The countdown that came through the helicopter's loudspeakers was similar to the doomsday clock's ticking—amplified and ruthless in the blood-ridden alley.
"One... two..."
The spotlight zoomed in on me, and the dusk turned into a bright and clear court of judgment. My whole body was sore due to the devilish massacre—muscles were screaming, and the wounds were throbbing with a heat that was almost feverish ecstasy, the kind of pain that made the senses sharper, and every breath felt like an illicit indulgence.
Exhaustion was trying to take over from my insides, but giving up? Never. Not to these marionettes of a broken system that were my father's puppets and were still dancing to his tunes.
I closed my eyes and tried to feel the usual pull of my power—the blackness inside me that made me able to fold space, to move through shadows like a whisper of a lover in the dark. Teleportation has been my savior quite many times. But this time...
Nothing.
The power went out, a weak spark extinguishing in my blood. I was too worn out, too drained after fighting the hellish mass.
My powers were as unstable as people's allegiance—strong in wrath, totally useless in tiredness. A curse burst out from my mouth, very raw and animal, just when the counting reached
"three".
No regrets allowed. With a quick gesture, I put my sword back in the sheath, the metal meeting leather like the last soft touch of a lover, and I ran, my legs moving fast through the slippery blood and garbage.
The alley deposited me on the main street—a wide avenue overflowing with the disorder of emergency.
The neon heart of Tokyo still pulsed even in the crisis: the skyscrapers were stabbing the sky that looked like a bruise, the billboards were showing the videos of Kinard's propaganda, his face was smiling down like a false deity.
People protesting had run away, but the air was still full of their silent presence, the city was like a powder keg ready to explode because of the mix of fear and fervor.
A steel noose of police barricades was formed—dozens of squad cars, their lights flashing in a hypnotic rhythm of reds and blues, and some of them were even screeching their tires as they turned to my direction.
The motorcycles were also revving up their engines in unison, making a noise that resembled the growling of wild animals that were chained up. The helicopters, at a high altitude, were also very loud and the way they were rotating the blades was causing a lot of air disturbance around them.
The shadows of the helicopters were moving over the asphalt like birds looking for their next meal.
I made a sudden stop in the middle of the road, my breath was heavy, and a wild smile was showing on my blood-streaked face.
The police officers representing a dying system thought that they had boxed me in. However, my eyes were already fixed on one beast in the dim light of the streetlamps.
It was a shiny white 1300 CC police bike, its chrome parts shining like bones that are newly polished, and the engine was running with quiet control.
The rider was a cop with a serious face who was wearing tactical gear. He was holding the motorcycle's handlebars tightly, and the visor of his helmet was reflecting my coming figure.
The officer pointed his gun at me and at the same time dictated orders over the radio. But I was already in motion—I was running towards him like a predator, the world around us focused on that motorcycle and that getaway.
The guy at the gun was getting ready to shoot but I was quicker. I already had my sword out, the shining blade going through the air mid-stride in a flash.
His bullet came a second late and it just brushed my ear taking away my hearing and leaving me with a feeling of intimacy akin to a lover's scratch.
I closed the gap, smiling wickedly now and looking straight at him through the visor.
The way I thrust the katana into the cop's stomach was truly a result of lethal precision as the metal piece went through the protective gear and the flesh very smoothly and then it came to a stop in a blood, yielding embrace.
The man made a sound, his body was bending backward as a sign of surprise, and blood was coming out of his mouth as I turned the knife—just a little bit to sense the life flowing away, the personal shudder of mortality.
His grip loosened, and I drew the blade out with a splatter of blood, pushing his twitching body off the motorbike. He fell to the ground making a noise, his expression frozen in disbelief.
The motorcycle belonged to me now—pulsating under me like an animal, its strength vibrating into my legs.
I increased the engine's speed, the loud noise submerging the cries of his fellows, and took off with a loud tire screech and smoke coming from the tires due to the rapid acceleration into the dark night.
Bullets flew past me, hitting the pavement, but I was already out of sight, bouncing through the first roadblock like a ghost.
The pursuit set off like a wildfire all among Tokyo. Sirens blared in chase, a loud struggle as police cars drifted to a place and then spun out behind me.
Helicopters flew low, their beams penetrating the night and marking my way with a glare that would not stop.
The metropolis turned into a riot of colorful lights—Shibuya's crossing for pedestrians was ahead, normally packed with people but now eerily empty under the diabolical emergency lockdown.
I leaned into the motorcycle, the wind playing with my coat like a greedy kid, the speed giving me a boost of energy that felt like fire in my veins, every vibration between my legs a dark thrill mourning the violence I just committed.
