A boy of about ten or eleven crept down the stairs to the first floor, peeking carefully through the railing. He'd been awoken by sirens, far too close for comfort, and now there were voices drifting up to his room. So he'd pulled on some shorts-he would be too embarrassed coming down in the t-shirt and underwear he'd worn to bed-and gone for a look.
There was a light in the living room. His father's voice was coming from in there, as was a somewhat deeper voice. He could see a figure in dark blue who must have been a cop. Over the back of the couch he could see the tops of two heads, one brown haired and one blond; those had to be his parents. As it became clear that he hadn't been noticed yet, he crept closer until he could actually make out the voices.
"Dr. Wright, can you think of anyone who might have taken these samples?" asked the cop. "Anyone they might be of value to?"
"They might be of value to the entire human race," replied the gruff voice of the boy's father. "But I suppose it would help to narrow it down to people who know about my research."
"It was most likely Wai Li," the boy's mother said firmly.
"Melody," his father said, "Li's not a thief."
"He knows where you keep the samples, he has access and motive, not to mention a rather shady background."
The cop leaned back slightly, tapping his foot. "And this mister Li is...?"
"Dr. Wai," his father said, emphasizing the name to correct the officer, "is my research partner. Or, former partner. He quit about a month ago."
"Do you know where we can find him?"
"I can give you his address. I should tell you, though, that he hasn't been answering his phone and his house looked deserted when I went there last week. And if that man doesn't want to be found, he won't be..."
-Blue Valley, 20XX (Six Years Later)-
The sun was not yet visible over the horizon, but its hazy light was already filtering through the shades and into the room on the second floor. As the dim display of a cell phone mounted in a speaker stand on the dresser shifted from 6:29 to 6:30, the sharp staccato of drumbeats pierced the silence. The boy sprawled across the bed began to stir; the beats woke him up just enough that the blast of guitar that followed wasn't painfully jarring. He rolled off the side of the bed and landed on hands and toes. He did half a dozen pushups to get his blood flowing, then got to his feet, bobbing his head to the music. He didn't care that this song was older than his father, he had never found a better wake up call. The opening guitar riff alone had enough energy to get him through lunchtime.
Picking his clothes off of a chair in the middle of the room, Rick slipped into a comfortable pair of loose jeans and pulled on a t-shirt a few sizes too large for him. The baggy clothes belied his muscular build and above-average height. He picked up his house keys, his wallet, and other things he had put on the seat of the chair and slipped them into his pockets, except for a comb which he pulled through his messy brown hair. He glanced into the mirror to survey the the end result. His hair appeared almost as messy as it had pre-comb , but there were fewer tangles and the bangs were strategically parted to reveal his dark blue eyes. He slipped the comb into his back pocket, then pulled his phone from the speaker dock and turned off the song. He headed downstairs.
As he passed the door to his sister's room, he knocked on it loudly. "Come on, sis," he bellowed, "time to rock and roll!"
Her muffled groan just barely made it through the door. "Rick, that stopped being funny in fourth grade."
"Oh come on, that one's timeless!" Before she could make a rebuttal, he hurried down the stairs. His sister was right of course; when Rick and Laura were six, the nicknames 'Rock' and 'Roll' had seemed incredibly witty, but the novelty had long since worn off. Still, he was her older brother, if only by a few hours. It was his duty to get on her nerves, and that was hard to do when she was fully awake. Her cheerfulness was almost impenetrable, and if you did manage to annoy her she hit you with a kitchen utensil. Usually it was a ladle or a spatula, but there had been an incident with their older brother and a frying pan that Rick did not wish to repeat.
He walked into the dining room and immediately had to fight the urge to turn around and walk back out. His father was there, humming cheerfully as he set the table, plates piled high with scrambled eggs and hash browns. He glanced up at Rick and smiled widely, though his gray eyes remained dull and lifeless. "Well hey, good morning!"
Rick mustered a smile in return. "Morning, dad." He nodded at the plates. "Smells good." Which was true; his dad was the best cook in the family. Rick leaned against the wall, trying not to look impatient. When his dad cooked, it meant he wanted to have a 'family meal.' If Rick started without his sister, their dad would get visibly depressed. He might even have to wait for his mom. And in the meantime, he could try to make small talk with his father. What fun.
"So, anything going on at school today?" His dad set down the last of the plates. Rick couldn't help but notice a conspicuously empty area on the table. His father hadn't gone so far as to lay out an extra place setting, but Rick knew if he went into the kitchen there would be just enough food left over for a fifth person.
