LotS/The Story/Playing with Fire (Part 2)
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"Intro"= Decades ago, on an asteroid in the Jospur System...
"Holy crap..."
"Yeah, that's what I said."
"Sweet Jesus..."
"Yep."
Brian Tabares continued in the same vein for several moments. Blasphemies and profanities crackled in Simone Renshaw's ear -- abusing her helmet's speakers. She couldn't blame him. When she'd seen it for the first time, the things she'd said to herself might have made her grandfather rise from the grave and shove a rosary down her throat.
"Think they knew it was here?" she asked, when he was done.
"Huh?"
"Professor... Damn it! What was he called?"
"Bonderbrand."
"Yeah..."
The name may have slipped her mind, but the man's big jowls were fresh and clear in her memory. They'd quivered like jelly while he gave the two postgraduates their final instructions. After that they'd been left to it -- with only each other and the bleeping excavation bots for company.
"He said to call them if we found anything... unusual," she continued. "Does that mean..."
"Jesus... He sounded like he was talking about minerals or something. Not..."
The two of them stared at the cavern wall. It was a large, lofty chamber. The bots and their predecessors had done their jobs well. But the thing they'd uncovered still took up a sizable portion of the rock face.
Professor Bonderbrand's words echoed in Simone's head.
"We believe the asteroid originated in the Sol System."
But if that were true, then...
"I'll send a transmission," Brian said.
"Already done. I sent it while you were sleeping. Then I had the bots uncover the rest."
"This thing... I mean, I'm no paleontologist, but..."
"That 'thing', Mr. Tabares, is the past," a deep voice said. It came from their helmets' speakers, startling them both. "And the future."
The two postgraduates span round.
Three people were descending the metal staircase that led down into the cavern from the station above. They wore sealed navy blue suits, like the students themselves. The foremost among them, a heavyset man, had his helmet's opacity turned down -- revealing a pair of prodigious jowls. His companions were a woman and a shorter, slimmer man, whose faces were hidden behind layers of cloudy blackness.
Professor Bonderbrand reached the bottom of the staircase and crossed the dark rock floor. When the others followed, Simone's gaze fastened on the male. The way he moved... He had a strange, tilting, almost gliding gait. He wasn't human. If he hadn't been wearing an opaque suit, she might have taken him for a Sussurra who wasn't yet accustomed to walking in humanoid fashion.
"Magnificent," the professor said.
He passed between the postgraduates and stood with his back to them, facing the cavern wall and its embedded treasure. The woman went to his side. A soft exhalation, almost a sigh, came over Simone's speaker. The alien didn't join them. He stopped a few paces behind the students. Simone found herself glancing towards him, certain his hidden eyes were on her. An awkward, unpleasant sensation slithered its way through her innards.
"Lady Ashdown?" the professor said.
The woman's left hand worked the clasps of her suit's right gauntlet. Each one opened with a soft hiss. Simone looked at Brian, but he just shrugged. The two of them had been told to stay suited at all times whilst in the cavern, despite its artificial atmosphere.
Her gauntlet came away, revealing a bare hand more weathered and wrinkled than Simone had expected. The postgraduates looked on, bewildered, as Lady Ashdown walked forward -- fingers outstretched.
"What're you doing?" Simone blurted the words out, and regretted them as soon as they'd left her lips.
The woman paused. She turned her head. And the blackness disappeared from her helmet.
Simone Renshaw's breath caught in her throat.
An old, severe face lay behind the now transparent visor. A pair of cyan gemstones blazed at her from where the woman's eyes should have been.
"Christ!" Brian Tabares whispered. His voice was a faint, distant noise at the back of her consciousness.
Lady Ashdown held her gaze for an eternity, and Simone's flesh crawled with the biting mandibles of a billion miniscule insects. They scuttled over every cell of her body, devouring her microbe by microbe -- until those cyan stones turned away. Then she exhaled, and had to steady herself before she collapsed. Her mind shook. It felt as though the universe had been given a hard kick, and all of reality now lay slightly askew.
The old woman reached out. Her palm pressed against a small portion of the yellow-brownness embedded in the wall. Every muscle in Professor Bonderbrand's body seemed to bulge and tense. A sinuous twitch undulated through the masked man.
