Chapter 3

Its been so long since I've been home

I've been gone, I've been gone way too long

Maybe I've forgotten all the things I miss

Oh, somehow I know there is more to life than this

Only God Knows

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Francis stared at the mirror then back at his mother. He turned back at the mirror.

"It's sticking up," he stated.

"That's the way your fath-" his mother began.

"I don't want it like dad's. If we're the same where's the individuality? I'll cut it myself," Francis answered, pushing his mother out the door. "Don't worry! It'll still look good."

He sat down and began cutting his blonde hair, the way he saw a character in a show he liked. He pulled his hand through his hair to make it slightly stick up.

"There. Just like Knives," he said nodding in consent. "That's just how I want it."

Something has been taken from deep inside of me.

A secret I kept locked away no one can ever see.

Wounds so deep they never show, they never go away.

Like moving pictures in my head for years and years they play.

Easier to Run

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Hot Streak stared at Static and smiled. So the great Static didn't even recognize his first enemy. It slightly amused him and at the same time, it made him happy that he recut his hair to how it was when he was twelve, before his mom died. Hot Streak then glanced down at the fallen Ebon.

"Why'd you shoot him?!" Static asked enraged.

He hated guns. Hot Streak already new that as he opened his gun up, lauging.

"It's really hard to shoot someone when the bullets aren't even real. They're just rubber," he lauged. "He's only knocked out. Besides, for the price of one measly bullet, I can eat four slices of pizza!"

Gear stared at Hot Streak. "What's your name anyway?"

Hot Streak automatically stopped lauging. "Do I have to? I get really nervous when I do, but if I must....Can't you just say I'm a lonely hunter searching for a family and someone to love?"

"He meant your name."

"Oh, m-my name? Well, um...it's...uh..." Hot Streak stammered. Dammit! What the hell am I supposed to say? Knives! That's it! I'll just say that. I look like him don't I? I'll just use his name."Knives."

"Knives? Is that your real name? Or just a wanna-be superhero name?" Virgil sneered.

"No. It's my real name. Honestly," Hot Streak answered. Okay so that's a lie.

Hot Streak turned on his heel and walked away, picking up his guitar case. What was he supposed to do? Tell them his real name? The superhero business had really taken its toll on the two. They were more muscular than he remembered and they had matured by about two percent. But then again, the army had done its job too. He now had extrememly good aim and his athletic abilities had increased also. The only downside to this was that he hadn't ignited in a while.

Static stared at "Knives". His short blonde hair swaying in the wind. He had wandered over to Hot Streaks old hang out and was now trying to bust his way in. He paused, scratching his head. He shrugged then walked away. He sat down on a park bench, took out his guitar from its case, and began playing.

" I see the city lights all around me Everyone's obscure Ten million people each with their problems Why should anyone care And in Your eyes I can see I am not just a man, vastly lost in this world Lost in a Sea of Faces Your body's the bread, Your blood is the wine Because you traded Your life for mine..." he sang.

"You're good, I'll give you that," Static said, floating down toward him.

"You think so? That's a song by Kutless," he answered, smiling. "I'm still practicing, but someday, when this all over, I hope to write my own songs."

"What do you mean by 'when this is all over'?"

Hot Streak stood up. "Static, it's hard when you're lost on the bridge between life and death. These people...these memories. I'd like to be rid of them. Someday, I'll be reunited with those lost to me. My friends, this city...my mother. Until then, I must stretch my wings and find the future that only I can search for. You must do the same."

Static stared at the young blonde. Those words sounded so similar to the ones Hot Streak had written on that paper. Who was he?