(So, I decided to write up a new story, I'll update my others soon; I promise! But this idea has been brewing for the longest time now, and I've been holding it off but I can't anymore, and I just needed to type it down because I always have this manic fear that it'll just slip away from me someday. But any who, I'm reeeeeeally excited to begin on it; and I hope you enjoy it. )

The evening air was nipping at her cheeks. The faint taste of peach-flavored tea wavered in her mouth. She knew she should not have had that second mug, but it was all too delicious, and she rewarded herself, devouring the citrusy drink; after all, she had worked double shift. She never had one negative thing to say about her job however, it was an antique store. The contents of the little shop were exquisite. And she always felt that if she held them too hard or even looked at them for too long they would shatter into a million unfixable pieces.

She didn't mind the loneliness of the road, and the city was very much alive as it always was, it was New York after all. She had grown to love the bustling roads. But there was something exceptionally unusual about tonight. She stood outside the shop, quickly pulling off her name-tag; the name Collette was faded badly for she worked there for now three years. And it was a nice job, a job she loved enough to continue working despite it not paying very well.

Collette felt eerie, as if a set of eyes were watching her. During times like these she wished she had a car, to drive away from scenes like these without a splice of fear or hesitation.

Her home was only two blocks away now, and she kept herself soothed by the rhythmic sound of her clamping heels, listening to them with great concentration as she made her way further and further into the desolate path of her home.

She took a short-cut using a cramped alley-way, the hazy orange light illuminated the smoggy boundary, and it was cramped and humid despite it being the middle of winter. The large garbage cans were a slimy shade of green and casted unfriendly long shadows making it hard for her to see her surroundings.

Her thoughts dwindled down back into the corners of her mind as a silhouette lingered toward her.

Collette's calm disposition suddenly had a malfunction. But she remained in a state of silence; she took this path whenever it was too cold for her to walk the full two-blocks. This route way led into the parking lot of her apartment complex but she was always too bothered by the unpleasant buzzing of the streetlamps to take it regularly.

If you weren't so lazy, if you just walked an extra block you wouldn't be in this predicament. It's not even that cold. It's late but if you weren't such a stupid, stupid, reckless idiot and decided to take an extra peach tea you could've caught a ride with Charlotte.

The rambling of her panicked mind was shut up as the person came to a sharp halt, facing her. A man, a very old man glared at her. His face was tarnished from what seemed to be old age and exhaustion. He had a mad, frantic look in his eyes that was glazed with a manifest of violence. His hair looked like thin little wires poking out from his leathery scalp. His lips were shaped in a contort snarl, like a dog suffering rabies preparing to lunge. His teeth were a rotten dirt color, each a different shade, one even missing.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, Charlotte asked twice she asked twice "are you sure you don't need a ride home?" idiot, idiot, idiot.

"Um, excuse me.. sir, I'm sorry. I just, my apartment is.. in my way. I mean, you're in my way. Blocking my path, and you see, my apartment is right there!" her hand flung up, pointing at the parking lot just meters away, but her hands were shaking too much to direct where she was heading.

He was in the middle of her path, just staring, a lost look in his eyes, no response. But he stepped closer.

"Sir?" Colette's voice was stuttering now, quivering. Her hand wandered into her purse, slowly, quietly not peeling her eyes off the man. Her shaking hand struggled in search of her pepper spray that she had received from her father after she moved out; she remembered laughing at the good-bye present but now, it seemed as if it were the only thing that could save her life.

The man's hands were tucked behind his back, hiding something.

And in one swoop, he grinned, displaying the two hidden objects: a blunt knife and a sharp rock. On his left arm his flannel sleeve was tucked up to his wrist, exposing the flesh which was a bruised shade of purple, with needle marks coding every area. "The knife. Or the rock. Which one?"

Collette reassessed the situation she was presented with. She remembered she left the pepper-spray in her other satchel. Which was at her home.

"Please.. please, just let me.. go. I.." The pleas began, softly at first; as if she were making a simple transaction. Then they quickly became shrieks, whimpers, offers of money, of anything. Just an exchange for her life.

