Fighting Chance Vol 2 #5a
The Queens rooftop somehow still kept the last bit of warmth from the summer sun, breathing heat onto Zain’s butt while the skyline blinked in a thousand colors in front of him. Three weeks since they started hanging out and this slab was already theirs, footprints in pigeon dust, a bunch of different-branded empty soda cans by the ledge.
Always the same three brands, too.
Zain knew his were the Pepsis, the orange Fantas were all Elvin, and the disgusting Dr. Pepper’s all belonged to little Vince, the guy chugging them all down almost like they fueled his flames.
Shaking his head at the inhumanity of it all, Zain cracked open the lo-mein container sitting in his lap, chopsticks clacking as he shoveled stickfuls of noodles into his mouth before they got gummy. Sitting was hard enough as his legs wanted motion, and his trusty little Shen Gong Wu chain wanted targets.
Elvin sat cross-legged, black hoodie up, phone glowing against his grin. All black clothes down to the bandana, shorts and even the shoes, he looked like Batman’s broke little brother with all the black on black on black on black. “Yo, police scanner got wild chatter near Grand Street, mad product moving.”
“How mad?” Zain talked around noodles, eyes scanning the roofline as he heard police sirens zoom past.
“Some Yakuza front ate bullets last night, odds are good their stash running scared,” Elvin answered, the bigger teen rumbling in answer.
Vince tightened his red hoodie, red hoodie pulled up over his blond hair as he nursed another can of Dr. Pepper. The black of his bulletproof vest stood out against the red of both his hoodie and his bandana, the blue shorts he was wearing contrasting with everything else. “Y’all sure we wanna take on the Japanese mafia?” The words dragged in molasses, nerves thumping under each syllable.
Zain laughed after he took the time to swallow his latest mouthful, doing his best to avoid choking. That’d be way more embarrassing than getting shot. “V, we hit meth cooks last week, this is just name-brand scum.” He licked sauce off his knuckle, and flicked stray noodles into the dark. “Plus, I owe some Yakuza a favor for trying to shoot at me a couple months back.”
Elvin flashed a grin, white teeth bright in the dead of night. “Deadass, we eat big once we rip these fools. Z, pass the dumplings before they get cold.”
“Got you, E.” He handled the chopsticks like an expert, sliding three dumplings into Elvin’s box, then jab-pointed the two sticks at Vince. “You eating or just praying?”
Vince pulled his hood lower before pulling his carton towards him. “I like Southern food, but I ain’t gonna turn down no shrimp.” He bit a dumpling, sauce dripped down his wrist, eyes closed as he let out a long low hum. “Okay, that’s real good.”
Zain rose with another laugh spilling out of him, chain rattling. “Eat fast. We gotta get to Chinatown before the buses quit.”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
The street spun beneath them, almost a blur as they moved at speeds that would give the average person vertigo. Zain hooked his chain over a fire escape ladder, sneakers scraping rust as it launched him up at a speed that sent him rocketing towards the nearest rooftop, hoodie snapping in the wind. Roof gravel skittered behind him as he dropped, Elvin landing behind him as the big guy cleared a good fifty feet through the air easy before his shoes kissed concrete again. Vince boosted himself from the other building with a palm-flare, orange cones shooting just enough thrust to lift him the last couple feet, sneakers skidding across the top of the roof to meet the other two.
Heat washed Zain’s back, flames sputtering away from Vince’s hands to smoke as he grinned over his shoulder. “Getting clean with that jet-boost, V.”
“G-glad it looks so easy to you,” Vince wheezed, accent wobbling but proud, as he pumped his arms to keep up with the two of them. The guy was definitely stronger, faster, and tougher than the average guy but maybe half again as much, which was a lot for a thirteen year old kid, but not that much.
Not when Big Boy Rage was already twenty times as strong as that, and that was before he got big.
Especially not when a regular guy could get that tough with about a year of dedicated training.
“Focus, boys, product prolly moves at eleven.” Elvin barked back as he slid down a slanted rooftop, hands out for balance. The big guy hit the ledge, dropped to a balcony, rolled, and kept talking without even missing a single breath. “We gotta move fast.”
