Righteous Lad
#3"Do you have everything you need?" "Yeah, I have everything."
"Everything?"
"Yes, mom... I have everything. I have to head out now if I want to make it on time by normal means." A little back and forth ensues between the young man and his mother as he finishes up tying the last of his shoelaces on his right converse sneaker. A young man with a very fair and slightly pale complexion, shaggy and somewhat short raven hair, eyes a neon-like jade color that anyone would swear glows if they were standing near him in a dark room, a lean and strong physique adorn by a white t-shirt, red sport wristbands on each wrist, fitted blue jeans upheld by a stylish belt with studs all throughout its length, and of course the pair of red gym shoes on his feet. He looks to be no older than 18 judging by his youthful, yet strong features and his height of 5'11 & 1/2.
"Alright, just making sure. Buuuuut... I do think there is one last thing you're missing on your way out, Tyson." The mother insists in a rather singsong tone while presenting a gesture. Her arms extend and spread expectantly as her son stands up from where he's sitting. Without failure or hesitation, Tyson turns to face and approach her welcoming arms for an exchange of embrace. The mother hugs him with thorough affection, while the young man minds his strength while returning the effort to the best of his ability.
"That's my boy." She says affectionately and gives him a few gentle pats on the back before their hug inevitably ends.
"I love you, too, mom." Tyson responds with a grin, soon bending over to pick up his gym bag from the floor and places the slang over his head.
"Alright, I gotta' go." He tells her and follows up by leaning in to place a kiss onto her cheek.
"Bye, mom. Bye, dad!"
"Have a productive day at work, son." His father calls out from the living room.
"Bye, honey." His mother bids him farewell in turn before he heads on out, then shuts and locks the front door as he heads down the steps of their porch.
With haste behind his steps, Tyson hustles his way to work -- a clothing & accessory chain store that focuses on selling merchandise that derives from the ever-lasting and ever-changing fashion trends that hail from the subculture of punk, goth, and everything else in between.
Nearly halfway through the ten minute walk, his cell phone begins vibrating within his pocket. He plucks it out, sees that it's from his co-worker, Alexecute, and accepts the call before bringing the device up to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Yo, boss. Don't suppose you're willing to share what you learned now? I saw your text about waiting until the next meeting, but you know there's no real team privacy in that building. Moochers will hop on our case like flies nosediving right into a pot of honey." Alexecute reasons, presently sitting at her bedroom desk. Her right hand supports her chin, while her left mindlessly taps her mechanical pencil away at the wooden surface in front of her.
"Yeah, I know, I know. But it's the most convenient place for all of us to meet without possibly sharing or giving away too much personal information."
"B'aah... C'mon, we've been teammates for practically two years now, and I even have your phone number!"
"Yes. Yes you do... Which you're only supposed to call me through for emergencies." Tyson reminds her.
"I know, but I've called you plenty of times now. We're super cool. Plus, my parents even have your number, too. You're like... My albino cousin at this point!"
"Your albino cousin, huh...?" Tyson repeats with a tone skeptical as the look he makes at hearing that phrase.
"Yeah! I trust you with my life. I don't think there's ever been a time you've let me down. You're like, if Mr. Incredible had a son. Jr. Incredible!"
"Oh... Well, I'm flattered, Alexecute. I hope the day that I unintentionally do, doesn't come too soon, then. But still, I don't think you should toss caution to the wind and just share everything with me. Or anyone outside of your immediate family for that matter. What we do is pretty dangerous, after all." Tyson stands his ground on the subject.
"Hang on."
"Hang on--?" DING! A sudden notification alert takes Tyson by surprise. Curious, he briefly holds the screen in front of his face to what just came through.
"I see numbers and letters, Alexecute... I'm not opening that message. Delete it. Please." Tyson firmly, yet politely demands of her.
"What? I just wanna' show you how much I trust you."
"That's swell and all, but this is an inappropriate way of showing it. This is becoming a little way too weird..."
"It's only weird, because you're making it weird. But fine, I'll delete it. But we should definitely hang out sometimes. All of us. As a friend-team." Alexecute proposes.
"I'm almost double you guys' ages. You're better off just hanging out amongst yourselves, if anything."
"Now you're going to make hanging out as a group weird, too? C'mon, boss. Even baseball coaches hangout and go get pizza with their Jr. league team. It'll be exactly like that."
