“Will you tell me what you are called?” Mr. Rasp asked, his tone polite. He stretched his fingers until his knuckles popped. I noted he had thick, fingerless gloves on.

I frowned at the request. “You guys are hunting me,” I replied.

Mr. Rasp bobbed his head, conceding the point. “Yes, but I have only been told your likeness,” he brought his hands up in a boxing stance. “I like to know the names of the men I fight, if I can help it. Also—“ he shrugged. “I am not really with those,” he jerked his head in the direction of the other two warlocks. “I am merely under contract.”

“A merc?” I asked, shaking my arms to try and get some feeling back in them. While my Limbs of the Other Side (Oh! I should call them LotOS. Less of a mouthfull.) protected me from a lot of damage, they seemed to be less affective against concussive force and blocking the punches from Mr. Forgettable had sapped a lot of strength out of me, without even accounting for the many body shots the little guy had landed.

“Yes,” he said with another shrug. “Do not hold it against me. A man must make a living.”

Despite myself, I kind of liked Mr. Rasp. I felt no emnity from him, just the resolve of a working man being set on an unpleasant task that none-the-less must be done. I could respect that, even if I didn’t appreciate it at the moment.

“Sorry, man, but I ain’t giving my name to a guy who’s trying to deliver me to a fate worse than death,” I said, preparing my tentacles.

Mr. Rasp tilted his head in a slight nod. “Regretable, but understandable. I am going to begin now.”

Even with the warning I almost didn’t dodge his punch in time. For a dude so big he was fast. Or maybe I was slow? My counter-attack with a tentacle was sloppy and easily avoided, but my follow-up with another made him block with his fist—

Pain exploded in my mind like I had never experienced before. It was like someone had taken every headache, knock, sinus infection and soreness, compressed them into a spike and drove it right up at the base of my skull. Luckily the effect didn’t seem to last more than an instant as when I came to my danger sense was warning me that my jaw was about to be shattered. I brought up my arm to spoil his blow as well as leaning away, but the power of the punch was boggling. My own arm slammed into my head and I was sent several feet through the air, my shoulder slamming into the deck and sliding before being stopped by some of the splintered planks I’d broken earlier in destroying the ward.

I scrambled to my feet as quickly as I could, feeling splinters of wood in my shoulder as I lifted myself off the deck. A glance at my arm showed that the LotOS that had absorbed the blow was cracked and fraying, whatever shadow-stuff that composed it flaking off and dissipating. A surge of panic went through me until I saw the damage slow and then began to slowly revert before my eyes.

I glanced up at my opponent, expecting him to be moving in on me, but he was shaking his hands with a grimace of pain. The oily blackness my tentacles left behind coated his hand, but I could see it crack and float away as my LotOS had been doing. I brought the tentacle that I had used to attack him up and saw it was much shorter than it should be, the end a ragged, smoking stump.

“You are a tough one!” Mr. Rasp said, a smile poking through his grimace as he finished shaking his hand. The last of the residue on his hand flaked off and he flexed his hand.

Yeah okay I’m not fighting this asshole.

I reached behind me where I had Jasper’s MP5 slung, brought it forward and thumbed off the safety in the same motion. I braced it against my shoulder and squeezed the trigger.

I expected to belch out some twenty plus rounds. I haven’t handled enough guns to know how much was in a magazine by weight alone, but my visual inspection suggested a full mag. Instead the gun fired three times. I growled and lifted my left hand to yank the cocking lever, thinking the old gun was jammed, when I noticed a throwing knife embedded in the gun right were the magazine entered it. When the hell had that happened?

I also noticed that Mr. Rasp hadn’t been effected or concerned by the gun. I dropped it and grabbed my pistol, emptying the mag at him. I now knew why Mr. Rasp didn’t give a shit about my guns. Each bullet seemed to puff into fine sand as it got a few inches to him. I adjusted my aim to his face and he frowned and squeezed his eyes shut, like I was throwing sand at him. Indeed, when my gun ran dry and the slide locked back, he pulled a hanky from his pocket and wiped his face.

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“That’s not fucking fair,” I said, tossing both the MP5 and the pistol as Mr. Rasp charged me with a grin.

Remember what I said earlier, about how I should have the advantage against Mr. Forgettable because I was bigger, heavier, with longer reach? It was the same situation here, except now it actually fucking applied. Mr. Rasp was a monster of a man, and knew how to use what he had to maximum advantage. The only reason he didn’t overwhelm me in the first exchange was because he was leery of my tentacles. Apparently whatever had affected me hadn’t left him unscarred either. I didn’t want to experience that pain again, so I used them to keep him from getting too close but had to quickly pull them away as he made chopping motions at them. I didn’t know what would happen if he managed to chop one of my remaining tentacles but I assumed I’d get the worse of the exchange.

