Brian's life had lately fallen into a distinct rhythm. He'd wake every morning to the sound of his alarm. He'd wash and dress and head to work where he would have meetings with clients interspersed between periods of brainstorming and research and planning, and also fixing the various fuck-ups from the art department. Every now and then, Ryder would call him for a meeting about something. Sometimes his meetings called for him to leave Pittsburgh, and Brian savored those moments because they were as close to holidays as he ever came. He hadn't had any such meetings of late, however, and so Brian would return home to change, head over to Woody's for a drink, fuck a few tricks and then don his mask and suit and protect the streets of Liberty - which he had come to call Gayopolis, because Michael said every superhero should have some bizarrely named domain to protect. He'd return home where he would collapse into his regenerative bed, then awake the next morning to his alarm and it would begin again. It was like living the same day over and over. Everything was so predictable, even the fuck-ups at work weren't anything that couldn't be easily rectified. He was apparently in-between arch nemeses, and the streets of Liberty were relatively peaceful. So it was with a certain amount of aggravation that Brian opened the secret panel in his closet and took-out his purple suit with the rip across the chest. There seemed to be little need for Rage these days. He supposed that was a good thing, but with work being so predictable, Brian was depending on the usual chaos of the streets to spice things up in his life. Putting it all aside, he withdrew his mask and put it on before heading to his window, opening it, and climbing to the roof. Over the years, Rage had learned that rooftops were an inconspicuous and handy way to travel. He didn't live too far from Gayopolis, and his rather unexpected popularity among gays everywhere made it necessary to stay out of sight until he was needed, to avoid being attacked by his fans. He was usually was only out at night, perching on the roof of the popular nightclub, Babylon, because it afforded a fairly good view of Gayopolis, and also because it was the most popular place in the area. It was a cool night in the middle of spring, but Rage had found that the temperature never affected him much. His suit, despite the large tear across his broad chest, and the thinness of the fabric, was designed specifically to maintain a stable body temperature, and most of the time, Rage was moving anyway and didn't have time to get cold. That wasn't the case that night, however, as he perched atop Babylon and surveyed the streets. It was already nearing three o'clock in the morning and nothing had happened that required his attention. Not even a twink brawl which were pretty commonplace. He waited until the familiar sounds of Babylon closing filled the streets. From out of the building on which he perched, crowds of gay men spilled out of the doors, laughing and talking, and some petting heavily. He watched as everyone headed home, some on foot, some in cars, none of them seeming to have a care in the world. He stayed until the streets were relatively clear before he, too, rose and turned away from Babylon. A light drizzle had started-up, and Rage leapt from Babylon's roof to the next with ease, moving swiftly despite the rain and he reached the next gap quickly. He was already preparing to jump when his senses went on alert. He'd learned to trust his instincts and so he shut his eyes and concentrated hard on the sound. It was very faint, but quite plain: the shuffling of feet and the dull thud of shoes as they connected with a body. Rage sprung into action, heading towards the noise and quickly came upon the scene. Five guys surrounded a smaller figure. In the dim light, he could make-out the twink's slender form as he struggled against his abusers. The twink was on the ground, curling in on himself in an attempt to remove a target for the feet which kicked at him harshly, but his hands were out and making grabs at the shoes, and he managed to topple one of his attackers which distracted the others long enough for the twink to break free of the huddle. Rage hurried towards the scene, watching as the twink unsteadily got to his feet and managed two shaky steps before one of the men grabbed the back of his shirt and jerked him back viciously. The twink's hands were at his throat, trying to stop his shirt from choking him, held fast by two of the brutes as another one came forward, a wooden baseball bat clutched in his hands. “Hey, Faggot!” the bat-wielding bastard shouted, and the twink twisted in the grip of his attackers. Rage watched as the bat came swinging out and the twink turned his head away. Already Rage was exerting his powers of mind control but it didn't stop the bat from connecting against the twink's head. The sharp crack of the bat meeting flesh and bone echoed in the alleyway, and as Rage twisted the thoughts of the homophobes, turning them against each other, he watched as the limp form