Julie Carter felt an arm reach out from nowhere and hook around her neck, dragging her savagely off her feet and backwards. As she disappeared into the darkness of an alleyway, she felt a fist connect with her gut savagely.

She cursed herself inwardly. She should have known; sooner or later, she was always going to be mugged on the way home. Just what came with being employed by an illegal business in the roughest part of the Bronx.

There turned out to be four men, all with hair dyed a vivid blue. All white, all over six foot. Standing around her as she lay flattened and gasping on the ground in the dark, they were an imposing sight, their blue hair haloed by the light from the street...

...which blotted out briefly as a figure passed between the light and the alley, dropping down off the fire escape. The sound of the impact was minimal, but the man landing wasn't worried about that. He knew they'd be aware anyway.

He looked up as he balanced after his drop. His brown eyes and the set of his jaw both carried an extremely confident smile. The thugs wheeling to face him exchanged glances. The lead thug - that thug highest up the evolutionary ladder - nodded at two of the others, who walked toward the new arrival purposefully.

As he straightened up he grinned. The light glinted off his black hair. He was unusually tall, athletically built but clearly strong from his musculature and the way he carried himself.

And the look in his eyes said: I don't care about you, I've faced down better than you before.

The first thug, the one in the leather biker jacket, picked up a baseball bat from where it lay against the wall on his way.

The interloper's grin got wider. "Come on, morons," he said. "You should know by now; if one guy challenges a bunch of tough guys in an alley, that guy's gonna walk off whistling while you lot crawl to the hospital."

They kept walking.

He shrugged. "No skin off my nose."

And as soon as the last syllable was past his lips, his fist had crashed into the second thug's gut and out again as the attacker whirled past. The first thug - the one with the baseball bat - whirled to see their assailant still grinning at him. His ponytail hadn't come to rest after the motion yet.

The thug in the biker jacket reacted in a way that was probably sensible, if you only knew what he knew; he unleashed a vicious swing to the guy's head. The guy blocked it easily and let his arm slide along until his fingers closed around it, then he jerked his wrist until the tip of the bat was held steady between their faces. He grinned.

"D'ya need a light, pal?" he asked. Then his mouth opened again and a gout of fire rolled out of his mouth. It ignited the varnished wood of the bat and scorched the thug's face, caught on his jacket. The blazing thug turned and ran, screaming.

The attacker watched him go, holding the bat.

"You should have asked," he said. He laughed and slid his hand along the bat, passing over the fire, which disappeared, absorbed into him.

"Neat trick, this," he said. He pointed at the gang member who'd shown himself to be in charge. This time it wasn't a gout, it was a jet. From his uninjured hand, in which no trace of flame remained, a torrent of fire rushed out, concentrated on one point; the blue hair of the leader. It ripped across his hair, setting it ablaze - that which wasn't instantly incinerated. The leader clapped his hands to his scalp, frantically trying to beat out the blaze.

The attacker took a bounding step, landed, and pushed off into a flying kick, smashing into the leader's face with one booted foot and flipping back for a textbook martial arts landing. The last gang member took one look at the grinning man and fled, muttering "Mutie freak," under his breath.

The man watched him, wondering whether to get him for that, but decided not to. It was true, after all. He shrugged, and reached down to Julie.

"Thanks," she said, shakily. She seemed wary of taking his hand, though, getting to her feet on her own.

He laughed sarcastically. "I only burn when I want to, you know," he said, and was gone.

He paused for a moment atop the building to pull out a mobile phone and call it in.

He dialled the police, then waited.

"Police, please," he said, politely, to the operator.

"Hi, I'd like to report a foiled mugging?" he said, politely. "Yes, it is me again. And you caught them last time, so don't complain." His voice sounded amused, but also irritated. "Of course I'm not going to tell you my name! It's Desert Fire, OK?" The slight touch of Arizona in his accent came back stronger. He sighed. "Look. One of them's unconscious, and the other one who's still there will probably be getting up fairly soon, so I suggest you hurry. You want to see the other two, check the burns units at the local hospitals." With that he cut the connection and walked off. It rang again before he was halfway down the side of the building. He paused, one hand closed firmly on his grip, and fished the phone off his belt.

"Yes?"

"Hello," came the voice. It was fairly cultured, intelligent, but a little suspicious. "This is Desert Fire, yes?"

"Right," Desert Fire said. "You're either a cop or a telepath. If you're a telepath, I can't see you using a phone except to hide that, so I'll put it on the back burner for now. Aside from which, a telepath would be able to use my real name. So you're a cop. Who are you?"

"Detective Slee, with Homicide. Are you aware you're now responsible for five deaths in three days?"

"Maybe more," the man on the building said. "I set fire to two morons tonight. How come it's taken you so long to call?" As he asked the question, he began easing his way down the building again.

