NOVEL FROG Lag 6.22
Lag 6.22
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
It was amazing how calm a city like Brockton Bay could seem at night.
There had to be dozens of crimes occurring all over but this early in the morning, with the sky still pitch-black — as black as you could get with all the light pollution at least— you could almost imagine that it was actually as peaceful as it looked.
"Fu-shit!"
Almost.
Greg Veder, dressed in his Hardkour costume—a badass ensemble crafted from a motorcycle jacket, pants, leather belts, paired with a red scarf, gloves, and a full-face helm—swirled through the night sky. His body vaulted off the edge of a rooftop, twirling in the midnight air as he spun and flipped with an ease that bordered on disgustingly casual. The city blurred around him as he spun, finding himself upside down, then right side up, sideways and then upside down again as he dropped into a handstand only to quickly flip back up in the same movement.
Every single movement, an act of casual defiance against gravity.
"You okay, Padawan?" Greg called out, his voice cutting through the night as he settled on a power pole with the grace of a predatory bird.
"I told you never to call me that," the reply came from his partner in roof jumping, the other boy clearly trying to mask the struggle, but the words spoken through gritted teeth were a loud, flaring billboard of effort.
Unlike Greg's more intricately designed outfit, Sparky's was comparatively simple. A hooded tracksuit, in black and yellow, reminiscent of Bruce Lee's iconic bodysuit with an inverted color scheme, black fingerless gloves and a face mask slapped over his mouth. Yeah, that was Sparky—trying to channel his inner martial arts legend while leaping over rooftops.
"Hey, I'd go with Skywalker," Greg began again, bounding around Sparky as the boy took a moment to catch his breath, "but you're not exactly living up to the name."
Was he being a bit of a jackass?
Obviously.
However, he wasn't wrong in his critique of Sparky's ability either. For Greg, it was all too easy—a blend of monstrous strength and acrobatic elegance, even without his [Reinforcement] skill singing in his veins. Every leap, every flip was done with an almost disgusting level of effortlessness.
Sparky? Not so much.
Imagine a toddler learning to run.
Now, take that toddler several stories up, heart racing, navigating gaps that yawned like open mouths ready to swallow him. A quarter of Greg's speed, a fraction of his strength, and a choir of anxiety screaming in his every movement.
"So, ever considered a less life-threatening hobby? Like knitting, maybe?" Greg shouted, his voice carrying an echo of playful arrogance.
"Very funny, Hardkour," Sparky shot back, panting, eyes narrowing with exertion as he tried to keep up with Greg's rhythm.
Greg looked at Sparky, a flicker of genuine concern behind his mask. It's tough, but he'll get it. Hopefully without falling down a few stories like an idiot.
Ignoring the fact that he had done exactly that for a while and Sparky was doing far better than he had the first time attempting this, Greg continued his roof traversal.
He moved fluidly, every leap an effortless demonstration of superhuman ability, his red scarf trailing behind him like a cape
All the while Sparky strained to keep up, each motion measured and deliberate. It was during one of these mid-air pirouettes that Greg casually threw a question at his friend. "So, any new changes you've noticed since the... y'know, boost?"
His voice cut through the night, nonchalant as a stroll in the park, even as he swerved through the city's rough skeleton of bricks and shadows. A notebook and pencil appeared in his hand—Love you, Inventory—and he scribbled in it while leaping
"Boost," Sparky retorted, shooting him a look that screamed 'seriously?' even with a mouth covered by a black mask.
"What else do you want me to call it?" he shot back, scribbling some notes. "I Gregged you up real good, didn't I? Filled you up with some Greg juices."
"Eww." Even behind a mask, the face Sparky pulled was obvious. "Never in your life should you ever say that again."
Greg barely held back the urge to wink, aware that his friend wouldn't see it behind his helm anyway. Cackling, he leapt into the air again, shouting out, "You know you love me!"
Sparky crashed down to the roof a second behind him, grunting out the word, "Debatable," as he landed hard.
