Falco laughed at the fox who was on the ground. The pheasant wasn't alone. Several of his friends and other members of the gang he was in were there too. "You really want to pick a fight with me rich prick? You're just some fucking dumbass from seventh sector." The fox had it coming to him. He was the son of a wealthy business man, or so the rumors go.
There was enough evidence to support the claim. Expensive shoes, nice shirt, good holo-phone, and most of all he had a boastful attitude about himself. Plus he had a mouth; most of the time nothing but bullshit came out of it. Complete ignorant bullshit. That's why he had been knocked on his ass. His mouth let loose something that shouldn't have been said. The bitch paid for it.
Fucking asshole, he shouldn't have said it. "Fuck you Falco!" The fox said.
That's all of the encouragement the bird needed to start beating the kid. His friends pointed and howled with laughter with each hit. He stopped whenever he saw the vulpine beneath him begin to bleed. "Still wanna talk shit?"
Everyone around the fox roared with nonstop giggling as they pranced around the two. From someone elses view it looked primitive, like a dance was taking place. Falco was asserting his dominance over this little bitch. He was proving himself the only way he knew how. The only way he had been taught. Fear.
His father began his teaching whenever he was younger. Falco was three whenever his teacher began beating him for reasons that seemed simply mad. His body was a chalkboard, his father the teacher, the elder Lombardi's fists were the chalk. Except this time there was no eraser to wipe away the chalk. It just simply settled where it was.
If you leave chalk to sit for fourteen years it settles into the chalkboard. You would have to throw out the chalk and the board. For the pheasant neither were thrown away. The teacher was fired instead. His father was found shot four times in the head outside his home. Falco was there to see it all go down as well; and if you would believe it, Falco wept at the sight of it. He wept at the funeral. Even the night before today his best friend walked into his room to find a picture in one hand and the pheasant's tear stricken face resting in the other.
Years had prepared Falco for this. This mindless madness. Bitch shouldn't have said what he did. He waited for a response to be made, he waited ever so patiently. Even with the ramble from his friends calling for blood, he waited.
In a sudden burst of pent up energy his response was made, and the response was strong enough to knock Falco off of his feet. With a scream of rage and rebellion the fox sent one very well formed fist under the pheasants beak, and upon initial contact sent the bird sprawling backwards. The crowd of boys stopped there chanting and looked in awestruck surprise. A rich prick from sector seven had struck out against a Street Rat from the dumpster. The punch itself held appearance of disciplined technique.
"Still want to talk shit Lombardi?"
Falco stood and looked at the fox, his towering presence seemed to have diminished. His friends began to snort with laughter. Falco himself couldn't hold back his giggling. Everyone around the two roared with a triumphant wave of laughter. The pheasant held onto his stomach and laughed. The fox looked around in confusion, his thoughts rolled over in his head over what was happening.
"Fuckin' A kid, that's what we've been looking for."
The vulpine looked at the pheasant in confusion even then. "So...what? Was this a test or something?"
"Hell yeah it was; all that talk and no bite? We didn't believe it. You're ok on my watch...er...what's your name?"
The vulpine wiped away the blood that trickled out of his nose and replaced his confusion with a maddening smile. It was all a test? For what, to see if he was different. His father had taught him how to fight, he could've taken Falco and some of his friends. Well maybe not Falco, he was one of a kind.
"Fox McCloud."
Leon felt tired. He had gained that right. His arms felt like lead had replaced his muscles. His legs burned with exhaustion. The breath that came from his mouth came in ragged and labored patterns. Blood trickled down his forehead from a cut where a lucky kick had hit its mark. The chameleon's knuckles dripped with the red fluid. Adrenaline still pumped furiously throughout his brain, veins, and muscles. Everything hurt.
Leon's chest, back, arms, legs, head, even his crotch had the feeling of pain. His clothes had been torn from the abuse it had been put through. Obviously the designer who had come up with the clothes hadn't designed it for fighting. His stance was slumped, but still held the look of awareness. Even with the pain and exhaustion flowing throughout Leon's body he still held himself up. This wasn't his time to die; that came later.
