Thirteen years ago...

Behind his back, Fallout slid the key out of the last pocket on his belt. His eyes trailed to the scuffed floor and his thoughts toward an old friend as Owl kissed him. He trailed his fingers across the silverwork. If he tuned out Owl's chatter, he could hear Cecil's breathing.  Soft and regular. The prisoner whistled, through the tune was old and sad, one Fallout couldn't quite place no matter how hard he tried.

"We're going to finish them off," Owl said with a quick, sloppy kiss on the side of his neck. He nodded. Smiled. How like her, to obsess over her work. He wondered if she did anything else. Shop? Play ping-pong? Both seemed unlikely. 

A deck of tarot cards rattled in Fallout's pocket, tucked neatly against the usual Uno deck. In the dark hall, the air thick with antiseptic and thicker still with the stench of stale blood, Owl rolled the sleeves of her greasy shirt to her elbows. Both dark eyes glowed against the shadows, and Fallout nodded for her to leave. She spun on her heel, ruffled his hair in that obnoxious way she had. Fallout licked his fingers and patted every strand back into place, the key still clenched behind him. "Nebula tried to shoot me. Can you imagine? It's been what? Fifty years since we first fought, and she's still trying to shoot me."

"Maybe she just wants her husband back," Fallout offered, rolling the key through his fingers. He knew Nebula as well as Owl did, considering his habit of kidnapping her to get Cecil's attention. She was pretty okay, even for a superhero. They had never been friends—she was too busy reading or etching her Master's thesis into the floor to carry on a conversation. And there's nothing more awkward or humiliating than being ignored by your prisoner. But when she did talk Fallout found himself surprisingly engaged, and he'd sit on the floor waiting hours for Taurus to get off work. She was plucky and smart and loved the heroes as much as her own children. She had a lot of heart to give. Too much to be taken now.

"Well, poor Nebula, then." Owl rolled her eyes. Fallout may have found the hero pretty okay, but any time Fallout had the woman in his control, he had to keep Owl away. They were real arch nemeses, Owl and Nebula, nothing like Fallout and Taurus. Too head-strong. Too leaderly. Too similar.

And all Owl wanted was to watch Nebula burn, even if that meant the other heroes—and the city—had to burn, too.

He forced a weak smile. "Well, go get 'em, tiger." As her footfalls to faded, he tapped the key to his wedding band. The ring glowed gold in the dim light, and the inscription seemed to burn through the very fabric of his glove. The door was gray and stripped of its paint, the brass knob coated in a layer of rust. Behind it, Cecil whistled, now low and tunelessly. Fallout glanced both ways, at the chipped rock poking through the drywall sheets, at the splatters of white paint and the smears of yellow mold. Then, he turned the creaking knob and slipped through, cringing at the squeal of hinges. Cecil whistled again, louder this time. The tune returned and it was sweet, classic somehow, but Fallout still couldn't place it. Not even when Cecil sang the words under his breath. Perhaps it came from the future.

Fallout cocked his head, leaned back against a door. The room was unpleasant enough, exposed stone walls reminding him of a cave. The air smelt strongly of blood to Fallout's sharpened senses, and he had to look twice at how spotless it was. Waxed floors. Bright bars of fluorescent lights shining down with a crisp, artificial glow. A plastic kiddie table sat in the middle of the room between two cracked yellow chairs, and a lonely door stood in the corner for a crude bathroom. But this was a usual sight for Fallout, and he'd gone to see Cecil, the man chained to the wall.

"Hey," he said with a quick wave, a quicker smile that left the edges of his lips hurting. "How are you doing, buddy?"

The words faded from the man's lips when Fallout looked at him. He replaced them with a solemn smile that didn't look like it belonged there. Cecil Brooks—Taurus, as the alter ego went—was a solid man, muscular and well built. Handsome, Fallout thought, the features on his face hard, a rough stubble growing in on his exposed jawline. Dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed. Broad-shouldered, thick-necked. He was a hero's hero, American as apple pie. Known to stop runaway trains with a single shove and hold up falling buildings one-handed, all between offering kids life lessons. 'Taurus', the zodiac with the bull sign, was more than an appropriate name for him.

