Barreling through a tangle of clothes hang-drying on the 5th, a squadron of police vehicles scattered them sideways. They appeared out of the blue, flashing their blue and red lights, blaring sirens, and momentarily bringing bedlam to a peaceful residential neighborhood. When they disappeared, following closely after them appeared Corby's fatass Buick and scattered the rest of them drying clothes–not a bullet but a cannonball.
"It's a hot day in hell!" Corby murmured under his breath, directing his Buick forward. "You better get used to it."
His computer screen flashed with information the little magic box was giving it, in spades now that the reports on the red-haired boy were pouring in. The city map was now peppered with the marks of his most recent appearances. And, looking at the screen, Corby wasn't surprised. He figured as much. He knew from the start the boy was going to be in trouble. From the first moment he saw him, he knew as much; he knew he could bet on it. And judging by the commotion, he was right. The boy was in all sorts of trouble.
Following a large squadron of police cruisers that was starting to resemble a small army now, Corby wondered if the entire NYPD corps were up in the air today, converging on a single redheaded target.
"Jesus, Loo, what did you do?" he asked and shook his head disapprovingly. He'd never seen a tussle this big before. And–in this city–he'd seen a lot. He guessed, in the end, it couldn't go any other way with someone like Loo. He just wasn't any sort of ordinary type of person.
Buick shook and shuddered with Corby pushing its speed limit now, though turbulence was a small price to pay if he wanted to keep up with the police and get to the boy the same time they did, or maybe even before that if he was lucky. He wasn't sure though how long the old rickety Buick was going to be able to hold on for; it wasn't taking the speed all too well. But, for the time being, it was holding. Corby missed this. The chase, the adrenaline, the smell of burning insulation. He grinned; he really missed this.
"You just hold on, buddy," he muttered to his metal friend. "You just hold on a little while longer."
"Your vehicle's rental agreement expires in…Forty-two minutes," the computer chimed in again. "Please return your vehicle to the nearest Alamo station."
"That's where I'm going, shut up!" Corby sputtered, aggravated. The darn speaking box was stressing him out. He wished he had the money to buy not rent; the model that was on the market right now came without the speaking box.
Usually, he was good at keeping it cool in situations like these (it was his job to keep it cool actually), but not today. He was majorly out of shape and he knew it. That was why he was feeling like this, stressed out, over a darn speaking box. He really did let himself go over the last few months, didn't he? And now he was finding it hard going from zero to a hundred.
Following the police squadron, he turned the corner on the 58th, and on the 58th–as if there weren't enough of them there already–even more police vehicles joined in, merging into the prime swarm like bees, and together headed for the same target. Corby found himself right in the middle of all this. But at least, he knew he was going in the right direction.
His heart was beating uneasy in his chest. This wasn't anything like one of his regular missions. And he was feeling unprepared and clumsy, which contributed even more to his unsteady heartbeat. Him being clumsy was rich. General Monroe would have had a good laugh. The best soldier in her squadron, his ass.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, strengthening his resolve. No matter how bad he felt, he wasn't going to abandon his mission. The boy needed him. He couldn't back out on him now. If only he was flying his spacefighter, not the Buick. His spacefighter would have been much better at this. It was a darn good Buick, but it wasn't a spacefighter! Turbulence, for one, was squeezing it like a can of sardines; parts of its chassis kept falling off voluntarily. Corby could see them go off in the rearview mirror.
He'd sooner let it smash into smithereens though before he failed another mission, as much as he loved his Buick. He wasn't going to fail another mission so long as he lived; he promised himself as much. And he intended to keep the promise.
He stared intently at the map on the screen. "Come on, Loo! Let me see you."
In the end, Corby was the last one to zero in on the boy, out of a bunch of them police vehicles. He grunted, disappointed in himself. Nothing he could do about it though. He was royally out of shape, and he knew it. The boy, in the meantime, was spotted riding a city train. Not on the inside though, like a normal person. No, he was riding it on top.
Walking the metal roof of the train as if it were a sidewalk, he was unfazed. Corby supposed he wouldn't know the difference anyway. The boy wasn't from anywhere around here, he already figured, and it was going to make things harder for him. Because, if he wanted to save him from the dangers that lurked out in the world, he would have to save him from himself first.
