The nice thing about being an official hero was that your doctor, bound by confidentiality, could know your identity and never needed an explanation for your injuries. Burns in odd locations? Lacerations from a whip? Bullet wounds? They might not be fun, but you didn't have to worry about the police waiting for you once you were out of surgery, or even about uncomfortable jokes about your kinky sex life — although Nathan had found that very few doctors would kid him about such thing the way they might a straight guy.
"So another fire NEXT, huh?" the doctor had asked. "When's it going to be on the air? You're damn lucky this shoulder wound isn't worse. I guess your costume helped shield you."
He'd put off the questions about the episode, picked up his painkillers — thank God for them — and glared in the mirror at the gauze on his face. Could he get away with peeling it off? Probably not. Blisters would just look worse. He should avoid the training center for a while, he thought, make use of that state-of-the-art gym he'd put in last year. Maybe a slight redesign to his cowl could cover up the worst of the damage on the air, until it healed. The palm of his hand was a mass of blisters, his face little better, and from what he'd seen of his shoulder it was a horror show, though the doctor was hopeful no skin grafts would be needed. But both of those could be covered by his costume, on camera. Off camera, well, easier to avoid everyone.
And he and Lunatic had their rematch in a month. He was more worried about healing up by then than he was about anything else.
With medical leave, prescription-strength analgesics, and a momentarily empty house, Yuri had little to do but take stock of his equipment. The Lunatic costumes — all save the helmet, which he'd crafted himself — had been ordered from an overseas supplier that created hero suits for freelancers and second-stringers, and, no doubt, at least a few people who, like Yuri, could not strictly be described as heroes. The fabric was designed to disperse heat, specifically chose because Yuri feared mishaps with his powers. He'd lost enough shirts and jackets to them when he was younger, to say nothing of the most obvious damage. Apparently, it had in fact dispersed the heat, resulting in a large but less-serious burn. When he looked closely, he could even see the slight discoloration in the gray fabric, matching up with the singe marks of his undershirt and the burn on his abdomen, somewhat below the solar plexus.
Nathan Seymour seemed to be far more principled, far more invested in his beliefs in this matter, than Yuri would ever have suspected. He'd believed the proposed grudge match to be a shallow, passing whim, one that would be swiftly dropped when Seymour saw that he was no match for Lunatic. Instead, he seemed more, not less, impassioned this time than he had in their previous encounter, and that had paid off in mutual injury. Would there be a third rematch, he wondered, or would this put paid to the idea? If they did clash again, he would need to be prepared. Underestimating Seymour might not prove fatal — or if it did, the man was a genuine hypocrite — but it was certainly painful.
"Fire Emblem, what happened?" Blue Rose demanded, as soon as she got close enough she could expect him to hear.
He jumped off the treadmill, already regretting that he hadn't just stayed with his home gym a bit longer. The blisters on his face had subsided, but not vanished, and the glove on his hand — some sort of healing mesh the doctor had attempted to describe in detail — didn't look any less out of place because he'd found a match for it. And while he'd covered his shoulder injury with a tee-shirt, the difference from his usual workout garb was bound to be noticed.
"Turns out I'm only immune to my own fire!" he replied, cheerily. She looked honestly worried, though, so he added, "Long story involving candles and a very enthusiastic date, and it'd be irresponsible to tell you any more than that. You're too young."
"Like hell I am," she retorted. "Candles? Seriously? On your face?"
"Sweetie, I'm not the one playing a dominatrix. Shouldn't you know some of this?"
"If someone's dripping hot wax on you it shouldn't be right by your eyes," she said. "I hope you're not still seeing him."
"No, no, of course not. You think I'd stay with someone who'd risk this gorgeous face?" Inwardly, he let himself sigh in relief.
He tried a similar story when Antonio asked, and mercifully his friend's discomfort with any talk of sex in public was enough to nip that line of questioning in the bud well before it got as detailed as it had with Blue Rose. That meant he had to be cautious about when he changed in the locker room so Antonio couldn't see the bandages on his chest and shoulder. Or anyone, really; he hadn't had any significant public injuries that could account for it. But he did overhear Blue Rose answering something Origami had asked with a dark "You don't want to know," so he suspected he knew both what Origami's inaudible question had been and why none of the other heroes had asked.
Except Sky High. "Blue Rose tells me I don't want to know why you are injured, but she is incorrect! I want to know!"
He patted the King of Heroes's shoulder comfortingly. "It's just a chemical burn, dear. Hair dye gone wrong. Don't worry about it. I'll be fine."
Yuri appeared on the roof, as they'd agreed, at the next full moon. It hung low in the sky, red, seeming huge near the horizon. He knew how to silhouette himself against it, how to make his appearances, but his injury from their last fight had throbbed afresh with each gout of fire he used to propel himself to the meeting place, and the pain was not abating just because he was now standing still. He didn't see the point to theatrics under the circumstances. He kept his cape around himself as if it coud shield him from more than the autumn chill in the air.