The blond let out an audible snort, shaking his head. "Answer my question though, bro. How you feeling?" His eyes never stopped scanning even as he wrote down what he could already notice on the pad, noting that Sparky's movements had a new edge since yesterday's night out on the town.
Faster, higher, something edging closer to impressive.
Four days.
It had been four days since the world shifted on its axis for Sparky, since Greg played savior and architect of his transformation. Two days since his embarrassing first showing as Void Cowboy at the Forsberg. Luckily, Greg had done the smart thing and chose to stay away from the internet, particularly one forum specifically, well aware that he'd be unable to stop himself from getting into internet fights.
"Senses still kinda sting a little but it's easier now," Sparky admitted, rolling his shoulders after a slightly harsher landing. "How did you not fucking lose your mind dealing with this shit?"
Greg tilted his head to the side, rolling the question around in his skull for a second or two before he finally spoke again. "Two theories or… at least, two reasons? I guess," he somehow managed to shrug while flipping upside down. "Anyway, my growth was pretty much just a slow ramp up. It took time to get from level one to level five, you know, and I only got like 2 stat points at a time. Basically, my body, me, my soul, brain, meat, whatever, had time to adapt to every level and every point I put in, y'know," the young vigilante paused as he rolled his words around in his head for a moment before just deciding to push through anyway. "Like, dude, my senses are sick but unless I'm actively like using them, y'know, or adrenaline's pumping, everything's only a little above normal. At least, I don't notice it, y'know. Like, sensory extinction, y'know, unnecessary distraction your brain ignores, basic stuff like that."
"...yeah, basic. Sure."
Greg clicked his tongue. "I'm not gonna pretend I didn't have a fast start. But you… You went from zero to sixty in literally a heartbeat."
The other boy nodded his head a few seconds later, accepting that answer pretty easily. He glanced at Greg as they ran side by side for a few seconds more before finally letting out a sigh and speaking up again. "...the second theory, brah."
"Oh," Greg snorted at that, the sound petering out into quiet chuckles before Greg spoke again with an audible grin. "I'm literally built different."
The joke landed about as well as Sparky did a moment later, the other boy caught off guard to the point that he had to drop into a roll to keep his forward motion. Bouncing back to his feet, he shot a harsh look in his friend's direction as Greg turned around, running backwards just to see the pratfall. "Dickhead."
As if to punctuate his last words, Greg let out a cackle worthy of any witch on Halloween as he turned back around and bounded over to another rooftop. "Anything else?"
"My appetite's gone mad crazy, brah," Sparky finally added again as he rushed forward to cross the gap between them, a ripple of vulnerability in his voice that might have also been due to exertion. "I've been sleeping way less, too. That normal?"
Greg nodded, the motion as fluid as his jumps. "Totally. I was a food vacuum at first. Eating like a pig, honestly. It's gotta be all the enhanced biomass processing and cellular metabolic acceleration, you know. You gotta adapt to all the rapid changes and all that extra intake'll probably drop down to something close normal like me once your body levels out."
He paused for a moment, something else popping into his thoughts. "Although that still begs the question of where all the extra energy is coming from after that. Some kind of high-efficiency biological furnace, that what we are? Turning every scrap of food into pure energy?" Greg's mind whirled with the possibilities, expression shifting downwards into a frown behind the mask, far more in his thoughts than he could manage to verbalize at once. "I mean, the energy has to come from somewhere, right?"
"...right."
"Honestly, as long as there's some net intake, we should be good," Greg finished his musing, the night air carrying his words.
Sparky blinked in silence, his eyes above his face mask an open book of 'What the hell?'
Greg stared back. "What?"
"Nothing. Just… nothing," Sparky muttered, shaking his head in confusion for a moment as he looked at Greg. A few seconds later, his voice shifted and took on a teasing tone. "So, how's it feel getting your butt kicked by the Travelers and the Merchants in the same fight?"
Greg rolled his eyes dramatically, but couldn't suppress the slight heat in his chest at the thought of that night. "We're not revisiting this! Though, for the record, I did trash Mush."
