Greg Veder vs The World

Cutscene: Edge of Glory

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

“Ha! Got ya good!” Sparky let out a bitter hiss, air barely escaping from between his gritted teeth as he listened to the same ridiculous voicemail message play for the seventh fucking time. It just made everything about tonight feel like a joke, a giant joke that his friend was the one telling and he felt like the big fat punchline.

“You’re in my voicemail.” He hadn't stopped at simple phone calls. Sparky had sent texts too, several of them, not that those seemed to be helping him either. He had kept on trying even though a large part of him really doubted that Greg would bother to even glance at his texts if he wasn’t going to pick up his phone after seven different calls.

“The Greg-Meister is kinda busy right now...”

Busy, right? The thought failed to come out as bitter as he wanted it to, Sparky knowing all too well that the blond probably was actually busy. It still didn’t help his frustrations in the slightest. God… His fingers tightened around the phone, the cheap case cracking slightly under his manic grip.

The thought of calling his dad, his parents…

It had been a constant one. The idea hung in his head like a virus, almost demanding that he just get it over with. In fact, his fingers had hovered over the screen several times, ready - if not willing - to tap out the numbers he knew by heart.

And yet… he couldn’t.

He couldn’t manage to make the call. He couldn’t do that to them.

What would he even say? What could he say to both his parents, crying and probably screaming at him with worry and fear in their voices?

‘Hey Mom, I’m gonna die tonight. Sorry for skipping breakfast’ or “Sup, Dad. I’m probably not making it home. Sorry I said your Kiss the Cook shirt was lame.’

He couldn’t do that.

So, he didn’t.

He left a text, though. A single message to both their phones, a message he knew none of them would check until they woke up the next day. ‘I love you.’

Simple and sweet.

Calling 911 had been his third option, but that had been… even more frustrating, if that was possible. He wasn’t sure what the hell was going on but apparently, 911 could just hang up on you… if they thought you were fucking with them. That didn’t seem legal, but that didn’t really seem to stop them. The phone sat in his hand for a minute or two after that, his mind a complete mess of feelings and frustration as he stared out over the rooftop, eyes barely catching much of anything in the dark of night. “...but you know what to do after the beep.”

“Beeeep.” Sparky opened his mouth, breath coming in rapid and unsteady pants as he tried to wrap his head around what he would say again. What did he even want to say? His legs carried him, nervous energy rushing through his veins as he paced back and forth across the rooftop like a madman. He felt...

He felt frantic, thoughts of everything he had gone through in the last half an hour barreling through his mind at speeds that would have left him stunned even if he wasn’t dealing with several different head injuries. His feet carried him across the rooftop back and forth, the teenager pacing like a madman. His free hand occasionally brushed across his face, pausing by his nose or the side of one eye to wipe away a trail of blood or cradle a particularly noticeable ache or throb for a second or two. At the same time, his other hand held the stolen phone to his ear as he listened to the same voicemail message for the fifth time in what was probably half as many minutes.

I… I… He shook his head before he let his thoughts distract him.

“Fuck, I can't think straight,” Sparky paused, blinking slightly as he realized he said that bit out loud, rather than in his head. Why am I even calling again?

“...I don't even know where the fuck I am an-and…” He gulped down air, words escaping him before he could even give them proper thought. “I'm freaking the fuck out, okay? There was these guys and-and I…” He shut his eyes and sighed as he dropped his head into an open and awaiting palm. “Why am I saying this again? You're not picking up the phone and this is like the fourth call… I… I… L-look, G, I don't know if I'm gonna make it tonight if you don't find me. I don't know where I am. There's like almost two dozen E88 here and so many Winslow kids and I… There's no fucking streetlights and it's just a shit ton of abandoned buildings, brah.”

He paused, raising his head to take in the darkness around him and the surprisingly quiet environs. Once again, the urge to simply jump over the edge made itself known to him, an overly-loud scream amid scrambled thoughts, the idea of simply stepping into the dark a tempting one. If he didn’t survive, it would at least be a quicker death than what the Empire would offer. If he did survive…

Well, that was a big if. “I-I… Just…”

He sighed again into his voicemail. “I need help, G. Mal… just fucking everything, I'm fucked. I got fucked up real bad and y-”

His words gave way to a pained cry as Sparky was suddenly jarred forward. A hard blow to his back sent his body stumbling across the rooftop and the phone flew from his hand, clattering and skidding across the rooftop until it was hidden amid the darkness.

