Grief 7.8
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Sparky felt the hit crack across his jaw, stars bursting in the corner of his vision as his teeth ground together. The blow sent a shockwave rippling through his skull, rattling his brain against the inside of his cranium. He stumbled half a step, the world tilting just enough for adrenaline to scream through his veins. The pain was a sharp, familiar flavor—one he knew well enough to ride out.
The metallic taste of blood swirled across his tongue, hot and bitter. It coated his teeth and the inside of his cheeks. Before the man who swung the bat could pull back for another swing, Sparky's fist shot out, driving deep into his gut like a piston. Cartilage crunched under the impact, the guy's eyes bulging wide before he folded, legs giving out like they'd been yanked from beneath him. One down, Sparky thought. And only... what, like eight more to go? Fantástico.
Sparky didn't get the luxury of satisfaction. Movement blurred at the edge of his vision, and he barely spun in time to use the slumped body as a makeshift shield. A tire iron smashed into the man's limp side with a hollow thunk, the force of it jarring up Sparky's forearm like an electric shock. Fuck me on a unicycle! The attacker's snarl met him on the recoil, eyes full of desperate hatred blazing out from a face covered in jailhouse tattoos. Before he could swing again, Sparky snapped a low kick at his kneecap, the joint twisting with a sick pop that sent the man dropping to the gravel, gasping through clenched teeth.
"Stay down, bro. Seriously," Sparky muttered, voice hoarse with adrenaline. He pushed off the groaning heap and ducked behind a rusted sedan, sucking in a breath sharp enough to cut. No way these pendejos actually stay down though. His enhanced hearing picked up the crunch of feet on loose stones and the click of a gun being cocked. Mierda.
The parking lot was a mess of bouncing shadows and erratic light, the kind of half-dark that twisted everything into something worse, something ominous. Exhaust from a nearby idling truck choked the air, the acrid stench mixing with the salty tang of sweat and the raw, coppery reek of blood. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm blared in jagged bursts, the shrill sound like a relentless needle jammed into Sparky's ear.
He caught a glimpse of Greg perched on top of a streetlight, silhouetted against the harsh glow of the sodium lamps. Hardkour's red-and-black outfit didn't need to move for Sparky to know he wasn't getting involved.
He wasn't even surprised.
Greg's silent watch from above, arms crossed over his chest, was its own kind of judgment—the unhelpful, smug kind that sank like a rock in Sparky's gut. He's judging my one week of experience, fucking dick.
"I can't help you," Sparky muttered, parroting Greg's words from earlier through gritted teeth. It came out like a snarl as he blocked a wild swing with his forearm, the tire iron's impact rattling his bones despite the three layers of padded tracksuit. "All on you."
The goon staggered back, and Sparky wasted no time. His return kick thudded into the Nazi's chest with a sick, satisfying force, sending him sprawling onto the cracked asphalt. Enjoy the nap, cabrón. "This is your own fight." The echo of Greg's words twisted in his head like a barb, a niggling reminder that he was pretty much on his own out here. No fucking kidding, Sherlock.
Behind him, gravel skittered—a warning too late. Pain shot up his spine as a bat slammed into his back, driving him to the ground with a gasp that punched the air from his lungs. His palms scraped raw against the rough grit as boots descended, sharp and fast, like a hailstorm of steel-toed fury. The first kick jarred his ribs, a bright flare of agony that made him see stars; the second cracked against his temple, spinning everything into white noise. Son of a bitch!
They dogpiled on top of him, fists and feet a brutal rhythm that threatened to beat him into the ground as they shouted various slurs and curses Sparky didn't even bother listening to. He bit down on the shout crawling up his throat, tasting more blood as he twisted onto his side and caught a leg mid-swing. The muscles in his arms burned as he yanked hard, throwing the attacker off balance long enough to punch upward with every ounce of strength he could muster. Knuckles met jaw with a satisfying snap, and the pressure lifted for a heartbeat—just enough for Sparky to suck in a desperate breath.
He rolled to his feet in a half-lunge, shoving one of the men back into the hood of a compact car with enough force to shatter the glass. The sound of the car alarm blared to life, a shrill, erratic screech that rattled Sparky's enhanced hearing. Sweat streaked down his face, stinging his eyes and mixing with the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He could feel the slow throb of bruises blooming across his ribs, each breath a jagged pull that sent spikes of pain lancing through his chest.
The Empire crew hesitated now, their bravado thinning like smoke in the wind. What's the matter, pendejos? Not so tough when your punching bag punches back? Sparky's lip curled into a bitter grin, a feral thing full of bloodstained teeth and dark promise. "Come on, you started this." The words rasped out of his throat, rough and biting.
