12-03-2009, 10:33 AM
Alex and Belle stood up, both breathing heavily, despite the noxious vapors burning its acrid stench in their nostrils. Both stood, battered and bruised, pushed to their very limits, drained down to their very last drops of energy, and running mostly on the fumes of their willpower. It was an epic clash of titans, one a monolith of physical strength, and the other a master manipulator of energy. When looking from a distance, one could almost believe that they were the same man, ragged, and yet refusing to just lay down and die. Their driving forces lay deep within, one fighting for the power of life, and the other fighting because the absence of it. The match-up, whilst selected randomly by a sequence of meaningless numbers and letters, couldn’t have been a more perfect selection.
Words might have been fitting for the occasion, but none were spoken, save for Trafford’s glib remark about the un-killable Belle. The holocaust of the last attack seemed to be enough cause for silence. Escalation could only go so far before a life was finally taken. But what, indeed, would prove enough to take that life? Trafford had abandoned his guns, as well as his conviction to use them in slaying his foe, and Belle had thus far been unsuccessful in grinding Alex into submission with his fists.
Strangely enough, the first thought to cross the psychokineticist’s mind was how awesome a cigarette would feel right about now, if for nothing else than to maybe feel his last breath, like that soldier in the Clint Eastwood movie about the money in the grave. They had the good and the bad; all they were missing here was the ugly.
Belle caught his breath faster than his opponent. Once again, his oxygen “training” upon the Maiden’s Dream proved to serve him well. He vigorously vaulted his body towards his opponent, his feet picking through the plumes of charred sand. Trafford let out a small laugh…not this again. He wearily raised a forearm to block Hibiki’s incoming blow, but the effort simply was not enough to deter the physical ferocity of his enraged combatant. The punch hammered through his pitiful defenses and scored a strike directly on his cheek. Trafford didn’t have the strength to break his fall, and he went down onto the soft bed of sand as his knees weakly buckled. Belle didn’t seem to have the control to rein in his follow through, and he stumbled awkwardly forward, having put almost his entire weight behind the haymaker.
“Come on,” Belle ordered, staggering dizzily like a drunken boxer. “Get up. Unlike you, I don’t hit people when they’re down.”
Trafford chuckled, although the contractions of his diaphragm sent a fresh wave of pain tingling along his ribs. “If they can’t get back up, I just help them along.”
At least, that’s what he told himself. His conflicting feelings over his questionable actions could not be rationalized so easily, despite his best efforts to assuage that little voice in the back of his head, the one that belonged to him, and not Alice. Belle needed no such doubts as to his moral compass. The boy may have struggled with many things, but he had a firm grasp on what was important to him…Chickie and Birdie taught him that.
Alex surreptitiously grabbed a fistful of sand, hiding a golden glow beneath his clenched fingers. As he got up, he quickly twisted his body, ignoring the pain that the motion caused, and flung the ki-charged particles at his opponent, prematurely detonating them and sending a wave of exploding dust and smoke into Belle’s face. The boy growled in agony and his hands clawed at his now watering eyes.
“Son of a bitch!” he cursed as he tried to rub out the irritating grit. “Why don’t you fight me like a real warrior? All you have is your stupid little tricks!”
Trafford scrambled away, nearly tripping as he did so. He didn’t glance back as he casual called out over his shoulder, “All’s fair in love and war.”
Belle opened his eyes, receiving nothing at first but blurry shapes and colors. He blinked a few times to clear away the fog. He had been more angry at Trafford than trying to make a moral stance. After all, hadn’t he “defeated” Sage by luring her into striking the barrier? It burned him greater than any physical wound to be facing an opponent who treated so lightly something that Belle held so precious and dear to him. It was sacred, from the smallest, most innocent little insect to the cruelest creature wandering the universe.
In his desperate escape—or rather, ‘calculated retreat,’ as Alex preferred to call it—the ki manipulator discovered that one of the columns had spilled over into the arena, scattering bits of rubble amongst the sand. A brief thought crossed his mind, and he finally just shook his head.
“Fuck it.”
Belle charged once again, like a wild bull on steroids. Life was precious. He wouldn’t let Birdie’s death be in vain. Trafford just stood there with his backed turned, as if he wasn’t going to take Hibiki’s threat seriously. The orange-haired boy became wary, keeping his eyes out for the telltale signs of glowing spheres. As Belle grew closer, Alex suddenly whipped around, and Belle didn’t even see the kinetically charged rock that buried itself into his chest. His blood was pumping so strongly with adrenaline, it was as if he didn’t even feel it, so he kept barreling on through, an unstoppable freight train. Undeterred, Alex sent another rock that bored into the boy’s shoulder. His aim, of course, was off, but that was to be expected when Trafford was so exhausted he could barely see straight. Still, Belle kept on coming. Growing annoyed with his opponent’s insurmountable number of extra lives, and a little fearful of the rapidly diminishing gap of safety between him and another agonizing beating, Alex sent another, and another, and another. Finally, Belle grunted and started slowing down; it was becoming hard to breathe.
