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Hawk picked up his duffel bag with his left hand, holding it such that it covered his forearm, almost like a shield. Without a word he stalked forward towards Aries through the jagged grass, under a sky so dark the edges of the clouds could not be seen. Aries didn't move; he merely drew the machete with his one hand, from the sheath at his hips.

"You know," he said, lifting the machete, "I never could get my arm working again, after whatever you did to it. Had to pop the damn thing off. I'm still pretty mad about that. In fact, I--"

Hawk was on him before he could finish his sentence. The machete went up and Hawk brought the duffel down--the machete speared through the bag easily, and the blade clipped Hawk in the shoulder, resulting in a spurt of blood. The force and the weight drove the handle of the machete into Aries' chest, though, and Hawk pulled his other fist back.