Chapter Two:
Steve didn't tell anyone of his strange encounter with the adolescent, and tried to keep an eye out for him as he's running. The sky was a bit overcast, and they were due for rain around noon, but that didn't stop him form going on his daily run. As he was running, he suddenly bumped his toe on a leveled piece of ground.
Steve went flying, his jaw slamming into the concrete, and his hands skinned, and began to bleed slightly. In all his confusion, a young boy stepped up to help him.
"Are ya okay, sir!?" He exclaimed with a strangely southern accent. His hands were flying everywhere, picking up the things he had dropped, and place it in front of him. "Damn, ya must really be hurtin' righ' now, aren't ya, sir! Well, dats the las' of it, sir, and I gotta git going. Goodbye, sir!" The young adolescent gave him a nod and then hurried off into the crowds of people.
Steve slowly stood, checking his belongings. A picture of Peggy, his phone — that now had cracks embedding into the screen —, his list of things he needed to watch/read in order to catch up with society, and...
Steve paused, checking his pockets again. He was missing his wallet! Steve searched the ground to see if it had been kicked somewhere, but found nothing of the sort.
Finally, it dawned on him. That kid stole his wallet!
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Tyron sat on a bench far away from the man he took the wallet from. Unlike most of the wallets he had stolen, this one didn't have any credit cards in it. In fact, the only thing that was a hundred-twenty dollars in twenty dollar bills. Tyron grinned at his catch, this was enough to get him two full nights in the 'Yard!
Extremely pleased with him catch, he pocketed the money and checked the I.D. on it. Steven Rogers. Tyron squinted at the name and the face. He remembered seeing that name back in school. He was one of those Avengers that helped destroy the city!
Tyron's lips curled in disgust and he glared at the wallet, shoving it in the trash can beside him. This, like much of the rest of his catches, was karma, and although this probably wouldn't harm him much, it certainly helped Tyron. Besides, if 'Steve Rogers' was one of the Avengers, then he had to be friends with Stark, and Stark was rich. At least, from what he had seen from TV. If he had enough money to make those flying metal suits, he would had enough to let 'Steve' borrow some money.
Tyron smirked, proud of his conclusion and began to roam New York City. He had decided to come to the City that morning, and although he dreaded the nearly two-hour walk, he had to admit that it was definitely paying off. Besides, Baron would hear that he didn't finish his job soon, and he needed someway to pay him off. Or, at least have some money to have a way to get another place in the future, and to get food. He needed to eat too, and there had only been a handful of 'Yards like the one Baron ran in the area, where he could get to on foot that is.
Tyron sighed, but stood again. His wrist had began throb again, and he didn't have the supplies, or the knowledge, to fix it. His chest hurt too, but he decided that he could live with that. Tyron decided to look for one more target before calling it a day.
He found a younger man with dark hair his eyes focused on the egg muffin. He was eating and his phone. It took him less than a minute to relieve him of his wallet and walk on, however, his efforts were in vain when he found the wallet practically empty.
Tyron scowled, checking his cards, only to find them plastic too! Tyron huffed, tossing the entire thing away. What a waste! He decided to just head over to Central Park and take a break. There would be more people out around noon anyway.
He stepped into a shop, requesting a pen and snatching a few of their napkins, and left. He made his way to the park and sat down in a rather secluded area on a bench. He began to doodle silently on the napkins, and occasionally being wary to check the time. Much to his surprise it began to drizzle. "Shit!" He swore, gathering what little he had and began to hurry. In minutes, it was pouring rain. Roadside vendors were selling plastic ponchos and people began putting up umbrellas or slipping on raincoats.
Tyron ran his hands over his wet hair, and he swore under his breath again. The rain just made it that much harder to pick people, since they were literally covered from head to toe. Not to mention, his wrist was still sprained. Even if he was careful, it would be way too hard to pick anyone.
He still had to try. If he didn't bring anything to Baron, he was dead, plain and simple. Even if he gave him all the money he got from that Avenger guy earlier, and the savings that he had managed to keep, it still wouldn't be enough!
Tyron tried carefully to pick whoever he could, whether it was his tripping strategy, or simply stealing their bags, it was in vain. The most he had made from the lunch and afternoon was barely twenty dollars, excluding his money from earlier.
Sighing in disappointment, Tyron began his trek to the 'Yard. He might as well go back to grab his savings. Maybe he could skip town, or go down to the Bronx and get a place. Wouldn't be nearly as good as the 'Yard was, but he could try.
With this semi-depressing thought, Tyron headed back home.
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As soon as Tyron stepped up to Willy's booth in front of the man looked up. When his dark eyes met Tyron's he stood and stepped out of his booth. Tyron tried to take a step back, but someone grabbed his upper arm. Tyron jumped, seeing one of Baron's men glaring down at him. "Boss want to see you," he grumbled, his voice low and sent chills down his spine.
Tyron glared back at the man. He wanted to try to pry his fingers away from him, but the man was holding unto his good arm, leaving him with his sprained wrist. If he tried to move his fingers, it would only make his wrist worse. So, he stopped fighting him, and allowed himself to be dragged towards Baron's 'office'.
