Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Mumbo?”

Mumbo hummed, averting his gaze away from the computer, where he’d been fixing a few misfiled bits of paperwork. Skizz hovered in the doorway, a furrow to his brows. Today, his scrubs were neon yellow, bright enough to hurt the eyes of any unlucky enough to look in his direction. Mumbo was no exception to this. He recoiled with a mixture of disgust and amusement, raising a hand to block everything but his friend’s head from view.

“Yes, Skizz? What’s so important that you had to try and melt my face off to say it?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” the other vet huffed, hugging himself protectively. “The dogs love when I wear these.”

“Yeah, I bet they do,” Mumbo said. “It’s the only color they can see. You look like a chew toy. What did you need?”

Skizz grumbled under his breath, but straightened anyway. He pointed back in the direction of the break room. “Is that container of soup in the fridge yours?”

A gasp left Mumbo and he rushed to stand. “Oh, gosh! My soup!”

He pushed past Skizz in a flurry of limbs and shouted complaints, and hurried down the hall. He’d been fretting all day over other people trying to nab it from him, since the marker they kept back there to label food had died as soon as he’d attempted to write his name. To be questioned about it by Skizz, the person who’d forced them to implement that labeling system in the first place due to his bottomless stomach, did not bode well. 

Thankfully, the soup looked untouched. He breathed a sigh of relief, picking it up and cradling it in his arms like a newborn baby. Mumbo vaguely heard the sounds of feet padding into the room, but he didn’t care.

“Seriously?” Skizz clicked his tongue. “Did you seriously bring a gallon jug of soup and not intend to share?”

Mumbo turned, sticking his tongue out at his companion. It earned him a gasp of offense. “This soup isn’t for me.”

Skizz straightened, the irritation leaving him. “Oh. Then, it’s for G-sharp?”

“Yeah, it is,” Mumbo said, setting the jug down on the counter and smiling. “I had to do something. He’s been so sick that his boyfriend’s been the one calling out of work for him the entirety of the week. That can’t be fun for either of them to manage alone.”

“You’re right,” the other vet muttered. “Making him soup isn’t a bad shout. I guess you’re leaving to deliver that soon?”

“Yeah, I get off in the next ten minutes for my lunch break,” Mumbo confirmed. “I’ll have just enough to run it over and check up on our little guy before I have to be back.”

“Man, wish I could come too, but I’m too busy,” Skizz sighed. “Even now, I’m hiding from the techs.”

Mumbo’s face dropped into a scowl. “Skizz, go do your job.”

“Fine, fine.” The other raised his hands defensively. “Give the sick guy my best.”

“I will,” Mumbo said. “Go.”

Skizz backed out of the room as slowly as he could. Mumbo heard a gasp from down the hall, and suddenly, the other man was yanked away from the door by the collar of his scrubs. As he was dragged off, the nagging of an annoyed tech echoed through the clinic.

“You can’t just disappear, Doc! We’re trying to run a business here and you just wander off to do God knows what—“

There was a slam from one of the exam room doors, and the lecture grew muffled. Mumbo shook his head. 

Grian was usually the one that handled keeping Skizz on task when he was around, along with the techs. Mumbo didn’t mind taking over from time to time, but scolding people wasn’t always his favorite. He preferred to be alone with a research report, or to be fully lost in his responsibilities while checking on the animals in the back. Even amongst the people he knew well, there were topics that took him months to dare to touch. 

Grian was impressive in the way that he could flawlessly juggle both the customer service and the medical duties that came with their job. If he hated ignorant pet owners, he could still get through a difficult check-up without running away once. All he’d have to do afterwards to get over the awkward social interaction was complain to one of the other people on shift – usually Mumbo. He had no problem standing firm, staying on task, keeping others from straying in directions he didn’t want to go. 

Mumbo missed him desperately. The clinic was empty without him, even if he wasn’t the only bright personality they employed. It’d been a joy attending med school together, Grian keeping him sane when the rest of the world seemed endlessly heavy, and to be able to continue that friendship together in their own little clinic was perfect.

Eager to see his best friend, and aware there would be no pushback for bending the rules a bit, he opted to leave for lunch early. 

Mumbo scooped up his jug of soup and headed towards the door. He did his best to sneak past the room where Skizz was still being lectured, but the bells on the lobby door told on him immediately. He winced as he heard footsteps come around the corner. 

“Oh, Mumbo!”

Mumbo glanced over his shoulder. Skizz ran to him, a sheepish smile on his face, likely because of the tech that trailed after him. Mumbo frowned as a familiar bag was held out. 

“Glad I caught you before I forgot. Here!” It was shoved into his arms, the contents clinking and shifting inside. “Give G-man back the tools he left in the autoclave from the night before he got sick. I’m sure he wants them.”

“And there’s a card in there too,” chimed the tech. “Signed by all the staff. Tell him to get well soon.”

“Aw,” Mumbo cooed, melting at that. “That’s so sweet. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

They waved him goodbye, and as he tossed one last glance into the clinic, he saw Skizz get dragged into the back again. His whining could be heard for a block afterwards. 

The sun was bright through the regular dreary clouds of wintertime. A cold wind blew, but it wasn’t much of a match for a decent coat. Mumbo’s walk to Grian’s apartment, though it was now being made with an extra weight in his arms, was much more pleasant. He couldn’t wait to see the look on his friend’s face when he realized how dearly he was missed. Sick or not, it would be good.

Maybe, if Mumbo presented it correctly, he could make the guy cry. What fun that would be — making the usually-logistical Grian sob like a little baby over how much his friends loved him. More often than not, it was Mumbo who took that particular role. This would give him the opportunity to switch things up. 

Mischief brewing in his head, he entered the apartment building and climbed the stairs. 

However, nothing was ever as straightforward as he needed it to be. 

Mumbo’s first road block came in the form of an elderly woman with an oxygen tank. She was blocking the stairs, trying to haul herself and her tank up despite there being a perfectly good elevator on the first floor. As soon as she noticed a fit young man coming up behind her, she begged for his help. 

She begged loudly. 

He suspected that was to stop him from denying her, fearing public scrutiny, but what she didn’t know was that he always feared public scrutiny. 

So, of course, he gave in. 

The little old woman made him lug the heavy tank all the way up to her apartment, which was, as it turned out, on the top floor – approximately three floors above where he needed to be. The entire way, she babbled on in that usual grumbly tone that grandparents used to scold the youth. 

“Some people these days,” she complained. “They don’t believe me when I say the mice are taking over, but I know. Oh, I know.”

“The mice? Really?” Mumbo tried for the most pleasant, engaged tone he could, but he was sure he just sounded out of breath. “I assure you, miss, mice don’t have brains large enough to stage a revolution against humans.”

She sneered at him through her drooping, wrinkly cheeks. “Yeah? And what are your credentials, Mister Mouse Expert?” 

“Oh, uh… I’m a vet.”

“That means nothing to me,” she huffed. “Come back when you’ve had something small enough that you couldn’t see it steal your oxygen tank in the middle of the night. Had to be the mice.”

Though he was not a human physician, he deduced that this old woman was not really all there mentally. Oxygen tanks didn’t just get carried away by invisible forces without explanation, and mice being the cause she’d landed upon simply furthered his point. It helped him get through the interaction to know that she probably wouldn’t remember him afterwards.

They reached the top of the stairs, she led him to her unit, and his jaw dropped at the sight of a perfectly good dolly sitting right next to the woman’s front door. Sensing his surprise, she waved her hands at it.

“I couldn’t get that ole thing up the stairs with my tank on it,” the woman tutted. “I had to bring it in the elevator earlier and then go all the way back down to get the tank. Such a hassle.”

Her eyes brightened beneath her cracked glasses and she pointed inside. 

“Hey, you’re a vet! Come, come,” she urged. “You simply must help me find where the mice have hidden.”

Mumbo had handed back the tank and left as fast as he could. For all that he detested being judged by others, getting forced into impromptu work during his lunch break was infinitely worse. He heard her shouting profanities at him as he sprinted down the stairs and to Grian’s level.

Then, panting in front of a familiar unit, he encountered his second road block.

It’d been an awfully long time since he’d last visited. Grian was never the type to have people over, friends or otherwise. It was a habit leftover from his younger days, when he’d hole himself up in his dorm room for days without sunshine to study, and he’d consider any visitors an unwelcome distraction. Honestly, with those tendencies, it was a wonder Grian was the more sociable one between the two of them now. 

Still, sociable or not, the other vet hadn’t ever been fond of people dropping by unannounced. That probably had only become more true in the wake of his sudden illness. Mumbo wasn’t entirely sure the door would even be opened should he knock at that moment. 

God, how horrid would that be? He’d look like a fool standing in the hallway, holding only a jug of soup and a bag of medical tools, rapping on a door that was certain to never be answered. It was stifling enough that he nearly turned around. 

But he remembered the note in the bag, the people back at the clinic, the man that was sick behind this same door. They were relying on him to follow through, to deliver these sentiments that they themselves could not. Mumbo could handle a little bit of embarrassment if it meant passing these things over. 

He took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. 

It was quiet. Too quiet. No sick man would’ve been able to hear it from his bed. 

Mumbo raised his hand to knock again, a mere breath away from his knuckles making contact with the wood, when it was suddenly gone. The door swung open, startling a yelp out of the vet. He jumped back, clutching onto Grian’s bag and thrusting out the jug of soup as though it were a weapon.

“Um… Hello?”

Mumbo’s face paled as he took in the sight of someone that was definitely not Grian standing in the threshold of the apartment. This man had lifeless green eyes, messy brown hair framing his scarred face, and a strong build. There was a crutch holding him up, covered by a vast collection of stickers and decorated tape. 

The vet froze up, mouth opening and closing uselessly. Shame and fear and anxiety swept over him in a wave of discomfort. He hadn’t even considered that he might’ve had the wrong unit number. Mumbo could’ve sworn this was where Grian lived, but if a stranger was opening the door, there was no denying that he’d screwed up. 

The man raised a brow. “Can I help you?”

“No,” Mumbo blurted, and then he flushed. “I mean, not really. Oh, gosh. Sorry, I think I got, um, the wrong unit. You see, I was trying to visit my friend. He’s sick, so I just–”

“Wait a minute, I recognize you,” the stranger declared, raising a hand to point at him. His eyes shone. “You’re that vet! Mumbo, was it?”

Mumbo frowned. “Uh, how did you–?”

“Grian talks about you all the time,” the man answered quickly. Then, as if regretting his words, a pang of something unreadable passed over his face. The energy left him as quickly as it had arrived. 

Despite the weird reaction, Mumbo perked up at the name of his friend. “You know Grian?”

“Hm? Oh, well, of course,” the man said, giving him a weak smile. He extended a hand to shake, and the vet obliged. “My name is Scar. I’m Grian’s boyfriend.”

Mumbo froze mid-handshake, fingers tensing around the other’s knuckles. His back straightened, eyes going wide. “Grian’s boyfriend?”

“Um, yeah?” The man, Scar, tilted his head. “Hasn’t he told you about me?”

Mumbo nodded, but he felt distant and numb, shock taking over. “He has, but I didn’t–! I mean, how could I–?”

“Pardon?” Scar leaned closer, as if their proximity were what was keeping them from understanding one another. Mumbo, meanwhile, found himself using this new opportunity to vigorously scan the person he hadn’t been expecting to ever meet.

For as long as Mumbo had known Grian, which was nearing an absurd amount of time, the other hadn’t shown romantic attraction to another human even once. He may have dated a scattering of folks briefly here and there, but there was a difference between those acquaintances and Scar.

Even in the handful of moments Grian had spent mentioning his partner to Mumbo, his whole countenance had changed. There was a spark in him that hadn’t been there before, and a pink to his cheeks that was far too sweet for someone so sharp. It was youthful adoration, the kind of lasting joy that didn’t dissipate after one bad date. Scar was nothing like those other passing interests. 

He was real. He was ingrained. He was there to stay.

Intimidation rattled through Mumbo’s bones, chilling him to his core. This was not because of anything Scar had done, of course, but rather, because of the implications of what was to come – the future that his presence alone could decide. 

This was the man for whom his best friend was head over heels. If the stars aligned, this could also be the man with whom Grian might spend the rest of his life. Birthdays, parties, weddings, anniversaries, funerals, baby showers, retirement celebrations – there was a chance that Scar would be there for all of them. 

And actually, as far as they knew, this relationship had the possibility to outlast Mumbo and Grian’s friendship entirely. Didn’t that happen to a lot of married couples? The world changed around them, but they always had each other? Friends were important, but the bonds of a long-term romantic relationship ran deeper, right?

Grian had always been a consistently partnerless weirdo, going hand-in-hand with Mumbo’s inability to stand any social interaction for longer than five minutes. Before Scar, before Grian had changed their dynamic forever, there was never anyone closer to the other vet. Mumbo and Grian were a pair, doomed to die as the bestest of friends, with fifty cats and two doctorates between them. 

Now, there was Scar, and Grian seemed like he’d finally found his other half. Even if the other vet insisted that things wouldn’t change, that Mumbo would never fall out of his favor, he couldn’t know that. Mumbo’s constantly whirring mind spat out scenario after scenario in which Scar’s relationship with Grian outlasted Mumbo’s own. 

Knowing that there was a chance this could be his first official meeting with the man his best friend might one day marry – the man that might one day usurp his title as Grian’s number-one bestest friend in the whole wide world – there was suddenly a lot of pressure residing upon his shoulders.

“Oh, wait! I remember,” Scar gasped, drawing Mumbo out of his downward spiral. “We’ve met before, actually. I brought my cat, Jellie, to see you a while back.”

Mumbo’s eyes widened.

Jellie?

Now that he’d mentioned it, that name was familiar.

He didn’t always remember the details of the pets that came to visit him, but he’d kept that particular day in mind because it was one of Grian’s friends. Given the other vet didn’t have many of those outside of Mumbo and Skizz, it was a pretty momentous occasion. Though, the experience also partially remained embedded into his subconscious due to his haunting fear that failing to file the paperwork from that examination would result in him losing his job and being forced to leave all of his friends behind.

Such a terrible fate had not befallen him, and it wasn’t even close to the first time paperwork had been lost in their office due to some form of negligence, but Mumbo had a great many worries in his life. 

The point was that Mumbo remembered Scar – or rather, he remembered the idea of remembering Scar. His face had been a blurry mess in the vet’s head for a number of months, only coming back to him now. Alongside that recollection came the memory of him calling the man across from him, ‘not his type,’ when Grian had inquired further. 

He tried not to wince at the realization that he’d basically called his best friend’s future partner unattractive. 

“Yes,” Mumbo gritted out. “I suppose we have met, haven’t we? You’ve also been the one calling out for Grian, have you not?”

“Uh, yeah… I have,” Scar replied, something soft in his tone, though he covered it with a smile. “Well, what brings you here on such short notice?” 

“You mentioned over the phone that Grian was in rough shape,” Mumbo explained, an ounce of confidence returning to him as he got one step closer to completing his main goal for the day. “I brought him some stuff.”

