A/N: Hey guys! This is my first Kick-Ass fic, and it happens to be a birthday present for a dear friend, Rurrlock-God of Power. The main character sometimes bashes his own character, Omega Kid, to begin with but things change; that is not a personal reflection on me at all. I thoroughly enjoy reading his story :D Some elements are loosely based around Omega Kid and some places from the story will be mentioned.
Disclaimer: Any characters from Kick-Ass that are mentioned/used in this fic are only for recreational purposes, and absolutely no copyright infringement is intended.
Disclaimer: There will be use of strong language, violence, drug and sexual refrences in this story. Rating may change.

"Skiving the first day back?"

I didn't need to look to know who it was. His voice was as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. Glancing up from my hiding place, my body covered in the shadow made by the shelter of the tree hanging over me, I laid my eyes on him.

Mike approached lazily, hands in his pockets and eyed me in that annoyingly too-close way he does; like he knew exactly what I was thinking. He was dressed in his school uniform, but as usual his blazer was noticeably absent, and his shirt hung around his waist, untucked. He rolled his shirtsleeves up over his muscular forearms, smiling easily under my scrutiny, causing the dimples in his cheeks to deepen. I narrowed my eyes at him and leaned my back against the trunk once again.

Tilting my head back, I blew out the smoke of my lit cigarette. Watching it drift away on the morning's gentle breeze, I growled, "Get fucked, Mike."

He chuckled as he moved up beside me, stealing the cigarette from my fingers. "I keep offering, but you keep shooting me down, Angel."

I smirked. "You're not my type."

He inhaled beside me, a pause, and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air. "'Cos I have a dick?" he inquired curiously.

I elbowed him sharply in the ribs, and grinned at the pained 'oomph' sound that escaped his lips. Taking the cigarette back I shook my head and closed my eyes. "I was drunk, and I only fuckin' kissed her, that's it! When are you going to let that go?"

"When you kiss my ass, Angel," he replied easily.

The fuzzy memory of some girl in front of me, crushing her mouth to mine, her fingers in my hair, came back to me. The whole thing had just been a dare, the result of a drunken game that had become a little too heated with the more alcohol I consumed. It wasn't my fault the lass had a crush on me. How the fuck was I to know? There I was, goaded along by the wolf whistles and Vodka, completely unaware and detached from what was happening. It wasn't my fault she'd read too much into it.

By the next day, the fictitious rumour that I was gay had spread around faster than the plague. Back at school I'd faced jeers and a wider berth than I'd received before. Of course, like everything else I handled, I ignored it as I usually did everything else that bothered me, and people soon forgot. When they didn't, a well-placed fist to the face had served as a reminder for them to keep their mouths shut. Now, the only ones that brought it up were either the really brave or the really stupid, and Mike, who could unfortunately be both, brought it up whenever he pushed the possibility of 'Us'.

I cracked open an eyelid, gazing at him where he leaned against the tree beside me. He wasn't too bad looking, but he was like my brother.

He matched my five foot seven, and where my hair was as light as the sun, his was as black as night. It fell around his eyes, the length brushing his ears. I knew without needing to ask him to open his eyes that they'd shine that delicious dark brown that they normally did, as if they held laughter from within them. He had the beginnings of happy lines around his eyes and mouth, a result of his annoying habit of smiling. All the baby fat had disappeared long ago, leaving the angular lines of his face sharp and mature, the tell-tale signs of a beard growing along his jaw.

"You can't keep your eyes off me, can you, Angel?" he asked, a smirk growing across his face. He opened his eyes and caught me looking.

Ignoring the rush of heat travelling to my face, I turned away, flicking the cigarette butt down the hill. "Don't flatter yourself. With a mug as ugly as yours, it's a miracle I can pull my eyes away from that train wreck you call a face. And how many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me Angel?" I snapped, letting the irritation I felt leak into my tone, knowing full well that it wouldn't bother him in the least.

Water off a damn duck's back.

I frowned at the stupid nickname he'd given me when we first started school. It had meant to be used as a way to piss me off when we'd first met, but somewhere along the way he had started using it as a term of endearment. However, I hadn't 'endeared' to it, as he'd hoped. Whenever he used it, some part of me couldn't help but feel as though he was taking the piss out of me. He knew of the unfortunate reputation I carried around me. Anyone that knew me as well as he did wouldn't associate the word Angel with me, yet he still did.

