Disclaimer: I don't own Kick-Ass. The movie or the comic. This story, on the other hand, is mine. The plot is mine. The characters are mine. The setting is mine. While I drew inspiration for this fanfic from watching "Kick-Ass", I may or may not even use the characters from the comic or the movie, until I decide for certain at a later date. Until that time, this fanfic belongs to me and me alone. Anyone is free to use my characters to use in their own fanfics, but I'm claiming credit first.

Warning: Alright. I'll give y'all fair warning. There MIGHT be slight racial references in this fanfic of mine, including some graphic violence and harsh language, possible adult themes later on. Don't like, don't read. I'm not forcing you.

But, if you plan to issue insults and needless critisms in your reviews (if you chose to even leave any), just don't bother. I'll delete any useless reviews anyway.

I'm done here. Let's get this show on the road.

Marker!

Chapter 2: Suit Up

It's past midnight now. The date is November 14, 2009, as of today. The night's chill is a welcome relief to the choking humidity of the day-time. Sometimes it gets too damn hot here in Los Angeles.

Thankfully for me, Theodore Roosevelt High School was only three blocks away from the Evergreen Cemetery. Took me only fifteen minutes to get there.

Breaking in was easy, at least. Thanks to lock-picking kit I…procured from my old man, the school doors were quickly unlocked, and a quick sprint toward the alarm system, I had disconnected the power cable from the keypad set next to the principal's office. Not a permanent solution, but it should give me a few minutes, maybe ten if I'm lucky. At some point, another security measure will go off if power to the keypad isn't reset. I'd have to be quick.

I managed to unlock the Teacher's Lounge doors with relative ease, closing it shut behind me and locking it, just in case someone came in early and didn't find an unlocked door. The room was dark; only light came in through the windows from the street lamps. It didn't help much, so I brought out my LED flashlight, keeping my fist closed around the light face to keep the light glare minimum and not attract unwanted attention.

Found Coach Clements' desk. I started pulling out some drawers. Letters, mostly, applications for assigning his star P.E. students into new sports programs, set them up for getting into the big leagues.

Hello, what do we have here? A letter of refusal from the sports committee, issued to Don Tray. "Due to your affiliations and poor school record regarding academics and disreputable reputation, we as the Sports Committee regret to inform you your request for application has been denied until further notice."

That must've been why he stayed behind with the Coach. Guess that crosses him off as a candidate for murder suspect, or affiliate. Still, there had to be something else.

I left the teacher's lounge, locking up once again, and I set off toward the Gymnasium. I made an immediate route to the locker room. According to the roster back in Coach Clements' office, Don's locker was 46F. For some reason, no had deigned to empty it out yet. Maybe they thought it would keep morale up with the seniors by keeping Don's stuff untouched, at least for the time being.

Ah, here it is. Maybe he left something in here I could use to tie together this fractured picture.

Knife tip slip through, a slight twist, and presto! Open locker. Not much in here; photos of old girlfriends and group shots of he and his sports buddies, sweaty shorts, muscle shirt, cleats, deodorant, cologne, small plastic black bag…

Small black bag? Interesting.

I reach for it, felt something hard and cold, and metal. I feel a handle, and a hole ring, as well as a sharp tip like a trigger.

I freeze.

Holy shit. Don was packing a firearm, and brought it to school? What was he thinking, wanting to start a school-ground massacre?

Thankfully, my gloves covered the fingers to prevent any risk of leaving behind fingerprints, so I carefully pulled the firearm free from the plastic bag, revealing the hand gun in all its glory.

The weight was solid, but also light in my grasp. I recognized it as a 9mm Glock 19, a dark gray semi-auto pistol that actually worked as a medium-strength armor-piercer. These guns could blast a hole through Kevlar vests.

Curious, I turned the pistol around in my hands, looking at the butt end of the pistol handle. No serial number. This gun wasn't just without serial numbers. It never HAD serial numbers, meaning it was fresh off the assembly line and unregistered in the weapon-system database, otherwise untraceable.

Holy shit.

Feeling the need to keep the weapon, I slipped the gun into my jacket's left-side hand pocket, and turned my attention back to the black bag, seeing there were more items inside.

I get a second surprise when my fingers brush a thick stack of paper bound in the middle with a paper strip. Third time's the charm when my pinky hits the unmistakable surface of a glass tube belonging to a syringe.

I withdraw the items, seeing a stack of hundred-dollar bills equaling as much, if not more, to ten grand in freshly printed bills. The syringe was already filled with some chemical substance, a milky-red liquid lighter than blood.

I hear a noise on the ground near my feet, and I look down, seeing a photo. I knelt, picked it up, and shined my flashlight on it, getting a better look at the picture. It showed this aging storehouse building made of faded-red brick with green garage doors and had all the windows boarded up, Don resting his arm around the neck of some Hispanic guy in the photo in a friendly fashion, holding up his hand in some euphemism of a gang sign. By all appearances, the building belonged in some backstreet ghetto.

Score one for instinct. Either Don was involved with some of the more dangerous gangs dealing with drugs and firearms, or, as the firearm suggests, involved with a much more intricate crime syndicate. Either scenario wasn't good, and both would explain Don's sudden murder.

