Chapter Text
Rock music blared into his earbuds as Waterboy got out of the industrial elevator of a tall building under construction. Due to nightfall and rain, the construction team closed off the site until the weather clears in the morning.
A perfect opportunity for Waterboy.
He adjusted his vision of his full-face, high-tech rebreather, magnifying a large balcony just across from the construction site. Waterboy observed the wind speed by feeling where the rain landed on his gloved hands, before scrolling through his plastic-covered phone for the profile of his newest target.
Willem Vanderstenk, or rather, a proxy for Willem Vanderstenk, hired him to take out a loose end. The target was a corrupt businessman with a scandal so heinous that it’ll tank VAND-CO stock prices into the mud. Waterboy doesn’t ask what the scandal was; he rarely does, and the money was too good to pass up.
With the heavy rock drums beating in his ear, he unfolded his duffel bag. To the naked eye, it looked like there was regular scuba gear, like snorkelers, fins, gauges, and other equipment, in it. But to Herman, these were his tools. Herman grimaced under his full-face rebreather, disassembling the snorkel until the barrel remained, the gauges became the receiver and the trigger, and the long fins became the stock. He then reached into the BCD vest for the hidden scope before taking one of the tubes from his rebreather and connecting it to the magazine chamber.
A work of art, his sniper rifle was. It was a gift from The Red Magpies, an assassin organization he worked for before going independent. Made to look like ordinary scuba gear, but can be assembled into a powerful sniper rifle that uses his water beams as bullets and shoots at incredible distances and force. With this gun, he could pinpoint the water coming from his mouth with pinpoint accuracy. The bullets were practically untraceable, mostly because the bodies of his victims absorbed them or got lost in the blood.
Waterboy took a deep breath, held the water in his mouth, looked through the scope, and waited.
The clients wanted it to look like an accident, low risk, extra pay, and more discreet. Herman preferred it that way. Then again, most of his kills were ruled as accidents and natural causes due to the water bullet dissolving or overlooked at the crime scene. That left one problem: the bullet holes. But having water powers that could heal work in devious ways. The entry and exit wounds would close up the skin, leaving only slight bruising behind, but the damage was internal and still there.
His job became a lot easier when he discovered how to use his healing waters in his ammunition.
Waterboy spotted his target, wobbling towards the balcony with a whiskey bottle in hand, trying to get to his jacuzzi. The man was a 55-year-old with a history of heavy drinking. It was child’s play for Waterboy.
He waited until the target had foot on top of the wet steps of the jacuzzi before taking the shot. The silencer muffles most of the sound as the bullet whizzes through the wind and rain and into the target’s chest.
A collapsed lung was enough to make him slip and fall, with the whiskey bottle shattering on the balcony floor. His death happened in minutes. Herman tried not to think about how much the target was in pain. He tries to give them a quick death if the client didn’t have a preferred method of execution, but it had to look like an accident.
He waited in the shadows of the unfinished building for a good hour before the housekeeper walked in on him and called an ambulance. He was pronounced dead at the scene. It was any minute now, the client would get word.
He checked his phone and saw the money transfer with a brief note.
‘Good Job,’
He felt a subtle woosh around him, and the skin underneath his wetsuit tingled. Waterboy removed his earbuds and turned off his music. Without as much as a glance, he started to disassemble his gun.
“Miss Co–Coupé,” His hands do not shake, but his voice, his stutter, gave off apprehension. His anxious and paranoid nature demands caution, especially if you’re a killer for hire.
Her silhouette stepped into the light, revealing herself. “Waterboy,”
“I’m sorry but–this is, um, my assignment,”
She explained. “I am not here for that, I’m here for you.”
Waterboy snorted. “Did they finally place–put a contract on my head?”
“You know they already do, but no assassin in their right mind would take it. Not even me,” Coupé leaned against the concrete pillars. “I’m just here to talk,”
Assassin and talking don’t go well together, and Waterboy knew that. Even Coupé, who had forgone the villain's life, was still one of the best assassins in Torrance.
