Chapter Text
Sunday mornings are always the quietest...
The faint sway of bushes and trees, maybe a gentle conversation, maybe a bird’s chirp. But it’s all quiet.
Cold morning air fills up the cars careening down the pavement. People have places to be, words are yet to be said, and everyone has everything to do, but nobody breaks the calm. Maybe they go to church or walk their dogs, or maybe there’s excitement or worry. No matter the personal lives of the populace, it’s always a sort of peaceful bliss a city finds itself in as the cool sky breathes into every nook and cranny.
Well, that’s unless you live in L’manberg.
Firm footsteps echo through the early morning sky as they hit grey, cracked cement, though it falls deaf on his heartbeat, screaming in his ears. That and the sirens following him.
He goes by in nothing but a flash of reds and yellows as he hops from building to building with unmatched grace and a carefully practised routine that makes it seem effortless. He can’t tell if the chilled morning breeze is trying to drag him down to the ground or if its filling the air beneath his feet as he flies through the air. He easily hurdles over the edges of buildings, grabbing onto out-of-place bricks, railings, and edges to scale across the city.
He bets all of MOSA would be impressed if not for the fact he messes with their plans as much as possible.
Testing his luck, he adds a bit of a spin to his jump, pulling out three colourful, chalky, spheres. The freeing sensation of warmth echoes in his palm just before he throws them behind him. It takes barely a moment for them to let out an upset hiss before the sphere erupts in an explosion of red hue behind him.
Sunday mornings are dead silent, unless you’re Tommy Innes, aka the wanted superhuman Blaze, and you're running from a team of heroes trying to get their grimy little hands on the best vigilante in the world. Well, actually they find him quite annoying. And more accurately, they hate him and think he sucks absolute balls. But Tommy doesn’t let them break his stride, or stop him from doing their job better than them. Unappreciative fuckers.
Maybe he got on their bad side today because he forced some stuck-up hero to wake up early. It’s not his fault patrol went on a little longer than he wanted it to, that robber was just so damn determined to commit a crime. Tommy would’ve respected the hustle if not for the fact it was Konoko Cafe and not some random store. He enjoys their hot chocolates a little too much and the staff is just a little too kind for him just to let it be robbed. Unlike the seafood restaurant before it. Tommy still thinks something shady went on there.
Radio crackles through the sweet, dewy, morning air as a hand desperately tries to grasp the red fabric of his hoodie. He can tell it’s not the whole force any more, but one hero he’s particularly pressed. The blast that barely misses him looks like some kind of plasma, one that seems to be just starving to melt the flesh off of his bones. Then again, maybe it isn’t that kind of power, especially with a lower-level hero. Who knows? Maybe it’s a fucking tickle spell, but Tommy isn’t going to be hit to find out.
For a man like Blaze, it’s not hard with all the hours of training and days upon days spent preparing for moments just like this. That and whoever behind him sucks.
The whizzing of blows and projectiles--while anxiety-inducing-- has almost become a familiar tune for Tommy’s adrenaline-ridden body and soot-covered ears. It’s routine, it’s comfort, it’s nostalgia, it’s home. Or the closest thing he has to one cause there's no way in hell that apartment counts as one. A quick unexpected turn is enough to send whoever the fuck is chasing him spiralling out of control.
This fucker ain’t the brightest, Tommy thinks. It only takes two more turns in the streets he practically was born in to lose the hero, or at least throw him off of his trail.
His heels feel hot with friction as he skids over to the side of an alleyway. If the heroes ever even thought to look into alleyways, chances are Tommy, and every other vigilante ever, would be done for. The red bricks that encase him in the small path almost suffocate him as Tommy jumps over piles of trash, dumpsters, and whatever else wants to be in the alleyway to get to the end of the passage. His hands grip the lid of a trash bin gently before launching him on top of it. It’s almost muscle memory as he glides from wall to wall and on top of the roof. With one more quick look behind him, Tommy relaxes with a sigh.
