Chapter Text
Gem likes hero work in the same way any person likes a shitty-paying, risk-heavy, casual day job with no benefits. If she has to talk to the press, she says she’s here for the people — and it’s not a lie. She’s here for her brother, Joel, and the friends she’s made in the coalition. She’s here for those that she’s managed to save and who have clutched her hands tight in thanks.
She’s here currently because Deathhead is an annoying bastard who doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone. Hero motto: never give a dog a bone. And although Deathhead is a moth, she certainly has her teeth stuck into the side of this bank.
“What are you doing?”
She whips around, wings fluttering as her hands cling to the side of the building. She’s not a particularly sneaky villain, nor one that cares to pay much attention to her surroundings. Gem had watched her scale nearly halfway up the wall before deciding to speak, civilians nervously skirting the street. Standing 20 metres below her, basically unarmed, Gem puts her hands on her hips in the picture of disappointment.
“Nooothing?” Deathhead draws out the word, eyes flicking to and fro under the cowl. One of her feet slips momentarily and there’s a scuffle as she retains her hold. It is, to be fair, a straight marble facade.
“Get down.”
“Can’t make me.”
“Wh- are you a child? Get down from the building.” Gem rolls her eyes. “You’re sliding down anyway. You’ll be in reach eventually.”
“Oh, you want me in your reach, Gemstone? Well,” She flares her wings out and unlatches, twirling to the ground. “you just had to say the word.”
“Great. Now will you listen if I say the words ‘put these cuffs on’?”
“Take me to dinner first.”
Her eyes, if possible, roll even further. It’s actually starting to hurt. The villain leans against the wall, a leer clearly visible under her hood. It’s an advantage of Gem’s height; the normally overshadowed aspects of Deathhead’s face are quite obvious from this vantage point. She can see the moment she pushes off the wall with a foot, opens her mouth to speak, and—
Is launched fifty metres upwards by Joel and Tango speeding in.
It’s a patented technique. Joel’s mountain goat heritage and jump and stick-the-landing ability combined with a speed force run up from Tango can send them flying. Of course, there’s very little finesse to the move. Tango is forced to skid to a stop, Joel is launched while still dizzy from the ride, and their target is basically body slammed into open air, which is great on anyone who doesn’t have wings to reorient themselves. As it goes, the midair acrobatics are filled with screeching as Deathhead brings a clawed hand down on his head, more slapping than anything, and tries to unstick her wing from his grip while he aims them at a roof. By the time they’re in range of landing, the villain has gotten a leg between them and promptly kicks off Joel’s stomach, sending him on his ass at the last second and propelling herself back up.
Gem scuffs the ground with her foot. A couple metres away, Tango bends over his knees, panting. She offers a muesli bar, slightly warm from her pocket, and he waves her off. By the time he’s upright, Joel has bounced to the ground with a pout on his face.
“You know, if you’d just let me keep talking to her, she’d probably be in jail by now,” Gem says, only lying a little. Even if the moth had been in handcuffs, there’s no real prison to keep anyone in.
“I almost had her though.”
“You really, really didn’t.”
“You know.” Joel swings an arm around her shoulder, beginning to drag her back down the road. “You are not a very encouraging sister. Or encouraging person in general. But, as your brother, I have particular complaints.”
“Mm. Try HR.”
“So mean to me,” he mutters, distracted already by his phone. She leans over to see Lizzie’s contact up and smiles softly when he knocks a curved horn against her nosy head. Behind them, Tango is walking slowly, cupping his hands to coax a flame back out and spread it across his head, sputtering over the new wax.
“Hey, candlestick.”
“Heyyy, rockstar,” he drawls, lengthening his stride to catch up. She removes herself from Joel’s arm and stretches her neck, eyes to the sky. “Sorry for interrupting your catch.” He grins cheekily, and she snorts. The city's buildings are getting taller, apartment blocks and offices piled on top of each other. They’re starting to block the sun as it inches lower, and the shade is surprisingly cold. She drifts closer to Tango unconsciously, knocking his shoulder with an antler when he smirks.
“You coming for dinner?” he asks. On work days, the three (or four with Scar) take over the shitty base of operations kitchen and pretend they know how to cook. It’s been a while since any of them had eaten a vegetable.
