Disclaimer: I only own the plot and my OCs. Anything you recognize as not mine belongs to Marvel Studios, Disney, and/or their otherwise respective owners.

Author's Notes: Hey, everyone! Hope you guys are excited for this chapter, I know I am. ;)

Title comes from Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People.

See y'all next week,

~TGWSI/Selene Borealis

~the heavy souls 'verse~

~heavy, dirty soul~

~chapter 24: pumped up kicks~

The call woke him up in the middle of the night.

Groaning, Tony reached for his phone blindly, feeling Steve shift against him. He didn't bother looking at the screen for the caller ID, just pressed the green button and placed his phone against his ear. "Whoever the fuck this is, it better be important," he snarled.

"Tony," Steve chided him gently, wrapping an arm around his torso.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Stark," came the voice on the other end. At first, he didn't recognize it, even though it sounded familiar. By the time that he did, the owner of the voice was already confirming it for him, saying, "This is George Stacy, Chief of Police for the Queens borough. I have a murder case that might require your expertise."

Steve's hold on him stiffened slightly. Tony tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. Honestly, he didn't know why he had even agreed to fall asleep in the first place. "Something-something true love" and all that. "What, are you expecting a killer robot to be the culprit or something?"

There was a pause on the other side of the line.

"Not exactly," Stacy said finally.

"What is it, then?"

"I think you'd better come down here and see it yourself," was the response. Another pause. "You might want to bring one of the other Avengers along with you, too. Preferably your fiancé, Captain Rogers, but Ms. Romanoff would do as well."

"Now?"

"That would be preferable," agreed the chief. "Please, Dr. Stark. I'll owe you a favor if you do."

Turning around, Tony looked at Steve through the darkness. They communicated silently: him with a raised eyebrow, Steve with a roll of his eyes that would have been uncharacteristic of him in any other situation. After a moment, Tony said, "Alright, Chief Stacy. We'll be right over. Text me the address."

Before Stacy could reply, he hung up the phone and put it back on his nightstand. "I'm going to need coffee," he grumbled.

"And a change of clothes," pointed out Steve, nipping his ear playfully.

Tony humored him for all of four seconds before he sighed. "Come on, lover boy. Let's get ready to go to Queens."

Forty-five minutes later, Tony didn't know what he had been expecting.

Chief Stacy had been purposefully vague when he'd asked them to come in, saying nothing about what the murder case had involved. He'd tried imagining on the drive over what could have been so important as to require their "expertise"immediately, but nothing he'd come up with had seemed like it could be so dire.

And none of it had been even remotely close to the truth.

Looking away from the window into the morgue, he looked at Chief Stacy. The man stared back at him, grim-faced. "Are you seriously telling me that almost every drop of blood in that kid's body is gone?" he questioned.

"I had them rush the autopsy as soon as I got wind of who he was. The coroner wasn't too happy about it, but he understood. The Thompsons are family friends. My daughter and Flash used to play together when they were young, before they had their falling out and Harrison became ill," Stacy explained. "And yes, according to the coroner, the cause of death was hypovolemia, or exsanguination. He said he's never seen anything like it before. Eugene bled out in less than twenty-five minutes, according to him."

Steve rubbed at his jaw with his hand, looking both tired and disturbed. "Are those...fang marks?"

"Puncture wounds," the chief of police corrected him mildly. "He's not sure what caused them. Whatever did, they went deep enough to hit the artery. They are also what caused his death. Eugene was thrown against the brick wall of a nearby building enough to sustain an injury to the back of his head, but he was still alive when it happened. Death came later."

"Christ," Tony muttered.

Steve's eyes flitted over to him, then back to Stacy. "Are...are the parents here?"

"Nasrin is. She's very distraught, doesn't understand how this could have happened." The chief stared at him. "That's why I called you. I wanted to make sure she knew that we would have the best of the best on this case."

