Chapter 1

2:40 a.m.

Sometimes, during his post-midnight escapades, he feels as if he is sleepwalking.

Well. More like, sleep-leaping-from-roof-to-roof, sleep-breaking-bones, sleep-dropping-criminals-at-the-police-door. Like Spider-Man. Or Batman. Except Yuuri hates all fictional superheroes. They bend the rules of science. Suspend disbelief.

So does he.

Ah. He guesses all heroes are hypocrites.

He sprints across the roof of the building, hanging by the flag pole, the breeze hitting the corners of his eyes (the only visible part of his face; after some planning, he decided on a full-face black mask - he had to put glasses for the eyes since he's allergic to lenses, yes, he is super-agile but blind as a bat without his glasses). A full face mask protects his face during speedy runs, as well as identity. He doesn't know what he is protecting his identity for; not that he has his family in the city. Maybe it's in the superhero discourse. Maybe he just likes being private.

However, he thinks he needs to rethink the whole glasses in the mask thing. It's a big weakness; pull off the mask and he is half-done. He made sure it's made of flame resistant polymer, though he knows it won't survive a blow of super-force. Rest of him is in black too; it's good for night-time camouflage and streamlining through the air. He hasn't been caught on camera yet, so he isn't sure how the whole look goes.

Unless he's caught on camera, he thinks he doesn't need an alter-ego name. Does he?

He had some ideas, however. Ninja-man (true to his Japanese roots; if he'd been in Japan people would've called him a ninja anyway), Black Thunder (he wasn't sure where the thunder part was coming from but the name was intimidating) , Mr. Fantastic (shame, Marvel took this one already), Masked Vigilante (that was... not very creative).

Lame. That's what they are. All of them.

He presses his ear against the radio. Nothing for now. A cat mews somewhere below in the dark alley. The city is unusually quiet and crime-free tonight.

Wait, signals. Disturbanceat southwest. Finally, something. His lips curve into a slight, crooked smile even as he flings himself about from across the pole and lands on the ledge. Then spreads his arms apart and lets his weight have the better of him, free-falling into the void.

"We are going to have some fun tonight."

2:15 a.m.

"Don't make fuss, goddammit. Chuck a knife or put a bullet to the head and slip out quietly, but if you trynna wake up the whole neighbourhood I'm gonna put a bullet to yours."

"B-but boss -"

"Two minutes, cyka blyat, go in, grab the booty, tail between your legs and get out. I'll look for the guards. If they're too many, send me a signal. I'll call the crew. We'll take them far and end it there. Clear?"

Williamson nods reluctantly. He hates this guy, hates calling him "Boss" when all he does is push him forth whenever they are in deep waters, and throws in these Russian swear-words he catches from his higher-ups. A turf war is a serious issue, and Williamson very well realises his boss man will go stand by the Jeep and set off as soon as there is the tiniest hint of trouble.

Stepping in that house is a death trap in itself. And going alone is... Williamson can feel his heart in his mouth. He hasn't seen a member of the other crew and doesn't know how hostile they might be. He has no idea how many are in there either.

Williamson tracks his way through the living room. The room to the left is the only one lit, albeit very dimly. He follows the trail of light - there is a young man sitting at the table, a cloud of cigarette smoke around him forming patterns against the glow of the bulb. Williamson breathes a sigh of relief. Only one man.

Except he looks strong, and exotic, and dangerous. His leather jacket glistens, and the undercut looks intimidating over his thick furrowed eyebrows. A Mexican mercenary?

"Come in."

Williamson obeys. The man doesn't sound Mexican at all.

"Where's your boss?" The man asks him, not sparing a glance.

Williamson feels his collar heat-up. He grits his teeth. "He's outside. You can do the negotiations with me. I'm capable enough." Jesus, why can't he ever sound confident?

"I see."

"What is your name?"

"Call me Altin. Please sit."

He is too polite to be a part of a gang, Williamson observes. Maybe a newbie. Williamson occupies the chair placed right opposite the man, shifting uncomfortably, clenching at the armrests.

