[08] FINALE - Part 2

[DA 2009]

FINALE - PART 2


Alexander Trafford vs. Sage

It could have been minutes, and it could have been hours, but Alexander Trafford and Sage were eventually led to the coldest Sector of them all…the Arctic Sector.

“Zut, froidement!” Pierre exclaimed, shivering beneath his rattling armor.

Sage moved numbly, her mind processing the loss of two of her closest friends. Ashe had promised…she promised…

“Well, we’re here!” Hollywood announced grandly. As if speaking some secret cue, Caracol materialized within the group, massive arms folded over his massive chest. “Nice timing, Jolly Green Giant,” the stuntman joked. “She dead?”

Caracol nodded. Sage’s hand balled tightly into a fist, her lip trembling, but not from the cold. She convinced herself over and over again that it wasn’t real, singing the worlds loudly in her head on a loop like they would somehow absolve her of her conscience. Vale Dura dropped Alex unceremoniously in the snow, soaking his clothes as the flakes of ice came into contact with his warm body. The psychokinetic grabbed his pistol, raising it threateningly as he wildly alternated his line of sight between the four mercenaries.

“Calm down, Eastwood,” Hollywood chided.

“W-what exactly are we waiting for? Why don’t we just get it over with?” Sage asked through clenched teeth.

“We’re waiting for the main event,” Norris shrugged.

Again, right on cue, a cold snap blew in from the north, blasting them with flakes and icy bursts of wind. Alex had to shield himself against the cold, although Sage need not go to such trouble. Off into the distance, a figure emerged, slowly trekking towards them. The two squinted, trying to discern whom it could possibly be. Hoping against hope, they imagined the person they most desired to see. But no such luck existed, not in the Abyss.

Damon Dukes emerged from the flurries, wearing the same exquisite suit as they had observed on him from the very outset of the tournament.

“You,” Sage breathed venomously. A million things popped into her head at once, a myriad of hateful and spiteful things that she wished to say, things with which to verbally rip the tournament host to shreds for all of the atrocities committed for the sake of a mere game.

Alexander stood to his full height, training the pistol on the host instead. He said nothing, but carefully observed the situation.

“Welcome to the final showdown of Dante’s Abyss,” Damon greeted quietly. “You both have most certainly earned your place.”

“I-is th-this game real?” Sage stammered furiously. “The p-people who…who died…they…they didn’t die for real, did they? I-it’s all fake!”

“My dear, this is not a game. This is a tournament, a tournament of conquest, battle, survival,” Damon corrected calmly. “Everything that happens here occurs exactly like it would anywhere else.”

Sage fell silent for a moment, and then she slowly walked over to the host. With her good hand, she punched him, hard across the jaw, with as much strength as she could muster. Damon took the hit square on the chin, and his body lurched violently to the side from the force. He could feel as the jawbone popped from its sockets.

“D-does that feel real to you?” she asked, her eyes welling up with tears. “You killed everbody I cared about!”

Damon choked on a ball of blood that gurgled at the back of his throat and dribbled between his broken teeth. Alex stood to the side, his eyes widening with surprise. He was completely unsure as how to react.

“You executed my best friend,” Sage accused, “and you let the other one die.”

Trafford kept his gun level, but reconsidered the ramifications of his actions. That meant everyone he killed, he’d killed for real. This unsettling bit of news brought new light to his personal torment.

Damon uttered what sounded like a strangled cough, but eventually, they realized he was laughing. He brought a hand firmly to his mangled mandible, pushing it back into place. The sound of popping flesh and grinding bone jarred audibly over the sound of the winds, and before long, his face was pristinely perfect once again. Sage’s eyes narrowed furiously.

“I can understand if you are upset,” Dukes consoled.

‘Upset’ didn’t even begin to cover it.

Damon looked to the skies. “Four years ago, a great clash of titans occurred on a battlefield of snow. Two saiyans, fighting for dominancy, two saiyans who entered this tournament as it was meant to be. One was overcome by a demonic entity, a black virus, which transformed him into a monstrous shell of his former self. Four fighters watched on as the battle raged, until the viral saiyan was overcome. That was the last time this tournament was held in its purest form, a form that I sought to revive. The tournament that your mother fought in, dear Sage, was not that tournament. The previous format was brutal, but never quite the same.”

The two remaining competitors looked into the sky, unable to see the vision of Goku and Broli tearing each other to pieces. They also looked to the snowbanks beyond, unable to see the past image of Raditzu, Reijin, Bardock, and Android 18 as they waited for their own fates to come.

“This is the last battle you’ll fight here,” Damon concluded. “Fight as they did, or you have no hope of achieving your desires. One seeks absolution for a death that was not his fault, and the other seeks a man whose transgressions were beyond reprehensible. Only one can win, and only one can get what they want.”

One word sprang to Alex’s mind: Alice.

One word sprang to Sage’s mind: Sol.

Damon gestured grandly. “I have one last gift for you both within this tournament. Your desire to fight has been proven, and now I will give you the means to do so.”

He signaled towards the four Eliminators. Hollywood and Pierre sidled up next to Sage, whilst Caracol and Vale Dura went to Trafford.

“Farewell, my friends,” Damon smiled. He bowed, turned, and walked back into the storm.

“Time to do your thing, Mr. Wizard,” Hollywood smiled as he clapped a hand on Sage’s shoulder. She didn’t know whom he was addressing, although outside the game, Audric got the message.

Hollywood and Pierre took a firm hold of each of Sage’s arms, as did Caracol and Vale to Alexander. A flash of light ensued, and gradually, the forms of the four mercenaries integrated into the two competitors. Their wounds healed, their energy replenished, and they felt themselves brimming with the strength of the Eliminators. The six of them, in some odd way, had become fused beings.

Sage looked at Alexander, and Alexander looked at Sage.

It was everything or nothing.

[Sage]

Ashe’s blood. The image of her head shattering like dropped china kept Sage frozen and numb. She wanted to go to her, to chase the wretch who had done it to her, but Sophia pulled her ahead. And now she was gone, too.

Sage plopped down into the snow, and ran her fingers up into her hair until it spilled out between them, like weeds between slabs of concrete. Ashe had been viciously executed and Sophia had faded away. Back... to Heaven? She hoped so. The weight of Ashe’s death gnawed at her too much to have a second friend to grieve over.

It didn’t hurt any less.

