(3) Puck: Toronto

He's crept along the dirty streets of Toronto's underbelly, making his way smoothly to the police car parked outside the dingy den of thieves, and now Puck prepares for the confrontation soon to follow. Pulling a small blade from his fightsuit, the skilled slugger relieves all four tires of their air, and, wheezing out in pathetic hisses they fall flat, disabling the vehicle.

Puck shuffles up to the warehouse and revisits the path he took to the roof minutes ago so as to gain entry once again. Other spots offered easier access to the high ground, but this way gave the tactician an escape were the enemy lucky enough to spot him. A mere moment later he completes a tricky tumble and is securely in place up above.

Squeezing through an opening, Puck recovers the trench coat he had placed in the crawl space and delicately crawls into position for reconnaissance.

Nineteen men in all... a few of them bloody & woozy, all of them agitated, buzz around the main area of the building like hornets who just had their hive TPed. It takes him 22 seconds to choreograph the impending fight, and if it goes right... well, it'll go right.

Two thugs lean against the second floor rail not far from the infamous room. They're the first act, the dance has just begun.

From the shadowy rafters Puck's ghostly image rides gravity's tug down hard onto the shoulders of the two unsuspecting men, sending all three crashing through the wooden railing, down into the light. Holding their collars, Puck ensures a non fatal landing on top of the nearest car's rooftop... Pain, followed by unconsciousness, is the preferred result, and with tremendous dexterity objective number one is met.

Without a wasted movement Puck launches from the car, letting momentum toss him through the air into the dumbfounded band of criminals. Like an adept bullfighter, his trench coat flapping grandly at his side, Puck flies over the next closest victim, lassoing his terrified face in the cotton jacket, while he moves on to greater threats. By now guns are being drawn, but, already seeing five moves into the brawl, Puck's began mopping up the floor with the clumsy creeps. His barrel roll sends two bouncing chin first, their legs taken out from under them, awkwardly to the cement, and squeezing every drop he can from the second floor thrust, Puck ricochet's off the garage door and back toward the trench coat. Poor Jimmy had just freed himself of the snare when the lightning fast Alphan returned to his corner of the universe. His finale isn't scripted until later, though... eight moves from now, in fact, and so Puck takes what miniscule time he has with each action to snare the falling coat and fling it toward a dangerously close gun wielder. That man's balance upset just enough, Puck first dispatches another oaf with a flying jump kick, then rolls up for a debilitating uppercut to the gun toter's nether region.

Had the remaining wannabe mobsters stayed awake in the following seconds, they would no doubt sympathize with Stan the Goon as he slumped to the floor. Instead, catching his gun Puck hurls it into the crooked cop's face across the room, buying precious seconds before any one of the remaining cons could fire a shot.

It all came down to this, though, the trickiest part of his preplanned dance. It's inevitable, that with upwards of nineteen opponents, that sooner or later they will draw guns, and they will get a bead. And for as skilled, and as quick as Eugene Judd is, dodging bullets can only happen in short, LUCKY spurts... and this setup isn't geared toward that scenario. He must get in close, draw them into a bear-your-soul, back alley slugfest.

The pistol that smashed Copper number one's nose into a dozen different angles clinks to the deck as Puck slams meaty knuckles into the second fuzzball's right cheek. His hat sails happily off while he greets his colleague on the other side of consciousness.

Judd's best hopes came true as two men with pistols aimed held their fire for fear of striking their Police buddies. There'll be more guns drawn soon enough unless he can get the last eleven to commit to close quarters fighting. Without pause Puck hurls himself at the gunmen, eyes tight, straining to sense their tendons flex in the firing motion. Two bullets from two separate angles eject from their muzzles, sending the Alphan desperately into the air. Contact is avoided, as planned, and he crashes sidelong into both perpetrators. The impact isn't enough to knock them out, but the all important grappling phase has, thankfully come.