The real question was, where was he killed, and what prompted the execution in the first place?

Curious, I flipped the picture over in my hand, found some writing in marker scribbled down. I clicked my flashlight on. It read: 1(059)544-7325.

Possible phone number to the Hispanic guy in the photo? The numbers in parentheses wasn't our area code. Have to look into later. Somehow I've got to find this warehouse, but I can't risk showing the photo around to anyone asking questions. Some of them might be affiliated with this Hispanic thug and alert the rest of their posse. And however simply I could've just handed the evidence in this locker over to the authorities, instinct compelled me to do it alone, trust no one.

I close the locker quietly, putting the money stack and syringe into my jacket pocket and turn to the door, only I stop, frozen, when I hear some noises outside.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Footsteps. Fuck, someone's coming.

My flashlight clicks off silently, and I hug my back against the lockers adjacent to the doorway, listening for the voices coming closer, getting more distinct, more clear. Two of them, both males, probably a little bigger than if their steps are any indication.

"You sho' dis de place, man'?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure. News listed 'im goin' to this school. Now shut the fuck up 'afore someone hears us, 'aight?"

Speaker #1 is definitely Spanish, accent and tone and all. Speaker #2 must be some ghetto Caucasian.

My Kabar hunting knife hisses only slightly as I draw it, holding it with the blade pointing down in a reversed grip, waiting for the guys to enter the threshold.

The door swings open, and the first guy enters is the Hispanic man, hair scraggly, facial hair dominating the span of his average face. He could've been no more than twenty, thirty tops. He clicks on a flashlight, scanning around the lockers in front of him as his partner enters just three paces behind, looking bored.

My arm is curled, holding the knife in my left hand. Using the strength of my muscles in my shoulder and triceps, my arm extends in an instant, driving the blade of my knife through the guy's ribs and burying the metal up to the hilt of my weapon. He grunted, loudly, then gasped, feeling the blade pierce the vital tissue of his heart.

What happened next was what could only be described as like a slow-motion movie scene. Adrenaline had shot through my system, not only giving more strength and enhanced reflexes, but also enhanced my perception, seeing everything move slower than normal.

The grunt from the Hispanic guy's partner draws the attention of said Spaniard, and he turns in a flourish, hand going straight to his back, most likely where he'd stored his gun in his pant's waist band as his flashlight's glow partially blinded me. My flashlight clicks on in my free hand as my left arm keeps a firm hold on the knife hilt, using it like a lever to spin my first victim in front of me to act as my shield. Not but a fraction of a second later, the second man draws his pistol, aims at my direction, and fires off countless rounds, all hitting either the lockers behind me, or sinking into my human shield. Only my own flashlight keeping the gunman blind to me saved me from getting shot.

Instinct takes over. My right hand still holding my flashlight keeping the gunman blind to me, my left hand releases the knife still in my human-shield, and slides into my jacket pocket, grips the handle of the Glock 19, tilting the muzzle upward to the general direction of my attacker, and pull the trigger three times in rapid succession, tearing holes through my jacket's pocket.

The flashlight falls. I can't hear it as the thunderous retorts of gunfire in the cramped space of the locker room nearly deafened my sensitive hearing, but I can see for myself how the Hispanic man drops to his knees, holding his bleeding belly as a dark stain around his chest also blossoms scarlet on his shirt. He dies in less than a minute from drowning in his blood.

I let my former human shield drop, dead, hitting the floor like a sack of heavy meat. He must've died within seconds of my knife hitting his heart. His back is riddled with holes, each one weeping scarlet.

My adrenaline rush dies down, and shock makes my nerves go haywire once more, though much more subdued than last time I experienced this. This wasn't from killing these guys, but from the upclose experience of exchanging gunfire. The deafening retorts, the recoil of the guns as they fire their ammo, and the smell of cordite from the gunpowder discharges. It's more than what I've been used to.

I can't let my shock get the better of me. Someone was bound to hear the gunshots, and I couldn't stick around. I got what I needed from Don's locker, but I needed some info on these guys. I kneel down to inspect their pockets, finding their wallets and cell phones easily enough. When I kneel down next to the Hispanic guy, a sharp pain flares around my gut, making me hiss in discomfort. I look down, see nothing next to the black of my shirt, and felt around the fabric, feeling something wet touch my fingers, and warm.

Ah, fuck. Guess that bastard managed to get a lucky shot on me. Adrenaline must've dulled my sense of pain when the bullet hit. I didn't know for certain which organs did or didn't get hit, but I couldn't wait around to see for myself. With both wallets and mobiles in my possession, I made a hasty retreat out of the school, not bothering to reset any of the security measures left disabled. I didn't have the time to spare.

Ten blocks later, the pain is getting worse around my belly, promising more agony to come later. I couldn't tell if I was just bleeding out, or if one of my organs had been damaged, the pain made distinction of feeling around in my body almost impossible, but I knew for one thing: I couldn't afford to go to the hospital. Anyone who came in with gunshot wounds would be interrogated by the police, and with those fuckers I've left dead in the locker room, it wouldn't take long to put two and two together after the coroners ascertained the time of death for those dead bastards and the correlation of my own injuries.

