Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do ya?

Re-Edited as of 10/11/14

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Chapter Eight

Onus Probandi

The first thing Falcon did once leaving that hospital was to hunt down a drug dealer and put him on display.

Finding one wasn't that hard. She just had to go to the nearest residential district (Upper West Side), cruise the skies until she found some loner loitering around street corners and dark alleyways, before giving him the drop.

Falcon probably didn't have to beat him up as much as she had to. Of course, she took some pleasure when he saw her and ran. She flew over, giving the guy a couple seconds to zig-zag across the tarmac and pretend that he actually had a chance.

She got bored of it pretty quickly, and wasn't about to give the grungy man in the dark hoodie an opportunity to escape into a nearby building. Folding in her wings, Falcon quickly lost altitude and landed feet first on the man's shoulders, slamming him into the dirt and rolling off in one smooth motion.

"P-p-please, don't hurt me..." the man whimpered, trying to pick himself up off the ground. He raised his hands, either in surrender or to protect his head, probably both.

Falcon just tilted her head, analyzing and deciding that he wasn't much of a threat. This was just some low-level crony, some guy the White Rose would have picked up off the street just to sell their drugs. She couldn't even find a piece on him, although there were plenty plastic baggies full of contraband materials.

With a wave of her hand, Falcon flipped up the piece of cardboard the man landed on, tossing the man back on his butt. Surprised, the man scrambled back, crab-walking as though he couldn't find the strength to stand. Then, after making a far distance away, he got up and started to run again.

Falcon didn't go after him. Instead, she flicked a finger and a trashcan went flying into the man's side, knocking him off his feet again. He cried out and covered his head as the trashcan came back, dumping its contents on him and making further dents in its metal sides as it beat down upon his body.

Perhaps there was something wrong with Falcon, finding satisfaction in the man's yelps and cries. But she justified her actions in that this man deserved it – who knew how much Rosebud he was selling, who knew how many he was hurting right now. If the drug dealer didn't want to get beat up, he should've known better than to try such things in her city.

About five minutes in, Falcon got bored and dropped the trashcan. It clattered across the ground, rolling towards the street. The drug dealer didn't move, quivering on the ground as Falcon walked up to him.

She looked down and crossed her arms, asking him, "Are you going to run away again?"

The drug dealer was so terrified he wouldn't even look up at Falcon. He just shook his head, frantic and said, "N-n-no...no, I won't, I promise!"

"Good." Falcon said, then lifted him up by his clothes. The man kicked and struggled, unwillingly manhandled as Falcon raised her arms and hooked his shirt on the overhang of a nearby streetlamp. "Why don't you just hang around for a bit?"

"Ah, let me down!" the man reached over his head, trying to slip out of his shirt, but his back was flush with the metal pole – he was stuck too tightly in, and his hoodie did not have the convenience of buttons or zippers. He flailed his arms, shouting, "Please, you don't know what they'll do to me when I get caught!"

"You mean justice?" Falcon said, looking up at him and admiring her work. Sure, she may not have the webbing that Spider-Man always used to sling up his criminals, but that didn't mean she couldn't improvise. "Somehow, I can't empathize."

"Not the police, man!" the drug dealer shook his head. "It's the people they'll be locking me up with. You know how many people there are in Ryker's that want to kill someone like me? I'll be dead before the second night!"

"Yeah, sure," Falcon was not about to be tricked into letting a drug dealer go free. If there was one place this man belonged, it was jail. "That's not gonna work on me, bud."

"You've never been inside," The drug dealer retorted, a bold statement but not incorrect. Falcon paused, just long enough to hear him out. "You think it's bad out here, bird girl? Imagine how many more of the Rose is behind bars. They don't take kindly to losers like me. You want another death on your conscience?"

Falcon clenched her fists. Who the hell was he to bring that up? He wasn't an innocent civilian caught in the crossfire. He didn't deserve to be treated the same way.

But still. She didn't want to be responsible for this man's death, whether or not he was a criminal. He certainly didn't seem to be a killer himself. When the police find him, there was no way the man could weasel out of the drug charges, and it would be one-way ticket to Riker's.

She couldn't let him go free. But there was a way to protect him.

Falcon swiped her hand through the air. The drug dealer winced, expecting to be struck again by airborne objects, but instead his pockets turned out and nearly three pounds worth of Rosebud and crack fell to the pavement.

The man stared, asking, "What're you doing?"

"You don't want to go to Ryker's, fine," Falcon pulled a match from her belt – she kept some things on hand now that she had some reliable pockets. Lighting it, she let the match drop onto the packets of white and red. The contents caught fire almost immediately. "Maybe the cops will find residue on your body, but at least they can't prove you were in possession. Maybe you'll get sent to a nice correctional facility, rehabilitate you into a helpful member of society. I guess it just depends on if you want to see me again. Or your lovely friends with the Rose."

The man's eyes widened, understanding what she was doing. He seemed somewhat upset that she was burning quality product, but she knew he was much happier with staying alive. Just before she was about to leave, he asked, "Wait, how am I supposed to explain the money I got? It's not like I've got a real job."

