[04] Coliseum Fight

[DA 2009]

COLISEUM FIGHT

Belle Hibiki vs. Alexander Trafford

[Belle Hibiki]

As usual, Belle was given very little warning before being yanked away. He was in the middle of setting traps outside the bunker, hoping to catch whatever demon or woman might come at him while he was sleeping, when his collar began to blip insistently at him - the way it always did whenever he was about to be teleported to a fight.

Sure enough, just as he was beginning to curse out Damon Dukes and the whole enterprise, he felt his feet lurch off the ground as if an invisible hand had plucked him up by the back of his collar.

"Hey! What the Hell are you doing?! Don't you give a crap about Menstu Ration at all?!" He trashed against the invisible grip that was steadily tightening around him. "Ngh! Well, fine! But don't come crying to me when he comes to suck your blood! Hey, watch the hands-!"

And then, in a whirl of wind and light, he vanished into thin air, leaving behind only a puff of smoke, a snuff of burning ozone, and a bit of cheese surrounded by rope.

~+~+~+~+~

Belle was more or less used to the feeling of being transported across large distances by now, but that didn't make the process any less unpleasant. The world felt like it was spinning wildly around him, wild colors and vivid pictures clashing chaotically with one another. He had the sensation of falling, yet his feet felt like they had been glued to solid ground. It was as if he were standing on a rollercoaster that was plunging down the tracks. He gritted his teeth and screwed up his eyes, holding his breath as the flashing colors reached their crescendo…

In a final, gut churning rush of light, Belle popped back into existence in the center of an enormous stadium. He was not, however, on his feet. Or even upright, for that matter. Facing the ground several yards below him, utterly confused, Belle felt the buoying effects of the transporter field waver, then drop away completely. He fell to the hard packed sand and grit with a solid, dull whud.

"Ow!" Belle sat up, rubbing his stinging nose and looking at the sky. "Oi! If you guys are going to pull off fancy shit like that, the least you could do is try not to break my face while you're doing it!" He lowered his eyes; spat some sand out of his mouth. "Pwew. It tastes like sweat... And blood..."

Belle stood up. Although he hadn't gotten a good look at the stadium when he had been hanging in the air, now that he had a chance to actually examine it, he had to admit that he had been wrong in his initial assumption. It wasn't so much a stadium as it was a coliseum; ancient, thousands of years old, like the ones he and his his dad had seen in their travels before splitting up.

Carved seating rose on all sides of the large, dirt filled oval that he had been unceremoniously deposited in, moving up in tiers towards the sky. Elaborately etched columns erected similarly elegant stone arches along the upper ring, and there were several breaks in the seating where people could descend below the seats to the concourse.

Save for a couple of birds, however, the place seemed completely deserted of anyone that might appreciate the craftsmanship, Belle included. For a long, quiet minute, Belle listened to the utter silence, and the silence listened back. Seconds after he started to wonder if the Dante's Abyss people might have had made some kind of mistake, however, the air at the other end of the football-sized arena began to tweak and distort.

Space seemed to be twisting upon itself, light bending around a strange, egg-like shape that gradually took on sharper definition. The distortion tensed like a muscle, then vanished with a 'pop' as an orange-haired man burst into existence from within. Like Belle, the other had been transported in awkwardly, and he hung suspended far above the ground before abruptly dropping toward the coliseum floor.

Unlike Belle, however, he tucked, rolled, and landed in a safe, graceful crouch.

Belle couldn't help but be annoyed. "Showoff," he muttered sourly. "I coulda done that, I was just caught off guard."

The man - scarcely older than a boy himself, really - straightened up and brushed off his expensive looking suit with the backs of his fingers. Belle felt somewhat underdressed. "Did you forget your shirt on the way out the door?" the other asked idly, idly adjusting his cuffs.

"Got lost on a mountain," Belle told him, eyeing the man up and down. As a rule, anyone who went around fighting in expensive clothing was either a pretender, or supremely confident in his own abilities. Belle thought the outfit looked a tad uncomfortable, particularly around the shoulder area. "I guess we're up."

"I guess so."

"Two dudes in a row. Maybe the girls will get themselves knocked out or something," Belle mused, half to himself. "That would be cool," he added wistfully.

"You have something against girls?" the other asked, moving from his cuffs to his tie.

"Just the ones that have the bumps on their chests," Belle nodded. "And most of the ones that don't, too."

"Right." If the other found something odd about that, he didn't show it. "So, what should I call you? Just so they have something to write on your tombstone other than 'Here lies Gynophobe.' "

Belle lowered his body. Bringing up one hand in front, he held his middle and pointer fingers extended and hooked, the others curled tight. His other fist clenched and lowered to his side. "Belle Hibiki."

The other man finished adjusting his tie and casually held up a single hand, the other remaining loosely at his side. He seemed to need no other preparation. "Trafford."

Belle stared at Trafford, and Trafford stared right back. Belle felt his skin crawl as he gazed into the other's eyes. There was something ... not quite right about them; distant and yet alert, almost contemplative even as the moment of conflict rushed toward him. How, Belle wondered, could someone possibly be so detached when they were about to fight for their life?

The stadium was silent once more. Not even a breeze stirred the sand at their feet. The two fighters watched, muscles tensing in anticipation.

