OutMan The Beginning (1)

Let's Go Back to Where it All Really Began

The sun blazes above West City, crisp and golden, casting long shadows over gleaming skyscrapers and buzzing sidewalks. Car horns, morning lattes, music from shop windows—life is in full motion. This is the kind of morning that whispers everything is okay. But not for long. Inside a cozy fourth-floor apartment, wrapped in half-lit golden rays, a young Donatello Jace begins his day. He's sprawled across his bed, half-buried under the covers, still tangled in the warmth of dreams and possibilities. His tousled brown hair is wild like he's wrestled a tornado in his sleep, and when his eyes flicker open—those bright blue eyes that feel like open skies on a spring morning—they're still groggy with sleep. He breathes in. Holds it. Exhales. For a moment, he just exists. No deadlines. No headlines. No speedsters from the future. No legacy to carry. Just Donnie. 22. Young. Alive. Unaware. On his nightstand sits a book—left open, a page dog-eared. He eyes it for a moment, Donnie swings his legs over the edge of the bed and plants his feet on the floor, the wood cool beneath his toes. Muscles tighten as he drops into a set of pushups—rhythmic, focused, like a man who's trying to prove something to himself before the world even wakes up. "Twenty... twenty-one... twenty-tw—" A knock rattles his door. Urgent. Sharp. Familiar. "Donnie! You're gonna be late for work!" He sighs, collapsing dramatically onto the floor like the world just ended. But his lips twitch into a grin. Lily Jace, his younger sister—the one with fire in her words and trouble in her grin—waits on the other side of the door, arms crossed. Her voice has that effortlessly sultry tone that dances between sarcasm and care. She's already dressed, already perfect. The kind of person who's chaos and control in the same breath. Donnie opens the door, hair a mess, shirtless, breathless from the pushups, and she eyes him like he's the slowest-loading webpage of the century. "You good, or are you trying to Skip Out on Work?" He smirks. "What if I told you I had a dream about running faster than light? Like... flashbang speed. Might be a sign." She raises a brow. "Cool. Can your prophetic dreams get you dressed and out the door before your editor murders you?" He throws on his shirt with a shrug. "No promises." "Also, you left your cereal out again. You trying to invent milk mold or what?" Donnie groaned,  throws on a jacket as he slides out of his room, and takes the stairs two at a time. At the bottom, his sister greets him with an eyebrow raise. "Looking fresh as always, Whitmore," she quips, arms crossed playfully. Donnie grins and flashes a thumbs-up. "Always gotta look fresh." His sister—Lilly Jace, 20, a college student—stands with effortless confidence. She's 5'4", with wild curls framing her striking face and piercing wide-set blue eyes that always seem to be calculating something brilliant. She's got a peachy, radiant complexion and a build that says she could run a mile or knock someone out—probably both. Every movement she makes is quiet but purposeful, like she's got choreography running under her skin. He moves toward the fridge, opening it with muscle memory, eyes scanning the contents like a practiced hunter. Juice carton. Glass. Perfect pour. He does it with a little flair—because why not? "Simple," Donnie says. "Like Mom would always say, in her own weird way." Lilly smiles. "Mom had the brain of a fashion designer." Donnie chuckles. "She'd have crushed that industry. As for Dad, he had the lawyer thing down..." He pauses, taking a sip of the juice, savoring the tang as it hits his tongue. It tastes like summer and nostalgia. "But he chose to stay home with us." Lilly looks at him, something soft flashing in her eyes. Donnie just smiles, quiet for a second—then her voice cuts in "Aren't you gonna be late for work?" His eyes widen. "Right! Right—crap!" He slams the glass down, grabs his bag from the counter with practiced speed, tosses a quick apology over his shoulder, and flies out the front door like he's already chasing a headline. Donatello Whitmore Jace was the kind of person who walked like he had somewhere to be—even when he didn't. There was always a flicker in his eye, like his thoughts were moving three steps ahead of reality. He wasn't the loudest in the room, nor the strongest, nor the most impressive on paper—but he was the type of guy who left an impression. He was raised in a house built on kindness. His parents, both brilliant in their own ways, chose love over legacy. His mother, stylish and sharp, could've run the fashion world if she hadn't chosen the suburbs. His father, a natural-born litigator, stepped back from courtrooms to change diapers and