[Part Four Resolution : End this in 6 chapters, max.]
: Manoo : Oh my gawd D: Are you okay? Not hurt or anything? DDDD:
A/n : Okay! Sorry I haven't been replying to all the reviews, been uh..A little rushed. Anyway! That's an old story now!
Now, concerning Machi and Daryan. In defending my Machi (In case OOC-ers come calling), let's give it some thought, okay? Here we have, a fourteen-year-old kid. He's a smuggler. He smuggles stuff out of his country that carries the death penalty, and brings an igniter onto stage in case stuff goes wrong. He burns the guitar right out of our dearest prosecutor's hands, in full view of the public.
Now tell me you were doing all that when you were fourteen, and that this kid's girly. D:
And yeah. Long-ass poems. Why do I keep writing these crap?
Part Four : Monochrome City
-
Monochrome City, jive with me,
The colour of gray, knows my wicked way,
Monochrome City, I'm your bride in white,
Black and White,
You'll be my light;
-
Monochrome City, sway with me,
I'm a one man show, I'm a no-man ho,
Monochrome City, bonded for life,
Black and White,
You'll twist my knife;
-
Monochrome City, there's nowhere mine,
I'm a man of the streets, I'm a stalking ghoul,
Monochrome City, do you see red lights?
Black and White,
They're stopping my show;
-
Monochrome City, they're coming for me,
They're in each corner, they're behind each tree,
Monochrome City, I can't pay your fee,
Black and White,
La-dee-da-dee;
-
XXI : Strip Show
-
Klavier floated into the PD the next day looking like someone who just got laid for the night. He was smiling, not wolfishly maybe, but he was definitely smiling. He was right – the smile had stayed on the whole night, and all the way into the morning. He had written THIS much songs on behalf of his Herr Justice, and he can't wait until Kazaf finally gives up on getting Kristoph and Daryan back, go out there, and get the guy who's doing his damnedest to ruin his career. Then he'll go back into the showbiz, and he's going to blow the roof out with all the songs he wrote about his Herr Forehead – you betcha sweet ass he will.
With his black hoodie drawn up to the top and his headphones in place, he punched the elevator. Klavier really isn't a hoodie kind of person usually, but right now, when you're in love, you don't see yourself. You look at the mirror, and what you're seeing is the love of your life. What you'll see is flowers and meadows and blue skies and you'll hear music. Admittedly, his music came from the headphones and not from his mind, but oh – you get what he means – this is the kind of time when walking out with sweatpants actually sound okay.
The elevator dinged immediately the moment he punched the up button – which was a rare thing. Most of the time the elevator is so jam-packed that you'll have trouble getting it within five minutes. It's also usually an elbow-in-your-face kind of elevator. You go in with a mustard sandwich and you come out with the damned thing stuck to your shirt front and you'll smell like a marathon contest winner – not a pretty picture to paint.
But today, it's empty.
Actually, come to think of it – the reception hallway had been empty too. The lady had been sitting behind the desk, reading this month's issue of Playgirl. She hadn't spoke to him, and Klavier hadn't spoke back. But he hadn't seen anyone else in the lobby, not a single one of the usual detectives milling about in the lobby, which was a pity because in Klavier's current mood, he'll probably donate all his wealth to them if they're willing to stand there and hear him wax lyrical about how oh-so-wonderful his darling forehead is.
Klavier slipped into the empty elevator and punched the number highest on the list, taking off his headphones. It's an ornate one, far more beautiful than the rest. Whoever built this must be a ass-kisser and a boot-licker, because every floor with one of the commissioners or a big shot on it had pretty elevator buttons. No matter. The elevator slammed shut, and Klavier felt the slightest urge to be claustrophobic. Klavier doesn't like cramped places either – not that he's ever going to admit it to anyone that he's anything less than your teenage girl's fantasy boyfriend.
Elevator went up, whizzing and buzzing and cranking softly. It's high, tech – cold, gray, steel. Then it stopped on the 12th floor, and Klavier peered out, thinking that someone had pressed the button to call for the elevator. But there was no one – in fact, the maw of the elevator gaped apart to reveal a completely empty floor, and before Klavier knew what he was doing, he stepped out onto the floor – more in wonder than anything else.
No one.
There's absolutely NO ONE.
The whole place was a ghost town – not even a single soul there. The cubicles, usually filled to the brim with people spilling off into the narrow walkway because there's always too little desks and too many detectives, were completely empty. If he wanted, Klavier could just commit burglary and robbery and rape or whatever he wanted here, because there's no one here at all. Stacks of paperwork were left like that, files grouped onto the tables and left in a tower. It's like some time in the midnight, death and pestilence had came on their horses and had whisked all the detectives away, leaving the husk of a police department behind.
Puzzled, Klavier checked his watch for the time and date. 10: 45, 8, April. Tuesday. Where is everyone?
"Ach, is this some kind of prank?"
The office is feeling sarcastic today. It answered him with a prank-aaank-aaaaank-aaaank -ing voice, like a baby trying to imitate his voice. Klavier shook his head. What in the world of all things...Where IS everybody? Disconcerted – and just that little bit panicky – he shook his head. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe Kazaf brought everyone out for ramen, or gave everyone a day off. Maybe Kristoph's condition is contagious. Whatever it was, he wanted to get out of here – this place is creeping him out, like a – like a – well there's no word in the English vocabulary more fitting than ghost town.
Klavier was, despite himself, creeped out. With another shake of his head, he decided he'll just pop by upstairs, see if Kazaf is around – which is very probable, seeing as the kid almost never goes out for investigations unless something amazingly huge is going on – and hand the bug over. If Kazaf isn't there, then fine. He'll just leave the bug there, and it can stay there and listen to the sound of absolute silence. Who knew silence can be a scarier non-sound than nails down a blackboard? Even the windows seem to be in on it, being sound-proof and all.
The elevator bounced apart the moment he punched the arrow again. No one's summoned, so it comes. Klavier stepped in, and replace his headphones, cranking them back up.
Monochrome City, you're my black and white,
You're a stripper on the sand, You're a no-man's land,
Klavier shivered.
The elevator whirl again, and the sound of it going up could be heard even with his headphones on. Silence is just that amazing. The elevator ding again, and this when it opened out into an empty hallway, Klavier wasn't quite surprise. He rounded the corner out of the elevator, and then he was in front of Kazaf's door, decorated with childish DO NOT CROSS banners the chief kidnapped from forensic's. He knocked, even though something was telling him that there was no one in there.
Maybe it's the fact that there's not a single sound.
Maybe it's the fact that even the computers weren't making any sounds.
Monochrome City, I'm your black and white,
I'm the finger in your paint, I'm the bringer of your rain,
Dammit. Someone answer me.
Growling, Klavier shoved the door apart, determined to tell Kazaf what the fuck he can do with himself. Was it funny, playing a prank like this on him? Because there's no way in heck they need this many people on the streets for Daryan and Machi alone. What were they going to do, throw a riot, or surround some drug warehouse?
But just like the rest of the building, there was no one in the place either. The only difference is that in Kazaf's room, some parts of the computer were on at least, and the buzzing sound made it sound like a massive high-bitrate band. But just like the rest of the building, it's been utterly deserted. Klavier stepped in, half expecting someone to jump out and go 'April's Fool!' at him. But...Nothing.
Has the world gone mad?
Klavier walked over to the window and peered down at the streets, just to make sure the world isn't dead. Outside, chrome reflecting sunlight glimmer at him mischievously, and he stepped back, releasing a breath he had no idea he had even held. Well, at least the world out there still exists - good to know, sergeant. Now, the alternative. Klavier raised a hand and pinched himself. Ow. Definitely hurt. So okay, he wasn't dreaming either – so what the fuck? Where is everyone? Is there some kind of mass operation and no one bothered telling him?
And they say the PD and the prosecutors are friends!
