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Half a week had gone by.

You simply couldn’t risk running into Present Mic again. It was too risky… You supposed he had every way of finding out where you lived, yes, but maybe nothing more than circumstantial evidence to link you back to your vigilante self.

It was too risky. Too risky to go see him in an attempt to get your book back, too risky to fight crime anonymously… Hell, some evenings you were certain it was too risky to walk out of the house. In the meantime the tabloids and forums exploded about how Present Mic kept the offer up all the way through Tuesday. Stories about a mystery person in the popular hero’s surfaced, and frankly that deterred you all the more. At this point you couldn’t even send someone to get your books for you.

Of course… You weren’t about to actually go just for your books. It wasn’t that important, you kept telling yourself… But it was the stress. The stress of not knowing what he was doing. He could have been having you surveilled- you didn’t know. It was driving at your insides like a meal gone bad in your stomach.

Maybe that’s why on Friday you tuned into your Radio. Staring at the monitor as you adjusted it to his channel. Music blared at an impossibly large decibel from such a tiny little speaker- it seemed to be a remix of a few songs together to get the evening going, and it came to its end shortly.

Sure enough that’s when he started talking. He did what you could only assume was his usual shtick, welcoming listeners to their fun-loving Friday evening.

“I’m also taking requests, so you know the drill! Pick up that phone and dial away! You may just be put on the air! Now BACK to the JAM’S!” His sentence has barely even finished before the next remixed song began to blare.

You narrowed your eyes skeptically at the radio as you dialed the volume down. So much show for nothing at all, huh? Maybe you had over-estimated his willingness to find you. Still, though, that nagging feeling clawed at you like there was no tomorrow. You needed to know if you’d be safe or if you should skip town. Forget the books- this was something more personal.

With a distrustful lump in your throat you dialed the number of the station into your smart phone, hesitating for a good few moments before you hit call. The ringing felt like minutes rather than seconds- busy line you bet.

“Put Your Hands Up Radio, what’s the request?” It wasn’t him. It was a dreadfully bored sounding receptionist woman. Thank god.

“I- Uh…” Great. You hadn’t planned at all what you were going to say. “I’d like to request my…. Books back please?”

There came no response directly into the phone for a moment. “Please hold for just a moment. Thank you.” You felt confusion riddle your features as you heard them scream blatantly over their shoulder- “Someone tell Yamada-San!”

… Well, apparently he had put in a little more effort than you had given him credit for.

Moments later your call was forwarded to another line, a gentle and smooth attempt to clear his voice rang from the other side of the line.

“Heeeeeeeeeeyyyyy. How you been? How’s the family?” You could even hear the grin on his face.

You let out a groan. “Look, man.” Augh. That sounded so unprofessional. “I want my books back, and I want to talk. Privately.”

“I figured, I figured!” he replied. “And I’ll be more than happy to give them back, but I want to talk too. You free at five o’clock?”

Your eyebrows knit, glancing down to your radio-alarm clock and reading the display. “… It’s already eight.”

“Oh! No, I meant Five am.” Your disbelief must have transmitted through the phone somehow. “That’s when I’m off earliest! We can swing for breakfast food- make a morning out of it!”

You let out a groan. “I work the weekends!” Though, instantly, you regret mentioning that.

“Oh? I could visit you on your break if that’s more convenie-“

“…. No.” The statement came out a little more breathlessly than you wanted. The last thing you needed was for people to see you two together. Even if you weren’t in disguise. People would talk. No. No it had to be in private.

An inquisitive, curious hum came from the other end of the phone line. “So… No Diner food, then?” he asked. “… Okay. Idea; why don’t you come by the Radio station in a few hours? Say… Midnight? I’ll slip out for a smoke break, we’ll talk outside.”

All of this felt wrong… Then again… Maybe you should have thought about this before you called. You sat, without your disguise once more outside the building at about ten after midnight… Watching from afar the last few people leave and switch out shifts… You didn’t see Mic, though… That worried you.

Five minutes rolled by.

… Was he taking forever on purpose?

… Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe you should have left long ago- ditched in the hopes that maybe- just maybe he wouldn’t call the cops. Was that what he wanted? Probably. He was a hero.

