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 Four: Getting Back on Track
Blood spattered over the walls when Battle cut the target's jugular vein. He used a nail file he found when he came in through the bathroom window. That was Battle's standard modus operandi. Find a weapon at the scene, wipe it clean afterwards. Leave it at the scene. Don't carry your own weapons. You can't take weapons on an airplane. You don't want to be caught with weapons at a border crossing. Don't keep weapons.
Locate the target. Assesse the scene. Find a suitable weapon –anything could be a weapon. Eliminate the target. Wipe and drop the weapon. Leave.
When Battle pulled the job in Parazuela he used the General's own letter opener. When he assassinated the legitimate son of Prince Kashnan of Ajarakh, he used a sewing pin left in a coat that was being mended. When he took out Lord Fitzwilliam of Walenshire he used a wire from the lord's own piano.
Anything could be a weapon if used right. The human body was relatively soft. It took less than a pound of pressure to break skin. Veins and arteries were not buried all that deep. A letter opener could cut a throat. A needle in an eye-socket could puncture the ophthalmicartery. Piano wire would not only strangle a target, but cut into their neck as well.
His latest target laying at his feet, blood draining out of him more slowly as each beat of the heart grew weaker and weaker, Battle wiped his fingerprints off the nail file and dropped it on the floor next to the body. Stepping over the corpse, he was careful not to step in any of the blood, lest he leave a trail of footprints. Battle left the scene, cool and calm as if he were just taking an evening stroll. Just another American tourist enjoying his night on the town.
…
Flamebird saw the smoke before the actual fire. A dark plume rising up from the slums of South Side. Emergency responses were always slow in South Side. Cops didn't like to respond to calls there, and when they did, kids and already hand-cuffed men got hospitalized. Paramedics didn't like to respond to calls because cops didn't always arrive in time to protect them. Fire fighters didn't like to respond to calls there because paramedics were slow to arrive with meaningful haste to help them. Flamebird was first on the scene of the fire.
A low income apartment building. Old construction. Wood frame. Dry wall. Stucco. A false brick façade in front. It was sandwiched between two other buildings. Equally old and from a similar wood construction. Already the fire was threatening to spread to the surrounding buildings. …and inside all of them Flamebird heard people shouting.
Parents calling for their children. Or for their spouses to find the children. Children crying for their parents. Other's unattached looking for pets before they ran out of the burning building.
Flying down, Mara landed on the roof, and felt the surface paneling bend under her weight. The fire had already eaten enough to weaken the supports. She glanced over the side of the building. On one side, it was pressed right up next to the building next to it. On the other side there was a narrow ally. Very narrow. Now wide enough for them to have put in a fire escape –even though they were mandated by the city. That meant that the only escape for the people inside would be the interior stairs. Or perhaps windows if they were on the first or second floors. At a height an average mundane could jump from and not be too injured.
Before Mara entered the building, she placed a hand on the roof access door. Sensing the burning on the other side. Reaching out to it with her power. Reading it. Gauging if she was going to just feed it more oxygen if she opened the door and made things worse, or if she could enter the building and start evacuating the people. Fire didn't hurt her. She was fire, fire made flesh. But if she made the fire stronger with thoughtless action, other people would get hurt –and hurt needlessly.
Below her, she heard a window shatter as someone threw something out of it. The room flooded with fresh air, pumping in oxygen, stoking the fires, and Flamebird felt the flames grow stronger. Well, fucking okay then! If they were gonna kill themselves trying to escape!
Wrenching the door open, Flamebird flew down the stairwell.
Fire was the element of emotion –of passion. It was energy. Destructive and hot. It could be smothered, but embers could still smolder under the surface, just waiting to spring back to life and sear the uncautious. It was better to give it an outlet.
Reaching out with her power, Flamebird grabbed hold of the existing fire in the stairwell. Taking control of it. Making it her own. She pulled the fire up and out. Twisting it around her body before throwing her arms up and sending it out through the open roof access door. A pillar of orange flame above the building. The rest of the building was still on fire, but the stairs were clear.
People were already running down. Carrying children or younger siblings in their arms. Beloved pets, or personal possessions of significant value. They might have glanced at Famebird as they passed, if only to note that there was a superhero in their building. But no one stopped to thank her. They had larger concerns.
