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“You’re not getting away this time, buddy,” Lash flew over the Fairfax cargo in hot pursuit of the figure. He threw out a rope to them and looped it on their briefcase expertly as he flew through the air. “Ahah… gotcha.”.
They zipped away in a blip of magic.
“Damnit,” Lash said halfheartedly. The ritual was practically over, the enemy patron crying out in despair as he spread his arms wide, enjoying the breeze while he flew.
He hadn’t seen this figure all night? Day? In hindsight, pregaming the ritual wasn’t the best idea– but he had it in the bag. Now that it was nearly over, all he had to do was keep this one off of his team's base while they finished off the enemy patron.
Lash narrowed his gaze at the figure. Who the hell wears all those layers to a fight?
As he descended to the small bridge above the walker, he could hear them scrambling. “No, no, no,” they murmured, like they were chasing after loose papers and not running from death.
Not that he was hankering to kill them; as long as they took their defeat against the Lash with grace. It was never gonna end any other way.
And he’d be lying if he said the chase wasn’t fun.
Both ways… Lash was a flexible guy after all.
The walker slammed down on the wave of small automatons, and Lash watched for a moment as the figure gathered themselves and fired shotgun blasts at them, standing just below the walker.
Lash waited for the walker to settle before he grappled a nearby building and slammed down, sending a spirit infused blast of energy at the figure, the walker, and the small minions.
The figure fell on their ass from the force with a surprised grunt, and Lash chuckled as he gracefully retreated back to the bridge. “Aww, don’t feel bad! There was no way your team was gonna win against The Lashhh.”
As they stood up and dusted themselves off, Lash made eye contact with the trenchcoat-wearer. From this distance, he couldn’t quite make out details of their face. Definitely scruffy, he thought, looking at the many layers, long orange scarf, and the wild, desperately-in-need-of-a-haircut-or-some-pomade hair.
The figure stayed in their spot under the walker, but opened their briefcase as they spoke calmly, “I’ve hardly seen you all night, are you sure it’s you getting the work done? Or just your team?”
Their voice was very middle management; full of anger born from lack of true authority. Youthful, and presumptuous. Like someone fresh out of college– not that Lash would know college…
“Are you kidding? All the Lash does is work for the team!” It wasn’t a lie– he had been flying across lower Manhattan the whole ritual, clearing the enemy automatons while the rest of the team had fun.
Buuuut he’d also not been there for most of the important fights. Hey, he’d had a long shift before, it wasn’t his fault! Maybe the drinking was though…
Before Scruffy had a chance to speak back, Lash tried again to grab the briefcase with rope, and they retreated into the briefcase this time. Looks like they weren’t lying when they said they hadn’t seen what the Lash could do. They were about to find out.
Lash took the opportunity to slam down on the walker, and it buckled under the pressure. A few more shots and–
Lash was hit with a spirit blast as Scruffy blasted out of the briefcase, and he failed to back off from the walker as it slammed down, sending him flying a few metres back.
Stars in his vision, he stood slowly, hand on his knee as he laboured to get up. He could afford to die– but he’d already died a few times that night, and was hoping to avoid it.
It sucked. Big time. Best to be avoided.
Drenched in sweat, he was pretty certain the wetness on the back of his head was a little more than just that, and his attempt to shake off the pain only resulted in more ringing in his ears.
Lash looked up at Scruffy, who was holding their gun up at him, mouth moving.
He couldn’t hear them.
“It’s game over baby,” he whispered. They must have seen the elation in his eyes, because Lash moved just before a gun blast– that much he could hear– slammed into the wall where he just was.
He kicked off the wall and threw out a rope on a lamppost, using his repelling gear to quickly gain more height.
Twisting his body in one swift movement, he threw a lasso out at the apex of his swing, right around Scruffy’s waist, and pulled it taught around their waist as he flew down for the finishing blow…
They went into the briefcase.
Again.
“Are you kidding me?!” Lash yelled in frustration as he slammed down on the walker, destroying it and rolling into standing position just out of the way of the falling parts.
At the same time, the figure reemerged from the briefcase with another blast. Lash immediately knew something was different from the last blast. He could feel a disgusting, chemical coating hit him, and his skin burned painfully.
Every breath felt like he was pulling in chemicals, agonizing his lungs– not unlike the time he’d evacuated a warehouse fire in the past.
He was dying again. Ugh.
But that didn’t matter right now, because the dumb kid was too busy looking at Lash with a horrified expression to notice the falling walker that was about to crush them to death– with no patron to save them.
