Fallen Star Rising

Fallen Star Rising (Part 9)

I smiled a grim smile for the past as I headed into the park. Chloe helped me, as so many had, but she did not want me to suffer or grieve for her. So I didn't. Life was too short to be sad and shitty all of the time, even though it sure as hell gave us enough reasons to mope.

It was really a gift that I could hear the thoughts and desires of those less fortunate than others. True, it was not always convenient that I could not easily tell sane individuals from the crazy ones. But it made for some interesting conversations, that was certain.

As I stepped onto the wet grass at the threshold of the park, I noticed a man running full tilt in my direction. My hackles immediately raised, and I could feel my muscles prepare for confrontation.

The fight with Mr. Italy and crew already felt like it had been weeks ago, but my ribs and the knot on my head were still reminding me that I was not exactly at peak performance. Not to mention the fact that I had somehow flown under the radar of something sinister and hungry at the train station earlier tonight. Splitting my mind down the middle, I observed the man running towards me at a sprint with one half and asked the other to fully evaluate my current condition.

Details leapt out of the night under my critical eye. The man was clearly a resident of the park, or somewhere nearby. His silhouette under the murky light around her showed me clothes that were too big, too numerous, and too mismatched to be anything but what he must have found in the garbage and at a shelter. His eyes glinted with reflected neon glow, wide and afraid. His steps were reckless but swift.

The man smelled unwashed but stank more of fear and desperation. Broken fingernails on his left hand clutched a bundle of papers tied together with dirty string. Tones of terror and vibrations of dread dropped from the man in waves as he came my direction, the undercurrent having an effect on everyone nearby. Homeless shuffled away, heads down. Drunks spit and cursed but found themselves distracted and wandering away.

My other half reported back to me information that was less than ideal. I had three cracked ribs, one had breaks in two places. No damage to the lungs, but extensive bruising to the intercostal muscles between the ribs, and bruising to my upper abdominal muscles. All the damage, my impartial mind informed me, was due to the beating I took before I actually started fighting the Italian crew in the basement of the gaudy restaurant. I did not give this analytical half of my mind enough emotions to be bitchy, but somehow it had managed regardless. I couldn't even get along with myself some nights, it seemed.

The bruise on my head was inconsequential in terms of my battle prowess. Thankfully the reporting part of my mind did not mention my bruised ego from sustaining the head wound.

In addition, the cold part of me informed...me, that the major muscles in my legs, arms, and back were at less than optimum efficiency - an overall 78.0% efficiency to be exact - due to the exposure to the cold wind and rain for the last two hours and thirty eight minutes (and thirteen seconds) of walking home.

With the damage to my ribs and therefore my respiration added to my slightly fatigued and cramped muscles, I was educated that my current combat efficiency was a less-than-optimal 73.7% with the caveat that that efficiency would decrease by 1.7% to 6.2% every twenty seconds of strenuous combat/exercise, depending on the exact nature of combat/exercise, and assuming I took no further injuries during said combat/exercise.

I thanked my cold mind, thinking - based on my observations of the clearly scared homeless man trucking towards me - that fighting seemed unlikely. Or if there was to be a throw-down, it would not last more than the proscribed twenty second interval.

With a sigh I pulled my minds back together and tried to relax as the homeless man approached.

As he got nearer, he saw me standing there observing him, and he changed direction to come right at me.