Cutscene: Taken III (Un-Betaed Draft) (Patreon)

Cutscene: Taken III

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The thing in Sparky’s hand wasn’t even a chair leg anymore.

Half of one at best, it was a jagged and broken thing that would be better thrown away, not even useful as a scrap of wood.

As a chair leg, it was worthless.

As a weapon, it was… probably not much better.

In Sparky’s hand, in that single moment, it was a godsend.

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The moment passed.

Sparky heard it, felt it, more than he saw it.

The squelching noise as sharp, serrated, pointed wood met the weaker, gelatinous surface that was the eye.

The spray of fluid and lack of resistance as the eye gave way.

He pushed forward without realizing it, acting on instinct, his victim falling backward and him dropping to the dusty hallway floor along with him. The large skinhead flailed and shuddered on the ground as his body acted on a much deeper, more primal instinct than the one Sparky had gone with.

Maybe, he would have screamed.

Maybe, if he was still aware enough to.

Maybe, if Sparky hadn’t clamped a hand over the mouth of the spasming gangster as he forced his weapon as deep as it would go into his eye.

And then even deeper still.

“Just die die die die die die die…”

It took Sparky several seconds before he realized he was the one speaking — chanting, more like — those words, his face pulled into a rictus of a grimace that irritated the wounds on his face, as many as they were. He kept pushing, unwilling to ease up for fear that whatever he did wouldn’t be enough and he’d be caught again.

Killed, if he was being honest with himself.

“Just fucking die,” he hissed to himself, more like a prayer than a demand.

It was several long seconds more before the man under him stopped moving completely, responding to the teenager’s pleading the only way he really could. The eyes of the now-corpse unfocused, dulled once more from the frantic panic that had set in for a few seconds until they came to a final stilling.

The hallway was silent again, nothing but the teenager’s frantic, hoarse breathing and the buzzing of the barely-working lights above his head. Is it- Sparky pushed the length of wood again, as if it could possibly go any deeper, rather than hope the job was done. It’s… over.

Almost unwillingly, he let go of the man's lower jaw and stared with narrowed eyes, watching carefully as the man’s mouth opened, moving oddly for a moment before it simply went slack. Still watching for any signs of life, Sparky remained on top of him in a sitting position, straddling the dead gangster’s body. His grip almost seemed plastered to the remaining bit of wood still free from the depths of the man’s skull, the teenager finding it hard to let go.

When he finally did, it wasn’t entirely by choice.

The disgusting stench that slammed his nostrils with almost a physical force was enough to shake Sparky back into awareness. The teenager jumped off the dead man’s body almost immediately, face pulled into a grimace as he began to gag.

Is that - shit.

It was.

For the second time in about twice as many minutes, Sparky found himself retching as the remaining contents of his stomach — still tinted an unappealing shade of orange — left his body, the entire mess covering the twitching corpse in the hallway.

Fuck.

Sparky wiped his mouth again as his body continued to bristle with energy. His eyes struggled to move from the dead body in front of him, tears pricking his eyes as he struggled not to vomit a third time. I…

The body twitched again, moving just enough that the smell of shit suddenly spiked again and the vomit on its chest pooled toward the blood-splattered face and neck of the dead man.

The gory sight filled the teenager’s vision, the entire hallway blurring as the single corpse grew overwhelmingly large in his mind’s eye.

I did that.

The thought flicked into his mind for a second, the same moment as he felt something churn behind his navel. The urge to vomit again reared up in his throat, as something like fear and regret began to overwhelm him

A moment later, it vanished as his frantic, nervous thoughts were slammed down by an equally cold fury. Yeah. I did that.

The thought of rationalizing it away came into his thought for a second. They kidnapped him, after all. They were gonna kill him. He was trying to escape and this guy…

Sparky glanced down at the large corpse at his feet, the man’s considerable bulk and the mess that was his face making it hard to look at anything else. This guy was gonna stop him from getting away, right?

Right.

