Ana_TheFallenAngel

The place was barely lit— a lone, flickering lamp at the end being its only saving grace. The walls were mouldy and cracked with vines, bare of colour with few faded store signs placed on it, and the ground was littered with puddles of murky water and greying moss, the occasional rat skittering along its path with whatever crumb of waste it managed to salvage.

The air was putrid with the smell of all that was rotting away in the dumpster nearby and Grace was certain that the corners of this place had enough germs to cause a global pandemic.

Just need to get out of here and then I can–

His train of thought was paused when he looked up and took note of something. Wait, no, not something, someone.

The person was rested again the wall nearest to the end of the alleyway. From what Ryland could see, they were of a similar stature to him — maybe a bit more bulky and a teensy bit shorter — and most definitely male. The darkness surrounding him didn't leave for much to see, but he could tell that the man was clutching at his left side with the palm of his hand and his breathing was heavily laboured.

Holy sweet cakes, I should probably go and help.

A little, not-very-known fact about Ryland Grace was that he had the ability to heal others. The power had manifested much later in life than normal, and he had been excited until he learnt that the potency of his healing wasn't strong in the slightest.

It was incredibly useful for smaller wounds, cuts and, rarely, burns, but anything else would need a much stronger healer.

15-year-old him had taken the news with as much grace as he could. At least he had an ability — the same could not be said for nearly 70% of the human population.

The topic of his power had been frequently brought up when it first showed itself. But after a while, when people realised that it wasn't the cool, live-saving healing ability many of those in the I.H.O had, they started asking after it less and less — until the topic was buried all together.

His time in both the science community and then as a teacher never warranted him mentioning anything about his powers. Maybe to heal the occasionally bruise or scratch, but it wasn't something he brought up on its own.

If Ryland was being honest, there were moments in his life where he dreamed of a life where he had been given the life-saving healing powers people praised all the time. Maybe then he would have joined the I.H.O, or other agencies that helped power-holders of certain kinds; maybe then lives would be saved by his hand.

Although that had been nothing but a far-fetched dream, there were times he just wished for his powers to awaken — to manifest beyond what was already there, dormant in use. But, in all his life, Ryland doesn't think he has wished for it to awaken now.

He smelt it before he saw it — the sharp pang of metal that Grace had grown familiar with in his childhood. A smell that practically burned within him in mocking remembrance.

The, he saw it. Staining the already dark waters into a shade that made him want to puke.

Pit-pat. Pit-pat.

The sound was so light, even the huff of his own breathing overshadowed it.

The stranger was bleeding, and he was bleeding hard.

Shoot shoot shoot, uncaring for the state of his shoes, Ryland rushed over to the man in long, powerful strides, careful not to trip over anything hiding in the shadows. Soon enough, he was crouching next to the stranger, cleaning up his palms as he moved to asses the wound.

Holy stars above, was his first thought.

The cut went deep into his lower left side, revealing sore skin and internal bodily tissue. Colours of dirty yellow and rotten red greeted Ryland's eyes, and blood practically poured out of the injury— one that was no doubt infected.

This is much worse than I expected it to be, he couldn't help but think to himself in a panic, reaching for the lower part of the stranger's neck in search of a pulse; he breathed out a sigh of relief when he found it.

Thankfully, the man was just unconscious.

"What on earth did you get yourself into to get hurt like this?" Grace mumbled to himself as he slowly moved the man to a more comfortable position, aiming to help even with the little power he had.

"Were you being hunted by some kind of villa–"

The words practically died on his tongue as his eyes raked across the stranger's 'face'.

Except, he wasn't too much of a stranger, and there was not much of a face to be seen. How could there be? When the frame of the mask Ryland was faced with was one plastered against every TV and newspaper known to man?

The Butcher.

One of the I.H.O's most terrifying opponent.

Ryland wasn't one for gossip or small talk, but he still kept up with what was happening around the world— so it was near impossible to miss word of a man like this.

A man who had the ability to manipulate blood, whether it be in one's body or out. The thought of such a power alone was terrifying, and to imagine someone using it for evil was even more so.

The Butcher, a man with a kill count rumoured to be in the thousands, some even saying it had reach millions! Yet, here he was, bruised and battered in a dingy alleyway with more rats than clean air, bleeding out and laid grimy along the moss-carpeted floors.

Ryland had promised himself to never be present whenever a villain was around (with the exception of having to take care of his students or elderly neighbours in the case of an attack), and this was no doubt breaking the very promise he had sworn on his brother's ridiculously expensive lego collection to keep.

Sweet mother of pearl, was he really doing this?

