Chapter Twenty-Seven: Blinded by the Fight
The searchlight's brilliant beam shined down, bathing Sesshoumaru and the death that lay below him in white light. Ignoring the commands that repeated over the helicopter's speakers, he focused his attention on the massacre. The stench of blood inundated the air, polluting his nose and drowning out other scents, even profiles familiar to him. Their colors muted, he scanned the bodies strewn throughout the corridor, searching for one in red and black and hoping not to find it.
His brow furrowed.
There were fewer men than before, and the white-suited man's admission about being willing to sacrifice took on new meaning. Allies killing allies. But that it had happened just now meant that those responsible were still close by. Through the noise, he tried to listen for them, but the beating blades of the helicopter were too loud and overwhelmed his hearing.
Red lights spun and sirens wailed at the shipping yard's main gate as police cars poured in. They sped down the lanes towards him with the helicopter as their beacon.
He looked back at the distant row of cargo containers where he had met the white-suited man and realized that he was gritting his teeth. There was a tightness in his chest that evolved into a low growl. It had been so long that he hardly recognized the feeling. It was anger.
Crouching down, he moved to leap towards that distant row.
Slicing through the air, the helicopter dove down, putting itself between him and his prey.
Snarling, he reached for the crowbar in his sash, ready to fling it at its searchlight to blind it.
Then he caught himself and his recklessness. The memory of a boy sobbing into his side, unwilling to let him go, silenced his growl. He had someplace where he belonged with people who worried about him. And they worried about him as a person and despite who he once was. They cared when he could not.
Fleeing towards a side exit, he spied the sedan, and his growl resurged.
He slipped down into the next corridor over, bypassing the helicopter. And then he was gone, racing down the length of the row until he reached the intersecting lane. As he turned, he spotted red taillights at the yard exit and from the corner of his eye, the beam of the searchlight pursued. Within a few strides, the light was on him, illuminating him as he closed in on the car.
The sedan turned onto the street.
His legs pumping, he rushed up behind it and reached out to catch it by the rear fender. With a swipe, he sent it spinning across the street and onto the sidewalk. A fountain burst up as it barreled through a fire hydrant. Sprays of water pelted him, drenching his clothes. But he didn't feel it. He was somewhere else. Deep in the forest. Blood rushed in his ears and steam from his breath dampened the underside of his mask. His eyes bright, he stalked forward, eager to peel the car apart, wanting the soft bits inside.
Stinging, something clipped his shoulder.
He blinked, and the forest fell away. His hand felt for an injury, but he only found tender skin.
A black object the size of his fingernail bounced across the pavement. Crouching down, he picked it up. It felt like rubber.
Another sting. This time at his lower back.
His gaze fell to the puddling water and the flashing red lights it reflected. And as his blood slowed, staticky voices over speakers penetrated his mind.
"Get down on the ground!" they commanded. "Or we will shoot!"
Standing up, he turned to spy over his shoulder. A barricade of police cars lined the street backed by an armored vehicle. Shielded by their car doors, policemen braced themselves with their guns leveled at him. He looked in the opposing direction and found another barricade forming as more cars rolled up. Overhead, the omnipresent helicopter hovered, its searchlight pinned to him.
He stepped back.
And the pavement hit him. The glare of the searchlight filled his vision, spinning almost as fast as the helicopter's rotors. Pain erupted inside his skull and any threads of thought he held snapped. His body and senses felt disconnected and numb, scattered by the nova that had been his mind.
"You shot him in the head!" a man accused, his voice distorted. "Who trained you on nonlethal tactics?!"
Then the exploded pieces of himself streamed back together, reforming their attachments as he became whole again. The spinning slowed. His senses came back into focus. The sound of approaching footsteps scuffing pavement. The nervous sweat of men.
"He's still alive. Restrain him."
A hand reached down to grab his shoulder, and the demon seized its wrist.
The policeman gasped, struggling against the vice of his grip and the burning eyes that held him even tighter. The demon took him by the vest and pulled him down with an ease like gravity. The man sputtered his fear, and then he was cast away, striking the officers who were rushing to his aid.
Rising to his feet, the demon glared down at them.
"Move!" a voice yelled over the speaker.
The officers scrambled out of the way.
Gunfire popped.
Rubber bullets ricocheted across empty pavement.
The searchlight flew to the building beyond the wrecked car, its beam settling on the third story and the ragged edges of a broken window.
Hidden in the deep shadows cast by the light, Sesshoumaru cradled his skull, his eyes pinched shut and his jaw clenched. Kagome had warned him that it was too early to patrol. That though his head injury from the hotel had healed, he was at risk for another concussion. Just one blow to the head. It was only after Tora had agreed to accompany him this evening that anyone in the household had let him go.
Cracking one eye open, he examined his surroundings. Sheets of clear plastic hung beside exposed drywall. Set upon scattered sawhorses, renovation equipment and supplies filled what would be a series of office suites. He looked back towards the glowing window and listened to the chaotic din of sirens and crowds. All suffocated by the droning helicopter.
The agony pulsing in his brain subsided, reaching a level that he could lock down and push away. And as his ability to think returned, he was confronted by his recklessness. His impatience. His blindness. The rage of being deceived and manipulated. Of being disrespected.
Burning blood surged in his veins.
And then it cooled.
He really hadn't changed. When he had encountered the white-suited man, he memorized his scent profile. There was no place in the city that he could flee to. No shelter that could hide him. And yet in his anger, he had foolishly pursued him, trapping himself better than that abhorrent coward could have dreamt of doing himself. All while abandoning an ally to an unknown fate. He should have searched for Tora.