"Clockblocker could take on Mush."
Greg whipped his head around, white lenses focused on the other boy. "No, he hasn't!"
"I said could, not did," Sparky corrected flatly.
"...fair." He couldn't deny that much. "But that's only a hypothetical." Still, he wasn't going to go down without a fight.
"Besides," Sparky ignored Greg's last comment, his smirk audible behind the mask hiding his mouth, "That's not what PHO's saying."
Biting back an actual growl, Greg sped up just enough to drag a lead on Sparky before spinning in the air once again, simultaneously leaping backwards across a gap as he held up both middle fingers. "I dont give a flying fuck what virgins on PHO are saying."
Sparky actually raised an eyebrow at that, pumping his arms and legs faster in an attempt to catch up to Greg's sudden burst of speed. "Virgins?" He questioned with a grunt to punctuate the word as he landed hard. "Glass houses, big brah."
"Shut. Up."
"Uh-huh," Sparky nodded back. "'sides, we both know that's a lie."
He's right, Greg couldn't help but agree.
But he wasn't going to admit that in a hundred years.
"...you're right," he admitted after a moment of silence, the blond boy spontaneously gaining the power of time travel. "But other than me, what is PHO talking about?"
Sparky's second eyebrow rose to join the first. "...Leet got a girlfriend."
What. Greg let out a burst of laughter, a bark more than anything else. "That's just a bad joke. Pull the other one."
Before Sparky could shoot back with another insult about glass houses and stones, a scream — desperate and raw — ripped through the night air. Their conversation, along with the playful edge, was obliterated in an instant.
"What the-" Sparky began, the words sharp and edged.
But Greg had already moved. In his perspective, the world seemed to slow, giving him that fraction of a second's advantage. His eyes, visible through the blue-glowing slits in his full-face helmet, scanned the area, catching onto a glint of movement. There.
"There!" He repeated aloud. His voice wasn't a shout; it was a command, casual attitude momentarily forgotten. "Follow me!"
He took off, at a pace just exceeding that of Sparky's, a sheer blur against the skyline, fast enough that he'd be risking a fine in a school zone at the very least. Sparky, though quick, was still a good distance behind. Gotta give him credit, Greg mused as he came to a stop. He's trying.
By the time Sparky caught up almost a half minute later, Greg had already come to a harsh stop and was deadly still, gaze focused down an alleyway. Sparky's eyes seemed questioning but the blond didn't have to speak a word as the other boy followed his line of sight and froze in place, the slight twitch of his fingers standing out against his stock still body.
Both boys stared down, hands tightening into fists in unison.
Five members of the E88, all of them obvious from clothing to coloring, were on the prowl.
Their target? A young black couple who looked nothing short of terrified.
"Why are we just standing here?" Sparky finally snapped his head to the side, pulled from his trance by the woman's sudden scream yet again. His voice was urgent, frantic even, the newly-superhuman teenager almost vibrating in place. "We gotta save 'em!"
Greg just turned to him, face inscrutable behind the mask. "Nah." All you, Sparkplug.
The response seemed to shatter whatever focus Sparky had, like Greg expected, the other boy's twitching reaching a new height as rage and other emotions seemed to spill out from him even before he spoke.
"What do you mean, nah?!" His chest rose hard and fast as his breath seemed to come in heavy pants, anger evident in his stance as golden eyes seemed to flare in time with his breaths. "Are you or are you not a fucking superhero?" He hissed, taking several steps forward to glare down the blond.
"No, not we. Just you," Greg corrected him, pointing at the scene with two fingers. He knew his tone was dismissive, harsh even, but he also knew if he sounded any less serious, it wouldn't work. Sparky's hard-headed and he can be as much of a dick as I am. I can't let him see any weakness on cape stuff or he'll never really listen to me. No more repeats of Friday night. "Get to it."
Sparky seemed to deflate for a moment, the weight of the responsibility seeming to hit him. But another scream echoed — louder, closer. The woman had tripped over, and her partner was shouting, trying to protect her as the gang closed in.
