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Copyright © 2016 Michael Lachman
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, are entirely coincidental.
Edited by Chayala Nachum
This story takes place during the events of A Spark Ignites. It is a stand-alone story, however. It does not require you read that story first (or at all) to enjoy it.
The department store had closed several hours ago. The lights were all turned off. No one was there, save for a lone man, sporting black from head to toe. He walked down the aisles, heading toward the manager’s office in the back. The sound of his footsteps echoed loudly through the empty temple of capitalism and consumerism.
Joseph Flask considered himself to be a good man, which was not that surprising. Most people like to think of themselves as better than they are-including criminals. Even as he removed the cash from the safe and crammed the thick wads into his bulging backpack, he felt justified in doing so. He deserved it, after all. A lifetime of training and preparing, all on behalf of the American people, only to be thrown to the curb. There was nothing he could take that he wasn’t owed. He hastily stuffed in the last few hundred dollar bills, then zipped the pack closed. It was all insured anyway, he reasoned. Just another victimless crime. No one would be hurt…
The exit was a few feet away, but Joseph did not head for it. Instead he sprinted up the stairs, racing past countless floor levels. Most people would’ve tired by now. Not him. Years of training, of being forced to run nearly every waking hour, run until every last one of his muscles screamed in agony had built up his resistance. Not much tired Joseph anymore.
He jogged up the final set of stairs and opened the door at the end of the corridor. A rush of cool air greeted him as he stepped out onto the roof. He inhaled, taking it in. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it would have been had he not been wearing a face mask, but it was refreshing nonetheless.
Something caught Joseph’s eye. A man stood on the ledge of the building opposite him, staring. Well this was embarrassing. Like Joseph, he was dressed all in black, and a dark mask obscured his face. But there was no mistaking that tuft of blond hair that poked out above the mask, or the electric blue streaks down the arms. If that wasn’t enough, the bold blue “S” emblazoned on his chest confirmed it. Joseph smiled as he recognized his old adversary. Spark.
He must’ve tripped some sort of silent alarm. He sighed, looking down at his nondescript black shirt and pants. Now he’d have to face Spark without his signature red-and-yellow costume.
Spark kept staring at him, never moving. What is he waiting for? Flask wondered, before running full speed toward him. As he neared the edge of the building, he noticed that, underneath the mask, Spark actually looked surprised. Odd. But no matter. Joseph leapt into the air, reveling in the sensation of weightlessness, of freedom, before gravity took hold. Even after they took away everything, his endorsement deals, his trophies, his Olympic medal, this feeling was one thing they could never take away from him.
He landed on a narrow flagpole sticking out of the brick wall of the building, walked effortlessly across it, and sprang off the pole, and came to his feet on the building opposite, not a dozen feet away from Spark.
“What, you don’t recognize me?” Flask asked with a smile he knew Spark couldn’t see. “It’s probably the black suit”, he continued, “I didn’t think my usual outfit would work for a nighttime burglary.”
Spark simply stared at him, not saying a word. An uneasy feeling swept over Flask. Did Spark really not recognize him?
At last Spark spoke. “I’m confused.”
Flask rolled his eyes. Leave it to the idiots to become the heroes.
“Yes, well I suppose that makes sense. How many people heard of daytime burglaries?” he asked jokingly. “It’s me, the Acrobat!” As if there’s anyone else who could perform the feats you just witnessed, he mentally added.
“The Acrobat?” Spark said questioningly, as if he really didn’t know.
Was he drunk? High? They’d faced each other countless times! Flask silently fumed. The least a hero should do before going out patrolling is be at least semi-competent.
Then Spark muttered something he couldn’t quite make out. There were only two possibilities: Either Spark was speaking to some nonexistent people, and had completely lost his mind, or he was talking to somebody on a hands free device, which was something Spark had never done before.
Flask was leaning more toward the crazy option, but decided to give his longtime foe the benefit of the doubt.
Flask cocked his head to the side. “Are you talking to someone?”
In a shockingly horrifying response, Spark put his hand on his hips in a stupidly cliché heroic pose.
“Ah, yes, the Acrobat. Well, Acro, I hope you made friends with lions in the circus, because you’re about to join them in a cage!”
Flask shuddered. Yes, Spark[_ _]had definitely lost it.
To Spark he responded, “Seriously? That was pretty forced.”
“I’m new at this!” Spark said defensively.
“At heroic banter? That’s apparent. And since when did you make jokes?” Seriously, this was really out of character. Everyone knew Spark was more of the strong and silent type. Maybe he was trying to remake his image?
