12-08-2009, 04:26 AM
“Can’t a guy catch a break around here?” Trafford asked rhetorically, his voice hardly rising above a whisper. He had not been given the opportunity to sleep in days, and he had just barely found the time to eat – although it had not been much. A fresh, juicy pear and a slice of bread was all he managed to scoff down during his short stay in the bunker. The worst part was, however, that he had just turned on the shower when he had been whisked away – a shower that he had desperately needed.
And now he was here, back in the mountains of this shit-hole little island. Without giving his location much observation, he tossed his Armani suit jacket onto the hard earth beside him, along with his now-button-less white oxford. He simply could not fathom that anyone, regardless of how unhygienic said person might be, would dress themselves with such fine garments in a state such as this. And it was not as if his suit and shirt were particularly clean either – they weren’t – but his torso was covered with dirt and sand that had latched onto the drying, matted blood which had flowed so readily over a vast majority of his chest and abdomen. Even his hair, his beautiful, orange locks, carried a revolting appearance. It hung together in concentrated clumps, cemented together with baked sweat and crimson ooze.
In the distance, lying in the space between Alex and the rising sun stood the silhouette of a young woman. Trafford cocked his eyes and peered across the desolate plateau, utilizing his hand as a visor in an attempt to block out the golden sphere’s magnificent rays and view his opponent, but his efforts were in vain.
“Hmmm,” He hummed as he contemplated his options. The young psychokinetic had never fought a female before, and he was not so keen to start now. But, really, what other option did he have? The damned courier from one of his earlier fights had attempted to ‘stick it to the man’ and play the pacifist, and that had certainly not ended well for him. All his strategy had achieved was earning him a Desert Eagle slug lodged in his shoulder.
No, he would have to enter into battle with this woman. That much was certain. Perhaps, he wondered, he could end the fight quickly and efficiently, and, ideally, from a long way off. He could not imagine undertaking in fisticuffs with a girl.
After checking to make sure that his twin, gold-plated Desert Eagles were securely tucked into his waistband and adjusting them so that they were not too uncomfortable against his lower back, Alex began walking towards his opponent. And, he quickly noticed, she began to approach him. Maybe this would be more interesting then he originally predicted.
A cool breeze swept against his naked torso and licked at his open wounds. It stung, as the air was cool, but he did not flinch in the presence of the pain. Foremost in his thoughts, especially since he was once again involved in combat, was the knowledge that he had acquired in his previous fight. He doubted Alice would come to him now, when his situation was not as desperate, so he kept her advice close to his chest. Only through struggle would he find absolution, and only through pain would he find his answers.
With every step he took, his enemy’s figure became more clear, and, consequently, he began to, once again, doubt his actions. Two men had died as he stormed along his soul-searching path, burning and razing everything that he encountered. And now he was going to fight a girl . . . wonderful. Even though desperate times called for desperate measures, he never thought that he would arrive in this place. He always heard that ‘the night is always darkest before the dawn,’ but, with an eternal shade slowly swallowing him, he was beginning to doubt if daybreak would ever come.
“That will be close enough,” Alexander stated. His volume was such that his opponent could hear him. The woman allowed herself a few more steps, seemingly challenging him with her disregard for his words before she slowed to a stop.
Neither combatant made a move, nor said a word. He assumed that she was sizing him up, and he figured that she presumed the same thing. But, in truth, Trafford could barely make out any details about her face or her figure. The dawn’s magnificent and intense radiance shined so bright behind her that she appeared to be little more than a shadowed silhouette. His eyelids encroached upon his hazelnut irises as he narrowed his vision, peering out at his opponent and trying to ascertain a better image.
This helped, but not to the extent that he had hoped. He could tell was that she had relatively good fashion sense, mixing some normal, respectable clothes with some vintage armor – classy and refined, yet original. And he noticed she had blonde hair that bounced slightly over her shoulders. Alex even caught a flash of his opponent’s brilliantly blue eyes. She seemed rather attractive, had the circumstances been different he probably would have flashed some zeni and had his way with her. She did not seem like that type of girl, but, then again, everyone has their price . . .
And that was when it hit him. He gasped before his lungs gave out and his feet staggered backwards uncontrollably. His heel glanced off a rock and nearly sent him stumbling to the ground. She was beautiful and proper, with blonde hair and blue eyes. From everything that he could gather, she looked exactly like her . . .
“Alice?” Trafford spoke. His body leaned forward, trying to peer into her face and determine whether or not it was really her. He could feel his heart leap, and then skip a beat – it was almost as if she was telling him that this was not an illusion. But, with every step he took towards her, she nervously took a step back. “Is that really you?”
“What?” The woman in front of him answered. Her tone was riddled with confusion.
He was certain it was her. It had to be her. She had been with him during his entire fight was Belle, and, on an island where the arctic tundra could exist beside a humid forest and mountainous peaks, was there any reason that thiscould not be possible too?