Even then, he didn’t think about what he was doing, anyway. It was instinct, right?

Right.

Instinct. He didn’t think about it.

He just acted.

“…”

Sparky took in another breath, ragged and hoarse as another shudder went through him. He stood there for a moment hunched over, bristling with a nervous sort of energy that he could only be thankful for. Nothing to justify, he let out a long breath, hands on his knees as he began to focus on the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

That’s what Greg said, right? The voice in his head rings with a mocking sneer of a tone, his own sarcasm stabbing him in the back. The same thing you gave him shit for. Kind of a bitch move.

The teenager shook his head quickly, already cursing to himself under his breath. Nothing to justify. Nothing to justify. Nothing to justify.

He shook his head again hurriedly, the unspoken reassurance on repeat in his thoughts like a mantra. The dying embers of what felt like a conscience were crushed even further everytime he repeated it, thankfully enough. It was this conviction that fueled Sparky as he began to creep down the dingy hallway, body in something of a crouch as he crept forward as silently as he could manage.

Shuddering lightbulbs struggling under a poorly maintained wiring system buzzed silently overhead as he eased lightly from door to door. Sparky made sure to be careful with his steps, moving as quietly as he could to make sure that he didn’t alert anyone around. It didn’t also hurt that being quiet let him tell if someone was on the approach, either. That bastard said they were downstairs, right?

He had, the teenager confirmed to himself a moment later, sure of that fact.

They’re filming their initiations downstairs, his fingers curled into fists at that thought. Killing a bunch of kids and… and… He winced as another twinge of pain went through him, the whispered curse on his lips suddenly for two purposes. “Fuck.”

As much as he hated accepting it, there was nothing he could do about it, as weak as he was right now. He couldn’t stop them, no matter how much he wanted to repeat what he had just done to each and every bastard in this building. Even if he wasn’t beaten bloody or running on nothing but fumes and pure adrenaline, what was he honestly supposed to do?

Against a whole gang, especially?

He wasn’t a cape.

He wasn’t a cop.

He wasn’t…

“Greg.”

Another whisper left him, this one equal parts bitter and wistful. Closing his eyes for a moment, Sparky let out a long sigh, thoughts of earlier in the night stabbing his brain with regret. Fuck it, I’m a big man.

Sparky opened his eyes fully, one hand raised to scrape away the remnants of dried blood around one eyelid. I can admit it. I was wrong. He swallowed hard as he started forward again, edging carefully towards the flickering ‘EXIT’ sign at the end of the hallway. Kill em all. Salt the fucking earth.

If he was like Greg — if I had powers like that — Sparky knew he’d do it himself. He’d make every fucking Empire fucker scream and beg for him to finish it quickly, even. Make them suffer, more like.

He took in another ragged breath, just the thought of feeding the Empire their own medicine exciting enough to make his heart pound loud in his ears. Fucking hypocrite you are, he chastised himself, inner voice sounding distant compared to the bitter snark of before. Talking all that shit about right and wrong and now you wanna smash heads in. Just ‘cause it’s your problem now.

Sparky slid up against the wall next to the door of the stairwell, another labored breath leaving him as he did his best to ignore the pain of his bruises. A slowly building headache from who-knows-how-many blows he had taken since he had been snatched off the street was poking its unwanted head up as well, the already-tired teenager noted with an internal groan.

… Oh, fuck me. That same groan almost became external as he realized something else, the thought crashing into him in a sudden burst of awareness. My skateboard! My phone! The loss of both honestly hurt him almost as much as any one of the hits he had taken that night. Both of those together ran me like five hundred bucks and now they’re… they’re... fucking… fuck! Fucking fucking fuck!

A sigh of pure frustration escaped Axel’s mouth as he hung his head in defeat. Not enough they want to kill me, but they gotta murder my wallet, too. The tired teen pushed off the wall and slowly pushed open the door to the stairwell, wishing every Empire member a painful death under his breath as he stepped through...

