Warnings: Very mild slash which is basically only suggested at this point, but *might* become something more in the future. So if boy on boy offends you, I suggest you don't read. This story also contains some violence, swearing, drug references, and Frank D'Amico as a little more evil than we're used to. I feel I should also mention that while there is no rape in this story, the date rape drug is involved, as I know this can be a delicate subject for some.

Disclaimer: Although I wish I had come up with the idea, alas...Kick-Ass in neither it's comic nor movie versions belong to me.

Note: Movie-verse. This story takes place right at the end of the film, picking up at the big fight. It's kind of an alternate ending dealy-thing.


Edit: I went back in the story and made some changes with how I refer to Kick Ass/Dave. It's kinda frustrating having a character known by two names. Ugh. After much thought, I decided that "Kick Ass" as a name just doesn't have that same flow when written out (for me), so he is herein referred to by Dave except in the case of Red Mist's POV sections (for obvious reasons).


The room was quiet. Alarmingly so, actually. Somewhere down the hall, a clock was ticking. From the sound of it, a big clock. Grandfather, most likely. Each second down marked by the fantastically precise tick or tock, sounding not entirely unlike an enemy cocking a gun. "I wonder if that's why he bought it," Dave found himself unable to control this thought as it bubbled up from somewhere in his head, entirely inappropriate seeing as he actually was staring down the barrel of a gun. 'Great. I'm about to die and my head is providing commentary. It's like I'm watching the fucking director's cut of my death.'

The decision to commandeer entry into the nest of the enemy; AKA the D'Amico estate, had all been Hit Girl's. Not that Dave hadn't felt a sense of obligation to lend a hand, what with the tragedy that had befallen Big Daddy back at the warehouse, he just didn't see himself being that much of a help. When it came down to it, however, and with his inadequacies as a fighter aside, surprisingly he had indeed been incredibly helpful. The assistance of a jet pack equipped with rotary multi-barreled guns didn't hurt.

All enemies obliterated, with the exception of the kingpin himself and his son, there were now only four people alive in the entire building. Hit Girl was currently in the middle of a fight to the death with Frank D'Amico, somewhere in the posh office beyond the large doors. And Dave? Dave was presently standing stock still in a room whose walls were covered with hanging samurai swords, facing the boy who, up until earlier that evening, he had considered a friend.

"I'm gonna do it," Red Mist was threatening, his outstretched arm shaking slightly from what had to be either the weight of the gun or the weight of his impending action. "I mean...I'm sorry, you know. I know you didn't have anything to do with all the drug busts, and the murdering of my dad's men and everything. Well...except for the guys you killed tonight." He seemed to be stalling. Every awkward sentence uttered seemed to be there for the sole purpose of buying time. Gathering the courage to pull the trigger. He looked afraid. Unsure.

"Do you really want to do this?" Dave's words sounded like whimpers in his own head. It was a risky question, but judging by the shorter boy's generally uneasy demeanor, maybe it was worth asking.

"I...um...of course I do," Red Mist stuttered, practically losing his composure completely for a brief second before shifting his weight to the other leg and faking another confident pose. Stretching his arm even more, he pointed the gun even closer to Dave's forehead. "I'm gonna do it," he repeated hesitantly. It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than issue a threat.

"No. You're not." Frank stepped into the room, the look on his face unreadable. Leaving the door open as he strolled in, his gaze never left the boy holding the gun.

"I was just about to, right before you came in," Chris tried to explain, his eyes wide.

"Oh yeah?" Frank looked amused. "Then come on, entertain me!" He gestured toward the gun and then the boy in the green wetsuit. There was a long pause. Red Mist was practically hyperventilating at this point, the conflict in his mind was clearly apparent. There was a look in his eyes of almost perfect horror. "That's what I thought." Frank let out a little laugh, devoid of any actual humor. He shifted his gaze from Chris to Dave. "You see, contrary to any other belief, my son is a fuck up. A complete and utter fuck up. When it comes down to it all he ever wanted with this job was to play dress up and pretend like he was a character in one of those piece-of-shit comic books he reads. Which seems fitting for a fucking fairy, don't you think?"