Zain swung again, his chain a silver streak above the alley as he zoomed up on his magical grappling gun. Truck bed, crates, quick wrecking crew, gone before midnight. He knew what they were doing and how fast they had to move, but he wasn’t sure how much they were gonna make from it. “I want the driver conscious enough to talk. We torch supply after we lock down the source.”
Vince caught up to Zain, flames flicking off fingers as he huffed and puffed. “We sure we wanna torch, fellers? Torching means smoke, smoke means eyes.”
Elvin shrugged, wide shoulders rolling. “Smoke means a witness says little fire kid, big buff kid, little chain demon. Cops think a crazy drunk instead of local crews.”
Zain landed, chain coiled back around his waist, body already pivoting into the next sprint.
City noise bloomed open, all horns, sirens, and subway rumble under concrete as Zain tasted metal on his tongue. “Grand and Eldridge, four blocks,” he breathed.
Elvin pointed to distant headlights creeping into a narrow service street. “That.”
The three teenagers moved.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
The warehouse was all dark, shadows filling what could have been seen of the inside, the steel roll-up door half open and half-closed as three men enjoying a smoke leaned against a large crate, pistols visible beneath their jackets.
Zain leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he timed each and every one of the three men’s movements, before finally… carefully… nodding.
Elvin sucked in a breath of air, biting down a grunt as his back bulged, bones cracked, and five foot six became six foot five. The big guy’s baggy clothes stretched, seams stretching as muscles inflated into place. At the same time, Vince let out his own breath, relaxing his control over his powers as flame spread across his knuckles.
Last but not least, Zain’s chain unwrapped as he wrapped the middle of it around his right hand, heavy links tight in his grip.
Now fully sized and full of all sorts of anger-amplifying testosterone, the huge teenager leapt onto the loading ramp, boots clanging loud. “Surprise, motherf–” He had no time for the full word as the first guard scrambled back with his pistol raised.
Laughing loud, Elvin swatted him a lazy backhand, the guy flying through a stack of poorly stacked pallets. Wood exploded like cheap fireworks, as the second guard screamed at the top of his lungs, but he didn’t have a chance. Zain swung his chain, and hard, heavy links kissed the bastard’s wristbones, sending the gun airborne as the man screamed bloody murder.
Zain followed up, surging forward with a right cross into the screaming man’s jaw.
As expected, the man folded to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
The third guard scrambled, his gun jumping up into his shaky hands as he spun it from target to target between Zain and Elvin, as the barrel wavered. Flame spat like dragon’s breath in a tight cone from Vince’s hands, heat shimmer in the air warping the space between them. Gun metal glowed cherry-red, the grip of the gun melting as the guard screamed, blisters popping up on his skin as he dropped the weapon like it was toxic.
Vince darted close while the man was still processing his burns, knee driving up into the solar plexus with a wet thud that folded the guard in half. The man coughed, tasting heat and copper, collapsed forward as his diaphragm gave way and the man hit the ground.
Three men in stained lab coats and aprons shambled into view from behind a partition wall, one brave enough or stupid enough to hold a shotgun with both hands. Zain popped his chain like a whip, heavy links smacking the barrel sideways just as the man’s finger jerked the trigger. The shell ricocheted harmlessly into the ceiling, raining plaster dust while the cook stumbled from the recoil.
Elvin stomped through the doorway behind them, his giant silhouette eating up the space as he reached out with both hands and grabbed two collars at once. Skulls cracked together in the middle with a sound like bowling pins getting struck, bodies going limp as their brains rattled inside bone.
The last cook froze completely, eyes wide as dinner plates as Vince’s hand hovered inches from his cheek. Fire flared a bright orange between his fingers, heat radiating off his palm in waves that made sweat bead instantly. “Run.”
The idiot followed the instructions well, scrambling and stumbling over his own feet as he bolted for the back exit.