Spark charged at Flask clumsily, who easily dodged it. This is just sad, Flask thought. He’s been drinking. That’s got to be it. He shrugged. Well, he might as well have some fun with it.
“C’mon, is that all you got?” Flask taunted. “Go for the ‘juggler!’” He snickered at his own admittedly terrible circus pun, and charged at Spark, who had begun to brace himself. Out of the corner of his eye, Flask noticed his adversary press a button on his gloves, and Spark’s hands started to crackle with electricity. He felt rather irritated. Spark would have to actually get his hands on him if that trick was going to prove effective.
Flask laughed to himself as the muscles in this legs strained, coiling and releasing, propelling him through the air, right over Spark’s outstretched hands. Upon landing, he aimed a kick at Spark’s back, causing him to stumble forward. The whole maneuver was done with such grace and ease, an onlooker would think he were watching a ballet. He smiled. This was exhilarating.
Spark was speaking again. “Hey! Hey, shouldn’t your name be the Gymnast or something?”
A legitimate question, Flask thought. That was what he really was, after all. But the Acrobat sounded so much better…
He chuckled as he stood at other edge of the building, balancing on one foot. At this point he was just showing off.
“Come on,” Flask taunted. “Are we going to fight, or are you just going to clown around? I promise this isn’t a ‘trap-ese!’”
Flask cringed at his own jokes. They were awful. He really ought to think before he spoke. He could feel Spark’s eyes on him, analyzing him, studying his movements, his patterns. Trying to predict where he’d go next. But Spark was wasting his time.
“Your puns are the [_real _]crime!” Spark cried out.
Really? They were still doing this clichéd drivel?
Suddenly, Spark was flying toward him at breakneck speed, as though propelled by rockets in his boots. At a closer glance, Flask realized this was exactly the case. Adrenaline pumped through Flask’s body. Time itself seemed to slow.
A smile spread across Flask’s face. He spread his arms, slowly leaned backward, and fell off the building. Before plummeting to the hard pavement, Flask flipped over, and grabbed a window sill that jutted outward.
Pain shot through his body. The movement had dislocated his shoulder. No matter. He’d worry about it later. Flask pulled himself up with his good arm, gasping from the effort. He made it without a moment to spare. A second later, Spark flew past, searching for him. He made a few passes in the area, looking slightly confused, before finally flying away for the last time, allowing Flask to breathe a sigh of relief.
Grimacing, he reset his shoulder, wincing from the pain, then leapt from sill to sill, working his way to the fire escape on the far side of the building. Flask unzipped the backpack, and after checking to make sure all the money was still there, he slung the bag over his shoulder and tore off his mask, revealing closely cropped[_ _]auburn hair, prominent cheekbones, and a slightly hooked nose. Stuffing the mask into the bulging pack, he climbed down. Within seconds, he was just another face in the crowd.
There was definitely something off about Spark, no doubt about it. But that wasn’t something that Joseph Flask was going to waste his time worrying about. After all, Spark was merely a cog in a corrupt government system. His well-being was of no concern to him.
As he rode the subway home, Flask noticed all the wealthy passengers getting off, leaving only the poor and unfortunate, who were in their station in life due to accident of birth, or rules put into play to place them at a disadvantage. And Flask, along with his downtrodden comrades, stepped off the train and entered a rotting, ramshackle neighborhood. Just as the government had planned, he was sure.
Flask was quite aware of his reputation in the media. A common thief and criminal. They had a point. He actually did steal. But if those fools would only pay attention, they’d realize he only stole what was rightfully his, what was rightfully owed to him. Everything he took was always covered by insurance or the government, both corrupt structures that deserved to be taken advantage of. They weren’t people, just organizations. His crimes were victimless. If he were to be accused of anything, it was being a hero.
Lost in thought, he wandered down the eerily silent street toward his small, modest apartment. With the cash he’d gotten tonight, he’d be able to take it easy the next couple of months. Maybe he’d even go on vacation. Somewhere sunny. California, perhaps. He could use some color. He grinned as he pictured himself relaxing on the beach. So lost was he in his daydream, Flask barely registered the large man in front of him-until he bumped right into him.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Flask mumbled.
The man turned around glaring. At six-foot-six and built like a linebacker, he towered menacingly over Flask’s slight figure. A long, jagged scar, was slashed across the left side of his face. It looked exactly like a lightning bolt, and seemed too perfect, as though it were made deliberately.
