and there's more baddies to beat up

[scarabsuited]

WHO: Tim and Jaime
WHERE: them mean City streets
WHEN: Late night 5/13
WARNINGS: manly adolescent anguish i guess 8|;;
SUMMARY: OUR LIVES SUCK let's beat people up and pretend we're okay
FORMAT: No





The fights were starting to blend together, and Jaime had the faintest notion that it wasn't a good thing. Not enough notion to quit, but enough to make a note to slow it up. Eventually. Once this was done.

"Fuckin' freak!" shouted the fatter gang member.

"Hold 'im!" shouted the shorter one.

Try it, thought the Blue Beetle, planting his feet and crossing his arms in front of himself. His hands molded and elongated to swordpoint, slashing out with the flats and sending the fat man on his fat behind. He'd be fine. Fat people have a natural cushion.

The shorter one--who was still taller than Jaime, he was annoyed to note--wrapped his arms around Jaime's neck from behind, yanking him backwards. It was annoying. Jaime elbowed at him repeatedly, but the guy had a good hold. All that Tower training about grips and holds went to mush in the midst of adrenaline and cussing, so Jaime was having himself a bit of a struggle. "All--right! Let! Go!" he grunted, having to reshape his hands for fingers to grip the thick arms trying to suffocate him.

All the while, fat man and his three buddies seemed to remember they had guns. Great. Fat man said something Jaime didn't catch, walking up and pressing the barrel of the gun against his temple. At first, Jaime's stomach dropped with dread--a natural reaction. Oh, no.

Scarab reminded him he was in armor, though, and he just scowled, digging his nails into the shorter man's arms in attempt to free himself before bullets were fired.

I wouldn't be in this mess if it were a school night...

Comments

[notlikeanyone]

With all the chaos that was threatenng to erupt in the City of late, all the new arrivals and people leaving - people he'd known and cared about, but at least they weren't dead, at least as far as he knew - with all of that, patrolling was something of a relief. A routine that he could follow and hold on to, here just like he would in Gotham (not any more). A constant, even if the individual patrols varied themselves.

What wasn't a relief, at all, was the sight of Jaime with a gun held to his head. Cool logic raced through his head, reminding him that Jaime's armour could take a bullet, even at that range, that he'd be fine, that actually, the assailants were probably facing more trouble from ricochets than Jaime was from them - but it was all outpaced by the reflexive reaction.

A number of discs flew from his hands, zinging through the air and hitting each of the guys - in the head, or in the arm, stunning them or forcing them to drop their guns, and if they were going to be stubborn about holding onto them? That would be where Tim came in, moving in and out of the shadows so fast that, save for the glint of gold and flash of red, he seemed like one of them come to life, lashing out with his staff with a sharp, hard efficiency to his strikes.

[scarabsuited]

It took a moment for Jaime to register what Big Bird, 6 o'clock even meant, but by the time he recognized the familiar cape and cowl swooping onto the scene, the Scarab was well to work on the guy-hanging-on-from-behind problem. A testament to too much football watched, the bottoms of Jaime's plated shoes grew spikes--makeshift cleats more inclined to digging into concrete than a lawn. He dug in and gave a good backwards shove, slamming the short man against the dumpster just behind them. Twice.

Three times, then, until the grip was finally loose enough and Jaime could bend forward and throw him over his shoulder. He caught scrambling arms underfoot (cleated no more, much to the man's mercy) and held him in place while he took to targeting those still standing. It was a superhero sandwich of sorts, with the three remaining--and presently disarmed--men back to back to back, scowling and panting and cussing each other and the boys that had them surrounded, debating over who to tackle first. The shortie on the ground was of no help, only really supplying "ow" and "dammit", among other things.

When Jaime's fingers elongated to points with an overdramatic shing, they jumped. When said fingers crackled with pale blue electricity, they cussed and two of the three shoved their buddy forward with hardly an encouraging word, turning their attentions to the shadows at their backs. Two for the bird, one for the bug. Odds weren't really in their favor.