Finally one last person stepped through the door, turning around and locking it behind him. Long blond hair, casual attire…. No you were certain it was him, but you were frozen dead in your tracks as he turned around and took a look.

It was definitely him. Somewhere a mix between his hero and his civilian version… He waved to you. “Oiiiiiiiiii!” he said, crossing the street without looking in either direction from any incoming traffic. “I’m glad you made it! I was kind of worried you wouldn’t show.”

You gave him a hard look.

“… What?”

“Books,” you said extending a hand to him. “Please?” Like a bandaid. Rip it off, make it quick and make it as pain-free as possible. In a matter of an hour the two of you would go separate ways. You could go back to your normal life, and he could go back to doing what he did.

He seemed perplexed- hurt almost- by your sincere need for your things, but let out a sigh and pulled out both of your new books. “Here. Sorry I hadn’t realized you had left them until after you snuck out the bathroom.”

You took the books and examined them carefully, then looked back up at him. “So…”

He smiled, as though he was just waiting for the chance to talk. “So… You’re a vigilante.”

Tch. Of course he knew.

You shoved the books into your purse and let out an irritated groan as you started to walk off. “YEAH. Well, not anymore that’s for sure.”

“Now wait just a minute there-“ he said, running around you. “I’m wasn’t finished!” he said. He put his hands up, but didn’t touch you.

He smiled, but at this point you could see through his ruse- designer shades were gone left with a much more sincere-looking and eye-revealing set of glasses.

“I just want to talk. I think I came on too strong last Sunday.” He smiled. “And let me open with this; no one knows what happened between the two of us last Sunday. Not really, anyway.”

Oh, that… That felt wrong. Not wrong because you thought he was lying- wrong because you really wanted him to be and you knew he wasn’t. He could have had the chance to come hunt you down himself if he really had wanted to… But he didn’t. He made it so that you were uncomfortable enough to come to him.

“No one’s comin’ after ya,” he held up two fingers and placed another over his heart. He said something in English, a vow of some sort? You didn’t know. He watched you for some sort of reaction, furrowing his eyebrows when you said nothing. “Well? Do I have you a captive listener?”

You crossed your arms and made a face. “… Yeah, but not for long, just… Spit it out. Please. I can’t live knowing someone is watching my every move.”

His face changed, it scrunched up. “I’m not watching you.”

“Let’s agree to disagree,” you told him. “Just… Cut to the chase, please. It’s been a long, paranoid week. Clearly you know what I do in my free time, and I still don’t have any idea if you’re going to arrest me or not.”

He blinked at you as if he was unimpressed by the brevity of your earlier statement. “Why are you so nervous about getting arrested?” he asked, suddenly. “I mean, sure, getting arrested isn’t ideal, but, clearly, if it scares you this much you wouldn’t have become a vigilante in the first place.”

You held onto your bag, the ridge of your knuckles going white as you thought of how to dodge that question. “… I have my reasons. They’re personal.” He may have understood if you told him why you did what you did, but the truth of the matter was that you frankly didn’t like thinking about it yourself. You couldn’t imagine telling someone who talked for a living.

He opened his mouth to say something, raised a finger at you, but he stopped part-way through forming the sentence. “… I reallllly wish I had gotten to talk to you when I was off,” he said, looking at his watch. “… Let me just cut to the chase— Why aren’t you a hero?”

That question stung. More than it should have, probably.

“No one would want me to be a hero,” you told him. Your heart felt like it was being pushed through a sieve. You had to tell him enough that he’d understand and maybe leave you alone- but you couldn’t tell him everything. “I just can’t be a hero in my situation.”

For the first time in a few minutes he smiled. “You so certain?” he asked. “’Cause personally, I think you would be a great hero.” He beamed- genuinely. “Imagine what would have happened if I hadn’t been in that shopping center on Sunday. You were at the right place, at the right time. You can clearly take care of yourself—you even have the costume… You’re just a few licenses and registrations away from being a pro! I even thought of a good Hero name already!”

How could Present Mic be so nonchalant about this? Had he not heard you when you said someone in your situation couldn’t, shouldn’t, and would not be a hero?... Wait. “You came up… With my hero-name?” Dread filled your voice- clearly his heart had been set on convincing you to come to the side of “Justice and Order”… Whatever that was worth. Still, you couldn’t help but be curious.

