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siobhanwolff-blog · 7 years ago

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Through The Dark

The biggest of thank you’s to @superpupdanvers for being an angel and beta reading this. I love her so much!

TW: graphic violence, mentions of sexual assault and abuse. Proceed with caution.

May 9th, 3am — Las Vegas, Nevada.

Being a superhero is nothing like how they depict in the movies. But sometimes, it is like in the movies— having to fight off super villains in order to protect the city you love so much.

Phoenix was quite possibly the most dangerous supervillain Shade had ever encountered. She also happened to be one of the first he’d fought. She got her jollies on creating chaos and making Shade feel helpless.

An apartment building was on fire and Shade’s intangibility was next to useless against the heat of the flames. He can walk through solid objects with ease but he isn’t immune to temperature and the flames licking at his intangible skin still hurt like hell. He had gone in and out countless times, his head dizzy and lungs burning from inhaling so much smoke. In the building for what could be the eight or twentieth time, Shade grabbed up a small boy in his arms whose pulse was dangerously slow.

And that’s when the backdraft hit, sending Shade flying through the explosion and debris. So many people died when the apartment complex went down, so many people he should have been able to save.

But usually, on ordinary days, it’s nothing like that.

Most nights being a superhero just means rescuing a guy from a potentially deadly mugging, or walking a crying girl who was just beaten by her boyfriend to a women’s shelter. Most nights it is just sitting in a garbage-scented alleyway and comforting someone before walking them home. Shade spent most of his nights just walking people home and being a shoulder to cry on. Because wasn’t a guy in a mask who offered his time a patience better than no one at all?

She looked barely eighteen, stumbling down the alley, being backed up by a large brute of a man. The girl was clearly a prostitute, wearing a tight dark grey dress that left little to the imagination and more makeup than was healthy for her skin.

“I told you to leave me alone,” she had said, on the verge of hysterics as he pushed her against a wall. The guy was massive, tall and easily twice Shade’s weight in muscle alone. He would had have to take him down quickly and quietly.

Shade skimmed down the side on the building he’d been sitting on the roof of. Keeping himself cloaked in the shadows, he silently approached. The guys hand was sliding up under the hem of girls dress now, muttering filth into her ear as she shook. Shade had to lean up on his tiptoes to be able to press his hands over the brutes eyes, whispering a soft “go to sleep”. The man screamed and crumpled as the darkness, cold and unforgiving, pulled him into unconsciousness.

Her name was Isabelle and Shade sat with her in the disgusting alley for an hour, rubbing her back and handing her tissues that he kept in one of his utility belt pockets. When she’d finally calmed down, he offered to walk her home.

And then there were nights that are purely sickening. Nights that left Shade drained and crying himself to sleep. Those were the nights he would much rather be risking his neck fighting other supers. Because those are the nights he’s cleaning a dead man’s blood from his spandex suit, or finding the body of a child tossed to the side like nothing, holding the hand of a dying rape victim he was to late to save, or watching someone commit suicide by jumping from several floors up. He saves lives, but those are the nights he feels like he has failed his city.

Shade didn’t know how a drug bust had turned into this. He had already called the cops, which was definitely his mistake. He was young, hadn’t figured out that he needed to call after he’d knocked out the thugs. But as soon as the cops showed up, all hell broke lose. Two of the cronies took off, but the guy that appeared to be in charge started shooting. Instinct kicked in and Shade let the bullets buzz through him harmlessly. And turn a cop into swiss cheese instead. He was close enough for Shade to grab before he hit the ground. He held the officer in his lap, pressing uselessly at the wounds to slow the gush of bright red blood. He died within seconds. His labored breath stopping and body going slack in Shades arms.

Those are the nights he wishes he could erase from his memory. But the spackle of a hostages brains isn’t something easily forgotten. The world is so, so fucking cruel. And Shade is just trying to help— trying to protect innocent people from what he sees every goddamn night. And that would be a hell of a lot easier if the police weren’t always trying to put him behind bars.

