Beating of Black Wings
// @imwhatyoucalledme
There'd been a fight, hadn't there?
There'd been a storm. Bruised black clouds, cutting wind and the smell of coming rain. A bright blur of red and gold that dropped from the sky and rocketed after him in dogged pursuit, and a hard chase as the first drops ran into their eyes. The wind threw his pursuer's white hot beams off target, but the man in the metal suit was unrelenting, determined to clip his wings and make him fall. Lightning cracked the sky. In an instant, the downpour opened wide and swallowed up the lights of the city. The rain grounded them, forcing the fight into the shadow of an overpass. And in the end--
He lay in an unfamiliar bed in a dark, unfamiliar room. A hospital room, gray, sterile. The shades were drawn; rain ran down the windows in heavy sheets, hammering against the glass with each push of wind. A phone lay on the bedside table--his phone? He was cold and damp in his clothes, the kind of cold that sank down to the bone and left the joints aching. He hurt all over. But no broken bones, no open wounds.
There was another patient in the room. A dark haired man, unmoving, apparently asleep. Faint sounds came through the open door: footsteps, voices from the nurse station down the hallway. A phone rang, and someone picked up.
