This is my response to SFSD-X challenge number four. It uses five of the provided quotes. I have made them bold in the text below. Word Count: 4,000-ish

The Hero

Bay Reeves walked as though he had a purpose, but not a good purpose: head down, rapid steps, hands shoved in his natty jacket's pockets. With a tummy full of soup kitchen fare; and a clean, though not so fresh pair of unmentionable's from Goodwill, life was okay. At the sound of the elderly woman's yell from up ahead, Bay stopped walking and snapped his head up. The permanent scowl on his face revealed nothing of what was going on inside him as he looked at Joey trying to relieve the elderly lady of her purse.

She has moxie, Bay thought to himself. She was holding on to the purse and stabbing at Joey's groin with her cane while yelling. Joey had enough civility left in him, a rudimentary civility that hadn't been beaten out of him by life, that he didn't throw the old woman to the ground. Bay started moving when the two college kids ran up and latched onto Joey. One threw his arms around him from behind, while the other started punching Joey in the face and chest. Joey let go of the purse in surprise, the equally surprised old lady fell on her keister, still yelling for the police.

With Joey detached from the purse and being held by the one from behind, there was no need for the one in front to keep punching Joey, but he did. Bay expected nothing else from the well-dressed men. Montreal's rift between the rich and the poor, the homed and the homeless, the haves and the have more's, had been growing steadily for months. It had been growing since the PQ came to power in May. Bay stopped walking. His eyes focussed on Joey and the two college guys. Bay's breath deepened, it slowed; his mouth opened wide so his body could heat exchange with massive amounts of air moving in and out of his lungs. His brain tickled, deep in the Fusiform gyrus. His mind reached out, in the way that deepened the itch, making it feel like a frenetic colony of ants trying to dig their way out of his skull. The college kid punching Joey screamed and fell to the ground. Bay shifted his gaze, and half a second later the college kid behind Joey screamed and fell to the ground.

Joey took a step away from the writhing men, the bloody stumps of their lower legs splashing in the bubbling fat and liquidized leather of their shoes. The screams were piercing, more like the squeal of a terrified child. Joey's face scrunched up in revulsion, he twisted his head from side to side, looking around him. He saw Bay and stopped, staring at him for only a moment.

Bay saw Joey nod. His "friend", for want of a better term, took two steps to the old woman, grabbed her purse without any resistance her, and then ran like hell. Bay turned around as people began running over to the two men in agony. Everyone that approached them recoiled in horror when they saw the puddles of the liquefied shoes, feet, and ankles.

Bay turned to run, but The Rat was standing behind him, staring at him.

"You did that," she said to him.

Bay said nothing. She had been desperate and homeless until Bay had taken her in. Just like so many of the growing number of people living on his city's streets ... my city, as Bay thought of it. He had never shared this part of himself with her. He was surprised that she didn't look scared.

She lowered her voice and took a step closer, smiling, "I know it's not the first time. I've seen that before, and I saw you where I saw that. I know that you did that."

"What you want? A cookie? Get the hell out of my face." Bay pushed passed The Rat, casting his gaze back on the ground, the army of ants no longer trying to dig their way out of his head.

The Rat followed him, glancing behind her every so often to see if anyone was following them. She didn't say anything. She followed Bay along Rue de Boisbriand, then down Rue Sanguinet. She stopped behind Bay has he ducked under the overhang of the Coop Uqam. She watched Bay fish a cigarette out of a bent cardboard package. He stuck it in his mouth and flicked a Bic, touching the tip of the flame to the tip of the tobacco stick.

"Can you teach me?" she finally asked.

Bay exhaled a lungful of smoke and looked sideways at her. His left hand absentmindedly brushed his long, wavy brown hair behind his ear. He smirked within his scowl, "What, to smoke?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, sweetheart, I don't. So why don't you fuck off and leave me alone? I'll see you at home later."

"Bay, come on. With what you can do -- if I could do that -- no one would ever fuck with me again."

Bay was about to respond when a figure darted around the corner, looking the way he had come to make sure he wasn't being followed. Joey looked forward at Bay, then at The Rat. Joey pulled his hand out of this pocket, clutching sixty dollars. "Here, man, thanks for your help. That's half of it," Joey was earnest in his thanks.

Bay took the money, paused a moment to do the math, then handed a twenty back to his other flop-mate. "You know I only take a third," Bay handed a twenty back to Joey.

"My ass was gonna be grass man, you more than earned it."

