Well. That was harder/took longer than expected... This is another chapter that has most certainly a buggar to write. As such it hadn't been redrafted or overly checked for spelling/grammar and stuff - hopefully it's forgivable.

I just also want to quickly say thank you to the people who have been kind enough to take the time to review / favorite this story - after having it ticking away in the background for years because I didn't have the confidence to actually upload it, well, finding out people actually like it makes me smile... and look sideways at some of the other scraps I've written and think...

And, of course usual legal. I own nothing and gain no profit.

-Olympus Heights – Back Alleyway -

Gatling gun, Gwen thought, they've got a Gatling gun, and we've got. She took stock of the comparatively meager weaponry they had at their disposal. Mr. Bubbles had his rivet gun, Psi had a club he had ripped off of the crate, she had a suitcase and a vicious pair of high heels and the Little Sister had…pig tails and a dress. Gwen considered these and decided to slip off her shoes to be ready to run.

"How far is your safe place?" She'd covered the child with her own body when they'd dropped; their faces practically nose to nose and still she had to shout over the noise of the bullets hitting brick and wood to be heard.

The girl looked up at her, confusion written across her features. "Not far."

Her ears were ringing so much with the chatter-chatter-chatter of the machine gun that it took a few seconds for her to realize that the sound had stopped.

She took the chance to glance up. Brick dust hung heavily in the air along with the scent of cordite. Figures were moving through the gap where the gun had rendered the crates down to splinters. Psi and Mr. Bubbles were standing shoulder to shoulder, Mr. Bubbles already taking aim at their new adversaries.

Gwen jumped to her feet, pushing the girl further into a corner behind her. She cast her gaze across the devastation left in the wake of the gun. A weapon, that was what she needed, something to defend herself, something to- She snatched up a plank from one of the broken crates and tested its weight in her hands. It was heavy enough to do some damage. She swung it experimentally and it made quite a satisfactory swoosh.

"Well lookee' what I's found." The voice was close, and she swung before she had time to think about what she was doing. The squishy thunk and accompanying masculine grunt confirmed she'd clocked him. He slumped to the ground, but there was more movement, people coming towards her and she hefted her club like a hitter in baseball ready for the next incomer.

There was roaring and screaming and movement everywhere.

She swung again. And again. And again. Half the time she only knew she'd actually hit something was the shockwave that ran up her arms, she couldn't think about the type of damage she'd actually inflicted. Couldn't think about the horror of the situation she was in. Focus! She screamed at herself. Got to focus! Here. Now. Survive. Protect. They're the only things that matter. It doesn't matter whose husband or brother or father you're cracking over the head with a splintered bit of wood – he's trying to hurt me – he's lost the right to be considered as a human being right now.

She struck out again meeting her target. But this time the splintered club she wielded stuck. She pulled. It didn't come free.

There was a man, he was coming towards her. He was smiling. She tugged and wiggled and strained at the board. She could feel the splinters digging themselves deep into the skin of her hands, but the damn thing still wouldn't come free. He was upon her, and she was defenceless. His hand closed around her throat, squeezing, cutting off her air; he pushed her roughly against the brick wall behind her, holding her there. He was speaking to her. Saying words she couldn't hear over the rush of blood in her ears. But she could feel the warm fetid breath as it caressed her cheek. His knee was pressing at her legs, forcing them to part. "No." It was a breathy whisper that passed her lips, he pressed closer to her. She could feel him, all of him, as his body crushed against her. He got his knee between her legs at the same time that his vile mouth covered her own, mashing her tightly closed lips against her teeth.

She shoved at him with all her might – he didn't even shift backwards. She felt him chuckle in the back of his throat.

Something changed in her then. Something twisted and snapped. He laughed at her. He shouldn't have done that. The bastard laughed at her! The fear curdled in her gut to cold rage. He would pay for laughing at her. For underestimating her.

Her eyes narrowed, the edges of her vision bleeding red. Ignoring the bastard's pawing hands she focused on reaching down. She needed a weapon. Something strong. Something with some weight to it. Something that would be able to crack his vile little skull as easily as the shell of an egg.

Her fingers reached for what was left of the crates, searching, searching, when her fingertip brushed against something cold, metallic. Millimetre by millimetre she worked it into the palm of her hand. She gripped the object; and swung.

Red filled her vision and a roaring in her ears. Her would-be weapon was ripped from her grasp.

And the man was gone. A fountain of blood where his head had been.

Gwen blinked the warm splatter out of her eyes and gazed up at her own personal sentinel of death.

I will protect you.

"I can protect myself!"

She wasn't an infant! Wasn't small and pathetic! If he hadn't taken her club she'd have proved she could have saved herself! But no. He'd 'protected' her. What was the difference between a man laughing at her weakness – and a man that didn't give her the chance to prove the buggar wrong?! Was there any difference?!

I will protect you, from yourself if needed.

She opened her mouth to snap back at him, eyes sharp, tongue sharper. But the rage that had erupted within her was dissipating. Her mouth closed, gritting her teeth, it was a battle that could be waged when mortal wounding wasn't a very real risk.

Her eyes dropped to take in the rest of her monstrous protector. His canvas diving suit looked as though he'd bathed in the offal from a slaughter house, chunks of, Gwen didn't want to know what, clung to the coarse fabric. Her pupils dilated when she focused on what he held in his fist.

He wielded the crowbar, which had ever so briefly been her own weapon. Her mouth went dry as her gaze slowly lifted back to the glass in the helmet, searching for some kind of flicker of human-ness there. The head of the bar, designed to pry virtually material apart, that split wood, that twisted metal, that cracked bone. It had been bent completely back on itself.