It's almost relaxing, sitting up there with his back to the sky and his eyes open to the heart of the city as he's tucked away in the corner of the town. The little roof he's found makes one hell of a spot, especially with the small doorway into whatever complex he's atop of that offers him some kind of. He reaches up for his mask, about to take it off and run an anxious hand through his hair.
Till he’s stopped by the echo of a radio next to him.
*...!..?..Blaze…!..*
He looks over to the patch of empty air as the click of a radio being turned off sounds, and the shape of Top Hero 404 forms in front of him. Blaze knows it’s him before he’s fully formed. The brown hair reluctantly captured beneath a red and white mushroom hat with whimsical white fabric and gold chains trailing all around the edges, concealing his face. He doesn’t look even a second different from the last time Tommy saw him: he is still adorned in the same old suit with gloves, brown boots the colour of moist soil, and a light blue flowy shirt that balloons at the sleeves. He looks royal, almost like a prince. From the interactions Tommy had with him, he knows he’s nothing but a snobby prick, like the rest of the heroes and all of MOSA.
Blaze’s legs sprint away before he even registers his presence. And he’s back to running. 404 is still for a moment, stunned by the quick reaction, though his jaw is picked up and his face contorts into a scowl the second it registers. He doesn’t bother to hop down the eclectic staircase made up of junk, trash, and mismatched bricks Blaze descends and jumps straight down to catch up with him. He nearly glides down, the air lifting him and the fantastical outfit he wears on missions. It’s a wonder how it’s never been snagged or caught by the rough terrain. Maybe that’s just a 404 mystery. He almost looks like a spirit, coming down to free Tommy from the earth as his pale blue gloved hand reaches out for him. But it’s not a hand to hold. Tommy sprints harder as the hand attempts to grab him out of the air. But Tommy won’t let his wings be clipped.
Tommy doesn’t even know where he’s running; his legs already have planned his routine without telling him, but all he can think of is the eyes of 404. Despite the glasses that always cover his face, Blaze can see deeper into his gaze. It’s the same look, cold and unfeeling. The look never gives out compliments, never gives reassuring glances, or offers a shoulder to lean on, only cold critique and dismissive comments. Tommy knows it all so well. It’s not just his eyes frozen in this stasis off a mask, it’s his whole body.
404’s smiles never reach his eyes, no matter what interview or picture it is of him. It’s always too flashy, too plastic. Though most of MOSA is like this, there are at least a few photos of the heroes genuinely enjoying themself. Of course, it’s only the top heroes; they're the only ones who can enjoy themselves. The most real emotion Blaze can see in him is a subtle fire hidden behind his stone mask as he cuts through the air, attempting to attack and outrun the blonde. But while 404 is driven by an ember, alight on a single candle stick, Tommy is a raging, unkempt, roaring bonfire.
Tommy has fire in his veins, and no matter how bad his lungs burn or his feet feel like they've been grated off by the pavement, there's always a warmth pushing him to keep going, and that warmth is oh-so welcome. A roaring flame fuels his energy and his body as he turns sharp corners, throwing 404 into walls and ascending brick panels, causing the hero to groan as he has to follow him. Blaze knows that the groan is not of struggle, just annoyance. 404 can probably do everything he’s doing right now four times over and still have energy, Tommy knows firsthand- MOSA training drills don’t play around. Maybe they loosen for their pretty top heroes that need to look good for the cameras.
Blaze finds a shady alleyway, slinging deep into a gap before ducking into a dark corner hidden by shadow. If 404 located him, he’d be cornered. He bates his breath. Footsteps, quick and light enter the tunnel and just pass by his spot. They stop for a moment. Tommy can hear his heartbeats becoming faster and faster, syncing with the rates of thoughts screaming around in his mind. He silently prays 404 can’t hear them, too.
