A Fucking Drink

[Sparky]

    "A bit of advice from an old man; when you find a friend who's loyal, hold onto them. More often then not, they'll stay loyal to the bitter end." The Bartender's eye slowly drifted to the corner, back towards the direction of his two friends. "There's value in that." 

    The man silently turned from Mike, every motion lacking any real sound. Like a ghost. "I know you've been taking this in and adding it to the... archive, so to speak. I know people like you don't like me because you don't like to be known. Just don't go hunting for an answer to a question you don't even know. And trust me, your sins aren't unique, and one day you'll find the walls you built around yourself to be... unnecessary. Reality is often uncompromising in it unoriginality."

    Drifting back to the bar, there was a noticeable pause in his ghostly stride. His expression was hidden, and his body language was unchanged, but the air seemed to tint itself differently for the briefest of beats. "Remember my warning, Mike. It's a horrible night to have a curse." And like that, in a blink, he was back behind the bar as though nothing had happened. Perhaps the drinks had been stronger than anticipated.

[Father Nailo]

    As the conversation between The Bartender and Mike neared a close, A figure from a distant table rose from his seat. A small pouch of coins was left amongst t he empty mugs, as the old redhead slowly moved to the exit. His empty green eyes didn't look at anything, at anyone. No point, nothing there was worth noticing. The air around him was cold, dead, a walking omen. 

    But there was something familiar to it.

    Passing by Mike, Troy just saw yet another child. There was no familiarity, not even the grace of a double take. Just brushing past the guy like he didn't even exist. Uncaring towards any eyes on his back, the old mercenary pushed the door with is shoulder, and shuffled out with a dry cough. The night was going to be a cold one.

[Sora-No]

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    Mike would not reply to the Bartender, looking at his glass. This man has seen tons, his knowledge and experience is vast. And he's probably seen enough "Mike"s around to know what he's saying. And it infuriates him even as it humbles him up a bit. He shouldn't be freaking out about it, he shouldn't be having such a hard time with this. There are tons that have dealt with this and come out on top, the Bartender has probably seen tons of them.

    But that also means he's just running the same race as yet another person. Running in someone else's shoes that he doesn't even know. Like he said, searching for an answer to an unknown question. What is Mike even looking for at this point?

    Though, if he's honest with anything, he's not even looking for an answer to an unknown question. He knows the answer, he's known it for a while. Problem is, now he's running from it in search of the question, which at this point doesn't even matter after all of these years. And to what? Give peace of mind for absolutely no reason?

    There would be a blink of movement as the Bartender moved back behind the bar, Mike barely giving recognition to it. He didn't perk up, or even move for that matter, until a reflection appeared in his glass that caused his entire body to tense up, his teeth gritting as he saw the pitiful excuse for a man waltz out of the bar.

    "Whichever god is watching over me, they continue to shit in my cereal," he would mutter to himself, through gritted teeth. This man was a famous hero to some, a mercenary for hire now in a fantastic organization, outside of Avalon's walls and operating all throughout the city and beyond. This man was also almost squeaky clean, no sign of controversy or past known to him. Only thing able to trace him being the impeccable acts of heroism from town to town.

    Nothing to sober him up faster, it'd seem

    In an almost inhuman flash, his muscles relaxed, a grin plastering on his face as he left some coin on the bar, "I sure hope you're right." He'd get up out of the stool, putting his hands in his pockets as he looked towards the door, already shut behind the refuse that touched it prior, "Oh, I wouldn't worry about any curses on me. A ghost just so happened to show up to town, so it seems it's gonna be a long night." A chuckle left his lips, more cruel than normal and almost... venom-filled.

    He would walk out the door, stretching a bit, his eyes scanning the town as quickly as possible before landing his eyes on the man. He started walking forward, his feet dedicated as they hit the ground, each step pounding in Mike's head. As he approached the man, he took a single breath in-

    "Heyyy, do I kno yu?" Mike said with quite a believable slur to his words, wobbling ever so slightly as his footsteps faltered and his hand caught the man on the shoulder. His breath smelled of alcohol as he scanned the man up and down.