One of the birds chirped.

Belle sprang forward, the impact of his kickoff sending a cloud of sand rocketing into the air behind him. He shouted, throwing himself across the distance separating Trafford and himself, tearing across the arena in a blur.

Trafford was faster. With his raised hand still held immobile, his other flickered to his side, pulled something from his pocket, and raised it. Sunlight glinted across a cold, snubbed nose of hard steel.

A gun?

Belle barely had time to process what he was seeing before Trafford fired. Twisting his body to the side and out of the line of the barrel, the projectile whipped by Belle's head fast enough to sing. Sly move; the raised hand hadn't been meant to do anything at all. It had just been a distraction from what he had really intended.

Catching his balance before he could over tilt and fall, Belle took a breath and smirked, opening his mouth to speak.

The wall behind him cracked as the bullet slammed into the aged stone and detonated, sending miniature shock waves jumping through the ground. Belle wrenched his head around to stare in shock at the column of smoke rising from the waist high railing that had once been a finely wrought wall.

His combat senses flared. Abandoning his forward charge, he gritted his teeth and flipped backward as a triple set of bullets zipped through where he had just been standing. Two impacted the ground and gouged small craters in the dirt, while the third knocked another hole in the coliseum wall. Taking a wide arc around Trafford, suddenly on edge, Belle practically skipped across the ground, watching the other's movements.

He had learned long ago how to dodge a bullet. The concept was simple enough: unlike a punch or a ki blast, a bullet could only go straight out from the little hole on the front of the gun. All one had to do was stay out of the imaginary line extending out from the barrel, and they would never get hit. It was easy in theory, and simple enough to pull off on common thugs, but doing the same stunt on another fighter was a different matter altogether.

Two rounds plowed into the dirt in front of him, sending up twin sprays of sand. Belle raised his hands to shield himself, momentarily blinded.

The careless move almost cost him a leg. Another bullet followed on the heels of the first pair, searing by his right calf and missing by mere centimeters. The bullet ripped two ragged holes in his pant leg, the heat of the shot scorching his calve. His leg shook as Trafford brought the weapon up again, and he gritted his teeth as he forced himself to move.

He wasn't going to be able to dodge the bullets forever; that much was obvious. Trafford was too good a shot to just let Belle get close enough to counter, and moreover just seemed overall faster. If it had not been for Belle's finely honed reflexes, Belle doubted whether he would have made it past the first volley.

He'd have to think of something else.

Slowing down, he made as if to lunge in. Trafford answered with a swift volley of lead that whistled around him. Belle leapt back, then to the side, hopped over another, and rolled to avoid a line of spitting fire. The withering hail paused as Trafford emptied his clip, slapped another one in, and continued blasting away before Belle could get closer.

The bullets were getting closer. Belle fought back the fear that was threatening to engulf him as he narrowly avoided another. Deliberately egging his opponent into taking more shots like this seemed like an incredibly bad idea; actually, he knew it was. He knew because he had abandoned it after his dad had helped test out the theory with rocks. Belle still had the scars.

"What is it with bunnies today?" Trafford growled. The words made no sense to Belle at all, but the spirit behind them was clear as he squeezed off a shot. Rather than aim for Belle, he fired to the left, halting his movement in that direction, then quickly snapped off a shot to the right to prevent escape. With the third, he pointed straight at Belle's momentarily immobile midsection.

~+~+~+~+~

Trafford's slug ripped right through and exited out the other side. Belle's face was frozen with shock, but only for a moment. His visage wavered, then disappeared.

"Shit, not this, too," Trafford muttered, steadying his aim. His eyes flicked down and lifted his empty hand.

A ripple of golden light pulsed out from Trafford's feet, spreading through the sand. Moving as if lifted by an invisible tornado, a thick haze of grit rose into the air, hanging suspended in the warm light and spinning slowly around the psychokineticist. "Too bad for you," Trafford breathed, "I already thought of a way around that trick."

He eyed the hazy cloud, watching the chaotic play of his golden ki as it flared up amongst the twisting sand and then faded back into the murk, pulsing like the neurons of an ancient Egyptian God. It was chaos within chaos.

One of the golden points suddenly burst, sending its light spreading to its neighbors. "There!"

Alex snapped off a shot. The sand rippled as the bullet seared through, and Belle blurred back into sight as he yanked himself up short, narrowly avoiding having his head ventilated.

Snapping his eyes towards Alex, Belle suddenly let out a laugh ... and charged straight for him!

Trafford hesitated, but there was no reason to worry. Without Belle weaving all over the place, the shot would be beyond easy to make. He lined up the sights, muzzle pointed directly at Belle's approaching skull. "See you at the victory party." He pulled the trigger.

Click.

Oh. Trafford went numb as Belle plunged toward him like a speeding train. Shit.

His fingers fumbled for the release, trying to drop a clip and reload, but Belle got there before he could find the catch. Slamming his calloused palm hard into Alex's chest, the kineticist doubled over, wheezing as the air was forced out of his lungs.

Not even taking a moment to rest, the knuckles of Belle's other hand rapped against Trafford's forehead, sending him reeling back.

