Chapter Text
Nightmares were not an unfamiliar concept, to Purpled. They come often and uninvited; sneaking into already restless nights, leaving heavier eyebags on his face and memories he rather not remember lingering in his mind. They follow him, through the morning- dragging Purpled through beliefs he hasn’t had in years, things he wants to forget and shove under the bed like something he can ignore.
He can’t, though. Not really. Not when they follow him to every dark crevice and space.
The thing about nightmares, is that they never begin like nightmares.
The thing about mirages, is that you always believe the illusion, first.
Purpled’s nightmares all start the same.
A kid, and a dream.
“What do you want to become when you grow up?” Purpled’s mother, a woman with a warm smile and grey eyes, asks as she settles Purpled on her leg, bouncing him slightly as she rakes fingers through bright blonde hair. They come from his dad, not that he knows him- it’s always just been Purpled and his mom.
“A superhero,” Purpled mumbles excitedly as he leans into his mother’s touch, his eyes fighting to stay open. It’s too late in the night, his smile is the same as his mother's as he looks up at her.
Purpled is missing a couple of teeth, as most kids are his age. He’s got a toothy grin, a thing of sunshine and childhood naivety.
His mother hums in return, not moving her hand from where it lulls Purpled to sleep. “That’s a nice dream,” she says finally; Purpled won’t know it yet, but there’s just the barest hint of contempt lining her voice, something someone a bit older would’ve caught.
And yet, Purpled is eight, and his mother is his world, and he’s missing three teeth, and becoming a hero is his only thought of the future.
The fire is a thing that only comes to life, flickering and licking the edges of too hot memories, when Purpled is eleven. It’s a thing of hopping off a yellow school bus, waving goodbye to a bus driver he won’t know he sees for the last time, and walking to an apartment lit up with blaring blue and red lights.
There’s a paramedic, and a stretcher, and a soot-stained body.
There’s Purpled, and a mantra in his head, and feet against concrete as the alleys swallow him away-
The shrill sound of an alarm clock snaps Purpled awake, cutting through nightmares ages old. He opens his eyes blearily, unsticking his eyelids as he flips over, blindly feeling for his phone and getting- utterly flashbanged from the too-bright screen as he struggles to press the snooze button.
The phone has its intended effect, unfortunately- the default lock screen is burned into Purpled retinas as he rubs his face in the dark with a long sigh. It’s never quiet in his apartment- he can hear the water running through the paper-thin walls. The couple upstairs are arguing about… something, again. They always are. Purpled considers paying for their couples therapy so he wouldn’t have to hear about all their never-ending problems for a total of… four seconds before the reality of his bank account being in the negatives catches up to him.
Some people just needed to shut up, honestly. It’d solve a lot of problems.
Purpled sits up in his bed- a mattress he didn’t pay for shoved into the corner of a room, the darkness making little of his cramped apartment visible. There’s a generally dark shadow of the little doorway to the kitchen, another one to the bathroom; the corners of the ceiling are shrouded in darkness all the time, but the mold is more to blame for that than the early morning.
Really, if a health inspector ever walked into this building, he’d probably die on the steps leading to the front door. Purpled doesn’t know how his landlord gets away with it.
There’s the sound of ringing that shakes him out of his thoughts, dragging him back to reality as his phone lights up once again. He squints at the contact; there’s no name, but there’s something about the number that's familiar, and he probably should pick it up.
It’s five am. Who the hell was calling at five am?
Purpled picks up.
Immediately, all of his decisions he’s made since he was eleven feet against concrete as the alleys- seem useless. He doesn’t know why he’s here. Someone should just kill him already. He clearly tempts death enough.
“We need you in office in thirty minutes.”
Silently, Purpled prays to a god he doesn’t believe in for a car to run him over. Forget the fact he’s in an apartment on the second story.
“Sure.” He says instead, because he doesn’t feel like losing his job yet, and there’s- sadly- no car that perfectly flies through his window to kill him instantly. Death keeps avoiding him through sheer spite.
“Bossman also says to get four espressos, two with one milk-” Purpled immediately puts the phone on speaker, opening his notes app and typing without opening a new note. There’s a grocery list he… really can’t afford right now, a few lines down. “- three medium black, small latte with extra vanilla, and a cream cheese bagel.”
Is a car coming through the window really a stretch? Purpled feels like it’s a feasible request. He’s not even asking for that much.
