This was my first ever fanfic written about three years ago now. It's based on the original script by Robert Ngo, with influence from Will Smith's portrayal. Some of the lines were taken directly from the script, particularly the first scene involving Fish. There's also a continuity error to do with the Raybands if I remember correctly, so no need to point that out. Otherwise, R&R and enjoy.
No Hero
Metallic groans and screeches fill the subway as the tram grinds to a halt and white smoke plumes with a hiss. The doors clank open and out pours the mass of commuters, some loping in lethargic displeasure, others running in anxious haste. On the platform, the push begins, as yet more cram into coaches. Amidst the confusion, a wallet falls to the ground.
Through the wall of steam, a figure looms. He appears from the cloud of vapors, shrouded in a grey trench coat streaked with black filth and torn beneath his right arm. The end of the sleeves are frayed and two buttons are missing. His face, too, is worn; unshaven, disheveled, a face chiseled with mileage.
He sees the wallet drop, watches as it slides a short distance across the slippery floor. He picks it up from the muddy footprint it has smeared. He opens his mouth to shout but bites back the words as a thought crosses his mind. Its owner, a bespectacled man with thin white hair, presses against the crowd, determined to board. He isn't looking.
Mr. Gilligan, his cards name him. There are a number of notes inside the brown leather. Some tens, a few twenties. He stuffs one of each into the grey trench coat, then stares at the balding head of his "benefactor", grimacing at a short-lived pang of guilt.
He raps his knuckles against the man's briefcase. "Mister. Your wallet."
"Oh, thank you. Thank you so much."
From the corner of his eye, he sees Mr. Gilligan check his wallet quickly. The cards are all there. He won't check properly until he has a moment away from the throng. By then, it'll be far too late to do anything about the money. Maybe he'll just be grateful the rest was returned. Doubtful.
Pulling his coat tighter around him, the figure slips away, wades through the crowd into the shadows of a deserted section of the subway. He strolls over to a cigarette machine up against the graffiti-raped walls. A line of profanity declares, "YOUR MOTHER TAKES IT UP THE ASS!" He presses fingertips to the side of the vendor and pries the front open, exposing the goods within. He stuffs his jacket full of Lucky Strikes and punches through to the money. His fist withdraws a handful of bills and coins. Then, as if folding paper, he presses the metal closed again. Shamelessly, the figure heads for the stairs to emerge into the electric light of Los Angeles.
A streak of lightning splits the night sky. An angry mass of black clouds rages, bringing rain and thunder and the swirl of a howling wind. The flooded streets of L.A roar in subdued response, a cacophony of car horns that fails to match the ruptured heavens. Swathed in grey, the figure strides away from the ruckus, finding the empty backstreets, the quieter shady neighborhood.
He finds his way to a motel, a shelter from the storm. The Red Eye Motel, says the blinking neon sign. He enters, and escapes the gust and rain. He approaches the desk, drenched like a wet rag, and surveys the lobby. This place is a large yeast infection. Damp urine colored carpeting accompanies rotted furniture and peeling wallpaper. A prostitute drapes across a bench while her pimp orchestrates a deal at a nearby payphone.
At the desk, an oily man with no chin sits poring over a magazine, absorbing the bio of a model with big tits, who straddles the double page. As if he gives a damn about her personality. A small plaque names him Fish and gives the unlikely title of Manager. There's a shotgun, erect between his thighs. The figure leans against the desk, his sodden sleeves providing the best clean the desk has received in years. Fish doesn't budge. Impatiently, the figure rings the bell.
"Just a minute, pal," Fish grunts, irritably. "Can't you see I'm reading something?"
The figure cocks an eyebrow. He removes his grey woolen hat, holds it out over the desk, leaving a trail of water droplets, and wrings it out above the magazine. Rainwater drains from the material and soaks the pages. Now, Fish refocuses his attention.
"What the fuck can I do for you?" The magazine falls to the desk with a slap.
"A room. Two nights."
Fish smiles through gritted teeth, turns back to the wall and grabs a key from a nail.
"Top floor, 7F, fifteen a pop, up front." Fish pushes the check-in sheet forward. "And your John Hancock makes it sweet."
