1 Just One Of Those Days (Patreon)

Not Ten shadows sorry :P

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Another day another morning.

Kane rolls over on his bed and fumbles about blindly for a moment until he finds his phone. When he does, he thumbs along the edges until he finds the power button to turn off the damn alarm drilling into his skull.

Collapsing back into his mattress as if the mere act of turning off his alarm was enough to drain him completely, he toys with the idea of just going back to sleep.

He knows that he won't, but the mere fantasy of more sleep is enough to make him feel better about having to wake up in the first place.

A knock fills his room, two steady raps, followed by a tired, muffled voice.

"C'mon Kane."

Kane. It's a cool name. He likes it. Apparently it's an old Irish name, one he got from his mother's side, as his father is a born and bred man of the States.

He kind of hates it. It pisses him off a little bit every time someone says it.

Groaning, full of reluctance, Kane rolls over, pulling his cover to the side and moving to sit on the side of his bed, his feet pressing against the cold tile floor and flinching back to hover in the air.

For another long moment, he just sits there. His forearms falling onto his knees and pushing his feet back onto the cold tile while he hangs his head despondently.

He's so tired these days.

Closed eyes open, and it takes a moment for his vision to clear.

The only light in his room is what little sunlight can peak through the sides of his blacked out curtains and what little artificial light can shine through the gap between the door and the floor.

When his eyes do adjust to being open, he takes a moment to stare at his bare feet, the bangs of his dark hair covering everything higher up in his vision.

The most notable one is right in the centre of the right. A jagged off-white line cutting from around an inch below the base of his toes all the way up to the base of his leg.

It's not as bad on the other side, he knows. It was a fucking scythe that did it. He knows that's not the proper name of the weapon, but it's close enough and his brain hasn't fully booted up yet, so he doesn't care.

But due to the shape of the blade, it's longest on the side it went in. On the sole of his foot, the same wound only left a scar about half an inch long.

Still fucking hurt. Fucking psycho bitch.

A sigh leaves him and with it his anger. 

Anger is like a fire. It burns bright, but only when there is enough fuel to sustain it.

He just doesn't have the energy to be angry right now; so early in the morning.

He's just so tired.

His eyes move off from the bit one and bounces between the smatterings of smaller scars dotting around his feet and leading up his legs.

His eyes keep wondering until they fall to the inner thigh of his left, where a solid patch of skin, two inches wide and five across, is marred by a single patch of scar tissue.

That one is one of his biggest. He got it from a burn. It was either burn to death or climb over a wall of metal burning so hot that it was starting to melt.

His gloves were resistant enough to protect him, but he was already so tired, he had to use his leg to manage to push him all the way over.

That hurt. It hurt a lot. More than being stabbed. Less than being flayed though. He lifts his head up enough to glance at the back of his left forearm and the patch of scar tissue there.

It's indented a little bit. Not enough to notice without paying attention, but it's clear enough that every time he sees it he is reminded of the sight of his arm having a chunk torn out of it.

God he's so fucking tired.

His feet have gotten used to the cold.

Sighing again, Kane puts his hands on his knees and pushes himself to his feet, feeling all of his joints creak and groan with the movement. Stretching his arms above his head, he stretches, moving into the normal series of stretches he does every morning.

His bones creak and his joints crack, and it's only the fact that he is so tired that he doesn't groan out in satisfaction at the feeling. Instead, his mouth just opens in a silent moan, only a heavy breath leaving him.

Moving towards his pile of clothes, he is just leaning down to grab something light to ware over his lower half when his phone vibrates. He looks over only in time to watch as the vibration pushes the phone off of his counter and onto the floor, where it lands with a crack that sounds louder than it is in the silence of his room.

"Fucking..." Kane trails off, shaking his head.

He takes a moment to pull on his pants before walking back over and picking up his phone. He turns it to face him and is greeted by a screen cracked in three.

God damn it.

Pressing the power button, he finds that only one third of the screen is still working. It's enough that he could probably still use the phone for calls, which is the important part.

Still going to have to get it replaced.

It's a work phone, so he doesn't have to pay for it, but that's only in the case that they accept the cause as not being his fault. Otherwise the new phone will come out of his paycheck.

With all the budget cuts and constant underfunding his department gets, he won't be surprised when the phone comes out of his paycheck.

Keeping the phone in one hand and thinking about options for screen replacement, Kane finally opens his door, squinting at the change in lighting.

After a moment of letting his eyes adjust, he walks through the small apartment and to the kitchen. A small thing that connects with the front room to save space.

There he sees his roommate, dressed up all nice in a suit and drinking from a steaming cup of coffee.

"Disgusting," Kane mutters as he passes to the kitchenette with the tone of a man who has said the same thing hundreds of times.

"Coward," his roommate mutters back out of sheer habit, barely even seeming to notice the interaction.

Kane goes back to ignoring him as he stops in front of the fridge, dropping his phone off at the kitchen counter and pulling out a carton of apple juice.

Unscrewing the lid, he takes three large gulps, hating every one of them. He loves it normally, but apple juice always tastes horrible in the morning. Unfortunately, there was a burst pipe or something the other day, so they won't have clean water until the afternoon, or maybe tomorrow morning.

So he deals and hydrates himself with what's available.

Better than coffee.

Putting the carton back only after resisting the urge to gag, Kane turns back around, heading deeper into the apartment towards the bathroom.

On his way however, he stumbles as he stubs his toe on a corner.

"Fffffffff..." He holds himself back from actually saying anything, just whining in pain while leaning against the wall and cupping his foot in both hands.

The pain naturally fades after a moment, but it leaves him feeling incredibly pissed off even in its absence.

Like before, his anger soon fades, not having the energy to sustain it.

"Just one of those days huh."