The phone call ends rather anticlimactically, and Purpled still doesn’t fill in the contact name because he’s… somehow already late, and honestly, he’s not sure what the person's name was that called him.
It was a secretary, for sure. Not like it narrows anything down, there are dozens of them at the Tower-
Purpled stands up, walking towards the washroom.
He leaves his memories on his mattress, next to an unmade bed he really doesn’t have the time for this morning.
Or ever.
There’s… a lot of multitasking going on, between sifting through a drawer for a clean shirt and brushing his teeth, and immediately after scooping a bag up from next to the entrance- the same place he’d dropped it last evening, when he got back home- and strapping his watch to his wrist as he rushes down the stairs.
Purpled’s gotten good at it, in the last couple of years. It doesn’t, however, erase the fact that he had no time , and the metro is always, unavoidably, late.
The run to the station is a blur, as it usually is- thump of a bag against his hip, steps against the sidewalk- alleys swallowing him whole, red and blue echoing in his ears but far from his eyes-
L’manburg Station is a familiar sight; the air of burnout lingers around stained walls and yellowed windows. Half the screens displaying the running trains are broken, of the ones that remain, a couple are hours behind on the schedule, still showing the running lanes from last night. Purpled passes by the broken scanners; the person occupying the ticket booth barely gives him a second glance.
The station is mostly empty, with only a couple of people lingering around. It’s dimly lit and smells unpleasant, familiar. There are strange stains on the exposed brick and faded posters- ‘Thinking of suicide? We can help.’ and ‘If you see something, say something.’ -plastered to the walls.
It’s a futile effort, anyone knows; L’manburg is a place of misery, and misfortune follows in footsteps. The train pulls in only a couple of minutes late- small mercies, Purpled thinks to himself, as he drags his gaze away from the yellow barrier he knows too many people have crossed- and he boards the train and opts to stay standing.
Purpled would bet his life that the seats hadn’t been cleaned in months. He doesn’t have time to get sick right now.
He loses himself in his phone as he tugs it out of his pocket, jamming the wired headphones into one ear. Spotify Premium isn’t a thing he has the money for, so Purpled sits through two and a half minutes of ads- they were getting excessive, really- before a playlist with a name that goes in one ear and out the other turns on. There are a couple of messages in his notification bar; random spam emails, something about an upgraded subscription, and a text or two he can afford to ignore right now. None of the numbers saved, of course; Purpled hasn’t saved a contact in too long, months stretching to years and-
I mean, really. Contacts were for someone important . There’s nothing like that, right now. Maybe ever. Connection is a distant thought, a string in a basket of yarn, and knots are circling Purpled’s neck, and his fingers don’t even attempt to pull at the noose.
The sound of the train beneath his feet is grounding, more than anything; familiar, shaking, instability and everything uncertain and the same. Repetition is the death of mankind, something whispers in the infinite space between mind and skull, boredom is the start of disaster.
He opens Twitter. It’s a simpler motion.
There’s nothing of use- there never is, it’s a void of an app for anyone to throw their futile opinions into and pray it sticks something in a desperate attempt to be known.
It’s a dumpster fire, and Purpled is watching the flames lick his feet, again. Fire follows him, into every crevice of his life.
He really needs to get off his phone.
The train doors slide open, letting him onto Hero Station . It’s a stark contrast to the one Purpled came from; the train alone, as he steps off onto clean tile, looks out of place. The walls are a crisp emerald green, floors are white and marbled. It only smells slightly like smoke, here.
The first dredges of the sun have begun to peek past the buildings as Purpled hurries just the barest amount faster towards the first coffee shop he sees. It’s…. already past his start time, really if he just skipped the entire coffee run, passing it off like it slipped his mind, he might just be a little late instead.
And Purpled- he isn’t a forgetful person, not in the worst scenarios. Possibilities linger around his mind infinitely. He wonders, for a second, between the thoughts of a lost job and the streets- if his childhood lined with concrete and bricks was kinder than now.
Logic is a quick-working medicine, and Purpled can feel it slip down his throat.
He gets the coffee.
It’s thankfully empty, with a bored-looking teenager working behind the counter; probably getting paid more than Purpled hourly, living with his parents somewhere comfortable in North End and there’s a spike of jealousy that prickles the back of Purpled’s neck. The unfairness of it all, the cards dealt and stolen and cheating at a game that should be without loopholes.
