The cop he lands on is more cybernetics than human meat so even though he knocks her down he does more damage to himself than her. His shoulders were already in pain from being dragged around, but now he thinks they're both borderline dislocated at the joint. However extreme the injury will turn out to be, the pain leaves him gasping facedown on the asphalt.
A cop in riot gear and a full-face helmet hauls Dime up by his left arm. He gets to his feet, but he has to lean on the cop to get that far.
The cop he landed on gets herself up too, her face's white skin is flushed red and her eyes are narrowed. She grabs the sleeve of his coat on his right arm and yanks.
"I just fell from a great height, be a little gentle," Dime tells her. She yanks harder so his sleeve slides down his arm enough to strain his shoulders. He tries to twist away but a sharp pain that radiates up his neck makes him go still again.
Somehow they get his coat off without releasing him. He's sweat through his shirt and the night air hits him like a blast of cold even though the temperature itself is probably more on the scale of balmy. Dime does his best not to shiver. He thinks it might do something horrible to his injuries if he does.
The cop he landed on holds up his coat with one hand and wobbles it like she's testing its weight. She maintains eye contact with Dime the entire time.
"I get cold," Dime says. He's done this all before, he knows if he rolls his eyes at her he's going to get a beating.
A different cop with their own full gear on comes up to him and starts to pat him down. Touching his knee makes him wobble, he leans heavily against the first cop to manhandle him just to keep his balance.
"No guns or knives," the painful toucher announces. Their voice sounds deep from inside the helmet.
"Never touch the stuff, officer," Dime says, tries to get his breath back.
They don't let him recover. With the two cops in full riot gear, one on either side of him, he's marched around the back of the warehouse, past the dumpsters and sealed metal crates stacked haphazard against the property wall and the building itself, right onto the sidewalk of the street. Then he's more dragged than marched down the sidewalk to where all the cop cars and SWAT vans are parked.
One lane of the street is entirely taken up by law enforcement vehicles. The other lane is still open to traffic, but some cops must be directing the cars because he can't see any head-on collisions, just careful batches of cars going one way and the other.
The warehouse gives way to the loading lot and the stacked shipping containers that Dime tried to use as camouflage while he skulked around. It's sparse enough to see the hullabaloo at the front from the street, and that's how Dime spots his Hero and that damn teenager still there shooting at the weird liquefied corpse ball.
"Hey! Run!" Dime shouts at them. The cop following behind him smacks him in the back of his head and he lurches forward.
The cops dragging him make him get upright again with quick yanks on his arms and when his vision clears from the sparks of white he can see the teenager hauling ass in the opposite direction from the cops, but his Hero is still fucking standing there being all heroic and martyr-like.
He's dragged to the open double doors of an empty van and thrown inside. He doesn't really know what way is up but these damn people seem to not have the same issue because before he figures it out he's chained to the wall of the van direct and the cop he landed on is throwing his coat onto the floor in front of him before wandering off.
He's not alone. He has a guard, rifle trained on him, but the young man is looking towards the warehouse. Dime breathes through his teeth so he doesn't vomit.
YOU ARE READING
Midnight FistfightScience Fiction
Dime is tired; he's just out from a decade-stint in prison, trying to find something to do to make money, and all he has are the scams that kept him afloat while behind bars and some supplemental thievery work given to him by a sympathetic mercenary...