PACE (Practical Accessibility and Control of Emotions)

Chapter 1

Chapter 1.

The End.

London, 7:36pm, Albert Close. Rico Rodriguez was running so hard and fast he felt like his lungs were going to burst. As he turned the corner and ran down the alley way he felt them burn and ache. His legs were beginning to become anchors: heavy and stiff. He could feel the strain on his neck due to the fact that he had been turning his head as he ran too much. He was the prey. Then suddenly out of the shadows a figure stood. Rico had seen him and his body trembled at the sight of him. He was beginning to cry. The shadow slowly held out his palm and a pulse of blue lightning blew out of his hand that was pointed straight at Rico. Rico did nothing to stop it, closed his eyes and waited for the lighting to overwhelm him. He was crying as he died. He had become the hunted.

The operating table was speeding down the narrow hallways of the hospital. Some of the nurses came out of the rooms to see the commotion. The operating table had two dodgy wheels, shaking. But not as much as a physically strong Indian man, with fingerless gloves and pointy, sharp and muddy shoes was shaking. With a man with brown hair, skinny frame and a bony face with a strong American accent pushing the table. Anothe man, simular in structure wore a french burea with a beige, long jacket also pushing the bed, opposite the American. There was also a women who looked to be in her early 20s with dark hair that curved downwards to her chin with white tips comforted Rico as he lay, pale and as cold as snow, ready for death.

“His pulse rate is too low!” the woman said, crying

“Get the difibulator ready” Demanded the man with the pointy shoes, with his strong Indian accent, desperately thinking what to do. They pulled into an ER, some of the lights flickering. Dry blood stains littered the tile floor and windows. As the man with the American accent tour open Ricos’ burnt shirt, steam rushed out and the burns were horrifically deep. “Where’s the fucking difib! He’s dyeing!” the Frenchman said factually and choking. “Here!” said the surgeon “what happ-”

“That’s of no concern to you, just save this man before he dies!” interrupted the woman. 

“There’s no use he’s long gone” said the American, walking out of the ER room. But the man with the pointy shoes wouldn’t give up, her put his palms on Ricos chest and began to pump, each time he cried more and more until he eventually gave up. As he left he punched the difibulator and slumped into a chair on a bench a few meters away from the ER, distraught and wiping the tears from his face. The American on the other hand, got out his 9mm Magnum, began polishing and said quietly looking at the floor, shocked: “DeFantom. When will you stop.”