“Why don’t you just stay down?” Alex growled.
“No,” Belle replied, curling back his upper lip savagely. “I won’t stay down.”
He came forward, at a much slower pace. The street entertainer hurled another piece of rubble that slipped through Belle’s ribs and struck his abdomen. The velocity was becoming enough to force the boy’s body to recoil from the tiny little blasts. Finally, Belle reached Alex, and one hand closed on the bony youth’s throat whilst the other stayed his preferred energy arm.
“Life…is…precious…” Belle choked, blood beginning to gurgle up through his throat. Little droplets of it coated the sand as it dribbled out from the holes that riddled his torso. “Even mine…even yours…”
Alex’s thoughts went to Alice. He knew that. He knew that better than anyone, had been taught much more cruelly than the soul of a simple, insignificant little bird. But the heroin addict couldn’t speak. Even in the throes of death, Belle’s strength still far surpassed his own. He could feel the bruises rippling along his pale skin as his opponent’s grip wrapped tighter around his neck, thumb mercilessly digging into his mandible.
“Don’t…do it…to anyone else,” Belle threatened, his eyes filled with conviction even as the lights faded.
It was probably a good thing that Trafford couldn’t talk; he wouldn’t know what to say to that anyway. Instead, he weakly raised his free, trembling hand, fingers spread wide and cupped. A brilliant, golden glow surrounded Belle’s body, like it was a glorious blessing from the heavens above. Don’t do it to anyone else?
Maybe Trafford wouldn’t have to.
He clenched his bony hand into a tightly curled fist, and the world exploded to a blissful blankness of white.
-----
Alexander Trafford’s eyes slowly drooped open to a world of gray. He was slumped down, somewhere, his back propped up against cold stone. He didn’t even know how he got there, but he suspected the blast might have blown him somewhere into the upper part of the stadium. All the life in the coliseum seemed to have been sucked out of it, leaving nothing but blood and desolation. Not even the sun would shine here as a covering of thick, water-saturated clouds hung overhead. Thunder rumbled, and the first few drops began to fall, as if mourning the death of life’s great champion. They fell steadily at first, and then the last remaining floodgates opened and a downpour drenched every last inch of dryness. The world of Dante was crying.
A fleeting thought crossed his brain, a wish that he had never opened his eyes.
Words might have been fitting for the occasion, but none were spoken, save for Trafford’s glib remark about the un-killable Belle. The holocaust of the last attack seemed to be enough cause for silence. Escalation could only go so far before a life was finally taken. But what, indeed, would prove enough to take that life? Trafford had abandoned his guns, as well as his conviction to use them in slaying his foe, and Belle had thus far been unsuccessful in grinding Alex into submission with his fists.
Strangely enough, the first thought to cross the psychokineticist’s mind was how awesome a cigarette would feel right about now, if for nothing else than to maybe feel his last breath, like that soldier in the Clint Eastwood movie about the money in the grave. They had the good and the bad; all they were missing here was the ugly.
Belle caught his breath faster than his opponent. Once again, his oxygen “training” upon the Maiden’s Dream proved to serve him well. He vigorously vaulted his body towards his opponent, his feet picking through the plumes of charred sand. Trafford let out a small laugh…not this again. He wearily raised a forearm to block Hibiki’s incoming blow, but the effort simply was not enough to deter the physical ferocity of his enraged combatant. The punch hammered through his pitiful defenses and scored a strike directly on his cheek. Trafford didn’t have the strength to break his fall, and he went down onto the soft bed of sand as his knees weakly buckled. Belle didn’t seem to have the control to rein in his follow through, and he stumbled awkwardly forward, having put almost his entire weight behind the haymaker.
“Come on,” Belle ordered, staggering dizzily like a drunken boxer. “Get up. Unlike you, I don’t hit people when they’re down.”
Trafford chuckled, although the contractions of his diaphragm sent a fresh wave of pain tingling along his ribs. “If they can’t get back up, I just help them along.”
At least, that’s what he told himself. His conflicting feelings over his questionable actions could not be rationalized so easily, despite his best efforts to assuage that little voice in the back of his head, the one that belonged to him, and not Alice. Belle needed no such doubts as to his moral compass. The boy may have struggled with many things, but he had a firm grasp on what was important to him…Chickie and Birdie taught him that.
