Work Text:
"What is the measure of a hero?"
By the time Invisigal's sprung from the Intro to Heroics 101 seminar, it's the only thing that's burned into her skull. Between the sweltering heat of the conference hall, air-conditioning left to fester since its breakdown in the 80s, and the clak clak clak of a dozen SDN employees ordering their charges around, the lesson was less a welcome into her new life, and instead a torture even the most villainous inhabitants of Torrance, California might deem a little too much.
Her skull flares up, what little relief offered by her medication burnt away at the altar of employment. Eight hours of concentration, destroyed in forty-five minutes. The only call for rescue is sugar from the "state of the art offerings from the vending machine" (the device dispensing food in the break room, not the food truck chef turned mass murderer).
And it quickly proves just how state of the art it is in robbing her only dollar.
"Are you fucking serious!?"
Her foot finds purchase in the side of the machine. The machine refuses to yield her purchase. A second and third see the metal fall inward. Yet there's no relief to be found. Not in the form of snacks, and not in the form of catharsis from the misery she's sat through...
And yet, despite all of it. Despite the rehashed and rehearsed corporate spiel, rattled off with a tone that left one gasping for the emotional speeches of robocallers (the technology, not the recently broken-up group of tech thieves), those seven words linger. Seared into her mind, refusing to vanish. The workings of Hyperfocus already in motion.
She groans. With a final kick, she calls it a draw against her dented foe, and sets about answering this mystery.
"Hey, Sonar?"
"Invisigal."
"What's the measure of a hero?"
Sonar was the easiest one to find. Almost certain to be skulking about the corridors at the witching hour, Invisigal figured she'd have needed to search a few different floors to run into him. How convenient that he was aptly placed within the basement.
"Not a great time to be asking me that."
"No? Did your portfolio take a dive?"
"Are you s- First, my portfolios don't take dives unless I want them to. Second, does it look like I'm investing right now?"
"Looks like to me like your Coupe investments got sharted."
"Shorted! And no, they didn't."
"Then why the handcuffs?"
He doesn't have an answer for that one, instead collapsing back on the workout bench.
"You know you can look up tits online, right?"
"What are photographs compared to gazing upon the night sky? What are cookbooks compared to a finished meal? What are facsimiles, if not the human spirit left wanting?"
"Says the guy who buys pretend parts of a company."
"If you're not here to help me, then how about you leave me to my eternal damnation?"
She snorts. "The kind of damnation where you're stuck forever, or the kind where you don't get titties?"
"Invisigal..."
"Okay okay, Bat of Wolf Street."
"Just get me out of here and I'll answer your question."
Invisigal grins. "All you had to say."
She produces a spare handcuff key from her pocket. He doesn't ask why or how, just rubs at his wrist and sighs. "The measure of a hero..."
"Yeah?"
"Well, I guess it depends on the metric."
Oh. Oh no.
"First of all, what are we quantifying here? Is it traits that make up a hero? Is it the number of crimes solved pitched against unsolved? Because if you wanna know the measure of a hero, you gotta know the measure, right?"
Thirty minutes later, and she's ready to cuff him to the bench all over again.
"Punch Up, what makes a hero?"
She holds off on the seven-letter word used in the original. She doubts it'd upset him, but no use risking it. Especially since she's just watched him sterilize a half-dozen art thieves.
"Is this one o' them daily reflection things? Like, 'what am I thankful for' today or some shite?"
"Not... exactly." Invisigal huffs, blasting fluticasone into her lungs.
He doesn't push the question further, and in-between hauling the groaning bodies out into the museum hall, mutters to himself or scratches at his chin. Even when her foot starts tapping and she takes to biting the inside of her cheek, she doesn't tell him to hurry up. Whatever answer he's preparing, it's going to be a good one.
"I think it's gotta be resilience."
Resilience? It kinda makes sense. All those grainy black-and-white serials, Hays-coded to shit, showing a hero who, no matter how many times he gets to decorate the concrete with his face, refuses to stay down.
But still...
"Just resilience?"
"I mean, what else do you need? All about how hard you can take a punch to the dick, not how hard you can punch one."
"But you can do both."
"Aye, that I can."
The answer's a good one, but it doesn't feel complete. A piece of the great cosmic puzzle that now demanded Invisigal's solution.
"To be honest, I think some people are just born with it. Look at Mecha Man. Guy lost his suit, broke most o' his bones, and he was still out layin' people flat."
Mecha Man. How could she not think about that stupid, annoying, dad-bodded, handsome, gravely-voiced twink? The only relief this stupid question's offering her is the fact she's not continually thinking about Robertson's a-
"Sorry. Probably not the answer you were lookin' for."
"It's fine. Thanks."
He gives her a small smile, "I dunno if it helps, but Coop used to have a joke about it."
"Yeah?" Humor was often just the translucent glaze upon the donut of truth. Maybe there was something here.
"Yeah. She'd go 'Wanna know what a hero's made of'"
"And then what?"
"She'd take one o' them knives, stick it in their chest, and-"
She's vanishing before he finishes, earpiece removed, stopping only to find the nearest trash can.
