บท 23: I Wonder what She's Wearing...
Navigating the labyrinthine streets of New York City had abruptly escalated into an epic saga. Each stride Luke took echoed like a Herculean feat, his rapid blood loss quickly morphing from a pesky nuisance into an ominous adversary. As his scarlet life force seeped from his wound, his mind teetered between the frosty grip of reality and the haze of a feverish fantasy. His power, his invaluable shadows, served as an anchor, yanking him back to sanity each time he dared flirt with the precipice of madness.
Meanwhile, his disheveled appearance was rapidly morphing into a screaming red flag of interest. Blood persisted in oozing from his shoulder, leaving behind a telltale trail of crimson breadcrumbs. It was a blessing he retained enough clarity to employ his shadows in a janitorial role, soaking up the blood from the concrete and erasing it from sight.
His expedition morphed into a solitary journey of agonizing pain, profound exhaustion, and mental chaos. Luke, without any companion for his daunting journey, found himself immersed in introspective monologues. Some held depth, while others were as absurd as a squirrel at a nut-free gathering.
"Alright, Luke," he rasped to himself, voice as coarse as sandpaper, "just keep moving. You've faced worse... haven't you- Have I?"
His thoughts danced erratically, attempting to lasso any memories of past tribulations, but they proved as elusive as a squirrel in Central Park. Images flickered past, blurred by the white noise fuzz of his fatigue-addled mind.
His surroundings began to morph into a surreal dream. The city was abuzz, pulsating with the vibrant rhythm of nightlife. Neon signs blinked into existence, casting an ethereal radiance upon the slick streets, while distant laughter and sporadic car horns provided the soundtrack to the night. Life was marching on, utterly indifferent to the bleeding, limping menace hidden within its depths.
The irony was palpable, thick enough to slice with a knife. Here he was, a man endowed with the power to manipulate shadows, reliant on the darkness to avoid bleeding out in the harsh light, while the city reveled in its vibrant glow, blissfully ignorant of his struggle.
His destination, Gwen's place, served as a beacon in his mind. His plan to use Gwen's father as an impromptu surgeon was desperate, yet he had long since bypassed the offramp to morality.
He shook his head, attempting to scatter the miasma of thoughts, and grumbled, "Focus, Luke. Just focus. One foot in front of the other. Don't trip on your own shoelaces."
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of aimless wandering punctuated with self-reassurances, Gwen's apartment complex materialized from the cityscape. It was akin to spotting an oasis after an excruciating journey through a desert of pain and uncertainty. Accompanying the relief, however, was a simmering stew of fear and an unexpected wave of shyness that crept up on him.
As his steps began to waver, his thoughts careened out of control. He visualized Gwen's shocked expression if she found him on her doorstep, a bloodied and broken mess. Would she scream? Or worse, faint? What would his next move be? Undoubtedly, juggling an unconscious Gwen while negotiating with her police captain father to perform emergency surgery wasn't part of his plan.
In the midst of this chaos, his brain took an unusual detour. He found himself speculating about the kind of pajamas Gwen might be donning at this hour. Perhaps something endearing? A fluffy bunny onesie, or an old college sweatshirt paired with checkered bottoms? The thought offered a comforting touch of normalcy amidst his ridiculously perilous circumstances.
"Whoa, there is something seriously wrong with me..." He checked himself before his thought train careened off the rails entirely. He shook his head to dispel these inopportune musings. This was definitely not the time to be fantasizing about Gwen's sleepwear.
It's peculiar how fear can sharpen the mind. The dread of Gwen discovering his secret identity as Nightling instilled a moment of clarity. Harnessing this renewed focus, he drew the shadows around him, fabricating a fresh costume—a black suit as plain as unsweetened toast. Devoid of a hood, intricate stitching, or any embellishments, it was an unremarkable black suit, the type that would fail to draw even a feline's attention under normal circumstances.
Approaching the apartment complex, reality's cold tendrils began to ensnare him. The recent happenings felt nothing short of a surreal dream. His gaze fell upon a police cruiser parked nearby—the very vehicle that had chauffeured him from school only a day or so prior. If he hadn't been in such excruciating pain, he might have laughed at the sheer absurdity of the situation.
