Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I wake up in a cramped, dimly lit compartment, alongside a couple of figures in the same padded uniform as mine. "Hey, greenhorn, I'm talking to you." The man next to me snaps his fingers in my ear. "How'd you manage to fall asleep in this damn truck, with all the bumping and shaking? The uniform ain't exactly comfortable, either." I laugh sheepishly, trying to hide my embarrassment.

The last few days had not been kind to my sleeping schedule, and my body must have taken it upon itself to fill the gaps that had been made by all the assignments I had been sent on. This one, same as the rest, had come at the last second. I was to replace someone who dropped out of this job for whatever reason, even though I wasn't part of the company that had contracted my office. They must be struggling to find employees if they have to rely on a Grade 9 Fixer as a substitute, I think to myself amidst the awkward silence in the truck.

Eventually, the truck slows down and comes to a halt. "Are we there already?" I ask, confused. "I thought the trip was supposed to be 3 hours longer." The man next to me, boisterous as ever, decides to answer my question. "Don't you know, kid? This is the Middle's territory." A chill runs down my spine. Would we really have to fight off a Finger? He must have somehow noticed my apprehension, because he slapped me on the back with a chuckle. "Don't you worry. Our company's paid their protection fee already. They won't give us any trouble." Sure as he said, the truck resumed its steady pace to its destination before long.

Just as the sweet embrace of sleep calls to me once again, a beeping noise plays from somewhere in the compartment, and the truck comes to a stop once more, this time much less gentler than before. "That's the signal. Get ready." The rest of the guards rise from their rest on the floor of the compartment, picking up their batons. "Um, what signal would that be?" I ask, clueless as ever. "We didn't pay every Tom, Dick and Harry to leave us alone. It must be some bottom-feeder Rats trying to hijack the truck." The man helps me to my feet with an outstretched hand, putting a baton in my hands. "Just follow our lead. We've yet to lose anybody to something like this, and I doubt this will be any different."

The doors of the compartment open outwards, and sunlight floods the cramped space. Outside on the street, a groan could be heard from some hapless goon that was standing next to the heavy doors when they swung open. The first guard jumps out of the truck, only to be tackled to the ground by a ragged man. The man quickly receives a baton strike to the back of his head for his effort, rolling over unconscious. The rest of us quickly follow behind the first guard.

Out on the street, our small handful of guards is enough to match the ragtag gang that stopped the truck. As I wrestle with a foul-smelling fellow with bloodshot eyes, the other guards subdue the remaining stragglers with practiced ease. No time to pay attention to other things now, I think to myself, knocking the gangster back with a kick to his shin. Though the blow forces him away from me, he still stands on his feet, now with a fire in his eyes. Baring his stained teeth, he whips out a switchblade, staring me down as he slowly approaches. I look to the other guards for assistance, but it seems all of them are busy with their own fights. In the split second my eyes shift away, he lunges at me, swinging wildly with the blade. It swishes dangerously close to my face, giving me a good look at its sharp edge. The haphazard attack is inaccurate yet unpredictable, failing to hit me, but making it difficult for me to strike back. I back away from him, and an idea comes to my mind. I grip the baton nervously, sweat forming on my palms. When it seems his attention is off me for a second, I throw the baton with my full strength, aimed at his head.

The baton sails through the air and over his shoulder, landing harmlessly in the street. He looks at it once and laughs, before my fist comes in contact with his jaw. A sharp pain goes through my knuckles in return, and I wince involuntarily. "You punch like a girl." He recovers in no time, and comes at me with a stab. I barely avoid it, and take the initiative to grab him by the throat and slam him to the ground. The wind is knocked out him by the impact, giving me the chance to follow up with a stomp to his face. It is rewarded with a crunching noise, and a cut to my leg as the thug flails his weapon in an attempt to defend himself. I grit my teeth through the pain, and my eyes dart around, finding a loose stone on the street. Wasting no time, I grab it and with a swing, the thug's arms fall limply to his sides.

I let the bloodstained stone fall from my hands as I catch my breath and start to survey the results of the fight. The guards had sent the gang packing, with the rest of the thugs either fleeing or lying in the street, unmoving. The one I'd been struggling with wasn't moving, either. Blood trickled from where I'd slammed a rock into his skull, forming a small puddle that was slowly flowing into a drain. Was he dead? Like I care. I pick his weapon up and slip it into my pocket. Hopefully, I'd be able to sell it for something worth the hassle of beating a man unconscious.

The guards, after a roll call, filed back into the truck. The guard who'd been sitting next to me was in a cheerful mood.
"Nothing gets the blood flowing like a good scrap, you feel me? Glad to see you in one piece, greenhorn."
"I'm glad to be in one piece, too." I take my seat in the truck, feeling like I was about to drift back into sleep. Just before the doors closed and the truck went back on its way, I noticed the cargo for the first time, now illuminated by the sunlight. Crates labelled with "action figures" and "trading cards". Were these really worth killing someone over? That last thought doesn't take long to fade into nothing, as the darkness of sleep takes me once again.

Chapter Text

Work had been especially tiring that day. This time, it had been a job to move boxes around at some warehouse. Assignments like this cropping up out of the blue had become more and more frequent recently. Seems like a lot of people are suddenly quitting their jobs for some reason. Well, as long as the jobs kept coming in, I would keep getting paid, so I had no reason to complain there. I only wondered, would these menial jobs get any easier once I got my Grade 8 certification? Would I even get that far? I busy my mind with frivolous thoughts as my fatigued body trudges along the familiar street it had walked hundreds of times.

