Who doesn't like the occasional cameo? I've already got Bruce, now here's another one. Can you guess who it is? B)

Also, a small reference to Young Justice in this chapter. Love that show.

As of 10/7/14, has been re-edited.

Chapter Four

Mea Culpa

The pain in my hip was almost too much to bear.

At least flying kept the pressure off my legs, thereby my hips didn't have to do any work. Each dip in the air, the cold breeze both jarred and numbed the pain. I blacked out three times in flight, the blood loss making my delirious. Entering the apartment, I had barely made it to the bathroom before collapsing in a heap across the tile.

I grabbed the edge of the tub and pulled myself to sitting position. My leg was warm and sticky with blood and in my rushed attempt to pull my suit off, I just made it harder. It was as snug as a wetsuit and took some yanks to get the waist over my wider hips. There was a singed, jagged hole where the blast had hit me. I had dropped the stolen gun somewhere in my room when I had entered, probably on the floor where I left my helmet behind.

Hair was sticking to my face, too warm with sweat. My breath was ragged and my hands shaky as I tried to gauge the severity of my wound. The man had missed the bone and the wound was already starting to heal – the bleeding had all but stopped now.

The pain was still in full force, though. I tried to sense the bullet somewhere inside, but I felt nothing on my radar. What the hell did that gun shoot if it wasn't a bullet? Where had it come from, how did the White Rose get it? Who made it?

I had so many questions but I falling dangerously close to the edge of consciousness. Fighting to stay awake, all I could see behind my eyelids were the faces of those hostages before I left: Suspicion, anger, fear.

Disgust.

OoOoO

I woke up later that night with a sore hip an empty stomach. I saw my hands hand how they were covered in dry blood. There was a brief moment of alarm before I remembered what happened, that this blood was my own, not anyone else's. My wound had sealed itself while I was unconscious, in a dreamless sleep.

My hip had healed into a bruised and ugly scar, like a comet exploding. My healing capacity was certainly helpful, life-saving even, but not perfect. I was always left with reminders of my mistakes. My knuckles were callused from many fights and I had scars to match the corresponding sewn patches on my suit. I still had the scar on my lip from the first time I save Oriole Kane's life, in an alley fighting off a gunman. The pure, unblemished skin I was granted after getting dosed with Gray Matter had since been marred and given history.

I was hungry but felt too sick to eat. I saw that dead man's face every time I closed my eyes, couldn't push it from my mind. It was stuck there, as though to remind me of my mistakes, that I was to blame, I was guilty of murdering the man who saved my life. I didn't even know his name. Did he have a family? What did they think, what were they going through right now? He was young enough to have kids. What would their mother tell them?

I started to cry. Hard, uncontrollable crying, that wracked my chest and made my sides hurt. I scared myself in being unable to stop, and I wondered if I kept going, would I run out of tears and dry up like a dead husk?

I didn't know what time it was. I still had school the next morning, but I didn't plan on going. I wanted to know who that man was, if he was going to get a funeral. Should I go? I didn't think they would allow strange girls to enter someone else's funeral...maybe I could watch from afar. I wanted to see who his family was, who I hurt.

I eventually made myself get up and find my laptop – borrowed from the school so long as I didn't break anything. I hunkered down in my bedroom, pulling the sheets over my head in a makeshift tent. Using the free wi-fi from a nearby Starbucks, I began to shifting through various articles of the Guggenheim attack.

There was a video of the eleven o'clock news report. It had sparse information, but filled in what I didn't already know.

The anchorwoman spoke with a serious tone, a picture of the Guggenheim entrance, filled with cop cars and exiting hostages, to her right, taking up a quarter of the screen. "Tonight, at 7:13, a homeless man – whose identity is being held by the police – broke through the ticket line at the Guggenheim, brandishing a gun and taking hostage everyone inside the museum. NYPD responded quickly but were unable to interact with the hostage-taker, who did not have a phone nor had any demands for ransom. The NYPD were planning to sneak in from the roof when Falcon, the city's one of two crime vigilantes, broke in and neutralized the threat, but not before a security guard was killed in the ensuing fight. The guard, 32-year-old Franklin Koppel, was reportedly trying to distract the gunman from killing Falcon; in turn sacrificing his own life when the gunman turned his weapon on Koppel. Falcon fled the scene shortly after, but not before taking the man's weapon with her.