Silence settled over the warehouse except for the hissing of ruined lab equipment and the distant drip of melted plastic hitting the floor. Zain spun his chain once in a lazy circle before letting it coil and settle at his hip like a metal belt. “Score. Easy payday, just like we thought.”
Vince’s flames faded to smoke, cheeks still bright red from exertion and adrenaline. “Ain’t right, being easy like this. Makes me nervous.”
“Rage got ‘em spooked,” Zain answered, toeing open a wooden crate with his sneaker. Plastic bricks of white powder were stacked neat as books inside, each one worth more than his dad used to make in a month. “Now we find the money truck before cops show up.”
Blue eyes blinked over at him, Vince clearly confused. “Do you mean like an actual truck full of money?”
Zain shrugged. “I mean… maybe if they already loaded it up.”
Elvin shrank back down to normal size, breath fogging in the cooler air as his body temperature normalized and his hormones stopped making him want to punch holes in people. “Back lot, more trucks over there, full of crates.”
They moved toward the rear exit, boots crunching over broken glass. “That was too easy.” Zain wiped sweat from his forehead, adrenaline still buzzing.
Elvin shook his head. “Easy’s good. Easy means nobody gets—”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
“-hurt when that guy shot you.”
Air rushed past Zain’s face, the young martial artist rolling his eyes at Vince’s worry as he swung between buildings, chain extended like some discount Spider-Man bullshit. Concrete and brick blurred underneath, his Shen Gong Wu retracting and extending on pure instinct. Behind him, Elvin launched himself across gaps that should have been impossible, enhanced strength turning twenty-foot jumps into casual hops.
“Yeah, but we’re fine though. And cool as fuck.” Elvin touched down light despite his size, grinning wide. “Like, did you see that dude’s face when I picked up that whole table?” “Which one?” Zain’s chain caught a fire escape, swinging him around a water tower. “They all looked like they shit themselves.”
Roof hopping bled into street slinking, bled into Queens-Midtown ride on top of a freight truck like half-price superheroes, wind snapping hoodies. Zain screamed “wooo” above the roar of traffic, adrenaline fueling his laughter. Elvin tossed a middle finger at a billboard with Tony Stark’s face on it. “Fuck that guy!”
Vince didn’t do much talking as he clung white-knuckled, hair blown wild, eyes wild as the thirteen year old did his best to keep on top of the moving truck.
They dropped near Astoria, sneakers pounding asphalt, energy still humming. A neon diner sign flickered at the end of the street. Zain jerked his thumb over, a bright and eager smile on his face. “Refuel.”
“We’re stopping now?” Elvin asked, one eyebrow raised.
Zain shot the bigger guy a look. “I mean, yeah, you can’t keep going forever. The p-“
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
“-oint of eating at a place you never been before is to actually try new food, like food you haven’t eaten before. You get me, V?” Zain’s menu dropped with a loud smack on the sticky vinyl table, a sigh leaving his mouth almost at the same time. The young martial artist rolled his eyes so hard he could damn near see yesterday. Honestly, he was pretty much done with this conversation as it had been going on for a good five minutes already.
The inside of the place smelled like fryer oil that was older than him, and old coffee grounds hidden under tables and between booths. Said booths were cracked open, split down the middle in a lot of places, and Zain was pretty sure that the tables had all sorts of DNA that made them way stickier than they should have been. Not that they should be sticky at all.
They had slid into the corner booth five minutes back, bandanas pulled down but hoods staying up because you never know who’s watching. The waitress with dead-fish eyes and a name tag that said “Maria” gave them the kind of look that said she’d seen everything twice and wasn’t impressed the first time.
“I know that, Z, I’m just…” Vince stared at the menu, the thirteen-year-old studying it like he was prepping for med school. His accent got a lot thicker when he was uncertain or nervous, and right now it rolled across the table, stickier than the actual surface of it. It was kinda crazy how his friend was less nervous about jumping rooftops or fighting gangsters than just picking a late-night dinner. “Y’all got grits?”
The waitress tapped her pen against her pad, the rhythm of it screaming hurry up kid in Morse Code. “Try home fries, sugar.”