“Oh,” Scar whispered, mouth dropping half open in surprise. His eyes locked onto the bag and soup. “You’re a really good friend, aren’t you? Please, come in.”

Scar stepped aside, allowing Mumbo to move past him, which he did quickly to avoid more awkward standing around. 

Now, he’d been to Grian’s house before, whether it was ages ago or not. In some ways, the apartment he entered that afternoon was different, and in others, it was exactly the same. 

Mumbo recognized the furniture — Grian had originally bought that couch for his dinky apartment off-campus during their last bit of med school, and the armchair was one Skizz had been trying to get rid of three years prior. The difference came in their spacing. Everything had been moved to be more spread apart, with plenty of walking room in between. The wheelchair parked beside the kitchen door, which Mumbo presumed belonged to Scar, was likely the reason for that adjustment. 

The blinds were also the same design as Mumbo recalled, but they were shut firmly on that particular day. The only glow in the room came from a solitary lamp beside the television, which buzzed with a vague news program.

The darkness was unsettling for a number of reasons. For one, Grian had never been the type to board himself up in such a way. He’d always loved natural light more than that of a lamp, so to have all of it blocked off in the middle of the day was odd for his tendencies.

Secondly, in the sun’s absence, an unpleasant shadow had settled over the room, heavy and foreboding. The spirit of sickness clung to the walls, ceilings, cushions, any nook and cranny around the apartment that it could find. Mumbo got the inexplicable urge to storm over to the windows and throw them open, clearing the air of the horrible energy.

Maybe he’d spent too long staring at the looming shadows, or some sort of expression had come over his face, because Scar felt the need to explain the atmosphere the second the door was shut. “Grian only wakes up occasionally,” the other hummed. “And when he does, he hates bright lights. Hurts his head.”

“Ah,” Mumbo replied, supposing that to make enough sense. He hadn’t known if Grian was able to move from his bed or not during the height of his ailment, as Scar had described it as something fairly serious. “Does that mean he’s asleep now? Is seeing him off the table?”

Scar leaned further on his crutch, pursing his lips. “I wouldn’t advise you to try to see him even when he is awake. He’s contagious.”

“Really?” Mumbo frowned. “Then, aren’t you worried about catching it?”

The other man’s eyes narrowed slightly, dropping to the soup, seeming to make up his mind about something. He moved past Mumbo to delve further into the house, replying as he walked, “I had this same thing recently, so I probably won’t get it again. Don’t worry too much, though. If I have anything to say about it, soon enough, Grian will be back to living his normal life. It’s an irritating problem, for sure, but it has its solutions.”

“Uh, right, yeah. Grian did mention he was taking care of someone sick,” Mumbo muttered, trailing after him as Scar brought them into the kitchen. Hesitating in the doorway, the vet absorbed the sight of empty tissue boxes stacked up in the wastebasket, and containers of takeout lining the countertops. 

“Apologies for the mess,” Scar said, gesturing vaguely at it. “I haven’t had much motivation to cook recently.”

“I get that. I’m not much for cooking myself.” Mumbo held up his jug of soup. “Good thing I brought this, then.”

“Yeah,” Scar said, smiling and taking it from his hand. He gazed down at the soup like he was on the verge of tears, but after a bout of rapid blinking and a deep breath in, that look vanished. “Thank you. This is really nice.”

While Scar turned to put the jug into the fridge, Mumbo looked around a little more. He spotted a collection of all sorts of papers covering the kitchen table, alongside a map of the city. The other man cursed to himself, trying to find a way to fit the jug in on a shelf that was definitely already too full, unaware of how Mumbo had leaned over and begun to read some of the visible pages.

The first one he spotted was a newspaper clipping, recounting an old interview with Daybreak from a year or so back. Her face was circled with bleeding red ink, as if the hand that had made the mark was pressing too hard in the process. Mumbo could’ve paused to read on, but his eyes were already distracted by another sheet, upon which he saw a printed out article about the weapons used by the Gs. 

To his surprise, it was one he’d seen before. Primarily, it was passed around by fans of the hero group. The high definition pictures and specifics within it were hard to find elsewhere on the internet, and people attempting to make costumes or learn more about their favorite heroes needed what this article laid out. It felt strange in the context of Grian’s kitchen table, though. 

From what Mumbo was able to scan, the rest of the papers were very similar to the first two – newspapers, interviews, magazines, online forum comments, all printed out and strewn across the surface with various pen markings scrawled on them. Gathered amongst the nearly obsessive mess, the map was the thing most out of place there. 

There were circles around certain buildings, some of them overlapping with big scratchy crosses, and others left untouched. The locations were random, unremarkable. One that had been ticked off was a coffee shop not far from where Mumbo lived on second street, with another bearing a similar marking being on the other side of town overtop of a storage unit. 

The handwriting for everything, be it newspaper, sticky note, or comments left in the corner of the map, was the same. None of it belonged to Grian. 

“Oh, shoot!” Scar rushed towards the table, stepping in front of the vet’s line of sight. “Sorry, I would’ve cleaned if I knew we’d be having a guest, but–”

“What is all that stuff?” Mumbo was too awestruck by the strange collection to worry about the etiquette of being caught staring. Perhaps he should not have pried, but anything involving heroes tended to catch his fancy rather fast, this being no exception. “Are you, like, researching the Gs or something?”

Scar’s face flew through a series of emotions that were hardly readable. Mumbo thought he saw fear, confusion, maybe even anger, but none of them remained long enough to be sure. An uncomfortable neutrality was what finally settled a minute later, and the man across from him nodded. “Yes, you could say that.”

Doing his best to interpret this new defensiveness, Mumbo raised his hands placatingly, worry bubbling in his gut. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “I’m not trying to judge your interests or anything. I’m quite big on the heroes myself, actually.”

Somehow, instead of making things better, Scar seemed to tense even more. “Really? You’re a fan of the heroes?”

“Oh, um,” Mumbo stammered, suddenly feeling judged himself. “Well, not necessarily. I pay attention to that general scene as a whole, not the heroes themselves. I’m more of a Bamboozlers fan when it comes down to it.”

That seemed to flip a switch in Scar. 

He straightened up so quickly that he seemed to lose balance. In an attempt to recover, he fumbled with his crutch, and ended up just leaning on the kitchen table in an awkward half-stand and half-sit. Scar cleared his throat, tipping his chin up in a way that must’ve been meant to make him seem nonchalant. “The Bamboozlers?”

“Well, yes,” Mumbo chuckled awkwardly, not entirely sure he wanted to go in depth on his hobbies with a man he’d just met. Even Grian was a bit skeptical of this part of his interests, going deadpan and becoming distant anytime the villains were brought up in conversation. “I know they’re not always popular with people, and gosh, I’d never want to meet one of them in real life, but you have to respect the Bamboozlers. Their stunts and cool heists are mind-blowing.”

“Oh? Really?” Scar’s face became strained, as if he were actively repressing a massive grin. “You think all that about a couple of humble villains?”

Mumbo flushed, embarrassment and shame creeping up his spine. He looked away. “Sorry, I’ll stop boring you with idle pratter. I understand this isn’t most people’s speed.”

“No!” 

Mumbo glanced back, surprised by the sheer volume of Scar’s outcry. It was the other’s turn to grow red. 

“I mean,” he coughed. “You can talk about it, if you want. I like the Bamboozlers a lot, actually. Way more than these petty heroes.”

“Wait,” Mumbo muttered, raising a brow. “You do?”

“Oh, yeah,” Scar said, puffing up his chest. “Big time. I’d say I know more about them than most people.”

A new emotion bloomed in the vet’s chest. He stared at the other man, with his big grin and obsessive newspaper clippings, and Mumbo saw part of himself there. He thought of his own late nights spent reviewing news footage of old fights, or browsing through threads on the internet for fresh pictures to be released of his favorite groups. 

Grian had never understood, had frowned upon those hobbies, and yet, in his boyfriend, Mumbo found something he could only describe as potential companionship. Anxiety be damned – he would not miss his first opportunity to make a connection with another Bamboozlers fan in real life.

They would be friends. Mumbo would make sure of that. 

Grian had good taste. 

“So, uh, tell me,” Scar started, barely-contained excitement brimming in his gaze. “What are your favorite Bamboozlers moments?”

“Well,” Mumbo scoffed, brows furrowing. “I think that’s an absolutely preposterous question. I like them all, of course!”

That earned him a small bout of laughter in response. Scar opened his mouth, likely to prompt him again, but a sound from the other room caused him to pause. His face tightened, a shadow falling across his features. Mumbo didn’t hear it at first, but after a moment of listening, he picked up on the buzzing of a newscaster from the television.

“…here today with a member of the Gs for an exclusive interview–!”

Mumbo wasn’t able to listen anymore before the temperature of the room seemed to drop. Scar pushed past him, moving with remarkable swiftness and ease, despite his crutch, to hurry into the living room. The vet followed, a bit startled by the sudden change in mood. 

By the time he rounded the corner, Scar was already in front of the screen, phone clutched in his hands as he watched with rapt attention. Mumbo stalked closer, curious, and glanced over the other’s shoulder. 

To his surprise, Morphling was on screen. The hero was standing with an interviewer on a street corner in front of a park, shoulders back, posture proud, a smile on his face to rival the shining of the sun in the sky. He was always the picture of grace and heroism, even when his actual fights were not the most enjoyable to watch — in Mumbo’s humble, not-at-all biased, opinion. 

Perhaps the most jarring thing about seeing him in an interview was how suddenly it had happened. The Gs hadn’t been spotted around town for a while, appearing in short bursts or not at all for a little over a month by then. Patrols that had once been alternated between the city’s biggest heroes seemed to be taken up by mostly just Slayer and Furioso now. It was a statistical anomaly that had been pinpointed by fans of the hero group online, who were known for tracking and attempting to figure out the schedules of all their favorites by documenting each time they were seen.

Looking at Scar, who hadn’t blinked in a solid minute, brows furrowed and mouth slightly parted as if in awe, Mumbo wondered if he was that type of fan. 

“Morphling, the people have been curious about the Gs’ absence on the scene as of late,” the interviewer inquired. She was an older woman with a choppy haircut. “Are you able to provide some clarity on the situation?”

Morphling nodded and looked into the camera. “We are ensuring that our heroes receive a much needed vacation from the stressors of real life after being constantly available all the time.”

“Ah,” the interviewer hummed, eyes sparkling like this was some profound reply. “Heroes have one of the most intense jobs in our city without a doubt, so it’s understandable to need a break from that for a while.”

“Have you ever experienced burnout?” Morphling asked her, and the newscaster made a noise of agreement. He addressed the audience again, “The vets, doctors, first responders of the world have to be constantly available, and they know the struggle that comes with that, which a lot of folks don’t always realize. Come, I invite those who don’t understand to educate themselves on the intricacies of overworking, so that we can make the world a better place for everyone.”

Next to him, Scar inhaled sharply. The notes app on his phone contained a full transcript of everything that was being said, the other man writing it all down diligently. He turned then, shooting a look at Mumbo, irises clouded with barely-disguised rage. “Nice of him to mention vets, huh?” 

“Uh,” Mumbo whispered, acutely aware that the man in front of him didn’t actually want a response. Something about the interview had consumed him completely. “Yeah… Nice of him.”

“A beautiful message,” the woman agreed. “How do you and your teammates tend to relax in your off time?”

Morphling gestured to the park behind him. Trees and rolling hills could be seen, with only a couple of taller buildings on the skyline, meaning it was closer to the south side of the city, where industrial districts were separated from suburban housing with green space. 

“Here, we enjoy a lot of nature’s beauty as one of our favorite pastimes. In our city, there really are so many relaxing places that go unnoticed,” Morphling said. “Four days is how long it takes to get through all of our museums alone, did you know that?”

Every word spoken felt rehearsed, a bit like an advertisement, as if he were being paid to promote whatever amenities their city had to offer. Mumbo had witnessed propaganda of that variety from the Agency before, when they’d previously teamed up with the local government. It was usually done less to convince people from neighboring cities to move in, and more to keep the civilians of such a hectic place content. 

As a local himself, though his area was less affected than the downtown or shopping districts tended to be, he knew that living in a city like theirs was not always the easiest. Few other places in the world boasted a population quite as large as that of their home, while also boasting such a big concentration of superpowered individuals. 

The Agency kept tight regulations on what could and could not be known about the process of developing powers entailed, and how they were obtained, so Mumbo didn’t have specifics. However, he was able to find out by scouring the internet for hours that, generally, rural areas and cities outside of their own were not typically places where people developed powers. There were outliers, but never enough for people to become heroes or villains. That was a problem unique to them.

Speculation believed it was something in the air, something that grew stronger with each new addition to the hero lineup. Almost as if the longer superpowers were allowed to exist, the more they developed in newer generations – not quite contagious, not quite genetic, but a secret third option that was not revealed to them. It’d been fifty years since the founding of the Agency, and the effects were starting to show in that regard. 

Less superpowered individuals were accidentally harming themselves now that they had a free, safe environment in which to practice, even if that came at the cost of being forced to work for the Agency for the rest of their lives. At the very least, from what Mumbo had heard, those whose powers weren’t special or strong enough to be turned into heroes – the majority – had a variety of inner departments in which to work. 

The Agency was practically the cogs that kept the city running, even on the smallest scale. Minor gifts of healing provided hospitals with easy solutions, and minor plant manipulators could provide farmers with excess seeds to plant each year. There weren’t enough people to render any jobs as useless, considering even their high concentration of superpowered individuals still made up a small amount of the population, but they helped. 

It was because of resources like those, provided by this mysterious corporate entity, which worked alongside but clearly outranked the power of even the highest government official, that kept their city on the map. Citizens may have their lives impeded on occasion by rogue villains, but they stayed because of the other perks. 

Perks that they needed to be reminded about on a regular basis to keep the chances of civil unrest as low as possible. Mumbo found the timing of this particular interview strange, but he wasn’t enough of an expert to question that stuff.

 Scar, on the other hand, looked like he was comprehending an entire world that Mumbo couldn’t see. He was muttering to himself inaudibly, eyes scanning the screen like missing a single detail would kill him, and fingers flying over his keyboard to capture every word said. 

“That sounds great, Morphling!” The interviewer beamed, visibly thrilled by how well the entire question process had gone. Heroes weren’t always this responsive, whether it was scripted propaganda or not. “We’re happy you and your teammates are getting some much deserved rest, and we're so excited to have you returning soon, completely rejuvenated and ready to protect our city!”

“Yes, we can’t wait,” Morphling laughed. His gaze remained unwaveringly focused on the camera, and his smile seemed to sharpen. “We’ll see you soon.”

The television switched to a mindless advertisement. The interview was over. 

Scar stared, blinking rapidly as if it were the only thing he knew how to do. Then, he stumbled back a few steps and fell silently onto the couch. Mumbo frowned. “Are you alright, mate?”

