The Magpie's Death

Gone For Good (2)

"Shit."

After letting out an annoyed sigh, the Magpie strolled over to the hunched body. Even taking off at his top speed, everything happened in seconds. The man hadn't made it far before collapsing to the concrete. Taking hold of his collar, the Magpie dragged him back, checked him for weapons, and tossed him on top of his friend.

"I was aiming for the back of your knee, but I don't use guns very often." The words were muffled under his black face mask but still clearly indifferent. "Guess I'm rusty."

After a second of thought, he searched them again, this time pulling out their phones. A single shot through each would buy him some time. Then he released the magazine from its well, slipping it into his back pocket as he dropped the empty pistol to the ground.

A quick glance told him there was sufficient damage here to start a rumor. His last two victims especially would be able to confirm that the Magpie, that mysterious shadow of the city's underground, had returned. And he was as skilled and coldhearted as the stories said.

Leaving his victims piled in the alley, he strolled to the fire escape, jumping high to pull the ladder down. A multitude of unpleasant sounds were loud behind him, but he paid them little attention and climbed until he reached the roof. Looking out over the street, he couldn't see anyone. They had chosen a sparsely populated area of Brooklyn for this location. Good for him, but not for the people he left in his wake. With a groan, he pulled the mask under his chin and tapped his earbud.

"Send an ambulance over here."

"WHAT?" Squirrel's voice was frantic through the tiny speaker and the Magpie huffed.

"When have I ever needed an ambulance? Two assholes came at me with a gun and I don't want them to bleed out in the alley."

His friend let out a relieved breath. "What do I tell them?"

"Gunshot wounds. One to the back of the knee, one to the upper calf." The Magpie headed down the street as he spoke, jumping from building to building, all crammed in together, until he came to a wide gap. "Squirrel. I thought you said this building was reachable?"

"You're kneecapping people now?" the light voice quipped, ignoring his question. "Really going all out before you leave, aren't you?"

"It was only one. I missed the second time."

He groaned again as he hung his head over the five-story drop. Whatever the rumors said about him, he wasn't invincible.

"What am I supposed to do about this alley?"

There was a soft giggle in his ear. "I'd like to help you with that, honey, but this frightened bystander witnessed a shooting and I need to call nine one one."

He heard a beep as his friend cut the connection and a louder groan escaped.

Dammit Squirrel.

Glancing around the space, he tried to mentally measure the distance. He was surprisingly quick and nimble for his size, but there was no way he could make it to the other roof, no matter how fast he ran. The fire escape, however, seemed within reach. If he timed it right, he should only fall one floor before he was close enough to grasp onto the outer bars. His shoulder still hurt from the bullet and one misplaced footstep or slip of a finger meant falling to his death, but there was no other option. He couldn't go back and he couldn't stay on the roof.

Backing up as far as possible, he took a deep breath and sprinted, moving as fast as he could and vaulting off the edge. He stretched his arms and torso as he plummeted to the ground, keeping his eyes locked ahead and not on the pavement rushing up at him. The instant his fingers brushed metal, he grabbed.

Choking out a hushed cry, his shoulders and arms tore and his chest crashed into the rusty railing of the stairs. He hung for only a second, legs dangling four stories from the concrete below, before he scrambled around the side and through an opening at the landing. Collapsing onto his back, he swallowed large gulps of air and stared up at the sky. His muscles were on fire, but it didn't seem like any ribs were broken. Then he felt the wet warmth of blood trickling down one arm.

Shit.

He couldn't stay here. Letting out yet another groan, he ignored the throbbing agony and forced himself up. With quick steps, he hurried to the street and down the sidewalk. Of the many times he had suffered in his life, at least this was worth it.

He traveled for a long time, dodging some cameras while strategically showing himself on others, until he disappeared into a mass of people in Downtown Brooklyn. Descending into the subway, he found a tucked away corner, quickly changed his clothes, and rejoined the crowd.

A few hours later, he was back at the loft. The blood was beginning to seep through his sleeve.

"Shit! Mags!" Squirrel pulled him to the couch and sat him down, making him growl out in pain. "You idiot! You didn't say you were shot."

"It only grazed me. I just didn't have time to wrap it."

His friend took off his light jacket, then his shirt. His chest was red and beginning to bruise. He coughed out a laugh, then grunted as their delicate fingers touched him. From the waist up, there wasn't a single inch of him that didn't hurt.

"You told me I could jump that alley, but I fell a floor and a half before I was able to grab the damn fire escape."

"Then you're getting old, because you've made that jump before."

Squirrel showed no sympathy and focused on treating his wounds, rushing around the apartment for medical supplies. A half-hour later he sat slouched on the couch, his shoulder bandaged, his arms covered in ice packs, and his chest and back wrapped.

"You're crazy... Look at you." His friend giggled, then laughed harder at the ridiculous sight. Finally, they blew out a long sigh. "It's probably a good thing you're leaving. You can't hit a fleeing target, can't leap across a small alley... You're useless."

The Magpie pushed the sole of his boot against their small chest. "And yet here I am, with only a flesh wound and a few strained muscles."

"Yeah, yeah. You've always been the best, old man." Squirrel gave him a warm smile, patting his thigh before heading to the kitchen to pour him something to drink. "When are you leaving? You don't want to go looking like this. You'll scare the crap out of that poor guy."

"I'm leaving tomorrow. First thing in the morning."