Marked Target ~ Chapter One ~ by: Danielle Krieger (c) 2011 Lawrence "Lex" McKinley lives about as average a life as one can with metahumans popping up everywhere. Well, as normal as someone who spends their free time as an MMA fighter really can. He's about to get the shock of his life--the punch he never saw coming. In this installment: We meet "Lex" and get a window into his world. Something sinister is afoot, though. Can "The Animal" handle it?

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DISCLAIMER :: This is a retroactive continuity. A “ret-con”, if you will. It follows other stories in Lilith Langtree’s “Comics RetCon Universe”. The story is mine, but some of the characters are not. This is a RetCon of X-23, from Marvel Comics’ X-men (with a special guest appearance from Dr. Hank McCoy). Laura Kinney, X-23, and Dr. Henry Philip “Hank” McCoy, Beast, are trademarks of Marvel Comics. All rights reserved. Pic credit goes to the amazingly talented Danni Shinya Luo.

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Chapter One:

CRACK! I could feel three vertebrae in my neck pop into place. I’d been meaning to get that adjusted. This guy had done me a favor. My body reeled back from the force of the blow and I could still feel the imprint of his fist on the left side of my jaw. This guy definitely had some skills. He was fighting in a style that I wasn’t familiar with. Usually in these arenas, you’d run into the same schmucks peddling some obscure form of Tae Kwon Do or Americanized Karate. This guy pulled something Mongolian on me, or something. It had to be from a region I wasn’t familiar with. Shifu had always taught me to “expect the unexpected”. Well, today was the epitome of that.

I shook the cloud from my brain, stepped into my stance, brought my guard up, and waited for the guy’s next move. The thing that was throwing me off was it seemed like the guy idolized Muhammad Ali, or something. He was bouncing around, hands to his sides, and bobbing all over the mat. His style was hard to pin down. Then, as he moved, time seemed to slow to a crawl. I was watching him very carefully. I might take another hit, but I was determined to decipher his technique. He bounced at me, coming within striking range. In the next split second, he dropped into a stance. It was obscure, no doubt about it. Just before he brought his right foot into the air for another power attack, I knew exactly what he was using. It wasn’t Mongolian. It was Cambodian--Pradal serey, a from of “free boxing”. I had him, now.

As he launched his leg into the air, I readied my body for an impact. Halfway through his kick, I leaned into it, grabbed his foot with my left, jabbed my right elbow into his thigh, followed through with another right elbow jab into his ribs, and just for effect I swung my left foot over my head to smack him in the face. Needless to say, he went down hard. I rolled with the momentum over his limp form, onto the mat, and was on my feet again just behind him in a matter of seconds. As a precaution, I fell into stance once more and waited for either the referee to intervene or the guy to get back up. Seconds ticked by that felt like minutes. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, the heaviness of my labored breathing, and the blood in my ears. In the background, there was a thunderous cheering that seemed so far away and an announcer’s voice amplified over the P.A. system that was barely audible to me. I was in my zone and time stood still.

The guy writhed on the ground for a few moments. He must have felt like he’d been hit by a train. My leg muscles were pretty strong and they had a tendency of making my arms feel a little weak by comparison. That’s what my opponents always tried to exploit, my upper body, but what I lacked in strength was made up with speed. Exploiting my weakness didn’t work for the guy on the mat, right now. As time began to catch up with me, the referee darted over to the guy and the crowd came to full volume. I just stood there breathing while my opponent was examined. It looked as though I’d connected with his nose, which knocked him out, and there was a little blood streaming out of his nostrils. A moment later, the referee looked up and shook his head. He pointed behind himself with his thumb out.

“It looks like we have a T-K-O, ladies and gentlemen!” The announcer yelled into his microphone. The referee strode over to me as they opened up the cage doors and the guy’s team rushed in to tend to him, followed closely by the league medic. Grabbing my wrist, the referee raised my arm as the announcer continued, “Your Round Three exhibition champion, Lawrence ‘The Animal’ McKinley!” He emphasized my nickname a bit too much, but it got the crowd to roar about as much as fifteen hundred people could. I hated how they used my full name, though. They were insistent. “He’ll now move on to Round Four of the tournament!”