Flecks of gore and flesh and blood. Grey matter. All of it in a puff of pink, like a twisted rose in bloom. Ashe’s body hit the pavement. Damon had her friend executed right before her eyes. Because of Damon Dukes, and her own, blind quest for vengeance, the only friends she had were...

Gone.

Alone. Sage and loneliness were intimate companions, but this was... different, somehow. It was quiet, but not tranquil. There but not there. It ate at her! Her whole world fell away.

She began to weep. Bitter, heavy sobs racked the girl’s entire body as she sat, curled into a ball, in the snow. She cried so hard her throat hurt, but she didn’t stop. This was her fault. Sage did this. She justified tapping into her cryokinesis with this mad quest, but her hollow justifications didn’t halt the retribution.

In a sense, Sage knew she would be punished for breaking her oath. But she had thought - or, maybe, just hoped - that things would turn out... at least bearable.

Alexander looked on with eyes heavy with regret. His frown couldn’t have looked any more miserable as he watched the girl as she blubbered into her arms. He knew what it was like to lose someone close. The formerly well-dressed man closed his eyes and sighed. He knew damn well.

He began to walk toward her, with slow, deliberate steps. He felt no anger or hatred as he stood over her. His hand drifted over a familiar, gold-plated object, and he loosed the firearm from its holster.

Trafford stood before Sage, his hand cannon like a lead weight, pinning his arm to his side. For a long time, he didn’t move. The girl hadn’t noticed him, or if she had, she hadn’t bothered to do anything about it.

Ace knew the feeling. There was nothing left for her. She was already a user, he knew that much, so things probably weren’t too good to begin with. Still, she was innocent. A little like Alice, maybe. He felt a twinge of guilt the instant the comparison went through his mind. He looked down at her, his hand flexed around his gleaming weapon, but he hesitated.

She had nothing left. The redhead knew that much. His whole visage sagged as he raised the weapon, and every so gently let the end of the barrel rest against the top of Sage’s head. She didn’t even look up. A quick death was the only mercy left to offer the poor girl.

Sage felt the weight of Alex’s weapon press down on her head. So what?! Ashe and Sophia were gone! They were gone and it was Sage’s fault. She deserved this. This bastard would kill her while she was in so much pain, so be it. The cold-hearted monster would be consumed, too. Damon lied to her, there was little doubt he would lie to him, too.

Her sobbing quieted as she awaited the inevitable, her whole body drooping under the crushing weight of hopelessness. Sage had been nothing but a burden to everyone around her most of her life. Her sister, her friends, all of them worked so hard to make things better for her. To protect her. What had she given back? Her sister was better off with her gone. At least then she could go on with her life, without Sage to constantly hold her back.

The girl closed her eyes and bit her lip. There was silence until Trafford squeezed the trigger. A gentle click, and then-

BANG!!

Sage’s eyes went wide, and her head lolled from side to side, before she toppled over onto her side, her eyes open and distant as she lay unmoving in the snow.

Ace furrowed his brow. The girl shouldn’t have been so... intact.

It made no sense. There was no blood, and her head should have popped like a grape. Alex turned away from the fallen hybrid to gaze at the gun in his hand for a moment. Maybe the bullet was a dud?

The azure haired girl stirred, and fought to her feet as ice like broken glass fell from her head and her face, along with the crushed remains of the bullet that had sought to release her from this mortal coil.

“After everything you’ve seen,” Ace jumped at the voice, whirling around with both guns drawn. “After everything Damon Dukes told you, after all the people who suffered because of us!! And you would shoot me?! You would keep going?!”

Alexander watched her without the slightest hint of contempt. Instead, Sage thought she saw sorrow in his eyes. A trick. He just tried to kill her. “I... thought I cou-”

Sage cut him off. “I won’t be stopped!” she hissed. “Damon took away the only people who ever made me feel like a real person, and I’m not going to let him get away with that!”

Rosé eyes like points of white-hot light burned hot into Alexander’s flesh. What she was doing was wrong. It was evil and vicious and exactly the kind of thing she abhorred. But Damon was going to die. If whatever forces had punished her decided to make her suffer even more than she already had for killing him, she could accept that. And no opportunistic whelp was going to prevent her from avenging the only real friends she had ever made.

The report of the gun. If Alexander had his way, she was to have died as Ashe had. Flecks of gore and flesh and blood. Grey matter. A wonderfully sick intermingling of vital fluid and human remains.

The idea that Ashe died trying to help Sage find Sol, that she died because of her and Sage almost let her die for nothing, letting Alexander put her out of her misery. Maybe that’s what did it, maybe not. Sage wasn’t really very sure.

Something inside of her, right then. It broke. Gone. A dam made of glass, and with it out of the way, seven years of inexpressible fury and anguish and despair and frustration all poured out, all unfairly and unjustly aimed right for grim-faced Alexander.

An impotent howl escaped Sage’s lips, her internal tempest made manifest. Out in every direction from the girl at the epicenter, raged a wicked flurry, until Sage leveled her glare and collected her unfocused rage and unleashed it as a cannon.

Camouflaged by the natural snowstorm, a wall of Sage’s Frostbite barreled past Alexander’s defenses without the slightest trouble. He predictably went into a panic, swatting at the razorflakes, but this time, Sage didn’t run.

One after the other, javelins of ice materialized over her head and then propelled themselves at the disoriented heroin addict. In an absurd stroke of luck, Alexander bled his own power into the flakes that accosted him, causing an explosive chain reaction that reached its zenith just in time to screen the first of the spears that sailed toward him.

His Desert Eagles pointed skyward and barked their protests as bullets sizzling with energy changed course to strike the sinister icicles as they encroached, obliterating them one by one. Unfortunately for Ace, there were only so many bullets in a clip.

As Sage’s deadly assault continued, Alex desperately summoned the fresh powder into the air, where it whirled around him, completely encircling his figure. Trapped within his very own snow globe, he focused his energy outward, and the snow went from alabaster to aureate.

The spears made to pierce his veil - and his flesh - but a chain of explosions shattered them, and more snow was pulled from the air and the ground to shore up Ace’s makeshift shield. Sage continued her barrage, but to no avail. Her assault was hopeless.

Ace reloaded and took aim, just as two massive spears of ice burst out from the ground. His snow shield fell as he leapt out of the way- or, he made to leap out of the way, and found his feet cemented to the ground beneath him. His feet were encased in ice.

