Chapter Twenty-Nine:
Tyron made his way out of the school and stumbled down the street, keeping to the side with his good covering his face.
Hunger gripped his stomach, and he wanted to go eat - being in the city surrounded by good certainly made him hungry - but he refrained from doing it. He had to finish his task. He had until Friday to make his riot work, and along with that, he had to find a way to convince Tony to allow him to be kidnapped.
Tyron kept walking, keeping his hands stuffed in his pockets. Someone was watching him. If Baron sent one of his men to follow him after he left that morning, and he knew he went to talk with Tony and had been to Midtown High, he would be in deep shit.
Tyron rubbed his temple and as he crossed the street, then turned into an alley. And hid near the side. His hand touched a trash bin and he began to absorb the metal.
A few minutes later, someone else entered quietly. Tyron stayed silent as they slowly walked through and looked around. When they came close enough, he pounced, pulling them away, his hand turned to metal and aimed against their neck.
"Wha' th' fuck do ya want?!" Tyron demanded, staring at them, then, he sighed, getting up. "Goddamn it, Natasha," he groaned, moving away from the woman.
Natasha stood and dusted herself off. "Well, it's good to know that you're on top of your game," Natasha admitted.
Tyron glared at her, "Why are ya followin' me?!"
"Tony told me what's going on-"
"I don't want ya help," he narrowed his eyes. "Go."
"Tyron, what you're planning - it's serious."
"I told 'im I didn't want do git everyone involved," he groaned. "Stay out of this. If people knew it was connected wit' Tony-"
"Tony doesn't care-!"
"I do, damn it!" Tyron shouted, "I care! I don' want y'all in this!"
"Tyron-"
"Leave m'alone," he snapped and turned to leave the alley and into the sidewalk. He got a few strange looks as people passed by, but nobody stopped him.
"Tyron!" Natasha called, going after him as walked away. "Tyron, we can talk and sort this out."
"'Ere s'no 'this' to sort out. I have work to do," Tyron grumbled.
"And what is that?"
"Not ya buisness."
"Tyron-"
"Natasha," Tyron pivoted and glared straight in her face. "Do not get involved in this. Period."
"You don't get to decide that," she told him. "You aren't the police, you don't get to decide who lives and who dies."
"Yeah, well, m'sick of other people decidin' for me," he turned to leave again. Natasha noticed how slow he moved, and how he shuddered whenever a car rolled past.
"Tyron, you're sick. You need to come home."
"M'fine," He told her. "I'll be fine."
"No, Tyron, you won't. When was the last time you ate something."
Tyron paused for a moment, considering the question, but replied with a turse-sounding, "That's not 'portant 'ight now."
"Of course it is important right now," Natasha grabbed his arm and pulled him to her as they stopped at a street corner, waiting for the light to change. He stared at her, and Natasha searched his face. Dark bags under his eyes signalled days with no rest. His temple was throbbing and his breathing was quick. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face and he did not look at all pleased.
"Please, Tyron," Natasha said softly. "Just come home. We can fix this."
Tyron looked at her and firmly shook his head. "Ya can't. Let m'do this." The light changed and Tyron started to walk away, slowly disappearing the crowd of people that had gathered to wait at the corner.
Natasha didn't follow him. She turned and spoke into her collar, "He didn't listen. What do we do now?"
"Sit here and wait," Steve replied back to her message. "He'll make a move soon, and Tony's still got the tracker on him."
"He really doesn't want us involved," Natasha murmured, glancing back in the genral area where he was already long gone.
"I know. But this is best for him. We'll watch out for him and wait for his next move."
- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -
Tyron came out of Walmart, wearing an entirely new set of clothes. He took his old clothes and a twenty dollar bill and handed it to a homeless man outside of the store. "I'll give you twenty to take these with you. Do whatever you want with them." The man nodded eagerly and snatched the clothes and the money from him, and them took off.
Tyron himself headed in the other direction, going down the street and passing from Brooklyn territory and into Queens territory. It was around five now, and he still had work to do.
Tyron walked for a few hours before finally stopping at a large night club that had also been a bar. It wasn't open yet, since it had only been around seven or so, but Tyron didn't care.
He walked up to the door and opened it. A two men sat at the steel counter, and a taller man in the back. He was black and had a long scar from his eye to his chin. "What're ya doin' ' ere, boy?" He growled, hand trailing under the counter. The other men turned and looked at him, interested by the strange event.
"Where's Zion?" Tyron demanded, his gaze levelled on the bartender.
"Who th' 'ell are ya talkin' 'bout?" He scoffed. "Git out."
Tyron approached the steel counter. As soon as his hands made contact with the metal, he absorbed it. His body shuddered as he quietly basked in recontact with delicious metal. The bartender watched him, eyes narrowed. "Git. Out," he growled, his hand raised to display a gun pointed at his chest.
"Tell m'where he is," Tyron demanded. His fingers slowly turned to metal claws, and the man watched in shock, recognizing his mutation.
"'E ain't here," he swallowed, staring at his hand and putting the gun back. "'E's out."
"Get him," Tyron said, forming his claws back to fingers and moving to sit on the stool. The bartender moved quickly, running to the back room, the door swinging behind him.
The two men tried to stand and leave, "Sit down. Nobody's going anywhere 'til Zion gets here."
"How ya gon' stop us?" One man demanded. Tyron didn't say anything. So, one of the man shot up and headed for the door. He tried to push, but the door was stuck. Tyron made sure of that when he entered.
