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Owen's face hurts. Really bad.
So maybe picking Krow of all people as a sparring partner was a bad idea, what with how much it seems to hate his guts, but he thought it would be a good opportunity. After all, Magic keeps insisting he makes nice with her friends, and he rather gnaw his own arm off than make the hero-in-training look so sad. Krow doesn't seem like a bad kid, just... intense. At the very least, they'd both get some experience out of it.
That last part, at least, worked out. Now he has experience with Krow's surprisingly good right-hook, and he's decided he doesn't want to experience it again thank you very much.
"Who knew such a tiny kid could hit that hard?" Graecie mumbles as he presses an ice pack to his growing black eye. "I mean, I know it's superhuman, but I thought that only extended to the claws."
"Don't judge a book by its cover." Owen winces as Graecie disinfects his scraped palms from falling back onto gravel. Admittedly, he has no idea how Krow even managed to hit his eye, considering it's only 5'2 compared to his 6 feet, but he's learned Krow is a hard hitter despite its scrawnier frame, and in no way afraid to fight dirty. They'll have to talk about that during its next review period. "Remind me why I try?"
"Because you love Magic and you're a sucker for a teen needing guidance?" Graecie offers, not unkindly.
"Funny. I can't stop chuckling."
"Alright, smarty-pants." Graecie snickers as she starts wrapping his hands with fresh white gauze. "Go easy on it, okay? It did look a little sheepish when it dropped by. I don't think it meant to hit you so hard."
"Hey, I never said I was mad. I'm impressed, honestly." He is, truthfully. With a little bit of discipline and more training, it'll catch up to Magic and the rest of its team in no time flat.
"So am I, for different reasons." Graecie pauses, levelling him with an all-too-familiar stare. "You know, you could have very easily saved us both the trouble. And the medical supplies."
"Last time I nearly broke Bek's hand." Owen groans, pinching the bridge of his nose and immediately wincing as it agitates his sore face. "I can take a couple hits, Grace, I'm fine."
"Are you really?" She cocks an eyebrow, voice slightly sharper. Owen's stomach twists. Of course it's about that. "Owen, you know you can talk to me about anything-"
"I know, Graecie." He interrupts, just a little too firm, enough to make her flinch and make him feel horrible immediately. "Sorry, I just- I'm okay, alright? I promise."
It takes another moment for Graecie to meet his eyes, sighing as her shoulders relax. Too forgiving, Owen thinks to himself, the thought bitter like unripe berries. "Okay. If you're sure." She ties off the wraps and takes the ice pack, now almost entirely melted, from his hands. "I'll get you another one. It's all surface level, with your enhanced healing you'll be fine in a day or two."
"Thank you." Owen breathes a sigh of relief. "Seriously, Graecie."
"I know, you don't have to keep fuelling my ego." She waves her hand, cheeks flushing pink at the praise.
"Maybe if you'd accept a compliment, for once-"
"Okay, I'm going now!" She spins on her heel, hiding a smile. Owen bites his lip to cover a chuckle, watching her back disappear down the hallway. The fluorescent lights overhead hum softly, a sound that's becoming comforting after 10 years under STARR. Owen kicks his feet over the edge of the bed, glancing around idly. Graecie's only been a hero for two years, but the medical ward has become her unofficial territory due to her title of favourite nurse. Even Ayngel who barely says a word to anyone other than Krow softens around her. Everybody loves Graecie.
Including the public, despite the fact they only know her as Belladonna, beloved hero and popular with kids and adults alike. She's the closest thing STARR has to a mascot. Owen frowns a little at that thought. Graecie will never admit it, but he's seen her eyes get duller with every press conference and city-wide broadcast. Maybe he should talk to the higher-ups despite that. Even if he's not exactly high status, he's been a hero for 9 years. That counts for something in their eyes. Maybe he should get her some vacation days, or ask them to focus on Team B. Bek would probably love the spotlight, and then maybe they'd get some good press-
Crash.
The sound is soft, but makes his head swivel towards it nonetheless. The medical ward is empty other than him. Graecie is just down the hall, but that didn't come from the main ward- it came from the left, deeper into the faculty.
Owen's lips are tugged down in a frown, glancing around until he finds his javelin laid against a bed across the room. Owen drops from his perch, grabbing it and holstering it onto his back as he exits the room. The halls are also empty, on account of the late hour- anyone who would be wandering the halls (read: Magic and Bek) has a curfew at 9:00, and it's well past 11. That leaves no good reason for such an odd sound- like metal scraping against each other and shattering under the pressure.
Well. He can maybe think of one reason.
