Chapter Text
The crime analytics department had a pyramid when it came to supes and how to deal with them, should they ever wander into your workplace.
The first tier were the nice ones: Starlight, Fyro, and pretty much the entirety of the Super-Duper squad. These people were the least likely to kill you if you manage to piss them off. They'd even joke around with you on a good day. Auntie Sis had even given you a piece of candy once. It was stale, probably long passed it's expiration date, but it was the thought that counts.
The second tier were the grumpy, but mostly harmless ones consisting of: Giggles, and Queen Maeve. Again, first-degree murder was a pretty slim chance, but they were strong enough to obliterate you unintentionally. It was best to quickly deal with their task, and send them on their way. No small talk allowed.
The third tier started to get a lot more dangerous with: A-Train, the Deep, and the rest of the Supes. Not nice, not kind, not even kind of decent. They were extremely intitled and spoiled. Temper tantrums were always on the table. They were like toddlers, if toddlers were full grown men who were bulletproof and had the ability to crush your skull like an egg. Or, in case of the Deep, you could get blacklisted from every body of water. Scary, and had enough influence to get a lowly computer engineer fired if you even looked at them for too long.
Fourth tier was the one and only Homelander. Very quickly you learned the man wasn't really a big fan of anyone that didn't worship him immediately. Though you never fully expected him to pull out the laser eyes, there were sometimes where he'd grow silent when someone said something he didn't like. And that stare, completely devoid of any mirth. You felt bad he almost always went to Anika, but grateful nonetheless.
There shouldn't be someone above him, but there was, the most unsettling of them all.
Black Noir.
Before getting this job, you made fun of his name quite a few times. The french definitely must've gotten a kick out of it. It was also a little cheesy. It reminded you of something a middle schooler would chose. Edgy, dark.
Now, you're too terrified to judge him.
He's behind you before you even realize it. You only notice him when you feel a prickle on the back of your neck. Still, you manage to plaster a customer-service smile on your face before you face him. Noir's wearing the same thing he usually does. That menacing black suit, very true to his name.
"Hello," You force yourself to say, "How can I help you?"
He opens up a sheet of paper, with a prepared line. Despite how little he speaks, it's still a surprise how messy his handwriting is. Perhaps, messy isn't really the right word. Violent, suits the style a bit more. Bold letters, almost glaring back at you.
CARLA FRETTS
You look at the name. It's unfamiliar.
"Do-do you want me to find her?" You ask hesitantly.
He doesn't say anything, you take it as a yes.
Relieved to turn away, you tap away at your computer. Despite you trying your best with the little amount of information, Black Noir decides you're not being fast enough. There's a slight weight on your chair, a pressure as gloved black hands balance themselves on your armrest. You can feel his head inches above yours as he surveys your screen. You can't hear him breathe, despite how close you are to him, you don't know whether that gives you relief or even more unease.
Fretts was a rich English woman. With what you could gather she was a sponsor of Vought overseas. Age 64, had a habit of collecting jewelry. You're not really sure what she did but if Vought's sending Noir to deal with her....it definitely wasn't going to end well.
"Um, it says she was last seen in Norway...Alesund. The port town." You add after another beat of silence.
You're not quite sure how narrowing his search by a city will help him, but that seems to be the end of his silent reign of terror. The weight of him is gone, and you catch your sigh of relief. However, Despite the space he gives you, he still hasn't budged from his spot.
Morbidly curious, you hesitantly lift your eyes to his mask. He's staring at something on your desk, at least, you think he is. Oh, you spot the thing that caught his eye. It's was a ballerina figurine, incased in a resin cube. You got it from the dollar store, just to spruce up your space a bit.
Does he want it? Or is he just admiring it. Maybe it's neither and he thinks it's ugly, but not enough to insult you over. You really can't tell with that mask of his but the silence is so crushing and you really just want him to leave.
"You can have it if you want." You finally say.
