Fighting Chance Vol 2 #1

Zain’s hands moved before his brain did as usual, fingers ghosting over the metal links of his chain like they knew something he didn’t. He’d gotten used to sleeping with it – wrapped around his wrist, looped across his chest, tucked between his fingers. The weapon never left his side anymore, not since the Russians, not since the night he’d learned exactly how much blood the human body could hold.

Business time.

Tonight was a raid, plain and simple. Yakuza warehouse on the east side, probably full of cash, drugs, weapons – whatever these assholes were moving this week. Most importantly, probably light on muscle since their main shipment wasn’t coming in till tomorrow.

Perfect target.

The chain clinked between his fingers as he rolled it, feeling the weight shift. His precious little ‘Shen Gong Wu’, he’d taken to calling it the Serpent of Endless Steel. Poetic, right?

Colleen called him a ‘chunibyou’ when she heard that and she still wouldn’t explain what that meant.

Right now, he just needed it to stretch far enough to crack some skulls and get back out.

Speaking of his Sensei with the librarian name, she had been teaching him for weeks now. Not just fighting – although yeah, that too – but how to move, how to watch, how to hit with more than just raw power. His strikes had purpose now, his footwork didn’t leave him stumbling like an idiot after every third step.

Still wouldn’t call it pretty, though.

The warehouse loomed ahead, boxy and gray and surrounded by stacks of shipping containers that looked like they’d been arranged by a toddler playing blocks. Zain slipped between two of them, his steps nearly silent as he ducked low. Three weeks of crashing at Colleen’s had taught him more than just how to throw a proper kick.

It taught him patience.

…For about thirty more seconds, at least.

Zain’s fingers drummed against the chain again, metal links rattling soft in his grip. He didn’t mean to honestly.

He just couldn’t help it.

It was habit now, even as he tried to be quiet, the chain like a security blanket almost, even though he’d never ever say that out loud. It was his magical item, why wouldn’t he always wanna touch it to make sure it was real, right?

Even if it made more noise than he’d like.

That was another thing Colleen had drilled into him, you know other than how to throw a punch without exposing himself to a counter from anyone with more than a year of combat training.

How to Be Ninja by Sensei Wing, ancient Japanese art…wait… Zain blinked for a moment. Was that racist?

He blinked again. Probably

Well, too late now.

How to Be Ninja—don’t stomp, don’t clink, don’t breathe louder than a whisper. After all, you never know when someone’s listening around the corner and armed with dual TEC-9s to fill you full of holes.

That was actually a literal quote from Colleen. No joke, being seriously cereal right now. Zain had wanted to ask but also figured that a fresh immigrant from Japan who spoke perfect English with no accent and owned a martial arts dojo at eighteen had more experience in these things than he did.

Anyway, as he neared the building, he tried to keep his head down, stick to the edges where shadows smeared into darker shapes. His knuckles brushed concrete, the skin over his fingers tight and rough, but he kept moving.

His eyes flicked to the guard on the side entrance, the guy smoking like he had all the time in the world. The tip of his cigarette glowed orange in the dark, the bright little dot blinking in and out as the guy took lazy drags. Zain clocked him for five seconds, max, as the guy took his time doing one wide-ass sweep of the warehouse yard, one lazy turn, and back to the same spot.

Wow, do they fucking pay you for this or… Full offense to this guy, he had no work ethic. Dude wasn’t even looking, just pacing in his own head. Useless.

Zain’s grip on the chain tightened.

If this was a test, he was nailing it. One good whip to the throat, and the guy’d drop like a bag of bones, but… naaaaaaah.

Going through the front door was suicidal on a good night.

The roof was always better.

More than that, it was clean and fast, without having to take out any loser playing lookout, no matter how shit and ass the guy was at his job. Clicking his tongue against his teeth silently, the fourteen-year-old let the chain uncoil and whipped it out, one end whispering through the air before meeting the rooftop edge and sticking tight.

He couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. I love you, Magic Chain.

He took a breath, then jumoped up as high as he could, willing the chain to retract as he pulled himself up the chain. He’d gotten stronger over the last month, definitely quicker too.