Trafford staggered, his head swimming. Acting purely on reflex, he swept his hand in front of him. A charged swath of sand leaped up between them and detonated, miniature explosions propelling them away from each other. Belle seemed surprised by the sudden improvised attack, but was already bending down to charge again.

Sweeping his hand towards his neck, Alex ripped off his tie, charging it with energy and telekinetically unfurling the knot as he skipped back. The red-haired half-saiyan pursued him, step for step.

Snapping his tie like a whip, Trafford extended the garment's reach and lashed at Belle's arm. Instead of stinging, the silk wrapped around Belle's forearm with a vice-like grip and yanked towards the side, sending the saiyan stumbling and bringing him up short.

"What the fuck?" Belle gawped at the bizarre restraint. "What... the... fuck?"

Trafford's free hand flashed ot his side and pulled the second, fully loaded Desert Eagle from his coat pocket. "Got you," he snarled, leveling the weapon.

Belle's eyes flashed. Instead of trying to disentangle himself from his bonds, like any sane person would have done, he rotated his wrist around in the opposite direction, wrapping the tie tighter. For a fraction of a second, Trafford wondered what the Hell he was doing. Then he realized.

Belle let out a bone-chilling roar and hauled with all his might on the silk garment trapping him. Trafford's trigger finger squeezed reflexively as he was suddenly yanked off his feet, his shot slamming into the ground as he flew towards Belle. His face rose just in time to catch the brunt of the saiyan's fist as the half-saiyan twisted his frame, putting all of his weight behind a full-body haymaker.

Sparks burst before Trafford's eyes. He wasn't aware of letting go of his tie, but he reasoned he must have, because the next thing he was aware of was skidding over the dirt like a children's stone across a calm pond.

~+~+~+~+~

Belle waited until Trafford came to a stop before straightening. The glow in the tie was already starting to fade. Unwrapping it from around his arm, he let the garment drop to the ground with a grunt. Freaky move, he thought, shivering and breathing heavily. He almost got me on that one.

"That was cool," he said loudly, "but you should really just ditch the guns. I already counted out how many bullets each of those 'ammonition' things has. Besides," he smiled, "we're in the place where tons of great fighters used to duke it out way back when. Let's have a fight that'll make them proud, okay?"

[Alexander Trafford]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Belle Hibiki]

That's more like it.

Ever since he was a boy, Belle had wondered if there was anything else he could have done. If he had been stronger, could he have saved his friend? If he had had more skill, could he have noticed the wolf sooner, and defeated it before needing to snatch Chickie up in his desperate grip? Maybe. But, even if it was true, he knew he was making excuses for himself. A true warrior should not have needed to be stronger; he would have known implicitly that all the power in the world couldn't protect the things most fragile and precious to him.

So ... what exactly was he doing here?

Belle's eyes flicked down as Trafford's gloves began to glow. Given the abilities Trafford had already showed, Belle guessed that he was augmenting the leather in some way - making it harder, more deadly. Lethal.

Was he really just testing his strength? If so, what was the point of that? Hadn't he already told Sage that controlling his power was so important? Why, then, was he trying to see what it was like untethered from concern, unleashed from compassion? Was this really the answer Master Long had expected him to reach?

Alex seemed to be waiting for Belle to make the first move. It might have been an attempt at good strategy, but Belle guessed it was probably more out of necessity than anything else. The other fiery haired youth had taken a hard blow to the head, one that would have knocked any normal person unconscious before they'd even had a chance to hit the ground, and he was still standing. Alex wouldn't be jumping around now, that was for sure; not for a while, anyway.

Dropping his guard, Belle started walking toward his opponent. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe all of his reasons, from the spiritual all the way on down to the practical, had been just excuses to compete in Dante's Abyss; to fight without reservation, and to give it everything he had. It wasn't his strength that prodded him, or even the spirit of his dead friend. Unlike so many that he had seen, Belle had known exactly what he was getting into.

He was here for himself.

He could taste the tang of the grit on the air as he stopped less than an arm's length away from Trafford's raised fists. The ground underneath his bare feet was soft, but firm, giving slightly as he curled his toes. He could smell the blood in Alex's mouth and the pungent odor of their mingling sweat. The birds chirped, three of them, one after the other, each voice subtly different from the last. He could see each individual hair on the young man's head twist and wave as a gentle breeze breathed over the both of them.

Everything was hyper-real in a fight. Everything was clear. No moral questions, no worrying about what might happen the next day, no more having to think about Cog or Sayana or anyone else that needed saving. All that mattered was the moment, the now; and all that the now was was the man before him, his chest bared and fists raised.

Belle lifted his hands, palms open. "Your move."

Alexander twitched. The ground underneath him flashed gold, miniature detonations launching him forward, one fist extended.

Belle caught Alex's blow, not with his hands, but with his face, grunting as the powered glove's energy rippled through his jaw and shook up through his skull. His vision blurred for a heartbeat before settling. Didn't expect that. That was good.

Alex pulled his first fist back and moved to bring up the other for a one-two, but Belle lowered his torso and twisted his upper body to avoid it, bringing one meaty around in a savage right hook that slammed into Trafford's exposed side.

