Angelos.

I can't fly.

That's a terrible realization to make when you're running for your life and your best bet is hanging in the air so the super-fast little villain can't catch you. The ropes on my wings slid down to the tips' curves, twisted up in the feathers and pulling the limbs down like weights. I surge up for a lift off, all the muscles in my wings tensed for flight, and only succeed in giving myself a starting stumble.

The girl chases me down with such speed that in her orange sweater, she looks like a flash of fire. New brands of pain ratchet through my bruised muscles with every step. I grit my teeth to hold back screams. "Spit, spit, spit!" 

And thanks to my lousy father, the only metaphor I can come up with for the whole experience is wolf hunting. The room is hot and cooks my skin, splotching my face with sweat. Sawdust burns my eyes and cakes my eyelashes. Every breath leaves me gasping, my lungs heaving and streaking pain through my throat when I open my mouth to breathe. Every muscle in my body pounds as I pass the cages. 

I'm dizzy. My knees feel like boiled spaghetti. I didn't expect to my father again so soon. I didn't expect him to crack metaphors at me or have one of his supers run me down and try to chain me up. The frustration is almost tangible, a sort of heat that fries me behind my eyes. I want to whip around and shout, "What did I ever do to deserve this?"

But I don't. Cages blur as they pass by. Animals, fluffy ones that resemble raccoons for the most part, chitter and screech, scratching at the cage with their tiny paws. My eyes are bleary, heavy with tears I'm too tired to shed. 

I feel so detached, so little of me invested at all in the fight. It isn't my fight. And it isn't my fault, either. It's like I'm seeing the world through the lens of a movie camera. At least, I've tried my hardest to minimize my fault for this mess. She pounces. The chain tangles around my ankles.  "Freaking—spit!" And I, being such a downer today, think: This is it. This is where it all leads to. All the fighting, all the kicking and screaming and suffering, it all ends here,  in a dark cage-room for experiments.

I decide it's awfully fitting, somehow. And then I decide to quit being melodramatic.

The chains twist and pull my legs together. I hit the ground in a tumble, collapsing flat on my back, arms splayed out. I look up, dizzy. The wall at my side drips with splattered ooze. A light hums above my head, and in my spinning frame of mind I just make out the very edges of a few tacked up photographs, black and white from a time before me and this fight. A  pretty pony-tailed woman who looks eerily similar to Jaylin smirks from the top of the board, her eyes glowing. I feel like she's laughing at me. My arms wobble when I lift my chest and I groan, my body as flimsy as if it were carved out of butter. The girl chuckles over me, an elbow on my hip to pin me down. I hardly even noticed her, to be honest. 

"Hey, hey!" I cry. Squirming, I lift my hands in front of my face to protect it. A reflexive move. "Be careful! Poison kicked me there, like, twenty-seven times. It hurts!"

The girl looks up. Her amber eyes glow a near gold in the low light, and when she smiles she looks like a villain. A kind of cute one, actually. Taller than Jaylin and Heaven, a little rounder in the face. I almost chide myself for noticing her cuteness, but it's not like Jaylin and I are a thing. The girl picks up her elbow and I let out a shaky sigh.

"Sorry, Katris—"

"Angelos." I fix her with a wink. "Angelos M Fibbs." She snaps open one of the cuffs, the two halves glinting like a 'W' under the low light. I recoil, my shoulders pulsing with fresh pain as I roll back on the blood-stained floor. "Please don't." 

Sweat leaves trails on my skin under the low bars of fluorescent lights. My eyes droop. I'm exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally fried. I miss Gats. He'd probably flirt his way out. Smirking and charming, oozing a charisma I can only dream of. And Heaven? I miss her, too. She doesn't get tired. She'd fight on. My splintered fingers tremble, curling weakly. They don't even make it into fists. They just fall limp at my side, exhausted as me.

"Well, I'm so sorry, Angelos." The girl's voice drips with the most cynicism I've ever heard on a voice so honey-sweet. She rolls her eyes. She has a low, southern drawl. "But orders are orders, you see."

I watch her undo the tangles in the chain, the open cuff dangling over one hand. Lying flat, the lights arching into halos over my good eye, I can't help but squeeze my eye shut. My wild breathing smoothens into something lighter. Softer. Puffs of air tremble on my lips.

