Fisher Hawkins
There wasn't much detail on Solomon in the folder. He was a ghost, a damn good one at that. Either the photos were a couple years old, for when Fisher had just started his journey, or recent, the gleaming smile underneath an unsuspecting hoodie at the hospital taken by a passerby. There were photos of buildings, perhaps ones where Fisher had suspected he had been hiding. A photo of a girl, hidden by a cap and sunglasses. It was hard to decode without his map on the wall and scribbled words. There were police files, on each of them and every instance, and every newspaper article possible, but it was nothing they had ever heard before.
Fisher found it unfair to have two restless nights in one. Though his earlier dream had been an unclear fog, this one had a purpose. As a child, before meeting Lilah and Solomon, Fisher had always tried to find his parents. Feeling abandoned and alone, so confused as to why anyone would ever do such a thing, he put his mind to use.
He got bounced around so often because he kept running away. To look for every Hawkin in the city, venturing to the libraries just to get hold of records, door knocking. With every relocation he was farther from what he thought was a case he had been building, until he was finally told that Fisher Hawkins was a made up name, because he'd been a baby on the doorstep without even a letter.
It was a chilly day in the city when he'd left his third orphanage, sneaking out the window, bundled up to keep from the cold, gloves and scarves and all. He was on a mission to find Timothy Hawkins, who lived on 399 Terrance Ave. He walked in the city like a little businessman, earning uncertain glances from passerby. As the neighborhood became dimmer and the people became shadier, Fisher hardly lost his confidence.
The man that opened the door was not kind and warm as Fisher had hoped. The TV played white noise behind him and his breath stank of alcohol, and Fisher knew he had made a mistake. He stumbled back off the porch, preparing to run, when the man's hand shot out to grab him.
It was the first time he had discovered his powers, because he put out his hand to protect himself and the man went flying.
Fisher woke with a jolt, and gasped for air. It was exhausting, because he had that nightmare too often. Among all the others, about Solomon, about Lilah, even about Knockout, he dreamt so often about his child self, venturing for some sort of validation, looking for a purpose. It took a moment to right himself, but when he did, he noticed the absence in the bed beside him.
The sun crept through his blinds and with worry flooding him, Fisher pulled himself off the bed. A shiver fell through his spine as the cold floor connected with his feet, as he gazed towards the bathroom to see if she was in it. Nothing.
He was quiet, silent, even a bit shaky. And as he headed toward the kitchen his heart drooped, finding Lilah sprawled with the manila folder, photos scattered about. Fisher gazed at her with the greatest sadness in his eyes, not a word coming out of his mouth. He should've seen it coming.
He sucked in a breath and turned around. He didn't want to hear it.