    "Yeah, I do know ya! Yurr that Hero, ain't ya? The Nailo guy, right?" He would pretend to fumble as the older man brushed him off his side, walking backwards as he pointed, a inebriated grin on his face.

    "Yeah, hero all ova! Iro-hand Keep, t'e Hold-" Mike would no longer play, cutting the distance between them quickly. His left hand grabbed the older gent's shirt, his right holding down the ruby pommel of his sword. Whatever facade he had was gone, his eyes burning almost red hot despite the bright green staring down the man.


    "Solae."

    Despite all this man's accomplishments, all of his heroics, the stories never even brought up this city outside Avalon. If anything, the stories avoided it like a plague. And they both knew why.

    Mike's heart was racing, the final statement said behind grit teeth. His hands gripping to an extent that made white-knuckles look like a plaything, his forearms shaking with the force. The Bartender gave great advice, but all that was gone in a flash. Because he no longer was chasing an answer to an unknown question. He saw something he could get a proper answer to. Something he's asked his mother for years, and he can finally figure out the truth to.


    "Why?"

[Father Nailo]

   The air was still. Quiet. Cold. That silence, that stillness was broken for the briefest of moments as a youthful voice drew the man out of his thoughts. When Troy looked to the stumbling redhead, there was a flicker of annoyance. Another drunk. Perhaps they wanted to test his mettle? Or maybe they were some useless fan looking for advice or an autograph. 

    As if he cared enough to give any of that out. 

    Troy continued to watch the shambling form, his expression rigid. Unflinching. It was just a simple matter to send him off or send him packing. He was a boy, no real threat nothing to really concern himself wi-

    "Solae."

    The town name ran down his spine like a rush of electricity. For a moment, the expression broke with the faintest twitch of his right eye. Whatever Mike wanted, it certainly got Troy to actually look at him in a new light. Whether that was a good light or not... well. The older man certainly saw the resemblance now. The hair, the eyes. There were even hints in the little details of the boy's facial features. But blood relation didn't make the man care any more or any less. 

    That question. "Why?" That hung in the air as the confrontation chilled it. The boy was smart. Pulling close, going for the sword to lock it down. But the seasoned warrior didn't need his sword to handle a child. Troy stared down into Mike's eyes, his jaw set hard. And struck with the backside of his hand. Maybe it was an easy thing to dodge, maybe it was an easy thing to block, but with the young man so close, it would be hard to avoid. Either Mike let go of him, or he let go of the sword. Personally, Troy hoped for the latter. 

    More freedom to work with. 

    If it connected, those problems would be solved anyways. He was a seasoned veteran. He was strong. Even a simple strike carried weight with it. Perhaps it'd be enough to make the poor boy cry and run off. Leave him be? Didn't matter. With a rough grunt, Troy spat off to the side and reassessed the child before him. "Dunno' what you're referrin' to." He replied, his voice low, slow, and with a finely measured amount of audible disinterest. 

[Sora-No]

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    Mike head would cock to the side as the man's hand connected with his face. The man was a seasoned veteran. A man of mettle, who proved himself time and time again despite having little magical talent. A man who's seen fighter after fighter and have cut them down with the same. Cold. Stare. And going for a backhand, thinking it was just a simple as getting an ignorant child out of his skin.

    Mike's head would reel back as Troy spoke, his eyes locking back on the man. His cheekbone drawing blood from the force of the blow, the rest having a red tinge, slowly turning blue. Despite that, his hands didn't move, if anything they somehow tightened as the words left the older man's mouth. His right leg moved behind the man's left as his face pushed even closer to Troy's.

    "Oh, you don't know? What about the retired militant that you sparred with a couple times while recovering from wounds?" His face contorted into some cruel mix between rage and pain- pain after all of these years of bullshit.

    "Or the sister of the guy, who you went out with? Stole her heart, had a kid with. Bailing just two weeks before the child was born." His left foot planted itself on Troy's right one as he inched closer, his breath hitting the older warrior as the venom-filled words left his mouth-

    "I ask again: Why."

