1.6
I had mixed feelings about guard duty, not that I would ever say it out loud though. There were plenty of other jobs Lung could come up with for me that would be far worse, and it wasn't like I actually minded the guarding part. In fact, being given the opportunity to actually protect something was pretty much a dream come true for me at this point: a bastion of peace in an otherwise turbulent storm. So no, it wasn't the job itself that was bothering me, it was what it entailed.
Simply put, waiting blindly for something bad to happen was eating at me.
I wanted to do something, to be proactive and keep myself occupied by taking preventative measures of some kind. I wasn't in a hurry to get myself into a fight or anything, but to put it bluntly, guard duty was boring. More than boring, it was also stressful in an ambiguous and pervasive sort of way. Together, that meant that I was left alone with my own overactive imagination, trying to keep myself alert and engaged while also tuning out the half of my brain that painted every innocuous sound and happenstance in a new, nefarious light.
I really was my own worst enemy at times like this.
Maybe if the circumstances had been different, I could've gone out and actively patrolled the edge of ABB territory, intercepting any Empire threats before they had a chance to get too close. Unfortunately, Lung had been clear that I was to maintain a low profile, acting only in response to the E88 crossing our arbitrary line in the sand. I didn't like it, but that was the way Lung did things.
Lung's image and reputation were a not insignificant power in their own right. His name meant something to people and his presence alone could dictate the way other groups acted. He'd had years to cultivate his image, using outrageous feats of indomitability to give his every word and action an oppressive weight of inevitability. To maintain this, he operated with a sort of code that made anticipating the consequences of his actions and his response to the actions of others relatively straightforward. In a general sense, he was predictable. He wanted to be predictable, because in the end, when all the cards were down and the outcome was being decided, it didn't make a bit of difference. No matter what plans you made or tactics you tried, Lung would win and it would all be for nothing.
'Lung' became not just a name, but a promise: an inevitable reality in the minds of all it threatened to consume, and I just so happened to be its newest apostle.
Oh joy for me.
Ultimately, that meant that I, as an extension of Lung's organization, was now bound by the same expectations as Lung himself. If that meant playing into an absurd and childish game of feigned ignorance, then so be it. After all, it hadn't actually been Lung who attacked the Empire's building, no matter what anyone else may have thought. That meant that publically the ABB had no reason to be expecting a sudden increase in hostilities. Being caught visibly reinforcing the frontlines would apparently be the same as claiming responsibility for the attack, something that Lung would never do; if he was going to attack you, he'd make damn sure that you knew it was him.
At the same time, Lung couldn't just outright ignore the possibility of an attack, not when he knew that the Empire might blame him anyway. If there was a chance for one to come, even one based on a trick or misinformation, it would be foolish to forgo preparations altogether. As a result, I had to play along, no matter how stupid or tedious the game actually was, and deal with all of the stress that resulted from it.
Not for the first time, I found myself thinking that just getting into a fight already would make things so much simpler. Not for the first time, I told myself to shut the hell up.
The routine clatter of a furnace exhaust vent shuddering to life startled me from my thoughts and brought me back to full alert. I was sitting up on the roof of the nightclub, leaning back against the side of the vent for a little warmth with my sword between my legs, propped up against my left shoulder. I'd come up here to stay out of sight and assuage Mitchell's worries of my presence scaring off customers.
Even though I couldn't directly see what was happening at street level from my resting place, my excellent, power enhanced hearing made keeping track of the surrounding area relatively easy. I had no difficulty distinguishing the number of individual voices, and evaluating their general tone, position, and direction of travel only required a little more concentration. Additionally, the white noise of the vent hissing out it's exhaust added to the ever present throbbing of the club's music, helped to soften the impact of sudden, sharp, and otherwise mundane sounds on my nerves. Even so, I still found myself tensing up with every passing car or boisterous group of night goers.
It seemed like it was going to be a long night.