Case in point, the boy went for a stroll on top of the moving train, unaware that it could be dangerous. Corby's stomach churned at the thought of what else he might do in the city. He was doing it so casually too, you'd think he never heard of the laws of physics. Doy! It was like, by default, he had some perverse (possibly alien) understanding of the world. The speed of the train, for one, didn't seem to bother him at all; it didn't even seem to tickle his instinct of self-preservation. Instead, he seemed to be having a lot of fun up there, not even realizing he was doing something wrong. He couldn't have been this foolish on purpose. Corby frowned looking at him. Who knew what he was going to do next if he didn't stop him?
Sure, he'd fallen from the sky earlier and survived it. Straddling a city train by comparison must have seemed like no big deal. But Corby knew it was a big deal. From his experience, lack of awareness meant trouble. If the boy thought he was invincible, he could have ended up with a misconception that was going to cost him his life. Corby wedged his foot on the accelerator, following the train; whether or not the boy was actually going to need him, he'd be there for him regardless.
The boy, on the other hand, was on top of the world right now, as far as he was concerned, literally and figuratively. He was, if nothing else, enjoying the city. The city looked great and it was exciting to finally be able to see it; he had a great vantage point too. And for the lack of understanding, he made up with enthusiasm, and also acute awareness because everything interested him. He didn't want to miss a single thing. He was built for this. Being alert and exploratory was what he was good at. He was curious by nature; looking at things with his eyes wide open, noticing what otherwise escaped the eye. And he loved it too. He was in his own element. Everything excited him. Very few people in modern-day New York would still be capable of something like this. Most of them went through their days with their eyes closed, going through motions absent-mindedly, without really seeing things, without being present in the moment. But not the boy; he wasn't like this. He was present, inquisitive, and he was taking it all in. He was open to the world with every fiber of his being. He thought the city was amazing, and he thought life was wonderful.
Through a maze of buildings, the train took him somewhere he didn't know where, and he didn't care. It was unlike anything he'd experienced before–the city. The scope, the magnitude of things, so many things moving. Not that he'd experienced much of anything in his life, but out of everything he'd experienced this was–by far–the best.
The train slipped in and out of tunnels that appeared and disappeared right before him, boring into the buildings like rabbit holes. As far as the eye could see there were buildings, towering over him. And just at the very top, there was a patch of baby-blue sky. He wanted to climb higher, to get a better view of it. He considered dismounting the train but before he got a chance, several police vehicles descended upon him from above, once again arresting his attention.
"This is police," an officer spoke, repeating his catchphrase, a little more forcefully this time. "You are surrounded! There's nowhere else to go. You're gonna slowly turn around and put your hands on the floor. Do you understand me?"
The boy turned to the voice, magnetized. The sound of it held his attention more than what he was saying. For his hunger to understand everything, his brain soaked information in, much like a cleaning sponge absorbed water, without allocating time for processing it yet though. His weird quasi-alien brain had unlimited processing power but it required time to warm up; first, he needed to learn how to do it. Until then, he was just going to let it all in–everything he encountered. And that was probably why when the officer stopped talking to him, he immediately lost him. The boy moved on to other things; there were simply too many to choose from. Small things, big things…everything seemed to demand his attention all at once. And he let his eyes wander, not having the presence of mind yet to stop himself, not understanding that some things were more important than others.
The train was gaining altitude now, moving diagonally alongside the wall of a massive building. The boy could see reflections of himself in the façade glass. Never before had he seen his own reflection; it fascinated him, suddenly, more than anything else. He waved his hand to the person in the mirror, and the person waved back. He cackled; he couldn't help himself. It was hard for him to make sense of it. It was simply…magic.
Getting calmer now, he studied his reflection more closely. Hidden under a fringe of ear-length red hair was his face, thin, fair-skinned, radiant. And those strange blue eyes were looking back at him from the mirror. He studied his own features, putting both his hands on his face. And it felt weird seeing his movements reflected in the mirror. He realized that both were the same thing though. Strange as it might have been, the person opposite of him was also him; and having studied himself sufficiently, he gave himself a congenial smile. Preoccupied, he didn't even notice that the police were still following him, trying their best to catch up to the moving train. He caught their reflections in the mirror behind his back now and turned around.
"Freeze!" yelled the officer. "You have ten seconds to put your hands on the floor. This is your last warning."
The boy looked curiously at the officer with his head sticking out of the side window. Which he found it odd that it was just his head and it was talking to him. In the eyes of the officer, the boy was odd-looking too. The thermobandages alone, not to mention that other than that he was practically naked. He didn't even have shoes on. He was standing barefoot on a moving train, and on top of that he didn't even seem to realize where he was even going. He was walking away from them now–
"Stop!" shouted the officer, scandalized. He was on drugs, must have been; that was the only plausible explanation.