The man’s mouth was twisted into a grotesque frown. He stared at Flask for a moment, as if deciding what to do with him. “You knocked into me,” he said finally.
“How observant,” Flask mumbled to himself. “Yes, I apologized,” he said more audibly.
The man examined him from head to toe. Flask understood. He was judging whether or not Flask would be able to take him in a fight.
On any other day, Flask would have no problem. But Flask was tired. His battle with Spark, as strange as it had been, had taken more out of him than he’d thought. He knew he[_ could _]take this guy on, but he’d rather not.
“So, I guess I’ll be going now,” Flask said quietly, trying to sidle past the man. A hand grabbed his shoulder and he whirled around. “Not so fast.” Really? He didn’t want to deal with this. Then the man pulled a small but nasty looking knife from his coat pocket. It was small. And yet, Flask knew it could cause plenty of damage. It wouldn’t be too difficult to avoid. But what had driven this man to do this? He looked into the man’s eyes. Something that looked like fear flashed through them. Flask pitied the wretch.
The man held the knife to Flask’s throat. “Your money,” he said harshly.
Flask nodded. “You probably need it more than I do,” he said calmly, taking off his backpack. He opened it to show the man the stacks of paper inside. The man’s eyes grew wide.
“Keep it,” Flask said with a smile, as he held out the backpack in front of the man.
Without hesitation, the scarred man snatched the backpack with eager hands, and ran. For a moment, Flask watched him go. Then he shrugged and sauntered lazily down the street.
So his vacation would have to wait. He could always burgle another place tomorrow night. For now he was tired, and his bed beckoned.
Suddenly, a bloodcurdling shriek of terror cut through the silence of the late hour. Flask whipped around. It had come from that direction.
Sprinting toward the scream’s point of origin, Flask’s heart began to pound. The all too familiar feeling of dread had already begun to wash over him. He silently prayed it wasn’t what he thought.
But as he rounded the corner, his suspicions were confirmed. There was an old, white haired woman lying on the ground. Her shoes were missing. She wore a faded polka dot dress. A dark red stain bloomed across the front and slowly spread. Her skin had been dark, but was now turning paler and paler as the blood drained from her lifeless body.
And standing over the body was the scarred man. His gleaming knife dripped crimson droplets onto the ground.
The man looked up, noticing Flask. He grabbed a patched and torn purse off the body and ran off into the night.
Anger and confusion welled up inside Flask. [He had all the money he could need. Why rob again? Why kill?! _]Yes, Flask himself was a thief and a criminal. But he didn’t have victims. He was not like the soulless monster who did this. Flask clenched his fists. He could have stopped this. He _should have. As he gritted his teeth, another thought passed through his head. He could make sure this doesn’t happen again.
With that in mind, he raced down the street, determined to apprehend the scarred man.
Three blocks, two aching legs and one burning chest later, Flask had to admit that he’d lost him. The killer was gone. He cursed silently as he tried to catch his breath, and began heading back toward his apartment. As he trudged down the street, he noticed a great deal of noise emanating from Dante’s, his favorite bar. Apparently it was still open. He shrugged to himself and stumbled in. Might as well have a drink, he reasoned.
The bar was mostly empty. There were a few people quietly nursing their beers, and in the corner was an old couple loudly arguing about mistakes they had made in years past that had no bearing on the present. Half the light bulbs in the establishment probably should have been replaced years ago, and the fixtures were so filthy that even the few that were working left the room dimly lit at best. Music played softly, to the point that one could tell it was being played, but couldn’t put his finger on just what song or genre it was. It was more background noise than anything.
Some would have classified the bar as a dive, but Flask, and presumably other patrons, thought it felt cozy and intimate. Now Flask sat on a stool near the bar, and waited to be served.
“Rough night?” Dante asked from the other side of the bar. Dante was an overweight man who rarely smiled, although he always looked happy. He was bald, and had been for a long time, save for a few tufts of hair behind his ears. He was also more perceptive than most people suspected. Flask often wondered why he had chosen to run a bar when he could’ve been a psychologist or detective or something. Maybe he never really had a choice at all.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Flask answered, watching Dante pour him his usual pint. “I was just mugged.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed, and his fist tightened around the mug in his beefy hand. “Do you have any money, then?”
Flask looked up at him with dead eyes. “Dante,” he said, the irritation apparent in his voice, “You know I’m good for it.”
The man grunted in response and put down the beer before Flask.
“So what happened?”
