Big Apple, 3PM

[Jim Raynor]

Ditto slumped, mind foggy, saliva dripping on the ground, but he held firmly to consciousness. Letting go of that would mean letting go of his transformation.

He was not about to do that.

Face down on the alleyway pavement, Ditto felt his blood slinking down his forehead and oozing in a puddle. Broomhead had cracked him with enough force to break the wound open more, and he ignored the fiery heat there. Ditto restrained himself from leaping up and sucker punching the thug in the throat, but damn it he could barely contain himself. But then he consoled himself.

It'll only feel good for a few seconds, then you lose your chance. Chill.

He stayed motionless, loosening his muscles. The thug's footsteps clonked on the ground as he walked over and poked Ditto in the ribs with the toe of his boot. Ditto glued his teeth together, fighting the urge again to spring up and bounce his fist against Broomhead's jaw. He would get the picture soon enough.

Broomhead crouched down and rummaged through Ditto's blazer pockets. Of course the criminal found nothing there, but the 'pockets' were just moulded flaps in Ditto's skin. He balled his fists as Broomhead's dirty and cracked fingers tickled at his skin. The pressure built in his chest; a desire to leap up and move, to do anything but sit still. Still he fought on, keeping the act alive. He had to. But those fingers ... his skin ...

Just before Ditto completely lost it, Broomhead abandoned his fruitless search. Ditto sighed mentally as Broomhead scooped him from the ground and tossed him over his shoulder.

Ditto did his best impression of a ragdoll as Broomhead steered him through the streets. Hanging over the thug's back, Ditto stole small moments to glance about him as they went. It didn't help much; Broomhead stuck to the quiet streets, the alleys and the outskirts, skulking away from the general populace of Tier 4. But soon Broomhead descended down a long, long flight of stairs to reach what Ditto assumed to be Tier 5.

The first thing that hit Ditto was the smell. Car fumes strangled the air, as did the horns of said vehicles blaring in a horrible cacophony. Every time he squinted through his eye lids, a crumpled wrapper or beer can or plastic bottle tumbled past. Ditto didn't see much else; as the previous level, Broomhead kept his head down, moving through shadowed lanes.

Night had fallen here too, for soon it grew dark. Broomhead turned into an alleyway and stopped. A circle of light surrounded the ground that Ditto saw, flickering briefly before becoming solid again. Three knocks against a wood surface echoed in the lane. The sound of wood sliding on wood met Ditto's ears.

"What?" came a gruff voice. "Oh, it's you. Aren't you supposed to be on Tier 4? What are you doing back here so early?"

"Shit got messy," Broomhead said. "They sent in the clones. Had to book it."

Silence for a moment. "You fucked up the first job we gave you? That don't reflect well on you, don't you know?"

"Just shut up for a minute," Broomhead shot back. "I made up for it." Broomhead repositioned Ditto on his shoulder.

"You brought back a stiff? The fuck do you want, a medal?"

Ditto felt Broomhead's muscles tightened. He smiled. "He's rich, you dumb motherfucker! We're going to ransom him off! We'll get more money than we would've gotten from fucking Spook Eye anyway!"

Silence again. "He looks rich. He ain't worth much dead, though."

"He ain't dead!" Broomhead fired back. "I knocked him out and brought him back! Now hurry the fuck up and let me in!"

A moment passed. Ditto heard a succession of locks click and turn, then the sound of a door handle twisting. They started moving forward again. Ditto closed his eyes.

Dust and stale booze snaked into Ditto's nostrils. Another set of footsteps fell in line with Broomhead's, echoing off far away walls. A disused warehouse, perhaps?

A finger pressed into his side. Ditto repressed the urge to reach out and brain the owner. "You sure he ain't dead?"

Broomhead scoffed. "I clocked him hard, but not that hard."

They walked a short time before another voice reached them. "Oi, what's this? Back already?"

"He done fucked up," the voice belonging to the doorman said. "This is his booby prize, he reckons."

"A suit?" the first voice replied. "He got some cash on him?"

"Nah, but he reckons we can ransom him off," Broomhead said. "Said he'll give us whatever he wants."

Ditto plunged to the ground, dropped unceremoniously like a sack of bricks. He hit the concrete floor hard, enough to surprise him and knock the wind from his lungs. He coughed from the abrupt release, and his unconscious ruse was over.

He rolled onto his back and looked around. His guess was on the mark. The warehouse was big; high ceilings, a criss-crossed catwalk high above their heads, giant industrial lights glaring down and exposing every chip in the concrete, every flaked away patch of dull green paint on the walls, the oil stains and fine film of dust that covered the undisturbed corners of the warehouse. A small room built into the far corner caught his attention; a window slotted into the wall but a tattered curtain blocked the view inside.

Crates piled against a nearby wall. Weapons sat atop them; hand guns, shotguns, a few grenades and mines, and what Ditto assumed was a crude rocket launcher. A set of stained and discoloured mattresses lay on the ground near them, four in total.

"Hey! Whatcha looking at, rich boy?"

Ditto's attention snapped back to his abductor. Broomhead stood to his left, arms folded. The doorman, a bald and wiry man with a penchant for tattoos, crouched down to investigate Ditto like he was some alien oddity. The third man was a monster; tall and built like a tank, he reminded Ditto of a human Machoke. He even had the same hairstyle; three crest like rows of black hair crowned his head.

"This is what you bring me?" Machoke Man said, displeasure dripping in every word. "You really think he's gonna pay up?"