Wha- Shock and fear kept him from freezing up completely, his mind screaming at him to keep moving. The teenager spun around to face his attacker, arms raised just in time to block another hard blow, this one aimed right for his head. What the-

Another pained grunt left him against his will as Sparky stumbled back, his already aching body suffering as he dealt with another jolt of pain through his upper body. He lifted his gaze just above his raised hands in an attempt to catch sight of who had just struck him, only to nearly drop both of them as his eyes widened from surprise again.

Sparky found himself taking in a face he could only assume was almost as damaged as his own, purpled bruises and scabbed-over cuts on a pale face in stark contrast to the still-forming welts and fresh wounds on his own darker complexion.

“Mal?”

The other boy stood slightly hunched over, fists tight and muscles tensed, his back to the only exit from the roof that didn’t come with a stiff vertical drop. “You…”

The single syllable came out almost as a whisper.

Shit. Sparky took a nervous step back, thoughts racing as he tried to keep his breath under control. “Look… look, man, we don’t gotta d-”

Fuck. The words died on his lips, giving way to a soft gasp as Sparky ducked back out of the way of Mal’s swinging fist. Fuck. Without hesitation, he swung back. His own punch caught the wannabe murderer on the jaw, a glancing blow but enough to surprise Mal as he let out an expression of pained shock. Capitalizing on the moment, Sparky launched a forward kick - a move that was becoming almost instinctual at this point - and slammed his sole into the junior’s chest, sending him back a few feet as he shouted again in more anger than pain.

Where did I drop that fucking bat? Sparky scrambled back a few more steps, eyes glancing around in the dark as he tried to spot the weapon he had liberated just minutes ago. Fuck. His breath left him in quick, short pants as he glanced back up at the furious and much larger seventeen-year old across from him. Fuuuuck.

A purpled, chapped lip curled up into a snarl and Mal growled. “Stand still!”

The odd demand had the smaller teen nearly pause his footwork in confusion, eyes narrowed. Jumping at the opportunity, Mal threw out another furious punch.

The attempt was sluggish, sloppy and barely controlled. Sparky ducked aside, just barely managing to dodge the blow as he twisted in place.

Acting on raw instinct, Sparky swung his own arm.

His aim was true and his balled hand struck home as it slammed into the side of Mal’s face like a hammer. His knuckles struck hard just against the bully’s eye, Sparky’s much scrawnier fist given greater force by the pure momentum of his rapid spin.

Mal jerked back in pain, barely able to keep his balance as he stumbled back, one of his hands clutched to his face as a hail of barely-comprehensible curses flew from his mouth.

At the same time, Sparky winced as his other hand cradled the first, already feeling the recoil from his counter. Staring with wide eyes as Mal stumbled back against the wall behind him, Sparky let go of the breath he’d unknowingly been holding, actually shocked by his unexpected success. “Heh…”

His quiet laugh didn’t go unheard as the other teen’s head jerked up at the sound. Malcolm shot a vicious glare at the sophomore standing on shaky legs just a few meters away from him, one of his eyes visibly tinged with red and bulging noticeably as he stared Sparky down. “T-the fuck you l.. laughing at?”

Axel Ramon blinked as he made a sound that he hadn’t expected. Did I… Did I just snort?

As it dawned on him that he had, in fact, just snorted, the teenager found himself struggling not to actually break down in complete laughter. “You… I’m laughing at you.”

“What?” The bully responded blankly, hand falling away from his face as he stared the other boy down again. “W-what’d you just say to me?”

“Shut the fuck up, y…” Sparky shook his head, a wry smirk pulling at his lips as he snorted again, “...y-you bitch.” A hand cradled his side, his battered torso jostling uncomfortably as he tried to hold in his laughter.

The bully started at the words. “Y-you don’t fucking laugh at m-”

“Why not?” Sparky interrupted, another snort following the sentence as Mal’s glare deepened with rage. Sparky’s expression grew, smirk becoming a bitter smile as he gave into a bit of laughter. “You’re a f-f-fucking roided-up washout. W-what, do you think I’m scared of you, brah?”

He jerked a hand in the direction of the stairwell behind Mal, the junior actually glancing back for a moment despite himself. “I k-killed two guys, man. You def saw at least one on your way up, right? You had to have, right?” Sparky nodded, as if responding to his own question.

“I did that.” He said the words like a whisper, Mal actually leaning forward and away from the wall as if to properly listen. “Me,” Sparky hissed again. “Unlike you…”

Sparky could only grin wide as he brushed strands of his hair away from his face, the clumpy mess of dirt, sweat and blood sticking long strands of once semi-carefully managed hair to his face and all over his neck. Those three items also stained his clothes almost completely, the mess of filth sticking his shirt especially tight against his chest. He could hear it too, his blood pounding in his ears, a musical beat he can sink into, his own personal soundtrack.

