Disclaimer: I own nothing of the dc universe.

Lieutenant Cameron stepped over the threshold, the acrid scent of discharged gunpowder instantly transporting him back to the all-too-familiar scenes of Gotham. Seattle's skyline had promised a reprieve from such chaos, but the illusion shattered as quickly as the diner's now broken window.

The diner was a tableau of distress, bathed in the harsh glow of fluorescent lights that seemed to flicker with the palpable tension in the air. Cameron's eyes swept over the scene with the cool detachment honed by years on Gotham's front lines. The lifeless body sprawled on the floor barely registered to him; it was the living he was trained to focus on.

Methodically, he knelt beside the unconscious man, a bystander in this tableau, his practiced hands finding the pulse—a strong, rhythmic thrum beneath his fingers. "Hospital, now," he instructed with authority, a command that spurred the nearest officers into action.

Rising to his full height, he turned to the woman in the corner, her body shaking as if in a windstorm of fear. Sara was her name, he remembered—one of the hostages had mentioned it when the shots rang out, just before they screamed Michael's name. He approached her, his demeanor the eye of the storm, the calm that had once settled the frayed nerves of Gotham's citizens.

"Ma'am, Sara," he began, his voice the grounding force she so desperately needed. "You're out of danger now. Can you tell me what happened? Start from the beginning."

Words spilled from her in a frantic cascade, each sentence a piece of the jigsaw puzzle he was already starting to assemble in his mind. "... and then Johnny, he... he just started firing, and the other guy, it stopped. He just stood there, and the bullets—they didn't touch him!"

He glanced back at the stretcher, now being maneuvered with an urgency that matched the racing of his own thoughts. He'd heard of things like this before, of people who defied the laws of nature. Metahumans, they were called back in Gotham. And now, perhaps, in Seattle too.

The diner around him seemed to recede into the background, its every detail—the chipped paint, the scattered remnants of meals half-eaten, the scent of overcooked eggs—fading into insignificance. Cameron's mind worked overtime, digesting Sara's account, linking it to the name now etched into the situation.

He had thought he'd left the world of capes and chaos behind, had hoped Seattle would be different—a city without the dark cloak of madness that Gotham wore like a second skin. But as he stood there, the truth dawned on him, as stark and unyielding as the gleam of his badge. He hadn't escaped; he'd merely stepped into a new arena.

A wry, almost invisible smile tugged at the corner of Cameron's mouth, a silent acknowledgment of the universe's irony. His smirk dissipated as quickly as it came, replaced by a look of steely resolve. Note pad in hand, he jotted down everything, his gaze lingering on the closing doors of the ambulance as it vanished into the city.

In the silence that followed, punctuated only by the distant wail of the siren, Cameron stood resolute. His next steps were clear, each one paving the way towards an inevitable truth: Gotham's shadows may stretch far and wide, but they had just cast a new figure onto Seattle's stage. And Cameron would be ready.

o-o-o-o-o

In the soft embrace of an unfamiliar tranquility, Michael drifted upward from the depths of unconsciousness. The comfort was deceptive, a siren call luring him back to the world of the living, away from the murky recesses where his mind had sought refuge. The first sensation that greeted him was the surprisingly gentle touch of crisp cotton sheets against his skin, a stark contrast to the harshness of the world he last remembered.

His body, a reluctant participant in this awakening, protested with dull aches as he shifted ever so slightly, feeling the reassuring firmness of a mattress beneath him. It was the kind of comfort that hospitals meticulously created, a comfort designed to heal, to soothe, to calm. For a fleeting moment, Michael relished it, allowing the sensation to wash over him as a balm to the chaos that had preceded his fall into darkness.

As the fog of sleep began to lift, his senses started their reconnaissance. The air carried a sterile scent laced with the faint undercurrent of antiseptic and a trace of something floral, perhaps the remnants of a cleaning agent. It was the smell of sterility, of a place scrubbed clean of life's unpredictable messes.

Michael's ears picked up the soft beeping of a machine nearby, rhythmic, and persistent. It was a heartbeat in electronic form, reassuring in its regularity. The occasional murmur of voices and the distant sound of footsteps told him he was not alone, that life buzzed around him, oblivious to the storm that had just passed through his own.