He cackled, his mouth wide, giving her a full view of his teeth, which all were infested with cavities, like little individual sinkholes on each of his teeth. "Listen, I'm just going to pick the knife.." As she tried to break out into an escape he pushed down on her like a stone wall. Her panic wasn't making it easier for her, she was jittery and it only made it harder to achieve her objective; of escaping less and less possible.

"Just please let me go. Please sir, I will do anything. Please."

Growing tired of her vacant promises, he swung the pointy edge of the rock at her, but missed as she leapt forward, swinging back at him, fists whizzing in all directions, her instinctive reaction solidified into something useful, as she swung she knobbed him in the face, enough weight to knock him over. Although she was scrawny and small, she was lucky to have such a strong reflex.

He darted to the ground, and pulled her ankle, tugging her down; she tumbled into the gravel, groaning as she did so, each individual rock pierced her back. And a trickle of oozing red goo slithered down her neck, from her skull. Collette had stumbled right on the hedge of a broken beer bottle, the shards of glass digging into her scalp. She tried kicked back into action, ready to spring back into her defensive-mode but realized her fight was over. She heard as he dragged himself up from the ground, she heard his compressed moan. He sat on her chest, compressing down against her, his legs elongated pushing down her arms with his bare, dirty feet. He held the dull knife in his closed fist, gripping it so hard that his knuckles pulled into a pearly shade of white. This would be painful, she knew. The knife was rounded, like a spoon. He'd have to slice her at least seven times just to cause an actual scratch.

A salty layer of sweat drizzled all along her face, glistening against the light of the streetlamps. She was pretty, he thought. Pretty like her. Like his ex-fiancé. Pretty. Not as round as her. She had a brown eyes though, murky looking and not as pure as his ex. And her lips were thin, like lines on a paper. And her breasts weren't as round, but it was enough for him to grope. As his hand glided along her chest, he grinned, baring his filthy teeth.

She shut her eyes, feeling the blood curl around her skull. Instead of drizzling, it was now pooling out. She was growing light-headed, happy she couldn't feel the humiliation of being groped or the actual, physical touch. She was too numb to soak up the reality of what had unfolded in less than 10 minutes.

She felt a light weight release from her chest. This is it.

Her eyelids fluttered open; she felt a pang of sadness dwell in her heart, that the last place she would see on earth were the polluted lights of an alleyway. To her shock, he was gone. But someone else was standing staring at her. He was.. wearing. A dark purple.. suit? Not just any suit but.. a super-hero suit. But it didn't look very.. super-hero-ish. If anything, it looked evil.

His eyes were rounded, like the moon, she thought, her train of thought not rational.

She wasn't sure if it was because she losing her consciousness or because he really just a gaunt superhero/villain/pigment of her imagination/whatever. With the moon for his eyes, but she was almost positive that this vision strung from her loss of blood.

And in that thought, the world around fizzled into a grey slog before demolishing itself into complete and total darkness

Nothing fascinated him or drew his attention anymore; just the prospect of getting back at Kickass and Hit-girl. That was all that occupied his feverish thoughts now. He still enjoyed watching the city around him though, sometimes had an urgent desire to cast a fight with someone, and filled that hunger with fighting a major dope dealer who thought he was 'the shit'. He knew the people who laughed about him, "Red-Mist? Yeah that's just some pussy dressed in tights. It's a damn trend that's all." He wasn't a trend and not one to be tampered with either.

He wasn't Red-Mist either, no, that was over. Red-Mist meant he still had some thread of alliance with Hit-girl and Kickass and that was drained away now.

He sat on the roof of a building, in a more reserved part of the area. It was dark here and the parking lot across was empty. He gnawed in the inside of his cheek, thinking and plotting.

Something caught his eye though, a girl. Not too far away, in fact, she was making her way through the alley below. She didn't see him from so far away, his new suit blended in convincingly with the evening. He sat back down, over-looking the view of the small homes around, a suburban labyrinth of middle-class homes, further down the road the slums began to trail along, housing the third class families, he pitied them. Living a life of luxury was the norm for Chris, he had never tasted the plague of living in poverty.

