► alias: frostflower ► power: water manipulation (ice) ► day job: helps at his parent's bathhouse; a NEET ► background: Yuri's hero story is fairly unremarkable: a late-bloom of his talent, a predilection towards anxiety, and a huge amount of hero-worship towards the most famous hero in the city. all of this coupled with an innate sense of perfectionism and a distaste for losing meant that despite his late start Yuri adapted to his new powers quickly, bringing them under control with hard-earned precision.
but his ice was brittle, fragile, lacking in power. told, kindly, that he was probably better suited to the commercial sector, Yuri fell into a slump that saw him vowing off his ice altogether. but he couldn't resist it, couldn't keep it from manifesting like second nature, his everyday use of it so thoroughly embedded into his bones.
it started off entirely by accident: a mugging, a quick hand movement, ice across the man's eyes. in the welter of gratitude that followed, Yuri realised that while raw power would never be his, control and creativity would be his strengths. and so he played to them, climbing doggedly through the ranks, seeking always to improve himself, leaving no challenge unanswered (though not always bested).
his own limited sense of self-worth keeps him from realising how popular he is; the truth is that Yuri's easily within the city's top ten. but it's not enough. it may never be enough.
( Victor tests the knots used to keep the rope around his wrists taunt, not needing to feign a frown as he twists his wrists and flexes his fingers to encourage circulation. these people aren't used to tying living things up; or if they are, they're used to leaving them damaged. it's enough that he's considering the merit of flopping over on his side and freeing his ankle to pull out the thin razor blade tucked into his shoe.
"There wasn't supposed to be anyone at the dead drop. What the fuck are you doing, bringing this asshole here?"
"I don't know, I panicked! What else was I supposed to do? You didn't say it was a dead drop, hombre, you just said there was information that I gotta pick up. Then there's this guy walking through at around the right time, so bam! Of course I pick that shit up. Didn't fucking know there was gonna be a whole party listenin' in while I shoved him in the car!"
"You didn't knock him out?"
"The fucker fought back! I got him in the goddamn car, didn't I?"
the grumbling and arguing tapered off, Victor staying calm. most the time when he ran these kinds of operations, he relied on his skill with suggestive illusions to allow people to see what they most wanted, expected, or desired to see. the problem was that worked wholesale, and his first time in with this rat's nest of a network trafficking in people, drugs, guns, and information between the established Personalities in the underbelly of Providence City, Victor had been undercover in his streetclothes. just Victor Nikiforov, shelter volunteer and soup kitchen cook with odd hours at the secondhand bookstore close to where he lived. people theorized he was some strange sort of trustfund baby; he seems to make ends meet, and he's a nice enough dude, if a little self involved. he was responsible for at least one mural in the less affluent parts of town, and had worked in choreography off and on with the rundown highschool and community center, favouring the at risk kids.
he was shit at remembering names. everyone knew that, too. just like they knew he wasn't the most reliable guy, though he tried hard, and he had a cute dog.
Silverstar, on the other hand, was a shining standard of reliable. it was the balance, and his balance had long, long been heavy on keeping the Hero at the forefront of everyone's mind, while the boy, who became the teenager, who became the man was simply a morphing canvas of the same ideals. he's never let his image change much, not as Silverstar; one advantage to being able to manipulate light and perception were the illusions he could generate, but unlike a true illusionist, his were relegated to what he himself could appear to be. which, in some circumstances, was invisible; but that was also a trick of making himself enough of the background people stopped noticing him.
Silverstar, who'd started out in the juniors of the heroes at just seven. who'd risen through the ranking when it was found he had an affinity for not just one power, but at least two; it was unknown what they were, because the only one that had manifested early on had been the sputtering sparks of light that danced along with him, responding to a child's emotional heart. truly manipulating light, and manipulating temperature; those had come later, with the hard hit of puberty. unlike the hero he waited for now, he couldn't generate ice; he couldn't freeze large bodies of water without expending a significant amount of energy: an exorbitant amount if he was going to freeze anything swiftly. he was, as it turned out, much better at generating fog, or rain, or hail, or even snow, depending on surrounding humidity. localised flurries, or gentle affairs; paired with light manipulation that allowed him to almost hide himself in plain sight and his ability to cause temporary blindness through a blocking of light or the sudden, painful burst of it, he could be a versatile force in multiple environments.
his fourth ability wasn't talked about, because to most, it didn't even register. to Victor, it was better left alone.
flashy, showy, skilled; trained in hand to hand combat and eschewing most weaponry, he was athletic and fast and hard hitting and hard to see coming; while he had no healing factor and no super senses, as far as his public persona cared to show, he also had no fear.
not entirely accurate, but he did take risks, and what he considered to be an acceptable level of risk has been sharply driving upward the last year and a half. even this, right now; sitting with his short hair and his long bangs, skin imperfect yet eyes the same striking blue they were while Silverstar? it's a risk.
usually when he does these sting operations, he doesn't let himself seem the same to the people involved. not to the heroes, not to the low rung ladder minions, not to the midlevels, not even to the fat cats sitting on their criminal empires. when he enters as Silverstar, that's when he's known. when he's digging for information, when he's gong undercover? he's unknown.
except this time. Victor's eyes idly slide toward the doors, tensing as he wonders if that is indeed frost creeping across the pane. Silverstar's abilities are too well known. he's too visible; he's too easy to track, and has been, for years. it's why he can't do this in uniform, but this dragging in of Frostflower again and again while wearing the same face?
he shouldn't. he knows better, for both their sakes; should be changing so that Frostflower has no idea who he is each time either. should be. should be. but he isn't.
Victor Nikiforov wears a different face for every person in his life. by the time he realised there was anyone he didn't want to do this with, by the time he caught on to the fact he was falling for the most amazing, least confident hero in the city (some reports may be exaggerated due to inherent bias), he was already caught in his own conundrum.
his powers generated an illusion of what someone wanted most. and for once in his eccentric, chaotic life, he wanted to be wanted for him.
it just turns out he'd gone about trying to find that in the worst possible way. )
Five kidnappings has to be some sort of record... hey, guys? Can a guy ask for a bathroom break? Please? By the way, I can't feel my hands so well, would you consider retying me after a visit to the... appealing bucket you've set up in the corner of the warehouse. Ah.
( heroing's a pretty steady line of work, most of the time. crime tends to run in patterns. in waves. there are three organisations that Yuri knows of who are dedicated solely to tracking these patterns and alerting those who need to know; he assumes there are more, whether linked or opposing or standalone. it's just one of those unspoken things. typically he finds that crime's the worst when he has something he wants to do. binge on tv, for example. he's always right up to the cliffhanger when his phone goes off.
there's been an upswing in activity lately, rising steadily for an unseen crest. Yuri doesn't start anything he might not immediately be able to finish: tv shows, games, conversations. he just bides his time, helping his family out, and waits for the calls.
at least today he's not in the bathroom when the alert comes in. he unlocks his phone; it automatically screens him through retinal and fingerprint confirmation while he makes his apologies to his sister and heads to his room. in fact there's three alerts, of varying difficulties, and he takes the time to check on them all:
- an armed robbery, seven blocks away - there are soft pings to indicate other heroes zeroing in on that one, so Yuri leaves it be;
- a ram raid and an old-fashioned mob-vs-mod standoff on the other side of the city, by the docks, already being taken up by others closer than he;
- a drug ring and kidnapping, eastside, with others near to help but of a lower level than even Yuri.
there's a snippet of cctv footage attached to the last, bursting onto his screen as he opens a locked false floorboard and pulls out his kit. Yuri sighs in resignation as he recognises the victim: Victor Nikiforov. again.
(crimes tend to run in patterns. lately it seems like victims do, too.)
part of him is tempted to leave it to the others, thinks that there'll be other high-level heroes en route within short enough order, but then another alert pops up: a bank robbery this time, close to the Mayor's private residence on a rest day that's almost guaranteed to have the woman herself at home and therefore potentially vulnerable. hero-dots light up on the map and there's no prize for guessing where they congregate.
Yuri sighs again, taps the kidnapping blot to announce his intent, and sallies forth.
unfortunately the diversion of the big robbery means that intel is mostly pulled from his own job and Yuri's left to case it out more or less alone. that's not his strong point. he does well enough, however; half the crew seems shaken and he takes advantage of their distractions to take a few out with minimal effort. people don't tend to look for black ice in summer. he divests one of their burner phone when he has them trussed up and tossed literally to the kerb for pick-up, but there's nothing much useful on it that he can decipher so he leaves that too.
the best he can make out is that the ball is rolling, which means he has a limited timeframe to get in and out before the goons' backup arrives and he's in hot water. Yuri sighs a third time and scopes out the array of derelict buildings they'd been guarding; again, not his forte, but with only weak (if creative) icework to his name otherwise, he's had to learn a few trade skills the old-fashioned way. he's nearly surprised by another guard and only manages to take them out after taking a painful blow to his ribs. it leaves him wheezing and pissed off and Yuri's none too gentle as he grips the man's face, leans in, and puckers up to blow a ghosting trail of frigid air along his lips to freeze them shut. it's the most effective gag he has on hand; cable ties, however, more than suffice for the trussing.
there's only one stairway down. there always only one stairway down. it's always where The Goods are hidden. when will these people learn a little creativity? he shouldn't complain, since it makes his job a little easier, but they all start to blur into one after a while. Yuri listens to the conversation on the side of the door as he sets a careful palm against it, freezing a seal over it from this side. then he quietly, carefully backtracks, pulling himself into the air ducts with a gymnast's grace. it takes more time than he'd like to crawl through but he has to be as silent as he can. there's no grate above the room he needs, just a broken section that gives him a sugar cube's worth of vision in. it's enough to see his rescuee; Yuri concentrates and a razor-sharp sliver of ice quietly cuts most of the way through the ropes around Victor's wrists.
the guy's been kidnapped enough lately that he ought to have some sense of what to do in these situations. hopefully. though he does still end up in them despite the experience...
someone's phone beeps with a message and this is the point where Yuri needs to move. frost blankets the side of the duct he's in, rapid and burning cold; the metal goes so brittle between that and its initial disrepair that he can kick through it without too much trouble. it rains down in shards and he makes use of the distraction to freeze spikes across his knuckles, laying them brutally into one man's face. there's a stunned scrambling as the other three attempt to rally around his intrusion. Yuri twists between them, dropping to a leg-sweep, rising back with snapping kick, through another jagged-ice punch. it's messy and ugly. at one point he gives Victor a clear look: stay put. for all he'd wish the other man would gain some self-awareness, he's not about to risk getting him injured if he can help it. that's Yuri's job.
not that he really gets paid for it, but. the perqs are okay.
eventually - more quickly than it feels - he manages to get them subdued. it's not without a toll for the young hero, dripping from cuts, glad he'd managed to freeze the guns turned on him before they could be fired, bruised and limping from a nasty kick to his knee. nothing's broken, though. maybe fractured. it could be worse. there's no time to worry. )
C'mon, ( he pants and grabs Victor by one arm, door clicking open ahead of them as his ice fades save for a rudimentary lockpick of it. he can hear cars approaching; from the engine sound, Yuri doesn't think they're anybody he's waiting on. he hisses in frustration and changes direction, dragging Victor with him and onto a patch of ice big enough only for their strides, more ice forming makeshift blades under his shoes. the faster they're out of here, the better; he'd signed on to halt a kidnapping, not an entire drug ring. Yuri casts a frustrated look over his shoulder while simultaneously checking to see if he needs to just carry the other man out of here. which. he hopes not. Victor's taller than him and Yuri's injured.
but if it has to be done, he'll do it. )
Seriously, Victor? Again?
( the reproach would probably pull off better if he wasn't so winded. Yuri redoubles his withering look to make up for it instead. )
( he feels the moment his bindings loosen, the ropes going slack, but not falling free. he doesn't look up; he doesn't look anywhere than he already was, finishing his complaint even as his hands begin to work together, twisting until he's caught the rope. slowly, he rubs his wrists together, encouraging the circulation back into them. refrains from showcasing the glint of relief that comes with realising for certain it was Frostflower who responded; he'd hoped, but plans and strings pulled at watcher organisations to keep track of the interests of several different groups doesn't mean his probabilities will pay off.
it's nice when they do.
he doesn't react enough when Frostflower enters the scene proper; jerks his head to the side and issues a low whistle, one that turns into a cluck of his tongue as he thinks, You're in more trouble than you know. he dispenses with the illusion of hands tied behind his back, glad for the shortsightedness that left his legs free as he shifts forward, not blinking in the face of the sudden, stark violence.
this is the life he's lived for longer than he remembers anything else. this is the unglamourous side; the side that PR from the regulated heroes board has told him he's not allowed to associate with. he's too much a face for Providence City. he's their pretty face, and he knows it. or at least Silverstar is. Victor's not really sure what he is, other than being played out on a leash he knows is tethered to a point he cannot see.
it matters less right now, when he feels like he's doing something even as the man fighting is Frostflower. a misleading name, and yet apt on others; there was a fascination to watching him fight, to the subtle, brutal methodology he employed. capitalising on what he had, and crafting it into an artform.
not without a cost. Victor stayed put to keep Frostflower from being distracted, even as he braces himself and tucks his chin in, ready to cut in if he needs to. there are the costs they all pay, and there's the line that takes it to too much. he won't let someone cross that line just because Victor runs his own manipulations in this city, to recapture, to retain that sense of helping the people he's been increasingly separated from as the years stretch longer. you're not as young as you used to be.
he's also not dead, but oh, who cares about that? let the fifty year olds who look like boxers and who swear blue streaks keep themselves on the streets in costume. not Victor. no, more appropriately, not Silverstar. officially, his street identity was as technically classified as anyone else's. it was an individual's choice to bridge that distance between cape and street. it's also irrelevant; Victor moves when Frostflower takes his arm, concentrating on the sound of those approaching cars and finding himself frowning. too many. that's more than he estimated, even being overgenerous. this dead drop must have been closer to the heart than he'd thought; Victor thinks this over as he keeps up, meeting Yuri's initial withering glance with a blank look that swiftly morphs into something genuinely sheepish. )
Again. It's a case of chronic bad timing. I keep wondering who they think they'll be ransoming me from.
( no one. standardly speaking, it'd end with him six feet under if they were kind enough to bury him. he doesn't explain, instead reaching forward and gesturing to their left, eyes flitting to the direction the engines are starting to stall. )
Left. It sounds like they came in from the main street, that left alley isn't wide enough to get a car down. They'll have to be on foot. How obvious are the guys out front?
( how obvious had Frostflower laid the red carpet out for impending three ring circus rolling up in their vehicles. )
( Yuri makes as little comment as possible, concentration divided between their escape, the throbbing pain of his injuries, and the crackling information coming through on his implanted earbud. his handler knows when to relay and when to wait for Yuri to respond: right now it's rapidfire bursts of intel that Yuri nods along with absently.
he jukes them down the indicated alley, not bothering to ask why Victor knows so much about the layout of the area when he can't pay enough attention to keep himself safe. he doesn't ask, either, why he assumes Yuri's laid all the rest of the goons out. there isn't time. )
Most were picked up by crews en route to another callout. There's a couple by the warehouse proper. Probably bought us a minute, tops.
( but there's the element of surprise to be factored in, too, and Yuri's confident that their effective headstart is closer to two minutes. that'll be enough. it'll have to be.
he slides to a stop at the far mouth of the alley, holding Victor back with one arm. ice forms across the way, a small and clear mirror Yuri uses to check. there's nobody around - nobody. even the usual dodgy dealers have been moved on. that makes him nervous but there's no time to worry.
reading his silence, his handler doles out more information and Yuri smothers a curse. five vehicles. big players. time to move.
and fast.
he glances speculatively up at the rooftops, two and three stories above them. )
( Victor has to run this without handlers; but he has to do that for anything when he isn't in Silverstar's uniform. Yuri's handler is the only one they have; then again, what's Victor supposed to know about that?
he still nods, as if everything that was just said makes sense. it does. even to laypeople in the city, it can make sense. the structures of the heroes and the villains here are patterns observed and lived with by everyone. an awareness is almost incidental, if you track the communities. nothing codified, of course.
that wouldn't do. )
Oh, a time or two.
( but he smiles, and there's a sharp edge; the adrenaline spike at the question has his eyes lighting up. has him tamping down on the very light that wants to spill from his fingers, rise like dozens of tiny fireflies from his skin. he can't. but he can't fully keep the light out of his eyes, almost too ethereal a blue in the odd light of the alley. )
No time like the present to see what I remember.
( people are emerging from vehicles. it's not a subtle sort of confusion they're walking into. nor is there going to be any physical evidence left behind for most their injuries. gotta admire the impromptu use of ice; it sure does melt away any evidence. as it is, Victor simply waits on is cue and direction from Frostflower. even if he didn't have faith in his abilities, he's the one with a handler. )
( Yuri makes a cradle of his hands and braces himself, quirking an eyebrow first at Victor, then at the roof. he could use ice for this but it's worth risking physicality first, when he can feel his stamina dropping. they're going to need all he has in a few seconds; already he can hear shouts of anger and alarm from the scene of their escape.
in his ear Phichit reads numbers and confirmations, tone a little urgent. Yuri takes a deep breath. )
Up, up, and then away we go.
( there's a bit of scrambling, thankfully some teamwork, and then they're both on the rooftop. Yuri hears pounding feet and doesn't bother looking back. he steadies a hand on Victor's shoulder, too distracted by his own work to notice the new colour they've taken; in a split second they're both standing on narrow blades of ice. there's another half-second pause where he checks Victor's balance, says a rueful goodbye to his relative anonymity in this bust, and starts laying down an ice path along the rooftops.
it's much thicker than he'd been doing on the ground and Yuri can feel the cold set into his bones. not a good sign. one he ignores in favour of grabbing Victor by the wrist and tugging him along. )
Here's hoping you remember fast!
( there's a gap coming up and Yuri waits for the last second to bridge it. there's something perversely exciting about this, if he forgets that they're running (or skating) for their lives. when they clear the other side he has to repress a laugh, wincing as it catches the pain in his ribs. )
( he loves this. it's been too long, he thinks, since he's gotten to be in this kind of thick of it; working to get them both on the roof, adjusting to the sudden presence of ice-blades on his shoes, finding the familiarity of balancing is there, his as usual. he's been skating, a time or two or more. many, many more.
this is still not like any skating he's done; there's a thrill he doesn't bother denying, only titanium will holding back on reacting in ways that will tear his own relative anonymity to shreds. he doesn't hesitate; Yuri tugs him forward, and he moves, leaning into the motion and turning his hand so that he's clasping Yuri's wrist in turn.
he's smiling. smiling and he knows it, clamping down on everything else as they clear to the other side, leaning in to Yuri and nodding, eyes flashing before he's looking forward, other hand a light touch on Yuri's shoulder. )
Always.
( and he keeps moving, smooth and self-assured in a way he probably shouldn't be; though Yuri has more finesse, to anyone watching. Victor hadn't been fighting. his energy level is fine, probably almost too much, when he's being this relatively reserved. it makes him far too eager a skating partner, though he doesn't pull ahead. they need to make the distance set at Frostflower's pace.
a gunshot rings out in the distance behind them, but it's not at roof level; down low, with no second shot fired. someone leaping at shadows, reigned back in by a superior. I need to get back to that drop box, see what's left over. They'll be moving things even now, but this stuff... it can't hit the wider market. there are drugs, and there are drugs. this one is bad news. and it's getting ignored, because other threats look more real.
ironic, that his street life is the only way he even pinged to this. more heavily ironic that he suspects now it's far more interlinked with the different fat cats sitting in the underbelly of Providence Cty; but he needs the proof, or no one will approve any action. and it's been slow going, slow, slow going, though each one of his run ins with Frostflower is adding to the growing documentation on hand to indicate that it is a problem. that it's not just Silverstar seeing ghosts and shadows where there's nothing more than the usual pattern going through another settling period as the seasons shift and the crimes change tempo to adapt. )
Time to get groundside. ( though the way he looks at Yuri indicates that he's waiting for his handler to agree; people with better information access than those on site, in the scene. it's followed by a surreptitious glance down to Yuri's knee, and a tight lipped frown that Victor allows himself. ) How's your knee holding up?
( sometimes - on his darkest days - the young man known to most as Frostflower dreams of something so simple as this. it's easier to just throw out his ice and fairly dance along it than worry about the gunshots, or what a bust of this size indicates, or what's happening across the rest of the city as Phichit chatters away in his ear. he pulls faster, unable to hold back the wild grin when he feels Victor keeping up. ludicrous as the situation is, something in it hits that tenuous balance of perfect, just for a second.
then he's forming another ice bridge, a slope to a lower story, and feels the cold move right into his marrow. not good; he's starting to overextend. but while their retreat isn't particularly stealthy any more, it has been swift. Yuri hooks them into a righthand curve towards the main centre of the city. )
Don't try and be sensible now, Victor. Four more blocks and there's a station; I'll drop you there.
( frankly, the knee is the least of Yuri's worries. he wants to get there fast, even if it exhausts him. he's out for a few days anyway. this won't hurt him much more. )
( he'd argue he's been relatively sensible this whole time; but from Frostflower's perspective, he hasn't, and it's not an argument that means much coming from Victor Nikiforov, five time kidnapping champion. that it's a bit of a sticky mess getting handed off to a station is something he keeps to himself. Yuri's doing his job. he doesn't need to make it more difficult than he already is. )
Whatever you say, boss. You're the guy with the little birdie chatting in your ear, after all.
( he winks, leaning into the curve and allowing himself to smile. getting called to the carpet when his name shows up on civvie reports is something he'll have to deal with on Yakov's front, but it might mean people finally listening. him getting cut out, too; but he was running on a thin line as it was.
maybe it was that, facing the certainty that his effectiveness was about to be undercut again that has him laugh; a sharp, unfettered sound paired with a grin that's more daring and challenge than anything else. everything is lived in brief moments outracing the politics that've mired him down; facing what lines he won't cross, and what keeps him standing where he is most days, facing the world from behind a domino mask and a pleasant smile only as genuine as he's allowed to be. right now, even catalouging and categorizing the threat that Frostflower had just skated them away from, he feels more succinctly alive than he has in a long time.
it's a dangerous feeling. it's addictive. and he knows it's the kind of drug he needs to stay away from, pulling in tight on that heady emotion so it doesn't shine past his heart. )
Asks the hero who engaged in hand to hand combat and then skated himself and a tagalong out of certain danger toward the heart of the city! Overachiever. Don't worry about me.
( he pulls on a thick accent then, stereotypically Russian as he says: )
( Victor's lucky they're still sort-of skating for their lives right now, because Yuri has a powerful urge to freeze his flapping mouth shut. he settles for rolling his eyes instead. )
Worrying about you is my job. Don't want me to do it? Don't get kidnapped for the fifth time.
( the rebuke won't do any good, he's sure, and it's hard to get the words out when his lungs are starting to seize up from exertion, but Yuri feels better for saying it. as they carve across the rooftops Yuri tries not to wonder at the always-jarring juxtaposition of Victor's constant kidnapped state, his seemingly happy-go-lucky attitude to the situation, and the insight he pulls out at the most random times. there's a puzzle here, Yuri knows it; he's just not sure if he wants to be the one to complete it. a mystery isn't always a challenge. sometimes it's a warning.
there's plenty of action around the station when they arrive above it. Yuri extends the ice past the roof, listening absently to Phichit relaying their information to the desk ahead them. the ice on their shoes melts away as they descend to ground level, sheer bloodyminded determination on Yuri's behalf keeping it graceful enough that they don't jar on landing. that's a solid 97% of his energy burned for the day, he thinks wryly. )
Come on-- ( he's interrupted by the sound of sirens howling a warning down the street and a fresh wave of information inside his ear. in front of anybody else Yuri would keep up the gameface; since Victor is a sort of comfortable annoyance, he allows himself a short groan before he points very firmly at the station door. ) --Give them the details, what you can remember. Tell them they'll get my report later. Sorry; I've got to go.
( the situation at the bank is worsening. there might not be a lot of work there for Yuri, especially since he's already so close to maxed out, but more hands on deck never hurts. he doesn't look back as he sets off at a jog, catching a lift with the next police vehicle by virtue of jumping to the van's tailgate. at the very least he'll be one more pair of eyes on the situation; sometimes that's all it takes. )
( kind to not want to obstruct a means of breathing during a period of intense exercise, Yuri, truly you are a saint of self restraint.
Victor refrains from any commentary on this being a duty and a calling, not a job; both are true, in a sense. still. the job of protection belongs to the police; the very people he's being left with. Victor keeps quiet on that, too. he knows what it's like from Frostflower's side of the cowl. moreover, he knows, he can feel, how Yuri means it.
no part of him wants to take that away. if anything, it's exactly what he wants to protect, if he were in any position to protect another hero's idealism. )
Be careful of that knee!
( is what he calls out with a wave and a half-smile, watching Yuri take his leave. he doesn't have much of a choice, but to turn and walk into the building, navigating the crush of people and activity to speak with the officer in charge of processing intakes and statements. they're in a crush and dealing with a shootout by the docks and the ongoing situation at the bank; there are hostages, he hears from the chatter flitting past, and he grits his teeth while he stays in his chair.
up until he's forced to look up the length of an imposing looking woman, her uniform immaculate. "Mr. Nikiforov? We have a call come through for you. You shouldn't go worrying people. Another twelve hours and we'd have to open a missing person's case."
the severity of her expression provokes some of his genuine surprise; and a sense of outrage he tamps down on, because in a sense, he's being warned, and he knows it. if this is the worst he has to deal with, he's getting off light. so instead he laughs, under his breath, rubbing the back of his head and looking sheepish. )
Sorry, sorry, I didn't know anyone was so worried... what phone is this on?
