A Boy's Tail IV (Patreon)

"MOTHERF-!" The word got cut off as the muzzle flash damn near singed his eyebrows, gunshot cracking loud enough to make his ears ring. Fucking ears. Shawn sucked in air that tasted of burnt powder and alley piss, the fighter already moving before the sound finished bouncing off brick walls.

His bare feet clung to the brownstone's weathered face, fingers and toes digging into mortar that crumbled like sand. His tail unwrapped from his waist, the black furry thing flicking out for balance as he scrambled as fast as he could up the wall. As much as he hated this monkey scrambling shit, it felt more natural than it should have, muscle memory from someone else's life bleeding through. 

Below him, voices were shouting in Italian, which meant Gambino crew again. Course it was the fuckin' Gambinos. Or at least one of the many junior wannabes grabbing onto the name.

A third-story window ledge gave him just enough space to kick off hard, letting him launch all three-hundred-seventy-five pounds of his body weight across the gap between buildings. Air rushed past his face for maybe two seconds before his feet slammed down on the opposite roof, knees absorbing impact that would've turned regular bones to powder. Behind him, bullets arced up through empty space, sparks flying off fire escape metal where his soles had just been.

"Y'all gonna have to do better than that!" he yelled back, the grin on his face wide and crazy despite the way his heart was hammering against his ribs. Part of him – the part that remembered being smaller, weaker, human – wanted to keep running. But the rest of him…

Well, he had to stop that part of him from eating the people he fought.

He dropped to street level in one smooth motion, landing on the balls of his feet with a sound heavy enough to crack pavement. The fight had already spread across the corner intersection; two black sedans providing cover for maybe the last five guys in cheap suits, all of them moving with the kind of desperate energy that said they'd bitten off more than they could chew.

Mr. Hassan was already pulling the metal grate down over his grocery store windows, but Shawn could see him watching through the gaps. Smart man. 

Everyone still on the street scattered in every direction, screaming and running the second they heard gunshots, people moving exactly the way roaches did when lights came on. 

All except one. 

Shawn blinked at the sight of a woman in a long coat standing perfectly still against a far building wall; not running or hiding, just a white woman staring.

Watching him.

Like, specifically.

Something was off about the way she'd been looking at him, not like the usual thrill-seekers who hung around hoping to catch a supe fight on their phones. Her eyes tracked his movement with the kind of focus that made his tail twitch. 

Shawn shook his head and pushed the thought down; he didn't have time to figure out every lil bitch that wanted to stare. He twisted backward and flipped to avoid another burst of gunfire, his hands hitting a surface before the rest of him. Without a moment to waste, he used a parked Honda's hood as a springboard, and launched himself boots-first into the closest gunman's chest.

The impact folded the guy in half, and sent him flying backward into a mailbox with enough force to dent the metal. Shawn grabbed the dropped pistol, and without a moment of hesitation, the Saiyan emptied the clip into the second car's engine block. Engine parts went flying and oil started leaking onto asphalt in a dark puddle. "Engine's cheaper to replace than your lives," he said, voice carrying over the sudden quiet, "but I ain't that generous twice."

The remaining crew members looked at each other, then at their ruined car, then at him. One of them dropped his piece and put his hands up. Smart.

Shawn improvised from there; the trash can lid became a shield when the last two idiots decided to keep shooting, and the parking meter came free with a grinding screech when he needed something with reach. Concrete chunks scattered as the metal base tore loose, leaving a hole in the sidewalk that would need city repair.

A smash here, a crash there, and a bash later, the fight ended with three more unconscious, the last two limping away fast as their legs could carry them, and two abandoned cars bleeding oil onto the street.

Barely a minute later, two patrol cars pulled up right on schedule, all four officers already looking annoyed before they got out. Standard Tuesday afternoon for East Baltimore.

"Great, another supe," from one officer, a Hispanic woman whose badge read Rodriguez. Her hand rested on her holster but didn't draw, probably because she'd spotted his tail and done the math on what she was looking at.

Shawn kept his hands visible, stayed relaxed but ready. Let’s get it over with.

"W-wait, I know this one," Rodriguez turned to look at her partner, a white guy with a mustache worthy of porn, getting out of the car with her. "You're King Kong, ain't ya?"

It took all his strength not to sigh right there. This again, man? "No,” he forced himself to smile, halfway biting the words out. “I'm the Monkey King."

Rodriguez snorted. "See, he's the Monkey King, Thompson. Apes don't got tails, anyway."

Oh… yeah, of course. He wasn’t even gonna say anything to that.

Thompson walked up with the standard question almost every cop had asked him after one of these fights. "You supe types always gotta cause so much shit?"

Maybe ‘cause I wasn't on TV selling them breakfast cereal. A lot of them really didn't like him, and he had theories about why.

Instead he just shrugged. "Working on it."

