A Boy's Tail II (Patreon)

ABT II: A Matter of Perspective, Really

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

October 14, 2017

7:19 PM

He spat out a wad of blood onto his shirt at the risk of choking on it, breaths coming in short, pained rasps as he tried to keep his swollen eye open.

The other was too full of blood for it to be worth it.

The dimly lit warehouse reeked of sweat, blood, and desperation, all three of those probably wafting off him in waves. Flickering fluorescent lights cast eerie shadows on the cold concrete floor, the erratic flashes making his concussed head swim. The place had an almost haunted feel, like the ghosts of past victims were watching, waiting for him to join their ranks.

Walls lined with rusted metal shelves stared back at him, stacked carelessly with dirty crates and broken tools, jagged edges and splintered woods all on display.  It was the kind of place where people like him got taken care of, where they were beaten and broken and left to rot, forgotten.

Tie Li wasn’t sure how he got himself into this situation.

No, no, he was definitely lying to himself.

He knew how.

He made a mistake, several of them really, because he was stupid and naive like his uncle always shouted at him. But the one that got him here was the biggest example of stupid naivety so far. I’m so dumb. I’m gonna die.

At eighteen, too.

And he never even had sex. Somehow, that was the worst of it.

He sat in a rickety wooden chair in the center of the dimly lit room, tied to the same chair with rough ropes biting into his skin and rubbing his wrists raw. Every inch of him hurt, his face a mess of bruises and cuts, one eye nearly swollen shut from the repeated blows. Blood trickled from his nose, mouth and forehead, the coppery taste making him want to gag as it mingled with the salt of his sweat and tears.

His clothes were a mess, almost completely in tatters; torn and stained with dirt, grime and his own blood. His plain white t-shirt, once crisp and clean, was now a grimy, rust-colored mess, clinging to his thin frame in damp patches, collar soaked and stained with blood. His jeans, a dark blue that had been his favorite, were ripped and filthy, the fabric ripped in several places from the brutal treatment, hem torn to shreds.

Even his sneakers, white-and-blue A-Trainers, had been damn near pristine when he'd put them on this morning, were now scuffed and caked with grime, the laces untied and frayed. They'd been a gift from his father for his birthday, a sign of pride for his decision to restart his martial arts training. He was surprised when he got them, given they were literally a luxury given the price of them he had seen online. 

Fuck.

Surrounding him were nearly two dozen Cambodian men, their faces twisted with anger and cruelty, eyes glinting with a savage hunger. They were relatively young, most in their early twenties, but they had the hardened look of those who'd seen and done things no one their age should. They wore a mix of gray dickies, gray shirts, and Raiders jerseys, the colors marking them as part of the same gang. Tattoos with the letters "TRG" marked their skin, snaking up arms and peeking out from under collar lines.

He could see several weapons—machetes gleaming dully, brass knuckles visible on some fists, aluminum bats, and knives that caught the light—some laying around, some gripped tight in white-knuckled hands.

The leader, a muscular guy with a shaved head and a dragon tattoo winding down his neck, stepped forward, his heavy boots thudding on the concrete. He loomed over the boy, his bulk casting a shadow that seemed to engulf him. With a sneer, he raised a fist, the muscles in his arm coiling like snakes, and brought it crashing into the young man's stomach, forcing the air from his lungs in a choked gasp.

"I paid you!" Tie wheezed, his voice strained and desperate, barely above a whisper. "I p-paid you back tho!" He tried to sound firm, tried to muster some scrap of defiance, but his voice wavered with pain and fear, betraying his terror at the thought of his beating continuing. 

Another punch connected with his face, a bright burst of agony blooming across his cheekbone and sending a spray of blood flying from his nose. The taste of copper flooded his mouth, thick and cloying, making him gag and choke. He knew why they were doing this… probably. His contact, the guy he was expected to give the money to, some twenty-two year old named Arun back in Baltimore, had made him an offer after he had paid up the last of what he owed.

He thought it would be an easy win, a way to make back at least twice what he paid up already.

Three times even.

He shouldn’t have done it in the first place, even, but…

His family still needed the money, he knew that payments for ‘protection’ in their part of the city were getting higher with the Italians demanding more over the last few months, and Tie knew he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t at least try to help.

He already had the bright idea to borrow money from the Rascals, the young fighter aware he could make the money back in a few months with some random gigs, unethical jobs, and whatever else he could find. Toss in some underground fighting match wins he didn’t let his parents know about and he would be set to pay them back.

