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“Monster.” One.
“Abomination.” Two.
“Animal.” Three.
“Beast.” Four.
“Freak.” Five.
Sonar has heard it all.
Zero.
He’s heard hushed insults exchanged by old couples walking past him; names uneducated children would call him; laughs teenagers would bark out, tossing their half-finished cigarettes too close to his face to be an accident.
Sonar has felt it all.
The shame when someone gave him an up-and-down look, then left the elevator in a hurry so they wouldn’t be stuck with him; the embarrassment when someone would refuse to serve him, and he’d hold up the line behind him, whispers growing increasingly louder; the boiling anger in his stomach when he’d be almost turned away from a bar, then only let in because Malevola threatened to kill the bouncer’s entire family.
Sonar has seen it all.
The way people look at him. The way people avoid him. The way people treat him.
“Come here, sweetie,” would call a mother upon her child, voice trembling just slightly under her calm façade.
“Fuckin’ move,” would growl a man as he pushed past him on the street, despite Sonar not being in the way.
“Get the hell out of here,” would threaten a bartender when Malevola wasn’t looking, “or I will fucking kill you.”
For years, he fought back. Intentionally or otherwise, Sonar would shift into his monster form, and then he’d bite back (sometimes literally). He’d give a bigoted old lady a heart attack, or scar some lazy teenagers for life, or send a muscular man to the hospital.
He changed cities. Changed countries. Nothing worked out. Everywhere was the same.
He came back solely because it was familiar; it took longer to learn Spanish insults, Romanian swear words, German threats. English was always right there; it was easier to defend himself when he could scream the language fluently.
After a while, though, Sonar grew tired. He gave up.
He’d cast his head down—
“Monster.” (One. Maybe two.)
His ears would flop—
“Abomination.” (Back to zero.)
He would still hear everything, but—
“Animal.” (One. Barely.)
Eventually, he would learn—
“Beast.” (Zero.)
To just ignore it.
“Freak.”
(Still zero. Always zero. Zero.)
He told Malevola to do the same. She didn’t take it well. She continued standing up for him.
But a demon standing up for a bat hybrid doesn’t stir the best feelings in people. So she eventually stopped, too.
Sonar found ways to cope. Jokes, mostly. Weird entendres that he’d laugh at harder than necessary. A nonchalant persona that would annoy people, but wouldn’t scare them. They’d see a sex pest before an actual pest; it was better to be hated for his humor than for himself.
Eventually, that bled into his daily life. His reputation went from freak to freak again. Maybe it never even changed. Maybe it just became one and the same. Not only was he a monster, he was also a pervert.
He couldn’t get drunk unless he had about a dozen drinks, and he didn’t have the patience for it. Cocaine, though, was instant. (Zero.) One sniff, and it was all gone, and his brain forgot why he ever hated his own life. (Zero.) Everything was brightly-colored and the world was his to have. (Zero.)
That worked for a while, too.
Until Malevola wanted him to change that. (One.)
Sonar came to the Phoenix Program to turn his life around, but he didn’t see any changes for a long time. The program was shit; the ‘heroes’, even more so. Flambae sat at the top of the Z-Team leaderboards, but they all knew he was a cheat. Coupé was still a cold-blooded assassin. Invisigal was still a bitch.
And Sonar was still unsalvageable. (Zero.)
Then Robert Robertson came along, and the only name he called Sonar was ‘Batboner’.
For once, a joke about his perversions didn’t sound as bitter.
He thought he was a goner, that night – that Robert would fire him, and all of his progress would be gone, and Malevola would kill the poor dispatcher – until the window broke and out came Coupé, glaring at him as if he was next on her hitlist.
He’d locked eyes with Robert.
Despite how tired he looked, Robert had given him a small smile. (One.)
Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Torrance was threatened and then saved. Invisigal was back on the team, Shroud was gone, and Robert, despite becoming Mecha Man again, stayed at SDN.
Heroes came and went. Some quit, some were fired, but the core Z-Team always remained on their feet. They climbed the corporate ladder. They kept the city safe.
Sonar felt better. (Three.)
Robert helped.
It was a rainy night when he broke down; when Robert hugged him, the first hug Sonar had received from someone other than Malevola in years; when Robert took his drug stash and threw it away. (Zero.)
A day, an unbearable day, passed so slowly Sonar considered blowing his brains out. Then it was another day, and another.
Those days transformed into a week. He relapsed. Robert pat him on the back and told him to try again.
One day, two days, three days, relapse. Try again.
One day, two days, five, relapse. It’s okay, what matters is that you’re trying.
One, two, three, four—
“Stay with me and don’t allow me to have it. Please. Only you can help me.”
“Okay.”
Five, six.
“Robert?”
“I’m here.”
Seven, eight, nine, ten.