( she gestures for him to stand, cutting across the bullpen and toward one of the offices at the back. "My desk, but it's impossible to hear anything right now. I'll transfer them back to the detective's office." a short demonstration of the phone: "Pick up when this light here starts blinking," and he's left in the small office with the shades partially drawn, allowing him a shuttered look out into the controlled chaos of the people who's real job was to protect the peace.
some days he feels more like he's the theatrics, part of the problem that keeps the real hard hits from being seen. that's not the truth. he knows better. it's the feeling that's hard to shake off.
the light blinks and he picks up, answering automatically: )
It's me.
( greeted by Georgi's voice in turn, not Yakov's. so his handler in training, and not the man who's shaped and influenced most of his "career." Georgi was talented in his own right as a reader; his ability to spot patterns and read the emotion of an individual or crowd was compelling, but also overwhelming. he liked guiding from the background; was invaluable in ways for directing Victor when he was controlled enough in cowl that most found getting a read on him difficult, let alone when to push, plead, cajole, or outright argue.
Georgi was great at the dramatics. it left Victor feeling right at home, especially when he didn't go as over the top as his handler.
"We're sending SB to pick you up. You've been out of contact all day, Vitya, we've been worried. Showing up at a station with a hero's tagline on a kidnapping situation?"
Georgi clucks his tongue, then sighs, voice dropping lower as he switches for a more serious tone. "We're calling you in. Our esteemed lady is asking for an escort." meaning he was on Mayor duty as a handoff; likely it meant the chatter was that the situation would be handled in a way that was going to need an immediate response from the Mayor. nothing he could even resent. he understood the need, if not calling him in for this.
not unless they were asking for him to intercede. )
Got it, got it. I'll meet SB out front and head on back. Missed you too, Princess.
( Georgi laughs; Victor can imagine the flick of his fingers that follows when he says, "Still not my type, Vitya, but you're sweet. Never give up hope. You'll find someone one of these days." or find himself pining after someone he can't even manage to meet up for coffee. six of one, half dozen of another.
he leaves the office, finding the sergeant who'd taken him back and flashing her a smile and a thank you. she waves him off after taking down his address and phone number; they'd call tomorrow for his report, but right now they had other things to address. "Get yourself home. No running, either; though this isn't the first report I'm seeing with your name on it, Mr. Nikiforov." he offers a helpless shrug and a laugh, but no explanation. easier to let her fill in the blanks to what that might mean, when on paper, it all looks relatively minor.
he hits the pavement and picks a direction, walking fast and assured until he hits an alley he casually sidesteps into. Chris is already there, the black and crimson of his costume catching a glint of the failing light. Speedsters were something else. Chris had just about every appetite a man could have, and then some; his smile tonight is tight, eyes strained. probably hasn't eaten enough, Victor determines, even as he accepts the bag from his fellow hero's hands and calls the light to him, bending it around. essentially invisible, he strips down and starts pulling on gear, speaking. )
What are we running ourselves into?
( Chris scoffs, holding out the earpiece that Victor accepts once he's clothed, keeping his light bending in place. Georgi is a little voice in his ear before long, only exchanged briefly for a terse statement from Yakov; the hostage situation was getting worse. what no one wanted known was that the Mayor's son was there at the bank; he was glimpsed amoung the hostages held in the inner safe room, where the oxygen was running low. asking after the heavy hitters showed most weren't even in the city, and the chance of incidental death was too high; it was a joint effort, and taking down the organised group was a police and hero double hitter. police holding the perimeter and working the negotiations, while the heroes were infiltrating and providing cover when shots were being exchanged.
not exactly a successful robbery, but definitely a successful play at something. Victor pulls on his personal illusion, stroking his fingers through the length of it to pull it up in a ponytail. Chris will be running them in to the Mayor's location. )
How long until they spring the trap?
( "Talking to the invisible man never gets more exciting when you fail to do anything creative with it, Silverstar. The trap springs once we're in place — with the Mayor." )
So it's handholding therapy again tonight?
( "It's your own fault for being her favourite. Come on." Chris held open his arms, Victor staring and laughing, shaking his head. he has to let go. he also isn't allow Chris to carry him princess style in his arms. )
Piggyback, please.
( with a sigh and glance skyward, Chris made some comment about bare backs and Russian into things, meanwhile allowing Victor his particular perch. they're off, and Victor delivered in full Silverstar glory, to the guarded, temporary safehouse as the Mayor continues demanding to be allowed on the scene.
ah. this is really why he's here. it's a fifteen minute delay and calming session with the Mayor before he's walking both of them out of the safe house and toward the choke point where the seniormost officer, a detective from the downtown police station, is coordinating waiting for the chief of police. Silverstar allows his light bending to relax, seemingly manifesting himself and the Mayor by the mobile station, keeping a hand on her shoulder until they're fully revealed.
it's just his civic duty to listen to his elected officials, isn't it? she wanted to be here, with the command center, while the move was made by heroes she meets a handful of times in a year rescue her son and the other hostages. seems like a fair trade to Victor, even if he can do no more than stand at her side, listening and watching in turn.
Be careful, Frostflower. he can hear the order go out for the run in; the distraction, the bullets that will or won't be shot, and the front attack that's a feint for the team going in relying on their own skills to get to the hostages and keep the oxygen flowing into the safe.
he opens his eyes, listening to the reports coming in quickfire, as all hell breaks loose. )
( one of the regulars passes Yuri a boost pill as they trundle towards the bank, which he accepts with a resigned sigh. these things always leave him knocked out for days; at least that's the direction he was already heading in to begin with. he asks for some strapping once they've alighted and the team medic obliges with a sympathetic look that doesn't get him pulled from the action. he tapes his knee up as best he can under the circumstances, feeling the unnatural energy of the pill start to shudder down his veins, almost masking the cold in his bones.
in his experience, an all-heroes no-pity callout like this means it's political somehow. Yuri hates when it's political.
at least he has Phichit looking out for him, his handler cheerfully but firmly dealing with his moodcrash by guiding Yuri to where there's food being handed out. using superpowers looks cool but burns through energy at a disturbing metabolic rate. ham sandwiches aren't exciting; he feels better after three of them, though, and trudges off to find a team leader who can give him something to do. sieges aren't Yuri's forte. he lacks the firepower to be of much use, especially when he's already wrung-out. at best he might be able to slip a few of them up, Yuri thinks, impatiently waiting for direction.
he's still loitering when the Mayor turns up, Silverstar radiant at her side, and in that moment it's almost worth fending off the pain and exhaustion. Yuri's not the only one who gasps at such a simple wonder; he's equally sure he's not the only one with a newly elevated heartrate. Silverstar isn't Providence City's darling hero just for his success rate, after all. and maybe that's shallow, but people have long been swayed by penultimate beauty in any form. it's why art exists in the first place. why people make music. why people dance.
it's a good thing the mask across his eyes covers most of his blush, that's all.
there are a few other heroes Yuri recognises, having worked for the betterment of the city for years; not all of them he knows well, or gets along with, but he nods to those he does. Scarlet Blaze - Chris Giacometti, powerful and blase enough to go public with his identity - wanders over to chat, looking tired. Yuri passes him half a sandwich and points him in the direction of the food, trying not to flinch away from the way Chris rewards him with a ruffling of his hair like Yuri's still some wet-behind-the-ears kid. well, maybe he is, at that.
resolutely he forces his eyes back to the situation he needs to focus on instead of admiring the way Silverstar manages to stand so poised and perfect in the chaos that surrounds him. one day, Yuri wants to have that kind of confidence for himself. but he's got a long way to go to get there.
everything happens at once when the Mayor and her shining bodyguard arrive on-scene. there's no time left for Yuri to wistfully moon from a faraway distance of fifty metres. with surprising coordination officers and heroes move into action, handling the failing negotiations, encroaching as stealthily as possible towards the breaking point. in the midst he stands taut and ready for action, not knowing when or what he'll be doing. that's the problem in situations like this, when you're not a power-hitter: nobody's quite sure how to utilise you most effectively. even Yuri doesn't always know.
he takes Phichit's advice and gets some height, a better view of the field. the quiet on the other end of the line tells him that his handler is deep into some research, some cunning plan. Yuri doesn't interrupt to ask what he's up to, just watches the scene and stays as ready as he can. false energy still buzzes uncomfortably through him, foot tapping restlessly. Phichit's voice in his ear almost has Yuri jumping off his perch: "is Chris still around? I may have a plan."
looking around, it's not hard to spot the speedster, still loitering in the shadow of Silverstar's wake. Yuri's already moving as he sends back an affirmative and Phichit continues.
"if we can get you inside, I've found a structural weakness in the vault. but...Frostflower, you're gonna have to go cold. like, really cold. dangerously."
ah. of course. )
How cold are we talking?
( there's a fidgeting sound from the other end and a rodentlike squeak in the background. "super cold. colder than you've ever done before. the vault is reinforced up to anything standard, temperature-wise, but if we can take it below its limit the mechanism fails completely. might not open the door entirely, but it should at least crack it, buy the people inside some breathing room."
so not a guns-blazing situation; fine. Yuri can still read the hesitation in Phichit's calm. )
Give me a figure here, Phichit. How cold.
( he reaches Chris at the same time his handler confesses, "negative six hundred Kelvin," which means that instead of a cool greeting the other hero gets Yuri's hand on his shoulder and then a strangled noise of horror. it earns Yuri a curious look but he's too distracted trying to form a protest.
Phichit is already steamrolling ahead.
"you've done close to that before! taking away the leverage of the hostages is the easiest way to defuse it, Frostflower. everyone else is too focused on saving the Mayor's son, they're not thinking about their resources properly." more firmly, he adds, "you can do this. if anyone can, it's you.")
Yeah, maybe on a day when I haven't already burned myself ou-- Sorry, Chris, just a sec-- haven't already burned myself out on another hostage situation, and even then it'd be a stretch!
( there's silence from the handler's end as he waits for Yuri to think it through; silence, also, from Chris and his curiously raised eyebrows. Yuri sucks in a deep breath and puts his hands over his eyes, willing his head to think clearly and take proper stock of his condition. his heart's hammering a little too hard but that's to be expected after the boost pill. the chill in the heart of him is still there, but warming a little after this brief respite. it doesn't hurt any more, at least. his leg does, and his stance is a little shaky, but that's fine. if this goes as Phichit hopes, it's not his legs Yuri will be using.
he takes a deep breath and turns to Chris again. )
How charged are you? Can you get me in there before they have a chance to notice?
( Chris gives him a cautious look and the answer Yuri needs to not turn back. "take the ducting," Phichit suggests, tuning into Chris' earpiece as well so both heroes can hear him, already relaying the nearest access point. it's not hard to find; there are offices stationed by it and heroes trying to decide how best to utilise it. "you can get right outside the vault door. if Chris can guard you, there's limited access into that point from the bank proper.")
All right. All right; it's worth a shot. Phichit, work out the timing between the main event so we're not interfering with anybody there.
( that leaves him another minute to hustle off to find another boost pill, lying through his teeth that yes, this is his first of the day, bringing back another couple of sandwiches to share with Chris. they're both going to need all the energy they can get. all this effort just so people can breathe...
...but it's what he signed up for. as Phichit settles the timeline and he and Chris finish eating, Yuri takes another deep breath and nods. piggybacking is never dignified, but at least they're soon moving too fast for it to be the subject of much attention. the Scarlet Blaze is no slouch, after all, taking at least part of his name from the way he leaves heat trails in his wake at top speed. even the narrow confines of the ducting isn't enough to slow him appreciably, dragging Yuri behind him until they're kicking out a grating and dropping in. Chris immediately sets to work on the surprised guard. Yuri steels himself and puts his hand to the vault door.
it's a sheen of ice at first; he makes sure to creep it over the far side, too, as a warning for anybody close. the ice forms the frostflowers he'd taken his name from, curling and blooming beyond Yuri's intent. steadily he lowers the temperature, as swiftly as he dares. too fast and he'll freeze himself. the descent through temperature ranges is agonising. even an ice manipulator feels his own cold; Yuri's teeth chatter, frostflowers twining like freezing ivy up his wrists and forearms. he keeps going past the shaking of his body, past the loss of feeling that has him leaning against the door more than supporting his own weight. he ignores everything that happens behind him, hearing already pounding with impending unconsciousness. his vision darkens like it's being smothered in black ice.
the frost of his work is choking at his throat, burning through his nerves, when Yuri hears the door click, cracking open those few crucial centimetres. but it's too late, too late to stop himself, too late to pull himself back. he makes a strangled sound that's half triumph and half panic. the last thing he consciously hears is Phichit ringing through an alert to the medics and demanding that someone save him right now. he doesn't feel Chris try to pick him up, only to yank his hands back with a cry of pain and surprise at how searingly cold Yuri's gone.
ah, he thinks muzzily, this is going to really hurt if he doesn't die. )
( Georgi has his work as cut out for him as Victor. both of them manage the flux of information and people, Georgi working with the aid of his machines and the technical know-how that keeps him linked in with most the rest of the information network and its neverending chatter. Yakov is doubtlessly there overseeing; cursing Victor's name for breaking from the protocol to bring the Mayor here. he has no regrets. it made more sense in the long run, even if it shifted the burden of protection to himself and the support of the two heroes hanging back even now; casual joiners when the situation inside the bank continued to nosedive.
he's tense, but to all outward appearances, Silverstar is a self contained, quiet lodestone of a watchful figure. they know he'll move if needed; they don't know the subtle sort of control he could exert on a crowd if needed. he didn't find a need.
Georgi's chatter sticks to the important points; nothing longwinded or dramatic as different groups move. there are injuries; one hero down and pulled out of the way with a bullet through his leg, but no arterial nicks. a broken arm when another hero fell over a landing with one of the armed robbers; they'd broken both their falls to save the robber at the last moment.
politics and political. this feels too staged, and he half expects a contact from any of the Big Names sometime soon, mocking them for control over the chaos of existence. as if the same principle didn't hold true for them, too. at least we save people.
he knows when Frostflower is approaching Chris; keeps himself focused on the Mayor and the task at hand even when he wants to turn and listen in better than he can right now. the strangled noise of horror penetrates; he shifts his attention the fraction needed to keep an eye on Chris and Frostflower, still the steady, radiant form at the Mayor's side. feeling her hand on his upper arm as the police detective gives her a cut off commentary on the progress with her son.
he wants to know what it is that Frostflower is hearing in his ear. he could ask Georgi; but that would need to have a reason, and he needs to be focused, ready to move. if he's allowed. if.
Frostflower and Chris are gone in the flash that should have been Chris's calling card, where the blaze had taken over instead. he sets them out of his mind, listening to the reports coming in and Georgi's curtailed commentary, noting that Chris and Frostflower are inside, dealing with the vault. there's a cluck of Georgi's tongue, and Victor lifts a hand to his ear; he knows that sound, and knows that unless Georgi wants to talk, it's nothing Victor will be hearing.
"Someone's up to something." helpfully obscure, it's all that he gets, and he grits his teeth even as he comments: )
Tease.
( the Mayor flicks her eyes his way, arms crossed back over her chest. he dips his head in turn, polite smiles and somber eyes.
reports slam in one after another. suppressed robbers, one accidentally exploded cartridge and the paramedics called in to deal with the resulting concussive injuries; under all that, the sudden call over the paramedic line for an alert: hero down. Phichit making demands that someone save Frostflower right now, and Victor feels his heart lurch in his chest.
no. )
Patch me to Chris. Now.
( Victor knows his duties. stand tall, stand visible, and hold the Mayor's hand, metaphorically or otherwise. he's the visible sign of support, unless he's needed; and as Chris is patched in to him over his handler's feed, he wonders when "needed" started being decided by a bunch of bureaucrats who saw lives as a game of numbers. )
What's happening.
( he uses his voice to be cutting, direct; soft but carried by his microphone, cutting through some of Chris's own pain on the other end. he's running low on energy, but he heals better than most; a side effect of his speedster background. Chris did everything fast.
including recovering and thinking fast. "Frostflower's down. He's frozen — no, freezing. I can't touch him without feeling like I'm dipping my hands into liquid nitrogen. This is a whole new kind of frigid, I'm telling you."
down that low, that fast? Victor grits his teeth. the paramedics aren't going to be able to pull his body temperature back up with what they have on site. blankets aren't going to be enough. except that Victor, knowing what he does, is going to need them for the knowledge he doesn't have. frostbite and hypothermia.
he didn't think he'd be dealing with a worst case scenario of either here in the city, not since the Ice Führer had been stopped in his attempts to deep freeze the city some eight years ago. )
Chris, you're taking me in. Georgi, get me an expert in dealing with frostbite and hypothermia on the line now. Tell Yakov I'm leaving the Mayor with the twins.
( Chris is already moving, meeting Victor as he lays off the shine and dims himself to walk around the back of the control car, nodding curtly to the Mayor as he strides off. he doesn't hesitate; Chris comes to a skidding halt and Victor's throwing his arms around his neck and locking his legs around his hips. it's a mark of Chris's own worry that he doesn't slide his hand back down and over Victor's thigh, complimenting him on holding on tight; he's healed the cold damage to himself already, but he remembers it acutely.
Victor hears the paramedic in his ear, cupping one hand around his mouth to shout out directions as he holds on to Chris with the effort of one arm locked across the front of his chest. face tucked down low enough to be heard, he talks like he knows what he's being dropped into, quite literally; Chris makes the leap and Victor slides off his back with the learned grace of someone who's done this one time too many over the years. )
Body temperature has to come up as a whole. Where's my focus?
( Frostflower's too close to the vault door. he's kept the oxygen flowing; he's saved the lives of every person locked within. but he's too close, and he's covered in the curling evidence of his own namesake, looking waxen, pale, frosted and frozen. )
Get the vault open.
( he says, voice calm as his heart thunders in his chest, constricting painfully even as it beats on, persistent. Chris's warning falls on listening ears, but Victor's already been preparing; his temperature control is entirely dependent on focus. He concentrates on giving himself a thin buffer layer of chill air, ducking down and kneeling at Frostflower's side. the shock of pain when he touches him is lessened a little by the temperature buffer; all the same, Victor hisses out a pained breath through gritted teeth as he feels the cold strike deep, aching in his bones as he pulls the other man into his arms and takes a few stumbling steps back. the impact of Frostflower's freezing form against his chest steals his breath away, his heart beating erratically as his body protests the burning cold.
he ignores it. all things considered, Frostflower's taken his fair share of hits for Victor, unknowing of who he was defending. he can manage this much. manage this much to try and save the life of the idiot idealist who keeps giving Victor some hope for the beauty and the people of this city they live in.
temperature control is not a flashy thing, by most counts. Victor envisions what it is he needs as his back hits the wall, and he sinks down, still cradling Frostflower in his arms. he needs that layer of warming air around the both of them; hugging their bodies, a second, invisible skin. it's a start, as he brings that temperature slowly upward, checking numbers with chatter teeth and the responses of the paramedic over his earpiece. hears how he needs to bring up Frostflower's internal temperature too, and that's harder at first; he doesn't have warm water, he doesn't have warm fluids to hook up on a bag, and the paramedics outside didn't either. two hours of grace room for a recovery from this and they could get Frostflower to a hospital, could probably save most of him; most isn't acceptable. not for this.
not for what Victor damn well believes is posturing.
it's his light that gives him the idea. shivering and chattering, not quite yet to the point of going still with the cold, he moves his arm, securely tucks Yuri's head against his shoulder and throat. feels his pulse leap again in shock; ignores it as he keeps his freezing arm around Yuri's shoulders, holding him close. Yuri's legs are left draped over Victor's lap, gently resting on the ground as he slides his other hand out from under Yuri's knees. the further shock of cold contact has him drawing in a sharp, painful breath, hissing; he pushes past it, panting, to place his hand over Yuri's breastbone. )
Heat his core first. That's what you said? Warm fluids internally, if he's conscious.
( The chattering, stilted words are exchanged with the voice in his ear; the woman who breathes in and calmly repeats herself, listing off lists of possibilities, quiet, assured. hiding her panic from Georgi not at all; but he's sensitive to such things.
sensitive to what he hears from Victor, too, as Victor's replies become less coherent. as he focuses in and pulls on the part of himself that lies below the skin; pulls on what he thinks of as the heart of his light. he's unaware of the soft glow that starts to radiate, flickering like a star viewed through the unsteady presence of an unruly atmosphere, slowly flowing down his arm until his fingers are alight with it. pressing it further as he raises the temperature surrounding them both to the ideal, according to the woman who wasn't here but knew these things, as medical professionals are wont to do. "It's going to take time. With as bad as his symptoms are, you're going to need to warm him up for the next hour — we can get a team in there —"
Victor tunes her out. he pours his heart into Yuri's frozen chest, and he wills that light to spread, little by little. infiltrating his circulatory system, like so many small sparks of energy, carrying the warmth he wills it to have through his bloodstream. Victor has to tune out the outside world; the sounds of the evacuations from the safe, the police and paramedics as they arrive on the heels of a few of the support heroes, the people who try to engage him, only to be ultimately waved off by an exhausted, crabby, hungry Chris. one of the wise ones brings in a tray of dounuts from the bank breakroom; incongruous as it is, Chris finishes them all off himself while watching Victor.
no, while watching Silverstar holding another hero in his arms, his expression so focused and unflinching that he almost seems carved of marble, arm wrapped around another figured carved in stone. watches as the characteristic glow that suffuses Silverstar's being bleeds slowly, steadily into Frostflower, pulsing to the beat of Silverstar's heart. to the moment where that pulse shifts; where it is Silverstar and Frostflower both glowing, both pulsing, the shivering and chattering of teeth calming down in the wake of the warmth he suffuses through the both of them.
he can't hear anything past the ringing in his ears. past the pounding of his heart, and the feel of Yuri's heart pounding underneath his hand. the Mayor's son is bond to have been liberated by now; the Mayor moving on to making statements, giving thanks. Georgi speaks up as the paramedic goes quiet; with minimal answers, he patches in to Chris and picks up a feed of information through the speedster. hears the mystified surprise in Chris's voice as he watches Silverstar do what a healer couldn't; watches him be the gentle, steady, all encompassing warmth leeching the winter out of a hero's heart. Victor cramps up, goes partly numb from pressure, but doesn't notice. there's just the barrier of steady, warm air he keeps; a dry bath that refuses to compromise; and the pulse and warmth of his heart's light as filtered through another living being. murmuring in Russian: )
Don't you dare go where I can't follow, you heroic, good hearted idiot.
( knowing in the back of his mind that it's just barely soft enough that Georgi might not hear. not giving much of a damn either way, even though he knows, oh, he knows he should.
( it's eight days before Yuri wakes from his induced coma: longer than the med staff would have liked but not particularly alarming, all things considered. it's another day or two before he's capable of much more than groaning in discomfort or outright pain when applicable. during all this time he receives no visitors save his handlers, per his standing request. not even his family is allowed in - Yuri doesn't ever want them to see him like this - though Phichit keeps them updated, as cheerfully and upbeat as he can in the circumstances.
Yuri will apologise for making them worry later.
it's through the companionable chattering of the nurses as they tend him that he finds out how he's managed to survive with nothing to show for the encounter besides complete exhaustion and the burn scars of his frost over his arms and chest and throat. never seen anything like it, they say, admiring his saving, who knew Silverstar could heal as well?
Yuri hadn't, that's for sure. he'd thought he'd known almost everything there was to know, at least publicly, but this was new. fantastical. particularly, singularly painful.
it's Phichit who shows him the video evidence of it, gleaned from those on the scene and the bank's CCTV footage. he perches casually on Yuri's bed like it's not a hospital bed in the intensive care unit at all, just two of them hanging out and trading videos like normal people. he's grateful for that much, even as he cringes at the imagery. Silverstar, the city's top hero, who was supposed to be guarding the Mayor, instead cradling Yuri's body at the point right before it ends up a corpse. Yuri, who can't even control his own power enough to keep from turning a relatively simple task into a suicide mission, taking time away from things far, far more important. he has to admit that Silverstar's healing power looks impressive, but what about the man isn't?
Yuri thinks he can still feel it, shining under his skin like heartburn, like a sun he's too fragile to contain.
it's two full weeks, all in all, before he's released from hospital, still aching and tired but on the road to recovery. physically, at least. Phichit's superior, a kind but stern man named Celestino, escorts him home. Yuri's family know him well enough to not swamp him with their concern but he can feel it all through the house, abrading his shot nerves. he spends a lot of time in his darkened room, listlessly surviving migraines. he leaves his phone off, his earpiece off, his brain on and mired in a cocktail of resignation, guilt, and a kind of self-loathing.
Yuri is getting a medal, he's told, for his valiant defense of the city. like he hadn't pulled the city's best line of defense from where Silverstar was needed most, just to play glorified doctor. like he'd done something amazing instead of amazingly stupid.
"it's an honour, and you earned it," Celestino tells his downward spiral firmly and Phichit backs him up with typical enthusiasm. the young handler's getting an award as well but he seems much more interested in Yuri's. part of Yuri is angry with him, for talking him into pulling that stunt in the first place, but the onus lays ultimately with himself. he'd made the call, in the end. at least nobody in the vault had died; he'd got that much right, anyway. at least that much.