And he had.

With interest, even.

He just forgot that he could get greedy, too.

"Run, Run got the money! He-" His plea was cut brutally short by another vicious punch, this time to his jaw. The force of it made his head snap back, neck muscles screaming in protest, a sharp pain lancing through his skull and making spots dance across his vision.

"You think we wanna hear that, fucker?" one of the Cambodian men sneered, the leader, his heavily accented words dripping with contempt as he outright spat. "We know you lying. A lying fuck gambling with my money, you think you can mess with us?"

"Fucking liar!" another shouted, punctuating the accusation with a savage kick to the chair, sending it rocking precariously on its uneven legs. The boy felt a surge of vertigo, his stomach churning as he fought to keep his balance. "You think you tough, huh? Think you can just run away?"

He hadn’t run. There was no need to, or so he thought.

He had paid.

Over a month ago, in fact.

Getting a black bag thrown over his head in the parking lot of his family’s restaurant, thrown into a van and dragged to Virginia hadn’t been anything he had been expecting. Why would I be at home if I was running? He wanted to ask, but knew they wouldn’t listen.

They hadn’t listened.

"Pay what you owe, asshole!" a third one chimed in, his face contorted with rage. He slammed a bat against the floor, the sound echoing through the warehouse like a gunshot, making the boy flinch. The implied threat was clear: pay up or get beaten to a pulp.

He just wasn’t sure how he was supposed to get the money if they left him unable to walk, at the very least.

But none of them seemed to really do much thinking anyway. Threats and violence was all they knew and all they responded to. Unfortunately, he was no supe. Fighting over a dozen armed people wasn’t something he could do.

Each insult and blow blurred together into a relentless blur of violence, a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. He tried to focus, tried to find a way out of this hell, but the agony clouded his mind, turning his thoughts to static.

Why is this happening? he wondered desperately, Run was supposed to handle it. He said it was okay. He promised me it was settled. Why didn't he— Another punch cut off his racing thoughts, sending a fresh wave of pain crashing over him, drowning out everything else.

The small warehouse space was cramped and claustrophobic, the air thick with tension and the stink of too many bodies in too small a space. The men were scattered in a loose circle around him, some leaning against the walls with studied nonchalance, others pacing restlessly like caged predators waiting for the chance to get their own hit in.

A few stood closer, their eyes fixed on him with cold, predatory intent, watching every flinch and shudder with a kind of detached amusement. Their tattoos seemed to pulse in the flickering light, dragons and skulls and letters writhing on sweat-slicked skin.

To his right, a wiry guy with a scar across his cheek spun a knife between his fingers, the blade catching the light with each deft turn. He had a casual cruelty about him, a sense that causing pain was as natural to him as breathing. Behind him, another man, stocky and with broad shoulders, cracked his knuckles with a series of sharp pops, a sadistic grin splitting his face. The rest watched with a mix of anticipation and disdain, their postures relaxed but ready.

The blows kept coming, each one more brutal than the last. Punches to his ribs that made him feel like his chest was caving in, kicks to his legs that sent jolts of agony up his spine, fists to his already battered face that made his vision swim and his ears ring.

"You nothing! Just shit!" the leader spat, his English heavily accented and filled with venom. He grabbed the young man by the hair, fingers twisting cruelly in the sweat-soaked strands, and yanked his head back at a neck-breaking angle. "You think you cheat us? You think we stupid?"

The young man tried to speak, tried to form words around the blood in his mouth and the fear in his throat, but all that came out was a broken whisper, a pathetic rasp of sound. "I... I didn't..."

Suddenly, the sound of the warehouse's double doors being pushed open echoed through the room, the screech of metal on concrete louder than everything else. Everyone froze, heads snapping towards the entrance as weapons were raised, the air suddenly crackling with a different kind of tension.

"Uh, hello?" a voice called out from behind the half-opened doors, tone cautious. It echoed slightly in the cold, dim space of the warehouse, the sound distorted by the metal and concrete.

Tie Li's head snapped up at the voice, his one good eye widening in disbelief. Despite the pain, despite the fear, he felt a flicker of something in his chest, a tiny ember of hope. Sensei Shawn? Here? Now? The thought was almost too good to be true, leaving him half-thinking he was hallucinating from blood loss and pain.

The Cambodian men exchanged wary glances, confusion clear on their faces. They had not been expecting visitors, and the interruption had thrown them off balance. Hands tightened on weapons, eyes darted to the door, and a low murmur of unease rippled through the group.

