Ghost town

The sharp cry of “No!” cut through the chilly air, echoing off the graffiti-streaked walls of the narrow alley. The boy’s voice, trembling with fear, seemed out of place in the late-night stillness, disrupted only by the distant, muffled sounds of the city's nightlife.

Huddled under a flickering streetlight, he clutched Zinnia to his chest. Her soft fur provided a small comfort against the cold, damp air that carried the stale scent of garbage from the nearby bins. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the scene as he gripped his cane with his other hand, knuckles whitened from the strain.

He could barely make out the figures of three men, their features obscured by the shadows. The faint glow of a nearby neon sign cast an eerie light on their faces, revealing smirks that chilled him to the bone. They were dressed in ragged clothes, and their heavy boots scraped against the wet asphalt. The alley, normally a shortcut he'd take without a second thought, now felt like a trap.

His arm tightened around Zinnia, who trembled against him, her tiny heart beating fast. She was a friend. The thought of these thugs taking her away ignited a fierce determination in him. Though his body shook with fear, he wouldn’t give up.

He squared his shoulders, the cane raised defensively. He knew he wasn’t a match for the three men in strength, but he was ready to fight with all the courage he had.

“What the hell do you guys think you’re doing?”

he new voice, sharp and commanding, reverberated through the alley. Kieran's gaze snapped to the source, his body tensing instinctively. The man who strode into view seemed like a character ripped from the pages of a thriller novel—towering in height, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly handsome. He exuded an aura of raw strength, the kind that suggested he could effortlessly end a fight with a single punch, while Kieran felt like the type who’d crumble from just one hit.

In a whirlwind of movement, one of the assailants was suddenly hurled against the wall. Kieran winced as the man received a brutal knee strike. Chaos unfolded rapidly, and Kieran's heart raced with fear and confusion.

Then, as if the scene couldn't become more surreal, a massive bird descended from the sky. Kieran stumbled backward, almost losing his balance, his eyes brimming with tears as he clung to the Pikachu with a desperate grip. The enormity of the bird, its wingspan casting a formidable shadow, was overwhelming.

Time seemed to warp around him as Kieran stood, paralyzed. His magenta eyes were fixed on the man now slumped unconscious from a head kick, while his ears strained to track the ominous flutter of the bird’s wings. The primal part of his brain screamed for action, but he remained rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by the rapid cascade of events.

When the tall man instructed him to leave, Kieran was torn between gratitude and a surge of fear. “I— Shouldn’t we call someone? Are you—” His voice faltered, torn between the urgency to ensure medical help for the injured and the hesitation to leave the scene, especially with the imposing stranger still there. The stranger, despite his formidable appearance, had taken a punch, and Kieran couldn't shake the concern for his well-being.

“You should come,” he blurted out, his voice a mix of apprehension and determination. “I—” His thoughts trailed off, his mind still reeling.

Kieran's delicate features had often led to mistaken assumptions about his gender, a misunderstanding that had ironically spiralled into his current predicament. The aggression from the men, initially seeking his attention and then swiftly turning hostile when ignored, left him bewildered and shaken. He couldn't fathom the swift shift from interest to anger.

Despite the ordeal, Kieran felt an urgency to call for help, not for himself, but for the injured men sprawled around. Their actions, though reprehensible, didn't diminish their right to care in his eyes. And then there was the man who had intervened, his tall, imposing saviour—a figure who both reassured and intimidated him.

Gratitude flickered across Kieran's face as the man offered to walk him home. “Alright. Yes. Thank you,” Kieran responded, his voice soft and tremulous, barely containing a stutter. He cast a shy glance upwards, meeting the other's gaze through his lashes. A rush of self-consciousness surged through him, urging him to look away before his cheeks betrayed the warmth flooding them. Amidst this whirlwind of emotions, Kieran couldn't shake off the concern for the injured men, nor for the man who had received a blow in the face. He felt an obligation to offer some aid, however small.

Without a word, Kieran began to walk, his steps hesitant, the turmoil of the night weighing on him. He paused as the man spoke, a question halting his escape. “What?” Kieran asked, spinning around, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. It took a moment for realisation to dawn. “A little bit?” he replied uncertainly, the words hanging awkwardly. “Well, yeah? Officially, I guess,” he added, struggling to articulate the complexities of his condition. How does one casually mention a broken back?

The barrage of intrusive questions Kieran had endured in his life paled in comparison to the shock of the man’s assumption. It was like a verbal jolt, startling him into silence. Yes, he was recovering from an injury. Still, the blunt words felt like an unanticipated slap in the face, stripping him of his composure. He found himself staring at the man, speechless, his grip tightening around Pikachu in a desperate search for comfort.

