A/N: After a short break here is part 4 of CC! I'm sorry for being so late, you guys. I've been super busy with moving and whatnot. Now I'm finally settled in my cozy new (well, I suppose once it was new) abode and things can go slightly back to normal.

I hope this isn't a let down to anyone!

Enjoy.

-o-o-

"Cause and Consequence"

PART FOUR

" There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and of unspeakable love. "

- Washington Irving

-o-o-

Chris had been underestimated from birth, that much was undoubtedly true even if the underlying reasons why Frank and Angie had resorted to that were at least partially noble. But the fact remained Chris had never actually tried to step out of the emotional safety net and show his potential. It was much more comfortable for a teenage boy to stay home minding his business, reading his comic books and avoiding anything in world that could have hurt him.

It had taken Chris 17 years and quite a few months to experience, in merely a handful of weeks, all the emotions he had deprived himself of all those years. The effect of that rush of feelings on such a sheltered boy were explosive. There was too much he wanted to do in too little time and with zero preparations or actual maturity to perform them to the best of his abilities.

Therefore, yes, Chris might have been to blame for playing right into his dad's hands when he assumed his own last few decisions hadn't been predicted beforehand. Deep down he knew that all along. There just wasn't much way out of those traps that he could perceive.

Chris was a pile of nerves by the time he arrived at the warehouse.There was hardly a single cohesive thought in his adrenaline pumped brain, it was all about scattered impulses at that point.

The warehouse looked absolutely deserted from the outside. Chris knew, though, that the windows were just for show and the entire place was soundproof. He parked at the back without ceremony and reached for the single 9mm he kept under the driver's seat. He hesitated for a second, wondering what his dad would think of him going in armed. Chris shrugged. If anything, his father would judge him horribly if he went in unarmed, so he decided to take it.

He tucked the gun away behind his back, concealed by the cloak, and marched to the door. If his father had still a single ounce of common sense in him, Chris assumed, he would have a guard at the door watching the approximately 25 security cameras. Unsurprisingly, Maurice opened the reinforced steel door to greet him.

Chris tried the "nod and walk right past the help" routine, except it didn't work. Maurice barred his way with a single outstretched arm, which was quite sufficient to break Chris in two.

"I need to speak with my dad," Chris said. "I know he's in there."

"Yeah he is, and he's waiting for you."

Chris shrugged, slightly taken aback by the crushing of his element of surprise, but he could live with that. Maurice, however, still hadn't moved out of the way.

"Well?" Chris raised an eyebrow. "Going to let me through or what?"

Maurice chuckled. "Yeah, sure," he said, removing his arm.

Chris puffed his chest and walked right in with a Dramatic Fling of his cape. As soon as he turned his back on Maurice, Chris felt a hand at his back. He turned around hastily to find Maurice spinning the Glock in his massive hand.

"No guns inside. Daddy's orders." The bodyguard grinned.

Chris shrugged and kept walking like he didn't give a damn. Meanwhile, his stomach was turning flip-flops and trying to tell him how bad an idea this whole thing was. Suddenly Chris heard a manly grunt followed by a whimsy scream.

Sometimes sounds can trigger memories and help one make immediate and involuntary connections to known things, situations, people...

"Dave!" Chris exclaimed to himself.

Chris found the sliding steel doors that divided that area of the warehouse and the one where he assumed the scream came from. They were locked. His only option left was to walk up a set of metal stairs that led to a wide suspended platform that overlooked the area beyond. Chris winced, part of him still wished he wouldn't even need to face his dad, and rather just run in, grab Dave and run out again.

It took him another high-pitched cry to realize there was no more time and no more options. Chris took a deep breath and climbed the shaky stairs.

As he had anticipated, Frank and another bodyguard were on the far right end of the rectangular platform. His dad soon noted his presence and nodded for the thug next to him to leave. Chris' head was spinning and only several deep breaths were needed to keep him standing up straight.

"Dad," he began coyly.

Frank had his hands in his pockets and a bemused look in his face, like he had known all along how things were going to end. Chris could see clearly at last: he knew all about his son's devotion to him and he played it gladly. Chris had never thought of challenging that, and he was honestly scared of trying even now.

Chris kept walking towards him entirely out of lack of options. He was shaking and he didn't know what to say. His dad had always known best. Chris had always blindly trusted his judgment, he had no argument against him aside from his own opinions and Chris knew those mattered little to his father and the greater good he defended.

Chris' eyes wandered to the level bellow, something was drawing his gaze. Big Daddy was sitting facing a camera and surrounded by thugs. Beside him was a douche in a green wetsuit, his head limp and already looking pretty roughed up–– it was Dave, of course. One of the thugs grabbed Dave by the fabric of his mask and some of his hair underneath and raised his head. He yelled things at him that Chris could barely distinguish, then punched him hard. Dave gave a half grunt, half flimsy screech and his head fell down again.