Idly, I found my thoughts drifting to my dad: wondering whether he'd gone to bed yet or if I'd come home to find him passed out on the couch. I often fought with myself over whether or not I should encourage him to actually sleep in his bed every night. On the one hand, sleeping on an actual mattress would be much better for both his health and quality of sleep, but when the cost was the toil of crawling his way up the stairs, dragging his wheelchair up behind him, I couldn't bring myself to chastise him for staying in one spot.
As my mind began to once again replay the gut twisting memory of watching my dad inch up the stairs, rebuking any offer of assistance I gave, I tried to forcibly distract myself, focusing instead on the sound of another car working its way down the street from Empire territory. Giving it my attention, I realized that rather than one car, there were two driving in sequence. The engines had a fairly distinctive heavy rumble, closer to a big truck than a little clunker of a car. That realization made me sit up a bit straighter, body getting a bit more tense as my left hand drifted up to wrap around the scabbard of my sword.
Two larger vehicles, maybe trucks or vans, seeming to drive in sequence could mean a transport of some kind. I was vaguely aware of the sorts of armored vans and heavy trucks the E88 always seemed to have at hand for operations, unlike the ABB's more run-of-the-mill supply. Would they actually send a whole transport of guys to harass one little nightclub though?
With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I heard the vehicles begin to slow and leapt to my feet, sliding my sword back into my sash just as they pulled to a stop out front.
Quickly but silently, I padded my way closer to the edge of the roof, stopping once the other side of the street was just barely visible to me over the lip of the brick building. Here, I confirmed that the heavy engines belonged to two full-sized vans, parked one behind the other at the opposite curb. They were painted a nondescript grey color that was made all the more suspicious by the unnaturally dark tint on the front windows. Even with my enhanced sight, I was only able to make out black silhouettes in the darkness: people, but with heads and bodies far thicker than I expected. Listening in, I was able to make out a number of voices conversing over the incessant thrum of the club, but they were muffled into obscurity, the vans apparently being well insulated and sealed.
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, the front and back doors of the vans popped open and I felt my heart leap into my throat. It wasn't the Empire. It was the Parahuman Response Team, the PRT.
"-your weapons down and stay mostly to this side of the street. We don't want to crowd around and stir up a big panic." A gravelly male voice was the first I heard: the apparent captain of this squad based on the chorus of acknowledgments from the rest of the troopers. Listening as intently as I was, their voices echoed to me, once from their mouths and again from eight radios. There were nine of them in total, all dressed in thick armor, helmets with face concealing visors, and carrying a variety of weapons. "Mason, stick with me in case I need one of your dumb jokes." He was answered with a round of chuckles and a few groans.
"Don't encourage him captain," responded a good natured feminine voice, a grin evident in her tone. "Otherwise, he won't shut up for the rest of the night."
"Aw Cheeks, if ya ever get lonely without me, you know you can call up any time!" was the confident reply.
"Enough," cut in an authoritative but exhausted sounding male voice. "Let's try to keep this quick, we've got a lot of ground yet to cover. Eyes and ears open, you know the drill. Engines are running, Captain."
"Right, right" replied the first voice with a sigh. "Gonna have me sprinting everywhere by the end of the night." The Captain's grumbles were answered by another round of chuckles before he started across the street, another figure breaking off from the group to keep pace beside him. The remaining troopers spread out a bit, turning and seeming to scan the surroundings, each one focusing on a different area. As a few started scanning along the various rooftops, I slowly sunk lower out of sight and took a cautious step backwards.
With a moment to breathe, my initial surge of panic had given way to a sort of tense but level focus, and fortunately, it seemed like my knee-jerk suspicion on the PRT's presence here was wrong. I had assumed, with a sort of outraged sense of betrayal, that Mitchell had probably sold me out and called them, but so far their conversation had given me no reason to believe that. Logically, I probably shouldn't have been surprised if he had sold me out. After all, I was the bad guy here. Emotionally though, I prickled at the idea of such a blatant betrayal of trust, especially after all of the leniency I had shown him.
Putting uncomfortable and unconstructive thoughts aside, I focused my attention back on what was happening on the street.