A damp hand takes the pen and scribbles Hancock on the dotted line. Fish hands over the key then pulls it back from his grasp.
"I don't take messages, I don't do favors and I don't know you from Jack. You want sheets, that's extra. Towel's extra. Plunger's extra."
"I need quiet. Is it quiet?"
"Quiet? Hey pal, we look like a public library to you? The girls work. Some of them scream, some of them moan… some of them just kinda lay there, cold." Fish smirks. "You want quiet, I got cotton balls you can stick in your ear. They're extra."
He chucks the thirty dollars on the counter. Fish snorts and collects the notes, then holds them up to the lamp to make sure they're real. Satisfied, he lobs the key at Hancock's head. Hancock catches it without flinching, momentarily wiping the grin from Fish's sickly face. In exchange, he returns a metal orb, the strangulated remains of the bell. It rolls out of his palm and clinks off the counter.
A gust of air through the open window eases the stagnant odor of sweat and sex. The grey coat lies across the stain-covered bed, the pockets emptied. There's an empty bottle of bourbon on the windowsill. Crumpled cartons of cigarettes fill one corner of the room. An unread magazine sits on the television, left by the last tenant. Hancock sits with a cigarette hanging from his lip, his head back against the wall, eyes closed. He takes a long hard drag and the stick deteriorates into ash. He exhales and obscures the television screen with a wall of smog.
In his hands, he cradles two movie tickets. Frankenstein, Saturday 31st of October 1931. A fitting Halloween show; it certainly ended in horror. Beaten and left for dead in an alleyway, waking in a hospital with nobody to collect him, nobody searching for him. He caresses the tickets with his thumb. He wonders who saw the movie with him, wonders where they were when he was assaulted. Why they never tried to find him.
" … is the latest in a succession of similar assaults in the area…"
Hancock cringes at the report. The tickets drop into his lap as he presses his hands to his head, trying to block out the sound. His fingers squeeze into a fist around his ears. Too many memories he's tried to forget. Too many he can't retrieve. He slams the back of his head against the wall, leaving a indentation in the plaster. The anchorman's voice drones on.
"…the mugging is believed to have occurred late last night…"
The fading smoke allows flashes from the screen. He perceives the light through his eyelids and winces. Flashes of blonde hair. Shrill screams. Agonized groans. It's not the television.
"…the victim, who is yet to be identified, is comatose…"
In a single movement, Hancock pushes up from the floor and pounces over the bed to land in front of the television. He grabs the box and yanks. The cable snaps, the picture blinks to darkness, the voice cut off mid-sentence. With a frenzied roar, he tosses the thing out of the window into the street. There is a loud bang, followed by hissing as the rain pummels the exposed electrics.
Calming down, Hancock sighs wearily. He stares down from the window at the broken mess and checks the night for witnesses. The assaulted street is empty, save for a mangy cat, its green eyes staring from a nearby alleyway. The cat screeches angrily, showing fangs and clawing at the air.
"Yeah, yeah," Hancock mutters. "I'll clean it up."
Hancock wakes, sprawled on the motel room floor, the tickets clutched to his chest. Outside, the rain continues its onslaught. The storm bellows morning's arrival, and thunder rolls behind Hancock's eyes. He sits up and drains the last of his bourbon. Hair of the dog. Tastes more like urine.
He gets to his feet and stumbles to the bathroom, looks for any sign of aging. A grey hair, a wrinkle, a profusion of nasal hair. Nothing. He sighs and splashes his face with water. The same old dream had haunted his sleep, like it had every night for the past seven decades. The blonde woman screaming, blood pooling around him, solid pain. Responsibility… The woman's voice. Soft, sweet, melodic. Arousing. Drinking takes the edge off.
He looks up. Brown bloodshot eyes stare back from the grimy mirror. Eyes that have seen too much. Still, the word echoes faintly in his mind. Responsibility… Hancock smashes the bourbon bottle against the sink. He takes the largest shard and presses it to his cheek, then rakes the broken glass across his face. He considers flying again. Considers protecting the city.
There's a knock at the door. The destroyed television set flashes back into mind. That'll cost him extra. Hancock staggers to the door, expecting Fish, but as the door swings open dazzling green eyes meet his.
