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Scar thought he knew what he was signing up for when he became a hero.
Ever since he was a kid, everyone and their mother would talk about the dangers of being well-known. Whenever a public figure was involved in any sort of scandal, it would be discussed extensively at the dinner table, with the general consensus being that, had they not put their business on display, there wouldn't even be a scandal. In 2nd grade they had to write a mini-essay on why fame and money did not bring happiness. In 4th grade they had to make a presentation about a famous person who ended up regretting becoming famous. Somewhere during university, Scar joined Twitter.
He knew about the dangers of being famous, and he thought he knew what he would experience as a public figure.
He was wrong.
Nothing could have prepared him for what came after the initial high of the first few years of being a hero. For the burnout, for having had his soul almost entirely sucked out of him by the time he hit the five-year mark. For the daily cuts and bruises, the bags under his eyes and the slow, painful realisation that all his wasted blood and breath meant absolutely nothing.
For the contradiction of being incredibly famous, yet completely unknown.
Scar can't remember the last time he slept for more than 7 hours, or had a proper meal, or looked in the mirror without seeing a masked figure in a skin-tight suit.
He can't remember the last time he talked to someone without his persona hanging over him like an omnipresent, looming shadow.
Scar knew, of course, that being a hero would be time-consuming and physically demanding and maybe demoralising at times—but he thought it'd be worth it. He imagined police cars and apprehended criminals and getting there in the nick of time, saving lives and receiving gratitude and never needing it in the end, because all he ever wanted in life was to be good.
Scar wanted to do good.
He hasn't felt like a good person in a long time.
Scar wonders at what point in time doing good things stopped being a deep, intrinsic goal and became a chore.
Maybe it was the first time he saved the wrong kind of person and got chewed out and almost fired. Maybe when it finally sunk in just how corrupt the organisation truly was. Maybe when his only goal in life became to survive until the next day, and then the day after that.
Maybe it was realising just how pointless everything he does truly is.
Scar can take as many bruises as he can handle, he can get injured over and over again, cover his body in more and more scars—and none of it will ever be anything more than another article, another post, another story. He can try all he wants to matter to someone, but he'll never be more than a name in a history book and a lesson on wrong and right.
He can rip himself apart for their enjoyment, but the closest he will ever get to being a person is if he becomes a tragedy.
He hates being Hotguy.
And the worst part is, at this point in time, Scar doesn't think he knows how to be anything else.
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When the whispers start, it feels like drowning over and over again. It feels like accepting without a sliver of a doubt that everything that has led up to this point, your entire existence, has been completely and utterly useless. It feels like why and what did I do and haven't I given up enough?
Because when you spend a decade surviving from fight to fight, from patrol to patrol, you learn to cherish the little things. The smiles, the gestures of appreciation, the acknowledgement. It's the only way to stay sane when you don't even know who you are or why you're doing what you're doing.
When Scar realised that nothing he did ever truly mattered, knowing that at least his pathetic shell of a persona managed to put a smile on someone's face was the one thing that helped.
And now, now it turns out that he's incapable of even that, that he's wrung himself dry of everything and still, nobody cares.
This job has taken everything from him—his blood, his breath, his life. He gave up his sense of self to make them feel at least an illusion of safety, and it was all for nothing. Scar did everything right and he's unwanted, anyway.
He doesn't know what he did. Where he went wrong, what about him is so horribly out of place that is making them talk about him behind his back—as though he can't hear it. As though he isn't still beaten and bloody and fighting to stay conscious when even his boss threatens to fire him for the things they're accusing him of—like he can even help what the internet says about him.
Scar is exhausted as it is, and he still stays up night after night wondering why his age makes a difference, or why public opinion matters more than his villain count. How it happened that he dedicated his whole life to making his city a better place, and ended up the most hated hero after all.
Why he let his personality slip away, when it was all for nothing.
It hurts because if people no longer like him, then not only was it all for nothing, but he himself is nothing. All his friends left him when he became a hero, and he can't make new ones because it's impossible to sustain a proper relationship when you're constantly disappearing at odd times and cancelling meetings without a reasonable excuse as to why. And if he can't even make himself appealing to people who don't know him—
Then the only reasonable explanation is that he's the problem, and he's a defect, and nothing he does will ever be enough.
Scar is sad, and he's alone, and he's afraid, and he understands now, more than ever, that not only would no one hold his hand if they knew, but they would laugh and cheer as he burns in his internal fire, no longer a tragedy, but a tale of a stain on humanity getting what he deserves.
