Walkin' His Beat (IC, Open)

[Kavonde]

With a fresh coat of snow, Southside didn't look too bad. The alleys filled with empty bottles and broken glass were hidden, the smell of burnt rubber and old vomit were smothered, and the constant rhythm of distant subwoofers was muted. Sure, all it would take is a few cars rolling by to churn everything into a brownish muck, but for a few minutes, it was almost pretty.

Mike Cindra paused at the street corner to take it in, wisps of steam rising from his body as the night's last few snowflakes drifted into his obsidian flesh. He sucked in a deep breath, enough to cool the constant heat in his mouth and throat, looked around in satisfaction, and then resumed his patrol. He remembered days like this as a kid, making snowballs, building forts, getting yelled at for building them in the middle of the damn intersection, and why couldn't you damn kids go to the park anyways?

It'd been a quiet night, at least in the neighborhoods Mike had walked through. A few kids in color-coordinated parkas, probably Southside C's, had scattered when he walked past, and the Indian guy from the 24/7 had pointedly flipped his "Yes, We Are Open" sign around when he'd walked by. Yeah, that'll show me, Mike thought with a grin.

His smile faded as he walked, and by the time he reached the end of the block, he was bored as hell and ready to turn in. He turned left, heading back to his apartment, but stopped when he heard a croaking moan from a darkened alley.

Frowning, Mike stopped and looked in. After his eyes adjusted, he saw an old, bearded man in a flak jacket and worn jeans, huddled up under a newspaper and shaking in the cold. He man's eyes were focused on something distant, and a small, sad sound was escaping his lips.

"Hey, you alright?" Mike asked. The old man didn't answer. Mike stepped in and hunched down next to the guy. "Hey, man, you alright?"

The man suddenly lunged for Mike's arm, and he jumped back in surprise. The movement seemed to take the last of the man's energy, and he whimpered and resumed his quiet shivering.

"Oh," Mike said, getting it. Keeping just out of reach, Mike hunkered down and extended his hands towards the man. His eyes narrowed in focus and his muscles tightened as he began to channel a tiny amount of heat out of them. He gradually built it up, slowly, making sure he didn't lose control and accidentally hurt the man. After several minutes, the old man's shivering began to subside, and light gradually returned to his eyes. Finally, with some effort, he pushed himself up until he was sitting against the wall, and looked at Mike with hooded eyes.

"V-Volcano, right?" he said.

"Yeah," Mike replied, still pouring out gentle heat.

"Thanks." He looked like he wanted to say more, but just rubbed his arm instead.

"Don' mention it," Mike replied. They sat there in silence for a few more minutes, until color had returned to the old man's face and he began pushing himself to his feet. Mike rose with him, letting out a sigh of relief as he let his concentration slip away. "Cold night, huh?"

"Yeah. Listen..."

"Like I said, don' mention it," Mike said, cutting him off gently.

"I was tryin' to die."

Mike's mouth clapped shut in surprise.

"I've...I've done some bad stuff, ya know?" the man continued. "An' I just kinda hit the end of the road, an'...I just..."

"Well, you ain't freezin' to death in an alley on my watch," Mike said firmly.

"Yeah, guess not."

"You got somewhere to go? Somewhere warm?"

"Our Lady of Mercy's usually got a bed."

Mike nodded. "Then come on, we're goin'."

The old man fell in beside him, careful to avoid contact, and the two set off in silence. The shelter was about a mile away, and after awhile, the silence started becoming awkward. "Ya know," Mike said when it became too much, "I used ta do some bad stuff, too. Ran with a tough crowd, stole, vandalized, got inta fights."

The old man snorted.

"Yeah, there's worse," Mike conceded with a shrug. "But what I'm sayin' is, like, I don' judge people for things in their past, ya know? I mean, if ya learn from it, ya don't do it anymore, than that's that."

"I think the law disagrees with ya there, kid."

"Yeah, well, I mean, like...ya know, if ya killed someone, or ya hurt a girl, ya know, that's different."

The old man was silent. It started becoming awkward again.

"Ya know, like, this one time, I was about twelve, an' there was this guy, probably forty somethin', big dude, an' he had this sixteen-year-old girl cornered. Had a knife, had her by the wrist. An', ya know, me an' my friends got her out of that, but I mean, ya know..." He shook his head. "I don' even know what the hell point I'm makin' now."

The old man didn't say anything, so Mike lapsed into an embarrassed silence. It was becoming just a bit too awkward again when the man spoke. "You was about twelve?"

Mike glanced at him. "Yeah."

"Came at him with a beer bottle?"

"Well, I didn't swing or nothin', but..." A thought dawned. "Wait, you're not--"

"No," the old man growled, waving a hand. "But I knew that fat piece of crap. We served together. Man was sick."

"Whatever happened to him?"

"He eventually tried ta grab some mobster's daughter. Didn't end well for him."

Mike grunted. "They'd be a regular community service if it weren't for the dope an' the prostitution."

"Yeah," the old man said with a faint grin. It faded quickly. "I was the one that killed him."

Mike looked at him in surprise, and the old man shook his head. "Used ta be called 'Eraser' Ethan Evansfield. Times were tough after I got back, an' they put all my trainin' to use. Then I got too old, they gave me a nice retirement, tol' me ta keep my nose clean. Guess I did. Nothin's cleaner than when it's soaked in alcohol."

He looked at Mike, trying to read his obsidian expression, but his face was neutral. Finally, he let out a low whistle. "Man, an' I was worried tonight was gonna be boring."

Ethan grunted a short laugh, and they fell into a more comfortable silence.

Finally, they reached Our Lady of Mercy, an old, walled mission turned into the city's largest homeless shelter. There were lights on in the lobby and a few of the rooms, and the warm smell of baking bread in the air, so thick that Mike could detect it even with his dulled senses. Ethan stared at the building in silence for a moment, then turned to his companion.

"Thanks," he said.

"No problem," Mike replied.

Ethan nodded, and turned back towards the gate. He paused, though, and looked back. "Hey, listen. Seriously, thanks. You're a good kid."

"Thanks, man."

The old man looked at him over his shoulder, clearly trying to find words. At last, he settled on: "Try not to get yourself killed."

"Workin' on it."

Ethan nodded and stepped through the gate. Mike watched him until he entered the building. Wonder if I should tell Jeffy about him, he mused. Eh, I'll worry 'bout that later. Gonna get home an' get to bed. Think I've met enough interestin' people for one night.

Then he turned and started heading back to his apartment as a car started rolled by, churning the fresh snow into brownish muck. Home sweet home.