Thug

I wish it hadn't been raining. My most frequent tangle with the Defender, self-proclaimed savior of Edison City, has me sitting in a puddle. I hear the roll of thunder. It's going to rain again. Of course it will. I look up at my hands stretched over my head, tied to the handle on the dumpster behind the Old Stone Bar. He used a zip tie again. He's been favoring those lately.

I look at Link, still unconscious and hog-tied on his side. It's probably for the best. He'd just make some crass BDSM comment if he saw me tied like this. I take a deep breath, and pull myself up, though it's almost impossible to turn around with the zip tie. I may be able to cut it against the dumpster handle, it's pretty rough. I start the sawing motion, which hurts my wrists, but at least it takes my focus off the my other injuries. My face hurts, my ribs hurt, and I think I have a sprained ankle. Serves me right. I’m the thug girl. That’s what Defender would say. What the news says. What my neighbors say. Don't judge me. You don't know me. You don't get it.

No, I'm not going to go into some sob story to make you feel pity for me, I don’t need it. Yeah, stuff sucked growing up, but I made my choice. It was this or become a prostitute, and I wasn't going to be anybody's toy. Really, only had the two options. Hook or crook. So I went crook. At least this way I get to vent some rage ever so often.

Most people think that criminals are afraid of the heroes. Those excellent fighting maneuvers, advanced detective skills. The bank rolls. They think all that training and tech and prowess must be intimidating to those bastards who sit around a garage and decide to knock over a gas station. They wonder why anyone would go to work for a mastermind criminal like King Killer. Why they'd allow themselves to become fodder for the war in their city. They must know they won’t win. Surely, they know how this ends.

We do know how it is going to end. But no, I'm not afraid of Defender. See, he has this desire to follow a misguided sense of justice. They think if they bring us to the system, the system will process us. That justice will stand, and we'll end up in prison for our many crimes. Plus, bein' a woman? All I gotta do is act afraid and half the time he'll just tell me to get out of this business before I get hurt. I just gotta remember to color my hair and he never remembers me the next time we cross paths.

If he wants to play hero and be all self-righteous, who am I to dissuade him? It's good, really. At least for me. It's good for the privateer of justice to have limits. After all, he is pretty damn strong. If he wanted to kill me, he could. I got no delusions of grandeur. I bleed, and I break. But Defender is kinda dense. He may get the praises of the masses, but anyone so short sighted to think that their self-gratifying crusade in a ridiculous costume either intimidates me or actually makes a difference in the long haul should really be committed. Let's be honest. That's not how the world really works.

You know who scares me? I'm scared of the criminal mastermind. Why do I work for them? Because they will kill me if I don't fall in line. I wouldn't be the first, nor the last. Nobody would even know I died. I'd just be gone from history, another loser no one would mourn. That scares me.

It's not that I have any grand master plan to get out of this life. Really? I'm not all that bright. And I'm not that strong. I only got one superpower, and that's the ability to get my ass out of the way before someone sends two to my chest and a third to my head.

Justice is dead. It's been dead since before I was born. If you'd seen what I have growing up, you'd get it. Defender is fighting for a limp dick dog with two legs. You know how many times I've had my ass kicked? How many times I've ended up in jail? Too many. Sometimes I break out. Sometimes they just let me out because they got no more room for scrubs like me.

Meanwhile Defender is helpin' the real crooks. The ones who sap the life out of all of us. They say justice is blind. I couldn't agree more. You got a mom mindscrewing their kid, and her dad trying to rescue her, and the judge gives you to the one hurting you. That's crooked. Then your dad gets sunk in debt by the court, you finally get old enough to choose where you go, but then he dies before you get to move. That's crooked. Because he was livin' in the slums since that bastard judge--

Okay, so I talked, but seriously? That's the other reason to work for King Killer. No, he's batshit crazy, and he can fix what's wrong. But he may be able to break the system enough that somebody will have to come up with something better. I'll probably die before that happens, but whatever.

The zip tie finally breaks. My wrists are bleeding a little, and it's starting to rain. I rub them, and look back at Link. I should probably help him get free, but I really have no idea where my knife landed after the fight. The sirens are on their way. Sorry Link, you're probably better off tonight just going with them, anyway. 

