The Permutation

Homeostasis (Part 4) Michelle

Michelle almost kept walking. Experience had shown she was no hero. The man was armed, and then Michelle would be putting her own life in danger. She didn't think the man wanted to use the knife to hurt anyone, but accidents happen. She wasn't doing anything with her life, but that didn't mean she was ready to give it up quite yet. Besides, it's not like the woman was in any real danger, or the man would have finished it already.

Despite Michelle's reservations, her feet started to move of their own accord like they were following a set of preprogrammed commands that superseded conscious thought. Instead of carrying her to what passed for home, they slapped against the pavement. Michelle Kim entered the alleyway. A tub of Cherry Garcia ice cream clattered to the ground, forgotten.

For the past month, Michelle's life had been devoid of physical activity, but her body still retained memories of when it was once a weapon. She moved the length of the alleyway with a sprinter's speed and agility. The familiar flood of violet endorphins did not accompany her, but Michelle barreled towards the man regardless.

The man was so focused on getting the purse and escaping; he didn't notice the lithe Asian woman bearing down on him. If he had seen her face at that moment, he would've run in the opposite direction. The woman shrieked, "Please, don't do this. My social security checks already aren't enough. Please, just please let me go."

"We all got problems, lady. Just give me the bag, and you won't have a hospital bill to add to the list," he said, eyes darting from side to side as if to look around to see if anyone had heard her shriek.

In his scan, the man noticed Michelle, and his eyes bugged out. He let go of the woman's purse so suddenly that she fell to the ground from the force of her own attempts to escape. The breath expelled from the woman in a white mist punctuated by a soft oomph as her butt hit the pavement. The man turned on Michelle with the knife clutched in his hand. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, reflecting the streetlight behind her. The blade shook like a leaf, the tip jittering as if in anticipation.

Before Michelle collided with the man, she realized it was not a man she was sprinting towards. It was a boy that couldn't have been older than fifteen years old. Long swatches of greasy blonde hair parted in the middle framing his face. Big red whiteheads, along with crater-like acne scars, painted the canvas of his. His gaunt cheeks suggested that it had been a long time since he'd had an actual meal.

Michelle spared a brief moment of pity for the kid as she ducked to the left, narrowly avoiding a clumsy knife lunge. She stepped inwards, dancing past the amateur strike, and lowered her shoulder. Shoulder collided with sternum. Despite her own slender physique, Michelle knocked the boy backward as if he were made of papier-mache.

They both fell to the ground, but the knife was still clutched in the boy's hand. She had hoped to dislodge it. She looked the boy in the eye and realized she didn't know what to do next. She didn't have the weight to hold him there, and the boy had already started trying to wriggle free. Now that she didn't have the element of surprise, Michelle had given up her only advantage. Although he looked frail, the kid's thrashing told a different story.

Michelle held the boy down long enough for the older woman to clear out of the alley and let out an audible sigh of relief. The kid had lost his last reason to keep up his assault. His target got away, and Michelle would give him $20 to slake his need for power. She didn't want to reward the boy's behavior, but she really didn't have a whole lot of other options. If the kid came away from this broke, he would repeat the attempt on a woman that wouldn't have Michelle to help, and she couldn't have held him down any longer for the authorities to arrive.

She let the pressure off the boy's chest and stood up to dust herself off. Michelle was wearing sweats and a T-shirt, but old habits die hard. While the boy struggled to get himself into a standing position, Michelle fished in the pockets of her sweats for her twenty-dollar bill. It was nowhere to be found.