A Shot in the Dark

Chapter Two:

                             Chapter Two: An Old Man and His Expired Driver's License

        CW: Mentions of death, injuries, allusions to cursing, violence, arson and bad driving. 

Two hours and several first-degree burns later, Kocho dumped the old man, (who had passed out from either exhaustion or smoke inhalation) at the feet of a rather cheerful Song.

The night had passed faster than expected, and dawn broke with a start. Hues of yellow and orange painted the brightening sky, the midsummer sun peeking out from the horizon. Song was as relaxed as ever, basking in the golden light. All Kocho could think about was how much it reminded her of flames. (Flames that had not yet spread to the exterior of the hall, much to the girl's relief.)

The woman was perched behind a dumpster, army green and just large enough to conceal the three of them. On its side, an inscription of "DO NOT PLACE COMPOSTABLES INSIDE" was written in muddled white lettering. The request had been duly ignored, with a myriad of moulding apple cores, rotten produce, and dying flowers to be found hanging off the bin.

Kocho bent her skinned knees, dropping down next to her superior, both now sat on their heels atop the asphalt. Song's back rested against the wall of the trash bin, and she raised a hand to Raleigh's face, flicking him on the forehead. He didn't stir, breaths slow and heavy.

"Alright-" Kocho gasped, and paused so as to catch her breath. "-I did what you said." Read: I carried an evil, feral old man through a burning building while you stopped us every few feet to vandalise stuff with crayons. Crayons. And not even the good kind, those off-brand ones that break after a few uses.

"Lovely," Song drawled, "He only weighs as much as a really, really fat dog. He can't be that hard to drag." The weight isn't the (main) issue here. Look at me.

Kocho's hair was a singed mess, black locks falling in waves over her (now torn) button up. She was sweating bullets, face gaunt and ashy, with little scrapes all over her body from her escape. The blood flow from her nose was easing up, though she felt worse than she had when it was running.

There were burn marks all over her arms and legs, though thankfully none of them were deep enough to damage anywhere deeper than skin. A few of the bigger, more concentrated burns would scar, but nothing too terrible.

The path to get outside the building, through one of the exits and into a small parking lot, had greatly contributed to the amount of injuries received. This was to say: it sucked. The architects should've been fired–who placed unnecessary stairs in a fire exit?

"He punched me in the face, ma'am." Kocho blinked, too tired to put any heat (haha... heat,) behind her words. "He pushed me into one of the fiery bits of the floor. He did that twice, actually."

"Yes, and? If you're that pathetic I'll just teach you how to defend yourself against nursing home residents. No point in whining about it."

I think he has rabies. He is not, by any means, just a "nursing home resident". I also think he bit me, fair warning.

"No!" Kocho snapped, "I mean, there's no need to go that far. Teaching is a lot of work. "

"It can't be that hard, can it? With a student like you, maybe it would be. " Song's expression shifted to one of genuine concern. She paused to reflect on the concept. This silence lasted long enough to mildly offend Kocho.

In the time it took for Song to make up her mind, a banana peel fell off the lip of the dumpster and onto Mr. Raleigh's chin. She felt incredibly satisfied, all of a sudden.