She advised. “You can’t keep living like this, Waterboy.”
Waterboy ignored her, snapping the barrels back into a snorkel and shoving it into his bag. He said patiently. “I–I know what I’m doing,”
“Do you?” Her brow raised.
“It’s the only life I know, I, um, have to know,”
Her eyes didn’t meet his when she monologued. “At the start, we didn’t choose this life. We were young, scared, naive, forced to make choices for survival because the situation demanded it. But even if our path is bleak, we can still redeem ourselves.”
“Excuses. We picked–choose to pull the trigger, we choose to accept the money, we choose to kill,” Waterboy sighed, staring at the gun and thinking how many people had fallen to it. “I don’t deserve it,”
“Neither do I,” She placed the pamphlet of the Phoenix Program on top of his duffel bag. “But we can choose to walk away from this,”
As she stepped back into the shadows, the eyes of her mask caught the light. She said, “Just think about it,”
He stared at the pamphlet for a while until his phone buzzed. His next client appointment is in 30 minutes.
Normally, clients would remain anonymous, never contacting him directly. So, it was odd that this one wanted to meet in person. Maybe it was the first red flag that he shouldn’t even entertain them.
But name carried weight, and Shroud’s was too heavy to ignore without hearing him out.
Carrying his duffel bag, Waterboy entered the industrial elevator. As the janky metal grate closed, he pulled out the soggy SDN Phoenix Program pamphlet.
Waterboy folded the pamphlet and slipped it into his bag.
Shroud might have wanted the meeting, but it was on Waterboy’s terms. He picked a time and location, a water treatment plant, in the dead of night. He made sure to get there early, knock out any guards, secure the area, and set up his rifle on the ceiling-hung catwalks overlooking the treatment plant.
He had the high ground, surrounded by water, and in good cover.
With Shroud’s reputation, Waterboy can’t be too careful.
After twenty minutes of waiting, Shroud and a small crew of his superpowered henchmen walked in.
Through the scope, he observed Shroud’s men; the first had acid covering his entire naked body, the second had four arms, two mechanical and two short flesh limbs, and the rest were normal-looking men and women with red glowing augments.
Waterboy focused the scope on Shroud, the man wearing dark clothes and a red mask that resembled a mechanical skull.
With all these glowing augments, they looked like walking target practice, easy to spot, easy to kill.
For a moment, Waterboy underestimated Shroud and how smart he is, because not a second later, Shroud was looking directly into the scope, knowing he was being watched.
Shroud’s voice echoes through the empty water treatment facility. “Waterboy, I assume?”
The big man with the tiny arms laughed. “What kinda name is that?”
Water rushed through his rebreather tubes, loading the sniper rifle before Waterboy pulled the trigger. The water bullet pierced through the hinges of the target’s robotic arm, causing it to spark and malfunction.
“Ow, my arm!” The man screamed, holding his limp mechanical arm to the joints.
The rest of Shroud’s men had their guns raised, trying to find Waterboy’s position, but he fired another shot at their feet before they could lock in.
Shroud held a hand up to his crew to stand down. “You’ve made your point,”
Waterboy glared into his scope and waited for Shroud to speak again.
“Let’s cut to the chase. I want someone taken care of.” Shroud placed his hands behind his back, standing straighter and more superior. “I can offer half a million for your services,”
Shroud is as intelligent as he was cheap.
Half a million was a low bar compared to his other high-profile clients.
Waterboy chuckled. “You–you’re joking?”
Shroud continued, ignoring his snide remark. “I want you to kill Mecha Man.”
Waterboy paused. Mecha Man is one of Los Angeles’ best heroes, the one who fell into a coma months back. He’s watched the news about how Mecha Man fell because of Shroud. And now, he wanted to end him for good.
“Boss, it’s just one normie, do we really have to pay that much?” The man with toxic sludge covering his body asked his boss.