Perhaps this was compensation for his suffering, and for his pain. He had overcome so much, and he had struggled through so many obstacles. His hands were stained red with blood. The payment for absolution had come at such a high price, not only for himself, but also for Vad Zulenka, and Belle Hibiki. Was it finally here, had forgiveness come? Solace, coupled with the woman he loved, regardless if her presence was permanent or an illusion, was worth all the blood in the world.
Was that happiness? He questioned the emotion that coursed through his being. It had been so long since he had felt such a joy, pure and true.
He continued to walk forward, and she matched him with a panicked, retreating stagger. She seemed nervous, afraid even, but that was alright. Alex was nervous too. With his longer strides he quickly began to close in on her. But with every advancing step he took the sun’s rays began to part as her head slowly eclipsed upon the titanic, golden sphere. His realization was inevitable.
It only took two more fully-extended paces before the giant source of burning light became completely shrouded by her figure, and, consequently, her facial features were no longer hidden.
Trafford stopped dead. This was not Alice.
“No . . .” Alexander muttered through clenched teeth. He clenched his eyes shut and his chin dropped against his chest. All the hope, the excitement and the love that had sprung to life inside him in the last few minutes vanished. Every hint of solace, of absolution was whisked away; all things good were broken down and hurled into the brewing hurricane within his soul.
Sensations of heat, and of chilling cold, spread through every appendage, and through every extremity. His body burned with malice, and with anger, yet froze with miserable realization. He felt numb as the harsh truth collided with his senses. Alice was not here, and she was not anywhere. She was dead, buried beneath six feet of cold dirt within the confines of a cemetery in West City.
He did not know what to do, how to react. Realistically, he knew, there was only one thing he could do. His shaking hands slowly reached behind his back and clenched the cold steel, withdrawing his high caliber handguns from the security of his tightened belt. He lifted his eyes from the ground and stared into the sharp, blue irises of his enemy. Tears began to roll down his cheeks. Trafford leveled both barrels at his foe.
“I’m sorry,” The heart broken young adult groaned. His voice was low and without emotion, and it seemed to pierce his opponent with its cold depression. “This is not your fault.”
He violently jerked back both triggers, a broken man screaming at the heavens through sobs and a stream of tears. What could he do? What could he possibly do without her? Because, he realized now, she was gone, and she was never coming back.
Maybe that was the truth that he had so desperately sought. Perhaps what he needed to confront most of all was his inability to let go and move on. His hatred for his father, the immense guilt he felt in regards to Alice’s death, and the self-loathing that had followed – what if these were the demons he had sought to confront?
Only through struggle was absolution possible, and only through pain would he find his answers. He thought he had already faced the worst in his path, but he had been wrong. The fight with Belle had only been a precursor.
These thoughts would never cross his mind, however, and he would not have cared much either way. He simply clenched his teeth and continued to pull back the trigger.
What else could he do?
And now he was here, back in the mountains of this shit-hole little island. Without giving his location much observation, he tossed his Armani suit jacket onto the hard earth beside him, along with his now-button-less white oxford. He simply could not fathom that anyone, regardless of how unhygienic said person might be, would dress themselves with such fine garments in a state such as this. And it was not as if his suit and shirt were particularly clean either – they weren’t – but his torso was covered with dirt and sand that had latched onto the drying, matted blood which had flowed so readily over a vast majority of his chest and abdomen. Even his hair, his beautiful, orange locks, carried a revolting appearance. It hung together in concentrated clumps, cemented together with baked sweat and crimson ooze.
In the distance, lying in the space between Alex and the rising sun stood the silhouette of a young woman. Trafford cocked his eyes and peered across the desolate plateau, utilizing his hand as a visor in an attempt to block out the golden sphere’s magnificent rays and view his opponent, but his efforts were in vain.
“Hmmm,” He hummed as he contemplated his options. The young psychokinetic had never fought a female before, and he was not so keen to start now. But, really, what other option did he have? The damned courier from one of his earlier fights had attempted to ‘stick it to the man’ and play the pacifist, and that had certainly not ended well for him. All his strategy had achieved was earning him a Desert Eagle slug lodged in his shoulder.
No, he would have to enter into battle with this woman. That much was certain. Perhaps, he wondered, he could end the fight quickly and efficiently, and, ideally, from a long way off. He could not imagine undertaking in fisticuffs with a girl.
After checking to make sure that his twin, gold-plated Desert Eagles were securely tucked into his waistband and adjusting them so that they were not too uncomfortable against his lower back, Alex began walking towards his opponent. And, he quickly noticed, she began to approach him. Maybe this would be more interesting then he originally predicted.
A cool breeze swept against his naked torso and licked at his open wounds. It stung, as the air was cool, but he did not flinch in the presence of the pain. Foremost in his thoughts, especially since he was once again involved in combat, was the knowledge that he had acquired in his previous fight. He doubted Alice would come to him now, when his situation was not as desperate, so he kept her advice close to his chest. Only through struggle would he find absolution, and only through pain would he find his answers.
