It might have been the way the light was hitting him, or maybe the unappealing shape of his spectacles, but the boy did not leave a memorable impression. On the outside, the young boy looked average in every way. His lackluster brown hair fell at an average length over his average brow. But behind his lackluster eyes, you could almost see a flame burning. Time and tribulations seemed to weaken it, but the truth could not hide. Even his fire was average.

“Average,” the bartender called out.

“My name is Anthony,” the boy responded meekly, “I wish you would stop calling me that, boss.”

“Maybe when you stop putting in the bare minimum effort in everything you do,” the irate bartender moved closer to the boy, “I will consider that you might have a real name. But until then, in my restaurant, you are ‘Average.’ Do you understand?”

The broom almost creaked with the force of Anthony’s grip. The boy stared at his feet.

“Yes sir, I’ll try harder, sir.”

“See that you do,” the bartender mocked, full of himself. “We have some distinguished guests coming in, go show them to a table and take their orders.” The manager pointed to the entrance where a group of 3 young men stood, clad in tattoos, bruises, and scars. On each of their left shoulders was a design of a sword inside of a shield, surrounded by flames.

“Welcome to the ‘Anyway Cafe,’ you may sit anywhere you like,” he motioned to all the empty tables, “here are some menus, please let me know when you are ready to order.” With a curt nod, he stepped back and let the men sit by an open window in the middle of the restaurant.

“Get us some drinks, kid,” the most boisterous of the three men barked, throwing the menu to the ground by the table.

“Some ale and some meat,” another called, adding his menu to the one on the ground.

“Right away,” the boy replied obediently bending down to lift the menus. Anything fought to keep shame from showing on his face. Instead, his face was like a stone, devoid of emotion. He moved slowly, lacking any pressing urgency or motivation. He swept up the two menus when a third sailed through the air, slapping him across the face and landing behind him. His glasses fell to the floor, and Anthony picked up the last menu. He cleared his throat and retrieved his spectacles, “will there be anything else?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the third man growled, “me and my boys want you to apologize.”

Laughter erupted from the table. Anthony straightened, still silent.

“Your presence is nauseating. There’s no way we can enjoy our food without an apology. . . ” the leader chuckled.

“Or some more humiliation,” the rude man added.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony replied, “I will be back with your order.”

The young man started away, but the three thugs had not had their fun. As he walked past the men, a beaten-up leather boot appeared in his way. Anthony tripped, lunging forward and crashing into a table in the back. Anthony lifted himself using the toppled table. He did not immediately feel the cold dessert dripping from his head. He jumped to his feet, patting himself down and desperately trying to get at the ice-cream now crawling under his clothes.

“YOU HAPLESS INGRATE!” a roar resounded from behind the bar, as the proprietor attacked Anthony with the broom the young man had been using. “I GIVE YOU THIS JOB OUT OF THE GOODNESS OF MY HEART, AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME!? HOW DARE YOU GIVE THESE CUSTOMERS A HARD TIME!?” The owner finished beating the young man and hurried to the table with the three thugs, “my humblest apologies, such distinguished victors of the Crucible should not have to suffer the presence of someone so pathetic.”

Anthony struggled to stand, holding his aching sides where the broom did the most damage. He could not look away from his manager, groveling in front of the three men. But in his heart, he didn’t have any resentment.

I agree. . . I am pathetic. . . I can’t even stand up for myself. Especially not against three Crucible winners. As the young man righted himself, he noticed the table starting to lift off the ground. He hadn’t paid much attention to the other person in the restaurant before, but the man with black hair and red eyes now demanded it.

“Hey old man,” a deep growl called all eyes on Victor, who held the small table right over his head, “I only had one bite.”

“What’s that? Thank you for picking up the table, but I can’t hear you,” the owner called out, before being hit square in the chest by the airborne table.

“I SAID ‘I ONLY HAD ONE BITE,’ YOU DEAF BASTARD!” Victor yelled, turning his sight on the three men who rose to their feet.

“You fucker, what in Hadia do you think you’re doing?!” one man demanded.

“What am [b/]I[/b] doing?!” Victor yelled, “What are you doing?! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to have diabetes with a sweet tooth like mine!? My doctor says I can only have sweets once a week, and you bastards went and destroyed my sundae!”

“Who the fuck cares about your sundae?!” the second man said, “do you have any idea who you’re messing with?!”

“That’s right,” the leader stepped into the floor, nothing between him and Victor, “you see this?” He asked, lifting a fist to his tattooed shoulder, “it means we’ve gone through the crucible and won. You’d better run if you know what’s good for you.”

“Crucible?” Victor asked, stepping forward, “That sounds cute, are you trying to be cute?”

“You asked for this,” the rude man growled, taking a knife he had been concealing in his boot.

