Rachel spent her eighth day off with walking the streets with Touchstone. It was one of the few times they were together, and neither one of them were too exhausted to hang out. Touchstone is walking around with his face and hands wrapped in bandages, his still unseasonable black hoodie covering his chest and arms under a supplemental layer of tattered rags to hide his bulk, hunched over the walking stick that washed up by the docks where he worked.
They walk down the sparsely populated street, nearing midtown. The buildings were old brick and cement, there was algae and grime collecting in patches on several buildings. They have to circumvent several piles of trash spilling over onto the sidewalk. Rachel thought, after two months, she would eventually get used to the smell of sewage and rot that was as much a part of the lower side as the algae and the brick. Plot twist: she didn’t.
They’ve already spent weeks establishing their father-daughter disguise throughout the lower end. Now they were using this outing to find out just how close to the low-end-midtown border it was socially acceptable for two ruffians like them to go. As well as see what methods people employ to stop them.
“I don’t see why we can’t make it all the way to the checkpoint,” Rachel says. “no one has any reason to stop us. We’re just minding our own business, going to work for all they know.”
“Everything is everyone else’s business around here, wide-eyes. Everyone knows each other’s routine. They know this isn’t our usual territory, so they’ll try to stop us before we reach the checkpoint. Just in case we are up to something that might cause trouble for the people around here. They police their own before the enforcers can do it for them.”
“That seems a little convoluted and paranoid. It’s easier for people to just leave us be.”
“I’ll put money on my paranoia.”
“I thought you hated money.”
“It’s an expression, wide-eyes. We’re pooling our funds, anyway. How ‘bout chores? I’ll let you chose one chore that you won’t have to do for a week.”
“Not everything has to be a competition, or a negotiation.”
“Ha!” Touch takes a breath to debate the issue further before he’s interrupted by a short, loud whistle from further down the street.
They see people diving into the nearby alleys and buildings and follow suite, right before they hear a diesel engine pull around the corner up the street.
Rachel recognizes the sound of a large military vehicle. She guesses it’s similar in size to an armored personnel transport, or a heavy weapon mounted to a lighter armored vehicle. As it grows closer, she guesses it’s a swat van.
Touchstone hears the same sound and knows there is only one vehicle that would grace this end of the city with its presence. An enforcer armored personnel carrier.
The van grinds to a halt dangerously close to them, about two doors down on the other side of the street. The back door’s thrown open even before the van stops, and Rachel hears boots pounding the pavement as a group of predators stalk up to the apartment building. She smells the exhaust waft up to her as the outer apartment door clicks open and about four pairs of boots rush in, slow, methodical, disciplined, trained, experienced.
Touch and Rachel lock eyes. Touch looks just as clueless as she does. Rachel notices her hand gripping the stylus in her pocket. She suddenly longs for her purple hoodie.
How were they supposed to react? Leaving felt wrong. There was no point in fighting. This wasn’t their business. She pokes her head around the corner to see other people staring at the navy blue armored van, the back door facing them. They must have driven the van backwards down the street.
They might as well stay and watch. They were here to gather information, after all. As the thought enters her mind, she feels the heat of Touch over her shoulder. She jerks her head over a bit to see Touch scrutinizing the scene mercilessly.
Personal space, buddy...
Less than a minute pass before Rachel hears the crash and snapping of cheap wood from the second floor, followed closely by men shouting and people screaming, which shortly quiets down.
Again, less than a minute passes before a man and woman clad head to toe in riot gear, sporting a blue and red corporate logo on their shoulders, escort a small black girl in handcuffs, one on either side of her with a hand on each of her shoulders. One has a rifle slung to his side and a pistol in his hand, where the other has her free hand gripping the handle of the rifle strapped to her chest by a single point sling.
The small girl has her hair twisted into dozens of thick ropes hanging down from her head. The girl holds a straight face and dark, sad eyes, refusing to slump her tiny shoulders. She can’t be older than twelve.
Just before the little girl climbs into the armored van, she swiftly and smoothly looks up and stares straight at the two peering around the alley corner. No hesitation, no looking around first.
