Mr. Grey’s soulless eyes stared through the lifeless superhero. He quickly turned around, dusted off his nondescript suit and walked briskly out of the alley. Mr. Grey was nondescript in most aspects. He had short, brown hair, unstyled but clean, he was of average height, average build and did not wear flamboyant clothing. His eyes were blue, his skin was pale and he walked at an average pace, however Mr. Grey had one extraordinary ability. This was not a superpower, mind you, simply a talent. That talent was being able to kill anybody, no matter what. Mr. Grey was not a soldier, he was not even a police officer. For as long as he could remember, he had no trouble battling burglars, stopping stabbings and clubbing criminals. Mr. Grey was also not a hero. He grew up and lived in a nameless, corrupt city and had dealt with petty crime his whole life. From having his pocket money stolen, to his bike stolen, to being mugged. This changed whenever a would-be mugger withdrew a switchblade. Mr. Grey couldn’t explain it, he simply acted. The mugger widely swung his arm towards Mr. Grey’s bland, expressionless face. Mr. Grey simply took a step to his right and forcibly punched the mugger in his temple. The mugger crumbled like a sack of potatoes, and Mr. Grey froze. He quickly threw himself down to the lifeless body of his assailant and checked for signs of life. No pulse, no breath, and blood leaking from the temple. Mr. Grey processed the events quickly and came to a conclusion. He stood up, brushed the city’s dirt off his knees, and walked away from the scene. Nobody would be missing this person, he assumed. He, however, was wrong. Mr. Muscle stumbled across the scene of the crime. Mr. Muscle, 6 foot and 4 inches, as strong as anybody could possibly hope to be, and then some, gifted with the ability to read minds and flight. He was the cities superhero, and no crime went unpunished whenever Mr. Muscle was involved. Mr. Muscle swiftly flew down to the corpse and surveyed the scene. A switchblade lay near the body, but he could see no other signs of a struggle. He took to the skies and scanned the crowds of people for signs of fright. He spotted two figures sprinting and took off in hot pursuit, whizzing through the air faster than a bullet. He flew high to avoid attention and scanned the minds of his suspects. They were not his victim’s killers though, but rather two children having a footrace. It was moments like this Mr. Muscle felt exacerbated and wished more than anything he was blessed with the sight of an eagle. But Mr. Muscle couldn’t stop here. He had never lost a perpetrator, ever, in his stewardship of the city. He frantically flew down alleys and side streets, scanning for any sign of violence. This yielded no results. Of course, he saved a child from a burning building, as is the clique, and of course he stopped a bank robbery in progress, but the inability for Mr. Muscle to catch this killer ate away at him for the duration of the evening.
He flew dejected back to his humble home. An apartment on the second floor or a nondescript block in a relatively mediocre neighbourhood. Checking twice for surveillance, he touched down gently on the fire escape outside his window and opened up. He dropped into the room, and lay on the floor. How had this happened? He had never lost a criminal! He lay on the floor in thought for over an hour. Wavering in and out of sleep, he saw something. A fist. A punch. Mr. Muscle quickly sprang up. He tried to focus. What was this? He could see the fist, the punch yet again. He looked out of his window and scanned the street below. Didn’t seem to be coming from there. He stared steely-eyed and tried to focus his mind. Nothing. Then what was it? He turned from the window and walked gingerly across his hall. A fist, a punch. Mr. Muscle’s heart-rate began to rise as he dared to believe. He opened the door quick as a flash and peered out. There was nobody there. A fist, a punch, a body. He could see his victim, and he knew he was close. He stepped into the hall and bundled over to the door opposite. The door was unassuming, but he pressed his body to it. A fist, a punch, a body again. Mr. Muscle took a step back and sent a foot through the door with such force it came off the hinges. He entered the apartment and saw a man sitting on the sofa. Mr. Muscle scanned his mind and he knew this was the one.
Mr. Grey looked up at his uninvited guest and assessed the situation. He had heard much about Mr. Muscle, but was not one for celebrities. He stood up and backed away slightly from the superhuman battering ram.