He's tired, and he doesn't see himself ever getting better.
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Scar locks the standard-issue handcuffs over the criminal's wrists and manhandles them into the police vehicle, ignoring their protests. He steps back and leans heavily against the wall of the building he just saved from being set on fire, body trembling and sweating. He feels cold and hot at the same time, the product of not having slept or eaten for over 24 hours, and his eyes keep slipping shut, like he's one step away from falling over.
He groans when he sees the gathering crowd of people, some of them with cameras and fancy equipment, and his eyes prickle with frustration. He's probably sick and he just wants to go home and sleep it off, but he knows that his position in the organisation hinges on him attending every single one of these stupid interviews.
At that Scar sighs and pushes himself off the wall, preparing for the onslaught of negativity that he's about to experience. He tries to smile as he approaches the reporters, but his face muscles are apparently just as worn out as every other muscle in his body, as it immediately slides off his face. He hopes they don't notice, but at this point, he doesn't care anymore.
"—live here at the scene of the crime with famous hero Hotguy. Hotguy, tell us, how are you feeling?"
Scar shrugs and mumbles, "Like every other day, I suppose."
"What was that?"
He clears his throat. "Um, yeah—fine. Yeah."
"You don't mind telling us a bit more about the battle, do you?"
I do mind, Scar thinks viciously. He doesn't say anything.
"Right, now, would you say this villain was a difficult one?"
Scar snorts, "Well, I wouldn't call a kid with daddy issues and a thirst for arson a villain."
The reporters trade glances, then the first one whispers something into the second one's ear. The second one nods and pushes themself to the forefront.
"Right, and you feel comfortable dismissing a clearly struggling person in this way?"
Scar can't help but tilt his head and open his mouth in a questioning expression. Are they serious?
"I—I'm not a therapist," he stutters out, exhaling an incredulous laugh. What on earth?
The reporter does not relent, "Hotguy, what do you know about the general public's opinion on you?"
Scar sneaks a peek at his watch. His work day ended four minutes ago. He wants to cry. He's tired. He just wants to go home.
"That they think I'm rude and cocky and too old for the job?" He scoffs, "Yeah, maybe once I don't have the highest villain count in the city, then I'll listen to that crap."
The mass surrounding him gasps at his proclamation and suddenly the volume rises by a thousand, people speaking over each other, everybody fighting to get closer, to watch him, to see what else he has to say. Scar feels a stab of pain in his forehead and stumbles backwards, clutching momentarily at his temples and hissing as the throbbing somewhat dwindles in intensity.
The crowd is still swarming him, a cacophony of voices and clicking cameras, yelling out statements and questions he can't even begin to answer, such as We don't need a hero who only cares about the fame and You're preventing better heroes from rising to the task and Why don't you just go?
"Shut—up," Scar grunts, hiding his face in his hands. His head feels like someone is beating nails into the inside of his skull and the camera lights are way too bright and he just needs to get away, to escape the noise.
They keep advancing, and Scar can hardly catch his breath, and there's so much yelling, and someone shouting, How can we trust you to protect us? and—
Everything stills. Scar raises his head from his hands and stares.
"What?" he asks softly, barely audible over the hum of the crowd. Instantly, silence falls, the group clearly interested in what he has to say.
With his eyes, Scar finds the person who asked the last question. They've got a jean jacket with pins embedded into every available surface, they're wearing Converse with sharpie doodles all over them and their wrists are covered in bracelets—they look like a genuine person. All this time, Scar's been hearing whispers, watching the news, reading articles and nasty posts on the internet—but this is a real person. It's one thing when a crowd's opinion of you isn't the greatest, but this—it's proof that making up this crowd are people, individual people whom he's somehow wronged.
And once again, Scar wonders—what did he do? What about him is so awful that this person—this random stranger with their own life and personality and passions and interests—seems to harbour such a strong dislike towards him? What makes him so easy to hate for so little reason? What did he do?
Breathless and still scarcely above a whisper, Scar asks the person again, "Is this what you really think of me?"
His eyes rove over the people surrounding him.
"Do I—does everything—everything I do—really mean that little to you?"
Someone tries to interject, but Scar raises his voice slightly and continues, "I put—I put night and day into this. And I don't—it's not like anyone's forcing me to—I have a degree. But I choose—I choose to do this. Does that not mean anything to you?"
