Chapter Four: No Choice
Before he opens his eyes, before anything else registers, Hunter feels the grinding, ugly ache. It's everywhere. All of his limbs, both the robotic shell and the cyborg body within. His chest. His back. His head. Christ, his head.
His thoughts are sluggish. He feels like he's floating. He knows his name, he knows who and what he is; it's the where and the why part that he can't quite remember.
The visor is dark; it flickers once, twice, and then powers up. He's looking at a ceiling of some sort, though he's not sure because it looks more like an abstract collage than anything else. The light is a strange, yellow-green. The ceiling tiles—if they can be called that—are put together like a bunch of asymmetrical puzzle pieces. Hunter stares at it for a while, trying to sort out the shapes in his head, trying to figure it out, waiting for the pain to die down enough for him to move.
It's not until he hears a soft hiss that he thinks to turn his head. The room takes a second to catch up with his eyes. It takes a few more seconds to figure out what he's looking at, like his brain is trying to realign itself. He sees red and black and silver. Then shapes begin to take form and he recognizes an arm, two arms, both folded over a chest.
Hunter bolts upright. Unfortunately, the edge of the table is right there and the next thing he knows, he slips off the edge and crashes to the floor. His teeth clack together. He lays there, stunned, for ten seconds before his brain reasserts itself.
He's not tied down.
"Huh?" he says. Not the smartest thing to say. Not the smartest thing to do, but a quick glance shows that the Transformer hasn't moved.
He stops. His vision keeps fading in and out, but he can make out the thing's legs, its feet still planted on the ground. It's just sitting there.
He can't decide if that's a good thing or not.
Did it fall asleep? he thinks.
"That had to hurt."
Hunter jumps. The Transformer's eyes are lit up and staring at him. It looks like… it's smiling at him. It's laughing at him.
He blinks.
The Transformer cocks its head. It's perched on what Hunter can only call an over-sized, metal barstool. It makes no move toward him; just watches him. The teenager has been around Autobots long enough to recognize the amused glint to its eyes.
"I'm not gonna hurt you," it says.
He doesn't look down at his busted arm. The Transformer does, though, and Hunter swears it winces. Its shoulders slump. It slides off the stool.
Hunter starts to scramble away. His arm flares up in white-hot agony and he collapses. The Transformer freezes. It opens its mouth but no words come out.
Hunter eyeballs the door and calculates whether he can get there before the Transformer can catch him.
"It's 'Hunter,' right?"
Hunter looks at it.
"Look, I'm… that was… I'm sorry, okay?" it says. After a few seconds of silence, it says, "My name's Sideswipe."
They stare at each other. The Transformer breaks gaze first. It turns and gestures to the table.
"Here," it says. "That can't feel too great. I'm no medic, but I can patch that up."
Hunter thinks he might throw up. The Transformer backs over to some kind of storage cabinet and opens it. If Hunter's going to make a break for it, now is the time.
He looks again to the door. He could probably make it. His captor doesn't appear interested in stopping him. It could all be a ruse, of course, but Hunter can't find a reason for it. He'd been tied down. The Transformer had him completely vulnerable. There's no reason to let him up, to apologize, to offer to repair him.
Unless he's bat-shit crazy.
If he left, what then? Assuming the Transformer doesn't go all wonky on him again and finish him off, he has nowhere to go. He can't see straight, let alone transform and drive away. He has no way to fix himself. His one clue, the only lead he had on Machination was a dead end.
This "Sideswipe" has supplies. He has knowledge. Hunter barks out a laugh before he can stop himself.
My one ally is a maniac, he thinks. One that's willing to patch him up, but still.
He realizes Sideswipe has stopped and is leaning back, staring at him.
"Guess I've got no choice," Hunter says.
Sideswipe shrugs. "You've always got choices. Some are just dumber than others."
Hunter snorts. He starts to climb back to his feet. He has to take slow, small steps because the ground rocks beneath his feet. Sideswipe nudges the door to the cabinet shut and gives Hunter a wide berth. He edges past him to grab some sort of wheeled cart. He sets a pile of stuff on it and pushes it over as Hunter hauls himself onto the table.
Sideswipe lifts a tool in one hand and Hunter can't help but compare it to a cattle prod.
"What's that for?" he says. Even he hears the sharp note in his voice.
"What, this?" Sideswipe says and raises the thing up. "It's a welder."
"A what?"
"It's a medical tool, I promise. I'll turn your receptors off. You won't feel a thing. Well, maybe a bit if heat, but nothing bad."