Chris turned his attention back to his father.

"Chris! How nice of you to join us," Frank bellowed.

Chris couldn't help thinking how many times he had heard that line before. Apparently, reality echoed the clichés of the stories. Except now it wasn't a just another story, it was his own life for a change.

"Why did you bring him in, dad? This is fucking insane!" Chris exclaimed, though his voice was still weak as if half the sound had gotten stuck in his throat.

"It's all about sending a message, son. A little media can do wonders these days. No one knows who the big motherfucker is, so we had to improvise," Frank said with his usual simplicity.

He loved his dad. He had followed him blindly up to that point, but no more.

"Cameras, dad? Really?" Chris said indignantly. "AK-47's to kill little girls?"

Frank didn't seem too bothered by Chris' miniature rebellion. "You don't know what you're saying. That girl was a menace," said he quite patiently.

"Still," Chris mumbled, realizing that his dad definitely had a point, "Still, it's not the point. The point is, you do what you've got to do and I understand that. But this isn't fucking fair."

"Don't you fucking tell me about fairness, Chris. This is a business we're running here," said Frank, not quite as patiently as before. No one touched his business. "You really want to be part of my business or not?"

Chris hesitated, slightly under the impression he had heard that before. It was probably only a dejà vu, but the question weighted heavily on his mind like it had some sort of vital importance, almost as if it carried a mystical power that could change everything. Yet he couldn't quite put his finger on what that hunch meant.

"Frank, we're ready to go," shouted one of the lackeys. "It's best you get outta here soon."

"Right, I'll just stay for the opening credits," Frank answered with a chuckle. He turned to his son at last. "What about you, Chris?"

Yeah, what about Chris?

"No," Chris said, though the word had sounded more decided and much fiercer in his mind. "No, I won't stand here and watch shit like that go down. I can't, dad."

"This is not a fucking joke, Chris," Frank insisted. Now that was how one spoke with confidence, Chris thought dismally, it sent chills down his spine. "You do as I say and stay the fuck out of this!"

"See, that nearly made my knees shake, but I'm all better now," Chris said, leaning on the fact he hated to be bossed around. "Fuck yeah I'm getting involved!"

"You're going to regret this, son. I'm telling you this for your own good," Frank said in a tone a great deal less menacing that reminded Chris how much he cared about his dad. "No good can come out of this. You weren't born to be no fucking hero, and you're about to learn that the hard way."

Chris swallowed hard. He was way past the point of no return. If he didn't go for it, he would regret it for the rest of his life. Hero or no hero, he had to help Dave.

"I'm sorry, dad."

Chris rushed past Frank to the other set of metal steps that led to the area bellow. His dad didn't try to stop him at all. The stairs shook violently the faster he tried to climb them down, but fear of heights was the last thing on his mind. Chris jumped off on the last couple of steps and allowed himself only a single second to straighten out his mask.

"... repeat after me, batons," one of the thugs was saying right before they began beating Kick-Ass and Big Daddy to a pulp.

Dave's high pitched screams echoed in the warehouse. Every time he gave a pained grunt, Chris whimpered along with him. Chris' heart beat faster and faster, trying to come up with a good enough plan.

As Chris charged towards them, the other thugs standing behind the cameras didn't so much as budge in his direction. Since it couldn't possibly be out of respect, they were probably under orders from Frank. Chris saw it as a fault to be exploited.

For a moment Chris remembered fondly his 9mm Glock, but then he found a shelf full of metal pipes and felt right at home. Unsure whether the lackeys would keep to their orders or not, Chris grabbed one of the long pipes and ran kamikaze-like right to the middle of the fun. He jumped in front of Dave brandishing the pipe as a kendo sword and waved it around, ignoring the fact his desperate antics were being broadcast worldwide through the internet.

"Get back!" Chris shouted. "You won't dare to fucking touch me, I know you won't! Get back!"

All movement ceased for a tense second while the thugs eyed each other uncertainly. The main lackey, whose identity Chris hadn't been able to figure out, spun the baseball bat around in his hand and laughed.

"Sorry to say," he said, with a look back at the camera that meant he wasn't sorry in the least, "The orders won't cover your ass from the point you start getting in our way. Boys, go right ahead!"

"What!" Chris turned around hastily.

One of the thugs behind him hit Dave again with a baton. Chris saw a spray of blood hit the front of his costume as Dave screamed again.

Chris brandished his metal pipe more confidently now that he knew he would have to fight.

"Put that stick the fuck down, you motherfuckin'––" Chris began shouting when he heard a weak voice.

