The leader

They have about a split-second before you lunge toward them, feinting toward the taller man, then juking toward the leader with a tackle that completely topples him over. And a good thing too, because you hear the telltale flick of a switchblade coming from his right hand just as you manage to pin his arm to the ground with your left. Your right elbow falls and impacts his nose with a sickening crunch that stains your sleeve with blood and adds more fuel to your internal fire. Your hands ache to lay into this bastard, but the rational part of your mind restrains you and pushes you to roll off his stunned body just as his burlier comrade takes a swing at where your head had just been.

A low kick to the leader's head lays him out when he tries to rise, and a sharp pivot of that same leg brings your foot into the side of the larger man's knee. You hit at the wrong angle, and you recoil in pain when your toes start throbbing at the impact.

Geez! What, is this guy made of metal?

You look up to see him advancing on you and decide that whatever he is is not something you want to get hit by. His fists swing at you multiple times, but your lack of size and girth aid you in avoiding his blows until he puts all his weight behind a massive haymaker that you duck under. Your body spins behind his, and you deliver a low kick to the back of the same knee you aimed for last time. It barely jolts him, and he's turning back toward you a second later. The sound of movement from behind prompts you to whirl toward the source and lunge backward when the recovered leader lunges at you with his knife. Your leather jacket manages to deflect the glancing blow, but he's swinging at you a split-second later, the blade just missing you each time.

Despite being quite a bit larger than you, this man is certainly not slow, and he soon has you practically running away from his quick knife-strikes as you look for a way to even the odds. You spot something in the corner of your eye and make a split-second decision you know you'll come to regret later. You turn suddenly and sprint toward your porch, the leader chasing you as his comrade follows at a much slower pace. You reach the porch first and leap to the other side of your rocker chair, dodging and ducking behind the wooden furniture as your assailant makes several swipes at you.

Finally, he exposes himself with a stab over top of the chair, and you fall into a deep crouch, practically lying on your side when you kick the chair's center mass with everything you've got. The wooden object slams into the man's gut, winding him long enough for you to get up and plant a thrust-kick in his chest. He trips backwards down the steps as he stumbles back, falling flat on his ass and leaving himself open to a double knee-drop to the torso. You feel more than hear something in his chest break, mainly because your ears are filled with the dissonant sound of your own voice, twisted into a roar that smacks of something wild and feral.

In your red-tinged haze, you reach over to his suddenly limp fingers and snatch up the switchblade in an underhanded grip, catching sight of the larger thug approaching rather quickly with an alarmingly enraged expression on his face.

His rage doesn't come anywhere close to yours.

The frustration and injustice of the charges leveled against you, the sting of betrayal, hatred of your accusers. You feel it all, all at once, finally allowing yourself to feel it, and you hate every second of it. It's pure poison, and like any poison, you need to let it out before it destroys you. So you do. The next half-minute or so passes in a red-tinted blur as you release every scrap of rage and hurt inside you, both you and your assailant sustaining injuries but your body not feeling any of it. You don't even feel it as he wrenches your wrist a few degrees in the wrong direction, disarming you, and lays you out on the ground, or as he pins you to the grass and curls his fingers around your neck.