Marbles Chapter Two Part Two (Patreon)

After I had gotten the location of the place I was expected to clock in and out yet, a small wall panel in the offices that ran Kronos. 

Like all other times I had used Kronos since crossing over, it was the same number: 67495. I have no concrete evidence for why this was, but my prevailing theory is that the way your universe works is different than mine in subtle ways as well as the obvious. See,  in my universe, getting the same set of numbers repeatedly out of what was supposed to be a random string was such low astronomical odds that it happening twice would be considered insane, let alone the seven or eight times it had happened over here. 

Anyways, I started walking along the back of the plant, near the docks. The smell was wretched: fun fact, 90% of the shit that Ace made could be used to make smilex. What the comics and games and movies never mentioned is that smilex smells like absolute shit. Like, absolutely rancid. I barely have a sense of smell and the few times I've had the displeasure of sniffing smilex fumes, it nearly made me throw up. 

This was liquid smilex I'm talking about, to be clear. The gaseous stuff I've never been exposed to, thank fuck: a small sniff and you start rictus-ing. I had seen it happen to a few people: it wasn't pretty.

Those two paragraphs were for those of you who live in Metropolis, a shinier city thats shittier than Gotham because at least we don't have Lex fucking Luthor: that fucking bald-head is one of the FEW people I consider worse than the Joker, and the fact absolutely nobody had ran him over is something that will always bother me. 

Note to self, look into feasibility of running down Lex Luthor in my car. Back to the narrative though: so, I was walking along the docks, doing my best to keep my stomach settled from the stench. Occasionally, I would shine a light under the docks, these long, rickety things that hadn't been up to code twenty years ago. Empty. 

Empty.

People. "Hey, whoever you are, you better scram," I said, staring down the three guys who were looking at me in surprise, all of them in dark hoodies: two of them white, the last one that kind of dark skinned where you can't really tell the specific ethnicity other than 'brown': probably mixed-race. "You don't gotta go home but you can't stay here: bosses orders."

The three of them looked at each other awkwardly, trying to have a silent conversation. I sighed. "Look, I'm not here to bust you: you want to shoot up, that's your perogative. But   you can't do it at Ace Chemical," I said, gesturing at the water. "Besides, the waters a fucking health hazard: for christ sake, you wanna do blow, do it somewhere other than under the dock of the fuckin' smilex company. Find a closed down metro or condemned apartment building: you'll thank me in ten years when you don't have joker-leukemia."

"...Fuck, is that a thing? I don't want no blood cancer man," One of them, a fella with blonde hair with sunken eyes: guy looked skinny, wasting, and he definitely had a bit of a tremor. My immediate thought was either meth or epilepsy. If it was the former, he had probably been doing it for a few years: not enough to really destroy his body yet, but you could tell the damage was setting in.

"Shut the fuck up Carl, let me handle this," One of them said, puffing his chest out and drawing a gun from his waistband. This one had curly red hair, freckles, and looked a little older than the aforementioned Carl, albeit probably healthier. Probably a more recent addict, I guessed, but who knows, he coulda been the dealer. "I dunno who the hell you think you are, but unless you want to get a cap, I suggest you mind your own fucking business, Holmes."

"'Holmes'?" I said, deadpan. "Don't try to use hood language dude, you're about two shades too pale for it to look cool: it just makes you look like a fake as fuck white dude," I said, causing him to falter, not knowing how to proceed. "Now seriously, leave: this is getting old."

"My guy, I have a gun," He sputtered. "I- What- Do you WANT to get shot or something, man? You got some kinda death wish? Fuck off!" He said, attempting to regain some measure of control. 

"No," I replied blandly, putting my spare hand in my pocket as I continued to shine the light on them. "First off, if you think a GUN is gonna frighten me, I'm gonna assume you aren't a Gotham native." Also, the safety was on and he was holding it sideways, well away from his body. This guy had never fired a gun, and if he had his aim was crap. I liked my odds: if these guys didn't seem like complete mooks, I mighta been worried. "Second, what do you think is gonna happen if people hear gunshots? You think they aren't gonna check? How confident are you that you didn't leave any evidence lying around?" 