He took a moment to study his surroundings. Remember everything. Take notes. The group of kids that had surrounded him, before he blacked out, had long since vacated the area. He could see where the grass had been weighed down from the two that had to be dragged away. That was after Leon had knocked them both on their asses within the first four seconds of the fight.
It had been seven to one. Three of them were injured bad. Two of those had been knocked unconscious and probably were suffering from major concussions. The third one had had his kneecap stomped in at an awkward angle. Probably wouldn't walk right again. The other four had taken the chameleon down by surrounding him and laying waste to his body. He made a note mentally.
He had been to this park before. It was with his mother. Back before she had abandoned him. Leon thought it was funny that this had now been a battleground; one that he'd lost. The chameleon wandered what his foster parents would say this time whenever he came home, or would they be too stoned to care? Would his foster father raise a hand at him again?
The chameleon would allow him if he did. He would allow the man to push him against the wall and let himself be put in harms way. This was Leon's way of being left alone for the night. After his foster father felt better about himself the man would go get high. It was almost like clock work for Leon. The only thing that differed was how the older man hit him.
His walk home was long, painful, and lonely, but for some odd reason Leon took the time to think about the beautiful things he was passing. His neighbor's garden which was located on the sixth floor of his apartment building. His jacket barely kept the winter cold at bay. Him being cold blooded didn't help either. It made him wonder how humans felt. They had hair. Some of them more than others, but none of it was fur. They were almost as bare as Leon.
Then again, Leon's ancestors had time to fully adapt and evolve to survive the enviroment. Humans still had to get used to the cold. Summer for lylatians here on Corneria was like autumn for humans. Winter however for cold bloods and humans alike were brutal to endure. Pain was beautiful to the chameleon. His body acknowledged that with the limp in his step and the arm wrapped around his chest.
Beautiful...
His apartment was located inside of sector four, on 10th street. Not a very pretty place to look at, but it had its moments. Today wasn't going to be one of those days that held special moments...at least not to Leon's knowledge.
The chameleon smiled at the sight of the flowers. Something to brighten up the rest of his day, no matter what happened. A sign that reminded him there was still some good inside his life. Often times he wished he had a flower of his own. He didn't know how to take care of it, but he'd figure it out along the way. Leon just needed something to help get him through his everyday existence. Something to motivate him to keep fighting.
He got home and avoided his foster parents entirely. That was the easy part seeing as to how they were stoned beyond their normal levels. This gave Leon the chance to release his stress. He grabbed a wet rag, hand soap, a cotton swab, and a bandaid before heading into the bathroom to clean his head wound. It didn't take long, but the chameleon knew his forehead was going to sting for awhile. He stepped into his room and opened his bedroom window to get the smell of narcotics out of his refuge. After changing out of his clothes and into something more comfortable he grabbed his boxing tape, a luxury he stole from the neighbor above him. Grabbed some cloth for extra protection. He walked back out into the hallway and headed towards his spot. His personal war room.
He'd found this place by accident. It was an old janitor closet that had been converted into a workout room. It didn't have any weights in it other than the ones Leon brought with him. If he wasn't praying for a better life then he was working out his muscles with rigorous exercises. Today he was going to pray. Maybe exercise too if he was feeling like it.
He wrapped the cloth around his knuckles and made sure they were tightened. He then took the boxing tape and wrapped it around his wrists first before moving up his hands and ending it with his knuckles. Just enough protection to keep from breaking his knuckles, but not enough to where he couldn't feel the shock of impact course through his fists. The wall that once held various cleaning tools had been redecorated with a black outline of a man. Blood stains were spread variously around the chest and head of the outline.
Time for prayer. Each punch or palm strike that connected with concrete was a cry for help. Every elbow that made its mark was a sign of gratitude for what he had. Any kicks that happened to smash into the wall was taken as a sign of pity for the ones that needed it. That night was filled with plenty of punches, elbow strikes, and at least three kicks.
More blood had been left on the wall. Another wound had to be patched up. With another round of exhaustion setting in he lumbered back to his room. As Leon opened the door he was greeted with the sight of his foster father, a tall and skinny looking feline with a shaggy mane, already reaching for the teen. "It's bedtime kid, why are you still out of bed?" He didn't put up a fight. Not even whenever he was slammed through his bedroom door.