"This gun, described to be made of a silver metal and firing off 'blasts of light', was what had killed Koppel and what the gunman used to terrorize his hostages. Police are investigating her involvement, saying she has become an obstruction to justice by taking away key evidence from an active crime scene, and question where her loyalties lie. Police have yet to establish contact with the so-called hero, and for now deal with the gunman, who sustained major back injuries and blood loss from Falcon's glass attack, but is currently in stable condition at Bellevue hospital."

I thought she was going to transition to another story, but the newswoman surprised me when she continued with, "According to our sources, the gunman was on a substance called Rosebud when he attacked the Guggenheim. Our police expert says that this is a new hallucinogen that has appeared just a few weeks ago on the streets and has ravaged anyone who has used it. Rosebuds, called that for their unique shape and color – that of a red rose flower – are powerful drugs that cause extreme mania, hearing and sight loss, hostility and aggression, severely impairs decision making, as well as turns the skin a deep scarlet hue. The police are in the process of finding out how it is distributed, although they do believe it has been imported from Italy. It is recommended that if you ever come across someone who has these symptoms, it is best to stay away and not engage, otherwise you might cause serious harm to yourself, the attacker, and anyone else in the vicinity."

So, there was a mysterious drug that not only turned its users into raving lunatics, but also so elusive that the cops can't even find who's selling it? Fantastic.

There was a flicker of movement at the edge of my radar. I looked up, shifting the cover off my head. Someone was outside the building, against the wall.

A came a tap at the window. It opened without me needing to touch it – in slid a rather cold-looking boy in red and blue spandex. When he took off his mask, I saw that his nose was red and eyebrows frosted white. He looked like he had taken a dunk into the Hudson.

"Peter, are you all right?" I asked, wondering just what the hell he had been doing.

"You know, I could ask you the same question." Peter said, shaking his head and sending a mist of droplets into the air. "Have you been crying?"

My hand flew to my face. It was dry – my eyes must still be red and puffy. I looked down at the bed covers, hoping he couldn't read my expression. "A little. I guess you've heard by now, otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"Yeah. I wanted to see how you were doing." Peter sat down at my desk, spinning in the seat to face me. His face was calm but carefully guarded, as though he were afraid I might do something crazy at any moment. I guess he had a right to be worried – my powers weren't their most stable when my emotions were in disarray. "I heard you got hurt. What kind of gun did he have?"

"I don't know." I said, rubbing the newly formed scar on my hip. It was bumpy and sore, slightly less bruised. My stomach grumbled, asking for more calories so my body could continue the healing process without burning through the last of my energy. "I healed. The gun – I've only seen it once before, and it was in the hands of a White Rose hitman."

"That's who you think is behind this." Peter said. It wasn't a question. My suspicion was not something I bothered to hide – It just made everything worse when I was right. "Why did you take the gun?"

The gun was somewhere in the mess of my room. I found it again on my radar and let it drift from under my bed and into the air between us. I didn't want to touch it – just let it rotate slowly in the air between us. Peter squinted, reaching out a finger to feel the metal. "I've never seen anything like that before."

"I can't stop it." I told him, focusing on the gun instead of his face. If I saw human emotion, an expression that would remind me of the faces in the Guggenheim, I wasn't sure if I could keep myself together. Already my voice was starting to shake – another crying session about to break through. "It's not like a regular gun – I can't jam it, I can't keep the bullets from flying. I don't even think it has bullets."

"What do you mean?"

To demonstrate, I pointed the gun at an old science project on one of my shelves. One of those 3-D renditions of a chemical's atomic structure. Oxygen, maybe, or nitrogen, I couldn't remember.

ZZIIISH! The gun went off, lighting up the room with its blast, and vaporized the project.

"Whoa," Peter jolted, nearly stood in his chair, eyes wide. "It's like straight out of a movie."

"A bad one, where the good guys die," I muttered, letting the gun clatter to the floor. I scowled at the glowing computer screen. "How can I keep the White Rose from winning if I can't even protect the people they're trying to kill?"

