Four of Dan's closest friends were gathered at his side, all gazing hungrily down at a fresh apple pie. They stood in a semi-circle around his little kitchen island, quiet and respectful, like a dessert-worshiping cult. Streamers hung from the cabinets behind them, draped across the walls in celebratory links. They glimmered gold and silver, sparkling beneath the kitchen lights.

Freya and Graham were both dressed to impress. Their neat, tailored, formal wear contrasted sharply against Dan's lazy lounge clothing. Abby stood beside him, looking elegant as always, despite her simple tank top and jeans. Gregoir was the last member of their little troupe, and had elected to simply change into his spare officer blues.

They made an odd ensemble, there in that kitchen. Each of them very different people, each of them from very different worlds. Literally, in Dan's case. They had come together to throw him a housewarming party, a celebration in honor of his first steps into adulthood. The apple pie wasn't a meal so much as a symbol. A symbol of friendship and brotherhood, of moving forward, of making a life. The fact that it tasted divine was simply a fortunate coincidence. It was about coming together. Dan could not have been more pleased with his current circumstances. And, in the meantime, the gaping hole in his floor had been covered with a hastily purchased piece of plywood, and one hundred and forty-five pounds of scrap metal and electronics rested in the back of the police cruiser out on the curb.

Life, he reflected, was utterly surreal.

Dan wasn't sure how the APD usually handled a vigilante case, but he was fairly certain that Gregoir was not following anything resembling protocol. The big blonde had merrily torn out most of the bits and bobs beneath Dan's house, loading the debris into plastic containers and packing them away. His constant reassurances that the situation was handled did nothing to ease Dan's confusion. It almost seemed as if the officer's plan was to simply deliver the broken goods to the police station, and concoct some kind of half-baked story to explain it.

Dan hoped he was wrong. Gregoir was anything but subtle, and no amount of charisma could cover up the existence of Captain Quantum's breastplate. It was iconic, a staple of the vigilante, and would act like a trail of bread crumbs leading directly to Dan's new home. He'd simply have to trust that Gregoir knew what he was doing.

Of course, this put a bit of a damper on Dan's plans to explore the rest of Captain Quantum's lair. His initial impulse had been to go through it together with Abby; an adventure, almost. The child in him had gleefully endorsed that particular brand of insanity. Realistically speaking, however, he'd have to use his veil to rip away any defenses he found, long before entering. Dan had no intention of getting shot by a dead man's trap just because he wanted to add some spice to his already insane life. The problem being, there was a point where he could no longer claim ignorance of the lair's existence, should someone unfortunate stumble upon it. Surgically removing the vigilante's defenses was well beyond that point.

If a small army of police investigators showed up to his house one day to pick through the remains of Quantum's base, and found a way into the hidden area, Dan would be hard pressed to explain the dimensionally displaced booby traps. It was one thing to disappear a few bolts and screws, those could be explained away. It was another matter entirely to start uprooting electronics and gadgetry. Dan didn't have the slightest clue how to do that without drawing suspicion.

So, exploration was out. It was unlikely that there was anything down there that would make the risk worth it. Hell, Dan couldn't even think of something that could make it worth it. It just wasn't the smart option. Probably.

Abby cleared her throat, pulling Dan back to the present. "Thank you, everyone, for coming!" she began enthusiastically. "I know that you're all busy people, and it's wonderful that you've taken time out of your schedule to attend this party!" She gestured to the living room, above the television, where the word CONGRATULATIONS! dangled from the ceiling.

"This is Dan's first house; his first home. I just think its appropriate to hold a celebration for that sort of thing." She bounced on her toes, smiling prettily. Her hands came together with a clap. "So, let's eat!"

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"Hear, hear!" Gregoir agreed, producing a set of plates from... somewhere. The pie was quickly distributed, with Dan being bequeathed the largest portion, and the group got to eating. The gathering quickly scattered across the kitchen and living room, taking up positions on the couch and stools scattered around the adjoining spaces.

