It was just minutes after midnight when the storm rolled in. Dark clouds surged above a green-eyed boy sprinting wildly within a dense grove of greens and browns below.
The rain was gentle at first, landing softly on trees and ground alike and dripping gently off lush leaves, which swayed lightly in the oncoming storm's wind. But within minutes, the rain began falling harder. Pelting down upon all who stood exposed to Mother Nature's incurring wrath, as if to make a point, a resounding boom thundered in the heavens, bringing with it bright flashes which lit the night sky.
Strong winds blew through the region, carrying rainfall and hail and sending it plummeting to the ground with terrifying might, rattling both trees and buildings with equal force.
The icy rain and hard sleet beat down on a black-haired boy who ran with vigor through thick New York woodlands. The tree's protecting him only slightly from the damage of the storm.
The boy's body became quickly soaked to the bone with water, and his hair tangled down upon his overheated forehead with freezing rainwater. Slowing his movements, but only slightly. For the young man ran with fear-fueled adrenaline, and no storm, no matter how harsh, could stop him.
He was numb to the feeling of ice slicing at his hardly covered back. Yet his pace became reduced despite the blocked sensations. As the forest floor below him, now slicked with rain and mud, made running a dangerous task.
Harry Potter slipped and stumbled over bramble and roots -covering his already dirty legs in even more mud- as he traveled through the moonlit forest. His pace hurried, but Mother Nature proved more determined to slow his progress.
The heavy gusts of wind rattled loose tree branches, forcing them into his path and scraping him as he went.
His thoughts had long since become tangled and jumbled, moved a mile a minute as he tried to guess where he was, who was chasing him, and how he'd escape.
The forest was dense, and it proved impossible to see farther than twenty feet ahead, leaving the boy to run through the brush, blind.
He didn't like rushing through without any knowledge of where he was going, but there was no alternative. It was either he ran or got caught.
With each sharp breath, Harry was made painfully aware that he wouldn't be able to run for much longer. No matter how little he'd run already, it was only a matter of moments before his legs gave out beneath him.
Despite his adrenaline, hunger still ate at his gut, weakening his strides through the damp woods.
Lightning flashed, and the booming sound of thunder followed, illuminating the night sky once more with a white glow, making it seem as though it was day instead of night and brightening his path. If only for a moment.
The frenzied boy's progress diminished as the numbed pain started to work its way back to the forefront of his mind.
His very bones ached in protest as he advanced, and his muscles screamed with overuse.
But nothing hurt more than his left leg, where a hollow throbbing pain made his movements feel as though his ankle had broken.
He hated it, hating feeling weak and pathetic, despised the fact that these injuries made it so hard to run.
It made him feel guilty, for he may not have been able to remember their faces. But he knew that he'd failed people, people important to him, people who didn't deserve his failure.
Now he had no idea where he was, and his memories were a completely useless jumble of fragmented thoughts and scenes. And he was once again, engaging in and among something he never would've imagined happening.
He could feel it sometimes, the connection he had with the blurry faces in his memories. People important to him, that much he could guess.
In a way, it was comforting and saddening at the same time how he could understand that they meant something to him. Yet still, be unable to remember a single thing about them. Just vague features, or sometimes maybe he could picture the way they smiled on one of his bad days.
Gods, he was a disappointment.
In the distance, a wide river made its home. Surging forward with a vast quaking noise from the flooding rainwater, separating Harry from the opposite side of the bank, meaning he'd have to swim to the other side.
He didn't bother with removing his clothes; they were already soaking wet. He wore no shoes on his already scraped feet, so he merely jumped, landing in the rushing rapids of water with a muffled splash.
In a race against his tiring body to get to the other side, he hoped that maybe, if he could swim fast enough, he could make it to the other side.
So the black-haired boy propelled himself against the rushing surge of water, even as icy rain and sleet pound his tired body, bruising his neck and back.
But he didn't pay any attention; because reaching the other side meant more than a few new aches.
Drowning meant a feeling far worse, he should know. And he did, better than he should've.
Another flash of lightning sparks, and it briefly lights the sky with an eerie glow. A loud clap echo's across the heavens, closer this time, rattling the boy's very bones.
It feels like forever has passed when he finally reaches the other side of the river.
Thoughts race around inside his skull, fighting for a chance upfront. His body shivers from the build-up of cold as he pulls himself out of the water.