She went from floor to floor, apartment to apartment. Checking to make sure everyone was out. Putting a hand to each door before she opened it. Feeling the mood of the flames in the rooms beyond to make sure not to cause a backdraft and make things worse.
Flamebird could hear fire engines outside now. They certainly took their dear sweet time! She scooped children up and flew them down to the rescue services. Then darted back inside to make sure everyone got out. No one was left behind.
The fire fighters finally got their hoses down and were dowsing the building and the two next to it that were just starting to catch. She helped in the only other way she could. Grabbing old of the hissing angry flames with her pyrokinisis, taking control of it, and pulling the fire off the building. Sending it up, into the air. Away from the building, the street, and the people. When the fire was gone, the apartment was just a blackened frame. The skeleton of a building. The two on either side, singed and blacked on their outer walls, but otherwise unharmed.
Floating down, Flamebird sat on the top of one of the fire trucks, one bare leg crossed over the other.
Paramedics pulled away, taking the burned and injured to the hospitals. But as far as Mara could tell, not a single living soul had been killed. A job well done. A good day for her.
Flamebird observed the fire fighters hold oxygen masks to people's face, and the police take statements. Someone from the Fire Marshal's office would eventually arrive to assess the cause. Mara watched all this happen, and all she could think of was what constituted a 'good day' for Barron Battle. What did he consider 'a job well done'? A murder accomplished with no blood and no witnesses? Monster.
Why was she still thinking about him.
"Hey!" Someone was shouting at her. Flamebird looked down to see one of the fire fighters flagging her down. "Cops want your statement too, Hero!"
"Flamebird." She corrected him. Sure, she wasn't as popular as the Commander. But that didn't mean she had to answer to just 'Hero'.
She gave her stamen to the police. They had a separate form for hero statements than average citizens. Heroes were not required to fill in a name, or give addresses, or contact information. For a signature, either their hero name, or just a doodle of their symbol was accepted. These statements were still considered legal documents so long as they were witnessed by two other people not from the same present as the police officer taking the statement. A fire fighter and one of the people Flamebird saved offered to witness the statement for her.
After that, the fire fighters wanted a picture with her.
They all posed in front of their truck, Flamebird in the middle. She stuck a pose. Turning to the side so that the camera could capture the curve of her backside, and she arched her back to make her butt stick out more. She'd never be a very memorable hero if people didn't have reason to notice her. Mara wasn't gifted with versatile powers like super-strength or super-sonic flight. But she was gifted with a pretty face, a petite body, and wide round hips that made her ass look big and her waist look small. She could work with that.
After the photo the fire marshal came up to Flamebird to inform her that she fire was most likely a simple accident, no arson or malicious intent. The smoke detector at the point of origin was out of batteries. Every so often, they made public service TV spots about the importance of fire safety. The were no longer than commercials, and usually ran on prime time when most people were home. As a fire wielder, would she be willing to appear on their next PSA? As a hero –and his eyes swept her figure when he said 'hero', it was not the actual reason he was thinking- would she be willing to appear on the spot.
Preventative measures weren't as exciting or glamorous as diving into the thick of things, but they did help a greater number of people in the long run. So, Flamebird agreed. She could work with the Fire Marshal's office to film a couple of PSA TV spots.
…
Battle walked into the lobby of the Spear, pulling his carry-on behind him, a briefcase full of money in his other hand.
It was a spacious lobby. With tall cathedral windows going all the way up to the ceiling. They allowed the light to pour in, flooding the space with natural light and making the room feel open. There was a receptionist desk to one side where guests could ask to be buzzed up, a security booth on the opposite wall where guards waited incase residents required their guests to be removed, and a comfortable little lounge area in the middle. Furnished with modern chairs, upholstered in vinyl of a seafoam green, pink, and yellow pattern.
Battle usually ignored all this as he passed through the lobby on his way to the elevators.
But this time he paused. Someone's guest was waiting in one of those absurd seafoam green and pink chairs, reading a news paper. Battle didn't care about the person, it was the paper he was looking at. The headline declaring 'Local Fire Men Helped by Girl-Hero'. Battle suppressed the urge to scoff. He was one-hundred percent sure that the fire fighters did little more than stand and watch. That wasn't what made him pause. It was the photo that went along with the headline he was staring at.