Which is exactly why Shade was running down unfamiliar streets. His breath huffing out of his lungs in harsh pants, heart beating like it was trying to break its way out through his ribs, and boot-clad feet pounding against the pavement. Even on awful nights, this was the worst part of what he did. Running from the cops for hours when he could instead be helping people. When they could be helping people. Instead they were just wasting time, time that could mean the difference if someone lives or dies. But the police weren’t saving anyone— they are chasing Shade. Even if they ever got close enough to him to actually cuff him, he would simply slip away. He was a shadow, and that’s what shadows did. Just disappeared in the buzzing nightlife of Las Vegas.

Bullets whizzed harmlessly through him— into his back and out of his chest, straight through his head to lodge uselessly into brick walls. It was as if he really was made of shadows, completely untouchable.

He rounded a corner that was more tall buildings than flashing excitement. He faded into the dark. Melted back against a wall, becoming apart of the shadowy darkness. He couldn’t do this in the center of the city buzz. Everything moved so quickly in Vegas, and people would notice if a shadow against a wall stopped moving. Shade had made this mistake when he was younger, first figuring out how to be a vigilante of such a busy city. He had taken a bullet to the shoulder for his ignorance. Shade was smarter know.

He watched silently as five police officers and a German Shepard rounded the corner in search of him. He held his breath fearing the smallest puff of air would give him away.

But they went right past Shade, couldn’t see him cloaked in the shadows. Two people stumbled out of the bar directly across the street from him. A man and a woman who were drunk, and leaning into each other, and laughing. They looked so happy and that wasn’t something Shade saw often. Usually when he saw people stumbling out of bars it was accompanied with angry yelling.

The cheap watch around Shade’s left wrist vibrated, it was three in the morning— it was time to go home.

An hour later, Shade costume hidden underneath the broken floorboard in his bedroom, Ronan Kingsley laid in bed unable to sleep despite his exhaustion. Always being tired was something that simply came with being a Las Vegas superhero— it was in the job description. And he knew when seven rolled around and he had to get up and actually function, Ronan would hate himself for not falling asleep until four-thirty. And one of his roommates, it was always Sara, would make a snarky comment about him sleeping around and his other roommate, it was always Kira, would silently hand him the coffee he needed oh-so-badly. And neither of them knew.

They couldn’t know. That was just another one of those things that was in the job description. If they wanted to assume he was sleeping around or involved with a sketchy gang, that was fine. He didn’t care what they thought he was doing when they found him gone in the middle of the night, as long as they didn’t think he was running around Las Vegas in a superhero costume. It was safer for them to not know.

And then Ronan would shower, get dressed, and go to work. Because that’s what twenty-six year-olds did in Vegas on Mondays.

“Kingsley!” Kathy shouted at him when he walked into The Beat, looking irritated. He knew he was five minutes late but traffic was a bitch, due to an awful car accident, but she had never gotten irritable with him before. In fact, ever since she hired him after her son moved to New York to go to law school she had treated him like a son. Most of the time she was more of a mother than his own ever had been.

“I’m so sorry I was late, there was an accident and—”

“I don’t care about that,” his fiery redheaded boss said, simply waving him off. “Did you not get my texts last night?”

“Uh,” no, Ronan thought, because I turn off my regular cell and leave it at home to fight crime on the streets of Vegas and only carry disposable crappy cells incase of an absolute emergency. But he couldn’t say that, because Ronan was not a crime-fighting hero in tights. He was just a guy that worked at a coffee house and he was clumsy, and nothing interesting ever happens in his life. Just boring ol’ Ronan.

“Never mind, doesn’t matter. This is Oliver,” Kathy put her hands on the shoulders of the curly haired guy with her, who was smiling all too brightly. Ronan had not even noticed the guy, with observation skills like that it was truly a miracle he hadn’t gotten himself killed yet. But when Ronan met Oliver’s shining green eyes he swore that his breath got stuck in his throat for a moment. There was no way to deny that he was beautiful. His red hair was messy and his eyes were bright even though they were hidden behind wide, round glasses. He was younger than Ronan, shorter, and his shoulders weren’t as broad. But When Ronan shook his hand he could tell that Oliver was strong.

And Ronan swore that he would not allow this boy to be his downfall. He stayed aloof and kept even the people he loved the most at arm's length. He was not about to forget what he was— who he was— just because some pretty boy made his chest feel like a thunderstorm.