"Go away."

Chris' gaze met Dave's for the first time.

"Hell no! Of course not!" Chris answered indignantly.

"Go away," Dave mumbled, blood and spit dripping freely from his parted, swollen lips. "I don't want your help. Leave me the fuck alone!"

Chris was about to diss him for trying to squeeze some theatrics out of the situation, but Dave was staring at him, out of all possible emotions, with scorching contempt. It hadn't been a comic book inspired line at all: Dave meant it. Chris' breath was caught in his throat.

Chris eyed the thug who had just hit Dave.

"You fat fuck!" Chris shouted, switching his focus before he began thinking things and he was incapacitated from doing the right thing. He tightened his grip on the metal pipe. Said fat fuck's eyes widened.

"Dude, excuse you, I'm way under one ninety!"

There were thousands of sensible ways Chris could react to rejection. He didn't feel particularly bent on thinking of those at the moment, though, so he caved in to the next best thing when one has no idea what to do: he kicked someone's ass.

"One ninety what? Kilos?" Chris raised an eyebrow and laughed cinically.

"No!" cried the thug indignantly. "Pounds. What the fuck is kilos?"

Chris took a sideways step to stand between the two chairs and charged at the fat thug. Fat Fuck blocked it with the baton and laughed in Chris' face. Chris was no Frank, but unfortunately for the thug, Chris was still his father's son.

Chris slid the metal pipe to the right. Disengage, he thought. Just as the thug attempted to block him again, Chris spun the pipe in a clock-wise motion. Evade. Before the bastard had time to think, Chris brought the pipe down on his left knee. And counterattack!

"You little shit!" Fat Fuck cried, tears in his eyes, sliding to his knees.

Chris landed yet another blow, this time to the man's head, incapacitating him at once. There was another split second of dumbfounded silence. Chris was breathing heavily. That had felt fucking incredible!

"C'mon you shitheads!" Chris shouted, flooded with confidence. "I'm right here!"

They were all coming at him so mercilessly there was no more time to think about technique. Chris swung the pipe with only as much skill as he could muster. Most hits landed half assedly, though still somewhat effective, whereas other didn't land at all and left Chris' guard completely open. He had no idea how many of them there were, they seemed to be everywhere. He knew there was one asshole busy pouring fucking gasoline on Dave and Big Daddy, but apart from that, he had basically no idea what was going on.

Soon enough Chris reached a point where his arms were flailing everywhere, he no longer had any concentration or strength. His hands and lower arms hurt horribly, the pipe was loose in his hand. One dreadful last hit was all it would take to throw the pipe off Chris' hands. He staggered back, clenching his fists to pretend he had a little dignity left in him.

The main thug chuckled at him and, with one swift spin of his baseball bat, pretty much ruined every chance Chris had of perpetuating his lineage.

Chris doubled over in pain and slid down to the ground, his face stuck in a open mouthed though soundless scream of pain. If he hadn't been mourning the passing of his Mini Chris, he'd probably find it a very comic book-like scene and chuckle like the geek he was.

He was on the ground, but that didn't keep the crooks from continuing to beat him mercilessly. The first few hits made him scream louder than he had ever thought himself capable of. However, soon enough nothing hurt anymore, his body and his mind both went numb. He grunted when the air was punched out of his chest with every baseball bat hit, but he was no longer feeling the pain. His mind was elsewhere, it was on more important, comforting places.

Chris remembered his childhood, happier times when the grown up world didn't have any importance in his life and choosing to root for Spider-Man or Doc Ock was the only dilemma he was ever faced with.

Chris remembered his mom's cold hugs, and then he remembered the infrequent warm ones too.

Chris caught a glimpse of all the movies he had watched with his dad and how they had laughed at the cliches and eaten junk food like there was no tomorrow. Oh, Doritos and Pepsi and Twix.

Then, there was never-ending warmth. There was Dave. Chris could remember clearly all their talks and their missions and the kindness with which Dave treated him, never asking for anything in return. Most of all, he remembered that last kiss they had shared and the feel of Dave's curly hair tangled around his fingers.

The world was cold again. It was ironic that when life has meaning one is actually forced to deal with the bad stuff to get to the good stuff. The baseball bat hurt again, the batons were a pain in the ass (perhaps a little too literally) and there was very little dignity in the way he was taking his beating, curled up in fear. They stopped hitting him for a moment, something else was brewing.

Chris lay sprawled on his back and he looked up at Dave. Their eyes met for a brief second.

Chris winced. He was such a crook, such a liar, such an asshole.

"Boys, it's time," called the main thug. He pulled out a lighter. "If the Goblin King over here wants to burn along, be my guest."

