Catelyn Winona
patreon
The Civilian (pt. 1/2)
🕑 Added 2022-05-27 19:49:20 +0000 UTCSummary: When Shireen's city falls to a Supervillain, she knows there aren't any Heroes to save the day. So she does in more ways than she knows.
A/N: Hey y'all! This one will be told in two parts, one coming out today and another on Wednesday! Part two will be a Patreon Exclusive until the end of June :)
-------------------------.
There’s a man in the garbage.
Shireen tries to keep walking. She watches her red heels take one step. Then another. She stops just past the mouth of the alley, unable to keep going. She glares down at her shoes.
It’s not safe to go see if that man is okay. Even before her city fell under the control of a Supervillain, it wouldn’t have been safe. It’s almost two in the morning and the streets are deserted, the only pedestrian being idiots like her who missed their last train home from visiting friends. Only about half the streetlamps are working. The bulbs are shattered in some, switches have burnt out in others. Apparently, supervillain dictatorships don’t care about repairing them. Everybody tries to avoid driving. The asphalt is chewed up by the Supervillain’s henchmen sparring all over the place. The street – once a main thoroughfare – looks like the set of a zombie movie.
Keep walking, Shireen tells herself. Her hand tightens on the strap of her satchel. She doesn’t have pepper spray anymore. If any of the Supervillain’s henchmen caught her with a weapon, they could brand her a Hero.
The whole city knows what their loving Supervillain does to Heroes.
Shireen turns on her heel and tiptoes into the alley. There aren’t any more Heroes here. Nobody to save the day or look out for people who are passed out on top of piles of trash. Maybe that’s why she’s carefully approaching the man in the garbage. She’s not going to save anyone, she knows that. But, maybe, she can help make sure he does whatever he’s doing in a hospital or something.
“Hey,” Shireen says. It’s a short alley with only one door. She eyes it suspiciously, but the restaurant it belongs to is long past close. She turns her attention back to the man lying just in front of the dumpster on several black garbage bags. “You okay?”
The man doesn’t respond. He’s wearing all black and if it weren’t for his shiny chestnut hair, she wouldn’t have seen him. His chest rises and falls which at least means he’s breathing. His head is turned away from her, but his neck doesn’t look broken. There’s blood running from a nasty cut at his temple, but it looks dry at the edges. She circles him so that she can see his face.
Shireen stumbles. “No,” she breathes. “No way.” She feels like the world is spinning, the battered brick walls on either side of her swirling into a kaleidoscope of color. The man is wearing a mask. A familiar gold mask that mimics the face of a porcelain doll with high cheekbones and a small slit where the mouth would be. There’s blood covering the forehead section, dark and ominous against the gold, but she knows this man. This mask.
King Midas. Their city’s strongest villain before the Supervillain takeover. Feared by all for his ability to turn anything (or anyone) into any sort of metal. A B-rank villain who always seemed to be one step in front of the heroes, the media, the citizens. King Midas, the villain responsible for the collapse of the city’s historic clock tower, for the theft of countless masterpieces, for the extortion and blackmail of every major politician to get elected into office.
King Midas who laid down his life trying to help the Heroes escape their execution. He failed. Their villain who always won failed that day and he lost his life in the process.
But he tried. And now he’s alive.
Shireen kicks off her heels and runs to get her car.
----------------.
Shireen stares at King Midas from the doorway to her bedroom. He’s still unconscious, but looks better with the tan bandages she’s wrapped around the cut on his head and the few she found on his torso. It’d been easy to cut off the remainder of his black shirt to get to them. Then, embarrassed by his semi-nudity and her own audacity in cutting his clothes off, she’d thrown her pale pink throw over his chest. He’s too tall for her small couch and his black boots hang cartoonishly over the armrest. On the coffee table beside him are a few bottles of water, a granola bar, a tray of fruit, and some ibuprofen.
She closes the door to her bedroom and pushes her dresser in front of it. Then, for good measure, she sets her laundry basket on top for added weight.
What the fuck am I doing?
Shireen ducks into her closet. She hid here when the Supervillain takeover happened, hunched over her phone as the Heroes were executed on live TV. Ever since that day, it’s been less of a comforting space and more of a suffocating one. She lurches out from behind her clothes and starts pacing her bedroom.
The best case scenario is that King Midas wakes up, takes the offerings, and leaves. Nobody can know that she fished him out of the garbage. Should she have written a note with instructions on it? He’s a villain, would he follow the instructions of a citizen?
She remembers the last time she saw him. The Heroes all lined up in front of City Hall, bound and powerless. The Supervillain twirling his gigantic scythe like it was made of straw. She’d counted the Heroes frantically, hoping that one of them would be free to save the rest. But all three of them were on their knees as the Supervillain raised his weapon above his head.
