a chuckle, knowing it would hurt more than it's worth.

“I was in the middle of ‘pew, pew’ing when someone else hit me.” Shane deadpans. He would mimic Ryan’s movement if he could but he keeps both hands on the bed, resting heavily on them. Every movement feels like trailing through quicksand or fast-setting concrete, harsh resistance against every muscle until it’s nothing short of a Herculean effort just to move.

“How many?” Ryan says, mouth pressed together as he examines Shane’s wound. One glance down tells Shane he’s almost half of the way done already. Sutures must be another thing they teach in that place.

“That’s not important,” Shane mutters, knowing Ryan would think of him as stupid if he admitted just how many. He’s not an amateur but lately, he sure is acting like one. Shane thinks of all the plans that have been tarnished in the past few months, plots that would’ve been carried out if he’d executed them a year ago. Is he losing his touch?

“How. Many.” Ryan presses, unable to drop it. Accented with a roll of his eyes, Shane sighs.

“Meh, probably like thirty, maybe more,” He admits, deliberately leaving out the details. If Ryan knew he could be caught off guard so easily, he might use it against him. 

Part of Shane wants to trust Ryan, wants to see him as an equal and not an enemy. But part of him still wonders if this is all just an elaborate plan to win him over, to get him to trust another hero before he’s blindsided. It’s a constant fight Shane has with himself just to sit in the same room as Ryan, in the same room as a hero .

“ Shane, ” Ryan says, eyes shooting up to look at Shane. Shane tilts his head, in a ‘what are you gonna do?’ motion. He’s long since accepted that this is his fate, that this is just how his life is now.

“What can I say? I’m popular.” He jokes, trying to lighten the mood a little. Odds are, he’s going to be okay. Once he’s stitched up, Shane just has to hope that it doesn’t become infected, to take care of the wound until it heals over. He tries not to think about the blood loss.

“You’re a dumbass,” Ryan huffs, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. He resumes stitching with a shake of his head, clearly disapproving of Shane’s recklessness. 

“Rich coming from the guy who didn’t check how long those drugs kept powers dulled for,” Shane quips, the words directed at Ryan’s scalp before the hero whips his head up again, eyes meeting his own.

“Hey, I was a rookie!” Ryan says, obviously aiming for angry but falling terribly short, no heat behind his words.

“Whatever,” Shane smiles and shrugs his shoulders ever-so-slightly, surprised to find the action doesn’t burn as much as he thought it would. “Why are you here?” Shane asks. He doesn’t bother asking how Ryan found him, he knows he’s probably trained on tracking villains and Shane has never been particularly skilled at hiding. He stayed in the same alley for nights on end, it would’ve been unusual if Ryan hadn’t found him.

“You’re the one who showed up at my door?” Ryan tilts his head, confused, before he pulls a few more stitches through the side of Shane’s abdomen. It’s weird but Shane finds he’s got used to the pain a little now, like it’s background noise, persistent but bearable.

“Not what I mean,” Shane clarifies. He recalls the buildings he memorised so well, closed in with barbed wire and tall security towers. Stories high, with training grounds and dorms and control rooms, Shane knows for a fact that the heroes live there, at least for a while. “Heroes all live in that building. Why are you here ?”

Shane’s not sure what answer he had been expecting but Ryan’s guilty silence catches him off-guard. It seems a lot of things are doing that, at the moment.

“Ryan, what are you doing?” Shane asks, no anger behind his words, just genuine curiosity. He doesn’t quite understand why Ryan would pursue this, why he would throw aside a safe, stable life and career because he found out the company harboured ghosts in their past, present and, probably, future. 

“Nothing, I just told the boss I had to move out for a few weeks, no reason.” Ryan says, line of sight pointing at Shane’s stitches and refusing to look away, more focused now than he was before. But Shane knows it’s fake, knows Ryan’s just doing it to avoid looking at him.

“This isn’t your fight. You don’t have to throw yourself in the middle of it, I’ve been doing this for years, I’ve been making steady progress.” Shane says, reeling it off like a spiel. He hates the way he sounds like all the heroes who tried to take him down, how often he repeats himself, both to himself and to Ryan. He hates that Ryan won’t just back down on this, it’s exhausting. 

“I know I don’t have to but,” Ryan says, as he finishes off another stitch and looks up at Shane. Shane takes the opportunity to search his face, to search for any signs of deception or guilt. Even though he knows they’re trained on lying in situations like this, Shane always hopes he would be able to spot it.  “I want to. I can’t fight for them anymore, Shane. Not now that I know.” 

“You won’t leave this to me?” Shane mutters, resigned. If Ryan wants to throw himself into the lion’s den along with him, who is Shane to stop him? Why should Shane spend all of his time and energy fighting off a hero, someone who is born and bred to be persistent and determined to a fault? 

“Don’t you trust me?” Ryan says, a small smile making an appearance on his lips as he pulls the final stitch through. He pauses for a minute, as though admiring his handiwork.

“Am I supposed to?” Shane combats. He’s rewarded with an eye roll.

“All I’m saying is we can take them down quicker if you’ve got a man on the inside,” Ryan says, pointing to himself with his thumb. “I’m still on good terms, they think I’m out here to get you. Not them.”

“And all I’m saying is you shouldn’t’ve got involved. It’s a stupid move, Ryan.” Shane says, watching as Ryan searches through the sewing kit for something or another. After a moment, he sighs and his hands cease their search, the ruffling of the bag pausing.

“Please, just trust me.” Ryan says and there’s a sincerity behind his voice that hits Shane full-force in the chest. He doesn’t know if it’s possible to fake something like that, to be so vulnerable and be lying at the same time. If it all turns out to be deception, Shane thinks it would almost be more impressive than hurtful.

“I’ll think about it.” Shane says and immediately, a smile spreads across Ryan’s face. “No, no, this doesn’t mean we’re a team. I didn’t say yes.”

“But you didn’t say no.” Ryan shoots back, pointing at Shane with a smirk, as though he’s caught him out. Shane leans more weight into his right side, his uninjured side absent of any stitches.

“You’re insufferable.” Shane says, looking unamused.

“I like to think of it as optimistic.” Ryan replies, still smiling a little, as he rustles through his backpack now, giving up on the sewing kit. He reaches down to the very bottom and pulls out a water bottle. Once he notices what he’s holding, Ryan’s face pulls with disappointment, as he hands Shane the water bottle, before continuing to rifle through his bag. “Drink.” 

“We’re going to get ourselves killed, right?” Shane says, before taking a few sips of water. It’s then that he realises how easily he drank it, how he trusted that it wasn’t poisoned, that it wasn’t a trick. Even now, he’s still letting his guard down.

Fuck. 

“You don’t need my help with that, Mr. I’ll-fight-thirty-agents.” Ryan responds, distracted, his head half-in the backpack by now. He pulls back and sighs, before placing the backpack on the floor.

“Shut up,” Shane says but he finds he doesn’t mean it. He glances down at the stitches to find a long thread sticking out at the end, not tied off. 

“There’s no scissors, hold on,” Ryan says, before leaning forward and cutting the thread, biting through it with his teeth. Shane watches as he ties a knot, tightens it so it’s flat against the stitches. 

Remembers faintly, belatedly, to breathe.

Ryan sits back, looking up at him and smiles, but doesn’t say anything. And so, silence falls for a moment, but Shane finds that he doesn’t really mind, he doesn’t have anything he wants to say, doesn’t feel the need to fill in the gaps.

He runs a finger across the stitches, even though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s probably not sanitary, probably more prone to infection now, but he traces the lines anyway. They’re a little jagged, it’s obvious Ryan’s not used to suturing anything that isn’t a training dummy, he’s out of practise. But the wound holds itself together, the blood staying in, just as it needs to.

When he looks back at Ryan, Shane finds him watching already, looking concerned. An action Shane doesn’t understand.

“Thanks for,” Shane says, feeling awkward all of a sudden as he gestures at the thread running through his stomach. “ This. I’m gonna go.” He stands up, a gust of air from the movement hitting him in the chest to remind him that he’s not wearing a shirt. Before he’s even asked, Ryan holds out a shirt, a clean one that’s definitely not his.

“Wait, Shane, you’re not gonna sleep out there like this, right?” Ryan asks as Shane pulls the shirt over his head, one-handed. Shane can feel the feeling returning to his left side now, a comfort, something he had taken for granted. 

“Is that a proposition, Starling?” Shane teases, a smirk on his lips as he meets Ryan’s eyes again. He watches Ryan’s eyes widen, obviously unaware of the implications of his words, and watches while Ryan looks around the room, at anything but Shane, blinking rapidly. Another action Shane doesn’t quite understand, but it’s fun to make the hero squirm.

“ No, no, I mean,” Ryan corrects, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“I’ll find somewhere.” Shane states, matter of fact, sounding certain even though he isn’t.

“You’ll find somewhere?” Ryan says, sounding shocked at the weak foundations of Shane’s plans. He glances down at Shane’s abdomen, where his wound was before it was hidden behind a t-shirt, before he glances back up at Shane. “You could stay here, you know.”

“Not a good idea. I’m guessing you have about five people, maybe more, that know you’re here right now. They could show up at any time to debrief you on tonight and celebrate, they probably think I’ve crawled off somewhere to die.” Shane says, “It wouldn’t be a good idea.” 

“You’re right,” Ryan sighs, before he pulls a few bandages out of his bag. He holds them out to Shane with one hand. “Take these, though.”

“Thanks again, you,” Shane cuts himself off. He places the bandages in his duffel bag, before pulling it over his right shoulder once more. He hates to admit that anyone has helped him, that he’s ever needed help, but the fact is undeniable. If Ryan hadn’t stitched him up, Shane probably would’ve bled out searching for somewhere to sleep. “You really saved my ass tonight.” 

“No problem.” Ryan says, offering up a shrug and a smile, like it’s no big deal. Shane nods once, before turning away. 

Without looking back, Shane heads for the door and tries not to think about how he’ll wake up tomorrow and be forced to hate the man that saved his life tonight.

Chapter Text

But here's a map, here's a shovel

Here's my achilles' heel

R Y A N

Ryan closes the door behind Shane, pressing it shut with his fingertips, hoping to muffle the sound of the lock clicking into place. He leans his forehead against the wood, glossed and cold against his skin, and takes a deep breath. Counting to three, he gives himself a few seconds before he has to compose himself and get back to work.

There had been a time when Ryan hated the mere thought of a villain and everything they stood for. He’d studied the self-indulgent monologues of villains past and scrunched his nose in disgust at their plans. Ryan memorised as many villains as he could, just so he would recognise them on the street, would know what their story was, how to talk to them in a way they’d understand.

And now, he practically begs to join Shane’s fight, even offering him a place to stay without question. He doesn’t know what would happen if his superiors found out about his little quest, however serious or short-lived. Ryan puts his career, his livelihood, on the chopping block yet again without even worrying about the consequences.

But then, Ryan supposes it doesn’t matter what happens to him, whatever they want to do with him can’t be any worse than what they do to innocent children every day. There’s something in him, a switch that flipped when he stood in front of those screens and read through Shane’s file, and now he knows. There’s no way he can fight for them, not in good conscience. 

I should find my family, Ryan thinks, the thought only dawning on him now, a whimper amongst a sea of screaming thoughts. But what good would that do? Would it give them closure to know their child is still alive and well? Or would it open a wound his parents closed years ago, hoping never to revisit? Would they even want to see him?

Maybe they’ve seen his face on the news, recognised him even behind the mask. Ryan finds some comfort in the thought that they’re doing good, even if it’s without him, that they know he’s doing okay too. He hopes all those letters he sent in his youth actually reached their destination, but he wouldn’t be surprised if his superiors had been blocking all contact with the outside world.

God, even his hurt is a privilege. Thinking of Shane, abandoned and orphaned, he didn’t even have the privilege of worrying about his family. He didn’t get to wonder how they were doing. He didn’t get to search out any and all information on them, hearing through the grapevine about their achievements and losses. 

Ryan saw an article about his brother, who graduated top of his class from college. How he’s going to study the planet, hoping to search for a cure for the world’s greatest problem, climate change, because simply being a doctor wasn’t enough for him. He even saw the pictures on Facebook, his brother donning a graduation cap with a parent on each arm, smiling wide and oozing with pride.

Even now, his heart felt the loss. But is it really a loss when the people he’s grieving are doing fine? Ryan doesn’t have to visit a garden and talk to a gravestone to get a sense for how they’re doing. Not like Shane.

You’re spiralling , he thinks, pushing off of the door and standing up straight. Almost mechanically, Ryan goes to the bed and clears away the needle and spare threads, still shiny with blood, not yet dried. He places them at the bottom of his backpack to dispose of later, not fully trusting the trash can to hide the evidence as well as he’d like. As he zips his bag back up, Ryan catches a glimpse of his sleeves, turquoise blue stained with red. 

Shane had almost died tonight.

He rakes a hand across his face, lightly tugging his skin downwards as he does so. Shane had almost died tonight. It had been too close of a call and Ryan knew, somewhere in the back of his mind that if he didn’t put a stop to the agency, with or without Shane’s assistance, that the calls would only continue to get closer until--

He didn’t even want to think about it.

One glance at the clock on his nightstand tells Ryan it’s past midnight already. Far later than he had been hoping to stay up and all plans for an early start in the morning seem to diminish with each passing second. 

On autopilot, Ryan changes out of the bloody clothes and into a comfortable tee, climbing into bed. Tomorrow, he’ll think of a more concrete plan. Tomorrow, he’ll finally put things in motion. Tomorrow, he’ll stop waiting for the world to become a better place and take things into his own hands. He stares at the ceiling and wills his brain to quiet.

But no matter how much he tries to hide the evidence, a small red splotch stains the end of his bedsheets.

“Stop!” A voice yells from behind him and it takes Ryan a moment to realise that he’s the one running, that he’s the one they’re shouting at, aiming weapons towards his chest. One glance behind him and he sees they’re gaining on him, but they’re still far enough away not to worry.

“Starling! Get back here!” His superior barks, seeming to appear out of thin air at the front of the charge. He feels like a gazelle being pursued by a thousand lions, waiting for their moment to strike, as though it’s inevitable and unavoidable.

Ryan doesn’t know why he’s running but he certainly doesn’t stop, zigzagging his movements in an effort to become a tougher target to hit. Up ahead, he sees the road split into two, a T-shape.

“Left,” A voice says beside him, as out of breath as Ryan feels. He doesn’t even need to look next to him to know it’s Shane, sprinting just as hard as he is. Feet hitting the concrete, wearing down the soles of Ryan’s shoes, he feels the ache and burn in his thighs, the sharp pain up his shins from running on such a hard surface.

“You sure?” Ryan breathes, feeling immensely grateful for every ounce of training he received in his childhood. A normal person couldn’t run for as long as Ryan feels like he’s been running, at such a speed.

“Positive.” Shane says, as they near the turning. On a whim, Ryan turns left, following Shane around the corner and out onto a busy street. “Excuse us!” He shouts, as they nudge their way through the crowd. It’s easy for Ryan to ignore the complaints hurtled their way, white noise over the pounding of his own heart.

The street opens out and suddenly, it’s empty, impossibly so. He doesn’t dare to look behind him but he doesn’t hear the hustle and bustle he heard moments before, instead all he hears is the army chasing them, footsteps echoing the sound of his own. 

Ryan feels a hand circle around his wrist and pull him to the right, a harsh tug that sends him stumbling into the alleyway.

“Jesus, Shane what--” Ryan starts but Shane shushes him, placing one finger on Ryan’s lips as he glances out onto the street, waiting for the army to pass by. Ryan rolls his eyes.

They wait. Ryan counts to one hundred. And starts to panic.

“They should have passed by now--” Ryan whispers, lips moving against Shane’s finger. It’s then that Shane seems to realise he still hasn’t moved his hand. 

“I know.” Shane whispers. He lets his hand fall to his side and Ryan watches as the cogs turn behind his eyes, thinking fast, desperate. “I’m gonna go out there.”

“Are you insane?” Ryan says, raising his voice as much as a whisper will allow him. He knows there’s no point arguing with Shane, that he’ll do whatever he wants once he’s made his mind up anyway, but part of him hopes he can talk reason into him.

“I know but,” Shane says, sighing. He seems to reconsider all their options, more time passing by without the agents passing the alley. They could have turned right, Ryan knows that, but the pit at the bottom of his stomach seems to indicate differently. “We can’t sit here forever, there’s no other exit.”

He’s right. Ryan looks down to the end of the alley they’re standing in and sees a dead end. No other way out.

By the time he looks back in Shane’s direction, he’s not there. Ryan looks to his left and sees Shane walking out into the street, casually and with no trace of fear.

He watches as Shane glances left and right.

He watches as his eyes widen, his hands starting to raise.

And he watches as they shoot Shane to the ground.

Countless bullets rip through his chest, some making their way out the other side and some choosing to make a home in Shane’s rib cage. Blood doesn’t splurt out of the wounds like it does in the movies, instead he watches as Shane falls backwards, until he’s lying on his back in the middle of the street, in a pool of his own blood.

Ryan’s shouts are interrupted by the sound of an alarm blaring, sounding somewhat distant but close at the same time.

Alarms are possibly Ryan’s least favourite sound. He decides as much in the morning when his alarm blares at an ungodly volume, waking him with a start, as the clock barely hits eight. Eyes still scrunched closed, he reaches over and blindly hits the clock a few times, until his hands find the off button and the alarm ceases.

He’s barely awake for ten minutes before his phone goes off, buzzing violently on the nightstand. At first, he thinks about ignoring it without even checking, letting it go to voicemail, but he decides he should, at least, check the caller ID. It’s one of his superiors, Campbell.

“Fuck,” Ryan curses under his breath. A moment’s deliberation, wondering whether it would be worse to answer it or not. It’s probably just a check-in, a mini debriefing, but Ryan still hesitates. He hates to think that it’s maybe an update on Shane’s whereabouts, that they might have found him overnight. He hopes Shane managed to hide well enough.

The call goes to voicemail before Ryan can make up his mind on whether to answer it or not.

That’s not good, he thinks. They probably think he’s been captured or killed somewhere, they’ll probably send out a rescue team, they’ll probably--

No, Ryan thinks, putting a stop to the spiralling before it can even begin. Think rationally. 

All they will do is try and call him later, assuming that going sort of ‘undercover’ left him otherwise occupied. 

Ryan sighs and rolls out of bed.

For the rest of the day, Ryan has to remind himself that one of his powers isn’t foretelling the future. His dream was just a dream, nothing more. And he believes it, he really does. But it doesn’t help the fear that one day, it could become a reality.

And still, he convinces himself that he doesn’t care what happens to Shane.

He pulls out his notepad and starts to scribble out a mindmap, writing out everything he knows about the agency and how it operates. Maybe if he assesses its strengths, its weaknesses, its protocols, maybe he can find a weak spot that he can exploit. 

But after three hours of pouring over every detail of his upbringing, Ryan feels deflated and defeated. He’s no wiser on how to take them down than he was last night. Still, he can’t accept that the only option is to kill every person involved. Besides, that wouldn’t work, they would probably just employ more people and the agencies would grow back, before they could take them all down.

And then, they’d be no better off. They would both be fugitives. Children born with powers would still be tortured and murdered. The heroes would be none the wiser about the cause they’re fighting for, about the lives of those they call their enemies.

Ryan only realises his plan the instant he decides to take a break. Once he pulls a sandwich out of his bag, taking a bite, he realises what he’s been missing all along. The only possible option that would be a winning outcome for them all. 

If they can pull it off, it would clear both of their names and turn the blame onto the government. It would open the eyes of the heroes and the public alike. They would be forced to do something , even if Ryan doesn’t know what they would do.

Of course. It’s the only option.

Chapter Text

I'm all in, palms out, I'm at your mercy now and I'm ready to begin

I am strong, I am strong, I am strong enough to let you in

S H A N E

Shane spends the next week living in a recently-condemned building, shaped like a hexagon and four stories tall. The windows have already been knocked through, leaving rectangular holes in their place, but Shane can’t complain. The draught is more bearable now, half-inside and half-out. 

It’s so recently-condemned that Shane finds an old mattress, stained with age and the material is wearing, ripping off in places. But still, it’s a mattress. The last time he remembers sleeping on a real mattress had to have been eight years ago, at the very least. Shane’s never been good at tracking time.

For a while, nobody finds him. For a while, Shane can almost convince himself that he’s a normal person, living in his own house with his own mattress, as he sits atop it eating a pear. For a while, Shane feels comfortable, the constant ache at the lower end of his back eases and the tug on his neck muscles, born from sleeping in too many strange positions, seems to fade.

It’s also the first time in a while that he’s not actively pursuing a plan. Normally, he would have drafted up a blueprint on another facility, mapping out entrances and exits, keeping an eye on their schedule. Surveying. 

But instead, he learns to just exist, just for a few days. To take each moment as it comes, welcoming the temporary calm like he’s breaking in a new pair of shoes. Everyone needs a break sometimes and he knows it’s only for now. 

Shane had been sure he would go crazy to live like this all the time, but the more he thinks about it, the nicer it sounds. To wake up every morning with nothing “important” to do, no government agencies to single handedly take down.

The calm lasts for a week, until Shane goes for a walk through a nearby park.

He had been careful, keeping his hood up and his eyes on the ground. He had even managed to snag some sunglasses to keep his face more hidden. But they still found him. Shane wasn’t terribly surprised, it was bound to happen at some point. He had been hoping it wouldn’t be quite so soon, though.

“Karma!” A man yells and when Shane looks at him, he recognises him. Doesn’t know his name, but this man has definitely tried to take him down before, which means he’ll be even more angry the second time around. Fun.

“Please,” Shane says, not in the mood to fight. He doesn’t want to disrupt the bubble he’s created for himself, peaceful even if only for a short while. In his peripheral, Shane catches a woman and her child on the park bench, watching with wide eyes. He sees her place her arm in front of her son, as though one arm would be enough to save him.