His 'gaze' snaps back to you and a chill runs down your spine. You suddenly feel cornered, like a stupid mouse thinking the cat is anything but hungry. He doesn't move and you know you've done something wrong and he's now debating how to slice your head off without getting blood on his suit.
A single hand reaches out and grasps the figurine. Noir picks up the ballerina, making it disappear in his many pockets. You don't say a word, watching as he pats the pocket twice before menacingly prowling away. You take your first real breath when you're sure he's gone, out of this stuffy room, and far away from you.
Maybe, tomorrow you'd take that day off Barbs was talking about.
Sometimes the ethical dilemma of your job really catches up to you.
You knew what you signed up for. The countless interviews you took to even be considered as a candidate for Vought. It wasn't a decision you made lightly, but it was, however, covered in a lot of glitter. You paid too much attention to 'making a difference', 'fighting crime in the shadows', 'be a hero in your own way' to read the fine print.
For example, you just sent Carla Fretts to her death.
Indirectly, but you definitely played a big part in it. Despite the glamour the Supes have, everyone in your department knows that whenever Black Noir is dispatched, there was always going to be a bloodpath. He's quick, efficient. There's no negotiating with him.
Your job definitely isn't very virtuous, but it doesn't bother you as much anymore. Your stomach hardened, and your sense of morality weakened. It also probably had to do with the great salary you got, as well as the benefits.
The reason why you were thinking about Carla was because her collection popped up when you were mindlessly scrolling. She was a jewelry collector. There was some old segment about what sort of stuff she carried. Each piece was beautiful, but a bit tacky. Most were gaudy too, necklaces covered in way too many rubies and diamonds. Clearly they were 20 years off from current fashion trends, meant as only antiques.
The only piece that could even be defined as wearable was the simple silver chain bracelet with a single teardrop amethyst. It was the prettiest piece of jewelry you'd ever seen. You spent a few minutes online searching if you could find anything close to the design, only to find nothing.
Rich people always get to the nice things first, don't they?
Carla Fretts left your mind sometime after lunch, around the same time one of the speedster supes berated one of your co-workers to tears. You found her a few minutes later in the bathroom, trying to muffle her sobs.
"Thanks," Mani sighs as you hand her another napkin. You'd brought a bundle with you, knowing it'd come in handy.
"Don't worry about it," You say, "Just try to calm down."
She nods before blowing her nose.
"I know I-I shouldn't take it to heart," She blubbers, "But-fuck- why was he so-so-" When she doesn't finish her sentence, you nod in understanding.
You felt bad for her. Mani was your junior, meaning she had to deal with the novice heroes. You remembered those days, where'd they'd say the meanest shit they could think of. Just because they merely could, and the 'tech geeks' (their words not yours) would have to take it. In terms of tiers, you'd place them on 1.5, all bark but no bite. But holy shit their bite hurt.
It was like highschool bullying, except you get paid.
"It was really out of line," You tell her apologetically, "He went too far. I'm so sorry."
She gives a sniff, shaking her head.
"They-they really don't see us as people, do they?" She starts, looking down at the tear filled napkin.
"Like-like we don't even speak the same language as them. Like we're pets." She crumples the napkin with her fingers, chucking across the title floor.
Pets. That struck something deep within you. Was pets even the right word? Pests were a bit more accurate. Supes didn't care, most just did the hero stuff for the fame and money. Except for a few, you haven't really seen any that actually have their heart in it.
It's not like you have your heart in it either. At this point, all what kept you from leaving the company entirely was the money. You'd forgotten what you've even come here for.
"I mean there's one upside to all this, right?" You tell her.
She looks at you expectedly.
"After you clock out, it's over."
She tries to give a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. You understand. When you first heard that, it didn't really help that much either.
The parking lot felt a lot sinister at night.
This was definitely your fault. You stayed in for too long, wanting to finish up the last stage of that project. Not worth it. There were only a few cars left by the time you left the building. The underground parking lot just made everything worse. It was so dark, the only things you could make out were the silhouette of vehicles.
