The Black Rail was very unremarkable. It was a neighbourhood dive, sure, but not a notably grotty one. The owner kept it reasonably clean, it was conveniently located, and the drinks selection was decent. And habit was a strange beast, that had somehow made the Rail one of their three establishments of choice for starting an evening.

The place was virtually empty, as it always was during the dinner hour. Locals with jobs would come once they’d filled their bellies, and those without for some reason only spent the early hours here. The sole patron was an old man, who ignored them in favour of a large mug of lager. Well, Freel was happy to ignore him right back. The bartender, meanwhile, all but ignored his job, vanishing into the back when not called on to provide something.

“Well, boys,” Freel said as they started working on their second drink. “Things aren’t looking bad at all. Everything is in order. The boss is about to start expanding. More money, more salary… now, how do we celebrate?”

“That place to the north,” Kreb said, as he munched on one of the meatsticks they’d ordered. “Where the girls have a group rate.”

“Sure, sure,” Yules said. “One group payment for us…”

He pointed at Freel and Kreb.

“... and another one for them to agree to touch Dunton.”

He guffawed, in that ever-shrill way of his, and their messy compatriot popped out of his chair.

“Maybe I ought to drill you,” Dunton growled as he wrapped a lumpy fist around Yules’s shoulder. “You sure sound like a damn girl!”

“I will drill both your asses to your seats if you’re going to mess up my evening!” Freel said. “Dunton, take a pill. Yules, shut up for once. Tonight is going to be girls, and drinks, and music, and we’ll see what else comes along. And-”

The door opened. Freel gave it a cursory glance, then turned back to his men as they did sit back down. Then something pulled him to the door again. Some little ping of familiarity.

The man who’d just entered was handsome, in a very generic kind of way, and slightly north of his best years. He wore a jacket and pants, both as dark as his hair, and moved with a noticeable smoothness.

The man took in the bar interior, then focused his attention on Freel and his group. As he started a slow approach, Freel remembered him. He was one of those volunteers from the makeshift drug treatment place. Freel had last seen him with that uppity woman in his arms, by the balcony.

“Oh,” he said, in part to draw his boys’ attention to the newcomer. “Do you have the money?”

“Do you?” the stranger asked.

“What?”

“I did the math. You damaged 82 credit’s worth of equipment. Do you have it?”

Freel looked at his boys, and found raised eyebrows and amused bemusement. He laughed, and it triggered the boys as well.

“Oh, I have 82 credits. I think I might spend that much on drinks and snacks tonight.”

He took one of the meatsticks and started chewing on it with exaggerated flair. The stranger held his gaze, with an intensity that was quickly threatening to upset Freel’s good mood. He was all settled into relaxing, now that the day was over. But damn it if he could put up with someone trying to confront him.

The stranger came to a stop a few steps away.

“I don’t like you,” Kreb warned dangerously. His good moods went by faster than Freel’s.

“You hear that?” Freel said to the stranger. “He doesn’t like you. I don’t either. Go tell your lady friend that she has an extra 82 credits on her bill. Now piss. Off.”

He threw what remained of the meatstick. It bounced off the man’s chest. Yules laughed, and the sound of it somehow made Freel’s mood both better and worse. Kreb did his little rumble, and the stranger turned around. Yules laughed more as he walked away.

“So…” Freel said, turning away from that whole distraction and back to his good mood. “After the girls, what are you thinking?”

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“How about the Skyline?” Kreb suggested. “It’s never let me down so far.”

Freel mulled it over for a couple of seconds. There were worse ways to spend a couple of hours.

“Maybe. We-”

A sound drew his attention to the door again. The stranger had fastened it on the inside with a cycle lock.

Huh?

The stranger turned around. And he was done talking. His gaze made that very clear. He took off his jacket, draped it over the nearest chair, then did a two-second limbering routine.

Freel groaned and shook his head. So much for the good mood.

“Kreb,” he said, as the idiot started walking back towards them. “Go put his head through a table.”

Kreb was always eager to put his talents to work, and he sprang up with his face set to Full Frown.

“Come on, you dumb shit,” he said as he headed for the stranger. “Let me show-”

He charged and threw a jab mid-sentence. It was a frequent trick of his. Except the stranger evaded it, and punched Kreb right in the throat. He did it again, and again, and with the big man thoroughly stunned he launched a high kick into his face.

