09-14-2014, 07:59 PM
Jensen was in much the same uncertain mood that lingered like shadows of always. Since meeting Pyotr, he'd made arrangements to attend mass together again, but the six days between services stretched like eons. By the end of the week, the sense of peace had faded and the need for fulfillment arose.
Listening to police radio was less helpful than he'd anticipated in tracking crime. Often he was too late to aid, and the presence of police deterred him from volunteering. There were criminal gangs to haunt, but he learned a hard lesson the night he and Connor stormed a compound. Such offenses took careful planning, and Jensen continued to dance around the difficulty of hurting some to save others.
It was sheer luck that he stopped to gas up his bike at a station near the would-be break in. The future thief strolled out of the station with a tire iron in one hand a container of gasoline in the other. His face was obscured by a heavy winter's mask. Jensen, in his helmet, turned to watch the suspicious character cross the street. He approached no car, and Jensen suspected the man had car troubles. Perhaps there was something to be done to help?
He followed the path the man took a few minutes later. A few streets over, he saw the figure of a man laden with goods in each hand about a block ahead. Again, no abandoned car in sight. A warning flashed across Jensen's mind, like instinct, and caused him to power down his bike and park it. The figure darted suddenly to the right, and Jensen ran on light feet to catch up. He quickly ducked out of sight as the man broke a window and climbed through. He was reaching for his wallet to the call the police when he heard a cry from inside.
Panic set his focus and he drew toward the blessed light to aide him. True to the Gift, his senses amplified. He followed, careful not to snag the glass on his white and yellow bike suit, nor bump his helmet on the window sash. He kept the black visor down, but deactivated the anti-glare coating to give himself a better sense of sight.
The care for stealth quickly disappeared as he rushed upstairs. He followed the noises to what he gathered was a master bedroom and threw himself against the door. He all but fell inside, but the surprise was his advantage. Light from the street flashed on the tire iron as it swung where his head was a moment before. Jensen ducked and spun around, arms curling furiously about. The thief, Jensen hoped he was only a thief, was thrown to the wall. He fell in a space between a chest of drawers and the bed.
The woman screamed, and Jensen turned to console her. Her daughter was crying also.
There was little time to accomplish much until he saw a pair of yellow orbs, like eyes, hover in the doorway.
Listening to police radio was less helpful than he'd anticipated in tracking crime. Often he was too late to aid, and the presence of police deterred him from volunteering. There were criminal gangs to haunt, but he learned a hard lesson the night he and Connor stormed a compound. Such offenses took careful planning, and Jensen continued to dance around the difficulty of hurting some to save others.
It was sheer luck that he stopped to gas up his bike at a station near the would-be break in. The future thief strolled out of the station with a tire iron in one hand a container of gasoline in the other. His face was obscured by a heavy winter's mask. Jensen, in his helmet, turned to watch the suspicious character cross the street. He approached no car, and Jensen suspected the man had car troubles. Perhaps there was something to be done to help?
He followed the path the man took a few minutes later. A few streets over, he saw the figure of a man laden with goods in each hand about a block ahead. Again, no abandoned car in sight. A warning flashed across Jensen's mind, like instinct, and caused him to power down his bike and park it. The figure darted suddenly to the right, and Jensen ran on light feet to catch up. He quickly ducked out of sight as the man broke a window and climbed through. He was reaching for his wallet to the call the police when he heard a cry from inside.
Panic set his focus and he drew toward the blessed light to aide him. True to the Gift, his senses amplified. He followed, careful not to snag the glass on his white and yellow bike suit, nor bump his helmet on the window sash. He kept the black visor down, but deactivated the anti-glare coating to give himself a better sense of sight.
The care for stealth quickly disappeared as he rushed upstairs. He followed the noises to what he gathered was a master bedroom and threw himself against the door. He all but fell inside, but the surprise was his advantage. Light from the street flashed on the tire iron as it swung where his head was a moment before. Jensen ducked and spun around, arms curling furiously about. The thief, Jensen hoped he was only a thief, was thrown to the wall. He fell in a space between a chest of drawers and the bed.
The woman screamed, and Jensen turned to console her. Her daughter was crying also.
There was little time to accomplish much until he saw a pair of yellow orbs, like eyes, hover in the doorway.