Gingerly, he opened his eyes, a squint at first to temper the assault of fluorescent lighting. The light was a dull glow through his eyelids, filtered and hazy. When he dared to widen the aperture of his lashes, the hospital room came into focus. It was painted in muted tones, colors chosen to be inoffensive, to blend into the background of recovery. Equipment hummed softly at his side, and he could see the drip of an IV bag out of the corner of his eye, its contents a lifeline he hadn't known he needed.

He took a moment, just a heartbeat or two, to align his mind with this new reality. The sterile room, the bed he lay in, the equipment monitoring his every breath—they were anchors, grounding him in the here and now, pulling him further from the edge of the abyss he had danced along.

Memories began to filter through, shards of the past evening's events piercing his comfort. There had been fear, desperation, and power—the likes of which he had never known. Michael felt the weight of those memories, the gravity of actions taken, and the visceral recoil of a conscience not yet ready to face the cost of survival.

His newfound powers, a gift wrapped in the grit and grime of necessity, were now a part of him. Yet, as he lay there in the sterile sanctuary of the hospital, Michael couldn't help but feel the dissonance of his situation. He had wanted strength, to rise from the bottom, to never feel helpless again. But in the quiet of his hospital room, with the soft whisper of the sheets and the methodical beep of the heart monitor, the reality of what that strength entailed began to settle upon him like a shroud.

The hum of the heart monitor played a somber counterpoint to the swelling tumult in Michael's mind. The dissonance of the situation was tangible—a man who had once felt as significant as a grain of sand on an infinite beach now wielded the might of a tempest. The memory of the confrontation was vivid, a stark image painted in the shades of his darkest fears and newfound might.

He remembered the moment his survival instinct had entwined with the surge of power within him, the way his hands had acted of their own volition. The electric thrill of energy coursing through him, unstoppable, a living force that had found a conduit through his flesh and spirit. It had been exhilarating, a rush that drowned out all else, until the silence came—a silence that spoke louder than any cry.

In that silence lay Johnny, motionless, the finality of his stillness more jarring than the chaos that had preceded it. Michael's breath caught as the image replayed in his mind, a relentless loop that showed no sign of fading. He had taken a life, extinguished a flame that, however darkly it burned, was still a human existence.

What would his mother say? Her beliefs had been etched into her very being, a devout tapestry woven with threads of faith and conviction. She had taught him that life was sacred, a gift not to be squandered or taken lightly. Would she understand that her son, her Michael, had become a killer? Even in defense, even as the other had been a murderer, the weight of that truth was a burden that threatened to crush him.

His mind spun, grappling with the morality he had been raised with against the primal urgency of survival. In that instant, with Johnny's intent lethal and clear, Michael had chosen himself. It wasn't just a choice, but a declaration—he would not be prey, not to Johnny, not to anyone. He would never allow his life to be secondary, especially not to someone who would snuff it out without a second thought.

Yet, the turmoil remained, churning in his gut, a whirlpool that threatened to pull him under. It was a horrible thing, to take a life, even in the direst of circumstances. He knew this truth as surely as he felt the softness of the hospital bed beneath him. But another truth, cold and hard, settled within him: in a world that was kill or be killed, he would choose to live, every time.

His heart, once racing, began to slow, syncing with the beeps that filled the quiet room. His mind, once a storm, found the eye of calm. He had done what he had to do. It was this acceptance, grudging and raw, that allowed him to draw a deep breath, a breath that tasted of life and all its complex, painful, and beautiful nuances.

And it was then, as he lay wrestling with the shadows of his actions, that the doorway filled with a presence. Lisa stood there, her silhouette a stark contrast to the bright hallway behind her. Her voice, tinged with relief and something akin to joy, broke through the last of the fog that clouded his senses.

"Michael, you're awake!"

Her words, simple and laden with emotion, were a lifeline back to the present, to the here and now where the past, however tumultuous, was unchangeable, and the future, however uncertain, beckoned with the promise of redemption—or at least the hope of understanding.

As she approached, her arms outstretched, Michael felt the instinctive urge to recoil—not from her, but from the fear of what his touch could mean now, what he had become. But the warmth in her eyes, untainted by the shadows that now clung to his soul, was compelling. When her arms wrapped around him in an embrace, it wasn't just a hug; it was an affirmation that he was still Michael, still human, still someone worth holding on to.