The referee let my arm go and it swung limp to my side. I swear I could have collapsed right there. Sweat was dripping from nearly every pore in my body and there was a mild taste of blood in my mouth from when he’d hit me square in the face during the third round. I was going to feel that in the morning, among other things. Not to mention, I’d have to explain the fat lip to my boss. It was amazing that the both of us managed to stay on our feet for eight rounds. At the end, he was on the ground and I really felt like joining him. Instead, I lumbered out of the octagonal cage to meet with my trainer, who showered me with praise, while I continued lumbering toward the locker room. Having fought twice, I was done for the night.

If my parents could see me now, there would likely be several profanities between us. I was fully aware that they didn’t approve. Mixed Martial Arts, or MMA, was not something one got into on a whim. It takes dedication, resolve, and a willingness to get your ass handed to you on occasion. Some would look at me strangely if I told them this was something I did for fun. I was an Amateur fighter. The paycheck was slim, but it bought me some pretty nice toys to have around the house. My real job was a lot less exciting. When you program lines of code all day, it’s nice to have a hobby.

“You did real good out there, kid.” The gruff voice of my trainer gushed. “No one knew he was going to pull that Cambodian crap on you, not even me.”

A chuckle escaped my swollen lip. “Yea, it was a doozy. I got him, though. That’s what counts.”

“Sure did.” We had arrived at the locker room door. “Are you gonna make it to the showers or should I fetch a cane?”

Another chuckle. “I’m good, Mad Dog.”

They called me “The Animal” and all the fighters called him “Mad Dog”. His real name was Robert “Bob” Strazinsky, but he’d been in the business so long that nobody but his own family remembered that. Rumor had it that he trained boxers before the rise of MMA, but they were mostly unfounded. I didn’t care one way or the other. He was damn good at what he did.

“Well, all right, then. Hit the showers and we’ll go over some things after you get off work on Monday. Enjoy the weekend. You’ve earned it.”

“Thanks.” I gave him a wink as I put my weight into opening the door. He wandered off down the hall, headed God only knows where.

Entering the locker room, all I could really hear was the sounds of guys being guys. A couple were showering and mocking each other for the losses they took tonight. A couple more were horsing around, having some towel fight. Most of the rest were talking about what wounds were going to cause scars that their girlfriends would enjoy in various stages of undress, save for one. Mike “Brickhouse” Deutsch looked up with a surprised expression.

“Damn, Lex! If I didn’t know better, I’d be offering to buy you dinner–no shower needed.” Yep, Mike was gay, but nobody cared. He could probably kick their ass, anyway. He was a heavy weight and earned his name. He was built “like a brick shithouse”.

“Even with my lip all puffy and bloodied? Aww, you’re too kind.” We shared a good laugh as I stumbled over to my locker and started stripping off my gloves. The good thing about there being only twenty-three of us: Key Arena had plenty of lockers.

Mike shook his head. “No way. It’s kind of like lipstick. That shade suits you.” He winked.

I threw a towel at him. Having to get a look at the damage, I trudged over to full-length mirror on the far wall. As I stepped forward and my reflection came back to me, I started turning different parts of my body toward it, inspecting the damage. Beyond bumps, bruises, and a couple of scrapes, I was perfectly fine. I’d be sore in the morning, but I’d live. It was always a little strange to me that my short brown hair nearly always looked black when it was wet. Tonight was no exception. Sweat had spread through it and I looked like I was back in high school with my hardcore Goth habit of dying my hair and wearing makeup. My gray eyes beheld the rest of my form. Earlier in the night, I had been measured at five feet, ten inches. My weight was one hundred and seventy-eight pounds, landing me firmly and comfortably in the welterweight division. Somebody had once compared me to Brendan Fraser when he did that George of the Jungle movie and I wanted to pound their face into the concrete. However, taking a look at myself now, that’s kinda who I looked like. My girlfriend liked it, so I didn’t care.