Bay's scowl deepened. He hadn't altered the futures of those two men for kicks, or for cash. He'd done it to help out someone that no one else in this city would help. "Take the damn bill, Joey," Bay growled as he shoved the bill in Joey's shirt pocket.

"Yeah, okay, whatever. Thanks again, Bay. Thanks, man," Joey took off again, north towards the student ghetto, yelling over his shoulder, "Later!"

As Bay pocketed the two remaining twenty dollar bills, he glanced at The Rat again, "someone been bugging you kid?"

She inhaled to answer, but Joey came running by again, his feet pounding the sidewalk and his arms pumping wildly. He yelled at them as he whizzed past, "C'est les flics! Tirons-nous!"

Bay and The Rat both bolted, the flashing red and blue lights finally reaching them. At the corner of Rue Sainte-Catherine, the three of them went in three directions. Survival instinct on the French streets meant every man for himself, or woman, or girl, as the case may be. When you fled in a pack from the coppers, you were herding the cats for them. If everyone took off in different directions, either the coppers had to split up, or they had to focus on one person. It was a hell of a lot easier for one person to avoid two coppers than six coppers.

Bay had turned East, Joey had turned west, and The Rat had gone straight, south towards the old city. Bay glanced over his shoulder and saw the four police cars blow straight through the intersection, all of them going after the little girl. Bay stopped running. She was fast, she was light on her feet, he knew the odds were in her favour. Bay leaned forward to catch his breath, hands on his knees, when he heard the tires screeching from the police cars coming to a halt. He had only made it half a block from the intersection. He looked back the way he came when he heard her first scream. Bay didn't hesitate. He bolted back towards Rue Sanguinet, crossing to the south sidewalk, dodging a car coming towards him. He saw Joey up ahead. Joey had stopped and turned as well, he was slowly making his way back, increasing his pace when he saw Bay moving towards the corner.

Bay stopped at the corner and looked south, seeing the four Police cars a block away, blocking the whole street. He could see The Rat, Michelle was her real name, sprawled on the ground with the cops getting out of their cars to surround her. There was the tangle of a bike and a body with The Rat. It looked like she'd run full-tilt into someone that had been cradling their bike at the far end of the parkette. One of the cops was standing over her. He lashed out with his foot, viciously kicking her in the ribs. Michelle screamed as loud and hard as she had before. Bay started running towards her.

His brain started itching.

The army of ants started their efforts to tunnel out of his brain.

His breath deepened, slowed; his mouth was wide open.

Bay stopped about fifty feet behind the cops who were now circling the girl on the ground. "Hey! Maudit cochon!" Bay yelled at them. The eight men looked up at Bay; two of them started walking towards him. They were both carrying nightsticks, gripping them tightly, raising them as they started sprinting towards Bay. Both of them stopped and screamed, clutching at the stumps at the end of their nightstick-wielding hands. The batons clattered to the ground; melting fat and blood slagged to the ground; the small puddles of gore were boiling and steaming. Both uniformed men went into histrionics of terror and pain. The other six moved towards them, but then stopped when they saw what was causing the screams.

One of the cops drew his weapon; he pointed it right at Bay, "What did you do? How did you do this?" The man looked scared, glancing at his two friends and at Bay again.

Bay turned and started walking away.

"STOP! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

Bay stopped and turned, the cop with the gun was advancing. Bay opened his mouth wide again. His scowl deepened and darkened. His breath was slower than before, deeper than before.

"Hey, man! You don't wanna do that!" Joey yelled from across the street. The cops didn't know Joey was yelling at Bay, not them. Another cop drew his weapon and pointed it at Joey. Joey put his hands in the air, turned around and hurried away from the scene. That cop turned his gun on Bay as well.

The first cop had stopped about thirty feet from Bay, he looked back at his two compatriots with the melted stumps where their hands holding the nightsticks had been. The men stopped the high pitched squealing and now were cradling their arms, moaning, their faces ashen. Two of their group were helping them back to their scout car, trying to stop the spurting blood from the stumps of their arms. Bay's hyper-aware senses knew that the other four cops were all pointing their guns at him. They were startled and looked around wildly, momentarily, as The Rat ran right through the middle of them. The twelve-year-old girl ran to Bay, stopping beside him, taking his hand.

She looked up at Bay's face, looked at his eyes. Then she turned to the cops and smiled, "You should go now."

The one in front snickered, "Not happening."