Why was this even in question? This man was a murderer who had done nothing but cause chaos and unease in the city; had an ability so mind-warping many believed it to be false until they saw it with their very own eyes, and used it to hurt people; had a bounty so high billionaires were clawing at each other to be the one to capture the infamous Butcher.

Ryland hated that he found himself pausing instead of getting the heck on out of there.

Ocean tinted eyes swept over the villain's form. His outfit was rather mundane for someone of his status and caliber: a plain, yet thick sage green t-shirt with a dark, long-sleeved bodysuit hugging his figure underneath it; pants that were of a faded blue and ripped in too many places, easily coupled with the old maroon work boots he wore; and a short beige cloak layered over his shirt that extended no further beyond his elbows.

The mask The Butcher wore was something that Ryland found hard to look at for too long. Not because it was scary by any means — far from it, actually; merely a forest-green oval mask that covered the entirety of his face, having two coloured glass lenses signalling where his eyes were meant to be and a strap that held his hair back in a low ponytail— but because of the what it meant.

A mask that Ryland saw at the forefront of every anti-villain poster in the city. A mask people that literally sent chills down people's spine's whenever in the near vicinity. A mask that symbolised chaos, insecurity and danger.

Still, even with the uncertainty looming over him, Ryland couldn't find it in himself to just get up and leave. Worse, he wanted to stay and help — even though that would definitely bring about consequences he had means to face at such a time in his life.

Crack.

The light sound was practically a yell in the stillness of the alleyway, and Ryland's eyes moved just in time to watch as The Butcher's mask broke apart like aged plastic. The material crumpled like moulded paper — one half falling onto the concrete flooring where the villain laid, while the other stubbornly clung to where it was fixed on the man's face, albeit holding on rather weakly — leaving the view of more than half a face to cerulean eyes.

Sweet stars above...

Even with barely a full face to show, The Butcher's features were... softer beneath the unease of the expressionless mask. Easy around the edges and rather nice on the eyes. His skin was dirtied with dust, blood and grim, but Ryland could tell that it was a lovely shade of warm ivory. He had a scruffy beard that wasn't too grown out which perfectly matched his shoulder-length hair, both of a shade that was a deep brown bordering a rusty black.

He looked...normal. Someone Ryland would look at for a few seconds before turning away to focus on something else. He was good looking, yes — probably enough to get a modelling contract in a world like this — but still plain enough to go about his day without a hitch.

Was this the oh-so powerful villain everyone feared so much?

Ryland immediately shook that thought out his head with the answer, Yes, yes it was.

He looked normal, but Ryland didn't know him— didn't know if he actually was normal.

But, then again, most of what was known of The Butcher was news given by the I.H.O, the media or word of mouth— three of which weren't the most unbiased form of information.

But he chooses to become a villain! The reasonable part of him argued.

There are a lot of vigilantes out there who do good but aren't recognised by official hero outlets, maybe he was one of those before being labeled as a villain? The empathetic side of him gave in response.

And the kill count?? His reasoning countered.

They're only rumours!! Besides, do you really think the Hero society will allow one person have a kill count that high?? His empathy rebutted.

Ryland was still in a state of intense internal conflict when he heard a weak cough leave the lips of the should-be-unconcious villain. A visible eye that should have been shut slit open just the slightest, as if trying to survey the area. From where Ryland had laid him along the cemented floor, a dark brown eye finally landed on him, and he could literally see the Butcher go from confused to panicked.

"W-wh't? W'er am I?" The words came out in a pained rasp, the stretch of the body's muscles causing a jolt of pain to run through the brunette's body. A gasp of what Ryland could only describe as pure terror was what followed soon after, and a weakened arm — shakily yet sharply — reached out towards the open face, staggering quite a bit when skin met with skin.

"Shit."

"Uh," Ryland had barely gotten the syllable out when that sharp eye returned to his figure; this time, filled with undeniable terror and panic. The movement of the villain's chest quickened as he croaked out, "M'sk, fuck."

Grace felt his muscles freeze in their place when the villain swore; whether out of surprise or fear, he couldn't tell. Still, even with the risks that presented themselves on a platter of gold, he needed to clarify, "I didn't take it off...it broke, and fell apart."

The last word had only gotten free when he felt himself under the scrutiny of the brunette's visible eye. He wasn't sure if the man believed him — for Ryland's sake, he hoped he did — and, despite the pressure of such a heavy gaze, he continued, "I found you here, in this alley, really messed up..."

The Butcher, haggard as he was, tilted his head as if answering, "'Yeah, no shit."

"And, uh," Stars above, he really hated to stutter at a moment like this! "I just can't, um..."

