Chapter Text
Your sister’s house has always been, and will always be, full of plants.
You’d like to blame her quirk, but truthfully, according to your parents, she’d had an affinity for them long before her quirk ever manifested.
It’s not like you’re complaining, though. Actually, you’re quite fond of your sister’s place; it’s like stepping into a rain-forest, the air fresh and clear and your vision blessed with colourful glimpses of flowers betwixt the green that dominates the rooms.
To say that your sister has dominion over plants would be incorrect. She doesn’t control them, but rather works with them. It’s a symbiotic relationship, if anything. She listens to them, treats them with all the love and care in the world, and in exchange they take care of her.
You don’t doubt it’s thanks to them today that your sister has returned home at all.
“You’re still here?” she asks, closing the front door behind her. She looks a mess, but the smile stretching across her face is still bright as ever. “Jeez, if you don’t go home at least once in a while my next assignment will be investigating our mother’s missing person’s report on you.”
“I don’t even live there anymore,” you grumble, brushing a gentle finger over the broad leaf of a vine that hangs by your head. “I think she forgets I’ve joined my deviant sister and left the nest.”
“You’re her baby,” your sister says, grinning while she hooks a finger in her lightly heeled boots. “Even though you’re not the favourite, she still misses you.”
“That’s not funny, Rosalie.” You jab an accusatory finger in her direction. “You know I’m still sensitive about that drunken slip-up of hers.”
Your sister cackles, nowhere near as elegant or classy as her namesake – she probably doesn’t think you notice the weariness that shortens her smile. You do, though, and it makes something heavy weigh in the pit of your stomach.
“How was today, by the way?” You turn your gaze away as you ask, knowing exactly how she’s going to answer but unable to help but try anyway.
“The usual,” Rosalie huffs, strutting to her sofa and flopping back onto it. Her boots are off and her tight suit is halfway unzipped, the same way you come home and unbutton your pants after a buffet. “A few attempts at petty theft, a few crazies further downtown.”
You’re silent, mulling over how to phrase what you want to say next. She fills the moment of silence before you can, frustration tinting her voice. “There’s this one... ugh, I probably shouldn’t be telling you, but there’s this one restaurant down by the river that caters mostly to kids parties and stuff like that. I just know that the owner is doing some sketchy stuff, I saw what looked like some hidden cameras in really questionable places when I went there and the way he looked at some of the kids... god. But I can’t -- they won’t let me act on it.”
Her face is scrunched, body tense with the extent of her frustration. You know it wears at her, the limitations of her role as a pro hero. There’s so much she can do, but at the same time there’s just as much that she can’t. You can feel her frustration light something within you, something hotter and wilder than the embers she feels. It smoulders beneath your lungs, snug above your diaphragm. For now, you ignore it.
“Not your jurisdiction?” you ask. You know the drill; if it isn’t that, then it’s a similar excuse. The agency she works for and the law enforcement nearby are fond of recycling their reasons for stopping your sister’s investigations.
“Nope,” she answers simply, popping the ‘p’. You decide to leave the topic there. At your lack of response, she pulls her head up to meet your eyes. “Seriously though, what are you still doing here? It’s pretty late, don’t you have any coursework to do?”
The frown you pull onto your face is a little exaggerated, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “You know, there are nicer ways to kick me out. If you want me to leave so you can watch your dumb vampire romance show, then just say so.”
Her face whips into a look of disbelief as you stand and gather your bag, beginning to move towards the door.
“I’m going to ignore what you just said about Vampire Knight and pretend you took the hint a little more graciously. See you, fluffy-munchkins.”
You can hear the smile in her voice but this time when you frown it’s genuine-- god, you hate that nickname. Ever since your quirk manifested and she was presented with a plethora of opportunities, you haven’t known peace.
“I hope your subscription runs out before you can watch it,” you grumble, waving as you finally leave your sisters apartment. You can hear her calling out as the door closes behind you.
“Get home safe! I’m officially off-duty so I’m not gonna come save you!”
You role your eyes, but her words still bring a small smile to your face. You’re more than capable of handling yourself on your way home. She should really be worried about what happens after that, but she doesn’t know about your extra-curricular activities and it’s going to stay that way.
The reason being that, well, they’re kind of illegal.
As you stand before Happy Rodney’s Party Central later that night, cloaked by the generous darkness of a moonless night, you’re forced to manually adjust your vision. There is no light reflecting off the river’s shifting surface, and any nearby streetlights have long since gone out. It almost feels like cheating, being able to see so easily when you know your opponents can’t, but knowledge of their crimes is more than enough to dispel that feeling. You have autonomy here; you can do what others can’t.