Herman learned that pricing an assassination has many categories, like how you execute the target, when, and where. The ‘why’ is optional. It wasn’t about who the target is, either, but what comes after, the consequences of taking someone out, for himself and others. Killing one normie could trigger the next war or collapse an entire system.
The price of killing Mecha Man was steep, and Shroud had already paid it once before. Herman knew he’d pay again.
Herman offered his price. “Three Million,”
“That's a scam!” The henchmen with the four arms snarled, but Shroud remained silent, mulling over Waterboy’s offer.
Three million was enough, one last job before he gives it all up.
“Half up front, Half when the job is done,” Shroud made a counteroffer.
Satisfied with the compromise, Waterboy reached for his phone and sent an encrypted link to his account. Shroud’s left eye flickered, and half of the money was transferred seconds later.
Waterboy rose from his position, making sure Shroud and his men saw his tall, lanky shadow. The soft, glowing visor of the rebreather always instills fear into his targets. “Good–pleasure doing business with you,”
“We’ll be watching, Waterboy,”
Waterboy waited until they left before packing up his sniper. The SDN pamphlet taunted him at the bottom of his duffel bag as he threw all his gear in it. With 1.5 million in his account, he exited the water treatment facility and got into his rental car.
Waterboy sighed, leaning his head against the steering wheel. Breathing in and out, he focused on shedding his work persona to forget the blood he spilled. It was standard procedure to keep both his civilian and assassin life separate. Things get messy when he lets his empathy get in the middle of his work.
At the end of the day, it was another job for Waterboy, a good-paying, mentally straining job.
Waterboy removed his rebreather, taking in more air. Once he opened his eyes, Herman started the car and went home.
Herman had to change cars before and after every mission, under a fake name, swapping from one rental car to another, even ditching it altogether, and walking home. It ensured that he wasn’t being tracked, or he’d risk his work following him home.
He couldn’t risk bringing death into his grandmother’s home.
Herman turned the keys to his house and was greeted by a gaggle of cats. He bent down, attempting to pet one of them, but they hissed before he could touch them.
Being wet constantly has its disadvantages.
“Hermy, is that you?” A frail voice came from the living room.
Herman walked in with a small duffel and pulled out a plastic bag of medication.
“Yeah, gran, it’s me,”
His grandmother sat on the couch in front of the TV, an IV attached to her wrist. He leaned down and gave her a wet kiss on the forehead before changing out the IV bag for a new one.
“You’ve been coming home late,” His grandmother frowned. “They better be paying you overtime,”
Herman forced a smile. “You–You could say that,”
His grandmother thinks he was a marine biologist, charged with diving for coral samples from Torrance Beach, a good cover for constantly wearing a wetsuit and carrying around scuba gear.
She said absently, her eyes still on the TV. “I think it’s time you find another job, Hermy,”
“I think so too,” Herman strolled to the kitchen to get her prepared dietary meal from the fridge and heated it in the microwave. “But the good news is, they gave me my last job. It’ll pay for the good medication and even the surgery,”
“Oh, Hermy, you should spend that money on your future. I’m already a foot in the grave,”
Herman softly scolded while he sat next to her with her food. “Don’t say that, gran,”
“I mean it. You should be out there living life, you’re young, and a whole future ahead of you.”
Herman quietly spoon-fed his grandmother the soft porridge. “Maybe, but I can think about the future later. Now, I want to spend my time with you, gran.”
Or whatever time she has left, but he doesn’t want to think about that.
He’ll finish this last job, kill Mecha Man, and retire his sniper rifle for good.
The next night, Waterboy tracked Mecha Man down. Surprisingly, he wasn’t hard to follow after holding a press conference about his suit being damaged beyond repair and announcing his retirement as a hero. Like a depressed man, Mecha Man just hobbled in his costume, with a sling supporting his left arm, down the street.
Waterboy doesn’t know why Shroud would want him dead. He was already a broken man.
From the shadows of an alleyway, Waterboy observed Mecha Man pause at an electronics store as he watched the news on the TV displays. Then Waterboy held his breath when Mecha Man pulled his mask off his face and caught the reflection in the glass.
