Locke... RUN!

His eyelashes did a little dance, trying and failing to shield his eyes from the glaring light that seemed all too eager to spotlight him. He wanted it gone, he blinked, observing his hand hover before his eyes—a vague, numb silhouette. His left arm was devoid of sensation.

His eyes bulged, and a sharp intake of breath betrayed his panic. He attempted to rise, immediately punished by a vicious stab of pain that burrowed into his belly, tore through his lungs, and tightened cruelly around his throat. A silent cry escaped his lips, punctuated by a barely audible whimper. His hands made a grab for something, anything, a few desperate inches above his belly, flailing in a pitiful ballet before he crashed back onto the bed as softly as he could manage, thoroughly defeated.

His breathing was uneven and strenuous, his chest heaved in pain with each breath he dared to take.

And then, the noise—a soft thud. Squinting, he managed a head turn, spotting the clipboard as it took a nosedive onto the floor, papers fluttering like a flock of startled birds before settling into a jittery heap. His eyes trailed up to meet the gaze of a woman, as pale as a ghost, with eyes hidden behind glasses.

He observed her lips moving, her voice a distant murmur that gradually intensified until it crashed over him like a storm. "Locke!" He flinched, turning his head away.

What met his eyes was nothing short of breathtaking—a canvas of towering structures basking in the glow of the morning sun, their shadows stretching over pristine, deserted streets. The sky above swirled with shades of gun-metal gray, its edges kissed by a hint of blue. Clouds promised rain, and he could almost catch the scent of it in the air—the sweet, earthy aroma he cherished. His thoughts blurred, awash with memories of her.

"My baby," a gentle voice cooed, pulling him close, a soft embrace as she bounced him lightly on her knee. Rain pattered softly against a modest wooden roof, while Sakura petals danced on the surface of a rippling lake, guarded by a majestic pink tree. She swayed in her chair, his young eyes taking in the serene view.

His tiny fingers found a strand of her golden hair as it tickled his face, and he pulled it with the gentlest tug. Looking up, he was met with the sparkle of two sapphire gems gazing back at him, radiant and warm.

Her hand enveloped his, her cheek pressed against his as she whispered, "I love you... so much."

Locke fought the tears that threatened to spill, one managing to escape down his cheek, landing softly on his hand. He felt that—a flicker of sensation. His eyes drifted down to his left arm again.

"I felt that..." he whispered to himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the woman moving, clipboard now clutched in her hands as she navigated around the bed, her attention fixed on his arm. "You lost sensation?" she inquired, her forehead creasing with concern.

Locke's hand tensed into a fist, the skin over his knuckles stretching tight and pale. He could sense the strain in his forearm, the muscles twitching. "It seems to have been temporary..." he muttered, rotating his wrist to observe his hand from different angles. Under the harsh, clinical lighting, his skin had an unnatural glow, the network of blue veins beneath eerily prominent.

"Why do I look like a ghost?" he asked, his gaze lifting to meet the doctor's.

With a calm, practiced motion, she brushed a stray hair behind her ear. "Well, that's because you've lost a significant amount of blood," she explained, her voice steady as she adjusted her glasses. She was busy with the monitors next to his bed. "You had a metal rod impaling your abdomen," she added nonchalantly, flicking through the settings on the screen before facing him directly.

Approaching his bedside, she pointed to a spot on his abdomen. "According to Ignition's report to the paramedics, you were already skewered by the time he found you. It went straight through to your back. Luckily, it hit nothing vital."

Locke's eyes went wide, disbelief etched on his face. He watched, tensing, as she pressed a button to elevate the head of his bed. Each incremental rise brought a wince of pain, his jaw clenched in anticipation.

When his view finally cleared, the sight of a large bandage just above his left hip, marked by a stark red dot, confronted him.

"The bleeding's been stopped, thanks to Medizone's quirk, but full recovery's going to take weeks," she warned, her eyes sharp. "Any sudden moves, and you'll reopen that wound," she cautioned, poking his chest to emphasize her point. "Got that?"

A weak smile crossed Locke's face as he nodded, "Understood."

His attention returned to the bandage, curiosity mingling with concern. "Did I get hurt anywhere else?" he asked, his voice tight. He stared down at his stomach, "strange, must be due to the adrenaline. I didn't feel anything, even when I was looking for Delilah," he mumbled, the words barely a whisper. But saying them out loud sent a chill down his spine.

"Just some bruised ribs and swelling in your throat from smoke inhalation," she started to explain, only to cut off with a shout. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?!" She watched in alarm as Locke staggered toward the door. "You shouldn't be moving at all!" Rushing to his side, she grabbed his shoulder, halting his escape.

Locke grimaced as a sharp pang shot through his abdomen, his mouth dry as dust. The door before him seemed to twist and evade his grasp, his knees giving way, sending him crashing into a nearby trolley laden with cups and plates.

The resulting chaos was a cacophony of sound as utensils clattered to the floor, echoing painfully in his head.

"What's happening to me?" he murmured, the weight of his own head becoming too much to bear.