Now, that wasn't technically true.
Sparky had walked into the parking lot, hood up and mask on, loudly insulting various mothers and sisters in multiple ways that was unsurprisingly met with violence. Not my fault these dumbasses have no sense of humor. Still, he wasn't the one to throw the first punch.
Wait… Actually, he might have been… yeah, now that he thought about it, he was pretty sure he'd cracked that first guy across the jaw as soon as the bat came out. Whoops.
Eh. He snorted to himself as he rolled his shoulders, feeling the pop and crackle of his joints settling back into place. The pain was already fading, his enhanced healing kicking in to knit together the worst of the damage. Fuck it.
A few exchanged looks, weighing numbers against that sharp glint of eagerness in his eyes visible above the mouth mask. Sparky could practically see the gears turning in their thick skulls, trying to calculate the odds. Come on, fuckshits. I ain't got all night.
One stepped back, his hands raised in a half-hearted gesture of surrender; another followed, slinking back into the shadows like a whipped dog. Smart move, dumbasses.
The group thinned, a wary semicircle of faces caught between rage and second thoughts. Sparky planted his feet, muscles coiling as he rose from his crouch, and grabbed the closest man by the shirt collar. He grinned, a feral flash of teeth behind the black fabric of his mask. "Leaving so soon, hermano? But we were just getting started!"
He yanked hard, using the momentum to swing the guy into the side of a dented sedan. Metal crumpled, a side mirror shattered, and the man's body folded awkwardly against it, out cold before he even hit the ground. Sparky didn't let go of the grip, using the split second to whip around and catch the two closing in from his left with a glare that promised no mercy. You want some too?
They faltered, hesitation flickering across their faces like a stutter in a film reel. Just a half-step, but it was enough. Gotcha.
His muscles coiled, every part of him a tight spring ready to snap. The scent of exhaust filled his nose, sharp and acrid, mixing with the coppery tang of blood and the sour reek of fear. He could hear the scrape of gravel behind him and spun just in time to dodge a machete's gleam slicing past his ear. The whoosh of it sent a chill up his spine, the cold kiss of steel a hair's breadth from his skin. His elbow shot up, meeting the attacker's temple with a crunch that vibrated up his arm. No time to see if he crumpled—Sparky twisted, ducking under a bat's arc that came inches from cracking his skull like an overripe melon.
The wind of it grazed his neck, a whisper of what could have been. Too close. Way too close.
He felt the give of muscle and bone as he launched a knee into one man's ribcage, heard the muffled snap beneath the ragged shout as the man slumped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. The other swung wildly with a bat, panic making his aim sloppy, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Sparky sidestepped the clumsy attack, grabbed the weapon mid-swing, and yanked the bat from the man's hands. He drove it back into his shoulder with brutal precision, feeling the crunch of the joint giving way. The man's scream split the night, sharp and ragged, a sound that would have made Sparky wince if he hadn't been riding the high of adrenaline and pain.
Headlights cut through the darkness as someone scrambled into an old SUV, tires screeching as they fled, leaving their fallen comrades behind. Typical Empire loyalty. Bunch of fucking cowards. Sparky stood in the middle of the lot, chest heaving, eyes darting over the wreck of blood, broken glass, and bodies. I did this. Me.
He met Greg's gaze one last time, the weight of his friend's stare heavy even from a distance.
"This was..." Sparky muttered, more to himself than anything, the words a rough rasp in his throat. My fight. My choice. My consequences. "Mine."
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Greg watched from his perch atop the streetlight, body coiled like a spring as his eyes tracked every movement below. The parking lot had transformed into something straight out of a Mortal Kombat stage – minus the dramatic lighting and plus about twenty unconscious neo-Nazis sprawled across car hoods and concrete. A grin spread beneath his mask as he observed his friend's handiwork. Blood smears decorated vehicle panels like abstract art, and various weapons – brass knuckles, chains, even what looked like a machete – lay scattered across the asphalt like dropped loot in a beat-em-up game.
"Yeah, it was yours," Greg finally called down, unable to keep the amusement from his voice as he watched Sparky catch his breath, "and you did okay, honestly."
He launched himself from the streetlight, dropping down into what he hoped looked like an appropriately superhero-ish landing. His boots hit the ground with a satisfying thud that sent small vibrations up his legs. Perfect three-point landing. Definitely nailed the Alexandria pose there.
