The foreigner trundled along the street as a few cars passed him by unawares and those with their own business ignore him. Unassuming was a fine description, as was diminutive. Short, dark-skinned, naturally an immigrant dressed in a dark grey jacket with the collar turned upwards to stave off the crisp, late-night breeze, to anyone who saw him, he was obviously walking to his job, the graveyard shift at one place or another. His hands were deep in his pocket and he wore a wide brimmed hat, slightly off centre. With every step, he looked to the ground, avoiding eye-contact, not wishing to draw any attention to himself.


Meek, unassuming, a target; or so thought the four youths following close behind, picking the foreigner out several blocks back. They all shared the same intention. To threaten with violence, steal whatever he owned and then assault him anyway just for shits and giggles; something to brag about later. They closed in as their prey turned down an alleyway, maybe a short-cut to wherever he was heading and now was the time.


“Hey, guy, hold on, we just wanna chat,” the Mouth said. The foreigner mentally named him the Mouth for his ability to talk nothing non-stop. First, the Mouth asks him things, herding him in as he throws insults, laughing with the others before attacking his heritage and, strangely, his mother's honour. The foreigner, an Indian of some descent, never reacts, not once. Instead, he keeps his head low and not looking at any single person. This wasn't how the plan went, and the Mouth had had enough, stepping forward to knock off the hat covering his target's face. He leant in with his left hand raised and managed to move the hat an inch. The Mouth saw a flash of a broad grin, then he saw nothing at all.


The foreigner moved fast, too fast for the gang to react. His right hand shot upwards, trailing the Mouth's own extended arm like a snake gliding a tree's branch and sinking two fingers deep into his left eye socket. Before the Mouth could utter anything resembling a scream, his testicles were struck with a single kick, the hard leather boot instep smashing the soft delicate dangling objects in his pants. He sunk to the ground as pain exploded through his abdomen, taking the Mouth out of the fight.


The first of the gang to react stood off to the foreigner's left side, the Pincer-man, the one to blind side. Rushing forwards, he aims a clumsy punch to the back of the head, connecting but causing no small amount of pain in his own knuckles. The foreigner shuffled back into the punch, taking the blow while thrusting his left elbow into the Pincer's chest. A low thud resonates up the foreigner's arm as he hits a tad high, smacking breastbone instead of solar plexus, but it does the job nonetheless, halting Pincer's movement. Chambering his left leg, the foreigner brings a Vitae-enhanced stamp hard onto Pincer's leg, not quite enough to break it but enough to lock it dead straight and dislodge the kneecap. Two down, two to go.


They stood aghast, the pair facing the foreigner. One was backing away as the other drew a blade, a thin-bladed flick knife, more than capable of doing some major damage.


“Come on then,” the wielder shouted, his hand trembling. The foreigner didn't move, standing with bent legs, arms up and ready. The Knife lunged, the foreigner met him. Their eyes connected as they held each other in vice like grips, like first time lovers not quite sure what to do next. The foreigner straightened his legs, exploding upwards and smashing the Knife's nose with his head. His hat flew off as the Knife crumpled where he stood, blood gushing down a ruined face. The knife he held was still stuck in the foreigner's ribcage as he turned to the final youth, face pale and body trembling. There was no blood from the wound. He legged it past the foreigner to where they followed him in. He ran straight into him after five feet, the foreigner suddenly moving like shadows over water to intercept him, grabbing him in a choke that swiftly ceased his struggling as unconsciousness took him into its arms.


Jayant looked around. Interesting, he thought, it seems that being the sheep is one way of doing things. He fed a little on each, contemplating what this little process had taught him. Yes, he was the disciplined and exemplary with a knife but sometimes bare hands were required, and he knew more practise would be necessary.