Greg Vs Raid 9-17 (Patreon)

Red boots hit the roof edge of a warehouse that had seen better decades; soles scuffing against gravel that had probably been there since boomers danced the Charleston or whatever.

Gravity took a coffee break as he pushed off; wind slapped his face; biting through the gap in his helmet where his hair stuck out like a golden flag of "Please Identify Me."

Looks cool though.

And looking cool was half the battle of being a superhero. Knowledge was the other half, and that’s on GI Joe.

He landed on the next roof with a roll that was all parkour but with all the force and speed of a car crash, Reinforcement calling out from the back of his mind. It was almost begging to be used, demanding to be flared bright and shiny for all the world to see.

But he didn’t need it.

Not right now.

And probably not any time soon either.

Greg knew he was easily as strong and as fast without it now, as he was last month with it.

And wasn’t that a mindfuck and a half? Crazy how things change.

Forward motion. Always forward.

Because stopping meant thinking about how he was currently sneaking out of his house at 2 AM when he promised he’d tell his mom about any superhero bullshit he was getting up to. 

Buuuuut waking her up for that seemed like a dick move, so he had to weigh the options on this one. Sorry Mom.

I'm doing drugs. Definitely drugs. Not fighting supervillains.

He rolled his eyes behind his mask. Drugs would be easier to explain.

Besides, he’d be in and out in minutes, no need to worry her about some gang bullshit. I’m such a great son.

"On your six, boss," Seo's voice sounded off to his left; dry; calm; the sound of a man who smoked unfiltered cigarettes for breakfast, with a cup of black coffee. Like he said, to his left; a white blur cutting through the night leapt up onto the rooftop beside him.

Tiger stripes on a white motorcycle vest and a tiger-themed visor was Seo’s idea of a costume and honestly, Greg couldn’t really judge him wearing all motorcycle leathers himself.

Note to self: Upgrade Hardkour fit. Get cape. He frowned a split second later. No, capes snag. Get... cooler scarf?

"Where's the bird?" Greg didn't look back as he slowed down a good bit to let Seo keep pace, his second-in-command nowhere close to even keeping up to him if he actually did anything above a jog.

"Ground level," Seo grunted; landing a jump that should have shattered ankles. "He says... twenty miles per hour is his limit with the hammer."

Of course it is.

Greg glanced down into the alleyways blurring beneath them to see a red tank plowing through the streets; asphalt cracking underfoot.

Yeah, there was Wesley lugging around a sledgehammer the size of a whole person, subtlely not in the man's skill tree.

"Tell him to hurry up," Greg snapped; leaping a gap between a tenement and a Chinese restaurant that smelled like old grease. "The fire's not gonna wait for him to find a parking spot."

Another explosion rumbled; vibrating through the soles of his boots.

Closer now.

Five blocks? Six? He wasn’t really counting, too focused on the move to track the measurements. Either way, he knew that the sky ahead was flickering orange; lighting up the underbellies of gray clouds that looked too heavy to be natural.

Travelers.

The name bounced around his skull; rattling against the walls of white bone. Trickster. Sundancer. Ballistic. Genesis. And of course, his least favorite…

Regent.

That was the one that made his skin crawl; a sensation like spiders under the dermis.

Body control.

That was his number one suspect for all this craziness wiping out the city. It didn’t fully add up with his powers but powers were… weird. The guy might always have been able to do something like this and didn’t figure it out till now. 

It fit. Kind of. In a terrifying; violation-of-basic-human-rights way.

If Regent was pulling strings; this wasn't a gang war.

It was a puppet show.

And Greg really; really hated puppets.

Even still, Greg kinda doubted himself on that hunch. The rage zombies? Regular mindless bodies doing violence, sure, but… how could he go from twitching an arm to making that guy try to eat my face?

The teenage cape slowed down even further, feet skidding on a tar-paper roof as he let Seo catch up.