“It’s so hard.”
“I know.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Of course you can. Just try for one more day.”
Eleven, twelve, thirteen.
The feeling begins to go away.
The looks come back.
“You can’t tell me it’s all in my head. I know it isn’t. I know everyone wants me dead, I know it. I deserve it.”
“It’s not, but you don’t. You don’t deserve it. Calm down, Sonar…”
“You don’t get it. You can’t.”
“Victor.”
Everyone has their problems. Robert understands him.
Fourteen days – two whole weeks.
“We should celebrate.”
Fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one.
“I’m proud of you.”
Twenty-two, twenty-three.
The feeling comes back. Back to zero. Zero.
“How do you not hate me?”
“How could I ever hate you?”
One, two, three.
The looks are still there. The feeling is harsher, heavy in his stomach.
“Why are you still here?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Four, five, six.
Robert’s hand is in his, and that makes the looks feel lighter.
“Don’t listen to them. They’re the freaks.”
That echoes in Victor’s head like a melody.
They’re the freaks.
He laughs and cries in Robert’s arms.
Seven, ten, fourteen, twenty-one, twenty-eight.
“You’re my lucky charm.”
“It’s all you.”
Thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-two.
“You always help me. I want to help you, too. I don’t want you to feel like you’re my fucking therapist, it’s…”
“You’ve already helped me. More than you know.”
Forty-five. Fifty.
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Fifty-six.
“What if I keep hearing them? What if I relapse again? What if it gets so bad you want to leave?”
“I will never want to leave.”
Zero.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Ten, twenty, thirty.
“I didn’t know you could purr.”
“I didn’t know I could be this happy.”
Forty, fifty, sixty.
The looks are never really cast away. (Sixty-five.) The whispers never really subside. (Seventy.) The violence never really stops. (Seventy-five.)
But Robert doesn’t go away, either.
And with Robert by his side, Victor feels reborn.
(Eighty.)
And as word spreads of the Phoenix Program, and as they keep the city safer with every dispatch, and as they earn their new superhero titles, Victor stops listening to the whispers. (Eight-five.)
He listens to the children thanking him shyly, hiding behind their mothers’ legs because of social anxiety. He smiles at them as softly as he can; he doesn’t miss the sparkle in their eye as he does. (Eighty-eight.)
He listens to old people telling him stories about their hybrid friends from childhood, bats or otherwise. He looks at the smile in their eyes, listens to the sound of their laughter. He feels their warmth against his body when they hug him and thank him for being there for them. (Ninety.)
He listens to teenagers crying over their home lives. Parents that don’t understand them, siblings that are better than them, classmates that bully them. He gets them off the tall edge of a building, or takes the pills from their hands, or steals the rope from their garage. He gives them warmth he never thought he had, and they cry in his arms, and he doesn’t care for his ruined suits. (Ninety-one.)
Children in awe. Teenagers who can’t play it cool. Adults who give him understanding nods. Elders who smile sweetly. (Ninety-two.)
Bruno smiles at him. “Couldn’t have done it without your brains, man.” (Ninety-three.)
Courtney pats him on the back. “You’re not a bad partner.” (Ninety-four.)
Janelle smiles shyly. Colm high-fives him. “It’s always an honor to work with you, Victor.” (Ninety-five.)
Chad laughs incredulously. “You’re a fucking menace! My guyyy!” (Ninety-six.)
Alice presents him grinning ear to ear. “This is my MVP, right here, y’all! Couldn’t have done it without him.” (Ninety-seven.)
Herman laughs. “I don’t think you have to carry him.” Katon-Ur doesn’t drop Victor from his bridal style hold. “It is only fair, since he carried the mission.”
Ninety-eight.
Malevola hugs him so tightly he’s worried he will throw up his lunch. “I love you and your ridiculously huge fucking brains.”
Ninety-nine.
Robert smiles at him.
“Big day today, huh?”
Victor tries to play it cool, but he’s lost it somewhere along the path to healing.
“Well…” He begins, slipping his hand in Robert’s. “Yeah. It is.”
“The reservation is at 8.”
The reminder is just small talk. Robert takes a deep breath.
“Victor…”
Victor kisses him.
There are stars in Robert’s eyes.
“I’m so fucking proud of you.”
Victor tries to blink away his tears. Robert wipes his eyes.
“I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
There is pride in everyone’s eyes as they meet Victor’s.
There is kindness in everyone’s grasp as they shake his hand or hug him.
There is love in everyone’s voices as they congratulate him.
There is the Phoenix Program – the Z-Team – a family that loves him.
There are no insults anymore; not that Victor cares for.
There are no names anymore; not without affection to them.
There is no fear anymore; not one that cannot be tackled.
The clock strikes midnight.
One hundred.
Victor is a Phoenix reborn.