Chapter Text
Retreating into the shadow was undoubtedly Mysterion’s favorite part of dealing with scumbags.
Being embraced by the darkness, leaning into its surprisingly warm touch, and letting it embroider itself into every cell of his body was like tuning out the constant noise of the world. Each buzz, rustle, rummage, hum, and whistle—all of it disintegrating into a comfortable silence.
It was like coming home. An empty, dark, and quiet home, but home nevertheless. His own unconventionally perfect home.
Due to that, he often found himself clutching onto the hem of his Shadow Cloak. Noticing this, he immediately let it go, flutter freely in the wind—after all, Mysterion was the symbol of freedom. And from a more down-to-earth standpoint, curling up into his cape would make him look like a stupid vampire from a bygone era or a large newborn baby in a swaddle blanket.
Both terrible, considering his fondness for long johns.
And so again he was done for that day—all criminals put where their place was. Now it was his turn.
Slowly backing into the shadow, letting his cloak do the job as it had done countless times before, Mysterion closed his eyes, awaiting being greeted by the darkness.
It whispered to him all those casual things. Well, casual usually.
Anyway, it was like hanging out with an old friend. Getting all loose, just content with each other’s presence. Small talk, stupid jokes (mostly from his side), and most importantly, no judgment. The darkness knew every part of him, every experience, memory, and secret that made him Mysterion.
No, that made him Kenny.
Safe space with no need to lie. Pretend. Act.
Perfect, no?
It may have seemed that way, but he knew the truth. He had never seen what hid in the deepest corner of that darkness, but the few instances when he grazed his fingers along its texture were enough. It wasn’t human; it wasn’t humane.
So no matter how comfortable his cloak was, he could never let himself drown in it. Its safety, serotonin-inducing solace was and had always been a faux comfort. A sick burden, a poison slowly seeping into his bones with its alluring promise of tranquility within him, just waiting for the day he would slip and let it swallow him whole.
That was why he had become a vigilante for the people.
After all, he had been one for himself for as long as he could remember.
Victor stood in the middle of a busy pedestrian zone. How could he not smile, seeing all those people rushing somewhere important, talking through their phones and muttering superficial things? The sun shone brightly at the city and all its colors, so he bathed in it for a moment with a content hum escaping his lips.
‘’Are you sure this is a good idea?’’ A scrawny ginger youngster said hesitantly, keeping close to Victor, looking out for the people ready to bump into them.
Victor’s smile widened, a warm and genuine satisfaction dancing on his lips.
‘’Well, sure!’’ He chirped, completely undisturbed by the crowds or what they were going to do. ‘’Geez, what’s there to worry about? General, are we havin’ some second thoughts?’’
He nudged Disarray with his elbow, letting out a belly laugh. The sunlight hugged his slightly toned skin, sun-kissed hair, and his bright grin. The cyan of his clothes popped out in the picture consisting of mostly gray pedestrians. A lot of them turned their heads, just to get a glance at who that happy-looking person was.
It was Victor Chaos.
Or Professor Chaos—the most prominent villain of their city, about to pour lava onto streets.
‘’No, Professor,’’ General shook his head, obviously feeling uneasy being in the open. ‘’Let’s just get this over with.’’
‘’And that’s the spirit!’’ Vic hopped from one leg to the other and pulled down his glasses to hide the spark of madness in his eyes. ‘’Drop it.’’
He turned back and sauntered away. Soon after his words, a cacophony of shouts, panicked squeaks, and terrified wails could be heard. But it was all as expected.
Unlike the appearance of… someone.
‘’Look!’’
‘’Who’s that?!’’
‘’It’s Mysterion!’’
‘’Oh thank God, we’re saved!’’
Victor snapped his eyes to the ball of purple, jumping with practiced ease from one roof to another.
The lava hadn’t even been entirely poured.
‘’I don’t think we’ll be able to minimize the traffic today, Professor.’’ General Disarray stated.
Chaos blinked, once, twice, and chuckled, just a bit nervously. Then he wordlessly, quite shamelessly to Disarray’s tastes, sat down on a nearby wall and bathed silently in the sunlight.
Stepping out of the alley was like being slapped.
The sunlight hit Mysterion with a violent clarity, stripping away the quiet solace of the dark and replacing it with a blare of noise and blinding heat. His eyes stung behind his mask. Out here, under the unblinking eye of the sun, he was a drop of ink in a glass of milk, unable to blend with, well, anything.
