CYOA: “The Omega Constant” – Part 2

You tell me—is three days between segments too much? My mojo was much better when it was daily, but not everyone visits the site every day. What works best for you?

If you just surfed in, read part 1 here.

***

Before long, a crowd has gathered around Beth. The limo driver has exited his vehicle and is standing behind you. “She was chasing someone,” he says.

You turn your head and look up at him. “Did you see where he went?”

“Down that alley, to the left. I was looking at him, wasn’t paying attention.” He has a panicked look on his face. “Christ, I’m sorry.”

Trusting him, you get to your feet and instinctively put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to go after him. You stay here, okay?” You hastily move to the other side of the limo before taking off in a run down the alley. You shout over your shoulder, “and don’t move her until the ambulance gets here!”

You hear the limo driver agree and start yelling at the crowd to back up. By then, you’re halfway down the alley and looking to your left. There is a clearing, but a dumpster sits in the way. As you get closer and peer behind it, you see a man running away.

Your doubts about actually catching up to him are cast aside as soon as you have him in your sights. You use a trash can to hoist yourself on top of the dumpster and then jump off to the other side and immediately hit the ground running. A busy street and sidewalk is ahead of you, and Beth’s attacker quickly rounds the corner. You can tell he has crossed the street by the horn honks and shouts.

You take advantage of the confused traffic and move through it easily, though they’re honking at you just as they honked at him.

The man glances over his shoulder before leaping a fence and heading into a wooded park. He curses and speeds up—which gives you a burst of confidence. He is scared of me, you think. Good.

You feel like a superhero when you hurdle the fence—years of being on the track team paying off in ways you never thought they would—and get close enough to grab the man’s hooded sweatshirt.

“Don’t touch me, man!”

“Give me the bag!” You shout, reaching for him.

You’re in the middle of the park, and he suddenly stops and jolts to one side, trying to throw you off. It temporarily works, and you stumble a bit, before regaining your footing and sprinting diagonally toward him. You effortlessly catch up and tackle him.

It’s then that you realize you have no idea what to do next. You’ve never hit anyone before, much less a big city mugger. Even tumbling to the ground feeling your limbs tangling with someone else’s is an unusual sensation.

The attacker appears to be panicking. You take this to mean he probably does not have a weapon, and for a moment consider that he may be more scared than you are. You clench your fist, raise it above your head, and strike him in the face.

Hitting a person is nothing like you’d expect. There is no “punching” noise like a clap. There is really no sound at all, just a jolt through your arm with your eyes clenched shut, and radiating pain from your knuckles. You’re not even sure if the punch was effective at first, until you open your eyes.

Your attacker appears stunned. You’re straddling him, your right fist raised ready to strike again, with your left hand clenching his sweatshirt. Next to him, he continues to grip the strap on Beth’s bag.

You reach for it, getting to your feet. You yank on it, but he holds on. You yank again, and then step on his wrist. The blood pulsing in your ears muffles the sound around you, and it’s only when someone touches your shoulder that you realize a small crowd has formed around you.

You hold Beth’s bag in both hands, but the attacker continues to hold the strap. “Turn around,” says the voice connected to the hand on your shoulder. You spin around, and are face to face with a police officer.

“Thank God,” you say. “This guy mugged someone over there, a street over. I’m getting her bag back.”

The officer does not remove his hand from your shoulder, in fact, he puts his other hand on you as well. “Is that right?”

He looks down at the man you just punched, and when they make eye contact, he asks him if he’s okay.

The attacker shakes his head. “I don’t know.” With his free hand, he touches his face and wipes the blood away from under his nose. “This guy came out of nowhere.”

“Sir, whose bag is this?” The officer asks, accusingly.

Before you can speak, the man on the ground answers, “mine.” He lets go of the strap suddenly, apparently confident that you aren’t going anywhere and he’d get it back soon enough.  You stumble backwards a bit, but regain your footing and hold onto the bag.

“No, no,” you say, dumbfounded. “Look, we just called 911 over there. A girl was hit by a car chasing after him. This bag belongs to her.”

The officer nods, takes one hand off you, then talks into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. He asks someone to confirm a 911 call for the street you specified. After a moment, he gets a response: negative.

Nobody called 911, you think.  I should have just stayed with her.

“Look, let’s just go over there then! She needs an ambulance!” You say.

The man on the ground gets up, and reaches for his I.D. He hands it to the officer. “That’s my bag. Open the front flap.”

The officer reaches for the bag, and opens it. Enclosed in a see-thru pocket is an identification card with the man’s face on it. The officer compares it with the I.D.

“Okay,” the officer rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’re under arrest. Turn around, and give this man his bag. Sir, I’ll ask you to wait a minute so we can gather a statement if you’d like to press—“

“What?” The adrenaline rush from chasing down Beth’s assailant only amplifies your panic. “No, he took it from her!”

“Shut up!” The officer forcefully turns you around. The bag falls to the ground between your feet. “Put your hands behind your back. Now.”

He guides your hands, and you absentmindedly comply. As you feel one cuff clamp around your wrist, you look through the small crowd and spot two people standing behind the fence that you hurdled during the chase.  One is a clean cut young man with a polished look and chiseled physique, and the other is a thin young woman with striking blond hair. They are both wearing crisp business suits, and speak to each other in hushed tones.  One of them points at you.

When they see you watching them, the woman subtly motions with her hand for you to come toward them. She uses her head to draw your attention to the limo parked behind them, across the street.  “Come on,” she mouths.

The man sees that his companion has made contact with you, so glances up and mouths the word “bag” and points at it. You look down between your feet as the hand cuff locks onto your left wrist.

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