by P. S. Power
Shaking his head he asked Lancaster about it.
"Wait... am I the one in the wrong here? Did I do something bad? I beat up a man that attacked me, true, but last night I beat up a lot of people. More than I ever thought my sorry butt could manage. Why should he be different? Because he had on armor at the time and was trying to hurt me personally, not just someone I didn't know at all? Am I not allowed to protect myself from harm? Doesn't that count as him trying to interfere with a government agent anyway or am I just some guy you've all been stringing along? He attacked a federal agent. Then these guys did the same thing, doesn't that trump their later claims against me? It's hard to think, but... Isn't that right? They should be in trouble..."
Brian knew, on some level that he wasn't making sense. Everyone looked at him funny. Like they were scared of him. Odd, since almost everyone in the room could take him in a fight right now, even the nurses standing off in the distance.
He stood there, saying nothing, waiting for an apology, not wanting to kill all these men, but not knowing what else to do. There wouldn't be any other way to punish them, they'd just get a slap on the wrist or even a promotion for having come to try and get him, illegal or not. He mentioned this to the room, which made about half of them wince.
The cops shifted uneasily, but a few of them smirked, knowing what he said was true. Yeah, that was a sign of trustworthiness. Brian wondered if anyone else in the room really got how evil these men had become?
About two minutes later an older man, white hair, a little overweight, not that Brian could cast stones there, knowing how that could be, came into the hallway where everyone stood. From the wound on his right, Brian saw a line of red had seeped down his arm and made a small but visible puddle on the floor at his feet. The older man looked at the situation and called Lancaster over to him with a head nod and a wave.
After a minute he nodded and stepped forward, smiling.
"Gentlemen..." He addressed the police directly. "It seems that we've had a small error in communication. You've illegally entered a secure government facility, assaulted a man in his sick bed after he directly assisted in the location and recovery of fourteen hostages, many of them the family of high-ranking officials in your own government, and you did all of this without a warrant." He smiled warmly and spread his hands wide.
"As the director of this facility, I'm inclined to give you all the benefit of the doubt, you understand? But... well, Mr. Yi here was taken, beaten extensively for several days and held illegally by other police officers less than a month ago. That, on top of the attempted unlawful assault by CERT team member Byron Wiese last night, and now your attempted kidnapping of the same federal agent... This is not looking good for you right this moment."
It started to dawn on some of the police then that they could actually be in some trouble, real trouble, not the kind that their union rep could get them out of with a paid suspension or pat on the back for a job well done. They didn't say anything, having learned over the years that talking tended to get you in more trouble, not less, Brian bet himself. Maybe he was being unkind to them, but some of the charges cited sounded pretty real to him. Like coming in without a warrant and trying to take him without cause. The courts might not see it that way, which he mentioned to the man, the director, standing in front of him.
This got another grimace from about half the people from the facility, but Brian didn't have enough energy to care right now. If he'd insulted the man... well... screw it. He could apologize later, or leave, or be killed for it.
Whatever the guy liked.
Right now these guys would probably walk, like the others had for hurting him before. Why not, they did it every day.
He felt really tired and wanted to sit down, but figured he wouldn't be able to get back up, too much blood pooled at his feet. He needed to deal with this now. Looking around Brian saw that one of the agents stood looking at the scene, but not him. He walked over and pulled the man's gun from its holster, just tugging the jacket out of the way and taking it with one hand, clumsily.
The man made a very sharp looking martial arts movement, that missed, since the weapon didn't point at the agent at all and the loopy movement Brian made when he turned spun him out of range totally. The man struck air instead of him and didn't think to follow him fast enough to be of use.
It took both hands to work his right hand into position, get the weapon turned over and thread his finger into the trigger housing. Using his left hand then, staggering at the same time, Brian managed to get the safety off. He pointed the handgun from about nine feet away at the man that had grabbed his right arm and caused the bleeding to restart.
The Director, not even sounding overly concerned, asked him what he might be doing. Like it was just asking about the weather, or a picnic.
"I'm about to go out, too much blood loss. I can't count on any of you to protect me, so I have to make sure this guy doesn't kill me. Even if his buddies do, he won't live to see it..." Brian managed to pull the trigger, an act of will more than anything, the weapon jumped in his hand, but nothing happened. No bang. He squeezed again, but it didn't even jump this time. His mind felt fuzzy but he thought he got it then. Mark had come. He'd removed the bullets from the weapon so that he couldn't protect himself from these monsters at all.
Damn.
Staggering forward he tried to hit the man with the butt of the gun, but his friends jumped him and everything went black again.
For the second time that day, if it was even the same day at all, Brian woke up in a hospital bed, this time strapped down, hands and ankles connected to the frame - one far more sturdy looking than normal - with thick metal pieces meant to keep people with super-powers under control. He wouldn't be able to get out without help, he knew. Trying, struggling, would be wasted effort.
Brian knew he was dead, but that didn't mean he didn't count, at least to himself.
They'd decided he didn't, it seemed.
They wanted the killers to hurt people and let them go, picking him to be their prisoner instead.