“Oh, shit!!” taking aim at both Frostroots at once, he unleashed a withering barrage of psychokinetically enhanced bullets, hurriedly obliterating Sage’s vicious assault. More of the twisting spears burst from the ground, but the ice around her victim’s feet suddenly exploded, and the man in the blood-stained suit catapulted up into the air.

Sage was not about to let him go that easily. Ace leveled his weapons at the girl beneath him, while, from high up above, rained medicine ball hail stones.

Before he could get a shot off, the first one sailed harmlessly through the air - right next to Ace. With a start, his head jerked skyward, just in time for him to block one of the massive hunks of ice with his face.

Rocketing back to earth, Alexander crashed into the snow, consumed in a massive plume of white. He had very little time for respite, however, as more of the frigid meteors smashed into the earth all around him.

The ground shook. Almost rhythmic thumping as the gigantic hail smashed into the ice and hard-packed snow. Alex darted back and forth, evading the celestial projectiles, his eyes fervently sweeping over the tundra, through the snowstorm’s obscurity. He didn’t know where that psycho bitch was!

A wall of that damned sharp snow barreled toward him. He anticipated it, and just before it washed over him, the ground before him rippled, and a wall of snow lifted up before him, tiny explosions searing the Frostbite as it reached out for him. Bony, frigid fingers consumed by the feeblest flame.

Arctic javelins came raining down on him like arrows over an ancient battle. He growled, surprised he’d fallen for such obvious misdirection. But there was more to it. Spears of ice shot up from the ground as a literal wall of ice accelerated toward him like a frozen tidal wave.

Timing carefully, he leapt over the crest of the wave, twisting and weaving around the spikes that thrust out from beneath. He looked up just in time to see another wall - this one of fog - sail toward him.

Almost outraged, he tensed up as the haze consumed him.

Sage could feel him within the mist. The tiny particles fell on and danced off his frame. He wasn’t moving. Watching. Massive, icy claws covered her hands, and the girl took off running through the obscurity, claws outstretched.

Alexander spotted her rushing him head-on and raised his guns. Then he spotted her rushing him from the right. And the left. And then from all angles. He didn’t bother taking ineffectual potshots as he nervously considered his options. Soon, however, he composed himself and shot a confident look at one of the charging Sage-shapes.

Sage continued her attack; his back was turned. Obviously he had made the wrong decision. The girl charged, and just as she leapt up through the air did she notice that the Northern Lights had taken on a yellowish twinge. Her eyes widened.

A thunderous explosion consumed Sage and Alexander both, and a dome of kinetic energy ballooned outward, consuming the immense cloud of fog and everything within. Alexander put one of his pistols away to adjust his tie, roughly loosening it as he blew the smoke away through sheer force of will.

A hand fished into his pocket and retrieved a smoke. With a flick of his wrist, the cancer-stick leapt up to his mouth, with just a little help of his mental talents. Illuminating it with a spark of ki, he took a drag as he calmly assessed his situation.

He shifted his feet and turned around, just in time to see a huge block of ice crack, then shatter. The debris exploded outward, before suddenly, unnaturally, altering course to lash out at Alexander, who easily blew the freezing clay pigeons out of the sky with his high-caliber handgun.

From within the Glacier raced the ice witch herself. Alexander trained his weapons on her, but she had already closed the distance. With a wide swipe, her claws raked across Trafford’s chest, shredding his flesh and his expensive clothes. He stumbled backward as Sage went for his face, but the butt of a pistol met hers first.

The princess recoiled from the sharp pain in her forehead, staggering away from her quarry. He leveled his guns at her just as a blinding white out completely ruined his visibility. He fired as Sage dropped to the ground, narrowly evading the energized AE rounds.

The storm did not abate. The howling winds grew more intense, kicking up the snow all around Trafford. Sage had taken to hiding in the elements for a moment, but she had no doubts.

This whole sector was her weapon and her strength. Even if the redhead had somehow managed to turn her weapon against her, she knew how to wield it better than anyone. The cold would claim one more.

Ace clenched his teeth tight and shivered violently. As much as he wanted to hug himself from the cold, he had to keep his guns up. Sage was there, somewhere. Frost was spiderwebbing on his weapons. The metal was so cold it burned at his hands. His mind went to his gloves for a moment, but he wasn’t about to put his guns down. Not until he could see her.

Sage watched him stumbling blindly. This was her world, and like the namek before him, nothing he could do would save him in this place.

[Alexander Trafford]

His body was becoming numb, involuntarily shivering at the mercy of such extreme conditions. The storm had not hindered, and he suspected that it never would. Howling winds battered his meager, freezing frame, dancing and whipping around him with unrelenting malice. Her merciless tempest wielded snowflakes and ice shards that savagely attacked his flush red skin with the menace of a thousand razorblades. The blizzard’s fury was overbearing, and he collapsed onto one knee; his hand gun still blindly leveled into the alabaster veil.

Breaths came slow and with excruciating pain. With every inhalation the bitter cold tore at his soft, vulnerable throat and invaded his already blackened lungs. What could one man do in the face of such unbridled and reckless hate? He could think of no answer, but, at the same time, he could not relent, he could not surrender. This was his chance, his only chance, to right his wrongs. Damon Dukes had stated that only one of them could receive what they so desperately sought. To him that had been obvious. He had come so far, and suffered so much, and now he was at destiny’s doorstep. His Alice was so close now. He realized now that absolution was something that would not simply be granted to him, regardless of how much he suffered – he had to earn his right to apologize. And this was his opportunity.

Was it selfish? He asked himself. This chance had been born from blood; many had died so that he could see her one last time. His hands and his heart were eternally stained crimson, was this worth the price that he had paid? That others had paid? He knew that it was, and, even if it was not, he could not turn back now. There was no good or evil in this world. There was only pain and sorrow. There was only death.

A single stream of tears rose above his eye’s embankment and cascaded down his cheek; it quickly slowed and solidified, frozen against his numbed flesh.

“Do you think that you are the only one who suffers?” Trafford screamed into the bitter nothingness. His arms collapsed against his side, dropping the Desert Eagle into the fair powder that surrounded him. He could feel his muscles tense beneath his blood stained garment. His forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows furrowed, encroaching on his hazelnut irises with menacing intent. “We all have our burdens to carry; the whole world suffers.”

