Foreigner looked at the massive man, his fists arcing with electrical energy and his smile equally radiant and manic, and gave his new friend a warm grin.

“I look forward to having your help, Itzhak.” Foreigner stated. Itzhak responded with action, lifting Foxtails slumped frame from Foreigner’s shoulders onto his own.

“Now it can be a fair fight. One hand is enough to deal with the others that might come our way.” Itzhak flexed his open hand into a fist, veins bulging with power, lightning crackling in his fingertips. Foreigner was happy to have the help, considering that negotiations with Mr. Briggs had gone so sour. Between the two of them, he dared not say if they’d be enough to handle the onslaught of goons and gladiators surely barreling their way.

“We don’t have to focus on fighting. It’s a waste of energy that we can use to run as far away from here as possible. Regrouping at our base of operation is the most important thing we can do, especially with our girl knocked out like she is right now.”

“Do you have a plan for what we might do to escape? The Collector, he…” Itzhak took a pause and sighed, “He does not like to have toys taken away from him. And the Little Fox is particularly shiny.” The man had a point. Mr. Briggs knew what his plans were, generally speaking. They were looking for a woman in a purple cloak and a kidnapped boy. Although Briggs was distraught at not acquiring his own bloody justice against this woman, he’d likely be vindictive and single-minded on his pursuit to acquire someone like Foxtail.

“Someone like Foxtail?” Foreigner muttered under his breath. He wasn’t even sure what power she had exhibited out there but surely Briggs knew enough to know he wanted it. All signs pointed towards actions that Foreigner was hesitant to make.

“We must hurry, friend! The quarters here are spacious but dark. Light is more important than space at the moment.” Itzhak started to move with Foxtail curled around his shoulder, one arm cradling the girl with a surprising amount of tenderness, the other an outstretched battering ram pushing away the opposition. Foreigner resigned himself to the motions of violence, body in a predatory stance, his current lived experience unable to supersede the amount of muscle memory instilled into him. Like a machine, he scanned the area behind Itzhak and trailed behind.

The lack of resistance on their way up the stairs and out of the training grounds of the arena made sense when Foreigner peeked over the railings to see the first floor; waves upon waves of people had crowded the entrance, weapons brandished with all sorts of flair and pomp.

“It looks like they were smarter than we gave them credit for.” Itzhak stated, his smile only growing wider and wilder.

A singular crack of a cane hitting the floor caught all of their attention.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way, gentlemen. Leave the girl with me and I will be more than happy to give you your lives as you run along out of here. Otherwise…” Mr. Briggs trailed his eyes to the crowd blocking the entrance, “It’s likely not to end well for either of you.” Foreigner took a deep breath.

“You’re not giving us anything. We’re taking Foxtail home. We’re taking our lives out that door with us. And if you step our way, I’ll make sure to take your life, too.” Foreigner hissed his final statement, causing Briggs to recoil and run up the stairs.

“Get them!” He yelled, audibly shutting the door behind him.

Foreigner was the first to pounce, to his surprise and to the surprise of the others in the front line. He pivoted his body and swept his weapon in an arc like a scythe cutting through wheat.

Blood splatter. Heads rolling. Heart thumping loud in his chest as he sunk further into the rhythm of carnage. His opponents varied in reaction, most wide eyed and shocked at a vagabond wielding a weapon with such focus and fury, others growing shaky with their resolve to take him down, and yet others whose eyes lit up at the chance of testing their skills on the battlefield.

“Be careful, friend! Fight forward! Push for the exit!” Itzhak cried out, using his frame to barrel through a number of his opponents, smashing down with his fists for others trying to flank him.

Moving forward. Steps towards the entrance. Foreigner lifted his head and leapt at an enemy caught in the chaos, impaling him into the floor. He pulled at the weapon and it failed to budge, a testament to the pain he could inflict.

“He’s unarmed!” One of them cried out, before sweeping at Foreigner with a spiked cudgel. He was unarmed. His senses took over. Foreigner sidestepped the cudgel and grabbed at the arm, cracking into the wrist to release the weapon and deftly catching the handle with his free hand to club his assailant to death. Spurts of grey matter dribbled onto the floor, skin and blood sticking to the spikes as he pulled it free from the corpses grasp. He cracked into the knee of another opponent, a woman wielding throwing knives whose effects were going to die with her. Foreigner caved her skull in and pushed onward, nicks and cuts appearing around his body in the flurry of combat.

“Step aside!” The crowd dispersed slightly to create a ring of flesh, Foreigners next opponent coming through to face him, just a few feet away from the entrance. The gravitas he entered with was different from the pedestrian riffraff with fancy toys. He held himself in airs like nobles would, wielding a rapier and an attitude. “I’ll take this beast down! Wilhelm!” The man cried out and a screech replied.

Foreigner reeled back, making himself small on the floor on instinct as a bird swooped down from above with sharp leaking talons. He avoided the rending strike but the fluid leaking from its feet landed on his skin and burned a hole through his shirt and skin. He recoiled in pain, looking at the man in strange garbs with a bird even stranger.

“On my pride as a Bloodhound from District 1-” The man and his bird were blasted to the side by a singular strike from Itzhak.

“I don’t care much for story time. We must go!” Itzhak called out, his shoulder and fist caked in red. Foreigner took the opportunity, sprinting out of the seedy bar and out into open cold air. He sprinted ahead of Itzhak, motioning him to move faster, further along, leading them back to Jin.

A singular thought rattled through Foreigner’s head, his fist tightly clenched on the handle of his stolen weapon and a coat twice his size.