Nobu’s men are close, too close, and there’s clearly something wrong with his ankle. Even though the pain is distant through the adrenaline, he can feel it grinding, threatening to give out. He needs to find shelter, fast. He knows his body’s limits.
But they’ve managed to herd him down a street that is amazingly free of scaffolding. The walls are high and forbidding around him. Locked up businesses with locked up windows, with no discernible way to scale to the rooftops. Damn, damn.
But there’s a church on the corner, with a tall, square bell tower that promises an escape to the roofs. He’s never been inside. He remembers it’s Protestant, maybe Presbyterian, but any port in a storm. He just hopes the gangsters don’t follow him in and smash things up on his account. He doesn’t think he can deal with a ruined church on his conscience.
Perhaps this was a bad idea after all.
But there’s a window propped open on the first floor (behind a fence, but that’s no trouble), and if that isn’t a sign, he doesn’t know what is, so he hurls himself inside. He tries to roll, but the impact on his ankle pulls a harsh grunt from his throat. No way he’s ascending a steeple like this. He bites back a curse – and hears a startled gasp echoing out from the front of the large, vaulted room.
“Sanctuary!” he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “Please. There are bad men, evil men, after me, and they’ll kill me if they find me. I’m hurt. Is there somewhere I can hide?”
Improbably, the stranger rushes towards him, “Okay, okay, did they see you come in here? Let’s get you into the sacristy –” then she freezes. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Oh God. Oh shit.”
He really needs to get a different look until he’s cleared his name. “The explosions, the police officers… That wasn’t me, I swear it.” He’s in a church, she’s in a church, it’s time to get sincere. “In the name of Christ, on my father’s grave, whatever it takes. I don’t hurt innocent people and I won’t hurt you. Please.” He can hear the bark of voices searching, approaching. They don’t have much time.
The woman pauses for a long moment, then: “You had better not be lying about swearing to Jesus, or I swear to his big daddy I will kick your ass. C’mon. Follow me.” She turns, tense and determined, and he limps awkwardly after her between the pews.
As they ascend the stairs to the altar, his breath catches and he reflexively ducks his head. She turns and unlocks a door behind the pulpit – whoever she is, she must be staff, not an ordinary congregant holding a late-night vigil. Giving him a wide berth she gestures him inside. He pauses, trying to get a sense of the little room (lots of fabric muffling his hearing, the aromas of candle wax and wine residue and brass) – and there’s a knock at the church’s front door.
“Open up! NYPD!”
“They’re corrupt,” he gasps. “Maybe not even real cops.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice. Now, hide!” She practically shoves him out of the way to throw open the lid of a wooden chest inside the sacristy. She pulls out a huge piece of cloth, bundles him into the chest, throws the cloth back over him, and closes the lid over his head. It thumps against his forehead as it falls, cushioned by what must be altar linens.
Matt strains to hear her as she rushes off and unlocks the main doors. The fabric cocoon dulls his senses; he is encased in the smell of old wax. The echoes of the church – normally so soothing – make it hard for him to make out the conversation. There are…two men, maybe three. He could probably take them, but only by exposing the church – and his nameless protector – to harm. What a horrible place to hide, so few exits and so much potential for soul-scarring destruction. But there’s nothing to be done for it now, and the voices don’t seem to be getting any closer, so he sinks down into the layers of sacred fabrics and waits.
FILL 1a/?: Matt/Claire - Claire is a pastor
But they’ve managed to herd him down a street that is amazingly free of scaffolding. The walls are high and forbidding around him. Locked up businesses with locked up windows, with no discernible way to scale to the rooftops. Damn, damn.
But there’s a church on the corner, with a tall, square bell tower that promises an escape to the roofs. He’s never been inside. He remembers it’s Protestant, maybe Presbyterian, but any port in a storm. He just hopes the gangsters don’t follow him in and smash things up on his account. He doesn’t think he can deal with a ruined church on his conscience.
Perhaps this was a bad idea after all.
But there’s a window propped open on the first floor (behind a fence, but that’s no trouble), and if that isn’t a sign, he doesn’t know what is, so he hurls himself inside. He tries to roll, but the impact on his ankle pulls a harsh grunt from his throat. No way he’s ascending a steeple like this. He bites back a curse – and hears a startled gasp echoing out from the front of the large, vaulted room.
“Sanctuary!” he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “Please. There are bad men, evil men, after me, and they’ll kill me if they find me. I’m hurt. Is there somewhere I can hide?”
Improbably, the stranger rushes towards him, “Okay, okay, did they see you come in here? Let’s get you into the sacristy –” then she freezes. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Oh God. Oh shit.”
He really needs to get a different look until he’s cleared his name. “The explosions, the police officers… That wasn’t me, I swear it.” He’s in a church, she’s in a church, it’s time to get sincere. “In the name of Christ, on my father’s grave, whatever it takes. I don’t hurt innocent people and I won’t hurt you. Please.” He can hear the bark of voices searching, approaching. They don’t have much time.
The woman pauses for a long moment, then: “You had better not be lying about swearing to Jesus, or I swear to his big daddy I will kick your ass. C’mon. Follow me.” She turns, tense and determined, and he limps awkwardly after her between the pews.
As they ascend the stairs to the altar, his breath catches and he reflexively ducks his head. She turns and unlocks a door behind the pulpit – whoever she is, she must be staff, not an ordinary congregant holding a late-night vigil. Giving him a wide berth she gestures him inside. He pauses, trying to get a sense of the little room (lots of fabric muffling his hearing, the aromas of candle wax and wine residue and brass) – and there’s a knock at the church’s front door.
“Open up! NYPD!”
“They’re corrupt,” he gasps. “Maybe not even real cops.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice. Now, hide!” She practically shoves him out of the way to throw open the lid of a wooden chest inside the sacristy. She pulls out a huge piece of cloth, bundles him into the chest, throws the cloth back over him, and closes the lid over his head. It thumps against his forehead as it falls, cushioned by what must be altar linens.
Matt strains to hear her as she rushes off and unlocks the main doors. The fabric cocoon dulls his senses; he is encased in the smell of old wax. The echoes of the church – normally so soothing – make it hard for him to make out the conversation. There are…two men, maybe three. He could probably take them, but only by exposing the church – and his nameless protector – to harm. What a horrible place to hide, so few exits and so much potential for soul-scarring destruction. But there’s nothing to be done for it now, and the voices don’t seem to be getting any closer, so he sinks down into the layers of sacred fabrics and waits.