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Mask donned, Tommy fades into the shadows.
The sun is setting, dusk brushing the edges of clouds, but Mnemosyne’s just getting started. Hands uncovered but with the rest of his skin not allowed to feel the cool air, Mnemosyne embarks, keeping to the darkness lingering by the buildings.
Mnemosyne stalks the streets, fleeting touches here and there as he stops criminals without violence. It’s one of the best things about this job—he doesn’t have to hide injuries in the morning.
A man pressing another man against a wall, rummaging slimy fingers in the victim’s pockets forget who he was and his purpose.
Two masked individuals robbing the house of a sleeping mother and child pull off their facial coverings and forget where their homes are.
A young artist, graffitiing the side of a coffee shop, forgets what she was painting, and returns home.
Mnemosyne revels in his power, the way people stumble about like clueless faun. It may be cruel, wiping one’s mind clean, but Mnemosyne feels it is justified to clean the slate of the wicked.
There’s a drug deal taking place in an abandoned warehouse, and Mnemosyne can dissolve the conflict before anyone gets hurt for good.
Mnemosyne descends into the darkness, and Tommy grins sharp teeth at the wide eyes begging for mercy.
Wilbur is watching the news, and he leans back in his chair, frustrated.
Mnemosyne, the vigilante—although Wilbur considers him more of a villain—was captured for the first time on cameras last night, black clothing covering everything except for pale fingers. It’s unassuming, except Wilbur knows the true power thrumming in those fingertips.
He’s experienced the loss of memory himself.
10 months ago, on patrol as Pan with his pipes of reeds tucked near his chest, Wilbur had the unfortunate luck of intruding on a fight between Mnemosyne and the Syndicate: Demeter, Cerberus, and Aeacus.
The only efficient member was Demeter, her plants growing from feet away and wrapping around Mnemosyne’s ankles. Cerberus’ physical prowess and Aeacus’ touch of death are useless against Mnemosyne.
And Wilbur never should’ve gotten involved.
Now, ten months after having his entire existence removed, Wilbur’s researching the cause of his lost memory. He’ll get revenge on the vigilante if it’s the last thing he does.
His Hero watch beeps, and Wilbur’s eyebrows shoot up. It’s Mnemosyne, seen on the streets by a civilian that happened to get away. Wilbur’s surprised, usually civilians keep away from Mnemosyne to avoid losing their memories, whoever reported the vigilante deserves a badge of courage at this point.
Wilbur places the mask over his eyes, mouth left uncovered so he can play his reed pipes. At least he was already in his hero gear, and his watch tracks the location of the report.
He shifts his mindset to Pan, the hero that plays reeds of pipes to influence minds to help the greater good. If he can intercept Mnemosyne on time, he could use his ability to finally arrest the vigilante and make the streets safer for everyone.
On a hoverbike, Wilbur leaves the hero tower. It’s a short ride to the beeping location, and street lights barely flicker on in front of him. It’s late at night, so Wilbur didn’t really expect to be able to see, but that’s what the night vision enchantment in his mask is for.
The location sends him to the warehouse Mnemosyne was recorded at from the night before. Wary, Wilbur shuts off the hoverbike and creeps around the building, peering around crumbled brick.
There’s a single light flickering from a broken lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Debris and rubble cover the floor—the warehouse was the main fighting zone for a large superhuman fight a few years back—and overturned crates create natural hiding places.
Mnemosyne could be anywhere—and that’s if he hadn’t already left the area.
Wilbur licks his lips, flicking his wrist so the built in flashlight shines in front of him. It chases the dark shadows away, illuminating dust and particles in the air.
“Pan,” a voice says from behind him, a cold hand pressing against the exposed skin of his jawline.
Wilbur slightly jumps, trying to relax his beating heart. He can’t lose his memories again, not this soon after the first time.
“If you want to keep your memories, don’t say a word,” Mnemosyne hisses in his ear. Childishly, Wilbur is amused by the fact that he has to be pulled down for Mnemosyne to talk to him. But Wilbur is more terrified by the touch of what is almost death pressing down on his neck.
Mnemosyne walks his body into the light, deftly removing the reed pipes from his waist and fastening Wilbur’s ankles and arms to a metal chair. It’s the classic “kidnapping a hero and torturing them” method, and Wilbur would snort if he wasn’t being threatened.
The vigilante stands in front of him, arms crossed. Wilbur can see multiple knives strapped along his body, and he raises an eyebrow when Mnemosyne settles his eyes on him. It makes Wilbur wish he could see the vigilante’s entire face, but the mask covers everything except for sky blue eyes.
“What?” Wilbur asks with a death wish. Really, he’s just trying to hide the pounding fear tracing through every bone in his body. “Mnemosyne.”
Mnemosyne shakes his head. “Stop following me,” he says, straight to the point. Wilbur gives a short laugh, lightly tugging on the bindings on his wrists.
Mnemosyne shifts his stance, dropping his bare hands to his sides. It’s a silent standoff, er, well sit off since Wilbur’s fastened to the seat.
“I didn’t do anything,” Mnemosyne finally says, “stop trying to find me, Pan.” Mnemosyne looks off to the side, “I’m trying to help people.”
A snort does escape Wilbur this time, “help people? All you do is strip them of themselves.” Wilbur chuckles, low. “And you did it to me.”
If Wilbur could see Mnemosyne’s face, he would see frowning. It’s evident in the vigilante’s eyes anyways. “I’ve never fuckin' touched you before, Pan, I don’t know where you got that idea from.”
