Chime of War

Scaling the frame tube was quick work, but the handlebars were where the real cockpit sat. Perched right next to the worn rubber grip was a tarnished chrome bicycle bell, its spring striker wedged solid by street grime. I wasn't about to leave prime artillery silent. I braced my boots against the stem, jammed the edge of my blade beneath the stuck metal hammer, and forced the lever back with a sharp heave. It snapped free with an ear-splitting PING that rattled through my teeth and sent three pigeons flapping off the curb in panic. Now the whole pavement knows who holds the high ground.