They were there in no time and in a large number. A wall of police cars came from the intersections, engines roaring as they tried to hem me in. I downshifted, turned the throttle, and the 1300 CC monster leapt ahead with a power that was nothing but raw and uncontrolled.
One car turned left, intending to crash into my side; I dodged at the last moment, the bumper touching my rear tire and creating a spark.
The driver lost control, crashing into a lamppost with a sound that crushed the hood like origami—fire bursting from the engine in a dazzling bloom.
Above me, a helicopter was so low that I almost felt its downdraft that was buffeting me like a storm. The pilot shouted through the comms that were audible even over the helicopter's roar:
"Suspect on stolen motorcycle, heading east on Route 246!"
I turned my head up with a smirk at the belly part of the helicopter and then took the direction of a narrow side alley—too tight for cars but perfect for the bike. The tires made a lot of noise while I was threading the needle; garbage cans were falling in my wake like dominoes.
The helicopter missed me and had to fly around again which gave me few precious seconds.
Law enforcement had to change their tactics. More motorbikes equipped with the same engine joined to chase me, and their riders were leaning low, guns drawn.
One bike came up beside me and did not let me take the lead on the straightway to Akihabara's electric district, where the neon signs were flashing overhead—anime billboards and gadget shops that were shuttered against the apocalypse.
The policeman fired and his bullet bounced off my handlebar. In return, I kicked hard, my boot hitting his front wheel.
The biker's machine lost its balance, then it spun out and fell crashing into a vending machine in a shower of sparks and broken glass. Another cop rider jumped over the wreckage and was coming up behind me; I suddenly applied the brakes which made him pass me, then I sped up and bumped my shoulder against his side as I was going by.
He fell down, the motorcycle skidding under a police car that was coming—there was a loud bang as the metal got twisted together and the car's airbag exploded.
The main group was back on the expressway ramp, with cars behind like wolves in a hunt.
I pressed the throttle, pushing the motorcycle to its limit—100, 120, 140 km/h—the growl of the engine was like a vibrating primal pulse through my core, which was already stirred by something deeper, darker, the adrenaline was mingling with the remaining warmth of blood on my hands.
Tokyo's skyline streaked by: the Tokyo Tower looming like a blood-red sentinel, its lights flickering amid power surges from distant demonic attacks.
A blockade loomed ahead—spike strips glinting under headlights.
I spotted a construction ramp to the side, unfinished and steep. With a grin that bared teeth, I veered toward it, launching the bike into the air in a heart-stopping arc.
Time slowed—the city spinning below, helicopters whirling like angry hornets. I landed with a bone-jarring thud on the other side, tires biting asphalt, while two pursuing cars hit the spikes, tires shredding in explosive pops, vehicles flipping end over end in a cascade of debris.
They didn't relent. Three cruisers boxed me on the multi-lane boulevard toward Ginza, bumpers nudging my rear like insistent lovers. I zigzagged, forcing one to swerve into another—the impact crumpling fenders, sending them careening into a storefront in a shatter of glass and alarms.
The third accelerated, ramming my tail; the bike fishtailed, but I held on, using the momentum to slingshot around a corner. Helicopters spotlighted the chaos, their beams like accusatory fingers.
"Target evading on Meiji-dori! All units converge!"
Deeper into the night we plunged, the chase a ballet of destruction through Tokyo's labyrinth.
I dodged through traffic cones in a construction zone, luring a bike cop into a pit—his scream cut short as he vanished into the void.
A chopper hovered ahead, attempting to block with its bulk; I accelerated beneath it, the rotor wash nearly unseating me, but I emerged on the other side, flipping a mocking salute as it struggled to turn.
Exhaustion was still haunting me—getting my wounds reopened, blood running down the handlebar—but I was filled with the speed like being on the edge of a dark high where the world was alive with the energy of the taboo.
Sirens melted into a constant noise, the whole city was a risk-taking zone.
One last move: I turned my bike onto a bridge that went across the Sumida River, the water down there was dark and boiling like the hell of torture I had just won.
I had cars all around me, but I suddenly applied the brakes, spun the bike around in a 180-degree drift—smoke was coming out of the tires and the smell was both pungent and exciting.
They missed me and went crashing into each other with a loud chaos of screeching brakes and bending steel.
The opening of freedom was in front of me, but the fate was in the mood to be harsh. The road was less wide now, and the signs were flashing, saying: construction dead end. I forced myself more, the engine was screaming in agony, but the barrier was there—a concrete wall, strong and final.
My tires were locked as I drifted to a stop, the bike vibrating to a stop just a few inches from the edge of the deep pit.
The police forces that were left behind me were getting closer, with their lights blinding me and their sirens sounding like they were winners.
Trapped.