As you’d somewhat expected, the establishment is kind of ugly. It’s on the way to being run-down, but hasn’t actually reached that point yet. You don’t see it getting a lot of business, but that doesn’t seem to be enough to stop the owner from flogging a dying horse. You’ve already taken care whatever sparse security cameras could compromise your mission tonight, and so with a deep breath to cool your lungs, you make your way around the side of the building.
You haven’t really pondered exactly how you want to go about this tonight. It’s not an operation that requires a great deal of consideration because truthfully, your opponent doesn’t seem to be that sharp. To have hidden cameras placed so poorly that your airhead sister, pro hero though she might be, can pick up on their presence as she passes through, it doesn’t exactly speak lengths to the owner’s intelligence.
You considered maybe burning down the restaurant, but that would remove valuable evidence in the form of those damn cameras. You know that the owner lives in a small bungalow to the back of the lot, and you’re thinking that maybe that will be your best bet. If you’re truly lucky, you’ll catch him in the act. The universe would truly be smiling upon you for that to happen, though.
You tumble the burner phone in your gloved hand idly, fiddling to keep your mind steady. You make sure to have one handy each time you head out for one of these... missions. You never know when you need to snap pictures of evidence or otherwise, no matter how illegally it was obtained. If the authorities are confronted with irrefutable proof of misdeeds and criminal acts, then it’s essentially a way to force their hand.
Your feet find the quietest path to the building with ease; you can see the best places to step, and your honed instincts guide your gait to silent perfection. Inky darkness seems to ooze from within the house as you approach, all lights off save for those gleaming out a window to the side. It’s blue light -- the culprit is technology. You have a nagging feeling that’s where you’re going to find this slimy bastard.
Your gut is proven true as you round the corner of the bungalow, able to see clearly into the room from your spot to the side of the window. An attempt had been made to draw the curtains, but more than enough of a gap had been left for you to peer in. You almost feel your pupils constrict from the drastic brightness, and have to manually adjust your vision once more before you can continue.
He’s balding at the crown of his head, with wispy bits of hair combed over in an attempt to hide it. He’s plump, something you can see well from how he’s slouched with his back to you, facing the computer. The only light in the room comes from the screen before him, and the images you glimpse once your eyes adjust are enough to make you nauseous.
It’s rage, hot and burning, that sears at your chest. This sick bastard is definitely guilty of what your sister suspected, if not more from the things you’re witnessing currently. Swallowing back bile, you lift the burner and open the camera. You can’t bring yourself to watch as you record, lest you lose the dinner you’d pilfered from your sister’s cupboard.
A sudden thought gives you pause-- will this be enough? Your sister no doubt recounted all the details to her supervising hero and the law enforcement nearby, and they still refused to allow her to act. Sure, you’ve got him being a disgusting deviant on film, but will that be enough? It’s dark, a hazy quality, and you can’t see his whole face. This isn’t enough to trap him, to force the law enforcement’s hand.
You hardly have to look for the motivation to act further; the man’s hand has moved south and you’re filled with such seething disgust that you actually see red for a moment. You backtrack to where you saw the back door, transforming your legs into something more suitable for busting it down. You do it in a blink of an eye and he barely has time to scream if he heard the noise before you’re advancing on his position at a terrifying speed.
Your fist is shifted into a stronger shape and without hesitation, you knock him out with a calculated blow to the head. There’s fear in his eyes in the brief moment he sees you, but all it does it stoke the flames of rage within you. You wish to pummel him, to beat him beyond recognition, to transform your fingers into talons and tear his hands to shreds so he can never touch another innocent with them again. But you don’t. By some miracle you’re blessed with restraint, and you instead go about your adjusted plan.
When you leave the house, there are sirens in the distance that grow louder with each step. You’ll be gone by the time they arrive at the scene to be presented with the man bound and gagged, his computer still playing those disgusting clips and a burner phone beside him that caught him in the act. You’d used the phone to call them, reporting your own break in in the character of a concerned neighbour. You hadn’t expected them to come as quickly as they did, so you’d have to make your anonymous tip to the local paper later.
The trip home is made quick by your modified legs. You discard your remaining glove somewhere inconspicuous as you go, sticking to the shadows and remaining unseen. You’re long past the point of being paranoid at the sound of sirens as they zoom past-- you know they have no way of tracking you. You enter your apartment from the window at the back of the building and go about your business with the earlier weight gone from your stomach.
They don’t catch you, they never do. You feel no guilt about it because the culprit, all things considered, is guilty, and at the end of the day you’ve taken another ceaseless weight off your sister’s shoulders. That’s the only thing you want, the only reason you go out of your way to do these things.
You have no way of knowing this is the last time you’ll have the chance.