[spoiler]Open.[/spoiler][b]Remains of Dojoville, 1312 hours[/b] [i]”Ey, runt.” “I ain’t no runt! You can fuсk right off, ye bunch of cu–“ “Whoa there, runt. You better watch ya mouth. Wouldn’ wanna lose any of them tiny teeth ye got there, eh?”[/i] The scene flashed before his eyes, replacing his current situation. There was a group of bigger kids. Tougher. Ganging up on him, the short, gangly wimp. A situation couldn’t get more cliché than that, and he wondered why he had to be the victim in said cliché. But a cry of pain tore Ainsley away from his memories, enlightening him to what was going on around him. With his left hand, he was clutching the neck of man in his mid twenties. Both hands were wearing a brass knuckle, two of the same pair. Each knuckle was black, hard, and heavy. Ainsley’s right hand was raised above his shoulder, poised to deliver a punch to the man’s face. The face in question was already bloodied and bruised. The nose looked to be broken, and the skin had turned purple long ago. There was blood on Ainsley’s right knuckle to show for it. [i]What did this guy do, again?[/i] He questioned himself. Why was he beating the living daylights out of him? Did he do something wrong? Or... did he just enjoy the feeling of his fist connecting with something that would get hurt? Ainsley grit his teeth. It was difficult to tell. Ainsley threw one last punch at the already unconscious man, then shoved him onto the ground. Beating a random person up served no purpose. A purpose was something he needed. The man looked up from the person he’d just beaten, taking in the scenery. His own dark brown hair was matted with sweat, and perspiration was drenching his lightly tanned skin. His built was a muscular, athletic one, 5’11” in height. It was the standard build of a fighter. In addition to the knuckles he wore on his fists, Ainsley had a .36 caliber revolver holstered at his left side. The weapon was painted white and gold, an appealing color scheme, with a thin, long barrel. There were two things that marked Ainsley as somebody who wasn’t your average street fighter. Firstly, his eyes. They were about as unnatural as they could get. He lacked distinctly colored pupils; instead, his irises were entirely opal colored. Electric blue, with various other bright colors swirling within them. Google opal if you can’t quite picture it. The second thing that made Ainsley stand out was the electric aura that emanating from him. He exuded electricity, which was not only felt, but also seen; sparks of blue lightning flickered around his body. Anybody who got physically near him would feel the electricity pulsing through them. Ainsley was standing in the middle of Dojoville. Or what was Dojoville, before it was burnt to ashes. Now, it was filled with dozens of other men like Ainsley–fighters. Many were battling over the remains and loot in Dojoville, but not Ainsley. No, he was just there to beat people up for the fun of it. Another man hurled his fist at Ainsley from his right side. Ainsley, having been caught off guard, staggered to the left, but only for a fraction of a second was he vulnerable. He quickly spun towards the offender, a grin on his face as he threw a punch towards the man’s chest. The two of them entered a heated brawl, which ended with Ainsley slamming his right fist right into the other man’s nose. All this fighting was bound to attract some attention.