Delinquency

by Daemon McRae

Level Six: FIGHT

Level Six: FIGHT

Dust Devil didn’t do well with sitting around. When it came to his friends, at least they usually had something to do. For now, though, Spooks was nerding it up with Twilight, Treble was sitting in his time-out chair, and Rubble had taken off to answer a last-minute call from his mom. With assurances that he’d be back to give a ride home to anyone who needed it, he’d left the group stranded, and worst of all, he’d left Dusty with nothing to do.

Being the kind of kid who always wanted to challenge himself one way or another, he didn’t do very well just sitting around. Sure, he enjoyed relaxing with the occasional smoke, but he didn’t light up anywhere near as often as Treble did. He was, after all, an athlete of sorts. Lung capacity was mildly important. They’d already eaten, as well, so he couldn’t really occupy himself in the kitchen without wasting food, something the group had already chastised him for on earlier occasions. Not to mention he wasn’t exactly the academic type, so joining the study buddies on the far side of the room was about as appealing as, well, doing nothing like he was right now.

So he settled for the next best thing: going outside. The building they’d taken to holing up in was one of many abandoned sites in the area. What wasn’t abandoned was permanently “under construction” or “opening soon”. It was a small two or three blocks of outer South Canterlot, where a variety of former gang activity, earthquakes, and union strikes had made the place a realtor’s hellhole. Not wanting to put the time or money into revitalizing it, and instead spending all their funding on the parts of Canterlot that looked best in the tourism brochures, the city council had basically left the place to rot.

Which worked out fine for kids like Dust Devil and his friends. It also left quite a bit of open space, mostly concrete, where Dusty could really let loose with his skating. One of the many reasons he never took of his elbow and knee pads anymore, besides the benefit of improvised armor whenever they were fighting god-knows-what, was the freedom to take to the streets wherever he was. He’d been all over this area on a skateboard, scooter, in-line skates, and his current attire, his Heeley’s. Basically tennis shoes with skate wheels built into them, they were one of the few pieces of athletic equipment he was allowed to wear in class. He made a point of not skating in the halls for fear of losing that privilege, too.

They hadn’t been too happy with the black marks his longboard had left on the gym floor last year.

Of course, Dusty wasn’t really an in-school delinquent, like his friends. While Rubble had a tendency to get into fight, Treble was a hopeless flirt who spent a little too much time worrying about girls than grades, and Spooks just kind of terrorized the general population (if mostly on accident), Dusty was the closest to an actual juvenile delinquent out of the crowd. He was developing a nice rap sheet for trespassing and reckless behavior, with a minor in graffiti.

Taking to the streets with a little less reckless abandon as usual, he took a moment to gather his thoughts. How, exactly, were they going to stop a ritual they couldn’t even describe, let alone find? What if they couldn’t stop it at all? How were they going to take down a five-story giant armed literally to the teeth?

What if this wasn’t even the monster they were supposed to be worrying about?

Spooks’ intel was the closest thing they had to reliable, and he’d been wrong a couple of times before. Dusty still had the scars from when they’d all geared up to fight a pack of ghouls, only to find a pack of werewolves instead. Werewolves were much better hunters.

The little wraith had explained his suspicions before (in a way that made Dusty and Rubble doze off halfway through), but honestly they all knew they were shooting in the dark pretty much every time they tried getting ahead of the game. Spooky was a bit more confident in his findings than usual, however, which gave Dusty some confidence of his own, but really all he could do was sit back and wait, hope for the best, and start swinging when the bad guys showed up.

The skater braked to a halt, not realizing he’d done a full lap around the block in his reverie, and stared at the front of the building they’d appropriated. Covered in all kinds of strange graffiti, mostly Dusty’s, to anyone else it just looked like a favorite spot for taggers. He knew better, though. Spooky Bones had given him a series of sigils to put up around the building, wards and charms to keep them protected from scrying and various other mystical bullshit, and Dusty had taken to it like a champ. At least, he thought so. Giving his handiwork a once-over, he noticed some smart-ass had left another tag in the corner, overlapping one of the smaller symbols. “Son of a bitch. It’s not even the right color,” Dusty groaned, giving up his skating in favor of his due diligence as “wardmaster”.