“Hey, uh, Kev. I… uhh, I'm sorry, man.”

Those words died in his throat as Sparky found himself frozen again, heart beating in his throat as panic raced through his veins.

"Look, If I'd known you'd be back so quick, I wouldn't have taken your beer too, but… uh, I… at least it's not warm, r-right?"

The door closed behind him rather loudly as the man spoke, the teenager's eyes wide as dinner plates as he stared at the muscled, tattoo-covered and shirtless back of another member of the Empire 88.

“I mean…” The man let out a raspy laugh, not even bothering to turn around as he continued to speak. “No hard feelings, y'know?" The sound of liquid drizzling in a constant, if hesitant stream, began to fade as the man let out a sigh at the end of his sentence. “I’ll buy you a round tom-”

The word turned into a choked scream as the Neo-Nazi was struck from behind. He went airborne, head turning just enough for his frantic eyes to meet the cold ones staring back at him. Another cry left him, this one equal parts anger and shock, only to be cut short barely half a second later, overshadowed and silenced by another sound.

CRACK!

The sickening noise as his skull met the ground was louder than it had any right to be, the man’s body buckling from the sheer impact of it. A half-second later, his legs curled far enough to nearly meet the back of his head before slumping back down to the ground, the man’s unbuckled pants falling down to his knees and exposing even more bare flesh to his killer.

The sound echoed throughout the stairwell, clouding out everything else as Sparky stared down from the top of the steps. He stood almost perfectly still as his leg dropped back to his side, the appendage formerly extended for the Spartan kick that had been used to send the man to his maker. The teenager let out another breath, still shaky but a good deal more calm than his last few, as he came back to himself.

Hard kick. Small of his back. He hurriedly thought to himself, his brain restarting after a few quick breaths as he took stock of his own actions. Wow. W-wow. That worked.

Axel Ramon swallowed, hands gripped tight at his sides. That really fucking worked.

He glanced back down at the corpse at the bottom of the steps, the sight of blood as it began to pool around its head relaxing him for reasons he didn’t feel like delving into right now. He’s not getting up. Good. That makes two. Two. He tallied his wins, deaths at his hand marked in his head like a tally. That’s two for me. Zero for the empire.

The awareness that one win for the Empire meant his death was sobering, but it didn’t exactly change much either. They got the numbers and I got the motivation, he thought to himself, a giggle spilling from his mouth. It took another breath for Sparky to blink in realization as another thought came to the forefront of his mind, his own thoughts surprising him. For a long time — seconds or minutes, he’s really not sure —  he stands in shock, before his mouth grows into a wide smile.

The expression on his face pulls at the jagged cut across both his lips from Mal’s brass-knuckled blow, but he honestly doesn’t care as a bark of laughter leaves his mouth.

Fuck me running… There was nothing he could do but shake his head in bemusement as another hoarse laugh leaves him. He was right. It really does feel like winning.

“No hard feelings, right?” Sparky repeats the words of the cooling corpse, slipping into Greg’s familiar nonchalant peppy tone with an ease that’s almost frightening. “It was me or you, man, and I’m pretty sure being alive is better than being dead. Infinitely better, I think.”

Another laugh trails away to a painful cough as the adrenaline in his veins begin to ebb, the awareness of his wounds slowly poking their way back to the forefront of his thoughts. It is with the taste of dried blood on his lips that Sparky comes back to himself, realizing that he’s speaking to no one but himself in a dark stairwell. Fuck me.

“... I’m gonna need way more than antidepressants after tonight,” the muttered words are all he can think to say as he turned around and stepped away from the stairs, leaving his handiwork and the path leading downstairs at his back.

