12-16-2009, 09:47 AM
An icy chill washed gently over him. Whether the frosty sensation originated from the manipulated weather or the malice in the cold girl’s words, he did not know. It ran up his spine before spreading to each and every limb. And, with one great and involuntary shake, it was gone.
She had been right. He had no advantage here; this was her domain, she controlled everything. It was obvious to him now that she had suffered, as he had, but that was irrelevant. This was no longer just an opportunity that he had been presented with. Opportunity implies that there is a choice, which he had the option to decline – one could always refuse to take advantage of such an occasion. There was no alternative here. Winning was necessary.
Hope danced dangerously on the tip of a knife. If he stepped too far to the left or to the right, he would fail; if he made his move one moment too early or one second too late, he would die.
“Hmmm,” he hummed as he weighed his options. His mind was racing, desperately attempting to analyze his previous battles in search of some advantage that he could use. There was nothing.
Sage lunged forward, interrupting his contemplations with the swift slashing of her iced claws. Trafford ducked beneath the first, narrowly avoiding having his head sliced into thin ribbons. The second strike quickly followed, and the young telekinetic scarcely had a moment to move, never mind evade such an attack. Her sharp and hardened talons tore against his shoulder and sent him reeling backwards.
Alex quickly composed himself and, after gathering his balance, made an advancing step forward. The ice queen lashed out, desperately trying to reach him before he could ascertain an advantageous position. He tilted his torso back and her claws barely missed, whistling past him as they careened over his right shoulder. Trafford stepped in with his left, towards her exposed ribcage. Twisting his entire lower body, he gathered as much force as possible and sent a powerful haymaker into her slender side.
She nearly doubled over; her body contorted and bent towards the area that had been inflicted with pain. Alexander went to step again, this time back to his opponent’s right, but his feet had somehow been cemented to the powder-covered surface. Ice wrapped itself around his lower legs, imprisoning him. As he fought to escape the grasp of Sage’s wrath, the cyrokinetic recovered and braced her menacing claws.
She slashed forward just as small golden bulbs ignited beneath the sewn-on, leather soles of Trafford’s expensive shoes and broke her frozen hold. The minute explosions sent him on a retreat, but not quickly enough as her icy talons ripped at his torso once more, spraying a sheet of warm blood across the now-trampled snow.
As he stumbled backwards his hand desperately grabbed at his abdomen in a fruitless attempt to comfort his physical pain. Crimson ooze poured slowly into his palms, along with his life, and the color washed from his face. He had told himself time and time again that his opponent was just another obstacle. He had convinced himself that every bullet he fired, and every attack he summoned, had the chance to kill her. And he had believed that he did not fear death. But now it was on his doorstep, and the reaper had gained a firm footing within the confines of his soul.
Fear was indeed coursing through him, but it was not death that terrified him, no, it was the realization that with his end any hope of absolution would be lost. Alice would be gone, his soul vanquished forever of her lingering presence.
“I –I can’t let that happen,” Trafford whispered to himself as he staggered away from his advancing opponent. Was there anything he could do? Was there any chance left in victory? Having overcome so much, with so little, surrendering now seemed foolish – but he could see no other option. His vision blurred as he began to ‘bleed out’ onto the fair snow. The liquid life-force that slowly drained from his wounds tainted the otherwise fair, alabaster surface. He noted how easily it spread across the island’s floor, corrupting the achromatic landscape. If only he could blemish her power in a similar manner.
Oh shit, he thought to himself. How had he so easily forgotten the girl that he had mistaken for Alice? He cringed as he forced himself to compare the two. There was no one in this world that was tantamount to his love. Trafford remembered now that he and that strange girl had shared a similar trait.
Alexander planted his feet and braced himself. He halted his retreat and allowed the blue-haired ice queen to descend upon him. This was his chance, his only chance, to defeat her. If he failed here, he knew it would be over.
Sage came fast and hard, her clenched teeth glimmered against the descending sun. She slashed diagonally across his body, and he dodged accordingly. Trafford stepped to the side as she followed with her other claw, and struck her wildly attacking limb as it passed by his torso. His strike increased her momentum, which sent her stumbling forward. He stepped in as she quickly composed himself and grasped his hand around her throat.
His grip was tight, and his intent was clear. Alex could not stop her power – unless she did not have any power to use. With widened eyes and a gaping mouth, Sage gazed fearfully into his hazelnut irises as her skin tightened and her energy surged desperately towards her throat and, consequently, into his hand. She twisted and writhed against his grip, desperately trying to escape.