"It's him." Lady Ashdown's voice was a moan, a gasp of pleasure that shed away decades and made her sound like a teenage girl. "Hail Kalaxia!"
"Hail Kalaxia!" the professor echoed.
Simone Renshaw didn't know what this all meant, but she sure as hell knew that things were getting far too creepy. She looked to Brian, and read the same thought on his paling face. It was time to get out of here...
They turned towards the other side of the cavern, where the metal stairs led away from the rock chamber and its bizarre denizens. But the mysterious man stood in their path.
The inky blackness faded from his helmet, and Simone screamed.
Crimson eyes glared. Tentacles writhed above a gaping maw.
Her body froze. Every muscle locked in place, rigid as iron. Even her eyelids refused to budge when her eyes started to water.
"Shall I destroy them?" the alien asked. His voice was a drifting, slithering thing -- so like the disquiet in her intestines that it might have been crawling within her guts, worming its way through her body.
"No, Multheru." Professor Bonderbrand's voice echoed on the edge of her perception. "They've done well. Make them forget."
Blackness took Simone Renshaw. Tentacles quivered amongst the shadows.
They wanted to know why she'd brought them there.
"You heard the sirens," Alison Haelia murmured. "I wasn't about to be found in a torched apartment with a bunch of dead guys."
We can't devour her here! There are too many people. Why a bar? Why not an alleyway? We could have burned her in an alleyway...
"It's a public place. Nice and safe. A good place to talk."
Safe? With that maniac? You recognized her! You know what she's done! And you haven't thanked us for saving you back there, by the way...
"Screw you."
"Sure thing, babe."
The man who was leaning next to her at the bar leered from a sweat-streaked face. Ali eyed him up and down. He was wearing a leather jacket that might have been made from a whole cow, and his beer-gut bulged at her like it was hungry. He stuck out a long tongue, lapping at the air.
This displeased them.
His eyes bulged and crossed. They stared down at the tiny flames which danced across the offending appendage. He screamed, though it emerged as more of a spluttering quack. Then he barged through the crowd, still spluttering and quacking, and disappeared through the bathroom door.
Ali shrugged, and reached for the man's drink. It tasted like... fire.
They approved of this.
"It's Satan's Breath," the barman said. "Vodka and Beltherian chilies."
"Give me a triple. And a..."
She asked for a pint of whisky. Without an 'e' in it, apparently. Fussy bitch. If you'd just let us burn her...
"...a pint of whisky. No ecstasy."
"A pint?" The barman raised his eyebrow.
Ali shrugged.
"I think she's an alcoholic."
"Fair enough..."
Great... So we're in a bar with a dangerous drunk madwoman?
"She's not drunk yet," she said, "because I haven't given her the drink."
"Hey, I'm working on it, kid..."
And why are you getting the drinks, like some kind of waitress? Maybe you should just ask for a job here... You'll need one, with McManus dead. Oh, and don't forget, he didn't even pay you before he died. At this rate we'll be sleeping in the gutter before the week's out.
"First of all, I'm getting the drinks so I can make sure nothing goes in them. That's just common sense."
Oh, now she develops common sense! We could have used some of that a little earlier...
"Secondly, shut the hell up."
The barman looked at her in a manner to which she'd long since grown accustomed. He was wondering if she was sane and, more importantly, whether she might be the kind of crazy that was bad for business. But when she swiped her creds, he gave her the drinks. Ali carried them through the room, to the booth in the back corner.
She slid into her seat and pushed the pint glass full of amber liquid across the stained table. [Player Name]'s hand closed around it.
"So let's hear the rest," Ali said.
"Al-Husam is dead."
Emera Tresc waited for several moments, as the holographic faces around the table digested the news. This time none of them were there in person. She was glad of that. The grandmistress didn't want anyone to see the turbulent thoughts which surged behind her eyes.
"And Alison Haelia has escaped. We... We think she's with [Player Name]."