    Mike knew the man was going to swing. It's the one mark on his ledger, after all. The one impurity he's kept hidden from the public after all these years. If the man attempted a kick with his left leg, he'd pull with his right, sending him to the ground. And with him leaning on his left foot, his weight was resting on his right foot, making it extremely difficult to attempt a kick with that leg.

    The only two things he ever knew about his father was told to him by the militant, Keith- his kicks were deadly, and his sword experience was unmatched. And Mike wasn't going to play this game. He underestimated Mike, as just a little kid, a son he left on the side of the road before he even left the womb.

    And as long as Mike lives on this plane of existence, he will make it his life goal to make him pay for that underestimation

[Father Nailo]

   "Hmph." Those dead eyes seemed to reassess Mike. Kid was a determined little shit. Leg lock was a smart play, kept him less mobile. There were counters, certainly, but fuck it. His bright and bouncing baby boy wanted to know why he couldn't give less of a shit whether or not he wound up dead in a pit? Fine. Troy's hands came up and clamped down around Mike's shoulders. "You wanna know why I left...?"

    The man leaned in, the thick smell of liquor hot on his breath, his gruff voice cruelly whispering to Mike. "It's because fate has better things in store for me than some nobody town in bumfuck nowhere." His voice was filled with its own venom. Cruel. Impersonal. Apathetic. "No way in hell I was going to die a nobody surrounded by nobodies with a nobody son like you."

    His fingers dug into Mike's shoulder's. Hard.

    "It was just another stepping stone on my way to the top. Nothing personal kid, you just were never part of the plan." Troy's back leg swung out as the older man pushed his full weight into Mike, twisting as he drove them both into the ground. He didn't need his sword, he didn't need his feet. The kid wanted to get up close and personal, then fucking fine. He still had his fists, and the dumb brat's face was right there begging to be turned into paste. A pale imitation of his own.

    That's all Mike was. A pale imitation of himself. He'd never be as strong, as dominant. His potential fizzled the second he was conceived. Never there in the first place. Troy primed his fist and pushed his free hand down onto Mike's collar bone. Mike was nothing. A child. Street trash. He was a top mercenary. A war hero. Beloved with a spotless record, the fact that he entertained Mike's little "interrogation" for this long was a joke. It shouldn't take much effort for a grown ass man, a soldier in his prime, to pull free of some little, dirty whelp's grasp. 

    If Mike let himself get toppled to the ground, then all the guy would be staring up at was a fist crashing down towards him. Again, again, again, and again. Block, redirect, didn't matter, Troy wasn't going to let up. He'd beat the kid's arms, break his fucking fingers, his nose, whatever was in the way. How dare he? How fucking dare this snot nosed kid think- dream- of ever trying to stand up to him. What for? Some useless woman in the middle of the periphery? As if anyone, anyone in Avalon would give a shit about her. 

    All Mike had to do was sit quiet and die that way, off in the middle of fuck-all-nowhere. Forgotten like he should have been in the first place. If he even dared to try and grab his fist with his grubby little paws again, all Troy would have to do is simply rip them out of them and start up all over again. "Useless little bastard." He hissed.

[Sora-No]

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    Mike would loosen for just a moment as the words left Troy's mouth, almost in shock. Does the man really have this terrible of a mindset about this world? Does he seem to think he's the center of the show? That everyone around him is just a piece in his puzzle, and that none of them matter in the long run?

    What made my mother like this man?

    As his grip tightened, the man would act, throwing him down to the ground. He knew the risk in putting his leg behind, given Troy can do the same thing he planned to Mike. He got thrown aback by his words, and faltered for a fatal moment. And as his back hit the ground, he looked up to see the man's fist soaring down on him, striking him in the side of his nose.

    The blows were unrelenting, the man continuing to hit Mike again and again and again. Swings continuing at a continued pace. Mike wouldn't put his arms up for the first few, before his body relaxed, then going limp. His body unmoving as the blows continued to hit him in the face.

    The man eventually stopped, hissing under his breath, "useless little bastard," which would finally get a response from Mike, whose face would snap back, looking at the man with his signature shit-eating grin, his eyes contradicting it as it was filled with nothing but pure, unending rage. Blood dripped from his nose freely, but upon closer inspection it seemed as if only a few of the blows connected with his face, the bruising and swelling only mild compared to the blows the man sent.

