Pick-Up

Micheal Peterson:

I slowly breathe in and out while moving my arm up and down.

"Ahh," I moan. Stopping, I look down at my arm. A bandage covers the part of my arm where Vengeance cut me. Despite already applying ointment to it, it's still hurt.

Slowly putting down my arm, I start moving my fingers instead. Moving them back and forth for a few minutes, I let out a sigh of relief.

While still moving my fingers, I open the folder on my desk. The first thing I see when I open the folder is a picture of a smiling man with very short brown hair and blue eyes. The man is wearing a cap and gown, the ones a person wears when graduating.

"Wow," I say, picking the picture up. "They don't have a more recent picture of Vengeance. Oh, wait. Here is it."

After putting the first picture down, I pick up the second one beneath it. In this one, Vengeance looks way more serious. He isn't smiling but frowning. Also, the way he looks at the camera makes it feel like he's staring right at me. I feel uncomfortable, but I can't put the picture down because there's something important about it.

"Vengeance was in the military?"

It's a few days after my fight with Vengeance and during those few days, I haven't seen him since. He vanishes into the night without a truce. Thankfully, Mick didn't. The police found and arrested him. During their investigation, they also found a fingerprint and with that fingerprint, they learned of Vengeance's identity. Wanting to learn it too, I snuck into the police station and copied his folder. Back in my hideout, I look over everything.

According to the file, Vengeance, whose real name is Malcolm Donovan, was actually an excellent student and stand-up citizen. He got nothing but A's and B's in high school and college. When he finished college, he got a job at a construction company.

"Sounds like an okay life," I say, "Actually, better than okay. So, what happened?"

Digging through a little more, I come upon a picture of Malcolm with a young woman with short black hair. The two are hugging each other and smiling.

"Oh no," I say, picking up the picture of Malcolm and the young woman. "I really don't like where this is going."

Unfortunately, my theory is proven right when I look at the picture underneath. This picture shows Malcolm at a funeral. He's wearing a suit and is looking at a tombstone.

A lump forms in my throat. I swallow and force the lump down as I read the newspaper clipping beside it.

"Malcolm Donovan and his fiancee, Mia, were attacked by the 23rd Gang while walking home one night," the clipping starts. "Despite his injuries, Malcolm was rushed to the nearest hospital's ICU and saved. Mia, however, did not survive her injuries."

Another lump forms in my throat as my hand shakes uncontrollably. Breathing in and out, I calm down and put the picture and clipping down.

Putting my hands together, my fingers passing each other, I rest my head on my hands.

"Malcolm," I think. "I know this doesn't mean anything, but I'm sorry about what happened."

I give a moment of silence for Mia before reading the rest of the file. According to everything else, after surviving his injuries, Malcolm quit his job at the construction company and joined the military. He served for five long years before returning to Los Angeles a year ago. After all of that, he basically vanished without a truce.

"His last credit card transaction was almost a full year ago. He brought a large backpack, a canteen, microwave food, and clothes."

As I look over his last transaction, I hear singing and shoot up, screaming.

"Aahhh!"

Bringing up my fists, I turn around and prepare myself for a fight. I look around the empty hotel room but I don't see anything.

"What the--"

The singing is still going on. Following the noise, I look down at my pants. Patting my pockets, I pull out my cell phone.

"Oh," I say. "Ha. Whoo."

I calm myself down before answering my phone.

"Hello, Mom. What's up?"

"Oh, Micheal," my mom starts. "Listen. Are you busy right now?"

"Uhh."

I turn toward the files on Malcolm Donovan.

"I just read the files," I think. "I was hoping to find a location for Malcolm but there's nothing. So I guess I'm not busy."

"No," I answer. "Why?"

"That's wonderful," my mom says. I can hear her sighing. "Micheal, can you please pick up Alex from school today? Someone got sick today and my manager asked if I could come in today. I said yes."

"Sure," I say, nodding. My mom thanks me before ending the call. Checking the time on my phone, I jump into the air again. "Oh no. I'm going to be late. I'm going to be late!"

I close the file quickly, throw it into my drawer, and run to my car as fast as I can.

Alex Peterson:

Crossing my arms, I look at my stupid brother sitting in the driver's seat. He looks at his rear-view mirror and sees me. With my eyes, I throw knife after knife at him.

"Okay," Micheal yells, "I get it! You're mad at me. You can stop with the eyes. Please. You're making me uncomfortable."

I don't listen to my brother. Instead, I lean forward, throwing even more knives at him. Micheal sighs before looking back at the road.

We stayed like this for a while, not having a conversation, until finally, I broke the silence.

"I can't believe you were late," I scream.

"I wasn't that late," Micheal replies.

"You were two hours late! What happened?"

"Uhh," my brother says. I watch him stare into space like one of the zombies from his game. Shaking my head and rolling my eyes, I slam my back into the seat and tighten my crossed arms.

Micheal:

Sighing as my little brother keeps on throwing daggers at me, I step on the gas and drive forward.

"It's not like I was trying to be late," I think. "As I was getting ready to leave my base, I realized my motorcycle was out of gas. I brought some gas from a nearby station and filled it up, but after that, turned out my car was almost out of gas too. So that was two trips to the gas station!"

As much as I want to tell my brother this, I know I shouldn't because, technically, I don't even have a motorcycle. Someone our dad hates does.

Driving forward, heading to our house, I take a peek in my rear-view mirror.

"That's strange."

While looking at my brother with the sword-throwing eyes, I see something else. Directly behind us is a black sedan.

Normally, someone won't care very much about some black sedan but I recognize the car. It was one of the cars still in the parking lot when I picked up Alex. I recognize the license plate too.

"Hey Alex," I say, turning on my signal to change lanes. "Are you thirsty? Do you want something to drink?"

"No," Alex replies coldly. "I just want to get back home."

"Yeah, well sorry. I'm parched. I'm going to look for a 7-11. Okay?'

"What? No! Can't you just get a drink at home?"

I ignore my brother and turn to the right. The black sedan follows us. I drive for a longer bit longer before stopping and pulling over.

"This isn't 7-11," Alex says.

"I'm not too picky."

Keeping my head down, I rush into the random store. Speed-walking inside, I quickly close the door and look through the window.

Just as I thought, the black sedan is following us! The driver parks on the other side and turns off the headlights. Keeping an eye on him, I reach into my pocket and pull out a cell phone.

"Dad," I whisper. "I hope you're not too busy."

About to call him, I see the door open and the driver gets out. The driver is a tall man wearing a camouflage jacket and pants with a brown cap. Also, despite keeping his head down, I can see a stubble beard.

"Who are you," I ask.

"Excuse me," an elderly man says from behind me. "Can I help you?"

I open my mouth to say no but before I can, I see the tall man pull something out from his pocket. He's walking toward my car. He's walking toward Alex!

"Noo," I shout, bursting out of the store. As I run out, the tall raises his handgun.