Chapter 9: Rush

It was a quarter past eleven when he arrived at Dorado's local Navarro Outpost again. Despite the insomnia Inigo's mismade bullet left him with, it was already his tenth visit of the day, having woken up at six am to get the first pick of last night's packages as he typically did. He still had yet to fully center himself after his talk with Alejandra two days ago. He had hoped more work would bring him some modicum of peace; the reparations between him and Alejandra had been slow after the initial shock. There was little he could do about it at the moment with both of his benefactors away at Sunday service, and what little he cared to remember of his upbringing led him to decline Alejandra's offer to come with them. "I'd rather focus on work right now.", he had said to her, unaware of how poorly he had phrased it.

He had no real disdain for religion despite the best efforts of his atheistic upbringing, but it was only natural for him to skeptical of the idea. On the whole, however, he was indifferent to matters of faith, too focused on the world in front of him to give a second thought to any possible world beyond. He could not remember a single thing in between the muzzle flash and waking up in a hospital bed, save for the knowledge that he'd had a bizarre dream despite not being able to recall a single detail about it.

However, the weight of his conversation with Alejandra was still taxing on his mind and plagued him with doubt. Just today, he had passed by three groups of young men who wore the skeletal stain of Los Muertos on their skin, and yet he had kept pedaling. They may not have been committing their usual criminal acts, but there were few in Dorado who would think less of him for assaulting them outright just for wearing the neon purple and stylized skulls of their gang. Despite doing so being akin to suicide, that was not the main thing that kept him from trying anything against them or any other lowlives he had seen on his work routes the past two days. Alejandra's words still rang in his head whenever the anticipation of combat nibbled at his brain, keeping him from what he relished and what he feared about himself.

"She's right. It's not normal for me to be this way, but what am I supposed to do about it? We've both seen it enough, the world needs heroes, and that nearly always means someone who beats the crap out of someone who deserves it. I don't want to upset her by getting into more fights, but that's what the world needs, me enjoying it is just incidental."

He repeated that conversation with himself nine times now and it never did anything to quell his many doubts over his self-issued mission. Whatever the rights and wrongs about it may have been, he still sought violence for the sake of violence and a lust for blood is never satiated.

"I can't be like that, but I need to be. I mean, I'll have to kill people someday if I keep this up, I just hope I don't enjoy that too." Shaking the deeper thoughts away, he settled back into the dubious comfort of his work. He rarely saw other couriers, at least to his knowledge, working in the town, likely for the same reason he was hired on so readily at Navarro; most people didn't want to risk the robbery. He first signed on simply because it was a free opportunity for work due to holdover labor laws in many states dating back to the Crisis that allowed for anyone past twelve to legally work, so long as it was not hourly or salaried. Before, he simply did not care if was dangerous or not, but after his rise to attempt heroism, he used as an easy way to find fights with the scum of the cities he passed through. But for now, it was just a job once again.

With three taps coded into his muscle memory, the machine outpost made an uncharacteristically loud series of grinds and clicks as the package dispensed into Brian's hands. It was yet another sign of how bad things were in this city; the outpost had clearly been raided at some point in recent history and the repairs were done quick and cheap, judging by the sounds he recognized after the same had happened to the outpost by his old home in Oakland. He could hazard a guess where the money spent for a more thorough repair went as he glanced passed the bulk of the dispenser. Looking at the opposite street to a rather inconspicuous car of marred silver, there sat an omnic behind the wheel, doing his best not to look blatantly at the courier. Tasks such as this, that would drive the average human mad with boredom, often found their way to the many less than fortunate omnics of the world. However, many companies, including Navarro itself, had few omnics within their ranks despite their obvious advantages over human workers due to the old wounds of the Omnic Crisis still feeling fresh in the minds of many.

Brian never did completely understand why, as all of the omnics alive today, to his knowledge, had nothing to do with the crisis, he had never even met one older than the age of twenty-four. In fact, the oldest one he was aware of was the Overwatch agent Jetfire, who would have been thirty-five today if it weren't for a thermite charge and the excellent throwing arm of a Talon terrorist. All the omnics he had met personally had been, more or less, regular people with only the robotic cadence of their speech setting them apart from their peers. However, he also failed to comprehend why omnic tolerance was pushed on people so violently.

