While this story might not be to everyone's tastes, it was something I was driven to write, and I find it worthy of sharing.

Fighting Monsters

By

Guinevere the Whyte

For Philip, Mark, and other victims of senseless violence.

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you."
-- Friedrich Nietzsche

Part I: Awakening

Trevor groaned and tried to open his eyes, then slammed them shut against the bright light. This had to be a hospital, right? Or maybe it was heaven, and he was going toward the light. Then again, Trevor had frequently been told he was going to hell. Besides, he wasn't moving toward the light, or anywhere at all for that matter. What had happened, anyway? Trevor remembered the taunting words, and the man approaching him with a baseball bat; he had run the other way, only to be confronted by two men with knives. He'd never forget their sadistically smiling faces as they closed in, or the sharp crack of the bat as it struck the back of his skull. He had dropped to his knees, his sight blurry; two more jolting blows hit him before he finally lost consciousness. Somebody must've found him, must've called 911.

Letting out another groan, Trevor took a deep breath and coughed on putrid smells. Definitely not the hospital. He reached up slowly and felt the back of his head. Most of his hair was matted, he assumed with blood, but the skull itself seemed to be whole. Further investigation proved his arms and legs worked. It didn't seem like any part of his lean, five-foot-nine frame was too damaged.

So where was he? Trevor realized it was chilly, like any typical autumn day in Seacouver, so he guessed he was outdoors. Whatever he was lying on, it wasn't comfortable. Opening his eyes to slits, he identified his makeshift bed as a Dumpster and guessed it was in an alley near where he was attacked. He wasn't sure how he'd ended up there, or how he'd managed to remain alive. It wasn't possible that he could have been badly beaten and then healed perfectly without medical attention. Living with an EMT, he knew that. Yet here he was, safe and sound -- albeit stiff, covered in dried blood and lying in a pile of rotting food, greasy take-out wrappers and cardboard boxes.

Trevor's watch was gone, but the sun was directly overhead. He was way past due coming home from the party and would have to be at work soon, assuming he had only been unconscious overnight. Eric would be wondering where the hell he was, and Trevor wanted a shower and a restful nap in his own soft bed.

Sitting up, Trevor brushed some of the debris from his midriff, only to find something sticking to him -- or, as he discovered, sticking in him. A wave of panic washed over him, and he took a deep breath. Knowing he might be doing more damage than good, Trevor gritted his teeth and yanked the knife handle away from his gut, pulling a bloody blade after it. He would have to try to make it as far as the street to flag someone down for help. As Trevor put his hand over the open wound and began to stand, he felt a tingle beneath his palm. Lifting his hand, he gasped at the now-closed wound beneath the ripped blue cotton of his shirt. That just wasn't possible. But the wound was gone and his pain was gone, like he had some sort of magic abilities. Trevor needed to know more. Forgetting his need for sleep, he decided to go home and shower, and then experiment with his new-found powers.

***************

The apartment was a comforting sight for Trevor. While it was all brick and metal on the outside, the building housed cozy apartments with hardwood floors and antique fixtures. Trevor hadn't had much when he moved in; the gingham sofa and chair, walnut tables and brass lamps belonged to Eric, culled from grandmother inheritances and thrift store searches. The cheap entertainment center was Trevor's; the prized television and stereo they had purchased together.

Trevor was only a few steps inside the door when Eric's voice came from the bathroom. "Where the hell have you been? I've been worried sick. I called Rob this morning and he said you left just after midnight, so I went out looking for you. I was about ready to call the police..." The rant ended abruptly when Eric finally saw Trevor. "Christ, what the hell happened to you? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Trevor brushed past Eric and entered the kitchen. Eric followed, his stride matching Trevor's just as his height and build did.

"You don't look fine. You look pretty damned scary. I think you ought to get checked out."

"I'm fine." Trevor leaned against the yellow Formica counter and eyed the knife block.

"You don't seem fine. And you look like hell. I'll take you to the hospital…"

"Goddammit," Trevor swore as he pulled out a steak knife. "I am fine!" With the last word he plunged the knife into the back of his hand, splitting the Formica below it. He grimaced as he pulled the blade back out and tossed the bloody implement into the sink. Holding his now-healing hand up to Eric's face, he said, "I'm better than fine."