Her friends had died, so what? His entire life had been taken from him; everything he had ever known had been systematically destroyed. He had never known normality. His parents had made sure of that. They had never been satisfied. It was his mother’s idea to enroll him in a strict, focused private school where he was surrounded by boys and girls who operated like robots. With all work and no play, they had become slaves to time and order. But that was not enough, military academy followed. And then came the experiments, the research and his own death – the death of the Alexander Trafford that had been born of his mother’s womb, and the birth of the freak. Enter misery, enter despair, and enter self-loathing.

Then he had met Alice, and she eased his pain. She had been his rock, the force that broke the storming tides of his restless and uneasy mind. And now she had been taken from him. That was his fault, he knew that. Enter his calloused and blackened soul.

“This is all that I have left,” He continued to bellow into the frosted shroud. He slowly pushed himself to his feet and stumbled aimlessly around the epicenter of the storm. “The fading hope that I can reconcile what I have done. I would gladly end my own life if that would achieve such an end; but it wouldn’t, it couldn’t. This is the only way. You’d take from me this opportunity!?”

His words carried waves of sorrow and hatred. It was not animosity for his foe, but for himself. He paused for a moment, awaiting any reply from the blue-haired ice queen.

“I can’t let you do that,” Trafford exclaimed with uncharacteristic determination. “I will destroy this entire island before I fail her.”

Sage, of course, had no idea of whom he spoke. But that did not matter, not to Alex at least. His opponent was nothing more than an obstacle on his bleak and darkened path; what was one more death if it meant absolution? He was beginning to wonder if forgiveness was even possible, from himself or from Alice. Part of him knew that he was doomed to eternal sorrow. He had not been a man since he was seventeen and his father had volunteered him for energy infusions. He had been transformed, against his will, into an abomination, a freak. There was no home to which he could return, no kin that he could confide in; he was eternally alone.

Death was irrelevant to him now. Surely even hell was better than this miserable existence. He lived for one end – to see Alice one more time. Then, perhaps, things would change, but not until then.

He had to kill her.

Trafford, frozen and consumed with sorrow, lifted his palms in front of his face and stared with empty eyes into his skin’s natural wrinkles. He could feel the energy coursing through his muscles and through his veins; he had become, for all intents and purposes, an embodiment of raw power. The strength to accomplish his task lie within him, he knew that now.

His fingers withdrew into his palms and his long, bony hands became tightened fists. Alexander focused his mind, not on anything in particular, but, rather, he honed in on everything. A multitude of randomly placed golden circles began to illuminate the battlefield’s surface. He could not see his opponent, so he would blanket the area in explosions. A promise was a promise; he would burn and raze this island into nothingness before he faced failure.

Somewhere, deep within the storm’s obscure veil, Sage began to notice the strengthening glimmer of golden power. It was everywhere.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh cigarette. Slowly and carefully, his shaking and shivering fingers guided the Marlboro into the corner of his lips. He eyed the world around him; the ice queen’s winter wonderland was now covered with the glimmer of a thousand coronas that awaited detonation.

He blinked once and, simultaneously, the tip of his cigarette became lit, and the arctic tundra fell victim to his army of explosions.

With his eyes clenched shut, he did not allow himself the enjoyment of watching his work. Though, he could imagine its beauty. A thousand bulbs of orange and yellow flame would rise from nothingness and desperately lick the air in search of their target. Explosions had a mind of their own you see, their enraged blaze swayed this way and that, and reached at whatever it so pleased, before surrendering its existence into a plume of blackness. What was born of hatred and fury, willingly and peacefully died and dissipated in dancing wisps of smoke.

The flickering light of his own life would not surrender so easily, or so peacefully. He telekinetically lifted his fallen hand cannon and returned it to his palm, while simultaneously withdrawing the other. Whether he had actually struck his icy opponent, or had merely distracted her, he did not know, but the storm was beginning to retreat. In the distance, the slender outline of a woman’s silhouette stood out from the frosted veil.

He inhaled deeply and filled his lungs with a cancerous plume of bluish grey smoke. His thumbs pulled back and cocked the hammer on each of his high caliber Desert Eagles.

He had reached the peak of the mountain; his struggle was nearly over. Absolution was in sight, and she felt so near. All his life he had been running, fleeing from his own despair; now he stood and faced it head on. The culmination of all his misery, all his despair and all his loathing was embodied in this young cyrokinetic.

You are so close now. We are so close.

His heart quivered. He could feel her restlessly shake within his soul. Through an exhalation of smoke he sighed, and then gently he pulled back on each trigger for what he hoped would be the last time.

[Sage]

Prismatic blades of fury and fire and death glistened in the light. Sage waited. She had given up on the pretension that she was going to fight Alexander. It wasn’t going to happen. The word implied that he would have a chance to defend himself.

No,

Sage was going to stalk, and kill Alexander. No ‘fighting’ was going to occur.

She flexed her fingers, and her elongated claws clinked against one another. Her breaths were short, drawn in and out between clenched teeth. Her body tensed, and she lowered her legs, but failed to pounce.

Something felt... strange. A bizarre, vivid sensation, speaking to her from... everywhere. Confusion masked hatred, and her vicious snowstorm abated. The momentary stillness of the air revealed hundreds - thousands - of pillars of light, dancing on top of her wintry domain.

Her eyes widened as she realized they were everywhere, all around her. The azure haired addict bolted, retreating just in time to avoid the first of many explosions. Rapid explosions thundered in a death metal bass beat all around her as she ran and jumped and sidestepped around the myriad traps Alexander had set for her.

One exploded too close, singing her brand new sweater and tossing her unceremoniously into a snow bank. The detonations shook the ground all around her, and suddenly she felt like Alexander must have when she had rained all those meteors down on him. The girl curled into a ball and covered her head, squeezing her eyes shut until the ground stopped shaking.

Finally, only the whistling of the wind remained, and Sage climbed to her feet. She took a moment to collect herself, but she had been exposed. Her eyes caught a familiar silhouette in the distance, and a pair of familiar weapons raised up at her.

Before she even heard the bang, a wall of ice leapt up before her with the flick of a wrist, and predictably, energy-infused bullets smashed into it, exploding and cracking the frozen shield. Each impact stressed the glassy surface, and the cracks spread and deepened. Finally, Sage sidestepped past the shield, just as it exploded in a shower of dazzling flecks of frost.