Her arms enveloped him, a mix of concern and frustration in her voice. "Your body has no strength, hence the numbness you felt earlier," she scolded, her tongue clicking in disapproval as they shuffled back to the bed. Gently, she helped him down to the spot he'd vacated moments before.

"What were you possibly thinking?" she demanded, visibly trying to temper her anger. He watched, his vision blurred by fatigue, as she took a moment to calm down. Her features softened from a scowl to the familiar, comforting shape of her face as she looked over his wound, finding it perfectly sealed.

He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, his gaze drawn instead to the door. "I have to see Delilah. A steel beam fell on her. She lost so much blood—" His words broke off into a violent cough. The image of Delilah's eyes, tired and dimming, haunted him.

What if... What if... The terrifying possibility made his bottom lip quiver, memories of the woman shot by the clown flashing before his eyes.

A touch on his arm jolted him, drawing his attention. He looked up to find her solemn face. He swallowed hard. "She's here, too. In a coma, but alive and safe," she informed him, her hand slowly pulling away.

He loosened his hold on the bed sheets, drawing a deep breath as he surveyed the room. "Where exactly is 'here'?" he inquired.

"You're home, Locke," she assured him, waving a hand towards the skyscrapers outside.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

His gaze shifted to the window at her words. Sure enough, the silhouettes of two other cities were visible on the horizon—two to the right, and he assumed another lay to his left.

"I-Island..." he murmured, receiving a slow nod from the doctor.

"You were both brought here as soon as your conditions were stabilized," she explained, rising from his bedside to approach a digital panel by the door. After a few taps, a green light blinked on. She turned back to face him.

"Someone will be in shortly to clean up. I'll return soon with Medizone to conduct some tests," she said, her gaze stern. "Please, stay put this time."

“But Delilah—” he started.

“—is safe, Locke. That is all I can say... for now.” She looked at him over her shoulder, “rest assured, she is receiving the best medical treatment.”

The door snapped shut, casting the room into a silence that felt too heavy, too thick. The ambient hum of electronics filled the space, accompanied by the persistent beep of the machine tethered to his wrist. He lifted his arm, the cord swinging lightly in the artificial glow, his eyes tracing it back to the monitor displaying a rhythmic dance of green lines.

Beside the monitor lay a remote control. Ignoring the protest of pain that surged like a storm through his chest, he reached out, his grip tightening around the remote as he let out a sharp intake of breath, then eased himself back against the pillows.

His gaze swept the room, searching for the TV it controlled. There it was, mounted on the wall at the foot of his bed. He flicked it on, the screen coming to life with the local weather forecast for I-Island. With a few clicks, he navigated to "The International Wire Channel."

"Fear no more," he whispered to himself, a hint of melancholy in his voice as he pondered over those who weren't lucky enough to hear such reassurances. He scrolled through, finding the segment that detailed the recent calamity.

Global News Network

The camera panned to a group of four anchors seated at a round table, each with a stack of notes and a solemn expression. Behind them, a large screen showing images of the circus tent in flames and emergency services at the scene.

"Good evening.” A woman starts, face framed by long brown locks. “Our top story tonight, a devastating attack on the Pilo Family Circus in Rome, leaving hundreds dead and thousands injured. The assailants, wearing clown masks, have turned an evening of entertainment into a tragedy."

"It’s exactly as you say Maria, the scale of this attack is unprecedented.” David nodded grimly, “with each hour, emergency services uncover more victims, raising the death toll and deepening the nation's grief."

Another man, greying at the sides chimed in, "as we grapple with this horror, questions about safety measures at public events have surged. How could an attack of this magnitude occur, and what does it say about the state of our security protocols?"

"Indeed, Liam. And beyond the immediate security concerns, there's a palpable fear about the psychological impact.” Sophie tapped her finger on the table emphatically. “The use of clown masks, symbols of joy and laughter, turned into emblems of terror, is particularly disturbing."

Maria swiveled around in her chair toward the large screen behind them. "Let's go live to our correspondent at the scene. Alex, what's the atmosphere like right now?"

The man in question appeared amidst a frenzied swarm of blue and red sirens, police cars and ambulances filling every available space.

"Maria, the scene here is one of chaos and sorrow. Families are searching for loved ones, and the community is rallying together, but the shock and horror of what happened are palpable. Security forces are on high alert, and the investigation is in its early stages."

Crash! The lens wobbled wildly, the earth spewing up clouds of dust. It wasn't until the world on screen steadied itself that he made his grand entrance, his hair a wild mane of white fire, his dark cape dancing in the wind left by his dramatic descent.

The focus shifted back to Alex, who wore a grin as if he'd just shared a secret with the world. "And then we've got him. Ignition's been spotted flying in and out of the Colosseum, non-stop, for the last forty-eight hours, each time cradling someone new in his arms." He pivoted on his heel, the camera obediently following his gaze, capturing the moment Ignition passed a lady into the care of a paramedic who, quite remarkably, sported six arms.