"Really?" Falcon swiveled on her heel, facing him again. Another wave of her hand and the man's pants pockets were emptied of several wads of cash. They floated into her hand. At least two hundred dollars, if not more. She stuck the cash into her belt. "How kind of you to mention that. The city of New York thanks you for your contribution."

"Oh, come on!" the man complained, kicking his legs. "Give me my money back. I worked hard for that, you know!"

"Well, if you want it that way," Falcon said, hands on her hips, keeping her tone reasonable. It sounded odd, particularly since her voice scrambler had the opposite effect. "I suppose I can just wait until the police arrive and explain to them the whole matter. But they like me as much as they like you, so I don't think it'll work out in either of our favors."

The man slumped, hanging limply from his post. With a glum look, he said, "Oh, fine, keep it. But-but don't tell the Rose, okay? If they find out, I'm a dead man for sure."

"I'll keep quiet if you do," Falcon replied. Was she really making a deal with a petty criminal? It seemed so off, yet she wasn't as angry as before. Still, she was keeping the cash. "So shut up and play dump when the cops ask questions."

Without preamble, Falcon took off, not caring to listen to whatever further complaints the drug dealer had about his current situation. Falcon had already done him a huge favor by burning his stash, she wasn't going to let him escape on a luxury cruise or something. Besides, she was already strapped for cash – she had yet to find a legitimate job, and getting paid for hero-work make her feel more like a mercenary.

It wasn't stealing. Falcon tried to reassure herself of this. She was merely relieving criminals of their ill-gotten gains, and putting it to better use. Like paying for her apartment, and heating bills. And food. Mostly food.

(What? She had a fast metabolism).

But Falcon felt bad enough about it that when she found an old woman sleeping on a bench in the park, she flew down and silently deposited some bills into the woman's coat pocket.

"Oi!" only the old woman was not as sleepy as she appeared. As soon as she sensed a presence, the woman snapped up, grabbing for the offending wrist and catching it in the midst of holding the cash. "What the hell?"

Falcon was so surprised she didn't say anything. The woman frowned at the cash, her other hand still raised with an old cane in hand. Perhaps to ward off anyone else who might attempt to steal from her. The woman squinted up at Falcon, asking, "What is this?"

Before Falcon could say anything, the woman gasped, "Augh! You're Falcon! Killer! Please, I didn't do anything wrong, I was just sleeping here, I swear –!"

But Falcon did not wage war with the homeless. She withdrew her hand from the woman's grip, who quickly let go in fear. Did she think Falcon would hurt her? Falcon didn't like that everyone was so afraid of her, but she knew she shouldn't be surprised, especially not after all her attempts to come off as more intimidating.

Without a word, Falcon dropped the wad of green on the woman's lap, taking a step back and turning away. As she unsheathed her wings, the woman called out, "Holy smokes! Is that real? Thank you!"

Falcon allowed herself a small smile before taking off.

OoOoO

I have never been popular before. Today, however, I got to know how it was like.

People talked about me. Not to me, but to their friends, behind their hands, in whispers and glances they thought I wouldn't notice. The rumors (more than usual) had spread since yesterday. I was the savior of all detention kids.

"Did you hear...?"

"Pulled the fire alarm..."

"No one even saw..."

"Like a ghost..."

"Not even the security cameras caught it..."

I had to say, I was pretty pleased with myself. Who knew it took an act of flagrant rule-breaking to get noticed around here?

"So, is it true?" Gwen appeared at my side, eyebrow cocked. She seemed amused, if not a little suspicious, about the matter at hand. "Did you really pull the fire alarm to get out of detention?"

"Uh, no," I said, not very convincingly. Gwen, daughter of the police chief, was not to be fooled. "Where'd you hear that?"

Her eyes went wide and she smacked my arm. "Amy! I can't believe it! Do you know how much trouble you'll be in when you get caught?"

"When? Who said anything about when?" I asked, frowning. "Did they find proof?"

"Not that I know of," she shrugged her shoulders, orange puffy jacket making slight squeaky sounds. "But seriously, what's up with you? First you break Astor Sloane's arm, get detention, then you're skipping, and now you're breaking out of school? What's going on, Amy? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"It's nothing," I tried to play it off as easygoing, carefree, even though that was the exact opposite of how I was feeling these past few weeks. "I swear. It's like what those therapist people say: I'm going through a phase. Trying to discover who I am by experimenting with different identities."

Specifically the superhero kind. But that usually wasn't something you could share with a clique of friends.

Gwen still wasn't buying it. As we headed off to class, she was halfway to giving me the Look. "Sure, Ames, sure. But I don't think breaking school rules and risking expulsion is the right identity for you. My dad would be so ticked if I did anything like that."

Maybe it was her intention, maybe it wasn't, but there was the hidden message that I didn't have anyone to tell me to stop. No Dad. No Mom. No one with authority in my life to warn me I was going too far, that could ground me and give me a curfew they could enforce. So I said, "Look, don't worry about it, all right? I'm just stressing about the finals coming up. I don't want to bomb my Shakespeare test."

