"Everything went well?" With how he had been standing there, he might as well have been a stranger asking how someone's day was. No one was to see him, to take notice of him. It didn't help how easy he was to pick out in public either. The pale flesh, like a white crayon being noticed in a box. Regardless of what or who was around him, there he was, sticking out like a sore thumb, right down to his red eyes. She had been there for him though, and it didn't matter if he wanted her there or not. His own need and drive for her safety, it was always disregarded for him or whatever was deemed right.

"Sure did! No thanks to you! Would have been nice if you actually showed up!"

The words felt like they should have hurt more. Her own distaste for it, right there in the pang of her own voice as it hit his ears. "You know I would've if I could've." It was the truth. But they both knew why. He needed to lay low, regardless of her being tired of keeping such a secret. He just needed time to himself, away from the mess that had happened. From the moment he had met her through those weeks.

A full barrel shotgun, he took it right into his chest. Point blank. The smell of burning flesh, his clothes, the pain that came as he choked on his own blood. She spoke to him, but he wasn't able to return the favor, not yet. "Man, you do not look good."

No kidding. Way to state the obvious. It just felt like he was dying all over again. Not the first time, not to be the last. In a subway station, no less. Why did he have to pick Brownsville of all places? Why did he have to pull the brave act? She reminded him so much of his own mother. A mother that he was there to see until her own last dying breath. His own blood all over him, splattered, as he wanted to just curl up and let it all finally let this be the end. To hell with everything he had done to get here. To hell with all of his suffering. To hell with everything.

But there he was, yet again, choking, gagging on his own blood. His chest heaving with the wound there, the gaping hole, finding its own way of mending the pieces that were blasted. No one ever pays attention to that pool of blood though. It probably makes them sick, to have to see it, to watch it gurgle as a man attempts to grasp at his last breaths.

"You know, just throwing my opinion out there...dying in a Brownsville subway seems super lame." The choking on the blood stops and he's gasping on his own breaths. Lungs needing the oxygen, crying out in pain for it now. The feeling forces him to push up into a sitting position, needing off of the floor. All the while looking more like the reanimated dead. It throws her, she calls out. He barely realizes it, until she admits to everything. Becky. Becky who had been following him and hoping that didn't seem creepy. What did he know about creepy?

His skin and shirt were still burning, smoke whirling about him. Too fresh, still fresh. He needed to get out of there before they realized he wasn't dead. Too much attention was already caught onto him as it were. Sticking up for a mother over her son. A mother that didn't want her son doing anything for some drug pusher. He had been too cocky over it, haven't had any blood. Days. That itch, it ate at him, even now. Everyone kept thinking he was a good man. How they really didn't know him. Why did everyone just expect good? He punched a guy nearly twice his size, in the face. Try to talk sense into him. The shot to his chest, it hurt. It had hurt like hell. Clear through. Ran, so that he didn't try to rip out their throats.

Becky. She wanted him to do more, to be more, to try and help. He had already started it. That one moment of weakness, standing up to that man. It had only earned him being shot in the chest, twice now. What good did any of it really do? Other than show people that someone was willing to try? Why would that ever be enough? In the end he would be hated, he always was. He wasn't the good guy.

The next time he would meet that drug pusher, that number one crime boss in the area, Noah St. Germain, his teeth would literally be used to tear out his throat. A moment of weakness. It had been too long. The urge was there, it took over before he could stop it. "I'm prone to bad ideas. It's why I'ma vampire." Truer words could not be spoken. It was embarrassing to stand there like that. The man on the ground, holding his throat, gasping for breath, bleeding out. He could hear everything, and see all of his friends, all of those under him angry and riled up with their weapons, prepared to take out the man who took down their leader. But none of that mattered, as long as the girl, Becky, and the boy, Henry, made it out. That was the point to all of this, and no more innocents had to die. None of these people were innocent, and he knew he had more than his fair share of blood on his hands.

They wanted him dead, but didn't know how. One man against a gang, he wasn't able to be taken down except with a bullet from the nut job's girlfriend. Straight through the center of his throat. Hung by his feet, he didn't know how long he had been up. Only that they wanted to gut him and make him suffer. More than just him, but to go after those that he made sure were able to get away. Vengeance. When did that ever go well for anyone?

The need, the drive for blood felt closer to maddening, but he resisted. Claimed he could help, he was a doctor, a real one. "You don't look like a doctor." Yeah, as if that hadn't been pointed out before. Points for originality. Or maybe over the fact that she has the guy hanging up by his feet with chains. Does that change anything?