Walking over to Kazaf's desk, he was determined to just leave the bug here. Screw this guy anyway – it's like he runs the whole show and no one's going to know until it's too late to do anything. Klavier extracted the bug from his pocket and plonked it onto the table – right beside the coffee mug. He's done, and he's getting out of this dead-hole. In fact, Klavier had been turning around when he saw the sticky note stuck to the mug in yellow paper, the kind the PD used to remind people of stuff.
Intrigued, he snatched it up. The boy's handwriting. Sure enough. There was an explanation for the oddities written on it too, though it chilled his blood cold.
"N, if you return – 1st, 2nd, and all dicks coming with me. Reeling the goldfish in."
Oh holy mother of God.
"Kristoph!" Apollo yelled in the living room.
"Whatever it is, it wasn't me!" He called back from his bedroom, the shut door muffling his voice. Apollo laughed, and knocked on the door.
"Not even breakfast?"
"Mmm. Well, maybe that."
"Come on out then, or you'll be having your leftover burnt toast from yesterday."
Apollo chuckled and place the box of old books in front of Kristoph's door. He had ordered Apollo to retrieve all his old reading material if his life depended on it, so Apollo had dug about in the storeroom all morning to restore Kristoph's books. They were all old, dusty tomes - collector edition leather-bound stuff that wouldn't surprise Apollo if it yielded black magic and voodoo curses instead of Socrates and Philosophy.
He wandered off back to the kitchen, where the soup he had (endeavoured) to make was simmering nicely. Borsch soup for the win. Just cut everything, throw everything in, and stick it on the stove. Whether it's edible or not remains another story – but at least it wouldn't be canned food anymore. These days Apollo's antennas would shudder at the mention of canned soup or any other kind of instant food. One whole month of Campbell's is enough to drive anyone to assault.
"OW!"
Humming softly, he emptied half a bowl of cabbage into it for uh, taste. The soup nearly boiled over and spilled out. Apollo quickly dabbed at the spilled soup with a cloth. Never mind, it's all for taste.
"What is it? Did you stub your toe on the corner again?"
"No! Justice, why do you keep putting things in front of my door? Has it ever occur to you that someone might be injured over this?" His mentor could be heard grumbling all the way down the hall. Apollo smirked.
"Maybe you should look at the floor when you walk then!"
"I wouldn't need to if you practice safety measures!"
Well, what can he say to that? Apollo resolved this by stirring the soup. He made a grab for the tomato sauce, but to his dismay, it was empty. Damn. But the soup doesn't look anything tomato-ish! He resolved this with stunning simplicity too, emptying tomato puree over it and stirring it to dissolve it into the water.
Kristoph stumbled into the kitchen, massaging his toe and looking bone-tired. The guy's probably been up all night again, doing Apollo's paperwork. That or maybe painting his nails thoroughly? Workaholic alright, that one. He yawned.
"My, what an intriguing smell. What's for breakfast?" He peered over Apollo's shoulder. "That ah...Certainly looks interesting."
"If by interesting, you mean, the end product of a food chain, yeah," Apollo commented sarcastically. Even he realized that if he is to make it to work before twelve today, their breakfast is going to be canned. Again. He stirred the soup gloomily in an attempt to salvage it and grumbled. Kristoph, after sniffing the air twice, left for the living room to watch more television.
It was almost five minutes of continuously stirring and zoning out and dreaming of Klavier later that the phone rang. Apollo was so surprised that he dropped the ladle (daydreaming and cooking doesn't go hand in hand) and scalding his hand.
"Crap."
"Hmm?" Kristoph turned his head over the armchair to look over at the kitchen. "Something's wrong? The phone's ringing by the way."
"I'm fine!" He shouted back, nursing his hand. God, he can be such a girl sometimes. He stuffed the lid over the soup, turned the temperature to low and hopped off to the living room to pick up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Apollo!"
"Eh. Klavier?" It was unmistakeably Klavier's voice shouting through the other end of the phone.
"Ach, ja it's-- Never mind! Listen Apollo, get Kristoph out of there!"
"Wha- What? Are you crazy, Klavier? Someone will see him!"
"Someone is going to see him either way – just stop talking and ship him out of there!"
"Why?" Apollo asked, exasperated. When Klavier's excited, he's like an irate child on a day for festivities.
"The police!" He shrieked back. "The whole place's gone down to get Kristoph!"
"The whole force? Are you feverish, Gavin? They wouldn't--"
"I'm in the PD right NOW!" Klavier roared. "And they're all gone – heading there, maybe already there! Will you just shut up and get my brother out of the place!?"
"But that's..." Apollo just stared at the opposite wall, stunned. But that's impossible. The police have sirens, don't they? And there hasn't been a single sound out of the ordinary...
"Something's wrong?" Kristoph asked, looking vaguely concerned. Slowly, like a man waking from a dream into a nightmare, Apollo started walking mechanically towards the window and pull up the blinds.
"Oh, Lord."
The phone clattered to the ground.
People. All around. People. Everywhere. Some in uniforms. Some in normal clothes. But they were people. And they were the police. The cars don't lie, nor do the siren lights, rotating quietly around and around like an eye that every roves. It was as if the whole PD had been overturned and emptied out and everyone was just standing...There. The state-issued vehicles lined the area in what was unmistakeably a road block. Some areas were opened, but for argument's sake, the whole place was surrounded. What places were gaping of people, they were filled by police cars. Police bikes.
How many cops were out there?
There had to be more than a hundred at least. The fucking brat must have dragged every Tom, Dick and Harry out of the precinct and into their apartment block. If nothing more than to act as a human shield. Kristoph's sharp intake of breath broke him out of his reverie, and he looked at him, swallowing.
"What are we going to do?" He croaked.
"I-I don't...I don't know." Kristoph's face was mirroring his shock – and it was one of the rare moments where Kristoph actually admitted to being clueless. Few would admit that fact easily, but then again, few had been privileged to have so many police knocking on their doorsteps like this.
Slowly, Apollo sank down and picked up the phone, still connected. Kristoph collapsed against the window, breathing heavily and clouding the glass.
"...Klavier?" He croaked into the phone.
"There you are! What's wrong?"
"They're here." Apollo whispered, like he was confessing to some great and shameful sin to a pastor. "They're here, Klavier. They're all over the place – Oh God, they're everywhere. What are we going to do, Klavier?"
"I – I don't...Is there a way out of the place?"
Apollo returned to the window, but as far as he could see, the whole front of the building was surrounded. Heavily clustered, the police formed a chain around the area. Cursing, Apollo rushed to the study and tore out into the balcony, looking at the pine park. Here the police were sparse and lesser – but they were still there. A few were lurking around, a few were looking into the park. Everywhere. They're everywhere, and he told Klavier that.
"Dammit! That little brat--"
"Oh God." He returned to the living room, but Kristoph had already sank into one of the armchair, nothing of note except for a fellow stunned face to take comfort in. "Oh God." Apollo repeated, feeling inexplicably like bursting into tears. All he had to think of was the whole CIRCLE of humans out there, and he got all jittery. Is this what a rat feels like when it's been trapped in the mouse trap? Is this what a dry man walking through a dead desert feels like?
"What are we going to do, Klavier!?" He screamed into the phone, just wishing for heck that some golden light will shine down and say – Escape, 60 KM west.
"I don't know!" Klavier shouted back.
"Well, think of something!"
"I don't know! I don't know, dammit!"
Apollo leaned against the door frame and closed his eyes. Nothing is going to come out of shouting blindly at Klavier, but it made him feel better. He drew a long, suffering breath to calm himself – and felt the receiver belting a husky sound as Klavier sighed on his end too.
"I...Is this a bad dream, Klavier?" He asked quietly.
"I sure wish it was." Came the equally quiet reply. Apollo was going to open his mouth again to ask Klavier to please, just please – think of something – when a loud pound came from the doorway--
"DELIVERY SERVICE!" A voice yelled. Apollo seized up, and then suddenly adrenaline – which had until now stayed somewhere in his brain as it refused to come out of it's hiding place – surged forward until it filled his whole head with a pounding dizziness. Suddenly he had to do something - something something anything - or he would explode into an Apollo mess.
"Klavier," He snapped authoritatively.