Unfortunately for both of them, The Butcher didn't seem to have enough energy to remain lucid for much longer—if the way the arm he had used to cover parts of his face slowly slid down his bodice was any indication; it was even a miracle that he had survived this long without proper medical care.

"I have the ability to heal people–"

Visible eye widened.

"–but it isn't strong; it would probably only make the wound hurt less or close it up a bit." He blew warm air into his palms, slowly making his way towards the still-stiff body as his every move was watched with the intensity of a hawk.

"And, before you pass out, yes, I know who you are," Ryland let his eyes close, making sure to focus the flow of his internal energy towards his hands.

"I know what you've done, to the city and its people..." he continued, feeling the familiar flow of warm, easy energy coursing through him, "...and I'm pretty sure that there's not a single person who doesn't know about the bounty placed atop your head."

He'd seen it too many times to not have it ingrained in his head.

The Butcher, Wanted: Dead or Alive

Its reward was a number Ryland couldn't even begin to fathom.

"But, still," his voice lowered to right above a murmur, all his focus pinned upon healing what he could of the wound, "You're a human too."

He stopped talking, opening a singular eye which softened at the sight of his power in action— a warm glow of space blue, enwrapped in a thin line of sharp silver; energy seeping deep into the flesh and tissue of its subject, stitching bodily parts back together with the softness of a feather against skin. Ryland could feel his energy draining with every minute that passed as he held his palms above the man's loosening body; he was using much more energy than he would regularly use, but he found that he didn't mind that.

He could feel bile rising at the back of his throat a good 10 minutes in. Now, the blood had stopped flowing and the innermost parts of the cut had been sown back together. The infection was now mostly gone, with only the edges of the wound stained a dirty shade of purple and grey. The Butcher, to his credit, had not gone back to being unconscious— instead, he continued to watch Grace with a look that the blond wished he would put away, it was making him nervous!

Ryland knew he had reached his limit when he could begin to taste blood instead of bile and the shade of his powers glow began to take on a colder tone. Thankfully, it seemed that a majority of the pain on the man's body had been lifted, and the wound was no longer life-threatening.

In a sudden movement, he quickly moved his head to cough out the small blood that had rested along his throat, careful not to choke on his own spit. By the time he looked back at his 'patient', the man had moved to sit properly against the wall. Ryland was a bit surprised that the other half of the mask was still fixed on the other's face, but quickly looked away when he noticed the dark oak eyes still stuck on his face.

"Uh..." This was so stupidly awkward, "Are you alri–"

"Why di' you help me?" The Butcher's semi-normal voice was surprisingly soft, or maybe that was just the man getting of the high of Ryland's ability. At least he didn't look panicked, angry or frustrated; Ry wasn't sure what he would do if a man who could literally manipulate the blood inside your body turned on him in a panicked state.

Still, the question the man asked left him in an uncomfortable stump, because even he didn't know why he didn't do the right thing and call the authorities to deal with the dying man instead.

Even if he hadn't gone to call the authorities, he could have still left him to die in that alleyway and nobody would be wiser.

Ryland's brows furrowed at that second thought, one that made him even more uncomfortable than the question did. So, he decided to give his honest answer, "I don't know."

That stern gaze continued to bore into his soul and, this time, Ryland didn't hesitate to stare right back.

It was one thing to observe a man while he was unconscious— when even his most minuscule of features were frozen by immobility. The Butcher — awake, attentive — to Ryland's surprise, wasn't too different from how he was asleep.

He is beautiful.

...

Why in the ever-loving stars did he think that?!

"Wow, well you look at the time!" The words rushed out of his mouth as he finally stood up, ignoring the sore of his knees from kneeling and crouching for nearly 40 minutes straight, "I need to go!"

Ryland had barely moved a step when a rough palm caught his arm and pulled him back firmly.

Stars above, is this how I die???

Just as he was about to turn — turn, plead and beg to be let go — the other man spoke up, voice carrying a softness Ryland would have never associated with a person like him, "Thank you... for helping me."

Ry was, to say the least, surprised by the words; and, despite needing to have left this alley over an hour ago, he found himself giving the villain a genuine smile.

"Uh, yeah, no problem! Just..." he mulled over his next choice of words for a second before deciding to just go for it, "Don't get into any fights any time soon, you almost died in a rotten alley way and I am certain that wasn't the way you wanted to go."

If the Butcher was fazed by his blatant comment, he didn't show it and decided to let go of Grace's arm instead.

"I hear ya... thanks again."

Ryland gave another small smile before turning towards the end of the path and doing his best not to break into a sprint.