Rodriguez walked back to him after she finished scanning the scene with practiced eyes, already taking in the unconscious bodies being placed into the back of cars, the ruined vehicles, and the relatively intact storefronts. "Property damage is minimal, and witnesses say they shot first."

She looked back at him with flat eyes and a bored look. "Try to keep the shit quieter next time."

As she walked back to the cop car, Rodriguez gave him one more look, the kind that said I got better shit to do than paperwork on supe bullshit, then jerked her head toward Thompson. "Come on, Tommy. Let's move out."

Car doors slammed harder than they needed to and a minute later, the sirens whee-wooed around the corner, fading into the background noise of traffic and distant sirens that never really stopped in this part of town. Shawn rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension bleed out slow. Cops were gone. Good. Less questions, less forms, less why you doing this without a Vought badge conversations that never went anywhere useful.

Mr. Hassan's metal grate rattled up with the sound of a garage door made of scrap iron, each chain link catching on the next and squealing protest. The old man stepped out careful, leather shoes crunching on glass that hadn't been there twenty minutes ago. His eyes did a quick sweep – broken storefront across the street where a stray bullet had taken out the window, fresh bullet holes in the brick above the bus stop, blood drops already getting washed thin by the mist that was starting to settle. Then they landed on Shawn, and the worry lines around Hassan's mouth smoothed out some.

"Mr. Kong." Hassan reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope that looked thick enough to choke a horse. "Three hundred, like we agreed. And a little extra."

Shawn took it without counting, wasn't all too picky with specific numbers anyway. Bills were bills, and his stomach was already starting to remind him that fighting burned calories he didn't have to spare. "Anybody else giving you trouble these past couple weeks"

"No, no. They know you around, they run, run like rats because of you." Hassan's accent made the words roll together, but his smile was pure relief, even with the gold tooth sticking out. "My daughter, she walk to school again without looking over shoulder. Worth every penny."

Shawn stuffed the envelope in his gi pocket, trying not to think about how quick people jumped to depend on him, like he’d always been running around. But it did, and that was its own kind of problem. You save one kid and… "Just doing the job, Mr. Hassan."

"No, is more… much more than job." The old man shook his head, serious as both pairs of dark eyes met each other. "You are guardian. You protect us, you family."

Family. Right. His tail twitched against his waist, restless. "Yeah, well. Keep that front door locked after dark, yeah? These assholes might try coming back with friends."

Hassan nodded and ducked back inside, grate coming down with a final metallic clatter that echoed off the buildings. Shawn stood there for a second, watching the street settle back into its normal rhythm. Old lady with her grocery cart, picking her way around the glass and pretending she hadn't seen anything worth talking about. Couple of kids on bikes, already treating the bullet holes like they were part of the scenery, racing past with the kind of fearlessness that said they'd grown up around worse.

Life in Baltimore was like that; violence came and went, but people still had shit to do.

His protection network was running smooth as silk these days, and that was at least one of the good things going for him. Mrs. Luu's diner kicked him $150 monthly plus all the pho his stomach could handle, the Tie family buffet went $200 plus family meal privileges that had him eating till he was sleepy twice a week. Hassan's grocery was the high-risk spot, corner position for anyone looking to cause trouble, so that went for $300 cash, and the Hernandez auto shop rounded it out at $250 along with a promise to hook him up with an old car if he ever got a license.

Not extortion. 

Shawn frowned to himself, eyes narrowed as he scanned the street one more time, looking for that blonde woman who'd been standing around while everyone else ran for cover. She'd been watching him, not the fight, and that had been weird enough to make him spot her out. 

But the sidewalk was empty now, just the usual foot traffic and nothing that made his instincts itch. 

Huh. His shoulders slumped in a shrug. Almost dojo time anyway.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The dojo used to be a dance studio, and it still showed its bones. 

One entire wall was plastered with mirrors, some of them so dusty that pretty much no cleaning was gonna make them perfectly shiny. Clean or not, it let his students see his back while he showed them his front, making it easier for them to perfectly understand the way they were supposed to move. The landlord for this place had pretty much said “fuck rent” in exchange for what he called "security presence," which was polite white guy speak for keep the crackheads from squatting in my shit. 

A fair trade, considering Shawn spent most his nights here anyway.

Mats were stacked neat in the corner, basic equipment he'd bought secondhand from a gym that went under last spring. The place smelled like sweat and pine cleaner, afternoon light slicing through tall windows in golden bars that caught dust motes floating lazy in the air. Good light for teaching, good space for moving; everything he needed to turn neighborhood kids into something harder to break.

Malik was already inside, setting up mats with the kind of mechanical precision that meant his head was somewhere else entirely. Kid was eighteen, lean build that came from too many missed meals and too much stress, but a good kid. More than that, he was the first unofficial student he ever had, and Shawn had taught him how to brawl proper, break down almost anyone else his size. Normally, Malik was relaxed, too chill even, moved through drills with the kind of easy confidence that said he trusted his hands and his feet to do what they were supposed to.

