Chapter Text
Heather had a sneaking suspicion that the universe treated her life like a science experiment—one of those middle school projects where the kid with zero regard for ethical boundaries decides to see how much caffeine a hamster can handle before it keels over. If there was a cosmic scientist, they were definitely prodding her limits just for kicks. And honestly? She was teetering dangerously close to the edge.
Exhibit A: She had slept through her alarm. Again. To be fair, patrolling the streets of Brooklyn at ungodly hours wasn’t exactly conducive to the eight-hours-a-night wellness influencers kept preaching about. Add in the ever-growing collection of bruises she’d been racking up lately, and yeah, her body had every reason to revolt. But still. Did it have to betray her this spectacularly? She only woke up when Valentina barged into her apartment, key in hand, with all the subtlety of a marching band practicing a halftime routine.
"Morning, sunshine!" Valentina chirped, framed in the doorway like a judgmental guardian angel with combat boots and an unshakeable sense of purpose. “Why am I not surprised you’re still in bed?”
Heather groaned, her voice muffled by the fortress of blankets she had cocooned herself in. "I’m conserving energy. You know, for life-threatening emergencies."
Valentina rolled her eyes, a gesture so exaggerated it practically made a sound. Within minutes, they fell into their usual rhythm—that unspoken choreography reserved for best friends and platonic soulmates. Valentina disappeared into Heather’s room to change into her school uniform while Heather dragged herself into the bathroom to confront the horror show waiting in the mirror.
And what a look it was.
Her reflection could’ve inspired a whole new subgenre of horror films: “Post-Apocalyptic Teen Vigilante, Part IV.” Tangled hair that had likely achieved sentience, dark circles that raccoons would envy, and the pièce de résistance—a vibrant purple bruise blooming around her left eye. Last night’s "light scuffle" (read: an all-out brawl with a guy who clearly mistook himself for Batman) had left her looking less like a competent crime-fighter and more like the before photo in a particularly grim makeover montage.
By the time Heather reemerged, half-dressed and wielding a tube of concealer that had been reduced to a stubby, battle-scarred warrior, Valentina was already in the kitchen. She was flipping pancakes like she’d been summoned to a Food Network competition, her movements precise and smugly efficient. The kitchen itself—a relic from Heather’s childhood—seemed to sigh under the weight of nostalgia. The tiny table, scarred with crayon marks and stray glitter from long-abandoned craft projects, had once seated a family of three. Back when her mom’s laughter still filled the room and her dad still cared about things like toaster ovens and being emotionally available.
Now, it was just Heather and Valentina. The honorary sister who lived next door and single-handedly kept Heather from spiraling into full-blown chaos.
Heather slid into the chair across from Valentina, whose pancakes were annoyingly perfect, golden discs that practically gleamed with smugness. She stabbed one with her fork, her stomach growling in betrayal. "You know," she said between bites, "you could’ve been a little less dramatic with the wake-up call."
And from that, the day spiraled. First, the toaster decided to stage its final rebellion, popping out charred crumbs instead of toast. Then Heather ran out of concealer halfway through trying to camouflage the bruise on her face, leaving her looking like she’d either been in a bar fight or had a very unfortunate run-in with a rogue paintball.
Cue a frantic pharmacy run for the cheapest concealer they could find (spoiler: it wasn’t great), a pit stop at the sandwich shop down the street (because the day was already bad enough without having to resort to school's lunch), and an emergency online order for a new toaster. By the time they finally made it to the subway station, they were running so late that “fashionably” didn’t even begin to cover it.
But of course, when a day starts badly, it has no choice but to double down.
The train was barely three stops into their ride when the universe decided to throw in one last curveball: a low-level criminal, armed with a questionable weapon and even more questionable motives, decided to take the train hostage.
Because of course.
Screams erupted as the wannabe villain—who looked like he’d walked straight out of an '80s action movie rejects' audition—stomped down, waving what appeared to be a gun that Heather heavily suspected to be a toy. Most of the passengers were either crying, clutching their phones, or whispering tearful goodbyes to their loved ones.
Heather, on the other hand, was unimpressed.
“Do you think we’ll still make it to school on time?” She whispered, leaning closer.
Valentina blinked. “Hez, there’s a man with a gun threatening to... what, steal everyone’s metro cards? No, I don’t think we’re going to make it to school on time.”