With every step he took, his enemy’s figure became more clear, and, consequently, he began to, once again, doubt his actions. Two men had died as he stormed along his soul-searching path, burning and razing everything that he encountered. And now he was going to fight a girl . . . wonderful. Even though desperate times called for desperate measures, he never thought that he would arrive in this place. He always heard that ‘the night is always darkest before the dawn,’ but, with an eternal shade slowly swallowing him, he was beginning to doubt if daybreak would ever come.
“That will be close enough,” Alexander stated. His volume was such that his opponent could hear him. The woman allowed herself a few more steps, seemingly challenging him with her disregard for his words before she slowed to a stop.
Neither combatant made a move, nor said a word. He assumed that she was sizing him up, and he figured that she presumed the same thing. But, in truth, Trafford could barely make out any details about her face or her figure. The dawn’s magnificent and intense radiance shined so bright behind her that she appeared to be little more than a shadowed silhouette. His eyelids encroached upon his hazelnut irises as he narrowed his vision, peering out at his opponent and trying to ascertain a better image.
This helped, but not to the extent that he had hoped. He could tell was that she had relatively good fashion sense, mixing some normal, respectable clothes with some vintage armor – classy and refined, yet original. And he noticed she had blonde hair that bounced slightly over her shoulders. Alex even caught a flash of his opponent’s brilliantly blue eyes. She seemed rather attractive, had the circumstances been different he probably would have flashed some zeni and had his way with her. She did not seem like that type of girl, but, then again, everyone has their price . . .
And that was when it hit him. He gasped before his lungs gave out and his feet staggered backwards uncontrollably. His heel glanced off a rock and nearly sent him stumbling to the ground. She was beautiful and proper, with blonde hair and blue eyes. From everything that he could gather, she looked exactly like her . . .
“Alice?” Trafford spoke. His body leaned forward, trying to peer into her face and determine whether or not it was really her. He could feel his heart leap, and then skip a beat – it was almost as if she was telling him that this was not an illusion. But, with every step he took towards her, she nervously took a step back. “Is that really you?”
“What?” The woman in front of him answered. Her tone was riddled with confusion.
He was certain it was her. It had to be her. She had been with him during his entire fight was Belle, and, on an island where the arctic tundra could exist beside a humid forest and mountainous peaks, was there any reason that thiscould not be possible too?
Perhaps this was compensation for his suffering, and for his pain. He had overcome so much, and he had struggled through so many obstacles. His hands were stained red with blood. The payment for absolution had come at such a high price, not only for himself, but also for Vad Zulenka, and Belle Hibiki. Was it finally here, had forgiveness come? Solace, coupled with the woman he loved, regardless if her presence was permanent or an illusion, was worth all the blood in the world.
Was that happiness? He questioned the emotion that coursed through his being. It had been so long since he had felt such a joy, pure and true.
He continued to walk forward, and she matched him with a panicked, retreating stagger. She seemed nervous, afraid even, but that was alright. Alex was nervous too. With his longer strides he quickly began to close in on her. But with every advancing step he took the sun’s rays began to part as her head slowly eclipsed upon the titanic, golden sphere. His realization was inevitable.
It only took two more fully-extended paces before the giant source of burning light became completely shrouded by her figure, and, consequently, her facial features were no longer hidden.
Trafford stopped dead. This was not Alice.
“No . . .” Alexander muttered through clenched teeth. He clenched his eyes shut and his chin dropped against his chest. All the hope, the excitement and the love that had sprung to life inside him in the last few minutes vanished. Every hint of solace, of absolution was whisked away; all things good were broken down and hurled into the brewing hurricane within his soul.
Sensations of heat, and of chilling cold, spread through every appendage, and through every extremity. His body burned with malice, and with anger, yet froze with miserable realization. He felt numb as the harsh truth collided with his senses. Alice was not here, and she was not anywhere. She was dead, buried beneath six feet of cold dirt within the confines of a cemetery in West City.
He did not know what to do, how to react. Realistically, he knew, there was only one thing he could do. His shaking hands slowly reached behind his back and clenched the cold steel, withdrawing his high caliber handguns from the security of his tightened belt. He lifted his eyes from the ground and stared into the sharp, blue irises of his enemy. Tears began to roll down his cheeks. Trafford leveled both barrels at his foe.
“I’m sorry,” The heart broken young adult groaned. His voice was low and without emotion, and it seemed to pierce his opponent with its cold depression. “This is not your fault.”
He violently jerked back both triggers, a broken man screaming at the heavens through sobs and a stream of tears. What could he do? What could he possibly do without her? Because, he realized now, she was gone, and she was never coming back.
Maybe that was the truth that he had so desperately sought. Perhaps what he needed to confront most of all was his inability to let go and move on. His hatred for his father, the immense guilt he felt in regards to Alice’s death, and the self-loathing that had followed – what if these were the demons he had sought to confront?
Only through struggle was absolution possible, and only through pain would he find his answers. He thought he had already faced the worst in his path, but he had been wrong. The fight with Belle had only been a precursor.
These thoughts would never cross his mind, however, and he would not have cared much either way. He simply clenched his teeth and continued to pull back the trigger.
What else could he do?
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)