See? I told you things were going to get worse.

Re-Edited as of 10/7/14.

Chapter Three

Requiescat in Pace

I was listening to the police scanner an hour later, thinking over the recent arrival of Smoke. I was sure at this point that he didn't know my name – if he had, he would've teased me, called me outright by my real name. Why would he waste the opportunity?

The noise from the scanner filled my bedroom with static and broken voices. Some calm, some shouting – but nothing suspicious. I was waiting for a crime committed by the White Rose. I wasn't sure how I would be able to tell, but hearing all these things happening at once reminded me of how chaotic New York could be. Sure, all the little grids may look neat and perfect, but it hid how disorganized its people were, how easy it could get lost here.

There were reporting's of Spider-Man every now and then, and in true Spidey style, he was there and gone before anyone could arrest him. Spider-Man had a better rep than I did, at least civilians weren't afraid of him. The police weren't too bothered by the idea of somehow managing to catch him, but they wouldn't come near Falcon unless they had heavy back-up on their side. Spider-Man tried to keep law enforcement and innocents from getting involved in his fights, actively got them out of trouble when he could, and even helped the police (though they wouldn't admit it). I, on the other hand, don't bother them as long as they don't bother me. White Rose was my personal business and I honestly didn't trust the NYPD.

The White Rose were bold, and getting even more so as time went on. Just over the past week they robbed a bank, held up three high-end restaurants and fundraisers with celebrities, and were rumored to be behind the failed assassination of a visiting senator – Helena Azarov, who promised New York to make it a safer place. I reserved my opinion on politicians until I saw them in action (which, admittedly, is rather slow-going even on a good week). I felt the same about the city's leader, Mayor Waters, a supporter of Helena and crime reducing but not a target of assassination. I feared what Kane said might be true: the White Rose had the mayor in their pocket, either through blackmail or bribe or full-on cooperation. There were so few authority figures I could put my trust on.

The White Rose was going back to 70's tactics – the age of when they were at their highest, New York at its lowest. Crime and chaos at an all time high, with dirty cops running the scene and good cops overworked and underpaid; a ripe playground for the rich and criminal, like the White Rose. I was sure the Big Man wouldn't mind this kind of paradise, either. I wondered if he was in on it, too. Was it really possible for the White Rose to take over the city again? How would they do it? More crime? Political corruption? Bribery and blackmail? Surely there were those too honest to succumb to them, those brave enough to stand up against them.

I had to assume there were dirty cops on the force. I would never tell this to Gwen, what with her father being Chief of Police and really the only guy I can actually trust on the force. If I asked him, would he deny it or add his own doubt?

"Reporting a three-seventy-eight, a man with a gun at the Guggenheim, holding at least fifty people hostage, calling all nearby enforcements..."

In the midst of my reverie, I wasn't listening to the report until after the fact. I jumped when it finally hit me and I lunged for the scanner, turning up the volume and hoping I hadn't missed anything important.

"Please be aware, he may be on alcohol or another substance, hostile and unreasonable. There is no vantage point on him from the outside, calling back-up. Gunshots heard at 7:03 PM, alert ambulances and SWAT for intervention..."

I was out the window in less than ten seconds.

OoOoO

Falcon had only been to the Guggenheim once, and that was for a school field trip when she was in the fifth grade. She didn't remember much; just the shape of the building, the fact that it was in Upper East Side in a neighborhood she could only dream of living in, and that it was filled with weird looking art. Impressionism or something like that, she didn't know, she wasn't much of a painting person. Movies were more her medium.

Anyways, instead of the usual crowd of tourists on the sidewalk and streets around it, there was a fortified wall of cop cars, vans, ambulances, and other assorted vehicles. Sawhorses were set up to keep the onlookers at bay. Many of them were taking pictures or recording with their Smartphone's. The place was lit up with fog lights, pointed at the entrance. In her black suit and wings reflecting the darkness of the sky, she was almost invisible flying above.

Falcon spotted snipers stationed on the five nearest buildings and flew high to keep out of their range. Guns were easy enough to jam, but a bullet wasn't as easy to stop. Not only were they small, but bullets flew faster than she did – breaking the sound barrier was yet an accomplishment Falcon had to make, and definitely didn't have the reflexes to dodge. Bullets barely registered on her radar, they went so fast; she could only pick up on the trail they left behind. Until she figured out a way to block bullets effectively, Falcon decided it best to either be in range of a gun to jam it, or too far away to be hit.

To avoid getting shot on the way down, Falcon took a 90 degree dive directly above the building. No one expected the black and silver streak to appear and smash through the ceiling of the Guggenheim (superheroes were big fans of property damage), straight through the giant glass window and down several floors below.

