The air is hot and humid. It's mid August and the city is suffering through the last heat wave of this summer. Probably the last. He hopes.
Summer was long this year. It started in late April and by now all of Stiles' colleagues are about to throw in the towel and flee the country to somewhere with a beach or at least to the lake two towns over. Something passes right over his head, bringing a cool breeze.
Freeze comes to a perfect stop between the tables of the froyo shop, making the sunshades shake and a group of preteens swoon. He smiles charmingly, but everyone knows he's here for a frozen yoghurt, too. Instead of the usual ice flowers prettily blooming under his every step he leaves a sluggish trail of water, and it would be kind of funny, if it weren't so unsettling. According to the news heroes have been dropping out of the sky like dead flies in the heat. Right now only Dragon and Red Blaze are properly patrolling, but they aren't going to last long. They may be immune to the heat, he thinks, licking the last bit of plain froyo from his spoon, but that won't save them from simple exhaustion. The city is too big for just two heroes. The other towns aren't fairing much better, but right now the crime rate has hit a new low anyway. Probably also because of the heat. He dumps the small pink cardboard tube into the trash and slowly, very slowly, ambles back into the shop. It's childish but he feels completely justified to be dragging his feet like this. He'll have to mop up the puddles of lukewarm water that Freeze is still dripping everywhere inside and mopping isn't fun in this weather. Outside the water has already evaporated and he briefly amuses himself by imagining it turning into a cloud and raining down again, dying a lonely quick death in the unspeakable summer heat.
He snorts.
The sky is still clear and blue; it's 3 p.m.
"So, my man – think you could make me another froyo?"
Freeze raises a smarmy eyebrow at him, wriggling his extra-extra-big, 0.25 litres, hot pink cardboard tube at him. He snatches it out of his hand. "That'll be another 7 dollars."
"Even for me...?"
"I'll make you an offer", he says, leaning over the counter, and Freeze smiles, sure of his victory. "I've got half a bucket of yoghurt in the fridge, if you can freeze it yourself you'll get it for free."
The smarmy smile drops and is replaced by annoyance. Stiles purses his lips, just as annoyed, thank you very much. "Listen buddy, our freezers gave up four hours ago, we're currently running on sweat, tears and desperation. If you can't pay, you can leave – just like everybody else."
It's 9 p.m., about half an hour after sundown. It's incredibly loud outside, because most people just came crawling out of their hidey holes and there are barbeques all over town. The froyo shop closes up at 8 p.m. and it's finally time to go home. Stiles resists the urge to let his head drop against the subway window – who knows what heads have already rubbed against the glass – and reminds himself of the pint of self made peach sorbet in the freezer and the last two chapters of his stupid, kitschy romance novel waiting on his bedside table. Tomorrow is his day off.
Happy thoughts carry him towards his small (kind of dirty, my god, he really has to tidy up real soon) apartment, take off his shoes and carry him the last two steps to bed. Belatedly he remembers the sorbet, but then decides it's not worth getting up again. His eyelids drop and when he opens them again it's 1 a.m. and it's loud.
The acrid smell of smoke has somehow found its way into his bedroom and the sound of sirens seems incredibly close. For a confused, sleepy moment he thinks it might be his apartment on fire, but it's not. The tired brunette drags the curtains back and is nearly blinded by the flames. It's the apartment complex opposite and there are people standing on balconies, trying to get away from the heat and the smoke.
It's not the first fire this year, of course. But it's the first one he's actually seen. In moments like this he can see why superheroes are so popular. The Dove is picking up civilians and drops them in the safety nets as if they weight nothing at all. Her gray cape catches fire a few times and in the end he rips it off and throws it into the crowd of onlookers, who catch it and immediately start fighting over it with the fervour of adoring fans. Somewhat wryly he thinks he just witnessed the moment that The Dove abandoned the idea of capes forever. It's the third one that bit the dust, as far as he knows, which means there were probably a lot more that he doesn't know about. He closes the curtain again. The excited whoop of the neighbours tells him there are already more heroes arriving and he has no interest in witnessing the excessive worship that is sure to follow. He won't be getting any more sleep tonight, so he grabs a ratty t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants and goes for a run. He hopes that by the time he gets back the worst of the noise will have died down.
Stiles' feet feel like lead, and really, he's not surprised. After four hours of sleep he doesn't actually feel like running, but he feels even less like lying down, listening to the fire, or watching TV, hearing about the fire, or generally anything else that can be done past midnight on a weekday. Chagrined, he gives up and drops down onto the next bench.
It's 2 a.m.
He's a 24-year-old working in a dead-end job in a froyo shop.
Tomorrow is his day off. It doesn't feel like such a victory anymore.
The next thing he knows the sun wakes him. He must have fallen asleep outside – bad idea, really bad idea. The crick in his neck agrees violently, but he ignores it in favour of patting down his pockets. His keys are gone.
The goddamn keys are gone. He allows herself a frustrated scream. It echoes sharply and ineffectively in the empty park and it doesn't make him feel any better. He'll have to knock at the neighbours' and call the locksmith from there. God, how was he going to eat this month? His father isn't speaking to him, not since he dropped out of college, and he doesn't have any close friends he'd dare to ask for money. There should be a hero for that, he thinks bitterly. Loan Man or Check Boy or something.
He chokes back angry tears before stretching his legs, readying himself for the one hour run back home.
His whole day off is, of course, ruined. The locksmith is less than sympathetic. The tubby man in a blue uniform looks haggard, much like everyone else Stiles has crossed paths with during the last few weeks. Prices for water have gone up, which drives up other prices as well. He usually makes enough money to rent this little one room apartment in a fairly good part of the city and, if he safes a little, to buy himself small luxuries like the expensive blood oranges that went into the sorbet still in his freezer. But this month money is tight, because the utilities shot through the roof. He'd be able to scrape by, usually, but the locksmith tells him, with hard eyes and in no uncertain terms, that he's only taking cash – and a lot of it. Stiles had hoped to give him a check, try to draw out the payment until next month, but now he has absolutely zero money left in his wallet, in addition to the zero dollars in his bank account. He's been doing double shifts already and the prices for pretty much everything are still rising.
This means a second job.
The heat wave giveth and the heat wave taketh. While it certainly took the rest of Stiles' free time and pretty much all of his money – like his last girlfriend, ha! – it also provided him with a job. Though that could also be attributed to 'taketh', just from other people.
Assistant EMT
Due to the heat weave the Beacon Hills Hospital is looking for additional help in ambulance and emergency room. Duties will include:
initial medical assessment and aid
basics of patient care
distribution of water in populated areas
Workshop of 60 hours included. Volunteers please call XXX...
Hm. Maybe he could put those four semesters of medical school to use.