Thanks to everyone for the reviews and alerts! It's nice to know that people aren't totally thinking "What is wrong with this writer?" And now on to the first chapter. (If you enjoy it or have any questions— and have the time to do so —please drop me a review.)


Chapter One: Two Weeks Later. . .

He can feel the beat of his city underneath his feet, a dark pulse that is tainted with a thousand crimes. The reek of lies and murder cling to everything, twisting the air with their slick, black stench. His city is sick and rancid, but he knows somewhere under all that grime, she still shines. He'll clean these streets until she sparkles, until every last no good bastard is behind bars.

Yeah, that sounds pretty good, he thinks. He's no Batman, but that definitely had a good ring to it. Even sounded all gravelly and noir in his head; he can almost taste the Scotch and cigarettes.

He stands on the rooftop of his apartment and looks out across the cityscape, enjoying the twinkling of lights that dot the streets, the loud honking of horns, the smell of exhaust and heated metal that reaches him even up here. It's ten o'clock on a Thursday night and he's making his rounds. Tonight, he's spiraling out towards uptown.

Mike has created a system for his patrols. It's part art, part mathematics; each portion of the city divided and coded according to crime rate. He puts higher priority on certain neighborhoods than others, but he still misses things, still makes mistakes. Last Friday, for example, he was canvasing one of the nastier neighborhoods (color coded red on his map), expecting the usual chaos that always seems to erupt when the weekend rolls around. Turned out, it was quiet as a tomb the entire night, while on the other end of the city, two people were shot and killed in a mugging gone wrong. He tries not to beat himself up over it, but he can't help but think if only. That's one of the things they get wrong in comic books and movies—the hero always shows up just in time to save the day. After a lot of trial and error, Mike has learned one simple, basic truth: he's only one man and he can only be in one place at a time.

He backs away from the ledge, giving himself just enough room to take a run at it, and then surges forward, legs pumping with perfect precision. He kicks off at the last second, gravel scattering under the rubberized soles of his shoes. He propels through the air, hot wind fluttering his clothes and making his eyes water under his mask. The moment where he is caught just floating through the air, where gravity seemingly has no meaning, is probably one the best feelings in the world; it lasts for only a brief time, but he relishes the feeling of just being alive in those moments. He tucks inward and lands on the adjacent rooftop. Rolling up onto his feet, he quickly judges the path he should take before running towards the opposite ledge.

A scream and the shatter of glass reach him just before he launches off the third building in his path. Instead of propelling himself off the ledge, he turns and falls backwards off the building, giving over to the free fall. Two stories down, he catches the metal railing of the fire escape to slow his fall, the thick material on his gloves keeping him from tearing his palms to shreds. Muscles bunching, he pulls himself up just enough to get a foothold on the railing and then kicks off, twisting and catching the fire escape on the adjacent building a floor down. He lets go and lands with a muffled thud on the balls of his feet in the dark alleyway.

Peeking around the corner, he catches sight of a shattered store front window and two men tossing boxes into the back of a waiting vehicle where a third man is sitting in the driver's seat. A woman, the owner of the store Mike assumes, is lying on the ground, not moving. They aren't bothering with a lookout because people have a tendency to duck their heads and not see anything in his neighborhood, so unless a cop just happens to be coming by, these hoodlums have nothing to worry about.

Except for Mike.

He looks up at the streetlight illuminating the area across the street, raises his hand, and pushes. The bulb flickers and then it and the glass surrounding it explode, plunging the street into shadows. Mike affords himself a brief moment of mental victory; he had been practicing that for a while now—he is so a Jedi.

"Shit, hurry up, man." The driver leans across the passenger side seat and waves at the other two men. Just as he sits back up, there is flash of light and Mike is there. Mike staggers for a beat, a confusing moment where up and down lack meaning and his stomach does an unpleasant flip. He recovers quickly, the driver still taken aback by the sudden appearance of a masked man right next to his car door. Mike quickly capitalizes on the driver's confusion, grabbing the back of his shirt and slamming his face into the steering wheel hard enough to stun him. He grabs the keys out of the steering column and throws them, the arc worthy of a professional football player.

One of the looters drops the box he is holding and turns towards him, knife quickly coming to hand with the practiced ease of someone that uses one often. "What the fuck do you think you are doing? This ain't got nothing to do with you."

"Like hell it doesn't." Mike can feel the hot metal of the car through his pants as he slides across the hood, the engine already starting to ping as it cools. He ducks under a wild swing, catching the looter's arm and twisting his wrist until he is forced to drop the knife. He shoves the looter backwards, channeling just enough force into it to send the guy tumbling into the other one, who is just catching on that maybe he should have been running away while his buddy decided to play at being badass; they go down in a tangle of groaning limbs. After that it is ridiculously simple. He's on them before either can get up, zip ties at the ready. A few seconds later and both of them are tied to the door handles of the car—it'll hold them until the police can arrive.

The driver, finally gathering his bearings, leaps out of the car and takes off down the street, fearfully glancing over his shoulder. Mike stands, sighs, and shakes his head.