"Chazz, I think he has a point: I don't wanna get a murder rap for some weed-"

"I wouldn't worry man, I don't think Chazz has good enough aim to hit me: if I did, I'd probably be way more worried," I noted, raising an eyebrow even as Chazz continued spluttering, face going red. "Also, fucking WEED, Chazz? You'd threaten someone with a gun over fucking weed? What are you, a fucking cop? I thought at least that you were selling coke or meth."

"H-hey man, fuck you-" He said, lowering his gun.

"Sorry, you aren't my type. Really flattered though: really validates me, y'know?"

Guy number three let out a chuckle, causing Chazz to give him a betrayed look. Crooks: no loyalty. Giving a swallow, he raised his gun, his nerve clearly gone at this point. "Sh-shut the fuck up!" He snarled.

"Once more the awnser is no. Now seriously, scram, or else I'm gonna have to radio my supervisor," I said, giving a little wave. 

"You wouldn't fucking dare," Chazz said, seething. "Now shut the fuck up or I swear I'm gonna-"

"Hey Ollie, I got three tresspassers here," I said, holding the walky-talky Ollie had given me to use. "They're conducting some kinda drug deal. Gotta guy named Chazz, ginger guy, freckles, looks to be mid thirty, guy named Carl whose blond, and a third guy whose mostly been quiet," I continued, taking a small bit of satisfaction from the look on the druggies faces. See, I have this character flaw: any time someone says I won't do anything, that I'm too scared, that I wouldn't dare, etc, I have a tendency to out of spite do that exact sort of thing.

For an example, back a few years ago, before the plane crash that stranded me here, me and my sister had an argument. There was a dog we had gotten when we were teenagers: after she moved out, that dog became my whole fucking world, man. Whenever I felt bad, she'd try to cuddle right up on me. Whenever I went to bed, she always tried to sleep next to my feet. Whenever I went outside, she always followed me. I fed this dog, took care of this dog, and majority trained her. 

My sister wanted to try and take her away from me even after I told her fuck no. We got into an argument: she said the dog was hers too. I pointed out it hadn't been her dog for years. She said she was taking her anyways. I told her that if she tried to take my dog, I'd hit her car with a rake.

(I used to have a temper problem and threatening to take my dog may have triggered me a bit. Didn't help that I was going through a year shitty enough it landed me in a looney bin for a week or two.)

Anyways, she said, and I quote, "You won't do shit,". 

We had a pretty hefty rake. Enough to leave a good dent or two in it. Anyways, one fist-fight later, once everything had calmed down, we both reconciled, and I paid for the damage to her car, and she appologized for threatening to take my dog. 

I don't know whether its pride, spite, or something else, but the best way to get me to do something is to try and tell me I won't do it. It's not even conscious most of the time: in the rake example, I had only realized what I was doing when I was bringing the rake down on the hood of the sedan. 

The drug dealers had a big gaping look of shock on their faces. "Anyways, they have a gun," I said, casually. "You wanna call the cops or should I?"

"Byrd, what the fuck-" Came the voice on the radio, only to be interrupted by a gunshot grazing my side, causing me to immediately drop, letting my flashlight fall to the docks, giving me a view of three panicky drug dealers running away through knee high beach sludge as fast as they could.

"Was that a fucking gunshot?!" Came the voice of my supervisor. "Byrd, you alive?" He said, and in the background, I could hear shuffling. "Fuck, lemme find my cellphone-"

I meanwhile was clutching at the shallow cut on my side, breathing slowly as my body shook, the realization that I had almost fucking died hitting me like a ton of bricks. Me and my stupid reflexive need to spite people nearly got me killed.

Good going brain, great job, real good example of why I kept you around.