“He needed my money, so I gave it to him,” Flask said. He took a sip and grimaced. The beer was awful, cheap swill. But people didn’t go to Dante’s for high quality drinks. They went there to be not drinking at home.
Flask went on speaking. “But that didn’t stop him from mugging someone else a few minutes later.”
“Did you go to the cops?” Dante asked. Flask raised an eyebrow as he continued drinking. “Oh, right,” Dante said shaking his head. “You’ve got a problem with authority.”
“I’ve got a problem with the government,” Flask corrected. “They never help people like us, and you know it.”
Dante grunted again and nodded. Flask sipped his beer slowly, lost in thought. Why would the man murder a defenseless woman when he already had all the money he could want? Perhaps some people were already too corrupted by the fixed, government-sponsored class-based society they spent their whole life in. But that didn’t give anyone the right to commit a crime that hurt other people just like them. The government created enough victims without other people, like the scarred man, adding more to the list.
Flask knew the man had only been able to do it because Flask didn’t stop him. And he would probably do it again and again. The more the thoughts swirled in his mind, the angrier he got. Flask lifted his sleeve to his mouth and wiped the foam left by the subpar beer. If he wasn’t part of the solution, he was part of the problem. And he wouldn’t allow himself to be part of the problem.
“Hey, Dante?” Flask asked, looked up from his drink. Dante was cleaning a mug with an old cloth. He looked at Flask but said nothing. Flask took that as a sign to continue. “Do you know of anyone with a lightning bolt shaped scar?”
“You mean like Harry Potter?” Dante asked, chortling at what he must have considered a clever joke.
Flask gripped the mug tightly, but did not allow his annoyance to show on his face. “No, I mean a real person. The scar is on the left side of his face. Goes from his ear to his chin.”
Dante looked at him like a deer caught in headlights. The color drained from his face. “Who wants to know?” he choked out.
“I’m just curious is all,” Flask answered calmly.
Dante eyed him suspiciously. “You didn’t hear nothin’ from me, but yeah, I know a guy fittin’ that description. Warren “The Wizard” Bullock is his name. He works as an enforcer for the mob, sometimes works the protection racket. It ain’t a regular thing, from what I understand. They just hire him when the need arises. What he does the rest of the time I don’t know and don’t want to. What’s he to you anyway?”
Flask ignored the question.
“Can you tell me where to find him?”
“Hey, you still owe me for that drink. I ain’t lettin’ you off yourself just like that,” said Dante scowling.
Flask stared at him. Dante fidgeted uncomfortably. Finally, he relented.
“I’ll tell you, but it’s your funeral” Dante said reluctantly. “I hear he hangs out at Rizzo’s. More than that, I don’t know.”
Flask nodded and put down his drink. “Thanks Dante,” he said as he stood up and began heading toward the door.
“Don’t give me no thanks. I didn’t tell you nothin’, you hear?” Dante yelled back. But by the time he finished the sentence, Flask was already out the door.
As soon as Joseph Flask closed the door to his apartment, he raced to his closet. Oh, he was tired, but that didn’t matter anymore. Purpose filled his veins once again. He hadn’t felt such a rush in months. As he opened his closet door he reached for his familiar red and yellow spandex bodysuit. He smiled as he put it on. It had been too long since the Acrobat made a public appearance. And while he was no hero, and what he was about to do might cost him supervillain points, he had to send a message. He admired himself in the mirror, the yellow “A” boldly standing out on his chest. Then, with a self-congratulatory smile and wink, he was out the door.
There’s a stereotype about New Yorkers, about how they never seem to notice the strange and crazy things going on around them. But that isn’t true at all. They notice. They just pretend not to. After all, when someone knows people expect them to act a certain way, they do their best to meet those expectations. And the people of New York are no different. As Flask raced across rooftops, clad in his gaudy yellow and red acrobatic bodysuit, an old man walking by noticed him out of the corner of his eye. Naturally, after noticing such an odd sight, he wanted to look up. And why wouldn’t he? It was human instinct. But he, like everyone else in the city, had an image to maintain. He was a New Yorker, after all. So he kept his eyes in front of him and continued on his way, willfully oblivious to the goings on overhead.
