#unreported

The civilian goes over her notes. They were last seen leaving the agency a month ago. The news stopped reporting on it after five days. The agency made one hell of a show of looking for them before it all seemingly went quiet. She’s seen the hero’s successor about town, and the reactions he’s garnered—distaste, anger. The agency made a move to replace the hero too fast, and everyone’s seen it. Everyone is suspicious.

She can’t let that get in the way of her little investigation, though. The agency has certainly been weird about it, but that feels too obvious. She can imagine the real perpetrator is rubbing their hands with glee knowing that everyone has their eyes elsewhere.

The villain association. An undeservedly professional name, considering the business villains like to conduct, but that’s besides the point. Villains—a villain, perhaps—would be the obvious choice. Maybe the hero got too close to something, acted too much like an irritating fly that needed to be swatted. Then again, villains love bragging, and having a hero in their possession would undoubtedly send them into a self-absorbed frenzy. They’ve been even quieter on this than the agency has.

The civilian flips through some of the papers in the pile closest to her. Half of these are documents she’s loaned from the library—she’s already maxed out her extension, and they’re due back next week. She doesn’t have them for long. She needs to figure this out soon.

She’s in the midst of poring over some of her paperwork with a highlighter—nothing from the library, she doesn’t need a vandalism fine on top of all this—when there’s a noise at her front door that she instantly recognises. Something, rather hurriedly, being shoved through her letterbox.

It’s too late to be getting post now. The civilian rushes for the door just in time to see the little envelope drop from the hole and onto her mat.

She snatches it up and rips it open without a thought, letting her eyes graze over the words of the letter inside. Then she looks a little more carefully. Then a third time, because there’s no way.

It’s been interesting to watch you play, Ma’am, but I suggest you keep yourself out of business that isn’t yours.

She tears the door open but she already knows she’s too late. Whoever left this for her is long gone.

She makes doubly sure to lock her door has she closes it behind her, her gaze back on the letter. If she can even call it that—it looks more like it was torn out of a notebook and scribbled on the way here.

A warning. She shuffles back into her kitchen, where the papers she was looking at are now toppled all over the floor. She carefully sets them back on the table, and after a moment of deliberation lays the letter on top of them.

Journalists like her don’t tend to take warnings.

After all, new evidence just fell into her lap.

“Morning,” her boss greets flatly, as she's busy staring at the word 'keep' like it owes her money. “You still booked in for that interview with [Superhero]?”

The civilian heaves a deep sigh. In the whirlwind of frantic research and threatening notes recently, she’d completely forgotten about that. She flips her diary open and, with confirmation that yes, she does have that interview today, she resigns herself to simply getting her notes ready for later.

-

“It’s really exciting to see this kind of change happening in the agency,” the civilian offers brightly, and the superhero nods. “Do you think adding this new technology will make your crime-fighting easier?”

The superhero smiles in that practised way most heroes do. “It’ll be the first of its kind. Not only will our jobs be easier, but I hope it will give others the inspiration to do good with us.”

“I think all of us normal people aspire to achieve just an ounce of the greatness you bring to this city.” The civilian mirrors his smile, albeit less practised and more disingenuous. “Thank you for joining me today, [Superhero]. It really has been a pleasure to hear about these developments from the genius that made them.”

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine. Thank you for having me.”

The civilian nods, making a quick note on her pad, and with that the interview is over.

Someone approaches the superhero with a coat—an assistant, the civilian assumes—which he shrugs on with a quick thank you. He stands and the civilian follows him, half because that’s the polite way to end things and half because she realises this doesn’t have to necessarily be the end.

The superhero accepts a steaming cup and turns to leave.

“Actually—”

The superhero pauses, giving the civilian a curious glance. She clears her throat awkwardly—planning this might have been a better idea. “Uh,” she starts, super naturally, “I have a few questions of my own, off record, if you don’t mind.”

She can practically see the cogs turning in the superhero’s mind. His assistant is flitting her wide-eyed gaze between him and the civilian like she just asked to kill him outright. “Sure,” the superhero says after a long moment, the word blatantly suspicious, “but I do have a meeting in a few minutes.”

The civilian shoots him a grateful smile, settling back in her seat and watching victoriously as the superhero does the same. “Of course. I’ll make it quick.” She flips her notepad open on a clear page, her pen poised eagerly. “Now, the world has its eyes on [Hero], who has been—”

“Oh, Jesus, no.” The superhero cuts straight across her, professionalism seemingly forgotten to abrupt exasperation. “We looked for [Hero], we turned nothing up, we presumed them dead. Why can none of you journalists leave this alone?”

Not exactly a clue, but definitely an interesting reaction. “A lot of journalists are speaking to you on this but… none of those conversations are published?”

“We don’t want them to be.” The superhero scowls, leaning back in his chair. “We had enough people on our back when they first disappeared. People have moved on—I’m not about to bring that heat back by bringing it to the media’s attention again.”

The civilian makes a note in her notepad. “Right. Have you—”

“What’re you writing?”

“Oh.” The civilian holds her notepad up to him, showing him the single ‘avoiding’ she’s managed to get down. “It’s just my notes.”

“Don’t write this down. I don’t need the press reporting on this stupid thing again.”

“It’s just for me, [Superhero]. None of this is getting published, don’t worry.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his stare hardens. The civilian takes the hint and flips it closed. “Have you still been looking, even though it’s not repo—”

“Thank you for the interview,” the superhero butts in coldly. “I have to be getting to my meeting now.”

He stands without waiting for a response. The civilian fumbles to get to her feet as well.