The Misfits.

Prologue.

Alejandro traced the dark-red line across the right side of his ribcage. He applied a little pressure to the area, wincing ever so slightly as his finger pushed into his skin.

It was still healing. But that wasn't what had him in his bathroom, staring at himself, shirtless, at eight o'clock in the night.

It was the fact that it actually was healing.

The incidents leading up to his scar briefly flashed before his eyes: He had a pretty long day at his adoptive parents' diner- "Phil and Mary's Diner", to be more precise- and was just really eager to get home. He rejected their pleas for him to wait a bit longer so that they could drive him home themselves, grabbed his coat, and was off. He didn't remember how long he was walking; all he did remember was pulling out a wad of cash he had managed to save over the past two months. Only a few more hundreds and he would have gotten enough money to both pay for his involvement in last year's school riot and his car's repairs. Little did it occur to him that flaunting his money while walking down a street nicknamed "Dirty Deeds" by a select few members of his class was a move absolutely devoid of common sense, and self preservation.

He didn't notice the shady goon sneaking up behind him, using the shadows allowed to exist by faulty lampposts as cover. He could only let out a slightly muffled gasp as a black, leathery glove wrapped itself around his mouth, and a bearded chin pressed itself against the back of his neck.

"The money. Now, Amigo!"

The voice was gruff, immediately icing the chills already racing down Alejandro's spine. He had no idea he had frozen up until the man jabbed him in the rib with what he was just realizing must have been the handle of the knife.

"Did you not hear me?!" This was said with a hint of either irritation or incredulity. Alejandro really couldn't tell at the moment.

But, what he could do was escape. Now, staring at the mirror, He realized that was an even dumber idea than counting his wads of cash.

He remembered his body acting faster than he could instruct it to. He remembered feeling his elbow tense and his forearm bend. He remembered spinning, tearing away from the mugger's grip, and smashing his elbow across the man's face.

He remembered adrenaline flooding his veins as he turned back and made to run.

Then he remembered the fear that overshadowed that as his coat restrained his shoulders after taking the first step. His head darted back, and he saw the mugger- now with a bleeding nose- holding on to the hem of his coat.

Damn this stupid Weather, He winced as he remembered the single thought that flashed through his mind... before...

"You Bastard!" His attacker spat, fully brandishing his weapon as its silver edge gleamed in the moonlight. Suddenly, Alejandro was pulled back, and the sharp, stinging sensation of a cold, metal blade piercing through flesh shot through his side.

He remembered not being able to scream, not being able to shout. He remembered being pushed to the wall. He remembered the feel of the pavement against his cheek as he slumped to the ground.

Why doesn't it hurt?

His hand felt around his rib-cage, and came back to his view bloodied.

It still doesn't hurt.

He remembered picking himself up. He remembered forcing his aching body to trek home. He remembered the cocktail of emotions he went through when he realized his parents weren't at home.

He remembered the shock he went through when he saw the stab wound in the mirror.

The wound that had painted the entirety of his palm red only minutes ago, was now just a single, scar.

Maybe I wasn't actually stabbed. He mused, picking up his grey, blood stained t-shirt. Maybe I just imagined it. He stared at the reflection of the shirt in the mirror. Then, a thought crossed his mind.

At first, it was nothing more than a fleeting thought- those ones you occasionally had but could never dream of carrying out, and then he began to dwell on it. The thought plagued him through his rushed dinner, silent shower, and all the way to his bed.

No one is back yet...

And that was how he found himself standing alone in the kitchen, holding- no, clutching- his mother's best knife, proving that, truly, an idle mind was the devil's workshop.

He held the bladed object towards his outstretched arm, Just enough to make a rapid recovery apparent. He brought the knife closer, felt the metal against his skin, and immediately pulled it away, breathing heavily. It was only when he had dropped the knife into the sink that he realized he had broken out into a cold sweat. He wiped away the moisture on his glistening forehead with the back of his hand.

"What the hell am I doing?" He thought aloud, fully aware of the fact that there was no one around to hear him. Sure, he had seen Superhero movies before. Hell, he even read the comics, and occasionally, the fanfiction, but there was no way on Earth that he had somehow acquired 'Superpowers'.

But, then again, I did heal...

No. He banished the thought. At least for the night.

Tomorrow, He would find answers. After school, of course.

And, after burning his shirt.

***

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