Moving further down the hall, Kane steps into the bathroom and over to the shower, turning it on now to give it a moment to heat up. But when he presses the button and watches the water, he can almost feel the cogs in his tired mind churning as it takes almost a solid minute for him to recognise that the water is black.

Right. Burst pipe or something.

That annoyance that has been simmering since he woke up intensifies.

Turning the shower off, he turns to the sink. If he can't shower, just washing his face is good enough. But then he turns the facet on and it's all just black.

Right.

Slapping the facet down to cut off the flow, Kane rests both of his hands on the edge of the sink, grabbing it so hard that his knuckles start to turn white.

A moment later, his forehead thunks against the mirror above the sink, and he closes his eyes for a moment. He runs through some meditative thinking that his therapist suggested to him in an attempt to push back the growing irritation.

It doesn't help.

Opening his eyes, he glances about for a moment until his eyes settle on the hand soap sitting on the kitchen. However, he is then hit by a bolt of inspiration and quickly shuffles himself back to the kitchen.

Ignoring his roommate once more, he goes straight to the freezer and swings it open, going for the ice trays. He can melt the ice, mix it with the soap and makeshift a half decent wash.

But when he pulls the ice tray out, he finds it empty of all but two ice cubes.

"Huh?" His roommate only then notices his presence, and Kane looks back at him. "I used the ice for my coffee. Sorry."

Sighing again, Kane hangs his head between his knees for a moment, crouched as he is before the freezer.

It takes maybe another minute before he can summon the will to grab the two ice cubes and close the freezer.

He puts both cubes in one hand and grabs a small bowl from a cupboard with the other before returning to the bathroom.

The two cubes go in the bowl, and he goes to the toilet.

When he lifts the lid, he does so remembering that the water used to flush toilets is actually supposedly pretty clean. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, that train of thought is derailed when the toilet water is black too.

James must have flushed then.

Sighing again, Kane quickly relieves himself and flushes out of habit, only for the toilet to clog and overflow just enough to wet his bare feet as he was distracted staring at nothing.

Stepping back, Kane turns a disgusted grimace down to the floor and the small but spreading pool of black.

Fucking hell.

With another sigh, he just grabs his towel from the hook on the back of the door and chucks it on the floor, using his feet to push it up against the toilet and trap all the water.

Moving back to the door, he grabs his roommate's towel and wipes his feet down before adding it to the pile under the toilet.

Returning to the sink, he sees the two ice cubes have mostly melted and picks up the hand soap, pumping a liberal amount of it into the bowl.

Mixing it up, he waits until it has the consistency of a sludge, just a bit more viscous than the soap would have been by itself.

Sighing again, Kane reaches a hand into the bowl and goes about washing his face, his hair and his upper torso. By the time he is running out of soap water, he uses what's left to rub down his feet before carelessly dropping the bowl into the sink, watching with empty eyes as it shatters into pieces from the tiny drop.

Scrunching his eyes shut and counting down from ten, Kane lets out a long, shuddering breath.

When his eyes open this time, he is staring directly into the mirror, and he takes a moment to study his reflection.

His eyes used to be blue, he remembers. They seem more black than anything else now though. Black like dirty water and bloodshot to boot.

He remembers seeing green when he would look in a mirror. The memory is so distant these days.

His hair is short and a dark shade of black. He normally wears it slicked back, but he hasn't got it cut in a while, so the weight causes two prominent bangs to flop forward and over his eyes.

His skin is pale. He doesn't get enough sun. Or rather, whenever he does get sun, he is always covered head to toe. Not that the full body armour seems to help all that much, he snidely thinks to himself as he traces the tapestry of scars woven on his toned body.

The only consolation there is that he only has one noticeable scar on his face. A thin one on the right side of his jaw, where that bitch with her scythes nearly ripped his mouth in half.

Fucking racist bitch. He hates her so much. Yet she somehow manages to keep even worse company.

Not that she targets him for race reasons, but she does seem to target him, and she is racist, so fucking whatever. Fuck her and fuck her stupid fucking scythe things. She does know that she hates the race that invented them right?

Sighing again, Kane rubs his jaw, feeling a stubble starting to grow back. He should shave, but god damn he cannot be bothered to today.

Mañana, as the Spanish would say.

Shaking his head, Kane pushes himself away from the sink to towel himself off, only to pause when he sees both the towels in the room sucking up black water from the toilet.

"...I'm going to fucking kill myself one of these days."

I'd probably kill my boss first though, then myself. She doesn't deserve it, not really, but if he's already killing himself then he thinks he'd be beyond the point of giving a shit about anything beyond instant gratification.

Stumbling out of the room and back to his own, he flicks on the light and watches as the bulb sputters for a moment before ultimately remaining dark.

At this point, he doesn't even react. He just leaves the door open for light and walks up to his clothes pile.

He used to actually use his wardrobe, but these days he's just too tired to bother with an extra door and hanging shit.

He grabs a random shirt and quickly starts using it to dry himself off, finding some enjoyment in feeling the definition of his muscles. He finds the pride in his accomplishments to be a nice balm on his beleaguered soul.

He is very strong, and even more skilled. Even if he's had to take some refresher courses sometimes thanks to that racist bitch's racist friend.

It makes sense that he would be good, better than just about anyone. After all, he is twenty three this year, and he has literally been training his entire life.

See, Kane has a secret.

This is actually his second shot at life. Crazy right?

He can barely remember anything about his last life these days. Nothing personal anyway. Just green eyes. That's all he remembers. Green eyes.

So when he found himself as a kid again with two new parents, he decided that he would be someone. So he studied his ass off and worked out every day, practicing a bunch of martial arts to the point he's forgotten the names of a lot of them.

Sighing at the memories of simpler times, Kane throws his soiled shirt into a different corner by the door and walks over to the pile that has his work clothes.

Most of his actual uniform is at work, all he has here is a pair of military standard cargo pants in black and a tight, lightly armoured long sleeve shirt.