"Seriously, dude?" He raises his hand and closes his fist, tugging backwards as if pulling a rope. "Get back here. Now." The driver yelps as his feet are yanked hard out from under him and he is dragged back towards the vehicle.

"Don't kill me, don't kill me. Oh god, please don't kill me. I swear I didn't know what Jeff and Rick were planning. They just told me to drive."

"Yeah, right. And you totally thought they were helping that woman with her groceries. If you are going to lie, at least try to come up with a good one." Mike hauls him over to the street lamp, wraps the still babbling man's arms around it, and ties his hands together; he gives a tug on the bindings to make sure the man isn't going anywhere. Not surprisingly, the idiot is still babbling as if Mike is an axe murderer rather than a Good Samaritan. Granted, he is a Good Samaritan that just kicked the ass of three grown men in roughly under a minute without breaking a sweat (okay, he is sweating but that has more to do with the heat wave and the fact that he is covered head to toe in black clothing), but still what about him has even suggested that he would be the type of person to kill someone? Ignoring the stream of consciousness, Mike kneels next to the woman. A bloody gash runs along her hair line, but a quick check assuages Mike's fears—she is alive. He scoops up her cellphone from where the contents of her purse lie dumped across the pavement.

He rattles off the address of the store to the 911 operator, voice calm, cool, and level, all the while keeping a steady hand on the woman's back. She begins to stir as sirens fill the night air, her eyes going wide at the sight of him leaning over her. By the time the police cars screech to a halt in the middle of the street, he is already gone.

Score one for the good guys.


It's nearing three in the morning by the time he scales the rear side wall of his apartment building and shoves his window open. He crawls inside to the dark apartment, shedding his mask and gloves as he goes. Stretching, he lets out a soft moan, muscles tensing and then relaxing.

"You are a hard man to track down these days." The lamp next to his couch flicks on, bathing the room in soft yellow light.

Mike whirls around, hands raised in defense. "Son of a—. Trevor, what the hell are you doing in my apartment?"

"Nice way to greet your best friend."

Mike glares hard at him; his end table shakes and rattles, sending a glass tumbling off and bouncing across the floor.

"Okay, okay. Please don't send me to the cornfield. I need a favor." Trevor holds his hands up in a placating gesture, like he is trying to calm a gunman— it's slightly ruined by the smirk on his face.

"No."

"You didn't even give me a chance to say what it is."

"Is it illegal?"

"When you say 'illegal'. . ." Trevor grins, a sly up turn of his lips that always spells trouble.

"No," he growls.

"C'mon, Mike. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important."

"It's always important with you, man. I'm not getting sucked into this with you again. The last time I nearly got arrested!"

"I told you—I didn't know."

"And that's always your excuse." Mike crosses over to his front door and throws it open. "Get out."

"Dude, it's not a big deal. I would just need you to get something for me. In and out. With your skills, it would take like all of two seconds. And you'd get paid for it; I know you could use the money even if you are working at some hotshot law firm now. What's the point of having crazy ass powers if you don't get something out of it? The guy that told me about the job said Hardwick would pay big for this."

"Who the hell is Hardwick? No, ya know what? I don't want to know." Mike's face darkens, his grip tightening on the door. He forces himself to ease up; he doesn't want to have to come up with another excuse for why his door needs replaced. He takes a deep breath, trying to get his temper in check. It always seems to be just below the surface these days when Trevor is around. When he finally is able to continue, his voice is a controlled, angry simmer. "This right here," he gestures between the two of them, "this is the difference between you and me. You always expect something for doing absolutely nothing, always looking for the quick and easy. That's not my life anymore." He sighs and runs a hand across his face, suddenly exhausted. "Just . . . just go, okay?"

"Turned over a new leaf, huh? Don't give me that bullshit. I know you too well to believe that." Trevor casts one last look at him. Mike tries to ignore the desperation in it; it will only get him into more trouble. He shuts the door on his friend and his past, the high from saving the woman earlier now reduced to ash.

Sadly, Trevor's visits always have a way of getting under his skin, digging up things that he isn't proud of (it's painful to admit that there are a lot of things that he'd rather keep buried). There was a time, not all that long ago, where he followed Trevor's lead, no questions asked because he was young and stupid and desperately needed a friend. He's known Trevor basically his whole damn life, which by default makes him his best friend. Trevor is also the only person that knows Mike's secrets—all of them. Which is part of the problem, because the asshole uses that to his advantage. When Mike (and by extension Trevor because he couldn't not tell his best friend) figured out that he was more than just some nerdy, awkward kid with no parents, it suddenly became a game between them. "Dude, do your freaky mind thing and pull Ms. Anderson's chair out from under her" slowly became "Don't be a pussy, Ross; cause a distraction while I steal this shit" and then finally it was "So what if the cops figure out what is going on? You can just 'bamf' yourself away."

So yeah, he has a lot of guilt. He can't help Trevor anymore because the cost is too high, but he still feels like the worst person on the planet for cutting ties with his oldest friend. For someone that is super human, he feels incredibly small and helpless at times.