The last thing I remembered before the sweet escape of unconsciousness was the thugs snarling about sucking the juice out of my liver or some other horror-movie nonsense. Then came the blinding, searing pain of my eyes being torn out - enough to finally knock me out cold. Blessed relief. If I’d been awake for what they did to me next, I probably would’ve been more than a little pissed.
Imagine the worst pain you've ever felt - now crank it up to eleven, stretch it across every fiber of your being, and sprinkle a healthy dose of despair into the mix. Yeah, it was about that pleasant.
I couldn’t tell you when they left, nor when another figure slipped into the alley. I was barely clinging to life, hovering on that razor-thin line between this world and whatever lay beyond, but somewhere in that haze, I registered a presence leaning over me. There was a softness to her movements, an air of silent efficiency. And she smelled... comforting. Like vanilla, warm and familiar, cutting through the stench of blood and fear.
She lifted my head, and I felt something cool pressed to my lips - a few drops of something slipping into my mouth. The liquid hit my tongue with an odd warmth that slid down my throat and settled like a tiny ember in my chest. And then, just as silently as she’d arrived, she was gone.
Not long after, the trio of thugs returned, laughing and chatting like this was just another night out on the town. No big deal - just another day, another body bag. They unceremoniously zipped me up, my body slack and unresponsive as they hefted me like cargo.
Coming to as the bag shifted roughly, I was barely conscious enough to register the sounds around me - muffled voices and the shuffle of heavy footsteps. Everything was blurry, like I was floating just below the surface of awareness, and each jolt of pain dragged me back down. Then, the zipper peeled back, and the voices became clearer.
"Ah, gentlemen, back so soon?” The voice was smooth, chillingly detached, and oozed a kind of self-satisfied confidence. Mr. Ice, I assumed. It fit, albeit in the same way a cheap villain’s name might fit in a straight-to-DVD movie.
He continued, “Now, let’s get to the part where you explain exactly what went wrong. And, if you don’t mind, tell me about the girl. I’m quite curious to know how she managed to slip through your fingers.”
Thank god, I thought hazily. If Charlie hadn’t made it out, after all this, I think I’d cry.
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
The lead goon - Lester, if memory served - cleared his throat and dove into his version of events. “Mr. Ice, sir, we were on her, had her cornered and all, but we ended up bringing back a consolation prize.” Lester didn’t seem inclined to mention the part where I’d handed them their asses before they decided to “cheat.”
Mr. Ice’s tone shifted to a dangerous calm. “Gotten away? And how exactly did that happen? Care to fill in the gaps, or do I need to ask one of your bumbling friends?” His gaze must have been blistering because the two henchmen shifted uncomfortably.
“Boss, Mr. Ice, it wasn’t our fault! This guy - some wannabe Batman - came out of nowhere, and he…” Goon Number One choked on his words, realizing too late that “it wasn’t our fault” wasn’t exactly the right thing to say.
“Are you telling me this lone individual managed to defy all three of you?” Mr. Ice’s tone was cold, measured, each word like the tap of a scalpel on glass.
“No sir, I mean yes, Mr. Ice, sir. But not like that,” Goon Two stammered.
“Oh, do go on,” Mr. Ice drawled, his interest fading to the edge of boredom. “This should be good.”
Goon Two shuffled, likely doing his best not to meet his boss’s eyes. “Well, uh, like I said, we had the girl right where we wanted her, then this guy shows up out of nowhere, acting all chivalrous, like he was her knight or something.”
“Yeah,” muttered Goon One, “a real idiot.”
“Anyways, he started mouthing off, so we figured we’d, you know, teach him a lesson. Only turns out he knows some kinda kung-fu or something… so, uh, yeah.” His voice trailed off into awkward silence.
“Get on with it,” Mr. Ice snapped, clipped and impatient.
Lester took over, attempting to salvage some dignity. “Mr. Ice, sir, what my colleagues are ineptly trying to say is that we underestimated this man. He actually managed to hold his own against us until we decided to stop playing and, well, put him down. In the resulting confusion, the girl seized the opportunity to escape. Not wanting to return entirely empty-handed, I thought it prudent to bring this man back as… an offering.”
There was a quiet cough, and a woman muttered, “Morons.” Whoever she was, I liked her already.
“So you let her escape,” Mr. Ice said, his tone like the crack of ice.
Lester flinched but pressed on. “The rat, Mr. Ice - she was with a rat when you ordered me to apprehend them. They seemed to be working together, so I thought it wise to capture both. This man intervened on her behalf, leading me to believe he was also part of their little group. I figured bringing him in was better than nothing.”
“Well,” Mr. Ice said, his voice shifting from annoyed to something closer to interested, “that is… interesting. He held all three of you off, you say? He has potential, no doubt. Let’s make sure your efforts don’t go to waste. His pulse, though weak, is steady.”
The deliberation in his voice gave way to a hard-edged command. “Alright, gentlemen, take him to the pits and deal with him. If he survives, he’ll make a fine addition to our ranks. But do it quickly - we don’t need him expiring on us.”
I heard murmurs of acknowledgment, but by then, my awareness was slipping away again, the voices fading into the background as I surrendered to the darkness.