Disclaimer: Standard Disclaimer. Do not own any AnK characters, settings, etc.
There were five of them— against one. Some luckless citizen had apparently run afoul of the semi-official gangs that passed for law enforcement in Midas, and he would soon be paying with his life. It was no mere drunken brawl; the law-gang attacked with coordinated precision, but the man in their midst was refusing to go down without a fight.
And he fought beautifully.
Like a cornered panther, his movements were fierce and fast and raw, his fists never missing their targets, his kicks flashing out in bursts of strength. He seemed to follow no particular school of training in his fighting style, amalgamating about a dozen types of moves into his attacks and parries, but he compensated for the rather haphazard approach with alertness, determination, and speed. The Stella Quota produced Pets who were reputed to be capable of a similar brutal grace, but Iason found them disappointing because they utterly failed to reproduce what could not be taught: spirit. When he'd watched their coordinated fights at various free pairing parties, they always seemed too well-choreographed, emphasizing every opportunity to display their muscular bodies, careful never to do real damage to each other. They would never, for instance, allow themselves to be caught in a headlock, or if they did, they would not bite their way out of it. They would never land three groin shots in a row, for fear of boring their easily-wearied audience. They would not risk skinning their knuckles or purpling their lovely faces.
This man fought differently, with an utter abandon that came close to frenzy. He yelled. He cursed. He threw his whole life into every one of his punches. He seemed a master of his foul environment— the trash bins and broken pallets not impeding him, but rather serving as impromptu props, giving him wings. Even in the darkness of the alley, his lithe body gleamed with sweat, making him shine like a bronze god, and the city shadows clung to his hair. In a single, swift motion, he dropped to avoid a punch and came up armed with a broken bottle. Twice he almost escaped the dank alley where they had him trapped by leaping up the walls that read "Fuck Tanagura," "Achilles Lives," and "Gliddy and Cid Forever." Iason heard a bone snap, and one of the law-gang fell to the ground, screaming curses and clutching a knee.
But too soon, the inevitable came.
As the wiry fighter tried to shimmy up a gutter pipe, two of the law-gang caught him by either leg, and he went down hard. He transformed the fall into an attack—locking his legs around the head of one of the men and dragging him down with him, but they got him on the ground, and one of the gang who'd been kicked hard in the abdomen returned the favor to the now-prone fighter, making him curl tightly in pain.
Even so, he struggled—arching his back and cursing in a steady stream of invective as soon as he got his breath back.
They would take him apart now. They might rape him for a while before cutting his phallus off and stuffing it in his mouth.
Pity.
He had been more entertainment than any of the legitimate venues Midas had offered this time.
Iason sat for a moment longer, watching the play of traffic light on sweaty muscles, and then, even though the life of a mere citizen of Midas should not be worth this much of a blondie's attention, he opened the car door and stood.
This was bad.
Very bad.
This pink-haired Midaser meant to kill him. Sometimes even the guys with guns or shockeyes weren't real threats. But there was a look in the eyes that meant murder, and these guys had it. These guys had done this before.
Rikki hadn't wanted to take any of Bison with him, not when he was doing the really dangerous shit, but any one of them would have made the difference now. There were only five of these guys, and they were good but not great, and with a little luck two Bison boys would have been able to nab the car and get away clean, even after these shitheads had caught him at work. Of course, the logical choice would have been Guy, and Guy was having one of his fits, which was why Rikki needed the car in the first place.
Dammit.
"Go ahead and squeal, mongrel rat. Let's hear you beg."
"Fuck you, you fucking prick. You are so fucking pathetic—Five guys here to take one down."
That got him another kick in the ribs and a: "Shut up!"
Rikki spat at the nearest one, splattering phlegm and blood from a split lip across his face.
"You got your filthy rat blood on me. Just have to spill a little more to make up for it."
The phase blade was thin and pink as the punk's hair. It was one of the sidestreet specials, with a blade designed to find all your nerve endings and make your body feel like it was on fire. And he knew exactly what part they were going to go for first.
Another phase blade, a yellow one this time, hummed to life, and when Pink Hair tossed it to a guy behind Rikki, Rikki made a grab for it—which made them laugh.
"Tell you what: if you say 'please, please, help me,' I'll let you go." Pink Hair was really loving this.
"Fuck off."
"That's what I get for trying to teach a mongrel some manners. Guess it's up to me to teach you your place, Rikki 'the Dark.' The city thanks us for killing shits like you. You should thank us, too. Who'd want to be a slum rat like you? Besides, it's not like you really have any right to bitch, even if we do—this!"
