I know I have other stories I need to finish, but this idea has been bugging me for a couple years now and it's begging to be written. Tell me what you think. The beginning is a little slow but there's a lot of info to cover. I promise it picks up next chapter.

I heard my alarm go off and sighed before wrestling an arm out of my thick sleeping bag and turning it off. Cold air hit sleeved my arm, instantly raising goose bumps despite the protection of my hoodie. I didn't cover it back up though, if I did then I would get all cozy and fall back asleep.

With a groan I wrestled myself out of my sleeping bag. It was pitch dark, as the sun hadn't risen yet, and I had to fumble around for the small lamp that was on the floor. It clicked on and illuminated the small section of the church attic that I slept in. It was more of a storage room than anything, but I didn't mind; it was a safe place to sleep, even if I only ever slept here for a couple hours a night, and the nuns would even feed me if I set up for morning mass and helped with the cleaning.

I rubbed my arms, trying to warm them back up before I found my shoes and slipped them on. I didn't need to get dressed, the chill after leaving my sleeping bag in the mornings was enough to make me sleep in my clothes, so I wouldn't have to lose precious body heat getting dressed in the morning.

I pulled a pair of fingerless gloves onto my hands and flattened my short red hair with my fingers. Then I dug around for some of the food I'd hidden to appease my already rumbling stomach. I got through three peanut butter sandwiches and a banana before I had to downstairs to ease my constant hunger before it was time for me to start working.

I wandered down to the church and instantly got to work setting up for first mass. As the morning matured various members of the congregation would pass me and greet me in Dutch. I would reply with simple words that I could pronounce well and they often left it at that. They assumed that I wouldn't be able to understand them anyway, being an English speaker. They don't know that I understand a lot more than I can speak.

The time I took setting things up passed slowly, since my stomach was rumbling, but after an hour and a half of work Sister Maria came up and said: "It's time for breakfast, Daan."

They called me Daan here, since it was the name I'd given them. None of them knew my real name or how I ended up here, which is just the way I liked it. Sometimes I felt like a criminal in an old-time story, claiming sanctuary in a church to avoid my pursuers. I wasn't a criminal though, I just needed a place to hide. This place was perfect, mostly because it was the first place I'd found where the adults would let me stay without turning me into the police. Some would call it irresponsible but I called it handy.

I went to the breakfast table to eat with the sisters. The priest didn't join us, as he preferred to spend his mornings in solitude, preparing for mass, so it was just the five of us: me, Sister Mila, Sister Noor, Sister Sophia, and Sister Maria.

We didn't talk much as we ate our porridge and fruit, but Sister Noor, an old lady with an angry face, sniffed as I scooped out a second bowl of porridge for myself.

Here we go again, I thought dejectedly, waiting for the reprimand.

"Really, the boy hasn't been up long enough to work up such an appetite," said Sister Noor. She gave me a look to ensure that I knew she was talking about me. It wasn't necessary, since I knew most of the words she spoke, but my Dutch just wasn't good enough for me to reply. I kept eating, pretending I was oblivious.

Sister Noor had had it out for me since the day we met. I had run too many miles on too little food and my stomach was beginning to eat itself. I was so desperate for sustenance that I didn't even pay attention to where I was I just followed the smell of food cooking and the next thing I knew I was in the church kitchen with an empty pot of stew in front of me. Sister Noor was the first to find me and she had been all for calling the police, but Father Alexander had insisted that I was a misguided child in need of help and offered to let me stay on the conditions that I helped out around the church and didn't steal from the kitchen again. Naturally, Mrs. Noor had watched the pantry—and me—like a hawk ever since. This made it all the harder for me to hide my…abilities.

"He's a growing boy, it's normal for his age," said Sister Mila serenely.

My green eyes connected with her warm brown ones for a brief second and I instantly felt less tense. Sister Mila was my favorite; she had been right behind Father Alexander when he suggested I stay and had done everything she could to help me settle in.

"We've had to increase how much food we've been buying since he came," said Sister Noor.

"Naturally, having a new resident will do that," replied Sister Mila.

"He does eat quite a lot though," said Sister Maria. "Its almost…gulzigheid."

I frowned slightly.

I didn't know what that word meant, but it didn't sound good, given her tone.

