The beauty of magic is the aid it gives to everyday life. It's the first aspect of it that Ritchie fell in love with. Someone small and feeble wasn't resigned to a feeling of helplessness; with skill, willpower and the right circumstances, anyone could be capable if not dangerous. There is no need for brute strength or quick reaction times.

Today it does not help him. Ritchie falls on his ass about as ceremoniously as a bridge detonation. He scrambles for balance, knocking a few books off the table in the process. He can only hang onto one, gripping it tightly with one arm as he curls into a ball and nurses his face with his free hand.

"FUCK!"

He holds the book he has taken with him in the fall up like a small, plastic-bound shield. His sword? A finger thrust forward accusingly.

"He hit me!"

The readers and the librarian stare, but none seem eager to intervene. They sit, their attention no longer on their pages but instead staring wide-eyed at Willard. Once it's clear that his anger has been accordingly, perhaps even productively, directed, they mutter uneasily before returning to their private, quiet spheres.

"He fucking hit me!"

He yells as if the louder his volume, the more likely he was to get a call-to-action from his fellow patrons.