What happened next wasn’t so easily predicted. Alexander lifted a dozen of the gigantic blocks of ice that Sage threw at him, and saturated them with his energy. Her mouth fell open, and Trafford unleashed his assault.

The deadly projectiles sailed at her and she prepared to try to dodge around them. But she didn’t. At the last moment, Sage threw her arms out, as if to signal the glowing hunks of ice to stop. What’s more, they actually did.

Sage was just as shocked as her enemy was. Both of them stared at the scene playing out between them with faces twisted up with incredulity. It seemed that Alexander was not the only one who could turn his opponent’s powers against themselves.

They were still close enough, however, that Alexander didn’t hesitate to let go of one of his guns, which stayed there, in the air where he left it, to close his fist. Just as he did, the energy within the icy missiles exploded, and leveled the little woman who had stood before them.

She was groggy, but she had to get up while the explosion’s smokey veil remained to conceal her. She stumbled and took a knee as the world stretched and spun around her. The doctor furiously blinked away the disorientation, and made to rub her eyes before she realized her hands would gouge them out.

With a sigh, Sage made herself upright a second time, and squared off against Alexander, who stood in a wide stance, his guns leveled at her. The girl raised her claws as icy spears and cannonballs materialized over her head. Alexander matched her show of force, assembling and levitating snowballs with his mind, before energizing them with his essense.

The two of them stared each other down, both of them surrounded by floating projectiles. Alexander’s glistening weapons orbited him, but Sage’s hovered still, gleaming points and rock-hard surfaces gently bobbing up and down.

It was hard to say who moved first. Sage and Alexander both burst into sprints, and their respective missiles lanced out ahead of them, racing toward each other. Ace opened fire as he ran, firing one gun, then the other, in a repeated, steady rhythm.

Hail and javelins and supercharged snow collided, exploding all over the battlefield, while bullets harmlessly detonated against makeshift barricades that sprouted up in the line of fire. The street performer knew tricks, though. He peddled them. Sage had used this trick before.

He continued firing, but these new bullets altered course, spinning for a moment, before shooting off in an entirely new direction, arcing around the shield. The pigtailed hybrid could do nothing but hope her Hoarfrost would deflect the coming pain as they converged upon her.

A series of explosions enveloped the girl, but Frostroots began sprouting from the earth, sailing up and nearly goring Ace from all directions. The redhead propelled himself out of harm’s way, and caught sight of Sage far away from where the bullets struck her. He narrowed his eyes in confusion, but wasn’t about to play her game.

Matching Sage’s Frostroot was Alex’s Upshot. Thunderous gouts of energy rent the tundra from below, rushing up into the bracing cold above in search of the ice witch. The once well-dressed man, who now looked like an axe murderer in a suit, landed on one knee as Sage raced toward him.

She was getting too close. Alexander backpedaled away from the furious medic, but his feet plunged into the deep snow while Sage ran clear overtop it. There was no getting away from her, so he turned to face the inevitable.

The intimidating Desert Eagles faced Sage, but she had anticipated this. Alexander moved toward her with deliberate steps, and felt his footing give out beneath him. The deep snow had suddenly been covered in a sheet of the slickest ice the heroin junky had ever dealt with, and he fought hard to keep his balance.

Sage raced toward him, surprised and impressed that he hadn’t fallen. Nobody had ever stayed standing after that trick. It didn’t matter, though. Finally, she closed the gap. Sage raised her claws.

Ace lifted his right hand, but slipped again, and threw his arm to the side to keep his footing, but ultimately let himself fall as Sage’s huge claws reached out for him. He looked up at her and lifted his guns, but found them encased in ice.

“I control this whole thing. The cold, the snow, the ice, what you’re standing on, what you run through, what you fight with. You can’t beat me,” Sage glared down at him. “I can’t slip on ice. I don’t sink into powder. You can’t make me cold. This entire sector is my weapon. All you have are those stupid guns.”

Ace stared up at her, feigning fear-paralysis as he artfully searched for any sort of out. All he needed to do was turn the tables for a split second. But Sage’s claws plunged at him, so he rolled out of the way, and onto his feet.

The girl matched him step for step and lashed out at him again, and just as Alex willed the ice around his weapons to shatter, an ice-sheathed backhand slapped against his temple, sending him stumbling away from Sage, who tactlessly lashed out as his back, digging her claws across his flesh and sending his knees plunging into the snow.

The girl raised her hand behind him, and prepared to stab him through the back of his neck, when Ace suddenly twisted toward her with a yelp of pain. He pushed through it, raised his Israeli hand cannon, and fired.

Sage threw herself out of the way, but the bullet bit into her shoulder, before tearing out the other side. The crystal haired girl slapped against the snow as strokes of crimson tinted the virgin snow.

The girl rolled onto her back and let one of her Chillrend claws fade away, so she could clutch at the wound in a vain attempt to dull the pain. No doubt Alexander’s pain was excruciating - those slashes across his back and chest were deep. Ironically, the cold which sought to claim him was slowing his blood-flow. If it were hot, he might not have been able to stand up.

But he did stand up, and he towered overtop of Sage, his guns both pointing right at her. “How did you get away from my bullets?” he demanded, thumbs cocking hammers. “They came at you from all sides.”

“They didn’t... come at me,” Sage explained, “They came at a statue of me.”

Alexander took a moment to process that. The statue had looked just like the Valium addict. The girl took advantage of his momentary distraction of thought and grasped his wrist with her uncovered hand.

“Wh-?!” he exclaimed, before his eyes went wide. Her hand was freezing! “Let me go!!”

Instead, Sage lifted her clawed hand, and but Ace threw a savage knee to her face, forcing her to break her grip as a spray of blood escaped her lips. Before he could finish the downed girl off, a pair of Frostroots chased him back, before dozens more began bursting out of the earth as he sprinted farther and farther to stay out of harm’s way.

Her Shivering hand enveloped itself with its claw once again, and she climbed to her feet. An enormous, frosty bulwark erupted from the ground, cutting off Alex’s escape route as Sage raced after him.

The temperature plummeted to an inconceivable chill, and the obscuring snow kicked up in renewed fervor. Howling, shrieking wind drowned out all sound as Sage raged across the tundra toward her opponent.

