Frito Drabbles

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Wildchild (Four Years On)

Note from Frito: Ficlet. Four years from Today.

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"I was -in class-." Kyle complained as he swung out of the window by one hand, and caught a drain pipe. It was flimsy, and the second he grabbed it, he knew it wouldn't support his weight longer than three or four seconds.

He didn't need any more than two. From the drainpipe, he swung up to a fire escape, and took the ladder three rungs at a time up to the roof. "I'm not even supposed to -be- on call today, dammit!", he shouted, seemingly into the wind. Under the shaggy mess of hair was the hint of an earpiece tucked behind one pointed ear, and the end of the accompanying microphone peeking out along Kyle's jaw.

He crossed the roof at a full sprint, and tucked into a tight handplant to curl off the edge, swinging his feet through a window he knew would be open. Living on the top floor had it's advantages. No noises from people above him, a good view of the sky at night if he sat at the right angle, and he always had a way in, even when he forgot his keys.

The ragged jeans were shucked off and thrown neatly into a laundry bin, to be replaced by a pair of black armored pants, and on his way back out the window, Kyle snagged the matching jacket he kept hanging on his bedpost. It was there solely so he could grab it and put it on moments before pulling himself back up onto the roof.

"You're -where-? Oh fuck me blind... " Kyle shook his head, and broke into a run, taking the leap from one rooftop, across the narrow alley, and to the next without a break in conversation. "Why me?" He muttered. He had just enough time to tie his hair back into a ragged ponytail before he needed his hands to grab at a wrought-iron railing as he vaulted from a rickety fire escape to a convenient balcony. "What do you mean Kylun's got the chicken pox?"

"I swear to God, Forge, someday I'm gonna punch myself in the mouth for volunteering for this. I'll be at the 'bird in ten. Wildchild out."