“No,” Scar whispered, before seeming to catch himself. “I mean, yes. I’m fine. The interview was just… not everything I wanted it to be.”

Mumbo glanced between the screen and his new acquaintance quizzically. “What did you… want it to be?”

The other took a deep breath in – something he seemed to do a lot – and thought on his answer. His brows furrowed, and he bit the inside of his cheek in contemplation. Several minutes passed, during which Mumbo thought he might burst into flames from his own anxious worrying, before Scar gave his reply. “I was hoping for a… date on when they’d be… getting back into action. I may not be the biggest fan, but a hero group being on break has been weird for my schedules.”

Mumbo straightened. So, Scar was worried about scheduling. He’d been right. That made the other man into quite the interesting fan, as all Agency-predictors tended to be. He probably paid closer attention to the news and social media sightings than Mumbo did himself. Having a friend with that kind of knowledge would be unbelievably cool.

Embarrassing as it was, Mumbo had already begun planning how he was going to try and convince Grian to let him hang out with Scar more in the future. Particularly, at a time when everyone was better and they could bond without the barricade of illnesses in the way. 

“Well, cheer up, mate,” Mumbo suggested. He moved like he was about to give Scar a playful punch in the arm, but decided against it halfway through and ended up just rubbing the back of his neck. “Sometimes, uh, heroes don’t always give that information away explicitly. You wrote down what he was saying for a reason, right? Check his subtext, see if there’s any secret code. I don’t know, maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Scar raised a brow, eyes sparkling with mirth as the vet finished his statement. “You were thinking there would be an encoded message too?”

“Oh, um, I guess.” Mumbo flushed, looking away. He hadn’t intended on indulging his conspiratorial side in front of another person, but if he and Scar were already so like-minded as fans to be wondering the same thing, then there probably wasn’t any harm in it. “Just thought… y’know… it’s an odd time for propaganda, right? Usually you only see stuff like that interview after some big villain fight.”

“Exactly right.” Scar’s lips tipped up into a large grin. “Grian wasn’t lying when he told me you were stupidly smart. I’m glad he has a friend that’s as aware as this.”

Mumbo felt his chest swell with pride, and he chuckled to himself. “Oh, gosh. I’m flattered, really.”

The other regarded him for a moment in silence, and then shifted over on the couch, patting the cushion next to him. “In fact, come here. I have a theory, and I want to see if it makes sense. Grian said you have a good memory. Can you double-check that I wrote everything down exactly the way Morphling said it?”

Mumbo stifled a gasp, practically tripping over himself to fall upon the spot where Scar had directed him to sit. Once he was there, he nodded, beyond overjoyed. Scar passed him the phone, where the transcribed message had been written out. 

The vet centered himself, and began work. Editing was not hard at all. It seemed Scar had a bit of an issue with minor spelling mistakes, and had remembered a few of the words incorrectly, but nothing was too much different.

“That does help quite a bit,” Scar marveled as the phone was passed back. Mumbo watched him type out a few keywords, making minor adjustments here and there, though it seemed relatively straightforward. “Got it. The first word of every sentence creates a new sentence, with a few exceptions just to have it make total sense.”

The screen was tipped his way, and Mumbo read the new message:

WE HAVE… COME HERE IN FOUR DAYS.

“Hm,” he hummed, brows furrowing. “There’s a bit missing in the middle that you haven’t added. What do they have, exactly?”

“Oh, um,” Scar laughed awkwardly. “That’s the part in the interview where he lists off a bunch of professions, so I wasn’t sure which one was right, if any of them, or what it might mean. It’s not an exact science, my theorizing.”

“Ah, right,” Mumbo sighed. “Well, it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with when they’ll be back on the scene. What do you think it is, then? A message for someone?”

“Probably,” Scar confirmed, lips twitching. “And I’ll bet the person they’re speaking to knows exactly what or who they have.”

Mumbo didn’t really love the way he’d phrased that. There was an implication in it, impossible to to miss, suggesting something sinister afoot. “Do you think that Morphling is talking about… a hostage?”

Scar shot him a look, brief but cold, and Mumbo knew he was correct in his assumption. 

“Why would they–?”

An alarm blared from one of the pockets of his scrubs, startling both men present in the room. Mumbo rushed to pull out his phone and silence the noise, though there was no ignoring what it meant. He jumped to his feet, eyes wide. 

“Oh, gosh,” he stammered. “I’m supposed to be back at the clinic in ten minutes! Sorry, Scar. It was lovely meeting you, but I have to go.”

Scar stood as well, quietly escorting the panicking man to the door. Mumbo couldn’t believe he’d let time get away from him quite this badly. He’d just been so caught up in the conversation and the potential for new friends that he hadn’t thought of his situation. 

“It was nice meeting you too,” Scar called after him as he ran out into the hallway and started down the stairs. “Visit anytime!”

Mumbo would absolutely be doing that. 

Waking up after being drugged was never comfortable, as Grian was beginning to learn. This time around, though, the sensations that plagued him during his moments spent regaining consciousness were worse than just physical pain. His throat was raw from screaming, cheeks stiffened with dried tears, and mouth agape as though he couldn’t bring himself to close it. 

He didn’t care that he woke up in the dark, restrained and cold and sore. He knew what he would’ve found had he been able to see, and he wasn’t certain he could handle it. 

An empty room. No heroes, no vigilantes, and certainly no villains to ease his aching loneliness. No one to save him.

Grian had seen a way out, had seen the other side, had tasted freedom, and had it ripped away in the same gasping breath. Little else could compare to a cruelty that severe. He didn’t even care that his wrists were bound tighter than before, or that he’d lost all feeling in his legs. 

What else was there? Where else could he find more hope to keep going? He wanted to be saved, wanted to be out, but days had to have gone by with no word from anyone but the heroes. He’d put all he had into that one uncertain vigilante, simply because he knew it could be ages before he got such a chance again, only to fail. 

Grian guessed he’d been stuck for a week, maybe more, maybe slightly less. His estimation came from his stomach, and its sudden lack of noise. The screaming of his gut, his yearning for food, had disappeared entirely as of late. 

Hunger pains were known to, allegedly, lessen after three or four days of fasting. If he factored in the few bits of food he’d been fed not long after arriving, pushing that date back by a bit, closer to over a week had to be right. Not that this was a pleasant estimation. It meant he’d been kidnapped for over a week. It meant he’d been in danger for over a week. It meant he’d been away from Scar for over a week.

Grian knew he was fading when his heart could only give the tiniest lurch. He missed Scar — God, he missed Scar — but he was tired and scared and thirsty, and lingering on anything beyond that was hard, most especially in regards to the thirst. 

In the days that must’ve gone by during his multiple bouts of unwilling sleep, water had become a priority above everything else in his brain. Dehydration would kill him faster than the heroes could, at his current rate, and they hadn’t exactly been liberally providing it prior to his escape attempt. He didn’t imagine that his situation would improve now. 

Despite having woken from his dreamless abyss, Grian hadn’t moved, so there shouldn’t have been much of a difference between his unconscious and conscious states. However, not a few dizzying moments later, the door opened, and he heard Morphling laugh, “You’re finally up! We thought you’d sleep forever.”

Unfortunately for the hero, the addition of company to his bleak world did nothing to boost Grian’s energy levels. He did not raise his head, did not give a reaction. Instead, his dreary eyes focused only on what he could see with his gaze pointed down. His chair, he noticed in the light, had changed slightly.

Now that he spared it some thought, the sensations against his skin were odd. His wrists were not burned by cold metal, nor the twisted material of a rope. His restraints were rough, tight, secure, but not something he recognized. His legs might’ve been similar, but he could not make the pins and needles go down enough to tell.

The chair itself, especially along what little bits of the legs he could see, was darker, less rigid, jutting out at weird angles. Perhaps it was a strange pattern of shadows made by the man looming in the doorway, but he couldn’t be sure. 

He was forced out of his pondering by a hand grabbing his chin and yanking his head upwards. His vision swam and his neck hissed against the sudden movement. Grian knew it was Morphling in front of him, but the blue of his hair and the blurry details of his face were the most that could be seen.

“Ugh,” the hero tutted, audibly disgusted. “His lips are so chapped that they’re bleeding. Blackhole, could you—?”

Grian registered a hum from someone further away, and then the whooshing of air. 

“Thank you,” Morphling muttered. “Here. Drink. I still need you alive.” 

The edge of a glass was pressed against Grian’s bottom lip, jolting him into a slightly higher state of awareness. 

Water.

They were offering him water.

He allowed Morphling to tip his head back and lift the glass, using all of his remaining energy to swallow when he felt the cool rush of liquid meet his tongue. It was lukewarm with a strange metallic taste, likely from the tap, but after so long, details of that nature could not bother him. Grian had never been so refreshed and overwhelmed by a cup of water before. 

The entire glass was downed in mere seconds. He was left panting heavily to make up for not breathing until the contents were drained. Gulping it down so quickly wasn’t wise, he knew that somewhere in his subconscious, but he couldn’t hear that part of himself in the moment. 

Still, whether he’d savored every last drop or not, it wasn’t enough. He’d been bordering on total dehydration, and it’d take more than a single glass for him to bounce back. He wanted an IV drip, or an entire bucket within which he could shove his face. 

“Another.”

Morphling’s command was directed at Blackhole yet again, and as he’d done before, the teleporting hero disappeared. Were Grian of a sounder mind, he might’ve been intrigued by the fact that Blackhole was around at all. After he’d spilled his secret, Grian had not seen him again. He would’ve liked to inquire further on the arrow, further on how he could cause something as agonizing as that to come into play. 

But he wasn’t capable of speech, not yet, and the thought only barely crossed his mind. It was washed away easily by water being pressed against his lips again. Grian tried to drink this cup slower, to avoid overdoing it when his body wasn’t used to the sustenance. 

Unfortunately, with his hands bound, he wasn’t the one in control of the speed at which the glass was tipped upwards, and Morphling did not care to waste more time. Grian coughed when he finished, having been made to swallow far too fast near the end. It irritated his already-upset throat, subsequently pulling his broken rib. At the very least, his mouth had some amount of moisture, and his brain didn’t feel like it was on the brink of shutting down anymore. 

Obviously, though, that wasn’t satisfactory for his captors. They’d burst in most likely with the intent to continue their interrogation. But since Grian was barely mentally present, that plan wouldn’t work. Maybe the water would rejuvenate him eventually, but the human body didn’t just bounce back from deprivation instantaneously. He got nausea instead as a direct result of the lack of pacing, and he willed himself not to spill the very minimal contents of his stomach. 

Morphling released his hold on the vet’s chin. Grian was too exhausted to even attempt to stay upright. His head dropped and hung lifelessly from his neck, much to the distaste of the heroes. Quietly, Morphling asked, “Now what?”

“Food, maybe?” Blackhole’s voice was the one Grian picked out next. This hero also spoke lowly, as if the two of them were discussing strategies before a battle, but it was hard not to hear with no other noise in the room. “He’s looking a little… gaunt.”

Was he?

Grian couldn’t see himself, could hardly even visualize the picture he must’ve made. Old scrubs and mussed up hair and tear-streaked skin, all dirtied by time. Sunken cheeks and eyes wouldn’t be far-fetched by any means. They’d said his lips were chapped too, bleeding. He ran his tongue along them, and tasted the iron, confirming that to be true. 

Slumped in a chair, malnourished and beaten, he saw a reflection of himself in his mind. The mental picture was almost enough to startle a laugh out of him. It looked like something from a movie — some political drama, where interrogation and torture were typical, or a sort of drawn-out horror film with a sadistic, slow killer.

“Sure,” Morphling sighed. “Get him a piece of bread, or a couple of crackers. I’m feeling generous.”

“Hold on. Remember our end goal. The worse his state, the better it’ll look for us later,” said a new voice, Daybreak. Grian hadn’t realized she was there. “It’s why we roughed him up in the first place.”

“Look at the guy,” Blackhole interjected. “He’s half dead. This is more than roughed up enough.”

There was a sigh and the clicking of footsteps, as if the hero closest to him were backing towards his teammates again. 

“I know,” Morphling said. “We probably should’ve stuck with psychological and outward physical damage. Or maybe saved the stuff that’d knock him out until right before the show.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad. He can recover enough to be interesting for the next four days if we’re nice for a bit,” Daybreak huffed. “Water, food, and boom! Basically good as new.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d worry about the eating habits of your pets, considering that’s all you think it takes to keep something healthy,” Morphling said. Though the statement was odd to Grian, it earned him a snort from Daybreak, like this was a joke they’d told many times in the past. “How are they, by the way? You’ve been here longer than the rest of us. I’m sure you’re missing them.”

“Fine, fine, and yeah, a little,” Daybreak replied, calm and steady. Her voice was nothing like the growling thing that had threatened Grian’s life in the past. “Tilly’s pups are all growing nicely. The dogsitter sends me pictures every day.”

It occurred to Grian then that the heroes were speaking as if he were not present. The flow of their conversation, the casual tones, the lack of intimidation in their every sentence told him all he needed to know about their perception of his state. Otherwise, why would the topic of pets come up so casually in front of someone who should never know such personal details?

Of course, to give them credit where it was not deserved, he had only been holding onto consciousness a little bit. Everything hurt, his mind spun, and his levels of clarity were best described as questionable. Had he not just woken from what he suspected to be multiple days of drug-induced sleep, maybe he would’ve had less control over his ability to stay awake. 

As it was though, he heard everything. There was a severe lack of context, and his brain wasn’t functioning at the capacity necessary for him to connect any dots yet, but digesting whatever information he could now might prove useful later. He still didn’t know their plans for him or for the Bamboozlers, nor why they were suddenly so divisive on their individual methods of causing him pain. He’d thought he was being tortured for information, but with the way they were arguing, there was probably more to it than that.

“Aw, I forgot she had puppies! Congrats, dude,” Blackhole chuckled. “You’re, like, a grandma or whatever!”

“I can’t wait to go back and see them,” Daybreak sighed dreamily. “Just four more days.”

Morphling gave a disapproving hum. “Not quite, remember? Sure, you can go home after our little show, but then we’ll have to deal with all the meetings and paperwork to get our licenses finalized. We’re never going to have free time because of that.”

“Big boss lady ain’t gonna be happy,” Blackhole agreed, clicking his tongue. “But we’ll convince her to sign, no problem. She won’t be able to turn us down or brush us off anymore.”

Four days? Big boss lady? Were they referring to the Watcher?

Grian strained his ears, hoping they’d let just the slightest bit more slip. He had a worrying hunch that the countdown indicated the climax of whatever they’d been planning, especially with how they were talking about it. That didn’t tell him specifics, though. He needed to figure out just a bit more, get those last few puzzle pieces, get into their heads…

And then, what?

What would he do with knowledge of their plans? He couldn’t run, or get a message out into the world to warn the Bamboozlers, so what was the point of wanting to know at all? 

