Disclaimer:I do not own Sky High, its setting, premise, or characters -or related characters named and unnamed. All is the property of Walt Disney Pictures, Buena Vista Pictures, Andrew Gunn, and Mark McCorkie.

Between Peace and Battle

Chapter Three: …And Then Things Took a Turn

It wasn't the fact that Battle recovered quickly and didn't need as much sleep as the average mundane or super that caused him to wake in the morning. It was the fact that it was hot as balls under the blanket! Gawd! It was like a furnace in his bed!

Throwing the covers off, Battle sat up and put his glasses on. He looked at the woman next to him. A petite little body, narrow shoulders and slender legs, but wide hips and a perky round ass. Mara Peace, the superhero known as Flamebird. He guessed fire users ran hot. Damn she was hot! In all ways.

He climbed out of bed and crossed the room to his dresser, pulling out a pair of black sweatpants. Battle didn't usually like to put on clothes until after he showered, but after last night he was feeling the inexplicable compulsion to make breakfast for her and he did not like to cook naked. He picked up his own cloths from the bedroom floor, throwing what needed to go in the laundry in the hamper and what was still clean enough to be reworn before the next washing into his closet. Her clothing he left on the floor. All except her panties, which Battle found himself picking up and stowing in his pants pocket.

It was much, much cooler in the open apartment than it was in the bedroom. Damn, fire wielders produced a lot of heat. Sleeping with one could be nice in the winter, but right now? Fuck! Battle slid the balcony door open to let in some fresh air and cool the place down even more. Mara's name should have been 'Furnace', or 'Radiator', or 'Inferno', not 'Flamebird'. It was too gentle and really downplayed the sheer amount of raw heat her body could produce.

In the kitchen, he pulled out frying pan and mixing bowls. Opening cupboards and pantries, Battle piled the counter with flour, buttermilk, eggs, sugar, baking soda, salt, butter, and vanilla extract. He hadn't used his mother's pancake recipe in years. But he found himself wanting to impress Mara when she woke up. He wanted her to still like him after she left today. He wanted her to come back and do that to him again.

Battle had a short stack ready by the time she finally wandered out of the bedroom. Ambling across the living room, completely naked with no regard for the open balcony door, completely bare for anyone at a high enough vantage point to see. Battle couldn't help but stare. She was even more stunning in the light of day! Warm olive skin, absent of any tan lines. Breasts small, but round and perky. Body piercings catching the morning sun. Red hair a tousled mess. If Battle didn't have a lit stove and a hot pan in front of him, he might have mauled her again.

"Mm, something smells good!"

He had to force his eyes away to flip the pancake he was frying before it could burn. "I made breakfast."

"Wow! A big dick and cooking skills! You're Mr. Perfect!" She pulled up a stool at his kitchen bar, Battle didn't have a dining table. "So, what's wrong with you then? Why hasn't some other woman snatched you up and tied you down with a ring?"

Sliding the most recent pancake on top of the existing stack he placed the plate in front of her, offering syrup, brown sugar, cinnamon, and butter as dressings. Battle smirked at her. "Apparently, I prefer being tied down with belts, not rings."

He expected a sassy smirk back and some kinda comment about how he moaned like a bitch –because Battle was very aware of the sounds he made last night. Instead, she looked almost apologetic.

"I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable." She said. "When you showed up to a monster fight dressed head to toe in black leather, I just assumed you were into it. But, last night, you seemed completely new to what I was doing."

"I…" Battle cast his brain around, trying to think of something to say. "I'm not used to women being so clear with what they want."

And that was what Battle liked most about it. That she was not only clear with what she wanted, but that she took it. She was assertive and bold. She didn't play at modesty, or act meek thinking it would play to his male vanity. She told him what she fucking wanted from him and that was what Battle liked!

Also, the surrender of it. It was actually kinda nice being able to give up the power to someone else. Have someone else dictate the pace so that you didn't have to worry if you were moving too fast, if they liked this or didn't like that, if you were making them uncomfortable and they were just being too meek or 'polite' to say anything. Battle didn't have to be in charge. It was someone else's responsibility. He could just lay back and enjoy.

"Giving up control was a little new, too." He added.

"Ya know, the submissive is actually the one who's in control." Mara drizzled syrup over her pancakes and took a bite. "All you have to do is say one word and everything stops. Nothing goes any further. You're the one who decides to keep things going or end everything." A pause. "Hey, do you have any hot sauce?"

"No." He informed her, mentally adding hot sauce it to his shopping list. If he wanted her to come back and fuck him again, he should at least stock the basic condiments she liked. "I told you to do your worst last night. You could have done much, much more before I reached my limit."

She gave another almost apologetic smile. "Like I said, you seemed new to the whole thing. I didn't want to scare you away. That, and I didn't bring any of my supplies with me. I thought you'd have your own."

He stared at her. Mind skipping right over the part where he should be insulted that she thought he scared so easily, and focusing instead on the last part of that statement. "Supplies?"

But Mara seemed not to be listening. She pushed her stool back from the bar and stood, taking her plate of pancakes with her. "Since you don't have anything spicy, I think this needs something savory."