He was suited for work from behind the curtains, not in the middle of the crowded street during summer’s peak. Out here, he couldn't afford to just be Kenny—tired, raw, and pulling at the seams.
Out here, he had to be the symbol.
It wasn’t a matter of being a vigilante, no. He was always one, even during his sleep.
It was everyone’s gaze on him.
Making the vision of the smallest slip hundreds of times more horrifying.
He landed on the asphalt with a low thud, the purple fabric of his cape snapping against the oppressive warm air. The panicked shouts of the crowd prickled at his skin, always too loud, as his focus narrowed on the wall ahead.
Among the sea of terrified faces scrambling to retreat from the spilling lava, one person stood out—or rather, sat out.
The stranger looked sickeningly at ease. The bright cyan of his clothes practically glowed under the midday sun, absorbing the light as if he owned it. But as Mysterion took a step forward, the quiet voice of his Shadow, now small and desperately clinging to the bottom of his cape, whispered the sound of alarm in his head.
He had no idea who this guy was. Yet looking at the strange, tranquil smile on the man’s face—at the weightless stillness around him amidst the panic—Mysterion felt a sickening jolt of recognition.
It was the same terrifying peace Mysterion felt whenever he grazed the deepest, darkest corners of the darkness. The same absolute silence that embraced him in the shadow.
But the man sat there, a little slumped, completely comfortable in broad daylight and golden sunbeams.
Victor leaned back, resting his palms against the warm concrete of the wall. He kicked his feet out with rhythmic, casual swings, fixing his brightest, most expectant grin right on the purple figure in the street. He checked the heavy watch on his wrist unhurriedly.
Any second now.
He braced himself for the dramatic leap, the low-pitched threat, the tense pause right before Mysterion demanded to know who was behind the fiery threat. It was the natural script. It was how these things worked. All those from Freedom Pals and around operated like that.
Victor closed his eyes and waggled his legs cheerfully, waiting for some self-proclaimed hero to say his premises didn’t matter because the methods were harmful or for any of their old songs.
Except Mysterion didn't attack.
Instead, the masked vigilante turned his back completely. With swift, practiced efficiency, he began barking orders at the scattering crowd, grabbing a heavy metal barricade to block the worst of the advancing lava, directing screaming pedestrians down a side alley away from the heat.
Victor’s grin faltered a bit, freezing into a slight, crooked line. He blinked.
Mm, that’s okay, maybe he’s saving the best for the finale?
"Uh… Professor?" General Disarray muttered from behind him, casting nervous glances at the hero whose cape was whipping around as he hoisted a fallen civilian out of the danger zone. "He's… pretty busy over there. Shouldn't we, I don't know, bolt?"
"Hold on," Victor murmured, his brow furrowing as he pulled his glasses down a fraction lower. "What's he doing?"
"He's… saving people?"
"No, but—" Victor gestured broadly at himself, tapping his chest with a bright cyan-gloved thumb. "It makes no sense.’’
It made zero sense. Why waste energy on the collateral damage when the streets were finally cleared of the traffic? Even if the hero saw Victor as a big bad villain, the source of the chaos was sitting right in front of him. Chaos watched the masked man strain against a piece of debris, shielding a crying child from the heat, and felt a strange, jarring spike of annoyance. Something else… too? Maybe?
The hero was acting like a servant. A mop clearing up spilled milk instead of turning off the faucet. It was absurd. It was… different.
And more than anything, it deeply unsettled Victor—because he couldn't grasp why anyone would choose the heavy, suffocating weight of responsibility when they could just sit back and watch the show. Why not calm down? The poor man was looking so rigid, so uptight.
As the last civilian scrambled to safety, Mysterion finally turned, his chest heaving under the weight of the heat and his own rigid restraint. Their eyes locked across the ruined pavement. There was a magnetic gravity pulling at the edges of their minds. Mysterion saw a man bathing in broad daylight with the terrifying serenity of someone who had found solace in his own dark, embracing it, letting it swallow him whole; Victor saw a figure suffocating under the heavy armor of a hero, yet carrying the familiar air around him that Chaos craved. The feeling he had abandoned, or as he preferred to say, exchanged for more valuable things. The name of it danced on the tips of his tongue, mocking him inside his mind. A ghost of the burdensome past he had so proudly thrown away.
Neither moved. Neither spoke. But in that silent beat, an implicit promise settled between them: they were going to tear each other’s curtains down just to see what was hiding behind them.