Mike came up behind me. “Well, pretty boy, checking out the battle scars?”

“Yea, gotta make sure the little woman isn’t going to freak out, too much.” I smirked at him.

He instantly rolled his eyes. “Oi, you guys and the women-folk. I don’t know how you straight boys can handle them.”

“We handle them about as well as you handle a dick in your ass!” One guy shouted from across the room.

Both Mike and I straightened up, turned to him, and looked as imposing as possible. He was a featherweight. He wouldn’t stand a chance against the two of us. I didn’t notice then, but half the locker room also stood up, coming to Mike’s defense. The kid backed down pretty quickly. He was a rookie. He’d learn.

“You wanna insult the Brickhouse, you gotta deal with all of us, pip-squeak. Learn your place, rookie!” The closest guy bellowed and threw a towel at the kid.

Male bravado at its finest.

Over the course of the next hour, I managed to get a shower in and dressed back into my street clothes. I couldn’t head back to my place smelling like a men’s locker room. There was a woman there and she wouldn’t approve.

Unlocking the door and stepping into my apartment with my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, whatever sound there was immediately silenced. The lithe form of my girlfriend, Julia, slid itself off the couch. A smile crossed my face as I took in her auburn hair, milk chocolate eyes, her sleek frame, and her athletic form. She nearly purred until she got a good look at me. Then, she stopped dead in her tracks, a look of shock crossed her face, and her hands jumped to her mouth. Great, she was worried and I wasn’t going to hear the end of it.

Her face became stern and her hands moved to her hips. “Lawrence Alexander McKinley, what the hell have you done to yourself?!”

Great. All three names. I was screwed. ‘Better get this right, Lex.’ I told myself. “Hey, babe. I didn’t do it to myself. You should see the other guy.”

Was there a whimper that just escaped her lips? She rushed over and wrapped her arms around me. It was the best feeling all night. I winced when she hit a tender spot, though. “I don’t get why you have to do that fighting. What do you have to prove?”

The duffel bag dropped to the floor as I wrapped my arms around her, reciprocating the embrace. She stood high enough that all she had to do was turn her head to the side and it was on my chest. “It’s really not about proving anything, Jules. We’ve discussed this, remember?” Maybe there was something I had to prove, but I wasn’t going to tell her. I’d buried that part of myself several years ago.

She looked up and I could see the worry in her eyes. “Yes, but I’d like to have one Friday night where I’m not sitting around the house, waiting for my man to come home, only to find that he’s gone and gotten himself beaten to a pulp!”

A nod was the only movement my head would allow. “Okay, that’s fair. Good news, though: I made it to Round Four, the semi-finals. They’re about six weeks away.”

“So, we can actually get out to a club where you take me dancing?” Her eyes pleaded. I melted every time she looked at me like that.

A smirk creased my lips. “As long as you’re wearing that slinky dress you’ve got hidden in the back of the closet.”

She nearly purred and her eyes seemed to say ‘yes’. “Maybe.”

I kissed her forehead as we embraced once more. There wasn’t really anything that would make our relationship much better. We’d been dating for over a year, moved in together about six months ago, and are playing with the idea of getting married. Being a modern woman, she had some reservations about the idea. I’d like the better tax breaks, myself. I know, we’re so unromantic. After a few minutes, we released the embrace and moved over to the couch where she was watching a movie, apparently. I was happy to be able to relax, but she had other ideas. Running to the bathroom, gathering up some cotton balls and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, she decided now was the time to play nursemaid. It stung like a bitch, but I was happy to know she cared.

