Teeth of Ice

It was quiet for the afternoon, cold as always, but quiet. Talus tightened the wrist guards, the cloth a bit more damp from his own sweat than he would have liked, but he wouldn't fall out. Once the clamps were almost welded together, he straightened himself at the edge of the building and hoped the hydraulics weren't louder than the scene below.

He gripped the holds, then took a deep breath.

He pushed himself off the edge of the building with a grunt and loss of fear. He hovered a second before his rapid descent almost overcame him. Gripping the holds, he aimed his hooks for the edges of the buildings and squeezed. The violent hiss of the system shot the hooks off to where he aimed, spraying him with air quickly turning to ice from the change of temperature. He let out a solid laugh as the force swung him down, almost to the ground. They lifted him back up in the perfect swing, and he aimed again for another edge. He imagined he looked like one of Darwin's monkeys, swinging from steel vine to steel vine.

He couldn't help it: he let out an exhilarated howl.

The street ahead veered to the left, but he needed to keep going straight to get to his house faster, although illegal. He focused on the point he had only successfully pinned himself to once and promised himself that he would make it.

On the upswing, he raised his right arm, waiting until the rope was all the way charged back up into the mechanism, then shot it at the point: a tiny railing that was nearly hidden from his view, not taking his eyes from it for even a blink. The kicks and constant pulling were beginning to hurt his shoulders, but he didn't let go of it.

The hook flickered through the air, its tail a writhing snake as the weight shivered like he did. It was cold.

The hook hit the railing with an almighty clang, knowing that it would have hurt the ears of whoever was near. There wasn't anything he could do after, so he got himself ready to find a place to land in case he had to make the usual emergency one. A pile of rotted fruit looked better than nothing, and he braced himself.

He started an upswing, to his surprise. The hook had caught, the slick-iced scoundrel!

And he forgot to shoot the next hook. He realized it too late, when the descent started making him turn over himself to go backwards. He swore loudly, scrambling with no place to escape from gravity. He craned his head and saw an edge above him.

It shot, kissing the lip sloppily, then held. An intense and familiar pain shot through his already sore shoulder, and he gritted his teeth to keep from screaming. The slick-iced scoundrel of a hook was slow in going back into the system, but he was safe. He just needed to get his shoulder back into its socket.

After throwing himself to the ground with his arm clutched in his other and successfully restoring mobility to it, albeit painful, he walked the short alleyway to his street, then down a few houses where his very modest one was hidden behind two larger ones. They had a splendid view of the wall that kept out bears. Two rooms, large enough for a very fat family of two. And all the rats he dared to eat, a home fit for the king of streets.

He nudged open the door with the opposite arm, the other was still tender, and let himself flop down on the sofa, which was composed more of dust than cushion. He could trace the footsteps in the rotting carpet, the smaller footsteps of his mother on tip-toe going to their only cabinet, one that he never had access to as a child. He knew it was for later because it was his birthday, and there wasn't any other reason to attempt to hide something.