Neither Fire nor Wind

"Neither fire nor wind, birth nor death can erase our good deeds."
- Bhudda


It was an ordinary day.

Untouchable grunted as he lay there, mind ambling fitfully through his memories of the day. New York was as New York is: an urban jungle, swarming with people of every breed. It was rare that he had the opportunity to stray outside the confines of the university while it was still light outside, particularly with winter closing in, dragging behind it the dark, cold blanket of long nights. It had been thanks to one of the undergraduates - a little overzealous with the lab equipment - that had cut his day so short. The technicians assured him that the scanner would be repaired by monday, but that wrote off his planned experiments for the afternoon all at once. He'd considered hitting the library, researching a few of the subjects for his main project - or maybe for his unofficial extra-vocational research into his mutant abilities - but had brushed those plans aside in favour of spending a Friday afternoon playing tourist.

It was strange, the things that stuck in his memory. You would have thought that visiting the Empire State Building, Time Square, or Madison Square Garden that would have been dredged up from his memory, but it wasn't. It was the second-hand book store, and the bench under a tree in Central Park that flooded his mind: those few precious moments where everything else had drained away. It was believing for a little while that he was a normal guy, living a normal life, rather than wasting his nights fighting an enemy - crime - that could never be defeated, that turned out to be his final thought.

A groan escaped him as he shifted, the pain from the bullet wounds to his stomach and shoulder sending shockwaves across his body. A fresh, sickening, stinging pain coursed through him as he inadvertantly put pressure on the patches where the fire had burned all the way through to his skin. His costume lay in tatters, the nondescript black rags barely preserving his modesty. He tried again to move, but the pain overwhelmed him. Patches of black danced across his eyes, spreading out like some kind of pervasive, malevolant oil until his vision - and then his whole consciousness - disappeared into total darkness.

It was an ordinary day. But it was one hell of a night.


Earlier...

One of the fantastic things about New York was that you could get your hands on anything if you knew where to look. Take the police scanner playing sounds into his ear, for example: it hadn't even been that difficult to find, and had already saved him hours of mindless roaming the city streets. Sure, if you picked a spot in New York and waited long enough, crime would eventually find its way to you. That was hit and miss though, and there was only so much patience that one man could muster; particularly one man dressed as a ninja, roaming the city streets when he should really have been asleep.

The earpiece squalked about a shooting on the subway; Untouchable ignored it. Ambulance crews and squad cars would already be blazing their way towards the scene, sirens blazing and guns ready to pop off a shot at anyone who looked even the slightest bit suspicious. Untouchable had no desire to find himself on the wrong side of the law: aside from the awkward questions and the risk of getting shot, rumour had it that New York's finest were hardly fans of the mutant citizens living among them. While some of the claims of police brutality sounded beyond far fetched, Untouchable had no desire to test the validity.

The radio clicked again, and dispatch forwarded the summary of another 911 call. Much smaller scale this time: bookmakers heist meets arson, conducted by a guy with a gun and "flaming hands". That was more than enough to pique Untouchable's interest. Rising from his perch, he dropped the few feet to the floor of the alleyway, and threw himself onto the saddle of his motorcycle. Gunning the engine, he tore off into the night, his shinobi shozoko fluttering in the breeze.

Untouchable thrust out with his powers, throwing every ounce of concentration into play, but the fire kept coming. The torrent smashed into his body, biting mercilessly into his clothes. He threw himself to the ground, rolling to quash the flames, but they burst into an inferno that raged uncontrolled across his body. Tumbling side over side, he finally managed to put himself out thanks to the dank pothole of water that New York's tattered sidestreets had produced. Clothes steaming, he slumped onto his back, body enveloped in pain.

His attacker advanced, eyes wide and glistening in the dim light. Apparently a barbequed vigilante wasn't enough: the cold black metal of semi handgun filled his palm, barrel levelled towards Untouchable. The ninja fought to find his voice, but the pain had stripped the air from his lungs; all he could manage was a groan that scarsely did justice to the agony he was in.

The trigger squeezed, and lead hurtled across the distance between them. Lashing out with his powers in desperation, he saw the trajectory shift, bullet deflected away from his body. It wasn't enough, he realised, as the first shot tore through his shoulder. More pain blossomed, distracting his mind away from the second shot that followed half a second later.

The shooter turned and walked calmly away, taking his time as he climbed into the car parked ready and waiting for him. As the tail lights disappeared into the distance, Untouchable's fingers crept gingerly towards his stomach, and came away red. Head slumping back against the pavement, he let his eyes flutter closed for an instant, irony playing through his mind. His father had always warned him that New York would kill him if he wasn't careful.


Earlier...

Untouchable crouched low, eyes peering down into the rain-sodden alley beneath him. He'd found the criminal from the corner shop heist; apparently he'd decided that he'd cleared enough blocks to have escaped the police's attention, and was casually dumping his stolen goods into the trunk of a parked car. Or at least, he was trying to: apparently his less-than-modern car was suffering from a few trunk-related problems, particularly when it came to opening the thing. He supposed that it could be an innocent citizen of the city, struggling to load a bag in the car for a weekend away, but something - probably the fact that there weren't any appartment buildings for several blocks in each direction - made that seem unlikely.

Vaulting from his rooftop vantage point, Untouchable landed with practiced precision - and a little help from his powers - on the alley floor, barely making a sound. Slightly disappointed that his arrival hadn't been dramatic enough to attract the attention of his quarry, he searched his mind for an appropriate witty one-liner.

"A little late for grocery shopping, don't you think?"

The thief spun, clearly surprised. That made Untouchable feel much better. The surprise quickly dissipated however, replaced by a suspicious frown. "Who the hell are you?"

Untouchable shrugged, not really in the mood for introductions. "What's in the bag?" he asked, simply.

The suspicion grew stronger. "Just clothes," the thief answered, slowly.

"Huh." Yeah, right. Shoving out with his powers, he swung the bag into the tail of the car. The force wasn't enough to wrench it free of the thief's hand as he'd hoped, but it managed to topple enough to spill some of its contents onto the alley floor. A few fistfuls of notes tumbled out; certainly enough evidence for this ninja. Shoving out again, he slammed the thief into the back of his car and advanced at speed, ready to knock aside any retaliation that the criminal might offer.

Unfortunately, the criminal's retaliation wasn't physical. Without warning, his hands burst into flames, fire dancing around his fingertips. Flaming hands, Untouchable realised too late, screeching to a halt as the palm inferno grew. First I get beaten up by a guy who throws bricks, and now this. As suddenly as it had appeared, the fire leapt towards him. Oh, hell.

Tristan stared blankly out of the windshield; he barely noticed as New York drifted by. In his lap sat his pistol, still warm, and two bullets lighter than it had been when he'd left home. It wasn't even meant to be fired - there for show, in case any of the staff at the jewelry store decided to be brave. This should have been quick, should have been easy, and should have been over in a matter of minutes. Then that damn alarm had sounded, and everything went wrong.

He'd fled with what he could, unable to follow through on the threat of shooting that he'd hoped would deter the staff from setting off the alarm in the first place. The ten blocks to where his car was waiting had seemed like an eternity; hopefully it was far enough and nondescript enough that they wouldn't have any more run-ins with the police.

I shot a guy. The realisation still hadn't settled in. He didn't even know who the guy was; some everyday citizen who'd decided to step up and stop the evil criminal from taking what didn't belong to him. He didn't deserve it; didn't deserve to be toasted alive; didn't deserve to die. Is this what I am now? he wondered, retreating further inside his shell.


Earlier...

Tristan fumbled with the lock, but the damn trunk wouldn't open. Stupid, lousy, cut-price car. But then, that was the best he could afford, hence the robbery. Here he was, the rich boy born into money then cast out when daddy didn't like the way his life was going; the soldier who'd joined up as an act of teenage rebellion and managed to get himself discharged; the man who'd squandered his life away, and had nothing to show for it but a beaten-up car and a tattered sports bag full of stolen goods.

A voice from behind him made him turn; panic stabbed at his already tight nerves. "A little late for grocery shopping, don't you think?"

The sight that met him widened his eyes: some guy dressed as a ninja, in what he could only assume was some kind of cliché superhero pose. He'd heard that New York was plagued by mutants running around playing at crime fighters, but had dismissed it as stupid rumour. Shoulda gone somewhere else, he realised, grip tightening protectively on the handles of his sports bar. "Who the hell are you?"

