Ian exited the subway tunnel and entered Hell's Kitchen, keeping to himself as he paced toward Swann's dive bar. Neither the cold air, nor the sketchy lurkers perusing at this late hour, hindered his purposeful stride. He was on a mission now; focused on his hunt for the truth. His patience had run its course and if Anthony knew something, anything, Ian was going to do whatever he felt was necessary to make him talk. A slither of guilt made Ian conscious of his behavior; forced him to analyze his violent tendencies. From his own mind, the only thing he can recall are childhood memories. Everything after that point, up until four days ago, are blank chapters erased into oblivion. 

He was undeniably afraid of what he might discover, but he couldn't choose to simply live in ignorance forever, not with so many questions left unanswered. He sought to fill the gaps in his head with the dream diary now plastered all over his apartment, but some entries were so farfetched, that he didn't know what to believe anymore. His whole concept of reality was in a state of flux, and the line between fact and fiction became more and more obscure. This was further complicated by mutant powers that he barely understood, much less knew how to control. On the first night Ian woke into consciousness, he accidentally shapeshifted into identical pieces of furniture in his apartment. He then watched a boxing match on TV the following day, and perfectly mimicked the champion's KO punch in a bar fight later that night. 

Ian reasoned no psychologist or doctor could give him answers that didn't involve crazy pills, or a straitjacket. [i]But it [b]is[/b] crazy, ain't it?[/I] He thought, feeling uneasy about this sudden realization. [i]If someone finds out about me and sees the writing on my walls, they'll take me for some damn psycho. But what if I am? What if I'm just dreaming all this up in some ward, bouncing around padded walls like a damn loon?[/I] 
 
"Sorry," 

Ian shook from his thoughts, completely unaware of his surroundings. He turned, and as he locked eyes with the bystander that bumped into him, a soft face with curly brown hair revealed herself in the dim street light. 

"You," She uttered softly, and Ian felt a sense of hostility emanating from her. His eyes widened.

"You know me?!" He yelled more than asked, stomping towards her with an intense expression on his face. "You know who I am?" Ian sounded manic, but this sudden turn of events had opened the floodgates, and he couldn't contain his relief. He nearly convinced himself that he was a delusional psychopath just a minute ago, but now someone knew who he was! Someone real, Ian hoped. 

He prayed she wasn't a figment of his imagination, that this wasn't another dream waiting to be added to his scrapbook of possible memories. Ian stepped forward and surveyed her facial features, willing himself to believe that he recognized her, but he didn't. Ian had to touch her, make sure that she was an actual human being and not some illusion. Then, just as he grabbed her by the shoulders, an excruciating beam of pain traveled through his arms, jolting straight through his skull. 

"AGHH!!!" He dropped to the ground, cupping his ears in a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sudden attack. A torrent of imagery cascaded into his mind's eye, and through the blitz of scenes that he managed to catch vague glimpses of, Ian realized what he was experiencing. These were dreams, his dreams, but as they projected all around him, they felt realer than ever. He watched his hands wring countless lives into nonexistence. He tasted rich wine in a room full of powerful men in suits. He battled heroes without mercy, and among the capes and masks he dueled with, [i]her[/I] face suddenly became familiar. The shrill cry of whinnying horses blared into his ears, and the same hand from his latest dream reached out to grab him. As it did, it grew larger and larger, until it clutched Ian like a helpless doll. 

"This isn't real...this isn't real..." He whispered to himself.

"Hey, chica..." A man's voice called out. Ian glanced around, trying to discern reality from the dream canvas consuming him. "This foo botherin' you?" He willfully forced himself to get his bearings straight, allowing a moment's respite from the hallucinogenic episode. Five silhouettes crossed the street and came into view, fanning out until they surrounded both Ian and the woman.

"Yeah, girl," Another voice called out, "That crackhead is tweakin. Come ride with us instead. We'll make it worth your while..." Ian clenched his jaw at the lowlife's suggestive tone, invoking an unpleasant memory about his mother. It was one he wished was erased along with the others, and the mere thought of it had ignited a fierce storm from within. Ian rose from the sidewalk, and as he grabbed hold of a street light pole to catch his balance, its halogen bulb flickered erratically. 

The group of thugs hesitated in their advance, but one of them summoned enough courage to lunge forward, knife in hand. "Gut em!" He barked, rallying his posse to follow after him. The knife man went straight for Ian, who was flanked by the biggest member of the gang. The other three went straight for the woman.