I’ve never been a big proponent of physical violence, or fighting in general. I mean sure, I’ve played my fair share of gory video games, looking at you, GTA, and enjoy the occasional FPS, though I suck, but all that is just pixels on a screen. To cause physical harm to someone, or something, in the real world, I wouldn’t…

… Actually, that’s not entirely true. There was one time, back in elementary school. A fifth grader by the name of Bobby Stillson. The kid was a head taller than the rest of us, and he used that fact to terrorize the lower grades, myself included, calling us names, shoving us into lockers, stealing our stuff. I tried to just ignore him, hoping he’d grow bored and leave me alone. I didn’t tell anyone, for fear of causing trouble for my parents or teachers, content to just let matters be. But then Bobby went one step too far, started bullying this disabled boy in my grade, calling him “retard” and “slow” every day until the boy finally just burst out into tears, hiding out in the bathroom every chance he got. I told this to the administrators later when they asked, but when I saw what Bobby was doing to that poor boy, this anger I’d never felt before simply took over, and before I knew it, I had thrown a punch at him, hitting him squarely in the eye. Gave him a nice kisser that lasted weeks. Of course, I was summarily suspended afterwards- thanks zero tolerance policy- and while I’ve never really come to regret my actions, even still, I’ve grown to prefer the use of words, rather than fists, to resolve conflicts. That all being said, the thing before me doesn’t seem particularly interested in conversation…

I watch as the half-ogre limps towards me, orangish foam frothing from its mouth like a rabid dog. In its right hand is a large battleaxe, which it raises as it nears. Suddenly, my eyes catch sight of Gin, who has somehow made his way to the otherside of the clearing, behind the creature. He’s gesturing something incomprehensible again, arms waving like a madman. I think… I think he’s trying to spell something?

“R-E-M-E-M-B-E-R. Remember. S-T-A-C-E. Stace. ‘Remember Stace’? Who the hell is Stace?!”

“Sorry, it was supposed to be a ‘P’, not ‘T’,” Gin calls.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“If you were going to talk, then just do that from the start!” I snap.

In reply, Gin smirks. Then I see him hold up a hand, using his other to point to his palm.

Palm? Hand? Fingers. Five fingers. Remember space. Right!

I immediately start to backpedal, moving to create distance between myself and the monster. In my head, Gin’s prior words echo, saying, “Keep in mind, the half-ogre will have a greater reach than you. So unless you plan to attack, always stay at least five feet away. Otherwise, kaplat!” The memory of the sound effect draws a slight smile to my lips, and it occurs to me strange in that moment that I’m not as fearful as I feel the situation should entail. After all, I’m in a potentially deadly combat with a giant monstrosity, and yet I feel oddly… exhilarated? Everything feels surreal, like I’m under a spell, like I’m playing myself in a third-person game, and this urge to yell, “Challenge accepted” bubbles in my chest. Is it the adrenaline? Like some extreme version of runner’s high?

Before I can contemplate on the matter further, a swinging axe flying in my direction causes me to leap away. I dive for the ground, landing with an oof! before clumsily scrambling to my feet again. My gray eyes dart around, re-orientating myself to my opponent, who stands about ten feet to my right, the distance of which is cut in half rather quickly. Two seconds later and the half-ogre is within reach of me once more, ax slicing for my neck. I duck in the nick of time, yet again retreating as the monster recovers from its strike, grateful that its hip injury has significantly reduced its speed. I can only imagine what might have become of me, had the creature been moving at full force.

This pattern of dodging and retreating continues for the next ten minutes or so. And you know what, it’s a good thing that I had prior martial arts training. Yeah, I wasn’t kidding about the kung fu thing. I’ve had some experience reading opponent movements, which has been rather helpful in avoiding, you know, being sliced in half by a giant ax. That and my natural quickness, combined with my now smaller, childlike frame, has kept me alive thus far. Even still, I can feel my body start to tire, sweat dripping down my face, my mind drifting in focus, not accustomed to the high intensity alertness of continuous battle…

“Shit!”

A fatal mistake. I don’t pay enough attention to my footing, placing too much weight into a step that slips. My body lurches backwards, falling onto my butt. Towering over me, the half-ogre rises, ax overhead. I throw up my arms, pointlessly I know, in an attempt to defend myself, and it enters my mind, the image of a sharp weapon cutting me in half. Is this the end?

The ax comes crashing down.