Michael tossed in his sleep, caught in a dream that felt too vivid to be imagination. Moon sat before him, weathered face solemn in the dim light as he spoke of "the foolish hero"—a man who fought endlessly against corruption, gaining nothing but enemies.
"But why?" Michael heard himself ask. "Why sacrifice everything for people who don't even know your name?"
Moon's eyes—fixed on him with unexpected intensity. His lips moved to answer—
"MIKE! Up and at 'em!"
Michael jolted awake to Jake's voice. Despite having only one arm now, Jake maintained their brutal training regimen with unwavering devotion.
"It's three in the morning," Michael groaned, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Jake grinned, the empty sleeve of his shirt pinned neatly at the shoulder. "Evil doesn't sleep, so neither do we. Besides, you're getting soft."
A year had transformed Michael. No longer the thin, frightened orphan, he had become something dangerous—fast, lethal, his reflexes honed to near-perfection. The time spent with the Black Feathers had changed him in ways deeper than muscle and skill.
***
Three hours later, as they finished their sparring session, Alphonse entered the training room. His face held an unusual intensity.
"New mission," he announced without preamble. "More dangerous than Blue Flash."
Junk looked up from cleaning his rifle, the patch over his missing eye giving his face an asymmetrical menace. "Who's the target?"
"Eagle."
The name hung in the air like smoke. Everyone in the Undercity knew that name.
"Are you insane?" Flowers asked, her voice cutting through the silence. "He has a small army. And those augmentations—"
"Wings and claws," Alphonse nodded. "Military-grade. But his wealth..." His eyes gleamed. "Enough to buy us all tickets to the Uppercity. Real lives, away from this hell."
"Who's the client?" Michael asked.
Alphonse's smile didn't reach his eyes. "No client. This one's for us."
Michael frowned. "We're just... robbing him?"
"Having second thoughts, Mike?" Alphonse's voice hardened. "You've been with us for a year, but you still think like an outsider. There are no heroes in the Undercity, just survivors. It's time you understood that."
"I understand perfectly," Michael replied quietly. "I just want to know what I'm fighting for."
Jake clapped his remaining hand on Michael's shoulder. "For us, kid. For family."
***
The approach to Eagle's fortress was silent and efficient. Seven floors of reinforced concrete rising from the Undercity's eastern quarter, patrolled by men more beast than human—the result of crude genetic modifications.
They landed on the roof with practiced precision, their black cloaks billowing in the night air. Through a maintenance hatch, they slipped inside, neutralizing the guards they encountered with surgical efficiency.
"Remember," Alphonse whispered as they gathered in a service corridor, "we locate Eagle, eliminate him, take the valuables, and disappear. No heroics, no mistakes."
Michael nodded, but something felt wrong. The building was too quiet, the resistance too minimal. His instincts screamed warning, but before he could voice his concerns, they were moving again.
They reached the sixth floor—where intelligence suggested Eagle's private quarters would be—when everything changed.
In the dim corridor, Alphonse suddenly stopped. Jake bumped into him with a soft curse.
"What's the holdup?" Jake asked.
Alphonse turned slowly, his expression unreadable behind his mask. "Change of plans."
His gauntlet whirred to life with a soft mechanical hum. Before anyone could react, he drove his fist through Jake's chest.
Time seemed to stop. Jake looked down at the gaping hole where his heart had been, confusion in his eyes. His remaining hand reached weakly toward Alphonse.
"Al... why...?" Blood bubbled from his lips as he collapsed.
"JAKE!" Michael screamed, lunging forward only to be held back by Flowers.
Junk reacted instantly, his rifle already firing as he backpedaled down the corridor. "You fucking traitor!"
Bullets pinged harmlessly off Alphonse's gauntlets as he advanced, a predatory calmness in his movements.
"Why?" Junk spat, still firing. "We're family!"
"Family?" Alphonse laughed, the sound hollow and cold. "You were tools. Useful ones, I'll admit."
With terrifying speed, he closed the distance, knocking the rifle aside. His gauntlet connected with Junk's head—once, twice. The sickening crack of bone echoed through the corridor as Junk crumpled, his remaining eye wide and sightless.
Michael stood frozen, horror and betrayal warring in his chest. "Why?" he whispered, his voice breaking. "Why now, after everything?"