One of the gang members, a skinnier figure swimming in an oversized Raiders jersey, stepped forward. There was a sudden glint of metal as a gun appeared in his hand, seemingly from nowhere. Tie's heart skipped a beat at the sight. I hadn't noticed any guns, he thought, a new wave of fear washing over him.

"Yo, who you? Why you here for?" the skinny gangster demanded, his voice a harsh bark in the tense silence.

The tension in the room ramped up, the air suddenly thick and hard to breathe. Weapons were raised, eyes narrowed, and muscles tensed as the gang prepared for a potential threat. The skinnier figure kept his gun trained on the door, his posture a mix of bravado and apprehension, like a cornered animal trying to look bigger than it was.

A figure stepped forward into the small warehouse space, glancing around with slight confusion. As the light hit his face, Tie's smile widened, the action sending fresh jolts of pain through his bruised cheeks. But he didn't care. He knew that face, knew it like he knew his own reflection.

The gang members looked even more bewildered as they took in the newcomer. He was a young dark-skinned black man, no taller than 5'11 even in shoes. He had a chubby midsection that spoke of a love for food, but his arms were muscular and his shoulders well-developed. He was dressed in what could only be described as a royal blue martial arts gi, with a white t-shirt visible underneath. The oddest part of his outfit was the black furry belt tied over his regular cotton white one, an affectation that seemed out of place.

But it was his eyes that really caught Tie's attention. They were cold as he stared at each of the men in the room, assessing, calculating. There was a hardness there, a quiet intensity that he’d never seen from the jolly martial arts teacher.

"Sensei Shawn!" Tie managed to call out, his voice stronger than he expected despite his overall weakness. His vision was swimming, the room tilting and blurring around him, but that flicker of hope in his chest was growing.

A smile spread on the sensei's face as his gaze landed on his student, but his eyes remained icy. "There you are, Tee," he said, the words calm, soothing and authoritative. "Your parents asked me to come pick you up. You've got class tomorrow morning."

The gang members continued to look confused, some faces shifting to wary anger, unsure of what to make of this.

Tie let out a weak, raspy laugh, the sound grating in his throat. "I don't know if I can make class. I'm kinda a mess, Sensei."

Sensei Shawn let out a slight laugh of his own, shaking his head. "We'll figure it out later, bud," he said, his tone light but his eyes hard as flint. "Gotta get you out of this mess first."

"The cops are outside?" Tie asked, the question coming out more like a statement. He wasn't sure where the thought had come from, but it seemed like the only explanation for his sensei's confidence against a whole squad of gangsters.

At the mention of the word cops, the gangsters in the room started to shift, their postures changing like a pack of cornered rabbits. Their energy went from somewhat wary and confused to angry and shocked, none of them expecting law enforcement. Several hands suddenly went to hidden guns, the metallic click of safeties being disengaged filling the air.

Despite the sound, the sensei didn’t flinch. "Cops?" Shawn frowned slightly, his brow furrowed as he processed the word for a split second. Then, he shook his head. "Nah, no cops. No, just me."

Sensei Shawn's calm demeanor did nothing to ease the tension. If anything, it heightened it, his casual dismissal of the threat only serving to anger the gang further. The gangsters' eyes darkened, their expressions shifting into eager ones.

"...oh." Tie's smile fell at the same time as dark one sprung back into place on the gangsters' faces. His earlier hope died in his chest, replaced by a cold, hard dread that settled in his gut like a stone. So, we're both dead.

"Before you guys start shooting," Sensei Shawn raised his hands, staring calmly at the several guns pointed his way, his voice steady and even, “I just want you to know I’m here to give you what you want.”

Tie watched with wide, disbelieving eyes, heart pounding in his chest. Is he crazy? They're gonna kill him!

The gang leader glanced back at Tie, anger warring with confusion on his face. His brow furrowed, lips curling into a snarl as he shot a narrowed glare at Sensei Shawn. "Fuck do you mean, fatty?" he spat, the words dripping with venom.

Tie watched, nervous energy thrumming through his battered body, as his sensei took a few steps forward, hands still raised in a gesture of peace. "I mean, there's a reason you guys snatched him," he gestured towards Tie with a nod in his direction, his movements slow and deliberate, "snatched him up, right? Because you were looking for something he owed you?"