The man holding the gun looked like he had barely scraped together the energy to be here, let alone plan a convincing subway heist. His black ski mask was slightly crooked, exposing a tuft of sweaty blond hair near his temple, and the hand holding the weapon was shaking so much it was a miracle he hadn’t accidentally fired it yet. He seemed seconds away from a nervous breakdown.
This might’ve been funny under different circumstances, but Heather wasn’t in the mood to laugh. Not after the morning she’d had.
Moving with practiced silence, she crept between the rows of terrified passengers, careful not to jostle anyone clutching their phones like lifelines. She was only a few steps away from intervening when a hand shot out and clamped onto her wrist.
“Absolutely not.”
Heather turned to see Valentina giving her the kind of look usually reserved for toddlers caught sticking forks into electrical outlets.
“Val, let go.” Heather tugged her arm, but Valentina’s grip was like iron. Surprising, considering Valentina’s workouts consisted of lifting textbooks and rage-clicking her laptop trackpad.
“We just used a Walgreens concealer palette to cover your bruises,” Valentina hissed under her breath. “We had to blend it in with one of those tiny, garbage-tier mirrors by the deodorant aisle. I am not doing that again.”
Heather rolled her eyes. “And what, I just let him shoot someone?”
Valentina’s grip tightened on Heather’s wrist, her nails digging in just enough to make her point without causing permanent damage. “You let the cops handle it,” she repeated, her voice low but sharp enough to slice through Heather’s mounting excuses. “It’s nine a.m. You promised me.”
Heather froze like a guilty kid caught raiding the cookie jar. The promise. It loomed large now, a quiet pact that Valentina had insisted on back when Heather first decided to moonlight as Brooklyn’s scrappiest vigilante. The early days were… well, let’s call them character-building. Heather had been a whirlwind of misplaced enthusiasm, diving headfirst into danger armed with little more than stubbornness, duct tape, and the naïve belief that sheer willpower could stop a mugger in his tracks. Spoiler: it couldn’t.
The results were...predictable. Bruised ribs, frayed nerves, and a pile of missed assignments that threatened to topple her precarious GPA. For two messy weeks, Heather Maria Fitzpatrick—sarcastic physics nerd, daughter of a precinct delegate, and reigning champion of “Most Likely to Start an Argument About Quantum Mechanics in the Lunchroom.” —had disappeared. In her place? A full-time shadow who barely had time to eat, sleep, or think beyond her next patrol, hellbent on saving a city that didn’t even know her name.
Then came The Incident—capital T, capital I. Valentina had walked into Heather’s apartment at six a.m. to find her sitting on the floor, bleeding all over a “Welcome to Brooklyn” doormat, and attempting to sew up a knife wound with the precision of someone who’d clearly failed home economics. Valentina, ever the diplomat, had responded by throwing the nearest object at Heather’s head (a throw pillow, thank God) and delivering an impromptu lecture that would’ve put Heather’s dad’s precinct briefings to shame.
“Maverick,” Valentina had said, invoking the codename Heather was still half-convinced she’d chosen during a sleep-deprived bout of inspiration, “is a night job. Do all the heroics you want after sunset, but while the sun’s up, you’re Heather. My best friend. A high school student. The girl who ate half my birthday cake before we even cut it because you couldn’t wait for me to find the candles.”
Heather had argued, of course. That was her default setting. But Valentina was a force of nature when she wanted to be, and eventually, Heather had caved. The deal was simple: no vigilante nonsense before sunset. In exchange, Valentina would stop threatening to rat her out to the cops, or worse, her dad.
And now here she was, teetering dangerously close to breaking that promise. Again. Heather opened her mouth, ready to fire off some half-baked justification, but Valentina’s glare stopped her cold. It wasn’t angry, not really. It was worse. Disappointed. The kind of disappointed that made Heather’s stomach twist like she’d just chugged a slushy too fast.
Heather’s fingers curled around the pole of the subway car, knuckles white, as she watched the scene unfold. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, a relentless drumbeat that drowned out the muffled conversations and the distant screech of the train on the tracks. “I have to do something,” she whispered, her voice cracking with urgency.
“No, you don’t,” Valentina retorted, her tone sharp enough to slice through Heather’s resolve. Her best friend’s grip on her arm tightened. “Look at him—he’s shaking like a leaf. He’s probably gonna pass out the second someone shows up with a badge.”
“But what if they don’t get here in time?” Heather’s chest felt like it was in a vice, each breath harder than the last. She hated this—this gnawing helplessness, the suffocating weight of inaction. It clawed at her, demanding she do something, anything, to tilt the odds in the old woman’s favor.