Rachel looks to the side to see Touch entranced by the little girl’s gaze. Rachel can feel the two locking eyes, rather than the girl casually glancing their way. She didn’t feel the intense connection that comes from locking eyes in a crowded room. By the look on his face, Touch most certainly did.
The guards escort the girl into the van and all three disappear behind the thick armored door. Rachel notices Touch’s hands are unsteady and hears him sucking in air fast and deep.
We can’t handle this fight. They have guns, radios, reinforcements. We can’t do this, not without a plan. Rachel pulls Touch to the side. She sees the wild look in his brown eyes through the mummy mask.
“You know we can’t.” She pleads.
“She’ll be taken to a lab,” He retorts low and slow, each word dripping with muffled hate and venom through the bandages. “No one deserves what they do to you in there, let alone a little girl.” He looks down at her as he talks, even though he was only a few inches taller. His wrathful gaze telling her how small and stupid she was for daring to stand in his way, daring to negotiate and reason, as if she were on the side of the enforcers.
Rachel was losing him, she presses on.
“We can save her. We can come up with a plan. But you need to calm-” she’s cut off by a fierce and threatening growl lunging from her companion’s throat.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“She looked me in the eye!” the stone man hisses, pressing against her grip, “Begging, pleading for help! I will not turn my back! I will not wait! I won’t let them take her away!”
He turns to go, but Rachel grips tighter and slams him into the wall. He was going berserk. She has to find a way to make him see reason.
“There are four of them,” she hisses back, “probably two more in the cab, all armed with assault rifles and radios. How are you going to get past them, huh? Tell me. What about the reinforcements?” She knew her friend well enough to imagine his skin darkening to a dangerous dark gray beneath the bandages.
Fuck fuck fuck just listen to me! Being reckless will just get someone killed. What the fuck was this? Where was the Touch she knew? Stoic, calm, calculating. She always felt that the whole golem thing was an act to scare criminals. She didn’t know this is what he’s been holding back.
---
Sergeant Williams looks around the small, shitty apartment. Eric was watching the door and the hallway outside. Avry and Smith have taken the target down to the van. They just radioed that the target was secure. Another mute off the street before they can cause any real trouble, and a step closer to meeting his department’s quarterly quota.
Just a few more, then he and his guys could relax for a bit. The only question was what to do about the couple. It wasn’t worth the extra paperwork to bring them in, especially when they didn’t count towards the quota. He doesn’t want to arrest them, but they need to play ball. He looks at the two would-be adoptive fathers to the child as the redheaded man comforts the other, black-haired man crying into his hands.
“Listen, what’s your name?” he asks. The red head with the fohawk looks up. His eyes are wide, but he keeps a straight face. He knows what’s at stake, he’ll play along.
“Holsten. Jonathan Holsten.”
“Well, Mr. Holsten,” he says slowly and deliberately, “that girl you took in was a dangerous mute. Your neighbors were just looking out for you when they tipped us off.”
The neighbors didn’t tip them off, of course, but it was best for that rumor to spread. The man’s jaw clenches and his eyes harden, face still otherwise impassive. He knows the game, he’ll play along. Williams continues carefully.
“I know you two would never knowingly harbor such a danger to the community. You probably just wrote off what you saw her do as being insightful or smart. If you feel like we made a mistake with detaining this individual, you can always challenge our decision and appeal to any of our help centers, or submit your complaint online. Have a good day.”
Williams turns to leave, already thinking about where to stop for lunch on the way back, when a sudden stir from behind catches his attention.
“You bastard! She’s just a little girl!” The raw scream tears its way out of the dark-haired man’s throat.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down.” Williams puts up his hand as he talks. The man rockets from his chair, and the embrace of his boyfriend. He starts shouting and spitting and waving his arms, then he picks up a lamp and throws it at William’s feet. Technically assault on an officer. He shows no signs of calming down despite numerous warnings from Williams and efforts by Holsten.
To top it off, someone down the hall curses before throwing a bottle at Eric from the stairwell. It falls short, just like the lamp. No harm done, but this was getting out of hand.
Damn it. You couldn’t have just waited another minute before having a breakdown.
