It was immediately obvious to anyone with even a passing understanding of history that Dan's current dimension (which he had begun to mentally refer to as Dimension A, for Abby) had a very low tolerance for costumed shenanigans. Protagonists in popular media were often agents of a government, exalted for their professionalism as much as their skill. Villains were castigated, despised, hated by society, and portrayed in a far darker light than common criminals. Even the word superhero was considered an oxymoron. Vigilante, always vigilante. A person that goes against the law for selfish purposes.
Dan understood these things, intellectually at least. The history of vigilantism in the United States followed a strange and twisting path. The idea was glorified, at first; a mix of comics and wonder fueling the intense interest. Suddenly, it seemed like anything was possible, that anyone could do anything. When crime spiked upwards and neighborhoods were threatened, it was inevitable that vigilantes would emerge. Young and hotheaded, teenagers were the first to step forward. Disaster was a foregone conclusion.
Brawling with superpowers is nothing like media portrays it to be. Fights are short and violent, with the victor being the fastest or the most durable. In the beginning, when powers were all but random, these battles were often lethal. The flying brick archetype that Dan was so familiar with was almost nonexistent in Dimension A. Very, very few individuals manifested the sort of innate durability that Dan associated with comic heroes, and of those, none were capable of long distance flight. Defensive powers were not uncommon, but they almost universally required conscious activation. Bullets thus solved many problems, and caused just as many in turn.
The number of murders per capita in the United States tripled in 1950, and continued to steadily rise for the next few years. The total number of lives lost to superpowered incidents during the first ten years after the White Sands Incident numbered in the hundreds of thousands. While vigilantism was not responsible for even the majority of these deaths, as the most visible culprit, it bore the blunt of the blame regardless.
To reiterate, Dimension A had a low tolerance for costumed shenanigans.
"It's difficult to explain the level of vitriol we feel towards vigilantes, to someone who hasn't grown up in our society," Abby said to Dan, as she browed through a real estate site on his laptop.
The two of them had returned to his hotel room, but the serious nature of their conversation had forestalled any romantic undertones that might have arisen. Abby's mouth was set in a slight frown, from both the topic at hand and her search results.
"I'm not really sure what to use as a comparison," she admitted with a sigh.
Dan waved off the issue, not really seeing the problem. "I've read... most of a history book, now. I get it. Really."
"If that's all you're basing your knowledge off of, then you really don't," Abby corrected him instantly. She turned to him, her face expressionless. "Imagine that you live in a poor suburb, riddled with crime. You work each day, keep your nose clean, and try to survive. Imagine that the idiot kid who lives across the street from you wins the power lottery, then gets it into his head that he can solve all the world's problems by hitting them. Imagine the criminals getting upset at this sudden rebellion, and trying to put him down hard. Imagine that neither side knows nor cares about restraint." She paused for effect, staring at Dan. "Imagine this happening tens of thousands of times across the country. Imagine it plastered across the radio, the newspaper, television once it became popular. Over and over for years, then dramatized in the media for decades."
"Shouldn't you hate the criminals, in that particular example?" Dan pointed out cautiously, well aware that he was treading on a cultural landmine. "I mean, the hypothetical idiot kid was just trying to help, right?"
"We do hate criminals," Abby said flatly, "but the hypothetical idiot kid made things worse, not better, no matter his intention. He didn't have the training, or the knowledge, or the authority to accomplish what he set out to do. He made things worse for everyone with his stupidity, and so we hate him for it as well."
"Right." Dan licked his suddenly dry lips. "And how does that tie into my housing situation?"
Abby brightened, the gloom falling away from her in an instant. "Oh, that's easy! It's considered really bad luck to live in a vigilante's old home, so they always go for cheap."
Dan blinked. "How cheap are we talking, here?"
"Depends on the vigilante," Abby replied with a shrug. She peered at the laptop screen, scrolling languidly.