"I think it's because he misses dinner, since he goes to work every night," said Sister Sophia.

"That's another thing, who would hire a child to work in the afternoons and evenings? It doesn't make sense. He's always out late," said Sister Maria. She made another comment after that but I couldn't quite understand it.

"That's enough now," said Sister Sophia at last, "we agreed that, while we don't know why he was sent to us, Daan is here for a reason," she said firmly.

The other nuns grew quiet at that, though Sister Mila smiled softly as she looked at the porridge pot.

"Ah, there is so little left, it would be a waste to take up fridge space storing it, eat child," she said before spooning me a third bowl of porridge.

I smiled at her and thanked her in my very best Dutch.

"You are welcome, Daan," she said kindly.

I smiled brighter, and finished eating.

After the tense breakfast was over I sat through the first church service, as was expected of me, though it was very hard for me. When I was growing up, the people around me thought I had ADHD, but in reality I have super speed. I know it sounds impossible, or like some kind of metaphor, but it's true, and as you can imagine, having a supercharged body makes it hard to sit still at times. I drummed my fingers and tried to entertain myself by honing my super hearing—another power of mine—in on the various sounds around me. Heart beats, organ strings, and vocal chord vibrations filled my ears as I played my little game. I would have done these focusing tricks with my eyes too, but I haven't been able to ever since—

Don't think about it.

I stood up and left for the bathroom. As I said, my attention span couldn't take sitting still too long, especially with all the things I was trying not to think about.

After the service was finally over and the second service was ready to begin, I went out to run some errands that the Sister Maria had assigned me. The errands mostly consisted of assisting different people around the tiny township outside of Amsterdam. It was a small community in the Netherlands, but not so small that people would ask too many questions about who I was, which was fine for my purposes.

My errand today was to help out Mr. Doete, a brilliant old man whose not-so-brilliant-but-almost-as-old wheelchair made it almost impossible for him to do yard work. I walked two miles through the cold to get to Mr. Doete's house, though instead of feeling dread for the upcoming labor, I was excited. Mr. Doete spoke the Queen's English as fluently as a native, and I was happy to have someone I could actually speak with, even though that meant he could peg me as an American.

The long walk to Mr. Doete's passed quickly and when I got there I went straight to his garage to get his rake out. I pulled the trashcans to the yard after that and immediately got started. Five minutes later Mr. Doete wheeled himself out his front door and down the ramp. He was wrapped up in heavy winter gear and a blanket so big that it was in danger of snagging on the wheels of his chair, but he come nevertheless. Mr. Doete always came out to talk when I was doing yard work. I sometimes wondered if he really should though. There were some days where Mr. Doete looked kind of sick, and today was one of those days.

"Hello, Daan," he said.

"Hi, Mr. Doete," I said breathing out the words like a sigh of relief.

English at last!

"I saw you sneak off to the bathroom twice during mass earlier today, were you really so bored?" he demanded, humor in his voice.

"Well, my Dutch isn't the best so it's hard to keep up sometimes," I said as I grabbed some leaves and threw them away.

The man shook his head.

"When I was your age, I knew three languages! Three. What on earth are they teaching you in those American schools?"

"How to annoy old guys from the Europe," I replied, biting my tongue so I wouldn't tell him that I was already fluent in two aside from Dutch.

"You are a bratty child, so cheeky," he laughed, before snatching some leaves off the ground and throwing them at me.

I laughed and Mr. Doete chuckled, though it turned into a cough.

"Are you catching a cold, Mr. Doete?" I asked, looking at him and noticing once again that he looked a little sick.

"No, I'm just feeling a tired this morning," said Mr. Doete.

I frowned. Mr. Doete was never one to complain about anything. If he said he was tired, he was probably feeling really ill.

"Why don't you go inside? It's cold out today," I said.

"Don't worry about me, boy. I can take care of myself," he snorted.

I dropped the topic, though my stomach gave a weird twist. I sighed and tried to think of other things. My thoughts ended up wandering to the word the sisters had used earlier at the table. I wonder if I could ask Mr. Doete its meaning? He would surely explain it to me.

"What's on your mind, Daan?" asked the man, breaking the silence.

I paused for a moment before I asked: "What does gulzigheid mean?"