pack school lunches. Donnie never forgot that. He carried that memory like a compass. He was a dreamer, but not delusional. He wanted more than this city could give—but he also loved this city. Its chaos, its rhythm, its stories. That's why he became a journalist. Not because he liked the grind—but because he couldn't not tell the truth when he saw it. The city was a puzzle, and Donnie lived for the edges, the parts no one else paid attention to. He wanted to hold the whole picture in his hands one day. Still, beneath the charm and confidence, there was weight. Donnie had always felt... behind. Like he missed a train no one else saw leaving. His peers had it together. Degrees. Plans. Paths. Donnie? He had questions. Dreams. Half-finished drafts and an inbox full of rejection letters. But he kept going. Always kept going. That's who Donnie Jace was. A boy on the cusp of something bigger. A man who didn't know his story was about to start writing him. Donatello Jace wasn't the kid you remembered from high school. He wasn't voted "Most Likely to Succeed," never made the honor roll, didn't go to prom with the popular crowd. If anything, he was the ghost in the classroom—the one who always had the right answer but never raised his hand. The kid who sat at the edge of the lunch table, half-hoping someone would scoot over, half-praying they wouldn't notice him. Growing up, Donnie was the odd one out. The punchline to a joke he didn't ask to be part of. Not cool enough to fit in, not bold enough to stand out, not rebellious enough to be feared—just... there. Always making mistakes. Always tripping over his words or misreading the moment. He learned to shrink himself early. To blend. To disappear. Because being invisible felt safer than being rejected. But deep down, there was always that flicker. That raw, painful need to belong. To sit with people who actually saw him, not the version they assumed he was. To be loved in the same loud, fearless way he loved others. That's the thing about Donnie: he cared. Way too much. For people who didn't care back. For friends who forgot him. For crushes who didn't even know his name. His heart was open in a world that didn't know what to do with a heart like his. And when his parents died in that crash... something in him shattered. Not all at once. Quietly. Slowly. Like a light fading in a hallway you never walked down again. He shut it all out after that. The world. The noise. The pain. All of it. Everyone—except for Lily. His little sister. The one constant. The only piece of the world he hadn't lost, hadn't been failed by. She became his anchor, his reason. Because if the world didn't care about him, why should he care about it? All he needed was her. His family. His last link to the version of himself that still believed things could be okay. Donnie didn't become strong because he was brave. He became strong because he had to be. For her. But deep in the cracks... under the bitterness, under the loss... was still that same kid. Hoping to be seen. Waiting to be chosen. Wondering if maybe—just maybe—his story hadn't started yet. Donnie sat on the bus, eyes glazed over as the city blurred past his window. The clouds drifted like silent ghosts across the sky, mirroring the haze in his head. He wasn't really seeing them. Not the clouds. Not the people. Not even the world moving around him. He was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere back in time. Back to when he was a kid—just a preteen, curled up in his bedroom with the TV humming softly. His favorite show played in the background, laughter echoing in the room, back when the world still felt whole. Safe. That one fleeting moment of comfort was all it took for the memory to shatter. A knock on the door. His new legal guardian stood there, face grim, voice heavy. Everything froze. And then... the words came. His parents were gone. Just like that. A crash. No warning. No goodbye. Donnie hadn't even cried at first. It didn't feel real. How could it be? Just an hour ago, he was laughing. Now the world was upside down, and no one was there to explain it. To fix it. He couldn't even bring himself to tell Lily. She was too little. Too innocent. He couldn't break her like that. So he didn't. He held it in. He put on a mask. He smiled when he had to. He made jokes. He carried her through it with half-truths and bedtime stories until she was old enough to start asking the hard questions. But silence comes at a cost. The grief festered inside him, coiling around his ribs like a vice. It never left. It just lingered—quiet, cold, constant. Death had come and gone, but the pain? That was permanent. He knew death was part of life. A cycle. A passage. He'd read all the metaphors. Heard all the speeches. But no amount