He gave you two finger-guns and smiled, baring a set of white and perfectly straight teeth. “How does; ‘Returning Hero: Refrain’ sound?”

“That makes it sound like I was a hero before.”

He placed both of his hands on his hips in a confident fashion. Present Mic seemed to be quite proud of the moniker he had come up with. “Well, ultimately it’s your choice, right? But I needed to call you something. ‘That one vigilante who helped me once’ doesn’t exactly have a nice ring to it.”

You hadn’t even noticed the huff build up in your chest before it was halfway out of your mouth. “Why?” you asked.

His smile didn’t falter, but his eyebrows drooped. “Why what, exactly?”

“Why… Why am I here?” you clarified, but there was still more to it. “You could have arrested me this last Sunday. You could be arresting me now.” Maybe that was even the smart thing to do on his end… Sure Vigilantes were small-game compared to Villains, but you were practically in his palm today and last weekend… “Is it because I showed up and you’re cutting me some slack? Or are you just trying to make sure I’m not a villain?...”

You could feel that grin. Present Mic, ever confident still leaned in slightly. “Oh, don’t worry. I know you’re not a villain. Not in your MO.” He held up his fingers. “Out of the five known reccordings of you you’ve never killed anyone. Beaten them? Yeah, but only to detain them before a pro go there. You like the concept of justice so much, but you’re so soft. You’d much rather let someone else do the judging for you!” he eyed you up and down. “And what’s more is you didn’t even come in your hero gigs—which is super fashionable by the way. Ten outta’ Ten.”

Maybe you should have come in your disguise. Having Present Mic recall your outfit- and fondly too felt… Strange. Invasive almost since he knew who it was inside of it.

“I’m going to be frank,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets once more. “We’re short on hands. Villains are picking up, attacks are starting to get more violent…” his eyebrows furrowed. “… That may be the reason why no one has really tried to stop you before. We need all the help we can get; and you kick some massive tail when you go rogue. Why NOT be a hero?... You even get paid for it!”

The walls lowered a fraction more. Everything he said seemed to match up with what you knew about the villains and the heroes right now. The Heroes were being stretched thin, and there were more villains in general that had appeared within the last decade than ever before… He was trying to recruit you.

“… I can’t,” you said, softly this time. “I’m sorry. I don’t… I don’t think I could handle being a hero for personal reasons.”

You watched as the smile faded entirely from his face, at first it was disappointed then slowly grew to one of frustration. “Seriously? Personal reasons? You keep running around at night bustin’ in knee-caps!”

You crossed your arms, holding your bag’s strap tightly. “I promise not to be a vigilante anymore,” you told him. “I’m sorry, but—you weren’t supposed to know who I was. I have to stop. I can’t sleep at night thinking any moment some hero is going to bust down my door and arrest me… I just… I can’t. Not anymore.”

Present Mic’s expression remained stony, to say the least. “… You’re making a mistake…” he said with an even tone. “You have the ability to do so much great between you and that quirk of yours. Why are you so scared of actually doing anything about it?”

You shook your head covering your eyes. It felt like it had been so long since you slept… Your performance and lack of energy was starting to show even at your job. “I’m sorry… But I can’t talk about it…” you said before you began to amble off.

For once he said nothing at all, he simply watched as you walked around the corner off towards the station with your train home. Moments after moving the speakers turned onto the radio. You caught the tail end of a relatively uncharacteristic original cut of a song in English…

“That’s cool but if my friends ask where you are I’m gunna say
That’s cool but if my friends ask where you are I’m gunna say
She went down in an airplane
Fried getting suntanned
Fell in a cement mixer full of quick sand
Help me, help me, I’m all out of lies~”

Seriously? He was taking this that hard? Surely he’s been told “No”, before. You’d not stoop to his level of emotional frustration. If he wanted to use his broadcast to vaguely vent to you then fine. He could, but that didn’t mean you had to take it. You rolled your eyes and pulled out your phone and your own headphones before retrieving one of your books. As you opened the front cover a slip of folded paper fell into your lap- a list of numbers and hyphens with the name; "Yamada Hizashi. Text me!” was written underneath it.