"What kind of name is Kick-Ass anyway?" Peter asked, walking beside me on the cracked sidewalk.
I tensed up instantly, like I'd just been caught cheating on a test. "What? You've never read the Kick-Ass comic?"
Peter gave me a confused look. "Comic? I thought you came up with it yourself."
"Uh… yeah." I laughed, but it came out a little too high-pitched. Too defensive. "I mean—kind of. It's like a Mandela Effect or something, y'know? I swear I remember reading it. Maybe I just mixed the name with other heroes or something. Like, subconscious inspiration or whatever."
"Aha…" Peter nodded slowly, clearly not buying a single word. "Subconscious plagiarism. Got it."
I gave him a side-eye. "You can be awfully annoying sometimes, Peter. You're yearning to be stuffed into a locker again."
He just chuckled, shrugging it off like a pro, but then his smile faded a little.
His smart side kicked in. The side that actually paid attention.
"Hey… why didn't you fight Flash today?" he asked, glancing at me. "You handled that mugger pretty easily. And Flash isn't exactly scarier than a guy with a knife. So… why?"
I took a breath, kept walking.
It wasn't that I didn't have an answer. It's just… the answer felt heavier than I wanted it to be.
"Yeah, I could've fought him" I said finally. "I could've dropped him like a sack of potatoes."
Peter arched a brow. "But you didn't."
"Yeah 'Cause then what?" I looked at him. "I win. Cool. Flash gets humiliated. And I walk away feeling like a king?"
I kicked a loose rock down the sidewalk.
"But that's not what strength's for, is it? It's not about showing off. Or payback. That's not the kind of guy I wanna be."
Peter gave a short, dry laugh. "Hm… Alright, Captain America 2.0, I think I get you. But still—Flash kinda deserved a beating."
I smirked. "Yeah, well… lots of people deserve lots of things."
We stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light. The air buzzed with traffic, distant chatter, someone playing music too loud on their phone. And for a second, I thought… maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment.
I could say the line.
The line.
The one that changed everything. The one that mattered.
Would it land the same? Would it mean anything coming from me, of all people?
Screw it.
"Peter, listen… with great power comes—"
HOOOONK.
A car sped past us, nearly clipping a turning truck.
"What?" he said, confused. "What were you saying?"
I exhaled, shoulders dropping. "Nothing. Forget it. Moment's gone."
He gave me a weird look, but didn't press.
I was kinda glad he didn't.
Maybe that was the universe telling me I didn't have the right to say it. That those words weren't mine to hand out like fortune cookie wisdom.
They belonged to someone better. Someone braver.
Someone who lived for them… and paid the price for them.
It was like trying to teach your teacher.
I just stood there, watching traffic blur past, pretending I wasn't swallowing the lump in my throat.
Peter nudged me with his elbow. "You get weird sometimes, you know that?"
I smirked. "Yeah? I hanged out with you too much."
---
Another day of being nice.
Holding doors. Helping a kid that was lost. Giving up my seat on the bus. All that charming "changed man" routine.
It is honest work—but still, it doesn't feel like enough.
Stopping a mugging? Sure. That's action. That's adrenaline. It's simple.
But what about when it's not simple? When there's no spotlight? No clear villain?
What if a building's on fire?
Will I still be the guy who helps?
Or just someone from the crowd, hoping someone braver shows up?
I want to believe I'd go in. I really do.
But I know myself. I'm a coward.
I almost peed myself fighting that mugger. If it hadn't been for the Kick-Ass suit, the batons, and those weird, sudden muscle memories telling me what to do... I'd probably would've frozen up, or worse—given up. Leaving that woman to her luck.
But I've been given second chance after second chance. I won the lottery twice.
A do-over most people only dream of.
I can't let it go to waste.
I don't want to be mediocre in both my lives.
---
So here I am.
Looking like a complete idiot, walking down the street in full costume like it's totally normal to cosplay at midnight.
Didn't even tell Peter I was going out again.
I already did my little daily dose of good-deeds. Gold star for me, right?
So why the hell am I out here again?
No clue.
Maybe my subconscious picked up the slack.
Maybe deep down, some desperate, aching part of me is pushing me forward. Telling me that being just good enough isn't actually good enough anymore. Not for the kind of person I want to be.
People are still out—night owls, bar-hoppers, third-shift workers—and every single one of them stares.
Some laugh behind their hands. Some sneer openly. A few snap pics for whatever social media clout "lunatic in spandex" gets them.
But none of them come close.
They all stayed away, like I was radioactive.
Who could blame them?
You don't walk near someone like me and expect to live a long life.
Not in this city. Not when the costume could mean anything.
