Chapter Text
The city always sounded different from the rooftops. Quieter, yes, but also somehow sharper, like every heart and every conversation drifted up to you and cut through the night air with precision. From here, you got to see everything without anyone seeing you. That was the point.
Roof to roof, night after night, you moved silently through the city.
Criminals love dark alleys. You love them more.
Landing just behind them and watching their confidence melt was addictive. The flicker of the street light, the single step they heard before they saw you, and the way their heartbeat spiked in your chest. Cute.
And the best part? Disappearing before the person you saved could spread the news and make you a headline.
You didn't even have a nickname. The misery was enough.
Your hood was up, but this time you let your mask hanging loose around your neck so you could breathe a little better, sometimes you had to sacrifice a little of practicality for the aesthetics. You feel your hair damp with the night's humidity as you perched on the edge of a half-built mall. The metal was cool under your boots. Out here, above the noise and the cameras and the gawkers, you could breathe.
No reporters asking if you were really qualified to do what you do. No fans wanting autographs after you've just finished saving them from being stabbed. No government suits trying to explain "protocols" and "oversight" like you were a piece of equipment that needs regular maintenance.
The country had entered it's so-called "Golden Age for Heroes" reporters seem to live for that. But you didn't want to be part of that world. Not the fame, not the fans, not the lawsuits from people you saved who still find a reason to complain. Not the men calling women "attention-seekers" for daring to save lives.
And definitely not the government contracts.
You stayed in the shadows because it was easier, cleaner. Let the flashy ones take the interviews and the glory. You'd rather take the alleys and the things that still scared people at night.
Your life outside this? The apartment, the job, the bills? It barely gave you time to think. But here, on nights like this, you let your thoughts wander, and they always wandered back to the supers. The caped ones. The ones who liked being seen.
It's not that you dislike them, at least not all of them, you admired supers like Elasticgirl, those who stand their way and speak up for them and the ones they represent, those heroes that little kids can look up to. But you? Too much trouble. You don't feel like you could be that, in fact, you're not even sure what people would think of you if you were more open to the public.
What you were sure of it's that there are some kind of heroes that you definitely not like, those heroes that prioritize other things than efficiency and saving lives, those who live for the attention, those you could not stand.
Better to stay away from all those flashy supers who live for attention... And especially away from the NSA, who love finding reasons to call people like you "dangerous".
You were pulled out of your head by a low hum that rippled through your chest, the kind of feeling that wasn't exactly sound, not exactly instinct either. Trouble.
You were already moving before you though about it, crossing rooftops in silence, landing light enough that not even the stray cats noticed you. 2 minutes later you found the search: a boy, barely older than a teenager, standing stiff on the street corner across from a bank. His breath puffed out too fast, too shallow. The radio in his hand shook.
Poor kid.
You didn't give him the chance to decide whether or not to run. The street lights blinked out one by one, the alley swallowed in darkness. By the time the robbers inside realized the door was open, they were on the floor, tied, unmasked, waiting for the cops.
You stayed just long enough to hear sirens. No way you were letting the city rely on "response times" these days.
The boy bolted before they arrived. You let him go. Not because he was cute, because something in his face told you he hadn't wanted this in the first place, you always remind yourself of that, you are not like those heroes.
By the time the cops were looking around for you, you were gone again, going through the rooftops with the city wind in your hood. Far away, you can see faint light streaks in the sky, somewhere, someone was fighting a much bigger fight. You turned the other way.
The next morning came far too soon. You hadn't slept well because, even if you didn't want it, your mind kept talking about the recent news. Reports talk about rising "normal" crime, cops being too busy dealing with coordinating with heroes fighting supervillains to care about bank robberies.
Fine. That was your problem now, even more.
Your cat landed and your back with a demanding meow. You grumbled but let him knead your spine for a few seconds before dragging yourself up.
Coffee, shower, jacket. Rain tapped against the windows as you sipped, and for once you allow yourself a daytime patrol, to enjoy better the dark gray sky.
The streets look different this way, softer somehow. You were chilling more than in a normal patrol, you even made a pigeon friend who was keeping you company while you watched.
Kids running around, animals you don't normally see walking through the streets, it was different but you didn't complain.
Everything was silent and peaceful, until the drone.