"Wait, what?" Red Mist gasped, almost dropping his gun.

"Don't play innocent. You think your own father can't figure out his son is as queer as a pink pony? I mean, hell, don't try to convince me that all the longing looks you've been giving this guy for the last five minutes don't actually mean anything. You wanted this job for one reason, and that reason was to get in his pants. Don't think I haven't noticed."

Laughing nervously, Red Mist felt a new surge of dread rise up in his chest. Trying to assuage the situation, "he's just joking," Red Mist reassured the green clad boy facing him. That look of fear was still wholly unbroken in those eyes smeared with black makeup. Dave wondered if the panicky look featured on Red Mist's face was, in fact, a dead giveaway that D'Amico's suspicions were correct. Come to think of it, Red Mist had been surprisingly enthusiastic about being Kick-Ass's sidekick.

Frank's face suddenly pulled up into a wide grin. "Don't look so scared, I'm fucking with you." He held out his right arm, hand open as if inviting a hand shake. "Give me the gun."

A blanket of relief clearly settling over the boy in the leather costume, Red Mist turned and started to hand it over but then paused. "I still don't think that we need to kill him though. Couldn't we just work out some kind of a deal or something?"

The angry voice of a young girl suddenly cried out from beyond the door. Hit Girl. "I'd rather dunk my face in acid than make a deal with either of you cocksuckers!" Dave breathed a sigh of relief that his cohort was still alive. Not that he doubted her skill, she had just been so quiet up until now.

Frank rubbed his eyes in frustration. "Well, that's just fine sweetheart because the deal never included you." Suddenly snatching the gun from Red Mist's hand, he hastily began walking toward the door in which Hit Girl resided on the other side. "Stay there!" he ordered the two boys behind him.

"He's gonna kill her!" Dave made a move to run after him but Red Mist grabbed his arm tightly in both hands.

"Dude! He'll shoot you!"

"I'm not just going to stand here while this happens!" Dave shrieked. He tried to pull forward despite the other boy desperately struggling to hold him back. He only made it a few steps forward before Frank emerged from beyond the door, dragging a kitchen chair behind him upon which a cursing and spitting Hit Girl was tied. She thrashed about, the look on her face one of pure hatred. The chair screeched across the wood floor until Frank set it to rest in the corner of the room. He pointed the gun at her face as he shot a cold look at Dave.

"I'm done playing games. You. Go sit down in the other corner like a good little superhero or I'm going to put a bullet in her forehead so fast that it will make the room spin."

"Ok, ok," Kick-Ass put his hands up in surrender, pulling out of Red Mist's tight grip and finding a spot on the floor near another corner. Pulling his legs toward him Indian style, his brain raced trying to find a way to get himself and his smaller companion out of this situation. Nothing was coming to mind.

Satisfied that both enemies were in place, Frank relaxed, taking a few steps backward toward a cabinet almost hidden in the wooden paneling of the room. Opening the cabinet, he pulled out a bottle of Scotch and a couple of glasses. "That's how you deal with people who try to fuck with you. No making deals. Just making them do what you want." He began to pour the Scotch into one of the glass receptacles. "And then blowing their brains out, of course."

"Even if one of them doesn't deserve it?" Red Mist squeaked.

Frank snorted. "Are you talking about the guy who's responsible for killing almost everyone in our living room with a weaponized jet pack?"

The boy in the red leather had no retort. He glanced back at Dave with a worried look. "Look," Frank said as he carried a overfilled glass over to his son. "Have a drink, and we'll talk about this like civilized people." He shoved the glass into Red Mist's hand, a splash of liquor spilling out and falling to the floor below.

Red Mist took a sip of the drink and quickly spit it out, a look of disgust covering his face. "Is this pure alcohol, no mixer or anything?"

"Scotch is supposed to be served straight. Just drink it and stop whining." Frank was regarding him with a strange look on his face. Almost expressionless. Not wanting to come across as any more gay than he obviously already had been, Red Mist sighed and held his breath, trying to down as much of the horrible drink as he could without tasting it. He was only partially successful. Luckily his dad didn't seem to notice his pained expression and slight cough at the end. God, this stuff was terrible. "I know you want to be my successor. To learn how to do what I do, right?" Frank had turned away as he talked, his voice eerily distant.