Chris groaned bitterly. Reality was so fucking dreary.

Dave was sobbing like the little bitch he was. Chris was baffled by Dave's total disregard for seeming like a humongous pussy on the internet, but Chris also pondered that he himself wasn't quite so ready to die yet, and crying did come to mind as a fitting reaction to impending death.

If only his entire body didn't hurt like hell, perhaps he could crawl away...

The main thug clicked the lighter. "Gentlemen, it's time to die."

There was a single high speed velocity shot and the thug dropped to the ground. Chris didn't understand anything that came afterwards, and he quite preferred it that way. Ignorance was fucking bliss.

The only thing he did hear was a shower of bullets all around. His survival instincts kicked into gear and, ignoring the numbing pain in his legs, Chris began crawling in Dave's direction. He stretched out his hand, tried to reach Dave's ankle, but it seemed so very far away. Chris felt a spray of something wet and sticky land on his face and immediately after the body of a thug dropped right beside him. He whimpered and was nearly overcome with the will to give up, play dead right there on the floor and send the whole world to hell.

The lights were off except for a blinking flash of light that made it hard to concentrate. Chris painstakingly crawled some more to at last reach Dave. He knelt up and untied Dave's hands.

"C'mon," said Chris bluntly.

The shots had ceased briefly, but the flashing lights continued. Dave stared at him, still sat down and without an ounce of trust in his eyes. Suddenly there was a louder series of shots and Dave jumped in his chair.

"Let's go," he said meekly.

"You'll only trust me under the promise of impending fucking death," said Chris, nodding slowly. "I won't even try to pretend I'm not wounded, man."

Dave ignored him completely. Chris got up and took the lead towards the sliding metal doors on the far right, which was an interesting enough journey considering they were both limping, tripping and bleeding their way through a miniature war zone. The burning mess that had once been Big Daddy was somehow still alive, but they had no time to save him, they could barely even save themselves. Chris reached the metal doors at last, spreading his arms and slamming against it, wishing it were a "save point" he could reload to later if things went south. The unrealistic relief was only momentary, though. Dave was right behind him and, as soon as he reached to sliding doors, began fumbling with the lock. His hands were shaking so badly he was barely managing to turn the keys that were conveniently still attached to the lock.

"Seriously?" exclaimed Chris, slapping Dave's hand away and turning the key himself with one swift motion.

They slid the doors open and started another run/limp towards the backdoor exit. Chris wondered if Maurice was still there, or worse, if his dad was too. For a second he wished Frank would be, Chris just wasn't used to feeling this exposed and endangered.

On a closer inspection, Maurice was gone and there was no sign of Frank. Dave was the first to reach the parking lot with his wide steps. Chris followed, propping his back against the door frame trying to catch his breath.

"I–– holy shit," Chris panted. "I don't know if I'm imagining things, but–– internal organs? What internal fucking organs? Shit."

Chris felt like his insides had turned to mush. A mush filled with pinneedles, to be more specific. His body hurt in so many unthinkable places he couldn't focus on anything in particular. Chris was shocked someone could feel like the back of his ears was on fire. Chris closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, wishing that by opening his eyes he would be back home on his couch with a pile of comic books, the television on in yet another showing of "Spider-Man 2" and his parents with him. That is, when Chris' opinion of them wasn't tainted with distrust.

Chris exhaled. His legs were still feeling the strain of the beating, there was no change at all. Maybe if he tried opening his eyes...

Chris felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the side of his temples.

"Shit."

Chris opened his eyes and looked at the purple haired little shit.

"Don't fucking move," Hit-Girl said between her gritted baby teeth.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Chris said, nonchalantly.

The safety lock went off. "My mom is dead," she answered.

"Oh." Chris spun slowly to face Dave. "That explains a lot, actually."

Dave was standing in the middle of the parking lot, also struggling to breath evenly. He never voiced any protest, he simply stood there looking beaten and dull. Hit Girl tapped at the back of Chris' head with the gun and he began walking towards Dave with clenched fists, not feeling too fucking hot at the moment to be nice or merciful to anyone at all.

"Are they're all dead back there?" Dave asked with his usual insecurity.

Chris felt compelled to answer, but Hit-Girl beat him to it. The little twerp. Red Mist was the trusty ally here!

"Yep, pretty much," she said, finally stopping when they were a couple of feet away from Dave. "There's just this motherfucker left."

Chris rolled his eyes at Dave, making an incredulous face. "She's such a feisty little controversy! The papers are gonna love her," he said. Dave's expression didn't change. That was odd, he used to laugh at Chris' tasteless jokes before. More specifically, a few hours before.