King Midas appeared just before the first swing. For a terrifying moment, Shireen had been convinced that he was the one who’d let the Supervillain past their city’s defenses. But then he’d spoken. He condemned the Supervillain’s actions. He told the Supervillain that the Heroes were property of King Midas and King Midas alone.
He’d fought. She remembers his mask catching sunlight, a gleaming gold next to the endless night of the Supervillain Apocalypse’s power.
She remembers the dull sound of his body when he fell, the sound transmitted directly into her closet by her phone’s excellent speakers. It had felt like the collapse of her entire world and she’d had to shut off her phone before Apocalypse killed the heroes too.
Why did King Midas try to help them? Why did he go so far as to lay down his life? And why, after seeing the Supervillain’s scythe enter his body, was he still alive?
Shireen doesn’t know. It’s not safe for her to know. She finally settles in the corner of her room so that her bed is between her and the door. King Midas will leave when he wakes up and then it won’t be her problem anymore. She’s okay with not knowing.
Civilians never live long when they know.
-------------King Midas POV-------
Waking up after getting thrown through downtown like a rag doll is not fun. Waking up after thinking he was going to die while getting thrown through downtown like a rag doll?
Priceless.
Grant’s legs are asleep. He’s on the world’s tiniest couch and the armrest is cutting into the back of his knees. He flexes his toes to encourage blood flow and sits up slowly. A soft blanket falls off his bare chest and into his lap. What?
His wounds are bandaged and he’s shirtless. There isn’t anyone in the room with him, but it’s clearly someone’s apartment. There’s a utilitarian kitchen tucked into an alcove, a shoe rack by the front door, and a coffee table between him and the TV. Could he have broken into a civilian’s apartment while concussed?
He feels something strange happen in his chest when he sees the water and food on the coffee table. There’s a tray of fruit, clearly cut by hand, arranged on a plate. There’s a granola bar, several bottles of water, and ibuprofen. He didn’t break into a civilian’s home.
Somebody saved me.
Grant has never been saved before. He’s never needed saving. Or at least he didn’t before this year and that dickhead Apocalypse came to town. Now it feels like he’s needed saving every other day, but nobody’s actually done it. He touches the granola bar with one finger. It’s a fig and nuts combo which is his least favorite flavor. He glances at the door he can sense his saviour behind. If they didn’t want to see his face while he was unconscious, he doubts they’ll barge in here to see it while he’s awake.
He unwraps the granola bar, removes his mask, and takes a bite.
Scratch that, this is his favorite flavor now. It still tastes like his grandmother’s house, but now it also tastes like the first piece of kindness he’s received in a long, long time.
He’s grateful that his saviour stays in the other room while he drinks the water and finishes the bar. Nobody has seen him cry in a long time. He doesn’t think he’d be doing either of them any favors if he professed his undying loyalty while sobbing, mouth full of fruit and granola.
He wipes at his eyes. He feels like he hasn’t had a chance to rest in weeks. King Midas finally admits that he’s tired. He’s tired of getting beaten up. He’s tired of battling every single day. He’s tired of always losing and never winning.
Honestly, he doesn’t know how the Heroes put up with him for so long.
Grant feels like he’s ten-years-old again as he sniffles. Saving the day is hard, much harder than the Heroes ever made it look. He’s been asking himself for months why he’s even stuck around to try and recover the city when nobody will thank him for his efforts. There are a hundred reasons why he feels obligatedto stay, but when has that ever stopped him from leaving? He’s always been a villain.
He twists open a water bottle. It’s the best tasting water he’s ever tasted. He thinks he can finally understand a little bit of why the Heroes do it.
Grant finishes the fruit and takes the ibuprofen. He won’t endanger his saviour any more than he already has, which means he needs to go sooner rather than later. His shirt is in tatters on the floor so he wraps the throw blanket around his shoulders. They gave him food, water and medicine. Surely they wouldn’t mind sacrificing a blanket too?
He puts his mask on and feels better than he has in a long time. Which is saying something since he’s half-clothed and his mouth still tastes like fig and he’s just come to the realization that he’s probably going to get beat up again tonight.
A Hero’s work is never done. If he knew that, he would have never stood up to Apocalypse all those months ago.
He pauses on the way out the door. He has no doubt that his saviour is awake and listening. If he was in their shoes, he’d hide in the bedroom too. It’s safer that way. “Thank you,” he calls.
“…you’re welcome,” a woman says very quietly from the other side.
Grant swallows. Somehow, he expected her to ignore his words. He expected her kindness to go no further than what she’s already given him. But she heard him. She spoke tohim.