Just as my thoughts had shifted to the subject of my dinner that night, a peculiar sight catches my attention. Fixers from the Zwei Association, manning a barricade blocking the street. Even stranger was the area they had cordoned off. Wrecked and smoking cars lay strewn across the blasted street, and at the center of the carnage was a hazy plume of smoke surrounded by scorch marks on the cracked asphalt. My body may have been playing tricks on me, but I could swear the air grew heavier with each step I took towards the barricade. Must have been a bomb that went off in traffic or something, I think to myself, as I approach the Fixers on duty.

"You can stop there. It's not safe to come any closer." A stern-looking woman in a blue jacket, the uniform of the Zwei, calls out to me.

"But my apartment building is down the street. You couldn't make an exception just this once?" I decided it was worth trying to reason with them if it would save me half an hour of detours in the alleyways.

"No can do. We have strict instructions to stop anybody from crossing this barricade. Move along, now."

I knew my chances of convincing her were low, but my shoulders sank in disappointment regardless. I bite back the desire to fling childish insults at them, and walk away from the scene, slipping into a shadowed alley. Once again, my body plays a trick on me, and I freeze in my tracks as I hear a rage-filled shriek emanating from the thick cloud of smoke at the epicenter of the destroyed street. After a moment of thought, I decide it's not worth my time, and continue walking.

The alleys stretched out far and wide like a spiderweb. Navigating these near-identical alleys was a pain in the neck, especially at night, now that I lacked the benefit of sunlight. I try not to think about the possibility of being jumped by a Syndicate, as I walk past what seems like the same door for the third time. The alleys were quiet at night, now that most businesses had closed for the day, and the delinquents had all gone home. It was almost peaceful, if not for the gangs that roamed at night, looking for easy pickings like me. Those gangs were little more than Rats in the grand scheme of Syndicates, but I wasn't exactly a hardened fighter.

After what feels like an hour of wandering, I turn a corner, expecting to find an exit from the alleyways to the street my apartment block was on. Instead, I'm greeted with a grisly sight. A man slumped on a wall, his body bloodied and mangled. In my shock, I approach to see if I can help him, but I notice a gaping wound where his throat should be. I back away, slowly realizing the danger I had found myself in. A howl comes from the lengthening shadows, and glinting eyes appear from a half-opened door next to the corpse. As I turn to run, I hear the door swinging open, and the pattering of a dog's paws on the tiles of the cobbled alleyway, followed by one, two, three, four more sets of the same rhythm, before I stop counting in my mind and just run for my life.

Low barks and growls follow my desperate panting as I sprint as fast as I can down the moonlit alleys. Are they catching up? How the hell do I get out of this? Can I fight them off? Shut the fuck up and run, I scream inwards to my chattering thoughts, as adrenaline and instinct keep my aching legs moving. Seeing light around a corner, I quicken my frantic pace, hoping that someone would be there to help me, or at least slow down the dogs on my tail.

I turn the corner to find a flickering neon sign. A hairdresser's salon, but judging by the closed blinds, nobody was home. Even better, I find myself at a dead end, a brick wall in my path. I almost laugh at my misfortune, but the rapidly approaching barks sober my thoughts immediately. No help was going to come, not in these cold, deserted alleyways. Yet, I refuse to end my pathetic life like that sorry bastard, feeding some mangy strays. With my back to the wall and the dogs about to come around the corner, I reach into my pocket for the only weapon I had on me, the switchblade from that one thug.

As the leader of the pack turns the corner, I charge towards it and kick at it in the hopes that my attack will at least stagger it. My effort is rewarded with a yelp from the mongrel as it rolls over. Another stray leaps over the first, flying straight at me, its toothy maw ready to rip flesh from bone. I catch it mid-air with a flailing left hook, and it falls to the ground, backing away from me. I anticipate a third attack with gritted teeth, but my reflexes fail me, as the third dog closes its teeth around my leg.

Pain shoots up my leg, and I react by kicking the offending dog into the alley's wall, eliciting a pained grunt from it. The shock of the pain distracts me enough for a fourth stray to barrel into my chest with a single bound, knocking me to the hard ground. It immediately takes the opportunity to sink its teeth into my left shoulder while I fight off its arms clawing at my face. I choke back the tears welling in my eyes and grip the blade in my right hand, before closing my eyes and plunging it into the dog's side.

The blade sinks into the mongrel with a sickening squelch and surprising ease. It yelps in unmistakable agony, but I continue to stab the wretched beast over and over again, until I can muster enough strength to push its weight off me. It lies on the ground, its blood seeping into the gaps between the bricks, dying with a low groan. I rise to my feet, fueled by desperation to survive.

The remaining strays eye me carefully, no longer seeing me as a free meal. I slowly reach for their dying packmate, and lay it before them. They must have gotten the message, because they drag their former ally back down the alley they had chased me from. As soon as their barks pass out of earshot, I let my legs buckle beneath me, and sink to the ground. I wipe away the tears as they flow uncontrollably, and after a few moments of sobbing quietly on the ground, gather myself to find my way back home.

"Who knows what that ruckus might have attracted." My tired mind tells me.
"Yes, don't endanger yourself any further. You fought so hard to live. Let's go home." A soft, yet unfamiliar voice beckons me to my feet.

Too tired to think any longer, I let my legs carry me onwards and out of the bloodstained alleys. The next thing I know, I find myself at the doorstep of my apartment.

I open the door.