Was that smugness? Tristan couldn't tell, what with the ninja guy's face half-covered. "What's in the bag?" he probed.

Hope sparked in Tristan's chest. Maybe this guy didn't know after all. Maybe he was just in the neighbourhood, and was here to help out the guy who's trunk wouldn't open. Maybe he could talk his way out of this yet. Then the spark died. Maybe the guy was dressed in black so he could steal something of his own. Maybe Tristan was about to get mugged by a guy in a fancy dress costume.

"Just clothes," Tristan answered warily, not sure what to do next.

"Huh."

Suddenly, the sports bag jerked in his hand; it took all of Tristan's effort not to drop it. What the hell? he wondered, as the bottom end slammed into his car, forcing the contents up through the broken zip and spilling them on the ground. Just as suddenly, and just as unexpectedly, Tristan felt himself shoved against the car himself, pushed by some invisible force. Pain blossomed up his spine from where he'd bashed heavily into the trunk lid.

Everything became a blur as he saw the ninja charge. Tristan could feel the panic swelling up inside him: uncontrollable, burning panic. His whole body felt like it was on fire, and then it was; at least, his hands were. The panic grew, and so did the fire - what the hell was happening? Horror flooded through him as the flames leapt forward, some primordial instinct lashing out to protect himself. There was nothing he could do but watch as the ninja fell, clothes aflame, fire biting into his flesh.

The ninja slumped onto his back. Tristan took a cautious step closer, and could smell where the fire had made it through to the skin. His costume was in tatters, barely recognisable as what it once was. He could see as he approached the pain that was coursing through his body. An icy lump formed in his stomach. He couldn't let him suffer like that.

Eyes glistening in the dim light of the alleyway as tears of regret and remorse began to form, Tristan pulled the pistol from within his clothes. There was no turning back now, he realised; the slope he'd begun to walk on was far too slippery. "I'm sorry," he whispered, throat tight against the words. He couldn't even tell if the guy could hear; his mouth was working in silent screams, eyes pleading to Tristan to make the pain stop. Closing his eyes, Tristan squeezed the trigger: once, twice.

He couldn't look, even though he knew he should. Turning away, he hesitated for a moment to scoop up the escaped contents of the sports bag, and reached for the trunk. Ironically, it opened without protest. Dumping the bag inside and slamming it closed, Tristan walked numbly to the door and dumped himself into a seat.

I just killed a guy, a voice in his mind whispered, but it wouldn't sink in.

The lights atop the ambulance were still flashing as the crash cart burst out of the back doors and into the ER, nurses and doctors swarming onto it in an instant. The paramedics unleashed a stream of techical phrases - something about gunshot wounds, and second degree burns. Untouchable didn't understand any of it: whatever they'd given him to numb the pain had also numbed most of his brain. It had already taken him a few minutes to realise that he felt cold because his clothes were half missing. He wondered for a fleeting instant if he was missing fabric in any compromising locations, and then for another moment if not having fabric there was a sign of more serious damage to those compromising locations. Those thoughts quickly faded though, along with the blurry mix of lights and colours around him as a dose of something slammed him back into unconsciousness.

Another flash of vision revealed a small room, dimly lit, painted in a really annoying shade of green. He wasn't sure why the shade of green annoyed him particularly: just that it did. He couldn't really manage to muster much more thought than that; probably something to do with the weird bag thingy that was plugged into his arm. A woman that he didn't recognise, wearing a funny hat and an apron of some sort wondered in. He puzzled for a moment, trying to decide if she was some kind of cleaner, or maybe his girlfriend. He thought about asking her what the bag thingy was, but she disappeared too quickly for him to manage that. Probably not a girlfriend then: she probably would have said 'hello' if she was. Why was his brain so cloudy, and why did everything look so blurry.

Black again, then light again. He looked around, a little more lucid this time; unfortunately, that meant that things hurt more. They'd done something to his skin; when he looked he saw bandages, but beneath them his skin felt stiff and inflexible, as if they'd superglued the bandages on. He tried to move his hand, and was relieved to find that he still could, and that it was distinctly lacking in any kind of dressing. Prodding his face vaguely, he tried to think if there was anything that might have happened that would explain all the glue and all the bandages. A few flashes of fire leapt into his mind, and the sound of gunshots. He tried to lift his other arm to inspect it - the one the bag thingy was plugged into - but a vague sensation that was a little bit like pain but not quite blossomed from his shoulder, and his arm flatly refused to move. Oh wait, he realised, prodding at the dressings on his aching shoulder with his good hand. I got shot in that one. He hesitated. Stomach too. That warranted some poking around his midsection, which also hurt. That probably meant he should stop.

Turning his attention back to his surroundings, he noticed that there was light streaming through the blinds on the wall, casting stripy horizontal lines on the annoyingly green walls. There were more blinds too, at the foot of his bed, but there didn't seem to be any light shining through them. He narrowed his eyes, and thought he could vaguely make out the shapes of a few people outside. Both were wearing similar clothes - smart jacket type things, with shirts underneath; one had a weird dangly thing around his neck, that he thought he should probably know the name of. Were brothers, maybe? That'd explain why they were dressed to match. Probably not though, he realised, judging from the radical contrast in their skin tones.

The pink one with the dangly neck thing moved, stepping towards the door into his room. The door seemed to open magically - did the dangly neck man have push powers too? - until he realised that the pink guy's arm was touching it. Cheat. He pushed it closed with his arms as well. Talk about lame. He thought about pushing it closed with his mind to help, but then realised he couldn't remember how, especially with the fuzzy warm feeling distracting him.

The dangly neck man hoverred around the bottom of his bed, glancing at some weird metal square thing that was hooked to it. He didn't seem to understand any of it, given that he didn't write anything down like the other people with dangly neck things - the hearing dangly things, not the silly stripy ones - had done.

The pink guy cleared his throat, and started talking. Deciding it was probably worth listening - no one had really bothered talking to him from what he could remember - he did.

"Good afternoon, Mr Harriman - I'm Detective John Jackson. I wondered if I could ask you a few questions about what happened two nights ago."

Poor guy, Jackson thought to himself, stealing a stray glance between the blinds into the ICU ward where Tom Harriman was lying. The doctors had filled him in on the highlights: second degree burns on his arms, legs, and torso; bullet wounds to his abdomen and right shoulder, the latter of which had embedded in the bone while the other had been a through-and-through. They'd been pumping him full of painkillers and anti-infection drugs for the last thirty-odd hours, throughout which his vitals had been sketchy at best, with him barely conscious for the duration. He supposed that was a good thing, given the amount of pain the guy must be in.

The relatives had been informed; unfortunately Tom Harriman was in the States as a lecturer at NYU, having moved over from Britain. It'd be another day or so before anyone from his family managed to make it in to visit.

Beside him, Dwayne exhaled slowly. "Someone really did a number on this guy."

Jackson nodded in silent agreement. The doctors had agreed to inform them - the Detectives overseeing his case - when he regained consciousness, but as they'd just been told there were no guarentees that he would be lucid. "Why don't you go grab a coffee?" Jackson suggested gently; from the way Dwayne was rubbing at his eyes, the couple of late nights and early mornings they'd had this week was starting to get to him. "One for me as well," he added.

"Alright," Dwayne muttered, running his hands over your face. "What you in the mood for - Julie Andrews, or Whoopie Goldberg?"

Despite the situation, Jackson couldn't help but smile at the lameness of the humour in that question, and the fact that Dwayne was enforcing the no-sugar rule that he'd emposed upon him as strongly as the no-smoking one. "Black none," he replied, confirming the latter of the two options. The lack of sleep was getting to him too: better not dilute his caffeine infusion too much.

Jackson's partner disappeared, mumbling something to himself as he left. Jackson waited until he was a few paces past the main door into the ICU before he reached for the handle of Harriman's door, stepping quietly inside.

There wasn't much light in the room; all that made it inside was what filtered through the blinds and bounced of the pistachio walls. He stopped a moment to look at Harriman's chart - no particular reason; he'd just always wondered what was written on them. Unfortunately, the doctors' handwriting was an indecipherable scrawl, and what words he could translate were incomprehensible medical jargon. With a slight sigh, he dropped the chart back into place, and advanced a few awkward steps towards Harriman.