“Someday, I’ll repay you,” he blurts out. He flushes under his mask. What is he talking about? Repayment? That’s a very Hero thing to say. He’s never felt like he had to repay anyone before. He’s King Midas! It’s his due—
“Oh no,” the woman says in the same trembling voice. “No thank you.”
No thank you? Grant opens his mouth to question that, but he hears another door open in the apartment building. Time to go.
Without another word, he slips out of his saviour’s apartment and back out onto the streets.
----------------.
Grant gets back to the penthouse before noon. He doesn’t bother buying another outfit on the way and the front desk doesn’t even flinch when he comes wandering in with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his mask dangling from his hand.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Aurum,” Michael says without looking up from his newspaper. “You have no messages.”
Sometimes Grant wonders if Michael even noticed Apocalypse taking over the city. The building’s manager has never missed a day of work and have never asked unnecessary questions. Grant nods and beelines for his private elevator. “Good, thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Grant leans against the smooth, metal walls of the elevator and closes his eyes. It moves without him having to touch a button and he breathes in deeply for the first time in 24 hours. He’s home. He’s done for the day. And, considering it’s before noon, he might even avoid having to answer any unwanted questions.
The doors slide open and Grant steps out into his penthouse. Bright sunlight filters in through the thin curtains hanging over the floor-to-ceiling windows. The gentle sound of running water comes from the koi pound in the atrium to his right. The air conditioner is on at just the right temperature for a nap--
“Yo! Batman’s back!”
Grant barely resists the urge to get back into the elevator. Of course they’re awake. Of course. The one day he doesn’t mind them sleeping until four o’clock and they’re all rushing out to greet him
“I am not Batman,” Grant says for what feels like the millionth time. He fits his mask back on his face before turning to glare at Blue. The teenager doesn’t look the least bit sorry for upsetting him. They’re sitting in the koi pond and grinning up at him. Grant scowls. “Get out of there!”
“I need the water to practice my power,” Blue says. They hold up their hand to show the thin layer of water coating it. The koi swim in lazy circles around them. “Don’t you want me to get my powers back?”
“Yeah, Batman,” Yellow says. She’s eating macaroni directly out of the pot with a metal spoon. She scrapes it along the bottom. “The sooner we get our powers back, the sooner we get our city back. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I wanted my archnemeses to not be actual children,” Grant snaps. Even when he was dying in that pile of trash, he wasn’t this irritated. “Don’t use a metal spoon in the pot, you’ll ruin it.”
There’s a gust of wind and Red is suddenly behind him. The boy is the oldest of the lot, but still barely eighteen. He throws an arm around Grant’s shoulders. “Just buy a new one, Batman.”
“I am not Batman.” He shrugs off Red’s arm and stalks to the kitchen. The teenagers follow him like ducklings. “All of you need to go put your masks on.”
“Why?” Yellow asks. She’s got braces. If she was wearing her mask, he wouldn’t know she has braces. She points at him and then to herself with her macaroni spoon. “You already know our faces.”
“No, I don’t,” Grant says. “I’m blind.” He hesitates in front of the liquor cabinet before passing it entirely. He’s uncomfortable drinking in front of literal children. “I don’t even know your names.”
“I’m Cal—” Blue starts to say.
“ La la la!” Grant rips open the refrigerator and yanks out a canned coffee. “No secret identities!”
“You’re rich, you’re mysterious, you adopted three orphans and spend your time waging silent battle against the evil of the city,” Red says. He’s already sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of orange juice in front of him. He gestures to the stool across from him. “That’s pretty Batman of you.”
“I am the evil of this city,” Grant says but even he can tell his heart isn’t in it. He sinks onto the stool and takes a pathetic sip of his coffee. “I didn’t sign any adoption papers.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Yellow says. She drops her meal into the sink and hops up onto the stool next to Red. “They haven’t arrived yet.”
Grant thinks about responding to that. He could say that he won’t sign them, obviously. He could say that they’re all idiots for living with him, the villain who spent the better part of last year beating them soundly. He could say that he doesn’t like them at all. He could monologue about his evil plan to nurse them back to health only to sacrifice them in the fight against Apocalypse.
He could, but…
At the beginning, all of those things were true. He knew that they were going to lose that day in front of City Hall. He knew what he was doing when he threw himself in front of them. He knew what it would cost him. Turning their clothing to metal at the last second was a Hail Mary move. He didn’t think that Apocalypse would actually fail to realize that all of them lived through the murder attempt.
But he did. And they lived. Sure, Red, Blue and Yellow were burnt out and badly hurt by the fight, but they were alive. He planned to use them to get Apocalypse out of his city…before he found out that the most persistent and versatile group of heroes to ever be assigned to him were children.
He thinks that’s when his plan really started going off the rails.
“You’re back late,” Red says casually. Grant opens his eyes to find the teen studying him. Red frowns at the blanket wrapped around Grant’s shoulders. “What happened to your shirt?”
