Steve Nobody idled along to the station when he saw Pinkshirts patrolling for the first time. On the opposite side of the road, they looked over and one slapped a baton against the palm of his hand. Steve kept his head down and continued through the light rain. He nipped down an alleyway and rounded a bend toward the station just as it all began to kick off. Umbrellas waved in the air, accompanied by angry yells and arm waving. The way to the station was clearly barred, so he held back. Pinkshirts moved forward to corral part of the crowd between a brick wall and a Destructor mounted on the pavement. Batons slammed down on the hemmed in commuters and the debris of bags and umbrellas were crushed underfoot. They kettled the unfortunate people into a corner and injuries mounted.
Steve’s attention was drawn toward a man helping someone limp away from the beatings. The injured man had a blood-splattered white shirt. A Pinkshirt spotted them and broke ranks, baton in hand. Instinct took over and Steve ran uphill toward them. The Pinkshirt got there first and hit the helpful man with a nasty thud to the back of his head. Both men sprawled into the tarmac. Pumped with adrenaline, the Pinkshirt raised the baton for another strike. Without thinking, Steve grabbed the batoned hand, turned and threw the Pinkshirt over his shoulder. The Poshey thug hit the road hard and remained still, his eyes closed. The baton rolled from his loosened grip. Steve kicked it away.
With only seconds to act, he lifted the white shirted gentleman to his unsteady feet and hauled the other man over a shoulder.
“Can you walk?” Steve asked.
The man nodded.
With one arm holding the person on his shoulder and the other grabbing the white shirt, Steve headed back toward the alleyway. He took the two men away from danger. A rat scurried ahead and into a backyard. It disappeared under some corrugated plastic sheeting. Steve ran down the path and turned a sharp left. Where some wooden fencing dipped in and ivy poured over a high wall on the opposite side, he put the man down and crept forward. He heaved for breath as a group of Pinkshirts lent back while running down the High Street. With the noise of rioting in the background, Steve looked at clumps of moss and bird shit on the ground. Two bricks lay at the edge of the path. Cigarette butts scattered about and a single rubber band had been discarded.
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