When he was a child, he used to think that with his head start, he would be able to be a prodigy. That he could use the elasticity of a newborn's brain and constant mental exercise to learn more than anyone else and be someone.

In a sense he did succeed. He has three PhDs, speaks eight languages, fourteen if you separate dialects, and is a certified brain surgeon, among other academic achievements.

As he thinks, he pulls his uniformed pants on.

He probably could have achieved his goal of being someone if he just continued to pursue these things. He could probably be a millionaire by now.

Done with his pants, he picks up his shirt.

However, when he was a child, sitting in the front room and watching the TV, he saw something that changed everything.

Holding the shirt out in front of himself, his eyes lock on to the big bolt letters carved into the breast.

PRT.

This world has Superheroes.

It changed everything and nothing at the same time. The direction remained the same, but the destination was different.

Shaking the memories away, Kane slips the shirt on, grabs his service weapon and shoulder holster and after checking the gun over, puts that on too. Finishing his dress, he grabs an old leather trench coat to wear on top.

Some of his co-workers make jabs at him for wearing it, but it fucking rains in Brockton. He knows it makes him look like he's trying to be some movie detective or something, but he really doesn't care about appearance in the face of practicality, not anymore.

Moving back into the front room, he notices that James is gone, his empty cup left on the living room table.

Shrugging, Kane pats himself down, double checking his pockets, and he's glad he does, because otherwise he would have forgotten his phone on the kitchen counter.

His mind never used to be this slow.

He's just so god damn tired.

Sighing once more, he slides his phone into his pant's pocket and walks to the front door. He grabs a his key from the nail crudely hammered in the wall, something they would have to cover in the case of a home inspection.

Crouching down, he pulls on his shoes, a pair of rugged and worn boots that only need to take him to his locker to be swapped out for his work boots.

Finally, after triple checking that he has everything in all his pockets, Kane uses one hand to check the door, finding that James didn't lock it, while the other pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

Keeping the keys in one hand, he steps through the door while bringing the packet up to his lips so he can pull a cigarette out and put the rest away.

As he closes the door behind him, he fumbles about for his lighter. He locks the door at the same time that he pulls the lighter out, moving through the process with the practice of experience.

A hand cups the light so the cold morning breeze doesn't put it out, and he takes a long, deep drag of the cancer stick, only letting it out once his lungs feel like they are on fire.

Finally feeling more awake with the cancer smoke filling his throat, Kane turns right and starts walking along the balcony path of their second story apartment.

On his left he can see the carpark and street beyond, all cast in a dreary light from the rainclouds above while on his right he walks past three closed doors before hitting the stairs.

A fly starts to buzz around his head as he hits the stairs, but he barely even notices it. The buzzing of the fly is barely distinguishable from the light ringing that is always present in his ears these days. A mix between explosions, bullet shots, and that psycho bitch with her kamas are to blame for that.

Why did he sign up to be a PRT trooper again?

Oh right, because he thought he was going to be the big damn Hero.

Ever since he took his first conscious breath in this world, he has been striving to be a great man of great means. The reveal of Superheroes and Supervillains existing just changed the goal from being a great man of science, to being a Hero.

He scoffs at the thought. 

It's hard to be a Hero when you don't have any powers.

Even harder when you're starting to get old, or at least tired anyway. Either way, he's starting to feel so bitter and disillusioned that in the event that he does somehow Trigger with powers, he's not sure if he'd even bother anymore.

A not insignificant part of him would prefer to just leave. Go somewhere he won't be bothered and just rest. 

His bones feel so heavy.

He's on his final drag by the time he reaches his car, and he flicks the butt of the cigarette carelessly onto the wet tarmac.

Facing forward, he spends a moment just standing in the rain, staring at the small box car in front of him and his reflection in the window, obscured by trails of rain.

He used to own a muscle car. An old Chevrolet. Made in sixty-nine he recalls. He bought it as a teenager after making some good investments.

Unfortunately, there is just enough drift between Earth Bet's early two thousands and his last life's early two thousands that he can't just make easy bets.

Some companies just don't exist, like Apple and Microsoft, some companies are just irrelevant in this world, like pretty much anything in the military industry complex.

Knowing the general shape of the near future's technology doesn't really help either. Most people's phones these days are these weird circular things that can swap numbers by just touching them together.

They're expensive though, so he doesn't have one.

In this world, some of the super people, Parahumans as we call them, get powers that fall into the Tinker category. They're like the Tony Starks and Doctor Dooms. They can build all sorts of crazy sci-fi shit that literally doesn't make any sense.

Tinkertech can't be reverse engineered, not unless you are Dragon, the greatest Tinker in the world, but the existence of Tinkertech has still allowed science and technology to advance a lot quicker in many sectors.

So what's the point in knowing the technological market of the next five or so years if the tech I know is already outdated here?

He's snapped out of his thoughts by the roar of an engine, and a moment later, he watches in the reflection as some car speeds by behind him, cruising through a puddle and drenching him.

Kane barely blinks.

Most of the water slides off his trench coat, being the reason he bought it, but he does feel as a significant amount gathers up in his boots and begins to pool.

"Just one of those days," he repeats to himself.

It doesn't make him feel any better.

Hand in pocket, he thumbs his car fob and unlocks the door to his shitty little eco car.

He had to sell his beloved Chevvy because his mother got cancer. Well, technically it isn't actually cancer, but the effect is basically the same, so it's a lot easier to just say she has cancer than explain the excessively long science word that she is actually suffering from.

The only real differences between what she's got and cancer is that she gets to keep her hair and the medicine is more expensive.

Oh yeah, he lives in America now.

He didn't in his last life, which is why he was so shocked, and not to mention pissed off, when he realised he'd have to sell his car to be able to pay for her treatment. 

It's not even a cure. He's living paycheck to paycheck just to keep her alive. 

