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You'd think that a week of rain would drag the temperature down, but Philadelphia has a knack for doing the exact opposite of what you'd expect. Usually, spitefully so. The night is humid as fuck. The kind of nasty-ass weather that makes your thighs sticky with sweat -- even in shorts, nay, especially in shorts -- and makes your undershirt damp and uncomfortable as it clings to your chest in all the worst ways.
Fuck, it's awful... and it's after midnight, too. Imagine how bad it's gonna be tomorrow when the fuckin' sun's up.
It sure is a gross-ass night - well after midnight, and Calamity's curls are drooping, sticking to their sweaty forehead as they trot down the side streets and alleys between Nicetown-Tioga and Fairhill. Generally following the Trenton Line north, but they've walked this route so many times that they barely look at the street signs, much less pay any attention to the tracks.
Probably would'a been a good night to catch the bus back home, but after a few hours spent at Finley's, Calamity's more than happy to take their time, shaking off the mild dizziness that comes with blood loss. Not to mention the buzz of pleasure that whispers for them to sink down and relax, boneless, against the nearest horizontal surface. But of course, fuckin' duty called (or, more precisely, texted) and Calamity shook off Finley's repeated attempts to get them to stay.
And so here they are, an hour and forty-five minutes into their two and a quarter hour journey. They've tied their heathery blue sweatshirt around their waist, covering the dark green bandanna they have shoved in their back pocket, and they flick their lighter open to light up a cigarette.
The walk home passes mostly without incident, but... Calamity's internal monologue is correct. It probably would've been a good night to catch the bus.
A block ago -- just before they passed into B + F territory -- Calamity passed a trio of guys chilling on the stoop of an old rowhouse. It's not super uncommon to see folks hanging out on their porches this late -- especially during summer -- and they're mostly minding their business. Even after Calmity passes. They can't quite figure out where they recognize the group from, but they're sure they've seen 'em around somewhere.
They probably also noticed one of the guys follow them with his eyes. He even set down his bottle of Yuengling, and there's a little clink as it touches pavement. It's possible that guy recognized them, too, but... if he did, the group stays seated. Just. Enjoying the night air. For now.
Calamity ducks their head as soon as they catch the guy's eyes. No thanks, don't want any trouble this evening thank you very much. Cigarette smoke trails behind them as they keep walking, taking a few lazy drags.
Once they're half a block down they scrape the cigarette against a concrete stoop, and shove it back into the pack half smoked. Their sweatshirt goes back on too, despite the heat. It's darker than their skinny tan arms are. It also keeps their zippo close at hand. They slip down an alley to make damn sure they're not gonna be seen by whoever that uncomfortably familiar group happens to be.
They pull their bandanna from their back pocket, too, and tie it in its usual spot around their neck. Easy to pull over their nose and mouth if they have to.
As they continue to walk, it becomes pretty apparent that they're being followed. Even while shuffling into their clothing -- and even as they move into familiar territory -- it's easy to hear the scuff of soles on pavement, the hushed murmur of voices, the excitement as they whisper among themselves.
Unfortunately, I think you've found trouble this evening, Calamity. Whether you want it or not isn't quite up to you...
Fuck. Fuck. Calamity glances behind them, the tapetum lucidum in their magically enhanced eyes shimmering as they move. Then they pull out their flip phone, and send a quick text off to the rest of the guys. Calamity's supposed to be running an errand for them, anyway. Maybe one of them is still awake, and will come help deal with these fuckers.
Maybe.
Their steps speed up, and they look for a place to duck into, where they can at least get the element of surprise.
Calamity knows this part of town like the back of their hand, and there're a couple places that might come to mind as great out-of-the-way places to fight, or perhaps shake these goons.
There's an alley up here between a pair of rowhouses, and the gate is always unlocked. It leads off to a sandy backlot. Not a ton of cover out that way if a firefight breaks out, but it's out of the way and spacious enough that they won't get the drop on you, and you're unlikely to be seen.
There's also an old boarded up bodega a little further down. Calamity might be able to break in the back door and hide amongst the shelves, but it's going to be dark inside. Probably eerie as fuck, too. If all else fails, the alley behind it isn't a bad place to fight. Some minimal cover by way of an old dumpster, and a waist-height concrete wall that's covered in grafitti tags...
See the great thing about night vision. Calamity can see in the dark. Shelves mean more cover, and an easier time avoiding punches than in an open lot. And it's not as if it's gonna be difficult to get into the place, it's what Calamity does. Sometimes they even get paid for it.
