Greg Vs Raid 9-19 (Patreon)

White lenses hid his eyes behind his mask, the polycarbonate a brighter red than the blood beneath his feet. Thin streams of it flowing down around the shattered street, pooling around bits of white bone and gray brain.

What he could see was nothing compared to what he could smell; his senses better than they had ever been and only getting stronger along with him.

The scent of iron didn’t even need a mention, too obvious and too thick, as his nose followed his eyes. Smoke, from the buildings still burning out down the street, was a close second; ash and soot caking the air as much as it could even as the flames died out.

Wet dog… well, that was… that was obvious.

And, of course… shit.

People always forgot about that, you know?

Bowels released when a person died a bunch of the time. Not a lot or nothing, but unless you died on an empty stomach or were as lucky as a dead person could be and didn’t need to use the bathroom at all, they tended to just kinda let go. 

Which really sucked if you had to be around it.

It wasn’t that much but almost twenty percent of anything is still a hell of a lot. Movies never put that in the sound mix, by the way. Directors probably figured there was no need for any of that, considering death was already bad enough.

"Step! Away! From! The body!"

The voice was a wall of sound; amplified, digitized, stripping away any humanity until only the Command remained.

Greg blinked at the sound of it, eyes pulled away from the bloody and unmoving form of Rachel Lindt; no words on his lips and nothing in his thoughts, the teenager could only stare back at the two capes standing in front of him.

"Hardkour. Now."

Armsmaster’s voice maintained all the edge and force of the high-tech halberd he held up, the thing itself leveled directly at Greg’s chest. The blue power-armored hero stood as a monolith of high-tech judgment barely ten feet away as his weapon hummed; a low, menacing thrum that vibrated enough to make Greg’s ears hum.

More than his ears, it was deep in his teeth.

A dentist’s drill right in the molars, almost.

Beside him, Assault wasn’t moving, for once. No, the red speedster stood tense and coiled tight, clearly ready to spring at the slightest motion. Beneath his red visor goggles, there was no smile, no wide-spread grin — nothing that looked like it could lead into a joke, a quip, or finger guns.

The cartoon character of the Protectorate, the self-appointed comedic relief, was nowhere to be seen. And right now? The guy looked like a charged-up Sidewinder missile aimed and locked on to a target wearing almost as much red as he was.

"I didn't..." His voice, for some reason, sounded weird to his own ears; inside his own helmet, it came off tinny and small as it bounced back around. Like he was seven again and trying to explain why the fancy vase was in pieces all over the floor, except the vase was a teenage girl and the pieces were currently staining his leather jacket.

"Nobody needs to fight, okay, nobody’s even here to fight, y’get me?" Assault's voice was a lot lighter than Armsmaster's—which really wasn't hard—but there was still an edge to it all the same. "We just got some questions, kid. Like, what are you doin’ in the splash zone?"

"I..." That one syllable felt heavy on his tongue, almost too big and too hard to get past his lips at all. "I…I didn't shoot her."

I’ve done… As much as he tried to ignore most of what he’d done, brushing right past it like it didn’t even matter, Greg knew exactly what he was wanted for as Hardkour. More than a couple dozen were in the morgue ‘cause of his hands, but…

"I don't even use guns."

He looked down at his hands, those red gloves even redder now. M-my name is Angie.

"I need your hands behind your head," Armsmaster ordered, halberd not wavering even a single inch. "Interlock your fingers and drop your knees to the ground. All questions will be asked at the PRT HQ."

The PRT HQ. Greg blinked; the place with the cells and the containment foam and everything else the Parahuman Response Team had to lock down capes flashing in front of his eyes. Right.

He took a half-step back; not meaning to, but still doing it even as his boots squelched against the puddle expanding from Bitch's ruined head. "I'm not…. You’re not taking me anywhere, okay? I… I’m good where… where I am, alright?” 

Even through the thick beard on Armsmaster’s face, he could see the frown deepen on the man’s face. “You misunderstand. This is not a request.” The external speakers on his suit ratcheted up the volume with the last three syllables, enough to drown out the hum from the halberd. "You are a potential and only suspect in a homicide involving the death of a Parahuman. The details of your innocence can be resolved after questioning. For now, you need to come with us."

"I didn't do it!" The shout ripped out of him, fists tightening at his side as he took a single step forward. "You think I use guns, man? Like, look! The shot came from up th-”

"We know."

Whatever else Greg had to say slipped sideways until his jaw hung open, mouth empty as his head as two syllables left him nothing else. "...what?"