He had to take him in now. Otherwise, dominoes would fall and this kind of harassment would become the norm, if not escalate.
Williams recalls Avry and Smith on the radio.
---
Rachel hears more shouts and a crash, muffled by walls and distance, from the second floor. The two freeze and listen. The back door to the van clicks open, and heavy boots slam onto the asphalt. Rachel releases her grip and the two lean over just enough to see two enforcers run back inside, not bothering with smooth and controlled this time.
Rachel turns back to find Touch gone, then she sees him stalk through the corner of her eye as he slides past her and out to the street, towards the van.
Damn. It. She peers around the corner, all traces of Touch’s rage gone as he hobbles up to the cab of the van, hunched over his walking stick. She sees a sliver of the driver’s chin and cheek through the side mirror. He hasn’t noticed Touch, so Rachel takes the opportunity to slip across the street and behind the van. She gives the back of the van a wide berth to hopefully avoid activating any proximity alarms or rear view cameras. She sees the back door is locked by a keypad.
They would see her any second now. There was no point trying to hide it. She just needs to keep closing in until her luck runs out. She glides around the corner with a dry mouth and a thumping chest. She sees the enforcer in the shotgun seat through the mirror, his head turned toward his companion, who is saying something to Touch.
She takes a quick glance around as she closes the distance, an old habit she taught herself to avoid tunnel vision in a fight. There were plenty of people watching from the windows and the street, but no one looks like they’ll interfere.
She listens to the front door of the apartment as her eyes glue to the side-view mirror. Nothing past the blood pounding in her ears. She hears the familiar sound of someone whipping a gun out of a nylon holster.
“I’m not going to ask you again! Stay back!” A particularly nasally and high-pitched voice calls out from the driver’s seat.
Rachel powers up her stylus.
“Uh, Serge, I think something’s wrong with the girl…” the enforcer in the shotgun seat says.
Rachel’s stylus comes to life.
As the two enforcers look her way, Touchstone jabs the driver in the temple with his staff. Hard. He leaps forward and seizes the handgun, then steps up and reaches through the window, throwing open the door while the stunned driver moans and flails around, his fists bouncing off Touchstone. Harmless if not annoying.
Touchstone looks into the cab to see Rachel had punched her sword through the door, leveling her blade across the other enforcer’s chest, reaching up to his neck. Touchstone can smell the piss coming from the shotgun seat. He levels the gun at the driver’s head.
“Get out or die. Your choice.” He says.
Both the enforcers look at each other, then slowly undo their seat belts.
“Guns. Vests. Belts.” Touchstone says, looking them over. “In the back.”
The second enforcer pumps the chamber of his matte gray shotgun clear before setting it in the back. Then he takes the handgun out, clears it, and sets it in the back as well. Touchstone can’t rule out more pistols stowed away in the large cab for just this scenario.
As soon as the enforcer tosses the guns, Touchstone pulls his man out of the cab, throwing him to the ground. He keeps the pistol leveled at the enforcer’s head while he strips out of his valuable gear. The stone man loses his patience and starts snatching the gear off himself, snapping the clip to the handheld radio as he rips it off the vest.
He then tucks the pistol into the back of his waistband, turning to see the shotgun guy tossing his belt in the back, his radio already removed.
The former-driver immediately slugs Touchstone across the face as he turns back around.
The stone man stares at the driver, who is clutching his rapidly swelling hand. Touchstone slowly unwraps his face, and stands up straight.
The two lock eyes.
The driver’s gaze falls to the ground. He undoes his tactical belt with shaking hands, and tosses it into the cab. He keeps his eyes glued to the ground as he goes to his knees, hands behind his head.
Touchstone turns and tosses his walking stick into the cab before climbing in.
“Let’s move, wide-eyes.” He says, slamming the door shut.
Rachel withdraws her blade, throws open the door, and pulls the shotgun guy out. He stumbles, recovers, then he goes to his knees. The van shakes as Rachel climbs into the cab.
“Well?” she asks, staring at Touch, his bandages making a particularly fashionable scarf around his neck while his hands hover above the controls. Then he throws the van into gear.
“I haven’t driven in years. Check on the girl, then buckle up.” He steps on the gas.