They head for the bodega - honestly, they've probably been in this place before, and were the one to tell everyone around how fucking creepy it is. They pull their small altoids tin of lockpicking tools as they hug the wall of the building, trying to get around back before anyone behind them figures out where the fuck they've gone. They can always try to lure the fuckers in, once they've got a hiding place.
Calamity could've picked this lock in their sleep. They don't even have to whisper sweet nothings in it's ear, just a little poking and prodding and the lock pops open...
The inside of the store is pitch black, and they can tell. Even with their current nightvision, only utter darkness awaits them.
Calamity stares at the void of the interior, and swears under their breath. Colorfully. Then they take a shaky breath and step inside, taking one last look back through the open door into the relatively bright night. Even alleys with no streetlights get some light pollution from the rest of the city. Their heart hammers in their chest as they look around the place, and then reach to pull the door shut behind them.
Jesus fuck. It's so dark. They pad through the aisles to the boarded up front, and try to see if there's any gaps between the boards where they can see whoever this group of guys is.
There aren't any cracks in the boards, because it looks like whoever boarded up the windows stapled cardboard boxes to keep any prying eyes away from the interior of the store.
Thanks to their night vision, Calamity can see that there's a ring of counterspace over towards the back wall where a drink machine used to be, an even darker (if possible) hallway that leads to the restroom, and the employee breakroom. Additionally, there're rows of empty metal shelves, and a waist-height front counter. Plenty of places to hide, at least.
Unfortunately, even though they can't see the goons, they can definitely hear them.
"I think I heard that little shitstain go down this alley. Fan out and check..."
There's enough time for Calamity to check their phone, as they make their slow and careful way back towards the back door. They make sure to cover the screen until they can get the brightness all the way down, and after triple checking that there's no new messages, and sending yet another volley of texts to the rest of their gang, they creep to the counter space formerly occupied by a drink machine.
Wherever is close enough that they have full view of the door, while still being mostly hidden.
There isn't really a good place to hide where they've got full view of the back door, but Calamity manages to hunker down behind a shelf towards the back. They're able to peek out and get sight of the door without leaving themselves too much into view.
They hear the scrape of boots coming up the back steps, and the creeeeeeeak of the rusty hinges as the backdoor swings wide, filling the room with the sounds of outside, and the smells of a humid summer night. One of the goons peeks inside, squinting into the darkness. Calamity could swear that his eyes tracked over where they were they were hiding, but... he grumbles something under his breath before turning back to the alley and letting the door close behind him.
"Nothin' over here!" He shouts from just outside the back door. "Anybody else find anything?"
Calamity waits a few long seconds before slipping from their hiding place and creeping toward the back door. A few quiet breaths, steadying themself. 'Cause of course, they can't just let these bastards walk all over B and F's territory, can they? And if none of the others are gonna show up...
They crouch just next to the crack of an opening, straining to see out into the night without alerting any of the goons to their presence.
"Wait, was the fuckin' door unlocked?!" Calamity can hear one of the goons -- seems to be the ringleader, based on his tone -- call out from the other end of the alley.
"U-uh, yeah?"
"... and you didn't think that was fuckin' weird or anything? Ya fuckin' dipshit?!?"
The guy's hand is still on the handle, and he takes a step back, opening the door so the ringleader can see inside.
"See? There's fuckin' nobody. Get off my ass."
Only there definitely is someone inside. Calamity was right at the crack, and -- thankfully they managed to avoid being hit by the door as it swung -- now they're out in the open. Stuck in a very dark corner. Surrounded by three guys who obviously have beef with them. With no backup coming...
It's not quiet, the way Calamity scrambles to their feet, eyes wide with fear that you could cut with a fuckin' butter knife, as it rolls out of them.
There's a flash of a moment, the quickest of threat assessments, before they rush forward, aiming to swipe a pocket knife at the yellow jacket closest to them. It does absolutely the fuck nothing, Calamity barely touches the guy, and they dance back, light on their feet, their eyes still reflecting very oddly. They're not about to lose that little bit of help, at this point.
The man at the door is, quite frankly, fucking shocked to see a live human standing in the doorway. Unfortunately for Calamity, his instinctual reaction to being startled is to haul off and throw a fucking punch.
He moves to the side, evading their attack with the knife, and aiming a hard strike right at their center of mass. His fist connects with their ribcage, and it... does not feel great!
The ringleader shouts for the rest of the crew. "We got 'em! We found the little shit! Get your asses over here, they're cornered!"
"Fuck you," Calamity heaves out as they double over, wincing from the blow to their ribs, and their hand goes back into their sweatshirt pocket. And comes out with...a zippo ligher? The fuck?
They flick the lighter open, take a breath, and blow. Which...should put the tiny little flame out, right?
