Fighting Chance Vol 2 #10
Metal grating dug into Zain’s ass but whatever, at least they were up high enough that nobody could sneak up on them. More than anything, he definitely wasn’t about to complain, not when Vince looked like his own body was kicking his ass. The fire escape a couple buildings away from El’s house creaked under their combined weight, ten floors up with the city spread out below them. Vince was all wrapped up in a ratty blanket that came from Elvin’s grandma’s closet, tissues forming a small mountain around his feet, a tiny Fort Snot.
“So yeah, that’s what happened.” Zain took a sip from his thermos cup, pulling on the hot chocolate Elvin had gone through the trouble of making him. Goddamn. A second later, he took in a long low breath of the cold night air, the cocoa still hot enough to cook his mouth going down. “Ninja tried to kill me. With an actual ninja sword. In a diner.”
Vince made a nasty wet sound between a sniffle and a sneeze that managed to travel all through his whole body, the short blond boy still a mess from his cold. “That’s…” Before he could get the word out all the way, another sneeze exploded out of him, hard enough to almost rattle the fire escape. “…that’s insane, bro.”
“Bro, bro, bro, deadass? Like… a real ninja?” Elvin leaned forward, thermos cup half-forgotten in his hands. “Like, in real life?”
Zain’s free hand fiddled with the chain around his waist, the metal warm against his palm even through his hoodie. “Deadass, Big E.”
“You say they mentioned the Hand?” Vince’s voice came out thick, congested, another sniffle coming with it as he wiped his nose with tissue number fifty-seven. “Like, the symbols all about?” He sniffled again. “The little handprints on doors?”
“Yeah, apparently we been hitting their spots,” Zain admitted, jaw tight and face hard.
The words tasted sick and sour, almost like biting into a rotten lime. I’m an idiot. The one bit of knowledge he should have had, over everything else, stufremembering something so major, something so dangerous. They’d been so proud of themselves, taking down drug dealers and weapon smugglers, thinking the powers they had were enough to keep him safe.
It was one thing for his friends not to get it, but he knew he should have known better.
He should have.
This was Marvel, after all.
“Huh…” Elvin’s face did that thing where you could actually see his brain working, connecting dots they’d all been too stupid to see before. “I mean… that makes sense though, like…”
Zain blinked. “Like what?”
Elvin pulled a face. “Remember that building in Chinatown? With all the surveillance shit? I been wondering why they had maps of the whole city.”
“Maps of what?” Vince coughed, his lungs still trying to escape his body.
“Probably marking territory.” Zain’s fingers drummed against his thigh, excess energy looking for a way out. “Planning some serious shit.”
Super serious.
Nobody said anything else for a solid minute, the sound of the city below and Vince’s sniffling the only thing they could hear.
Then a grin spread across Elvin’s face, the kind that meant the super-strong idiot was about to say something dumb as all hell. “So we going to war on ninjas?” Someway, somehow, the grin got even bigger. “That’s… that’s kinda fire, nah lie.”
“Fire? They tryna kill us, El!” Vince’s voice cracked hard on the last word.
“Facts.” Zain set his cup down on the grating, the metal singing a quiet note as ceramic met steel. “And they ain’t gonna stop coming.”
Should’ve known it was too easy. He clicked his tongue. Just didn’t expect some ancient ninja bullshit.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
Two nights later, Zain was pacing alone on a rooftop in Hell’s Kitchen, eyes shifting from side to side with less calm than a twitchy shoplifter.
His whole body was wired and it wasn’t ki this time, even though he wished it was. He knew he needed to burn off the energy that had been building since the diner two nights ago and fighting with Colleen hadn’t really done much to fix that.
Fighting with the urge to tell her what happened to him was also another fucking problem, and definitely one that really hadn’t helped the feeling burning through his body.
That same feeling he’d had since that ninja almost cut through his throat from the back in that diner booth.
