Chapter 7
Shadows
"What I want you to know, gentlemen, especially you, Tom, is that these men are not rare around this district." The Wing captain explained. "You'd be surprised how many assassination plots in the Gang Wars were connected with these guys."
"Sir, may I say that the Wars were 20-30 years ago, and most of these guys are no more than 20 years old." A brave private ventured.
"Correct, private." The captain praised him. "But you're overlooking a known trait for assassins: they train their family." He clicked on the holographic projection. The image changed multiple times as it scanned the database. It finally halted on a Starkov Folosovich, which, from the computer image, looked like he was from one of the World Wars. "This trained assassin, near to his own assassination, trained his son, this man." The image altered to a man in a black coat, brandishing two sub-machine guns and a black bandana. Extremely retro. His name was projected as, "Riley Folosovich. Code alias: Driller." The captain read it from memory as the computer's electronic voice echoed him.
"I don't see where this is going, I-
"I'm not finished yet, private!" the captain snapped him back to attention. The image flickered into an older man, near 40 by his looks. Shorter than the previous two, but still very similar in looks. "Name: David Folosovich. Code alias: Hammer." A few heads nodded. "He's one of the bodies we picked up. What I'm getting to, gentlemen," He flicked off the image, "is that this organization trains their young for any future developments."
"Another thing." The captain pointed out, "We are investigators, detectives. Notice that the official target of the assassins was the same Enforcer who was responsible for stopping the Cinder operation."
There were a number of edgy Lieutenants listening. Tom was among them. Kane.
"I suspect that whoever's hiring these guys is linked to that same operation. I expect a result of some kind from each one of you in 6 hours. Dismissed." All the privates bustled out. Tom lingered a little longer.
"So Wing has custody of Arsen?" Vor was pacing the office, Jim and Tren sitting nearby.
"Correct." Tren nodded.
"But we did everything!" Vor argued.
"Number 1: you were unconscious," he pointed to Jim, "and you were wounded." Vor rolled his eyes and started to say something, but Tren wasn't finished. "And number 2: that Enforcer did quite a number on all of them. Seemed like he was their target the whole time. That was more than a scuffle."
"This isn't about Wing, is it?" Jim guessed.
"What I called you in here for was to tell you that you stopped an immense assassination plot of our Enforcer friend."
"Yeah, he seemed quite grateful." Vor commented under his breath.
"Anyway, what you need to understand is that I don't believe, that although that was a very critical, and dangerous battle, that it's over." He sighed and repositioned himself in the chair, "You see, I can sense a presence that may be hostile to us. They break a balance. Thing is, I thought those assassins were that presence."
"They weren't." Jim was right again.
"No, anything but. However, they were linked to it somehow."
"Some of them weren't found. At least three of them ran from us and their team, either out of fear or justice." Vor pointed out.
"That's only a small worry of mine. We need to be on the lookout for something greater, harder to find. A hunter of men, perhaps."
"A bounty hunter? Training assassins? I thought they were banished." Jim said.
"They were." Vor, however, wasn't focusing on the conversation anymore.
"Vor, what is it?" Tren asked, tensing with his sensory.
Vor's eyes scanned the windows. One of them was darker than the rest. "We have a shadow."
Jim started to stand, but Steven shoved him back down, explaining, "Not in your condition."
"Vor, can you handle it?" Tren asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes." He dashed out, all the windows the same light.
The roof was black, just as the sky, giving off a blue tint from the moon. A lone figure, hooded, had just fallen upon it, sulking around on edge.
Vor dashed up the winding, dark hall, stopping under a small hatch. With the push of a switch upon his armor, the hatch slid open and extended a ladder. The Elite scaled the bars quick as a raven and disappeared into the darkness.
The center of the rooftop emitted a small speck of light, which proceeded around in a circle. When the circle had formed, the pad descended into the dark innards of the Exodus building only to rise again with Vor on top of it. When the circle/elevator had reached its origin, it faded away with stealth.