"Golem, what's the measure of a hero?"
"Beats me," Golem shrugs. "Hey, you see any trash cans around here?"
"Not that one!" A soft tug on his left shoulder steers him in a different direction, away from her earlier shame. More a suggestion than any semblance of control. They're partners, after all.
"Probably some good ones down here," he agrees. "Say, what do you think the measure of a hero is?"
"I don't know, that's why I'm asking."
"You ain't given it any thought yet?"
"Most of last night."
"Most?"
"All."
He laughs a deep, rumbling roar at that, almost absorbing some random pedestrian. "Some things just ain't made to be answered."
"Tell that to my brain."
"I would if I thought you had one."
She swats at the goopy mass that is Golem's head, and he chuckles all the harder.
"Oh, that's an easy one."
Invisigal narrows her eyes at Flambae. "Really?"
"Yah. Really."
"Alright then, let's hear it."
And of course, he lets the moment hang. Rising from his chair, flexing a little, spawning a mote of flame on his thumb and rolling it across his fingers.
"Style."
"Style?"
"But of course. Narrow-minded bitches might be focused on unimportant matters like "call response time" or "success rate". Myself, I'm of a much different calibre to those snobs. And I know there's only "
She folds her arms. "It can't just be style."
"You don't agree."
"Sounds like you're just trying to justify your low score."
"Okay, firstly, my score is still higher than yours, Invisiquit."
"You coulda given that one some more thought first."
"And secondly, if we're measuring scores, perhaps we should take a look at some of the very best, hmm?"
Flambae flicks the mote of flame onto a nearby TV remote, and the high-def screen flashes to life. A retrospective on Phenomaman - "It's a Phenomamal Life" - showcases the red and white hero's many rescues and victories.
"Damn, you had that timed perfectly."
"Like I said, style. Something that one is lacking."
And, it's not that she can outright disagree with Flambae. At least on the surface. Phenoaman is amazing at what he does... but he doesn't feel heroic. Not by human standards anyway. Which, maybe it is a bit unfair to expect the guy from Urgot-52dc to conform to them.
Still, she can't remember a time when Phenomaman delivered a rousing speech that wasn't handed to him, his voice later edited to match the moment. Replays on the man's battles barely cracked 100,000 views online, and you were lucky if they went longer than 30 seconds. Yet thousands of solved cases later, and all his distinctness had to show was its lacking.
And then she thinks about Blonde Blazer. Now she feels like a real hero. Capable of throwing a villain into the stars, or gently carrying a child out from a well. Blasting across the city in the time it takes to scratch an itch. An iconic design cited as an inspiration for young supers everywhere. She's even got the quip game mandatory for anyone looking to prefix a super to their hero.
She absolutely had the style to match Flambae's requirements. But she's pretty sure that's not what makes Blonde Blazer great.
"Coop, what's the measure of a hero? And don't autopsy someone to show me."
She blinks, setting her book aside. "Are you perhaps confusing the punchline to a joke I used to tell Punch Up, with the answer I'm going to provide your similar but unrelated question?"
Oh, right. She had changed up the question previously. "Yeah. Sure. I'm stupid. Can you just answer the question."
"Their selflessness."
Well, that was quick. "Just like that?"
"It is the trait, by my estimation, held by every one of the so-called 'greatest' heroes since powers started sprouting in mortal genomes. A keystone marker, so to speak, that reliably separates lesser heroes from those that define eras. That absolute conviction to not only throw themselves into fire and brimstone, but acceptance that that's almost certainly where they're going to die."
That... actually made a lot of sense.
But there's always more to Coop. The kind of person to show you her knife before the pique, making it that much more enjoyable. A motive to every operandi, or something. Sure enough, she's smiling when Invisigal looks back at her.
"Are you messing with me?"
"Not at all. I do believe my answer to be the right one. If nothing else, it's certainly the belief I've had the most success exploiting."
"Oh, no..."
"A surprising amount of heroes let their guard down when you throw their loved ones, or even random civilians, into traffic... or the ocean... or an open mouth of a volcano."
Malevola's a pain to pin down. Not that Invisigal can't find her. She spots her at least three times, but the power to open tears in space means cornering her is wholly dependent on when she wants a conversation.
Perhaps sensing her frustration, she finally gives her a break on the roof of the SDN building. Slipping out of a crimson portal, heat blasting like the infernal engines of Hell itself, while carrying a pair of frozen treats.
Invisigal grins, "You shouldn't have."
"I didn't."
But Invisigal knows she's just messing, and seizes one of the ice creams. She manages two patient licks before she bites into the heavenly mixture, sensitive teeth be damned.
"So, what's up? Heard you've been asking around about that hero intro seminar we did. Finally getting round to the homework?"
"Homework? Oh, shit! We ha-"
And then she catches that devilish smirk. "Not funny."
"Come on, we're not in school here. Can you imagine if they were giving us homework on top of the superhero shit?"
"If we're getting homework, then there'd better be a prom."
Malevola blinks, "You don't strike me as a prom person."
"Oh, I'm not. I just want there to be a prom so I can ditch it."