Anthony wanted to help. He was not sure if the black haired man had seen the knife, but he knew a fight against a gladiator would end badly for both of them. Anyone who won was ruthless and would do anything to ensure victory. Anthony got to his feet but was no match for the thug’s speed. He blinked, and it was over.

“Who’s next,” Victor sighed, rubbing his fist and stepping over the unconscious body at his feet. He locked his red eyes on the leader, who took a step back. Anthony's stare grew wide.

“H-hey, what in Hadia do you think you’re doing?” the leader stuttered, “go get him.”

The second man hesitated for a moment but charged anyway. Victor launched him over the bar into the wall like a rag doll.

“What in Hadia are you?” the leader quivered, “if you mess with us, Mr. Steinhardt will kill you for sure.”

“Oh, good, is he your boss?” Victor whispered, now within arm's reach of the thug, “because I have some words for him. . .”

“W-what are they. .?” the leader quivered.

“'You owe me a sundae,'” Victor whispered, before throwing the man through the closest window.

“Don’t worry kid,” Victor sighed, keeping his back to Anthony. Sunlight from outside illuminated his brown coat and gave him an almost holy glow, “just keep your chin up and don’t let little fuckers like these get you down. They have no idea what it means to be strong.”

Anthony stood in disbelief. He threw those seasoned warriors around like they were children. . . And he seemed familiar with Mr. Steinhardt. . . Just who the in Hadia is this stranger? But before Anthony could ask anything, Victor was gone, and the city guards were making their way inside the restaurant.

“There he is!” one Guardsman yelled, “that guy in the brown coat said a kid in glasses started a fight and injured three gladiators and the owner!”

“Grab him!” another guard yelled.

“Huh?” Anthony replied, before every fiber of his being forced him to flee through the door out the back, through the kitchen.

“He’s a louse! He’s a total good-for-nothing scumbag!” Anthony yelled, turning down another back alley.

“Anyone, I know?” Victor asked, keeping pace with the young man.

“Holy gods!” Anthony exclaimed, almost crashing into a pile of rubbish that was waiting to be picked up. “It’s you! Go back there and turn yourself in!!”

“For what?” Victor asked nonchalantly, “you're the one who beat up all those people.”

“I did no such thing!” Anthony cried as the pair turned another corner.

“I don’t know; those guards seemed pretty convinced.”

“Because you convinced them!!” Anthony yelled.

“Semantics,” Victor picked his nose while they ran, “either way, we need a place to lay low for a while.”

“Why would I go anywhere with you?!”

“One because if I get caught, you get caught, and two because we’re now partners in crime!” Victor grinned. “Besides, I’m the only one who believes you’re innocent.”

“That’s because I am!” Anthony turned to yell more at the man when they ran into a crowded street. It did not take long for them to crash into another person, who had just been walking out of a shop.

“Damn it,” Victor sighed, rubbing his back as he stood off the ground.

“Anthony?” the voice of a young woman called out. A lady stood up from the ground, her long brown hair falling against her back as the rosy ribbon which tied it fell to the ground. She tried to dust off her clothes, revealing a salmon-colored dress as the dust fell. Victor noticed the recurring theme of pink in her clothes as he stood. It took him a moment, but finally, he recognized the hostess Ashley who had swindled him.

“Angela?! Sister, what are you doing here?” Anthony replied, surprise and a hint of fear in his voice.

"Sister!?" Victor hissed, shocked.

"Oh? Mr. Victor, how nice to see you again," Angela smiled an empty smile.“I'm doing some shopping for dinner. What are you doing here?” she asked her brother innocently, “shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I-uh. . . yeah, I mean, no, I took a break and umm. . .” Anthony fumbled for a lie.

“If by break you mean probably got fired. . .” Victor whispered under his breath.

“What’s that now?” the woman’s entire demeanor changed instantly, and a chill befell the street. Victor and Anthony could feel her stare piercing them, and an almost tangible intention to kill resonated from her. “What do you mean. . . fired. .? Are you trying to say you lost your job? Anthony?”

“No! It’s not like that, this guy got into a fight, and the owner was injured and-” but a power grip took hold of his shirt and lifted him slightly into the air. Victor turned to leave but noticed he was not moving. The same powerful grip would not release him, and a profound terror washed over him. Victor turned to argue, to fight, to claim any moral higher ground. But the look in Angela's eye robbed him of any courage that burned in his heart.

“Did you get my little brother fired?” a sinister hiss asked.

“I-I s-swear sis,” Victor stuttered, turning back slightly to show a weak, trembling smile “we can beat this thing. Those city guards have nothing on our little bro.”

“GUARDS?! He’s on the run from the guards!?” she roared and followed it with a savage beating.