"I'm not sure what you want us to do here, Stacy," admitted Tony. "Or what we can do. We've dealt with aliens, gods, and killer robots, yeah, but vampires? That's a little too close to fantasy for my liking. And with public opinion about us the way it is right now..." Trailing off, he waved his hand.

Stacy shrugged. "You're Earth's mightiest heroes. Whatever you do, Dr. Stark, Mr. Rogers, it will be enough."

With that, he left the room.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Tony turned back to the window. He felt bile rising up in his throat, looking at the kid on the table. Because, no matter what he had supposedly said or done, no matter how much of an asshole he was, Flash Thompson was – had been – still a kid. He was – had been – Harley's age, with parents who were surely going to grieve for their only child. All because some fucking vampire, or whatever else could possibly do this, had sucked his blood, killing him.

Grabbing his hand, Steve squeezed it tenderly. "We should call Nat," he said. "She might have some ideas about what to do."

"What, did you guys find some information on vampires at that HYDRA base you just went to and didn't tell me?" At Steve's blank look, he sighed. "Sorry, I just think maybe a vampire hunter would be more helpful for this right now, but I wouldn't even know who to call or text for that. Last I checked, Buffy is a completely fictional character."

"You should text Evelyn," his fiancé replied. "Give her a heads up about the news Harley's going to get tomorrow morning. I mean, they're going to have to tell him and his classmates, right?"

"Yeah, I should," Tony agreed.

. . .

. . .

Spoiler alert: he didn't.

By the time the thought occurred to him, it was already nine o'clock in the morning. He and Steve had spent the rest of their time at the police station getting as much information as they could and consoling Nasrin Thomas, the grieving mother of Flash. Then, they'd gone directly back to the Tower to hold a meeting with the others. It'd been short, just a briefing, but enough to fill everybody in on what was going on.

Sam had looked equal parts disturbed and fascinated. "You mean we've got a baby Dracula roaming the streets of New York now?"

Pietro had frowned. "What makes you think this person is new to this?"

"Besides the fact this is the first body that's turned up?" After Pietro had agreed, he'd continued with, "This doesn't look like a murder somebody other than an amateur would have done. Look at this," he pointed at the bruises on Flash's wrists, which were in the shape of fingertips. They'd been the second-to-last injuries the boy had received before he'd died. "Nobody would leave these if they were experienced and not wearing gloves. It's only luck that the rain washed off the fingerprints on top of them and any other identifying marks of the killer. Plus, the kid was in the same place where he died, right? Not smart, especially when it's not that far away from Thompson's school. Too many people might recognize both him and the killer."

"I agree," Natasha had said, holding up a picture of the crime scene. Besides Flash's blood on the brick wall, there hadn't been much evidence left remaining. No evidence at all, actually. "An experienced person didn't do this. They didn't know what they were doing. The perpetrator is somebody his age, probably. Did Eugene have any enemies at school?"

All of their eyes had turned to him at that.

Tony had shifted in his seat. "Not that I'm aware of. From what Harley's told me, Flash was the bully type, but short of one incident it didn't seem to be anything too serious."

"And who was he involved with in this 'incident?'" Natasha had asked.

The image of Penny Parker from the hologram had flashed – pun not intended – through his mind, just for a moment. The reserved nature of her smile, the look that had been in her eyes. He hadn't noticed it before, but once he'd thought about it, he'd thought that look was...fear.

Quickly, just as soon as it had come to him, he'd discarded the idea. He didn't know what was going on with Penny Parker, but it wasn't this.

Of that, he had been sure.

"Not anyone who could have done this."

Natasha had pursed her lips, but she'd dropped the subject. "Do you think Harley would know of anyone else who could've?"

"Maybe," he'd allowed. "I'll text him."

But Harley, as it turned out, had already beaten him to it. After the briefing was over, he turned on his phone and found a few text messages from the kid already there.

Harley: What the fuck is going on

Harley: My bio teacher just told me flash is dead?

Harley: Who the fuck killed him

He looked at the time on his phone. The kid was probably in his Pre-Calc class, provided his day hadn't gotten derailed by this mess.