    Upon even closer inspection, there was a layer of... something around his face, before glowing in its signature green. A layer of light, protecting his face from the man's swings. Not the force of them, unfortunately, his ears still ringed and his vision blurred for but a moment. But at least his face isn't maimed... again.

    "Sorry, ya 'aid somethin'?"

    As his sentence ended, his foot would Slam into the ground, kicking against the dirt as a blast of energy left out of it, separating them by the force of the impact. Mike would slide across the ground before getting up. His forearms covered in bruises and marks, and his hoodie torn from sliding across the ground. His breathing heavy before evening out, words leaving his mouth after spitting out red-tinged phlegm

    "Y'see, this little bastard of yours seems to know at least something you don't." He'd shake his arms, before bringing them up, hands open. Green light flickered across his fingertips. His feet no longer planted, the tops of his foot the only thing touching the ground as they barely connected with the ground. Hopping, almost.

    "So, Troy-" Mike would say, his eyes determined and staring him down, the fire behind them seeming stoked and burning bright now, "-time to get your head out of your ass. Or your kid, Michael Grant Nailo, is gonna really ruin whatever show you think you're the star of." 

    Mike just wanted an answer. But that's far, far gone now. His objective was no longer to just 'find out why'. The man's answer only brought forth the fact that this wannabe hero was nothing but a freak- a maniac. Thinking that he's just the center of attention. The hero. The best. And Mike is going to make it his personal passion to make sure this man's entire reputation burns before his very eyes.

    And if he's lucky, Mike might be merciful enough to give him some popcorn to watch the shitshow.

[Father Nailo]

   Smart. But not smart enough. Troy slid backwards and drew his sword with a bright flourish. The Kid wanted to play games, did he? Well unfortunately for him, Troy was not in the business of playing. And this was really starting to get on his nerves. Mike's little glowing fingers didn't get any reaction out of him. He'd seen many different mages who were far more impressive. Killed most of them. 

    The mercenary launched forwards without any hesitation. His blade came up in an overhead arc, aiming for Mike's upper shoulder. A fatal blow if it struck true. At the last possible second, however, Troy jolted back, then dove down, driving the pommel of his sword upwards from below, aiming for the boy's jaw. 

    It seemed aggression was a Nailo signature. 

    He couldn't exactly kill the kid in public. Having to explain away murdering a boy was going to be difficult. Sure, he could claim self defense but it was still more work than it was worth. Bludgeoning him a bit wasn't all that bad though, was it? Certainly there were enough witnesses around at this time of day to support the fact that Mike grabbed him first. Still was gonna take some work, but not as much as if the kid was dead. 

    After the first attack, Troy kept up the pressure, feinting and using false swings, but being coy enough with them that a pattern couldn't be formed. His expressionless face wasn't any closer to being a tell than his body language was. He didn't get his reputation from nothing. There was a reason he was [in]famous. Not to mention  his situational awareness. He was aggressive, but he wasn't stupid. He knew his footing, he knew his placement, and he knew Mike's. 

    That being said, he didn't try all that hard to avoid taking damage. The man seemed to not give much of a shit until it came to crippling or fatal damage. Everything else, in his mind, was just a kid lashing out in a temper tantrum. 

    If at any point he had Mike staggered, Troy would line up, rear back, and aim a kick to the boy's chest. The only time he actually properly telegraphed an attack. 

[Sora-No]

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    Well, the man drew his sword, it would seem. And now the fight actually begins. Mike's feet would land on the ground, his back leg sliding back as he twisted his body to avoid the first slash. Already aiming fatal? That seems a bit much for a 'bastard child', huh? If this man could read Mike's mind, the kid was basically laughing at this, Who's the child here, again?

    The feint would throw him off guard, pulling his hand up, a small buckler shield shimmering into his hand, catching the pommel, the light cracking on the impact. A bit rushed, but it at least stopped him from getting in the head. He would step back, the cracks in the shield repairing as he brought it up, almost like an extension of his fist.

