Seth carried a compact baton on him at all times, which hung openly on his belt in a small sheath. Shortened as it normally was, it measured only eight inches long, and weighed a solid three pounds. It had a soft, plush lining on the handle, but the bar itself was steel, and snapped to its full length of two feet with a flick of the wrist, locking solidly in place by no means other than the tight pressure of its well fitted parts. He was well trained in its use, as well as that of a few other weapons, though he didn't get into fights very often. He wore it more so as a sign - don't mess with me if you value your wellbeing. It was effective.
When his country had been overtaken by a revolutionary war, he had been lucky not to be drafted, and he wanted nothing to do with the revolutionaries. He wanted only to be left alone - he cared not for which side won, as long as he was permitted to live his life. He was a law abiding citizen, and a hard worker. He just happened to be a martial artist as well. It gave him a good outlet for his energy, and when he felt the urge in his muscles to get up and move, he knew exactly where to turn to do so. He found the feeling of a friendly sparring match to be relieving in a way. The bruises never bothered him.
Unfortunately, the revolutionaries weren't very happy with his attitude, and had frequently confronted him while he was winding down after a good day's work in the bars. They'd try to get physical with him, to push him over the edge to fight, but a couple quick whacks from his baton generally sent them scurrying. The bartender never called him out on its use. It kept things quiet. They could appreciate that.
But the revolutionaries were growing increasingly irritated with Seth. One night, as he was leaving the bar, one in particular cornered him in an alleyway. He swore up and down, calling out Seth on his inaction, threatening his life if he didn't choose a side, saying he was just as bad as the government's lapdogs trying to take away their freedom. The man didn't seem to realize the irony of his words, as he stopped Seth from returning home.
The man took a step forward, and the baton was in Seth's hand, swinging out into position with a metallic slide. The man glared but did not step down, continuing to inch forward, never ceasing his verbal assault. As he drew into striking distance, Seth moved quickly, the baton flicking through the air and hitting the man's arm hard. The arm immediately dropped, the nerves temporarily shot, which was when Seth saw what the arm was doing. A pistol had suddenly appeared in it, finger on the trigger, and he just barely turned his body in time to minimize his surface area and dodge the bullet. It had clearly been aimed at his ribcage.
The revolutionary had stopped talking, his eyes cold as he glared at Seth. "I see you won't step down so easily," Seth muttered under his breath. He didn't lower his baton, pointing it directly between the man's eyes from a lowered position, as he slipped his hand into his coat and its inner pocket. He had practiced the move a number of times, his fingers stretching into the open latex laying in wait for him.
There was a loud bang as the revolutionary fired again. His bullet was aimed directly at Seth's forehead this time, but the bullet's trajectory changed abruptly in midair, flying off to the side and impaling itself in the wall. The look of shock was apparent in his eyes. Seth drew his hand from the pocket, a white glove now covering it, which sparked twice with a blue electricity. Moments later, like pixels falling in place on a computer screen, the baton in his hand was enveloped by a large electric blade, extending forward, placing itself directly between the man's gun and Seth's forehead. Its presence had deflected the bullet.
The revolutionary clearly didn't know what to make of it. His eyes were wide, and the gun in his hand was shaking. He wouldn't be able to take another clear shot in that condition, regardless of whether or not Seth could deflect another bullet. "Let's dance," Seth spat.
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