Yuri's adjusted neckline, higher than before, isn't quite enough to cover the new scarring at his throat. at least his gloves hide the silvered skin on his hands. he turns up to the ceremony as late as he decently can, avoiding the press, avoiding everyone save his handlers and the Mayor herself as she does her rounds. he doesn't want to be here. he doesn't want to accept this award and put on a fake smile and shake hands. he wants to-- Yuri doesn't know, not any more. )
I was just doing my duty, ( it's becoming the automatic shape of his mouth as repeats it to people too stubborn to give his discomfort space. the cocktail of medications he's still on means that Yuri can't even drown his ill mood with the free-flowing champagne. he retreats to dark corners instead, to the bathroom, leaving his appearance at the stage until the last-minute. his gut clenches as he's forced to confront the fact that Silverstar is once again in his place at the mayor's side.
Yuri's been especially avoiding him all night. now he can't do it any longer. thankful that the gloves mask the clamminess of his palms Yuri walks forward, stilted and the least comfortable he's ever been in his entire life. there's no way he can hide that much, but he's never been a press darling. people should know better than to expect schmoozy smiles from him by now. he doesn't attempt to smile as he shakes hands and stonily lets accolades wash over him without sinking in. )
Thank you.
( it's quiet enough that the straining reporters can't be sure it's said at all, but it's not directed at them. Yuri meets Silverstar's eyes for the first time, a brief and torturous second, knowing the words aren't enough. then he's turning away as quickly as he can to head offstage and away from all of this. Celestino will scold him, he knows. Yuri will play the invalid card if he has to. he just wants it to be over. )
( Victor had come out of the entire bank fiasco exhausted. an unfamiliar use of his power left him close to bottoming out, which he couldn't; not while retaining cover. ever since he cut his hair short in his street personal, it's been particularly important he not let the illusion slide as Silverstar. he comes close. he comes dangerously close before Yuri's taken away by the paramedics and he's standing through sheer willpower, Chris nonchalantly leaving a familiar pill in his hand as he heads out. it's too fast to track. Victor closes his eyes, rubbing his face; he doesn't want this.
he still takes the pill past his lips and dry swallows, feeling it all the way down. he needs the energy. he needs the false presentation of strength.
he doesn't remember most of what was said in the followup. "no comment" and "we'll entrust the investigations to the joint task forces of the Providence City Police Department and the liaison council for Incorporated Heroes. we're glad the Mayor has her son back, safe and sound."
safe and sound are the words that echo through his mind when the crash hits; when he leans heavily against Georgi and is walked up into his apartment, having been checked over by a paramedic and pronounced healthy. exhausted, but healthy. reminded to eat.
he knows he needs to, knows he'll be ravenous later. it's why Georgi orders an extra large pizza with everything on it, plus the cheese bread, plus some kind of soda Victor abhors and an order of cookies that he loves because they're warm and moist and chewy and everything terrible about chocolate chips rolled into neat, palm sized packages. Georgi writes him a note, leaves it pinned to his shirt, and locks he door when he leaves.
the note is just a heart. Victor doesn't get it. what he does get is the pizza; he eats everything, drinks the terrible pop, and finishes off all but one of the cookies while scrolling through newsfeeds and tracking the aftermath. no word on Frostflower in the hospital, aside from being admitted; that's standard. he doesn't worry about it.
he checks his messages. a note about needing him in another day for a press release; otherwise he's being ordered off for recovery, on emergency call only. Victor nods to himself, takes Makkachin out to walk, and gives up after the dog pees on the tree in front of their apartment. he almost doesn't make it back up the stairs. his downstairs neighbours poke their heads out, both little girls asking if he needs help. he smiles and laughs, waving them off. just tired, he says. been working late.
he crashes again, and almost sleeps up to the deadline for hopping a cab and taking his circuitous way to where Silverstar needs to appear. it's another performance, though one that has teeth behind it when the questions come rolling in from the press.
still no mentions he's found of the drug activities making it to the higher levels of press. still no mentions of increasing addictions and inpatient treatments where jails are filling up in the least developed parts of the city. of course.
he heads home, and he gets intercepted with a call; gets told to hold on that before it's handed off to someone else, leaving him both resentful and thankful. he barely manages to get Makkachin out to do his bathroom business before he hits his bed and sleeps the next fourteen hours.
groggy, he calls in to the police station, asking for a time when he can come complete his report from the days prior. he sets up an appointment for the following week, spending the rest of the time talking with Georgi and Yakov, asking obtusely for updates on all the heroes injured in the bank robbery. all injuries are healed. when it comes to Frostflower, aside from some scarring at his hands and arms, at his throat, blooming over his chest, he's all right. healing and recovering and all right.
it's one piece of good news. Victor hadn't known if he could manage what he did. with how drained it's left him, he doesn't know if it's something he needs to work on, or to forget and leave as an emergency measure. he doesn't have time to think about it. Yakov tells him word down the line is he trains that, too; or else he announces that it's a fluke.
he grits his teeth. agrees to the training. finds himself staring into Makkachin's eyes and resting his hands on either side of his head and gently infusing him with light, until the both of them sit in the darkened, windowless bathroom, eyes glowing, tail wagging, hearts beating as one.
it's kind of sweet. it's freaky as hell. he doesn't know what it means, and he wants to know, but instead, instead he buckles down. meets with the police detective and files his report. gets referred to a rehabilitation program in the process; it's an indication of just how strained he's looking, he knows, and he laughs at the offer, but takes the card anyway.
there's no rehab for this.
the award ceremony is his chance to discuss the lay of the land with fellow heroes and police officers and the officials who attended. the information isn't promising. only one or two others mention the increase in petty busts and coordinated activities that indicate ties between different underworld fat cats. to some of the more moral grey participants as well. yet it's more of the same, they insist. there's no pattern.
is he inventing things that don't really exist? is he so desperate to find anything that he's drawing lines between unconnected events, leading to... this?
Victor wonders this as his eyes hunt the crowd, only catching sight of Frostflower here and there. anytime he tries to move for him, someone intercepts, or he disappears. it's frustrating, but he smiles, asks his questions, listens to others, asks after families he doesn't actually remember, but can guess each has.
the pomp and circumstance of the awards themselves is so by route he doesn't have to do much as far as thinking. his own award comes first, a medal for heroic feats he wants to deny, because it had nothing to do with heroics. he holds his peace, says his thanks, takes his position, and shakes hands with each hero called up. those awarded hearts for injuries received; those given accolades for lives saved. those few given the prestigious awards issued by the city, from the Mayor herself, for great acts of heroism that have saved lies; for going above and beyond a self-ascribed call of duty.
Frostflower doesn't look like he wants to be here. Victor can tell, though he doesn't let it show in his face. he's as serious as he's been all night, but his smile is warmer for Yuri; warmer and ignored as Yuri doesn't even look up. he looks good. not fantastic, but who would? he'd killed himself saving others.
he isn't holding it against him. feels relief, and a little distressed, when Frostflower doesn't even look up.
and then he does.
and Victor, for a moment, can only hear that quiet thank you and see beautiful brown eyes.
and then, as swiftly as that, Frostflower is gone. Victor has to stay. through the rest of the speeches, his own speech that he barely remembers, through the applause and the alcohol and the touch of Georgi at his arm, before he's asking if he can go, knowing Georgi has already picked up on his low level distress, his need to step aside, his ongoing exhaustion. he slips away into his own invisibility, moving quietly and with practice through the room and toward the far restrooms. the ones down the hall and around the corner; stepping through the doors and pausing, listening. waiting a few moments for any other sound, then walking quiet to the sink, letting go of his light refraction to run his hand under the sensor. Victor leans forward and splashes water on his face, motes of light shedding off him like dust motes dancing in sunlight. they pool around his feet, whirl slowly upward, turning into so many dancing points of light that spread out and around behind him. blue and white, fading to purples, then again to the melancholy blues. a spike of red as he considers himself in the mirror; shoves his dangling locks of mid-back length hair behind an ear and tries to see who it is everyone else is seeing.
how is he protecting this city? is he, anymore? how is he bringing happiness to these people? how is he helping when he might be seeing phantoms in shadows and not what's actually going on?
he pulls his hair back from his face, hands wet, water dripping down from his temples to follow the planes of his face. he doesn't let his light linger under his skin. he wants to see himself, as close as he can, and ask himself if he's making all this up.
but he believes it's real. he believes he's seeing a pattern that too many are ignoring. that things are coming to a head no one's ready to handle, but they will be seeing soon. )
What are you doing?
( the best I can. he doesn't know if he has a better answer. )
( Celestino makes a small attempt to have Yuri stay for the ensuing press junket, but the look on the young hero's face and his still-present fatigue lets him beg off almost as soon as he comes off stage. he goes home, tucking award and costume away under his floor board. he doesn't sleep much that night.
similarly, Yuri dodges press and the association of other heroes. for weeks. all efforts of Phichit and Celestino are met with an icy wall of utter dissociation, Yuri stonefaced and impassive save for a hint of frustration. he turns his phone off, even, not wanting to know what's happening outside his life at the bathhouse his family runs, slouching through the day-to-day of that existence like it's all under sufferance. it is, to Yuri's mind.
he doesn't try to use his ice, at all. it's not the fear of pain that holds Yuri back: it's the way the scars on his skin burn, like a legacy, like a farewell. he's afraid that he'll reach for it and find nothing there to wield.
eventually, however, moping loses its charm. his uselessness as an active hero aside, there are other things that have bothering him, eating away at him in the way that suspicions so often do. nearly two weeks after he'd turned his phone off Yuri finally reboots it. there's a slew of texts and IMs from Phichit; the handler has a dogged persistence that doubles well enough as patience. Yuri sends a terse reply: did you manage to find anything out about Victor Nikiforov?
the news isn't helpful, but it is somewhat expected by this stage. Phichit's no slouch as a hacker but there are firewalls he daren't touch, strong and loaded with the certainty of trapped encoding. he's examining it from a distance but even if manages to find a way in it'll take time. lots of time. meanwhile the information he does find is all publicly-accessible, things they'd known almost since the first kidnapping. Yuri frowns in frustration. he doesn't like the sound of this. it reeks of more political maneuvering, or perhaps of too-much money. a trust-fund baby, sure, but whose trust?
it's no coincidence that Victor's been taken all these times; Yuri's known that since the second. what he's not sure of is whether Victor is the target, or the bait, or just the particular stepping stone that Yuri keeps moving out of the path.
well, it's not his problem any more, anyway. Victor Nikiforov will have to rely on someone else to save his proverbial bacon; Yuri's 90% sure he's quitting that job. his job. the one he'd struggled for so long just to be a part of, only to end up like this, a let-down to himself. it's high time he face the facts. without the power he can never attain, Yuri's just a liability. a sacrifice play that burns his own side, let alone himself.
(but he's not the quitting type, and it's that part of him that rolls tirelessly through news feeds, searching for something he can't quite pin down.) )
( as far as the news is concerned, the city continues to prosper. crime follows its pattern, with small notices of little concern:
High School Drug Bust in the Inner City District with mentions of an unknown drug amoung classic favourites on the opiods scale;
Decrease in Gang Conflicts over the last Seven Months Indicates Mayor's "Hard on Crime" Agenda May be Paying Off, but the gangs involved have longstanding issues, and they're noted to pass each other in the street without engaging.
Increase in Port Traffic leads to concerns about Adequate Customs Staff, an article that continues to talk about backup in processing speeds that effect businesses in the region as well as countrywide.
Victor Nikiforov shows up in two articles. one, he's a background mention, by first name alone: at the same high school where the drug bust had occurred, only tied in with volunteering with a mural repainting, which has been in the planning stages for months. in the other article, he's not mentioned at all. he's a serious looking face in the crowd, talking to one of the officials, hand up in a stopping motion as if he's been caught halfway through a denial or some frustration. it's an article discussing a protest at a police station in the less developed and maintained part of the city, arguing against routing members of their force away to the customs forces on temporary loan.
"they're already so slow to respond to occurrences," one concerned mother protests. "and they don't do anything about those people, those people who hang on the corners, and they aren't selling themselves, but they're selling something. no one's doing anything about it!"
for his part, Victor's been trying to play within the lines of his job. he's assigned light work, allowed to respond to a handful of situations more akin to his earlier years than more recent ones. he's been brutal and efficient, quiet and ethereal. he's gotten a confession out of one man simply by being too beautiful to deny, an angel on earth; Victor had thought it was hyperbole, but he'd simply played to the expectation, settling a hand on the man's shoulder and saying, "thank you for your cooperation, but you should remember your miranda rights, too."
he knows this is Georgi pulling strings. feeling his own frustration, and being quiet on what else he'd felt, especially as Victor never brings it up himself. he shows up to a charity banquet for young entrepreneurs, cooperates with two other heroes to save a window washer when her cables failed, saves three kittens. three kittens, who all dig claws into his arms, because unlike people, they're not swayed by anything other than their own curiosity. he makes his motes of light dance for them, keeping them squirming and distracted until he can hand them off.
but most the work he does is with Georgi in his ear and a promise that he's not getting street involved, even while he's hitting the streets. when he's talking with the kids at the high school around sessions with the painting and those involved in the mural project. fortuitous, but in an unhappy way. he was already scheduled to be here.
on his own with Georgi in his ear when he's at the protest, trying to get a statement from a junior officer about the numbers of incidents going unfollowed in the neighborhood. about sending a formal request for assistance to the central office, and being told they have it handled, even when he knows they don't.
Georgi has no answer. the only statement he has is that Victor should be careful; there's been light prodding at his information files. nothing incriminating, or at least nothing that's gotten through yet, but it's coming from more than once source. three, maybe five, all independently intelligent and guarding their tracks. smart people.
some might be handlers or heroes. it's unlikely they all are.
Victor grits his teeth, dismissing it. there's not usually much activity in poking around to his face or his street persona, but it comes up every so often. he starts relying on mirroring people's expectations; it's not Victor Nikiforov, but an attractive woman, a younger man, an old veteran tracking down dead drops and liberating information. he's caught at least once, but he escapes before the van makes it out of the parking lot, taking advantage of Yuri's inspiration with the lock freezing to use his own temperature control to bring down the lock to brittle snapping temperature and kick his way out of the back.
he doesn't think that should leave a trail. he doesn't account for the hyper paranoia of the people behind this, who have now felt too compromised, who suspect it's not even the police, but an effort on the hero community alone. Victor keeps trying to get heard by the police officers, but the one detective giving him the time of day is the same woman who referred him to drug rehab.
she listens. she doesn't say she believes him, but when he brings her information, when he lays it out and lets her draw her own conclusions, she starts to agree. she starts picking up reports and seeing the patterns he sees, even as she tells him this is probably nothing. even as they sit down and talk, and she asks him about Frostflower, and he has to admit it's been a lucky coincidence. "a decorated hero like that? they've all got handlers, don't they? submit a request to the right people to ask after his, i don't know. but i can tell you i have a nose for trouble, and i've just been lucky having a guy like that as an accidental guardian angel."
they all know he's not been heard from for weeks. it'd worry Victor more if his inquiry to Georgi came back with a nod toward him being fine. more than that isn't his right to know. for any of them to know.
he wants to ask. he doesn't.
he has his own life to figure out. not just Frostflower, with the confusion of seeing that coldness mingled in with the gratitude. not even mingled. did Frostflower resent Silverstar? did it matter?
it did. it couldn't. shouldn't. he can't shove the thoughts out of his head, but he wishes he could, even as he takes Makkachin out like he often does, jogging around the city blocks near his run down, shitty apartment, listening to music, eyes alert and watching. not as alert as he should be. not as on point.
just distracted enough when he gets back to not notice the first thing off, when a light flicks off overhead. the stairs lose their bulbs every so often; he glances up, walking slower, Makkachin panting at his side. he's wary when he enters his apartment, but not as wary as he should be.
the attack takes him off guard, letting go of Makkachin's lead and falling like he's been taught, like he knows from over the years. he scrambles up, guarding his head and getting a read on numbers crammed into his flat; masked and in dark colours, he sees at least ten. way too many. way too many for some unimportant trust fund baby living where he lives.
the fight is quick and brutal. there's enough Victor can't do without revealing himself, but there is enough he can do, increasing the ambient heat, and allowing himself to let down that wall against the ability he doesn't like. reaching out and twisting emotions to pull on the fear, to heighten it unreasonably, to make them prone to running as he continues to fight. it's the closest he allows himself to get to outright overwriting what they feel.
it works. they bolt, heading out, but he doesn't account for what he doesn't know. a needle jammed into his neck, a plunger depressed, and his system flooded with a fire so intense, so incredible, he cannot even scream. a cocktail of drugs his system doesn't know how to process, and he loses touch with reality in a crash and clash of colours, lifted and carried off by frightened, terrified goons, Makkachin barking and barking and barking as he goes. )
Good... dog...
( he says, listening to Makkachin bark, even as monsters loom and sunflowers tear heads off the people around him and the sky bends down to turn into intense purples and blacks that bleed and ebb into each other like mixing oils over the surface of a puddle on the street. through the screams of an engine that sounds like a giant purring cat, growling just as suddenly, and Victor is curling in on himself hyperventilating, trying to shut out sounds and sights and overstimulation that's driving him to tears.
his powers don't respond when he calls on them. it was an untested theory, what would happen if Silverstar were ever on drugs that weren't the approved boosters manufactured in affiliated labs. how that might screw with his system enough to screw with his powers. how his mental state has too strong a link to how he performs. how alcohol had only been approved when he'd proven, in his over the top way, that it didn't inhibit his heroic performance.
curled up on the first and worst trip of his life, Victor Nikiforov clings to the thought that this will eventually end. he's not going to die, probably. he'll be able to act after his system has processed enough of this, probably. that Makkachin will be okay and garner the attention he hadn't been able to, probably. that Georgi will send someone after him, likely. Chris, he thinks, but it doesn't make sense, doesn't make sense at all. who would target Victor Nikiforov?
and who will they be asking for anything from? he was his own arbitrator of funds, he could ransom himself, but why kidnap him first? he loses all these thoughts as unconsciousness steals him from the panic of the moment, a blessing in disguise.
it's a small notice on the local newsfeed. Poodle Owner Kidnapped from own Apartment: Drug Involvement Suspected. a photograph of one of the neighbor kids holding Makkachin, the dog distressed, and the article including a mention of his name: In an ongoing rash of disappearances from the most derelict inner city districts over the past few months, 28 year old Victor Nikiforov was coming home from an early evening walk with his poodle, Mochachin, when he was ambushed in his apartment and taken away by a number of dark, masked figures. They utilized "white vans" whose plates were partially captured on camera due to the quick thinking of a smart-phone wielding teenager skating with his friends. Neighbors state he's an inoffensive young man who contributes to various organsiations in the neighborhood, including the local soup kitchen and several community center classes and productions. "He's friendly, tends to keep to himself, but he always has a smile ready for you," Mrs. Tamarah Kline says, her young daughter keeping hold of the trembling dog. "He's a little odd, you know, a little out there, but he's always been kind. He doesn't deserve this. He's not involved with none of that nonsense." Evidence of needles and drug paraphernalia on property indicates that if he wasn't, then he was perhaps abducted by those who are.
As of now, there has been no notice received for ransom. Those with any information on the whereabouts of Victor Nikiforov are encouraged to contact the local police at 555-6284. Mochachin will be temporarily housed by neighbors.
the article will ping for Georgi sometime tomorrow. it goes up on the call network, but the delay from reporting from the police in the area and the lack of complete information makes it a question mark. unlikely to be resolved at present. the photographs of the vans are attached, license plates next to impossible to read, obscured as they are. some few letters and numbers can be made out.
the vans are so generic as to be laughable. the people driving them have already gotten out of the area, tracking on any of the video systems watching the roads offline through most of the region near to his apartment. Victor Nikiforov is written off as a troublesome character to pursue as time and information allows. (before Georgi knows. before Yakov knows. before it becomes a matter of tearing this city apart looking for the silver needle in the haystack of Providence City.)
elsewhere, Phichit will get a ping. a small article, listed in the online personals.
Seeking Ice Flower
Feeling an impending frost blossoming across victory's chest. Too much action, not enough talk. Please contact if interested in the thaw.
( Yuri knows full well that Phichit monitors his phone-browsing history, even though he's not technically supposed to have access to it; that's fine. anything he doesn't want seen he does on his laptop. but it's a wordless way to let his handler into his current state of mind. the system works well enough for them.
it's how Phichit keeps in the loop with Yuri's slow-growing obsession and sets his own trackers for the information falling just out of Yuri's grasp. anything he finds that's off-record or otherwise classified he forwards discretely, until Yuri's mind is spinning with the frustration of half-drawn conclusions and misinformation. Phichit forwards him the articles with Victor lurking in the background and Yuri's dour mood sours further. what is he up to? perhaps it's coincidence. maybe anyone else would think so. but he and his handler know that something is fishy. five consecutive kidnappings can't be so blithely written off.
there's no official hero alert to the sixth, not yet. only by virtue of their new routine and his constant state as a nosy parker does Phichit pick it up, his bots trawling all news outlets. he forwards the information to Yuri with the warning that it's all he has right now and nothing's confirmed. Yuri stares at the message with a grim expression and a lead weight of foreboding deep in his stomach.
who is Victor Nikiforov, really?
he looks at the floorboard hidey-hole, dread thick on his tongue. he looks at his hands, covered still in scars that will probably never heal, a reminder of his over-extension, a warning about his current powerlessness.
(ah; his hands are shaking already.)
Yuri sits tight and rereads the articles, all of them, everything he's collated over the weeks with Phichit's help. there's no obvious common thread. drug busts. kidnapping. general malaise in the lower parts of town, as always. all of it's written off by most as the usual order of things, adjusted for a better crime rate; Yuri knows better. some of the thugs he's dished hidings to are familiar faces in his daily life. they're not the type of people who sit up and beg just because they've been smacked with the newspaper a few times. they're bitter and petty and always, always in the mood for payback.
what's festering under his city, really?
it's a few hours before Phichit sends him anything else, and Yuri spends it still in his room, still staring at his hands, still uncertain. there's a screenshot of the personal that freezes Yuri's blood; knowing him as well as he does, Phichit's already sent off a reply. then it's a waiting game, while Yuri's horrified anxiety rises with him as he paces unrelenting around the room, chewing absently at one knuckle.
he'd been expecting, after all this, that Victor would be a pawn. no: maybe a rook. a key piece defending the unknown king these people were ultimately targeting.
he hadn't expected that king to be him.
was it a coincidence? was it just because Yuri had the misfortune to be the one taking the call each and every time Victor walked into trouble? or was this the plan from the start? for a brief and gut-wrenching moment he suspects Phichit of duplicity, because that would tie off so many loose ends. how Yuri's always so conveniently the only one on-scene. his near-death experience. the instant reply to the personal. but - no, he can't believe that. Phichit is cunning, certainly; Yuri knows that well enough. he just doesn't credit that he'd stoop to these kind of things. the thrill for Phichit is the unraveling of the puzzle. he's also got a good heart. Yuri pushes aside the uneasy voice that tells him this is a perfect cover.
the reply comes back. a location. a lovely, hi-def clip of Victor, shaking and wide-eyed and horribly sallow under his pale skin. Yuri's gut clenches and twists, so painfully that he's stumbling for his cache before he thinks about it. then he stops, hand hovering over the release, teeth drawing blood from his lip. what can he do, here? this is too big for him, even at the height of his power. Yuri's still not sure he can make any kind of ice at all.
another reply: an updated timer. it ticks, second by second.
another reply: a trickle of blood against Victor's cheek.
it's dangerous, Phichit tells him, but it's a warning rather than an injunction. Yuri rubs a hand over his face once, then again, slower, willing frost to form against his skin. his hands can barely feel it; his forehead thinks there's a temperature change. it's probably psychosomatic. he should have Phichit raise the alert for someone else to deal with it.
he does.
he also pulls on his costume and heads off into the descent of the evening.
it takes him longer than usual to get there, since he's entirely reduced to footwork and he's out of shape from weeks of depressive moping. Yuri pauses to catch his breath before rounding the corner, hands up both in placation and to show the new proof of his identity, shiny silver skin stark against his palms. )
Evening, ( he says politely to the look-outs, ) I'm Frostflower. I've got an order to pick up, or so I'm told.
( stupid, stupid, stupid. he knows he should have at least waited for backup - should've waited for Phichit's demands to be heard, should have waited until the last minute like a true hero. but the memory of needles in Victor's apartment and the disconnect, terrified look in his eyes couldn't wait. Yuri isn't the gambling type. he's stupid and headstrong and hates to lose. now those traits are calling in their debts, it seems.
the looksouts glance to each other, and then there's a gun pressed tenderly to the base of Yuri's skull. he takes a shuddering breath and allows himself to be led in, doing his best not to panic. it's hard. he's literally defenseless, like this.
he'll just have to hope Phichit rouses help soon enough. quietly enough. )
I'm a little worried about the condition they're in. ( he keeps his tone conversational, knowing that this whole exchange is probably monitored and he won't get answers until he sees who's really behind this. ) If they're damaged, I'll be lodging a complaint with the shipping company.
