Miro a grondé pendant qu'il s'occupait de son côté douloureux. L'engourdissement avait pris place, et une sensation inconfortable et fougueuse annonça le début d'une ecchymose phénoménale de son côté. La juste récompense pour ses actes. Bruisé, réprimandé, ayant visé, et sans argent sur lui-même. Il espérait que le garçon qu'il venait de rencontrer survivrait un peu plus. Cette ville ressemblait de plus en plus à la zone de guerre dans laquelle il était né. Au moins, les cœurs des gens s'étaient endurcis jusqu'à un tel point.
Il se blottit de son capot, grondant d'un ton bas, se rappelant que la salle de gym était toujours sa meilleure option... et quoi qu'il en soit, son départ rapide - c'est-à-dire les antiques de trois filles - allait probablement camper sur son salon, sa cuisine ou sa chambre à coucher et manger ses provisions déjà diminuées.
Il avait espéré qu'ils avaient la décence de mettre des vêtements, et pas seulement des sous-vêtements et des serviettes.

Les bidonvilles de New York : Gym de Vinnie
Bien sûr, ils seraient toujours là. Assis tranquillement au sous-sol et à la salle de gym, le choix des vêtements et des antiques des trois filles n'avait fait que s'améliorer si légèrement. Heureusement, les deux filles plus âgées, plus développées, blondes et brunes, avaient mis des vêtements. La mauvaise chose est qu'ils étaient ses propres t-shirts, être portés comme une sorte de substitut saggy d'une robe d'une seule pièce.
Le troisième n'était nulle part à voir, celui avec la tête de lit monstrueuse de cheveux bruns. Elle s'était probablement encore endormie, après avoir pris le petit déjeuner. Pour des raisons non surprenantes à Miro, puisqu'elle n'avait probablement que 12 ou 13 ans au plus, par rapport aux 16 ans qu'il avait devant lui.
"Hé, tu es de retour! Comment s'est passée ta formation?" a dit la blonde, dans une tentative d'être belle, malgré le commentaire précédent sur la sexualité de Miro.
Miro vient de sniffer un salut, avant de zoomer sur les deux, vers une petite pièce séparée de la salle de gym et de l'étage supérieur, avec les logements appropriés. Le bureau rarement utilisé de Vinnie était toujours là, intact, comme une sorte de sanctuaire d'un champion tombé. Avec le plus grand soin, il s'est assuré de fermer la porte avant de récupérer un autre paquet de billets de papier d'un coffre caché, et de le mettre à nouveau dans sa poche.
Peu à peu, l'argent du coffre était épuisé. Mais ce n'était pas un problème immédiat de faillite.
Quand il a rejoint la chambre, le nombre de filles avait augmenté d'un. La tête de lit Mop, qui portait maintenant quelques queues de porc plutôt enfantines, grignotait sur une barre de chocolat, regardant les deux autres. Et aussi avec un de ses t-shirts.
Et les trois ont regardé Miro.
"Hé, Miro. Je suis... "Vickie." a dit la blonde. "Et celui-ci, c'est Helen." elle a ajouté comme elle pointait à la brune. "Je sais qu'il est tard pour une présentation, mais vous étiez pressé, et les pancakes étaient tellement appétissants, et um..."
"...je les ai menés ici." a dit le plus jeune du trio. "Je ne savais pas qu'ils seraient comme, euh... ceci, Miro. Je suis désolé." Le jeune brun à cheveux a dit.
"Ne le sois pas. Bea." Miroslav a fait de son mieux pour briser un petit sourire. Elle était trop jeune pour supporter le plus gros de son cynisme.
"Bonne merde, il peut sourire." a dit la brune, Helen. "Munchkin, qu'est-ce que tu lui as fait?"
"Je ne suis pas un Munchkin!" Bea a protesté.
"Elle est venue ici pour la septième fois." Miro s'est interjecté. "Connaissance."
-- Sommes-nous des connaissances maintenant, Miro? C'est ce qu'a dit Vickie.
"Non." L'esclave répliqua sèchement, tandis que Bea reniflait et éclatait dans un rire infantile.
"Oh, viens surnn~" la blonde contre-attaque, même jusqu'ici pour essayer une attaque de niveau supérieur, en mettant des yeux de chiot, regardant profondément dans l'âme du jeune homme...
"Non." était sa réponse.