The kineticist gurgled something incoherent, pausing in mid-blow as his eyes bugged out from their sockets. But if he was hurt, he pushed through it faster than Belle would have believed possible. Wincing, Alex laced both gloved fists together and brought them crashing down towards Belle's unprotected head.

Belle only just barely managed to get his arms up in time. Trafford's strike smashed against his raised cross-arm block, and the force of it was enough to make Belle's knees buckle.

Belle lashed out with a kick towards Alex’s knees, but the other swiped his glowing hand through the air, sending up a shower of glowing sand to block the hit.

Time ceased to have any meaning in the arena. Each fighter struck, and each one took the blow. Belle lost count of how many punches he had thrown, how many kicks he had performed, and how many times Trafford had blocked. Each time one of Alex’s fists connected, Belle could feel his body scream out for him to stop, and each time he ignored it, refusing to retreat.

Alex's fist connected with his nose. There was an unpleasant snap like dry twigs in summertime, and suddenly all Belle could smell was and taste was tinny copper. He winced, growled, and rushed forward. He swung a light strike to the right, far too wide to be much of a threat, but just tantalizing enough for Alex to reach out and grab it. As the man's fingers closed around Belle's wrist to shove it away, Belle slammed his head forward.

Alex's own nose eruped in a spray of blood as he staggered back, grunting wetly. Bringing up one hand, he extended his pointer finger and cocked his thumb into the air.

Belle had one fleeting impression of a brilliant star glinting at the tip of Trafford's fingers before a bolt of telekinetic force plowed into his chest. His breath wheezed out of him with the sound of air squeaking out of a balloon. His feet left the ground, his vision spinning almost as bad as it had done while he had been being transported. Struggling to expand his empty lungs, feeling as if he were drowning, he finally managed a breath, collecting himself with just enough time to throw out his arms and legs, landing on all fours.

Trafford fired again, lifting his other hand to add its beat to the timpanic rhythm of psychic bullets raining destruction on the arena as Belle rolled out of the way. Columns shattered and entire rows of seats disappeared as his shots peppered the area. The entire stadium rocked with the raw power being unleashed, the birds finally abandoning their perch and taking to the air. The kineticist tsk'ed. "If you're so good at dodging, I'll just be everywhere at once!"

His hands became a blur, dozens of telekinetic blasts flying in every direction. Boxed off, unable to flee in any direction, Belle gathered his strength and jumped straight up. He soared over the bolts as he arced towards a clear area.

"Bad move," Trafford called after him, smirking.

"Huh?" Belle blinked, then stiffened. "Oh shit!"

"Nowhere to dodge now." Trafford put his hands together, both deadly indexes leveled in Belle's direction. His hands burned with yellow light as he lined up his shot. "Sayonara!" he called, and then fired.

Got to move, got to move! Belle shouted at himself, his jaw tightening as the blast of charged telekinetic energy rushed toward him. Falling through the air, he shifted his weight, trying to twist to the side and let it pass, but it was no good; he wouldn't be able to get out of the way in time! If only there was some way he could push himself ... !

That's it!

"Ha!" Knowing he had only seconds to spare, Belle gathered his energy into his palms and threw them outward. Not at the blast, but at the open air to his side. His power rushed out of him with a solid whomp, a vague, glowing ring of energy spurting from him with all the force of a stiff breeze, pushing him in the opposite direction.

He pulled back his hands just in time as Trafford's blast sizzled past his chest. He felt the heat of its passing wash over his entire body then fade. One of the birds screeched in dismay as the blast shot into the sky.

He exhaled. Falling, he flipped twice and landed safely on the arena's densely packed sand, watching Trafford's confused expression. "Close," he quipped. "You almost - "

A soft fwump interrupted him. Glancing at Trafford, Belle turned his head to look behind, and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. "No...!"

One of the birds from before writhed on the ground, screeching and flailing in pain, clawed feet kicking the air. The smell of burning flesh permeated the air, and after a moment, Belle saw why. One wing, pristine and snowy, flapped the air; the other, charred and black, a blanket of burning feathers, wiggled uselessly.

Belle rounded back on Trafford. "What's wrong with you!? Why did you do that!?"

"I... I didn't mean to..." Alex whispered. He looked both surprised and disgusted, though Belle wasn't sure who the emotions were directed at.

Belle growled. "If you can do something like that, learn to pay attention! You - " he stopped, gritting his teeth and wincing as the animal's keening was swiftly joined by others. They swooped down around the fallen, chiruping and bending down to examine the injury. Maybe he should suggest stopping the fight so that they could make sure the bird was going be okay.

He paused, staring at the three of them. Now that he got a good look, the uninjured two were clearly much older than the first. One landed lightly by the slumped figure, and nudged its forehead with its own, then chirruped questioningly.

It's a family...

Belle couldn't explain the sense of loss that filled him. It was silly, but... Was he actually jealous of them? "Look, man," he said, looking at Trafford. "Let's stop."

Trafford, however, had other plans. Lifting his hand, the air around the fighter hummed with latent psychic power, energy bleeding out of him and snapping like an electrical current. His extended hand trembled with the effort of holding it up. He, just like Belle, was clearly feeling the stress of the battle. Neither of them would last much longer at this rate.

Belle snarled. "Come on! Stop fucking around!" he shouted. "We can't just let it lie there! We can fight later!"