A tangle of arms twist for dominance to the tune of eleven to one and Puck grins. The coy smile turns into an malevolent snarl as the Diminutive Destroyer shifts it into overdrive.

His size works to his advantage, causing the others to adjust their styles and stances. Puck, on the otherhand...

Within eight seconds four thugs lay holding bruised faces, drifting in and out of consciousness. Another two hear and feel their knees pop painfully out of joint. They could've charged admission, for the show Puck put on would've brought in more money than a month's worth of shakedowns.

Finished now, and admittedly slightly out of breath, the Hero secured the site, assuring himself of prolonged advantage by gathering guns and knives and, truth be told, willpower from the tattered enclosure. Those who were awake wanted no more. They wanted medical treatment more than anything. And, most certainly they recognized their righteous assailant... confirmed it really... as a member of the recently defunct Alpha Flight.

Gathered neatly, in relative terms, nineteen defeated goons groan in the center of the spacious room like a dysfunctional triage unit, moaning and taking inventory of teeth while Puck prepares for tonight's finale'.

He needs to know how deep this ring goes and his first interviewee is an obvious choice. Grabbing the more groggy of the two bad Cops, Puck pulls him by the collar roughly to his scowling face. The groggy among us are usually the more truthful... their rattled skulls typically forget about the necessity of lying in certain situations. Ripping the cop's badge off his chest, Puck holds it an inch in front of the man's battered face.

Puck: (spittle flying) Tell me what I wanna know or I'll take this worthless tin and shove it down yer damn throat! See this? Hey! Look at me! Who's callin' the shots here?

Groggy Fuzzball: M'uh... m'uh teef. Y'uh knukt-- (eyes roll back and he slips further into incoherence)

Puck: (inwardly) Ehh, maybe alittle TOO groggy...

Stan the Goon: Save your breath, chump. You got nothing on us.
Puck: Ah! The Accountant! I'll tell ya what I got on you. I know what you creeps do, and YOU know what you creeps do. THAT's what I have on you. And so I'm gonna shake YOU down now, every day, every week... until you beg me to stop. An' I can see it in yer eyes, pal, that you ain't the beggin' kind. So this is gonna be for the long haul. You think you have friends in high places? Think they're pretty scary. Wait 'til you meet MINE. Don't care about cops, don't care about lawyers. You and your boys against me and mine. How does that sound, chump?

From outside, a quick succession of chirps indicate the arrival of Toronto's finest on the scene. A bang at the door, followed by a commanding shout ushers in the last act with a gleam in Puck's eye.

Puck: (winks) Too bad... (over his shoulder) It's open!

Tentatively, and with professional precision, half a dozen police officers file in, guns drawn, faces stern.

Officer Maxwell: Everyone keep your hands where we can see them! Do it! Do it now! Got reports of shots in the area. Saw the cruiser outside with the flat-- what the hell's happening here?

Puck: What's it look like, eh? (thumbs to himself with his left) Superhero... (points to the mess of men on the floor) bad guys... (big grin)



Hours later, Eugene Judd walks the streets again, this time heading home to his downtown flat, flurries landing softly around him. His trenchcoat and cap keep him warm from the late night chill, and his mind loses itself in post-battle analysis, step after step.

He's certain that the fight could've ended 40 seconds sooner had he zigged here rather than zagged there, but he's not going to beat himself up over it. In the end, a budding, small time pack of wolves were taken down, along with their two policemates.

It doesn't look like this ring had much might, yet, but given time it would've expanded from mere thugery to drugrunning, prostitution and general all around misery to the meek.

It feels rewarding... still, he misses the greater good accomplished alongside Michael, and Mac, and Walt... and Heather. He smiles slightly at the the memory of it all. The days Alpha Flight mattered. And he hopes, that eventually he'll get that phonecall, whether from friends or Department H, that Canada needs it's heroes again.

-end

(*this fanfiction story takes place just prior to the events of Alpha Flight, volume 2, circa 1997)