"It's not over yet, Amy," he said, and the laptop was whipped off my lap with a sharp Thwip! Peter took the laptop, fingers skittering across the keys like spiders trying to tap dance. "Who's going to be left to stop them if you give up? If what you say is true, and the White Rose have the city council in their pocket, then regular authorities aren't going to cut it anymore. Here, look at this."

He spun the laptop around the top of the chair so the screen faced me. On it was a YouTube video set to play, a guy speaking to his camera in a vlog post. "Yo, this is your friendly neighborhood evening Superhero channel. I'm your host, Danny, and this is the Falcon Watch."

"Are you kidding me?" I stood up from the bed to peer closer at this boy, who couldn't have been much older than a college kid, grinning into his camera like he was talking about the VMA's, not a terrifying vigilante. "People vlog about me?"

"About us," Peter rectified, beaming at her. He pointed at the column of other related videos to the right of the screen, showing different faces with similar titles. Half were about Spider-Man, if not myself. "When the Bugle started reporting nothing but how evil we were, these guys took it upon themselves to share the real story. They watch us and tell everyone the truth – the White Rose can't fight the Internet, can they?"

"Yeah, but it's the Internet," I said, throwing up my hands. How could a couple vloggers really make a difference? It seemed so intangible, so silly that I didn't understand why Peter saw this as a good thing. "It's like having an imaginary friend – you can't touch it, it can't physically interact with the real world. I mean, it's not people actually care, do they?"

"Just look at how much views this Danny guy has," Peter scrolled down the webpage to list the views beneath the video. The number was in the millions. "And he's not even the most popular one. I just think he does better with giving both sides of the story – and he uses all my photos, which is great publicity – and reads tons of comic books."

"We aren't in a comic book." I told him.

"You think in TV, he thinks in comic books, does it really make a difference?" Peter shot back and I slumped on the bed, realizing he had a point. Peter smirked a little, saying, "Not like there's anything wrong with that. But you have no idea how many people really support us, Amy. Just because they're not singing your praises on the news or calling you a hero in the papers doesn't mean no one thinks so. The Internet has a bigger base than either the Bugle or the New York Nightly has. The White Rose aren't just fighting you, they're fighting them, too."

Millions of people watching, waiting, judging. As the video continued to play, Danny recounted a robbery bust I did a couple months ago. This was an older post, but no less relevant. "Despite what the Bugle like to complain about, no one was actually hurt when Falcon intervened...well, except for the bad guys, but that's what happens when you wave guns at chicks with PK, kiddies. I bet Falcon was just holding back, too. If you recall, she once tore apart an entire block with a single scream. A single scream, people! She could've ripped those guys to shreds if she wanted, but guess what? She didn't. Sure, maybe that bank doesn't have hero insurance, but I'm sure they'd rather pay for those broken windows and desks than have to pay back all those people who lost their money."

I smiled a little, forgetting that one of my meltdowns hadn't really gone as unnoticed as I thought it had. I planted my hand on my chin, starting to feel better. Just a little. I said, "Heh, I forgot about that. Are there other heroes besides us?"

"Not really," Peter shrugged, closing the laptop lid and tossing it back to me. I caught it as he said, "For the five boroughs, it's just us. If there are others out there, they're not using names, staying out of the limelight by being completely anonymous."

"Lucky them," I mumbled, envying whatever hero out there was managing to stay out of sight. Having a name and reputation was all well and good, but that meant people also had someone to blame. I guess it wasn't always unwarranted. "You wouldn't happen to know what Rosebud is, do you?"

"I heard it was a new drug on the streets, like crack on steroids or something," Peter said, frowning at the subject changed. He leaned into the chair, studying her face as if he could somehow guess what she was getting at. "Why? Is that what the gunman was on?"

"If the White Rose is dishing out both super-weapons and crazy drugs to just random people on the street," I told him.
"Then they're starting to create chaos in a way that scatters the police force into trying to contain all these disturbances. But that's just them creating a distraction, so the police will be too busy to attacking the branches when instead they should be killing the roots. I have to find out how they're distributing Rosebuds and blast guns without the police catching them. Got any helpful suggestions?"