As the man moved closer, Kieran's sense of vulnerability intensified. He had never felt so small, so… The word 'crippled' echoed in his mind.

The man then moved before him, and Kieran barely had time to react before he was suddenly hoisted into the air. A startled scream, high-pitched, escaped him. “What?!” he exclaimed, feeling a sharp strain in his back. Tears sprang to his eyes. The Pikachu, nestled against his chest, looked up in confusion, her small body pressing into his clothing for reassurance.

“You can’t— You— I— What— You can’t just—” Kieran's words tumbled out in a flustered stammer, his face flushing a deep red. “Put me— No! No! Why are you still— Put me down!” he protested, his voice rising in desperation. He remained as still as possible, mindful of his back and the pain that any sudden movement might cause. Even in his distress, he was relieved he hadn't dropped his cane, now awkwardly clutched in his hand while being carried in this unceremonious fashion.

What the fuck.

Relief washed over Kieran as his feet finally touched the ground, his brief and unexpected ascent into the air concluding not in abduction but in an awkward release. He found himself a safer distance from the unconscious men, yet not far enough for his comfort. This awareness prickled at the back of his mind, a persistent reminder of the danger still lurking nearby. Despite this, exhaustion and exasperation rooted him to the spot, his purple eyes wide with disbelief as he fixed his gaze on the towering figure before him.

Isn’t it better if I carry you? You’re crippled.

The words echoed in Kieran’s ears. “No!” The word burst from him in a yell, his face still flushed with a mix of embarrassment and indignation. The absurdity of the situation was almost too much to comprehend. The man’s demeanour didn't seem mocking; rather, he appeared genuine, which only added to Kieran’s confusion.

“I broke my back. My legs work fine!” Kieran asserted, his voice tinged with frustration. He punctuated his statement by tapping his cane against the ground, the sound sharp and clear in the cool night air. He glared up at the man, a tumult of emotions swirling within him. “You can’t just pick up crippled people. And I’m not— I’m fine. Just not that quick. You—” His words trailed off as he exhaled sharply through his nose, a futile attempt to regain some semblance of control over the situation and his racing heart.

Kieran couldn't help but notice the shift in the man's behaviour, as the other looked ahead. He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face as the man loomed over him once again. The apology, while brief and somewhat awkward, was acknowledged with a nod from Kieran. It was a start, a glimmer of hope that the man might learn from this bizarre encounter. But that was all it was—an apology, a fleeting admission of ignorance, followed by an uncomfortable glance away. In that moment, Kieran found himself inexplicably curious about the thoughts swirling in the mind of his peculiar (and undeniably attractive) rescuer.

As the man inquired about the direction to his home, Kieran released a resigned sigh and began to move again. They weren't far from his home, which was fortunate considering the biting cold that seemed to seep into his bones, exacerbating the stiffness in his muscles and making each step more challenging than the last. He kept this struggle to himself, silently fearing another well-intentioned but mortifying aerial rescue.

The thought of his brother witnessing this entire ordeal brought a reluctant relief; at least he was spared that embarrassment.

As they walked, Kieran's breathing gradually steadied, and the flush of exertion and embarrassment began to fade from his cheeks. “Thank you,” he said, his voice steadier now. “Not for carrying me!” he hastily clarified, eager to dispel any misconceptions. “But for helping. Let me— Let me offer you a drink. And some ice,” he added, extending an olive branch in the form of hospitality.

The moment the man hoisted Kieran up, as if he were a bride in a wedding gone awry, an air of awkwardness enveloped them. Despite the discomfort and a twinge of pain, Kieran felt compelled to express gratitude. The man had, after all, extended his help, albeit in an unconventional manner. Kieran's appreciation was genuine, but it was mingled with a sense of unease. He had always resisted the notion of being a damsel in distress. The thought that someone might perceive him as incapable of making it home on his own gnawed at him, undermining the progress he'd made in his recovery.

When the man casually remarked on his weakness, Kieran inhaled deeply, attempting to quell the rising tide of emotions. He wrestled with the words, the label of 'weak' echoing in his mind. Part of him wondered if there was a harsh truth in that assessment. Was he truly weak and dependent? Clutching Pikachu closer to his chest, he found a small comfort in her presence, her soft fur against his skin as he quietly conceded, “Yeah…”

The sidewalk under their feet marked the transition to a busier street, signalling that they were nearing Kieran's apartment. The proximity to his safe haven offered a subtle sense of relief.

