#*trixie

Until, there, on the left. You don’t zoom in, because you’d shorted out more than one mouse in the course of this operation, so you’re stuck squinting. Trying to work out the fuzzy shape, and damn if you should’ve had a hand installing the higher quality tech.

But this figure is new. Joined by three dogs, that much you can tell. Down the road, moving between the monitors as they walk. Casually, too layered for the weather — granted that wasn’t unusual, really. Always people with things to hide.

And you know, know you shouldn’t think too much about it. That it shouldn’t strike you as odd. But who the fuck walked around Los Diablos these days with dogs kitted out in vests that shined in the light? 

You realise, then. Bulletproofing. Turn down the alley and right outside your window now. Pushing the chair back, you’re just at the corner, peeking out from behind the curtain. 

Someone’s outside the door. Pointing. Yelling. Not in English, definitely. Far too much handwaving to be polite. To no affect of the person with the dogs and you can’t make out their face, with how it’s hidden behind goggles and a mask, hood drawn up. Shapeless. You needed a better angle.

No telling how much time you had to move until things escalated. Fire escape down a level, as quiet as a mouse. You’re probably obvious if they look up, but with how the dogs push in front of their human, it isn’t looking pretty.

The person sighs, hand going to their face, as if to press against their forehead. Whatever it was, be it a deal, or a discussion, it wasn’t looking good. You just can’t decide who for. At the sound of growling, more men filed into the alley, boxing whoever it was in.

A command is said, and you could vaguely say it might’ve been vaguely German, with how the dogs sit. Lie down. 

“We’re not your fucking dogs. You can’t just tell us where to go, and expect it to fucking happen!”

With a cock of their head, their dogs look up. Synched. Eerie. “Really? I thought that was part of the deal.” Voice distinctly higher than the rest of them, even if it was muffled, but they still haven’t taken their hands out of their pockets. “I say jump, you ask ‘how high’.”

“That was before the Rangers got involved.”

Low growl. “I don’t know who your source is, but the Rangers aren’t involved.”

Interesting. Your eyebrows shoot up at the admission. Territory dispute? You’d heard low level grumbling from contacts about changing of hands, new money coming in. Those discussions had been behind closed doors, away from prying eyes. This seemed remarkably public, all things considered. 

Never mind that you couldn’t tell who was the heaviest hitter. 

“They know—”

“They don’t,” finally, hands out of pockets. Unarmed. You think. 

Doesn’t seem to bring down the tension, not even a little. If anything, it just sets the thugs even more on edge. You lean a little further over. Still hadn’t been noticed. Granted, you could cut the tension with a knife, as the person opens their hands in front of them, fingers spread wide. Gloves. Nothing notable, like claws, or a knife. They were at the mercy of at least ten armed men, and they only had three dogs.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Voice heavy. Assured. 

Finally, a gun is drawn. Aimed, dead centre. “We don’t listen to you anymore, Sidestep. Your days are numbered.”

It’s like a slap, that the person you’re looking down on is Sidestep. Attempted legacy villain. And your blood boils, at how you could drop, right now, perhaps take them out. This is them, right here, right now. No armour, no holds barred.

“Fass!”

Their voice is a snap, dogs springing into action. If there’s bangs from weapons, you don’t see bullets connect. Just the snarls and screams, as one dog goes for a man’s groin. The other two dragging down elbows. Sidestep is quick, movements so damn familiar in how they disarm, take, fire. 

Double tap, kick. Ducks and gets an elbow in the back. Three down. You don’t know, if you want to see Sidestep taken down, as they’re thrown to the ground, grappling with two men who were still standing. Would remove the issue — but it wouldn’t be by your hand. 

And the Rangers always got their man.

“Hier! Zielen auf!” 

One of the dogs lets a throat go, and bowls into them, knocking them back. Bang bang! Bang bang! Empty click, and they’re rolling out the way, throwing the gun aside, picking up another in their movements. 

A high pitched whine breaks through the air, and it wasn’t human. You can’t deny how your heart lurches, as you watch one of the dogs drop. Nothing visible, but there’s a scream, and it’s like everything goes into overdrive. There’s no stopping your wince, at the cracks that follow. One more goon down.

Three left. And it seems they understand the weight of their mortality. Weapons dropped, hands in air. Apologies fill the space, and Sidestep is breathing hand. Reloads their weapon, and a headshot at one of the ones who were grovelling. Another, at one gasping on the ground, holding their torn throat. 

“You will. Obey.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Sidestep, we’ll do whatever you want, please—”

“Brummen.”

On command, the two standing dogs snap and snarl, low growls as they creep closer to the one who had been arguing earlier. Sidestep removes the only other goon left before you even have a chance to blink, and crouches down beside their other dog. You don’t hear it, but their shoulders drop. Did they really take out one of the dogs?

A pause, no, they’re up. Whatever Sidestep had said, commanded, they were on the last man. Teeth around his throat, but not quite pushing in.

“Warten. You understand my terms now?”

“Yes, yes, god, yes, just get the dog off—”

“And you will continue to serve?”

“Yes, fuck, are you listening? I’m sorry, we won’t—”

“Good. Platz, Teddy. Down.” 

The dog just seems to smile then, mood changed. Happy and dancing around Sidestep’s legs, alongside the other two. Not at all deterred by the bodies in the alley, nor how it had been shot at, only minutes before. Sidestep turns, gets three steps away, when you see the man raise his gun.

You don’t know what possesses you to shout out. Wait! But Sidestep is faster. The quick draw. Fires one single bullet before the guy even gets his arm up in the air. A crack of the whip through the air, and you hear them sigh. 

Look up at you. And it’s like before — how they tip their head to the side, and their dogs follow suit. Staring. Nothing is said, and you can’t see their face. Can’t figure out what they do. But the gun is thrown to the side, and you’re not given a backwards glance. Just like that. As if your arm doesn’t ache in memory, and the words don’t roll around in your head.