[Mercy] Failure To Communicate

[John Doe]

"Who you calling boy, boy?"

Shades still intact, Doe lurched out of the collapsing crater that held him in place. The old man threw a decent punch; knocked the weed right out of him. Doe stuffed his guns back into his overcoat, which was riddled with bullet holes and bloodstains slapped himself in the face a few times and shook his head around. Sobered up, the man swayed his arms in a circle and arched his neck side to side, cracking them both. Preparations finished, Doe proudly glared back at Fightmaster. The suited saboteur flung out an arm towards the general, palm up and fingers extended. He tugged the fingers back a few times, towards his persistent grin.

"Bring it."

The mustached general brought it, thrusting his cigar-staff at Doe's head. He sidestepped to the left and threw a quick jab with his right. Fightmaster pulled himself back, blocking the punch with his surprisingly solid cigar-staff. Continuing with his momentum, the general brought his weapon above him and swung it down. Doe crossed his arms and caught the elongated cigar with his forearms. He held the long shaft in place with the back of his hands, and started chuckling. "For a grey-hair, you move pretty quick." The commander scoffed and threw Doe off his rod. Both combatants hopped back and prepared their fighting stances.

"Don't get too cocky," the old general began, "I'm just 'warming' up." Fightmaster flicked his wrist and a large, golden lighter popped out from his decorated sleeves. He Unlatched the case and pressed down on the wick. A two foot pillar of flame emerged from the golden lighter. The mustached commander waved the flame over the tip of his cigar-staff. It emitted a plume of dark black smoke as the ashes formed at the end of the giant cigar.

Doe stared at the ground, arms crossed and muttered to himself "You stole my line..."

With the smoke ignited, Fightmaster dashed at his foe again, the burning pole leading the charge. Doe reached out his hands to intercept the attack, grabbing the cigar-staff by its tip. Pain, and a lot of it, throbbed in his palms as the lit end of the large tobacco roll forced Doe backwards, skidding across the floor. The general pushed the staff against Doe again, forcing him to let the weapon go. He stumbled back, furiously shaking his hands around as he blew on them. The skin around his hands were scorched red, burnt all the way down to the muscle below. His fingers became numb, his hands like lead blocks negligently fastened to his arms.

"Where's that arrogant attitude now, huh?" The general took no time to continue his attack, sweeping the large cigar roll at Doe's legs. He jumped up, barely avoiding the attack. Still in the air, Doe counterattacked by swinging his arm at Fightmaster's head. Unable to shape a fist, the man instead struck with his forearm, knocking the general's helmet away and revealed his grey and scruffy hair. The commanding mustache grumbled, then tackled Doe's stomach. He flew back and slammed into the ground below, tumbling back a few times before jumping back onto his feet again.

Fightmaster followed up swiftly, swirling the cigar-staff into Doe's face. Dark smoke reeled about him, temporarily absorbing his head in a mask of black smog. Doe hacked and flailed his limp limbs around, staggering all over the floor. Fightmaster took the chance and drove the cigar's smoldering tip into Doe's chest, scorching straight through his flesh and bone. The old general then lifted the man up with his makeshift staff and threw him to the ground. He crashed face first, his head colliding with the plain tile floor.

"Heh heh heh..." The barely audible snicker escaped from the floor where Doe's face was pressed. He plucked his head out from the hole like vegetable, a thin layer of dust and debris covering his facial features. Cracks spread from the lens of his dark sunglasses, struggling to remain attached to his mug. What remained of his stomach was a barren cavern where is insides used to be. The dark suit he cherished was charred and tattered, thin strips of the black cloth draped over his gapping wound. Doe snorted, spat out a wad of blood at the ground in front of him, and continued his quiet laughter. "Didn't think I'd have to lose my threads cause of a guy like you. I misunderestimated you."

The grey-haired general kept his distance as he spun his giant cigar over and over around a single arm. "I don't think you understand, boy, but you've lost. Your hands are burnt and your innards are ashes. What are you going to do? Bleed on me?" He leaned his head back and echoed his throaty guffaw down the hallway. "Boy, I ain't got time to bleed!"

"Neither do I." Doe flashed his arms in front of him, showing off his palms and all their scalded glory. That's when the skin started to move. It grew and expanded over the grey, burnt muscle and bone, creating new skin. Within seconds, Doe's hands were as good as new. Smirking, he reached underneath his scorched clothing and rubbed his bare stomach. Tan, toned, and in perfect condition, just like he was. Satisfied, he patted his abdomen and beamed back towards Fightmaster. "Ta-da!"

The general didn't bat and eye at Doe's demonstration. "Regenerator huh? I've dealt with your kind before."

"You have, huh? How about this then?" Hands and body renewed, Doe clenched his fists and pounded them together. Waves of energy formed around them as he clenched, tighter and tighter. When the Ki began to solidify on his hands, he spread them out away from him. A bright blaze coiled around his hands and arms, engulfing them in a heated fury. "My name is John Doe, you ruined my suit, prepare to die."