THE SONG OF MY PEOPLE - III.a.

3 PHONE CALLS.

That was what the superhero 'specialist' was entitled to.

They have been given ample means to prove his innocence, especially if they're as good and grandiose as the man made himself to be—-Eric thought, that is.

There are the matters of being asked every other question and the dread of having found himself in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

It would have seemed rather difficult to imagine many solutions when getting yourself tangled in the complexities of saving the day. One just cannot become another hero whenever the next would walk in.

It would not be as easy.

Slipping out would not be as easy either.

With his fingers clutching the edges of the cellphone, Eric stared blankly at the lines on the off-white receiver.

What could THEY think?

——INNOCENT or GUILTY?

Perhaps a miracle will happen.

Not before 'ringing' however.

A sigh of breath.

"-Hello?"

"Your Honor, the defense will prove beyond a reasonable doubt, the defendant, Eric Rogers- did NOT kill the two culprits.”

Eric's lawyer grinned devilishly, approaching the front of the room.

“Pumpkin Phantasm and Dread Harvest would never- let alone do anything more nefarious beyond disrupting a typical day's commute, like everybody else.... For our client Eric Rogers- WAS the innocent bystander, after taking on an assassin's fallout."

Dressed in his Sunday best and chained to his desk, he surveyed his environment, keeping his eyes solely focused on the judge.

Eric felt that the place is oddly packed, the presence of the audience all staring at him, as though accusing him to be some kind of blood-sucking scoundrel rather than an innocent.

The courtroom feels like a coliseum, where people will bet large amounts on what will happen in a case.

Judge Ramirez rested his forehead in his palm while reading through the notepad he held to his chest. "Seriously- a conspiracy? Just in time, for Halloween too." he murmured, tapping the steel gavel before closing the notepad shut.

"...Indeed." the defense attorney argued. "The evidence points, nay, it can only lead to the fact that Mister Rogers is not a vigilante or villain, nor is he capable of one, two, or three serial killer tendencies as proven, Your Honor."

"Pumpkin-Phantasm and- Dread Harvest- right." the judge frowned. "Why waste your breath on a known thief and vigilante of the commonwealth? Not to mention, an international terrorist, suspected to have ties with black market mutant trafficking!?"

Seated opposite of the old man, a sharp-eyed prosecutor approached the podium. With one look, he cleared his throat and shuffled the papers in his hands. A stern and icy glare came over him as he cleared his throat once more, raising his head to speak clearly.

"Your honor, I would like to dispute that very fact. That testimony IS, indeed, backed by quite a few more sources besides the accused. The circumstances leading up to that particular night's events should be taken into account, and that there was substantial proof against Eric Rogers."

Tucking away a document; the prosecutor retrieved a second from his briefcase, then he had begun, presenting fingerprint evidence to the jury: "DNA samples, FINGERPRINTS point to one Eric Rogers- for both crimes. I submit that the two villains were, as a direct result, cornered by one of our illustrious allies, namely the Umbrum officers Dotty Donalot and Zoey D'Antoya, thereby leading the killers to his apartment instead of the bank, at a time past 4 a.m.—when he should have been asleep."

"OBJECTION!" The defense attorney barked. "Surely you must be joking! Who do you want us to believe here, Your Honor? My client, Eric Rogers, or your band of government dogs!? Let us remember the law does not stand in blind faith, much less subject justice to fall by the sword."

"YOUR HONOR-" the prosecutor interjected. "Those rumors, no more than FOOLISH FAIRY TALES. Please kindly accept your place amidst the wolves, rather than among sheeps, or the pen."

"SILENCE! BOTH OF YOU." the judge boomed, hammering down with a gavel. "If our state attorney and the H.I.A. have nothing to fear and hide, then let us proceed, in the meantime and henceforth."

"Your Honor," The man's shades were pushed up alongside his gaze, "Fingerprints alone aren't admissible as evidence. Given the defendant's CLEAR LACK of superpowers, it would come as to NO ONE'S SURPRISE that overpowering them would be almost close to impossible. IMPROBABLE. Let alone done within the time frame suggested- NOT TO MENTION the aforementioned testimonies, alibis, or lack of surveillance cameras!"