You spoted it almost instantly, hovering like it was looking right at you. With a flick of your fingers you made it flicker and scramble just before it could catch a clear image of you. It retreated, but not before dropping a letter, heavy envelope, government-grade formal.
You should've burned it right there. Instead, curiosity got the best of you.
National Security Agency – Urgent
Invitation to collaborate with federal authorities on metahuman security operations... Blah blah blah...
You didn't even read it all, just enough to to know that it was: another attempt to leash you, bullshit.
You crunched by a dumpster, lit the edge of the letter, and watched it curl into ash.
Far away in some gray office you couldn't see, men in suits probably put another tick mark next to your name.
That night you swore the city felt heavier, like the air was also holding it's breath.
By morning, you knew why.
You were barely three blocks from the apartment, camera slung over your shoulder. Working as a photographer for newspaper was the most relaxing and stressing job you could get, in fact, it was thanks to it you got first hands introduced to the hero world.
You had started with common photos for small articles about nature or animals, you always had that gritty, shadow-heavy style in shots, it was no surprised you ended up catching the precise moment before impact, and in heros-in-action photos, it was gold.
But not only that made you lean to the already competitive market of hero photos and actually succeed relatively, it was that you always shot the face of the hero after using their powers, the human side, the feeling.
You brushed every thought out of your mind with her sound of your boots kicking up puddles on the slick pavement, then you heard it. Not the usual gossip, not the usual headlines shouted out by the paperboys, this was something else.
"Phantom on the prowl! Black-hooded menace or miracle worker?!"
You froze, one hand still on your pocket, while the kids waved the front page at anyone with coins to spare. At the front, a quite blurry image of a shadow leaving a crime scene with the criminals tied up waiting for the cops, that was not you, you would've noticed, you would've felt the camera, they were framing you.
They gave away your existence to the public, one thrilled by heros more than never, one hungry for more, they knew they were going to eat you out and threw you to them in a silver plate.
How dare them.
You bought the paper. Of course you did.
The whole column printed under a bold, catchy name you had never heard before: Ghost.
How original of them.
The article was careful, flattering even, but between the lines you could smell the stink of federal varnish. They called you "an independent operator", "a possible asset", and "uniquely suited to urban threat response". They didn't exactly say you were dangerous, not yet, but you could tell that's were they wanted the conversation to go. No friendly neighbor that takes care of the little crime.
The worst part was at the very end of the page. They were paying.
Cash rewards for photos, for sightings, for "credible testimony". What are they even doing? The NSA had turned you into a scavenger hunt, and the city was clearly hungry.
It was low, really low, you told yourself while continuing your way to home, it took everything in you not to rip the paper in half right there.
Only thing you wanted was being in the shadows, peace, and out of every mouth ever, suddenly you were main focus interest.
By noon everyone was talking about it. You had heard your new name in coffee shops, factories, outside school gates, not anymore just a rumour spread by criminals, now you were an idea everyone wanted a piece of. Half of the people think you are a ghost in the literal sense. The other half were theorizing your hero suit. Others believed it was just a urban myths, you hope that becomes the most popular idea.
You spent the afternoon in the darkroom, now trying your normal life to forget about the hero one, ironic.
But even there the world wouldn't leave you alone.
"Bad day?"
The voice came from the doorway, your editor, the closest thing you had to a boss, he mostly made recommendation of what to aim for so you could sell better to the imprint, he was truly a business man, you never understood why he wasn't upper in the hierarchy but also thanked for having him with you.
You kept your eyes on the print you were hanging, but you could feel him watching you, the same way he did when he was deciding if he should send you to get those Mr Incredible photos that got both of your works in the front page of one of the best selled prints of the month.
"You heard about that new vigilante?" He asked, casual, too casual. "Ghost, they're calling 'em. If you could get that photo, it could really get us checks. I heard the imprint director really wants something about them."
You grunted something that could be agreement, even smiled a little, because that's what he expected from you. You knew that he really wanted to impress the director of the imprint, you get having someone important to like you could really help getting up the ladder, but you didn't stand the guy much, he was too cocky and too annoying, too much of a flirt. A burden if you were honest.
By nightfall you were back were you belonged, above it all, watching the city like you were daring it to try and find you.