The man's jaw opened and shut, gasping under a thick-soled boot. Marshal ground his heel, torn between a messy decapitation or pin-cushioning the bastard with crossbow bolts. Neither option would rectify the thief's slight against his people; he'd earned a cozy spot in Tartarus as far as Marshal was concerned.
So which was more humiliating?
Short blade off the hip, Marshal drove the tip into the man's shoulder, popping it loose from the socket. Blood gushed fast; not much time. He did the same with the brigand's left shoulder, the man spitting some foreign profanity. Marshal booted his head and stepped away, raising his crossbow.
The brigand rolled away, leaving his arms in the dirt. Rather than running, he launched from a kneel, teeth bared. Marshal chuckled and pulled the trigger. Lifted airborne by the wrist-wide spike, the man shot back with the bolt, collapsing in a heap—immobile, unbreathing. He would soon resurrect miles away, ready to waylay another crafter, but maybe he'd think twice about raiding Marshal's turf.
He reported the tussle to Gloria Central and logged off.
***
Marshal unplugged the cord from the base of his skull, wiping sweat off his brow. For VR, he got a lot more into it than most gamers, reveling in every sight, sound and smell of Apocalypse Eternal, even imagining the pain. He just hoped that scouting mission would get him promoted to captain, though he'd probably get passed over again.
Politics.
He opened the office door, greeted with the very real smell of breakfast: Sacha cooking for Trent, and maybe enough extra for their guest. The rest of the gang seemed to be either out or sleeping, leaving him alone with his leaders for the first time in weeks. Marshal rounded the corner towards the kitchen with a skip in his step.
"Morning!" he said.
"Uhhhnn." Trent swiveled his head, eyes hooded and bloodshot, a strip of omelet dangling from his lips.
"Hey, kiddo. I made you a plate." That was Sacha, the Knights' 'mom,' though she was the second youngest of the gang—second only to himself. "Kill anyone I know?"
"I doubt it." Marshal said with a shy chuckle. She wore a slinky nightshirt, just a shade redder than her hair and thin enough to outline her lean torso. "J-Just a patrol."
"Well, be careful, and don't let people take advantage. There's always help a comm-call away, right baby?" She tapped Trent on the forehead, who'd half fallen back asleep. He groaned and shoveled another bite. "But speaking of taking advantage, I'm going to need your help today, so get some rest."
Help? No one ever asked him for help.
"Oh, um, ok." He felt his cheeks flush as he met her eyes. "Thanks for dinner."
"No problem." Sacha again turned her attention to her beloved, leaning over the counter to kiss his forehead, then climbing to lick his neck, her rear in the air. Marshal's blush deepened, nightshirt dark. He retreated into the large studio penthouse.
***
"Shopping?"
"Well, yeah," Sacha said, gesturing with a feather duster. She was a short skirt away from channeling French maid. Whatever she got from her daily chores, Marshal felt safer not asking. It was always the duster or the cleaver. "Ya'll eat as much as my baby. It's just some odds and ends."
"Sure!" Marshal accepted the list, squinting at Sacha's penmanship, or lack thereof. Eggs, buttermilk, ground beef, onions—expensive.
"I already verified the account, so you just need to pick it up from Mindy's. Make it snappy though; the meatloaf can wait, but I'd like to get the cake started by five."
Meatloaf and cake? That's right, Raphael's birthday. His wife and daughter would be coming along. This really was an important mission. Marshal saluted and dashed to the 'training room,' a curtained off corner deep in the penthouse that also served as his bedroom. He wrapped his wrists in fabric tape and shoved a pair of grappling gloves in his pocket. Jacket, hat, and comm-unit, he sprinted back to the living area, catching a raised eyebrow from Sacha as he donned his half-sleeve trench. A stumble over his feet and he was out the door, finally pausing to breathe.
He wouldn't betray her trust. This was what he trained for.
***
Streetside on Anatali District B, he jogged down Phlegethon Boulevard, weaving among pedestrians and small clumps of loitering thugs. For the wealth and space Trent and Sacha had earned above, the surrounding sprawl was filled with idle hands and at-capacity apartment projects. Marshal considered himself more careful than paranoid, not having the frame or reputation to stroll alone. He'd come close to getting pummeled countless times in his two years aboard Anatali Station, but always talked his way out of it. He didn't fancy those interruptions today.