Pumped-up, the defense lawyer continued his motions and strikes. With the prosecution seemingly agitated with such bold responses, he continued.

"Where exactly WERE the two of Umbrum's finest, exactly? Did they keep the crime scene spotless, keeping only a glass cup or a broken shard, and evidence solely for OUR convenience?"

The defense attorney gritted his teeth, clenching his fists:

"I don't see how THAT evidence is enough to determine anything. NO WITNESSES. No due diligence. However," the old man, with a swipe and tidy rearrangement of his suit, crossed his hands and left a palm by his desk, closing his eyes. "WE have a hero consultant and a top member of H.I.A. as well—-a so-called golden boy of society. Tell me, is this WHAT THIS FINE CITY'S COME TO?"

The blind man cautiously approached the jury, nailing his point home. "Our fair city is not the kind and respectable place one might believe! A place of such greatness may have been one long ago, but that glory days are the echoes of years since passed. Today, we live with nightmares.

Of Mutant beasts. Of THIEVES.

A plague of villainy has become an epidemic."

The man's eyes darkened, furrowing his brow before looking back to Eric, speaking sincerely.

"...AND THANKS TO ONE HUMBLE HERO, ERIC ROGERS, WE HAVE NOW FOUND OUR FIRST LYNCH-PIN TO SET ALL RIGHT, ONCE AND FOR ALL, WHAT WILL FALL INTO DISARRAY."

AND JUST LIKE THAT- THE SUPERHERO CONSULTANT WAS DECLARED INNOCENT.

"How do you feel about the trial, Mister Rogers?"

Eric tried to speak. It was difficult to talk, not with everyone around wanting the inside scoop about his thoughts. Or even question his right-left choice. But the more difficult answers, much less the unpleasant- his lawyer would fend them off with a simple 'no comment'.

The sea of washout influencer-churned reporters felt endless.

Distracting and out-right annoying, all at the same time.

For a split-second, Eric didn't care if he was on his way to something like a celebrity funeral rather than a simple welcome party. What mattered now was whether it would finally come to an end.

Thankfully, his handler made sure it would at the first limousine, allowing him to breathe and leave, not another word uttered to the public eye.

Today, no doubt: an unforgettable ordeal.

Sighing inwardly, Eric took in the view that was the skies. They're always so vast and calming for him. Except...it might have been because of the tallest tower of Fane Enterprises, a shining beacon casting a shadow over the vast areas from which they sat.

Eric glanced down to study its lobby. He heard about the many floors below and their sheer amount of space. Its numerous elevators and escalators, more than fifty stories high, were well ahead of their competitors' own designs.

Excess in every facet- that was how they had gotten it...

Because their brand gave them an opportunity, a chance- To grow uninhibitedly, almost artificially, like mold in a room—its influence far reaching. Not only over the company itself but also on many other sectors and, perhaps, over time and given success-

"THE WORLD." The lawyer pointed out with his cane, smiling happily.

"Come again?"

"By chance, do you remember when I'd said, 'These people always put the blood on your hands, making it seem like it's just an invisible symbol'?" He rested his free hand against the handle; a frown befell his wrinkled face.

"Look," Eric shifted his posture to face him readily. "I couldn't have been more grateful for your help, Mister-"

"Please. Just call me Brad."

There was a beaming sense of pride with his usual voice. And that hint of genuine awe was not hard to discern with how much effort was being spent just to ensure Eric would get the proper treatment for a wounded soul.

A collision smashed the limo car's rear door to the side, swerving off the road into a building.

As the shockwave's effect settled; ears ringing, eyes fluttering open; Eric stumbled outside the remnants of their former chariot. He was bruised, hurting enough to prevent bursting into a full sprint, but conscientious in searching for Brad still after finding the driver's limp body. The fire bellowed, consuming the wreckage.

Dusting himself off; Eric was met with many odd looks upon arrival. A glass shard chipped the surface of a nearby wall; Eric having been pulled aside by Riskrunner, dressed in red-and-gold shoulder pads and garb.

