Closed RP Beats Per Minute

This RP is currently closed.


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He wasn't wearing a mask that night. That was why he was here.

The man had been following him for a few blocks now; Kosuke had seen him in the thinning crowds from the corner of his eye, trying to avert his gaze, trying to look inconspicuous. He didn't seem to notice he was noticed. So, through the winding streets, Kosuke had managed to take a little detour- a longer path to a different destination, rather than the straight shot to where his bike was parked. Sure enough, his follower had followed, slowly closing the gap between them as they rounded the corner.

It was dark, and the broken streetlamps made it even darker; sputtering the last of their light against the midnight gloom, as the ill-fated pair wandered into the alley. Kosuke watched from the corner of his eye as the man reached for his gun before tapping him on the shoulder.


He turned around to face his assailant; hands in his pockets, and a lazy half-smile on his face. What an idiot, following him down here- letting him lead him down here so blatantly. A dark, secluded alley was the perfect place to mug someone without getting caught, and it was the perfect place to do a lot more violent things as well. Unlike the man before him, Kosuke wouldn't stop at mere threat.

"Can I help y-"


Something moved. A shadow, or a piece of garbage, or some other metropolitan detritus- something had moved. Something had been moved. They weren't alone.


This wouldn't be a problen for his attacker, of course- or, at least, not much of one. The guy didn't have much of a reputation to uphold, not compared to Kosuke, anyway. He, on the other hand, had everything to lose. One stray note, one moment of violence, one poorly-timed display of competence from the bumbling shopkeep, and he'd have a lot of cleaning up to do if he didn't want the whole house of cards to come crashing down.


Kosuke put his hands in the air.

The metal fire escape is very low on Spork’s list of places to sit while wearing shorts. Unfortunately, they can’t be bothered to change. It has been a long day, and even bugging Mari hadn’t been very effective in bringing their mood up.

So here they are, fire escape digging into their legs and cigarette dangling from their fingers. They hold the smoke in their lungs until it burns and then breathe it out slow, but the sharp corners of their thoughts refuse to soften. They want, more than anything, something to break.

That’s when they hear the shuffle of footsteps in the alley below their perch. It takes them a moment to place where they’ve heard that voice before, but then it clicks - Kosuke, Mr. Music Man. He’d been tolerable at the bar the other night, and that was enough for them to at least remember him.

In another circumstance, they might’ve been tempted to listen to how the confrontation below plays out. As it is, their muscles are itching for violence. They stand up as quietly as they can, croc-ed feet surprisingly quiet on the steps of the well-maintained fire escape. Guess stealth training pays off.

They’re three floors up. When they reach the first floor, the voices have gone quiet. If they want the element of surprise, they’ll have to move now.

They’ve fallen from higher places. They take one more drag of smoke and snub the cigarette on the brick of the building, flicking it away as they take a running leap off the fire escape.

Smoke and laughter trails from their lips as gravity sends them crashing down into the would-be mugger. Hopefully. It’s hard to tell exact positions from shuffling footsteps and quiet voices, but they definitely landed on somebody. They kind of hope they didn’t just crush Kosuke.

“Whoops, clumsy me,” they blatantly lie. Despite the improvised crash-pad, they’re sure to have some fun new bruises tomorrow. “You make an awful cushion,”

God, he was an idiot. Kosuke couldn't see whoever was there, but sightlines weren't all that mattered with him. If they could hear him, he'd be suspicious. If they could see him as well, he'd be guilty. He'd have to take this one. God, he was dreading it. He made a mental list of everything he was carrying; about $100 cash, a temporary card, his phone, custom-fit earphones, that heavy old FLAC player he carried because he refused to listen to music on anything else... shit, it would be a pain in the ass to get them back- even moreso if the guy found the keys to his bike. He grit his teeth, furious behind the visage of panic when-


-someone leapt down from the unseen, and landed squarely on top of his attacker.

Kosuke stumbled backwards, cautiously lowering his arms. He looked around him, searching for a way out, before his eyes inevitably drifted back to his unknown saviour, and he recognised them.


He sounded almost too surprised- although, he did just have a gun pointed at him.

