Ascendant

[FinnLasair]

Ye can nae live in fear.

He's sitting on the roof of the Inn, barechested and barefoot. The frigid wind blowing powdery, icy fragmented leftovers from the previous days snows to swirl around him in the air, bouncing against his skin.

He doesn't notice. Cold, heat - it's never been something that affected him, at least as far back as he can remember. He sits there, looking up at the sky, the clouds moving effortlessly where the wind blows them. Sharp blue eyes - sober, sharp and clear for the first time in months, perhaps years - spot the silhouette of a dragon riding the air currents overhead, far and away to the south, mere moments before it tucks its wings and dives for the earth, presumably on the hunt.

He remembers when he had walked the sky with just that kind of ease...that kind of freedom.

He still can - no matter how long it's been, some things you never truly lose - but there is a part of him that is...afraid.

Not of the skies - gods, no, never. He's always loved that the best - soaring through the skies, slow to drift with the wind, or else so fast he was little more than a streak, a blur that was there and gone before you even had the chance to blink.

No...he loves the sky.

But to take up that power again...what would it mean?

He had left the sky behind. The other gifts...those things could never be abandoned, only managed as best they can be. Things had improved over the years, until the destruction of things around him when he got drunk had been brought under control.

He has never lived as a man. Not truly. He has known love, and loss, and pleasure, and pain. More of all than any man has the right to have, or bear.

It's been ten years since he walked away from the world and hid himself away, deaf to their cries. Too many had died because he could not get there in time, each failure taking its toll, one after another after another.

It all came crashing down the day that it had hit closest to his heart.

He had said he would never take to the sky again. That he would live, not as the god so many had thought him to be, but as much like a man as he could manage.

That was then. Another life, another world.

He has been in this world for four days. Has met interesting people. Kind people, some of whom it seems are not too dissimilar to himself. Even a girl or two that didn't freak out when he broke a table just by leaning on it a little too hard or left a palm print in solid stone when he forgot and slapped it a bit too roughly.

He chuckles softly to himself, remembering the night previous and Quinn's expression when he had pulled a stone that had been set solidly amongst its fellows free with little more effort than she might've used to snap a twig.

In his previous life, in that other world, another girl might have decided it was time to go. Quickly.

The smile fades as he looks upwards again, towards the sky, with it's fluffy white clouds skimming along, showing hints of blue sky and sunlight from time to time.

To take the sky again...he knows what it could mean.

It could mean little more than the freedom of not being bound to earth.

Or it could mean more.

To take up that mantle again. To embrace the power, rather than deny it or curb it.

To save, as he had been meant to do. Been made to do.

And, possibly...to fail. Again.

To see those he can't get to in time to save, perish.

There is a part of him - buried deep, under the pain still so fresh even after a decade - that wants it. Needs it.

He can feel it down there. A heat, an itch, like a glowing ember waiting for the barest breath of wind to fan it into a blaze.

But over that, crushing it, is the pain. The fear.

With a sigh, he stands, making his way over to the dragon hatch and pulling it open.

Taking a long, last look at the sky, he drops into the warmth of the Inn below.

I am nae ready.

[FinnLasair]

Seattle, Washington: 12 years ago

"Can...you show me...?"

"Wha' i's like, ye mean?"

They're on the rooftop of a high-rise. Not the highest in the city, to be sure, but high enough. The city lights glitter around and below them, the sounds of the night floating up from the streets below.

Her name is Alicia, and she is twenty-five. By far, younger than he is. But then, everyone on this spinning ball of rock, air and water is. As far as he knows, there are none like him.

Once, there had been many. Titans that walked the earth, inspiring legends everlasting. One by one, they had faded, departing for parts unknown to him, nor of his concern.

He had his duty.

But as the last decades had worn by, he had begun to feel the strain of being alone. As this world got bigger, as more and more the failures began to take their toll, he began to wonder if perhaps his time, too, had passed.

And then he met her.

This girl, a barest fraction of his age - her life had been but the slightest batting of an eyelash thus far in comparison to his.

And because of that - that, and so much more - she made him feel young again, as he had not in so very long.