"Yes?" Klavier sounded as dizzy as he did.
"Get over here now."
"But I'm not going to make it in time--"
"Never mind that, just get over here!"
"Ja, ja--"
That was all the reply he needed. Apollo dropped the phone onto the ground and calmly, mechanically, started walking towards the door. Someone was pounding on it – maybe two people – and even though he had placed enough locks on it to put a jail to shame, they weren't going to last forever and Kristoph is just standing in the living room, standing, not doing anything, but they would have to do something.
He can't allow Kristoph to be arrested. They would send him back and then he'll be--
Apollo flexed his hands.
"Go." He ordered.
"Go...?" Kristoph wasn't complying – just standing there and looking at the back of Apollo's head like he was a fool – or maybe he was. But fool or not, he just had to do something.
"GO!" Apollo roared. "Take the keys, take the money and GO! Use the balcony – just go!"
"Are you crazy?" Kristoph shouted back.
"I'm not being crazy - I'm being logical - you have to go!"
"They're going to arrest you!"
"I DON'T CARE! GO! GO!" He placed both hands on Kristoph and shoved for all he's worth, sending Kristoph careening into a chair. "Use the pine park, there are lesser cops there - Just go!"
Kristoph's eyes snapped to his, and for a moment, there was a thread of understanding that preceded all natural understanding. It just clicked, for a moment or two – and whatever it was, at least it got the point across, because a moment later Kristoph climbed up from the floor – and Apollo could see that he understood that it wasn't whether or not they would get away with this, but that they have to try, at least try, at least do something, anything. They can't just stand there and wait for them to come in and take Kristoph away – because that would be like giving up, like admitting that the time they had was so worthless that it wasn't at least worth a shot for.
"Go." He said quietly. Then Kristoph burst into motion too, and headed for the study, his steps quick but determined, breaking rapidly into a run. Apollo took one last look of Kristoph's disappearing figure, and then he turned back around to face the door. What Kristoph does, whether he'll get away – that was his problem now. They're operating on two different teams, each man for his own – and his job, Apollo's job was to delay these assholes long enough for Kristoph to get away, and maybe until Klavier comes because even though Klavier can't help them, at least it was a thought, something to cling onto like a dying thread.
Apollo stared at the door.
Delay.
Delay tactics.
What can he do to delay them?
Another pound on the door, and this time it was unmistakeably the voice of that idiot brat who's always lurking behind people's demise.
"Dammit! Will you open the door already? It's pointless to hide!" When no answer came, the frustrated voice turned into a scream.
Delay tactics.
He's a lawyer dammit.
He's a pro in delaying.
"Fine! Play that game!" The voice came again. "Alright, if you want it that way – break it down! Break the damned door down!"
A plan clicked into shape in Apollo's head.
Delaying tactics.
He smirked.
Kristoph grabbed the keys off the table like it was an offensive organ that needed to be pulled out of the table. With one hand, he pocketed the keys, and with the other, he swiped at Apollo's wallet. That was all – that was all he needed to get out of here – that and the handgun he had taken from the prison, the one that had at least a couple more clips in it – or at least, for a decent attempt. Down and out in the hallway, the incessant pounding on the door could be heard, and Kristoph swore. He was really going to have to do this – leave this place – leave the very thing that he had broken out of prison for.
Is there even a point in escaping if it meant that he couldn't come back here? There's no reason-- Except they had to try anyway. It's like a point of honour – they just had to do it because. Just because – no other reason. With an angry hiss, Kristoph stalked over to the file cabinet. He had a limited amount of time, yet he couldn't resist just taking something with him. Kristoph rummaged around the cabinet until he got what he wanted - the photo album stuck behind the cabinet that housed all the photos Klavier and Apollo had taken from their camping trip.
He swiped one with the three of them in it, and pocketing it, he took a deep breath. He's ready.
"FINE, PLAY THAT GAME!"
Kristoph tore apart the curtain that blocked off the balcony, and looked over the edge, ignoring the feeling of vertigo that blossomed. Apollo had swore earlier when he was checking the balcony – and Kristoph could see why. Even here, there were police officer milling about down there – all of them lined up and looking around the place like sentries. Obviously though, someone had been remiss in informing where the actual criminal was, because not one – not one of them – was looking up, like they would be doing if Kazaf had told them where exactly he was.
For once, that stupid brat's paranoid nature actually worked in his favour – he must have thought that they would be too busy looking upwards to do good patrolling if he told them where Kristoph was actually. Smiling, Kristoph bent himself over the edge until he was just a little distance away from plunging to his death twenty one feet below. But adrenaline provided all the fearless formula a person need, and he managed to hang over well enough to see the floor below. Did he mention? Every apartment in Aurum had it's own balcony.
Kristoph took a deep breath, and steadying himself to make sure he doesn't suffer a bout of dizziness in the last minute, he started climbing over the edge. First he swung both legs around the edge. Then sitting on the railing, he hooked his arms around the railing instead and slowly, slowly lowered his legs until they could almost scrap by the railing of the lower floor balcony. Kristoph was tall enough to just about manage to reach the lower balcony – or even if he can't, he would survive the fall. Provided of course, he doesn't plunge right over the edge and fall to his death below.
And that would be too inelegant a way to die, wouldn't it?
He had almost managed to anchor one of his foot onto the lower railing by taking one arm off to lean his body towards that foot, but the strain proved too much for his lone arm. With a small muffled scream the arm lost it's hold on the railing, and his hold body swung downwards like a sack – and for a moment Kristoph fancied he saw himself falling all the way down and impaling himself on the fence a million miles away below – before reflexes kick in and he scrambled wildly for a foothold or a handle or whatever that he could use to save himself from a miserable death. Struggling and thrashing like a dying fish.
He managed to grab onto the railing of the balcony on the next floor by a margin of a few fingers, but now his entire body was hanging off the edge of the railing – anchored only by a few fingers.
Kristoph had no idea how long he stayed there – both from shock and pain – hanging from someone else's balcony with one hand while the muscle in his shoulder scream their protest with the language of pain. Time is ethereal when you're THIS close, THIS close to dying. It's like everything just stops and freezes and speed up all at once until the only thing that you're really seeing, really hearing is actually your own breathing. Kristoph stayed that way – hanging off a sweating, numbing hand and breathing heavily – for God knows how long before it dimly registered in his head that this can't go on forever.
His arm is already feeling numb and sore, and in a minute it'll give way completely. Maybe in another day, another time, Kristoph could manage longer, but he isn't the Kristoph Gavin that had moved to L.A with Apollo anymore. The new and devolved version of him hadn't eaten for a whole day – had barfed out everything that he had eaten - and he looks like the very thing he barfed out. He wouldn't even win a marathon against a mid-schooler, much less hang off someone's balcony like Spiderman.
Gritting and gnashing his teeth until he felt like they were being grounded to dust, he managed to summon enough motivation and brain-created morphine to throw the other hand upwards and grabbed onto the railing. Instead of anchoring him however, it just threw him off-balance, and for a perilous moment, he swung back and forth like a pendulum. Then it was over, and with everything left in him – which wasn't much but he had to do it anyway because Apollo had ordered him to and that was really the only thing keeping him from just giving up and falling over the edge – he pulled himself upwards.
He pressed down on one hand until it felt like breaking, then using it to lever himself, dragged the other one up until he managed to hook the arm across the railing. From then on it was much easier, and Kristoph's limp self collapsed into the balcony a minute later, panting and shaking like a dog someone had rescued from the Thames.
He felt like death itself.
Kristoph lied down and stared up at the balcony of the above floor – their balcony. The balcony of his and Apollo's apartment. He took off his glasses and wiped at his face, wincing where the rubber supports, cloaked in sweat, had rubbed the skin raw. Somewhere, somewhere in his mind that had went completely off the hook, noted solemnly that the underside of their balcony is very dirty, and he had better tell Apollo to clean it up later.