"Don't worry," Trafford whispered. "It's not going to suffer."

"What?! What are you talking about?! Have you got dust in your ears or what!?" Belle bellowed as the birds suddenly went into a frenzy of warbling. "I said stop!"

That was when he realized that, despite all the energy Trafford was gathering, none of it seemed to be directed at him. He looked down. The sand underneath him wasn't gold. He lifted his eyes, turned around, and his veins ran cold. "No-!"

Trafford's fingers clenched. The ground underneath the fallen bird glowed brightly, pulsing moreso with every passing second. Both other birds had lifted off, hovering closeby and jibbering as the suddenly sluggish looking wounded.

Belle's pupils shrank. "You can't! It's still alive!"

"Not for long."

"Ngh...!"

There wasn't time to think. There wasn't time to ponder the consequences. There wasn't time to do anything... Anything, except move! Belle wasn't sure when he started running, but the next thing he knew he was flying across the sand, his feet barely touching the ground as he raced across the distance. The field glowed brighter as the bird tiredly lifted its head, eyes closed, and chirped weakly.

"Stop it!"

His tired muscles burned, but he ignored them. He was halfway there! If he could just get there in time...! "Get out of the way!" he shouted, waving the other birds off. They seemed to waver, unsure, then winged away from the red-headed maniac charging for them.

He ran, ran faster than he ever had in his life, faster than he had even fled from Sage. Faster than the wind, swifter than eagles, his eyes watered as he tore forward.

Almost there!

The ground surged, the shimmering light spreading, specs of burning golden light emerging from the soil. Knowing that he would be too late, knowing that he had no chance unless he did, Belle bunched his legs and leaped with all his might, propelling himself straight forward. He reached out his hand, fingers extending, desperately seeking the soft feathers, willing his arm to be longer. Go! GO! the scream echoed inside his head as he passed over the charged ground.

"Got you!" Trafford roared, bringing both hands together. "Bakahutsuha!"

~+~+~+~+~

From such a distance, the coliseum normally appeared small. Floating above the meeting point of all four sectors on a cushion of anti-grav generators, the football sized creation was ordinarily hard to discern until one got closer. It was truly a marvel; a monument to the spectacle that Dante's Abyss had become.

And then, all at once, everything changed. The sky seemed to darken. Once peaceably quiet, the stadium rocked on its platform. Glowing at the outer edges, for a moment brighter than the sun, the coliseum's outer ring of arches disintegrated as an immense beam of golden light sliced into the air and raced for the heavens. It was many moments later before the sound of the explosion finally hit, and when it did, it sent all animals scurrying for cover. It was as if a bomb had gone off right in front of their noses, and it was only minutes later that even the most adventurous finally poked their noses out in tremulous bravery to stare at the smoking, blunted tower in the distance.

~+~+~+~+~

Trafford's fingers trembled. Spots languidly danced in front of his eyes; he hadn't closed them immediately when the explosion had gone off.

He lowered his hand. The bakahutsuha wasn't his first choice of weapon, but it was unquestionably the most effective. He had put most of his remaining power into the blow, but even he was surprised by the result.

A column of dark, billowing smoke and dust rose from the crater that marked where Belle had once stood. The fighter would have ordinarily been too fast to catch with a move that required so much time and was so obvious, but if choice was taken away from Belle, there were few things more deadly.

He regreted having to kill the bird to do it, though. He wasn't sure whether Alice would have liked it; no, he was sure that she wouldn't have. But it was kill or be killed, and he was only human. Kind of. He hoped she would understand.

Trafford turned and started to walk away. If the judges were watching, which they probably were, it wouldn't be too long before he would be declared the winner and taken away from this stinking place. A good thing, too, he thought, looking up at the thoroughly wrecked coliseum. A few more rounds of their battle, and there might not have been a coliseum left to teleport out of.

Taking another step, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket, Trafford placed the cancer stick into the corner of his mouth, and searched for his lighter. Finding it in his other pocket, his trembling fingers fumbled with the cool steel and dropped it to the ground. Groaning, he bent to pick it up, casting a glance back between his legs.

He stopped, his thoughts of Alice grinding to a halt.

"No," he breathed, "it can't be."

The smoke was thinning, leaving only a light haze of obscuring dust that still had yet to settle. Trafford stared hard, his throat dry, and saw it again: the silhouetted shape of a figure in the cloud. No, a human figure; no, a standing human figure.

Trafford trembled as a wafting breeze stirred the sand, starting to pull the cloud away. "Wh-what does it take to kill you...?... Hm?"

The back that emerged from the shadow wasn't immediately recognizable. Seared and blackened, the once bronzed skin was mottled and warped. Angry red patches broke up a sea of abused flesh, oozing thin trickles of blood that ran down his back and occasionally spattered the ground.

"Shit," Trafford murmured.

Belle shook on the spot. One leg of his pants was completely gone, cut off just before the end of his thigh, which also looked as if someone had stuck it in a furnace. His arms, or what Alex could see of them, were the same. His back was turned, and his hands were held in front of him. His hair was, if possible, even wilder than usual.

The half-saiyan had survived.