Valentina sighed, the exhale loaded with equal parts frustration and concern. “You can’t save everyone,” she said, her voice softening but no less resolute. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”
Heather hesitated. The subway car swayed, a fluorescent light overhead flickering ominously, casting jittery shadows that made everything feel like a fever dream. Valentina’s hand was steady on her arm, a silent plea to stand down. But then Heather’s eyes landed on the old woman again. Her frail shoulders were trembling, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Across from her, the guy with the gun took another unsteady step back, barking orders that no one seemed to be listening to.
Heather’s jaw tightened. “So I just let that woman die because the sun is out?” she hissed, her voice pitched low but laced with venom. Her gaze darted between the trembling gunman and Valentina, whose expression had shifted from exasperation to outright alarm. “That’s not exactly a high note for my moral highlight reel, Val.”
Valentina pinched the bridge of her nose, a gesture that screamed, “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation right now.” She inhaled sharply, then said, “Let the cops handle it. We’re two teenagers on our way to school. You’re not wearing your vigilante uniform, and even if you were, we’re on a train, Heather. Surrounded. By. People.”
“And your point is?” Heather’s tone was equal parts defiant and incredulous, the kind of tone that usually ended with someone rolling their eyes.
“My point is you can’t exactly save the day while wearing jeans and a Brooklyn Visions hoodie,” Valentina shot back, her voice laced with the weary patience of someone explaining basic physics to a toddler.
Heather chewed the inside of her cheek, her eyes narrowing as she assessed the situation. The gunman was… not impressive, to say the least. Tall but gangly, with the nervous energy of a squirrel in a room full of mousetraps. His hands were trembling so violently that the gun’s barrel wobbled like a metronome set to panic. And the old woman? She looked like a stiff breeze might knock her over, her small frame trembling as she clutched her purse like it was her last lifeline.
It should’ve been simple. She could take him down in five seconds flat—ten, if she wanted to make it look dramatic. But then there was Valentina, her living, breathing conscience, anchoring her to the spot with a look that screamed, “Don’t you dare.” And, of course, there was the small problem of her outfit. Her vigilante uniform—a sleek, armored ensemble capable of withstanding everything from stray bullets to minor explosions—was neatly folded in her bag, hidden under the false bottom Valentina had painstakingly designed.
Changing into it? Not an option. The subway car was packed, and there wasn’t a single corner where she could slip into superhero mode without giving half the passengers a front-row seat to her sports bra. And while she doubted anyone would complain about the impromptu fashion show, she also doubted it would inspire confidence in her ability to save the day.
“Sit your ass down and leave it alone,” Valentina muttered through gritted teeth, gripping Heather’s wrist like her life depended on it.
Heather’s gloved hands tightened around the cold metal bar as her mind raced for a solution. She could feel the faint vibration of footsteps —probably the police trying to defuse the situation—but waiting for them to figure it out was agony. They had protocols and procedures, sure, but protocols didn’t always save the hostages. Protocols didn’t stop the nightmares.
Her eyes flicked back to the gunman, to the way his left hand gripped the pole next to him like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Her gaze traced the metal bar down to the floor, where it bolted into the train. The area around him was clear, the other passengers keeping a wide berth.
Her brain fired off possibilities like a rapid-fire physics equation. Electricity could flow through the metal. She could send a controlled current straight through the bar, disarming him before he had time to react. No one else would get hurt. She could end this.
She turned back to Valentina, her voice urgent. “If I get closer—”
“No,” Valentina snapped, her tone final. “You’re not getting closer.”
“But if I—”
“No.”
Heather exhaled sharply, her frustration threatening to bubble over. “Listen. If I just get close enough to touch the bar on the ground, I can send a small current—just enough to knock him off balance. He’ll drop the gun. End of story.”
“And what if he doesn’t?” Valentina countered, her voice rising slightly. “What if there’s another conductor nearby? What if the current’s too strong? What if you short-circuit the entire train, Heather?” Her grip tightened on Heather’s arm, her nails digging in just enough to get the point across. “What if he pulls the trigger while he’s being electrocuted? Do you really want to be responsible for that?”
Heather felt a pang of indignation, but it was quickly followed by guilt. She wasn’t entirely confident in her abilities, not yet. She could control her powers most of the time, but that “most” wasn’t the same as “always.” It was why she wore the gloves in public—the ones Valentina had made for her, designed to dampen the stray sparks when her emotions got the better of her.