Suddenly, Altin tosses out what looks like a few chunks of crystal meth wrapped in plastic on the table. "One of our guys found one of your guys selling these across our turf."

Williamson takes in a deep breath. "I am aware."

"We'll let him go as soon as you answer us a few questions."

"Alright."

"The stuff, the stuff is tight. D'you fellas cook it?"

"It comes from the higher-ups. We handle the business."

"Handle the business, huh? Seems like you know things. Unlike that sissy we caught in the morning. Tough lad, kept spitting on me. Might've just bashed his head to the wall."

"Frankly, I don't give a shit," says Williamson, pulling out a cigarette from the open packet on the table, and flicks his lighter against it, "What is important is that we maintain the sanctity of our boundaries. Peace, peace is precious."

All of a sudden, Altin leans over across the table and pulls him by his collar, sending him to a state of such shock that the newly-lit cigarette is flung into the air and lands on Williamson's lap. Altin's brown eyes are livid, his high cheekbones throwing in a scary shadow to his face.

"How does a criminal dog work without a sense of loyalty?"

What? A switch flips in Williamson's head and he knows he's in trouble. But it probably isn't the kind of trouble he was expecting. Before he can realise, Altin's gun is out and pointing at him. No no no no no -

The man before him whips out an ID. "Otabek Altin, DEA. You are under arrest."

Otabek knows that pulling off a sting operation without informing anybody and too on his very first case is going to put him under fire, especially from his officers. But that's for later. Right now, the man in front of him, stout in build with a bald spot glistening against the hot, dim light, is shrunken into his chair, perhaps calculating his next move.

The man seems weak, cowardly, insincere. He'd make a good witness; he might just lay bare the entire underbelly of this dark network. Unlike the one from the morning. The one from the morning was... interesting.

Before Otabek distracts himself again, he sends back a signal. He might need back-up.

Suddenly, he notices the man snaking his hand inside his jacket. Otabek springs to action, knocking the end of his handgun against the man's head. "Don't even try." He punches the man in the stomach, even as the man doubles over, groaning in pain. Otabek follows it up by shuffling up the man's pockets and looking for weapons in the few seconds that he stunned him. Standard procedure.

He finds an AK-47 and a switchblade. The man moans on the floor incoherently, his knees to his chest, huddled together like a baby.

"I wasn't... going... for the gun."

Sharp turn. The man has stood up again, like a wounded dog that refuses to go down, and prepares to ram his body against him. Amidst the buzz of crickets, Otabek hears the sound of an engine starting off. Fuck. The man was reaching for his phone. And the other guy is escaping.

Otabek has no time for a fistfight. With the end of his handgun, he swings another blow at the man, hoping it's hard enough to knock him unconscious for a while. At the impending smack, the man tumbles off balance and skids on his knees; Otabek makes for the run. He has no time to check; he has to catch the other guy.

He sprints and sets off his motorbike. The red lights of the jeep are still visible down the road, when -

Bang!

The bullet misses him by inches. It's that man in the room again. Apparently, he's still holding up - instinctively, Otabek shoots at the man's leg to bog him down - fuck no, the other one is getting away - how was he supposed to handle both of them -

"I gotchu officer!"

Someone screams that aloud. And Otabek is pretty sure it isn't the man with the gun crying in agony against the doorway, clutching his leg.

Something just passed them by. Something like a very quick cat. Like a solid, running, shadow.

If the Jeep keeps hurtling forth without any concern towards the tyres or the physics of meandering roads, it's going to fling itself into a ditch anyway, thinks Yuuri.

He accelerates, and then with one swift motion, climbs onto the ledge of the warehouse right by him and readies for the big launch - the launch that'll land him right on top of the vehicle, as he hopes.

And it does. Slam. He feels his knees denting into the surface of the car. They are so going to be sore tomorrow. The guy in the driver's seat goes for a sharp bend to try and throw him off. True that, Yuuri isn't as prepared as he assumed. He has to grab onto the wipers to keep his balance.

More sharp bends. When nothing helps, the guy shoots at him. Yuuri dodges easily. The shots are badly aimed anyway in that terribly swivelling vehicle that has probably failed its brakes by now.

