Some Jackass Yakuza Maybe(?) (@ERode)
Marc blinked, almost convulsing a little as he slightly tipped to the side before readjusting himself. His jaw was slightly agape, eyes glued completely to the scene; it almost looked as if he was going to well up into tears or inelegantly barf on the side of the street.
The sound was like a heartbeat, nearly constant and consistence, though it went off a few intervals as it continued to transpire. He took one step forward, almost as if he had a shuffling gait before another passed on by, almost ignoring how the young man was reacting.
He could only push through the crowds before finally getting someone to excuse him, catching a few glares as Marc forcefully jammed the phone into his pocket and continued to flow sideways against the current. It was difficult rushing towards the scene, especially since so many were indifferent to the seemingly distressing plight he was in.
Until then, finally, he came upon the scene, interjecting himself into this bubble of violence, bubble of misfortune, the bubble that didn't seemingly exist to all these people. Marc's eyes were vibrating, his lips were trembling, almost making an irregular chattering of his teeth. With one hand clenched in a fist being held to his chest and the other outwards, open, ready to grasp at the situation, he could only fearfully utter one sentence in between the periodic-
"Uh-Uncle Hideki? Sir, what the hell are... are you doing to my uncle?!"
A few minutes ago.
The dimly lit lights of the cityscape harmonized with the rhythm of the drizzle, the sizzle of their song being barely heard amongst the scattering crowds, all singing to their own tune, all flowing down their own path... but him? Oh no, Marc wasn't a part of the current... in fact, he was more or less pushing against it, going in the opposing direction, swimming up the stream, pushing against the crowds of people.
Some made his life a bit easy by weaving through the side. Other times, he had to duck out of the way himself, earning possibly a scowl, grimace, glare, or two, but nothing else before the droplets returned to the regular flow of the district.
Maybe this wasn't exactly the best of ideas to return at such a busy hour. The young man sighed, unresigned, pushing forward with a phone in one hand and a transparent, disposable umbrella in the other. His face felt a bit sticky, possibly tasted salty if he decided to lick it, mixed with the light sprinkle of the springs dew.
"Hm... I should check out those Whispers in the Wall, or something," Marc pondered, eyes pasted on the illuminated screen for a brief second, scrolling through the latest posts of the Urban Legends subforum before tearing his eyes away from the screen.
The glow reflected off his face as he astutely gazed over the crowd, picking away the faces of the crowds... and strangely enough, picking out a kindred spirit flowing against the current, plastered as all hell. Drunk, maybe? Or lost in his own world like him. A small smirk briefly followed before he was somber, unsmiling, eyeing the mans ragged appearance. Good god, he could smell the guy from all the way over here.
While there were judgmental thoughts that followed, there was another tune that followed.
Where are his friends?
Is there anyone worried about him?
How long has he been like this?
What happened to put him in such a blissfully ignorant state?
Marc didn't know whether to be content about letting the man continue to bumble on by, at least until that deplorable scene followed. The only details he could make out from between the rapidly, uninterrupted crowds was that the dirty man had bumped into... collared crisp shirt, tight, expensive looking pants just from the quality.
And the sound of a violent whump.
People surrounding the vicinity watched as they continued to march, blindly following the tune of the cities Shepard, the Mayor... whoever that might be.
Mothers turned their children away, teenagers took their eyes off their phones for a fleeting second before continuing to text.
And it became normalized; the metronome to the city streets. The brutality of someone being mercilessly assaulted. A beat that continued to follow, a beat the crowds did not condemn, a beat they rationalized that was ok...
It was a beat he refused to follow, a beat he could not agree with as Marc clutched his phone, feeling as if he could crush it as he watched the one-sided beat down continue, no retaliation from the helpless man lying there... he did nothing to dissuade his assailant.
And then, nothing.
And then, nothing.