"Mister Rogers." The older man called for him.

"How do you know my-"

The hero flung a baton, whizzing past Eric's ear and grazing the shoulder of the assassin- Deadeye, dressed in all-black attire, including a Kevlar vest and a mask, while hiding.

Their backs hunched against an alley; all caught up, struggling to keep a heavy breath. The crowd thinned as others ran across traffic further back. It gave them enough space to focus.

Riskrunner took Eric by the wrist, dragging him down the narrow path until they reached the open street.

"My, my. What did YOU do to deserve this? Surely, you've dealt with a few knaves already." his bodyguard offered assistance at getting him up and dusting his jacket off before moving forward, letting his legs continue autonomously.

Eric rubbed the back of his head in confusion.

There wasn't an actual answer that came.

Projectiles flung about from both sides with Riskrunner having his sole baton deflecting most springing about their general direction. It seemed too strong, yet slow-feeling for this kind.

Grunts of frustration filled the otherwise quiet environment, accompanied by a few cries and screams from civilians.

Riskrunner cried out in surprise. He had the wind knocked out of him, almost completely thrown off balance by a punch to the gut.

For Eric- The stress was making him sweat profusely.

A woman clad in a dark green parka and a green cowl stepped forward while dual wielding knives with a grin so wide one could swear she had bared all her teeth. Her bright red eyes focused on Riskrunner.

"PETRA."

"RISKRUNNER."

They trailed toward Eric, tracing his every movement- daring the young man to react.

The female villain spun around to catch the pro-hero who dared lunge at her. Thrusting her serrated blade deep into his gut- Riskrunner howled in pain and grasped the source of his discomfort, dropping his first.

"MISTER ROGERS!" Riskrunner, quickly bringing forth another baton, threw it at the attacking fiend before receiving a haymaker to the jaw. "Forgive the intrusion! I'll make sure someone returns with more, but please- GO!"

Gathering the staff off the ground; Deadeye dashed towards the hero with a large amount of momentum. They collided, jumbling the pavement below with a second deafening explosion erupting in the aftermath.

"How cute. This hero thinks he could have a match with DEADEYE, himself." the girl named Petra sniggered, looking up to see Eric run past him towards a street corner, not that she minded though.

Within those pockets of time, the Pro-Hero was slammed onto the ground and kicked, screaming aloud, nearly begging for mercy from this overwhelming force before him. His screams echoed throughout the void of the city's underworld.

"See now, Riskrunner! Isn't that FAMILIAR-" Deadeye resounded with a wicked cackle. "DEATH!? So close...Yet feels SO FAR."

A pair of snow white orbs flickered through the dark shadows, signaling their inhuman nature as the sole entity therein lurked.

Both shots landed against the assailants, dropping them where they stood after several whirling strikes. Petra staggered, but never succumbed. Instead, she remained motionless, swaying a little before her left foot fell forward; hands clutching the ground as she slowly blinked.

The woman snapped her head up, flashing her gleaming red gaze directly toward the retreating Riskrunner. A smirk appeared on her lips; a smile plastered onto her visage.

"I assume you've been waiting, hmm...?" Deadeye hummed, rolling his shoulders back and cracking a few vertebrae that had become dislocated or misaligned in the brief scuffle.

A spark of light accompanied a lonely cigarette, dressing the newcomer's smile with a thin trace of orange. Then came the click of metal and a quick jab downward- followed immediately by a splash and a crack; Deadeye hissed from the burning sensation on his thigh. His face contorted into disgust, flinching back as the smoke dissipated in front of him, then sighing to himself.

"...That just leaves one 'imaginary' figure behind all this, if my nose is accurate."

"Hush, sweetie," Her chuckle was more akin to a machine's cold murmur. "You may see them now...but they'll keep fighting. Both groups were brought together by a simple set of coincidences which happened...exactly when they should. Those who know- they've always told stories...".

Taking one more drag, the stranger sighed at last, savoring its flavor.

"You look quite beat, friend. Shouldn't you focus on tending yourself?"