Ringlets of auburn frame a smugly beautiful face, black lipstick and dark fluttering lashes. She wears a red leather jacket, black top and skin-tight jeans. A white studded belt hugs her hourglass figure. The top is thin and her nipples poke through the fabric. She's already horny. She licks her lips seductively as she eyes him, not seeming to care about his tattered attire or the exhaustion in his eyes. He'd been in no better condition the last time they met; pleasant dreams had eluded him then too. But she had made those sleepless nights worthwhile.
"I heard you were in town."
"So, what? You came to throw me some morning pity? Or is this about you?"
Hancock wanders to the bed and sits, leaving Veronica at the door without an invitation. She smiles and follows him in anyway. She closes the door behind her and tosses her hair.
"Still grouchy, I see. I suppose the scrapheap outside is your doing?"
No answer.
Veronica moves across the room, shedding the red leather like a professional stripper. She leans forward, her cleavage filling his vision. She places her hands on his knees and gently edges higher, watching Hancock's expression. She presses a hand beneath his shirt then pulls it apart. Hancock remains dejected. She kneels on the bed and begins to kiss his neck, unhooking her bra as his head tilts from her lips. Her kisses climb his neck and she nibbles gently on the lobe of his ear, her bared chest heaving with breathy sighs. Finally, his hands trace the curves of her body. She lets her lips hover in front of his, allowing the anticipation to sweeten the moment, and then…
"You bring me anything?"
Veronica sighs and pushes him flat on the bed. "You smell like a brewery as it is."
Outside, the sky groans for more.
A young driver sits anxiously in the armpit of town, white-knuckled hands grip the steering wheel. The engine of the rusted heap is still running. Under the cap, nervous eyes flicker back and forth. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, the wind merely a breeze, though the circling clouds promise another barrage to come.
The youth's older brother strides across the street. At the door, he checks the street, pulls the cap down and fishes the piece from his pants. He looks cocky as he pushes through the door.
Inside, Hancock peruses the back wall, searching for his choice of alcohol. Gentleman Jack. The go-to guy for the last few decades. The only drinking buddy that didn't ask questions, didn't expect anything. When they learn what he is - who he is - the world and its dog wants a piece of him. The thrill-seekers who want to fly, the fans who want a photo or just to say thank you. The scientists who want to test him, the generals who want a weapon, the assholes who want to show off to their buddies, to prove they have a pair. And of course, the girls that beg to climb the flagpole.
…responsibility… the voice is always there. From time to time, he tries to drown the memory; the soft voice and golden hair. In motels, not unlike The Red Eye, finds what comfort he can. But he can't let go. Can't hoist the colors.
They never understand. Some get angry. Some get upset, offended. Only Veronica ever understood, only she came back. Again and again, to nail her colors to the mast. She talks to him like an equal, like there's nothing different about him. Calls him her drunk uncle. It makes the sex a little odd.
He hears the door open, feels the icy breeze circulate through the store. He grabs the bottle from the shelf and heads to the counter. The guy was sat digging for gold when he'd come in, but now he sits bolt upright, his eyes wide and hands flat against an invisible wall. Just like a mime, he mouths words silently. Sweat beads on his forehead and his lower lip trembles. A glint of metal catches Hancock's eye.
At the door, the thug falters, the barrel of the gun hovering between the two men. He wasn't expecting anyone else. It doesn't change a thing but it takes a second to order his thoughts. Hancock sizes him up and dismisses him.
"You just chalk this up to him," he says, showing the bottle and moving to leave.
"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" Hancock's nonchalance has rattled the man even more. He can feel the situation spiraling out of his control.
"Hey, I just want to get my drink and get out." He moves for the door.
"Just stay there and shut up!" He points the gun at the store-owner and throws him a bag. "You, empty the cash into that and you, stop moving!"
"Look, we both know you aint gonna use that thing. You're not a killer. So I don't care. I just want to go back to my motel, smoke a carton of cigarettes and drink until the sound fades." He keeps edging forward as he speaks, ignoring the echo of Responsibility in his head. "And you're covered, right?"
The owner nods, but the terror is still clear in his eyes. The thug looks confused and alarmed, but anger is taking over.
"So this aint my problem. Not my responsibility." Hancock takes another step.