The hug was a blessing, a human connection that grounded him in the midst of his churning thoughts. His powers, the metallic command that he had wielded so devastatingly, loomed at the back of his mind, a silent call to be understood and mastered. Later, he promised himself, he would explore the extent of this ability, learn to control it, so that it never controlled him. But for now, he shelved the thought, placing it aside as Martin and Daniel entered the room, their presence pulling him back to the immediate concerns of friendship and recovery.

They looked remarkably well, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, or perhaps the swift care of the city. They were no longer just figures surviving on the streets; they had transformed, however slightly, under the roof of necessity and the care that followed crisis.

"How long have I been out?" Michael's voice was rough, unused, but eager for information.

"Only been two days," Daniel replied, the casualness of his tone belying the depth of what had transpired in those forty-eight hours.

Surprise registered plainly on Michael's face, a testament to the disjointed sense of time that illness and injury could evoke. It felt like an eternity had passed since the confrontation, since he had felt the surge of power and the horror that followed.

"The doctors wanted to make sure you were alright," Lisa added, her voice carrying the undertone of concern that had likely been her constant companion since the incident.

Michael nodded, a gesture of understanding and silent gratitude. Yet, even as he acknowledged the necessity of medical observation, a new worry crept in, slithering like a shadow at the edge of his consciousness. His money—the lifeline that had been his before the chaos, the promise of a future—it needed to be secure.

"Is... is everything else okay? My stuff?" he asked, the question laced with an urgency that he hoped was discreet.

Martin's smirk was a flicker of mischief in the sterile room. "Got to it before anyone else did," he said, a note of pride threading his words.

Daniel gestured towards a jacket, new and untouched by the grime of their previous life, resting on a nearby chair. "It's in there," he stated, a simple declaration that held the weight of loyalty and quick thinking.

Lisa chimed in, her resourcefulness shining through, "Got us all cellphones too. Put our numbers in yours. It's in the jacket."

Relief washed over Michael in a wave, leaving a residue of warmth and the beginnings of a smile. "Thank you," he said, the words directed at all three of them. "For sticking around. For everything."

"It was no trouble at all," Daniel assured him, his voice steady, the simplicity of his statement belying the depth of their shared experience.

A silence settled over the room as Martin and Daniel took their seats, while Lisa remained standing, a sentinel on the other side of Michael's bed. The stillness of the moment seemed to hang between them, a quiet acknowledgment of all they had been through.

"When do the doctors say I can leave?" Michael asked, breaking the silence, his thoughts already turning to the world beyond the hospital walls.

As if on cue, the door swung open and a doctor in his forties entered, his white coat the banner of his profession. He carried an air of confidence softened by a warm, friendly demeanor. Michael repeated his question.

Glancing at the charts at the foot of the bed, the doctor gave a nod of approval. "You've got some bruising and you're minorly dehydrated, but with another day of observation, you should be good to walk out the door," he stated, his tone reassuring.

"That's great to hear, thank you," Michael replied, a genuine note of gratitude in his voice.

"Anything for Seattle's hero," the doctor said with a smile, leaving the room as swiftly as he had entered.

Michael's brow furrowed at the title. "Hero?" he echoed, turning to face Martin, Lisa, and Daniel. "What's he talking about?"

"You haven't seen the news, have you?" Martin said, reaching for the remote control on the bedside table. "Your actions in the restaurant have made quite the story."

With a click, the screen flickered to life, and the room was filled with the crisp enunciation of the newscaster's voice. The image on the screen shifted to a video of the restaurant, now quiet and empty, the aftermath of chaos evident in the disarray. The newscaster, with a practiced tone of gravitas, began the tale.

"…and it was right here in this everyday city diner that an extraordinary act of courage unfolded. An ordinary dinner service turned nightmare when a gunman, now identified as Johnathan 'Johnny' Markez, took hostages at gunpoint. But in the midst of fear, one man's actions stood out…"

The footage cut from the somber-faced reporter to a pre-recorded interview, the timestamp indicating it was filmed earlier that day. Sara sat in a softly lit studio, her face conveying the trauma of the recent ordeal, yet her eyes were alight with a mixture of awe and something akin to reverence.

