PACHELBEL’S PILOT - III.c.

The Clover & Tankard had a particular hour of revelry for those walking by to spend the night in what could be described as a hushed, cozy manner- a small city pub just waiting to cater to regulars the moment it turned a quarter-past twelve and was lit alight, resembling a carnival of a few streets and lamps; yet, it lacked the usual sense of flamboyance.

In addition to being 'the cheapest' entertainment complex running in Electropolis, the pub didn't exactly attract a lot of noise, nor was the building itself particularly massive. It was a mix of rugged, earthly vibes. Hues of olive greens and dark auburn, combined with brass hooks and chains shaped like scales on the back-side walls made it clear that this was a place for those seeking shelter.

Eric wet his wings, a deer out of the headlights clearing airway just seconds before his own eyes drifted side to side- almost comically. He watched as a local security bot that looked a tad oversized scanned him through before swiping away like a thin card.

A hologram was projected onto the screen and some bits appeared out of nowhere, like an unseen finger, tapping through the surface and rolling upwards in a wavy formation.

"-Eric Rogers. Identified."

When Eric walked into the tavern, the first thing that came out of his mouth was: "Who's buyin' the rounds?"

A few locals turned to stare: curious, leering, eyeing him like a feast, as if the sight of a man wasn't rare enough, and though the scene was only met with jeers, its meaning was readily apparent.

Eric had let not only himself, but his shoulders slumped down. Moving on towards the bar table, he found a stool at waist height, sliding into it with ease, elbows perched, a hand waving.

The host- human, was quick to react.

"Will I be fetching a strong drink?"

"That and DINNER, I'm afraid." Eric shot a finger gun in the air. He slid the holographic menu towards him before addressing: "I don't suppose MEATLOAF is out for the night?"

"At this hour? Not- I dare say."

"Oh- darn. Never mind. I'll keep it simple: 'HAYBIRD' AND POTATOES."

The owner rolled his eyes, though the faint of a smirk remained unnoticed. Grabbing a mug on standby, he watered some beer from the tap right beside the table- serving, he handed it to Eric without a second thought.

Taking that swallow down helped the blood, and Eric felt a bit better, but as he looked around, his mind couldn't help but stray to the past.

Whether or not he could help it had already become an established fact... he'd rather not.

Turning up to the stage, the platform itself was shrouded in white flames and silvery glimmers, not to mention being swaddled and dotted with holograms of a large crescent moon hanging against the wall- leaving its curves emblazoned, like an insignia for a coat of arms.

As the drink was brought over in a grand gesture, Eric lifted his head to confirm it was one of those drinks... WITH SEVERAL BOTTOMS.

A shot of liquid courage, he diverted his attention elsewhere to find a rack containing comic books.

SUPERHERO COMIC BOOKS.

Containing physical covers-

-Of JUST SOLARMAN.

The 'Man of Sunshine' had done it, prevailing in terms of sales yet again, it seemed. The world's finest couldn't possibly be forgotten about that easily. Even after decades, the world had held on to such tales.

Come to think of it, the paraphernalia surrounding the entire establishment had left a few memories stirring, images flickering across the young man's vision when not too long ago he would see the exact SAME PERSON in objects, newspapers and magazines, which belonged to a bygone age.

Flipping through the paper-thin, glossy covers left Eric feeling like he was just back as a kid. This here was the MUSEUM, displayed in a real-time holographic exhibition behind a locked case. It was an easy feeling to forget the time, almost second nature even.

A sharpening of focus.

The last words, ones uttered from a voice beyond the grave, played like a loop before he shook his head: Why?

Things weren't necessarily supposed to fall into place for so long when it could so quickly change again: It was precisely because of certain moments- just what they were, and how could someone, or something so fleeting- like a ghost- still keep sticking inside the head... only then would these images flash in memory.

Seeing the monolith of a deity in written or visual form didn't matter none, no- rather, it was just that these weren't real people. They weren't real heroes- not anymore at least. Heroes had lives. LIVES. Normal and honest lives like anyone else. No one went around thinking about why superheroes must possess flawless appearances, perky personalities and the desire to help society forevermore. That would simply be insane, which was the thing: People actually DID!

Wasn't THAT the stupidest thing you've heard in a WHILE?

Although when one was born in THIS era, people would sometimes give up hope, saying: 'Well, sure- he must have gotten those powers because he doesn't have any meaningful ones on his own!', making them out to be worthless or otherwise.

Ruminating on these things was a poor man's play— The whole image of sitting alone, sipping on a half-empty glass of beer was beginning to feel very familiar and, with nothing better to do, Eric continued slurping noisily, eyes flickering side to side, no doubt observing how people around him could keep themselves occupied.

"HEY! I know where the night went." A fellow patron declared exuberantly. "It's this old mahogany here that keeps dragging everyone down, if ya' don't mind me sayin' it now, guys and gals- I say good riddance because now I feel, NUTS."

The bigger man stepped on over to where Eric sat, hands clapping him on the back while a loud guffaw followed after, along with an instant chill, the scent of alcohol heavy in the air.

He was draped in a trench coat that billowed with the weight of unseen stories, its hem frayed and worn, brushing against boots that had trudged through mud, blood, and broken glass. A simple tank top clung to his torso, stretched over the bulk of muscles that spoke of discipline and determination, while the chain around his neck carried a small, tarnished cross—a token of faith or burden, depending on the day. His fists, scarred and calloused, flexed with the subtle readiness of someone who had long since accepted violence as his mother tongue.