The Elite drew his claws. A presence other than his own was still there. What his eyes not see his ears could just barely pick up the soft scraping of boot against brick.
Vor's slice came down on the edge, nearly missing gripping fingers, the cloaked figure letting go just in time, plummeting straight down. He motored his legs, however, miraculously running up the wall, then leaping over Vor, turning in the air, and landing to face him. The hood of the cloak had fallen. It was one of the assassins, the boy with the scythe.
"I didn't know anyone could do that." Vor observed, drawing his other claw.
"Not many can, unless they've trained." The wind blew hard, and he let his cloak catch the air. Unlatching it, he let it fly away with dragon's wings. It was a boy, no more than 23 years of age, roughly.
Vor took the action as invitation and sped forward at the assassin. The boy only reached behind him, grasping the scythe that lay on his back in a curved sheath. A spinning, gray flash of death from interchanging fingers occurred the moment the boy brought his arm back up, the scythe whirling vertically. Vor pulled his upper body away first, then stepped back to his previous position.
"But I don't want to fight you. Especially one who defeated the others." The boy explained.
Others? Vor remembered the fight, but he did not remember the boy. He understood anyway. "Assassin!" He charged forth, slicing madly.
The boy whirled the scythe up, down, side-to-side, blocking and averting the dual blades, at each strike cascading sparks onto the blacktop. Their dance was short. The crescendo of strikes entered a finale: Vor leapt/dashed in from the side, claw-swiping diagonal down. The two blades landed on the top of the curve of the scythe, and continued to ride down till the tiniest point, raining down a constant shower of yellow pixels. The scythe-carrier whirled and swiped down Vor's arms, then butted him back with the shaft. Vor proceeded to retaliate, looming over the boy, who ducked down and rolled under the leap.
Both combatants rolled aways in their own directions, then spun to their feet to face each other again. The moon was full, with only one obstructive cloud.
"I've heard of you," Vor breathed, "You're Scythe. I've heard from Arsen."
"He's alive?" Scythe loosened.
"You're surprised?" Vor asked.
"We're taught to eliminate ourselves even with the slightest chance of total capture."
"He tried, give him that, but I turned the gun on myself."
"Oh, how honorable of you." Scythe mocked.
Vor was unmoved, "Since you don't wish to fight, I trust, then, you would go quietly into custody?"
"And however appealing that would sound, no." Scythe returned with tranquility.
"Then, I apologize, but I will take you by force." Vor wasted no more time. He ran, jumped, and let his claws take flight forward. If Scythe's shaft hadn't stopped his knuckles, he would have been impaled. Scythe rolled onto his back and punted the Elite over his head.
Vor then realized the importance of the scythe. I must disarm him, that thing is a part of him.
The Elite decided to play "Chicken" and rush the assassin. Scythe stood his ground, an obvious strategy plotting. He was going to begin his action by spinning the scythe. Vor guessed right. One claw came down, the other swung up, both locking onto the scythe shaft. Scythe was helpless. His action could not be done. And Vor's wasn't finished.
Vor administered equal force to both arms. Sooner or later the assassin had to give in. Or attack. He did both, letting go of his scythe. Just as it flew into the wind to land a few feet away, Scythe kicked out, knocking the Elite a few inches back and propelling himself a few feet more.
"No!!" Scythe yelled. Vor dashed, leapt, and soared at him, almost horizontal in the air, both claws out but one closer than the other. Without his scythe and too slow for his blaster, Scythe did what his training had never taught him. Held out his hand, fingers outstretched and palm forward.
Vor's flight slowed, then halted in the air. Sweat had suddenly drenched Scythe's face, but he had already succeeded in something he never knew possible. An awkward moment settled over the Elite soldier frozen in the air and conscious assassin holding him there. But the moment was short.
Scythe whirled away, and Vor continued flight, the assassin escaping with only a slash through the cloth across his left arm. He hastily retrieved his scythe and whirled to block away several mad slashes before jumping back to a safer distance.