Maybe it was just his crippling terror at the subject of the unknown – the idea that something massive was happening right out of his line of sight. He was instrumental in some uncertain dealings at the hands of the Gs, and yet, he didn’t have a single inkling as to what that was. The vet wished his mind would stop being fuzzy and help him put pieces together. 

Without warning, a hand nudged his shoulder, nearly startling Grian into revealing himself. He was able to bite the inside of his cheek just in time to keep from physically jumping. 

“He’s definitely out for the count,” Blackhole grunted from somewhere off to the side. He must’ve teleported while the vet was clumsily attempting to brainstorm. “Should I still grab some bread?”

God, bread sounded amazing. Grian’s stomach, while mostly quiet, was not afraid to kickstart its aching when reminded of its own emptiness. 

“Might as well,” Morphling replied. “I can probably zap him awake if absolutely necessary. That adrenaline will keep him up long enough to eat.”

Grian’s gut churned with something besides hunger, and he bit his own tongue to keep from making a noise of displeasure. His arm buzzed from the mere mention of being shocked, not keen on going through that again. 

He listened closely for the whoosh of air, indicating Blackhole had teleported in and out of the room. Grian willed himself to regain some amount of energy, pushing through his fatigue, nausea, dehydration in gradual increments. He closed his eyes, waiting for Morphling to take him by the chin again, so that he could appear to be jarred awake by the movement.

Grian emphasized the lethargic nature of his blinking, though it wasn’t hard. The light coming in from behind the heroes was sharp against his eyelids, spiking into a headache with impressive swiftness. The scrunch of his nose and the shifting to get away was real on his part. 

Morphling adjusted his grip in response, squeezing both of Grian’s cheeks with a bruising tightness. “Morning, sunshine. Hope you’re feeling up for a meal.”

The vet wasn’t certain what he was expecting, but it was not for a bread roll to be shoved in his mouth tactlessly. He bit down, wincing at the stress upon his tender gums and the stale roughness of its crust. For all that Blackhole had seemed intent on giving him some amount of food, his cares obviously stopped at the quality that was being provided. 

They did not untie his hands, or give him time to eat slowly. Morphling made him take a bite, pulled away, and then shoved it back into his mouth after only a moment of hesitation. Exactly as he had done with the water, did not let him pace himself. The bread was dry and scratched his throat, teeth unused to the pressure of chewing, especially with how quickly he was being made to do it. 

By the time he was done and Morphling had released his grip, Grian could only slump over. He was out of breath, out of energy, and uncomfortably nauseous. 

The logical part of himself, which knew the appropriate methods of reintroducing nutrients to oneself should they be in a position of starvation or dehydration, was helpless to stop the onslaught of wrongness that filled him now. Minutes should’ve stretched out between each sip of water and each bite of food, and yet he was finished instantly, and made to deal with the consequences.

Needless to say, he was awake. Not running at full capacity, far from it, but awake. His eyes were open, his neck was supporting the weight of his head, his face was curling in disgust, and that seemed to be enough for the heroes. Morphling sneered, eyes narrowed behind his mask. “Feeling better yet?”

Grian knew it wasn’t a serious question, knew that the hero wasn’t expecting an answer, but a jolt shot up his spine all the same. Every second of hesitation that passed caused dread to build in his gut. His mouth opened and closed, unable to croak out a single, coherent word. He couldn’t answer though. No matter how much water he’d ingested, his throat was too raw, in too bad of shape.

He winced at his own silence, as if it would be accompanied by some sort of physical punishment should he fail to answer right away. Then, Grian was flooded with shame and anger, despising his own instinctual reactions for giving in to their conditioning. Morphling watched him cycle through this series of emotions with a sickening delight. 

“Good,” he huffed, clearly pleased with himself. Morphling straightened and rested his hands on his hips. “We just stopped by to let you know that our plan is in motion, and it’s all thanks to you.”

Grian tensed, eyes widening. This was the first time anything related to a plan had been explicitly mentioned to him. He opened his mouth, willed himself to inquire further, but all that emerged was a broken wheeze. 

“Poor little vet,” Morphling tutted. “I’m sure you’re very curious about what we have in store for your pack of criminals, aren’t you?”

As easily as that, the one bit of information Grian had been dying to know was offered to him. 

Morphling dangled the topic in front of the vet’s face like a piece of meat to a starving beast. Perhaps that was how he viewed Grian – mangy, disorderly, with motivations and behaviors he didn’t understand. Maybe this room where he was being kept was a zoo to the heroes, where they could come in, flaunt their freedom, and look down upon him from their viewing decks, like false idols upon pedestals of their own design.

That was what they were to him, at least – false idols. They saw the world through their own conceited lens, and even the kindest among them was blinded by ambition. Morphling with his ego, Daybreak with her wrath, Blackhole with his deceit, and the other two, whose presence cast a shadow through the room despite their active absence. They were uniquely cruel, almost to a fault. If he played his cards right, rolled over and gave them the entertainment they craved, they might eventually throw enough scraps to constitute an entire meal’s worth of valuable information. 

So, as much as it pained him to give them even the slightest acknowledgements, Grian nodded. He let his desperation bleed through the crevices of his expression, shuddered in time with the pangs of fear that enveloped him, let himself look exactly as pathetic as they wished him to be constantly. 

Grian got more than he ever could’ve expected.

His vision was still blurred around the edges, adjusting slowly, but he was certain he would see the grin spreading across Morphling’s lips in his nightmares for years to come. 

“We’re going to be the first heroes since the Agency’s founding to finally eliminate the Bamboozlers.” He leaned down, letting his face hover inches away from the vet’s so he could watch the words leave his lips. “And it’s only possible because of you.”

Grian’s heart dropped. 

“We should be thanking you, really,” Morphling hummed. He tipped his head to the side, teeth far too sharp from this new angle. “If Ringmaster had been killed by that arrow in his side, that really would’ve been it for us. It’s much safer to take out all three Bamboozlers at once. An oversight on our parts almost did us in. Now, thanks to you, we won’t fail again.”

The world fell upon his shoulders in a single heavy second. Crushing pressure threatened to tip him over, despite his restraints, despite his pain, despite the piercing gazes holding him upright. 

What was Morphling talking about? Why had he brought up the first time Grian met Scar? What did an arrow shot by Slayer have to do with the Gs? 

His eyes darted to Blackhole, whose head was turned away. 

Was this somehow related to what he had told the vet so many days ago? Was this what Blackhole had meant when he’d said the poison was Grian’s fault? Was he implying that they only went to such terrifying lengths because their original attempt — something he did not yet fully understand — was thwarted?

Or rather, was it the nature in which he’d put an end to it that drove them to these lengths? Was the real implication that Grian’s medical involvement meant every injury had to be worse, every shot had to land, every plan needed to be foolproof? 

Nothing was certain with the way they danced around the whole truth, but it opened a pit in his gut that would not close. He felt himself crack just that slightest bit more, the unknowing curling into a ball of horrific curiosity within him. 

“Don’t give him all the credit,” Blackhole muttered. “Terra told us not to go the framing route. We didn’t listen.”

“Yes, well,” Morphling huffed. “He has a lot of contrary ideas, doesn’t he? How were we supposed to know this one was not grounded in his… distaste?”

Blackhole let his shoulders drop with a large sigh, relenting. Morphling must’ve said something known to be true, but it meant very little to Grian, which was probably the point of his vague wording. Not that any amount more of specifics could’ve caught him up to what seemed to be a much larger issue, if the slight frown on Morphling’s lips were any indication. The vet already had very little insider background on Terra’s character. How he fit into this dynamic was lost to someone like Grian. 

Mumbo would’ve been able to tell him everything instantly. He missed Mumbo.

“Oh, dear.” Morphling feigned a pout, propping his chin on his hand. “What’s got you looking so sad, little vet? Are you upset that your criminal friends will be dead in a matter of days?”

Grian gritted his teeth to repress his wince, but he could not stop how the comment reached the deepest parts of his mind.

He saw a picture of Scar, clear as day, paler than any human should’ve been able to get. In this vision, blood coated his clothing, his skin, and dripped from his smile, while he lay cold and motionless upon the ground. 

Dead. 

The vet hated how easily he could conjure an image of the man he loved anywhere near such a lifeless state. Weeks of poison wreaking havoc through Scar’s body had left Grian with an endless supply of anguish upon which he could draw inspiration now. The Gs wanted to cement those visions into reality, make them irrefutable fact. 

Grian had known that. From the moment the Gs had let it slip that they were behind the weapons on the flash drive to some extent, he’d known they wanted his friends dead. Honestly, it was possible he’d known for far longer. There was always the question of their intent when it came to the poisoned arrow, and the harsh way Daybreak spoke about the Bamboozlers in her interview. 

Still, no matter how obviously lethal their intent, to hear it directly from their mouths was uncomfortable. Until so recently, these people had been on the side of good, no matter how ambiguous that goodness really was. Yet now, he sat in front of them, breathless, whilst they admitted to their crime willingly. 

“It’s true,” Morphling sighed, theatrically putting his hand to his forehead and biting back a grin. He failed after only a second, and his giddy excitement bubbled to the surface like magma searing the earth to make itself known. “The Bamboozlers will be wiped off the face of the planet, with you as the hook to pull them over the edge, and my favorite part through it all will be their screams.”

Grian straightened, a chilling awareness breaking through the remains of the fog in his mind. Morphling leaned in again, patting the vet’s cheek with scorching condescension.

“That’s right, Doctor,” he whispered. “We’re gonna make it hurt.”

Grian reeled back like he’d been slapped, both at the admission and the nickname. Shock shot like adrenaline through his veins, waking up his every muscle, every ache, every itching thought. The jerking motion pulled at his rib, and he flinched.

“What? Did you think we’d make it quick?” Morphling laughed, boisterous and mean, head falling backwards to emphasize his delight. “No, not after everything they’ve done. We’ve been humiliated, made to look like fools, cast aside by the very Agency that made us into the figures we are, simply because they will not let themselves be caught. I will break every bone in their bodies myself just to let them feel an ounce of the weakness they’ve bestowed upon me.”

Morphling ceased his laughing, something dawning on him.

“We could even reuse some of our spare poisoned arrows,” he said, and Grian’s face dropped. “I can’t imagine a better way to spend my day besides watching those three pests writhe in agony while they’re helpless to stop it. If we’re specific with our dosages, we could drag the show out all day long. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

No.

The vet fought against the whirlwind of emotions worming their way into his skull. He was going to be sick. Nausea crawled up his throat, barely able to be swallowed back. Grian took a gasping breath, faltering under the weight in his own chest.

“You… You can’t—!” His voice came out as a stammering rasp, razor blades dragging across his throat with every syllable. Grian devolved into a coughing fit. Morphling stood to his full height and stepped back to lean against the wall, seemingly satisfied. Daybreak took his place, waiting only until he’d finished hacking up a lung to grab a fistful of his hair and yank it back.

“I think you’ll find that we can,” she said. Despite the harshness of her grip, her expression was relaxed behind her face covering. “And not a soul in this city will have the jurisdiction to stop us. Not after they see what the Bamboozlers have done to a poor, innocent civilian like yourself.”

She released him, shoving so roughly that his neck twinged, and a fierce ache began in his spine. Grian panted through the pain, gaze darting between Morphling and Daybreak desperately. “What… What do you—?”

His throat closed, halting his question before it could be asked, but he already knew he wouldn’t get an answer.

What did she mean? Why wouldn’t anyone be able to oppose the murder of the Bamboozlers? Why had Daybreak phrased it like that, like his friends were the ones treating him so horribly?

The last piece fit into place. His puzzle, jagged and uneven, started to make sense. 

Cruel methods of torture under the guise of gathering information. Rough physical treatment and deprivation for a number of days. Information slipping from their lips as though they weren’t scared of the consequences. Explicitly familiar hatred directed his way at every available opportunity.

The lives of the Bamboozlers were not the only ones at stake. 

His heart pounded against his ribs, stomach twisted in knots, head spun with possibilities and realizations. Grian couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t even scream. He was enveloped by panic stronger than any he’d felt before. Black spots filled his vision, reacting in turn with the turbulence inside his skull.

The Gs were going to kill him and frame the Bamboozlers to justify their murder. 

The trio of villains had never once been innocent in Grian’s eyes. He knew they were capable of horrible things, knew they’d once killed any that got in their way, knew they only stopped because of him, but they did not torture. No matter how often they joked between each other about the topic, there was not a single media report of them dragging out a death for the sake of it. 

However, one day, if a man with a clean track record, a loving social circle, and no discernible powers, were to turn up dead, showing signs of long-term abuse in his autopsy and only three suspected perpetrators, the media would report what they saw. 

The Bamboozlers would be criminals of the highest degree. They would no longer be seen as having any reservations. They wouldn’t be worthy of the mercy of jail time, or rehabilitation. No one would blame the poor heroes that discovered the innocent man’s body for going too far in their search for justice. 

Their killing of the Bamboozlers wouldn’t be seen as a crime, and it was going to be Grian’s fault. 

The black spots consumed his vision completely. Panic swallowed him into an abyss from which he could not escape. Grian passed out, forgetting his tormentors, his consciousness, his logical thought, and resigning himself entirely to the void behind his eyes. The storm continued to rage despite it. He felt every single second.

The city was cold from above. Winter nipped at exposed skin and burned with its freezing fingers. Joel adjusted the straps of his armor plating for the third time since arriving at their designated meeting spot. They fit horribly with the added padding of his thick sweatshirt underneath. 

The Agency’s PR team would have his head if they’d found out he was running around in non-uniformed clothing, whether it was cold or otherwise. He could already hear the nagging voice of Gem in his head, “We literally have winter costumes for this exact purpose. I don’t care if you think it looks cheesy. Take off that ridiculous hoodie before someone sees you.”

But Gem wasn’t around now, and though he was still worried about being spotted, it wasn’t because of his breach of protocol. 

“So stupid,” he muttered, breath fanning out around him as he scanned the landscape. Joel already knew he wouldn’t find anything there. Famously, no matter how bright the red and blue color scheme seemed up close, the Bamboozlers were never seen until they were upon their targets. “He couldn’t have picked a place with some blummin’ heating or something?”

“Sorry, hero,” said a new voice behind him. Joel whirled around, guard raised instinctually in response to the familiar cadence. His hands fell away from his swords, however, when he saw Boogeyman standing on the other side of the roof. “Next time, I’ll make us a reservation at a five-star restaurant. Would that suit your ever-raising standards?”

“Yes, actually,” Joel sighed, letting a smile rise to his lips. “It would. You’re late, by the way.”

“Ah-ah! Villains don’t adhere to rules, remember? I am exactly on time.” Boogeyman waggled a finger at him, stalking closer. As he neared, Joel could see there was something tucked beneath his arm, similar to what the hero currently held himself. The map was passed his way without any further pleasantries. “Nothing in any of these places, as I’m sure Liz already told you.”