"Why?" Mike rolled his head and stared at me. He looked for a long time, as though looking for something that could only be found on my face.

"Because it's a stupid nickname. How would you like it if I went 'round school calling you Ass face or something?"

"You already do," he pointed out dryly.

"Yeah, well," I paused for a moment as I thought. I'd almost completely forgotten the list of names that I called him on a regular basis. "I'll carry on doing it."

The sound of the school bell ringing in the distance caught my attention. I looked like I was going to be late again. Sighing deeply at the irritating prospect of being bitched at for being late again, I unhitched myself from the wall.

"What are you doing out here in the Wreck so early in the morning anyway, Angel?" Mike moved to keep pace with me. He had to squint as we stepped out of the shadow and the sun caught his eyes. When he looked to me again I heard his gasp. I groaned and braced myself, ready for The Talk he always leapt to whenever I turned up with another mark. I had thought she hadn't hit hard enough, but obviously, I was wrong.

The smile that normally graced his face disappeared, and a dark cloud of barely repressed anger crossed his features in its place. Grabbing my chin, he forcefully tugged until he could lock his eyes with my own. "What the fuck did she do now?" he growled dangerously as he stared at my face. "There's bruise on your cheek, Emma! Another fucking bruise!"

I frowned as he focused his eyes on the spot under my left eye, knowing that he was judging – me…her. Remembering how I got the offending mark, I yanked my face out of his grip. "Just leave it, Mike," I warned hotly.

I turned to leave again, but his hand on my arm caught me, held me back. "Angel, you can't let her do this to you. What's it gonna be next time, huh? How long is it going to take before you start getting broken bones, or, what if she uses a weapon-?"

"Mike!" I turned my glare on him and he let go at. "Please, she just…she didn't mean it. She…" I searched for an excuse, but it was no use. He knew my mother was like; neither of us could come up with a good enough excuse to let her off the hook. It was only recently that her problems had gotten worse. Normally, the longer she left herself inebriated, the longer she left me alone. But it was as though she'd managed to barge through the haze to get to me last night.

My thoughts darkened, falling back to when I'd been relaxing in my room. I'd just been sat there, listening to my iPod, waiting for the night to wear on and the tiredness to take me. God knows I'd screamed and shouted at her until my throat had become red raw, sore from hours of exhausting myself with the effort of attempting to stop her from drinking herself to death again. Then suddenly the door had slammed open. My mother's speed, even during her drunken stupor, had caught me off guard. Frozen, my hand clutched the side of the bed instinctively, accidentally wrenching the iPod wires from my ears. I'd watched with fear, clenching my jaw, my desperate pleas falling from my lips as she'd stumbled in, ran over – the horrible mix of anger and alcohol brewing in her dark, emotionless eyes. Then her ear piercing scream…her fist.

I flinched at the memory and the pain blazed anew in the bruise.

Mike stared at me. He must have realized that there was nothing he could do or say to make me disclose any more about the incident, because I watched as his expression changed from anger, to sadness, then finally, resignation. He dropped his hand and nodded once, solemnly, before I turned and started walking.

Without looking, I knew he was following behind me. He always did. Despite being the annoying little sod he is, and the piece of work I was, we knew without saying it that we needed each other. I would never admit it to him though.

"C'mon," I said with a wave of my hand, forcing some emotion into my voice which right now sounded dead, even to me. I gestured to the path leading toward a shortcut that would take us to school quicker. "Let's go terrify us some first years."


The start of the school year is a bittersweet time for me. I hate it because I have to be there; pissed off, hormonal teens all forced to confront each other in a tiny classroom is never good. But on the other hand, the damn school was my haven, my safe place away from the house I was meant to call my home, the place that was meant to feel as though I belonged there, rather than a cold building that held nothing but memories of screaming, violence and cries of pain and sadness.

At school I was lucky. Dole out a punch here, a shove there, or steal something and threaten them to try anything, and people back off, giving you enough space to breathe. It wasn't surprising that I was left alone by more than half my year that knew me. But those who were new, or had transferred from another school, were usually naïve enough to think they had a chance at being my friend. Either they hadn't heard the rumours regarding me, or the impossible option, they didn't care and wanted to be my friend anyway, which I didn't see happening.