"What the hell did you do?!" Vor screamed to him.
"Just another advantage I had over the others." He replied breathlessly.
Vor roared and jabbed with his left, then right. Scythe blocked both, flipped once, twice, three times backward, touching at every execution, then sidestepped back until he straightened on the outer edge of the roof, one foot on its toe. He's daring me. He wins. The Elite barreled up, with both arms spread to block escape to either side. Two steps away, Scythe hadn't budged. He's mine. But the assassin vanished in a flash upward and Vor's arms crossed over each other. His eyes went wide as he went over the edge.
There was a glimpse of the neon yellow and orange spectacle ranging below before a primal instinct resurfaced. Out of his control, his left arm shot out and the claws dug into the brick. His legs went to overdrive, moving faster than he thought possible, but, then again, he wasn't really thinking. They were constantly pounding against and gripping across the red. He moved, arching his view back to the moon. His claws continued to slice through brick, sustaining the action and completing a grizzly dual arch.
One leg hit nothing; the other pushed off the last remaining piece of footing. Vor launched over the assassin, high into the night sky. He executed 16 horizontal revolutions before landing and immediately taking to his knee, using his unused hand for balance.
First thing he noticed as his human instinct returned was the shocked look on Scythe's face. "Just another advantage I had over the others." Vor copied.
This time Scythe roared and rushed forth. Vor blocked every blow. Right now he was overcome with a new understanding of his abilities, boosting his concentration and sensory. For some reason, he thought of the training center, with the probes...
Realizing his loss of edge, Scythe let his weapon be knocked away, but he was not harmless.
Vor felt the charge sear into him, dangerously close to his heart. The rest of his body numbed, amplifying this new pain. He was speechless as he fell on his back, breathing in short gasps.
Scythe dropped his own gun. It was simply a last resort. It was his assault gun, it had more than one shot. He could have finished him. But the boy ran, disappearing into the night.
Leon sat in his legendary recliner, contemplating life and Jeremy's constant absences. He had taped his notebook back together using scored of duct tape. He noticed it, alone upon his table. Walking over, he noticed the package mailed to him by Direct Postage. He still hadn't opened it.
"Aw, what the hell." He murmured and tore away the packaging. It was an engraved case. The carved illustrations reminded him of a vineyard. But, as he looked closer, the vines grew into another shape. A griffin.
Leon opened the case.
The contents were covered by a crimson and gold banner; the colors of the Surveyor. There was note on top of that. It read: "Thanks again for your help with the Demonstration. I told you we might have some of these in stock for you."
Aidam. "Hmm, a sword? That might just come in handy." He talked to himself. "What the." He said it fast, locking his eyes to the door. He had heard a noise. Only a simple tap against wood. The door was leaking a sliver of light into the hall.
Cautiously, Leon walked over and, annoyed and confused, shut it and locked it.
The boy worked his way back into the living room, heading straight for his notebook. Leaning back into his recliner, he opened up to a blank page. His pen scratched over the paper.
"Writing your life story?" Leon bolted upright, eyes wide and mind racing. The voice was a whisper, but male and half-raspy. Leon saw movement in the shadows and stood before his table. A dark man in a long, black tunic and trench coat, with a half-cloak layering over that, rose from the darkness. He held at his side a sword taller than himself and continuing on. A scimitar. "It might sell very well soon."
"Who the hell are you?" Leon was testing the durability of his table.
"Your beholder." The dark man said.
Leon wasted no time, flinging the table at the intruder. In a blurred execution, the table was in shreds. The youth then grabbed the case he had just received. The dark man's scimitar was coming down.
The case blocked well, even though the sword went halfway into it. "There's something strong in there." The dark man grinned. "Oooof!" just as the case connected with his jaw, then his gut, then up to his chin.
Leon hastily set the slaughtered case down and opened it, swiveling out the Templar blade and holding it firm before him.