"Ah, yes, your arch nemesis," Gwen nodded in understanding. It seemed to distract her from the problem at hand. At least it was believable. "Almost forgot about him. Still haunting you from beyond the grave?"

"The Bard is a persistent bast –" I was interrupted by a loud buzzing noise as the PA system came to life. Throughout the halls, the principal's voice rang, "Amelia Fletcher to the Principal's Office, Amelia Fletcher to the Principal's Office, please."

Gwen looked up, her eyebrows furrowing. "Hmm, I wonder what she wants with you?"

I did not fail to catch the sarcasm veiled in her tone. "No idea. I guess I'll just have to find out for myself."

"Well, if you want my advice," Gwen said, casting me one final look before heading off to her class alone – the Principal's office being in the entirely opposite direction. "Plead the Fifth!"

"Noted!" I called back before making the lonely and nerve-wracking trek down the stairwell, footsteps echoing like gunshots. I crossed all my fingers, hoping that my luck wasn't really this bad. I put the phone back! That must count for some karma points, right?

The office was on the first floor, the secretary letting me inside. Principal Elsa Randall was waiting for me at her desk, hands folded across the ink mat as though she had some sort of speech prepared. I wasn't surprised when I sat down that she started talking immediately.

"Well, Amelia –" she said, but I cut her off.

"Don't call me that," I said, before realizing that Principal Randall was probably the last person I wanted to be rude to at the moment. "Um, sorry. Just Fletcher, please."

"All right then," Principal Randall took a deep breath, not looking too peeved. She probably dealt with more difficult students than me. She was young-ish, I suppose, mid-forties with dyed blonde hair. She always had painted nails and wore pantsuits that always seemed a little too professional for a high school setting. "Miss Fletcher, then? Okay. Well, it seems that you've been the talk of the town today, Miss Fletcher. The cat's meow, as they say."

"Who does?" I asked, tilting my head. I didn't know why I was being so sassy. Maybe my good mood was affecting how I treated the authority figures in my life: with less respect. I could see why some of them like the quiet kids better.

"You know what I mean," Principal Randall replied, twisting her lips like she just swallowed a lemon. Yeah, she didn't appreciate that comment. "So, you want to tell me why you're so popular all of a sudden? Why the fire alarm went off yesterday afternoon, during the detention you were attending and conveniently let out of an hour before it ended."

"Yeah, I don't know," I just shrugged and made a face, clasping my hands in my lap. "I was in the bathroom. Everyone will say that, from the detention I was in, they can attest to that. And the fire alarm? Scared the crap out of me."

Principal Randall leaned forward on her desk, eyes squinting as if she could somehow wheedle the truth out of me if she looked stern enough. "I don't think that's everything you want to tell me, Miss Fletcher."

"Uh, I told you the truth, so yeah, that's everything."

"Really?" Principal Randall said, her brow drawing down, lips matching the movement. I had to keep myself from smiling at her frustration. What kind of girl did she think I was? Keeping secrets was my forte. "And you have nothing else to do with the events yesterday? Nothing at all?"

I paused, considering my next move. I knew what she wanted and I knew I had to get out of here as cleanly as possible. I had to dissuade her from pushing the point, from going after it and possibly ruining my life. I wasn't stupid. She had no proof. I would not show up on any security cam pulling the alarm because I didn't do it with my hands.

So I took a deep breath and said in the most insulted tone I could muster: "Principal Randall, are you trying to insinuate that it was me who pulled the fire alarm? You know, it's a punishable crime, with a fine, to do that when there's not actually a fire, and I would never do such a thing. I mean, unless you have verifiable proof that I did it, and not word of mouth from a bunch of easily excitable teenagers who are very good at exaggerating...I'm afraid I can't help you."

Principal Randall blinked at me, taking a second to just absorb all that. She sniffed, raising her chin and sitting back in her seat, admitting silent defeat. "All right, Miss Fletcher. I...believe you. But I suggest you change that attitude, it won't get you very far."

"Thank you," I said with a smile, standing up and heading straight for the door. Glad that was over quick.

Yet, just as I was about to turn the knob, Principal Randall spoke up behind me. "Wait, Miss Fletcher. You do know that you need twenty hours of community service to graduate, correct? I noticed on your file that you don't have the required amount extracurricular hours."

"Oh, really?" I said, throwing her a look over my shoulder, not even turning around. "Must have slipped my mind. I'll work on it."

"Yes, please add that to the already growing list," Principal Randall said, her politeness barely hiding the disguised insult. I went back to opening the door, and just as I was about to close it behind me, she called out one more time, "And one last thing!"

"Yeah?" I asked, trying not to roll my eyes as I looked back one last time.

"Well played, Miss Fletcher." Principal Randall was smirking, hand in the air as she twirled a pen in her fingers. I already knew that I had just made myself an addition to her record of troublemakers. "But it was just a fluke. Next time it happens, we will find something."

I didn't even bother with subtlety. I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Good luck with that, ma'am."