Chapter Text
This is absolutely not how Wilbur wanted tonight to go. But whatever, he can work with it.
“Why no banter? Cat got your tongue, Monarch?” Wilbur laughs at his own joke, because, hey, no one else is going to. Monarch can’t even hear him, because heroes like to ruin all the fun by wearing earplugs around him. Even if they could hear him, Monarch looks like the kind of insufferably pretentious prick who doesn’t laugh at jokes.
Wilbur’s so caught up in thinking about how fucking stupid Monarch looks that he almost gets caught in the arc of their knife, and he can feel the crackle of the blade’s electricity against his skin.
“Hey, I’m right here. Watch where you swing that thing,” he says, ducking and kicking at Monarch’s calves. “You could seriously hurt someone, y’know.”
Monarch’s expression doesn’t change from serious determination. Wilbur sighs. This was so much more fun before the heroes started avoiding his power entirely.
Wilbur rolls away from Monarch and takes in the field, trying to assess an escape route. They’re on a rooftop, because Wilbur hadn’t realized the stairs would lead here (who puts stairs to the roof in an office building? Like, at least label them). If he could get Monarch off him, he could go back down the stairs, but it looks like there isn’t another way off the roof, except to a slightly lower roof with just as few exits.
Okay, this is not looking good. Monarch is still stanced up, their forearms and long knife sparking with their electrokinesis power. Even without the disabling power of their hands and the knife, Monarch has a reputation for being one of the best fighters in the city, barring people like Protesilaus who have actual combat powers. Wilbur, on the other hand— well, lifting crates at a grocery store day job only gets you so far.
Still, Wilbur smiles and beckons Monarch closer. “Scared?” he mocks. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy.” He knows Monarch can’t hear him, but his reputation for reckless arrogance is just about the only tool he has right now.
Monarch is fast. Wilbur does his best to dodge, to get back to the door, but it only takes a minute before he’s backed against the ledge to the lower roof, Monarch’s hand that doesn’t have a knife in it gripping the front of his trench coat.
“Hey, no need for violence.” Wilbur smirks and holds up his hands, halfway between a gesture of surrender and a magician showing there’s nothing up his sleeves. “We’re both adults.”
“Nightingale,” Monarch says gravely, the sound metallic through their voice changer. “Put your hands together in front of your chest. You will not resist arrest.”
“Wow, not one for dramatics, are we?” Wilbur can’t deny that he’s a little intimidated by the implicit threat, but he grew past little things like caution and survival instinct years ago. “Other people who’ve tried to arrest me have said a lot of things like ‘your reign of terror ends today’ and ‘no longer will you darken our fair streets’ before they made the, honestly, poor choice to walk off ledges of various heights.”
“I am trying to offer you an easy way out,” Monarch says, the first hint of irritation Wilbur’s ever heard from them coloring their voice. “Hands together. Where I can see them.”
Wilbur tilts his head back, making a show of his consideration. He doubts his choice makes a difference, honestly. Either way, Monarch wins this fight, Wilbur ends up left somewhere for the police with minor injuries, he talks his way out of it in the morning. At the absolute worst, he’s late to work tomorrow and has to ask someone else to unload the heaviest boxes for him.
He shrugs, shakes his head, and tucks his hands behind his back. He cocks his head to one side, daring Monarch to make the next move.
Monarch stabs him.
Wilbur’s eyes widen under his mask, and for a moment everything fuzzes out. He only barely doesn’t cry out, years of practice and learned instinct letting him just grit his teeth instead. He can feel the sharp pain spreading from where the knife is, and while it doesn’t feel like anything particularly vital is ruptured except, y’know, blood vessels, his muscles spasm from the electric current and if the knife doesn’t come out soon it might move somewhere more important.
The part of Monarch’s face that Wilbur can see is set into grim focus. This isn’t just a threat, they might actually mean this stabbing. How hurtful.
Wilbur slides a foot back and feels the low railing protecting them from the drop to the lower roof brush against the back of his knee.
Maybe there’s no way that tonight ends well for Wilbur, but he can at least make it as unpleasant for Monarch as possible, too.
Wilbur brings both shaking hands up to grab fistfuls of Monarch’s stupid red coat. He forces himself to smile, because if your brand is a horrifying disregard for human life, including your own, there’s never a bad time to play into it. Enunciating clearly enough he’s sure Monarch can read his lips, he says, “Your move, prick.”
Wilbur pushes himself backward over the railing and drags Monarch with him.