Paragon to Pavement 2

The skillet popped and sizzled, hot little spits of violent grease dancing on his palm.

The sausage links curled as he watched the half-frozen things brown and shrink the longer it sat there. Let it burn. His other hand spun a fork in the other bowl, eggs swirled up until it was a perfect golden yellow and let it pour in, loud sizzling and popping hitting his ears from a buttered pan on high.

Why dirty two pans when you didn’t give a damn about the eggs tasting like pork fat or the sausage tasting like… well, whatever the hell kind of chemicals passed for “Breakfast Blend” in this dimension?

Blue boxer briefs half-sagged down his hips, his body skinnier than it’d been since his first year sidekicking. As annoying as it felt realizing that he bought a bunch of clothes that made him look like an arts student at Ironspire U back in Steel Canyon, Sky really had bigger things to worry about as he stood in the middle of his kitchen waiting for his breakfast to hurry up. 

His eyes trailed across the hollow space he called an apartment, the kitchen just as empty as the living room. As much as he wanted to be pissed at Blondie and her company, they did give him a place to stay, a place that felt like another prison but still, a place. Furnished, too; a couch that smelled like factory-fresh plastic, some kind of table from Sweden, and a fake plant in the corner gathering dust.

He didn’t have any pictures, or posters, or… or… I don’t really give a fuck about knick-knacks, though. Either way, the place had no life to it but he didn’t really feel like fixing that either. The place was just stuff. Corporate stuff. The “Reintegration Package,” courtesy of the Superhero Dispatch Network. Generous of ‘em.

He sucked his teeth, hand darting out as he snatched a sausage link right out of the pan, rolling it up all together; half-crispy egg making a lazy burrito.

Two bites and it was gone; Sky’s hand going right back in the pan to grab another.

Hissss.

Fingertips brushed the hot metal, a sharp bite of heat that would’ve made a civilian yelp and run for cold water. Scrapper toughness was good enough, even with his power pool running low as hell. If he could handle a burning building and Hellion fireballs to the face back at SL 2, he could handle a fucking frying pan without crying about it.

Sky shoved more of the food in his mouth, chewing and swallowing so fast he barely tasted anything at all.

He clicked his teeth, wiping greasy hands on the sides of his boxers as he walked over to the fridge. The door opened, light showing… absolutely nothing worth a damn he had inside his fridge.

A gallon of chocolate milk, some eggs, cheap white bread, and a shit-ton of half-empty takeout that were closer to biohazard at this point than anything else. Rolling his eyes, Sky went for the jug.

He took a swig straight to the head, chugging down three big gulps of cold over-chem’d and over-sweet choco drink that coated his throat thick.

Riiiiing.

Sky froze, the jug halfway to his mouth as gulp #4 got interrupted by the sound.

Wiping the milk mustache off his lip with the back of his hand, Sky let the gallon sit back on the fridge rack as he stared at the thing making the noise.

The “phone.”

He knew he was supposed to be in the future but he didn’t understand how they could call something like this a phone. Weird technology or not, the thing was lighting up, buzzing against the counter as he stared at the name on the screen.

Blonde Bimbo.

He sighed again, a heavier one this time. Prolly should change that name. 

Probably.

Rolling his eyes, the former prisoner picked up the thin device and swiped the screen, four syllables already on his lips. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Sky!” The voice on the other end was bright, cheerful and too eager to hear his voice.

Sky bit back a sigh, as he answered her again with a simple, “ma’am.”

“Sky…” Unlike him, she didn’t bother biting back her sighs, a sound he could practically picture; Blonde Blazer closing her eyes and pinching the top of her nose like she could actually get a headache with those powers. “We’ve talked about this, okay? You… you don’t have to call me ma’am. You can say Blazer, for short. Or just… a hey, I guess.”

He rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt, leaning his hip against the counter as he stared at the grease congealing in the pan.

“I understand, ma’am.” He rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt, reaching over to turn off the stove with a flick of the dial.

“Well…” the boss lady let out another sigh, “I just wanted to make sure you’re ready. For today. Big day!”

Big day.

Right. His first day in his new job. The day the convict gets let out into the yard to play with the other supervised problem children in the city of sunny Torrance.

“You have no idea how much your team is looking forward to meeting you.”

“My…” Sky raised an eyebrow, the other one quickly joining it as he fought the urge to laugh over the line. “My team…”

“Yes… Z-Team?” Blazer’s voice shifted, the woman forgetting to properly hide the anxiety in her tone at Sky’s words. “We’ve gone over this. It’s in the pack—”

“I got the packet, ma’am.”

His eyes flicked to the trashcan in the corner not at all far from him. Buried under an empty egg carton and grease-thick sausage wrappers, sure. But definitely not far. 