"I can fry up some bacon." He offered like an innocent idiot.

Mara smirked at him, coming around the bar and into the kitchen. She set the plate down next to the stove. Her other hand hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulling them down. "That's not the kind of savory I was thinking of."

That was the only warning Battle got before she sank to her knees on the kitchen floor and took his cock in her mouth.

He hadn't showered yet. It was covered in sweat, and her own juices from the previous night. Dried now, and crusty. It couldn't have smelled good. It couldn't have tasted good. But Mara didn't pause, or gag, or change her mind and spit him out again. Instead, she sank his cock all the way into her throat. Taking him as deep as she could.

Battle gasped, one hand groping at the counter for balance as his knees went inexplicably weak. She really was a shameless, hedonistic little creature. He loved every bit of it!

Lips sucking to his base. Tongue slathering his shaft. Throat tight around the head. Battle's other hand fisted in her hair, pulling on it. Moving her mouth up and down on his cock. Fuck! She was good at this! He felt her swallow, the muscles in her throat contracting, tightening around him. Hgn… that was so good! He let out another loud moan.

Mara pulled back with a wet smack of lips and gasped for air.

But she only took a breath before she was sinking him back into her mouth again. Warm, and wet, and tight, and so very very hot around him. One hand cupping his balls, fingers massaging the sensitive skin just behind his sack. Battle groaned. The sensation almost too much for him. His knees felt weak and he hand to put more weight on the counter as she pushed him to his climax.

She pulled her mouth off him just before he came.

Grabbing her plate of pancakes, Mara angled his dick so that he shot his load on top of her breakfast. "That's the sauce I want."

It was all Battle could do just to stare at her.

She stood. Setting the plate back on the counter, and cut a piece of the cum covered pancakes. She slid it into her mouth slowly, meeting his eyes as she did so. Chewed and swallowed. Then licked her lips with a sigh of appreciation. "That's the savory I like."

'I'm in love.'Battle realized, watching her eat his cum as if it were a gourmet sauce. This should be impossible. She was a fucking hero for fuck's sake! She was the enemy! And yet, Battle did not want to go a single day without seeing her. Without that playful sultry smirk being aimed at him. Without that sassy, naughty mouth. That brazen attitude. Her utter and complete lack of shame. Fuck! Battle was in love!

He should tell her. He should tell her right now. Just say the words 'I'm in love with you.'

Instead, what came out was, "I'm a supervillain."

"What?" She stopped eating. A bite of cum-covered pancake half-way to her mouth. One thick white drop of spunk dripping onto the counter.

Fuck!

That wasn't what he meant to say.

"I mean-" How could he fix this? "I'm a super for hire and the majority of the jobs I take tend to be bad guy stuff." That wasn't an improvement.

Mara continued to stare at him. "You're a henchman?"

"No, no, no." Battle assured her. "I don't take orders from anyone. I'm my own man. I'm an independent contractor."

That meant he did not have the excuse of being controlled by bigger badder supervillain to absolve him of guilt. He was evil because he chose to be evil, not because it was his job to be evil.

Her fork clattered onto her plate as Mara pushed away from the counter. Backed away from him. One hand going to cover her breasts, the other cupping the smooth skin of her sex. She felt vulnerable, he realized. Naked and exposed in the lair of a supervillain. As far as she was concerned she was on Enemy Ground. Her wide, hazel eyes stared at him, unblinking. Accusing him. As she backed up.

Out of the kitchen. Back across the living room.

As she passed the couch, Mara reached out for her handbag that she'd left there the previous night. That absurdly huge purse that was probably bigger than her tiny dress was. Never taking her eyes off him, glaring across the room with suspicion and accusation, she fished a hand inside the bag blindly. Feeling around inside for something.

"Calm down, Sparky." He tried to sooth her. Tried and failed. Battle hadn't had to comfort a distraught woman since his mother passed away.

She pulled out a wad of orange fabric that turned out to be the bottoms of her hero costume. Battle figured this out when he watched her lift up her legs, floating in the air, to slip them on. Short-shorts that were too short to be called 'shorts', he sweet little ass hanging out of them. So, she was one of those supers that carried their costume around with them. He supposed that was smarter than Steve who insisted on wearing his super-suit under his clothes all the time.

"I- I told you my name!" She shouted. "I let you learn where I live! Where my mother lives! You've been to my home!"

The top of the costume came out next and she had to take her eyes off him briefly to pull the long-sleeved shirt over her head. Her body tensed when she couldn't see him, expecting an attack. When the shirt was on and there was nothing blocking her view again, she looked surprised Battle hadn't taken the opportunity to rush her.

"Mara-" He tried again, hoping maybe her name instead of the nickname would have an easier time getting through.

Hands balling into fists, she jerked her forearms and fire erupted over her. Bright, golden, hot flames. "If you attack my home, I swear, I'll roast you alive!"

Damn, threatening to kill him with fire should not turn him on as much as it did. But Battle tried to push the feeling away. Getting horny was not what he needed right now.

"I won't." He promised. "I'm not that kind of villain."

"Then what kind of villain are you?" She demanded, flames writhing over her shoulders, across her chest.