Alex faced the lens again, his voice carrying a hint of hope. "Additionally, there are others. We're not just talking about any heroes here. Italy's finest - ranked second, fourth, and seventh, along with their trusty sidekicks, are all here offering their support. All hope it seems... is not lost."

David nodded and turned to face the cameras, tempering his features. "Thank you, Alex. This attack not only raises concerns about physical safety but also cyber security. Reports suggest that the attackers may have coordinated this horrific act online."

"And let's not overlook the political ramifications.” Liam chimed in. “With calls for stricter security measures and anti-terrorism legislation, we're on the cusp of a heated debate on privacy versus safety."

"The impact on Rome's cultural and tourism sector is also significant. An attack on a circus, a place of universal joy, sends a chilling message. The road to recovery—both physical and emotional—will be long." Sophie said grimly.

Maria gave a professional smile, "In the coming days, we'll continue to follow this story, providing updates and insights. We stand with Rome in mourning and solidarity."

David mirrored his colleague, giving a toothy smile, "And we invite our viewers to join the conversation. How do we balance freedom and security? How do we heal from such a profound loss?"

"To those affected,” Liam said solemnly, “our hearts go out to you. For now, we'll continue to report on this tragedy, hoping for justice and healing."

Sophie waved, "Stay with us for ongoing coverage. Goodnight, and take care of each other."

The camera zooms out as the anchors engage in a somber discussion among themselves, the screen behind them transitioning to images of vigils and memorials springing up across Rome.

----------------------------------------

In the days that followed, Locke felt like he was marooned on an island of his own thoughts, his mind drifting aimlessly. He likened himself to a fish outgrown its bowl, cramped and constrained. Curled up at the edge of his bed, knees drawn tight to his chest, he found himself absentmindedly nibbling on his paintbrush.

For hours, he had been fixated on his latest creation, yet found himself at an impasse, unable to make the brushstroke that would complete the scene. Squinting at the canvas, he contemplated what was amiss. The clown, depicted with flames licking his attire and an orange hue reflecting off the gun, seemed to mock him from the canvas, smoke curling from the barrel aimed in his direction.

"It's the eyes..." he muttered to himself, realizing they lacked the necessary shade of red. Or perhaps it was the face paint—too pale a blue, the white verging on beige. He clicked his tongue in frustration.

The door creaked open, but the newcomer was met with a gaze so icy, they might as well have been turned to stone by Locke's glare.

"Unless you're here to take me to Delilah, you can leave," he snarled, his eyes narrowing with a fierce intensity, the brush in his hand snapping under the pressure.

He glanced down at the broken pieces, puzzled by their sudden fragility.

"This is why I can't stand interruptions..." he grumbled, reaching for a new brush.

"In- Interruptions?" The doctor echoed, her expression one of bewilderment. "This is a hospital, Locke. You're a patient here."

He scoffed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, splendid job you're doing. Here I am, confined to my room, left alone with nothing but my thoughts." His voice carried a mocking edge. "After such a traumatic experience, you'd think I'd merit a bit more attention," he challenged, rocking back and forth while locking eyes with her.

The doctor paused, her gaze drifting to the canvas before Locke. She inhaled sharply, taking a step back as if the voids in the painted figure's eyes sought to pierce her very soul.

"You...you chose to paint one of the terrorists?" she stammered, disbelief coloring her voice.

Locke glanced between her and his artwork, casually flicking a brush with his toe, watching it twirl in its holder. "It's not him that’s haunting me..." His voice fell to a grave tone, the underlying question clear, "When can I see Delilah?"

With her eyebrows knitting together in a brief display of hesitation, she cast one more look at the unsettling artwork. "Alright, I'll take you to see her now," she acquiesced, running her fingers through her bangs with a resigned sigh before moving to check the monitor that beeped with steady assurance. "And how are you feeling, by the way?"

Locke's grin stretched wide, a cacophony of clicks accompanying the straightening of his legs and the straightening of his spine. He lifted his shirt to reveal the bandage, now pristine and free of bloodstains. "Medizone's touch, it seems, has worked wonders," he quipped.

She paused to assess his healing wound, then, with a few presses of a button, a section of the wall slid open, revealing a wheelchair.

Locke's expression soured. "I'm not helpless, you know."

Her laughter was light, almost musical. "For the moment, you kind of are. Now, be a champ and take a seat," she teased, her smile edging into the realm of sadism from Locke's point of view.

His resistance was half-hearted at best. "I'd rather not," he protested, leaning back slightly.

Her smile broadened playfully. "I was under the impression you were eager to see her. Were you just putting on an act?" she teased, feigning a return to her previous task.

Locke's hands fluttered in surrender. "Alright, alright, I'll sit," he conceded with a resigned click of his tongue, shuffling towards the wheelchair with exaggerated caution. Lowering himself into it, he couldn't help but admit, "This isn't so bad for my back," noting the unexpected comfort.

Pointing commandingly towards the door, he declared, "Onward!"

Her giggle echoed as she took the helm, steering him out of the room and into the bustling corridor beyond, their journey to see Delilah now underway.