Life of Scum [Training]

[Imaya Kuza]

Kuza was… well, he was scum. But perhaps that’s why the rats liked him so much. Or maybe they were attracted to the filth in him. Either way, they certainly didn’t mind playing audience to his current brawl.

The bouncer, a big guy with a big spiky metal stick, swung hard and Kuza ducked under, jabbing the man’s hip on his way around. The other guy, thinner tall guy, came at him with a knife, so Kuza brought out his own, but instead of parrying or counter-stabbing, he simply adjusted the angle, shining sunlight in his foe’s eyes to blind them. As he sidestepped, Kuza adjusted the angle to keep the light rays at the eyes, and if not for the quick-thinking of the bouncer, the poor skinny fellah would have lacerated his friend. Instead, the larger guy pushed him out of the way and readied another swing. Kuza ran toward and skidded on the ground, a small bolt of dirt thrown from his palm into the face of the looming giant over him as he moved under the man’s legs.

Kuza grabbed the thinner fellah, who had been shoved to the ground when the large guy had prevented the stabbing, and waited for the bouncer to turn and swing wildly down with his stick, pulling his unfortunate victim into his impromptu ally’s attack. And, before the large man gained back his sight, Kuza disappeared from the club he’d just robbed.

 

[Imaya Kuza]

“Hooligan, thug, criminal, psychopath, torturer-” the voices went on, endlessly. Always in the backmost of Kuza’s mind, quiet yet constant. They were louder at first, but perhaps Tesso had changed tactics. It didn’t matter, really. Kuza felt nothing but annoyance, and that alone gave that cremated rat no openings.

Twisting his hand, ash flowed from Kuza’s flesh, and with his fingers and mind he manipulated the fine powder into a sharp obsidian shank. A ramen shop owner wasn’t paying his protection fees. ‘Who do you protect us from?’ the owner apparently asked. Kuza smiled. Well, it was true that the Kumo guard was fairly good at keeping violent crimes subdued. Mostly, at least. But the answer to the owner’s question was obvious to any in the family, nonetheless. “Us.” Kuza muttered.

The owner, coming back from picking up ingredients, entered the alleyway where the shop’s side entrance was. “Hey, old man! Your money, now!” Kuza held up the shank, almost amateur, which was the point. The old man needed to feel unsafe, just once, to accept paying the protection fee. Even if he had the Kumo guards, if he thought something could slip through the cracks, the family could profit from his paranoia. “I SAID NOW.”

Kuza punched the old man, kicking his feet from under him, and the old man looked up, defiant. So Kuza slashed with his ashen knife, slicing through the elder’s eyeball. Permanence is important for sending a message, it reminds people forever so that they never fall back into, ah, unfortunate habits. Kuza took the cash as well, of course. That was like his tip, afterall, since the family would be getting the protection fees for themselves.