The globe at the top of the stairs, marking the subway station's entrance, was still dark. It stood quietly at its post, a dark silhouette against the early evening sky. Remiel had made good time for the evening commute. He only wanted to walk the final block to his apartment building, ride the elevator to the top floor, close the door, and leave the city's noise outside. This, however, was a fleeting thought because the situation unfolding before him required his immediate attention.

"Hey!" shouted a young thug in an oversized ball cap. "Why'd you push our friend?" He did his best to sound menacing. He wasn't, but he had more imposing friends, three of them to be exact, who were fanning out to flank him at that moment. A couple had slipped a hand into a pocket as though reaching for weapons. Remiel recognized the ruse for what it was. Such exaggerated gestures were probably a bluff, but he kept a wary eye. He couldn't just take that for granted. The instigator's accusation was not worthy of response since it was one of the young thugs' so-called 'friends' who'd shoved him from behind as they jostled to get through the station's exit. Having no interest in escalating the situation, without a word, Remiel turned toward the stairs that led up to the street and toward home. Suddenly, two more thugs burst out of the station's doors, and Remiel found himself boxed into the corner of the L-shaped landing at the bottom of the stairs.

"You have got to be kidding," he said under his breath, although not amused. There was no reason to get into a fight when one could simply walk away. That's what he taught his self-defense students, but walking away, for him, was no longer an option.

There was a gate in the fence at the corner of the landing. The chain that secured it did not hold it tight. Hoping to gain a tactical advantage, Remiel slipped through the gap into the courtyard beyond. He planned to thin out the group and quickly put down the first few before he got surrounded again, but he underestimated his nimble opponents. Without the slightest hesitation, they rushed through the gap right behind him.

"You have got to be kidding," Remiel muttered again as he parried the first kicks and punches. He'd fought multiple opponents in training many times, and these young thugs were determined. Still, they were untrained fighters and disorganized in their eagerness to get at him. Using this to his advantage, Remiel circled as he back-stepped to keep them stumbling over one another. He didn't counter their attacks but fought defensively. Cautious of catching a knife in the ribs, he held back, looking for weapons that might appear, but there were none. The thugs would lose their nerve, he suspected, once they understood he would be no easy target. Again, he'd misread their intentions because they only grew more resolute, pressing him harder and whooping with excitement.

A hand slipped past his guard, caught him by the hair, and his head was yanked sideways. Immediately securing the wrist of that hand, he hopped and swept away the lower limbs with his leading leg. As this one hit the ground and scrambled away, he saw it was the same instigator who'd made the challenge in the first place. Remiel was beginning to dislike this one. He threw more bodies to the ground. Most of them rebounded quickly, and some of them slipped behind him. Just as Remiel was thinking things were getting out of control, it was the instigator himself who provided a necessary distraction.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the movement. A large chunk of stone sailed toward his head. Ironically, he was the only one who saw it coming. He easily dodged the missile, but some of his attackers were not so lucky. It clipped the one directly in front of him on the shoulder. A thud and yelp behind him meant the brunt of it had connected there. Remiel seized the opportunity and lashed out hard, launching a barrage of kicks and punches. Within seconds, his opponents turned tail, slipped through the gate, and fled up the stairs and out of sight.

It happened that quickly. One moment there was the ordinary, uneventful evening commute, and the next, Remiel was caught up in a ridiculous street fight. He wasn't angry about it yet. There had been no time for that or any other emotion to sink in. He was unharmed, and nothing had been taken. A handful of shocked commuters stood gawking at him from a distance, but none said a word. He shook off the dumbfounded stares, smoothed his hair back, shouldered his bag, and turned toward home.

As he reached the street level at the top of the stairs, to his surprise, a familiar figure in an oversized ball cap stepped out to block his way.

"You messed up, mister," said the instigator with a smug expression. Remiel glared at him, wondering how this one had come by his newfound courage since he and his friends had just lost the previous round. He instantly understood when he saw what was coming from the playground across the street. A sense of dread washed over him. Apparently, the group he'd battled had been on its way to meet a much larger group. Now a very dangerous-looking mob was headed his way.