Michelle looked at Bay's hand, she let go of it quickly and started to step back. His hand had started thrumming like a cheap vibrating bed in a whorehouse.

Michelle stopped moving as she heard Bay's voice in her head: Come closer.

Michelle looked up at him for a moment, then at the cops, then back at Bay. Finally, she stepped in front of him, pressing her back against him.

"Did you do that?" the cop asked, tossing his head over his shoulder, towards the car with the injured men.

Bay said nothing.

"It's a neat trick; how the fuck did you do it?"

Another cop stepped closer and nudged him, "The fuck you doing man? We gotta take this piece of shit down."

The first cop nodded, then looked at Michelle, "Okay kid, you need to get outta the way while we deal with your friend there."

She just shook her head.

"Last warning kid, if you don't get outta ..." he was interrupted by two more cops running up to them, both with their weapons drawn.

"They're dead, Simon and Pierre are both dead."

The cop that had been talking smiled at Bay, "I don't know who you are or what kind of back-birth you are boy; but you're gonna suffer for what you've done. And I plan on being a very big part of that."

All six Walther P99's opened up, all six cops emptied their clips at Bay and Michelle.

As the echo died down, and as screaming onlookers from the Bistro ran for cover: Michelle smiled back at them; Bay scowled at them. Neither Bay nor Michelle moved, neither one flinched. Dozens of small splashes of melted lead dotted the ground in a rough arc about three feet in front of the pair. The cops all swapped clips in their guns, but they were looking at the little bubbling bits of lead on the ground, they were looking at Bay who hadn't moved.

"You should leave now," Michelle said again, giving them the finger.

"No, not till he's dead or he comes with us."

"Not happening," she mimicked the cops earlier words to her, accentuating the syllables with a saucy swing of her hips and shoulders, her hands firmly planted on her waist.

The cop took another step towards them, then Bay spoke, "Tell me ..." he paused, his eyes drilling right in on the cop that had moved, "Do you bleed?" Bay smiled as the cop hesitated, a look of fear quickly passing across his face, and then disappearing. Bay chugged a laugh, "You will."

Bay opened his mouth wide. Michelle thought she heard him growl, deep in his chest. The other five cops reacted in horror as their brother-in-arms entire body slumped to the ground: melted fat and blood trickling from the steaming pile of his uniform. They stared at the hair, slowly being carried by the currents of the boiling, liquefied flesh, the hair the only part of the man that hadn't instantly melted like a human China Syndrome. All five turned and started shooting, with the same results as before.

Michelle turned to look around Bay, she heard more sirens. She looked up at him, reaching up and caressing his face. She could still hear the guns firing, the cops now reloading a second time and working through their third clip. She said to Bay, "You have to end this, now. More are coming."

"Okay," he said.

The five cops yelped but didn't scream. Michelle turned back to see them shaking their hands and looking at the ground. Their guns lay there, the barrels half melted, the steel was steaming and pooled around each of the weapons.

Bay picked up Michelle, threw her over his shoulder, and ran like hell: back to Rue Sainte-Catherine, then East. He ran for several minutes, Michelle watching for pursuit but seeing none. The cops had just watched them leave, not a single one of them stupid enough to follow.

A few minutes later, Bay tossed Michelle over the thigh-high fence around the patio of Amir's, the Halal Shawarma joint that looked like a 50's diner. The patio was set in a small courtyard, Bay used the wall as cover. He hopped the fence and then turned to peer around the corner of the building, looking back the way they had come. He saw a grey sedan moving slowly towards them, it looked like a cop car, but it had only one man in it.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck ..."

"What?" Michelle peered around him, not recognizing the car, "What's wrong? I don't see them."

The car slowed, the driver looking right at Bay. The car came to a stop in the middle of the street. The driver got out of the car. He was wearing a business suit, and he looked a lot like Bay: like an older Bay.

The man approached slowly, one hand resting on the butt of his gun, still in its holster.

Bay half turned his head to Michelle, "Run! Run now!" He looked back at this father.

"I can't" she squealed, fear in her voice.

Bay looked down at her, she was using her hand to tug at her calves, her feet weren't moving. She looked up at Bay, tears falling from the rims of her eyes, "BAY! I CAN'T MOVE! HELP ME!"

Bay tried to turn to her, but his feet wouldn't move either. He grabbed the fence to steady himself, he looked down at his feet and then back up at Detective Reeves, the cop with the best arrest record in the city. "Let her go, dad. She's innocent. She didn't do anything."