He gets the coffee fairly quickly, all things considered. The sun rises quickly and reflects off the Hero Tower, looming like a fifty-two-level reminder of everything wrong in the world, casting a shadow on the town. On Purpled.
He enters the building anyway, shoving the door open with his shoulder. The security guard gives him a nod, and Pupled returns it as the man goes back to his phone, scrolling idly. The hallways were… unsurprisingly empty, and the fluorescent lights stung, and Purpled above all deserved a nap.
The music in the elevator is nice, though. He finds himself slowly swaying to the unfamiliar melody. He loses himself a little bit in it, retreating to the quieter, absent part of his thoughts because it was too early to actually care, and Purpled wasn’t getting paid to actually pay attention to the things happening around him before the sun was high enough to chase away the stars.
That’s just…. Factually wrong, actually, he’s quite literally employed for that-
There are finally people when the doors slide open to the general office area, where his own little sad cubicle resides. He pawns off the coffee almost immediately to the first unfortunate soul he sees, beelining to his designated corner because he would rather die than talk to another person right now.
Purpled wonders if a car crashing through the 27th floor is unrealistic. It's debatable. Maybe if he just wanted it really bad-
He doesn’t want it enough, clearly, because the only thing crashing is Purpled’s mood as the same intern he pawned the coffee off to poking his head into Purpled’s cubicle- gray, void of frames, because who would fill up the pictures?- looking vaguely apologetic.
“Bossman wants to see you.” He grimaces, half a sideways look behind him. “He’s not… uh. Y’know.” He waves his hands around a little vaguely.
Purpled, regrettably, does know. He sighs, looking up at the panelled ceiling for a second in utter exasperation for half a moment before swivelling around in his spinny chair- little mercies, yet again- and handing a sloppy salute to the intern whose name he… does not know.
He should, really. The cropped black hair and blue eyes make him almost look like a Tim, maybe a Jason or Richard-
The Tim-Jason-Richard gives him a tired smile and thumbs up of encouragement before someone yells for ‘ Jackson’ a couple rows down and the kid snaps to attention.
Jackson. Purpled squinted. Jason was close enough, that should’ve counted for half points or something-
The kids scurries off, and Purpled prays for his soul that he doesn’t try working full time in the hell hole called the famed Hero Tower.
He really should get going by now. It’s a begrudging realization.
Slowly, Purpled drags himself to the front office down the hallway. There’s an obnoxious amount of frames on the way of… previous founders? Old bosses? Purpled doesn’t know. He doesn’t really care, either; he’d probably read them when he first walked down this hall, but now it’s a dreaded trek and any information he can stand to forget, he does at the earliest convenience.
All in all, he doesn’t know what the hell is in those frames, and he can’t be bothered to find out.
The plaque reading J. Schlatt on the door is far too fancy and Purpled can bet it's made out of actual gold; he should just steal it as like- a bonus, or something. He needs money, and this place isn’t paying him enough, and-
He’s really procrastinating this whole thing.
Purpled exhales just a little heavily; pretends the weight of the last five years hasn’t settled in his lungs. The door opens soundlessly, creak absent unlike every other goddamn door in this building. The man that sits in front of him is, just objectively, ugly. Not in a looks way- even if the haircut that costs more than Purpled’s rent couldn’t cover it up, but his personality lingers around him like a cloud. Wafts of arrogance come in waves in tandem with the smell of smoke, and Purpled almost wants to plug his nose.
“Magenta.”
Great start.
“Uh- Purpled.”
“That’s the same thing.”
Purpled is so glad that the lead manager of this incredibly expensive Hero Department can’t tell the difference between the colour magenta and his employee Purpled. He’s willing to bet he doesn’t know what chartreuse is either.
“Sure, Sir,” Purpled says, because he only has so much self-restraint in himself, and it’s growing ever thinner. He wasn’t made to deal with idiots, truly. He was built different.
Like- correctly.
“You’ve been reassigned to the Lodsted Graveyard shift.”
That… actually isn’t that bad. Graveyard shifts pay just the barest amounts more, and Logstedshire, despite the crime rates, is a tightly knit community that Purpled had gotten the privilege to be considered a part of.
“Yes, Sir,” Purpled says, his voice forever dulled out and monotone. Did he lose the expression in his voice before or after everything went wrong? Schlatt dismisses him rather quickly after that, and Purpled makes his way back to his office a bit quicker than he had on the way there; the spinny chair and stuffy smell of corporate don’t feel all that bad after Schlatt’s office.