"Right," Hunter says. He tries to make himself relax.
If he wanted to hurt you again, he would have. There's no reason for it now.
Sideswipe tinkers with the welder. He's facing him and for the first time, Hunter catches a glimpse of the symbol on his chest.
"Lay back," Sideswipe says.
Hunter knows that symbol. All of the Autobots wore it: a red face. Sideswipe's is etched into the glass of his windshield and it isn't red, but it's the same face.
"You're an Autobot?" Hunter says.
The tinkering stops. For a moment, Hunter doesn't think he's going to answer—he's staring at the welder, an unfamiliar expression on his face.
"Yeah," he says a few seconds later. He makes an odd, chuffing sound and when he looks at Hunter, that expression is gone. "Come on. You're losing energon. Lay back."
This time, Hunter only hesitates for a moment. He has to suppress a shudder as he finds himself flat on his back with the red alien looming over him again. If Sideswipe notices, he doesn't say anything.
Sideswipe reaches into Hunter's shoulder with some kind of tool. The burning in his arm cuts off.
"Whoa," Hunter says.
Sideswipe doesn't quite smile; his eyes tilt up in what Hunter recognizes as amusement, though. Hunter has seen that look on Wheeljack. He tries not to fidget.
Pressure settles on his lower arm. Sideswipe tugs at something. Hunter tilts his head up to find the red Autobot sticking a pair of oversized tweezers and some sort of twisty stick-thing into his arm.
"What's that?" he says.
"Snapped some lines," Sideswipe says. "If you're built like us, your systems could seal them on their own in a cycle or so. I'm hurrying it up."
"Oh. Is it bad?"
"Could be worse. This is a little leak. It's not enough to put you in stasis, but if it doesn't get sealed, you'll start to notice."
Sideswipe puts down the twisty stick and picks up the cattle prod. Hunter tenses. The Autobot sticks the tip in. A bright, orange light flares up. It's warm, hot even, but it doesn't actually hurt. It tingles.
"You said you weren't a medic," Hunter says. He's carefully not watching Sideswipe work. "How do you know this stuff?"
Sideswipe shrugs and says, "When you get scrapped as often as I do, you pick up some things."
"You fight a lot?"
This time, the Autobot grins. "Yeah."
Figures.
After he'd crashed into the river he remembered the rush of bubbles, flailing around, wondering if robots could drown, and then a flashing, red warning on his visor and then… nothing. He hadn't even seen Sideswipe hit him.
The tingling in his arm gets worse. Pins and needles race up his shoulder.
"What did you do?" he says.
"Hmm?" Sideswipe says. "Oh. The main strut in your arm's cracked. You shouldn't—"
"No, not that. Earlier. You were in my head, weren't you?"
Sideswipe doesn't even look up. "Yes."
A minute passes. Then two. Hunter listened to the strange hissing noise of his arm being pieced back together.
"Why?" he says.
"I needed answers."
The orange glow dims and dies. Sideswipe pulls the cattle prod out and picks up a thin, silver sheet of metal.
"We can all do that," Sideswipe says. "It's called an 'interface.' It was designed so that medics could get in and access an off-lined patient's processor, stuff like that."
"It's a medical procedure?"
"Started off that way."
Hunter decides he doesn't want to know.
"Does it always hurt like that?" he says.
"No," Sideswipe says. He's placed the sheet over the gap in Hunter's arm and reaches for the cattle prod again. "Your processor isn't structured like ours. There are some… compatibility issues. I wouldn't have done it if there'd been any other way and I'm sorry."
The last bit comes out in a rush. Sideswipe hasn't looked away from his work once during the whole conversation and Hunter realizes that, aside from the occasional brush as he adjusts something, the red 'bot hasn't touched him.
"Where are Ratchet and the others?" he says.
Sideswipe's expression darkens. "They left."
Hunter tells himself that he's been expecting that. He's known something was wrong from the moment he'd gotten out of that place in Tampa and tried to radio someone. His only reply had been static. And then, when he woke up in that impound lot in Georgia with a week of his life gone and tried again and got nothing. The day it took to get back to Chicago, driving in silence, utterly alone in his head, figuring out how to operate his enormous body without killing anyone and with no one to help him. It took him thirty minutes to find the right turn-off to get to the dock over Lake Michigan only to find it wasn't there anymore.
He'd known something had happened. He'd known they must be gone.
Verity, Jimmy… what happened to you guys?