"Talk to me," the words were an order more than anything else, Greg not really in the mood to joke out loud. "Takeshi called it in?"

He sniffed the air, everything already tasting like burning plastic and bad decisions; kind of smell that meant something expensive was turning into smoke and insurance claims.

"Takeshi called.” Seo landed beside him, chest heaving slightly; but mask steady. “Said the perimeter guards spotted movement. Then they spotted fire."

Greg raised a hidden eyebrow, only to frown a split-second later as he realized how dumb that was. "In that order?"

"Simultaneously, boss." Seo gestured with a clawed hand toward the smoke. "Travelers. That's the ID. But..."

"But?"

"Kid said he only saw one."

One? He blinked, turning all the way to face the man in tiger-stripes. "One Traveler? Which one? Because if it’s the sun girl, I'm gonna be pissed, cus she’s bullshit.”

"Didn't say," Seo’s ponytail blew in the wind as he shook his head side to side. "Line went dead. Sounded like..."

The man frowned behind his tiger-visor. "...crunching."

Crunching.

Greg didn't like that word.

It was a wet word. A bone word.

"Okay," Greg breathed out. "One bad guy. We can handle o-”

"Hey! Wait up!"

Wesley's voice bellowed from the street below; muffled by the distance but amplified by lungs that could probably inflate a hot air balloon.

The blond cape looked down.

Zhu Hawk was jogging—lumbering—up the street; the hammer resting on his shoulder like a toothpick.

He looked like a gladiator who got lost on the way to the Colosseum and ended up in a gritty reboot of The Warriors.

"We're here, Zhu!" Hardkour shouted down as he dropped.

Three stories down, and he landed in a crouch; red boots splashing in a puddle that reflected the burning skyline.

Seo landed a second later; silent and graceful.

Wesley rounded the corner; panting; sweat glistening on his tan skin.

"C-cardio…" he wheezed; leaning on the hammer handle. "Cardio... is for... cowards."

"You're twice as strong as him," Greg pointed a thumb at Seo. "Trade-offs, big guy. Min-maxing. You dumped Agility for Strength."

Wesley just grunted as Seo snorted, the musclehead flipping the other man the bird with a hand the size of a honey-glazed ham.

"The lookouts," Greg turned back to the street; staring into the smoke rolling toward them. "Seo said they saw one. Just one?"

"Yeah, boss," Wesley straightened up; the hammer lifting effortlessly. "Takeshi screamed something about a girl. Then the phone sounded like... like a garbage disposal."

A girl.

"Seo," Hardkour clicked his tongue as he raised his head the man’s way, “Tak say anything else? Anything specific?"

Seo shook his head; stepping up beside him; careful with the claws he wore on the back of his hands as he folded his arms.

"Just... th-"

BARK.

It sounded like Cujo had fucked a freight train and now the baby was angry, the noise loud enough to trigger a car alarm down the block.

"What the f-" Wesley started.

He didn't finish.

Because a mountain of muscle and bone and hate slammed into him from the side.

Gray and white and huge.

Zhu Hawk, his general who could bench press a sedan, went flying.

Launched, even.

A split second later, he hit a brick wall twenty feet away with a sound like a bomb going off; cratering the masonry; crumbling dust raining down on his slumped form.

"Hawk!" Hardkour shouted; hand snapping out.

Fire curled around his fingers; instinct taking the wheel before his brain could even scream contact.

The thing that hit Wesley skidded to a stop not too far from them, knife-sized claws gouging trenches in the asphalt.

It was a dog.

In the same way a tank is a car.

The thing was just as he remembered it when it first was munching on him right after his first fight with Lung; the thing the size of a delivery van, but denser.

Covered in plates of calcified bone and meaty layers of mashed-up muscle and, of course, the teeth; too many teeth.

Way too many teeth.

Ping.

The sound was crisp; cheerful; wildly inappropriate for the fact that his enforcement specialist was currently embedded in a wall.

Blue text scrolled across his line of sight, translucent as ever. 