Bad move.
Brian laughed at himself for having even thought that.
A small kitten would have a better shot of taking the people in this place on than he did right now. Even if he could get free, they'd gotten him so beaten up that he doubted he could walk more than a few feet right now without collapsing. Still, if he could, maybe he'd find a way to go somewhere safe, so that when he died fighting for someone, it would be on his terms, at least a little?
It seemed reasonable to him, but then somebody in this place didn't think so apparently, because here he was, a prisoner. True, he had been about to execute a man, but then again, he could still argue self-defense on that one. He'd had every reason to think his life might be in danger. Brian knew he still did. They'd strapped him to a bed, in a little room. They were probably going to let him starve to death, or die of thirst. That's what happened after all.
If the courts didn't see it that way, well, the courts could go fuck themselves. That gave him more reason to take the police out, not less. The system had to work to protect everyone equally or it lost its moral authority and just became a gang. Even after everything, all those police still jumped him and by the feeling of things, got a few shots in each before he got away. Brian wondered if anyone had helped him at all or if the police just didn't want to go down for his murder in front of witnesses and had stopped themselves?
He tried to listen, having nothing else to do. Pain wracked his body, but while it sucked, it couldn't be allowed to influence his decisions here. He needed to leave. Whatever else happened, these people weren't his friends. It made him sad to think that, but it had to be true, because friends wouldn't have locked him up like this. Brian hadn't tried to hurt any of them, just the people that hurt him. Even that only after the law had clearly failed, making it the right thing to do. You'd think they'd notice the difference. Focusing as hard as he could Brian tried to make himself relax, to let go of what he
could, as difficult as it would be to do.
If he could relax, maybe he could leave. Maybe. If Brian could make himself forget the pain long enough, trick himself into getting out... Yes, then he'd have to fight and maybe die, but if he died, then he didn't have to worry about all the rest of this mess. If he won, Brian would come right back here, true, but he didn't always come back in the exact same position. He could, possibly, come back without the restraints on.
Relaxation didn't come, so he closed his eyes and talked to himself, saying there wasn't any pain and that he could go now and help someone, that people needed his help, that was more important right now than him feeling good. It took a while, hours, but finally happened.
Brian stared at the man in front of him, he looked foreign and muttered at him in French, saying something along the lines of "where did you come from." Brian thought. His French sucked, but it was like that. Then without warning the man turned and ran.
Thank god.
The man had been old and weak-looking, but probably would have kicked his behind in a fight anyway. France was run by a gang of psycho Infected, so a lot of them ended up there, the guy was definitely going to kill someone, so odds were, given the likely location, he was a bigger threat than it looked like.
Struggling, Brian walked off in the other direction, carrying whoever the victim would have been away as fast as possible. She felt young, and very angry. So probably Infected too. That didn't matter.
It took a long time, most of an hour, which probably meant the old man had followed him for a long way, looking to attack or maybe to see where his victim had gone to. Hopefully he'd given up and the person he replaced would live now. If she didn't go back looking for revenge or something stupid like that.
Brian started to go back - skin feeling only a mild tingling - so he hunched down, wrapping his arms around his legs. It hurt to hold, pulling at his burnt back and the cuts on his chest, left side, and right arm, but when he found himself on the bed, his hands and ankles were free.
He smiled.
Brian had half expected the whole thing to fail and find himself back here spread eagle again.
He got up slowly, not capable of better speed right now, and shuffled to the door. Locked of course. Too bad no one had bothered to teach him lock picking or anything useful. Then again they'd only had a week and focused on exercise and fighting, which, honestly, helped him more so far than anything else would have. He still sucked at both, but had managed to fight through the stuff the day before all right. Mainly luck and bravado, but he'd done it. Maybe he could do it again?
Being trapped in the hospital room made him feel claustrophobic and caused him to think about the tiny cell the police had put him in to die. His breathing came in short pants, his heart started to race so fast he wondered if it would burst on him. Probably not, he had to be in pretty decent shape by now, at least good enough to keep him from having a heart attack like this. Anxiety attack then? He'd had a friend with those as a kid. The guy would freak, but he didn't die from it. Not that it would matter right now.
Death, it seemed, really was a viable option.
Having no other plan, Brian just waited by the door, ducking down to hide, wondering if the people watching the cameras were just laughing at him and waiting for him to get tired or bored? Still, he had nothing else to do, so he tried to do it well, holding as still as possible and ignoring the pain in his legs. Finally someone came through the door, a person in scrubs, so probably not there to kill him or provide a kicking.
He pushed the man all the way in to the room with a sudden movement and stepped out the door, pulling it shut behind him. The man had to have a way out, a pass card or code, but even a few seconds would buy time for Brian to escape, or at least find out his location before they caught him and beat him again.
Maybe he could find something to kill himself with, in case they caught him? That could work. He hated to do it and leave those people he might help all alone, but his choices had diminished to almost nothing. Either he escaped and did something drastic, like learn to live in the woods, away from people, or he died. If he stayed here, who knew what they might do to him? If he went to a town, the police might catch him and he had no reason to think they wouldn't just try to kill him or worse. He looked around the hall, empty and blue - painted this time instead of the warmer feeling wall paper he'd gotten used to - professionally done, but cold looking. It wasn't a friendly place.