California in particular was a bastion for such propaganda, so much that even as a young boy Brian found it patronizing, particularly when the overwhelming majority of omnics he knew of were far higher on the social ladder than anyone in his neighborhood. It seemed every other show online and every film coming out of Hollywood had an anti-omnic villain or involved a human-omnic romance in some way, which even many omnics found -and still find- offensive, given their own half of their history with humanity. Few people, human or omnic, were willing to make their gripes on matter public, but mob rule with the threat of ostracisation kept them silent. If the color of flesh made no one greater or lesser than any other, Brian did not understand why having skin of steel should make any difference on the social level.

In the end, it was not as if the watchmen's race mattered, the two of them would not be speaking either way. He knew company policy prevented him from talking with any security staff to avoid distracting or exposing them to criminals, but it was not as if he had any desire to speak with him or anyone else right now. His only concern was that Mrs. Gonzalez received her parcel soon enough to make his meager pay worth the time he was spending for it. Navarro paid by distance rather than time, taking five minutes or five hours to travel a mile would result in the same reward.

For the average courier, their pay was the equivalent of $9.80 an hour, but at Brian's typical speed and endurance, he usually managed $12.20 hourly. Though still not what most would consider a living wage, his spartan lifestyle made that more than enough to get by. He had just over five miles ahead of him, for most this would take nearly twenty-five minutes, but Brian had no desire to be considered average.

...

Twenty-one minutes later, he arrived at Gonzalez' Haircuts and Styling with worn-out lungs. He was surprised at the sheer volume of local businesses in what he had explored of Dorado thus far, nothing at all like the major franchises dotting the streets of Oakland, save for Chinatown. Even the other cities in Mexico, those along the border, in particular, were much more corporate in their market districts. He could only assume it was related to what Alejandra had told him about Dorado's strange place on the coast made them unable to compete with their competing sister cities for vacationers and their high crime rate, even for a coastal city, was not a point in their favor. Regardless, his only business with them was this delivery, his hair had only just grown back to the shaggy length he enjoyed.

Stepping off his bike once he could control his breath, he approached the building pushing the bike alongside him to better navigate the rising foot traffic in his way. There were more bike racks then the center would ever need right across the street from the Gonzalez', but growing up in Oakland taught him the hard way not to leave his bike unattended for more than a second. Unsurprisingly, the rest of Dorado knew the same lesson, judging by the rack being completely bare. Using another of his hometown's lessons, he scanned the crowd carefully as he walked, watching for the subtle signs of a threat. Gang colors like the Los Muertos' purple, concealing clothing that would easily hide a blade meant for his ribs, aggressive movements as simple as another following behind him; he searched for all and more, almost disappointed at finding none of it. Guilt and doubt could not fully uproot his love of adrenaline, even if he wished it otherwise.

That clicked in his mind, "Why does she still have me so hung up about this? It's not like I was nuts enough to beat up random people before, so it's not like I need to watch myself now. I'm just doing what's right, it's not my fault if I like it."

That was the ninth time he had tried to justify it to himself and the ninth time he had failed to make it convincing. It was not a complex problem, merely one that had no permanent solution other than the path he had already chosen. If he had stayed in California, he would live the life of a drone, all his wants and ambitions denied to him. If he continued on the road, he was sure to die long before he reached thirty and was destined to kill many others before that, and he was sure to enjoy it.

The thought to simply stay in Dorado and with Alejandra had come to him many times as a compromise of sorts, but that would change very little. The city was rife with violence to feed the urge and he was never truly comfortable with Alejandra demeanor toward him, ensuring not much would be different than if were to leave. It's not as if he didn't understand why she acted that way toward him, he couldn't claim to be much better, the only real difference being his show of admiration couldn't be so direct. Yet another reason why he was so dead set on his path.

"I can't get mad at her for trying and she just wants to help me with my issues. I can't pretend like I don't have problems, but a problem that makes everyone's life better can't really be called a problem, can it?"