"Another one of your damn lessons?" Sparky shot back, glaring at Greg. But even as he did, his body tensed, preparing to jump into action.
"Get to it, Apex," Greg pressed, tilting his head. Come on, Sparky. Prove me right. He wasn't doing this just to be an asshole, as much as it might seem like that was the case. No, this was a lesson more than anything, a test to prove something on several different layers.
And not just one for Sparky.
"Fucking h- fine." With a huff, Sparky jumped off the roof.
Quest Gained
Sidekicking the Enemy While They're Down
Nice.
One layer down.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Axel Ramon, known to some as Sparky, was intimately familiar with his own anger. He wasn't like some annoying bitches who wore his anger proudly, like a human pitbull, walking around with some conspicuous chip on his shoulder.
He wasn't like Greg either, who pushed all his bad feelings down or ignored them and tried to put on a smile no matter what was going on around him.
No, his was subtler, more irritating, a persistent buzzing in the back of his head.
That buzz, insistent and ever-present like a bad case of tinnitus, did nothing but sit there, occasionally growing louder and more annoying every time someone did something to piss him off.
Since Friday night, that buzz had intensified - like almost everything else about him - and had become a deafening roar.
He stared down from the rooftop at the chaos unfolding below. Five members of the E88, hopped up on hate and hunting their next victims, had chosen a dark, grimy alley as their playground. The dim light from a solitary flickering bulb barely cut through the darkness, casting eerie shadows.
Greg could handle this, easily, Sparky thought, but his mind quickly added, But I guess it's my turn. Rather than unleash his wrath on Greg — again — for not playing the superhero, Sparky decided the thugs below made perfect targets.
Let's do this.
"Fucking h- fine."
Taking a breath, the chill of the night mixing with the rush of adrenaline, Sparky leapt from the building. His heart plummeted into his stomach as the exhilarating feeling of weightlessness enveloped him briefly before instincts he didn't know he had kicked in. His eyes locked onto a rust-stained exterior stairwell, and like a cobra's strike, his arms lashed out and his fingers latched onto the cold metal, muscles tensing the instant he did so.
He absorbed the impact as his palms gripped tight, muscles straining as he caught himself. Instinctively, he moved again, maintaining some of his momentum in the process.
With a coordinated push and kick, he propelled himself off the stairs, flipping backwards in a display of acrobatics he'd never have dreamed possible before. His body arced gracefully as he twisted in mid-air, a black and yellow blur against the dark backdrop of the alley.
As he approached the opposing wall, his eyes calculated the distance and angle in a fraction of a second. He extended his legs, his sneakers making contact with the rough brick surface. The impact sent a jolt through his legs, but he used the momentum, channeling it into a powerful kick. The wall became a springboard, launching him forward as he bled off more force.
Heading towards the ground, Sparky twisted his body, tucking and rolling mid-air to manage the force of his descent
He landed with only a grunt, one fist and both feet touched the ground, his body low and coiled in the position Greg had drilled into him, a move straight out of a comic book. The ground beneath him was hard, unforgiving, but he barely noticed. His senses were heightened, every sound and shadow amplified in the dim light of the flickering bulb overhead.
See, teach, I'm learning, he thought with a bitter edge of sarcasm.
Straightening up slowly, muscles coiled and ready for action, he found himself in between the Empire gangsters and the couple, rage building in his chest as he took in the obvious signs of the same gang who nearly killed him just a few days ago.
"Hey, fuckfaces!" He growled out, voice slightly muffled behind his black facemask. "Y'all too pussy to fuck with someone who's not scared or what?"
The couple being chased quickly took off, further into the alley and towards the nearest street as the Empire Eighty-Eight members turned to face him. Their faces contorted, eyes filled with ugly hate as they took him in. A knife glinted ominously, reflecting the flickering alleyway light, and brass knuckles promised pain.
"What are you, kid?" One of them barked, waving a bat threateningly.