    Mike couldn't place what kind of blows the man was going for. A feint here, a switch up there. He couldn't pin down where he was going to swing with the sword. All he knew was that he wasn't going for lethal blows. Guess the man wanted to protect his reputation even a tad bit.

    Mike would sidestep the sword, his fist connecting with the man's side as another Slam connected, though much weaker than the previous one. Despite this, the man flipped the sword's angle, slashing at Mike. With Mike not telling whether it would've been shallow or not, he brought up the buckler, expanding it into a full kite shield-

    The sword tore through it like it was nothing.

    There was a tinge of pain as a shallow gash cut along Mike's stomach, his balance shaking for a moment. His 'father' took the opportunity to bring his foot up, planting it in to Mike's chest. As the breath left his body, Mike regained his footing, coughing as his vision faded once again.

    What was with his sword? He didn't rush the magic, he made sure it was as strong as possible. And yet, it cut through it like it was a piece of paper. Is this what made him so effective against mages? Shit.

    Mike's main form of defense and offense was using magic, and using weapons of light to cover his ass. Now, he's facing someone who's got a clear-cut (no pun intended) way of handling that, as well as it being wielded by a notorious swordsman. Today just gets better and better, huh?

[Father Nailo]

   The kid's reflex's were good, but they were amateurish and heavily relied on his magic. Troy paused as he watched his "son" real from the first proper hit in the whole fight. The blade spun as he flipped it around in his hand. More of just an idle action than anything else. "My expectations were low, boy, but even then you still manage to disappoint." He growled as he slowly walked towards Mike.

    He knew the theme now. Light constructs. Versatile. Easy to change up on the fly. Pretty versatile, Troy had to give him that. But he was too inexperienced. He was running off instinct rather than skill and damn did it show. Even the sting from the punch to his side was already fading.

    It was obvious the pummeling was draining Mike's stamina. Even if not all the strikes connected, the body language was shifting. Troy's hand lashed out, looking to grab a clump of the boy's hair, to yank him up to face him. A well aimed knee to the gut was next if the grab worked, paired with a pommel strike to the side of the head. The basic idea was to put him off guard with the knee, put his defenses out of whack long enough to put the kid properly in his place. 

    There was no words exchanged. For all his pomp and bravado, at the very least the mercenary wasn't the type to constantly taunt and heckle. That sort of thing was beneath him. Or. No, actually. Now that he thought about it, now that he was here looking at Mike, a scowl formed. "This is it. This is the best 'my son' has to offer me. Inexperienced movements and the skill of an amateur. What is it you want to do to me? Maim me? Kill me? Ruin me?"
    
    Troy's leg came up, aiming to kick in again. "You're gonna need to do a hell of a lot better than this if you ever want a fighting chance, brat." Maybe some distant part of him wished that Mike would have proved him wrong. Proved to him that he was worth the effort. Proved that he was worthy, and that maybe he was, for the briefest of moments, wrong for leaving him behind. 

    But no. All he got was a cup of disappointment, and a kid throwing a temper tantrum because his mommy was sad or some shit. Honestly, Troy didn't know and didn't care why this mattered so much to Mike. It just wasn't worth the effort. 

[Sora-No]

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    Mike's breath would barely come back by the time Troy grabbed his hair, a yelp leaving his body as the man's knee connected with his stomach. Whatever oxygen he was attempting to keep left his body once again, his arm barely coming up to block the pommel as he collapsed to both knees, coughing and retching.

    The man was... taunting Mike. That was Mike's specialty, goddammit. It wasn't even good. Oh gods, Mike's head was getting loopy, thinking of random bullshit instead of the moment. The kick hit him in the head, making his vision blurry but thankfully knocking his head back in to the action. Gonna have to do a lot better, huh?

    "Y'know, for a man of such amazing repute, you seemed to be quite annoyed that your little bastard isn't up to snuff." He raised himself up to his right foot, spitting blood on the floor before speaking again, "Y'see, I didn't come here to kick your ass in to next year, or to kill you, even. What, and keep your heroic stature in check? 'Random nobody fights our Grand Hero Troy', c'mon don't make me laugh."