"Good afternoon, Mr Harriman." Despite his condition, and the drugs being pumped into him, he still reacted to his name. That was a good sign. "I'm Detective John Jackson. I wondered if I could ask you a few questions about what happened two nights ago."

Harriman tried to speak, but only managed a feeble cough. He waited a few breaths and tried again, this time forcing out a few croaked words. "Sure. May not have any answers, though."

Jackson mustered a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about that. Let's start with what you do remember." He delved into the pocket of his jacket, producing a pen and a notepad, just in case anything worth recording came up. "Now, first of all, why were you in -"

Without warning, images poured into Jackson's brain. He didn't know what had set it off this time - maybe he'd stepped within that magic circle, or maybe the right thoughts were crossing the right part of Harriman's mind? - but the result was the same as always. A tangled mess of scattered images flashed before him: a few scattered phrases from a police scanner; the feeling of elation at the surprise on his face; the icy chill as his hands blazed into flame; the horror as those last few shots fired. All at once, he felt every emotion, every sensation, and was totally overwhelmed. Then, as quickly as it came, it faded, equally without control.

A look of concern flashed across Harriman's face. "You okay?"

Jackson winced slightly, the sensation of being shot not fading quite as quickly as he would have liked, but nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine." He hesitated a moment, eyes scanning Harriman's injuries with a new-found sympathy. "I'll be back later if I have any more questions."

Harriman's face contorted in confusion. "But you haven't asked me anything yet."

A smile broke on Jackson's face, but there was little happiness in the expression: more sadness, really. "You already gave me everything I need," he said simply, and disappeared without another word.

"And so, I'm in this crazy, and I mean, cree-azy situation and this guy means business, but I know that the gun he's got pointed at me --" Dwayne paused to check that the attention of the pretty receptionist was still upon him. She seemed slightly more interested than she had a minute ago - that was, she had stopped filing her nails and instead was checking some files on the screen in front of her. Taking a sip of his coffee, Dwayne continued with a grin, "It ain't got no bullets, so y'all thinkin' I just get outta there, but no - I gotta fight crime, baby, so that's what I'm gonna --"

He stopped abruptly as his phoned bleeped angrily at him - for the second time that night, as he wasn't able to answer it while driving. He fished it out from his pocket, and his eyebrows formed a worried frown, "Damn. Crystal." He held a defensive hand up to the receptionist, "S'cuse me, ma'am."

Turning away, he headed into a corner of the lobby, silencing the cries of the phone by hitting the button to accept the call. Instantly, Crystal's voice was chattering loudly in his ear, and from what he could decipher, she was very upset. Dwayne waited for a pause in her rant, and took his first opportunity, "Baby, I'm sorry. Hey, I'm workin'. ...No, I ain't always workin'! Look, a guy's at the hospital with second degree burns and bullets to the shoulder and chest. Yeah, I ain't supposed to disclose this stuff, but you wanted an excuse ..." More ranting. "Yeah, I know I ain't supposed to have my phone on in a hospital, but --" More ranting, enough to quell Dwayne's annoyance and make him feel rather humble, "Okay, baby. I'll call you later, promise. You ain't gonna be disappointed."

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Jackson approaching, and hurriedly ended the call with the promise of dinner later. Pocketing the phone, he approached his partner with a bemused look, "That didn' take long. What you found out?"

Jackson opened his mouth to speak, but halted, eyes settling on the coffee Dwayne was casually drinking, and the open hand where his phone had been a moment or two before. "Where's my coffee?" he asked with a frown. Dwayne's expression contorted in the way it usually did when his mind was conjuring up a fantastic excuse. Jackson sighed. "Nevermind."

His hand rubbing against the stubble around his mouth, Jackson tried to collate the absorbed memories into some kind of order in his mind. They were fading fast, and the detail was low: the nature of Jackson's abilities was such that he could only absorb memories when the subject's emotions were high enough to leave an imprint. On objects it was much easier - unless another particularly resonant emotional event happened in the same place before he got there, there was nothing to degrate that imprint. Unfortunately, people's emotions were constantly in flux, and Harriman's memories were all mixed up with flashed images of nurses, doctors, and medical proceedures to pull lumps of metal out of his flesh.

"The 'burning hands' from the 911 call referred to a mutant," Jackson explained, folding his arms across his chest and unleashing a sigh. "Poor guy got blasted in the chest by a pyrokinetic; the two gunshots were meant to finish him off." His gaze flicked across to the window into Harriman's room. "He took quite a beating from that guy."

Dwayne asked the obvious question: "Why?"

Jackson had to search through the transplanted memories for an answer. "The guy -" He hesitated, trying to confirm that what he was 'remembering' was indeed correct. A frown formed on his brow. "Our victim knew about the robbery at the jewelry store. He followed the perp in there to try and stop him." He shook his head, sighing. "He tries to do the right thing, and this is the way that the universe decides to thank him for it."

Stiles couldn't help but flinch as the word 'mutant' left Jackson's mouth. He enjoyed his work, and the prospect of interacting with people with incredible powers was both exciting and frightening and ...well, more frightening than anything. Mutants came in all shapes and sizes, from any background, with a variety of different abilities which, with their own imagination, allowed them to be as helpful or destructive as they wished.

Pyrokinetic ...a fire guy.

"That bites, man." Peering over at the window into Harriman's room, Stiles was able to glimpse the man lying relatively still in his bed, probably due to the vast amount of drugs being pumped into his system to null the pain. Certainly, it seemed a bummer for the universe to react in that way to somebody trying to do good.

A robbery was pretty standard, especially one that contained facts as simple as these. However, the mere fact that the perp was a mutant complicated things a whole lot more. He took a sip of his coffee to distract himself, but it couldn't quite quash the anixous thoughts in his mind; receiving burns as badly as those that Harriman had sustained, and with no way to stop the flames hurtling towards their target ...

"Damn, do we gotta track this guy down?" Rubbing at the back of his neck - it was painful from leaning over desks to sift through documented evidence of the crimes they had been investigating recently - Stiles shook his head, continuing with a tone that did nothing to hide his reluctance, "I mean, I ain't going nowhere near no fire-throwin' man. How do we even go about apprehending him?"

How do we even go about apprehending him?

A good question, that. The same question extended to half the crimes committed by mutants in New York City. Some mutant powers were harmless; others could be used to track down petty criminals, like Jackson's. But how exactly are you meant to track down and capture teleporters, guys who can phase through walls, or people who can throw fire, lighting, and even pick you up and toss you around with the power of their mind?

An ironic smile cracked on Jackson's mouth. "With a fire extinguisher, I guess," he replied, rubbing a tired hand across his jaw. His head ached a little, and he could feel in his gut that his body was clamouring for nicotine again. His hand dove into his pocket by reflex, settling not on the box of cigarettes he'd usually find in there, but instead on a pack of nicotine replacement gum. Grumpily he liberated two pieces and popped them into his mouth; for a moment he wished that he had pyrokinetic powers
so he could burn that smug look off Dwayne's face.

"Come on," Jackson muttered, searching for something to do that would take his mind off how damn tired he was. "Lets go take a look at this guy's personal effects."

Dwayne frowned, slightly confused. "Shouldn't we wait for forensics to do that?" he asked, as Jackson began to disappear off up the corridor. "We ain't got none o' those latex glove things."

Jackson shrugged, glancing back briefly over his shoulder. "Ask to borrow some from the nurses station."

Stiles was used to doing as he was told. A fiesty Carribean mother had instilled an obedience in him that he couldn't get rid of, much to Crystal's delight. She said an order, he ran to it faster than a caffeine-high greyhound. So when Jackson said to borrow latex gloves from the nurses' station, Stiles headed there straightaway, spying the pastel colours of a nurse's uniform behind the desk. The individual in question had semi-curly brown hair to the nape of the neck, and was busy with something involving clipboards and tick boxes.

"Hey there, sweetness," he put on a boyish grin, and held up his badge, "NYPD. Just wanted to know if it'd be okay wit you if I borrowed some o' those gloves."

The nurse turned; Stiles flinched. The stubble on the medic's chin revealed that he was, in fact, not female as Stiles had originally assumed, and brought a flustered flush to the detective's cheeks. Unflappably, the nurse pulled a box from a cupboard, and levelled Stiles with a stare that made the Philadelphian's stomach feel like it had been squashed with an anvil.