"Oh I'm sorry, am I blocking the vision?!" Yuuri sneers at him. With what looks like a last-ditch attempt, the guy turns the steering wheel a complete left, and as an expected consequence, the Jeep topples sideways and slides across the road, reaching to a halt by ramming into a tree.

Yuuri steps off the now-mangled vehicle and dusts himself. Damn, that guy had no chill. Hands on his hips, he sighs, and climbs up again, this time trying to bend some of the metal and make some space to pull the man out of that death trap. "I hope you were wearing a seatbelt..."

There he is, the guy. He seems - in one piece - thankfully, his forehead shining with fresh blood and the last of his scream still somewhat etched on his face. Yuuri clutches the man's wrist. There seems a pulse...

"Is he alive?"

He turns to find the policeman he passed by when he began to trail the jeep. "Yeah," replies Yuuri, "probably broke some ribs, cracked his skull... I don't know . Hope he remembers what you need to get out of him after you bandage him all up - eh?"

The policeman is standing alert by his motorbike, mumbling something into his headphone, his gun pointed at Yuuri. He barks, "Who are you?!"

Oh, right. With the mask and the pitch distorter fitted right into it, Yuuri must look like a cheap cosplay of a power-ranger who took things more seriously than he should have. But then. He hasn't thought of a name yet.

"I'm a nobody."

The policeman still doesn't budge. "Freeze right there."

"No can do, amigo, I gotta go. I got your man, what's your problem?"

"You got him half-dead."

"FYI, I didn't ask him to drive his car into a tree. C'mon, get him to a hospital, he'll make it. I guess I'll catch up with you sometime later. See ya!"

He half-expects the police guy to shoot at him as he takes off, but for some reason he lets him go easy and instead shifts his attention to the injured man. Yuuri runs to the shadows again; before he leaves the scene, he thinks he catches the sight of something odd right where the road ends - something silver.

It's an old fence, and a broken down car. Not a soul in sight; he walks around a few yards... well, just a trash can. Except, a little ahead, there's a patch of ice on the pavement.

That's weird. The weather isn't cold enough for that patch to form naturally. Suddenly he's too tired to think. Maybe the reflection of the ice patch is what he caught from afar. He can hear sirens in the distance now; he must escape before that policeman changes his mind and brings up an entire force unit to overpower him.

He checks his watch. 3:30 a.m.

Panic.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"I've an early class tomorrow."

"Yuuri, you could've slept in the class, but no, you haveto snooze in the canteen."

"It was organic chemistry." Yuuri barely whispers in his defence, his sleep-deprived eyelids drooping further down as he digs his face deeper into his arms on the table, while his tray food grows cold. He knows karma is going to hit him back one day for ignoring his second-favourite thing in the world.

He guesses his most favourite thing will be dogs. He misses Vicchan... and everyone else back at Hasetsu, mum, dad, Mari-nee chan, Minako-sensei, Yuuko, Nishigori -

"It was an optional."

"Mmff... my grades are falling..."

"That's because you're a ball of anxiety."

Yuuri looks up at his blissfully unaware Thai friend. He wants to glare, but instead has to fish for his glasses inside his jacket because all he can figure is a tanned outline of a face and a concerned smile. Also, according to his friend (by friend, Yuuri means his best friend, his only friend, his lifeline in the city), Yuuri has an eternally confused doe-eyed expression that can never intimidate anyone.

Wow, Yuuri wonders, he might just be the classic archetype of the nerdy nerd turns superhero. All he needs now is a damsel in distress. Too bad he's going to end up alone.

"I don't get it though, you went to sleep at 9 sharp last night, how come you're so exhausted?"

"Phichit..." Wait, figure the lie before you speak. He stutters, "I - I was - actually, I woke up in the middle of the night, and then I couldn't sleep again and I kept surfing the net..."

He casually covers his ears (which tend to go red when he lies) with his palms, and pretends to rest his head against them. He isn't sure how much he is able to convince Phichit, who is staring down at his phone scrolling through his Instagram feed, a smug smile on his face.

Phichit smirks. "You've got yourself a boyfriend, haven't you?"