Not that he's thinking about stopping. She's his mom. She might not be the first, but she is still his mother, he's not just going to abandon her.

All he can really do is hold out hope that Panacea, their resident super powered miracle cure, will find the time to spend literally one minute with her.

He's tried asking up the ranks if he can push his mother up the waiting list to no luck.

In his darker moments, he's considered just using his wide variety of skills to take Panacea hostage and force her to fic his mother. 

He's already lost his father last year. Spending the rest of his life in jail would be worth it to keep her. 

Not that he could ever get away with that. Panacea is one of the most important people on the planet. There aren't a lot of healers out there, and none as good as her. Not to mention that her entire family has super powers.

He'd probably die or get captured long before he could force her to fix anything.

He doesn't have much these days. He isn't sure how much he can lose before he ceases to be human.

Sighing again, Kane opens the car door turns around to sit down, briefly taking both of his boots off to drain the water before putting them back on.

His socks are still wet, but what the fuck is he going to do about that?

The door closes with a thump and Kane leans back into his seat and spends another moment just sitting there, not a thought going through his mind as he stares at nothing.

"Why do I keep waking up?" He ponders to himself, thinking about what he has left in his life.

A dead father, a dying mother, a city that hates peace and a job that will kill him someday.

He supposes he has some friends. Friendly acquaintances. No one who he would celebrate a birthday with or anything, either his or theirs. The only exception to that might be his girlfriend, but honestly they've been growing apart.

He's just too tired. He doesn't give her enough attention. They're barely more than fuck buddies at this point, that's all they do together. When was the last time they even went on a date?

He doesn't remember. 

Sighing, he turns the ignition and nearly shoots himself when the engine sputters and does nothing at all of worth.

He doesn't move. His hand still holding the key in the ignition and his body completely still.

A part of him fears that if he does move, he really will move to shoot himself. So he just sits there and counts down from one thousand in increments of seven.

He can't even remember where he got the idea from. Some memory of his last life. But the practice helps him keep focus better than just counting down from ten.

He gets down to the five hundreds before he trusts himself to let go of the death grip he was holding the steering wheel with.

Not saying a word but gritting his teeth, Kane pops open the bonnet of his car and climbs out to inspect the engine.

But when he lifts the bonnet up and looks into his car, he can only stare blankly, failing to comprehend the giant empty chasm that sits in front of him.

"Where the fuck is my engine?" He mutters, before he spies some white on the bottom of the engine deck.

Leaning down, he traces a pinkie through the substance and brings it up to his eye for inspection.

Flicking the crystal powder to the side, Kane just lets out an aggrieved sigh and slams the bonnet down with more force than necessary.

"Fucking crackhead Merchants."

There are three major gangs in this shithole of a city. Major mainly in the sense that they have Parahumans leading them, a fact that makes it easy to build a bigger than normal gang around.

One is a gang of literal Neo-Nazis, and he wishes he was joking about that. The psycho kama wielding bitch that keeps stabbing him is one of them. She goes by Cricket, because Heroes and Villains need their secret identities.

That was a sarcastic thought. Villains should be tried just like normal criminals and face the same consequences. Namely that their names and faces should be public record so they can't just slink off into the night.

The other main gang is the ABB, short for Azn Bad Boyz, and again, he wishes he was joking. At least the Nazis call themselves Empire Eighty-Eight, or E88 for short. That at least isn't too stupid.

The ABB are basically just worse Nazis but with slavery and an Asian recolouring. They're scum of the earth, but they're headed by a man who turns into a giant rage dragon that can fight literally every other Cape in the city and win.

He also thinks its stupid to call Parahumans Capes for short, but eh, it's habit by this point.

The last major gang, even if they hardly really count, is the Merchants. They're basically just all the homeless crack addicts that have loosely banded together under Skidmark.

Again. He wishes he was joking. But the leader of the Archer's Bridge Merchants, is a disgusting black man who calls himself Skidmark by choice.

Skidmark probably drives up Empire recruitment better than any of Kaiser's propaganda ever could. Having such a vile example to point at right next door must save the Nazi leader so much trouble. He's pretty sure that the Merchants only still exist because Kaiser finds more value in being able to point at the 'dirty nigger' as proof of his retarded ideology than he would get out of taking over what little Skidmark has.

Regardless of all of that though, Kane's fucking engine is gone. The only people who he can think of that would ever do something as batshit as that would be a Merchant or two hopped up on their own supply.

He'd take a picture to show his supervisor as proof, but his fucking phone is broke and the camera won't work.

Sighing again, Kane moves to the back seat and grabs his work duffel bag before closing and locking the car, turning around and setting off.

There's a bus that can take him to work, but it only arrives three minutes late. Better than the fifteen minutes he'd lose by walking.

Lighting another cigarette in an attempt to quell his growing irritation, Kane watches the grey sky drizzle rain all around him as he walks to the bus stop.

Looking up at the sound of feet hitting the wet pavement with more force than a walk would necessitate, he looks up to see some crazy chick jogging his way.

Who the fuck gets up this early to jog? In this weather too?

At least she's wearing a waterproof jacket with a hood, so she's not completely crazy. That said, he can see that her long brown locks are still wet. Worse, the girl is wearing glasses. How the fuck can she see through them with all the rain?

Girl must have great eyes. Must be an age thing. She looks teenagerish. Somewhere around the middle of teenager, he doesn't fucking know.

She's tall for her age but skinny. Probably gets bullied honestly, that usually happens with girls who go through puberty like that. Grow too tall too quick and end up looking gangly. But she'll grow into her height eventually, and when she does, she'll lose that depressive hunch to her shoulders someday.

Not that that fact would ever do much to make anyone dealing with the horrors of puberty feel any better. Teenagers aren't exactly known for being able to look at things objectively.

That said, as she gets closer, Kane waves a hand out in front of himself, calling for her to stop for a minute.