"So," Dan began, after stuffing his face with an appropriate amount of pie, "what's everyone been up to since the last time we got together?"

"I've been doing research on the previous owner of your house," Freya spoke up immediately.

Three pairs of eyes snapped to her, while Graham merrily devoured his dessert.

The younger woman seemed oblivious to the alarm her comment had elicited, and continued blithely along, "He's a fascinating case, really. Captain Quantum, that is."

"Oh? How so?" Dan's voice came out oddly pitched, a little too high, a little too shaky.

"Well, for starters, he was exceptionally long-lived for a vigilante," Freya said, leaning forward in excitement. "Modern studies estimate that less than thirty percent of vigilantes managed to live past their debut year. Less than ten percent of those lived longer than five." She hummed to herself consideringly. "He must have been a very resourceful man."

"Or lucky," Gregoir corrected solemnly.

Freya's brow furrowed, but she nodded in acceptance. "Or lucky."

Gregoir's expression bore a sort of dignified sadness. "The sad truth of the matter, Miss Freya, is that luck has always been the final determinator. In life, and in our profession, especially. When one voluntarily puts themselves in danger, day after day, it's only a matter of time until one encounters a situation that cannot be dealt with. It is the reason why officers often have partners, to cover whatever weaknesses that they possess. Most vigilantes have no such support."

"I see." Freya took his words seriously, though she lacked the rapturous expression that Graham tended to wear when receiving Gregoir's advice.

"Have you studied many vigilantes?" Abby asked the younger woman.

Graham scoffed at the question. "My lovely Freya has always been obsessed with those law-breaking cads!"

Bits of pie sprayed out of Dan's nose as he tried to hold back a laugh. Freya's eyes widened, then narrowed, stabbing into Graham with an unspoken promise. Her intended appeared to immediately regret his words, immediately shrinking down and busying himself with his dessert.

Briefly mollified, Freya turned to Abby. "I am not obsessed with vigilantes," she clarified. "I've simply always been curious about— about what makes a person live like that." She paused, searching for words. "The secrecy. The danger. The willful violation of every law we hold dear. I don't understand it." Another pause. "It just seems so... irrational. There are so many better ways to do good."

Gregoir heaved a great sigh. "Nothing about heroism is rational, young lady." He shifted in his seat to fully face her. "Some people have a hunger within them. A drive to do, to act. To shape the world around them with their bare hands. When these people see an aspect of the world operating in a way that they disagree with, they are not content to stand idly by. They are not satisfied with maintaining the status quo. They respond. They cannot not."

"It's insanity," Freya stated with bitter shake of her head.

"It is what it is," Gregoir corrected. "As officers, sworn to uphold the law, it is our duty to guide these people into a gentler fate. There is nothing wrong with a desire to make positive changes upon the world. It is only when this desire puts innocents at risk, that we must intercede."

"You are very wise," Graham said solemnly, the fucking brown-noser.

"Hah!" Gregoir exclaimed jubilantly, all sense of melancholy immediately shedding away. "I certainly am!"

The conversation dissolved into a mix of laughter and haughty boasting, but Dan couldn't help but reflect on Gregoir's words. Would that have been Dan, had he been born in this world? Would he have been one of those people? The ones who could not tolerate passivity? Who could not help but impose their ideals upon the world?

Marcus had asked him a question, months ago. Was Dan ready to face the darker parts of the world? To face the tragedies that had crafted a society of villains and vigilantes? Could he do it, and remain true to himself? He had dismissed it, at the time. An old man's projection, warranting little reflection. He was not Marcus Mercury. He would not break.

Now, though, he found himself asking the very same question. Who was Daniel Newman? Why was he so determined to dive into a profession filled with death and sadness? Did he feel like he owed it to someone, owed it to this world, for giving him a second chance? Was it because he still dreamed of being a hero? Of being a star among the masses, a guiding light, to shine down in glory? Or was the reason much simpler: that he couldn't not. That this chance to be more had never been a chance at all. It was a certainty, an inevitability, as sure as the sun rises.

Dan had always wanted to be special.