Shit. I knew I was gonna regret this later, but I couldn't take a chance. I jogged over to the closest payphone and slipped in two quarters, dialing a number belonging to a friend I could only hope would be willing to help me. The phone rings three times, each one making me hold my breath, and by the fourth ring, the line clicks and I hear the voice of my friend, Marcus.

"Hello, this is Marcus. Who's callin'?"

"Marcus, it's me, Jilliad."

"Jill. Hey, what's up, bud?"

No sense in beating around the bush. I was bleeding bad. "I've been shot in the gut, and I can't go to the hospital. It's a long story, but I need your help."

"Whoa, whoa, dude! Please tell me you're joking. You can't be serious."

"Marcus, pay attention. I've got a bullet hole the size of a quarter in my belly three inches to the left of my navel, and I'm bleeding badly. I've got no time for any bullshit, are you coming to get me?"

Six seconds pass. Each one feels like a minute.

"Tell me where you are."

Half an hour later, Marcus has me tied to his dad's dining room table, strapped down to keep me from flailing about as he cuts into my stomach, opening the skin and muscle while I'm sedated on painkillers to numb a horse. Tells me it's his own special cocktail of chemicals to keep one numb to pain, gives them the strength of ten men, and keeps the bleeding from any sustained wounds from sending you into shock. All I feel is a sick revulsion/fascination as I watch Marcus plunge his medical tweezers into the entry wound of the bullet, slowly pulling the projectile out, and the slight burning sensation of numbness around where he's operating.

Gotta hand it to a guy who's got a doctor for a dad. My old man was a soldier and I'm using what he taught me to kill people. Go figure.

"Alright.", Marcus said, followed by the sound of metal hitting metal, the bullet dropping into a chrome pan maybe. "All done. Luckily no major organs were hit, just a tear around your large intestines. Just need to stitch you up."

"Sear the wound closed." I rasped harshly.

He turns his head to me, eyebrow cocked at me incredulously. "You're serious?"

I nod.

He sighs, taking a rag and covering my eyes. A courtesy to keep me from panicking when he does it, no doubt. I barely feel a pinch when one of his heated tools goes about searing my flesh shut. Once finished, he pulls the rag off my face and gets to stitching me up, just a precaution incase my wound reopens.

Another twenty minutes roll off the clock. I'm watching the clock set above the stove in Marcus' kitchen in a drowsy daze; each time I blink another two or three minutes disappear from my notice.

"Done. All that's left is to get your system cleared from the drugs. Mind you, this might make you pass out."

Ah, hell. I knew I wasn't gonna like this.

The sense of touch returns to me in a swath of warmth spreading from my insides-out, like I was frozen numb and immersed in hot water to return feeling back again. The pain in my belly is slight, nothing more than a burn, but when I make a move to sit up, the burning enflames like my flesh is ignited from within, and an agonized groan escapes me.

"Calm down, buddy. Just take it nice and slow."

Gotta give Marcus his due credit. He did a damn good job on me. I should be having my guts spilling out of my belly. Instead I've got a mere discomfort to deal with in the coming weeks. A bargain trade if I've ever had one.

The lashings holding me down are removed, and I carefully roll over off the table, setting my feet down on the floor one at a time, bracing for the inevitable vertigo. Once I'm standing upright, my vision swims and sways in time with my unsteady body, but I keep hold on my balance through sheer willpower. Marcus is next to me, keeping his hands close to my shoulders in case I stumble. My hand goes to the patch covering my first bullet wound.

"Careful, Jill. That's still tender. Give it about a week to heal, then the stitches can come out."

I nodded, grateful for all Marcus' help. No doubt you're wondering, 'Why the fuck would it take only a week before he can remove any stitches after getting SHOT? He hasn't got powers of healing like Wolverine.'

Well, I don't heal as rapidly like Wolverine from the X-Men, but apparently I inherited some good genes allowing me to heal just a slight bit quicker than your average meat-bag. I also have a much stronger constitution. It'd probably take a shotgun round to kill me outright.

"So, Jilliad. Tell me, what are you doing with these wallets and mobiles in your jacket pockets?"

I turn to Marcus, seeing him holding the wallets and cell phones of the guys I left for dead at the school. There was a calm, but expectant expression on his face, and I knew no amount of bullshit would fool him.

Taking a seat on the dinner table's chair, I motioned Marcus to sit down. He did, waiting patiently for my explanation.

May as well start from the beginning. "Do you recall when you, Cassy, Carter and I were talking about what kind of superheroes we would be if we could choose?"

He nods.

"Well, that got me thinking. What if I decided to become a masked vigilante myself? No one says I can't, so I decided to go out on patrol around my neighborhood, masked up and armed with a few of my own weapons. First hour into patrol I wandered near Hollywood Freeway where I saw three black guys trying to rape a black girl and knocked her white boyfriend out cold.

"I'm not gonna bore you with minor details, but…I more or less went Punisher on them. Two of which I killed with my own hands, the third got hit by a car coming off the exit ramp. He was already dying, I just finished the job."

Marcus' eyes go wide with revelation. "Those guys that were broadcasted on the news the other day. That was you?"

"Yeah. Any who, since then, I've been going around town at night dealing with the small-fry; few gangbangers, some purse-snatchers, nothing too big.