"Maybe they'll let you go," the instigator said mockingly, but Remiel knew that wouldn't happen. They had no intention of letting him walk away. They were, however, hoping he would run.

Two thoughts came to mind then. The first was a lesson from Remiel's early training days. "If you get involved in a street fight," his Grandmaster used to say, "you never know who may join in." Here was the perfect example of such a scenario. The second lesson Grandmaster used to give went something like this. "If you are certain the conflict is unavoidable, the surprise is your best option. Take the initiative."

And so, Remiel exploded into action. Landing a solid fist into the smug expression beneath the bill of that baseball cap, he took a measure of satisfaction in knowing the instigator would not be fighting anymore that day. The following two or three to reach him went down quickly, but the hoard swarmed over him, and he was caught up in a wave of flying hands and feet.

Time slowed to a standstill, and Remiel found himself eerily detached. There was no sound. No pain. No emotion. It was like watching a movie with the volume down. Acting on instinct and adrenalin, he moved faster than he could have imagined, doing what he had trained to, despite never being put to such a test. There were no individuals, only one writhing mass with dozens of appendages. He parried without pause and countered furiously with punches, kicks, elbows, knees, sweeps, and throws. Every time he caught a limb, he threw a body to the pavement to trip up another, desperate to slow the roiling tide. Still, there was no break in the action. There was hardly time to draw breath.

He must have seemed invulnerable to them, but he knew he wasn't. Time was not an ally, and luck was bound to run out.

There was one, a head taller than the rest, pacing anxiously behind the front line. It was apparent this one was planning to charge. Remiel knew getting knocked down in the middle of that mob meant his fight would end beneath a hail of stomping feet. The tall one came in hard and fast through the next opening. Even with several hands pulling him downward, Remiel managed to slam the heel of his boot squarely on the breastbone of that charging form. As that one fell away, above the cacophony of grunts and groans, some genius ironically yelled. 

"Oh shit! He knows Karate!"

That kick had saved Remiel for the moment, but not without a cost. Under the weight of grasping hands and someone tugging relentlessly at the bag still slung across his torso, something in his right knee popped as his foot returned to the pavement. Then he was brutally yanked off of his feet. Unable to free himself from the bag's shoulder strap, he went along for the ride, driving an elbow into the thug he flattened beneath him as he rolled backward and up to his feet.

Any trace of civility dissolved in a brutal struggle for survival. Remiel tried to break bones and inflict as much pain as possible because there was no other hope of stopping that momentum. He looked for every opportunity, but there was none. 

In the distance, he heard shouting. "Stop it! I'm calling the cops!" This meant nothing to him at the time. The way he saw it, the police couldn't possibly arrive in time to do anything but inspect the crime scene. So, he fought on. One way or another, he believed his fight would be over long before any cops showed up.

A tremendous roar warned him that someone was charging from behind. Already pressed to the limit, he tried to angle himself to intercept the newest attacker. To his surprise, he recognized the six-foot-four, night stick-wielding figure as Williams, the security guard from his building.

When Williams entered the fray and swung savagely, the sheer force of his charge disrupted the mob, and at last, there was room to breathe. Remiel, bent forward, gasping for air, saw a smallish man in a transit uniform step up to take a stance between him and Williams. Just like that, they were a force of three against the wild-eyed mob. 

A wire trashcan from the street corner sailed in and clanged onto the pavement. Williams stopped it with his foot, hoisted the thing, and with a roar, hurled it back in the direction it came from. The mob broke apart but quickly regrouped. As it began to creep forward again, Remiel's gratitude for the courage of his new allies was overshadowed by a sense of remorse. Williams and the transit worker had been brave to come to his aid, but the mob was not about to relent. His strength, skill, and luck could not hold out much longer. He could not protect them.

