Black. Nothingness. Emptiness. The complete absence of color. A void.

He had to chuckle to himself. There was nothing "empty" about the night. Nothing "color-less" about the streets after dark. He cloaked himself in darkness to meet his fate – to go about his business of fulfilling his destiny.

As he rounded a corner, a skittering noise caused him to tense. His rock-hard biceps clenched beneath the black silk shirt that rippled like a velvet river over his shoulders. He breathed easier when a stray cat scampered across the street and then slowly approached him, its coloring in keeping with his wardrobe. It paused, and then cautiously circled around his feet, rubbing up against the black leather that sheathed his leg before dashing off again into the inky intersection. He was almost tempted to call it back to him – perhaps it was a loner, like himself. Perhaps it was time that he finally let some living thing get close to him.

He smiled ruefully and turned in the opposite direction, keeping to the shadows that were like his second skin. He would never enjoy the luxury of getting close to anyone or anything – not after his life changed so drastically that one night. Not after he was changed. Not after the gift he was given; the calling that challenged him to right the wrongs and protect the weak. The people who often "fell through the cracks" and were left defenseless in a cold, cruel world.

It was his destiny. His fate. He slipped into an alleyway noiselessly and smiled when he found it empty. The cops had finally listened – they busted the dealer who had been using the spot as a headquarters to sell pot to grade school children. He had watched the deals go down for weeks, cringing every time he had to see innocent faces look up at the drug lord with admiration and respect. The arrest had merited front page billing, and – much to his chagrin – the police had given him credit for the tip that led them to the dealer. Of course, they hadn’t mentioned that when they finally *acted* on one of his tips, they found the dealer bound, gagged, and dusted like a confectioner’s donut with his product, along with the cash from his latest sale. By the time they had freed him, the dealer had been so anxious to confess that he had nearly created a laundry problem for himself.

It was all Tiffany Hill’s fault, he mused as he silently patrolled another intersection. If she just hadn’t been so romantic and enthusiastic. If the story just hadn’t appealed to the anchorwoman’s feminine fantasies, he wouldn’t have to deal with the burden of a nickname – a catchy claim to fame that was now breathed reverently by every good citizen of Port Charles. Kismet.

Righting the wrongs that weren’t always caught by the establishment was anything but romantic. As he looked down at his chest, he swore again at the cumbersome equipment that his disguise necessitated. He knew that his considerable net worth enabled him to take advantage of the latest technological marvels, but it also made getting ready for his nightly forays a chore. The battery pack for a voice synthesizer that masked his recognizable accent hummed quietly at his waist. Even though it was no larger than a deck of cards, he felt it made his movements awkward and sluggish. The contac lenses that camouflaged his unique eye color were uncomfortable and made his eyes water. Black gloves made of a revolutionary microfiber that was thinner than anything previously discovered still occasionally made delicate movements clumsy. The mask he wore, similar to a scuba diver’s, was made of the same paper-thin micro-fiber. While it concealed the color and cut of his hair, it was hot and unpleasant to wear for long periods of time.

Cumbersome. Uncomfortable. Distracting. And – he admitted to himself with a long sigh – d*mn necessary if he was to remain anonymous while fulfilling his destiny. His calling. Kismet.

As he emerged from the alley, he spun sharply to the left. Rumbling thumps where there should have been silence put every nerve ending on alert. The shrill whine of a car alarm split the night and drew him in the direction of the source of the noise. Fastening his gloves tighter around his wrists and his mask more securely around his face, he dashed down the narrow pathway between two old brownstones – unawares that in so doing, someone else’s destiny would take shape.

######

Oh, think twice, it’s another day for you and me in paradise

She hated being out after dark. Walking briskly back to her car, avoiding as many of the darker shadows as she could, she kept telling herself that it was worth it. That this trip to the docks district would bring the killers of Drew Brighton to justice and some kind of closure to his family.

