[center][img]https://farm8.staticflickr.com/7073/7176990981_5f34e3d7e0.jpg[/img]
[b]Summer, 2012
Late Evening
Bronx, New York[/b][/center]

Matthew could feel a sharp wind cross his bare back as he crossed the length of his apartment roof. He’d paced it out throughout the evening, noting where all obstroctions laid. He spoke to his supper and was able to work out a deal for the use of the hard bottomed space for practice and training. Generally this meant installing a few balance beams and punching bags, which would be easy enough with a little help from friends. He would have to use a good chuck of what little he had of his inheritance in order to fund the set-up, but this new job with the Nelson firm should allow him to bounce back easily enough. 

A small flight of pigeons cooed near a pile of seeds to Matthew’s right, he could hear their pecking and the sounds of their sharp claws etching on the concrete. His attention was drawn to them in such a way as he had not experienced before, something deep and attentive was pulled from somewhere within. And he could smell the seeds they kicked up, mixed with their feathers and the smell of cloth and detergent drifting up from the nearby laundromat. He could nearly see the birds, nearly understand them. And then, with the singular clicking from one of the birds, Matt received a clear image of the gathering of pigeons. All lined up along the side of the stone rooftop overlooking the stark skyline painted dark by the brilliant, invisible sunset behind it. The image he received was almost entirely contrasting shades with unusual dark green and blue outlines in some places, but it was entirely marvelous to him. His hand came to his mouth and he murmered something even he couldn’t understand, and his eyes watered to saturation, though a tear could not fall. 

This was the third time something like this had happened, and he knew it wasn’t normal. Perhaps it had something to do with toxic materials in the truck. Matt had be told by his doctors that the fluid seemed to have no effect, aside from the obvious, that they could tell, but had destroyed the criminal Matthew was chasing down who’d been covered in the stuff. An investigation is still ongoing as to where the truck was coming from and how it ended up where it was. Almost no progress has been made in the investigation of why these men were doing what they were doing, and why Matthew’s Aunt was a part of it. This temporary sight, and the clearly enhanced auditory and olfactory senses could provide Matthew with a new path of opportunity. 

The image of his aunt’s crushed face flashed somewhere in Matthew’s consciousness and he grimaced. The heat of anger rose up his neck and he felt the same way he had in the lamplight of the docks; [i]powerful, confident[/i]. Matthew clenched one of his fists as he watched the image of the skyline fade from him, and return to nothing. Matthew would have his revenge, he’d decided [i]that[/i] in the dying light of his vision. Suddenly the scuffing of sneakers against tile reached Matt’s ears and he was surprised that Karen had been able to get this far without him noticing. The morbid fascinations still hung to him like smoke to a fireman and he considered praying to make it go away; he needn’t spoil Karen with thoughts like that. She approached carefully and grabbed at his wrist first like she always did. He faked a smile through the fog of anger and the anxiety of redemption and he wondered how he’d look after all of it was done. Would he be bathed in blood, as indeed his enemies would be? Would he be the same-- could he be the same?

She smelled like lialac for some reason and the residue of envelope glue still stuck to her fingertips. He felt her sweet breath cross his chest and drift to his neck and up his nostrils. Her soft, fluffy lips met his chapped sweaty ones and lingered, her hands circling across his abdomen. 

“How’d you find me?” Matt asked.

“Tom (the supper) told me” Karen responded. 

“Can’t have secrets these days, can you?”

“Not from me.” She retorted, as if hearing his true thoughts. “I brought home something from Red Dragon."

“That sound’s good. I’ll meet you downstairs.” He said easily. 

“You’re sweating bullets, were you just working out up here?” she asked, addressing his shirtlessness among other things. 

“Yeah, right before you came up.” He responded. It’d been an hour since he’d worked out at all, he was just steaming with anger, with regret, and sorrow, and desperation. If he wanted to be a lawyer he would have to get used to lying, at least a little. Living with Karen would be good practice.  

[b][center]***[/center][/b]

After a few more moments on the roof alone, Matt made his way downstairs. He ate with his now live-in girlfriend, “watched” some tv, and waited for her to slink off to the bedroom. After Matt was sure Karen was taking a shower he retrieved a case from behind his entertainment console and withdrew the katana therein. He focused on the smell of carbon lifting from the cold steel and rubbed the tip of his finger along the chiseled crevice, letting off a solid chime. An image of the shining sword, with it’s finely crafted handle, struck Matt with an undefinable awe. He saw his future and his past all at once and he simply couldn’t stand the anxiety, and the fear, and the anger which was welling up within him.