01-07-2010, 09:15 AM
Alone.
No one left. No home. Nothing but a Dagger - an unarmed Dagger - and enough fuel in its tank to last maybe two weeks.
His parents were killed. His house was reposessed. Everything his parents owned was left to other relatives. People he'd never seen, never known, and couldn't trust.
Untrained, only halfway through high school. Could handle a fighter, but not very well. No hope for a better life, no hope for any life. But he had to try, it was instinct.
Vincent ran alone through the slums of Manhattan at night, always looking over his shoulder. No one following, but that could change anytime. Still, so far, no one. Still alone. To his right, an old warehouse. Maybe there'd be something inside. Up the wall of a nearby warehouse, leaping the gap, he made it. Still undetected, no one around.
A rope from his pack, a hook on the end, swung and shattered the skylight. Wrapped around the crossbars, it let him in. The abandoned warehouse wasn't completely cleaned out, there were tubes of Paste and cans of vegetables that had been overlooked. Most had broken seals, but those that didn't, he took.
Success. But, noise. Footsteps inside the warehouse. He wasn't alone.
"Put yer hands up and come out quietly!"
The cops! He had no weapon, but he had a can in his hand. Behind the massive crates, and in the low light, the officer wouldn't have been able to draw his weapon in time.
He threw it, and in that moment time seemed to stop and Vincent felt like he was no longer in control of his own body. The can slammed into the officer's head, knocking him off-balance. Vincent took the dazed officer down with a quick lunge and put the officer's own handcuffs on him before either party fully realized what happened.
But he had to do it. And then he had to leave, quickly. Before anyone recognized him, before anyone saw him, before he could be caught. Half an hour passed, felt like half a day, before he reached the nearest spaceport and took off.
Still alone. But better than in prison. Wasn't it?
No one left. No home. Nothing but a Dagger - an unarmed Dagger - and enough fuel in its tank to last maybe two weeks.
His parents were killed. His house was reposessed. Everything his parents owned was left to other relatives. People he'd never seen, never known, and couldn't trust.
Untrained, only halfway through high school. Could handle a fighter, but not very well. No hope for a better life, no hope for any life. But he had to try, it was instinct.
Vincent ran alone through the slums of Manhattan at night, always looking over his shoulder. No one following, but that could change anytime. Still, so far, no one. Still alone. To his right, an old warehouse. Maybe there'd be something inside. Up the wall of a nearby warehouse, leaping the gap, he made it. Still undetected, no one around.
A rope from his pack, a hook on the end, swung and shattered the skylight. Wrapped around the crossbars, it let him in. The abandoned warehouse wasn't completely cleaned out, there were tubes of Paste and cans of vegetables that had been overlooked. Most had broken seals, but those that didn't, he took.
Success. But, noise. Footsteps inside the warehouse. He wasn't alone.
"Put yer hands up and come out quietly!"
The cops! He had no weapon, but he had a can in his hand. Behind the massive crates, and in the low light, the officer wouldn't have been able to draw his weapon in time.
He threw it, and in that moment time seemed to stop and Vincent felt like he was no longer in control of his own body. The can slammed into the officer's head, knocking him off-balance. Vincent took the dazed officer down with a quick lunge and put the officer's own handcuffs on him before either party fully realized what happened.
But he had to do it. And then he had to leave, quickly. Before anyone recognized him, before anyone saw him, before he could be caught. Half an hour passed, felt like half a day, before he reached the nearest spaceport and took off.
Still alone. But better than in prison. Wasn't it?