One guy even muttered something about a "madhouse escapee" and pointed in my direction like I was a walking headline.
Maybe he's right.
Maybe I am crazy—
Wearing a costume, roaming the streets at night like some budget vigilante with a death wish.
But so what?
I'd rather be crazy trying to be better…
Than sane and standing still.
Sane people ignore cries for help. Sane people keep their heads down and hope the world doesn't notice them.
If madness means refusing to stay idle, then hand me the straightjacket—
Because I'm not going back to the sidelines.
---
So uh…
Building on fire.
What are the chances?
I was literally just thinking about this. Like the universe was eavesdropping and said, "Oh, you wanna prove yourself? Bet."
Flames licking out the windows. Smoke clawing at the sky. People screaming, pointing, running. Sirens in the distance, but not close enough.
And me?
Standing there. Heart punching my ribs like it's trying to escape. Knees suddenly made of pudding. Every survival instinct screaming "Turn around. Let the real heroes handle it."
But I didn't move.
Not yet.
Because I asked the question—and now here's the answer.
No spotlight. No easy villain. Just chaos. Fear. Fire.
This is the test.
The suit is slightly heat-resistant—emphasis on slightly. It's not some fancy Stark-tech armor, it's a glorified cosplay. Maybe it'll buy me a second or two if things get rough, but that's about it.
If I'm fast, maybe It can do something.
But let's be honest… any "help" it gives me is basically placebo.
Still, I can't stop.
I thought about soaking the mask first—anything to buy time. A puddle, a spilled drink, hell, even my own piss if it came to that. But I didn't have time to stall or second-guess.
Two people. Trapped. I overheard someone yelling and panicking. That was all it took.
Because fire or not—fear or not—this is what I asked for, isn't it?
Not just another dramatic speech or empty promise to be better. This is the line.
So I grit my teeth.
And I run in anyway.
I half crouched as I entered the building—instinct, maybe, or just the half-baked fire safety tips I remembered from school. I'm no firefighter, but I know one thing for sure: breathing in that thick black smoke is a one-way ticket to a casket. And the heat rising to the ceiling? No thanks. I like my eyeballs not melted.
The air was heavy, like breathing through a soaked blanket. My lungs already stung, my throat scratchy.
I called out in short bursts between breaths. "Anyone—cough—here?!"
Small, controlled yells. Gotta conserve air.
Even my suit, heat-resistant as it was, was starting to feel like a damn oven mitt in a microwave. But I kept moving. Kept shouting.
Because someone was in here.
And I wasn't leaving without them.
Then I heard it—faint, but there. A gruff, deep voice calling out, raspy and strained. Sounded like an old man, probably trapped in his apartment, coughing between shouts.
"Help! Over here—!"
Shit. He was close, but not close enough.
I forced myself forward, one shaky step at a time, the smoke clawing at my lungs like it wanted to tear them apart. Every breath burned, every blink felt like fire licking my eyes. My hands brushed against the scorched walls, skin sizzling against the heat—but I didn't stop.
The voice had led me here—to a worn-down apartment door, half-charred, radiating heat like a furnace. My body screamed for me to turn back, to run, to live.
But then I heard it—thud.
A heavy one.
He might've passed out.
"Shit!" I wheezed, heart pounding in my ears. I gripped the doorknob—locked. Of course.
No time to think. No time to be scared.
I threw my shoulder into it. Nothing.
I stepped back and kicked. Once. Twice. Again.
Every hit sent pain up my leg, but I didn't care. I kept going—because he was there, and I was the only thing between him and the fire swallowing this place whole.
Finally, on the fifth kick, the door gave out with a crack and swung open, smoke and heat pouring out like it was alive
And I ran in—because now it wasn't about fear anymore. It was about doing what I said I would.
The smoke inside was thicker, heavier, wrapping around me like it wanted to choke the life out of both of us. Every breath scraped against my throat. The heat hit me like a wall, scorching, suffocating. Had to drop low, practically crawl, the floor burning through the thin padding of my suit.
Then I saw him.
Collapsed near the window, barely conscious, wheezing through shallow, ragged breaths. Skin pale, clothes singed at the edges. He wasn't gonna last much longer in here. Neither was I.
"Hey! Hey, it's okay, everything's okay," I said—maybe to him, maybe to myself. My voice sounded thin, swallowed by the roar of the fire.
I grabbed his arm, slung it over my shoulder, and hauled.
Dead weight. Way heavier than I expected. My knees almost buckled under the strain, but I gritted my teeth and moved.
"Come on, old man. Don't die on me now" I huffed, stumbling forward. "I didn't kick that door in just to watch you roast."
One step at a time. Out the door. Down the hallway. Through the thickening smoke.