"Except, just earlier today, when you all told me about Donovan getting gunned down in China Town, that got me curious. I started looking into what happened, and my most recent clues led me into a gun fight with two gangsters back at our high school. I overheard them talking about Don just before things went south.

"And the rest, as they say, is history."

Marcus sat there for a while, staring off into nothing, taking it all in. "Wow."

"…Huh. Wasn't expecting that response."

"So? What are the wallets and mobiles for?"

"Took them from the gangsters I left for dead back at our school just a few hours ago. They're the ones that wounded me. Well, one of them anyway."

"And they were there because…?"

I stood up, going over to my jacket, pulling out the Glock 19, the wad of bills, the syringe, and lastly the picture with the telephone number I had found in Don's locker.

"Found these in Don's locker, hoping to find some clues. Here." I toss Marcus the Glock pistol, startling him. "Check it out. Notice anything?"

He gave me an incredulous stare. "Excluding the smell of cordite and gunpowder from the muzzle?"

"Check the butt of the handle, dumb-ass."

Marcus did, flipping the pistol around to check the handle-bottom. "No serial number?"

"Nope. Never even had one; no filing, no scratches, no parts replaced. This pistol was fresh off the assembly line, and never registered in the firearms database."

Even Marcus was becoming intrigued. "I thought only Special Government Operatives and Special Forces and whatnot had access to untraceable weapons?"

"Unlikely. If anything, I think this gun came from some crime syndicate purchasing through freelance gun dealers that have their own shops to manufacture their own weapons. Either that, or possibly from firearms smugglers. Either case isn't good. Both possibilities mean there's a lot of revenue circulating, and I think the money, gun, and syringe here are the bigger pieces of this puzzle. The only unsolved problem right now is," I pick up the syringe filled with the red liquid. "What could this stuff be? Is a drug these guys are selling around in big quantities, or something else altogether?"

"…You're getting a little into this 'investigation' of yours to be healthy. Why not-"

"-Leave it to the authorities? Can't. Who knows how many and who in the higher-ups are in the payroll of these…smugglers. One thing I can say for certain, is that the bastards I left back at our high school came from one of the local gangs, so once I find out which, I can start from there, backtracking until I get all the facts."

Marcus threw his hands up. "And then what? Jilliad, listen to yourself! You're talking about taking on a crime body that's got one or more of the city's local street gangs under their payroll, and you have no idea how high up these guys are in the social ladder. You're outnumbered, outgunned, and in all likelihood, will get yourself killed before you get anywhere close to finding the root of this investigation. Just tonight you were a hair's breadth from getting killed. And days before that, I'm hearing you've already killed three people. And for what? You started this venture when you heard Don got gunned down, so what do you owe him? Why do this at all?"

"Because no one else will!"

Marcus paused, drawing back when I answered harshly.

"Every day I walk down the streets, see the bastards do as they like, selling their drugs, pimping little girls, killing the weak just for the content of their wallets or watches, hearing the sounds of fathers beating their children behind closed doors and see the bruises on the arms of wives. And through it all, I've seen few –very, very few!—of any of our law enforcement do shit to help them, either because their badges keep them from acting or they're just too self-absorbed into getting into a higher station.

"This is why I'm doing this, Marcus. Because everyone else wants someone else to handle their problems, or hope they'll go away when doing nothing, and it has only perpetuated this disease running through our city.

"I'm doing this because I'm done watching. I'm done doing nothing in the face of all this disorder. And so long as I draw breath, I will hunt down –and Kill!- every last pimp, rapist, drug dealer, gun-toting gangster, and law-breaking maggot that harms the innocent."

Marcus stares at me, as if I were a stranger to him. "Jill…"

I feel tired, like my strength just suddenly bled out of me. I drop back onto the couch cushion.

There was silence after that. The only noise in the stillness was the ticking from the clock in the kitchen.

Marcus was the first to break the silence. "I trust you, Jill. Just promise me you won't get someone killed that doesn't deserve it or uninvolved."

"I'll kill only those I know for certain are deserving of it. But if anyone raises their hand against me, I will defend myself."

Marcus sighed, seeming slightly grateful for that much from me.

"What about Carter and Cassy? You gonna tell them?"

I shook my head. "You're the only person who knows about me. Let's keep it that way, at least for now. I've a feeling they'll find out sooner or later on their own or put two and two together. I'm going into deep territory now, Marcus. Fewer people close to me that know, the better."

"Just make sure you don't leave an obvious trail."

I grinned. "I know how to keep myself from being tracked." I hefted the Glock in my hand. "And this little piece will help me quite a bit in that department."

I stood up slowly, getting used to the throbbing around my gut, picking up my shirt and jacket, before stuffing the wallets, mobiles, gun, money and syringe into my pockets. I'm slipping the photo into my pant pocket when I hear Marcus behind me.

"Give me that photo. Maybe I can find out where it is."

I turn to him over my shoulder, seeing the resolve behind his gaze. He wants to help me, knowing the dangers of affiliating with me. Maybe he just wanted to keep the body count as low as possible by giving me a shortcut to my destination.

I toss him the photo, throwing my leather jacket around my shoulders before sliding my arms through the sleeves, and I strode to the door. "Call me when you've found something."