He really doesn’t want to do this. Not now.

“What? Today not a good day?” The man shouts out, before he mutters something into his collar and five or six more agents stroll into the park. Judging from the sirens in the distance, even more backup is on the way.

More than anything, he wants to go back to his house. But Shane’s surprised to find that he wants to avoid a fight, avoid a repeat of the incidents from last week, even more so. He thinks of the kid, standing barely thirty feet away, having to watch a fight like this. 

He curses under his breath.

“Can we do this somewhere else?” Shane asks, his voice a hush, hoping the little boy doesn’t hear their conversation, hoping the agents take the hint. But then, Shane supposes he’s never done anything that would warrant kindness from these people.

Almost in perfect sync, every soldier pulls a gun out of their holster and points it in Shane’s direction, as if choreographed and rehearsed.

“What, so you can slip away again? You think you have a say in this? You--” 

“What the hell is going on here?” The agent’s, likely thrilling, monologue is interrupted by someone stomping through the park and planting himself in the centre of the action, in between the agents and Shane, like a buffer. Blue spandex and a mask, wearing an all too familiar emblem on his chest. 

Shane would feel relieved but he knows no good can come from this.

“Starling, what are you doing here? You weren’t called in on this mission,” The agent stutters, clearly taken off guard by Ryan’s appearance. Shane watches Ryan ball and unfurl his fists, can almost see the anger coming out of him in waves.

“This is my jurisdiction, sir. You put me on this case, I don’t need to be called in.” Ryan says, his back to Shane as he stands in front of him, but Shane doesn’t need to see his face to know his jaw is clenched tight.

“It would do you well to remember who you’re talking to, Starling. Two weeks are up.” His superior says, fury hiding behind a cool and collected facade. Shane watches as he cocks his gun, aiming in Shane’s direction, aiming directly through Ryan. “Stand down.”

“Sir, there’s too many civilians, the area isn’t cleared. The collateral damage would be huge.” Ryan says and although he agrees, Shane knows he’s grasping at straws. Collateral damage has never mattered before and forgetting to clear the streets or not having enough time to evacuate the area won’t stop them. Shane sighs.

“Some chances are worth taking, Starling. This is the best shot we’ve had in weeks.” Shane sees Ryan step back at that, at the thought they were going to just shoot Shane without even considering taking him into custody. A public execution for all the world to see. 

If he had any to spare, Shane would bet money that there would be a parade lasting at least a week, grateful that his heart has finally stopped beating.

“Leave it,” Shane whispers, hoping Ryan hears him but he shows no sign of doing so. Instead, he pipes up once more, straightening his spine and standing taller than he did moments before.

“Sir, with all due respect--”

“No, Starling. Enough .” His superior cuts him off, patience worn thin. He glances to his left and then to his right, nodding as he does so, a signal that Shane doesn’t understand and isn’t sure he wants to. “Step aside.”

Ryan hesitates for a moment, before he nods and steps to the side he knows best, out of the crossfire and joining his agents. Shane catches his eye for a moment, before he looks away, mask realigned, features wiped clean of any recognition. 

But not before Shane can smile a small smile his way, small enough for anyone else to miss. Shane’s not disappointed in him, he tried. That was more than enough. More than he could ever have asked for. More than he ever would have wanted him to do.

The agents walk forward, until there’s no more than ten feet between them and Shane, closed in once more, as he has been too many times before.

“Can you at least clear the park before you gun me down?” Shane asks, joking lilt returning to his voice, even though he’s entirely serious with his request. He gets no answer, except the noise of more guns being cocked.

He doesn’t mean to summon the sparks to his fingertips, doesn’t even realise they’re there until he feels the heat radiating against his sides. But once the agents catch sight of them, it’s too late to explain that he means no harm.

One of the agents goes rogue and fires, before the order is given. But Shane hears it, just in time to fend the bullet off with a wave of crimson, sending it hurtling upwards, out of the way of passersby.

Shane hears a woman scream but the sound is distant, muted, as if he’s underwater at the bottom of a pool and the woman is screaming poolside. Twisting his wrists in a circular motion, Shane pulls the sparks up, aiming for each gun and hoping to tug them out of the hands of the agent’s.

It’s about seventy-five percent successful, leaving one or two guns still armed and ready, but for a move he’s never executed before, Shane feels a rush of relief. Maybe his sparks are more precise than he once thought, maybe they’re easier to control than he anticipated, even after all these years of involuntary practice.

But the relief is short-lived, as more bodies join the crowd, backup finally arriving. Quickly, the situation is escalating, perfectly mirroring the events of last week in a way than Shane had been hoping they wouldn’t.

Fine, he thinks. Maybe Ryan had been rubbing off on him, but Shane had been going for the non-violent approach, hoping to disarm and escape. But they were leaving him no choice, tying his hands once again. 

All of his rage that had been so tightly contained pours out of him in that instant, arms stretched outwards as a sea of red ripples through the park, throwing the agents as far away from him as he can manage. Shane’s unaware that he’s screaming, until he hears the sound being ripped from his throat.

Eyes clenched shut, Shane lets the energy flow out of him, letting go of any barriers or guilt he had harboured. He barely hears the shouting and the running, he barely even feels connected with his body anymore.

Until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Shane, stop,” Ryan says and when Shane opens his eyes, he sees him standing directly in front of him, perfectly still and unaffected amongst the chaos. Scarlet whirls around the pair of them like a forcefield, the only evidence of the mayhem being Ryan’s hair that sits as an unruly nest on his head. It blows in every direction as though he’s standing in the eye of a hurricane.

The breaths are coming too quickly now, so quickly that Shane feels as though his lungs are about to collapse from the lack of proper air. He tries his hardest to focus on anything but the anger, but falls short, unable to tether himself. His gaze darts around, too fast to properly examine the carnage, to even see it through the blanket of red sparks that surrounds them.

It feels like he’s broken the dam and letting everything flow out of him now is almost too easy. What once felt easier to keep contained, a burden he once carried without second thought, not knowing any better, now feels too heavy for his shoulders, for him to pick back up. 

“Hey,” Ryan says but Shane doesn’t respond, barely even hears him speak. A hand on either side of his face, something to ground him, it’s enough. Ryan meets his eyes with a small smile, mirroring his own from moments before. Shane feels the prickling at the back of his eyes, just before the tears fall down his cheeks, cold and wet against the breeze of his own creation. “Hey, you’re okay, it’s okay, I got you. Just stop, you’re okay.”

Shane concentrates on the feeling of Ryan’s hands on his cheeks, the warmth of his palms, and locks his eyes with Ryan’s. A tether that pulls him back down to Earth, as he tries to claw the sparks back into his fingers. It’s almost painful to contain it once more, like too much at once, a scorching substance passing back through his veins.

“Talk to me,” Shane says, voice barely there, choked and muffled. “Please.”

“Okay, I,” Ryan starts, pausing for a moment as he searches his brain for a distraction. “My brother graduated college last year, top of his class. He wants to stop climate change.” Ryan rambles and it doesn’t even matter what he’s saying, Shane focuses on every word, hangs onto each sentence like it’s a lifeboat.

“He does?” Shane says, prompting him to keep speaking. Ryan nods.

“Yeah, he’s probably getting a PhD and speaking at the UN. It wouldn’t surprise me, he was always a genius.” Ryan says, his words holding no trace of envy, just pride. 

Shane tries to concentrate only on the sound of his voice, trying to cut through the noise of everything else to only hear Ryan. It dulls the pain a little, each moment that passed felt like hours before, but the sparks are moving back in Shane’s direction with little to no effort now.

He only notices that the landscape is clear again when Ryan’s hands fall from his face. Anxious, Shane glances around the park and sees nobody dead, just injured and lying on the floor, probably pinned in place from the blast. 

For some reason, he feels relief, surprised he even checked to see if any agents were killed. 

“Take the shot!” A voice shouts from the crowd, much further away now, too far to shoot accurately, so it seems it’s quicker for them to get Ryan to do their bidding. “Starling, what are you waiting for?”

But Ryan doesn’t listen, the words don’t even register on his face. He just stands in front of Shane and stares, mouth slightly open. What he would give to know what Ryan is thinking in that moment, whether he finally sees Shane for the monster he knows himself to be.

“Fire!” The same voice barks and then the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. They must have gained ground or maybe just decided to cut their losses and shoot regardless. Either way, Shane realises much too late that a bullet is heading his way.

“No!” Ryan screams and Shane closes his eyes, braces for the impact. He’s been shot before, the burning of metal shards is a pain that he should be used to by now. His stitches aren’t even properly healed yet, his wound not yet a scar. Part of him hopes the bullet hits him square in between the eyes, quick and easy. 

He takes a deep breath in, ready to endure the pain he felt only a week before.

But the pain never comes.

“Come on,” Ryan breathes before he takes off running, leading them out of the park and down the street. Gunshots follow them but the bullets do nothing but ricochet off the pavement, none managing to hit Shane as he runs. But Shane doesn’t question Ryan's plan, just follows along, as they wind through alleys, taking a thousand shortcuts until they finally reach a high street and blend into the crowd. 

One glance behind tells him no one is tailing them, not yet, so Shane wraps his fingers around Ryan’s wrist and tugs him into an alley. They should wait it out, just to make sure. There’s no doubt agents are searching for them and the fact that he made away with one of their heroes will only worsen their chances.

He counts to one hundred and waits for the stampede to pass the alleyway entrance, but it never does.

“I think they’re gone, I--” Shane cuts himself off, as he turns around and sees Ryan crumpled in a heap on the concrete. His heart drops to the floor. “Ryan?”

Chapter Text

I'll shake the ground with all my might

I will pull my whole heart up to the surface

S H A N E

“You’re a fucking idiot , why would you do that?” Shane says, falling to his knees beside Ryan and ignoring the tears as they threaten to fall down his cheeks once more. He pushes the feeling down, just as he’s used to, substituting it with misdirected anger. 

His hands shake as he wraps his arm around Ryan’s back, pulling him into a more comfortable position. Ryan leans the majority of his body weight against him and Shane’s not sure he even realises he’s doing so. His shoulder presses into Shane’s chest, a steady weight, a reminder.

“Sorry, I had to.” Ryan says, like Shane should understand, like there was no other way. There was always another way, it just wasn’t an ending Ryan would’ve liked. Why did he have to choose to be the hero, even now?

“No, you didn’t! You could’ve just let me die, like I’m supposed to, you--!” Shane yells but the words stop short, when he notices something that makes his blood chill. The red that stains Ryan’s suit isn’t darkening, isn’t drying. 

Instead, it’s spreading.

“Why aren’t you healing? What’s happening?” Shane rambles, eyes caught on the pool of scarlet, expanding with every passing second. His spare hand pulls at Ryan’s suit, searching for the bullet hole, the exact location where it shot into Ryan’s body. 

Even with years of experience treating his own wounds, everything Shane had learned flies out of his head, replaced only by panic and desperation. Finally, after a split second that feels like a thousand years, Shane finds the wound. 

Pressure, is all his brain provides, one word that sends him into action, pressing down on the wound and hoping the bleeding slows. He doesn’t even check for an exit wound, doesn’t think to do so, as he glances between Ryan’s face and the blood, as it stars seeping through the gaps between his fingers.

“Power dampening,” Ryan exhales but it’s obvious that the effort is exhausting, his eyelids weighing down until he’s looking at Shane through his eyelashes. His forehead is slick with sweat but Ryan looks like he’s almost shivering, hot to touch but feeling cold.

Never in all of his life has Shane felt quite so helpless as he does right now. What’s the point of being burdened by these powers if he can’t use them in the way he needs to, if he can’t help when he wants to most? 

It should be Shane lying on the floor right now with the pavement against his back and the tiniest of stones digging into his skin. It should be Shane bleeding through his clothes, ruining another hoodie he owned but not finding it in him to care. It should be Shane leaning against Ryan, looking up at him, saying his goodbyes. It should be, it should be, it should be.

“Hey, no, stay with me, okay? No falling asleep, you hear me?” Shane says, readjusting his grip around Ryan’s back as he leans more of his weight onto Shane, unable to hold himself up.

“Not sleeping,” Ryan mumbles but his face begs to differ, as each blink gets a little slower and each breath sounds more laborious. If only Shane’s sparks could take away the hurt, take away the tension in his features as his face contorts in pain.

“I mean it, Ryan. If you die, I’ll kill you , ” Shane jokes, eyes still frantic as far too much blood falls through his fingers, the pressure he’s applying just not enough. He presses down harder.

A wet chuckle that turns into a cough, Ryan winces. Shane doesn’t need medical training to know that that’s not good .

“I couldn’t let you die,” Ryan says, wearing a sad smile. He places a hand over Shane’s, where he’s holding the wound in place, and presses down as hard as he can manage. “This isn’t your fault, it’s mine, I’m sorry.” 

“Ryan, you’re not saying goodbye, not yet, fuck ,” Shane shakes his head and decides, as though deciding this isn’t the end will make it so. He blinks the tears away, faking confidence and determination. But the mask doesn’t quite hold, sadness visible through the cracks in his expression. “You’re not dying.”

“You can’t just will me not to die, you know,” Ryan huffs out a half-laugh. He opens his mouth to speak again, before his eyes widen. “ Shane .” He says and the urgency in Ryan’s voice makes Shane still, shooting his gaze up to meet Ryan’s.

“Yeah?” Shane’s voice is strained even to his own ears, choked out around the lump in his throat. For some reason, he feels scared by Ryan’s expression, nervous about the words that will leave his lips.

“You need to go.” Ryan says and whatever Shane had been expecting, that hadn’t been it. Immediately, Shane thinks he’s misheard him but there’s no way he could’ve. He feels defensive all of a sudden, frantic.

“ What ? The blood loss must be hitting your brain if you think I’m leaving ,” Shane says, the words rushing out of him before he can properly think them through. Insistent, Ryan shakes his head.

“Comms,” He taps his ear, the place where an almost-invisible earpiece resides, more often than not. Ryan pauses, listening for a moment to the voices in his ear, before he reports to Shane as though he’s in a debriefing, serious and professional. “They’ve tracked us, two minute ETA. I can hold the pressure til then.”

“I’m not leaving you.” Shane whispers, hating how small his voice sounds, hating how weak he sounds, how helpless he feels right to his core. He’s surprised to find the terror that makes itself known at the thought of leaving Ryan like this, at the thought of walking away and not making sure he’s going to live.

“Shane, if you stay, they’ll kill you,” Ryan says and Shane notices the surprise on his face at Shane’s resistance, the surprise that mirrors his own. Why does he care? Why doesn’t he just run away right now? Why does it feel like he’s the one that’s been shot, a pit opening in his stomach and threatening to swallow him whole?

“I don’t care ,” Shane refuses to budge, standing his ground. Everything in him is screaming to stay, that this might be the last time he ever sees Ryan, that he shouldn’t run away, not again.

“I know,” Ryan frowns, hesitates and sighs. “But I do.”

“ Ryan, ” Shane speaks the word as though it’s been pulled out of him, caught off-guard and blindsided. The name catches onto an exhale, his breaths unsteady and shaky. Once more, he glances down at the gunshot wound, at his hands slick with blood, so fresh and still flowing that it’s not dried yet. 

He looks at Ryan’s hand over his own.

“Please go,” Ryan murmurs, as Shane looks back up at him. Everything in him is telling him to hold out, to stay. But he squeezes the hero’s hand once, twice, three times. Ignores every instinct. And flees.

That night, he robs a store, drinks himself into oblivion and tries not to think about the image of Ryan laying dead in an alleyway.

It’s not fair. None of it is fair. It never has been. 

Life hasn’t been fair since that day, the first time Shane saw the true colours of the government he used to trust. Looking back, his parents had never broken the law, never even got a speeding ticket, never even missed any payments on the house they lived in. All they ever did wrong was shelter a child from danger, they chose to give him the chance to make his own decisions instead of surrendering to the government.

He spent years alone, trying his hardest to barely make an impact on every person he met, to become nothing more than an acquaintance. Nothing more than an ‘oh, I think I met him once’ or - even better - a ‘who’s that?’

For years, he let anger fuel him. Any time he saw even a glimmer of hope, a flicker of something that would prove him wrong, that would show him that the world is more than nightmares and destruction, he would run. As far as he could, as quickly as his legs would take him, in the opposite direction.

Because if all of this has taught him one thing, it’s that death is always two steps behind him. A black hole that wouldn’t stop until it swallowed everything Shane had ever touched, ever looked at, ever loved. As though Shane had his own gravitational pull and everyone within a two mile radius of him would suffer a fate even worse than the last. 

Even now, he could feel it nipping at his heels, a dark, irreversible shadow that even his greatest plans wouldn’t be enough to escape. One day, it would catch up to him and today, it felt like it had come closer than it ever had before.

Shane was right. He always had been. Only now does he realise that part of him had been hoping he would be proven wrong, holding the last branch of hope on an endless and frozen night. Praying it would be enough to set a fire, just big enough to keep him warm.

But Shane was right and he wishes, more than anything else, that he hadn’t been.

By day three, Shane has convinced himself that Ryan is dead, that there’s no way he could’ve survived that much blood loss. Another alley, another gun firing, another bullet hole. He should’ve known it would play out this way. The image is burned into his brain, the cherry-red spreading and staining blue spandex. He should’ve done something, anything .

By day seven, he’s sneaking into the library again, late at night before he’s even realised what he’s doing. He scrolls for hours, adjusting the keywords and search terms until he runs out of things to search for. But no matter how long he googles it, there’s no answer on how much blood loss kills a superhero, especially one with super healing abilities wounded with power dampening bullets.

He checks the news in every storefront he passes, searching for headlines in newspapers or grief-stricken newscasters. There’s no mention of Starling anywhere, good or bad. But deep down, Shane knows that if he’s dead, the agents would probably keep it out of the press to save civilian morale. 

And Shane knows that, by now, Starling would’ve hit headlines for something positive. He usually does. He pushes that particular voice down, silencing it, refusing to believe it. Ryan could be healing, just because he’s not hit the headlines doesn’t mean he’s dead.

A pit settles in the depths of his stomach that he can’t shake all the same, no matter how hard he tries. An inkling, a bad feeling. 

For the life of him, he can’t figure out why he cares. He’s had heroes die fighting him before, agents too. Of course, he felt guilty, knowing each of them probably had a family and a life that they would be forced to suddenly abandon, to never return to. But it was always a case of him or them.

This? This is different.

This is a deep ache that spreads under his skin, poisoning his blood, seeping into his bones. This is a desperation turned futile, an acceptance he’s yet to find. This isn’t just a guilt of a life taken. It’s a loss, a grief, a burden that weighs on his chest, knowing he could’ve done something, that he should’ve done something.

This is different.

Shane shouldn’t care. But he does.

And he hates himself for it.

Because caring makes him vulnerable. Caring leaves him exposed. Caring leaves him open to a weakness, something that the heroes and agents love to exploit, something to hold over Shane’s head until he caves in. Something to torture him with, to mock, to parade in front of him like a dangling carrot until he has no choice but to give them what they want.

Then, he remembers. There’s no weak spot to exploit. There will be no blackmailing, no torture, no leverage, no nothing. There will be no comeuppance, the punishment he deserves for all the crimes he’s forced upon this world in the years of his life. Because he’s already serving his sentence, he’s already living his damnation. 

Because Ryan is dead. He’s sure of it.

Chapter Text

For the innocent, for the vulnerable

R Y A N

Ryan gets the call at nine in the morning. 

The voice of his superior, frantic and rushed, speaking into the comms and saying there’s been a sighting. A hundred murmurs overlapping as each agent confirms their whereabouts, their ETA, how long it’ll take them to get to the park. They already sound celebratory, as though they’ve already won, as though Shane is already in the back of their van, handcuffed and ready to be shipped to the nearest prison.

He pulls on his clothes as quickly as he can, forcing his arm through the wrong hole in the rush and having to correct it. In record time, he’s out the door with knives strapped to his ankles and waist, just as they always are. The familiar cold of the metal against his skin is almost comforting.

The instant the elevator reaches the ground floor, Ryan takes off in a sprint with all the speed of an olympic athlete. He’s so tunnel visioned, so focused, that he bumps into a man waiting in the lobby and almost knocks his suitcase from his hand.

“Sorry!” Ryan yells belatedly, throwing the word over his shoulder, before redirecting all his attention forward. For a normal person, the park would probably be twenty minutes away from here. If he was a normal person, he would be out of breath in five, slowing down until the journey took twice as long. 

If he was a normal person, Shane would be back at the compound by the time he got there.

At the thought, Ryan subconsciously picks up speed, angry that this ambush is being conducted without his consent, without his approval, without any input from him at all. He knows his two weeks are up, they were a few days ago now, but this is still his case, his villain. Nothing should happen without him being told. And yet, he finds himself scrambling through his thoughts for any semblance of a plan, again. 

Turns out, it takes Ryan half the time to reach the park as it would a ‘normal’ person, and it’s a good thing too, because he’s already minutes late to the party when he arrives. As he rushes across the grass, he sees his superior motioning more agents forward, guns in their hands.

All of his interruptions fall short, all of his best efforts are not enough. Safety off, bullets fly and Ryan just stands there for a moment, watching as Shane deflects bullets like wafting away pesky flies or insects. Guns are pulled from their hands, floating in the air in a case of red. 

But something switches when backup arrives, he sees it in Shane’s face. A door locked shut, the lock finally being picked, all hell about to be let loose. When Ryan looks at Shane’s eyes, he looks desperate and furious at the same time, the colour of his irises turning red whenever the sun catches them. Without thinking, Ryan runs forward, headfirst into the flames.