Lungs burning, Lash rushed at them, grabbing them by the chest and keeping momentum. Unfortunately in his haste, he had no time to soften the blow as he slammed them down on their back, and he rolled off them as they both gasped for breath– side by side on the ground.
To his surprise, the pain from whatever he had been afflicted with subsided, and Lash found himself laughing as he turned to see Scruffy still gasping for breath– but alive. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you Scruffy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Lash sat up and wiped his sweaty face off on his forearms. He could hear his team's patron cheering in triumph– it was over.
Scruffy finally started to sit up, coughing as they clutched their chest with one hand, the other never leaving the briefcase at their side. Lash leered at them but didn’t say anything. What, do they have tuberculosis? I didn’t hit them that hard… No, I definitely hit that hard. … That one’s on Lash.
“Sorry kid, but you picked the wrong team.”
“I’m not a kid,” Scruffy corrected with all the joy of someone who just lost their balloon at a ballgame. “...What are you, middle aged?”
“Thirty is not middle aged!” Lash nearly exploded.
“No, it’s not,” they agreed, a tiny smirk on their otherwise crushed expression. “That’s what makes it funnier.”
Kids these days. “Ahh, little man has jokes–”
“Not a man– ” they sighed with annoyance. “Name’s Pocket.”
Lash chuckled for a half second before pursing his lips, nibbling on his moustache in the process. “Pocket, riiiight… was Trenchcoat taken?” He asked innocently.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” they said with a practiced-yet-tired tone.
Lash took a moment to look at the kid. Dusty, used coat, baggy eyes, fists clenched, chest heaving…
“You’re damn right, Pocket,” Lash grabbed harness straps and puffed out his chest. “...Look…I’m not gonna hold your hand; your patron’s good as dead… I don’t want you dead, but…” He thought of the team he aligned himself with. A few screws loose, but mostly trustworthy… “You might want to hit the road, capiche?”
“Do you hear yourself?” Pocket scoffed. “You sound near illiterate–”
“Don’t judge a book by its cover, Pocket” Lash warned. “Whatever that–” he pointed to the briefcase at their side, “-thing is, I know it’s bad, baad stuff. Fairfax stuff. And the only thing worse than Fairfax and their union busting bullshit,” Lash lowered his tone as he crouched down, “...is a damn class traitor, Scruffy.” There was no humour in his voice now.
Pocket held his stare, jaw clenched. He took a moment to look Lash up and down, and Lash couldn’t help but smirk. No one could help but look at him, even in a moment of stress, could they? “I’m… it’s not like that… I stole this.” Pocket admitted quietly.
“Not bad Scruffy!” Lash gave him a wide smile, which Pocket returned with a sour face. “And for the record, The Lash speaks in the layman’s voice… but what would you know, you’ve never worked a day in your life, have you?”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Pocket said, sitting up taller, not looking at him now. “...Krill is gonna kill me for coming here,” he muttered to himself, and Lash could see his grip getting tighter on the briefcase. “I really needed this.”
“What you need is some meat on your bones,” Lash pitied them. Snobby attitude, clothes that look deliberately meant to obscure their figure...
Bizarre Fairfax tech… Oh. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to be related to Maxi–”
“Don’t you dare,” Pocket snapped his head up.
Lash held up his hands briefly. “Hey, your secret’s safe with me,” He offered a hand.
Pocket hesitated before taking the hand. Lash felt a little guilty about nearly dislodging their shoulder as he pulled them up. “...You need to eat your greens, Pocket.”
Pocket didn’t look at him as he brushed himself off. “Yeah, and you need to learn when to stop talking,” he muttered.
“Aww, don’t mope,” Lash patted them on the back. “You’ll get the next ritual.”
Pocket turned back to them, faced scrunched in anger “You– ” They stopped themselves, taking a moment to collect their anger. “Wish I could say it was nice meeting you… ” Pocket seemed to have missed Lash’s multiple introductions. How inconsiderate.
“Lash,” Lash put on his best grin. “Jacob Lash. Charmed. And I forgive you, you probably got lost in my big brown eyes… happens allll the time.” He winked at them.
“I’m going to go now before your teammates kill me,” they deadpanned, before starting to walk away.
“Good idea,” Lash agreed. “Take care of yourself, Pocket!” he called out as they got a little ways away.
Pocket gave him the finger over his shoulder.
“There it is,” Lash smiled fondly as he watched them walk away.
He might not see them again… but he had a feeling it would be a fun time the next time he did.
He took a moment to yawn before heading into the enemy base. “Time to wish for Bebop’s stupid mom to be healed or whatever.”
The End.