Why Hell’s Kitchen? Well, if he was going to fight Daredevil’s bad guys, he had to find the guy in the red fuckin’ suit.
In fact, right now, he stood on top of a small building that apparently belonged to Nelson & Murdock, a place he had to find by going all through Hell’s Kitchen because advertising online just wasn’t a thing apparently for these guys.
Matt Murdock… He clicked his tongue. Foggy Nelson…
Nelson & Murdock was brand-spanking-new, literally a few months old apparently, from what he’d found out over the last couple days, which made sense for why he couldn’t find any evidence of Daredevil. The guy probably just made his costume.
Whether he was new or not, he needed to find blind Batman and get his help against these ninjas. He really regretted not reading more of Daredevil, or even more of regular Marvel in general, honestly. Ultimate Marvel had like nothing for Daredevil… I only remember him helping Spider-Man against Kingpin that one time.
He shook his head, only to flinch half a second later as another familiar feeling hit him.
It was an itch, a weird itch right at the base of his neck, a spot directly in between his shoulder blades at the one spot you could never see without a mirror, the kind you got when someone stared too long at the back of your head in class. Fuck.
As if on instinct, his hand wrapped right around the chain before his brain caught up to what his body already knew. “Aight, I know you there.”
The voice that answered cut through the night, old but sharp like a grandpa who had been through like one or two wars. “Interesting…”
“You gonna do something or just keep being creepy?” Zain’s weight shifted to the balls of his feet, ready to move in any direction as he snapped his head from side to side. Fuck me, man, fuck meeee. He felt way too exposed on this roof at night, surrounded by shadows and very little to hide behind.
“Your ability is stagnating, boy.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, making Zain’s teeth aching as he gritted them tight together. “You’ve got skill, but no focus.”
Zain whirled around, chain already whistling through the air as it spun free. “Where you at? Show yourself!” The steel links hummed in his grip, ki flickering a pale blue fame along its length. “I ain’t got time for spooky ghost shit!”
Then someone just… appeared.
An old man, at least seventy years old and wearing a baggy dark yellow outfit, stepped out from behind an air conditioning unit that Zain could’ve sworn was too small to hide anyone.
His face was scarred up, that much the kid could see even in the dark, and he wore dark sunglasses even at almost midnight. More than that, he had a long walking stick with him th…
Wait a minute? What…
“…the fuck?” The words fell out of his mouth right through his thoughts before Zain could stop them. “You’re blind, though. How you been watching me if you can’t see?”
The old man’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement if amusement could cut you. “I see better than you ever will, kid.”
Old as he looked, his body seemed to move like it, hesitant and frail-seeming as he started circling, that stick tapping the surface of the roof in a rhythm that seemed almost purposely off-rhythm.
“Footwork like you’ve only ever seen drunken boxing.” Tap-Tap. Tap. Tap-Tap.Tap-Tap. “Strikes so telegraphed I don’t need eyes to see them.” Tap. Tap-Tap. Tap. “You’re barely a fighter, kid. More a street rat with delusions.”
Zain bit back on the first three things that popped into his head, all of them angry and none of them constructive. Instead, he let out a laugh that came out harder than intended. “Excuse me? I been doing just fine, old man.”
“Have you?” The blind guy snorted like it was a joke. “How many scars you hiding under that shirt?”
The old man hadn’t stopped moving, that slow old-man predator circle that kept Zain turning his head and then his whole body over and over to track him. “You’ve made yourself a target. The Hand doesn’t forget, and they won’t stop coming. One was a test. Next time it’ll be five. Time after that? Ten.”
The Hand? The Hand! “What the hell is the Hand?” The frustration burst out of Zain, irritation hitting him almost as hard as the ninja had a couple days back. “And what’s this Chaste shit he kept talking about? I never heard of none of this before, man!”
The stick stopped tapping. For a moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the city.
“An ancient war you just walked into, carrying one of their most prized relics.” The old man gestured to Zain’s waist with his stick, the movement so precise it made Zain’s hand tighten on the chain. “That thing around your waist?”