The gun claps. Twice. The owner yelps and ducks behind the counter as shards of glass spray into the air and Gentleman Jack mingles with Rose and Stella. The gun drops with a clank. The thug removes his cap, unable to believe his own eyes. His bald head and neck-fat have a phallic resemblance… and he no longer feels so hard.
Hancock stares at the holes in his trench coat, where the bullets impacted before rebounding away. He looks ruefully at the broken neck of bourbon. This always happens.
The youth taps his finger on the steering wheel. He stares at the liquor store, the blue neon sign faint in the late afternoon light. His brother should be out by now, he is sure of that. Something must have gone wrong. The thought niggles in the back of his mind but he was told to wait in the car. He can't do anything anyway. He doesn't carry a gun, he hasn't got the balls. Couldn't shoot heroin without blowing his own foot off. Matt says he is useless. He's probably right.
Craig scratches his arm, leaving red lines across the ornate letters. He hadn't even wanted a tattoo but Matt said. What Matt says goes. Without a clue of what to get and under pressure, he got his own name. What a fucking stupid idea. He hates himself for it. Now here he is with another stupid jerk-off idea, because Matt says.
He pulls down his sleeve and glares impatiently at the building across the street. The windows are misted but he can see a blur of Matt's back just inside the door. He rolls his eyes, talks to the sinewy mess of clouds.
"Come on, let's bounce already!"
There are gunshots in the store, accompanied by flashes. Moments later, the window shatters as a figure flies through the air and lands with a thump on the hood of the car. He doesn't bounce. The wiper snaps, the windshield cracks and the metal crumples slightly. Craig tenses, gawking at the limp form of his brother sprawled across the car. In the back of his mind, thoughts whir in a blend of questions and actions. What happened? What do I do? Do I get help? Do I get us out of here? Do I get revenge?
Instead he just sits there, rooted to the spot, eyes wide and jaw hanging. From the corner of his eye he sees the door open. He turns his head to watch Hancock strut across the street. The superhuman surveys the flaccid shape on the hood, considers the driver and walks away with two bottles of bourbon in each hand.
Outside the Red Eye, the debris is still scattered in the gutter. Hancock sighs and chucks an empty bottle into the garbage. There's another tucked in either side of his jacket, the fourth in his left hand. He sets that down on the curb. Using a can as a shovel and his foot to sweep, he mops up the wreckage in a few easy movements. He notices the magazine that had been left on top of the set and pulls it out. There's a picture near the back of him during a stint in San Francisco a week or so previous. The image shows him from behind with his pants around his ankles, pissing the kind of torrent you get from a hosepipe off the Golden Gate Bridge.
"They got my good side," he remarks, and drops it back into the trash.
He picks up the whiskey and cracks it open. Green eyes stare at him and he notices the cat from before, balanced on a nearby fence. Its black fur is a mess and its ribs are showing. Much like the rest of the pussy in the neighborhood.
"You happy now?" he asks the cat, gesturing to the waste. The cat purrs and slinks away. Hancock grunts and takes a swig.
Hancock walks into the lobby as Fish appears, scratching his ass. There's a thug in a white vest and jeans, leaning against the counter, muscular arms folded across his wide chest. He glowers at Hancock, malice in his eyes. Fish hasn't spotted him yet. The shotgun hangs limply at his side.
"Jeeze. I'll tell you what, Jomo. That was one of them dumps that makes you think, if I was gay, I could take it." The thug doesn't react to this revelation and Fish follows his gaze to find Hancock. "You, you asshole. You owe me a new television."
Hancock ignores him and keeps walking but Jomo blocks his path. "Move your ass, or I will use your nuts for a stress-ball."
"Hey, asshole," Fish growls, pushing the shotgun in his face. "I'm talking to you. You owe me a TV."
Hancock turns his head slowly. Red lightning crashes in his eyes but he looks far from weary. He looks the manifestation of the storm. The storm regrouping outside. Fish can sense it. He can see the raw exposure, the last nerve, and he is getting on it. His lip twitches in apprehension.
Hancock grips the barrel of the shotgun, maintaining constant eye-contact. He squeezes and twists. Effortlessly the metal crumples and bends into the shape of a freshly rolled joint. Then he leans close, speaks in to Fish's ear.
