11-14-2009, 01:39 AM
Stasis field engaging. Those were the last three words that he had heard before he was ripped away from the warm comfort of the bunker. He figured that was this competition’s idea of a warning, a few shrill beeps, and a short sentence from an unseen female voice. There had been no explanation, or no respect, at all, for anything he had been doing in the moments prior to teleportation. And, with all the money, influence and power the puppet masters of this competition probably had, they could not possibly have made the process more comfortable. As the transportation occurred, Alex felt as if he were on the single most dangerous thrill ride and the history of amusement parks: his body was being pulled in every which direction. By the time he landed, he was surprised he had not vomited.
“I’m getting sick and tired of this shit,” Trafford whispered as he wiped the clinging snowflakes from his newfound clothing. Examining his surroundings, the young telekinetic quickly realized that he was inside some sort of dome. The walls were not made of concrete, steel or any other sort of fabricated material. It appeared to be a light bluish gel that surrounded him, transparent yet mystifyingly opaque in its nature. Alexander thought it was beautiful, it was, at the same time, certain and surreal. He did not know what to make of his natural attraction to the chaos in his nature, the waves of baby blue and navy energies weaving amongst each other, following no identifiable pattern in their dance. The dome provided order in that it contained its occupants, but, simultaneously, its structure was anarchic by design – something that Trafford found wonderfully innocent and pure. And, after a few moments of staring mesmerized at the animated ceiling above, realized that this must be the stasis field the soft spoken woman had been speaking of.
His observation and fascination of the dome was cut short by a simple distraction. Somewhere nearby he could hear a muffled rhythmic beating – he heard music. The sound was coming from behind him.
A peculiar sensation crawled into his gut, rising from his waist and slowly elevating through his stomach and into his chest. Alex was not the most emotionally sensitive or aware man, so it took him a moment to identify the feeling. Was it fear that he felt? The lingering paranoia that, if he turned around, a man would be standing behind him, a man from his past, an unnamed military official. And in that man’s hand would be a gun, with a slug meant for his forehead. Or was it excitement? Perhaps it was combat alone that would free him from his burden; the cleansing of spilt blood. In the manner of which Trafford figured things, there was only one way to find out.
After slowly making a one-hundred and eighty degree turn, Alexander came face-to-face with his newfound foe.
“You’ve got to be kidding, right?” Trafford spoke loudly, hoping his opponent could hear him over the music blaring inside his speakers.
The man, if he could be referred to as such, who stood before him wore shorts and a cut off t-shirt. He had boyish good looks, and orange hair. In fact, Alex thought, his foe almost reminded him of a younger Alexander Trafford.
Unlike the young telekinetic, however, the musically mesmerized young man was not one to mince words. Whether it was out of seriousness, or out of some deep-seeded timid nature, could not be determined.
“Hmm, well then,” Alex spoke to his counterpart, using exaggerated hand gestures in hopes that the young lad would grasp his point – even if he may not be able to hear him. He paused, not being able to find the exact words. After a few moments, he fakes a few jabs towards his opponent and mouthed one word, “Fight.”
Apparently his opponent didn’t need to hear what he was saying to understand what was occurring. The young, orange-haired boy leapt forward with a rhythmic grace, closing the gap between them in a moment’s notice. He moved so adeptly and with such experience, something unknown to Trafford when it came to melee combat.
Alex managed to block and dodge the first few jabs, but eventually, after several shots had landed uselessly on his forearms or in the confined air to the right and left of the telekinetic’s frantic visage, the music-loving teen found his mark. A right hook landed first, connecting on the well-dressed man’s lower jaw, knocking his head to the side. He followed with a shot to the abdomen, and a rising roundhouse kick to the ribcage.
Stumbling to the side, Trafford quickly found his balance and stepped back in the face his silent opponent, something he would soon discover to be a terrible decision. He tried to keep his guard up, but regardless of his efforts the younger fighter landed punch after punch down his sights and sprayed his knuckles all around Alex’s cherished facial features. It took the psychokinetic everything he could muster to simply push the boy backwards, creating space between them.
“You wanna play like that, huh?” Trafford mocked his opponent with a boyish grin, wiping the blood away from the base of his nose as he did so. Wising up, he took several step backs and made a point to keep distance between himself and the clearly more experienced melee warrior. Alex had always been a clever gentleman, there was no questioning that, but his arrogance had always given away his ideas – as was the case here. He couldn’t help but smile as a tactical light bulb lit above his fur-covered orange hair (he was still wearing the Soviet winter hat he had found in the bunker).
“Let’s see if you can handle this.”
Trafford broke into a backpedaling trot, fleeing further from his strange opponent. With a flick of his wrist, billows of snowflakes rose from the arctic floor and gathered around his foe, encircling him in a strange winter-wonder land. As much as Alexander hated his father, and his father’s corporation, for the experiments and the research that had bestowed upon him this freakish ability, he had to admit, psychokinesis was fucking fun.
As the millions of snowflakes that surrounded Tempo began to glow with a familiar orange hue, which only took a moment or two at most, Trafford slowly and eerily brought the dangerous frozen particles closer to his opponent.
“Let’s see if your karate can block this,” Trafford exclaimed arrogantly.
