A woman is making tea in apartment 57, 134 Sapphire Way. The clock on the microwave says that it’s 2:36 in the morning, but the woman is still far from sleep. She winces as she reaches for a mug, the bandages on her back and arm hiding the formidable muscles. The hospital only just let her go, even though she’s far from alright. But these visits have become all too common for the hero, and these injuries have become expected, routine almost. Another scar added to a collection that grows too quickly. When she was a girl, worshiping the heroes that flew through the news, defeating the impossible again and again, she had wondered why there was never anyone older. She knew why, now. It eats at you. Slowly at first, but it builds and builds until it’s all too much. Most retire early, live off their fame for a time before disappearing into anonymity. They take a new name, make a new life, far from the world they gave their souls to save. But too many don’t make it that far. Their stories, eulogies, and statues covered the city, a reminder that her wounds were the best outcome. She could see one of the statues from her balcony; the base on it said Riptide. It was a little sad, she thought, how only the memory of their heroics survived. He had been a hydromancer, she knew, and had died in his late twenties when a supervillain discovered his weakness to heat, but she wondered who he had been behind the mask. Did he leave behind a family? A lover? What brought him to the mask? Sometimes she imagined his life. Maybe he played soccer when he was younger. Perhaps he had an older brother to look up to. She wondered if he ever wanted to leave.
The tea kettle whistled on her stove, carrying her back to the present. The hero, who’s name is Brielle, pours a cup, and walks over to her couch when she hears a knock. She pauses, unsure who would be visiting at so late an hour, but after a minute, turns to answer. She opens the door, and freezes. Outside the door stands a woman she recognizes all too well. Brielle tenses, unsure what her nemesis, the villain she was fighting only this evening, the one who gave her these wounds, was doing outside her door. The woman in black looks up into her eyes, and the hero, to her surprise, sees no enmity there. The hazel eyes are filled with confusion, pain, fear, and, for some reason, a little bit of hope. The hero opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, the other woman sways, clutching her side with a hand. Suddenly worried, Brielle reaches out to steady the woman, who leans heavily on her. Closer, her face is very pale, and her breathing is uneven. She can barely stand, and then collapses completely, but Brielle catches her before she hits the ground. She’s surprisingly light, and feels fragile in Brielle’s arms as she carries the other woman to her couch. She notices, with a stab of guilt, that the woman’s hand is covering a large, bloody stain on her trench coat, probably from their fight. She lays the woman down, and gets bandages from her cabinet.
As she pulls off the bloody overcoat, Brielle thinks about how strange the situation seems. Not even an hour ago, she gave the woman the wound she’s now treating. Not for the first time, she wonders why her nemesis came here. Surely anywhere else would have been safer? But then it hits her, fast and hard as a slap. The memory device she had gotten from the Enchanter. She had told him he needed a solution. A way to keep the villain out of the game, but Brielle couldn’t bring herself to take a life. This had been his solution; create a spell that would take her memory of the city and of what she had done. It had seemed elegant at the time, a clean, simple solution. No blood shed, no collateral damage. But now that she was looking at the consequences, the person she did affect, she felt horrible. She finished patching her up, and then, knowing that she should try to get some sleep before the pain killers wore off, covered the woman on her couch in a spare blanket, and tried to go to sleep193Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2md5otLLZN