of the twink toppled to the ground. He watched in satisfaction as the one wielding the bat was struck from behind by one of his buddies who carried what looked like a lacrosse stick. Ignoring the brawl that was happening not a few feet away, Rage knelt down on the damp pavement and examined the twink. Blood was already pouring from the wound on his forehead, and the kid wasn't opening his eyes. A quick check of his vitals proved that he was fading. Rage might have been a superhero with powers to match, but he was no healer and he couldn't work miracles. With a muttered curse, he shifted his position and carefully lifted the unconscious twink into his arms. When he had the lean body balanced in his arms, Rage took-off as fast as he could run to the closest hospital. He hated the smell of hospitals, hated the antiseptic, cold and daunting hallways. Regardless, he was quite familiar with them. He carried the twink to the emergency desk; feeling satisfied that the nurse there was already pushing out a gurney for kid in his arms. The staff at this hospital had gotten used to seeing him enter in costume, carrying some injured person or another. “What happened?” asked the doctor who had run forward to join them as Rage had deposited his cargo onto the gurney. “He was bashed,” Rage answered, his voice low and rough. “A wooden baseball bat to the head.” ”We'll do everything we can,” the doctor assured him. Rage nodded and watched the doctor and his team wheel the twink away. He wasn't sure why it was difficult to walk away, but it was. Things like this had happened time and time again. Sometimes Rage had made it on time, other times the doctors couldn't help; either way, Rage had done all he could. So why was he having trouble walking away? Was it because the twink had looked so young? He couldn't possibly have been older than twenty. Or was it how he had looked, struggling even as five adversaries, much bigger and bulkier than him beat down on his frail body? Or was it the shock of blood against pale skin, matting in sun-yellow hair? He wasn't sure, and it didn't matter, not really. With a huff, Rage forced himself to turn and leave. There was nothing else he could do. ……………… Brian sat at a booth in Liberty Diner and tentatively sipped at his morning coffee. “So are you going to tell me what's wrong?” Michael asked as he watched his friend. They'd known each other so long that it was easy for Michael to know when something was disturbing his friend. ”Nothing's wrong,” Brian snapped. “Why would anything be?” Michael shrugged. To be honest, he had no idea what might be bothering his friend. As far as he knew, everything was working well for Brian at work. Zephyr had found time to prowl the street with Rage every night for the past two weeks, and so far no evil nemesis had turned-up. They'd stopped a few minor attacks with ease. There was nothing that he could think of that could possibly warrant the funk which Brian was currently in. “How is your husband?” Brian asked with his tongue in his cheek. Michael rolled his eyes, knowing that Brian was changing the topic but letting it slide. “He's not my husband and stop being an asshole.” Brian rolled his eyes. “We still on for tonight?” “Not tonight,” Brian said, shaking his head. “Tomorrow, though.” With that, he stood and tossed a few bills on the table before leaning down, kissing Mikey good-bye and heading out of the diner. “What the fuck is up with him?” Debbie Novotny asked, smacking her gum loudly and filling up her son's cup of coffee. “I dunno, ma. He's been weird, lately.” “More so than usual?” She laughed heartily at her own joke and shook her head, patting Michael's cheek fondly. “Don't worry about it, honey. He's a grown man. He'll sort himself out.” “I know, ma. I just can't help but worry,” he huffed a sigh and stared morosely at the door where Brian had exited. Whenever Brian was in a funk, Mikey never could feel quite happy. ……………………. The sound played again and again, on repeat in his dreams. And Brian had become a furious dreamer. Sometimes he would see the twink, watching him take two shaky, staggering steps before the sound of wood cracking against flesh and bone echoed through his mind. Other times he was alone in the darkness, hearing the sickening crack over and over. He'd dropped by the hospital. Had been dropping by somewhat regularly but only ever at night, to see how the twink was doing. Apparently the kid's mom had found him and ID'ed him. Brian now had a name to attach to the pale angelic face he watched sometimes at night: Justin Taylor. He wasn't more than seventeen, and a glimpse at the kid's medical charts revealed a list of allergies the size of the Oxford Dictionary, up to and including Tylenol. Brian had never met someone who was allergic to Tylenol. It had been over two weeks and Justin Taylor was still in a coma. And Brian was still unable to focus. He wondered about the kid. About what he'd been doing, walking through the alley by Babylon, alone and not in clubbing attire. Wondering all sorts of futile things and generally distracting