“Did you get hurt?” Kieran asked, his concern genuine yet tinged with hesitation. The memory of the man receiving a punch lingered in his mind. Despite his own mixed feelings, Kieran couldn't ignore the worry that surfaced for the well-being of his impromptu saviour.

Each time the imposing shadow of the bird swept overhead, Kieran felt a tremor of apprehension ripple through him. He knew logically that the bird likely posed no threat, yet primal instinct urged him to edge slightly further under the protective overhang of the nearby buildings. While his injured back ruled out the possibility of flight, these small, sideward movements afforded him a sliver of perceived safety.

The man’s reaction to Kieran's concern about his face was one of nonchalance, prompting Kieran to raise a curious eyebrow. “Used to getting punched in the face?” he inquired, his voice tinged with a mix of concern and incredulity. Kieran had learned a thing or two about treating bruises, and he mentally prepared to assist with some ice.

At the mention of his Pikachu, Kieran’s expression softened. “Zinnia, like the flower— because it suits her colour,” he explained with a fond smile. Zinnia had been a gentle soul who had appeared during one of Kieran’s anxiety attacks, offering solace and companionship. It didn’t occur to Kieran in that moment that the man now knew his Pokémon’s name, but not his own.

Upon reaching his apartment complex, Kieran invited the man inside. “Alright, please come in. Let me get you some ice and something to drink— what do you like?” he asked, allowing Zinnia to hop down as he unlocked the door. He led the way into his surprisingly spacious apartment, its layout and decor reflecting a blend of practicality and aesthetic appeal. The living room boasted a light, wooden floor and was adorned with natural hues, creating a warm, inviting atmosphere. The apartment, located on the ground floor, had subtle modifications for accessibility, though they were not immediately apparent.

“Please, sit,” Kieran said, gesturing towards the white couch.

vibe

Kieran watched, slightly taken aback, as the man casually mentioned being used to getting punched. His lips curled into an awkward grin, his eyebrows arching in surprise. “Ah…” he stammered, momentarily at a loss for words. “I see.” What was the appropriate response to such an admission? ‘I’m sorry,’ seemed inadequate.

Despite the man’s reticence, Kieran found some comfort in their shared interest in Zinnia. At the mention of her name, the man noted the resemblance, which immediately brightened Kieran’s expression. “Right? My mother had some in our garden back home – the red and orange ones with bright yellow,” he said, his voice taking on a wistful tone as he recalled the vibrant beauty of his childhood home. There was a nostalgia in his words, a longing for the simple, natural splendour that the city lacked.

When the man requested a coke, Kieran responded with an enthusiastic “Yeah, of course.”

Once arrived in the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator, revealing a collection of carbonated drinks – a testament to his mother's well-intentioned over-preparation for social gatherings that rarely occurred. He was more of an orange juice and water person, but the variety of sodas stood ready for any guest's preference.

Retrieving two glasses from a higher cabinet, Kieran filled one with water and the other with coke. The bottle proved a bit stubborn, but with some effort, he managed to open it. He left his cane leaning against the kitchen counter, carefully balancing the glasses as he returned to the living room, where the man’s question caught him off guard.

“What? Get cornered?” Kieran echoed, a note of surprise in his voice. He attempted a light-hearted response. “Every Tuesday, I suppose,” he joked with a shrug. “No, but… I’m not used to city life. Back home, things like this just don’t happen,” he explained, a hint of unease creeping into his tone.

Returning the question, Kieran asked, “Do you often step in to rescue strangers?” His curiosity piqued, he took a step back, ready to return to the kitchen for the ice but waiting for the man's answer, eager to understand more about this unexpected saviour.

The man mentioned that his mother had the same flowers. “Ah! That sounds gorgeous. I wish I had the space for a garden here,” Kieran shared, a hint of longing in his voice. “Though it would be difficult.” The regret was palpable as he reminisced about the days he’d spent helping his mother.

The words about the city's nocturnal dangers caused Kieran to sigh. “Yeah. Guess no going out at night alone, huh?” A pity.

As the conversation turned to the man's habit of offering aid, Kieran found himself admiring the stranger's altruism. The mention of past repercussions for his interventions prompted a thoughtful nod from Kieran. “Well, I’m very glad you were there. I’m not sure what I’d have done without you,” he expressed his gratitude sincerely.

The abrupt wail of sirens jolted Kieran. Chastising himself for neglecting his duties as a host, he darted into the kitchen, retrieving an ice pack with practised ease.

Returning, he gently offered the cold relief to the man, careful not to exacerbate any pain. “Please tell me if it hurts,” he urged, concern etching his features as he bent forward just a little, pressing the ice pack against the man’s cheek “Is there anything else you need?”