But the fact of the matter was, nothing would have prompted the boy to stay in one place long, not with so many interesting things around, let alone put his hands on the floor, unless that was what he wanted. He moved to the other end of the train, curious now to see where it was going. The police followed him, though it was difficult for them to keep up with the moving train; their cars shook and shivered with turbulence. The boy simply didn't know what he was doing; they, on the other hand–all in their thirties, forties, and fifties–should have known better.
Corby flew several stories above the police, keeping close but not too close; he didn't want to attract unnecessary attention. If he went any lower they'd notice him. If he went any higher, he wouldn't be able to track the boy. He was trying to be smart about it, okay? Out of shape as he was, he wanted a good vantage point on the boy, so that he could have an upper hand on his competition. And the presence of so much police was beginning to get annoying.
Looking down at the scene, he made rough estimates in his head. There were half a dozen police cars at play here. Others (about twenty more) were soon going to join them. There was no way Corby could snatch the boy right in front of them, whisking him away from under their noses. He frowned, rubbing his eyes; he wished he'd gotten more sleep. There must have been another way to get him without getting into a full-blown confrontation. He looked down at the scene again, giving his calculations another go.
There was a tunnel up ahead. If he was quick, he could intercept the boy on the other end of the tunnel. The boy was going to get on all fours, he was sure, to make it through the tunnel, and the police sure as hell wasn't going to follow him. NYPD was a lot of things but not stupid. If he left now and skirted the building ahead of them, he'd be the first to catch the boy as he exited the tunnel.
Meanwhile, the police were done trying to communicate with the boy. All attempts failed. And it was pissing them off, quite frankly, how uncooperative he was being. Instead of talking, they decided it was time for the net gun. A door on one of the police cruisers opened, sliding aside mid-flight. An officer's head stuck out. He looked left and right, assessing the environment, and then he brought out his net gun.
The boy, meanwhile, was headed in the opposite direction. Walking the roof of the train with ease, even at about 80 mph, he was headed for the engine. The wind fluttered his hair, is all. He barely even noticed the speed. He was curious what the long chain of train carts even started with; he had no idea but he intended to find out.
When the net-thrower spat a mesh of silicone knots at him, he was facing away from it, so he didn't see it. The net swallowed him whole and he fell. It started to shrink around him then, immobilizing him completely. He tried to fight it but failed. The netting was too strong. He tried to push against it but it wasn't yielding. The threading was steel-hard. And when he tried to pull the links apart, the net hugged him even tighter. There was no way he was going to be able to break away from it. So he relaxed then and breathed.
Meanwhile, a motorized winch inside the police cruiser started to reel him in. He glared at the officers, chuckling at him. If he wanted out, he needed to try something different. He was being dragged by the winch legs first. He tried wedging his bare feet into the tiling of the train's roof to fight the winch but he was slipping; it was pulling too hard at him. Overpowering the winch wasn't a good idea then. And if he had no leverage against the winch, he figured, he'd better try and do something with the net again.
Angry and scared both now, he seized the rope that was attached to the net, and wrapping his stubborn fingers around it, he closed his eyes and focused really hard on it. His instincts were kicking in; he was done joking around now. If he couldn't fight the net, he was going to try and destroy it. The rope in his hands started to warm up. And then suddenly, both his hands became as hot as an iron. As if there was fire under his skin, the silicone the rope was made of started to melt. Little tendrils of black smoke started to come off of it. The super-composite in the boy's hands caught fire suddenly as if it were plain old plastic. Soon, the rope snapped. Zap! And the winch stopped pulling him. The net around him turned into a stringy melting mess, and all he had to do now was wriggle himself out of it.
The other end of the rope whipped back and lashed against the hull of the police vehicle. Still burning, it was fed back into the winch and when it gobbled it up, the whole spool caught fire. The officers just watched open-mouthed, and then the fire alarm started blaring and there was panic.
Having just freed himself of the net, the boy was suddenly plunged into darkness as the train entered the tunnel. Engulfed in flames, the police cruiser was left behind. Pressed tightly against the roof of the train, Loo breathed. There was nothing around but the echo of the bouncing carts reverberating against the walls of the tunnel; he was safe now. Before he even got a chance to look around though, the train slipped out of the tunnel and into the daylight again. And just as he was squinting his eyes to figure out where he was, an old yellow Buick descended upon him. The passenger door opened, and there he was…Corby! Smiling and waving his hand at him. And Loo, having recognized him at once, smiled back–his was the only familiar face he had in this whole huge city. He let out a sigh of relief, trembling. Tears of joy started cascading down his face. He couldn't be happier he'd found him.