"Shit- shit, uh, the guy's armed. Gun, left hand? I think? Uh..."

He trailed off, continuing to mumble uselessly about the gun, about how they should be careful, about hey, this guy seems really dangerous, all that sort of thing. All the while, he continued to back away, as slowly and cautiously as he could, in case the gunman decided to fire at him instead.

The gunman in question, however, seemed more concerned with the stranger who had just landed on top of him than the unarmed civilian. He grabbed at their arms and attempted to roll to the side, hoping to throw them off so he could slide out from under them.

“The one and only!” Spork crows, already wrestling with the man under them. When he grabs their arms he’s met with a surprising amount of resistance, even factoring in their apparent musculature. They grin, sure that he’s assessing their blindness right alongside the fact that they’re going to kick his ass.

Kosuke’s warning is more useful than he knows, even if they do tune him out when he starts mumbling. They slap out blindly and smack at the mugger’s left hand, then get a more solid hold and drive his wrist into the concrete.

Without their gauntlets they aren’t strong enough to snap the bone, but their grip threatens to bruise regardless. Their knuckles scrape along the rough ground, adding to their collection of boo-boos for the night, but, promisingly, something clatters out of the man’s hand. “Guns are cheating, didn’t you know?”

Their knee smarts when they shift. They must’ve skinned it in the collision. It distracts them enough for the man to roll away, and they dive for the clatter before he can reclaim his weapon. To outside eyes, something glints on their back when their shirt rides up with the movement, metallic in the low light.

They land on… something. It digs into their arm, cold and metal. They shift quickly and sit on it, throwing a middle finger and a rude face in the man’s general direction.

“Come at me,” they challenge, unable to hold the silly face as their grin reappears. “Leave the poor music guy out of this.”

This ballsy motherfucker actually disarmed him. That strike, that slap to his hand- it knocked the handgun clean out, and pinned him to the floor. He hissed in pain, convinced his wrist was going to snap right then and there, before he was finally given an opening to roll free. Shit. Shit, now he didn't have a gun- what the fuck was he meant to do without a gun? He had a knife, but- fuck, what the hell was that? Metal? Was he fighting the fucking Terminator here?

Fuck Pittsburgh, man. He was about to get his ass handed to him by a blind fucking cyborg, but- no, no he wasn't. He still had that knife- he could salvage this. He could- he could fucking salvage this.

Kosuke was just observing. The mask of panic had left his face almost completely, replaced by far more comfortable neutrality. His voice, of course, still held that fear; he was very good at that sort of thing, emoting one thing with his voice and another with his face. It was one of Vanity Project's trademark gimmicks, but it seldom saw use outside of that. Perhaps it should. Panic never wore well on his face; it was uncomfortable to pull off, straining all the wrong muscles, creasing all the wrong places.

"Shit- knife, right hand." He said, "Is this... helping? I mean, I can shut up if you'd rather-"

He shut up.

The attacker lunged forwards, clumsily bringing down the knife from his left side, as if that would somehow throw them off.

There’s a short lull in which Spork shifts to get their feet under them again. They clumsily kick the gun in the direction of Kosuke’s voice as they rise fully to meet the new attack. It clatters noisily across the concrete.

And, see, they’re ready to intercept the man’s right hand. They’re used to being a beast of metal and kevlar when they’re in fights like this. Mari did her utmost to ensure that they’d be prepared for whatever shit was thrown at them.

It makes them reckless, and while they catch the guy’s - empty - right hand, he buries the knife in their left shoulder.

There’s a moment where the adrenaline numbs the pain, and then it hits them all at once. “Jesus fuck, what the hell-”

Rather than flinch away as their nerves are screaming for them to do, Spork grits their teeth and wraps their hand around the man’s left, and around the hilt of the knife still embedded in their shoulder. They squeeze, hoping to force him to release it or feel his hand crushed between a hilt and a hard place.

Oh, this is going to hurt. Taking barely a moment to brace themself, they kick out with all the enhanced strength of their mechanical spine. Space, make an opening and recover and then they can think of a next step.