“M-my Shen Gong Wu?” The stutter betrayed him, showed the crack in his confidence that he’d been trying to plaster over since the diner.
“Whatever you call it… they want it back. And they’ll kill you to get it.”
The words settled in Zain’s gut like food he didn’t microwave right, heavy and cold and undeniable. Part of him wanted to throw the chain off the roof right then, let it disappear into the darkness and take all this ancient war bullshit with it. But his fingers wouldn’t let go. The metal had warmed to his touch, familiar as his own heartbeat.
“You wanna take out the scum in these streets?” The old man had stopped circling, standing still in a way that somehow felt more dangerous than movement. “Then learn to do it properly. Before they bleed you dry.”
“Why would I trust some random blind dude?” Zain’s chin lifted, defiance automatic as breathing. “For all I know, you with them. Trying to get me to drop my guard.”
The old man’s smile could have skinned a cat. “Kid, if I wanted you dead, you’d already be bleeding. I’m offering to keep you alive. That’s more than anyone else is gonna do.”
He’s lying, the smart part of Zain’s brain whispered. Nobody does nothing for free. Everybody wants something.
But the dumb part, the part that had touched that chain in the first place and felt power sing through his bones, that part was already calculating angles. This old man moved like death in comfortable shoes. If he could learn even half of that…
“Nah, I’m good.” The words came out steady, confident, everything Zain wasn’t feeling. “I got my own training. Got my own teacher. Don’t need some creepy old man telling me what to do.”
“Your teacher teach you how to fight the Hand?” Each question landed like a punch. “Teach you how to kill without hesitation? Teach you how to win a war?”
“I can handle myself.”
“Prove it.”
Two words. That’s all it took. Two words and every smart thought in Zain’s head evaporated like morning mist hitting sunlight. His pride flared hot and bright, drowning out the voice that said this was a bad idea, that this old man just baited him like one of the dumb-looking catfish his dad loved pulling in on his days off.
“Bet. Don’t charge me for your hip replacement, grandpa.”
The chain was already spinning, ki flickering along its length in blue-white sparks. Zain’s weight shifted forward, muscles coiling for the strike. The old man just stood there, stick planted like he was waiting for a bus instead of a fight.
Zain moved first and fast as the chain whipped toward the old man’s chest, fast enough to crack bone.
The stick moved straight and fast like a bullet from a gun, and almost as hard to track. No wasted motion, no telegraphed defense, just suddenly there between the chain and its target with a sound like thunder. The impact ran up Zain’s arm, rattling teeth he didn’t know could rattle.
“Okay, that was lucky—”
The counter-strike came before the word finished forming as the stick jabbed toward his ribs with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. Zain twisted away, barely, air whistling where his body had been. His feet found a new position, weight redistributing as his brain scrambled to process what just happened.
Old man moves like he’s reading my mind. Like he knows where I’m gonna be before I do. He bit down on his tongue. Shit.
The old man flowed from defense to offense without pause, without thought, like breathing and before Zain could blink, he moved again. A split-second later, the crack of wood on jaw sent stars exploding across Zain’s vision. His stance faltered, his teeth came down on his tongue and the leg sweep that followed filled his mouth with blood.
His legs yanked out from under him and concrete rushed up to meet him. Blood filled his mouth and his spine screamed with the back of his head as he landed hard as hell, impact driving air from his lungs. “What the fuck!”
“Get up.” It was like hearing a brick wall speak, no humanity and barely any care as the old guy spoke the command like a fact of life. “Fight like you mean it.”
Swallowing down a half-mouthful of spit and blood, the teenager scrambled back up to his feet, pride burning in his chest and shame burning in his chest, both of them hotter than the bruise already forming on his jaw. His ki flared brighter, blue fire painting shadows on the rooftop that danced like they were laughing at him.
Fuck you, old nigga. This time, he’d be ready.