A tremble surges through his body from the excess amount of bitter wind immediately attacking his soaked body, and the constant throbbing pain in his leg reminds him of his injured foot.
Tears threaten to fall, hot and salty, as blocked memories surface.
And as he crawls up from the shore, he forces his thoughts to the back of his mind. Pretending they're locked inside a cupboard without a key.
Now is definitely not the time, darkly-dressed men were chasing him no more than an hour ago, and he couldn't even tell where he was.
'Damn it.'
He didn't like not being in the know. It made him feel stupid.
His whole body was freezing, and everything ached. Reminding him of every moment spent with his captors. Memories he'd been trying so hard to block.
He let himself collapse against a large tree and shifted his lower body so he could peel back the left leg of his pants, which revealed a bright red wound, leaking warm, thick blood that slowly trickled down his leg.
He sharply sucked in his breath to bite back a cry of pain as tears poured down his cheeks, mixing with the cold rainwater on his face.
Maybe he wasn't a medical expert, but he could at least tell what caused the wound.
A bullet.
Which meant his shield failed.
His magic had been the one constant in his entire fucked up life; it never failed him.
Not when he'd been a prisoner, because even then, it had fought to the surface for him, trying to obey his wishes while spells and rune-carved shackles tried to hinder it.
It was always there for him, constant in its comfort.
'Damn it, damn it, damn it, fuck!'
If he shifted his leg just right, moonlight would reflect off the metal of the bullet, which only meant it remained lodged in his leg, and that implied there wasn't an exit wound.
'That's a good thing, right?'
The tree behind him shielded him from the rain somewhat, giving him just enough leeway to see.
He'd have to remove the bullet if he wanted to keep moving.
Leaning forward, he gripped his left leg with his left arm, bracing himself.
The fingers on his right hand shifted to sit poised over the bleeding wound.
Taking a deep breath, the dark-haired boy pushed his fingers into the open wound.
A guttural cry leaves his lips as his fingers dig deeper into the fleshy wound, pushing through hot blood and twitching muscle to locate the lodged bullet.
Blood begins to pour faster from the opening, like a rushing waterfall of thick red fluid, as his fingers spread apart the wounded skin.
Skin meets metal after what feels like hours upon hours of blinding, white-hot pain, and thumb joins forefinger, enabling him to grab the still intact bullet.
Without giving himself time to rethink his decision and chicken out, Harry pulled at it, hard, removing the hunk of metal at last.
A sickening squelch makes him gag as the bullet is pulled loose from his flesh. Letting another wave of blood pour generously from his open wound, adding to the diluted pool of crimson already staining the dirt below.
Harry holds the bullet in the palm of his hand triumphantly, his own red blood dripping off with the rainwater cascading from the sky, letting the metal gleam from his hand in the light made by thundering roars of electricity.
In a strange moment of peace, Harry couldn't help but admire the sky. Mother Nature's very own fireworks. Brilliant jets of white-hot energy that spread through the heavens like veins of dripping paint.
Another gleam catches his eye, and Harry pauses as the metal of the bullet became cleaner. If he leaned close enough, he could make out an engraving in the metal.
The tiny lines looked like they made letters.
He bent closer to inspect the bullet, and the markings became clear. In precise lines, the words ALPHA - S.H.I.E.L.D sat on the metal, plain as day.
Who the hell was S.H.I.E.L.D?
Despite the widespread belief, Harry was by no means a stupid person. And he could easily infer that the bullet belonged to some manner of organization.
Much like- Merlin, he was so close, yet he couldn't quite grasp it. The idea of an organization brought on a feeling, almost like nostalgia. It felt safe but strange too. And he couldn't decide if the sense of secrecy and excitement it brought on made him uncomfortable or intrigued.
He pocketed the bullet; it might become useful later. At the very least, he could keep it as a sort of morbid trinket.
But that still didn't answer the question. If this mysterious S.H.I.E.L.D does turn out to be some form of organization, it still didn't answer the question of who they were; and why they're hunting him.
Regardless, he'd have to keep moving and figure out this mysterious enemy later. The first step being, get out of the damned forest. With a heavy grunt, Harry lifted himself off the ground using the rain-slick tree as support.
When he finally felt as though he could support his own weight, he took a step away from the tree. So that it was just out of reach, but close enough so that if he lost his balance, he could catch himself.
It hurt like a bitch, but he could stand on his leg, so he took a tentative step, gods that hurt. But there wasn't an alternative; it was either walk or die alone in the woods.
