Twilight fell faster than I anticipated. I stuck to the back alleys, taking the circuitous route to the sports court, away from the curious eyes of vendors and home-goers. I had changed into the old jersey and gym pants, though the latter was proving to be a few sizes too small. The crisscross of streets and alleyways were almost befuddling, but I had frequented the sports court back in my school days, and it was an easy matter to re-orient myself each time I strayed too far.

The breath left me in short bursts, each footstep proving more difficult than the last. The gravity of what I intended weighed down on me as I neared my location. I leaped over a wide ditch and peeked out into the streets. I was only two blocks away now. Great.

A few loiterers hung around the alleys in the more dilapidated streets, many of them punks out for their evening smoke. The tell-tale tang of marijuana wafted across my nostrils, and I used the stench as a directional cue, giving the punks a wide berth.

Back when we’d first moved into Newtown, dad had been ecstatic. Newtown had been an experimental project at the time, orchestrated by the big wings of the government. It had been called a dream city, carved out of a chunk of Ogun state, to represent the Nigerian ideal moving forward. It had also fallen out of favor when the next dream city had been established.

The Old Integrated Layout was about the only memory of Ogun that remained in Newtown and as such, it housed the least desirable sorts. Dad had bought the house with his and mom's savings, relocated the family, and promised mom that value would soar by the time all kinds of direct investments trickled into the city. He eventually trickled to another woman, some lawyer acquaintance of his based in the high-ends.

Dad had other kids now and spent the rest of his days basking in the affluence of his new wife. Talk about a direct investment.

My arms throbbed and I smiled, feeling the tension ratchet up within me. Good. I needed to be angry. In a way, it was dad's fault we’d moved homes from Ekiti to Newtown. Dad's fault we’d ended up at the Layout. Dad’s fault for the split.

If he hadn't been such an asshole, mom wouldn't have had to take unrewarding shifts at the hospital to make ends meet. She wouldn't be home late all the time, and Gunner would’ve never gotten the chance to mug her.

Thanks for everything, dad.

I reached the sports court: a sprawling field set aside for games and recreation. Individual arenas stood sectioned off from each other, separated by wire mesh fences. Within them, enthusiasts partook in nearly everything from basketball to footy to table tennis.

Even more people roamed the corridors between the sections. Families went about their activities, couples traipsed around on dates, and the merry-goers squealed, adding to the babel. They gathered around the food stalls that lined one end of the court, and when they weren't haggling over barbecued meat and roasted corn and pears, they clung to the fences, watching games that caught their interest.

The sports court was just about the only event center in the Layout. In consequence, it drew a crowd across all ages.

I donned my flat cap and joined the throng. The pool tables stood at the east end of the sports court, sandwiched between the jumping arena and the tennis lawns. I circled the section, keeping an eye out for my quarry. Boys my age milled around the tables, interacting with a separate group of older men in their fifties.

It was going to suck if I came this far out only to miss Gunner. The longer I hung around, the greater the odds that someone recognized me. Time to switch tactics.

“Excuse me, I am looking for some dude named Gunner.”

The kid I accosted, a boy with a face full of pockmarks frowned at me. “Don't know that name.”

I moved on, twisting between the tables and the players gathered around them.

“Anyone seen Gunner?” I asked.

No one gave me so much as a grunt.

I was about to return to the corridor when I spotted a tall teen hunched over a table. His left arm was covered in tattoos, and though it galled me to admit it, his entire demeanor screamed gangster. He took his shot and leaned backward, eyes focused on the placement of the balls.

“Gunner ‘round here?” I asked, coming up from behind.

“Who's asking?” he drawled, without even looking.

“A friend.”

He turned and gave me a once over.

Dammit. The right side of my face was still swollen.

He probably ascertained that it was no big because he returned to his game. “Went off towards the food stalls. Should be back anytime now.”

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“Thanks.”

I moved out of the ring and into the adjacent wall climbing arena. Then, finding a bleacher with a good view of the pool tables, I waited.

Gunner wasn't difficult to recognize. He sported a football jersey, his name printed in bold on its back. Two friends accompanied him, one of them a girl who looked uncomfortable with his arm around her shoulder.

Had I really gotten into a fight with this guy? Lean muscles, taut like cords, rippled on his arms. Said arms featured a dizzying array of scars that looked suspiciously like slash wounds. Gunner was everything I'd imagined an apex predator to be. In comparison, I was probably a rabbit.

Gunner joined his friends at the pool tables, jeering and showing missing teeth. Tattoo guy handed him a cue stick and all five of them started on a game. I settled in to watch them, biding my time.

They really were jobless.

It was a quarter past seven before Gunner decided he'd had enough. Most of the crowd had dispersed by then. Anyone with a half-brain would shun the dimly lit courts for the safety of their homes. The ones who dallied were people like Gunner. People who moved in large enough groups, or were angels of the night, or both.