The binoculars focused, bringing the flickering blue light in the apartment on the seventh floor into view. Zooming in brought a man and a woman into view. The man lounged on the couch while the woman straddled him and appeared to be tending a wound on his lip. The binoculars lowered and a man glanced over at his partner in the passenger seat. ‘Why do I always get stuck with the white guy,’ He thought to himself.

“What have we got?” His deep baritone voice asked the wiry white guy.

“Well, it’s confirmed to be ‘X’ 23, alright.” The tenor voice stated.

The black man in the leather trenchcoat sitting in the driver’s seat raised an eyebrow. “X-23?”

The white guy looked unsure of himself. “You know… ‘target’ number twenty-three? ‘X’ marks the spot?”

The black man rolled his eyes. “Don’t get cute. Just answer the question.”

The white guy sighed, seeming deflated. “Fine. He’s the one. We got the blip when he had his medical exam two days ago. Blood samples confirm it. He’s meta.”

Using the binoculars to glance up at the apartment once more, the black man pursed his lips. “He’s gonna be a hard one to take in.”

The white guy scoffed. “You think so? Did you see what he did to those guys, tonight? I’m just glad I’m not ‘the muscle’.”

“Yeah. Hang tight and keep an eye on him. I’m gonna call the boss.”

Two Weeks Later

Pivoting 90-degrees on my left foot and planting my right foot firmly right next to it, I bowed in deep respect to the man across from me with right fist encased in my left hand. He was in his mid to late 50’s, Asian, and pretty built for an older guy. Looking at him was like looking at Jackie Chan: you’d never know that the guy could physically own you in a matter of seconds, were you to actually fight him. To me, he was Shifu. To the world, he was Mr. Xiao Min, owner of a Shaolin-style Kung Fu academy in the International District–called “Hao Lai” academy, but I don’t know what that means. We had been practicing our taolu, or “form”, in a side-by-side matter for the past hour or so. He was always a stickler for getting the movements absolutely correct and had a habit of beating me with a gun, the Chinese version of a quarterstaff, if I moved incorrectly. I had been his student since I found the place during my sophomore year at the University of Washington, so he didn’t beat me with a stick as much anymore. He returned the bow and motioned for me to sit with him. Like an obedient student, I followed his request.

Once we were both sitting like our legs had become pretzels, he closed his eyes and began methodically breathing in and out. Following his example, I began to do the same thing. He was definitely a strange one, having grown up in Tibet, but I learned long ago that there was a method to his madness if you had the patience get him talking. We stayed like that for several minutes. In fact, I was still doing it when he stopped and looked at me.

“Why do you fight in those tournaments, Lewen?” He calmly asked me, using the name in Chinese he had given me. It always sounded like “luh-when?” to me. A little more than six years in his tutelage and I still didn’t speak much Chinese at all.

He had caught me by surprise. Immediately, all breath left me and my eyes fluttered open. He had never asked me this question before. “Many pardons, Shifu, but why do you ask?”

He smirked. “You always answer questions with another question or are you avoiding the question?”

A sigh escaped my lips. “No, Shifu, I am not dodging the question. It caught me by surprise, is all.”

He seemed to look down his nose at me. “Which is why you end up with so many scrapes, bruises, and contusions after battle. Do I not always stress that one must expect the unexpected, in battle as in life?”

“Yes, Shifu.” My head nodded on it’s own. “The truth is that I’m not really sure. For the glory? Not really. The fights don’t really mean that much to me. A test of skill? Maybe a little. In fact, my girlfriend asked me a couple of weeks ago about whether I’m trying to prove something. I told her ‘no’, but my heart is torn over that question.”

“Why do you think your heart is torn so?”

My shoulders shrugged. “I cannot tell you, Shifu, because I do not know, myself.”

He smiled. “Ah, and that is the heart of the matter. People are never at war with people. We do not wage battle with our opponents, Lewen. We battle with ourselves. To know battle is to know ourselves. If there is one thing you can take to your grave after I am long gone and your studies are finished, that is the one.” He stood once more. “That will be enough, for now, Lewen. Take the wisdom I have given you, meditate, and return to me when you have answered my question.”