Indignation rose up in Tie's chest, hot and sharp. Despite his better judgment—what little of it remained after the concussion he was sure he had—the eighteen-year-old yelled out, his voice raw and shaky, "B-but I paid th-!"

"Shut the fuck up!" the leader yelled, his head snapping back to Tie with a vicious glare that promised pain. Tie flinched, shrinking back in his chair, the outburst sending fresh waves of agony through his bruised body.

Breathing heavily, the leader turned around again, glancing at several of his men before looking pointedly at the fat black man waiting patiently, a bemused smile pushing back some of the anger on his face as guns slowly began to lower. "...You, biggie. Keep talking."

Shawn nodded, his expression calm and unruffled, and began to step forward slowly, moving away from the entrance and towards the center of the room, even as he kept his hands raised. "Look, his parents asked me to make sure he gets back home safe."

The gangster in charge growled, his mood souring again, his face twisting with renewed anger. "Not without m-!"

"I know, I know, I know," Shawn interrupted, his voice still calm as he kept his hands raised and his eyes forward, ignoring the gangsters eyeing him as he focused his attention on the man he spoke to. "You want what he owes you."

"...Yeah," the leader nodded, his men going along with the motion, their expressions a mix of confusion and anticipation. "Yeah, it's just business. Simple. You get it?"

Shawn took a few more steps forward, his voice as measured as his approach, each word carefully chosen. "I get it."

The leader's expression dimmed slightly, irritation flashing in his gaze as he reworked his sentence, accent still as strong as ever. "No, no, you got it?" he repeated, emphasizing the last word, his tone demanding.

The sensei's mouth rose slightly at the corners, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he took a few more steps forward, hands dropping to his sides. "Yeah, I got it."

Tie couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sensei's gonna pay for me? That's... fuck. Standing just a little over a dozen feet away from the leader now, the kidnapped teenager could only avert his eyes as his sensei looked right at him with suddenly soft eyes, shame mixing with the pain in his gut, making him feel a whole new type of nauseous. I don't deserve this. I got myself into this mess, and now Sensei's gonna pay for my mistakes?

"As long as we're clear, I give you what you're looking for and you let him go, right?" Shawn asked, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering.

"Yeah, yeah, sure, he go, you go," the tattooed gangster waved off Shawn's question hurriedly, his eyes gleaming with greed. "Where the money?"

Shawn's gaze left Tie to focus back on the gangster in front of him, his eyes like ice again, hard and unyielding. "I'm just here to give you what my student owed you, what you came looking for. I never said money." The gi-clad man raised a hand, palm facing up, and made a "come here" motion with two fingers, a challenge in the gesture. "I'm talking about a beating."

Tie's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. "S-Sensei!" What the hell is he doing? He can't fight them all!

The mood in the room shifted again, murmurs of confusion and anger spreading through the small warehouse space like a virus. The leader's eyes twitched, his mouth moving silently as he processed Shawn's words, his face a mask of disbelief.

The gangsters exchanged bewildered glances, some gripping their weapons tighter, others looking to their leader for guidance. The tension was palpable, the air thick with the promise of violence.

After a few moments of tense silence, the leader's face twisted with rage, his features contorting into an ugly snarl. "...You think this a joke?" he hissed, his hand reaching for his waistband. With a flash of metal, he pulled a knife, the large blade glinting in the dim light, wicked and hungry. "You die too!"

With that scream, he rushed forward, knife raised high. Tie watched in horror, his heart in his throat. No, no, no, this can't be happening!

The large black man didn’t flinch or even blink. Relaxed and unbothered as ever, he walked forward as the man rushed in. 

It was a blur, a movement so fast that Tie's concussed brain could barely process it. One moment, the knife was inches from Shawn's heart. 

The next, the gang leader was on the ground, his entire arm twisted at an unnatural angle, the knife skittering across the concrete floor.

Shawn stood over him, one foot planted firmly on the leader’s back, pinning him in place. The other gangsters stared with weapons half-raised, frozen in shock.

"Now," Shawn said, his voice calm as he looked around, almost conversational, as if he wasn't standing on a screaming man's spine, "about that beating..."

The first gunshot sliced through the air with a crack, the sound like a whip snapping inches from Tie's ear. But Sensei was already in motion the second the last syllable left his mouth, his body blurring as he lunged forward. The bullet shot past where he just stood, slamming into a metal shelf with a loud, metallic clang that made Tie flinch.

Holy shit, Tie thought, his eyes wide, heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He's fast. Like, supe fast.