“Nah. I’ll get a sandwich and hit the hay, probably.” Her right hand curls in Joel’s jacket, gently tugging him through the clumps of Tuesday shoppers as he texts.
“I swear you never hang out anymore.”
“Right!” Joel jumps in, making them both blink. “I’m not the only one who noticed, then.” He nods firmly, enough that his ears bounce a bit.
“I just spent the entire day being called into random events all across the city, guys. I love you, but it’s too much people-ing at this point.” She rubs a hand over the base of her shoulders, scrunching her nose. “And, my neck has been killing me. I think I slept weird.”
“Beddy-byes for Gemstone, oooh,” Tango coos. “Sleepy, sleepy Gem-gem.”
Between them, eyes half closed against the fading light, she sighs loudly, and they both laugh.
[ * ]
At Bird & Bone Motel, far down the highway outside the city, a card game is being played. It’s not a place gone to for its looks; fading weatherboard walls and a flat roof that has gathered its own ecosystem. The car park is cracked and filled in with gravel, and the sign flashes with a neon ‘No Vacancy’ sign that buzzes and sparks every few minutes. The reception desk is absent of employees, although there are four people around a slightly too low table in the lobby.
“Go fish,” Cleo says.
“Why do you keep saying that?”
She sneers mockingly over her deck. “Go. Fish.”
Skizz sighs, and places a red 1.
“Hate that,” Grian chirps, drawing from the pile.
“Agreed,” Mumbo says, shifting his hand around. “Yeesh. Sorry, Cleo. And also, yellow.”
They frown at the plus 4 while Grian mutters over that colour’s innumerable faults, drawing cards with a flick of their hand that speaks of long practice and heady annoyance. Skizz places a yellow 1. A grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticks loudly, the sun-bleached wallpaper fluttering in the breeze from the front door propped open. On one of the table corners, a baby monitor lies on its side, barely audible static popping every so often. Grian places a reverse. Skizz places a yellow 2. Cleo sighs, loudly.
There’s a sudden cracking sound from the monitor, and all four slam their cards on the table.
“Not it,” Skizz adds. “I was before Grian.”
The avian throws his hands up in annoyance, and whacks a bony wing against the side of Skizz’s head for good measure as he passes. His cards have been tucked into a shirt pocket with a narrowed look at the three of them, and he walks off in the direction of the rooms.
“You put your cards down face up, mate,” Cleo murmurs.
Mumbo groans, and they gather the cards to reshuffle.
[ * ]
Even further down the same highway, sits another city. Night has fallen, and there’s a nip to the air that has people looking around furtively and suspecting autumn. Dressed for the weather and impending fight, two villains wander down an alleyway.
“They’re making fun of my villain name again.” Rabbit ears twitch nervously, poking out of a pink and white mask.
“It’s Twitter. And, they just don’t get your genius.” The other replies, her dark reddish curls tucked into a navy blue headscarf. The mask over her mouth muffles her voice slightly. “Plus, this just means they underestimate you.”
“It’s a smart name! Bunumbra. I’m a rabbit, I control the shadows! Don’t see what the whole issue is,” she grumbles. “My name doesn’t have to be scary because I am. Scary, that is.” She nods, and Kraken nods along, the ribbons wrapped around her antlers fluttering slightly with the movement.
“You’re a lady of many layers, Bun,” she assures, idly twirling the harpoon at her side. There’s a moment of quiet, the tap of feet against concrete accompanying them as they turn the corner into a courtyard. It’s a little overgrown, and the fountain obviously hasn’t been cleaned in an age.
“Why this place, then?” Bunumbra asks, already raising darkness like a cloak around the area. Kraken hums, trailing her fingertips in the fountain stream. She smiles when she sees the coin at the bottom, carved with a wing. If she flipped it, she knows she’d see the name Hermes engraved on its edge.
“No reason,” she says. “Well. Consider it a gift.”
Raising her eyebrows, Bun sighs and brings out a shovel, dumping her bag on the ground. A stick of dynamite rolls out, and in the pitch black of simulated shadow, the Kraken grins.