Bonderbrand's jowls clenched like the jaws of a steel trap. Multheru's oral tentacles fluttered. Lady Victoria Ashdown's cyan gemstone eyes shone with a deep, perturbing glow. She opened her mouth, and the grandmistress steeled herself for the onslaught. But Noir spoke first. The other holograms all swiveled towards the black mask and those blazing azure slits.
"Then we know where [Player Name] will go next..."
Noir's face vanished. |-|
"Old Flame"= Just over a week earlier, aboard the Silver Shadow...
"Round one, bitches!"
Rautha's voice rings out over the arena's sound system, to the cheers of the crowd.
"Good luck, sweetie!"
Natasha Cybersmash, who seems to be wearing either dental floss or a very skimpy bikini, winks at you. Then she sashays across the ring -- brandishing a sign above her head which seems to contain an amorphous splodge. When she reaches the opposite corner, she tosses it aside, jumps up into your opponent's green arms, and puts her tongue down his throat.
"It's the Cybersmash special!" Rautha declares. The crowd cheers once more.
Natasha turns around, winks at you again, then slips between the ropes with a swish of her long legs.
"Go get 'em, [Player Name]!" says the old man standing on the ring apron. He brandishes a towel at you. "Move like Sugar Ray and hit like Dempsey!"
The bell rings.
You stride across the canvas, where your opponent's waiting for you -- a hulking monstrosity with muscular green flesh, glaring yellow eyes, and jagged spines atop his head. Yet in spite of his bestial aspect, he's clad in a pair of quite ordinary blue shorts. That's odd... But you've seen odder.
"What are you?" you ask. "Some kind of overgrown kobold?"
"Dimetrodon doesn't know what a kobold is, but if you're making fun of Dimetrodon, Dimetrodon will destroy you!"
"I see..."
"Dimetrodon fight!"
A huge green fist crashes against your face.
"You're kind of like a Besalaad..."
"Dimetrodon fight!!"
A second fist follows the first, and proves no more gratifying to your battered visage.
"Stop talking and start fighting!" a woman yells. "People paid good money to watch this!"
She's standing on the apron, a dark-haired beauty in golden armor that reveals more flesh than it protects.
"Fine..."
You duck the next punch, and smash your knee into the green thing's groin. There's a harsh intake of breath as he crumples.
"Dimetrodon hurt!" he moans.
"Men of Kruna, stop your drinking,
What the bloody hell're you thinking?"
Screaming Barracuda's song drifts through the arena. It brings remembrance and lucidity in its wake. Of course... You spent all of last night watching old Emergent Fighting League vids from the early twenty-first century, because of an inkling that the Emergents of that era may have included a significant predecessor of yours among their ranks.
"Can't you hear the foemen slinking,
On the battlements?"
And now your preparations have kicked in. A recording of Barracuda's voice, set to trigger while you're deep in REM sleep. As apparently you are now. For some days, the song and the lucidity it induces have helped you sort through the vast oceans of memory that fill your mind.
You wonder where it will take you this time...
The EFL arena vanishes, taking with it the ring, the groaning Dimetrodon, the shouting woman, and the scandalously dressed Natasha Cybersmash. But the boisterous crowd remains. Or at least their din.
Everything reshapes and hardens into... a pub? It's more archaic than the drinking establishments you're used to, but recognizable for all that. The tables and chairs are made of wood, the drinkers they're hosting clad in medieval garb -- rough hats and jerkins, grimy boots and trousers. Many of them seem to have pitchforks near at hand. That either means this is a farming town, or that some kind of peasant revolt is about to start. The general merriment and lack of flaming torches makes you lean towards the former.
"What'll it be, friend?"
The man behind the bar is familiar, even though you've never exactly laid eyes on him in the flesh. He has a big, broad chest and an even broader grin. His long hair is silver, but his eyes twinkle with all the joy and vitality of youth.
"Glenmorangie?"
"Wrong place, wrong time. How about an ale?"
"Sure."
He fills a wooden tankard and pushes it over to you.
"That makes three," he says.
"Huh?"
"Three Kasans I've served ale to. Of course, for two of you I wasn't even alive. Funny how the universe works, isn't it?"
"Funny strange, or funny 'ha ha'?"
"Both."