Leon held himself up on his hands and knees. He wasn't going to allow himself to be beaten again today. The moment he finally decided to be defiant...it backfired. The window was still open. Dammit, The window had still been open. The feline realized this too late whenever he shoved the chameleon again.
Leon saw for the first time his foster father show some compassion and fear for himself. The feline's expression showed it all. Horror, sympathy, sorrow, and panic. Shear bloody panic. Leon went wide eyed whenever he realized why his foster father showed concern for his adopted son over something that seemed to normal. the chameleon was only able to get one word out before plummeting out the window.
"Wait!"
The teen fell two stories before landing on the fire escape below. His left arm and shoulder was shot with pain. He cried out in agony. His left rib cage didn't feel any better either. Leon tried to roll over on his right side to sooth some of the pain. He only added on to it as he rolled down the steps. Leon reached the second floor before he stopped rolling. He groaned in pain. Tears streamed down his face as he tried to stand.
The teen only managed to tumble forward over the railing. His body made contact with the dumpster lid below. Luckily the dumpster was full and provided some, if any, comfortable landing. Barely keeping conscious he slid off it and fell hard onto the asphalt. Snow began to fall. The first flake that touched Leon landed on his nose. He didn't notice.
Falco walked Fox to the transit over on 9th street. The little bitch had been promoted to the Sector Seventh fucker, a name that the vulpine seemed ok with for the time being. "You think the other guys will take to me?"
"My boys will take to you if your continue to prove yourself Foxy. Who knows, you fight better than you talk I'm sure you'll have some people looking up to you." Falco said as he pulled his jacket closer to himself. Winter was coming, that much was for sure.
"Shit, my dad's gonna kill me when he sees the mess you put me through." Fox said as he made sure his nose was no longer bleeding.
"Shouldn't have talked shit about me buddy. Shows you why you shouldn't fuck with a Lombardi, you'll get knocked on your ass."
The vulpine couldn't help but chuckle at this. "You always cuss this much?"
"Only with friends McCloud, only with friends."
They said there goodbyes an went there separate ways. Fox to the transit back in Seventh Sector and Falco to Hope street. He thought it was fucking funny that the slums tried their hardest to boost morale. Hope Street, Inspiration drive, Knowledge street, Lovely Avenue. Not shitting you, Lovely Avenue. What fucking pansy named these streets? It always brought a laugh to the pheasant whenever he thought about it. Lovely Avenue was full of abandoned buildings, drug dealers, and it also held the highest murder rate in all of Sector Four.
Tenth street brought Falco to a halt. Snow had begun to fall whenever he crossed into the alley. He saw the body lying motionlessly on the ground. He didn't waste anytime moving closer to it. Might be some loot on this mother fucker. Falco stopped whenever he got closer to the body. It moved. "You still alive?"
No response. "You know cold bloods don't last long out here in the snow." Falco took the time to look around. There weren't any weapons lying around. He noticed the dumpster beside the body had had its lid crushed. The pheasant looked up and saw what had happened. "Mother fucker, how are you still alive?"
Falco looked back at the body again and saw blood seeping from an open wound from his back. Must've been from the landing. He looked around for someone. A human was unlocking his door across the street. "HEY!"
Michael Anderson was just like any other person who lived in the Cornerian human colony. He had a stable job as a bartender. Had his bills paid on time. Lived in the house he'd lived in for the past twelve years. He even had a mental routine for each day. Michael was pretty well organized.
People would often talk about him whenever they thought he wasn't listening. "There goes lonely Michael." One might say. "I don't think I've even heard him speak before." another would say. All of this was true. Michael rarely spoke to anyone and when he did you'd have to ask him to say it twice because he spoke so quietly. Michael was lonely too, he had been ever since his parents passed away four years ago.
The only people you'd ever catch him speak to regularly was either the guys who came in every Friday to watch their favorite team get demolished by another team, or his rat friend Kyle Chevblowski. Kyle seemed to get the human to open up more than anyone else had. It was a strange sight to watch the two talk. Usually Lylatians wouldn't so much as look at a human if they could help it; but Kyle being raised beside the walled colony on Corneria learned that humans weren't all that bad.
