The humming ceiling fan was the only constant in the silence between Bron and Ortega as midday dragged on. The last customer Bron had escorted out the door.
Ortega had finished cleaning what needed cleaning and arranging what needed arranging.
He was behind the counter.
Bron was across the room, by the wall beside the door, his back against it. Smoking.
Ortega's mouth twitched. That was his eighth cigarette, assuming he hadn't lost count. He wanted to tell Bron to stop, but Bron's don't-fuck-with-me demeanour said, well… don't fuck with me.
So Ortega kept to himself. Bobbing his head to the stereo system on full blast. Begrudgingly accepting Bron's music taste, which was very similar to his. A mix of hip-hop, trap, and R&B that made the store seem like a gang hideout and a morning club at the same time.
Bron was still, and there seemed to be a permanent shadow on his face as he smoked more and more. Ortega could see a visible storm cloud forming above the asshole's head. Almost made him seem like less of an asshole. Almost.
Suddenly, the double doors swung open and two men slunk in. They had balaclavas on their faces.
One of them bellowed, "Stop the music!" While the other pulled out a gun.
The screamer saw Ortega behind the counter and cursed. "Shit! You again…"
He came over to the counter and slammed his palm on it.
"You better have something good for me this time," he said, pointing his gun at Ortega.
Ortega's heart was beating fast, not out of fear this time but from adrenaline and anticipation.
When the two robbers came in, after they pushed open the door, it had swung wide and completely removed Bron from their periphery. They looked around the store now, and even when they glanced behind them, they saw no one.
That was because Bron had hidden himself behind the open door.
At that, the thieves made a silent signal, and one went back to close the door.
Ortega swallowed as he felt the cold butt of the gun press against the underside of his jaw.
"Now… where's my fucking money? Right where we left off at, kid? And you better not try anything fucking stupid…"
Ortega let out a hybrid of a chuckle and a gasp as his breath shortened.
"Hey, why the fuck are you smiling?" The man fisted Ortega's shirt. "You think this shit is fucking funny? That I won't shoot you?" The gun clicked.
Aaaargh!
A scream ripped through the air and jolted everyone.
The man spun back just in time to see his comrade fall unconscious after Bron brutally elbowed his jaw.
Bron held the man at gunpoint with his comerade's pistol.
"I thought I told you fuckers to fuck off after last time!" he roared.
The man exchanged a quick look between Ortega and Bron and was quick to tug Ortega closer, reinforcing Ortega as the hostage.
Ortega was frozen, eyes wide open. He looked to Bron. Bron's jaw was locked, and when their gazes met, he made a subtle signal with his eyes.
The man didn't miss it. He doubled down on his grip immediately, and Ortega winced.
But Ortega could feel how the man was shaking. The way his eyes shifted about the store frantically stood in stark contrast to Bron's calm stillness.
Bron's gun remained pointed at the man, eyes narrowed in unwavering focus.
Shit could hit the fan any minute.
Ortega's eyeballs began to dance in calculation.
The robber holding Ortega at gunpoint was fisting his shirt tight but still had to keep an eye on Bron.
The split focus caused a lapse.
Ortega took advantage when the gun lowered a little by gripping the man's gun wrist with both hands and yanking. The man, however, was surprisingly strong. He stood his ground. Ortega was in deep shit and couldn't let go as the man yanked back, pulling Ortega close and crack! headbutting his nose.
Pepper shot up Ortega's brain as a dull throb laced through it.
But Ortega didn't let go. And he didn't try to pry the gun out of the man's grip either.
He only redirected it so the gun wouldn't accidentally kill him when the man pulled the trigger.
Bang!
He did.
The vibration shook Ortega as something shattered nearby, but he did not let go.
Ortega hadn't accounted for the man's other hand being free.
He didn't see the punch coming.
The fist smashed into his face, pain crawling hot and deep, making him groan and lose his balance. Still, his double grip on the man's wrist never faltered.
As he fell back, Ortega yanked again, and the man rolled over the counter and fell on top of him.
At the last moment, Ortega twisted to his side and locked both elbows around the man's arm. Then crashed his weight down on the limb. Freeing the gun.
Relief.
Aaaaaaaaaargh!
The man screamed beneath Ortega like a banshee bitch.
Ortega grabbed the gun, shuffled to a better position, and aimed it at the man.
His breath caught at what he saw.
The man lay before him, screaming, clutching his arm.
Bent at a very, very awkward angle.
"Fuuuuuck! Fuuuuuck my a-a-arm!" the man cried, sweating and snot-nosed.
Ortega's hands shook.
Something climbed up his throat, but he swallowed it back down.
His stomach churned sickly as the man's screams burned his ears and the world spun.
The ceiling began to shift and blur as something hammered his skull. Then everything went black.
***
Ortega felt cold… Increasingly cold… He dreamt of nothing.