You sip your ale (it tastes of liquorish), and wait to see what'll transpire. You've learned not to force things in these oneiric forays. Often you're a mere observer, watching past events unfold as you did when Barra played you back through the ages. On other nights you've found yourself conversing with men and women you know only through the prisms of vision and ancestral memory, or even fighting alongside them -- in situations filled with all the unworldly absurdity of dreams. There have been anachronistic blends of past and present, remembrance and history. The sight of Rautha goose-stepping along in full Nazi regalia whilst shouting, "Heil Hitler, bitches!" may rank amongst the most ridiculous of these. But there's plenty of competition.
However, whatever happens, you've learned to let nature take its course. Trying to impose your will has only served to eject you into more mundane dreams or the waking world. Thus you banter with the barkeep, allowing your subconscious to play its hand, until a woman drops onto the stool next to you.
As with him, her face is one you've glimpsed before. She's a pretty girl with short, fiery hair and a smirk that promises mischief -- maybe at your expense. Her ears are pointy, just like Medea's were.
"Want to see a trick?" she asks.
"Sure," you reply.
She clicks her fingers. Flame erupts on the bar.
"Damn it, Elyssa!" The barkeep sighs.
"Watch..." She holds her hand over the fire and wiggles her fingers, like a puppeteer working a marionette's strings.
The flame coalesces into a miniature simulacrum of the elven woman.
"Fire..." Elyssa waves her hand, and her flaming doppelganger does the same. A second flame appears on the bar. It forms itself into another replica. "There's always fire. Just like there's always a Kasan. Did you think yours was the only lineage out there?"
She clicks her fingers again. The fiery Elyssas disintegrate, merging into a blazing pyre. That conflagration flickers for several moments. Then it takes on a new shape. A winged, reptilian shape.
"Kalaxia," you say.
"There's always fire. But in whose hands?"
"She looked just like you. Apart from the ears, I mean."
"Cute story. Keep telling it like that. Some guys like their chicks crazy. Till they wake up with their heads in the refrigerator, anyway." She frowns. "Oh, come on! A minute ago you wanted me to burn her face off, and now you believe her?"
"Huh?"
"They... I mean... Never mind."
"You don't have to believe in dreams and visions. But take a look at these..."
You pull a datapad out, click the screen, and pass it over the table. She polishes off her drink before taking it. A girl after your own heart... You glug from your pint glass in appreciation -- while she slides a finger across the pad, sifting through the news stories you've collected together.
"Someone's hunting pyrokineticists," you say. "And most of them weren't as lucky as you."
"Luck had nothing to do with it..." She bites her lip for a long moment before continuing. "You think we're all in danger? Pyros, I mean."
"Maybe. Why?"
The audience gasped when the curtain burst into flames, a swift and powerful conflagration that raged across its length and breadth -- devouring every inch of fabric in moments and supplanting it with a veil of pure fire.
Gasps gave way to cheers and applause as the beautiful redhead walked through the inferno, out onto the stage, and dropped into a flourishing thespian bow. She was unscathed. Even her scarlet dress had emerged intact and unblemished.
Alexa Haelia held the bow for a few seconds as the flames fell away behind her. Then she brought her hands together in one, two, three demure little claps. Three elegant fiery hawks sprang into being. They flew around her in swirling patterns, chasing one another and painting the air with their blazing trails.
The audience were in a good mood, she mused -- applauding a little parlor trick as though it were the most wondrous spectacle any of them had ever laid eyes on. The result of complimentary drinks and good luck at the casino's tables perhaps...
If they liked that, they'll love our next trick.
"Yes," Alexa said. "Let's give them a show to remember..."
Can we try the Pyromania Pirouette tonight? We've been practicing for days!
"Sure."
This pleased them. It was going to be a great show. |-|
"The Man In The Mirror"= "Still nothing?" you ask.
Ali shakes her head and puts the phone down.
"I told you she wouldn't take my calls. We haven't talked to each other in years and-" She glares. "Shut the hell up! It's your fault!"
You say nothing. While she was securing her bike in the Silver Shadow's hold, you did some surreptitious online research. Apparently multiple personality disorder isn't uncommon amongst psionics. You can deal with it... At least this identity seems to be in charge.