"Why?" he says. His voice breaks.
"Decepticon activity in another system. Prime though it was more urgent."
Hunter wants to get mad at the red Autobot. The way he oh-so-casually announces that the Autobots don't have time for some primitive back-water like earth. That the Decepticon invasion—because that's what was going to happen; he'd been there, in that base in Oregon; he'd overheard enough to understand—of his planet, his people, wasn't important enough on the grand scale of things. Earth was doomed. All of humanity was screwed.
It's not Sideswipe's fault. It wasn't his decision. And Hunter understands, mostly. Their war is bigger than his little world. Still…
"So why are you here?" he says.
Sideswipe doesn't answer. He sets down the tweezers and the cattle prod. The silvery sheet of metal has been fused to Hunter's arm like some kind of metal band-aid.
"I'm looking for someone," Sideswipe says.
Don't say that name!
"Sunstreaker," Hunter says.
"Yeah."
He doesn't fly off the handle when Hunter says it. Hunter takes that as a good sign.
"Why?"
"Why what?" Sideswipe says.
"Why are you looking for him, for Sunstreaker? Did Optimus Prime send you?"
He recognizes the low grumble of Autobot laughter. This sounds bitter, though.
"No, he didn't," Sideswipe says. "I came here on my own."
"But… why?"
"He's my brother."
"Oh," Hunter says. Then the meaning of that sentence hits him and he looks down so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. "What?"
For the first time since he started working on him, Sideswipe looks at Hunter.
"He's my brother. My twin."
Inside the robotic head, Hunter's mouth is hanging open. He lays there and tries to figure out how to say, "Who-muh-wha" without sounding like an idiot.
"Now," Sideswipe says. "Any other injuries I should know about?"
Hunter sits on the edge of the communications console in his smaller body, the one he refers to as his "cyborg" body, his squishy face pale and a little moist. Sideswipe wonders whether that's a normal—though gross—organic function or if something is wrong.
He'd been shot with some kind of primitive projectile through the knee and in the right shoulder. The projectile—Hunter had called it a "bullet;" Sideswipe had called it a mess—had still been in his shoulder. It'd gotten lodged just beneath a transformation cog and had severed some sort of fluid line. Hunter's arm had been coated with the stuff—a dark, viscous goo.
He'd pried it out. Which hadn't been pleasant. Hunter's cyborg body wasn't wired like an Autobot. There were similarities, but not enough for Sideswipe to find his pain receptors. He'd had to do it with the human very much aware and awake.
"You okay?" Sideswipe says.
"Ugh," Hunter says. He sits with his lower legs dangling off the side, torso folded over his legs, his head tucked between his knees. "I think I'm gonna puke."
Sideswipe isn't sure what that means. He assumes it's bad.
The human looks up and catches Sideswipe staring. "Just… just gimme a minute."
Sideswipe shrugs and turns to his own console. The ship's communications have been up and running since he landed, some four planetary rotations ago. In that time, it's been scanning and downloading satellite transmissions and radio signals. He'd tried to program it to weed out the obvious slag, but the humans produce so much noise that even with those parameters, he has about a deca-cycle's worth of data to sift through.
Primus. How has this planet stayed hidden as long as it has?
"So, what now?"
Hunter has propped himself up with his elbows on his knees. He sways. Sideswipe leans over and reaches above him to tap the thin, transparent screen attached to the console. It lights up.
"We start looking," he says.
The screen breaks up into sixteen smaller boxes, each one flashing through a different file. Humans talking, driving their primitive vehicles, firing weapons at each other. Hunter squints at it.
"Is this… are we watching TV?" he says.
"Is that what you call your visual communications network?"
The human's soft facial plating scrunches up. He's silent for a nano-klik and then says, "Yeah. That's TV."
The human shakes his head and runs a hand down his face. His optical shutters lower.
"Why are we watching TV?"
"For information," Sideswipe says. "Your planet seems obsessed with it and I figured it would be the best place to start searching."
"We're gonna find Machination by watching CNN?"
Sideswipe shrugs. "I filtered out what I could. It's not my fault your species is so noisy."
"But that still leaves, like, a hundred channels. You're talking about thousands of hours of programming."
"You know this stuff better than I do. You don't have to watch everything, just go through and sort out the irrelevant data."
Hunter stares at the screen. The colors dance across his face.
"This is going to take forever," he says.
"Better get started, then."
The human glares at him. But he turns back. He raises a hand, his fingers hover over the screen.