"What - no!" Had Yuuri been more flustered, he'd have sent his food tray flying across the table.

"Hey, look at this," Phichit points at his phone screen, "Some mysterious guy saved a kid on the street last night. It's blink-and-you-miss-it fast. This has got to be fake."

Yuuri adjusts his collar and nods. He peeks; no, the video is too shaky and he's hardly visible when he scoops the child up from right in front of the truck and puts her safe on the sidewalk. "Uh, yeah. Totally." It's terribly guilt-inducing but convenient to keep his flatmate in the dark. Not that Phichit will ever believe that someone like him climbs out of the window at night to fight crime.

"Oh god, what is this -"

"Uh -"

"Victor Nikiforov is going to join our college for his Medieval Arts degree!"

Yuuri thinks his heart missed a beat. "Excuse me?"

"It's true! See!"

When he gazes at Phichit's phone screen again, which turns out to be an article from the college's unofficial blog, he drifts off to his own world... back to his small room at Hasetsu where he had once filled every inch of his walls with posters of Victor Nikiforov.

When Yuuri was eleven, Victor was fifteen and had already qualified for his first Grand Prix figure skating finals. Victor was hailed a natural genius; he had a certain grace with which he skated, danced, or even waved at the camera. Even through the wall of the TV, Victor, with his waist-long silver hair and striking blue eyes, used to feel like a waft of cool breeze.

Every year, a new programme, a new story. Victor never failed to surprise him. So much so, Yuuri decided to step on the ice for himself. Somehow, he turned out to be good, even won a few trophies. As unfortunate as it was, Yuuri had to stop when his powers began to develop; before anyone could notice anything out of the way, he slid out of the figure skating scene.

And now, Phichit is telling him that his childhood crush, his inspiration, the man he had put on a pedestal and admired all his life, is coming to his college to major in a subject Yuuri has as an optional?

"Isn't he a bit too old for college?" Yuuri tries to make some sense out of it, keeping the shaking of his body and the treble of excitement in his voice a bare minimum.

"Maybe he wasn't able to complete his studies with the skating competitions and all. I don't know, I'm calling bullshit on this one too unless I see him in campus."

Sometimes Yuuri goes a level too far at pretensions.

While he is bumbling and clumsy by nature, he can carry weights like a pile of feathers. In the midst of people, he's often confused about how to enact the carrying part; whether he must keep it extremely low-key, or he must make people believe that his knees are aching with all that weight.

While on this thread, he must confess that his knees are actually aching. Damn that Jeep. He hopes the criminal survived. It didn't look too bad after all.

"Excuse me, I -"

Yuuri wheels at the sound of the voice. He knows it too well. He thinks his heart has exploded out of his chest, while his hands have given way and the carton of beakers that he had been carrying to the lab crashes to the floor. Like his jaw, maybe.

This can't be happening.

"Oh god, I'm sorry I didn't mean to alarm you..."

It's him. It's really him.

("Kill me now.")

The hallway is deserted but for the two of them; Victor is slightly taller than he is, his hair parted sideways and falling over one eye, the t-shirt under his zipped-open jacket hugging his figure a little too tightly for Yuuri's comfort, his lips turned into a mysterious, playboy smile. Yuuri can't figure if it's those damn blue eyes or the sunlight behind the guy that's flaring against his glasses and blinding him.

("Stop staring. Say something. Anything.")

"Vi-Victor?"

("Why would you address a celebrity without his surname? You sound like a groupie already. Chill. Try again.")

"One of your beakers broke," Victor bends down to collect the mess that crashed to the floor ten minutes ago.

"It's a flask, but - yeah," Yuuri hurtles down too, still on auto-gear, not sure what he's doing, his loud thumping heart cancelling every other noise around him. He can't decide if he wants to flee or ask for his autograph.

("Because making normal, human conversation is one power you don't possess.")

"Sorry about this," he apologizes again, "I just wanted to ask where the Medieval Arts department was. I'm lost on my first day." Then grins.

("Don't stare again. Focus. He's asking for directions. Where was the Medieval Arts department again?")