"When we get there..." Her eyes are focused on you again, her voice calmer. "...I'll have to stay on the ship. If me and Alexa get near each other it'll... it'll be bad. Trust me."
Sixteen years ago...
Alison Haelia giggled. So did her new friends. The other children laughed and chattered. A few of them made little gasps of outrage, but they were lame -- so who cared what they thought? Losers...
A caricature of Mrs. Sonburg, the history teacher, was depicted on the wall. There was also a crocodile -- which was in the process of biting the educator in half. The likenesses of both beast and woman were rather good, Ali thought. But what was even more impressive was that they were drawn in lines of flame.
Fire burned on the wall of the sports hall, its dancing tongues giving flickering life and gusting warmth to the whole splendid tableau.
Ali was too busy appreciating her handiwork to notice that the babble of voices had ceased. She only became aware of it when a big hand dropped onto her shoulder, and the voice of authority boomed.
"Alison Haelia! Did you do this?"
We could help, her new friends said. Why don't we just burn this stupid woman?
"No!"
"Then why are your fingerprints all over that can of lighter fuel?" Mrs. Sonburg jabbed her finger towards the offending yellow can, which lay on the grass near Ali's boots.
The teacher's cybernetic eyes clicked and whirred.
Ali sighed.
"We're going to the principal's office!" Mrs. Sonburg's grasp tightened on her shoulder, until her wedding ring bit into Ali's skin.
Let us burn her! Come on!
She was tempted. But she shook her head, and allowed the history teacher to march her into the building.
Alison was too busy listening to her new friends -- who'd appeared inside her just a week ago -- to pay attention to her surroundings. It was only when Mrs. Sonburg snorted that she looked up and discovered they'd reached the little waiting area outside the principal's room. And that they weren't alone.
"Alexa Haelia!" the history teacher said. "What did you do?"
Miss Persey, the mousy-haired art teacher, was sat next to the elder Haelia girl. It was she who answered.
"I caught her writing on the walls."
The two educators shared a sniff of disdain. But neither Ali nor Alexa was paying any attention. They were glaring at one another.
Them!
The voice rang inside Alison's head. Her new friends didn't like being around Alexa, so Ali had started avoiding her at home.
No, we don't like her! She has those... things... inside her! They're... wrong! They're like us, but they're not us! We can hear them talking, chattering, plotting. We don't know what they are, but we hate them!
Alexa's fists clenched. So did Ali's.
They're coming for us! We have to stop them!
Fire burst into being around both of them, launching dancing light and waves of heat in all directions. Mrs. Sonburg screamed. Miss Persey wailed. And then everything started to burn...
The Silver Shadow slips into Blackpool's atmosphere, and descends amidst the darkness of the planet's nocturnal side. Down below, its eponymous ebony ocean glistens in the moonlight like a gigantic oil slick.
Gaudier illumination capers on the horizon. A riot of pink, yellow, green, and blue neon splashes across the black waters -- cast by the hundreds of casinos and amusement parks which represent the biggest entertainment Mecca in all of Novocastrian space.
There's still been no word from Ali's sister. And the casino she works at treated your inquires as those of a potentially murderous stalker. They refused to tell you anything, and the bastard on the phone blocked your transmissions. He'd better hope you don't find him when you land...
The dressing room was dark, just the way Alexa liked it. The only illumination came from the soft, subdued yellow strips that glowed around the mirror. After the bright lights and blazing flames of the stage, the blackness was soothing. She dropped into the chair in front of the table, closed her eyes, kicked off her heels, and wallowed in the quiet shadows.
We put on a good show. The Pyromania Pirouette worked even better than last night, didn't it?
"Yeah," Alexa said. "It'll be tough to top it."
Leave that to us! Maybe we could have flaming unicorns charge down the aisles and...
Alexa let them ramble for a while. Then she decided it was time to take her makeup off, get changed, and go for a drink. It had been a long day... So, with a little burst of reluctance, she opened her eyes. And her heart thudded in her chest.
Two azure slits gazed at her in the mirror, from an ebon mask. |-|
"Through Hellfire"= Alexa didn't scream. It wasn't the first time she'd found a creepy stalker in her dressing room. And if he tried anything... Well, her powers weren't just for show.