Screams filled the air almost as soon as she entered – over two dozen people were crouched on the floor covering their heads as glass rained down. But they looked up when nothing hit them, when the floor wasn't littered from the destruction above. Falcon landed with a soft thump, raising her arms, wings sheathing, and halting the falling shards of glass without touching any of them.

There was a collective gasp, then absolute silence. Everyone stared at her, Falcon back at them. The lights had been turned off and several pieces of art were damaged by burns. She looked around, wondering if someone in here was the crazy man with the gun.

Falcon saw the muzzle flash just in time to duck.

BLAM!

The bullet imbedded itself into the wall behind her. More cries and a man stood up, shaky and dressed in shabby clothing. He looked to be a hobo, with his unkempt, scraggly beard, holey shoes, and an old coat that looked as though it hadn't been washed in months.

Falcon's nose picked up on the stench from him, as she stood twenty feet away, right through her helmet. Sometimes having super-enhanced senses left something to be desired.

She raised her hands in a complacent manner, hoping to convince the crazy man she meant no harm (although it was a total lie). Falcon would have attacked by now, but there were too many innocents, too many chances for collateral damage for her to act as efficiently as she wanted to. "Hey, relax, I'm not going to hurt you. Just put the gun down and..."

That's when Falcon noticed just what type of gun he was holding. Not the typical black handgun a man might steal from a cop or store, but a shiny silver piece that looked like it just walked off a sci-fi movie set. "...what is that?"

"I'm not afraid of you!" the man shouted, his voice thin and wavering. Upon a closer look, she noticed that his eyes were red and extremely dilated. His grip was all over the place with his gun, the aim going back and forth between Falcon and the wall behind her. Was he high? "I'm the one w-with the gun! You have to do what I say!"

Falcon had watched enough CSI to know what to do in a hostage situation. "Look, you seem to be a decent guy – why don't you let these nice people go? They don't want anything to do with you."

Their captive audience looked back and forth between them. Some were focused on the floating glass, wondering what was going to happen. They were absolutely quiet, looking on in fear as Falcon tried to reason with this man. Were they afraid of her, too? Falcon knew there were a lot of people who didn't like her or her destructive methods, but did they honestly think she would hurt them?

The glass still hovered in the air like floating ornaments, spinning slowly. Falcon kept it as a back-up plan, deciding it could be an impromptu weapon if she needed it. Slowly, ever so slowly, she sidled forward, being sure not to alarm the man to the point of going off. Maybe she could get close and tackle him...

The man didn't seem to notice the glass. His focus was on Falcon, at least she was pretty sure. His eyes seemed glazed, uncertain. He waved his gun at her and said, "No, you get out. I know what you can do, and you have no power over me! This gun is special, see, my friend gave it to me and he said it can't be jammed, not by accident or freaky voodoo powers!"

"What?" Falcon was bewildered by this statement, but found that, no, she could not find a safety on his gun. There were no bullets in his cartridge. It didn't feel like there was any solid piece of metal at all in his gun – exactly like the gun Moonscar used on her in November. "Who's this great friend of yours, huh? Is he White Rose?"

The man flinched at the name, like it was a physical blow. He grimaced and snapped, "You don't know anything! You're just stalling until the police come in here!"

Falcon had to admit, that was her Plan B. "What do you want, huh? Do you have any demands? Is the White Rose trying to get something in here?"

"N-no," the man looked even less sure than before. "I don't know what they want. They just told me to come here – and-and don't do whatever the police say! I'm supposed to send a message, that you can't escape the White Rose...they're everywhere! They know where you are, they know where you live, and they can turn your whole family into a memory the city will forget. No one gets out of here alive."

The crowd started to whimper. Several were already weeping silently. I saw two kids being shielded under the arms of a father. They're eyes were wide and terrified, and were constantly shushed by the man who watched Falcon with wary eyes. There were a few security guards in the crowd, trying to hide some people behind them. They were also watching Falcon, keeping not of her every move. No, none of them trusted her. But she was the lesser of two evils at the moment.

She was ten feet away now. Falcon wondered that if she put enough force in her lunge, if she could get him from this distance. She didn't want to chance it, but the man was not giving her a lot of options here. Falcon couldn't sense any incoming help on her radar, so decided to go on the offensive. "Yeah? Well, neither will you if you keep this up. Let me tell you, buddy, things are not going to end well if you don't drop that...that whatever it is you're holding. If you so much as hurt a single hair on anyone in this room, I make you regret it."

"No, no, this is not how it's supposed to happen!" the man cried, clutching his head and shaking it. He was shivering all over and Falcon hesitated as she drew closer. He looked honestly sick. She could see the veins on his hands now, a deep blood-red instead of the natural blue or green. Was that from the drugs he was on? "Nothing is working, nothing is working! I should never have gone to the White Rabbit..."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Falcon asked, completely bewildered. The White Rabbit? This man had to be hallucinating.