When the storm hits, Ryan scrunches his eyes shut, expecting to be incinerated on the spot. He feels the powers pass over him, pass through him, and knows he should be hurting somewhere. But his body feels fine, no more sore than it was before, his muscles already complaining after sprinting without a warmup.

Instead, it feels like a gust of air, strong enough to push him backwards a little, strong enough to hold him in place for a second too long. Eyes open, he sees Shane, looking to anyone else like he’s been ripped from the pages of a fairytale, a cautionary tale parents tell their children before they go to sleep. 

But all Ryan sees is the hurt and the anger, the way Shane’s eyes are clenched shut like a scared child wandering through a haunted house. He sees the shaking of Shane’s fingers, arms outstretched with trembling hands. 

A hand on his shoulder, focused only on the man before him and not the wall of crimson that encloses them. Two hands on his face, willing Shane to look at him, if even for a moment, to take a breath, to make sure he’s okay.

“Hey, you’re okay, it’s okay, I got you. Just stop, you’re okay.” Ryan says, hoping his tone is comforting. He knows he should feel scared right now, he should fear the man in front of him. Part of him should want to run and hide, to escape this little bubble that Shane has created.

But Ryan doesn’t feel scared, as his lips pull into a small smile. He just feels sad, that Shane has been harbouring this much pain, that it’s got to this point. He just feels the innate urge to help, to make everything better. 

With a hand on either side of Shane’s face, Ryan doesn’t want to run. He wants to plant his feet and promise he’ll never leave. He wants to talk Shane down and talk this through. A steady figure, a promise, standing his ground. He wants to piece each part of Shane back together again, the pieces that his own superiors were the ones to break.

Ryan wants anything and everything but to run.

So he talks at Shane and wipes the tears from his cheeks, as the sparks find their way back to his veins. He doesn’t let his eyes leave Shane’s, not even for a moment, until the gale around them disappears.

Only then does he realise what just happened.

A voice screams at him, sounding too far away for him to make out the words, as Ryan’s thoughts reel. He lets his hands fall to his sides.

Ryan remembers the first time he met Shane, chasing him down behind his home. Being outsmarted had hurt his pride, as Shane trapped him beneath those familiar sparks, but the thing that had knocked him for six the most was being let go. Moments after Shane had disappeared, the sparks had too, lifting off him like a final mercy.

He remembers finding him for the second time, as they sat in the back of a van and Shane refused to speak, the silence filled with all the things Ryan was yet to know. The cuts from rolling across the concrete had healed before the night was through and being bested again had no effect on him. Instead, Ryan felt a thrill, an impulse to research and plan and go after Shane again, caught up in the chase.

He remembers countless debriefings, before he bumped into Shane in the compound. Words hurled like punches worthy of a knock-out, whilst Ryan pulled his fists back, weakening the blow. He had never wanted to hurt Shane, not really, just wanted to keep him incapacitated for long enough to lock him away. But even then, there was a part of him who awaited every encounter, feeling almost excited to face off against Shane once more.

Back then, Ryan had chalked it up to wanting to prove himself. He had always fought criminals of a lower calibre, petty thieves and wannabes. This was the first time his superiors had trusted him with a ‘real’ villain. It was to be expected that he would be anxious to prove himself.

As time went on, he thought it was hatred, especially on the roof. Shane saw right through him, picked out every insecurity and threw it in his face. So Ryan had thrown his knife in Shane’s direction, satisfied when it made a home in his shoulder.

Only now does Ryan realise what’s happened. 

Revealing his identity. Working alongside his worst enemy. He had stopped trying to climb the ranks of the heroes. He had stopped trying to impress his superiors, trading it all in for a hotel room and a thousand case files he had to examine, desperate for a plan to take down the ones he once worshipped.

Somewhere along the way, things had changed. Lines had been crossed. Looking back, Ryan can’t pinpoint an exact moment. But now, Ryan had been the one to tether Shane back to himself, to anchor him back to the present moment. Ryan had been the one wiping his tears away, chatting small-talk and hoping it was enough of a distraction. And it had worked. 

For once, Ryan had been enough.

But more than anything, Ryan finds himself frozen in shock at the realisation that he hadn’t been hurt. He had felt the sparks flow through him, he should’ve been hurt, he knows it. But something in Shane had protected him, the same thing that had been playing the defence. The same thing that built a forcefield, a sea of scarlet, not just to keep himself safe but Ryan too.

The ground pulls out from under Ryan’s feet once more. Just when he feels certain in his thoughts, as if he might have it all figured out, there’s another string to pull, another thread to chase.

Everything clicks into place.

“Fire!” A voice shrieks, yanking Ryan out of his own head. All of his thoughts quiet the instant he hears a gun go off, a sound he’s grown accustomed to over the past few years. 

Ryan doesn’t think. He just puts himself in its firing line, throws himself in front of Shane. He doesn’t question it, not even for a moment.

It’s awfully strange to feel glad and relieved when Ryan feels the scorching pain, ripping through him. 

He hides it well, one hand over the gash as they run through the streets. They make it to an alleyway, before Ryan’s legs give way and he collapses onto the floor. He doesn’t feel guilty, not at all, not even when Shane presses down on the wound with fingers so unsteady. Nor when Shane looks at him, helpless and hopeless, with one arm around his back.

No, all Ryan feels is relief.

Because he did what he needed to do. He was the one to take the bullet, he was the one to lie in a pool of his own blood, he was the one to stain an alleyway with red.

Because his dream never became a reality.

When Ryan wakes, it’s to the sound of a steady beeping, a machine sitting beside him. His eyelids are heavy, weighed down by too much sleep, and his head feels like it’s been pressed in a vice. When he finally works up the nerve to look around, Ryan notices a needle in his arm, taped there and held in place, an IV.

Everything is so white, so clinical, so cold. It nearly hurts to look at, a bright and unwelcome shock to his eyes. He can’t turn his head, the moment he tries he finds that it’s agonising, but Ryan knows the rest of the room is just as white, just as unsettling.

He knows immediately where he is, he just isn’t sure how he got there.

“Ah, Starling! You’re awake!” His superior says, as he pulls a chair up to Ryan’s bedside. Within seconds he’s made himself at home, resting his elbows on Ryan’s bedside table. It’s out of character, far too informal and something about it makes Ryan’s skin itch below the surface. “Drink this.” He says, lifting a glass from the table and handing it to Ryan. “Don’t worry, it’s only water.”

“What happened?” Ryan asks, deciding he doesn’t need any water. But his voice crackles and fades, tickly and sore from disuse, so he brings the glass to his lips. All he remembers is stepping in front of Shane, chasing him to the alley and forcing Shane to leave. Everything after that is blurred and Ryan can’t differentiate whether or not it was a dream.

“Well, your buddy left,” Campbell says, glancing at the monitors beside Ryan, as though they’ll act as a lie detector, maybe they’ll give him all the answers he needs. “We tracked you to the alley, brought you back here. Then, it was easy. Power dampening bullets are only active when inside the body of the injured, so once it was removed, you healed pretty quickly. A full recovery.”

“But,” Ryan says, unsure of what to say. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, there’s no way they didn’t see him step into the line of fire. And even if they missed that, they definitely saw him running alongside Shane.

He’s fucked.

“You’re moving back into the compound, effective immediately. The board wanted you to be pulled from the Karma case but I refused. It seems like he trusts you and we can use that to our advantage.” Campbell says, speaking like he’s reading from a script and Ryan’s not convinced. He catches the way his superior is avoiding specifics. 

“When’s the next mission?” Ryan says, after clearing his throat. 

“That’s what I like to hear.” “We’re hoping to catch him off-guard. He believes you’re dead, so we’re going to need you to lead the charge. Hopefully, that’ll be enough to get our foot in the door. We leave in a few hours.”

With that, he stands, the chair scraping across the floor as he does so. Ryan’s starting to suspect that he does it on purpose, another way to assert his dominance. He heads for the door but pauses, his hand hovering above the handle.

“And Starling?” Campbell says, his tone darker than it was moments before, as he turns back to face Ryan. “Pull that shit again and I’ll see to it that this is your last mission. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” Ryan says, feeling his heart drop. For a moment, he had thought he was in the clear, that maybe they hadn’t noticed. How naive.

“And let it be known that if you are compromised,” Campbell starts, holding Ryan’s eye contact as he narrows his eyes. “You will receive the same treatment as Karma, regardless of your upbringing.”

“Understood, sir. Loud and clear.” Ryan replies, trying to keep his breathing steady and hoping that the numbers on the monitor don’t suddenly jump, that they don’t give him away.

The click of the door as it closes behind his superior is the best noise Ryan has ever heard.

Chapter Text

I'll show up on the front lines with a purpose

R Y A N

When the nurses discharge Ryan, he has to force himself not to run out of the ward. He pulls a smile onto his lips and thanks them, filling out the paperwork carefully and without rushing, just in case there are eyes watching. He makes an effort to hand the pen back with the papers. If anything appears to slip his mind, if anything appears to be amiss or as if he is distracted, watching eyes would pick up on it.

So Ryan hands the pen and papers over with a smile, before walking out of the medical ward. Each step is meticulously timed, he ensures not to stride, not to march, not to hurry. He walks like he doesn’t have a target on his back. He walks like he has nowhere else to be.

“Pull that shit again and I’ll see to it that this is your last mission.” The words play over and over in his mind, like an antique cassette stuck in a tape player, scratching and skipping. Ryan thinks he knows the implications now or at least, he’s scratched the surface enough to know what they might do to him if they found out he was compromised.

Because he is. He knows he is. Beyond repair. There’s no coming back from this, there’s no way he could go back to training alongside these heroes, throwing punches at a bag until his knuckles bled and hoping it would be enough to protect the city.

Ryan is compromised. He’s the compound’s disappointment, the tale they would be told in classes years before, when the teacher would speak about heroes who fell from grace and ruined all of their training. The heroes that became villains, the ones who couldn’t uphold the pressures that came with their monikers. 

Ryan has joined them and the realisation doesn’t hurt at all.

He takes the elevator up, each tick of the arrow as another floor is passed seeming too loud, enough to startle him each time. Ryan knows he’s jumpy right now, knows this is a terrible idea. He should go straight back to his dorm and rest before the mission his superior spoke about. He shouldn’t give them any opportunity to see him as a traitor, he should be the model student for a few days.

Truth is, the only reason Campbell hasn’t cast him away or worse is because of legislation and fear of the press. His superiors are biding their time, getting their ducks in a row, putting all their chess pieces into place before they make their first move. Although invisible, Ryan can feel the timer over his own head, waiting for him to slip up so they can take him off the board. Or waiting for the time to run out, for them to be allowed to do something about his betrayal.

The elevator doors open with a click and Ryan counts to three in his head before he steps over the boundary. Every move he makes needs to be calculated now. He’s seen the control room, he’s seen the ridiculous amount of cameras that reside in the corners of this place, hidden in plain sight. 

He makes it to the filing room without bumping into a single person, which is a little strange. Normally, there’s security wandering around every floor. Normally, agents are all over this building like a terrible rash, but Ryan slips into the filing room without any trouble at all.

Ryan hesitates for a moment, before twisting the lock into place. He knows it would be more incriminating to be found behind a locked door, but the lock would give him a few more seconds to hide or figure out a game plan. 

“Clearance 432, Campbell.” He whispers, hoping his superior hasn’t had the chance to change his login or hasn’t thought to do so yet. Luckily, the computer screen changes from ‘login required’ to a desktop background.

“All access granted.” The computer says, far too loud. One glance over his shoulder tells Ryan that nobody heard, that nobody is trying to barge the door down, not yet. Ryan hopes he has enough time to do what he needs to do, he’s not sure he has a backup plan if he can’t.

Clicking through the files, it’s too easy to find ghost stories that became a reality. Families taken off the map, test tubes gone awry, hidden children encaptured in compounds and forced into a life of heroism or experimentation. Each document makes Ryan feel sick.

He had anticipated this. That the thread ran this deep, that the poison had spread to the very foundations, if the foundations were ever pure to begin with. But seeing it all written out is almost too much. He swallows and takes a deep breath, before exporting as many files as he can.

Ryan emails them to a burner account and then deletes all evidence of doing so, something he learned as a child, something that his superiors probably didn’t think he would ever use against them. By the time he’s finished, it’s almost time to go on a mission and play pretend once more. He exits out of the computer, logging out and waiting for the login screen to reappear. 

And when it does, Ryan turns and walks out of the room, leaving no trace, as though he was never there to begin with.

S H A N E

The days pass slower now, without even the promise of facing off with the only hero he’s ever remotely tolerated . His newest base goes undiscovered, for now at least, but the mattress isn’t as comfortable as it was before and the cold somehow feels colder now.

But Shane makes every effort to return to his life before. He goes back to planning another attack on the furthest government facility that he’s aware of, on the outskirts of the city, hoping that the distance is enough to lose any followers before he makes it home. It’s been long enough now without any interruptions from the agents, he knows he’s due a visit soon. 

He may as well return the favour.

Silver and white reflect off of the shutters of each store Shane passes, an imitation of the full moon that hangs above. He can’t find it in himself to appreciate the sight. He never used to feel the cold but now, walking through the streets of the city in the early hours of the morning, Shane shivers. 

He pulls his coat over his torso until the material stretches - it’s a little small for him now but he’s had it for as long as he can remember, since he was a teen, and doesn’t quite have the heart to throw it out. 

With one glance over his shoulder, Shane sidesteps into a back road, a shortcut he’s taken a thousand times over. As he walks, he looks at the walls, covered with ivy that climbs to the very top. Vines that have spread without any sign of stopping, without any sign of letting go of the wall they’re clinging to, until it’s all Shane can see. They wind and wrap their way into each crevice, covering every single brick.

Shane finds it fitting.

He almost misses the bullet that ricochets off the shutter beside him, inches from where he just stood. Shane doesn’t even duck belatedly and makes no effort to move out of the way. He just keeps walking, unbothered and careless.

“Oh no, you almost got me! Almost . Guess someone needs to go back to weapons training!” Shane shouts in an attempt to mimic his joking nature, but his heart just isn’t in it and his mind is somewhere else entirely. He shouts the words into thin air, looking up at the tops of the buildings beside him, hoping the words are aimed in the right direction.

Shane steps back out onto the high street, exposed and reckless as the night hours result in an empty street. He should’ve turned back or ducked into a building, taken cover, anything. Instead, he puts himself in clear view and in perfect shooting range. Shane searches for a shine in the darkness, a glint of the barrel of a gun being reflected by the streetlights but he can’t see it.

“Which one of you was it?” Shane yells into the night, all of the snark and sarcasm of moments before long gone. The image of Ryan, laying there on the concrete, as his blood seeps in between the cracks of the paving stones. Ryan, begging him to go, sacrificing himself, not telling him he was injured until they were too far away to get help. 

Shane’s fault. Shane’s fault. Shane’s fault.

“Who fired the shot?” He shouts, reinvigorated and just as furious as the day it happened. Almost two weeks have passed, an eternity for superheroes with their super healing and their enhanced abilities. But for Shane, the wound is as fresh and as deep as it was almost a fortnight ago, as though no time has passed at all.

He’s met with nothing but silence, which is somehow, the worst response.

“Which one of you killed the Starling?” Shane yells, patience wearing thin. He makes no effort to appear innocent or harmless, not like he tried to a few times before. It didn’t work then, it wouldn’t work now. It hadn’t been enough to save Ryan. 

He stomps that thought down before it can blossom into something too agonising, too much of an admission of guilt. Shane can’t lose himself in his emotions, not again. Last time was a close call, he could’ve evened a whole block, if Ryan hadn’t been there to stop him.

Behind him, Shane hears a single thud, someone dropping down from the roof of a shop nearby, into the street, boots on concrete. No footsteps follow, the person doesn’t even try to approach him. Without hesitation, Shane turns around, hands ablaze and ready to unleash hell.

And locks eyes with Ryan. 

His legs almost give way.

“Karma,” Ryan says, in a tone colder than Shane’s ever heard, so distant that, even though he’s standing right in front of him, he could be ten thousand miles away. It’s so unlike the Ryan he’s come to know, the one who believes nobody is too far gone, that every person can be saved. Even Shane.

“Starling, we meet again,” Shane says, playing the part. It feels like he’s fallen out of step, like he’s a moment behind, like the game has changed and he wasn’t updated on the rules and now he’s scrambling to catch up. “What are the chances?”

“You gonna go quietly?” Ryan says and he almost sounds like he’s shouting, even though Shane is barely ten feet away. Shane’s reminded of their first few encounters, Ryan’s false confidence and self-righteousness. How Shane had hated him so much that he couldn’t stop thinking about him, that he was so intrigued, so curious about where this little path could take him.

It’s almost like being transported back in time, playing the role of a man months younger. A man he doesn’t resonate with, a man that doesn’t represent him, not anymore.

“Have I ever?” Shane smirks, letting the flares at his fingertips dull to embers. He saunters forward, taking his time, until he stands directly in front of Ryan, staring him directly in the face.  

“Turn yourself in, Karma.” Ryan says. Everything about him looks the same but his words sound bitter now, like he’s the same Ryan Shane knew but different, all at the same time. Shane feels like he’s missed a few episodes and for the life of him, he can’t figure out what’s going on.

“Now, why would I do that?” Shane says, trying to force his features into the snarky glare he’s used to. But he hasn’t been glaring a lot recently, hasn’t been smirking as much as he used to, and he knows the expression isn’t believable.

“Always with the mouth,” Ryan jabs. He glances over Shane’s shoulder, so quickly that Shane would’ve missed it, had he blinked at the same time. Echoes of a meeting in one of Shane’s homes, bullet holes littering his kitchen. But Ryan looks back at him, lips pursed into a straight line. “It’d do you good to listen every once in a while.”

“Listening has never been my strong suit, I thought we went over this,” Shane says and even to his own ears, the sarcasm has vanished, replaced by a strange cocktail of confusion and concern. He inspects Ryan’s every move, every glance, watches the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s holding back from something .

“I think you should really listen. You might be missing something.” Ryan reiterates but it does nothing but make Shane more confused. He scans through every word he heard Ryan speak, every movement he caught him making and has nothing to show for it. He comes up with nothing.

“I never miss anything, 20/20 vision.” Shane says, feeling like he’s imitating himself, or at least a version of himself. He watches Ryan sigh, disappointed and frustrated.

“Jesus, just punch me,” Ryan mouths silently. Shane squints. “Punch. Me.”

The blow lands on Ryan’s cheek, knocking his earpiece out. Without pause, Ryan stomps on it, leaving a mangled mess of wires on the pavement between them. Shane still doesn’t understand, not fully.

“Now run.” Ryan says, voice barely above a whisper. And because Shane will do anything Ryan asks him to, he takes off running down the street, a sprint back to his house, trusting that Ryan won’t let them be followed. 

Mind whirling, Shane finds comfort in the steady footsteps hitting the pavement, a few steps behind him. He’s reminded of playing games as a child, chasing his brother around the back garden, his only friend, and playing hide and seek. There’s no sense of danger here, no fear of being stabbed in the back.

They make it back to Shane’s home before the clock hits ten.

R Y A N

“Sorry, they got suspicious when you got away last time, I--” Ryan says, only slightly winded from the running. He can’t look at Shane right now, scared that he’ll see anything he won’t like, any trace of regret or disappointment that Ryan isn’t really gone.

“I, you’re, I,” Shane stammers and Ryan waits for the blows to land, for the insults to be hurled his way. “You’re alive.”

Ryan can’t help but look at Shane now, snapping his gaze to Shane’s and hoping the surprise isn’t evident in his eyes. He’d been expecting Shane to pull back and to tell him this was all a mistake, that they shouldn’t be working together, if that’s what you can even call it.

“I should’ve told you, they were just tailing me so hard, I didn’t wanna risk it.” Ryan explains, eyes darting over Shane’s features, searching for something but not finding it. Where he’d expected hate and annoyance, Ryan sees relief, the corners of Shane’s lips upturned in disbelief as his chest rises and falls a little too quickly. 

“It’s okay, I’m just,” Shane stops, hesitates for a moment, then pulls Ryan to him. Shane’s arms wrap around his back, holding Ryan tight against him, and Ryan hears the ‘oh’ fall out of his mouth, before he can stop it. It’s easy to wind his own arms around Shane, face pressed against Shane’s shoulder.

Too soon, Ryan makes himself pull back. He’s not sure how long they have together before someone finds them, before they’re overheard, before Ryan can’t explain everything he needs to.

“The hotel isn’t an option anymore, they took me back to the compound after,” Ryan cuts himself off. The whole near death experience thing is still a sore spot that he’s unable to speak about. “And wouldn’t let me leave again. They know I went with you, Campbell made that super clear.”

Ryan pauses for a moment, before he decides. It’s not the right time to let his plan slip, not when he knows Shane wouldn’t approve, not when he’s waiting for Shane to go rogue and kill every agent he sees. Not tonight.

“Is there a way to do this that doesn’t involve killing off a portion of the population?” Ryan says, even though he knows the answer.

“I,” Shane starts, cutting himself off with a shake of his head. “I don’t know. I tried for the longest time to find the non-violent way, but every time I’d chase one lead and let a few kids go, they’d capture a hundred more. It felt,”

“Hopeless.” Ryan finishes. He feels as though he gets it now, after reading all those files. This is a problem that runs deep, most likely even deeper than they know. Every attack, every little move they make feels futile. The only outcome that seems possible is losing. 

“Yeah.” Shane sighs. He leans back against the wall, banging the back of his head against it lightly. 

“There has to be a way, we just need to find it.” Ryan says, aiming for comforting and self-assured. The contents of his backpack somehow feel heavier than they did moments before, emails and files, another secret he’s forced to keep.

“There you go again, being insufferable.” Shane jokes and this time, it doesn’t feel fake. His smile meets his eyes and he doesn’t sound like he’s reading from a script anymore, not like he did in the street minutes before.