There was no fanfare, no special ability that caused his eyes to glow with a blue luminescence comparable to the All Seeing Eyes of God, oh no... there was just the deafening sound of silence and stillness. Any cool breeze that blew, any conversation, the sounds, the world, it all abruptly stopped as Marc continued to stare at the scene.
Marcs world... his frozen time.
No matter how long he stood and stared, nothing would change the raw feeling in his gut, cold, curling crushing his stomach. It was comparable to butterflies in ones stomach, or expulsing said contents out of his body. Schoolgirls disappear and adults don't bat an eye, a man is beaten and bruised with people passing on by.
There was merely an embittered scowl plastered on his face, whether for anger or discomfort, he didn't know as he let his umbrella and phone go, turning to walk towards the scene. Of course, like many things in his world, they stood still, unmoving, porcelain statues.
... and that was the main issue; unable to push anyone to the side, he had to resort to... other methods to traverse over to the scene that many were giving a wide berth.
Climbing up onto one of the people, it was still a bit of a challenge, but he steadied himself after a couple of seconds of wobbling a bit. Of course, once that was settled, he clambered over to another person, and another, before finally hopping off, and rolling into the scene. Honestly, it would of been badass if he could of just front flipped... but there were too many immovable objects around, too many thing to bump or injure himself on.
But that was not why he was here, oh no. Marc slowly began to rise, eyes like flames seeking any smoldering embers to burn away, to add to the fire. Blinking, he pushed up his glasses till they were firmly against the bridge of his nose, approaching the scene with a scrutinizing glance. He squatted down, staring at the man with his beady eyes, scrunched up nose, and clenched teeth as his foot was half-buried into the other sods chest.
And then, he chuckled.
Marc just shook his head, smiling disdainfully at the whole scene rubbing his chin as he continued to judge the man.
"Heh, you're really a pathetic piece of shit for getting bent so out of shape for some random ass dude bumping into you, y'know that," he stopped rubbing his chin, clenching his hand and leaning in so he could press his fist against the gangsters crotch. As he did so, he produced a small popping sound, the only sound of wind in this scenario before backing up and rising up, studying the duo more as if he were a detective at a crime scene.
Circling the two, his mind wandered and he pondered. Not a minute could of passed before he noticed something. He couldn't tell if it was the drizzle or not, but there looked to be a small, ephemeral smudge Marc noticed before sneering.
"Are you pissed about dis' guy getting such a widdle, widdle shmudge on youw pwecious shirt pwincess?" The insults were shot, but would never land. This was the world he only knew, and the mockery of treating this man like an entitled child throwing a tantrum would stay in it.
While talking trash to the guy, myriads of thoughts traveled through his head as he assessed the whole situation. How might he deal with this? As much as Marc considered to try and fight back, there was the main issue of his tattoos. It was one of the few things he noticed when circling the man like a vulture, and considered the man to be a possible Yakuza member.
While this was completely founded on looks, Marc didn't feel like doing anything stupid now, especially picking a fight due to the implications it could have... well, unless the gangster instigated it.
Marc shook his head and sighed before taking a seat, going between ideas, deciding which ones to nock and which ones to hold before he rose again.
"Uncle Hideki? Sir, what the hell are you doing to my uncle," he said in his most worried voice he could, putting emphasis on the horror of it all before clearing his throat. He recited the line a couple of times, all with different degrees of inflections in his voice, even going so far as to how his body language would portray himself. Hell, he even went above and beyond, coming up with other lines to respond the the (possible) Yakuza member if they said anything... though, he couldn't plan for every scenario.
He wasn't a gypsy after all.
In any case, after at least five minutes passed on by, he sighed before brushing himself down, doing some stretches, and doing some mock do re mi's to 'test' his own vocals. Once that was over, he went into a pivot, twirling around, spinning with an imaginary partner before coming face to face with the statues from before, impeding his way back to his spot.
Well... second verse, same as the first as he gracefully used a child as a footstool to scramble up onto the shoulders of another person. Rinse and repeat before he found himself making a similarish pose as to what he had a few minutes ago.
"... and time... resumes."