The door shut behind me with an ominous bang.

The next day, I'm sitting down in my Art III class, doodling as our teacher is doing the same, giving us free time. Some of the other students in the class room are catching up on classwork or near-overdue homework from their other classes, or just dozing off. I'd follow the example of some already fast asleep, only the recently-seared wound on my gut still hurts like a motherfucker, always throbbing hot. It was only my high tolerance for pain that kept my expression neutral from acknowledging its presence.

Strange thing is, the two gangsters I killed and left in the men's locker room were gone. Like they'd never even been there. No blood, no bullet shells, nothing. Not even any bullet holes from the stray rounds that clipped the walls and lockers. It was cleaned up in less than a few hours, and none of the authorities have broadcasted their deaths to be on the lookout for a gunman. It was like one of those scenes in a spy movie to erase any trace of evidence of a particular event's existence from ever being discovered. Someone is going through a lot of effort to keep this whole deal under the radar, I just haven't worked out who.

And I'm still no closer to finding out what happened to Don.

To be quite honest, I still didn't much a shit about the guy. He was just your average egotistical horny jock that made more touchdowns between women's legs than on the football field.

No, the fact is, as much as I hate to admit it, but I'm doing this simply because I want to.

I'll be the first to admit I've some issues with pride, and sometimes I've let it go to my head. I've made mistakes, and I'm far from perfect. I'm not the idyllic image of a superhero in the making.

The truth is, I want something amazing out of life. Do something to be proud of. People could call be a poser for wearing a mask and acting like a superhero, but their mockery would ring hollow behind their own inadequacies, their own incentive to step back and do nothing. Pathetic swine. All the girls would prefer to be like Paris Hilton, whore themselves out to the most attractive guy that has the thickest wallet. All the guys either want to go to college to drink, party, fuck, or hope to get a cool job inspired by less-than-legal motives. Some want to be sport-stars, and all they'll be in the end is a burger flipper at McDonald's or in a desk-job with some boring company firm or some shit.

At least I'm making an effort to do what I want and not settle for anything less.

My reasons for wanting to get rid of access of law-breakers and whatnot around this city have nothing to do with making it a better place. It's just simply a clean-up.

My intentions are not noble. But at least mine are honest, straightforward, and uncompromising in the face of what must be done.

I'm not Batman, a man who suffered at the hands of a desperate criminal who took his family in gunfire, only to rise up and try to be the better man by not stooping to the criminals and cut-throat's standards by taking life, simply for the sake of upholding the code of justice and out of pride.

I'm not like Superman either, a being with the powers of a god, with a heart as noble in all things he does, willing to take the punishment and restrain himself simply out of the fear of losing control and harm the weaker humans.

What is the meaning of being a hero?

My pencil stops. That single question that popped into my head suddenly made me think more deeply into it.

A hero in an individual who risks the safety of his life to help and rescue others in their time of need.

Firefighters are heroes. Rescue people from fires, put them out to save building from becoming cinder. But that's merely part of the job description. People barely give them the credit they deserve for risking their lives to keep our city and towns from burning to ashes and having our citizens buried under charred debris.

Same goes for EMS ambulance operatives. Just doing their job. And they're often not even acknowledged for their services.

Doctors save lives by curing their patients of disease, viruses, stitch the wounded back together, but they're never called heroes. They're just doing their job.

Police officers have been called heroes before. Only now there are so few with honest or good intentions to protect the people, where many have simply gone to bending the rules of the law to their own advantage to either get rich or attain a higher position.

What happened to the real heroes in our world?

When did people simply stop caring?

I drop my pencil, setting my head in my hand as I lean over my desk, thinking. Marcus' words suddenly spring to mind the more I think about it all, and I clench my jaw in anger, driving the thoughts away through sheer force.

I know what must be done. I know what it takes to get the job done. Criminals have gotten away with too much in this city, shown too much leniency by our own laws; the bastards that exploit the loopholes for murderers and other scumbags to lighten their sentence. It's about time someone stood up and showed them the consequence of their folly.

Who better than me?

'Cause after all, I'm judge, jury, and executioner, all rolled into one.

My name is JIlliad Thomas. I am Shackle.

And these bastards swarming our streets will know true regret when they cross paths with me.

Art class ends twenty minutes ago. I'm now in English 3. Teach is taking some time to review our homework from two nights ago, since we had a Teacher-Sub just two days ago. I'm reading one of my graphic novels called Planet Hulk. I'm not worried about my classwork at the moment. Reviewed enough to know the gist of it, and completed enough to avoid homework, if I'm lucky.

A crumpled piece of paper falls on my desk, getting my attention. I turn to my left where Charlotte Louis, a rather pretty, curly-haired red-head, winked at me while wagging her pencil between her fingertips, pantomiming the pose for an eager student.

Curious, I set my comic book down and unravel the paper. It had the words written in pencil: "Wanna skip class for 10? –Charlotte."

Why not? Not much to do in class but read my comics and other books stashed in my pack. I write down "sure" on the paper slip and hold it up to show her, and she grins a pretty smile. No one notices, or no one cares. I raise my hand, ask to go to the restroom, and leave the classroom, waiting down the hall twenty paces away from the door for Charlotte.

