Chapter Text
The first time Logan saw them, he thought he was hallucinating from blood-loss.
They looked familiar in a way that would have figuratively caused an itch in Logan's head if he wasn't fighting to stay conscious from blood-loss. As it was, he didn't even have the motivation to stay quiet so that a person of ambiguous moral inclinations might not find him and finish him off.
Logan groaned. The person froze, and then spun to face him, their cape—no, cloak—fluttering.
Their eyes widened behind the snake mask almost comically before their mouth, half visible, settled into a smirk.
"Well, well, isn't this—"
Logan couldn't help it—he groaned. It was partially because of the pain, partially because he did not have it in him to listen to someone he was increasingly becoming sure was a supervillain give a cliche supervillain speech.
The person chuckled, "I suppose that sentence is a bit tedious." Walking towards him, they crouched by his side. Logan tried to scuttle back, but hissed as blinding pain shot through his side.
Ha. Shot through his side. Morality would like that one.
He must be truly delirious.
"My, my," the person in the yellow mask said, staring at the blood on his costume, "that probably hurt."
Logan resisted the urge to glare at them.
He wondered what they were gonna do. Were they here to finish him off? Worse, were they going to pull off his mask and reveal his identity?
Logan knew his identity was precious. He had fought tooth and nail to hide it from the world, and even his fellow superheroes, Prince, Morality and Anxiety didn't know who he was. If this person, whoever they were, pulled off his mask, they would have the ultimate leverage over him.
Or maybe they would help him? Provide him with the first-aid they required?
They did none of those things.
Instead, they stood up and dusted off their cloak.
"Well, I should get going," they said, as if he wasn't bleeding out on the floor, "Good luck on…surviving and stuff. Nice meeting you, Logic."
They turned.
This time, Logan genuinely hadn't meant to groan. It was just that, by his calculations, if he didn't stop the bleeding from his stupid gunshot wound in the next two minutes, bad things would happen to him. Like, for instance, death.
The person paused. Sighed.
"Fine," they said in that weirdly familiar way, looking at the sky as if it had personally offended them. Before Logan could comprehend what was happening, something hit him in the chest. For a moment, he couldn't breathe through the pain, but as it subsided, his fingers curled around something soft.
"Staunch the bleeding," they said, waving their hand, then muttered low enough that Logan could barely hear, "This is gonna bite me in the ass."
Now cloak-less, they turned to go again.
"...name?" Logan managed to grit out as he tried to follow the directions. Or direction, singular, he supposed.
They pause yet again.
Muttered, "Might as well."
Turned, tipped their hat so that a bit of their brown hair tumbled out, then bowed, the rest of it falling forward.
"Deceit, at your service."
And then, faster than Logan process, they turned back and vanished into the afternoon sky.
Logan pressed the cloak against his wound as he waited for someone to find him. Later, he would think, spandex wasn't as practical as he had thought. He would also wonder why Deceit chose the uniform—costume, he reminded himself, he was probably a supervillain—that he chose.
Right then though, he only thought, Deceit's hair looked soft.
He thought he saw the red of Prince's uniform.
Logan Sanders passed out.