Identity [Gerard Way] *Completed*

Chapter Thirty Four

Never in my life have I felt as panicked as I do right now.

I don't even know why I let Gerard convince me to leave without him in the first place.

A whirlwind of outcasts storms down the cold halls, their footsteps a triumph, like a stampede of horses plowing by. And, yes, I'm amidst all of this. When Gerard had told me to go, promised he'd meet me, I had quickly raced back into the halls. Remind you, I'd thought the remaining outcasts had all cleared.

Well, I had been wrong.

They'd brought the IT with them, too.

And now, here I am, feeling out of place in a crowd where I'm supposed to have a sense of belonging. There's something wrong in the air as I follow them, though. Like following this crowd is the wrong thing to do. Maybe it is. Maybe I should break away from them. Besides, it doesn't seem I'm doing them any good. I'm slow. Weak. Falling behind.

Most of the runners are fast, legs carrying them faster down the halls, sharing the common "I never run out of air!" trait. Whilst most of my fellow outcasts are doing fine, determined, acting much like Gerard would in this situation- some of them are acting a lot like... me. As the people in front sprint their way closer to freedom, the impending shouts of police becoming the least of their worries, the weaker ones are starting to fall back. I hear some of them call out to the others in front. Maybe they know them. Maybe they're calling out for help. Or maybe they're just calling out to complete strangers, asking them to stop, hoping they'll wait like a friend would. I don't know. I only know that they aren't stopping. The stronger ones still speed ahead, ignoring the few that are behind. It brings a sinking feeling into my stomach.

Or, perhaps that's just the exhaustion.

During this time, I've been the one who's at the very back, going from a fast gait, to an awkward, limping pace. The weaker outcasts are even starting to fade away from me, closer to their freedom. None of them turn to me. None of them ask what's wrong. Offer help. They don't even raise an eyebrow, or turn their heads. They don't care. They only care about escaping. They only keep going, their figures becoming nothing. The whole crowd of what I assume is the remaining outcasts disappears around a corner, far away from where I'm standing... still amongst the endless cells.

It's my leg. It was doing alright before, but I knew I wouldn't be painless forever. I knew the pain would come back, knew it'd be right when I needed my leg most. I actually nearly forgot (or maybe entirely) about the bullet wound, and, yeah- the leather jacket still bound tightly around. I'm surprised my leg hasn't lost all circulation. Why I'd felt nothing while I was sitting bored in a cell? I'm questioning it, too. I guess it's the shock from running so suddenly? I'm not sure. After all, I was running before, and my leg was barely bothering me.

I blame science.

I can't continue, though. Not like this. Yes, predictable of me, I know. But it's useless to keep hobbling along, the police right on my tail. Even though they're not directly behind me, I can sense their presence, along with the small noise that they're creating from somewhere. They're on their way.

I come to a corner and duck out of the hallway, sliding to the ground, hoping that no one rounding the bend caught a glimpse of me. I know they're getting close. I don't have to peer around the wall to know that. It's one of those moments where you can simply feel what's coming.