Seeing me with Mike, a couple of guys I knew from the year before approached me at dinner. They had a wide smile plastered on their dumb faces - almost as if the sight would ensure them a place at my side. Needless to say, their asses had barely brushed the seat next to me before I turned and growled. Their faces paled considerably, and I smiled inwardly as the lanky teens walked away awkwardly, looking back over their shoulders at me to glare, but not before I caught their sneering comments of 'freak' or 'bitch'. If it hadn't been for Mike's presence and his strong hand holding me back, I knew I would have stalked over and handed their asses to them on a platter.

The only good thing about starting a new year, I found, was taunting the fresh meat as it filed in. The first years were fresh from junior school, hot off the school holidays, with hopes and dreams about what high school may be like for them. What's better than giving them a heavy dose of reality? It was hilarious watching them look around at the school and its students like little lost lambs, their eyes as wide as they go with fear and awe. The first years usually walked in groups, led by their form teacher and a student representative - the teacher's ass kisser.

As they passed us, the teacher out of earshot – talking to their little pet, or too busy to notice anything, Mike and I snuck up behind the group, shouting 'Boo!', and proceeded to tell the first years of the imminent swirlies, wedgies, or random chases around the school if they lingered around the grounds after the bell had gone they'd be expecting. If I'd thought their little frightened faces had pleased me before, seeing the fear settle in them after spinning our colourfully embellished tales of high school life for the next five years was priceless. I was sure after watching them leave that some looked so scared they were shaking. Some part of me knew it was cruel, but it was a strange tradition, handed down by the last years to the firsts. I had it done to me, and being a senior student, the responsibility fell to me. It had to be done.

After having our fun, Mike and I found our new classes. Being friendlier than me, Mike made a few acquaintances with other students, new and old, where I happily settled my feet on the desk to rock out to my iPod. I listened to whatever came on the radio as I switched to it, tired of my own music. Listening to your favourite songs too many times pretty much fucks up the whole enjoying part of it. I was fine for a while. Relaxed and blissfully ignorant to the people around me. That's when it came on.

"…he's done it again! Omega Kid has done it again! This time he's taken down the gang that's been terrorizing the streets of London. We tried to get an exclusive interview with the masked avenger, but before we could, as always, he disappeared be-,"

I sighed and pulled the ear pieces out, refusing to hear anymore. "Stupid fuckin' super-zeroes…" I muttered bitterly.

This guy, this pansy in a tight ass spandex costume, has been on almost every radio station and news report for the past few months. When it was safe for me to go home and watch TV, the only channels we have had reports of this fucking kid running around thinking he could save the day. I didn't get what all the hype was about. I'd first heard about Omega Kid when he'd taken down some teenager called Jason, after weeks of reports of him being seen running around the streets in a strange costume. Wanting to stay out of the whole news bit about him, I ignored it all. But then I'd unintentionally heard about him again.

I'd been one late afternoon on my way back home from hanging out at the Wreck on my own. I'd walked by some random person's house. They'd had their window cracked open as far as it would go, their TV almost on full blast. After hearing something about breaking news and gasps, I decided to sneak a peek. They had been too busy watching the news report to notice me. This Omega Kid had been stuck in a bank. The picture the screen showed was some lanky kid in a costume, his mask still covering his face, but blood soaked him in patches across his body.

Now, I'm not a complete bitch – I do care about other human beings, so I admit that seeing this poor, deluded kid get the shit kicked out of him and his identity almost revealed in front of a nationwide audience did conjure up some feelings of sympathy. But it also stirred up anger.

After the news of some dude in America wanting to be a real life super hero, and naming himself nothing else other than Kick-Ass, copy cats had started popping up everywhere. It was like giving them permission to fulfil their most desired death wish. Suddenly, the deluded were given a free pass to squeeze into the tightest costume they could find and pretty much walk into danger freely, or jump off a building. It was only when reports of wanna-be heroes started turning up dead that the police finally stepped in to say, "Enough."