Then the thought was replaced by another observation – that if their neighbour who lived on this floor is around, then Kristoph would be caught anyway, and his effort would have been for nothing. But then he would be able to face Apollo – would be able to tell him that 'Sorry, I've tried, really I have. But I failed.' A sorry statement, but it would have to do. He waited for a moment, then another, for someone to come out and scream at him. But no one came, and no noise was made, and eventually Kristoph allowed himself to believe that maybe it was vacated or the person was out.
Kristoph still made no move however, despite it being less than a quarter way through. He stared at the underside of the balcony, sucking in deep gales of breath to calm himself down.
He wondered what Apollo was doing.
There's a storage in their house.
A storage for everything crappy and redundant and useless, where they dump everything they don't want and don't need. This is the place where stuff left over goes to, along with their laundry because it's their laundry room – but today Apollo isn't interested in things like clean linen and fresh crisp shirt. What he's interested in is the shelves tacked onto the wall, a row of abandoned stuff like dried and caked paint cans and brushes from that time Kristoph made him repaint the wall and at the end of it...A can of petrol, spare fuel for the camping trip.
Apollo reached up and grabbed the can, shaking it lightly to make sure it was still full and no one drank it or something. Then in a split-second decision, he grabbed a whole armful of laundry from the basket, not even bothering to check what the hell he was carrying with him. If they both survived this, Kristoph is going to be one hell of pissed to find his coats crinkled and crumpled and God knows what – but chances are? It's slim.
The life they had is gone, it's all going to change – but that doesn't mean he's going to take it lying down. He tucked the can under one arm, the laundry under another, a large dry towel flung over his shoulder, and he was done, stomping down towards the kitchen with his supplies. Midget's men were still at it, banging the door – but Apollo had stuck so many locks onto the door - even chain-locks – that short of just shooting the door, nothing's going to get pass it. Thank goodness Kristoph's a dickhead enough to want the finest wood for a door.
And of course Midget won't allow his men to shoot the door in case it hits someone standing behind it...Not unless he's pushed too far anyway.
Apollo threw the towel into the sink and turned the tap to maximum. Cold water drenched the towel. When he was satisfied, Apollo dragged the towel - now heavy and thoroughly soaked with chilly water, along with a long kitchen knife – with him towards the door. He dropped the towel and the knife by the hallway, careful not to soak the other laundry with it, and it immediately dropped into a heavy heap, soaking the floorboards.
"Come on! Are those muscle for show or something? Why is it taking so long!?"
The door was in between them. But the voice was unmistakeably Midget's. Not that Apollo was a big fan of the kid, but he's seen him enough on TV and from Shadi Smith that he could recognize his voice. Who else in the PD has that stupid kind of voice anyway? Not anyone he's seen for sure.
Methodically, Apollo took the pieces of laundry and scattered them all around the door – his mind on greater things that were far more complicated than this. He had heard Kristoph screamed earlier, and now he was a little worried if he was okay, or if he broke something. Apollo guessed that he might have gone down to the lower floors, maybe using something like a rope or a string or just the curtains or something. There was a nagging doubt seated deep in his mind that Kristoph might have fallen and lying a hundred feet below, in an unidentifiable mess – but he pushed it away.
He would have heard something. A blood curdling scream perhaps. No, Kristoph had to be alright, or all this would be for naught.
Once the pieces of laundry – his shirts and pants and Kristoph's stuff – were laid out on the floor against the door satisfactorily, Apollo went to get the can of petrol with a sick smile on his face. Maybe Kristoph's disease is contagious, or he's going mad too. No matter, all that's important for now is that Kristoph gets away. He didn't care how, didn't care why – as long as Kristoph got away – and the only thing he wouldn't do for that to happen was...Nothing. Maybe stab Klavier, but that was the only thing he would hesitate on.
Stonily, Apollo uncapped the petrol and raised it to the top of the door. Then he tipped it forwards, and watched as the yellowish substance trickled slowly from above the door, it's surface reflective and making it look blue and pink and all the colours of the rainbow all at once. In fact, at the moment, petrol looked like the most beautiful thing in the world – iridescent, ethereal, as gorgeous as a rainbow.
Apollo snorted.
Guess the disease must be contagious.
He watched as the heavy substance rolled down, like unnaturally heavy droplets of rain. Trickling and oiling the surface of the wood, then all the way down and into Apollo's shirts, soaking it, making it yellow, making it smell, making it BURNABLE. Oh yes, it's like science class all over again. What's the word Ema uses? Combustible? That's right. Combustible.
The smell of petrol filled his nose, sweet smelling and painful at the same time – and he was actually kind of surprised that the people outside hadn't recognized it right away. Maybe the wood is thicker than he thought then, but no matter what, it'll travel through eventually. He had to act faster.
Before long, the laundry was thoroughly soaked, along with the door. He was starting to get a hang of the beat the police outside work on. One – maybe two – guys are ramming against the door. It's solid. But it's not going to take anymore. It's periodic, and it takes about half a minute for them to gather back their momentum and their breath, half a minute before they ram in again. He must not start his little bonfire while they run into the door, because that will be murder. And because they are not what he's after.
"Jeez. You would think a person who has guts to break out of prison wouldn't be so chicken! Sore loser!"
He was done.
Apollo wrapped the heavy towel around himself, and flicked the lighter on, removing the kitchen knife from the floor and tucking it firmly in the loop of his belt. Inefficient, but he isn't out there to stab someone either.
One two three.
Bang.
That's the door. Let's do it again. The beat has to be perfect.
One two three.
One two three.
Bang.
One two three.
One two three.
Bang.
One two three.
One two three.
Burn.
Apollo threw the lighter into the laundry and the whole door exploded into flames.
Eventually, Kristoph had to pull himself together. If it was up to him, he'd rather be upstairs, sipping tea with Apollo and enjoying their last moments kissing each other on both cheeks and gossiping about the weather. But it is not up to him to decide. If everything was up to him to decide, then there would never have been a heist like this in the first place. Nor would he escape, because frankly, there is no place for him to go to. Even if by some miracle he manages to get out of this place, even if Lady Luck decides to shine down on him once and for all, there's nowhere for Kristoph to go. There's nowhere he WANTED to go.
But Apollo had asked him to leave and...He understood why. One last try, whatever it yields.
Kristoph climbed up from the ground and peered into the living room of the apartment. This one is structured differently from theirs, and instead of leading into the study, it leads right into an enlarged living room. He stood there, putting one hand against the still slightly damp window – from morning mist – and looked for signs of life. But nothing. No one appeared. Whoever lives here is temporarily or permanently out – a point in his favour at least.
Now, to even get in there.
Kristoph yanked at the glass window, but it was locked, and it wouldn't slide. Predictable, Kristoph spat. Now this presents a dilemma – how on Earth is he going to even get into the apartment? The next stage of his plan – if it's even formed enough to be called a plan at all – relied on getting into this apartment. Admittedly, he could just climb over the edge and do it all over again, but the thought made his knees weak. One time is enough. Kristoph will never look at a balcony the same way again.
Besides, how many apartments are you going to have to go before you find an unlocked AND vacated one? He'll be caught before long. So instead, he resolved by looking at the wall of glass, up and down, scouring the area for something that he could use, or a plan that he could carry out to get himself in. But...Nothing.
He could shoot the glass, he supposed. But he's carrying a handgun with him, and the thing isn't going to make more than loud cracking noises and embed itself on the thick glass. Even if he had the sawed-off he had given Daryan, he highly doubted it's going to work anyway. If the glass breaks, the sound will be loud enough for anyone within a mile that's not a moron to catch on to what he's doing. No...His eyes trailed down to the small lock-latch...He needed another way.
Alright, let's take five and review what we know about guns. Kristoph had watch enough action movies with Apollo in an attempt to 'manly' themselves up (It obviously did not work.) that he's seen the whole shooting-open-locks routine more times than tasteful for a human being. Of course, that's a myth. The only thing that will blow open a padlock is a shotgun. Not even a rifle. A rifle might put a couple of new holes in a thick enough padlock, but it wouldn't BLOW it apart, per se. You'll still have to yank at it until it gives way.
And let's just say a handgun is a lot smaller than a rifle, alright?