She smiles that crooked smile, the one that threatens to melt a heart held within a body impervious to heat. "Yeah...I mean...you get to see things I can only dream about..."

He chuckles, laying his fingers against her lips. "Do ye trus' me, Alicia?"

"You know I do."

"Then close yer eyes, lass."

She smiles at that and her eyes shut without hesitation. Her arms automatically encircle his neck as his wrap around her waist to pull her close. She is so small, so very fragile, and he is especially conscious, in this moment, of the care he must take with her.

It's a few moments later, her eyes still closed, that she giggles. "Are we going to strand here all night, Finnegan?"

It's his turn to laugh softly as he leans down, arms of titanium tightening ever so gently to pull her up against him, and she gasps as she realizes her feet are no longer touching the deck. Her eyes fly open and she looks around, her arms tightening instinctively around his neck as he chuckles.

There is a moment of shock, one that he feels in every muscle of her body under his hands, and then suddenly she's laughing, the silver-bell peal of a child's delight.

He sees it through her eyes, young and full of wonder, for the first time in eons - they are almost two miles over the city, above the clouds that almost perpetually blanket the city beneath. Overhead, a full moon shines down, bathing fluffy, windblown blankets of cotton below in pure, heavenly silver-white light.

She looks around them, up at the moon and stars in their profusion, to the soft contours of cloud below, her eyes wide, her mouth open and smiling. "It's so...beautiful..."

He smiles, nodding, aware of her rapid heartbeat, her deep breathing as she turns up to him. For an instant he swears he can see each and every star reflected in her deep brown eyes. "Aye...tha' i' is, darlin'."

[FinnLasair]

It's funny, but Quinn seemed to have forgotten about his mentioning that he could fly. Or perhaps it was the image of him with his clothes vaporized that had her attention. Honestly, he's not entirely certain what would happen if he were to be at ground zero for such an event, having never had the opportunity or desire to put it to the test.

He had once been forced to dive into an erupting Hawaiian volcano one night to reroute the flow of magma in order to save a number of nearby towns, and when he had emerged he had been white-hot and completely nude. The first thing he had done was fly for the ocean and dive into the water, and upon emerging onto the beach he had been greeted by the lights and cameras of the media. Dazzled as he was by the brightness, it was a moment before he remembered that he was in nothing more than his birthday suit, and he rocketed off into the night sky.

The story gets a number of giggles from Quinn as he walks her to her place, and her cheeks are pink by the time they get there - whether from the cold of her imagining the story as he tells it, he can't tell, and it doesn't matter to him much either way.

She slows to a stop, gesturing. "So, this is where I get off..." and stops herself as he starts laughing. This time he knows it's not the cold brightening her cheeks, and she tries to give him a scathing look that quickly falls apart into giggles as she leans against him for a moment.

He holds her steady, an arm around her waist, just low enough to not be entirely for support, just high enough to escape being too intimate. "Aye...here ye are, safe an' sound, an' nae a single suicidal snowball t'be seen."

That gets another giggle and she gazes up at him with those vibrant green eyes, partially obscured by lashes. "You do know that I know that was you, right?"

He makes an attempt at an innocent look that he can't keep up any longer than she could her scowl, and he chuckles. "Oh, aye, o'course I know tha' ye know. So now tha' I know ye know and ye know I know ye know, we c'n drop all the pretenses?"

She shoves at him, a playful gesture every bit as effective as shoving a skyscraper. "Trying to give me a headache, eh?"

He laughs. "I do nae know wha' ye're talkin' 'bout."

"Uh huh, whatever." She sticks her tongue out at him and grins, starting for her door, pausing after a couple of steps. Turning back around, she looks at him, her eyes on his, her expression almost apprehensive...but he recognizes the underlying look in her eyes - childlike curiousity. "Hey...umm...I was wondering...if maybe...I could see you fly. I mean...as long as you don't shout 'up, up and away' or something like that when you do it."

That last part gets a laugh, and he shakes his head. "Nay, darlin', I'm nae 'xactly a sup'rhero from a comic book. But..." and with that roguish grin, he leans in close to touch his lips to her cheek. Surprisingly, she'll find them soft and warm against her skin, lingering ling enough to be suggestive and withdrawing before the point of being ungentlemanly. "...ye migh' wantae take a step back, darlin'."