He let out a sound when his knife met its mark- something between a gasp and the beginning of a laugh, shocked but pleasantly so, almost relieved if it weren't so short-lived. So, the bastard could bleed. Not Terminator, after all. He dug the knife in further for a second, hoping to cause even more damage, when his hand was stopped by theirs.

It took him a second before he let go- a second too long. Their hand was crushing his, causing the hilt of the knife to dig into his skin, nearly breaking his bones before he finally found the sense to pull it away.

Then, there was the kick. It was stronger than any human should be, especially one like this. Maybe Terminator was back on the cards- or, what was the other one? RoboCop? He didn't know. He didn't exactly have the time to think about what sci-fi enhanced motherfucker this person best resembled- he was trying to kick their ass and save his own, and he was doing a piss-poor job at it. He stumbled backwards, taking a second to catch his breath, watching as they did the same. Maybe it was suicide, but he didn't attack first. Going on the offensive didn't seem to be the right play here- he wanted to see what he was dealing with.

He glanced across at the musician, the man he had cornered, terrified, earlier- only to find him leaning casually against a wall.

Kosuke shot him a smile, and watched him wince.

"Shit- Spork, are you okay?"

The kick jostles the knife still buried in their shoulder, and fire screams through their nerves. A part of them wants to pull it out and throw it on the ground all badass-like, but a larger part remembers Mari whacking them upside the head with a health textbook and telling them no, you leave the weapon in so you don’t bleed out. They bite their lip against the pain, drawing blood that sits metallic on their tongue.

It would be ironic as hell to bleed out in the alleyway beside their apartment after half a lifetime of subjecting others to similar fates. But it would also be lame.

They turn so their good side is to the assailant and try flexing the fingers on their injured arm. More pain, and their fingers barely curl. Damn. So this is why Mari makes them wear that dumb jacket.

None of their calculations show on their face, and with Kosuke’s question they feel their lips curl into a feral grin. “Fine and dandy, music man.”

Their voice is rough, made rougher when they growl, “Are you ready to give up now or do I need to start breaking things you won’t get back?”

Intimidation is one of their strong suits. They always give people a chance to run once they see what Spork is really made of.

He was unarmed now. No knife, and the gun was so far away that it would be suicide to run for it now. This was stupid- Terminator was right, why the hell would he risk breaking anything else? At least, if he gave up now, the only thing he'd lose was his pride. He wouldn't break his arm, wouldn't lose his teeth, wouldn't be found bleeding out in the alley with his own knife in his throat- he'd just be a bit embarrassed, and more prepared for next time, if he ever came across this freak again. He sighed, visibly resigned. Too visibly.

Kosuke's face fell- the casual smile of before twisting into a chilling frown. He tapped his hand against the brick for a moment, raising an eyebrow at the attacker.

Then, he hummed. A note that could not be heard, but could not be denied- Unrest.

The man reacted first, launching himself unarmed at Spork, attempting to slam his palm into the hilt of the knife to drive it further into their shoulder. The speed at which he moved was impressive- now that he knew he couldn't intimidate this freak, he wasn't trying to act all scary anymore. This was survival, now. He just wanted them dead- god, he wanted them dead. Who did they think they were, toying with him like that- talking like some Saturday morning cartoon hero whilst trying to break his bones? Trying to humiliate him like that? They had to pay. They had to learn.

There’s a tense silence, and then the shuffle of the man’s boots against the pavement. The footsteps don’t lead away, though. Oh, no, he runs chest-first into Spork’s shoulder. Their good shoulder, luckily, but they scream in equal parts pain and anger as his flailing hand pushes the knife at an angle.

Fuck this guy. Spork knows how to dispose of a body. They don’t have to play nice. They turn their back to him and viciously jab their elbow into his meaty bits before bringing their hand up to rip the knife from their shoulder. It burns like fire and they can already feel their own blood soaking their shirt, but adrenaline rushes sweet in their veins and allows them to push through the pain.

Usually they’d say using a blade is cheating, but they aren’t feeling very sportsman-like tonight.

“Have it your way.” Their voice is a growl as they whip around with the knife, a clumsy swipe that’s 80% a distraction to give them an opening to tackle him to the ground. That’s where they do their best work.