"Tu as vu mes sous-vêtements, n'est-ce pas. Nous sommes des connaissances, ou vous êtes gay! » La blonde a insisté.
"Non." Miro s'est cassé le dos, fatigué de la charade, ses poings s'accrochent aux couilles. Ses nostris s'évanouissaient légèrement, avant de rompre le contact avec son interlocuteur. Les jabs de la blonde chipie et sa propre douleur de battement sur le côté le rendaient fou. Sans oublier qu'il avait été visé, et qu'il avait été chassé de son lieu désigné pour faire parkour. Trop d'agression, donc le choix logique était d'attraper l'un des sacs de sable, quelques gants, et de commencer à écraser sa cible.
"Je pense que tu devrais arrêter d'aggraver notre hôte, Vickie." Helen s'est interjectée, montrant un degré de maturité Miro n'aurait pas deviné la première fois qu'elle l'a vue, traînant autour d'une serviette. "Si les rumeurs sont vraies..."
BOOOM
La phrase d'Helen n'a jamais été terminée, car le sac de sable, après avoir reçu un coup de pied particulièrement puissant, semblait se relâcher et a été catapulté quelques mètres, atterrissant fort sur le sol.
"C'était tellement COOL Miro!" Bea s'est jetée aux pieds, admirant l'exploit apparemment surhumain de la force qui se passe devant ses yeux.
"Qu'est-ce que le fu..." a ajouté Vickie en clignotant deux fois. "Comment est-ce que même..."
"...ce n'était pas moi." Miro a coupé court, avant que l'esprit extrêmement imaginatif des filles a rendu la situation pire qu'elle ne devrait l'être. "La chaîne était trop usée. Probablement à partir de décennies de coups de poing. Vincent a dû beaucoup utiliser ce sac de sable, tu vois? Miroslav pointait vers les bords usés assez évidents des maillons brisés.
Helen a hurlé. "Tu nous as eu une seconde, là-bas. Je veux dire, avec les rumeurs ridicules que vous avez décimé une équipe de SWAT et un Sourcier en étant lourdement blessé. Peu de GMG peuvent se vanter de tels exploits, et encore moins d'un type comme vous."
Miro semblait tendu à la mention du Sourcier, dans la peur et l'inconfort évidents, avant d'expirer. "J'ai besoin de voir Vance. J'ai besoin d'une nouvelle chaîne." Il a annoncé solennellement, alors qu'il faisait ses adieux à la jeune Bea, en allant à l'étage pour une douche.
Name: Miroslav AKA Miro AKA The Demon of the Construction Site.
Sex: Male
Age: 19
Faction: Resistance-cooperator Citizen.
Appearance: Miro is a lean, shorter than average scruffy youth with slavic features. He has icy blue eyes, pale complexion, and short black hair. Beneath his clothes, he's actually very toned and muscular, and he has a couple of faded out scars in his body, as well as a couple of bullet scars, more recent.
Clothing: Miro usually dresses in baggy, non restrictive clothes, such as cargo pants, loose, monochromatic Tshirts, and a baggy sweater. The most outstanding piece are his clothing is his boots. Sturdy,steel reinforced and high quality, these are one of the pieces Miro cares for, as they aid him to perform to his fullest.
Personality: Miro is rather gruff to approach, and rather sparse in his words. He often makes very laconic statements, even when he's impressed. Underneath his rough shell, lies a rather scarred and tormented kind person, who has seen the horrors of humanity up close even as a child. For that very reason, he's very supportive and protective of the underdogs, and specially of kids and teenagers like him. Loyal to those few who managed to befriend him, Miro doesn't hesitate when it comes to trading blows, specially for the sake of his loved ones, and he does it with a viciousness and vindictiviness only seen in war-torn people.
Weapons: His fists and legs. He's actually a MMA fighter, as well as a good traceur. He knows how to shoot a gun, but he rarely carries one of those, what with all the Martial Law and whatnot.
Equipment: His clothes, a wallet, a cellphone, and a pocket knife (more a tool than a weapon). He also owns a motorbike and a Gymnasium in the slums where he sleeps and trains (and doubles as safe house for GMG).
Bio:Miroslav and his sister Olga were a couple of war-orphans hailing from a eastern europe country. In the world-upsetting wake of the Life 0 virus, little Miro did his best to keep him and his sister alive, as the Order of the world crumbled around them. Fortunately for them, this caught the eye of an american foreigner, which brought them to the USA as child refugees. Olga was then soon adopted by the government, although at that time Miro wasn't aware of the implications of such a thing. He was happy he had fulfilled his elder brother obligations. Unlike Olga, he was never adopted, and in time, he sunk in hopelessness and bitterness, becoming some sort of a troublesome youth. What drove him the most mad, though, was that he never, once received news of his sister.