Slate was already there, slashing for the head. Leon was already fast, ducking low and slashing into the knee. The assassin stumbled, his sword making a longer streak through the wall and Leon bolted into the hall.
Leon's heart was doing overhaul, but Slate's was beginning to pulse. That slash to his knee was an unexpected hindrance, but it did not stop the adrenaline now pulsing for the challenge.
It was nearing 6:30 and the sun was only starting to set. Countless officers were questioning the durability of the clocks, while others questioned their own consumption of alcohol or coffee.
Tom, unlike his colleagues, sat alone in his quarters, leaning over the documented questioning of Arsen. "Now," he talked to himself, "He says he does not know who his accomplices are even with a truth serum." He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling but not really looking at it, chewing on his pencil. His blond dredges tickled his forehead. "Damn it. These guys were trained to kill themselves if captured. But they were still prepared with immunities to even our truth serums." He put his elbow on the desk and rested his head in one hand. "Where is this all leading." He whispered.
[MORE LIKE WHERE ARE YOU LEADING YOURSELF.]
"Holy!" Tom flew backward from his chair to the floor, then was back up, hand on his gun. "Who's there? Who's the joker?" he stammered.
[LISTEN MORTAL]
"Jeez!" but Tom shut up after that, and calmed himself, suddenly accepting this voice coming from within him; it definitely wasn't his.
[GO TO THE HALLWAY] Tom did, slowly getting up and hesitating, then throwing his caution in training to the wind. [YOU MUST HURRY...I HAVE NOT MUCH TIME] Tom's eyes narrowed at the mention. [DAYLIGHT IS A DIFFICULT PRICE TO PAY FOR TRUE SIGHT] What?
[GO OUTSIDE, NOW!] Once again, Tom did as he was told, now alert for more of this voice. [NOW, GO RIGHT. NOW LEFT. KEEP GOING] Tom did not stop to think how this voice was following his every move. [STOP NOW!] The officer nearly fell over as he skidded to a stop. [THE...DooR...GO....to the dooor] Tom looked around for what the voice was telling him. When his eyes brushed over the tan wood, the voice screamed, [THERE!!]. Tom locked his eyes on the door and cautioned over to its lowest step. He listened for further direction.
No more direction came. Tom waited for several moments, then gave up. He was here for a good reason, of this he was sure. Slowly, he ascended the stairs and leaned his ear close to the door.
Tom heard the sounds of clashing metal and instinctively armed his gun. He leaned his ear once more to the door, then flew back and kicked the handle in. The door gave way for him as he rushed in, heading into the first room he saw; the living room.
It looked like a war zone. The television was in shreds. The walls were lined with clean gouges through to the outside. What happened.
He heard noises behind him and whirled around to the hallway. Something was pounding over the floor panels and rocking against the walls. It was also coming very, very fast.
Two figures emerged in the wide opening into the living room; one, a young man, was driving the other, a dark man, toward the door. Both their swords were locked into each other, proceeding to carve into the adjacent walls. But just as fast as they had appeared, the young man had succeeded in his action.
Whatever was left of the door shuddered and was launched into the brisk wind. Slate flew from the door to hit and skid over the sand-covered road, his scimitar emitting sparks each time it clanged over the shredded rocks. "Strong kid." He observed.
Leon hung at the door. Tom appeared behind him, "Look out!" and shoved him and himself from the step. Slate was level in the air and swiped another great slash, splitting the doorframe halfway down.
That was it, the house had had it. The closest section fell a few feet, then dropped backwards, caving in on the farther half.
There was a pause for the event. Then Tom turned his gun down to "2" and fired to the assassin. Slate blocked two shots, then leapt over a third, which exploded into the killed house. Slate was in the air, sword coming down with a yell. Tom and Leon rolled away in different directions and the sword struck through pavement, sending dust in either direction.