Eric took a step back, nearly tripping on a wooden dining chair. "Holy shit. What's going on?"

"I dunno. But isn't it cool? Eric, I was attacked by assholes with baseball bats and knives last night. I should be lying in that Dumpster dead. Instead I woke up in it, no broken bones, no scars, alive and well." Trevor looked down, and a cocky grin crossed his face. "Okay, so they ruined one of my favorite shirts, but that's replaceable." He looked up again, his eyes shining. "I'm like some sort of superhero, Eric, but for real. I can't be hurt. They can beat the stuffing out of me but they can't kill me. I'm every homophobe's worst nightmare."

Eric held up his hands. "Trev, just take a deep breath and think a minute. Comic books are what they are, but this is reality. There has to be some explanation for it."

Trevor gripped Eric by the shoulders. "Oh, there is. I've been thinking about it all the way home. I have honest-to-God superpowers. Therefore, it is my duty to fight for justice." He put his fists on his hips in the Superman pose. "Need a name, y'know? Something fitting. Like Superfag." Trevor grinned. "Great big 'F' across my chest, laced up in super tights…"

"You don't have the legs for it," Eric replied, the humor absent from his voice. "So, what exactly do you plan on doing with these superpowers of yours?"

Trevor thrust out his chest. "To protect our kind. First on the list: to pay back those scumbags who attacked me." Trevor scratched his head, then wrinkled his nose. "Actually, first thing on the list is to take a long, hot shower. Then go be my mundane self at my day job, then it's payback time. But definitely a shower first." He winked at Eric. "Care to join me?"

Eric shook his head. The troubled look on his face disappointed Trevor. "Lighten up, Eric. I guarantee that you now have the most special boyfriend in town. Enjoy it."

***************

Trevor stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. No wonder people had scurried out of his way as he walked home. Blood streaked his face and neck; it was caked in his brown hair and stained his shirt and jeans. He was the image of death and destruction. The cowards who had beaten him had probably carried on slamming that bat into his body long after he was unconscious. Figured.

Trevor knew that by all rights he should be dead. If it had been anyone else walking down that street, there would be a dead body in a trash bin, and another reported incident -- if they could have linked it as a hate crime at all, since there would have been no witnesses aside from the attackers. Trevor had survived, however, by whatever grace of God, and he was going to use it to his advantage.

The plan began to formulate in Trevor's mind as he washed his face and watched the bloody water swirl down the drain of the pedestal-style sink. He wouldn't remain unarmed, and with his unkillable status, he had no need for fear. The bashers, however, would soon be afraid. Very afraid.

***************

Part II: Hunting Season

The narrow, lamp-lit alley was clear for the moment, but that could change in a heartbeat. Trevor suspected that shadows concealed hidden dangers, just as this recessed doorway hid him from prying eyes. After all, he was certain that one of the three who had jumped him was in this very alley; he'd followed the guy here. The hunter had become the hunted, even as he stalked his prey.

Holding back was making Trevor antsy, though. At first, tracking this guy down had been exciting, much more so than Trevor's midday shift at the CD shop. At this point, the two jobs rated about equal, although the shop at minimum wage paid more than this gig.

With his coat collar turned up, scarf draped across his face and hat set at a rakish angle, Trevor felt like The Shadow, ready to swoop down on the bad guys and save the day -- or, as it was, night. The only problem was that, at the moment, the bad guys weren't doing anything wrong. He had been tailing Cliff -- Trevor had overheard his name a few nights back -- for two weeks. Surely Cliff would try for another victim soon. Trevor remembered the grins on his attackers' faces, and anger flared in his chest, piercing him like the knife that they'd stuck in his gut. This alley was near Wilde Side, one of Trevor's favorite hang-outs, and more than likely some of its patrons would choose to walk home this way. The time was ripe.

Two men walked by Trevor's hiding place, chatting and laughing as they ambled down the street. He knew one of them, had spent the night with him several years ago. Trevor couldn't remember his name, not that it mattered. These two had probably been at the bar. Trevor watched them closely, fingering the switchblade in his pocket and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The two kept walking and slid into the night without incident.

Trevor was starting to get stiff and cold, and he wanted to go home. He knew if he left, though, something bad was bound to happen, something he could stop. Cliff had walked down this dimly lit alley, knowing who might walk by, and faded into the shadows. How much more obvious could his intentions be? Trevor fingered his weapon again. He took it from his pocket and flipped out the blade, accustoming himself to the feel of the handle in his hand.