"Listen, maybe someday I'll consider it. Maybe. However, I'm about to clock into work, so we'll have to save the discussion for later." Tyson informs her as he closes in on the store.
"Wait, you're already at the SL headquarters?"
"No, not that clock. A different job. We'll talk more later, though, okay?"
"Fiiiiine. Talk to you later, boss." And with those final words from his peer, the phone call comes to an end. Just as Tyson reaches the front door, no less. He slips his phone back into his pocket and enters the store, where his co-worker is preparing to open shop. The bell above the entrance alerts her to his arrival.
"Ey-he-he-he-ey, look who it is. What's up, homeskillet? Flip that Closed sign around for me?" Serenity, the young woman he usually works with, asks of him. She stands at 5'5 in height, her skin a rather pasty shade of white, her eyes hazel colored, her hair jet-black and shaved at the sides of her head while evenly trimmed bangs rests just above her brows. The back of her hair is styled in a high bun with a black & white checkered bow tie neatly holding it in place. Her attire is made of a black sweater that layers over a white button up shirt, several loops and stud earrings decorate her ears, a skull ring on her right middle finger, every one of her nails painted black, a studded and black & white checkered belt rests lopsided upon her hip and over the knee-length black skirt she's wearing, and lastly - a pair of shin-high converse shoes, black as everything else on her person, are on her feet. Along with her solemn and rather gloomy fashion, her tone usually sits at an odd mixture of aloofness and kind.
"Oh sure, no problem." Tyson responds and immediately obliges her request. Afterwards, he heads toward the back room behind the counter to put away his bag and punch in for work.
"Ready for another exciting day of work?" He asks while exiting the room.
"Oh, absolutely. What could be more exciting than working here for a whole ten hours a day?" She sarcastically responds, then reaches into one of the pockets she's personally sewn seamlessly onto the sides of her skirt for a stick of gum. One that she unwraps and practically tosses into her mouth.
It was likely going to be another normal day at work for the two.
However, elsewhere and just a measly few hours later, a youth clad in black stalks the inner city rooftops of Southside Chicago, leaping from building to building while keeping an ear open for trouble. He keeps his eyes peeled for questionable activities on the streets and back alleys. He also alternates between listening to his surroundings at times, and the micro ear-radio that's tapped into the CPD frequency of the nearest police patrol car, at other times. Up to this point and still going, things have been uneventful for the half past hour. Though, he knows that won't last too long in this district. He grew up within the area, after all. Things haven't changed since four years ago and it's in need of some crime cleaning. Every bit counts in his eyes.
Soon, he comes upon his final leap for the time being. He steps up onto the ledge of the current building he's on to scale the jump. Across from him he sees an iron structure of stairs hugging the side of the next building over. Definitely a bit of a distance, but nothing that makes him second guess himself.
He backs up until he's somewhere near the center of the current roof, then immediately shoots forward into a sprint. He kicks off just as he comes up on the very edge and soars using his momentum. Knees slightly bent and feet parallel of each other–
K L A N K !
He lands immaculately upon the third level railing with the balance & precision of a feline and uses his outstretched arms to aid in keeping him stable. Just until he hops down onto the surface and begins ascending the remaining flights of stairs. Once at the very top, he puts his pique level of gymnastics to use and runs up the few feet of wall before him to reach the ledge of the roof, easily hoisting himself up upon doing so.
It's here he plans on remaining stationary for a little while. Turning to his right, he heads toward the ledge while plucking his cell phone, which also doubles as his mobile tech support, from a pouch on his utility belt he specifically designed to hold it. He lowers into a crouch, balancing upon the balls of his feet with his knees spread in opposite diagonal directions. He punches in the password of his lock screen. During, two men step out of an apartment and onto the fire escape just two floors down. Nothing that draws his attention for longer than three seconds. That is… until they begin chatting.
"Man, I really need a smoke… You got a lighter on ya?"
"Yeah, I got one." Within a moment, the sound of the mentioned item's tiny metal gear being flicked twice follows. There's a pause as the smoker takes his first inhale and exhale.
"This uhh.. Is this their first time doing this sort of thing?"