~+~+~+~+~

Belle took a shaky, rattling breath. He normally would have been able to tell where his injuries were, and how bad. Now it seemed less a matter of what was injured, but what was hurting the least.

He felt as if he were being baked alive. Even the smallest touch of wind felt like rusty nails digging across his skin. He thought he might be trembling, but he wasn't sure; he couldn't really feel his extremities any more beyond how much they stung. But he knew they had to still be there: he was still standing, and he was still holding something.

He ran his fingers over the few soft feathers that remained. The bird's white coat, once so beautiful, was dirty with sand and soil and the lingering touch of ash and flame. It was still under his touch, it eyes fixed on the distance.

Why?

"I don't understand."

The bird stared unblinkingly.

Belle shuddered. Unable to support himself any longer, he fell to one knee. "Tell me... Tell me... What I did wrong..." he whispered, then sucked in a breath. "Tell me!" he shouted, his words echoing back to him on the still air.

No answer.

"I... I held back, just like I was supposed to. So why... Why? ..." His voice broke. He clutched the limp bundle of fading warmth to his chest, shaking. "I don't understand... This isn't right... Y-You're still ... supposed to ... be here..."

His fingers curled. "I was... Stupid... Coming here for myself... And all I've done is gotten you hurt..."

Meridian City, and now this... How many people were going to die because he wasn't strong enough, because he held back? But how could he use all his power when they hurt the ones closest to him? How could he!?

No more.

He hung his head. No tears. Maybe those would come later. Maybe, for this animal, he would shed them for the first time in eight years. But that would have to wait.

Sniffing once, he gently set the broken body down on the sand. Belle pressed his hand to its limp breast, squeezed gently, and stood up. "It was innocent," he said loudly. "Just like Chickie."

He turned to glare at Trafford. "And you killed it. Over a competition." His body tensed as his hair seemed to raise, as if from a static charge. "You killed it."

He could feel the old power surging back into his veins. All of his pain, all of his agony, he turned it upon itself, honing it to a needle sharp, white hot burning point of pure, unbridled anger. His eyes flashed. "You killed it!"

Belle leaped forward. He didn't care about his injuries. He didn't care about the competition. He didn't care about anything at all. All that mattered to him now, all that filled his mind, was fire and death. Chickie. Birdie. Chickie. Birdie. He screamed, his aura snapping to life around his body in a blaze, surrounding his charred muscles like a corona of white fire. "I'll kill you!"

Trafford raised his hands and fired another hail of telekinetic blasts. Belle blurred around three before ducking the fourth and continuing forward. His sky blue eyes hot as coals, he pounced at Trafford, who raised an infused glove to hit him in the jaw, only to find his fist go completely through an ethereal head.

Belle's fist slammed upward into Trafford's gut, his afterimage winking out as the kineticist's ribs cracked. Snarling and bellowing like a mad beast, Belle refused to withdraw his hand, forcing Alex a few inches into the air before pulling back, only to have his other fist whirl around and clobber his opponent straight down.

Alex hit the sand so hard that he literally bounced, a gagging noise popping from his throat as he rose several feet in the air.

Belle spun and shot out his foot, slamming it into Trafford and sending him rocketing off across the arena before blurring out of sight himself. Trafford managed to twist his body, reaching out with his hands and springing them off the ground, altering his course somewhat, trying to get back some control.

But Belle wasn't about to let him off that easy. Flashing into Trafford's path, Belle stood stock still, waiting until the kineticist was almost on top of him before falling backward. Crying bloody murder as the sand stung at his open wounds, he bunched his legs and then pounded them deep into Alex's gut.

Trafford shot into the air, body spinning like a ragdoll. Belle's battered frame momentarily refused to straighten, but he forced himself to roll onto his feet , gathered his strength, and leaped upward.

"It-!"

He flickered in front of Trafford.

"-was!-"

He grabbed the man's ankle, spun, then threw him with all his strength straight back towards the ground.

"-innocent!"

Alex twisted in midair, one eye shut as he started to gather power into his gloves. Belle plunged after him, fire in his eyes and in his heart.

For better or worse, they were going to end this. Now.

[Alexander Trafford]

The pain was everywhere, and it was nowhere. With every step, every shift of his weight, and every punch he threw his muscles, tendons, ligaments and bones screamed at him. The crying pleas came fast and hard, tearing through his nerves and slashing at his will. His body urged him to stop fighting. His mind begged him to cease, it pleaded with him to close his eyes and slip into oblivion – everything he knew ordered him to submit.

Except for his heart, the powerful vascular organ pumped with fierce vigor, desperately trying to keep him alive. It was his heart, and his heart alone, that drove him forward, championing his conviction with every step.

Every now and then, when his vision blurred and his lungs were ready to surrender, he could hear her speaking to him. It came as a faint, intimate whisper, and vanished as quickly as it had come. In the moment when her voice reverberated through his essence he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, reach out, and touch her. He was close now. The end was nigh. But as soon as her voice slipped away and his soul’s eye snapped open he knew all too well that his demise could not be his solution. She was with him now to remind him of that simple fact: that death would bring no relief. She was instilling within him a fiery hope. After all, Alice was not bound to some arbitrary ethereal plane; her memory existed only within his heart, and within his soul. When she was with him no amount of pain could slow him down. A fist and a foot could harm him, of course, but they would only damage his body. The things that mattered, his heart and his soul, well, she protected them now. And that was all he could ask for.