An unaccompanied man strode past Trevor, his gait rigid and quick. A nervous man would make a good target, Trevor thought. When the man was a half dozen yards away, a figure emerged from another doorway and hurried toward him. "Hey!" the figure, which Trevor identified as Cliff, called to the victim. Cliff was pulling something from his pocket.

Trevor sprung into action, dashing down the alley and pushing Cliff against a wall with one hand while waving the blade under Cliff's chin. "Leave him alone!" The victim, already spooked by Cliff's approach, sprinted from the scene.

"What the hell?" Cliff managed before recognizing the shape of the knife. "Hey, take my wallet man, whatever you want."

"What were you going to do to him?"

"Do to him?" Cliff shook his head. "To that guy, you mean? Nothing, man. Nothing."

Trevor shoved Cliff again. "What's in your pocket, then?"

"Cigarettes. I was just asking him for a light. Just taking a break here." Cliff looked scared, and Trevor delighted in that. "If you want money, man, take my wallet."

"What I want," Trevor said, moving the blade closer to Cliff's throat, "is to remind you not to pick on my people." Trevor nicked Cliff's throat, just enough to draw blood. Cliff flinched and turned pale. "Because I know you have. So when you think of doing it again, remember me. I'll be watching." His blood pulsing with power, Trevor pushed the other man to the ground and flicked blood from the blade onto Cliff's face. Cliff was trembling and scrambling away from Trevor. After a brief moment of relish, Trevor took off down the alley, zig-zagging through several neighborhoods before heading for home.

***************

The smell of tomato and spices engulfed Trevor as he opened the apartment door.

"Where have you been?" Eric barely glanced up from making dinner.

"Where do you think?" Trevor kissed Eric on the cheek, then tossed himself down on the sofa and let out a contented sigh.

"You don't usually come home so cheerful." Eric tasted the pasta sauce, tilted his head thoughtfully, and added more basil. "Finally catch one in the act?"

Trevor smiled with smug satisfaction. "Yep."

"Yeah?" Eric raised an eyebrow at Trevor. "You saved somebody?"

"Mmm hmm." Trevor stretched. "Got the perp good, too."

Eric frowned. "What do you mean, 'got' him?"

"Used the blade."

Eric's full attention was on Trevor now. "For pete's sake, you didn't kill him, did you?"

"Nah. Just scratched him. Hopefully it will leave a nice little memento scar."

"So you did draw blood." Eric's frown grew, bringing out the lines around his mouth. He looked closer to Trevor's age than his 34 years until his expression deepened those lines.

"Oh, come on. It was the only way to get to him." Trevor walked over to Eric again, wrapping his arms around his lover from behind, and kissed Eric's shoulder. "And it worked. It scared him. He won't do it again."

"Or he'll recover from his fear now that the immediate threat is gone, decide that no little homo is going to scare him off, and go back to attacking people -- with a vengeance." Eric looked over his shoulder into Trevor's face. "You let your anger get the best of you."

"I did not."

"You did." Eric slid from Trevor's embrace to finish up the pasta. "You could have stopped after preventing the attack, or you could have stopped after a verbal warning. You just had to have that little bit of vengeance." Eric dished up two plates and set them on the table.

Trevor's jaw tightened. "He deserved it. They had no right to do what they did to me, either."

Eric sat down at the table and sighed. "No, they didn't. But that's not the point. The point is, what they did to you doesn't give you free license to hurt them." He gestured to the chair across from him. "C'mon now. Sit down and eat."

"I'm not hungry." Trevor quickly strode to the sofa and picked up his jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"Out." Trevor exited and slammed the door behind him.

***************

"Hi." Eric's voice echoed in the darkened bedroom.

"Hey." Trevor pulled off his shirt and pants. Tentatively he slid under the covers. "You're still awake."

"Hard to sleep when you don't know where the person you love is."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Trevor felt Eric's hand caress his shoulder and chest. "I just needed some alone time, y'know?"

"Yeah, I figured as much." Eric stroked Trevor's cheek. "Still need alone time?"

A smile spread across Trevor's face. "Nah. I think I'd rather have some us time."

***************

- Continued -
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