There was so much tension between the forces the atmosphere could have ripped from the strain. Just as the fight resumed, the night erupted with lights, sirens, and screeching rubber on asphalt. Vehicles materialize out of thin air. Pandemonium ensued as the mob scattered in every possible direction. Cops in cars and on foot charged off in pursuit. Guns and nightsticks were drawn, loudspeakers blaring. The cavalry arrived.

The chaotic scene took on a semblance of order. An officer with a notebook stepped up to take charge.

"Who is the victim here," he asked? Williams pointed to Remiel. The officer looked at him and frowned.

 "Weren't they trying to hit you? You don't look hurt."

 "Yeah. They were trying." Remiel looked himself over. It was true. He wasn't bleeding as far as he could tell. His clothes weren't even torn. The cop eyed him suspiciously, clearly not appreciating the harrowing ordeal he had been through. He shrugged at the doubting expression and offered, "Guess I'm hard to hit."

"Hmmm…" The officer turned to question the transit worker, who began explaining and gesturing excitedly.

"Goddamn! Williams said calmly, although visibly shaken. "That was crazy! I thought I could run them off, but they wouldn't stop."

"No, it didn't seem like it. Thanks, man. I owe you."

"All I knew was someone was in the middle of that pack of animals. I wasn't really thinking."

"Yeah, well, like I said, I owe you." 

Another officer came over to question Williams. Remiel, realizing his fists were still clenched, let out a long sigh as he surveyed the scene around him. Multi-colored lights flashed across young thugs on the ground in handcuffs. Others were being led away. Shadows moving on the pavement caught Remiel's attention. It was still light when the fighting began. Now the globe marking the station's entrance was glowing green against the night sky.

"Sure you're not hurt, asked the cop with the notebook.

Remiel shook his head.

"So, just to be clear, you are refusing medical attention?"

"I don't need it."

The officer jotted that down in his notebook.

"You'll have to come with us to the precinct. May take a couple of hours," the officer said, ushering Remiel into the backseat of a patrol car. "You need to make a formal statement."

"You have got to be kidding," Remiel grumbled for the third time that evening as the cruiser drove past his apartment building. It seemed his long day would be even longer still, and home was a long way off.

 Remiel flipped the switch on the bathroom wall and stood naked in front of the full-length mirror. The uneven light enhanced that monochromatic image. His skin told the tale of the previous night's battle. He pushed back the rising emotions of anger, indignation, and disappointment that inevitably added insult to his injuries long enough to make his inspection.

That morning, he examined a fresh batch of scrapes, scratches, and bruises in places he hadn't noticed the night before among the fading trophies of previous adventures. Some were painful, but these wounds were superficial and would heal. The deeper wounds, he knew, were nearer to the core.

Wincing at the pain in his leg, he took a tentative step toward the waiting bath. Its warmth, he knew, was bound to do his battered body a world of good.

Sometime later, Remiel sat with his guitar in the most comfortable home of his home. The den had an order that defied the chaos of the world outside. Bookshelves lined one wall with the topics that intrigued him. The other walls were decorated with artwork and mementos that reminded him of where he'd been and where he wanted to be. This is where he'd spent the afternoon, fighting back his dour mood and attempting to make the most of an unfortunate situation. Writing music always lifted his spirits, and it was rare that he had the opportunity anymore. Hence, he engaged himself in the process to better pass the time.

The calico Aja was curled on the Persian rug beside the leather-covered ottoman. Mystic was stretched across the back of the over-stuffed chair, purring contentedly in Remiel's ear. "So, what do you think," he asked of the room's other two occupants as he played through the bridge of his recent composition. "Major or minor here?" He fretted the four-chord progression both ways again. Still, if either of his feline familiars had an opinion, they kept it to themselves.

"Alright, minor it is." Remiel leaned forward to write Em7 on the chart. Remiel didn't play as well as he could have. He was left-handed, but he had learned to fret chords on his grandfather's abandoned acoustic when he was a boy. At some point, it just was too late to start all over again. Besides, he played well enough to compose songs and accompany his voice, which mattered most. In his experience, there was no better way to process a raw emotion than to write a song about it. The previous year had not been kind. It was no exaggeration to say he had a shit-load of emotions needing processing. Ironically, circumstances had forced upon him this period of isolation, which unavoidably led to introspection. 