Tony: Don't tell anyone else, but we're trying to figure that out. Do you know of anyone at your school who might have held a grudge against him?

The three dots that signified the kid was typing appeared, then went away. Forty seconds later, appeared, then went away. Then, after what seemed like an eternity:

Harley: Not anyone that I know of, but I didn't know him that well. I can ask around, if you'd like

Tony: No, I'm sure the police officers will already be doing that. You don't need to be drawing in unwanted attention on yourself. Focus on paying attention in your classes.

Tony: For what it's worth, I'm sorry about your classmate.

Harley: Yeah, yeah, mechanic

Harley: I'm sorry, too. He was an asshole, but he didn't deserve to die.

Turning off his phone, Tony put it back in his pocket and looked at Steve, the only other person remaining in the room now. Everybody else had left. "You know, it's funny," he commented dryly. "One second, everything with the kid is fine, the next there's a girl at his school who might have something going on with her and one of his other classmates ends up dead."

"Have you found anything else about her?" Steve inquired. Like any good fiancé, Tony had filled him in the second he had gotten back from his mission. There were no secrets between them.

"I haven't looked into her since Friday." He idly scratched at his arm. "I don't want to make a big deal out of nothing. For all I know, she's just depressed. Maybe even emo."

"Maybe you should," suggested Steve. "It wouldn't hurt to look a bit further."

"Maybe," he echoed.

But, he had no intentions of doing any such thing.

Not yet, at least.

Four days later, the second body showed up.

This time, it was eight blocks from the Midtown School of Science and Technology, the proximity, cause of death, and two puncture wounds on the neck being the only thing in common with the first killing. The victim was a man in his mid-thirties, a guy who had been six-foot easy with a rap sheet just as long. Robbery, assault, sexual assault, evading arrest.

Tony felt something akin to being mildly impressed as he, Steve, and Natasha now stood in the police station, looking at the body. "If this is a teenager doing this, they've got to have super strength," he mused out loud, looking at the man's broken and mangled arm. "No way they could do this if not."

Natasha wasn't as enthralled. "They're still an amateur." Her sight snapped speculatively over to Stacy, and she crossed her arms. "Still no evidence?"

"There have been no fingerprints, if that's what you're asking," the man responded. "No hairs, either."

"What about cameras?"

"Conveniently, she's been using the alleys with no cameras to get around. We think she instinctively knows how to avoid them if she's enhanced, and if not knows the alleys in the area well enough to do so anyways."

"'She?'" Steve repeated. "You know the murderer's a girl?"

"A guess." Stacy gestured at the puncture wounds on the man through the glass. "Forensics and the coroner both say that she forced him down to the ground to get the placement of that bite, but had to stand up on her tiptoes for the one on Eugene Thompson's. That places her at around five-foot-one, five-foot-two."

"It's definitely a girl," confirmed Natasha. "Smaller hands and fingertip bruises on Eugene's wrists. Combined with this victim's history of sexual assault and Flash's history of bullying...both of these might have been unexpected kills for her, but they display a pattern. She has a type."

Slowly, an image was beginning to form in his mind of what the killer was presumably like. Tony wasn't sure if he liked it. "You think she's a vigilante, Nat," he stated.

"If she's not now, she will be soon. Think about it," was the reply. "We have an enhanced, teenaged girl, possibly having to supplement her diet with human blood, and probably a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. Little to no trust in men, as well as authority figures if her abuse was never disclosed."

Steve looked like he was going to be sick. "Oh, no."

Natasha nodded gravely.

Stacy stared at the three of them. "What? What is it?"

They all shared a look.

"We don't try to stop vigilantes, Chief," Tony explained. "And even if we did, this case would go beyond the pale."

"What?" Stacy looked outraged, and understandably so.

Shit, he thought, grimacing.

