Beautiful Crime
The city was spread out before him, sounds echoed from the alleyways and streets, from the gaps between buildings, merging together before dispersing up into the sky. Every barking dog, crying baby, and too-loud tv. Every fighting couple, every “cheers” followed by the clash of glasses, all of it merged together in one blanket of vibration, making up the soundscape of Hell’s Kitchen.
Matt was sitting atop the roof of a Juice Bar. He breathed in the cool night air, a refreshing shock. It bit at the back of his throat, at his cheeks. He felt the breeze as it rustled through him, hearing it swirl with the heat from shower vents, rising briefly with the warmth before dissipating back into bitter cold. He couldn’t sit here forever. Life moved much too quickly, if he wasn’t careful he’d soon be feeling the warmth of morning sunlight as it crested over the city. It would be much harder to travel through the city when everyone could see him flitting across the gaps between buildings.
So, he got up. He pushed himself back from the roof edge, his ribs screaming as his muscles tensed. He took a wheezing breath, in and out, and pushed again, finally working his way to his feet. He immediately took a step, wincing as deep pain, muscle probably, sparked from all over. He took a second and listened, taking inventory of himself. His ribs creaked, as did his knees but not in the same way. Great, he thought. Broken ribs were always tricky to hide. Especially as one of them made it almost impossible to take anything other than shallow breaths. Moving his head slightly, he was sure he could hear his left shoulder squeaking but pushed that aside, sure there’d be time later. A telltale metallic taste told him he’d reopened a half-healed wound on his side. He could deal with that later too. The city’s chatter continued around him, in every direction. A blanket of sound despite it being so late in the night. The vibrations of late-night trains rumbled and shifted the ground under his feet. He leaned forwards, willing his feet to catch him. One step. Something inside him wanted to scream. He bit it down. Another step, the muscles in his legs ached from overuse. He was sure he’d tear something if he didn’t get back soon.
A sired sliced through the evening noise, a sharp whine, and squeal, sounding somewhere five blocks away. Matt sighed. Someone else in need of saving. Rapid footsteps, running ahead of the screeching. Then, not much further, the steps stopped. Heavy breathing from whoever had been running, but the siren sped onward, passing whoever it was set on apprehending. Heavy breaths gave away their location, heaving with a slight wheeze, clearly not used to the intensity of a car-foot chase. Matt took a moment, shoulder protesting as he ghosted the symbol of the cross, and he was off.
Matt’s steps were silent, catlike, deftly moving from building to building. If it weren’t for the intrusive pain in his side, his movement may have been smooth as he made his way towards the resting criminal - a man who had not showered in many weeks. He came to a stop when the hurried heartbeat, beating at a rabbit’s pace, was directly below him. He was nearly grateful for the noises of the city, it sure made “seeing” a lot easier. He mapped the vague shapes of the alleyway. Though, with the state the man was in after running a single block, Matt was confident he wouldn’t put up much of a fight. Something large and square next to the heartbeat below him, a dumpster, he guessed. Something on the opposite building squeaked in the night breeze. The sound of metal pins, rotating partially then squeaking back into position; a fire escape.
His ribs groaned in pain as he jumped from the roof onto the metal railings. The metallic thud rang through the alley, and the heart below him sped up. The muscles in his legs heartily protested as he launched off the structure, flipping down to the alley below. His knees buckled under his weight as he landed, only giving him enough time to catch himself with his hands. The criminal’s footsteps started slowly, before breaking into a sprint, back to the street. Matt grabbed a baton from his belt, throwing it against the wall so it hit the runner square in the back. A thump as the criminal fell to the ground. Another sound, not so clear, of whatever he was carrying.
Matt stepped towards him, his breathing ragged. He was sure the rib he wasn’t worried about before had moved somewhere it shouldn’t be. He pushed his feet to move closer, the criminal was still on the floor. Alive, breathing, conscious, but not moving. He concentrated on the person in front of him. That hit wouldn’t have been hard enough to sever anything. Enough to knock someone out, if it’d hit a little higher. Matt kept a distance as he approached, unsure of how to proceed.
The man's breaths came out in sobs. That was new. Criminals all over the city knew about the Devil, but it didn’t deter the stupid few. Even so, this reaction was new. He couldn’t smell gunpowder or steel, so whoever was on the floor of this alley wasn’t carrying a gun or a blade. Yet they’d been chased down by the police anyway. The thought hit him like a bullet train. The bag. Whatever this guy had been chased for had to do with what he was physically carrying.
Pushing the concern of the delayed thought aside, Matt focused his senses on the bag. He knew he couldn’t get much without touching it. He prodded it with his foot. Something grainy scraped as he did so. Broken glass? Not liquor, he’d have smelled it. Nothing chemical either, he could sense the acidic burn of chemicals from miles away. Movement from his side, the man was trying to get up unnoticed.
“What is it?” Matt growled, his foot on the man's back, pinning him to the ground.
The man whimpered. Fear dripped from him in waves, maybe that’s why he couldn’t pick out the bag’s contents? He pressed his foot down harder, the man yelped.
“He paid me! He said to meet him with the bag and he would pay me, he didn’t say what-” the man squeaked. Matt eased his foot slightly.
“What’s in it?” he asked.
“I don’t- I don’t-”
He released the man from the hold, jerking his head in the bag’s direction. The man shuffled over towards it, the smell of fear still potent in the air. The same grainy, scraping noise from before, as the man picked the bag up. A sharp gasp before he dropped the bag.
“What’s in it?” Matt asked again but he soon found he didn't need an answer, as the familiar taste of copper drove towards him. Something sweet, almost floral, blended with the metallic taste. This blood was not regular. It was either diseased, which was dangerous enough on its own, or - Matt dreaded to imagine - enhanced. Matt couldn’t be sure if it was even human. Who carried around a backpack full of human blood?
“Leave,” Matt said. The man crawled backward, before rising to his feet and running back onto and down the street. He couldn’t call the police. He wished there was a procedure to this, a number you could call when you ambush someone carrying a backpack full of blood. He picked the bag up, careful not to touch it too much in case it was impounded as evidence later. He found the zipper, closed the bag, before walking back to the fire escape. This had been one weird night.