Greg Vs Raid 9-14

Arc 9, Chapter 13: A Bad Taste

Jesuuuuus Christ, 

One bad sniff and his nose reminded him why he hated how good his new senses were. I mean, fuck me, man. Sparky didn’t hate the city he called home, but goddamn, he wished the city air tasted a lot less like rust, piss and a heap of rotting fish.

AKA, the basic Brockton Bay potpourri, just with a touch more seaweed the last couple weeks.

You know, you would think being up this high would make it smell at least a little better, but no, you’d be really fucking wrong about that.

Hands in his hoodie pockets, Sparky perched himself up on the edge of a grimy rooftop overlooking a slice of the city that the reconstruction crews hadn’t gotten to yet. Probably wouldn’t get to for another year at this rate.

Below, the street was a canyon of crumbling brick and shattered windows, a perfect pocket of urban decay where the city’s bottom-feeders could scuttle around and fight over scraps. Pretty much the exact kind of place that made you want to take a shower just for looking at it.

God, this is boring.

His leg kicked out, beating a steady drumbeat against the roof that sent gravel scattering away from him. It wasn’t much, but it was what he needed; his brand-new skate shoe thumping out a rhythm fast enough to keep the itch down. The buzzing that was his new normal thrummed just under his skin, constant like someone was flicking his ballsack when he stood a bit too still for a bit too long.

Can something just happen already? Sparky bit back a hiss through gritted teeth, already too on-edge to be any good on a patrol. 

At least, this was supposed to be a patrol. Official business or some shit. He’d already done a couple runs around the block and coming to a stop on the edge of this neighborhood, the shittier part of it, was pretty much the end of it. It was part of what was pretty much his new job, pretty much; part and parcel of being a senior cape member of Greg’s… whatever the hell it was. 

A heroic gang? A non-profit with a body count? According to Greg, the ‘terminology was still being workshopped.’

Yeah, yeah, blond dickhead.

The teenager pulled his mask up tighter over his mouth, fabric sitting right below a pair of bright gold eyes that made the night look more like an easy evening. 

Truthfully, he knew he was bitching, but he couldn’t help it when he felt like he was on a permanent period since Greg ‘caped’ him up. Least the costume is comfortable, though. He couldn’t even bitch about that much. A black-and-yellow tactical hoodie and streetwear set complete with gold sport wraparound sunglasses and a pair of fingerless gloves, the fabric on all of it a thick durable weave that felt like it could stop a knife. Maybe. A stylized lambda (the letter A, basically) was spray-painted real neat on the chest in a bright, almost obnoxious yellow.

All in all, it was cool as fuck, and he’d die before he admitted that to Greg, especially since Greg paid for any inch of it.

“So, you wanna call it a night or what?” Spoke through the black mouth mask, fabric muffling his voice slightly.

“Have you seen anything?” A calm, measured voice came from behind him.

His patrol partner for tonight was standing near the rooftop access door, making weird little hand gestured that on anyone else Sparky would have assumed were gang signs. 

Theo was wearing his own gear too, a long white robe-ish oversized hoodie over some kind of armored vest, his face hidden behind a simple faceless silver mask. The mask had a white LED emoticon face that was supposed to shift with his facial features. Considering Theo’s usual mega resting-bitch-face, the thing was stuck on what it almost always looked like; a flat, unimpressed line.

-___-

…accurate.

“Nah, man,” Sparky let the words drawl out low. “Not yet.” His head hung back, hoodie falling back down to his neck as he stared up into the sky and sighed out loud. “Just a whole lot of nothing and nada. Not unless you count a couple of rats fighting over a half-eaten hot dog. We counting that?”

Whether or not Theo felt like counting it, the other teenager didn’t seem to be all that interested in voicing his opinion. Again, something Sparky was used to from the guy. With that not said, the silence stretched its way out, night air filled with nothing but the basic Brockton Symphony Orchestra; the distant wail of a half-dozen cop cars.

That and the steady thumping of Sparky’s foot.

Why’s he staring?

He could feel it on his back, even through the mask, that weird stare that Theo had. No hate to the guy (okay, some hate) but Sparky couldn’t deny that it felt like he was a bug under a microscope when that look turned on him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Greg’s cousin was doing some super-mega-autist shit on him with a mental spreadsheet or something.

Creepy.

“Your leg… it’s almost… vibrating.” The voice came back a few seconds later, drifting right into Sparky’s ears with the same calm that you expected of a therapist or a serial killer. “Is that a conscious choice, or are you just… doing that?”

