also maybe outfit for super-powered stuff. with less burning eyes.

As a boy, Roland was always taught—above all else—to respect those around him, and to value what society worked tirelessly to uphold. His father would always repeat that as they passed through poorer parts of town on their way to school and work, and Roland watched the people they passed by closely. Despite not living amongst them, he felt a certain familiarity with them. He felt like he understood how they lived their lives better than how he lived his. He wondered if he would ever understand his place all through his school life.

After graduating from high school, he met who would become his closest friend: Marlow La Piette. At the time, she was the bartender at a local bar he and his classmates escaped to after an uneventful aftergrad, and Roland sat at the bar with her while his friends took to chasing skirts. They never seemed to run out of things to talk about, and by the time Roland drove Marlow home at the end of the night they had planned to meet again sometime.

As time went on, Marlow became increasingly secretive, and one day revealed to Roland that she had been invited into a vigilante group. She told him that her previous work with the police would put her in a high position, and she was seriously considering joining them. While she didn’t explicitly invite Roland, he could tell that she was nervous, and that she wanted him to do so. He told her he would be supportive of whatever she chose.

Some time later, Marlow finally asked Roland if he would consider joining the group. She had been given a small squad to command, and was told that she could pad it with whomever she thought would help. Roland joined, not knowing the extent of what he would get involved with. He was initially assigned to be her aide, and was quite awkward around her squad at first, but quickly established a central position in their group with his easygoing demeanor and excellent work ethic. Taller than most of his squadmates, he found himself watching out for them whenever they were on patrol. Time and time again he would spot something that would have otherwise gone unnoticed, and at Marlow’s suggestion, Roland began to push his perception to what many would believe to be its human limits. His list of achievements only grew as his skills did.

The first two years of his service were uneventful. However, by not only helping Marlow with her tasks, but other higher-ups, he made several strong connections in the group. His relationship with his superiors was always good, and he quickly noticed that his time on patrol continuously shrank until he was essentially working a desk position. While he had his objections, encouragement from several friends—especially from Marlow—kept him in line.

The two of them spent an increasing amount of time together while they were off-duty. They discussed work over meals and personal matters over coffee and stiff drinks. Their peers whispered about them, but nothing seemed to come from their relationship. They acknowledged people’s curiosity, but time and time again they insisted that they were nothing more than close friends. At the time, in Roland’s mind, he believed that to be true.

Things rapidly changed in the city, however, when groups of smugglers began to make their presence known. Rather than small, scattered bands that traded in the dark, the new smuggler cartels were bold and powerful. They clogged entire streets with large protected convoys that they cleverly blended into civilian traffic. Their first clashes with Roland’s group were small, relatively harmless fights, but blood was drawn shortly after, and the fights grew larger and larger. Casualties mounted, and Roland was quickly placed in an analytical group. His sharp eye proved invaluable for picking out targets from shoddy photos and dimly-lit videos. The list of captures to Roland’s name rapidly grew long and prestigious.

His meteoric rise in renown came to a sudden stop during the Autumn of 2015. After meeting with Marlow for supper one last time, Roland would never see her again. Her record of impeccable service exempted her from suggestions that she had gone AWOL, but that did not offer any answers. Squads were dedicated to finding her, and Roland himself remained glued to photos and video feeds, searching for her. He was, unfortunately, the one to find her. Only the higher-ups ever really knew what he saw, but there was one thing that was certain: there was no consoling him; both in his earth-shaking anger and in his haunted grief.

The official autopsy report was not sure how much she suffered in her death, but it was clear that she was the victim of a hit. Eyes immediately moved to the smugglers, but Roland’s eyes remained on Marlow. She had been bludgeoned several times with a large blunt object, and shot a total of twelve times with low-velocity pistol rounds. They were certain that neither were the cause of death. Instead, they ruled that massive trauma to her abdomen had killed her. They found it incredibly difficult to remove the small pile driven through her and into the wall behind her.

Roland did not know sleep for weeks afterwards. He went positively mad with his work; poring over every single bit of detail that he could find surrounding Marlow’s death. His superiors—his friends—couldn’t bring themselves to stop him, and eventually reasoned that if Roland found out who ordered the hit and where they were, it would answer many more of their questions. They watched him waste away. Roland’s eyesight—once one of his greatest prides—deteriorated to the point that he could no longer focus on objects; his vision was one blur of colours and light.

His persistence eventually paid off when a smuggler turned themselves in and begged for Roland’s forgiveness. A mole in the group had watched Roland’s spiral into madness, and apparently it had been enough to convince one of their top men to change his ways. The turncoat gave Roland all the information he needed, and submitted willingly to incarceration. The turncoat told Roland that he hoped he could atone for what he had done, and went in peace.

Roland, on the other hand, flew into a rage. He pulled every favour that he could, and several of his higher-ups had some powerful connections. By the end of preparations, several group members were heavily armed and willing to go, and even a SWAT team was readied for the raid on the smuggler’s den. He accompanied them on their mission, and during an agonizing hour, Roland was at the peak of his physical performance. There were more people in the den than anticipated, and several citations for bravery were given to members of the team afterwards. The unsettling number of casualties determined to have been executed after the raid was not pinned on the official SWAT team, but its members would not divulge Roland’s actions. They instead suggested that a clean-up crew of smugglers had been sent to silence any survivors looking to take plea bargains.

During the fight, Roland took several grievous wounds, and was quickly picked up by paramedics. When they reached the hospital, doctors assumed that his languished wails were caused by his physical wounds, and quickly put him to sleep. However, despite their best efforts, the surgeons could only just barely stabilize Roland. He slipped into a coma shortly after they placed him under observation.

On the eve of the 1st of December 2016, Roland awoke. His muscles ached, but they had not atrophied nearly as bad as the doctors expected they would. His eyesight had not returned to its peak, but was much better than before he went out to avenge Marlow’s death. He complained that chest felt hollow, and he inquired with the doctors about it. They assured him that it was fine, but the psychiatrist assigned to him feared for his mental health. He would have to be observed.

Two weeks passed, and Christmas was drawing near. The doctors said that discharge would be Roland’s gift for the year, and commented on his speedy recovery. Roland had regained the ability to walk properly, and was getting the hang of fine motion in his hands again. Late in the evening of the 19th of December, he was looking out of his window, unable to sleep. The city seemed to call to him, but at the same time repel him.

Marlow’s death had seriously shaken him, and his time recovering—despite how short it had been—also did so. He wondered if his life could remain normal after all he had gone through, but hoped he could pull through. He would never live down never telling Marlow how he felt until it was too late, but perhaps he could forgive himself... one day.