“You murdered a man earlier on this evening. I need you to come with me.” Mr. Muscle boomed. Other residents had heard the door being destroyed, the loud booming of the superhero’s voice and had entered the hall, opened their doors, anything to see the hero in action. This was not a regular occurrence.
Mr. Grey looked the superhero up and down. Mr. Grey had grown up with crime and had his own view of morality. Those who attempt to kill should expect to be killed in self defence. He sighed, not knowing what path this would take. “I killed a man in self defence.” he stated, very matter-of-factly. Mr. Muscle took a step forward, and Mr. Grey gave the slightest of flinches. He raised a hand to focus his mind reading abilities in order to ascertain if the plain man was telling him the truth. He closed his eyes. They never opened again.
Mr. Grey stood, hand unwavering, with his pistol raised. The superhero fell forward, the blood rushing out of the bullet-hole between his eyes. Mr. Grey was not one to be bullied by criminals, he was also not one to let a superhero get the jump on him. The crack of the pistol sent a shudder throughout the spectators, who expected to hear the sounds of another victorious collar for Mr. Muscle. Instead, they saw a man briskly walk out of the room, walk down the hall and step inside the elevator. Some made the journey to the source of the action and saw the scene. Their hero, lying lifeless on the floor. Mr. Grey could hear the screams as he walked out the door of the building. He walked calmly and cooly down the street, gun still in his hand inside a beige jacket pocket. Sirens were becoming louder and louder, he could see the police cars flying down the road in the reflection of the car windows he journeyed past.
Mr. Grey’s coffee, black, no sugar, remained in the mug. He had walked to a 24 hour diner to ponder his next move. He had killed the cities hero, he could hardly stay here. But where would he go? He had no savings. He furrowed his brow and stared into the black abyss, watching the bubbles pop as he thought. A slight red twinge came in and out of focus. He whipped his head to observe the source and saw a fleet of police crawl up the street, sirens off. Mr. Grey sighed. He knew he shouldn’t have worn that flashy beige jacket. He thought for a moment and made a decision. He drank the coffee in one, set his pistol on the table and raised his hands as he slowly trudged outside. The officers ran towards him like men possessed and threw him on the ground. Mr. Grey did not mind this, he had expected it.
Mr. Grey sat in his cell. Police officers had come in and out, but Mr. Grey had only said one world. ‘Lawyer.’ He was not a stupid man and knew when he should keep silent. The cell door opened again and Mr. Grey glanced up. This was not a man in a police uniform. Finally his lawyer had arrived. Mr. Grey felt it was better to let his lawyer open proceedings. “Mr. Grey?” the man enquired. He had a monotonous voice and spoke clearly, Mr. Grey assumed he would be a competent lawyer. Mr. Grey nodded.
“I am Mr. Black.” he paused and closed the door. Mr. Black walked into the middle of the room and looked at this unassuming man further. “I am from the government. Specifically, the superhuman department.” This was not what Mr. Grey was expecting and he looked up at Mr. Black. His suit looked expensive, his briefcase was chained to his arm and he wore a strange insignia on his lapels. For only the fourth time in his life, Mr. Grey was intrigued.
“We work with and study the superhuman that operate outside the law. This is by necessity. As you well know, superhuman’s are, for lack of a better word, invincible.” Mr. Black droned. Mr. Grey nodded. “I know.”
“Being the first to kill a superhuman is huge for our department. Superhuman’s may be a help to us, but what if they turned? We do not have a plan in place and we, as humans, are at the mercy of every superhuman on this earth.” Mr. Black took a seat opposite his imprisoned companion. “Mr. Grey, we want to offer you the job of making sure we are not at the mercy of every superhuman on earth.”
Mr. Grey often thought back to that night. Twelve years had passed. Superhuman’s always posed a threat to humanity, and he posed a threat to them. Nobody else possessed the skill he did. He walked down the street and lit up a pre-rolled cigarette. 24 superhuman’s so far had met their end by the average-sized hands of Mr. Grey, and Mr. Black knew many more would follow.
I would like to add this is my first attempt to please, any criticism at all would be fantastic.