But Valentina’s lack of faith stung more than she cared to admit. “You don’t trust me?”
“I trust you to make good choices,” Valentina replied, her voice softer now. “And right now, the best choice is doing nothing.”
The moment the train doors slid open, chaos unfolded like a poorly rehearsed flash mob. Police officers poured in, shouting commands over the panicked murmurs of passengers. Heather barely saw the takedown—her view obstructed by the crush of bodies—but she heard everything. The heavy thud of the criminal hitting the ground. The clatter of the gun as it skidded across the train floor. The choked gasp of the hostage as she was finally released. Relief rippled through the train like an electrical current, followed by a wave of cheers and startled sobs.
Heather stood frozen, gripping the metal bar so tightly that her gloved fingers ached. She wanted to feel relief too, but it didn’t come. All she could think about was how useless she had been. Her powers, her ideals, her whole thing —and she’d stood there like a glorified statue.
Valentina nudged her shoulder, jarring her from her spiraling thoughts. “Come on, Hez. Let’s go. The bell’s probably going to ring by the time we get to school.”
Heather let herself be swept forward by the wave of passengers evacuating the train, her body moving on autopilot even as her mind churned. She didn’t say anything to Valentina—didn’t trust herself to without sounding like she was having a crisis.
But just as she stepped off the train platform and felt a breath of fresh air against her face, a voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Heather!”
She turned slowly, her stomach dropping like a stone into a bottomless pit. Standing by the train’s open doors, flanked by two uniformed officers and looking like he’d run there straight from a sleepless night at the precinct, was Marcus Fitzpatrick. Police vest. Dark pants. Wrinkled button-up shirt. And, of course, his hair—a perpetually tousled mess that made it obvious he had run his hands through it one too many times.
Her father.
Heather froze, her thoughts scattering like startled pigeons. She didn’t have to turn to Valentina to know her best friend was already tensing beside her, bracing herself for whatever was coming next.
Marcus closed the distance between them in quick, purposeful strides, his boots crunching against the gravelly platform. When he reached them, his hands immediately went to her shoulders, gripping tightly enough to anchor her in place. His eyes darted between her and Valentina, scanning them both like they were potential crime scenes.
“I had no idea you two were in there,” he said, his voice tight and sharp with worry. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Heather swallowed hard and took a subtle step back—just enough to make his hands drop from her shoulders. Before she could formulate an answer, Valentina jumped in, her voice steady and reassuring.
“We’re fine, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Just a little shaken up, that’s all.”
But Marcus wasn’t looking at Valentina. His gaze was locked on Heather, his brows furrowed in that familiar mix of concern and guilt that she hated seeing on his face. It was like he was trying to memorize every detail of her, as if she might vanish if he looked away.
Heather blinked up at him. His face was drawn tight with concern, and maybe it should have felt good, reassuring even, to have her father looking at her like this—like she mattered, like he cared—but all Heather felt was a sharp pang of cold that settled in her chest and refused to leave.
Because now? Now he wanted to act like a father? After four years of barely being a shadow in her life? The same man who’d missed her fifteenth birthday entirely and showed up late to her sixteenth, apologizing with a store-bought cake that still had the wrong name on it? That man—a figure who came and went with the odd creak of the front door but never stayed long enough to feel real, was now standing here, gripping her like she was the most important thing in the world?
It was too little, too late, and Heather wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. Probably both.
It wasn’t that she doubted his love. No, that was the worst part—she knew he loved her. In his clunky, awkward, emotionally constipated way, she knew he cared. But knowing wasn’t enough. Not anymore. Love didn’t fill the empty space in their house. Love didn’t show up to school plays or ask how your day went. Love didn’t stick around when things got hard.
Marcus Fitzpatrick was a cop first, a father second. The precinct was his home, and his house was just a place where his bed happened to be. He was a hero, always the one running toward the flames. Just never her flames.
At first, Heather had tried to be understanding. When her mom died, it was like something had been ripped out of all of them, leaving gaping holes where love and warmth used to live. Her dad threw himself into his work, and Heather had tried to tell herself it made sense.
“He lost the love of his life,” She’d told Valentina one night, her voice barely a whisper. She’d been curled up in bed, her knees tucked to her chest, as though making herself smaller might make the grief easier to carry. “He’s just trying to cope. His wife is gone.”
