From the Skies
You’d always known that your death would be caused by you being sarcastic at the wrong time, to the wrong people; that or harboring a fugitive. Only you had expected that fugitive to be your oldest friend Skye. As it was, you hadn’t heard from Skye in ages, not since she’d shot you a vaguely cryptic message about ‘going in deep or going straight, only time would tell’. Actually you could really use a friend right now, and you cursed yourself for not keeping in touch with the few you had since moving to DC.
But let’s recap: with all the crazy stuff going on in the city and nobody quite knowing how to react you had been held up at work, then stuck in traffic on the way home so that it was already quite dark when you arrived at your apartment.
You took a quick shower, exchanging your sweaty day clothes for comfy sweatpants and one of your old baseball jerseys from your Little League days. You were standing in your kitchen, debating what to have for dinner, when you heard gunshots outside and froze. Suddenly, a figure clad literally head to toe in black combat gear came flying in through the window in the adjoining living room, which you had opened to let out the stuffiness of the day. They had knocked over one of the chairs at your dining table and gone crashing into the red sofa, and now they weren’t moving. You grabbed the nearest object to arm yourself with instinctively (though objectively it might have been the smarter choice to opt for one of the sharp kitchen knives instead of the solid blue frying pan, but whatever). In any case you carefully approached the figure, pan raised and ready to strike. You weren’t exactly happy about mysterious, dangerous-looking strangers breathing their last on your carpet, not with the confusing shit going on downtown; actually not ever. You were quite content with your dull, everyday life that had no more than the absolute minimum amount of unpredictability. You didn’t need to be dragged into this mess of terrorism, shady government agencies and superheroes. This mystery person would be alive, you decided, and you would politely yet determinedly show them the door and send them on their merry, murderous way.
They stirred just as you bent over them to check for a pulse. Before either of you could react you were knocked off your feet by another body forcefully slamming into you. You tumbled all the way into the hall, losing grip of your frying pan and only narrowly missing the edge of the coffee table. It took you a moment to regain your wits; the bullets suddenly whirring through the room helped with that as they made your adrenaline levels soar. There were two more people in the room with you now, men judging by height and build, both clad in black combat gear. One of them was masked like the one who had come flying in first; the other had almost shoulder-length dark hair and an arm that seemed to be made out of metal. The first mask had by now picked himself off the floor and fired a few shots right into Metal Arm’s back. Miraculously he didn’t go down, indeed the assault only seemed to drive him on as he held his own against his two opponents. He took down one of the masked assailants with a sweeping knife cut to the thigh and a ringing left hook, then swirled around to kick the legs out from under the second one. He then turned back to the man he had just sent crashing down, grabbing him by the throat and preparing to throw him out your open window. You noticed that his movements were shakier now than just a moment earlier; the bullets he’d caught and goodness knew which other injuries taking their toll after all. Meanwhile the other goon had risen again, obviously planning to take advantage of the fact that Metal Arm had his back turned to him. You moved before your brain made the conscious decision to do so, grabbing a firm hold of your frying pan and whacking the guy over the head as hard as you could. He crumpled like a ragdoll and you thought you heard a somewhat sickening crunch, though that might have also been the body of the other masked man hitting the pavement outside, four stories down. Metal Arm whirled around to face you, panting loudly and fixing you in a piercing, cold gaze. You raised your trusty pan anxiously.
“So, that was exciting and all, but please leave now and take your pal here with you.” You heard yourself say, and instantly cursed your loose tongue. Sassing knife-wielding fighting machines probably didn’t rate very high on the list of life-prolonging behaviors. This was how you would die. Grand. Just wonderful. Write ‘Shut up – live longer’ on my tombstone as friendly advice.
The stranger took a dragging step towards you, and you readied yourself to take another well-aimed swing, judging that you might be able to take him down long enough to run for the door. Suddenly he let out a low, pained groan and keeled over, crashing into the edge of the couch on his way down. ‘Well, shit,’ you thought as you stood there, momentarily dumbfounded. How does one deal with a situation like this? You couldn’t just leave him lying there, that much was clear. One way or another you would have to make up your mind.
“I’m calling an ambulance.” You thought aloud.
“No!” he hissed, flinching in pain. Suddenly emboldened by being the only one left standing upright in the room, you straightened your back and walked over to your phone.
“Listen, champ,” you said, trying to put some authority into your voice, “You’re not bleeding out on my carpet. I’m calling an ambulance. Try and stop me.”
He glared at you as you dialed and stated your emergency to the responder, surprisingly calm considering what had just happened. He tried to get back up on his feet, but failed and fell down with a thud and what you were fairly sure was a whimper. Nevertheless he managed to maintain his glare, which was somewhat counteracted by him cradling his right arm to his chest protectively, even as you moved across the room to close the window, lest any more masked gunslingers rain in.
“You don’t understand,” the man ground out hoarsely between labored breaths, “I can’t go to a hospital. They’ll find me!”
An expression of naked terror flickered across his face. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for him. For the first time you approached him, though you were careful to stay out of arm’s reach, and squatted down, a sympathetic smile on your face.
“Listen, champ, you’re badly injured. You’re gonna die without medical attention, and that is just not happening, not here and not tonight.” He gave you a dubious look that suggested that this option would be preferable to him than them getting him, whoever ‘they’ were. You guessed that the two masked gunmen had been part of that elusive ‘they’, so arguably they already had found him. You sighed inwardly as you made up your mind to help this stranger.
“I’ll make you a deal: I’ll tell the authorities some made up story, pretend you’re my cousin or something, we get you to the hospital, you get patched up, no one is any the wiser and once that’s done we both go our merry, separate ways and never see each other again.” His expression grew even more dubious and unwilling at your suggestion. Outside the sirens of the approaching ambulance were blaring, their volume increasing steadily as they drew closer. You could tell he was weighing his options, limited as they were, trying to decide whether or not to trust you.
“Okay.” He eventually replied, resigning himself to whatever might come next.
“Just leave the talking to me.”