Today wasn't normal.

Today his movements were quick, jerky, shoulders bunched up tight around his ears. Kept shooting glances at the windows like he expected trouble to come crawling through them, and that little muscle in his jaw was jumping every few seconds. 

Yeah, Shawn clicked his tongue. Something’s up.

"Yo, Malik." Shawn's voice cut through the afternoon quiet, not harsh but carrying enough weight to make the kid's head snap up. "You good?"

"Yeah, Sensei, just..." Malik's hands never stopped moving, folding mats in ways that didn't need to be that precise. "Just tired, you know?"

Bullshit. Shawn could read the stress on him easy as reading a street sign, and whatever was eating at the kid was bigger than tired. Bigger than homework or girl problems or any of the usual shit that would bother someone in their senior year of high school. Shawn sighed, but he let it go.

3:45 PM rolled around soon enough, and the first wave of students started running in through the front door. A mix of ages eight to sixteen, mostly neighborhood kids whose parents worked two jobs and needed somewhere safe to dump them for a couple hours. Some paid full freight, some were scholarship cases Shawn covered out of his own pocket because their families were struggling and he remembered what that felt like. 

"Greetings, students!" His formal class voice, the one that meant business time and everybody better have their game faces on.

"Greeting, Sensei!" They all shouted back in a chorus, genuine enthusiasm that always hit him right in the chest. Good kids, most of them, just needed someone to teach them how to keep their teeth.

He ran them through the basics, same routine that had been working for months now;  how to throw a punch without breaking your own hand, how to get out of a wrist grab, a bear hug, a chokehold. "Best fight is the one you don't have to finish," he told them, same as always, voice carrying over the sound of sneakers squeaking on hardwood. "Size don't matter if you know where to hit."

His style wasn't traditional anything, not the style pretty enough for tournaments or fancy enough for movies. Depending on the movies you watched anyway. It was off instinct but the closest thing he could describe it as was pretty much real aggressive boxing-heavy MMA, practical and street-applicable, the kind of fighting that kept you alive in a dark alley. He'd figured out enough of the principles to teach these kids how to not get their asses kicked, and that was more martial arts education than most of them were gonna get anywhere else.

Malik helped with the younger students, patient as always, but Shawn caught him favoring his left side during partner drills. Huh. He get hurt? That or just another thing the kid was keeping to himself. 

Either way, it was adding up to a picture Shawn didn't like.

Evening class started at six, full of older students who could handle actually getting tossed around and weren’t paying just ten bucks a session. Malik was still off his game, missing cues, responding late to instructions and cues like his head was stuck somewhere else. During water break, Shawn pulled him aside, away from the other students and close enough to the mirrors that he could see the kid's reflection alongside his own. “Seriously, talk to me, Malik. What’s wrong?”

"Sensei, can I..." Malik's voice cracked like he was thirteen again, all the confidence he'd built up over the years suddenly gone. "Can I ask you something?"“...I just told you to.”

"M-my grandma, boss, Idunno what else to say, y’know," The words came out in a rush from Malik's mouth, like he'd been holding them back for weeks. His shoulders were bunched up tight around his ears, hands fidgeting with the edge of his wife beater. "She been in the hospital a lot and… y’know insurance ain't coverin' shit, and my family's… my fam ain’t shit, man…” He scoffed a little, the next words half-muttered. “...justdontcareboutnothin...”Shawn crossed his arms, face calm. "How much you need, man?"

"Nah, Sensei, I got it handled." Malik waved him off, hands jerky as his voice cracked on the words. "Just... explorin' options, you know?"

Options. Nothing about that sounded good. Wrong kind of options  The kind that got people hurt, got people dead, got people disappeared into systems that chewed up eighteen-year-olds and spat out statistics.

"Malik." Shawn kept his voice level, controlled, the way he'd learned to talk when his tail was twitching and his hands wanted to reach for something breakable. "Whatever you're thinkin', talk to me first."

"I will, Sensei. Promise."

Another lie, and they both knew it. Kid's jaw was doing that thing where it clenched up, muscle jumping under the skin, and his eyes weren't meeting Shawn's in the mirror anymore.

Post-class cleanup went quiet, students trickling out into the evening heat while Malik stayed behind, nervous energy radiating off him in waves Shawn could practically taste. Kid kept finding busy work, reorganizing equipment that didn't need reorganizing, wiping down mats that were already clean. Shawn locked up at 8:30, threw Malik one more look that carried all the weight he could put behind it. "See you tomorrow. And remember what I said."

"Yeah, Sensei. See you."