It's really unnecessary that she does, as he takes at least five before he winks at her. "Good evenin' tae ye, Quinn."

As he pushes off, it's easy to see why he advised her to step back - it's as if a small explosion propels him upward, raising a cloud of dust and pieces of gravel that fall just short of her feet.

When it settles, he is gone, the evidence of his departure clearly carved into the earth - a pair of small craters, just about where his feet had been.

[FinnLasair]

He had tried to be gentle about it. But it's been ten and a half years, and now he feels the fragility of the earth beneath his feet.

That's a problem, despite what some might believe. Exercising that kind of control over his powers is somewhat akin to a normal person repressing their anger - over time, it builds, becoming more difficult to control, and when you finally let it out the results can be overly explosive.

Case in point - his 'flashy' departure just moments ago.

Ye do nae feel how easy i' is tae break, ye fool...ye ha'e tae feel how strong 'tis!

Something to remember for next time, a momentary fleeting thought as he tilts his head up, tucking his arms against his sides and pushing his shoulders down and back, his toes pointing as his legs stretch and come together. The effect makes him more streamlined, yes, but also makes some unknown muscle flex to propel him faster, and he shoots upwards, breaking the sound barrier easily as he shoots up into the night sky.

Amazin', wha' a pretty smile c'n give ye the courage tae do, isnae?

Yeah, that's what got him going. He'd be lying to say otherwise.

But what starts out with a smile from the lovely Quinn quickly changes to instinctive action and is followed by pure adrenaline thrill as he remembers a feeling not felt in ages - the wonder of first flight.

Only now, it is coupled with the knowledge that - like so many picking up an old talent after having set it aside for so many years - he knows already what to do. The motions come instinctively, his eyes wide open against a screaming wind that would rip tears from the slitted eyes of a diving falcon as he flexes and accelerates, up to a height where only angels and their like might be tempted to tread, before he spreads his arms and bends his legs, parting them.

The motion brings hims to a swift halt, and he is looking down at the town of Rhy'din far below.

The blue eyes behold a jewel below that is at once like - and at the same time unlike - many towns he had seen in his old world. Lit in varying patterns from varying sources, it is, in its own way, beautiful.

He doesn't mean to. But by habit, his eyes focus in on various parts of the city below, not only looking but listening for anything that might be an indication of trouble...

He closes his eyes and shakes himself, the moment passing. What had seemed an infinity in time had only been seconds, if so much. A girl's smile, her eyelashes and giggles as well as his own (admittedly rogueish) nature had got him up here, all right.

Aye, ye got me, ef et pleases ya...I like 'er. She's strong'r'nd she looks, f'certain...though I bet that gettin' 'er off the ground'd prove t'be rath'r diff'c'lt.

He'd had that feeling from the little joke she'd made that she'd been covering up something. Fear, maybe.

He's no empath, to be sure. He's just got a lot of experience to draw off of.

All this passes through his thoughts in another fraction of a second, and as it passes he allows gravity's seductive embrace to have her way with him again, beginning the fall for earth with a smile on his face.

As he passes through a puff of cloud, he turns his body from his backwards tumble, twisting until he is head-down to the lights that burst into sudden panic-inducing profusion before his eyes.

Instinctively he flexes again, tilting his head up as his body rockets forward. The lights before his field of vision momentarily turn to streaks that threaten to confuse his senses before time snaps to a crawl to accommodate his speed, enabling him to turn his body just in time to rocket between the masts of a pair of ships at the north end of the shipyard. Turning north and west, he heads for the Inn, and home...managing to land without taking the front porch out.

No, I may nae be ready...but p'r'aps there's a chance o' ye gettin' there again, mate.

[FinnLasair]

eleven years ago

In his entire life, he had been in countless fights, battles, conflicts and wars. And through all of those hard-fought battles, there has never been an opponent that could best him or knock him off his feet.

Until now.

Only this is no battle. There is nothing to be won, no violence involved at all.

He very nearly falls to the floor and is saved only by the overstuffed chair behind him as his mind registers what she's just said to him, his eyes wide with disbelief and confusion.

