'No way, no fucking way,' became the mantra in Mitchell's head, but his disbelief didn't make him a complete punching bag. He could defend and block against a blow or two. And yet, the hits kept coming over and over, and with Sal apparently being immune to both fire and pain, there was nothing the boy could grasp to make Sal stop.
Every memory of ever having been beaten to a pulp coalesced into this moment. And for the first time since Mitch had arrived to Asgard, he hated himself for being so helpless.
"YOU'RE the one, cough, prolonging this shit," Mitch growled. Then he regreted opening his mouth because of the blood spilling from his nose. He spit out a mouthful towards the side (since spitting at his enemy at this angle would do no good, with gravity and all) and glared a literally fiery glare; his irises had formed flames, briefly, before they returned to normal and he sighed in resignation.
"Then get it over with, Sal. I ain't in the mood to bitch at ya right now."