The only reason I managed to stay in the fight was due to Rasp's strict adherence to his fighting style. He's an incredibly good fighter, but fortunately for me he's a boxer. I had a lot of Muay Thai training and started attacking his shins with my LotOS protected legs, snapping out kicks that, after the third one landed, removed the grin from Mr. Rasp’s face.

Then he landed a punch in my side.

I flew back like the last time he hit me, except I didn’t have the cushion of my LotOS protected arm between his fist and my vitals. I actually got a bit of air as I sailed and slammed into the back railing of the ship with enough force to knock the air from my lungs.

Okay, I had thought that Mr. Forgettable had broken a few ribs. I had been wrong. Mr. Rasp, on the other hand, had definitely broken a few ribs. I lay on the deck, slightly propped up against the railings of the ship, gasping for breath and nearly insensate with pain. I craned my head to the side, peering down, and found that the portion of the vest that had been protecting my side was fading away into dust much like the bullets had. My skin was raw and seeping blood underneath, like a scrape one received from falling off a motorcycle.

Mr. Rasp hadn’t escaped unscathed, however. He had taken a hit from one of my tentacles under his right lung and was coughing blood onto the deck. I doubt it was fatal. While my tentacles did do physical damage, the mental damage and pain they inflicted was their strongest aspect. Though the fact that Mr. Rasp was coughing blood said I got him pretty good.

Hey, fuckface, I called to the part of me that wasn’t me. I felt it’s regard focus wholly on me.

If you want to stay on this free ride, I need a way out of this fight, I said, my exhaustion carrying to my mental voice. Mr. Rasp wiped his mouth and took a deep breath, striding towards me. Preferably without any more physical change like my eye pits, but I’ll take what I can get, honestly.

“You are very good!” Mr. Rasp said as he approached, kicking a loose piece of the deck out of his way. “No wonder Mr. Sayers had trouble with you.”

Anytime now, I said to my other me/my other mind/me.

I felt something... shift. Knowledge I didn’t possess before popped into my head, like I suddenly remembered where I misplaced my keys. Only it was knowledge of my tentacles. With a bit of concentration I found their... I guess the closest word is wavelength? And adjusted it. They became more solid, their wispy inkness became smooth like polished leather, and suddenly I felt another twenty or more pounds of weight settle on my shoulders.

I tried to rise, found I couldn’t, and in desperation sent one of the tentacles shooting at Mr. Rasp. He grimaced and brought his fist to block.

I thought a repeat of what had happened before would occur, but instead the tentacle slammed into Mr. Rasp’s fist and snapped it back with an audible crack. Mr. Rasp howled and began cursing in Russian, cradling his broken wrist. With a power like his, I don’t think he has much experience with pain.

Taking inspiration from a certain supervillain, I used my tentacles to lift myself off the ground. It was awkward at first, my shoulders were not supposed to support weight in this way, but I managed to figure it out pretty quick. I started “running” away but Mr. Rasp got over his pain and gave chase, catching up quickly. Now that I was no longer prone I set myself on my legs, discovered my side really, really didn’t like that but pushed through the sudden grating pain.

I had made it to one of the guard stations by the time Mr. Rasp had got to me. Struck with sudden desperation I grabbed one of the big patio chairs with a tentacle, jabbed the other two into the deck for purchase and hurled the wooden furniture at the big Russian. Predictably, it burst into a cloud of dust upon impact. I had hoped it might send him into a coughing fit, but apparently such tactics weren’t new to Mr. Rasp as he came through the cloud of dust holding his breath and squinting his eyes against the particles.

That’s when I shoved my hand into his side.

I’d had to time it just right. So far in the fight I’d only really defended with my arms and attacked with my tentacles and legs. I’d timed my attack for when he came through the dust, feinting with a tentacle and using the other to push me close enough to stab him. I knew he must have some sort of destructive field around him, and the only thing that seemed to resist it, even temporarily, was the LotOS.

And just like when I had killed (I am a murderer.) that guard, the limbs started drinking as soon as they came in contact with blood.

Mr. Rasp countered with panicked fury, but I slapped away his good hand with a tentacle and ducked away from the feeble swip of his broken hand. I curled my hand inside him, feeling a rib, gripping it as hard as I could as I dragged him forward as I lifted my leg and kicked out his knee. He cried out in pain and fell, his leg suddenly no longer under him. I let go of him, my hand making a disgusting slurping noise as it left his wound. I turned to flee, only to be brought up short by a blonde man in a purple suit, holding his hand out at me in the classic police “halt” motion.

“He was certainly right about you,” he said, his voice familiar.

And then a wave of pain and despair rushed from his hand and washed over me. I had one last thought before darkness took me.

I hope Ida was okay.