"You just provided us with evidence your phone was on, so I called. I'm just going to assume there's no point asking you to stop, so I'll tell you instead. If you continue, you will be arrested."

"Fine by me," the man said, dropping to the floor again. He let his breath out, and then continued. "I gather there's supposed to be corruption in your fine force, Detective. You're just the best I've got to work with."

"Avengers turn you down, kid?"

Desert Fire took a moment to reflect, a faint smile creasing his mouth. The detective was either taking his life in his hands or guessing humour would have the desired effect. If it was the second, he was right, and that could lead to problems.

"Nope," he said. "You've got my number, Detective. Give me a call if I can help you... in a way that won't end up with me behind bars." He cut the connection and continued wandering. Cell phones took a while to trace, he knew that. He just wasn't sure whether he'd taken too long or not. So he started to differ from his normal route, taking unpredictable turnings.

It was nearly dawn by the time Jack Gersen returned home.

The first thing Jack did was drop into an armchair. The second was to reach over to the nearby adaptor and plug his cellphone in to charge.

Then he slept for a few hours, without bothering to transfer to the nearby bed, until his alarm went off. He jacknifed out of the chair and bounded across the room, slamming his hand down on the off button. The casing cracked and gave about a quarter of an inch. It was pretty compact already, and he swore. Superhuman strength could be a pain in the neck sometimes. He stripped off his Desert Fire clothes and wandered into the shower. The heater was on the blink, as usual, so he ran a palm along the water pipe. Flame cruised along the surface of the pipe, flaking paintwork, for a while and then died down as Gersen absorbed it back into himself momentarily before firing it off in a controlled jet that wouldn't damage anything. When he stepped into the spray, the water was warm.

Gersen genuinely couldn't see the problem people had with mutants. An ability to wield and generate flame was useful when some technology gave out; heightened strength and agility made a lot more technology give. Way he saw it, it all balanced.

He stepped out of the shower again, tied his hair back into the ponytail, and pulled on the clothes he wore to work. Then he left the apartment.

"Late again, Gersen," the boss said as he emerged from the changing room.

"Hey, Sue. I'm trying, OK?"

"Gersen, it's the 2-10 shift! If you go to sleep at four in the morning that still gives you eight hours sleep and two to get ready and here."

"So? I crash at about six, half-past."

"Then don't."

Jack grinned, then shrugged."Bit late for all that now, anyway. What've I missed?"

It was the right question to ask. Sue's voice dropped in volume and her eyes did a quick tour of the room. "Well," she began, and launched into the latest in their co-workers' romantic triangle. Jack listened and laughed. Then they both got back to work.

Jack hated lifeguard duty at the local pool. But it did mean he got to appreciate Sue in a bathing suit. To the twenty-year-old, that was adequate compensation.

Peter Carver fingered the pouch inside his jacket, and looked around. It was normal for his clients to want to meet him somewhere dark and secluded, but this guy was a little weird. He'd specify a bar, a time and a booth, and Peter never saw him take his seat.

The other side of the booth was swathed in shadow. Peter had been waiting for half an hour, so the guy couldn't possibly be there - but -

The shadows seemed to ripple, and then the guy was there, leaning forward out of shadow. "You got it?"

"Uh... yeah." Peter pulled the pouch out of his jacket and laid it on the table. "It's good stuff," he offered, tentatively.

"It always is," the guy said. He produced a hip flask and took a swig from it. Peter didn't know what was in it, but the alcohol hit him like a wall on the air. He had no idea how strong the dose the guy had taken was. "No one ever died off your stuff, Pete. And, frankly, that's all I'm after it for."

Notes hit the table, folded together. Peter picked the bundle up and counted through it. "That's the cash," he said, nodding. "Be seeing you in a week. I assume you'll call with the where-and-when?"

"Nah. Same time, same place. Exactly on both counts."

Peter got up and left. Lazarus Jones watched him go, a smile on his face, and picked up the bag. Heroin and a batch of clean needles slid into one of his trenchcoat's pockets, and then disappeared into shadow as Lazarus left...

It got to be a serious difficulty round about when he was sixteen, Lazarus had found. He was a mutant, cursed with the power of empathy and empathic influence - and the Darkforce Dimension liked him. Between the happy thoughts of an entire dimension of energy toward him, his parents' growing suspicions about their boy and the growing paranoia they felt as shadows seemed to move around them in increasingly hostile ways, his empathy had shut down entirely - until the day he snuck a six-pack of Bud out of the local 7-11.

Somehow... Somehow, anything that threw his mental equilibrium off not only kicked his powers back into operational, but gave him good, conscious control over them - until he went too far off centre and passed out. And empathy was good for so much in Lazarus' chosen path in life; especially when he learned he could just... tweak someone into a different mood.