"How do I work it? The other Autobots never let us into this section of their ship."
Not surprising. They'd been lucky to come aboard at all.
"Touch the portion of the screen you want to see. One tap enlarges it. Two taps shrinks it again. If you drag it toward my screen, it'll transfer it to me. Do that with anything you think is important."
"Olay," Hunter says. "That's easy."
"Easy is good. Comes in handy when you're being shot at."
The human falls silent. Sideswipe continues to sift through his own share.
It's a lot of information to dig through. Even with the human's help, it's enough to keep him occupied for a while. The problem is that he doesn't have that long.
Slaggit, Sunny, he thinks.
His brother could be a clever slag-head when he wanted to be. Placing a message in an organic processor… Sideswipe has never heard of that one, before. The human hadn't even known it was there.
What the slag were you thinking?
The message had been short. Sunny probably hadn't had a lot of time to make it. It was clear enough, however.
"Stay away," he'd said. "It's bigger than you think. Stay away."
Sideswipe wants to hit something. Maybe his brother.
As if I'd really do that. Idiot.
"Oh god."
Sideswipe snaps out of his thoughts. He glances over to find Hunter staring at the display with what even Sideswipe recognizes as horror.
"Find something?" he says.
"I…" the human says. A small, pink appendage flicks out of its mouth. "I think this is Dallas."
The human has enlarged it to cover the entire screen. The footage is shaky. It shows a building, tall by human standards. The camera must be mounted on some sort of flying craft because it's circling around. It takes a moment for the damage to come into view.
A series of gashes have torn open the side of the building from top to bottom. A pile of debris lies in a heap against the base, next to a good-sized crater. Sideswipe catches glimpses of other rotor flying vehicles circling around and a swarm of blue-and-red flashing lights in the streets below.
"What's this?" he says, ignoring the human babble coming from the display.
"I did that," Hunter says. His voice is quiet. He's standing in front of Sideswipe, so the Autobot can't see his face, but he can see that he's swaying again.
"Huh," Sideswipe says.
"They said eight people died," the human says. He wobbles. Then he carefully lowers himself to sit on the console. "They… they got trapped when parts of the floors collapsed."
Sideswipe stares at the display and then at Hunter. The human pulls his legs in and sits curled up in a ball, his chin on his knees.
"You said this was a front for Machination, right?" Sideswipe says. "So a few of them got killed. So what?"
"So eight people are dead. They died because of me."
"They worked for Machination. This kind of thing is going to happen."
"That doesn't mean they're bad people! What if they just worked there, what if they have families, kids. Shit. This isn't… I can't…"
He looks back at the footage. The camera has changed, switched to one on the ground. The building is lit up from above and below. A human female stands in the front. Behind her are security vehicles and several big, red, boxy things with "Fire Department" written on the side. And off in the corner, he can see the front end of two large, dark vehicles with no markings of any kind.
Sideswipe leans in. They're no different from the other civilian vehicles except that Sideswipe can see a pack of humans climbing out. They're all dressed in dark suits. So are many of the camera-humans. But these ones are different.
Sideswipe has seen them before.
Agent Seymour Simmons has the best job in the world. The travel, the adventure, the do-what-you-want-and-get-away-with-it-badge. He gets to see some of the most exotic locations on earth. He gets to play with the coolest toys. He's part of a small, privileged group of people with access to the most dangerous information on the planet. But sometimes, just sometimes, Simmons really hates his job.
"They're saying what?" he says.
Around him is a scene of controlled chaos: police helicopters circle overhead to keep the media vultures at bay; the streets are packed with cop cars and ambulances and fire trucks. Men are running around with search-and-rescue dogs. The Dallas PD is doing everything in its power to keep the scene clear, keep it clean, which is getting more difficult as the crowds keep growing larger.
"They have a mayday call," Special Agent Liz Cantrell says. "According to eyewitness accounts, the helicopter—it's registered to, ah, a Houston-based company called Svensberg Security Investments. According to initial reports it was coming in for a landing on the smaller building when it dropped. The pilot managed to send a mayday call before it went down."
"A helicopter crash?" Simmons says. He turns, looks at the building, looks back to his team.
"They're saying it raked the side on the way down," Cantrell says.
He can see the wreckage, of course. Silver and blue ribbons of metal, all twisted and mangled, lie scattered all over the lawn. Part of the tail section sticks out of a heap of debris at the base of the building. The tail rotors are gone. Paramedics load something onto a wheeled stretcher. They're not moving in any kind of hurry.
