Your side of the street's a little darker than mine.

[man_without_fear]

The night doesn't go exactly as planned.

Rumors have been swirling lately about a new dealer in the Kitchen. Based on what he hears, Matt is thinking drugs, heroin likely, and the trail leads him to a shady apartment above a dry cleaner on 46th street.

What he finds instead is a gun dealer's dingy flop and 'store front', and a group of would be gangstas in the middle of a deal. Not exactly what Matt was looking for, but that doesn't stop him from kicking down the door and mixing it up inside.

The problem starts with there being too many guns in the hands of thugs with no real experience handling them beyond their street bullshit. Matt spends half the time trying to make sure they're not killing each other or spraying the walls of the occupied building while gunning for him.

Things get worse when the window shatters and a tear gas grenade comes crashing through, exploding in the middle of the fight. Heavy boots are pounding up the stairs and Matt realizes he's in the middle of a raid.

The gas canister is a mixed blessing, obviously someone jumped the gun and started early, otherwise the officers rushing up would already be in position, but because they're not Matt has the chance to wrap up and get out.

The police will find a room of unconscious thugs and their weapons, Matt is just trying to find his way to the rooftop. He's hacking from the gas, the sting of it almost unbearable to his nose and lungs, and his ears are ringing from the detonation making tackling the stairs an especially fun feat.

Banging through the roof access he breathes in deep even as he moves fast to put distance between himself and the situation below. He's a couple blocks away before he realizes he's bleeding. He determines why and where when he tries to leap from a rooftop to a fire escape across the way and the grip of his arm on the scaffolding gives way, causing him to fall two floors before he hits a railing and crashes onto the landing.

Five minutes laid out on his back gives him time to decide he should go see Claire.

At half past two a.m. there is a knock on the window outside of the apartment Claire has been holed up in. Matt would just let himself in, but that seems like it'd be rude. Besides that he's spent out and busy using one hand to hold the bullet wound on his other arm which also happens to have a dislocated shoulder.

There's every chance upright is only happening at the moment because he's leaning on the window frame.

Comments

[nocturnalmedicine]

Claire hasn't been sleeping all that much since she pulled the Devil of Hell's Kitchen out of her Dumpster.

While her friend Louisa's apartment is cozy, Claire misses the comfort of her own place. And Louisa's shithead cat is aggravating her allergies to a torturous degree.

So two-thirty this particular morning finds Claire tucked into a corner of the corduroy sofa, nursing a steaming cup of chai and reading the Sunday Bulletin.

She's mid-sip, finishing up Ben Urich's latest piece, when the knock rattles through the silence of the room.

She goes still for a moment, and carefully sets aside her mug.

(The Russians wouldn't be so polite as to knock.

Or would they? The city has lost its damn mind as of late; if up is down, maybe social grace is the latest trend in criminal behavior.

But this can't be the Russians, can it? Rapping on a fourth-floor window in the literal middle of the night?)

Across the room, the cat — shithead extraordinaire that he is — stops licking his paw long enough to offer the briefest of glances toward the sill.

"Wonderful," Claire mutters under her breath, as the cat resumes his bath. "You're all heart, tiger."

She stands, the Bulletin sliding to the floor in a rustle of newsprinted pages. Squaring her shoulders, she approaches the window. Her breathing is even, but her heart beats faster with every step.