A groan of laughter leaked it’s way past his lips as Sparky clutched at his ribs, nearly bending over from the pain as he just managed to stay upright. “H-how does it feel to be such a pussy… Malcolm … T-that you need your fucking dad to help you get rid of me?”

Regaining his balance, Mal’s expression twisted up into an image of rage, both eyes bulging and bloodshot. The junior Neo-Nazi faced down Sparky, glaring angrily with gritted teeth and a snarl that made him look even uglier than his healing wounds could manage on their own. The other boy didn’t look anything approaching sane, as he stared down the smaller teen with a look that promised pain.

“YOUUUUUU!” With that scream, Malcolm Duncan swung out again.

His fist flew faster this time, the punch far more focused than the last. Amber eyes widened as he ducked to the side, the skin on Mal’s fist just barely grazing his jaw.

Even with the pain he was feeling all over, the sluggishness and hesitance his body felt from each wound and every bruise on his body, Sparky felt like he still had a chance to win here. After all, like he just said, he’d already taken down two grown men.

What was one teenager, right?

The confidence vanished from his thoughts at the exact same moment that a mouthful of spit flew from his mouth. Sparky doubled over from the unexpected gutshot, pain racing through him as he tried to keep his balance.

When Sparky opened his mouth again, it came with a pained grunt and a splatter of blood on his shirt and the ground below. No words followed along with it, but they were unneeded.

He didn’t have the time for them anyway.

He dove forward from his hunched-over position, arms wrapped around Mal’s mid-section as he tackled the larger boy.

A second later, they both hit the ground.

Mal’s head slammed against the rooftop, a sound halfway between a groan and a choked scream bursting from his lips. Sparky’s body dropped on top of him and the other boy raised his head, twisting back from the downed Neo-Nazi for an instant before it snapped forward like an over-stretched rubber band.

Forehead met nose with a resounding crack that Sparky could only describe as brutally satisfying. With a victorious grin, he raised his head again to stare back down. The smaller teenager leaned forward on Mal’s body, one knee pressing down on the older boy’s left arm and his left hand managing to hold down Mal’s right.

Angry yet dazed eyes glared up at him as Sparky shifted his battered body on top of Mal’s torso, straddling the bully’s prone body. “Y-y’know, the Empire 88 is all about purity.”

He paused to throw a punch down at Mal’s face and another one followed after it in quick succession, the third blow slamming harshly down on Mal’s nose and coating him with another spurt of blood.. “And you’re all one hundred percent pure bitch!”

A single fist flew towards Malcolm’s face and Sparky found himself unable to stop as several more followed after as he threw both hands into the mix, blow after blow raining down as he grew more and more exhausted. Sparky couldn’t remember the last time he’s felt this much….

Well, this much of anything.

It was a rush that left him feeling more awake and excited than worried or frightened, the latter two emotions barely noticeable as he greedily fueled the burning in his gut, something he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before.

He felt alive.

The moment passed surprisingly quickly as he felt something else in his gut.

Something else he was sure he had never felt before.

His mouth opened wide in a near-silent gasp, all air driven from him as a sudden cold spot extinguished the fire in his gut. Fire was replaced by ice in an instant and Sparky found himself blinking in confusion. Wha-

Sparky had a moment - a split second - to take in a ragged breath as pain lanced through his lower torso.

His gaze dropped down.

To Mal’s face, the bully’s eyes wide open as he stared up with a victorious smile.

Down, down…

To the side of his stomach, just by his ribs.

To the blade jammed inches deep into that exact spot, a single hand just now letting go of the small knife. Oh.

Sparky blinked slowly, taking hold of the pocket knife as he stumbled back and away from Mal’s prone form, the other boy doing the same as they rose to their feet in oddly similar and ungainly scrambles.

He blinked again and gripped the knife’s holster, suppressing the urge to vomit from both the pain and the sensation as his legs wavered beneath him. With a pained grunt, Sparky pulled the blade from it’s fleshy sheath and the cold lessened with another twinge of pain. The teenager didn’t have to glance down to see fresh blood streaming out of his stomach, some important vein probably torn wide open from the gut wound. Red liquid stained his clothes even further, his shirt clinging even tighter to his chest.

The knife, slick with blood in his hand, felt like a massive weight.

Sparky stumbled back again.

Oh.

Slick yet heavy, the blade slipped from his wavering grip and the scarlet-stained pocket knife fell to the ground, clattering on the rooftop. Sparky clutched at his stomach with a single hand, another joining it a moment later, trembling fingers on both hands struggling to dam what felt like a river of blood.

