The dark redbrick walls of Virbank’s alleyways are awash with the swirling red and blue lights of police sirens. A singular high-pitched scream rings out through the night as shots are fired, again and again and again. High above the chaos, a young man with short blond hair and an eyepatch over his right eye zips from rooftop to rooftop, ever vigilant for both law enforcement officers and the other thugs of the city, both of whom are after him tonight.
“Oh, boy,” he mutters to himself, the muscles in his legs screaming out for mercy as he forces them to carry him even faster than before. “Oh, boy!”
[ ☁︎ ] — The reply at her question startles her a little. She’d expected for the man to have been unconscious by now. “I… I need… help… Ice-cream truck…” he mutters, which takes Venice a long while to decipher before she understands what his intention is. She’s close to leaving the man to search the streets for an ice cream truck before two syllables vaporise themselves — “Are you…?” — before he falls into the state of temporary slumber.
“Am I…? A miracle? Hopefully,” she sighs.
Her hands, to no avail, begin to lift the man onto her to give him support — though her frail body can barely carry the weight of his arm without nearly-collapsing onto the trail of ratpiss and staleness. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back—”. So she runs as fast as her fragile legs can take her, scouring the beauties of Virbank with not a single idea of where she’s headed. She just hopes she finds that goddamned ice cream truck soon.
Finding the ice cream truck was unexpectedly easier than she initially thought, parked by a curb two blocks away. Actually gaining access to it is harder, as she has no keys or no methods that wouldn’t alert the police. Thankfully for her, and not-so-much-so for the owner of the truck (assumedly the man she’d met prior) — the window is rolled down and easy enough for her to reach (on her tiptoes, of course) and open the door of the passenger side.
She realises the major and most prominent flaw in this whole ordeal — she doesn’t know how to drive. At her age, surely she’d bothered getting her license. Though clearly not. She’d never seen the point of it and always thought walking was more convenient (and less money-wasting). But just like in the movies, she hot-wires the car, with no actual expectation of it working. Somehow, expectations tend to work against her; the stripped ends of wires rub — jolting the car into revving AC and a booming radio which makes her body jerk.
Venice doesn’t think she recognises the tune all that well, though the rapper’s voice sounds familiar, and if she isn’t wrong it’s a hit by Snoop Ggrowlithe (or was it Snoop Pyroarr?). The closest she’s come to ever driving a car (or a truck, in this case) is steering a submarine. She doesn’t think it’s the same, but how hard can it be?
She arrives at the alleyway where she found him, with plenty of dents in the bumpers and sides — and a torn-down sideview mirror. All in the span of four minutes. The van opens a sliding large door, one that requires heaving slightly, in which she hurls the man into with great difficulty. There is lack of much medical supply in the van (then again, it’d be rather worrisome had an ice cream truck been surfeited with medicinal aid).
Is there a safe-from-the-government, clean place where he can get patched up? Only one she can think of right now:
her apartment.
twenty-two minutes later ;;
The nurse can finally say that she’s seen something more ram-shackled than the walls of her apartment building, and that’s the current state of the poor man’s ice cream truck. She’s plenty sure she’d massacred a whole street, stripping it of lamp posts and rubbish bins (and a fire hydrant if she isn’t mistaken). Though that’s at the least of her worries as of now.
At the swoooosh of the van door, the man’s face is covered in the streetlight moonlight — semi-conscious.
“Ah, good, you’re awake. Well, not really. You’re alive.”
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