"Wait a minute," Dan said, replaying her earlier comment. "How do people know that a house was owned by a vigilante? I know that masks were a thing in this dimension."
"Ah well," Abby clicked her tongue, "when a vigilante is killed, and a huge number of them have been over the years, their identities are nearly always leaked."
"That's..." Dan had to take a moment to process the sheer lunacy of that statement.
"That's awful," he decided, unable to articulate a more refined opinion. "Weren't the majority of vigilantes in their late teens?"
"I think the number was something like 42%," Abby corrected easily.
"Awful," Dan repeated, almost in awe at how casually horrifying this dimension could be. "What about their families?"
His question drew a grimace from Abby. "There have been reprisals before, but they are mostly just shunned. Most of them end up moving." Her nostrils flared as she huffed. "I don't agree with blaming people for their family's actions, but it is what it is."
"I don't even understand how that's possible," Dan continued his train of thought. He threw both hands into the air and exclaimed, "I mean, how can the names always leak!? America is a pretty fucking big country; it doesn't seem possible."
"Almost always," Abby corrected with a sigh. She placed her hand over Dan's arm, pulling it back down. "And it was a gradual process. Someone leaks a name, somewhere. The news picks up on it, broadcasts it, the vigilante gets castigated. Someone else sees it, agrees with it, does the same thing. This happens dozens of times, hundreds, thousands. Things snowball. Eventually it just becomes... standard."
"It's bullshit," Dan spat, surprised at how outraged he felt. "That's some straight up dystopian insanity."
Abby spread her hands helplessly. "If you believe the nutjobs on the internet, it was all some grand conspiracy to spread the hatred of vigilantism. Personally, I think it's just human nature to blame others for their problems. Besides, those would-be heroes aren't exactly blameless."
Dan grimaced at her words, but remained silent. He didn't have the knowledge nor the cultural background to debate this topic with her, nor was he willing to taint their blossoming relationship with such a potentially sensitive issue. In the end, it happened decades ago. It wasn't worth arguing about.
But he made a mental note, anyway, to finish Marcus's goddamn book. Maybe it would shed some light on the situation.
"Let's just move on," Dan suggested unsubtly. Nothing good would come out of this conversation.
"Right," Abby agreed, giving him a brief, reassuring smile. "So, as I was saying, very few people are willing to live in a vigilante's old home. The extent of that, uh, distaste generally depends on the vigilante."
"What about the houses of villains?" Dan piped up, as the question crossed his mind.
"Their properties and assets are seized by whoever has jurisdiciton, then auctioned off. The profits generally act as reparation for the victims, depending on the situation," Abby summarized succinctly. She gave him a stern glare. "Now let me finish!"
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Dan held his hands out in defeat.
Abby nodded with narrowed eyes. "As I was saying, if you're wanting a house that's cheap for its size, this is the best option." She spun in her seat, to face the laptop once more. "It's not like you care if a vigilante lived there once, right?"
"No," Dan confirmed, kneeling to peer over her shoulder. "I mean, it might be a little weird to know that the last person who owned the house died, but I can get over it. There's a sort of morbid novelty value to it."
"Ah, about that." Abby scratched her cheek, chuckling guiltily. "You mentioned that you might want to have friends over?"
"...Yes," Dan replied slowly.
"Well I can't speak for your friends but," Abby winced as she spoke, "some people might see you owning that sort of house as, uh, kinda creepy."
Of course they would. Admittedly, it kinda was. Dan sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Probably shoulda seen that coming," he muttered to himself. Nothing was ever simple.
"It's fine, it's fine," Abby cheerfully reassured him. "Sure, your neighbors might act a bit judgemental, but with your power you won't ever even have to see them! Just pop in and out of the house like a mysterious stranger! People love mysteries!"
Dan laughed helplessly at the suggestion. "Yeah Abby, I'm sure that'll make 'em think I'm less creepy."
She shrugged, completely unperturbed. "Honestly, Danny, so long as your friends don't mind, who cares what strangers think?"
