Hot on His Heels
New York City was comprised of shapes, not all of them friendly, not all of them beautiful, but all of them unique. The skyline was the most singularly impressive, stretching for miles upon miles and immortalized in posters all over the world. Of the spires and skyscrapers, buildings, wires and neon, two of these shapes were organic – and moving fast.
One turned back over his shoulder to view the other, and his blood froze like nitrogen to see that he was only a few feet behind. There wasn't much he could do about it, either. The shape of this rooftop didn't allow for any maneuvering; it was either straight out run, or turn to face the inevitable.
How many nights had he been running from him? Too many to count now. It seemed that every time he went on patrol this particular shadow was never too far behind…always stalking, waiting, watching. This time he'd been witnessed, and that gave way to The Chase.
He'd gone up for air. That was all. But, in his personal history, that seemed to be all it ever took to go from ninja to prize game.
Footsteps in the dark – so close in beat that they were barely discernable from an echo. Breath – shuddery, soft. If his pursuer had been outright panting, that'd be one thing. Gasping for air was a noise he was used to in combat. This strained, emotion-laced sound was another story altogether. It made his heartbeat quicken every time he heard it, and tonight it was racing just as fast as he. He dared not turn now; lost seconds, precious time.
He had to get below ground.
A glistening layer of sweat had coated his entire body, making his palms slippery and his thighs glint in the moonlight as he pounded silently across the rooftops, searching for that one fire escape, that one clothesline that would provide him with his window of opportunity. Something – anything! The Breath was coming closer now, so close that he could feel the waves of heat that throbbed around the other like a cloud. The scent of musk was palpable and strong. He groaned low in his throat, an animalistic sound.
There – a staircase! -crawling down the side of a building like a zigzagging snake. He headed for it with ruthless abandon, the panic of the other's closeness searing down axons and dendrites and making them misfire, calling escape, fire, pursued...
He caught the metal, slipped down by his sweaty palm, banged painfully against the side of the building and dropped lower. His hunter didn't miss a beat, ricocheting off the sides of the building in a true ninja descent. He barely had time to hit the pavement and tear off the manhole cover before he felt more than saw him following the path back down.
Instantly, all of his senses were heightened. Darkness tended to do that. The shapes he'd been relying on before were gone, vanished into a nighttime world of sound and smell. On the air were traces of heady things – his hunter's musky scent, his own sweat, the tang of fear, intermixing with stale water and week-old trash. He took off running but it was practically no use now; the slap of water gave him dead away.
There were so many passageways, so many options. He took them swiftly and arbitrarily, confusion putting blinders on his sense. It wasn't a matter of strategy at all. He just had to get away!
The faster he ran, the closer He got. It didn't take long for him to decide that the best way was probably silence, so with his mind and heart screaming Get out of here, you moron! Don't slow down- he came to a complete stop…and waited.
…Time passed. He tried desperately to control his breathing, make it silent like his master'd said, but the throbbing of his heart and the rushing of blood in his temples made it extremely hard to hear.
Shuddering in the dark – one breath, two. The ridiculous calm of the mouse, accepting and waiting for the hawk but crying out to providence in the back of its mind for that one small chance at hope: that the hawk might pass him by.
But Nature is a cruel mistress, and she has her ways. Laws cannot be undone, and he is on the menu tonight.
Suddenly- a hand on his throat, on his thigh. All senses seize up in fear. Brain waves firing run, Oh God, RUN but action coming up blank. Weak attempts at struggle, mindlessly recalcitrant against the inevitable no matter how fruitless it may seem.
There's hot breath on his neck, and he sighs and goes slack. The hands tighten their bruising grip.
"Gotcha," He says. It's really all that need be said.
All of his muscles tense, but he knows when he's been caught. "Took ya longer tonight. Out of practice?" but the voice isn't firm.
Low chuckling, moist heat on his hands. "You picked a rough part of town. Not many good hiding places there."
He turns around then and peers. There's dim light filtering in through the grating where they've moved to now, and by it he can barely make out the hint of blue fabric and the glint off a metal sword. There's a smirk on that knowing face.
"You should be able to adapt."
Insistent fingers pulling his face forward, pushing him back against the wall. "No more talking now." Still giving orders. "Accept it, I won."
And the younger of the two goes silent, his muscles at the ready but the danger now passed. A new kind of game is at hand…shapes and shadows in the dark.
But the pulsing in his veins reminds him – it's not over.
Tomorrow, he'll be the hunter. Tomorrow Leonardo is the prey.
Or so Raphael tells himself every single night.