A Wammy House Oneshot that made be late for school two days in a row.
Hero
The children didn't care about hot models and buff actors, they ignored the antics of ditzy blondes, and on the rare occasion bleached hair and too much cleavage did make it into the gossip stream, it was invariably from an insulting perspective. These children were not like other children.
From any age, people needed others to look up to, and for most teenagers and 'tweens,' all of whom wanting to both fit in and stand out, pop stars and models and actors were the ideal spokespeople for their 'unique' personalities.
These children knew they were unique, they didn't need to prove it. And even if they weren't, they didn't care. There was one objective, and one alone. Every word and every action was governed by this objective. Do it for him. Do it all for him.
Children, young children, idolised their parents. Because they were tall, and strong, and protective, and loving. They were the children's entire world, and taught them everything about it. These children didn't have parents. They didn't have families. They didn't need them. He wasn't home every day, to make any bullies seem jealous and not right, or give them an afternoon snack, but when he was home, he showered them with gifts, anything they wanted. Not because he was making up for his absence, and lack of love -these children would've seen straight through that. He did it because he said they deserved it, they deserved their gifts, they deserved his attention. They loved him for it. They loved him so.
Sure, they weren't the centre of his world, sure, each child believed and was conditioned to believe that it wasn't up to him to look after them, and if it came down to it, he would rather save the life of a strawberry cheesecake than them. They didn't resent it. You see, it was because he loved them that he wouldn't save them. He knew they could do it themselves. He knew they could save themselves, and didn't need his help. That was why he was never home, he was saving people who weren't as fit and clever, people who needed saving.
And how the children loved him for his work. His work that kept him away from them, his work that took all his time and effort, his work that could get him killed. If he didn't do it, they would've loved him less.
Their hero.
If, by some strange fluke of circumstance, these children were sent to a regular first or secondary school -the ages within varied greatly, after all- then while other children talked about their idol's pass times, these children would roll their eyes, whispering to each other about substantial evidence, proper forensic techniques, and whether posture really can effect one's capacity to reason. This had, in fact, been considered; they decided yes, due to blood flow, but not by as much as was told.
A difficultly these children faced was that it was easy to find information about well known peoples, as it was freely given or stolen by the paparazzi and sold to the world. If photographers tried that on their hero, the people would find themselves sued, loose horribly, and never been seen in the photography business again. There were no pictures, no quotes, no Date Of Birth or, god forbid, Date Of Death. Even in what he achieved, their was only traces that he had been there -like when the police say 'detective used' without saying the detective's name. Like when important information to a private case seemed to suddenly appear in case records without any information on how it got there.
It was sad, knowing the good he did, and knowing no one else did. And while there was one time, only one, in which that was not the case… a gothic letter on a TV screen is not very convincing or endearing.
Not unless you know the man behind it.
Of course, it wasn't all good. These children, girls and boys alike, all wanted to be just like their hero, as all children did. They knew they would never reach his level, but they hoped, and they imitated. The nurses at Wammy's were, for a period, flood with an epidemic of back pain, from slouching, of temporary vision impairment, from trying to stay up staring at computer screens, and from stomach pains and lack of nutrients… from what came to be called the "Sugar Overdose Saga."
But there were exceptions. Three, to be precise. Three, all boys, who seemed to show little good emotion towards the champion of their fellow children. When He came to visit, while all others clambered to get his attention, all he received from those three ranged from apathy to hostility. And these children watched in horror, waiting only seconds before forcing those children to explain themselves.
"How the hell dare you? He actually went to visit you in his room! And what did you do? You just played video games!"
"So what if he asked about your toy guns?! You actually shouted at him! Him!"
"What, was it so hard to look at him? Just… look at him. Seriously. He's worth more than that stupid puzzle you're always doing."
Those children ignored the others. The children, as a whole, were different from the rest of the world. But those three, in their own smaller group, were different from the whole. And while they didn't fawn over their hero as the others did, they held him in a special light.
Because they was different from any other. And so was he.
They were outcast from society. And he had never fully entered his own.
They loved him, with everything they were. He loved them, with everything he wanted to be.
Three little letters, and their one, strong capitol. He was their hero.
And they were his.
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Here, take this and be appeased for my not updating Sweet revenge. Sorry. Haven't been in a fluffy mood. For all of you, and those who have no idea what I'm talking about, I hope you liked this! Please Review!