The nurse arched an eyebrow, "Just the one pair?"

Stiles swallowed, slowly returning his badge to its comfortable position on his belt "Uh - two please, sir."

"Sure." The nurse handed over the gloves, which Stiles took with hands he was struggling to hold steady. He forced a smile onto his face.

"Thanks."

The nurse threw him a wink, "Have fun."

Turning, Stiles picked up his pace as he headed down the corridor, aware of the heat on his cheeks, and feeling even more stupid than he normally did when making a huge mistake.

*

It took Stiles a few minutes to find the room that Jackson had told him to meet him in, and found his Chicagoan partner with a coffee in hand, and looking slightly more alert than usual. On the table beside him, there was a cardboard box, presumably containing Harriman's effects. Stiles handed a pair of gloves to Jackson, and pulled on his own with some difficulty. They were tight and dry, and the insides felt like they were coated in flour.

Grabbing hold of the box and pulling it towards him, Stiles clapped his hands together with as cheerful a grin as he could muster. "Lessee what our buddy's got, huh?"

Jackson grunted, picking his way through the burnt fragments of black fabric that had been peeled off Tom Harriman in the emergency room. Technically they should probably have waited for a forensic specialist to examine the clothes for them, but one wasn't readily available; besides, the Crime Scene specialists didn't have the advantage of Jackson's special 'insight'. On top of that, the two Detectives were bored, and didn't really have much to go on besides what Jackson had already ascertained.

Dwayne pulled something free of a tangle of cloth and held it up to the light: a long strip of a different material, a charred metal diamond barely visible beneath the caked-on layer or black. "What the hell is this?" Dwayne mused aloud.

Instantly, Jackson's attention was caught. He reached out for it slowly; within an instant of his fingers making contact, images flashed into his mind. Jumbled as they always were, he made out a vague reflection in a mirror as the strip was tied around someone's head, pristine and free of the fire damage it would later suffer. More images flashed past, jumbled and blurred - the altercation that had landed Tom Harriman in hospital had overshadowed the psychometric evidence, like a fingerprint pressed over another, distorting what was left behind. One clear image did hold true in his mind however, mixing in with the other images he had earlier retrieved.

"It's part of a ninja costume," he spoke aloud, his hand falling away from the fabric, leaving it in Dwayne's grasp. There was a flash in his eyes as they met his partner's: a slight twinkle of revelation.

Dwayne looked at him, mind working through some of the same processes that Jackson's just had. "You thinkin' about the Johnson case?" he speculated, mind recalling how months ago they had investigated a case where a man reported being attacked in an alley by two costumed figures, one of whom was a ninja.

Jackson nodded, but that wasn't all. "And the Cullen's break-in," he added: another ninja sighting, this time arriving late at a robbery in progress at Cullen's School for the Gifted. Aside from the choice of costume, the duo hadn't drawn a connection between the two cases: thwarting a burglary at a mutant school didn't seem to fit the MO of the mutant-hating nightstalker that William Johnson had spoken of during questioning. But this third piece of evidence shone a different light on the scenario. What if they'd been looking at the Johnson case all backwards?

Another thought struck Jackson, further reinforcing his frown. "Didn't you question a guy named 'Tom' in connection with that Macie Finch girl?"

Dwayne winced, not entirely convinced by this next leap of logic. "She did say that a guy named Tom saved her, but there are a lot of guys named that in NYC." This time it was Dwayne's turn to frown: his hands dug around through the victim's clothing, fingers closing around his wallet. "I did talk to a guy about a cell phone CSU found near the scene where the kidnapping was meant to 've happened." An ironic second of laughter escaped from him as he plucked a driving license from within the wallet. "This guy. Tom Harriman."

Jackson chuckled as well, relishing in the interwoven threads that this city was yet again coughing up. "Maybe this isn't an accident: maybe our victim throws himself into the path of danger on purpose."

His partner wasn't convinced. "A Ninja Vigilante?" he muttered, plucking up the costume headband they'd uncovered moments before. "I dunno."

Jackson smiled, again meeting his partner's gaze. "Let's go find out."

It was a simple enough question on the face of it: "Do you run around at night dressed as a Ninja, trying to stop crime?" Unfortunately, the answer was laiden with complexities. Despite the ache in his shoulder, and in his gut, and the burning, stinging sensation over most of his body, he couldn't help laughing as he watched all his efforts disintegrate around him.

"A few weeks ago, my partner questioned you in connection with the kidnapping of a young woman called Macie Finch. We found your cell near the crime scene; the victim also reported that a man named Tom helped her escape."

So that was where he recognised the black dude from; he'd been the guy that showed up at his front door asking questions about Snake-Eyes and that little psychic dancer girl. At the time, he'd denied all knowledge and all credit, but it looked like fate was determined to make that sort of thing catch up with him.

"A month or so before that, a mutant broke into the laboratories at Cullen's School for the Gifted. Witnesses reported that a ninja 'came to the rescue', and helped prevent the perpetrator from stealing valuable equipment and research." The shorter, whiter Detective hesitated for a moment, brandishing the card folder of X-rays that the hospital had collected while he was only half conscious. "They also mentioned that the ninja dislocated his shoulder, and suffered a number of other injuries. Perhaps those explain everything in here?"

Sympathetic pain - at least, what felt like sympathetic pain, though it could probably have been explained away by the bullet hole through his shoulder - ached in the arm in question. It hadn't been the first time he'd dislocated something, but he'd hoped that after leaving the Paratroopers he wouldn't have to go through the unfortunate sensation again. Mind you, he'd also hoped that his absense from the military would prevent him from getting shot at again, and look how well that plan had panned out.

The Detectives voice changed. No longer stating the facts, it took on an edge of accusation. "A few weeks prior, a man named William Johnson was brutally attacked and hospitalised; one of his attackers was dressed Ninja."

Harriman couldn't let that one pass, no matter how hard he tried to keep his mouth shut. "He was a bank robber," he coughed, the effort of talking setting off pain receptors everywhere. "Found him escaping down an alley with a duffel bag stuffed with cash."

Jackson's expression of determined anger slipped for a moment as he exchanged a glance with his partner. Their department - although not them specifically - had dealt with an incident at a bank around the same time as the Johnson attack. The two seemingly irrelevant cases hadn't been connected, but now they thought about it the reports of walls being torn down as if ripped at from the outside; exactly the same as the alleyway in the Johnson case, and somewhat similar to the Cullen's break in.

Jackson frowned. "The bricks?"

Harriman tried to gesture with his arm, but the IV needle stabbed into it made things feel a little weak and woozy. "Yeah," he managed eventually, deciding not to punctate his words with gestures this time. "Some kinda mutant - tore down the walls and started throwing them at us."

That explained a lot, particularly why forensics seemed to think that the bricks had been disturbed, rather than simply landing where they would logically have fallen. "Us?" Jackson echoed. "You and your accomplice?"

Harriman shrugged, which turned out to be a surprisingly painful thing to do. "Some other mutant kid I bump into from time to time. When our mutual, brick-hurling friend dropped a wall on me, he dug me out and got me clear." He seemed to sense the Detective's next question coming, and answered before they got a chance to ask. "Never saw his face; never got a name. Sorry."

So many jigsaw pieces - some that even looked like they were from different puzzles - were tubling into place that Jackson couldn't think of anything to say. His partner however wasn't stricken by the same speachlessness.

"Why, man? Why risk your hide like that? You gotta know that stuff like this -" he waved his hand around the hospital room "- was gonna happen eventually."

Learning from his earlier mistake, Harriman shrugged with just his good shoulder. "I could ask you the same question." He sighed, eyes sweeping about the room as he collected his thoughts. One in particular settled his gaze on the paler - and apparently senior - of the duo. "I have a gift," he explained. "An ability." His eyes fell away, but he knew the Detective that had plucked a statement from his mind earlier would understand. "If I came forward, I'd just be another mutant freak. If I hide it -" Another one-armed shrug. "Figured I could help people."

There really wasn't anything to say to that; Jackson decided not to bother. "Thank you, Mr Harriman," was all he could muster. The vigilante's words had certainly struck a nerve. "It'd probably be a good idea if you got some rest."