"They've recovered the body of the pilot and it looks like one passenger," Special Agent Billy Perez says.
"We've been told that eight other people died inside," Cantrell says.
Simmons rocks back on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back.
"No one saw the yellow car?" he says.
Cantrell and Perez exchange a glance.
"No, sir," Perez says.
"Security footage?"
"We're waiting on the hard copy," Cantrell says.
Simmons narrows his eyes. He sighs. "Okay. Cantrell, Perez, I want you to stay here. I want to know the second we get a hold of that footage. You two keep an eye on things. Anything happens, anything, I want to know."
Both agents nod and turn away. Simmons watches them go. He eyeballs the scene for a few more seconds.
"Damn," he says.
Beside him, Special Agent Tom Salazar clears his throat.
"I know," Simmons says. "And I don't like it."
He grumbles again and starts toward the rental SUV. Salazar falls in beside him. They wait until they're past the yellow tape and the ring of cops. Simmons skirts a police cruiser and lifts a hand and says, "Keys."
Salazar blinks. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls them out, and tosses them over. Simmons veers to the right, to the driver's side, and climbs in. He starts the engine and waits until Salazar shuts his own door. Then he reaches back, under the seat, and pulls out a small, black carrying case. He hands it to Salazar and pops the gears into reverse.
"You think it's bullshit?" Salazar says.
"You don't?" Simmons says. He backs out. "You won't pick up much of a signal from this distance, but it'll have to do. If an NBE was here, it had to leave a trail. That building should be hot."
Salazar pulls out a handheld radiation detector. He rolls the window down. Warm, muggy air billows into the car. He palms the detector and puts his hand on the sill.
Simmons eases into the throng of spectators, letting the blue and red lights on the SUV's grill do their job. It still takes longer than it should for him to reach the cross street. Salazar stares at the tiny, glowing screen. The GPS system mounted on the dashboard tells Simmons to turn left. He turns right, circles around the skyscraper. The street is blocked off and he has to flash his badge to get through.
The detector is silent.
"Must have gone the other way," Salazar says.
And then the box clicks.
Simmons can't look away from the road long enough to read what it says. Salazar solves the problem by saying, "Four RADs."
It's not a strong signal. It takes twelve RADs before a human being will notice anything, but there's only one thing that emits that kind of radiation and it isn't from Earth.
"Got it," Simmons says.
Salazar grins as he slips the detector back into the case and slides it under the seat. He rolls up the window. They reach another cross street and this time, Simons listens to the flashing GPS and takes a left, back toward the hotel.
"Okay," he says. "I want you to call headquarters. Tell them we have a priority one. I don't care how they do it, just get us in. We need access. I'll get hold of Banacheck and get a team down here."
Salazar is dialing on his cell phone before Simmons finishes his first sentence. It's one a.m. Dallas time, two in D.C. but someone will answer the phone.
"Then you get Cantrell and Perez and let them know. We're going full-scale here."
Simmons can't keep the grin off his face. Two weeks. It's been two weeks since the NBEs went public with that little UFO stunt and since then, nothing has happened. Two weeks of silence. Two weeks of sitting around, monitoring newscasts and cell phone conversations and wondering if the apocalypse was just over the horizon. But that ends tonight. They have activity. They have a lead. And Simmons is right in the middle of it.
Sometimes, he really loves his job.
He notices movement out of the corner of his eye—Salazar thumbs the screen on the phone. He brings it back up to his ear.
"What?" Simmons says. "What is it?"
"I lost the signal."
Simmons rolls his eyes. He wants to turn on the radio, find something fun, something to match his mood.
We got 'em. Oh, we got 'em.
"Huh."
Salazar stares at his phone.
"What now?" Simmons says.
Salazar shakes his head. "I dunno. Bad reception?"
"We're in the middle of Dallas. How can you get bad reception in the middle of a city? You sure you're dialing it right?"
"Yeah. It's programmed. The phone's not working.
"Use mine," Simmons says. He twists around and unclips his iPhone from his belt. Salazar takes it, touches the screen, and waits for a minute. Then he shakes his head.
"No. Nothing. It can't find a network."
"Let me see that."
He takes his eyes off the road for one second and reaches out to take the iPhone back. One second. Suddenly, Salazar throws his hands up. Simmons has enough time to see headlights.