He snapped his wheels back into his shoes, and started digging around a small hiding spot in the rubble for a spare can of paint. Just as his fingers met the familiar metal cylinder, he heard a rustle in the bushes on the back side of the building, just out of view of where he was. Ignoring it at first, making the assumption that some local wildlife was scurrying about, the sound drew his attention again when it got louder. And closer.

Then it showed up. Crashing its way through the bushes came a figure Dusty could only ever describe as a monster: humanoid only in the loosest sense, in that it stood on two legs and had two arms and a head, everything else about it was… wrong. The head itself was misshapen, as if it had been a painting that had melted slowly, the round features of a normal face giving way to an angular visage of distorted flesh that looked more like a growth than a proper body part. Too many eyes blinked from all the wrong directions, running from the top of its bald head down to it’s chest, like rain drops that spun in their sockets. The arms were less arms and more ‘logs of flesh that bent in certain places’. The hands were just as disturbing: large stumps with negligible digits, like the palm had overgrown the rest of the hand.

Its legs were tree stumps made of rippling, disturbing flesh, and its torso was all over scar tissue, like someone had had to sew it together over and over until they got it right. Which, Dusty imagined, was the most likely scenario. Of course, the worst part was the mouth. It was always the mouth. It was a gaping wound where the creature’s neck should have been, like someone had just learned to slit throats and taken to it with the kind of eager zealotry you’d expect from a beginner. The only thing keeping it from unhinging the head was the flesh on the shoulders that fused to the face. Dusty doubted there was even room for a throat: the mouth hung open wide, and all he could see was teeth, misaligned, unmatched, teeth of all sizes and shapes.

He didn’t know what was worse: how ugly it was, or how quiet. All that flesh, all that mouth, and it wasn’t making a sound beyond the slap of its footfalls.

“Greetings, Fuglimous Maximus the Third!” Dusty cheered, not moving from his post. His hand groped quietly amongst the rubble, foregoing the spray can in favor of one of the other items in his stash.

Namely, the big fucking metal wrench.

Dusty beat the heels of his shoes on the sidewalk, feeling the wheels pop back out again, and he rolled backwards to give himself some space to gain momentum. “Ain’t no place like home,” he mused, an in-joke of his that only Spooks really ever got.

The beast had obviously seen him, and shambled forth with a speed Dusty hadn’t expected. Fortunately, it wasn’t as fast as his running, which was nowhere near as fast as his skating. He backed up, slowly at first, luring the creature into the street. When it had lined itself up in the middle of the road like a good little bowling pin, Dusty turned around and bolted. Only for a block or two, mind, as he drifted to the right. Hooking the wrench on an old, bent signpost, he pivoted around, all but launching himself in the flesh beast’s direction.

“Swing battah battah!” he jeered, the wrench dragging on the sidewalk, sparks flying behind it. He leaned forward, pulling his improvised weapon into both hands as he made a beeline for his opponent. The lumbering mutation lurched forward, meeting the challenge with all the intelligence of a bag of skin and muscle (which it was), as Dusty again drifted to the right.

He brought the wrench up in an arc that carried with it all the momentum and force Devil could muster, connecting with the creature’s upper jaw, and tearing it’s mouth all the way open. The sickening ‘squish-crack’ sound it made echoed over the buzzing of Dusty’s wheels, a sound he wouldn’t soon forget. The skater made it a dozen feet or so before he wheeled himself around, braking to a stop to get a good look at his handiwork.

The thing’s entire head had been knocked back, but not off, as it’s mouth was now a plateau of flesh and teeth atop a mountain of freak show. And still it shambled. Dusty doubted it had a brain in it’s head to even shut down, let alone an obvious weak spot. So he did what any good soldier does: call for backup.

He beat the wrench on the pavement, the metal clanking echoing through the silent streets. “FIGHT!” he yelled, and charged the beast again, not waiting for a response.

He was all ready to take another swing at the beast, when he learned a moment to late that it, too, learned. He’d drifted to the side, mush like last time, only to be met with a log-like arm across the face as the beast swung wildly at his head.