He’d skimmed it at least, giving his potential coworkers that much acknowledgement before tossing the packet where it belonged. “They’re not my team, ma’am. I’ve never met them, for one.”

“Well… yes. Of course! That’s what today is for! Introductions. Bonding.”

Yeah… “Bonding, uh-huh… that’s… that’s definitely the word here, ma’am.” Bonding with a bunch of C-list villains on parole. Great. Love that. He couldn’t fuckin’ wait to swap stories about holding up convenience stores. 

Two fingers tapped the counter, Sky staring off at nothing as nothing stared back. “I also usually don’t make it a habit of being around murderers, y’know? Professionally or casually.”

“Well…”

He blinked slow, waiting for Blazer to say anything more than just that syllable. After a cool five seconds came and went, he cleared his throat. “…anything else, ma’am?”

“No, uh… well, um… your shift starts in an hour. I’ll be seeing you then?”

Sky let the silence stretch again, waiting for anything else at all. Finally…

“That a question, ma’am?”

“…No?”

Mmmm.

Without even so much as a sigh, Sky hung up before his new boss could say “bye” or “good luck” or whatever other sunshine-and-rainbows bullshit she had holstered.

A second later, a sigh spilled out of him, the scarred Paragonite 

He sighed, the former Paragonian rubbing the back of his neck where the phantom weight of the collar still sat. Blue eyes roamed the apartment again, taking in all the furniture.

For who?

Who was coming over?

Statesman? Manticore? The Brawler? Maybe Miss Liberty would pop in for tea and a chat about freedom?

Nobody.

Not like it mattered in the slightest, considering who it came from.

Here’s a nice cage. Please don’t blow up another gas station. Please be a good boy. Please don’t make us look bad to the investors.

Apparently, in this universe, being a hero wasn’t a calling or a duty or a desperate fight for survival. It was a business. Superhero Dispatch Network.

And get this—they were frickin’ global.

Like McDonald’s or some shit. Franchises. Can’t fuckin’ believe this shit. Heroes with dental plans and quarterly performance reviews.

Apparently, without the Rikti teleporting in from the skies or the goddamned Hellions summoning demons from down under, and no 5th Column marching in the streets, people got real comfortable it seemed.

As in comfortable enough to pay for “protection” like it was a cable bill.

Sky just sighed again, the sound lost in the empty apartment.

“…let’s get this over with.”

A minute later, Sky slid open the door to his closet, the space mostly empty apart from some jeans; a bunch of t-shirts he’d bought at a thrift store because he’d rather choke on a nine-iron before he wore the SDN branded bullshit they’d sent.

It was mostly empty. Some jeans. T-shirts he’d bought at a thrift store because he refused to 

But there was one thing hanging up.

Clean and pressed, it was right in front of him in a pristine laundry bag.

He unzipped the bag, the sound loud in the quiet room. Without wasting another moment, he pulled out the top and held the thing up to the light, taking in the blue design and white trim of the gi top.  “…at least they made it right.”

Of course, it wasn’t his original. That one was completely gone, shredded by bullets and burned to shit after the explosion that had him in traction for a whole season and some. No, this was just a replica. 

A damn good one, but still a replica.

Sky grabbed for the undershirt, the sleeveless black piece, and tugged it over his head and almost immediately regretted moving too fast as the fabric caught on a scar; the burn on his shoulder skin raised and rough and just sensitive enough to be a fuckin’ problem.

Teeth gritted and hissing like a snake, he forced the top down and immediately relaxed into the familiar feel of it. Cool against his skin, it felt as much like armor as it actually wasn’t.

The pants went next; as black as the undersuit, and just as comforting. Then, the gi; now, that… that felt like home.

Hands moving on autopilot, Sky wrapped the white sash around his waist, muscle memory guiding him in a quick loop-pull-knot.

His body remembered this. Even if he couldn’t pull off a Ki Crescendo that sent cars flying down the block anymore, even if his legs felt heavy and his lungs felt small, it remembered this.

Fingers flexed on instinct, Sky staring down at his palms as he tried for his aura to come out in full force again. Focus.

He tried, he really did. He did his best to summon the blue from his core that used to feel like a second heartbeat.

Instead, all he got for it was a flicker of pale blue light dancing across his knuckles. No fucking shit…

Blue eyes stared down at what felt like someone else’s power, someone that hadn’t been this weak since he’d been sidekicking for the Brawler. It’s all I got.

Sky looked back up at the mirror, the clean, bright, and stupidly hopeful costume staring back at him as it clashed violently with the face and everything else.

He tried for a grin, something familiar and cocky and just like the old him.

Almost immediately, he let it drop when he felt the scar tissue on his face pull tight, mouth going wide in a way that looked less mellow and more manic.

“…yeah, note to self, don’t smile at anybody.”

He’d do his best to remember that, but for now…

Time to clock in.