Her immediate response is to tense up, and he doesn't miss the way her hand twitches to her jacket's pocket. Whether she has a knife, a gun, or pepper spray he does not know, but he approves.

Young girls really shouldn't be moving alone in Brockton without some way of defending themselves.

God he hates this fucking shithole city.

However, he notices the moment that her eyes spot the PRT logo on his shirt, and watches as she relaxes slightly. Not all the way of course, he's still a stranger and she's still a long young girl. 

When she does come to a stop, she does so a solid three paces away from him, which again he approves of, and doesn't break the silence.

Pulling his cigarette from his lips, Kane lets out a breath of smoke, making sure to turn away to not blast her in the face, before speaking.

"Hey kid, you wouldn't happen to have seen some crackheads running down that way with an engine block, would you?" He asks, his voice rough from the recent smoking.

"What?" Is her immediate response, and he understands. Fucking crackheads.

"Someone stole the engine from my damn car," he says in explanation, though really only really to have her take the question seriously and actually pay attention to it.

"Oh, uh." She pauses, visibly thinking. He appreciates that. People wouldn't normally put any effort into trying to answer a question like this. It's nice that she'd try to jog her memory.

Heh, jog. A jogger. Pun. I am going to kill myself.

"Actually," the kid's words snap him out of his thoughts, "I think I did see a few homeless looking guys carrying something big. It was in a cardboard box, but there was three of them working together to carry it, so it must have been heavy. They went that way, down Third Street. Probably to that old bakery with the windows smashed in."

Fuck yeah. 

He'll have to wait for after work, but he does have both the knowhow and the tools that he's confident he can easily put it all back together.

"You are a lifesaver kid. God knows I can't afford a new car, seriously, thanks."

"Ah, it's uh. Don't worry about it," the kid flounders, making him smirk with amusement, an expression that causes her to stop talking in favour of pursing her lips. Her cheeks start to redden as they meet stares, and he's not sure if it's out of embarrassment or anger.

Probably both.

Letting out a chuckle, Kane takes a step forward and offers his hand. 

"Name's Kane, professional cool and awesome guy with a shitty car, nice to meet you?"

She stares at his hand for a moment and gives him a strange look at his introduction. 

He doesn't have a lot these days. He has to find some way to amuse himself, otherwise that barrel iron will really start looking too tempting.

Eventually, right before the point it would have gotten awkward, the girl accepts his hand with a gloved one of her own.

She really is better dressed for the weather than he is. Then again, she's crazy enough to be jogging. He's just walking to the bus.

"Taylor. Nice to meet you, Guy who's car doesn't have an engine."

"Ouch," he mimes a wound over his heart, playing it up a little bit to help her relax. Kid looks like she's going to have a nervous breakdown just from one line of light banter. "Low blow Taylor, low blow."

He makes sure to smile. Since she probably gets bullied, she's probably out of practice with socialising. It would explain why her speech is slightly stilted and why she seems so nervous just cracking a joke. 

So he makes sure to smile. Hoping it'll encourage her.

He doesn't know how real his smile seems to her.

He feels so cold.

In the moment of silence that follows his words, he notices her eyes flickering to his arms and chest and the muscles therein. Unfortunately, she is clearly a minor, so he doesn't flex or flirt or anything like he would have otherwise.

Instead he just moves the conversation forward. He has a few minutes before the bus is due to arrive, and this is better than sitting in the cold alone.

"So, what kind of demon is possessing you to be jogging so early in weather like this?" He takes a puff of his cigarette as he asks, finishing it off and dropping it underfoot.

"If I skip one day then I doubt I'd be able to bring myself to get up the next as well," Taylor answers, her voice a really weird mix between nervous and completely calm.

Probably just so nervous she's gone full circle into calm or something, he mentally shrugs.

"Yeah, I get that. I still do my daily exercise, but honestly that's more just out of habit since I've been doing it since I was like three. When'd you start?"

"Just recently," Taylor pats her belly. "I've nearly got rid of the potbelly. That feels pretty good."

"Yeah, I bet. Having a body at the peak of human potential is a pretty rewarding feeling, comes with a lot of pride and self accomplishment. At least until you realise that some asshole could get superpowers by chance and surpass anything you could do in one night. You doing anything other than running?"

For a second, he thinks that he sees her flinch midway through his words, but he shakes the thought away as a sleep deprived imagination.

"Not yet. Well, some squats and push ups; uh, calisthenic stuff. I'm not really sure how to go about starting on weights and stuff."

Kane shrugs his shoulders. "Eh. Calisthenics are fine to be honest. By the time you ever start thinking that your own body weight isn't enough to push you, you'll be experienced enough to know how to incorporate weights. I'd just think more about learning to fight, if you're gonna be running around in a city like this."

Taylor perks up at that, and he isn't surprised. Most teens already like the idea of knowing how to fight properly, but a kid who's actually putting the effort in to exercise? Then you have both the desire and the drive.

"I was actually thinking about that, but I don't know how to go about it. Do you know anywhere I could get lessons that isn't gang owned?"

"Hah! You know outside of Brockton a kid wouldn't have thought to ask that?"

"I'm not a kid."

"Yeah yeah, you're a big girl now." Kane immediately regrets his words as the girl scowls at him, seemingly genuinely hurt.

Right, he thinks. Teenagers.

"Sorry Taylor, I'm really tired and my fucking car's engine got stolen, I didn't mean to sound mean," he lets out a sigh after apologising and then moves on before she can brood on the matter any longer. "Well, I don't just own a car y'know? I'm also a professional cool and awesome guy as well. I know like all the martial arts. Super, secret badass type guy, me. I can recommend you a gym with a half decent retired boxing coach I know. Give him my name and he'll at least give you some pointers."

Her scowl fades away at Kane's jovial, if still lethargic, words to the point that she's almost not frowning by the end.

He gets the feeling that she doesn't smile much regardless.