Flamebird.
Mara Peace.
She was posing with about ten other guys, all in fire fighter bunk gear. Flamebird in front, her body turned to the side sticking her ass out so that the camera caught just how pert, and round, and perfectly shaped it really was.
Without even making the conscious decision to, Battle marched up to the lounge and snatched the page out of the newspaper.
"Hey!" Shouted the person reading it.
But Battle was already marching away again, the elevator doors closing behind him.
As the elevator car climbed the floors, Battle skimmed the article. Apparently, it was a fire in a tenement building in South Side. Local fire fighters were slow to respond –what a surprise- and Flamebird was first on the scene. She redirected the fire and kept it controlled –kept it from spreading- and helped the residents evacuate with minimal injuries and no casualties. Reading the article, Battle couldn't quite figure out why the editor had titled it 'girl-hero helped fire men', it should have been 'city's fire men sat on their asses and did nothing while lone woman saves entire building'. But whatever. Not his problem.
The elevator dinged, opening up on Battle's floor.
A short walk and a turn of a key and he was back home.
Dragging his carry-on into the bedroom, he threw the suitcase on the bed to unpack later. Instead, opening up his briefcase of payment for his most recent job and began dividing it up. Some would go in the locker in the back of his closet, some would go in the wall safe in the living room, some would go into a safety deposit box in Maxville Mutual, a small –very small- portion of the cash would go into a perfectly legitimate bank account to be claimed on his taxes. (No supervillain wanted to be the one that was taken down by the IRS!)
Money squared away, Battle went back out into the living room and flopped down on the couch. He kicked off his shoes and picked up the newspaper page with Flamebird's picture.
Smiling at the camera. Lips painted a provocative shade of red. The upper half of her face was covered by her mask, but Battle imagined those hazel eyes twinkling impishly. She knew how hot she was, and what striking a pose like that would do to a man. Back arched in a nice curve. Leading down to the swell of her supple, pert, perky, tight, round ass. Olive cheeks hanging out of the fabric of her costume. On display for everyone to see.
The image she projected was that of an attractive hero. Hot and sexy. But the picture didn't do her justice.
A picture couldn't show how intelligent she was. How she thought about things. Debated with herself about ethics and morality, what made a decision moral if not ethical. The difference between ethics and morality. How the results of an action affected the morality of that action. How the motivations of an action affected the ethics of the action. A photo could not ask you questions and debate the nature of good and evil.
That was probably the thing Battle missed most about her.
Not her pert round ass –that he still wanted to fuck- not that sultry little mouth with its teasing smirk, and not that bald tight pussy that squeezed him like it was sucking him in. No.
What Battle enjoyed most about their date, what he missed most about Mara Peace, was her conversation. He wanted her to ask him more questions about philosophy. About what made a hero a hero. About the long-term consequences of heroic deeds. Property damage, social discriminations, higher taxes. These were things they didn't teach about at Sky High. These were things most heroes didn't think about. But Flamebird thought about them. Mara Peace thought about them. She thought about how heroes caused damage. How heroes did harm.
That was something Battle was familiar with. He knew how heroes could do harm. He wanted to tell her he understood. He knew what she was talking about. Heroes broke things. Battle didn't think… he didn't think he could actually tell her about it. He preferred not to talk about Paladin. But he at least wanted her to know that he understood.
Battle wished he could see her again.
It had been a little over a month since she threw a fire ball in his face and flew off his balcony. His hair was growing back nicely. Eyebrows were back to normal. Hair still short. Dark curls covering his scalp, but not anything so thick and long that a person could run their fingers through it. Battle liked it when Mara had pulled his hair.
She was so assertive and demanding. She knew what she wanted. He met so few women who knew what they wanted –or, he met so few women who felt comfortable enough asserting what they wanted. Mara was unique. Singular.
And she didn't put up with any bullshit from him either. The moment he did something she didn't like, she protected herself. The moment he confessed to being a supervillain and that she was naked and vulnerable in his 'lair', she found her costume and put some clothes on. She tried to leave immediately. When he blocked her first choice of exit (an action he was disgusted to admit was something his father would have done), she defended herself, shooting fire in his face and burning his skin off. Mara did not allow herself to he held prisoner. Mara did not allow herself to be manipulated. Mara did not allow him to have any power over her.