"Oh shit," I heard Ken curse quietly to himself. As though echoing his sentiment, the few groups of people that had been walking up or down the street had stopped where they were, debating in hushed tones whether to stay and watch, or turn around and go a different way. "Shit, shit, shit." As the troopers stepped up onto the near curb, I heard a piece of equipment click into place. A moment later when the captain spoke, his voice was more clear. I assumed he'd flipped up his visor.
"Good evening," he called out in his gruff but amicable tone.
"Ah, evening." Ken replied with an obvious nervous hesitance. I cringed at the sound of his nervous twiddling and fidgeting; he was acting too suspiciously. "Uh, what can I do for you?"
"Well, I'm Captain Warrick with the PRT. These here are my men." the captain started conversationally. "No need to be on edge, we're just looking for an ear. You work here at the, uh- this nightclub?" Ken mumbled an unintelligible reply, but seemed to get the point across. "Ah, good. Y'see, some reports came in early today that have the higher ups a bit nervous. Seems there's a good possibility that some nasty gang fighting might break out in the area."
"Oh wow," Ken said, trying and failing to sound surprised. "That's- that's not good. You think it's gonna be around here?"
"Well, it's certainly a possibility," Captain Warrick replied unfazed. "It's hard to predict these things exactly, but this area's part of a stretch that's at the most risk. Anyway, we were told to drive around, pick out any places that are still open this late, and warn em off. Maybe suggest they close up for a night or two to be safe."
"Oh! Uh, that's- I don't, uh-"
"It's not a government mandate or anything." The captain cut back in. "We're not gonna force you to shut down, but I imagine a good number of people come through a club on any given night. It'd be awful if they got caught out here in the middle of a warzone. I'm not saying something will happen, but you don't want to be responsible for all those people if something goes wrong."
"I- I- I can't make this sort of decision." Ken managed to break in to the Captain's speech. "Just- let me go get the owner." Without waiting for a response, Ken scrambled up off of his stool and fled into the club. The captain blew out a heavy sigh in response.
"Guy was pretty jumpy looking, don't 'cha think?" The trooper with the captain, Mason, interjected.
"Yeah," the captain breathed out, sounding put-upon. "Hey Lieutenant, can you check and see if there are any entries in the system about this place? See if anything stands out?" The exhausted sounding man was the one to reply.
"Just a second." After a short period of silence, he seemed to find what he needed. "Uh, aside from the calls typical for a place that serves alcohol, there are, say, a couple dozen or so reports concerning the E88 and ABB: vandalism, harassment, assault, the usual spread."
"Anything done about it?" The captain queried. The lieutenant replied with a cynical snort.
"As much as you'd expect: unit sent by to check, try to take in or run off anyone that's still around, take a statement, probably suggest they buy a couple security cameras. The usual smoke and bull."
"Oh great," Captain Warrick sighed. There was a muted thunk as he hit Mason's arm. "Better start thinking of a good one." The trooper snorted in response.
"Roger that."
While everyone waited for Ken to return with Mitchell, my head was spinning as I tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do in a situation like this. The ABB didn't go out of their way to antagonize the PRT or the heroes, or at least I didn't think they did. Most of the time they wound up in conflict, it was because the heroes were responding to some sort of call or to deal with a confrontation. Occasionally you'd hear about a PRT raid on a drug den or safe house on the news, but that wasn't what was going on here. From what I could tell, this group or squad or whatever, was driving around to spread a warning: to try to keep innocent people out of harm's way.
Did I want to confront and try to stop them? Well, of course not, but did I have to? I wasn't sure.
Certainly, they'd have to press deeper into what was ABB territory to finish spreading their warning and that could be considered grounds enough to make myself known to them, maybe give a strongly worded warning if nothing else (unless of course they decided to attack me.) If they just drove around and spread their message to what few businesses remained in the area, they could probably finish without any trouble resulting from it. On the other hand, it was possible that they might run into one of the groups of unpowered gang members that had been spread around in preparation for a fight. If that happened, I could see things getting hectic rather quickly.
If a fight broke out, and Lung found out that I had all but let it happen, what would he do?
My internal conflict was interrupted as I heard the door to the club open again and the music briefly surged.