Yes! Don't worry... We'll destroy him. Would you like us to destroy him now? We could...
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
The big toe of her right foot pressed down on the button concealed on the floor under the dressing table. It yielded with a satisfying, reassuring heaviness.
"You'd better leave before security comes."
He sniffed the air.
"Your connection is strong..."
His voice... The strange accent, the underlying growl that came as though from a second, bestial throat... Alexa Haelia had dealt with plenty of freaks. Blackpool City was full of them. But something about him sent a cold shudder through her body.
He stepped towards her, his reflection looming through the darkness in the mirror.
She sprang out of her chair and whirled around, hands raised.
"Stay back!"
He took another step. They decided that was enough.
Flames raged across the room, illuminating the blackness in a ferocious, infernal blaze. An immense whoosh became a roar and a crackle. The man in black disappeared beneath gushing torrents of fire.
"Wait!" Alexa hissed. "I was just going to scare him!"
Mission accomplished. He was probably scared before we immolated him.
"You-"
Her anger and their half-formed retort both evaporated.
A black shape emerged through the conflagration. Two azure slits glowed amid the fire.
That's impossible! We...
Alexa ran for the door. She tore it open and dashed into the corridor.
"Ms. Haelia!"
Two burly security guards, a human and a Snuuth, were running down the passage towards her. Each of them had a chunky blaster in his hands.
"In there! But he's... he's..."
"Leave it to us," the Snuuth said. "Go!"
"But..."
The guards plunged into the room as Alexa hurtled down the corridor.
Their weapons fire zapped in her ears. Then came the screams. |-|
"Death Walks Into A Bar..."= "...and then the dealer pulled out the three of clubs! The jammy prat!"
"I put it all on black. Came up bloody fuchsia, didn't it?"
"Those slot machines are rigged! It's like you're not even supposed to win!"
"The show was awesome! She made a tiger out of fire, and it ate a heckler!"
"His jokes were sodding awful. I mean, the Centurian genocide? Sure, they deserved it... But too soon!"
"No, mate. But there's a brothel over that way."
"A banana daiquiri please. But with kiwi instead of banana."
The voices, most steeped in Novocastria's multitudinous and multifarious accents, babble around you -- competing with the lapping of distant waves, the blaring from vid screens, the clinking of glasses, and the sloshing of drinks. All bathed in the garish glow of multicolored strips and tubes.
You try to shut the noise out, while you go over what you're planning to say.
The staff were unhelpful. They refused to take you to Alexa, and though they did promise to convey your message, you're almost certain the missive was deleted the moment your back was turned. Apparently they're used to undesirables asking to see their performers, and accustomed to handling it with a maximum amount of disdain concealed behind the insincere smiles of the hospitality industry. Fortunately, one of the security guards gave you a tip in exchange for a handful of hard credits. She said Alexa Haelia almost always visits the complex's Calypso Bar after a show.
So here you are, scotch in hand, wondering how you'll persuade a complete stranger that her life's in danger. And that you can save her.
You're still ruminating over this when a woman in a scarlet dress runs through the bar's doorway, barefoot, her long ginger hair splashing around her as she looks over her shoulder. She crashes into one of the patrons, knocking him spinning, stumbles, catches herself, and keeps going -- still looking behind her as she flees.
A man follows her. He isn't running, but his long, sure strides are eating up the space between them. He's dressed from head to toe in black. Two bright blue slits glow in his hard, featureless mask.
The name burns itself across your thoughts in shadowy letters.
Noir. |-|
"Noir"= "Alexa!"
Terrified eyes fasten on you. There's a fraction of a second's indecision in their depths, before she runs over.
"Help! He killed security! He-"
She whirls round, making her hair and dress flare in sweeping semicircles.
Noir is approaching. A tall woman moves to intercept him... The man in black doesn't turn his head or break his stride. His fist simply lashes out and sends her sprawling.
"Everyone out!" the barmaid shrieks, as she gropes behind the bar.
It's unnecessary. The other patrons are already screaming their way towards the exit, giving Noir a wide berth. He doesn't even look at them.