The blow knocked stars into his vision as he tumbled an uncomfortable speed down the road, rolling end-over-end on the sidewalk. When he finally came to a stop, a trickle of red in his vision served as an uncomfortable reminder. “Oh, right. Forgot a helmet. Shitty,” he groaned, pulling himself to his hands and knees. The rest of him hadn’t fared nearly as bad. Always wear your elbow and knee pads, kids. He looked around for his wrench, only to see the blow had knocked it right out of his hands, and it was currently in a rather suboptimal position: on the other side of the monster.

The beast surged forward, and even made it a few heavy steps before another sound drew its attention. The slamming of a big metal door as Treble, Spooks, and then Twilight all ran into the street.

“THE FUCK IS THAT?!” Treble shrieked, in a rather unmanly voice. One that Dusty filed away for later under ‘Things to Mock DT With’.

Spooks took a moment to answer. “Well, the good news is, we now know for sure that the hecatoncheires is a thing.”

“And the bad?!” Teble asked, in a slightly lower pitch. Still sounded like a girl, Dusty thought.

“THAT is a flesh golem,” Spooks said simply, as he rummaged through his messenger bag; an accessory Dusty hadn’t noticed until now. The kid pulled out a spray can and a lighter, and inched towards the beast.

Treble just shook his head, “Well, fuck me. We gotta fight like a hundred of these things?” He dug his hands into his pockets, and came up with brass knuckles on each hand. Not strictly illegal in Canterlot, but frowned upon. Mostly. When there was someone around to do the frowning.

The golem lunged towards the new threat, as Treble took advantage of its slow speed and minimal intelligence, ducking under it and landing a blow to its torso that, on any regular person, might have broken ribs. To the golem it was like a clap on the back that missed.

Dusty took advantage of the distraction to put his wheels back in his shoes, and close the distance between him and his wrench. The beast took notice, most likely because it now literally had eyes in all directions, and stumbled backwards after him. There was a sickening crack and pop as its arms reoriented themselves, so they could reach behind it like it was the front all along.

“Oh that’s just wrong,” Dusty groaned, almost ready to hurl. He led his wrench like a sword, and steadied himself to take a swing, when he heard a slight clicking sound.

Then it got really bright and hot, as Spooks turned his spray can and lighter into an improvised flamethrower. Searing heat and bright light washed over the plateau of teeth and rows of eyes in a moment, as the arms flailed about wildly. Dusty stepped back in case one of the meat logs caught him in the shoulder, or worse, the head again. The golem seemed to finally realize exactly what part of itself was on fire, as it smacked itself wildly about the head and neck.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Dusty mused, changing stances and holding the wrench above his head like a hammer. He brought it down with all the weight and strength he had, catching the top half of the beast’s head, and tearing it the rest of the way off.

It flailed for a bit longer, then fell to its knees. Then finally, it fell all the way forward, as the flames sought out the rest of their fuel in its flesh.

In a few minutes it would be nothing but ash and bone.

“Well, good news good news bad news time,” Dusty grinned, tasting blood through the smile.

“Good news?” Spooks asked.

“You were right about the golems and the Hundred-handed ones,” Dusty answered.

“Bad news?” Treble followed up, looking for the world like he was trying not to hurl.

“These things hit like fucking mach trucks,” Dusty groaned, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.

There was an uncomfortable splashing sound as Twilight lost her lunch against a street sign. “Wha-what’s the...” she stopped as another wave of bile hit the pavement. “What’s the other good news?” she asked weakly, wiping her mouth. She looked up in time to see a familiar station wagon pull op the road with its headlights on.

“We know how to kill them: break off their heads and burn them,” Dusty explained, gesturing to the diminishing pile of flesh and flames in the middle of the street as an example.

The station wagon’s driver door slammed as Rubble got out. “Aw, man?! You fuckers got to the fighting without me?! You all suck!”

Comments

[FanOfMostEverything]

At this rate, I expect Level Seven will be entitled "AAAAAAA".

In any case, good demonstration of both the team's experience and the intensity of the threat. Take that golem and multiply it by one hundred forty-nine.

[Jarimor]

I can sympathize with Rubble.

[Ytak]

If you were the script writer for a horror movie, I'd be likely to see it (and I don't even care for horror movies). This works for me.

[The Hermit]

How were they going to take down a five-story giant armed literally to the teeth?

With a dance battle of course.