"Don't shoot him, Hit-Girl," said Dave decidedly, approaching them both, walking closer to the light. Chris could see Dave's eyes at last. He wished he hadn't. "Red Mist knows what he did."

"Oh, thanks a bunch your majesty," said Chris angrily. "Who the fuck do you think you are, Dave? Who the fuck do you think I am?"

Dave averted his gaze. "Let's go."

"Silent treatment? You're such a girl, Kick-Ass!" Chris clenched his fists and thought of how much he wanted to see Dave cry right now. "I saved your life! If I ever did anything wrong, then I think that pretty much makes up for it!"

Hit-Girl retreated the gun and joined Dave as they walked away. The Mist Mobile's lights blinked, the alarm was off. Chris' hand shot straight to his pocket: the keys weren't there! The midget bitch had them and was spinning them on her finger.

"Oh fuck no, you won't!"

Chris tried to run towards them, but he had officially finished busting his legs and running was made absolutely unbearable. He winced, watching wretchedly as Hit-Girl took the wheel of his car and he couldn't do anything to prevent it.

"So that's it? You're leaving me here?" Chris shouted, desperation washing over him.

He hadn't done anything. He had opted out his father's mess.

He had chosen Dave!

"You have to listen to me, Dave. You don't know the whole story, I didn't do anything. I was supposed to, but I didn't!" Chris shouted louder.

Dave stood with the Mist Mobile's passenger seat door open. He seemed like he meant to speak, his thick pink lips partly open in a way that made him look both dumb and thoughtful. He closed his mouth before he said anything.

Chris stammered, he had so many things he wanted to stay, yet it was hard to even catch a breath.

"No!" was all he managed to splutter out.

Dave paused as he sat down on the passenger seat.

"I can't trust you anymore," said Dave gloomily as he slammed the door.

"I didn't do it, Dave! You have to fucking believe me this time, you always believed me!" Chris shouted despite his lack of breath. "Is it because I wear fake hair? 'Cause I can take it right off, you know, you fucking asshole!"

They ignored him and were driving away unconcernedly. Chris couldn't run and he couldn't even shout loud enough, but he tried both just the same. He managed to follow the car from a distance for a few yards and that was all.

"Dave, don't you fucking leave me here. You can't do this, I didn't do anything! Dave! DAVE!" The lump lodged in his throat wouldn't let the words come out right, his voice was coarse and low and weak.

They were gone.

He had let down the only person who ever trusted him and there was no going back.

Chris fell to his knees. There was nothing else he could do, but oddly that wasn't what hurt the most; he had, after all, been powerless most of his life. The unfairness was what stung, the absolute irrationality of it all. Why wouldn't Dave listen to him? He wasn't to blame, he had tried to protect Dave the whole time. He had put his own life and everything he ever cared about on the line and what for? He could deal with being despised and loathed. What he couldn't live with was that one look of contempt in Dave's eyes when Chris had stood between him and a crowd to protect him and was still mistrusted. He had wished Chris dead with those blue eyes that had never judged him before. What a wretched time Dave picked to be intolerant.

Chris felt his eyes welling up. He tried to hold back the tears, but they just wouldn't stop blurring his vision. He ripped the mask off his eyes in claustrophobic desperation and pulled off his red, spiky hair and threw it to the ground.

He was done for. In the middle of nowhere, of all places. What a lucky day.

Chris had never felt so exposed or so dejected. His parents had protected him of such maiming feelings. There was no going back now, this was the end.

He got up and began to limp his way towards a more crowded street. He had no desire to go back to the warehouse, nor did he wish to stay in parking lot freezing to death. Walking in middle of the street dressed in a leather bodysuit and covered in blood probably didn't show Chris' cleverness at play, but it was better than if he had frozen up. He would avoid any police cars just in case.

That thought had only just flickered through Chris' mind when he noticed lights and the sound of an engine running, and it was not "in the distance" but in fact only a few yards behind him. Part of him willed Chris to hide closer to the shadows of the buildings, unfortunately he was not in a state of mind that privileged quick reactions. He wouldn't allow himself to admit it, yet there was also another side of his conscience that wouldn't let one last flicker of hope go out just yet. Hope of... forgiveness? Why would he need to be forgiven for doing the right thing? Still, maybe, just maybe...

The car pulled over right beside him. The passenger's side window was rolled down. Chris stopped walking on reflex, his lips uttering a surprised sound involuntarily.

"Come on in, Chris," said Frank solemnly.

Chris bit his lower lip and made his way to the car without a second thought. He sat down beside his dad. Gladness filled his heart and, in turn, the last weak flame of that old hope went out.

"Hi, dad," he said weakly.

"Hello," Frank answered with a smile. "I'm sorry it had to be this way. We'll take you to our doctor, you'll be fine."

