"Well, fuck me sideways! Ain't it the big boss man of the union?" the speaker was wrapped in stained, soiled caricatures of clothing, his jaundiced eyes fixating on Danny with a focused intensity that only the most caustic of drugs could provide.

Curt, standing at the ready with the rest of his fellow dockworkers, was armed with a sturdy two-by-four and little else. So when his boss marched in with a familiar (if rusty) look of murderous rage on his face, looking far more animated than he had been in months, Curt breathed easier.

Of course, that relief was immediately undercut by the fact that his boss walked beside an unnaturally large cape. No one recognized her, and that worried Curt more than her status as parahuman.

Unknown parahumans were either very new or very capable villains… and Curt didn't want either watching his back when the Merchants decided to try for a Darwin Award.

The young woman towered over the tall Danny, her imperially slim figure protected by thick, silver plate armor. The pale gold strands of her hair, tied into a practical braid, reflected the dawn's light in an ethereal halo of light.

Curt's tired eyes gravitated toward her legs.

Lizard-like scales coated the cape's legs –he refused to even think the word "dragon" in a town with Lung in it. Those thick, corded legs bent backward at the knee, ending in clawed reptilian feet… which made Curt's internal commitment all the more difficult.

"What up, cracker? Ya gonna let my boys be, or are we gonna have to fuckin' show you why you don't fuck with the Merchants?" God, Curtis could smell the rot in the methhead's mouth all the way from across the street.

Skidmark stumbled forward, wildly swearing the whole way. Then, his slightly-vacant eyes finally caught sight of the colossal cape standing beside Danny. Black eyes, bleary and bloodshot met too-bright, violet eyes, and the Merchant's stream of profanities ran dry.

The armored cape strode forward, each step mindfully measured so that her curled talons stretched to gently grip the concrete, rather than rip into it like the springtime's fertile, loamy dirt... Curt felt a wave of homesickness for his boyhood farm, and cursed the day that he decided to move to the "big city." Teenagers made for poor decision makers.

"Greetings, peddler." The cape's voice echoed ominously throughout the docks, her soft words lingering in Curt's ears for far too long after she stopped speaking.

With an idle gesture, a giant slab of a shield wavered into existence and fell into her left hand and while an impossibly large sword materialized into her right.

The shield was nearly as tall as she was. Stone grey, the shield looked like it was intricately and delicately carved. Though what the design was, Curt couldn't tell in the dawn's weak light –he was struck with the errant thought that it was as much a piece of art as it was a tool.

"Daniel Hebert, liege of this place and leader of these men, is under my protection." The cape raised her curved greatsword in an odd salute as she swore the oath. Okay, so not a villain, then.

If her shield was the picture of utility and artistry wedded together, then her sword was a study of cruel practicality. Its plain blade bore no designs or carvings, no crossguard to speak of (ornate or otherwise), and its handle was little more than a linen wrap.

Still, the length of the blade was easily as tall as the young woman –and perhaps half again, besides –and the blade seemed to crackle silently, dangerously. It reminded Curt of an animal leashed, snapping territorially at the length of its rope, though the dockworker couldn't fathom where the thought had come from. It looked to be little more than a bladed piece of curved metal.

How wrong he was.

Skidmark thrust his hands forward in a drunkenly exaggerated motion and the area around him began to shine a brilliant blue. "Get the fucking cocksucking bint!"

The swarm of drugged out gangbangers charged at the armored cape, and she readied her weapons in response.

She launched herself to meet her combatants, muscular legs rippling with effort. Sparks and curses flew in equal measure as the cape crashed into the onslaught of Merchants. Knives slashed at silver plate, the armor turning away the knives with ease.

The curved sword –now sparking with thick bands of lightning, crackling with the staccato of a monstrous laughter –slashed to and fro in impossibly swift strikes, trails of light leaving sunspot-afterimages in its wake.

With every slash, a limb fell to the ground, twitching with electricity racing through the severed muscles.

With every slash, the caustic, cloying odor of burned flesh and ozone filled the air.

Curtis lost track of the young woman's graceful maneuvering as he slammed his own two by four into the legs of a Merchant that decided to take a chance at the dockworkers. A satisfying crunch sounded to his ears as the gangbanger fell to the ground, clutching his ruined kneecaps.

A vicious smirk wormed its way onto Curt's face as he swung his makeshift weapon against another's head. The resounding crack broke the wooden beam and the thug lay insensate on the ground, blood pooling from his spot head.

Curt felt sickened by his own satisfaction and nausea pooled in his stomach as he caught a glimpse at the twitching of a nearby disconnected leg. Curt faltered.

The armored cape was suddenly in front of Curt, positioning herself in front of the dockworker with her massive shield raised in front of her. A barrage of bullets pinged against it uselessly, she angled the wall of a shield just so –directing the ricochet of the bullets against Skidmark's zone of powered protection.

In the midst of all the commotion, Curt couldn't help but notice that Danny's cape had a scaled lizard-like tail that it swung to and fro with an eagerness that unsettled the man. He hoped that it was only swaying with the young woman's movements to keep her balanced, but it seemed far too much like a tiger's mirthful swaying tail to reassure Curt.

God, not another bloodthirsty one.

Brockton Bay wouldn't be able to handle it.

The constant stream of bullets faltered as Skidmark began to curse even louder. The stream of deflected bullets broke through his protection and pierced his calf. Nonfatal but distracting.

The remaining Merchants paused for a heartbeat in surprise. However, that moment of hesitation gave the dockworkers the advantage. With roars of anger, they surged upon their would-be murderers, knocking them out quickly and with an impressive economy of motion.

Danny's cape, for her part, leapt the distance and felled her blade in a crackling, blinding arc.

Shluck.

Skidmark's screaming curses –enough to make even Curt blush –turned into agonized wailing as his legs were removed above the knee, joining the tangled mass of removed limbs. The masked woman casually knocked Skidmark out with the flat of her blade, and a terrified quiet fell.

Just like that, the fight was over.

But the nauseating stench that permeated the air kept Curt from cheering. They had survived, yes… Curt looked out over the tangled mass of bodiless limbs and insensate gangbangers and felt a knot in the pit of his stomach.

"Ah," the violent cape sighed in relief, peering out to the dockworkers and finding none of them obviously hurt. Her weapons wavered for a moment before vanishing into the nothingness from which they came. Turning on a dime, the young woman almost bounced on her heels as she returned to Danny's side.

"A promise made, a promise kept. Your Taylor has her father still."

She bounded over to the group of dockworkers, and they flinched at her sudden movement. The armored cape paused uncertainly, but Danny spoke before her confusion had a chance to fade into hurt.

"T-thank you, Guinevere," Danny smiled shakily, adrenaline obviously still coursing through him, now useless since the fight was over. He tossed his sledgehammer aside. "I'll… I'll do better."

Violet eyes –the only thing visible through the girl's blank, austere mask –crinkled with the sign of a small smile. "Earn your title."

Danny rang the police and the cape –Guinevere –stood off to the side, observing the dockworkers like they were a puzzle that she couldn't quite figure out. Apparently she hadn't forgotten their reaction to her.

Curt simply cursed the fact that he was born into interesting times.

xXx

So… I needed a stock dockworker's point of view for this scene and I waited until I was done typing it up before naming him. My brain offered up the name Curt and... Honestly? My tired, sleep-deprived brain was probably thinking about Kurt.

Chalk it up to normie human forgetfulness, yeah?

(Though if I do end up recycling Curt later on, I'm definitely going to poke fun at there being a Curt and a Kurt!)