It also didn't help that all you could hear were your echoing footsteps. It made you feel isolated, but at the same time, watched. You felt too out in the open, vulnerable to any attack. The fact that there could be someone out there just watching you, listening to your clumsy heels click-clacking on the wet floor.
Your phone provided some relief. It made you ignore the unease you felt. You forced yourself to focus on the artificial screen, scrolling through your feed as you walked towards your car. At most it gives a false sense of security, though you don't really have much to be scared of. The only real threat that's out here was probably some roach crawling on the floor.
Work started and ended the same as always. Mani managed to calm down enough to go back to her station. You two only got a light reprimand from Barbs, who mostly knew about the scenario. After that, it was back to business; receiving calls from numerous supes, collecting data, whatever that you were assigned to really.
What Mani said never seemed to leave you mind. Pets. Inhuman. In her own way, she was right. Most supes were just powerful celebrities, able to walk all over those they deem below them. Maybe once, a long time ago, they'd come into Vought, bright-eyed, ready to save people. But now? Now, they're empty husks of what they used to be, fully dependent on audience perception and money.
You finally reach your car, shuffling around for your keys. Maybe you should quit, just turn in your two weeks and be done with it. There's nothing really here anymore. Money is one thing, but your satisfaction for it won't last forever. And it's not like you were trapped here. Ex-Vought employees were pinned after, and experience from the Crime analytics department would give you an edge. Anything would beat just being plain abused like this.
There's a crash, the sudden sound of glass breaking. Your keys nearly fly out of your grasp as you whip around.
It's Black Noir. In the sparse light you can see that he'd landed on a lone car, crushing it completely. Shards of glass were scattered all around the floor. The hazard lights frantically blinking give you quick moments of his figure staring rigidly back at you.
...He looks angry.
With minimal effort, he jumps off the totaled car. You flinch. He's only 20 feet from you, but he's slowing down his steps. To mock you, you're sure of it. He's trying to prolong this-this torture.
Oh, you finally seem to realize. He's here to kill you, isn't he? The casualness of the thought surprises you. Your own murder, preformed by someone you worked with. But it's the only explanation. Maybe you'd given him the wrong info about Carla. Maybe it's nothing personal, but Vought's suddenly decided you know too much. It seemed your two weeks would be written in blood and a corpse.
He stops when he's inches away. You made no move to run, perhaps it's because you're too scared, or maybe your brain's realized that it's futile to even try. Despite your lack of instincts, you still unconsciously press yourself against your car, trying to create distance. It doesn't work, he just moves closer and then you're really trapped.
You don't say anything. He doesn't either. At first, you think to apologize, maybe even beg, but your brain's completely shut down. Numb.
Noir's reaching behind his suit. You expect him to pull out a knife, a gun, maybe even a chainsaw if he was feeling particularly artsy.
The thin chain surprises you.
A small 'Oh' escapes you when he dangles a small bracelet above your head. You can't see much, but it looks simple, elegant. When you don't move, he tilts his head, jerking the chain closer.
"You-you want me to have it?" You ask, dubiously.
He nods, the first active attempt of communication that wasn't furiously written on paper.
Hesitantly, you reach out, grasping the bracelet with wary fingers. His own hand drops to his side. He still doesn't leave, as if waiting for something else.
"It's...very pretty," You murmur, "Thank you."
He makes no noise, there's no gesture you can see to tell that he heard, but he's finally pulling away, giving you room to breathe again. You watch as he stomps back to the way he came from, disappearing into the night.
Your brain doesn't process what happened until you're home, halfway into bed. Then, you're laughing, small giggles of disbelief when your mind starts to put the pieces together.
A cold murderer had just given you a gift. A fucking bracelet, of all things. There was a joke in there somewhere, and if you were thinking clearly, you'd find it.
You hadn't looked at the thing ever since he handed it to you, slightly scared you'd imagined it all. Slowly, you raise the jewelry out in the dim lamplight. It twinkles eerily back at you. There's a small purple jewel, hanging loosely from the chain.
Oddly enough, it looks at bit familiar.