So, this is the third chapter of Firefly. Since I kind off rushed the second one I gave this more thought.
I also got my first review this morning. Thank you so much unknown person for your support!
It will eventually be a Spike/OC story (if I get that far) and since I don't know where this is going I rated it M from the start.
Constructive criticism is very welcome and I hope you will enjoy!
Warnings: For now, just my rusty English skills. Oh, and I've never been to Canada, and know nothing of real police work and such stuff.
Violence and stuff, nothing to grim I think.
Disclaimer: Everything you recognize from Flashpoint is NOT mine.
Firefly – Chapter three
The rain is steadily pounding against the black pavement, down over my head and shoulders further smearing the blood and dirt across my face. Small cuts sting as the water slides over my skin. My knuckles, hands and arms, they ache, dislocated fingers no doubt, but there's no time for that. Shifting my weight back and forth, rolling my stiff shoulders I wait for the next strike.
The young man in front of me does not disappoint, unceremoniously throwing himself forward with a resounding growl, fists swinging. I dodge and counter with blows of my own. Where his are many and hard, mine are few but precise, striking nerves that soon will render him paralyzed.
This is no life or death fight, its last man standing that wins and all I have to do is endure the heavy punches seemingly raining down over me like the freezing rain for just a few more seconds. But I'm tiring fast, sore from the fight the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that and every other night this week. Another blow hits my face, blood heavy in my mouth as I duck away from the next one, head swimming. This guy is packing quite a punch, despite his nice suit and polished shoes. He would have to burn those clothes later though.
I grin as I dance around him, reaching up to deal the final blow, and someone is laughing. The sound cutting through the heavy night with a raspy, wet noise.
It's first later, as I stand over the unconscious man I realize that I'm the one laughing, the short bursts of sound forcing their way out with every gasp. Blood from my split lip and broken nose flows freely down my face, mixing with the rain in my soaked t-shirt. It fills my mouth, making me gag. I turn away, the cackling laugh still rattling my chest as I start to walk. He'll wake up soon, and by then I'm hoping to be far away.
It had been a good fight, and despite the injuries, at least three dislocated fingers, broken nose, battered ribs and the usual cuts and bruises I were completely exhilarated. Adrenaline rushing through my body, numbing the pain that were sure to follow in the morning. I staggered around the last corner and allowed myself to relax a bit as my apartment came into view.
Stupid.
Sudden white-hot pain sears through my side as I fall to my knees, the impact sending electric flashes through my body. That'll bruise. Confused thoughts run through my head as I recalculate my injuries. I didn't break any ribs, maybe cracked one at the most. Nothing that wouldn't heal on its own if I was careful. So what caused the pain?
So tired.
In my confused state I didn't even notice the man hovering over me until he placed a foot on my shoulder. I look up, taking in the cut above his right brow, the bandages on his hands, and finally, the small tattoo just under his jawbone. Three parallel lines on full display against his pale skin.
He applies just the slightest of pressure and I topple over, more pain cutting through my body and I finally look down. There's something sticking out from my right side, glinting in the dull light.
Huh. What do you know. I have a knife in my side…so this feeling must be shock then.
I observe the man as he leans over me and for a second I panic. He'll pull the knife out, maybe twist. Stab again. But he straightens, pleased with his work, and turns to walk away. Not one word had been said.
I lay there on the cold sidewalk, gasping for air as the thoughts rush through my head. I didn't know the man, hadn't fought him recently, the tattoo unfamiliar. But the tattoo, the three lines. It had to be some kind of ranking system. Probably a second in command or something.
So who had I pissed off, whose honor had I crushed. Whose "brother", or "sister" for that matter, had I left unconscious in an alley like the one tonight. The possibilities were endless, too many to count and I were so tired.
So tired, and cold, quickly going numb.
Suddenly there are hurried footsteps, a voice barking orders, something about an ambulance and then there's warm hands cradling my head, the same voice now soft and calming. There's three figures around me, but I can't focus. There's more pain as someone presses a shirt around the knife, trying to stop the blood flow, the third standing further away. Standing by something similar to a car, a car with blue flashes. Fancy.
Oh, wait.
I grin, how silly. It's a police car of course.
The warm voice is demanding attention, but I'd rather watch the pretty flashing lights.
Or maybe sleep a bit.
The sky's clearing up.
Look sweetheart, stars.
Sleeping is a bad idea though.
Then the rain, finally stopped.
It's not a violent wake-up, there's no screaming or flailing arms. It's simply the slowly opening eyes of someone who's gotten too little sleep during a too long time. The morning light is soothing and I take deep breaths to calm my racing heart, swallowing back the nausea as I gingerly stand.
It's to no avail and I stumble to the bathroom just in time to reach the toilet.
The acid burns my throat, a painful reminder to do some grocery shopping so I can eat before going to bed. I stand, heavily leaning my weight against the wall.
Food, yes. Brilliant idea.
Raising my head just so, I can see myself in the cracked bathroom mirror. I'm too pale, slightly green actually, and my eyes too dark. Not to mention the rings under said eyes. Sighing I walk out to my poor excuse of a kitchen, the sight meeting me as I open the fridge is in no way uplifting, the liquor bottles just another reminder of the life I have to rid myself of to get where I want.
Walking back to the bedroom I rub my hand over my protesting stomach in a poor attempt to calm the grumbling. I stop as my fingers touch the long scar on my right side. This is not a good day for flashbacks and memories and glancing at my watch I realize that I'm already late. Five minutes later I stumble, cursing worse than a marine, out from my apartment, making a point of ignoring the corner across the street.
This is so not a good day for proving that I'm a completely sane and mentally stable human being.