She doesn't stumble upon some crime in progress or hear about a murder on the six o'clock news. She doesn't consider whether she should involve herself, or whether she should just keep her head down and go about her business like a normal citizen. Or, if she does, she always lands squarely on the 'act normal' side of the debate. Because that's what she is: normal. Nobody. Just a face in the crowd. Not some obnoxious asshole in bright spandex and a cape, her image blown up on billboards and splashed on public transport.
She doesn't calmly step in front of said public transport to an aborted cacophony of squealing tires and screeching brakes. She doesn't open her eyes to find herself back in her bed at the start of that day, with the cries of any unfortunate observers still echoing in her ears. She doesn't have a new mission.
She doesn't stake out the scene of the crime. She doesn't watch it happen from afar, taking note of where people are and when, storing facts and calculating variables, memorizing the scene. She doesn't try to dissuade the criminal in some subtle way. She doesn't lose. She doesn't fuck up. She doesn't die as many times as she has to to get it right, to get it perfect.
Here is how it happens.
Someone starts to commit a crime (she has to let them start, if only so everyone else will know what she's stopping), and a lithe, deceptively small figure in a metal mask slips out of the crowd and lays them out with practiced, brutal efficiency. And then the figure is gone, ducking down an alley or deftly weaving between vehicles, before anyone can fully register the extent of what has just happened.
And Rita tucks the mask away and goes about her business.
Here is another thing that doesn't happen: someone doesn't text her the site of a crime before it happens.
She goes, because she's curious, and because she has a get-out-of-shit-free card that never seems to expire. And she watches it happen, the man running off with some distraught woman's purse. Her own face is impassive, though there's a muscle working in her jaw, and her eyes are distinctly cold. She doesn't even try to stop the crime, because it can wait. The question of who's fucking with her takes precedence, and she pulls out her phone to text back this... samaritan.
ill-advised trip tagging aww yiss
Here is how it doesn't happen.
She doesn't stumble upon some crime in progress or hear about a murder on the six o'clock news. She doesn't consider whether she should involve herself, or whether she should just keep her head down and go about her business like a normal citizen. Or, if she does, she always lands squarely on the 'act normal' side of the debate. Because that's what she is: normal. Nobody. Just a face in the crowd. Not some obnoxious asshole in bright spandex and a cape, her image blown up on billboards and splashed on public transport.
She doesn't calmly step in front of said public transport to an aborted cacophony of squealing tires and screeching brakes. She doesn't open her eyes to find herself back in her bed at the start of that day, with the cries of any unfortunate observers still echoing in her ears. She doesn't have a new mission.
She doesn't stake out the scene of the crime. She doesn't watch it happen from afar, taking note of where people are and when, storing facts and calculating variables, memorizing the scene. She doesn't try to dissuade the criminal in some subtle way. She doesn't lose. She doesn't fuck up. She doesn't die as many times as she has to to get it right, to get it perfect.
Here is how it happens.
Someone starts to commit a crime (she has to let them start, if only so everyone else will know what she's stopping), and a lithe, deceptively small figure in a metal mask slips out of the crowd and lays them out with practiced, brutal efficiency. And then the figure is gone, ducking down an alley or deftly weaving between vehicles, before anyone can fully register the extent of what has just happened.
And Rita tucks the mask away and goes about her business.
Here is another thing that doesn't happen: someone doesn't text her the site of a crime before it happens.
She goes, because she's curious, and because she has a get-out-of-shit-free card that never seems to expire. And she watches it happen, the man running off with some distraught woman's purse. Her own face is impassive, though there's a muscle working in her jaw, and her eyes are distinctly cold. She doesn't even try to stop the crime, because it can wait. The question of who's fucking with her takes precedence, and she pulls out her phone to text back this... samaritan.
Who is this?