The man raised an eyebrow. Clearly I'd butchered the pronunciation but he seemed to get the point.

"Gulzigheid? It means glutton, why?" he asked.

"Oh," I said as the word clicked, then I frowned.

"Who called you a glutton?" asked Mr. Doete, "One of the sisters?"

"Yea," I said with a shrug. "I've been going through a growth spurt and they've apparently never seen a pre-teen boy eat before."

"Pay them no mind," he said kindly. "They do not like things they don't understand and you are quite the mystery. An American showing up out of nowhere with no place to go except a mysterious night job?"

"And don't tell me you're helping an elderly woman, we all know it isn't true," said Mr. Doete as I opened my mouth to argue.

I sighed.

"You would think that my being a bad liar would make them chill out," I grumbled.

The man chuckled at my use of the phrase "chill out.

"American slang!" he shook his head. "But really, son, you may be a bad liar, but you are still a liar." He said it calmly, in a non-judgmental way, but I still felt awkward and I leaned over to pick up some leaves so I wouldn't have to respond.

"Is sister Sophia still on you about studying arithmetic and Dutch?" he asked.

"Well, sort of. She leaves me to self study a lot and quizzes me periodically but since I'm already more advanced than her in math—don't tell her I said that—and I'm already trying to learn Dutch there isn't much for her to do. Luckily none of them have tried to send me to school—yet," I said.

Mr. Doete didn't respond to that, but gave a sudden grunt.

"You okay?" I asked turning around to face him fully.

"Just heart burn, must be something I ate," he mumbled.

"Do you want me to get you some medicine?" I asked.

"No," Mr. Doete said, looking confused. "No it..it doesn't feel like something heart burn medicine would help, it's more of a…"

He paused and rubbed his chest, looking slightly disoriented.

"Mr. Doete?" I asked putting down the rake, my face scrunching in confusion and concern.

Mr. Doete wheezed, "Daan," before slumping over in his wheelchair.

I froze for less than a second as I paused to listen. It was like zooming with a camera, I listened to the whole picture, then honed in on Mr. Doete, trying to hear his heart and lungs. There was nothing.

I sprinted for the neighbor's house so fast it was almost unbelievable and I pounded on the door as hard as I could, my finger pressing the doorbell in ten times in rapid succession.

An irritated man answered the door after twenty seconds. He looked furious but I started babbling in broken Dutch.

"Mr. Doete..hurt…" I said pointing to the place where he was slumped in his wheelchair. "Phone, the hospital! Phone the hospital! Mr. Doete hurt!" I babbled.

A woman came up behind him.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"This kid is telling me something about Mr. Doete needing a hospital, but he's right there!" said the guy pointing at Mr. Doete's wheelchair, which was facing away from us. They couldn't see that he wasn't sitting up straight.

The wife however was looking at me, at the fear in my face.

"Call an ambulance," she told her husband before moving out the door and hurried towards Mr. Doete. I followed, barely restraining myself from switching into super speed. She took his pulse as soon as we got to him.

"Out, out," I said, ripping away the blanket from Mr. Doete's legs and unbuckling his seatbelt. I already knew that there was no pulse and we had to move.

The woman seemed to get what I was saying and we both lifted him out of his wheelchair and onto the ground. I started CPR immediately. The woman said something I couldn't understand and left. I panicked for a minute before realizing she was probably going for help. I looked around as I did chest compressions and saw her knocking frantically on a door down the street.

Things were a blur of fear from there. I felt Mr. Doete's ribs break as I continued CPR and I nearly threw up as the things I tried not to think about flew to the front of my mind.

Mom was on the floor in the upstairs hallway, and her eyes were wide open. Her clothes were spattered with blood and it took me a minute to realize that some was coming from her mouth. I ripped her shirt open and strapped the defibrillator pads to her. I heard "shock advised" so many times, but I kept trying. I wanted to call for help, but I couldn't. The number one rule at my house was no doctors. Mom had told me that this would happen. Mom had told me that when the time came and home care wasn't enough any more that me and Dad would have to let her go. Dad. I sobbed as I saw him, lying on the floor. There was no help for him, not even if I could call a doctor. A bullet through the heart is a pretty clear sign that you're not gonna be okay.

