It was cold, rain scattering the Boston skyline. A mansion sat atop a grassy hill on the outskirts of town, lights glaring out the windows, illuminating a lonely oak tree that stood nearby. A dark figure stood at the front gate, clad in a heavy, tattered coat. He simply looked up at the mansion on the hill for a time, standing stoically as the icy rain pelted his shoulders. After some time standing there, he jumped off into the dark like a flash. There was a gold plate embedded in the wrought iron gate with the name "Riggs" emblazoned in it.

The rain finally subsided and the mansion door gently cracked open, two lonely little people walking out. The man, who was in his early fifties with streaked grey and brown hair, draped a coat over his wife's shoulders. She was petite, sullen and silent. They were both dressed in black, as one would wear to a funeral, and the wife carried a wreath held tightly against her breast. Together, they walked down a winding path that lead to the slope out behind the house. They stood there for a moment, staring down at a light gray headstone, still wet from the new fallen rain. The wife knelt down and placed the wreath on the ground, against the stone. There, engraved in the sheer, cold rock, were the words, "Paxton Anderson Riggs, 1992-1992, 'A lost son who never came home, a light that burned out far too soon.'" As she stood back up, she embraced her husband and, with the pain only a parent who has outlived their child could know, she whispered, "Goodbye, Paxton... we love you." And as they had so many times before, they each lay a hand on the grave and walked back up the path. Little did they know that that man watched, perched from their tree. Beneath his unbuttoned trench coat, his red and black uniform was visible. The lingering raindrops trickled down his mangled, unrecognizable face, mingling with his tears.

The stranger bowed his head as they walked by beneath him, and let out a tortured, raspy sigh. "Goodbye..." he whispered, "I love you." And with that, he was gone. The branch rattled slightly and the husband, who could once be called a father, looked up, as one does when they hear a noise in the night, but shook his head and continued with his only love back into the house. High on the rooftop, in the silver moonlight with his coat flapping in the wind, the stranger took one last look at the home he could have had before running off into the night.

Longshot had visited his parents numerous times since then, but they would never know it. He couldn't bear to meet them, to tell them of what he had become. Instead, he let them keep him as a picture on their mantle, a perfect memory that nothing could taint or destroy. He let them hold on to all they had left of their son.