Three weeks after his resurrection, Marcus was walking home from a late study session when he heard the scream.
His enhanced hearing picked it up from two blocks away—a woman's voice, cut short, followed by harsh male laughter. Then the sound of a struggle.
Marcus stopped walking. Every instinct told him to keep moving. Mind his business. He'd already died once in an alley. Getting shot over a wallet was how this whole mess started.
Random mugging. Wrong place, wrong time. They took my wallet and shot me anyway.
The smart move was to walk away. Call the police. Let them handle it.
But his legs were already moving toward the sound.
Why am I like this?
Marcus turned down an alley, his enhanced vision piercing the darkness easily. Three men had cornered a woman against a dumpster. One was grabbing her purse. Another was blocking her escape route. The third was advancing with clear intent.
"Come on, lady. Just give us the purse and your phone. Make this easy."
"Please, I don't have much—"
"We'll take what you got."
Marcus felt something cold settle in his chest. The cop intuition he'd copied from Bullock was screaming at him. These weren't just muggers. The way they moved, the way they cornered her—this was going to get worse than robbery.
Last time I was in an alley like this, I was the victim. Helpless. Dead before I hit the ground.
This time is different.
"Hey!" Marcus called out before he could stop himself. "Leave her alone!"
All three men turned. The woman used the distraction to stumble backward, clutching her purse.
"The hell?" The closest guy—early twenties, gang tattoos, already reaching for something in his jacket—took a step toward Marcus. "You want some too, hero?"
"I want you to let her go. That's it. Easy solution."
"Or what?" The second guy pulled out a knife. "You gonna stop us? You and what backup?"
Marcus's heart was hammering but his body felt ready. Enhanced strength, enhanced speed, enhanced reflexes. Plus three weeks of random copied abilities—including David's athletic muscle memory and some combat awareness he'd picked up from a security guard last week.
I'm not helpless anymore. Not like last time.
"Last chance to walk away," Marcus said, surprised at how steady his voice was.
The guy with the knife laughed. "Big talk from—"
Marcus moved.
The enhanced speed surprised even him. One moment he was ten feet away, the next he was inside the guy's reach, hand on the wrist holding the knife, twisting with strength he was still getting used to.
The knife clattered to the ground. The guy screamed.
Marcus shoved him backward into the dumpster. He hit with a metallic crash and stayed down.
"Holy shit," the second guy said, backing up.
The first guy—the one who'd been reaching for his jacket—pulled out a gun.
Gun. Just like before. But this time I can see it. This time I'm fast enough.
Time seemed to slow. Marcus's copied cop intuition read the situation instantly: gun coming up, trigger finger moving, muzzle tracking toward center mass. Three seconds until shot.
Marcus dove to the side, his enhanced reflexes faster than the gunman expected. The shot went wide, sparking off the alley wall.
He rolled, came up running, closed the distance before the guy could aim again. His engineering brain calculated angles and momentum. His copied athletic ability provided the form. His enhanced strength provided the power.
Marcus's shoulder hit the gunman's chest like a tackle. They both went down, the gun skittering across the pavement.
The impact should have hurt. Probably would have broken something before his enhancement. But Marcus felt fine, already moving, grabbing the gun and throwing it down a storm drain before the guy could recover.
"You're done," Marcus said, breathing hard. "Stay down."
The gunman looked at him with wide eyes, then scrambled backward and ran. His friend followed, leaving their unconscious buddy by the dumpster.
Marcus stood there, adrenaline crashing through his system, trying to process what just happened.
He'd just fought three armed muggers. And won. Easily.
Last time someone pulled a gun in an alley, I died. This time I stopped them.
I'm not the same person who got killed three weeks ago.
"Oh my god." The woman was staring at him. "You—thank you. Thank you so much. They were going to—" Her voice broke.
"It's okay. You're safe now." Marcus tried to sound calm despite his racing heart. "Are you hurt?"
"No. Just scared. I thought—" She wiped tears from her eyes. "How did you do that? You moved so fast."
"Adrenaline. Lots of adrenaline." Marcus looked at the unconscious guy by the dumpster. "We should call the police. Get you somewhere safe."
She nodded, pulled out her phone with shaking hands.
While she called 911, Marcus felt the familiar sensation.
Click.