Whatever shred of confidence Blaze had shrivelled up and died leaving him standing like a stray dog in the dark. The silence is so loud, too loud for Tommy’s ears as they pick up every wrinkle of the fabric of 404's coat and the shifting of his postures as displayed by the twinkling of the jewellery. The footsteps sound again right in Tommy’s direction. He can hear each tap of 404’s heel as it hits the pavement and as his other foot raises. They pause just before Tommy can breathe again, a click sounding right outside where Tommy’s hidden himself. His eyes stare aimlessly forward as they search for any sign of 404's gloved hands reaching in and strangling him, or better yet, his thin blade coming straight through the shadow and right through Tommy's neck.
404 takes a deep breath in, “I’ve lost him.” 404’s voice echoes through Tommy’s ears and deep in his head as another voice crackles on 404’s communicator. 404 lowers his arm from where he’d just spoken into his communicator on his wrist. Tommy can almost hear him nod as 404 begins to sprint in a different direction. Tommy doesn’t dare to move until he hears the same clicking of boots become nothing more than another sound in the city.
For the first time in almost an hour, Tommy takes a proper, full, breath. He begins to scale up the dark corner, finding comfort in the familiarity of the ridges in the wall. His fingers effortlessly fit into the nooks and crannies of the tunnel and before he knows, he’s on the roof of a low building, looking into the sky. Though he can't stay for much longer. With a small sigh, Blaze makes his ascent up the shadowed side of a low building, careful to avoid any attention by plotting along as quietly as possible.
In the bright light of the morning Sun, the vigilante Blaze shuffles by an open window, checking both ways before ducking inside. The second he plants both feet in the room he’s immediately hit by a wave of heat, causing him to take a step back. Tommy’s apartment isn’t… um… great.
With clothes scattered on the couch, and wrinkled laundry in piles, but that’s all his own doing. The apartment itself has its gifts for Tommy, like the discoloured wall that may or may not be mouldy, a sticky stain on the wall in his bedroom, the speckles of black on the shower wall in the corner, and of course the iconic sink that's water is always discoloured, no matter what. He walks in, throwing off his mask and glasses before turning on the Air Conditioning or attempting to. He twists the knob up, only to be met with nothing but sputtering.
Ugh, I need to fix this, he sleepily thinks as he takes a strong fist and slams it into the AC.
It takes three tries to get it to turn on. He hisses as the impact seems to bring up the ache in his bones from the day, and technically the night, and the midnight he’s had today. He pulls off his shoes and wrist cuffs, not bothering to pull off his whole vigilante attire.
Some may argue walking around your apartment mask off with your suit is idiotic. They’re completely right, Tommy is objectively dimwitted. With a yawn, Tommy strolls past and into the kitchen, not casting an eye at the dirty dishes in the sink and the greasy grey water pooling in them. He opts for a half-empty cereal box deep in his cabinet, but he can barely stomach two handfuls.
His head is spinning from the lack of sleep. He’s going to take a long nap after this. He feels like he’s floating in the apartment like he’s going from one moment to the next, probably half asleep whenever he’s not actively moving. He moves to put the box away when he freezes.
A chime sounds through the apartment, his cuffs lighting up in a bright hue. Green. Tommy knows that colour like he knows his name. He feels bile rise in his throat as he tiptoes over to it, a silent prayer on his tongue. A small screen displays a rancid message. He nearly throws up.
Happy Birthday to-
Tommy hurls the cuff across the room before the text can finish, staring at the now black screen sitting next to a small divot in the wall. He steadies himself against the counter behind him, backing away from it as if it bit him. Tommy doesn’t go by the gauntlet again nor does he dare to pick it back up. He just stares at the obsidian screen, the image of neon green burned into his brain.
Reality finally comes gushing back to him, ceasing him of his trance. With a small noise of realization, he storms straight into his bedroom, curling up deeply into the blankets. With the city so quiet, it’s just him and his thoughts to drown in. He almost prays to be swallowed whole by his mattress, never to be let outside again and rotting into the cotton.
Sleep eventually pries its way into Tommy's eyes, and he’s completely out of it before he knows it. That night Tommy doesn’t dream. He’s thankful.