But...He stared at the latch. Window latches aren't made for sharpshooting action – we're not talking the windows of The Pentagon here. We're talking about glass panels. The thing might extend until it's the size of a wall, but it still isn't meant for burglars with guns. Even the glass isn't the patterned kind – which is usually thicker than your average glass. And as for the lock, it's meant to keep the slider window latched shut, not to keep your money in the bank. Minimum security, to put it bluntly.
Kristoph sighed as he contemplated the lock. He supposed it wasn't so farfetched that he might be able to penetrate the lock enough to disable it, but it still wouldn't solve the problem of the sound. The bloody sound. If he knew it would come to this, he would have taken another shotgun with him – maybe a double barreled one or at least a silencer. He deliberated over this for a long moment before he managed to formulate a half decent plan.
Thank goodness they were twenty floors off the ground.
With yet another world-weary sigh, he removed his coat – but the moment he did, adrenaline came back and he admitted he was just a little excited. Law was nice and all, but it sure hadn't come in a package deal with shooting and running and dodging the police like this. But just the fact that he could shows that humans are all programmed to function with or without adversity anyway – and his heart was pounding a little as he shrugged out of the coat and straightened it out.
He took one last look at the lock.
Well, you never know until you try right? And what had he to lose? Everything he had is up there, being arrested by Devereux.
Kristoph wrapped the coat around the barrel of the gun, making sure he doesn't block the circulation of the bullet itself. Then he pressed the gun firmly against the lock until it was at point blank range, and twisted the coat around and around it until it looked like a ridiculous mummified cocoon. He took a deep breath to prepare himself, then leaned his entire body weight against the glass to push the thick fabric until it covered the entire relevant surface and just...Pulled the trigger.
It was almost anticlimactic.
There was a sound, maybe two – and there were tiny bits of what look like shrapnel or crap metal flying from the lock and into the apartment and OUT of the apartment towards him, which seems to defy logic, and then there's a loud cracking sound that the cloth couldn't muffled and for a moment he thought 'Ah goodness me, it hadn't worked,' and he twisted his head around half expecting someone to go STOP at him. But then no one came and he realized that twenty feet below, it would sound like someone had just dropped a pot or a pan or whatever, and it made no lasting impressions on a bunch of officers busy gossiping about the operation in general.
Then it was 'Hmm, I wonder if it worked,' and he removed the coat, now slightly soiled with the smell of gunpowder or whatever it is that slightly bitter smell is, to look at the lock. It doesn't look much different that it had a moment ago – there wasn't a clean hole through it or anything. But bits of it had indeed been shot off, and parts of it dangled miserably over the actual lock itself. Taking a deep breath to calm himself – because he thought his heart would burst with the anticipation – Kristoph curled his fingers around the groove and pulled at it.
It doesn't budge.
Frustrated, Kristoph yanked angrily at it. Once, twice, then like an obedient puppy that knew it's been beaten, the whole glass door slid apart when he gave it a particularly furious yank.
Then it was over, and he was in – in the apartment, and Kristoph had no idea if he should jump and cheer or be daunted by the fact that there was still a long way to go and no clear goal in sight. It still changed nothing, not the fact that there's a circle of police out there, nor the fact that Apollo is up there, probably being arrested or God knows what. But a calm had settled onto Kristoph, and he's determined to carry this out, see it through the end. He rummaged around the house until he found a set of spare keys on the (Why do people use these things?) keyholder – and armed with it, left the place.
From there on, it was calm. At least, as calm as being in the middle of a building surrounded by officers could get – but he was surprised that not more people had reacted. Certainly, it was still early – people from these apartment blocks usually don't rise until it's twelve in the afternoon and they have their first appointment with the pedicurist for the day or something – but he would have expected more people to be out right now, yelling about the circle of men.
Well, no matter.
Who is he to block the flow of information - to hide things from them?
Kristoph smirked and took the elevator down – all the way to the apartment lobby where a few people were milling, shooting dissatisfied glances at the officers outside. Ignoring them, Kristoph turned instead to the back of the lobby, where there was a janitor's closet and painted in a lovely hue of red... the fire alarm.
Kazaf, Kazaf. Maybe the boy should stop underestimating other people – as well as the power of the human race in numbers. Kristoph hadn't broke out of the prison waving an RPG like a terrorist – he had used the power of humans, and his own ability to form situations that manipulate them – as he would do now. A twisted smile curled around his lips as he heard the voices going at it again, telling him that, 'Really, Kristoph – must you?'
Oh, I must.
Apollo told me to.
He broke the glass and pressed the switch. Kazaf had emptied his whole PD of detectives, now Kristoph would return the favour in kind.
Let's see what an old-school prank would do, hmm?
BURNING BURNING BURNING
BURNING BURNING BURNING
The red and orange of the petrol going up in flames had reminded Apollo of someone's kindergarten picture – a childish swirl of paint that spelled one thing and one thing alone – I MUST NOT – as it bask him with amazing heat, more heat than he had ever felt in his life, more heat than he had thought was possible. The pores on his face screamed in protest as they attempt to ventilate him fast enough to stop him from burning up too, and his skin simply curdled in the face of the heat – like a potato that you hold trophy over a stove until the skin blackens and wrinkles and drags itself backwards and curdles.
He MUST NOT. He must now allow them into the apartment – and realize that Kristoph had disappeared, nor must he allow the Midget to regain his footing in this game. HE MUST NOT.
Tightening his hold around the towel, he squeezed his eyes shut and thought of Klavier and Kristoph – in case this doesn't work out and he's trapped in the fire he started himself – and then he threw himself headfirst into the burning doorway, the towel tugged above his head and wrapped around him, soaking wet and drying even as he crashed through the weakened door and right before he closed his eyes he sees it flying out of his way thanks to the detectives weakening the hinges and then he was---
BURNING BURNING BURNING
Apollo was going up in flames – the fire was burning him and killing him and mutilating him and the heat was unbearable. How is it possible that something you use to cook with can cause so much pain and so much heat at the same time? How is it that something cavemen can play with, that they can make with sticks – how can something like that HURT SO BAD? Is this what food feels like when you cook it – is it even possible for something to be that hot and painful and –
BURNING BURNING BURNING
The towel edges were blackening and the heavy water dragging down is the only thing stopping Apollo from going up in flames like a roast, not that he could see because - SOMEONE HELP HIM - why had he thought of such a ridiculous and dumb idea in the first place - can't be more than a minute because he would be dead if he's been in here more than a minute but it's like hell, because you can feel a million sensations in the same time when the sensation is pain--
BURNING BURNING BURNING
With a scream – the kind of scream that makes your toes curl onto the ground, and makes you raise your fingers to bite in your mouth to stop yourself from returning the scream in question – Apollo heaved himself through the doorway like an amateur circus performer that thought it was a good idea to jump into burning wreckage. He fell through the fire, his hands outstretched to anchor onto something, anything – to carry out his plan – but mostly because he just wanted to GET THROUGH IT.
Another scream joined his – a spontaneous scream that wasn't as scary as his but definitely scared – as he wrapped his arms around the first person he anchored himself onto – and when Apollo finally pried his eyes open, the eyes that had been firmly shut all through the process and he could see, he could see – he wasn't blind, fire hadn't killed him or taken his face off and that is something worth celebrating. His eyelashes, the ones that seemed to have burned off - had stuck onto his eyelid like melted mascara, and he had to prrrry it apart. But they opened anyway. He was okay.
Apollo dragged in a ragged breath to stop himself from collapsing. He breathed in, breathed in deeply so that the air will go into him and fill up the empty space and prop him up. Then he smiled as he realized the person screaming in his arms is who he had set out for – that despite the fact that he felt like a roasted newt, he got what he threw himself into the fire for.
"Devereux, maybe you should stop that," He breathed into the boy's ear.
"LET GO OF ME!" He roared back. Then at the officers stationed in the hallway – "What are you waiting for!? SHOOT HIM!"
Apollo twisted one arm around his windpipe to choke him off, and with the other, he retrieved the knife on his belt – the metal still warm to the touch – and calmly, placed it in front of his throat.