Shawn charged forward, his hand darting towards the ground as he bent over without breaking stride. In one fluid motion, he scooped up the abandoned metal lid of a trash can, the movement so smooth it looked choreographed. With a throw that would have made Soldier Boy proud, Shawn sent the lid spinning through the air like a deadly frisbee. It connected with a gun in one thug's hand, knocking it away with a clatter that echoed through the warehouse.

Damn, Tie thought, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest despite the pain and fear.

Without pausing, Shawn charged the nearest group. A thug swung a crowbar at him, the metal gleaming as it arced wide right toward Sensei's head. But the man sidestepped with barely a moment to spare, and blocked the hit with his forearm. Tie could hear the impact, could see the way Sensei's arm shook with the force of it, but the man didn't even grunt. Instead, he retaliated with a swift kick to the attacker's knee, the audible snap making Tie flinch, his stomach turning.

But Shawn didn't stop. A hard hit to the stomach was followed up by a strong left hook to the man’s side, the sounds of impact—flesh on flesh, bone on bone—ringing out like gunshots. He followed up with a deceptively soft right hook to the man's temple, the blow so fast and so hard that Tie almost missed it. The thug went sprawling across the concrete, his body limp, his eyes rolled back in his head.

Without pause, Shawn pivoted, facing two thugs as they rushed him from opposite sides. One lunged with a knife, the blade flashing as he aimed for the black man’s midsection. The second swung a bat, screaming at the top of his lungs like a berserker.

Sensei’s hand lashed out, Shawn catching the knife-wielder's wrist mid-thrust and twisting it violently. The snap of bones was lost in the chaos, but Tie saw the way the man's hand went limp, the knife clattering to the ground. With his free hand, Shawn gripped the bat mid-swing, yanking the thug forward and off-balance. A crushing uppercut followed, Sensei's fist slamming into the man's chin with a sickening crack, sending him sprawling backward into a pile of wooden boxes that shattered under the impact.

"Sensei!" Tie screamed, panic seizing his heart as he spotted a shooter taking aim at his teacher's unprotected back. "Look ou—!"

The words froze in his throat, his warning dying on his lips as Shawn spun, moving so fast he was almost a blur. The gunman squeezed the trigger, the muzzle flash bright in the dimness, but the bullet whizzed harmlessly past, cracking into the wall behind Sensei with a spray of concrete dust.

In a heartbeat, Shawn closed the distance, covering the space between them in a few long strides. His elbow slammed into the shooter's face with a crunch that Tie felt in his teeth, the sound nearly as loud as the gunshot in the confines of the warehouse.

Holy shit, Tie thought again, his mind reeling, trying to process what he was seeing. Sensei's a fucking beast.

All of a sudden, before Tie could even blink, more of them rushed Shawn at once—four of them, each wielding a different weapon. A bat, a chain, a knife, a machete. They came at him from all sides, a coordinated attack, their faces twisted with rage and fear.

The man in the bright blue gi didn’t hesitate.

He snatched the bat from a swinging hand, his fingers closing around the wood like a vice. With a grunt, he snapped it over his knee like it was a twig, the sound sharp and brutal in the chaos. Gripping one jagged end, he jabbed it forward like a spear, catching one attacker in the stomach, doubling him over. The other half, he hurled like a throwing knife, the blunt end slamming into another thug's head, dropping him like a sack of rice.

Shawn snatched up a thick wooden plank, the nails in it gleaming like teeth. He swung it in a wide, sweeping arc, the board whistling through the air. It connected with a resounding crack, knocking down three attackers in a single, devastating blow.

A man armed with a machete rushed in, swinging wildly, screaming curses and insults in rapid-fire Khmer. His eyes were wide, the whites visible all around, his face a mask of fear, anger, and shock. Shaw ducked backwards under his swing, grunting from the motion as the blade passed harmlessly over his head. Stepping inside the man's reach, he launched a series of rapid jabs—left, right, left—each blow landing with surgical precision.

To Tie's surprise, the punches seemed soft, almost gentle compared to the devastating power Sensei had shown off before. But the final blow, a devastating right cross, seemingly held nothing back. The force of it lifted the attacker off his feet, sending him flying like a ragdoll as the man crashed against the concrete wall in a way that seemed oddly final.

With almost half of the attackers down, groaning on the floor or lying still in crumpled heaps, the rest circled warily, their confidence shattered. But Sensei was relentless, a force of nature that couldn't be stopped.