In answer to this, Battle grabbed for the TV remote and flipped the box on. He flicked through the channels until he found a news station that was –luckily- covering the story of his latest mission. The one he'd just come back from before the Commander's stupid giant alien fight ruined his day. His mission in Parazuela. Where he was contracted to kill the General that had set himself up as dictator there. The General and his immediate heir.

Battle imagined it was supposed to be a coup. That he was hired by someone else who wanted to take power. But there wasn't really any particular figure in the right position to seize power immediately. Battle didn't ask. It wasn't his job to ask questions. He just did the job he was paid for –and he was paid well.

Mara's eyes flicked to the TV and the news.

"…civil unrest in the streets, following the death of General Miguel Llanos-Castillo…" the reporter was saying.

"That's the kind of villain I am." Battle told her. "I take powerful people out of play and topple governments."

She continued to stare at the TV as the reporter launched into a brief explanation that the General and his closest Lieutenant were both found dead the same morning with their throats cut. Obviously foul play. But there were no suspects, and every faction was accusing every other faction. The tension was leading to rioting in the streets as the oppressed citizens of Parazuela rose up in protest.

"You- you killed them?" She said. "You're a murderer."

"I prefer the term 'assassin', but yes. 'Murderer' is also –technically- correct." Battle nodded. He might have been paid to do it, but by the laws of the land, it was an unlawful killing. That made it murder.

She was already dressed, but Mara's arms went to cover her breasts and the juncture between her thighs again. As if to shield herself. "I can't believe I slept with…"

"Mara, I-" He what? What could Battle say to change her opinion of him back to what it was before he blurted out his terrible secret. How could he take it back? Make things like they were a few minutes before when she was eating his cum like delicious syrup on pancakes.

"Why?" She demanded. "Why would you tell me this?"

"Because I-" Battle found himself stumbling over the words. It was stupid. Insane. He'd only known her for three days. Less than three days. Today had just started. It was, like, two days and some miscellaneous hours. In truth, he didn't know her at all. It was stupid for him to fall so hard. Battle just knew that he wanted her sassy attitude, naughty mind, and brazen boldness in his life. "-I… like you."

"The hell kind of reason is that!?" Mara flew across the room to where she'd left her shoes by the door. Snatching them up, her hand went to the handle.

Before he knew what he was doing, Battle had also crossed the room and slammed his body against the door to keep her from leaving. "Wait!"

Hazel eyes blazing, Mara glared at him. Hands still on fire, she lifted one arm and threw a ball of fight into his face. It burned his skin, catching his hair. Glass lenses and wire frames of his glasses melting in the blaze. With a yelp of pain, Battle patted himself down. Pounding on his head and hair to smother the flames. Mara used his distraction to escape. Abandoning the door as an exit, she flew out the open balcony instead. Flying out over the city and away from the supervillain's lair.

Running into the kitchen, Battle stuck his head under the sink and dowsed himself with water until the flames finally went out.

His glasses were good and destroyed. But he felt the wounds healing already. His skin itched where it was knitting itself back together, repairing damage. But he stomped to the bathroom to get a look at the damage in the mirror anyway.

Indeed, he had already started healing. Blackened skin peeling and falling off as fresh new pink tissue formed underneath, pushing it off. He watched the healing as if progressed. Muscles repairing themselves, skin forming over them. The only thing that didn't reappear instantly was his hair. Hair and nails never regenerated like tissues or wounds. Hair and nails grew like an average person's.

Battle glared at his face. Smooth, clear skin. Not a single scar, never any scars. Blemish free. Handsome. But without beard, eyebrows, or hair. His reflection glared back at him balder than the day he was born. Damn if she didn't know how to leave her mark on a man. Barron Battle would be thinking about Mara Peace for a long time to come.

…

Mara was in tears when she came home.

Through a side window, not the front door.

Her mother, Olive-Blanch, the hero known as 'Dove', looked up from where she was washing dishes. She couldn't say she was surprised. She knew that boy was trouble the moment her daughter flew up with him. Even if he wasn't a clear-cut villain, even if he was just some denomination of 'anti-hero', anyone who took such a casual attitude towards killing was trouble.

It was also impossible for her not to notice that Mara came home wearing her inappropriately revealing hero costume instead of the inappropriately revealing dress she originally left in.

"Are you injured?" Blanch asked.

"No." Mara sobbed, throwing her purse down on the couch before flying into her room and slamming the door.

Mara threw herself on her bed dramatically. Curling her arms around her face, she sobbed into her pillow like a fucking Disney princess who'd just been told she couldn't go to the ball and would never get her prince charming.

She didn't know what she was thinking when she decided to go out with him. She figured he wasn't a true-hero, sure. Dressed in all black, with a bit of an attitude, and okay with killing. But he made a point of how many people the monsters' deaths saved. Lives, businesses, homes, livelihoods, and families. Mara assumed he was an anti-hero. A super who made ethically questionable decisions, but –at their core- was a good person and did bad things that benefitted the Greater Good. Mara thought he was a good person.