He laughs humourlessly and drags a hand down his face.
"It's not like—I'm not asking for your thanks or anything. That's not why I'm doing this. But—do I not deserve recognition? Do I not at least deserve not to be talked about behind my back? Treated like I'm—like I'm some kind of monster, for simply trying to help?"
Scar's tone quickens.
"Do none of you care at all? Almost every scar I've gotten has been from a villain. I put my life on the line for you, I'm getting hurt every day, I barely sleep or eat, I have no life at all outside of this, and that's supposed to mean nothing? I'm tired constantly, I want out, I want this to be over, but I continue to endure—for you—and this is the thanks I get?" His voice breaks, "Do none of you care?!"
Warm droplets start to roll down his cheeks.
"I am a person! I've given up everything for this! Everything! WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT?!" he screams, gesturing wildly, staggering backwards in an attempt to distance himself from the reporters speaking quickly into their microphones and the people watching him, captivated by his insanity but ultimately indifferent. "WHAT MORE DO I NEED TO DO, WHAT PART OF MYSELF DO I NEED TO GIVE UP TO MATTER?! WHEN IS IT MY TURN TO MATTER?!"
Scar presses his hands to his cheeks and sways on his feet, throat tearing as he inhales—a ragged, high-pitched, whining sound. He's going to die; he must be dying, there's no other explanation for the crushing agony he's feeling, the torturous ache in his head as if it's about to cave in, the overwhelming urge to do something, anything, to just make it stop.
Someone approaches him and Scar strikes instinctively, crying out when his arms meet their mark.
"GET AWAY FROM ME!" he yells, shoving the person who tried to touch him. He sees the others begin to back up and starts laughing, hysterical and loud.
"OH, YOU'RE SCARED?! I'LL GIVE YOU A REASON TO BE SCARED!"
Scar inhales and screams wordlessly, laughing even harder when he sees the fear on the people's faces, the quiver in someone's hand as they reach for their phone.
"I'M NOT ENOUGH?!" he shrieks, advancing on the crowd, pulling at his hair until it feels like it's about to rip out of his skin. "I DO EVERYTHING FOR THIS CITY! AND I'M STILL NOT ENOUGH?!"
Scar pulls off his visor and throws it against the ground, cracking the screen.
"I QUIT!"
He tries to push past the crowds, but they keep on surrounding him, cameras flashing, voices talking over each other, microphones shoved in front of his mouth—
It's too much. Scar crouches down and curls into a ball, hiding his face from the blazing lights and the incessant noise.
"Just fucking leave me alone," he whimpers, and he's never sworn before, has never presented himself as anything but calm and content, but he can't take this anymore. He's been going through this for years and he's exhausted and he just screamed at a bunch of people for no reason, he's totally out of control, sobbing into his knees on live TV, pathetically rocking back and forth and wishing that they all would just shut up shut up stop bothering him go away go away go AWAY—
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"You understand that after that spectacle, there's no way you're keeping your job?"
"Yes."
"And you understand that we're not going to waste any resources on your protection."
"Yes, I understand," Scar hisses through gritted teeth. He's standing in front of his boss's desk, head hung low, hands clasped behind his back—the same way he's been standing for the past hour as his boss raged and yelled at him for daring to be a real person with real feelings.
His boss cocks his head, his gaze strangely curious. Scar looks at the tile pattern to his right to avoid looking him in the eyes.
The corner of his boss's mouth lifts up in a derisive smirk. "You have 5 minutes to get rid of every trace of your existence."
Scar sets his shoulders and walks straight past his chair to the file cabinet. He runs his fingers over the bindings until he finds his file and then demonstratively rips the contents into little pieces, which he then dumps on his boss's desk.
He yanks his hood up and walks out of the office without another word.
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He supposes he should be feeling a kind of freedom. After all, he no longer has to be a tragedy. He can just be Scar.
Hotguy was nothing like him. But now that he's gone, Scar can't help but ask himself—
Is there anything left?
(In the dim light of the moon, Scar sits down on his bed and unfolds a photograph—creased and torn at the edges, signed with a heart on the back. Depicted on the front is a young man, hair not yet pulled into a bun, face unmarred and smiling. He looks happy; he looks alive.
As salty rivers make the ink run, Scar wonders what went wrong. How does one start out so full of life, but end up so unsatisfied?)
(All Scar ever wanted was to do good.)