Outside the room, Stiles rubbed at the back of his neck, smothering a slow yawn with his other hand. Stretching his arms up into the air, he held them a moment before swinging them back down by his sides, and shooting Jackson a half-smile, hoping to lighten the mood.

"That guy ...he's good. Sucks that other people like him give mutants everywhere bad press." He paused, spying that his partner still possessed a thoughtful look. "We ain't gonna tell anyone, right?"

Jackson shook his head, and cast a look back through the window into Harriman's room, one, Stiles thought, of worry. Widening his smile into his signature boyish grin, he patted his partner's shoulder, "He gonna be all right. We need t' get our butts back to the station."

With his hand still firmly on Jackson's shoulder, Stiles picked up the box of effects they had sorted for forensics, and guided the Chicagoan out of the hospital, thanking the receptionist. They had been frequent visitors there as of late, following up on their evidence gathering by questioning the victims who had ended up there for treatment. Johnson, for the various cuts that he had sustained, Macie Finch, for the shock of her assault, and now Harriman, for his burns and bullet wounds. It was unnerving just how much those people had suffered.

Opening up the Corvette, Stiles gently placed the box of effects in the trunk, and made sure that Jackson was secure in the passenger seat. Despite the fact that the man was senior in age and rank, right now Stiles couldn't help but feel like he needed somebody to care. Despite the caffeine intake, it seemed that he was even more worse for wear than when they had entered the hospital. Sliding into the driver's seat with practised ease, Stiles allowed himself to give a brief, concerned glimpse. He had Crystal to return home to, who would allow him to cuddle close to her and then make him breakfast the next morning, soothing away his worries and tiredness.

Jackson? He had never mentioned a girlfriend, wife, or anybody that might be his comfort when he returned home, so Stiles could only assume that his partner would fall into an empty bed and sleep until his alarm went off later that morning. Even now, Jackson seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open. Shaking his head, Stiles fired up the engine.

"Let's get you home, man."

Some days later ...

A ripple in dark water. Macie Finch had dropped a pebble into the puddle that lay before her, and was watching the effect with her deep brown eyes. The street she stood on was slick with past rain, cold with the vapour in the air. She wore her grey knee-length pants, black tee and red legwarmers, and as she took a step forward, the loud clack that resounded through the air told her that she had her tap shoes on.

Where was Sam? Had he disappeared for a while, as was becoming more common these days? Macie had hoped that he wouldn't leave forever.

A chuckle from the assailant that had stalked through her dreams this past week sent a shiver through her whole body. That was behind her; it was in front that was what mattered. A man, old enough to be her father, struggling with the latch to the trunk of his car. Again, the black-clad vigilante landing by her side, never noticing her presence, but stepping forward to confront the wrong-doer.

Another wicked giggle. The girl fought the urge to look over her shoulder - she knew already what she would see. That didn't happen. He wasn't there, he wasn't a part of what she was trying to witness. What was real, what had happened was before her, playing out like a recording of when she had first dreamt it. The blaze rushed forward, and the vigilante was sent slamming to the sidewalk, rolling to quash the flames. As his assailant approached, Macie again saw his face, full of regret. Of sorrow. As he pulled the gun from beneath his coat, she dashed to him, small hands locking on his wrist in an attempt to make him change his mind.

Two shots, their calls exploding into the night, and again there was nothing Macie could do. Where was Sam?

She looked down at the man on the ground, trying to see his face as she had done for many nights previously. As coarse fingers curled around her face she let out a tiny, high scream, and suddenly Sam was before her, easing her hands from the gun man's, pulling her from every aspect of the environment, up into the sky.

'I found it.' He wrapped his arms around her upper body to prevent her from looking back down at the street, 'You can wake up.'

*

The sheets had become tangled around her legs and twisted around her middle like a snake. Pushing her curls from her face, Macie wriggled free of them and fell straight into Sam's eyes. Her shield was sat crosslegged on the mattress, everything about him so like her, yet different. She knelt, placing her hands in his. "What did you find?"

'Tom. The one who helped to liberate us.'

"Tom?" Macie's eyes were puzzled. Though she knew well what Sam had told her, it seemed wrong. Tom was strong, brave and would never get hurt. As she mulled over it, she stepped off of her bed and stretched her arms, spreading her stance into the beginning of her morning stretches. Sam watched; she was engaging in a routine he had seen her do every day for years, keeping her body supple. After a few minutes, she sank down in graceful side splits, arms above her head before she reached forward, bending her body low over her front leg.

It had taken them some time to find all of the answers. Macie had first experienced that dream some days ago, but they hadn't recognised anybody. Nobody, bar the dark assailant from the weeks before who had attempted to take the girl's life ...

Sam's hands curled into fists; instantly Macie felt his anger, and was on her feet, her face full of worry. "What is it?"

The male relaxed; what was his was now untouched, free from fear. There would be plenty of time if he wished to exact any retribution. 'Nothing, little bird. It is nothing.'

*

Breakfast proved to be a delight - French, warm and full of chocolate. Eagerly, Macie dipped her pain au chocolat into the bowl of hot chocolate drink, eating as politely as such a treat allowed. She had long learned that Sam had no need to eat, but occasionally, she thought she felt some jealousy and longing from him on this matter; a small brush of emotion that was not her own came to her now, and she glanced up to where he was standing beside her chair, searching for a twitch in his features which might give away his feelings. Across the table, Alan Finch was quietly buried in a newspaper, pausing every so often to take another bite of his croissant.

Using a napkin to dab at the chocolate at the corners of her mouth, Macie sat up straight with her hands folded angelically in her lap. "Daddy?"

He didn't look at her, but replied, "Macie."

"This was a wonderful idea. But, Madame Barbe said that I must diet."

"Why's that?"

Macie's eyes lowered, "So I'm easier to lift."

Her father's paper folded at the top, and Alan peered over it to survey his daughter better. She was in a pretty cream coloured dress, with her hair loose and face free of make-up. The lack of sleeves let the eye discern the tiny mucles on her arms, but moreover it was easy to see that the girl wasn't in dire need of diet alteration. Alan finished his appraise, saying shortly, "If Madame Barbe said so, I think you should do as she says."

It wasn't the answer Macie was hoping for. However, her mood was heightened by an article that caught her eye, on the lower corner of the fonrt page. The headline, as headlines are designed to do, gave away the story instantly, and she was on her feet and starting towards her father before she knew what she was doing. Crouching down beside him, she stared intently at the article, which revealed that a Mr T. Harriman, who had been attacked by a man with 'flaming hands' a week earlier, had been released from hospital the day before. Sam knew what was in her mind before she had said anything to Alan. "Daddy, is it all right if I go out?"

Alan gave her an appraising look. "To where? You have a dance class later, don't you?"

Macie smiled, "I'll take my things with me. I just want to go and meet somebody."

There was a pause. Alan licked the tips of his fingers, turning over the page, then looked back at his only child, completely oblivious to the man stood next to her. After a long moment, he sighed. "All right." And then, as Macie celebrated, he spoke more sternly, "It better not be some boy. They're only after one thing."

"It's not a boy, daddy," Macie reassured him, planting a kiss on his cheek, "Boys don't like me."

At her side, Sam hid a wicked smirk, and followed the girl out of the room and up the stairs as she hurried to collect her things. A medium sized, packed handbag, a pair of cute, mid-calf boots and a chocolate coloured cardigan later, Macie Finch was out of the door and heading into the streets, asking Sam every question she could think of as to how they should go about finding Tom Harriman.

Why on earth had they given him crutches?

Truth be told, ever since the incident he'd been more than a little wobbly. Though he hadn't suffered much in the way of physical injury - bullet wounds excepted, of course - his body was pretty weak from the burns, and that made staying upright a little difficult; falling over became a fair bit more painful as well. He felt pretty delicate: though the skin was healing, and the more sensitive patches were tightly bandaged, periodically things like clothes, chairs, and inconsiderate pedestrians bashed into them, sending ripples of sickly pain through his body. On the plus side, the crutches kept him stable, and acted as a bit of a visual plead to those around him to stay clear and give him a little space.

On the downside, he'd been shot in the shoulder, and had a nasty looking hole to show for it. Every step sent a sipple of pain down his arm, and twisted his stomach to aggrovate the through-and-through wound in his gut. That was healing nicely, although it had been a little disconcerting when his first crutch-assisted expedition around the hospital had torn out the stitches. His shoulder though: he had a feeling that it would be plaguing him for a while.