"Don't eat the rosebuds!" the man cried to the ceiling, throwing his arm around in a wild spin. Several bright shots went off, hitting a column, then a sculpture of a woman behind the hostages. Shards of marble flew everywhere. "White as snow, red as blood, black as ebony – Quoth the raven, nevermore!"

"He's lost it!" someone shouted behind her. That was all the encouragement Falcon needed to throw herself at the man.

In his mad dance, he somehow managed to dodge her. But Falcon turned and grabbed his arm, twisting the wrist holding the gun. He grunted but held on, face turning red with the effort.

He slammed his full weight into Falcon to throw her off. Five inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier, he would've overtaken her if not for Falcon's super strength to cut in and ground her to the spot. She yanked his arm down to keep it from going off in the direction of any civilian and a blast mark embedded itself into the floor.

The hobo slammed his other fist into the side of her helmet, so she headbutted him. The man stumbled back, reeling. She held onto his arm, trying to pry the gun from his iron grip, but was too late to realize that the barrel was now pointed at her.

BLAM!

Sharp, hot pain exploded in her hip and Falcon released her grip in surprise. She gasped, looking down to see the ripped suit, exposed skin, bleeding wound. Just stepping back caused her extreme pain and she fell to one knee, unable to breath. No, no! Why was her body failing her now? Get up, get up!

Recovering surprisingly quickly, the man brought up his foot and slammed it into her chest. Falcon fell onto her back, the shooting pain in her leg and side making it almost impossible for her to stand up again. She closed her eyes, wincing in pain. What the hell kind of bullet was that?
She opened her eyes and saw the barrel of the gun staring down at her. It would have been very James Bond-esque if the hobo wasn't swaying on his feet, blinking through teary eyes with pupils so big she couldn't tell what color his eyes were. In a slurred voice, he said, "The White Rose don't let loose ends hang."

Just before he was about to pull the trigger, there came a shout behind him. A security guard had stood up, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Hey! Leave her alone!"

The hobo whipped around, startled by the disruption and letting his guard down for just a moment. It was enough. Falcon took advantage and threw both hands into the air. There came sound of glass whizzing through the air and the man cried out, swinging around as a dozen shards were slammed into his back. His aim went wide and a flash went off somewhere to the far left.

He fell backwards and Falcon thought it was over. Falcon picked herself up, falling on a heavy limp. Then a woman screamed.

"No!" she cried. "You killed him!"

She looked around, horrified to see someone else on the floor, the security guard who had saved her life at the last moment. The hobo's last shot hadn't been so stray after all. There was a deep, blooming red gouge in the guard's shoulder. He stared up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, a hand still on his empty Taser holster.

The woman, wearing a trench coat and fancy shoes, pointed a shaking finger at Falcon and shouted through teary eyes. "This is your fault! He's dead because of you!"

Falcon couldn't speak, too horrified herself to realize the truth. No, no, he's not dead, he's just...unconscious. No, she wouldn't let anyone die. She couldn't. If someone died because of her, then she could no longer call herself a hero. The city had every right to hate her now. Someone had died a pointless death for her and she didn't know what to do.

Outside, Falcon could hear policemen gathering, breaking down the front doors. A helicopter flew overhead, flashing a light down the hole she made in the ceiling. Instead of defending herself against the woman's accusations, the glaring and crying of the people around her, Falcon picked up the hobo's strange weapon.

"Isn't that for the police to find?" a man in a trilby asked, pointing at the weapon. Others had stood up, like him, were starting to move around, check friends and family. The incoming help were almost through the doors.

Falcon could barely look at any of them. "No. The police are way out of their depth."

"So, that's it?" the woman with the fancy purse demanded, tears streaked down her face. She wasn't quite crying, but she still gave Falcon a look of absolute hatred. "You're just going to leave? You're not going to even say sorry? What kind of so-called hero are you?"

Falcon couldn't look at the body, couldn't look at the woman, but she didn't hide the venom in her voice. "Don't try to fool me, lady. You never thought I was a hero in the first place, did you?"

The woman paused, frowned, then looked away, apparently unable to come up with a quick comeback.

Everyone in the room stared at her, apparently waiting for Falcon to say something else, maybe sum up the moment in something inspiring, something sad. But Falcon didn't have anything like that. She just stared at the shoes of the fallen guard, wondering if she could have done things differently, maybe someone didn't have to die. Was this really her fault? "This wasn't supposed to happen. No one was supposed to get hurt."

It was more to herself than to the people there. They murmured amongst themselves, arguing what she said, what it meant. By the time SWAT blasted down the next door and entered the room, Falcon had left on her wings, leaving behind a terrified crowd of people and two men lying on the floor. She didn't check to see if the hostage-taker was dead, too. For what he had caused, he deserved it.

And maybe Falcon did, too.