"If it's not your average drug dealer, then White Rose must be doing it right under their noses," Peter scratched his chin, pondering the thought. I didn't really expect him to give me a great answer; it wasn't like either of us were experts at sting operations or something. "I mean, how would a homeless man get his hands on it? How would a soccer mom suddenly OD on hallucinogens when she never had substance abuse problems before in her life?"

It sounded like a rhetorical question, so I didn't answer. There was a brief bought of silence between us. I studied my feet before saying, "Remember how Harry was using? He got the Globulin Green because it was easy to get, he could always find more when he needed to. What if it's the same thing here?"

"What, you mean getting the drugs?" Peter shook his head, apparently not understanding what I was trying to get at. He held a hand up in confusion. "Where could a soccer mom, accidentally or not, get easy access to drugs that wouldn't involve a drug dealer? Unless someone snuck it into her food or something..."

That gave me an idea. "Stores. Grocery stores, pharmacies, gas stations. You think the White Rose might be selling it through otherwise legitimate establishments?"

"That was a lot of long words," Peter squinted at me like he thought I was trying too hard to sound smart. "But that doesn't sound like a bad idea. A great way to hide your business under the guise of another one that the police wouldn't suspect. Real sneaky." Peter pulled back the sleeve of his suit and stared at his watch. "Speaking of sneaking, I have to go home before Aunt May notices I'm gone. You sure you want to stay here? She's getting worried. I think she's afraid you'll starve to death."

"I'll be fine, thanks," I smiled weakly, but shook my head all the same. "I really need to be by myself for a while. Had a rough night tonight?"

"Let's just say I'm not a big fan of magicians who wear giant fishbowls on their heads," Peter said wryly before standing up and pulling his mask back on. He gave me a quick salute before climbing out the window and swinging away into the January night.

I stared at my computer, closed, for a while before forcing myself to open it again. I knew I should get some sleep, but I wanted to know everything about Franklin Koppel as I could. There was very little outside the sparse news reports and a Facebook page I wasn't allowed access to. I subscribed to Danny's superhero vlog, deciding that maybe I needed a bit of a morale boost right now. I watched some of his older videos, wondering if there really were people out there who believed in my cause, although no one's guesses were right. Some people thought I was like Spider-Man and was just defending the people of the city. Others thought I had a vendetta, which was pretty close – Danny even made a scarily accurate assumption that my motivation lied somewhere in the pain of a loved one, that someone I cared about got hurt because of the crime in New York and this is my reaction.

So tired I could barely move, I fell asleep sitting up.

OoOoO

Franklin Koppel's funeral was held on a Friday, less than forty-eight hours after his death. It snowed that day, washing out the color as the procession made their way to the graveyard with the casket.

She watched from afar, keeping her distance to avoid conflict. It didn't feel right to show her face at the funeral of a man she had let die; she didn't want them to think she was some sort of morbid freak, like serial killers who attended the funerals of their victims. They couldn't see her face anyways, so what would they think if they saw her there? That she was going to finish off the rest of the family, that the terror had only just started to begin. Did they know she felt guilty, did they blame her for everything that happened?

Falcon wished she could divine these answers from the ceremony but if that's what the family and friends of Koppel thought, then they kept it to themselves. She spotted his wife, a woman in black with two little boys holding on to either of her hands. One looked to be barely five years old, the other closer to ten or eleven. She was sixteen when she lost her mother, at an age and with the ability to make the worst of it. Falcon wouldn't be here right now if the White Rose hadn't decided to take away her mother. What would happen to those boys, who would they grow up to be? She hoped they never turned out like her.

At one point, she had to duck down because she thought someone had spotted her. The older of two sons had looked up to the sky, as if curious about the falling flakes. He must've spotted her black form at the corner of an apartment complex, then pointed and said something too far away to hear to his mother.

If the mother saw Falcon, she didn't do anything about. When Falcon peeked out again, the mother was standing over the hole in the ground and letting a red rose drop inside. The sons followed her actions, the youngest biting his mittens and clinging to her leg. Did he even understand what was happening? Did he know who was in that coffin six feet below?