His eyelids fluttered open, and the world around him was starting to make sense… Was starting to get coloured.
He heard murkiness as Bron's face blurred above him.
He was… alive?
Of course I am. I'm the damn protagonist!Ortega thought, but relief surged through him.
That was close.
Ortega became aware of the fan blowing violently beside him. That explained the cold. Bron's handiwork.
Bron's lips moved, saying something about if he was okay. Ortega couldn't answer, and Bron left his field of vision, leaving him to just stare at the ceiling.
Then suddenly—Ortega sat up and shrieked.
Cold water had splashed over him, drenching him completely. His heart beat faster than his mind could process what was happening. He sat and looked to his left and saw Bron holding a half-empty bucket of water.
"I said I'm awake! Dud—"
Splash!
Bron emptied the bucket on Ortega's face, and Ortega heaved loudly.
Water trickled dangerously through his ears. He rubbed, and quickly stood up. Wet… but sweating profusely. He rubbed his inflamed nostrils and sniffed.
What the fuck kind of rescue was that? I almost had a heart attack!
Bron seemed ready to throw another splash at him.
"I'm awake, goddamnit!" Ortega yelled, kicking the bucket out of his rescuer's hand, proving his point. Then suddenly, his hands dropped to his knees, and he began to heave as memories came flooding back…
The bone-deep fear of the assault. The trauma of having his nose struck. He touched it to see the bleeding had stopped—
Barely.
The adrenaline rush and triumph of coming out on top in a brawl. The creeping realization that he had broken someone's arm. He dismissed the last thought. Abomination!
"I did it," he proclaimed to himself, looking at his feet.
"Are you okay?"
He looked up to see Bron sidling toward him like a hermit crab. Ortega straightened. Bron pointed. Ortega looked and saw that the pistol was still in his right hand. That explained the hot weight and tightness.
"You wouldn't let go even as I tried to collect it from you while you were unconscious," Bron explained, looking at Ortega with a strange expression.
Ortega himself was just as bewildered.
If that was true, then doesn't that mean…
He has a superpower? It was definitely by the system! There was no other explanation.
He clenched his fist and felt something travel through his veins. Something heady.
{That's just survival instinct.}
The system notification flashed, and Ortega was dumbfounded. His shoulders slumped—oh…
Bron clapped him to focus. They had work to do, it seemed.
Ortega got to his feet and let Bron lead him around back, past the counter, to the middle of the store where two bodies lay beside each other.
Ortega swallowed.
Both chests were still heaving, thankfully.
He tried as much as he could to look away from the one with the broken arm.
He turned to Bron.
"What do we do?"
"Take them outside, of course. Don't want their bad energy in my store. Come on, let's get to it," Bron said, already walking over and lifting one of them onto his shoulder.
Curses! Of course he left Ortega with the broken-arm guy.
Ortega stood above the body, hands on his hips, contemplating how to go about this shit.
He sighed, bent down, gripped the unconscious man by his ankles, and…
pssshhhhhh!
He began to drag the body across the room, looking behind him as he made his way to the door. Outside, Bron had already dumped the first one by the dumpster.
Ortega brought the guy with the broken arm and laid him beside his comrade. Then he straightened, looking at the bodies, rubbing his elbows and feeling guilty.
"So what do we do now?"
"Mind our business, of course." Bron said matter-of-factly.
"But this one's badly injured," Ortega pointed out tentatively. "He needs medical attention."
"When he and his pal come to…" Bron lit a ciggy and puffed. "They'll know what to do."
Ortega found himself shaking his head, the sides of his face twitching. How was the bastard so chill about this?
Bron looked left and right.
Ortega frowned at how suddenly sketchy he was being.
When Bron reached into his back pocket and pulled out two pistols, Ortega took a step back. Before he could raise alarm, Bron pressed the muzzle against his lips, signaling him to shut up.
Ortega swallowed and nodded.
Bron quickly squatted, placed the guns in the men's hands, manipulated them so that, in the end, it looked like they were sleeping unconscious with their weapons in sight.
When he finished, he stood up and looked at his handiwork with a satisfied smirk.
Ortega was simply dumbfounded at what he was seeing.
"Wait." Ortega looked about a bit, then lowered his voice. "Are they loaded?"
"I'm not stupid, genius." Bron deadpanned and opened his palm, revealing four resting bullets.
Ortega's eyes widened and he exhaled in relief. It still scared and thrilled him at the same time. Bron's composure as he regarded the unconscious bodies with a look of indifference.
Bron headed back into the store, and before he got in, he said over his shoulder,
"You might wanna scoot away from the bodies, unless the cops see you…"
With that, Ortega backed up and followed him inside.
"You keep saying 'bodies' like they're fucking dead," Ortega said after closing the door behind him.
"Well, they are, if they think that after this they can still show up to rob my store again." Bron said, dailing a number on his phone.