Belle rushed forward. Trafford tried to flee, but his legs would only allow him a slow, meaningless stagger. His adversary closed the distance almost immediately, not even bothering to slow down before he fired an overhand haymaker.

Alex’s eyes instinctively flickered towards the incoming hammer of flesh and bone, as if he needed reassurance that it was indeed real. Before the blow landed his gaze dropped to Hibiki’s menacing countenance; his widened stare was ablaze with determination – flames of passion danced amongst his sky blue irises. This peculiar, orange haired brawler had meant exactly what he said. He fully intended to kill the formerly-well-dressed combatant. This was nothing new, and it was ultimately irrelevant. Trafford no longer feared his own end. Nothing was permanent, not even death.

A bellowing roar brought him back to reality just in time for the collision, which was something he would not have minded missing. As Belle’s knuckles crashed against the bridge of his nose his head snapped violently backwards. A pool of blood that had been slowly gathering in his mouth was ejected immediately, spewing outwards in a volcanic shower of crimson ooze that, eventually, rained down over the both of them.

“I’m going to kill you!” His opponent screamed through a scowl.

Alex was still stumbling backwards from the first blow when a powerful uppercut landed square against the center of his abdomen. His feet popped off the ground for a minute, as his body doubled over in agony. Trafford clutched his stomach with both hands, resisting the urge to vomit. He could hardly breathe. In his desperate attempt to ascertain oxygen, a hollow, repugnant wheezing escaped his lips. Belle’s hands came done and rested gently on the back of his skull, before suddenly jerking his head down into his driving knee.

The blow dropped Alex with ease, his body collapsed into a useless heap on the coarse sand, which lifted a thin veil of dust into the air around his sprawled out figure. The titanic sphere of light returned, occupying a majority of his vision, and then darkness. A Cimmerian shade swallowed him, drowning him in its eternal relaxation. For a moment, he was comfortable and at peace. In that instant, he smiled inside. This was where he wanted to be. All his pain, all his sorrow, all his hurt vanished – a burden removed.

I love you.

Alice’s whisper resonated throughout his slowing heart, spurring it into action. As always, it was his heart, and nothing more.

It was not easy fighting two battles, one against a real, physical opponent, and one against yourself. The physical nature of a battle was not difficult. Gritting your teeth and getting back up when it would be easier to lie flat, refusing to surrender one’s life to another, simple standing when your body refuses to comply – these are the characteristics of a true warrior. Reaching deep inside one’s soul and finding the will to step forward when all the odds are stacked against you. That was the hard part. That took heart.

His eyes snapped open, but his body remained as battered and bruised as it had been before. Belle wrapped the fingers of both hands around his throat and jerked him back onto his feet. As Alex’s limp body was forcefully erected, the orange-haired warrior removed a single hand from the entertainer’s neck, balled it into a fist, and then brought it back beside his ear. The cocked set of knuckles tensed and trembled with adrenaline and anger.

Trafford inhaled deeply, and made his move. The fist was nothing to him now; there was only Alice and this . . . obstacle. It was one or the other. His choice was simple.

One of the psychokinetic entertainer’s free hands shot up from his waist and latched around Belle’s wrist, desperately trying to wrench his neck free from this dangerous situation. As his long, bony fingers wrapped themselves around the boy’s calloused flesh Hibiki unexpectedly reeled backwards, then his cocked bone-cannon dropped uselessly against his side and his imprisoning hand instantly released its menacing chokehold.

The strange phenomenon that had occurred in his fight with Vad Zulenka repeated itself. His tattered and burned opponent’s mouth dropped into a sickening gape and his eyes burst open. His skin grew taut and the veins beneath pressed against the tightened flesh. Waves upon waves of refreshment, seemingly manifesting from nowhere, swelled through Alex’s body. He breathed in deeply and drew from the sweet, nurturing air. He did not know how to explain such a feeling, the only way to describe it was that he felt as if his ‘batteries’ were recharging.

After only a few moments, Belle jerked his hand free. Clutching his sore wrist, the brawler staggered backwards and shot a confused and concerned look at his talented nemesis.

“This . . . is . . . it,” Trafford struggled to mutter through his incessant wheezing. He inhaled, straightening his back and standing fully erect for the first time in awhile.

“Impossible,” Belle hissed through gritted teeth. He, like Alex, took the opportunity to right himself – dropping his body into a combative stance. The balls of his feet dug into the loose sand, and then, without a moment of hesitation, the younger combatant shot forward like a wrecking ball.

Trafford grinned and flicked his wrist. A wall of sand leapt into the air between them, before flashing gold and exploding into a thin wall of smoke. Although unharmed, Hibiki slid to a stop and stared into the murky mass that slowly dissipated between them.

Alex rushed through; the parting veil wisped around his body and rolled over his extremities. Sweat and blood glistened across his meager, yet defined, frame. His muzzle was covered in constantly-leaking crimson ooze, which had flowed like a river down his neck and spread across his upper torso. Even his hair was matted with the thick, opaque fluid.

