Assumptions

The old man sat on the subway, eyes staring straight ahead, seemingly in another world from the other riders. He clutched his ticket tight to his chest, feeling it with the tips of his fingers that was exposed through the torn, woolen gloves. His beard was long and unruly, having needed a shave and a good brushing for well over three years. His clothes reeked and were poked with holes, and they kept the area around him open. No one wanted to sit next to the hobo. No one wanted to sit within a fifteen foot radius of the hobo. He didn't seem to mind.

It was late at night, and there weren't many people on the subway to begin with, so there was plenty of space for others to find much better seats. But it also meant that no one was surprised when the group of wannabe gangsters crowded in, trying to act tough and like they owned the place. Big, thick jackets that they hid their guns in, or at least made you think they could be hiding a gun. Plenty of bling - some of it might have been plastic, meant to make them look better.

The group looked around the train, eyeing up its passengers. No one so much as looked at them. They had seen enough "gangsters" on trips like this. They had long since stopped caring. They knew better than to expect anyone really dangerous to get on. These groups were just punks, who wanted to look like they were dangerous. That's why they were on the subway, instead of the streets, where the real danger was. Or even just at the subway stops, waiting for people to get off. That's when people had to worry. Not when they actually got on.

But the punks still wanted to make an impression. They wanted to make people feel like they should cower. They wanted to be dangerous. And who was a safer bet to attack than the hobo off in the corner by himself? He had no want to protect him. No one to go home to. No one would miss him if something happened. They might not be able to get something good off of him, but maybe he was hiding something. Something valuable. Something so valuable he didn't want to just sell it.

The punks were so focused on showing their strength, they didn't notice that no one so much as looked up as they approached the old man.

"Hey, old man," the leader said, weaving and bobbing his head because it was a thing he had seen in the movies. His gang was digging it up, throwing out gang signs that they didn't even understand. "Real proud of that ticket, huh? Clutching it like yo life depends on it." The gang laughed as he reached out to grab it, but the old man snapped at that moment. As soon as the boy's fingers touched the ticket, the old man slipped his arm like a serpent's around the incoming arm, locking it in place, with just the lightest pressure pushed onto the elbow joint.

The boy's eyes widened and he lurched his hand back, but the old man didn't let him budge. He stared intensely into the boy's eyes, challenging him to take the ticket silently. The boy finally let go of the weak grip he had, and the old man sunk back into his chair. The group looked amongst itself, trying to decide for a moment what to do. But they knew. They couldn't let an old homeless freak like that be the reason they fell back. They'd never live it down.

So they circled around him. The man was back to staring blankly out the window. "The fuck you think you are?" the leader called out. He gestured forward, and two of his boys lunged at the man.

He moved faster than they could comprehend. He was out of his seat, slamming his wrist into one's gut and popping the pelvis completely out of place, collapsing the boy's entire structural integrity and sending him limply to the floor, whilst grabbing the other's hand and using the attacker's momentum to throw him head first into the hard metal wall, instantly knocking him unconscious.

Another came at him next, and the old man waited for him. As a fist came forward, the man slipped just past it before striking at the elbow which was too straight, shattering the joint instantly. The fourth came forward, but he had to move over his friends' bodies, and the old man struck first, hitting just under the center of the ribcage, knocking both the air and the last meal out of the boy vehemently.

Only the leader was left. He looked at the old man, then at his "gang" moaning on the floor around him, and he ran for it.

The old man was on him in an instant, forcing him to the ground, a knee directly on the boy's spine. He grabbed the boy by the hair, ripping his head upwards to look at the other passengers. Now the fear was in their eyes. Not of him, the boy thought, but of the old man. "Apologize to them. You made them see this."

The boy stuttered out an apology, then the old man slammed his head into the floor, putting him to sleep. He stood up straight, looking at his work, before staggering off to the bathroom to clean up the vomit that had gotten on his musty old jacket.