LOVE ME TENDER [t. keigo]

0.5

"Do you understand your mission, then?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," he stretched his wings out, tired from hearing the constant commands of his higher-ups, "I'll make sure to get it done."

He spoke neutrally; his tone never shifting, his eyes stoic and serious. He was to execute this job to perfection, the sake of the people in his hands. The livelihood of many all dependent on his success.

Would he have preferred to keep his life? Possibly. Did he mind giving it away? Nah. He's always known sooner or later he would be disposed of in this way, and it just so happened to come sooner.

"We're counting on you, Hawks."

"Yep," turning around, he opened up the door and stepped out of the conference room, his feathers ruffling as he walked in weird, anxious movements. He felt his heart churn in that moment; it was a sealed deal, no changing it.

He was to spy on the league, and set the stage for the heroes; for the ones who could get the job done. While he didn't really think that the plan would succeed with how obvious it was, there was a tinge of hope that told him he could do it. That there was a chance of victory, a chance for the world to be saved. It wasn't like he was a pessimist; he was always very optimistic and cheery to everyone else, but the fact that his death was imminent made his body kick into self-preservation mode. As much as he accepted and embraced his end, he couldn't help but feel a sense of regret and guilt for leaving behind this world before him. 

There was something missing within him; a slot that had yet to be filled, an achievement that was not yet reached. He feels it pounding in his chest on the nights that seemed to lull on, when he is looking up to his ceiling in a desperate and tired trance. He feels it when he walks along the streets of the city; the bright, blue sky shining above him as he smiles down at a happy child whose life journey has been complete at simply meeting him. It's completion. A pure and utter sense of completion, like his duty in this world has been fulfilled. Maybe it was his bird-like instincts, but he felt as though he needed to set up some type of... nest?

He shook his head, chuckling to himself as he began to whistle, walking in to an elevator to get the hell out of here. He was ready to go patrol and call it a day. Walking out of the building, he shook out his wings, listening to the gasps and yells of, "Hawks!" and feeling himself go back to normal as he set up to fly. He's grateful to the people who watch him in the moment as he basks in their praise, feeling fuzzy and warm for a moment while he takes off. He probably could have taken off of the roof, but why do that when you can listen to all the cheery voices of people who love you?  

He looks down at the city; watches the uniformity of the people, the business of the streets, and the liveliness of the world. 

...

It was crazy to think that he would get to this point, where his life was in the hands of the Hero Commission. Sure, he knew he was their bitch and all, but damn. Life sure is crazy. One day he's on the fucking streets and the next he's on T.V. as the number two pro hero. But what did it take? 

He feels himself spiral, a loss of control over his emotions that he hasn't had in ages. He lets it happen, though. If anything, he deserves that much.

Sometimes he wonders what would be of him if his mom would've said no. If she would have decided to get her life together and taken care of him like she loved him. Whether he would become an accountant or some shit if he would have lived a normal life... he always loved to cook, so maybe he would have become a chef. Maybe started his own restaurant where he would serve the tables with his feathers while cooking up some fillet mignon. What if he wanted to do that? Did it even matter? In the end, he ended up the Winged Hero: Hawks; something manufactured for him, destined to be him.

If she was any good of a mother, maybe she would have cared more about his future and thought it through a bit more. Of course, if she were any good of a mother she probably wouldn't have had him with a fucking delinquent. Or had him at all.

"Fuck," he ran his hand through his hair, seemingly hovering in the air as his wings shook in a shudder, "I'm really doing this... Fuck..!"

It's not like he had anyone at home waiting for him; he was alone. There wasn't any 'Baby Hawks' or 'Momma Hawks' at his house, just the pitter patter of the leaky faucet he keeps forgetting to fix. There isn't anything waiting for him to return. Nothing. So then, why does it hurt so bad? Why does he regret his decision?

No, it's not a decision. This was their plan all along. The moment they saw him they knew how dispensable he was. How tired and alone he seemed. They took advantage of him; of his poverty, of his sadness. Of his vulnerability— no, his fragility.

He's been their scapegoat all along; the guy they can throw into the hellfire while they stay nice and toasty in their mansions with their wine glass and novel about 'How to Get Your Bitch to Commit Suicide.'

...

No. He can't blame them for anything. At the end of the day, he's the guy with the wings. He's the one who can fly away from this commission, the one who can choose to betray them, or to just retire and leave all the hero stuff in the dust. He's stuck around for a reason, and it's been to free this world of the pains of Hero-Villain society. To give the people something to look forward to; to show that there is someone who is willing to put their life on the line for their future.

If anything, he wasn't the commission's servant; he was the people's servant. 

And that's okay.

That's all he needs.

To know that anyone needs him at all is a relief. He's glad he can do this much to help this world prosper. This wonderful, beautiful world.

"They better pay me at least a million dollars for this shit," he sped up, heading towards a commotion in the streets.

He shook out his feathers, ruffling them up a bit as he listened to the grateful chants of 'Hawks' becoming louder and louder. Yeah. That's why.

He smiled as he landed, looking out towards the danger in front of him, a hint of hope in him that maybe he'll make it out of this one alive. He's beaten death a couple of times, so why wouldn't this time be different? Because he's walking into the gates of hell?

Nah. He took a deep breath, pulling out a feather as he looks at the giant villain in front of him.

"It'll be fine," he whispered mostly to himself, "I'll be done in a second."