"Tell us, Sara, in your own words, what happened that night," the off-camera interviewer prompted.

Sara folded her hands in her lap, the motion betraying a slight tremor. "It was terrifying," she began, her voice a whisper that grew stronger with each word. "I thought I was going to die. But then, Michael stood up, he stood up to Johnny. It was like something out of a movie."

The interviewer leaned in, "And what about the reports of superpowers? Did you actually see him use any unusual abilities?"

Sara nodded vigorously. "Yes! It was incredible. When Johnny shot at him, Michael just… changed. Bullets didn't even faze him! And with this… this force, he disarmed Johnny. It was like nothing I've ever seen. He saved my life!"

The camera focused in on Sara's face, capturing every nuance of her conviction and wonder. "I owe him my life," she concluded, her voice thick with emotion. "We all do. He's a hero."

The screen shifted back to the news studio, where the newscaster picked up the story. "A hero indeed. Michael, a Seattle native, is recovering in the hospital after his brave confrontation with the gunman. And while he remains modest about his actions, the city of Seattle has certainly found a new figure to admire…"

Michael stared at the screen, his mouth agape. Sara's words painted him as some sort of superhero, a narrative so far from his own perception of the frantic, fear-fueled scuffle. Her account, while heartfelt, felt alien to him—she spoke of a Michael that he didn't recognize, a version of him that had been edited for public consumption.

He was still processing the absurdity of it all when the realization dawned on him. His actions, however unintentional, had painted a target on his back. Now, with superpowers out in the open, that target had just gotten a whole lot bigger.

As the news segment wrapped up, leaving a room filled with the weight of new realities, Michael leaned back against his pillows, a sigh escaping him. Stupid, he thought. His decision to use his powers, to fight back, it was all a series of split-second choices that now had a life of their own.

He would have to be careful, he knew. With the world's eyes on him, the path forward was more treacherous than he could have imagined. And yet, despite the fear, a part of him couldn't help but feel a thrill at the challenge that lay ahead. For better or worse, Michael's life had changed forever.

Daniel leaned forward in his chair, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "So, about these superpowers the news is raving about," he started, his gaze fixed on Michael. "Is it true? Do you really have some kind of... abilities?"

The question hung in the air, charged with the weight of implications and possibilities. Michael hesitated, feeling the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes upon him. This was the moment of truth, the point of no return. With a slow exhale, he nodded, confirming their suspicions and the wild stories spun by the media.

"Yeah, it's true," Michael admitted, his voice steady, despite the tumultuous thoughts racing through his mind. "I have some sort of power over metal. I don't fully understand it myself yet."

A chorus of reactions filled the room. Lisa's eyes widened with a mix of awe and concern, Martin gave a low whistle, and Daniel, for a fleeting moment, something flickered in his gaze—a shadow of something that wasn't quite joy or pure surprise. It was gone so quickly that Michael thought he might have imagined it.

"That's... that's incredible, Michael," Lisa said, her voice tinged with the warmth of genuine support. "We're here for you, no matter what."

Martin nodded in agreement, a grin spreading across his face. "Never a dull moment with you, huh?"

Daniel with a smile on his face. "Yeah, man, that's amazing. You're like one of those superheroes from the comics."

The room settled into a new equilibrium, one where Michael's revelation had shifted the dynamics subtly but irrevocably. There was support, yes, a camaraderie that had been forged in the shared crucible of hardship and danger. But beneath the surface, Michael could sense the undercurrents of change, the ripples of his confession spreading out to touch each of their lives in ways none of them could yet fully understand.

The fragile calm that had settled over the room was disrupted by the sound of a firm knock. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man, his presence immediately altering the atmosphere with his clear detective clothing and demeanor. Michael felt a coil of apprehension tighten in his stomach. He schooled his features into a mask of neutrality, but his pulse quickened. The man's eyes were sharp, observant, and Michael couldn't shake the feeling that the lieutenant saw more than he let on.

"My name is lieutenant Cameron. Michael, I'd like a word, if you don't mind," Cameron's voice was professional, but there was an undercurrent of authority that brooked no argument.

Michael understood that the lieutenant was likely here to discuss the events at the restaurant, but the seeds of paranoia found fertile ground in his mind. Despite the lieutenant's reassurance, Michael couldn't help but worry that Cameron might have suspicions about the robbery they had committed. The very thought sent a shiver down his spine.