“ Optimistic .” Ryan corrects, turning around to lean against the wall beside Shane. He looks at Shane, standing beside him, and feels immensely grateful that he even gets the chance to see him again. Any time could be the last time, Ryan knows that. But he can live through moments of understanding, where he doesn’t feel crazy, where he doesn’t feel like a traitor and an outcast, where he doesn’t feel ‘compromised’.

Here, he feels like Ryan.

“Same thing.” Shane rolls his eyes. 

“But you’ll hold off? For a while?” Ryan says, turning to face Shane. It takes a second but Shane does the same, pushing off of the wall behind him, until he’s face to face with Ryan. 

“Sure.” Shane shrugs, like it’s water off a duck’s back. “What’s a few more weeks? I’ve only been trying to take them down for fifteen years.” Ryan recalls Shane’s casefile, the countless attempts to take down various facilities, how quickly each one had rebuilt afterwards. 

“Key word, trying .” Ryan jokes, hoping he’s not misreading things, hoping they’re on good enough terms to make jokes like that. But Shane doesn’t pull back, instead he steps closer, until they’re almost touching.

“You’re really pushing it tonight, aren’t you?” Shane says and if there was ever a moment that Ryan wishes he didn’t have to look up at Shane, it would be now, as he tilts his head upwards ever-so-slightly to look Shane in the eye.

“You know me, Ryan Bergara, professional button pusher,” Ryan says, preening as though it’s a real title and one that he wears proudly. He feels Shane’s breath fan out onto his face when he lets out a chuckle. 

“Oh, is that what they call you? Cause I always thought it was Short Stack Bergara.” Shane shoots back, as his eyes roam across Ryan’s face, until they land back on Ryan’s own eyes.  

“You know what, I’ll give you that one, pancakes are the best.” Ryan says, admitting defeat, until he catches Shane looking at him with a smile on his face, all soft around the edges. When Shane looks at him like that, Ryan can feel each hair on his neck stand on end, can feel the flush as it rushes to the tips of his cheekbones. “What?”

“Nothing,” Shane whispers, looking down at his feet, between them both as their toes touch. “This is just so stupid but I’m glad you’re here.” 

“I’m not going anywhere. You can’t get rid of me, I’m like a nasty rash.” Ryan says but his tone is only half-joking now, and he hopes Shane picks up on it. Ryan’s eyes catch on the collar of Shane’s coat, the drawstring a little longer on one side than on the other and the material discoloured. 

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to pick up some ointment.” Shane jokes and Ryan can’t help but let out a gasp of mock offence. He shakes his head and leans back against the wall, slides down it until he sits on the floor, just out of Shane’s personal space.

“Mean,” He says but the words carry no heat. Shane sits down too, then. And although Ryan knows he has plans to carry out, very important business to attend to, he makes no effort to leave. He makes no excuses, doesn’t gather his belongings. He doesn’t want to.

After a lifetime of doing things for other people, he’s earned something. An hour or two here wouldn’t kill him.

Chapter Text

And I'll give all I have, I'll give my blood, I'll give my sweat-

S H A N E

“So, what about you?” Ryan asks, as he fiddles mindlessly with the lace on his shoe. He twirls it around his fingertip, tugging on it until the bow is on the verge of coming undone. Shane hums, a confused noise, not understanding what Ryan means. “You asked about me and I’ve read your file but,” Ryan pauses and looks up at him. He wears a small smile, encouraging and open. “Tell me something about you.”

“Like what?” Shane says. It feels like everything there is to know about him would be in that file, everything that defines him, all of his worst moments compiled into a neat, little document. What else could there possibly be to know?

“I don’t know, anything,” Ryan continues, choosing not to clarify in any way. Shane thinks back to that night in the kitchen, when Ryan pulled his mask off in front of Shane for the first time, the same mask that sits beside him now, instead of against his cheeks. He thinks back to all the things Ryan listed, trying to prove something, that he wasn’t some robot, that he was a person too, that he could be trusted.

“Well, I,” Shane starts, before he realises he’s not entirely sure what there is to say. He doesn’t have the privilege to pick and choose favourite foods, he just eats whatever he can, whenever he can. 

There’s no family to talk of, no college aspirations or old friends. There’s no hometown tales of hidden gems and nights he can’t remember. The good memories are few and far between, people popping in and out of his life for brief periods, before they realised who he was and ran in the opposite direction. Every story he thinks of telling would sound sad aloud.

“When I was a kid, before, I wanted to be a writer or a director. I wanted to make films and tell stories. I used to love movies, I haven’t seen one in years .” Shane huffs out a laugh, reminiscent. It isn’t all bad, over the years, Shane had managed to find joy in the small spaces between. Sometimes, the despair was overpowering, overshadowing any attempts at relaxation or fun he ever made. “Sometimes, I break into the library just to watch one on their computers. Haven’t done that in a while.”

“What kind of films are your favourite?” Ryan asks and when Shane looks at him, he looks genuinely interested. He’s watching Shane as though he’s telling the most interesting story, hanging on every word.

“Probably action,” Shane shrugs. “But really bad action films, the ones that shouldn’t work. It’s so stupid but sometimes, they’re so bad they’re good, you know?”

“Well that settles it,” Ryan says, accenting the sentence with a nod of his head. There’s an excited glint in his eyes now, the small smile spreading across his face until it transforms into a grin. “Once we fix this , I’m taking you to see a shitty action movie.” 

“Only if it’s one of the Mission Impossibles .” Shane bargains, when Ryan’s phone rings, once, twice, three times. He slides it out of his pocket but instead of answering it, he ignores it, swiping the call away and sending it to voicemail.

“Meh, they come out like every year, we’ll catch one.” Ryan continues. He opens his mouth to say more, when his phone rings again. It can’t have been more than five seconds between each phone call and something tells Shane they won’t go away. This time, Ryan checks the caller ID. His superior.

“I think maybe you should answer that,” Shane says, trying not to laugh when Ryan pouts, avoiding the call until the very last second. Just when Shane is convinced it’s gone to voicemail, Ryan answers it and rolls his eyes.

“Yes, sir. Right away. No, sir. Understood.” Ryan says, still looking at Shane, as though he’s speaking to him. There’s gaps between each sentence and Shane can hear the muffled murmur of his superior waffling on about something, something Shane can’t quite make out. 

Ryan’s superior puts the phone on him, dramatic and mildly rude. 

“I’ve got to go,” Ryan says and he speaks the words like he’s apologising. He places his phone back into his pocket, still taking his time, dragging his feet.

“I figured,” Shane says, more to fill the silence than anything else. Picking up his things, Ryan slings his backpack over his shoulder and straightens his suit, the emblem sitting on an angle from leaning back against the wall. But he almost forgets to put his mask back on, until Shane stands up and holds it out towards him. “You know where to find me.”

“Shane?” Ryan takes the mask and adjusts it, until it sits atop of his cheekbones. Once he’s satisfied that it’s in the right place, he looks back at Shane, a more serious expression peeking out from under the mask. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” Shane says, only half-joking. But Ryan just shoots him a pointed look, like he’s waiting on an actual promise, like he wants Shane to say it. “I will. You too.”

“See you later.” Ryan says, before he straightens his spine and strides out of Shane’s house. Shane could almost pinpoint the moment he goes from Ryan to Starling , a renowned hero of the city and golden boy. 

R Y A N

Ryan makes it back to the compound in one piece, which seems to be a miracle these days. He heads straight to the training hall, where his superior had told him to be. When he gets there, Ryan finds a large group of rookies training there, half of them running sprints up and down the hall, whilst the others jump rope.

Great, Ryan thinks. Training duty.

Every hero has to do it at some point, once they’ve qualified and trained themselves to a good standard. They take turns and Ryan knows that today isn’t his scheduled day, he’s certain of it. His training session is scheduled near the end of the month.

Part of him thinks Campbell is trying to win him over, trying to remind him what it is they’re fighting for. Maybe he thinks bringing Ryan back to his roots, by shining a mirror on his own childhood and teenage years, will be the thing that shifts the scales in their favour. The thing that makes Ryan stay and fight alongside them.

But, if Ryan’s being honest, this feels a little more like a punishment. His superiors have noticed he’s slacking. He’s obviously distant, disappearing for hours, sometimes days at a time, living out of the compound for weeks. Maybe this is their punishment, they’re reprimanding him for not being here and being unfocused.

“Starling,” His superior says, meeting him at the far end of the hall. He extends his hand out like he’s offering Ryan a prize, a gift. “They’re warming up for you. Today is strength training and hand-to-hand combat.”

“Great,” Ryan says and he hopes the sarcasm doesn’t seep into his words. Judging by the nod his superior gives him before he walks away, it doesn’t. Ryan claps his hands once and is surprised by how quickly everything halts, how quickly he draws all the attention to himself and has a hundred pairs of eyes on him, waiting. “Pair up!”

He works the rookies for four hours straight, watching them spar and critiquing their form and approaches. In his mind, he makes notes, ready to report back to his superior as soon as they’re done on strengths and weaknesses. With each pair that fights, standing in the centre of a circle of recruits, Ryan becomes more and more certain in his goal. 

This is exactly what he’s trying to stop. These teenagers know nothing outside of this hall, outside of their group, outside of training and tutoring. They know nothing of family, friends or even love. Ryan remembers waking up every day and his very first thought being of his sparring technique, which combinations he would use to catch his partner off-guard today. He remembers always feeling sore, muscles worked to exhaustion, fingers worked down to the bone. 

It was no life for a child.

“Great, head to your rooms and clean up!” Ryan shouts with a smile. Even though he doesn’t hope to be here for much longer, he still makes an effort to be the nice instructor, the one that’s encouraging and approachable, as opposed to harsh and unforgiving. He’s worked under too many instructors who thought they were dictators, who forgot the heroes they were training were humans, pushing them to and past their limits. Ryan decides he’ll never become them, not for as long as he’s here, not for long after.

When all of the rookies have left, Ryan heads to the debriefing room and informs his superior with all the professionalism and earnest he can muster. He reels off each pair and even remembers to refer to them by their numbers, instead of names. Once they hit the age of ten, each rookie is seen as a number and must be referred to as such.

All the while, Campbell nods, silent, unnervingly so.

“Is that all, sir?” Ryan asks, once he’s finished filling his superior in. There’s a pause. Campbell waits, as though he’s contemplating something, arranging all of his chess pieces in his head and seeing whether the next move would be beneficial, whether it would cost him a pawn.

“No, Starling, I have a question.” He decides. Ryan stands up a little straighter, hoping his nervousness comes across as eager. “Where did you go?”

“Excuse me?” Ryan asks and as soon as the words leave his lips, he knows it’s the wrong answer and he spoke too quickly. He clears his throat. “Sir.”

“After the mission, your comms went down, we couldn’t get a visual. You didn’t come back to issue a mission report. One of our agents found your comms device in the middle of the street, destroyed. Where. Did. You. Go.” His superior recites, as though he’s been planning out exactly what to say. Ryan swallows, hard.

“I caught sight of Karma on the street you directed me to, so I followed him for approximately an hour. I hoped he would lead me back to his residence and then, we could catch him off-guard and attack him in his own home. But he sensed me following him and confronted me. He destroyed my comms device in the midst of a fight.” Ryan speaks, training his eyes straight forward, conscious not to glance around and to keep his breathing even.

“Hm.” His superior hums, before stepping towards Ryan, face grave and unimpressed. “Convenient.”

“It was unfortunate, sir, to lose communications. I would have reported straight back, but I was too close, I couldn’t let him get away again.” Ryan rambles, hating the way his voice sounds frantic and slightly panicked. He hates the way his heart races, uncontrollable even with as much training as he has had.

“And yet,” His superior starts, before he looks Ryan up and down, a scrutinising gaze. “Here you are, empty-handed. Again.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen--”

“No, it won’t happen again, Starling. Because you’re being taken off of this case.” Campbell says, as he takes a step back and walks back to the table. He takes a seat at the head of the table, the seat always reserved for him.

“W-what?” Ryan stutters. No, there’s no way they’re taking him off this case. Not when he was so close. So close he can almost feel the victory grazing his fingertips.

“You heard me. We’re transferring you to another investigation. There are too many holes in your stories. Gaps of time where you just disappear. It’s unacceptable.” His superior says, devoid of all emotion, even in his chastising.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Ryan murmurs.

“I suggest you make yourself very useful and give me no reason to take this to the higher-ups. They aren't known for their leniency, as I am.” His superior keeps talking, as though Ryan hadn’t spoken at all, as though his apology is meaningless and given his track record, it probably is.

“I understand, sir.” Ryan says, feeling an awful lot like a robot. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome. You’re like a son to me, Starling. I hate to see you underachieving.” Campbell says, ending his speech with a disappointed ‘tut’, before he looks down at the papers scattered across the table, away from Ryan and uninterested. “That is all.”

And so, Ryan spends the next few days at the compound, trying to live a life somewhat similar to the one that is expected of him. It feels like he’s mimicking a past life but it’s a part he plays well, always has done. He was always great at being the perfect student, the perfect weapon.

To the eyes of his superiors and his peers, Ryan appears reinvigorated, rejuvenated. He pours over the new case file he’s been handed, even though he has no intention of carrying out any missions. His plan needs to be executed before that, before these agents can cause any more harm.

He talks with his fellow heroes as though they’re long lost friends, as though he fell out of touch with them and misses them dearly. When really, Ryan didn’t notice their absence in his life. Working alone had always come naturally to him anyway, before Shane.

So, he’s the model student. The golden boy. He’s perfect.

And at night, once everyone has turned in and all the lights are off, once the corridors are empty, Ryan emails out case files from a burner email, untraceable and unnamed.

Chapter Text

An ocean of tears will spill for what is broken

R Y A N

It takes Ryan four days to email out all the case files he needs to, to leave hard copies in every hero’s dorm he passes, hoping each resident will be discreet. He leaves a note alongside them, cryptic enough to draw attention and anonymous enough that he hopes he’ll have a few more days before the superiors figure it out.

Do not disclose until the time comes.

All the while, Ryan does his tasks and chores, overachieving in every sense of the word, just as he had for years before now. For the first time, he wonders how he did it. How this place became his everything, how he worked twelve hours a day, studied for four more on top of that, and squeezed sleep in between. He wonders how the fire was lit under him for so long, how he kept going. 

He was just a kid.

Ryan sighs, as he peels through the new case file, the papers spread out along his bedsheet. He isn’t absorbing any of the information, he has no intention to, but he hopes it looks as though he is. There’s at least one security camera in this room, his own bedroom. He’s only now realising how messed up that is.

Every moment spent after putting his plan into motion feels wasted. Ryan should be out of here, running as far as possible in the opposite direction, waiting for the inevitable blow up that’s about to happen. But he knows, deep down, that he needs to wait, at least for a few days. 

If Ryan leaves now, chances are the force will be after him within hours, he’ll be captured before he can even make it to Shane, before he can even explain the plan he’s carrying out. If he waits, he can bide his time, he can fly beneath the radar, look like the model student. He can slip through the cracks and out of here.

So Ryan waits. Three, painstaking days. Each moment feeling longer than the last. He trains until his knees buckle, punches until his knuckles bleed. He researches and studies until his head aches and his eyes begin to blur the words together. And more than anything, he schemes.

God, he sounds like a villain. Scheming. Maybe that’s what he is now, after all, he is trying to take down the hero organisation. Does it really make him any better than a villain if his methods aren’t quite so bloody? People will still get hurt, they always do, and the blood will be on his hands.

On the third day, Ryan is summoned to the debriefing room by his superior.

“Starling, great work this week. I’m glad to see you’re back at it,” He says, smiling tightly, as though he expected anything but Ryan’s devotion after the events of last week. 

“It’s my duty, sir.” Ryan says with a curt nod. He tries to appear professional, keeping his distance and hoping it comes across as focused, as opposed to cold. “What did you need?”

“Well, there’s been a Candycane sighting ten minutes from here. Do you think you’re up for it?” Campbell says, referring to the new villain Ryan is supposed to be taking down. Ryan tries not to let the surprise show on his face, tries to make it look like he isn’t hearing the name for the first time. 

A challenge, an opening. Ryan would be a fool not to take it.

“What’s the plan?” Ryan asks, as he leans forward onto the back of a chair. It’s one of a long row that are tucked under the debriefing table, which, as always, Campbell sits at the head of. 

“The board thinks it would be best if you try to approach her alone. She’s skittish but tends to have a soft spot for the younger, male heroes.” Campbell says, interlacing his fingers until his hands are folded, as he leans his elbows on the table.

“Understood, sir.” Ryan nods and turns on his heel, heading straight for the dorm. He doesn’t have long, if he wants to avoid raising suspicions. But he’s been preparing for this moment. He left a bag by his door, packed with enough supplies to last a few days, ready. 

Just in case.

S H A N E

Back against the wall, Shane ducks beneath the rectangular-shaped hole where a window used to live. Moments before, he heard a noise, which would be normal had he lived anywhere else.

But a condemned building doesn’t usually bring in the tourists.

Now that Shane thinks about it, things have been eerily quiet over the last week. He hasn’t seen Ryan since they sat against the very wall Shane’s leaning against, chatting and watching the hours pass. But he also hasn’t seen any of the other heroes either, and the agents haven’t made an appearance at his new home.

Shane had thought he was in the clear.

He counts to two hundred before he even thinks about peering over the edge. Then, just to be safe, counts out another two hundred. When Shane places his fingers on the window frame and pushes himself up, he half-expects to see a gun pointed at him.

Instead, Shane locks eyes with a squirrel. The little guy holds a Dorito in his hands, staring at Shane for no more than a second, before he scurries away, leaving a trail of chip crumbs in his wake.

Shane scoffs. It was just a squirrel, nothing more. He’s safe.

Taking a seat on the floor once more, Shane rifles through his duffel bag until he pulls out a bag of peanuts. It’s almost evening and he hadn’t thought to eat yet, too on edge about one thing or another. Even with the lack of interference from the heroes, Shane hasn’t been able to relax as he did before the park. 

It’s like sitting on a bed of nails, he’s scared to move too quickly, to relax too much, in case it ends with sharp objects piercing his skin. In case there’s even more casualties, in case he bleeds too much to stitch up, this time.

Shane thinks of Ryan. Of his own promise of holding off on the attacks, at least for a while. Surely, Ryan has something planned. Surely, he isn’t letting the days pass by without doing anything. Surely, he isn’t leaving Shane to rot here, whilst he lives his days in a cozy hero building.

No, Shane thinks, as he pops a peanut out of its casing. Ryan wouldn’t, he knows that. Even if it wasn’t Shane, someone he knew personally, Shane knows Ryan would do his best to exhaust every measure, testing every possible solution before resorting to violence. 

He just wishes Ryan would fill him in.

But, of course, Shane knows exactly why he hasn’t. Had the roles been reversed, had Ryan been the fugitive with a little too much blood on his hands, Shane wouldn't have trusted him either. Only a fool would. Shane has wronged too many people to count and given second chances to just as many, to trust him with something so big would be nothing short of a fatal error.

A light knock at the door is enough to startle him out of his thoughts. It’s barely a rap of knuckles, barely a brush against the wood but Shane is wired, he’ll hear anything these days. Even a squirrel stealing a Dorito.

Shane shoves the peanuts into his duffel bag and swings it over his shoulder, before he heads to the door. He pads across the flooring, avoiding any particularly noisy floorboards as he does so. With all his time here, Shane has managed to memorise the dips in the floor and the squeaky places, the worst offenders.

He makes it to the door without making a single noise.

“Who is it?” Shane says, already summoning the sparks to his fingertips. It’s perhaps not the most graceful of methods, there’s a lot of margin for error. He wouldn’t be surprised if the agents didn’t even bother to answer, blowing his door off its hinges with a wall of bullets.

“It’s me,” Ryan whispers and Shane is alarmed at how his voice is instantly recognisable to him, how suddenly he reaches forward and opens the door to let him in. “We have to go. Now.”

“What?” Shane says, letting the red circles around his hands disappear. He quirks an eyebrow, knowing his face must be a perfect picture of surprise. First, Ryan shows up here after over a week of no contact. And then, he tells Shane they had to leave, right this instant?

“We have to go.” Ryan reiterates and for some stupid reason, one he’ll probably regret later, Shane follows Ryan out of the building. He watches as Ryan glances from side-to-side, shifty and overly cautious, before he runs across the road and behind a bush.

“Alrighty then,” Shane mutters, following suit. “You gonna explain what all this is about?”

“Shh,” Ryan says, peering through a hole in the foliage, before he darts off again, further down the street. It takes Shane a split second to catch up, to follow along blindly. He does so for about fifteen minutes, silently, as they weave through different streets, ducking under cover, until they reach the crowded high street they both know so well.

There, Shane sees Ryan’s shoulders relax, the tension holding them up near his ears disappears. He looks less like a caged animal now, as he walks down the street, trying to blend into the crowd.

“Ryan,” Shane says, speaking the words out of one side of his mouth, just in case there are eyes watching. Maybe he can save Ryan from being associated with him. 

Shane’s barely had a chance to catch his breath, never mind to question Ryan’s motives. But he doesn’t like the panic on his face, eyes wide and searching, as they try to walk casually down the main street.

“Something tells me we’re not going shopping for more spandex,” Shane says but it’s as though he hasn’t spoken, the words don’t even register on Ryan’s face. For a few seconds, Shane wonders if he hadn’t heard him, until Ryan speaks.

“I’ll explain, okay? We just need to get somewhere safe.” Ryan whispers, voice barely audible above the shuffle of the crowd around them. He looks over his shoulder once, before glancing at the street sign, searching for something but Shane isn’t sure what.

“I thought that place was safe,” Shane says. He’d been there for a while now and nothing had happened. What wasn’t Ryan telling him?