( there's not much of a reply to Yuri; both the looksouts talk into their earpieces, listening and waiting for the feedback on what to do with their fish reeled in. no one assumes heroes move alone, not in this day and age. but it's a curt word and Yuri's informed he'll be seeing his order; once he gets shaken down for tech.
it's the earpiece they're most looking for; that, and after, with impersonal hands, looking for any kind of tracking device. there's no interest in taking him out of costume, no attempt to even get a proper look at his face.
it's a stunning lack of curiosity; and an arrogance. once so treated, Yuri is shoved on through to the next chamber: a long, dark hall in part of a warehouse, steam whistling in the distance, lights far and removed in their fluorescent cages. he's marched through and down a set of metal, grated stairs, then at a diagonal until they're entering an access-way to another building.
then there's the tunnel. deceptively well kept, with treads from smaller vehicles in the damp wet of the floor, led-fed lights inset at regular intervals. this has been converted from old sewer tunnels, since blocked out when the new system was built and laid some forty years ago. at the end, he's marched back up stairs, and he's met by an impassive faced gentleman who gestures for both Yuri's escorts to take a step back. a door closes behind Yuri. he's left with this man; the one who finally speaks. )
Mr. Frostflower, I presume. ( drawling on the word, sounding like he has a touch of the South to him. ) I've been informed you had concerns regarding the condition of your... goods. Rest assured, we've taken very generous care of them. Scarring should be minimal.
( such a dismissive statement, and a screen flickers to life beside them both, big and high definition as it shows a camera trained on Victor in the connecting room. if Yuri steps up to the glass view window in the door, he'll see the same scene from the back. Victor, bound in place to a chair, blood streaked down his face from tiny cuts above his hairline, the blood pooling at the nape of his neck and collar of his shirt. a shirt that's been sliced open and peeled back, making his increased breathing rate as apparent as the pulse racing at his neck.
Victor's been coming down off that high, but not easily, and not well. the light of the lens on his face had been the blinking backlit eye of a nameless monster; the next instant, his mind identified it as a massive wolf; the minutes following, the eye of a giant squid. the stadium seating all above and beyond this small, gladiatorial arena he sits within are left in darkness. shifting figures and flashes of cell phones have been phosphorescence that can't catch his eyes beyond the spotlight trained on him. vomit near his feet is a mark on how poorly he'd taken being shifted around; he's slow, so slow, in coming back to himself, in calming the fear. if his powers weren't being disrupted by all of this, it would have been even more dangerous. not just for Victor, but for everyone else.
he's able to pull at thoughts and string them together through sheer willpower. it's hard, but in doing so, he starts claiming a measure of control. his heart still hammers, he still breathes too fast, but his mind slowly begins to organise. he's been taken, and when he finally understood what was being said by the people orchestrating what his personal torture assistant made their careful, calculated bids toward eliciting a response from their target; when he finally understood, he wanted to laugh. he wanted to cry, but that in apology: cry for Frostflower being dragged into this when it was a bitter, bitter truth that he had nothing to do with the ferreting out of the coordinated network.
this is the concrete, solid proof everyone's been asking for. and he has to hope that Frostflower called in anyone else; that Frostflower is wise enough not to come to this call when he's been out of the field for weeks. Victor flexes his fingers and he groans, letting his head fall forward, letting his eyes water as his sinuses burn for no one reason he can identify. a hope that's dashed when the door behind him opens, and Frostflower is ushered into the arena. Victor tries to see who it is, but he can't. it's the announcement made that causes him to jerk against his bonds; to lift his head and spit and find the distress spikes through him enough he can almost feel a spark of his own power responding.
it would figure Victor doesn't feel enough for himself to fight through this. it's a bitter, choking irony that the very people who've kidnapped him for once in earnest have likewise pulled in the wrong mastermind, while already having the right one incapacitated and at their mercy. the sting of small lacerations is nothing against the sting of knowing what might happen because Victor wasn't wrong. but he sure did not find the right way of handling this.
and as the lights come up over the stadium seating, proving there is no wall between the floor here and the highest seats, staring down at them from above, he finds this is so much worse than he'd imagined. the cooperating, the temporary holds on territory wars, the ease of a new drug exchanging hands that usually held each other at gunpoint. he stares up at the evidence of each major player in Providence City's criminal underground, voice muzzy and slow: )
'sall of them. ( he swears in Russian, starting to laugh. ) They never believe... it's all of them.
( Victor listens and tests his powers in the most subtle ways he knows as the man who accompanied Yuri into the arena introduces him to the crowd. Frostflower, who has been nipping at the heels of our business adventure, at the new turn of power and dynamics that will take the heroes of this city and render them normal, render them as ungodlike and as dirty as everyone else born on this planet; strip away from them the gifts of abuse that allow them to stay in power, and blah blah blah, the rhetoric isn't new. the organisation is.
Victor tests his powers, and he feels them start to respond. he pushes harder, he demands more. Frostflower must have, must have asked for backup; but was he disbelieved? what the hell had tipped him off here?
when the hell had Victor become the bait?
outside in the world beyond their concrete arena, it's Chris and his handler who first ping to Phichit's pleading. they're one of the only who know the name Victor; who know what Victor Nikiforov is to this city, is to their community. who have an inkling what it will mean for Frostflower to be involved.
Chris is a flirt and is outrageous and is everything people love and hate in a hero, in one contained, messy, fantastically sexy package. he's also a mover and shaker, when he wants to be. he has people moving and tracking down to Frostflower's last location, pooling resources with the police and getting one detective from the inner city district office being brought online with intel; her work neatly dovetails with Phichit's, and between the two of them they have a location lock and probable network of who they're dealing with.
it's not good news.
they're not moving fast enough, not yet.
and Frostflower is now the one in the spotlight, while the united front of the criminal underground sends down one muscle person from each group, all ready to lay in and teach Frostflower, Victor, and the whole of the Heroic Community a lesson they won't forget.
Victor reaches deep into himself, prying, pulling at his heart. he needs more. he needs more now. )
( like stone, like ice, Yuri doesn't allow himself to show any sign of his horror at Victor's situation. sinking deep into his persona as Frostflower he follows the man into the arena, looks up at his detainers, and feels something solidify into cold, cold stone deep within him.
this isn't bad. it's the literal worst possible scenario.
Yuri keeps himself impassive as his introductory spiel is spun and doesn't bother correcting anything. he inclines his head gravely when it seems the man is done speaking, subtly widening his stance, hands clasped behind his back. he's not readying himself to fight; he doesn't think he can. no; Yuri's readying himself for a beating.
hopefully it'll be enough to keep them occupied while everyone else closes in. without his earpiece Yuri can't hear what's happening on the other end of things but he knows Phichit, knows, bone deep, how stubborn the younger man is. there's no way he won't kick up enough of a stink to get things rolling.
he looks at Victor's slumped, bloodied form and hopes things roll in time.
the first blow has him stumbling, a fist to the jaw that has blood welling coppery in Yuri's mouth. before he can regain his balance it's a crowbar to his knee, and how he manages to avoid the cap shattering is beyond Yuri's comprehension. he staggers from beating to beating, teeth clenched, hands behind his back. desperately he tries to ignore the rising pain. his focus is as knocked about as his body.
one thug picks him up in a textbook suplex that drives the wind from Yuri's lungs. his whole body is screaming in pain and they've barely started. now he's prone there's a swift succession of steelcapped boots to any part of him they can get to. which is pretty much all of him, since Yuri's making no real attempt to defend himself. he feels his ribs go, feels the bone in his cheek splinter, feels a tooth roll almost into his throat before he coughs blood and spits it out of choking range. all the while the whole thing is narrated like a UFC match. it's not for Yuri's benefit, he knows.
it's for Victor's.
he lays bleeding on the ground, bruised and broken. his hands are still behind his back. someone steps on them and Yuri cries out despite himself as fingers break. the narrator expresses amazement at how weak he is and Yuri forces himself to turn, spitting more blood at his feet. it earns him a cold grin and a fresh round of kicking; that doesn't matter. it all buys time.
as his vision sways, Yuri stares through blackened eyes to the ropes binding Victor's wrists. there's no watchers on him now; everybody not directly involved in his beating is taking jovial bets.
with agonising concentration a very, very fine sliver of ice saws against Victor's bindings. the effort of it almost makes Yuri pass out - or maybe that's the pain, or maybe that's the blood loss. he can't tell any more. all his focus is reserved for not passing out before he does this final task.
Yuri's not sure he succeeds but he can't fight unconsciousness any more when another boot collides brutally with his skull. )
( he is shivering, through the entirety. for every narrated hit, rocking through him in sympathy; for the cold rage it builds, hearing flesh hit flesh, for hearing everything that tells him Frostflower isn't fighting back.
he can sense his power, just there, just beyond his reach. so much closer than before, with the fading sense of every impossible nightmare that had been crowding out rational thought. still beyond him, for all he grits his teeth and tries to tune the violence out and find it in him, that power he's lauded for.
what undoes him is when he feels his bindings loosen. when he knows this was Yuri's work, and Yuri, when he turns his head, he's not moving. he's a bloodied, broken mess, and he's not moving.
Victor stands in a quiet that only he hears, ropes leaving raw marks at his wrists. he stands in the middle of this arena, pivoting to face Frostflower where he fell. he doesn't know if he's alive.
someone reaches out, ready to kick him again with those steel toed boots, and darkness slams over the area. the temperature drops; hail manifests and pounds down over them all, pinging and banging off seats and walls and shoulders with shouts of pain and outrage and fear. hail that Victor walks through in the darkness, able to see with the light he gives his own eyes.
he kneels next to Yuri. reaches a too steady hand out to feel for his pulse. it's there; stuttering and faint, maybe even failing. and it's with that Victor feels the cold certainty of his rage spill over, surging past him, thick and viscous when he presses two gentle fingers to Yuri's battered forehead to spare all vestiges of him of what's about to come.
Victor projects his rage with no barriers between the depth of that scalding, cold emotion. it hits with the impact of a sonic boom, rolling out and rocking through everyone present, rocking through the heroes coming closer, rocking through the people lingering on their own business in this part of town. they find themselves on their knees, hands clasped to their ears, some voiceless in fear, other screaming, screaming at what they don't know. at the impossibility of that anger. at the certainty of their own fear. it's crippling. it's maddening. it's inescapable and relentless, and there is no slacking of it as it flows from Victor, this manipulation of feeling done with a distant, total domination. he is relentless.
and he is scared. scared for the life of the man under his fingertips. scared for what this has meant, and infuriated, frustrated that no one had listened.
the emotional manipulation persists in the most suggestible minds even as Victor lets it go, pulling on his energies and bringing the lights back on as he pulls his own light to him, transforming in that darkness to Silverstar, an implacable, deadly force of his own. he is here, then he is not; he hits with brutal, efficient force, disabling with precision. but it's not just about disabling. he drives elbows into noses, shatters arms, shatters kneecaps. he disarms those with guns and drives the butts into diaphragms and into the back of skulls. he blinds those who shoot and does not prevent them from shooting each other; it is unlikely to be fatal, shooting like this, but it is not a kindness to allow it to happen.
he could do otherwise.
he does not.
he sees through a red haze until he realises that haze is the one he's creating, his light responding to the emotion he usually keeps locked away, but cannot right now. this arena is a living hell of pain and cries and men and women losing their minds, trapped in the force of that emotional loop he'd locked some into; tearing themselves apart along with their minds. Victor has brought the room to its collective knees; he is covered in the blood of more people than there are states in the United States; and still he shines so brightly, pulsing with white and red and then turning into a slowing, cooling blue.
he cradles Frostflower in his lap. feels like this is a de-ja-vous neither of them asked for, and he feels the anger, the pain, the rage all drain from him. he can't hold on to any of that to do what he does next; to flood his deepest self into Yuri, to patch what he can. to share life energy on a level that goes beyond calling it life energy. to will him to live, even when his body wants to fail; to will his swelling to recede, even when his body cries out against it. there is little conventional healing, much as before; he cannot fix bones, he cannot fix scars, he cannot mend tissue, not exactly, but he can do the thousand of other little things that leaves him breathing as Yuri breathes; that leaves his heart beating as Yuri's continues to beat, in spite of itself. in spite of the bloodless, as he encourages Yuri's body to form clots, to be contained.
Victor is crying, and it's impossible to tell. when the heroes finally break through, the only light left is the light within Yuri. Victor is dim and dark, cheeks wet, eyes paler than they've ever been in his life. bruises and blood and lacerations of his own are so small compared to the rawness of his knuckles, the canvas of his body that is splattered with the blood of others. he looks up at Chris, recognition slow to arrive. the only reason he hadn't pulled on his powers again was because of that recognition at the door. at the sound of those voices he knows from years of association coming in, staring in shocked horror at what they find. )
He's alive.
( is all he offers, as he refuses to let go. as Chris finds himself staring down at Victor in a mute kind of horror; this? is so far beyond what anyone would expect. this? was frightening, both for existing, and for what Victor Nikiforov, Silverstar, had done on his own. Chris knows it hadn't been with Yuri, but this and the chatter in his ear tells him they're in for a new set of problems even as he kneels down and coaxes Victor into letting go when the paramedics arrive. he's held back from going with Yuri. he's poked and prodded and he shoves people off when it gets to be too much; he's pulled aside and asked what happened, and he can't find the words yet to say. all he can do is say later. he'll give his statement later.
watch as the ones who've lost touch with reality are lifted and fought into ambulances, tied down with restraints so they stop tearing at themselves, so they stop trying to pry out their eyes, pull off their ears, tear out their tongues.
he's sick at heart, drained, empty. he is sick, and this is sick.
this is him.
this is him, revealed as the full, hideous potential he has always feared. this is what he fears, what he knows, they have always wanted him to use. that ability to change and pull on emotions. that ability to break someone else. to prompt from them the confessions that spill out of lips that can no longer choose to hold back. what he knows he can do, and what he has never allowed himself to inflict on anyone before now.
Yakov comes for him, Georgi in tow. they're both worried. he can tell, even if he doesn't feel it. doesn't feel much of anything right now. they're worried, and when he is in the car, when he is bundled in a blanket that he can't remember seeing before, when he is driven to a safe house he has never been to before, when he is reunited with his dog, and he does not react at first, takes time to let the press of a warm, wiggling body asking for his time, his attention, his love. when he sinks to his knees with a thud and lets Makkachin lick his face, until he remembers he's still covered in blood and that's not all right, this isn't all right, that he speaks with a voice as distant as he knows how to be, as Silverstar. )
I'm done.
( he announces, pushing back up to his feet. swaying when he gets there, the blood rushing to his head. )
That's it. I'm retiring.
( and Yakov protests, Georgi holds a hand over his heart and looks pained and frightened as Victor stumbles off to the shower, turning on the faucet and standing under the cold water until it burns hot. blood runs down the drain, both his and the blood of those he's known from this side of the law for decades. blood of people he's never met; blood of people who had been aiming to bring the city low for no purpose other than the chaos that would follow.
single handedly, unintentionally, he has taking down the heads of most major crime in Providence City. and while he does not regret that he was enraged by what happened; while he does not regret that Yuri still breathes; he does not forgive himself. he has never loved the violence, even if he admits he feels alive in a fight, in pulling out a win while working under more restrictions than the opposing side. how it's a game of outsmarting and outmaneuvering and how he has lost, today, everything he loved about it.
what he'd lost in himself, because he can't go back. can't go back to believing he's better than this. can't go back to thinking, maybe it's safe, caring. maybe it's okay to feel like he can get close. he can't.
not when this is the cost.
not when he becomes the danger he's fought so hard against.
Victor stands in the shower, hot water scalding trails over his clothed skin, and he strips down, wooden and jerky in his movements. strips down and wonders if the drugs they'd been talking about work. if for him, any drug will work, but the knee jerk against it is so strong he's back on his knees and dry heaving, nothing more than bile spilling past his lips. what am I doing?
it no longer feels like the best I can is adequate. his best isn't good enough; and he can't kill his heart enough to say it will be. he can't become the tool they've been wanting him to be, either. he's never felt the teeth of his trap so keenly as he does then, desperate and lurching out of the still running shower to march through the safe house, rifle through cupboards, pull down saltines, and then the bottle of cooking sherry. he retreats with both to the bedroom, tossing the saltines on the bed before he remembers to shut off the water. he fights the urge to turn it back on when the following silence crawls under his skin. Makkachin curls up with him on the bed as he finds the remote, turning on the television and leaving it on repeats of films like Mrs. Doubtfire and eats his shitty stale saltines and drinks the terrible cooking sherry and eventually, blessedly passes out, a cold nose tucked up against his throat, breathing warm air out even as he breathes in. )
( when Yuri wakes up in hospital again, he rather wishes they'd just have let him die this time. there's a grogginess that goes past normal post-unconsciousness fallout, past the normal fog of concussion. he knows, he knows, that he'd been on the door of death again.
just like he knows, from the painful burning in his chest, why he hadn't got that far.
Yuri thinks that almost hurts worse than all his injuries combined. then again, maybe not. they hurt a lot. even through the pain meds he spends the first two days softly crying, overwhelmed by lingering agony.
even Phichit doesn't come to visit him for almost a week, he's that bad. when he does Yuri gets only half-answers and haunted looks. Victor's fine, he's assured. the response teams got there just in time.
it's all the information he's given, save what's publicly available on the news. there's something baffling about Silverstar going rogue; some idiots are trying to pin him as a sleeper villain. it rakes bitterness against Yuri's heart. one that only beats because Silverstar had saved him, twice.
what the hell for?
there's no offer of rewards now, no accolades to be handed out. a cynical part of Yuri takes this to mean that whatever had happened had been too important for gilding. he frets and fumes the whole time he's healing, until he's allowed out of hospital finally, weeks after his bloody arrival. it takes longer, this time, since the period between near-death disasters is so relatively short. it's a miracle he survived at all, they tell him, and then look grim.
Yuri knows why. Silverstar had come to his rescue and done-- something, something that gets muddled in the retelling, the truth buried away from his grasp-- and then announced a retirement. somehow his own name has been mostly kept out of things, which saves him from hatemail over apparently forcing the city's greatest to quit the biz. it doesn't save him from his own loathing.
too weak, again. but he'd known that going in.
he's still undecided about whether or not he regrets it.
he wishes he knew what Phichit's not telling him. none of the other heroes or handlers reach out to enlighten him either, even Chris, who'd apparently been first on the scene. Yuri doesn't make the effort in return. if they're not talking, they won't talk. he can take that much of a hint.
Yuri - Frostflower - hobbles home without fanfare. that's something he can appreciate, as his mother welcomes him with tears in her eyes and an aborted hug. he feels that distance keenly and almost moves to breach it, but he's not sure how any more. there are too many things he's experienced that his family can't follow. even the pathetically grateful licking delivered by his dog barely cheers Yuri's mood. he takes long baths to ease the aching in his healing bones. sometimes, dark and clouded, he wishes he'd pass out and quietly drown, no longer to burden anyone. ah, but someone would have to find him, and bury him. either way he's still a hassle.
it's almost two months before he's given clearance to be a Normal Person again, casts cut away and final tests run. they put him through a psychiatric exam and kindly tell him to take some more time off before he thinks about returning to hero work again. one part of Yuri knows it's sensible advice. another wonders, bitterly, why they think he'll be back at all. a third thinks about how he'd been told he'd never be strong enough to be a hero and resents this throwback kind of feeling.
he tries not to dwell on it, but dwelling is in Yuri's nature. he doesn't sleep well. he's still wracked with migraines, still sore and aching from bones to soul. he wants to thank Silverstar, but has no power to do so with no point of contact. besides, a simple thanks seems churlish. he doesn't want to face down his idol, not with his guilt so heavy in his marrow yet, not without knowing anything about what had happened.
but there is, he thinks, something he can do. he begins to haunt all the places his earlier researching had told him ought to contain one Victor Nikiforov. considering how much has been withheld from him, Yuri wants to make sure of this with his own two eyes. he needs to be sure he got at least that much right. )
( in the end, he gave himself forty-eight hours to feel sorry for himself. two days to mope and be worthless and ignore Georgi when he calls. two days, and he knows he won't allow himself anymore, even if he has no energy to really get out of bed. he still drags himself up, looking like hell, and calls in to Georgi. asks what comes next.
he never retracts what he says about retiring. he makes no excuses for himself; the questions he's run through by the handful who interview him under the guiding hand of their lead psychologist. therapy isn't a suggestion; it's a requirement. which any qualified therapist knows will go poorly.
they make some headway. Victor's allowed, at that time, to visit the psychiatric hospital where the worst afflicted by his powers are being held. some of the other heroes have been able to make headway. most the cases are holding steady, but they're not getting better.
Victor's scared of trying; he's angry with himself, and so he tries anyway. uses powers he's never learned fine control over and wrestles with freeing compulsory emotions from people who are locked into cycles they can't break out of. spiraling patterns he has explained to him by his therapist; for him, he's told, it may tie into depression. for the rest, it's different, but the theories are the same.
two weeks, and he's able to help most of them. not to heal, but to break out of the compulsions; only five are so far gone there's nothing he can do but grit his teeth and change the compulsion to something pleasant. take the fear and the rage and the isolation and make it gentle, make it calm. make it pleasant. he has stolen the will of five minds, and it doesn't matter that they're criminals. some say it does. he understands their reaction; he doesn't support it.
the funerals are quiet and sparsely attended. families are protected, visiting their loved ones at the city provided graves. in truth, it's Victor's funding; he'd insisted, when the city had argued against using municipal funds for anything related to the criminal element. it would be hard to track any of it back to his funds as Silverstar, to either of his names. he prefers it that way.
two weeks, and the ruling comes in from the Hero's Coalition Council: his retirement will be announced as public, and he will give a formal statement. he will not conduct interviews. he will consent to being monitored. or, and they stress the or, he can reconsider.
or, he says, equally flat, they can test the experimental suppression drug on him. and at the end of it, they leave him alone. he walks. unmonitored, but for the necessary eyes on his back. he's given the wipe he's owed, and he's let free.
"free." a misnomer. he knows of no such thing; he feels his heart breaking all over again for this city he loves, this city he's hurt, this city that has hurt him in turn.
he asks after Yuri once, just once. a mention that follows a casual word from Georgi. it's a denial, a repression of his need to know; Victor's fingers curl into his palms at the offhand mention of Frostflower from his former handler's lips. Georgi watches him, smiles, looking sad.
"it's not loving that hurts us, Vitya. it's not knowing how to let ourselves love and be loved." )
Most crushes don't get people killed.
( he points out, laughing, but it's a hollow, biting sound. he's not ignorant. he's always known it was one way, whatever else he'd hoped, before this had all fallen into such spectacular disarray. the pain in his chest, the constriction around his lungs, the aching burn behind eyes that haven't shed tears since that night all tell a story. one Georgi reads, in his way. one that he reaches out, the first person to reach out willingly since Victor was found in the midst of his own chaos, and touches his shoulder.
Victor shudders. he swallows. he turns haunted eyes on Georgi. slowly, Georgi's hand falls away.
the trials aren't promising. at a low does, Victor finds most his powers respond to him, at a limited delay. higher doses and he starts feeling like he's living in a fog; his powers still respond, but the delay is noticeable. it takes more energy to use them. it takes more energy than he has to spare, on the days where his depression hits hardest. even walking Makkachin becomes a Herculean effort; Victor rises like Lazarus to resurrect himself, sallow skinned, thinning, losing muscle definition.
they take him off the trials after a month. it's a drug that would have worked to interfere, they determine, but not truly stop; he's given a gym membership and told they'll check in with him time to time. he already knows they'll watch. 20 years of relatively perfect behaviour, and the only thing they stop shy of doing is slapping a tracking bracelet around his ankle. "we can trust him," Yakov had argued.
he's not sure he agrees, but he also knows the game. he's safest still here in the city. here in the vacuum of power causing the criminal element to restructure: violently at times. there's an upswing in petty crime, in turf wars. there are more shootings, but more heroes responding. there is speculation about what kind of hero, or what kind of villain, Silverstar must be. there are pleas for his return.
it is slow, finding forgiveness from those who witnessed what happened. for his part, Victor goes searching for none.
he lets the gym membership sit, a car propped up on the counter of his old apartment. in a fit of energy that sapped him for two days following, he kitted out his place, setting up security systems and everything else that had never been necessary before. he doesn't admit to anyone that his powers are failing. sporadic, sometimes they're in control, sometimes they respond, but just as often they don't. he sits in his cramped tub and practices making the water warmer and cooler, warmer and cooler. Makkachin sits on the tiles and pants, simply keeping him company.
his illusions won't work at all. try as he may, even when his light responds, the only person it lights up is Victor Nikiforov. there is no long hair; there is no set of flawless, distant features. no perfect smile; just Victor. it's liberating. liberating and hidden, shown to his dog as he allows himself to live in the stuttered brightness of his own life. opting not to notice when the lights all fade and he's standing there in a cold he hadn't thought to make, shivering, eyes looking into a distance that only sees the past. when his knees lock up and he feels the licking of rage and the nausea tear through him. when he slams his barriers up so hard he stops feeling at all.
when he starts doing that to get through the day to day. conceal, don't feel. that hadn't worked well in the movie. turns out it works just fine in real life with no one mentioning otherwise.