"Right, thank-"

She's cut off by the sound of a song abruptly blaring over the light sound of drizzling rain.

The song in question is called Traveling Hum and it's sung by an artist called Bad Canary. The tune is upbeat and melodic, and Canary's voice makes the world seem just a little bit less dull.

He knows it's because he's being Mastered, a type of power that controls or influences others. Technically a Master type power can just be summoning and controlling monsters or something, but most people think about Human masters that can mind control people.

Canary is one of those people, but the effect of her power is incredibly slight, so most people were cool with it. Especially since she just makes music and uses her power to make the lyrics literally magical.

It sucks that she's probably going to get sent to the Birdcage. All you need to know about the Birdcage to know the kind of prison it is, is that it's exclusive for Parahumans, and a lot of people doubt if it even exists or not.

Either way, Canary doesn't deserve to be sent there. More importantly, he wants more songs that make life just a little bit more bearable.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Kane stares at it with dull, blank eyes.

He's getting a call, but the screen is broken so he doesn't know who the fuck is calling him.

What he does know is that he needs to get a move on to catch his bus. He can't read the time, but the call has knocked him out of the conversation enough to realise he's running out of it.

"Well, it was nice meeting you Taylor. Look for the gym on Chelston and Third, ask for the old man. Later."

Walking past the girl, Kane waves back at her own goodbye and pulls his phone up to his ear, the bus stop in already in sight.

"Kane Gladly speaking," he says into the phone, not knowing who is going to answer.

"Mr Gladly," a soft feminine voice answers him, and hir brow twitches at the address. He doesn't really like being called Mr Gladly. It reminds him that he also has a brother.

He doesn't really like his brother. At all. He's a teacher so between the two of them, it's him that's the Mr Gladly. Kane is just Kane. He'd rather be called a faggot by a Nazi that Mr Gladly by literally anyone.

"I am Nurse Olivia, and I am afraid I don't have any good news for you. Would it be possible for you to come to the hospital at this time?"

Hearing the words, it takes Kane a moment to even register them, and when he does he feels as if his stomach dropped into the ocean. The background noise of his tinnitus starts ringing louder like static, blocking out every other sound until it feels like a physical force.

"Mr Gladly?" The Nurse prompts, snapping the world back into focus.

"Just call me Kane," he responds on autopilot before his brain finishes rebooting. "What's going on? Is something wrong?"

"...There's no easy way to say this, Mr Kane. Miss Gladly has just passed away. There are some documents that you need to sign at your earliest convenience."

He doesn't respond. The rain intensifies, dripping down from his hair and covering his face, making him blink rapidly to keep his eyes clean.

"Mr Kane?"

He feels tired.

"I can be there in about twenty minutes."

"Gotcha. I'll pen you in and let the receptionist know," Olivia says. There is a pause long enough that he normally would have hung up the phone, if only he could will himself to move right now. "Mr- No. Kane. No words could possibly make this okay, but for what it is worth, I truly am sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Kane says, accepting the platitudes by rote. His voice blank and weary. "Can you- Did. Was it at least painless? In her sleep?"

Olivia doesn't answer.

He hangs up.

"One of those days."

Walking over to a little nook on the side of the pavement to get out of the rain, Kane wipes down his phone's screen of water and uses what little he can see of it to scroll through his contacts.

He can't see any of the names with the screen like this, but the profile pictures default to the first letter of the name, and he is obviously familiar with the list. So it's not all that difficult to find his supervisor's number, though hitting dial was a bit more of a challenge, taking four attempts to press the button.

It rings five times before it's picked up.

"Kane, I've told you before, special treatment or no, you can't skip work just to sleep in."

Kane barely even hears the man.

"I'm going to be late for work," he says, voice calm as a lake. 

"Oh really?" Johnson, his supervisor, sarcastically drawls out. "And what would be the reason this time? Busy helping another old lady cross the street?"

"Some crackheads stole my car's engine," he says. "Also I'm going to need a replacement phone. This one's screen is all fucked up."

"You expect me to believe that?" Johnson's dry voice answers. "Maybe if you had a real car I'd find it convincing, but not even a crackhead would choose to steal your engine. Unless I suppose you have some proof?"

"Phone's broke. Can't take pictures."

"Of course. Was there anything else?"

"Yeah, my mom died." For some reason, just saying that felt like his insides were being hollowed out. "I just got the call. Need to go sign some papers 'n shit."

"...Fuck man, I'm sorry. Shit. That's... Fuck, alright, take the week off, paid leave. I'm sorry for your loss."

"I can still come in, should only be an hour or so late."

"Kane. So help me god, you are going to take your damn paid leave and mourn your mother. If I see your ugly mug here before the week is out, I am going to kick your ass. Special Operator or not. Capiche?"

"You're not in the mafia or Italian, Johnson. You sound stupid when you say that."

"You see, I am going to let that go, because you're in mourning and I'm an understanding guy like that. Now get off this damn line and call your brother. I know you don't like him, but she was his mother too."

The line dies not a moment later and Kane stands there for a minute, his head empty of anything but that constant ringing.

Eventually, he turns on his heel and walks back to his apartment, unlocks his car, and drops his work duffel back into the backseat, unzipping it only long enough to grab a pen.

Zipping the duffel back up, he closes the back door and opens the front, climbing in just to get out of the rain.

He has a call to make. 

His thumb hovers over the icon for his brother's contact. He doesn't want to press it.

Sighing, he scrolls up to find his girlfriend's number. They might have been drifting apart lately, but he's in a frankly horrible mood right now, and a good fuck would go a long way to making him feel better.

He presses dial. It rings. Once, twice, thric-

"What the fuck kinda pizza place gives morning calls?" A groggy, and distinctly male voice answers him.

Kane hangs up, places his phone on the dash and pulls out his handgun.