As if on cue, Ryan’s phone starts ringing in his pocket. A warning sign. Too loud, even in the bustle of the busy street.

“Ryan, what did you do?” Shane asks but he isn’t given a response, instead Ryan glances at a building, behind him, back at the building, as though confirming it’s the right building. His phone still ringing, he twists the doorknob. Locked.

Shane flicks his fingers and unpicks the lock, before Ryan can even pull out something to pick it with.

“You gonna answer that?” Shane prompts, as the phone continues to ring obnoxiously. Only then does Ryan pull it out of his pocket, just to throw it full-force at the concrete beneath them, shattering it into a hundred pieces. “Ryan, what the fuck?”

“I’ll explain, just go inside.” Ryan says calmly, but Shane can hear the panic bleeding through. He does as Ryan says, steps over the borderline and into the building. One glance around shows it’s vacated and has been for some time, with dust collecting atop of every surface like a thick layer of snow.

“They think I’m on a mission, I’m guessing we have about,” Ryan says, tilting his head side to side as he makes an estimate. “Fuck, ten minutes before they figure it out and try to track me.”

“ Track you?” Shane says. “Ryan, explain better.”

“Okay so they pulled me from your case. I spent a week there so they wouldn’t get suspicious. They gave me another mission, so I left and said I was going there. I came to you. They’re going to notice and it won’t be long before they’re here. We need a game plan.” Ryan reels everything off in such quick succession that Shane should be confused. “Got it?” 

Shane’s surprised to find that he understands perfectly.

“You piss off your supervisor?” Shane says, half-joking, as he kicks the door shut behind them. He uses his sparks to lock it back in place once more. 

“You could say that.” Ryan admits, one-hundred percent serious. Shane doesn’t even want to ask anymore. He knew Ryan had a plan, he knew Ryan wouldn’t tell him about it until he mattered. It seems like it matters now but Shane still doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to fuck up his plan any more than he already has.

“Ok. So. Plan.” The words are barely out of his mouth before there’s a thump outside the door. Immediately, Ryan’s eyes widen and everything clicks into place. 

The mission was a ruse. A test. And Ryan had failed.

They’d been tailing him the entire time. 

“How many?” Shane says, as Ryan paces a line along the floor, treading the same route. Shane wonders if the carpet will wear thin, whether there’ll be a trail left behind if he continues.

Ryan pauses. Listens. Shane hears the footsteps of too many agents trying, and failing, to be quiet, as they make their way up the pathway to the front door. After a moment, Ryan pinches the top of his nose and scrunches his eyes shut.

“At least fifty.” Ryan says, teeth gritted. Seemingly all at once, the tension returns to his body, like a puppeteer is pulling his strings upwards, Ryan’s whole stance shifting to that of a warrior. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. ” 

There’s a beat. The room may be silent but Shane’s pretty sure he can hear Ryan’s brain whirring, a thousand miles a minute. He seems to be thinking at lightning speed, pacing again, as he glances from left to right, as though he’s reading through each thought, before sorting it into the category of ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

But Shane knows the answer. The only answer here that ensures Ryan’s safety.

“You have to kill me.” Shane says and even to his own ears, he doesn’t sound scared or unsure. His voice is even, certain. Resigned, almost. Truth is, Shane doesn’t care. Not really. Sure, he wanted to live a normal life at some point, to grow old and have a family.

But that was never going to happen, was it? Not really. Not when the state has his name on the most wanted list, not with the agents and heroes chasing his every move, not when he can’t stay in a house for longer than a month without it being burned to the ground. This is as good as it was going to get. And he’s not what matters here.

Ryan is.

The Ryan who never should’ve found himself tangled up in Shane’s mess. The boy with a brother who’s going to fix climate change, the boy with a pepperoni pizza addiction and a tendency to get cold, even in California weather. The man who grew up here, who fought for this city and its people with the fierceness of a hundred soldiers. 

Kind, bright, good Ryan. 

“What?” Ryan chokes out, as he turns to face him with such speed that Shane wouldn’t be surprised if he got whiplash. His mouth falls open and Shane can see his chest rising and falling, far quicker than is normal, far quicker than it should.

Shane hates himself for doing this. For taking away another person from Ryan’s life. For admitting defeat. But it’s the only way he can guarantee Ryan’s safety. So, he swallows the guilt like the most bitter of pills, and doubles down on his plan.

“They know. If we’re both here when they get here or I ‘get away’ again, they--” As Shane speaks, Ryan shakes his head vigorously. Shane stops and takes a step closer to him, until he’s the only thing Ryan sees. “You don’t know what they do to traitors, Ryan. You’ve never been on that side of it. They’ll kill you or worse.” 

Shane pictures it. Ryan’s superior busting the door down, seeing the pair of them there. He’s sure that he would die immediately, they would gun him down or blow him up or something. But Ryan? Ryan would be too valuable to them, a weapon they trained themselves.

They would take him back to their base and do the things Shane only thinks of in his most savage of nightmares.

“We can’t both walk away from this.” Shane states with a finality that he hopes will put an end to it, that he hopes will show that he can’t be swayed. But still, Ryan shakes his head, determined and stubborn as ever.

“I’m not going to kill you, Shane.” He says, voice so much smaller than usual, broken and shaky. He opens his mouth to speak again, before he closes it, thinking better of it. 

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you.” Shane says, ceasing the moment of indecision to reach into Ryan’s belt and pull out a knife, one of several that Shane knows Ryan keeps on him at all times. With one deep breath, he aims it over the left side of his chest.

Directly over his heart. 

“I don’t have super healing like you, you push on this and it’s done. This, you and me, you just got too close to your charge. It was a little mistake, you fixed it. You’re their hero again. Simple.” Shane rambles. He glances at his hand, at his fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife, and expects them to be shaking. But instead, they’re still.

With his free hand, Shane reaches down and laces his fingers with Ryan’s. For an instant, Ryan freezes and it’s enough of an opportunity for Shane to reach up, to wrap Ryan’s fingers over his own, over the hilt of the knife. 

“Shane,” Ryan breathes. He looks down at the knife for a moment, before he snaps his eyes shut, shaking his head once more.

“It’s the right thing to do. You’re braver than me, you can do it.” Shane says, his tone softer now. There’s a thud at the door, the sound of a boot connecting with wood, and Shane knows it won’t hold much longer. 

“Stop it. ” Ryan says, teeth gritted. Shane can almost see him going through the five stages of grief before his very eyes. He just hopes they can get to the fifth stage before the door gives way.

“You know how many people I’ve killed, how much pain I’ve caused.” Shane says. He thinks of all the agents left bleeding out in his parent’s home, a trail of destruction that followed him through his childhood, all the way to his adulthood.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ryan says, eyes still closed as he continues to refuse to look at Shane. But Shane knows he knows, that he’s picturing the same scenes Shane is, thinking of all the lives lost as a result of his recklessness, of his anger.

“Of course, it does. You think my life is worth more than that?” Shane asks, feeling certain of the answer. There’s no way anyone can justify all this loss, all the loss that will follow if Ryan doesn’t go through with this, just to save one man.

“I think your life is worth more than this. ” Ryan retorts, opening his eyes and staring Shane directly in the eye. But his fingers are still wrapped around the blade, clinging on like a man lost at sea would cling to a lifeboat, as though he’s scared that Shane will drive the knife in by himself if he lets go.

“I’m the villain, you’re the hero, this is how it ends. Didn’t they teach you that in hero school? At the end of every book, you kill the monster.” Shane says. He hears his own voice raising with the frustration of it all, as he drives the tip of the knife closer to his skin. He feels the point of it knick his chest, not quite deep enough to draw blood. Not yet.

“You’re not a monster, Shane.” Ryan corrects, his voice sounding wet and tired, but he still looks at Shane with all of the intensity of a hero facing his final battle, with such defiance that it takes Shane aback for a moment.

“This is what you’re trained to do, so be a good, little soldier and kill me.” Shane presses the knife down a little more, until he can’t bear it, until he chickens out. He feels blood slipping out of the cut, but he knows it’s not deep enough. He knows he could never go through with it himself. 

He hates that it needs to be Ryan. But it does.

“Or do you not have the guts? Are you a coward? Are you just the rookie who can’t even kill the villain ? What a disappointment.” Shane snaps. It’s too easy to pull the villain’s mask over his face once more. It’s too easy to become the person everyone else expects him to be, the person Ryan could see he wasn’t. 

“I know what you’re doing, it’s not going to work.” Ryan hushes, voice low. His fingers twitch on the blade and Shane’s gaze shoots down to find Ryan’s hands trembling, shaking so much that they look blurred from the movement. 

“What is it they tell you?” Shane says, knowing one more push will probably be enough to send Ryan over the edge, to send the knife hurtling into his heart, to end this. He’s shouting now, over the noise of the cracking of wood, as the door is about to fall apart. “You are the future of this country! If you don’t protect the civilians, who will?”

“How did you-” Ryan starts but Shane interrupts him before he has a chance to say anything and talk himself out of it.

“So, protect them! End this!” Shane yells, tightening his grip around the handle of the knife. He watches the tears finally fall onto Ryan’s cheeks and hates himself for it, hates that he was the one to cause Ryan so much pain. 

“Shane, stop.” Ryan begs with a look as though he is at his wits’ end. He looks like he might take a step back, like he might let go of the blade, and that can’t happen. Not if Shane is going to die, not if Ryan is going to make it out of here relatively unscathed.

Because at the end of the day, Shane doesn’t matter. Not one bit. Not if Ryan isn’t here.

“Kill me--” 

“ No. I won’t--”

“I don’t matter , just--”

“Stop--”

“Ryan, you--”

Ryan presses his lips against Shane’s, stopping the words dead in their tracks before Shane can speak them. This time, Shane is the one to freeze. If you’d asked him, this would probably be the very last thing he had expected to happen. 

What a way to go, Shane thinks. If there was ever a “best ways to die” list, Shane thinks kissing Ryan would be at the top. He almost doesn’t mind the fact that he’ll never walk out of here. He can cope with the unbearable pain that he’s about to experience, he can cope with the broken promise of an unplanned and unlived future. So long as he had this. Even for a moment.

But he twists the fingers of his free hand upwards, onto the side of Ryan’s cheek, pulling him closer and trying to ignore the taste of the tears falling between them, salty and wet. Shane wipes one away as it falls, hitting his thumb as it rubs a gentle line across Ryan’s cheekbone.

His eyebrows furrow, as Shane thinks of the harsh hand they’ve been dealt. He’s going to lose Ryan for good in a few minutes. He won’t see his face again. He won’t see the way he throws his head back when he laughs, the way a smile takes over his whole face, infectious and bright enough to light up even the darkest corners of Shane’s brain.

He pulls Ryan closer, until they’re almost flush against one another, wincing a little as the knife digs in a little deeper. Ryan’s hand reaches up and covers Shane’s own, a light pressure, not enough to keep him in place but enough for Shane to feel it. 

And Shane’s heart shatters into a thousand pieces.

Shane braces for the impact, for the sharp and searing pain. But it never comes.

He hadn’t noticed that Ryan’s hand had unwrapped Shane’s fingers from around the blade, until it slipped out of his grasp. In fact, he hadn’t noticed until he heard the sound of metal clattering to the ground, skidding across the floor, out of reach.

“ Oh ,” Shane says, as he pulls back, taking a shuddering breath in. He sees Ryan in a whole new light now, almost like he’s looking at him for the very first time. He flashes back to that alley, to Ryan towering over him, to that same knife pressed against his throat. Back before he even knew Ryan’s name, before he even knew his alias, the night he had to go to the library and look him up.

“So I’m not killing you. We’ll find another way.” Ryan says, swallowing once as he nods his head. Adamant, unswayable. 

Shane doesn’t argue, just wipes the tears off of his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“Do you have a plan on how to get outta here?” Shane says but his voice is crackly, croaky. He clears his throat, unashamed. After all, he had been preparing to die barely moments beforehand.

“I’m thinking,” Ryan says, his words interrupted by one more thud against the door followed by a gnarly snap. Shane’s gaze shoots to the door but it doesn’t look too damaged, no feet poking through, not yet. It just looks a bit shakier with each kick, the wood starting to splinter.

“I know, I can hear the cogs spinning from over here.” Shane taunts, eyes still trained on the entrance. They’re lucky they made it to a more expensive house, where the doors are more heavy duty like triple glazed windows, buying them a little more time. But still, Shane can’t help but think it won’t be enough.

“Dude, your best plan was suicide. Just give me a second.” Ryan says, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. He closes his eyes, deep in thought, and Shane can tell he’s drawing back on all of his training, desperately searching for an answer.

There’s another bang and Shane watches a hole form in the lower centre of the door.

“I don’t think we have a second,” Shane rushes, voice urgent now. He glances between Ryan and the door, like a spectator observing a tennis match.

“Fuck, we’re gonna have to fight.” Ryan admits, hands dropping to his sides with a slap. He’s already pulling more knives out of their holsters at his ankles, already twisting them around his fingertips, ready.

“Well, I could’ve told you that.” Shane teases, hoping to lighten the mood a little. If they’re going to their deaths, they may as well be joking around. He summons the sparks, as he always does, relishing in the feeling of a circle of warm around his fingertips. 

“I need you to do that wipe-out thing,” Ryan says, a request that sounds closer to an apology.

“What wipe-out thing?” Shane asks, lost. Thinking through each of his moves, Shane can’t remember one that’s like a wipe-out. 

“The, the,” Ryan waves his hand in a circle, gesturing as he tries to get Shane to catch on. Shane still doesn’t understand, feeling painfully oblivious. “The wipe-the-park-out thing.”

“The cyclone?” Shane says, a lightbulb going on above his head. The sparks dance around his fingertips still, like they’ve got a mind of their own and they are growing inpatient.

“Oh, that’s what you’re calling it?” Ryan jokes, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Ryan looks at him, amused, and Shane knows that if they ever make it out of here, he’ll never hear the end of it.

“Shut up,” Shane says, accenting the words with a roll of his eyes. He sighs. “You’re sure?”

“I mean, it didn’t kill anyone before and it’s our best shot at survival.” Ryan explains and when he puts it that way, Shane can’t help but agree. Even if part of him is terrified, wondering if last time was a fluke, wondering whether everyone in his path will suffer a gruesome death this time around.

But still, it’s the best chance they’ve got.

“Okay,” Shane nods. Another thud. “But you might need to pull me out of it.”

“Right here.” Ryan says, just as the door gives way.

Chapter Text

I'm shattered porcelain, glued back together again

R Y A N

As Shane watches the door give way, the last barrier between them and those that want nothing more than to kill them, all Ryan can do is watch Shane. He watches as the scarlet appears around his fingertips, watches as it expands until a small sphere becomes a wall, until it pushes outwards with such force that the walls shake and the floor trembles.

Ryan doesn’t even wince. He doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t even blink. He just watches as Shane pushes his arms outwards, as though he’s simply shoving someone out of the way, and the sparks follow his movement. They wash over the agents as they start to pile in through the doorway, stopping them in the tracks. 

Ryan had half-expected them to be flung across the road carelessly but instead, it’s as though Shane’s put up a blockade, like they’re walking through custard or syrup. Some fall to the ground, more affected by the blast than others and, from what Ryan can see before the wall of red becomes too opaque to see through, nobody looks too injured.

But Ryan’s not worried about that. No, in that second, as the walls of the house they stand in shudder so much that it feels like they will soon be stood amongst rubble and debris, Ryan is only worried about Shane. He feels a tugging at the pit of his stomach, concern blossoming as Shane continues to build a wall between the agents and them. 

Each wave of crimson that pushes the agents away seems to take the wind out of Shane, eyes clenched shut and teeth gritted, like the effort of it all is almost too much to bear. Ryan wonders if it hurts, to push this much power out of yourself, to give so much of yourself all at once. If the gritted teeth are a sign of overexertion or agony.

Ryan stops that thought in its tracks before he can examine it any further, certain that neither option would bring him any peace.

He settles for trying to walk over to Shane, still feeling surprised at how easily he manages to do so when he had just watched fifty agents struggle to lift a single limb. It’s like cutting through water, just as easy as it was before the blast, before what Shane dons ‘the Cyclone’.

One glance over at the red sea tells him that all of the agents are far enough away that they would struggle to aim accurately, that it would take them a second to get their bearings. An echo of the events of the park, the moment’s reprieve giving them enough time to slip away.

This time, Ryan doesn’t even bother to place a hand on Shane’s shoulder. He places both hands on Shane’s cheeks, wiping away the tears that Ryan hadn’t realised were falling, not until he was close enough to see them. Ryan traces gentle lines across Shane’s cheeks with his thumbs, trying to smooth out the lines that appeared there, born from pain or exhaustion.

“Shane,” Ryan says but Shane doesn’t answer like he did before. His eyes don’t open, instead his eyebrows seem to lower even further, furrowing into a pained expression as his whole face seems to scrunch together, contorting. “Shane, look at me.”

Ryan waits for a moment but it feels like Shane’s too far gone. In the park, Shane had only just managed to put a lid back on things in time and now, reopening that wound, letting all of that rage and agony out again, the dam breaks once more. But this time, Ryan doesn’t know whether there’s enough left in Shane to repair it, whether he would even want to.

If Ryan was in Shane’s place, he knows he would want to unleash hell too. Upon everyone and everything, not just the ones who plotted to kill him and his family. And he had asked Shane to do this again, to put himself through this. Looking at him now, barely holding on to what little control he has left, barely keeping his agony contained, Ryan can’t believe he said yes.

“ Shane ,” Ryan says, a little louder now. He can only just hear his own voice over the commotion of the sparks, a light but persistent buzzing and humming, and the shouts of the agents trying to form a backup plan. It’s no surprise when Shane doesn’t hear him.

There’s only one thing that has been proven to work today, to pull Shane back from the very worst. So, Ryan reaches up and places a kiss on Shane’s lips, gentle and hesitant, unlike the hurried desperation of the kiss moments before. This feels different, more tender, as Ryan plants a thousand little kisses, barely there.

He knows Shane is there, pulled out of his own mind, when he starts to kiss Ryan back. The anguish seems to melt out of him, all of the tension seeming to disappear from his features. This time, Shane doesn’t freeze. This time, he kisses back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like this is all he’s known.

Ryan pulls back an inch. But not before he presses one last kiss on Shane’s lips, hoping it says all he’s not quite strong enough to say right now. When he pulls away, Shane’s eyes flutter open, looking back at him now.

“Let go,” Ryan says, voice even but soft. There’s no trace of fear in his words but there’s a caring tone to them, a kindness that refuses to be ignored. “It’s okay.”

“What’s your favourite kind of film?” Shane asks. It’s a sudden and unexpected subject change, one that gives Ryan emotional whiplash, so much so that he has to stop himself from chuckling in Shane’s face. “You never told me.” He says and the look in his eyes, like he’s one push from completely falling apart, tells Ryan everything he needs to know. Ryan needs to keep talking, it doesn’t matter what about.

“I,” Ryan starts, coming up short as he glances around them, as he sees the desolation in which they stand. He’s witnessing Shane do something so incredible, so ridiculous, so unfathomable and here they stand, talking about their favourite films. “I like comedy and action films.”

“Good choice,” Shane grunts, the effort of just speaking seeming to be too much, as the wall of red starts to diminish around them. It shrinks but slower than it should, only slightly smaller than it was moments before. Shane winces. 

“When we get out, remember?” Ryan starts, rushing the words out in his best effort to distract Shane. “When we get out, I’m taking you to the movie theatre. We’re gonna watch the shittiest action film they're showing.” Shane nods and his expression is still pulled tight, but his eyes are on Ryan now, refusing to look away. 

“When we get out.” Shane says, all false confidence and certainty. But Ryan clings to it, because if Shane is certain, he should be too. “As long as you’re buying the popcorn.”

“Dude, I know the perfect place. They pop the best corn, nowhere else even comes close.” Ryan smiles, one hand dropping to rest on Shane’s shoulder now. Ryan feels the need to have his hands touching Shane, to stay as close as he possibly can be. He’s scared to let him go, in case Shane vanishes into thin air, in case he slips out of reach and Ryan can’t pull him back. 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Shane says, letting out a huff that falls somewhere between a chuckle and a groan. He grimaces and Ryan hears his breath shake on the way in. “But if it’s Bergara approved, I can’t complain. You are the popcorn king.”

“I prefer the term popcorn connoisseur.” Ryan says, relishing in the way Shane rolls his eyes and shakes his head, unimpressed. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Ryan sees the wall has now transformed into more of a fence, barely reaching the same height as his waist now. 

He knows they can’t stay. He knows they need to run as soon as Shane is able. If they falter, even for a second, after the sparks are gone and the hold over the agents has dwindled, it would be enough to kill them both. Even a fragment of a second’s hesitation would be enough for a bullet to fly towards them, unexpected and abrupt. 

“Do you have a plan?” Shane asks and Ryan wonders if his thoughts are that obvious on his face, or if Shane has just learned how to read him like an open book. After all, who knows you better than your worst enemy?

But the thought dawns on Ryan that maybe, that’s not what they are, not anymore. 

“Are you okay to start running?” Ryan shoots back. He’s rewarded with a pointed gaze, as Shane’s eyes widen so much they look like they might fall out of their sockets. 

“Now?” Shane says. The sparks are still swirling around his fingers, swaying him slightly from side-to-side with the sheer force. Ryan moves his other hand to Shane’s free shoulder, as though both of his hands would be enough to hold him in place.

“Yeah,” Ryan speaks the word like it’s an admittance, feeling immediately guilty for asking so much of Shane. But after all, there’s no other way they would survive. If they wait any longer, the agents will be able to wriggle out of the grasp and make their way towards them.

“I-I can try. It doesn’t hurt that much anymore,” Shane mutters but he looks unsure, eyebrows furrowed now for a different reason. The sparks are flowing in Shane’s direction slowly now, far slower than they were before. 