He leapt forward, his body a literal blur, crossing the distance in a heartbeat. His hand shot out, grabbing a man by his shirt. With a heave, he hurled him into the air like he weighed nothing. The man screamed, his arms pinwheeling, his legs kicking frantically. But Sensei was already moving. He followed the throw with a leaping uppercut, his fist slamming into the airborne man's stomach. Blood and spit sprayed from his mouth, a fine mist in the air, before he crashed to the ground and lay still.

Another gangster stepped forward, swinging a pipe with desperation clear in not only his face but his movements. Like before, Shawn sidestepped the blow easily, his movement fluid as he countered with a low, powerful body shot, his fist sinking into the man's gut. The gangster folded in half, the air rushing out of him in a pained grunt. Sensei followed up with a fierce right uppercut that snapped the man's head back and lifted him off his feet. He slammed into a metal shelving unit, his body crumpling to the ground under fallen tools and rusted equipment.

Ten more remained standing, the men clearly more afraid than angry now as they circled Shawn like minnows around a shark. Sensei just grinned, the expression hungry and predatory and completely at odds with his earlier calm. 

Rushing him all at once seemed like the only real option they had left, a desperate, last-ditch attempt to put the martial artist in blue down for good.

And they took it.

Two of them charged from the left, high off adrenaline and fear, one wielding a metal bat, the other with brass knuckles glinting dully on his fists. Three more came from the right, two armed with a crowbar and a knife, the third clutching a broken bottle, jagged edges gleaming.

But Shawn's movements were a blur, almost too fast for Tie's concussed brain to follow. He caught the bat mid-swing with his left arm, the metal clanging against his forearm. In the same heartbeat, his right foot lashed out in a powerful kick, connecting with the chest of the knuckle-wielder. The man flew back, screaming as he hit the ground, the sound of something breaking—bones or concrete, Tie couldn't tell—echoing in the warehouse.

Bat in hand, Shawn jabbed the end of it into the face of its previous owner. There was an audible crunch, the man's nose shattering under the blow, blood spraying. Without missing a beat, Sensei easily pulled the blunt weapon from the man's slackening grip.

Holy shit, Tie thought, his mind reeling.

The martial artist used the bat to sweep the legs out from under the knife-wielder, sending him crashing to the ground. The man with the broken bottle lunged, slashing at Shawn's neck, but the sensei wove away from the attack with inhuman grace. His hand shot out, grabbing the wrist of the one holding the crowbar. With a deft twist, he brought the metal down on the bottle-wielder's shoulder. The crack of shattering bone was loud in Tie's ears, the man's scream reverberating off the walls.

But Shawn didn't even seem to register the noise. He hefted the crowbar-wielder into the air as if he weighed nothing, and with barely a grunt of effort, sent him hurtling across the room. The man's body crashed into five others who were charging towards Shawn, sending them all tumbling to the hard concrete in a tangle of limbs and pained groans.

"...finally," Sensei shook his head, sounding more annoyed than winded. He turned back to face Tie, calmly making his way over to his battered student.

"Sensei?" Tie asked, his voice shaky, disbelief and awe warring in his tone. Did that really just happen? Did I really just see that?

Shawn shot him a look that could only be described as humoring, with a healthy sprinkling of irritation. "Who else would it be?"

The boy's mouth worked silently for a few seconds, a hundred different thoughts running through his head, each one more wild than the last. Finally, one of them poked its way through the fog of pain and confusion.

"You're a supe?!" The words burst out of him, loud in the sudden quiet of the warehouse.

The martial artist stopped a few feet away from him, looking down at his student. The irritation in his expression was peeking out a bit more now, his brows furrowing.

"I'm gonna assume that's the concussion talking," he said dryly, "because you're usually too smart to be asking stupid questions like that."

Sensei paused, frown deepening as he looked at Tie again, taking in his battered face, his torn clothes, the ropes binding him to the chair.

"Although, considering you're borrowing money from gang members, that's probably not true." The disappointment in his voice was like a physical blow, hitting Tie harder than any of the punches he'd taken.

"Sensei..." he replied despondently, shame burning in his gut. He's right. I'm an idiot. A stupid, reckless idiot.

"Shut uuuuup," Shawn said, crossing his arms and shaking his head. "You're lucky your parents called me in time. If I'd been even a few minutes later..."

