friendly fisting {briar} [blitz]

I am a hurricane.

I am the the product of eleven years of wielding spears, sharpening swords and throwing knives and it's moments like these when I am one of a kind. I don't know the boy's age, I don't even know his name but I recognize his voice. Strutting around the training center as if he cannot bleed anything but riches and cannot cry anything but salted tears. I've seen him avert his gaze and wrinkle his nose as if he's seen something reprehensible when he sees my ginger locks and crooked smile. I've heard him mutter something about a paper bag before, it's only human nature that I took him up on his offer of a simple sparring match with wooden swords.

It's the eighth hit when he's crying, and the twelfth his after that when he's practically spitting blood.

I am more than a one-hit wonder, I leave a trail of destruction in my path. But even I have a heart because I'm human when he drops his weapon and curls up into a ball at the a terror he cannot contain a sigh and throw my weapon to the floor. It's not sympathy that makes my weapon clutter for the ground, it's mercy.

But victory is a drug, addition the loaded gun pressed against my cranium and I'm waiting for the mechanical trigger to be pulled. My eyes dart around the center, searching and narrowing in a red haze until they focus on a blur, an unnamed face to a voice I cannot recognize; a true enigma.

"Wanna spar?" I shoot the question at them, raising an eyebrow before smiling. "Don't worry, we don't have to use wooden swords."

A hurricane doesn't need a paper bag over her head.