Sparky remained hunched over several feet away, hands braced on his knees as he sucked in air like it was going out of style. Even through the black mouth mask, Greg could practically see his friend's scowl – that particular mix of 'I just went through hell' and 'but I'd do it again' that seemed to be Sparky's default expression these days. Something about the whole scene – his normally laid-back friend standing amid a sea of groaning racists while looking ready to spit blood – struck Greg as absolutely hilarious.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
He couldn't resist.
Bringing his hands together in an exaggerated slow clap that echoed through the lot, Greg drawled, "Solid work, Apex. I'd give it, oh, I dunno... maybe a seven out of ten? Definitely room for improvement."
The look Sparky shot him could have curdled milk. One eyebrow rose above his friend's now-golden eyes in that uniquely Sparky way that managed to convey 'are you fucking kidding me?' without a single word. Despite the beating he'd clearly taken – Greg could spot at least three forming bruises and what looked like brass knuckle imprints on his friend's jaw – Sparky managed to sound perfectly deadpan as he replied through his mask, "Wow. A whole seven? Don't spoil me, dude."
Greg made a show of surveying the carnage, head tilting as he counted bodies. Let's see... three by the pickup truck, another five spread across those sedans, and – oh hey, that guy actually made it onto the roof of that Civic. Impressive distance. "Just being real," he said, gesturing expansively at their surroundings. "I mean, you got the job done… but, hey, all I'm saying is maybe try a little more... finesse? You kinda went for 'wrecking ball meets piñata' instead of, like, precision combat. Not your best work."
Greg started walking, waving for Sparky to keep up. No point staying for cops to find them or people to take pics. Apex ain't debut-ready. Not with an off-the-rack costume.
The scoff Sparky let out was pure attitude as he finally straightened up and hurried after him, though looking back, Greg didn't miss how his hands kept flexing and unflexing, like they were itching for something else to hit. "Dude, I just took on half a neo-Nazi meetup with no help. Forgive me if I didn't look like a freakin' Jedi out there."
"Sure, sure." Greg crossed his arms, letting his smirk carry through his voice even if Sparky couldn't see it behind the mask. He came to a stop as they crossed the street in another parking lot, this one empty, an alley entryway just down the street. "But I'm just saying, for the future, a little less flailing, a little more footwork…" He paused for dramatic effect, watching Sparky's eye twitch. "Might save you some bruises next time."
The eye roll Sparky gave him was Olympic-worthy. Still, Greg caught the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth – that tiny tell that meant Sparky knew he had a point but would rather eat glass than admit it. "Okay, sensei perfectionist. Next time, you're taking point, and I'll sit pretty up on the light pole."
Greg opened his mouth, ready to point out that Sparky's current strategy of 'block punches with face' could use some refinement, when every nerve in his body suddenly screamed danger. The sensation hit like an electric shock up his spine, that familiar pre-combat buzz cranked up to eleven. He didn't even think – his body was already moving, muscle memory and enhanced reflexes working faster than conscious thought.
He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Sparky's midsection in a tackle that would have made a pro footballer proud. They hit the ground hard, Greg's hand instinctively pressing Sparky's head down as intense heat suddenly filled the air. A massive yellow energy blast ripped through the space they'd just occupied, the concussive force sending chunks of pulverized concrete raining down around them.
Beneath him, Sparky let out a pained groan. "What...?"
"Fuck," Greg muttered, pushing up on his elbows as his combat senses went into overdrive. Way too much power for some random cape. Has to be someone serious.
Sparky blinked up at him, clearly still processing what just happened. "What... What was that?"
Greg rolled to his feet in one smooth motion, eyes already searching for the source of the attack. His voice was grim as he replied, "We're about to find out."
Through the settling cloud of pulverized concrete and asphalt dust, two figures materialized like characters loading into a cutscene. Greg's enhanced vision picked out details through the haze – though honestly, these guys weren't exactly trying for subtlety. The whole entrance screamed "main antagonist reveal," complete with dramatic lighting from the remaining functional street lamps casting long shadows across the debris-strewn lot.
His eyes locked first on the taller one, a walking recruitment poster in powder-blue and pristine white. The bodysuit looked military-grade, all reinforced panels and tactical webbing arranged with the kind of precision that screamed "I iron my socks." Not a wrinkle in sight, not even where the fabric stretched over impressive musculature. The full-face mask completed the look – smooth, expressionless, probably bulletproof knowing the type. Definitely the kind of guy who color-codes his protein shakes, Greg thought, fighting back a snort.
The contrast with his partner was so stark it had to be intentional. Where Mr. Perfect looked fresh off the assembly line, this guy seemed to have stumbled out of a 90s cop drama marathon. The blue blazer hanging open like he'd just finished interrogating suspects in a smoky room somewhere, that half-Windsor knot barely holding his tie together – everything about him screamed "loose cannon who doesn't play by the rules." Those wraparound visor shades probably cost as much as his usual outfit normally, but somehow managed to look exactly like something you'd impulse-buy at a gas station. Even his stubble seemed calculated, like he'd spent twenty minutes getting it to look exactly that disheveled.
