The Three

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In Which Trace Throws A Fit

It’s chaos.

It’s absolute, utter chaos.

For the last two hours, Trace and Muscles have been in an endless, cruel fight. The lair is flipped upside down, concrete is falling off, and somehow whipped cream got smothered all over the ceiling.

Both are covered from head to toe in plaster and debris, the white powder scattering in the air each time someone throws a punch at the other. Trace’s nose is bleeding, but other than that, he’s okay.

It’s Muscles who needs some serious medical attention. As soon as Trace jumped at him, he had fractured two ribs, broken a spleen, and his head started to bop at a very weird angle.

What are these muscles for, then? Dancing?

Muscles ran out of patience and tried to aim a punch at Trace’s cheek, but he smoothly blocked it and pushed him to the ground, and grabbed his huge biceps. He pulled them from behind Muscles’ back and smiles as he hears Muscles growl in pain.

He managed to get away from Trace’s killer grasp and tumbled to his feet, spitting blood. Trace stared right into his soul before snapping his fingers.

As soon as he did that, a huge fireball hovered above his hand. He made a gesture and threw the ball at a nearby table, setting it on fire, the scariest smile etched on his face.

“They are my hostages.” Trace spat. “You wouldn’t dare take them away.”

Sam and I kept watching in awe from behind the couch, not daring to interrupt. I tried to barge in, but Sam dragged me away just as a piece of furniture missed my head.

That left me only one choice.

“GO GET EM TRACE! BREAK THE REST OF HIS RIBS AND USE THEM AS DRUMSTICKS!” I screech.

Trace laughed hysterically while throwing the table at him.

I look over at Sam, expecting him to hype Trace up with me, but I notice his eyes are focused on Muscles.

He had the same look of horror on his face when he got stabbed by the needle.

“What’s going on?” I ask him.

“Trace’s going to be sliced in pieces! I think I’m going to throw up-” He whimpered, holding in a puke.

I stare at Muscle Man. But what I’m more interested in is what’s in his hand. He had snatched a sword from the kitchen table and hid it behind his back away from Trace’s view. The sword is about eight inches long.

I study its long, silver-sharp blades that are arched at the very tips. It’s a Gladius sword. It can give Trace a deep, clean cut. Very effective.

A fresh wave of panic washes over me as I picture the sword dig inside Trace’s stomach while Muscles sambas around his corpse.

Oh, no. I would very much not want that to happen.

Muscles wore the cruelest smile, and his eyes twitched, hair all over his face. He was a mess. He didn’t look like the hero everyone looked up to in Central.

With a swift flick of his wrist, he aimed for Trace’s heart and stabbed the sword deep. But he missed it by about Three centimeters.

I choke out a silent scream.

Three centimeters to the right and he would have been a goner.

Samuel and I run towards Trace.

Without a flinch, Trace glanced at the deep, visible gash the sword dug. His purple gown quickly became wet with his own blood.

He looked up at who threw it.

Not breaking eye contact, Trace grabs the sword’s handle and slowly pulls it out without a single grunt.

His hand was covered in his blood. He was twitching all over. But his confident persona didn’t even waver.

He walked over, handed Muscles the bloody Gladius, and smiled sweetly before saying:

“It sword of seems like I’ve been stabbed.”

And fell unconscious right into my arms.

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