"I used to look worse."

"And just what's your specialty?"

"Hematology. Basically, blood. I know a lot about blood." At least it was the truth, for as much as it looked otherwise. Like a monster that just wanted more of it.

More threats tossed about, a deal made. He had to make sure they were safe. He would help just to make sure of that and then be out of this town faster than his feet could carry him. His throat still hurt, still itching and burning as it tried to heal from before. He had to speak though, more now, to find out what was going on. The man with only one arm, he was the claimed medic working on Noah in a back room. He had stopped the bleeding, while Michael was bandaging himself up, assessing the situation. But the man was no field medic. Only had a first aid certificate from the local community center. Noah was there dying. There was no doubt about it. What could be done at this point? On top of that, he was so hungry.

All the while, this man is giving him a hard time over his name. Just because you're Greek, you have to have a special name? Isn't this something up to your parents? So many questions.

"Your name's Michael? That doesn't sound Greek. Now, Michalis -- There's a Greek name. I knew a Michalis. Good guy. How come you're not Michalis?" A living vampire who barely had his first taste of blood in nearly a week, and here he is. Standing over the neck of his last victim, attempting to fix what damage had been done. There was no telling how much time had passed before he had even made it to him. How much blood was really lost or how this was supposed to turn out for the best. There was no hope here. And with his own hunger, his own blood lust, just getting worse and worse by the minute, this whole point of his own name was no distraction. Instead, he did what he could to learn about the man on the table. To gain information about him. It made more sense, didn't it? To learn what all of this fuss was about?

But as the man spoke of Noah, apparently that created a moment of burning ears. Angry, he took hold of the man's throat. Smashed him into the corner of the table. More blood, everywhere. Splattered in so many directions, pouring, seeping and gushing in its own patterns. His own anger was a trigger. It was harder to hold everything back. The emotion, he refused to stay down. Slamming Noah onto the table, too much was used. Too much strength. He wasn't moving, he wasn't breathing.

"I think he's dead."

"I-I didn't -- Not again..."

He had tried to save him, he hadn't meant for that to happen. His stitches were going to come out. Everything that had been happening here, had started all because of Noah. Nothing was right, everything was wrong He had tried. So many bad decisions. Everything led to fighting and more fighting.

But even after everything, especially after everything, he couldn't leave. He was a pawn in something, but what, he didn't know yet. Rose. He was another player. Where this would lead, time was going to tell. Instead, he went with Becky's idea.

"Mike, c'mon, don't be such a whiner! It's gonna help out!"

She wanted him to wear a headset, but headsets while fighting? That didn't really make sense to him like it did her. She wanted to talk, to relay information, to have conversations while he was working. He didn't understand it, he never would.

"B-but I'm your sidekick!"

"Stop calling yourself my sidekick. I don't have sidekicks."

That word alone, it annoyed him. Sidekicks. He wasn't some superhero. That was something for other people, like a masked guy with an affinity for spiders. Not on his agenda at all. Someone he would have preferred to stay clear of. But, of course, that's just who shows up wanting to be next. Michael didn't want to fight. He wanted to get away. It was a first instinct, regardless of knowing that one day Spider-Man would come for him. He had eluded the Raft. A fight ensued, but not because Michael wanted it. He wanted to get away, far away from anywhere he was. Brought down by a piece of equipment, new, that had to be made just for him. More specifically, right down to his own genetic makeup.

Waking up, he was a prisoner. The one place he wasn't looking to be. A familiar face, treating him as if he had never left. Special equipment holding him in place, keeping him from being a real problem. Wrists bound, held encased. Horizon Labs.

"I apologize for the means. Would you care for a drink?"

"Um. I suppose I am a bit parched."

"I'm assuming you'd enjoy some blood?"

"Human, if you have it."

"That can be accomodated."

There had been a cure, but someone had used it all. The formula gone, nothing left to go off of. Nothing to ever bring back, even from scratch. A claim that there was something, to help with it, for a cost. It seemed unrealistic, even as he was drinking from a blood bag that another man was holding up for him. As if it were some sort of Capri-Sun juice pack. All they wanted was him to investigate a break in. It hardly seemed fair or like his own problem. The masked man's attitude towards his response only served to aggravate him. Just more reasons on how or why he wasn't the good guy.