String Theory

Chapter 3

"Shit," he whispers.

Peter turns on his heel and bolts, disappearing into the congregation on the sidewalk. He yanks his hood up and ducks his head, weaving through the people as fast as he can. The tingles are racing up and down his spine, practically vibrating his whole body now. His head is dull and pounding in time to his feet striking the pavement, and the sounds around him are amplified by the adrenaline — colors and sounds alike pass him by as he sprints down the sidewalk. His danger sense is through the roof, so everything but the sound of his heartbeat is too sharp, too loud, too present. It's disorienting. Painful, really. When he glances behind him for a moment, Peter smacks shoulders with an older man, throwing his balance off and almost taking both of them to the ground.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry! You okay, mister? Sorry— can't stop—-" The apology is shouted over his shoulder, and the man's obscenities are lost to Peter's momentum. He flees down the sidewalk, vaults over a cafe's table, and skids to a stop at a busy intersection - the walk sign is off, and cars are passing quick enough to blow his hood off. He glances behind him. The guards are following at a small distance, slowed only by their equipment and the crowds around them. They'll catch up fast.

Peter breathes a soft "crap," and without another thought, darts into the busy street. A chorus of horns picks up, and a car slams on its brakes to avoid him - he leaps onto its hood, and then to the roof of the taxi passing in the opposite direction. The first car swerves and slams into the oncoming traffic, and the cars behind it instantly pile up, beeping frantically at the accident. The taxi Peter's on doesn't slow down, and he overshot. His hands stick, but his feet slip, and he flails for a moment, legs dangling off the car. Peter shouts a garbled curse and hauls himself onto the roof as fast as he can, crouching low to the car's cold metal. He looks back at the guards he's leaving behind on the street corner. The accident he caused is keeping them from pursuing, and soon enough, they're out of sight. Peter breathes a sigh. Close one.

After six or seven blocks, the taxi comes to a stop, Peter slides off the side of the car and hops towards the sidewalk. He slips his hood up, and tries to blend in with the crowd as quickly as he can. The chill that's been hanging over him since he woke up is only getting worse, and his hands are starting to shake from the adrenaline, so he shoves them in his pocket. He doesn't want to think about everything the man had said, but savior is stuck in his mind. What kind of savior can't even stop a man from getting hit by a car?

Peter's not looking where he's going, and when he turns the corner, he slams directly into a man. His momentum backfires on him, and he almost falls backwards, but a set of calloused hands grip him by the elbows, keeping him pinned against the stranger's broad chest. There's a beat where the two are pressed together, and he's is peering down, scanning Peter's face - particularly the blood decorating his eye. Something akin to recognition flashes over the man's features, and his face goes slack for a moment. Before Peter can open his mouth to apologize, the man hauls him into an alley on their right, and slams the smaller boy into the wall by the upper arms. "Hey!" Peter yelps, wriggling to free himself. "Let me go, man, I don't have any money—"

"What did I tell you about this?" the man snaps. His face is the image of anger - blue eyes sharp, brows furrowed, jaw clenched. He's a few days unshaven, and his face is framed by short, brown hair that's tucked neatly into a baseball cap. Something in those wide eyes is commanding, almost fearful, and Peter can spot a few pale scars littering the left side of his face. He gives Peter a little jerk, shoving him into the wall harder than before. His voice is gravelly, and Peter can barely make it out over the sounds of the city. "Huh, punk? You just had to go and pick a fight, didn't you? What the hell did I tell you about that, Steve?"

"Steve," Peter echoes. "I'm not—"

"I've been looking for you for two fucking days," he continues, breathless. "Tore the city apart for you. Your apartment, nothing. Your mom's place, nothing. The fucking citizen's registry —nothing! Where the hell have you been? And who're you running from?"