"Gentlemen! Hello and good evening!" Mitchell called out, his voice almost theatrical with over-the-top enthusiasm. "What can I do for you?! Ken here tells me that there's a spot of trouble brewin'!" There was a brief pause as Captain Warrick cleared his throat.
"Unfortunately, that seems to be the case," he replied. "I'm Captain Warrick with the PRT. These are my men. Now, I understand that you're the owner of this club, Mr.-" He trailed off, expecting Mitchell to fill in the blank.
"Oh, just call me Mitchell or Mitch, that's what you'll hear everyone else sayin' anyway. The Heat here is my baby, almost a decade old, now that I think of it. Are you sayin' you want me to close down?" There was no real heat in Mitchell's tone, but somehow it felt like he'd taken on a bit of a confrontational edge.
"It's just a recommendation, and only temporarily." Captain Warrick replied in a placating manner. "If a big fight between the ABB and the E88 breaks out, there's no knowing for sure how much it'll escalate or how long it'll last. For a business that services a large number of people, like your nightclub, there's a responsibility-"
"How am I supposed to get by if I don't do my business, Captain? Not everyone out here can afford to just shut down for a few nights, if not more!"
"I understand," the captain interjected in a sympathetic tone with a self evident 'but'. Mitchell cut him off before he could continue.
"Do you, Captain? Are you goin' to be the one to make up the difference in my bills when it comes time to collect? Are you goin' to head on down to city hall for me, and tell them why I'm short on my taxes? I don't know what you're expecting, Captain, but these people know this city just as well as I do. I can put up a warning, but do you know what the statistics say your chance of getting mugged out here are on a normal given day? How many of them do you think are going to bat an eye over it?" Captain Warrick tried to interrupt again but Mitchell continued, talking over him.
"I have an idea, Captain. Why not stick around and make sure no one gets hurt as they continue to go about their normal lives. Isn't that your duty? To protect?"
As Mitchell continued to build up a full head of steam, I made my decision. With how much attention the confrontation was drawing from spectators, small groups gathering on either side of the street to gawk at the free and relatively harmless entertainment, I knew I had to act. If any of the PRT squad's other stops tonight built up even half as much energy as what Mitch was churning himself up into, word would certainly get around. I needed to change the nature of the gossip.
I had to draw my line in the sand.
With a few quick steps, I hopped up onto the lip of the nightclub's roof three stories above the ground. I'd hoped that I wouldn't need to do much more to draw attention to myself and thankfully, I was right.
"Captain, up high! Twelve 'o'clock!" I was impressed with how quickly the facemask of every PRT trooper snapped up to lock on to me. When they saw me every last one of them tensed, pulling their weapons higher or more tightly to their shoulders. They didn't bring them fully to bear, but I could see in their posture and movements just how quickly and automatically they could aim and fire.
As Captain Warrick took a few cautious steps away from the club to get a better look at me, I recognized the Lieutenant's voice speaking up.
"Squad four to console, over." A beat later I heard the grainy reply over the troopers' radios.
"Console. Go ahead four."
"This is Lieutenant Grayson of squad four, transmitting from sector bravo, x-ray, six. Encountered unknown, costumed individual. Description: average height, slender build, black attire, hooded face mask, has what appears to be a weapon on their left hip, seems to be a sword of some kind. Please advise."
"Standby, Lieutenant." There was a brief silence, during which the troopers and I continued our tense staring contest. "Uh, Lieutenant, I'm not seeing anything here. Is there anymore you can tell me?" Lieutenant Grayson huffed in frustration before replying.
"First appearance on the rooftops. Attire has a- somewhat oriental feel to it, maybe. Hard to tell, but looks like some sort of protective guards on the forearms and maybe the legs. Over."
"Yeah, I've got nothing for you lieutenant. No matches. Captain Warrick has approval for field command. Exercise caution and proceed under first contact protocol at his discretion. Console out."
As soon as the radio fell silent, the captain released the grip of the grenade launcher hanging at his chest and very deliberately raised his right arm to give me a little wave.
