Chapter Text
Most people would wake up in their bed every morning.
This man, however, always finds himself curled up in the fetal position in his bathtub, his eyes trained to open on an over-turned picture frame. This would be considered strange if your name wasn't Herman. Or Herm, or Hermy, or if you know him from work; Hadal Zone. But his name didn't matter at the moment.
His clothes were soaked through. Herman sighed when he got up from the tub, plucking his wet swim trunks away from his clammy skin and adjusting the collar on a white tank top that always rode up his neck when he slept. There was no pillow in the bathtub, or even a blanket, so he contented himself with waking up in aching bones every morning. The little shoebox apartment he rented was just warm enough to keep him from freezing in the night, even while surrounded by that hollow plastic that bathtubs always were. He was grateful for at least that much. He carefully stepped out of the tub, nearly slipping, and then reminded himself to buy a non-slip mat. The light above him flickered when he switched it on.
The bathroom was hardly bigger than a cardboard box to him. Being as tall as he was, scrunching himself into the room was a feat only sardines shared with him. He gripped the sink on both sides, leaning in to inspect his appearance in the cracked remains of a mirror. His eyes were dark and hollow underneath, condensation dripping down his face while his hair slicked against his forehead. That same reddish-brown hair went nearly past his shoulders and curled against his neck. Behind that, he was a skinny swath of a guy, hardly any muscle definition to him, but by some miracle of being super-human he always had some. Even despite the fact that he only ate about twice a day on average. He quietly damned himself for looking even remotely healthy. But his expression reflected that he was far from it, his eyes burning and begging for just another hour of sleep, arms trembling with some unseen exertion, remnants of smudging paint smeared against his shirt. In all honesty, he looked like shit.
Not that the horrible lighting helped him any. All yellowed and flickering. He grumbled about this, pressing his hands to his eyes to will away the headache that bloomed from that annoying light bulb. In consideration of the worst days at his apartment, it was quiet all around. There were no screaming matches between the thin walls or shattered glass assaulting his senses, only the tinny wail of a far off ambulance. He stood for a moment more, breathing very carefully, letting that morning nausea wash over him.
When he opened his eyes again he was marginally more ready to take on the world. The tap to the sink squealed when he twisted it and boiling hot water shot forth with just enough pressure to overwhelm an ant. He quickly wetted his already wet face and scrubbed with a facewash that was so minty that he felt dry for all of two seconds after using it. He had some thrill in doing so. Then he dried his face and looked back in the mirror. It went without saying that he still looked terrible. He still went about the motions of brushing his teeth as well, giving a good smile to the mirror and running his tongue over the gap in his teeth.
Once he was done, he gently picked up his phone that charged near the sink and slipped it inside a bag, putting it inside his swim trunks pocket.
Herman stepped out of the bathroom and followed the line of plastic sheets and towels to the kitchen, grabbing three water bottles before heading towards his bedroom. Well, it was a bedroom but he certainly didn't use it for sleeping. If the empty bedframe could speak it would probably say that for him— but anyways… all he kept there were his clothes. And a gently used Bluetooth speaker that sat on two Ikea boxes which was across from a single blue inflatable couch. Truly, the little luxuries…
He tossed the bottles near the couch and stripped off his soggy shirt. The trousers were thrown in another pile and his phone was set atop the dresser (which was also entirely plastic and clear), taking out his more waterproof outfit. It was essentially a divers outfit that had two swatches of color, blue and yellow, on the hips and arms respectively. Once he slipped it on, a pair of worn second-hand jeans were tossed on after. Then he put on a blue jacketed hoodie over this, a deep navy blue that he could easily blend into a crowd with. Honestly, the normal clothes were less for function and more for comfort. He didn't feel quite right without extra layers. Unprotected.
He checked his phone, seeing a single message.
A job? At 8? But that's a little late for— he sighed when he saw the location. The Sardine. They wanted him to control water, for laughs. Herman rubbed the bridge of his nose with a loud groan, already predicting how dealing with this would turn out. Normally they'd want to meet early to discuss plans, with around two meetings at the least, but this one was a single job. Listen, Herman knew he wasn't taken seriously, but really? Using him like a clown? Whatever, He deleted the message, might as well.
From there he started his morning routine. Watching old shows pirated on his phone— well, not all crime was big— while chugging his bottles of water. Contrary to popular belief he could get dehydrated. The extra water every morning just meant less he had to drink throughout the day. He figured that out after throwing up too much water and ending up passed out in his tub, absorbing an entire bathtub of water in his sleep. But maybe that was for a different reason. Anyways, it didn't matter, he lived at the end of the day so who's to judge?