Wilbur hates the condescending tone, hates how Mnemosyne drips apathy like he bathes in it. “Yes you did!” Wilbur’s voice rises. “Ten months ago, fighting against the Syndicate.”
“Huh?” Mnemosyne’s head jolts back a little bit, and he rubs his head. “Oh. Oh shit.”
“Yeah oh shit,” Wilbur snarls. “Even without what you did to me, you still do it to tens of people every night. Still ruin hundreds of peoples' lives.”
Mnemosyne tilts his head to the side, unbothered. “And? I’m helping people. Even if they have to forget everything about themselves.”
“You—” Wilbur’s nostrils flare, and a hot, fiery ball of fire rises in his chest and threatens to explode when the doors to the warehouse slam open.
It’s Cerberus wielding twin swords and Aeacus with wings spread wide. Wilbur can see the moment they realize Mnemosyne is here as well, with the way Aeacus’ wings lower miniscule and Cerberus’ steps falter almost unnoticeably.
It seems like Mnemosyne doesn’t like this predicament either, and he kicks Wilbur’s reed pipe—a fighting chance against the villains—to his feet, turning and sprinting away.
Wilbur expects the vigilante to escape, like how he normally does, when rope swings wide and wraps around his body, pinning his arms against his body. Wilbur whips his head around to Cerberus’ outstretched hand, an empty gun in it.
“Dionysus, are you okay?” Aeacus asks him, and Wilbur’s confused.
“Who’s Dionysus?”
This is not what Tommy had in mind tonight.
He had ventured out as Mnemosyne with the end goal of threatening Pan into giving up and making a few rounds around the city blocks before resting, not to be tied up with his only reliable weapons pinned under him.
This is definitely not the ideal situation.
Tommy rolls onto his back, struggling to sit up. He’s surprised when he’s met with the sight of Aeacus leaning gingerly over the malicious Pan, and not as shocked to see Cerberus stalking over to him, putting the rope gun into a holster at his side.
Wiggling, Tommy tries to twist his wrist enough to grab one of the knives on his side. He’s still trying to maneuver his body when a shadow casts over him. Slowly, carefully, Tommy trails his eyes up, and is greeted with Cerberus’ blood red eyes.
“What.” Tommy snaps, like a downed wolf nipping at its predator’s ankles. “Let me go.” He struggles some more, and he can almost imagine the ropes slipping off of him.
Cerberus bends at the knees and grabs the top of Tommy’s head, tilting his head so that they’re eyes meet. Tommy tries to tear his head out of Cerberus’ hands, but it proves futile, especially against the villain’s super strength.
This is the first time Cerberus has touched Tommy.
“Got him?” It’s Aeacus, dragging Pan behind him. Pan is thrashing against Aeacus, which is stupid in itself considering Aeacus’ complelty lethal touch, but it looks like Pan has been captured as well.
“Yep,” Cerberus says, deep voice reverberating in Tommy’s bones. Cerberus picks Tommy up, wary of Tommy’s fingers straining for any skin on skin contact. He’s placed in the metal chair Pan was held in before, the same bindings being wrapped around his own limbs. Hell, they even put an extra binding on his arms.
“Just fuckin’ let me go, you bitches,” Tommy threatens, lunging out of the chair with no results.
Pan chortles, “this seems similar doesn’t it.” Pan is barely being held, Cerberus and Aeacus lightly holding his wrists.
“Do you remember Dionysus, Mnemosyne,” Aeacus asks, all business.
“No?” Tommy says, thinking. Why would he remember–
Oh.
“Yes you do,” Aeacus says, biting, “because you wiped his memories ten months ago.”
Pan’s mouth drops open, “wait. You called me Dionysus.”
Cerberus snorts, “duh. You are him, and Mnemosyne here erased your mind ten months ago.” Cerberus glares at Tommy, and Tommy would shrug if he was able to. Erasing people’s minds is a part of his job; Pan, er, Dionysus just received the short stick.
“Can you reverse it?” Aeacus asks, and Tommy snorts, cracking his neck.
Dionysus looks hopeful. Sucker. “Nope.” Tommy pops his lips. “I’ve already tested that before.”
Cerberus inhales hard, turning to Aeacus. “We should just kill him.”
Tommy short circuits. “Shit? What no!” He honestly should expect this from the villains, knowing that they’re not the most moral people in the world.
At least Dionysus—should Tommy call him Dionysus or Pan, actually—agrees, waving his arms in front of him. “We can’t just kill him.”
“Why not,” Aeacus says blandly, “don’t you want revenge on him anyways? Plus,” Aeacus’ piercing blue eyes bore into Tommy’s, “he’s a bit in the way.”
“Bitch,” Tommy bites, pulling against the bindings. He’s not going anywhere.
“I mean…” Dionysus says, rubbing his neck with his hand. “We could try to get information about him? About–about my memory loss?”
“But he said that he can’t reverse the effects,” Cerberus says, leaning on his swords. This is so unfair to Tommy, to sit here while they discuss his death.
“I could help you,” Tommy interjects. Three eyes stare at him, and his face flushes—not that they can see it anyways. “Uh, I’m–a little birdy told me that I hurt people more than I help.”
“That was literally me.” Dionysus goes ignored.
Cerberus and Aeacus share a look, and Tommy shifts. His ass is getting really sore—he’s not used to sitting for this long and instead going out and stopping criminals.
The Syndicate leaders nod, and it seems Tommy’s officially a villain.