"Sure, Lieutenant," Michael said, nodding. His voice was calm, but inside, his thoughts were racing. He couldn't afford to refuse and arouse suspicion.

Michael turned to his friends, "Could you guys give us a few minutes?"

There was a moment's hesitation as Martin, Lisa, and Daniel exchanged glances, their reluctance palpable. Eventually, they acquiesced, standing up and moving towards the door. Their supportive looks told Michael they were only a call away.

Once they had left, Lieutenant Cameron pulled up a chair and sat down, his movements deliberate. Michael watched him, trying to read the intentions behind the stoic façade.

"Relax, Michael. This is just routine questioning after an incident like what happened at the restaurant," Cameron said, opening a small notebook. His tone was meant to be reassuring, but it did little to ease Michael's inner tension.

Michael simply nodded; the gesture stiff. He was acutely aware that any sign of resistance could paint him in a suspicious light. A silent battle was being waged within him, a fight to maintain composure under the lieutenant's scrutinizing gaze.

As Cameron prepared to ask his questions, Michael braced himself. He had to navigate this conversation carefully. The truth was a tapestry in which he had to weave his answers, obscuring the darker threads of his secret while presenting a façade that would satisfy the lieutenant's inquiry.

Lieutenant Cameron's questions started off as standard procedure. "Can you tell me why you were at the restaurant that day?" His tone was even, methodical.

Michael found his nerves easing as he recounted the mundane details of his day leading up to the incident. The questions were simple, the answers even more so. There was a rhythm to it, the back-and-forth of question and response that lulled him into a sense of security.

"And can you walk me through what happened during the hostage situation?" Cameron continued; pen poised over his notebook.

The many questions were easy and straightforward. Michael recounted the events, careful to keep to the facts, to the sequence of events as they had unfolded. He avoided delving into his emotions, the surge of power, the fear, and the adrenaline. It was a narrative stripped of personal experience, almost clinical.

But then, Cameron shifted gears, and the ease of the conversation faltered. "There are rumors circulating about you having... superpowers. Any truth to that?"

The question hung in the air like a charged particle, buzzing with potential energy. Michael hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. To lie or to tell the truth? The internal debate was brief but intense. He was aware that, regardless of his response, the rumors would persist, fueling actions and reactions beyond his control.

"Yes, it's true," Michael said, the words escaping him almost before he'd made the conscious decision to utter them. His voice was a mix of resignation and defiance.

Lieutenant Cameron looked genuinely surprised. "I appreciate your honesty," he said after a moment. "Most people would've lied."

"Lying would just create more problems down the line," Michael replied, his reasoning clear in his head even if his heart wasn't entirely convinced.

Cameron was silent for a beat, his expression unreadable. Then, he offered a piece of unsolicited advice, "In most cases, that would be true, but sometimes a lie can protect you."

The lieutenant's words were heavy with unspoken meaning, hinting at complexities Michael was only beginning to understand.

Cameron stood up, his demeanor shifting into something more solemn. "Thank you for what you did," he said earnestly. "If you're planning to be a superhero like the ones we see in other cities, know that you've got an ally in me."

Michael was quick to dispel the notion. "I'm not planning on being any kind of hero," he said, but Cameron only nodded, a knowing look in his eyes as if he had heard such denials before and knew better.

"Well, if you ever need help, or if you find yourself in a situation over your head..." Cameron trailed off, sliding his card onto the bedside table next to Michael. "You know how to reach me."

With that, the lieutenant departed, leaving Michael alone with a card that felt like a lifeline and a burden all at once. The reality of his new circumstances was setting in, and with it, the understanding that life had just become infinitely more complicated.

As Lieutenant Cameron left, Michael was left to contemplate the weight of the card on the table beside him. It was an anchor, a reminder of the real and tangible connection to the authority that could either bolster him or become a chain.

He wasn't interested in being a superhero. Such a path was fraught with peril and responsibility, the sort of limelight that could burn as much as it illuminated. Yet, the lieutenant's words had struck a chord within him. A connection to the police department might be beneficial, a means to navigate the treacherous waters he now found himself in. It was an asset, a potential ally in a city where threats loomed larger than life.

