Thorne rushed down the street, his steel toed boot pounding on the sidewalk.
The city's morning commuter population had changed in the few minutes since he'd entered the hospital building. At barely nine in the morning the pavement had more bodies per square meter than anywhere short of a mass grave.
He wove through them with a manic grace, bobbing and weaving like he was 14 again and in his uncle's boxing gym. Though he was terrible at throwing actual punches dodging, dodging he got down pretty well.
Memories of when he was asked to throw a punch using his full body weight and ended up twirling like a ballerina before falling flat on his ass came to mind. How could he forget the puzzled look on his uncle's face before he offered his sage advice.
"Well." His uncle said, scratching his temple with his finger. "Running is also a skill."
Thorne had to admit being told he had no talent when it came to throwing hands stung. If it wasn't for his uncle's expression he would have thought, he was simply roasting him instead of showing concern.
A kid on an electric scooter shot past him pulling him back to reality the memory and he almost crashed into a woman with a stroller packed so full it was functionally a siege engine.
He arched his body twisting with his questionable flexibility to avoid the crash. Something in his back made a popping and he considered himself lucky that it didn't come with and burst of pain.
Up ahead the crosswalk light on Park Avenue was counting down in red glowing numbers, ten, nine, eight. Eight seconds until it turned into a red hand symbol. Eyeing the opposite curb, Thorne took a gamble on his agility vs his own dubious life expectancy and went for it.
Sprinting across the crossing with his head held straight he kept his eyes locked on his destination until he heard a loud horn and saw a car screeched to a stop less than a foot from his thigh. The driver, a balding man hung his upper body out the window. His forehead was bright red as if all the blood in his body had erupted upwards threatening to burst a prominent throbbing vein. "Are you fucking crazy?" the man screamed, voice pitching up to a whistle." Do you have death wish bastard?"
"Only on odd-numbered days," Thorne shot back, not slowing. He hit the curb; boots pounding on the pavement and ducked his head as a second car whipped past close enough to ruffle his hair. Someone on the sidewalk let out a loud, an audible gasp. He could hear more than one person shout the word moron at him.
His lungs burned, the taste of hospital sanitizer long since replaced by car exhaust and the bitter tang of city air. He had to endure it if he wanted to catch the 402 at Duke, and there was no guarantee he would even make it.
Continuing down the street Thorne saw an alley cutting through two buildings that looked like it led out to the street on the other side.
'Any other day and I might've weighed the risks.' Thorne thought, but 'I can't afford to have my pay docked again this week.'
He ducked inside.
His pace had slowed to a brisk now after all that sprinting. Moving deeper into the space the sounds of the city blunted slightly, giving way to the slap of his footfalls against the concrete. Here, at least the sun couldn't find him. A gentle reprieve from the star that had spent the last few moments lashing him.
The buildings leaned together like conspirators, their black tinted windows watching him from high above on walls had been tagged with graffiti from base to fire escape. The ground was a graveyard of cigarette butts and rotting pallets.
From Name and statements to weird symbols and hieroglyphics. "Hive Rules," "Fuck the Capes," "James 2:13,"
He had barely entered properly before being assaulted by the smell urine, rotting garbage, something sharp and sickeningly sweet underlying it all.
'Is getting to work really worth going through this?' The question lingered on his tongue, but he dared not speak the words aloud lest the putrid scent find an opening.
It was such as pungent odor that for a moment. He truly considered, turning back. This was definitely the kind of place where you find a body in a dumpster.
Drawing on as much energy as he could he quickened his steps, pushing on. He wanted to leave this place as swiftly as he could. Ahead, the alley opened into what might have been a loading zone once.
Now it was just a semicircle of old dumpsters arranged like they were holding court amongst the garbage, their surfaces slick with something he was glad he could not identify.
He was three steps from the alley's far exit, already reaching for the promise of fresh air, when the wall within the old loading zone exploded. Cinderblocks and rubble screaming with a cloud of concrete dust and debris.
The large blue dumpster Resting in front of the pulverized wall shot across the ground and at him like a cannonball. Thorne froze like a deer in headlights, His fight or flight response short circuiting.
The flying bin slammed into a second dumpster inches from his hip. The resonant screech of metal on metal rattling his skull.
Thorne released a breath he didn't even know he was holding. his eyes had long since glossed over as if his body had accepted that this was how he would die.
He wanted to laugh but all that came out where scoffs of air.
'I almost became the body in the dumpster in this alley' The came immediately to mind but before he could take solace in his rather unremarkable acute stress response. His eyes drifted to the hole that used to be a wall and within an instant he hid behind the dumpster that had almost become his grave.
'What the hell is that supposed to be!' Thorne peaked out to the side of the dumpster, observing the situation.
Now standing in the courtyard, a man-mountain loomed, lit by the spill of weak daylight from above. He had to be at least eight feet tall, with a head like a cinder block and shoulders that would make most refrigerators look like mini fridges. The skin on his arms was gray and scarred, patches of it pocked like old battlefields.
He wore a flannel shirt stretched so tight across his chest that the buttons looked ready to become ballistic projectiles at any second. On his shoulder was a weapon that didn't belong on anything short of a combat helicopter. It was a six-barreled monstrosity with an ammo belt draped over his body like the like a pageant sash.