At least the crutches were better than the wheelchair the nurses had insisted on driving him around the hospital in. Then again, the motorised version that an old guy had used to cut in front of him on his way to the store yesterday morning had been pretty sweet. Maybe some modification to the motors to up the top speed a little...

That was weird: he was pretty sure that audio hallucinations weren't one of his symptoms, and yet he'd just heard someone yell his name. Given the short-cropped hair that the nurses had left him with after slicing out all the burnt and singed strands, and the strange discolouration in blotches across his face, he doubted that anyone could have recognised him on sight; no one else would know he was there.

He turned in a strange, jagged semicircle just in time to see the approaching blur of cream and brown racing towards him out of the crowd. He braced as she crashed into his legs, arms wrapping around his waist. He winced, mouth preparing a retort, until a face looked up at him from his stomach. His brow twitched into a frown. "Macie?"

Her eyes closed in a cheerful smile, and she gave his middle another squeeze, "Hello, Tom! I heard you got out of hospital today, so I thought I'd come and find you!"

One of his eyebrows quirked upwards, "Uh, how did you find me, exactly?"

For a moment, Macie glanced at Sam, who stood close by, hands folded behind his back. He sent a thought to her that left her lips in the same chirpy tone the next second, "Magic."

It seemed they were attracting a little bit of attention, but then, a minor latching herself onto a man twice her age was something of a spectacle. This was accompanied by Tom's soft mutter, "Could you let me go, please?"

"Sorry!" Macie darted back from him, watching as he realigned his balance on the crutches, tucking them more securely under his arms. It was then that she remembered just why he had those crutches in the first place, and felt more embarassed because she had forgotten all about it in her excitement in finding him (Sam had scouted ahead and picked him out), and hadn't thought for a moment that a headlong crash might hurt him. "I ...I wanted to see you. To see if you were okay - I mean, you rescued me, and what kind of rescuee would I be if I didn't check up on my hero?"

She daintily stepped up alongside him and motioned for him to continue in whatever direction he had been heading, which he did. Macie stayed close, chattering about her activities over the previous weeks since their unorthodox introduction, oblivious to whatever Tom might be feeling in her happiness. Beside her, Sam echoed waves of disapproval that Macie didn't pick up on. "Tom, how about we go someplace for a coffee? Obviously, after you've got done what you came out to do - I'd be happy to help out." She put on a smile that always disarmed her own father, handbag swinging from her shoulder, "What do you say?"

Oh, great. All she needs now is big brown puppy-dog eyes.

Untouchable - no, Tom; given the state he'd gotten himself into, Captain Untouchable was probably better off shot dead in an alley - winced, although he wasn't entirely sure whether it was from the pain of being hugged so enthusiastically, or simply because he was uncomfortable about recieving this kind of gratitude. It was stupid: he'd spent the last few months as a vigilante wishing that the city would be more greatful of those who chose to use their abilities to protect and defend them, and now here he he was, embarassed as hell when that wish came true.

Shifting his weight a little on his cruches, he managed a brief squeeze of Macie's shoulder with his hand, and even mustered a smile. "Sure," he agreed eventually. "Coffee sounds good." He cast an exaggerated glance down at himself. "Besides, I could probably use a sit down." He let his smile widen by a notch at the endearing grin that had spread across the teen's face, and shot her a quick wink. "Come on kid," he said, with a theatrical wave of a clutch-laiden hand. "Lead the way."

Macie's eyes searched Tom briefly, presumably looking for a free hand to grab hold of. She seemed a little disheartened for an instant when she couldn't find one, but reinforced her expression a moment later, and bounded off through the crowd. Tom set off at his best speed after her, concerned that he'd lose her - or worse, she'd loose herself - on the busy New York streets. He needn't have worried however: every few paces, Macie came to a halt, giving Tom a few seconds to spot her and catch up before she shot off again.

Eventually, they came upon a small bistro, far enough away from the main commuter routes to be relatively quiet. Macie waved at him from a table; flashing her a smile, he limped his way over, easing his battered frame into a chair that Macie had kindly pushed out for him with her feet. Settling down, and propping his crutches up against a conveniently-placed potted tree, he felt a wave of discomfort settle upon him, and was pretty sure his injuries weren't to blame this time. Searching his mind for something - anything - to spark a conversation, he settled on the obvious.

"Found me by magic, huh?"

She couldn't help but feel more than a pang of sympathy for the man as he followed her at a half-speed pace, and even more so as he gingerly lowered himself into the chair. Sam was perched on the edge of the potted tree, arms folded, looking a little bored - but that was reasonable given that his only form of interaction was currently preoccupied with somebody else. He was patient, though; his precious bird was happy, and safe. Right now, all he needed to do was stay aware. Trouble seemed never to be far away in New York.

"Well, maybe not magic," Macie confessed, lacing her fingers together in her lap, "I'm quite good at finding things - people too. You know, I just sort of think about what I'm looking for, and it's like I'm being guided to where it is." She pushed some dark curls from her face, "It's not scary - it's useful to be able to find things. Like when daddy lost his watch. I found that."

She paused a moment, for the first time really looking at the extent of his injuries. His skin was mottled with the burns that he had suffered, but it didn't really detract from his handsomeness much. Was she just thinking that because he had saved her once? Pressing her hands to her cheeks, she felt at them and hoped that she wasn't blushing. Tom Harriman was brave, kind and handsome, but she couldn't think of him that way. Faintly, in the edge of her mind, she felt Sam sending off warning sparks, adding to her doomed prognosis of it not being a good idea.

Pushing any notions of affection aside, her smile dropped as images of her dreams filled her mind. Had that really been what happened? The newspapers the day after her first dream had detailed that Tom had been found in a street, with two bullet wounds and extensive burns. The street had been wet. Had he really been trying to stop a robber?

Before the confusion overwhelmed her, Sam interjected with a soothing hand on her shoulder. Macie broke her gaze on Tom to stare at the indoor tree, gathering her thoughts and emotions up. She had to be in a fit state to talk to him - neither were in a dangerous situation though both were still experiencing the after-effects of their encounters, so there was little reason for her to be getting upset. When she returned her eyes to Tom, they were smiling again.

"I'm in a show this evening." To evidence her point, she opened up her handbag and rummaged through its contents before wrapping the shiny straps of her ballet shoes around her fingers and wrist, and pulling them from the bag, holding them up for Harriman to see. "We're performing extracts from various ballets; I'm in the Sleeping Beauty one - I'm dancing as Canari qui chante." At Tom's slightly blank look, Macie clarified herself, "The singing canary; she's one of the fairies. If you don't have plans, I'll see if I can get you a seat."

Gently, she replaced her shoes in the bag, fondly tucking away the ribbons into the shoes and placing her bag on the floor. Briefly, she remembered Madame Barbe's words about her weight, but defiantly cast it aside as she took hold of a menu, placing it flat on the table between herself and Tom so they could both read it. "What should we order?"

Harriman blinked, more than a little taken aback by yet another invitation to spend time with the girl he'd rescued. It was nice to have his efforts appreciated for a change, particularly given the reaction to his last efforts. He'd become accustomed to anonymity - hence the mask - and the lack of recognition that went along with it. Here was the total breakaway from the trend, someone who had not only thanked him, but actually actively sought him out in order to check up on his wellbeing. It seemed weird - he knew a fair few people at the university, but no one outside of work. Strange that the only "friend" he'd managed to pick up since coming to New York was a seventeen-year-old ballet dancer with crazy psychic powers.

Last and final, he reminded himself, the wound in his shoulder beginning to ache as if to emphasise the point. He'd always known that there was a risk he'd wind up hurt, but he'd always assumed that his natural talents would see him through. But that night he'd discovered that his ability to protect himself wasn't nearly as strong as he'd first thought. No way am I playing this game if flamethrowers and semis are on the equipment list.

He decided to deflect Macie's first question by focussing on the latter. "It'll probably take me a while to decide," he explained, eyes skipping over vast chunks of the menu for the illusive V symbol. "Even though there are only a handful of vegetarian options to choose from, I can never seem to make my mind up."