The day, all in all, is a quick affair; a blur of trivial conversations and insignificant work, delaying the eventual end of the tentative peace. Most of the cubicles file out by five, and Purpled takes it as his cue to follow- not home, but to the cafeteria a few levels down. The food there is… surprisingly inexpensive, really, for the convenience of it all. There’s even a really good taco place that Purpled can only sometimes afford.
Most days, however, are like today. A dull, easily ignored, years-old ache at the bottom of his gut as he traverses the sea of only half-occupied tables. He waves hello to the familiar faces and gives a smile to vaguely recognized ones; the forced politeness of it all hurts , his cheeks are sore from holding the weight of it all up.
All these days, waiting for something more. More than this endless, repetitive, grating routine that Purpled drags himself through. Sadness is learnt, and his mother’s voice is a haunting thing. It’s all I’ve ever been taught. That's all I can teach you.
The second sentence isn't one that Purpled has ever heard aloud; it’s left unspoken, but it sticks, tacky and honeyed. Sadness is learnt, she whispers by the cuff of his ear, misery is innate.
Purpled pushes the cafeteria door open, and the sound of the heavy door closing as he steps into the stairwell drowns out anything else she would have said. He leaves the sadness in the room behind him, with the tacos and half-filled tables.
His misery, lingers.
Somehow, Purpled finds himself in Sam’s Lab.
The forty-sixth floor of the Hero Building is, or was supposed to be, general laboratories; except Sam was the only truly competent scientist-inventor - Purpled isn’t sure what his official title is, honestly- in the area. Most of the floor plan was just Sam’s space, infinitely large tables spanning from side to side covered in a myriad of little trinkets that cost… way too much.
Sam looks up from where the blue light of his computer reflects off his glasses; he offers Purpled a tired smile as the teenager makes his way over to where the retired hero was sitting.
“Hey kid,” He starts off, and Purpled can immediately tell Sam hasn’t gone home last night. Purpled squints at him and Sam sighs; there’s a silent conversation that bounces between the two of them, and Sam obviously loses the moment Purpled glances at the accumulating mugs next to his keyboard. “Aren’t you supposed to be home by now?” Sam switches, and Purpled shrugs, leaning up against the side of the table.
“Nope,” he say, but there’s a lingering excitement edging the words he hasn’t said because- Purpled likes Logstedshire. It’s been so long since he patrolled around there, and there was a really nice chili-dog stand that gave him a free one last time.
There’s a purple, metallic thing in the corner of his eye and Purpled peers at it a little closer with the barest hint of curiosity. He doesn’t touch it because- he isn’t stupid, for one, and he’s seen what crazy stuff Sam keeps nonchalantly laying around. “What’s that?”
“That,” Sam picks it up, revealing the flat metal disc with details of purple running through it. It fits neatly into the palm of his hand. “It's a prototype weapon for you.” There’s a remote next to it, Purpled didn’t notice earlier, with a couple of buttons, and Sam clicks one for small teeth to slide out of the thin side of the disc. He hands Purpled the flat metal circle, and the teenager holds it with reverence, a gentle grip, awe leaving his mouth agape slightly. It’s… really well made. All things Sam makes are, but-
Sam makes things for higher-up heroes. Ones that are really in the spotlight; ones with the funding to get expensive weapons like that built. Purpled is the ground beneath his feet, the peeling wallpapers of an empty apartment and the quiet crackling of fire and not this.
“I can’t afford that.” Purpled says, and his voice is dull, flat and falling. He holds the weapon back out to Sam, it’s almost painful, but he doesn’t dare let himself think about it. Sam looks at him a little confused, and Purpled presses- insists, takes a step forward and shoves the disc to Sam’s chest. “Sorry.”
The retired hero looks… stunned. A little surprised, bewildered and Purpled hates it. He hates the pity that creeps onto Sam’s face like overgrown vines on a house four years too old and sadness learnt, misery innate-
He turns heel, hands shoved in his pockets; there's a hole in one of them- and outgrown bangs fall into his eyes, they’re growing long and and and and-
“Purpled, they’re free.”
It stops the world, the grating, halting pause that blocks his thoughts and-
“What?”