Smarter… eh… Okay, that one was debatable, depending on who you asked.

Landing on the roof, Zain dropped into a crouch, his breath even, and eyes darting from side to side. No cameras, no alarms. The rooftop of the warehouse sat quiet and smug, like it never got hit before. Zain almost snorted. Cocky bastards.

The teenage thief moved low and, in no time at all, found the access door tucked behind a crate.

A second later, one eyebrow went high. You gotta be joking right now. It’s like these guys wanted to be robbed. He stared at the door in front of him, the rooftop access sitting there with no padlock on it, just a basic latch.

On the outside of the door. If Zain didn’t know any better, he’d think this was some kind of trap, honestly, but no, he already knew. A lot of criminals are just dumb as hell. Colleen backed that idea up too, but also told him that most might have been dumb muscle or fast-talking impulsive idiots, but their bosses… well, there was a reason they were bosses.

He slipped inside, and hit the warehouse catwalk with as little sound as he could manage and stared down at rows of crates stacked high, half-covered in tarps with pallets scattered all around the warehouse like someone half-assed inventory. He patted the duffel at his side as his eyes continued to roam, looking for the stack of cash he knew was in here somewhere in here s-

His eyes widened as he spotted something. In the far corner, suitcases…

He’d seen the same kind before in other Yakuza safehouses. They kept their cash fancy-style. Gotcha.

Below him, three guys hunched over a card game, laughing loud like they didn’t care who heard. Idiots. Two more at the far wall, busy with a stack of boxes. Another one patrolling the perimeter, flashlight bouncing against concrete. Twenty seconds and he’d be right underneath.

Zain felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Perfect.

 He tugged his bandana up, blue fabric brushing his nose, and dropped from the railing like a falling hammer. He hit the guard’s shoulders hard, his whole weight landing center mass. As expected, the guy went down face-first, skull cracking against concrete with a sound that made Zain flinch.

He couldn’t help it—the guy’s nose just straight-up broke, blood splattering the ground like a tomato. Might need surgery for that. Sorry.

He was moving before the others could even yell, rolling off the downed guard and snapping the chain around the next guy’s legs. Strong hands yanked hard, and the dude flipped, head bouncing off the floor with a sick thud. Zain didn’t let up. His feet spun under him, chain in hand, and he swung before anyone could pull a trigger.

One of the card players managed to grab a pistol, fumbling with the safety like he didn’t know what he was doing. Four quick steps and Zain was on the guy. A fist drove it’s way into his solar plexus and air left the man in a ragged wheeze. Small fingers grabbed greasy hair, yanked down, and brought his knee up fast. Bone crunched, blood sprayed warm across Zain’s knuckles. Another one down.

The last two figured it out (as much as they could) and spread out, one circling left, the other right. Zain whipped his chain, the steel snaking out in a wide arc, forcing them back. He didn’t let them get in sync, didn’t let them flank.

Too easy to box him in if they tried that shit.

“Come on!” Zain barked, voice sharp and loud, cutting through the adrenaline hum in his ears.

The chain swung again, catching one guy’s forearm, ripping his grip on the crowbar. The weapon clattered to the floor. The dude lunged anyway, hands up like he thought he could scrap bare-fisted. Zain wasn’t having it as he ducked under the swing, and drove a hard elbow into the guy’s ribs, then slammed his heel into his knee.

A leg buckled, and the dude collapsed sideways, wheezing curses.

The other one didn’t wait as he came at Zain from behind, but the teenager twisted quick, arm already moving.

Before the hit could land, his chain looped around the guy’s wrist and Zain yanked—hard.

He felt the pop before the guy did as the joint dislocated. A half second later, a scream worthy of a slasher movie wailed right into his face but Zain didn’t let go.

No, he just kept the chain tight and kept pulling until the guy dropped to his knees, tears in his eyes.

Finall, he let go and gave the chain a flick to free it, letting the links coil back around his wrist.

His hands went down to his knees as he wiped them on his jeans, regretting that as soon as he did them. Awww, and these were new too. Bllood smeared his knuckles already, dark and sticky, and now they smeared his clothes too. Well, whatever. The guys nearest were still twitching on the floor, one clutching his arm, one trying to crawl away as he whined like someone had broken his legs (hahahaha…yeah), the other three out cold.

