[04] Coliseum Fight

[Alexander Trafford]

A fight that will make them proud, a fight that will make them proud . . .

Alexander let the idea bounce around his head for a moment as he tried to decipher the meaning behind this statement. He was having trouble making the connection between battle and pride. The young telekinetic had felt satisfaction after his victories, sure, but he had viewed his climactic conflicts as obstacles – barriers that needed to hurdle in order to ensure his survival. These types of encounters were not measuring sticks that, when victorious, yielded glory. A man who looked upon the world from a perspective that allowed him to view victory in combat as a source of pride was a dangerous man indeed.

Trafford had wrecked Tempo without a second thought, and Kaden, the energetically talented courier, had refused to fight back. Belle was similar to his second opponent, Vad Zulenka, the blood thirsty saiyan born warrior; only the orange haired boy was better. He was faster, stronger and more strategically adept. If this brat, this upstart, had not been bred to fight, then he certainly had adapted well to the nature of this tournament.

He was a dangerous competitor indeed, which did not bode well for the Armani adorned man. Alex had ended the enraged saiyan berserker with a single energy-augmented slug to the skull. He fully intended to do the same to Belle.

“Hmmm, well,” Trafford finally responded to the brawler’s suggestion. He stopped his statement before it truly started, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a single Marlboro cigarette. Doubting that the same trick would work twice, Alex returned the half-full pack of smokes to their home against his left breast and did not offer one to his foe. After lighting the white, cancerous cylinder, he continued, “I don’t think that is going to happen . . .”

His twin Desert Eagles shook once or twice, before they were dislodged from the sand’s loose grip and raced across the coliseum’s simple floor and returned to their owner’s right and left hands.

Belle snarled. His body dropped and his muscles tensed. Trafford recoiled and took a step back. Images flashed into his mind of Hibiki’s fist slamming against his chest, and then striking him in the skull. The kid hit like a fucking train, and Alexander was not stupid enough to allow him to have an advantage; he had to maintain separation.

“On second thought, why don’t we try to negotiate a compromise?” The psychokinetic street entertainer lied, which was something that he was rather good at. His opponent loosened slightly, he seemed taken aback that Trafford had chose to fire words in his direction and not bullets. Meanwhile, Ace eyed the forgotten tie that Belle had so carelessly dropped near his own feet. Either the tanned man did not respect Alex’s obvious talents, or he was not the sharpest tool in the shed. “Ah, on second thought, let’s just beat the piss out of each other, shall we?”

Trafford grinned, and so did his opponent before he dropped his body once more into a combative stance. Tilting forward and balancing on the balls of his feet, the melee specialist prepared to shoot off in the direction of the well-dressed competitor. Belle shifted his weight onto his front foot as he readied his second charge. And then Alex winked.

Grains of sand were tossed uselessly into the air as the discarded garment uncoiled and lashed out at Hibiki’s forward foot. As the expensive tie wrapped itself around his ankle, Trafford flicked his wrist and the snake-like clothing yanked backwards, pulling his opponent’s weight out from beneath him.

“Gotcha!” He shouted excitedly as Belle landed awkwardly on the unforgiving surface. A loud grunt escaped him as his midsection compressed beneath his weight. The impact of his torso against the sand created several waves of dust that moved outwards from his fallen figure. They crested like water before crashing down and resting atop the coliseum’s crude floor.

Several rounds exploded from the barrels of Alex’s high caliber handguns. The cold, gold-plated steel caught the sun’s rays as both leveled Desert Eagles bucked in a perfect sequence, one after the other. Trafford took a step forward as he fired, allowing the shots to lead his target, who, presumably, would reengage in his acrobatic dodging at any moment.

Gathering himself, Belle predictably shot forth like a cannon and freed himself from the grip of the slithering garment. He rolled his body over in the air, contorting his figure just enough so that the bullets would careen by him harmlessly. Hibiki held his breath as he watched a single, golden slug whiz across his chest and tear his black tank-top. The augmented cartridge carried on and exploded harmlessly against the wall behind him, tearing a small hole in the arena’s barrier.

“Phew,” Belle sighed. The relief was short lived, however. As he pushed himself onto his feet his jaw slacked and his eyes grew wide.

“Not out of the woods yet, friend,” Trafford mocked his foe through a fresh swell of cancerous exhalation. Two of the bullets that the orange haired brawler had managed to dodge had looped back around and were heading back towards him. “Bullets don’t just fly straight in my world, kid.”

Hibiki leapt to his feet and immediately braced himself in a defensive fighting position. Alex could see each muscle in his arm tense with incredible definition. This was his chance. The younger combatant was not moving, and it was his job to see that he could not, and would not, dodge this attack.

Trafford lifted his Desert Eagles and began walking forward, emptying his clip at his enemy. A soft breeze swept back against him as he moved towards Belle, parting his hair and brushing it gently against the side of his face. His opened suit jacket flapped behind him, exposing the empty holsters that normally housed the two handguns. He had blood on his mind, and this fucking brat would not escape him this time.

The uppermost layer of fine sand that covered the coliseum’s expansive surface began to dance impatiently. Each tiny grain began to glow a beautiful shade of gold, turning the battlefield into a miner’s fantasy. The tiny particles grew stronger, and began to race faster toward their predetermined target, obeying every order from their commander. Alex was slowly becoming the perfect puppet master; all he had to do was think it, and his will would be done.

The twin, gold-plated Desert Eagles ceased fire and bounced against Trafford’s hips as his arms collapsed to his sides. He tucked the handgun that had previously occupied his left hand into its respective holster.

