Greg Vs Raid 9-31

The industrial shower gel in the hideout bathroom was radioactive.

Well, not literally.

But it might as well have been.

Greg clicked his tongue at the smell of artificial cherries and the feel of liquid sandpaper on his skin from what he scrubbed down with, staring back at himself in the mirror one last time. “With all the money put into this place, you’d think I wouldn’t have cheaped out on the soap.”

That was a lie.

He probably would have, considering he hadn’t even thought about something like soap quality till right now of all times. Note to self, fix that.

His chest and face and every inch of bare skin he had on display had been rubbed down as hard as he could to get as much of the black stuff off him; flesh raw, tight and bright red from the forced scrubdown that had actually almost hurt more than the goddamn knife.

It still didn’t feel like enough, though.

All the dollar store seven-in-one body wash in the world couldn’t do enough to get the ghost of battery acid and melted-down pennies out of his nose; the phantom heat of Sophia’s bitter pitch-black vomit having seeped deep into his pores.

Stripping off another layer of skin with his fingernails wasn’t gonna fix that.

Exorcist bullshit, my god. Demonic purgation wasn’t exactly in his plans, and neither was rinsing off under a boiling-hot and then a freezing-cold shower. Wet hair hung over his eyes as Greg glanced back, catching the last of the darkened suds as they swirled their way down the stainless steel drain. Hope that doesn’t fuck up the plumbing.

Still, it was going to have to do.

A heavy breath huffed out of his nose as Greg grabbed a towel, one last swipe across his body managing to pull off some of the water his own body heat hadn’t taken care of yet.

Tossing the towel back on the hook, he walked his way back out of the showers.

Dark wash jeans rode low on his hips, fresh from where he’d pulled them from his inventory not two minutes ago and stiff enough they could still have the tag on them. Bare feet slapped against the concrete floor, a bare chest tanking the frigid air from industrial AC systems as the only wet part of him left — his ice-cold hair — dripped down on him.

Honestly, a piece of cotton wasn’t gonna do anything for him yet. Worst comes to worst, I’ll get thrown up on again.

The door swung open as Greg kicked it out of his way, the quiet infirmary in front of him as he walked his way in.

In the bed nearest the glass viewing window, Emma Barnes was out cold, having fainted dead away like a fragile Victorian widow as soon as the chaos had properly started to ease up. In the center bed, Sophia Hess was a half-awake lump under the pristine white sheets, dark purple eyes staring blankly at the ceiling tiles like they held the answers to anything and everything in the world.

Sparky was pacing, occupying the negative space in the room — all the space that wasn’t stained with black or red — as he made his way back and forth. Black-and-yellow skate shoes squeaked out their own rhythm, Sparky in a tracksuit to match as he vibrated with trapped-animal energy that was barely any different to what Greg had seen from Sophia just minutes ago. It was almost like he was trying to figure out how to bite his way through the viewing glass.

Greg leaned his bare back against the counter, stainless steel cold against his spine as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Still can’t believe it. “ A sharp breath ruffled his wet bangs as he tossed his hair back, eyes on the still-sleeping redhead in the room. “She thought I was a random healer, man.”

The squeaking of the skate shoes stopped as Greg shook his head.

“I mean, can you believe that shit?”

Sparky slowly turned his head around, attention locking right onto Greg’s shirtless torso. “You serious right now?” 

“I mean, yeah!” Greg threw a hand out, two fingers and a thumb aimed at Emma all the way in the corner. “Like, the disrespect?”

“Braaaahhhh.” Sparky dragged the syllable out as long as he could until it almost threatened to snap on its way out, a hiss punctuating it like a period. “She brought a dying, bleeding vigilante to your mom’s front door, and you’re mad your branding didn’t hit?”

“I’m not mad.” Greg lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, head tilted to the side. “Just kinda insulted, y’know?” You put in the hours, get the nice costume, go blow-for-blow with a giant water lizard and you get that kind of diss?”

“Wasn’t she in a coma for like most of your…” Sparky’s own hand waved back at him. “I dunno, your runtime or whatever?”

Greg pulled a face, mouth pulled up in a frown so lopsided it was almost a smile. “Runtime? I’m a hero, not a tv show. It’s called a career.”

Sparky blinked at him through half-lidded eyes. “I don’t think you could ever have anything close to a career in your life.”

“Uh-huh.” Greg scoffed back. “The fact that she can’t put two and two together? Like, just stab me next time, right?”

“…fine, I’ll bite.” Sparky’s sigh was as loud as the air conditioning. “Isn’t that the whole point of a secret identity?”

Greg rolled his eyes, not in the mood for logic right now. “Yeah, sure, I guess.”

“Your mom didn’t know who you were either.” Sparky clicked his tongue. “Why aren’t you in a mood about that, dumbass?”

“I don’t tongue my mom, Sparky.”

“The way you two act, I’m surprised about that.”

It was Greg’s turn for his eyes to droop as he stared over at Sparky. “You’re soooo funny, Axel.”

“Funnier than you.”

“I gave you a compliment. Don’t jerk yourself off too hard.”

Sparky snorted. “I’d say that’s your job, but I don’t see anime girls around.”