She was kinda what he wished his mother could have been in that respect. Maybe if his mother hadn't put up with all his father's abuses she'd still be alive right now and Battle would be a very different person.
Battle liked that Mara did not put up with him. The moment he did something she didn't like… the moment she felt threatened, she left. Defended herself, and left.
That was her most attractive quality.
Even better than that perky round ass of hers.
…
Mara still followed the civil war in Parazuela.
The news was actually covering it for real now. Not just when the fighting spilled over the borders into neighboring countries. It wasn't just angry citizen rioting in the streets. It was an actual revolution. The people were fighting to take control of their country.
Did Barron know when he murdered the General that he was starting a revolution? Did he know when he took the commission in the first place that he would be starting a revolution?
Hesaid he was a supervillain.
By all base and surface assessments, that was true. He killed people. He took human life. He murdered leaders and started wars. Those deeds were evil. The actions of a villain.
But, those actions were also the spark that started a revolution. The opening that gave the people the opportunity to take back the homes and country that should have always been thiers. Those were the outcomes of a hero.
Barronsaid he was a supervillain. But what if he wasn't. What if he was actually an anti-hero instead?
Mara thought he might be an anti-hero the day she met him. When he killed a monster, but saved the city. Evil deed, good result. The action of an anti-hero. Barron called himself a villain, but what a person calls themselves and what they actually are might not always be the same thing.
…
There was another line outside Divide when Battle walked up. There was always a line in front of Divide. Everyone wanted to dance with a super. But out of costume there was no way to know if the super you were gyrating up against was a hero or a villain. The line usually blocked the main entrance. That was why Gate opened up a door in the wall for regulars like Battle to enter without having to squeeze by the line.
It was Friday night. Ugh. Why did he come here on a Friday?
The club was packed, the dance floor was full, the bar was crowded, and –glancing up to the second floor landing- the best table in the lounge was already taken. Battle leaned against the bar wondering if he really wanted another mission bad enough to weave his way through the crow to get up to Ave's office, or if he should just go home. Wait out the weekend until Monday. Divide was –comparatively- dead on Mondays. It wasn't like he was hurting for cash. Battle just needed something to do.
"Oh, hey! Never thought I'd see you just hanging out!"
Battle turned from where he was assessing the crowd to the bartender. "Fixer! He's got you working the bar?"
"My eldest's bat mitzvah is coming up." The other man said by way of explanation. "Abba says he'll help with expenses, but I have to pay for the majority of it myself. So, if I need a little extra cash, the club could always use an extra bartender Fridays and Saturdays. So here I am!" Fixer grabbed a glass jar that had the word 'Tips' painted across it in juvenile puffy paint. Almost as if Fixer had gotten one of his kids to do it for him –which he probably had. "I'm skipping shabbat for this, so pony up!"
"You haven't even served me a drink yet." Battle pointed out.
"Yeah, but you don't drink." Fixer seemed unimpressed. "Or was all that bragging that alcohol doesn't affect you just hot air."
Battle shook his head. "I recover too fast to feel it."
His power cleansed his body to toxins, and alcohol was –technically- a poison. Coke and heroine didn't do anything for him either. Neither did caffeine for that matter. Or Tylenol. Or Benadryl. Barron Battle was lucky he never got headaches, allergies, or colds. Drugs never worked for him because of his stupid power. He had to find other ways to have fun. Sex and violence were his standard go-tos.
But he hadn't had sex since getting burned by Mara Peace, and violence was starting to feel dull, repetitive, and empty. At least, his last few jobs were disappointingly easy. Bloody, yes. But not exciting.
Fixer pulled a bottle out from under the bar and filled a glass half-way with some amber liquid. He pushed it to Battle. "Here. Apple juice."
Taking it slowly, almost suspiciously, Battle raised the cup to his lips. As the other man said, it was apple juice. He took a second, larger, sip.