Victor remembers to smile. as his neighbours check in with him, as he falls into a pattern, as he takes up jogging and pull ups and push ups and every kind of physical training that requires only himself. he regains his muscle mass. he forces himself to have an appetite, even when the food tastes like cardboard in his mouth. he shares chicken with Makkachin. he spends more time at the soup kitchen, helping at the shelter. he meets people, people who've always existed. people who now talk to him, who comment on sports teams, the weather, the stock exchange. people from all walks of life, with different jobs, different vices, different hobbies.
it's all echoing off him, something he categorizes and doesn't quite engage. he turns down social offer after social offer; is a man and his dog, friendly enough, somewhat sad, somewhat touched since he'd been kidnapped. he's a Survivor.
he finds that ironic, unable to see his own PTSD for what it is.
when Yuri goes looking for Victor, he's not quite in his usual places. the soup kitchen is his only constant. his patterns, his single man visual patrols of the city, watching it recover from a mess most only knew as the Incident, keeps him traveling erratically. on purpose. he's difficult to track.
but he still lives in his apartment. he still shows up to the soup kitchen, usually with Makkachin in tow. he ties on an apron and he moves boxes as he's told, moves everything as he's told. he's a little less vivacious, true, but who wouldn't be? living through all of That.
he knows this is a holding pattern. he needs to find something new, something different; needs to jar himself out of this cycle of thoughts consuming themselves like some personal, grotesque oroboros. he looks up as he steps outside the soup kitchen, Makkachin shaking himself off as he pulls at his lead. he expects to see no one, nothing more familiar than the usual. everything part of this madcap life he's stumbling through, finding meaning in making it through each day.
he does not expect to see Yuri, in whatever form. as he walks his dog home, bundling his coat more tightly around himself in spite of the sun beating down overhead, all Victor can think of is collapsing after feeding the dog. sleeping the next ten hours before he drags himself awake to shower, then eat, then sleep again.
massive efforts. he's not due back at the soup kitchen for another two days. )
( it takes longer than he'd hoped, but honestly less time than he'd expected, to finally stumble across Victor. things would perhaps go swifter if Yuri actually asked after him, but he doesn't want to alert anyone or scare the man himself off. he makes an approximation of his habits and starts from there.
the soup kitchen thing has always struck him as a little odd; there are plenty of other ways for a trust-fund baby to help the less fortunate, after all, but Yuri's not a people-person to begin with. he can't imagine much worse than this, looking at such pathetically grateful faces as those receiving their one good meal, knowing that there's more to be done but unable to fix the world with a sweep of one's hand. powerlessness, that's what he feels, looking in.
what he sees is a familiar figure shuffling boxes around the back room, in glimpses, and so Yuri stays, trying to loiter unobtrusively, flu mask pulled up over his mouth as he waits.
for what? what is he planning to do here? even he's not sure.
until Victor's stepping out, dog surging ahead on his lead, and Yuri finds he's automatically crouching to be made a new friend. until his palm's been sniffed and accepted, until his fingers are scrubbing at curly fur; then Yuri knows he's made his decision.
he looks up, cautious but not as wary as he perhaps ought to be, one finger pulling the mask down, the movement revealing the frostburns on his bare hand. )
Victor. ( every secretive inch of him screams horror at revealing himself like this, but Yuri can't take it any more. he regards the older man steadily and doesn't straighten from from his crouch. ) I...have you got a minute?
no subject
► alias: frostflower
► power: water manipulation (ice)
► day job: helps at his parent's bathhouse; a NEET
► background: Yuri's hero story is fairly unremarkable: a late-bloom of his talent, a predilection towards anxiety, and a huge amount of hero-worship towards the most famous hero in the city. all of this coupled with an innate sense of perfectionism and a distaste for losing meant that despite his late start Yuri adapted to his new powers quickly, bringing them under control with hard-earned precision.
but his ice was brittle, fragile, lacking in power. told, kindly, that he was probably better suited to the commercial sector, Yuri fell into a slump that saw him vowing off his ice altogether. but he couldn't resist it, couldn't keep it from manifesting like second nature, his everyday use of it so thoroughly embedded into his bones.
it started off entirely by accident: a mugging, a quick hand movement, ice across the man's eyes. in the welter of gratitude that followed, Yuri realised that while raw power would never be his, control and creativity would be his strengths. and so he played to them, climbing doggedly through the ranks, seeking always to improve himself, leaving no challenge unanswered (though not always bested).
his own limited sense of self-worth keeps him from realising how popular he is; the truth is that Yuri's easily within the city's top ten. but it's not enough. it may never be enough.
no subject
"There wasn't supposed to be anyone at the dead drop. What the fuck are you doing, bringing this asshole here?"
"I don't know, I panicked! What else was I supposed to do? You didn't say it was a dead drop, hombre, you just said there was information that I gotta pick up. Then there's this guy walking through at around the right time, so bam! Of course I pick that shit up. Didn't fucking know there was gonna be a whole party listenin' in while I shoved him in the car!"
"You didn't knock him out?"
"The fucker fought back! I got him in the goddamn car, didn't I?"
the grumbling and arguing tapered off, Victor staying calm. most the time when he ran these kinds of operations, he relied on his skill with suggestive illusions to allow people to see what they most wanted, expected, or desired to see. the problem was that worked wholesale, and his first time in with this rat's nest of a network trafficking in people, drugs, guns, and information between the established Personalities in the underbelly of Providence City, Victor had been undercover in his streetclothes. just Victor Nikiforov, shelter volunteer and soup kitchen cook with odd hours at the secondhand bookstore close to where he lived. people theorized he was some strange sort of trustfund baby; he seems to make ends meet, and he's a nice enough dude, if a little self involved. he was responsible for at least one mural in the less affluent parts of town, and had worked in choreography off and on with the rundown highschool and community center, favouring the at risk kids.
he was shit at remembering names. everyone knew that, too. just like they knew he wasn't the most reliable guy, though he tried hard, and he had a cute dog.
Silverstar, on the other hand, was a shining standard of reliable. it was the balance, and his balance had long, long been heavy on keeping the Hero at the forefront of everyone's mind, while the boy, who became the teenager, who became the man was simply a morphing canvas of the same ideals. he's never let his image change much, not as Silverstar; one advantage to being able to manipulate light and perception were the illusions he could generate, but unlike a true illusionist, his were relegated to what he himself could appear to be. which, in some circumstances, was invisible; but that was also a trick of making himself enough of the background people stopped noticing him.
Silverstar, who'd started out in the juniors of the heroes at just seven. who'd risen through the ranking when it was found he had an affinity for not just one power, but at least two; it was unknown what they were, because the only one that had manifested early on had been the sputtering sparks of light that danced along with him, responding to a child's emotional heart. truly manipulating light, and manipulating temperature; those had come later, with the hard hit of puberty. unlike the hero he waited for now, he couldn't generate ice; he couldn't freeze large bodies of water without expending a significant amount of energy: an exorbitant amount if he was going to freeze anything swiftly. he was, as it turned out, much better at generating fog, or rain, or hail, or even snow, depending on surrounding humidity. localised flurries, or gentle affairs; paired with light manipulation that allowed him to almost hide himself in plain sight and his ability to cause temporary blindness through a blocking of light or the sudden, painful burst of it, he could be a versatile force in multiple environments.
his fourth ability wasn't talked about, because to most, it didn't even register. to Victor, it was better left alone.
flashy, showy, skilled; trained in hand to hand combat and eschewing most weaponry, he was athletic and fast and hard hitting and hard to see coming; while he had no healing factor and no super senses, as far as his public persona cared to show, he also had no fear.
not entirely accurate, but he did take risks, and what he considered to be an acceptable level of risk has been sharply driving upward the last year and a half. even this, right now; sitting with his short hair and his long bangs, skin imperfect yet eyes the same striking blue they were while Silverstar? it's a risk.
usually when he does these sting operations, he doesn't let himself seem the same to the people involved. not to the heroes, not to the low rung ladder minions, not to the midlevels, not even to the fat cats sitting on their criminal empires. when he enters as Silverstar, that's when he's known. when he's digging for information, when he's gong undercover? he's unknown.
except this time. Victor's eyes idly slide toward the doors, tensing as he wonders if that is indeed frost creeping across the pane. Silverstar's abilities are too well known. he's too visible; he's too easy to track, and has been, for years. it's why he can't do this in uniform, but this dragging in of Frostflower again and again while wearing the same face?
he shouldn't. he knows better, for both their sakes; should be changing so that Frostflower has no idea who he is each time either. should be. should be. but he isn't.
Victor Nikiforov wears a different face for every person in his life. by the time he realised there was anyone he didn't want to do this with, by the time he caught on to the fact he was falling for the most amazing, least confident hero in the city (some reports may be exaggerated due to inherent bias), he was already caught in his own conundrum.
his powers generated an illusion of what someone wanted most. and for once in his eccentric, chaotic life, he wanted to be wanted for him.
it just turns out he'd gone about trying to find that in the worst possible way. )
Five kidnappings has to be some sort of record... hey, guys? Can a guy ask for a bathroom break? Please? By the way, I can't feel my hands so well, would you consider retying me after a visit to the... appealing bucket you've set up in the corner of the warehouse. Ah.
( he so does enjoy criminal sting operations... )
no subject
there's been an upswing in activity lately, rising steadily for an unseen crest. Yuri doesn't start anything he might not immediately be able to finish: tv shows, games, conversations. he just bides his time, helping his family out, and waits for the calls.
at least today he's not in the bathroom when the alert comes in. he unlocks his phone; it automatically screens him through retinal and fingerprint confirmation while he makes his apologies to his sister and heads to his room. in fact there's three alerts, of varying difficulties, and he takes the time to check on them all:
- an armed robbery, seven blocks away - there are soft pings to indicate other heroes zeroing in on that one, so Yuri leaves it be;
- a ram raid and an old-fashioned mob-vs-mod standoff on the other side of the city, by the docks, already being taken up by others closer than he;
- a drug ring and kidnapping, eastside, with others near to help but of a lower level than even Yuri.
there's a snippet of cctv footage attached to the last, bursting onto his screen as he opens a locked false floorboard and pulls out his kit. Yuri sighs in resignation as he recognises the victim: Victor Nikiforov. again.
(crimes tend to run in patterns. lately it seems like victims do, too.)
part of him is tempted to leave it to the others, thinks that there'll be other high-level heroes en route within short enough order, but then another alert pops up: a bank robbery this time, close to the Mayor's private residence on a rest day that's almost guaranteed to have the woman herself at home and therefore potentially vulnerable. hero-dots light up on the map and there's no prize for guessing where they congregate.
Yuri sighs again, taps the kidnapping blot to announce his intent, and sallies forth.
unfortunately the diversion of the big robbery means that intel is mostly pulled from his own job and Yuri's left to case it out more or less alone. that's not his strong point. he does well enough, however; half the crew seems shaken and he takes advantage of their distractions to take a few out with minimal effort. people don't tend to look for black ice in summer. he divests one of their burner phone when he has them trussed up and tossed literally to the kerb for pick-up, but there's nothing much useful on it that he can decipher so he leaves that too.
the best he can make out is that the ball is rolling, which means he has a limited timeframe to get in and out before the goons' backup arrives and he's in hot water. Yuri sighs a third time and scopes out the array of derelict buildings they'd been guarding; again, not his forte, but with only weak (if creative) icework to his name otherwise, he's had to learn a few trade skills the old-fashioned way. he's nearly surprised by another guard and only manages to take them out after taking a painful blow to his ribs. it leaves him wheezing and pissed off and Yuri's none too gentle as he grips the man's face, leans in, and puckers up to blow a ghosting trail of frigid air along his lips to freeze them shut. it's the most effective gag he has on hand; cable ties, however, more than suffice for the trussing.
there's only one stairway down. there always only one stairway down. it's always where The Goods are hidden. when will these people learn a little creativity? he shouldn't complain, since it makes his job a little easier, but they all start to blur into one after a while. Yuri listens to the conversation on the side of the door as he sets a careful palm against it, freezing a seal over it from this side. then he quietly, carefully backtracks, pulling himself into the air ducts with a gymnast's grace. it takes more time than he'd like to crawl through but he has to be as silent as he can. there's no grate above the room he needs, just a broken section that gives him a sugar cube's worth of vision in. it's enough to see his rescuee; Yuri concentrates and a razor-sharp sliver of ice quietly cuts most of the way through the ropes around Victor's wrists.
the guy's been kidnapped enough lately that he ought to have some sense of what to do in these situations. hopefully. though he does still end up in them despite the experience...
someone's phone beeps with a message and this is the point where Yuri needs to move. frost blankets the side of the duct he's in, rapid and burning cold; the metal goes so brittle between that and its initial disrepair that he can kick through it without too much trouble. it rains down in shards and he makes use of the distraction to freeze spikes across his knuckles, laying them brutally into one man's face. there's a stunned scrambling as the other three attempt to rally around his intrusion. Yuri twists between them, dropping to a leg-sweep, rising back with snapping kick, through another jagged-ice punch. it's messy and ugly. at one point he gives Victor a clear look: stay put. for all he'd wish the other man would gain some self-awareness, he's not about to risk getting him injured if he can help it. that's Yuri's job.
not that he really gets paid for it, but. the perqs are okay.
eventually - more quickly than it feels - he manages to get them subdued. it's not without a toll for the young hero, dripping from cuts, glad he'd managed to freeze the guns turned on him before they could be fired, bruised and limping from a nasty kick to his knee. nothing's broken, though. maybe fractured. it could be worse. there's no time to worry. )
C'mon, ( he pants and grabs Victor by one arm, door clicking open ahead of them as his ice fades save for a rudimentary lockpick of it. he can hear cars approaching; from the engine sound, Yuri doesn't think they're anybody he's waiting on. he hisses in frustration and changes direction, dragging Victor with him and onto a patch of ice big enough only for their strides, more ice forming makeshift blades under his shoes. the faster they're out of here, the better; he'd signed on to halt a kidnapping, not an entire drug ring. Yuri casts a frustrated look over his shoulder while simultaneously checking to see if he needs to just carry the other man out of here. which. he hopes not. Victor's taller than him and Yuri's injured.
but if it has to be done, he'll do it. )
Seriously, Victor? Again?
( the reproach would probably pull off better if he wasn't so winded. Yuri redoubles his withering look to make up for it instead. )
no subject
it's nice when they do.
he doesn't react enough when Frostflower enters the scene proper; jerks his head to the side and issues a low whistle, one that turns into a cluck of his tongue as he thinks, You're in more trouble than you know. he dispenses with the illusion of hands tied behind his back, glad for the shortsightedness that left his legs free as he shifts forward, not blinking in the face of the sudden, stark violence.
this is the life he's lived for longer than he remembers anything else. this is the unglamourous side; the side that PR from the regulated heroes board has told him he's not allowed to associate with. he's too much a face for Providence City. he's their pretty face, and he knows it. or at least Silverstar is. Victor's not really sure what he is, other than being played out on a leash he knows is tethered to a point he cannot see.
it matters less right now, when he feels like he's doing something even as the man fighting is Frostflower. a misleading name, and yet apt on others; there was a fascination to watching him fight, to the subtle, brutal methodology he employed. capitalising on what he had, and crafting it into an artform.
not without a cost. Victor stayed put to keep Frostflower from being distracted, even as he braces himself and tucks his chin in, ready to cut in if he needs to. there are the costs they all pay, and there's the line that takes it to too much. he won't let someone cross that line just because Victor runs his own manipulations in this city, to recapture, to retain that sense of helping the people he's been increasingly separated from as the years stretch longer. you're not as young as you used to be.
he's also not dead, but oh, who cares about that? let the fifty year olds who look like boxers and who swear blue streaks keep themselves on the streets in costume. not Victor. no, more appropriately, not Silverstar. officially, his street identity was as technically classified as anyone else's. it was an individual's choice to bridge that distance between cape and street. it's also irrelevant; Victor moves when Frostflower takes his arm, concentrating on the sound of those approaching cars and finding himself frowning. too many. that's more than he estimated, even being overgenerous. this dead drop must have been closer to the heart than he'd thought; Victor thinks this over as he keeps up, meeting Yuri's initial withering glance with a blank look that swiftly morphs into something genuinely sheepish. )
Again. It's a case of chronic bad timing. I keep wondering who they think they'll be ransoming me from.
( no one. standardly speaking, it'd end with him six feet under if they were kind enough to bury him. he doesn't explain, instead reaching forward and gesturing to their left, eyes flitting to the direction the engines are starting to stall. )
Left. It sounds like they came in from the main street, that left alley isn't wide enough to get a car down. They'll have to be on foot. How obvious are the guys out front?
( how obvious had Frostflower laid the red carpet out for impending three ring circus rolling up in their vehicles. )
no subject
he jukes them down the indicated alley, not bothering to ask why Victor knows so much about the layout of the area when he can't pay enough attention to keep himself safe. he doesn't ask, either, why he assumes Yuri's laid all the rest of the goons out. there isn't time. )
Most were picked up by crews en route to another callout. There's a couple by the warehouse proper. Probably bought us a minute, tops.
( but there's the element of surprise to be factored in, too, and Yuri's confident that their effective headstart is closer to two minutes. that'll be enough. it'll have to be.
he slides to a stop at the far mouth of the alley, holding Victor back with one arm. ice forms across the way, a small and clear mirror Yuri uses to check. there's nobody around - nobody. even the usual dodgy dealers have been moved on. that makes him nervous but there's no time to worry.
reading his silence, his handler doles out more information and Yuri smothers a curse. five vehicles. big players. time to move.
and fast.
he glances speculatively up at the rooftops, two and three stories above them. )
You ice skated much before, Victor?
no subject
he still nods, as if everything that was just said makes sense. it does. even to laypeople in the city, it can make sense. the structures of the heroes and the villains here are patterns observed and lived with by everyone. an awareness is almost incidental, if you track the communities. nothing codified, of course.
that wouldn't do. )
Oh, a time or two.
( but he smiles, and there's a sharp edge; the adrenaline spike at the question has his eyes lighting up. has him tamping down on the very light that wants to spill from his fingers, rise like dozens of tiny fireflies from his skin. he can't. but he can't fully keep the light out of his eyes, almost too ethereal a blue in the odd light of the alley. )
No time like the present to see what I remember.
( people are emerging from vehicles. it's not a subtle sort of confusion they're walking into. nor is there going to be any physical evidence left behind for most their injuries. gotta admire the impromptu use of ice; it sure does melt away any evidence. as it is, Victor simply waits on is cue and direction from Frostflower. even if he didn't have faith in his abilities, he's the one with a handler. )
no subject
( Yuri makes a cradle of his hands and braces himself, quirking an eyebrow first at Victor, then at the roof. he could use ice for this but it's worth risking physicality first, when he can feel his stamina dropping. they're going to need all he has in a few seconds; already he can hear shouts of anger and alarm from the scene of their escape.
in his ear Phichit reads numbers and confirmations, tone a little urgent. Yuri takes a deep breath. )
Up, up, and then away we go.
( there's a bit of scrambling, thankfully some teamwork, and then they're both on the rooftop. Yuri hears pounding feet and doesn't bother looking back. he steadies a hand on Victor's shoulder, too distracted by his own work to notice the new colour they've taken; in a split second they're both standing on narrow blades of ice. there's another half-second pause where he checks Victor's balance, says a rueful goodbye to his relative anonymity in this bust, and starts laying down an ice path along the rooftops.
it's much thicker than he'd been doing on the ground and Yuri can feel the cold set into his bones. not a good sign. one he ignores in favour of grabbing Victor by the wrist and tugging him along. )
Here's hoping you remember fast!
( there's a gap coming up and Yuri waits for the last second to bridge it. there's something perversely exciting about this, if he forgets that they're running (or skating) for their lives. when they clear the other side he has to repress a laugh, wincing as it catches the pain in his ribs. )
Still with me?
no subject
this is still not like any skating he's done; there's a thrill he doesn't bother denying, only titanium will holding back on reacting in ways that will tear his own relative anonymity to shreds. he doesn't hesitate; Yuri tugs him forward, and he moves, leaning into the motion and turning his hand so that he's clasping Yuri's wrist in turn.
he's smiling. smiling and he knows it, clamping down on everything else as they clear to the other side, leaning in to Yuri and nodding, eyes flashing before he's looking forward, other hand a light touch on Yuri's shoulder. )
Always.
( and he keeps moving, smooth and self-assured in a way he probably shouldn't be; though Yuri has more finesse, to anyone watching. Victor hadn't been fighting. his energy level is fine, probably almost too much, when he's being this relatively reserved. it makes him far too eager a skating partner, though he doesn't pull ahead. they need to make the distance set at Frostflower's pace.
a gunshot rings out in the distance behind them, but it's not at roof level; down low, with no second shot fired. someone leaping at shadows, reigned back in by a superior. I need to get back to that drop box, see what's left over. They'll be moving things even now, but this stuff... it can't hit the wider market. there are drugs, and there are drugs. this one is bad news. and it's getting ignored, because other threats look more real.
ironic, that his street life is the only way he even pinged to this. more heavily ironic that he suspects now it's far more interlinked with the different fat cats sitting in the underbelly of Providence Cty; but he needs the proof, or no one will approve any action. and it's been slow going, slow, slow going, though each one of his run ins with Frostflower is adding to the growing documentation on hand to indicate that it is a problem. that it's not just Silverstar seeing ghosts and shadows where there's nothing more than the usual pattern going through another settling period as the seasons shift and the crimes change tempo to adapt. )
Time to get groundside. ( though the way he looks at Yuri indicates that he's waiting for his handler to agree; people with better information access than those on site, in the scene. it's followed by a surreptitious glance down to Yuri's knee, and a tight lipped frown that Victor allows himself. ) How's your knee holding up?
no subject
then he's forming another ice bridge, a slope to a lower story, and feels the cold move right into his marrow. not good; he's starting to overextend. but while their retreat isn't particularly stealthy any more, it has been swift. Yuri hooks them into a righthand curve towards the main centre of the city. )
Don't try and be sensible now, Victor. Four more blocks and there's a station; I'll drop you there.
( frankly, the knee is the least of Yuri's worries. he wants to get there fast, even if it exhausts him. he's out for a few days anyway. this won't hurt him much more. )
Tell me if I'm pushing you too much, though.
no subject
Whatever you say, boss. You're the guy with the little birdie chatting in your ear, after all.
( he winks, leaning into the curve and allowing himself to smile. getting called to the carpet when his name shows up on civvie reports is something he'll have to deal with on Yakov's front, but it might mean people finally listening. him getting cut out, too; but he was running on a thin line as it was.
maybe it was that, facing the certainty that his effectiveness was about to be undercut again that has him laugh; a sharp, unfettered sound paired with a grin that's more daring and challenge than anything else. everything is lived in brief moments outracing the politics that've mired him down; facing what lines he won't cross, and what keeps him standing where he is most days, facing the world from behind a domino mask and a pleasant smile only as genuine as he's allowed to be. right now, even catalouging and categorizing the threat that Frostflower had just skated them away from, he feels more succinctly alive than he has in a long time.
it's a dangerous feeling. it's addictive. and he knows it's the kind of drug he needs to stay away from, pulling in tight on that heady emotion so it doesn't shine past his heart. )
Asks the hero who engaged in hand to hand combat and then skated himself and a tagalong out of certain danger toward the heart of the city! Overachiever. Don't worry about me.
( he pulls on a thick accent then, stereotypically Russian as he says: )
I'm sturdier than I look.
no subject
Worrying about you is my job. Don't want me to do it? Don't get kidnapped for the fifth time.
( the rebuke won't do any good, he's sure, and it's hard to get the words out when his lungs are starting to seize up from exertion, but Yuri feels better for saying it. as they carve across the rooftops Yuri tries not to wonder at the always-jarring juxtaposition of Victor's constant kidnapped state, his seemingly happy-go-lucky attitude to the situation, and the insight he pulls out at the most random times. there's a puzzle here, Yuri knows it; he's just not sure if he wants to be the one to complete it. a mystery isn't always a challenge. sometimes it's a warning.
there's plenty of action around the station when they arrive above it. Yuri extends the ice past the roof, listening absently to Phichit relaying their information to the desk ahead them. the ice on their shoes melts away as they descend to ground level, sheer bloodyminded determination on Yuri's behalf keeping it graceful enough that they don't jar on landing. that's a solid 97% of his energy burned for the day, he thinks wryly. )
Come on-- ( he's interrupted by the sound of sirens howling a warning down the street and a fresh wave of information inside his ear. in front of anybody else Yuri would keep up the gameface; since Victor is a sort of comfortable annoyance, he allows himself a short groan before he points very firmly at the station door. ) --Give them the details, what you can remember. Tell them they'll get my report later. Sorry; I've got to go.
( the situation at the bank is worsening. there might not be a lot of work there for Yuri, especially since he's already so close to maxed out, but more hands on deck never hurts. he doesn't look back as he sets off at a jog, catching a lift with the next police vehicle by virtue of jumping to the van's tailgate. at the very least he'll be one more pair of eyes on the situation; sometimes that's all it takes. )
no subject
Victor refrains from any commentary on this being a duty and a calling, not a job; both are true, in a sense. still. the job of protection belongs to the police; the very people he's being left with. Victor keeps quiet on that, too. he knows what it's like from Frostflower's side of the cowl. moreover, he knows, he can feel, how Yuri means it.
no part of him wants to take that away. if anything, it's exactly what he wants to protect, if he were in any position to protect another hero's idealism. )
Be careful of that knee!