I was crying by the time the neighbor came back with a defibrillator. She seemed to fumble with it as she tried to set it up so I yanked it from her hands and set it up instantly with the ease of practice. I tried not to think about the fact that I'd done the same thing for mom two months ago.

But it won't work, I thought miserably as I pushed the shock button. I was so convinced of this that I was shocked when I heard a pulse come from Mr. Doete's heart. I blinked in amazement just as the sound of an ambulance met my ears.

Things continued to happen after that and I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself. The medics took Mr. Doete away and left me standing there with the neighbor lady and everyone else who had come out of their homes to see what was going on.

The woman's husband came and took the defibrillator, while the woman herself picked up Mr. Doete's blanket off the ground and wrapped it around my shoulders.

"Come, child," she said softly before leading me away.

I obliged, feeling too numb and sick to oppose much of anything. In retrospect I think I was probably in some kind of shock.

The lady drove me back to the church in her car. Sister Mila patted my hair once she heard what had happened and led me to a pew. She led a prayer for half an hour while I tried to stop shaking.

. . . . . . . . . . .

The hours after the incident went by like a dream, blurred and garbled. Sister Sophia suggested that I call in sick for my "night job" because I looked unwell. I denied this. I needed clarity; I needed my city.

When the time came I changed into black clothes and grabbed a backpack. As usual I used my hearing to make sure I wasn't going to cross paths with anyone on my way out.

Once outside I pulled on a cap to hide my hair and a pair of goggles to cover my eyes. I tensed my legs, and I ran.

I ran over land and then over the ocean. I was fast enough that water just felt like a different kind of running surface. My feet moved across it like skipping stones as I headed towards a new land.

It took me a bit over a half an hour to get to London from the Netherlands, and when I did I felt calmer. This was my place, the place I'd claimed as my own since arriving in Europe. Maybe it was the fact that citizens of this city spoke English for the most part, or maybe it was the comfort of having so many people to cloak my presence. Either way London just felt right.

It was a place that didn't seem like it needed a lot of help when you looked at it on television, but then, shows like "Fabulous Flats and Houses" don't show the slums, do they? And the glimmering pictures of the English Channel don't mention the boats that come in with dangerous, black market items. That's what I was here for. Ever since I've seen the hidden slime underneath the London sparkle, I'd wanted to help.

Of course, I didn't dive right in when I got there, in fact, I used all my skill and speed to avoid cameras and people so I could make it to my hideout without any tag-alongs or suspicions.

I managed to zip to the shifty, abandoned, building that I had claimed as my London hideout relatively quickly and entered through a broken window. I heard the heartbeat of a hobo that lived here coming from the floors above, but I didn't feel threatened. The man had made his nest upstairs and hadn't come anywhere near the boiler room as of yet. He didn't know I was sharing the building with him so he didn't have reason to anyway, so it all worked out.

I made my way deep into the building, towards an ominous, filthy basement that had been untouched by squatters. There was a supply closet in the boiler room that was large enough to fit me laying down, once I'd moved the stuff out of there anyway. That was my base of operations.

I squeezed into the closet once I reached it and shut the door before turning on the camping lamp that I'd placed in there. After that I hurriedly ate my way through five cans of tuna, several packs of crackers, a jar of peanut butter, three cans of fruit, and two jars of pickles before I felt settled enough to sleep.

My dreams weren't nice though. They almost never are.

I woke up after the sunset, past eleven. Some would think it strange for me to sleep so long during the day, but I tended to treat the afternoon hours as nighttime hours so I could sleep before patrol. I mainly used my space in the church for a quick, after patrol, nap and the promise of breakfast and lunch. The church also helped me set up a daytime identity, a place where I could be seen without worry of recognition. It was a practically a vacation compared to here. Here there were slums, and mobs, and shady harbors, unofficially dedicated to underhanded deals. There are a couple almost-vigilantes here that help, but none of them have the flair of a superhero. That was up to me. I'd been patrolling here for a month and a half and I like to think I've helped. There's been a lot of trial and error though and I've had to dodge the Justice League (The real, professional, superheroes) whenever they came here on a mission. Thankfully, that's only happened twice—at least to my knowledge.

I left my little closet and stretched for a bit before grabbed my backpack. I was ready to go.