With another pain-filled grunt, Harry pushed on, walking with a careful limp to avoid irritating his injury further; he did want it to heal eventually, after all.
Icy rain continued to pelt his back, but he couldn't feel it. His mind had become far too focused on the blinding pain that surged through his body every time he took a step to notice anything else.
The rumbling of thunder grew fainter as he advanced aimlessly through the woods. And it felt like hours before he reached any form of civilization, which stretched into a noisy city-scape before his tired eyes, with bright lights on speeding cars that sped through the streets, weaving between tall buildings that extended endlessly like hands reaching for the heavens.
It smelled of gasoline. And food, glorious food.
His stomach rumbled in answer; he'd need to find something to eat next.
But first, he'd need to find something else to wear. He may not know where he was, but most people tended to think alike. And if they were anything like his Aunt, he'd need to find a change of clothes.
He crept through the dark corners of the streets, using the night as his cover. He didn't even want to try thinking about what would happen if someone spotted him. With his muddy clothes and battered appearance, he could imagine that he'd make quite the sight.
As he limped through dark alleyways, a strong smell of grease reached his nose, and he froze. It had been a while, but he'd recognize that smell anywhere.
Chips.
Warm and possibly fresh chips.
And they were somewhere near; he turned his head, scanning the area. It looked like a brown paper bag was sitting above a rubbish bin, and of course, it was across the street.
He'd hoped he could avoid direct exposure, such as crossing an open street. But thankfully, it was night, and there didn't seem to be many cars out, which worked perfectly in his favor.
Taking a deep breath, Harry moved out of the shadowed alley. He hurriedly looked both ways before deciding to run across. It was now or never after all.
His bare feet slapped across the asphalt as he moved, and pain rocketed through his body with every step, making his trip feel painstakingly long.
A soft sigh escaped his lips when he finally reached the cover of darkness in the opposite alley, and it seemed as though his journey paid off. As there in front of him sat a bag full of still-warm chips, and they smelled heavenly to his deprived stomach. After a quick scan of the alley, his spirits lifted even more. It seemed as if he'd hit the jackpot.
Merely a few feet away, above another large rubbish bin, hung an innocent line of clothes. Which looked to be right around Harry's size, and if he stood on top of the container, he'd be just barely able to grab the clothing.
Not even ten feet from the clothing line sat a dark and secluded corner, the ground even being conveniently covered in newspaper.
He knew he wasn't exactly clean. But it also didn't mean he wanted to sleep directly on the dirty ground either. It was just too similar to the cold nights spent sleeping on those stone floors.
Quickly stashing the bag of chips on his new bed, Harry climbed onto the rubbish bin, it made his still hurting leg scream in protest, but he ignored it. Fresh clothing was more important at the moment.
It took a few clumsy missteps and some painful trips resulting in his arse meeting the cold ground. But he finally managed to get onto the container and snag himself a pair of dark blue trousers and a thick, forest green jumper.
He quickly changed his trousers and pulled the jumper over his ratty shirt; he was cold and would take as much warmth as he could get at the moment. Sure, it didn't solve his shoe -or his wound- problem, but he was definitely warmer, and right now, that was enough.
With the bloody trousers discarded inside the rubbish bin, Harry took a seat next to his meal. Unraveling the bag, he sighed blissfully. Greasy chips had never tasted so goddamn good. Eating mushy cold stew and stale bread would make even toast seem like a gourmet meal.
He ate slowly, savoring the taste of divinely warm chips on his tongue.
Harry distractedly thought that if he could see himself, he'd look as if he'd never had chips before, all though such an idea wasn't far off.
After he'd emptied the bag of its contents, Harry sat with a full stomach for the first time in months. He was by no means comfortable, he was still cold, and his injuries hurt like no tomorrow, but with a sated appetite and the slight promise of safety, for now, it was enough.
Harry crumpled the empty bag and chucked it away. He laid his head down on the squishy sack already provided, making for the perfect pillow. And briefly noticed 'Wilson Fisk - Hell's Kitchen - New York-' in bold lettering on one of the newspapers before closing his eyes, New York, but he was too tired to get it.
He was beginning to feel blissfully numb, and it made him tired despite his aching injuries. So he curled into a tight ball, green eyes blinking lazily, before slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep, for the first time in what felt like forever.
Word Count - 2,800
Authors Note: HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!
~ LordOfLimbo