“This is it,” Trafford whispered. Wrinkles began to form above his brow as his visage crumpled into a mask of determination and angst. He had, for all intents and purposes, wrapped his enemy in a cocoon of power. It was the perfect puzzle, and now that all the pieces had come together, all the cartridges, all the sand, and all the stones, it was time for the finishing touch – one last coup de grace. Alexander closed his open hand, digging his fingers into his palms until his long, bony hands became nothing more than a fist.

The explosion that followed was equally beautiful and horrific in its magnitude. The energy imploded on the figure inside, presumably ripping the body to shreds. Trafford shielded his eyes as the initial detonation sent a blast of wind and sand outwards from the origin, followed immediately by the sound of two freight trains caught in a high speed collision. Strokes of red, orange and yellow thrashed out from within the billow of black smoke that arose from the newfound crater, a lone blemish on the coliseum’s otherwise pristine surface, and burned against the cool air that surrounded them. Alex remained still, watching the flaming tongues burn inside of the opaque mass, swallowing everything within their reach.

After running his hand through his hair and licking his lips, Trafford dropped his head and tucked a fresh cigarette into his mouth. With a flick of the flint wheel, his Zippo ignited and lit the end of the Marlboro. He allowed himself a long, hard drag at the smoke, filling his lungs with gaseous relaxation. Lifting his hand to his forehead, he rubbed the wrinkled surface and tried to ease the stress and disgust that now filled him.

“Goodbye Belle,” Alexander muttered under his breath as he turned on his heel and rotated away from the smoldering earth. What he did not see, however, was that, as the smoke cleared, there was no corpse, or any trace of the young brawler, Hibiki.

“Well, in my world, fists beat bullets, every time,” The familiar voice grunted. Trafford clenched his eyes closed, realizing what had happened. The bastard had vanished, leaving only his illusion behind. Alexander lifted his head, knowing full well what awaited him.

The punch came fast and hard, each of Belle’s knuckles crashed directly against his cheekbone. His cigarette fell from his mouth, which was instantly filled with pooling blood. He dropped the Desert Eagle that had occupied his hand. Thick, crimson ooze spewed from his mouth as his head was forcibly jerked to the side, and his hair consequently whipped around his rapidly rotating skull. Alex didn’t stagger back; he simply collapsed onto his side. Once again he was reminded that this brat hit like a fucking train.

Trafford rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself onto his feet, taking a few steps away from his opponent before he turned to face him. This was not how things were supposed to work out. None of his foes thus far had been able to dodge every attack that he launched, not even the courier. Nothing was working; he had even defied the laws of physics and curved a damned bullet for Christ’s sake! How could he beat this kid if he could not manage to connect on any offensive assault?

His trademark arrogance suddenly vanished from his visage, and was replaced by the fearful, helpless mask of an ordinary, privileged teenager who had been thrust into a man’s world.

Belle advanced, and all Alex could do was slowly step backwards, uselessly holding his hands before him in an attempt to block the imminent onslaught. The orange haired brawler unleashed a massive hook at the psychokinetic, which Trafford instinctively ducked under. Hibiki followed by rotating his entire body and crushing the well-dressed man’s chin with a forceful upper cut that lifted him off his feet.

Alexander did not remember much of the next few moments. His body arched backwards through the air, and all he could see was a titanic sphere of light that nearly filled his vision. Suddenly, the reality of his situation set in. He was going to die here, or, to the extent that one could die on Dante. This opponent was too strong, too quick and too overbearing. There was nothing he could do.

He did not realize it, or even feel it, but his upper back landed first against the beige floor. As his body collapsed he did not move, but merely allowed his head to fall to the side and rest on the sand. Belle was pacing around him and shouting something, apparently he had no intention of beating the tar out of a fallen opponent. Not just yet, at least.

Alexander sighed, rolled over, and began to pull himself to his feet. As he rose to one knee, he paused and watched the crimson fluids drip from his face and fall into small pools on the sand below. The blood was real, and the pain was real, but death would serve no absolution here. It would only send him back to his miserable life, on some godforsaken planet. Alice would be no closer to him if he died here. He had come to this competition seeking answers. His entire life, up until meeting that blonde haired beauty, had been a waste – he had been running and hiding from everything since the day he was born. In seeking to put an end to his fear, his anger, and his inner self-loathing, which he so desperately hid from the world, submission could not be a solution. Allowing this savage to dance all over his face was unacceptable.

Only through struggle would he find absolution, only through pain would he find what he was looking for.

“Fuck it,” Trafford whispered, spitting blood from his mouth. Slowly he lifted himself to his feet, and then stumbled backwards before gaining his balance. Alexander gripped the collar of his Armani suit jacket and pulled it back, allowing it to slide down his arms and fall into an idle heap on the coliseum’s surface. He lifted his hands and wrapped his fingers around the fabric on either side of his oxford shirt where it opened at the top of his chest. As he pulled, the buttons were torn from their seams and scattered amongst the sand; the white oxford fell uselessly atop the blazer.

Bare-chested and weakened, Alexander Trafford slid his long, bony fingers into the old leather gloves that he had become so accustomed to wearing during fights. He lifted his thin, meager arms in front of his face and took a step towards Belle. The material covering his hands immediately caught ablaze with a brilliant shade of gold.

There would be no quips, no quotes, and no punch-lines. This fight was for everything that had gone array in his life: all his failures, all his mistakes and all his broken promises. Above all, this was for Alice, and this was for absolution.

This was it, the fight he had been waiting his entire life for.