A scream emanates from the alley behind you: you've been seen.

Taking the time to look behind you at this point could be a costly mistake. Your face, chest and arms coated in arterial spray from the younger officer, you calculate the probabilities quickly. The steel door is one available exit, the rooftops another. And the shell-shocked elder policeman still has his useless weapon pointed in your direction.

One thing at a time.

Taking two quick steps towards the remaining officer, you clamp one clawed hand on his stubbled jaw and one hand on the back of his skull. His thinning hair slips between your fingers, but the steel of your grip holds firm. He manages to get two more rounds off into your chest before you give his head a solid, satisfying twist. The resulting crack is pleasing to your inhuman senses as the now lifeless corpse crumples to the ground.

Another scream from the alley mouth behind you. You still avoid turning; no need to draw further attention to your otherworldly appearance. Into the shadows at the back of the alley you go: the first jump finds you hanging, spider-like, on the brick wall across from the steel door. The second gets you onto the rooftop.

A quick glance around at your new surroundings: all clear, here.

Thankfully, the nest of high-rises you happen to be sitting in the midst of shades a path outside of the breaking dawn's light. The immediate threat having passed, your features return to their normal, angular structure. Your jaw aches, objecting to having been unhinged so violently during the transformation. A familiar pain; comforting in a way. You'll never get used to it, but the return to a semblance of normalcy after the change is always reassuring

A doorway two rooftops over has a familiar air about it — seems as though you've been here before. You leap from one rooftop to the next, making your way to the door.

A sense of déjà-vu shocks you as you make the final leap and a stray ray of sunlight hits your left hand. You hiss in mid-air and land just yards from the door, stumbling as you cradle your injured extremity. Black, greasy smoke emanates from the wound, and you wince as you bite back a curse.

Gunshots, I can handle. But sunlight...

The End

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