"Er," Yuuri scratches at his neck, skin under his collar grown so hot he can practically bake a cake on it, racking his brains, and daringly attempts to put out a coherent sentence, "Um, go straight, and then take - take left. You can take a shortcut from the canteen - but, um, okay - after the left, just walk some distance and you'll reach the library. It's right by."

It takes a while for Victor to absorb it all. "So... go straight, take left, then the canteen -"

"- No, um, don't take the canteen route, just keep walking along the left, you'll reach a lecture room right beside the library -"

"Hey, why don't you show me the way? That'll be great help." He follows it with what Yuuri thinks is a wink.

"I'd love to, b-but I'm actually running late for my lab class."

("Great going, Katsuki. You just turned down spending five minutes with Victor Nikiforov.")

"Oh, right, I forgot." To his surprise, Victor's face fell. Victor mustn't be very used to people turning him down. Yuuri feels a tinge of guilt and almost changes his mind, but then he does have a lab class and an inevitable scolding from the professor waiting.

"Okay... so," Yuuri pulls up the load, awkward (and perhaps beet red by now), "straight, turn left, walk, library, right side."

"Okay. Straight, left, walk, library, ."

As Yuuri watches him pass, he realises all these years he hasn't been wrong about Victor. Victor does feel like a waft of cool breeze, and he can't explain why.

It's drizzling tonight.

Yuuri yawns. Another boring night. He sits, leaning against a window, legs dangling down the ledge, his head still stuck like a broken recorder at the episode in the hallway that happened about ten hours ago. He lets out a long sigh.

Victor must've forgotten about the whole thing as soon as he entered the lecture room. Why is Yuuri still on it? Urgh. He needs to get his mind off that particular memory, but tonight seems to be the perfect embodiment of wet, soggy boredom.

And just like that, a woman's scream rips through the air.

Instinctively, he bounces up to his feet and follows the sound. A few buildings afar, there's slight chaos - a huddle has formed over on the pavement, and a man is trying to tear through the crowd, running drastically out of sight. When Yuuri lands near the huddle, he notices the centre of its attention - a woman is lying on the concrete, slow puddle of blood forming below her.

"Has anyone called an ambulance?" he screams fiercely. Given his mask and all-black appearance, some people scatter around in fear, making space. Fuck the mugger, he needs to tend to the woman first.

"They're - they're on their way -" someone tells him, "there's too much blood -"

It's true. He places his hand over the wound, trying to stem the blood flow. No, he can't really wait and narrow her chances of survival. Without further ado, he carries the woman in his arms. She's still conscious, so she screams in agony.

"It's okay," he whispers, knowing it can't be much of a comfort as voice comes out of the mask in an automated static tone. He turns to one of the pedestrians. "Which way is the hospital?" Dammit, he needs to fit in a GPS system next time.

The pedestrian, wide-eyed and perhaps terrified, points towards left. Before he dashes, he thinks he hears someone scream, "Look, it's real-life Batman!"

He feels the slick coating of blood around the glove he pressed against her wound while he hops from one speeding car to another. Her eyelids are flickering and she's gasping for breath. Five more minutes - wait, there it is, there's the ambulance the people called. He plants himself right in the middle of the street even as the ambulance launches its brakes, pausing exactly an inch before a mighty collision.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Someone jumps out of the vehicle and yells at him. "What the hell are you?!"

"Bring a gurney, she needs help," Yuuri orders them, feeling the blood trickling down his elbow. Thankfully, they oblige fast.

Now that she's with rightful assistance, he thinks he can go look for that bastard thief.

It isn't long before Yuuri actually finds him in one of the empty alleys, cold.

Like, literally.

The thief's skin is ice cold, although it appears as if he's only knocked out, like one would from shock, or something similar. His mouth is half-open, the bag he snatched in one of his hands, and the bloodied knife in the other.

Yuuri observes him. It's a bit odd to have some kind of unprovoked hypothermic attack in the middle of such a grisly humid night, and get punched out of one's senses. "Well, who did this to you, buddy?"

"Seems like you're not the only masked man in town."

Hihihihi superhero AU. Review if you like!