You've seen your share of riots and mob activity; stability was a fleeting thing in your home city, something that these first world people with their first world problems often took for granted. Then again, more and more were the Americans you'd come to live among resembling the people you'd left behind, and you had to give it to them: these Yankees knew how to throw a proper riot.
It's a singularly terrifying experience that mainlines adrenaline through your veins as you are tossed and jostled, sinking into the crowd rather than resisting them as they made to tear the door off your bank. You hoped they were controlled enough that they wouldn't devolve into a lynch-mob, though when you saw angry hands reach out and grab a panicking Jun and drag him away, you could only fear and assume the worst.
Would they tear you to pieces?
Were you going to be burned alive like a witch?
All you'd wanted was to not be poor and hungry, to live in a civilized country and enjoy medical treatment, to eat clean food and drink untainted water...this bank job had been your one, singular shot at getting that and by
god
you'd worked so hard for it.
Was the price, just when things were starting to get good, going to be your life?
Devil
:
No. It won't. Fight them.
You refuse to give in, and although you are by no means stronger than thousands of angry City folk, when you feel a hand wrap painfully around your wrist you turn and slam the heel of your palm upward into a nose - there's a CRACK, a spray, and a red-bandana wearing activist drops her sign, gargling indignantly through a snoutful of blood. The subway tunnel is only a few blocks from here; you can already hear sirens approaching but the cops were just as likely to gun you down as any protesters should the lead start to fly.
Pushing and shoving, you feel your blazer rip at the shoulder before a sleeve is torn away - that was a nice one you'd bought for this occasion! - and someone strikes you painfully in the ribs with a sign; you're unstoppably high on adrenaline however, like a mother bear saving her cub from poachers only in this case the cub was your own life. "HEY! GRAB HER, SHE'S A TURNCOAT!"
A swarthy man and his sunburned, angry companion (who seemed to have almost no chin) seize you roughly, nails scrabbling into your skin, and wrestle you to the concrete; they're swearing at you, spitting epithets your way about how you're 'empowering an enemy' and 'sending jobs to people with no labor protections'. You're not doing any of those things, you're literally just hooking government officials up with loans so they can build bridges in their own cities and you shout this in a voice that scratches your throat raw, but...it's to no avail.
You're dragged through the crowd - your arms twisted behind your back painfully by no-chin, the big, sweat-stinking man pushing you along shouts "WE CAUGHT ONE!". You feel yourself pelted with bottles, empty soda cans, there a banana clocks you in the face like a fucking boomerang. You see what appears to be one of the armored cars your bank uses to transfer money, painted red and black with anti-oppression catchphrases whose meaning was likely understood by 10% of the crowd, condemnation of global capitalism...someone drew a dick of course, incredibly anatomically accurate, shooting semen and your mind begins to wander -
Devil
:
I never thought I'd say this but now is not the time!
What can you do though? You watch in horror as Minister Jun is hauled atop the armored van - tears are streaming down his cheeks, you can hear him pleading desperately, begging as the tables are turned and all his loathsome, authoritarian barking means nothing to people who see him as little more than an upjumped villain to be brought low.
You
:
Oh my god oh my god they're going to execute him, they're going to execute me!
Devil
:
You have to break free, do whatever you need to!
What they do to Minister Jun is arguably worse than a public lynching...at least, from his perspective, before his collection of servants.
"
BU YAO! WO BU YAAAAOOO -
"
A white, viscous substance whose sour reek you recognize from years of office work is poured over him by the bucketful; he shrieks like a stuck pig as the hot glue sticks in his hair, over his suit coat, filling his mouth and causing him to spit and gurgle. His brash authority and the weight of his tantrums are shorn from him; you practically see his confidence spiraling into the void where his power once was, and you recall when Gandalf killed the Goblin King in that trippy 70s Hobbit film your cousin bootlegged for your 8th birthday.
You can hear his servants yowling in equal parts vindication and terror as a pair of rioters dump bags of bright pink feathers over the minister, snapping videos and photos that will no doubt go on social media, lead to numerous lawsuits, and likely a diplomatic row...and you being the Hispanic, female employee closest to this disaster, would likely receive the blame, thrown to the wolves.
The injustice rises in your throat like acid-reflex after drinking a pilsner on an empty stomach...cold and carbonated, yet burning and acrid. "No," you whisper as you struggle once again - the girl who'd beaten you with a sign has the gall to
slap
you, which simply activates your inner honey-badger and sends you into an incandescent rage. The world turns red as you tear away from the man holding you, shredding your blazer and tearing the lower section of your dress away as the humid air, reeking of sweaty bodies, caresses your thighs.
No-Chin's face turns apple-red as you claw her cheeks open with your black-painted nails, tearing into her flesh and down her chin like a jaguar. She bends over with a shocked, offended sound, like she can't
believe
that you're actually ripping away strips of her skin and she's more outraged than hurt. As her blood drips on the concrete, your stylish dress is reduced to little more than a slutty cocktail skirt by tearing, grasping hands. You turn to fight your way through the crowd toward the subway station; pushing, striking, taking blows and never slowing down.
You see it, the liminal area of the roiling mob where stragglers or the occasional media personnel lingers - they lash out at you to grab you as you rush past, leaving nailmarks and friction burns on you exposed arms and legs; someone snatches your hair near your temple (which HURTS!), and you bite their finger like Gollum after the ring until they release you with a shocked sound.
Pushing a startled, blue-haired girl out of the way, at the edge of liberation, you find yourself running smack into a rotund yet hard belly, sending you back onto the concrete path you'd cleared. You look up at a man, easily twice your weight, his pale skin greasy with sweat; his green shorts are a couple shades too tight, and you notice his fly is unzipped. It's threatening, especially the way he slaps an empty, plastic waterbottle into his palm with a *THOONK* like he's going to billy-club you with it.
He's way too big; there's no way you can escape your absurd fate now. Despair turns your sweat cold as he reaches down toward you with an ominous frown behind his scraggly black beard. You close your eyes...
"
AAAAGH!
"
A masculine, indignant peel of fury meets you, and you open your eyes to see your captor wrestling with a tall, broad-shouldered figure whose silhouette, outlined against the sun, renders him indistinct. It's an enchanting moment that leaves you starry-eyed as you realize your savior is jamming a slice of pizza into his face - questions such as where he got it from and what toppings it has fly through your scattered brain like sparrows startled by a dog. Jalapeño peppers scatter on the pavement; it must be agonizing, you'd made the mistake of rubbing your eyes after working with poblanos. Your shining knight wipes his marinara stained hands - you picture them as armored gauntlets, dripping with his fallen enemy's gore - on the mewling rioter's shirt as he rolls on the ground before turning to you.
He pulls you up from the ground as if you weigh little more than a kitten, and when you rise against him you recognize Aram immediately.