( is what he calls out with a wave and a half-smile, watching Yuri take his leave. he doesn't have much of a choice, but to turn and walk into the building, navigating the crush of people and activity to speak with the officer in charge of processing intakes and statements. they're in a crush and dealing with a shootout by the docks and the ongoing situation at the bank; there are hostages, he hears from the chatter flitting past, and he grits his teeth while he stays in his chair.
up until he's forced to look up the length of an imposing looking woman, her uniform immaculate. "Mr. Nikiforov? We have a call come through for you. You shouldn't go worrying people. Another twelve hours and we'd have to open a missing person's case."
the severity of her expression provokes some of his genuine surprise; and a sense of outrage he tamps down on, because in a sense, he's being warned, and he knows it. if this is the worst he has to deal with, he's getting off light. so instead he laughs, under his breath, rubbing the back of his head and looking sheepish. )
Sorry, sorry, I didn't know anyone was so worried... what phone is this on?
( she gestures for him to stand, cutting across the bullpen and toward one of the offices at the back. "My desk, but it's impossible to hear anything right now. I'll transfer them back to the detective's office." a short demonstration of the phone: "Pick up when this light here starts blinking," and he's left in the small office with the shades partially drawn, allowing him a shuttered look out into the controlled chaos of the people who's real job was to protect the peace.
some days he feels more like he's the theatrics, part of the problem that keeps the real hard hits from being seen. that's not the truth. he knows better. it's the feeling that's hard to shake off.
the light blinks and he picks up, answering automatically: )
It's me.
( greeted by Georgi's voice in turn, not Yakov's. so his handler in training, and not the man who's shaped and influenced most of his "career." Georgi was talented in his own right as a reader; his ability to spot patterns and read the emotion of an individual or crowd was compelling, but also overwhelming. he liked guiding from the background; was invaluable in ways for directing Victor when he was controlled enough in cowl that most found getting a read on him difficult, let alone when to push, plead, cajole, or outright argue.
Georgi was great at the dramatics. it left Victor feeling right at home, especially when he didn't go as over the top as his handler.
"We're sending SB to pick you up. You've been out of contact all day, Vitya, we've been worried. Showing up at a station with a hero's tagline on a kidnapping situation?"
Georgi clucks his tongue, then sighs, voice dropping lower as he switches for a more serious tone. "We're calling you in. Our esteemed lady is asking for an escort." meaning he was on Mayor duty as a handoff; likely it meant the chatter was that the situation would be handled in a way that was going to need an immediate response from the Mayor. nothing he could even resent. he understood the need, if not calling him in for this.
not unless they were asking for him to intercede. )
Got it, got it. I'll meet SB out front and head on back. Missed you too, Princess.
( Georgi laughs; Victor can imagine the flick of his fingers that follows when he says, "Still not my type, Vitya, but you're sweet. Never give up hope. You'll find someone one of these days." or find himself pining after someone he can't even manage to meet up for coffee. six of one, half dozen of another.
he leaves the office, finding the sergeant who'd taken him back and flashing her a smile and a thank you. she waves him off after taking down his address and phone number; they'd call tomorrow for his report, but right now they had other things to address. "Get yourself home. No running, either; though this isn't the first report I'm seeing with your name on it, Mr. Nikiforov." he offers a helpless shrug and a laugh, but no explanation. easier to let her fill in the blanks to what that might mean, when on paper, it all looks relatively minor.
he hits the pavement and picks a direction, walking fast and assured until he hits an alley he casually sidesteps into. Chris is already there, the black and crimson of his costume catching a glint of the failing light. Speedsters were something else. Chris had just about every appetite a man could have, and then some; his smile tonight is tight, eyes strained. probably hasn't eaten enough, Victor determines, even as he accepts the bag from his fellow hero's hands and calls the light to him, bending it around. essentially invisible, he strips down and starts pulling on gear, speaking. )
What are we running ourselves into?
( Chris scoffs, holding out the earpiece that Victor accepts once he's clothed, keeping his light bending in place. Georgi is a little voice in his ear before long, only exchanged briefly for a terse statement from Yakov; the hostage situation was getting worse. what no one wanted known was that the Mayor's son was there at the bank; he was glimpsed amoung the hostages held in the inner safe room, where the oxygen was running low. asking after the heavy hitters showed most weren't even in the city, and the chance of incidental death was too high; it was a joint effort, and taking down the organised group was a police and hero double hitter. police holding the perimeter and working the negotiations, while the heroes were infiltrating and providing cover when shots were being exchanged.
not exactly a successful robbery, but definitely a successful play at something. Victor pulls on his personal illusion, stroking his fingers through the length of it to pull it up in a ponytail. Chris will be running them in to the Mayor's location. )
How long until they spring the trap?
( "Talking to the invisible man never gets more exciting when you fail to do anything creative with it, Silverstar. The trap springs once we're in place — with the Mayor." )
So it's handholding therapy again tonight?
( "It's your own fault for being her favourite. Come on." Chris held open his arms, Victor staring and laughing, shaking his head. he has to let go. he also isn't allow Chris to carry him princess style in his arms. )
Piggyback, please.
( with a sigh and glance skyward, Chris made some comment about bare backs and Russian into things, meanwhile allowing Victor his particular perch. they're off, and Victor delivered in full Silverstar glory, to the guarded, temporary safehouse as the Mayor continues demanding to be allowed on the scene.
ah. this is really why he's here. it's a fifteen minute delay and calming session with the Mayor before he's walking both of them out of the safe house and toward the choke point where the seniormost officer, a detective from the downtown police station, is coordinating waiting for the chief of police. Silverstar allows his light bending to relax, seemingly manifesting himself and the Mayor by the mobile station, keeping a hand on her shoulder until they're fully revealed.
it's just his civic duty to listen to his elected officials, isn't it? she wanted to be here, with the command center, while the move was made by heroes she meets a handful of times in a year rescue her son and the other hostages. seems like a fair trade to Victor, even if he can do no more than stand at her side, listening and watching in turn.
Be careful, Frostflower. he can hear the order go out for the run in; the distraction, the bullets that will or won't be shot, and the front attack that's a feint for the team going in relying on their own skills to get to the hostages and keep the oxygen flowing into the safe.
he opens his eyes, listening to the reports coming in quickfire, as all hell breaks loose. )
no subject
in his experience, an all-heroes no-pity callout like this means it's political somehow. Yuri hates when it's political.
at least he has Phichit looking out for him, his handler cheerfully but firmly dealing with his moodcrash by guiding Yuri to where there's food being handed out. using superpowers looks cool but burns through energy at a disturbing metabolic rate. ham sandwiches aren't exciting; he feels better after three of them, though, and trudges off to find a team leader who can give him something to do. sieges aren't Yuri's forte. he lacks the firepower to be of much use, especially when he's already wrung-out. at best he might be able to slip a few of them up, Yuri thinks, impatiently waiting for direction.
he's still loitering when the Mayor turns up, Silverstar radiant at her side, and in that moment it's almost worth fending off the pain and exhaustion. Yuri's not the only one who gasps at such a simple wonder; he's equally sure he's not the only one with a newly elevated heartrate. Silverstar isn't Providence City's darling hero just for his success rate, after all. and maybe that's shallow, but people have long been swayed by penultimate beauty in any form. it's why art exists in the first place. why people make music. why people dance.
it's a good thing the mask across his eyes covers most of his blush, that's all.
there are a few other heroes Yuri recognises, having worked for the betterment of the city for years; not all of them he knows well, or gets along with, but he nods to those he does. Scarlet Blaze - Chris Giacometti, powerful and blase enough to go public with his identity - wanders over to chat, looking tired. Yuri passes him half a sandwich and points him in the direction of the food, trying not to flinch away from the way Chris rewards him with a ruffling of his hair like Yuri's still some wet-behind-the-ears kid. well, maybe he is, at that.
resolutely he forces his eyes back to the situation he needs to focus on instead of admiring the way Silverstar manages to stand so poised and perfect in the chaos that surrounds him. one day, Yuri wants to have that kind of confidence for himself. but he's got a long way to go to get there.
everything happens at once when the Mayor and her shining bodyguard arrive on-scene. there's no time left for Yuri to wistfully moon from a faraway distance of fifty metres. with surprising coordination officers and heroes move into action, handling the failing negotiations, encroaching as stealthily as possible towards the breaking point. in the midst he stands taut and ready for action, not knowing when or what he'll be doing. that's the problem in situations like this, when you're not a power-hitter: nobody's quite sure how to utilise you most effectively. even Yuri doesn't always know.
he takes Phichit's advice and gets some height, a better view of the field. the quiet on the other end of the line tells him that his handler is deep into some research, some cunning plan. Yuri doesn't interrupt to ask what he's up to, just watches the scene and stays as ready as he can. false energy still buzzes uncomfortably through him, foot tapping restlessly. Phichit's voice in his ear almost has Yuri jumping off his perch: "is Chris still around? I may have a plan."
looking around, it's not hard to spot the speedster, still loitering in the shadow of Silverstar's wake. Yuri's already moving as he sends back an affirmative and Phichit continues.
"if we can get you inside, I've found a structural weakness in the vault. but...Frostflower, you're gonna have to go cold. like, really cold. dangerously."
ah. of course. )
How cold are we talking?
( there's a fidgeting sound from the other end and a rodentlike squeak in the background. "super cold. colder than you've ever done before. the vault is reinforced up to anything standard, temperature-wise, but if we can take it below its limit the mechanism fails completely. might not open the door entirely, but it should at least crack it, buy the people inside some breathing room."
so not a guns-blazing situation; fine. Yuri can still read the hesitation in Phichit's calm. )
Give me a figure here, Phichit. How cold.
( he reaches Chris at the same time his handler confesses, "negative six hundred Kelvin," which means that instead of a cool greeting the other hero gets Yuri's hand on his shoulder and then a strangled noise of horror. it earns Yuri a curious look but he's too distracted trying to form a protest.
Phichit is already steamrolling ahead.
"you've done close to that before! taking away the leverage of the hostages is the easiest way to defuse it, Frostflower. everyone else is too focused on saving the Mayor's son, they're not thinking about their resources properly." more firmly, he adds, "you can do this. if anyone can, it's you." )
Yeah, maybe on a day when I haven't already burned myself ou-- Sorry, Chris, just a sec-- haven't already burned myself out on another hostage situation, and even then it'd be a stretch!
( there's silence from the handler's end as he waits for Yuri to think it through; silence, also, from Chris and his curiously raised eyebrows. Yuri sucks in a deep breath and puts his hands over his eyes, willing his head to think clearly and take proper stock of his condition. his heart's hammering a little too hard but that's to be expected after the boost pill. the chill in the heart of him is still there, but warming a little after this brief respite. it doesn't hurt any more, at least. his leg does, and his stance is a little shaky, but that's fine. if this goes as Phichit hopes, it's not his legs Yuri will be using.
he takes a deep breath and turns to Chris again. )
How charged are you? Can you get me in there before they have a chance to notice?
( Chris gives him a cautious look and the answer Yuri needs to not turn back. "take the ducting," Phichit suggests, tuning into Chris' earpiece as well so both heroes can hear him, already relaying the nearest access point. it's not hard to find; there are offices stationed by it and heroes trying to decide how best to utilise it. "you can get right outside the vault door. if Chris can guard you, there's limited access into that point from the bank proper." )
All right. All right; it's worth a shot. Phichit, work out the timing between the main event so we're not interfering with anybody there.
( that leaves him another minute to hustle off to find another boost pill, lying through his teeth that yes, this is his first of the day, bringing back another couple of sandwiches to share with Chris. they're both going to need all the energy they can get. all this effort just so people can breathe...
...but it's what he signed up for. as Phichit settles the timeline and he and Chris finish eating, Yuri takes another deep breath and nods. piggybacking is never dignified, but at least they're soon moving too fast for it to be the subject of much attention. the Scarlet Blaze is no slouch, after all, taking at least part of his name from the way he leaves heat trails in his wake at top speed. even the narrow confines of the ducting isn't enough to slow him appreciably, dragging Yuri behind him until they're kicking out a grating and dropping in. Chris immediately sets to work on the surprised guard. Yuri steels himself and puts his hand to the vault door.
it's a sheen of ice at first; he makes sure to creep it over the far side, too, as a warning for anybody close. the ice forms the frostflowers he'd taken his name from, curling and blooming beyond Yuri's intent. steadily he lowers the temperature, as swiftly as he dares. too fast and he'll freeze himself. the descent through temperature ranges is agonising. even an ice manipulator feels his own cold; Yuri's teeth chatter, frostflowers twining like freezing ivy up his wrists and forearms. he keeps going past the shaking of his body, past the loss of feeling that has him leaning against the door more than supporting his own weight. he ignores everything that happens behind him, hearing already pounding with impending unconsciousness. his vision darkens like it's being smothered in black ice.
the frost of his work is choking at his throat, burning through his nerves, when Yuri hears the door click, cracking open those few crucial centimetres. but it's too late, too late to stop himself, too late to pull himself back. he makes a strangled sound that's half triumph and half panic. the last thing he consciously hears is Phichit ringing through an alert to the medics and demanding that someone save him right now. he doesn't feel Chris try to pick him up, only to yank his hands back with a cry of pain and surprise at how searingly cold Yuri's gone.
ah, he thinks muzzily, this is going to really hurt if he doesn't die. )
no subject
he's tense, but to all outward appearances, Silverstar is a self contained, quiet lodestone of a watchful figure. they know he'll move if needed; they don't know the subtle sort of control he could exert on a crowd if needed. he didn't find a need.
Georgi's chatter sticks to the important points; nothing longwinded or dramatic as different groups move. there are injuries; one hero down and pulled out of the way with a bullet through his leg, but no arterial nicks. a broken arm when another hero fell over a landing with one of the armed robbers; they'd broken both their falls to save the robber at the last moment.
politics and political. this feels too staged, and he half expects a contact from any of the Big Names sometime soon, mocking them for control over the chaos of existence. as if the same principle didn't hold true for them, too. at least we save people.
he knows when Frostflower is approaching Chris; keeps himself focused on the Mayor and the task at hand even when he wants to turn and listen in better than he can right now. the strangled noise of horror penetrates; he shifts his attention the fraction needed to keep an eye on Chris and Frostflower, still the steady, radiant form at the Mayor's side. feeling her hand on his upper arm as the police detective gives her a cut off commentary on the progress with her son.
he wants to know what it is that Frostflower is hearing in his ear. he could ask Georgi; but that would need to have a reason, and he needs to be focused, ready to move. if he's allowed. if.
Frostflower and Chris are gone in the flash that should have been Chris's calling card, where the blaze had taken over instead. he sets them out of his mind, listening to the reports coming in and Georgi's curtailed commentary, noting that Chris and Frostflower are inside, dealing with the vault. there's a cluck of Georgi's tongue, and Victor lifts a hand to his ear; he knows that sound, and knows that unless Georgi wants to talk, it's nothing Victor will be hearing.
"Someone's up to something." helpfully obscure, it's all that he gets, and he grits his teeth even as he comments: )
Tease.
( the Mayor flicks her eyes his way, arms crossed back over her chest. he dips his head in turn, polite smiles and somber eyes.
reports slam in one after another. suppressed robbers, one accidentally exploded cartridge and the paramedics called in to deal with the resulting concussive injuries; under all that, the sudden call over the paramedic line for an alert: hero down. Phichit making demands that someone save Frostflower right now, and Victor feels his heart lurch in his chest.
no. )
Patch me to Chris. Now.
( Victor knows his duties. stand tall, stand visible, and hold the Mayor's hand, metaphorically or otherwise. he's the visible sign of support, unless he's needed; and as Chris is patched in to him over his handler's feed, he wonders when "needed" started being decided by a bunch of bureaucrats who saw lives as a game of numbers. )
What's happening.
( he uses his voice to be cutting, direct; soft but carried by his microphone, cutting through some of Chris's own pain on the other end. he's running low on energy, but he heals better than most; a side effect of his speedster background. Chris did everything fast.
including recovering and thinking fast. "Frostflower's down. He's frozen — no, freezing. I can't touch him without feeling like I'm dipping my hands into liquid nitrogen. This is a whole new kind of frigid, I'm telling you."
down that low, that fast? Victor grits his teeth. the paramedics aren't going to be able to pull his body temperature back up with what they have on site. blankets aren't going to be enough. except that Victor, knowing what he does, is going to need them for the knowledge he doesn't have. frostbite and hypothermia.
he didn't think he'd be dealing with a worst case scenario of either here in the city, not since the Ice Führer had been stopped in his attempts to deep freeze the city some eight years ago. )
Chris, you're taking me in. Georgi, get me an expert in dealing with frostbite and hypothermia on the line now. Tell Yakov I'm leaving the Mayor with the twins.
( Chris is already moving, meeting Victor as he lays off the shine and dims himself to walk around the back of the control car, nodding curtly to the Mayor as he strides off. he doesn't hesitate; Chris comes to a skidding halt and Victor's throwing his arms around his neck and locking his legs around his hips. it's a mark of Chris's own worry that he doesn't slide his hand back down and over Victor's thigh, complimenting him on holding on tight; he's healed the cold damage to himself already, but he remembers it acutely.
Victor hears the paramedic in his ear, cupping one hand around his mouth to shout out directions as he holds on to Chris with the effort of one arm locked across the front of his chest. face tucked down low enough to be heard, he talks like he knows what he's being dropped into, quite literally; Chris makes the leap and Victor slides off his back with the learned grace of someone who's done this one time too many over the years. )
Body temperature has to come up as a whole. Where's my focus?
( Frostflower's too close to the vault door. he's kept the oxygen flowing; he's saved the lives of every person locked within. but he's too close, and he's covered in the curling evidence of his own namesake, looking waxen, pale, frosted and frozen. )
Get the vault open.
( he says, voice calm as his heart thunders in his chest, constricting painfully even as it beats on, persistent. Chris's warning falls on listening ears, but Victor's already been preparing; his temperature control is entirely dependent on focus. He concentrates on giving himself a thin buffer layer of chill air, ducking down and kneeling at Frostflower's side. the shock of pain when he touches him is lessened a little by the temperature buffer; all the same, Victor hisses out a pained breath through gritted teeth as he feels the cold strike deep, aching in his bones as he pulls the other man into his arms and takes a few stumbling steps back. the impact of Frostflower's freezing form against his chest steals his breath away, his heart beating erratically as his body protests the burning cold.
he ignores it. all things considered, Frostflower's taken his fair share of hits for Victor, unknowing of who he was defending. he can manage this much. manage this much to try and save the life of the idiot idealist who keeps giving Victor some hope for the beauty and the people of this city they live in.
temperature control is not a flashy thing, by most counts. Victor envisions what it is he needs as his back hits the wall, and he sinks down, still cradling Frostflower in his arms. he needs that layer of warming air around the both of them; hugging their bodies, a second, invisible skin. it's a start, as he brings that temperature slowly upward, checking numbers with chatter teeth and the responses of the paramedic over his earpiece. hears how he needs to bring up Frostflower's internal temperature too, and that's harder at first; he doesn't have warm water, he doesn't have warm fluids to hook up on a bag, and the paramedics outside didn't either. two hours of grace room for a recovery from this and they could get Frostflower to a hospital, could probably save most of him; most isn't acceptable. not for this.
not for what Victor damn well believes is posturing.
it's his light that gives him the idea. shivering and chattering, not quite yet to the point of going still with the cold, he moves his arm, securely tucks Yuri's head against his shoulder and throat. feels his pulse leap again in shock; ignores it as he keeps his freezing arm around Yuri's shoulders, holding him close. Yuri's legs are left draped over Victor's lap, gently resting on the ground as he slides his other hand out from under Yuri's knees. the further shock of cold contact has him drawing in a sharp, painful breath, hissing; he pushes past it, panting, to place his hand over Yuri's breastbone. )
Heat his core first. That's what you said? Warm fluids internally, if he's conscious.
( The chattering, stilted words are exchanged with the voice in his ear; the woman who breathes in and calmly repeats herself, listing off lists of possibilities, quiet, assured. hiding her panic from Georgi not at all; but he's sensitive to such things.
sensitive to what he hears from Victor, too, as Victor's replies become less coherent. as he focuses in and pulls on the part of himself that lies below the skin; pulls on what he thinks of as the heart of his light. he's unaware of the soft glow that starts to radiate, flickering like a star viewed through the unsteady presence of an unruly atmosphere, slowly flowing down his arm until his fingers are alight with it. pressing it further as he raises the temperature surrounding them both to the ideal, according to the woman who wasn't here but knew these things, as medical professionals are wont to do. "It's going to take time. With as bad as his symptoms are, you're going to need to warm him up for the next hour — we can get a team in there —"
Victor tunes her out. he pours his heart into Yuri's frozen chest, and he wills that light to spread, little by little. infiltrating his circulatory system, like so many small sparks of energy, carrying the warmth he wills it to have through his bloodstream. Victor has to tune out the outside world; the sounds of the evacuations from the safe, the police and paramedics as they arrive on the heels of a few of the support heroes, the people who try to engage him, only to be ultimately waved off by an exhausted, crabby, hungry Chris. one of the wise ones brings in a tray of dounuts from the bank breakroom; incongruous as it is, Chris finishes them all off himself while watching Victor.
no, while watching Silverstar holding another hero in his arms, his expression so focused and unflinching that he almost seems carved of marble, arm wrapped around another figured carved in stone. watches as the characteristic glow that suffuses Silverstar's being bleeds slowly, steadily into Frostflower, pulsing to the beat of Silverstar's heart. to the moment where that pulse shifts; where it is Silverstar and Frostflower both glowing, both pulsing, the shivering and chattering of teeth calming down in the wake of the warmth he suffuses through the both of them.
he can't hear anything past the ringing in his ears. past the pounding of his heart, and the feel of Yuri's heart pounding underneath his hand. the Mayor's son is bond to have been liberated by now; the Mayor moving on to making statements, giving thanks. Georgi speaks up as the paramedic goes quiet; with minimal answers, he patches in to Chris and picks up a feed of information through the speedster. hears the mystified surprise in Chris's voice as he watches Silverstar do what a healer couldn't; watches him be the gentle, steady, all encompassing warmth leeching the winter out of a hero's heart. Victor cramps up, goes partly numb from pressure, but doesn't notice. there's just the barrier of steady, warm air he keeps; a dry bath that refuses to compromise; and the pulse and warmth of his heart's light as filtered through another living being. murmuring in Russian: )
Don't you dare go where I can't follow, you heroic, good hearted idiot.
( knowing in the back of his mind that it's just barely soft enough that Georgi might not hear. not giving much of a damn either way, even though he knows, oh, he knows he should.
he doesn't care, but he knows, theoretically. )
no subject
Yuri will apologise for making them worry later.
it's through the companionable chattering of the nurses as they tend him that he finds out how he's managed to survive with nothing to show for the encounter besides complete exhaustion and the burn scars of his frost over his arms and chest and throat. never seen anything like it, they say, admiring his saving, who knew Silverstar could heal as well?
Yuri hadn't, that's for sure. he'd thought he'd known almost everything there was to know, at least publicly, but this was new. fantastical. particularly, singularly painful.
it's Phichit who shows him the video evidence of it, gleaned from those on the scene and the bank's CCTV footage. he perches casually on Yuri's bed like it's not a hospital bed in the intensive care unit at all, just two of them hanging out and trading videos like normal people. he's grateful for that much, even as he cringes at the imagery. Silverstar, the city's top hero, who was supposed to be guarding the Mayor, instead cradling Yuri's body at the point right before it ends up a corpse. Yuri, who can't even control his own power enough to keep from turning a relatively simple task into a suicide mission, taking time away from things far, far more important. he has to admit that Silverstar's healing power looks impressive, but what about the man isn't?
Yuri thinks he can still feel it, shining under his skin like heartburn, like a sun he's too fragile to contain.
it's two full weeks, all in all, before he's released from hospital, still aching and tired but on the road to recovery. physically, at least. Phichit's superior, a kind but stern man named Celestino, escorts him home. Yuri's family know him well enough to not swamp him with their concern but he can feel it all through the house, abrading his shot nerves. he spends a lot of time in his darkened room, listlessly surviving migraines. he leaves his phone off, his earpiece off, his brain on and mired in a cocktail of resignation, guilt, and a kind of self-loathing.
Yuri is getting a medal, he's told, for his valiant defense of the city. like he hadn't pulled the city's best line of defense from where Silverstar was needed most, just to play glorified doctor. like he'd done something amazing instead of amazingly stupid.
"it's an honour, and you earned it," Celestino tells his downward spiral firmly and Phichit backs him up with typical enthusiasm. the young handler's getting an award as well but he seems much more interested in Yuri's. part of Yuri is angry with him, for talking him into pulling that stunt in the first place, but the onus lays ultimately with himself. he'd made the call, in the end. at least nobody in the vault had died; he'd got that much right, anyway. at least that much.
Yuri's adjusted neckline, higher than before, isn't quite enough to cover the new scarring at his throat. at least his gloves hide the silvered skin on his hands. he turns up to the ceremony as late as he decently can, avoiding the press, avoiding everyone save his handlers and the Mayor herself as she does her rounds. he doesn't want to be here. he doesn't want to accept this award and put on a fake smile and shake hands. he wants to-- Yuri doesn't know, not any more. )
I was just doing my duty, ( it's becoming the automatic shape of his mouth as repeats it to people too stubborn to give his discomfort space. the cocktail of medications he's still on means that Yuri can't even drown his ill mood with the free-flowing champagne. he retreats to dark corners instead, to the bathroom, leaving his appearance at the stage until the last-minute. his gut clenches as he's forced to confront the fact that Silverstar is once again in his place at the mayor's side.
