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[hr][INDENT][I][b]Cajun Quarter, Pointe Bordeaux[/b] 
[INDENT]March 18, 2016[/INDENT][/I][/INDENT][hr][center][sup]A collab with [@Hillan].[/sup][/center]
He was out of the hotel almost as soon as he got there; not a hard thing to do when all of your worldly possessions fit into a duffle bag the size of a moderately sized dog. Clothes, his Mindjack outfit, and his gun. That’s all Gareth had in there. That’s all he needed.
 
He stopped by a small retail store across the street, family owned, like Serenade, for an umbrella. He didn’t mind getting wet, but the rain was getting decidedly heavier, and Leah was bound to have thrown a fit if he let himself catch a cold in favour of a little refreshment.
 
With his own personal shelter, he began his search for the convoy. The logical place to look would be the outskirts of the city; entering it would have threatened the safety of everyone in the convoy, and seeing how there had yet to be an uproar amongst the people of Pointe Bordeaux, it was safe to assume that they were indeed yet to enter. That was, of course, considering that Gareth's hunch was true. It wasn't often that one such as his turned out to be, no matter how sure of it he felt, and so he walked down the sidewalk from the store, hoping for his wife's sake that the convoy would be there for him to find.
 
The sound of a scuffle stopped him in his tracks, coming from an alley up ahead. Pedestrians passed it without a second glance, their eyes fixed firmly on the sidewalk in front of them. Unlike them, Gareth didn't hesitate. He walked to the alley, curiosity and concern overcoming him.
 
Four thugs were kicking a man on the ground. He looked almost homeless, his unshaven beard wild and unkempt. He was curled up, keeping his knees high and tightly together, his hands protecting his head as the kicks connected with his chest and back. The four thugs stomped and kicked him, unrelenting, eager to deliver some punishment. The man leaning against the wall, their leader, Gareth assumed, whistled, holding his hand up. One of the thugs picked the man off the ground and pushed him against the wall, holding his forearm against his throat, forcing his victim to stand on the tips of his toes. The man eyed the thug while wheezing. "Come... On, G."
 
The leader, G, walked over to him and put his hand to his own ear, acting coy. "What, what was dat, Marcus? Can't hear you, you gotta speak up." He punched Marcus in the gut, the air escaping his lungs. 
 
Gareth had seen enough situations like this during his time battling the Zerilli Syndicate to know what this was: the bearded man owed these guys some money, and he'd failed to pay up. Three thugs were standing in a sort of semicircle around G and their colleague, observing the beatdown with a smile on their lips. They didn't look like regular thugs, though – the way they'd hit the bearded man, they knew exactly where would cause the most pain. No, they were trained; former military, maybe; definitely private security. [i]Okay[/i], thought Gar. [i]They're like Zerilli's men.[/i] 
 
He'd rained hell on Zerilli's men for three years. He could handle a few seconds with these guys.
 
Calmly, he placed his duffle bag at the alley's entrance and closed his umbrella, clutching it in both hands as he walked towards the thugs. There were two directly in front of him, the other one standing against the right wall. The one furthest from him, appearing in his late thirties, saw him, his head jerking in his direction in surprise. He managed, "Who the hell –" before the handle of Gareth's umbrella smashed into his colleague's left temple, sending him crumpling towards the ground. Knowing that they would be on him within seconds, Gar whipped the tip of the umbrella towards the other thug closest to him, an audible crack sounding as it broke against the back of his head. Discarding the umbrella on the ground, Gareth turned just in time to see the third thug's fist smack into his face.
 
With two of his thugs down, the man in charge grimaced, cursing under his breath. "Who the fuck are you?" the question rang. 
 
Held against the wall, the bearded man, Marcus, felt the grip around his neck loosen as the biggest thug, the one holding him, paid attention to Gareth, dropping his friends like flies. He hissed with a rough voice, "None of your business, buddy," which was promptly met by another punch in the gut. "Seriously.. I.. Uhmpf, I've got this." Yet another punch met him, knocking the air out of his lungs as he squirmed against the wall.
 
The leader turned to Gareth and grinned. "This is none of your business. Shame you had to go and do that, looks like I'll be dumpin two' bodies in tha river." At that, he nodded at the thugs at his side holding Marcus, who promptly let go of the drunk, who in turn slid down the wall, catching his breath. The two remaining thugs headed for Gareth, one of them pulling out a switchblade.
 