She comes sauntering out with a sexy swagger in her hips. Standing upright, her figure is nothing but exaggerated curves. Most red-heads are either "fat", "just right", or "a little too slim". Charlotte is anything but.

The best way to describe her shape would be…thick.

Puerto Rican thick, as I like to call it.

Not fat or chubby, or chunky, and not muscular, but a blending between the two. Her breasts are huge, easily an H-cup, and her wide hips taper slightly down her thick thighs and slim calves. She's wearing a blue t-shirt that hugs her chest unabashedly, and her jeans are like a second-skin. The few freckles on her nose and cheeks are certainly not a turn-off.

She comes to me with her hips rolling, making her breasts jiggle with every step, and she passes her hand over my groin as she strolls past, and I lightly graze my hand across her stomach and the swell of her breast as she continues on, beckoning me over her shoulder with a "come-hither" flick of her manicured finger.

I follow her to the janitor's closet, one which says "Closed" with Caution tape X-crossed on the front of the door. She opens the door and I'm right behind, one of my hands going straight to her large breasts, fondling the pliable glands of flesh while my other hand goes to her crotch, stroking it from outside her jeans and making her breath suddenly hitch, excited.

The door closed behind us, leaving us both in the dark, only she quickly switched the lights on, and didn't hesitate to start kissing me, using tongue and all. I held back a hiss of pain as her hands started going for my shirt, raising it up and dragging the fabric across the raw-wound still healing around my gut. She mustn't've noticed, 'cause her hands then went straight to my belt buckle then my jeans button and zipper.

My pants dropped only seconds before Charlotte kneeled and pulled her shirt and bra upward, letting her breasts drop free. Her tits are even bigger released as they jiggled from dropping out of her shirt. She reaches behind her back to unclip her bra, letting the undergarment drop forgotten as she pulls her shirt back over her tits.

My boxers were the next to drop, allowing my manhood to spring forth. Her expression turns into elation as she fists my length in her hand, eagerly sucking on the tip as a groan of animal lust tore from my throat, compelling my hips to thrust forward.

Once she had her fill of my manhood in her mouth, Charlotte hefted her breasts up slipped my dick beneath her shirt, and the soft warmth of her breasts sent me into a state of primal restlessness. She squealed when I grasped her tits and started pumping into her cleavage, my tip poking her full lips. Just as the burning sensation of my imminent climax approached, I heard the door latch behind me open and close.

"Having fun there, big guy?"

I cease all movement, only turning my head over my shoulder to spy an African-American girl leaning beside the door with her arms folded. Her black hair is set in two pom-poms atop her head, and the denim jacket matched her tight jeans very well. Were it not for the broken lip and bruise around her chin, she'd be a hell of a looker.

Then I recognized her; that girl that nearly got raped the first night I went out on vigilante patrol.

I keep my face as still as stone, though a flash of irritation crosses my expression, drawing a bit of a fear from the girl.

Pulling my dick back into my boxers and pants, I turn away from Charlotte without apology, staring at the girl across from me impatiently. "Okay, girly. What the fuck do you want?"

Despite the faint smell of…fear, for lack of a better term, still roiling off her presence, the black girl turned to Charlotte and nodded to the door, signaling her to take off. The curvy girl left the closet without even picking up her bra, leaving it abandoned next to my feet, pausing just at the door to wink at me, as if promising to finish what we started later. I was too steamed to even acknowledge her attempt to make-up.

"I hope you'll forgive Charlotte. She-"

"-Did this at your request. I kinda got that when you decided to enter the closet." I snapped impatiently. I didn't trust this girl. "Now, I'll ask again: What do you want?"

"…I want you to do something for me."

"And what makes you think I'll do anything for you at all? I don't even know your name."

"My name's Rebecca Hamil. And what I want you to do is something I will pay you for."

"Again, what makes you think-"

"I know you're that guy that killed those rapists that night I was with my boyfriend."

I quirk an eyebrow at her, incredulously. "And what makes you think I'm this person, exactly?"

As if suddenly sensing an opening to exploit, she leaned forward, stepping closer. "The way you fought those guys that ripped my clothes off. And when you got into that fight with the black guys in the cafeteria. I wasn't sure until I heard your voice, then I knew. You're the masked killer."

A slight turn of my mouth of contempt was my only reaction. "That's hardly very compelling evidence of a crime. You know what they say; It's not about what you know, it's what you can prove. And right now, I'm not all that convinced of anything besides the fact that you're grasping at straws in attempting to blackmail me."

I didn't trust to speak aloud of anything that might incriminate me. For all I know, she's got a wire on her somewhere that might record every word I'm speaking.

I could see the impatience begin to set in on her face. Obviously she assumed she'd have all the cards in her favor, thinking me a dumb brute and a cocky one. Her mistake.

"If you're done, I'll be going now."

I went to open the door, except her hand shot out, grasping my wrist desperately. My first instinct was to lash out and pin her against the wall, or knock her out, but I stopped myself. In this scenario, more things can go south for me than for her if she were found unconscious in a janitor's closest. All she'd need to send my ass to jail is Charlotte's testimony, as she was the only one who saw Rebecca enter this closet with she and I. I was in a greater disadvantage in this situation.

