Pup 1.2
Sure enough, a bruise had set in. An ugly purple blight on the tawny brown of my forearm just above the wrist. I drew my sleeve back down, shuddering.
My jacket was a loose fit. Loose enough to permit the morning chill to nip at my skin, it felt more like a bed sheet than a clothing article at times. However, the thump thump thumping of hard metal against my thigh chilled my blood more than any amount of cold the gray-cast sky could muster.
I could have been shot. Had I taken just a moment longer to notice Six-Five's disappearance... With a shake of my head, I dismissed that train of thought. Still, a bullet resistant vest sounded like a worthy investment, though I wasn't certain of how much money Senna was willing to spend on me. There was a biking store not too far from home, I could at least acquire knee and elbow pads. It would allow me more places to land safely on.
I tripped over my tails.
Catching myself reawakened the dull throbbing in my injured arm, set both hands stinging. Gloves. I would get a decent pair of gloves, too. I had the tendency to shift one or both tails between my legs at times. Perfectly harmless, beneficial even, for actual foxes. Not so much for bipeds. I recovered, wiping away sidewalk-grime from my palms.
The Merchants, and most other gangs for that matter, split its territory into sectors. Each one complete with their own crew dedicated to breaking the bank, or bones of anyone living within. Failure to pay meant forcible recruitment, or worse. It didn't help that collection attempts were sporadic, unpredictable affairs. Once a month became once a week, and then twice in a single week. A fresh coat of spray paint on one's building was enough for those who could afford it to throw up their arms and move. The husks they left behind were converted into housing units or drug labs in a matter of days.
The result of long term occupation? Cracked roads and ruined sidewalks that maintenance crews were too spooked to repair, public trashcans that were either filled to the brim, or knocked over. Cats, rats, and buzzards to eat the corpses of the former thrived here. While The Merchants were far less of a threat, the ABB and Empire Eighty Eight at least took care of the territory they wrested control of.
The morning rush wasn't due until another hour. Other than a lone car that streaked by, I shared the street with no one but the odd needle or cigarette but that littered the ground.
"Hey there." A female voice, directly behind me. Sweet in the same manner that a very good receptionist answers a phone.
I turned, politeness overriding common sense. "Oh! Hell-... no?"
A one-handed crossbow was leveled at my chest, far too close to dodge. A cartridge was attached to the bottom, giving the weapon a peculiar aesthetic. I could see the bolt; glass tipped and half filled with a clear liquid. Smaller, secondary prongs arced around the first. Probably to make it harder to remove.
I raised my arms. Modern Robin Hood was an inch or so taller than me. Her apparel consisted of an all black body suit that held the gleam of metal, an attached cloak billowing about. Her face was obscured by a full mask in the shape of a scowling person. I hmed to myself. If memory served, she was a member of the Brocton Bay Wards. Senna had a few figurines of her in stock, though her name eluded me. It was something with two Ss. Shade Shooter? Swift Swan? No, those sounded silly.
"Would you kindly not aim your sharp things at me?" I stepped to the side, away from the row of mismatched buildings and closer to the street where I would have a better chance of making a getaway through. The bow followed.
"Give me a reason." Satan Slider (?) advanced, not a trace of saccharine left in her words.
"Because I'm not a villain?"
She looked down. Before I could make a protest, she had one of my tails in her hand, wrapped around her wrist. The grip wasn't rough, but it was intrusive nonetheless.
"Your leaking."
"It isn't mine. Someone I owe a favor to was being harassed for protection money. She asked me to suggest that they stop. "
Her bow went to a clamp at her bodysuit's hip with a soft click. And for a moment we stood, featureless tinted screen to perpetually scowling plate of metal. Eventually, she groaned as though I'd committed some kind of social faux pas. "That's it?"
"Pardon?"
"You're not gonna to tell me about who's ass you kicked?"
Oh. She wanted a story. Was that common amongst capes? Greeting one another with flyting, boasting, and flexing at each other like knights from a story book?
She loosed my tail. I brought it upwards for a brief inspection; matted with crimson and flecks of detritus from midpoint to tip, I shuddered at the sheer amount of ew the sight instilled. It took every iota of self control I had to not waste energy on washing it away with pseudo-mass.
Shadow Stalker motioned for me to follow, and I did, recounting the tale of Six-Five and his band of almost-men as we traversed the scum-dotted streets.
"He'll be fine, head wounds bleed a bunch." She kicked at a pebble, sending it to the opposite side of the street. "Could've given him worse."
Her eyes, no, her mask. Never left me, even as we navigated a crosswalk. I made a conscious effort to steer the conversation somewhere else.
"So, their letting the Wards bite into deeper parts of gang territory now, Shadow Strider?"
"Shadow Stalker," She said, "And I wish. Crapton Bay wouldn't be in this shape if the PRT got over their red tape fetish."
I frowned, again forgetting that my face would be hard to see through the gas-mask. "Then you're getting yourself into trouble?"
"Not unless someone happens to snitch." She yawned, bringing her hands over her head, ending the gesture with an arm around my neck, a mite of pressure away from choking me. "If you haven't already guessed, that would be very hazardous for your health. I might even let you join me if you keep your mouth shut."
I squirmed out of her grasp. "Consider my lips sealed."
"Great." She clasped her gloves together and jumped. As soon as her feet left the ground, she became a mass of smoke. Possibly weightless, with the way her momentum carried her to the roof of the battered pharmacy adjacent to us.
She went solid. "Think you can keep up with that fancy light stuff of yours?" I could almost hear her smirk.
A wiser person would have bowed out, but here was an opportunity to benchmark my free running prowess and make a friend. I leaped after her, pouring energy into a slab of pseudo-mass so it could bend and flick me into the air without shattering. I landed with a completely necessary front flip that would have made me look like a fool if I botched it.