of poetry could patch the hole his parents left behind. That kind of loss doesn't just hurt—it rewires you. It changes the way you breathe, the way you hope, the way you love. Donnie was haunted—by the memories, the guilt, the aching silence. He carried it all with him like a second skin. And as much as he wanted to be strong for Lily, there were nights he felt like he was crumbling from the inside out. Nights where the only thing keeping him upright was the thought of her smile. He wanted to help her heal. God, he needed her to heal. But how could he guide someone out of the dark when he couldn't even find the exit himself? He was stuck—caught in the space between mourning and moving on. Between who he was, and who he might become. Hope still flickered inside him... but it was dim. Fragile. Like a match in the rain. Still, despite everything, Donnie had heart. A massive one. The kind that could love even after it'd been broken. The kind that kept showing up for people, even if they never showed up for him. People misunderstood him all the time—rivals, strangers, even friends. They called him weird, awkward, weak. But Donnie knew who he was. He was good. He was kind. He gave a damn in a world that taught boys not to. He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't a god. He was just a man—a young man—with too much pain in his past and too much hope for the future to let it break him. And that? That made him a hero in his own right. As the bus squealed to a stop, Donnie blinked himself back to the present. His stop. The day already weighed heavy on his shoulders, but he took a breath. Gathered himself. And ran. Not because he wanted to. But because he had to. He knows he's on his second strike. One more misstep, one more late clock-in, one more reason to doubt his reliability, and it's over—his job, his stability, his already-precarious livelihood. But even with the weight of uncertainty pressing on his chest like a steel beam, Donnie doesn't quit. That's not who he is. Not now. Not ever. As the bus hisses to a stop, he bursts out like a runner off the starting line, the cold air slicing against his skin. Every second matters. The city blurs around him—car horns, murmured conversations, the hum of life moving without pause. His legs ache but his mind is sharper than ever, laser-focused on one thing: making it. Just. In. Time. He slams open the station door, lungs heaving, heartbeat thunderous in his ears. The inside is alive with motion: phones ringing off the hook, the rhythmic click-clack of typewriters, voices layered atop each other like overlapping radio channels. The newsroom crackles with the electric buzz of urgency, like the air right before a lightning strike. And standing in the eye of the storm is Ralph Spencerson—a friend, a rock, a constant. Ralph's the kind of guy who owns the space he walks into. His suit is tailored like armor, all sharp lines and subtle flex, accentuating his powerful frame. His short-cropped hair is immaculate, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and those piercing brown eyes? They see everything. His caramel-toned skin glows beneath the overhead fluorescents, and when he speaks, his voice rolls out like smooth bourbon—deep, warm, unforgettable. "Where have you been, man? Austin's been hounding you all morning—I had to cover for you again." Donnie doesn't even stop to take off his coat. He moves with a purpose, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, the pressure still pressing against his spine. "I know, I know. I slept in." The words fall out too easily. He knows they won't hold up under scrutiny, not with Austin, the boss who doesn't miss a single detail. Ralph walks in lockstep beside him, his tone shifting from casual to quietly stern, like a coach giving one last pep talk before the big game.  "Slept in? You know that's not good enough for Austin to hear. Dude... this is your second strike. You know what happens when you hit your third." Donnie slides into his desk chair, the creak of the old cushion sounding like a warning bell. He meets Ralph's gaze, eyes tired but burning with something fierce. "Well, I'm sorry, alright? I had to pull an all-nighter on the Might Maven article." He drops his bag to the floor with a determined thud, the sound underscoring his commitment. His fingers fly across the keyboard as he powers up his computer, eyes flicking toward the newsroom monitor scrolling updates about Might Maven, the latest villain lighting West City on fire—literally and metaphorically. Ralph crosses his arms, brows furrowing, his tone dropping an octave. "Dude... you're putting yourself in a really bad place with this article. Even when Might Maven is out there tearing up the city... You're not scared of the consequences if you go through with this?"  