Scars of The Capable by Kor Psyke

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SUMMARY: This is the story of a man that couldn't stand the ignorance of his superiors.

The man crept through the hallway, hoping he wasn't found. Three days he had moved from city to city, running from the police. A creak from a board on the staircase told him someone was there. Since light was scarce in the broken hallway of this rundown apartment, he suspected that if he kept his head low, and his skin covered his black suit would blend in with the ever present blackness. He could hear the footsteps of the stranger closing in on him. As the body moved past him, he lunged out and throttled the man.
As he glared at the crumpled body on the floor, he soon realized that it wasn't an officer, but a petty bum that may have been using the forgotten building as shelter. With a sign, he grabbed his victim by the ankles and dragged him up another flight of stairs and heaved him out of a broken window. When he heard a sickening thud and a crack, he knew he wouldn't be bothered. He crept down the stairs and into the lobby where he snuck out of an emergency exit. Sirens blared as they came closer to his street. He knew he had over-stayed his welcome and he had to move fast. He leapt over a fence and found a man approaching a car. He pulled a long knife from his black coat and came inches from the driver. There was a long pause as the cold blade pressed against the man's skin. The assailant's coarse voice made his skin crawl,
"slowly lay the keys to your car down on the hood, otherwise," he pause and sighed. "I take your life." The man wasn't particularly fond of shedding innocent blood, but in his mind, it was always survival of the fittest. The terrified victim complied and as the knife was removed, he fainted.
Although he had driven through Hawk's Hollow many times, it always felt alien, as if the city was alive and ever-changing. He stopped at a gas station. Cautiously, he looked around, making sure no cops were near. He took a long rag and lightly dabbed it with gasoline, making it a short fuse. He jammed the rag into the gas tank and removed a lighter from inside his coat pocket, lighting the tip of the rag. He dashed into the convenient store screaming at the top of his lungs,
"There's a fire! There's a fire!" an explosion from the gas pumps told him the rag had burned into the gas tank of his stolen vehicle. In the panic and confusion he pocketed enough food supplies to last him another few days. He smiled to himself and slipped out the back.
He found himself sitting in a pitch black cellar on Fifth Street, contemplating his next move. He knew the police were doing the same, so he had to be careful. They obviously knew he was here, but not the definite location. So, if he moved too slow, he would likely be caught. Footsteps upstairs told him the residents of this house were here. He crept to the door that led into the house, at first cracking the door to see if anyone was near. A phone ringing made him flinch, but he kept silent.
"Hello officer, what's this call about?" the man asked. "I see. I'll make sure they're all locked. Alright, I'll be waiting for your next call." The intruder silently closed the door and pressed his back against the wall.
The man flipped the light-switch on, which cause the light to flicker.

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