They were armed, now.

Perhaps, on a better day, he'd have seen this as a sign to surrender. This enhanced-human freak could take him down even empty-handed- with a knife, they'd fucking kill him. And, perhaps, he knew that. Somewhere, buried beneath the pain in his hand and the fury in his heart and the money still in the other guy's fucking wallet, he knew that. But it didn't help. Nothing could help- nothing except taking down this smug piece of shit, wiping that sly little smile off their face.

He watched as it turned to a snarl, but even that wasn't satisfying. He needed blood- and, by god, he would get blood.

They slashed at him, missing any vital arteries but still carving a large gash through his chest. He staggered back, clutching the bleeding wound for all of two seconds before the adrenaline forced his hands back to the task, launching another clumsy strike at the Terminator's skull. It was a doomed effort. There was no fucking way it would hit- the distance was too awkward, the aim too imprecise, the opening for a tackle far too wide for it to be of any use.

If hit, he'd go down.

From the background, the unheard sound began to taper, and the grip of fury would slowly begin to release. Not fully, not just yet, but it would get there. Kosuke, though he could only be seen by one, looked unconvincingly horrified.

The guy knocks his fist against their face, and they would laugh at how puny that hit was if they weren’t already focusing their full efforts on pushing into his chest with both hands -- with the knife, fuck, the angle is awkward but they can feel it between them and him and if they can’t feel the blade then surely he can -- and sending the both of them to the ground. It’s agony, and it tears through them, but they tear through him.

Spork fights like a schoolyard bully. They fight like a hurricane, like a feral dog, like a brick through a stained glass window. Irreparable damage. Blood and glass everywhere. They hold the man down and they make sure he never gets up again. It’s what they do.

The haze of rage makes seconds feel like small eternities, and all they are aware of in that time is the ragged hiss of their own breath and the blood under their hands. Awareness filters back slowly, and it’s only once they’re able to fully fill their lungs that they register that the body underneath theirs is no longer shifting with breath of its own. Shit.

“Shit.” This is gonna be a mess, isn’t it. Their hands are throbbing with pain, beating a concert in tandem with their shoulder. They uncurl their fist with a huff-wheeze, trying not to think about how much blood they’re losing. How much they’ve already lost.

Mari’s gonna be so mad at them.

And he fought back, of course- futile as it was. He tried to push past their strikes, responding with punches at first, then pitiful slaps, then desperate attempts to just claw at them like some sort of feral cat. None of it worked, in the end. Sure, he might have got some blood under his fingernails, but he also might have not. He couldn't tell. Each strike from this thing makes the world split apart- shattering, melting, spinning, spinning, spinning. He wasn't sure at what point he hit the ground- fuck, he wasn't sure where the ground even was, what the ground even was. He was dual delirium, enraged and concussed, silently losing his mind before it all finally shut off.

Kosuke, from the sidelines, could be heard shuffling backwards.

"Shit." He echoed, "Fucking- shit, uh- my hands are raised, okay?"

His breathing was slow and heavy- either trying to calm a panic, or trying not to cause one.

"Are- did you- uh, is-"

He cleared his throat. His voice came out a little quieter.


It takes Spork a moment to find themself. Everything feels too close, too real, and they feel a twist in their chest even as something deeper hums with satisfaction. Damn, this was stupid.

They get to their feet, somehow, though the ground seems to be swaying. Or maybe that’s them. A small eternity passes as they shuffle away from the body. The man they killed.

It feels different. It feels bad. They didn’t mean to kill him, really, until they did. They ache from all the places they’ve been hit and scratched, their shoulder hurts, and they don’t feel like gloating as much as taking a long shower and making Mari deal with the cleanup.

“God. Dammit.” Their voice rasps, and they clear their throat with an engine-starting rumble. They don’t bother putting in the effort of trying to turn their head, letting it droop as their whole body wants to. “Listen, Kosuke, you didn’t see anything. Go home. Please.”

The ‘please’ comes out through gritted teeth. God, what a mess. They don’t want to have to kill Kosuke too. Better if everyone thinks the mugger’s victim ran away when they started punching.