I mirrored when he stood. Now, I was bowing again. “Yes, Shifu. I will do as you ask.”

“Yes, I’m outside the dojo,” The white guy stated into the phone with an annoyed tone. “Do they actually call them that in China?”

“No, 'dojo' is a Japanese word, you idiot!” The non-descript male voice on the other end chided him. “Has he come out, yet?”

“No, the guy’s been in there for a couple hours, I think. I’ve taken Karate and classes only last about 30 to 45 minutes. What the hell is he doing in two hours? Besides that, why does he have to do it so friggin’ early in the morning?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just follow him. You overheard him and his harlot talking about going out to some club, didn’t you?”

“Yea, the other night. You want us to get the team and take him then?”

“Why do you think I asked you about it?” There was a ‘bang’ on the other end and the man could be heard screaming, though barely audible and rather distant. “Why do you have me working with such ingrates?!”

A moment later, after shuffling came over the line, a female voice could be heard. “Yes, assemble the team and take him tonight. We’ve got a lot riding on this. Do not screw this up for me!”

There is nothing in this world, besides Julia, that I love more than my job. Back when I was a junior in college, they were trying to update the Havoc physics engine. If you’ve played any video game in the past seven years, you know what I’m talking about. Anyway, they were going to do a broad-base upgrade to it and they had this little contest going. They were looking for one solution to some of the clipping issues that many of the models had–“clipping” is when supposedly ‘solid’ objects in three-dimensional spaces (games) pass right through other supposedly solid objects. I found out about it through Kotaku, a gaming news/blog site. If you don’t know about it, you’re not a gamer. Anyway, I set my mind on solving the problem. It took me about three months to come up with it, but when I finally had it I couldn’t have been more happy. Exactly sixty-three lines of code won me $2,500 and a quaint nod from one of the coolest developers in the industry. That’s how I got my job at Orion Software. They were local and looking for talent. They were willing to wait for me to graduate, too. I’ve been here ever since.

Most developers in the industry really take care of their employees and Orion is no different. I have my own little office, but most of us had at least a nice, decked out cubicle. They’re not like typical cubicles that corporate robots have. The things were spacious enough to lie down to sleep in and you could communicate with other people in your department with eye contact, but you had your own area. My office was pretty cool, though. I had a door with windows and the wall next to it was all glass, but the door was usually open. The back wall was a nicely sized window with a view of Redmond and Microsoft somewhere off in the distance. There was a nice L-shaped desk in the middle. One quirk about game developers, though? We’re all geeks. My office was decked out in posters of my favorite games (even if they were from other developers) and a couple of my new favorite soccer team (Football Club to Europeans), the Seattle Sounders. I played in high school, so it was nice to have a local team to cheer for. My desk was littered with action figures and statuettes, my favorite being the female Bounty Hunter, Shae Vizla, from BioWare’s upcoming massively multiplayer online game, Star Wars: The Old Republic. She was hot and it made a nice centerpiece, right beside my framed photograph of Julia.

Being the Junior Lead World Designer had its perks, but also some setbacks. I was second-in-command, directly under the Senior Lead World Designer. It was nice to have a little team under me, but the job still came with quite a few challenges. Have you ever tried plugging in code to tell the graphics engine how grass moves in the wind? Didn’t think so. Sometimes, it was pretty rewarding. Other times, you wanted to pull your hair out. We’d taken four games to release, so far, but they were minor little dungeon crawlers that we published through Xbox LIVE Arcade and Playstation Network. We don’t do Wii games. Nintendo hates third-party developers, for some odd reason. Now, though, we were working on our “Triple-A” big release. I won’t spoil the surprise.