He wasn't so lost in his thoughts as to miss fate's answer to his musings. Just as he was a mere three pace from the door, A junior, and unsubtly clad, member of Los Muertos was making his approach. He was not much older than Brian, appearing only a few months into his sixteenth year, and was a clear half foot taller than him, something the courier was used to by now being five-two at fifteen. The gangster wore an outfit typical of his creed, loose-fitting pants and a cheap jacket of dark colors with garish accents of purple to show his allegiance. His face was roughly chiseled, well on the better side of average, with no scars worth speaking of. As he walked, he did not even attempt to hide his fixed, determined gaze, unlike the courier who was already planning his attack as he made sure to keep his bike between the two of them.

The rest of the crowd had all but dissipated by the time they had come within speaking distance of each other.

"What's in the box?", the gangster questioned as if it were a threat.

At this distance, Brian could better sum up his soon to be opponent. He was well built for his age, as was Brian, but the true threat of his skill was not something that was easily detected. Brian assumed there was a knife hidden somewhere on his person, as was the custom of every street gang he had encountered in his life, and kept his right hand open and by the pocket of his hoodie. He had left most of his many packs and bags in the basement of Panadería Las Nieblas, but he never separated himself from his wrench while at work.

What evaded him at the moment was the reason for this encounter. Revenge for Inigo and his cohorts seemed too obvious and from what Alejandra had told him of Los Muertos, they weren't the types to think of their comrades as such. Petty theft was another possibility, but even the simplest of criminal had the foresight to attack their target in seclusion. This was another hunt for status like Raf and Marco had tried at two days ago. Whoever this fresh gangster was, he was out for the glory Brian's hide would bring.

"Don't know, and don't know why you need to.", Brian finally said once he had learned all he felt he needed to.

He knew what he was inviting and the hell he would catch if Alejandra found out, but he found that difficult to focus on.

"He's going to attack no matter what, I might as well take control now.", the would-be hero told himself, but even he realized the siren call of the fight was the only voice he could hear now. The steady increase in his heartbeat, the tensing of his muscle purging the stillness in his bones, and the first slow drips of adrenaline like honey in his bloodstream cleansed him of any sort of care for Alejandra's opinions.

"I don't need too, but I'll be taking it anyway.", replied the young gangster as he took a single step forward.

"That so?", said the young self-appointed hero as he took the parcel from the only remaining pack on his bike.

If this was a struggle for reputation, Brian would need to prove how far he was above all comers and he had a plan to do exactly that here. Placing the package on the ground behind him, he made the challenge proper as he slid one hand on the frame of the bicycle.

"You'd better come for it then."

The gangster took another three steps forward as he reached into his jacket.

"You're right, I'd b-"

The final step had been exactly what Brian had been waiting for, it had brought his opponent to the exact range he needed. Hand to hand was too much of a risk with the high probability of the gangster wielding a knife and throwing his wrench would have been too telegraphed to hit him and held too high a risk of hitting an innocent bystander. That left Brian with an option he had been waiting to try for quite some time, to put his strength training to better use. Twenty pounds was not a convenient weight and the awkward shape it came in made it unruly to use a weapon normally, however for a single, unexpectable strike it was invaluable at Brian's level of heroics. For as soon as the third step had touched the ground, Brian but all of his speed and stamina into a single attack, taking his bicycle by the frame with both hands and making a massive swing that sent the courier's most valuable tool into the gangster's side.

The weight of the blow and the bike that delivered it sent the bewildered gangster to the smooth concrete with the Invincible brand vehicle still atop him. The butterfly knife he had tried to draw slid across the ground, eventually stopped by the glass door of Gonzalez'. Both of them were winded by the attack, but Brian had a clear advantage that he was eager to capitalize on. Leaping forward, he threw his entire body weight onto the pinned gangster to claim a quick victory before the fighting had truly begun. That is where Brian made his mistake, in his haste to end this fight in a way that would prevent many others, he failed to realize the tenacity of the foe he faced.

