I cooked in the kitchen, alone.

It had been a slow day. One of the rare moments where routine can no longer be relied upon; normalcy falling apart like ash in the breeze. The regular customers were busy with whatever hand life had dealt them, and rush hour passed by with only two or three visitors. Ma, sensing a rare opportunity, had left to attend to some ‘business’, leaving her three children to look after the restaurant.

My thoughts spun in dark patterns. Solitude didn’t suit me, and when coupled with the kind of grey idleness that blanketed the morning I was left feeling particularly grim. Given the lack of business, I had shooed the twins away to study – Spider knew they could make better use of it than I could. Sullen clouds swirled above, robbing our home of the light that would usually filter through it at this time.

It had been ten days since I had last seen Bab, and every day I looked forward to him visiting again. Properly introducing him to Sash was a prospect that filled me with wordless glee; the image of him fumbling and stuttering his way through one of my sister’s rants was uniquely hilarious. Yet his morning visits had halted. All too slowly, I was beginning to figure out that I had been used.

One of the pans gurgled as oil overheated and popped, spraying speckles of boiling liquid over my arms. I swore, resisting the urge to smash everything around me, then extinguished the stove. There were more productive things to do than puttering around the kitchen ineffectually; activities arduous or complicated enough to empty my skull of thoughts. Maybe I could persuade one of the twins to spar with me.

Recently, Ma had begun to extend our morning practice. The time spent bare-fisted had halved, while the hours spent with weapons in our hands had doubled. Sash and Dash were having a great time beating the snot out of me. It was fun for me as well, but a significantly more painful breed than the twins were subjected to. Ma knew I could train for longer than they could, so while one of my siblings were resting, the other was sparring with me. It was frustrating and exhausting, however the end result was that I was improving slightly faster than they were. They were hitting me less, and my blunted stick was whacking them more. My hope of stopping them from joining the Old Guard was seeming like less and less of a pipe dream.

Though, whenever I practiced with my pilfered sword, I was becoming increasingly aware of how little I knew of real combat. Was I slicing correctly? Would my blows even break skin? I had no way of knowing. After all, the only opponent I had fought with a real weapon was air.

I heard Dash greet a customer from the front, then scowled. If I had to relight the stove, I was going to throw a serious temper tantrum. Then Sash began cussing someone out. I strode out of the kitchen, only to see a face I had forgotten existed.

Dash sat on the floor, nursing a split lip. In front of him, his sister stood, swearing up at a fat fellow – whose vast bulk threatened to flow out of his shirt – flanked by two large men, each easily a foot taller than me. One of the big men was completely bald – his black scalp shone despite the complete of light. Besides Dash, the rest of the room was curiously undisturbed – tables and chairs were still upright, the floor shone, and the shutters facing the courtyard rattled in the wind. My face contorted into a strange expression. I was half-angry and half-relieved. Something was happening. The owner of Bushwhack had arrived.

“You people are the scum of the earth, fat to be dropped in the rubbish!” Sash spat. “Nothing would make me happier than for you to sink into the ground and be eaten by the Owl!”

“Puh-lease, little girl.” The plump man’s jowls jiggled as he spoke. “To call us trash? After dipping your hands in dung and smearing it across my lovely restaurant?”

Sash sneered. “The words coming out of your mouth are complete and utter nonsense.”

Both Dash and I knew they weren’t.

I inserted myself between the arguing parties. “Excuse me, sirs, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The shiny-pated guard shook his head, overly-muscled neck cracking as it moved from side to side. “Not until head chef says so.”

I turned to the person in question, speaking through gritted teeth. “Well, Mr. Head Chef, would you be so kind as to leave? We were about to close up shop, and we keep nothing valuable on the premises anyway.” Only one of those statements was true – I was reasonably sure Ma stashed the shop’s earnings inside the well.

The owner of Bushwhack opened his mouth to speak, however my sister beat him to it. “Can I fight them, Orvi?” she pleaded. Apparently, the lesson she had learned from attacking Blake had stuck with her. I was glad; as skilled as she was, I couldn’t see her winning a fight with men so large on her own. “Please?”

“No, Sash,” I said, despite my own burgeoning fury, “let’s hear what they came for first.”

