the battle of a century
Heart of Glass
Chapter 1
I knew before I even reached the doorstep of the building that someone was in my apartment.
I knew that they were unfamiliar.
I knew that their mood was aggravated, angry.
And I knew that they were a Yutha. Like me.
Walking lethally quiet, I sneaked into the ragged flat, saw my usually calm little sister, Bretta, with puffy-eyes and tears streaming down her face, and attacked without hesitation.
In a blur, I had the drunk man handicapped on the floor, beer bottle still in his hand.
“Whaddya think you’re doing?” he slurred, the situation at hand still not registering in his mind. “I was just gonna have some fun with her.”
He nodded towards my sister, hiding behind me now, and I smirked.
“So I see.” He had just made a fatal mistake.
Before the man could even move, I struck him, knocking him unconscious from one stroke.
I leaned in next to his ear.
“Don’t mess with us.”
“No way.” The measly desk clerk said.
“No?” I asked, cocking my head.
I needed the money from the Yutha cup to take care of my sister’s medical bills. She was born with a rare disease called Cystic Fibrosis, a sickness that clogs up your lungs with mucus making it hard to sing, talk, or even breath sometimes.
“Definitely not munchkin,” called a husky voice from behind me, probably wanting to join the competition as well. “the Yutha cup isn’t for you-”
“Why, because I’m a girl?” I challenged as I whirled around to face the man, ignoring the comment about my height.
I hated to admit it, but he had a bad boyish look to him, and with his messy black hair, and those perfect features, it suited him perfectly.
“Yes,” he stated, “that’s exactly why. Look, the Yutha cup isn’t something a little girl can handle, so just run back to makeup and fashion pageants. You don’t even have a gift!”
I rolled my eyes.
He didn’t know half of it.
In this world, women are abused regularly and no one cares at all. If a girl so much as raises a hand against a man, the can be thrown in jail, or even executed.
It’s exhausting watching people like this, and even with my gift, I can’t right every wrong in the universe.
“Tell you what,” I drawled, “if I can beat you in a duel, than you will bow to me and apologize for offending a beautiful goddess.”
The man chuckled incredulously.
“Accepted, but if I win,” he sneered in a tone saying that there was no chance I would win, “ you let me have a kiss.”
I gasped. The nerve of him!
I’m not saying I wouldn’t enjoy it (don’t tell him I said that, his ego’s already big enough) but still.
“No way in hel-” I started.
He smiled, “What, you don’t think you can win?”
I opened my mouth, than closed it. My pride was on the line.
“Tell you what,” the man offered, “since I’m such a gentleman, I’ll give you one more chance to back out.”
Grinning, I taunted, “What, too scared, you big oaf?”
“No way, shorty.”
With that, he hurled a bolt of electricity towards me,which I easily dodged.
See, the thing about most people if they have good gifts (or thing they do) is that they think that all they need is their gift, and without technique or strategy or even physical strength, the weaker one ultimately wins.
I waited until he shot at the other side, in which I dodged yet again and in his moment of his frustration, I slid towards him at lightning speed, grabbing his arm.
In response, way quicker than I expected, he punched me in the gut, charging me with a small charge.
I recoiled, but didn’t waste any time recovering. I had learned how to deal with pain from a young age, from my father’s daily beatings.
Grabbing his wrists, I twisted them so he was completely immobilized, unless he wanted to break his wrist, and I swept my feet under his legs a split second later.
He collapsed on the floor, staring up at me with wide, unbelieving eyes.
I checked the clock.
40 seconds.
Not my best, but still pretty good.
I turned around to watch the clerk, whose mouth was wide open, a mixture of wonder and displeasure on his face.
Suddenly, I felt a hand on my ankle and I was falling backwards, onto the floor.
“Hmph!” I landed on my backside onto the floor, which was strangely kinda warm.
I put my hand on the warm surface and tried to get up, but my wrist was twisted into a bad position.
Sighing in resignation, I flopped on the floor face down and inhaled deeply. it smelled faintly of cologne and aftershave.
What the heck? What kind of floor smells like aftershave? Unless…
I slowly looked up, praying that I was wrong, and when I saw the mysterious man underneath me, my cheeks flushed.
Hastily, I scrambled off him and stood up, dusting myself casually.
“If you wanted me that bad, you could’ve just told me, ya know.” He said, amused.
I flipped him off, colour blossoming into my cheeks yet again, and as he laughed harder, I kicked him between the thighs.
Unsurprisingly, his laughter stopped abruptly, replaced my moans of pain.
When I realized that there was a line up behind us, I turned to the cashier while popping my wrist back in place.
“You need more demonstration?”
“N-no. you can join!” he stuttered, a small tang of fear in his voice. “Just sign here.”
I signed my name in my swirly handwriting and turned on my heels stalking out of the room, everyone’s eyes following me.
I turned, and gave the man whose name I’ve yet to get one last grin before opening the door and leaving with one last dramatic flourish.
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