Fortunately, a charitable soul intervened. A former washed out martial artist and traceur, who picked him out of the streets because he was nimble. He taught him discipline, education, restraint, martial arts, parkour, and morals. He in turn, participated in tournaments to bring the fame his master could never achieve, both legal and illegal. It was a harsh life, full of pain, blood and tears, but at least Miro knew he could make a living, and sleep well at night, not once worrying wether the next time he would wake up would have a gun aimed at his face.
However, eventually, all things would come to an end. Vincent Banks, the man who took Miro in, was dying from a strange freak cancer, fruit of years of substance abuse. Miro found himself on the situation to take care of his gymnasium and funeral, since Vincent had alienated himself from all his past acquaintances. However, Miro took it in stride, and did as the old man who had been his surrogate father wished. But then the dilemma struck. What to do after? He had won a tournament. He had taken care of his master remains.
Fate had a funny way to tell him. In front of his eyes, on a certain night in the slums, someone who never expected to run again into appeared. It was Olga. Her sister, all grown up. But she was dishevelled, wounded and in intense fear. Despite that, she managed to recognize him aswell, as she pleaded for help as she ran into a nearby block, panicked. His shock widened as a whole squad of SWAT followed, guns blazing, after her.
Government or not, he would never ignore a plea of his sister, and with a disgusted grimace, he set out after the squad. It was reliving his old life again. With hostile soldiers everywhere. But now, he had something. He could fight back to an extent. The first of them never knew what had snuck up him, as two deft hands suddenly appeared from his behind, twisting his neck in an unnatural angle, before jumping and vanishing on the many pillars and blocks of the construction building. The second was only a little luckier, as he saw the fast motion of the shovel before it cleanly cleaved its face. The third got a couple of lucky grazing shots, before he chocked when Miro stuffed his mouth with a ignited smoke grenade. It was then when the fourth requested reinforcements, his eyes wide as he opened fire on the once again, vanishing Miro. He didn't last, though, as Olga had managed to sneak up on him aswell and shot him in the face, without hesitation.
She smiled, blood covering her face, as she devolved into tears soon after, clutching her wounds. "I knew you would come to get me." She said between sobs. "Listen-WATCH OUT."
She interrupted herself as she drove Miro out of her way, three shots of automatic gunfire impacting on her lithe body with dull thuds. The reinforcements were there. In the form of something Miro had never seen before. An indescriptible monstrosity, who was a very wrong sin against creation and sense.
Love has caused wars. Love has made people lift up cars, breaking their spines in the process, to save others. Love has made people jump into trains to push people out of the way. Love has made people tackle bears. And Love made Miro defy all kind of sense and self-preservation, upon engaging the Seeker. It readjusted and fired upon him, but Miro...flew. Jumping through the beams, climbing, running, never stopping at once. Steel beams, chains, even the odd grenade or weapon from the discarded SWAT team, he threw everything at the thing, without pause nor hesitation. The thing shrugged everything with contemptous ease, and was managing to even hit him with his weapons. Not that Miro could ever feel at that point he was gravely injuried and had been shot several times. He just kept going and going on the self-destructive deadlock, until fortune smiled at him.
A pool of wet cement. Without thinking twice, he rammed the thing as hard as he could into the pool, sealing its movement. But he wasn't done yet, as he summoned the last of his strength for the coup de grace. Lifting a heavy jackhammer and leveling it against the creature's head, he didn't hesitate to pound the creature's skull with the construction machinery for a while for good measure until it stopped moving and screeching.
The weight of his wounds finally caught up to him, as he crawled towards the limp figure of his sister. She wasn't moving. She didn't even have a pulse. But she had the most placid smile in his face. Miro couldn't even begin to cry, before unconsciousness set in. When he woke up, his wounds had been tended, and there was an unknown girl besides him. She explained an ominous story, about girls being used as experiments, and that Olga had been one of them, much like her. His struggle had not pass unnoticed, and she asked for his help, despite being in mourning. They had very few allies, after all.
Miro just looked once away, before saying he would help. After all, they had to pay for whatever they had done with his sister.