…alright, he got me. With another sigh, Greg shook his head. “Look, being real… I’m just saying, like… why date me if you think I’m fucking lame?”

“…I’m your best friend and I think you’re the lamest fuck in this city. We all make decisions that don’t make sense.”

“Sure, but you’re half-gay and I look the way I look, so…” Greg winked over at a frowning Sparky. “I mean, clearly you’re getting something out of it. Ha-ha, y’know?”

“…please kill yourself.”

“Kill me yourself, you fucking coward.”

Sparky let out a snort harsh enough to make him look ugly, and immediately went back to pacing, hands digging into the pockets of his hoodie. “You’re a psycho. We’re all psychos. This whole thing is psycho.”

Greg tracked Sparky’s path across the room, the squeak-squeak-squeak of rubber soles enough to distract him for a good ten seconds. As soon as the eleventh hit, his body made itself heard; a low rumble echoing out with the sound of a dying diesel engine.

“Hey,” Greg tilted his head back the other way. “Sparks, you hungry?”

Sparky froze again, attention aimed at the center bed where Sophia had done a masterpiece performance of a demonic possession not twenty minutes ago. 

Then he looked back at Greg. “…We just finished getting Heartbreaker’s kids to fuck off like a couple hours back.”

“Yeah.”

“You just got stabbed.”

“True.”

“And we got two passed-out girls right here, right now.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to my question.”

“My question is,” Sparky narrowed his eyes at him, “why the hell would you think I’m hungry right now?”

“Because I’m downright starving.” Greg clicked his tongue, one hand rubbing perfectly healed skin. “Mana depletion is a bitch. I burned through a lot healing myself and juicing Sophia. I need calories. Probably gonna text Seo to pick up some food.”

“You want to eat.” Sparky raised one eyebrow. “In here.” The other eyebrow went with it. “Where the track bitch almost died.”

Greg’s lips pursed, almost tasting the nickname as he mulled it over. “… you know you don’t have to call her that, right?”

“I’ll call the track bitch whatever the fuck I want.”

“We can eat in the observation room if you want, I’m not picky.” Greg’s right hand already dipped into the shimmering blue distortion in the world that was his Inventory, phone coming out after a bare second of rummaging around. “I’m thinking Chinese. Extra MSG. Lo Mein, maybe some boneless ribs. You want egg rolls?”

“I want a lobotomy,” Sparky muttered, rubbing both hands vigorously over his face, his fingers tangling in his dark hair.

“I don’t think they have that.”

“…get me three orders of the General Tso’s chicken combo platter.” Sparky sniffed, eyes closing as he turned his back on Greg. “And four orange sodas.”

“…fatass.”

“Stop staring at it, then.”

…damn, he got me again. With a sigh, Greg fired the text off into the ether. 

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The waiting game was mostly just the two of them milling around, Sparky’s shoes squeaking across tile as Greg leaned back against the glass and did his best not to think about how he was adding to the length of his rap sheet by harboring a fugitive. Can’t get much worse than being wanted for murder by the PRT, though.

So what was a little aiding and abetting between frenemies?

Probably no more serious than a parking ticket, right? 

Twenty minutes crawled by until the heavy metal door to the outer hallway clanged open, the sound ringing out through the quiet warehouse.

“Boss.”

A raspy baritone born off nearly a solid decade of cheap cigarettes filtered into the room seconds ahead of its owner. Greg raised his head as said owner strolled into the medical bay looking exactly as tired and immaculately dressed as always. White silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar, black slacks perfectly creased, and long dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, Seo Asada looked every bit of the gangster he was.

Right behind him — practically stepping on the heels of the Japanese Man’s polished dress shoes — was Takeshi Huoyan. 

“Tak” was a seventeen-year-old half-Japanese, half-Chinese kid who had firmly attached himself to Seo as his number two’s number two and was going to a whole lot of effort in his oversized dark hoodie to look like a hardened gangster.

That whole aesthetic was pretty much undercut by the fact that he was carrying four oversized grease-stained brown paper bags laden with takeout. “Delivery, bossman.”

Tak puffed his chest out just a little bit, dark eyes darting around the brightly lit medical room as he took in the whole space like he’d never seen…

Wait. Greg blinked slow. Tak’s never been down here before, huh. 

Before he could bother to dwell on that, the mouthwatering smell of soy sauce, garlic and several generous helpings of pork both sweet and sour wafted into his sinuses and made his stomach cramp so hard it almost hurt.

“You guys are the best, I swear.” Greg pushed off the glass and reached for the nearest of the greasy bags. “Absolute lifesavers.”

Before his fingers could brush even one of the warm paper cartons, a sharp gasp ripped through the room; Greg blinking up at the sound.

On the far bed, Emma Barnes shot straight up; bright green eyes wide and blown out with her pupils down to tiny pinpricks as her chest heaved. She wasn’t looking at Greg or her half-conscious best friend in the bed next to her.

No, she was staring directly at Seo and Tak standing in the doorway.

“Look, brah.” Sparky leaned over next to him, back up against the wall as he popped a thick crab rangoon into his mouth. “Sleeping Beauty’s awake.” 

