I hit the concrete before I knew what happened. One second I was shaking hands with Hun, and the next I was flat on my back, stars blurring my vision, pain arcing up and down my spine. A clean, black leather shoe planted itself on my throat heavily, and the pressure mounted in my head. I couldn't breathe. I felt like my head would pop off any second, like a cork in a champagne bottle. I clawed weakly at Hun's leg, and heard him laugh at my feeble attempts. He drove the heel of his loafer into my throat, and the edges of my vision darkened. Then, all of a sudden there was a loud crash of glass breaking, and everything went dark.
At first I thought I was dead. I half expected to see an old Middle Eastern man at the end of a long tunnel, though realistically that was probably the opposite direction of where I was headed. Fortunately, I didn't have to deal with my Fate yet, because through the blackness I heard the sounds of movement. Shuffling feet, a few muffled cries of pain. At some point Hun's foot was no longer on my neck, and I gasped for breath, feeling the sweet air fill my lungs as I heaved. I was alive. I reached for the golf bag on my back, to find that my hockey stick and golf club had fallen out when I hit the ground. I felt around the concrete blindly, trying to grab a hold of one of my weapons, or any weapon for that matter. When my hand met something, it was not made of wood or metal, but something slimy, almost like scales. I pulled my hand back as fast as I could, and I was surprised to hear a voice through the shadows.
"Aw, dude, gross! Something touched my foot!" it said, clearly in disgust. I heard a grunt and the sound of a body hitting the concrete.
"Well, Mikey, this is New York. It was probably a rat or a hobo," said another voice, this one behind me. I spun towards it. Fists balled up to protect my face.
"Guys, be quiet! Remember what Master said, a ninja is silent," a third voice said, and I heard several thumps and a groan. Then there was a quiet clang above me, on a fire escape or something, and I looked up. I was thinking a bit more clearly, all of the adrenaline putting my senses on high alert. As I craned my neck up, I saw a large shadow disappear over the edge of a rooftop. It looked like… No way. I must have just been worked up from all of the crazy stuff going on but. It sort of looked like…
A huge turtle.
I shook my head, rubbing my eyes. After searching for a few moments, I discovered my hockey stick and golf club, and even the cricket bat the mohawk girl had been holding. My eyes had finally adjusted to the night time light of the city, and I was surprised at the sight I found.
All of the thugs that had been after me, minus Hun, were tied together, most of them unconscious, and sitting in a circle. There were a few dazed groans, and blood and bruises covered all of them. I furrowed my eyebrows beneath my mask, and looked back up to where I had seen the shadow climbing onto the roof. Nothing was there. I stood slowly, a jolt of pain coming from my back. I used my hockey stick as leverage to fully stand, and as I walked past the group of I kicked one of them in the shins. They didn't budge. I pulled two things from my golf bag; a cell phone and a can of spray paint. With the paint can, I began to set to work on the brick wall I had been trapped by, and with the phone I dialed 911. I informed the cops that there were some armed thugs waiting for them at my location, and I hung up as quickly as possible, putting my things into my bag and slinging it over my shoulder. I had very little time until the cops got here, and I didn't want them thinking I was one of those punkers. I took off at a jog.
I can hardly begin to describe the headache that I woke up with the following morning. I struggled to sit up from the couch I was sleeping on, and when I went to splash water on my face I found a massive purple bruise on my neck. I sighed, and when I finished toweling the water off of my voice I nearly jumped. Standing behind me in the mirror was my roommate, Angel.
Angel was 5-nothing and built like a gymnast, all legs. She had short hair, dyed neon blue, and at present she was wearing nothing but one of my t-shirts, which feel nearly to her knees. I rolled my eyes as she reached past me to grab her toothbrush.
"You're jumpy today," she murmured, still clearly half asleep. Our bathroom is small, so I had to back up so that she could reach the sink and begin brushing her teeth. I shrugged, leaving the room to find a change of clothes. "Wa' da heck happen' to your neck?" She called to me, through a mouthful of tooth paste.
"Don't ask," I called back, my head smarting from the loud noise. I threw on a decent pair of dark jeans and a plain white shirt.
"Why'd you shleep on da coush?" she asked. I heard her spit, and the water ran briefly, followed by a period of gargling, a second spit, and more water. Then she came to join me in our living room. "Couldn't find the bed?"
Angel and I's apartment is small. It's just a living room connected to a miniature kitchen, a bathroom with a shower that never gets hot enough, and a single bedroom. Usually we share a queen sized bed, with the exceptions of nights when I'm on patrol or Angel is with her college friends. Sometimes she tells me I should hang with them, that social interaction is good for me. I always tell her I didn't go to college for a reason. Too much like high school. She usually doesn't pry.
"I figured you didn't want my sweaty butt hogging the blankets," I said, flicking on the tv. Angel must have used it last, because instead of hockey or monster trucks that came onto the screen, a woman with a blond up-do and too much makeup was talking into a Channel 9 microphone. Behind her was police tape surrounding a painfully familiar alleyway. The camera zoomed in on the wall behind the reporter, to a big black skull that had been spray painted onto it. I pinched the bridge of my nose; I could practically feel Angel glaring daggers at me with those blue eyes. I went to change the channel, but Angels tiny hand closed on the remote as I did. She was staring at me intently. I sighed, meeting her gaze. When I looked, though, I didn't see any anger, just fear. Worry.
"Was that you?" she asked softly. I pursed my lips and nodded wordlessly. Her jaw clenched. She took her hand off of mine and stalked over to the kitchenette, pouring herself a glass of water and drinking it down, before pouring a second glass and sitting down next to me on the couch. She looked at the tv, where the reporter was talking avidly with one of the thugs I had tangled with, along with a police officer. I opened my mouth to talk, but Angel beat me to it. "That's what happened to your neck, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Casey, I thought you were done with this! You said you were done with all this!"
"Angel, I wasn't-"
"What if someone followed you here? We'd both be dead! Do you want to die? Is that what this is? Are you freaking Christian Bale Batman?" she was practically shouting now, and the stars returned to my eyes from the pain it caused my head.
"Angel, please. My head is killing me." I muttered, squeezing my eyes closed. She lowered her voice, but only slightly.
"You don't have a job. You don't have any friends. The only thing you do is go out at night and beat up on criminals and petty thugs," she rubbed her temples.
"This isn't your life, Angel, I don't get why you're so upset about this," I said. I was lying.
"Because I'm your g-" she stopped herself, taking a sip from her glass. Her ears were twinged a bit pink. "I'm your friend, Casey. I care about you. And I don't want to go to your funeral when you're 21. Don't make me do that." She was breathing heavily, her little hands shaking a bit. The only time I had seen her this shaken up was when her father had died, a few years ago. We were both still in high school together then, and I as the only friend that showed up at the funeral. I know what it's like to lose parents: my dad killed my mom in a drunken rage, and then he killed himself in regret. I shuddered with the memory of it. I placed a hand on her slender shoulder, tracing it gently with my thumb. She shook her head.
"Just promise you won't mess around with those guys, Casey," she said. She looked me square in the face, tears doing nothing to cloud the ferocity there.
"Why? What's so special about that group of purple punks?"
"Promise. Me. Casey," she said through gritted teeth. "They're bad news. I want you to stay way clear. Way, way clear. Ok?"
I nodded and told her I promised. She wrapped her arms around my neck, breathing hot breath into my collar, and for a second I wasn't sure why I felt bad. Something was nagging in the back of my head. I only realized what it was after she had left for her first class of the day. I felt guilty.
I felt guilty because I had lied.