Wings || Peter Parker

43: Change

TW: Guns, blood, violence

Harley's POV:

I stared at her as she dropped off the side of the roof, glaring at the figure as she disappeared.

Her wings flailed around her as she fell.

Her arms reached out for me, or the edge of the building. 

I turned around and walked away, waiting for the familiar flush of feathers.

Instead, I heard a thud. A real loud, metallic thud. 

Then another. A crash on the ground, and breaking bones.

I turned back around.

"Max?" I whispered, walking to the edge of the building.

Footsteps.

Voices.

Dragging on the concrete.

I ran to the side.

She was gone.

All that was left was a puddle of blood and feathers. No Max. She didn't fly.

The sudden realization struck me hard. She was gone. Gone, gone. Maybe even dead, gone.

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

I turned around, spinning in a circle. I grabbed my hair, jumping over the side of the building to climb down the fire escape. 

I scrambled down the stairs, grabbing a rusted metal bar off the ground as a weapon.

I lept to the ground, landing in a roll thanks to training.

Sprinting to the end of the alley, I inspected both ways. The streets were empty, quiet. 

A car door slammed and I whipped my head sideways to the right.

A man dressed in black slammed a van door shut, climbing in the driver's side seat and starting the engine.

"Hey!" I shouted. "HEY!" 

I sprinted after the truck.

My footsteps turned heavy, my feet landing hard on the ground with each step I took. I was never good at sprinting.

"STOP!" I shouted, racing down the street after the van. It was pulling out of the parking spot, steering into the road.

Tere were still cars out, the street wasn't deserted. The van was having some trouble pulling out of the parallel spot it was in, leaving me room to gain distance.

I wasn't that far. Max couldn't be much farther.

I waved the rusty bar in my hand, ignoring the chips stabbing my palm.

A police siren went off in the distance, and every car pulled to the side of the street. The van driver took that advantage.

I was still a few feet behind it, and there was a car directly in front of me.

I grumbled and dropped the bar, vaulting on top of the car's trunk and up over the metal vehicle. I raced to the other side, taking a running leap at the black van.

I grabbed the handle just before I fell, my slip-on vans dragging on the road. I panicked, scrambling up onto the ledge and holding onto the handle on the outside of the door.