At first, Ryan panics, thinking that’s a bad thing. He worries that Shane’s struggling to carry the weight of it all, but it becomes obvious that the sparks are only slowing down because they’re so few in numbers. Because Shane’s nearly done.

“Okay, okay, we can work with that.” Ryan says, hesitating for a moment. He doesn’t want to step away, doesn’t want to step out of Shane’s direct line of sight, just in case. So he stops and drops his hands to his side.

Part of him is screaming not to do it, but Ryan reaches out and intertwines his fingers with one of Shane’s hands, still encased in a crimson swirl. 

He expects to feel the heat of it and for it to be almost too much to handle, but he feels nothing. Just like in the eye of the cyclone in the park, just like moments before as he was walking through the forcefield without any effort. It’s almost like Ryan’s immune to Shane’s powers, even though he knows he’s not. The alleyway springs to mind, as he sat under a cage of sparks, frustrated as he watched Shane run away.

No, it’s more like Shane is shielding him, whether deliberately or not. Ryan feels a tug at his heart.

Lightly, Ryan tugs on Shane’s hand, making a beeline for the kitchen, for the back door, the only other exit that isn’t through a window. It’s surprisingly easy for Shane to walk, he seems to cut through the force like butter, too. But it looks like each step hurts, and Ryan can’t help but be reminded of the blood stains on the hotel doorway, as Shane stood bleeding out at his door.

“Almost there,” Ryan mumbles, more to himself than anyone else. It takes them a few minutes to get to the back door but once they do, the entire forcefield of Shane’s creation drops, like a safety curtain dropping back into place after the end of a theatre show. “You okay?”

“Golden,” Shane says, the word dripping with sarcasm. Ryan fixes him with a pointed look, wanting a real answer to his question. “Yeah, let’s go."

Ignoring the ever-building sound of commotion behind them, Ryan runs through the streets with Shane at his side, ducking under covers and into alleyways whenever they can. Only when they’re seven blocks away from their first safehouse does Ryan realise he’s still holding Shane’s hand, clutching it like he’s scared Shane will run in the opposite direction.

Face flushing red, he lets it go and hopes the action is inconspicuous.

S H A N E

It takes the pair of them just under an hour to reach another building, a second safehouse that Ryan claims is ‘off the books’. As far as secret safehouses go, it’s pretty nice. It has functional windows and doors, which is more than can be said about Shane’s previous residence. The walls are a ghastly, lime green colour though and the floors are tiled like that of an old timey diner, even in the lounge area.

But beggars can’t be choosers.

“They don’t know about this place, I found it doing surveillance,” Ryan starts, throwing his backpack on the floor with all the care of dropping a sack of potatoes. Shane follows suit, tossing his duffel bag across the tiling. “But they’ll find us soon. We have a few days tops .”

“Okay,” Shane says. Now that everything’s quiet and the adrenaline is wearing off, everything is hitting him square in the face. He almost died today, he almost made Ryan kill him, he almost died executing another Cyclone, he almost lost control.

Ryan kissed him.

Twice.

Mind whirring, Shane stares at the tiles, counting each one out and categorising each colour. 

“You okay?” Ryan says, after a moment of silence. He doesn’t step closer to Shane, must sense that something’s off, that he’s stuck inside his head once more. Even without Ryan touching him, Shane feels him, feels his gaze as it glances up and down Shane’s body frantically. “Are you hurt?”

“The kiss, you kissed me, I,” Shane hadn’t meant to blurt it out and he clamps his mouth shut before any more words force their way out. If one thing was clear over the last few months, it’s that Shane cares about Ryan. More than he thought, more than he ever intended to.

When Shane thought he had lost him, it had felt like his own heart was ripped from within his body. He remembers hoping the ground would swallow him up, as he scoured the internet for any sign of Ryan’s existence. Nothing had hurt that much, not since his parents, not since he was a child. 

There’s something more here, something that Shane doesn’t understand. He cares but there’s something else there that he can’t put a name to, something he’s never felt before or at least, not for a long time.

“Was it just a distraction?” Shane says. It’s not a graceful question, but he needs the answer, he needs to know if he’s alone in his train of thought. Ryan quirks an eyebrow and it’s obvious that he doesn’t quite catch Shane’s drift.

“What do you mean?” Ryan asks. 

“Were you only kissing me to distract me so I wouldn’t, you know?” Shane explains, forcing himself to keep looking Ryan in the eye, even though everything in him is screaming to look away, to look at the floor or the wall or anywhere else .

“What kind of question is that?” Ryan recoils like Shane has just slapped him. The accusation alone was enough to cut him, but he still hasn’t given Shane a straight answer.

“Answer it,” Shane sighs. “Please.”

“No,” Ryan says, almost immediately. He answers so quickly that Shane knows he didn’t even have to think about it. There was no doubt, no hesitation. “It wasn’t just a distraction.”

“A mistake, then? You thought I was going to die and just said ‘fuck it’ and now you want to take it back?” Shane continues. There has to be some explanation for this that he’s missing, something that’s flying just beneath his radar. Right now, Shane sees no rational explanation, if it wasn’t a mistake or a distraction.

“Shane, what?” Ryan says, taken aback. He tilts his head, confusion lingering along his features, before it’s replaced by a sort of sadness, something like pity but not quite so condescending. “No. No. ”

“So it wasn’t a distraction and it wasn’t a mistake. Then, what?” Shane rambles and this time, he can’t help but look away. He counts the tiles again, almost subconsciously, whilst he exhausts every possible explanation.

Truth is, Shane couldn’t fathom anyone wanting anything to do with him, never mind wanting him like that. Needing him. Caring for him. It doesn’t make sense, not to him.

“Shane,” Ryan breathes, his voice soft and hushed. He steps forward and places one hand on Shane’s shoulder, aiming for comfort but falling short. Shane looks up at him immediately, awaiting an answer. But all he sees is Electron, another hero trying to win him over, to keep him in place long enough to capture him.

Before he can stop himself, Shane flinches away from the touch, only slightly, but enough for Ryan to notice.

He drops his hand back to his side.

“I’m not her.” Ryan promises, a fierceness behind his words that hits Shane in the chest, a deadly cocktail of sincerity and anger at the heroes before him. “There’s no tricks here, I swear. I’m on your side and I love you. I promise I won’t--”

“You, you love me?” Shane stammers, as his brain stutters to a halt. His gut reaction is to run in the opposite direction, to go underground, to vanish so that Ryan forgets about him. So that Ryan isn’t in harm's way by pure association. But all he says is, “No.” 

“No?” Ryan scoffs in disbelief but there’s no cruelty behind it. He looks like he’s trying his hardest to understand but can’t quite put the puzzle pieces together. 

“Nope, you can’t.” Shane says, popping the ‘p’ and hoping his words put an end to the conversation. There’s a moment’s pause, a gap, as Ryan is seemingly stunned into silence. Shane turns away to rifle through his duffel bag in search of a snack. He thinks, or rather hopes, that their talk is over.

“I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanna hear and it’s totally fine if you don’t feel the same. But I’m not going anywhere. You can’t get rid of me.” Ryan explains, very obviously getting the wrong end of the stick. 

He thinks I don’t, Shane thinks, silencing the thought before he can finish it. He hadn’t intended to explain himself. He had hoped that Ryan would never put the puzzle pieces together. He hadn’t even expected Ryan to ask questions, believing that he would just see an empty space in his life where Shane used to be and shrug his shoulders.

“You can’t love me, everyone that does, they--” Shane starts.

“Oh,” Ryan interrupts. It seems all it took was a gentle push for him to finally connect the dots. Before, he looked disappointed and a little guarded, Shane could see the walls going up, the professional demeanour reappearing. But now, he just looks sad. “ Oh, Shane. No. We’re fine. I swear.”

“You can’t know that! I was fine for years but they found me and killed my--” Shane says and he doesn’t realise he’s shouting until he hears his words reverberate off the walls, like an amplified echo. He pauses, takes a deep breath. “No, I won’t let them kill you too.”

“Give me some credit. I’m pretty hardcore, they shot me and I’m still here, right?” Ryan replies, looking at Shane with a gaze that’s somewhat hopeful. He shrugs and poses like a bodybuilder, flexing his muscles mockingly. “Besides, I have these bad boys. And a shit ton of powers.” Ryan teases, a smile playing on his lips, a smile that mirrors Shane’s own face, as the corner of his lip tugs up involuntarily. “We’re going to be fine. Trust me.”

There’s something about the way Ryan says it, the absolute certainty that they’re going to be fine, that Shane realises that Ryan would risk, has risked everything for him. There’s something about it that makes everything click into place. 

There’s something more here, something that Shane doesn’t understand. He cares but there’s something else there that he can’t put a name to, something he’s never felt before or at least, not for a long time.

Impulsive, Shane rushes forward and closes the distance between them. He presses his lips to Ryan’s, savouring the whoosh of his heart as it trips over its own feet, savouring the rush to his head that leaves him feeling a little dizzy. 

Ryan wraps his arms around Shane’s torso, roaming hands accidentally pulling at his shirt in an attempt to pull him closer. One hand resting on Ryan’s neck, the other at Ryan’s hip, holding him close. It’s not the first kiss but it feels like it, now that they both understand, now that they’re both on the same page.

Now that the looming presence of death that hangs over them has backed off, only a little, only for ‘a few days tops’, it feels different. The urgency that was there before is nowhere to be seen, as though they have all the time in the world.

Ryan steps forward, crowding into Shane’s space and walking him backwards, blindly. But Shane lets him, going where he’s led, until his back hits a wall with a light thud. Shane’s feet hip width apart, he pulls Ryan between his legs, against him, until their bodies are flush against one another.

Shane feels the words nagging at the back of his mind, biting on the tip of his tongue. He pulls back, only just far enough away to breathe his own air. His eyes scan Ryan’s face, like he’s trying to commit this moment to memory, before his gaze settles on Ryan’s.

“I,” Shane starts, before he shakes his head. The words are difficult to say, he’s not sure he’s ever said them, not since he was a boy. But he can put a name to the feeling now, all-consuming and giddy, protective and caring, the only name that really makes sense. “I love you, too. You know. In case that wasn’t clear. Even if you are insufferable.”

Ryan doesn’t answer, he just smiles, before he covers Shane’s mouth with his own once more, fingers twisting through his hair.

Chapter Text

Invincible like I’ve never been

R Y A N

Ryan’s spare phone buzzes in his pocket, violently enough to wake him up. It shocks him for a moment, recalling the memory of business phone shattered into a million pieces. How had they got hold of his personal phone? Eyes still half closed, he holds it in front of his face, pulling it further away when the brightness is too much, his eyes still not quite adjusted to it. 

After a few seconds, he’s able to make out the words, a text from one of his fellow heroes. Her name is Rosethorn but the name in Ryan’s phone is just a rose emoji. According to his superiors, it was better that way, it would make it harder for villains to differentiate who was who, if Ryan’s phone ever got into the wrong hands.

Truth be told, Ryan had always liked Rosethorn. He’d never learned her real name, only her number before she was a hero and her alias. But still, she had always been kind to Ryan, living a few doors down with promises that she was there if he ever needed her. A few years his elder, Rosethorn had been through everything Ryan had.

Well, except this.

Was this you?

There’s no attachment, no photo, no further explanation, but Ryan knows she’s talking about the files. His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment, unsure. He’s never been a fan of lying, not straight up. Lying by omission, however? He could deal with that.

don’t know what you’re talking about

Ryan sends the text and sets his phone back to darkness, locking the screen. He rolls back over, the tiling harsh and cold against his skin. He’d taken his bed for granted, all the fancy hotel rooms and dorms with air-conditioning had spoiled him. Now, pulling a hoodie underneath him, hoping it’s a thick enough layer to prevent an aching back and a temperature drop from the tile, Ryan finally understands everything these fugitives have to give up on a daily basis just to survive.

As if on cue, Ryan hears a light scuffle beside him, a rustling movement invisible in the dark. 

“Everything okay?” Shane asks, voice still rough with sleep. Even so, he sounds tense, ready to fight or evacuate within a drop of a hat if something’s wrong. Ryan shoves his phone back into his pocket and hopes it doesn’t vibrate again for the rest of the night. He can’t quite find it in him to place it on the floor. Even a few inches away would be too far to grab it in a hurry.

“Yeah, nothing to worry about,” Ryan says and as the words leave his lips, it feels like a lie. Even though he knows Rosethorn would never rat him out, at least he doesn’t think she would. 

She was always one of the only people Ryan would talk to in the facility, one of the only people he would trust. In Ryan’s memory, he sees her scrunching her nose at the images of dead villains and their families, looking away whilst the other heroes laughed or took notes. There’s no reason to believe that she would stand behind them even now, not based on a hunch.

“Okay, whatever you say,” Shane says, dragging his words out to emphasise the sarcasm behind them. Even though he knows Shane can’t see him in the pitch black, Ryan rolls his eyes and reaches out, takes Shane’s hand in his own. 

He squeezes it once, twice, three times before letting go, just as he remembers Shane doing in the alley, one memory that still stands out amongst the blur of blood loss. 

“Go back to sleep,” Ryan whispers, hearing the rustling once more as Shane rolls back over but this time he’s close enough that Ryan feels his leg pressing against his own. He wishes it could be like this all the time, that he could stay in this moment forever. Even though he dons the emblem of a hero, Ryan wishes he could live a normal life, even if just for a little while longer.

Staring up at the ceiling, Ryan decides it’s probably best not to go back to sleep. It had been stupid and careless of them to both sleep in the first place. Someone should have been keeping an eye out, playing the lookout. It’s one of the first things you’re taught about surveillance and yet, Ryan had let exhaustion win.

One glance at the window tells him there’s a few hours left until sunrise, the sky lightening just a little but still nothing more than a blanket of darkness with the reprieve of thousands of little stars. He hears Shane’s breathing even back out beside him, as sleep pulls him under once more.

Ryan watches the stars and wishes. He wishes that Rosethorn won’t turn him in, that the agents won’t find them before the sun rises from behind the buildings. He wishes for normality, for peace, for more time, for this. 

He wishes.

S H A N E

When Shane wakes for the second time, it’s to the sun climbing beyond the skyline, a steady line of light that travels upwards until it reaches his eyes, too bright for him to sleep through. He scrunches his eyes shut, hoping for a few more seconds of sleep before he’s forced back onto the battlefields.

Shane hadn’t slept this well in years. Most nights, he’s so on guard that any noise wakes him, whether it be a gust of wind that’s a little too powerful or a rodent scuttering across the floorboards. Most nights, Shane wakes up feeling just as tired as he did before he put his head down. 

But last night, he had only woken up once and it had been different. He hadn’t felt the paralysing fear, the urge to bolt out of there, the uneasiness that lingered long after the danger was gone, bleeding over into the rest of the night until he laid there, awake.

No, this time, Shane’s fears had been quelled almost as quickly as they arose. Glancing across at Ryan, waiting for the confirmation that everything was okay, Shane found that he trusted it, trusted him. He slept soundly, for the first time in a long time.

Part of him is still mad at himself for doing so, for allowing himself to relax, even for a few hours. Part of him is screaming that he should always keep his guard up, no matter what. But the trust feels stronger, overpowering any fears he harboured a few weeks ago. After all they’re both sacrificing to be here, to stay alive, trust feels like the bare minimum.

“Did you sleep at all?” Shane says as he rolls over, face-to-face with Ryan. He had felt two eyes on him like a heavy weight, watching, assessing whether he was still asleep. His suspicions are confirmed by the gaze he’s met with, wide awake, probably for hours. “I knew you had powers but what are you, an alien?”

“I slept,” Ryan says but the tone is wrong, falling just short of believable. The guilty look he’s wearing does nothing to help his case.

“Sure you did,” Shane says, words dripping with sarcasm. “What’s on the docket for today, captain?”

“Captain?” Ryan says, eyes wide. He fights back laughter but the amusement makes its way onto his face. The corner of his mouth twitches rebelliously, as he bites down on a smile, the only way he can stop the smirk from spreading across his face.

“Yeah, I heard it. Hated it as soon as I said it.” Shane sighs, resisting the urge to place his face against his palm. He shakes his head, the hint of a smile on his lips. “What’s the plan?”

“Well, captain, ” Ryan mocks, finally letting the laughter spill out, cutting his sentence short. Shane just watches as Ryan’s shoulders rise and fall, laughing with his whole body. He should regret opening his mouth in the first place, for giving Ryan ammunition against him. But he can’t find it in himself to care, not if it made Ryan laugh like that.

“Laugh it up,” Shane says, deadpan. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Sure I will, just give me a few weeks,” Ryan says as he composes himself, until his grin is no more than a smirk and his breathing is even again.

“The plan? Do you have one?” Shane prompts. Ryan must have a plan or the semblance of one, at the very least. Normally, Shane would have drafted up a twelve-point plan to take down another base but since they were doing things Ryan’s way - for now - he sat back and let Ryan take the reins.

When he’d agreed to do so, Shane didn’t realise he would be following him blindly. 

“We need to find a new place. Just to be safe, for the next few days.” Ryan explains but the details are a little too deliberately vague. The plan is still fuzzy around the edges, blurred like a vignette and any time Shane seeks an explanation, Ryan dodges the question.

“The next few days?” Shane asks, a nudge that he hopes will send Ryan hurtling into an explanation. But if anything, it makes him more tight-lipped. Ryan looks away, which is particularly hard to do considering how close they are, face-to-face whilst Ryan looks over Shane’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. He hesitates for a moment, opens his mouth and closes it again, no words falling out in the meanwhile. Shane dons a small smile, he’s not mad, he gets it. There’s some things he can’t know, at least not now. It could jeopardise the mission and would make him easy to torture, easy to give Ryan up, if he got caught.

Although, it would be great to know something. 

“This anything to do with the text you got at 3am?” Shane says, one final stab in the dark. Ryan’s eyes meet his once more, although Shane’s not sure whether it’s intentional, but Ryan doesn’t look away.

“Maybe,” Ryan whispers. He looks like he wants to say more, like the words are on the tip of his tongue again. Eyebrows pulling together and lips pursed tight, it looks like he’s thinking hard, like he might hurt himself if he continues to do so. 

“This is a first, I’ve never seen you short for words,” Shane jokes. The sudden shift in the atmosphere feels like a weight lifted off of his shoulders, as Ryan relaxes once more, huffing out a heavy breath that Shane guesses is meant to be a chuckle. “We’re not gonna die tonight, right?”

“Hope not.” Ryan shrugs, feigning indifference like it’s water off a duck’s back, even though he sounds unsure and apprehensive. Although it’s a matter of life or death, Shane finds himself having to suppress a laugh, surprised at how terrible Ryan is at this pep-talk business.

“Loving the certainty there, Bergara,” Shane says, shaking his head. This time, he lets the laugh leave his lips, a small chuckle. When he looks back at Ryan, he’s wearing a smile to match Shane’s own.

“Keeps you on your toes,” Ryan says, glancing between each of Shane’s eyes, as though he can’t decide which one to focus on. Until now, Shane hadn’t realised just how close they were, how easy it is to pinpoint every point at which their bodies touch. “You okay there, big guy?”

“Hmm?” Shane hums distractedly.

“You look like you’re short circuiting, do you need some new batteries or something?” Ryan says, lifting a hand up to wave it in front of Shane’s face a few times, like he’s a hypnotist trying to snap their victim out of their oblivious stupor. 

With a roll of his eyes, Shane leans forward and closes the gap. He had been aiming for a chaste kiss but when the hand Ryan had been waving finds its way to the nape of Shane’s neck, tugging him closer, Shane can’t complain. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to this. To being able to just lean forward and kiss Ryan, without worrying about a knife pressed to his throat or a sniper target on his back.

“What was that for?” Ryan whispers, pulling back. The words feel too loud in the quiet of the early morning hours, even though Ryan’s voice is no more than a hush. Ryan tilts his head ever so slightly, lips pressing together. 

“Because I can,” Shane starts, as he pushes a pesky, stray hair out of Ryan’s eyes. “Because I wanted to but mainly ,” Shane pauses, wearing a pondering expression, as though he really has to think about his answer. “To shut you up.”

“Thought you were going all soft on me then,” This time, Ryan’s the one to roll his eyes, hand still hovering at the nape of Shane’s neck. He pulls back a little further, going to sit up. Briefly, Shane had forgotten what they were doing here, that there was a plan to be carried out, even if he didn’t know what it was.

“Never.” Shane says.

R Y A N

“Is that a map? ” Shane says, as Ryan pulls a map from his backpack, unrolling it onto the floor. He scans across the scenery, until he pinpoints their exact location. Right now, they sit on the lower quadrant, somewhere in the south-east direction. They need to head north west and fast . “Are we living in the dark ages?”

“Dude, I’ve seen your blueprints,” Ryan retorts, eyes still trained on the map, tracing a route with his finger. He hears Shane stutter, unable to think of a comeback, before Ryan sees him nod once out of the corner of his eye.

“Touché.” Shane says. Ryan has to appreciate how easygoing Shane’s been about this, how he hadn’t pushed to know the plan, to know everything. 

Because truth is, he knows that if Shane had persisted, Ryan probably would’ve told him the whole plan. Even though he wouldn’t approve. Even though he’d argue until he was blue in the face, that trusting heroes is a no-go and can only lead to trouble.

He traces the route one more time, hoping it’s enough to commit it to memory. Right, left, straight, right, the directions play on loop in his brain. Not bothering to properly fold it, Ryan shoves the map back into his backpack, crinkling it up carelessly.

“You ready to go?” Ryan says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and standing up. Shane doesn’t answer, just throws his own duffel bag over his shoulder and follows Ryan out of the door.

They’ve done this dance a thousand times now or so it feels, hiding under cover and into alleyways whenever anyone passes by who looks a little too ‘official’. In sync, they don’t even speak, just one glance is enough to know when to duck into a backstreet.