"Ye...ah...wait. I'm nae sure I heard ye c'rrectly, love. What did ye jus' say?"

The look on her face is one of apprehension and fear, but touched by hope and happiness, lit from underneath by a glow of life that he's seeing for the first time with new eyes.

Her hands twist together, the fingers interlacing almost painfully tight as she stares at him, not looking away for even an instant. Her voice is soft - so soft it's barely above a whisper as she speaks. "It's true, Finn. I checked twice and then went to the doctor."

The first question that comes - irrationally - to his lips is instinctive, and he's already opened his mouth before he manages to stop himself. She'd just said she was sure. The next question pops out on its own.

"H..how did this happ'n...?"

That actually gets a little giggle from her as she looks at him, a smile tugging at her lips. "Well, Finnegan, about three weeks ago you and I..."

He looks at her with a look like she'd just slapped him for a moment, then suddenly he's laughing, on his feet, scooping her up in his arms and whirling her around, and she's laughing with him.

Looking up into her eyes, he can't help it...he has to ask. "I...I'm going to be a father...?"

With a nibble at her lower lip, she nods, still smiling.

And suddenly there is nothing else anymore as their lips touch.

[FinnLasair]

He'd heard the commotion from the west end of town, where he had been pulling a large man out of a fire. It's fortunate that house fires don't get so hot that they can do more than singe his clothing, most of the time. Apartment buildings are worse by far. This poor fool had thought himself strong enough to run into the fire, and most days he might have been right, but for the rafter beam that had come crashing down on his head ten feet in.

He's been doing similar things. Just in and out, really, quick and simple things. It's enough to get whispers going that he hears every now and again as he walks the street, nothing specific - just a guy that seems to happen to show up at the right time for disaster to be averted.

He claims no credit for his actions. He never really did in that old life, so long ago. Yesteryear. Costumes had been in vogue back then, ranging from dark and frightening to colorful and flashy. He had even given into that for a short time.

No more for that, though. He's found that no one really needs a figure, most times. If they do, here, they have any number to choose from.

All he has to do is be there at the right time, the right place.

Like now. The beam is lifted and tossed aside easily, and he leans down and picks the man up like a sack of potatoes, despite his being nearly a third of the bigger man's size.

A quick look around, assessments of the burning walls around them based on so many years of past experience not quite wiped from his head by whiskey...

...ah, good. No bringing down the walls is necessary. Turning, the two of them become a darkened blur as he hurls them at the large picture window that leads out into the street...

...a moment later he's gone, his senses having already alerted him to another kind of trouble in another place in the city. The bigger man is left across the street, tended to by the medical personnel as firefighters are putting out the blaze, slightly singed and a headache but thankful to be alive.

He's aware it's only been moments since he heard the shots and the calls for help, despite his stretched-out sense of time. He just hopes he's not already too late.

He can still make out the voices, softer, as he closes in on the Inn and lands in the shadows of the back alley. A quick assessment of the situation before him in a glance as times slows to a mire.

A stranger, the muscular kid, holding a girl hostage with one arm and a big cannon of a gun on another girl confronting the pair. Icer, the dragon, he knows. Others he can hear/sense in the shadows and further down the alleyway, though they're not important...not yet.

A swift look in the trash reveals a bottle half-full of some alcohol that might or might not be whiskey. Or something. It doesn't matter much to him. It's no effort to act drunk - he's spent a lot of time in that state. And given his slightly charred state, the smoke still stinging slightly in his eyes, he sure looks the part of a stumbling messy drunk that just woke up in the alleyway.

Slightly exaggerating a drunken stumble and putting a bit of John Wayne's walk seen in so many of his favorite movies, he lurches out of the shadows, laying the Irish on thick. "Wha' th' hell d'ye thin' ye're all doin' ou' 'ere, inna stinkin' alley?" He waves an arm, stumbling up to the pair of male and female close together with a cheery grin. "Ge' i'side, where th' par'y is!"

The girl - well, more accurately, woman - facing the pair addresses the man just as he's finishing this little tirade. "I'm not big on sharing my girls, gorgeous. I thought you knew that by now. Peej and I have a lot of that, you know, girl talk to catch up on." It's the tone she speaks in that catches his attention - despite the light words, there's death in those words.