"Just go ahead – I'll take your throat with me to hell." He said, calmly - yes calmly, because every shred of fear he had had been replaced with a deadly calm - the kind people suffer right before they throw themselves off a very tall cliff. Oh, if only Trucy could see him now she would hesitate to admit he's her brother – his shirt is wet from the towel, his sleeves had burned off in the process. The skin on his hand looks like a lobster's. He looked like those things that always climb out of a hole in movies.
Not that he was crazy or anything. Au contraire - it's a logical, lawyerly, plan. If he had opened the door, they would have rushed in. If he had opened the door, he wouldn't be able to get his hands on the Midget fast enough before they shot him dead. An element of surprise, a piece of forged evidence, an unquantifiable factor is needed – and for that he set his own home on fire.
"You wouldn't," Kazaf spat at him. "Like you would do that – you goody-two-shoes."
Apollo pressed the blade against his skin. "That's what they said before Kristoph brained someone with a bottle too." He sneered, dragging his hostage back with him. The officers all had their guns out, but they were clearly hesitant to use it – not with the chief wrapped around like that with a knife stuck around his throat and a convicted madman's spawn holding it. Apollo dragged the kid with him backwards, and the officers moved with him, towards him, away from the door.
Good. That is good.
Is he the same person who had blushed and stammered when he confessed his love for Klavier twenty-four hours ago?
No? You don't think so?
He doesn't think so either.
"What are you, Justice – stupid? You're going to stand out here forever with a knife stuck on my throat?" Devereux sneered. "There's nowhere for him to go – nowhere for him to run – especially since you just burned down your own fucking door."
Apollo dragged him all the way until the end of the hallway, where a small window was for ventilation in the closed hallway. He looked out at the circle of humans, and commented dryly.
"My, I believe you are right."
His breathing's still heavy, still ragged, but it's calming down now.
Calm. Calm. Calm.
Because if he doesn't force himself to calm down, Apollo would explode into a nerveless puddle – but Kristoph, if he was indeed out – he had to be heading out now, and Apollo had to stop them from catching onto the plot. Apollo had no idea how his mentor is going to pull off breaking the human shields, but he supposed Kristoph would have a way. Kristoph will always have a way, just like anyone will when you push them hard enough. Apocalypse movies about people going into extraordinarily lengths when faced with calamity...Apollo had always scoffed at those. About cowards and chickens who turned into heroes at the sign of adversity – they had seemed so farfetched. But now he understood, if only just a little. Humans aren't to be underestimated.
"Can you call off your guys down there?" Apollo asked him.
"Hah!" The midget let out a bark of harsh laughter. "Oh right, if you want to be shot dead, that is. If they all find out you're holding me hostage, someone is going snip your head off through that window, Tomato – bet on it."
Apollo shrugged noncommittally. He rather doubted it would be as easy as that anyway – if their life is a story written by someone, then the author is a perverted mistress indeed. No, Kristoph would find his own way to get away...Apollo believed in him.
"Okay," He allowed, and dragging the midget with him, collapsed against a wall. The hand curled around the boy's neck accidentally pressed down, and Kazaf croaked.
"Sorry," Apollo mumbled, relaxing his grip.
"Sorry enough to let go of me?" He shot back sarcastically.
"No."
A long moment passed as standstill came – the detectives standing there with their guns pointing at him but not moving, like macabre wax sculptures – and Apollo not inclined to move.
Suddenly, the sprinklers overhead burst into motion, covering them in a shower – an abrupt thunderstorm. The sound of the fire alarm pierced the air as it rang off it's socks, drowning out any possible discussions they could have held.
"Oh look at that!" Devereux shouted. "Just look at that! Now you've set off the alarm!"
Apollo looked disconcerted. He was pretty sure the fire sensors on his floor had died a long time ago, because he remembered Kristoph filing a complaint to the apartment administration about it but it was never fixed. He held his tongue though – stranger things had happened than this. Perhaps the one on the floor below is reacting to the fire.
Apollo watched as the sprinklers got to work and--
"Fuck." The both of them said simultaneously.
"Dude! What the hell did you use to start the fire!?"
"Oil!"
"Dammit! Water and oil! It'll spread it faster!"
"Well, don't just stand there then! Get your men to put it out!"
"With what!? Spit on it!?"
"Extinguisher! Over there!" Apollo almost raised his arm to point before stopping himself at the last moment before he accidentally let go of the boy. He just wasn't cut out for this kind of action, for God's sake – he just isn't criminal material. Apollo belongs in an office, behind a desk - not waving knives at people and threatening homicide. "There's one down the hallway, near the elevator." He said.
The men never moved, looking questioningly at the kid.
"Go." He ordered. One of them hurried pass Apollo with his hostage and removed the extinguisher.
"Is it even the suitable kind?" He asked Apollo worriedly. "Because I don't really need arson in addition to my existing crimes."
Apollo quirked a shaky smile. "Don't worry, you can chalk it up to me once this is over."
"Hmph."
The both of them watched as the white foamy material sprayed all over the fire, quickly settling onto it and putting it out. Once he was done, the detective allowed the extinguisher to stand beside the doorway as he peered into it, scowling.
Apollo's heart skipped a beat. If he told Kazaf that there's no one visible in there...
But the man said nothing after examining the length of the knife he held against his throat, and Apollo breathed a sigh of relief. If Kazaf realized what game he was playing at – it's all over. For now, the kid still hasn't caught on – still thinking that Kristoph is in there and Apollo's just playing childish games and playing for time.
"Can you let me go NOW?" He whined loudly. "It's pointless – and besides, I'm hungry."
"Hold it," Apollo said simply. Who knew court vocabulary is so versatile?
He dragged the kid until he could see through the window, and watched as people started pouring out of the building by the dozens. Watched as confusion seeped into the crowd as they realized that the entire place was closed off by cars and police officers here for official looking business. They weren't panicking – as least not yet – but Apollo was confident that Kristoph would find some way to work things out.
Apollo looked back at the group of officers.
Well, let's see how long he could buy here.
Kristoph hadn't been the first to run out of the apartments, and he hadn't been the first to shout. Nor had he been the first to actively discuss the situation with his immediate neighbours. What he had done instead was to be the first to realize that there was smoke billowing out of the twenty-first floor window. He had counted the windows and ledges and balconies one by one until he arrived on that number, and then again, and again. But no matter how many times he counted, it always ended up on the one number he wished it would steer clear of – number twenty one.
Something's burning in their house.
Because theirs is the penthouse, and no one else lives on that whole bloody floor – and if anything is on fire, then it'll be an anything that belongs to them. The thought was almost enough to make Kristoph turn back and dial the elevator back to 21, and turn himself in – just to know what's happening, just to know if Apollo is okay.
But no, Apollo had said no. And Kristoph wouldn't want to risk making Apollo angry after all. Something in his mind nagged him vaguely, telling him that if he went ahead and leave this place now, he'll never be able to see Apollo again. Then something else nagged back, and told him that if turned back in now, sure he would see Apollo – but Apollo would be angry at him. And that's a big no-no in Kristoph's book right now.
So instead he turned back to catch the strain of conversation between a man and a police officer.
"--I just want to know why you guys are here like this!"
"Please calm down sir, everything is alright."
"Don't give me that answer! You know nothing is ever alright when the police says that!"
"There is nothing wrong, it's only a small fire...."
Beside him, a woman was scowling at her husband. The husband looked half asleep and completely unconcerned – just the opposite of her. She was Type A alright – the kind that in a few short hours, will be standing beside her husband as he go through the notes she prepared for him, and recite in alphabetical order what she just told him. Then she'll make coffee in the next room and sip it in precise dividends of 8 seconds while her husband meets up with the client, and when her husband says something wrong and against her liking, she will spit it out. Her husband will say the wrong thing every 4 seconds, not because that is a rigidity in her husband but because her borderline personality disorder allows her to pay attention every 4 seconds, and because everything her husband says irritate her, so it doesn't matter either way.
Kristoph looked aside. That's not who he wants.