That, and she liked his broad shoulders with their sculpted muscles. She thought he looked good dressed in all that black leather, and she thought he looked good wearing nothing but that towel too. …and she thought he looked good wearing nothing at all. All sculpted muscle and dark body hair. Masculine and beastly. His own leather belt tying him to the bed. Leashed. He was attractive. Everything about Barron Battle was attractive.

Up until he spontaneously –and without prompting- confessed to his own villainy.

Mara didn't even understand why!?

Why he confessed.

It wasn't a lengthy bad guy speech. He wasn't bragging about how clever he was, or how successful his recent murder was, or even how completely he managed to lure and seduce her! No. It was just 'I'm this thing, look what I did'. Almost like… almost like he couldn't keep it from her. Like he just needed her to know his deepest darkest secret for some reason.

Stupid.

It was stupid.

He was stupid. Evil and stupid!

Mara sobbed into her pillow. Barron Battle was evil and stupid! A supervillain! …and she still wanted to see him again.

…

Battle had no idea what to do with himself after Mara flew out of the condo.

He was uninjured, but left bald and hairless above the neck. With a kitchen full of uneaten pancakes, a mixing bowl of uncooked mix, and a counter littered with baking supplies. Whatever possessed him to try and impress her with his cooking. Cooking was messy and the clean-up took more time than the actual cooking itself.

Setting to work, he threw out the short stack covered in his own jizz. No one was going to eat that! At the time, it was sexy. Now it was cold, crusty, and smelled bad. The uncooked batter, he poured into a container and put in the refrigerator. Maybe he'd cook it for himself later. Then he packed up the flour, butter, eggs, buttermilk, sugar, salt. Everything he used. Battle resealed and packed away in his pantries and cupboards. He washed and dried every dish, and wiped down and sanitized every surface. When it was done, his kitchen looked show-room clean. Like nobody had ever cooked in it before.

Then he went back into the bedroom.

Battle was thinking all he had to do was strip the sheets and wash the bedding and that would be the end of it. Mara Peace would be cleaned from his home and he could forget about her and move on. (Never mind that he still saw her wide –betrayed- hazel eyes whenever he closed his own.) But the moment he entered his bedroom, the first thing his gaze landed on was that coral pink dress crumpled on his floor.

Kneeling down, Battle found himself lifting it up and pressing the fabric to his nose. Smelling her antiperspirant, or her body wash, maybe fragrance spray. Whatever scent had been on her body when she first put it on for their date the previous night. A fresh, clean scent. Like warm sunshine streaming in through an open window. Battle didn't know how long he sat on his floor, doing nothing more than snorting the scent of her dress. But he didn't stop until he heard the phone ring.

Standing, he threw the garment on his bed. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with it yet. Throw it away, or wash it and mail it back to her, but he would deal with it later. Battle exited his bedroom to answer the insistent phone. There were only, like, six or seven people who called him.

"Broker?" He took a guess, picking up the receiver.

Neither a hero or a villain, Avraham Wechsler, a super known asthe Broker, claimed to be a neutral party. Mundanes came to him with problems, and he put them in touch with supers that could help them. Supers with less impressive powers, and did not want to be Sidekicks came to him and he found jobs for them that fit their powers or talents. He brokereddeals. He put Battle in contact with almost every one of his clients.

"Are you sure 'psychic' isn't one of your powers, Pup." Came the old man's voice from the other end.

'Pup' had been the Broker's nick name for Battle for about as long as they'd known each other.

Since Battle was just seventeen. A dumb kid that had come down from the mountains, a community just outside Maxville city limits called Bedlam Unincorporated, and was living in a motel in South Side. Battle paid for his expenses with cash earned from selling his father's trophies and artifacts. Unfortunately for Battle –or maybe it was fortunately- the pawn shop he used was also owned by the Broker and it was brought to the old man's attention that some random kid was selling things that definitely belonged to the hero Paladin –whom had recently disappeared. The next time Battle tried to pawn some of his old man's crap, two supers on the Broker's payroll showed up and 'invited' him to the Broker's club to meet the boss.

Broker had been expecting them to bring him some small time thug that had just been lucky enough to stumble upon an evidence dump. Or maybe an irredeemable sociopath that couldn't be worked with and had to be put down. Instead, the Broker saw an emotionally distraught and sullen child, trying to work through difficult adult emotions. Broker put Battle up in an apartment with a roommate who worked for him to keep an eye on the kid, and arranged small, easy, jobs that fit his skills on the weekends. He did not let Battle drop out of school. Battle was the Broker's 'ward' for less than a year before he turned eighteen, but in those few months the old man was a better father to Battle than his own old man had ever been.

"Not psychic." Battle shook his head, knowing the other man couldn't see the action. "I just keep a tight social circle."

He regretted using the word 'tight'. Mara's body had been so tight. So small and compact. And the way she squeezed him… ngh… how had he managed to fit inside her at all last night! Battle was glad phones were not a visual medium. He felt his skin go hot and knew he was blushing.

"And I'm always meaning to change that." Broker informed him. "You remember my son, Fixer. Well, his wife's sister just started her residency as Maxville General. She's a doctor, Pup, and she's single. I could have Fixer set you up. Just say the word!"