Survival and thriving were his true goals. The superpower he had acquired, it wasn't just an anomaly—it was an opportunity, a tool that he needed to understand and control. The fear he had felt under the gun's muzzle was a stark reminder of his vulnerability, but now, with this power, he had a chance to ensure he would never feel so powerless again.

But the world he had been thrust into was one of heroes and villains, gods and monsters, and his power was a mere whisper in the cacophony of forces that roamed the earth. To merely survive was no longer enough; he needed to be prepared, to be more than he had ever imagined.

His reverie was broken as Lisa, Martin, and Danny re-entered the room, their faces a blend of concern and relief. They were still riding the high of the day's revelations and the subsequent questioning by the lieutenant.

"How did it go?" Lisa asked, her voice low, as if sensing his need for quiet.

"It went fine," Michael replied, but his voice was heavy, the exhaustion evident.

"You okay?" Martin inquired, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Michael's face.

"Yeah, just tired," Michael admitted, the truth slipping out before he could think to mask it. The adrenaline of the day was waning, leaving behind a profound fatigue that seemed to seep into his bones.

"Get some rest, man," Danny said, his voice gentle. "We'll be here when you wake up."

With nods and murmurs of agreement, they settled into their own spaces in the room, giving Michael the quiet he craved. He let himself fall back onto the pillow, the softness a stark contrast to the hardness of his thoughts. His eyelids grew heavy, and despite the turmoil that churned within him, sleep beckoned with the promise of escape, however temporary.

As he drifted off, the sounds of the hospital room faded, and Michael surrendered to exhaustion. The challenges and questions would still be there when he woke, but for now, he allowed the darkness to take him, his breath evening out as he slipped into slumber.

o-o-o-o-o

The penthouse was a statement of power and wealth, its expansive windows offering a panoramic view of the city below—a city that, to those within the room, felt like a chessboard awaiting its master's next move.

Victor and Markus stood off to the side, a respectful distance from the massive oak desk where their boss sat, his eyes glued to the television screen. The news was replaying footage of Michael, now being hailed as a local hero. The boss, a silhouette against the backdrop of the city skyline, finally spoke without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Are we certain this is the same man?" His voice was calm, controlled, but there was an undercurrent that suggested the gravity of the answer.

Markus cleared his throat, "Yes, sir. It's him. No mistake."

The boss turned in his chair, facing them. His gaze was penetrating, assessing. "He could prove useful," he mused, more to himself than to his underlings.

Victor shifted uneasily. "But sir, do you think he would work with us?" The skepticism in his voice was clear, a reflection of the uncertainty they all felt about this new, unpredictable element in their city.

The boss's lips curved into a sly, knowing smile. "This is my city," he said with a quiet intensity that demanded agreement. "Everyone works for me, one way or another. They just don't all know it yet."

"And if he refuses?" Victor dared to ask.

The boss's gaze hardened, the friendly façade slipping for a moment to reveal the steel beneath. "If he refuses, then we will employ... other methods to ensure his cooperation."

He stood, the signal clear. The meeting was over. "Leave now," he commanded, his attention already turning back to the screen as Victor and Markus made for the door.

Once outside the penthouse, they exchanged a look that conveyed a mix of fear and determination. They knew better than to question their boss's methods or his claim over the city.

Behind them, the boss sat back down, his eyes flickering with thoughts and plans that would remain his own. Absentmindedly, he glanced at his wristwatch, a fine piece of craftsmanship that hinted at wealth and the value of time—time that he seemed to have in abundance, time that he used to pull the strings of the city, and perhaps, soon, to control the fate of the new player who had just entered his game.

One foundational rule I set for this story was the authenticity of the main character, Michael. I wanted the self-insert to reflect a real person's reactions and emotions, especially someone who's been through considerable hardships.

As we delve deeper into Michael's story, it's important to remember that he, like any real person, is fallible. His decisions will sometimes seem logical, other times impulsive or even foolish to others within the story and to you, the readers. In his relentless quest for power, some of his choices may shock and horrify, while others may resonate deeply with the struggles we all face.

Michael is not a character designed to be universally liked or understood. His path is one of complexity and contradiction, reflecting the often murky waters of real-life decision-making. His journey is not just about the acquisition of power but also about navigating the consequences of wielding it.