"Bro, this is like my third time. Had to find more people to help, and they're definitely just as green as me. Guys are gonna' give me a heart attack with the way they're handling the dope I'm supposed to be pushing." And there it was. Admission from the stressed dealer himself – the very phrase that snags The Crow's attention. A sudden and irrational rage swells up within the Chicagoan Samaritan, and it takes great restraint for him to keep from squeezing his phone too hard. It's all he needs to hear to put aside what he was doing.
As the two continue on to chat, the teen raises to stand while tucking his phone away again. He moves to where he climbed previously and turns his back to the edge of the roof, then listens carefully… Using the sound of their voice to form a guesstimation of where they're standing. One that eventually leads him into taking two steps to his right. Then? He throws himself off the building with a backflip…
"--Yeah, my student loans are a bit–" Before that thought could finish, The Crow comes in hurling himself and drop kicking one of them after gripping an iron step above and using it to swing with all of his momentum.
"Oof!"
T H U M P !
The attack sends the smoker's associate thrashing against the brick wall beside the door they came out from.
Upon landing within the rather compact space, the masked samaritan reaches to retrieve twin onyx colored rods from the largest pouch that hugs his right thigh. They're fist-size initially, but they extend by eight inches once he pushes the 'top' buttons on the surface. He flips them to hold the mechanical clubbing rods upright afterwards.
"Hey, what the hell!? Who are yo–!?
ACK!?
AH!
Ough!"
T I N K - T A C - T H M P !
The sound metal rods connecting within a swift combination rings out, and ends up with the smoker collapsing into the corner of the fire escape.
After knocking one down, the other gets back up and immediately rushes to try to grab the masked patroller from behind. However, the youth was quick to react. In addition, every bit of movement was made obvious by the metal structure they were on. He anticipated the attempt. Thus, he turns to deliver an uppercut to the chin with an elbow, dropping the guy unconscious. His attention then settles back onto the dealer in the corner who was just beginning to collect himself.
"You like selling, huh? Like the money you take for putting that garbage out on the streets?" The masked samaritan asks nonchalantly as he creeps closer. The man panics and clumsily reaches to pull out a gun from his back pocket. The exact moment he raises it and tries to take aim, The Crow smacks it harshly out of his hand with a club. The firearm then falls and clacks on the pavement far down below.
"Hey, man, be easy, alright?"
"Be easy? Nah, can't do that. You did the ONE thing I cannot forgive.." The teen responds and accusingly points a club.
"L- look, I'm sorry, okay? You want money? I got money! We can work something out here, bro. Just be cool!"
"Money? I don't want your MONEY!!" And a beating ensues. The man bawls up into a human ball and uses his arms to protect his face.
"You.
Filthy.
Insufferable.
Bastard!
All of you!
Make me…
SICK!!" Each moment of him speaking was accompanied by a swing and the sound of metal hitting skin and bone. It continues on for a little while longer, no remorse as the criminal cries out in pain from nearly every blow.
"Alright, alright! Stop! Stop, stop, STOP!!" The dealer pleads when he could take no more. His plea is heeded, but only after the masked hero delivers one last strike to his bicep.
"Yeah, you're done!? Huh!?"
"Yeah, man. No more drugs.. No more drugs!"
"GOOD. Good…" The teen breathes out, turning away and moving a few steps as he collects himself and his breath.
"I'm sorry, man. I just needed the extra money, ya know?" And it's those very words that earn yet another violent reaction from the masked teen. The youth abruptly turns around and renders the older man unconscious with a thrusting kick to the face.
"There's always an excuse behind ruining innocent people's lives." Timothy murmurs to himself, then shifts his focus toward the door they came through. A likely entree into a drug operation.
He reaches into one of the pouches of his utility belt and retrieves three gray pallets that were nearly the size of golf balls before crouching near the door. His free hand reaches to grip the doorknob while his other carefully clutches around the pallet. He inhales.
Then exhales.
He finally twists the knob and pushes the door open, immediately tossing the gray orbs inside as he does. In a matter of seconds, a smoke screen fills out the entire room, obscuring the vision of all within it. As the men inside complain and comment on the harmless smoke, The Crow makes one quick adjustment before heading inside.
"Activate infrared settings." He commands, and his mask fulfills his wish. Afterwards, he charges inside and shuts the door behind himself. Within seconds, the sound of pain driven grunts and blunt beatings ensue.