She hurled herself at him, but he picked her form out through the flurry and evaded the downward slashes meant for him. Sage lashed out at him, slashing through air as he ducked and bobbed around the massive blades.

He dropped one of his guns and wrenched his tie from his neck, and snapped it like a whip, tying one of Sage’s wrists with it. She gave him a look of shock over her immobilized appendage, but it turned to annoyance as the girl merely severed the garment with her free hand before Alex could infuse it with himself. His expression crumbled.

Only feet from each other, the two tortured souls paused to stare at one another. The only movements was Ace’s constant shivering.

“You can’t know how important it is for me to beat you, Alexander,” Sage spoke with a much gentler tone than before. “I-I didn’t... I didn’t know I would cause so much harm, but... if I stop now, if I give up now, then it was all for nothing. If you just accept that I’ve beaten you... maybe you don’t h-have to die.”

“I’ve got a lot riding on winning, myself,” Ace retorted. “You’re not the only one with unfinished business.”

“If that’s what you want...” the girl looked at him with eyes brimming with hurt. “You’re going to die here, Alexander Trafford.”

[Alexander Trafford]

An icy chill washed gently over him. Whether the frosty sensation originated from the manipulated weather or the malice in the cold girl’s words, he did not know. It ran up his spine before spreading to each and every limb. And, with one great and involuntary shake, it was gone.

She had been right. He had no advantage here; this was her domain, she controlled everything. It was obvious to him now that she had suffered, as he had, but that was irrelevant. This was no longer just an opportunity that he had been presented with. Opportunity implies that there is a choice, which he had the option to decline – one could always refuse to take advantage of such an occasion. There was no alternative here. Winning was necessary.

Hope danced dangerously on the tip of a knife. If he stepped too far to the left or to the right, he would fail; if he made his move one moment too early or one second too late, he would die.

“Hmmm,” he hummed as he weighed his options. His mind was racing, desperately attempting to analyze his previous battles in search of some advantage that he could use. There was nothing.

Sage lunged forward, interrupting his contemplations with the swift slashing of her iced claws. Trafford ducked beneath the first, narrowly avoiding having his head sliced into thin ribbons. The second strike quickly followed, and the young telekinetic scarcely had a moment to move, never mind evade such an attack. Her sharp and hardened talons tore against his shoulder and sent him reeling backwards.

Alex quickly composed himself and, after gathering his balance, made an advancing step forward. The ice queen lashed out, desperately trying to reach him before he could ascertain an advantageous position. He tilted his torso back and her claws barely missed, whistling past him as they careened over his right shoulder. Trafford stepped in with his left, towards her exposed ribcage. Twisting his entire lower body, he gathered as much force as possible and sent a powerful haymaker into her slender side.

She nearly doubled over; her body contorted and bent towards the area that had been inflicted with pain. Alexander went to step again, this time back to his opponent’s right, but his feet had somehow been cemented to the powder-covered surface. Ice wrapped itself around his lower legs, imprisoning him. As he fought to escape the grasp of Sage’s wrath, the cyrokinetic recovered and braced her menacing claws.

She slashed forward just as small golden bulbs ignited beneath the sewn-on, leather soles of Trafford’s expensive shoes and broke her frozen hold. The minute explosions sent him on a retreat, but not quickly enough as her icy talons ripped at his torso once more, spraying a sheet of warm blood across the now-trampled snow.

As he stumbled backwards his hand desperately grabbed at his abdomen in a fruitless attempt to comfort his physical pain. Crimson ooze poured slowly into his palms, along with his life, and the color washed from his face. He had told himself time and time again that his opponent was just another obstacle. He had convinced himself that every bullet he fired, and every attack he summoned, had the chance to kill her. And he had believed that he did not fear death. But now it was on his doorstep, and the reaper had gained a firm footing within the confines of his soul.

Fear was indeed coursing through him, but it was not death that terrified him, no, it was the realization that with his end any hope of absolution would be lost. Alice would be gone, his soul vanquished forever of her lingering presence.

“I –I can’t let that happen,” Trafford whispered to himself as he staggered away from his advancing opponent. Was there anything he could do? Was there any chance left in victory? Having overcome so much, with so little, surrendering now seemed foolish – but he could see no other option. His vision blurred as he began to ‘bleed out’ onto the fair snow. The liquid life-force that slowly drained from his wounds tainted the otherwise fair, alabaster surface. He noted how easily it spread across the island’s floor, corrupting the achromatic landscape. If only he could blemish her power in a similar manner.

Oh shit, he thought to himself. How had he so easily forgotten the girl that he had mistaken for Alice? He cringed as he forced himself to compare the two. There was no one in this world that was tantamount to his love. Trafford remembered now that he and that strange girl had shared a similar trait.

Alexander planted his feet and braced himself. He halted his retreat and allowed the blue-haired ice queen to descend upon him. This was his chance, his only chance, to defeat her. If he failed here, he knew it would be over.

Sage came fast and hard, her clenched teeth glimmered against the descending sun. She slashed diagonally across his body, and he dodged accordingly. Trafford stepped to the side as she followed with her other claw, and struck her wildly attacking limb as it passed by his torso. His strike increased her momentum, which sent her stumbling forward. He stepped in as she quickly composed himself and grasped his hand around her throat.

His grip was tight, and his intent was clear. Alex could not stop her power – unless she did not have any power to use. With widened eyes and a gaping mouth, Sage gazed fearfully into his hazelnut irises as her skin tightened and her energy surged desperately towards her throat and, consequently, into his hand. She twisted and writhed against his grip, desperately trying to escape.

“Just . . . a bit more,” Trafford grunted through his frowning mouth. He could feel her might spread through his being, he could sense her energy transforming into his gold essence and entering his soul’s well – filling it to the brim. His opponent was beginning to loosen his grip, but he could not relent, just a short while longer and victory would be his.

Alexander’s hope slipped and fell from the tip of the knife on which it had been so carefully balancing. The expression of awe and agony vanished from his foe’s visage and became a menacing smirk. His fingers had been too numb; he had no idea that the grip had been so loose.

Trafford’s eyes burst open, and his jaw dropped to his chest. His body doubled over and his hand fell on Sage’s shoulder as an excruciating pain erupted around his left ribcage. Sage shook his long, bony fingers from her body and, without her support, Alex stumbled backwards. As he staggered in retreat, he felt the long, iced claws retract from his side, and he looked down upon his wound; a series of holes marked his Armani suit where her talons had pierced through flesh and bone. Blood poured from the openings first, rushing through the path of least resistance, but it was not long before his entire left side was covered in a crimson stain.