"There's several vigilantes, or groups of vigilantes, in New York City. You know them: Daredevil, Cloak and Dagger, the Defenders, the Punisher." Steve winced at the mention of the latter. "We don't try to stop them, it isn't our jurisdiction to. And even if we did, this girl isn't going to come in without a fight if we tried."

Stacy scoffed. "So, what you're saying is, you're not going to help."

"We'll help with the behind-the-scenes stuff, trying to figure out an identity for her," he promised.

"But you're not going to want us to do anything else, Chief Stacy," Steve interjected. "This would be, at the very least, the three of us going up against an enhanced individual in the streets. But if we had to bring in the others to contain her...think of the damage, then look at what happened in Sokovia. The press would have a field day."

"Sometimes doing the right thing means getting some bad publicity," snapped Stacy. "You of all people should know this."

Natasha didn't blink. "We do, which is why we're saying we're not going to do this. You don't want the attention this would garner if we did. We're sorry."

They waited until they had left the police station to say anything else. Tony ran a hand over his face, while Steve sighed and Natasha rapped her fingers against the steering wheel. She looked at him through the rearview mirror; their eyes locked, and he saw the emotions going through her mind. Emotions he was dealing with himself. "What are you thinking, boys?"

"Probably the same thing you are."

The former spy arched an eyebrow. "Well then, humor me."

Steve groaned. "This is bad."

"I think we already established that."

Turning his head away from both of them, Tony glanced out through the car window. He took in a deep breath and shifted his weight, thinking about what was undoubtedly going to come next. The bodies that were going to pile up. The press conferences with the police. The tracking down of a teenaged girl who would have every right to fear the police, even without her future of killing people. Killing more people, he meant. And that was provided they or the police were even able to track her down at all.

This was going to be awful. New York City already had one serial killing vigilante on its hands, it really didn't need another.

Suddenly, something else occurred to him. He felt his face blanch.

Oh, shit.

"What is it, Tony?" Steve asked. "What are you thinking?"

"The girl. There's a reason why we haven't found her fingerprints," he said, looking down at his own hands and flexing them experimentally. "Fingerprints are made of a combination of sweat and oil. She doesn't have either of those things, I'll bet. And it's why they're not going to find any fingerprints from her in the future."

"She's not just enhanced," Natasha continued his train of thought, her expression becoming dark. "Somebody's been doing genetic experimentation."

Steve let loose an expletive.

Tony felt too disgusted at the thought of somebody experimenting on a teenaged girl to tease him over it.

Five days later, they found a third body.

Three days after that, the fourth.

That was when the news began to pick the story up. The vigilante was beginning to set a pattern: men, ranging from their mid-twenties to late forties, always found in alleys and most of them with raps or accusations of sexual assault and rape. The cause of death was always exsanguination, or at least it was until the eighth and ninth bodies were found. Only one of them had been bled to death in that case, the other having had his heart quite literally ripped from his chest.

George Stacy was keeping his cards from the general public and the press, but he did give them pretty much everything he had. Unfortunately, it wasn't much. With no fingerprints or traces of DNA to go off of, the saliva on the victims' (not that he liked calling all of them except Flash that, because they weren't) always being wiped off with rubbing alcohol, the only thing they could go off of was the pattern. Not that there was much of one, outside of the details just given. After the first two, the victims were now being found all over the place: Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, Manhattan. The seventh had even been found in Hell's Kitchen.

(An idea had formed in his head at that, but he still wasn't quite sure if he would go through with it.)

Oh, and then there were also the videos. Two of them.

The first one was from a surveillance camera not far from where the fourth body had been found. Stacy had sent it to them as soon as his forensics specialists had discovered it. The footage itself was grainy, and the vigilante only appearing for a couple of seconds. But, it was enough to get a first glance of her. She was short, standing roughly at the height they'd estimated, with a curly bob of dark hair and an outfit that made him want to ask just what the hell she'd been thinking when she'd come up with it. There was a slice of skin between her black shorts and equally black knee socks, revealing her skin color, at least.

"She looks like a fucking corpse," Sam had marveled the first time they'd seen the footage.