"With a super power like mine, I'm fairly certain a doctor is the last kinda woman I wanna be dating." Battle informed him. There was a fine, fine line between 'playing doctor' and 'playing mad scientist'. But he didn't want to get pulled off into a tangent. He was fairly certain that Broker hadn't called just to stick his nose in Battle's dating life. "Why'd you really call, Ave?"

The older man cleared his throat. "So, I know you just got back from a job. But seeing as how you refuse to make friends and have a life, I thought I'd offer you another mission. An important client's got an interesting proposition and you're the best Talent I've got."

A new job was exactly what Battle needed right now. Something to take his mind off his disappointing morning and his own stupidity. Hopefully, this new job would take him out of the country and keep him away for a while. Something long, and difficult. Something that would push all other thoughts from his mind, and leave no room for thoughts of petite fire wielders and wide betrayed hazel eyes.

"Set up the meet." Battle nodded into the phone.

It was nice that he could move on with his life so quickly and put the debacle of Mara Peace behind him. Then again, recovering quickly was his super power.

…

Mara looked up Parazuela as soon as she was done crying.

It was one of those countries a person knows about because it was a question on a middle school geography test, but was never really taught anything about the country. Like most of South America, Parazuela was colonized by the Spanish and gained its independence in 1810, the same year as Colombia and Mexico. A tiny, land-locked country, sandwiched between Ecuador and Peru.

Since gaining its independence, the government had switched hands, and political philosophies, almost more times than the history books Mara found at her work could list. The most recent government, that of a fascist military state, was established in 1925 under the leadership of General Javier Llanos-Castillo. After his death, the seat of power was inherited by his second son Miguel Llanos-Castillo –the man Barron claimed to have murdered.

That was about all the history books had on the country.

The microfiche had a couple of stub articles from the back pages of old news papers. Political dissenters. Public executions. But nothing that left the country. Nothing that affected the rest of the world. Parazuela was not world news, and so there wasn't much news about it. In fact, not counting that one TV story Barron had just been lucky enough to find on at the time, there wasn't even much coverage of the assassination. Nobody even suspected outside involvement. Everyone was pointing fingers at every other group inside Parazuela, but nobody even turned an eye to foreign interests outside. The country was completely insulated, and news about it was completely insulated.

Mara kept an eye on the news for new updates about it. There weren't many. Nobody really seemed to care about the small land-locked country.

After a few days, she started to lose interest and decided it would be best if she just put Barron Battle out of her mind.

…

Battle had hoped another job would pushed Mara Peace out of his mind. But the job wasn't a hit. There was no blood or violence involved.

He sat in a –surprisingly comfortable- rolly chair in the research and development department of building owned by a computer and tech company. The company was actually Russian-owned, but the research building was in East Germany. (Hence, why his particular skill-set was required.)

Battle watched the status bar climb in percentages as he downloaded the desired files onto a series of floppy disks. When he heard he was going over the Wall, he thought the mission would be fun. Fast paced, and violent. But, so far, it was just one big snooze fest. It gave his mind time to wander.

He wondered about Mara, Flamebird, and what she was doing. What kind of bad guys she was getting all hot and bothered back in Maxville. Did she ever operate outside of Maxville? Or was she a local 'friendly neighborhood' type of hero. Battle had never heard of her before she swooped down and plucked him out of the air, so she must not be a big time hero. Then again, 22 years old, she would have only been out of school for four years. How famous could a super get in four years?

Steve got famous the day after graduation.

But that was because of his dad, not because Steve was actually a gifted hero. The Commander, son of the Admiral! The Stronghold Duo! Ugh. Just remembering watching Steve's debut on the news made Battle wanna puke. Steve had no idea how fucking lucky he really was. To have grown up with a father who loved him, who encouraged him, who wanted him to succeed. Battle couldn't even imagine his own father introducing him to the world after graduation, not even as a Sidekick, never mind an equal partner.

Mara's mother was Dove. A smalltime hero. She didn't have big or flashy powers like the Commander or the Admiral. Even if Dove did introduce her daughter in some kind of official superhero debut, nobody would have really cared. Dove's only big claim to fame was partnering up with Burnhawk, a member of the Society of Superheroes. Mara had Burnhawk's fire powers and she wore his symbol on her chest, so it was fairly obvious that Burnhawk and Dove were more than just partners in costume.

Let's see… Mara was twenty-two, that meant she had to be, what, like sixteen when Burnhawk died. That was only a year younger than Battle was when he killed his own father (although, sometimes Battle did wonder just how 'dead' the old bastard really was, after all, Battle got his own powers from the old man and death didn't stick on him).

The computer beeped that the current floppy disc was full and Battle took it out and slid in the next blank one. Christ this was a lot of data!

One of these days, one of those computer egg-heads was going to have to invent something to store a lot of data on that was more around the size of a thumb. A thumb drive. Or a memory stick. Something that could hold all the files Battle was stealing, but could also fit in his pocket. Battle was onto his fifth floppy disc now. There was no way he was going to fit a stack of five floppy discs in his pocket.

If Mara was only sixteen when her father died, then she would have still been in school. Burnhawk would not have been around by the time she turned eighteen, graduated, and was able to be a hero. So, clearly, he did not give her an official media debut. Then again, maybe Mara hadn't wanted an official debut.