Unlike Manhattan, the Bronx still has telephone poles. Flask was only a few buildings away from Rizzo’s when he noticed the telephone poles not far in the distance, with a parade of shoes hanging on the wires. There’s a popular rumor in the Bronx that the shoes hanging from electrical wires are an indication of drug activity, like some sort of not-so-secret code informing interested parties that drugs can be bought at the location below. However, like most rumors, there isn’t any truth to it whatsoever. In actuality, it’s an old tradition spanning back decades. Muggers would remove the shoes of their victims and throw them up onto a wire near their homes, so that every time they look out their windows, they could see their trophies. Proof to themselves and to others of those they’d attacked. Even from several buildings’ distance, Flask couldn’t miss the brown pair of women’s orthopedic shoes dangling from the wires, keeping company with half a dozen other pairs. He clenched his fist. He knew he was close.
Flask looked across the street. Even from this high up, he could hear the obnoxiously loud music emanating from the sordid night club. Rizzo’s was a seedy joint, and Flask would rather not go in there if he could help it. And it looked like this was his lucky day. The scarred man stumbled out of the front door, clearly inebriated. It looked as though Warren had been celebrating. Flask’s eyes was drawn to the backpack full of money, which Warren seemed to be clutching as if it contained the secret to life itself. As Warren staggered down the block, Flask silently followed him on the rooftops overhead. Reaching an apartment building Flask assumed was Warren’s place of residence, a bleary eyed Warren fumbled with his keys for a moment before managing to get the door open. Practically tripping over himself, he made his way inside. Flask waited patiently. It wouldn’t be long now.
Flask knew he would have to watch carefully now, waiting for a light to flash on which would indicate which window housed the entrance to Warren’s apartment. After a minute or so, a light came on in one of the previously dark windows. Flask couldn’t believe his luck. The shades weren’t even drawn. He could clearly see Warren, as he took the old lady’s purse out of the backpack and started rifling through it. The contents did not seem to excite him to much however, as he quickly dropped the purse on the couch and went off somewhere in the house, probably to bed.
Flask smiled. This was his chance. All he’d have to do was grab the bag and knife and turn it over to the police. They’d dust it for prints, and that would be that. Flask wasn’t a big fan of the police, but if anyone deserved to be taken advantage of by the corrupt system, it was Warren. And he might as well recover his backpack full of money while he was at it.
There was an electrical wire running from the building Flask was standing on to a telephone pole, and from there the wire ran to Warren’s building across the street. When the average person thinks of an acrobat, their mind usually goes straight to aerobatics, the high flying spectacle of leaping through the air, from one swing to the next. But as any acrobat will confess, the true measure of being an acrobat is not aerobatics. That’s the easy stuff. No, the real measure of a true acrobat’s ability is balance. The high wire act. Being able to walk across a thin cord as though one is strolling down the street. It is no easy task, although it is a useful one. Electrical wires, however, complicate things even further. There’s a common misconception that touching an electrical wire means instant death, but that is not true at all. For the electricity to be able to harm someone, they must be touching something other than the wire. They must be grounded. As long as someone is careful to just touch the wire itself, not a pole, not the ground, not another wire, then they’re perfectly safe. That’s how birds sit on them without any harmful effects. It is the reason why, when the situation allows, electrical companies will fix wires via helicopter as opposed to a basket crane. However, for an expert at the high wire, like Flask, the wire carrying a live electrical current was no different than a plain piece of string.
Flask jumped onto the electrical wire and walked across. As long as he was careful to avoid other wires and leap over the telephone pole, he’d be fine. Within seconds, Flask had made it to the roof of Warren’s building. He carefully climbed down the fire escape, doing his best not to make any noise. He didn’t want to tip Warren off until it was too late. As he reached Warren’s window, he jimmied it and breathed a sigh of relief. It was loose. Unlocked, he thought. Good. Unlocking the window from the outside would’ve taken time he didn’t have. As he lifted up the window and slipped into the room, he glanced around, taking it all in. The purse was still lying there on the couch next to his backpack. He grinned as he picked up his backpack and looked inside. Most of the money was still there. Vacation, here I come. He grabbed the purse and put it in the backpack carefully, as not to smudge the prints, and slipped the backpack on.
Now the only thing left to do was recover the knife. He scanned the room, hoping it would stick out among its surroundings. Nothing. Then it occurred to Flask that Warren would likely try to wash off the blood, in which case the knife would be in the kitchen or bathroom. He worried for a moment that if the blood was washed off, there wouldn’t be anything to tie Warren to the murder. Then Flask remembered that, according to the police procedurals he’d seen on television, washing blood with plain water wasn’t enough to get rid of it entirely. He wasn’t sure about the accuracy, but at this point he had to hope that was indeed the case. Deciding to check the bathroom first, he tiptoed toward the hall. The wooden floorboards creaked. As Flask rounded the corner, he found the knife. It was clenched in a very angry-looking Warren’s fist.