He ruffled his brown, messy hair while his tired eyes stared at the TV. Mecha Man doesn’t even care that he exposed his identity.
Handsome.
Waterboy shook his head, trying to focus on the task: reconnaissance.
There was the sound of crashing glass, and he saw a gang of thieves breaking into the store and hauling electronics into their truck.
Mecha Man drawled at the thieves. “I was watching that.”
The thieves in the colorful ski masks ignored him and hauled more electronics into their truck. Waterboy saw a flash of determination in Mecha Man, and he slipped on the mask once again.
Once a hero, always a hero, as the saying goes.
“I said I was watching that,” Mecha Man repeated, standing tall and powerful despite his injured arm.
One of the thieves asked. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I honestly don’t know, but what I do know is that I’m someone who has nothing left to lose,”
Waterboy bit his lip, suppressing an exasperated groan. If he realized his target had a death wish, he’d have brought his sniper from the car.
Mecha Man threw the first punch, and chaos ensued.
Waterboy sighed, closing his eyes. He doesn’t get involved–he can’t get involved. It wasn’t until Mechaman was being dogpilled that he realized he might not have a choice.
He can’t get paid if the target is already dead at someone else’s hand.
Waterboy removed his rebreather mask and shot a high-pressure water cannon from his mouth at the pile of thieves, knocking them off Mecha Man. In quick succession, he used the puddles at their feet to wrap themselves around their legs and ensnared them in place. Mecha Man, unsure what was happening, fought back, punching at the trapped thieves one by one until the last one fell into the dirty puddles of the street.
Mecha Man, wet and out of breath, stared at the massacre around him, trying to piece together what just happened.
“Hey, are you okay?”
A superhero bathed in light descended next to Mecha Man. Her blue and yellow uniform was unmistakable. It was none other than Torrance’s top hero, the leader of the SDN branch–Blonde Blazer.
Waterboy cursed, swiftly putting back his mask and skulking further into the shadows.
“I was just about to save you, but it looks like you saved yourself.” Blonde Blazer’s eyes flickered to Mecha Man’s wet suit. “Why are you wet?”
“Good question,” Mecha Man’s eyes skimmed through the empty street.
Blonde Blazer being here complicated things. It did not help that Herman was probably on a wanted list, and she could take him out faster than he could shoot.
But it also told Herman one thing: Mecha Man is involved with SDN.
Waterboy decided it was enough info and abandoned the mission for now.
As predicted, Mecha Man came to SDN the next morning. Waterboy positioned himself across the street and watched as Mecha Man strolled into the building, costume and all. This might complicate his mission, his target being surrounded by heroes and in a heavily secured facility, but Waterboy had done the impossible before. All it took was a bit of patience and careful planning.
He’ll get Mecha Man in the end.
As Waterboy retreated into the shadows of the alleyway, he pulled out his phone and made a note of any weakspots in the building. Despite being a Super Heroes Dispatch facility, anyone could walk in, though only the lobby was open to the public.
A gust of wind made his skin tingle, which could only mean one thing.
Waterboy swiftly turned to a silhouette watching him in the shadows. A familiar voice said. “You’re here,”
Waterboy grimaced. “Miss–Miss C-Coupé,”
“You actually came.” Coupé doesn’t smile, but her eyes told him enough. “Come inside,”
“F-For what?”
She said bluntly. “The Phoenix program,”
Before he could argue, she grabbed his arm and dragged him into the building. Coupé was surprisingly strong; if he did try to fight back, she’d snap him in two. Waterboy stuttered a protest, tugging at his arm. It wasn’t until she opened the doors of SDN and dragged him into the lobby that he was fucked.
“Blonde Blazer, we have a recruit for the Phoenix Program.”
Turning their heads, Blonde Blazer and Mecha Man stared at Waterboy. He sheepishly smiled despite wearing a rebreather mask.
This wasn’t how he imagined he’d start his path to redemption. But this will at least get him closer to his target.