Title: Watch the Sky
Genre: angsty, angsty superhero drama/romance
Pairings: (in this chapter) none...ish
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: AU, slash
Word Count: 1,375
Summary: For three years, the police of Axis City have had a hesitant, unspoken truce with the resident Alliance of Superheroes. However, when an up-and-coming politician sparks a war between the two, Detective England Kirkland must allow himself to be the villain in order to save the system, and the people, he has sworn to protect.

Blake Bishop, Gluttonous Meirene, LaRequinne, letafart, Master of the Boot, dreamscape9000, Blank?, Libra Balancing Act, and Gaarahottie: I LOVE YOU ALL. Thank you so, so much for your kind, often beautifully detailed reviews-they are endlessly more than I deserve, considering how long I've gone between updates. This chapter is for you, and I hope you continue enjoy it as much as you enjoyed the first.

Author's Note: This story has been heavily edited as of 11 November, 2012. In fact, if you read this chapter before that date, well, shucks, you haven't actually read this chapter. It's all brand new context, dudes (okay, not all of it), hope you dig it.


The Westfront Police Department finds itself at something of a loss when it becomes clear that the unknown vigilante who's cropped up in their city has no intention of stopping. Officers on patrol are constantly finding evidence of his handiwork along their routes—would-be members of the criminal element with their arms lashed around lampposts, fire hydrants, and street signs, groggy and weak and always with a note pinned assiduously to their clothes: a single illustrated haiku in neat calligraphy, invariably signed 'The White Samurai'. Fearing the possibility of copycat activity, the Chief of Police in Westfront holds a press conference demanding that the man who calls himself The White Samurai cease and desist immediately or face legal action. One week later, a warrant is issued for his arrest, and a reward offered to anyone who might have information about his true identity. As far as the law is concerned, The White Samurai is a criminal and a wanted man.

The opinion of much of Westfront's civilian population, however, does not reflect that of its law enforcement. They have been raised on the Sunday-morning staple of the comic book, and they know a superhero when they see one. They revel in the idea of a brave new world that includes a genuine superhero to follow in the fictional footsteps of Centurion and The Green Huntsman, Sphinxara and Goddess Girl. Soon, the blurry newspaper photographs of the ghostly figure with the gleaming sword on his hip find their way to blogs and discussion boards run by eager fans who swap stories of potential sightings and engage in heated debates about whether or not the many rumors that circulate around The White Samurai could possibly be true (there are stories of police cruiser sirens going mute when they get too close to him, of grateful citizens being unable to hear their own voices when they try to thank him, of a swift and soundless shadow that trails total and oppressive silence behind it like the tail of a cloak). As far as the frequenters of these sites are concerned, living in Westfront makes them residents of the first real-life Windy City, and the connection terrifies as many as it thrills.

And then there are those who watch the situation develop with a different kind of interest, cautious but optimistic, hopeful recognition kindling something in them that has felt restless and isolated for a very long time.

In an elegantly-furnished third-floor apartment in the North End, a young man stares at the evening news with a stony expression, pushes his glasses up his nose, and comes to a decision.

Halfway across the city, a bright-eyed young woman with an uncannily cat-like smile races down the street towards the houseboat she shares with her older brother. Cradled in her arms is today's newspaper, and a headline announcing that, four months after The White Samurai's debut, another costumed hero has been spotted in Westfront.

Over in the Central District, the cast and crew of La Pasión no se Detiene have just broken for lunch, and the hugely-popular soap opera's lackadaisical star takes advantage of the lull in filming to grab some quick shut-eye. Someone's left him a copy of The Westfront Reader in his dressing room, and he means to clear it off the sofa and forget about it, but that doesn't happen. The front page is taken up completely by the only posed picture anyone has ever managed to take of Westfront's quartet of super-powered protectors—the ever-stoic Richter Scale is nearly out-of-frame all the way on the right, arms crossed and face turned away; Slingshot, the only one of the four who's smiling, has one hand tucked into the crook of Smokescreen's elbow, the other raised in a fist as she flexes a bicep for the camera; Smokescreen towers over her despite his hunched posture, expression all but unreadable behind his mask. On the far left of the shot, The White Samurai stands almost a foot away from the rest of them, clutching his sword in front of him with both hands as if he's trying to hide behind it.

