The mafia men came screaming around the corner, hoping to capitalize on their 'surprise' attack still and were met by the wall of silent, heavily armed Burrio Boys. From there, it degenerated into a melee rather quick.
                              
Reaper's dark eyes scanned the crowd of men, searchnig for one face in particular, and tragically enough, not finding it. Juntez, that cobadre, had bailed out on his own men and left them to fend for themselves in this fight. A snarl made it's way onto Reaper's face and the anger flared in his chest. In that moment he wasn't Malcolm, or even Reaper but instead was just one of the many, thrashing and fighting faceless men in the crowd. He wasn't a boy, injured by his sister's death and haunted by the horrors she lived in her last breaths; instead he was a tool to mete out pain. His fist slammed into flesh, skidded across bone and tore open against teeth.
                              
Pain seared into Reaper's body, muscles pushed past their thresholds, skin torn open and joints popped. He grunted or cried out when he was injured, not caring if the sounds of pain marked him as a weaker man. His pride wasn't a part of the equation, his reputation served no purpose right now and he abandoned them as the useless constructs he knew they were. Because he accepted his pain, he used it and let it fuel his counter strikes. A weak jab from an opponent was met with a hard right cross, Reaper's senses once again giving him the moments in fragmented senses.
                              
He felt the skin on the back of his knuckles stretch painfully as he slugged the man fighting him. It felt like tearing nylon as the skin reached it's tensile breaking point and peeled open. The flush of hot blood just blended into the stinging pain of sweat and his attention snapped to another focus. His eyes darted from his opponent's and caught the tell tale deke the man was about to throw and instead slammed his fist into the man's neck but it wasn't a perfect strike. His heart beat throbbed a hard, powerful drum beat that his body followed like a marionette on a string. He actually couldn't hear anything past his own pulse and his focus was on see the dangers around him and his own body. His breathe was harsh in his lungs, rasping up the dry, raw channel of his throat and panting out between his gritted teeth.
                              
The men fell and scattered under the assault of the Burrio Boys, ill prepared to deal with their ambush falling apart. Carlitos chased after the last of the fleeing mafia men and the other howled out their triumph while the distant sound of sirens loomed. Reaper's sense of reality snapped back into place as he became more than just the blood pumping through his veins, fuelling the muscles that were saturated with adrenaline. He was once again the man who was once again haunted by being unable to exact revenge for his murdered sister.
                              
~~~~
                              
Reaper stared at the reflection in the mirror and felt nothing as he slowly wiped the blood off of his face. His own, theirs, it didn't matter. The red fluid only ever served to remind him of why he did this. Why he was willing to cast aside his own humanity until he felt that those violadores got the punishment that they deserved. Adrianna deserved to rest in peace and her savaged corpse still haunted his nightmares, driving his vengeance beyond the bounds of reason.
                              
Almost mechanically the sixteen year old used an old and raggedy towel to rinse and wipe, ring out, rinse and wipe again. "Parca, algo serio?" Reaper heard one of the Burrio Boys ask through the door.
                              
"Nothing serious. I'm alright. Not even bleeding still." He replied, lying through his teeth because he didn't want to be bothered.
                              
His knuckles were split open and bleeding, the white of one knuckle hidden amongst the gorey red still welling out. He needed stiches and knew it, choosing to let it scar badly because he couldn't bring himself to move from the sink. The others were out there celebrating, he could hear it through the thin wood of the door. The music, the sound of bottles and glass clinking, the incessant talking. That's all these useless putas were good for, talking. He hated them all and they knew it. He hated everything, but they were all already aware of what he was getting ready to do. He hadn't been subtle.
                              
Two years ago four men dared use and dispose of his beautiful sister. She had been intelligent and pure, above the rest of them. Reaper knew she wouldn't want him to lower himself to their level, but they had to pay. The memory flashed through Reaper's mind, reminding him of why he earned the nick name. Adrianna, loosely wrapped in a paint stained canvas tarp and dumped out by the large dumpster. Her long, luscious hair had been ripped and hacked, bloody patches in her scalp, her face looked like so much grated meat and her body.....
                              
Malcolm's fist connected to the mirror and he stood snarling silently at the shattered pieces. Each shard reflected the image of himself back, some splattered with blood, some showing the wild eyed madness lurking just under the surface and some just showing a teenager who was desperately scarred by the murder of his sister and whom was drowing in revenge.
                              
The first tear slipped out and dragged down Reaper's cheek, clearing a faint trail through the dirt and blood on his face, smoothing and soothing over the bruises and contusions. He'd gone into a gang fight today with every intention of killing one of the men that had done that to his sister. And he hadn't decided yet whether or not he was glad that he never got the chance. The cobarde (coward) had never even showed up, letting his brothers take the fight in his place. But Malcolm was secretly glad because he was sure he wouldn't have been man enough to kill the other. Not yet.
                              
The door behind him opened and Reaper caught sight of Carlitos. "Use it." Carlitos commanded, voice low. He stepped up behind the younger man and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Everything. The anger, the fear, the self loathing, the happiness and the pain. Every single part of it is a weapon. You are the Reaper, your rage is your scythe. Make them pay for what they did to her." he squeezed Mal's shoulder and left without waiting for a response.
                              
Reaper didn't have one for him. He wasn't sure what it was he wanted to do to these men, but he knew that whatever it was, they would be begging for mercy before he was done. There was no mercy to be had from this sixteen year old though. No, right now those hijos de puta had no clue the kind of nightmare stalking them. But soon enough they would learn to fear the name Reaper. Soon.
                              
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You guys might recognize some of this. We have officially caught up with the teaser :P