Hell he even grow up with Michael for almost thirteen years now. The two were practically family as far as anyone was concerned. The rat was even offered a job by Michael to help him run the bar, but was quickly turned down based on the local knowledge about the bar. Everyone in the neighborhood knew that Michael didn't own the Old Boy bar. Guess that's why sometimes you'd see a tall guy dressed in a black sports coat with too much cologne on walk into the bar to collect some money that would be stored there.
The Old Boy was a drop bar controlled by the mob from Zoness, one of the many bars used for money trafficking, drug trafficking, and illegal betting. Michael didn't have a problem with the fact "his" bar was being used for someone else's business. His thoughts were everybody has to work and if that includes doing unsavory things to get to the top, so be it. Social Darwinism at it's finest. Michael's only problem was if product was being sold inside the bar. He told that to one of the big bosses who operated in the area. The boss simply nodded and told the human as long as he kept the product safe while it was in his care then no deals would be done in or around his bar.
To this day nothing other than alcohol and food was sold inside the bar. People wouldn't talk about the Old Boy's dark side. They did so not out of fear, but of for the sake of the bar's homey enviroment. To lots of people the Old Boy had become a second home. It was one of the only places were you could walk in and not have to worry about who worshiped which god or if one guy liked another guy. You could simply walk in and be yourself.
The bar of course had its regulars as well as its newcomers. People from around the neighborhood loved the place as if the bar was a family member. Michael never forgot anyone's name as long as he saw the person's face. People appreciated that from him.
Friday was like any other night during the week. The regulars sitting at their tables with their boilermakers and shots of tequila, Kyle sitting on his usual stool at the bar chatting it up with the human, and the old man who played cards all by himself in the corner booth. Michael stood with his blue flannel shirt open to reveal his grey t-shirt. His brown hair, finger combed to the right side. And his green eyes fixated on the holovision set that was showing the weather.
Kyle set his hands on the bar and yawned before scratching the black fur underneath his chin. "Another cold one about to hit." the rat said as he studied the forecast. Michael nodded and sighed. "Seems all we get nowadays is snow and wind, eh Mikey?"
"Seems that way. Fichina's got it worse though." Michael said he turned to look over at his friend.
"True, true. Ya'think we might get snowed in? I'm sure you'll have no problem with the ice Mikey, but if you need an extra hand to help shovel, call me up." Kyle received a mumble and a head nod. He checked his wristwatch and yawned again. "You close here in about five minutes right?" Another nod and mumble. "What's that?"
"I said here in about two minutes actually." Michael said as he reached for the light switch underneath the counter.
"You say that every time I ask, but still the light remains on for the next two fucking hours every so often. And don't say it's you cleaning because I've helped you before and I even half-assed my part most of that time. It took you, what, like twenty minutes to clean up the place." Kyle sat up and let a smile spread across his lips. "I want to meet him Mikey."
Michael shook his head and frowned. "Don't know what you're talking about Kyle."
"Ah come on Mikey, throw me a bone here, give me a hint. His he hot? His he suave or something like that?"
"Still don't know what you're talking about man." Michael said as he flicked off the light switch which turned off the OPEN sign. People began to mosey out through the front door with waves towards the two friends. The old man placed his stack of cards in a handmade pouch, grabbed his strange looking top hat, and nodded towards the bartender before he left. Michael waved back; one familiar stranger to another.
Kyle waited a bit before standing up as well. "Is he at least your type Mikey?"
"How do you know that the person's not a she?"
The rat throw on his coat and shrugged. "Do you know any girls who's a six four avian and dressed like a guy."
"My lesbian neighbor dresses like a guy. What's her name?" Michael said as he began wiping off the counter top.
"Angie? She isn't six four or an avian. Sure she has that avian girlfriend and step-daughter from Macbeth, but hell she's not fucking tall."
The human took Kyle's empty shot glass and put it in the sink underneath the counter to wash later. "I still don't know where you get these ideas from."
"Asshole."
Michael mumbled something before pointing a thumb towards the door. "What was that Mikey?"
"You cruising for a piece of ass?" Kyle laughed and they said their goodbyes. Kyle walked outside and adjusted his coat collar as he began walking home. Michael grabbed a clean glass and placed it on a cup mat on the counter. He'd wait to hear the familiar knock on his front door. He'd have another person to talk to for the next two hours.