Falcon flew off soon after people left in their black cars, leaving behind a trail of footsteps in the smooth layer of snow behind them. As soon as the last car left and the last piece of dirt padded down in front of the gravestone, Falcon dropped to the ground, right were the mother stood some time before.

The groundskeeper cried out and dropped his shovel at her sudden appearance. With an incoherent whimper, he ran off, nearly tripping in the thick snow. Falcon ignored him, looking down at the marble gravestone in front of her.

It was simple marble. Too simple, she thought. Why weren't there any decorations, any unique flourishes that said this man was special, that he died a hero? Even his inscription was kept short and to the point:

Franklin Koppel

1983-2013

Beloved Son, Husband, Father.

"That's it?" she muttered to herself. "How can that be it?"

"Is there something wrong, miss?" said a voice behind her that made Falcon whip around in surprise.

The cemetery was so cold, so quiet and still that she didn't wasn't expecting someone to still be here, somehow. The man, with neatly groomed red hair, wore a black suit and carried a white cane. Opaque glasses covered his face and he smiled, if sadly, at her. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Did you find something upsetting?"

"I..." Falcon stared at the man – was he blind? Probably why he wasn't giving her a dirty look right now, what people usually did when they recognized her – before turning back to the gravestone and clenching her jaw, telling herself she shouldn't be talking to anyone, and certainly not here, out in the open. Why couldn't she just pretend he didn't exist, like she used to with people who got too close? "It...it doesn't say much. I thought it would say more about him."

"Oh," the blind man nodded like he understood, coming to stand beside her at the gravesite, swinging the cane back and forth so he didn't trip on anything. "Did you know him well?"

She glanced at him, wondering if he was joking. The man just returned the look with an inscrutable expression on his face. It was rather disconcerting, to meet the gaze of a blind man, who seemed to see far more than he actually could.

But that was a crazy idea. He was just another civilian with no idea who he was talking to. Falcon had left her scrambler off, so it was perhaps made it even more difficult for the man to realize who he was talking to. She said, "No. I – he saved my life. I thought...I guess, I thought he deserved better. This shouldn't have even happened in the first place. He should be with his family, not down there all alone with-without..."

Falcon's voice started to crack and she clamped her mouth shut, trying to swallow that lump in her throat. She made to wipe at her eyes but her hand just brushed against her helmet ineffectively. She made a noise of frustration, her hands turning into fists as she kicked at the snow. Some splattered on the headstone and she immediately felt bad for acting out, particularly in front of this man. Was he judging her right now? Did he think her immature and stupid?

"Have you lost someone close to you?" the man asked as though nothing happened.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Falcon demanded, managing to get her voice back under control and only intoning the emotions she wanted it to.

The man just sighed and shrugged his shoulders, saying, "Sometimes we feel guilt over the things we cannot control. Sometimes we're blamed for the things that couldn't be helped. And then when this guilt, this grief becomes too much, it comes out in a way that maybe is misunderstood by others. It's only natural to feel this way."

Falcon let this sink in for a second. No, she wasn't stupid, she knew she wasn't the only person who lost someone she cared about. Maybe she shouldn't even be complaining – she didn't have the right to. Her mother was still alive out there, somewhere, a chance of returning. Those boys didn't have that chance. They were never going to see their father again. Eventually, she asked, "Do they hate me? Do they wish it was me instead of him that should have died?"

"Would it matter?" the blind man replied. This answer only frustrated her and she made to snap at him for his unhelpfulness, but he raised a hand for patience, apparently predicting her protest and continued, "Perhaps you should consider if it's possible if you can forgive yourself before you ask forgiveness from someone else. If you cannot accept it from them, then the effort will mean nothing. If you are not careful, this guilt you feel can quickly turn into a thirst for revenge."

"Are you going to tell me to just 'turn a blind eye' next?" Falcon scoffed, tossing her head in derision, not in the mood for political correctness. If this man expected her to just let Koppel's death go as a mere mistake, he had another thing coming. She jabbed a finger at the grave marker, "Koppel not only didn't deserve this, but it wasn't an accident, either. Somebody gave that homeless man a gun, somebody wanted him to go on and hurt others. I wish I could have stopped him in time, but now it's too late. That man might be facing trials but the people behind this are getting off scot-free, with no punishment whatsoever. If you expect me to forgive that, then I guess you don't think Koppel deserves justice for his death."