It's an effort not to laugh at the growl he gets from the young punk, and as he looks around he scans the scene again with eyes and senses.

The shadows closing in, others approaching. He's going to shoot or bolt...any second now.

Time speeds up again in his senses just as the girl being held hostage speaks up, addressing the other - her friend, obviously. "Charlie... the gun is definitely loaded. He shot Reap."

Whoever Reap is, clearly that situation has been settled - he doesn't see anyone shot here, though he can smell the blood, the powder still thick on the air. Keeping up the drunk act, he ignores the growl and keeps on going. "Reall'! C'mon, there's a real par'y happenin' in there!" And as he gets close enough, he aims a slap at the punk's shoulder.

It would have been enough to snap a collarbone and dislocate the shoulder at the same time, but something - his move, or the shadows behind him - spooks the kid, and he's moving, pushing his hostage away and bolting just in time for Finn to be swatting at air and a stray thread or two.

And damn if that kid isn't quick!

Even as he's dropping the drunken act, the kid is leaping at a wall, then up and over at another. Turning to track his movements, he takes aim and hurls the half-empty bottle at him, trying to lead just a little...but it only impacts the wall at the corner of the alley just behind where the punk vanishes into the night, shattering to dust.

"DAMNIT!" It's an effort not to turn and punch a wall - that would not be a good idea, not at all. Besides, he might've gotten away, but whatever was going on is over, for the moment.

Turning back to the pair, he looks them over at a glance before speaking. "I's ever'one all righ'? Would've got'n 'ere sooner, bu' i's been a busy night."

No one really answers him - the girls appear to be simply relived that - for the moment - no one is hurt. Whatever this was about, everyone looks okay, anyway. As the others share a 'thank god we're alive' moment, he takes a moment to look up and around the alleyway, just to be sure the threat is really, completely gone, catching a strange look from the girl that this drama seemed to be centered around. He smiles tightly, pretending not to notice. It's a look he sees quite a bit, kind of his own private joke.

It's a few minutes more before he's content the problem is done, and just catches the girl's murmured words to her friend about not being able to kill the guy. And all the reasons why.

He's glad now that he had been busy with a fire when this whole thing started - somehow, it seems like of the two the blaze was quite peaceful and soothing by comparison.

He means it as a joke, really - it's one of those things that just slips out of him from time to time when he forgets to filter. "Ye could always hire tha' work ou', ye know." Without waiting to see who that offended, he slips into the Inn and heads for his room.

Enough fun for the night. There's a couple bottles of whiskey up there with his name on them.

[FinnLasair]

Synchronicity Wave Traveling — a phrase used to describe an instinctual supernatural ability to be in the right place at exactly the right time.

Really?

Seriously, you'd think that - with the sheer number of hero-types he's come across just watching day-to-day in this city - criminals would know better than to try leaning on a shop owner for 'protection payments.'

Apparently not - he had just been walking by when three thugs big enough to make one wonder about steroid abuse had sauntered into a shop with several sleek weapons of varying types in the window.

Sure, they could have been just shopping.

And if not for that damned itching instinct that raises the hair on the back of his neck, he might have just kept on walking.

Settling into a lean against a nearby wall, he watches.

Whatever they're doing, it isn't shopping. Not one of them even looks at the gleaming swords and axes hanging on the wall and set in display cases. Instead they head for the counter with the old man behind it, looming around it.

That itch is there, in the back of his head, getting stronger. Their crowding the counter could, maybe, be men looking for something specific not found on open display - lots of shops in this town do under-the-table dealings for goods of a more questionable nature.

Still, he stays.

And his vigilance doesn't go unrewarded - as he watches one of the man raises something short, blunt and black - a billy club, it looks like - and shatters a display next to them with a resounding crash.

He has just enough time to see the shop owner cringe away before he's moving.

Opening the door and strolling in casual as you please, he just catches the tail end of one of the heavies rumbling at the owner, a gun in his hand. "...know, there's lots out there crazier than us. It'd be real unfortunate if someone were to break in..."

