Bertha, fueled by anger and determination, readily agreed to Gordon's terms. She couldn't wait to wipe that smug grin off his face and show him who was truly in charge.
Gordon stood still, his playful smile unwavering, his posture relaxed. Bertha, convinced she had the upper hand, grinned broadly. She wound up, putting all her strength into a powerful punch, aiming squarely for his face, a resounding reminder that she was not to be trifled with.
Gordon chuckled inwardly, pleased Bertha had fallen for his trap. He remained still, his smile unwavering, letting her believe she had the advantage.
As Bertha's fist hurtled towards his face, he swiftly summoned his power. A wall of wind materialized in front of him, an invisible barrier that brought Bertha's punch to an abrupt halt.
Bertha's eyes widened in shock, her face a mask of disbelief. She stared at the invisible wall, her fist hovering inches from Gordon's nose.
Gordon, reveling in her stunned expression, felt a wave of satisfaction. He then puffed playfully, and a powerful gust of wind erupted, pushing Bertha back a few steps. He had used just enough force to surprise her, but not enough to cause any harm.
"You... you... you..." Bertha stammered, her voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and anger. She couldn't comprehend what had just happened. How dare Gordon use his powers against her, especially after she had agreed to a "fair" fight?
A wave of shame washed over her, followed by a surge of intense annoyance. Her authority had been shattered, her attempt to assert dominance reduced to a comical failure. She had envisioned herself landing a satisfying punch, Gordon reeling in pain, and she standing victorious. Instead, she was left sputtering, her fist frozen in midair, while Gordon stood grinning like a mischievous imp.
Gordon released his power abruptly, the wall of wind dissipating. His triumphant grin faded, replaced by a slight wince. The familiar, unwelcome cacophony of thousands of screams had begun to resonate in his mind, growing louder with each passing second. He couldn't risk letting them build to a full crescendo. He needed to silence them, to regain control.
"Having trouble reaching my face, Bertha?" Gordon asked, his voice dripping with mock concern, a wide, infuriatingly innocent smile plastered on his face. He casually sidestepped another of her wild swings.
Bertha's face was flushed, her fists clenched. "Just stand still, you… you slippery eel!" she growled, throwing another punch that whistled harmlessly past his ear. "I'm going to rearrange your teeth!"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll try," Gordon chirped, his eyes twinkling. "But, you know, I've noticed a distinct lack of… impact so far." He punctuated his sentence by lightly tapping his own chin, as if to demonstrate its pristine condition.
"Why you…" Bertha sputtered, her frustration reaching a fever pitch. "I'm going to… I'm going to…!"
"Going to what? Tickle me with your dainty fists?" Gordon teased, feigning a shiver of mock terror. "Oh, the horror!"
Bertha's eyes narrowed. "I'm going to make you eat those words!" she yelled, launching a particularly vicious kick.
Gordon, with a flourish, caught her leg mid-air. "Now, now, Bertha," he chided, his voice laced with amusement. "Let's not get too dramatic. I'm sure your foot is tired from all this… air kicking."
"Just put my leg down and fight like a man!" Bertha demanded, struggling to free herself.
"A man?" Gordon raised an eyebrow, his smile widening. "But I thought we were having a friendly sparring session. You know, a little… exercise?" He wiggled her leg slightly, just to annoy her. "Or are you admitting you need a handicap?"
"So," Gordon said, his voice laced with playful anticipation, "about that promise? You know, the one where you stand still and let me have a go?" He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I've been practicing my… face-rearranging techniques."
Bertha glared at him, her arms crossed. "I never agreed to that," she retorted, her voice tight.
"You tricked me!"
"Tricked you?" Gordon feigned innocence, widening his eyes. "But, Bertha, a promise is a promise! Besides," he added, his smile widening, "it's not like you're going to get hurt. I'll be… gentle." He made air quotes with his fingers around the word 'gentle'.
"Gentle?" Bertha scoffed.
"Oh, come now, Bertha," Gordon persisted, circling her like a playful cat. "Don't be a spoilsport. A deal's a deal, and besides, think of it as… character building! You'll learn to appreciate the… finer points of dodging."
"I'm not standing still while you try to punch me!" Bertha insisted, planting her feet firmly.
"Forget it!"
"But Bertha," Gordon whined, adopting a mock-pout, "you're breaking my heart! I even polished my knuckles for the occasion!" He held up his hand, wiggling his fingers. "They're practically sparkling!"
"Just leave me alone, Gordon!" Bertha snapped, her face turning red.
"But, but… what about my creative expression?" Gordon asked, his voice dripping with mock sorrow. "I've been working on a new… wind-assisted face massage technique, and you're denying me my muse!"
Bertha's patience snapped. "Fine!" she yelled, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Fine! Just get it over with!"
"Excellent!" Gordon chirped, clapping his hands together. "This is going to be… educational." He winked. "For you, of course."
"Alright," Bertha grumbled, her arms crossed, "get on with it. Just make it quick." She braced herself, her eyes squeezed shut, anticipating the impact. He better not hold back, she thought, a flicker of apprehension mixed with annoyance.
_Usually I'm the one doing the punching_.
Gordon, his eyes twinkling with mischief, stepped closer. "As you wish," he murmured, his voice deceptively gentle.
Instead of a punch, however, he leaned in swiftly and planted a light, fleeting kiss on her lips. Before Bertha could react, he was already sprinting away, a mischievous laugh echoing behind him.
