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The light tapping of a walking cane against marble floor can be heard. The screen opens to show a boy, about nine years, walking down a hallway crowded with children, conversing amongst themselves. Every now and then, some would send disgusted looks the boys way.
All of a sudden, an ankle appears in his path. The boy, unable to see, trips, and fall to the ground with a sickening thud. The corridor erupts in a cacophony of laughter and snickers. The boy with whiskey-brown eyes, is now flailing his arms around, trying to get a sense of his surroundings, as he had absolutely no clue of up and down.
"Look at poor Willy Nilly."A low grumbling voice said. "He can't even get up like a normal person." The boy on the ground , now known as William, groans quietly. He was really hoping to not go through this again. Jackson, was the big bad bully at the Orphanage, being the oldest, at 14. And he for some reason had a beef with William, as did every other kid.
It wasn't because, William was mean to them before. Oh no. It was because he was different. He was pale and skinny. There were dark brown bags under his eyes, though you couldn't see it with his glasses on. It wasn't that there was not enough food for the kids to eat. All the other kids would lock him up in the dorm, and eat most of the food, leaving barely enough for William to survive. Sometimes he had to eat food almost 2 days old. He wouldn't play with them, preferring to stay in his bed and reading. But perhaps his biggest crime was that he was blind. That he couldn't do the things that others could.
A harsh kick was sent to his ribs, followed by another to his face, causing a hot red liquid to spurt out of his nose and mouth. His ears were ringing, and William was sure he had a concussion.
A few moments later, almost everybody in the hallway had surrounded him and were hitting every part of his body, Jackson using the red and white walking cane. William just stayed there, with low whimpers coming out of his mouth. If he didn't fight back, they would probably leave, or a caretaker would come and disperse them.
And soon enough, that happened.
"Hey! Get out of here!", Margie, a caretaker's voice invaded his ears, sending all the kids scampering away. William started to feel around and attempt to find his cane, until two warm hands wrapped around his torso, getting him in an upright position, and putting a long object, his cane in his palm.
A few moments later, a damp cloth started running over the multiple cuts that had appeared on his face. He flinched every so often, as the wounds stinged.
After a few minutes a loud sigh rolled out of Margie's mouth.
"Why do you let them get to you Will?", she asked, holding his face in her soft palms.
"I can't help it. They just attack me for nothing." , he spoke, barely above a whisper, in case anyone was listening in on their conversation, as a few tears rolled down his cheek.
Margie immediately hugged him, and ran her fingers through his soft curls, while he quietly broke down into sobs, as she whispered multiple endearing words in his ear.
An older William, jolted up from his bed, with his breathing shallow and erratic. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, as the warm scent of pie invaded his nose. Mr. Ditkovich's daughter was an amazing cook. He closed his eyes, and activated echo-location. Multiple slow heartbeats entered his ears, soft laps of water, the chirping of birds, the booming laughter of drunk friends, laughing at a stupid joke, an argument between a young couple, a whimpering old man, begging for his life. Wait. He focused and saw a man at gunpoint, while he emptied the cash register. There were three men, one was standing guard at the door, one had the gun at the man's head, and one was taking away all the groceries. The shop was about three blocks away, so it should take him about 25 seconds to get there. He needed to move.
He jumped to his feet, absentmindedly outstretched both his arms and grabbed his black hoodie and mask, which covered his jaw. Running to the window, he leaped off, a purple trail following him, and his body flew towards his destination.
"Do it quick man.", the man with the gun demanded, shoving the revolver further.
"I...I'm going as fa....fast as I can."
A loud yell pierces through the air, and the man on the door is whipped upwards. A purple blur appears at the front, and then rushes inside, leaping from one wall to the other to avoid the inaccurate gunfire. It pounces at the man near the aisles, and three scratch marks appear on his abdomen. He's then flung into through the air, and banged into one of the glass shelves, shattering it. The blur then speeds towards the gunman, who, with shaky hands was trying to reload his revolver. The purple blur stops inches away from his face, revealing a man in black pajamas, and a black hoodie. They grab the man's right arm, the one with the gun, and start to slowly bend it at an awkward angle, eliciting multiple cracks and whimpers. The man's heartbeat was through the roof, adrenaline pumping at an exasperating rate through his veins.
"Who the hell are you man." , he asked, staring into the figure's eyes, which were now blood red, with black veins protruding from the skin, which now turned to a haunting blue.
"I am Night-Crawler." They said and snarled at the man.
The man, now completely overtaken with fear, passed out.
The figure now turned towards the shopkeeper, who was now on the ground, his body shaking, while he mumbled a prayer under his breath, a cross in his palms.
The figure merely chuckled, grabbed a packet of bread, left 5 dollars on the counter, and walked while yelling, "Keep the change.".
The man started praying loudly. A piece of glass dropped on the ground and shattered, eliciting an ungodly scream from the silver haired man.
The figure stepped out onto the sidewalk, and pulled of their mask, revealing William standing there with a tired look on his face.
He felt a vibration in his chest, and pulled out his phone. The shape of his irises turned from a well defined circle, to more of an amoeboid. He read the contact name as Clint Barton. His brows furrowed. It was well past 12. Why would he be calling him now?
"Hey Uncle Clint.", he spoke, putting the phone to his ear.
"I need your help. Someone stole the Ronin suit."
A/N: So that turned out later than expected. I clicked publish, but it didn't.
But now it will.
Here ya go
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