Feeling his focus begin to drift once more, he gritted his teeth and bit into his hand. It was a desperate, somewhat ludicrous attempt to distract himself—a trade-off of one pain to drown out the more urgent agony in his shoulder. The taste of copper flooded his mouth, causing him to grimace. Surprisingly, the painful distraction worked, at least enough to relegate his inappropriate musings about Gwen's nightwear to the sidelines of his thoughts.
Summoning the last dregs of his energy, he melded into the shadows, his form as elusive as the night itself. With the finesse of a seasoned shadow traveler, he navigated his way through the obscurity, slipping into the apartment complex through a minute gap beneath the entrance door.
Finding himself within Gwen's apartment was unnerving. Despite having been there before, the uninvited nature of his visit bestowed an eerie feeling upon the scene. At the kitchen counter sat a man, his broad shoulders slumped over a stack of paperwork. Drawing closer, Luke realized, with a jolt of amusement, that the man was scrutinizing his—or rather, Nightling's—face.
Emerging from the shadows like a wraith, he loomed behind the oblivious man. For a fleeting moment, he considered frightening the man with a theatrical cackle. Dismissing the idea as overly dramatic, he instead opted for a simple, chilling whisper.
"Nice to see ya again, Captain," he said, ensuring his voice was as icy and sinister as possible. The captain nearly leapt out of his skin, sending the paperwork flying across the room in shock.
As the taken aback captain reached for the firearm holstered at his waist, Luke's shadow-cloaked hand halted him mid-motion. His voice adopted a darker, more menacing tone, "I wouldn't do that, Captain. You have a daughter, don't you?"
The moment Luke mentioned Captain George's daughter, the man stiffened like a statue. His voice was barely a whisper, the confident officer replaced by a terrified father. "Leave my daughter out of this, she has nothing to do with any of this…"
Luke relished the twisted sense of satisfaction coursing through him. "Oh, but she does… you see, your little escapade at the station has left me in quite a painful predicament," Nightling elaborated, deliberately emphasizing the word 'painful.' He gestured vaguely towards his shoulder, wincing for effect. To be fair, he was reasonably certain his voice sounded more like he was on the verge of tears than threatening, but under the circumstances, who could fault him?
"So here's the deal," Nightling continued, fixing the captain with a piercing stare, despite the fact that his eyes were concealed by his mask. "You remove the bullet from my shoulder, or I'll borrow your gun and arrange an empathy lesson for your dear daughter."
Then, heightening his 'shot-but-still-threatening-to-shoot-others' aura, Nightling extended a shadowy hand towards the captain. "Hand over the gun, captain," he demanded, endeavoring to make his voice as resolute as he could. To his relief, Captain George complied, tentatively placing the firearm into his extended hand.
"Now," he announced with a theatric sigh, "to the couch." Luke slumped onto the plush seat, rolling his shoulder in discomfort. "Alright, Captain, let's get this over with. Time to play doctor."
To his surprise, Captain George complied. However, instead of procuring professional medical tools, he instead brandished a kitchen knife and approached the couch where Luke sat.
"Captain, don't get any funny ideas with that knife," Luke attempted to jest, suppressing a shiver as the frosty blade grazed his raw wound. "Remember, your daughter and I are just one bad decision away from becoming afterlife companions."
It seemed the threats were working because George began wielding the blade with an intensity that could have passed for professional precision, if not for the fact that he was utilizing a kitchen knife. Luke felt the point penetrate his flesh, then burrow deeper, and then... well, then his world was consumed by pain and screams and tears, all converging into one tear-inducing, mouth-muffling symphony of agony.
Then, amidst the tableau of torment, there was a stir. The door creaked open, and there she was—Gwen, in all her sleepy-eyed, oversized t-shirt and short-shorts splendor. And despite the situation, the pain, the danger, Luke's brain had the audacity to divert his attention into the realm of 'hmm, Gwen's looking cute in her sleepwear.'
In the throes of the painful ordeal, he failed to register the expression that flitted across her face. A mixture of surprise, confusion, and...was that revulsion?
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Penpool
Penpool Lucky day for all of you wanting more chapters... I have gotten sick... on vacation... and as such! I am stuck in my room and have decided to write all day.
So! Here is the deal! Every 10 powerstones we get today, I'll release another chapter.
If we hit 150 today, I'll upload a non-cannon chapter of a cute scene between Nightling and Spider-Woman!
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