Okay, sure, the streets of London aren't exactly a fluffy, safety paradise, but there are worse places in the world. We weren't in dire need of crazy people claiming to be the next Batman. We just needed the police to get up off their collective asses, and put more officers out there. Right? That should be enough.

"Lemme guess," Mike said when he saw me frowning at my earphones. He pretended to stroke his non-existent beard and sat on the corner of my desk. "From the look on your face, either Arsenal was playing and just lost, or they're talking about Omega Kid again," he guessed.

I clicked my fingers and pointed at him at the mention of the Kid, quirking an eyebrow. "Got it!" I glared at the iPod and turned it off. "It's like he's on everything lately, all these pretenders are. It's ridiculous."

Mike shrugged. "Why?"

I froze to look at him. "You did not just say that?" He looked back at me expectantly, his eyebrows lifted, as though he waited me to elaborate.

I sat up straight, dropping my feet to the floor. "C'mon, Mike, think about it. These people are going around thinking they're fighting crime and saving the day, when all they are really doing is endangering themselves and others. How many died last year trying to copy …um, what's-his-name…ah, Red Mist, was it? And then there's the matter of the property damage they caused in the process. Some of them have made more trouble, making it harder for the police to do their job, than got rid of it."

"Careful, Angel. You almost sound as if you care," Mike teased.

"Screw you, Mike! I don't care if these thickheads wanna go out and get themselves killed. I just wish that, if they have a death wish, they go somewhere private and do it. Remember Eagle Eye?" I glanced up at him and smirked darkly.

I knew he remembered when he rubbed a hand down his face and chuckled, shaking his head. "I think he was an exception, Angel."

"They were still scraping him off the side of the street days after he thought he could fly."

"Eagle Eye wasn't exactly a smart cookie."

"He was a fucking idiot," I agreed, remembering hearing about it on the news the night he died. The fact that he'd died wasn't what bothered me so much, or even that he'd tried to be a hero. It was that he'd jumped off a building near a playground. His wings hadn't opened and he'd pretty much just plummeted to his death, right in front of the eyes of impressionable under-fives. "Dad would be spinning in his grave if he knew what these idiots have done to the system."

Mike looked up at me then, an unreadable look in his eyes. "What would you do?"

I glanced up at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

Mike slid down into the chair beside me, scooting close enough so that I could hear him when he lowered his voice. "Think about it, Angel. If you had the chance to change everything, would you? Would you take these heroes off the streets even when, statistically, they've helped save more people when assisting the force this year, than what the force has alone? Could you do that? These people, deluded and crazy as they may be to you, can get into places that the police can't. They can use the weapons that the police can't because the law prohibits them. They have no limitations, they can help by going and doing what the police aren't allowed to do."

I watched him as he spoke about these super heroes. His face took on a hint of seriousness, though his ever present smile had remained, as if the topic of conversation excited him. He practically buzzed with it, and it took everything within me not to smack him upside the head and sigh at him for him being so blind.

But some of what he said did make me think. If I could change things, would I? Would I take down all the super heroes, forcing them back into hiding? I couldn't answer that. I had no idea what would possess them to take the position in the first place, so I found it hard to get inside the minds of those that posed as them, the pretenders. But then, what would happen to all the super villains that subsequently came out of the woodwork as a result of people playing serious dress up to take the law into their own hands? It was doubtful, considering the heroes had already made their debut.

When I didn't say anything, Mike nudged me until I looked at him. His brown eyes sparkled as they caught the sunlight trickling in through blinds. "Well? What about it, Angel. Wouldn't you want someone to come along and save you? Sweep you off your feet and take you away somewhere you can be happy? Somewhere where a home means somewhere you can sleep safe and sound and not have to worry, constantly looking over your shoulder, and waiting? Or would you join them to try and help others?"

I closed my eyes, feeling the soft brush of his fingertips as he gently traced the outside of the bruise under my eyes. "It sounds like a nice dream, Mike," I opened my eyes to find him staring intently at my face. I could almost hear his insistent thoughts, begging me to listen. But, being the realist out of the both of us, I turned away, closing down the images his words had invented in my mind. "But it's time to wake up."