It was odd to hear his girlfriend’s name echoed off the roughness of a Bamboozler’s modulator. Joel was so used to them referring to her by her alias alone, unaware of the deeper relationship between the hero and their teammate, that the familiarity was offputting. 

This was yet another thing for Gem to scold him about should she ever be made aware. Dating and fraternizing with the enemy would never be something her high morals could handle, and the thought of her seeing him then was enough to have him repressing a smile. 

Gem was the epitome of the perfect hero. She knew the Agency’s protocols like the back of her hand, and followed them with ruthless efficiency. In her relentless training to be the best, she’d taken him as a teammate and dragged him to the top of the world alongside her, so that they could be two heroes the city could actually rely upon. Slayer and Furioso — the pillars of justice within the Agency, never faltering, never failing, never coming up short. 

She was like a sister to him, the closest to a family he’d ever had, and for a while, they’d been the same in every sense of the word. They shared morals, goals, and a love for the citizens of the city around them, without keeping a single secret from the other. 

At some point in the middle, that had changed for him. At some point in the middle, he began to go home every day and just stare blankly up at his ceiling, hating himself for every disorderly beat of his heart. At some point in the middle, that had been overshadowed by the brilliance of pink hair, mischievous smiles, late-night chats when neither was supposed to be seeing the other.  

At some point, Joel had gone from a hero that would do anything to protect his city, to a simple, selfish man with only one woman at the forefront of his mind. 

Now, he didn’t even feel guilty as he passed a new map, detailing five more locations of the Agency’s most well-kept secrets, to his enemy. 

“She did mention it,” Joel replied. The map was unrolled so the other could take in the new information. “Shame she couldn’t be the one to pick this up today. I haven’t seen her since you guys started getting serious.”

“We’ve been serious,” Boogeyman scoffed, not lifting his eyes as he spoke. “But yeah, I’m sure you do miss her. It’s reciprocated or whatever. She’s surveying another possible location right now, otherwise she’d have tackled me to the ground to come in my place. I’m sure you understand.”

Despite the cold in the air, Joel warmed. He nodded. “Yes, I do. Let her know that Meri misses her very much.”

Without skipping a beat, Boogeyman lifted his watch to his mouth and said, “Liz, your boy is with me. He says your dog misses you.”

The hero flushed bright red at the blunt way Boogeyman referred to him. There was a faint buzzing as Joel assumed Boogeyman received a response. Whatever Lizzie was saying to him caused his nose to scrunch beneath his gas mask and his eyes to roll. 

“I am not saying all that gushy nonsense,” the villain tutted and closed the map, tucking it under his arm again. “You can say that you miss him too, but that is all I’m telling him. The words ‘honey-bear’ will never leave my mouth.”

Joel failed to stifle his snort, drawing Boogeyman’s attention back to him. It was clear he wanted to argue with the hero, but then the woman on the other end of the call was pulling him into their conversation again. They devolved into bickering while Joel amused himself over the simple prospect of Lizzie using a cheesy nickname like ‘honey-bear’ for him – something she had never done before this, so it must’ve only been said to antagonize her friend. 

God, he loved her.

“No! You know what? You’ve lost your boyfriend privileges,” Boogeyman exclaimed, throwing his arms up into the air. Joel raised a brow, but the volume caused him more stress than the meaning behind his words. He began to scan his surroundings again for anyone that might have heard the outcry. “I’m not going to tell him anything you just said… Yeah, that’s what you get!”

After a few more minutes of childish back and forth, the man lowered his wrist. The call had seemingly ended, and they were alone on that rooftop. 

“I should get going,” Joel started, simply so Boogeyman wouldn’t have to admit to his want to leave first. “I guess I’ll, uh, see you around. Good luck, and let me know if you need more.”

“Thanks,” Boogeyman replied, trailing off. He cleared his throat, glancing away. “We probably won’t. We’re close.”

That was the most specificity Joel was allowed to have. Aside from Lizzie, none of the Bamboozlers were quite comfortable with this neutrality between themselves and Furioso. He did his best to seem like less of a threat, never reaching for his swords or tightening his posture, but that didn’t help Boogeyman regard him in any fonder light. 

Perhaps, if they really tried, they’d find some mythical, perfect balance on the edge of evil and good, but that wouldn’t be possible for a while yet. They had higher priorities than making friends with him of all people. Fair enough, considering he still worked for the Agency, still worked with the intent of stopping them, still put genuine effort into arresting any villain that wasn’t Lizzie.

Hopefully though, there would come a time when they wouldn’t have the Agency as a wall between their two groups, and he would finally be able to look to the future as a solely bright phenomenon. He waited with bated breath. 

Joel opened his mouth to reply, to give some witty retort about how he’d figure out all their secrets one day, when his own earpiece buzzed to life.

“Joel?”

It was Gem’s voice, rough and groggy, like she’d just woken up.

He winced, reaching up to answer the comm while also whirling around to check for potential danger. “Uh, hey, Slayer. Fancy hearing from you so late at night.”

By the time he’d done a full circle, Boogeyman was gone. Whether he’d disappeared off the side of the building, or just faded with his invisibility, that didn’t matter. All Joel cared about was the fact that he was functionally alone. He stood up straighter now that it wasn’t possible for any ole passerby to expose him for treason. 

“Why in the world does your suit tracker say you’re out and about?”

His tracker. He’d forgotten she could see that. Joel had thought about turning it off before the meeting, but figured that would be too suspicious, and had arranged a secondary excuse instead. That was what he used to respond to Gem’s question then, “I wanted to clear my head, get some fresh air.”

He heard her sigh over their comm, but thankfully, it was not followed by a callout on his bad lying. It wasn’t an unbelievable statement. The Agency had been keeping them busy since the Gs took an unexpected vacation — which was not something allowed by their contracts. Heroes had to give six months of notice for breaks, and for a five man band to all claim burnout and disappear in a matter of days was unimaginable.

Joel had his theories about the real reasoning behind that group’s nonsense, but he kept it to himself for the Bamboozlers’ sake.

Either way, it meant that Gem and Joel, as the top two heroes, had picked up a lot of slack. Sometimes that entailed just standing in full-costume in the Agency’s press conference halls and answering questions, while others it meant patrolling without possible backup. They were on one of their very short breathers between shifts right then, meaning it wasn’t out of the question for him to want to get away. 

“Fine, but get back soon,” Gem grumbled. He heard shuffling, and the metallic clink that signified she was putting on her own armor plating as they spoke. “The Watcher’s being forced into an impromptu meeting with Mr. Keeper again, and wants us behind her as a show of strength.” 

Joel’s energy fled at the prospect. He slumped, groaning unabashedly, “What could that old rat need now?”

Not an ounce of him cared that his boss could technically tune into their channel at any time and hear his disappointment. If anything, he thought she might agree with his sentiment. Mr. Keeper was an old, boring man, with fantastical ideas. It’d been several months since his last meeting, but it seemed like he’d finally come crawling back.

“She says he’s been talking about some really worrying stuff,” Gem said, tone grave enough to steal Joel’s irritation and replace it with concern. “Said he’s giving her a second chance to invest on his weapons before his ‘real supporters’ make her regret not being more open-minded.”

“Weapons?” Joel furrowed his brows, swallowing against a thickness in his throat. “He’s rambling about those death machines again? Even after she told him to cease all manufacturing?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “Mr. Keeper got a license for weapons manufacturing that the boss can’t fight. Personally, I think it’s just another jab from the Secretary of Defense. He’s still butthurt that our heroes handle everything.”

Hers was not a farfetched assumption. Gem and Joel had been freshly on the scene together when that rivalry had started between a certain branch of the government and their very own Agency head. It was a petty battle, wholly political and lacking much other substance. 

The initiative to train new hires with high potential into perfect heroes and station to any city or post around the country that needed them was just emerging out of the concept stage. One superhero was said to have a more positive effect on a city’s crime rates and social standing than ten regular cops combined ever could. The secretary just didn’t like to accept that there were roles he couldn’t account for with the rise of powers around the world, and that these new forces of justice weren’t under his thumb. 

Needless to say, that pest would not be above approving of some corrupt, ultimately harmful weaponry if it got under the Watcher’s skin. Their boss would need as much support as she could get. “I’ll be right there.”

“Alright, bye,” Gem yawned. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Joel replied, and the line went dead. He stretched, preparing for the hike back to HQ, but stopped when his eyes caught on a shadow a few rooftops over. The hero frowned, certain that Boogeyman should’ve been gone by that point. Who was this, then?

The silhouette appeared to be moving in his direction at a hurried pace. He did not call out, not stupid enough to alert an unwanted guest to his presence. Though, with how he’d been yabbering on a second prior, it wouldn’t be surprising if they already knew he was there. Just in case, he gripped the hilt of one of his swords. 

Luckily, though, he didn’t have to wonder for long. The newcomer vaulted over a chimney, and in doing so, was framed by the light of a street lamp for long enough to be seen. Joel released some of the tension in his shoulders.

A familiar man closed the distance between them, stopping only a few feet away. 

“Audiophile?” Joel sounded surprised even to his own ears, and he was sure his expression mirrored that sentiment. Remembering they were alone, he corrected himself to whisper out a baffled, “Martyn?”

The infamous vigilante was indeed the one standing in front of him. His chest was rising and falling quickly, like he had been running for a long time. Blond hair was strewn over his forehead, skin reddened and sticky with sweat. A green and white costume had been donned without any extra layering, like he’d left in too much of a hurry to shrug on a coat. Even the bandana over his eyes was looser than usual, tied by hasty hands. 

It’d been a long time since they’d seen one another. Ex-heroes didn’t tend to be too fond of the Agency’s dogs, despite the fact that they had been coworkers in the past. To be approached by this man in particular out of the blue did not bode well.

“Thank God,” Martyn panted. There wasn’t a single hint of his usual charismatic nature, tone flat and countenance grim. “I was beginning to think I’d never run into anyone. I need to have a word with a hero that will actually listen to reason.”

Joel tilted his head, confused. “Sorry? Is there something I should know about?”

“Yes,” Martyn said, stepping closer and grabbing the hero by the shoulders. “My partner, Ren…” 

The vigilante trailed off, as if he couldn’t figure out exactly where to begin. His eyes scanned Joel’s face, searching for a hint of truth that the hero didn’t fully understand. Martyn tightened his hold, knuckles turning white as they bunched into the fabric of Joel’s costume. He’d made a decision.

“Ren returned home with quite an interesting story,” Martyn stated. “And if you don’t want to see this city razed by morning, you’re going to want to hear it.”

Something was wrong.

He could tell from the moment consciousness dawned upon him once more. The air was off, and despite the room being cast in its usual darkness, he could see a bit of his lap, like there was a small source somewhere. Though, it didn’t reach the wall in front of him, not nearly strong or bright enough to manage such a distance. 

Blearily curious, Grian let his head lull back on his shoulders, intending to check the ceiling for fissures that hadn’t previously been there. The vet bumped against something stiff.

He found the source of the light in the form of one glowing eye peering down at him. 

“Hello.”

Grian shrieked, head jerking in an attempt to get away, but he was stopped by a hand over his mouth. The firm grip kept him looking up and back at Terra’s looming face. The other’s hands were freezing, as if he’d been standing in the winter air for hours before entering Grian’s prison. 

“You’re very easily scared, aren’t you?”

An astute observation to come from the man with the glowing eye that had been standing just behind his chair in dead silence until a moment prior. Grian would’ve liked to argue, would’ve liked to retort that his reaction was perfectly reasonable, but he could do nothing aside from tremble under the weight of the hero’s gaze.

The hand left his face, and the eye moved up to look at something further away. Without warning, the lights flicked on, blinding Grian. Through squinted, blurry vision, he caught sight of what seemed to be a vine retracting from a spot by the switch. The plant slithered back towards its owner, being subsumed into the wooden half of Terra’s body just as quickly as it had appeared. 

The hero rounded the chair to stand in front of the vet, whose ribs were aching from the force of his heavy breathing. From there, he simply resumed his leisurely watching, still enough for Grian to wonder if he’d rooted himself to the ground. Terra did not sway, shift, twitch, or blink. The rise and fall of his chest — the half of it that was human, not covered by his living costume, at least — was the only proof that the hero was alive at all. 

“What,” Grian started, hesitant to speak but bothered more by the silence than the potential for backlash. “What… are you doing here?”

Terra blinked then, once. In that same instant, the glowing yellow of his eye dissipated slightly. Grian felt the bonds around his torso, wrists, and legs loosen, before falling away completely. He gawked at the hero. Disbelief and confusion at the sudden freedom filtered through him, not quite sure how it had been achieved. With a quick movement, he was able to glance down and watch as his former restraints — now revealed to have been tree roots, explaining their strange texture — disappeared back into two sizable cracks in the floor. 

He shivered, both amazed and disturbed by the prospect of somewhat-sentient plants having been the things keeping him in place for so long. Still, same as with the handcuffs and the ropes, they’d chaffed. Grian brought his hands around to his front to rub away the red marks. 

“I was sent to check on you,” Terra said. “Let’s make this quick, shall we?”

As always, his voice was steady and unmodified. Grian wondered if this genuinely was what the guy sounded like out of costume, and if so, why wasn’t he worried about his identity being exposed? As far as he knew, the vet was an accomplice to the Bamboozlers. Just informing them that this hero thought himself too good for a disguise would be enough to doom him. A voice didn’t seem like much at first glance, but Grian knew that villains could do a lot more with a lot less.

Maybe this was just his version of being cocky, confident that Grian would never be able to escape and do anything with the knowledge of his civilian voice, but it didn’t feel like that. He’d seen what true disdain looked like on Terra’s face, back when he’d eaten the poisoned sandwich. It was far from the resting blankness that coated his expression now. 

Grian nodded, tapping his feet on the ground several times in an attempt to get blood flow back to them. It did not work as well as he would’ve liked it to, given his general weakness. The nausea from having been forced to eat and drink too quickly had faded, but with it, so too had the effects of receiving such minimal care after days of nothing. He was better, as evidenced by the fact that he could open his eyes at all, and yet lingering symptoms remained.

His head hurt, limbs felt weak, and he couldn’t clench his hands into fists without putting an immense amount of thought into it. Those were just the physical hindrances too. Staring up at Terra presented an entirely new swath of issues. It felt like there were knives against his skin, teeth against his throat, water filling his lungs. Grian did not want to stand, did not want to go with this man, did not even want to be in the presence of any member of the Gs now that he knew what they had in store for him. 

Maybe that was visible on his face, because Terra sighed, “I tried to tell you.”

Hearing this, Grian frowned. “You… what?”

“I told you that your purpose would be served later,” Terra replied, a surprisingly biting intonation to his words. “Don’t tell me that you genuinely thought you were here only to answer some questions?”

Vaguely, Grian did recall the hero muttering something like that to him, but it’d been overshadowed by the poisoning that came right after. It hadn’t meant much in the moment, like a lot of what Terra said. The hero was confusing. Dwelling on their singular past conversation left Grian with more questions than answers. 