There's genuine concern in his voice—he's not just covering Donnie's ass; he's worried about the fallout. Not just from Austin, but from the people Donnie is poking with a very sharp stick. But Donnie? He's already deep into it, fingers dancing across the keys as files load, articles surface, and crime scene photos populate his desktop. There's a steely focus in his expression, the kind of clarity that only comes from conviction. He's not just doing this for the byline. He's doing it because it matters. Despite the warning, despite the real danger, Donnie exudes a quiet, stubborn bravery. There's a fire in his gut that won't be extinguished, not by threats, not by fear, and definitely not by a third strike. Because to him, telling the truth—even when it puts him at risk—is the only thing that makes sense in a world that often doesn't. "Ralph, our city's been terrorized by Might Maven for a long time," Donnie said, his voice low but unwavering, thick with conviction. His fingers danced furiously over the keys, eyes locked on the monitor, glowing with fire. "The world needs something—someone—to stand against her and her crew of criminals." Ralph leaned against Donnie's desk, arms folded across his broad chest, his brows knit in concern. "So what now? You wanna be a superhero or something?" he asked, his tone laced with half-joking curiosity but his gaze dead serious. Donnie didn't look away from his screen. "Maybe not a superhero... but a damn spark," he murmured. Ralph let out a quiet sigh and shook his head. "Donnie, if you've seen enough movies, you'd know... the heroes might save the world, but they leave a mess. Reality's different. It's the officers out there who grind day and night, no fame, no powers, just guts and grit. They keep us safe. They deserve our respect." He tapped the desk for emphasis, earnest, passionate, grounded in real-world experience. Donnie paused. The tapping echoed in his thoughts. Then he stood, stepping away toward the break area for coffee, his shoulders heavy with the burden of truth he was trying to shine a light on. "But are they enough, Ralph?" he asked over his shoulder. "A lot of them have died trying to stop her." He poured a cup, the scent of cheap, burnt caffeine hitting his senses. He didn't flinch. "We need a miracle, Ralph," he said, voice distant. "We need someone who's not afraid to put the truth on the front page." And just as he turned, mug in hand, he stopped cold. Standing by the door was Austin Kincaid, his boss—and the man who had raised him and his little sister after their parents' car crash shattered their world. Austin was older now, but age hadn't dulled his edge. He still had that military sharpness—his posture rigid, his eyes clear and sharp as blue steel. His fair skin carried the tan of long days and hard work, and his muscular frame hinted at a man who could still throw down if he had to. "Good coffee?" Austin asked, but the question came wrapped in tension. Donnie swallowed hard. "Hey, Boss... look, I'm sorry about being late. I was up all night working on The Might Maven article—" The temperature in the room dropped. Austin's jaw clenched, his face darkening with rage as his voice cracked through the hum of the office. "Jesus, Donnie, what did I tell you about that damn article?!" he roared, his voice booming through the station. The chatter and clatter beyond the breakroom seemed to fade. "I told you to drop it!" Donnie stiffened. He didn't flinch—but he didn't speak either. Austin stepped closer, the veins in his neck bulging, his face now beet red with fury. "How many times do I have to say it? That story could get us shut down. Worse—it could get us killed. You think Might Maven's gonna let a scrub journalist smear her across the headlines? You think she won't find out?" Donnie met his gaze, steady and respectful. His eyes didn't dart. He made direct eye contact, nodding occasionally, keeping his expression composed—but inside, his thoughts swirled like a storm. Headlines, leads, photos, victims—truths screaming to be told. His fingers twitched, itching to write. But he stayed silent. "Donnie, you're not the only one at risk here," Austin growled. "You keep pushing this, and you're dragging Lily into it. Your sister. Me. The entire damn station. If she finds out you're the one behind this piece... then that's blood on my hands. And I'm not burying another person I care about. Not again." His voice cracked slightly on the last line. Not many people saw Austin Kincaid falter. But that was the weight he carried. Donnie took a breath. Not shaky. Strong. He stepped forward, closer to Austin. "I get it, Boss. I really do. But silence doesn't save lives either." For a second, Austin didn't respond. His jaw flexed again, eyes boring into Donnie's like he was trying to read past the surface. Then he exhaled. A long, tired, defeated sigh.  