[Quest Created!

One Angry Bitch

Details: Bitch of the Travelers (nee Undersiders) has decided (for some reason) that you're to blame for everything bad that's happened to her. No worries, though. After all, we all know how great you are dealing with angry women.

Objective: Stop Bitch's assault on your territory.

Failure: ???

Reward: ???

Bonus: ???]

Hardkour felt his eye twitch at the text.

Angry women.

Ms. Game, you have a warped sense of humor.

Also, rude.

He looked past the text.

Past the monster dog growling like a chainsaw idling in a bucket of gravel.

To the figure riding on its back.

A girl.

Or a woman? Hard to tell under the layers of grime and muscle.

Green jacket. Dog mask.

Hair a tangled mess of dark curls whipping in the wind.

She wasn't holding reins. She was gripping handfuls of bone-plate; knuckles white; body coiled tight.

She looked at him.

Greg felt it.

The weight of that stare.

The kind of look you give the person who killed your puppy; burned your house down; and stole your last slice of pizza.

I didn't do any of that… I think.

"Bitch," Greg said.

Not an insult. Just a name.

Though, contextually, it worked as both.

She didn't speak.

She screamed.

No words. Just a raw; animalistic shriek that matched the barking of her mount.

She pointed at him.

“KILL!”

The dog under her surged forward, but the thing wasn’t alone. Because that would be too easy, right?

From the shadows of the alley, from the smoke, and from the rooftops, three more super-schnauzers came barking out; one looked like a Rottweiler on steroids and bone-growth hormones, another was sleek; leaner and built for speed, the mega-mutt skipping off the side of a building like gravity was optional and the last one…

The last one was a bulldozer of flesh; scarred and ugly; drool swinging from jowls the size of hammocks.

"Scatter!" Greg roared, shoving Seo sideways with a burst of wind.

Kiritora flew, the man landing in a roll as the speed-dog crashed through the space he'd just occupied; snapping jaws clamping on empty air with a sound like a bear trap.

Greg didn't have time to check on him.

Because the main event—Bitch and her van-dog—was on him.

Seventy miles per hour, highway speed.

In a narrow street.

With teeth.

Think fast, idiot.

Greg dropped low as fire blasted from his palms, both hands aimed down. For a split second, he was a human rocket, riding twin column as flames thicker than he was wide, the force launching him skyward.

He cleared the charging beast by inches; feeling the heat of its body; smelling the musk of wet fur and old blood.

The dog crashed through the storefront behind him; glass shattering; brick crumbling; the entire facade of the building groaning and giving way as the monster plowed through support beams like they were matchsticks.

He landed on a lamppost; perched like a gargoyle in red leather.

"Hey! That's private property! I bought that!"

Technically Joon bought it. But it's my money.

Bitch turned the dog around inside the ruins of the store; debris cascading off the creature's bone-armor.

She was screaming something now. "YOU! YOUR FAULT!”  Words. 

Broken, jagged, confusing words, but still words. “DEAD! ALL DEAD!"

"I didn't kill anyone!" Greg shouted back; both hands raised and gloved palms glowing with readied heat. "I'm the good guy! Read the wiki!"

He did, in fact, have a wiki.

Three wikis actually.

Unfortunately, Bitch wasn’t much of a reader apparently. "GET HIM!"

The other dogs reared forward as the bulldozer slammed into the lamppost base, metal shrieking and snapping almost immediately.

“Motherf-!” Greg jumped before he lost his footing, a perfect backflip taking him through the air in a graceful arc. A half-second later, he landed in the street still moving as his boots skid on wet asphalt.

“-fuck off me!” His eyes snapped to his left, Seo fighting the smallest dog.

Fighting was a word, but not the best word. Honestly, he was more dancing around it, almost half as ninja-like as Greg was; claws flashing as his guy in white tried to find a soft spot in the bone plating.