I wrapped my arms tighter around myself as a chilly gust of wind hammered through me; the cold pierced through my clothes, sinking into my bones, freezing them. The blazer did fuck all to protect me against the cold as I lifted the collar to cover my face and neck. My nose felt as though it was going to freeze off. Even my knees shook, as if they were in danger of falling off. It didn't help that I'd stupidly decided to wear a skirt for school. But it didn't matter. At least I could handle the abuse from the weather.

I don't know how long I stayed outside staring up at the house. During the day, the building looked more like a prison than a home. The bottom window was bordered up – the result of a brick through the window when a gang ripped through the streets. The only thing I was thankful of was that the ones that attacked our street hadn't used guns. We were still waiting on the council to come around and fix it, but it was like trying to get an appointment at a Doctor's surgery. They were taking their sweet ass time, and that was after a torrent of questions they attacked us with. The garden looked no prettier than the house itself. My mother and I live on a rough street, and just like everybody else's garden on the street, they were used as dumping grounds for everybody else's rubbish and crap. There was a busted portable TV in ours; the screen smashed in and the frame covered in fuck knows what, but it wasn't a pleasant colour. The lawn was patchy, and a yellow tinted green grass at best.

Now that it was night, the house took on an eerie quality, reminding me of all the childhood trips I'd taken with my dad to the funfairs, travelling around on the Ghost Train, or moving through the Haunted Mansions. At least with them, I always knew I'd come out safe and sound, held in the safety of my ultimate protector's arms. After he died, the house always seemed empty, as though mum wasn't in there, waiting for me to come back. But she always was. I never knew what state she was in when I came back. Sometimes she was so pissed that she couldn't remember her own name. They were better, because she'd always black out and stay asleep long enough for me to get some rest. When she wasn't, when her thoughts were still lucid enough and she recognized me that was when I had to leave. It was a gamble. I would have left long ago, if I hadn't promised my dad before he died that I'd look after her, or if I had somewhere else to go.

I unlocked the door and stepped in. The wind howled behind me, whistling though the holes in the wooden fencing nearby, until I closed the door, shutting out the sound. The silence was deafening. My hesitant footsteps echoed, my heels clicking against the linoleum flooring in the dark kitchen.

"Mum?" I called out quietly.

There was no answer.

I released a sigh of relief and quickened my pace, moving into the living room . Sure enough, I found her exactly where I thought I would; lounging into the sofa, her fingers curled loosely around a half empty can of lager in her sleep. I cringed. Dropping my bag, I looped her arm around my shoulders, my hand holding hers, and my other arm around her waist. Aside from the occasional grunt, she was unresponsive as I moved her up to her room. She flopped onto her bed like a child, vulnerable and dependant. It was at times like this, looking down at her as she curled into a ball on her bed, as if she was trying to hold herself together, that I found that I couldn't hate her. There was only pity in the way she had let herself get so lost. It was as if there was no trace of the caring woman I'd known, the woman that had been my mother.

As I lay in bed, my curtains open so I could watch the rain as it trickled in rivulets against the window panes, made visible in contrast by the orange glow of the streetlamps, and my iPod playing the radio as background noise, my thoughts were occupied by Mike's words. I hadn't told him so, but what he had said stuck with me all day, whether at the forefront, or at the back of my mind, teasing and pulling at my conscious, demanding attention. Invisible, but still there – like my mum. His talk of heroes and the need for them got the cogs of my brain working. If I was being honest with myself, deep down I had a tiny bit of respect for some of them, especially those that actually seemed to manage to be doing something useful.

The name Omega Kid whirred through my thoughts. That's when I noticed they were talking about him again on the radio. I lifted the earpiece and listened as they sung his praise, commenting about his past involvement in fighting some gang. I had to admit. After hearing about it, and seeing the clips of him caught on tape, I knew he had to have some cajones to go up against a gang like that. It was splashed all over the papers. He seemed to be making a name for himself as a hero.

I turned over and saw the picture of the only true life hero I had ever known. I kissed my fingertip and extended my arm across the bed, touching it to the frame holding the photograph of a handsome young man dressed in his police officer's uniform, wearing his cap, his badge and a proud smile.

"Love you, dad," I murmured sleepily, drifting off to the sound of the rain and dreaming of what life would be like to be swept away into another life by a hero in spandex.

Thank you for reading. Don't forget to leave a review! PM me if there are any spelling/grammatical errors that I haven't caught :)