Alex surreptitiously grabbed a fistful of sand, hiding a golden glow beneath his clenched fingers. As he got up, he quickly twisted his body, ignoring the pain that the motion caused, and flung the ki-charged particles at his opponent, prematurely detonating them and sending a wave of exploding dust and smoke into Belle’s face. The boy growled in agony and his hands clawed at his now watering eyes.
“Son of a bitch!” he cursed as he tried to rub out the irritating grit. “Why don’t you fight me like a real warrior? All you have is your stupid little tricks!”
Trafford scrambled away, nearly tripping as he did so. He didn’t glance back as he casual called out over his shoulder, “All’s fair in love and war.”
Belle opened his eyes, receiving nothing at first but blurry shapes and colors. He blinked a few times to clear away the fog. He had been more angry at Trafford than trying to make a moral stance. After all, hadn’t he “defeated” Sage by luring her into striking the barrier? It burned him greater than any physical wound to be facing an opponent who treated so lightly something that Belle held so precious and dear to him. It was sacred, from the smallest, most innocent little insect to the cruelest creature wandering the universe.
In his desperate escape—or rather, ‘calculated retreat,’ as Alex preferred to call it—the ki manipulator discovered that one of the columns had spilled over into the arena, scattering bits of rubble amongst the sand. A brief thought crossed his mind, and he finally just shook his head.
“Fuck it.”
Belle charged once again, like a wild bull on steroids. Life was precious. He wouldn’t let Birdie’s death be in vain. Trafford just stood there with his backed turned, as if he wasn’t going to take Hibiki’s threat seriously. The orange-haired boy became wary, keeping his eyes out for the telltale signs of glowing spheres. As Belle grew closer, Alex suddenly whipped around, and Belle didn’t even see the kinetically charged rock that buried itself into his chest. His blood was pumping so strongly with adrenaline, it was as if he didn’t even feel it, so he kept barreling on through, an unstoppable freight train. Undeterred, Alex sent another rock that bored into the boy’s shoulder. His aim, of course, was off, but that was to be expected when Trafford was so exhausted he could barely see straight. Still, Belle kept on coming. Growing annoyed with his opponent’s insurmountable number of extra lives, and a little fearful of the rapidly diminishing gap of safety between him and another agonizing beating, Alex sent another, and another, and another. Finally, Belle grunted and started slowing down; it was becoming hard to breathe.
“Why don’t you just stay down?” Alex growled.
“No,” Belle replied, curling back his upper lip savagely. “I won’t stay down.”
He came forward, at a much slower pace. The street entertainer hurled another piece of rubble that slipped through Belle’s ribs and struck his abdomen. The velocity was becoming enough to force the boy’s body to recoil from the tiny little blasts. Finally, Belle reached Alex, and one hand closed on the bony youth’s throat whilst the other stayed his preferred energy arm.
“Life…is…precious…” Belle choked, blood beginning to gurgle up through his throat. Little droplets of it coated the sand as it dribbled out from the holes that riddled his torso. “Even mine…even yours…”
Alex’s thoughts went to Alice. He knew that. He knew that better than anyone, had been taught much more cruelly than the soul of a simple, insignificant little bird. But the heroin addict couldn’t speak. Even in the throes of death, Belle’s strength still far surpassed his own. He could feel the bruises rippling along his pale skin as his opponent’s grip wrapped tighter around his neck, thumb mercilessly digging into his mandible.
“Don’t…do it…to anyone else,” Belle threatened, his eyes filled with conviction even as the lights faded.
It was probably a good thing that Trafford couldn’t talk; he wouldn’t know what to say to that anyway. Instead, he weakly raised his free, trembling hand, fingers spread wide and cupped. A brilliant, golden glow surrounded Belle’s body, like it was a glorious blessing from the heavens above. Don’t do it to anyone else?
Maybe Trafford wouldn’t have to.
He clenched his bony hand into a tightly curled fist, and the world exploded to a blissful blankness of white.
-----
Alexander Trafford’s eyes slowly drooped open to a world of gray. He was slumped down, somewhere, his back propped up against cold stone. He didn’t even know how he got there, but he suspected the blast might have blown him somewhere into the upper part of the stadium. All the life in the coliseum seemed to have been sucked out of it, leaving nothing but blood and desolation. Not even the sun would shine here as a covering of thick, water-saturated clouds hung overhead. Thunder rumbled, and the first few drops began to fall, as if mourning the death of life’s great champion. They fell steadily at first, and then the last remaining floodgates opened and a downpour drenched every last inch of dryness. The world of Dante was crying.
A fleeting thought crossed his brain, a wish that he had never opened his eyes.
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