"Doing?" He also had a pleasing voice, but so did Nebula and even Jupiter, and to Fallout it seemed like a sort of job requirement. "Oh, wonderfully. Your wife talked to me. She's aggressive." Cecil shuddered, and his chained arm rattled against the wall. He pointed at the cuff. "My wrist is chaffing. Free me."

Fallout balanced the key on his palm, the tarot cards burning a hole in his hip. He was slimmer than Cecil, almost twiggy, and he tried to savor the situation. Right now the hero'd be throwing him across the city by his ankles. But Fallout couldn't. There was something sad about seeing the old-timer reduced to this, even if the villain didn't want to admit it.

"Oh, I don't know." Fallout stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. "Depends, good man. Will you try to escape?"

Cecil's eyes went dull. "James. You're too old for this."

Fallout made a 'harrumph' sound. The door creaked on its hinges, and as the floor squeaked, the villain shot a look over his shoulder. Heat itched his neck and collar. Better make haste.  Whistling back a tune a little less sweet than Cecil's, he snapped the cuff open with a click of the key. The hero slid down the wall, cradling his wrist. His eyes, clouded, peered up at the ceiling through the slits of his mask. And he sighed. "James, maybe I should think of retiring."

"Too late."

The hero propped his chin in his hand. Glared. An empty rage lit up his eyes like sparks, and Fallout had never seen him look that way before, not in all of his immortal life. "Oh, really. I never noticed. Do you have any more shocking observations? Did you discover why the dinosaurs went extinct? The secret to forging Damascus steel?"

"Oh, no, no." Fallout made two 'L's with his opposite hands and held them together in front of Cecil's head like a picture frame. "It really doesn't fit you, you know. The sass. That's more Luna's territory."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

Fallout tipped his head. "Well, you're happier than this. Usually."

Cecil stared at him a moment, then shook his head. "You're the only friend I've had for weeks. It's scary I think of you as a friend when it's your fault I'm here." 

Fallout sat down on the floor. He heard another click behind him. It made the villain nervous because, with her illusion power, Owl could be anywhere. 

Crisscross applesauce, he palmed the tarot cards in his lap. "So you think you have...what is it?" Fallout asked. He snapped his fingers as if finding a beat.  "Stockholm Syndrome? Just because you don't hate me doesn't mean you wouldn't kill me eight times over to see your family. Now, want to play cards or read the future?" He waved the box, but Cecil wouldn't have it. His eyes flashed at the sight of them, the color draining from his quivering lips. Sweat perforated his mask, and he sat rigid for minutes. Fallout used the time to imitate the tune the hero was whistling, but he couldn't quite make the notes as high, so he gave up.

"My God, man." The hero's voice broke with a heaving gasp. "You won't let me leave here, will you?" Cecil grabbed at the stone wall for a handhold, his feet kicking out under him. He collapsed. Flat on his stomach. Fallout scooched back, thinking that Cecil looked like a sort of penguin. He swallowed evenly.

"Cecil, I—"

"I can see the future. You know that." Cecil tried to stand up again, and this time Fallout rose with him, slinging Cecil's limp arm over his shoulder. The hero was all dead weight, and his sleeve rode up just enough to reveal a line of perfectly symmetrical bruises, one after the other after the other. "There are millions of possible future, and I don't choose what I see. I saw Toby graduate, years before he did. Saw my mother's funeral. I've even seen glimpses of T.V shows and musicals I might watch. Hamilton, for instance."

"What?"

"Exactly." Cecil shook his head. "Nothing like getting into a musical that doesn't exist yet." He laughed, but it was such a tittering, empty sound Fallout tensed. The hero's eyes were red, and Fallout wondered if the man was about to cry. It made the villain look away toward the shackles on the wall. 

A couple of decades ago a breakdown on the superhero's part would've been hilarious, but he was a friend now. He had a name. He had a wife, a son, and a toddling daughter. Hurting a man behind a mask was one thing. Hurting a man with a family was another.