Broomhead's smug smirk flattened instantly. "Well, yeah! You should've seen him! He pleaded for his life! Anyone wearing that kinda clothes in that neighbourhood-"

"-could be anyone!" Machoke Man yelled back, his voice returning back to them a moment later. "Just 'cause a guy wears a suit doesn't mean he's rich, you fucking idiot! Did you even find anything on him?"

Broomhead furrowed his brow and said nothing.

"Fucking great," Machoke Man said, throwing his thick arms up and letting them drop again. "Now we gotta deal with this." He dropped to his haunches and glared at Ditto. His brown eyes bored holes into him. "So? What about it? You rich or were you bullshitting this retard?"

It was time to get to work. No more scared prisoner. "Are you the leader of ..." Ditto's eyes fell upon Machoke Man's surprisingly fine leather jacket, where he spotted the crossed handguns behind a skull etched into the left chest, "... this gang?"

Machoke Man's gaze intensified and he leaned in. His breath smelt of vodka and engine grease. "What makes you think you're asking the questions around here, cockhead? I'll ask you one more time, and if I don't like the answer I get, I'm taking one of your teeth."

"I'll take that as a yes," Ditto said, risking the giant's wrath. He quickly added, "no, as you rightly suspected, I lied. I don't have unlimited riches. I'm just a guy in a suit. Seems like your associate isn't as good at spotting a mark as he thinks he is."

Ditto wasn't sure how Machoke Man would take that; after all, it certainly wasn't the answer he wanted, but if Ditto was any judge of character, the thug got the answer he was expecting.

Machoke Man drilled his furious gaze into Ditto and exhaled sharply through his fat nose. "Tor, you god damn piece of shit!" he yelled, exploding into a standing position and shoving Broomhead. "You fuck up the job and now you bring us this fucking useless prick? For fuck's sake!"

Broomhead took the shove but looked like he could throw a punch at any moment. "Hey, at least I-"

"Did I say you could talk?!" Machoke Man burst out. "I'm not fucking done!" He paused a minute, groaning. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. "I took a chance on you, Tor. Fuck knows I don't trust Spook Eye as far as I can throw the shady bastard, but he's well connected. I thought you would be of some use, but so far you've proved the complete fucking opposite." He shrugged. "I don't give second chances, but I gave you one when you knocked on that door and brought this useless prick here. And you shat all over that, didn't you?"

Division in a gang. Who would've thought? Looks like Ditto was the perfect unifying force these vagabonds needed.

"He's lying!" Broomhead interjected. "Just look at him! He must have money! Let me beat the truth out of him!"

"You've done enough for now, don't you think?" the Tattoo Parlour said.

"He's got nothing," Machoke Man said. "Just take him around the back and shoot him. Throw his body into Tier 6 for all I care."

Ditto rose to his feet. "I don't think so, gentlemen."

"Oh you don't, do you?" Tattoo Parlour sneered. "You think you're leaving here alive? You cash in your brain for that suit or what?"

A surge of adrenaline washed through Ditto's blood. This was the fun part; toying with his prey, completely and utterly in control, even though his adversaries thought exactly the opposite. Even though he'd fooled countless clowns in Kanto, it never, ever got boring.

Ditto tsked and shook his head. "Remind me later that I need to discipline you. Now-"

Tattoo Parlour's wiry arms tensed, embossing the veins creeping down them. "Don't you fucking talk to me like that!"

"Don't interrupt me," Ditto said sternly. "Now as I was saying, you're all under my employ now. You three aren't much to look at, let alone smell, but true leaders can mould anything, even gutter trash like you lot. Now I notice there are four mattresses. Where is the rest of your gang?"

The door slammed against the wall as another three men walked into the warehouse. One was obese, his flabby gut hanging out of his ill fitting singlet, but nonetheless looked fearsome. Another enjoyed piercings, having rings and studs thrust into almost every last bit of dangling skin on his face, and no doubt other places that were thankfully hidden from view. The last looked around constantly, wide eyed with a lopsided grimace, as if seeking out a fly that kept pestering him. The more likely explanation was that he was insane.

Machoke Man laughed boisterously, his voice surrounding Ditto. "Ask and you shall receive, dipshit! That's quite the tough man act. You think we'll just bow down, do you? Listen to you because you're in a suit? I was gonna let Tor deal with you, but now the entire Skullbang gang is gonna fuck you up for fun! Boys!"

The three new entrants saddled up to Machoke Man.

"We got a brawl, boss?" the fat one asked.

Machoke Man smiled. "Hurt him, but don't kill him. That part's for me, understood?"

Ditto couldn't help but laugh. During Broomhead's abduction of him, Ditto had noticed a small but subtle accumulation of power within himself. It was so slight that at first he thought he was imagining it, but now he was sure. That omnilium rubbish that Omni blathered on about at Ditto's arrival - it was real, and it was attracted to him like a magnet to steel. It pooled slowly, but he'd gained enough vitality to change into a truly threatening form, he was sure.

"Something funny?" Fatty asked.

Without answering, Giovanni shone a dull white light, and the borders of his body collapsed, wriggling and reshaping into a larger, thicker form. Ditto wished he could've seen the look on their stupid faces as he manipulated his own DNA, becoming a creature capable of battle.

The light faded. Before the Skullbang gang stood a thick muscled humanoid, skin a dusty blue, with three bony crests lining the top of his head. He snorted out of his short snout, flexing his bulging arms, three red stripes on each forearm widening.

Time to see who the better Machoke Man was.

In a deep, gravelly voice, Ditto said, "come at me, bros."