I ran through the city, stopping only to grab four hamburgers from a late night chain, and made it to one of my watch points. I looked up the side of the building as I swallowed the last burger and hesitated.

I didn't have a grappling hook to climb up buildings the way Batman did, and I couldn't fly like Superman, but I could run up the sides of buildings. Of course, it took a bit of trial and error: my first time I accidentally put my foot through a window and about killed myself in the subsequent fall. After that some lady found me, freaked out, and chucked me I her car so she could drop me off at the nearest clinic. This led to me having to wait for them to treat me so I could move around enough destroy all the blood samples they took from me and make my escape, which is why I was hesitating now. I knew that I could run up the side of the building, it wasn't all that tall, but when I remembered all the pain I had to go through on my first attempts I always paused.

Don't chicken out, what would Flash do?

I sighed at the old form of self-goading and decided to dive in.

I doubled back several blocks before I sprinted forward, charging up the side of the building. The moment I went sideways was always the worst because I felt like I was just going to keep tipping backwards (which had happened before) but I kept moving my feet and I reached the top just fine.

"In your face, gravity," I muttered in satisfaction before settling down to listen.

It took me a minute to settle in and another to really attune my ears to the sounds around me. I have a variable radius when it comes to my super hearing. In the country I can hear for miles in the quiet, but the city was different, especially a city as large as London. I had decided to scope out the slums tonight, as I did most nights. It never ceased to amaze me how different this area of town was from the bustling city shown on postcards and television. All the houses were tiny, one floor, and shakily built. They were crowded together too, which tended to cause a lot of problems, so I came here and perched on the top of one of the few solid buildings in the area, waiting.

I didn't for listen for words—those were too hard to distinguish on a large scale—but for tones. I heard soft voices and sad cries, angry yells and loud laughter. I didn't hear the undertone I was looking for, but with enough patience I probably would. I dug around the backpack I'd brought and pulled out a paper and pencil and started writing. As I mentioned before my attention span is poor, and I needed something to do with my hands as I waited for the action to start. I didn't do anything too involved, I just sat and made lists of trivial things I'd memorized. US capitals, the periodic table of elements, my times tables, and anything else I could think of.

I had regressed to doodling when I heard a scream with the underlying tone I'd been listening for. You see, to my ears, when a person is feeling real, true, fear, there was a change in their voice. It was subtle but it was there, a hidden note of that signaled danger.

The scream was angry, a woman's, and was coming from half a mile away. I immediately stood up, threw my things in my backpack, and took off towards the noise.

I ran down the building and through the slums, towards the commotion.

It was a stereotypical scene, a car was parked near a shady alleyway and a drunken moron was trying to pull a young woman into his car.

"C'mon, sweetheart, I got cash. I'll treat you real nice!"

"I'm not a prostitute! Let me go!" said the woman, kicking at the man's legs.

The woman didn't know how to kick in a way that would cause any damage though and the guy just laughed at her attempt at fighting, continuing to pull her to his car.

I grabbed a taser from my backpack and swooped into the scene. I materialized in front of the thug and nailed him. He yelled and collapsed onto the sidewalk. The woman stared at him for a moment, then at me. She stumbled back, in disbelief, then turned around and ran away.

I shrugged and turned to the man that was groaning on the sidewalk. I rolled him onto his side in case he puked or something and as I did I noticed a square bulge and in back pocket. I grabbed reached into the pocket and snared the wallet concealed inside. I opened it up with a raised eyebrow and saw a bunch of British pounds. A quick calculation told me there was the equivalent of a few hundred US dollars in the wallet.

Huh, guess he really was trying to buy a prostitute.

I took two thirds of the money in the wallet before slipping it back into the man's pocket. I left after that. I didn't call the police. I did on occasion, but a quick listen to my surroundings before I ran off told me that the neighbors had that covered. I was glad, because I didn't want to leave too many traces, and reports of an American kid calling the police at a bunch of different crime scenes was likely to draw attention.

When I was a respectable distance away I counted the money I'd borrowed from the man.

Five pounds short of two hundred. Not bad, that should cover me for a little bit until the next black market bust.