Chris nodded complacently. The limousine was so warm and the exquisite leather seats felt welcoming, nearly as welcoming as his father's warm smile. Chris looked down in shame and regret.

"Things didn't go so well back there, huh?"

Frank shook his head. "No, they didn't. But that comes with the territory," said he. "Do you think you can handle it?"

Chris looked up, licked his chapped lips while he looked for something to say.

"What do you mean?" he asked at last.

"I mean, I can see now that my son is beginning to shape up into the kind of man I hoped one day would take over this business," Frank said patiently. "Do you agree?"

"Sure, dad! I–– I might not be ready for that shit just now, but," Chris tried to grin and his face hurt like hell, facial expressions would have to be kept to a minimum for a while, "But I feel like I want to learn to be ready first."

"Good," Frank said. "That's all I wanted to hear."

Chris stared out the window, searching for something to get his mind off things, instead the shadows on the dimly lit street corners brought no comfort whatsoever. Chris looked down at his lap.

"I'm sorry for the mess," he added meekly.

"Nothing to be sorry about. Just try to learn your lesson, that'll do," Frank responded with astonishing calmness. "I assume you learned your lesson?"

Chris licked his bloody lips, tasted the saltiness in them. They didn't hurt much anymore, they had grown practically numb, but the taste brought back memories Chris didn't quite care for at the moment.

"Yeah, I guess," Chris said wistfully. "Fool me once..."

Frank laughed. "That's a good one," he said, taking a hand to his son's shoulder and squeezing. "Now let's go patch you up."

Chris nodded, stifling a painful grunt.

He didn't agree with all of his father's methods and perhaps he never would. Slowly, though, Chris thought he was beginning to see the reason behind them and even learning a thing or two about "ends" and "means". Sometimes, he realized, there was no use treating someone with fairness when it wouldn't be reciprocated.

Chris sighed. His ribs hurt so fucking bad. He felt so guilty he couldn't yet look his father in the eye, despite Frank's comforting sympathy.

Chris clenched his fists, clutching the leather of his pants.

All he wanted was to go home.

-o-o-

He was in a dark room. Or something. He wasn't really sure it was a room at all, it was more along the lines of–– a lot of darkness. It felt like darkness as well, cold but still terribly inviting. He could just sit there and wallow in it for ages, there was so much to think of, so many things to regret.

Then there was Dave, staring at him in his plain clothes and stupid smile. "Hey, Chris," he said in his stupid, coarse little voice.

"H-hey, Dave," Chris answered, shivering.

"Come," said Dave. "It's warm over here."

Chris faltered, doubting that walking a few feet would make him warmer. Dave was still staring at him as if he didn't sense Chris' hesitation at all, beaming stupidly like he often did. He sure looked warm and inviting. Dave stretched out a hand. Chris went to him without another thought, he wanted that warmth, eager for his acceptance.

When Chris finally closed his hand around Dave's the darkness was no more, the world was all light and waves of warmth. Chris looked up and nearly felt like smiling, just like he used to when he was 5 years old and happy. Kick-Ass stared back at him, grinned wickedly. Chris gasped and tried to snatch his hand away.

"Too late." Kick-Ass twisted Chris' arm painfully and brought him to his knees. "Let's see if liars can cry."

Kick-Ass hit him in face once, twice, thrice. Chris spit bloody saliva.

"No!" Chris shouted and that only made Kick-Ass hit him again, now with one of his batons. Kick-Ass raised his baton mightily in the air and paused to catch Chris' eye. "What!"

Did those little sticks use to have spikes like that?

Blood sputtered out everywhere. The metal spike pierced Chris' cheek and he awkwardly screamed.

Chris' eyes filled with tears, but he wasn't about to cry, it had merely been a natural reaction to pain. Chris would have felt like crying if he thought he didn't deserve it, but alas he did deserve it all.

"I'm sorry, Dave, I'm so fucking sorry," he whimpered, closing his eyes tightly shut.

"Shut the fuck up," was Kick-Ass' monotone response."God. I fucking hate you."

Kick-Ass grabbed Chris by the collar of his shirt and dragged him up and off his feet with amazing strength. Chris could feel Kick-Ass' breath on his face and it reeked of blood and death, their faces were mere inches away. It was so hot, scorching almost. Chris opened his eyes.

Red Mist laughed manically back at him and dropped him to the ground.

"You little shit! You shitty little liar!" Red Mist said between hysterical laughs. "Everybody knows you're a faggot. The whole world knows you're a useless piece of shit, even your mom, even your dad. He knows better than to let his fuck up of a son near his business. If you ask me, Dave's right: you're better off dead."