The one with the switchblade rushed Gareth, stabbing wildly at his neck, chest and armpit, giving him no time to think – he executed a crescent kick to the thug's wrist, intending to disarm him, but it only glanced off his arm, momentarily ending the plethora of stabs, giving Gareth an opening, albeit a dangerous one. With no time to lose, he got in close to his would-be stabber, elbowing him across the face, simultaneously grabbing hold of his knife hand with his other hand. With the thug dazed, he placed his free hand beneath his armpit, turning into the thug, lifting him up onto his back and twisting, throwing him onto the ground. The knife clattered across the alley, no longer a danger. Unwilling to give the thug any time to get up, Gareth punched him in the nose, hard and fast, blood bursting as it broke, knocking him out as he lay on the concrete. 
 
While catching his breath, Marcus watched the fight, as if he was trying to figure out where Gareth learned to fight, like he was studying him, his eyes intrigued. He reacted with a smirk when the knife-armed thug was disarmed and knocked out by his saviour. The thug leader's attention turned to Gareth, his hand scrambling into his pocket, and the last and biggest thug lumbered towards Gareth. Marcus watched with interest, climbing onto his knees and then his feet, leaning against the wall. Holding his side, he bowed forward, coughing up blood. The thug leader looked at him. "Once we're done with this freak, we'll talk about your 'payment plan', Marcus," he said, reaching for the .44 snub-nosed revolver he kept in his inner pocket. “Jones, get ‘im.”
 
Gareth felt the air rush above his head as he ducked away from Jones' right cross, a powerful punch that would no doubt have taken his head off had he let it connect. Jones was a big man, muscular, his punches precise and strong, executed with great technique. If Gareth had to guess, he was a former fighter of some sort; maybe a boxer. He was keeping him on his toes, never relenting, sending one punch after another, each one as powerful as the last, forcing Gar to keep dodging as he searched for an opening. Just as he thought he found one, his head exploded with pain, his vision dimming as he lost control of his legs, falling to the ground. Through the pain he managed to register that he'd been kicked, a devastating roundhouse to the head knocking his senses out of him. A stray thought, flitting through the oblivion that threatened to overcome him, concluded that no boxer would be able to do that. Another recalled watching a UFC match a few years ago, before Leah had died, between Cain Velasquez and a Randy Jones... [i]Oh,[/i] thought Gareth, daggers stabbing into his brain as he tried to get up. [i]Oh.[/i]
 
Somewhere in the real world, his eyes caught sight of Jones' knee descending upon his face, and, whether through luck or survival instinct, he managed to work through the pain in his head, rolling out of the way before it was crushed. As he slowly stumbled onto his feet, Jones was quick to recover from hitting concrete, moving in to attack Gareth with a barrage of punches. Recalling the fight he'd watched between Velasquez and Jones, Gar remembered a habit of the latter's: he liked to finish his combinations with a right hook. As he desperately tried to dodge away from Jones' swings, he found that this was still the case, and he found himself presented with a variety of openings previously unseen to him. For every hook Gareth ducked and delivered a body rip to Jones' ribs, hitting the same spot each time. After a few hits, Jones began getting sloppy, annoyed, dropping his guard every time Gareth hit him in an attempt to get him back. Gareth responded with yet more punches, following up the body rip to the ribs with one to the stomach, a hook to the face and an uppercut to the chin. Despite Gar's predictable combination, Jones didn't seem to notice, focused entirely on landing a hit – so much so that before long, he dropped his guard entirely, his blows becoming more and more erratic. After what felt like ages, Gareth finally landed the knockout blow, an uppercut that sent Jones collapsing onto his back. Gasping for air, Gareth leant against the wall, feeling his balance momentarily go out. He was concussed. That roundhouse kick had done a number on him.
 
In his recovery, he failed to notice the revolver that the thug leader had pointed at him. He made to pull the trigger when the gun exploded in his hand, sending shrapnel into his arm, a pain filled cry escaping him as he held his bleeding hand. "FUCK!"

Marcus' eyes turned back from their emerald colour as he finally climbed onto his feet, holding his side. He walked over to the thug leader, holding his hand. "See, Gambit, now you done gone did it. Should probably call the cops and get an ambulance over here. You'll lose your hand, else."

"Agh, fuck you!" Gambit shouted, holding his hand in agony.

Marcus walked towards Gareth, patting him on the shoulder, before extending his hand to help him up from his position against the wall.  "You owe me one," the drunk said, staggering out of the alley, towards where his car was parked. "I need a beer.." his words echoed as he walked about thirty feet before collapsing onto his knees again, spitting blood.

Gareth stumbled over to his fallen saviour, grimacing at the pain shooting through his head as he did so. Lifting one of Marcus’ arms over his shoulders, he stood up with a grunt, helping him stand back up. “The way I see it…” he grimaced once more, “We’re even.” He began walking out of the alley, half-carrying, half-limping along with Marcus, stopping only to reclaim his duffle bag. “I’m Gareth. Gareth Corrigan.” He gave his companion a brief smile. “So you’re a hyperhuman too, huh?”