“Who’s… heh…” Malcolm Duncan paused to release an audible heavy gasp of air, the words fading away for a moment before he continued speaking, voice labored as he spoke like someone clearly out of breath but trying to hide it, “who’s the bitch now?”

Sparky raised his head slowly, his entire body feeling oddly weightless. It wasn’t just his body; really, the entire world seemed to spin as he did his best to remain upright. For a long moment, he took in the other boy's face, eyes lingering on fresh bruises atop older ones and reopened cuts marring Mal’s face even more. “...”

Another snort escaped the bleeding boy; pain, shock and adrenaline giving way to exhausted hilarity. He couldn’t help himself, really, his mouth curling upwards again as he didn’t bother to stop it. “...brought a knife… knife to a f-fistfight, huh?”

He shook for a second, blinking rapidly as he tried to keep his gaze steady. “Still… still saying it’s you.”

Mal’s nostrils flared.

Sparky blinked as he stumbled in place near the right edge of the roof, seemingly uninterested in moving or raising his hands in an attempt to continue the pointless fight any longer. Fuck it. Hands still clutching his freely bleeding stomach, he simply stared blankly forward. “Bring it, bitch-boy.”

Over two hundred pounds of over-muscled teenaged boy lurched forward with a roar of rage that someone had to have heard in the silence of night, nothing but raw murder on his face.

A second later, Mal slammed into him with all the force and subtlety of an infant rhino.

Rather than fight, Sparky went completely limp, finally giving into his pain and exhaustion as he let himself fall to the hard, unyielding ground in an unmoving heap.

Just to the right of him, Malcolm Duncan did almost exactly the same as his momentum carried him past and over the edge. Only in his case, the ground was much farther away.

At least, judging by how his scream had the time to shift from rage to raw fear.

As he heard the scream come to a sudden stop several stories above, Axel “Sparky” Ramon allowed his eyes to open, a smile plastered on his face as he stared up at the night sky. Just like his daddy.

He almost couldn’t believe that had actually worked.

Almost. Sparky allowed himself another snort, the sound devolving into silent gasps of laughter as he continued to bleed out onto the rooftop. Both fucking idiots.

Adrenaline finally began to trickle out of his system as he lay there for who knew how long, entire body almost completely unmoving. Little by little, he felt each and every single wound he had received from the beginning of this entire shitfest of a night began to make themselves known in full force again. So many bruises, uncountable cuts, head injuries, a stab wound, and who knew what the fuck else?

His gaze drifted over to his side, eyes widening slightly as they landed on the semi-reflective form of something that could have come in handy just two minutes earlier. “The bat?” He snorted again at the absurdity of it all, still laughing. “So, that’s where I dropped that st-”

The words died on his lips as the rooftop door slammed open with a loud crash and a familiar-looking figure burst onto the rooftop, head jerking from side to side as he seemed to vibrate in place with nervous energy.

“Malcolm!” The man in the leather jacket screamed, all previous calm in his voice gone and replaced by the raw fear of a man terrified for his life. “Boy, where the fuck are you? This ain’t a joke! We gotta move!”

The man froze a half-second later, his body stilling as his gaze dropped to lock on to Sparky’s prone form. “You.”

The teenager raised a blood-stained hand lazily, feeling surprisingly unbothered. “Me.”

Mal’s father took a hurried step forward, gaze snapping from side to side as he seemed to scan the roof. “You… you, where the fuck is my boy?”

Even though Sparky could barely see his face from the angle he found himself in, the frantic worry edged with pure anger in the grown man’s tone just made the whole thing seem even funnier for some reason. “...Who?”

Even if he was somehow completely unable to see the man reach into his jacket and pull out a shiny silver weapon, Sparky knew he couldn’t miss the undeniable sound of a handgun being cocked.

“Y-you fuckin’...” The man raised the weapon in one hand, allowing Sparky to properly take in the shiny handgun Mal’s father was aiming down at his prone body. “My son, my boy! He ran up here when I wasn’t looking.”

“...wh-what does that… have to do… with me?” He shot back with a smile, voice labored with the simple effort of speaking.

The Neo-Nazi shot a sudden glance back down the stairwell, a sound seemingly catching his attention before he glanced back at Sparky and shouted with an added hiss to his tone, “Where the fuck is he?”

The boy on the ground smiled uncaringly. “Check… the… ground… floor.”

It took at least a second or two for the man to piece the sentence together, enough time for Sparky to let out another laugh as he finally caught sight of the man’s incredulous expression the moment before it flashed into rage.

An instant later, a gunshot cracked through the air.