The blind man didn't waver during this speech. It made Falcon even angrier – didn't he react to anything? What did it take to make this guy do something? But the man just tilted his head and asked, "Why do you think I'm here for?"

"Um," Falcon did a double take, not expecting that. "Because you're... family?"

"Try again."

"I-I don't..." Falcon gave this man an odd look, trying to figure out what she missed with this guy. His suit was nice, in fact, but it wasn't a tuxedo, not something one would typically wear to a funeral. "I don't know, a doctor?"

"Try lawyer," the man replied, a smile forming on his lips. "I'm representing the Koppel family in the following trials."

"I didn't know they could afford lawyers." The Koppel family hadn't appeared particularly wealthy from what she had seen of them.

"I'm working pro bono," the lawyer said with a shrug, like not getting paid was no big deal. How? Falcon would kill for a decent paycheck (well, not really, but come on). "I like to help those who wouldn't get a voice otherwise."

"Well, aren't you an angel," Falcon muttered under her breath. A handicapped lawyer working out of the goodness of his own heart seemed a lot more heroic than a vigilante who flew around busting faces and getting people killed.

"I can assure you, I'll do my best to ensure the Koppel's get the justice they deserve," the man assured her. "I won't let the White Rose get away with this."

Falcon gazed at the lawyer in surprise. She didn't even recall bringing up the White Rose. He knew? He sounded like he meant it, not in the politician's way to appease the people, but because he honestly wanted the White Rose to get their due. It made her smile. "That's...that's good to hear."

"It must be nice not feel so alone," the man remarked, giving her a look that made Falcon feel tingly all over. Goddamn, how did he do it? Was he really blind? Because it sure as hell felt like he was looking straight at her. "You've got spirit, miss, but don't let it get out of control. I can't legally advise any action that isn't condoned by justice system."

"I'll try not to get caught." Falcon surmised, earning a grin from the lawyer. She knew it was time to leave - she had overstayed her welcome. As she ruffled out her wings, she turned to the lawyer and asked, "What's your name?"

"Murdoch, attorney-at-law." The man replied, holding out a hand in her direction (again, so accurate - maybe this was normal and Falcon didn't know enough blind people), which she hesitantly took in her gloved hand. "When you get the chance, I suggest you look me up in Hell's Kitchen. That's where my office is."

"Hell's Kitchen, huh?" Falcon asked, a bit pleased to find out a guy with interests in line with hers also happened to live in the same neighborhood. "I might just take you up on that offer. Hopefully, I won't have to."

"I won't try to guess what that means," the man replied, starting to turn away. He tugged on his lapels, gave her a short bow of the head as a goodbye. "Have a good evening, miss."

Falcon watched as he left in silence. A part of her was surprised when he didn't hail a cab or get into a car. Was he really going to walk all the way back to Hell's Kitchen from here? Or maybe he lived somewhere else.

Right now, it didn't matter. She looked down, reading Koppel's inscription once more. He deserved so much better than this.

OoOoO

She landed on top of an apartment building in Jersey City, all the way across the bay from her hometown. Falcon had never patrolled here before, and wasn't exactly considering it, either. The five boroughs were hard enough to cover, even if she did have Spider-Man for help.

Finding the boy hadn't been too hard. He had a very active online social life, and a Facebook page she could readily access. It took her barely three minutes to fly over and locate his house from high up, where the streets were mere lines on the ground. Instead of going inside the building, she dropped down the fire escape, checking the windows around the building, until she found the one she was looking for.

It took the boy a full ten minutes to finally notice her from the glowing screen of his computer. The kid had only glanced at the window in passing, but did a double take when he saw Falcon standing outside his window, on the fire escape.

Danny flipped out, nearly falling out of his chair, hands flying around. He looked around, perhaps wondering if this was some sort of prank. But Falcon didn't move from her position – she waited for him to open the window of his own volition. That way, he'd probably be less intimated, as opposed to Falcon just letting herself in with no permission.