And Valentina, ever the loyal best friend, had simply nodded and handed her another tissue.
But understanding only got you so far when the absence stretched on. And on. And on. When the funeral was over, the casseroles stopped coming, and the rest of the world moved on, Marcus stayed exactly where he was—buried in work, chasing cases, avoiding home like it was haunted, leaving Heather to fend for herself in an empty house that still smelled like her mother’s perfume.
Heather had given him time, patience, and more forgiveness than he deserved. Because while Marcus had lost his wife, Heather had lost everything . She’d lost her mom—the one person who made their house feel like a home. The one who sang off-key while cooking dinner and left sticky notes with doodles on the fridge. And when her dad disappeared into his work, she lost him too.
Not in one clean, decisive moment—but gradually, like the slow erosion of a shoreline. Every missed recital, forgotten birthday, and broken promise had chipped away at whatever fragile hope she’d held onto after her mom died. At first, she’d told herself he just needed time. They both did. After all, grief doesn’t follow a schedule, and she couldn’t blame him for throwing himself into his work.
Heather’s face hardened at the memory of those years. Barely a teenager, she’d had to navigate her grief while swimming through a sea of pitying glances and clumsy condolences. But worse than the empty platitudes had been the emptier house. The deafening silence when she came home. The echo of her mother’s voice fading from the walls. Her father’s laughter, too far removed to even be considered a memory anymore.
Her mom used to tell her that Marcus was a good man. And maybe he was. But Heather wasn’t sure he’d ever been a good father.
She blinked hard, shook her head as if to physically dislodge the memories, and grabbed Valentina’s wrist like it was a lifeline. “We should go. We’re already late,” she said, her words clipped.
She didn’t register whether her dad was still mid-sentence, and honestly? She didn’t care.
Marcus frowned, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Come on, I can drive you two to school.” He offered the words like they were a peace treaty, paired with a tentative smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s been a while since you two rode in the squad car. You used to love it, always asking if—”
“We’re fine,” Heather cut him off, hitching her backpack higher on her shoulder and gripping the straps so tightly she could feel the leather groan under her gloves. A faint pulse of energy hummed at her fingertips, barely restrained. “It’s faster on foot. Traffic’s probably bad right now anyway.”
His smile faltered for a fraction of a second before it snapped back into place—stretched tighter now, like an elastic band about to snap. Part of Heather felt bad, but another part—the bigger part, the part with the excellent memory—didn’t.
He didn’t get to pick and choose when to be her dad. Not after making her carry the weight of grief and loss alone for years, only to pop up now and act like things could go back to the way they were. Because they couldn’t. He wasn’t the same, she wasn’t the same, and there was no way to un-ring that bell.
Marcus opened his mouth, then closed it, hesitating like he wasn’t sure how to navigate the minefield between them. Then, finally: “Tonight, why don’t we—”
He cut himself off, and Heather didn’t need to be a mind reader to know where the sentence was going. She’d heard it too many times to count: “Why don’t we order some pizza, watch a movie, just the two of us?” She knew the script by heart.
She also knew the inevitable ending. She’d wait, rearrange the living room, pick the movie. And then, just as she was about to press play, the call would come. Something “urgent” would have popped up at the station, and he’d promise to make it up to her. He never did.
They’d danced that dance so many times, it wasn’t just a routine—it was muscle memory.
“Why don’t you two have some fun?” Marcus said finally, clearly pivoting mid-sentence. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a few bills, pressing them into her palm. “Order some pizza. Watch a movie.”
Heather accepted the money without a word, already knowing it wouldn’t go to pizza. Valentina had been eyeing parts for her latest invention, and Heather figured this was as good a use for the cash as any. She shoved the bills into the pocket of her jeans and tightened her grip on Valentina’s wrist.
“We will,” she said simply, already taking a step back. “Bye, Dad.”
Marcus hesitated, his hand hovering like he wanted to reach out, to grab hold of something, anything—but he didn’t. After a moment, he let it fall back to his side.
“Bye, Heather,” he said, his voice softer now. “Stay safe.”
She nodded, but she didn’t look back.
Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew if she did, she’d see him standing there, alone and defeated. And for all her anger, for all the bitterness that bubbled just beneath the surface, a small, traitorous part of her still wanted him to try. To fight for her. To prove that she mattered.
But she’d learned better than to hope for things like that.
Hope, she’d realized, was just another word for heartbreak waiting to happen.