A/N: This is a rewrite of my old story, I Am A Flyer. I was working on the sequel, Raven's Will, and came to a realization that some things just didn't quite work as well as I wanted to. So I'm going back to the beginning, and I'm fixing all the big and small errors. There will be some big changes. Entire chapters will be rewritten; some may only be changed in minor ways. As it is, my writing style has changed a bit since I started this story a few years ago.

That said, I'm still working on Raven's Will. And few other stories. I just don't have a lot of time on my hands, but I'm doing what I feel to be most important. It's hard to concentrate on RW when there are so many glaring errors that need fixing in IAAF.

On to the story!

EDIT: March 22/2013 - Due to people copying the revised version and posting to Wattpad as their own work, I will no longer be posting revisions here. (Considering that they have carefully taken the revised parts as well. ) Because people are still reading and enjoying this, I will keep this first, rough draft up. And if my future plans ever come to pass (hopefully, they will!), the final edition will become available.

Copyright, Nov. 22/2007. Kurokage1717.


I AM A FLYER


Prologue

The monster sat on his chair like it was a royal throne and he a benevolent ruler. His black gaze glimmered with condescending amusement as if the man standing before him was a young child rather than a grim warrior holding him captive at gunpoint.

The man's grip tightened on the gun, its muzzle shaking slightly as it pressed against his enemy's forehead. His finger twitched against the trigger as every fiber in his being screamed for him to pull it. He wanted nothing more than to end this black spot of a man's existence. His lavender eyes narrowed, a burning hatred bubbling up within . . . yet, he hesitated.

The man in the chair seemed to know this, for his lips curved in cold bemusement. "What's the matter, boy? I thought you wanted to kill me."

The young gunman snarled and shoved his weapon forward. "Oh, you have no idea," he hissed.

A dark brow arched. "Then get on with it. This is becoming rather tedious."

The gunman froze at those words, stunned by the easy dismissal. It was like the gun wasn't even there. It was like he wasn't a threat, but a mere child getting in the way of an adult. A child. Cold rage slammed into him, a low growl forming in his throat.

He was no child. He was Death, and he was going to shove this monster off the cliff and into the pits of fiery oblivion. His finger curled around the trigger, mind and body trembling as he prepared to fulfill his greatest desire. Steadying his arm, he looked into that black gaze and sent the message to his trigger finger. Do it.

The monster smiled.

And the gunman remained still, muscles quivering in tension, gun digging into the enemy's skin. His finger refused to move, refused to do the thing he spent years trying to do. He'd planned and imagined and anticipated and when he'd finally got the opportunity to do it, his finger refused to move.

He sucked in a sharp breath, throat constricting as he suddenly realized something.

Slowly, his muscles relaxed and he lowered the gun to his side. With a stony expression, he turned and stalked away from the monster, ignoring the dark chuckles that arose behind him.

For as much as he wanted to, he couldn't quite bring himself to kill his father.