Hidden blue eyes darted surreptitiously; the man caught no attention and wouldn't have even if he wasn't alone
Leant against the wall the man could be easily overlooked, after all so many others in the world seemed just like him, alone and overflowing with anger at the darkened city. This man was so much more. Hidden blue eyes darted surreptitiously; the man caught no attention and wouldn't have even if he wasn't the alley's only occupant. It never hurt to be careful though, a genius mind and a Kevlar vest would mean nothing if he got shot in the head. After all there were certain areas of New York it was never recommended to frequent, especially alone at night.
Gloved hands pushed damp red locks away from tinted lenses as the wait began – annoyingly early of fatally late were the only options for a meeting like this. Still, it was this or nothing. He needed this information and if it took the Mafia to get it then so be it. He wasn't afraid to do whatever it took, he had come this far over so many years, the barriers of personal safety had been broken years ago.
He sighed and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. On it was a detailed drawing of a blond-haired teen; the only image of that person to survive outside of the orphanage files. It was outdated and battered but for the last seven years the red-headed man had carried it with him in hope.
'Where did you go?'
This man was the reason. The reason the red-head was lurking in downtown New York waiting to meet yet another Mafia thug that might give him a shred of information. The man in the picture was the reason he'd travelled the world so many times and spent long hours in the rain waiting to meet a single contact. The reason he'd fought to be stronger, faster, smarter and better. The reason he succeeded at everything he'd tried. The reason he'd took risks, made sacrifices, bled, breathed, cried and lived. The reason the innocent blue-eyed boy from all those years ago had transformed into a sharp, cynical and dangerous man. He was the overall reason for the red-headed man's existence.
And what a life it was.
In a world where every child was brought up believing in good and bad, heroes and villains, black and white, there was something spectacular about not fitting in. To be able to look around and see the right and the wrong and not partake in either was almost enjoyable. It was painful to be doomed to a life like this but there was still some spark to the fact that as heroes and villains passed by he was neither, he was nobody, a magnificent nobody. He was the shadow in the background. He just followed the extravagant anti-hero, never seen, never heard. He took the hits with out anybody to cry for him. He was just desperately playing catch-up.
He was a self-confessed fake. Well, he'd confessed it to himself anyway. People who knew him thought of him as the kind of guy who was in control - a genius hacker, an amazing driver and a fine shooter. They knew him as a tough guy, a threat and a fighter. Then again that was just the part of him he faked. He was a hacker and a driver and a shooter but really that was just what people saw when he covered up the rest of himself. Nobody saw the fact that he only ever did what he couldn't avoid, nobody ever noticed that he couldn't even conjure up an arrogant smirk let alone a smile or his almost manic-grin of old, and nobody realised that he could never stop looking over his shoulder. These were thing's he didn't let people notice.
Of course he wasn't perfect, a lot of people noticed a lot of things that he really wished they wouldn't. People knew that when it came down to fists Matt really wasn't that strong, people knew that he was nowhere near as strong as many others, people knew that he was fragile and physically breakable. That was okay. As long as they couldn't see that he was emotionally broken.
He was the image of shattered perfection to himself but he hid it well. Nobody saw the pain behind the glassy eyes behind the tinted lenses; the sadness that haunted the pale, doll like face; the resignation in every move made by the slim, twig-like limbs. People called him pretty but when he looked at the boy in the mirror as he saw was a broken wreck.
The harsh leather gloves that protected the skin during the punches and the way they stretched up his arms and melded with his sleeves to hide the scars. Who was he kidding?
He could lie all he wanted but it wasn't like he was incompetent, he wasn't some vulnerable little kid who couldn't handle himself, he was a doomed teenager with an attitude that he full well knew would get him killed. Rich, intelligent, spontaneous and obsessed with a man he might never see again.
He couldn't count the amount of times he'd won losing battles by putting the gun to his own head.