prompt: (Y/n) used to be Marcus' nemesis, but he retired, so now what?

warning: strong language, implications of suicide, and there's a needle at the end

word count: 2057

pronouns: gender-neutral

══════════════════

second-person point of view. . .

══════════════════

The memory replayed in your mind over and over again. You would never forget that day--that spark. Your whole body had felt on fire in the best way possible and you had not been able to shake that grin off your face. It was as if a new life had been breathed into you that night, on the rooftop of one of the tallest buildings in the country...

With a loud rattle, the machine you had worked on for weeks came to life. That box of bolts was the key to your entire plan so you were ready to protect it. No doubt, some battalion would be sent by the Heroic, even if it was your debut as the world's latest threat. Instead of a chorus of soldiers, it was only him that came.

At first, you were insulted that they thought you would be defeated so easily. But then the combat began and you realized just how formidable this single foe was. With two katanas and the ability to wrap metal to his will, fighting the leader of the Heroics was far more satisfying than an army of nameless troopers.

With every clanking of his swords against your armored forearms, your excitement grew. You were equally matched, which made the fight a close, and entertaining, match. You saw him grow more and more intense and purposeful in his strikes, and he saw you grow more and more fanatic as your delight became uncontainable. No one has ever come this close to besting you, so you were going to savor every moment of that fight until you won.

But that time never came. In a ditch effort to distract you, he used his powers to tear your machine apart. When you turned to assess the damage, he used the opportunity to overpower you and click those handcuffs around your wrists.

"I win," he said breathlessly.

"You'll never really win." you had told him with a laugh. "Trust me."

But that had been years ago. Your first encounter with the great Marcus Moreno that day was one of many. After he had escorted you into a prisoner transport van, he had made the mistake of not seeing the rest of the journey through. You had escaped with ease.

He had been the reason for your enthusiasm--your new spark. You had wanted to beat him; to one day have him on the ground and say, "I win." That day would be hard fought for, you had known that much, but that had been what made it exciting. You had grown to be one of the most feared villains in the world, and he had been your nemesis.

He had arrested you a dozen times, though you promptly broke out, and you had narrowly escaped at the end of every other encounter. Each time you had gotten closer to victory, it had always been just a hair out of reach. 

You had given him plenty of new scars, and he had beaten you out of commission for weeks at a time. You both had learned each other's patterns, almost as if you had been old friends. Some of your more elaborate plans had been able to accurately predict his response to almost everything.

Your rivalry had been glorious. But something that good can never last, not in your life, at least. One day, he had not come. Three other Heroics showed up in his place, all of which had been an insult. You had wondered why he had not come to stop you. You had wondered why he did not come to stop you the next time too... and the next time. And the next.

It had been like he disappeared entirely. His replacements were irritating and weak, too vain to get their hands dirty in a real fight. You sent them all to emergency units, mostly out of rage from Marcus' absence.

The spark he had given you slowly faded away. You found yourself less and less excited to scheme, fight, or do anything really. Life returned to the way it had been before you became a villain: repetitive, boring--meaningless.

It was roughly one in the morning when Marcus, with slightly unstable legs, stumbled into the kitchen. He turned on the faucet and poured himself a glass of water. He found it particularly difficult to fall and stay asleep that night. Maybe it was fate's hand that kept him awake that night.

"And here I thought you were dead."

Your voice made him jump, instantly reaching to pull a kitchen knife from its wooden block on the counter. You let out a small snicker. He was cute.

"Relax, please," you urged him, though he did not listen. "I admit, I was worried. Have been for a few years now."

"What the hell are you doing here?" He used the same tone he had when you would fight; strong, authoritative, and confident.

He stalked closer to where you sat in a lounge chair in his living room. The lights were still off, but moonlight peered in through the large windows. You raised both your hands in surrender.

"I'm just here to talk," you stated calmly. "I promise."

Warily, Marcus stepped closer with a firm grip on the knife in his dominant hand. You let out a sigh as he silently agreed to humor you.

"I'm a bit offended I wasn't invited to your retirement party," you remarked, a hint of truth to your words. "I would have at least liked a heads up. You don't do fieldwork anymore, right?"

"That doesn't mean I won't lay you out right here," he warned harshly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" You asked, choosing to ignore his little comment.

"Why would I tell you?" He wondered.

"Because you're my nemesis!" You raised your volume just a notch or two. "I thought someone had killed you!"

"Why would you care?" He came to stand in front of you, but he hesitated to sit on the sofa adjacent to your seat.

"Because, if that was ever to happen, I would be the one to do it," you told him, all but decided. "I've earned that much. Look, my point is, it's a courtesy. I don't want to fight fuckin' Miracle Guy."

"What? He's too tough for you?" His words were laced with a playfully insulting tone, the same one he sometimes used during your back and forth before and during combat.

