The Things We Do (Under Editing)

New Players

Fire. I was starting to get used to its light and its heat. The sounds of explosions and sirens had become familiar, as had the cold of a rooftop at night. I'd been small, brought up in briefly in people's conversations with varying degrees of interest, but I needed my name to become something you whisper in the hopes that no one hears you. I needed it to bring with it the image of blood and flame, the sound of screams and sirens. Parents needed to cover their childrens' ears when the topic turned to me. I was managing, slowly. Sure, no one had been seriously hurt, but as far as they could tell, it was all luck... or maybe I was just playing with them. That's what I needed them to think.

The newcomer, on the other hand, just dove right in. The helicopter crash was followed by a series of similar incidents, for which responsibility was claimed in one swoop. Every screen on the streets of the city had been hacked, every ad replaced in an instant by the image of a man clad all in grey and black, face hidden by a mask. "I am the storm," he told the world, voice gravelly and off, "and you will have no respite from the tempest."

I'd probably make fun of him for that line if the whole situation hadn't been so legitimately terrifying. In only two weeks he'd left a streak of blood and debris across the city and there wasn't a soul who didn't know his name. Sure the added panic was good for me, but he was stealing my spotlight. I'd worked hard to reach the point where I didn't have to leave my name scrawled over the scene. As long as someone caught sight of me and snapped a photo, I could disappear quickly, though I usually waited for the detective to make an appearance so I could slip through his fingers and continue to ruin his reputation. If I was going to steal the spotlight back, I had to step up my game.

My latest attack was going smoothly, full of property damage and terror, the whole shebang. Plenty of cameras had caught my location, perched above the devastation like always, but there was no sign of the police. Not yet. That didn't mean I didn't have company.

I readied my charming smile, spinning to him. "Really? No announcement this ti-" I stopped. It was not Detective Corum who had joined me on the rooftop after all. It was yet another masked figure come to join the fray. This one wore deep shades of red and bronze, and, despite the late winter chill, his arms were bare. He didn't say anything, just watched me.

I watched him in return for a moment before, unsure of what else to do, I asked, "Ah... can I help you?"

Still, he didn't speak. Instead he responded by pulling a coil of rope from a hook at his belt and stepping forward. Already on the edge of the roof, I didn't have room to retreat, so I slipped sideways. He followed. I tried to circled, but his intention seemed to be to herd me into the corner. That was definitely not where I wanted to go. Steps slow and easy, he continued forward, making a loop in his rope as he did. He stopped a bit away, probably not wanting to get into close combat, and started spinning his lasso. All I had to do was make him miss me and I could run: simple enough. Diving away from his loop wasn't hard, but my reflexes almost weren't good enough to get past him without him gabbing me. Who brings a lasso to a fight like this anyway? It's a ridiculous weapon. Unfortunately, he recovered faster than I expected and caught my foot in the loop before I reached the far side of the roof, yanking it out from under me.

"I stand corrected," I muttered to myself, trying to pull my foot free. "Or lay corrected I guess."

The man tried to pin me while I was down, but he allowed the rope to go slack in the process, allowing me to twist away. I kicked him in the face for good measure. He swore. Before I even reached my feet, he grabbed me and I face-planted a second time. This was not going well.

"Let go of me," I growled as we tumbled across the rooftop. "Cowboys aren't really my thing." I could feel my skin crawl and itch as I struggled to escape his grasp. His breath was clogging up the air I was trying to breath. Even with the winter air, the space was burning and I fought the urge to vomit. "And close quarters are even less so." At this range my fists and feet weren't doing me much good, so I planted a knee up under his ribs. Panic made all of my reasonable thoughts hazy.

Escape. The word hung in my head, flashing like the lights that had finally reached the street below.

Escape. I don't know if I said it out loud, but I could hear it through the static in my ears.

Escape. Now. Run.

The edge was within reach. I was almost free.

Free.

One single sound shattered even the static: a bang that echoed off all the taller buildings around us.

It wasn't until I was falling that pain spread outwards from my shoulder like cracks in glass. My feet were no longer beneath me. I'd been running, but there was nowhere to run. I'd been close to freedom, but it was no longer freedom and I was too close. The panic gripped me tighter when the only thing left in front of me was open air. I fell, and I kept falling. The shadows of the alley swallowed me. Through the dark of the world around me and the haze inside me, I could almost believe I was flying. Flying was good. I was slipping away. That was fine. Slipping away meant I would feel myself hit the ground. What I hit, though, wasn't overly hard, and it didn't kill me. Instead, I simply stopped falling. I didn't open my eyes. I don't know when I closed them, but they stayed closed. Everything was fading, and I let it.