His heel caught a chunk of ice as he blinded backpedaled, and he collapsed onto his rear. He used his left arm to brace his body, while his right shot inside his suit and pressed against the wound in a desperate, fruitless attempt to halt the bleeding. His feet churned, and he scooted himself away from the superior warrior.

“I told you that you would die, Alexander,” Sage stated. Her voice was laden in sorrow, yet ripe with conviction. A few moments passed before he could muster a response.

“N-no, I-I can’t die . . . not here, n-not now,” Trafford stumbled on his words as he spoke through short, gasping breaths. His face was devoid of color, it was nearly as white as the snow. Blood trickled from the corners of his lips, dripping onto his chest. He panicked as she advanced; bent on finishing what she had started. He continued to retreat, but he did not have the strength. His arm collapsed and he fell onto his back, his driving feet halted, and he propped himself up on his elbow.

Ace lifted his hand from the wound and thrust it forward, sending a small veil of augmented snow towards his opponent. Sage simply lifted her arm and guarded her countenance as the tiny explosions glanced off her icy coating.

Hemoglobin flowed readily from the four sizeable openings, and his vision was beginning to fade. He had been so close, yet he had ultimately failed. Death was imminent, and it was upon him. It was odd how many times during this tournament he had wished for death, but now that it was here, he wished to hold it at bay for as long as possible. Whatever hopes he had were ultimately irrelevant, however, as the ice queen descended upon him to deliver the coup de grace. Any last-ditch attempt that he could muster would be in vain.

But he had to try, didn’t he? This was it, this was for his life. For the first time in his existence he felt as though he had a purpose, that his life had meaning. Was that not what he had so desperately sought when this tournament began? A swell of relief overcame him, and his body began to tingle with excitement. Regardless of victory, he would receive his absolution in time – he was sure of that now. If he had the strength, he knew his trademark grin would besmirch his pale face. The result did not matter; it was the process that determined his worth. He had suffered so much, yet he continuously overcame his pain.

With renewed vigor he scooted back a little further. It was nigh unnoticeable, but his hand twitched slightly as he settled and braced his weight. Surely enough, his twin Desert Eagles jumped to life and began to race across the white, powdered surface, following a trail of crimson blots and streams towards their master. They halted before they reached him, however, and slowly crept into the air behind their target.

“W-we are not so different . . . you and I,” Trafford struggled to maintain a whisper as his strength left him. Speech was exhausting as he fought desperately for each breath.

“And how is that?” Sage mocked, yet her voice was riddled with hidden hurt. She shrugged her shoulders and slowed her advance, apparently content with letting him die – for now at least.

“Death comes for us both,” Alexander wheezed and winked. It took a moment for her to translate his weak, slurring speech.

As his hinted threat pieced itself together in her mind, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder. Her cold eyes widened at the sight, but her gaze did not hold on the handguns. She could feel heat within her toes and dropped her eyes to the ground. A single golden mass encircled her position.

“Que sera, sera,” Trafford whispered. He smiled as his arms collapsed beneath his weight and he dropped onto his back, his body lying in a growing pool of his own blood. He was glad to have spoken one last witty line.

His fingers twitched. Silence vanished and was replaced by explosions and gunshots.

His head fell to the side and his cheek pressed against the cold snow. He could hear the chaos that ensued, but chose to ignore it. There was nothing else he could do, so, in what he expected to be his last, failing breath, he admired the golden sphere that rested half-hidden behind the western horizon. Alexander had learned long ago to appreciate any worthwhile moment that one could steal from an otherwise miserable existence.

And then he closed his eyes, and awaited his fate.

[DA 2009]

For one brief moment, as a battered and bloodied Alexander Trafford resignedly hit the snow, the Control Room fell completely silent. Josh Drake and Audric stared fixedly at the screen, watching as the last precious few seconds of the tournament unfolded before their very eyes. The technical supervisor was faintly aware of five thick fingers digging brand new holes into his shoulder in unbridled suspense, but his focus lay elsewhere. In one instant, the Artic Sector turned from a blissful blizzard of snow to a raging inferno of bullets and energy. Alexander smiled, not even bothering to watch as the psychokinetic storm engulfed Sage.

-----

Damon Dukes stood alone in the Arctic Sector, surrounded by miles upon miles of empty, desolate snow. He looked to the gray, artificial skies, as if he were a mere mortal seeking answers from above. Tiny, soft flakes of snow fell from the heavy blanket of clouds, kissing the world below with a gentle mantle of serenity. He closed his eyes as they tenderly touched his face, feeling so real, so like the genuine article. The host did not watch, could not see, the battle that raged beyond his private winter wonderland. It didn’t matter. Even now, Damon felt one with the virtual world, as if he could see every image in perfect, crystal clear sequence flashing before his very eyes, and as a ripple of energy pulsed through the icy wasteland, Damon closed them.

-----

And so it ended...

Sage’s eyes widened in horror as she saw the inevitability of her doom descend upon her, the very sound of it beating a rhythmic harbinger of death within her heart. She had railroaded the poor boy, the darkest part of her horrifying strength unleashed at last, in the moment where it mattered the most. In return, he retaliated with an inescapable assault, with everything…everything he had.

Alex seemed merely content with waiting. His eyes remained blissfully closed, until he heard a voice.

“Alexander.”

Trafford’s eyes snapped open, his pupils dilating and contracting with sharp awareness. Only one person called him by his full name.

“Alice?” he whispered, his tone betraying a hint of hope.

Sage didn’t pay attention to Alex, just as he paid no attention to her. Sage felt a scream rise in her throat as the psychokinetic energy ripped into her, bullets flying everywhere. She couldn’t layer herself in ice fast enough to compensate for the damage. Flurries of snow rose all around her as her cryokinetic powers sprang unbidden to her defense, neutralizing the bullets and the Desert Eagles.

“Alexander,” somebody called out again.

The street entertainer stared straight ahead, through the clouds and into the heavens above. Descending upon the world so cold and gray was a ball of golden light, so warm and beautiful. In it, he could see the image of his beloved Alice. Her image shimmered faintly before him, translucent in the world of the living.