A few chunks of asphalt clattered down nearby, punctuating the moment as Armsmaster's more straight-laced cousin took a measured step forward. His posture was parade-ground perfect, probably practiced that stance in front of a mirror. When he spoke, his voice was pure gravel and authority, the kind of tone that expected immediate compliance: "Kid, you better surrender now."
"Save yourselves a lot of pain — and us the trouble of delivering it," grumbled the other one.
The words hit Greg like a match to gasoline. Every muscle in his body tensed, hands clenching into fists at his sides as irritation blazed through his system. The sheer audacity of it – these guys had opened with what was basically a tactical nuke, and now they wanted to play Good Cop, Bad Cop? Though honestly, Greg mused through his rising anger, they're more like Stick-Up-His-Ass Cop and Midlife Crisis Cop.
He let out a scoff that carried all the teenage disdain he could muster, deliberately crossing his arms in a pose he'd definitely not practiced in his bedroom mirror. Even with his mask hiding his expression, he made sure his body language broadcast exactly how unimpressed he was with this whole situation. "Uh-huh. So, just to be clear, you're the ones who come out guns blazing and expect us to just... what? Respond reasonably?"
Greg caught the twitch at the corner of Blazer-Guy's mouth as the words left his mouth — that millisecond-long tell of someone trying not to laugh. For a heartbeat, he thought maybe they could dial this whole situation down from "imminent violence" to just "severe antagonism." But one glance at his partner crushed that hope. Mask-Man stood like a statue, radiating the kind of rigid intensity that suggested he probably alphabetized his sock drawer.
No humor, no annoyance.
Just that same unyielding brick wall energy.
"This isn't a negotiation," Mask-Man declared, voice as flat and cold as a concrete slab. "We're here for you, kid. Just you. Now, you can either cooperate and we'll let your friend go, or we'll bring you in the hard way. Your choice."
A sharp snort escaped Greg as he darted a look toward Sparky. His friend had finally managed to get vertical, brushing concrete dust off his costume with quick, agitated movements. Sparky looked like he was halfway between fuming and laughing, and honestly, Greg couldn't blame him.
Greg's danger sense continued to pulse steadily at the base of his skull, a constant reminder that these guys weren't jokes. Whatever that energy blast had been, it had packed enough punch to liquefy asphalt. Still, he couldn't help himself. "Oh, right, the hard way," he drawled, making sure his eye roll came through in his voice. "Because blowing up the parking lot was just you guys taking it easy, right?"
Blazer-Guy's face finally cracked into something resembling actual human emotion. He adjusted those ridiculous shades with one hand, somehow managing to make the gesture look both casual and vaguely menacing. "Look, kid, you can make this easy on yourself. Neither of you has to get hurt. Like he said, we don't even want your buddy over there. Just come with us, no fuss. Think of it as... cutting out the middleman." The grin he flashed had too many teeth to be friendly.
The sheer audacity of it made Greg's jaw clench beneath his mask. His heart rate kicked up another notch, combat instincts whispering that this was about to get real ugly, real fast. "Cutting out the middleman? Dude, you just dropped a bomb on us."
Mask-Man took another measured step forward, moving with the kind of precision that screamed 'trained fighter.' His focus locked onto Greg like a targeting system, almost without anything close to normal human emotion. "Last warning, kid. Either you come quietly, or we'll bring you in by force. You can choose the method."
Greg could feel his pulse thrumming in his ears, the danger sense in his head still buzzing faintly, like his whole body was on high alert. He gave sparky a quick side-eye, catching the brief glint in his friend's eyes that said he was game to do this the messy way.
Greg exhaled, jaw set as he drew in a steady breath, tasting concrete dust and ozone.
"Force, huh?" He let just enough edge creep into his voice to make sure they caught his meaning. "Well, I'm guessing no one told you, but that's kinda my style."
> Quest Gained!
>
> Capture or Casualty
>
> Two new cape mercenaries have arrived with one goal: to bag you, dead or alive. Interestingly, they're pulling their punches—a sign they'd prefer to drag you back breathing. But whether it's chains or a coffin they're offering, you're not buying. It's time to teach these mercs that you're not an easy target, and their restraint might just be their downfall.
>
> Objective: Defeat the two new cape mercenaries attempting to capture you.
>
> Success: 30,000 XP, +5 to [Mana Bolt].