Wrapping around the mountain's waist and hanging over his shoulder was the figure of a young man. However, it was too flat to be a man. It looked more like the inflatable tube men Thorne had seen at the car mart. Both the strange man's arms were elongated, stretching unnaturally around the torsos of two hostages, a middle-aged woman and a younger man, constricting them like a snake.
Almost instinctively ducked behind two dumpsters. The cold metal pressed against his shoulders, his spine, feeling the moisture of the wall on his shirt. The smell was a worst between the dumpsters. Thorne could hear his stomach churning. It growled so intensely that Thorne was sure everyone in the alley heard it.
Thorne kept his breathing shallow, listening.
The rubbery man's voice was high-pitched, almost nasal, and it gave off the energy of someone who had never once in his life experienced a silent moment. "You idiot, you were supposed to go left at the fire escape! Left! Do you even know what left is? How do you fuck up left?"
The Brute gave a low-pitched grunt that sent a shiver down Thorne's spine. "Sorry. Rudy."
Rudy let out a snort, one that sounded to Thorne like equal parts derision and nasal congestion. "Are you trying to get us caught? Dammit!" He poked the Brute's slab like shoulder with a foot-long index finger, the flesh stretching out like hot taffy before snapping back. The hostages middle-aged woman and the young man flinched every time Rudy's body shifted, but neither made a sound beyond muffled sobs.
Thorne pressed himself flat against the dumpster, careful not draw attention to himself. The voices of the duo bounced around the courtyard, competing with the sobs of the young man they were currently holding hostage. He risked glance around the edge.
The Brute and Rudy moved as a single, grotesque unit. The smaller man perched on the Brute's back, his body wound around the bigger man in a way that reminded Thorne of a parasite on a whale. Rudy's arms squeezed the hostages, the skin of his forearms flattening out to bind their torsos so completely that only the rise and fall of chests hinted at life inside. The woman's face had gone blue around the lips, but she held an unnervingly stern composure, while the younger man eyes glistened with tears.
Rudy twisted, eyes jittering. "I... We should've gone with the sewers."
The Brute didn't respond he simply let out another deep grunt. He peered at the alley's entrance, then in the direction of the dumpster.
In a flash Thorne pulled his head in.
'Damnit did he see me?' The thought sent a frigid bead of sweat down his spine.
"I...Think…" The Brute started giving his best to finish a sentence.
"No! I think so you don't have to." Rudy cut him off craning his neck, His very bones seeming non existent. "Listen up, you are here to smash things. Don't go fucking it up by doing something so complicated!"
A car backfired somewhere out on the street, and both villains snapped to attention. The Brute's hands flexed around the minigun's grip. Rudy's grip on the hostages constricted, drawing an ugly groan from the young man.
Thorne's legs cramped. He could feel his pulse in the soles of his feet. He needed to move, or breathe, or do literally anything but sit here and wait for the duo to sniff him out.
Suddenly there was a sharp gust of wind, and then a blur of navy blue filled the entrance. Thorne's eyes widened as he gave the newcomer a once over.
Instantly before anything else recognized the insignia on the chest of the costume, the lightning bolt fist punching upward. He doubted there was anyone in the world who didn't know the symbol of the Vance family.
Vector, the newest member of the Vance family to follow in the legendary Accel's legacy. He remembered seeing him on Benjamin's newsfeed.
He was dressed in a skintight navy-blue suit with gold accents with a pair of golden boots. His face was covered by a full mask in the form of a gold semitransparent film.
He reached up to his helmet, tapping at the side. "Dispatch," he said, eyes never leaving the villains, "I'm at the location. Two suspects, two hostages, I'm about to engage." Through the film they could clearly see him raise an eyebrow." Backup? I don't need that."
Lowering his hands from his ear and placing them on his hips and his chin up, he looked quite unimpressed by the duo. "Well," Vector said, his voice as bright as a toothpaste commercial, "this is rather disgusting. Couldn't you two have chosen a nicer place to have me beat you up?"
Rudy's face went slack for a split second before contorting into a snarl. "And who are you supposed to be."
The Brute just grunted, but it sounded like a boulder rolling downhill with intent.
The woman in Rudy's grasp seeing that her chance at freedom had arrives started a desperate struggle to be released, her face turning beet-red as she fought for air. The young man limp, either unconscious or the world's calmest hostage.
Vector's gaze flickered to the hostages, then to the Brute's hand-cannon. If he felt fear, it didn't register. He executed a quarter turn so that both villains were in his line of sight, then smiled a white, wolfish thing that practically radiated confidence.
"Don't worry, after I'm done with you my names going to be the one thing you never forget." Vector cocked his head. "Now then, according to dispatch and protocol I'm supposed to give you a chance to surrender." He paused. "Oh, that was it by the way."
Rudy's reply was a string of profanities so creative that even the Hostages paused, as if to appreciate the craftsmanship.
Vector interrupted with a sharp, practiced laugh." It's a shame there are no cameras here to watch record this. Oh well they will catch up eventually."