    With a flash, his body would jump up his empty hand slashing up at the man's face. His nails bright green as the flashing light slashed across the man's face. It wasn't fatal, which is probably the only reason the man wouldn't expect it. Mike would then jump back, his breathing still heavy, the rage no longer on his face. Just- his shit-eating grin, tinted with his own blood.

    "Y'see, I'm here to make you remember. So now, whenever you do your heroics, make it to your bed for the night, and look in the mirror-" Mike would point at himself, almost proud, "-it's gonna be me that did that. No monster. No bandit. Your little nobody. Your little bastard." He would laugh, an almost maniacal one.

   A rush of excitement and almost child-like glee filling his body. In his own little way, he won. Once that slash hit, he understood he wasn't going to win in a fight of continuity. He wasn't formally trained like this shithead. But the man's going to remember him. He's forced to. And that's the reality he's gonna have to deal with.

    He would stand back up straight, keeping in form as he readied against Troy again, a gleeful smirk across his face. How the fight ended from here, it didn't matter to him. For the rest of his life, he'll remember the little shitheel known as Michael Grant Nailo.

[Father Nailo]

    Good. Solid hits. Soon enough the kid'll be done for and I can go- Troy's head swung to the side, eyes widening slightly. Mike was spitting out some bullshit spiel about this or that. Some minor ego boost that the kid so desperately needed. While he talked and talked, Troy let his fingers slowly raise up and dance along the fresh marks. The feeling of warm, slick blood coated the fingertips, his cheek. 

    And he laughed.

    It was a rough, sickening sound. Worn from years of disuse. "You really are desperate for any kind'a win right now, aren't you kid?" Troy turned and grinned down at Mike, spinning his sword in his hand. "Alright. Not bad. You got me. Congrats. Savor that as long as you want."

    His footsteps echoed off the nearby walls, out into the open air as he slowly approached Mike again. "Will it make you happy? Make ya feel big n' strong? Are ya winning? Will this new scar suddenly fix your shit life?" He stopped, staring down, the smile gone. "Or is this just another hollow victory in a series of shit mistakes you've made?" 

    "I can tell you one thing... your mother did a shit job at disciplining you..." The sword raised up. "Looks like I'm gonna have to do that for her." One second the blade was lifted up, the next, it was cleaved into the ground. A burst of wind would slam into Mike as the sword itself carved through the pavement. Troy meant business, and Mike's father wasn't even going to give the boy a chance to backtalk. 

    Each swing was faster, harder now. Even if he wasn't trying to kill Mike, it really felt like he was trying to kill Mike. Each swing was just a flash, a white glint, and then came the boom. Or, if Mike was really unlucky, the slice. Splatters of blood to mirror the gouges in the pavement. The attacks came in far faster than before, and Troy wasn't letting up in his steady advance. 
    
    Man it really felt like he was trying to kill Mike.
    

[Sora-No]

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    Mike's vision was still blurry, but he seemed to squint ever so slightly at the man's words. He's attempting to pull a Bartender, it'd seem. Trying to read Mike like a book. Reading in and attempting to see the why in his actions. Break it down and call him out for actions that he thinks Mike dealt with. Mike almost wanted to congratulate him for showing empathy for once, for attempting to understand him.

    Here's the problem: he's assuming Mike's got the same ego as him. 'Oh boy, I'm so big and stwong, I scarred my Daddy'. Gods, what a fucking pitiful mess. Mike has made enough mistakes. Mike's dealt with enough bullshit. Hell, you think he left Solae because he wanted to? He's got enough mistakes, he's not going to magically ignore them because of a single win. Woooooooooow, I won Tic-Tac-Toe, all my problems are solved!!

    Mike scoffed, about to reply before he spoke about his mother. The energy changed. He's in dange-

    The man swung immediately, Mike backpedaling and narrowly dodging another slash. He was too slow for the next one, the next slashing across his chest. Deep. Blood slashed across the floor, Mike gasping as he staggered back, Troy continuing to push at him, another slash heading for him once again.

