Post by Feliks Łukasiewicz on Mar 22, 2014 20:59:28 GMT -8
It was a pretty routine jaunt through London, the sort where you don't expect that anything will properly go wrong. After his hours working as a hairdresser had been cut as a "cost-saving measure," Feliks had filled a certain portion of his suddenly-freed time with such trips, ferrying sensitive documents or other small, important items which absolutely had to be physically moved from one location to another rather than emailed (though he rarely had any idea why that was) in an inconspicuous manner.
He was often seen trotting through the streets of London anyway, sometimes with assistance from a pony, though this time he was on foot. As an eccentric local, he expected no trouble and no one noticing anything out of the ordinary at all.
As he rounded a corner, he found himself on a narrow side street that was surprisingly empty except for a group of six young men about his own age or perhaps a bit younger. They looked rather irritated for some reason. Feliks tried to walk around them on his way, but they started spreading out across the street and--was that a knife?
A Polish curse dropped quietly from his tongue. Though he had some basic competence in hand-to-hand combat, Feliks was unarmed and of small build; he wasn't nearly good enough to singlehandedly fight off what he counted as at least ten guys, some armed and most bigger than himself. He could only hope for some good luck--that he was misunderstanding their purpose, for instance.
"Hand over your money," one of them--who appeared to be some kind of ringleader--ordered.
Nope. That particular kind of luck eluded him today. He was being mugged by common criminals--not even smooth criminals. But at least he could probably get away with the usual civilian's trick.
Rifling through the pockets of his jeans, he found a few coins and a five-pound banknote, and tossed that on the ground before himself. "That's all I've got," he informed them honestly, watching to see what they would do. Hopefully, they would either unblock the road so that he could get by, or at least stay where they were so that he could go take a different way.
Unfortunately, he wasn't so lucky. The dirty looks coming his way apparently were more than mere intimidation; he only had a split-second's warning before one of the knife-bearers lunged at him. Quickly, Feliks stepped out of the way--at least he was fast enough for that!
But they were all there in a gang for a reason, and he couldn't evade them all. He wasn't quite sure what it was that they wanted to hit him for, though the rather vile insults that he heard flying around seemed to imply that it had something to do with his lacking sufficient signs of masculinity.
When he finally managed to take off down the street, rather a longer period of time than he might have liked later, Feliks had been stabbed three times in the same leg, had his arms and head smashed into the asphalt, and had a chunk of his hair shortened. On the other hand, he had managed to throw one of the gang into a backflip that had apparently convinced the mugger not to return to the fray, gotten in a few mildly incapacitating punches and pokes (knowing where a person's pressure points were certainly helped with this), then finally stolen a knife off of one of the attackers, and used it to cut a few hands that tried to restrain him. He was running on pure adrenaline, and it carried him all the way down the street and back towards a more public venue. Discarding the knife in a gutter just before he reached the traveled road again--no need to alarm anyone with it--Feliks looked around to get his bearings. He was still on a mission, and obviously he was going to need a little assistance in completing it. Luckily, he realized, he was not too far away from the bakery where he knew he could get in touch with another agent.
"Not too far away" turned out to feel longer than it normally would since he had just taken a serious beating. The adrenaline was fading fast, to be replaced with a dreadful awareness of his injuries. His head hurt in multiple different ways, from impact and from blood loss and the shallow but burning feeling that he had been cut. Deep purple bruises were forming rapidly on his arms; the muscles of one of the legs he was trying to walk on had deep stab wounds in them; that feeling in his side might be a broken rib. Some people were looking at him, though more went about their city day as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about his condition at all.
Finally, he found himself at the door of the bakery, and staggered in.
He was often seen trotting through the streets of London anyway, sometimes with assistance from a pony, though this time he was on foot. As an eccentric local, he expected no trouble and no one noticing anything out of the ordinary at all.
As he rounded a corner, he found himself on a narrow side street that was surprisingly empty except for a group of six young men about his own age or perhaps a bit younger. They looked rather irritated for some reason. Feliks tried to walk around them on his way, but they started spreading out across the street and--was that a knife?
A Polish curse dropped quietly from his tongue. Though he had some basic competence in hand-to-hand combat, Feliks was unarmed and of small build; he wasn't nearly good enough to singlehandedly fight off what he counted as at least ten guys, some armed and most bigger than himself. He could only hope for some good luck--that he was misunderstanding their purpose, for instance.
"Hand over your money," one of them--who appeared to be some kind of ringleader--ordered.
Nope. That particular kind of luck eluded him today. He was being mugged by common criminals--not even smooth criminals. But at least he could probably get away with the usual civilian's trick.
Rifling through the pockets of his jeans, he found a few coins and a five-pound banknote, and tossed that on the ground before himself. "That's all I've got," he informed them honestly, watching to see what they would do. Hopefully, they would either unblock the road so that he could get by, or at least stay where they were so that he could go take a different way.
Unfortunately, he wasn't so lucky. The dirty looks coming his way apparently were more than mere intimidation; he only had a split-second's warning before one of the knife-bearers lunged at him. Quickly, Feliks stepped out of the way--at least he was fast enough for that!
But they were all there in a gang for a reason, and he couldn't evade them all. He wasn't quite sure what it was that they wanted to hit him for, though the rather vile insults that he heard flying around seemed to imply that it had something to do with his lacking sufficient signs of masculinity.
When he finally managed to take off down the street, rather a longer period of time than he might have liked later, Feliks had been stabbed three times in the same leg, had his arms and head smashed into the asphalt, and had a chunk of his hair shortened. On the other hand, he had managed to throw one of the gang into a backflip that had apparently convinced the mugger not to return to the fray, gotten in a few mildly incapacitating punches and pokes (knowing where a person's pressure points were certainly helped with this), then finally stolen a knife off of one of the attackers, and used it to cut a few hands that tried to restrain him. He was running on pure adrenaline, and it carried him all the way down the street and back towards a more public venue. Discarding the knife in a gutter just before he reached the traveled road again--no need to alarm anyone with it--Feliks looked around to get his bearings. He was still on a mission, and obviously he was going to need a little assistance in completing it. Luckily, he realized, he was not too far away from the bakery where he knew he could get in touch with another agent.
"Not too far away" turned out to feel longer than it normally would since he had just taken a serious beating. The adrenaline was fading fast, to be replaced with a dreadful awareness of his injuries. His head hurt in multiple different ways, from impact and from blood loss and the shallow but burning feeling that he had been cut. Deep purple bruises were forming rapidly on his arms; the muscles of one of the legs he was trying to walk on had deep stab wounds in them; that feeling in his side might be a broken rib. Some people were looking at him, though more went about their city day as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about his condition at all.
Finally, he found himself at the door of the bakery, and staggered in.
