Fighting Chance Vol 2 #9

One AM at Mel’s 24-Hour Diner in Astoria, Queens, and Zain was sitting alone in a back booth staring at a half-eaten burger like it had personally insulted him. The meat was cold, cheese congealed into this gross rubbery mess, but his appetite had jumped ship before he even took the first bite and he doubted it had any plans on making a return trip.

His Shen Gong Wu was wrapped around his waist as it usually was, metal still warm against his skin from all the restless energy crackling through his system like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket and decided he liked the feeling.

Should be tired. Should be dead on his feet after giving his all in training, but instead he was still pretty wired, running on at least a half tank with no reason to feel this restless, this ready to jump out of his skin and start throwing hands at shadows.

He’d left Vince and Elvin back at Elvin’s grandma’s place because Vince had caught some kind of cold and was sniffling like a little kid, and Elvin had decided he didn’t feel like going out with him all sick and gross. Made sense, considering how the older bigger kid had taken to treating the white runaway like even more of a little brother than Zain did. Vince lived with them now, had his own corner in Elvin’s cramped bedroom, and Elvin’s grandma fussed over him like he was her own blood.

Whatever. Sometimes Zain needed to be alone anyway, needed space to think without Vince’s Arkansas drawl or Elvin’s Brooklyn attitude filling up his head with noise. Tonight was one of those nights, except thinking was the last thing he wanted to do because thinking meant remembering, and remembering meant dealing with Angela’s weird behavior from earlier.

Earlier today had been weird as hell. Angela had been all weird and sappy after class, which was basically the opposite of her usual personality. Usually she was trying to punch him or prove something, getting up in his face about technique or calling him out for slacking off during drills. Today she’d hung back, fidgeting with her wraps like she couldn’t figure out what to do with her hands.

“My friend Sophia came home yesterday.”

Zain had been packing up his gear, not really paying attention because Angela talking about her friends wasn’t exactly breaking news. But when she said those words, quietly, carefully, he had frozen up, almost stuck in place as his brain made the connection.

“She was missing for like two weeks. Her mom thought she was dead.”

That had gotten his attention, made his hands go still on his water bottle because he’d heard that name before, seen that face on a menu with a price tag next to it like she was a fucking commodity.

“She told me some weird strong kid helped save her. Some kid with a chain.”

Zain had tried to play dumb, because that’s what you did as a vigilante.

More than anything, Angela wasn’t stupid. Never had been.

And he knew that.

She’d stared at him quiet and curious, before just stepping forward and hugging him. It was weird, a weird hug that went on way too long and was way too sappy for someone like little Angela Del Toro.

“Thank you.”

He couldn’t accept Angela’s appreciation, couldn’t deal with the fact that she thought he was some kind of hero when he didn’t have the balls to finish the job. More guys like those traffickers were running loose out there right now, probably setting up shop somewhere else, making new menus with kids’ faces on them. 

And he couldn’t just kill them, but dammit, he wanted to.

And that didn’t bother him at all.

That was the part that should have scared him, the part that probably would have sent Colleen into full lecture mode if she knew what was going on in his head. He wanted those monsters dead. Wanted to wrap his chain around their throats and squeeze until they understood what it meant to be helpless, to be at someone else’s mercy. And the fact that he could imagine doing it without flinching, could picture the whole thing in vivid detail without his stomach turning, didn’t make him feel guilty or sick or any of the things people were supposed to feel when they thought about killing.

It just made him feel practical.

Those traffickers were probably already back on the streets. Probably already back to their business of buying and selling children like trading cards, setting prices based on age and virginity and whatever other sick criteria they used to determine human worth. The system had failed those kids once and it would fail them again, because the system was designed to protect people with money and connections, not children who disappeared from poor neighborhoods.

He couldn’t tell Colleen about any of this because he wasn’t sure how she’d react, but he had a pretty good idea it wouldn’t be well. She’d probably try to “fix” him, make him feel bad about doing what needed to be done, give him lectures about honor and control and all the other martial arts philosophy that sounded great in theory but fell apart when you were faced with monsters who bought children.

“You okay, mijo?” Maria’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, and he looked up to see the same waitress he’d seen for weeks working the night shift in the diner, the exact same one who’d given them all the intel she had about the trafficking ring in the first place. “You look tired.”

Zain sighed and shrugged his shoulders, well aware it was obvious. It was the first question she’d asked since he came in with an order already on the tip of his tongue. On top of that, she’d been kind enough to stay quiet while he was still pretending to eat and had even kept refilling his Sprite even though he hadn’t asked for it.

“Long night again?”

