The Underground (Cyberpunk Au)

It's Not Over Yet

At long last he'd tripped over the threshold of the apartment building he was staying at for his mission, it was old being in the rundown part of the city. Which meant no elevators...

He was so close to home but the four flights of stairs had his lips trembling. It was too far, a task of Sisyphus-esque proportions. Connor pushed through the door and gripped the banister with his still functioning arm. It didn't help that it was on the same side as his re-cracked ribs so each grip and full filled him with a new wave or excruciating fire.

He went a step at a time. Didn't think ahead of how many more steps he had to conquer. At some point, his knee must have been twisted or stamped on as each push made him grit his teeth.

One flight down, he paused on the landing and tried to blink his vision clear. Sweat and blood made his clothes stick to him and he was grateful for having the foresight to grab a black hoodie. It didn't stop the bloody handprints he left behind on the walls and banister though.

The second flight of stairs drew tears. They trickled down his cheeks in fat drops, contouring the swelling of his face. Each breath was a fight he draw in, his nose clogged with still trickling blood. He was fairly certain one of his ears was bleeding too; a sharp whine was all he could hear through the right one. Slower than before, he reached the next landing. His knees buckled and he let the floor catch his fall. One more bruise wasn't going to make much of a difference...

"I've got two more flights until I'm home..." he quietly thought to himself.

He encouraged himself to get up and keep moving. Briefly, he considered trying to goad at the thought of climbing the stairs but it didn't feel right, bullying a man when he was already kicked to the ground.

The door was three stairs away. Then it was another four steps down the hallway to his door. He willed himself forward and after an insurmountable amount of time, he finally stood in front of his home. The door swung open on silent hinges.

All energy left him then and Connor crumpled to the ground. Vaguely he heard someone calling for him but it didn't register. He'd got home, he was safe and he could rest.

There was ringing from the emergency phone, when no one picked up, it searched for Connor's gear to scan his vitals. It was impossible to elicit any kind of response from Connor and immediately an alert was sent to headquarters. And another even more urgent one when Connor started helplessly coughing, each wheezing breath ending in a choked off gurgle.

Within minutes someone was through the door. They were dressed like a pizza delivery guy but the bag they carried was full of medical supplies. Soon another first responder hurried through the door and together they tried to stabilize Connor. Conditions such as shock, collapsed lung, internal bleeding, torn ligaments and deep tissue bruising all flashed through their processors.

It took less than half an hour for Connor to come back around, an IV drained into his arm, cold compresses all over his body. The wrapping around his chest had been cut away to reveal a darker bruise within the original bruise.

"Right," one of the medics stood up and faced the gear that had sent the call, "he'll be fine, just needs a couple of weeks to take it easy. We'll let the bosses know. Any problems then give us a call."

They helped Connor to his bed, tidied up after themselves and left. Silence filled the flat.

Connor's recovery was a painful process. But he did what he could, turned on the water to the right temperature so he couldn't burn himself, boiled the kettle for tea and once a day turned the coffee machine on. He also ordered food for delivery with instructions to ring the doorbell and leave. He promised himself to take it easy.

A week passed and soon Connor was able to sleep with to ease.

It was well past noon when Connor cracked his eyes open with a sigh. A yawn tickled his throat but deep breaths were still an issue. He didn't have much of a memory of the night he fought Scarlett, random flashes of colors, Scarlett's eyes, blood, and pain. So much pain it made him think he experienced more than enough to last him the rest of his life and then a little more.

Of course, he'd realized all too soon what had happened and quietly cursed his gear and its well-intentioned intervention. But calling in medical help was a foolish idea. He'd have to call his superiors to check in and update him on the progress. He didn't expect to be quite so thoroughly chewed out about making a scene; Cobalt and Scarlett had already filled them in on it all. His superiors knew from Scarlett that she hadn't injured Connor, so if he was going to be so dramatic about it he might as well foot the bill. The figures they barked at Connor made him balk. There was no way he was going to be able to pay it off easily. Still, he couldn't argue so he negotiated on the repayment terms. They'd start as soon as he was off the assignment. It at least gave him a little longer to figure out how he was going to amass such a small fortune.

In the present moment though, he was quite helpless to do anything about it. Instead, he focused on waking up.

Any further thoughts were chased from his mind when his work phone rang. Only Barstow had that number and Connor swallowed thickly as he reached for it.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Get down to the warehouse. You have half an hour."

The line went dead and Connor desperately wished that he was dead already, going alone seemed so daunting. But it had been him against the world.

He slipped into a loose top that was the softest against his collection of bruises and a pair of sweatpants. There was no need to dress to impress with Barstow. He just desperately hoped he wasn't walking into his own execution.