“Just . . . a bit more,” Trafford grunted through his frowning mouth. He could feel her might spread through his being, he could sense her energy transforming into his gold essence and entering his soul’s well – filling it to the brim. His opponent was beginning to loosen his grip, but he could not relent, just a short while longer and victory would be his.
Alexander’s hope slipped and fell from the tip of the knife on which it had been so carefully balancing. The expression of awe and agony vanished from his foe’s visage and became a menacing smirk. His fingers had been too numb; he had no idea that the grip had been so loose.
Trafford’s eyes burst open, and his jaw dropped to his chest. His body doubled over and his hand fell on Sage’s shoulder as an excruciating pain erupted around his left ribcage. Sage shook his long, bony fingers from her body and, without her support, Alex stumbled backwards. As he staggered in retreat, he felt the long, iced claws retract from his side, and he looked down upon his wound; a series of holes marked his Armani suit where her talons had pierced through flesh and bone. Blood poured from the openings first, rushing through the path of least resistance, but it was not long before his entire left side was covered in a crimson stain.
His heel caught a chunk of ice as he blinded backpedaled, and he collapsed onto his rear. He used his left arm to brace his body, while his right shot inside his suit and pressed against the wound in a desperate, fruitless attempt to halt the bleeding. His feet churned, and he scooted himself away from the superior warrior.
“I told you that you would die, Alexander,” Sage stated. Her voice was laden in sorrow, yet ripe with conviction. A few moments passed before he could muster a response.
“N-no, I-I can’t die . . . not here, n-not now,” Trafford stumbled on his words as he spoke through short, gasping breaths. His face was devoid of color, it was nearly as white as the snow. Blood trickled from the corners of his lips, dripping onto his chest. He panicked as she advanced; bent on finishing what she had started. He continued to retreat, but he did not have the strength. His arm collapsed and he fell onto his back, his driving feet halted, and he propped himself up on his elbow.
Ace lifted his hand from the wound and thrust it forward, sending a small veil of augmented snow towards his opponent. Sage simply lifted her arm and guarded her countenance as the tiny explosions glanced off her icy coating.
Hemoglobin flowed readily from the four sizeable openings, and his vision was beginning to fade. He had been so close, yet he had ultimately failed. Death was imminent, and it was upon him. It was odd how many times during this tournament he had wished for death, but now that it was here, he wished to hold it at bay for as long as possible. Whatever hopes he had were ultimately irrelevant, however, as the ice queen descended upon him to deliver the coup de grace. Any last-ditch attempt that he could muster would be in vain.
But he had to try, didn’t he? This was it, this was for his life. For the first time in his existence he felt as though he had a purpose, that his life had meaning. Was that not what he had so desperately sought when this tournament began? A swell of relief overcame him, and his body began to tingle with excitement. Regardless of victory, he would receive his absolution in time – he was sure of that now. If he had the strength, he knew his trademark grin would besmirch his pale face. The result did not matter; it was the process that determined his worth. He had suffered so much, yet he continuously overcame his pain.
With renewed vigor he scooted back a little further. It was nigh unnoticeable, but his hand twitched slightly as he settled and braced his weight. Surely enough, his twin Desert Eagles jumped to life and began to race across the white, powdered surface, following a trail of crimson blots and streams towards their master. They halted before they reached him, however, and slowly crept into the air behind their target.
“W-we are not so different . . . you and I,” Trafford struggled to maintain a whisper as his strength left him. Speech was exhausting as he fought desperately for each breath.
“And how is that?” Sage mocked, yet her voice was riddled with hidden hurt. She shrugged her shoulders and slowed her advance, apparently content with letting him die – for now at least.
“Death comes for us both,” Alexander wheezed and winked. It took a moment for her to translate his weak, slurring speech.
As his hinted threat pieced itself together in her mind, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder. Her cold eyes widened at the sight, but her gaze did not hold on the handguns. She could feel heat within her toes and dropped her eyes to the ground. A single golden mass encircled her position.
“Que sera, sera,” Trafford whispered. He smiled as his arms collapsed beneath his weight and he dropped onto his back, his body lying in a growing pool of his own blood. He was glad to have spoken one last witty line.
His fingers twitched. Silence vanished and was replaced by explosions and gunshots.
His head fell to the side and his cheek pressed against the cold snow. He could hear the chaos that ensued, but chose to ignore it. There was nothing else he could do, so, in what he expected to be his last, failing breath, he admired the golden sphere that rested half-hidden behind the western horizon. Alexander had learned long ago to appreciate any worthwhile moment that one could steal from an otherwise miserable existence.