Huh? Sparky glanced down at his leg, watching it stop soon as he noticed the thing doing its bounce. Almost immediately, the buzzing in his veins cranked up, louder, like someone turning up the amp on a feedback loop.

Shit.

“It’s a…” Sparky cleared his throat, one hand up and over his masked mouth, “A rhythm thing, dude. I’m a drummer, remember?”

Liar. You just can’t fucking sit still anymore.

“I… remember. Greg’s shown me your videos. Adequate sense of timing.”

A snort burst out of Sparky’s mouth, barely any humor in the sound at all. “Wow. Mr. I Read Textbooks for Fun with the high praise all of a sudden.”

Clicking his tongue, the olive-skinned teenager turned around, fingers on his right hand already tapping away on the side of his jacket. A softer rhythm, but still a rhythm; something to keep the itch down. Tap-tap-tappity-tap. 

There we go.

Before he could get back into the beat proper, a shout ripped up from the street below. It was pure brawl noises; a raw guttural sound full of cheap meth and cheaper rage mixed together into one beautiful cocktail of Brockton Bay bullshit.

The sound that came next was a rarer one in the symphony but not unfamiliar at all; Sparky making out the loud percussive thwack of a baseball bat meeting something solid that probably wasn’t a baseball.

Finally.

Theo stepped up next to him, a sudden blur of motion that Sparky almost blinked at. A split second later, he shook his head and both capes leaned over the edge, gold and silver eyes peering down into the gloom. 

It was a perfect little snapshot of the city’s criminal ecosystem, the whole scene on the ground performing its part perfectly enough to deserve an Animal Planet narrator, full British voice and all. Sparky’s eyes traced the skinny twitchy methhead energy of a whole platoon of Merchants, stained ratty hoodies with the torn-off sleeves worn like a uniform. Really, you didn’t even need to see the track marks up and down their arms to make them out as Archer’s Bridge boys, even from a distance.

Which was usually good, because if you were too close and downwind, you might have to deal with the smell.

Sparky bit back a grin under his mask as he took in who they stood off against; a whole crew of Empire 88 skinheads who all looked like they’d been cloned from the same angry roided-out potato.

Complete with the same white wifebeaters and leather jackets.

A classic turf skirmish. Nothing but the same C-list shit you got used to growing up in Nazi capital of the Northeast.

“Merchants versus the Nazis,” Axel let the words drawl out slow, lazy grin spreading across his face behind the mask. “Damn, I’m thinking we let ’em fight it out.”

Theo’s silvery mask shifted as that face turned to look at him, the glowing white LED lines curving down. -_-

“Greg requested we maintain order in Ronin territory.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sparky muttered through the fabric. A sigh capped off his words, almost as loud as the sound of his knuckles cracking as he psyched himself up to go down there and speed up the spanking. As if getting ready for it, the buzzing inside him eased up to a quiet hum; live wire finally getting some current to run through. “Let’s just… get it over with.”

The fight below was escalating, clumsy brutal brawl getting worse by the second. A skinhead with a swastika tattooed on his scalp swung a length of rebar, and some Merchant with a face full of scabs danced back, laughing like a maniac, before throwing a bottle. It shattered against the Nazi’s shoulder, glass spraying everywhere.

Ugly. Stupid.

Par for the course.

But then it got weird.

One of the Merchants, a lanky guy with stringy hair down to his shoulders, suddenly stopped fighting and stood in place, like nothing and no one else existed. Like he wasn’t in the middle of a street fight. A second later, the guy’s his head cocked to the side like a dog hearing something only he could pick up. Then he let out a howl, pure pain ripping out of his throat, and started slamming his own head against the brick wall. Over and over and over, the sound wet and meaty.

What the…

Across the alley, one of the Nazis, big beefy guy who’d been winning his fistfight, all of a sudden turned back and shoved one of his own to the ground and went all-in kicking him like a crazy person. All that left his mouth was some barely-understandable rant about stolen money, a cheating girlfriend, and other shit that made zero sense.

The grin faded off Axel’s face like someone wiped it clean. The buzzing in his veins turned cold, went from anticipation to something else entirely.

“What the fuck?”

“The hysteria,” the surprise in Theo’s voice was barely there for him to catch, but the fact that he could catch it meant that it was there, “It’s spreading.”