—-------
Herman liked to think that there was good in everyone.
The thought came to him, unbidden, as he took a shortcut to The Sardine that night. But there's a huge difference between us and heroes, that familiar voice in his heart whispered, for example, you've killed people. There was a pause in his steps, a tingling sensation in his fingertips. The fluorescent lights of the bar were just a few feet from him now. But he felt he had to make an important distinction: not all killing is bad— but I've killed on purpose. I had other options. He didn't think too deep about that.
The guard… bodyguard? No, the bouncer, gave Herman a once-over before allowing him in. The bar smelled heavily of cigarette smoke and murky water, not a hint of artificial scents or even sanitizers. That's how he knew the bar was authentic. Nice things led in nice customers, and the “nice” customers only meant trouble for the usual company. Walking past the gaggles of heavily suited men and women— he pointedly ducked under a spear that soared across the bar— he found his target. A man in his 50’s, completely grey hair with sun spotted skin and a face structure that screamed I Have A Barbed Wire Tattoo laughed out loud while drunkenly sputtering out a story to his circle of friends. A scrawny woman sat beside him, carefully avoiding touching him but it was plainly obvious that she was a streetwalker, her red nails plucking her thin, curly hair. He walked up behind the man, looking over the table they sat at. Multiple cups and shot glasses, a discarded hand of cards… He tapped the man on the shoulder.
“---And I say’s to her—!” He gestured with a near full cup of beer that positively reeked of cheapness.
“Exuse me, sir?” Herman asked. Sir, not because he was respectful or anything, but more because he didn't bother learning the guy’s name. The man swiveled, allowing for Herman to get a full view of his goatee.
“Ay, ya skinny muthafucka’, you're finally here?” His bushy eyebrows scrunched down and he scowled, Herman could visibly see that the man was a tobacco addict by his teeth.
“Oh, hello—”
“Lean down.” He demanded, “Ya here t’ entertain us, not loom over us, ya wet-wipe.” Then he grinned, eyes flicking over to his table, so fucking smug over a name. Herman Internally labeled the guy as an attention whore. But, it came with the job… he did end up leaning down, just enough to hold eye contact with the guy.
“So, you needed …?”
“Hah, I paid for you to do tricks, so wipe that look off your face.” Herman clenched his fists, cringing at how hard the guy was trying to be cool. You don't hire criminals as clowns, idiot. Herman then saw him slide a giant pint of beer towards him.
And… I'm supposed to do what with this? Externally, he informed him, “Oh, so where's the water?”
“Water?” He pursed his lips in the way that told Herman he was a raging alcoholic, too. He wobbled while looking back over his shoulder. “The fuck ya need water for?”
“I… control water.”
The entire table then had the balls to scowl at him. The man laughed, elbowing his neighbors in a bid to be in the spotlight again.
“I didn't pay ya’ to control water,” He smirked, “I paid ya to do whateva’ I tell you, capiche?”
Herman felt his eyelid twitch. “You needed me to control water. I don't—” God, his stutter came back full force, “---Dont control anything else. It says it on my…”
They weren't listening. Why the hell would they? The prostitute beside the guy snickered, carefully taking a drag from her cigarette with shaking hands— probably from the drugs, Herm thought bitterly— and she goaded the guy on. “Don't hurt him too bad…”
Herman flinched back when the guy started to stand up. He didn’t even get the time to look confused before the guy was in his face. “So you’re refusin’. Is that it?”
“What?”
The man reached up and plucked his jacket, manhandling him down to his eyes. Herman sighed, accepting his fate, fist soaring through the air and making contact with his nose. I guess this is karma…
—-------------
THWACK!
“What the hell was that?”
“Some guy just punched slenderman over there.” Prism pointing across the way, near the glowing stage and past the divider.
“Is that what you were watching so… intensely?” Chad huffed, “And you ignored me this whole time…” The two of them winced when a particularly hard hit cracked against the crumpled figure on the ground.
“...Weird. Dude didn't even yell, just yanked him down and threw a fist.” Prism’s brow furrowed, enthralled as she watched.
“Woah, shit’s crazy…”
“Oh hold on, what… Wow, what a bunch of scumbags— look! They're just kicking him around!”
Flambae rolled his eyes but ended up looking anyways. A big mistake on his part.