Chris clenched his fists and sprung to his feet, punching Red Mist square in the jaw, then in the stomach. When he didn't fight back, Chris kept punching and kicking until Red Mist fell on his ass on the ground, wiping blood off his lips and laughing and holding his stomach.

"Fuck you!" Chris shouted desperately. "You ruined my life! You're no better than me!"

Red Mist ceased his laughing and looked up at Chris, nibbling at his busted lip, drawing more and more blood, lapping it away like he was enjoying it. Red Mist ripped the black mask off his eyes and let his mouth hang open, let the blood drip out of it unrestricted. He curled his tongue upwards teasingly, grinning.

"Chris, you're so fucking dumb. I'm you," Red Mist said. "You fucked up your own life. Deal with it, you shit. You lost the only person who ever gave two shits about you. Fuck you. You can't change who you were born to be."

Chris dropped to his knees. Part of him was fretting over the truthfulness of the assertion, the other laughing at the irony of the Evil D'Amico Gene. The world began spinning, he felt he was going to faint at any second. Red Mist blurred and faded in front of Chris eyes, but he could still see that taunting fucking grin.

"By the way," Red Mist said, when Chris could barely see anything. "You look like shit in leather, you skinny asshole."

-o-o-

Chris opened his eyes and soon enough wished he had not. His vision was blurry and the room was spinning rapidly, he doubted he could so much as sit up. He stared at the ceiling in a lack of better things to do.

If there was one lesson Chris had learned from his dad it was that one should always ask for the good sleeping pills if they wanted to actually sleep. Chris often made a point out of following his dad's advice the best he could. This time, however, he forgot to. It didn't have much to do with his recent shortcomings in the trust department, he had just been in a lot of pain by the time the doctor finished patching him up.

Unfortunately for Chris, crappy sleeping pills meant four unrestricted hours of dreams.

The curtains were slightly parted. Chris could feel the warmth of the sun on his arm, it was almost unpleasant–– he much preferred moping around on rainy, cold days. It was more dramatic and it made him feel less like a sack of steamy horse manure.

"Whatever," Chris muttered drowsily, "I look awesome in leather."

At first the numbness and the bitter aftertaste of his nightmares sufficed to make Chris feel the whole weight of his conscience. Soon, though, he started to remember the things that happened the night before and a restlessness took over him. Dave could have continued being a good, trusting boy and all would have been well with the world. Chris' breath was suddenly caught in his throat when he recalled the tears he had shed and the shameful screaming. His cheeks felt hot and he wanted to disappear.

Despite the pain and without getting up Chris punched the wall beside him with a closed fist.

"Fuck that son of a bitch. Fuck him."

Thank God! He was angry again. Embarrassment was too defeatist a feeling for his taste.

Chris decided to give sitting a try. He succeeded with only some pain and then decided to go a bit further and swung his feet off the bed. He doubted he could get up, but the promise of actually doing it at some point gave him hope he hadn't yet been defeated by Dave.

Chris shook the thoughts away again. He didn't want them, but that house was so silent there was nothing else with sufficient potential to distract him. He remembered begging his dad to be taken back home. Frank had insisted he should spend the night at the family doctor's clinic. It was safer, Frank had said.

Nowhere is safe, Chris thought. Not with the shit I have in my head right now.

Chris' phone beeped. He had received a text message. His heart beat faster and he realized even that fucking beeping sound made him think of Dave. Made him wish he had a better social life, too. Only co-dependent losers could be so easily attached to someone.

On one hand Chris knew it was probably one of those promotional texts, there was no need fret. Strangely his eyes wouldn't leave the phone. It was only a few steps away from the bed, right there on the table. Chris waved, dismissed the OCD-like thoughts. He didn't need to get up. He was perfectly in control of his will.

Chris tilted his head, it was throbbing, clouding his better judgment. He needed to read that message.

He got to his feet–– or at least tried to.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" He cried impulsively.

Chris had to switch from furniture item to furniture item lest he should just drop to the floor. He had never taken a beating, he couldn't have known a few punches and bat swings could temporarily cripple a man. That was one lesson learned, don't get beat to a pulp.

He reached the table eventually, and a very cozy chair too. Chris thought it would be enough to make him sigh in relief, but as it turns out one's legs keep hurting like hell even after they've been spared of strain. Shit.

Chris grabbed his phone.

IM SORRY GOOD BYE.

There was no need to check the caller's ID. Bad grammar, half-assed apologies, uncanny love for theatrics. It was Dave's.

With one swift flick of his wrist he threw the phone against the wall, shattering it to pieces. He was a little surprised at the "shattering" bit, but it was pretty good additional drama. Shitty phones were replaceable, his dignity was not.