“He is the new weekend barista but since Angie is on maternity leave I will need you to come in for the next couple weekends and train him. I can’t just put a newbie behind the counter without supervision, my customers expect nothing but perfection from us and—“

“Wait,” Ronan cut her off, icily. “Sundays are my only days off, I have things to do.” He had yoga class in the morning and always got a couple extra hours of patrolling in at night. He didn’t want to give that up to work a seven day week. Kathy and The Beat were important to him, but so was his Sunday routine.

His fiery boss rolled her eyes. “Fine, take Monday off,” she waved it off before launching into the story how she built the place from the ground up. Literally and metaphorically. While it captivated Oliver, Ronan had heard it a million times and tuned her out to help the other barista prepare to open shop. Emilia was technically the pastry chef but since they were short-handed she had been helping out.

She said his name softly to get his attention and Ronan arched an eyebrow at her. “I can train him today if you’d like.” She offered with a gentle smile. It was a tempting offer, Ronan wanted very little to do with the beautiful man, but he shook his head.

“It’s my responsibility, besides you do more than enough as it is.” She looked like she wanted to argue, but before she could Ronan walked to the front to unlock the doors and flip on the neon Open sign. Regulars quickly filled up the shop and they were both too busy to make any conversation.

By noon Ronan wanted to strangle him. He was a hard worker, charming, and the customers adored him. Logically, Ronan knew he was a great guy and there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. He was a great addition to the team and would fit right in with the ‘family’ Kathy insisted that they were. But he was touchy and Ronan’s muscles ached from being continuously tensed. Oliver was flirty and Ronan tried not to take it personally when he winked at him but he was so unaccustomed to being hit on that he didn’t know how to handle it and stared at Oliver until they were both uncomfortable.

After the lunch rush dwindled down, Ronan leaned against the counter next to Emilia. “Can you hold up the fort if Oliver and I take a lunch break?”

She smiled sweetly and nodded. “‘Course I can. Are you going to D’Latte?”

“Always do,” Ronan answered. He was already untying his apron and hanging it on one of the hooks behind the wall. “Want me to bring you back turrón?”

“Please.” She said and he nodded. Ronan may scoff at his bosses claims that they were a family, but he did have a soft spot for his co-workers. Kathy, Angie, and Emilia were good people and The Beat was his second home. He would never admit it, and he would always keep his kindnesses to a minimum, but he did care for them.

Ronan showed Oliver to the break room and asked Kathy if she wanted anything from D’latte before heading out. The small coffee place across the street was more than just a coffee shop. They offered a revolving variety of Spanish baked goods and sandwiches and had the comfiest chairs. And Ronan, no matter what mask he wore, always received free coffee. Which was more than a little disconcerting, but he chose not to think on it too long.

“Ah, Ronan my friend!” Mr. Soto greeted in his gruff Hispanic accent when Ronan entered. But he could not even muster out a hello in reply, his eyes glued to the television mounted high on the wall behind the coffee shop counter. The sound was off, but turned to a news channel.

Bank Robbery Leaves Seven Dead the text at the bottom read. “Can you turn the sound on please, Mr. Soto?” Ronan asked as he walked closer, eyes not leaving the screen. He heard the coffee shop owner sigh but did as requested and turned on the sound on the TV.

It happened at eight that morning, when Ronan was complaining to Kathy about not having a day off.

The robbers started shooting when police showed up, used a child as a hostage to get away. Ten men or women in masks taking a child. They were interviewing the missing child’s father, a man in his early thirties, eyes red and wet with held back tears, and begging to have his daughter back. Begging for Shade, Vegas’ vigilante to bring his unharmed daughter back to him. And Ronan felt sick.

Mr. Soto clicked off the television completely.

“I think that’s enough of that,” he grumbled, pressing a large paper coffee cup into Ronan’s shaking hand. He felt like he was going to be sick.

A child hostage. It had been hours. Unless they wanted to use her for something else, she was probably already dead and Ronan could have stopped it.

Ronan was wrong, being chased by incompetent police wasn’t the worst part of what he did. It was this. Feeling so much not like a superhero, because he could have saved her but he didn’t.

#writing #writeblr #amwriting #fiction #superhero fiction #writers on tumblr #story #creative writing #prose #original writing #lgbt+ characters #story: ttd #my writing

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