A/N: This collection is a sequel to High-Flying, Adored, which tells the story of Victor and Yuuri's awkward fumblings with vigilantism and secret identities. These oneshots can be read independently, but I recommend that you at least skim that story first!

There are too many of them.

Yuri swears viciously, claws raking across one mobster's face even as one foot kicks back into the chest of a man approaching from the rear. The men have him cornered in a dead-end alley, and they're armed with knives.

Which on one hand, at least they're not guns. On the other, you know. Knives.

Ducking under a particularly vicious swipe, Yuri catches the perpetrator with an uppercut. Punching is usually Yuri's last resort because he weighs about as much as a wet paper towel, and your typical garden variety thug is about seven feet of steel-reinforced bad attitude.

As expected, the punch doesn't do much more than make the man irritable. He bears down on Yuri and the much smaller man braces himself, eyes darting left to right and searching for an escape-

Instead, he hears a roar. It's low and guttural and leonine and for a moment he thinks, deeply confused, I didn't know I could do that.

Then a headlight illuminates the alley. The thug blocking Yuri leaps aside to avoid an intimate rendezvous with a steaming front tire, and Yuri Plisetski is staring into the visor of a featureless black helmet.

"Get on." The command is sharp. Urgent. Yuri allows himself maybe two seconds of doubt before swinging onto the motorcycle behind his rescuer, gripping the back of the seat with claws that sink deep into the thick leather. The rider guns his engine, kicking off and swinging the bike toward the mouth of the alley. One of the thugs staggers toward the bike, murder in his eyes, but the mystery man slams a fist into his stomach and he goes down hard.

In seconds, the mobsters are a distant memory.

The rider doesn't speak. The city flies by around them, bright lights and lurid colors and menacing oceans of shadow. Yuri watches the reflections of neon signs gleaming in the bike's chassis and wonders what the fuck is going on.

Finally, the rider pulls his bike to a stop near a bustling street. They're just out of sight, tucked behind a sign advertising some kind of dating app.

'Meeting new people,' the ad insists, 'has never been so easy!'

Yuri stares up at the dark visor and thinks, yeah right.

"Thanks," he says gruffly, wishing he had pockets to stuff his hands into. "For getting me out."

The rider doesn't answer, just watches him squirm.

"So, uh." What the fuck is he supposed to say? "Are you a superhero too?"

A nod.

"What's your power?"

The man lifts his gloved hand and for a moment Yuri thinks he's waving, but then he notices the dull gleam of a set of brass knuckles against the dark leather.

"Oh."

Another long, uncomfortable silence. Maybe the guy can't talk, Yuri speculates. Maybe he just doesn't want to.

Finally, Yuri huffs out a breath. "Look I know you can't tell me who you are. Secret identities or whatever. But-"

Hands reach up to grip the bottom of the helmet, and in the next moment Yuri is looking up into dark eyes and a somber face.

"Otabek Altin," the man says, working the brass knuckles off of his right hand and extending it toward Yuri.

Yuri blinks down at the hand, almost stunned. Then, after a moment, he takes it.

"It's, um. It's good to meet you."

A/N: I can't help myself! Who knew superhero AUs were so addictive?