That was a valid point. The problem, however, lay with his friends. Or rather, his lack thereof. Dan couldn't really afford to alienate the... two? Three? Friends that he had who weren't named Abby. Especially since his friends list consisted entirely of police officers, or people training to become police officers. Who might feel more than a slight grudge against vigilantism.
Crap. This was becoming more trouble than it was worth. Maybe he should just settle for a smaller house, or even an apartment. He could work with that, right? He didn't need a training space. It was a luxury. He just, he wanted one.
He really wanted one. And for the first time in his life, he had the money to make that luxury a reality.
Hoo boy. This was not the foundation of a sound financial decision.
"Did you have a house in mind?" Dan asked tentatively. He couldn't help himself. He'd just look at it, that's all. Just see the thing with his eyeballs. Just to satisfy his curiosity.
That's all!
----------------------------------------
This had been a huge mistake.
"I love it," Dan announced, staring in awe at the small Gothic castle in front of him. It was only two stories tall, but the multitude of spires dotted across its broad silhouette gave off an imposing aura. The front door was sheltered by a covered driveway, which led into a broad half-circle paved in smooth gravel. A separate driveway led to a small garage attached to the side of the house.
The property itself was two separate lots, bought and combined into one. The house was centered, from a bystander's perspective, though Dan could tell that it tended closer to the street. The backyard must be truly massive, while the house itself was five-thousand square feet of awesome.
All of this, at about a third of the going rate.
"Okay, what's wrong with it," Dan asked, turning to Abby.
"Well, let's see," Abby hummed, leafing through a thick sheaf of papers. She chewed at her lip, peering down with a frown. "According to the latest inspection, not a lot."
Dan's head whipped around to face her. "Really!? Why's it still for sale, then?"
Abby glanced at him, then back to the house. She seemed to be struggling not to laugh. "Well... it's ugly as sin, Danny."
"What— You! It's glorious!" Dan exclaimed thrusting both hands at the house for emphasis. "It looks like a goddamn castle! I thought you people loved themes like this!"
"Hmph," Abby sniffed disdainfully. She stuck her nose skyward, and spoke as snootily as possible. "First of all, not everyone is a fan of dorky themes. Second of all, this is a suburban area! A medieval theme doesn't match at all! Look at your neighbors!"
She jabbed a finger across the street. Dan followed the motion, and was greeted by two bog standard, cookie-cutter houses. He stared at them for several moments, before shaking his head.
"Yeah, no. This house is way better."
Abby threw her hands into the air. "Whatever. You're the one who has to live in it. Just know that you're wrong."
"I'll keep it in mind," Dan replied mildly. "Let's take a look at the inside, yeah?"
"The realtor gave me the lockbox code," Abby huffed, stomping towards the front door.
Dan dutifully followed, keeping his laughter to a minimum.
The house was located smack dab in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. The area had a reasonably low crime rate, and was filled with various middle class workers. Old, Normal Dan could've blended in here like some kind of urban ninja. New Dan was a little less subtle.
Though, as Abby pointed out, his power made avoiding the neighbors fairly trivial.
The keys were stuffed inside an old and rusted lockbox, hanging off the doorknob. Abby opened it easily, plucking out the keys, and the front door opened with an ominous creak. Dan glanced around the wide entrance hall, noting its Victorian staircase and high ceiling. The wooden floor groaned slightly as he made his way across it, the sound reverberating off the walls. Small amounts of light filtered in from the open door, but the room remained dimly lit. There was a chill in the air; the ambient temperature was low enough to fog Dan's breath, despite the sunny day outside.
"I take it back," Abby murmured, her voice perfectly audible in the quiet room. "Everyone is gonna think you're creepy for owning this house."
"It's got charm," Dan decided, not at all bothered by his surroundings. He was fairly immune to environmental horror, having spent hours floating in the infinite abyss of t-space.
Abby shivered, pressing herself against Dan for warmth. "Yeah, the charm of a serial killer."