The lamps overhead get dimmer and dimmer as he walks, silent despite the squeaky floors, until the only light source is a few cheap, flickering orange bulbs. Owen scowls as he travels deeper and farther into the building, until he finally reaches the storage wing. The oldest part of the building, made obvious by the disgusting shag carpet and the water stains in the ceiling. There's nothing of worth in here, or so he thought.
It doesn't take long to figure out what the source of the noise was- there are only three doors in this hall, and only one's keypad is caved in.
Owen crouches to inspect, heart rapidly sinking. The panel is unusually advanced for this part of the building, more up-to-date compared to its companions. The wires are exposed, the tiny screen is glitching like crazy, and most of the keys are crushed to bits.
The imprint looks suspiciously like a boot-print. Shockingly, a terrible sign.
Like nothing else down here isn't a bad omen, Owen sarcastically thinks to himself, unsheathing his javelin and mentally counting down. Whoever it is, they clearly were stupid enough to break into freaking STARR Headquarters, which means they're also dangerous. They're also still here, if the lack of windows in this wing is enough to go by. Better to catch them off guard and knock them out quickly than cause a panic.
God, Owen just wants to go to bed.
The moment his mental countdown hits zero, he kicks the doorknob as hard as he can. It flies open with a deafening bang as it slams against the wall. It probably would have snapped off the hinges if Owen wasn't being cautious.
He doesn't manage to get a foot in the doorway before a shimmering dagger cuts through the air, heading straight for his head. In a flash, Owen feels the familiar transition overtake him- a shiver runs down his spine as his skin shifts from tan, squish flesh to solid, shiny steel. The dagger harmlessly clinks against his now metal skin and falls to the ground.
He stares down at the knife, heart suddenly jumping to his throat. A long, simple blade- standard STARR issue- with a red hilt.
He knows what he'll see when he lifts his head. He knows it will break his heart. He looks anyway.
Across the room, standing behind the long abandoned desk and ancient computer, throwing arm still outstretched, is a woman. A short woman, with long white hair pulled into a low ponytail and tiefling eyes the size of dinner plates. Her tail bristles behind them, the tuft of dark red fur standing on end like she's been electrocuted. They're dressed in all black, clad in a turtleneck and a trench coat like some sort of corny bank robber which is ridiculous because this isn't a burglar that's-
"Rasbi?" Her name leaves Owen's mouth against his will, tasting like dust and iron on his tongue.
"Shit." Her voice is exactly the same- the same airy, higher pitch that's been playing on loop in his head for months. "I should have known. Of course it's you, why would I ever hope-" they shine their flashlight over his face, giving his vision dark spots. "What the hell happened to your face?"
"What happened to me?" Owen hisses incredulously, head spinning like a runaway carousel. "What happened to you? Where the hell have you been?"
"I've only been gone for four months, you can't have missed me that bad."
"Don't you dare give me that, you know what I'm talking about." Owen spits, stomping up to the desk. His stomach churns with sickness. "You left. No note, no announcement, nothing. Nobody has told me anything, except that you've been a mission in District 18, so what the hell have you been doing?"
Rasbi frowns, finally shifting the beam of light away towards the door. She looks exactly the same as the last time he saw them, which makes him even more furious. "So that's what they told you." She turns their back, returning to the filing cabinet behind her. Only now does he realize all of the drawers have been thrown open, the papers inside ruffled and disorganized. "I was wondering what they would say."
"What do you mean, what they would say, what aren't you telling me?" Owen snaps. "You disappear for months and expect me not to ask questions, it's like you don't know me at all!"
"The people you should be asking questions is STARR." Rasbi rifles through files, her words as sharp as their daggers.
It takes a second for the words to click in his head. "What?"
"They're hiding things, Owen." She snaps. "They're lying to you, lying to everyone! There's something they're not telling us, and they know I know about it! They're the liars, Owen, not me!"
Owen shakily exhales, his anger doused with a bucket of ice water. "Rasbi, I know- I know these past few years have been rough, especially for you, but you can't go around saying things like that. Maybe you should talk to Graecie-"
"No, don't talk to me like I'm fucking crazy!" She spins on their heel, jabbing a finger into his chest. The permanent bags under their eyes have somehow gotten deeper. "You don't get to tell me what's real and what's not, alright? I know how you love STARR, and Magic, but nobody is safe here. Even you."
"What did you even find?" Owen brushes her hand away. His fist clenches and unclenches around his javelin. He could knock them out with ease, and they both know it. And yet. "Tell me that, at least."
Rasbi glances between him and the door, drawing her bottom lip between her fangs, before grabbing Owen's collar and pulling him below the desk. "I was reporting on our last mission, and I found financial records." They whisper. "Nothing on the record. From some secret, off shore account or something. They've been shipping something, back and forth, across the continent. You can't tell me that isn't suspicious!"