Emma didn’t register his voice, not even seeming to notice Sparky as she scrambled backward on the bed, sheets bunching around her feet. Her knees pulled up tight to her chest, both legs a shield in front of her as she stared over them. “G-get them away.”

Greg blinked, slowly lowering his hand from the bag of takeout as he stared at Emma; her voice thin, reedy and shaking with enough pure panic in it to make the hair on his arms stand up.  

“Get them away from m-m-me!”

Blue eyes slid over to Seo as the man raised a single eyebrow calm and slow. Both hands rested easily in the pockets of his slacks, cigarette smoke clinging to his silk shirt as Tak just looked confused at his side, the other teenager shifting his weight from foot to foot.

What the… “Emma, chill.” Both hands went up, Greg taking a cautious step over to her. “They’re just dropping off the food. It’s fine.”

“No!” Hands flew up to cover her head, manicured fingers tangling desperately in her already-messy red hair; eyes wide, wet, completely locked onto the two Asian men standing in the doorway. “Don’t let them near me! Please! I won’t say anything, just get them out!”

Greg stopped, brain grinding to a halt as he tried to get the gears unjammed at the sight of the breakdown taking place in front of him. “Emma…” Blue eyes blinked her way. “No offense, but are… are you racist?”

Sparky made a noise, crab rangoon fighting his way back up his throat as he coughed hard into the crook of his elbow and fought not to spit cream cheese all over the floor.

“N-no! No, it’s… it’s… not… no!” The words tried their hardest to force their way out, her pitch rising into a whine more frantic than anything else as her bottom lip trembled the more she tried to talk. “They’re… they’re…”

“Boss…” Seo’s murmur came from the doorway, Greg blinking back at the sudden understanding tone that even he couldn’t miss. “I think Tak and I should wait outside.”

“No, hold on… I…” Greg blinked, shaking his head. “She’s just probably… she doesn’t get it. I can fix this.”

He could.

He could fix it. 

Equip: Hardkour.

Blue pixel-light washed over him in a wave with just a thought, the shirtless barefoot teenager disappearing under the sudden flare. After all of a heartbeat, he stood there completely changed and unchanged with the full Hardkour loadout over him — the bright red gloves, the sleek red jacket, and the open-hair helmet mask snapping into place over his eyes along with everything else.

Emma Barnes flinched hard at the sudden flash, a gasp catching in her throat as her mouth fell open.

“I’m not just White Knight, Emma.” The long red scarf drifted slightly around his shoulders on an unseen current of air, arms folded over his chest. “I’m also… Hardkour.”

“Terrible name.” Sparky’s mutter came from the corner, fist pounding against his chest with his voice even raspier than Greg’s.

Greg didn’t even look his way as he looked at Emma through the white eye-lenses and stepped closer to the bed, arms still over his chest in a posture of absolute authority. “No need to to worry, here. I run the Ronin, Emma. They work for me. You’re completely safe.”

He waited for the realization to hit; the awe, the surprise, the relief.

Instead, Emma’s face drained of all remaining color as her skin went paler than old chalk.

“The… the Ronin.” Emma’s response came as a whisper, the words barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning as her eyes stayed wide and locked onto his lenses. “Y-you mean, the ABB.”

He frowned behind his helmet, brow furrowing. “Well, yeah. Former ABB. We rebranded. It’s a whole thin—”

“No.” Emma shook her head, the movement mechanical as her chest began to heave. Faster and faster, her breath was shallow and tight, gaze losing focus like Sophia as she stared straight through the boy in front of her with the red jacket as her eyes stayed on something miles away.

Greg stood there frozen as Emma curled up tighter, a guttural sob ripping itself out of her throat as she buried her face deep into her knees and her arms wrapped themselves all the way around her shins.

“…h-hey.” The voice he was used to beneath the mask left him, leaving only a confused sixteen-year-old. “Hey, Emma, what’s…”

“Alley.”

The weak rasp cut through the room as Greg turned his head.

“Sophia?”

The other girl was finally awake.

Barely.

Eyes blinked slow, heavy and still more unfocused than not as she lay flat on the bed, head lolling to the side. “Two… two years ago…” Her tongue was thick and uncoordinated, words fighting her as she did her best to drag them out of her throat. “ABB… cornered her and her dad… in an alley. Tried to… tried to… you know.” 

Sophia swallowed hard, eyelids fluttering shut as she frowned her way past the effort of simply getting her mouth to work. “I stopped them. But she… she remembers.”

The room went silent, the only sound other than the air conditioning just Emma’s jagged sobs, a sound that scraped against the inside of Greg’s skull like a rusty nail.

“…Seo.”

The older man didn’t say a word, one firm hand on Tak’s shoulder as he physically turned the assistant around and walked them both out of the infirmary. The heavy metal door swung shut behind them as Greg stood alone in the center of the room, listening to his… his… friend cry like a wounded animal.

With a sigh and a weight in his stomach, Greg dismissed the Hardkour costume, everything vanishing in a flicker of blue.

Once again, Greg stood shirtless and barefoot on the cold tile, nothing to say at all as he just stood there by Emma’s side, staring at the floor.