Chocolate coloured eyes widened, and her pink lips parted and widened into a smile, "You're a vegetarian? That's so cool! You know, I tried to, once, but daddy said I had to eat meat because of all the protein and iron in it." Thoughts of her instructor's words brushed past again, and with a nibble on her lower lip, she looked at the menu. Even though breakfast wasn't even an hour away, she was already starting to become hungry again. She briefly considered a smoothie; it was healthy, and there were many to choose from. Money was not an issue - daddy provided her with enough to enjoy herself on little outings like this.

"Hm. Teacake? Or ...maybe a toasted bagel?" Badly, she wanted a chocolate milkshake. Her eyes lingered over the description of it - thick, creamy and chocolatey - and even more so over the picture. What to do? What to do?

'You don't want Alan to be angry.' Sam offered, voice even and steady. Always, always steady, calm, and knowing what to do when Macie did not.

"...Tom. What would you do if somebody said you needed to diet, but you really wanted, oh ..." Macie tried to search for an alternative that wouldn't give away her dilemma. And failed, "Say, a chocolate milkshake, and I mean, you wanted it really badly - would you - would you just have one anyways, just because you wanted to?"

"Let me guess," Harriman said, folding his arms across his chest. "Your dance instructor reckons you're overweight?" He struggled to fight down a smile, and didn't really manage all that well. You didn't wind up with a PhD in Physics and then get confused by such half-hearted attempts to disguise the truth.

Letting out a sigh, he sat forward, ignoring the stab of protest from his shoulder at the sudden motion, and propped his elbows against his knees. "Here's what I think," Harriman offered kindly, stealing the menu from underneath her, and folding it closed. He raised his voice slightly, signalling to the waitress that was cautiously moving closer. "I think we need two large chocolate milkshakes, two plates of toasted teacakes, and then two slices of the biggest, most chocolatey thing on the menu."

His attention flicked briefly to the waitress, and he shot her a subtle nod to confirm the order before she disappeared. He looked back to Macie, a slight twinkle in his eye. "Your weight is just a number," he said with a shrug, lounging back in his seat again. "Depending on where you are - on Earth, in space, on the moon, another planet; even at the top of a tall building - your weight changes, even if it is only by a tiny amount. Everything depends on the context."

He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "The only context that matters is what you think. If all you worry about is how other people view you, then you'll never be happy. Look at me: I was so worried about how people would react to my mutant abilities that I hid myself behind a mask, and got beat up for my troubles time and time again."

He shook his head, trying to force the memories of all the injuries he'd suffered as a hapless vigilante back into the recesses from whence they'd sprung. "Live the way that'll make you happy," he concluded, a smile quirking on his lips. "And never pass up the opportunity for chocolate milkshake."

Macie took another look at the empty dishes and glasses stacked between them, and once again couldn't believe that they had eaten it all, let alone spent two hours in the cafe. Sam had disappeared to go exploring, thoroughly bored of the conversation between herself and Tom, but at the corner of her mind Macie could see the images he sent her - somewhat grudgingly - of the rest of the building. Meanwhile, she and Tom had discussed everything and anything that came to mind, including dancing (both ballet and tap), his job and subject at the University - in hushed tones, his powers - how exactly to make a chocolate cake as good as the one they had been served, and just why the cafe had chosen to put up an unusual oil painting of a naked woman.

It was after these almost blissful two hours that Macie chose to look at the clock that was hung up behind the counter, and squeaked. "Oh! I have to go to my class!"

"I'll go with you." Tom said, taking hold of a crutch and using it to lever himself out of his chair, "Try not to slow you down too much."

Macie's lips curved into a sweet smile, "I'm sure you won't."

Sensing their immediate leave, the waitress brought the bill, which, after only mild squabbling, they both paid for, and both left a tip with. The bell above the cafe door tinkled as they left, Macie calling out their thanks, Sam dodging through the closing door and past Tom to get to her.

'Enjoy yourself?'

Yes! But, we've got to split ways now because I've got class.

"Tom, the best way to go is through Central Park. It doesn't take long, and it's nicer than taking some of the streets," The girl looked over her shoulder at him, and he hopped up next to her with confidence, leaning even weight on his crutches. "Is that okay with you?"

He informed her that was indeed okay, and so they headed in that direction, continuing their conversation from the cafe, much to Sam's annoyance. It was busy, what with it being a Saturday, and seeing the trouble that it was giving Tom - despite his crutches giving out the obvious sign that he needed a little more space and consideration than usual - some trouble, as people a in a little too much of a hurry to consider others bashed into him without so much as half an apology. Grabbing at his arm, Macie enquired as to his wellbeing, but he insisted he was fine. Regardless, she was determined to find them a quieter spot to walk through.

Sam sighed heavily, 'Go left, and follow the path with the bushes on each side. You'll find a clearing where there are less people.'

Thank you!

Harriman followed as Macie wove her way through the park, surprised at the seemingly intimate knowledge of the veritable maze of paths, walkways, and tree-studded obstacle courses that wove their way across the large swathe of greenery carved out of central Manhatten. It was one of the few times he'd visited the park, and was greatful that his only other encounters with it had been after work: despite the pleasant day and the vast tracts of grass to stroll across, everyone seemed determined to remain on the path. That caused a particular problem for Tom, who had already discovered that his narrow-tipped crutches sunk rather annoyingly into the soft ground.

Macie was chattering away again, Harriman content to just listen. He didn't want to form any rigid impresssions of her - after all, he was a physicist, not a psychologist - but it seemed like she didn't have many people to talk to all that often, and was relishing the opportunity to pass on all of her stories and annicdotes to a new audience.

Someone cut it a little too close as they tried to shove past in the opposite direction, colliding heavily with Tom's shoulder. He winced, but his instincts kicked in before any other part of him could react. Flicking out the base of one of his crutches, he caught the hurried New Yorker across the shins, and added a brief shove with his powers to topple him to the floor. Limping to a halt, he looked down with mock surprise. "Oh, I am sorry," he appologised, barely fighting back a smile at the glare fired up at him from the ground, and limped off in Macie's wake.

The path that Macie found seemed a little circuitous, but it was pleasantly devoid of people. With a clear run ahead of him, Tom managed to break into his stride, catching up with Macie, who was still chattering away. He couldn't help but smile, and offered a slight chuckle as one of her stories reached a punchline.

The smile wavered however, as a question formed in his mind. He was reluctant to ask, and had already pushed it deep into the back of his mind earlier, but it had surfaced yet again. He bit his lip for a moment, and then asked. "Before I rescued you, Macie," he started, choosing his words carefully, "I saw you in the alley. I wasn't fast enough to stop him before he could take you, but..." He hesitated. "What were you doing there, all alone?"

The girl stopped dead, head bowed slightly, curls partially obscuring her face. The memory sent a chill down her spine, and unconsciously she rubbed at her arms, brown irises quivering. She chewed at her lower lip as the leaves scattered on the ground around them began to tremble by the hand of an unfelt wind, "Umm ..."

Sam stepped close and softly placed a hand on her shoulder. 'It cannot hurt us now.'

Macie turned her head; Tom had come to a stop beside her and was regarding her with a look of concern. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged from them. There were sounds inside her mind, ones of scraping and screaming and laughter --

Sam I don't like it --

Another hand on her shoulder; Sam's again. 'Hush, little bird. We are safe. I am your shield - do you remember? You shall not be hurt.'

Drawing in a deep breath, Macie pushed her fingers into her hair, and lifted her head, clearing her child-like features of any obstruction. From Sam's reassurance a smile broke out onto her face, "I, well, I'd been waiting for my father's driver to come and get me. He hadn't arrived, and it'd been half an hour." She let the breath go, slowly. "So, I figured he'd forgotten or been given something more important to do. And really, it's not far to walk, so I thought it might be a good idea to ..."

She trailed off, eyes lowering again. "I guess it wasn't."

'Macie.' Sam's voice was urgent and low. She had not detected his hands leaving her shoulders, but he was stood before them, facing them, his gaze focused, but on anything in particular. 'We are not on our own.'

What? Who is it?

She spoke his words aloud as he sent them to her, looking at Tom with wide eyes that spoke of fear on many levels. Her voice came in a light whisper, enough for him to hear, "Someone is watching us."