Gambling, for example, was far more profitable suddenly, and it meant he only had to work in the evenings. Lazarus liked that idea.

And then he saw an item on Newseek about Darkstar and a bunch of the other Russian superhumans, and cottoned on to the solution to the mystery of the ever-moving shadows around him. He started working to develop conscious control over his Darkforce interface and finally managed it when he hit twenty. By this time it was taking more and more to give him empathic ability every time; without his chemistry out of line, he got nothing. He had a drug habit; he was hooked on heroin. Now twenty-five, his gambling career had yielded him virtually nothing; it had all been frittered away on one thing or another. Chiefly the drugs.

Gersen finished his shift and went home. He showered again, dug a steak out of the freezer, stuck it on the grill and flame-grilled it while he microwaved some fries and boiled some peas. Then he dug a beer out of the fridge, drank it, ate his dinner, and pulled out his other set of Desert Fire clothes; black leather trousers, that took damage and didn't slow him down, black T-shirt, and his battered old biker jacket. He clipped his phone to his belt and stepped out into the night. Checking his appearance in the mirror, he went back out onto the street and let the night swallow him whole.

Peter was still doing business. In fact, he was back in the same bar that he'd met the weird guy that lunchtime, but this time he was up at the bar, knocking back Buds and dealing out in the open. The night shift barman was a user and so was one of the bouncers, so there weren't any complaints. He joked a little with these users; these were the kids, the ones who weren't afraid of anything except their families finding out. Being seen by the type of person came into this bar wasn't a problem for them, and Peter didn't have any problems with it either.

The kids were obvious about it round here, Gersen thought. They'd stop just about anywhere, check their strapping, check for air pockets, and shoot up. He grabbed the nearest one.

"Who's your dealer?"

"Shove it, mister. I'm no snitch!"

Gersen got up close and personal, got the kid in a pretty good lock and said, "I'll try that again. Who's your dealer?"

"Screw you!"

Gersen grinned. He let go with one hand and brought it in front of the kid's face, then created fire in the open, empty palm.

The kid screamed, twisted with all his might, and broke free, running like crazy for cover.

Gersen caught and tripped him easily, laughing as the kid's jaw connected with the ground.

"Kid," he said, planting a foot in the small of the junkie's back. "I'll recognise you if I see you again. If your face happens to be connected to an arm that's connected to a needle, you're in serious trouble. Get some help."

He removed his foot and let the kid scramble up and keep running.

The syringe lay, forgotten and bloody, by Desert Fire's boot. Jack reached down and picked it up. He sterilized the needle by playing a flame along it, and then set fire to the syringe's contents and forced the needle into a wall.

First informant useless, he thought to himself. Time to move on.

The second 'informant' was just as unforthcoming. The third, on the other hand, spilled. Now Gersen was entering the bar and scanning.

The barman's eyes flicked over him briefly, but then went back to his job. It wasn't like the bouncers would let a threat past. Peter looked him over too; something about him said 'trouble', but it wasn't a something that Peter could deal with if he turned out to be right, so he figured there was no damn point worrying.

Desert Fire's cellphone went off. He swore under his breath and ducked into a booth to answer it.

"Yeah?"

"I'm impressed, kid. How'd you get Desert Fire registered as your name with the phone company?"

"Told 'em I'd had my name legally changed. Didn't want you getting any ideas about tracing me. And I'm busy. So screw you, Slee."

"Yeah, well... you're up to seven dead now. Guy from last night and one from four nights ago, when you started, both lost it a couple hours back. And we've got a load of witnesses phoning in saying they saw fire come out of this guy's hand, wanted to know where the local H dealer was. After enough junkies a rumour still gains some degree of credibility, kid. We know where you are."

"Not a problem," Gersen told the detective. "You try to take me, I'll set you on fire. Want to test that?" He hung up, replaced the phone on his belt, and got out of the booth again, heading back toward the bar. The barman flicked a glance over him with a smile written all over it. He returned it; just a young man out for a night's entertainment, happened to have got embarrassed by an unwanted caller.

He walked up to the bar.

"JD neat, thanks," he said, briefly.

The barman shrugged, picked up a glass and turned to the bottle.

Gersen glanced across and saw the too-slowly-hidden paraphernalia of the dealer. What happened next would have been difficult for an onlooker to describe.

Gersen appeared to simply turn away from the bar for a second, but he carried on turning, picking up speed in the process. Both legs came up as he did so; both hands pressed down on the bar for support.

The kick carried Peter over the bartop into the barman, and Gersen dropped down after him. He grabbed Peter by the shirt and yanked him upright with one hand, while at the same time snatching the barman's pistol out from under the bar - just so it couldn't be used on him.