Sparky scoffed, raising his fists up in a simple stance. "This an interview? You want my full genetic history before a beat-down? I'm a cape, how's that?"
"What fucking kind are you?" Another one demanded.
"What are you t-?"
"We can tell you're a cape, you dumb fuck," the one with the bat interrupted, his gravelly voice grating on Sparky's ears. "If you had powers worth talking about, you wouldn't be talking, We'd be on the ground, maybe dead, so I figure some kind of shitty Brute, maybe a Striker. A Mover, maybe."
Sparky frowned again, visibly confused at the conversation. "And you still wanna do thi-"
"This ain't Boston, kid. Dozens of new capes every couple of months pop up in the Bay thinking they're hot shit," Knives grinned, interrupting him, "and you don't look half as mean as some of the ones we've seen go down. So, what are you?"
"Yeah, you look kinda vague," Knuckles chimed in. "Dependin' on your blood, we might kill you. We might just fuck you up. Might just break your legs. It's up to you."
"..." A pair of golden eyes narrowed. "I'm as dark as the dick your moms suck to keep the lights on, how 'bout that?"
Bat nodded. "...Alright, kill him."
They charged.
So did Sparky.
He darted beneath the careless swing of a bat, feeling the rush of air as it missed him as a grin sprung into place behind his mask. Too slow.
He found openings in the wild arc of a knife, exploiting the hesitation at his speed, every misplaced step. A particularly reckless swing by one of the gang members opened up an opportunity, and Sparky struck back.
His hand chopped down at the thug's wrist, sending the bat clattering into darkness.
A vicious palm strike followed, making contact. The man stumbled back a step or two and the teenager let out a silent hiss as he realized he had held back a little too much as the man rushed forward again. Irritation at himself fueling him, he sidestepped a knife from the side and spun with the momentum, a spinning backfist landing in the same spot he struck with his palm barely two seconds ago.
A vicious grin sprang across his face as he felt bones give way beneath his fist, and the man flew back and crumpled, body a heap on the damp alleyway ground.
Not dead, at least, he caught himself thinking, able to see the ragged rise and fall of the thug's chest even in the dim lighting. He felt the sharp edge of victory but also the sour twist of disgust at how excited he felt. Lucky me.
"YOU KILLED KENNY!"
His head snapped up as Knuckles let out a ragged scream. "He's not d-"
"YOU BASTARD!"
The rush of adrenaline in his veins drowned out everything else as the guy with the brass knuckles charged him. The man's angry intentions were all too clear from the raw hate in his eyes and Sparky reacted, instinct and training colliding. He blocked the blow with his forearm and struck back out, countering with a heavy fist into Knuckles' gut.
Unable to stand as his eyes bulged from the pain, the gangster slumped to all fours, coughing and spitting up his dinner from earlier. Oh come on, Sparky thought, grin falling away and replaced by a grimace as he hopped back from the mess all over the alley floor. Ewwww.
A grunt from behind him blared like a loudspeaker in his ears as Sparky's eyes widened. He dropped low, narrowly missing being trapped being the bulky arms of a massive tattooed Neo-Nazi. You guys all look the same to me, I swear. He moved with precision, every muscle, every nerve tuned into his motion and with no time to waste, he pivoted in place, channeling his momentum to drive a foot hard into the thug's knee.
With a cry of agony, the man went down hard, writhing on the alley floor.
Two more E88s, seeing their buddy in distress, bolted for him. Sparky's sneakers skidded on the grimy pavement as he darted towards a nearby alley wall. Rebounding off the wall, he flipped through the cold night air. His feet connected with both their chests in a powerful jumping double kick, the sudden blow leaving them gasping as they collapsed in heaps of failure on the cold ground.
Landing back on the ground in a tight crouch, Sparky allowed himself another smile. Man, I'm good.
The smile didn't last long.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!" His head whipped around, golden eyes wide as ever as he heard the woman scream again, this time her voice coming from deeper within the alley. Shit! What now?
With barely a glance back at the downed gang members at his feet, Sparky felt a tug in his gut and rushed through the dark alleyways as fast as he could.