Yuri's been especially avoiding him all night. now he can't do it any longer. thankful that the gloves mask the clamminess of his palms Yuri walks forward, stilted and the least comfortable he's ever been in his entire life. there's no way he can hide that much, but he's never been a press darling. people should know better than to expect schmoozy smiles from him by now. he doesn't attempt to smile as he shakes hands and stonily lets accolades wash over him without sinking in. )
Thank you.
( it's quiet enough that the straining reporters can't be sure it's said at all, but it's not directed at them. Yuri meets Silverstar's eyes for the first time, a brief and torturous second, knowing the words aren't enough. then he's turning away as quickly as he can to head offstage and away from all of this. Celestino will scold him, he knows. Yuri will play the invalid card if he has to. he just wants it to be over. )
no subject
he still takes the pill past his lips and dry swallows, feeling it all the way down. he needs the energy. he needs the false presentation of strength.
he doesn't remember most of what was said in the followup. "no comment" and "we'll entrust the investigations to the joint task forces of the Providence City Police Department and the liaison council for Incorporated Heroes. we're glad the Mayor has her son back, safe and sound."
safe and sound are the words that echo through his mind when the crash hits; when he leans heavily against Georgi and is walked up into his apartment, having been checked over by a paramedic and pronounced healthy. exhausted, but healthy. reminded to eat.
he knows he needs to, knows he'll be ravenous later. it's why Georgi orders an extra large pizza with everything on it, plus the cheese bread, plus some kind of soda Victor abhors and an order of cookies that he loves because they're warm and moist and chewy and everything terrible about chocolate chips rolled into neat, palm sized packages. Georgi writes him a note, leaves it pinned to his shirt, and locks he door when he leaves.
the note is just a heart. Victor doesn't get it. what he does get is the pizza; he eats everything, drinks the terrible pop, and finishes off all but one of the cookies while scrolling through newsfeeds and tracking the aftermath. no word on Frostflower in the hospital, aside from being admitted; that's standard. he doesn't worry about it.
he checks his messages. a note about needing him in another day for a press release; otherwise he's being ordered off for recovery, on emergency call only. Victor nods to himself, takes Makkachin out to walk, and gives up after the dog pees on the tree in front of their apartment. he almost doesn't make it back up the stairs. his downstairs neighbours poke their heads out, both little girls asking if he needs help. he smiles and laughs, waving them off. just tired, he says. been working late.
he crashes again, and almost sleeps up to the deadline for hopping a cab and taking his circuitous way to where Silverstar needs to appear. it's another performance, though one that has teeth behind it when the questions come rolling in from the press.
still no mentions he's found of the drug activities making it to the higher levels of press. still no mentions of increasing addictions and inpatient treatments where jails are filling up in the least developed parts of the city. of course.
he heads home, and he gets intercepted with a call; gets told to hold on that before it's handed off to someone else, leaving him both resentful and thankful. he barely manages to get Makkachin out to do his bathroom business before he hits his bed and sleeps the next fourteen hours.
groggy, he calls in to the police station, asking for a time when he can come complete his report from the days prior. he sets up an appointment for the following week, spending the rest of the time talking with Georgi and Yakov, asking obtusely for updates on all the heroes injured in the bank robbery. all injuries are healed. when it comes to Frostflower, aside from some scarring at his hands and arms, at his throat, blooming over his chest, he's all right. healing and recovering and all right.
it's one piece of good news. Victor hadn't known if he could manage what he did. with how drained it's left him, he doesn't know if it's something he needs to work on, or to forget and leave as an emergency measure. he doesn't have time to think about it. Yakov tells him word down the line is he trains that, too; or else he announces that it's a fluke.
he grits his teeth. agrees to the training. finds himself staring into Makkachin's eyes and resting his hands on either side of his head and gently infusing him with light, until the both of them sit in the darkened, windowless bathroom, eyes glowing, tail wagging, hearts beating as one.
it's kind of sweet. it's freaky as hell. he doesn't know what it means, and he wants to know, but instead, instead he buckles down. meets with the police detective and files his report. gets referred to a rehabilitation program in the process; it's an indication of just how strained he's looking, he knows, and he laughs at the offer, but takes the card anyway.
there's no rehab for this.
the award ceremony is his chance to discuss the lay of the land with fellow heroes and police officers and the officials who attended. the information isn't promising. only one or two others mention the increase in petty busts and coordinated activities that indicate ties between different underworld fat cats. to some of the more moral grey participants as well. yet it's more of the same, they insist. there's no pattern.
is he inventing things that don't really exist? is he so desperate to find anything that he's drawing lines between unconnected events, leading to... this?
Victor wonders this as his eyes hunt the crowd, only catching sight of Frostflower here and there. anytime he tries to move for him, someone intercepts, or he disappears. it's frustrating, but he smiles, asks his questions, listens to others, asks after families he doesn't actually remember, but can guess each has.
the pomp and circumstance of the awards themselves is so by route he doesn't have to do much as far as thinking. his own award comes first, a medal for heroic feats he wants to deny, because it had nothing to do with heroics. he holds his peace, says his thanks, takes his position, and shakes hands with each hero called up. those awarded hearts for injuries received; those given accolades for lives saved. those few given the prestigious awards issued by the city, from the Mayor herself, for great acts of heroism that have saved lies; for going above and beyond a self-ascribed call of duty.
Frostflower doesn't look like he wants to be here. Victor can tell, though he doesn't let it show in his face. he's as serious as he's been all night, but his smile is warmer for Yuri; warmer and ignored as Yuri doesn't even look up. he looks good. not fantastic, but who would? he'd killed himself saving others.
he isn't holding it against him. feels relief, and a little distressed, when Frostflower doesn't even look up.
and then he does.
and Victor, for a moment, can only hear that quiet thank you and see beautiful brown eyes.
and then, as swiftly as that, Frostflower is gone. Victor has to stay. through the rest of the speeches, his own speech that he barely remembers, through the applause and the alcohol and the touch of Georgi at his arm, before he's asking if he can go, knowing Georgi has already picked up on his low level distress, his need to step aside, his ongoing exhaustion. he slips away into his own invisibility, moving quietly and with practice through the room and toward the far restrooms. the ones down the hall and around the corner; stepping through the doors and pausing, listening. waiting a few moments for any other sound, then walking quiet to the sink, letting go of his light refraction to run his hand under the sensor. Victor leans forward and splashes water on his face, motes of light shedding off him like dust motes dancing in sunlight. they pool around his feet, whirl slowly upward, turning into so many dancing points of light that spread out and around behind him. blue and white, fading to purples, then again to the melancholy blues. a spike of red as he considers himself in the mirror; shoves his dangling locks of mid-back length hair behind an ear and tries to see who it is everyone else is seeing.
how is he protecting this city? is he, anymore? how is he bringing happiness to these people? how is he helping when he might be seeing phantoms in shadows and not what's actually going on?
he pulls his hair back from his face, hands wet, water dripping down from his temples to follow the planes of his face. he doesn't let his light linger under his skin. he wants to see himself, as close as he can, and ask himself if he's making all this up.
but he believes it's real. he believes he's seeing a pattern that too many are ignoring. that things are coming to a head no one's ready to handle, but they will be seeing soon. )
What are you doing?
( the best I can. he doesn't know if he has a better answer. )
no subject
similarly, Yuri dodges press and the association of other heroes. for weeks. all efforts of Phichit and Celestino are met with an icy wall of utter dissociation, Yuri stonefaced and impassive save for a hint of frustration. he turns his phone off, even, not wanting to know what's happening outside his life at the bathhouse his family runs, slouching through the day-to-day of that existence like it's all under sufferance. it is, to Yuri's mind.
he doesn't try to use his ice, at all. it's not the fear of pain that holds Yuri back: it's the way the scars on his skin burn, like a legacy, like a farewell. he's afraid that he'll reach for it and find nothing there to wield.
eventually, however, moping loses its charm. his uselessness as an active hero aside, there are other things that have bothering him, eating away at him in the way that suspicions so often do. nearly two weeks after he'd turned his phone off Yuri finally reboots it. there's a slew of texts and IMs from Phichit; the handler has a dogged persistence that doubles well enough as patience. Yuri sends a terse reply: did you manage to find anything out about Victor Nikiforov?
the news isn't helpful, but it is somewhat expected by this stage. Phichit's no slouch as a hacker but there are firewalls he daren't touch, strong and loaded with the certainty of trapped encoding. he's examining it from a distance but even if manages to find a way in it'll take time. lots of time. meanwhile the information he does find is all publicly-accessible, things they'd known almost since the first kidnapping. Yuri frowns in frustration. he doesn't like the sound of this. it reeks of more political maneuvering, or perhaps of too-much money. a trust-fund baby, sure, but whose trust?
it's no coincidence that Victor's been taken all these times; Yuri's known that since the second. what he's not sure of is whether Victor is the target, or the bait, or just the particular stepping stone that Yuri keeps moving out of the path.
well, it's not his problem any more, anyway. Victor Nikiforov will have to rely on someone else to save his proverbial bacon; Yuri's 90% sure he's quitting that job. his job. the one he'd struggled for so long just to be a part of, only to end up like this, a let-down to himself. it's high time he face the facts. without the power he can never attain, Yuri's just a liability. a sacrifice play that burns his own side, let alone himself.
(but he's not the quitting type, and it's that part of him that rolls tirelessly through news feeds, searching for something he can't quite pin down.) )
no subject
High School Drug Bust in the Inner City District with mentions of an unknown drug amoung classic favourites on the opiods scale;
Decrease in Gang Conflicts over the last Seven Months Indicates Mayor's "Hard on Crime" Agenda May be Paying Off, but the gangs involved have longstanding issues, and they're noted to pass each other in the street without engaging.
Increase in Port Traffic leads to concerns about Adequate Customs Staff, an article that continues to talk about backup in processing speeds that effect businesses in the region as well as countrywide.
Victor Nikiforov shows up in two articles. one, he's a background mention, by first name alone: at the same high school where the drug bust had occurred, only tied in with volunteering with a mural repainting, which has been in the planning stages for months. in the other article, he's not mentioned at all. he's a serious looking face in the crowd, talking to one of the officials, hand up in a stopping motion as if he's been caught halfway through a denial or some frustration. it's an article discussing a protest at a police station in the less developed and maintained part of the city, arguing against routing members of their force away to the customs forces on temporary loan.
"they're already so slow to respond to occurrences," one concerned mother protests. "and they don't do anything about those people, those people who hang on the corners, and they aren't selling themselves, but they're selling something. no one's doing anything about it!"
for his part, Victor's been trying to play within the lines of his job. he's assigned light work, allowed to respond to a handful of situations more akin to his earlier years than more recent ones. he's been brutal and efficient, quiet and ethereal. he's gotten a confession out of one man simply by being too beautiful to deny, an angel on earth; Victor had thought it was hyperbole, but he'd simply played to the expectation, settling a hand on the man's shoulder and saying, "thank you for your cooperation, but you should remember your miranda rights, too."
he knows this is Georgi pulling strings. feeling his own frustration, and being quiet on what else he'd felt, especially as Victor never brings it up himself. he shows up to a charity banquet for young entrepreneurs, cooperates with two other heroes to save a window washer when her cables failed, saves three kittens. three kittens, who all dig claws into his arms, because unlike people, they're not swayed by anything other than their own curiosity. he makes his motes of light dance for them, keeping them squirming and distracted until he can hand them off.
but most the work he does is with Georgi in his ear and a promise that he's not getting street involved, even while he's hitting the streets. when he's talking with the kids at the high school around sessions with the painting and those involved in the mural project. fortuitous, but in an unhappy way. he was already scheduled to be here.
on his own with Georgi in his ear when he's at the protest, trying to get a statement from a junior officer about the numbers of incidents going unfollowed in the neighborhood. about sending a formal request for assistance to the central office, and being told they have it handled, even when he knows they don't.
Georgi has no answer. the only statement he has is that Victor should be careful; there's been light prodding at his information files. nothing incriminating, or at least nothing that's gotten through yet, but it's coming from more than once source. three, maybe five, all independently intelligent and guarding their tracks. smart people.
some might be handlers or heroes. it's unlikely they all are.
Victor grits his teeth, dismissing it. there's not usually much activity in poking around to his face or his street persona, but it comes up every so often. he starts relying on mirroring people's expectations; it's not Victor Nikiforov, but an attractive woman, a younger man, an old veteran tracking down dead drops and liberating information. he's caught at least once, but he escapes before the van makes it out of the parking lot, taking advantage of Yuri's inspiration with the lock freezing to use his own temperature control to bring down the lock to brittle snapping temperature and kick his way out of the back.
he doesn't think that should leave a trail. he doesn't account for the hyper paranoia of the people behind this, who have now felt too compromised, who suspect it's not even the police, but an effort on the hero community alone. Victor keeps trying to get heard by the police officers, but the one detective giving him the time of day is the same woman who referred him to drug rehab.
she listens. she doesn't say she believes him, but when he brings her information, when he lays it out and lets her draw her own conclusions, she starts to agree. she starts picking up reports and seeing the patterns he sees, even as she tells him this is probably nothing. even as they sit down and talk, and she asks him about Frostflower, and he has to admit it's been a lucky coincidence. "a decorated hero like that? they've all got handlers, don't they? submit a request to the right people to ask after his, i don't know. but i can tell you i have a nose for trouble, and i've just been lucky having a guy like that as an accidental guardian angel."
they all know he's not been heard from for weeks. it'd worry Victor more if his inquiry to Georgi came back with a nod toward him being fine. more than that isn't his right to know. for any of them to know.
he wants to ask. he doesn't.
he has his own life to figure out. not just Frostflower, with the confusion of seeing that coldness mingled in with the gratitude. not even mingled. did Frostflower resent Silverstar? did it matter?
it did. it couldn't. shouldn't. he can't shove the thoughts out of his head, but he wishes he could, even as he takes Makkachin out like he often does, jogging around the city blocks near his run down, shitty apartment, listening to music, eyes alert and watching. not as alert as he should be. not as on point.
just distracted enough when he gets back to not notice the first thing off, when a light flicks off overhead. the stairs lose their bulbs every so often; he glances up, walking slower, Makkachin panting at his side. he's wary when he enters his apartment, but not as wary as he should be.
the attack takes him off guard, letting go of Makkachin's lead and falling like he's been taught, like he knows from over the years. he scrambles up, guarding his head and getting a read on numbers crammed into his flat; masked and in dark colours, he sees at least ten. way too many. way too many for some unimportant trust fund baby living where he lives.
the fight is quick and brutal. there's enough Victor can't do without revealing himself, but there is enough he can do, increasing the ambient heat, and allowing himself to let down that wall against the ability he doesn't like. reaching out and twisting emotions to pull on the fear, to heighten it unreasonably, to make them prone to running as he continues to fight. it's the closest he allows himself to get to outright overwriting what they feel.
it works. they bolt, heading out, but he doesn't account for what he doesn't know. a needle jammed into his neck, a plunger depressed, and his system flooded with a fire so intense, so incredible, he cannot even scream. a cocktail of drugs his system doesn't know how to process, and he loses touch with reality in a crash and clash of colours, lifted and carried off by frightened, terrified goons, Makkachin barking and barking and barking as he goes. )
Good... dog...
( he says, listening to Makkachin bark, even as monsters loom and sunflowers tear heads off the people around him and the sky bends down to turn into intense purples and blacks that bleed and ebb into each other like mixing oils over the surface of a puddle on the street. through the screams of an engine that sounds like a giant purring cat, growling just as suddenly, and Victor is curling in on himself hyperventilating, trying to shut out sounds and sights and overstimulation that's driving him to tears.
his powers don't respond when he calls on them. it was an untested theory, what would happen if Silverstar were ever on drugs that weren't the approved boosters manufactured in affiliated labs. how that might screw with his system enough to screw with his powers. how his mental state has too strong a link to how he performs. how alcohol had only been approved when he'd proven, in his over the top way, that it didn't inhibit his heroic performance.
curled up on the first and worst trip of his life, Victor Nikiforov clings to the thought that this will eventually end. he's not going to die, probably. he'll be able to act after his system has processed enough of this, probably. that Makkachin will be okay and garner the attention he hadn't been able to, probably. that Georgi will send someone after him, likely. Chris, he thinks, but it doesn't make sense, doesn't make sense at all. who would target Victor Nikiforov?
and who will they be asking for anything from? he was his own arbitrator of funds, he could ransom himself, but why kidnap him first? he loses all these thoughts as unconsciousness steals him from the panic of the moment, a blessing in disguise.
it's a small notice on the local newsfeed. Poodle Owner Kidnapped from own Apartment: Drug Involvement Suspected. a photograph of one of the neighbor kids holding Makkachin, the dog distressed, and the article including a mention of his name: In an ongoing rash of disappearances from the most derelict inner city districts over the past few months, 28 year old Victor Nikiforov was coming home from an early evening walk with his poodle, Mochachin, when he was ambushed in his apartment and taken away by a number of dark, masked figures. They utilized "white vans" whose plates were partially captured on camera due to the quick thinking of a smart-phone wielding teenager skating with his friends. Neighbors state he's an inoffensive young man who contributes to various organsiations in the neighborhood, including the local soup kitchen and several community center classes and productions. "He's friendly, tends to keep to himself, but he always has a smile ready for you," Mrs. Tamarah Kline says, her young daughter keeping hold of the trembling dog. "He's a little odd, you know, a little out there, but he's always been kind. He doesn't deserve this. He's not involved with none of that nonsense." Evidence of needles and drug paraphernalia on property indicates that if he wasn't, then he was perhaps abducted by those who are.
As of now, there has been no notice received for ransom. Those with any information on the whereabouts of Victor Nikiforov are encouraged to contact the local police at 555-6284. Mochachin will be temporarily housed by neighbors.
the article will ping for Georgi sometime tomorrow. it goes up on the call network, but the delay from reporting from the police in the area and the lack of complete information makes it a question mark. unlikely to be resolved at present. the photographs of the vans are attached, license plates next to impossible to read, obscured as they are. some few letters and numbers can be made out.
the vans are so generic as to be laughable. the people driving them have already gotten out of the area, tracking on any of the video systems watching the roads offline through most of the region near to his apartment. Victor Nikiforov is written off as a troublesome character to pursue as time and information allows. (before Georgi knows. before Yakov knows. before it becomes a matter of tearing this city apart looking for the silver needle in the haystack of Providence City.)
elsewhere, Phichit will get a ping. a small article, listed in the online personals.
Seeking Ice Flower
Feeling an impending frost blossoming across victory's chest. Too much action, not enough talk. Please contact if interested in the thaw.
You have 48 hours before we're delivering ♥'s. )
no subject
it's how Phichit keeps in the loop with Yuri's slow-growing obsession and sets his own trackers for the information falling just out of Yuri's grasp. anything he finds that's off-record or otherwise classified he forwards discretely, until Yuri's mind is spinning with the frustration of half-drawn conclusions and misinformation. Phichit forwards him the articles with Victor lurking in the background and Yuri's dour mood sours further. what is he up to? perhaps it's coincidence. maybe anyone else would think so. but he and his handler know that something is fishy. five consecutive kidnappings can't be so blithely written off.
there's no official hero alert to the sixth, not yet. only by virtue of their new routine and his constant state as a nosy parker does Phichit pick it up, his bots trawling all news outlets. he forwards the information to Yuri with the warning that it's all he has right now and nothing's confirmed. Yuri stares at the message with a grim expression and a lead weight of foreboding deep in his stomach.
who is Victor Nikiforov, really?
he looks at the floorboard hidey-hole, dread thick on his tongue. he looks at his hands, covered still in scars that will probably never heal, a reminder of his over-extension, a warning about his current powerlessness.
(ah; his hands are shaking already.)
Yuri sits tight and rereads the articles, all of them, everything he's collated over the weeks with Phichit's help. there's no obvious common thread. drug busts. kidnapping. general malaise in the lower parts of town, as always. all of it's written off by most as the usual order of things, adjusted for a better crime rate; Yuri knows better. some of the thugs he's dished hidings to are familiar faces in his daily life. they're not the type of people who sit up and beg just because they've been smacked with the newspaper a few times. they're bitter and petty and always, always in the mood for payback.
what's festering under his city, really?
it's a few hours before Phichit sends him anything else, and Yuri spends it still in his room, still staring at his hands, still uncertain. there's a screenshot of the personal that freezes Yuri's blood; knowing him as well as he does, Phichit's already sent off a reply. then it's a waiting game, while Yuri's horrified anxiety rises with him as he paces unrelenting around the room, chewing absently at one knuckle.
he'd been expecting, after all this, that Victor would be a pawn. no: maybe a rook. a key piece defending the unknown king these people were ultimately targeting.
he hadn't expected that king to be him.
was it a coincidence? was it just because Yuri had the misfortune to be the one taking the call each and every time Victor walked into trouble? or was this the plan from the start? for a brief and gut-wrenching moment he suspects Phichit of duplicity, because that would tie off so many loose ends. how Yuri's always so conveniently the only one on-scene. his near-death experience. the instant reply to the personal. but - no, he can't believe that. Phichit is cunning, certainly; Yuri knows that well enough. he just doesn't credit that he'd stoop to these kind of things. the thrill for Phichit is the unraveling of the puzzle. he's also got a good heart. Yuri pushes aside the uneasy voice that tells him this is a perfect cover.
the reply comes back. a location. a lovely, hi-def clip of Victor, shaking and wide-eyed and horribly sallow under his pale skin. Yuri's gut clenches and twists, so painfully that he's stumbling for his cache before he thinks about it. then he stops, hand hovering over the release, teeth drawing blood from his lip. what can he do, here? this is too big for him, even at the height of his power. Yuri's still not sure he can make any kind of ice at all.
another reply: an updated timer. it ticks, second by second.
another reply: a trickle of blood against Victor's cheek.
it's dangerous, Phichit tells him, but it's a warning rather than an injunction. Yuri rubs a hand over his face once, then again, slower, willing frost to form against his skin. his hands can barely feel it; his forehead thinks there's a temperature change. it's probably psychosomatic. he should have Phichit raise the alert for someone else to deal with it.
he does.
he also pulls on his costume and heads off into the descent of the evening.
it takes him longer than usual to get there, since he's entirely reduced to footwork and he's out of shape from weeks of depressive moping. Yuri pauses to catch his breath before rounding the corner, hands up both in placation and to show the new proof of his identity, shiny silver skin stark against his palms. )
Evening, ( he says politely to the look-outs, ) I'm Frostflower. I've got an order to pick up, or so I'm told.
( stupid, stupid, stupid. he knows he should have at least waited for backup - should've waited for Phichit's demands to be heard, should have waited until the last minute like a true hero. but the memory of needles in Victor's apartment and the disconnect, terrified look in his eyes couldn't wait. Yuri isn't the gambling type. he's stupid and headstrong and hates to lose. now those traits are calling in their debts, it seems.
the looksouts glance to each other, and then there's a gun pressed tenderly to the base of Yuri's skull. he takes a shuddering breath and allows himself to be led in, doing his best not to panic. it's hard. he's literally defenseless, like this.
he'll just have to hope Phichit rouses help soon enough. quietly enough. )
I'm a little worried about the condition they're in. ( he keeps his tone conversational, knowing that this whole exchange is probably monitored and he won't get answers until he sees who's really behind this. ) If they're damaged, I'll be lodging a complaint with the shipping company.
no subject
it's the earpiece they're most looking for; that, and after, with impersonal hands, looking for any kind of tracking device. there's no interest in taking him out of costume, no attempt to even get a proper look at his face.
it's a stunning lack of curiosity; and an arrogance. once so treated, Yuri is shoved on through to the next chamber: a long, dark hall in part of a warehouse, steam whistling in the distance, lights far and removed in their fluorescent cages. he's marched through and down a set of metal, grated stairs, then at a diagonal until they're entering an access-way to another building.
then there's the tunnel. deceptively well kept, with treads from smaller vehicles in the damp wet of the floor, led-fed lights inset at regular intervals. this has been converted from old sewer tunnels, since blocked out when the new system was built and laid some forty years ago. at the end, he's marched back up stairs, and he's met by an impassive faced gentleman who gestures for both Yuri's escorts to take a step back. a door closes behind Yuri. he's left with this man; the one who finally speaks. )
Mr. Frostflower, I presume. ( drawling on the word, sounding like he has a touch of the South to him. ) I've been informed you had concerns regarding the condition of your... goods. Rest assured, we've taken very generous care of them. Scarring should be minimal.
( such a dismissive statement, and a screen flickers to life beside them both, big and high definition as it shows a camera trained on Victor in the connecting room. if Yuri steps up to the glass view window in the door, he'll see the same scene from the back. Victor, bound in place to a chair, blood streaked down his face from tiny cuts above his hairline, the blood pooling at the nape of his neck and collar of his shirt. a shirt that's been sliced open and peeled back, making his increased breathing rate as apparent as the pulse racing at his neck.