Warren charged at Flask, slashing the knife wildly. It appeared the large man’s drunken stupor had worn off. Flask knew in this enclosed space there was no way he could best Warren in a fight, especially when he was without a weapon of any kind. So he ran in the opposite direction, toward the window. Flask dived out, hitting the floor of the fire escape with a deafening clang, which reverberated throughout the structure. He ran up the stairs to the next level, breathing heavily. He was tired, and his lungs felt as though they were about to burst. There was another clang as the fire escape began to shake.
Flask looked back and saw a furious Warren advancing up the stairs behind him. Each step caused the flimsy metal to vibrate wildly. Flask raced up the next three flights, too scared to look back. By the time he reached the roof, his muscles burned horribly. His heart beat wildly and he found he could barely stand.
There was a loud metallic noise that sounded as though it was closer than ever. Flask looked behind him, just as Warren climbed onto the roof, brandishing his knife menacingly.
“Nowhere to go, circus-man,” he said with a smirk.
It was moments like these that he lived for.
Pushing his body to the limit, he leaped onto the nearby electrical wire. He wished he could see Warren’s stupefied face, but there just wasn’t time, and he wasn’t about to try to upset his balance with his body being in the state it was in. He breathed a sigh of relief as he slowly walked across the wire to safety.
Suddenly, the wire shook wildly. Flask struggled to keep his balance. [_What the heck was that? _]He dared himself to look back. Behind him was Warren, standing on the wire, slowly making his way toward his prey. Alarms went off in Flask’s head. This was impossible. But here it was, happening. Flask scrambled as fast as he could to the other side. Every joint in his body screamed out in pain, but he pushed himself on.
He knew any other option meant death. Flask leaped over the telephone pole, and landed safely on the wire on the other side. Halfway there, he told himself. He continued walking, his knees buckling under the pressure. His bodysuit was plastered to him, drenched in sweat. The building was only a few feet away now. Almost there.
Suddenly, there was a thunderous ZAP! followed by an earsplitting scream that echoed throughout the concrete canyons of the city. Flask leaped to the building, landing safely, where he collapsed to the floor. He looked behind him and saw no sign of Warren anywhere. Glancing down at the poorly maintained sidewalk below, he saw a charred, lifeless body with blood pooling around it, and seeping into the cracks in the pavement. Flask laughed.
Apparently no one had told Warren you couldn’t touch the telephone pole and the wire at the same time. Justice, as Flask saw it, was finally served. He reached into his backpack, retrieving the purse, and threw it in Warren’s direction.
After giving himself a few minutes to recover, Flask decided it was time to return home. His night had been long enough. However, instead of taking the rooftops this time, he decided to take the streets.
As Joseph Flask climbed into bed, the thought about his encounter with Spark at the beginning of the night. Spark said he should have been called the Gymnast, and perhaps that was true. That was what he’d called himself for most of his life. But as he’d grown older, he’d learned that people shouldn’t be put in boxes. In his own mind, he wasn’t simply the villain they made him out to be. He was an acrobat, forever walking the high wire.
Other books by Michael Lachman:
A Spark Ignites
Matt was just a regular teenager. He found his life complicated, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Then, when Spark, the city’s greatest superhero unexpectedly dies, Matt finds himself in possession of the hero’s costume and gadgets, with a note asking him to carry on the legacy. Finding himself unable to refuse, he reluctantly begins his superhero career, hoping he can live up to the name of his predecessor. Not knowing the first thing about being a superhero, Matt soon finds himself overwhelmed. Will he find himself in an early grave, just like his hero? And when evidence arises which indicates that Spark’s death may not be the accident everyone believes it is, Matt finds himself consumed with trying uncover the truth. Will he be able to get to the bottom of this mystery? And if so, will he be able to handle the dark reality behind it?
Dan Raye finally has a date with the girl of his dreams. When the date doesn’t go as Dan planned, he realizes that dreams and reality are two very different things.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Lachman has always had a passion for creating, even as a child. In elementary school he often spent his time writing and drawing his own comics, making copies on the school copy machine, and selling them for a quarter each. Over the years he has dabbled in programming and web design, as well as both computer and hand drawn animation. After graduating from Brooklyn College, Michael went on to pursue a career in law. He writes during his free time, usually on the subway going to work, and currently lives in Brooklyn, NY with his wife, Zahava.