Heavy footfalls echoed down the alleyway. I pressed my cheek against the biting cold metal of the industrial sized trash bin, fervently hoping the thugs would passed by, my small hunched, hooded figure gone unnoticed. I gripped my bow tightly for console. If needed, I would use it. I rarely shot more than one arrow during my vigilante outings, due to my inability to murder without consequential oppressive guilt. If ever I were discovered, the task force the NYC police department formed to apprehend my crime-fighting identity "Katsa", would question my motives…How could I possibly clean up the crime-infested streets of NYC if I could barely stand to hit a man? I was somewhat of an incompetent crime-fighter. The modern, metal, retractable bow I carried was my sole weapon, my outfit concealed my identity well but was cumbersome, and my timing was always coincidentally horrible. Still, the famed Katsa, armed with a bow and flowing black hair (a realistic wig: part of my meticulously arranged costume) scared lesser villains, committers of petty crimes, into hiding. And if not for my gift, Katsa wouldn't exist. I possessed a convenient little talent which no one but my poor victims, who were subsequently deemed insane when they frantically tried to explain during interrogations my ability to "slip through their fingers", knew of. My trick, as I often refer to it, was phasing. Scientifically, it can be explained as the molecules in my body being able to, on command, dodge the molecules of any solid object I encounter. So, if some thug throws a punch at my face, I can literally let the guy's hand go right through my head. It's like being able to spontaneously switch into ghost-mode when I'm feeling unsafe. I can't stay in ghost-mode longer than a few seconds, or I'll start to slide into the floor.

"Is she here?" one of the thugs asked warily. They had stopped to glance around—nervously, I noticed. They're afraid of me.

"I can't see no one," the other replied, lighting a fat cigar shakily and taking a long, indulgent drag. "You have the guy's wallet?"

"Yeah." The second thug inspected their mugging victim's license. "HA!" he suddenly barked. "He's a tourist! A Canadian!"

They laughed.

I reached slowly behind my back into my quiver and withdrew a single metal arrow. The tip was razor sharp and if I shot accurately the arrow could deliver a fatal blow to whichever unlucky thug was closest to me. I notched it and closed one eye, pulling the string back with two fingers and taking aim. I released the arrow.

The taller of the thugs cried out sharply. The other sensed danger, snatched the wallet from the wounded thug's hand and took off down the alley way, swearing as he ran.

I emerged from the shadows cautiously, another arrow notched and ready. The arrow was embedded in the thug's leg. He had fallen and was cradling his thigh delicately. I almost blurted an apology, then stopped myself. Something about hurting people, no matter if they deserved it or not, totally threw me off.

"Shit," he moaned at recognizing me. The long black hair, black surgeon mask pulled over my mouth and nose, the tight black attire…I was a pretty distinctively dressed vigilante. "Please don't kill me, Katsa," he pleaded in a small voice. The meek words didn't suit his bulky frame. It seemed almost comical to me for a moment.

"Katsa, come on, it was nothin', I promise I'll never do it again…" he continued nervously, shaking his head back and forth slowly.

It was weird that a trashy tabloid's nickname for me had caught on so nicely, even spread throughout the criminal community. I had no idea where the name came from, or what it meant, but I felt as if it suited my superhero identity quite nicely.

"Never again," I said flatly. I didn't speak much to my victims. A few words always sufficed.

He nodded vigorously. "Just don't kill me." He was clutching his wounded leg.

Satisfied, I put my arrow back in my quiver and retracted my bow. It was the latest invention of the century, and was quite convenient for someone like me. It was six feet tall when expanded. When I flicked the latch, it automatically retracted to a tiny compact flashlight sized piece of metal. I shoved the thing in my small, black backpack and nodded at the man. I wasn't a very ruthless hero. I was all about the message, rather than actually beating up bad guys. I turned to leave, expecting my victim to limp away and thank the gods I had a conscience.

Suddenly, a cold hand wrapped around my neck, and with alarming strength, tightened.

Bad move.

My dark instincts kicked in, the ones I hid, ignored, rejected. I slid through his grip (using my ever-so-helpful trick), whirled around, and roundhouse-kicked him across the face. He stumbled backwards, an expression of incredulity on his dark, daunting features. "It's true!" He gasped, referring to my "slip through fingers" trick.

I wasn't finished with him. With a growl of anger, I flung myself at him. Every hit he tried to deliver flowed right through my body, and every punch and kick I threw hit him squarely where I wanted it to. He stopped fighting back after a few minutes of back and forth. He lay on the ground, bruised and bleeding, and looked up at me with pleading eyes.

I straightened and produced my bow from my bag. I unlatched it and in an instant the small piece of metal unfolded into a deadly weapon. I notched an arrow and pointed at his head.

Somewhere in the vast darkness that had momentarily consumed my mind a small light of morality flickered.

This was wrong. This wasn't me.

This was the murdering instinct that accompanied my deadly ability. And I had to fight it.

I stepped back a few paces, gasping.

Then I turned and ran.

When I reached an isolated alley, I returned my folded bow, my quiver, my wig, my surgeons mask, and most of my costume into my bag. Underneath I wore casual clothes. A pink band t shirt, black leggings…I peered onto the dark streets, and then began casually making my way towards the nearest subway station.

Whenever I went out on these crime-fighting escapades I told my mother I was babysitting. Sometimes I even intentionally spilt milk or juice on my shirt before arriving at our apartment building, just for some conviction.

When I arrived home that night, the apartment was quiet. I tiptoed to my bedroom and shut the door firmly behind me. I stashed the backpack under a loose floorboard and then inspected myself for any tell-tale signs of my real night. But my face was free of blood, bruising, or even dirt. What I did notice was my eyes. One was a dark hazel, the other a brilliant green. Two different coloured eyes isn't such a big deal, especially because I regularly wore glasses…but tonight the green eye shone even brighter than usual. It had a habit of brightening up after a run-in with my darker side. That led me to believe my eyes were somehow connected to my ability, but I couldn't really investigate this theory further, considering there weren't many bi-coloured eye people out there, and I wasn't about to reveal my secret to them in the small chance that they too possessed inexplicable talents…

I checked in on the online NYC Katsa task force data base quickly before resigning for the night. I had easily hacked into their system months ago when I first invented Katsa. The task force was a group of dignified, intelligent detectives, dedicated to discovering my true identity and locking me away for vigilante justice. They never made much progress. They knew I was a young, female, vigilante and capable of strange things, but that was the extent of their investigation. I wore gloves when I was Katsa so no fingerprints could be found. I was usually quite diligent. And the weapon I carried was prevalent as it was a new model. They had little hope of finding me, unless they noticed my eyes. But my victims never looked into my eyes. They always stared in horror at my bow, or scanned me for a vulnerable place to knife/shoot etc. And there were no pictures or video footage of me, save blurry shots of me escaping a fresh crime scene.

NO PROGRESS- read the dreary title of the task force data base. I snickered to myself. It was pathetic. I was a seventeen year old girl, hardly capable of passing the majority of her courses, and I had them all tied up.

I shut off the computer and collapsed onto my bed, sighing. I wouldn't have to worry about the incompetent task force and their search for katsa's true identity for a while. For now, I was doing some searching of my own.

I needed to find someone of my own kind, a person with bi-coloured eyes. Then I could make some discoveries about the origins of my trick—and the darkness that accompanied it…

TO BE CONTINUED…