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[right][sub]With [@BurningCold][/sub][/right][hr]Well, she had been aptly forewarned. As the goons armed themselves and moved into what might have loosely passed for some kind of formation, Yam pulled the trigger on her contract. A chill washed over her, like someone was brushing cold paint down her limbs. Her skin shifted, her arms most noticeably; they didn’t grow larger per se, but they hardened like chitin or scale or some kind of hellish tree bark. They were heavier, but with that heft came a surplus of strength, which she quickly stoppered once she had enough to work with. Power was influence, and if she borrowed too much, it was harder to turn off. Bel’s strength was soda spilled on a carpet; water would dry just fine, but all the sugar and chemicals would take much longer to wash out. 

She looked down at her hands, at the obsidian claws glinting on each finger. Her eyes—their eyes—flicked up at the goons, scanned over their weapons. Clubs, knuckles, miscellaneous bludgeons of dubious integrity. Nothing particularly sharp, and nothing that could blow holes in her. Seemed like they weren’t interested in adding corpses onto the list of whatever other shit they were dealing with.

“[color=9173CA]Less paperwork,[/color]” she said. Bel sighed, and the claws receded. 

[i][color=gray]I give you hands to get dirty, and you still insist on wearing gloves.[/color][/i]

The goons moved first. One came at Marty, and though she felt an instinct to cover him, two more lunged for her. She took hold of her righted chair with one bolstered arm and launched it like a fastball at the closer one. It connected full on with his chest, splintering like rotten driftwood and sending him sprawling onto his back. The second swung at her with his club, but Yam stepped in, took him by the arm and torqued around, lifting him up over her hip and slamming him hard into the ground. 

Her mind went back to Marty, but before she could check on her partner, something hard connected with her face, and it was only by the split-second shift of Bel’s skin on her cheek that her jaw wasn’t shattered. She stumbled, blinking back her composure as the hulk of a goon drew back his brass knuckles for another swing. Yam whirled into it, meeting his fist with her own. Sturdy metal smashed into jagged demonic knuckle. The metal caved with a crunch, splitting skin and cracking bone. The goon yelped, clutching his bloodied hand back before Yam caught him in the gut with an uppercut and shoved him on the floor. 

Finally, a moment to breathe. She tried to take stock of the rest of the bar, eyes darting to find whoever else might still be standing. She quickly found the man in the purple suit, who hadn’t deigned to get involved. Yet. 

“[color=9173CA]Marty, you good?[/color]” she shouted over her shoulder, not wanting to take her eyes off the supposed leader of the bunch. Marty wasn’t the biggest or meanest demon she’d ever met, but, and this was important, he did have [i]four[/i] knives.