Big media debuts for superheroes were all about ego. At least, Steve Stronghold's debut was all about ego. All flash and very little substance. Mara Peace did have her fair share of flash –by 'flash' Battle meant that round little ass of hers- she knew how to be eye-catching. But she also cared about the work. The hero work. She thought about ethics and morality, and the difficulty of making decisions that benefitted the greater good, even if the decision still required some unethical actions. She was not opposed to unorthodox approaches to heroism. But at her core, she was a good person and wanted to do good.

Battle was not a good person. At least, by his own assessments, he was not a good person. He certainly didn't care about doing good. The only person besides himself he ever cared about was his mother and after she passed away he didn't care about anything –not even himself- for a long time. He never wanted to be a hero like his father, and later just never wanted to be a hero. He took any job that paid well regardless of whether it served a 'greater purpose', or was just a series of evil deeds.

He assassinated world leaders. Stole missile codes. Planted evidence. Started wars. Barron Battle was a bad man. Mara was smart to fly out on him. He could only break her heart.

The computer beeped that the download was complete.

Battle had a stack of six floppy discs in total. Jesus Christ. Someone needed to get on inventing a smaller data storage device, and do it fast. The business of international espionage wouldn't last long if agents were trying to sneak about with plastic bricks like this in their pockets!

His contact was on the other side of the Wall in West Berlin. Battle was supposed to make the delivery to him, and recive his payment.

Was it wrong that Battle was low-key hoping for a double cross? This job had been so boring so far. He'd spent far too much time thinking about a certain fiery red-head than he wanted to, and didn't get to beat the shit out of anybody who deserved it. Was this what it meant when normal people described their jobs as 'another boring day at the office'? A boring night in East Berlin.

He did get to knock out guards when he crossed over the Wall –on both sides- so, that was nice. But Battle would hardly call that 'action'.

He met the contact at the agreed upon place.

"Gawd damn! You're a tall one!" Battle couldn't help but exclaim when he met the contact. Battle was six-two, he was by no means 'short'. In fact, he was considered 'above average' height. But if Battle was 'above average' then this guy was a fucking giant! "What do they call you, Big Guy?"

"Titan." Said the contact in an American accents. "You're Battle?" The giant's eyes swept him down, and down. Taking in the black on black leather costume, the steel studs, the buckles… and his utter and complete lack of hair on his face. "You look more like American Alien's old arch nemesis –Alexander."

A famously bald villain.

Battle ran a hand over his scalp. He could feel tiny little prickles of his hair growing back. Give it another day or two and his hair would be visible again. But in the dark of their meeting place, Titan wouldn't see it. "Ran a fowl of a fire super."

Titan snorted. "You're lucky all he did was stop at your hair instead of burn your face off." Oh, if Titan only knew that Mara had burred his face off, he just healed miraculously fast. "Fire is the element of emotion. Their moods run hot. A buddy of mine ran a fowl of a fire user once, now half his arms gonna look like holiday ham for the rest of his life. Why do you think there's that saying 'don't play with fire'."

'If you play with fire, you're going to get burned,' was the actual saying.

"Anyway, you got my money?" Battle decided it was time to get back to business. This whole trip had been boring beyond words so far, and he was still sorta still hoping for a double cross so that he could at least get in a decent fight before he flew back to the states.

Titan held out an innocuous black briefcase. The thing looked like a matchbook in his massive hand. Opening it, the larger man showed Battle stacks of bundled $100 bills, all arranged in neat rows. Snapping the case shut again, Titan passed it to Battle. Battle passed him a manila envelope containing the six floppy discs. Titan opened the envelope and examined the discs, while Battle counted the bundles of cash. Everything was all there. It was American currency. Non-sequential numbers. Unmarked bills. This job had gone perfectly and without a hitch.

Battle was so disappointed!

"Pleasure doing business with you." He growled, taking his money and leaving.

"Your country thanks you for your service." Titan muttered at his retreating back.

"Eat my ass!" Battle shouted back.

…

Following the death of the General in Parazuela, civil war broke out in the country. At first nobody really cared. It was a small war, in a small country, with no major exports. News of the war was just a small stub article that Mara only caught because she was stocking the morning newspapers in the library's entrance way. The article itself was barley three paragraphs, but she reread it six times just to make sure she caught everything. She hadn't thought of Barron Battle in weeks. But suddenly, he was at the forefront of her mind.

She thought about Barron while at work, checking in books and reshelving them.

She thought about Barron while doing her hero thing. Putting out fires and saving people.

She thought about Barron while she was on dates with other men, and was startled to realize that she was comparing other men to him now. What they thought about her ethics questions. How they responded to her taking control in the bedroom. Dick size, of course. If they could cook. Mara never realized how few men in this super-overrun city couldn't cook for themselves. How the hell does a person live alone and not know how to feed themselves? What kind of grown-ups were these? Barron not only cooked, but his cooking was actually pretty good!

It wasn't fair. No supervillain had any business being so perfect. It just pissed Mara off!