He'd copied something from her. The ability settled in—not a skill exactly, more like a heightened awareness. She was a paralegal, he realized suddenly. He now had some working knowledge of legal procedures and documentation.
Random but potentially useful. Though this is not the time to catalog new abilities.
The police arrived within minutes. Marcus gave a statement—left out the enhanced speed and strength, made it sound like he'd gotten lucky. The woman corroborated, too shaken to question the details.
Detective Bullock showed up, because of course he did.
"Reid." Bullock looked him over. "You okay?"
"Fine. Little shaken up but fine."
"Witnesses say you fought off three armed men. That sound accurate?"
"I wouldn't say 'fought off.' More like... intervened and got lucky."
Bullock's cop intuition—the same one Marcus had copied—was clearly working overtime. He didn't believe that explanation. "Lucky. Right. Come on, let's talk over here."
They moved away from the other officers. Bullock lit a cigarette, studied Marcus in the streetlight.
"You want to tell me the real story?"
"That is the real story."
"Kid, I've been a cop for twenty-three years. I know when someone's feeding me bullshit." Bullock took a drag. "You moved fast enough to disarm a guy with a knife. Threw a full-grown man into a dumpster hard enough to knock him out. Dodged a gunshot at close range. That's not lucky. That's trained. Or enhanced."
Marcus said nothing. What could he say?
"After you left the station, I did some digging," Bullock continued. "Medical examiner's report on you. Bullet wound to the chest. Direct hit to the heart. You were dead, Reid. Actually dead. For three days."
"I know."
"And now you're here. Fighting off armed muggers like it's nothing." Bullock flicked ash from his cigarette. "So I'm going to ask you one more time. What happened to you?"
Marcus met his eyes. The cop intuition they both shared made this conversation strange—both of them reading the truth in each other's words.
"I don't know what happened. I died. I came back different. Stronger. Faster. Better." Marcus kept his voice low. "I didn't ask for this. I don't know why it happened. But it did."
"Enhanced physiology. That what we're talking about?"
"I guess. If we need a term for it."
Bullock was quiet for a long moment, smoking, thinking. "You saved that woman tonight. Those guys were going to do worse than robbery. You know that, right?"
"Yeah. I figured."
"So you stepped in. Knowing you might get hurt. Knowing you might get killed." Bullock looked at him. "Last time you were in an alley with armed thugs, you got shot and died. Why would you put yourself in that situation again?"
"Because last time I was helpless. This time I could actually do something." Marcus looked at the alley where it had happened. "This time I wasn't the victim."
"And look how that turned out."
"Better than last time. Everyone's alive."
Bullock almost smiled. "You're going to be trouble, Reid. I can tell."
"I'm not looking for trouble."
"Doesn't matter. In Gotham, trouble finds you anyway. Especially if you keep playing hero." Bullock dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his boot. "You want my advice?"
"Sure."
"Stop. Go back to school. Finish your degree. Leave this city. Because if you keep doing this—stopping muggers, saving people, using whatever abilities you've got—someone's going to notice. And not the good kind of someone."
"I know."
"But you're not going to stop, are you?"
Marcus thought about that. The woman's terrified face. The sound of her scream. The knowledge that he could help when others couldn't. The memory of his own death—helpless, random, meaningless.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I'm not trying to be a hero. But if I see something happening and I can stop it... I don't think I can just walk away."
"That's what I thought." Bullock sighed. "Alright. Listen. You keep this up, you're going to need to be smarter about it. No more charging in like tonight. You got lucky—they ran instead of calling backup. Next time you might not be so lucky."
"Next time?"
"Yeah. Next time. Because we both know there's going to be a next time." Bullock pulled out a business card, wrote something on the back. "That's my direct number. You get in over your head, you call me. Understand?"
Marcus took the card. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Just don't make me scrape you off the pavement because you played hero and it went wrong." Bullock started to walk away, then stopped. "And Reid? Whatever happened to you, whatever you can do now—keep it quiet. Trust me on this. Gotham isn't kind to people who stand out."
Marcus nodded. Bullock left, returning to the other officers.
Marcus stood in the alley, still processing everything. He'd just fought three armed men and won. Had saved someone. Had felt that rush of doing something good, something right.
I died in an alley being helpless. Tonight I stopped it from happening to someone else.