Towards the light—
We collapsed no more than four steps outside the building.
The world blurred. Shouts, sirens, the dull roar of flames still licking at the sky behind me. People rushed over, hands grabbing, dragging us away from the inferno.
My chest heaved, throat raw, vision spinning. But I still managed to croak "Him... Him first."
Because I wasn't done.
There was still someone else inside.
They tried to hold me back—firefighters, neighbors, some guy screaming that I was insane. Said going back in was suicide.
So what?
Maybe it was.
But it felt like the only choice I had.
And maybe it was just a massive ego trip, some messed-up need to prove myself.
But I've already come back from the dead—not once, but twice.
Same process. Same stubborn attitude.
Different spot. Different stakes.
Different condition of the suit.
Maybe I underestimated it. I mean, it did help—shielded me more than I thought it would.
But it wasn't invincible.
The flames took their toll.
Burned fabric clung to me in patches, some of it melted into skin. Other parts just… gone.
Exposed. Raw.
Every step was a goddamn war.
The burns screamed with me, every breath cut through my lungs like glass, and the adrenaline? Already draining fast.
But I was still alive. Still breathing. Still moving.
And there was still one more life left to save.
I yelled again, voice torn and raw. It barely came out, more like a croak than a call.
But it was enough.
A voice answered. Younger. Softer. A kid.
Shit.
No more hesitation. I bolted up the stairs, two steps at a time, ignoring how my body begged me to stop.
Pain didn't matter. Not right now.
Still—seriously? Who the hell leaves a kid home alone?
Then again, it's not like thinking about that changes anything now.
A chunk of burning rubble slammed down beside me, sparks biting into my arm.
I hissed, but didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
I was at the door. Of course it was locked. Because the universe loves drama.
Fine. Maximum effort.
One kick.
Two.
Three.
On the fourth, the door finally gave with a violent crack.
It swung open, my foot was numb.
Couldn't tell if it was from pain or the adrenaline rushing again.
It didn't matter.
I was inside.
Smoke filled the place like a living thing—choking, swarming, whispering to me to turn back. But I kept going, calling out between coughs, stumbling from room to room.
A tiny voice answered, hoarse and afraid.
The bathroom.
I shoved the door open.
There he was—curled up in the bathtub, clutching a wet towel over his face. Smart kid. Smarter than most adults.
But when he saw me, he flinched, terrified.
Who wouldn't be? Some half-burned guy in a melted costume crashing through the fire like a lunatic? I probably looked like the ugliest horror movie monster he had ever seen.
"Hey, hey, buddy. Look at me." I crouched beside the tub, voice hoarse but calm. "I'm a superhero, okay? And yeah—I've got powers."
He blinked at me, eyes huge and brimming with fear.
"And right now..." I said, peeling off what was left of my scorched mask, "I'm giving them to you. Just until we're out of here. You wear this, and nothing can scare you. That's the rule."
He hesitated, then gave a shaky nod. Brave little guy.
"I'm gonna carry you" I said, sliding an arm under him. "Hold on tight. No matter what. You and me—we're walking out of this together."
He nodded again, this time with a little more courage behind it—like the mask actually worked some kind of magic.
I scooped him up, arms screaming in protest, legs begging for rest. But none of that mattered.
"Eyes closed" I told him. "Don't look. Just keep breathing through the mask."
I pushed back into the hell outside the bathroom, shielding him as best I could. The air was even thicker now, the fire louder, angrier—like it knew we were trying to beat it.
But screw the fire.
Screw the pain.
I'd come this far. No way in hell I was leaving without him.
I wrapped him in my arms, shielded him with what was left of me—a makeshift human shield made of scorched cloth and raw Wade.
We stumbled hard down the stairs. I slammed into the wall shoulder-first, using my body to cushion the fall, every impact stealing more of the air I barely had left.
But I kept moving. Dragging us forward through the smoke, the heat and the fire.
When I finally dragged my sorry, half-cooked ass—and the kid—out of the building. My legs finally gave out. I collapsed backward, the kid still cradled to my chest.
But just before the lights went out, I caught something. No—someone.
Across the street.
Skinny. Smirking. That weird mop of orange hair. Creepy bastard looked like a scarecrow that got kicked out of Halloween.
He was just standing there. Watching.
And then I involuntarily headbutted the pavement and got my ticket to dreamland.
_______________________________________
Word count: 2.712
(Author note: It goes beyond saying that this is a bad and stupid idea, just glorified for the plot. Doing this in real life, without the proper training, might not only put yourself in danger but also everyone else. Doing things like kicking doors open might cause the structure to collapse and bury you alive or make the flames more intense and burn you alive.)