It almost feels too easy to make it to their second safehouse and they get there within a few hours with no trouble. It’s enough to send alarm bells ringing in Ryan’s head, overly paranoid. Every step feels like they’re walking into a trap, as though Ryan’s superiors are just biding their time and have been watching them all the while.

They probably have. Ryan should prepare for that opportunity.

Instead, he follows Shane down the high street, since they managed to catch the stores before they close for the day. When Shane sneaks a baguette under his arm, Ryan says nothing. He just places a few dollar bills on the counter and follows Shane out of the door, hearing the bell above it ring to signal another customer leaving.

“That felt,” Ryan says, after a few hours in the safehouse, after they’ve settled in and sat on the floor, after they’ve peeled the packaging off of the baguette. The house is nothing special, another copy and pasted home made for a suburban family or a group of twenty-somethings. 

Unremarkable, forgettable, safe. 

Shane rips off a piece of bread, before handing the baguette to Ryan. 

“Easy.” Ryan finishes, sounding more confused than anything else. It shouldn’t be this easy, it should be so difficult that every movement feels calculated. It shouldn’t be this easy, why is it this easy?

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, although he doesn’t seem half as skeptical as Ryan does. Ripping off a chunk of bread, Ryan raises an eyebrow. “I mean, if I’ve learned anything, if it feels like a trap, it’s probably a trap.”

“Great,” Ryan says unenthusiastically. He hates to admit it but he’s out of his depth here. All those years of training in the facility are worth nothing, not whilst he stands in Shane’s domain, walking the streets he’s occupied for years before Ryan was even on the scene. 

Here, Shane’s the knowledgeable one. He’s the one who spent years successfully slipping out of the grasp of heroes, hiding out in countless buildings, dodging a thousand poorly-laid traps and just as many bullets.

Here, Ryan feels like the rookie all over again.

“Profound.” Ryan states, as he pops the chunk of bread into his mouth. He crosses his legs into a pretzel and hopes every gut feeling and inkling he’s choosing to ignore is wrong. He’s been wrong before.

“You get used to it.” Shane says, out of the blue. He tears off another piece of bread. “The impending doom shit, it gets old.”

“I--”

“Starling! Karma!” Ryan’s words are interrupted by the booming of a megaphone outside the safehouse. His heart sinks, as his gaze shoots to Shane. Ryan’s surprised to find him unaffected, looking more bored and tired than anything else.

It gets old.

“Come out with your hands up!” The voice shouts once more, probably disturbing the whole street, if the agents haven’t already cleared out every civilian within a five mile radius. Fingers steady, Ryan pulls the phone out of his pocket and dials.

It rings. And rings. And rings.

“Fuck, come on, pick up, ” He mutters, before hitting the end call button. They made it a few days if nothing else, Ryan feels proud of that. He feels grateful to have any of this time, to have found this even for a moment.

But god, it would be great to live through this. 

“Ryan?” Shane calls but Ryan doesn’t answer. His fingers fly across the keyboard on his phone before hitting send, the action accented by a whooshing sound effect. An address sent, a final plea.

“How many?” Ryan says, a question he’s been hearing an awful lot as of late. One finger pulling the curtain back, Shane glances out onto the street. There’s a beat, where Ryan can hear his own heart beating in his chest, his blood rushing through his veins.

“Too many.” Shane says, averting his gaze to the floor as the curtain falls back into place. Ryan sees the exact moment the mask slips over his features, playful smirk on his lips once more. “You’re sure we’re not going with my plan?”

“I’m sure.” Ryan says, finding that he’s not scared. Where he had expected to find fear, he finds determination and fury, choosing to go down fighting or not at all. Looking resigned, Shane swallows hard before he nods, the curtain falling back into place. 

“You know, I never pegged you as anything spectacular, Starling. Always middle of the road, always so cookie-cutter, always mediocre. But this,” His superior yells, the voice sounding closer now, only about ten strides from the doorway. Ryan resists the urge to take a step back. “This is something else.”

“You’re wrong about all of it, Campbell. These ‘villains’, you push them to it.” Ryan shouts, aiming his words at the closed door. If his plan doesn’t work, he doesn’t know what they’re going to do. Judging by the look on Shane’s face at the sheer amount of agents, another ‘Cyclone’ isn’t going to work. They can’t duck out the back way, there’s no doubt the agents have them surrounded. 

If they’d hesitated for so long, they’ve likely been putting together a force and a plan. All Ryan can do is wait and hope the pieces of his own plan fall into place.

“Ah, so he has corrupted you, too!” His superior barks, sounding almost hysterical. Ryan’s brain whirs a million miles a minute. He’s barely even listening now, just thinking. 

They wouldn’t shoot him, he knows that much. They would try and take him in. It would be too much of a loss, so many years spent training the perfect little soldier, to just gun him down on sight.

“Did you really think I was fucking stupid, Starling? That I wouldn’t guess you were still running around with your little boyfriend , the criminal? The murderer ?” His superior says, as Ryan’s fingers rest on the doorknob. He can feel Shane watching him, both confused and concerned. Ryan doesn’t look at him, can’t look at him, as he twists the door open anyway.

“You can’t play both sides here. I made our position very clear.” His superior finishes, not missing a beat. He’s unaffected by the sight of Ryan before him, the final barrier of the door between them disappearing. 

Ryan clenches his jaw, clenches his fists, anything to stop him from running down the pathway and punching his superior in the face right now.

“The files. I saw them. All of them. You forced him on the run, killed his family. And he’s not the only one. There’s thousands.” Ryan states, each sentence sounding like it’s been pulled out of him, carefully contained rage bubbling just beneath the surface.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His superior says, raising his hands in mock surrender. But he’s only playing the part, waving the falsified white flag as he sounds almost amused.

“Electron! She was trying to kill him, wasn’t she?” Ryan yells, the name tumbling out of him before he can consider the repercussions. There’s no going back now. Although, Ryan supposes there never was. 

Maybe it was the moment he saw those files, a tragic tale of a child forced to violence, losing everything and anything he touched. Or maybe it was the moment he saw Shane in the cemetery, falling to his knees, suffocating under the weight of all of his grief. Perhaps even the moment he fought him on the rooftop, peeling back the layers of the snarky villain until he saw the wounded animal that lived underneath.

God, maybe Ryan was corrupted the moment he met Shane, a knife pressed to his throat but still acting like he had the upper hand. Maybe he was always going to end up here, fighting his own guardians and risking everything in the name of what he thought was right. 

Maybe he was lost the very moment Shane’s eyes caught his own.

It doesn’t matter. There’s no going back now.

“Don’t you dare say her name.” His superior spits, each word sounding angrier than the last. But even so, he makes no effort to cock his gun or motion to his army, confirming all of Ryan’s suspicions.

They’re going to try and take him in first.

“Ryan, what are you doing?” Shane mutters from somewhere behind him. Ryan doesn’t look back, he can’t, not now. But he catches the reflection of red that bounces off the gloss-painted wall, sparks active and summoned, yet again.

“The instructions say ‘Kill on sight’, Campbell.” Ryan says matter-of-factly. He waits for the protest, for the objection, for his superior to call him a bare-faced liar. It never comes.

“Enhanced children should not be allowed to exist outside of our institution, they are a danger to society and their own households. It’s the law . We’ve been over this.” Campbell states, doubling down on every decision he’s made over the past however-many years. One thing Ryan’s certain of is that he’s been doing this far longer than Ryan knows.

There’s no fixing this. No saving it. Shane’s methods may have been wrong but his thinking was right, they needed to burn this organisation to the ground and start fresh. Build it back up from the ground up. The right way.

“But it should be a choice, not a dictatorship. You murdered millions!” Ryan shouts, hand hovering over the knife at his waistband. In the pause, he hears Shane behind him, his breath even and steady. It’s an anchor.

“No! He murdered,” Campbell says, gesturing over Ryan’s shoulder, where Shane must be visible. “People just like him have murdered millions. What we do is damage control.”

“Oh, so testing on kids is damage control?” Ryan scoffs, incredulous. How can he continue to defend something that is unforgivable? How can he sit by, idly, whilst countless children suffer at his hand, whether it be directly or indirectly? “Your heroes don’t even know the cause they’re fighting for!”

“They know everything on a need-to-know basis. If everything knew every detail, we’d be stuck in situations like this, where one complacent and, frankly, overly-confident hero tries to break the system!” His superior speaks the words like he’s reading from a script, overly prepared and a carbon copy of every reprimand Ryan has received before. 

“It’s not just one hero, Campbell.” Ryan says. He takes a deep breath and hopes Shane won’t hate him, that he won’t be disappointed in the choices Ryan has made. “I’ve forwarded these files on to every hero in your facility. They know everything, now.” If Shane’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. Ryan hears no sharp intake of breath, Shane says nothing, just keeps twirling the sparks around his fingertips, on guard and ready.

“How stupid of you to think that would change a thing,” His superior laughs, an action so cruel and callous that it catches Ryan off-guard. This is a side of his instructor that he’s never seen before, but a side that has always been there, laying in wait. “Every hero knows that in order to maintain peace, some must pay the price. It’s for the greater good.”

“You think this is peace?” Ryan gestures one hand out over the crowd of armed agents, weapons raised high, ready to fight. “This is the opposite of peace. And who are you to decide who lives and who dies?”

“Starling, this is getting tiresome. You’re all out of second, third and fourth chances.” Campbell sighs, readjusting his grip on his gun. His arm must be getting tired from the weight of it, judging by his shifting stance and rolling shoulders. “Now, are you going to come quietly or will this be a spectacle for tomorrow’s news broadcast?”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Shane says, taking a step forward to stand beside Ryan on the front step. He raises his hands, glowing, aiming. Two deadly weapons masquerading as fireworks, pointed directly at the heart of the crowd.

“How cute, the villain has a heart,” Campbell scoffs, looking to his right and left, as though checking the agents are still there beside him. “Last chance, Starling, as I’m a man of mercy.”

They’re outnumbered. Greatly so. Two versus at least a few hundred agents.

Ryan twists two knives out of his waistband, knowing the cause is probably fruitless.

“Fine. My patience has worn thin. Light them up.” His superior says, speaking the words with all the ease of someone answering a maths question, not someone deciding two people deserve to die. Ryan glances at Shane but he’s already staring back at him. 

He smiles a sad smile and Ryan knows they’re doing the right thing. There’s no doubt in his mind.

As Shane braces for impact, raising his hands above his face, red sparks blocking their view, Ryan hears a whooshing sound. Something flying past and, even though it’s impossible to see through Shane’s makeshift forcefield, Ryan’s heart soars.

“Who the fuck is that?” Shane asks, hands wavering for only a moment, as he does a double take like some kind of cartoon character. He squints in an attempt to see through the wall of crimson.

“Backup.” Ryan says, barely audible over the sound of rapid gunfire. He doesn’t even have to see her face to know who it is behind the curtain. Although, he can’t help but be impressed by Shane. This forcefield wouldn’t have held out all the bullets but it would have been their best shot, had Ryan’s plan fallen through. “I told you to trust me.”

“You mean you had a plan this whole time? You fucking dumbass.” Shane laughs, sounding close to hysterical. 

The gunfire ceases for a moment, a sign that the agents are abandoning the first of their own plans. Judging by how much they were firing, odds are they’re nearly out of bullets. They’ll have to resort to hand-to-hand combat sooner or later, drawing swords and knives and anything sharp they can get their hands on.

After all, bullets don’t work if you’ve got a hero whose power is to grow vines outwards like a rose in bloom. Ryan wonders what she’s gone for, whether she’s opted for the wall of unbreakable vines to serve as a shield or she’s used the vines to twist around the guns, disarming the agents.

“Yeah, but I’m a dumbass with a plan.” Ryan grins, breathing heavily. God, he thought they were gone for a second there. Looking in Shane’s eyes, Ryan sees his own fears staring back at him. Fears that didn’t seem like they would become a reality, not anymore.

Shane lowers the sparks, drawing them back in, until they’re nothing more than red circles around his fingertips.

“Hi, boys!” A woman with bright, ginger hair cheers. Her accent is still strong. It clings to her every word and, despite spending years surrounded by Americans, she still sounds like she’s living down under. 

But Ryan knows that, every now and then, one word will slip through the cracks. Ten years of subconsciously suppressing an American accent comes out occasionally, sounding like a strange morph between two accents.

“I’m Rosethorn and that is Violet, nice to meet ya!” Rosethorn says, gesturing over her shoulder to another girl, hair and skin both a shade of dark purple. 

Ryan watches the vines extend from every one of Rosethorn’s limbs, reaching out across the street. He watches as they form a box around one group of agents, blocking their path. Once a tightly knit hedge is formed around the group, Rosethorn diverts her attention to another, boxing them in, too. It’s slow going but it might work, at least, for now.

“Who?” Shane asks, dumbfounded and still scrambling to catch up. He watches as Violet stares at one agent intensely, all of her power focused in their direction. Within a few seconds, the agent is on the floor, unconscious, appearing unharmed but very much out of commission. 

“Ouch,” Violet says, one hand to her heart. “Violet. Mind control. Little bit of telekinesis. You know the gig.” She explains softly, before averting her attention to Ryan, expression professional once more. “More backup is on the way, Starling.”

“How much?” Ryan responds, voice serious and heroic. 

“At least three-quarters of the facility,” Violet says, only half paying attention to Ryan now, as she continues to lock eyes with every agent at rapid speed. “Turns out, heroes don’t much like the idea of torturing kids.”

“Who knew?” Shane says, a little too loudly. His eyes are scanning the crowd before them hastily, but his hands still remain at his sides, sparks flickering dormantly. For a moment, Shane makes no effort to fight, looking a little stunned.

“You okay?” Ryan asks. The question is enough to send Shane into action, as he raises his hand and flicks his fingertips, red sparks flying into the crowd and knocking three agents to the ground.

“I’m great, I’m just peachy, I,” He starts before he stops himself, cutting his own words short. Shane takes a deep breath, as though stopping himself from spiralling. He smiles and shrugs it off. “Heroes.”

The agents are starting to approach now, cutting through Rosethorn’s vines with enough difficulty to buy Ryan and Shane some time. But a small gap manages to form in the wall of vines, just big enough for one agent to crawl through at a time. The second someone pops into sight, Ryan throws a knife. 

A cry of pain, as the knife makes its home in the agent’s chest.

“I should’ve explained,” Ryan says, immediately feeling guilty. He knows about Shane’s history, his rightful distrust for heroes. That’s part of the reason why he never told him the plan in the first place.

“Is now really the time?” Shane huffs. He flicks his fingers again, sending two more agents hurtling to the ground like a sack of potatoes. They’re back to back now, fighting opposite sides, like they’re playing a game of capture the flag and they’re trying to defend the safehouse.

“I’m trying to apologise,” Ryan says, as he scans the vines for any intruders. There are about four walls now, boxing out four different groups of agents. On top of that, Violet seems to be making quick work of the remainders, taking out another twenty or so. But even so, there’s hundreds left unchecked.

“Whilst I’m dodging bullets, gotcha,” Shane says, voice sounded strained and breathy, as he pushes out a wave of sparks at the oncoming horde of agents. Five have gone rogue, running down the pathway towards them, but they stop in their tracks as the wave washes over them.

“I should’ve told you the plan, I’m sorry.” Ryan says, turning around to look at Shane. He expects to find disappointment, to find anger, to find something. Instead, Shane just shrugs.

“It’s okay. I get it.” He says, holding the agents in place for a second, before flicking his fingers sideways. The agents fly across the street, landing about seven or eight houses down. From the doorway, Ryan’s unsure whether they’re unconscious or dead or just pinned to the ground, but they don’t look like they’ll be bothering them anytime soon.

“You get it?” Ryan shouts over his shoulder, as he bounds down the pathway with Shane in quick pursuit. The route is clear, at least for now, and Ryan needs a weapon, needs to gain more ground, needs to fight hand-to-hand. He isn’t gifted with telekinesis or mind control powers, he has no choice but to get his hands dirty.

A bullet flies by, missing him by a hair, as he ducks down and pulls the gun from the hands of a fallen agent. 

“Yeah, you ran this past me a few months back,” Shane says nonchalantly, continuing their conversation as though all hell isn’t breaking loose. Superhuman agility counting for something, Ryan pulls Shane down beside him, just before the bullets rain over them. Immediately, Shane’s covering their heads with red sparks, as a stream of bullets fly over.  

“I did?” Ryan utters, forever unaffected by the sound of gunshots and death around them. He doesn’t even look up at the ceiling of red fire above him. He just keeps looking at Shane.

“You said,” Shane says, clearing his throat, before launching into his best Ryan impression. “‘If you let me speak to some of the heroes--’”

“I do not sound like that,” Ryan determines. The gunfire ceases again and they wait a beat, before Shane stands up, the sparks pulling from around them like a loose thread unwinding.  

“Nine o’clock,” Shane warns. On instinct, Ryan turns left and stabs out, one of his knives connecting with soft flesh. The agent recoils, pulling back enough that Ryan doesn’t even have to move. He just keeps a steady grip on the knife and watches the agent fall to the floor, the knife in Ryan’s hands slick with his blood. “And yeah, you do. But I get it. I probably wouldn’t have gone along with it, if you’d told me.”

Before Ryan can say anything more, he spots a flash of blue weaving in and out of the crowds of agents. More backup is arriving. In fact, the more Ryan looks around, the more heroes he starts to see. Those with super speed, super strength, super anything, everyone is out in full force.

Of course, there’s a few names missing, a few faces he’d been hoping to see don’t show up. But none come as a surprise. Most of the absentees were obsessed with taking down villains and bringing them pain, as opposed to fighting for justice and freedom. Ryan feels no disappointment.

For the thousandth time, Ryan’s eyes scan the battlefield, squinting to see further in the ever growing darkness. Now that he doesn’t need to worry about diminishing the numbers, he’s got a bone to pick.

It’s petty. He knows it is. But he needs to find Campbell.

After a few seconds, his sights fall on his superior, standing at the back of the crowd as though the other agents are his shield. Ryan looks at Shane, ready to explain, only to find him looking in the exact same direction.

“Ready?” Ryan asks, twisting his knife around his fingertips. A voice in the back of his mind reminds him that he has two more, stashed around his ankles but after that, he’s weaponless. With the exception of his own two fists. He shouldn’t throw anymore, not if he wants to stand a chance of survival. 

“God, yes.” Shane says, already stomping down the battlefield. Eyes still trained forward, he points one hand out to the right, sending a circle of sparks to patch up a hole forming in one of Rosethorn’s walls of vines. “Do I get to kill him?”

“Jesus, Shane.” Ryan says, bounding in front of him and pushing him out of the way of a flying arrow , something Ryan didn’t even know the agents possessed. Seems like they’re pulling out all of the stops. Ryan sighs, thankful that his reaction time is still even a fraction quicker than Shane’s. 

“What? It’s a genuine question.” Shane asks, before a smile breaks across his face. They take off sprinting then, heading straight for Ryan’s superior. If this were a movie, Ryan thinks they’d be screaming out a battle cry, medieval swords raised high in one hand and pounding their chests with the other. 

Instead, they work in and out of the crowd, all of Ryan’s senses tuned to a hundred as he searches for any sign of imminent danger coming their way. It becomes second nature for Ryan to slice and stab whenever someone gets too close, for Shane to shower sparks over anyone who manages to get through their defences, for them to duck and cover when the machine guns come out.

They make a pretty good team. Who would’ve guessed?

Ryan tries not to let himself get too distracted but every now and then, he will glance around the battlefield, just to see how things are going. What used to be an ordinary street, an unremarkable home, is now littered with bodies, either dead, injured or unconscious. With a relieved sigh, Ryan realises, the majority are just passed out or crawling away injured.

But there are still a few that wear the unseeing stare that keeps Ryan awake at night. Those that have paid the price for his superior’s mistakes, for the government’s wrongdoings and injustices. People who just wanted a job, who just wanted to feel as though they were helping to keep the city safe.

Ryan steps around the bodies instead of stepping over them.

S H A N E

“Behind you,” Ryan calls out, as he slices a deep gash into the side of an agent’s waist, hitting the weak spot of their armour perfectly. Shane supposes that’s one advantage of growing up with these people, knowing how they operate means knowing all their weaknesses too.

Hands raised, Shane spins around. He pushes his palm against the agent’s chest and sends them flying across the road, before they can so much as aim their weapon.

“Thanks,” Shane says, as he tilts his neck from left to right, relishing in the cracking sound it makes. What had seemed like such a small distance before as they stood on the doorstep of the safehouse, waiting for the bullets to hit, now feels like a marathon. Every step means a new fight and although they’re making progress, it feels about as quick as walking through tar. 

At this point, Shane doesn’t even ask who the heroes flying by him are. He recognises a few from the papers, their pictures displayed proudly on the news channels. But most are fresh faces, most likely rookies or heroes he’s yet to encounter.

In between attacks, Shane watches a man in a green suit lift an agent off of the ground, throwing them across the road as though they weigh nothing. 

He tries not to think about the fact that this battle is his fault. That people are dying because of him, because he couldn’t just lay down and die like he was supposed to. He looks away, as the man in green rushes into his next fight.

This had been what he wanted, hadn’t it? Since day one, Shane had wanted to watch the demise of the heroes and their agents. He’d wanted nothing more than to play a part in it himself. But back then, he had only considered the sacrifices he would have to make. It would only put his life at risk.

Now? Now that he knows the heroes had no idea about most of the things they were fighting for? Now that he knows the agents are just doing what they think is right, collecting a paycheck, unaware of the reasons why they’re fighting? 

Shane can’t breathe.

This needs to end now. Before anyone else gets hurt. Before anyone else lays their life on the line. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane watches Rosethorn build another vine, before an agent draws a knife and slices right through it. She winces in pain, recoiling and holding her arm for a moment. Shane watches the blood drip onto the concrete, as she continues to build vines with her uninjured arm. 