With his heart pounding against his ribs, Sparky's feet pounded the grimy path, propelling him through the dark alleyways. The flickering lightbulb barely illuminated the scene, casting long, ominous shadows that danced on the grimy walls. His mind raced as he tried to anticipate the gangsters' next move, irritated at himself for not thinking ahead. They're gangsters, not idiots. Of course, they'd have somebody else to trap them if they ran.
He heard the scream again, closer this time, the sound echoing off the walls at the mouth of another alley. The urgency in the woman's voice spurred him on, his body nearly blurring with speed. Come on!
As he skidded to a stop, the scene that unfolded before him made his blood boil. Three gangsters, each a caricature of hate and violence, had cornered a terrified woman.
One, with what looked like dirt smudged across the side of his face and a twisted smirk, was tearing at her shirt, pressing her hard against the wall as she fought and screamed, trying her best to push him away even as he held one of her arms against the wall. His muscular build and the way he moved spoke of a man used to getting what he wanted through force. The other two, one bald and shirtless, revealing a canvas of hateful tattoos, and the other in a dirty, torn jacket, were relentlessly kicking a man on the ground.
Without a second thought, Sparky launched himself at the one attacking the woman. His shoulder connected with a solid thud, sending the rapist flying back as he let out a scream that was more surprise and shock than pain. He crashed hard, face-first, against the alley wall, a pile of trash bags just barely cushioning his fall.
Not wasting a second, Sparky turned to the woman pressed against the wall. "You okay?" he asked quickly, voice muffled behind the mask.
Her frantic nod and wide, terrified eyes were all the answer he needed. He didn't wait to comfort her, instead, turning his attention to the other two thugs who had jumped back from their victim, startled by Sparky's sudden appearance.
"You picked the wrong night for this, man," Sparky growled, his voice muffled behind his mask but carrying an edge that promised retribution.
The bald thug, recovering from his surprise, sneered. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"
"A guy with a grudge," Sparky retorted, his fists clenching. He didn't wait for them to attack. Instead, he lunged forward, his movements swift and precise. He caught the first punch thrown by the bald thug, twisting his arm and sending a sharp jab to his ribs. The criminal grunted, doubling over in pain.
The one in the torn jacket swung a knife, its blade glinting under the weak light. Sparky sidestepped, feeling the whoosh of air as the blade narrowly missed him. He grabbed the thug's wrist, twisting it until the knife clattered to the ground. A quick jab to the chest sent the man stumbling back, eyes wide and mouth open as if he didn't realize how much a punch could hurt.
The woman's partner, bloodied and bruised, tried to push himself up, his eyes meeting Sparky's. There was a silent thank you in his gaze, mixed with shock at the teenager's efficiency.
Sparky turned away from him, muscles tensed, ready for the next move. The bald Empire member lunged again, a wild swing aimed at Sparky's head. With a swift duck, Sparky evaded the punch and watched the man stumble as he kept his eyes on the other one, the one in the jacket.
The jacketed thug was quicker, more cautious, circling Sparky like a predator, blade in hand.
As he finally lunged, Sparky sidestepped and grabbed his wrist, twisting it hard. The knife clattered to the ground as the thug howled in pain. With a swift, fluid motion, Sparky delivered an uppercut, sending the man sprawling onto the ground, unconscious.
The bald Neo-Nazi, now recovered, charged at Sparky with a roar. Sparky braced himself, then at the last second, pivoted on his heel, using the thug's own momentum against him. With a snapping kick, he sent the bald man airborne, the sound of what was hopefully only ribs snapping as he landed hard on the grimy ground.
Panting, Sparky glanced around, ensuring there were no more threats. The woman was crouched by her partner, trying to help him up. Sparky walked over to them, steps heavy. "You two need to get out of here. Now. Stay on the main roads."
The woman nodded, her eyes still filled with fear as she helped her partner to his feet. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Don't mention it," Sparky replied gruffly, his eyes scanning the alley for any more danger.