"Please. I'll pay you. Two thousand dollars, in cash, to do something for me."

Despite my earlier impatience still present, her desperation piqued my interest. "What are you trying to pay me for?"

She looked away, biting her bottom lip. Her downcast eyes held a feeling of shame in them. "I want you to kill my dad."

"…Mind repeating that?"

"He's not my real dad, but my step dad. Married my mom, except my mom got sick for a few months, and my step dad started drinking, and…got violent at times. By the time my mom came back home, my step dad started hurting her. My mom left home, never coming back and…left me with my step dad, Mike. And he…"

I think I was beginning to understand. But, just to be sure… "Did he force himself on you?"

A second's hesitation, than a jerky nod. A lone tear escaped her eyes, which she valiantly wiped away. "For three weeks, he'd just get drunk and…kept coming to my room late at night and…h-he always had his hand over my mouth as he…raped me…leave me dirty and bruised and almost bloody…my boyfriend's been understanding, letting me stay at his home until I could solve the situation.

"Four days before those rapists were killed, I went to the police and filed for an arrest for Mike for rape, only my testimony wasn't enough. It wasn't until later that I learned Mike's been bribing the police commissioner to turn a blind eye. And now I can't do anything, and soon social services might come and force me back with Mike. I don't want to get abused by that bastard again."

Don't get me wrong. I'm not a complete bastard that I don't feel empathy for this girl. It's just that I'm often very skeptical of people's motives and words, more often than not being lied to or having the truth twisted, or omitted. I have a hard time trusting people when they're more inclined to lie about everything around to make things easier for them just to suit their image or make others do their bidding.

I turn away. "Well, tough shit, I'm not helping you with anything. You want your dad dead, you kill him yourself. It's easy. Just wait until he's asleep after he's tossed back his brews and slit his throat. How hard can that be?"

"But I don't want to-"

"-Get your hands dirty with blood?", I snarl at her, leveling my most hate-filled stare at her that made her draw back a step. "Don't want to have a dirty conscience for taking a life? Well, too-fucking-bad, bitch! Don't come crawling to the first muscle-head you expected to bribe to do your dirty work if you haven't got the stomach to do it yourself."

"Does it look like I want to get arrested for murder?", she screamed pathetically at me, almost to the point of tears.

My empathy for her was thinning fast. "Like I said, not my fucking problem. There are always consequences when you take actions into your own hands. And I'm not interested in being used by a gutless cunt like you."

I shrug her hand off my shirt sleeve and exit the janitor's closet, leaving Rebecca to cry softly in the abandoned room.

"Heartless bastard…" I heard her sob. "God-damn you…"

Despite my earlier show of disinterest, I felt my jaw clench like I was intent on making my gums bleed.

If only that could alleviate the rage building in me.

Seven hours later, my anger is still at an all-time high. Somehow, though, I keep it in check, honing it into keeping me focused, driving me into doing what I should've been doing from the get-go.

Striding down Rockwood Street, I could almost feel a change in myself as much as I've changed my outfit.

Because I'm a dirt-bike rider, there's a certain prerequisite to have a coat, or protective jacket, that's used to keep me from getting a "friction-burn from hell" if I ever have a wipeout on any sort of motor bike.

Now, on the other hand, I've given it a recent overhaul after returning home after school; It's blood red with cushion pads along the length of the sleeves, an overlap of large buttons coming over the zipper, and I added a hood to the neck-line to cover my masked head, as well as fitting some Kevlar lining and body armor plates from my old man's older uniform ballistic armors that fell into disrepair after his last service, stitching them on the inside of my coat. I'm still using the black ski-mask, as I haven't found a decent material to make my desired helmet from yet, only now I'm wearing my dad's old pair of desert-camo pants that he left to collect dust in the attic.

With my Glock strapped on my thigh with my dad's old gun holster, and a utility belt carrying an assortment of pouches from his uniform as well, I was never more prepared for a full night's exploration.

First thing's first. I've got an appointment with a certain rapist.

I remember back when I was thirteen. Wandered into a comic book shop after a fist-fight didn't go my way ('course, I was outnumbered three to one. Didn't mean any of the dumb fucks walked away unscathed.) I found this comic of this Marvel superhero called Moon Knight. Apparently he was the Marvel Universe's equivalent of Batman, only much more of a killer, has more mental instability, and is a lot less recognized by the readers of the Marvel Genre.

I couldn't help but feel drawn to this strange, morbid character. As opposed to the general mainstream superheroes that tried to keep themselves from needlessly killing their enemies, the Moon Knight on the other hand welcomed bloodshed to punish the bad guys that killed, raped and abused their victims. He was like Gabriel the Archangel, sent down by his God Khonshu to punish the wicked and spread fear into the hearts of wrongdoers who ever heard his name.

And yet, I could also see a man broken on the inside, twisted in many ways, almost as if just a thread away from breaking at the seams.

Despite this, I couldn't help but feel that, maybe he needed to be broken completely, in order to put himself back together again.