Mal’s dad had been pretty clear, thankfully enough, that the real party was downstairs and however many dozen junior E88 there were at this party would be waiting there to make their first kills in the name of the Empire. God, I hate this city. Apparently, he was just the cherry on top, so putting him away from anyone and everyone else was probably the guy’s way of making sure nobody offed him before his bouncing bully boy could do the deed himself. Okay, so downstairs is death and…

A pair of exhausted amber eyes flicked up to the dark stairwell leading up to what could only be the roof exit. Stairway to heaven? He thought to himself after a long moment, before nodding tiredly. Note to self: learn how to play that fucking song.

If you survive this, was what he didn’t allow himself to think.

Sparky stepped toward the stairwell, only to pause before he could make another forward motion. What the…  His gaze dropped to the ground, narrowed eyes having adjusted to the dim stairwell just enough to make out several objects right before he stepped on them.

In front of him were a few scattered and empty beer bottles, the logo of a snarling, frothy-mouthed doberman atop the words ‘Reservoir Dog’ staring back at him. None of those were particularly interesting as what grabbed Sparky’s attention were the shiny aluminum bat behind them and the cheap, dented flip phone resting alongside it. Score.

Sparky swept both up without hesitation, bat in one hand as he rushed up the stairs toward the roof as quickly as he could. He opened the stolen flip-phone halfway up the flight, intent on using it for a quick rescue only for something else to crash his mood. The smile plastered on his face rapidly turned back downwards into another frown as he tried to recall the number of the person who could actually save his ass, only for him to draw a blank.

What was it again? God, he gave it to me on Monday. Racking his already rattled brain for Greg’s number would have been hard enough already, Sparky realized with an audible groan, if the blond hadn’t gotten a new number along with his new phone after all the chaos of the bombings. Memorizing a brand-new number hadn’t been the most important thing on his mind, anyway. I’ve been saying this way too much but - “Fuck!”

The word was repeated several times as Sparky was met with another obstacle in his path to freedom, this time in the form of an uncooperative door. “Can I get a fucking break?” he hissed to himself, as he threw his shoulder against it. “Just one?” It took another hard shoulder tackle but the roof door gave way and Sparky stumbled out into the night, barely catching himself from sprawling to the floor.

“Finally.” The word came out in a massive sigh, Sparky taking a deep breath of the night air immediately after. Gotta try and see if I can find my way out of here. While the breath of fresh air calmed his nerves somewhat, it didn’t do much favors for his mood as Sparky found himself cursing the world and his luck just seconds after the fact. Peering over the edge of the roof in search of a working fire escape had turned up nothing but half-wrecked and dangerously rusted metal, the remainder of which was likely to kill him with a several-story fall if he tried to use it to even get halfway done.

Old-ass fucking safety hazard building. Sparky bit his lip in irritation at one more problem in his path, the taste of his wounds filling his mouth as saliva mixed with nearly-dried blood. Calling 911? Maybe… He considered the idea for a second before shaking his head at the pointless thought. Nah, the cops… Everybody knows Kaiser’s got the cops in his pocket. Might as well try my luck diving off the roof rather than trust those bastards.

The teenager bit down a curse as he tried to use his brain again, pushing past the fog in his thoughts and constantly-growing headache. Come on, c’mon, you know it. 5-0-8-4-7-4…

As he punched in each number into the flip-phone, the next one seemed to come instinctively, and by the time he had reached the tenth digit, Sparky could only hold his breath as the phone began to ring.

And ring.

And ring.

And ring.

And…

"Hello?”

Amber eyes widened. “Greggreg, brah, it’s Sparky. You gotta help! I’m in seri-!”

“What? Hello? Slow down, slow down, one sec,” Greg replied back, the blond almost shouting as he interrupted his friend. “Don't hang up.”

Relief flooded through Sparky as he heard his friend speak and his own voice came out hurriedly, equal parts rambling and pleading as he tried to say everything at once. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay? Like, you have no idea how sorry I am, okay? I-I-I’m kinda in a thing right now and it’s real b-”

“Ha!Got ya! You’re in my voicemail. The Greg-Meister is kinda busy right now but you know what to do after the beep.”

Amber eyes blinked.

“Motherf-”