Kid Ballistic: Wounds

BANG!

Sid remembered firing the grapple gun across the alleyway; feeling its cable go tight. But he didn't remember the lean, the leap, or the fall. He missed all those steps and "woke up" mid-swing.

CRASH!

The boy in blue clipped his leg on a fire escape and veered into the brick wall opposite.

What am I doing? This was Sid's waking though as he came to from inordinate black, lying in a trash heap. His head vibrated a mean frequency, but he looked and listened past it: sirens were near. Air conditioners belched in concert above his head. As if the garbage wasn't clue enough: he was in Westside.

Sid rolled out of the refuse pile and onto the cool cement. His head screamed at him; his back joined in. Tears begged for an escape from his eyes and he fought them back. He started crawling towards the sound of traffic.

"Goddamn, I get it! I'm in pain. I'll fix it. Jesus." The young gun felt around till his hands found wall, and with derelict grace, he pulled himself upright. Mostly. Sid groaned, his mouth scraping the brick.

Through breath and mounting irritation, some focus returned to him, and the kid scanned again his whereabouts. Alright. Alright. Pieces: glue them, melt them, tape or string them together, already. You're drugged, or bleeding...

Sid touched his lower back, delivering a lovely kiss of anguish to his kidney's turf. That's a wound! It stung. It bled. But Sid ran his fingers under his vest. Dials went up, and it stung worse and bled worse. His body tightened, teeth grit together, resisting his bodily recon. Stab wound. Probably inch deep. "Gah!"

He scraped and shuffled against the brick wall, his body wincing and biting the whole way. He brought blood-wet fingers to his nose, leaving the other hand for pressure. There was no obvious scent of poison, and blood loss wasn't a concern. He was standing. He could think. Mostly.

"Lucky lucky lucky." Sid spat on the sidewalk. Now he smelled water, and his eyes found cranes against the night sky. The WCOC tower loomed bright and red on his right. OK. Near docks. Facing southwest. He kept his eyes open, and found his bearings. Rule number one. Good.

Kid Ballistic stood straight and strolled most non-nonchalantly, heading south and giving his pain a solid middle finger. The sidewalk was empty. Must not be last call yet. Sid eyed his wristwatch, and was vindicated: 12:32 AM. His wet fingers fumbled about his vest for some gauze or something.

"Just keep me going a few more blocks, and I'll treat ya. Some booze, some sleep, disinfectant. I promise. We'll get that pizza you like."

"Dad it hurts!" The truck fought with the "road" and it wasn't doing well. It jolted and bounced, aggravating Sid's wound. He dripped tears and blood all over the pickup's bed, and held his leg like it was trying to escape. Sid was a mess of pain, washed in anger and drenched in embarrassment. He hated the heat. He hated this road. But he hated the tears most of all.

His father was a dark, big figure looming at the other end of the truck bed. The headlights behind him were desperate, panicked, and keeping the line between jungle and road most tentatively.

"Of course it hurts. Keep pressure on it." Sid strangled his leg now, dumping his anger into the effort. Another bump in the road sent Sid's head into the side of the truck bed. Tears spilled again, and he growled. He clamped with his other leg, bracing across the bed, holding himself in place with foot and shoulder, turning away from his father.

"Relax. Breathe." Sid tried. He coughed and lost his grip on the truck. The child fought to regain it, and it hurt. It hurt a lot. His eyes slammed shut for a moment. But Sid willed them open, twisting past all the anguish. Eyes open. Don't break rule one He had disappointed the Boss enough for one day.

A light "CLINK!" at his end of the trunk distracted him. He could just make out the sheen of the Boss's flask in its corner, bouncing around like everything else.

Sid, clumsy as a baby, attempted a couple swipes for it. Every failure was an embarrassment. He could feel eyes on his back, reminding him of that. So he shimmied closer, an intensely painful maneuver, and took his prize. Teeth bit into the cap, his left hand doing the work of two on the bullet hole in his thigh. Now he faced forward.

His father wasn't even looking. Sid dumped bourbon into his mouth. He remembered, briefly, how he had hated it before. Now it was a tonic; a magic potion that burned his lips and throat. Even breathing burned now. But one pain can soothe another.

"Better? Done crying?"

"Yeah, Boss." Sid was lying, of course. But he hoped his father couldn't see.

A short, almost spiteful cool wind came, and the booze set in. The crummy road was almost a lullaby now - the truck - a rusty metal cradle. Sid stared at his leg. How much blood had he lost?

"Am I going to die?"

His father's reply seemed to come from far away, and it was lavish in disappointment as it was the cold hard truth.

"Not today, kid."

Kid Ballistic woke in his cot, making unintelligible noises that became humming the tune to Sinatra's "Nice and Easy", which flowed about his basement from the stereo. His eyes opened, and he had never been more thankful for steel and brick. His watch said 10:15 AM, and it was still so mercifully dark. KB flipped on the lights from his cot-side console and those hurt enough.

Humming became singing as an exploring hand reached back and found a dressed and presumably clean wound at his back. It was tender, so Sid reached for item number two on his list: the bottle of bourbon gleaming in fluorescent light next to his cot. "To rush would be a crime..."

His sitting up was slow and methodical, testing every movement for its pain response before continuing. Each shot of morning pain carried a chaser of groans and tears, but Sid choked them back. The moratorium on badassery had long since passed.

Sid's blue eyes snapped a mental picture of the basement; one of many safehouses. He had undressed, patched himself up, and got himself to bed. All this, without spilling blood, booze, or the beans on his secret armory. If his landlord knew, cops would be here. Bullet dodged, this time. The Boss would be proud.

Sid almost got on track, analyzing what had happened, trying to think back, seeking a cause to last night's effects. But he stopped himself. It didn't matter. He couldn't remember, and Sid didn't care for a repeat. He was alive, and pizza seemed a better way to start the day.

The squeek of a cork against glass pleased his ears. Sid let a burning, soothing pull from the bottle boil in his mouth. He exhaled, eyes shut in relief, before finishing the job.

"Oh yeah. Not today, Kid. Not today."