Nikolai: Fury of The Avengers Tower.

1.

In the mouth of an alley off Broadway, there was a box.

It sat mostly in the shadow of the building, nestled among several foul smelling trash cans.

The fluffy white snow, turned to grey slush beneath many muddy steps, had soaked into the corner of the box, turning it into a collapsed sodden mess that gaped wide, letting the frigid winter air seep into its dark inner cavity.

The rest of the box was cold, damp, and stank of things other than wet cardboard. Filthy things.

And inside that ragged, wet, disgusting box, beat one tiny heart.
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There had been four to begin with.

Four tiny scraps of life, each as individual and special as they were innocent and helpless.

Four tiny scraps of life in a cardboard box.

The street was busy; traffic snarled for blocks in the inclement weather, and perhaps a result of this; the sidewalk was even more crowded.

People from every walk of life, with every personality imaginable, all hurrying through the flurrying snow, to work, home, school, grocers, movies, gym, friends, family and a myriad other possible destinations.

Crowds were huddled together for warmth against the biting December air, but individual in their own worlds. Collars upturned, headwear pulled low, and arms hugging coats and jackets close.

Not many people notices the dilapidated box in the mouth of the alley off Broadway.

But it only takes one.
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The first was a pair of sneakers, almost in as bad a state of repair as the box. Sneakers had opened the box tentatively, hands huge and ungainly, pockmarked and acne-scarred. Eyes had been dark blue, dull and empty. They had narrowed over a huge beaked nose that had wrinkled in disgust at the sudden increase of the foul smell.

The flap on the box had dropped closed, and sneakers had stomped away through the slush.

Inside the box,

Heartbeat one.
Heartbeat two.
Heartbeat three.
Heart beat four.

Heartbeat one.
Heartbeat two.
Heartbeat three.
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Heels had been next. Dangerous red kitten heels, with blue-bitten toes peeking from the end. Hands had been small and dainty, fingernails sharp looking and dangerously red, although they’d been seen from a distance, wrapped about a pen used to lift the flap of the awful box.

Eyes had been grey, they widened over a pretty nose, and dangerous red lips had parted in a gasp. Closing the box gently, dangerous red nails had pressed a dangerous red phone against dangerous red lips. Heels walked away, speaking “Oh My God, Shannon! People are so cruel! Someone has dumpe…” and heels faded out of sight.

Inside the box,

A pair of tiny green eyes blinked shut, and wouldn't open upon this life again.
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Combat boots didn't hesitate, coarse hands were firm and sure as they opened the box, and green eyes were matter of fact, and didn’t linger. Box closed, and combat boots continued their firm tread onward down the street.

Inside the box,

A small nose nudged against cold, damp fur, alone with death, surrounded on all sides by loss.
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Shiny Italian leather was last.

They passed by the box, unobservant like so many others. Yet, apparently not, because they came back.

Leather lingered outside the box, starting to step away several times and then stopping.