"Careful, Chaperone Chase might not appreciate your tardiness."
They both laugh at that, though it comes harder to Invisigal. Fun as it was to imagine that wrinkled prune making sure the punch bowl didn't get spiked or stopping SDN staff from making out, it wasn't difficult at all to imagine him yelling at her.
"So, what's up?"
"Do you know what the measure of a hero is?"
"Oh, totally."
"Wait, you do?"
And her eyes narrow at this. Not because she doesn't trust Malevola. She absolutely does. But there was the time she'd promised to share her Filmflix password, only to vanish through a portal. There was the time she invited her out to dinner, only to portal away when the bill came. But surely there wouldn't be a third time...
"Malevola..."
"Whoops, can't hear you, portaling into a tunnel."
She falls from the roof. Invisigal tries to snatch her, but only manages to brush the hem of her shirt. She falls through the portal, her shit-eating grin being the last thing to show through the gateway as it seals shut.
"Star appeal."
Yeah, that one didn't sound right either, but Prism had taken time out of filming some dance video to answer her question, so she'd give it a shot.
"You don't think there's more important things?"
"Me, personally? Sure. But the suits? Nah bitch. It's all a popularity contest at the end of the day. Why'd you think SDN stuck a leader-board right in our noses?"
"That's... a really good point."
"That's the only measure of a hero there really is, baby. They can act all high 'n mighty, pretend they're doin' it for the love of the game, but there's only one thing that matters. Clicks. Views. Likes. Changes up every few years, but the best heroes are the ones bringin' it in."
Invisigal doesn't agree with this either, but she can't deny the truth behind it. Especially thinking back to the conversation with Flambae. The flashy, the marketable? Anything that filled concert halls and movie theatres was certain to make you a household name. Dozens of heroes in positions they didn't deserve, just because they drew the crowds.
The most she'd get is a gasp, a few seconds of clapping, and a hushed warning to keep your valuables close. No spotlight for a girl that couldn't shine in it.
By the time she's left the office that night, that itch in her brain has turned into a rash. One she knows now she'll never be able to satisfy. No one on the team could give her a clear answer, and there's no one else she knows that would have the right mindset...
Well, no one except...
"Lamps?"
Visi stares at him like he's the stupidest person in the world, because sometimes he is. "Yeah. Lamps. Makes sense to me."
"Right. Uh-huh. Clearly you're operating at a higher level."
"ADHD, sweetie. By the time you've got one of your stupid quips out, I'm already ten parallel steps ahead of you, or whatever the saying is."
"Pretty sure that's a meme, not a saying."
"Yeah, well you're gonna be saying how much my fist hurts in a second."
"Oooh, not the face, not again." He laughs, sipping from a plastic cup.
"Who said it was gonna be the face?"
"That's more like it." He sets the drink down, leans back in this little corner you've found in the lull of the party. "So, whaddaya wanna ask?"
The husky voice rising just above the blare of the music. Shit. Part of her wants to throw the question away and shove her tongue down his throat. Screw the party, screw the Astral Pulse, screw the stupid question that has been rattling her brain since that stupid screw-up stuck it in her head...
But she has to ask. Has to know the answer. Has to know his answer.
"What's the measure of a hero?"
The fucker doesn't even quip. He doesn't even joke. Not even a smirk out of him. Can he actually see how serious she is about this? And can he also see the tension? The furrowed brow, the bags round her eyes? The unbelievable amount of energy she's poured into this.
Because he doesn't leave her waiting.
"Caring."
"C-caring?"
That's it? That's all there is to this puzzle? A one-word answer, offer up in just a few seconds? But already, the fog's lifting from her mind. The kraken-esque tentacles finally releasing their prey. It's the right answer, even if she doesn't fully believe it yet.
"Caring," he echoes. "It's not just about the saving. Any idiot with a suit can do that."
"Hey, I know an idiot with a suit."
He barely shoves her at that, "Like I said, any idiot. But if you don't give a shit about people, then there's gonna come a day when you're not gonna step up. When someone really needs you to be a hero, and you're gonna let them down. When you're not gonna throw everything you've got left to save the life of someone whose name you might not even know."
The music fades into the distance. The cool night air seeping through the cracked window transforms into a gentle breeze. She's left not just with the answer to the measure of a hero, but the hero others must measure themselves against.
"You're amazing, Mechaman."
"You too, Invisigal."
They clink plastic cups.
"Now, I've got a question for you."
"Yeah?"
"I'm still stuck on the lamp thing. Help me out?"
Invisigal rolls her eyes. "It's a housewarming, right?"
"Yeah?"
"And lamps are warm."
"Not if they're LEDs."
"Okay, bu-"
"And technically, they're not warm if they're not turned on, either."
"Right, shut up an-"
"And wasn't Royd working on some cold light technology for use in temperature-controlled envi-"
"Fucking nerd." She shoves him.
He laughs. "You love it."
And, shit. Courtney just might.
Left gasping underneath the winking of stars, scrambling over to the fallen figure in the trimmed grass, Courtney's horrified to find Robert's answer was the right one