Shawn was halfway to the street, bare feet hitting warm concrete, when he heard the car doors slamming. Multiple vehicles, coordinated arrival that made his spine straighten and his tail unwrap from his waist without conscious thought. His head snapped around, taking in three black SUVs arranged in formation, professional spacing that spoke of military training or at least someone who'd watched enough tactical videos to know how to set up a kill box.

These weren't the same idiots from this afternoon. Body armor visible under their jackets, weapons already drawn, moving with the kind of coordination that said they'd done this before. Said they knew what they were dealing with.

"Shit." The word came out flat, compressed, the way his voice got when violence was about to happen and there wasn't any point pretending otherwise.

"MALIK, RUN!"

"But Sensei—"

"I said, fuckin' RUN!"

The kid hesitated for maybe half a second, eighteen-year-old loyalty warring with eighteen-year-old survival instincts, then bolted toward the back exit. Smart kid. Always had been. Shawn positioned himself between the attackers and Malik's escape route, felt his body shifting into combat mode, muscles loosening, breathing deepening.

First thing through the air wasn't bullets; it was glass bottles with rags stuffed in the necks, fire trailing behind them as they arced toward his dojo windows. Toward his mirrors, his mats, his space.

"OH HELL NO!"

He launched himself up, muscles uncoiling with power that felt good, felt right, felt like letting something off the leash that had been straining too long. Snatched two bottles out of the air, spun, and hurled them back at the SUVs hard enough to hear his shoulders pop. Glass exploded against armor plating, flames spreading across asphalt in bright orange pools that lit up the street. The third bottle he caught with his foot, redirected it into the storm drain where it hit water and died with a hiss that sounded like frustration.

But they were ready for him this time. Something cracked through the air, and electricity bit into his nervous system with teeth made of lightning. His muscles locked up, spasmed, and he hit the ground hard enough to crack pavement, hard enough to feel the impact rattle his teeth.

"AHHHHH FUCK!"

Pain rolled through him in waves, every nerve firing at once, his vision going white around the edges. Couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but scream and wait for it to stop. Taser, had to be, industrial strength, the kind they used on people who could flip cars.

When it stopped, the bullets were already flying. Three, four, five impacts across his back and shoulders, deeper penetration than usual. Real damage this time. Blood running down his ribs, hot and sticky under his gi, soaking through the fabric.

But he was still standing. Still moving. Still pissed off enough to tear this whole block apart brick by brick.

"Y'all just fucked with my shit."

He followed the taser wires back to their source, hands moving before his brain caught up, grabbed the device still sparking in some asshole's grip, and crushed it in his fist. Plastic and circuits collapsed into scrap, little fragments cutting his palm. The man holding it tried to pull away, but Shawn was already there, one hand wrapped around the guy's wrist, squeezing until he felt bones grinding together underneath skin and kevlar.

"Nah, you gonna stay right here."

The SUV door came off its hinges when he yanked it, seventy-five pounds of steel and glass turned into a shiled that felt good in his hands. Good enough to tank bullets at least. With a roar, he charged forward, screaming at the top of his lungs as gunfire flared his way, a a couple dozen shots blasting his way. “Fuck!” The first swing took out a man trying to flank him, sending him flying across the street. “Off!” The second bodies ragdolling through the air before they hit the brick wall of another shop hard enough to crack mortar.

The second swing caved in the side of another SUV, crumpled the reinforced panels inward with a sound that made his teeth itch. Metal screamed, glass exploded outward in a shower that caught streetlight and scattered it across wet asphalt. The guy behind the vehicle went down when shrapnel tore through his leg, started screaming in a pitch that said he wasn't getting back up anytime soon.

Before he even raised his head, engines roared back to life, tires screamed against asphalt, and suddenly Shawn was alone with unconscious bodies and abandoned equipment scattered across the street. Fuckin’ cowards.

Shaking his head, he knelt down next to the closest body, and started going through their gear… only to fnd stamped into every piece of equipment, small but unmistakable, was a logo he recognized from another life.

Vought.

"What the fuck..."

He knew what the company made. 

Hell, part of him remembered working there, remembered the inside of their server systems. 

It was all consumer shit; branded toys, rigged game engines, scripted reality shows designed to make regular people feel better about not having powers. But this? 

This was straight up gear. Anti-supe hardware. The kind of voltage that would cook a civilian alive, restraints built to hold someone who could benchpress a pickup truck.

"The fuck," he repeated, head tilting to the side as pieces started clicking together in ways he didn't like.

He clicked his tongue, the sound of the sirens getting closer, standard police response time to anything involving supes always too fast. He bagged the evidence and tried to ignore where he ttasted blood where he'd bitten his tongue during the taser hit. F-fuck… His head was spinning some, vision still a little fuzzy around the edges, but he'd live. 

"I bet you're wondering what Vought's got to do with this, don't you?"

Shawn spun around, every muscle in his body coiled tight, tail lashing once before wrapping back around his waist.

"Who the h—"