He didn't finish the thought, but he didn't need to. Tie could imagine all too well what would have happened. A shudder ran through him, the ghost of those brutal fists still aching in his bones.

"Thanks, S—" Tie's eyes went wide, the words dying in his throat as he saw movement behind his sensei. "Sensei, look out!"

One of the men had risen up behind them, gun in hand, clearly having been playing possum among the groaning bodies littering the floor. Shawn spun, snatching a chunk of wood from the debris-strewn ground. He hurled it with blinding speed and unerring accuracy.

But even as the wood struck the gunman's hand, knocking his aim off, the man's finger tightened on the trigger. The gun roared, the muzzle flash bright in the dimness. Tie shut his eyes tight, flinching instinctively, waiting for the pain, the darkness.

But it never came.

A second passed, then two. Slowly, hesitantly, Tie opened his eyes. And stared, uncomprehending, at the object in front of him, the thing that had shielded him from the bullet that now lay smoking on the ground.

"...YOU HAVE A TAIL?"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Shawn sat at a table in the Chinese buffet, the air thick with the mingling scents of soy sauce, garlic, and fried foods. He leaned back slightly, surveying the half dozen plates piled high with a dizzying array of dishes spread out before him. The place was empty, save for him and the owners in the back, the lights dimmed and the "CLOSED" sign flickering in the window. It was after 10 PM, but they'd let him in anyway, especially with their son following right behind him. Perks of being their fuckin' hero, right?

All it took to find out who he had been was walking into a hospital and telling them he had been attacked by gangsters and didn't remember who he was. Apparently, his name was Shawn Kong, an orphan... who also had a minor history with drugs and owing money to gangsters...

Which was... hard to deal with, at first. Like, who the fuck was he? Some kinda junkie loser?

He had been missing for about a month since February, which meant his old job at Vought was fucking toast, his old apartment was no longer his, and all his shit was gone, but luckily, he had a few thousand in savings... which was smarter than he expected of himself.

Or at least the old him. The him before... whatever the fuck happened.

More than that, he was different now, not that he let many people know about that. The tail and the strength wasn't the only thing new... he had discovered a lot about himself that had him confused. Powers and shit that made no fucking sense.

And then he realized he had memories in his head... but none that were his... or Shawn's... That name still doesn't sit right with me, he thought, shoving a forkful of lo mein into his mouth. The noodles were slick with oil, tangled with slivers of vegetables and chunks of tender chicken.

He had memories that he knew had to be fictional, memories of a person that wasn't really a person... or human, at least. Shawn shook his head as he munched on some jumbo shrimp, the crisp batter giving way to succulent flesh. I'm Shawn Kong and I'm also... Shugesh, a member of Bardock's Gang.

He tilted his head, snagging a piece of General Tso's chicken. Or at least a fraction of Shugesh. He also wasn't sure how big a fraction, but definitely a small one; maybe one-tenth, or maybe not even one-twentieth, if he was being honest. The chicken was a perfect blend of spicy and sweet, the sauce leaving a pleasant burn on his tongue.

One plate was a mountain of fried rice, each grain perfectly cooked and mixed with peas, carrots, and tiny cubes of ham. Fuck, this shit is good, Shawn thought, shoveling a hefty spoonful into his mouth. Glad these folks owe me. Coulda been real bad for their boy if I hadn't stepped in.

There were steamed dumplings too, their translucent skins barely containing the juicy fillings. Shawn picked one up, not bothering with the chopsticks, and bit into it, savoring the burst of flavor. Another plate held egg rolls with their crispy, golden exteriors, and he crunched into one, the sound loud in the empty restaurant.

But back to this Shugesh shit... His mind wandered as his fork did, spearing a piece of sweet and sour pork. The vibrant red sauce glistened under the overhead lights. What the hell does it mean? Am I him? Or is he me? Or... fuck, I don't know.

A fourth plate was loaded with a variety of seafood: crab rangoons filled with creamy cheese, and slices of sushi arranged in neat rows. Shawn dipped a rangoon into a pool of sweet and sour sauce, the creamy filling bursting forth with each bite. Guess it don't matter much now. Gotta focus on the present.

The fifth plate was a more eclectic mix, featuring fries, chicken wings slathered in a thick barbecue sauce, and spring rolls. Shawn alternated between them, his hands moving swiftly, the sounds of his eating filling the quiet space.

Been using 'em to help folks, but shit, it's hard out here. Never know when some punk with a gun is gonna try to test me. His thoughts turned to the incident with the Li couple's son, how he'd had to step in when some gangbangers were harassing him. Fuckers didn't know who they were messin' with. 