He heard a sudden shriek. A grand amusement expanded in him. He perched on the ledge of the building, watching, his lips twisting into a devilish smirk.

The girl was shriveled up in a pool of blubbering fear, her left hand digging into her purse searching for something. A phone perhaps, but what was the point she was obviously stuck in a harsh situation? Even if she did get the phone it would probably only enrage the man attempting to harm her.

He clenched his grin, his eyes reflected a glassy joy, he loved running across crimes in the city; especially this late at night.

The action finally began, she had good reflex, he couldn't hear anything except her pathetic whimpering, he didn't see anything either. Which disappointed him, they weren't close enough to the dim street lamp, so he could only see the outline of the two figures. She was a feeble stick compared to him. Although the man had a limp it was evident in the way he lunged at her that he was stronger than her, strong enough to snap her neck and leave her lifeless corpse laying there like it was nothing. Not a human. Not even animal. Just a mass of bones and skin.

As she leapt away like a terrified jack-rabbit the man regained his strength, heaving and coughing before he plopped down on her chest, Chris was thoroughly surprised he hadn't heard a series of cracks as he did so. But she turned a ghoulish color, a puddle of her own cherry-red plasma exuded around her head, her hair, which was divided into the splurge, sinking in the mounting pool of red liquid, just as the confused man dug into his pocket in search of either the rock or knife he had previously offered her, Chris assumed the man had decided to use the knife, to release some of his building anger.

And he was right.

Just as the man finally dug it out of his denim jacket, in one swift stride, Chris flew from the ledge of the building, using his cape to glide down onto a dumpster, mooring soundly on the face of the metal lid. He disengaged a fastened dagger-like knife in the interior of his cape; as he raised the knife, the steel radiated a blinding flash in the small amount of light that the flickering street-lamp offered.

In a half-swing of his hand, the pointed knife hit his target in the neck, burying deep in his esophagus and callously cutting into his flesh, for a moment, he sat there. Motionless, wavering, and just as quickly as he pierced the man, he demolished onto the ground, with a loud thump.

Chris was a bit saddened that he wouldn't get that dagger back, but he reminded himself it was just one in his collection of hundreds.

He retreated forward, toward the girl. She laid, her chest rising and falling. Chris didn't know why he sprang into action like that, typically, he sat, grinning and watching as the casualties begged and begged. But whoever this girl was, seemed to accept her fate very quickly, she sobbed some, begged a bit. And then slumped down like road-kill. Although he wasn't a big fan of people like that, there was something peculiar about her. Something that tugged on him, like an invisible string.

She was pretty, no, that was a complete understatement. She was beautiful to say the least, even in a scene this bloody and unfortunate. She watched him; he had never seen someone observe him, not in this intensity, her eyes were a chestnut brown, warm and kind compared the bitter winter around them. And slowly, her blinks became longer and longer, until her eyes fully closed.

She was still alive, he wouldn't let her die. Not here. He didn't know what inside of him wanted to protect this girl so much, but he had little to no control over it.

Now what?

He had never seen her before, he didn't know her name. But he had caught something, she lived in one of the apartments here, she cut across the alley to get into the parking lot of the apartment complex.

He couldn't leave her here. A part of him was speechless in spiting anger; she had no name. He wasted s great knife on her. She was stupid, she had gotten herself in this situation, and she had a chance to fight back. But she just sat there, looking like a deer in the headlights instead of trying.

But in this internal conflict, he scooped her frail being into his arms. She was still bleeding, really small. And she smelled of metallic liquid. But the trace of her natural scent of almonds and a type of floral fragrance he couldn't categorize. She smelled nice. He chained those thoughts, and sentimental emotions, locking it up and throwing the key away.

With his free hand he dug into her purse, grabbing her wallet and with some fumbling around, found her license.

Her name was Collette Marie Jean, the nineteen year old who lived in Garden Hollow, apartment 29. Her eyes, were actually hazel. Her hair which was undistinguishable currently because of the amount of blood crusting around it was naturally brown. And she was from New York, New York. And more alone than anyone could ever be.