Donnie's eyes flickered down to the floor, hesitation tightening his chest like a vice. His voice cracked slightly when he finally looked back up, caught between the weight of expectation and the fierce desire to prove himself. "I—I know..." Austin's gaze didn't waver. The room felt suddenly colder, heavier, like the air itself was charged with unspoken truths. Then, without breaking eye contact, Austin's hand—large and worn from years of experience—settled firmly on Donnie's shoulder. The pressure was gentle but unyielding, a reminder of both authority and care. "Donnie, I know you mean well. I know you want to do good for West City," Austin said, voice low but steady. "But it's not your job to protect the city." His eyes softened just a fraction, revealing something deeper beneath the tough exterior—something like a father's quiet worry. "And your parents? They'd want the same for you. Because they love you and Lily just as much as I do." That moment hung between them, thick with truth. The kind of truth that's hard to hear but harder to ignore. Donnie swallowed hard, a knot of emotion twisting inside him. The stubborn fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a fragile, almost childlike understanding. "I understand, sir." Austin's lips lifted in a rare, warm smile—the kind that only comes after years of seeing potential and struggle intertwined. "You're a good man, Donnie. You've always been a good man—with a good heart and good intentions for this world." The words hit like a balm, softening the tension that had wrapped around Donnie's soul like a chain. Austin stepped back, letting the weight of his praise settle in the quiet room. Donnie's mind churned, wrestling with the choice laid before him. Publishing the article would risk everything—his job, his reputation, maybe even his safety. But deep down, that stubborn flame flickered brighter, refusing to be snuffed out. He took a breath, steeling himself, knowing full well the path he'd chosen might be lonely and hard. With determination settling like armor around him, Donnie returned to his computer, fingers poised over the keys, ready to face whatever consequences awaited. Because some truths were worth risking it all.  Donnie sat back in his chair, eyes fixed on the glowing screen where his half-finished article about Might Maven stared back at him like a ghost from a fractured world. The words felt heavy—each sentence a heartbeat in a story that refused to be silent. Might Maven wasn't just some headline or sensational story. To Donnie, she was a symbol of chaos wrapped in mystery—a force nobody could fully understand. She was powerful, unpredictable, and terrifying. And worse? She was real. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling ever so slightly. Should he publish? Should he hit "send" and risk everything Austin warned him about? The weight of the decision pressed down on him like a thousand bricks. Part of him wanted to shout from the rooftops: The city needs to know. People deserve the truth. Maybe exposing her would spark change, make someone step up, make West City safer. But another part—a quieter, darker voice—whispered warnings: What if it backfires? What if it makes things worse? What if people turn on you? The city wasn't ready. And he wasn't sure if he was ready to be the one who lit that fire. Donnie rubbed his temples, heart pounding in his chest. The stakes weren't just professional—they were personal. This was more than a story; it was a test of who he was and who he wanted to be. Could he be the guy who walked away and played it safe? Or was he the kind of man who faced down fear, even when the whole world told him to keep quiet? The conflict churned inside him like a storm. Every instinct screamed to protect his family, to hold tight to safety. But his heart? His heart beat for something bigger—justice, truth, the hope that maybe, just maybe, one article could make a difference. His gaze drifted to a photo pinned above his desk—a snapshot of his parents smiling, frozen in a moment he wished he could go back to. He could almost hear his mother's voice, telling him to be brave, to stand tall. He sighed, fingers curling into fists on the desk. The article was still there, unfinished, waiting for his final verdict. Was he ready to let it go? To discard the truth and silence the story, as Austin advised? Or was he ready to risk it all for a chance at something better? The battle raged inside Donnie's mind, a silent war between doubt and courage. He didn't have the answer yet. But deep down, he knew one thing— Whatever he chose next would change everything.