"Good evening there," he called out amicably. "Anything we can do for you?" I turned my attention to the captain, but otherwise remained silent as I tried to mentally plot out how I wanted this encounter to go. I was still floundering over the content of my opening speech when he called out again.
"You know, this area's not safe for a lone cape to be patrolling at the moment. There's a good chance of some nasty fighting breaking out between the ABB and the E88. Not something I'd want to get caught between if I could help it." Did he think that I was an independent cape, maybe a new trigger? Assumed innocent until proven guilty, maybe. I would have liked to perpetuate that assumption, to maintain some ambiguity in my identity and allegiance, but unfortunately I couldn't do that. Lung would expect otherwise. As my left hand toyed with the top of my scabbard, I gathered my courage and called back.
"I know. That's why Lung sent me here."
With one fluid movement, I leaned forward and stepped off the side of the building. The three story fall didn't inconvenience me in the slightest, my knees absorbing the impact with an easy grace before I stood back to my full height.
The troopers' reactions to my declaration and following stunt had been predictable. The tension in the group's body language climbed up another notch as every weapon aside from the captain's snapped up to track my movement. In response, the groups of spectators that were still watching realized there was a chance that their harmless entertainment might turn a bit dangerous and most turned to flee.
Instinctively, I found myself taking note of the types and numbers of weapons the troopers had at the ready: four assault rifles, three grenade launchers, and two backpacks with hoses that I recognized as containment foam sprayers from PRT propaganda. Many of them had extra weapons visible, ranging from shotguns, extra rifles, and pistols to cylindrical canisters that I assumed were grenades, but those weren't an immediate threat to me.
As my gaze wandered over the group, analyzing the loose formation they had subconsciously drifted into, estimating the relative danger each one of them posed to me, and devising plans to eliminate that danger as quickly, concisely, and safely as possible, I saw a visible shudder pass over them like a sudden chilling breeze. As several fingers drew closer to triggers, Captain Warrick cleared his throat, pulling my attention back to him.
"I see." He said in a grim matter-of-fact tone. Sighing, he brought a hand up to scratch at the stubble on his chin and continued. "That's- well, a bit troublesome for us. You see, we're not supposed to be getting into any trouble if we can help it, lots of paper work and all that. Since this is basically a humanitarian mission, I wonder if there's any chance that- we could get back to peacefully doin' what we were doin' and, well, you could do the same."
As the captain and I met each other's gazes, I couldn't help but reassess my initial opinion of him. I had thought that he seemed rather disinterested and lackadaisical at first, but now that I was face to face with him I noticed a sort of piercing shrewdness to his eyes. It reminded me of my dad when he had still been working: how he could listen to several people's problems at once and after thinking for a moment, concisely give them a response or a temporary solution, so long as the matter was related to his work. It was a kind of confidence that could be born only from experience, and in spite of his demeanor, Captain Warrick had it in spades.
"I don't know, Captain," I replied, doing my best to sound imposing but sarcastic. I wasn't sure how well I pulled it off. "Is it a policy of yours to badger people into submission, people that are already under Lung's protection?" Before the captain could reply, Mitchell tried to break into the confrontation.
"Battousai, that's not-" Before he could undermine me, whether intentionally or otherwise, I snapped my gaze over to him and silenced him with a glare. The effect was immediate.
With an audible gasp, Mitchell flinched away from me, taking a fearful step back and locking up as his face went pale. I knew that his reaction would haunt me later, but at the moment I didn't have time to dwell on it. Whatever he'd seen in my glare, it was enough to push Mason over the edge and the trooper leapt into action.
Breaking into a charge, he sprinted over to where Mitchell and Ken were standing in three bounding steps. When he was close enough, he reached out to grab onto Mitchell and must have intended to push him to the side, blocking the both of them from me with his body. Unfortunately, his good intentions were in vain.
I was far faster.