"Loo!" Corby shouted.
"Corby…" he breathed.
"Come! Get over here," he said and motioned for him to climb inside the car. "We don't have much time. You gotta climb over!"
Corby reached out to him. Come! He wanted to reassure him that it was going to be alright; he was here for him. He wanted to help. The boy could trust him–was what he was trying to say, without actually saying it. Not that if he said it the boy would understand; his bad English and all. Though looking at him he could tell, Loo already trusted him. No convincing was necessary; he'd go anywhere with him. He was already rising to his feet.
Before he could make the jump though, Corby had to swerve to the left and a tangle of power lines separated the boy from the Buick. Corby had both his hands back on the steering wheel, having to watch the road closely again. Which it was no road; he was just flying alongside the train, making it through an industrial part of the city. The power lines came out of nowhere and messed everything up. Now the boy was more than fifty feet away from him.
"Jesus!" Corby yelped. Having managed to steady the Buick, he pulled over again, shortening the distance. When the power lines cleared, they were replaced by short mesh fencing. He couldn't bring the car any closer for fear of damaging it against the fence, and there was now a ten-foot gap between them, and Corby couldn't make it any shorter. The best he could do was keep the Buick very still, as still as possible. The rest was up to Loo now. Looking through the passenger's door at him, Corby was afraid the boy was going to have to jump. There were police sirens behind them; they were running out of time. Their eyes met just for the briefest of moments, and before Corby could even say anything–the boy was in the air, leaping off the roof of the train and thrusting himself toward Corby's yellow Buick.
"Shit!" Corby cried out. He leaned across the passenger seat and stretched his hand out as far as he could get without dropping the steering wheel–
Mid-flight, the boy reached for the hand Corby was offering–
A couple of agonizing seconds of uncertainty as he hovered over the abyss, his body stretched halfway between the train and the Buick, and–
He grabbed it, whilst most of his body was still in the air and only his hand and part of his head had successfully entered the vehicle. The car rattled and rocked when his body collided with it. It careened sharply to the right. Corby held the boy with one hand, while the other one was still on the steering wheel. He growled in pain, his tense muscles stretching beyond what they were willing to take today. He wasn't ready for this. But he willed himself to power through it. He'd been in worse situations than this; not recently mind you, but he had been. He knew he could do it. He had to do it, for the boy.
Trying to steer the car away from crashing into the nearby buildings wasn't easy though, while at the same time holding the boy. He was just dangling on Corby's arm now, as the Buick tilted sideways. If he let go of him, he'd fall. And it wasn't clear if he'd be able to make it through another fall. He survived it last time, sure; but what if he wasn't so lucky this time? Corby held on to him, tight; he didn't want to risk it. His growling soon turned into roaring and Buick's engines roared too. It was a pained vrooming sound the car was making. Corby knew he was probably pushing it too hard, as much as he did himself. Was he asking too much? Maybe he just wasn't strong enough to pull through it, and neither was his Buick. He'd pray but he didn't believe in God. So he just refused to give up, stubbornly. Deep in his heart, he knew–as long as he lived–he wasn't going to fail another mission; he'd rather die. And he was right about that one.
He managed to pull through in the end. The Buick righted itself finally and the boy was able to climb onto the passenger seat. He was panting but he was happy, beaming at Corby. With both his hands back on the steering wheel, Corby smiled at him too. He exhaled with relief; the boy was safe now. As long as he was with him, he wasn't going to let anything bad happen to him. He promised himself he'd protect him.
"Hi," Corby whispered to him.
"Hi…" the boy replied tenderly.
And that was when a police car came crashing into them full speed from the rear. Corby was pushed into his seat, saved by his seatbelt. Loo, on the other hand, was uprooted and flung onto the backseat.
"You gotta be kidding me," Corby spat and looked back. There was an armada of police cruisers behind. The boy lay unconscious in the back, knocked out by the impact. There was nothing Corby could do about it now though. Police required to be dealt with.
He clasped his hands back on the steering wheel and punched a few buttons on the control board.
"You wanna play it hard…?" he mouthed.
"Your vehicle's rental agreement expires in…" the computer voice interrupted him. "Two minutes. Please, return your vehicle to the nearest–"
Before it could finish the sentence though, Corby pulled the speaking box with a distinct crunch out of its compartment; he threw it triumphantly out the window with a satisfied smile on his face.
"Let's play it hard!" he finished and wedged his foot on the accelerator.