Looking half-ready to run, Danny took a full minute to decide what to do before finally approaching the window and pushing it open. In hindsight, Falcon didn't blame him. Danny wasn't very imposing – big eyes, curly blond hair, and the physique of pencil, he reminded her of Peter before the spider bite. Maybe he got bullied, now or in the past – and was probably hesitant to let mean-looking people into his room.

To her, he asked, "Are you...are you the real thing?"

"What do you think?" Falcon asked, and to prove her point, she waved her hand, and the window slammed shut. The boy jumped back, alarmed, and stayed that way even after Falcon opened the window again. "Can I come in?"

"Uh," Danny blinked. "...sure."

The window wasn't particularly large, but Falcon was small and she only had to bend down to get herself inside. It was nice and warm in here, a pleasant change to the winter outside. It occurred to her that maybe letting in the cold air was a bad idea, and closed the window again. Looking at the boy, she said, "I want to talk to you."

"Oh, god, it's about the videos, isn't it?" Danny said, flopping on his bed, weak with defeat. "It's always the videos. Please don't kill me, I didn't mean any harm –"

She held up a hand and he clamped his mouth shut.

"No – I mean, yes," Falcon stuttered, then got frustrated with herself. She couldn't look like a bumbling, indecisive idiot to this kid, she had to be determined! "I mean..." taking a deep breath, she collected her thoughts before saying, "I've watched them. I value your opinion. You're a fair and unbiased reporter, unlike the people on TV. And I wanted to ask you something."

"Yeah, anything," Danny relaxed at the praise, actually looking pleased. "Whatever you want."

"Good," Falcon paused, trying to think of the best way to phrase her question, how to put it into context. "A few days ago...a man died. Killed. Hit by a bullet I deflected. And I just feel like...if I hadn't been there, he might still be alive. That – that if I hadn't gotten involved, things might have turned out better. That it was my fault it happened."

Danny stared at her for a long moment. She didn't think she had to name the event she was talking about – it was all over the news, and it was likely he had heard plenty. He opened his mouth, paused, then said, "Um, I'm not hearing the question."

"I want to know what you think!" Falcon said, throwing her arms out like it was obvious. It was obvious, she just said she valued his opinion. That meant she wanted to hear what he had to say about it! "You haven't posted a video in three days. I figured the next one would be about...that. You know. I was afraid..."

"Afraid of what?" the kid asked when she didn't finish, leaning forward with eyebrows high on his forehead.

"Afraid you'd hate me." Falcon admitted with a deep sigh. "That everyone would hate me. Well, more than before, at least. A legitimate reason to quit."

"No!" Danny said so abruptly that it made her jump. She stared at him as he got up, slid into his rolling chair, and swung over to his desk, typing madly on the keyboard. "No way! You have to stay on the streets!"

As reassuring as that was, it still left a lot to be answered. "Why? People seem to think that crimes would be better handled if I weren't involved, so why continue? I know they think I'm in it for myself, but I'm not. I want to protect people, but if they don't feel protected, then I'm not doing my job."

"But you are," Danny said, frowning at her. He brought up his internet browser, was typing something into the search engine. "Look, Falcon, you and Spider-Man are literally the only two people out there who can stop what the police can't. Things that go unnoticed, unsolved, unpunished. The police can't be everywhere, and they can't fight like you can, they can't deal with the bigger dangers out there. Not without the military – and let's be honest, they aren't known for their speed."

"But someone died because of me," Falcon said. The voice scrambler was grating on her nerves, so she shut it off and spoke in her normal voice instead. "How do I reconcile that with what I do? With how people see me?"

She sounded weak, vulnerable, to the point she almost regretted turning the machine off. But Danny gave her a wide-eyed, inscrutable look. He didn't seem amused or derisive. She expected a flippant comment, but instead she got:

"You...you sound a lot younger than I thought you'd be."

Falcon just looked at him, having nothing to say.