I make my way around the corner, keeping the cop cars on the opposite side of the laundry mat next door as I shove my hands into the skinny pockets of my jeans. They don't notice me, and so I turn down toward 5th street. It's a longer walk, but it means I avoid any more likely cops. They don't ever patrol this part of town. Ahead in the dark, I hear the wall of rain approaching. Fantastic. I keep walking with resignation to the fact that I'm going to get soaked to the bone. My ribs hurt, my face hurts, and I think I turned my ankle. Nobody is going to give me anything for any of that, though, so I just keep walking.

The water hits me, and my short red hair loses it style nearly immediately, pasting itself down to my head. Damn, that is cold rain. I hug my arms, sneakers tromping through the forming puddles. I can't see it, but I'm sure my make up is streaming down my face. I have only gone a few blocks when I hear someone call from the entrance to a nearby apartment building. The light inside illuminates two men's silhouettes.

"June Connor!" The man yells. I know that voice. It's Darrin Clyde.

"Shit." I curse, and start running. I may or may not have stolen and crashed Darrin's vintage Corvette a few weeks ago. No, it wasn't because I was a bad driver. It's because he deserved it. Beside the point right now.

When you aren't a master martial artist, it's important to keep a realistic understanding of your capability in a fight. For instance, against Darrin, I'm not armed, and he is double my weight. I lose that fight. I normally can outrun him, since he really likes beer and sugar.

I can feel my injuries slowing me, though. And Darrin, along with someone else, is gaining on me. I am going to lose this race, too. I trip through the flowers someone planted in a vain effort to make the neighborhood look nicer.

I land in the muddy grass that passes for a lawn, and start to scramble to my feet, my ribs screaming in objection. I feel a strong hand grab me by the back of my belt, and a much stronger arm is around my neck.

I curse at him to let me go, delivering elbows behind me that seem to be more painful to me than they are effective. I’m slammed against the siding of the apartment building in the space between buildings. A knee strikes my already bruised ribs, and it hurts enough that it immediately drops me to the ground with a yelp. I try to roll over, and find Darrin's muddy boot coming down to pin me by the collarbone. I can't even see him very well because of the pouring rain.

"Hi Darrin," I grunt, trying to feign that I'm in less pain than I really am.

"June," Darrin says, his buddy --oh that's Alec. I hate that guy-- standing behind him. "Think you owe me somethin'."

"Kinda rapey sounding, you know that?" I ask. I need to keep my smart mouth shut, that's the message the sudden jab of pressure from the boot tells me. "Ow."

"Not playin' with you, June," Darrin re-iterates. "That car was worth over a hundred grand. And we both know you don't got anything to cover that."

That tells me all I need to know. I don't have strength to fight him. I am not smart enough to outwit him, and I am clearly not in a position to run from him. I just lose. But then again, that's what I'm best at.

The rain suddenly stops hitting my face. Odd that I notice such a thing at a time like this, but the reason becomes clear before I can really make a guess as to why. A dark figure lands on Darrin, causing his boot to slam hard against my collarbone. Did it break? No, just another massive bruise.

The pressure against me is released suddenly as Darrin's form careens back into Alec. I hate that guy. The two of them stumble with arms and legs as they hit the siding of the other apartment building, slipping in the grassy mud.

 Aw, hell no. I can't really see Defender, wearing all black in a dark space, but the movement is familiar enough. I know the way he moves. His knight stick reflects the light momentarily as it comes across Darrin's jaw, then the backswing returns to give a throat jab to Alec. I gotta confess, I liked that.

A few more blows for good measure, and both are groaning on the ground, just like me. I grin stupidly. I try to move, but after that last hit to the ribs, I can't do much more than pathetically slide around in the mud, failing to get up.

"I warned you that you'd end up like this," Defender says in his characteristically cliché voice. Guess he did remember me after all.

"Yeah, yeah," I answer dismissively. "Go ahead and rub it in. Wanna just go drop me off at the station? Cops hate getting mud in their cars."

"You've had enough for one evening.," he replies, maintaining the dark and brooding demeanor. He stands there for a moment, looking down at me as I try to get to my feet. I hate looking pitiful. I definitely don't need Defender's pity, of all people.

 "Oh," I laugh. I shouldn't have laughed, that hurts. "So now I have had enough, getting the shit kicked out of me twice in one night, once by you, which led to the second. Thanks for your condolences."

This is the part where I should be turning and walking away, feeling some mediocre sense of superiority. Unfortunately, I'm still on the ground. I can't tell if my snarky remark embarrassed him, since he's still little more than a shadow in the downpour. He doesn't leave, though, he just stands over me for a few uncomfortable seconds.