"Not tough enough," you corrected him with a small sigh. "They're all so vain up their own righteous asses. They're nothing compared to you, not worth my time."

Marcus found your admission odd. You viewed him more highly than his co-workers, why? You seemed to be genuinely hurt he had left you wondering, why?

"Look... " you began, somewhat unsure where to even start. "Have you been monitoring my activity lately?"

"There's been nothing to monitor," Marcus pointed out, finally allowing him to sit.

"Exactly," your hands fell into your lap as you relaxed. "I haven't been causing trouble because it--it's not fun anymore. There aren't real stakes these days, not like there used to be."

"So this is a game to you?" Marcus scoffed.

"Kinda, yeah," you shrugged your shoulders. "I was excited to fight you, thrilled to see if I could finally beat you. Now that you're gone... " you swallowed thickly, "it feels like a chore. I miss our rivalry."

"So what is this, then?" Marcus wondered, still skeptical of you. "Are you asking me to go back into the field because putting cities of people in danger isn't fun for you?"

"No," you sighed, running your hands over your face in frustration. "My intel is almost certain your daughter is the reason you retired."

Marcus tensed at the mention of Missy. How did you know about her?

"I'm here because I want you to know," you explained, growing a tad sheepish. "I miss you. I miss us. I, uh... if I had known our last fight was our last fight, I would've done so much differently."

Marcus was strangely touched by your confession. You had certainly played a strong role in his life for a few years but had yet to consider how much of an impact he had on your life. How much you must have obsessed over him getting in your way.

"Losing you made me realize something," you went on in honest. "I can't remember why I was on the roof that night. I don't remember what that machine was supposed to do. I lost sight of every goal outside of you and what you would do. You weren't an obstacle, you showing up was the goal."

"You mean... " Marcus was stunned, in a way he had never been before. "You did all those things for my attention?"

Your face grew warm. You were thankful for the low lighting, maybe he would not notice how embarrassed you truly were. You shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

"Yes, I--I guess so," you confessed, avoiding eye contact. "In hindsight, maybe I... maybe I subconsciously knew the only way to get your attention was to do all the things I did. I didn't actually kill anyone, you know."

"You just decimated cities and threatened the global population," Marcus sarcastically said, making you chuckle bitterly.

"I guess I peaked," you shrugged once again, trying your best to keep the sorrow from presenting itself.

You resisted the urge to reminisce about your best undertakings. Sure, hundreds were probably wounded, but you cause zero casualties. That had to count for something, right? You and Marcus shared a moment of silence. It was impossible to read him in the dark, even with how well you knew him.

"My point in all this is... " you rose to your feet with one final sigh, "without you, I have no reason to continue with all this." You held your hands out to him, your wrists pressed together. "So I'm turning myself in."

Marcus got to his feet fast, though he knew he had nothing secure to bind you within his home. The shock was still pouring over him and he had dropped his knife.

"Is this some way to trick me into fighting you one last time?" He could not help but ask.

"No," you shook your head with a bittersweet smile. "No games, no tricks. I'm not going to break out this time."

Marcus grabbed the first thing he could find, which so happened to be a throw blanket that was draped over the sofa. He tied the cloth around your wrists tightly, more as a gesture than as a means to keep you contained. He called the Heroics the moment he could find his phone.

"I should thank you, really," you broke the quiet that settled after he hung up the phone. "You brought meaning to life, for a little while, anyway. I, uh... I don't know what would've become of me without you."

Marcus had a hint at what you were implying. In some odd way, the hero saved even someone like you. All the scars he had because of you, the late nights, the close calls--it was all to save you from yourself. Maybe if another member of the Heroics had tried to defeat you on that rooftop, you wouldn't be here.

Bright lights flared on the street outside Marcus' house, accompanied by the loud sound of a jet engine. You knew what that meant, the Heroics were here to take you to their underground prison facility; your final resting place. 

You walked outside with Marcus trailing behind you. The jet's ramp fell open and armed officers rushed to seize hold of you and pull you aboard. You looked back at Marcus and gave a small nod.

"Congratulations," you told him. "You win."

He watched as the soldiers pulled you onto the jet and strapped you down to a seat. He got close enough and spoke loud enough so you could hear him over the engine. He called out,

"I'll be sure to visit!"

Your eyes lit up with joy at his promise. You did not know if he would keep his word, but it gave you hope. A bright smile etched its way onto your lips. Marcus watched from afar as one soldier gripped your skull and forced your head to the side with two hands. Another stabbed a needle into a vein on your neck with no regard for how much it hurt.

Your content smile slowly dissolved and your head fell as you were pulled into an unconscious state. The last thing you remember seeing was Marcus' face smiling at you; a sight you were happy with being your last.