As if someone flipped a switch and turned off everyone’s brains at once, the little gang skirmish turned into a manic free-for all. No more Merchant vs Empire, junkie vs jew-hater, Sparky saw nothing but chaos. A melee of madness, it was pure self-destructive rage painting the alley red as a Merchant tried to chew through his own arm a few feet away from a Neo-Nazi was shedding full fat tears while strangling one of his friends with a chain.

Yeah, this is a fucking plague.

Emotional plague, sure, but still a plague. 

Sparky’s body coiled tight, ready to jump in as the itch came back, stronger than ever, demanding he move, demanding he hit something, do something besides stand here and watch people tear themselves apart.

“Alright, new plan. We shut this shit down.”

Now.

There was no waiting. Now meant now.

Theo didn’t even have the chance to say jack or shit as Sparky launched himself off the side of the building. For a second, he felt the air, the wind, rushing past his ears; heart pounding fast enough to make the buzzing finally shut the fuck up and let it all ride out smooth. 

Then he hit the fire escape on the building opposite, a controlled crash that wasn’t controlled so much as just barely not a disaster. His body absorbed the impact with a jolt running up his legs, barely rattling his teeth as he caught himself with more grace than he ever had a couple months back. Hands gripping the latter, he slid down the metal, boots ringing against the rungs loud enough everyone below probably heard.

The second he got close enough, he let go and let himself drop the last fifteen feet. Axel “Sparky” Ramon landed dead-center of the alley in a crouch, knees screaming at him for a second before his body remembered exactly what the fuck kind of badass he was.

What I’m fucking talking ‘bout.

The teenager stood up straight, all five feet and eight inches of him ready for action, as he cracked his neck because it needed cracking. For a second, he felt as cool as he always did before a fight. 

Then, h-Gah, f-fuck. One hand went to his nose as Sparky bit back a gag. The s… smell…

The smell down here was worse, way worse than the rooftop stink. Piss and garbage and something brown that didn’t need to be named all mixed together into something that made his nose want to file a formal complaint.

It was almost enough to throw him off his game.

Almost.

A roar had him turn around, Sparky meeting the bloodshot eyes of a skinhead roaring his way, the guy looking he’d been awake for three days straight. Screaming mindlessly like one of the zombies in the Ex-Heroes movies, the Neo-Nazi just charged right at him with a broken bottle already edged with blood.

A still-twitching Sparky stared, the golden-eyed teenager letting out a huff as he pulled his mask higher up his nose. Oh, come on.

He sidestepped the wild clumsy lunge, hand snapping out. Five fingers wrapped around the Neo-Nazi’s wrist, and without wasting a moment, Sparky twisted.

The guy screamed, pain and confusion knocking him out of his trance too late as his own momentum had Sparky spin him loose, the poor Nazi meeting alley brick nose-first. The sound was wet and satisfying; that crunch of cartilage giving up as he slumped down the ground, out cold

One down.

The buzzing receded, just a little. Just enough to breathe easier.

From the rooftop above, Theo’s voice came clean to his ears, Sparky always paying attention when that guy bothered to say anything. And for a very good reason.. “Luft: fokussierter Druckstoß, Grad 2 – Stoßwelle.”

German. ‘Course it’s German.

A concussive blast of air, invisible but solid as a sledgehammer, erupted from a point just above the center of the brawl. A focused, brutal push that didn’t fuck around, Theo’s spells were like that; a weird brand of fuckery that Sparky didn’t even try to understand.

To be fair, he didn’t need to understand it.

Appreciating the handiwork was enough for him.

In this case, two Merchants and another Nazi went flying off their feet, sent sprawling into piles of garbage bags as the air rippled with a deep WHOOMP that Axel felt in his chest.

Sick.

Sparky didn’t waste a second, even though he had plenty; he was a blur of black and yellow as he moved through the alley, a whirlwind of violence that was way more controlled than it probably looked.

“DIEDIEDIE!” A lead pipe swung at him so slow to his eyes that he could’ve dodged it waking up from a dead sleep. He ducked under the thing easy, gloved fist coming up in a brutal uppercut that snapped the Merchant’s head back and sent that idiot to naptime.

Another one tried to tackle him from behind, amateur hour bullshit that Sparky handled with an over-the-shoulder judo flip that most likely wouldn’t have worked even a little bit if he wasn’t so strong now. Powers or not, it still sent the guy crashing into a dumpster with a metallic CLANG that echoed.

Faster than them. Stronger. Tougher.