Pale blue and a glimpse of a face behind a windshield. Then the world turns to flashes, broken images of lights and the sky spinning. Metal twisting. Something slams into his chest and the air whooshes out of his lungs. He can hear an unholy screeching. On some instinctual level he knows it's the sound of the car smashing, tearing.
Everything tilts.
The next thing Simmons knows, his head pounds and he can't breathe. He can't see anything. He can't open his eyes. He reaches up with his right hand only to find it brushes the floor.
What?
His arms are twisted up over his head, only they're on the ground, too. He's upside down.
He hears hissing and ticking and his blood thumping in his ears. He tries to move his left hand but white hot pain spikes through his shoulder. He drags his right hand across the ceiling, through what he knows must be shattered glass, and brings his fingers to his eyes.
His face is wet. His nose is tender. But his eyes feel fine; they're still there. It's blood, he realizes, blood in his eyes. He wipes at it and finally manages to crack one eye open.
He's staring through what's left of the windshield. Deflated airbags hang in the way. His vision wavers. His eyes water. He blinks a few times and tries to sniff but that hurts.
"Agh," he croaks.
Salazar, like Simmons, is hanging upside down, suspended from his seatbelt. He's not moving. The dashboard is crushed against his chest.
"Shit," Simmons says. He drags his arm through the glass again, hoping his suit sleeve will keep it from chewing up his skin, and paws at the unconscious agent. He's too far; he can't reach him. He's got to unbuckle himself.
Simmons pulls his left arm to his side. He hisses through his teeth. His shoulder hurts like hell. He wonders if he's broken something.
He doesn't have time to sit there and think about it. He fumbles for the seat belt clasp with his right hand. His fingers brush the button and it takes two tries for him to push it down far enough to release him.
He lands on his face. His vision explodes in black and twinkling specks of light.
Oh yeah, he thinks. Definitely broken.
He wriggles and curses and swings his legs around the steering wheel. His feet bang against the door frame.
Salazar's face is dark with blood. He isn't moving, isn't making a sound, and even as Simmons reaches up to press his fingers against the man's neck, he knows it's too late.
Salazar is dead.
"Fuck," Simmons says. He falls back into the broken glass. For a moment he lays there, face throbbing, shoulder aching, and tries to breathe.
He has to get out of the car. He's got to call this in. He's got to get himself to a hospital. He's got to take care of Salazar. He's got to figure out what the hell just happened.
"Fuck."
Something thumps outside. It's hard to hear over the sound of the car sputtering and settling on its roof; it's not until it does it again that Simmons registers it.
What the hell?
The other car, the one that hit them. It sounds like someone is pounding, trying to get out.
Oh, son of a bitch.
The driver must still be inside. Simmons hopes he is, because someone is going to pay for this.
He kicks out the shattered remains of the window. The SUV pushes down. The frame buckles. Simmons shreds the back of his suit dragging himself out.
The SUV ended up on the side of the road, just shy of the sidewalk. He pulls himself up and braces himself against the undercarriage. The blue car—an old, beat-up pickup—is about twenty feet down the road, the cab facing away from him. Simmons hobbles toward it.
Two cars have stopped along the street. People have gotten out. The small handful of passengers are milling around but a couple of guys head in his direction.
He spots movement in the pickup. The driver's side door flies open. A figure stumbles out. He's on the opposite side of the truck so Simmons can't tell what he's doing until the man—he thinks it's a man, anyway—stands up. He looks over the warped bed of the pickup and his gaze meets Simmons's. In that instant, Simmons knows he's going to run.
"Hey!" he says.
The man bolts. Simmons reaches down, finds his gun on his belt, and takes off after him.
"Hey! Stop right there!"
People scream. The two good Samaritans back off, their hands raised. Simmons darts past them.
It hurts, it hurts, oh fuck it hurts!
Every step jolts his shoulder. He can barely see. He keeps going, past the pickup, past clusters of huddled people.
The guy reaches the end of the block. He swings left and slips around the corner.
Simmons is going to lose him. He can already tell. He's breathing hard. His shoulder is on fire. He can feel himself tiring.
Shit.
By the time he gets to the corner and turns, the guy is gone. Simmons lowers the gun. Behind him, he can hear people babbling and the distant wail of sirens. He slides the gun back in its holster and leans against the brick wall, panting.
Damn, he thinks. He leans over and peers around the corner at the wreckage. There's going to be so much paperwork.
Thanks again to Starfire201 and lildevchick for their awesome reviews. A bigger helping of thanks to KayDeeBlu for her beta skills.
Next chapter: Hi There