Dan hummed to himself, wiggling his hand in a 'kind of' motion. He stopped at the base of the stairs, running his hand up the wooden handrail. It came away clean, not a speck of dust.
"So what's the story of this place?" Dan queried, following the stairs upwards with his eyes. The second floor landing branched out into a series of hallways, leading further into the house.
"Uh, well," Abby stuttered slightly, shuffling through her stack of papers, "the old owner was a vigilante who went by the moniker of Captain Quantum." She paused, grimacing. "He actually lasted quite a while. Active from 1953 until 1961, when he presumably retired. So why...?" She flipped through several more pages, muttering to herself.
"Ah! Tracked down by a villain and murdered, five years ago." She blinked, checking the page once more. "While in bed. Yikes. They found his old costume and gear in his closet." Flip flip flip. "And the villain was never caught. No wonder it's so cheap."
Dan sighed at this new information. "People think he'll come back for whoever moves in next?"
"I mean, probably not," Abby replied, twirling a lock of her hair between her fingers, "but why take the risk, y'know?"
"Why indeed?" Dan grumbled to himself. Oddly, the possible threat to his life didn't sway his opinion very much. It just seemed so unlikely to Dan. Whatever the villain's beef was with the former owner, it was resolved. Why would the villain come back for the next guy?
Then again, crazy people rarely made sense. If Dan did buy the house, he'd be installing some state-of-the-art security. Better safe than sorry, as the saying goes.
Really, the crux of the issue was how owning such a building would impact his social life. Part of the appeal of having his own place was the ability to invite others into it. He couldn't do that if everyone he knew was weirded out by his living arrangements. He, once agian, did a quick mental rundown of who might be bothered.
Abby wouldn't care, clearly. The house might give her the creeps now, but it was nothing a few dozen light fixtures and space heater couldn't fix. It was the rest of his social circle that he had to worry about. His friends, current and future.
The number of which was depressingly low.
Gregoir made the list, much to Dan's chagrin. Unfortunately, the man's thoughts on this particular subject were a mystery to him. It was difficult to imagine the easygoing giant bothered by anything, but this was a potentially tender subject. Police officers weren't known for being sympathetic to vigilantes, in most cases.
Ito was a more relevant example. Dan had not spoken to the scarred Asian officer since the day of the ride along, but the man had given him some decent advice in the aftermath. He could see himself befriending the grizzled veteran some day; it was almost inevitable, really, considering the man's own friendship with Gregoir.
Fred and Freya, too, fell in the same category. Despite Fred's impetuous youth, and Freya's prickly pride, he was slowly coming to like them through sheer repeated exposure. They'd likely mirror whatever the officers felt; despite their vastly different backgrounds, they'd both been raised in a largely police-oriented environment.
And then there was Connor, the pompous butt-monkey. Dan couldn't begin to imagine the kind of reaction he'd have to Dan buying an ex-vigilante's house. One that was possibly being stalked by a villain, to boot. Probably some combination of insulting Dan's intelligence and his competence, followed by a dutiful proclamation to safeguard Dan's squishy little life.
Dan slapped a hand over his face in irritation. Here he was, an interdimensional immigrant, hiding from the law, yet all of his friends were law enforcement, or in training to be. He had to be the dumbest fugitive on the planet.
"Just ask them," Abby's voice interrupted his thoughts. He met her eyes, watching her watching him. She could read him like a book, as if his internal struggle was written on his face in 72pt bolded font.
"Just ask them," Abby repeated insistently. "It's the fastest way to solve the problem. If they're fine with the idea, but not the location, we can look for a different house. If they're fine with neither, then we'll look for a normal, smaller property. If they're fine with both, well, problem solved."
Dan stared at her as she summarized his options with effortless ease.
"You're amazing," he blurted out, unable to help himself. He grinned wickedly at the blush his comment elicited, then whipped out his phone to make a call.
Abby was right.
Action was always better than angst.