Victor's been coming down off that high, but not easily, and not well. the light of the lens on his face had been the blinking backlit eye of a nameless monster; the next instant, his mind identified it as a massive wolf; the minutes following, the eye of a giant squid. the stadium seating all above and beyond this small, gladiatorial arena he sits within are left in darkness. shifting figures and flashes of cell phones have been phosphorescence that can't catch his eyes beyond the spotlight trained on him. vomit near his feet is a mark on how poorly he'd taken being shifted around; he's slow, so slow, in coming back to himself, in calming the fear. if his powers weren't being disrupted by all of this, it would have been even more dangerous. not just for Victor, but for everyone else.
he's able to pull at thoughts and string them together through sheer willpower. it's hard, but in doing so, he starts claiming a measure of control. his heart still hammers, he still breathes too fast, but his mind slowly begins to organise. he's been taken, and when he finally understood what was being said by the people orchestrating what his personal torture assistant made their careful, calculated bids toward eliciting a response from their target; when he finally understood, he wanted to laugh. he wanted to cry, but that in apology: cry for Frostflower being dragged into this when it was a bitter, bitter truth that he had nothing to do with the ferreting out of the coordinated network.
this is the concrete, solid proof everyone's been asking for. and he has to hope that Frostflower called in anyone else; that Frostflower is wise enough not to come to this call when he's been out of the field for weeks. Victor flexes his fingers and he groans, letting his head fall forward, letting his eyes water as his sinuses burn for no one reason he can identify. a hope that's dashed when the door behind him opens, and Frostflower is ushered into the arena. Victor tries to see who it is, but he can't. it's the announcement made that causes him to jerk against his bonds; to lift his head and spit and find the distress spikes through him enough he can almost feel a spark of his own power responding.
it would figure Victor doesn't feel enough for himself to fight through this. it's a bitter, choking irony that the very people who've kidnapped him for once in earnest have likewise pulled in the wrong mastermind, while already having the right one incapacitated and at their mercy. the sting of small lacerations is nothing against the sting of knowing what might happen because Victor wasn't wrong. but he sure did not find the right way of handling this.
and as the lights come up over the stadium seating, proving there is no wall between the floor here and the highest seats, staring down at them from above, he finds this is so much worse than he'd imagined. the cooperating, the temporary holds on territory wars, the ease of a new drug exchanging hands that usually held each other at gunpoint. he stares up at the evidence of each major player in Providence City's criminal underground, voice muzzy and slow: )
'sall of them. ( he swears in Russian, starting to laugh. ) They never believe... it's all of them.
( Victor listens and tests his powers in the most subtle ways he knows as the man who accompanied Yuri into the arena introduces him to the crowd. Frostflower, who has been nipping at the heels of our business adventure, at the new turn of power and dynamics that will take the heroes of this city and render them normal, render them as ungodlike and as dirty as everyone else born on this planet; strip away from them the gifts of abuse that allow them to stay in power, and blah blah blah, the rhetoric isn't new. the organisation is.
Victor tests his powers, and he feels them start to respond. he pushes harder, he demands more. Frostflower must have, must have asked for backup; but was he disbelieved? what the hell had tipped him off here?
when the hell had Victor become the bait?
outside in the world beyond their concrete arena, it's Chris and his handler who first ping to Phichit's pleading. they're one of the only who know the name Victor; who know what Victor Nikiforov is to this city, is to their community. who have an inkling what it will mean for Frostflower to be involved.
Chris is a flirt and is outrageous and is everything people love and hate in a hero, in one contained, messy, fantastically sexy package. he's also a mover and shaker, when he wants to be. he has people moving and tracking down to Frostflower's last location, pooling resources with the police and getting one detective from the inner city district office being brought online with intel; her work neatly dovetails with Phichit's, and between the two of them they have a location lock and probable network of who they're dealing with.
it's not good news.
they're not moving fast enough, not yet.
and Frostflower is now the one in the spotlight, while the united front of the criminal underground sends down one muscle person from each group, all ready to lay in and teach Frostflower, Victor, and the whole of the Heroic Community a lesson they won't forget.
Victor reaches deep into himself, prying, pulling at his heart. he needs more. he needs more now. )
no subject
this isn't bad. it's the literal worst possible scenario.
Yuri keeps himself impassive as his introductory spiel is spun and doesn't bother correcting anything. he inclines his head gravely when it seems the man is done speaking, subtly widening his stance, hands clasped behind his back. he's not readying himself to fight; he doesn't think he can. no; Yuri's readying himself for a beating.
hopefully it'll be enough to keep them occupied while everyone else closes in. without his earpiece Yuri can't hear what's happening on the other end of things but he knows Phichit, knows, bone deep, how stubborn the younger man is. there's no way he won't kick up enough of a stink to get things rolling.
he looks at Victor's slumped, bloodied form and hopes things roll in time.
the first blow has him stumbling, a fist to the jaw that has blood welling coppery in Yuri's mouth. before he can regain his balance it's a crowbar to his knee, and how he manages to avoid the cap shattering is beyond Yuri's comprehension. he staggers from beating to beating, teeth clenched, hands behind his back. desperately he tries to ignore the rising pain. his focus is as knocked about as his body.
one thug picks him up in a textbook suplex that drives the wind from Yuri's lungs. his whole body is screaming in pain and they've barely started. now he's prone there's a swift succession of steelcapped boots to any part of him they can get to. which is pretty much all of him, since Yuri's making no real attempt to defend himself. he feels his ribs go, feels the bone in his cheek splinter, feels a tooth roll almost into his throat before he coughs blood and spits it out of choking range. all the while the whole thing is narrated like a UFC match. it's not for Yuri's benefit, he knows.
it's for Victor's.
he lays bleeding on the ground, bruised and broken. his hands are still behind his back. someone steps on them and Yuri cries out despite himself as fingers break. the narrator expresses amazement at how weak he is and Yuri forces himself to turn, spitting more blood at his feet. it earns him a cold grin and a fresh round of kicking; that doesn't matter. it all buys time.
as his vision sways, Yuri stares through blackened eyes to the ropes binding Victor's wrists. there's no watchers on him now; everybody not directly involved in his beating is taking jovial bets.
with agonising concentration a very, very fine sliver of ice saws against Victor's bindings. the effort of it almost makes Yuri pass out - or maybe that's the pain, or maybe that's the blood loss. he can't tell any more. all his focus is reserved for not passing out before he does this final task.
Yuri's not sure he succeeds but he can't fight unconsciousness any more when another boot collides brutally with his skull. )
no subject
he can sense his power, just there, just beyond his reach. so much closer than before, with the fading sense of every impossible nightmare that had been crowding out rational thought. still beyond him, for all he grits his teeth and tries to tune the violence out and find it in him, that power he's lauded for.
what undoes him is when he feels his bindings loosen. when he knows this was Yuri's work, and Yuri, when he turns his head, he's not moving. he's a bloodied, broken mess, and he's not moving.
Victor stands in a quiet that only he hears, ropes leaving raw marks at his wrists. he stands in the middle of this arena, pivoting to face Frostflower where he fell. he doesn't know if he's alive.
someone reaches out, ready to kick him again with those steel toed boots, and darkness slams over the area. the temperature drops; hail manifests and pounds down over them all, pinging and banging off seats and walls and shoulders with shouts of pain and outrage and fear. hail that Victor walks through in the darkness, able to see with the light he gives his own eyes.
he kneels next to Yuri. reaches a too steady hand out to feel for his pulse. it's there; stuttering and faint, maybe even failing. and it's with that Victor feels the cold certainty of his rage spill over, surging past him, thick and viscous when he presses two gentle fingers to Yuri's battered forehead to spare all vestiges of him of what's about to come.
Victor projects his rage with no barriers between the depth of that scalding, cold emotion. it hits with the impact of a sonic boom, rolling out and rocking through everyone present, rocking through the heroes coming closer, rocking through the people lingering on their own business in this part of town. they find themselves on their knees, hands clasped to their ears, some voiceless in fear, other screaming, screaming at what they don't know. at the impossibility of that anger. at the certainty of their own fear. it's crippling. it's maddening. it's inescapable and relentless, and there is no slacking of it as it flows from Victor, this manipulation of feeling done with a distant, total domination. he is relentless.
and he is scared. scared for the life of the man under his fingertips. scared for what this has meant, and infuriated, frustrated that no one had listened.
the emotional manipulation persists in the most suggestible minds even as Victor lets it go, pulling on his energies and bringing the lights back on as he pulls his own light to him, transforming in that darkness to Silverstar, an implacable, deadly force of his own. he is here, then he is not; he hits with brutal, efficient force, disabling with precision. but it's not just about disabling. he drives elbows into noses, shatters arms, shatters kneecaps. he disarms those with guns and drives the butts into diaphragms and into the back of skulls. he blinds those who shoot and does not prevent them from shooting each other; it is unlikely to be fatal, shooting like this, but it is not a kindness to allow it to happen.
he could do otherwise.
he does not.
he sees through a red haze until he realises that haze is the one he's creating, his light responding to the emotion he usually keeps locked away, but cannot right now. this arena is a living hell of pain and cries and men and women losing their minds, trapped in the force of that emotional loop he'd locked some into; tearing themselves apart along with their minds. Victor has brought the room to its collective knees; he is covered in the blood of more people than there are states in the United States; and still he shines so brightly, pulsing with white and red and then turning into a slowing, cooling blue.
he cradles Frostflower in his lap. feels like this is a de-ja-vous neither of them asked for, and he feels the anger, the pain, the rage all drain from him. he can't hold on to any of that to do what he does next; to flood his deepest self into Yuri, to patch what he can. to share life energy on a level that goes beyond calling it life energy. to will him to live, even when his body wants to fail; to will his swelling to recede, even when his body cries out against it. there is little conventional healing, much as before; he cannot fix bones, he cannot fix scars, he cannot mend tissue, not exactly, but he can do the thousand of other little things that leaves him breathing as Yuri breathes; that leaves his heart beating as Yuri's continues to beat, in spite of itself. in spite of the bloodless, as he encourages Yuri's body to form clots, to be contained.
Victor is crying, and it's impossible to tell. when the heroes finally break through, the only light left is the light within Yuri. Victor is dim and dark, cheeks wet, eyes paler than they've ever been in his life. bruises and blood and lacerations of his own are so small compared to the rawness of his knuckles, the canvas of his body that is splattered with the blood of others. he looks up at Chris, recognition slow to arrive. the only reason he hadn't pulled on his powers again was because of that recognition at the door. at the sound of those voices he knows from years of association coming in, staring in shocked horror at what they find. )
He's alive.
( is all he offers, as he refuses to let go. as Chris finds himself staring down at Victor in a mute kind of horror; this? is so far beyond what anyone would expect. this? was frightening, both for existing, and for what Victor Nikiforov, Silverstar, had done on his own. Chris knows it hadn't been with Yuri, but this and the chatter in his ear tells him they're in for a new set of problems even as he kneels down and coaxes Victor into letting go when the paramedics arrive. he's held back from going with Yuri. he's poked and prodded and he shoves people off when it gets to be too much; he's pulled aside and asked what happened, and he can't find the words yet to say. all he can do is say later. he'll give his statement later.
watch as the ones who've lost touch with reality are lifted and fought into ambulances, tied down with restraints so they stop tearing at themselves, so they stop trying to pry out their eyes, pull off their ears, tear out their tongues.
he's sick at heart, drained, empty. he is sick, and this is sick.
this is him.
this is him, revealed as the full, hideous potential he has always feared. this is what he fears, what he knows, they have always wanted him to use. that ability to change and pull on emotions. that ability to break someone else. to prompt from them the confessions that spill out of lips that can no longer choose to hold back. what he knows he can do, and what he has never allowed himself to inflict on anyone before now.
Yakov comes for him, Georgi in tow. they're both worried. he can tell, even if he doesn't feel it. doesn't feel much of anything right now. they're worried, and when he is in the car, when he is bundled in a blanket that he can't remember seeing before, when he is driven to a safe house he has never been to before, when he is reunited with his dog, and he does not react at first, takes time to let the press of a warm, wiggling body asking for his time, his attention, his love. when he sinks to his knees with a thud and lets Makkachin lick his face, until he remembers he's still covered in blood and that's not all right, this isn't all right, that he speaks with a voice as distant as he knows how to be, as Silverstar. )
I'm done.
( he announces, pushing back up to his feet. swaying when he gets there, the blood rushing to his head. )
That's it. I'm retiring.
( and Yakov protests, Georgi holds a hand over his heart and looks pained and frightened as Victor stumbles off to the shower, turning on the faucet and standing under the cold water until it burns hot. blood runs down the drain, both his and the blood of those he's known from this side of the law for decades. blood of people he's never met; blood of people who had been aiming to bring the city low for no purpose other than the chaos that would follow.
single handedly, unintentionally, he has taking down the heads of most major crime in Providence City. and while he does not regret that he was enraged by what happened; while he does not regret that Yuri still breathes; he does not forgive himself. he has never loved the violence, even if he admits he feels alive in a fight, in pulling out a win while working under more restrictions than the opposing side. how it's a game of outsmarting and outmaneuvering and how he has lost, today, everything he loved about it.
what he'd lost in himself, because he can't go back. can't go back to believing he's better than this. can't go back to thinking, maybe it's safe, caring. maybe it's okay to feel like he can get close. he can't.
not when this is the cost.
not when he becomes the danger he's fought so hard against.
Victor stands in the shower, hot water scalding trails over his clothed skin, and he strips down, wooden and jerky in his movements. strips down and wonders if the drugs they'd been talking about work. if for him, any drug will work, but the knee jerk against it is so strong he's back on his knees and dry heaving, nothing more than bile spilling past his lips. what am I doing?
it no longer feels like the best I can is adequate. his best isn't good enough; and he can't kill his heart enough to say it will be. he can't become the tool they've been wanting him to be, either. he's never felt the teeth of his trap so keenly as he does then, desperate and lurching out of the still running shower to march through the safe house, rifle through cupboards, pull down saltines, and then the bottle of cooking sherry. he retreats with both to the bedroom, tossing the saltines on the bed before he remembers to shut off the water. he fights the urge to turn it back on when the following silence crawls under his skin. Makkachin curls up with him on the bed as he finds the remote, turning on the television and leaving it on repeats of films like Mrs. Doubtfire and eats his shitty stale saltines and drinks the terrible cooking sherry and eventually, blessedly passes out, a cold nose tucked up against his throat, breathing warm air out even as he breathes in. )
no subject
just like he knows, from the painful burning in his chest, why he hadn't got that far.
Yuri thinks that almost hurts worse than all his injuries combined. then again, maybe not. they hurt a lot. even through the pain meds he spends the first two days softly crying, overwhelmed by lingering agony.
even Phichit doesn't come to visit him for almost a week, he's that bad. when he does Yuri gets only half-answers and haunted looks. Victor's fine, he's assured. the response teams got there just in time.
it's all the information he's given, save what's publicly available on the news. there's something baffling about Silverstar going rogue; some idiots are trying to pin him as a sleeper villain. it rakes bitterness against Yuri's heart. one that only beats because Silverstar had saved him, twice.
what the hell for?
there's no offer of rewards now, no accolades to be handed out. a cynical part of Yuri takes this to mean that whatever had happened had been too important for gilding. he frets and fumes the whole time he's healing, until he's allowed out of hospital finally, weeks after his bloody arrival. it takes longer, this time, since the period between near-death disasters is so relatively short. it's a miracle he survived at all, they tell him, and then look grim.
Yuri knows why. Silverstar had come to his rescue and done-- something, something that gets muddled in the retelling, the truth buried away from his grasp-- and then announced a retirement. somehow his own name has been mostly kept out of things, which saves him from hatemail over apparently forcing the city's greatest to quit the biz. it doesn't save him from his own loathing.
too weak, again. but he'd known that going in.
he's still undecided about whether or not he regrets it.
he wishes he knew what Phichit's not telling him. none of the other heroes or handlers reach out to enlighten him either, even Chris, who'd apparently been first on the scene. Yuri doesn't make the effort in return. if they're not talking, they won't talk. he can take that much of a hint.
Yuri - Frostflower - hobbles home without fanfare. that's something he can appreciate, as his mother welcomes him with tears in her eyes and an aborted hug. he feels that distance keenly and almost moves to breach it, but he's not sure how any more. there are too many things he's experienced that his family can't follow. even the pathetically grateful licking delivered by his dog barely cheers Yuri's mood. he takes long baths to ease the aching in his healing bones. sometimes, dark and clouded, he wishes he'd pass out and quietly drown, no longer to burden anyone. ah, but someone would have to find him, and bury him. either way he's still a hassle.
it's almost two months before he's given clearance to be a Normal Person again, casts cut away and final tests run. they put him through a psychiatric exam and kindly tell him to take some more time off before he thinks about returning to hero work again. one part of Yuri knows it's sensible advice. another wonders, bitterly, why they think he'll be back at all. a third thinks about how he'd been told he'd never be strong enough to be a hero and resents this throwback kind of feeling.
he tries not to dwell on it, but dwelling is in Yuri's nature. he doesn't sleep well. he's still wracked with migraines, still sore and aching from bones to soul. he wants to thank Silverstar, but has no power to do so with no point of contact. besides, a simple thanks seems churlish. he doesn't want to face down his idol, not with his guilt so heavy in his marrow yet, not without knowing anything about what had happened.
but there is, he thinks, something he can do. he begins to haunt all the places his earlier researching had told him ought to contain one Victor Nikiforov. considering how much has been withheld from him, Yuri wants to make sure of this with his own two eyes. he needs to be sure he got at least that much right. )
no subject
he never retracts what he says about retiring. he makes no excuses for himself; the questions he's run through by the handful who interview him under the guiding hand of their lead psychologist. therapy isn't a suggestion; it's a requirement. which any qualified therapist knows will go poorly.
they make some headway. Victor's allowed, at that time, to visit the psychiatric hospital where the worst afflicted by his powers are being held. some of the other heroes have been able to make headway. most the cases are holding steady, but they're not getting better.
Victor's scared of trying; he's angry with himself, and so he tries anyway. uses powers he's never learned fine control over and wrestles with freeing compulsory emotions from people who are locked into cycles they can't break out of. spiraling patterns he has explained to him by his therapist; for him, he's told, it may tie into depression. for the rest, it's different, but the theories are the same.
two weeks, and he's able to help most of them. not to heal, but to break out of the compulsions; only five are so far gone there's nothing he can do but grit his teeth and change the compulsion to something pleasant. take the fear and the rage and the isolation and make it gentle, make it calm. make it pleasant. he has stolen the will of five minds, and it doesn't matter that they're criminals. some say it does. he understands their reaction; he doesn't support it.
the funerals are quiet and sparsely attended. families are protected, visiting their loved ones at the city provided graves. in truth, it's Victor's funding; he'd insisted, when the city had argued against using municipal funds for anything related to the criminal element. it would be hard to track any of it back to his funds as Silverstar, to either of his names. he prefers it that way.
two weeks, and the ruling comes in from the Hero's Coalition Council: his retirement will be announced as public, and he will give a formal statement. he will not conduct interviews. he will consent to being monitored. or, and they stress the or, he can reconsider.
or, he says, equally flat, they can test the experimental suppression drug on him. and at the end of it, they leave him alone. he walks. unmonitored, but for the necessary eyes on his back. he's given the wipe he's owed, and he's let free.
"free." a misnomer. he knows of no such thing; he feels his heart breaking all over again for this city he loves, this city he's hurt, this city that has hurt him in turn.
he asks after Yuri once, just once. a mention that follows a casual word from Georgi. it's a denial, a repression of his need to know; Victor's fingers curl into his palms at the offhand mention of Frostflower from his former handler's lips. Georgi watches him, smiles, looking sad.
"it's not loving that hurts us, Vitya. it's not knowing how to let ourselves love and be loved." )
Most crushes don't get people killed.
( he points out, laughing, but it's a hollow, biting sound. he's not ignorant. he's always known it was one way, whatever else he'd hoped, before this had all fallen into such spectacular disarray. the pain in his chest, the constriction around his lungs, the aching burn behind eyes that haven't shed tears since that night all tell a story. one Georgi reads, in his way. one that he reaches out, the first person to reach out willingly since Victor was found in the midst of his own chaos, and touches his shoulder.
Victor shudders. he swallows. he turns haunted eyes on Georgi. slowly, Georgi's hand falls away.
the trials aren't promising. at a low does, Victor finds most his powers respond to him, at a limited delay. higher doses and he starts feeling like he's living in a fog; his powers still respond, but the delay is noticeable. it takes more energy to use them. it takes more energy than he has to spare, on the days where his depression hits hardest. even walking Makkachin becomes a Herculean effort; Victor rises like Lazarus to resurrect himself, sallow skinned, thinning, losing muscle definition.
they take him off the trials after a month. it's a drug that would have worked to interfere, they determine, but not truly stop; he's given a gym membership and told they'll check in with him time to time. he already knows they'll watch. 20 years of relatively perfect behaviour, and the only thing they stop shy of doing is slapping a tracking bracelet around his ankle. "we can trust him," Yakov had argued.
he's not sure he agrees, but he also knows the game. he's safest still here in the city. here in the vacuum of power causing the criminal element to restructure: violently at times. there's an upswing in petty crime, in turf wars. there are more shootings, but more heroes responding. there is speculation about what kind of hero, or what kind of villain, Silverstar must be. there are pleas for his return.
it is slow, finding forgiveness from those who witnessed what happened. for his part, Victor goes searching for none.
he lets the gym membership sit, a car propped up on the counter of his old apartment. in a fit of energy that sapped him for two days following, he kitted out his place, setting up security systems and everything else that had never been necessary before. he doesn't admit to anyone that his powers are failing. sporadic, sometimes they're in control, sometimes they respond, but just as often they don't. he sits in his cramped tub and practices making the water warmer and cooler, warmer and cooler. Makkachin sits on the tiles and pants, simply keeping him company.
his illusions won't work at all. try as he may, even when his light responds, the only person it lights up is Victor Nikiforov. there is no long hair; there is no set of flawless, distant features. no perfect smile; just Victor. it's liberating. liberating and hidden, shown to his dog as he allows himself to live in the stuttered brightness of his own life. opting not to notice when the lights all fade and he's standing there in a cold he hadn't thought to make, shivering, eyes looking into a distance that only sees the past. when his knees lock up and he feels the licking of rage and the nausea tear through him. when he slams his barriers up so hard he stops feeling at all.
when he starts doing that to get through the day to day. conceal, don't feel. that hadn't worked well in the movie. turns out it works just fine in real life with no one mentioning otherwise.
Victor remembers to smile. as his neighbours check in with him, as he falls into a pattern, as he takes up jogging and pull ups and push ups and every kind of physical training that requires only himself. he regains his muscle mass. he forces himself to have an appetite, even when the food tastes like cardboard in his mouth. he shares chicken with Makkachin. he spends more time at the soup kitchen, helping at the shelter. he meets people, people who've always existed. people who now talk to him, who comment on sports teams, the weather, the stock exchange. people from all walks of life, with different jobs, different vices, different hobbies.
it's all echoing off him, something he categorizes and doesn't quite engage. he turns down social offer after social offer; is a man and his dog, friendly enough, somewhat sad, somewhat touched since he'd been kidnapped. he's a Survivor.
he finds that ironic, unable to see his own PTSD for what it is.
when Yuri goes looking for Victor, he's not quite in his usual places. the soup kitchen is his only constant. his patterns, his single man visual patrols of the city, watching it recover from a mess most only knew as the Incident, keeps him traveling erratically. on purpose. he's difficult to track.
but he still lives in his apartment. he still shows up to the soup kitchen, usually with Makkachin in tow. he ties on an apron and he moves boxes as he's told, moves everything as he's told. he's a little less vivacious, true, but who wouldn't be? living through all of That.
he knows this is a holding pattern. he needs to find something new, something different; needs to jar himself out of this cycle of thoughts consuming themselves like some personal, grotesque oroboros. he looks up as he steps outside the soup kitchen, Makkachin shaking himself off as he pulls at his lead. he expects to see no one, nothing more familiar than the usual. everything part of this madcap life he's stumbling through, finding meaning in making it through each day.
he does not expect to see Yuri, in whatever form. as he walks his dog home, bundling his coat more tightly around himself in spite of the sun beating down overhead, all Victor can think of is collapsing after feeding the dog. sleeping the next ten hours before he drags himself awake to shower, then eat, then sleep again.
massive efforts. he's not due back at the soup kitchen for another two days. )
no subject
the soup kitchen thing has always struck him as a little odd; there are plenty of other ways for a trust-fund baby to help the less fortunate, after all, but Yuri's not a people-person to begin with. he can't imagine much worse than this, looking at such pathetically grateful faces as those receiving their one good meal, knowing that there's more to be done but unable to fix the world with a sweep of one's hand. powerlessness, that's what he feels, looking in.
what he sees is a familiar figure shuffling boxes around the back room, in glimpses, and so Yuri stays, trying to loiter unobtrusively, flu mask pulled up over his mouth as he waits.
for what? what is he planning to do here? even he's not sure.
until Victor's stepping out, dog surging ahead on his lead, and Yuri finds he's automatically crouching to be made a new friend. until his palm's been sniffed and accepted, until his fingers are scrubbing at curly fur; then Yuri knows he's made his decision.
he looks up, cautious but not as wary as he perhaps ought to be, one finger pulling the mask down, the movement revealing the frostburns on his bare hand. )
Victor. ( every secretive inch of him screams horror at revealing himself like this, but Yuri can't take it any more. he regards the older man steadily and doesn't straighten from from his crouch. ) I...have you got a minute?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)