I've never been a strong person. I put survival over pride, something Gats would never let me live down. I remember it clearly. In eighth grade I did all of Connor Connolly's honors homework for months because he and his friends terrified me. Gats fixed that when popped the kid the nastiest right hook right I'd ever seen. He got one month of after school detention and a week of ISD for it, but he did it. And I know he isn't like that anymore, he and Heaven. Everything we've done and felt and seen has broken each of us in some way.

Gatsby cries a lot when he thinks we don't know. I heard him when he thought I was asleep, back when I was floating on Jaylin's drug. Heaven's weak, jaded, and acts a hundred years older than a sixteen-year-old should. But we're all just kids, and I remember who we were. I miss who we were. I force my fingers to slip into fists and I try to channel my friends' energy into me. I may be alone, but I'm not giving up. Not until I'm back with Gats, Hev, and Jaylin and we're all playing Monopoly and I bankrupt those suckers like the suave businessman I am.

The girl yanks the chains free and grabs my ankle. I bank my foot connects with the soft of her body. She hisses, knocked back, taking the chains with her. "Okay, Angelos. Lucifer. You want to play rough?"

I roll on my side and scramble to my feet. I force a purr like Gats, though it doesn't sound suave like when he does it, it sounds like I'm choking. "I'd love to play rough." I drop to a crouch and ball my fists in front of my face. A forced smirk etches across my face. I don't know if I'm bluffing or if I'm flirting or if I'm actually ready to fight.

My mind feels like scrambled eggs, like that PSA about your brain looking like something in a skillet when you put it on drugs. After my aura purged my system of all that anger and aggression and villain-esque-ness hanging around, I honestly just want to cuddle. I'm a lover, not a fighter, though lately I've been doing a lot more of the latter.  I cock my head and smile. I even pretend I'm one of the cool kids in the teen sitcoms Gats used to copy and make myself pretend I'm hip by crossing my arms. "Though given the choice I'd rather go home. My dad seems like kind of a jerk."

The girl sinks low on her knees, the chains clacking against each other. I step back and she pounces. I whip around. Her hand catches a fistful of my shirt, and with her strength the clump tears right out. I yelp. Her nails leave scratches down my skin, long and throbbing. The cages lurch in and out of my vision, the spinning silver bars housing all those gleaming bared teeth. 

The girl swings the chains and almost catches me again. I stumble forward.  The basement, I suppose, extends underneath the mall's entirety, enough to hold zags and zags of cages, lined in rows like ant colonies. I feel like Hansel in the forest, Theseus in the labyrinth, or even a rat in a maze, except I don't have string or breadcrumbs or a shocking sense of smell. I have nothing. And I'm alone. Minus the people out to get me.

Someone whistles, low and cheery. My lungs burn like each breath fills them with gasoline. I grip the bars of a cage and gasp. Blood trickles from my side. Everything hurts, hurts, hurts and I shake my head. A guy can only take so much, I guess. They've already broken me—that isn't a question. It's how much have they broken me. How much more of this punishment can they layer on until my lungs give out and my heart explodes? Probably a lot. I sigh. I'm a tough guy, sort of. I'll make it.

A chihuahua yips at me from inside the cage, giant ears perked and foam dripping from its jaws. All I can think of is a demon sewn up in a dog's skin. I close my sleepy eyes and cough. "What's your problem? Did someone fuse your DNA with a teenager's? Are there a bunch of dog-boys down here I don't know about?"

Something cold snaps around my neck. My eyes flutter open and I kick out. The light flickers over my head and I turn to run, but the strain on my neck yanks me back. A little cry leaves my throat and I stumble as I choke. "Take it easy," the girl says behind me. She grabs my hand, manicured nails tapping out a rhythm on my veins. I rip away. The pressure falls sharper on my throat. "Easy."

I grab at the smooth metal around my neck. Every part of me just wants to throw up my hands and say, "Okay, well, I tried. Whatever, if my dad wants me so bad, he can keep me around. I'll just eat his food anyway." I'm so tired. And weak. So lost. So lonely. I draw in a long breath and stare at the abyss spreading on and on before my eyes. I force a laugh and make my voice low and smooth. 