He raised his arm. Rikki wouldn't give them the satisfaction of flinching, but he gritted his teeth and shut his eyes against the coming pain.
Which never came.
He heard a gasp, and a sound of bones crunching, and he looked up in time to see Pink Hair being lifted bodily off his feet and hoisted into the air.
A white-gloved hand caught the pink phase blade as it fell, deftly turning it off in the same motion.
For one breathless moment, Rikki watched as Pink Hair twisted, hoisted into the air by one broken arm, in too much pain to scream. A long-haired stranger had him by the wrist, and was still squeezing as he lifted.
Blonde guy.
Ridiculously tall.
A blondie.
An actual blondie.
He had never seen one of Jupiter's sons up close before, but he could tell what he was looking at by the eerie way this guy's showed absolutely no sign of exerting any effort at all. He seemed relaxed, almost as if his arm were moving of its own accord.
Actually, he looked half-asleep.
The grip on Rikki's neck relaxed.
The yellow phase blade dropped, sank into the cement, flickered, and went out.
"B-blondie . . ." One of them sounded like he was going to shit himself.
The blondie dropped Pink Hair, who clutched his crushed wrist. Five neat, obvious breaks, visible even from where Rikki sat, marked Pinky's arm where each of the blondie's fingers had gripped him.
Pink Hair whimpered, staggered to his feet and fled, his little posse following hard on his heels.
Just like that, Rikki was free.
It was worse than he'd thought.
The man he'd saved was nothing but a mongrel. Ceres slum trash.
Iason regarded him for a moment longer while he leapt to his feet, then turned back toward the car where Katze was waiting. He wondered idly why his sixth sense hadn't alerted him to the worthlessness of the individual he was saving.
"Hey!" The mongrel, apparently not one to leave well enough alone, was shouting after him. "Who are you?"
Iason did not break his stride.
"Go back to Ceres."
"What the hell did you do that for?"
"No reason."
"I didn't need you to do that!"
Iason stopped and looked at the mongrel again, trying to decide if he was serious. Apparently, he wasn't completely insane because he had the self-awareness to look momentarily chagrined, but that was quickly replaced by anger. The mongrel seemed constantly ready to be mocked, and ready to answer that mockery with violence.
"Listen: I don't owe anyone anything, got that?"
He shoved a wad of credits toward Iason. He looked like he wanted to throw the thin, multi-colored filaments at him, but the long lash of hunger had taught him to keep a grip on whatever money was his.
Or, in this case, wasn't his.
Even better.
"You're a thief." Iason observed. "You stole the wallet of the man who was going to kill you."
This mongrel was almost impressive in his relentless, bull-headed defiance. Even while fighting for his life, he had had the foresight to try to die rich.
The mongrel paled and the outthrust arm lowered.
"So . . . what? You're going to turn me in to the police?"
"Next time, I will. Remember that."
Iason resumed walking.
"How do I know you'll keep quiet?"
"Because I have no interest in you."
"Fuck you!" The mongrel lunged at him and Iason let him catch up, but caught him by the arm when it looked like was going to come too close. For a moment, the mongrel was pressed against him, his raw body still hot and panting from an earthy exertion completely alien to Tanagura. This black-haired slum boy had just seen Iason snap a grown man's wrist, but he did not bat an eyelash in fear, even though Iason now held his own wrist in a similar grip.
"I'd rather die than owe you anything," he snarled, black eyes glittering. "Elite."
He smelled like cheap laundry soap and sweat, but not, as Iason had initially assumed, like unwashed flesh. He was a clean gutter rat. And a sudden sensation that was neither revulsion nor contempt swept through Iason's artificial body. He released the mongrel quickly and stepped away.
"I'll give you something else, then," the mongrel said, still scowling. "C'mon. It's not far, but you'll have to walk."
What was truly amusing was the way this mongrel fully expected that he, a Tanagura blondie, would obey. He was already sauntering out of the alley, not looking back. Iason paused, considering all the possibilities, but now the mongrel had piqued his curiosity.
Did he think to offer him drugs? A new source for the black market? In the past, mongrels tried to curry favor by betraying their friends to Tanagura, but the days for that were gone.
The mongrel's hips moved with a smooth, masculine grace as he walked, and his walk was slouching and defensive, more swagger than stride. And as he emerged from the alley shadows, his bronze body gleamed.
Iason followed, though he was not in the habit of following.
The black-haired creature had proved amusing thus far, and, judging by the expression on his face, he might try to kill him. It had been a few years since the last assasination attempt, so that, too, could prove amusing.