Danny, apparently confused by this revelation, averted his gaze before going back to his computer. He was bringing up news articles about the incident in the museum. Danny cleared his throat and said, "Erm, this one has an interview with the hostage negotiator. He said that most situations he deals with are with scared people who want something – or just need to calm down – but because the man with the gun was high on that-that Rosebud stuff, so paranoid and aggressive, that there was no way he could be reasoned with. He didn't have a plan, he wasn't there for money or retribution. He was a guy out of his mind and usually they'd use a sniper to take him out, but because of the location no one could get a good angle on him. If you hadn't gotten involved...well, a lot more people could be dead."

"The point is..." he took a deep breath, turning back to Falcon. He couldn't quite look at her, but in fact focused on the corner of his bed, deep in thought. "The point is that no one is perfect. You can't save everybody, Falcon. You can try, but you can't. Please don't hurt me for saying that, but I think it's the truth. You tried your best and, honestly, the other guy died doing what he was trained to do. He might not have needed you to take that gunman down. He might have died anyway –"

Falcon stiffened and had almost punched him for that. But she held herself back, only let loose a twitch of movement.

Danny jumped back, panicked, his hands shooting into the air in the gesture of surrender. "Sorry, I'm sorry! Not the right thing to say, I get it!" he paused, testing the waters to see if Falcon might do something violent, but when she remained silent and unmoving, he continued at a slightly more confident rate, "But I'm a realist, and that's what I think."

"Great," she muttered, letting her arms hang at her side. This didn't exactly make her feel better. "So even if I hadn't gone, he'd be dead and I'd still blame myself for not being able to save him."

"I don't know what to tell you," the boy said with a shrug, his wisdom spent. "I guess you can put it this way: It could have been worse. It could always be worse."

"Let's not tempt fate," Falcon muttered. It wasn't what she hoped it would be – although since a man died, she wasn't sure what exactly kind of uplifting message she was hoping to get, unless it was miraculously discovered that the security guard was actually a serial killer or something that might justify his death.

But that never happened.

"Um, before you go," Falcon had just turned around to leave when Danny piped up behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, at the nervous looking guy. "Would it be cool if I took a picture with you?"

Falcon almost thought he was joking, and let out a strangled laugh. "...W-what?"

"You know," suddenly Danny was completely red, all the way to his ears. He tugged on his shirt collar, pulling an awkward smile. "My fans would love it if they saw us together. And, you know, it'll make me legit."

"Uh," Falcon considered it for a brief second. She almost gave it, thinking it might be a thanks for his help, but she quickly realized it would be a bad idea. "I don't think so, D-Man. I don't have to tell you that I've got a lot of enemies. And the White Rose won't consider your total page views when they decide to off you for being on my side. Or maybe they'll plant Rosebud in your locker and frame you for drug possession."

"My locker?" Danny scoffed, looking offended. "Dude, I'm in college."

"Oh," Falcon said, wondering if that was an insult on its own. "You, uh, look young for your age."

"What? Come on!" the guy did not appreciate being underestimated - or something. He crossed his arms, muttering, "This is why nobody takes me seriously."

"Maybe you should try wearing a mask," Falcon suggested, trying not to sound too amused. Her mood hadn't been that great for a little bit - it felt strange to laugh again. "I heard it does wonders for the self-conscious type."

"Is that what it is?" Danny asked, a wry smile growing on his face. He, too, seemed surprised by Falcon's sense of humor. She was no Spider-Man, but at least she had sarcasm on her side. "Hey, will I ever see you again? I mean, besides on the news?"

"I don't know," Falcon said with a shrug, turning back to the window and opening it. She gave an honest answer, or at least an accurate one. "If I have another moral crisis, I'll let you know. Tell you what, though,"

She pulled something from her glove and tossed it to Danny. "Souvenir."

Danny caught the feather in surprise, it's metal and coated silicon glittering multi-colored in his hands. He gaped at the thing, like he had just been given Captain America's shield. It was thin as paper, but amazingly resilient; when Danny bent it, the feather bounced back to its original shape, nothing cracked or broken. When he pressed against the sides, the vanes and stem collapsed to form a compact disk the size of a dime.

Danny let it unfold, marveling the craftsmanship, before looking up to say thank you.

But Falcon had already left.