Shadow Stalker clicked her tongue, but offered no praise. With a running start, she cleared the space between the pharmacy and the next building in a single bound. Her power allowed her to pick up speed in short bursts, though there was much more to it; signs, chimneys and other obstacles that I had to vault over or go around gave her no trouble, she simply passed through them. Rather than create cost efficient platforms to run across, I had to stay slightly above the buildings and sling myself forward just to keep pace with the heroine's reality-defying strides.
The first indication that we crossed over into Empire territory wasn't the change in street tags, but the pristine conditions of the roads. It was almost like walking into another city entirely; I could see the appeal of falling in step with Kaiser, slim as it was. Being the leader of a white supremacist organization that dabbled in the drug trade marked him out as a slightly more benign devil in a hellscape.
Abruptly, mercifully, Shadow Stalker halted a building ahead. She crouched, peering over its edge. whatever power source she drew from was infinity more vast than my own. She displayed no labored breathing, or any other hint that she had broken a sweat. Without a need to hurry, I bridged the gap between us with a few stepping plates, allowing me time to soothe my burning everything.
We had eyes above a dead end alleyway. Two men; a teen with a button up shirt, and a lithe, shirtless man whose goatee was reminiscent of a long brown drape hung from a fleshy window. He bore a black tattoo with a stylized "588" on the space between his shoulders. They were between another form and the way out. I shifted to the side, getting an angle on whoever it was.
A Hispanic man. Bald, portly, and well past any kind of prime. The victim had every reason to fear what was coming to him. But he didn't cower, or plead, or let out as much as a panicked whimper. He stood stock still, gaze darting between his two assailants.
Goat-ee produced a switchblade, flicking it open before handing it to the youth. When he didn't take it immediately, Goat-ee pressed the weapon into his fingers until he grasped it. Tutelage of the most sickening kind.
"I'm feeling nice today pops, just drop your wallet, and I'll let you stroll on by." The youth waved his switchblade in the man's face a few times, to no effect. "God, he's not even saying anything, what am I suppo-"
The Hispanic man turned ever so slightly to face Goat-ee and moved. He threw his entire body into a headbutt with startling speed.
The sound Goat-ee made upon getting his nose wrecked was halfway between a surprised shout and a roar. I tried to stand, only for Shadow Stalker to take hold of my mask's side filter.
"Not yet," she said, voice just above a whisper.
The first strike hadn't done as much damage as I anticipated, it staggered Goat-ee, but didn't draw blood. The ensuing fight didn't last long, Goat-ee was much stronger than he appeared. The victim threw a punch that he caught. In one smooth motion he yanked the victim's arm and tripped him.
"See what I told you?" Goat-ee said between breaths. "Nothing but a bunch of filthy street rats, the lot of them. Nick him."
"I don't think he'll get out of this by himself," I hissed.
"Yeah, pity."
Shadow Stalker descended upon them in a blur, landing directly on top of Goat-ee, dropping her shadow state in time to bring her full weight against him. He stood firm instead of crumpling and threw Shadow Stalker against the wall, prompting her to shift forms again. She splattered soundlessly, spreading out in a circle against the brick surface, only to reshape and dart forward. Once more, Shadow Stalker became solid just before impact, slamming her shoulder against the man's sternum.
He backpedaled, but still attempted to retaliate, a desperate right jab went through Shadow Stalker's head, no dice. It was the last thing he did before before she introduced her knee-pad to his groin. Twice.
With the wail of a million dead generations, Goat-ee fell on his side, clutching at his tenders. clearly in no position to continue the fight, or reproduce. Rather than stepping up to rescue his mentor, the youth made a break for it.
Keeping the high ground, I set to work a pair of composite restraints. Oversized not-iron needles that tapered off into gelatinous strands with properties lifted from both rubber and carbon wire. I was quite proud of them; the idea came from a short-term capture device composed of a metal ball with an integrated cable reel that could suspend suspects from high places long enough for the police to deal with them. It had taken a week to come up with the right combination of non-materials that could bear weight and not prove impractical to materialize on the spot.
I sunk both needles into the side of the building and added more mass to the strands. They snaked downward, catching the youth by both wrists. He struggled, flailing his legs about, inciting a familiar burning sensation in my gut as I drained more of my energy reservoir into keeping him bound. I forced the gel to solidify, leaving him with both of his arms spread. Someone with a sense of humor and without the pain of what was probably an ulcer coming on would have made a crucifixion joke.
There was some shouting that I was vaguely aware of below, but my head wasn't in the right place to pay it my immediate attention. I prodded my belly with a finger. Could that happen? Could whatever sac I held my pseudo-mass production energy in get a hole and spill its undoubtedly volatile contents all over my organs?
Glancing downward kicked rumination into the back-burner with a vengeance. Shadow Stalker had a downed Goat-ee by the shoulder. She pointed a crossbow at his temple, one with a metal bolt loaded in.
I had more words ready to publish, but I'm giving you a little more than half. Yes this is terrible, and I'm telling you because I feel terrible about it. I need to focus on school work; it's quite hard to do so and create (what I hope is) quality work that has a semi-consistant update schedule and a respectable length for the amount of time that I'm asking you to wait between updates. The other half will act like a buffer, some breathing room for me to work on other projects, school, and not have this fic fade into obscurity due to negligence. The next chapter will be up when I have produced enough work for two more chapters, or when exactly ten days have passed, whichever comes first.
I have oh so many plot holes points to explore! New characters to introduce you to, and then kill. Cannon characters that will be saved from death or receding spotlight syndrome only to die for it. And lots of tinker bullshit. I hope you have your shovels handy, folks.