He wanted to say something about it. Something along the lines of, 'It's not as if he's going to show up,' or, 'It's been three years, when are we going to move on?' But that might lead to an argument. Or worse, to a sad, numb silence. He didn't have the heart for it. So he merely shrugged in response to his father's question and tossed out a question of his own. He didn't really care about the answer, but an awkward conversation was preferable to an awkward silence. The sound of the shower running came from upstairs, and Rick knew it would be at least half an hour before Laura came downstairs.
The father-son talk continued clumsily. Mornings like these were becoming increasingly common. Three years ago, Rick was used to being out of the house before either of his parents were up; occasionally his mother would be up in time to make breakfast, and once in a blue moon his father would stumble into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a handful of aspirin. Even then, Rick was usually on his way to school before the man was capable of coherent conversation. But now it seemed like almost every day, he came downstairs to his dad making breakfast, jolly as Santa Claus-who, with his bushy beard, rapidly graying hair, and increasingly large belly, the man was starting to resemble.
Finally, Laura came into the dining room, a green ribbon in her mouth as she pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail. Rick managed to not actually let out a sigh of relief, but it was a close thing. His sister was fully awake and perky, and once she was done tying her hair back she managed to occupy their father's attention with lively conversation for the rest of breakfast. Soon they were headed off to school in the battered old car they shared. He dropped Laura off at her school before heading to another pointless day at Blue Valley High.
By the end of fourth period, Rick had filled half a notebook with doodles, epic battles between stick-figure angels and demons, with the occasional dragon thrown in for good measure. Every few pages an actual note intruded on his art: a reading assignment or something the teacher had repeated three times. He was on his way to lunch when the sounds of a scuffle echoed down the hall, accompanied by laughter. Sounds like my kind of party... Like any concerned citizen, he hurried towards the source of the disturbance to gawk.
He soon discovered that the 'fight' consisted of two boys trying to deposit a third face-first in a trashcan while they attempted a witty commentary. 'You like it, don't you?' seemed to be about the best they had come up with. Some of the kids on their way to or from the lunchroom stopped to chortle, or hurried by hoping not to be noticed. Most of them didn't pay any attention at all. Unbelievable. You're all just going to ignore this? Is anyone even going for help? He realized his fists were clenched tightly, and through great force of will he managed to relax them. He couldn't get worked up, he had to handle this situation calmly.
He took a deep breath to steady himself, then let it out in a theatrical sigh as he leaned against the lockers. "Really?" His voice carried fairly well through the halls, and caught the attention of the trio wrestling around the trash can. "We're doing this? This is the twenty-first century. You could try not to act like reject villains from a teen movie."
One of the boys told him to fuck off and got back to the task of dragging his victim off the ground. The other turned to Rick, rolling his eyes. "Week before homecoming is freshman hunting season. It's tradition. Seniors catch freshmen and stuff 'em in trashcans."
Rick tilted his head to one side. "...and that takes two of you? Grow a pair! You're bigger than him. If you're gonna be a tool, could you at least not be a bitch about it?" He tried to focus on his sympathy for the poor freshman, and his outrage at their actions. But those more noble intentions were giving way to a growing eagerness that Rick wasn't entirely comfortable with.
The more talkative of the seniors let go of the freshman entirely to walk towards Rick, giving him a shove. "You looking for a fight?"
"I was, actually. That might have been exciting. But I found this whole mess instead." He waved a hand at the two still by the trash can. "It's very disappointing."
He probably could have avoided the fist that caught him across the jaw. Instead he rolled with it, going limp and letting it push him to the ground. He hopped back onto his feet, rubbing at his cheek. The punch had stung a bit, but not done any real damage. Of its own accord, Rick's mouth twisted into a vicious grin. "Just remember when this is over... you started this."
It was about three thirty when Rick pulled into the parking lot of Wellington Prep. He rolled down the window and leaned back, watching students walk by in their dull red uniforms. He didn't miss the uniforms. In fact he didn't miss much about Wellington. It was hands down a better education than he was getting at the public school he now attended, but for Rick that just meant harder homework.
Eventually he caught sight of Laura in the crowd. Despite her wearing the same uniform as a horde of other students, Rick never had any trouble finding his sister. He waved to get her attention; she exchanged a few words with her friends then broke off from the group. "You had another fight?" she asked as she buckled her seat belt.
Rick put on his best wide-eyed innocent face. "Why do you say that?"
She gave him a sideways glance and smirked a little. "Because you're smiling."
