kyabetsu | 2,027 words total

The streets twisted and tilted around him as Raphael raced through frosty back alleyways. Lost. So completely lost. Dizzy, drugged, weaponless and lost. He needed more distance. Icy clots of snow dotted the alleyways, stabbing cold peaks into the bottoms of his bare soles. No time to stop and get his bearings. Pounding numb feet over cruel concrete. They were behind him. A miserable freezing fog peppered his skin like perspiration. It collected and ran in frosty tracks down his neck and under his exposed shell. No time to deal with the cold. Run. Wind tore through the city, funneling the noises of last-minute Christmas crowds from the warmer, wealthier storefronts down into the hungrier row house districts. Keep to the shadows. Stay in the dark. Remain hidden and run.

Raphael raced past battered trashcans. He hurdled rusted chain link fences. He shot past forgotten shopping carts. To slow down would be suicide, yet with every block that passed, he could feel his body flagging. The stimulant was wearing off. Doubled vision eclipsed the dark alley, blurring his path and confusing his feet. He staggered, nearly toppling into a drift of soggy boxes. Deep breath. Shake it off. Raphael plowed onward into the fog. The stimulant was supposed to last for twenty minutes. Had it been that long already?

His pulse hammered in his ears and his breathing rasped in his throat, but still the treacherous wind brought him only snatches of sound. Christmas music, tinny and faint, plucked at his nerves. Having a “Holly, jolly Christmas,” was the last thing on his mind. He growled, wishing the wind would change direction again. His pursuers lurked behind him in the fog, masked by cheerful carols. Raphael’s head pounded as he strained to hear through the cotton wool of the mists. He had to stick to the plan. He fought to pick out the shapes of his enemies and his eyesight blurred. He had to remember the plan. His joints throbbed as he held himself motionless. They would take him back to the lab. Raphael snarled at that final thought, and ruthlessly shoved his body’s complaints away.

Raphael dodged into an alcove along the alley and fell against the wall as his legs resisted the command. Pain. He had hit his chin. Copper tang in his mouth. A busted lip? The least of his worries. Panting and disoriented, he held his ground, trying to judge how far his pursuers had come. He clung to the wall of his hiding place. He did not trust his body to stay upright without support.

Damn it. Damn the fog. Damn the winter. Damn his body. Damn the bartender who’d made his drink. Damn him for drinking it. Damn the scientists and their hellish lab. Damn their needles. Damn their drugs. Damn them and everyone they’d ever known. And damn their security force. The Christmas music chimed through the fog, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer…” Damn the reindeer, too.

One stroke of good luck: the stimulant. He would never have broken out without it—much less gotten this far. It brought clarity, focus, and control of his body again. It enabled him to plan. It let him to run as though he were in peak condition. It wiped away exhaustion. It calmed shaking that gripped his frame and ground away his thoughts. It was his only hope, and it was wearing off.

Raphael wiped more of the freezing condensation from his eyes. New noises. Car doors and shouting, commands and dogs barking all echoed down the banks of buildings. He could not go home. He could not lead the men into the sewers. Instead they followed him through project housing, and into the nearly abandoned neighborhoods on the other side. This was gang territory. Men driving official-looking vehicles, carrying guns, and using dogs would not be welcome this deep into the Latin Kings’ territory. Let those bastards fight with each other. If anyone else was stupid enough to be out tonight, the security force would have their hands full. The frozen vapor blanketing the streets skewed the odds though. Raphael could not count on any interference.

Raphael propelled himself off the wall, using the push as momentum to get his feet running again. The fog wrapped its tendrils around him, muting sounds and distorting distance. Suddenly, shouting rang out through the back streets. Dogs barked, baying in the distance. They had found his trail.

Raphael pushed himself harder. His field of vision blackened around the edges—whether he had traveled three blocks or three miles, he could not have said. He shook heavily; his powerful sprints had eroded to a desperate stagger. The cold grasped at his core. He desperately wished for his brothers, his sai, and his trench coat. He took breathless shelter under fire escape. The sharp wind bit at his body, and his skin had gone gray with the cold. Frigid air stabbed his chest every time he inhaled and made his teeth ache down into his jaw. The fog gathered heavy drops where it lay over his body, coating him in icy water. The dogs had fallen silent. Winter was good for something. It would be harder to track him over ice.

Raphael forced his focus onto the next part of the plan. He brought up his left arm, exposing it in the diffused light from a nearby street lamp. A puffy scar wound up his forearm and puckered the skin inside his elbow: a parting gift from the lab. Black stitches against pale green tissues. They should have removed those weeks ago.