"We can negotiate on this, I'm sure." I shift my weight on one leg to pop the girl a kick in the shin, but she catches my drift before I can counter. She kicks my Achilles Tendon and I'm down for the count, screaming and all. I hit the floor on the broad of my back, the chain coming down with me. It jerks up and almost decapitates me. My jaw makes a 'pop' sound and my system overloads. Panic, the type I haven't felt since the first time I met my 'parents', floods my body. Spit! Spit! Spit! It's over! I'm dead, dead, dead!

My lungs squeeze tight. Tears stream from my eyes. I quiver and shake, my chest filling with so much pressure I think the bones guarding my heart will shatter. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. The girl crosses in front of me and sits on my chest. I sputter to breathe. Everything spins. Everything hurts. She leans forward and her pretty orange hair tickles my nose. All I can think about is forcing my lungs to work right as she lays my wrists on my chest and snaps the cuffs around them. I try to calm myself by thinking of my friends, but that almost makes it worse now. Captured Gats. Bloody Heaven. Scheming Jaylin. Everything is wrong. And I'm supposed to make it right. I have to.

"Fallout! Will you please come here and get your son? I think I sent him into a panic attack." My ankles come together. My shoulders ache from my arms being pinned so close. As my mobility lessens, the pressure heightens. I tell myself to calm down. Heroes don't get scared. And when they do, they don't give up.

And I can't give up. I can't get captured. I'm my friends' last hope.

"Here."

The girl yelps. I only see his feet, molding out of the darkness. I hear him chuckle.

"Blasted shadows," she curses. My heart jolts through my chest despite my fatigue. My dad. The one who stood by and let Gats and Heaven get hurt. The one who left me. The one who thinks of me as an animal he can keep for my powers. With my remaining strength, I pitch myself on my side so my back faces him. I blink away my tears and grind my teeth. I'm done and I don't want to see him.

"Hey," he says, softening his voice from when he gave me the horse monolog. He touches me on the wing and a jolt rings through my body. He isn't wearing gloves, not like the others, and his powers are strong. Whatever they are, they buzz through my veins like bees through a honeycomb. I snap my wings against my back in an attempt to push the man away. He stays. I feel his shadow drape over my body, the sweat dribbling down my face sticky on my skin. The villain taps me again. "Hey, Luci—"

"That's not my name." I whip my neck in his direction and my wrists jerk up, yanked by the chain at my throat. I squirm against all the metal. It's a little overkill, all of this chain, I mean, but I guess my dad doesn't want to let his prize stallion go. He heaves a sigh, wisps of hair coming loose and bobbing by his ears, and I stifle the urge to spit at him. Instead, I look away. The lights, I decide, are awfully pretty. I stare into them until little black spots dot my vision. 

"Fine, Angelos." My father laughs softly at my name and I force myself to keep my hands from clenching. This wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't even supposed to meet my father. And now he's talking to me as I lie in chains on the floor under a black market. Life sure likes to pelt a guy with enough curveballs to make even Babe Ruth's head spin. "Look, I know you hate me, and frankly, I would too. But you have to hear me out."

I glare at my wrists. "No, I don't. I just want to go home and I just want you to leave me and my friends alone." I try to stand up when I speak the last line, but I just end up floundering on my back. Fallout casually sets his elbow on my wing. It's agonizing, and he must now because he won't look me in the face.

"You don't have a home," he says simply, smoothing the wrinkles in his jacket with his free hand. "You're a weapon. And I know that sounds like a strange thing to say, but I need you. Your mother—"

"I don't care!" My shakes start up again, fingers nearly spasming as they clench. I gave up on keeping them from turning into fists. The chains rattle, my skin prickling with goosebumps. " I'm not a weapon! I'm a kid! Do I look like a machine gun to you?" I pant when I speak, and a smirk spreads on the man's hawkish face. I almost recoil.

"No, but you look like a villain." Fallout pats me on the head and I can't help a small growl. The room's reek somehow smells worse with him nearby, and as he runs his fingers through my hair I feel my face get a little green. "I'm going to take you to your new home and we're going to figure out the extent of your powers, okay? And then we'll find a way to use you against those Syndicate folks. Perhaps you can take away your mother's powers, and when she's vulnerable we can—"

"Where's Poison?" I ask, lifting my hands to rub my bleary eyes. My head's spinning in a million different directions. My mother. She tried to kill me. I don't want to see her, and I know I can't fight her. She's just too strong.