“I don’t…” Grian trailed off, a little taken aback. “I didn’t expect your plans to be… this extreme.”

“Hm, sucks,” Terra hummed, returning to his regular disinterested inflection. “I thought your friends would’ve helped you be a little less clueless about our tendencies, but I guess not.”

“Clueless? My friends?” Grian blinked rapidly, at a loss. He supposed that was referencing the Bamboozlers, but he wasn’t sure why the trio of villains would be expected to give him more insight on the Gs. “I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, I know,” Terra said. “But I have faith. You’ll figure it out eventually.”

His eye began to shine again, and Grian felt something brush his ankle. He hissed, jerking away from the root that had begun to grow from the ground. It continued to creep towards him though, and in order to avoid being caught by its reaching grasp, he leapt from his chair. A bad call, on his part, as his legs were not fully awake. He stumbled, nearly falling, but a tight hand latched onto his forearm. 

The vet’s ribs pulled and screamed as he was yanked back to an upright position. The hero kept him in place with a hand on his shoulder, but it did little to comfort the agony that ran hot through his veins. 

Grian was so sick of this constant pain. He was sick of being kept captive. He was sick of every waking moment being spent wondering what next his tormentors would do to push him to the edge. He was sick of secret plans and puzzles coming together and endless worlds about which he knew nothing. 

Mortifying as it was, this little incident caused tears to well up in his eyes, and a sob to escape from his throat. In the process, he found another part of this experience that made him hate the universe just that littlest bit more. The guilt and shame of showing this weakness to one of the people that had hurt him, showing this effect that they had to the tormentor himself, was impossible to ignore. Grian wasn’t trained to resist. He didn’t have mental walls up in the same way his companions might have in his position. It hurt to stay strong. It hurt to keep the pain in. It hurt to pretend it didn’t hurt.

“Come on,” Terra said distantly. Grian couldn’t really hear him, couldn’t really process it, but some part of his mind thought the man’s voice had gotten softer. “At least get to the bathroom before you break down on me.”

Grian could not move, could not make himself lift one foot up and bring it down again. Everything kept him glued to the floor. He was kidnapped, torn from his partner, his job, his friends, his cats, his life. He was beaten, bloodied, bruised, starved, dehydrated. The bathroom sounded amazing, running water and alone time, but Grian knew what he’d see in the mirror there — a stranger. 

He winced as his arm was lifted, Terra tucking it over his shoulder, with the hero’s other hand going around Grian’s waist. It was uncomfortable, bringing him far too close to a man he hated with his entire heart, but he no longer felt as though he was going to collapse. 

A few stumbling steps were taken while the hero adjusted to him, and then they started at a decent pace towards the bathroom. The world beyond the door was exactly as empty as it had always been. Wherever his captors were staying while they dealt with this master plan of theirs, he’d bet it wasn’t in this basement level. 

While they walked, Grian let himself imagine where they were actually holed up. What conditions were the heroes living in during their plotting sessions? He’d heard that they weren’t staying at home from Daybreak’s mention of a dogsitter, so were they purposely remaining nearby? Had they checked into hotels? Were there rooms he hadn’t seen in this strange complex, enough to house five people?

Did they have soft lighting, warm beds, more food than they could ever dream of eating? Were they able to lounge around and do nothing, or were they as stressed as he constantly had to be? How did they decide who to send to check on Grian? Did they sit on some fluffy sofa somewhere and draw straws? Or did they fight over which lucky soul got the opportunity to run down and mess with their unwilling guest?

“Here.”

Grian straightened at the sight of the bathroom door. Terra unwound himself from the vet, and when it was clear he wasn’t going to fall over, took a step back.

“I want to give you the usual five minutes,” Terra said, gaze dipping down and up again. “Except, I think everything will take you longer than that right now.”

The vet didn’t have the energy to take offense, though he recognized the jab subconsciously. Without another word, he pulled himself through the threshold and shut the door. 

He was alone.

Finally.

He collapsed against the sink, head bowed to the reflection that flickered out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t a sight he was ready to see just yet, however inevitable this version of himself had become. 

Originally, when the torture had begun, he’d worried some part of the experience would stay with him. In his mind, that always manifested as a physical change — trembling hands, burn marks, bags under his eyes. He knew now that those things were minimal. He knew now that it would be the memories of this time that haunted him after this was over, whether that came in the form of his life being cut short too soon, or as apparitions if he managed to keep living.  

His fingers tightened on the rim of the sink. 

He had to keep living.

Not only for himself, but for the people that would go down alongside him if he were to fall. Grian was certain, without a doubt, that Scar was searching for him. He was certain that Scar would continue to search for him for as long as his heart remained beating, that he’d do anything to reunite them safely. 

Grian wasn’t certain what would happen if he died. 

Scar would never forgive himself, but his partner wasn’t someone who crumbled under pressure from the world. He would always expel that energy outwards, would always keep fighting, stubborn to a fault. And while he was powerful, dangerous, a force all his own, Scar was not infallible. 

Grian could not die, and he could not keep still any longer. If he remained in this place, they’d use him as bait, and make a public showing of killing the Bamboozlers. He could not be the reason that future came to pass. He could not be the reason his friends were murdered. 

He splashed water on his face, and finally, looked himself in the eye.

His features were sickly. Starvation hadn’t begun to show through yet, but there was no color to his skin, and his posture was a hunched thing. His scrubs were splotched with blood and wrinkled beyond the point of salvaging. 

Yet, through all the decay of his character, he still saw a flare of forgotten fire in his gaze. It’d dimmed, nearly gone out, but with the fuel of his friends’ fates resting on his shoulders, it had found a new life. 

He tore his attention away from himself and up to the window above the toilet. 

Grian had failed to escape once. Whether this resulted in another failure or not, he wouldn’t be able to keep going without knowing he had at least tried every option. 

Thinking logically, he considered the chances of him getting another opportunity like this one — in which the person guarding him did not put a time restraint on his trip. Even Blackhole, the self-appointed ‘nicest’ member of the Gs, had limited him. 

Terra was also a good person to have guarding him due to his powers. Manipulation of nature was strong, but it wasn’t teleportation, mind control, flight, or the ability to shapeshift. Plants could not follow him at rapid speeds should he escape and have to run. Plants could not command him to return with a few words. Plants could not magically appear in front of his only escape route. 

Grian took deep breaths and considered his options. Noise and pain needed to be taken into account if he was going to squeeze himself through that small of a space. 

He turned on the sink to its full water pressure, splashing it around a bit to pretend he was washing himself off. Using the sound as cover, he very quietly climbed atop the toilet seat to survey the window again. Through the frosted glass, he saw light, but it wasn’t natural – coming from something slightly different, like a street lamp. 

That brought him some comfort. It meant that the cover of night would be in his favor if he got out.

The hinges were, as he remembered, rusty. The lock, located off to one side, was in a similar state. Rusty did not mean unusable, though. They weren’t completely covered, or else he would’ve been out of luck. It looked like there was only a light layer of reddish orange around the edges, not over the parts that were necessary for movement. 

He pulled at the lock — a simple thing, not reinforced with any particularly special measures, as if the heroes hadn’t considered it a viable escape route. It flicked to the unlocked position with only a mild amount of straining. The click was disguised by the rush of the water, though the opening of the window itself would not be so easy. 

Grian took a deep breath, glancing back at the door. He only really had one shot at this specific distraction or else it’d get suspicious. The vet lifted his shoe, placing it tentatively on the handle of the toilet. He counted off in his head, preparing to push, and when he was ready, flushed the toilet.

All at once, while the roar of the water was at its height, he shoved the whole of his weight against the window. It squealed, resisted, and then gave. The old hinges groaned, shivering from the force. Grian bit his tongue to keep from screaming as they suddenly snapped, the entire window coming free of its frame.

He caught the window before it could fall to the ground and shatter. Cold wind rushed in to nip at his uncovered arms and unprepared face. His eyes widened in astonishment. 

For the first time in ages, Grian saw the world beyond his prison. 

It was an empty parking lot. His window was indeed right at ground level, letting out onto a sidewalk littered with weeds. For a great distance, there was simply pavement, with a smattering of trees. On the horizon, though, there were darkened silhouettes of other buildings. They looked to be packed together more tightly. If he could get beyond that line, Grian would be home free. 

He could’ve started crying again, but he didn’t have that kind of time. Terra would be expecting him to finish up soon, so he needed to go now.

The vet set the window frame aside and eyed the empty space it had left behind. He was confident he could fit, but it would aggravate his rib. However, when it came down to choosing between death or an irritated injury, it was hardly a competition. 

Opting not to waste any more of his valuable seconds, he reached through the window to grab the lip of the stone. Grian got his feet up on the very back of the toilet to give himself a better angle and jumped forward.

Exactly as expected, he landed on his stomach, half of his torso out the window with his legs dangling, and white hot sparks of pain shot through him. All of the weight was directly resting atop the broken rib, breathing becoming a labor unlike any other. His wheezing could probably be heard for miles around.

Grian blinked back tears, getting his elbows onto the pavement. He dragged himself forward once, twice. Out of the corner of his vision, he could see flashing lights, but he couldn’t tell if they were on the building behind him or an illusion created by his pain. The winter air numbed the tips of his fingers. 

He was so close. Just a little further, and his legs would be through. Grian could gather himself, surely, and make a run for it. Even if it was an endeavor powered only by adrenaline and desperation, he would do it.

Through the resounding sting, Grian felt a new sensation. Something soft tickled at the skin of his arms, different from the grazing touch of the breeze or the prickles of revulsion from his body. He glanced down.

The weeds that split through the cracks in the sidewalk had grown up and begun to surround his forearms. Their grip tightened by the second, attempting to pin him in place. 

Grian gasped, wrenching one arm out of their grasp, but the plants were not passive. They jumped up, rapidly growing to grab him again. Their strength rivaled that of a regular human. He fought with all he had, twisting and writhing, but they followed everywhere he tried to go. With his limited movement and his lack of breath, he could not keep up with them.

The last of his energy slipped away. 

His arms were pinned to the ground, and he collapsed against the pavement, heaving for breath. Only his feet dangled through the window still. He’d been so near to escape, so near to freedom, so near to getting back to Scar.

But it’d always been an uphill battle. Grian had known from the start, from the very minute his eyes had first taken in the sight of the window, that it wasn’t going to be so simple. In his state – deficient in every sense of the word, and broken in ways he’d never before experienced – he never would’ve made it.

As he stared at the world beyond, head swimming and tears freely flowing, Grian found that he didn’t have the heart left to be upset.

Distant footsteps echoed through his skull. Grian turned towards the sound, spotting a familiar, blurry figure approach. Terra was framed by those same flashing lights that the vet had thought were a figment of his imagination before. Instead, it seemed like they were from some sort of board hung above a door. There were giant black letters, but with his eyes refusing to focus, Grian could only make out two of the words before his view was obstructed by the hero: Now showing…

He repeated them under his breath, voice hoarse. Terra’s shadow blotted out the light of the lamp. Exhausted, he slumped further into the ground. “Please don’t drug me again.”

“I didn’t plan on it. Don’t need to overdo it too quickly.” Terra matched his level of exhaustion, as if this whole matter was just another on his list of minor annoyances. “You are persistent, aren’t you? Why? Why won’t you give up?”

An image of Scar came to mind. His boyfriend sat on the couch in his apartment, surrounded by cats, wearing the dopiest grin in the world as Grian watched him. 

“Don’t you know that it hurts more to fight back?” Terra knelt. For a second, he looked sad, but another tear slipped from the vet’s eyes, and the view was lost. “Why won’t you spare yourself? Why are you so determined to make things worse?”

A second image, this time of all three of his villains gathered in the Bam Bunker’s kitchen. It was a memory from long before the poison and the kidnapping. Lizzie and Jimmy were caught in another bickering session, and he was stealing glances at Scar, who stood at the head of the table, gazing lovingly down at his infuriating friends. Their eyes met, and Grian felt that love reach him too, transcending time and space to warm him in the present.

“I have someone I want to see again,” Grian whispered. “More than anything.”

The hero was silent for several seconds. Then, he sighed, and the plants around Grian shifted. He felt himself get dragged fully through the window. His body was maneuvered around, not gently, but not with the roughness that had become customary for the heroes so far. 

Some looping vines came up to wrap themselves around his wrists, binding them in front of him, and the same for his ankles. Lastly, they wound themselves around his face, covering his eyes with large leaves and sprawling stems. Terra got his arms under the vet and lifted him up with little effort. 

“Those Bamboozlers of yours,” the hero said. Grian jostled as they began to walk. “They aren’t worth this. The effort on your end, I mean.”

There was a clunk as a door was presumably pushed open. Terra brought him back inside the mysterious prison, cutting them off from the fresh air. Despite the chill, the vet immediately missed it. 

Grian considered the words from his captor, but they did little to sway him. “I don’t need to hear that from you. The Gs aren’t any better.”

Whatever response he had anticipated, it was not Terra quietly muttering, “You’re right. They’re worse.”

Grian’s brows furrowed, and he glanced up towards the sound of the other’s voice. The hero did not clarify, but his hold on the vet did tighten slightly. He realized a moment later that this was a warning.

“Terra! What’s that you’ve got there?”

Grian tensed at a new voice, one that chilled him to the bone even without inflections of power.

“Necromancer! How nice to see you up and moving around,” Terra greeted. To the vet’s surprise, his tone rose a few octaves, as if he were putting on a level of charm for his teammate. “I caught our guest sneaking out the bathroom window. Can you believe that?”

“Oh, dear,” Necromancer tutted. Grian remained as still as possible, feeling her gaze on him. “Would you like me to work some magic so you don’t have to carry him all the way?”

Grian bit the inside of his cheek to hold in a shudder of terror. 

“Nah, not necessary. He passed out from pain in the process, so he’s no trouble,” Terra said, and while the vet didn’t understand what the hero’s motivation could be for lying to his team, a wave of relief washed over him. “Besides, wouldn’t want you to strain yourself. After Werewolf’s hiccup, you were stuck in bed for days.”

“Hey, be careful what you say,” Necromancer hissed. Grian felt them poke his arm with their finger, as if to gauge for a reaction. After a second of nothing, she seemed to accept the fact that the vet was unresponsive, and released a breath. “Not my fault. It took a lot out of me to ensure he wouldn’t come snooping again. I didn’t expect Werewolf to want to help that badly. He’d only spoken to the guy for, like, three minutes or something.”

“Yeah, crazy,” Terra laughed humorlessly. “Listen, I’ve gotta put Grian back before he wakes up. Morph’s laid out a few of the new weapons in the training room. He wants you to take your pick so you can get used to it in time for the show.”

The two bid farewell to each other, and Grian felt them start walking again. Terra’s grip loosened.

Quietly, so low that Grian almost thought he’d imagined it, he heard the hero say, “They’re so much worse.”

The rest of the walk back to the room was silent. Grian didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what questions to ask, couldn’t make sense of the situation in the slightest, and Terra seemed content with the lack of conversation. 