Grant sighs and removes his mask. They’ve all seen his face at this point anyway. “I found your rocks.”
The three teen superheroes immediately turn serious. Red’s eyes flare with crimson light and Yellow’s long, golden hair lifts around her head in an ethereal breeze.
Blue leans forward. They’re the least outwardly affected, but their gaze is focused and intense. “Did you get them?”
“No,” Grant admits. He tries not to feel guilty when they sag in disappointment. “There were guards everywhere.” He gestures to his blanket-shirt. “I barely escaped with my life!”
“I definitely want to hear the story of the pink throw,” Yellow says. Her blonde hair settles in a puff around her shoulders. “Later. Apocalypse has our power stones? He didn’t destroy them?”
“They’re on display,” Grant says. He pulls out his phone and flicks to the most recent picture. It’s of a glass case on a pedestal. Inside are three crystals. Ruby. Sapphire. Topaz. “In his residence.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I was literally thrown through a wall after taking that picture, so they might have been moved.”
All three teens shake their heads, eyes fixed on the picture. While powerful in their own right, the stones act as some sort of power store for them. At least that’s what they’ve told Grant. Their recovery without their power stones is slow. With them?
They’re basically invulnerable.
“He won’t be able to touch them now,” Red says. He’s the first to tear his eyes away from the photo. “They’re an extension of us. If we’ve got this much power back, our stones will be recharged. It will feel like falling onto the third rail if he tries to touch them again.”
“Either way, I’m going to try again as soon as possible,” Grant says. “I don’t want to risk him destroying them when he figures out who broke into his house.”
“Were you seen?” Yellow asks.
Grant shakes his head. “It’s only a matter of time before he finds someone who did though.” He thinks of fig granola bars and a small voice denying repayment. His jaw clenches. “It’s been getting risker and risker. The sooner the better.”
The teens nod grimly. Grant doesn’t know why they became Heroes. He doesn’t want to know. Nobody with powers enters this field with a good story to tell. But he sees the determination in their shoulders and he’s sad. He’s sad because they’re kids and they’re not supposed to be the ones doing the saving. They’re supposed to be the ones getting saved.
He wonders if anyone ever gave them granola, fruit and water.
It’s in that moment that Grant finally admits that he’s made his decision. He isn’t going to be King Midas ever again. King Midas died the moment that he leapt between these Heroes and certain death. King Midas disappeared when he saw what true evil looked like and how it nearly destroyed these kids.
He thinks about telling them that he has no intention of letting them near Apocalypse again. He’s going to protect them as much as possible from the Supervillain, even if he really dies in the process. He wants to tell them that, someday, they’ll be safe again, but he doesn’t.
Villains might lie, but he’s not a villain anymore, is he?
“I’m going to take a nap,” he says. He pushes back from the kitchen island, leaving his phone and mask behind. They won’t suspect what he has planned so long as he doesn’t have his mask. “Or maybe just go to bed. You kids order a pizza or something. I’m too tired to cook.”
Red and Yellow cheer for pizza, but Blue squints up at him.
“You good?” they ask. Their eyes flick to his blanket and then to the bandage wrapped around his head. “You go to the hospital?”
“A…friend patched me up,” Grant says. Later (if he survives) he’ll ask about how to repay a civilian when they tell you not to bother. Later, when it’s safe, he’ll figure out how he can ever begin to thank that person for their moment of kindness. That kindness is what’s giving him the willpower to do what has to be done. He ruffles Blue’s short and spiky hair. “I heal fast.”
He lets his comforting smile fall as he turns. He does heal fast. Faster than they know.
It’s Grant that leaves that night to defeat Apocalypse once and for all. Not King Midas. Just Grant.
That’s probably why he wins.
----.End Part 1.----
Ooooh, I'm so excited to post part 2 on Wednesday! We'll get to see the return of Shireen and what Grant thinks "repayment" looks like! Part 2 will be a Patreon Exclusive until the end of June when I'll include it in an anthology :)
Thanks for reading!
Comments
I am so delighted by your work. "Vibrant" is the word. Your settings are already so lived-in, and your characters so amazingly realistic — like if any one of us, or the best of us, wandered into a fantasy story and behaved like we ordinarily would. Fantastic.
this is awesome!!! i love villains turned good it’s so interesting to see
You have such a knack for creating these incredibly vibrant worlds in such a short amount of time! I can't even count the number of plots you've come up with that I wish had a full novel or television series to play in
Oh, this is good! I can't wait until Wednesday!
Alexandra DeCarlo
This is so cool!
Hel M
Aw, man, Wednesday is *forever* away!
Susan Gist
awesome as always 😍 and excited to see Grant and his ‘not adopted’ children with Shireen 💯