Nah. Fire streams toward the ringleader, lapping at his chest and arms, and Calamity grimaces as they crouch, getting ready to take a few more hits.
The Yellowjacket in the doorway's eyes go fucking wide as the jet of flame shoots past him, and he follows it to the ringleader -- who takes that hit straight to the chest -- and it is obvious that he was not built to take hits like that. His screams are bloodcurdling, and he chokes and sputters on ash, and soot as she scent of charred flesh fills the alley.
The man in the door is in too deep to start to back out, but he's too freaked out at what he's just seen to fight effecitvely. His punch has nowhere near the amount of power the last one had, and it goes wide.
It's quite a fascinating thing to see someone go from "Get over here, we found the little shit!" to sputtering and screaming in less than 10 seconds. There's panic in the ranks as the two goons that were closing in on their leaders orders suddenly lose their nerve, and bolt.
For a moment, it seems like the ringleader might pass out, but something happens. There's a sudden shift, and the screaming stops. His body is wracked with sporadic, jerky movements. Reminiscent of a poorly loaded reaction gif, and when he opens his mouth to speak, black bile bubbles forth from his lips.
"̵̑F̸̜͂i̷̩̎n̴̮̐," the sound comes out ragged and raw - as if it were being ripped from a torn out throat. "F̴̢̉u̴̺͋c̶͖̈́k̴̙͝ì̷̫ṋ̶͊ ̵̙͠s̵̀ͅt̵̀ͅö̸͚́p̴̠͋ ̷̖̔ỵ̴͝o̶͚̊ŭ̶̞'̸̣̈ṙ̴͉e̶̲̕ ̸̼̈́-̸̤͂ ̴̱͆ȳ̶̖ō̷̹u̸̖̽'̸̼͠ṛ̷͗e̸̎ͅ ̵̪̈g̴͚̓o̷̦̍n̸͜͠n̸̗̆ḁ̴͘ ̴͉̉k̷͉͐i̵͈̐l̴̜͆l̶̙̐ ̷̝͘h̸̖͑i̷͎̍m̶̯̓." He turns a pair of fierce, cold eyes on Calamity as his hand moves to the waistband of his jeans. To the handle of a revolver. "Y̵̫͌ó̵ͅu̵͉̅ ̴̹͌don't gotta..."
It's not like Calamity doesn't fuck with weird shit every day. Hell, they are weird shit, but...nothing like this. "Whatthefuck..." they whisper, their pale green eyes going wide as the leader starts to move.
And then they book it, running straight for the guy at the door. Trying to get past him out into the open.
For a moment it seems like the guy at the door is just going to let Calamity past, but then his panic melts away too. They're nearly past him, when the goon's hands shoot out. One catches their shirt, and the other bars the doorway, leaving them with nowhere left to run.
"F-F-Fin..." A substance like dried blood, and ash comes spilling forth from his lips as well. "Fuckin' stop you're - you're gonna kill him..." Those glassy eyes bore into Calamity like lasers. "You-you... you... do-don't gotta..."
The "Ringleader" tugs a .38 special free from his jeans, and aims down the sights at Calamity's chest. The nasty patch of burned skin on his chest begins to knit itself closed, and his arms jerk and pull in odd directions with each inch of movement he makes. Calamity could swear they can see him smile as he pulls the trigger...
The shot splits the night air deafening Calamity in the close quarters, and the bullet rips through their shoulder.
"What...what the fuck..." Calamity's voice rises to a squeak of fear when the yellow jacket in front of them speaks. They stumble backward , putting a hand out to brace themself on a metal shelf. That's gonna leave fingerprints, isn't it...
The gun fires, metal tears flesh, and Calamity screams in desperate fear and pain. And the air around them erupts, a shockwave exploding from them. Shelves clatter to the ground, the door gets blown half off it's hinges, and who knows where the two yellow Jackets end up. It takes long seconds, for the dust to settle, and when it does...
Somehow, Calamity is still standing. Their breathing is ragged and shallow, their nose is bleeding, and their arm hangs limply at their side, blood oozing from the bullet hole and into their new sweatshirt.
As they fight to stay conscious every step of the way, it crosses Calamity's mind that it sure seemed like those two goons were someone else entirely at the end. Fortunately, the members of the B+F gang -- too slow on the draw to get there for the fight -- come sprinting towards the source of the sound. Their terrified questions fall on deaf, shocked ears as the tide of adrenaline that kept them moving begins to ebb.
"Fin," The Yellowjackets' last -- no, Calamity's own -- words echo in their mind. "- Fuckin stop you're - you're gonna kill him...you don't gotta..."
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