He pursed his lips and nodded slow. “Yeah, long night.” The words came out automatic, smoother than he meant to, but undeniably a lie.

That wasn’t true. He hadn’t done anything tonight. Hadn’t hit any drug spots, hadn’t rescued any kids, hadn’t thrown a single punch. He was running on a full tank with no reason to feel drained, but sitting still felt like dying and his skin was crawling with the need to move, to hit something, to channel all this restless energy into something useful.

Then something triggered in his head.

Not a sound, not a sight, just pure instinct screaming move with the kind of urgency that came from months of learning to trust his reflexes. It was the exact same feeling he got in alleys when things went wrong, when his brain caught threats his conscious mind hadn’t processed yet.

Zain’s body moved before his brain caught up, throwing himself sideways out of the booth with the kind of explosive speed that came from enhanced muscle fibers and way too much practice dodging things that wanted to kill him.

A sword punched through vinyl where his head had been a split second before, blade gleaming under fluorescent diner lights as it carved through cheap upholstery like it was made of paper.

Jesus fucking Christ.

A man in full black ninja outfit slid out from behind the booth, not movie ninja bullshit but real deal professional killer material. Dark cloth that seemed to absorb light, minimal armor that was all function over form, sword that looked as deadly as the guy holding it. This dude moved like Colleen, no wasted motion, every step planned and precise, the kind of fluid grace that came from years of training and way too much experience killing people.

Professional.

“What do you want from me?” Zain’s chain was already sliding into his hand, body coiled and ready to move because fight or flight was kicking in hard and flight wasn’t really an option in a confined space with civilians around.

People started screaming, scrambling for exits like someone had yelled fire in a crowded theater. Chairs overturned, plates crashed to the floor, and some dude in a trucker hat dived behind the counter while Maria’s frightened face disappeared into the kitchen. All the while, the assassin pulled his sword through the booth like it was butter, vinyl and foam padding splitting clean as he stood in front of Zain with his blade ready.

Silent. Patient. Deadly. 

Like he had all the time in the world.

“You have struck against the Hand, and the Hand strikes back.” Voice flat, emotionless, like he was reading from a script instead of threatening to kill a fourteen-year-old kid. No anger, no personal investment, just business.

“The Hand? The fuck is the Hand?” The words came out louder than he intended, bouncing off the walls of the suddenly empty diner. “I ain’t never heard of no Hand!”

But even as he said it, the symbols flashed in his memory. 

The handprints carved into the doorframe of that warehouse, the place they’d pulled all those kids from. Elvin’s targets. And suddenly he was remembering old comic books, flashes of Marvel knowledge hitting him like a lightning bolt because he’d read Daredevil years ago, back when he thought ninjas were cool instead of terrifying.

Oh shit. The Hand weren’t a gang. Those weren’t just gang tags. They were ninjas. Sick. His eyes widened as the realization hit him. Wait, no, they’re ninjas. Fuck.

The assassin moved first, sword cutting air in a perfect arc aimed where Zain’s chest would be if he hadn’t ducked. Zain dropped low, chain whipping out as links caught the ninja’s wrist, but the man didn’t stumble.

No, he just adjusted, body flowing with the movement like getting hit with a chain was no big deal.

“Okay, that’s not normal.”

The ninja-man spun with the chain’s pull, using the momentum to drive his elbow on a direct heat-seeking path toward Zain’s temple. He jerked back, elbow missing by inches, and his back slammed into the lunch counter with a solid thud that rattled his teeth.

F-fuck me! His hand scrambled wildly, and  grabbed a coffee pot from the counter, hurled it without thinking. Hot coffee and glass exploded across the ninja’s face, the ninja letting out a screamed curse that was more choked out than actually said.

Good. You bleed like everyone else.

Links snapped out while the ninja was distracted, wrapping around the assassin’s ankle. Zain yanked hard, full body weight behind it and the assassin hit the floor, but he rolled smooth, and was back on his feet before Zain could follow up, the sword still in his hand.

Without even missing a beat, the assassin kicked a table, the force of his foot sending it flying toward Zain’s legs like a battering ram. Without wasting a moment, the teenager leaped over it. The table exploded against the wall behind him, wood splinters and metal legs clattering across tile floor as Zain landed in a crouch, chain spinning and lashing out with a crack like a whip as links snapped toward the ninja’s head.

The Hand ninja ducked, blade coming up in a counter as steel parted air where Zain’s arm had been.

Faster than any human should be. 

True, but he hit harder than any kid should.

The assassin’s sword work was perfect, every cut precise, technique that came from years of training and discipline. Zain knew he couldn’t match that skill but Colleen’s voice echoed in his head still: Don’t fight their fight, make them fight yours.