Bertha's eyes snapped open, her hand flying to her lips. "What… what was that?" she stammered, her face flushed crimson. She stood frozen, a whirlwind of confusion and anger swirling within her. "Gordon! You… you little…"
She took a step forward, her fists clenching, but Gordon was already too far away, disappearing into the twilight. "Get back here!" she yelled, her voice laced with a mixture of fury and bewildered embarrassment.
Gordon, pausing for a moment to glance back, called out, "A deal's a deal, Bertha! You stood still! I just… interpreted the terms a little differently!" He laughed again before vanishing into the shadows.
Bertha stood there, her mouth agape, her face burning. "That… that… he…" she sputtered, unable to form a coherent sentence. Her annoyance was now mixed with a strange, unfamiliar sensation, a flutter in her stomach that she couldn't quite explain. He tricked me again! she thought, but this time, the anger was tinged with a strange, undeniable… something else.
Meanwhile
Brock stood in the dimly lit alleyway, his hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tight. Three burly men, their faces obscured by shadows, stood before him, their eyes glinting with malicious intent.
"Looky here, boys," the largest of the three grunted, cracking his knuckles. "Looks like we got ourselves a busybody."
"Yeah," another one sneered, "Asking too many questions 'bout things that ain't his business."
"Just tryin' to find out who killed my friend," Brock said, his voice low and steady, though a flicker of annoyance danced in his eyes. "Seems like someone doesn't want me to."
"Maybe someone thinks you should mind your own damn business," the third man growled, stepping forward. "We're gonna teach you a lesson."
"Great," Brock muttered, a wry smile spreading across his face. "Just what I needed. A little… stress relief." He was frustrated with the lack of progress in his investigation, and these thugs were about to become his convenient outlets.
"Stress relief?" the large man scoffed. "You're gonna be the one needin' relief after we're done with you." He lunged forward, throwing a heavy punch.
Brock easily sidestepped the blow, his movements fluid and precise. "Slow," he commented, his voice laced with amusement. He retaliated with a swift kick to the man's ribs, sending him stumbling back.
The other two thugs rushed in, their fists flying. Brock weaved and dodged, his reflexes honed from years of experience. He blocked a punch with his forearm, then delivered a sharp elbow strike to the second man's stomach, doubling him over.
The third man, seeing his companions faltering, attempted to grab Brock from behind. Brock spun around, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting it sharply. The man yelped in pain, his grip loosening. Brock then used the man's momentum to throw him into the remaining thug.
"This is getting boring," Brock said, a hint of impatience in his voice. He moved with lightning speed, delivering a series of rapid punches and kicks, each blow landing with devastating accuracy. The thugs crumpled to the ground, groaning and clutching their bruised bodies.
"Next time," Brock said, his voice cold, as he looked down at the men, "try picking on someone your own size. Or better yet, someone who doesn't know how to fight." He then turned and walked away, leaving the thugs to nurse their wounds. He had a murder to investigate, and he wouldn't be stopped.
Brock entered the dimly lit tavern, "Papa Tits," the air thick with the smell of stale ale and roasted meat. He scanned the room, his gaze sweeping over the patrons until he spotted a familiar face. A middle-aged man with a shock of brown hair sat hunched over a table, nursing a tankard.
Brock approached him, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Hey, Liam," he said, sliding into the seat opposite him.
Liam looked up, his eyes widening slightly. "Brock! Haven't seen you in ages. What brings you to this… delightful establishment?" He gestured around the tavern with a wry smile.
"Business," Brock replied, his tone serious. "I'm looking for information. About the recent assassination."
Liam's expression turned somber. "Willow," he said, his voice low. "Terrible business. She was a good woman."
"Yeah," Brock agreed. "And I'm trying to find out who killed her. Any rumors? Whispers? Anything at all?"
Liam sighed, taking a long swig of his ale. "This is a dangerous line of inquiry, Brock. You know that, right?"
"I'm aware," Brock said, his eyes fixed on Liam's. "But I need to know. Someone hired a professional. Someone who knew what they were doing."
"Word on the street is… tight," Liam said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "No one's talking. Too scared, I reckon. Or too well paid."
"Anything else?" Brock pressed. "Anything at all?"
Liam shook his head, his expression grim. "Nothing, Brock. Not a whisper about your friend. It's like whoever did it vanished into thin air."
Brock sighed, a heavy weariness settling over him. He had hoped for some lead, some clue that would point him in the right direction. But it seemed the trail had gone cold.
"So," he said, his voice low, "it could have been a random act? A… happenstance circumstance?"
Liam nodded slowly. "It's possible. Maybe she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe… someone just wanted to send a message to someone else, and she was collateral."
Brock took a deep breath, trying to process the information. It was a bleak possibility, but he had to consider it. Willow's death might not have been a targeted assassination after all. It could have been a tragic accident, a random act of violence.
"Thanks, Liam," he said, his voice heavy. "I appreciate you talking to me."
"Be careful, Brock," Liam warned, his eyes filled with concern. "This kind of thing… it can get messy."
Brock nodded, his gaze distant. "I know." He stood up, the weight of the investigation pressing down on him. He had to accept the possibility that Willow's death might not have been part of a grand conspiracy. It was a hard pill to swallow, but he had to face the reality of the situation. He left the tavern, the dim lights of "Papa Tits" fading behind him.