“Alice,” he smiled knowingly.

Sage grunted through the pain, crossing her arms in front of her to ward away the malicious entity of the attack. Her vision became blanketed in a swirling torrent of golden snow, a mixture of the psychokinesis and her own elemental ki. Through the maelstrom of ice and energy, she almost thought she could see somebody.

Sol.

“Alexander, come home,” Alice smiled.

A tear fell from the corner of Alex’s eye. She wore the very same outfit that he’d so distinctly admired that day in the coffee shop: a knee-length sky blue dress with a white button-up sweater. She looked just as beautiful now to him as she had that day. Alice reached down to him with an outstretched hand.

Sage reached out as if to grab Sol, but jerked her hand with a howl of pain as an explosion rocked in front of her. Sol laughed, teasing, taunting. The girl could feel him slipping away. “Damn you, Sol!” she cursed. He simply grinned wickedly, reveling in her misfortune. The harder she tried, the more the rapist seemed to slip away. Sage screamed again, this time of her own volition.

“Alexander, come home,” Alice repeated, reaching out to him.

Alex obediently lifted a bedraggled arm, blood spilling further down the cloth and skin. It took every ounce of effort he had, but he would do it, for her.

“I want to,” Alex professed, his chest tightening with the pure sorrow and need of such a simple and profoundly consuming desire. Suddenly, her image began to pull away, farther from his reach. “No, don’t go!” he cried. “Don’t leave me again!”

“Come home,” her voice echoed as Alice disappeared back into the celestial ether from whence she came.

“Don’t leave me…” Alex whispered emptily.

Sage screamed, and screamed. She screamed for Sophia. She screamed for Ashe. She screamed for her innocence. She screamed for everything she’d lost, which was so great, it could not be encapsulated in a single instant of memory. Finally, her Arctic Wrath shattered the world around her, until something just snapped, and she felt everything go numb. The girl dropped to her knees, falling in the snow.

Sol was gone. She’d failed.

Alex’s arm fell limply back to his side. Once more, Alice slipped through his fingertips, just barely within reach, yet still too far.

They’d given everything. Everything they had. Only one was going to get up and claim what was lost.

And it was Sage.

[Sage]

On her knees, a watery haired girl looked at her hands, and she wept. She shed tears for her friends, for those who fell, and for those who suffered as she had. She shed tears for those she killed, and those killed by others. And she wept for Alexander. He suffered perhaps the most. She could see it in his eyes. A familiar hurt.

But it wasn’t done, was it? The girl climbed to her feet and sighed. It was no small wonder, how such a timid, damaged creature had come this far. But Sage was no less damaged. And maybe no less timid, either. Or maybe she’d succumbed after all that she had been through. Maybe her powers had corrupted her to such an extent that there simply was no turning back.

And yet, one more person had to die for Sage to get Sol. The ‘ice witch’ gazed at her bleeding opponent. He was going to die anyway, all she would be doing would be putting him out of his misery.

But then, she could just as easily heal him.

Sage shuffled over the ice until she suddenly plummeted to her knees, right next to Alexander’s prone form. She was sitting inside the growing pool of his blood, but she didn’t care. She did this to him. This was her injury as much as it was his.

“It’s over,” she whispered to him with a soft smile. How absurd that she would be trying to comfort him after all she had put him through, but he didn’t say anything. Sage looked up, and around herself. “It’s over!” she called. “He can’t fight anymore!”

Nothing.

“Hey!! I know you’re out there!” Sage exclaimed, her voice taking on a tone of worry. “He doesn’t have to die!!”

“This is their big finale,” the redhead gurgled. The hybrid looked down at him, and actually cradled his head with her arm. “You don’t just... stop fighting. I’ve already killed somebody. By the sounds of it,” Ace looked her in the eyes. “So have you.”

Sage looked away, but she nodded.

“One of us is going to die, and I can’t move,” he suddenly flashed her a smirk. “So I guess that narrows it down a little.”

“B-But-”

“I can’t help you feel any better. You made your choices and so did I. I’m going to die either way. You might as well just finish this.”

Sage nodded, but she frowned. “I...” she reached up into her ribbon, and withdrew a capsule. With her thumb, she rotated the selector wheel before activating it, and a medkit appeared in a puff of smoke. With her one hand holding up Alexander’s head, she only had one hand to pop open the case, and prepare a syringe.

“What is it?” her ‘patient’ asked. Sage looked up for a moment, as if ignoring him, but in the next instant, the wind all but died away, and the temperature became slightly less unbearable.

Sage looked back down and smiled. “It’s morphine,” she explained, quickly finding a suitable vein. She didn’t bother cleaning it - this man wasn’t going to live long enough to develop an infection - before she delicately pierced into the boy’s flesh, and pushed down on the plunger.

The powerful chemical swirled into his bloodstream, and the effects were almost immediate. Ace arched his back for a moment, before he closed his eyes and let his whole body relax with a long sigh.

Sage put the needle into a tiny sharps kit and packed up her equipment before returning it to its capsule. She reached out with her free hand and took Trafford’s. She couldn’t kill him. Not now that she knew these deaths were real, and she had, in fact, become a murderer. At least beforehand she had the excuse that she didn’t know. But not this time.

She couldn’t kill him, but she couldn’t just leave him to die, either. Damon, or whoever else could wait until Alex ebbed away on his own time. These last few minutes were his, and nobody had the right to take them away.

It was all she could do to keep from bawling. She was so close now. After everything she had been through to get where she wanted to be... and all of a sudden, none of it seemed worth it. The changeling, the namek, Tamsin. People who might still be alive if not for her.

And now Sophia and Ashe were both gone.

She didn’t cry, though. She was here for Alexander. She had to stay strong, at least for a little while longer. She could hear his breathing becoming more strained. Slower. He had lost a catastrophic amount of blood.

Finally, Alexander squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, and leaned over the red haired youth. “I’m here, Alex,” Sage managed. “I’m here; I’m not going to leave you.”

She didn’t know why she was doing this; Alexander hadn’t asked for any help. But he hadn’t told her to leave, either. So Sage would stay.

His grip began to loosen. “It’s okay,” she encouraged. It wasn’t okay. He was dying, and because Sage wouldn’t heal him, there was no chance he would recover. “Don’t be scared.”

Alexander’s hand went limp, but Sage cradled him for a little while longer.