Zain changed approach, and rushed in close, moving  inside sword range where technique mattered less and his strength advantage counted more. He dived under a horizontal slash, close enough to smell the ninja’s sweat, and drove his knee into the assassin’s ribs with a solid THUNK.

As the man stumbled back, Zain’s elbow snapped up toward the man’s jaw, but the ninja rolled with the blow and leaned even further back, armed hand moving in the complete opposite direction. Steel cut through Zain’s hoodie, forcing a hiss from him as blood welled up and across his shoulder with an immediate sting of pain.

Fuck that hurts.

Something hot flooded through his body, that blue light flickering around his fists like a gas stove’s pilot light. Still haven’t mastered this, but fuck it.

His next punch came twice as hard. 

CRACK. Teenage knuckles met grown ninja’s ribs, and the assassin staggered, eyes widening behind his mask.

Yeah, that got your attention.

Zain moved a good bit faster now, chain work becoming a blur as links wrapped around the sword arm before the ninja could react. Metal bit into cloth and flesh, chain locked around the assassin’s sword arm. Zain pulled with a grunt as the teenager drove his shoulder forward. Ninja and boy collided, both finally breaking as both hit the floor hard, booth cushions exploding around them.

Zain was on top now, fists flying in a classic ground-and-pound. Rapid punches came fast and hard, powered by ki that made his knuckles feel like hammers. The ninja covered his face with arms on the verge of giving way as he tried to buck him off, but Zain was twice as strong now than before and he wasn’t letting go.

This is what you get.

The ninja grabbed broken glass from the coffee pot, and threw it in Zain’s face. Fuck. The teenage vigilante flinched, grip loosening just enough for the ninja to escape, rolling away. 

But Zain could smell blood now, and more than that, he saw weakness.

“AAAAAAHHHH!” A hard charge formed into an elbow tackle that threw the ninja into the jukebox, sparks flying as music died with electronic squealing. Multicolored lights flickering and going dark as Zain followed up, chain singing through air like a weapon designed for war.

The Hand ninja flipped to his feet faster than Zain was expecting and quicker than he could react to, and Zain felt his eyes widen as he was folded over with a sudden kick that sent him hurtling back into a booth, padding exploding in clouds of dust and foam.

Shit! Shit! Zain rolled out just as the sword thunked into fake leather where his head had been.

Both of them were bleeding now and both of them knew it. He could feel the aching under his hoodie, the stinging atop his shoulder, the bruised ribs that made breathing a struggle and every inhale a bad Darth Vader impression.

Still, the ninja didn’t get off easy. The guy had a broken nose at the very least, an open gash on his forehead, at least one broken rib, and the guy was favoring his left side like more than just his rib was cracked underneath all that black fabric.

This is gonna come down to who wants it more. His fingers flexed, eyes twitching as he waited for his would-be killer to make another move.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The Hand assassin lunged with a hiss  sword aimed at Zain’s heart in an all-or-nothing attack with no defense, the guy clearly desperate.

Zain sidestepped the lunge and dove down to the ground like he was aiming for home. Scraping across glass and debris that tore up his already bruised body, the vigilante slid between the guy’s legs, chain already lashing out as he sent it flying from his hand. 

Steel links wrapped around the ninja’s throat, as his blade went flying and Zain felt a grin spread across his face. The assassin had no time to smile, and no reason to, as his eyes bulged, hands clawing at the chain, the man gasping desperately for air with his windpipe being crushed, all the while his feet scraped against tile.

Yet even with all that, the ninja managed to gasp out words that made his blood run cold.

“The Chaste… cannot be allowed… to return. Your life and weapon… belong to the Hand.”

What the fuck is the Chaste?

Before Zain could even voice that thought, the ninja’s hand went to his belt, throwing something small and round down to the ground. Whatever it was exploded, bursting into a cloud of thick blinding smoke, and Zain stumbled back, his throat on fire and his eyes watering. His grip loosened around his chain and even through the distraction, he managed to scramble back out of the muck.

When the smoke cleared, the ninja had vanished. Only blood on the floor proved it had happened, that and the completely destroyed diner that looked like a war zone.

…Fucking ninjas.

Maria stumbled out of the kitchen, the waitress shaking like a leaf, wide eyes taken in all the overturned tables, broken glass, sword cuts in the vinyl, and one very beat-up fourteen-year-old covered in his own blood.

“Mijo… what was that? Who was that?” 

“I don’t know.” Zain reached into his pocket for some spare hundreds he’d pocketed from his last job, because destroying someone’s livelihood wasn’t something you just walked away from. “But I’m sorry about your diner.”