I know what you're thinking. Superheros shouldn't steal, right? Well it's not like I steal from everyone, just people that are trying to hurt other people and can spare the money. I didn't take from poor crooks because I didn't want to make them desperate enough to hurt people for money, but guys like the one tonight, that have more than enough and are using it for things like prostitutes? I didn't mind taking from them. I mean, heroes have to eat, and it's basically instant karma…right?

I pretended not to notice the guilty, dirty, feeling that got worse and worse every time I used this logic, and put the money away. Heroes need to eat, after all, and I'd need some new running shoes soon, too.

Not long after the first emergency of the night I got lucky when some creep tried to kidnap me. He had fifty-two pounds in his pocket, but more importantly the cops had been trying to track him down for a while. This time it was appropriate to call the police as a kid. I used my best London accent (which sounded a lot more realistic when the sound effects of fake-sobs covered up the exaggerated annunciation) and told the police that some creep had tried to kidnap me. The police came not long after and hauled off the unconscious man as I watched from a rooftop. I smirked, before running off to refuel again.

I was trying to think of the best place to buy food from when I heard sirens.

I stared at the sidewalk, listening hard.

Let's see, one fire truck, not two, wait, three!

Oh no, I groaned inside my head.

With dread in my heart I ran towards the scene, hoping it was something minor and was mostly wrapped up. It's not that I didn't want to help, I just…was really bad with fires. I mean really bad. The first time that I tried to help with a fire, I'd run inside the building too fast and my body needed more air than my smoky surroundings could provide. I passed out and some civilian carried me out. The next thing I knew I woke up with an oxygen mask on my face. I escaped a trip to the hospital by physically fighting my way out of the medics' care and running off. I still feel bad about that, because I shoved this really nice guy into a mud puddle when I was trying to get him to back off.

The second time I tried to help with a fire things went even more horribly. I had found an unconscious woman and hadn't been strong enough to get her out. I'd dragged her part way when I realized that I'd need to carry her over debris. I'd frozen up, afraid to leave her side but unable to get her out. I'd been reduced to screaming for help until a fireman came and dragged us both out of there.

The third time was probably my most successful attempt, but it wasn't without its casualties. I'd been evacuating some children that had gotten trapped in a childrens' home fire. I was carrying out the last kid, who was probably like, five when the stairs collapsed in front of me and I was forced to jump out a window. Normally I'd have run down the side of the building after that but I was forced to simply drop to the ground because of all the flames coming out of the windows below me. As a result I'd had to convert the momentum from our fall into a shield-like aura. It shouldn't have been a problem, as I did it naturally when I was running to protect myself from the high velocity and any potential impact, but I'd never tried to use it to cover anyone else but me before.

I had tried my hardest, I really had, but we landed at the wrong angle and next thing I knew the boy was holding his broken ankle and screaming. He was fine otherwise but his ankle…

I swallowed at the memory.

This was my fourth attempt at helping with a fire, and to be honest, I was terrified.

I found myself on the scene a moment later, looking at a flaming apartment building.

Great.

I listened for people and I heard at least three inside the building. The firemen were only just arriving and the fire was bad.

I glanced up, and saw a man holding his baby out the window, screaming for the firemen to hurry up with the ladder. The kid was unconscious, suspended four stories above the ground by the terrified father. I swore and sprinted as fast as I could. Flames were coming out of the side of the building, but I couldn't afford to hesitate the way I did earlier. I ran up the side, wincing as part of the wall caved under my foot. I managed to step away in time but I nearly lost momentum completely when I swerved sideways to avoid a flame. I barely made it up and when I did it was all I could do to snatch the kid from the father's arms.

I dropped down after that, running down the side of the building, baby in arms. A burst of flames shot out in front of me when I had about a story to go and I had no choice but to launch myself through the air. My biggest fear as I controlled my descent was that I was going to hurt the kid when I landed. I curled around the baby as tightly as I could… and then, suddenly, gravity vanished.

My eyes grew wide as a pair of arms wrapped around me and lowered me to the ground. There was a moment when no one moved and when I looked up my knees nearly gave out.

Superman. The Superman, was floating in front of me.

"Wait here," he instructed me before flying off to save the people in the building.