Brian was already in the air when the gangster made his counter-attack, shoving the bike back with an even greater surge of power, colliding it with the would-be hero. The resulting clash was very much against the courier as flesh and bone of his arm met metal and the balance of power shifted in an instant. Brian tumbled away, nearly falling into traffic as he did so while his opponent remained on the ground to gather himself. Nothing was broken in either of them, but the sudden burst of power they both had performed left them in need of a moment's breath.

Brian was the first one back on his feet, but only by a second as the gangster staggered up to match him. Disoriented and in pain, the two watched each other carefully as they regained their bearings. It was then that the would-be hero realized that in the chaos of the last attack, his adjustable wrench had fallen out of his pocket. He wished for nothing more than to find it, but he could not afford to let his guard down for even a second. Instead, his wandering eye found the butterfly knife, with his enemy still staggering back to his feet before it.

"One more thing Alé's gonna be pissed about, but that's her problem. It's life or death out here."

With a blinding burst of speed, he charged, not for his objective, but the obstacle in front of it. Only just fast enough to recover and attempt a counter attack, the gangster swung a right hook for the courier's head with his unbruised arm. Showing a deftness that would be unbelievable to all but those who witnessed the fight, Brian weaved under the blow and threw all of his speed and weight into a punch to his kidney. It took all of the gangster's endurance to stay standing after that blow, but stand he did as Brian continued to run for the knife. Unfolding the blade as swiftly as he able, Brian ignored the pain of the finger he had cut in his reckless haste as the fight continued. However, one detail on the red-stained steel of the blade caught his attention, an engraving on the side that gave his enemy a name.

Wisely, Cesar immediately disengaged upon seeing the blade, but noticing the trickle of crimson traveling down the would-be hero's hand changed that plan. With a satisfied smirk, he took an unusual stance, keeping his left hand open and raised while keeping his right fist clenched by his stomach. It was not a stance Brian had ever seen before and likely not one that was ever taught in any sort of class or even the mean streets of Dorado, and that gave pause to the courier. Most street fighting techniques were loosely based on more professional martial arts, in Brian's experience, this typically meant kickboxing or a variation of kung fu, depending on which gang they were in. This stance, however, had no detectable origin and he had no way of predicting what his next move would be.

Brian was unsure how best to approach from here, taking this stance as soon as he saw him with the knife was too deliberate of a move. Staying unexpectable was Brian's best option against what was likely a defensive art, but he was limited by his morality. Brutal injury was one thing, even crippling a person was not below him if he felt it was necessary, but killing a person was not something he had the heart for. "I can't go that far, I don't have the right to go that far. Not yet." His only viable targets were the arms or legs, but with his opponent's arms at the ready for his attack, he was left with only legs to attack. "Charge in, weave to get close, stab him in the thigh with his own knife, get this over quick and make him lose on every level."

Setting his plan in motion, Brian burst forward once again. This, however, was what Cesar was waiting for as a perfectly aimed roundhouse kick knocked the blade from his hands. The weapon flew and bounced it's way under a car as Brian lost his balance as fell to one knee. He only had time to look up and see the fist coming down on him and the smug grin behind it. It had been some time since Brian had taken a hit this hard and as the knuckle pressed into his eye, he couldn't say he missed the feeling.

On the ground and struggling to ignore the pain on the hit and the phantom pain of the gunshot it had triggered, Brian had less than an instant to find the strength to halt the next attack. A kick soared to his stomach, intent to knock the wind from him and leave him unable to defend from the rest of the coming assault. With speed and strength, even Brian was surprised he still had left within him, he halted the kick with but his left forearm and right hand. In the moment's confusion, he seized the opportunity to make an unsportsmanlike, but decisive lash of his fist for the gangster's crotch. It was then that he realized the purpose of his opponent's unorthodox fighting stance as he gracefully slid his right arm down to block the strike within a mere instant of the muscle's first twitch. However, the laws of kinetics meant he was not fully protected and Cesar was forced to stagger backward in agony as the balance of power shifted once again, making them equal for the first time since the battle began.

