Oh

I'm sorry.

You must have not understood.

When I said there was going to be,

Pain.

*cue maniacal laughter*

There was something that had adhered to him like glue, something that wasn't a cloud of apathy or the ominous following of his inevitable death. A feeling, all feelings.

Someone, he can't remember who now, told him once that emotions were only chemicals churning through your veins like fire. That the pain, heartbreak and happiness they always yearned to achieve were all just parts that didn't matter. Traveling people who came to town to visit, never to stay. He had wondered for a while why the man was so lifeless, and then as he took the words to heart, he understood.

He had finally understood why his eyes seemed so dull as he found that nothing in the world was special and that anything that mattered would be long gone when he left off the face of the planet. That the amount of time you have isn't up to anyone but yourself and the moments that seemed so special, were only memories of the past that can't be repeated. Like a fossil, etched in stone, what what once there but was now a decayed empty reminder.

He hadn't understood why the man had thought this way, why he contained such malice and spite for the world. But now he knew, knew what it felt like to have that apathy and when the anger runs out all that remains is the cold, empty shell.

It took him a while, through the wars and the suffering, to find out that the man was so empty because he didn't care. He lived his life through the pain and found nothing that he had ever cared for. Not a child, no love for the merciless race of people who had destroyed him, that was for sure. And somehow, someway. As he kept on living and people kept dying, that he slowing transformed into that man. A nameless man driven by apathy and alcohol, who couldn't care less.

He regretted that it took this long to clear his head and realize he never wanted to become that, loathed coming near the description of a man he pitied. He just wished that it didn't have to take the instinctual feeling of being a cursed hero that death seemed to chase in his wake, but never quite catch up to.

He could also do without the hospital bed, that would have been better.

He had woken up two days ago strapped to a bed surrounded by white walls and sterile floors. He had never liked hospitals, which sucked because he was the last person in the world to be carful in life. They had asked questions, questions he didn't want to answer. 'Who are you?', 'Do you have any family members to call?' Or wanting to know his blood type. They also didn't think he was going to make it, there was 'extreme trauma to the prefrontal cortex and several broken bones' to put it bluntly. Also healing burns over 65% of his skin, he didn't want to answer those questions either.

They said people were hailing him a hero, saving that little girl from the fire, then almost dying in the effort of saving more, but he didn't feel like one. All he felt like was a dumbass that should have never left through the front door. Now he laying in a hospital bed contemplating his life choices, which he found wasn't any better than being eaten alive by a the sentient couch cushions drowning himself in something that may succeed in killing him.

He had become weak, a mess, disappointment. At least, to those in who really mattered. Even as he sat glaring at people from his hospital bed, he felt like an immature child that was trying to prove he wasn't a child by being a scornful teenager. It didn't matter the staff was unnerved by his very presence though, he was surrounded by white walls, confused and pissed.

He didn't know whether he wanted to wallow in his couch or get off his ass and do something, whether he should forget about the man on the building or hunt his ass down till he paid for what he did, hurting so many people. He knew that he could, if he wanted to, find out who or what he was and contend to kill him. He was never really the detective, no that was...her, but he had gotten better at functioning without that aspect of his life. If he wanted to, he could do anything he wanted, but then again, that would require some of the many connections he had cut himself off from years ago, after she...after she died.

He didn't think it was worth it to be honest, to face them after all these years and writhe in their hatred and spite, it would be too antagonizing and it wasn't something he was proud of, but it wasn't something he was willing to change for some petty revenge.

Except, it wasn't. He wouldn't stoop that low as to do it revenge, he would do it for the little girl that looked so much like Annabeth, the little girl that was in intensive care with half of her body shrouded in burns. He didn't care about himself, he had none of what people would call pride, and he didn't know if he even could be another selfless hero again, but he had heard the girl crying in the middle of the night, trying to suffer through the pain of the burns and of loosing her parents.

He didn't know if he could take on the sword that he knew was waiting for him in his pocket, the one that he hadn't used in so long, but he knew the temptation he felt to slice through any type of monster he could find.

All he knew at this point was that there was a man out there ready to hurt innocent people for whatever point and he was there able to make him stop. Who was he to take that closure away from anyone?

He didn't want to become the man, the man who didn't care, the man who lived his life in dullness because no one had ever cared for him. He didn't want to be the man with missed chances sitting on a couch drowning himself in alcohol. And surprisingly, for the first time in a long time, he was bothered by the fact the he was on a path to become the man to live 6ft under.

So, he decided, to start with little victories.

The nurse walked in bringing him lunch, awfully quiet. He hadn't talked since he got in here, only small nods or inaudible growls under his breath. A glare or two that had people averting their eyes, making the message clear that he would rather be left alone. She didn't look at him, not the bedside table that she set the pour hospital food on before scurrying out, trying avoid his particular unpleasantness.

Before she left, he grabbed her wrist. He didn't mean to frighten her, but she flinched away from him, visibly agitated. He tried to give he an inviting posture as he mumbled out an apology.

"Do you need something?" She asked him, strained. He really hoped that he didn't scare them that much, he was probably the equivalent to a raging psychopath to the medical field.

"I-I'm sorry, I just," he pursed his lips, stuttering out his responses was not an adequate conversation. He didn't even know what the hell he wanted to ask, but he knew that he wanted to ask it. Finally he settled on getting information. "Where are we? I was never told what hospital this is."

"Lower Manhattan Hospital, you were airlifted here after the incident near Hell's Kitchen, it was aired all over the news." She seemed less annoyed, more condescending. He didn't care, news meant people, people meant his reign over his disappearance had vanished and people would eventually start looking.

"Thanks..." He muttered, releasing her hand and letting his eyes drop to the white sheets.

She walked out.

Thus begun his escape, which included climbing out the window and scaling the building in a hospital gown, fun. He had made a half assed attempt at walking through the city by wrapping the thin white sheet around his ass. When he made it back to his apartment, he collapsed on the couch.

Anything that mattered could wait for him to sleep while there were decent drugs in him.

With that, he was out.

His mind was already made up anyway, he had hands itching to punch something for a long time.