Don't Fuck with the Human Race
Paulum Mortis
Standing across from the Red Court's Duke Ortega, Ms. Gard to my left and acting as my second, the February air at night was cold against my cheek. A little girl, precious as she would look in other circumstances, had the unyielding stare of a headsman as she officiated this nonsense.
Home plate at Wrigley Field was about as close to a home field advantage as anyone in this position could hope for, and as the thought flitted though his mind, the little girl's voice rang out:
"Begin!"
With a roar, the vampire wrenched his whole body around as though trying to slam shut a vault door with one arm, the hefty weight of it taking every ounce of effort his opponent could summon. The vast Will of an ancient anthrophage slamming into the soap-bubble floating midway between them, rocking it back slightly, shifting the deadly thing not an inch.
Marcone couldn't help it, he smiled that small cold smile of his, eyebrow twitching faintly in amusement. Focusing on the reasons he was fighting this duel in the first place, Marcone applied some Will of his own…
…and the sphere of mordite instantly flickered forward, smashing its way through centre mass, killing the Red Court war leader instantly.
"…"
Well…, that was something of an anticlimax.