Here I was, plugging away in my coding software so that individual blades moved independently, when a knock came to my door. I finished one more line, then glanced up to take in the visage of Rachel Maddingly, one of our most talented artists in the concept art department. She reminded me a lot of Julia. She had mouse brown hair, cool brown eyes, and a great figure she rarely showed off. One cool thing is that she had black plastic-framed glasses that looked like Lisa Lobe used to wear, back in the 90’s. Then, she was a fashion pioneer. Now, they were the style. Apparently, she was coming in to show me the latest designs for one of our final levels, but she stopped dead in her tracks and looked at me with shock.

I gave her a puzzled expression. “What? Do I have something hanging out of my nose?”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Then, she shook her head. “Have you been working out? I mean, more than usual?”

Pausing to think for a moment, I let the air hang a bit. I had been doing more early morning sessions with Shifu and some late-night stamina building exorcises with “Mad Dog”, but not more than usual. I had semi-finals to worry about, after all. “Maybe a little, but not any weight lifting. Just more chi exorcises and some stamina stuff with ‘Mad Dog’. Why? I look different to you? My last fight didn’t rearrange my face too much, did it?”

She laughed at my sudden self-consciousness. “I dunno. You just look a little different, that’s all.” She brought the folder she was carrying to my desk and opened it up so I could see the work she’d been doing. Didn’t I mention the girl was seriously talented? She really blew me away. “Okay, so these need to go up to Barry, ASAP. But, don’t you do the pre-approvals?”

Taking in a waft of her perfume, I couldn’t help but smile. “Usually. I’ll take a more in-depth look at these. You know my initial impressions of your genius, already.”

Yes, she blushed nearly every time I mentioned that. “Thanks. I still think it’s funny, though.” She let out a giggle. “Barry and Larry.”

I scoffed and rolled my eyes. “I’ve told you a million times: it’s Lex, not Larry. That name makes me sound like I’m forty, or something, but I’m only twenty-six.”

She continued her giggle. “I know, but I’ve gotta mess with you. It’s a prerequisite.”

Waving her off, I almost grumbled. “I’ll take a glance at these and get final approval from Barry. You go back to your desk and make more genius happen, okay?”

Another blush and she was walking out. “If you say so, boss.” I gotta say, I hated to see her go, but I loved watching her leave. Julia would kill me if she could read my lusty thoughts.

After letting a little sexual fantasy play out in my head, I glanced down over the designs. Rachel’s specialty was watercolors and it really showed. She’d painted several vistas that reminded me of the Norwegian Fjords and it was downright perfect for one of our final cinematics and much of the level that would be played. Saving my coding work, I carefully closed up Rachel’s portfolio and moved out of my office to go visit with Barry, the Senior Lead World Designer.

The night was starting to wane. Sure, the club was still packed, but that didn’t really mean anything. There were fewer on the dance floor than there had been earlier in the night. Of course, the DJ was trying his hardest to inspire someone, anyone. My arms were bent behind me, holding me up against the bar. Bringing the glass to my lips, I was nursing the last of a fantastic rendition of a Whiskey Sour. The bartender didn’t just have gorgeous breasts that she happy showed off in her corset, but she was amazingly talented with alcohol. It was almost frightening, frankly.

My eyes weren’t trained on her, though. They were trained on the dance floor. Julia was out there, working off the remainder of alcohol in her system. Her body had a movement to it that was absolutely entrancing. It helped that she was a dancer, by profession. Tonight, since we’d decided on one of my old haunting grounds at the nearby Goth club, she was dressed to the nines. She wore her amazing boots with a modest two-inch heel that reached up to her knees and had buckles all along her calves. Her legs were wrapped only in her fishnet stalkings. The modesty of her pelvic region was kept in check by a blood red skirt, with those wonderful cheerleader-style pleats in it. A black, studded belt held up the tempting garment. Her midriff was bare, displaying the tone and taught muscle structure of her abdomen while showing off her navel piercing with a ball on one end and a cute little pink flower on the other. Her top wasn’t much more than a black sports bra with metallic decorations on it. She had decided on fingerless gloves that reached toward her elbows, which was a nice touch. Her hair was free and loose. She’d done her makeup with dark eyeliner, lavender eyeshadow, and blood-red lips. My “little soldier” was already standing at attention before we left the apartment.