"Hold it, you bloody wanker!" The barmaid yells the words over the barrel of a shotgun.
Noir snatches up a chair and whips it at her. She crashes against the shelves of bottles, collapses amidst the shattered glass and streaming alcohol. He didn't even slow down...
"Move," you say.
Alexa Haelia is motionless -- staring at him like prey transfixed by a predator's hypnotic gaze. You grab her shoulders and yank her aside. That snaps her out of it. She darts into the corner and huddles there, with sputtering flames lapping along her limbs.
But Noir isn't looking at her now.
He stops in front of you, and places his hands behind him. You've seen that one before... Make them think you want to talk, then pull a weapon from the small of your back... So you stay tense, ready. But he makes no movement.
"[Player Name]. I knew Alison Haelia would send you here." Two voices tingle in your ear. One is soft, cultured, elegant -- draped in an accent you can't place. The other is a growl. "My name is-"
"I know who you are. You murdered Benito Fiduccio."
"I have killed many men. But it amuses me that you would speak of murder. I witnessed your deeds when I stood on Lorgen IV. Men, women, and children were obliterated around me, their bodies consumed by fire. Such viciousness... And so fitting, for one of your bloodline."
Lorgen IV...
The explosions are like the booming voices of angry gods, the mushroom clouds gigantic burial shrouds.
Fire. Inconceivable expanses of fire. A bombardment worthy of heaven and hell, of Armageddon. Destruction so utter it seems as though it must ravage the entire universe.
Cities die. Worlds die. Annihilation. A nuclear onslaught that obliterates flesh and metal with callous equanimity.
That's impossible...
"It is a shame I must destroy you. I would have enjoyed seeing what other terrible things you might bring to pass."
"Go to hell."
Noir's eyes flicker, and somehow you sense amusement in their burning azure depths.
His hands emerge from behind his back.
His knee rises, catching your right shin and blocking the kick. He's fast... Almost any other opponent you've fought would have let it past, had it lash their thigh like a heavy, brutal whip. You drop the limb and spring up in the same motion -- launching a hard, fast snap kick with your left leg. He bats it aside. Along with the overhand right and lunging straight left that follow.
Four attacks in the blink of an eye... All deflected. He's good.
That thought echoes through your brain, reverberates around your consciousness, when his counterpunch smashes against the side of your head. Blood spurts from your mouth in a long, frothing stream.
A black leg flashes at the edge of your perception, heard and sensed rather than seen. Your forearm flies out to knock it away. But the second kick catches you square in the gut. Only your armored clothing and the tensing of your muscles stops it from winding you.
His burning blue slits are still smiling, as he moves in for the kill.
You feint at his featureless face. Then you launch yourself into a low tackle, grabbing at his legs.
Noir's knee crashes on your chin, sending bright lights bursting in your brain. His elbow hammers downwards -- and only your deft, instinctive movement makes it thud on your shoulder blade instead of the back of your neck.
You throw yourself backwards, tucking your head and rolling to get away from him. He's on you the moment you rise. Ebon fists and boots fly in a shadowy flurry, forcing you back amidst your blocks, dodges, and parries, driving you away until the thick glass of the room's big window is a cool hardness behind your head.
To hell with this...
Your eyes flash. Blood and darkness swirl around your consciousness in a terrible, familiar maelstrom. Doom and despair rush through every fiber of your being, bringing both unimaginable strength and incomprehensible desolation.
"Kasan!"
A Princess dies. A universe perishes. A fist splits the air on its inexorable path to slaughter, annihilation, redness. All of creation is one massive, horrible, seething, dying tapestry of blood and blackness and screams and-
"No."
Your knuckles thud against something hard.
And through the whirling tempest, the lashings of blood and endless night, the cries of lost millennia, you glimpse one solid thing: your fist, caught by Noir's hand.
Impossible...
His kick thunders against your chest.
Something shatters, and you don't know if it's you or the galaxy. Then you're falling, through the blood and darkness.
They're all screaming. Illaria. Alexa. Billions of Centurian children. All screaming, but growing fainter and fainter as you plunge into the abyss. </tabber>