This had been everything he wanted. Just not like this.

“How far?” Shane asks, feeling Ryan beside him before he sees him there. Shane hears another slice, the sound of sharp metal cutting through flesh with all the ease of a knife through butter, before Ryan answers.

“Nearly there,” Ryan says and when Shane looks at him, he’s wiping the blood off of his knife, staining his pants. “It’ll be over soon.”

“Yeah. It will.” Shane says, eyes locking onto the big boss, as he hides behind a small group of agents. Two more steps and Shane will be in firing distance. As if sensing their king is in danger, another pawn steps in front of him, gun pointed at Shane’s face. 

Startled but ready, Shane swirls his hands in a circular motion. The sphere of red forms in the centre of his palms, as he lifts it upwards, pulling the gun from the agent’s hands. The agent’s eyes widen, fearful and caught off guard, as Shane pushes the sparks forward, sending the agent backwards, skidding across the pavement. 

“Hey, in case we don’t make it,” Shane says, as he glances around them and searches for any further danger. It seems like most of the remaining agents are behind them now, fighting off other heroes or trying to escape Rosethorn’s vines. When Shane looks forward, it seems like there’s a clear path directly to Campbell. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Ryan asks, pulling to a stop beside him. He’s breathing a little heavy but as Shane’s eyes scan over him, he doesn’t seem injured. All of the blood on his clothes looks dried, looks like someone else’s.

“Just,” Shane pauses, smiles. What is there to say? How could he even begin to express the feeling in his chest, a warmth, as though something is blooming and expanding? Ryan believed him. Believed in him. Gave him a chance, which is more than anyone else has ever offered. “Thank you.”

“Don’t act like this is a goodbye,” Ryan says, returning the smile. He places one knife back in his waistband, before pulling another out of the holster at his ankle. Perhaps the blade had dulled from too much fighting. Shane doesn’t know, doesn’t care. “If you act like it is, it will be.”

Shane’s not sure what to say to that, so he looks forward again and takes the last few strides. As Shane twirls sparks around his fingertips, Campbell looks down his nose at him, still all high and mighty, even in the face of death.

“You killed my family.” Shane says, teeth gritted. Suddenly, the image is right there, at the forefront of his memory. His brother’s corpse in his childhood bedroom. He never did find his parents, only found their graves. He wasn’t even able to attend their funerals.

They had died for him and he hadn’t even gone to their funerals.

Subconsciously, Shane summons more sparks, until his hands are barely visible through the balls of crimson he holds.

“They were harbouring a criminal.” Campbell shrugs, still unaffected by the sight in front of him. Even now, he refuses to take responsibility. He doesn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. He just fixes Shane with a repulsed glare.

“I was just a kid.” Shane breathes, voice choked. He clears his throat. Not now. Shane can’t crumble, can’t fall at the final hurdle. He has to end this.

“A kid who could do this . A kid who killed over twenty agents.” Campbell chuckles, as he gestures to the chaos around them. But Shane doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t look away from Ryan’s instructor for even a split second. “I feel no regret for all I have done. I did what was required to keep this city safe, to maintain the peace. You shouldn’t exist unchecked. I mean, look at the mess you’ve made here, Karma!”

“My name is Shane.” Shane corrects, trying to detach all emotion from his voice. But the mask he usually wears, the sarcastic and stoic villain, doesn’t seem to fit. No matter how hard he tries, Shane’s voice still sounds angry, where it used to sound mocking. “Enough.”

Palms facing out, Shane raises his hands once more. He hates the way they shake, the way they expose how upset he is, how angry he is. For some reason, he hesitates, his finger over the metaphorical trigger but not quite pulling it.

Shane should be pushing sparks outwards, should be ripping through Campbell’s body like it’s paper. But he isn’t.

“Oh my, it seems Starling is rubbing off on you,” Campbell laughs, clapping his hands together. He seems to be enjoying watching this all play out like a piece of live theatre, instead of fearing for his life. “You can’t even pull the trigger.”

“Shane, you don’t have to.” Ryan’s voice pipes up beside him, all soft around the edges. Shane can’t look at him. He keeps his eyes fixed on Campbell, balls his hands into fists, as though he’s guarding his face in a boxing match.

“You really think the government will prosecute me? They wouldn’t let me rot away in a jail cell, not after all the work I’ve done for this country!” Campbell shouts, a smile still pulled along his lips. Part of Shane wants to agree. He knows this poison runs deep, that the government is most likely aware of everything. If he doesn’t kill Campbell now, there’s a chance he’ll walk free.

“How about I remove your head from your shoulders? Burn a hole straight through your chest? What do you think about that?” Shane yells, feeling the power within him bubble up, like soda in a shaken can, until he almost loses control. 

His brother. His father. His mother. Blood staining his childhood bedsheets. The walls of his childhood home blown through. Dead agents littering the floor like dust bunnies. How many children have to suffer, as he has? How many families have to pay the price, as his did? 

“Shane, we have all the proof we need. No jury could acquit him.” Ryan says. Some distant part of Shane registers the concern in his voice, the urgency, but Shane still won’t look at him. Instead, Shane rolls his shoulders and draws a sphere of power instead, a circle held within both of his hands. Maybe that’ll work.

“For the record, Karma,” Campbell spits the alias out like it’s venom but it doesn’t sting. That name never fit Shane back then and it fits him even less now. “I was the one who sent the taskforce to your house. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

Shane’s heart plummets to his feet.

“Stop.” Shane snarls, a warning sign, a red button ready and waiting for Campbell to press.

“The orders weren’t to kill your family. They were just in the way. If they had stepped aside, if they had let us take you in, they would have survived.” Campbell explains, each word hitting Shane in the chest like a sucker punch. He feels the sparks in his hands expand before he can stop them, tries to anchor himself back to this reality, tries not to let the anger flare out of control, spiralling into another Cyclone. 

“Shut up . ” Shane says, keeping his cool. He watches the sparks flutter outwards and up his arms, like flames licking up a curtain, spreading in a way he’s never seen before. Beside him, Shane hears Ryan breathing, heavier now than after ten battles.

“Your family would still be alive, if only you’d gone quietly.” Campbell smiles as he delivers the final blow. He raises his eyebrows, looking the furthest thing from apologetic. Refusing to look at him, Shane closes his eyes.

There’s a buzzing in Shane’s ears so loud that he can’t hear the chaos around him, so fierce that he can’t even think. Something is stomping on his chest, threatening to crush his ribcage, to pierce his lungs until he suffocates right there on the battlefield. Shane thinks he hears Campbell laughing, but he can’t be sure. He can’t trust a single thing right now.

“I said shut up !” Shane roars, eyes snapping open. All he sees is red, as though the sparks have spread over his irises too, ready to consume him and take full control whenever he relinquishes it. 

Shane twists the growing flame in his hands, pushes it outwards until the crimson wires have wrapped around Campbell in an iron grip. All the while, he looks amused, as though Shane is doing nothing more than playing into his plan. Shane ignores him, continues to twist the sparks around him until he’s held in place.

One move and Campbell would suffocate, a snake catching its prey. He would snap his spine if he’s lucky, a quick death. If not, it would be a short while of Campbell trying to catch his breath but being unable to, feeling how Shane has felt his entire life, feeling a fraction of the pain Shane has been burdened with since Campbell took his family away from him.

But Shane hesitates. 

“Shane.” Ryan says, like he’s approaching a wild and skittish animal. Shane can’t see him, he only sees the red tint darkening around the edges of his vision, blurring it. But Ryan doesn’t reach out, doesn’t touch Shane. Instead, he just stands beside him. He doesn’t run away.

“I’ve been hunting him down for years. I’ve always wanted to kill him. I want to kill him,” Shane rambles, feeling the anger dissipate with every word. The scarlet hue around the edges of his vision dulls, until the other colours return to his vision. Shane hears someone let out a choked noise, something between a whimper and a sob, and thinks it came from his mouth. “Why can’t I kill him?”

“It’s okay.” Ryan says, reaching one hand out and placing it on Shane’s back. He rubs a circle there, tracing the same shape, repetitive, and the continuous motion is enough to ground Shane. Shane feels the tears fall down his face and hates it, hates that he couldn’t go through with it, that he couldn’t kill the one who killed so many. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re okay.”

As Ryan wraps an arm around his waist in some weird kind of half-hug, Shane holds his grip on Campbell in place, until the sound of sirens is too loud to bear. Until the press turn up with their huge cameras and too many microphones. Until the heroes are giving statements, revealing all the secrets of the company that raised them. 

Until Rosethorn comes and relieves Shane of his duties, replacing crimson sparks with thorny vines. Shane watches as Campbell is encased in leaves, the roses blooming around his feet. All the while, he looks resigned, unafraid. 

Until Ryan’s hand slips into his own, squeezing once, twice, three times.

Shane looks away. 

Chapter Text

S H A N E

All the statements and evidence provided by heroes and ‘anonymous’ emails results in a media frenzy, as every news source scurries to be the first to break the news on the dark secrets of the hero facility. 

Soon, Shane finds the pictures of hundreds, maybe even thousands of children plastered all over every television screen in the city. Forged medical reports and autopsies. Families murdered, children kidnapped or forced on the run. Accounts of experimentation. 

Kill orders. Some of which with his name on. 

The public outcry that follows is fiercer than any of them could’ve expected. After all that he’s done, all the blood that stains his hands, the trail of destruction that follows him everywhere he goes, Shane had expected to be shunned and exiled by the public. He hadn’t expected a change in the treatment towards him but the media continue to play up the narrative of a young child, forced out of his own life, watching his family die in front of him.

All of a sudden, Shane’s no longer the villain.

They take Campbell into custody with his trial date set, since his name is the one signed on most of the experiments and assasination orders. All the while, his smile doesn’t fade, as though every person is still just a pawn playing directly into his game. Shane is offered the chance to confront him, to talk to him before the trial, to give him a piece of his mind. 

He declines. 

Both Ryan and Shane are forced to be present at his trial, as witnesses and, in Shane’s case, a victim of his crimes. After all, he was one of the men who led this system, he was the man who instructed the agents to slaughter his family. With a list of crimes as long as his arm, Campbell’s trial lasts days, his slight and smug smile never shifting, not even as the lawyers recall the brutal acts he’s been party to. 

The only time Campbell’s smile falters is when the judge delivers his life sentence, locked away in a maximum security prison.

“Ryan,” Shane says, late that night, once they’re both in bed. After watching Campbell be pulled roughly into the back of a van, handcuffed and booed at, never to be seen again, Shane had expected to feel a sense of closure. Where he should feel acceptance and relief, he finds dread and anxiety. 

He had seen how quickly this system had fallen apart, how easily it had become something unspeakable and merciless. Now that they have a hand in its construction, Shane can’t help but feel nervous. What if he makes one wrong decision? What if he becomes numb and apathetic to the struggles of people like him? What if he plays a hand in building the same hell that he once tried to destroy?

“Yeah?” Ryan says, rolling over to face him, so close that his breath fans out across Shane’s cheeks. The bed creaks a little in protest, a noise that Shane isn’t used to after so many years sleeping on the floor. 

The same can be said about the comfort of a bed that isn’t concrete or a mattress with its springs sticking out, rusted and material wearing. To Shane, it feels like sleeping on a bed of feathers, it’s still something he needs to get used to.

“Do you think it’ll work? This time?” Shane whispers, as though there are still ears listening and eyes watching them. Even though they live alone now, a few blocks down from the compound, a stable home with no signs of Shane having to flee. 

“I think,” Ryan starts, face serious and pondering, as though he has been mulling over the question too and has given it considerable thought. “Every system has its flaws. The problem is if the people in charge don’t fix them. But,” Ryan pauses and the optimism that Shane knows so well returns to his features, erasing the grave expression that had been there before. Certain and hopeful, Ryan smiles. “We’ll fix them. Even if it means burning it all down and rebuilding it. Again.”

“Okay.” Is all Shane says, the threads that he had felt coming undone pause, his thoughts no longer spinning out of control. He feels the anxiety dissipate, if only a little, a momentary reprieve as he imagines what could be. 

“Okay.” Ryan repeats, before pressing a kiss against Shane’s forehead, an action so tender and caring that it makes Shane’s eyes scrunch closed, makes his heart tug in his chest. He places one hand against Ryan’s neck, pulling him down until his lips meet Shane’s own in a soft, somewhat lazy, kiss. 

Now, there’s no rush, no urgency, no timer ticking above both of their heads to signal their impending doom. It’s a feeling Shane thinks he could get used to, as he cards his fingers through Ryan’s hair, as they roll over until Ryan’s above Shane, crowding into his space. Shane doesn’t know who rolled who, who moved first, but it doesn’t matter, as Ryan kisses a line up Shane’s neck, feather-light touches. 

Shane’s hit by the memory of the alley once again, a memory that seems to frequent his mind more and more nowadays. He remembers Ryan above him, a blaze of self-assured glory and self-righteousness, the smile disappearing from his face as Shane’s legs hooked around and rolled them over. The scarlet cage that enclosed Ryan as Shane ran away, as far away as his legs would carry him.

But now, as Shane wraps an arm around Ryan’s back and pulls him as close as he can, that day feels lifetimes ago. But he would live it again, a thousand times over, if it led him here to his house, to this bed, to Ryan’s arms.

In the weeks that follow, the state issues Shane their version of a plea deal. He gets to walk free, no target on his back. The only catch is they want him to join Ryan and the other heroes to build the new system from the ground up. Shane shrugs, it’s a small price to pay to spend the rest of his life beside the only man who’s ever believed in him.

“Nobody knows heroes better than yourselves,” A man in a suit states, as Shane tries his hardest not to squirm in his seat, the first row on the far left. Even now, he has a problem trusting those in authority. It’ll probably be the same way forever, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Blind trust could never lead to anything good. “We can try to understand the unique struggles that come along with your powers, but nobody knows better than you. That’s why we’re asking you to become the new taskforce.”

Beside him, Shane sees Ryan straighten his spine, sitting up tall and proud. The corner of his lip tugs upwards involuntarily. If he was alone in this, Shane probably wouldn’t have accepted the deal. He probably wouldn’t know where to start. If he’s being honest, he never would’ve even got this far. 

If he was alone, Shane would still be sneaking in and out of condemned buildings and dodging bullets. Instead, he’s wearing a suit and a tie and he’s sitting in a courtroom . The only time Shane ever thought he would be standing in a courtroom would be during his own trial but now, he’s a guest, a witness, a victim of the crimes against powered children.

As though sensing Shane’s discomfort, Ryan reaches out and takes Shane’s hand, just for a moment. The action catches Shane off-guard, he’d been expecting Ryan to stay professional and detached. But Ryan takes his hand and squeezes it, once, twice, three times, before letting go. Just as they always do. But somehow, the gesture always makes Shane’s heart grow in his chest, feeling heavy and light at the same time.

“You will be under our jurisdiction and oversight, any decisions you make will need to be discussed with the board, consisting of those who led the movement. Starling, Rosethorn, Violet, Kar--.” The man before them pauses and Shane realises he doesn’t remember his name, spoken at the very start of this conference, when Shane’s anxiety was at its highest. “I’m sorry, Mr. Madej, what would you like to be called?”

All eyes on him, Shane’s mind blanks. He hadn’t even considered this, that his name would need to be changed now that he wasn’t a ‘villain’. Although he’d never warmed to Karma, to change it would feel strange. Any name he tests in his mind doesn’t suit him, like he’s trying on a new pair of shoes to find they’re ill-fitting.

Maybe Karma had grown on him more than he realised. 

“Karma’s fine.” He says, voice a little rough from disuse, sitting silent in the courtroom for hours on end. The man at the podium nods once in his direction, before continuing with his speech.

“And Karma. In addition, all powered children currently in our custody will be released to their families. Schools will dedicate a subject to the history of heroes and villains, in order to cater to these powered children. We will do all we can to ensure we create no more villains.” He says and Shane almost believes him. If there hadn’t been years of evidence to prove otherwise, Shane knows he would’ve but now, he needs to witness action and not just words.

“And if we do?” A voice pipes up from the very back of the room, sounding far away. Since Shane and Ryan had been amongst the first to arrive, they hadn’t seen how full the courtroom had become. 

Now, as Shane glances behind him, he sees countless heroes, current recruits and retirees, decked out in suits and fancy clothes. There’s no seating left, it’s standing room only, and there are heroes leaning against the back wall, beside the doorway where Shane had entered.

Shane tries not to let the surprise show on his face. He had known how many heroes were under the government’s regime, he’d done enough research to know some of their names, some of their powers, some of their origin stories. But seeing them all here makes Shane realise that this is over. That the heroes stood beside them when it counted. That they had fought beside him, fought against the injustice and for the children, for the child that Shane used to be.

He hadn’t expected them to.

“If more villains manifest, each case will be inspected thoroughly by a team of heroes. No heroes are to work alone anymore, you will each be put into teams. It is then up to the team to decide the best port of action. But, ” The man pauses, his eyes skirting over the audience before him. Silence has fallen over the room and there are no objections, no disapproving heckles.   

“As discussed, each decision will be run through the board and through us. There will be no kill orders. If these villains are unreceptive to reform, they will then be treated as criminals. They will be arrested and prosecuted, as unpowered criminals are, if and only if they commit a crime.” He continues, before his eyes fall upon Shane, directing his final sentence his way. “No powered children or powered beings will be arrested simply for existing.”

Shane doesn’t say a word. He can’t even find it in himself to smile. Instead, Shane nods once, a barebones acknowledgement, the only reply he could muster to the man’s expectant gaze. 

Even though he can’t let himself believe it, there’s a strong feeling in Shane’s gut that maybe, just maybe, this is over. He can feel the breeze on his face, as he steps out into the light at the end of the tunnel.

“So, board members, huh?” Shane says, once all of the heroes have begun to file out of the courtroom. With a shrug, Ryan smiles, looking a little nervous, as though he hasn’t been able to gauge Shane’s response to the whole ordeal. “I’ll try not to let the power go to my head but no promises.” Shane jokes. 

Once the row behind them has stood up to leave, Shane does the same, Ryan following suit. There’s a hum, distant conversation that Shane’s only able to catch a word of here and there, and the noise only gets louder once they step out into the lobby of the courthouse, full to the brim with heroes.

The bad feeling, the urge to run settles, opening a pit at the bottom of Shane’s stomach. For once, he ignores it. Even after weeks, Shane still has to remind himself that these people aren’t out to kill him, not anymore. They don’t see him as the villain they once did, the moving bullseye they could use for target practice.

But still, Shane can’t relax. Not until they leave, until Shane follows Ryan down the sidewalk. Until the buzz of urgent conversation is inaudible, until every face Shane sees is unfamiliar and unrecognizable, not one of a hero he’s seen on the news.

“So. About that movie?” Ryan asks, swinging his arms absentmindedly as he walks. Shane hasn’t got used to this, walking in broad daylight with Ryan and not searching the streets for snipers, living in a house with functioning windows and an actual bed. Even now, Shane can’t make the decision about what he’s going to eat for dinner, unaccustomed to having a choice.

“Hmm?” Shane hums.

“The movie. After we got out. You forgot?” Ryan says, sounding a little confused as opposed to hurt. Even so, he pulls to a stop in the middle of the pavement, uncaring as he disrupts the flow of traffic and a woman has to walk around him. 

“No, I just wanted to hear you say it.” Shane admits, turning to face him. He can’t hide the smirk as it makes an appearance on his face, teasing and smug.

“And I’m the insufferable one?” Ryan replies, a half-chuckle leaving his lips. Without warning, he takes off walking down the street once more, leaving Shane to skip a little to catch up, even with his height advantage.

“You’re the one that wears spandex,” Shane says, once he’s beside Ryan again. Eyes furrowed, Ryan looks at him, an unspoken question, a hope for elaboration. “All insufferable people wear spandex,”

“Oh, have you tested that theory?” Ryan says.

“Yep, the focus groups were all positive that spandex is the cause of insufferableness.” Shane nods, tearing his eyes away from Ryan just in time to avoid walking into the post of a streetlight. “But then again, the focus groups were made up of exclusively villains, so they might have a bias.”

“ Insufferableness ? I--” Ryan starts, suppressing a laugh, before he stops and shakes his head. “Do you want to go to the movies with me?” Ryan asks, diverting back to his original plan, only momentarily derailed.

Shane pauses for a moment, feigning indecision.

“Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do,” Shane shrugs. In the corner of his eye, he catches Ryan’s step falter for a moment, stuttering before he bursts into laughter. 

“You’re a dick.” Ryan says, no heat to his words. Shane laughs too, then, unable to take the whole thing seriously. Truth is, teasing Ryan has become his favourite pastime. 

“And even if I did, I would love to.” Shane admits, hoping he sounds serious around the smile that refuses to leave his lips. The sincerity must translate well, as Ryan says nothing more, just smiles. “Did you really think I would say no ?” Shane says, a tone of a light mocking returning to his words.

“I don’t know!” Ryan laughs, as Shane takes his hand in his own. Nowhere to be, not yet, they walk through the streets until the sun sets behind the buildings, until they run out of places to go. They pass the park, finding the flowers are beginning to bloom once more, the grass starting to grow back in full force after Shane’s sparks left it patchy.

If he cared to look any closer, Shane thinks there’d be a metaphor in there somewhere. But he doesn’t care, not anymore, not with Ryan’s hand in his own. In the week ahead, he knows things will change drastically. He'll be forced into a new life, into a training room, into a task force, into countless board meetings. But right now, as they wander aimlessly through the streets of the city, the same city that used to be out to get him, Shane feels a wave of calm wash over him, the first sign of peace.

For the first time in his life, Shane thinks things might, maybe, just maybe, turn out to be okay.