Compared to the hospital's shivering cold AC, outside was a kiln. The glass doors sigh shut behind him, leaving him at the mercy of a vicious cloudless and angry sky.
He trudged past a row of vending machines. A $3.00 bag of pretzels stared at him from behind glass, the price tag almost mocking. "If the world made sense," he mutters, "three bucks would at least get you a hallucination, not just salt." His stomach growls, and he flips the bag off, middle finger low and subtle.
He continued his familiar route to the bus stop. At this point he had walked it every day for months, sometimes twice if he was lucky enough to get a shift that doesn't bleed into midnight.
It was not far from the hospital. It stood just outside the entrance to the area. Thankfully someone had the good sense to place them within walking distance for those like himself who didn't possess their own personal mode of transportation.
As well as those who weren't in a condition that required an ambulance or God forbid hero assistance. Thorne personally would prefer to call the grim reaper for transportation to the otherworld rather than call the Hero Dispatch Network for help.
Looking out at the city's architecture as he walked. He gazed at the tiers of white stone and brushed steel, buildings carved with deliberate curves that softened their massive heights, their surfaces shifting from pearl to gold as afternoon light played across polished facades designed by architects who understood beauty was a utility too.
Though nothing in astra city seemed to be as built to last as the billboards.
They sprouted from rooftops like weeds, glowing with the faces of the city's favorite sons and daughters. Almost always a "hero" the word makes Thorne's molars grind. A grinning god in stylish armor, or a cape wrapped titan with perfect teeth. Sometimes it's an ad for prescription painkillers or The Hero dispatches Network's subscription coverage. The line between the two has always been fuzzy.
He crosses against the light, weaving between a delivery drone and a scooter driven by a kid too young for a learner's permit. The scooter peels away with a shriek, the driver's helmet painted like the mask of "Skull Gripper," one of the city's B-list Heroes. Thorne wonders if the kid is a fan or just likes the skull motif. His money's on both.
The bus stop is an island. four metal posts, a roof that does nothing against the wind, and a giant digital sign that oscillates between the arrival time and whatever marketing campaign is paying this week's rent. Today it's Paladin, Astra's self-appointed guardian and brand ambassador, glaring down in a pose that suggests both benevolent protection and a willingness to crush you for littering.
"STRENGTH IN PROTECTION. EXCELLENCE IN JUSTICE. Paladin: Standing for Astra City. Standing For You."
The skintight suit looked Sleek in its design The red and gold motif is so aggressive it might as well be an open wound.
Thorne wants to laugh. He settled for rolling his eyes so hard he thought they might not return from inside his head.
He was not alone at the stop. There was an older middle-aged man seated on the bench. It was surprising that Thorne hadn't noticed him earlier. Wearing a business casual outfit and a gold watch on his hand. He was well built like he spent a good amount of his time in the gym.
His body's only sign of betrayal was his greying hair and beard. He had the face of a retired cop broad jaw, straight nose, skin carved into a permanent squint.
The man had a newspaper, actual paper, folded under one arm and a reusable coffee cup in a death grip. There was a tattoo on his left forearm. It was faded, but Thorne could still make out the stylized gold and black bee with a drop of blood running down its stinger. He apparently took notice of Thorne's eyeroll.
Removing one of his ear buds from his ear he scanned Thorne. "Not a fan of Paladin?" He asked, not quite friendly but not hostile either.
Thorne didn't answer right away. Instead, he flicked the man a sidelong gaze and glancing at the ostentatious hero poster on the digital display behind them. He considered saying he'd wished there was a magic rock that could take away his powers. Only so he could stuff it down his throat and watch him choke on it helplessly. Then he thought better of it, after all he wasn't about to share his absolute disdain for the hero with a random stranger.
"Biggest fan in the world," he said, deadpan. "Paladin is my spirit animal; I keep a candlelit shrine at home. Pray to his bobblehead three times a day." dropping on to the bench, he pinched the chest of his hoodie and began rapidly pulling at it in an effort to cool himself.
The man huffed a short laugh. "For some reason I don't believe that for a second," he said, his lanyard ID bouncing against his chest. "You don't look like the Hero-worshipping type."
