At the precinct in Los Angeles
Third person pov
Inside a rather dimly lit room, a man sits at his desk with glasses on while examining some paperwork.
"The kids involved with the fight, remind me their names one more time?" The man asks his assistant.
"Which ones sir?" His assistant asks.
"Let's start with the ones who were hospitalized," he answers.
"Alright, Miguel Diaz. Currently in a coma at West Valley General after sustaining a back injury that cracked his T4 and T11 vertebrae. Facing the possibility of never walking again or even death," the assistant reads as the man looks over medical records and photographs of the school fight and Diaz laying on the stairwell.
The detective places Miguel's files behind the others and moves on to the next depicting a girl with brown curly hair and blue eyes grinning in the photograph.
"Samantha LaRusso, discharged from West Valley General last night after receiving stitches on her right arm and treatment from a cracked rib. Currently recovering at her home. No critical injuries sustained besides minor scarring on her arm," the assistant reads.
The man at the desk nods and tips his glasses as he moves on to the third file.
"Noah Murphy, currently in a coma at West Valley General after sustaining major trauma to all areas of the face. Broken nose, jaw, and possibly a retinal injury. No fatal damage recorded as of now, but that remains to be seen," the assistant describes.
The detective wipes his brow as he goes over the files one last time before moving on.
"Ok, how about the teenagers being criminally charged? There were three, correct?" The man at the desk states.
"Yes sir," his assistant answers.
"Victoria Alexandra Nichols. Arrested and currently in police custody. Charged with assault under aggravated circumstances as well as assault with a weapon and unauthorized possession of a deadly weapon on school property. Could face time in a juvinelle corrections facility depending on home situation," the assistant states.
"And the fugitives?" The detective requests.
"Robert Swayze Keene. Whereabouts unknown. Charged with assault under aggravated circumstances and potentially manslaughter. If these charges follow, Keene will be tried as an adult in a court of law and possibly face a sentence of anywhere from 10 to 20 years in a state penitentiary if convicted," the assistant states firmly.
The man nods and writes down notes as he gazes at Robby's stoic picture paper clipped to the top right corner.
"Give me the third one," the man at the desk orders.
The assistant reads the third file and hands his boss a picture depicting a stoic young male with dark features and most notably, three scars that run from his left eye, across his nose, and to his right cheek. His raven wavy hair looks decently maintained.
"Blake Jonas Murphy, whereabouts unknown. Currently facing charges of assault under aggravated circumstances as well as attempted murder in the second degree. Upon arrest, as of now, he is intended to be tried as an adult in a court of law. Facing anywhere from 15 to 25 years in a state penitentiary if convicted," the assistant replies.
At the mention of Blake's name, agent McCarthy's fist clenches. He crumples the corners of the documents containing information as well as a photograph of Blake Murphy.
"I want everything you've got on Blake Murphy," the man replies in a tone that he is trying to hide his resentment.
"Yes sir," the assistant replies and departs from the room.
The detective takes a deep breath and fixes his tie.
"I'm gonna get that kid. Whether it's two days from now in San Diego or two months from now in Panama," the man remarks through gritted teeth.
On the edge of a beautiful clearing with the sun slowly rising in the dark sky, the cliff side is empty.
In a dark corner, sitting with his legs crossed and his back leaning against the rocky mountainside, a rugged looking teenage male sleeps in an uncomfortable position, his clothes dampened by the morning dew strewn about the grass.
Blake pov
With a horrible taste in my mouth and the freezing morning chill as a greeting, my heavy eyes slide open.
My head that was once lulled to my shoulder moves back to being held up as I tiredly take in my surroundings.
The first thing I notice is the soreness in my back and neck from the position I slept in. The second is that this isn't my bed.
What happened last ni— I start to say then the memories flood back in of yesterdays events. Starting from my pleasant morning before school, then the fight, then me running through town trying to gather supplies to disappear.
I made it here at dusk last night and camped out. Due to my rather preppy upbringing, I was never really taught camping.
I hug my damp jacket as I try and use the jagged wall to push myself to my feet, but this proves to be a huge mistake.
The first sign that this is real is once again, the sharp burning sensation that swims across my back. Luckily I'm in a spot where my shout of pain only makes the morning crows scatter.
I hunch over and hug my midsection as I bite my lip at the pain. The bruises across my face from the fight yesterday are sore but nowhere near as bad as the gashes on my back.
My hand touches a small device clamped to the waist band of my sweatpants. The device beeps to life and I feel the color drain from my face as a new major issue arises.
My insulin pump.
I was lucky enough to put in a new tube before school yesterday, but I would only have enough for TWO more days at most. Despite my luck in knowing finding this spot and having a place to hide, Type 1 Diabetes made sure staying in one place was not an option.
Being on the run from the law in today's day and age was already an insanely difficult task for a healthy person, but it's damn near impossible for someone with a medical condition that requires a constant medicinal pump.
Even worse, I can't exactly buy the insulin I use over the counter. I have a prescription that is refilled every 30 days. I couldn't sneak into my house to retrieve the rest of my supply, plus seeing my parents in what I predict to be utterly devastated and worried sick wasn't something I couldn't stomach.