"A trajectory analysis has already been run. A high-angle shot from that rooftop was likely used for the kill. Backup has already been redirected to secure the scene.” Even with a weapon in his hands, Armsmaster managed to sound like he was reading a weather report; voice booming and amplified but still as flat as ever. “Then wh-”"However.” For a second time, the words were stolen from Greg’s mouth as Armsmaster barreled past him. “Procedure dictates immediate custody. Do not escalate this situation further."

Procedure. It would never be Armsmaster if everything wasn’t by the book and the forms weren’t filled out in triplicate. As great a hero as he was, PHO had stories about the man miles-long, and none of them strayed that far from each other. "You… you know I didn't do this, Armsmaster. You just said it."

The wince was clear, even behind Assault’s red visor. "Easy there, kid. I don’t think you get the whole… uh, scope of your situation right now.”“What situation?” Greg took another step forward, Armsmaster not moving as he left another bloody bootprint on the pavement, but Assault definitely tensed up tighter.Eyes narrowed behind the other cape’s eyewear. “Don't make this any harder on yourself."

"Harder?" Greg let out a laugh that sounded more like a bark. "There's a dead girl on the ground! Someone just sniped her! And you want to arrest me?"

"Protective custody," Armsmaster’s correction didn’t help a damn thing. "For your own safety. And the public's."

"Bullshit."

His nerves must have been made of the same steel as his suit because Armsmaster didn’t flinch at the venom Greg hissed his way. “You are aware that you are still an unregistered parahuman wanted for over three dozen homicides to date, and now you are found at the scene of yet another fatality.” The armored Tinker shook his head. “Pretending that you are simply an innocent victim does you no favors.”

“Those were… those were fuckin’ terrorists. We’ve been over this!” Red gloves squeezed into fists tight enough the leather nearly screamed. “You really want to fight over some psycho bombers?”“Is that a threat?”Greg stared back. “Do you want it to be?”

Finally… slowly… the halberd lowered, even as Armsmaster’s gaze refused to move even a milimeter. "...do you have any guns?"

Greg blinked at the question, unsure why, but he couldn’t stop his thoughts from flickering to the distinct connection he could feel to his inventory.

M1911 (Standard) x 6.

Desert Eagle (Gold Plated - Drop from stash) x 2.

Generic 9mm x 23.

Assault Rifle (Broken).

Rocket Launcher… rocket launcher?

Did he have any guns? "Do I look like I use guns?" He spread his arms wide, the red gloves glistening in the streetlights as smoke continued to choke the air above them. "I punch things! I throw fire! Guns are for people who don’t use ninja swords!"

"You have a dimensional storage ability," Armsmaster didn’t back down, the cape probably in possession of a file on Greg thicker than anything Tolkien ever put on paper. "We have footage of you retrieving items from empty space."

...Fuck.

"Fuck this." Coal burned hot in his gut, his face twisted up behind his mask as his eyes flicked from Armsmaster to Assault and back. "I know how this works. You unmask me and put me in the Wards and make me sell plushies while the guy who actually killed her gets away."

"We will find the shooter." It was almost amazing how the Tinker actually sounded like he believed that.

"Yeah? Like you found out how your vice-director was a fucking supervillain." The last few syllables came out throught tightly gritted teeth, the memory of the bullet passing through his skull still… still…

He bit down a shudder. "Or did I have to handle that too?"

The halberd hummed louder, Armsmaster stiffening as the robotic Tinker somehow managed to stand straighter. “You are resisting a lawful order from a Protectorate officer."

"I'm resisting stupidity!"

"Hardkour," Assault finally made a move and it wasn’t the violence Greg had been waiting for the whole time. "Kid. I need you to listen... Actually, listen.” The red-suited cape held a hand out, his other palm facing Armsmaster. “Run now and you look guilty, nothing else about it. Only so many ways this can go and you’re making the worst play of the game."

Greg stared, New England wind howling almost loud enough to drown out the sirens headed their way. “...I’mma play it anyway.”

Wind exploded under his boots, launching him backwards and skyward in a blur of red and black leather.

"HARDKOUR!" Armsmaster's voice boomed, as Assault tore across the ground.

The kinetic blurred forward in a streak of red, but Greg had left that kind of speed behind months ago.

On top of that, he had the high ground.

Literally.

One bound took him thirty feet up and across the street as he hit a fire escape; metal groaning under the impact as he scrambled up.

"Later, tin man!" Greg didn’t look back as he vaulted high into the sky, boots hitting the gravel of an entirely different rooftop, and kept running.

Not parkour.

Just running.

Away from the smell of blood and shit.