A Warrior Born
"I told you I could take them," boasted a rider after removing his helmet. Dismounting his cycle, covered in various pieces of scrap metal to serve as some makeshift armor plating, he wheeled it onto the refuse lined curb to a boarded up establishment. Moving aside a select few planks, he pushed it and himself into the hidden space and out of the dangerous streets. Normally, he would be weary to brashly expose the entrance, day or night as evil lurked during both. This night, however, was safer since he made it safe. The only evil about was dead, as told by the blood splatters on his garment and ride. He looked into a young woman's eyes as they glared blankly back. "And you did not think I could."
Making himself at home in the crowded, dank room, he pulled off a belt draped over his shoulder, a holster for his weapon, and tossed it in the corner. There he let the sword, a pipe beaten flat with a brick, drip clean of the night's activities alongside his shed body armor, equally as crude. Taking awkward steps through the darkness, he passed his way around crates of food and supplies to a sink and mirror, turning on the single light bulb hanging overhead. He began telling the woman all he had accomplished: the foes slain, the wrong doers dispersed, the good done. The stories were regaled as he patched up the many wounds earned throughout his crusade, looking back occasionally to see the girl's reaction to his deeds.
"I knew you'd like that one," he chuckled, remembering how comical it was that the wedge of a man's skull landed into a comrade's mouth. "That one was for you, by the way." As he turned back to the mirror, he sprung to the entrance. The reaction came involuntarily upon seeing someone else in the reflection. There was not even enough time to discern who or what he saw before responding. Diving to his blade, he trust it out and scanned the room for any trace of the intruder, but there was no one else there at all. Darting his eyes to the woman, he asked if she had seen anything before remembering that she was just a photograph, years old, stuck in an improper frame.
He knew he was not imagining it. He was certain he saw someone there. He thought back to what it was, just a head over his shoulder. It was the face of a woman, no one he had seen before, alive or dead. There was something about her expression that he could not understand. It was one of warmth and kindness, which was exactly why he could not comprehend it. The last time he saw kindness was years ago and from the girl in the picture. Upon convincing himself that he was, in fact, alone, he rubbed his weary eyes and tossed the sword back into the pile with the rest of his armament. Rubbing them again, he looked back to the metal heap in disbelief.
The rusted pipe, which had lacked any real distinction between hilt and blade, was not there, nor was it in his grasp moments ago. A weapon of stunning beauty and craftsmanship sat in its stead, shining in the darkness. Its blade was straight, square, and red as blood. The handle was lined with an exquisite material, perfect for his grip. From the bottom hung a piece of fine cloth, dangling in two halves. Down the center of the blade were some faint etchings, symbols he had never seen, yet, as his eyes passed over them, they spoke to him.
"The Warrior of Virtue shall let Run the Blood of the Wicked." Picking up the blade again, he felt a power flow through his body. His eyes then fell onto the armor, blessed as well.
Smiling, he said, "Much good will come from this." The following nights would be different from the rest. Before, he slunk about the shadows, seeking small bands to eliminate, helping any weak he found. Now, he rode straight into the heart of disaster and called it out, begging for a challenge. His sword would feast on the blood of the evil he loathed. His fighting grew bolder, his tactics improved, and his spirit was lifted higher than it had been in years. He worked on his bike to turn it into a suitable steed, and soon the two worked in harmony. The only thing not to change was his dedication. As before, it all was still done for her memory, and that would live on as long as he breathed.
