Handy, down on one knee with a murderous glint in his eyes, gripped the dirty piece of iron tighter in his right fist. He was a mess by now, the beating by Warm Night, the miscellaneous blows in the ensuing chaos of the canteen riot, and the thrashing he was only previously receiving taking its toll. Blood dripping from his mouth from where he bit his own tongue, he could no longer open his right eye, but he was too far beyond caring whether it was merely bruised shut or reduced to blindness. His mind was too far gone, adrift somewhere between rage and void. His left leg was now useless. Whatever reason he currently possessed evidently had enough sway to at least keep him off of the bad leg. The upside was that he no longer felt anything below the knee, so in a cold calculating move, he had decided he no longer needed to worry about his left foot stepping on something sharp.