A/N: UPDATE: No more waiting! This story is now being updated regularly, starting today, May 6th 2011.

Original note: This is the start of a very long journey. One I've been working on for a very long time. Before reading, though, you should be aware that there won't be an update on this for quite some time. That's because I want to ensure that this story is published before things majorly change on the show, and I suspect that will happen very soon. Also, it's because I have a bit of a poetic side that finds a time gap between this prologue and the actual story to be fitting to the storyline itself.

Some minor warnings- This story will deal with some challenging subjects later on, but I don't want to give too much away. Just be aware.

That being said, I know this first chapter is short. But it is meant to be. I hope you enjoy.

Timeline: This is meant to be about one week after The Witch in the Wardrobe. The rest of the story will have no correlation to events that happen after this episode, or anything from season 6. Therefore, this is the place to be if you are as frustrated with the current season as I am. They never left for Maluku/Afghanistan and he never met Hannah.

Prologue- Fireworks

May 6th, 2010

Footsteps pounding.

Later, it would be a sound that was all many could remember from that day. It would be in every witness testimony, in every report, at the top of every file.

There was no face attached to these feet. No height, no weight, no eye color, no outfit description, no license plate, no car make and model. There was, almost quite literally, nothing.

Nothing but running feet, tearing their way around corners and down the staircase. Like a phantom, one woman later recalled. A few neighbors had opened their doors, stared out in surprise and looked both ways... but saw nothing. Almost like it was a ghost, who could only be distinguished by a single sound and nothing more.

To the man who belonged to those feet, it didn't matter what people believed. It mattered that he was invisible. That no one knew who he was, what he wanted, or why he chose to do as he did.

And by the time that the reason for those footsteps became clear, it would be too late for most of the occupants of the second floor of 415 Elmsworthto care. Not that day, at least. A young man in the corner apartment would be one of the few to get away completely safely, visibly shaken by the events that had occurred.

The most important aspect, however, was the occupant of a single apartment: the target of it all, the reason for the intricate plan, the explanation for why those running footsteps were only heard well past the point where the occupant would be able to hear.

When those footsteps eventually hit pavement, when they brought their owner into the vehicle and the tires smoothly pulled into traffic without skidding, without any remarkable indicators to draw attention, there would be no doubt in his mind that he had succeeded in the task he'd set out to complete.

And when he parked in front of a quaint little diner, he would take a comfortable seat in a booth that seemed no different from the others, except for the fact that it was regularly occupied by a couple who were well known by every member of the staff... something he knew only too well.

This customer, his heartbeat thrumming merrily in his ears and his feet comfortable in their gel-soled shoes, would order his coffee with a soft and polite smile. His eyes would crinkle at the edges, but the hardness in them would send the waitress away sooner than on a normal night.

It would be as he raised the coffee to his lips for the first sip that the air would crackle suddenly, and the ground would give a slight shudder. The glass of the window beside him would shake, just a small fraction, and in the distance... smoke would rise from the scene of his victory. He would picture the flames, racing up to the heavens, and he would think of fireworks and celebrations.

Because he had won, and the world would never be quite the same.