As soon as they stepped through the door, the plants around Grian’s eyes, wrists, and legs withered and fell away. Terra placed him in the chair – the vet was too tired to resist, despite how he hated that stupid seat. 

Roots rose from the cracks in the floor again. They had the decency to not be too tight as they pinned him in place, but the damage had been done. It would be awhile before Grian would feel well enough to walk again. 

At the very least, though, his mind was still awake. He was able to note the odd way Terra closed the exit, locking it, but remaining inside himself. The hero picked a spot on the ground right beside the door and settled upon the ground there, propped up against the wall. From that new vantage point, he resumed his regular habit of staring blankly.

It was an annoying stare, hollow and yet curious all the same. Every beat of nothing that passed was thick with wondering, suffocatingly unknown to the vet. The worst of his pain having subsided by then, clarity and energy began to filter back in. He was nearly restless when he found himself blurting, “Why are you still here?”

“You want to ask me something,” Terra replied, cryptic as ever. “There’s something I want you to ask.”

Grian frowned. Without fail, he found himself surprised by every word from Terra’s lips, like none of them were quite what they should’ve been. He was oddly calm, but affected too. So much emotion could be read from the neutrality of his face, though Grian felt illiterate when he attempted to make sense of them. 

Truthfully, he had a lot of questions. He wanted to know why this whole situation was happening, what did the Gs want, why he was the one in this position, and why could he not seem to get away? Those were the general uncertainties, but there were more if he focused solely on Terra. 

Why was he so strange? Why did he keep bringing up the Bamboozlers, and why did it seem different from the way the rest of the Gs talked about them? Why did he sound so sad when he’d helped Grian? Why had he helped Grian to begin with, redirected Necromancer’s wrath? Why did it feel like he hated his teammates even more than Grian did?

In the end, though, he could only utter one question. It felt like the only one that mattered. “Who are you?”

Terra smiled. 

“They used to call me Locust.”

Grian sucked in a breath. “Oh.”

He saw him then — that lost figure that’d been forgotten so long ago. Broad shoulders, but a frame that looked like he was primed for movement, much like Lizzie. The plants, whether he utilized tree roots or vines, those powers of his had not changed. The familiar way he spoke about the Bamboozlers finally found its explanation.

To miss those details that were so obvious now brought a sense of shame down upon him. After such constant stress, Locust had barely crossed his mind since Scar’s injury, and even less since his kidnapping, but that had been foolish. 

What was he doing here? Why was a former villain living as a hero? Why had he changed his name, his costume, lost that of his spark that Grian had seen in that video so long ago? Why was he, someone that had once been close enough to the Bamboozlers for Lizzie to risk her life rescuing him from jail, opposing them mere years later? 

“So, you do know who I am,” Terra mused, eyes crinkled from the force of his smile. It was bright, glistening like the golden makeup that lined his lashes. He looked like he was back on that city street, laughing as his vines ran his opponents around in circles. “I hadn’t expected Liz would ever mention me.”

At the sound of Lizzie’s name, Grian jolted, whole body going rigid. The roots restraining him tightened momentarily, as if expecting him to try to break free. His eyes darted around to the corners of the room. 

“Relax,” Terra sighed. “I turned the cameras off before I came in.”

Grian’s mouth opened and closed as he gawked at the other man. He wasn’t sure whether or not that was the truth, but something about the matter-of-fact way Terra said it made that easier to accept. Still, Grian’s mind buzzed, half from his remaining exhaustion, and half from unbridled curiosity. “You… What? You know her name? Her real name?”

“I do,” Terra said, tilting his head. “I know Scar and Jimmy’s too.”

A distressed noise punched out of the vet at the sound of those names. Oh God, those names. Lizzie, Jimmy, Scar, the people he’d not spoken about aloud in ages for their own protection. He didn’t realize how sweet those syllables would sound after all he’d been through. Terra said them with such ease, like they weren’t priceless jewels, like Grian hadn’t been holding onto them as his last tethers of hope. 

“Why?” His throat ached with the singular word that encompassed every question remaining within him. Adrenaline momentarily pushed away the fatigue that lined his bones, if only to allow him to repeat himself louder. “Why?”

“Why did they torture you for information that I already know?” Terra finished the question for him, broke it down to its core in only a moment. “Because they couldn’t get it out of me, that’s why. I wouldn’t tell them. No matter how much they shocked me, isolated me, starved me, I wouldn’t tell them.”

Grian’s brows furrowed. “They… did what?”

“The exact same thing they’re doing to you,” Terra said, so casually that Grian thought he’d misheard. “That’s what befriending the Bamboozlers gets you. I thought training with the best, being allied with the most intimidating, putting my everything into being a villain was all it would take to succeed.”

He gestured down at himself, smile falling. 

“I was wrong.”

Grian didn’t know where to begin processing this. The hero in front of him had been nothing more than a cruel and unusual stranger minutes ago. Now, he looked familiar, like the vet had seen him somewhere before. Specifically, it was his expression that brought a sense of déjà vu.

His own reflection, Grian realized, had been exactly like this. He’d been hollow, near to hopeless, disguising a persistent ache. That was what he saw on Terra’s face whenever they spoke. 

They were copies of each other, separated only by a few years of differing life experience. 

“Why?” Grian was quiet, solemn as he asked, “After all of that, why would you join them?”

At this question, Terra hesitated. His mouth opened, but for several seconds, he seemed to dwell on the answer. Instead of a direct response, when the other finally could drum up the words, they came in the form of an inquiry of his own. “Do you know what happens when a villain gets caught by the Agency?” 

The vet shook his head gingerly. He had assumptions, but they were baseless and probably influenced by a lifetime of propaganda.

“It’s nothing that you wouldn’t expect from a prison. They take your mask off, put your face in their system, use it to document the whole of your civilian identity,” Terra told him. “They run a bunch of tests, poking and prodding and talking about you like you’re not there. By the end, they have all the information you never wanted them to know.”

He swallowed, throat bobbing. Grian watched the movement, fear hot in his gut. 

“Then, if you’re unlucky,” Terra continued, voice steady despite his wavering gaze. “You’ll get guards that are willing to look away, and heroes that… really want to see inside your skull. Heroes that are obsessed with being at the top, and they think your friends are the key to getting there.”

The Gs. 

Grian looked down at his lap, unable to maintain eye contact any longer. 

“Eventually, Lizzie came for me. Scar and Jimmy liked to say they had no part in it, but I know they ran distraction downtown so there would be less eyes on the prison,” Terra went on, huffing out a small laugh in the middle. His tone, however, was far from fond. He sounded bitter, like even saying it out loud put a sour taste in his mouth. “They promised to help me stay out of prison, stay away from the heroes…”

He shuffled, and when Grian chanced a glance over at him, he’d pulled a leg up to his chest. 

“But it was too late. They were better villains, didn’t have any legal documents to take into account, and they always had each other to fall back on,” the hero sighed. “I spent weeks on the run, going from place to place, but the Agency always tracked me down. My face was on wanted posters everywhere. I was totally powerless.”

Grian could see it — the panic, the fear, the constant struggle to stay one step ahead of an entity that had connections everywhere. The Bamboozlers would’ve tried to hide him in the bunker, but that could only work for so long. Terra would’ve needed to visit the outside world eventually, and when he did, the Agency would be waiting for him. 

“What happened?” Grian sounded meek, pathetic. “How did you become… this?”

“A hero?” Terra echoed the word with unparalleled disdain. Nothing he’d muttered before bothered him as much as that one word, that one title. “Necromancer cornered me, gave me an ultimatum. The Gs thought my powers were useful, and knew my track record as a villain. At that point, I’d never… killed anyone. I wasn’t as bad as the Bamboozlers, even if we were allies. So, she said that I had two options.” 

Terra met his gaze. He was stern then, resolute. 

“I could either spend the rest of my life running,” he whispered. “Or I could join them.”

Grian grimaced. A cold quiet fell across the room. 

They both knew that an ultimatum of that nature was hardly a choice. Spend eternity checking over his shoulder, or become the people he hated. Neither path was good, but one had a prospect of peace at the end of the suffering, more so than anything the former could offer. Judging by Terra’s expression, Grian guessed that peace had not yet been reached.

“Obviously, Lizzie fought me on my decision. Told me I was making a huge mistake, didn’t understand when I said she couldn’t protect me, and considered it a betrayal like no other,” Terra admitted, looking away. “We haven’t spoken since. I lost my friends and my freedom on the same day.”

With the change in angles, Grian couldn’t catch what expression the hero might’ve been wearing. Yet, there were hints of sadness in his tone, hints of the emotions underneath. Terra regretted joining the Agency. Or rather, it hadn’t been his choice to join at all. He hated the Gs, and had the same past with them as Grian was experiencing in the present. Terra was a prisoner too.

Albeit, a prisoner without a cell. His bars came in the form of the rest of the world, the status he had to uphold, the team with which he was forced to align. He didn’t need handcuffs or ropes or a dingy basement to keep him in place, because there was nowhere he could go.

Grian felt a stirring behind his ribs. Through the pain and the failures, a stubborn hope continued to shine. 

Terra hated the Gs. Terra didn’t want to be a hero. Terra — Locust — had been friends with the Bamboozlers, even if they’d ended on bad terms. 

Grian could work with that.

“Have you considered… talking to her again now that so much time has passed?” He tried to be subtle, to approach it gently. “Maybe she’d understand if you explained.”

“No point. If she didn’t completely hate me before, she will soon,” Terra replied, foreboding but resigned. “Besides, the Bamboozlers aren’t people you can just approach. They hold grudges, and only take allies that they know won’t slow them down.”

That yellow eye landed on Grian, scanning him again.

“Makes me wonder why they chose to befriend a powerless nobody like you.”

Grian’s brow twitched at the insult, defensiveness rising inside of him. “Hey, who said I’m powerless? Maybe I’ve got some super cool gift that I just haven’t shown you.”

The hero huffed, “Right. Good one. You expect me to believe you’ve been hanging with those three for so long and you don’t know how powers work?”

“Of course I know how they work,” Grian said, though he faltered under the look he was receiving. “You’re either born with them or you’re not. Pretty simple.”

“I mean, yeah, but that’s not all,” Terra said, a confused smile pulling at his lips. “You know about the upkeep, don’t you? It’s why people become villains or heroes in the first place.”

Grian narrowed his eyes. “Upkeep?”

“Oh my… Dude, just, ugh… Here, look,” Terra grumbled. “I’ll explain it.”

He turned to face the vet completely, and held out a hand, specifically the one that was covered by his living costume of plants. In his palm, a flower bloomed, orange petals fresh with new life. The color made Grian’s nose scrunch, but he watched all the same. 

“Powers are like this plant. It can grow under the right conditions, and become something super amazing if you give it the right nutrition,” Terra started. “You feed it by indulging in it, letting it out for long periods of time as often as you can. Using it in large bursts tends to help way more than just using it daily around the house or something. So, for a villain, a good exercise would be robbing a bank or fighting a hero.”

As if to demonstrate this fact, the longer the flower was kept in his palm, the further it seemed to bloom, with leaves even sprouting along its stem. 

“But if you neglect it, the power can weaken, until eventually,” he said, a petal falling to the floor. Another followed suit. “It dies.”

Grian’s eyes widened, confusion growing. “What? Powers can die?”

“Yeah,” Terra confirmed. “Big time. If you never indulge them, then they can disappear completely. I’m sure there’s people in the world that had powers, but didn’t find out in time to keep them from disappearing. They develop when you’re in your late teens, so most people are too distracted by school and other changes to their bodies to notice stuff like that.”

The vet found himself nodding. From his personal experience, his teenage years were spent studying to get into college, and once he was there, studying to get into medical school. Entire months would go by wherein he had done little more than eat, sleep, and read textbooks. He wouldn’t have known, or even cared enough to pursue a thing as trivial as powers with his future career on the line.

The vet leaned further against the back of his chair. Now that he’d learned a bit, the most studious part of him longed to ask more questions, delve into how and why processes like that occurred. He didn’t give in, of course, because that would’ve only served to fixate him further on the topic. 

Superpowers needed to be upkept. He hadn’t anticipated that. Grian could understand, suddenly, why people with them might choose to willingly turn themselves in to the Agency. If they risked losing their gifts completely in an attempt to hide them, then why hide them at all? Not everyone was cut out for a life of villainy, so it was a reasonable alternative.

“Huh,” Grian responded simply. “I guess you do know that I don’t have any.”

Terra nodded, closing his hand and sitting back.

“So, what? That’s it, then?” The vet steered them expertly in the direction of their earlier conversation once more. “You’re just going to let yourself be stuck with the Gs forever? Is that really what you’d want for yourself?”

The hero’s shoulders slumped, as though he hadn’t been expecting the question. Quietly, he replied, “No.”

“Right,” Grian said. “Obviously not.”

Butterflies of anxiety spiked in his gut. If he worded this wrong, or came on too harshly, the other might not be as willing to help. Still, he had to ask, had to try. This was another open window, and he’d be damned if he didn’t at least attempt to crawl through it. 

“So, why wait?” A golden eye flicked up to Grian as he spoke, something unreadable in it, resembling confusion. “Why be complicit in their plan? Why hurt innocent people — your old friends — just because these horrible heroes want you to? Why not keep fighting?”

Grian swallowed back his fear.

“Help me escape,” he pleaded. “And I’ll make sure you never have to run again.”

Terra froze, lips parting with surprise.

Grian let all of his earnest determination show on his expression. He wanted the hero to see that despite how he was beaten, broken, torn down in every way that mattered, he still wanted to keep going. Neither of them wanted to run, neither of them wanted to die, neither of them wanted to put up with this torment. 

Neither of them could overcome it without the other. 

Terra stood. He swayed in Grian’s direction, then appeared to hesitate. The plants around the vet’s wrists shifted, though they did not get tighter or looser in any noticeable way. A stormcloud of emotions crossed over the hero’s expression. 

Finally, after what seemed like ages, he took a step forward. Then, another. Terra stopped a foot away from the chair. The vet’s heart pounded, breathing quickening. 

“Grian,” Terra said. 

Grian sat forward. “Yes?”

“I think you’re misunderstanding something.”

The vet blinked. “What do you mean?”

Terra was frowning, eye reflecting a deep sorrow down at him. Grian’s pulse shot up, terribly aware that an expression like this one could only mean bad things. He couldn’t afford to lose Terra’s support here. The hero needed to see his side, or else they’d both be doomed.

“I know you think you have no chance,” Grian blurted. “But I also know what it’s like to be in your place. There’ll be a way to get rid of these problems without trapping ourselves further. If we both escape now, we’ll actually have a chance to figure it out together. You won’t have to keep playing along with this awful plan.”

Terra considered him for a long moment. 

Finally, he sighed, and Grian’s arms were shifted in his restraints. The plants separated, keeping hold of both of his wrists but bringing them around to the front. The vet stared, wide eyed, down at his hands. 

Had he done it? Was Terra convinced? Could they get out of here? Was the torment over?