Further down the crowd, he spotted the perfect person.
She is an artist, or so she tells everyone who bothers to listen to her. She attends yoga lessons, but not because like the blondes, she wants to keep fit. Instead, it is because she genuinely believes that yoga will 'free' her spirit, and that if she paints her face she will inherit the spirit of the Old People who once lived in some rocky place smack in the middle of Nebraska. She is quick to believe everything that does not make sense, like that the Moai on Easter Island is actually fossilized aliens. She does not believe in commercialism, or the Republics, or that the sky actually composes of seven colours. No, obviously that is a conspiracy on the part of the US government, and the only reason she is here is because she met a cute executive who goes to Yoga because it's the only way he doesn't explode from stress.
Kristoph smiled. The perfect person. Slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the officers, he picked his way through the crowd, shuffling uncomfortably between shoes and sweaty backs and blurry eyes until he situated himself right beside her, in a way that if she tilt her head to the immediate right, he would be the first person she sees.
He turned his attention back to the police.
"What I want to know is why you guys look like you're blocking the road!"
"We're not blocking the road, sir – and as soon as our boss is done we'll leave."
"Yeah? Look at that road! It's filled all around, and you call that not blocking?"
"We're not here to threaten you in any way..."
"Do you think they're really here for the fire?" The woman asked him.
Kristoph mentally smiled, and turned to look surprised at Stereotype B, as though he never once anticipated her to speak to him.
"Hmm? I suppose it must be so. Why else would they be here?"
"I guess so...But aren't firemen the ones who put fires out?" She asked, frowning at them.
"Oh, they're really all here for own good," Kristoph allowed generously. He puckered his lips just a little in a thoughtful frown. "But hmm..."
The woman leaned forward. "Hmm?"
"Oh, it's nothing." He replied, looking modestly reluctant to share. "It's nothing, I probably misheard, that's all."
"Really? Well, maybe – or maybe it's a conspiracy! You know, the government is trying to reduce population for more land. The senates are going to build a gigantic mansion, right here in L.A – and there's been rumours of conspiracies all over."
"Really," Kristoph murmured, looking suitably impressed. "My. Perhaps...Perhaps I haven't misheard then." She leaned forward eagerly, and Kristoph tapped his lip thoughtfully. "Well...Don't tell anyone now, but when I was on my way out..."
She leaned forward.
"I heard them mention something about a bomb."
Her eyes widened in horror – and in that moment Kristoph flashed a victorious smile, not even caring if she saw anymore. He was done, his work complete, the seed sowed. Sure enough, she stepped back, her eyes bug-wild and theories of conspiracy flying through her head. Any moment now and she'll loudly say,
"A bomb!?"
With a collective intake of gasp, all heads swiveled around to look at her, or at the very least to pinpoint the source of noise. Some saw her, and looked curiously. Some did not, and searched wildly. Soon, the collective gasp turned into collective banter as each and every one in the crowd exchanged words with their neighbours. Everyone reacted differently. Some, serious and factual, are quick to compare the facts and look around to examine their surroundings and determine the truth. Some, tossing their heads to and fro like a man on his nightmarish pillow, started engaging their neighbours with looks of horror, spreading the word 'bomb' religiously.
"Gosh...Do you think..."
"Why else would they..."
"Oh no...Do you think so?"
The man, the same man who had challenged the police earlier apparently decided to confront them instead for the truth. "Is that true?" He demanded. "Is there really a bomb planted in the building?"
"Of course not--" The officer protested, but his voice was drowned off by the angry demands of a breed of people who will not accept anything contrary to the way they are thinking. Once the dam is broken the wave comes forth – it is a natural human reaction no matter what tongue you lash in. As long as humans continue to act like this, then Kristoph would continue to exploit their liability – just like he was doing now.
He stepped backwards as he watched the simple magic working it's way, to prevent himself from being squashed by the crowd, their voices reaching a roar.
"Tell the truth! Is there a bomb in there!?"
"NO!"
"Then why are there so many of you here!?"
Kristoph smiled, and standing beside a shouting man, asked no one in particular. "I wonder if it this is like the incident in Brooklyn?"
And just like the devil Vera Misham accused him to be, it worked it's magic. The reminder sifted through the man's filter, and he looked alarm, repeating the question to his neighbour. Instead of repeating the question, the neighbour demanded at the officer angrily. "Is this like that time in Brooklyn? The whole building collapsed because of a bomb!"
"Oh Jesus, there's a bomb!"
"My God, is that why they're barricading the place?"
"Will you please calm down--"
"If that thing collapses, we'll be killed!"
Heads swiveled around to look at the building, as though there would be a large fissure up one side of it proclaiming it's downfall. There wasn't one – but there might as well be for all the response it elicited. The smoke billowing out of the twenty-first floor, whatever was causing it, made it look like an aftereffect of an explosion. Made it look like a preview of what they would soon see, of what the building would look like once it exploded – only of course it'll be much worse and they won't be around to see it. If the bomb is placed all around the foundation of the building, the whole thing will collapse on them, and one and all will be killed.
Except there is no bomb.
But the human mind is ever quick to place physical where there is conjecture, and someone started shoving angrily against the officer, shouting something along the lines of 'He had to go to work.'
Then suddenly it was a mass exodus of people who all at once needed to go to work, even though most of them were still in their pajamas. Everyone had a dozen must-be places at once, and most, if not all – threatened lawsuits against the officers if they don't BUDGE in the next five minutes. Shouts, angry demands, pandemonium – a replica of the riot in the prison, except this time he hasn't done anything more than to hustle the crowd in the right way. No explosions this time – Kazaf and his brilliant idea of emptying half the PD out to surround the building had done all the damage he needed.
"For God's sake, we're here for an escaped criminal, not to contain a bomb!" An officer shouted.
"Says you! What sort of criminal would need so many to keep him in?"
"Yeah right – more like a terrorist!"
A few broke away from the crowd and rushed for their vehicles. The officers that surrounded the entrance with their vehicles and their meaty shields did not budge, merely circling around the area and tightening their chain. No riot shields were in sight – but a riot would be what they have if things continued along these lines, which reminded him...
Kristoph looked up at the twenty first floor, puzzled. Why isn't Kazaf out yet? Surely he must have realized that he had escaped by now? He would have expected that Devereux would be storming down and out of the apartment steps by now, shouting at the top of his lungs for his men to scour the grounds for him but...Nothing. Only that damnably worrying smoke billowing out of the window in dark, black gales, like a bonfire someone had set up to the skies to signal some great and terrible thing.
He had no time to worry though, and soon he found himself drifting along with the stragglers running for the parked vehicles. He drowned himself amidst plenty and got into Apollo's – or rather, his – Ford, locking the doors and sitting in there. Thank goodness he had abandoned his coat somewhere in the apartment he had broken into, or he would be sweating buckets at the moment – not a terribly beautiful euphemism for someone like him. Kristoph started the engine and cranked up the AC, then he stopped – tapping his fingers lightly against the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world.
Once again, if Klavier could only see his face now, he would be convinced that his brother is a king.
Kristoph waited patiently as the cars around him slowly started filling, and the cars one by one rolled towards the blockade. Kristoph waited patiently while they line up at the entrance, jamming and getting in their own way, honking at the officers. Kristoph waited patiently as they stuck their fingers out of the window and tell the officers to BUDGE, just fucking move out of the way or they're going to FUCK them to high heaven.
Kristoph waited patiently as the officers, under strict orders not to let anyone out, swung their rifles and handguns and whatnots at the apartment residents and tell them to kindly back their cars away. Kristoph waited patiently until they lost all patience with the officer and tried to run over them. One, with an invaluable car of the undesirable sort, attempted to ram the officers' cars out of the way. Lawsuits were exchanged on both sides. Kristoph waited patiently while panic set in in the residents, convinced by that voice whispering in their heads, the conspiracy theory that is never far from each and everyone of them, set in. And finally, finally – he watched as reinforcements ran in from behind the apartment block – officers stationed at the back of the forest rushing to the front to provide assistance unwarranted and unrequested and against orders.