"I surprise myself sometimes," Thorne replied, hoping the conversation would die a swift but natural death. However as usual his luck was absent.
"You know I sometimes find it funny. Back when I was a kid, heroes were mostly just rumors. Sometimes someone claimed to see 'em, but nobody believed it even when it came on the news. Not that any smart person would believe everything the media tells them.
"Ugh I'm getting off topic. Anyway, now it's a new kid in tights every week." He pointed at his phone, where the latest trending feed showed highlights from last night's new stories. "Operation Lucky Sevens,", "Vector, son of the legendary Accel, debuts. ", "Stargazer promotes new clothing brand" "Dame and Don spotted having romantic dinner at, Granny's Treats. ", "Gladiator promises to take on the Hive. "Pulling back his phone and locking the screen. Then he sighed.
"They're more common than weeds." He drummed his index finger on the plastic lid of the coffee cup. But what no one ever talks about is Newton's Law." He looked sidelong at Thorne, as if testing whether he'd get the reference.
"Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. The heroes fight crime with their powers, the action. As a result, crime goes down. That however only leads to an increase in super crime as others with powers appear to balance it all out, the reaction." He leaned back, stretching his legs until his sneakers scraped the curb.
Thorne blinked. For a second, the man's words echoed his own thoughts so perfectly that he wondered if they'd both been reading from the same jaded script.
After all, just a few moments ago he also compared the heroes to weeds.
The bitterness in the older man's voice didn't come off like the cynicism of someone trying to sound rebellious it was worn, a familiar old jacket that fit too well.
One the Thorne knew all too well. He felt the faintest flicker of kinship, almost a comfort. Maybe he wasn't the only person in Astra allergic to the hero worship.
But instead of offering up a real response, Thorne settled in, letting the warmth metal bench sent its heat up his thighs, feeling every inch of exhaustion in his bones. His reflection shimmered in the bus shelter glass, superimposed over Paladin's billboard chest. For a moment, Thorne imagined himself in the red and gold suit, flexing for the cameras, eating up attention like oxygen then the thought made his skin crawl.
'I'm allergic to spandex. And attention.' Thorne thought. His gaze flicked to the digital schedule. The bus was supposed to be three minutes away, but the ticker reset itself every few seconds, as if to mock him.
'C'mon where are you Miller's going to be on a war path.' He stared at the schedule as if he could divine where the bus was at this very moment.
Thorne's jaw flexed. He drummed his fingers against his knee, metal bench vibrating under the rhythm of his stress. He pictured Miller, his manager at Vanguard Logistics, red-faced and radioactive.His pen And digital tablet poised to atomize his pay check at the slightest sign of his arrival.
"You are waiting on the 402?" The bee-tattooed man spoke watching Thorne irritation at the display.
Thorne tugged on his hoodie, releasing breath to try to calm his agitation. "I left my teleporter at the shop."
The man grunted approval. "You'll be here a while. 402 has probably been caught up in the midtown spillover. Capes and masks tearing up 7th and Main, some 'villain of the week' with a grudge most likely." He lifted up his phone showing Thorne the newsfeed.
"Usually, they will reroute the buses that go through that area or just cancel it till the smoke clears. Your best bet is to head to duke street its route should take it past there. If you leave now, you might make it if you are lucky."
Thorne let that bit of information settle. The annoyance was squatting on his chest making it difficult to breathe. Midtown was five miles in the opposite direction. A fight. Between Capes and masks. All that power and what do they do. Blow up intersections to get the local news cycle. And here he was, future of his family on a deflating timetable, watching a digital sign gaslight him.
Getting on his feet Thorne turned towards the man. He still had no idea who the man was or even his name. As if reading his mind, the man's
lips twisted. "Benjamin. Benjamin Faux," he said, making a point of the last name. "If you see a guy with a bee tattoo and a coffee cup again, don't be shy."
Thorne nodded turning to leave but hesitated mid stride, he felt a weird kinship to Benjamin as a person who saw the world in the same shade of gray.
"Thorne, my name is Thorne" Giving his name to the man he ran down the sidewalk.