The crowd paused, then as if they'd planned it, began to scream and chant Superman's name in an adoring chorus, which shocked me out of my freeze-up. I ran the kid over to the medics and they took over. Then I ran as far away from the scene as humanly possible, not stopping to drop my stuff back at my hideout. I had to get out of London.

I ran through England until I reached the ocean and I sprinted across. I ran and ran until my body started to lag. I paused after reaching the shores of the Netherlands and pulled some food out of my backpack. I ate all that was in there as I looked out at the water. My heart was still pounding as if the man of steel had physically chased me out of London and I sat down to catch my breath.

What is he doing here? Why did he tell me to stay there? Does he know? Well he must, the entire crowd saw me run up that building. Yet again they wouldn't have known it was me if Superman hadn't grabbed me. To them I would have just been a black blur.

I grimaced, unhappy with the idea of being seen in real-time by so many people.

And their cameras too, probably. Crap!

I bit my lip.

No biggie, just lie low for a couple of days. It'll be fine.

I took a breath to keep calm.

It'll work out, it will.

I rubbed at my face and paused when I felt a smear.

Ash, I realized, from the building.

Idipped my hands into the cold ocean water. It was icy, but refreshing. I scrubbed my face as clean as I could and by the time I was done I felt calmer. I stood up and turned towards the direction of the church. It was time to swap out lives, to hang up the goggles and tackle my Super-Wally problems later, the next time I was in London. I had Daan problems now. I needed to visit Mr. Doete in the hospital and make sure he was—alive. I frowned. I'd been trying to keep Mr. Doete off my mind all night, but I suppose I couldn't hide from it forever. Still, if he wasn't going to get better—

One step at a time. I told myself.

I sighed and began to run again. I was still hungry, but I had some food left in my room. It would be fine.

I slipped onto the church ground and frowned when I saw a light on in the kitchen. I listened but I didn't hear anything except for the sounds of pages turning, and the sound was coming from the nuns' quarters, not the kitchen.

I snuck into the room and shut the lights off, thinking one of the sisters had forgotten, and went upstairs to my attic space.

When I got there I set my backpack down on the floor and headed straight for one of my food hiding places, only to find they were empty. I tensed and searched through all the places I might have hidden my snacks.

There was nothing.

I swore in my head, one of the nuns must have found my stash, and did some calculations.

In this town the only stores open this late were gas stations, and they had a really crappy selection of food, barely worth the energy of running there, never mind running back. I checked again for my food but it wasn't there.

I was trying to figure out what to so when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I honed in my hearing and listened.

"Sister Noor, surely this can wait until morning!"

"I heard him come in, I know he's up here and he will answer for what I found."

I realized that Sister Mila and Sister Noor were coming up.

"I think you're overreacting, it was just a few snacks!"

"He had can of pepper spray hidden in his room! I want an explanation!"

The two entered my view and Sister Noor's eyes narrowed.

"We've come to talk to you, Daan," said Sister Mila tiredly. Clearly she'd been kept up far later than usual as a result of sister Noor's complaints. "Sister Sophia stopped in to see if you were back from your job at around eleven, but you weren't. You usually get off at ten so we were really concerned."

I winced. I'd had a running charade I'd pull once a week, where I'd come back to the church about just after the majority of the nuns went to bed. There would always be at least one person up though so I'd say goodnight to them and pretend to go to upstairs to sleep so they wouldn't suspect that I was gone all night.

I had occasionally worried that one of the sisters might come check on me but it'd never happened before now.

Then again it's not every day you watch someone have a heart attack. I thought dryly.

I was about to respond when sister Noor wrinkled her nose.

"You smell like an ashtray, child, where have you been?" she demanded.

I hesitated and she stepped forward, only to trip on the backpack I'd left on the floor.

"Ah! What's in here? More food that you've hoarded?

I went pale as she opened the bag. Her brow furrowed and she reached in and pulled out my taser.

"What is this?!" she shrieked.

She glared at it.

"This is a weapon! What on Earth have you been…"

She paused, set down the taser on a broken table, and reached into a bag. To my dismay she pulled out the wad of cash I'd earned—well, stolen—over the past few days.

She glared at the money.

"What have you been up to?" she hissed and even Sister Mila looked shocked.

"Nothing, I just—" I tried to explain but I didn't know how.

"These weapons, and this money…what have you been doing? Have you been robbing people?"