"Did he hurt you?" he says it more as a statement than a question, eyeing the bruises on my arms. I nod, quick and curt, just to keep myself from muttering a sarcastic, Nooooo, I fell off my bike forty-thousand times. I don't keep myself from huffing, though. "Then he won't see the light of day for a very long time."

And he says it so simply, yet something about the coolness of the words makes me shiver. Poison is terrified of this guy. I almost feel bad for my half-brother, the key word being 'almost.' It's hard to feel for someone who beat you while you couldn't fight back. "How are you feeling?"

I blink at him, then down at my wrists, cuffed together and hanging low on my chest. "Been better. I guess the chains and kidnapped friends really dampen the mood." I'm too tired to do any more yelling at him. Everything still hurts.

He nods and takes me by the elbow. "You'll see your friends again, though I can't help the restraints. You are skittish, you know." He makes a motion to the girl and she slips off into the dark. "I'm sorry this had to happen to you," he says when she's gone, but I don't buy it.

"If you were really sorry you'd let me go." I know I'm trying him, but what else am I supposed to do? Talking to people feels like putting together puzzles these days, trying to piece together all the right words.  But I don't have the right words and I certainly don't know what I want my father to feel. I'm just tired.

His jaw twitches. His gray bangs cover his eyes, but I see the way his fingers curl and I hear the way he growls. I struck something. Goodie.

"I'm your father," he snaps. "Villain or not I'd do anything to spare you from an ounce or pain. You have to understand that, Angelos." How funny. He squeezes my arm and yanks me to my feet. I fall back, off balance from the cuffs looped around my ankles, and he hefts me over his shoulder in a firefighter carry. I can't help squirming. Everything he says sounds like bullcrap to my ears.

"You sure don't seem to feel that way about Poison—"

"You talk too much." I glare back at the cage room and swallow hard. I feel like a traitor for leaving Kepler behind, even if it wasn't my choice. "Look, all I'm saying is that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and you and I are the few. We go through pain so others don't."

"Oh." I snort. My body quivers and my laugh is slick and fake. "How heroic. Is that why you have people pay insurance so you don't destroy their livelihoods? And I guess the bank robberies and thefts and political sabotage is all about saving the many, too." My chains clang against him, my body half-slung over his shoulder. This is the only way I can fight. With sarcasm. And I really, really suck at that, though it's only an afterthought. My father's delusional.

"Mayor Curtis will keep the supers in Starlight safe. Down in Helio City, they're drained of their powers. Down in Old Newport they're monitored and often 'disappear.' I and Snare does what's best for our people."

My jaw drops. "You put Mayor Curtis in power?"

Light trickles through the door. He kicks it open. "What else were we supposed to do, Angelos? Let Mclaren win? You were only eight or nine when the first election happened, so maybe you can't remember, but that woman wanted to make Starlight City Old Newport. If she were in power, your friend Galaxy would either have a chip in her arm or her powers drained, probably both."

I sputter. I was never one for politics, especially not about supers. But I didn't know people went that far. "Th-that's not constitutional."

"Depends on what you consider constitutional. Depends on what you consider supers to be, son." I shudder. I hate it when he calls me 'son.' "Human?"

"What else can we be?"

He shrugs, and there's so much strength and suddenness in the movement it almost sends me flying. "Natural disasters. Freaks of nature. Maybe even weapons."

I don't know what to say to that. There's something inherently wrong with what he did, even if it meant saving innocent supers. I squirm and struggle when I hear voices from above. "Crap, crap, crap!" the girl cries. I lift my head and watch her stylish brown boots pound down the stairs. "Fallout! Stay here!"

She stumbles the last step, and I gasp. Her face drips with blood, her sweater torn and punched with rows of even slashes. The voices come louder. I hear a man scream. The drug guy tumbles down the stairs, face white with terror as he cusses on and on. He steadies himself and brushes gray patches off his shirt, muttering disgustedly to himself.

"What is it?" asks my father.

"Syndicate!" The girl pants, wiping smears of blood off her face. Her eyes, set apart and awfully pretty, are so wide they scare me. "Mobs of them, acting under Owl's orders."

"Owl's orders?"

"Not to let you or your sons leave until she arrives."

Then my father, the big and bad leader of a criminal organization, faints.