A/N: I wrote this story in order to learn how to write action. I decided it was better to post this than not to- even if it is riddled with cliche moments. Please take this for what it is: A tribute to the good (and sometimes bad) comic inspired movies (you'll see what I mean when Killjoy makes his appearance).

The orange sun set on the concrete skyline. Adam Bruce stood, quietly packing his bags while he watched the evening news in his high-rise apartment.

"Confusion and Tragedy struck today when an orphanage in Hadse was set on fire. It appeared the fire evacuation plan would work when a freak wave from the river slammed into the building. Four are missing while rescue crews search through the rubble. Police say the circumstances surrounding the fire's origins are suspicious."

His steely eyes squinted in the afternoon glare. This was why he was leaving. Adam continued to fold his clothes as he let his mind wander. It had become clear that he had lain dormant in this city for too long. He'd done well, no question, but it was time to put his skills to use elsewhere. Hadse was that place.

It was perfect. It was completely overrun with crime. The ideal place to start again, to replicate his success. He was the man behind the mask of Captain Amazing, the superhero who cleaned the streets of Ornithea single handed. The road ahead was tough, but he had the skills, and he knew where to start.

The Joy Boys were at the centre of almost every criminal act in the city. He d play it the same way as he d done here, only in a matter of days rather than years. First he d publicly take down their ringleader, a psychopathic cannibal named Kill Joy, and then he d make an example of the gang. Fear of his involvement would hopefully scare the others straight.

His scarred body was only thirty years old, and still in good shape. He d been ready for crime to break out at any moment. He d been wasting his time. He smiled to himself as he folded his costume. It'd be just like the good old days.

Life since the glory of his career had been restless and sombre. He d earned enough money in novelty sized cheques to buy a fancy apartment with full plate windows and trendy square furniture. Everything in there was gray and white. His enormous television and shiny car always won the ladies over. The only thrill he got anymore was chasing women. Even that was losing its appeal, nothing more than a reminder of the hunt, the struggle and then the prize. What he wanted was a challenge. The Joy Boys would give it to him.

Adam closed his suitcase and headed to his apartment front door. He looked back at his clean, orderly apartment and longed for the filth and corruption of the past. Running his fingers through his short dark hair, he closed the door behind him and left his world behind.


The night brought storms and lightning, the gray clouds rolling over the top of the shaky warehouse. Dilapidated, cold and abandoned, it was just what the priest had asked for. The short old man pulled the hood of his robe up over his face, leaving only his mouth visible. He was followed to the centre of the room by four larger men, all wearing identical robes, carrying a dark, limp figure.

A beggar, a drifter, a loner- it didn't matter to Father Stein. He'd take what he could and then some to appease his Lord. The group headed toward an altar in the middle of the dark shed. A large star, a pentagram, was imprinted on the concrete slab. The men placed their offering on it and tied his ankles and wrists to tethers on the corners of the star. His thin body had made him easy to dominate and easy to drug. The priest stood at the head while the others stood at the other points, across from a large ornate mirror.

Regaining consciousness, the sacrifice began to grumble. The monotonous chant grew louder as the men drew thin silver knives from their long sleeves. Now aware, he began to shudder and whimper at the sight of the hooded figures. Strangling against his bindings, he felt the cold weight of despair grow in his stomach. Poison filled his body as they drew closer, his eyes widening. The chill engulfed his body until it had consumed him and finally, his heart pounding like a machine gun, he breathed his final breath and went limp.

Watching from the mirror was a white wisp, a reflection of a world beyond Earth. From beyond the glass it watched the unholy ceremony, each clap of thunder masking their chants. Too long had he stood by and watched this world collapse and drown in its own filth. The ghostly figure observed the ritual as he d done so many times before, allowing his anger to build. The frustration he d felt at watching his master sit on his hands while this sort of ungodliness was allowed to take place, the frustration as he erased the names of men in increasing numbers, today he would let it all out. Today he would do something to end the scourge of sin.

The men stood over the body, ready to bury their daggers in its heart. Woken from eternal slumber, his eyes sprung open, a new cold purpose focusing them. Struggling against his restraints he broke free, the rope whipping from the tether. The reanimated body sat up and grabbed the nearest hand. The sound of clicking cartilage echoed as the knife was turned on its wielder. No sooner had he acted than the hooded figure lay on the floor, coughing and spluttering, the knife embedded in his chest. The others moved toward him as he sprung from the altar.

He was taller than they recalled, towering over even the largest of them. His hands were like dinner plates and his thin body was now athletic and engorged. Skin which was once sallow and greasy now appeared rich and leathery. Wind whistled through the windows as the robed men looked at each other, then back at the giant glowing figure.

Lightning flashed again and he leapt into action. A quick snap of an arm, a foot to the face and the clanging of metal to the ground followed, two more felled by the sacrificial lamb. Without skipping a beat his dark fingers curled around the knife handle and sliced both their throats with a single swing. Turning to the largest henchman, he threw the knife and embedded it in his neck.

Alone and staggering backward, Priest Stein looked on in disbelief. The white glow in the glaring eyes of the man before him filled him with fear of a higher power. Before he had a chance to make a run for the exit he was thrown to the ground by inhuman speed and strength. His head slammed on the concrete as his hood flung back to reveal his face. His now bloody features looked on in terror at the towering figure as it placed its foot on his arm. The slow splintering of his bones could be heard through his thick robe sleeve as the dark man twisted his foot. The cold eyes looked down at him, pity burning in them. The towering figure spoke with a voice that shook the warehouse.

"I am Saariel. I am the angel of death."