Alphonse turned toward them, blood dripping from his gauntlets. "Twenty years I've spent in this cesspool. Twenty years building a reputation, earning just enough to survive." His voice remained chillingly casual. "With Eagle's wealth, my wealth and you guys wealth I won't need any of you. I'll buy my way to the Uppercity—alone. No splitting the take, no carrying dead weight."
"We trusted you," Flowers said, her voice steady despite the tears streaming down her face. "We would have died for you."
"And now you will," Alphonse replied. "Touching, isn't it? Don't take it personally. I've always meant to do this—just waiting for the right score."
Michael drew his daggers, hands trembling with rage. "Flowers, run. Find an exit."
"I'm not leaving you—"
"GO!" Michael shouted. "Someone has to survive to make him pay."
Flowers hesitated, then nodded, disappearing down the corridor.
Alphonse sighed. "Noble, but pointless. You've improved, Michael, but you're still just a boy playing at being a warrior."
"And you're just a coward hiding behind lies," Michael countered, settling into a fighting stance.
Something dangerous flashed in Alphonse's eyes. "Let's test that theory."
Michael moved first, his body flowing like water. He lunged, twisting mid-air, aiming a somersault kick at Alphonse's head.
Alphonse dodged easily, retaliating with a brutal punch to Michael's gut. The boy doubled over, gasping for air.
A gunshot rang out.
Flowers had circled back, her pistol aimed directly at Alphonse's head.
The bullet never reached him.
Alphonse raised his gauntlet-clad hand, blocking the shot effortlessly. He dashed forward, seizing Flowers by the throat and slamming her into the ground. Before he could finish her, Michael recovered, twisting into a slashing attack meant to take Alphonse's head clean off.
Metal clashed against metal.
Alphonse caught the blade with his gauntlet. Michael barely had time to react before a powerful punch sent him crashing into a wall.
For a moment, uncertainty flashed across Alphonse's face. The boy was stronger than expected. If the fight continued...
Then, without a word, he whistled—a sharp, piercing sound that echoed through the building. An alert to Eagle's men.
"Goodbye, Michael," he said quietly. "I did care, in my way. Just not enough to share my future."
Then he ran, disappearing into the shadows.
Michael forced himself to his feet. "COWARD!" he screamed after Alphonse, the word tearing from his throat.
But it was too late. Alphonse had vanished.
Then came the horde.
They poured into the corridor—dozens of Eagle's men, their bodies grotesquely enhanced, faces twisted in savage grins as they spotted the wounded Black Feathers.
"Look what we found," one growled, hefting a massive axe. "Little birds with broken wings."
Michael positioned himself in front of Flowers, daggers raised. "Stay behind me."
"We fight together," she countered, raising her pistol despite her injuries. "Family, remember?"
The first wave charged. Michael moved with desperate precision, his blades finding limbs. But for every attacker he dropped, two more took their place.
Flowers fought until she could fight no more. Michael heard her cry out and turned to see three men surrounding her, weapons raised.
"FLOWERS!" he screamed, trying to reach her, but strong hands grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms.
He watched helplessly as they cut her down, her blood painting the corridor walls.
Something broke inside Michael. With a primal roar, he tore free from his captors, daggers blurring as he cut through their ranks. But even in his fury, he couldn't bring himself to kill—only incapacitate, disable, wound.
It wasn't enough. A heavy blow caught him from behind, shattering his mask and sending him sprawling to the floor. As a monstrous figure raised an axe above him, Michael closed his eyes, awaiting the end.
It never came.
A sound like rushing wind filled the corridor, followed by wet, gurgling cries. When Michael opened his eyes, Eagle's men lay in pieces around him, cleanly bisected by what could only have been a single blade.
In the center of the carnage stood a figure in blue, a bloodied katana in hand. This time, no mask covered his face.
Michael stared in disbelief as the man's features came into focus. Not a young vigilante as he'd imagined, but an old man with weathered skin and familiar eyes—one normal, one patterned.
"Moon?" Michael whispered, shock rendering him momentarily speechless.
The old man's eyes widened in equal surprise, recognition dawning as he took in Michael's unmasked face.
"Michael?" Moon's voice was barely audible, filled with disbelief. "You... you're alive…and…a Black Feather?"
They stared at each other in mutual astonishment, the corridor suddenly silent save for the dripping of blood and the distant sounds of Eagle's fortress.
Two lives, connected in ways neither had imagined, colliding in the most unlikely of circumstances.