“Biscuits?” the kid from Arkansas tried again, voice shrinking smaller than his confidence.
Elvin started laughing behind his menu. “Deadass, you asking for Southern food in Astoria. You gonna ask for some Southern sweet tea next?”
“…that’d be nice, actually.”
“Just get pancakes, man.” Zain was already thinking about Chinatown, easy money spinning through his head while these two argued back and forth over what to eat like it was the ultimate question of the universe. “Three breakfast platters, extra homefries, large apple juices.”
Elvin pulled a face. “Apple juices?”
Zain shot him a look back. “You got a problem with apple juice?”
“Apple juice, got it.” The waitress scribbled something on her pad and walked away.
Tossing a look over his shoulder, Elvin pulled out something out of his pocket, and in a couple of seconds, unfolded the thing and spread it out over the table in front of all of them. His blue-ink map, all grease stains and folded edges, was marked all over and had plenty to show for it, specifically a bunch of weird looking symbols by canal street. “Saw these on crates last week. Bunch of crews here are pretty messed up. What you think?”
Zain traced the route with one finger, his chain tinking against the table. Hmmm. “I’m thinking we got another job set up already.”
Vince looked worried. “You sure they evil?”
“I’m sure they sketchy,” Elvin said, grinning.
“What kind of sketchy?” Vince leaned forward.
“The kind that do weird shit and know how to f—”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
“—ighting games are the best.” Zain clicked his tongue as the sentence left his mouth, fresh quarters already begging to be spent as they jingled and jangled loudly.
The 24-hour arcade two blocks down from the diner looked exactly like the kind of place where video games came to die. Oddly enoughHood Brawler IV blazed on the big screen, only light in a corner that smelled like spilled soda and broken dreams. They fed coins into machines older than their parents.
“This dude throws fire just like me!” Vince picked Kyle, the flame guy with the bad haircut.
“This man’s big and got hands.” Elvin went straight for D-Roc, the wrestler who looked like he ate cars for breakfast.
“No chain fighter, so…” Zain picked the monk with the staff. Close enough. I’m good on this.
Like he expected, Zain was killing it. Like, brutally.
Five matches went by one after another, each one much more of a win in his favor than the last one. It made sense, pretty much. Zain knew his reflexes and speed were the best out of the three of them and it wasn’t like he didn’t have any experience with fighting games. This a lame-ass Street Fighter clone, though. Zain’s fingers moved like lightning, combos flowing smooth while Elvin played like his life depended on it.
“Alright, alright…” By the sixth match, Zain stepped back with his hands up and decided to let Vince have a turn against Elvin. Unfortunately, Vince had the opposite amount of experience Zain did.
“How you gonna lose to me? I ain’t even good at this!” Elvin’s guy grabbed Vince’s character and slammed him into the ground.
“This character’s harder than it looks! These combos are stupid!”
“Maybe if you didn’t button mash…” Zain snorted as Elvin pulled off a perfect combo and watched Vince’s health disappear.
“I ain’t button mashing! I’m being tactical!”
Sure you are. “Speaking of tactical, we should hit that Chinatown spot tonight.” Another quarter, already thinking three moves ahead.
“Bet. I been wanting to check out those symbols—”
Police sirens cut through the night outside, getting louder instead of fading. All three turned toward the windows, hands moving toward their bandanas.
“Y’all hear that?”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
5K Words (100 DP)
FAIL: The Unlikeliest of Friends (400 CP) [Generic Exalted] {Providence}: “You are the glue which holds the group together. The heart of the team, the one that everyone turns to when they are hurting, and the one that everyone can count on to be the rock around which the others are tethered.
Disparate personalities and customs can exist and indeed excel alongside one another so long as you are there to act as the medium between them.
A Solar, a Bronze-Faction Sidereal, and an Abyssal walking into a bar might sound like the opening to a bad joke if anyone else said it, but if it was you that was speaking, it might very well be an event that actually happened, one that ended peaceably at that.”
Dojo Points: 300