Turning the safety off, he points it at his own head, doing that one thing you're told not to do at the start of every firearms safety course and stares down the barrel.

For some reason, he's disappointed. Like he was expecting to see something there, other than a bullet.

His finger brushes against the trigger.

About six psi of pressure. That's all it takes to end a life these days. Six pounds per square inch. 

A butterfly appears, landing right on the end of the barrel in front of his face, covering the sight of the bullet.

Tilting his head back, Kane blows on the butterfly, flinging it off of the barrel, but the thing just flaps in a small circle and lands right back on the barrel again.

"I think a bullet is a bit overkill for you," he mutters before letting out a long sigh and collapsing into his seat, dropping his hands into his lap.

The butterfly takes to the air from the movement and lands on the top of his steering wheel.

Shaking his head, Kane ejects the handgun's magazine and drops it on the passenger seat, after which he ejects the chambered round and after dropping the gun on the other seat, he puts the bullet back in the mag.

Then he throws the gun onto the back seats and drops the magazine into his glove box.

Another sigh leaves him.

A pizza place? Really?

His phone starts ringing, and he suspects he knows who's calling, so he just sits there and listens to Bad Canary's song play through.

He feels a little bit better by the end, and quickly moves to block his girlfriend, ex-girlfriend's number, difficult though it is with the fucking broken screen.

His phone doesn't ring a second time.

It takes another minute to work up the will to move, but eventually he scrolls back to his brother's contact.

He doesn't hesitate this time. He doesn't feel anything at all right now, least of all hesitancy.

It rings nearly to voicemail before he picks up.

"Kane? What is it? I'm kind of busy right now."

Kane's hand twitches for the empty holster under his arm.

He really hates his brother.

"Mom died. Thought you should know. I'm going to the hospital now to sign the papers."

"Oh... Damn. I don't. I don't know what to say."

"Hm. If your coming to the hospital, could you give me a lift? Some crackheads stole my engine."

"Ah," the awkward note in his 'dear' brother's voice does not go unnoticed by Kane. "I'm sorry, I really am, but I need to get ready for my class, I really don't have the time. Maybe if it was the weekend but-"

He doesn't get to finish as Kane hangs up the phone.

He doesn't think it would be good for his brother's health if he kept talking. In fact, it is probably for the best that they never see each other again.

Such a spineless fucking slimy waste of human life shitstain piece of decaying has-been wannabe greasy bitch of a chunky fucking cumstain fuck.

The faux leather of his steering wheel starts to creak with how hard he grips it, and Kane takes a deep, shuddering breath to calm himself.

Shaking his head, Kane lets go of the steering wheel and steps out of the car, closing and locking it once more. Then he just starts walking.

The hospital is twenty minutes away, but halfway there he decided to delay and enters some café he's never been to before.

There's a little bell that chimes when he opens the door, getting the barista's attention. A young woman, collage age, probably working her first job going by the lack of familiar confidence of routine work.

"Hello, what can I get you?" The barista asks with a fake smile, and he notes that there are only two other patrons. Either because the place isn't that popular or just because it's still early in the morning even for early risers.

"Coffee. Black."

"Coming right up." The Barista puts words to action and goes about making the drink, while Kane brushes his wet hair back so it stops dripping into his eyes.

"One black coffee," the barista exclaims, catching Kane off guard. He must have zoned out.

"Than-" He is cut off when the barista trips and falls into the counter, spilling the hot coffee over and onto him, staining the lower half of his shirt down to his pants with the boiling liquid.

It burns.

"Ohmygod! I'm so sorry! Let me get a towel! Oh my god I am so sorry."

"It's fine," he says, grabbing the end of his shirt and wringing out what he can, before accepting the offered towel to attempt to dry out the rest. He doesn't fail to notice the way her eyes flicker to his body as his shirt rides up.

"I really am sorry though, I can't believe that just happened. Let me just make you a fresh cup, on the house to make up for it."

Kane doesn't respond, and there's a somewhat awkward air as he waits for her to finish with the second cup.

"So, PRT? Are you a trooper then?" The barista asks, making conversation.

"Yeah."

"Have you ever dealt with villains then?"

"That's the job."

"Right but like, don't the Heroes usually do the actual fighting against the villains?"

"Sure."

Perhaps running out of thoughts to air, the woman doesn't say anything else, and Kane take to opportunity to stare into space and blank out.

"One black coffee! On the house!" She exclaims once this one is done, only this time she is much more careful as she brings it over.

"Thanks," Kane says, not really meaning it.

"No problem! You don't really strike me as the kind of guy to drink coffee though, I don't know why though."

Kane looks up at the woman, seeing her giving him a flirtatious smile. Normally this would be when he would say he has a girlfriend. Now that he doesn't, he might have seen where things could lead.

He doesn't feel like any of that right now. It's all just too much effort.

He's too tired for that.

"I don't." He answers after an awkward pause, punctuating the words by taking a big gulp of the too hot, too bitter drink. "I hate coffee. It disgusts me."

Mom would drink it every morning though. Every morning that she could anyway. And his father would greet her every morning by calling her coffee disgusting, and she would call him a coward and wink at Kane, making him giggle.

"A-are you.. Are you okay?" The barista asks.

Kane regards her with his dead-eyed stare and just takes another gulp of his drink, grimacing as he does.

"No."

Dropping a twenty dollar bill on the counter, Kane turns around and leaves, resuming his walk to the hospital. When he finishes his drink he doesn't bother to wait for a trashcan to drop the cup into like he normally would.

Littering is bad.

He just doesn't care right now.

It doesn't take long to reach the hospital. At least it doesn't feel like long anyway. Just one moment then the next.

He barely even recognises that he's been directed to the third floor until he stops in front of a familiar door. The number 315 sits in front of him like a curse.

The door slides open and Olivia is there. They aren't close, but she's been caring for his mom for a while, so they're pretty familiar with one another.