Fire Emblem didn't seem to be in much better shape. He might mock Lunatic's showmanship, but he had his own array of poses and flourishes, many centering on his cape, and he wasn't using any of them. His cape wasn't even doing its hypnotic flame effect - he must have switched it off. "So tell me," Seymour asked. "If we heroes are such a detriment to justice, if we're creating crime and keeping the people complacent, why aren't you trying to eliminate us? Or maybe you've decided you should, and my shoulder's just the starting point."
"Some of you are just media lapdogs. Seeking fame, praise and fortune over justice. Others of you seek to uphold justice in your own way, however flawed your understanding, or how limited your capabilities."
"What do you know about Sky High?" the hero demanded, all the feminine inflections gone, and Yuri needed a moment to process the question. He'd been thinking of Wild Tiger.
"Only as much as I know of you, or any other hero."
"He patrols this city every night," Seymour said. "He has ever since he became a hero. He doesn't see how many people commit their crimes close to home, so he doesn't find anything, most nights. But he still tries."
"Then Wild Tiger was not alone among you heroes," Yuri said, rolling his shoulders in one of the gestures he'd consciously adopted as Lunatic. His burn protested instantly.
"No, and you know what makes Tiger a good man? When you set a building on fire, he's the first to run in to save the criminals you were trying to kill." Seymour shifted into a fighting stance, and Yuri set his own cape aflame, holding his crossbow upright.
"And you, Fire Emblem. If you consider burning such an inhumane punishment, how do you justify remaining active as a hero?"
A column of flame, so quick Yuri could barely get out of its way. Seymour was improving, just as he'd feared.
"I stop their cars, I melt their weapons, I shield against their bullets. Not everything is an attack!" Yuri fired, knowing Seymour would dodge it, just keeping the dance moving.
"And you never feel the urge to be more direct? To end a criminal whose loss no one would mourn?"
"Of course I do," the other man said. He made a flicking gesture with his hand, then another, and Yuri had to move, outrunning the small, spitting flames Seymour was firing at him. "There are always crimes that hit close to home. But I don't flatter myself that I deserve to decide who lives and who dies."
"You seem to consider it a privilege," Yuri said, finally deciding to materialize within feet of the hero, risking another injury for the chance to unnerve him. It seemed to work; Seymour reared back, though he held his ground. "To believe that I enjoy my task. That I seek this out for some benefit to myself."
"So you'd claim you're spreading agonizing death out of the goodness of your heart."
Seymour's sarcasm might have been entertaining, in some other context. "Why are you a hero? Do you seek admiration? Fame? Money? You have little need of any of these, Nathan Seymour."
Blazing hands shot out to grab him, clutching either side of his mask, and Yuri fought to pull away. "Where did you learn that name?" Seymour demanded, his voice as low and guttural as Yuri had ever heard it. He gave up his struggles and just stayed in Seymour's grip, his mask's staring eyes and bared teeth facing down the painted lips twisted into a snarl, the white screens shielding the man's eyes. "Answer me!" the hero shouted. Yuri felt the heat seeping through the mask, and fought down reflexive panic. He needed to be away, and so he was, standing at the edge of the roof, his crossbow primed, but Seymour was running for him. He aimed a bolt at the man's feet, but it went wide and grazed his leg. It barely slowed him. Yuri relocated again, to the giant cursive L he'd used for his first entrance.
"I will answer that in one month's time," Yuri said. "Be assured, Fire Emblem, I have no interest in your family or anyone else close to you."
He was gone before the other man could respond, jets of flame pushing him back toward his car, the adrenaline in his veins almost enough to distract him from his protesting injury.
Why had he done that? he asked himself, back in the room he thought of as his "lair" with all the irony he could muster. Watched over by his spare masks, examining the char marks on the one he'd been wearing, he had no answer. An impulse, one he should have ignored. He was letting this get to him; he'd wanted to shake Seymour up, to throw him off balance, the way he was being thrown off balance.
He'd been aware for nearly two years, now, of Wild Tiger's apparently genuine belief in justice. In a very specific definition of justice, one that spared no thought for the criminals beyond their apprehension. It had intrigued him, drawn him out for situations that he'd normally have considered none of his concern. He'd made a point of punishing the guilty, not defending the innocent, until Kotetsu T. Kaburagi was falsely accused. But he'd always believed the man was almost alone amongst today's heroes, a throwback to an earlier era before armor was designed with plenty of room for advertising. Nathan Seymour's determined attempts to fight him — to argue with him — had called that into question, even more than the content of his arguments or his stories about Sky High.