Tie was one of his students that he actually liked, the kid being smart and funny enough to hang around, when he actually used his brain cells at least. It certainly helped that his parents ran his favorite place to eat.

Shawn's pace didn't slow as he continued to eat. His method was relentless, a testament to his enormous appetite. He needed about 30,000 calories a day to feel full just for a single meal, and living down the street from a Chinese buffet made that easier. Really, moving here was a matter of cheap location and easy access to food.

His body was remarkably efficient at extracting nutrients from anything he consumed, a metabolic marvel that turned every bite into fuel. His unique physiology meant that he could technically survive on much less, hunting big game once a week to sustain himself. On top of that, eating it raw wasn't even a problem — even though it was much less tasty. But the practicality of hunting a grizzly or an elk every Sunday didn't appeal to him. Besides, he didn't have the freezer space to store that kind of haul.

Shawn reached for another egg roll, its crispy shell inviting another bite. He dunked it into the dipping sauce, savoring the crunch as it gave way to the savory filling. He chewed thoughtfully, the flavors mingling in his mouth, a symphony of taste that he never tired of. Next, he turned his attention to the sweet and sour pork. The vibrant red sauce coated each piece of meat, its sweetness balanced by a tangy kick. He used his fork to spear a chunk, lifting it to his mouth and relishing the way the flavors exploded on his tongue. He alternated between bites of pork and sips of water, the cool liquid refreshing his palate. The fried rice was a constant companion, each scoop a comforting blend of textures and tastes. He mixed it with bites of General Tso's chicken, the spicy-sweet glaze adding a layer of complexity to the meal. His fork moved rapidly, a blur of motion as he devoured the food with practiced efficiency.

The sound of the door opening caught Shawn's attention. He glanced over, watching as four men strolled into the buffet. One was a chubby guy in a polo, chest hair visible between the straining buttons. Another was a skinnier dude in a long trench coat. The other two, standing on either side, were muscular and clad in vests. Huh, wonder what they want, Shawn thought, reaching for another plate as the men walked past him.

"Yo, Li!" the heavyset man yelled out as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a cloth. His polo shirt strained against his bulk, chest hair of a man in his 40s peeking out from between the buttons. "Where's the fuckin' money, huh?"

Wei Li, the owner of the buffet, rushed out from the back as quickly as he could manage. The small, bespectacled Chinese man looked frantic, his eyes darting between the four Italians and Shawn, silently pleading for help. "M-Mr. Rossi, I apologize for the delay," he stammered, his hands trembling slightly. "I had an unexpected expense. My son, he-"

"Your son? Your son?" Rossi interrupted, his voice dripping with mockery as he let out a humorless laugh. He turned to his companions, a grin spreading across his face. "Can you believe this shit? Making up some bullshit not to have the fucking money 'cus of his son, you hear this, Kevin? He's trying to use his kid as an excuse!”

The wiry man, looking closer to his late 30s, smirked as he adjusted his long trench coat and black tie. "Sounds like a load of crap to me, Nicky," he agreed, his angular face twisting into a sneer. "Probably spent the money on some new fancy Vought toy or something."

"Maybe we should teach this guy a lesson about paying his debts on time," Rossi suggested, his voice carrying more than a hint of eagerness as he glanced around at the other three.

"No, please!" Wei pleaded, his eyes wide with fear. "I'm not lying. My son, Jin, he was in trouble. I had to pay to get him out of it. I swear, I'll have the money soon. Just give me a little more time."

The fat Italian stepped forward, pulling a knife from his pocket and flicking it open. He grabbed Wei by the collar, yanking him close. "I don't care about your brat," he growled, the blade glinting in the light. "I care about getting what's owed to me. Now, who did you pay instead of us?"

The sound of squealing metal filled the room, drawing everyone's attention. They turned to see Shawn, still seated at his table, effortlessly crushing a familiar-looking pocket knife between his large, dark-skinned hands.

Niccolo's eyes widened as he glanced down at his empty hand, then back up at Shawn. The color drained from his face as realization set in.

The black man stood up, his tail unfurling from around his waist. He let out a loud burp, tossing the mangled remains of the knife over his shoulder. It clattered against the floor, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.

"Me," Shawn announced, his voice calm. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes locking onto Niccolo's."They paid me." He stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hey there, I'm Kong."