In a lull between gusts, Christmas carols and bells tolled in the distance. “Joy to the world!” Raphael ground his teeth. The music was mocking him–and keeping him from sensing danger. Time weighed on him and he stooped down to rummage through the trash piles beside the fire escape. He picked out an old bottle. He smashed it against the wall, making a weapon. Stock-still, he waited for the shattering glass to bring the men and their dogs. He gripped the slick bottleneck. Seconds ticked by, and large drops of arctic water splashed down from the fire escape. The glass’ jagged edges dripped with the slimy remains of old beer and saliva. Raphael shut his eyes for a moment, striving for clear thoughts. What the hell had he been thinking? This plan was shit. But what other options were there? His gear was gone. His sai had been taken. He had little choice. The bottle was not much, but it was sharp, and it was the only way he could lose his predators for good.

Raphael took a deep breath, bracing himself. Do it fast. Be done with it. He gouged the razor edge of the glass deep into the inflamed incision on his left forearm. Nearly frozen through, and numb with exhaustion, Raphael made short work of his task. The shard popped open stitches and burst the swollen edges of the wound. Muscles tight from the freezing weather severed under the pressure of the glass as it ripped open the surgical site. Cold constricted his arteries and the wound did not bleed as much as it should. A small miracle. He dropped the bottle and began to probe with numb fingers. A thin strand of metal burrowed through his skin. He fished it to the surface, and yanked it and its tracker chip out from his flesh. He wasted no time flinging it across the alley.

The treacherous wind brought sounds of barking and shouting. Were they closer? The wind shifted again. “Oh, Holy Night! Oh Night Divine!” swirled with the mist that cocooned him. Raphael could not hear anything more of the security men. With no time to think, he grabbed an old plastic grocery bag and shook the snow and stagnant water out of it. He gripped an end of it in his teeth, tying it into a tight tourniquet.

His stomach lurched as realization slowly surfaced. This was the end of his plan. Lose the security forces. Get rid of the tracker chip. Go home. Yet, he knew that was not enough. Raphael was half-frozen; ice crusted his shell. He had no idea where he was. This was still New York City and vaguely he knew he was east of the lair, but by how far and by what routes? Any moment now the men would find the tracker. Even he could smell the coppery tang of blood in the air. The dogs would have him pinned down in seconds. He needed more distance, and he needed immediate warmth.

Barking rang through the alleyways. It echoed and bounced, seeming to come from every direction at once. The dogs had picked up his scent again. Damn! He had no time to find shelter! Raphael snagged the fire escape and hauled himself up it. The metal burned anywhere his arms or legs touched the ladder. The stomp of boots harried him upwards. His thoughts blurred as he climbed, his head buzzing with pain. He could feel his consciousness fading as blood leaked out from his makeshift bandage. Vehicles’ engines roared through the nearby streets and the haze illuminated the alley as floodlights were lit. Raphael refused to look down. Fear stabbed at him. His body had to last just a bit longer! He could hear the rattle of the dogs’ leashes in their handlers’ grips. With tunnel vision, Raphael pulled himself up one blisteringly cold rung at a time. Push, push, push–he could not slow. He could not fall. They would take him. He forced himself to go faster even as the temperature plummeted. The higher he went, the harsher the wind. It pried at his grip and tore at his uncovered body. He pressed himself against the stinging ladder to keep from being thrown off into the swirls of vapor beneath him. Noises from below him became fainter, but those men carried guns. Maybe the fog hid him but maybe it did not.

Raphael threw his body over the crowning lip of the building. His knees gave out and he landed awkwardly on the frozen rooftop. The whole surface spun and slid out from under him. The sky reeled in front of him, sending howling blasts of wind to burrow artic chills through the core of his body. The security team crashed around the alley below. Lights shown up from below. How long before they guess he climbed upwards?

Raphael groaned from his prone position on the roof. Fear gave way to a dull panic. Where the hell were his brothers when he needed them? How long could he last like this? Only a ladder separated him from the scientists’ men. What the hell other options did he have? He must keep moving! He tried to push himself up onto his hands and knees, but his arm protested and his legs would not respond at all. He smashed back down onto the roof and tasted blood in his mouth. Torpor slid over him as he sweated out the last of the stimulant. His own adrenaline was long exhausted. His mind offered no new ideas. Completely expended, Raphael shut his eyes–just for a brief moment. He had never been so tired before.

Some one was standing over him.

Raphael’s eyes flew open and confirmed the nightmare. A dark shape loomed over him, speaking frantically into a hand-held radio. Raphael thrust his chest off the ice-covered tarpaper with one arm. They would not take him back to that place. He could not feel anything below his waist now. He would sooner die than return. His bagged arm twisted and pinched, screaming in protest at the movement. No more scientists. Raphael clawed at the slick roof, trying to drag himself away. No more cutting. If he could gain any kind of momentum, maybe he could slide. No more tubes. Blind panic gripped him, closing off his throat. No more drugs. His arm gave out and he slammed against the roof. The feet closed the distance; the body towered over him. With his last ounce of energy, Raphael struck out towards the feet. He missed and the world went black.

If my editor and I both like this, then you may see it again in finished fiction format. Otherwise, it will disappear into the void and never be spoken of again.

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2,027 words total

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