Callisto

Pursuer

His eyes and mouth shot open, and he breathed in the charged air around him. It entered his lungs and died there, swallowed and spat out almost as quickly as it had found its way in.

His senses slowly returned, and he scanned his surroundings, taking in what he could before the agony coursing down his lower body caught up to him.

A broken, empty alley. The orb sprinting away in the street at its end. He could feel the taste of blood in his mouth and the hot sensation of it oozing down from the top of his head, obscuring his eyes. He wiped it away.

Then he felt it.

He groaned, gritting his teeth and spitting out a chunk of viscera that had risen and collected in the back of his gullet. The focal point of the pain was centered on his lower body, and in trying to reach for his legs, he saw that they were trapped under one of the chopper's rotors.

He pushed it off slowly, feeling the blade detract from his kneecaps and tear away the Kevlar plating along with pieces of his own flesh that had melded with the electrified metal. He kept his breathing steady – moving the blade slowly, first off his leg, then away, pausing to rest and feel the pain wash through him, letting it run over and out, over and out. Then he pushed again.

The final push brought a roar from his lips as the rotor was dislodged, and he looked down to see his limbs" bloody mess.

A bone, stark white and bloodied against the dark walls surrounding him, stuck out of the side of his left shin.

He allowed himself a moment to lie back and feel the burning scent of the charnel city fill his nostrils. Feel that fire. Be the fire. A thing of flesh is weak. Meat's good only for cooking. You aren't meat. You're the flame that burns it.

He positioned his arms behind him and pushed, saliva dripping from his mouth at the effort. He pushed, feeling the leg crack under the pressure, sweat dripping from his burning forehead. Then he stopped.

Maybe you're not cut out for this after all.

He ignored the voice. He closed his eyes tight, shutting off his mind to it right now. He needed grit, not doubt. He cast it aside.

He tried again, pushing with all upper body strength he could muster, even knowing that his right arm must be numb – he must have made contact with the living electric light the little bitch had used to her advantage. He had to give her props for that. He had enjoyed himself too much and had gotten too emotional being so close to the end.

That wouldn't happen again.

He shifted his weight to let the left arm take the brunt of the work. He roared like an injured beast in the alley, swearing and releasing the rage that filled his lungs with every inch he moved off the ground. Through the will that had carried him this far, he managed to free his right foot and use it to help propel himself up, grabbing a piece of rubble ejected by the chopper to steady himself.

He looked down as he felt the foot of his other leg drag across the ground, limp and useless. He reached into his vest and took out the gauze and morphine pack, testing the syringe against the light of the spark that passed by every couple of seconds – about thirty to his count – and fashioned a tourniquet to bind his arm and found a good vein. His strength slowly renewed as he felt the drug flow through his system. At the very least, the pain flooding through him from his leg was dimming. But it was useless, and it would only slow him down.

He limped forward, still grimacing with each step at the stab of dulling pain that ran up his side. He ignored the bone down there. His eyes were focused. Present.

At the end of the alley, he found the main road again, flanked on both sides by the dismal specters who regarded him with silvery, sunken eyes. He ignored them and limped on, holding onto the sides of tables to keep himself upright.