Then, prisons never were.
No doors were open, no handy drug cart with cyanide available, or scalpels laying about. No guards either, so that at least had gone in his favor. He ran to the end of the hall, a slow shuffle to prevent his ribs, arm, and chest from hurting too much. The burns hurt, but then, they'd laid him out on them and left him there. Also a sign he might not be dealing with friends.
At the end of the hall the door wasn't locked. It had a key pad, but someone had been lazy and simply propped it open instead of using their code each time, a small black wedge-shaped rubber stopper had been shoved under. He kicked it loose on his way past, hoping he'd actually gotten somewhere and hadn't just trapped himself. The elevator claimed Brian was on floor eight, according to the number above it, a nice gold, shiny and official looking. One of the hospital levels, so they hadn't removed him from the building. Unless they had of course. Probably not, but he might be in Russia or something for all he knew. Someplace where keeping him for experiments or torture just because he wouldn't do what they wanted would be legal.
The elevator came normally, and he felt tempted to go to the first floor, up on the ground, but he needed real clothing, or at least more reasonable wear, and shoes. If he went out in the little paper cloth gown he wore, Brian wouldn't get far at all. On nine, if no one looked for him yet, if they weren't just following him, playing games, he had clothing. Not his, but exercise clothes that would fit. Would it be stealing to take it? More to the point, did he care?
Thinking hard, Brian went to floor nine and left the elevator quickly, trying not to run. He forced his mind as blank as possible and thought about the carpet, noticing the blue tightness of it, a great color really... He kept his focus on the environment, not letting himself think about the team leader he'd hardly ever seen, but who could read his mind. She probably already had been, but maybe not. If proximity mattered, he needed to be careful
Brian entered his room and dressed as fast as possible. He didn't have a coat, but the bed had a sturdy, blue-gray blanket under the comforter, he pulled that off and rolled it up as tightly as he could. Then he wrapped it in a towel from the bathroom, hiding it from casual observation. He didn't have anything that would work as a weapon directly, but there would be knives in the kitchen if he could get there unseen. Worth a shot, Brian figured. Unarmed he didn't stand much of a chance against anyone, especially armed police and super-humans that wanted him in custody. Or just possibly, now that he was escaping, dead.
Brian wished he had a gun, but those wouldn't work for him very well anyway. For that matter, a knife was hit or miss, but better than nothing, if he could get his hand to close on the handle hard enough. He'd managed the night before. Poorly.
Brian took his time, listening passively, not thinking of anything in particular, contemplating getting a sandwich and walking calmly to the kitchen. He didn't have time to make real food, but hadn't eaten in a while, so grabbed some cheese and broke half of it off the twelve ounce block and ate it while looking for the knives. They were in a wooden rack on the counter, nice silver handled things that looked sharp, not that he knew how to test that without cutting something. No time for it anyway. He got two pieces of bread and ate them as well, and found six candy bars, all of which he wrapped in the center of the blanket with three of the knives, two big and one small one that should be useful for something.
Carefully, still controlling his thoughts, thinking about air. Wonderful thing air...
Brian walked to the elevator, which opened in front of him almost instantl
y after pressing the up button, revealing Lauren and Bridget.
Bridget looked at him her eyes going to the bundle he held, nose twitching, as if she could smell the candy and maybe even the metal from the knives. The girl looked into his eyes and held his gaze for a second.
Then longer. Finally she sighed.
"Well," she said very quietly. "Fuck."
4
Lauren stood at the back of the elevator, her black and brown armored shell immobile, large black eyes that never blinked directed at Brian. Bridget bounced anxiously, not saying anything for once, looking back and forth between the other two. Not knowing what they would do, Brian decided to bluff his way through, if he could. He couldn't run from them after all, even if he had suddenly been healthy and in the best shape ever, either one of them could catch him without even trying. Right now they wouldn't even have to walk quickly to do it.
It would be embarrassing to be caught by someone meandering. Brian wanted to avoid that.
Fighting them would just be stupid. Wrong too. They hadn't hurt him or anyone else that wasn't trying to kill innocent people, not that he knew of.
Without speaking he stepped onto the elevator and saw that it had been set to go to the fifth floor. Not looking back, he canceled that and reprogrammed it for the lobby. Brian blocked the panel with his body until the door closed and they started moving. When he turned around Bridget looked afraid, but didn't try to step back. He tilted his head a little, wanting to ask her why, but not knowing how. Why would she be afraid of him? Maybe he'd read her expression wrong.
Was she afraid for him? That seemed more likely.
Lauren spoke first, her voice hesitant and eerily soft. "Brian... they told us you were on eight until you felt better..." Her voice came out without her moving at all, giving her an odd sense, like a robot had spoken instead of a person.
Brian shrugged, pain ripping through him, but not caring any more, he turned to face the giant woman that looked so intimidating, but had always been nice enough when they'd talked before.