In a single, near instantaneous step, I reached his side and took hold of his leading arm. Pivoting around him, I put his body between myself and the rest of the troopers, forcibly twisting his arm and wrenching it behind his back in the process. At this point, some part of his training must have kicked in and he instinctually dove forwards, somersaulting in an effort to evade my lock and avoid having his shoulder torn from its socket. Realizing that his rifle would be free to fire if he landed on his back, I twisted his arm again, torquing it to flip him onto his stomach and pin his weapon between his body and the ground.
Snapping my head to the side, I spared a brief glance for Mitchell and Ken behind me, mindful of the bouncer's gun. Fortunately, lashing out at me seemed to be the last thing on their minds. They'd recoiled back into the face of one of the club's windows, and Ken had finally shown a bit of his bouncer spirit by pulling Mitchell behind himself, gun completely forgotten. Dismissing them, I turned back to the troopers.
Immediately, I was aware of the abrupt shift that had overcome them: the sudden leap into action spurring them to arms as well. Tense but passive readiness exploded into active aggression, and I felt a wave of what I could only describe as intent slam into my senses like a physical force. My free hand shot down to grab the hilt of my sword and I began to pull it free. Before the scene could erupt in bloodshed, though, a shrill whistle managed to pierce its way through the collective adrenaline haze and all attention snapped to one figure.
Captain Warrick remained where he'd started: in the middle of the scene between me and the other troopers. He'd turned to face my new position and his right hand had returned to the grip of the grenade launcher that hung at his chest, but he still had yet to raise it at me. His left arm was held extended out to one side, angled a bit behind with his hand spread in the universal signal for 'stop'. His body was tense, but when I met his eyes I saw the same shrewd, levelheadedness that I'd noticed before.
I found myself surprised and more than a little impressed with the discipline in the other troopers' actions. Their intent to attack me in defense of their squad mate hadn't diminished in the slightest, but at the captain's silent order they reigned in their snap judgments and deferred to him. In fact, as my eyes flickered over their formation, I couldn't help but marvel over how obviously well trained they were.
Whether by the influence of my power or something else, I effortlessly picked apart the structure of their formation and the intent of their positions. Without a direct order, they had automatically spread across the street, angling slightly closer to me at the buildings on my right to subtly pressure me back towards ABB territory. They wanted to contain and direct my movements without backing me into a corner. It wouldn't work, not with how freely and quickly I could move around an urban environment, but that wasn't the point.
Their training allowed them to seamlessly work together and react to a possible threat on instinct without waiting for an active order. Then, when their superior wordlessly ordered them to wait, they deferred to his judgment without a second thought. Seeing this really drove home the fact that the PRT was a highly organized government taskforce, one with real military training, not just some part-time urban police force.
For a moment, I couldn't help but wonder how the gangs managed to gain any ground against them at all; but one look at my own position, made the answer plain to see.
At my feet I held one of their own: pinned, in pain, and helpless. Behind me were two frightened civilians, unequipped to deal with the level of threat that I posed to them. All around me sat the collateral of Brockton Bay: people, homes, businesses, infrastructure, and intangible things like a sense of security or peace of mind. The gangs were taking the city itself hostage, and the Heroes with the PRT were desperately trying to stop them without tearing everything to the ground.
With no small amount of guilt, as Mason fought to hold in his pained groans beneath me, I eased back on some of the pressure to his shoulder and deliberately slid my sword back into its scabbard.
As we stood there, silently regarding each other in a tense standoff primed to blow at any moment, it was Mason, my impromptu prisoner of all people, who spoke up.
"Ah, hey Captain," he called out in a strained but lighthearted tone. "I think I've got one." Captain Warrick replied without missing a beat.
"Save it for later, Mason."
"Yeah," he called back sounding sheepish. "Guess you're right."
With a grimace, I couldn't help but turn away from them, and after a few more moments of silent regret, I made my decision.
Releasing the tension on the wisecracking trooper's arm, I bent down and took a hold of the armor at the base of his neck. With a single pull, I demonstrated a bit of my enhanced strength and hoisted the man to his feet, letting go of his arm in the process. Before he could get his balance, I grabbed onto his armor again with my right hand and reached around him to grab the front of his rifle. I leaned forwards and purposefully met his eyes, or at least where I thought his eyes were beneath his visor, and waited. Recognizing my intent, he made a show of letting the gun go, opening his hands wide and spreading them apart theatrically. Finally, I turned my attention back to Captain Warrick.