Drew Brighton was gunned down at the tender age of 17 in a drive-by shooting on Water Street late one night. The initial police investigation turned up no suspects and no witnesses. But Assistant District Attorney Brenda Barrett knew better. She had pushed and prodded the Port Charles Police Department, pulling every string she knew and probably going beyond the normal protocol for the DA’s office. But in the end, her persistence had paid off. Two very timid female witnesses in a crumbling flat near the docks admitted that they recognized the driver of the getaway car. Since they refused to come downtown to give a statement, Brenda agreed to take a chance and come to *them* to take their statement – after dark.

Voices raised in a domestic dispute and the wail of an infant from a dilapidated brick building made Brenda falter briefly but then increase her pace. Nights like this made her wonder why she had ever left a safe job in the New York City District Attorney’s office. A safe, repetitive, DULL job, with absolutely no prospect of advancement. Her older sister, Julia, had taken 14-year-old Brenda under her wing when their mother and father died in a tragic accident. The teen had been bouncing around boarding schools in Europe and even though she wasn’t exactly close to them, her parents’ death hit her hard. If Julia hadn’t stepped in, the downward spiral she was caught in might have led Brenda to a life similar to the teenage dropouts she prosecuted in court.

She had gone to live with Julia in Washington, D.C. and hated it at first. Slowly, Brenda realized that life didn’t owe HER anything – that the earth revolved around the sun every day, and not HER. Her life style underwent some drastic changes and after some crash courses during the summer, Brenda managed to get into the law school at NYU. She graduated with honors, drawing high praise from Julia. Her sister wasn’t that thrilled when Brenda announced plans to relocate to the Big Apple for her first job, but she also realized that she couldn’t play mother hen to her sibling for the rest of her life. Besides, Julia had her OWN family to worry about – she had married a man in the Diplomatic Corps and made Brenda an aunt a year thereafter.

News of the job in Port Charles drew a sigh of relief from Julia. Not only was it a sizeable promotion, but how much trouble could Brenda get into in a small town in upstate New York?

The sound of breaking glass made Brenda wince and glance upwards at the brick tenements. "Yeah, right……." she muttered to herself. "Quiet, boring little Port Charles…….where nothing ever happens…….."

Brenda breathed a sigh of relief when her taupe Honda Accord came into sight. The tires and windshields were all intact. The evidence she had collected from the two women would be enough to track down Drew Brighton’s killers and bring them to justice. The evening would be a success – a towering line-drive over the fences. All she had to do was get to her car, get inside, and lock the doors……..

"Heeeeeeyyyyyyy there, good lookin’…….." Brenda kept her head high but quickened her stride at the sound of the husky drawl. She avoided looking at the speaker behind the voice, deliberately denying him the satisfaction of seeing fear in her eyes as she focused instead on her goal. It was probably some drunk, anyway……some slobbering old man who could sneer his lewd intentions but didn’t have the strength to haul himself out of the gutter.

She was wrong.

She had her car keys in her hand. Some tips from the self-defense class Julia had forced her to take when she moved to Manhattan were never forgotten. Brenda was just about to place the key in the lock, mentally berating herself for frugally passing on the extras like keyless entry, power locks and a panic button, when she felt an arm snake around her waist from behind.

"Saaaaaayyyyyy, pretty lady………" He jerked her against his chest and Brenda’s briefcase clattered to the pavement. "Didn’t you hear me before?"

"I heard you." Brenda struggled to get the key in the lock. Maybe, if he was drunk enough, one good elbow to the stomach would give her the lead time she needed to get into the car and lock him outside.

"Welllllll, now……." His slurred words in the absence of the smell of alcohol sent a shiver down Brenda’s spine. If he wasn’t drunk, then his good humor had to have come from something chemical. Which made him eminently more dangerous. "Where I come from, a woman says thank you when a man pays her a compliment."

Brenda felt the key slip out of the lock as the mugger tried to pull her away from the car. "Yeah, well………" She took a deep breath and prayed for courage and good timing. "I guess we just don’t come from the same place, mister!"