Some time after the news story of the civil war broke, it did start to affect other countries. Fighting close to the borders of Ecuador and Peru became a danger to civilians and tourists. Suddenly, other countries had a reason to care about what happened in the tiny land locked country of Parazuela. The news began to cover it more diligently.

Mara ate up every printed article and scrutinized every televised news story. She didn't know why she was so fixated on this. She was sure Barron did other things –worse things?- both before and, by this point, after his murder in Parazuela. But this was the one she knew about. This was the one she could irrefutably connect to him.

As far as she was concerned, Barron Battle was responsible for whatever happened to that small country.

…

Back state-side, Battle swung by Divide to pay Broker his commission for fixing the job before he headed home.

Divide was a local bar and club in Downtown. It was only three blocks from the Spear where Battle lived. He could walk home. In addition to being a dance club and bar, Divide had one other claim to fame. It was a meeting place for the super community. It was owned and operated by the Broker, and was where the vast majority of the old man's deals took place.

There was a line outside the door. Being a hangout for supers, there was never a shortage of mundanes willing to climb over each other to get in and rub elbows with the heroes. Some might even harbor fantasies of bumping into the Commander. Their eyes meeting from across the crowded room just as the music changes to some slow romantic ballad. Battle rolled his eyes. Super-mundane relationships –overall- did tend to be more common than super-super relationships. But only because there were far more mundanes in the world than there were supers. That didn't mean that the Commander danced with every mundane that ever met his eyes.

(Besides, Battle was fairly certain Steve had never been inside Divide in his life.)

Battle recognized the bouncer. A neutral super on the Broker's payroll who went by the name Gate.

Gate recognized Battle too and gave him a nod to go in. Placing one hand on the bare brick wall next to the door, the bricks and insulation curled and folded away to create a second –temporary- entrance for him to pass through. That was Gate's power. He could make a hole wherever he needed. A power that could be utterly devastating to the human body if he ever decided to pick a side and be a villain. Gate closed the wall back up after Battle passed through, returning it to the exact same condition it was in before he opened it up. Clean and airtight. An amazing power that could save countless lives if Gate ever decided to pick a side and become a hero.

Inside Divide, Battle went straight for the stairs. Up to the lounge. Pass the lounge. Down a hallway. Past the second floor bathrooms. To a door at the end of the hall with a sign that read 'Staff Only' in large letters of a clear font even the bleariest of drunks should be able to read.

Ignoring the sign, Battle went right in.

Beyond the door was a small office. Cramped. With a wall of file cabinets taking up one wall. A large man-sized safe in on corner. A second man-sized safe right next to it. No windows. And the majority of the center of the room was taken up by a desk and two chairs.

Sitting at the desk was an old man. Pepper-gray hair curled in front of the ears, a hat covering the rest of it. For as long as Battle had known Avraham Wechsler –which, admittedly was only eight years- he did not have a single memory of seeing the old man without something covering his head. It was getting to the point now where Battle was starting to wonder if he even had a head under there.

Ave looked up from the open ledger and calculator he was bent over. He looked up and for half a second didn't recognize battle with all his hair and eyebrows gone. "Damn, Pup! What the hell happened to you!? Well, come in and shut the door! You're letting in all that noise you young people have the chutzpahcall 'music'."

Battle did. Shutting the door behind him, he sat in a chair in front of the Ave's desk.

The old man put away the accounts he was going over and stowed them in a desk drawer. Taking out in its place a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Pouring only a little bit for himself and Battle.

"Job was interesting I take it." Said the Broker, nodding to Battle's new look.

"I just came by to drop off your ten percent." Battle told him, ignoring the unasked question of why he had no hair. He picked up the offered glass of brandy and sipped it politely. Alcohol didn't affect Battle. He recovered too quickly to ever feel the affects everyone else seemed so fond of. As a result, he never had a reason to acquire the taste. But Ave had already poured it for him, and it was supposed to be very classy stuff. So, Battle made an effort to appreciate it. "Are there any other clients that might have some dirty business that needs doing?"

The Broker looked at him from over the rim of his own glass, raising one pepper-gray eyebrow. "You got debts I don't know about all of a sudden?" He asked. "Three jobs in one month is a lot –even for you."

"No, it's not." Battle lied. In all the time Broker had been finding clients for him, Battle rarely took more than once a month. The money was good enough that he didn't need more. If he took a second in the same month, it was because the money was too good, or he had a special interest in the job… or he was trying to distract from something uncomfortable and emotional by throwing himself into the distraction of work.

The Broker continued to study the younger man. He hadn't known Battle for very long. Not in the grand scheme of things. Less than a decade, really. But to spite that short time, Ave liked to think he knew Barron Battle rather well. The Broker was an empath –of a sort- that was his power. He could touch a person, or meet their eyes and see into them. Their wants and desires. Hopes and dreams. Anxieties and fears. Pasts and traumas. What made a person who they were. If they were tough and resilient. Or if they were meek and wilting. If they had the steel in their core of cores. Or if they were no more substantial than straw.

This was how the Broker matched supers with jobs that fit them. It was how Ave chose what clients to introduce Battle to. And it was how he knew that the angry and rude little teenager that was brought to him was neither a small-time thug or an irredeemable sociopath, but a lost and abused child that just needed someone to care about him and a gentle hand to guide him.