He thought about the previous winter and the time he'd spent with a dear friend fighting an aggressive disease that had no cure. He thought about the following spring when he'd intervened to prevent another woman from jumping to her death from a bridge. The irony that he could save a perfect stranger and do nothing but watch as his dear friend passed was not lost on him. Needless to say, these experiences left indelible impressions that he had yet to come to terms with. Still, he needed only to look as far as the skin on his torn knuckles and the ice pack on his knee for a reminder of his most recent troubles.

The lawyer at the DA's office explained. "We have reason to believe the vagrants that attacked you were the young resurgence of an old gang that was run out of town a decade ago. You injured a few, and we have several in custody, but you might want to keep your head down until things cool off."

Remiel's immediate concern had been for Taz, the lady in his life, and the intensity of those feelings surprised him. Heaven forbid that Taz, by association, become the target of some violence. That possibility made his heartache. He had not explained this to her, so he had avoided being seen with her. He let out a long, slow sigh, and his chin sank toward his chest.

"Mysterious," he said suddenly, in a flash of insight. Aja lifted her furry head, blinked once, and yawned until her tongue curled. "Mysterious. That's a good song title."

Leaning the Stratocaster against the antique trunk he used as an end table, he approached a bookshelf. He traced a finger along the spines, looking for inspiration for the song's lyrics. There were books on health, kinesiology, biology, philosophy, mythology, quantum physics, meditation, and various Western and Eastern spiritual texts. Remiel's specific area of interest was in the comparative studies of different disciplines attempting to explain the nature of reality. He had no interest in dogma, faith, cultish rituals, or blind adherence to misunderstood principles. He saw science and spirituality were two sides of the same coin. Any truth was likely to be found where these disciplines overlapped.

He pulled several books and leafed through them. Then, on a shelf near the bottom of the rack, he found the one he was looking for. It was a medium-sized hardcover once recommended to him by a friend and teacher. The title was, Why Mystics Climb Mountains. It had taken some time to locate the out-of-print copy. That one, repaired with cloth tape on the back and corners, turned up at an obscure bookstore on the Eastside of town.

He thumbed to the dog-eared pages and was soon lost in words between those well-worn covers. It occurred to him that many of the passages and quotes he returned to over the years had a similar theme. In the writings of mystics and philosophers, from Vedic yogis to quantum physicists, there was an affinity for quietude, the deep contemplation of the cycles of nature, and a burning desire to separate illusion from truth. In that book of famous quotes, he came across one by Einstein that seemed particularly apropos.

 "A human being is part of a whole, called by us 'Universe.' He experiences his thoughts and feelings as something separate from the rest. This delusion is a prison, restricting personal desires and affections to just a few. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty."

 Those words spoke volumes. Remiel was inspired, but not to write lyrics. Not yet. That quote reminded him that one's world could close like a private cell in the face of personal struggles. On another day, he may have read the passage differently. Still, that day it read like an invitation to expand consciousness and reconsider his place in the grand scheme of things.

The DA said, "Stay off the street." The doctor said, "Stay off of that leg." The universe, it seemed, was trying to tell him something, also. There were several voices in his head, too many opinions and too much noise. All at once, he knew he wanted to get beyond the chaos of humans. He wanted to be where he could sift through the noise and contemplate what mattered most.

Remiel looked at the pile of books he'd been leafing through and came to a conclusion. Rather than searching for inspiration in the writings of others, it was time to go directly to the source.

He mulled over his options. Being self-employed had its benefits. His fitness business could tolerate his absence for a while. Ms. Meyers, his nosey neighbor, could probably feed his pets. He would have to tell Taz something. He would have to handle it delicately, but he owed her an explanation.

One by one, Remiel closed the books and returned them to their respective shelves while formulating the finer details of his plan. Deep in thought, he lowered a hand to stroke the sleek black form atop the chair. Mystic, who had not a single care in all the world, purred contentedly in response.