He suddenly bends over, picking me up in a fireman's carry. "I'm not a princess to be rescued," I object, though I don't have much strength to back up the statement. He ignores me, carrying me across the grass silently through the storm.

The Tank. We always call it the tank, since it seems to be able to survive any kind of small arms fire. I’ve never seen the inside of it before. He opens the passenger door, and puts me inside. I would burst back out, but honestly, to get out of the rain is rather welcome at the moment. He shuts the door, and I look around the front seat. I thought it’d smell better, but then again, he’s fighting crooks, in the mud, and sweating in this thing all the time. It smells like a gunfight that happened in a locker room. It’s dirty, scuffed, and there are not nearly as many gadgets as I expected. A radio, an onboard laptop. That’s it.

“Huh,” I grunt as he gets in the driver's seat.

“What?” he asks, looking at me as he turns on the car.

“I thought it’d be nicer.” He looks at me from behind his mask. He just stares. Shut up, June. For once, could you just shut up? He puts the vehicle in gear, and quickly pulls away, zipping down the street.

He’s a pretty reckless driver, really. Anyone else would get a ticket for this. Not Defender, the hero of the city. I see the police station up ahead. “Well, thanks for the lift,” I comment, trying to sit up more properly in the seat. He doesn’t stop. We blur past the station, and I knit my brow. The hospital. Likely the same result, but at least I get cleaned up and spend the night cuffed to a bed instead of sitting in a cell covered in mud.

The hospital blurs past, and now I’m genuinely confused. “Where the hell are we going?” I ask. I probably could have asked more nicely. Not that I think he would have answered. He has to keep the hard ass image up. After about a minute of silence, I let out a sigh, watching the lights behind the rain. Over time, the lights of the city become more sparse, and soon we are on a highway out of town.

I get it now. He treats me nicely, and he’s going to expect something in return. I could’ve seen this coming. I can’t fight him, so I won’t be able to stop him. Even if I wasn’t hurt, I wouldn’t have much of a chance. I try the door, but it’s locked “So it’s like that, huh?” I ask. “Looking for a little release?”

He doesn’t look at me, but keeps driving, his headlights illuminating the winding road as it moves from field to forest. Large drops of rain that have collected through the trees splat against the windshield. This is just what I’ve been telling you about, you see. No accountability for the city’s hero. I’ll never get justice for what he’s about to do. The cops and courts would cover up for him, and nobody will stop it. Unless I can find an opening right now and end him.

I try to find something that I can use as a weapon. The dashboard in front of me has a lock on it. It appears that the whole thing could come open, but I am sure it’s locked. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave it unlocked with a hostile in the vehicle next to him. I glance upward, the visor. It also has a lock. But that lock is weak. I’ve broken enough doors to know when a lock won’t hold against force. If it has a lock, it almost certainly has a weapon behind it.

I wait, and soon the car comes to a stop outside a large plantation house, with several lights on inside. Why would he leave the lights on? It’s not important. I pull hard on the visor, ripping it open. Throwing darts. They will have to do. I grab one, and desperately swing the small needle at his neck.

I’m not fast enough, and he swings up with his right arm, jamming my hand into the ceiling. His left crosses his body to give me a quick jab to the face. Ow. I snap my head back, hitting the window from the blow. He gets out of the car casually and rounds to the passenger side, pulling the door open. He catches me before I fall out to the ground, and he hoists me up. “I’m not going to attack you,” he says, walking me to the front door.

An older woman opens it for him. “Another one?” she asks him, as if this was a common occurrence.

“She’s a bit…” He looks at me, covered in blood and mud, looking for his word.

“Of an asshole,” I supply, knowing what he’s thinking.

“She needs a place to recover, maybe get her bearings.” He hands me off to the woman, who takes me without concern for the mud.

He doesn’t wait for chitchat, but turns, stalking back to the tank. I look over my shoulder at him as he gets in and drives away, and then into the house. There are several people in here, reading, eating, watching TV, as if this were their home. I’ve seen a few of them before, but never in such a peaceful setting, and not in some time.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“A place you can rest,” the woman answers. “Away from all the pain you know in Edison City. You’ll be safe here. You can figure out who you really want to be.”

I still think Defender sucks. But maybe he’s not quite as bad as I thought.