Crawling back to his feet as his opponent struggled to stay on his own, they both simply watched each other as they waited for time to give them some respite from their injuries. In Brian's case, one likely caused by his older wound from his last encounter with Los Muertos, his sight lacked the ability to discern color properly. The purple stripe along the gangster jacket had turned blue and the dull green car he was resting on suddenly had been made yellow. Greatly disturbed by this, Brian knew he was in no condition to make the first move and saw no other option than to simply bite the pain beating through his skull and analyze his foe more closely through a bruised eye.

As he had suspected earlier, this was a defensive style, one designed to defend from low blows and to deliver one's own to punish an opponent's mistakes. It was almost a certainty that this art was designed on and for the violent streets and back alleys of Dorado, where honor and sportsmanship were as foreign as Brian was. As the color slowly returned to the courier, he saw that stance being taken once again. Cesar tried to hide the suffering he was in, more likely to be lingering from the kidney blow than his more recent groinal assault, but the subtle pressing of his fist against his side gave him away.

Examining his legs far closer this time, Brian noted how he put his right leg forward in the wide legged style. It was a basic tenant of most martial arts to put one side of your body forward to use for defensive movements. Typically, this meant your non-dominant arm and leg as you were essentially sacrificing your limbs to spare the rest of your body. While his arms told him little, the position of his opponent's legs could only make him assume this meant he was left-handed. This was a revelation the would-be hero was glad to learn, for this meant that he would have an extra advantage in a pure hand to hand fight.

It was then, as his attention was locked on his enemy's legs that he noticed a shimmer of light in the corner of his eye. The wrench that had fallen from his hoodie's pocket had ended up only a pace from where he was standing. The old fear of taking his focus away for the second it would take to grab the weapon remained, but the advantages were obvious and the state the both of them were in made it a more viable option. However, safety wasn't his primary concern, the only reason he had taken the knife before was to end this quickly, leaving Cesar in the shame of a complete loss. As things stood now, they had dragged on too long and too even for the gangster to be the one to lose face now if the courier drew his weapon. This was a battle for the sake of pride and glory and needed to be fought as such. Looking back to see his enemy following his gaze, Brian smiled a pompous smile as he took one step forward, placed one foot atop the wrench, and kicked it back behind him as he took his battle stance. Cesar opponent was shocked, to say the least, but after a moment of consideration, an audible pop as he tilted his head sharply and an amused twitch of the lip, the gangster simply said, "Bring it."

There was still much Brian did not know of how this adversary of his fight, but just by analyzing his stance he had found a possible route to victory. The open left palm held steady under his chin was almost certainly intended to deflect hooks and straight punches aimed for his head as well as allowing for easy eye pokes and throat punches. Cesar's torso and groin were still well defended, likely to be far more so now that Brian had already made an attempt for it. However, the gangster's legs remained undefended and he would find it difficult to maintain his balance if a decisive blow was landed on one of them and Brian and a plethora of ways to do that.

Advancing toward his opponent in short dashes that allowed him to keep his form, Brian searched for an opening while keeping a check on his own defenses. Cesar matched him at every step as they circled each other and he calculated his own, unknowable strategy.

"He's probably fought guys using some cookie cutter ripoff kickboxing, so he'll know what to watch for with basic stuff.", Brian deduced.

The courier made a sudden false lunge to gauge his enemy's reaction, and to his fortune, the gangster flinched and moved to parry, clearly on edge from the would-be hero's previous near victories. Psychologically, Brian had already won and this was the proof, everything that followed was just a formality. His normal smile turned to one of self-satisfaction as he moved closer.

With practiced speed, the would-be hero closed the remaining distance and his left knee jolted forward. However, it did not make contact for as Cesar moved just as swiftly to intercept this attack, the leg stopped mid-flight and returned to the ground just as suddenly as the courier's right leg collided with his enemy's own. Losing balance near instantly as Brian's shin slammed into the side of his knee, the gangster was unprepared for the impossibly fast left jab into his right shoulder. In the shock of the attack, his defenses were cracked and the opportunity was seized as a right hook struck him directly in the stomach. And how the adrenaline sang through it all.