Fixer drifted away. Sliding along the length of the bar, collecting empty glasses, refilling drinks, adding tallies to tabs. Battle made sure the other man wasn't looking when he wadded up a $100 bill and dropped it in the tip jar, patting it down so that it was buried and hidden under all the one dollar bills. It was funny, if it was Fixer's youngest kid he needed to pay for, there wasn't a doubt in Battle's mind that Ave would pay all costs in full. Little Rivkah was only three, but already her grandfather's favorite –and while it was too soon to tell for sure, Ave and Fixer were both pretty sure she'd get the Broker's full power. Not just the fraction of it that Fixer got.
Finishing his apple juice, Battle pushed off the bar and braved the crowd, making his way to the stairs.
He didn't make it there, though.
Out of the corner of his eyes he caught a glimpse of red hair and bare shoulders. Battle suddenly found himself cutting through the crowd towards her. Red hair. Bare shoulders. Jumping and swaying on the dance floor. He couldn't see her face. She would turn her head and her hair would be in the way. Some gyrating idiot would get in the way blocking his view.
Finally, Battle made it to the center of the dance floor. His body almost colliding with hers.
"Oh! Excuse me." She apologized when he almost barreled into her.
She wasn't Mara Peace.
The red hair wasn't the same shade of red, and it was longer. The bare skin of her shoulders was paler, more porcelain than olive, and dotted all over with freckles. She was taller than Mara. Still slender, but her hips weren't as wide, her ass flatter and less impressive.
"Enjoy your night." Battle exited the dance floor just as quickly as he'd charged onto it.
He glanced back to the stairs that led up to the second floor. But, no, he wasn't in the mood for a job anymore. Besides, he forgot. Broker didn't work Friday nights or Saturdays. Ave wouldn't be around to give him a new mission anyway.
For half a second Battle thought Mara had come to Divide. That she had come to his territory. Was having a good time and enjoying herself just three blocks down from where he lived. Now all he wanted to do was see her again. Even if it was just to get shot in the face with more fire.
He wanted to see her.
…And when he got home, he did.
Turning on the TV, Battle flipped through the channels, not really paying attention to what he was actually seeing. Until Flamebird's tight round ass flashed across the screen. He clicked back to the channel as quickly as he could.
It looked like the second half of a commercial. No. Not a commercial. One of those cheesy public service announcements. This one about fire safety. Don't leave lit candles unattended. Always put out your cigarettes. Don't over-stuff electrical outlets. Keep flammables like blankets or posters away from heaters and vents. Don't douse grease fires with water, smother them instead. And always make sure your home had a smoke detector in every room. Make sure they had new batteries, and they worked.
Through the whole thing, there was Mara Peace, dressed in her Flamebird costume. Lighting her arms on fire. Posing for the camera. Making sure they captured every curve of that delicious figure of hers.
The whole thing was only two minutes long. But it was the best two minutes of TV Battle had seen all year.
He just wished they showed how intelligent she was, instead of just using her as some hot piece of eye-candy to keep people watching while the rest of the commercial got its message across.
Mara Peace was more than just eye-candy.
He needed a new mission. It was months since Battle had seen Mara by this point and he was still thinking about her. He needed to get back out of the city again.
…
The war in Parazuela lasted only a few short months before the remnants of the late General's regime were overcome by the rebels. They were more preoccupied fighting amongst themselves, each trying to fill the void left by the General's death and seize power. All the in-fighting weakened control of their own military, many of their own soldiers abandoning the unstable government in favor of taking back the country along side the rebel faction.
It was three months after Battle confessed he was a supervillain to Mara, and Parazuela was back in the hands of its own people for the first time since the country gained its independence from Spain back in 1810.
It took the country another three months for the rebel leaders to get themselves in order and actually organize open elections. When that news broke, Mara found herself flying to the Spear to speak to Barron Battle. Did he know his murder would allow an oppressed people to take back their country? Was that the endgame all along? Was that his plan? Was he really a good person that just didn't understand the intricacies between supervillain and anti-hero because they didn't teach such things at Sky High?
The balcony door was closed when she flew up.
Mara tapped on the glass. But there was no answer.
She flew to the side, peering in the windows. The bed was made and looked like it hadn't been slept in. On the other side, the kitchen looked clean as if no one ever cooked in it. Everything was so spotless –sterile- not even artwork on the walls or family photos on the surfaces. She never noticed that when he brought her home with him on their date. There wasn't anything personal in Barron Battle's condo. More like a place where a person slept, but didn't really live.