“Come on, bakas,” he muttered under his breath fixing his gaze on the rest of them, still catching themselves from the shock of a barely five foot psycho kid tearing through grown criminals. He flexed his fingers as he half-realized you couldn’t really conjugate Japanese like that. “I’m just getting started.”

One of them rushed him anyway—dumbass move, leading with a wild haymaker that telegraphed itself a mile away. Zain let his body move, sidestepping as the fist brushed past his ear.

Without giving the guy a second to regret fighting drunk, Zedd slammed his palm straight into the guy’s throat, heel-first, feeling the impact reverberate through his arm. A wet, choking gasp followed, the thug’s hands flying to his neck, but Zain wasn’t done.

Momentum had him spinning, foot rising to meet the side of the guy’s head.

Nike sole met human jaw and the man’s head snapped sideways with a hard crack that sent blood flying from his mouth. The dude went down, body crumpling in a heap, and Zain didn’t bother checking if he was out cold. Judging from the moans of pain, he wasn’t but shock usually did weird things to the body, right?

Maybe it was a matter of time or something.

One left. The last guy looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but here, but still, he didn’t bail.

A knife came free from his expensive leather jacket and the last Yakuza squared up like that was gonna change anything. The blade caught the low warehouse light, flickering for a second before the dude tried to look tough, bouncing on his toes like he knew what he was doing.

Tension coiled up Zain’s spine, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, heartbeat pounding in his ears loud enough to drown out the guy’s shaky breaths.

Then the noise hit.

CRASH!

It came from above like someone had just driven a truck through the roof. Both of them snapped their heads up, instincts firing on pure reflex, as glass rained down from the shattered skylight, glinting in the dim light. A figure dropped through, landing smooth in a crouch that barely made a sound, like they’d done it a hundred times before.

White hair in a loose lazy ponytail, black goggles covering the top half of her face, a black bandana that covered the bottom and headphones with dumb-looking cat ears balanced on her head.

A… girl?

It was a girl, a girl his age too.

She barely looked at him, more interested in the mess of bodies and crates than another kid fighting for his life and the guy with a knife staring at her like this was absotively posilutely the worst fucking night of his life. Her head tilted, that little smirk visible in her eyes like this whole thing was some kind of joke.

“Well, well,” she said, voice all light and mocking. “Didn’t know I’d be sharing tonight.”

Zain opened his mouth to respond, something biting and snappy ready to go, but didn’t get the chance—because the warehouse doors burst open with a sound like a bomb going off, and suddenly ten more Yakuza stormed in, guns drawn, shouting in angry bursts that Zain’s brain didn’t even bother translating. His gut clenched, eyes darting for cover, the girl already gone—just a blur of motion darting across the room, faster than he could track.

A crack of gunfire snapped his attention back, bullets ripping through crates and splintering wood, ricocheting off the metal shelving like a deadly rainstorm. Zain dove behind the forklift, rolling into a crouch as slugs peppered the spot where he’d just been standing. Move, move, move!

A thug rounded the forklift, gun up, and Zain’s chain shot out like a snake, wrapping tight around the guy’s wrist. One hard yank and the guy stumbled forward, grip loosening just enough for Zain to drive his knee into his sternum. Air rushed out of the thug in a raspy gasp, and Zain followed up with an elbow to the back of his head, dropping him like a sack of bricks.

He barely spared the guy a glance, attention snagging on the girl moving like a specter through the chaos. She was ridiculous—flowing between gunmen with that white hair flicking like a signal flag, hands lashing out in precise, brutal strikes that crumpled guys twice her size. One guy swung at her, knife aimed for her throat, and she barely leaned back, one hand shooting out to twist his wrist until he howled. She didn’t even look like she was breaking a sweat.

Fast—no, definitely faster than him, faster than anyone he’d ever seen in person, moving like water while he fought like a brawler. She made his scrappy, down-and-dirty style look like a toddler’s first fight club.

