Chapter Six: The Devil and The Dark

Peter ghosted through the alleys of the night. He knew the neighbourhood he was headed for, and had a rough picture of the house he wanted to find. As he came closer to events, he could remember more and more of his vision, but he had not the slightest idea who he was going to see.

This was an old neighbourhood. Once it had been good; now it was sinking into slums. The elderly and the criminal occupied the Victorian houses. More than a few were surrounded by the human detritus that went along with the drug industry. Most people preferred to believe such places didn't exist, but most people didn't have to live there.

Periodically the police might make token efforts in the area, but they were never seen after nightfall. Here, humans exploited and abused humans because they, in turn, were being abused by others. Peter had little sympathy for these. Despite his newfound concern for the urban poor, he felt little impetus to act in such localities. The victims were often just as bad as the victimizers.

It was then that Peter realized he was being followed. A tall man in a hoodie was hardly noticeable in this kind of place, but as Peter focused his hearing, he was certain that a group was coming up behind him. He turned a corner in the hope that they would continue on past, but with wide streets and wider yards there was little hope of concealment unless he wandered into the no man's land behind the houses.

He stopped for a second and caught a glimpse of his pursuers. Three young men in dark attire, they were far from raucous "gangstahs" native to the area, and this worried him. Rat had many enemies, and any one of them could be on his tail this night. He stepped on and checked his weaponry. He was prepared for a fight.

Heading further down the side street he could tell the silent trio was still behind him. He knew that if he ran, they would give chase, but found it unlikely they would catch him. He could easily disappear into the shadows between the tall, rotten houses, but first he wanted to find out what these three had in mind. This would require getting closer to them, possibly engaging them in a fight. Neither option thrilled him, and that left only stealth. He considered dashing into the darkness, where he could cover himself in shadow, or perhaps shift down to a smaller size. Instead he decided to push on ahead, lose them at the next corner and climb a lamppost. The broken street lamps provided no illumination, but they granted eager access to one such as him.

He broke into a run and tore around the corner, then leaped, and, grabbing onto the nearest post, he heaved himself the rest of the way to the top. So long as his pursuers didn't get too far away, they would have little chance of spotting him.

The three men were not far behind. They came around the corner and skidded to a halt. They began to argue over whose fault it had been that he had gotten away. After about a minute of useless finger pointing one of them finally established order.

"Shut up! Shut up! We don't have time. He could be anywhere here. A.D., you take that side," he pointed to the opposite side of the street. "Jone-Z, head in there," he pointed into the dark of the nearby houses. "I'll head down that way," down the street, "Holler if you see anything." The three went on their way.

"Well," Peter though, "Mister Z and I have a date, shame to cancel now." He jumped down from the post and hurried into the darkness, where his quarry had gone. Chasing him.

Careful not to make a sound, he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness. He could hear the man moving about to his left. He was heading down the rows of houses, parallel to the street. It was clear to Peter these men were not wolves, or they would be tracking him by smell, not fumbling in the dark like this.

Peter snuck up behind his target, which was stumbling through the dark with a drawn gun. "Sloppy," thought Peter. Then he decided to share this opinion with Mister Z.

"What are you going to shoot if you can't see?" he asked just behind the young man's right shoulder. He had to cluck as Jone-Z spun around, prepared to do grievous harm to whosoever was peeping over his shoulder. Peter reached out and easily grabbed the gun from his opponent's hand.

"Hmm. A Derringer X/O. Expensive." Quick as a wink, Peter ejected the mag and pocketed it. His disarmed foe was starring, aghast. He was about to draw breath to scream but Peter was still a few steps ahead. He hauled back and sucker punched the man as hard as he could in the stomach, robbing him of breath, making any sound above a gasp impossible.

Jone-Z clutched his stomach and almost fell forward as he tried to gather his faculties and wind. But Peter was far from finished. He kneed the poor guy in the face, pulling him upright. Then he pistol-whipped the man with his own gun. This spun him around and he finally dropped to the ground.

Looking down on his thoroughly battered foe in the weeds, Peter shook his head. "Poor Jone-Z went into the dark. Will he ever come back?" he whispered. The groaning man was about to get up. Peter ejected the lone bullet in the gun, caught it, and tossed both into the darkened bushes. Then Peter sat down on the man's back and pulled his arms behind his back and towards his head in an incredibly painful way. It was a hold Peter had used with success on rats far more lithe than this wayward soul.

"Make a sound louder than a whisper and I'll dislocate both your arms Jone-Z," he pushed. Just a little, to underscore the point. "Say you understand me."

"Yeah, yeah," he rasped, trying to pitch his voice low and keep from screaming.

"Excellent, that means you and I are going to get along. I only want to know what you're looking for and why."

"Boss wanted us to pick up some guy, so we went out to get him," Jone-Z said.

"And how did 'Boss' know he wanted to talk to this guy?" asked Peter.

"Dunno, Lamarr just came down and said we were going out to get someone," he answered.
It was then that a call came from the street. "Jone-Z, where are you?"