He slowed to a walk along an empty stretch of Phlegethon, four blocks from Mindy's. Litter lined the gutters, vacant storefronts displayed the finest graffiti in the galaxy, and slim alleyways cut crevices between every brick and mortar monolith. Dirty without earth, sooty without fire, District B's dilapidation was a wonder, being only half a decade old. No wonder District A worked so hard to keep the citizen B's below.
A muffled scream stopped Marshal in stride. Backtracking to an alley, he saw nothing but a dumpster, trash chute spewing small bits for decompiling. Shrugging, he stepped forward only to hear it again. Eyes narrowed, he saw a bare foot kick out from behind the steel box. Marshal dug into his pocket and shouted, "Hey! Get off her!"
Hand shaking, he wriggled one into a fingerless glove, palms already sweaty. Call for help? No time, besides—
A pair of youngsters stood from the shadow, one's pants unbuckled but still zipped. His buddy held a serrated utility knife, gripped in a fist—clumsy. Marshal breathed deep and pulled on his other glove, happy he chose the trench. It made his shoulder look wider, and with his hat over his eyes, maybe he appeared his age, twenty-two, and not like the teenage rabble he faced.
The girl tried to stand. Mr. Pants shoved her back to the dumpster—thunk. She collapsed to the ground, a small splash of red coating the pavement. Knife boy said, "Mind y'own business, man. Dis trick got paid."
"Then why the knife?" Marshal walked forward, studying the girl. No bracelets, no nail polish—her ears weren't even pierced. Topless, her small shoulders rose and fell with uneven breaths. "Just go."
"You go," Mr. Pants said. "Think you some kind of Knight?"
Actually, yeah. "It'll be my audition unless you get the hell out of here."
"Get da fucker," Mr. Pants turned his gaze back to the girl as Knife Boy rushed, a bit too eager. Marshal dropped his stance, both fists to chin.
He blocked the first slash at the guy's wrist, returning a straight right to his nose. The thug's head snapped back, blood now wetting his lip. Marshal accepted another slash on the back of his hand, the fibers not frayed, though the force was bruising. He lunged forward, ignoring an easy body shot for a risky uppercut. His knuckles slammed under Knife Boy's chin, clapping his jaw shut, a slice of tongue flying from the thug's mouth. He fell to his back, yelping and writhing.
Mr. Pants looked up from the ground. He'd straddled the girl, hands around her throat. Her face was swollen, but Marshal could tell she wasn't a day over thirteen. He roared forward, leading with the bottom of his boot. The kid broke off, leaning away, but Marshal switched his legs, busting his knee into Mr. Pants' nose, flattening it—crack.
The thug's head slapped the ground, unconscious.
Marshal checked the girl's pulse and retrieved her shirt. Her chest had been slashed, but the wounds looked shallow. He covered her and removed plastic zip-cuffs from his trench. In a minute, the thugs were hog-tied on their bellies.
District B still in uncommon silence, Marshal bit his lip and tore off his gloves, replacing them with his comm-unit. For his first victory alone, he expected it to feel better. The little girl twitched, one arm bent awkward at the elbow. They'd fix her up—they'd fix her up.
Marshal swallowed back a lump. He speed-dialed a number.
A female voice fluttered from the speaker, "Marshal? A bit early in the day."
"Barbara, I-I need an ambulance: Phlegethon and.just get it from my beacon. The girl's hurt bad."
"You ok?" Silence. "Let me talk to Trent."
"I'm alone. I got a pair for you. N-No video though."
"Sorry. I'll see what I can get from the sky-cams." The Knights' most sympathetic Security Agency contact tap-tap-tapped on the other end. "Why are you hunting alone—"
Marshal ended the call, smoothing the girl's hair from her face. With only witness testimony, both being participants, this would be a catch and release for the would-be rapists. The burden of proof was almost always on video surveillance, and even that could be questioned by its source. At least maybe they'd know they wouldn't get away with it, not clean anyway. They'd go on the list, same as all the others.
He questioned whether to finish them off—Sacha might, but Trent wouldn't. There was a place for law, even if they had to make it up themselves. For now, he'd done enough. Maybe the devils would slip up in the prelims.
When the ambulance and ASAs arrived four minutes later, Marshal ducked out the back of the alley, shopping list in clutch.