A bullet tore past his shoulder, so close he felt the heat graze his skin, and Zain jerked back, chain whipping out to create space as three more Yakuza closed in on him, guns up and eyes locked. Too close to get a clean swing—he swung the chain in a wide arc anyway, forcing them to step back just long enough to catch his breath.

They hesitated, just a fraction of a second, but that was all he needed. Zain rushed the closest one, chain snapping out to crack the guy across the cheekbone. The man stumbled, hand flying to his face, and Zain slammed his elbow into the dude’s jaw, sending him sprawling.

The next one tried to aim, but Zain was already on him, twisting the gun barrel down and driving his palm up under the guy’s chin. Teeth clacked together, and the man hit the floor hard, leaving one more behind him. Before he could turn, the last guy fired off a shot that tore through Zain’s jacket, grazing his shoulder. Pain flashed hot and bright, but Zain didn’t let it slow him down as he just bulldozed forward.

He leapt up and grabbed Mr Trigger Happy by the collar and slammed him backward into a stack of crates that collapsed under their combined weight. The thug hit the ground with Zain on top of him, and before the guy could catch his breath, Zain drove his forehead down into his nose, feeling the wet crunch of cartilage giving way. Blood splattered, soaking Zain’s sleeve, but he didn’t care as he leaned back, panting, adrenaline still buzzing like static in his skull.

Zain wiped his forehead, blood mixing with sweat, and glanced at the girl still wrecking thugs across the room. She barely spared him a glance, like he was just part of the scenery. Zain couldn’t help the crooked grin that cut across his face—whatever, he wasn’t about to get shown up. “Fuck yeah!”

By the time he stumbled back to his feet, the warehouse had gone quiet. Bodies lay scattered across the floor – some groaning, some worryingly still. Of the white-haired girl, there was no sign.

Did she bail? He glanced over at the corner where the suitcases were and…

Open and empty.

He sighed through gritted teeth. FUCK!

Yeah, she bailed. With my fucking loot too.

A window was open near the back, glass freshly broken. Zain headed for it, picking his way through the carnage. Whatever he’d come here to steal would have to wait. The cops would be showing up soon with this many gunshots, and he didn’t feel like explaining himself.

He dropped out the window, chain shooting out to catch a fire escape across the narrow alley. With a quick tug, he was airborne, swinging through the gap between buildings like some discount Spider-Man.

His feet hit the ground with a solid impact that jolted his knees. Nothing broken, though. He was getting better at those landings.

“That had to… that had to be Black Cat, right??” The words slipped out before he could stop them, his brain finally catching up to what he’d seen. The girl with the white hair, the insane acrobatics, the breaking and entering… it all fit.

“How do you know my name?”

Zain’s head snapped up, body pivoting to face the voice. The girl was perched on the edge of a rooftop above him, silhouetted against the night sky, posture casual as if she’d been watching him the whole time.

Shit.

“…Lucky guess?” he offered, mind racing. How the hell was he supposed to explain that he knew her from comics – comics that didn’t even exist here?

The girl’s head tilted slightly, and even with her eyes hidden behind those goggles, he could feel her raising an eyebrow. “Huh. You’re weird.”

Before Zain could respond, a gunshot cracked through the night air, the bullet ricocheting off the brick wall just inches from his head. Eyes wide, he spun to see Yakuza flooding out of the alley, shouting in Japanese as they spotted him.

“Wait, how am I weir-!” His words transformed into a startled yelp as a second shot narrowly missed him, chunks of brick dust spraying his face. “Fuck!”

When he looked back up at the rooftop, Black Cat was gone, vanished as quickly and silently as she’d appeared.

Great. Just great.

Chain already whipping out to catch another fire escape, Zain launched himself into the night, the sound of pursuit fading as he swung and jumped from building to building.

Black Cat. In the flesh. He wasn’t sure whether to be excited or pissed.

Maybe both.

The wind rushed past his face as he flew between buildings, his chain extending and retracting as he headed back towards Chikara Dojo. His shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed him, but the pain was distant when he knew he could heal it in minutes.

He had more pressing concerns.

Like the fact that his world had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

And a whole lot more interesting.