"Saved for a night," he said to himself, remembering his friend's words, but more than that, he recalled his purpose. As a man who guided and supported the vulnerable, he had admitted once that the work he did during the day mattered more than anything that he did at night.
Reaching into the sash at his back, Sesshoumaru retrieved his crowbar. With its blue paint worn away along its hard edges, it was a hefty and well-used piece of alloy. A tool by design. A weapon by choice. He thought about Miyamoto Musashi and the overlapping paths of a carpenter and a sword master. In his bedroom, there was a black duffel bag, and in it was the hope he shared with the community. Opportunity transformed into hot water heaters, radiators, or air conditioning units. Sometimes it became something as simple as a public transit pass.
His gaze returned to the window.
Did he really need to follow both paths? Could he just be the crowbar that's used to build and not to break? Could that be the way out that spares the ones who care about him from his recklessness?
A metal cannister tumbled through the broken window and bounced along the tarp-covered floor.
He stared at it, his brow furrowed.
Then it began to spin wildly, spewing a toxic miasma into the air.
His lungs seized in his chest as a coughing fit ripped through his body. With his sinuses and throat burning, he lunged forward. Hooking the can with his crowbar, he flung it back out the window. He hadn't inhaled much, but it was enough. Secretions poured from his nose and mouth and clogged his throat. Pushing up his mask, he coughed up and spat out what he could, but it kept coming. And his eyes. Tears blurred his vision and poured down his cheeks. The stinging pain did the most to blind him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he resisted the urge to rub at them, certain that it would make it worse.
Through the unfinished walls, he heard the hustle of boots echoing through a stairwell.
He wiped his lip clean with the back of his hand and pulled his mask back down. His sense of smell was gone. His vision too. And a wave of vertigo tugged at his balance. He twirled his crowbar once and caught it handily before securing it in his sash. Whether the demon had any place in his future would be settled later. For now, he smirked, a fang clipping his lip.
Familiar and constant now, the whipping rhythm of the helicopter faded away, becoming background noise like the rushing city beyond. He tilted his head, listening. They approached. Single file. The rustling plastic sheeting and cloth tarps made their cautious footfalls deafening.
His arm bursting through the wall, the demon grabbed the first one by the vest and yanked him through. The man yelped, his voice muffled by a gas mask. He ripped it off his face and tore his gun away, crushing it with one hand. With an easy effort, he tossed the man across the room towards the window. He landed with a grunt, the air knocked from him. And then he started coughing. The demon's smirk broadened.
Gunfire erupted from the hole in the wall.
He dove to the side, bullets pelting his chest. He felt none of it.
Bumping into a sawhorse, he hefted it up and threw it. It crushed through the wall, sending debris flying. A man grunted as it struck him, driving his body into an adjacent wall. There he hung, writhing senselessly.
His comrades rushed past him. They poured through the doorway and into the room, incidentally kicking debris with their boots.
Grabbing the first man by the throat, he stripped him of his mask and gun before flinging him towards the sound of desperate coughing. The man bounced off his comrade before banging into a stack of building supplies. Groans sputtered from him. Then throat-ripping coughs.
The two men who had raced in behind him, hopped back, putting distance between themselves and the demon's reach.
The sensation of the world tipping stumbled his feet as he pursued them. Then he felt two darts pierce his abdomen. Intense pain shot through him and every muscle in his body seized up. A snarling growl roared from his throat through gritted teeth as he fought against the electrical current. His hand shaking, he felt for the darts and yanked them out. Then he lunged forward, following the wires.
Expletives burst from the man when he caught him and the demon jammed the darts into his arm, returning the favor. Tearing the taser from the his hand, he pulled the trigger, delivering a final shock.
Debris crunched.
He sprang back as the other man dove forward, swinging his baton. And as it swept past, he closed in again, grabbing the man by the wrist and punching him across the face. The gas mask offered little protection, and he crumpled from the blow.
On the other side of the wall and as quietly as he could, the last man called for back-up over the comms.
The demon flew into the doorway, listening for him.
He stumbled back, the soles of his boots catching on the tarp.
"Found you," he growled delightedly, drool oozing from the maw of his mask.
Stuttering, the man dropped his gun.
But before the demon could spring forward, a nausea-inducing moment of vertigo pulled the floor out from under him. And as he fell back, he brought his leg up and landed a solid kick to his jaw. The man's head struck the drywall, cratering it before he collapsed into a heap.
On his back, Sesshoumaru laid there for a moment and considered his situation. Aside from his earlier disappointment in himself, he concluded that he was also disgusted by how nasally his voice had become.
More boots entered the stairwell.
And he was on his feet. In no position to battle an endless barrage of policemen, he felt his way through the rooms, hoping that he remembered the layout correctly. Finding a wall more solid than the rest, he moved along it until he met a window. Unlatching its lock, he opened it wide.
The noise of the city rushed in. Far back and to his right, he heard the helicopter hovering, unintelligible orders crackling over its speakers. Somewhere below it, a crowd rumbled. And from the way the chaos echoed beneath him, he was certain there was an alleyway. A third story jump was doable.
Somewhere behind him, plastic sheeting rustled.
And he was gone.
As he fell, the direction of the noise changed, rising to meet him. And when it was almost level with him, he braced for the ground. His boots hit solid pavement, his knees bending with the impact. Using the din of the crowd as a guide to avoid, he headed down the alleyway. To still have his hearing was good, but without his vision or sense of smell, he doubted that he could put enough distance between himself and the police to escape, especially with the helicopter.
The echo softened and the hum of a busy street lay ahead.
He paused, uncertain of where to go.
Then a voice called out, "Pork cutlet guy?"