Steve hadn't even looked up. "Sam."

"What? She does! You've ever seen someone that pale?"

"I don't know," Pietro had said, sounding thoughtful. "She looks more like a wurdulac to me."

Wanda had kicked her brother underneath the table in response.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You're not being helpful."

The second video was one taken by a kid named Eddie Brock and uploaded to YouTube. It was a lot better than the first, because this time they actually had footage of the vigilante in action, though Brock's hand had been shaking the entire time. The vigilante had sauntered towards her victim, her frame backlit by the streetlights, revealing her hair to be dark brown in color. "Oh, please don't run away, Mr. Rapist," she'd said, her voice childish and high. "I just want to play! Don't you want to play with me?"

"Get the fuck away from me!" her victim had screamed.

"What the fuck," Brock had breathed.

After he'd finished watching the video for the first time, Tony had been inclined to agree with him. Brock had never managed to catch the vigilante's face, but he could vividly imagine the smile she'd been wearing as she'd killed her target.

Unfortunately, since the video was uploaded onto YouTube, and because the Brock kid had been idiotic enough to edit a song into it, the vigilante was quickly pushed into a greater spotlight in the news. She was given a name, too, after the song that Brock had used. Lolita.

It wasn't the first choice Tony would have given her for a name and he thought the vigilante would probably agree with that, but it was what it was.

Clint had called up Natasha after he'd seen the video. The two of them had spoken a bit, before Nat had handed over her phone to him without another word. "What do you need, Legolas?" he'd asked. "You're supposed to be enjoying your semi-retirement."

"Oh, I am. I was just wondering if there was anything you needed me to do. Seems like you've got quite the situation there in New York right now."

Tony had debated his answer. "Not right now, no." He'd looked across the room where Steve had been standing, his arms crossed and concern etched onto his face. "I don't think the situation's that dire yet. The second it is, though..."

He didn't need to be a genius to know what the others were thinking about the new kid on the block. Steve was worried as he always was, not for Lolita's victims so much as he was for the girl herself, with the knowledge she'd possibly been experimented on against her will. Natasha was aloof, probably seeing something in the vigilante that she saw in herself. Pietro and Wanda were interested, as was Vision; the three of them had never seen anything like this before. Nobody had.

Sam and Rhodey, once the latter came back from yet another mission the military had sent him on, just wanted this to be over with as fast as possible, which was basically the entire group's opinion on the Punisher as well. Tony was almost inclined to agree with them. But...

Personally, he found himself vacillating between sympathy and dread. Knowing what Pietro and Wanda had gone through with HYDRA, thinking of what it would be like if Harley had somehow been put into this situation, it was doing something to him. He didn't really know why. But Steve, ever the caring fiancé, noticed this. "There's nothing we can do, Tony," he told him one night while they were preparing for bed. "Not right now."

"I know, I know," he sighed. He turned around in their bed miserably, his mind, as always, racing at a thousands of thoughts per second. "It just," he took in a deep breath, "it doesn't bother you?"

"You know it does. But we don't know enough about Lo – her," Steve corrected himself, taking off his shirt and his belt. His fiancé didn't care much for the name, either. "For all we know, she's doing this willingly."

An image of Harley popped up in his mind. Harley, bent over a toilet and throwing up the contents of his stomach, his skin paler than it'd been when he and Steve had visited him that first time in the hospital and with dark bruises underneath his eyes. He felt his stomach twist painfully.

"No kid would do this willingly, I promise you," Tony said. He closed his eyes. "But, you're right. I really hate it when you're the voice of reason, you know that? It's supposed to be my job."

Steve chuckled, falling onto the mattress next to him after he'd gotten off his pants and socks. "Love you, too. Now, go to sleep."

If there was one thing that was for sure, though, as Tony fell asleep after roughly ten minutes, it was this:

His previous concerns over Penny Parker now couldn't be farther from his mind in light of Lolita.

Word Count: 4,109

Next Chapter Title: take me to church