My outfit, however, was much less elaborate. I wore my black boots with buckles up the side, matching hers. My legs were covered in black leather pants and were likewise held up by a belt with a silver skull belt buckle. The one thing we both really liked was my black T-shirt with a Punisher logo screen-printed on it. It was my very favorite shirt. Over that, a long black trenchcoat finished it all off. I did do some touches with eyeliner and black lipstick. For all intents and purposes, I looked like Brandon Lee when he did The Crow, but without the white face. I thought I’d grown out of the look, but Julia seemed to approve.

Apparently finished dancing, Julia looked over at me and a sultry smile creased her lips. “Little Soldier” could not stand straighter if he tried; though, he was more than willing to try. Seductively, she sauntered over to me. Thankfully, I was standing with my legs apart because she slipped happily between them and leaned her body against mine. The smell of her perfume, her sweat, and something else I couldn’t really identify flooded my nostrils and I happy drank it in. An equally seductive smile creased my lips as she looked up at me.

“Having fun, dear?” I chuckled with my lips closed.

Her lips formed into a seductively cute pout. “Wasn’t having much fun without you there with me.”

I took another sip from my drink. “Well, can’t have this good booze going bad, you know that. Besides, I think I’m a little too far gone to be properly coordinated. You, on the other hand, do not seem to be having that problem.”

Smiling, she nibbled her lip. I loved it when she did that. Her head shook. “Nope, no problems at all. Are you saying you’re ready to go home, then?”

My head nodded, seemingly of its own volition. “I believe I am, Jules.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s just after 1 a.m. and I do have to work tomorrow.”

She sighed. “Yea, so do I. Being an adult really sucks, sometimes.”

Taking one last gulp to finish off the drink, I set the glass down at the bar. The gorgeous breasts of the bartender nodded to me along with her head. I returned my gaze the beautiful girl leaning on me. “That it does, honey. Shall we be off, then?”

Another shrug. “Yea, I guess.”

Kissing her on the forehead as she lifted off of me, I turned and began digging in my coat for a little cash. I kept a small wad in there for occasions like this. Pulling out a five, I waved to the bartender. “For you, Amy. Thanks for getting us good and drunk while enjoying the taste of it.”

She smiled as she filled a glass of draft beer. “No problem, Lex. See you next time.” She waved to Julia. “Later, Jules.”

Julia waved as I slipped my arm over her shoulders. My jacket would probably be laying over them before we got home. Seattle was chilly pretty much year round, but especially so in the middle of winter, like right now. As we sauntered across the floor towards the door, my earlier assessment of not having the where-with-all to actually dance was confirmed. I wobbled a little bit. Good thing we would be taking a cab home, tonight. We always planned for that while out drinking.

Stepping out into the night was something of a shock. The temperature difference between the interior of the club and the exterior of Seattle was rather large. Inside, it was bordering on 90-degrees. Outside, it couldn’t be more than 40-degrees. We were drunk, what did we care? I could feel her shiver slightly, but it wasn’t going to be a concern unless she mentioned it. The club was situated in an alley, which means the front door was more like a side door. I could hear the sounds of her heels hitting the asphalt reverberate off the wall of the building across the alley. We turned towards the nearest street.

What we beheld was very strange. There were four large men standing there, looking imposing. Something about the expression on their faces was telling me they were not there to exchange cookie recipes. My first thought: avoidance. Turning around, there were four more closing the distance from the other direction. Again, not here to sell Girl Scout cookies. I could hear Julia’s breath become labored and a small shriek leave her lips.

“Lex, what the hell is going on? I’m really scared!” She forcefully whispered.

Suddenly, I felt a lot more sober. “I don’t know. Stay behind me.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. McKinley.” Bellowed a baritone voice from the front group. “Come quietly and the girl leaves without a scratch. Make this difficult and she leaves less ‘intact’, if you catch my meaning.”