The young telekinetic screamed, and his war cry echoed uncontrollably against the coliseum’s stone walls. He never bellowed. But now, with the veins practically protruding from his throat, he uncharacteristically rushed into a fist fight. The old pair of leather gloves was glimmering with a sharp golden brilliance as he readied a strike.

Taking a page from his opponent’s book, Trafford threw all his weight into a lunging haymaker. Belle brought his forearms in front of his face, desperately trying to parry the attack from his enraged assailant. The blow caught him on the forearm, but the controlled explosion that resulted from the impact knocked his defenses to the side. Following immediately with his free hand, Alex drove a sloppy hook into his foe’s ribcage. Upon connection, the glove let off a small detonation that sent the victim sprawling off to the side.

Planting hard, Belle shot back towards the still-advancing Trafford. The brawler’s lowered shoulder drove mercilessly into the physically weaker man’s abdomen. The two collapsed in a sweat-covered entanglement, each clawing and shoving at the other. With an advantage in sight, the orange haired boy shot his palm into Alex’s chest and threw a leg over his waist, effectively mounting him. Sitting up, the former entertainer threw his arms around his opponent and clamped down on Hibiki’s pulsating biceps.

This was his chance. There had only been a few real opportunities in this battle, moments when the fight was on the line and each man’s next move, and his next thought, would determine the outcome of their personal war. Many would refer to his plan as idiotic, and some might call him suicidal – but he deemed it an act of sheer faith. In his attempt to kill Belle, he risked sealing his own fate.

I can save you.

Alice whispered, and Alex smiled. Did anything else matter?

Trafford released Belle and placed his palms squarely against the man’s chest. With a simultaneous thrust of both his arms and his hips, he managed to buck the man from his advantageous position and dislodge his foe. As he lifted himself to his feet, the sand beneath him sparked a magnificent shade of gold, before erupting into a miniscule explosion and shooting him backwards – separating the two warriors.

“How many times can you escape death?” Alexander spoke, his voice breaking and wavering as he struggled to form sentences. He wiped a stream of blood from the corner of his mouth and grinned. He had already lived for nothing, perhaps, now, he would suffer for something. He could only imagine that a life with meaning was infinitely greater than one without. Finally, after nineteen long years, he was ready to live what he had so longed for – an existence with purpose.

Belle grunted, and started forward.

“If I die, Belle, then I am taking you with me,” Trafford spoke aloud, making sure his opponent could hear. His brow relaxed and the wrinkles that lined his forehead dissipated, his blood stained visage loosened and a wave of peace showered over his body. Closing his eyes, he imagined Alice was standing beside him.

Alexander raised both his arms so that they were parallel with the earth. Rotating his wrists, he lifted both palms to the sky, and towards the titanic sphere whose sight he had taken refuge in on so many occasions during this fight. With a silent order, he commanded a sea of sand to be lifted between himself and his opponent – guaranteeing him the separation that he needed. Only a fool would cross his psychokinetic minefield.

In the corner of his eye Belle caught a faint shimmer. Snapping his neck around, he searched for the source of the golden glitter. His jaw slacked once more and his eyes widened as his visage took upon the appearance of a helpless child. He immediately understood what his foe was doing.

“Look man,” The orange haired man spoke in a strong, commanding tone, “Don’t do this . . .”

Everything was glowing with the familiar shade of Alex’s power. Hibiki suddenly lost his breath, and dropped to one knee. It was happening again, he could feel his energy being siphoned from his body, but how? Trafford was dozens of yards away!

Ace grimaced. He did not understand it himself, but somehow he had opened a psychokinetic connection between his own mind and his opponent. It was unreal, the feeling of Belle’s energy being transferred into his own core, only to be recycled and reused as his own. He could not stop now; the ball was already in motion.

The stadium itself began to shake violently. The columns and the chairs trembled ambitiously as they were augmented with raw power. Endless blankets of sand tossed and turned playfully in the air, with every movement the sun’s rays reflected against their glimmering surface – everything was so beautiful, and yet so dangerous. It was ironic how those two magnificent rarities, beauty and danger, often traveled hand in hand.

He did not care anymore; Alex continued to pump his energy, and that of his opponent, into every object that he could see.

It is time, Alexander. I will protect you.

Alice’s whisper returned. She had been the only person that he had ever allowed to call him by his complete first name. Although, she giggled every time she said it, because, as she had told him, “it was just too adorable.” His heart fluttered, and he couldn’t help but smile.

Only through pain would he find absolution, but only through her would he find salvation.

“I trust you,” Trafford whispered in a volume that was nearly inaudible. He dropped his arms to his side and let his body relax. In the moment that his hands slapped loosely against his hips, everything began to explode. It was chaos, sheer, beautiful chaos. “And I love you.”

He dropped his head, and his body was instantly swallowed by an inescapable wave of destruction.

~~~*~~~

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, or it could have been days. Time was irrelevant when facing death. Regardless of what had transgressed, the explosions had ceased, and the massive columns of black, opaque smoke had begun to dissipate into the cool breeze.

Somewhere, lying within the aftermath, both Trafford and Belle stirred. Alice had kept her promise, and the orange-haired brawler had proved, once again, that he was the hardest person to kill in this entire fucking universe.

[DA 2009]

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.