"Call me asshole. One more time."
The men's faces pale as they stare at the tip of the shotgun. Fish drops the useless weapon and shakes his head. Hancock looks at Jomo who steps aside, shielding his crotch with his hands and legs, like a little boy who has wet himself. Hancock makes for the stairs. The two men in the lobby watch him go, stunned to silence. They dare not move again until he disappears from view.
"Really? You got more drink?" Veronica looks at him with weary disapproval. She looks like she has only just woken up. She is only wearing a shirt. "You know, most people drink to forget things. I don't think it works the other way around."
"It's been six decades. There's plenty I'd like to forget."
Disapproval turns to pity and she smiles wryly. Veronica isn't the kind to connect emotionally; she doesn't know how. Instead, she cups his face in her hand and kisses him gently on the lips. It's in moments like these he thinks he could actually feel something for her. Something real. But he's been there before. It never ends well. And how could it. More than sixty years and he hasn't aged a day. No, he can't afford to fall for her. She can't save him, and he can't save her. He can't save anyone.
"You should get some shades to hide those red eyes of yours."
"You should get some pants to hide that easy ass of yours," Hancock snarls back.
Veronica recoils, shocked and hurt. There's fear too. He's never seen that before. Not from her. It pains him to see it. Maybe he's too late. Maybe he's already fallen for her. He shakes his head and lunges, crashing through the motel window, spraying glass that falls with the rain as the storm continues its assault. With a sonic boom, Hancock disappears into the firmament.
Hancock soars across the skyline, icy rain stinging his eyes. He's been alone too long. He is accustomed to having to use his strength. He's forgotten how to be tender, intimate. The things he's seen… how could he be? The people in the city below him all want to be saved, they all think he owes them that much. To whom much is given, much is expected.
Bullshit.
He looks down on them, watching them mill around, bustling through the rain-soaked streets. Like ants, people say. Not to Hancock. More like rats. An infestation of vermin, feeding on the carrion of the city. Did the rich hold themselves responsible? Did they carry the weight of expectation for all they'd been given? No. So why should he? He's done too much already for no reward. Only the hatred of those he didn't help.
Ahead, the storm seems to close down around him, blocking his path with a pillar of black cloud. Gliding closer, he notices the reddish glow and stops to hover in mid-air, studying the scene. A suburban household creaks and cracks as fire ravages through, the smog churning into the air, crimson tongues hissing defiantly at the driving rain. Neighbors have gathered around, gawping and pointing, some worried, others seemingly fascinated by the flames. A woman's screams fill the air. Hancock turns his face away. What does he care? It's not his problem.
…responsibility…
That voice like birdsong, the image of blonde hair and perfect eyes.
The sky grumbles as Hancock plummets to the ground, pulling up just before colliding with the asphalt, then slams through the brick wall of the house. Dust and glass explode from the building, and then again on the other side as he re-emerges from the blaze, a woman shielded his in arms. The woman is clad only in white underwear, stained by the smoke. She is blonde and pretty, with small perky breasts Hancock pulls close against his chest. Her eyes aren't perfect, but that's not what he's looking at.
He straightens up and drifts slowly to the ground, cupping a hand around a well-toned ass-cheek. The blonde pulls away, disgust in her eyes and slaps her palm across his face. A good shot, but it barely registers for Hancock. She notices the crowd of on-lookers, feels momentarily self-conscious, then allows the hate to overwhelm her insecurity. She glares daggers at Hancock.
"Asshole."
"What, no thank you?" Hancock mocks. "Next time I'll wait 'til your panties burn off."
He watches her storm away, the guys in the crowd watching her go with interest, the women jeering her rescuer. Hancock ignores the insults, watching the lady leave. He thinks of the blonde haired woman from his past, the obscured memories, the voice that drives him back to these situations time and again. He wonders if he was such an asshole then; maybe that's why she never tried to find him.
A woman pushes through the crowd and tugs on his arm. "Hancock, Hancock! I'm your biggest fan," she gushes. "Don't listen to them, the ungrateful bitches. You can save me any day."