The background did nothing to diminish his imposing presence: a crumbling brick wall and rusted pipes served as a fitting frame for this man who seemed to thrive in the cracks of civilization. Beneath him, the shattered concrete mirrored the fractured morality he carried, a blend of justice and vengeance intertwined like smoke and shadow.

A wave of roars erupted, leaving others rolling with laughter... Somebody was telling jokes, he realized, and while nothing interesting happened, not in this hour, the conversation itself made things considerably less dull. And thus Eric drank without real purpose, or none at all, his mind delving back into his daydreams.

"HEY!"

Eric jolted himself awake, crisping the then rolled up paperback into a crinkled up crumple-

THUD.

Not a moment too soon, the front door swung open: a bulging, boisterous entrance gave off a distinctive feeling of familiarity that seemed to be mixed with a bit of curiosity in regards to the person this was all about.

Not a long after, Eric turned to observe the new customer.

Eric's eyes widened, the young man not really thinking anything else at the time, other than he knew that face—and its particular brand of accessory. Wind chimes for earrings faintly covered the identity of Mirage Mistress, if not making her even more of a peculiar figure- but what didn't make sense was why her.

-Who was THE Mirage Mistress, and why is she HERE, now?

It's a weekday.

The sawed-off shotgun emerging from a coat pocket didn't do much to help things much either, seeing as Mirage Mistress began inspecting every surface inch by inch like it was a murder inquiry, taking stock of everything on the shelves.

There was only one place to get weapons in Electropolis-

This city.

One had to get a permit. Then, one could find all the firearms and bullets a person could want; it made buying weaponry a simple affair, which made the face covered in bandages, vested in a black trench coat, equally as weird.

The guilty stood like a relic of a bygone era, his square jaw etched with deep lines that whispered of battles fought in alleyways and forgotten wars. His face, cold and granite-like, bore the unforgiving hues of black and white, a stark reminder of a moral code bound in absolutes. His hair, short and sharp as if chiseled from stone, framed his steely gaze—a pair of eyes that seemed to strip away pretense and pierce straight into the soul of anyone who dared meet them.

Another night. Another fight.

And for what?

The thought clawed at the back of his mind as his fists curled, knuckles cracking like the tension in the air.

Justice, maybe.

Or just the illusion of it.

Either way, someone’s gotta hold the line. His eyes scanned the room, every shadow a potential threat. The weight of the cross around his neck felt heavier than usual, its cold metal biting into his chest. He let his thumb brush against it, a ritual born of doubt rather than faith.

Eric knew the risks. Despite Electropolis's eccentricities, crime was no stranger to bedfellows- and the idea that villains won't simply show up to just ruin his day didn't seem preposterous as possible.

But since the business between two gentlemen was 'highly-confidential', Eric only asked only for discretion, and that was it.

Nothing further.

Every Heroes Initiative Agency employee's phone had a mandatory app, software that acted as a lifeline between host and client. But this came at a cost, and with an unwavering loyalty. After all, once someone became involved, the relationship they formed would always be cherished-

-Their secrets: preserved.

Eric shifted his view towards the stranger, gaze narrowing. They were close enough that he could see the finer details: a scar that twisted into a knot, a notch missing from the man's left ear, the dark hue that smoldered beneath his eyes. Their eyes met for a moment, frozen in a crystalline clarity before the man's brow dropped in suspicion and the connection shattered like glass.

Never had the room seemed so quiet.

So fragile.

When she made her way over- several stools removed, and Eric became so distracted by a rowdy 'discussion' the owner had: "Alright- calm down, buddy! Look, let's compromise. Who WANTS the chili pepper taco?"

They didn't move with the lights on. The owners liked to keep the place 'real' like and you were bound to find such characters running around, the atmosphere bringing its own array of ambiance.

"YOU LITTLE SH-"

The shout didn't come as a surprise.

What did take a minute was that the only answer came a murmur, and her shape twisting on the stool.

Then the sound of heels that were an inch high, and a ruffle of her windbreaker settling her up: a look at the face and there wasn't another moment wasted- because the Mistress's expression held a distinct quality to it: cold, calculated and determined.

The air itself had threaded through the weapon's chamber, a cocking of said firearm, and now... not a breath could be let out until someone answered, and then, Eric couldn't see if it happened to be Mirage Mistress or the stranger.

Two shots rang out. The mirror behind the bar cracked and shattered.

A storm of glass shards flew into the air. As they descended like icy rain, the stunned pub-goers were left motionless. Only the flicker of the television screen could be heard. When the dust settled, they tried in vain to make sense of the world that lay beyond the window. A single question found a dozen tongues.

The knock back from the projectile sent the bigger foe crashing onto the already battered, and marred, tile flooring. Dust rose into the air like an empty tomb before his shadow became obscured, yet the body remained intact: while a shot to the center of a man's forehead wouldn't get someone instantly killed, only because the bullet didn't hold any explosive power, a well-placed 'pop' delivered the perfect amount of force behind the impact -thus leaving one groaning and groggy for hours and possibly falling unconscious for some more.

On the other side, nothing remained. On the white-collar man's glass, that was.

It had been readily downed ages ago.