It was almost a joke fighting normies, considering he could almost see their movements before they even made them, wild rage-fueled attacks broadcasting their intentions a mile away.

It felt… easy.

Too easy.

That should probably worry him more than it did. I should spar with Greg more again.

Being honest, that would probably make things worse, but… eh.

Pain flared through his side, sharp and hot, a skinhead’s tire iron hitting home as Sparky held back a Merchant from biting his own tongue off. He barely even noticed, simply grunting as he grabbed the tire iron and gave the guy a taste of his own medicine. 

He was in the zone now, that place where everything was all raw instinct and motion, body knowing what needed hitting before his brain caught up. No buzzing, just his own heart pounding in his ear, exactly the way he liked it.

“Erde: Ranken aus dem Boden binden die Beine.” Theo was providing support from above, speaking German because… sure, why not. “Fangleine.”

A line of asphalt from the cracked street suddenly went fluid, snaking up like a black tentacle to wrap around the legs of the Merchant who was still trying to eat his own arm, slamming him to the ground and wrapping the rest of him up with ropes made of living tar before he could do more damage to himself.

Jesus, that’s fucked.

“Null: kurzer Stoß reiner Kraft – Betäubungsstoß.”

A flicker of what looked like crackling distorted air, visible for half a second, shot from Theo’s gloved hand and struck the Nazi who was weeping while strangling his friend. The man’s body went rigid, every muscle seizing up at once, before he just collapsed. Twitching heap on the ground.

Nice.

A Merchant with a face full of scabs, the kind that looked like they’d been picked at for days, stared between Sparky on the ground and the robed figure on the roof. Eyes bouncing back and forth like he was trying to figure out which threat was worse.

“You… you…,” the guy hissed out, voice ragged and raw. “The fuck are you? You capes?”

Sparky took his time as he walked towards him, flexing his gloved fingers as if they needed flexing. “Nah, brah, we’re the neighborhood watch,”he  let the words drawl out slow, lazy slouch creeping back into his voice now that the fight was winding down. “And you’re violating noise ordinances.”

God, that was stupid. He bit back the urge to sigh. I gotta work on these like Greg, man.

He didn’t get a chance to retry his one-liner as the Merchant screamed, full-throated and mindless, charging right at Sparky as he swung the pipe in a wild horizontal arc that anyone with eyes could see coming.

The boy in black and yellow just raised his arm, catching the pipe on his forearm with a loud clang that echoed off the brick. It hurt, a bit, but not enough to force a grunt out of him; not anywhere near close. Sparky looked down at the pipe, the thing a bit dented where it hit, then back at the Merchant’s terrified face.

Super strength.

Sparky just sighed. “…Bad move, man.”

A palm met the man’s neck, a controlled pull at the last second so he didn’t crush the guy’s windpipe completely.

And just like lthat, it was done.

He stood there, not even breathing heavy, as the last gang member dropped to the ground, the guy clutching his throat and making these wet gasping sounds.

He wasn’t gonna die, so Sparky considered that none of his business. No, the gold-eyed teen was already scanning the pile of unconscious bodies scattered around the alley, broken bottles and discarded pipes and that smear of blood on the brick wall where the first Nazi’s face had met it.

Clean sweep.

Sparky his arms over his chest as Theo dropped down from the fire escape above, landing silently on the balls of his feet with no sound at all, ignoring several laws of physics in a way that Sparky definitely wasn’t jealous of.

“That was…” He entered the sentence without knowing his way out of it, voice trailing off to nothing as he frowned under his mask.

“Unpleasant,” Theo finished for him, voice flat as always.

Well, I was gonna say boring, but sure…

Golden eyes behind his sunglasses flicked back over at Theo to see the emoticon on his mask was already back to its neutral -___- as the chubby spell-slinger knelt down next to the unconscious and groaning bodies. Without wasting a second, Theo already started tying them up with zip ties he pulled from who even knew where. 

“And inefficient. I’m not going to pretend like I don’t enjoy a chance to practice my skills on a living target but…”

“Creepy, but continue.”

Theo did. “But I prefer targets that actually require effort.”

“You mean capes?”

“I do.” His partner in not-crime nodded once. “This is just pointless at scale. Leaving this to Greg’s people is for the best.”

Sparky’s eyes trailed over the bodies again, holding back another hiss as the buzzing already started creeping in at the edges. Faint, but there, as quick to come back as always.

Fuck.

As much as he knew Theo was right, knew it in his bones, he still really, really wanted to hit something.

Hard.