Years of military training flashed through his mind, but his better judgement prevented his body from springing into action. Well, that and the fact that he was on crutches - not much springing was likely to be going on any time soon. Instead, he straightened himself up, and casually scanned his eyes across the park scene around them. There were people everywhere, but no one leapt out as being an imminant threat.

Then again, he didn't have the benefit of this little dancer's psychic powers.

"This way," he instructed, calmly leading the way at limping pace towards an area of the park where the trees provided a little more cover. The branches of a willow tree reached down towards him, and with his hands occupied by crutches, he was forced to - subtly - use his powers to brush them momentarily aside. The crowds thinned out, apparently preferring to stick to the less foliated areas of the park. He supposed that a grown man sneaking off into the bushes with a young woman could be easily misconstrued, but for some reason he could tell that Macie wouldn't have voiced her concern if she wasn't certain that something was awry.

Turning his body towards her, but focussing his eyes on the various routes of approach towards them, he kept his voice low. "Tell me," he said softly, "Exactly what did you see, or..." The shortcomings of the English language tripped him up for a moment, as he searched for a way to describe what he assumed was some kind of psychic perception. He glanced at her briefly, and offered a vague shrug. "You know."

Wrong account! Please delete!

Macie was focused on something far away, her head tilting slowly as if listening intently for something. Her fingers twitched, feeling the air for something that wasn't there, and slowly, slowly, she turned so she faced Tom. Her eyes, however, remained distant.

Her voice left her lips as barely more than a whisper: "...My shield tells me."

'We must leave.'

Macie repeated Sam's words out loud, suddenly shaking her head and blinking as if waking from sleep. Alert once more, she grasped one of Tom's hands, "They know where we are. We must go, quickly."

'No.' Sam's voice was hard. He stood before Macie, looking past her at Tom, whom he knew could not see him. He clenched a tight fist as he shook his head, gently laying his other hand on Macie's face. 'He cannot come with us.'

Why?

Macie's eyes widened and threatened to brim with tears as she turned back to Tom, a lump forming in her throat. She fought hard to swallow it away, chewing on her lower lip. Around them, leaves shuddered from the branches of trees; pebbles rolled without being kicked.

"Tom, they want you."

Tom, they want you.

It had been a long time since Tom had experienced an 'Oh, Crap' moment - he'd managed to avoid them for the most part over his vigilante career by sneaking around in shadows and leaping out when people least expected it. In fact, he prided himself on causing 'Oh, Crap' moments for other people. A practitioner of 'Oh, Crap' moments, if you will. This however was definately worthy of the title; perhaps even a stronger profanity was required.

Dropping his crutches, Tom braced himself as pain shot up his legs as his full weight settled on them. He was hardly in any condition to fight, but there was no way he was going down without one. Arguing with his body to save its protests for later, he dropped into a crouch, gemtly but firmly pulling Macie down into one with him. His eyes scanned their surroundings, picking out the best areas of cover. The trees provided them cover - that was a small mercy. Unfortunately, it also reduced their avenues for escape.

Turning to Macie, he placed his hands on her shoulders. "I need you to run away: find somewhere safe to hide, and then stay there." He hesitated, not entirely comfortable with the request he was about to make. "But first..." His fists tightened in resolve. "You said you were good at finding things. Can you find them for me - tell me how many there are; where they're coming from?"

In her crouch, Macie pleaded with Sam to allow them to comply with the request. Unusually, he didn't argue, and as he searched, Macie's eyes became distant, fixing on that same faraway point with a bemused look. She sank lower, fingernails made perfect by the demands of her dance school scratching at the earth.

"They are ..."

Closer now. The thoughts of more than one whipped through her head. Ready to strike. Don't move yet - on my command. There is an additional ...aware of our presence ...primary objective ...ready - ready --

"...four. They are four."

No more time. There was only one chance - not wasted. Ready - primary objective - ready ...

Macie's breath was shattered; Sam sent her images of their faces, their sudden flight, like lions rushing to their kill. They were moving, and he was racing back to her so fast, so fast that when he landed she could not resist. One hand swept over her eyes, another around her waist and a soft whisper traced her ear.

'Sleep, little bird.'

*

Soft hands clenched in the dirt as Sam impacted with the surface, his head jerking so that his narrowed eyes met with the man crouched close by. Macie's softness dulled his anger - this man had wished them no harm, yet he was the reason for their plight.

"They are here."

The little girl's words were ominous, but right now Tom hardly had time to dwell. Despite the ache in his limbs, he crouched low, a crutch held ready for use as a rudimentary club, should the need arise. He grabbed hold of the pain and screwed it up tight, letting his military training slide to the fore on a wave of adrenaline.

The branches rustled, and suddenly the soldiers appeared; only two for now. Instincts taking hold he sprung. The snap-tap of tranquiliser guns rang through the small cluster of trees; a hand snapped out as Tom bashed the projectiles aside. Before his assailants had the opportunity to unleash another volley he swung with his crutch club, battering both tranquiliser guns off their aim before following through, the wooden weapon smashing into the throat of the first soldier.

Before the soldier had even fallen Tom twisted, dodging the line of fire from the second soldier's gun, grabbing the barrel, and twisting it free of his hands. He tossed it roughly aside, surging forward as the second soldier dropped into a ready stance. The heel of his palm surged upwards, missing the soldier's nose but knocking the helmet away from his forehead. The soldier retaliated with a jab of his own that Tom dodged, before wrapping his fingers around the soldier's webbing vest and delivering a Glaswegian Kiss to just above the soldier's nose.

The second soldier fell to the ground, unconscious; a quick snap-kick ensured that the first wouldn't be returning to his feet any time soon. As Tom turned, the pain threatened to overcome him, but he forced himself to ignore it, turning his attention to Macie. She was crouched, watching him warily; in the distance behind her, Tom saw motion in the undergrowth.

Cursing under his breath for leaving her undefended he threw himself back in her direction, but knew he wouldn't make it there before the soldiers.

This man is ...impressive.

Sam's dark eyes flickered as he observed Tom's sudden quickness. The two soldiers fell with what seemed to be ease, and with a small display of Tom's other abilities - powers that had not been taught by any other person. It intregued the psychic; a power similar to his own telekinesis, but limited. Still, the man had proved its worth in fights before this one.

Sam's mind had discovered the two men hidden behind him moments before Tom lurched back towards him. He seized at the tranquilisers they fired, the power of his mind crushing them in an instant. The corner of his mouth twitched up into a smirk as their sudden panic flared and they started towards him, guns raised. In reponse, Sam rose up from his crouch, turned swiftly and stretched out his sullied hands, dragging the soldiers to him. One was sent crashing to the ground while the other had his legs swept from under him. Sam led him in a half turn before letting go; skull crunched against helmet as the man was thrust into blackness.

The second was up, and towering over the psychic, looking to land a blow, obviously angered by the fall of his companions. Sam showed him no mercy; channelling his energy down into his right foot, he was thankful for the loose skirt of his other half's choice of clothing as he used her elegant flexibility to send the leg flying upwards in an arc. At it's peak, his foot smashed into his assailant's jaw, knocking him off-balance.

The surge of anger from the man was more than enough to convince Sam to finish the fight quickly. Lashing out with his psychic force, he ensured the man's untimely volley into the thick trunk of the nearest tree. The slumping form, along with the dullness of the man's mind, gave the psychic assurance enough to turn his back, dusting his hands free of dirt, and meeting the eyes of Tom Harriman.

Tom blinked; that seemed like the appropriate reaction to the extreme can of whoopass the young Macie had managed to unleash, seemingly out of nowhere. He stepped over towards her, trying to find something appropriate to say - some compliment; witty retort; anything - when she suddenly stumbled, her legs no longer willing to hold her upright. Tom's legs were offering protests of their own, but he forced them into action anyway, deftly stepping forward and scooping up Macie before she hit the grassy ground.

Macie's eyes flickered as Tom dropped to a knee, gently lowering her onto the floor and supporting her head as her swoon died away. "Hey, kid," he muttered softly, offering her the slightest of smiles. "Thanks for watching my back there."

With some effort, Tom helped Macie back to her feet, and eased himself up after her. He cast an eye around for his crutches, limbs feeling leaden. Hooking the crutches back under his arms, he gestured with his head back towards the path. "Come on, Macie," he called, his Scottish accent turning the words into more of a growl. "Lets get you home."