"No."

"Let her go."

People were gathering around: some from Place Gamelin, some who were walking nearby, Amir and his son had their faces pressed up against the glass of their fast-food shop.

"When I heard the call for help on the radio, what had happened, I knew it was you. Didn't take much to find you."

"They started it, Dad. They attacked her for no reason," he turned to Michelle, "Show him."

With tears streaming down her face, snuffling back snot, she lifted her shirt. All those around could see the horrific bruising where the cop's boots had kicked her in the ribs, twice.

"I don't care about that little freak," Detective Reeves snarled. "You killed cops, you're going down, my son or not."

Twenty-five years of bad parenting had its toll, now it was just too much. Bay didn't want this ability to melt ... anything. But he had it. He didn't know where it came from, just like his father didn't know where his ability came from to make people's feet and legs unable to move. But it was their families curse; just like his sister's ability to freeze organic matter, and his mother's ability to see five seconds into the past.

His father had been placed in charge of the politician's latest campaign to rid Montreal's streets of the homeless, of the marginalized, of the have-not's. He had taken to his job with gusto. His men arrested anyone that looked like they "didn't belong" in the new city order of what was acceptable. His men didn't just arrest people, they made damn sure the ones being arrested knew that business was meant, and that justice was swift, and that it came with the intense discouragement of pain.

Bay was the one hope of those on the streets, at least those downtown and up in the student ghetto. He stopped the arrests, he helped those who needed to take what they needed. He was the criminals hero, the was the underworld's superman, he was the dark night for those pursued by the law. His choices had been driven by his hatred for the man that had raised him, the man with the heavy hand, the man who struck first and didn't bother to ask questions later, the man who loved the bottle more than his family, the man who loved the job more than his family.

"Grow up, Bay. You know that this can only end one way. So it's either time for you to become a man, or it's time for us to end this, once and for all."

"Go to hell, old man."

Bay lowered his head and glared at his father, he felt the tickle, he felt the ants start to ...

Before he had the moments necessary to reach out and touch his father, quick as lightening, his father drew his gun and shot Michelle. Her lifeless body fell to the ground, crashing into a table on the way down.

People ran.

"NOOOO!" Bay's feet couldn't move. He spun around and knelt down, looking into Michelle's surprised face, and lifeless eyes.

"Bay," his father spoke quietly, "Get up and come with me. This is your last chance, child ... or are you afraid you're not going to grow into your big boy pants?"

It was too much. The twelve-year-old girl had been part of Bay's life since he found her huddled in the rain outside the bus station. He'd taken her to his flop; he fed her, clothed her, kept her warm in the winter, and made her laugh when the night terrors woke her up. She was the little sister that his own sister couldn't be to him. He had even considered going respectable and adopting her as his daughter. As he looked at her, he thought about all the nights that he had cradled her in his arms, as she cried herself to sleep, making promises in his head about how he would protect her with his life. And now she was dead: dead at the hand of his own father. It was too much.

Bay looked up at the sky and screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed. Then he saw something. Way up in the sky. His brain felt the tickle. The feeling of an army of ants tunneling out of his skull was stronger than ever before. He skin grew warm, his hands vibrated. He reached out with his mind. He reached out, way out, farther than he ever reached before.

The running people were now screaming and running. Everyone except Bay's father. His father shot him in the back of the head. Well, he tried to shoot him in the back of the head. The bullets slagged to the ground in boiling puddles of lead.

Detective Reeves looked up in the sky where Bay was looking. He saw what used to be Air Canada flight 237 from Halifax to Dorval.

"Huh," the man said incredulously. He holstered his weapon and turned to go back to his car, but he couldn't move. He looked down at his feet. They wouldn't move. "Chalice," he swore loudly.

The Detective didn't know that Bay was the epicentre of this family's special gifts. He didn't know that his son possessed all the powers that the rest of his family possessed individually. In truth, Bay didn't know it either, not until that moment. He didn't want his father to miss the main event.

Detective Reeves looked up at his son again, "Bay, I have to admit, you got me. You got me good." The man looked up at the molten mass that use to be an airliner, coming straight down towards them. He knew there was nothing he could do. He felt an unrealistic calmness settle over him. Bay's father sighed deeply. "I admire your work, son. Guess you won't be extending me any professional courtesy."

The five tons of molten metal and flesh hit the ground with a very large splash.