Still, while he was agile and ninja-like, Seo wasn’t all that fast. At least, not as fast as the dog. 

And definitely nowhere near as tough.

It only took one paw swipe to send the man stumbling.

“Boss!” Before Greg could jump in, Wesley was back up and screaming. Thank god for Brute ratings.

The hammer swung wide, meeting bone-plate with a heavy clang and sending the smallest dog-monster flying back with a whimper. Unfortunately, that was only one dog.

CLANG.

Hammer met bone-plate.

The dog shook its head; sneezed blood; and bit the hammer head.

CRUNCH.

Metal deformed.

"You f-fucker!” Hawk gasped the curse more than anything. “Shit’s expensive!" 

Greg shook his head and focused back on Bitch.

She was the linchpin.

Take out the rider; the dogs get confused. Maybe.

Or they go feral and eat everyone.

…or I could try and talk her down.

"Listen to me! I don’t want to hurt you! You’ve gotta calm down."

Her eyes widened.

For a second; he thought he got through.

Then her face twisted; veins bulging in her neck.

"SHUT UP! LIAR! LIARLIARLIAR!!!"

Okay… logic has left the chat.

She charged again.

This time; she didn't just run.

The dog leaped.

Airborne van.

Blocking out the moon.

Greg braced himself.

He didn't want to hurt her.

But he didn't want to be pavement paste either.

He threw a wall of fire.

Just something to blind her; to scare; to force the beast back.

The dog didn't care.

It crashed through the fire; fur singing; bone blackening but holding.

The world went white.

Then red.

Air left his lungs in a rush.

He was flying backward; hitting the ground; bouncing; rolling.

- 125 HP.

Ow.

That felt like a truck.

Because it basically was.

He scrambled up; blood dripping down to one eye. I’m fine, I’m fine. 

True, that was barely anything, but he still had a problem. How do I stop her without…

It was the easiest thing in the world to kill someone. Especially when they weren’t a Brute, or anything. But easy doesn’t mean good.

Whatever plans he had in mind were already pushed to the back burner with Bitch already turning for another pass, charging forward on her massive monster mauler of a mutt.

But good is not evil. Greg spat blood; teeth gritted. "No more Mr. Nice Knight."

Wait, wrong me. Hardkour. Edgy.

"Don’t make me put you down, Fido."

He blurred.

Intercepting the charge.

Not head on.

Under.

He slid beneath the leaping dog; asphalt tearing at his leathers.

Upward strike.

Mana Thrust.

Blue energy exploded from his palm into the soft underbelly of the beast.

The dog yelped; bucking mid-air; crashing down awkwardly on its side.

Bitch went flying; tumbling across the road.

Greg was on her in a second.

Pin her. End it.

He reached for her.

Danger Sense: SCREAMING.

He spun.

Too late.

The bulldozer dog. The one Wesley was fighting.

It had ignored Wesley.

It had flanked.

Jaws the size of a bathtub clamped down.

CRUNCH.

His left arm.

Greg screamed; the sound tearing out of his throat raw and unbidden.

Teeth punched through leather; through reinforced skin; grinding against bone.

"Get off!"

He raised his right hand; summoning a blade of wind.

Aerokinesis: Cutter.

Before he could swing; a shadow fell over him.

The speed-dog.

It lunged.

Caught his right arm mid-swing.

SNAP.

His vision whited out.

Both arms.

Pinned.

Held wide.

Crucified by monsters.

He was lifted off the ground; feet kicking at the air, and suspended between two mountains of muscle and bone.

Blood ran down his arms; soaking his chest; hot and sticky as he looked up.

Bitch’s mask was cracked.

Her eyes were wild; wet; manic, as she looked at him like he was a disease she had to cure.

Like he was the reason the sun went down and never came up.

"PULL!" 

The dogs growled.

Low; vibrating through Greg's bones.

They stepped back.

Away from each other.

Tension on his shoulders spiked.

Joints popped.

Ligaments screamed.

Oh.