Chaos Intrepid: In Her Shoes

Prompt the Seventh: What's in the Box

Please Take Me Instead

Never in his twenty-seven years could he remember feeling quite so guilty.  He stared at the screen, watching as the comments poured in:

OMG! Survivor slut shouldn’t be called Super Girl, she should be called SKANK.

She sounds like a biaaaaaatch!!!!

Bet da slut woz gagging 4 it – sounds like she woz askin 4 sum1 2 take her n I bet she liked it!!

Should have died when she had the chance.

He felt sick reading them. Had he really painted her in such a bad light? Or was it the combination of his writing and that godawful report on the news? Could he share blame? Swigging from the beer bottle, he closed his eyes and began to wonder how he might win her back over. She was by far the closest thing he had to a friend these days, and even if it was unconventional, he liked that about her. The fact that she gave no bullshit, played no games, taught him it was ok to love Taz, miss her, and hate her at the same time.

When questioned by the police sometime later, he wouldn’t be able to tell them why he opened his eyes when he did. But the sigh he heaved meant that his eyes caught the reflection of the three shadows moving towards him.

He turned towards them, a chill in the pit of his stomach. Too fast for fear. One seemed to be trying to show him something, and that something was metal, and a gun. Whilst another lunged with some kind of needle in his fist.

“Please my Intrepid, do not fight.” the third insisted. Palms in what looks like a peaceful gesture, he realises they must not have expected to be noticed.

But he hadn’t earned his reputation by not fighting.

Falling to the side, he swept a fist full of magazine up to knock the needle away. He didn’t know what it was for but it wasn’t something he wanted anything near him. Having always been told that the best fights were those not fought, he knew he had to escape into the day somewhere safe, but it was moving past the three would-be-attackers that posed the most issue.

Chaos pushed off using the chair, swinging his fists as he did so and popping the first on the jaw. One of them instantly tackles him from his standing position and he’s on the floor, fists beating down on him, smacking his head into the wood as he bats at them. Feeble. But they assumed he wouldn’t see him, and he wrenched at their faces. Pulling, stratching. Somone lands a blow against his ribs.

Inches from his face the gun clatters to the ground, his hold on the man’s wrist coming to fruition just on schedule.

The door, he noted, was closer than before…
Rolling to his feet, he swings at them again. He will make it to the promise of freedom. Even when he knew it might cost him his life.

Out of the door, into the fading daylight and the rain. The rain that instantly mixed with the blood from his nose to stream in thin red waves down his face. For a moment he stood, disorientated, but then he is limping off again. They will pursue, he knew they would, but for now he just needs to stop the ringing in his ears that’s back and to ease the agony splicing through his chest. There also remained the enticing lull of his aching head, the one that threatened to pull him into floating downstream on the current of concussion.

Chaos traced an enormous circle. He knew how to play this charade of distance, doubling back, desperately attempting to throw anyone off that might be following. Long since lost, he finally stumbled into an alleyway, dropping his coat as he did so. Careening into the walls. Drooping, right arm wrapped to protect the painful ribs he can reach. The alley is cool, damp, sweet with decay.

In the gloom, only his phone offers any light.

He needs to call Tilly, let her know someone was coming after them.

Hi, you’ve reached Tilly’s phone. If I’m not answering, I’m probably out living my life. Go enjoy yours and I’ll get back to you later. Leave your message after the beep!

“God Tilly pick up the phone. Pick it up.” He repeated the mantra over and over, “Come on. Come on. Pick it up.”

The phone rang. And rang. Leave your message.

He redialled.

Again. Message.

“Tilly, call me. I know you’re mad right now but… look.” He glanced at his prosthetic and then out at the rain, “I’m on my way over ok. Please, please call me if you get this.”

Clutching his side, he hobbled to where his leather jacket lay cast across the ground like a cliché.

“Damn woman,” he growled to himself as tugged into the damp warmth and dashed back into the downpour. It was a deluge. “Better appreciate this. Bloody woman.”

Making it out of the alley and into the street, Chaos pulled his collar close and began to walk. Every so often, he bumped shoulders with strangers, rifled for cash, seemingly in such a rush he didn’t notice.

*

Round the corner onto Tilly’s street, he saw her coming out of her house before he noticed the two men behind her. Gun trained on her lower back, time seemed to slow. Chaos began to run.

He wanted to shout her name but knows that they’ll likely kill him  if he interferes, he knows she cannot be taken, she would die before she let what happened before happen again.

The two men are saying something, grabbing her head an shoving it down to avoid the roof of the car, just like a cop might from a crime show.

But this is Tilly.

They force her not into a seat but onto the floor, making her lie on her stomach. Tilly’s face is an ‘O’ of surprise, her eyes wide and as the attacker places his boot on her head, waiting for any kind of response from command, he slams the door on their connected eyes. He sees the flash of a gunshot in the window. They pull away even as Chaos staggers as quickly as he can on his prosthetic.

"NO!"

Someone screaming.

The engine started. The car lurched forwards. Careening past the man whose face is wracked with inhuman pain, they disappear.

Chaos howled.

Word Count: 1089