This was wrong. Rodney was a fluke, and the skinheads were self-defense, but this, this, was, plain and simple, cold-blooded fool killing. Greg knew it when he woke up that morning, and he knew it when he kissed Mel goodbye, man purse safely tucked under his arm, barely an hour ago. But damn if it didn’t feel fucking fantastic.
Running through the alleys, chasing after some poor mugger who happened to be the first fool Greg came across, the vigilante couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, warming him from his core outward like a million sparks. He felt alive in a way that he hadn’t felt in years. Working with Deadpool was all well and good, but this was more; it was poetry. It was ecstasy.
Greg was solely focused on his prey. Making sure to keep up, but to also hold back just enough to have the chase last a little bit longer. Finally releasing all of his repressed thoughts, and desires had a nasty way of giving Greg a severe case of tunnel vision. And, unfortunately, reality has a nasty way of asserting itself. One moment he’s chasing after the fool, the next he’s falling forward.
It was easy enough for him to recover. Once his hands touched the ground, Greg pushed the momentum forward to shift into a forward roll, allowing him to stand and turn to see who his assailant was in one fluid motion. When his eyes settled on the white clad figure, only one thought flitted through Greg’s mind: Damn.
“Are you blind? I’m one of the good guys!”