Obeying its rhythm, Brian pressed the attack as the gangster fell back, struggling to recover the wind knocked out of him. A straight punch launched for directly for the criminal's nose, only for it to be deflected with a push of the courier's forearm and countered with a stomach blow of his own. Taking a sharp breath while the would-be hero lost his own, Cesar pinned him in place with a stomp of his toes and grabbed the left side of his face. Raising a thumb, the thug made ready to rob him of his undamaged eye, keeping his grip tight to cut off his escape. Escape, however, was the last thing of Brian's mind.

Craning his neck against the gangster's considerable strength, he shot forth with a headbutt, the wet snap of cartilage ringing loud in his ears. Brian didn't even feel the blood splatter on his cheek as the honey of victory beat through his veins and he grabbed the arm of the now toppling Cesar. Believing the third time to be the charm, he knocked the wind from his gut once again followed by an immediate follow-up uppercut to the throat and as the last of the criminal's body control left him, a final, devastating right hook rammed directly into his eye sent him crashing against the pavement. Lying still on the ground with only the faintest signs of breath to say he was not a corpse, the gangster had failed in his hunt for glory in the space of a minute.

The serene rush slowly faded from Brian as he caught his own breath, steadily replaced by the great pain it had taken his mind away from. Agony needled its way through his skull, pulsing through his bloodshot eye and into the bullet's mark. Every movement of his left arm stung as he held it to his head in a vain attempt at halting any pain. He took each gasp of air reluctantly, as the force of the punch that had expelled it from him yet remained. This was the closest he had come to a true and fair loss in some time, he could barely hold on to consciousness despite how hard he fought to present himself otherwise. His focus no longer dead set, he finally realized the small crowd their fight had drawn and saw it as all the more reason to move on. Glory and recognition for his heroics was one thing, but the way the crowd gawked at him was another.

"I ain't a damn show."

Finding the order for Mrs. Gonzalez surprisingly still where he had left it, he was relieved to know the only force that had moved against it was a gust of air as it rested fully intact on its side. Limping over to his reason for coming, he rolled his right sleeve up to cover the still bleeding cut on his pinky and gritted his teeth through the pain of bending down to retrieve it and did much of the same as he tried to correct his posture. Looking back to the still body of Cesar as he faced the door of the hair stylists shop, he muttered "Eye for an eye", through strained lungs. Nearly tripping as he dragged his foot over the gangster's own, he came to the glass door to see the horrified face of his recipient already waiting behind it and a splatter of red on his face in the reflection.

Wiping his cheek on his already stained sleeve and entering into a deafening silence and prying eyes, Brian simply withdrew his phone and brought up the holo-screen app that his work required, "Need you to sign here."

Awkward and unwanted concern soon followed, "Don't you need to sit down and rest? The police should have some medical supplies for you when they arrive."

With a smugness few found reassuring, he replied, "Rain or shine, Ma'am, I've had worse."

Unconvinced, but unsure how to respond, Mrs. Gonzalez signed the holo-screen and was handed her package not but a half second later.

"Alright then", the courier continued, clearly fighting against his pain to speak as loud as he was, "You have a good one now, ma'am".

"Wait!", the stylist demanded as she reached in her back pocket for her wallet. Before she could even crack the cheap polymer open, Brian raised an open palm in protest.

"It's fine, I don't need it."

"You deserve it after having to deal with all that over a hair dryer."

"Maybe, but I've never needed it before."

The hair stylist had no time to insist further as the courier opened the door and began to leave, only stopping after a sudden realization.

"When the cops come, just tell them it was me again. I'd stay, but I have promises to keep." He closed the door behind him as the shocked beginnings of further objection started and ceased as soon as the glass closed behind him.

Fighting hard against the urge to limp and risk further unease from his onlookers, he walked along the windows of Gonzalez' storefront to his wrench. Bending down and using every last ounce of his willpower to keep the torture from showing on his face, he pocketed the tool and picked up his bike. Not foolish enough to actually ride the Invincible in this state just for his pride, he made his escape from the scene at a steady pace. This encounter couldn't have come at a worse time for him, as a brief glance at his phone's clock as the package was being signed for had informed him. He had promised to meet with Alejandra after church service had ended and even if he had been given a full day to prepare, he wouldn't have been able to hide what he had been through.

"Guess I'm gonna get some fire and brimstone after all…"