Kreb flew backwards, and flopped down into a coughing heap

Now Freel rose, as did the other two. Freel drew his baton, while Dunton picked up a metal stool. The stranger hopped over a table, breaking the direct line, but giving him a straight shot at Yules. He darted across the distance before Freel or Dunton could intercept, and was on Yules just as the dark, wiry man was drawing a knife. His fist was faster than the blade, and caught Yules right on the chin. The stranger took control of the man’s arm and turned both of them around. The shift put Yules’s head right in the path of Dunton’s swung stool. Seat met skull with a solid bang, and Yules went down.

The stool was a heavy and awkward weapon, and Dunton couldn’t ready another swing in time. The stranger pushed at it, shoving Dunton back. Freel came at him with the baton, but the guy rolled himself over a table and landed nimbly on his feet, putting it between them. Dunton threw the stool. It was a strong throw, but a telegraphed one, and the guy just ducked a bit. The stool flew over him and cracked a window.

Freel finally reached him, and swung. The guy evaded, but Freel pressed the assault, swinging rapidly, weaving the baton through the air in an effort to keep him off-balance.

But he was fast. The bastard was so damn fast. He was able to sneak a jab in, and the next baton-swing was weak and clumsy, and so the guy was able to launch a kick. Their shins smashed together, and Freel fell down to one knee like his leg had just been cut off. He couldn’t even yelp before another blow sailed into his face.

He rolled into a heap on the floor. He was left with a tilted view of Dunton charging in with another stool. The stranger did that table roll manoeuvre again to escape the blow, and stayed mobile.

Dunton threw the stool. The stranger ducked again, and the stool hit Yules just as he was getting up. He went down again.

“Just tackle him, shitbrain!” Freel yelled as he forced himself back up.

The baton had fallen from his hand, and when he couldn’t spot it immediately he went without, and limped at the stranger. Dunton did indeed try to go for a grapple. He was good at those. But the stranger wasn’t having it, and punched the pill-head. They traded swings for a couple of seconds, with Dunton’s back pressed against a table. Then Freel came at the guy’s flank, tasting sweet, vicious revenge as he went for a grab.

The stranger punched Freel’s outstretched fingers, and the hand lost strength and the charge lost momentum. The man hit him low in the ribs with a one two combo, and Freel staggered up against a table. Dunton took the opportunity and launched himself at the man, and now got an actual grip.

There was a one-second dance of limbs and physics, and Dunton’s own weight and force sent him face-first into the window. The weakened glass shattered, and the pill-head vanished out into the evening darkness.

Freel fought his own battered liver, battered leg and battered brain. He grit his teeth, and went at the stranger once again. He jabbed with his good hand, but the stranger let it catch on his elbow, then launched his own jabs. His fist hit Freel’s face again and again, driving sense and balance out of his head with each strike, as the impacts drove him back.

The finale was a kick right in the gut. Freel was vaguely aware that he’d landed up against the bar table, and that somehow everything was moving except him.

Kreb was struggling to get back up, while Dunton swayed against the outside of the windowsill. The latter’s face was badly cut by the glass, and he cut his hand as well when he climbed up into the frame. The stranger bounded over to him and kicked him in the leg. Dunton flew forward, sort of somersaulting on his way. His legs bounced up as he landed, and one of his shoes flew out into the street.

Kreb was now on his feet, sort of, and he leaned over the table they’d been drinking at, going for Yules’s dropped knife. The stranger came up behind him and kicked him in the back of the knee. The leg buckled, and the stranger slammed Kreb’s face down into the table. Then he snatched up the knife, and drove it through Kreb’s hand and into the table. A punch to the jaw silenced the scream. Krebs went limp, but the nailed-down hand kept him from going fully to the floor.

Yules got up on shaking feet, bleeding from two cuts in his scalp, his eyes unfocused. The stranger stepped up to him, and threw a small feint. Yules’s flinch cost him what little balance he had, and he landed on the floor with a hard thump.

The stranger finally stopped moving for a second, and let out an exhale. Then he turned to Freel.

“Clean that up.”

Freel wanted to stand. He did. But his body just wasn’t having it. The stranger walked to him, took out Freel’s wallet, and carefully counted bills out of it and stuck them in his own pocket. Then he dropped the wallet on the floor, and walked away. He stopped by the table of the only other patron.

At some point, in the whole ruckus, the old guy’s beer had spilled. The stranger fished a coin out of his pocket and put it on the man’s table.

“Sorry about that.”

And then he was off.