"Don't give me that look, Ave." Battle growled. He knew Broker wasn't using his power on him yet. It was very obvious when Avraham Wechsler used his power. It changed his eyes. Made them go all creepy. When the Broker was looking into you, you knew.

"Are you alright?" Asked the older man.

"I'm fine." Battle assured him.

The Broker leaned back in his chair. "Okay, we're gonna skip right over this dance where I point out that you're clearly not fine, and you continue to deny it, and I point out that you must have gotten injured pretty bad to be looking like American Alien's old nemesis, and so on. So, let's just cut to the end and you tell me what you're running from."

One of these days, Battle was going to either figure out how to lie to Ave, or else learn to just stop trying to lie to the Broker. Ave knew his power, and how it worked. Wounds healed almost instantly, but hair and finger nails took just as long as any normal person. Battle liked to keep his hair somewhat long –for a man- so for him to show up bald and hairless meant that he was injured in some dramatic way.

"It's not a big deal." Battle insisted. "I just- I invited a woman over to my place and got burned."

Literally.

Ave was silent for one… two… three beats, and Battle thought the old man was just gonna leave it at that. Accept the explanation as it was. It was –technically- the truth, after all. Then the Broker's hand lanced across the desk and grabbed Battle by the wrist, spilling brandy from the glass he held. The old man leaned far over the desk, staring into Battle's eyes. His own irises dilating so large there was almost no color left in them. Just one large, black pupil filling the space. Battle stared into that darkness and knew that the darkness had already started staring into him.

When the Broker finally let go, he flopped backwards into his own seat and laughed. Really laughed. Eyes pinched shut. Smiling to his eyebrows. Hugging his sides. Laughing. Hard.

Battle felt like he should be insulted, but he wasn't quite sure over what. What was so fucking funny?

"I never thought I'd see the day!" The old man snorted. "Who would have thought that angry little punk I took in would be in love!" He laughed so hard he needed to wet his throat before he could continue. Downing what was in his brandy glass in one swallow. "But she doesn't love you back, so now you wanna throw yourself back into your work hoping that will consume you instead."

Battle hated empaths. They got all of the facts, but none of the details.

Ave just continued to laugh.

"You got burned." Repeated the old man, eyes darting back up to note Battle's lack of hair. "Did you mean that literally? Is she a super? Some hot villainess that doesn't care for the word 'love'."

He laughed some more.

"She's a hero." Battle deadpanned.

He was not in the habit of discussing his personal affairs. But Ave was different. The Broker already knew his deepest, darkest personal secrets. The Broker was there just after Battle committed them. Ave picked up the pieces of that angry and distraught child, and put him back together as something that resembled Barron Battle. Battle wouldn't be the person he was today if not for the Broker's intervention. He could confide in Ave –if only a little.

The Broker stopped laughing.

"You. Took a hero. Home with you." He did not believe it. "Is she… harmed?"

"No." And there was venom in that single growled word. "I don't hurt women. I'm not my father."

Battle would never be his father. He would never be like that man in any way. He swore it the day his mother died. He swore it on her grave that hadn't even been prepared yet. He swore it over her still warm body as the medical examiner ruled it an 'accidental death'. Glaring silent rage, and impotent murder into his father's eyes as his old man explained to the police that she just 'tripped' from the top of the stairs. Battle swore that he would never be like him.

Slumping in his seat, Ave poured himself another glass of brandy –more brandy this time. He took a sip. Then another. "You hate heroes."

"I hated my father." Battle corrected him. "Heroes in general, I just… strongly dislike."

"Except for the one you're in love with." He took another sip of brandy. Then gave another laugh. This one, less humor, more dark irony.

"I kinda hate her a little bit too." Confessed the younger man. But it was said in a tone that was more 'affectionate joking'.

"And yet-" Ave refilled his brandy glass, "-I bet, if she walked into the Spear's lobby and asked to see you, you'd buzz her up right away."

Now it was Battle's turn to laugh. A short little clip of humor, followed by an affectionate smile as he spoke. "Naw. Knowing her, she's fly up to my balcony and kick her way in."

"Ah, more of an action girl, eh." The older man smiled. "I remember when I was younger, there was this spunky little thing that I was into. Could pass through walls. Nothing stopped her!" He grinned at some long ago and far away memory. Then he paused, Battle's words catching up to him. The old man sat up, blinking. "Wait, fire and flight? You're not talking about Burnhawk's girl are you? Flamebird? You're in love with Flamebird!"

"You know her?" Battle had known Ave for just short of a decade and he had never heard the old man mention her once. Neither had he seen her around the club ever. Battle definitely, definitely would have remembered that ass walking in or out.

The Broker shook his head. "Never met the girl. But I used to know her father. Chiam Cohen. We went to the same shul until he met that shiksa and got married. He took her name, ya know. Peace. I guess that makes sense. Chiam always was a pure-hero, even when we were kids. What hero wouldn't gnaw their own arm off for their legal name to be 'Peace'?"

Battle couldn't help the smirk that pulled at his lips. "Mara is lots of things, but 'pure' is not one of them."

…