Immediately after meeting his eyes, Olivia's expression softens into one of deep sorrow and she steps forward to wrap him in a hug.

"Oh Kane," she croons.

He doesn't hug her back. He doesn't move at all. Just stands there and waits for her to let go.

Olivia pulls away and he looks down at her. Chestnut brown hair, brown eyes, tanned skin and a slightly pudgy, in a motherly way, body.

"Are you sure you want to do this? It can wait."

"I'm already here."

"Okay," Olivia whispers, stepping to the side and letting him in.

He walks the familiar route, stopping by a familiar bed.

She looks pale.

"I can't afford a funeral." The thought strikes him only then. They cost thousands of dollars.

"We can cremate her," Olivia quietly suggests from his side, reaching out to hold his hand between both of her own.

"Okay."

"It'll take about three hours if we start now."

"Okay."

"Is there anyone else that would want to see her one last time first?"

"No."

"We can get started whenever you're ready Kane. Take all the time you need."

"Okay. I'll wait on the roof."

"Okay Kane. I'll bring you something to eat. Something tells me you haven't had breakfast yet. I'll let you know when it's all done."

"Thanks."

"Kane." The pause makes him turn to her. He hasn't really been seeing anything at all so far in this conversation. One of her hands rubs his arm. "It's okay to grieve. If you need anything, even just someone who will listen, let me know okay? You don't have to grieve alone."

"Thanks."

With nothing more to be said, Kane turns to the door and leaves. He doesn't look back. There's no point. He won't find anything there.

He walks to the roof in a haze. Just one moment and then the next.

Standing there, he doesn't bother to keep under the awning and out of the rain. He just leans against the barrier and pulls out another cigarette.

The smoke burns in his lungs like hot coals, but he only feels cold.

He's so tired.

The cigarette slowly burns away as he forgets to smoke it, until eventually his fingers start to burn. It takes him longer than it should to drop it.

At some point a plastic box with a sandwich in it and a juice box appear by his feet. It tastes like ash and coffee. He hates it.

A moment, or an hour later, he doesn't know, he hears the door open.

He doesn't care enough to react though. He's not even sure if he imagined it or not. He has another cigarette in his hand burning away, and he doesn't know when he lit it.

Footsteps follow the door and a presence makes itself known by his side. He can see the hospital colours out of his periphery, but he doesn't care to look.

"Can I borrow a light?" A surprisingly young feminine voice asks him, and he reaches into his pocket to pull out his light before turning to share it.

However, the moment his brain comprehends what his eyes are showing it, his movement stills and his mind freezes.

A mousy face, covered completely in freckles and framed by a head of frizzy, curly brown hair, all dressed up in alabaster white robes emblazoned with the red cross.

Amy Dallon. Otherwise known as Panacea. The Miracle Cure who can fix any ailment short of death with just a touch and a minute to focus.

He can't help it. He laughs.

She gives him a queer look but doesn't say anything as he hands the lighter over, still chuckling to himself as he watches her light up a cig of her own.

"What's got you giggling like your the schoolgirl between us? I got something on my face?" The diminutive parahuman asks, her voice a mix between caustic and sarcastic. 

It really doesn't match her reputation. Somehow that just makes him laugh more.

She raises a brow and he turns away, back to facing the city as his chuckles die off.

"Nothing, nothing," he says, shaking his head before regarding her with a sardonic smile. "I'm just having one of those days, y'know?"

She raises a brow at him but doesn't say anything. However, he gets the strangest feeling that she understands. At least somewhat. How interesting.

Not long after that, the door opens again and Olivia's voice rings out.

"Kane. It's done. All you need to do now is sign some forms."

Flicking the butt of his cigarette over the edge of the hospital, Kane pushes away from the banister and turns around.

"Feel free to eat my breakfast," he says before leaving. "Nice meeting you, Amy."

"Kane," Olivia trails off once he reaches her, her eyes flicking between him and Panacea with visible sorrow.

He ignores her and walks on. He doesn't have anything to say.

The walk downstairs is silent, and he barely pays attention to it. Olivia might have said something, but he didn't hear it if she did.

Some papers were put in front of him, he only paid enough attention to find where to sign and do so.

Next thing he knows, he is holding an unadorned metal urn in his hands, and then he is back in his shitty apartment.

He puts the urn down on the kitchen counter and hangs up his jacket. Then he picks it back up and makes his way to the bathroom, where their washing machine is.

Putting the urn down on the closed toilet seat, he ignores the damp towels and strips down to his boxers, throwing his damp and coffee stained clothes into the machine and closing the door.

Grabbing the urn, he sits on the floor and watches his only set of work clothes spin around inside.

The drone of the machine matches with the ringing in his ears, and he feels nothing as he watches the clothes roll around.

He sees his reflection staring back at him in the glass. A body honed like a work of art over two decades of effort, and what does he have to show for it?

A dead-eyed stare and a bunch of ash.

"Just one of those days."

He's so tired.

///

A/N: He~llo! Dear readers!

Now this is a true return to form. I was watching a meme compilation on youtube and one of the memes was, I think, 'If a thriller movie director made a trailer about a normal day' or some such thing. It had like the cuts and the intense music over video that had the guy like slowly stubbing his toe while cutting through other inconveniences, like stepping in a drop of water in front of the fridge and talking to a therapist.

But it ended with him going. "Just one of those days" really dramatically, and then I got hit by inspiration and closed the tab and then wrote 10k words in one sitting. With a hangover mind you. I had an insane amount to drink yesterday. Second worst hangover of my life.

If only I could write all my fics with this kind of ease consistently.

Idk if I'm going to keep this up or if it's just going to be a oneshot. Didn't exactly plan it, it's just a muse kinda thing.

But if I did continue it, should I even give Kane powers? Or would it be more interesting just reading a fic about a dude with no powers at all? Idk.