Maybe that's worth something.
And it felt... natural. Like this was what his enhanced abilities were for.
Is this why I came back? To help people?
Sarah called while he was walking home.
"Where are you? You said you'd be back by nine."
"Sorry. Got... held up."
"Marcus Reid, what did you do?"
"Why do you assume I did something?"
"Because I know you. What happened?"
Marcus sighed. "Stopped a mugging. Three guys, one woman. I intervened."
Silence on the other end. Then: "Are you insane? You just got back from being dead! You're not supposed to be fighting armed criminals!"
"They had a woman cornered. I couldn't just walk away."
"Yes, you could! You absolutely could! That's exactly what you should have done!" Sarah's voice was rising. "Marcus, you died in an alley three weeks ago! Randomly shot by muggers! And your first instinct is to run toward another alley full of muggers?"
"This time was different—"
"How? How was it different? You could have been shot again! You could have died again!"
"But I didn't. This time I was fast enough, strong enough. This time I could actually help instead of being the victim."
Sarah was quiet for a long moment. "You're going to keep doing this, aren't you? Putting yourself in danger. Playing hero."
"I don't know. Maybe. I haven't decided."
"Marcus—"
"Look, I'm not trying to be a vigilante or anything. But if I see something happening and I can stop it... I feel like I should. That's all."
"That's not all. That's the beginning of something that gets you killed." Sarah's voice was strained. "I just got you back. I can't lose you again."
"You're not going to lose me."
"You don't know that. Nobody knows that. Not with the things you can do and the city we live in."
Marcus reached his apartment building, started climbing the stairs. "What do you want me to do? Ignore my abilities? Pretend I don't have them? Just go back to normal when I'm clearly not normal anymore?"
"I want you to be safe. That's all. Safe and alive and not getting shot in alleys."
"I'll try. I promise I'll try."
"That's not good enough."
"It's all I've got."
Sarah sighed. "We need to talk about this. Really talk. You, me, Jackson. Tomorrow. We figure out what you're doing with these abilities before you get yourself killed again."
"Okay. Tomorrow."
"I'm serious, Marcus. No more solo hero moments until we have a plan."
"Okay."
"Promise me."
"I promise. No more solo hero moments until we talk."
"Good." Sarah's voice softened. "Are you okay? Like, actually okay? Not hurt?"
"I'm fine. Better than fine. The enhanced healing and durability worked perfectly. I barely got touched."
"That's... good. I guess." She paused. "Did you copy anything?"
"Yeah. Legal knowledge from the woman I saved. She was a paralegal."
"So you saved someone and gained a useful ability. That's better than anxiety guy."
"Definitely better than anxiety guy."
They talked for a few more minutes before Sarah made him promise again to be careful and hung up.
Marcus entered his apartment, locked the door, and sat on the couch in the dark.
He'd saved someone tonight. Used his enhanced abilities for something good. And it had felt right in a way that nothing else had since his resurrection.
I died helpless in an alley. Tonight I made sure someone else didn't.
Is this what I'm supposed to do? Use my powers to help people?
But Sarah's right. Gotham is dangerous. I already died once. What makes me think it won't happen again?
Marcus pulled out Bullock's card, stared at the phone number written on the back.
A detective who knew his secret. Who'd told him to be smarter about helping people. Who'd given him a direct line in case things went wrong.
Everyone's assuming I'm going to keep doing this. Sarah. Bullock. Even Jackson said I came back for a reason.
But what reason? What am I supposed to do?
Marcus didn't have answers. But he felt the pull. The same instinct that made him charge into that alley tonight. The sense that his abilities were meant for something more than just surviving college and living a normal life.
The difference between dying helpless and having the power to stop it from happening to others.
He'd think about it tomorrow. Talk to Sarah and Jackson. Figure out a plan.
For now, he was just grateful everyone was safe.
The woman he'd saved. His friends. Himself.
In Gotham, that counted as a win.
Even if it left him with more questions than answers.
Marcus finally went to bed around 2 AM, his mind still churning.
He dreamed of darkness and gunshots and the click of abilities copying.
And somewhere in those dreams, a sense that something was watching him.
Something vast and ancient.
The same presence he'd touched while dead.
Waiting.
But for what?
Marcus didn't know.
And that terrified him more than the muggers with guns ever could.