My Way's Better

Brick growls his frustration as the bandit he was shooting at dives behind cover. He never was good at sniping, but Mordecai had insisted he give it a go. Better to have a wide range of weapon knowledge than be caught out, he's said.

Mordecai ruined his dressy shirt that time, though. His advice doesn't mean much right now.

Ignoring Mordecai's mutterings of "wait, he'll come back out soon enough", Brick runs toward the little shack, weaving in and out of rock formations. Mordecai screams for him to come back, but Brick ignores him.

He's a natural disaster in the making. An avalanche about to be let loose on the bandit. A volcano eruption.

He enters the shack, feeling the power in his chest, his arms, as he flexes in preparation for what he intends to do to the bandit when he gets his hands on him. Movement. Just a flicker. Growling, he heads toward it, barrels forward, and doesn't slow down, even as the bandit in the other room shrieks at him.

His fists make jam out of the bandit, and keep going. Maybe he'll make wine.

Brick's just starting to come down from the high when Mordecai leaps in through the door and stares at him. He punches the red smear once more, and then brushes his fists off on his trousers. Looks up at Mordecai, who simply stares at him.

"My way's better," Brick says.