hero's shadow // mha

82) blamed

In this modern era, most children want to be heroes.

In fact, three out of five report wanting to use their powers to fight evil by way of becoming a pro.

Flashy quirks and bright costumes and triumphant grins attract the attention of young, innocent kids who don't know any better. Heroism is treated as a fun and competitive profession by the media rather than the career that consistently wipes the board in most violent suicide cases each year.

It's not fair, but things rarely are in this day and age.

Sansa never wanted to be a hero. He was one of the lucky few who never even thought about entertaining that idea.

When he was little, he was in the way. His parents were both diseased by the notion of flashy heroism. They were constantly trying out to be the next test subject for new drugs, enhancements, and support items. They were in a fervor as the need to be recognized and praised took over every aspect of their lives.

They were so consumed by it, so deeply infatuated with the growing economy caused by the marketability of heroism that they didn't see they were killing themselves. They didn't see their behavior for what it was: ignorance and desperation. But Sansa saw it.

He saw the way they mutilated their own bodies, attempting to change their feline features, and he saw the way the alcohol and pills soon followed the experimental injections.

While Sansa saw everything, his parents didn't see him. He was left to fend for himself for the majority of his life.

And, in true cat fashion, Sansa survived off of rats in the poorest sector of Shizuoka prefecture. To this day, no one knows this dirty fact about himself, and he will keep it that way forever.

Heroes leave a poor taste in Sansa's mouth. That's not to say he doesn't like them, because of course he does. He respects pro heroes just as much as everyone else, and he also works with them on a daily basis. He knows they're needed, and he knows a lot of them are truly good. But Sansa has always frowned upon the way they're treated by the public. Seeing merchandise of heroes who have nearly died on the job thousands of times makes Sansa want to throw up every time he walks in stores.

How do they not see how sick it is? How weird? To market such a horrific profession to children, no less?

While heroics was never Sansa's thing, he always had an innate desire to help those who couldn't help themselves. Part of this stemmed from his own childhood experience and part of it didn't. What matters is that Sansa works for the police, and he's proud of that fact. It makes him feel like something more than the scared kitten he once was, the one that fed on rodents every night just to make it to the next day.

His job is rewarding, but only some of the time. Other times it makes him want to rip out all of his fur.

Like today.

"I don't understand," cries a little girl, barely seven years old. She tugs on her uncle's shirt. "Why won't she talk to us? What did we do?"

Sansa watches from the sidelines, feeling out of place. The uncle picks up his niece easily and shushes her, his long tail wrapping around her shoulders as they walk out of the tan-colored room. Sansa hears her cries echoing down the hallways even when the door shuts with a click.

Before him is an older woman with soft purple hair sitting upright in a crisp white bed. The lines on her face are sharp, speaking of horrors Sansa has only seen in glimpses, and the scars criss crossed on her face and neck capture his attention from time to time.

The retired pro hero gazes sightlessly at the wall in front of her, deep in thought about something she hasn't made an effort to explain. Something that Sansa is here to figure out.