[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/66Snsa1.jpg[/img][/center][hr][b]September 23rd(?), 1940

Somewhere in France(?)

...I have no godsdamn clue where I am[/b]

No matter how many times it's happened over the years, I've never gotten used to getting knocked unconscious. I still felt the same weird, ethereal floating feeling. It was like I was falling in reverse as the world cleared. My memories were fuzzy and this time I couldn't see worth shit, but K'un-L'un teaches a man other ways to know the world. The scent and feel of rough burlap against my face probably meant there was a thick sack over it. Good, I wasn't blind from a concussion, then. My tongue felt like a wooden board in my mouth, and I had the kind of ringing headache that'd make me want to kill a man. Probably I'd been drugged while I was out, to keep me that way while enemies brought me...wherever this was.

A quick assessment revealed that I'd been tied to a chair, legs to its legs and arms to its' arms, real thorough-like. I focused beyond the pain in my head, the cotton-stuffed sensation from the drugs and the stink of the bag. I could smell the dampness of the air, dust and mildew. Cooler temperatures against my skin than a summer night in most parts of France, too. Probably a basement somewhere. Great, drugged up, strapped to a chair in a basement with a sack over my head.  That only ever meant one thing. Well, one of two in some of the more enjoyably seedy parts of France, but knowing my luck...

Right on cue, there was the sound of a door scraping open, then the unmistakable clatter-thump of boots on a staircase. Jackboots, specifically. I'd heard enough of 'em squelching through mud and charging over fields to get the sound burned into my brain. Well, some things never changed. There were three sets of boots. The first one was lighter than the others, steps more precise and with a sharper sound, the metal parts less worn. The other two were heavy, rushing down the stairs and clomping after the first, irons all-worn out enough that they barely registered.

The set of footsteps I decided to label 'Thug One' walked over and took up a position behind me. 'Thug Two' and the one I'd already started thinking of as 'New Boots' stopped in front of me. New Boots spoke up then, all crisp, lightly-accented French, well-educated too. I decided I'd kill him first.

"You are a mystery I would very much like to solve. Earlier this evening you were found alone, attempting to sabotage the train meant to deliver our K12 artillery to the coast. A single, masked man. But they say you killed twenty French soldiers with pistols that shot fire, then ten more with your bare hands, before you were subdued. I'm disinclined to believe such exaggerations. The guns found on you were ordinary, the reports so much nonsense to hide incompetence and embarrassment. Yet, there are still some very intriguing things about you."

I worked my half-dead tongue around in my mouth for a minute before I could speak "Look, I can see what you're getting at here. Sorry to disappoint you, but I ain't really the man-loving type. I mean, it's gotta be tough for you, I hear the Fuhrer doesn't appro-" The slight scuff of Thug Two's boots as he shifted weight was just enough warning for me to tense my core for the gut punch. The chair rocked back with the force as I felt it hit like a howitzer, but Thug two caught the back before I could topple. Smart. I let out a wheezing laugh, not as short of breath as I shoulda been.

"Your boyfriend doesn't know how to hit, kid. What, am I supposed to confess out of embarrassment?"

They chose to ignore the taunt, New Boots kept going like the little exchange never happened. "You wear a mask, but when it was removed after we captured you, not a single man knew your face. Then there's this strange symbol on your chest," He prodded the Mark of Shou-Lao, top probably barely visible above the ropes. "Just what are you? A spy for the British? Some foreign sympathizer of the so-called 'Free French'? Or just a madman with a death wish?"

I wished he could see my smirk through the bag, but I settled for tone of voice. "I'm called Iron Fist. I'm an Immortal." To his credit, Thug One chuckled, like a gorilla with the hiccups. I decided I'd kill him last. The answer earned me another punch from Thug One, this time to the side of the head. I rolled with the strike as best I could once I heard it coming, but the starry explosion still rattled my teeth and I tasted the hot, coppery tang of blood from my cheek mashing into them.

New Boots started tapping his namesake against the floor, let me know I was getting to him. "You think this is a joke? I'm being gentle with you now. But try my patience and I can show you more hells in this world than you've ever imagined. Now, who are you working for?"

As a test I just spat some blood out against the bag for an answer. I felt Thug One grab the chair, then Thug Two made my torso his punching bag for a minute or two. After a childhood spent under learning Lei-Kung the Thunderer, even his hardest punches felt like love taps. I almost felt bad for his knuckles. Almost.

"Enough! What are your plans?!"

I gave it some thought, then decided to be honest.

"Well, the way I figure it, I'm gonna kill you, then beat the [i]scheiß[/i] out of your [i]scheißtypen[/i] friends, then get out of this chair and kill them. Then I'm gonna-"

I never did get to finish, I felt a gloved backhand crack across my face. This one was hard enough to knock a tooth loose, which was just perfect. Thug Two was allowed to pummel me for a long time after that, long enough that I started feeling the rhythm to his swings between blows to the chest and head. After a while I even started feeling the pain from them. It felt like hell and I had to work not to give them the satisfaction of screaming, but it also helped burn through the last of the fuzziness from the drug. 

Once Thug Two was done, I felt New Boots breathing close to my face, his voice all quiet and angry like as one hand gripped my chin. "You [b]will[/b] break eventually, and when you do I'm going to-"

I tuned him out, focusing instead on reaching out with my mind to become one with that golden sea of fire within myself. I felt the power that was mine alone flow from the Heart of the Dragon into my body, from there to the blood in my mouth... 

...From there to the loose tooth tucked against my lips.

I spat enamel and blood and burning dragon-fire into his face, he barely had time to scream as he died. 

I rocked my chair back to avoid another panicked swing from Thug Two instinctively and heard it whizz by, snapping my head back as I fell to headbutt Thug One in the solar-plexus when he moved to catch me on reflex. As the winded brute slumped over me I let chi-powered strength flow into my limbs and broke the ropes holding my arms, reaching up to grab him and rolling forward again to throw him into where I judged Thug Two to be.

I was rewarded with a satisfying crash and wild shouting and flailing, before I used the momentary distraction to slip the bag off my head and snap the ropes holding my legs.

I still had a chair awkwardly tied to my back, but as I blinked my eyes against the light at least I could see that I was in an almost empty cellar with New Boots dead at my feet and Thugs One and Two still tangled with each other on the floor, but slowly getting up.

I let them stand, gave them that much. After all, they deserved a chance.

Thug Two rushed me first, but I whirled around so that the back legs of the chair still strapped to me slapped into his knees and sent him sprawling. Then I jumped backwards and let the remainder of the chair shatter against him. Thug One tried to rush me while I was still prone from body slamming his partner. I rolled back  and pressed up into a sort of back-handspring kick that staggered him, the sort of flashy acrobatic fighting they teach in K'un-L'un. Then I dropped down and made sure Thug Two stayed down for good with a bunch of curb-stomps to the throat and head that they definitely don't teach there.

When I turned back around Thug One had already drawn a knife in his right hand. Poor idiot. He came at me with a lunging stab, but it was slow enough that I could pass the blade out to the side and grab his wrist. I struck him with my free hand, chop to the throat, then with two knuckles extended to the eye in what Lei-Kung called the Golden Star Gouge. At almost the same time I twisted my body around his, grasping his knife hand and plunging his own blade into his abdomen, pushing in again until blood and viscera had to bubble up around the hilt. Then I let him slump and die on his own.

Three more corpses on the pile, but there was no time to think about it.

I had a train to catch.