In any event, he clearly wasn't home.
Mara flew away. She would try again later. He said that he toppled governments. That meant his villain or anti-hero work took him out of town a lot. He was probably out on another job. That implied he was killing another person. But then, if said person was another despot, was that really so evil? Mara would ask him about it if she ever caught him at home and he was willing to speak to her.
…
Battle was selected for a random bag check at the airport.
This was one of the reasons he never carried his own weapons.
He yawned, feigning boredom as airport security unzipped his carry-on. They shifted through neatly folded shits and slacks, ruining his near immaculate packing job, and paused when they pulled out his costume. Black leather. Metal studs. Buckles and straps. The poor security guard had no idea what he was looking at. He glanced up at Battle questioningly.
"What?" Battle met his eyes. "You've never been tied up and fucked by your woman?"
Suddenly flustered and embarrassed, the security guard shoved the costume back into Battle's suitcase and moved him through the security line.
He never even would have thought about making that excuse before he met Mara Peace and got tied down and fucked by her.
From the airport he took a cab to Divide to drop off the Broker's ten percent. From Divide he walked home.
Battle always recovered from things so quickly. He almost never felt fatigue or exhaustion. But for some reason Battle had been so tired lately. Like all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and take a 100-year long nap. He hadn't felt sleepy like this –tired all the time- since his mother died.
Up in his condo, he didn't even bother to wheel his carry-on to the bedroom, or unpack and divide up his cash. Battle just dropped everything inside the door, flopped down on his couch, kicked off his shoes, and flipped on the TV. He was hoping that dumb PSA about fire safety would be on so that he could at least see Mara again.
Battle didn't know how long he sat there, flipping through channels. Cycling through everything there was, then flipping back the other direction.
Something tapped on his balcony door.
Probably a pigeon. Damn flying rats. Always shitting on his balcony railing. One of these days, Battle was going to take a bow and a quiver of arrows and shoot every fucking pigeon he could see.
The tapping continued.
Irritated, Battle sat up. Turning his head to peer behind him at the balcony door.
It was a Bird tapping on the glass, but not a pigeon. Flamebird hovered over his balcony.
Before he was even aware that he was moving, Battle was up off the couch and across the room. He slid the door open quickly with a decisively loud BANG. He couldn't help the smile on his face when he all but shouted, "You came back!"
She backed up the moment the door was open. Hovering just off the balcony. Out of arms' reach. Where he couldn't touch her. She came back, but she was still being cautious. She didn't trust him. She was smart.
"Have you been following the news?" She asked.
"I…" He leaned against his balcony railing, gazing at her red hair drifting in the breeze. Somehow, she managed to be more beautiful than he remembered. "I travel a lot. Don't really have time to watch the news."
"Papers." Flamebird reminded him. "You can read a newspaper on an airplane."
"I… I don't." He confessed. Battle didn't keep up with the news. Battle didn't care enough. The only news story he paid any attention to recently was the one about her, where she saved an entire building of people. "I saw you made the papers a while back."
"Local story." She scoffed, almost dismissively. As if her own achievements weren't relevant at the moment. Maybe they weren't relevant because that's not what she was asking about. Or maybe she dismissed them because she was a hero and helping people came naturally to her and wasn't done out of any desire for validation or glory. "I mean international news. Do you keep up with what goes on in the countries you do your jobs in after you leave? Have you been keeping up with Parazuela?"
"Parazuela…?" Battle squinted at her, trying to remember what that job was. He'd taken so many in the past six months. After a while, they all kinda blended together. "Oh! The General and his lieutenant."
Mara nodded. "Free and open elections were held in in Parazuela for the first time in living memory." She informed him. Reaching into the waistband of her costume, she pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to him.
It was warm to the touch when Battle took it. Unfolding the paper, he realized it was a newspaper clipping. An article detailing the elections, giving a little bit of history of the country so that readers could understand what a momentous occasion it was, and finishing the article by pointing out that the election marked the end of a civil war and revolution that was brought on by the death of the late General.
"That wouldn't have been able to happen if you hadn't killed their dictator." Mara informed him.