The dust settled. Slate had to rock his scimitar back and forth seven times to uproot it from the earth. He then slashed around him, warding off his doubled enemies. He vaulted to Tom first, striking hard and fast with a punt. The officer flew back with a crunch. Slate brought the scimitar before him and got into position to swing down.
Something snapped. It was small, but something flared. Leon remembered Cinder, with his desperate slash. He remembered the time again against Cinder, with the reflected blast. And then, his rage and adrenaline rose and his grip tightened upon the hilt.
Slate felt a gust of wind from behind, and, turning, noticed Leon sprinting toward him with fire in his eyes, "Oh dear..." he muttered.
Leon sprang into a volley of slashes, perries, thrusts, and swipes. Silence filled the air, save for the sound of two pairs of shuffling feet and constant clinking of trading swords.
Whshintk! Whshinct! Soonk! Soonk! Soonchk, shoonchk, shoonchk, shking, shkoong, shhang, shoonk, sing, shangk, toonk, toonk, toonk, shhhhhhhink! Leon continued his relentless blows, driving Slate further and further down the road. The assault continued untouched. Ching, ching, kching, kinshk, wwwwhhhhhhhhwinksh! Their swords locked and a constant clicking of the blades sounded in some sort of syncopated time.
The fighters pushed off each other and Leon drove even more intently in. There were more constant flashes of steel. Somewhere between the rocking clangs and shifting feet over sand, a black tunic was slashed. Slate's widened further, his intensity skyrocketing to block. Leon's skill was multiplying, as if every slash were making him stronger. Another split-time moment: a slash rode across from chest to shoulder, turning red, but no real blood flow.
The slashes sped up dramatically, each swipe followed by a timed, "Ha!" from Leon. Slate lost his composure and put in out of synch, aggravated slashes. Leon noticed the split-second chance. His Templar carved its way down from the left shoulder down the arm, drawing blood this time. Slate bellowed and turned/stumbled back, revealing the arched back of his body.
Leon was not finished and leapt high, preparing to slice him in two. The assassin sensed it, and with seemingly his last ounce of strength lurched forward. The sword tip ran through black tunic, and blood sputtered from between the seams, but it was only a gash, nothing worse. Slate skidded to his knees, then chest, then face, and his sword arm, the scimitar flowing from his grasp a few feet. Leon tore to where he lay, sword held above him, pointing down.
"No!!!" Tom was behind him at once, cuffing him around the middle and pulling him back. They both fell onto the hard pavement, Leon's sword, too, being wrenched from his grasp and rolling a few feet. "He's beaten, kid, he's gone." Tom panted when he looked to Leon.
"No....he's not. Look!" Leon pointed. Sure enough, Slate had worked back up, sword in hand, behind them, about to slash.
"I got him." Tom whispered without turning to see, whipped out his gun, whirled and fired high. The scimitar shot out and up from between the pair of gripping hands. It soared over the clouds and landed as it always did, point in the ground.
Slate grinned stupidly, gesturing, What can you do? What, indeed. Tom had an idea. His arm came up fast and hard, knuckles slamming into chin. Slate stumbled aways, then routed himself and started up his feet in a rhythmic fighting stance.
Tom swiveled to Leon, murmuring hastily, "You go get my buddies at the Wing HQ, take my helmet for proof." And, as he turned back he added, "I'll finish this." Behind him, Leon took off down the street.
Tom rocketed forward without working out the situation. Obviously, his opponent had had martial training in some effective field, where Tom had only a lacking experience with tidbits of martial tactics and street fighting, perhaps even a little drunken boxing. That remembrance of the streets took over here.
Slate eluded his jabs and barely thought out hooks, then delivered his own series of chops, palm jabs and side/palm jabs. At last, he knocked back the officer. But Tom wasn't the type to give up. Now knowing what to expect, he hiked back up and kneed the stomach, causing Slate to double over, then kicked up, now hurling him back.