And then he closed his eyes, and awaited his fate.
She had been right. He had no advantage here; this was her domain, she controlled everything. It was obvious to him now that she had suffered, as he had, but that was irrelevant. This was no longer just an opportunity that he had been presented with. Opportunity implies that there is a choice, which he had the option to decline – one could always refuse to take advantage of such an occasion. There was no alternative here. Winning was necessary.
Hope danced dangerously on the tip of a knife. If he stepped too far to the left or to the right, he would fail; if he made his move one moment too early or one second too late, he would die.
“Hmmm,” he hummed as he weighed his options. His mind was racing, desperately attempting to analyze his previous battles in search of some advantage that he could use. There was nothing.
Sage lunged forward, interrupting his contemplations with the swift slashing of her iced claws. Trafford ducked beneath the first, narrowly avoiding having his head sliced into thin ribbons. The second strike quickly followed, and the young telekinetic scarcely had a moment to move, never mind evade such an attack. Her sharp and hardened talons tore against his shoulder and sent him reeling backwards.
Alex quickly composed himself and, after gathering his balance, made an advancing step forward. The ice queen lashed out, desperately trying to reach him before he could ascertain an advantageous position. He tilted his torso back and her claws barely missed, whistling past him as they careened over his right shoulder. Trafford stepped in with his left, towards her exposed ribcage. Twisting his entire lower body, he gathered as much force as possible and sent a powerful haymaker into her slender side.
She nearly doubled over; her body contorted and bent towards the area that had been inflicted with pain. Alexander went to step again, this time back to his opponent’s right, but his feet had somehow been cemented to the powder-covered surface. Ice wrapped itself around his lower legs, imprisoning him. As he fought to escape the grasp of Sage’s wrath, the cyrokinetic recovered and braced her menacing claws.
She slashed forward just as small golden bulbs ignited beneath the sewn-on, leather soles of Trafford’s expensive shoes and broke her frozen hold. The minute explosions sent him on a retreat, but not quickly enough as her icy talons ripped at his torso once more, spraying a sheet of warm blood across the now-trampled snow.
As he stumbled backwards his hand desperately grabbed at his abdomen in a fruitless attempt to comfort his physical pain. Crimson ooze poured slowly into his palms, along with his life, and the color washed from his face. He had told himself time and time again that his opponent was just another obstacle. He had convinced himself that every bullet he fired, and every attack he summoned, had the chance to kill her. And he had believed that he did not fear death. But now it was on his doorstep, and the reaper had gained a firm footing within the confines of his soul.
Fear was indeed coursing through him, but it was not death that terrified him, no, it was the realization that with his end any hope of absolution would be lost. Alice would be gone, his soul vanquished forever of her lingering presence.
“I –I can’t let that happen,” Trafford whispered to himself as he staggered away from his advancing opponent. Was there anything he could do? Was there any chance left in victory? Having overcome so much, with so little, surrendering now seemed foolish – but he could see no other option. His vision blurred as he began to ‘bleed out’ onto the fair snow. The liquid life-force that slowly drained from his wounds tainted the otherwise fair, alabaster surface. He noted how easily it spread across the island’s floor, corrupting the achromatic landscape. If only he could blemish her power in a similar manner.
Oh shit, he thought to himself. How had he so easily forgotten the girl that he had mistaken for Alice? He cringed as he forced himself to compare the two. There was no one in this world that was tantamount to his love. Trafford remembered now that he and that strange girl had shared a similar trait.
Alexander planted his feet and braced himself. He halted his retreat and allowed the blue-haired ice queen to descend upon him. This was his chance, his only chance, to defeat her. If he failed here, he knew it would be over.
Sage came fast and hard, her clenched teeth glimmered against the descending sun. She slashed diagonally across his body, and he dodged accordingly. Trafford stepped to the side as she followed with her other claw, and struck her wildly attacking limb as it passed by his torso. His strike increased her momentum, which sent her stumbling forward. He stepped in as she quickly composed himself and grasped his hand around her throat.
His grip was tight, and his intent was clear. Alex could not stop her power – unless she did not have any power to use. With widened eyes and a gaping mouth, Sage gazed fearfully into his hazelnut irises as her skin tightened and her energy surged desperately towards her throat and, consequently, into his hand. She twisted and writhed against his grip, desperately trying to escape.
