“Some white boy lookin’ to die,” the second gangster said, pulling out a switchblade. He didn’t have a shirt on, but he was covered in tattoos.

“‘Chu think you’re doin’, ol’ man,” the third gangster threatened. He wore a white wife beater and a backwards cap. He pulled a small handgun out from the back of his waistline and aimed it at Clarke, holding it sideways.

Clarke didn’t bother saying a word. He took two steps forward, taunting the gangsters’ authority. When they saw his bored expression, their rage and surprise hit instantaneously. The junkie buying drugs took one look at the elevating emotions, dropped his money and ran. He wanted to avoid a gunfight more than he wanted to get high. He left the alley, knocking over a trashcan as he ran deeper between the buildings, away from Clarke.

“The fuck is wrong with you?!?” the first gangster asked. “You gettin’ in my business?”

“Your business exploits the weak and kills them,” Clarke said. His voice was crisp and he spoke with a soft British accent. “This world would be better done without you.”

“Man, fuck you, man!” the third gangster said. He pulled the trigger and let loose three shots aimed for Clarke’s chest. They were accurate enough, streaming for his lungs and stomach, but Clarke didn’t feel like dying just then. Not to stooges like this anyway. He flexed his hand and for a moment, the air around him shined. Most people wouldn’t have had time to dodge, much less react like he did, but Clarke had been shot at so many times that this was just reflex for him.

When the bullets all came within his range, five feet out from his body, the magic happened. The bullets slowed almost instantly, then quickly folded open. Layers of metal bent and twisted at Clarke’s will and transformed. Sections bulged and lengthened. The bullets finished changing and became canaries just in time to fly over his shoulder, only to fall to the ground as bullets again, spent and useless, as they exited the alleyway.

“The fuck?!” the second gangster shouted. “Did ya’ll see that shit?”

“The hell did you do?” the third gangster asked, lowering his gun.

“It is only the damned that need fear me,” Clarke recited, taking a few steps closer. “That which is destroyed cannot be restored. That which is mended cannot be maintained.”

“Hurry up and shoot him again!” the first gangster yelled, pulling out a gun of his own. Both he and his cohorts unloaded their magazines at Clarke, but every single bullet that came within five feet of him turned to dust and splashed harmlessly against his trench coat. These kinds of confrontations gave Clarke no pleasure. Not anymore.