Gunner was both. He stalked the corridors alongside his three friends and the girl, making a loud enough racket that other groups veered away from their path. I trailed them at a measured pace, slipping in and out of shadows. Four men had been present at the car too yesterday, of similar builds to Gunner’s crew, though I couldn't quite tell in the rain.

It seemed a little too convenient that all four would band together on the day I chose to retaliate, but I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Mom’s necklace was more important and the likelihood they had it on them increased with the number of persons.

My pulse quickened as they took a turn that cut past the football field and led out of the sports court, where a small crowd waited. Then one of them—Tattoo guy, I think—said something, and they backtracked north, in the general direction of the track lanes. A small number of narrow, dimly lit corridors lay between the track lanes and the adjoining courts. I wouldn't be getting a better chance.

I shoved the keys and empty spray cans into my pockets, and slid what was left into the waistband of my pants. Then, can in each hand, I threw my bag aside. They were halfway down a corridor when I reached them.

“Gunner!” I said, the blood throbbing in my ears.

Gunner turned, and I let one missile fly. It collided with his torso, and he staggered, not nearly enough to down him.

“You fucker!” I swore, aiming the second can.

They were trained fighters, I'd admit. Either that or they'd been in enough street fights to pick up some tricks. The corridor was narrow so they scampered up the sides of the wire mesh fences. But they didn't run away from me. They ran toward me.

My second shot blasted off faster than the first and struck one of the climbers in the shin. He crumpled with a cry. I grabbed another can, right as a flash of silver glinted in the dim lighting. The knife sailed past my head, missing by scant inches. I righted myself, aimed . . . fuck, I almost hit the girl. She ran in the opposite direction.

An attacker came down the fence at my side, weapon glinting. I threw the can more than I accelerated it, and it ricocheted off his head. He screamed and backed away.

“S-stones!” he cried through a mouthful of blood. “He's throwing stones!”

I scored another shot at his head and ripped a can free from my pants. Gunner bowled into me. Pain, white and hot, seared through my brain. I hit the fence, my arsenal clattering to the floor.

“Who are you?” Gunner said. “Who the hell are you?”

Blows descended on my face and gut.

I couldn't lose like this again.

I pushed against Gunner, screaming with all my might. He vibrated for a tenth of a second and rocketed toward the opposite fence. The wire mesh toppled with a bang, sending Gunner rebounding off the floor.

Tattoo guy had been following behind Gunner, and he screamed, lashing out with a knife. I scampered backward, reaching for my pockets. The cans were gone, but the heavy weight of keys settled in my hand. I dodged another swing, aimed, fired. Tattoo guy crumpled, facedown on the pavement.

I took a deep breath. A conflagration roared in my chest as if a lighter had been taken to the baggage within me. Shouts rose around us, too far off to matter. One of the thugs—the one I’d struck in the shin—tried to crawl away. I fired a can at him for good measure.

I turned to Gunner, an indescribable feeling welling in my gut. It rose like a mushroom cloud, sweeping past the conflagration and erupting in my ears and cheeks. I allowed it, parting my lips:

I'd won.

“Get up,” I growled, kicking Gunner in the face.

Gunner muttered something, delirious.

“Get up!”

He swung at me, but it was too easy. I grabbed his arm and shot him into the fence.

“Please!” he said, in between screams. “Just leave me alone.”

I seized his chin and slammed his head to the ground. “Where is it?” I said. “Where is the necklace?”

“W-what?”

“The necklace, you fool!”

“I don't know what you are saying!”

Bastard! My fist came down on his face, forcing him to eat dirt. “Gunner, I am not going to ask again.”

Gunner looked up at me, unseeing. The sharp tang of blood filled the air. “Y-you . . . You're a Super?” he said. “Why me? What did I even do to you?”

A few more voices joined the first set of shouts. People were starting to notice.

“Last night,” I said, strangely tranquil, “you attacked a helpless woman out in the rain. You and your cronies. You took her phone and her necklace. All I want is the necklace. Where is it?”

Gunner's eyes expanded to the size of dinner plates. “I didn't attack no one last night! I was with my ma!”

“Don't lie to m—”

“I'm not lying! It was raining and—”

I slapped him across the face. “Don't lie to me!”

“I'm not! Fuck! We were watching the game at my place. All four of us. Me, Rachel, Tayo and Tems! You can go ask my ma!” Gunner curled in on himself, whimpering. “I didn’t sign up for no fight with no Supers. You killed them, yeah? Oh god, you killed them.”

A chill slithered down my spine, even though the weather should have been humid. The conflagration still raged, but the cloud of euphoria started to wane. I looked at the unmoving bodies around me and recoiled at what resembled a pool of blood. A short distance away, people approached with flashlights.

“Gunner,” I said, arms shaking. “Where were you yesterday night?”

He sniffled, tears streaming down his face. “Screw you. I just said, didn't I? There's no way I’d miss the game for anything. Not when it’s fucking raining outside!”

I let him go. I grabbed my bag and the weapons I could gather. Then I fled the sports court.