The rotund chef cleared his throat. “E-hem. As I was saying-“ he glared at Sash, “-my lovely eatery was vandalised by ruffians ten days ago. Now, usually I wouldn’t do anything so crass as to invade another restaurant, however your little hole is the only other restaurant in the area.” He looked meaningfully at me. “The only one who could possibly profit off such behaviour.”

“What’re you implying, Mr. Chef?”

“Did I not make it clear enough for you?” He scoffed. “You. Did. It. And I’m here for reparations for the damages caused.”

I wracked my brain, my fury dulled somewhat. I hadn’t expected anyone to come after us for Dash and I’s petty crime. “You’ve got evidence for this?”

“Do I need any? Who else would do such a thing?”

I let out a sharp exhale. “I don’t know. What do you think the Guard will say about this? About your act of, erm…” I searched for the word.

“Vigilantism.” Sash supplied.

“Vigilantism!” I announced proudly. “And even if we did do it, which we didn’t, does that give you the right to come in here and punch a nine-year-old child?”

The other large man – this one with a thick head of brown hair – shuffled nervously. “I didn’t mean to do it, he just, y’know, came at me!”

“I didn’t!” Dash protested, slowly getting to his feet. “I was coming to greet you! I thought you were customers!”

“Oh.” The hairy guard looked down. “Sorry about that, kid.”

The greasy cook let out an exasperated grunt. “Don’t apologise.”

“But chef-“

“No buts! We’re rivals! They overstepped-“

I interrupted him. “Allegedly overstepped-“

“-their boundaries, and this is what they get!”

I would’ve spat at him, but that would have run the risk of dirtying the floor. “What are we ‘getting’, Mr. Chef?” I spoke in an imitation of Jackson’s voice, hoping to intimidate the trio.

Of course, the effect was lessened somewhat coming from a fourteen-year-old teenager. “We are ‘giving’ you front row seats to your shop being wrecked.”

Sounded about right.

“You can’t do that!” Dash protested.

Sash echoed his sentiments. “I, just… how dare you!” she stuttered, slightly stunned,

I clicked my tongue, anger simmering. “Alright, dear guests. Just… wait a minute, I need to check something.” Without waiting for a reply I spun on my heel and marched back into the kitchen, the rival business-owner’s voice calling after me.

“I refuse to wait! Now-“

“Stop it! Ma’s going to-“ That was Dash.

“Calling for mummy-“

“And Jackson will-“

“Who?”

“Just stop!”

My brother, in an uncharacteristic display of valour, managed to distract the trio for the few seconds I needed to bring a frying pan from the kitchen. Its contents were no longer as scalding as they were, however that was for the best. I wouldn’t want to permanently disfigure anyone.

Baldy noticed my return, however the chef was too busy attempting to win an argument with a prepubescent, and Hairy simply stared at the ceiling, likely wishing he were anywhere else. I flung the scalding oil at the three of them. Baldy wasn’t loyal enough to risk his life for his boss, so he ducked away. The bulk of my payload splattered across the fat fellow’s bulging shirt, some speckles touching his face and arms. He screeched, only to be silenced by Dash jabbing him in the throat. I followed through by smacking him in the head with the still scalding pan. The Bushwhack’s owner dropped, groaning like an overfed pig.

Hairy’s expression morphed into one of absolute horror, and he reared his fist back in preparation to punch my brother. Sash ducked behind him and looped her arms around his beefy biceps, placing all her weight on the man’s thick arm. He stumbled slightly, but remained upright.

I was too busy worrying for my siblings to notice Baldy socking me in the jaw. I dipped back slightly, but bereft of any sort of guard the glancing blow was still enough to send me stumbling against a table. I dragged myself upright, then scrambled away, a powerful kick knocking the table on its side. I used the momentum to slip past the massive man, scooping up the pan as I did so.

I twisted to face him, seeing Sash coiling her body around both of Hairy’s arms while her twin laid into him with a chair. My opponent was fractionally too slow spinning around, slightly distracted by the sight. I took advantage of his torpor by springing off a chair to slam my still-heated pan on the man’s hairless pate, the handle of it breaking off in my hand.

He yelled and batted the pan on his head, but his dark skin stuck. Baldy hissed, then heaved the hot metal off his head, pieces of skin peeling off with it. Mimicking Dash, I grabbed a chair and smashed it on the man’s back, the impact sending the wood juddering out of my hands, the fumble giving him enough time to turn and face me. He roared, then charged, only to stumble over the chair at his feet.