Baron's office was a room adjacent to the control center of the scrapyard. It was rather spacious, and always smelled of weed, cocaine, or cigarette smoke — a combination of things that didn't really make the best candles. The room was usually half lit, or only lit by the candles that lined the rooms, but this time, it was very bright. The walls were painted red and peeling in some areas. There was a long table on the other side of the room that held several bottles of liquor.
Baron sat on a leather chair, a half dressed slut on his lap. He wore black suit with a red tie. There were two of his men behind him, making four men in the room in all. The woman on his lap turned to see Tyron and her unnaturally big painted red lips curled into a pout. She twisted to whisper something in his ear, and a second later, she was standing, her long heeled shoes clicking against the ground as she grabbed her coat and quickly exited in a door leading to the other room. This left Tyron with four men three times bigger than hisself.
"Tyler," Baron spoke, digging into his pocket.
"It's Tyron," Tyron corrected, but Baron didn't listen.
"I gave you one job, a simple job," he continued, finally fishing a cigarette out of his pocket and a lighter. He light the cigarette and took a drag. "One job," he repeated. "All I asked was that you would take out those two assholes. Thought since you were a mutant freak, it wouldn't be too hard. Turns out I was wrong."
"They jumped me. Knew I was comin'," Tyron began, trying to defend himself, but Baron rose a hand.
"I brought you here, let you do whatever weird shit mutant fucktards like you do. Didn't even say nothin' about you being a fag, and this is how you repay me, boy?" Baron's voice teetered on rage and Tyron had to force himself not to step back.
"It wasn't my fault!" Tyron said, raising his voice, and Baron rose an eyebrow at him.
"Tell me, whose fault was it then?"
Tyron froze, his eyes darting to the fake wood flooring. "I... Uh—" How was he supposed to tell Baron that Captain America stopped him from completing his job!? Would he even believe him if he told him what really happened?
"Exactly," Baron glared, "And you know what happens to shitty mutant freaks like you who are unable to follow simple commands?" Tyron's mouth went dry, unable to answer, so Baron continued. "They get put down."
He gave the man standing behind Tyron a slight nod, and he plunged his fist into his gut. Tyron gasped, oxygen escaping his lungs as he sank to his knees, holding his stomach. Baron stood, striding over to Tyron and bent down in front of him. "Do you want to go back to being my little whore?" Tyron glared, his brown eyes full of fury. "Is that a yes?"
"Fuck you," he spat. "You can keep your fuckin' STDs to ya own self." Baron's face twisted into anger, and he grabbed Tyron's chin, squeezing his face. Tyron ignored the pain of his fingers sinking into flesh.
"I guess I'll just have to have a little fun with you then," he remarked, motioning to the man behind him. He grabbed his sprained wrist and yanked it behind him. Tyron cried out, pulling his arm away and holding his wrist to his chest. This interested Baron and he grinned, showing his yellow, crooked teeth and releasing his rancid alcohol mixed with cigarette smoke breath.
"Let's dance," he said, playfully bouncing on the balls of his feet and raising his fist that were decorated with several probably really expensive rings.
Finally, Baron swung at him, his fist with several rings on it collided with Tyron's jaw, he hissed, but couldn't help a laugh as he easily absorbed the metal as soon as it made contact with his skin. Baron quickly noticed the bareness of his knuckles and glared at Tyron. "Bitch!" He snapped, "What the fuck did you—"
Tyron's fingernails turned into claws and he used it to scratch at the man behind him, creating deep lacerations on his side. He grunted as his side began to bleed, his grip on Tyron's hand loosening enough for him to slip his hands out. Tyron ran back to the door, but the other men was faster.
They grabbed him by his hoodie, yanking him back then throwing him on the ground. The other one slammed the heel of his boot on Tyron's sprained hand. He could hear and feel the bone breaking and he screamed in agony. Then, he moved his shoe to his other had, destroying his fingers. Tears bit at his eyes, and he curled up, holding his hands to his chest.
The man that he had cut with his claws yanked him up by his shirt, lifting him so Baron could see. Tyron didn't look at him. He was too busy trying not to scream in pain from his fingers. "Don't forget, Timmy, you're merely a pet, which means that you can, and will, be put down." Baron patted the side of Tyron's face, "Nice talk." Then, he turned to the men who were standing around Tyron. "Give him a lesson so that he can learn next time." With that command, he left the room, entering the same door the slut from earlier did.
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Tyron could barely move without hurting something once Baron's men finished with him. He tried to fight back, but with his broken wrist, and now broken fingers, it was useless. So, he took the beatings, and when they stripped him of his clothes, he didn't care. When they took the small amount of money that he had left, he didn't shed a tear. And, when they all violated him until he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, he didn't make a sound.
These men, were the scum of the earth, and Tyron refused to give them the satisfaction of his tears or his cries or pleading for mercy. Even when he wanted to curl up and sob into his knees, he refused to allow a tear to slip past his cheeks. Crying was a sign of weakness, and he refused to be seen as weak in front of them.
Finally, they finished and went back to drinking or smoking. In the early hours of the morning, all three of the men were unconscious and hungover. With much effort, Tyron was able to redress himself. He was even able to redo the old ace-bandage bindings on his chest, which took nearly a half hour in itself.
Once he was fully dressed, Tyron limped out the door, leaving the 'Yard for good.