"Yeah, I do," Red Mist coughed, more phlegm in his voice than he would have cared for. He held his breath again and downed the rest of the drink.

"But of course that means you have to make hard decisions. Decisions like shooting people that may or may not deserve it. You get me?" The mobster turned around, suddenly replacing the empty glass in Red Mist's hands with the revolver. "I'm going to give you another chance to reconsider what you want to do."

Red Mist peered down at the gun. The weight of it was considerable. Heavier than a person might think. Funny, that. He wanted to turn around and look at Kick-Ass again. See if the horrified expression that usually accompanied him was still pinned to his face. He hoped it was. There was something exhilarating about having so much control, so much power, over someone else. Especially that boy in the green costume. Power meant he could make him do anything. Anything. And...wow, he was clearly already drunk. He laughed to himself for no reason in particular.

"Here you go," his dad's voice unexpectedly sounded in his right ear. Turning around, he was confronted with another drink.

"Oh, awesome," Red Mist slurred. "Cause it tastes so good." The sarcasm wasn't lost on his father, but Frank didn't really seem to be listening anyway. Red Mist grabbed it and decided that it was at least replacing his fear with confidence. And fun dizzy thoughts like the prospect of making Kick-Ass do whatever he wanted, like put his tongue...

"You see," Frank suddenly started up again. "With great power comes.." he stopped, trying to find the right words.

"Great responsibility!" interjected Red Mist excitedly, coughing up liquid remnants of Scotch.

"Yes," Frank responded, narrowing his eyebrows. "That."

"Spiderman's so fucking cool." Red Mist happily declared, nodding his head in great amusement as he took another gulp. At this point being incredibly drunk, he barely noticed Frank pulling the gun away from his loose grip.

"Which is why I'm going to have to kill you."

Red Mist laughed, too inebriated to grasp the situation at first. He downed the rest of the drink without even holding his breath. It burned going down, but the dizzy sensation that followed was worth it. He stood there for a second, slowly tilting back and forth before his father's sentence finally sunk in. "You're goingtowha?"

"Yeah," Frank said with a surprising lack of concern in his voice. "That thing I said before, about you being a fuck-up with a disturbing penchant for other boys? If the one thing wasn't bad enough, the other is. I gave you your chance. Multiple chances, actually. You don't have it in you to run this business."

His costume-clad son just stood there, attempting to grasp the situation but feeling his mind refusing to fully take it all in. He gripped the glass with both hands, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead. Somewhere behind him, Hit Girl was giggling. He focused on the shiny metal of the gun in his father's hand. "You're gonna shoo me?" his voice was too slurred to confirm the panic rising in his chest.

Frank gave Red Mist an impersonal pat on the shoulder. "No. I thought that it would be more appropriate to slip a shitload of roofies in your drink. I got a shipment of Rohypnol in the other day and though...huh, what better way to off my fuck-up of a son than to slip him an overdose of the date rape drug. You know, since you seem to be so dead set on being a girl."

"What the hell?" Kick-Ass was exclaiming from his spot in the corner, but Red Mist couldn't even hear him. He just stared up at the man who he had practically worshiped since he was too young to remember and tried to wrap his mind around what was happening. The world was slowing to a stop.

"And just in case..." Frank was pulling a small vial out of his pocket, palming the glass tube protectively. Pulling his son into him, he gave him one last tight embrace before suddenly piercing the needle into the side of the boy's neck. "Here's to make sure it takes."

Yelping in pain, Red Mist pulled back, but not before the majority of the clear fluid had been plunged into his body. "Dad? " Red Mist's voice was small and confused, one word begging for an answer that could not come. The only response was a guttural sound as a 5 inch blade suddenly embedded itself in Frank D'Amico's neck. A gush of blood erupted forth like lava from a volcano as he went tumbling forward, crashing onto the floor.

"You're a really fucked up person." Hit Girl suddenly appeared beside Red Mist, having taken advantage of Frank being distracted to work her way free of the ropes holding her captive. She kicked Frank's crumpled body for good measure. "And that's coming from me."


Comments welcome!