“Just . . . a bit more,” Trafford grunted through his frowning mouth. He could feel her might spread through his being, he could sense her energy transforming into his gold essence and entering his soul’s well – filling it to the brim. His opponent was beginning to loosen his grip, but he could not relent, just a short while longer and victory would be his.
Alexander’s hope slipped and fell from the tip of the knife on which it had been so carefully balancing. The expression of awe and agony vanished from his foe’s visage and became a menacing smirk. His fingers had been too numb; he had no idea that the grip had been so loose.
Trafford’s eyes burst open, and his jaw dropped to his chest. His body doubled over and his hand fell on Sage’s shoulder as an excruciating pain erupted around his left ribcage. Sage shook his long, bony fingers from her body and, without her support, Alex stumbled backwards. As he staggered in retreat, he felt the long, iced claws retract from his side, and he looked down upon his wound; a series of holes marked his Armani suit where her talons had pierced through flesh and bone. Blood poured from the openings first, rushing through the path of least resistance, but it was not long before his entire left side was covered in a crimson stain.
His heel caught a chunk of ice as he blinded backpedaled, and he collapsed onto his rear. He used his left arm to brace his body, while his right shot inside his suit and pressed against the wound in a desperate, fruitless attempt to halt the bleeding. His feet churned, and he scooted himself away from the superior warrior.
“I told you that you would die, Alexander,” Sage stated. Her voice was laden in sorrow, yet ripe with conviction. A few moments passed before he could muster a response.
“N-no, I-I can’t die . . . not here, n-not now,” Trafford stumbled on his words as he spoke through short, gasping breaths. His face was devoid of color, it was nearly as white as the snow. Blood trickled from the corners of his lips, dripping onto his chest. He panicked as she advanced; bent on finishing what she had started. He continued to retreat, but he did not have the strength. His arm collapsed and he fell onto his back, his driving feet halted, and he propped himself up on his elbow.
Ace lifted his hand from the wound and thrust it forward, sending a small veil of augmented snow towards his opponent. Sage simply lifted her arm and guarded her countenance as the tiny explosions glanced off her icy coating.
Hemoglobin flowed readily from the four sizeable openings, and his vision was beginning to fade. He had been so close, yet he had ultimately failed. Death was imminent, and it was upon him. It was odd how many times during this tournament he had wished for death, but now that it was here, he wished to hold it at bay for as long as possible. Whatever hopes he had were ultimately irrelevant, however, as the ice queen descended upon him to deliver the coup de grace. Any last-ditch attempt that he could muster would be in vain.
But he had to try, didn’t he? This was it, this was for his life. For the first time in his existence he felt as though he had a purpose, that his life had meaning. Was that not what he had so desperately sought when this tournament began? A swell of relief overcame him, and his body began to tingle with excitement. Regardless of victory, he would receive his absolution in time – he was sure of that now. If he had the strength, he knew his trademark grin would besmirch his pale face. The result did not matter; it was the process that determined his worth. He had suffered so much, yet he continuously overcame his pain.
With renewed vigor he scooted back a little further. It was nigh unnoticeable, but his hand twitched slightly as he settled and braced his weight. Surely enough, his twin Desert Eagles jumped to life and began to race across the white, powdered surface, following a trail of crimson blots and streams towards their master. They halted before they reached him, however, and slowly crept into the air behind their target.
“W-we are not so different . . . you and I,” Trafford struggled to maintain a whisper as his strength left him. Speech was exhausting as he fought desperately for each breath.
“And how is that?” Sage mocked, yet her voice was riddled with hidden hurt. She shrugged her shoulders and slowed her advance, apparently content with letting him die – for now at least.
“Death comes for us both,” Alexander wheezed and winked. It took a moment for her to translate his weak, slurring speech.
As his hinted threat pieced itself together in her mind, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder. Her cold eyes widened at the sight, but her gaze did not hold on the handguns. She could feel heat within her toes and dropped her eyes to the ground. A single golden mass encircled her position.
“Que sera, sera,” Trafford whispered. He smiled as his arms collapsed beneath his weight and he dropped onto his back, his body lying in a growing pool of his own blood. He was glad to have spoken one last witty line.
His fingers twitched. Silence vanished and was replaced by explosions and gunshots.
His head fell to the side and his cheek pressed against the cold snow. He could hear the chaos that ensued, but chose to ignore it. There was nothing else he could do, so, in what he expected to be his last, failing breath, he admired the golden sphere that rested half-hidden behind the western horizon. Alexander had learned long ago to appreciate any worthwhile moment that one could steal from an otherwise miserable existence.
And then he closed his eyes, and awaited his fate.
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)