This time, he’d win.
This time he’d show this old fool what happened when you underestimated Zain Austin Powers.
The charge came with everything he had.
Double the speed, double the power, ki burning through his muscles like rocket fuel. The chain sang its violent song, weaving patterns in the air that should have been impossible to track, impossible to counter.
Stick-guy sidestepped with ease and Zain’s eyes went wide at how smooth he moved, frail-looking body shifting like violence was just another language and Zain was still learning the alphabet. His eyes went even wider, red-flecked spit spilling onto his hoodie as the stick drove into his solar plexus with the kind of precision that felt like decades of practice in knowing exactly where to hit a body.
Air became a memory as a palm drove into the exact same spot.
Zain’s lungs seized, diaphragm spasming as his body forgot how to breathe. He stumbled back, mouth opening and closing like a fish discovering air wasn’t water.
For the next five minutes, the old man took him apart like a mechanic stripping an engine. Every attack countered before it fully formed. Every combo broken at its weakest joint. Every attempt to use ki neutralized like snuffing out a candle.
He’s using ki too. The realization hit harder than any physical blow. Way more than mine. And he’s not even trying.
The stick cracked across his temple, setting off fireworks behind his eyes. Before he could blink, triple body shots back-to-back-to-back folded him in half, ribs screaming protests his lungs couldn’t voice. Blood ran from his nose in a steady stream, metallic taste flooding his mouth. His lip split somewhere between the fourth and fifth knockdown, adding its own red signature to the rooftop.
“Had enough, or you need more education?”
Zain stayed on his knees, chest heaving as his body remembered how to process oxygen. Pride fought head-to-head with survival instinct, the part of him that hated backing down losing ground against his common sense.
“Aight… aight, you made your point.” The words tasted like copper and defeat. “You’re stronger than me.” His eyes found the old man’s face, searching for any hint of mockery. “For now.”
“I’m not stronger. I’m better.” The stick tapped concrete again, that steady rhythm that Zain was starting to hear in his bones. “Strength without skill is just violence. You want to survive what’s coming? You’ll learn discipline.”
Discipline.
The word tasted like a mouthful of cough medicine and not the flavored kind, bitter and necessary and everything his body wanted to spit out. But the alternative was bleeding out in some alley while ninjas stood over his corpse.
Vince and Elvin finding his body.
Failing before he’d even started.
“Fine. Teach me.” The agreement came out steadier than he felt. “But I ain’t calling you sensei or none of that.” I already got one sensei anyway.
Something that might have been approval flickered across the old man’s scarred face. “You’ll call me Stick. And you’ll do what I say. Or you’ll die. Simple as that.”
Simple. Like anything in Zain’s life had ever been simple. Like falling from the fucking clouds, getting shot at by Russians, finding a magic chain and fighting ninjas and meeting blind men who moved like death was simple.
But simple was better than complicated when complicated got you killed.
“Training starts tomorrow. Midnight.” Stick turned to leave, then paused. “Don’t bring your friends. This is between us. Don’t tell your other teacher. That girl’s a kid herself. She wouldn’t understand.”
“How you know about—”
“I know everything that matters, kid.”
The words hung in the air after Stick disappeared into the shadows, moving silent as smoke despite the walking stick. Zain pushed himself to his feet, every muscle protesting the movement. Blood still dripped from his nose, marking the rooftop like a signature.
“We’re gonna turn you into a weapon.” Stick’s scratchy old-man voice drifted back from the darkness. “Something the Hand will fear.”
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
5K Words (100 DP)
FAIL: Geas (300 CP) [Kill 6 Billions Demons] {Refinement}: “Knights of this order always have a single goal, one that differs between each knight. Some choose to help people, others to restore a king, and so on.
By focusing on what you want to accomplish, nothing can change your mind from what you need to do. Whether it’s torture, mental influence, or simple manipulation, your mind can simply not be changed from your goal.”
Dojo Points: 200