Above the picture is a single question: Superheroes United?

...

He's frowning in thought, the young man in the locker room, anxious to get home and swap out his uniform for one in which he has rapidly become more comfortable. He's holding his left arm somewhat stiffly—it's nothing that won't heal, more an irritating reminder of his own momentary carelessness than anything else, but it was a bad fall, and the injury has put him out of commission for far longer than he'd like. Even the newspapers have begun to notice. He places his cap carefully into his locker, smoothes down his dark hair, and as he turns to grab his jacket, something happens that hasn't happened to him for a long time: he's surprised.

"Sergeant," he says. They should be on much more familiar terms by now, but he can't ever seem to bring himself to forget the two steps in rank that separate them. He's also trying to not to let it show how much it rattles him that he can still be snuck up on, and the polite formality is his default when he's nervous.

The Sergeant stares at him, olive-green eyes calm and unreadable as ever, but doesn't say anything. Most of the time, the Sergeant moves as though he lives his life slightly out of sync with the rest of the world, settings stuck permanently on slow motion. Too many people assume his laid-back attitude and unhurried pace mean that he's stupid, but he's not stupid. And as it turns out, when he doesn't want to be, he isn't even all that slow.

The sudden hand on his injured arm is the second surprise of the day, and the young man's protests die in his throat, because it hurts, but. Then it doesn't, anymore. He glances up, eyes wide, and is rewarded with a small, slow, determined smile.

"Let me come with you."

There are six of them by the time The Westfront Heroes' League goes official: The White Samurai, Richter Scale, Slingshot, Smokescreen, El Matador and Panacea. All six have warrants out for their arrest, and at least one fan club running unofficial-official websites on their behalf. El Matador has four.

There are no superheroes in Axis City. In fact, it's been years since there were superheroes anywhere when, on a humid Monday morning, Officer England Kirkland fiddles with the radio of his patrol car, the cuffs of his uniform, a loose thread on his trousers. From the passenger seat, his partner makes a face and laughs.

"Dude, you are way fidgety today," he notes.

England raises an eyebrow at him. "You're fidgety all the time," he replies.

His partner sighs, nodding, and leans back in his seat. "It's nervous energy, you know? There hasn't been a ton of action around here lately, in case you hadn't noticed." He frowns, tucking blonde fringe under the brim of his cap. "I'm getting bored."

The way he says it makes it sound like an atrocity on par with war and famine and global warming.

England makes a disapproving little noise. "What did you think it would be like when you got into this? Car chases and shoot-outs and explosions at all hours of the day?"

"Well, yeah," says his partner, as if this should have been obvious. "That's what it's like in the movies."

He's painfully naïve for someone his age, but honestly England would have him no other way. England laughs, shaking his head, and turns to look out his window. "I think you'll find that reality is most often very little like the movies, America," he says.

America heaves a heavy, long-suffering sigh. "Well that's stupid. I didn't become a police officer to sit around all day in a smelly car while my butt falls asleep," he complains.

"Why did you become a police officer?" It's something England's always been curious about, but this is the first time it's come up of its own accord, without his having to force it into the conversation.

Without a moment's hesitation, America responds, "I wanted to be a hero."


Boy howdy, look at all those superhero names.
At first, I intended to blend my own Hetalia-brand superhero mythos into the existing (DC and Marvel) universes, but that felt sort of clunky, so here we go, welcome to Hetalia, we read Empire Comics here.
And for the curious, Windy City is the stomping ground of Shadowknight, the Cloaked Warrior. His parents are deeeeeeeeead.