himself. And at night, he'd hear the sound, played over and over. And it didn't matter how many sips of Beam, or tricks he fucked in his regenerative bed, he still heard it, and even if he was physically rested when he woke, Brian felt like he was fraying. ………………… When Brian entered the Diner he was greeted by Debbie who promptly glomped onto him and squeezing him to within an inch of his life, and then she sniffled and shuffled off to serve another table. “What the fuck was that about?” Brian asked as he slid into his seat at the booth already occupied by Mikey, and their friends Ted and Emmett. “It's that kid, you know the one who got bashed a few weeks ago?” Mikey said. Brian scanned the menu and feigned disinterest. “The one who was rescued by that dark, smoldering stranger we gay boys all know and love, Rage?” Emmett added. Mikey rolled his eyes and continued. “Apparently he was in a coma since it happened. But he woke-up yesterday. Ma's been visiting him, you know, for solidarity and all?” “Poking her nose where it doesn't belong?” Brian asked, with a smirk. “She's been looking after the kid's mother. Apparently, he got kicked out of the house before it happened and it took his mom four days to even figure-out he was missing. But Ma's been speaking with her and plying her with baked goods, they've gotten close.” Brian nodded vaguely and set the menu aside when Debbie stopped by the table. “I'll have a coffee and a -“ “Yeah, yeah. The usual. Got it,” Debbie said, smiled at everyone again, patted Mikey's cheek and shuffled off to pop the order in. “Did you hear what our darling Rage did to those bastard bashers?” Emmett asked. “I heard that he de-manned them,” Ted supplied. “I heard he turned them homosexual and now they can't get enough, and haven't left the baths in three days,” Emmett countered. “Oh please,” Mikey said, rolling his eyes. “He made them think they were the homosexuals and they beat each other up.” Everyone at the table looked at Mikey. “What? My source is clearly better than yours,” he huffed. Brian snorted to himself and gladly accepted the coffee Debbie set on the table. ………………. Justin felt his body tense and he lay very still and kept very quiet, though he couldn't stop his breath from quickening, and cursed to himself when he heard his heart monitor begin to beep faster. He wasn't sure what set him on alert until a moment later, when he heard the sound of his door opening, and then closing slightly. He didn't know how he knew, but he was quite certain that it wasn't one of his doctors, or a nurse, or even his physical therapist who had just entered the room. That type of thing had been happening a lot, lately. He wondered if it was the attack that had sent his senses on alert, because he'd never known this kind of thing before. Justin didn't remember the attack, but he'd been told that he'd been struck with a baseball bat by a group of homophobes who had caught him walking on Liberty Avenue. According to the nurse who had admitted him that Rage himself had brought Justin in to the hospital. Justin had heard of Rage only through the articles he'd read in the newspaper, and wasn't exactly sure how to feel about being semi-rescued by the superhero. On the one hand, it was exciting, on the other, he didn't remember a damn thing about it, and the superhero hadn't exactly been quick enough to stop it all from happening anyway. Still, he could be satisfied that his attackers were served justice, Justin didn't think that they would have been punished if it weren't for the masked superhero. Still, not remembering what had happened to him didn't spare him from the after-effects. He'd had a horrible headache that hadn't abated, no matter what drugs were given him (which were limited as it was because of his allergies). His hand was useless, he was defensive, jumpy, panicky, moody and constantly hyper-alert. So he lay in bed, pretending to be asleep even though he knew his act couldn't be convincing with his body as stiff as it was, and his heart beating so quickly, beeping loudly for the intruder to hear. “I'm not going to hurt you,” a voice said. It was a deep, accented voice that sounded soft and calming even though the newness of it had Justin's stress level rising. “I promise to stay right here, and not move any closer,” the voice coaxed. Justin blinked open his eyes and immediately noticed the stranger. He was about Justin's height, even though he was much older, and broader. His head was shaved, and his face rounded, with dark eyes the color of chocolate. He wore a grey suit that Justin's artistic knack for spotting details noted was expensive. Justin didn't think that this man would hurt him, but he hadn't been feeling at all rational lately, and even if his senses told him that the man meant no harm, Justin still battled with his rising anxiety, and clutched the little call-button the nurses had given him tightly in his left hand. “Perhaps you'd feel better if I introduced myself,” the man offered, smiling slightly. “My name is Gardner Vance, and I believe I have a proposition that may interest