Unbalanced, my ensuing tackle was enough to take both his feet out from under him, despite my significantly smaller size. We both toppled to the ground in a mess of limbs, however his bewilderment gave me room to wriggle out from under him. The man attempted to rise, but I sent my bare heel smashing into his temple. Baldy rolled sideways, grunting.

A glance over to my siblings saw them having the situation well in-hand – Sash was choking the poor guard while he keeled over, clutching his gonads. My brother looked guiltily horrified. Mr. Head Chef was dizzily making his way to his feet, so I kicked him in the side of the head, ending his attempts.

I turned back to Baldy, only to see the man in question hurling a right hook my way with frightening speed. The punch was too fast to dodge, so I instead caught it on my guard, the dulled blow still hard enough to set my ears ringing. Two jabs to the huge man’s jaw failed to make him flinch. I ducked another hook, then backed away towards the kitchen, Baldy still pursuing.

The large fellow decided to steal one of my moves – which I had stolen from Dash – by grabbing a chair and sweeping it towards me. I hurriedly backed away, the wood swishing past, only for Baldy to reverse his grip and slam it down in an overhead blow. I leapt backwards, the poor seat shattering into splinters. I felt a stinging pain beneath my eye as a shard of wood embedded itself there. Gripping the fragmented remains of a once-noble chair, Baldy charged once again and I flung a table into his way, buying me the precious moments needed to enter the kitchen.

I was mildly upset he didn’t lose his grip on the chair throughout the process – obviously the man was a better furniture-wielder than I.

I barrelled into the tiny room, gaze alighting on my prize: a metal potlid still gleaming with condensation. As soon as I grabbed it, Baldy was inside the tiny room, only for his eyes to widen as I flung steaming noodle soup at him. He immediately retreated back outside. Jumping over the now-ruined meal, I followed.

My opponent was waiting, and swung his dual chair-legs down at me. I slipped aside one, letting the other glance off my makeshift shield, then smashed the potlid against a white-knuckled hand. Baldy yelped, releasing one his weapons, and I snatched it as it fell.

Now properly equipped, I pursued, letting loose a flurry of blows against Baldy’s skull. Having to swing upward took some of the force out of my strikes, however I could still see my opponent reeling from the hits. He blocked my slapdash club with a beefy forearm, then threw his chair-leg at me. I let the awful toss miss me, only to frown as the man drew a dagger from his pants, taking a wide-legged stance. It seemed he was a poor loser.

He stabbed at me, and once again I smashed the dented kitchen implement against his arm. Despite keeping a grip on the knife, he howled and stumbled backwards, giving me a truly massive opening. I pre-emptively flinched as I visualised my next move. I dropped my shield and gripped my stick with two hands, swinging it upward to crash between Baldy’s legs, squashing the delicate organs that lay there. He fell to his knees and groaned, dropping his weapon and clutching what once was his greatest hope for siring future generations. I broke the chair-leg over his bald head, and he fell face first into the ground.

I bent over, panting, then paused. An almost tactile feeling hit me, as if another piece of my body sat aching meters away. A sensation I hadn’t felt in some time hit me. Someone was about to die.

I looked upwards to see my sister choking her unconscious opponent, Dash repeatedly punching him in the jaw.

“Stop.” I whispered, trying to avoid the quiet voice telling me to let him die. They continued.

“STOP!” I yelled. “You’re going to kill him!”

Dash’s fists shuddered to a halt as I stumbled my way through a dining area full of overturned furniture. Together, the two of us managed to pull a flailing Sash off the hairy man. She strained against our grips, manic in her desire to continue attacking.

“He’s done, he’s done.” I told her. Her struggles slowed, then halted, her rage finally quenched. The three of us leaned against a wall, adrenaline still quivering through us. I began taking deep breaths, and the twins quickly copied me. I closed my eyes and gave both of them a silent thumbs up. They had done a pretty good job, excepting the near-murder. Still, Sash had stopped far faster than I thought she would; I guess she was getting better are controlling her emotions.

“What-“ Dash’s voice broke. He tried again. “What do we do?”

I opened my eyes to a restaurant full of splintered furniture. My siblings looked at me with wide eyes.

“Uh. I guess we… get these Bushwhack people out… and then get some new chairs.”

They nodded, and we got to work.