Sam takes a step towards Purpled, there really isn’t all that much distance between them when Purpled thinks about it. It’s a few feet, infinitely insignificant in the length of the world- the blood vessels in Purpled’s body can wrap around the world seven times in length, and he stands three feet away from Sam.
“It’s… scraps. Under the table, they won’t know- they can’t stop me from making things out of what I have left over.” Sam’s words are slow- his hands are held out like calming a wild animal and- isn’t that all Purpled is, at his core?
“It’s important materials, though.”
“Not when the primary equipment is complete. This is made of garbage.”
Sam holds the disc back out.
Purpled picks it up.
Gingerly, he slides the teeth in and out. There’s a purple sheen that reflects off the metal that he knows comes from his eyes. He looks back at Sam as the glow fades, disbelief permanently etched on his face.
It’s… the world, fitted neatly in the palm of his hand, in a metal disc.
“So… you like it?” Sam asks, the border of hesitance hurts to cross as Purpled blinks a couple times, twice as he stares at Sam, twice more as he looks down to the discs-
“Yeah.” he forces the words out of his throat, a thick thing full of emotion he doesn’t really want to process. “I do.”
There’s a break in Sam’s face as his mouth splits into a smile; the same smile as his mother, and Purpled knows Sam’s is far more like the woman that raised him than his own. Gently, Sam takes the disc out of Purpled’s hands and sets it back on the bench. “It’s a prototype still, so it’s got some work, but- I’ll let you know when it’s ready.” He has a light twinkle in his eyes, and Purpled nods a little numbly, his eyes still fixed on where the disc was.
He doesn’t deserve it; he knows this. Purpled knows, as he knows misery, as he’s learnt sadness, that good things aren’t for him. He takes, never-ending and consuming and selfish and he won’t stop.
“You’re here to help, then?” Sam says from two tables away, and Purpled finally drags his gaze upwards. He nods, disconnected from himself and watching as disgust crawls up his throat-
Yes, he thinks to himself, with bile resting on his tongue and hatred in his marrow. Selfish.
“Of course.”
Purpled drifts around the lab for a couple more hours, waiting for the clock to tick to midnight; to fall back into his skin, rather than the fake body that roams around, an imposter in his flesh. He is not himself, as he cracks a joke with Sam and carries a stack of papers down a couple of floors for another intern and moves boxes. He watches, scrutiny and sickening until the body that isn’t his finally steps into the elevator, waves goodbye so Purpled falls back into his skin, chases the fraud out- the feet against concrete are but his own; the misery in his bones are only blood passed down- steps out onto a strech of displays of suits.
His own is far down, a simple thing; customization is only a privilege to the heroes in the public eye. Purpled gets a Tower-Issued black body suit and compacted gas mask, a heavy voice modulator sitting on his throat.
The little liberties come in the form of gifts from Sam: indigo fingerless gloves, cargo pants with too many pockets, a belt with a dozen more. His fingers drift over every compartment, his usual tools still in place as he shoves his regular clothes into his small designated locker tucked into a room off the side. They are not folded- it never is, another thing Purpled deems not worth for himself.
Despite the elevator ride being forty-five levels high, it’s a quick thing in reality- another hero stops him at the twenty-seventh floor, stepping in as they stand there in silence.
It’s awkward. Mostly because Purpled doesn’t remember what his name is. Like… Gamble? Casino, maybe? It was something money-related, but Purpled couldn’t quite place what-
“Gambit!” someone shouts as they get off the main floor, and- I mean, Gamble was close enough. It was like the Jason-Jackson situation. Half points.
Purpled files out after Gambit, heading straight towards the back door and breathes in through the mask's filtered air.
He exhales, softly.
It’s a clear night. Maybe if Purpled squints, he might see the stars among the light that looms above him. Maybe he could make out the flames framed against the summer skies off a school bus, as well.
He scales up the side of the alleyway, pulling himself up to the rooftop with heavy fingertips and a familiar grip of brick beneath his skin. It’s a thing that has followed him throughout his entire life; brick, on the buildings of his home, brick on the alleyways he ducked into, brick beneath his feet as a hero.
Purpled pulls himself up to a standing position, overlooking the city. The rooftops are endless, stretching infinitely in all directions; they never stop, a sea in every definition.
They are becoming in a way nothing else is, in misery and flickering flames and concrete.
Purpled, foreign from a place of belonging, for a moment beneath outshined stars, is home.