He'd been given a head start he didn't deserve, and he ran until his heart almost gave out. He ran until his legs were breaking down, the muscle not rebuilding itself, he ran until exhaustion almost made him give in, as he dragged himself along the alleyways trying to avoid the vibrant red of the late-nightlife.
His wound had reopened, bleeding again. His fingers started to go numb, and so he followed the doctor's orders, taking some pills with a shaky hand. Slumped against a wall, it's hard not to recognize a voice parting with the people in the building he's slumped against.
"Got a smoke?"
It's all he can think to ask, grey shirt tattered and bloody, bandages blooming red on his shoulder. His glasses are gone, his eyes exhausted. "Maybe better not, or else..." he taps his own shoulder, "You know."
And of course Midvalley would know. And of course Midvalley may not be able to help him, but...
"Can you hear them comin' yet, or do I have another minute?" He doesn't have to elaborate on them. The noise would be clear, crawling from the alleyways and over the rooftops. Footfalls, gunshots. Screams.
(Don't think about that.)
"You should prob'ly figure out quick if yer gonna be helpin' them or me. Or turnin' right back 'round into that club and pretendin' ya didn't see shit."
@burytone