Before the mugger could react, Brenda drove her elbow into his mid-section. He whoofed loudly and doubled over, screaming in pain when she ground the spiked heel of her designer shoe into his toe for good measure. She escaped his grasp for just a few seconds, but they were all she needed as she scrambled away from him, running blindly back in the direction from which she had come.

Looking back on it later, Brenda decided that fate must have played a hand in her life that day. She had overslept and decided there wasn’t time to do her shoulder-length raven hair in the normal French twist she wore. Instead, she had worn it down, taking a ribbing from her colleagues and receiving more than a few amorous glances. Now, the mugger used it to his advantage. As she literally ran for her life, she could hear the pavement shake with his heavy footsteps gaining ground behind her. Just as she passed an alley, he reached out and buried his fist in her hair, yanking it hard to stop her flight.

Oh, Lord, is there nothing more anybody can do

Brenda screamed – not only in terror, but in pain. It felt like he was tearing her hair out at the roots. "Let me go!!" she begged as he dragged her into the darkened alley. As she took another breath to speak, he slammed her back against the brick wall of an old, abandoned warehouse. When she finally looked into his eyes, the dilated pupils told her that she was in deep trouble.

"Look……." Brenda fought for air as he anchored her to the wall with one arm across her windpipe. "I dropped my purse back at the car……….you can have the wallet…….there’s not much cash, but I have three credit cards and they’re paid up…….."

"Well, now, darlin’," the mugger leered, "that’s d*mn generous of you, but I’m not interested in your money or your credit cards. At least, not now…….." When a flashing neon sign at the other end of the alley cast a sudden glow on the steel of the switchblade he drew from his back pocket, Brenda felt her stomach lurch. "I was thinkin’ that we might have us some fun first…….."

Brenda screamed again but when she tried to escape the mugger’s grasp, he brought the tip of the knife to rest at her jugular. "You’re sick, you know……..sick and twisted," she panted, closing her eyes and fighting tears as his hand crept up and stopped at the first button of her navy suit jacket.

"Go ahead, fight me, sweetheart," he crooned. "That’ll make it more fun for both of us!!" As Brenda muffled a sob, the mugger attempted to un-do the top button without success. Apparently the chemical high he was enjoying impeded his manual dexterity. After a few seconds, he moved the knife away from her throat and passed it behind the button. As he did, the back of his knuckles brushed the swell of her breast and Brenda cringed. When the button gave way and popped off easily to clatter to the pavement, he smiled lewdly. "Welllll, now…….I think I liked that………" Brenda whimpered softly as he moved the knife down her trembling ribcage to the next button. "Let’s see if I can do that again…….."

Like a cat with a mouse, the mugger toyed with Brenda, slowly slicing the buttons off her suit jacket. His mission accomplished, he transferred the knife to the other hand and spread the two sides of the coat, exposing the lacy edges of the black silk camisole she wore beneath. "Ooooooo……..black silk……." He leaned closer, licking the side of her neck and tracing the tip of the knife in lazy patterns on her upper chest. "I just looooooooove black silk……"

Brenda caught her breath when he suddenly drew the knife downwards, slashing through the black silk all the way to her waist. Her chest heaving with rage, she gritted her teeth when he slowly pushed back each side of the camisole with the tip of the knife until her breasts were bared to his gaze. When he lowered his face towards her right breast, she closed her eyes and growled, "What are you waiting for, you b*stard? Why don’t you just get this over with??!!"

"Ohhhhhh, darlin’………" The mugger looked up into her panicked eyes. "You still don’t quite get it, do you?" He chuckled and rubbed his crotch against her lower body. "You’re not the one in control, here. *I* am!!"

"WRONG. I AM."

For the next ten seconds, Brenda felt as though she were Dorothy, caught up in the center of a fierce cyclone. The mugger literally flew skywards before her eyes, and then suddenly soared to her right, landing in a heap of garbage. Her eyes had flown open at the sound of the stranger’s voice but before she could focus on what was happening, something literally whisked her out of the alley. It stopped long enough to deposit her next to a parked car and then was gone again in a rush of wind.