"Lamarr! He's over here! He's got..." the rest of the shout was converted to a scream that faded to silence as Jone-Z lost consciousness.

"Enjoy the next few weeks with two slings," whispered Peter to his sleeping victim. He then jumped up and prepared himself for Lamarr's arrival.

Lamarr was a thug. Smarter than some, but he was still a thug nonetheless. He ran down the wide gap between the Victorian houses into the darkness, expecting uncounted horrors. Going from the half-lit street to the shadowy backyards left him sightless. The first thing he saw was the ground as he tripped over the unconscious body of Jone-Z

Peter jumped down from the first story balcony roof and pulled the fallen gangster's arms back like he had the first, but the man refused to let go of his gun. Peter was about to step on his neck and solve the issue when the unexpected happened.

Lamarr had the build of a street thug that ruled not so much by brains or brawn, but by a violent temper and a willingness to do others harm. This translated into him being fast but not especially muscular. Nonetheless he pulled his arms away from Peter by sheer strength and hauled himself to his feet. He swung around, and fired.

The noise and muzzle flare blinded and deafened them both. Peter had danced back and aside, unsure of how the situation was evolving. He felt fairly certain he had not been hit, but he felt stunned by the sudden reversal of situations. His senses were much sharper than the human's, so his shock from the gunfire had been greater, and he was unsure of where his opponent now stood. Peter knew he had to strike before the gangster could locate him and open fire with greater effect, so he threw a wild punch about head level and but felt only air.

Peter was still unwilling to up the ante and reveal his larger form. With sparks still dancing in his eyes, he knew he had to disarm Lamarr quickly. Peter's horns were curving affairs that came down from his temples towards his chin. They framed his face and had, on occasion, saved his head from a side impact. They did not project forwards in any menacing way, but because of the way they were anchored to his skull he did have a far more solid forehead than most.
So Peter lunged forwards in the hopes of finding something soft and cerebral in front of him. By some chance, his head butt made contact with Lamarr's face, causing the man to swear angrily.

Lamarr reeled backwards under this latest assault but swiftly recovered. Peter hopped forward in an attempt to grab the gun but the gangster was fighting him for it.

The two fell to the ground as Peter tried to wrestle the gun away from his opponent. The man was exceptionally strong. Under normal circumstances the fight should not have lasted as long as it had, but Peter was unable to gain any advantage over his enemy. The two struggled against one another, grunting and swearing in the grass.

As they rolled about Peter caught a glimpse of the third gangster dragging the downed man away. He knew he had to finish this quickly or risk reinforcements arriving. Peter could end the struggle in a second by shifting to his war form but he was still reticent to expose himself and risk drawing attention to the Ratkin.

It was then that a crash drew the focus of both combatants towards the house whose backyard they were in. Their tussle had left them squarely in front of the back door, which had just been thrown open.

Peter could see a silhouette standing in the lighted doorway. The entire ground floor was now brightly lit up. Peter has allowed his attention to wander too much and Lamarr used the opportunity to flip Peter over his head. The gunman quickly jumped to his feet and pointed his weapon at the floored Peter.

But if Peter noticed too much, Lamarr noticed too little. Beyond Peter the person standing in the bright doorway was holding an AK-47. The riffle made surprisingly little noise and so did Lamarr as the first few bullets hit him. He sunk to the ground.

Peter rolled over on his stomach and looked towards his rescuer. The first thing that hit him was the female shape of the gun wielding shadow. Even concealed in the contrasting brightness and shrouded in what appeared to be some kind of long plastic apron, those curves and statuesque legs could never quite be hidden. The second thing that hit him was a powerful odour coming from the open door. It was a chemical smell that struck fear in him. The last time he had smelled it was when, as a child, the Colony had been preparing for war. The Warriors had gleefully begun their apocalyptic machinations. It was the smell of homemade TNT. Bathtub explosives, and lots of it.

When the muffled gunfire came to an end the woman called out, "Who the Hell's out there?!" She had a commanding tone that was used to being obeyed.
Peter looked over his shoulder to see he was alone. The injured human had somehow fled the scene. He glanced back to the nameless woman and noticed the soda can silencer and her long blond hair. He decided he had overstayed his welcome. His clothing was disarrayed so he made sure his hood was still in place. He got to his feet slowly with his hands over his head.

"Now come over here slowly," she ordered, but instead he made a break for it. He jumped over the fence at the rear of the yard and didn't stop until he was five blocks distant. The increasingly loud sound of gunfire echoed in the air the entire time.

Back in the dilapidated Victorian house, Victoria Wallace, also know as Victoria Clothed-in-Pain, crushed the burnt remains of her makeshift silencer. "So that was Peter Super," she said to no one in particular. "Well, if Knife Skulkers want to play in my garden, they'd best be careful." She replaced the clip in the rifle with a fresh one and put it back in the umbrella can by the door.
"Yes," she said, still talking to herself as she descended to the basement. "I've got things ready." The rows of full bathtubs spoke mute testament to her claim.