Bootleg (A1 S1)

Sad thing of this world is I'm the closest thing you got to a hero in it. I'm Bootleg. Least, that's what they call me. Cheesy, I know. You never get to pick your nicknames. I would have preferred something else believe me. They always start you with a name you like better. Something they think rings you up a bit, but when it don't, they switch it to something more riling. Mine was Iceman originally-- like in Top Gun. Switched me to Bootleg when they found out I didn't see Iceman as much a diss. Never really got why they called me Iceman in the first place. I don't look or act a thing like Val Kilmer. Bootleg makes sense though. It's fitting at least.

Bootleg leaned back in his chair and clicked off the microphone. The chair tipped awkwardly and started to roll back as he shifted too much of his weight onto the back. Bootleg was not big. At least not in the way that tips chairs. Athletic, yes. He spent half of his waking hours training. Parkour, boxing, running, and mixed martial arts were the bulk of his existence. He was good. Incredible.

He'd never been one to post these audio clips; he preferred text-- it was simple. Audio is dangerous. He steadied himself, half-cursing the chair, "overpriced piece of shit", and resumed recording.

I had a real name too once. One you get from your parents. Felt weird to keep using it after killing 'em though. It's just Bootleg now. Anyway, I'm recording this because all this training these years is coming to a close. Four years since I last saw Mania. Crazy bitch. Called herself Bia back then. Use to tag victims with 4♀0. Never had a clue what that meant. She don't do it anymore. Dunno why. Don't matter. She dies tonight.

He clicked off the mic, somewhat content and at a loss to what else he could say, and clicked 'Submit' to publish the clip to his site. He briefly contemplated it might be his last entry. He'd gone up against some intense shit these past years. Mobsters, S.W.A.T teams, all sorts of random tough guys. People. He'd gone up against people. Been shot twice. Stabbed more times than he could remember. Three times actually. Three. He could remember. Beaten up. Broken bones. Burned. Drowned.

He'd never been hurt so bad he couldn't get away. Money paid for medical treatment, rehabilitation, and the best training imaginable. It also paid for gothninja bling and lots of toys. Yeah, the money was stolen. Bootleg had the ability to generally take what he wanted from the world. A gift, although he didn't view it as such, from Mania.

Bootleg looked himself over in the mirror, his obsession over his looks trumping his anxiety of actually, and probably suicidally, going on the offensive against Mania. Nobody looked for Mania. Mania found you. And you died. That was life. Bootleg didn't care. Fear and doubt were backseat to recklessness and ego. He grabbed his most important weapon against Mania, an old pair of noise canceling headphones, and wrapped them around his neck while he slid earplugs into each ear. He checked his mp3 players. One around his neck. One on his waist. One he carried. Each with only 1 track and that track only being three seconds of voice. Just four words.