Chapter Text
Deep in the underground, the city wastes running through the center of the hidden basement, the team of six heroes left on a mission, leaving one person down below.
Pixl preferred when the other heroes left the secret basement of their magnificent tower. It felt like houseguests who had stayed too long were finally gone, except they always came back with new requests. Everyone liked to pretend he didn't exist, and though he missed the battles for the true good, having all of his fame crushed by his teammates felt better than having it had. He never had enjoyed being the star of anything, he'd much rather be doing the more important things. He had to keep reminding himself that his job was important now, just to keep his spirits up in the sewer-like basement.
Important was becoming a bit of a laughable term to Pixl. His perfect memory and ability to read the history of anything through touch meant his only purpose on the team was to get them information on subjects and events faster, a job those who backed the heroes pockets with funding could easily accomplish. Pixl knew the true reason he was around. No one wanted him to be on the streets where he could easily spill every secret he knew about the heroes.
Before the heroes had been offered the contract with one of the greatest political companies around, Pixl had been in charge of their connections and assets. He had gotten them all of their weapons and gear, customized it all to fit the user. Now the team was working with gear that was cheaply made and cut corners, modified by half-hearted craftsmen who just followed directions. Stupid directions, really. Pixl had read every piece of gear the heroes had been drafted, and all of it was so easily breakable, so ready for collapse. It hurt his heart to see how little the crew cared about quality. Not one of them had expressed missing his craftsmanship.
Today was not unlike any other day. Today, Pixl was more than content to remain tinkering on his own projects. At least he wasn't entirely bored all day long while the heroes fought the villains. Pixl smirked at the thought. He had a personal record detailing both sides, the heroes and villains, not that anyone cared to hear it. His greatest feat in his glory days had been getting enough of a hand on each villain to read their powers. He prided himself on keeping it close to his chest, and that no one had found out he had done it.
Glory days. What days they had been indeed. When seven heroes protected the streets in their perfect disguises. Back when the name 'Historian' was one with the rest of the team, instead of a forgotten undertone. Pixl remembered just how much trouble he got into after learning to continue fight training, and how much fun it was to fight with nothing but his bare hands.
Not so bare anymore, Pixl thought to himself as he made his way to where the sewers flowed past. The railing was incomplete, but it was enough to look like you couldn't just walk directly into sewage. Only thing he'd gotten from the corporate were gloves, gloves fitted with what was considered a superpower restraining order.
Fishing in the sewers was always a shot in the dark. Sometimes you got scrap, sometimes you got to find out what was up on the surface. Pixl's gloves were able to withstand the strange acids alone, but today was a day unlike others. Today, Pixl caught sight of something floating on the surface of the strange flow and snatched it up to find it to be....a letter?
No he wasn't dreaming, the bright blue envelope was addressed to him somehow, at least by his old name. Cracking it open, he found it to be something he never expected.
'Seven before, six from greed, whoever was lost needs a friend indeed.'
Poetry. Pixl scoffed. Of course it was poetry. And in a villain's penmanship, no less.
'Recriutment or kidnap, whatever they say, but for you to stay down there? Won't happen. No way.'
Prism, Pixl reasoned. Prism, the captain of the Villains, loved the bright colors and poetry. Clearly, his next plan was to attempt to kidnap him so that the heroes didn't have an edge that it was assumed that he was, but why was he being informed of it beforehand? That kind of defeated the purpose of kidnapping.
Pixl sighed and made his way to his room. Why not just wait to be forcibly removed from your only living arrangements. It would be an adventure, at least, and maybe he'd be able to collect some intel for the heroes when they paid the ransom or whatever, but did he really care? Deciding not to make that decision, Pixl chucked a couple things together into a bag and waited until he heard the sound of the nearby manhole being destroyed or slamming shut....or really just any indication of arrival, because if they already knew about him, what was the point in trying to avoid them.