"Let us outta 'ere!" The man who went to the door demanded, Tyron didn't move. He simply leaned against the counter coolly, waiting for Zion.
"Didn't ya 'ear 'im!" The other man who was still sitting demanded. "Let us out!" He grabbed Tyron shoulder with one hand, the other ready to punch him.
Tyron used the metal from the table to make spikes jut out from his shoulder, and the man yanked his hand away. Dark blood dripped from his palm to the floor, and the man hissed.
"Jus' wait," Tyron said as the man glared at him. "As soon as Zion comes, I'll let ya out. Go play some pool while we wait, if ya want."
"I ain't doing shit," the man near the door growled. His eyes burned like a terrified, caged animal, and darted around the room for a weapon. He stumbled to the bar counter and pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel's from behind the bar. He smashed it against the steel bar counter and pointed it threateningly at Tyron.
Tyron stared at the jagged edges of the bottle and tensed. "Let is outta 'ere, or I'll kill ya!"
"Put tha' down," Tyron demanded. "I said I'll let ya out as soon as he get here."
"Fuck tha'!" He snapped and then charged at him.
Tyron moved out of the way as the man swung at him. The other man realized Tyron's disadvantage and moved to help the other man subdue him. He grabbed a chair and held it behind Tyron.
Tyron eyes narrowed as he ducked under the swipe of the wooden chair. The man with the broken bottle rushed him again, and Tyron moved, grabbing the man's arm. He twisted it, and the dropped the bottle. The other man came behind him and wrapped his arms around his neck.
Tyron threw his head back, making the man's head shoot back and he cried out in pain, stumbling back.
The man in front of him picked up the bottle and drove it into his stomach. Tyron winced, but yanked the man's hand away. With a swift notion, he spun the man's arm around him until he heard a sharp crack. Then, he pushed the man to the ground.
Both men groaned in pain as Tyron stood straighter, holding his stomach and moved to sit back at the counter. He grabbed a glass and reached over slowly to fill it with water. His stomach burned in pain, but he bit his lip and ignored it.
He sat back, slowly sipping his water, His hand coated in silvery blood, but he tried his best to ignore it. Five minutes later, the door behind the counter opened. The bartender and a taller black man stepped out.
The black man, or Zion, was at least a foot or maybe even two taller than Tyron. He had tatooes all up his neck and down his arm. He wore a simple white wife-beater few shirt that had fading burgundy stains that could easily pass a blood. He wore loose jeans that had holes in the knees. His hair was cut short, like an army buzzcut and his eyes were narrowed and annoyed.
"Zion," Tyron said, standing. The bartender came around the counter, grabbing one of the men off the ground and bringing them to the back. Then, he brought the other and did the same.
"Mutie," Zion replied, his voice sounding as gruff as he looked. "Mind tellin' me why scum like you are doin' in one of my bars."
"Lookin' for ya," Tyron replied. "We need to talk."
Zion grunted, "I don't talk to muties, boy. I kill 'em." Tyron stared at him, trying to swallow the fear building up in his throat.
He heard the stories of Zion buying mutants like him from human trafficking markets, then taking them to fighting rings and betting them against other mutants. Even Baron was humane enough to keep him out of those, and Tyron was thankful for that. Mutants barely lasted a few days after entering those rings, and their bodies were discarded like trash.
"There's gonna be a riot this Friday, down 80th between ya an' Baron's territory," Tyron explained. "All m'askin' ya to do is keep ya men outta it."
Zion scoffed, eyes narrowed, "And why would I do that?" He challenged. Tyron stared him in the eyes, chills running down his spine.
"I'll fight for ya," he said. "In the ring. I'll fight, but only if ya keep ya men off the street on Friday down 80th."
Zion stared at him, thinking. "Who's sayin' I can't take you there right now, with or without your say."
"I would kill ya," Tyron replied calmly. "And, where would that put us?"
"Did Baron put you up to this?"
"No. This is all me."
"What kinda fucked up mutie offers to join a fight ring?" Zion scoffed.
"I guess I am. Do we have a deal?" He held out his hand, which was all skin, no silver. Zion watched him.
"Saturday morning, I want you here," Zion said, staring at him.
"I'll be here."
"If it looks like you are about to lose one fight, then I'll kill you myself."
"Fair enough." Zion nodded, approving this and finally shook his hand.
- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -
Tyron left the nightclub gasping, trying not go think of what he just promised one of the most dangerous men in Queens. At least, Tyron thought, he was pimping himself out, and was not being pimped out by Baron.
Tyron shuddered and made his way down the street, trying to get his breathing under control. He was not so keen on talking to the man that had hundreds of dead mutants blood on his hands.
He turned the corner and was met with a huge club in his face. Tyron fell back, his head hitting the concrete and eyes rolling back in his head. He felt someone grab his arm and toss him in a van. The large door closed and they drove away.
Tyron groaned as someone put a phone to his face, "I have to admit, your offer was a bit tempting, Mutie. But, I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to have Baron's star pet in my Ring."
"Fuck you," Tyron groaned, shuddering. Someone kicked him in the stomach, making his open wound burn and bleed in pain.
"Yeah, well, have fun with that," then, the phone hung up.
Tyron breathed, trying to sit up, but someone used a bat and hit him with it. Putting him back on the floor. Another man straddled him, tying his hands with coarse rope and using a scarf to gag him.
Tyron glared at whoever was holding him, but his vision was doubled and his head was spinning. He heard grunting and someone muttering to someone else. They said something along the lines of "put him out" before something hard hit him in the head and his eyes closed.