My eyes narrowed at him. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I made myself clear, Mr. McKinley. Do as I ask or this is going to get messy.”

Julia looked up at me with panic in her eyes. With my eyes, I gestured to the trash bin across the way. She did as asked, bolting over and hiding near it. I lowered myself into a ready stance. If that’s what they wanted, they were going to get a fight.

The earlier speaker, a black man, shook his head. “Very well, then. We’ll do this the easy way.”

Out of nowhere, I felt as though a bee had stung my neck. It caught me off-guard and I cried out. My hand reached up to grab at it and found a small metallic device. I pulled it out of my neck and brought it forward. It was a dart. I didn’t know its purpose right off, but I’d seen enough movies that it eventually dawned on me that it was a tranquilizer dart. Shifu’s words echoed between my ears, again. While I’d been checking out the dart, the thugs had begun to advance on me. Again, I lowered into a stance and kept my attention on the ones flanking me as well as the ones in front. They closed on me quicker than anticipated.

Two of them dropped into a stance in front of me. Karate? Amateurs. One threw a kick, the other threw a punch. With my left hand, I caught the kick. With my right hand, I caught the punch. I don’t think they anticipated this because they looked pretty surprised when I brought my arms together and they slammed into each other. The third threw a punch that I ducked under. To gain the upper hand, as I lowered I swung a leg out and spun around. He fell flat on his face when his legs came out from under him. Tiny Asian-wannabes and their sorry excuse for martial arts really annoyed me.

Spinning around again, I settled into a stance, but now my vision was a little blurry. Before, I’d have blamed it on the alcohol. Now, I wasn’t so sure. I could hear the guy behind me start to get up again. So, my head jerked to the rear and I raised a foot. It had to hurt when my boot came into contact with his face because I could hear a small crack. Could be his nose or it could be his neck cracking. I didn’t care which. When I went to settle back into my ready stance and face forward, I wobbled a little. Suddenly, my body felt really heavy and my vision was blurrier.

“More physical exertion will only amplify the effects, Mr. McKinley. I suggest you cease your futile attempt at breaking free.” The man bellowed again.

Without even thinking, I belted out some obscure war cry and ran right at him. I could sense that my equilibrium and motor functions were beginning to become very impaired at that point. I didn’t care. If they wanted to harm Julia, they weren’t going to do it around me. Sadly, it ended in some of the worse results since my first MMA fight. I had gotten my cocky little ass handed to me, that night. Now, someone raised a cane and it contacted with my abdomen, knocking the wind out of me. Then, all I could hear was a crack as something hit me in the back of my head. Now, the world was swimming and my body would not obey my commands. I writhed on the ground like the guy I’d beaten two weeks ago to qualify for the semi-finals.

Two guys grabbed my arms and one more grabbed my legs. They didn’t have much trouble keeping ahold of me. I was being carried off and someone slipped a hood over my face. Everything happened so fast as I wavered between consciousness and unconsciousness. My ears registered that they were putting me in some kind of van. In vain, I still tried to writhe myself loose. All I could think about was getting to Julia and keeping her safe. Then, a shriek rang out into the air. It was a woman’s scream. It was Julia’s scream.

Suddenly, some semblance of vitality left in me shot to the forefront. My hands balled into fists and I began to thrash around the cabin. The three guys holding me down had their work cut out for them, now. Suddenly, I started feeling like the bones in my wrists and hands felt like they were separating. Something poked through between my index and middle finger as well as between my ring and pinkie finger on both hands. My feet straightened into a point and the same was happening between my “big” toe and my index toe. It hurt like a bitch! I didn’t care, I had to get free… to get to Julia.

“Son of a bitch! The fucker’s manifesting!” One shouted.

“Looks like we’re going to have to de-claw someone.” Another quipped.

Someone punched me in just the the right spot on my head. Everything went black.