Tears were streaming down her face and her clothing was in tatters from the waist up, but somehow Brenda managed to regain her composure. She clutched her suit jacket together in the front to hide her nakedness and then crept towards the sounds of bodily mayhem coming from the alley. The impact of flesh on flesh made her cringe. The whimpers of pain and surrender froze her in place. A few seconds later, her rescuer strode out of the alley and straight towards her.

"This can’t be happening……." Brenda’s eyes widened at the sight of her approaching rescuer and then she buried her forehead in her palm. "I must be dreaming…….."

"I’m afraid you’re not dreaming ma’am……." When he reached out to gently cradle her elbows in his hands, Brenda jumped. She had read about him in the newspapers. Heard his praises sung on the television. But she never thought she’d need his services. "Are you alright?" he asked softly.

"I………." Brenda took a deep breath and quickly wiped her tears with the back of her hand. "I think so…….."

"You……..uh…….." Her rescuer cleared his throat awkwardly and then pointed towards her chest. "You might want to have someone look at those scratches……."

Brenda glanced down and realized that when she had rubbed her face, she had released the grip on the sides of her jacket. Her mysterious rescuer now had a perfect view of her bosom.

"Oh……..I……." Brenda quickly drew it together again. She was so embarrassed that she never noticed his half-smile at her belated modesty. "I don’t think ……..how can I……..did I say thank you?" She took a breath and then suddenly, the enormity of what had almost happened hit her hard. Sobs prevented any more words from coming out and she doubled over.

"Here……." In the blink of an eye, her rescuer put his arms around her and pushed her back to prop her against a parked car. He held her in a loose embrace at his side until her breathing returned to normal and her sobs lessened. She felt him gently start to stroke her hair and then pull back. "Do you have a cell phone?" he asked quietly.

"Uh-huh…….." Brenda nodded as words were still difficult to come. "In my car."

Groaning and rustling noises from the alley drew her rescuer’s attention. "Why don’t you go call the police?" He moved away from her towards the scene of the attack. "I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up."

Brenda nodded wordlessly and walked back the half-block to her car. She picked up her keys and managed to get her purse and phone out of the car to make the call. After taking more deep breaths and assuring the operator that she was OK, she felt her usual cool self-assurance returning.

{Wait till they hear this in the DA’s office!! I’ll never live it down!! Self-reliant, smooth Brenda Barrett – who had survived living in big, bad New York with nary a scratch – had to have the capeless crusader come to her rescue!! The guy who’s been driving us all *nuts* with his personal vendetta against every criminal in the state of New York!!}

The pieces fell together as she was returning to the alley. When her rescuer emerged from the alley once again, the Brenda he encountered was a far cry from the one he had left. "I remember who you are now!" she muttered grimly, pointing at his chest. "You’re……..you’re…….."

She saw his lips twist into a scowl. "Stupid."

"No……." Brenda shook her head. "No, you’re not stupid."

"No, I didn’t mean *I* was. YOU are!!"

Brenda certainly wasn’t ready for the accusation to come on the heels of such tenderness just moments before. "EXCUSE ME??!!"

"What the h*ll is a beautiful woman like you doing in a neighborhood like this after dark??!!"

"My JOB!!" she shot back, equally exasperated. In fact, she became so agitated that for a moment, she forgot her disheveled state of dress and let her jacket fall open again. Clutching it back together and blushing profusely, she pointed a finger of accusation. "You’re that vigilante rescue guy – uh………Kismet!!"

"So I’m told." He stared at her for a moment and then turned on his heel back towards the alley. "And a h*ll of a lot of thanks I get, apparently!"