He serves a near-forgotten Egyptian god called Khonshu, has three different identities, has a demonic imaginary friend that compels him to kill anyone, suffered from a near-crippling injury to his legs that kept him from standing or walking, and more or less turned into angry-drunkard pill-popper just to cope with the loss of his vigilante lifestyle and his god's blessings.

What I found strangest of all however, is how his fixation on his former girlfriend never seemed to abate. It could only be called border-lined sick obsession almost.

And perhaps the most human.

And no one in the Marvel Universe can be his ally. They call him crazy, a psychopath, a murderer.

Right now, I couldn't help but wonder if I'm emulating him right now, following in his footsteps without knowing.

Right now, I'm crouched atop the neighboring building's roof, looking into the lit-up window of the rapist bastard's apartment as he's swigging down one bottle of beer after another amidst his buddies as he and three hookers go about fucking like drunken animals.

Right now, I'm thinking back to what Rebecca told me back at school in the janitor's closet. Where was the lie, the deception to get me to do her bidding?

But above all else, I have to know the truth.

Acting on impulse to kill someone would only show myself to be a mindless killer. I have to know who I'm killing, know that it's the kind of person that truly deserves punishment and execution. To do otherwise would make like the trash I've sworn to kill.

So I listen. Carefully. Straining the limit of my hearing to listen to these drunkard's prattle within the moans of sexed-up women and the slap of naked flesh and whoops of horny men. I listen for almost half an hour, feeling my legs go to sleep in my uncomfortable position, when, after the six parties inside had their fill of sex, drugs and alcohol, I hear the words I needed to know.

"Hey, Mikey! 'Though you said we'd get your little girl tonight? I paid ya fifty bucks 'n advance to fuck 'er!"

"Little bitch'll come back anytime now. Just keep yer dick busy with these hoes 'til she comes 'round."

The two men share a laugh. They don't know they've just damned themselves to a merciless execution.

Ten minutes later after climbing down the fire escape, I stand in front of the door to Mike's apartment. I give two quick knocks and wait.

I didn't wait one second after hearing the thumps of footsteps reach the door before I promptly kicked in the door, ripping it free of its hinges and hitting the poor fucker on the other side in the head. He fell down underneath the door, unconscious as I walked over the wood panel, pulling my Kabar knife free of its sheath as Mike and his last friend scramble off their couch and turn to face me. The whores are too stoned to even wake up, too hyped on coke and booze to even stir.

"Who the fuck are you, asshole?" Mike demands, his black face a mix of wide-eyed fear and aggression. His hair is threaded into cornrolls, and his wife-beater is baggy on his tall but rather slim body. He probably weighed as much as me. His friend is a black guy too, only much more muscular in comparison. He outweighed me by fifty pounds.

Despite myself, I couldn't help but grin, snickering slightly. I think there's a little devil in me wanting to get out. "I'm the guy that flays rapist scumbags like you across your own homes with your guts festooned around your bed posts. I'm the guy that doesn't give the second chance, or a shred of mercy. And right now, you two are pretty high on my shit-list."

Mike suddenly starts chuckling. It's a desperate, strained sound, as if compelled to acknowledge some dumb joke. "You fuckin' kiddin' me?"

"My name is Shackle, motherfucker!", I roared, pulling my Glock free of its holster and aiming at Mike's friend, see his eyes go wide before the round I fire empties his head. "And I'll be killing you slowly over the next few hours for all the sins you've done!"

Mike tries to run, managing to turn to the window and take two steps. That's as far as I allowed the bastard before my next round hit him behind his knee. He tumbled to the ground face-first, hands grasping at his ruined knee as a soundless scream tore at his throat, his eyes wide and panicking. I swift punch to his face knocks him out cold in a spray of bloody spittle and teeth, and I drag him away down the building's stairs and out into the streets. I turn into the alley of another building two blocks away, hidden away in the shadows as sirens flew past.

I hear Mike whimper as I drag him into the dark, his fingernails breaking off in his poor attempt to stop the innevitable.

"Oh, don't you worry, Mike." I said to him, speaking in a venomous rasp. "We'll have lots of fun together tonight before the sun rises. Here, let me show you my toys..."

Guess what was on the first page of the newspaper the next day?

"'Masked Killer Suspected of Gruesome Murders'", Marcus says as he reads the local Newspaper. "'Next-door neighbors of one of the victims, Mike Rogers, gave their testimony of hearing gunfire and a fight in said victim's apartment. Mike Rogers found dead in alley, eviscerated and castrated with his entrails wrapped around neck. Coroner's uncertain about how victim died. Police now stationed and on patrol for psycho vigilante, supposedly called 'Shackle'. Public is advised to call your local authorities for any information regarding the name and/or whereabouts of masked individual.'"

Marcus suddenly throws the paper on the table between us. I'm visiting his house again to get the stitches removed a few days ahead of schedule.

"Well, I got to hand it to ya, Jilliad. You really know how to go all out. I'm surprised the paper didn't have anything more 'colorful' to say about you."

I shrug. "Perhaps." I said, a grin slowly tugging at my mouth. "Though you gotta admit. This is one fuckin' kick-ass story."

"Was the evisceration really necessary? I mean, what did this poor bastard do to deserve this?"

My grin vanishes, and my hands fold themselves around my lap. "There's kind of a funny story behind that…."

END CHAPTER TWO