Hancock looks her up and down, noting the rolls of flesh around her waist, the second chin and sausage-like hands. She looks like a beached whale in make-up and a dress. Biggest fan is right. Even under the weight, she isn't attractive. A pig-like nose separates her beady eyes from a wide mouth. He thinks of letting her down gently, telling her he prefers blondes.
"Just wrap your arms around me and fly me anywhere," she coos.
"Bitch, I'm super, but I aint that strong."
He walks down the boulevard, on the nicer side of town, ignoring the disapproving stares from those around him. Here, where the pretty folk live their pretty lives in pretty houses, nobody needs a hero. That suits Hancock just fine.
The storm has finally cleared, leaving pale blue skies and a caressing breeze. Sinners flock the City of Angels, cramming the streets with greedy shopkeepers and jealous tourists, slovenly junkies and smug beach-bodies. A sliver of sunlight peaks from behind the thinning clouds, flashing an L.A. smile; bright but ultimately cold. The people gaze up in awe, taking in the sight with desperation, like a nipple slip in a dry spell.
Thin rivers of red trickle in the super human's eyes as he studies the postcards on a stand - maybe he'll find a new monument to piss from. His thoughts keep drifting back to Veronica. He can't stop wondering if maybe they could have a normal life together. But he's not allowed one. Not while he has superpowers. They won't leave him alone. And then there's the voice. That damned voice and those damn eyes. Always reminding him-
…not your responsibility…
A blonde across the street caught his eye, just a blur within the moving crowd, bodies obscuring her no sooner than she'd appeared. From the corner of his eye, it had looked just like her. He spins the rack absently, leaving a postcard hurricane behind him as he ambles away down the street. Memories are flooding back to him. A silky smooth hand on his shoulder, her dulcet tones in his ear. The events are still patchy and vague.
You can't save them all … deserve a normal life … it's not your responsibility…
He remembers turning around, staring into those perfect eyes, smiling and nodding. He remembers pushing a strand of blonde hair out of her face, remembers kissing her lips. Were those tickets in her hand? He remembers feeling weak, feeling vulnerable. Did she really have such an effect on him? So much chemistry between them, yet she was gone. Left him for dead in the street. There are still pieces of the puzzle missing.
But suddenly those pieces don't matter. He deserves a normal life. It's not his responsibility. Veronica's image paints itself across his vision, prints on to his eyelids. Her name rings in his ears. He buys some Ray-bans to cover his bleary eyes. He's aware he smells like a crematorium, wonders if that's better than smelling like a brewery. He doubts she'll care. He bounds into the air and nearby manhole covers bounce and clang down the street like loose change.
Hancock sits on the bed, staring at the spot where the TV set used to be. The voice, the new revelation, still echoes in his mind. He's lost the taste for drink, lost the taste for cigarettes. There's only one taste he wants now: Veronica.
He remembers the day he met her, in an alley not so far from the Red Eye. She'd been a crack-whore then, but some wreck of a guy had mistaken her for the other kind. He was a weak man, biceps flapping in the wind, flop sweat on his head, his glasses broken at the bridge. He had looked like he'd never got laid in his life, never dealt a good hand. He'd been drinking that night, trying to drown some sorrow or another, then stumbled out and wandered aimlessly to a dark alley. Veronica was on a bad trip, juiced to the eyeballs and not able to fight off anyone, not even that loser.
Hancock had been in a nearby bar and had just left with an inquisitive brunette with large tits and an ass that had piqued his own curiosity. He'd heard the screams and rounded the corner to the see the scrawny geek pushing the redhead against the wall, pulling at her skirt. He'd heard the voice, as usual, and hung the creep from his underwear on top of a signpost. Veronica had been grateful; so grateful he taken her home with the brunette. Of course, by morning the brunette was long gone. But Veronica was still there. She'd been coming back ever since.
But she wouldn't be coming back again. Not this time. A tear escapes beneath the Ray-bands.
A black eye tattoos the left side of her face, her body slumps against the white plaster wall. Her clothes are ripped, her legs sprawled open. She wears a strangled necklace of bruises. Mascara snakes down her cheeks and Hancock can't help but wonder if that happened before her ordeal, if she'd cried because of him. Her open eyes seem to stare at him, accusing, asking, 'what are you gonna do now?'