    "Fuck OFF-" Mike would yell, his empty arm slashing at the blade, a slash of energy going behind it, meeting the blade and stopping the momentum. Unfortunately, only for a moment, Troy flipping the blade and slashing at Mike's forearm, a grunt leaving behind the redhead's grit teeth. Mike hopped back, meeting close to fatal slashes with an Arcane Slash of his own to meet the blade, unfortunately not being fast enough to catch all of them so having to just suffice for the most dangerous ones.

    When Troy and Mike finally got some distance, Mike choked, wiping blood off his lips. His arms and legs covered in slashes of varying severity. Despite the second wind given to Mike, his breath was now staggering, his hoodie and jeans torn up and soaked in the mage's blood.

    "I'm getting-" Mike said between breathes, "real sick of your shit." Mike would open his hand, a blade appearing, brighter and seeming stronger than a normal construct. He held it up in what would be a proper stance, but his legs faltered, causing him to readjust. His hands shook, his sword slowly dissipating as his concentration faltered, before regaining its fortitude.

[Father Nailo]

   Troy watched as Mike faltered, watched him as the sword vanished in the air. He scoffed. "You're still a nobody. It's good to see that you've proved me right. There really wasn't any point in me staying after all." The man lifted his sword up at his shoulder, pointing the blade dead on towards Mike. 

    Lunged. Perhaps killing the kid would do him a favor?

    As Troy's strike closed in on Mike, a flash of white burst into reality, followed by a thunderous clash of metal. The tables had turned in less time than it took to blink as Troy was now pushed almost to his knees. The man's teeth were grit hard as Rease's sword grinded against Troy's. The pavement beneath the two cracked from the force exerted from the two. 

    The mercenary's expression had completely shifted now, there was interest behind those eyes. Excitement. He was grinning. The two men disconnected, and slammed back into one another, hard enough to batter Mike with the force of the shockwave. Again. Again. Disconnect, reconnect.  Troy's eyes were alive. Rease's were hard. The two disconnected once more, only for a blast of ice to strike him aside.

    Before he could regain his footing, a black figure dissolved into reality, diving into Troy and staggering him with a blow from a twisted looking rapier. The Bartender bounced off in time for Troy to be sent up into the air by an ice pillar, up for Rease who was there waiting to drive him back into the ground with a spinning blow. 

    Smoke hung in the air as Kalin rushed to Mike's side. Second later, Rease landed in front of him. The Bartender was nowhere to be seen. The smoke cleared with the air bit by bit. "Oh come the fuck on." He spat as Troy slowly walked out of the haze, cracking his shoulder like nothing had happened. But that was a lie. He was more battered now. Certainly not as bad as he should have been, but the damage was there. 

    "Troy Nailo. We're going to need you to leave. I don't care what sort of fight your looking for, but Avalon isn't the place for it." Kalin's turn to speak, his voice brisk, harsher than it had been inside. Troy seemed to measure the two, almost disappointed.

    "I suppose you're right. But next time... next time you're going to give me the fight you owe me." The man lifted his sword towards Rease and repeated himself with a grin. "You. Owe. Me."

[Sparky]

    The two men left out a hefty sigh of relief as Troy Nailo slowly walked away from the trio. After his brief interception, The Bartender had likely vanished back inside. Oh how nice it must have been to be as confident as him. But, Mike would be left with one final whisper. 

    "I warned you Mike... it's a horrible night to have a curse." 


    Rease and Kalin, blissfully unaware, turned back towards the boy. Kalin, having not left Mike's side, shifted a hand over, covered in glowing water. It would feel soothing to the wounds, stopping at least most of the bleeding. There was no way the boy wasn't going to the hospital though, that was unavoidable. 

    The two men exchanged a glance between one another, then looked back to Mike. Now here it comes. The interrogation part. Hey Mike, what're they gonna ask first, you think? About why Troy attacked you? Why you followed him in the first place? Hey, what about-

    "How you holding up, kid?" Rease asked, shocking the world with genuine concern that honestly really shouldn't shock anyone. Well, other than Mike. Kalin, for his part, didn't actually say anything. He was more focused on keeping Mike's inside parts from pouring outside.