The holovision quit the weather report and changed to the evening news. Michael checked the time and waited. Half-passed twelve. It was just like him to wait and scope out the area before entering the Old Boy. Michael wondered why he even let the guy drink in here after the bar closed.
One in the morning. Still nothing. Give him ten more minutes. Ten minutes pass...still nothing.
Fuck, he's not coming tonight.
Once again the lonely bartender gave the place a deep clean. Michael left the bar a little after one in the morning. His bar being located so close to the main gate gave him the advantage of not having to drive his truck a ways just to get to walk. He could walk and feel good knowing that he still had the same tank of gas since Thanksgiving.
The white and gray furred guard, a pit bull named Rocco, dressed in a white uniform gave the human a nod as he walked by. The colony had been established a good fifty some years ago. It extended throughout half of sector four, or as the local population nicknamed it, the dumpster. Sector four was without a doubt the slums of Corneria. The government had the idea to keep the trash from spilling out by placing a thirty foot containment wall all around the neighborhood.
Everyone inside sector four was part of that neighborhood. Everybody, humans and Lylatians, either knew each other or had heard about one another from someone else. Michael usually took 11th street to the pizza joint just behind his apartment. The reasoning behind this was because of the trash that crowded the sidewalks on 10th.
People always seemed to be in debt inside sector four. Paying to much for shit they didn't need, piling up their bills to the point of overflow; and just whenever you'd think it would all spill out, they throw on a living room set that's worth more than their house. Then you'd see them inside the Old Boy with a mug in their hands and their eyes staring off into space, the thoughts of their debt hanging on their minds constantly. On 10th street you'd see trash barrels or sometimes dumpsters filled to the brim with things no one wanted anymore. Sadly most things could be fixed with just a dab of glue or a piece of tape. Strangely enough though people bought more things instead of taking the time to repair what they already had; hence the debt.
Michael arrived at the pizza joint named Chicago Classics and walked through the alley next to it. His usual way. The building he lived in had been bought off from an old wolf some twenty-odd years back. It wasn't huge and luxurious, and the only way to get to the bathroom was to cross through the kitchen. Single story building with enough room to allow one person to live in. That was before the government thought it would be ok to build on top of it with new apartments. All you had to do is get on the fire escape designed entrance.
It had begun to snow whenever he reached the front door. Michael reached into his pocket and fished out his keys to his apartment. He was about to insert the key into the lock whenever he heard the shout. It came from a younger mans' voice. "HEY!" The human turned to a sight he wasn't ready for that night. A blue feathered pheasant in a pair of black skinny jeans, red hoodie, and red bandana tied around his left arm had a half naked green chameleon in his arms. The chameleon was unconscious. His left arm looked roughed up, hell his whole body was covered in fresh bruises. His forehead had a recently scabbed cut, one that would soon scar over if not treated, and his back was bleeding from a cut.
"HELP ME OUT HERE." The pheasant said as he reached the confused bartender. Reacting to the sight he hurriedly unlocked the door and opened it.
"Bring him inside and lay him in the guest bed."
The pheasant hurried inside as the human walked in behind him. Michael closed the door and locked it. "Which room?" The bird asked.
"Head down the hall, second door on the left." Michael moved towards the bathroom for his first aid kit. The pheasant did as told and carried the chameleon into the hall. "Fuck, I hope he's ok."
They got the bleeding to stop shortly. His left arm had been dislocated at the shoulder. It took both of them to pop it back into place. The two did their best to put it into a homemade sling. "Stay here and watch him, I'm going to make phone call." Michael said as he ran back into the kitchen.
Falco simply sat there staring at the chameleon beside him. He got fucked up pretty bad.
Leon stirred slightly. Pain shot through his body again. His ribs ached and his left arm felt ristricted. The chameleon barely opened his eyes before he groaned from the intense light. He felt movement beside him. He made out blue eyes staring back at his. "You brought me here?"
"Yeah I got you here all right. What the hell happened?"
Leon didn't respond. He wasn't able to. Too much had happened too fast. He fell back asleep with Falco Lombardi watching over him. A smile spread across his face for some reason.