In a moment’s notice, the energy charged winter storm descended upon the orange-haired boy. Behind everything, the puppet master of energetic kinesis, Alexander pulled out both his Desert Eagles and fired two complete rounds into the maelstrom, turning each and every slug into energy charged explosives as they entered the storm.
“I’m getting sick and tired of this shit,” Trafford whispered as he wiped the clinging snowflakes from his newfound clothing. Examining his surroundings, the young telekinetic quickly realized that he was inside some sort of dome. The walls were not made of concrete, steel or any other sort of fabricated material. It appeared to be a light bluish gel that surrounded him, transparent yet mystifyingly opaque in its nature. Alexander thought it was beautiful, it was, at the same time, certain and surreal. He did not know what to make of his natural attraction to the chaos in his nature, the waves of baby blue and navy energies weaving amongst each other, following no identifiable pattern in their dance. The dome provided order in that it contained its occupants, but, simultaneously, its structure was anarchic by design – something that Trafford found wonderfully innocent and pure. And, after a few moments of staring mesmerized at the animated ceiling above, realized that this must be the stasis field the soft spoken woman had been speaking of.
His observation and fascination of the dome was cut short by a simple distraction. Somewhere nearby he could hear a muffled rhythmic beating – he heard music. The sound was coming from behind him.
A peculiar sensation crawled into his gut, rising from his waist and slowly elevating through his stomach and into his chest. Alex was not the most emotionally sensitive or aware man, so it took him a moment to identify the feeling. Was it fear that he felt? The lingering paranoia that, if he turned around, a man would be standing behind him, a man from his past, an unnamed military official. And in that man’s hand would be a gun, with a slug meant for his forehead. Or was it excitement? Perhaps it was combat alone that would free him from his burden; the cleansing of spilt blood. In the manner of which Trafford figured things, there was only one way to find out.
After slowly making a one-hundred and eighty degree turn, Alexander came face-to-face with his newfound foe.
“You’ve got to be kidding, right?” Trafford spoke loudly, hoping his opponent could hear him over the music blaring inside his speakers.
The man, if he could be referred to as such, who stood before him wore shorts and a cut off t-shirt. He had boyish good looks, and orange hair. In fact, Alex thought, his foe almost reminded him of a younger Alexander Trafford.
Unlike the young telekinetic, however, the musically mesmerized young man was not one to mince words. Whether it was out of seriousness, or out of some deep-seeded timid nature, could not be determined.
“Hmm, well then,” Alex spoke to his counterpart, using exaggerated hand gestures in hopes that the young lad would grasp his point – even if he may not be able to hear him. He paused, not being able to find the exact words. After a few moments, he fakes a few jabs towards his opponent and mouthed one word, “Fight.”
Apparently his opponent didn’t need to hear what he was saying to understand what was occurring. The young, orange-haired boy leapt forward with a rhythmic grace, closing the gap between them in a moment’s notice. He moved so adeptly and with such experience, something unknown to Trafford when it came to melee combat.
Alex managed to block and dodge the first few jabs, but eventually, after several shots had landed uselessly on his forearms or in the confined air to the right and left of the telekinetic’s frantic visage, the music-loving teen found his mark. A right hook landed first, connecting on the well-dressed man’s lower jaw, knocking his head to the side. He followed with a shot to the abdomen, and a rising roundhouse kick to the ribcage.
Stumbling to the side, Trafford quickly found his balance and stepped back in the face his silent opponent, something he would soon discover to be a terrible decision. He tried to keep his guard up, but regardless of his efforts the younger fighter landed punch after punch down his sights and sprayed his knuckles all around Alex’s cherished facial features. It took the psychokinetic everything he could muster to simply push the boy backwards, creating space between them.
“You wanna play like that, huh?” Trafford mocked his opponent with a boyish grin, wiping the blood away from the base of his nose as he did so. Wising up, he took several step backs and made a point to keep distance between himself and the clearly more experienced melee warrior. Alex had always been a clever gentleman, there was no questioning that, but his arrogance had always given away his ideas – as was the case here. He couldn’t help but smile as a tactical light bulb lit above his fur-covered orange hair (he was still wearing the Soviet winter hat he had found in the bunker).
“Let’s see if you can handle this.”
Trafford broke into a backpedaling trot, fleeing further from his strange opponent. With a flick of his wrist, billows of snowflakes rose from the arctic floor and gathered around his foe, encircling him in a strange winter-wonder land. As much as Alexander hated his father, and his father’s corporation, for the experiments and the research that had bestowed upon him this freakish ability, he had to admit, psychokinesis was fucking fun.
As the millions of snowflakes that surrounded Tempo began to glow with a familiar orange hue, which only took a moment or two at most, Trafford slowly and eerily brought the dangerous frozen particles closer to his opponent.
“Let’s see if your karate can block this,” Trafford exclaimed arrogantly.
In a moment’s notice, the energy charged winter storm descended upon the orange-haired boy. Behind everything, the puppet master of energetic kinesis, Alexander pulled out both his Desert Eagles and fired two complete rounds into the maelstrom, turning each and every slug into energy charged explosives as they entered the storm.
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)