(Old Version) The Blood of the Covenant

Chapter Twelve: Micah

Micah was starting to wish he'd revealed he was blind. Maybe then, Scythe would've given him a better head start. Or maybe not. The greasy-sounding man seemed to enjoy tormenting him.

Micah muttered a curse as he missed a step on the staircase. He stumbled as he picked his way down as fast as he could, struggling to keep himself upright. He had to keep moving. He had to put distance between himself and the others. He had to find a place he could both hide in and defend. And he had to pray that Scythe would tell him how to win this stupid game. Otherwise, he was doomed.

As soon as his feet hit the flat floor, he took off. Running towards the back of the warehouse, where he could detect what seemed to be a section of long-abandoned offices and other assorted empty rooms, he made sure to keep a steady count in his head.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

He had a little more than forty seconds to find a place to hide. That is, if Scythe kept his word about the amount of time he had. He doubted it, honestly. The man seemed to be all about subverting expectations in a very irritating way.

Micah only wished his sixth sense was a bit stronger. As far away as he was, he couldn't detect the others. Especially since they were on the floor above him. The layers of walls and the floor made their energies fuzzy and faint, barely detectable with his full, undivided focus. Which he certainly was not capable of using at the moment.

He threw open a nearby room and ducked inside, heart pounding. This wasn't going to be easy. His hiding place was far from a clever one, and this fight was going to be five against one. The last time he'd gone up against these kinds of odds had left him beaten black and blue, semi-conscious in an alleyway. And that had only been against a group of drunken, middle-aged men. He was still sore from the beating he'd gotten. Micah wouldn't be surprised if most of these kids were trained fighters. Or at the very least, trained with their idios.

He absentmindedly rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest as he pondered over what to do next. He was at a disadvantage here. He knew little of the others' skills and idios, and was outnumbered. Not to mention the fact that he was blind. His sixth sense was only clear when he was focused, and the stress of combat tended to disrupt that direly necessary focus.

He couldn't do much about his first issue. He'd have to fight these people, regardless of what he knew of them. And he knew very little. He knew that Rose had wings, was a long-time student of Scythe's, and seemed to be a bit on the proud side. He knew that Lian was the son of the hero Yin-Yang, and was likely well-trained in martial arts. He knew Alastor's idio was potentially lethal, and that Alastor seemed to be easily provoked. Max was a cyborg of some sort, but Micah couldn't detect what abilities that his metal parts granted him. And he knew close to nothing at all of Colton.

And best of all, each of them already seemed to resent him to some extent.

Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

He didn't have much time left. He needed a plan. Something simple, but effective. Something that would allow him to at the very least survive this. Winning didn't look like a viable option right now. Right now, it would be satisfying enough for him to just avoid being murdered. Though his ego ached at the thought of losing, he'd take a loss now if it meant living to win another day.

After a moment's thought, he had it. A semblance of a plan. It was as simple as could be. He'd need to separate each person. Take them out one by one. His first target would need to be Rose. She, out of all of the others, seemed like she might be the easiest to handle. Her pride would be easy to pick at. Prideful people tended to slip up when challenged or prodded. He would know. He'd been teased by Adelaide more times than he could count for falling victim to hubris.