"I'm not so violent that I'd attack anyone who crosses my path, but I do have my own job to do here, Captain. Take your men and get out of here; this area is controlled by the ABB now." He watched me silently for a few moments longer. Eventually, his mouth twisted into a grimace and he looked away.
"Alright." He agreed, sounding worn out. Behind him, a quiet chorus of outraged protests began, only to be silenced by one sharp gesture. "We were never looking for a fight in the first place, only to spread a warning." He took a moment to look meaningfully towards Mitchell and Ken. "I think that's been done here." Fighting back another grimace, I waited as he turned to address his men.
"Pack it in," he ordered with a note of finality, gesturing towards the vans they'd arrived in. After a moment, I heard the lieutenant quietly speak up to supplement his orders.
"Slow and steady, weapons up. Cheeks, you and me out with the captain until Mason's safely with us." There were a chorus of quiet confirmations as the troopers began moving, slowly stalking a wide arc through the street around me back towards their rides.
As doors were opened and the men slowly loaded into the transports, there were never less than four pairs of eyes watching me, ready to react. Once the last trooper had made it across the street, I let go of Mason's gun and gave him a gentle push forwards. Wordlessly he complied, starting forwards slowly with his hands still up in surrender. When he reached Captain Warrick, he was given a little, acknowledging nod. In response he increased his pace, jogging the rest of the distance between him and the vans and quickly climbing into one.
Still standing resolutely where he'd been throughout the encounter, the captain was the last to move. With one final quick survey of the area, he met my eyes and nodded before flipping his visor back down to conceal his face. He turned, the only one of them to break his line of sight to me, and calmly crossed the street.
As I watched him go, the sunken set of his shoulders belying a hidden disappointment, my dissatisfaction surged up to prod at my conscience. Before I had a chance to second guess myself, to question the possible consequences of my sudden decision, I called out.
"Captain!" I winced as he visibly tensed, a bit of hesitance finally making its way into his body language as he turned back to face me. For a moment, I fumbled over my words before I clumsily managed to spit out a suitably 'in character' line. "I'm the one watching this area, but my main focus needs to be on the Empire in case they come looking for trouble. But, if a commotion gets stirred up somewhere nearby, I'll have to go take care of it." Nervously crossing my arms, I made a point of looking away from the man out towards Empire territory, hoping he'd catch my veiled meaning. "When you leave, make sure you do it quietly."
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him studying me. I wasn't sure what he was thinking. Maybe he was weighing my status as a villain in a ruthless gang against my nature as a fellow human being capable of empathy. Maybe he was just tired and wanted to get his job done and go home. Whatever conclusion he happened to come to, he nodded and called out in reply.
"I understand. You won't hear a peep." With that he turned and climbed into one of the vans, not sparing me a second look. As the engines revved up, the vans came to life, almost seeming cautious in how slowly they accelerated forwards. They rumbled down the street growing quieter with the distance, and when they reached the first intersection, turned left and out of sight, deeper into ABB territory.
For a short time I remained standing on the sidewalk, an internal debate between my conscience and my fears wreaking havoc on my nerves as I wondered whether or not I had just made a huge mistake. Eventually, I forced myself to push those thoughts aside, ignoring them completely. I'd made my decision; worrying about the outcome wouldn't help me now. If any consequences arose from it, I'd deal with them as they appeared: problems for the me of the future to figure out.
Turning back to face the nightclub, I spotted Mitchell and Ken, backed into the cove of the front doorway and nervously watching me like I was a bomb that would explode at any second. Their fear pulled the image of Mitchell's terrified reaction back to the front of my mind and I turned away, guilt digging into the pit of my stomach like a dull, persistent knife. Swallowing an uncomfortable lump in my throat, I turned back to them.
"Sorry."
My feeble apology said, I bent my knees and leapt back onto the rooftops, fleeing new demons the same way I always did: ignoring them as best I could.