"So, what are you saying?" Battle asked, not fully understanding her motivation in coming here.
She put a hand on her hip, pursing those red lips, thinking of how to phrase her answer. "What you did was immoral." She informed him. "Killing is wrong, no matter how you choose to rationalize it."
Battle was sensing a 'but' and as much as he hated to take wisdom from his father, Paladin often used to tell him that anything said before a 'but' didn't matter.
"However," she continued –that was the same as a 'but', "the results that came from that action were good. The people there have a chance for a better future and better lives. That is objectively good. So…" she paused again for thought. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that 'moral' and 'good' are not the same thing and can be mutually exclusive."
"I… see…" That still did not explain what she was doing here. Hovering outside his balcony. Close enough to talk, but still keeping far enough away for him to touch. Not that Battle was begrudging this sudden appearance. He had just been reflecting that he wanted to see her again. See her. Talk with her. She was talking. That was exactly what Battle wanted. He wasn't going to begrudge the spontaneity of it, or risk saying anything that might chase her away again.
"You say you're a supervillain, and so I'll take you at your word and agree that's true." Mara continued. "You kill people and that is something heroes just don't do. So, obviously, you're not a hero. But, you didn't have to tell me you were a supervillain. I had no idea and wasn't about to figure it out. You didn't have to confess what kind of villain you are. I've never heard of you before and had no idea what you do. You were honest, and upfront. And you didn't have to be. So… you might be a supervillain, but you're not actually a bad person."
He snorted at that.
In Battle's own opinion, he was a very bad man.
She just smiled at him. "The fact that you see yourself as a bad person also speaks to your character."
Was she trying to say she liked him to spite him being a supervillain? "What are you doing here, Sparky?"
The question hung in the air between them. The wind rustled her hair, and tangled his curls. For half a moment, Battle thought she wasn't going to answer. Just realize her mistake in coming to see him and fly away. Why did she care so much to build him into 'not a bad guy once you got you know him' in her mind?
Then, Mara drew in a breath. "I was wondering if you'd be willing to go on a second date with me."
Battle's heart skipped a beat.
He stared at her, not believe the words she'd just said. "But I'm a supervillain!"
"We'd lay down some ground rules, of course." She was quick to insist. "Like in bondage play. We both agree on terms to make each of us feel comfortable with what we're doing. For example, I'd appreciate continued honesty from you."
"No secrets." He agreed. In that moment, Battle knew, he would tell her anything she wanted to know. Even if… even if she asked about his father. Battle would tell her about his father. "I guess… I guess I should request you not try and get in the way of my work."
"That means you'd have to tell me about your jobs." Mara pointed out. "So that I know to stay away."
"No secrets." Battle repeated.
"You'd be willing to do that?" She asked, voice a little skeptical. "Confess all your crimes to a hero? Even ones you haven't committed yet."
"I already confessed to political assassination six months ago and you didn't turn me in." He pointed out. "I'd say that's fairly compelling evidence that I can trust you. What evidence do you have that you can trust me?"
"You confessed to being a villain after our first date." Mara reminded him.
"After." He agreed. "After our date. After we slept together. After I had you in my home. After you ate my cooking."
"There was nothing malicious about it." A pause. "Was there?"
Before answering, Battle took a moment to examine himself and his own motivations. To make sure all assessments were accurate and correct. "You made an impression on me." He finally confessed. "I liked you to spite being a hero. I didn't want to lie to you. I wanted you to like me, but you couldn't like me if you didn't know me."
"So, it's settled then. We'll have a second date." Mara nodded. "This time completely honest. No pretenses. No deceptions."
"Okay." Battle nodded. That sounded wonderful!
Mara smiled. "Don't pick me up at home. We'll meet. Somewhere public. During the day."
"That sounds fair." He nodded, smiling. He was smiling like a fool. Battle could feel it on his face. Lips pulled wise, displaying his teeth. He was happy. Happy this intelligent and attractive woman was still interested in him.
"The park." Mara decided for them. "Saturday. For brunch. We'll split the check. Maybe walk about and talk. I will not be going home with you. You will not be coming home with me. We will not have sex."
Battle was so disappointed. "That sounds fair."
"See you then." She flew away.
…