“Like I said,” Terra spoke. “I think you’ve misunderstood something, Grian.”

The vet tensed. Terra’s tone was cold, emotionless. Hatred burned through his iris. 

“The Gs didn’t come up with this plan,” the hero whispered. “I did.”

Grian’s stomach dropped. A new wave of dread flooded his stomach, constant and clear, like the clouds accompanying the rain. 

He had miscalculated. More than ever before.

“W-What?” He shivered. The roots began to squeeze his arm, their bark cutting into his skin. “But you just… you said that they…”

“I told you I was trapped,” Terra hummed. “Not that I hadn’t thought of a way out.”

Grian shook his head, throat closing. “No…”

What was this change? Why had Terra seemed to become a whole new person in the blink of an eye? How could he say such emotional things to Grian’s face, and then admit to being behind the Gs’ plot? None of that made sense. None of it was possible.

“No, but you… you pitied me, didn’t you? You trusted me with your story. You said you hated the way these heroes worked,” Grian hissed, words boiling in his chest. “How is this–? How could you–?”

“All true statements,” Terra confirmed with a curt nod. “But why do you think I was so willing to spill all my deepest, darkest secrets to you? I wouldn’t do something like that if I expected you’d live long enough to tell anyone.”

“No, that’s not…” Grian’s mind spun, his earlier exertion rearing its ugly head to gnaw at his cognitive function. No matter how he tried, he could not seem to make his point, could not seem to regain the upperhand, could not seem to remember if he’d ever had it to begin with. “You just… a second ago, you helped me avoid Necromancer. Why would you do that if–?” 

“Oh, yeah, that? I wasn’t doing it for your sake,” Terra replied, shrugging. “My plan requires Necromancer to be at full strength. I’m not sure if you picked up on it, but their power has a pretty big drawback when it doesn’t work perfectly.”

Grian did not respond. He was stuck staring, perpetual shock coating his features and cutting down to the bone. It must have been mistaken for confusion, because the hero crossed his arms, settling in for another explanation.

“The media seems to mistakenly think she has a time limit and some sort of mind control, but that’s not true at all,” Terra elaborated. “They can manipulate how badly a person wants something. Small things are easy to mess around with, like having you move a certain way, or fire an arrow at a vital point when you were aiming somewhere else.”

Grian saw a vision of a villain in an alleyway, blood soaking through a wound in his side, which would’ve been lethal had qualified help not arrived so swiftly. Such an inexplicably interesting mistake for someone as precise as Slayer to make. 

“But when they go for big challenges,” Terra sighed, “Like trying to make you give up information you really don’t want her to know…”

The hero smiled. It did not reach his eye.

“The result isn’t pretty.”

Grian remembered the brief sight of blood he’d seen under Necromancer’s veil. That had been shortly after their failed interrogation, in which he had successfully withheld Scar’s name from them. Her passing conversation with Terra a minute ago made sense now too. Werewolf had wanted to help more than expected, she’d said as an explanation for how long they’d been forced to recover.

If he’d discovered this weakness under any other circumstances, he might have been relieved. As it was, Grian had little reason to celebrate. 

He was going to pass out. This was too much. This was all too much. He missed home, he missed work, he missed Scar. He was so, so, so tired.

“Don’t worry, though,” Terra said. His unnatural neutrality returned. “Once you and the Bamboozlers are dead, my team will be free of the Agency without a single bit of legal trouble. After that, it won’t be long until I’m able to get away from them entirely. No one will have a reason to chase me anymore. I’ll be free.”

The hero raised a hand, palm open. Slowly, he curled his fingers inward and clenched his fist. Without warning, the root around Grian’s left arm began to tighten significantly. He cried out at the extreme pressure, unlike any he’d felt before. 

“I’m sorry that freedom won’t include you.”

Crack.

Grian screamed as the unbearable pain enveloped him, mind, body, and soul. Tears streamed from his eyes, lightning soaring through his veins. His head drummed, vision dancing with spots. He writhed wildly, but a root around his torso kept him in place. No matter what he tried, he could not get away, could not escape the ripping agony.

Terra’s plants retreated, and the vet’s arm fell limply by his side, broken. 

“Don’t try to escape again,” he said. “Two more days. Bear with us for two more days, and I’ll make your death painless. Promise.”

But Grian couldn’t hear him anymore. The vet was fading in and out of consciousness, the world a distant thing. Vaguely, somewhere far away, he heard shuffling and the hinges of a door. He waited for it to be joined by the telltale click of the lock falling shut, but it never came.

Instead, he caught onto two familiar voices, Blackhole and Daybreak. They seemed frantic. He couldn’t pick out any words.

Grian’s head lulled back to gaze at the empty ceiling.

Two days until everyone he loved would die.

There were so many things he hadn’t done, so many ways he hadn’t appreciated them. He should have made an effort to listen to Mumbo’s ramblings. He should have picked up more of Skizz’s shifts. He should have let Lizzie talk about her relationship more often. He should have called Jimmy by his real name. He should have given his cats extra treats.

He should have called out of work. He should have stayed in bed with Scar. 

His eyes fell shut.

Two days.

Scar held the phone up to his ear as it rang. His breath came in visible puffs in front of his face, but he didn’t feel the cold. The warmth of his costume was more than enough to keep the heat in, and the breeze out. Winter clouds eliminated any hope of seeing the stars that the light pollution had not already stolen. 

His feet dangled over the edge of the rooftop upon which he’d made himself comfortable. If he needed to stand in a rush, his crutch was propped up beside him, but he wasn’t worried. 

He gazed across the city skyline, eyes landing on one singular building. 

Only two blocks from the park where the Gs had asked them to meet, surrounded by parking lots, and used barely enough to not be registered as abandoned. Transporting a hostage between there and the designated point would be easy, and the empty nature of the city surrounding it would mean no onlookers could raise suspicion. 

The old community theater.  

It was a sickeningly perfect place for a safe house. No one would suspect there to be an elaborate system of reinforced tunnels beneath the dressing rooms, and no one would question individuals entering and leaving it in dramatic costumes. 

His thumb hovered over the remote in his lap. 

Soon.

The ringing came to an abrupt stop as movement and muttering could be heard through the other end of the line. Scar waited for the answer, and was rewarded a moment later by a hesitant voice saying, “Um, hello?”

A grin broke out across his lips, cold glee rising in his chest.

“Hello, Morphling,” Scar replied, sweet and soft. “So nice of you to answer my call.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Ringmaster?”

“The one and only,” he confirmed. “I hope you don’t mind. We have quite a lot to chat about, and I really didn’t want to wait the full four days until we would see each other face to face.”

A series of loud whispers could be made out barely echoing through the receiver. Morphling was probably gathering his friends. Scar had no problem with an audience. 

“Trace the call,” he overheard the hero say, probably to Blackhole, their known tech specialist. Maybe Morphling thought he was far enough away for his words not to reach, but they were clear as day to Scar. “No, I don’t know… My phone number isn’t public. He shouldn’t be able to call it without an Agency-regulated phone.”

“Ah, but this is an Agency-regulated phone, you see,” Scar piped up. The whispering stopped in an instant. The heroes were probably overcome with horror, which was a delicious notion. “It wasn’t hard to steal a device off a desk when the whole of the Agency is being distracted by your little sponsor. Good thinking, by the way. Keeping them off your case by throwing a bigger annoyance at them.”

The second Lizzie had heard about Mr. Keeper suddenly barging in and demanding meetings with everybody worthwhile in the Agency from Furioso, they’d planned their heist. Jimmy had no problem sneaking in during their meetings, not a soul around to notice if a door opened randomly or a desk drawer was rummaged through. 

Tango had specially designed a digital lockpick for Agency phones, capable of running through the data prior to it being unlocked and pulling the code out simply by being plugged into the charging port. It was in the PR department where Jimmy finally found a device that had Morphling’s contact. 

“Right,” Morphling replied, rigid and clearly shaken. Usually, he had quite a bit more to add to their back and forths. “Get to the point, Ringmaster. What d’ya want?”

“Oh, I think you know the answer to that question,” Scar chuckled. “Give him back while I’m still being polite.”

“Hm,” Morphling hummed, unimpressed. “Your vet?”

“Yes,” Scar said, teeth clenching around the words. “My vet.”

A moment passed. Scar suspected they’d muted the call to discuss something without him hearing. His finger grew closer to the button, the remote a grounding, yet light, weight in his palm. Finally, they unmuted and he caught the end of Morphling’s sigh, “Untraceable call. Irritating.”

“It seems like you aren’t in the mood to talk. I’ll stop wasting your time, then,” Scar promised. “You have twelve hours to return Grian to me alive.”

“Really? Or else what?” Morphling sounded almost dismissive, a huff of laughter leaving him. “Did you forget that we’re the ones with the hostage in this situation?”

Scar pressed the button.

On the horizon, coming from the direction of an upper class suburban neighborhood, a large explosion tore through the sky. A miniscule mushroom cloud of dust, debris, and flames catapulted upward, burning red and hot. Sirens kicked up in several different spots, their shrill shrieks audible even from where Scar was sitting. 

“Oh, dear,” Scar said, delight spilling across his tongue. It tasted like iron and sulfur. “My hand slipped. It would be such a shame if anyone were home when that bomb went off.”

The other end was deathly quiet. They hadn’t missed the explosion. No one in the city, no matter where they were, would have been able to. Scar had made sure of that.

It wouldn’t be long before there were videos circulating, depicting such a lovely two-story home engulfed in flames and collapsing in on itself. The lawn would be scorched black, the back garden incinerated, the windows smashed in the SUV parked in the driveway, which did not belong to the house’s owner. 

The news would deem it a gruesome sight. Scar thought of it as deserved oblivion.

The first noise to come through the phone again was the ringing of another call. It was Daybreak’s voice that he heard next, muttering, “Pick up, pick up, pick up…”

Despite her begging, her call did not go through. A shaky exhalation reached him, breathing new air into his lungs with the strength of its terror. 

“I’m afraid your dogsitter can’t come to the phone right now, Pearl,” Scar said. “You’ll have to try again later.”

“No,” the hero whispered. Daybreak must have yanked the phone from Morphling’s hands, suddenly right against the microphone. “What did you do? My friend… my dogs…”

“You know what I did,” Scar replied. The humor was gone from his tone, replaced completely with a gravity that not even the heroes could ignore. “And you know why I did it. Twelve hours.”

“No, please,” Daybreak whispered. “It can’t be true… It can’t be.”

“Take her to her room. Actually, no, go tell Terra. Hurry,” Morphling hissed. The shuffling indicated he’d stolen the phone from her. “You’ve made your point clear, Ringmaster. We’ll think about it and–”

“Ah-ah, just one more thing before you go,” Scar interrupted. He picked white fur off his pant leg, and wondered if Jimmy had dropped off the kennel at the clinic yet. “Let me speak to him.”

Another beat of stunned silence. “You think we’re going to let you… speak to our hostage?”

Their hostage.

Scar’s brow twitched. 

Their hostage – like they didn’t know his name, like Grian belonged to them in some way. His partner was not someone to be summed up so casually, with such degrading words as their hostage.

It was almost admirable, the level of self-assuredness this one hero had. He spoke as though he considered himself to be untouchable, on Scar’s level. The concept alone made the villain’s hands twitch with rage, red light flaring up around his finger tips, yearning to be put to use. 

He wondered how easy it would be to cut out Morphling’s tongue, so he’d never be able to speak of Grian like that again.

“I know you are,” Scar corrected them. “Unless you’d like to see more carnage tonight, you are going to let me speak to Grian.”

Morphling had the nerve to mumble something under his breath, but after a minute, he relented. “Fine,” the hero said. “Let me take the phone to him.”

The other line went quiet. He’d been muted again. 

Scar tapped a hand against his side, and chewed on his lips. Anticipation ran like sparks up his spine, pausing to whirl around in his gut before continuing on their path. His whole being ached, focused on the phone. 

Grian. 

He was going to speak to Grian. 

They’d been apart for too long. Not a call, not a message, not a single word exchanged for two weeks. There was a void in Scar’s life where Grian should’ve been, hollowed and rotten. Endless nights spent curled up on the couch, the living room far too cold and far too quiet. Endless nights spent alone in bed, trying to soak in the last remaining scents of him. Endless nights spent hunched over a drawing board, desperate to bring him home.

And finally, his planning was paying off. He was going to speak to Grian. His Grian. His doctor. The love of his life. The person he’d burn the world to save. 

Scar was so close, so near, almost there. If he reached out, he could trick himself into feeling a hand meeting his, fingers intertwining with his own, his heart finally filling with the love it’d lost two weeks before. He could hardly breathe from the rapid force of his pulse. 

When the microphone crackled to indicate they’d unmuted again, Scar could’ve fallen over. Too hastily, he found himself blurting, “Hello?”

For a moment, there was nothing. No shuffling, no release of air, no response. For a moment, Scar found his finger hovering over the button, rage searing its mark into his ribs at the prospect of his beloved vet being too injured to answer.

 After a minute though, he heard someone’s breath hitch.

“Ringmaster? Is that you?”

Scar couldn’t repress the immediate well of tears that gathered in his eyes. Grian’s voice was hoarse and quiet, but it was there. It was him. A wet laugh sprang from Scar’s chest. “Hi, Doctor.”

“It is you,” Grian whispered, astonishment evident in his tone. “What’s going on? Why are you on the phone? How did you–”

Grian was cut off abruptly by a rough coughing fit. His hacking and wheezing went on for several seconds, tapering off into a series of gasped breaths and groans. As quickly as it had arrived, Scar’s joy vanished. He knew those sounds, had heard them in himself and his teammates dozens of times. 

A broken rib.

Someone had given Grian a broken rib. 

Scar dug his nails into the fabric of his pants, vision overwhelmed by red. Despite the dropping temperature, heat curled under his skin, curdled in his gut, and gathered in his throat.

“Grian,” Scar started, seething with unadulterated fury. “Did they hurt you?”

He already knew the answer, already knew his response, already knew how he would repay those heroes tenfold. They thought themselves above him. They thought themselves two steps ahead. They thought themselves worthy of competing against him. They thought they could win. 

“Yes,” Grian replied, voice cracking, nearly inaudible. “They did.”

Scar pressed the button twice more in rapid succession. 

Two points along the horizon burst into flame, thick smoke and ash throwing itself into the air. The rumbling of the nearest explosion echoed rippled as far as the theater, shaking the leaves of the trees planted around it. A commotion started on the other end of the call.

“Ringmaster,” Morphling growled. “What did you just do?”

Scar did not answer him, didn’t think he’d earned it. He could see the scenes though. Two cars, one parked outside the Agency, and the other right beside the doors to Secret Keeper Corp. They’d be barely recognizable by then, the smell of burning metal pungent in the air, with an untold amount of damage done to any unlucky enough to be too near when it happened. 

“Twelve hours,” Scar declared. “Or I’ll come get him myself.”

The call went dead.