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him before... my mother, they – listen -”
    “ You
have three seconds to comply.”
    He hangs his head,
mustering the courage that he knows is still in him somewhere. All that he
wants is to sit down, to have a drink – he hasn't had a moment to think
straight yet. He's been threatened, shot, shot again: but they haven't been
able to stop him yet.
    Mark looks up at the
helicopter and shakes his head – then he turns and runs, carried by a strength
in his legs that he never knew he possessed. The end of the alleyway races
towards him.
    The helicopter opens
fire.
    Cobblestones explode
into ash and dust. Sundering blows strike him in the back and propel him
forward even as the pain turns his vision white. Bowled off his feet by the
force, he scrambles with his hands like an animal for purchase on the cobbles.
In desperation, he gathers what strength remains in his body and bends his
knees and jumps as though he were leaping off the edge of the world.
    Hissing like a cobra, a
missile detonates behind him. Borne upwards by the explosion and the sheer
strength in his muscles, Mark begins to fly.
    He is soaring upwards,
eyes wide and disbelieving. His arms reach out for the sky.
    For a split second, he
is a child once more, flying with a cape billowing out behind him.
    Then his ascent slows,
and the sheer brick wall of the building drops away to reveal a long rooftop
coated in gravel with dull grey air-conditioning units spread along its length.
His momentum carries him over the lip of the roof and he flails his arms,
rolling and tumbling onto the scratching gravel.
    He picks himself up,
wiping away the river of blood dripping from his nose and onto the rooftop, and
begins to look around for an escape.
    The helicopter rises
above the rooftop like a determined predator, and its guns bark as they spit
fire and lead at Mark's crouched form. Heavy calibre rounds tear into him and
bowl him over; he tumbles like a rag-doll in a whirlwind. He rolls with the
blows, clutching at his skin where the bullets hit.
    The attack stops as
though a plug had been pulled.
    With red rimmed eyes
and a blood-drenched grimace, Mark struggles to his feet on heavy legs. His
entire body sways as he feels the alcohol's graceful touch leave him, his teeth
itching and his throat aching. The fading sunlight burns in his eyes and he
feels himself swallowing blood.
    A single figure, clad
in black combat armour and a face mask, drops from a door in the helicopter's
side and rolls as it hits the rooftop. Mark turns to run for the edge of the
rooftop – he doesn't even know if he'll survive another fall, but anything is
better than facing the swaggering shadow drifting towards him over the gravel.
    Something hard hits him
in the back of his legs and he stumbles and falls. As he gets up, he finds
himself face to face with the soldier.
    This one is different; even
in his half-dead state he can see that. Mark does not find himself looking into
the fear-filled eyes of a soldier out of his depth. This man's eyes are cold
and clear – the eyes of a professional killer.
    Mark raises his hands
to defend himself, trying to strike the soldier in fear – but to no avail. A
surge of electricity from a tazer surges through his body and he spits blood
and froth from between clenched teeth. His legs go numb – he feels himself
falling, powerless to react.
    He hits the ground and
regains the use of his muscles with a spasm. Mark rolls to get away, scrabbling
at the rooftop.
    “ Please,”
he begs the advancing shade, kicking himself away over the gravel. There is no
mercy in the soldier's eyes. “The King is going to come for my mother, I need
to use this power before it's gone, please listen to me.”
    Helpless, he kicks out
at his attacker from the ground. Now he is standing over Mark with a stubby,
wide-barrelled grenade launcher of some kind pointed at his face.
    “ You
have to let me find the King,” groans Mark, “we're on the same side here, please
listen to me -