He put up his hands. "I can smile for other reasons!"
Laura ignored his comment. "Well, I hope you didn't get caught, otherwise mom and dad are gonna be pissed."
He shrugged. "It's not like I started it."
"Oh yeah, haven't heard that one before." She turned to him with a mocking smile. "So explain to me how do you get into so many fights without starting any of them?"
He melodramatically clenched his fist before his face, making a caricature of a somber expression. "Those who seek justice are constantly under attack."
She rolled her eyes at him. "Rick, you're a thug."
"A thug for justice!" Rick revved the engine and accelerated out of the parking lot.
He hurried as much as he dared. The road wasn't crowded yet, but the evening rush was approaching and he wanted to get home before that. So perhaps he didn't pay as much attention to his left and right as he should have as he approached the intersection, but the cross traffic had stop signs and it wasn't a very busy intersection anyway. He didn't notice the motorcycle surging from the left until it was almost too late. His tires screeched as he slammed his brakes, and the motorcycle turned sharply, dumping its rider on the ground and sliding along the asphalt with an unpleasant scraping noise.
Rick turned off the car and burst out of the door, heading for the fallen rider. Laura practically crawled out the window. "Are you alright?" she called.
"Hey, are you okay?" Rick offered a hand to the motorcycle rider. The biker their head up to look at him. Or so he thought, but it was hard to tell, since he couldn't see through their helmet's glossy black visor. It was probably the most ridiculous motorcycle helmet he'd ever seen, with large golden fins protruding from either side. It must have been custom made, because no one would mass produce such a thing.
Ignoring Rick's hand-rather pointedly, Rick thought-the biker got to their feet and began dusting himself off. Somewhere along the way they found a large hole in their sleeve and stared at it.
"Oh, wow, sorry about that. It's a pretty nice jacket, but, y'know, as long as you're okay, it's... um." The biker stared up at him. Between the blank visor and the silent treatment, Rick's patience was starting to wear thin. "You should be more careful. You're supposed to stop at stop signs, you know?"
He only noticed the shift in the biker's stance as their fist was connecting with his chest. He staggered back as searing pain shot through his body. That had definitely cracked his collarbone. This guy's quick... He hoped the biker wasn't paying too much attention to his face. It would be hard to explain why his dark blue eyes had suddenly changed bright green-exactly the same shade as Laura's. He stretched a little bit, relaxing as the pain in his chest faded, then plunged back into the fight.
It was much better than pummeling the idiots at school. The biker was on his level, trading blow for blow, never backing down, never slowing down. They were pushing him to his limits, and he loved it-the rush of adrenaline, the furious beat of his heart pounding in his ears, the sweat plastering his shirt to his back, the sense of danger and the creeping fear that went with it, it was all so invigorating, so thrilling. It didn't even bother him that he was losing.
And Rick was most definitely losing. While it was hard to tell with the biker's massive helmet and loose jacket, Rick was sure he had an advantage of six inches and thirty pounds over the biker, bare minimum. He was pretty sure he had the advantage in strength too, though after the biker caught hold of his collar and threw him one-handed, he was less confident about that. Not that it mattered, since Rick could scarcely land a hit. When he did, it sent the biker reeling, but they were always back on him in a flash, and he didn't feel like he was wearing them down. Rick, on the other hand, was starting to feel tired, and he was practically cheating.
After a while he noticed sirens in the distance, and realized that this fight was drawing quite a crowd. "Ah, shit." His frequent brawls got him in trouble with the school all the time, but so far never with the cops. And he didn't feel like changing that today. Besides, he should have been home by now. Laura should have been home by now. He glanced towards the car to see if she was still there. That moment of distraction was all the biker needed; in an instant he was flat on his back. Then the biker glanced around, possibly noticing the sirens for the first time himself. They looked down at Rick, then turned and headed over to their bike.
"Rick! Are you okay?" Laura helped Rick to his feet as the biker rode off.
"I'm fine, sis." He exhaled as the his eyes faded from green back to their natural blue. "Thanks for the loan."
"That whole time, you were copying me?" She shook her head. "Are you gonna tell dad? He'll want to run some kind of test, I'll bet."
"I guess I'll tell him. Better make sure my genes aren't unraveling or anything. But for now, let's get out of here, I don't want to deal with the cops."
Laura bit her lip, and he knew she was thinking about arguing. Rick wasn't entirely sure, but it was probably illegal to run now that the cops were on their way. Hopefully Laura wouldn't press the matter. Finally she nodded. "Let's go home."