As the couple hurried away, Sparky took a moment to catch his breath, his heart still racing. He looked down at his hands, slightly trembling. I did it, he thought, a mix of relief and disbelief washing over him. I actually di-.
His thoughts came to a halt as movement caught his eye — the first thug, somehow back on his feet, a gun in one shaking hand, nose gushing fresh blood as he cradled his chest. Sparky felt himself freeze like a deer in headlights, a cold, numb feeling washing over him as his heart stilled. The world seemed to slow, each second stretching endlessly as a familiar cold terror gripped Sparky's heart.
The gun... the same cold, metallic sheen as the one that had been staring down at him just days ago. His breath hitched, trapped in his lungs as the memories flooded back — the sight of steel, the deafening bang, the searing pain that had erupted in his chest. He couldn't move, couldn't think, his entire being focused on the weapon that threatened to tear his life away once again.
His ears rang with silence, the alley's dingy surroundings blurring as his vision tunneled on the gun, its barrel the only thing in the world.
Just as the coldness of dread settled in, a blur filled his vision. A half-second later, the sound of bones crunching filled Sparky's ears, louder than any gunshot, breaking the spell that had held him frozen.
"Missed one," Greg's voice cut through the tension, light and mocking.
Sparky drew in a ragged breath, his body trembling as he forced himself to focus on the scene unfolding before him. The gun clattered to the ground, its threat neutralized, but Sparky's heart continued to pound in his chest, a stark reminder of his vulnerability. He swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of control over his racing thoughts.
He took in another shuddering breath as he nodded silently. Holy fuck.
The masked blond held a shattered wrist in hand, mask turned towards Sparky as he waved the man's hand in a grim "Hello", still crunching bones in his grip as the gun clattered uselessly to the asphalt.
"T-Thanks, brah," he managed to choke out, his voice barely more than a whisper."I mean… Hardkour."
The red-masked cape tilted his head slightly. "What are friends for, Apex?" It was an oddly comforting sentence, somehow made even more comforting by the way Greg held the thug's wrist in an unyielding grip, the man's hand flopping grotesquely as the bones continued to audibly grind against each other.
Sparky nodded again, his gaze drifting to the gun lying harmless on the ground. He knew he had to get used to this, to the dangers that lurked in the shadows of Brockton Bay. But it was one thing to know it, another to live it.
Turning to the man blubbering in his grip, the blond's voice shifted, losing most of its warmth as he spoke next. "Hey, big guy," Greg shook the man like a ragdoll, uncaringly and with probably too much force, "Come on. Stop screaming," he commanded blithely, wiggling the wrist with each syllable. "I'm trying to teach my Padawan the ways of the streets here."
Despite Hardkour's best efforts at making himself clear, the man didn't seem to hear him, continuing to scream.
Greg sighed theatrically, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "I get it. You're hurting. So am I. I don't like to do this either. You know, I'm a pacifist, really."
Sparky blinked, thinking back to the chaos of a few nights ago. Pass a fist through a face, maybe.
Greg shook his head as the man continued to scream. "Fun fact: did you know 106 people die every minute?"
Sparky blinked at the non-sequitur.
So did the man, his horrified expression clashing comically with his confusion as he managed to croak out a pained "What?"
"You make 107." Greg said as he let go, only to send the gangster sprawling with a final punch.
Sparky stared, trying to catch his breath. "Bro, what the fuck?"
Greg laughed, brushing nonexistent dirt off his clothes. "You killed three guys three days ago," he pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "You didn't exactly go easy on these ones either."
Sparky bit his lip, memories flooding back even more. "...Yeah, I guess," he muttered, not wanting to dwell on the past.
"Sides, he's not dead, only K.O.'d. Some broken ribs, but he'll be good in a month," Greg said with an audible smirk, gesturing at the man's still moving chest. "You know me, I just said that to fuck with him."
"... I'm not really gonna complain that much, honestly," Sparky found himself admitting. "Not anymore, at least,"
"Look who's learning," Greg replied, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder.