Gabe’s heard stories. They’ve all heard them. Urban legends and fantasies and bullshit propaganda. He ignores them, just making his living day to day in the domed safety of Battery City. It’s not like he’s got anything better to do. He’s been to parties that have been busted up and seen kids that used to be the scene scrubbing graffiti off cement, and he’d rather live his life in relative comfort than get caught up in the bullshit. He had his share, done his time.
That doesn’t take into account turning the corner on his way home and getting slammed into by some guy, running at full tilt like hell itself is on his heels. They crash in real time, even though it feels like slow motion, and Gabe registers air and heat and dry and cement and solid and pain like flashes from a camera shutter.
When the guy looks up, poised to take off, Gabe knows instinctively who he is. The sound of motorcycles and pounding feet is getting closer, and the changing billboards are like cameras watching them all, everything is something that could be watching you. Gabe grabs the guy’s wrist and gets to his feet in the same moment, shoving him into a stairwell in one of the old factories that now serves officially as apartment buildings, but more realistically as slums.
The guy stands out, because he’s like a shock of color. Red and blue and yellow like some sort of fucking primary color palette. He’s got a bandanna over his mouth and his eyes are hidden behind dark glasses. Gabe can feel him wanting to run, and Gabe remembers what it’s like.
Jerking the bandanna down, Gabe presses him against the wall, mouth fitting over his. He runs his hand through the shock of yellow hair, fisting it in his hand to make it less noticeable. His body angles to the left, blocking the view from the entrance of the stairwell, so all that’s visible is his gray suit, his dark hair, his black shoes. Anonymity has its advantages.
The guy kisses back, his hands fisting in the lapels of Gabe’s jacket, and Gabe can feel the pressure of his fists. He shifts more and there’s the press of a laser pistol and the smooth leather of a holster. Gabe’s clothes are thin due to the balmy Battery City weather, but this guy is dressed for protection, not comfort. Gabe gets lost in leather and the smell of dust, nothing like the purified air he’s used to breathing. It makes him thirsty, hungry for something he thought long dead.
Gabe pulls away and looks at him, seeing himself reflected back in the darkness of his sunglasses. “They’ll head south toward the Estates.” The Estates were the first promise of better living, and now they’re where the street rats live, where the junkie angels trade sex and batteries for neon to shoot in their veins, lighting themselves up. The guy has a cobra on his jacket, obviously the Kobra Kid, and Gabe touches it briefly. It reminds him of someone he used to know. Maybe himself. “You can make it out if you take the Mill Tunnel.”
Kobra nods and starts off with a loping gait, not quite stopping when he turns around and looks at Gabe. “Keep running.”
Re: Crossover Kobra Kid/Gabe: Bring 'Em Back Alive
That doesn’t take into account turning the corner on his way home and getting slammed into by some guy, running at full tilt like hell itself is on his heels. They crash in real time, even though it feels like slow motion, and Gabe registers air and heat and dry and cement and solid and pain like flashes from a camera shutter.
When the guy looks up, poised to take off, Gabe knows instinctively who he is. The sound of motorcycles and pounding feet is getting closer, and the changing billboards are like cameras watching them all, everything is something that could be watching you. Gabe grabs the guy’s wrist and gets to his feet in the same moment, shoving him into a stairwell in one of the old factories that now serves officially as apartment buildings, but more realistically as slums.
The guy stands out, because he’s like a shock of color. Red and blue and yellow like some sort of fucking primary color palette. He’s got a bandanna over his mouth and his eyes are hidden behind dark glasses. Gabe can feel him wanting to run, and Gabe remembers what it’s like.
Jerking the bandanna down, Gabe presses him against the wall, mouth fitting over his. He runs his hand through the shock of yellow hair, fisting it in his hand to make it less noticeable. His body angles to the left, blocking the view from the entrance of the stairwell, so all that’s visible is his gray suit, his dark hair, his black shoes. Anonymity has its advantages.
The guy kisses back, his hands fisting in the lapels of Gabe’s jacket, and Gabe can feel the pressure of his fists. He shifts more and there’s the press of a laser pistol and the smooth leather of a holster. Gabe’s clothes are thin due to the balmy Battery City weather, but this guy is dressed for protection, not comfort. Gabe gets lost in leather and the smell of dust, nothing like the purified air he’s used to breathing. It makes him thirsty, hungry for something he thought long dead.
Gabe pulls away and looks at him, seeing himself reflected back in the darkness of his sunglasses. “They’ll head south toward the Estates.” The Estates were the first promise of better living, and now they’re where the street rats live, where the junkie angels trade sex and batteries for neon to shoot in their veins, lighting themselves up. The guy has a cobra on his jacket, obviously the Kobra Kid, and Gabe touches it briefly. It reminds him of someone he used to know. Maybe himself. “You can make it out if you take the Mill Tunnel.”
Kobra nods and starts off with a loping gait, not quite stopping when he turns around and looks at Gabe. “Keep running.”