The smell of sweat mingled with the stench of the docks as two gang members, one from the Union, a “bricklayer”, the other a Master went at it. The Master was fitter, better trained, and had the confidence of youth. The bricklayer had practical experience, and an understanding that the rules of combat are very different in an illegal warehouse fight than they are in the UFC. This deviation in the ruleset came into clear focus for the Master as the Union woman slammed his head into a steel pipe.
To his credit, the Master wasn’t rocked, shaking off the blow to slip the bricklayer’s follow up. Then the doors exploded inward as riot police surged into the makeshift arena. Fighters closest to the side entrance, some of them low level Metahumans, barreled past the cops sending one flying out of the way. There were maybe fifty people in the warehouse, not counting the recent arrivals. Now everyone was funneling towards the same door.
P-Q spat, of course he was nowhere near the open exit. As he ran, he could see others bunching up to get out of the doorway. Cops flanking them, tackling who they could. As he sprinted across the warehouse floor he watched the Master get tripped by the mob. Panicked spectators trampling over him to get out. The kid must have been hurt worse than he let on in the fight. He wasn’t getting up now. Diving over him, P-Q didn’t care who he hit, so it didn’t register that an officer took a forearm full of quills to his chest.
“Come on champ, let’s get you out of here.’ P-Q bent over the injured fighter; bristiling to keep others away as he lifted the Master. Bent over, as he was, in this position, P-Q looked the most like a giant porcupine. That was good, he thought, no one is going to want to deal with his quills. Then he felt the riot shields slam into him. Cradling the man, P-Q picked off the ground with much force as he could muster. He could hear the cops slam into one another behind him as he pushed his way out and into the night. With everyone scattering on the other side of the warehouse, P-Q disappeared into the night.
“Tonight on the Triple H report, Hard Harry Huntsman explores the growing number of illegal Metahuman rallies cropping up around the city.” The television screen flashed an image of Harry spreading his open hands to the audience as body cam footage of P-Q knocking down a cop flashed behind him. The footage didn’t show the part where he shields the unconscious person from being trampled.
P-Q adjusted his hoodie as he sank into his drink. The top was oversized, hiding his quills, twist wrong, or move too quickly though and its money wasted and time to find a new bar. If he had just run, this wouldn’t be happening, but then what? That kid signed up to make an honest buck putting his body on the line, not get trampled by a panicked mob.
“You look like a man with a lot on their mind.” The woman sat down across from him, sliding a fresh pitcher onto the table. P-Q’s eyes drifted from the amber liquid to the new drinking companion. Black wavy hair framed a dark golden-umber face and piercing blue eyes.
“What about me says I want company?”
“The empty glass, the upcycled gymware, and a face that screams, I’m too sober to face the day ahead. I just want to talk. That’s all.”
Saying nothing, P-Q poured a drink and waited for her to continue.
“I know who you are.” Her eyes dart to the television at the bar then back to him. “I want to go with you. To one of the rallies.”
Wincing, P-Q heard the tears in his hoodie as he fought his reaction. “There’s no rallies lady. That stuff on the T.V. they got it all wrong.”
Smiling, she leaned in. “It’s alright, I’m like you. I… I’m just looking for a place to fit in.” There was a surge of heat, then flames began to dance across her hand. P-Q covered her palm as quickly as he could. Quills begin to shred the back of the hoodie.
“There’s no rallies. That wasn’t some gathering… okay it was a gathering, but not like that moron is making it seem. It’s an underground arena, plane old fighting and gambling, not some big subversive movement. Most of us are just trying to get by, make a buck because we can’t find work.”
Withdrawing the woman’s face sours. “Oh, oh no. I’m sorry.” She motions to his arm, quills now exposed. P-Q moves his hand to cover it looking around. “No one on the news is saying that. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, fight club doesn’t sell like mutant menace does. I wasn’t even thinking about that cop. It was.. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, it’s alright, I’ve had to disappear because of how people saw me, more than once. I get it.”
“Is that a fa…” A shadow fell over the table, as the pair looked up. Three men stood there.
“This bar isn’t for you, freak.” The leader of the bunch spat out as others began to move closer.
“Look slick, I don’t know what idea you have in your head, but the best thing you can do is walk away.” Standing P-Q twists as if shivering, turning his covering to tatters. “I’m not having the best of weeks.”
Sliding between the two men, the woman angles herself in a way to make space. “You’re not having a good week, and it’s only going to get worse if you lay in to this bar trash.” Turning to the collection of toughs she adds. “Don’t look up!” Flicking her arm into the air, there is a burst of light and intense heat. The sprinklers snap to life as she pushes P-Q towards the back exit. “Come on tough guy.” She says with another push.
Slamming through the door, into the alleyway the woman points towards the street. Following, P-Q shouts. “This is a hell of a first date lady, but you haven’t even given me a name.”
“Oh, um, Amber, sorry.” She smiled over her shoulder, just in time for P-Q to grab her ducking to the right. Towards the left was the entrance to the bar, where a small mob had gathered. These weren’t the average drunk chuckleheads. More lined the railing opposite the bar before the drop into the Ohio river. They all wore the red and black colors, some with guns, others high tech looking rifles. “That’s not good, I know these guys.”
“Yeah?” The pair sprinted in the opposite direction.
“Yeah. They call themselves Humans Now. They have some sick idea that evolution dictates Metahumans will replace other humans. So they want to purify the world.”
“Okay, it has to be okay for me to punch them.”
“You attack them with those drunks around and they will spin the story faster than if you were part hedgehog.”
“Hey!”
“Just keep running. If we can get someplace more public, they are less likely to attack. Can’t twist the story so easily when there are unbiased observers around.”
