Luke Cage always hated the term "fugitive." It made it seem like he was some kind of animal who had escaped the slaughter. He wasn't some freak who needed to be put down, just a man who had been placed in a world he didn't belong in.
Luke had holed himself up at one of those old motels Harlem was famous for. Cheap curtains that kept the windows blind, and bed sheets that smelled like dried semen, and a hotel television set that only had one channel. Luke had always done his best to keep a low profile, keeping towards odd jobs that were off the books. Being paid in cash so that he wouldn't have a paper trail. He didn't need any one on his trail. Not when he was so close to his goal. And sure, opening that bar in Hell's Kitchen might not have been the best plan for a guy trying to keep a low profile, but he had made stupider mistakes. And Kilgrave's fire had destroyed any evidence that Luke Cage had even existed there.
Luke reached into his pockets and pulled out a deck of cards. He fiddled with the Ace of Hearts, ran his fingers across the King of Spades, and just counted each card until his mind went numb. The television fritzed and froze at different intervals, it was almost impossible to even understand what was on. Luke couldn't tell if it was a news report, or a crappy reality television show.
"Our top story tonight," said a cooled and calmed announcer over the static gave Luke his answer, "A young black man, Justin Williams, has been shot by Officer Smith earlier today."
Why did that sound so familiar?
"Officer Smith states that he victim was belligerent, and attempted to pull a weapon when the officer asked for identification."
Bullshit. Luke thought. He flipped his playing cards over and over, ace of diamonds swapped for Queen of hearts. He tapped the corner of his deck against the table. Tap. Tap. Tap. It was a nervous tick he picked up on the run. He always had to keep an eye out for blaring sirens, and weasel-eyed snitches. He had learned, from years of experience, that you couldn't rust anyone. Least of call cops. Nuthin' but bullshit.
"Officer Smith's report states that Williams even had a criminal record before-hand. Details are still being revealed." Luke turned his head to the faint glow of the TV set. In between the gray static and lack of reception, was a picture of a young black man, probably no older than eighteen. "We've gotten a picture of the late Williams now," the reporter said. Williams was a young man with a dark complexion, a stout, strong chin that seemed to point in a straight line, and a soft gleam in his brown eyes. Anyone with common fucking sense could tell that boy wasn't a threat to a damn spider. Luke had been incarcerated, he had seen men get their teeth beaten out. He had seen men bleed out over their bedside because they said the wrong thing to the wrong guy. Luke Cage had seen monsters in the shape of men; cold killers who didn't even know the value of life, let alone how to show respect for it.
"However the NYPD has gone on record stating that they intend to look into the incident and ensure the proper actions were taken," the reporter said as she shuffled her papers.
"That's bullshit," Luke said as he shook his head. "Some New York cop takes out a kid and the NYPD is investigating it?" Luke scoffed, "That's like having Nazis investigate the damn Holocaust." And they even mentioned this kid's record, almost as if they were making excuses for his death, Luke thought. Tapping his cards harder and harder against the wooden finish of the table. The wood was beginning to splinter on the pressure of his strength. Oh, it's alright folks, he was just a thug, no need to get worked the fuck up. Luke clenched his fists, and his cards crumbled in his hands. He needed to be careful, his strength was greater than that of anyone else. He needed to show restraint at all times…which meant constant control. He didn't have the luxury of losing his temper, or slamming his fists against the tables…even though he wanted to.
This shit never changes. Luke Cage was framed. Drugs placed on his person by a guy he believed was his friend. When the cops found him, it was jail time with no chance of bail. Hell, white guys got off for more murder, but a black guy with pot? If Kilgrave had been convicted, Luke knew the worst thing that would happen to him was community service (and he'd be given it without needing to mind control the judge and jury). But even still, Luke counted himself lucky…being black in this country was reason enough to be shot. He had always been big for his age, with a black countenance, a shaped goatee and muscular frame he was considered a threat just by walking through a door. And that was before the experiment that gave him his abilities.
As a way to gain a shorter sentence, Luke Cage, or rather Carl Lucas, had volunteered for some kind of experiment. A recreation of the super soldier serum that turned Steve Rogers into a living legend. He took the deal, and now he was what he was. A man who had been given strength, and a pardon from his sentencing as long as he could keep himself out of sight. He changed his name to Luke Cage. To the world, Carl Lucas had died in the experiment.
It was better that way. Luke was given a second chance, but Justin Williams wasn't. No, Luke knew that behind the reporter's fake smiles, and the regretful looks of the NYPD, they were all silently glade that this young man was gone. One less thug to rob liquor stores. One less leech to mooch off the system. One less black man to change the hearts and minds of an entire nation. One less black man to create the next grand piece of technology. One less black man to run for president. One less black man to lead the world into a bright new tomorrow. Luke knew he was dangerous, and not because of his strength or his unbreakable skin, but because of something far more potent. He was dangerous because he was alive. To the world at large, the only thing scarier than a black man, is a black man who is still alive to tell his story.