A/N: And, we're back! To the crack, that it is. After that last piece, I think we need it.
I admit, I cry just thinking about that particular scene of Fusco's in that arc (let's face it, that whole arc makes me unhappy).
So, let's get to today's adventure, shall we?
…
The room swirled around him as he woke up. He had no recollection of how he even got… wherever it was that he was. He only remembered sitting in his living room, getting ready for his favorite past-time: picking a book at random to read in one sitting.
But, there didn't seem to be any books in this room. He wasn't completely convinced - the room was still swirling around him, after all - but there really didn't seem to be anything in this room.
"Are you ready to have some fun, Harry?"
He groaned a little, recognizing the flirtatious voice echoing around the walls.
It was the infamous Root of All Evil, as the newspapers called her.
Not only was she a hacker, she was also a villainess. Some even considered her to be a world-class criminal mind.
She was a woman who not only stunned the police, but also the headlines. After all, nobody has ever caught her since she began her crime sprees almost six years ago. And, even though she gave warnings from time to time, she always managed to commit any crime she wanted.
Ironically, it usually happened in plain sight.
Fascinatingly enough, she seemed to be more of a Poison Ivy kind of character rather than a Catwoman. That is, in the sense that she was committing crime for the purpose of freeing machines and technology from evil corporations rather than for personal gain.
At least, that's what her following on the Internet said.
Harold didn't really mind that she had taken steps to illuminate the injustices committed via technology.
He just disagreed with some of her principles. And her methods.
But, the interesting thing is that Root had now started to add a different type of crime to her routine. For about the last month and a half, she had turned to kidnapping.
She frequently went after targets either in their 40s to early-50s, almost always male. And they tended to be intellectuals or, at least, appeared to appreciate intelligence. Furthermore, they usually specialized in technological field of any -
Oh. Oh dear.
The room stopped spinning, but it was too late: Harold finally figured out exactly what was going on.
And now he had to face reality.
"Have you abducted me?"
The speaker on the wall chuckled, and he cringed at the tinny quality.
"Much faster than dear, sweet Nathan was. And, cuter, too." Nathan Ingram, his boss's boss's boss, was reported to be the last kidnapped victim. Fortunately, the city's famed hero had come to rescue him in record time.
"Why would you be interested in me?" Harold calmly asked, determined not to give in to his growing alarm.
Granted, that was a little challenging to not give in when he was still unable to get off the floor. But, even had he managed to get off the floor, it would have made no difference: he would still be trapped in this empty, creepy room.
"Please, call me Root, Harry."
She obviously wasn't going to respond to any of his questions.
So, he tried a different tactic. "If this is like all of the other kidnappings, I will be rescued in no time!" Though, I'm sure he has more important things to do. My life is not as important as protecting New York City, after all.
Laughter emanated once more from the speakers, and Harold froze as he heard the sound of a gas hissing into the room. But, he couldn't see where it was coming from - the car accident he had been in several years ago still caused him problems with mobility, much to his frustration. He could only lie uncomfortably on the ground, looking in front of him for this gas that could be coming from any direction.
"That's exactly what I'm counting on." What did that mean? "Go to sleep, Harry. It'll be time to have some fun soon enough." Her falsely innocuous tone drifted one last time through the room. And, before he knew it, the room was spinning around him once again.
…
"Sir? Are you alright?"
He felt himself being stirred again. Unfamiliar warmth surrounded him. A weak mumble tried to free itself from his throat, but only an unintelligible croak emerged.
"Are you alright?" The deep voice repeated. It definitely wasn't one he recognized, but it was surprisingly gentle.
And that voice was also... Comfortable.
Harold groaned, feeling himself being supported by strong arms. He unconsciously leaned into the protective embrace, still unsure of exactly what was going on. His couch didn't normally feel this nice, and there really wasn't any reason for a stranger to be in his house-
Oh. That's right….
Eyes blinked opened and caught sight of the one, the only, Superman in a Suit.
Harold tried to move, but felt more sluggish than he had in years. Furthermore, the Superman in a Suit - or, to keep it brief, Superman - didn't seem to approve of this.
"Sir, you need to stay still." Harold could only look up, unable to move his body at all. But he was still managing conveying confusion and frustration at this unusual predicament. "Really, it's okay. Don't try to move. She gave you a pretty strong knock-out gas, but she's gone now and there's nothing to worry about."
Well, that's a relief.
And a relief that Harold apparently conveyed in an obvious manner. For Superman let out a delectable laugh at and Harold was suddenly rather grateful for the fact that he's never really been able to blush.
Because, if he had been caught blushing, he'd probably unwittingly admit to being turned on by a laugh.
Well, he had to admit that the strong arms keeping him from the floor were also helping.
But that laugh was an exquisitely charming sound, probably the most entrancing sound he's heard in quite some time.
"I must say, you have rather impeccable timing, Mr. Superman." Superman paused, looking down at Harold.
"That's the first time anyone has ever called me Mister Superman." He said wryly, prompting a drowsy laugh.
…
Upon Harold being returned to his house, the duo realized there was one issue: the man was still too drugged to move.
Which meant he couldn't get himself through the door, let alone into his bed.
"I'm so sorry for this indecency-"
"Relax, sir. This is no trouble at all."
"Please, call me Harold." At the raised eyebrow, he managed to compose a sluggish yet witty response, "Somehow, Mr. Wren doesn't seem to be appropriate if you're going to help me into bed."
Superman laughed at this even as they both studiously avoided each other's gaze.
…
When Superman had shown up at his doorstep a few nights later, Harold had been surprised - and more than a little concerned.
"Is everything alright?"
"Root was spotted near this area earlier this evening. She doesn't have a habit of coming back to her kidnapped victims, but…" The concern was obvious, and Harold's lips twitched in the form of a smile even as the back of his mind grew in alarm.
"I understand, Mr. Superman." A faint smile emerged at the title, and for that Harold felt the agitation was quite worth it.
…
After the third week of checking in to make Root didn't kidnap him, Harold felt a mixture of consternation - for what this may imply - and trepid exhilaration - for the possibilities.
…
It had been the fifth week that prompted him.
"Well, I've checked the area for her and-"
"Would you like to get lunch with me at some point?" It was an incredibly bold move, especially for him. But the words intrepidly flew out before he realized what he was saying. "I would suggest dinner, but I wouldn't be interested in an automatic rain-check because of your... night job."
Superman paused, having already had his back to Harold by this point.
And the stutter in conversation grew to an awkward silence.
An awkward silence that begged for that previous question to be forgotten or, at the very least, dropped.
"Actually, just ignore that little request. I'm sure as New York City's primary asset and superhero-"
"Lunch would be great." Harold paused, head raising from the ground ever so slightly. His mouth had slightly opened at this and he found himself frozen, unable to respond.
"Glad to hear it." He paused again, having no idea what kind of food a crime fighter would be interested in. "... How about Italian?"
Harold felt the unexpected glow of hopefulness long before Superman turned around.
"Italian sounds great."
…
Fortunately, the first lunch had been gawky only in the beginning.
And that was only because they had bumped into one of Harold's coworkers right before they got to the place.
"Hi, Dave," Came the awkward response. John had been surprised to see his fr- to see Harold withdraw so quickly into himself.
Especially considering how self-assured the man seemed when asking John out to lunch only two nights ago.
"I hope you don't think you're allowed to be late to today's meeting because of your lunch date, Harold." Because it apparently couldn't be Dave without the incredibly patronizing response.
Harold just nodded. "Of course not. I'll be there."
"Good. I'd really hate to see you fall even further behind."
John's eye twitched.
But, the sight of Dave accidentally tripping into a door on the way to his own lunch made the interaction slightly worth it.
"John!" The reprimand was sharply whispered the moment it became socially acceptable.
"It's not my fault the guy lost his balance, Harold." Harold huffed at this, knowing perfectly well what really transpired.
After all, in order to get to their destination, John had to pass Dave in the process.
Clumsy, indeed.
…
"Damn." Came the unusually colorful remark.
Then again, this was an unusually dreary situation.
In a matter of a minute, the rain had moved past the drizzle phase and skipped over to the storming buckets part.
And, of course, today was the one day he'd forgotten to bring an umbrella to IFT with him.
He tilted his head forward, determined to focus on getting to his car. It was only three blocks away, and he could use the exercise - even if he didn't particularly care for the rain.
But he only got down half a block when the rain decided to stop.
Or rather, he only got down half a block when the rain bounced around him, instead of soddening his very being.
He lightly scoffed at this, feeling inordinately - but not unpleasantly - surprised.
"Don't you have a job?"
"I'm just doing what I'm paid to do: protect the citizens of New York City."
"Nobody pays you to do that."
"And how would you know that, Harold? Have you been spying on me?"
"Yes, I've built a secret surveillance system that spies on only you for every hour of every day." The deadpan rang out.
And soon cued the laughter.
…
"So, what's good here, Harold?"
They were sitting at the booth of a diner that John had never been to.
Nevertheless, it was clear Harold had been here several times: he didn't even have to glance at the menu.
No, Harold was quite content to continue their conversation about the use of surveillance systems instead of peruse the menus set before them.
However, upon being questioned about the menu, the man paused before allowing a soft smile to emerge.
"Try the eggs benedict, John. I've had them many times."
…
He had been late to lunch, far too late.
So late his companion had already cracked open a book. And was clearly past the first chapter.
"You like to read?" Disbelief.
How could someone else, after all, enjoy reading? Someone who, except for the night job of course, seem perfectly normal?
"Yeah," John looked up from the novel, translucent amusement dancing in his eyes. "It's not my go to for entertainment, but it gets the job done."
…
"So, does she really now have a partner in crime?"
"That is what the newspapers are saying."
"And, judging from that newly formed bruise, I'd say you're inclined to agree."
...
"You know, you have so much potential, Harold."
"Oh?"
By this point, they'd lost count of the number of meals they've shared.
And, still, Harold had no idea who John was. And, the best part?
He didn't care.
All he knew is that eight months after his kidnapping John had knocked on Harold's door with no suit in sight. All he knew is that eight months ago, Harold had been entrusted with a breathtaking secret:
The man behind the suit.
"You've been at this IFT company for more than a decade now, but it's so clear that your coworkers don't really respect you."
"Dave is not the only one of his kind." Though, there were admittedly more Daves at IFT than other types.
"Yeah, well, whenever we talk about your work you're not really happy." Harold paused at this remark, knowing it to be true.
"So, what, do you think I should be switching jobs? Go to another tech company?" It had been a wryly asked with no serious response expected.
There had been no serious response expected.
Nonetheless, the thought of leaving IFT wasn't foreign to him, even if he didn't pay it much attention.
It's not that Harold didn't enjoy coding. Far from it: coding was most certainly one of his main joys in life, one of the reasons he felt a reason to keep trying.
But, it was hard to enjoy coding when your supervisors claimed your code to be theirs. When your ideas on making IFT more efficient were shot down. When you became an invalidated person because all people could see was your handicap.
So, while Harold had nothing against Ingram, he had... frustrations with the company culture.
To say the least.
"- purpose."
"My apologies, John. I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that." John nodded at this, undeterred in the slightest.
"I don't think you need to go to some other tech company or ask for a promotion. You're clearly more than competent," The technical conversations they'd been having for the last few months showed John as much, "It's not really about being or gaining new knowledge in your case." Harold was a little stunned that John gave this whole situation all of this energy.
But, as uncomfortable as Harold was with change - with the unpredictable, the unknown - he felt somewhat conversation with this conversation.
"So, what do I need, John?"
"You need a purpose. More specifically, you need a job." Harold tilted his head, asking for elaboration.
"It's not that you don't already have a job. It's that you don't seem to have a very fulfilling job. Or, at least, a job where the work you do really makes a difference." A tiny smile emerged at this statement.
"And, where do you think I could find that kind of employment?"
…
In the Fall of 2011, the Superman in a Suit's ability to fight crime skyrocketed.
No one is sure exactly how or why this improvement occurred, but the statistics - and the criminals - concur in this regard.
Some speculate he captured some sort of genie in a bottle that he's forced to help fight crime, proving that even heroes aren't always so noble.
Others believe that he managed to construct a surveillance system that would allow him to predict when a crime would be committed.
Root would merely laugh at these theories when she saw them, feeling rather tickled by the Internet's outlandish thoughts.
The best theory by far was that the Superman in a Suit was a government android secretly mind-controlling bad guys to surrender. Best in hilarity, that is, not actuality.
But, there'd be time to laugh at speculations later. Other matters were calling her attention right now.
"C'mon, Sameen! We better get going before John and his adorable Finch come to save the day!"
Her partner in crime merely gritted her teeth, refraining from growling at Root's unnecessary bubbliness.
"What did I tell you about ever calling me by my first name?" A pause, a switch in gears. "Isn't his partner named Wren?"
"True!" Root said, intent on ignoring Shaw's translucent threat. "But I've always seen him as more of a Finch than a Wren."
Shaw merely blinked at this, not really knowing the difference.
And, honestly?
She didn't care.
But, then she heard the sound of a very familiar, very annoying, superhero in the distance.
"Fine, whatever. You're buying dinner this time. And it's not gonna be cheap this time."
"Aww, Sameen, you say the sweetest things."
...
A/N: This one was actually inspired by a Reddit prompt I slightly modified:
Original Prompt - You're a super villain infamous for kidnapping attractive members of the opposite sex. While everyone thinks you're really evil, you're just being a wingman for your superhero rival.
This was such a blast to take their normal roles and slightly modify them. I hope you've enjoyed it!
Also, I would just like to thank you for tagging along with me in this collection. It's certainly by no means done - we've not even gotten to 50 ficlets let alone all 100 - but the unexpected favorites, comments, following, and overall appreciation has left me speechless on numerous occasions in the last few weeks.
So, thank you. And, truly, have a great day!