"What if it's just supplies for other bases?" The taller argues. "You can't just jump to conclusions."
"Maybe not, but if they were shipping supplies, why are they keeping it hidden?" The woman hisses. "Why keep it a secret? This is huge!"
"Because you're blowing things out of proportion! There's got to be a rational explanation for it that you're just ignoring-"
"Don't give me that, asshole, if there was an explanation I wouldn't have been fired."
"You got fired?!"
"Keep your fucking voice down-!" Rasbi snaps, slapping a hand over his mouth. "They said I was unstable and that I needed downtime to think about what I was doing, which is corporate speak for you're being nosy. Can you even believe that?"
Oh. So that's what this is.
Owen carefully pries Rasbi's hand from his mouth. He can't help but notice the usually pristine black polish on her sharp nails has been picked to shreds.
"This is about Rosie, isn't it?" He says softly. The hitch in her breath is all he needs.
"I know you miss her, Ras. Trust me, I do too-"
"Don't bring her into this." Rasbi says harshly. "They did something to her, I know it. My sister was careful, she wouldn't-" her voice breaks, "you know her death was weird, you have to. Come on, you have to believe me."
Owen squeezes his eyes shut, both to clear his head and avoid meeting her pleading eyes. His chest feels like someone took a pipe and bashed his ribs in, puncturing the soft fleshy parts of his being and stealing all the air from his lungs. He should have known. God, he should have just waited for Graecie. "Ras... you need help."
"Owen-"
"I know, I know." He clasps both her hands between his, clinging to them before she can make a run for it like he knows they want to. "Rasbi, you're grieving. I know that. You can deny it all you want, but I know you. I know you're scared, and lost, and you want your sister back. I get that. But you have to stop this. I'll talk to the higher ups, we'll get you back on the team, you just have to quit digging."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Rasbi rips her hands away. They scrub at their watery eyes, rising to their feet. "What the fuck happened to you, Owen? I'm your best friend. Why would I ever lie about this?!"
"You're not well, Rasbi." Owen says frantically, stumbling to his feet as they start flipping through folders again, more carelessly. "We can figure this out together, just come home. We can fix it, whatever you're feeling."
"No you can't. You can't fix anything, you have no idea what I'm feeling." Rasbi slams the drawer shut harder than necessary, clutching a file close to her chest. "I thought you would get it. Clearly I was being stupid." She laughs bitterly. "You'll figure it out on your own. You were always smarter than me."
"Rasbi." Owen's voice takes on a harder edge. Like it does with the criminals they've fought for years. He has never hated himself more than he has now. "You know I can't let you take that."
"And what are you gonna do about it?" They bare their teeth in an intimidation of their usual smug grin, showing too much teeth to be accurate. "You're strong, Owen, but you're not that strong."
"Don't make me do this, Ras." His words take on a pleading edge. It's only because he knows her so well that he catches the minuscule stiffening in their shoulders. "Please."
The air hangs thick and heavy between them like wildfire smoke. For a moment, he thinks it might work. He knows them inside and out- her takeout order, their playlist, their fighting style, all by heart. For the split second before Owen and Rasbi become Anvil and Outburst, he thinks she'll come home.
Then she exhales, shoulders dropping. When they turn their head, her eyes are clear of tears. "Don't get in my way."
His ears start to fill with a both familiar and unfamiliar buzz- familiar, because he's experienced this before, and unfamiliar, because she promised they'd never use it on him after the last time where he had a panic attack. Owen stares at her, wide eyes. Rasbi stares back, until the split second his consciousness vanishes and her expression crumbles.
One moment he's standing in front of Rasbi Outburst, and the next he's in bed. He blinks hard a few times, to clear both the spots and the tears that slide down his cheeks despite his efforts. Goddamnit, he thinks miserably as he rolls over onto his side. Something hard digs into his hip, tucked into the pocket of his pants.
Owen digs it out, holding it close to his face in the low light of his previously shared bedroom. A flash drive, scuffed and berry pink with a dark stripe down the middle. He flips it over to find a strip of paper on the other side.
For when you come to your senses.
Owen turns it over and over in his palm. This is evidence- evidence of her crimes, evidence of them breaking into a government facility and accessing classified documents. He'd get a pat on the back, and another criminal would be behind bars. Just another day for Owen. No hard feelings, just the way the world works for people like him. Another loss in the life of Owen Keldor.
He tucks it into his pillowcase, flopping onto his back and looking up at the ceiling. Maybe if he stares hard enough, he can ignore the stinging at the corners of his eyes.
It doesn't help. Owen's face still hurts.