For how long he sat there staring at the walls, Chris couldn't quite tell. By the time he heard a knock on the door, it was already noon judging by the sun. Chris didn't bother with answering.

"I thought I told you not to get up," the doctor said as soon as he walked in. He was a small man with a full head of white hair and glasses at the tip of his nose, quite non-threatening until he opened his mouth and proved one has to be a hell of man to be a doctor to the mob.

"My phone was ringing."

The doctor approached Chris and checked his wrist briefly. He eyed the phone pieces on the floor. "Not anymore, I see," he said with a hint of amusement in his voice. "Your mother is here."

Chris looked towards the door and at last saw his mother standing there. She seemed more broken up than usual, with the red eyes and trembling hands that showed she had been crying just a moment before. Her clothes and make up were impeccable as usual, though. Angie approached her son and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, darling, how are you feeling?" she said with uncharacteristic sweetness. The doctor offered her a chair to sit in front of her son, and so she did. "Is the pain any better?"

Chris didn't respond. He felt very uncooperative at the moment.

Angie sighed. "I know, there's no way pain can feel better, I suppose. It's just an expression. I felt I had to ask, though," she said apologetically. "I'm afraid I have some bad news, honey."

Bad news? He had gotten used to those, there was nothing else that could shock him.

"Your father went back to the penthouse after he brought you to Dr. Kuhn's. It seems there was an altercation," she said, mincing her words.

Chris raised his eyes. "What?" he asked.

"They killed him, Chris," Angie sobbed. "Frank's dead."

Chris was on his feet. Before he knew it and before Angie had time to say anything else, Chris flipped the table in front of them and it landed with a loud bang, although it wasn't damaged in the slightest. Chris didn't say a word and he didn't look deranged despite the ridiculous reaction, but his stoic yet hardened expression seemed to have kept Angie on her toes, looking absolutely terrified with a feminine hand over her lips.

"Honey, I––"

"Who?" Chris asked with threatening simplicity.

"The security cameras couldn't capture the whole thing. There was a purple haired child." Chris never took his eyes off her, he was waiting for the rest of her answer. He knew there was more, inevitably. Angie dropped her hand to her lap. "Kick-Ass," she said nonchalantly. "Kick-Ass killed your father."

Chris sighed because there was nothing left for him to do. He walked to the single long window that covered the left wall and looked outside for... something. An answer, perhaps. His legs were killing him and his stomach throbbed as if from an overload of stomach acids (he pretty much knew he wouldn't be able to keep any food down for a while). Still, none of that fazed him. Not even his mother's scrutinizing silence, which only proved she was more worried about how the D'Amico heir would react, instead of caring about her son's feeling.

For the first time in his life Chris felt in control. He was the only one who could acknowledge the thoughts that were passing through his mind and they made him afraid. He had always known he was hardly the forgiving kind. He had never known, though, that he had it in him to simply frown at his father's death and plot vengeance.

Mom would be so pleased.

"Don't worry, mother," said Chris without turning around, he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. "We will crush those motherfuckers."

Angie laughed, choking back the tears. "I'm glad to hear that, dear."

Chris put his hands behind his back, wondered if mother had remembered to bring him a change of clothes. There was so very much to do and pajamas wouldn't quite cut it.

Chris had so many ideas, a vastitude of plans and infinite drive. Dad would have been very pleased.

It seemed Chris D'Amico had at last become a man. Too bad for Dave.

Chris felt a stinging pain on his face and took a hand to his lips to inspect its source. Chris chuckled bemusedly: a grin had sneaked to his lips and he hadn't even realized it.

The End.

-o-o-

A/N: So, yeah, this is Cause and Consequence. I'm just so thrilled with the response to this fic! I'm not one that gets attached to fan-things very easily, but somehow the Kick-Ass fandom ensnared me and here I am, fangirling about it like there's no tomorrow.

I know this fic doesn't end on a very high note and there's not much closure to it, but, well, it was never supposed to be much of a serialized story, just a... thing. A short thing about Chris D'Amico (filename: "") being an asshole and then getting crushed when he was trying to be good. Not far from what the movie gives us, right? Only gayer. Yep.

I'll write more Kick-Ass fanfiction for sure. I only wish more people would do the same... I like to exchange fics and fangirl over people's writing. Pretty please, guys?

Would a sequel be a good idea? I would like to try that, maybe after Balls to the Wall starts getting published, to get a sense of where the Mark Millar's continuation is going... just to then go and rip it to shreds and make it very flamboyant. Yep. That's my idea of fun.

Feel free to check back at .com/, add me as a friend and talk sweet nothings to me.

Disclaimer: I don't own "Kick-Ass" and I get no money out of my fanfiction writing... thank Heavens, or I suspect I'd be very poor and hungry.