He zeroed in on the man on the ground, watching him struggle with wide eyes and blood dribbling down his nose, hand trying to push the boot off of his face. The offenders around him laughed, pushing the rubber further into his cheek. Him and Alice weren't too far from the scene, which provided him with a full view of the tear that ran down the guy’s face. Flambae— for all his rough exterior— was a hero. His heart tugged at the sight, and before he knew it he was on his feet.
“Oh fuck,” He mumbled.
“Chad?”
“We can’t come here anymore.” He looked mortified at what he was about to do. Alice grinned.
“Oh, I see, your hero instincts are— and he’s gone.”
Chad made his way around the bar, dodging people and shoving past a few others. “Hey!” he yelled, catching the attention of the man with his boot nearly in the other guy’s mouth. “Yeah, you! Get your damn boot outta that kid’s mouth!” The gruff man and his wiry accomplice gasped when he came closer, reeling back. They must have recognized him then. No surprises there— ever since the defeat of Shroud, the entire Z-Team was put on the radar of nearly every news outlet. At this point, being in torrence and not recognizing his iconic flaming suit would be near criminal. Or in this case, actually criminal. He should have known better than to step back into this bar… He swiped a kick at the guy, watching him yowl in pain while clutching his shin. Eventually, with one long glance back at the scrawny guy on the floor, his group fled.
Behind him, he could hear the guy stirring.
Herman groaned, blinking back to see the stark lighting of the bar. Except, his view was tilted. Oh. right. I'm on the ground. His arms shook violently, slapping against the wet floor to hoist himself up. His blood mixed with water where he laid, the puddle shining even in the low light. Herman swiped away the involuntary tears, sniffling back what blood clots were left behind. Then, from the corner of his horrible vision, he saw a man.
“Yo…” A hand popped into view— noticeably missing two fingers, “You alright?”
Herman flinched, scrambling to stand up immediately with his shoulders drawn up to his ears. His cheeks flamed with both embarrassment and injury, “N–No! I mean— I’m good!”
“...okay.” The guy in front of him was wearing a spandex suit with flames on it, and for a moment, Herman was terrified that it was a hero coming to arrest him. But then he spoke again with a hint of a sneer: “Jesus, you look terrible.”
“Ah–oh… I do?” He gently prodded his stinging nose. The guy rolled his eyes like it was obvious— which it was, Herman wouldn't deny that he probably looked terrible.
Chad sighed, “Look, were sitting over there. Might as well patch you up and whatever…” He nodded in the direction of Prism. He gave the other man a once over. Honestly, the dude didn’t look like a kid at all. He looked pretty beat up, but past that he was just one really scrawny, tall guy. His face was weirdly shiny but… Flambae passed it off as one of the assailants throwing water on him or something.
“Why—Why would you do that?” He also looked like a wet dog. His big, wounded puppy eyes made Flambae feel bad, causing him to lash out just a bit… only so he didn't feel so guilty. Fuuuck, is this what Rob-bob was talking about? Being a hero and whatever? This sucks.
“Your face makes me feel like I’m the one who beat your ass.”
“Oh,” Herman shrank in on himself, “sorry—er, okay…”
And so he brought Herman over, he explained to Alice what everything was about, then he told Herman to wash the blood off his face. Without thinking, he swiped the blood off his face and threw the droplets to the floor. Chad wasn't looking, thank God. He was pretty out of it anyways— oh, Chad brought up a bandage out of god-knows-where, handing it to Herman. He nodded, ignoring the look of pure confusion on Chad’s face when he saw Herman’s clean face. Prism was too busy liking an Instagram post to care.
In a single minute, Flambae had made sure Herman was fine to walk home before pushing him out of the bar. Herman walked out, stumbling over his feet, with a bandaid clenched in both hands like it was something precious. With one final look to those sunset orange eyes, Herman decided it would be beneficial to leave the night off on a good note.
“Wait!” He said, before the guy could head back in, “Thanks for— for helping me.”
The guy paused, glancing over his shoulder with wide eyes. “...Yeah. don't, uh, don't mention it.” With that the glass door swung closed. Herman stood outside the bar, trying to commit the flashy suit to memory, the cold beginning to deep through his hoodie. If he comes back…. He shook his head, stalking off down the street.
Now he was alone. Jobless at the moment, sure, but this little inkling of… warmth seeped into his heart. Why did he help me? Why didn't I fight back? Ah, today must've been one of those days. He shrugged it off, pushing the bandaid into his pocket.
Another day down.
~~~~~