Sister Mila snorted.

"Daan would not do that, and that's English money. He probably has had that since before he got here," said Sister Mila, remaining calm.

"Then why the taser, why the pepper spray?"

"He's a young boy, traveling alone, why wouldn't he have those things?" asked Sister Mila.

"He's—" sister Noor started.

"Let us ask him," Sister Mila said shortly before turning to me.

"Daan," she said softly. "Why to you have that?" she asked, pointing to the taser.

"Safe," I mumbled in Dutch. My hands were sweating and I was nervous.

"It keeps you safe?" asked Sister Mila kindly.

I nodded.

"Where did you get the money?" she asked next.

"Work," I muttered, blushing.

"And what do you do for work Daan?" demanded Sister Noor.

"Sister, please."

"No, Sister Mila, too many things about this child just don't add up. He will explain where he goes at night."

Sister Mila turned to me and repeated the question. I stood there, completely lost on how to explain my situation without giving too much away in English, which made doing the same task in Dutch seem ridiculous.

"He doesn't understand," said Sister Mila as I continued to stare.

"Then make him, I need to know if he's stealing or not.

I gulped.

Sister Mila turned to me and said: "Did you steal the money, Daan?"

I wanted to say no, really, but as I looked into the face of Sister Mila I couldn't find the words to. She'd been nothing but kind to me this whole time and when she looked me in the eyes and asked for the truth I had an epiphany. I could lie now, and feel like a scumbag about it, or I could trust in honesty. I gulped and looked at Sister Mila.

"Took money—from bad men. Not good men."

Sister Mila took a deep breath.

"What do you mean, Daan? What did those men make you do for that money?" asked Sister Mila, looking horrified.

I backtracked.

"No, no, they didn't I just took—"

"So you did steal it!" said Sister Noor, looking enraged. "I knew it!" and then she started ranting in Dutch, but the words were too quick for me to process in normal speed. As she was talking I shook my head, trying to tell her she was wrong.

"You did understand the question, didn't you, Daan?" Sister Mila whispered.

Tears filled my eyes and she knew that I had.

She sighed.

We both looked up and saw Sister Noor heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" asked sister Mila.

"To call the police, Daan has been far too coddled by you and the others. He needs someone to straighten him out."

"Sister Mila, please, we did not hear his side of the story!"

"A thief is a thief! He cannot live here anymore, I will make sure of it!" she called before she slipped away.

I heard her march away and I felt panic and sadness fill me.

"Why, Daan?" asked Sister Mila sounding so disappointed that my heart broke.

"I—they were bad men, so I took it."

"It is still wrong," said Sister Mila.

I looked at my shoes.

"Will they really make me leave?" I asked, frantically.

"They will take you to jail, possibly," said Sister Mila, looking concerned.

I blanched and started glancing around the room, desperate to run.

Sister Mila watched me and wavered for a moment before putting a hand on my shoulder.

She took a deep breath.

"I may be wrong, but I think there is more to your situation than you can tell us."

I nodded, again.

"I want to say, but can't," I said, trying to make her understand.

Sister Mila looked up to the ceiling, then to me.

"Come with me," she said quietly as put my stuff back into my bag and handed it to me.

I looked at her in disbelief and she looked at me sadly. I didn't ask questions, I only followed her. Sister Mila skillfully lead me out of the building and onto the grass outside.

We both stood there for a moment and I watched Sister Mila, who was looking at the stars.

"I know you're not a bad boy, Daan. You may have made a mistake and you must leave because of it but I have not lost faith in you, dear child. You are the one who saved Mr. Doete. You are a good person, may you find a path that allows that side of you to grow." She swallowed.

"You deserve a chance to make up for your mistakes, whatever they may be. So go free, and do right by yourself and by the lord. No more bad things, no more stealing."

Her eyes watered and she looked at me.

"I have faith in you and I will pray for you, bless you, child," she told me, her eyes watering.

"You too," I whispered.

Sister Mila squeezed my shoulder again but paused when we heard a noise from inside.

"Go now," she whispered.

I turned and ran away at normal speed. Soon I was far enough away that I could kick into super speed. I sprinted towards the only place I could think to go, trying to escape the sick feeling in my heart.