The chiming of the bell over the door cuts him off, and turning, he looks at the new arrival.

Short, lean stature, dressed like a bum, unshaven and unkempt-looking, he doesn't need to see the look of contempt from the thug to guess what he's thinking.

He jerks his head at one of his cronies, who starts in Finn's direction as the leader turns back to the owner, pushing his pistol up under the old man's chin. The big man approaching Finn addresses him in a growling, hoarse voice. "You got about three seconds to be walkin' out that door or you'll be flyin' through it."

Holding up his hands as the man comes his way, he takes a step back, his eyes wide in feigned fear. "Oi, mate, I jus' want tae do a li'l bi' o shoppin', if'n tha's allrigh'..."

The thug closes the distance, shaking his head and raising a big, meaty hand, reaching for the smaller Irishman. "Shop's closed, little man. Beat it." On the last word the hand lands on his shoulder and tries to turn him.

There isn't enough time for the thug to realize his mistake before he's flung at the door as casually and fast as if he were a tennis ball. With a tremendous CRASH! he's out on the street, lying unconscious on top of the door he took with him, hinges and all.

Which is more than enough to get the attention of the remaining two, who turn with comic looks of surprise on their faces that swiftly turns to violent rage. Still standing there, now with a lopsided sort of grin on his face, Finn just shakes his head, sighing. "Well? Are ye jus' goin' tae stan' there, or do ye feel froggy?"

The leader raises his gun, aiming at the Irishman and pulling the trigger four times, the reports thunderously deafening in the small enclosed shop. The old man drops out of sight behind the counter, yelling at the top of his lungs in fear, as three holes appear in Finn's coat.

Bloodless holes.

Among this noise and chaos comes four soft thumps as the bullets fall to the floor.

Both thugs look on, their eyes wide, as the smaller man leans over and picks up a deformed mass of metal, now only barely recognizable as a lethal projectile. Holding it up before his eyes, he makes a show of examining it before dropping it to the floor and looking up at the pair with an exasperated expression. "Ye know, I really liked this coat."

The leader, his arm lowering in his surprise, raises the pistol again.

Even as he is pulling the trigger, Finn is already moving towards him. One finger pushes against the end of the barrel just as the firing pin strikes the primer of the bullet inside the gun.

The result is catastrophic. The gun, a cheaply-made .38, blows up spectacularly as superheated gases expand in the barrel too fast and in too great a volume for the metal to contain. Burning fragments of metal blast outward in all directions like a grenade, some bouncing off of Finn, others striking the man's face and instantly shredding his features.

The lead thug screams, dropping the gun and bringing both hands to his face by instinct. Blinded, he stumbles away, crashing into display cases as he yells inarticulately. In his panic he runs blindly, crashing headlong into an upright support beam and ending his agony for the time being.

The last remaining thug raises his club, fear and anger warring on his features.

A look from the smaller Irishman is all it takes. Deciding his friends aren't worth being beaten to a pulp, he drops the club to the floor with a clatter and bolts in the direction of the front door.

For a moment, he's tempted to let the man go. The lesson has been taught...right?

Not quite. Leaning over, he picks up the club the thug had dropped and steps over to the door, hefting it as he looks outside, getting a feel for the weight.

The thug is nearly down the street and about to round the corner when the thrown club catches him in the back of the head with enough force to knock him out cold and send him sprawling.

Dusting off his hands, Finn turns from the doorway and walks to the counter, peering behind it.

The old man is still cowering there, his hands over his ears, shaking from head to toe like a leaf in a high wind. Stepping behind the counter, he lays a gentle hand on the owner's shoulder. "I's safe, ol' man."

Slowly, the owner takes his hands from his ears and looks up and around, his eyes wide and fearful for a moment. "Are...are they gone?" he asks in a trembling voice.

Nodding, Finn stands and helps the old man to his feet. "Well...nae really 'gone,' but if ye'll do me th' favor o'callin' th' watch, they'll take care o' tha' li'l detail."

The man looks around his shop. There's damage, but it isn't as bad as it could have been. Turning back to the smaller Irishman, he opens his mouth to thank him...

...only to find he's standing there alone.