Prologue: Fair Fight

The cell door opened up, flooding the dark prison with light, awakening a young man inside of it. His body was battered, bloody, and dirty. His skin was tan and he had short blonde hair. His clothes comprised of an oversized white t-shirt with grey sweatpants.

His chains bound him to his knees, looking up at his guest in a seeming state of defeat. At first, the light from the hallway put the figure in a silhouette, but upon walking into the cell, his features were more definable to the prisoner.

The man had a darker skin, much like a Hispanic’s. His medium-length black hair was pulled back and lightly puffed, giving it a sense of shagginess that one could get away with as “handsome.” His eyes were the same caramel-color as his skin, and he sported a large soul patch that spread to the middle of his chin.

His clothes were very lavish, wearing a near-spotless white dress shirt with a clean black vest over it, along with a pair of fancy black pants and polished black loafers. Both ears were adorned with silver earrings, a gold dragon necklace hung from his neck, and his right and left ring fingers were equipped with gold rings. However, another strange item on the man’s person were a pair of black braces on his forearms with emerald gems above the wrists.

The man had two items in each of his hands. In his right hand, he held a large dagger with an open space in the center of the blade. In the left hand he held a small key. The prisoner bowed his head down, knowing that facing this person would mean certain death. However, the man surprised the prisoner by taking the key and unlocking the shackles binding his feet and hands.

“What…” he muttered. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” replied the man with a mild Spanish accent. “I’m taking you out of your chains.”

Once the last of the braces came off, the prisoner felt his now exposed wrists and ankles. The clanging of metal then sounded near the prisoners lap: the dagger had been dropped to him.

“What’s going on?” asked the prisoner. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because,” said the man, backing slowly away from the prisoner. “I don’t see the point in hunting prey that won’t even defend itself. Now, I’d like to see you pick up that knife and stab me with it. Obviously, if you kill me, you’re free to leave.”

With a seconds pause, the prisoner began to chuckle until it broke into a full on laugh. The man was not fazed by this, sporting a confident smile as he watched the prisoner bask in his hubris.

“And you seriously think you have a chance in fucking hell against me?” the prisoner continued to giggle. “You just handed me your weapon and you have nothing. Do you forget that I’m a mutant too?”

“I don’t. But I only figured that this would be a… fair fight.”

“Fair fight, huh? We’ll see how fair this fight is when I carve a hole in your fucking gut!”

Screaming his last words, the prisoner lunged at the man with heavy rage. Anticipating this, the man sidestepped, allowing the prisoner to run right past him.

“And this is the fight I get, even when I give you my own dagger?” taunted the man.

The prisoner, fueled by his hatred for the man in front of him, threw his free hand in the direction of his enemy, causing his fingers to elongate into green strands that snaked towards him. However, the man merely smirked, dissolving into an array of red circles and triangles that flew around the prisoner in all directions. With nothing to hold onto, the fingers receded back into the man’s hand, looking normal again.

“What the…” the prisoner gasped in confusion.

“You’re just boring,” spoke the man behind him, the shapes reforming into his original body. “I’m just going to end this now.”

The prisoner’s fingers grew out again, aiming straight at the man. However, the man blocked his face with his left arm, allowing the vine-like appendages to take hold of it. Despite the prisoner’s seemingly obvious edge, his opponent continued smiling.

“Foolish,” he spoke.

The man yanked his arm back, sending the prisoner flying towards him. The prisoner prepared the dagger in his hand and prepared to stab. However, the man was equally prepared, blocking the prisoner’s target with the brace on his free right arm. As expected, the dagger’s blade bounced off the metal shield, sending the prisoner’s arm soaring to the right past the man’s body.

Quickly sliding his brace down the man’s arm, he knocked the dagger out of the prisoner’s hand, causing it to cling to the floor. The man then jumped slightly and landed on his back, using his weight to bring the prisoner down with him. Grabbing the dagger just a foot above his head, the man held the blade underneath the bases of the extended fingers and with a forceful thrust, cut each vine-like appendage off of the hand.

As the prisoner screamed in agony, the amputated fingers writhed and spurted blood like untied water balloons before becoming pale, lifeless, human fingers again. The prisoner wailed and whimpered as he saw a bloody, torn stump where each of his fingers used to be, each one streaming crimson down his hand and forearm. The man, now standing above his defeated prisoner with dagger in hand, knelt down to his level. Without a word, he grabbed the prisoner by the hair and tilted his head backwards, revealing his neck.

With the pain in his hand and head, the prisoner shouted again. Without a second’s hesitation, the man put the base of his blade on the neck. Pushing into his neck first, the man then whipped his arm out, slicing the prisoner’s throat open through the center of his neck, spraying blood over the man’s clothes and the floor. The prisoner’s eyes rolled back and his body, once tense with fear, lied still and motionless.

With his deed done, the man stood back up, wiped the blade on the thigh of his pants and exited the cell. On the other side, two men in military attire with M4A1 rifles stood at both sides of the doorway. Once they saw him walk out, they both made an exclamatory noise that signaled their surprise and admiration for his act.

“Jesus, Dada,” said the left guard to the man, “the hell happened? Did he get you good or something?”

“Nah,” Dada replied, “he’s just a bleeder. Just like all the others who defy me.”

As Dada walked to the end of the hall where a lighted staircase greeted him, he swooned slightly, which his guards immediately noticed.

“Dada, sir!” cried the other guard. “Are you alright?”

“Of course I am,” he chuckled. “Just the usual side effect of my power. Call the help. Tell them to prepare a hot bath for me.”

“Got it.”

As the guard radioed the maid service, Dada walked back up the stairs, ready to clean the blood of his newest kill off of him.