you.” Justin eyes the man skeptically, his mind running through what he could possibly want, and what he meant, and if he should press the damn button and have done with it. Despite his anxiety, Justin found himself nodding warily. The man kept his promise and didn't move any closer to the bed, but he did pace to the foot of it, and picked-up Justin's chart, though he didn't read it. “I imagine it's all very confusing, but I'm hoping I might be able to shed some light on things. Perhaps even help, if you will let me.” Justin never took his eyes off the man. He pressed his back firmly against the small headboard of his bed, and concentrated on regulating his breathing so as not to fall into another panic attack. “You seem unwilling to dialogue, so I must guess at a few things,” the man went on. “You have a headache that despite your doctor's best attempts, doesn't diminish with medication. You're sensing things, aware of things that you don't think you should be aware of. I would go so far as to suggest you knew I was coming, didn't you, Mr. Taylor?” Justin flared his nostrils and gripped tighter on the call button, fighting the urge to press it and simultaneously wondering why the hell he wasn't. A few short breaths and Justin was able to collect himself to ask, “What do you want?” “I'm recruiting you,” Vance stated simply. “You are wounded, more so than you can possibly know, and something has awakened in you that you have no idea how to control. I am, quite frankly, offering you a job.” Vance picked up a briefcase that Justin hadn't noticed, set it on a table and unsnapped it. “A job?” Justin choked out, wondering when he had reached the twilight zone. “I am, according to newspapers and magazines back in Britain, one of the most talented ad executives in the country,” Vance explained, fishing something from his briefcase before turning to smirk at Justin. “I own a company there and looking to purchase something here, in Pittsburgh if all works out well.” “What does that have to do with me?” Justin asked. “Every superhero needs a secret identity,” Vance said plainly. They stayed like that a moment, Vance standing at the foot of Justin's bed, holding the stunned blue gaze of the blond who had pulled his knees to his chest and was pressing back against his bed. The only noise in the room was the rushing beep that monitored Justin's heart rate. “Superhero?” Justin managed after a moment. “What the newspapers and the magazines do not know is that I train superheroes. It is not a lucrative business, let me assure you, but it is an interesting one. I don't train many, but those I do train are the very best.” “But what makes you think that I -“ “This,” Vance said cutting Justin off, and before the blond could move, or make a sound, Vance had reached forward and snatched Justin's ankle from under the cover. As soon as skin touched skin, Justin's body went rigid as his mind was flooded with thoughts and emotions and memories that were not his own. Through his panic, Justin watched a memory play in his mind. In the memory, Vance was seated in what looked to be an office, wearing a strange contraption on his head. Overlaid atop this memory was an image of Justin himself - he watched himself argue with his parents, flee his home, walk down the streets of Liberty, and get attacked. He did not see his rescuer, nor did he witness the justice dealt to his attackers. Somehow Justin knew that Vance was using the contraption to see this image of his own attack. He was also, quite unsettlingly aware of the fact that, if he wanted to, Justin could probe further into Vance's mind and learn all of the man's secrets. The thought terrified him and he recoiled from Vance's thoughts, only realizing he'd also physically recoiled when his body hit the cold floor. “It's a gift,” Vance said, as Justin gasped for breath and dry-heaved on the floor. “Don't doubt for a moment that it is a gift, even if, right now, it seems a curse. Without control, you will be lost. But I can offer you control.” Already Justin's mind was filling with all sorts of thoughts: sensing the pain of a woman on the fourth floor who was in labor; knowing that the nurse down the hall was not monitoring the nurse's station because she was asleep, having a lurid dream about the patient at the end of the hall. Thoughts and feelings were flooding into his mind, and he wasn't even aware that he was thrashing on the ground, struggling to maintain some grip on his reality, find some part of himself amidst this flood of thought. “Even now your powers are growing,” Vance spoke. “You need to tell me what your decision is. Come with me, and I will teach you how to become more than what you are. Or remain here, and drown in another's reality?” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ (1) In order to avoid any confusion, I thought I'd just make a note and say that I refer to Brian as 'Rage' whenever he is in his superhero attire. If he is not dressed as Rage, then he's just 'Brian'. Also, Rage refers to the streets of Liberty as Gayopolis. Hope this doesn't confuse anyone.