Thread: To the Last Syllable (Mr. M & Bathos)

The cover over one of the high-up windows of a boarded-up second-level apartment space shifted, and a masked head poked out. Seeing no one about, a gray-coated form slipped out onto the windowsill and swiftly lowered himself to the rusting catwalk, athletic shoes and glove gripping tiny holds that a stranger might never perceive. He had a carryall pack strapped to his back, bulging with something blocky, but it didn't slow him down in the least. Silently, he took to the catwalk and padded up the block, toward his primary library storage. There was a subbasement he could break into under the Brunner-Takhashi Corporation building that he thought would give him access to fresh landfill sites, based on the ancient survey maps he'd found. He just needed to pick up his digging tools... Bitch! he heard beneath the growl and hum of the traffic pattern overhead. That sort of thing was never good. It was coming from the access passage up ahead the megablocks that served as the foundation of the cities had a central spine of industrial pumps and filters, but that machinery needed to be accessed occasionally. Passages led from the street back to the central spine, and the along the side, behind most of the buildings, providing back alley access for the apartments. But, of course, alleys have always been places where n'er-do-wells congregate and do their dirty work. Normally, it was no concern of his, but lately, this past week or so, he was feeling more inquisitive. So he eased toward the alley. And that's when he caught the scent. It took him a moment to recognize it, but once he did, he stopped, straightened, and flexed his arms behind him, letting the carryall pack slip smoothly off his shoulders. It hit the catwalk with a muted clank and a bounce, but before it had even settled, he was gone, flashing out to the overhang, where the catwalk crossed the alley space. Without pausing, he glanced below, took stock of the situation, and just reached out to snag the handrail, letting his iron grip redirect his momentum, letting his feet fly up until he was almost horizontal, and swinging him over the side. Did you hear something drop? asked the man holding Lyla's left arm, glancing around. That's when he took the full brunt of a gray-clad figure's impact, which snapped bones as it drove him to the ground. Before the landing pad could even start screaming, a gray fist shot out to punch another man in the head, the impact sending him flying to the side to knock into the third. As those two went down, the throwback pivoted, one foot flashing out to kick the throat of the man clutching his genitals. That groin pain was suddenly forgotten as blood burbled out of his crushed trachea. He stomped on the man below him once, to launch himself forward, and the very start of his first scream stopped as if it had been shut off with a switch. He flashed to where the last two assailants were stumbling, grabbing them by their throats, and a quick twist with each hand elicited twin wet snaps. He released the two bodies, and before they had even fully collapsed, he was gripping the throat of the fifth gang member, the youngest, who had stood to the side, unsure. In all the violence, he hadn't had time to do much more than widen his eyes, and now he was being throttled by the mad Phoba. The throwback lifted the young thug off the ground, gazing silently at him for a moment, and then tilted his head quizzically. This woman is under my protection. These friends of yours touched her without permission. And paid the price. His voice took on an innocently questioning tone. You... weren't going to touch her, were you? The strangling man shook his head frantically, gripping wildly at his captor's wrist. You have other friends who might touch her, though, don't you. Again as vigorous a negative shake as the suspended man was able to make. Then I suppose you'll tell your remaining friends she's under my care, won't you? This time, he nodded weakly, turning nearly purple. The Phoba let him drop, and he fell to the alley floor, scrabbling away while gasping. Go. The boy turned and crawled, then stumbled to his feet and took off back down the dark alley. Finally, the Phoba turned to Lyla. You should have called ahead, he said, but his jovial tone died when he saw her face. Come on, he murmured, taking her gently by the elbow with one hand, picking up her duffel bag easily with his other. Let's get you inside.