"Quit it. We've been through this what? A hundred times." Fallout threw up an arm, a random gesture to ease the growing pressure in his chest. "We take a few tests, we let you go. Simple."

Cecil drew in a breath. "No, no. You're going to kill me. Maybe not you, but a friend." A pause. The villain felt a strike of smarting pain down his chest, then it was gone. "It's a blurry vision and—and it may not come true, but it feels close. And all the other visions, of being at my daughter's wedding, of meeting Toby's children, my grandchildren..." His voice trembled, but he swallowed. Breathed deeply. He finished with a weak frown. "They all feel blurry. Like dreams."

Fallout rolled his eyes and slapped the hero on the shoulder. Cecil winced and Fallout pulled his hand away quick for fear of hurting him. Sometimes the villain forgot Cecil was being tortured. The only sign he gave was in his demeanor, growing more somber as the days passed. "Relax, buddy—"

"You have sons, don't you?"

Fallout shrugged. "Owl won't let me touch the one they're experimenting on."

"He's still your son." A muscle under his jaw tightened, a severe look passing over his usally smiling face. The villain fought back the urge to flinch.

"She won't call him that. He's a 'project." Fallout even made the air-quotes, throwing his long hair back he was a supermodel instead of a supervillain. And for once in his life, Fallout itched to change the subject. "You said you saw your...daughter's wedding?"

Cecil looked at the floor. "Yes. But it's so staticky now, I fear I won't live to see it."

"So? What'll it be like?"

"I...I...think it'll be with a super boy or a super girl. White haired, colored eyes. In my visions, they glow." He shook his head, and his eyes glinted with tears. But he was a superhero, so he forced them back with a few long blinks. "She wears a tux. And it's soaked in Red Bull."

Fallout laughed. But Cecil tore his arm away, stumbling back on his hurt legs. They were about as useful as flippers and he hit the floor on his knees with a cry he hid in a string of coughs. He snatched up Fallout's swinging hands from below, clenched them so hard Fallout almost called for help. The man's face hardened, his usually bright eyes cold.  "James, promise me, when I die—"

"You're not going to die."

Cecil jerked his head up. "When I die, you'll not hurt my children."

Fallout whistled again. "Oh, I don't know—"

"Promise me. Toby won't get in your way. He's smart, but his powers are weak, and he isn't a fool like us. Doesn't like this hero stuff. He's going to be a doctor." The hero's chest puffed with pride, and Fallout only hoped the kid knew how much his father loved him. "But my daughter, I know she'll get in your way. She'll cross paths with you and your children. Don't hurt her. Don't let them hurt her." His voice shook, and his grip slackened around Fallout's hands, falling loose on the floor in front of him. 

Fallout glared. He hated it when Cecil spoke like that, like a prophet. Didn't fit him. None of this fit him. The seriousness. The sadness. When you map someone out for a half-century, it's awful annoying when they fly off the charts. 

The hero narrowed his eyes, and his mask drooped. "I know you hate me, but promise me that."

"Very well." Fallout sunk criss-cross in front of the hero, finding comfort on the cold floor. "I won't hurt your children."

"No matter what they do."

Fallout raised his hand to his head in a mock salute. 

The corners of Cecil's lips twitched in what Fallout guessed was supposed to look like a smile. It faded quick. "And if anything happens to the heroes, make sure the other supervillains don't hurt her."

Fallout scooted closer, his heart finding a nervous rhythm. The air suddenly felt oppressive and thick. "You'll be fine."

Cecil leaned back, and the tears rolled this time. No matter the fool he made of himself as the chirpy one of the group, when he cried he cried silently. There was dignity to him, resolve, as cold and hard as the hero's mystified Damascus steel. "Promise me, James."

"Alright, alright." He looked over his shoulder. The floor creaked again. There was a soft hiss, the sound of armor creaking. It made him jump. He forced his voice low and bent close to the man's ear. "I promise. Now stop blubbering and play Uno with me."

***

Apologies for the late update. Dropped off with a migraine last night after being out all day and didn't wake up until noon. Anyway, happy Memorial day weekend!