Then he moved.
Instead of running his car headlong into the intertwined mess of mufflers to bumpers to windshields knocking into each like drunken teenagers, Kristoph aimed his car for somewhere else entirely. He reversed the car and moved deeper into the now almost entirely empty parking lot and turned right, into the side of the building. From there on, it was almost laughably easy – the cars that had seemed so daunting twenty one floors above earlier weren't quite so daunting anymore with no one in them and their owners having deserted them.
Everyone is busy fighting their fight in front, and Kazaf – well, he had no idea what Kazaf was doing, except he hadn't noticed Kristoph is gone for some unfathomable reason. Maybe he fell and knocked his head. Or maybe...Maybe something is burning up there, something that's burning so horribly that the chief of police can't drag himself from there long enough to give chase to a mass murderer.
The thought made his knees turned weak, and he jammed his foot onto an accelerator and pretended that the accelerator was the thought – squashing them and squishing them with a vengeance. The Ford rolled into the side of the apartment, then it was behind the apartment and into the pine park, where the trees grew so close together that it was more like a forest than a park – and then he was between the trees, the whole car shaking like a roller coaster ride as it tried to navigate itself between the trees.
It wasn't made for this kind of terrain – and the trees were so close together that when Kristoph forced the car into the park, the left side view mirror was forcefully torn off by the bark of a tree. Kristoph couldn't care less. The time when he would have screamed in rage over having his car abused like that is long over, and he hardly flicked a glance towards the damaged metal.
Once he was in the forest, it became calm. The light is abruptly switched off as the sunlight became scarce, shadowed over by trees that plunged together to form a web, fighting for the sunlight. Along with it came a sense of peace – as though in that forest nothing can touch him. That it was magical, that it would help him, that everything would be alright. A sanctuary.
Kristoph careened the car down into the park, not knowing where it would exit from, or what awaited in it – because just like the side view mirror he couldn't care less about it. Escape is only a point of honour. Something Apollo told him to do, and he stopped the car in the middle of the park just to look back at the building, towering when seen from inside the tangle of green. He could still see the smoke billowing out of the window, though it was sparse and dying now and suddenly, the urge to return just overtook him.
Like the urge to empty your bladder, or the urge of your average person to procreate, or even the zeal in which zealots proclaim their affection for what they cannot see – he just wanted to go home. Home. Back up there, where he had been working to get away from. Kristoph knew that he had reached the end of what must be done – that he's home free, at least for now. All he had to do is step on the accelerator and just get the hell out of here, and it'll be days, weeks, maybe forever before they caught up to him. But no matter how far he ran, or how successful he was in doing so, the immutable fact is that he would never come back here again.
His breakfast would be eaten wherever, however, but it would no longer be made by Apollo, nor would he stub his toe over anything because Apollo had placed it in front of his door.
He's going away, and it's more final than death itself. No turning back, no I'm sorry's and no regrets can change the fact that this is goodbye.
But just like death itself, it's an immutable fact that happiness – especially like his, bought and planted on the corpses of other people – had to end someday. So Kristoph Gavin walked back towards the car, his feet having already brought him further towards home than he had thought, got into the car and started the engine.
Then with one last whisper of "Goodbye," - not even looking at the building anymore because it'll make him weak, make him so that he won't have the resolve to escape – he put his foot down, and drove off resolutely.
Apollo watched as the slice of blue disappeared amongst the green, resurfacing sometimes, disappearing at others – like a killer whale going up and down water. His head is stuck so far out that he risked toppling backwards entirely, but he could see it anyway – sure as sure is. The knife he still held around Kazaf's neck – simply because he could. Simply because the more time between Kristoph's escape and Kazaf finding out, the higher the chance that Kristoph would disappear and never be seen again.
"Are you done?" Kazaf snapped. "Because this is seriously getting boring – and stupid."
Apollo agreed. Now that he knew Kristoph is fine and dandy and on the highway to freedom, he rather agreed that they looked stupid, standing in the middle of a soaked hallway with the smoke thinning and the charred remains of his door frame there. He shrugged.
"Well, it's gotta do. I told you to call them off, but you won't."
"Oh, sure – I'll call them off. If you want to die." He snapped back. "Actually, maybe I should just – and tell them to shoot you in the head while I'm at it. That cool with you, Apollo?"
"Shut up."
"Hmph."
Apollo pushed the chief until he was standing in the middle of the hallway again and not at the end – there being nothing he wanted to see out of the window anymore after all – he started tapping his feet in intervals of one per second. Once he gave Kristoph ten minutes, he would release the irritating brat, get himself arrested, and spend the night in jail. Tomorrow, he'll bail himself out, go back home, and cry onto Klavier's shirt and blow snot all over the place because it'll be the right thing to do. Then Klavier will pat him on the back, and he'll immediately feel better, because Klavier would be there.
He had gotten until five minutes when--
"WOOOOOOOOO!"
Pain exploded in the back of his lower leg and he screamed, nearly cutting Devereux's throat in the process as he collapsed forward. The knife clattered onto the ground, and Kazaf immediately scrambled away, grabbing the knife in the process and jabbing it in his face – not that he cared about that right now.
Hands grabbed him from behind as a detective in a green coat pulled him upwards by both wrists, the gun that had shot him falling limply onto the ground. "I got you, pal!"
"About...Time." Kazaf wheezed out. "What took you so long!?"
"Sorry, pal! But it took me time to figure out the stairs – I accidentally went one floor too high!"
The kid looked incredulous, but did not refute the point. Two of the officers at the other end of the hallway immediately ran forward to flank his sides, in case Apollo decided to pull the same stunt again. Don't worry, Apollo shot at them sarcastically – he won't do that again, not for a very long long time at least. His arms hurt – charred by the fire earlier – and now it's being grabbed by the detective. It's not the best circumstances to be in, and if Klavier saw him now he would be remiss in asking Apollo to be his boyfriend again.
"Well," Devereux allowed gratefully. "I guess it's a good thing you're so late – you just saved me from being ah...Temporarily detained." At Apollo, he smirked in superiority. "See? I told you it's pointless – eventually someone is going to come around, and you'll be thwacked."
The smirk was so annoying and so irritating that Apollo wished he had literally cut his throat earlier.
"And now, we're going to arrest Kristoph – and there's nothing you can do about it."
Apollo gave him one of his courtroom smirks. "Are you sure?"
"Duh. Unless you're actually Optimus Prime in disguise, then maybe I'll lower 'sure' to 'definitely'."
Apollo's smirked got wider. "I don't think so. In fact, you know what I think?"
"That you just wasted a lot of time?"
"No, that your prized bird has just flown away," He announced. At that, he leaned back and enjoyed the show even though it hurt his arms more – watching the blood drained off the boy's face as he slowly realized exactly why Apollo had done such a ridiculously pointless thing.
"No way," He hissed.
"Yes way." Apollo shot back, smirk ever present. O how sweet the taste of victory.
With an angry spat, the boy rushed towards the other window – the once that faced the front of the apartment. He looked out at it for all of ten seconds – and when he determined there was no sign of Kristoph there, he stomped towards Apollo's apartment with a vengeance. The detective yanked him up and handcuffing him, pushed him forwards as the whole troop of detectives followed after the chief.
By the time they got into the living room Devereux was already far ahead of them, in the study – and he threw the curtains apart angrily and peered out of it.
Oh, his face is priceless, if only Apollo could see it. The blue glint was still visible, bobbing away but a far distance away – and the moment Kazaf recognized it for what it is, he started screaming – and if anyone had thought Kristoph had been insane and that his laugh had been the loudest in the courtroom after Drew Misham's case – well, no one's about to forget the way the defeated chief howled in rage anytime soon.
Apollo's tomato soup bubbled over.
Eh. Did I deliver? x_x
So...Yeah. A friend of my asked me : Lissy? Would you read what you wrote if it was someone else who had written it?
My answer...? NO LOL. Srsly, I think my eyes would glaze over, you guys are so (loved). Frankly I would have given up after five chapters =X