Brenda ran to catch up to him and grabbed him by one arm to spin him back to face her. "I DID say thank you, d*mn it!!" She diligently kept her jacket closed with one hand while running the other through her hair. "It’s just that I’m a lawyer, and I can’t condone people like you who take the law into their own hands……"

"Fine. Fine. Spare me the lecture." Kismet glanced into the alley and then back to Brenda, his arms folded in annoyance. "You want me to let him go?"

Brenda peeked around Kismet’s muscular frame to see her mugger, bound and gagged, lying on top of a heap of garbage. "Well………." She rubbed at her collarbone and felt the places where the knife had scratched her sting. "Not exactly………"

Kismet chuckled softly. "I didn’t think so…….." He walked over to where the mugger lay and kicked at his booted feet. "I don’t think the police will have any problems getting him to admit to your attack." He gave the mugger a pointed look, which drew another round of whimpering from him and more pronounced trembling. Then he leaned over and picked up the mugger’s pocket knife, handing it gingerly to Brenda by the blade. "You’ll want to give this to the police – for evidence……"

She looked around for a second and then bent down to pick up a scrap of paper to wrap around the knife. "I suppose we *all* don’t have the luxury of using gloves, do we?" Brenda snapped, glancing towards Kismet’s protected hands. Then she sighed. "You realize that a coerced confession will be thrown out by any judge in this city."

Kismet shook his head and whistled softly. "I save the lady’s life and she still doesn’t like me."

"I don’t like your *methods*." Brenda raised her chin a notch. "And for your information, if you hadn’t showed up, I was just about to give that guy a good shot to the ………something."

"Riiiiiiight………..Sure you were…….." When Kismet’s eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement at her bravado, Brenda felt a funny shiver down her spine. The sudden whine of sirens in the distance seemed to un-nerve him. "I need to go……"

"Wait……." Brenda’s words were lost as the cyclone drew her to the center again. She felt something like a warm caress against her cheek and then, when the air cleared and she looked around expectantly, she was alone.

You can tell from the lines on her face

The first police cruiser arrived thirty seconds after Kismet left. Brenda was immediately given an officer’s jacket to cover her torn clothing. An ambulance was on the scene moments later. While the paramedics tended to her superficial scratches, she watched silently as her mugger was read his rights and dragged to the police car. His eyes darted around fearfully as he was pushed inside, almost as though he were still frightened that somebody was watching to make sure he behaved. Somebody lethal.

"Miss Barrett?" Her reverie was broken when the paramedic gently touched her arm. "Do you want to go to GH and have somebody look at those cuts?"

"No…….." Brenda rose shakily from the back of the ambulance, her eyes still scanning the area for a sign of him. She pushed the hair back off her forehead and caught just the faintest scent of him on her jacket where he had touched her. But like the night – and Kismet – it faded and disappeared into the darkness. She gave herself a strong mental shake and then smiled weakly at the paramedic. "No. I’ll be fine." Her breath caught in her throat for a moment when she inhaled. "I always am."

* * * * *

He was watching – silently, from the rooftop of a nearby vacant brownstone. He knew he should be on his way to other parts of the city, moving on to other people who might need his help. But for some reason, he remained rooted to the spot – staring in uncharacteristic fascination at his latest victory.

Kismet had rescued women before. They usually fell all over him, prostrate with grief and gratitude, dewey-eyed with admiration and curiosity. But this one – this one was different. The feel of her in his arms when she broke down made him weaker than he had felt when he first woke after the darkness. The soft brown velvet of her eyes when she stared up at him hit him harder than a well-landed punch to the gut. Even now – standing four stories above the ground – he could almost smell her. Hear her. She smelled like lavender and lace – soft, delicate, ethereal. She sounded like woman – strong, resilient, sensual. She was everything he always wanted – but couldn’t have.

This would never do. He had to keep his edge – the aloof neutrality that enabled him to do his job. His fate. His destiny.

And his destiny certainly couldn’t include her.

Oh, think twice, it’s another day for you and me in paradise

To be continued…….

Music credit: "Another Day in Paradise," by Phil Collins, from his albums "But Seriously," (1989) and "Hits"