I wanted to curse whatever Devine entity that decided for me to be born with Type 1 Diabetes, but God was the only company I really had at the moment.
I sit back down and think long and hard about my next move. There was little to nothing I could do. Nobody I could turn to and very few places I could go.
Anytime someone looked at me, they could very well know who I am and report me. However, while it was just a school fight and it wouldn't normally lead to any media headway, two potential fatalities would make national news.
Whenever I imagined some fantasy world where I was famous, I never once pictured myself as a criminal. The fame I pictured was being a superstar of some kind or someone the world loved. Now, if Noah was dead, I'd be listed as someone who murdered a family member.
I pray that somewhere, he's still alive and fighting. I remembered him coughing and sputtering blood on the ground barely conscious, his face, the cops, everything went wrong.
Whatever punishment I'd face one day, whether it be prison or if I managed to ride this out then God would certainly judge me in the afterlife. I don't think I'd like the answer.
I'd completely deserve everything. Those decisions weren't because of Miyagi Do, Kreese, or anyone else. I committed an atrocity on my own terms. I could only blame myself no matter how hard I tried not to.
Whether it be yesterday, today, or even tomorrow, my face would be right there on the news right along with…
I would be compared to him. Robby Keene.
The pit in my stomach starts to churn as the image of Robby's face came back into my mind. His bruised face as he looked shocked at what he'd done to Miguel. I imagined maybe even a little guilt crossed his features.
As much as I desire to just throw conclusions at the wall about how Robby felt, the facts were the facts. I could deny Robby felt any remorse because he hated Miguel and not to mention he'd found out Sam cheated on him WITH Miguel about ten minutes prior, but even the little time I'd spent with Robby when we weren't fighting each other had shown me that he wasn't a horrible person.
I wanted more than anything to scream at the top of my lungs about how he did it on purpose, but I knew better. Not even Kyler Park would do something like that on purpose. At least I hoped not.
The memories of Keene being a halfway decent person made me hate him even more. Why couldn't he just be a complete asshole?
He'd no doubt be in the same state as myself, then it hit me.
No… absolutely not. Hell fucking no!
I was not about to even consider looking for him.
"But I don't have a choi—" I whisper out loud.
"YES I DO! I could figure this out on my own. I don't need HIM! He killed Miguel! He's the enemy," I respond to my own words.
"But everyone's an enemy to someone like me. They'd send the pigs after me in no time flat," I argue.
As the thought I've been trying to justify burying for the past few minutes painfully takes over, I bellow in rage. I scream and pick up a rock.
"FUUUUUUCK! GOD FUCKING DAMMIT! NO! NO!" I scream and throw it off the cliff as far as I can.
I hated every aspect of this nuclear option. There wasn't another option. If I stuck around on this mountain, I'd be dead in probably about two weeks because my insulin would drain and then my body would slowly shut down.
Keene had to have some skills. He was one of those degenerate teens after all. He ran around with petty criminals growing up and they certainly wouldn't have kept him around if he was of no use.
I had also been lucky from a certain point of view in this department. Due to the mafia, my dad drilled all kinds of methods into the heads of my brother and I.
We'd been forced to learn Russian to the point where I could read and speak it nearly as well as English.
Authors note: This is something I've been waiting to reveal for a while. I swear I didn't just asspull it. Blake is indeed bilingual and his Russian is nearly as good as his English, but he's just never had to use it.
I hated learning it, but that had been only a one. We learned how to hide in plain sight easily by blending in, how to distinguish cars based on the sound their engines made, how to survive in all parts of town with every different class of people, and most importantly, how to cover our tracks.
I had been lucky enough to grow up rather rich, but we'd learned how to live in the slums, ration food properly, and knowing what people of different economic backgrounds desired and needed opposed to others.
The survival skills my brother and I had been forced to learn may be what keeps me hidden and somewhat alive.
My stomach rumbled as I went over these realizations in my head. Rationing food had been something my dad glossed over because it was rather self explanatory, but now I'd be forced to make it a priority.
I had basically panic bought a bunch of trail mix and other snacks that weren't simply empty calories that tasted good.
I began to eat a pack of trail mix as I walked to the small creek by the tree overlooking the beautiful view of this strip of land.
I filled up my water bottle and downed it multiple times before refilling it to consume once again. I went at it until my stomach felt like it would pop and my insides even seemed waterlogged.
I looked at the view once again as the sun had fully risen now and I came to the realization that I couldn't stay here. As safe as this place was, staying here would only delay the inevitable.
The longer I hide, the more time the police have to gain an advantage. I have to move on.
I close my eyes and sigh before saying a silent goodbye to the place that had been a short safe haven and beginning the hike down from the mountain.
Authors note: pretty introductory first chapter, but obviously things will pick up quite quickly as Blake is forced to form a plan as well as continue the ongoing battle with his conscience about whether to do the right thing and turn himself in or keep running.
Also, how did you guys like the inner battle with Blake regarding Robby? Do you guys think he'll swallow his pride and try to seek out Robby or is he better off on his own? How will he deal with not only his diabetes, but also the gashes on his back?