Starring:
Summary: "And I'm hearing what you say, but I just can't make a sound…"
Dark Future Date: November 2010
Apologize
Somewhere, New York
…I'm sorry.
The two words were repeated constantly. Silently. They were words that held no meaning, and yet they felt so heavy against his heart. The faint refrain rung within his mind, gradually increasing in volume before fading back into nothingness. Ignoring it never lasted too long; it only set itself up as a cue for old memories. 'The good times,' as others called it. Nostalgia. Mikhail didn't want to think about it. Not right now. Timing was crucial during the run, and he needed to get into gear.
Bangs hung in front of his eyes, the bluish-gray tinge of his irises contrasting sharply against the dark brown of his hair and the pale color of his skin. Cold. Empty. It matched the air of indifference present in his attitude toward the half-baked planning by his 'fellow peers.'
It wasn't his choice to go run with these people; the former artist had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Damage was done to both sides, police and rebels alike. Terrorists? No. They were all considered dangerous. Mikhail's chance to flee the scene was cut short. The gang was watching closely. Instead of being let go, Mikhail was brought in. No escape. Not this time. His role within the gang was limited - backup. One of the trump cards in case the situation decided to go awry. And with the amount of experience the young man gained along the way, it just benefited them even more. Any attempt of leaving brought about dire consequences of subtle paranoia.
After all, no one could be trusted.
Fingers curled around the bulk of a navy blue bandanna as the gang members broke away to move into position. After a moment of hesitation, he removed the cloth to reveal the handgun underneath. Lips pressed together, a firm, thin line forming as he studied its details. It was an old habit from art classes. And very hard to break.
Images flashed briefly, blurry.
Police, civilians, rebels- several of them. Blending in.
Out of sequence.
A similar weapon. Gun. Two.
Two?
More than two.
Yelling. Shots fired. Muted screams. Blood. Running. More screams.
Injured and…
Eyes shut tightly, the thoughts interrupted by a shaky breath. He was wasting time. The hand holding the gun flinched, Mikhail's grip taut. If only he had used more of his 'gift' to help. To fight against the chaos and bring order. Under his control. The results would have been different. Lives saved. But the puppeteer can't go back. This memory, along with many others, reminded him nothing would ever be the same again.
It was if all of the good advice he heard a few years back had gone to waste. Maybe it did.
Maybe.
He tucked it into the folds of his clothing. The belt around his waist was given an extra tug, securing the weapon at his side. Seconds pass in silence, the bandanna folded over and tied around his head. Hands then adjusted his jacket as he stepped forward to follow the rest of the pack.
"…I'm sorry."