The fight became a dance of versatile jabs and arm blocks. Tom had found his footing, and any time Slate thought he could hit, Tom's forearm was there to take the blow, his other arm delivering its own. The assassin could not comprehend this simple, untrained detective matching him in combat. I am only wounded, not at my best, that is why.
Now see my best!
Slate blocked a jab, then swung his arm around and caught the opposing forearm, then copied the technique with the other hand. Using the arms for leverage, he leapt up until his knees were at level with Tom's chest. He swung his legs up and pushed off, letting go of the arms. Both combatants flew from each other, much like a rubber band snapping after exerting too much force.
Tom and Slate flew for a good four or five feet in the air before rolling onto the pavement. Tom was up first and realized his chance. He jumped forward while setting his legs to overdrive, sprinting with driven force. The speed was something beyond adrenaline, and he leapt at appropriate distance, letting a new battle instinct flare in his mind.
Slate found his opponent no longer dashing at him, but near to fifteen feet in the air. Oh, dear. Tom landed and slide tackled even before his knee found the ground, Slate back flipping out of its way, then turned on his knee, simultaneously standing, and kicked out. Slate got the blow in the chest, knocking him flat. He got back up, only to witness Tom's angry, but focused face as he brought back his flexed arm, then recoiled the muscles. The fist rode into his sight.
Fffwwootich!
Time slowed to the moment molded by the hit. Tom was frozen in a prepped battle stance, arm outstretched, fist clenched. Slate, arms limp at his sides, and feet nowhere near the ground, was arching unconsciously back from the force. For an instant, he had the sensation of drifting back to earth. It didn't last long.
He landed with a hard whunk on his back, moaning inwardly. Tom went back and retrieved his gun, leveling it on the assassin. "Ok, now I need back-up." He murmured to himself, grinning.
Shadows
"What I want you to know, gentlemen, especially you, Tom, is that these men are not rare around this district." The Wing captain explained. "You'd be surprised how many assassination plots in the Gang Wars were connected with these guys."
"Sir, may I say that the Wars were 20-30 years ago, and most of these guys are no more than 20 years old." A brave private ventured.
"Correct, private." The captain praised him. "But you're overlooking a known trait for assassins: they train their family." He clicked on the holographic projection. The image changed multiple times as it scanned the database. It finally halted on a Starkov Folosovich, which, from the computer image, looked like he was from one of the World Wars. "This trained assassin, near to his own assassination, trained his son, this man." The image altered to a man in a black coat, brandishing two sub-machine guns and a black bandana. Extremely retro. His name was projected as, "Riley Folosovich. Code alias: Driller." The captain read it from memory as the computer's electronic voice echoed him.
"I don't see where this is going, I-
"I'm not finished yet, private!" the captain snapped him back to attention. The image flickered into an older man, near 40 by his looks. Shorter than the previous two, but still very similar in looks. "Name: David Folosovich. Code alias: Hammer." A few heads nodded. "He's one of the bodies we picked up. What I'm getting to, gentlemen," He flicked off the image, "is that this organization trains their young for any future developments."
"Another thing." The captain pointed out, "We are investigators, detectives. Notice that the official target of the assassins was the same Enforcer who was responsible for stopping the Cinder operation."
There were a number of edgy Lieutenants listening. Tom was among them. Kane.
"I suspect that whoever's hiring these guys is linked to that same operation. I expect a result of some kind from each one of you in 6 hours. Dismissed." All the privates bustled out. Tom lingered a little longer.
"So Wing has custody of Arsen?" Vor was pacing the office, Jim and Tren sitting nearby.
"Correct." Tren nodded.
"But we did everything!" Vor argued.
"Number 1: you were unconscious," he pointed to Jim, "and you were wounded." Vor rolled his eyes and started to say something, but Tren wasn't finished. "And number 2: that Enforcer did quite a number on all of them. Seemed like he was their target the whole time. That was more than a scuffle."
"This isn't about Wing, is it?" Jim guessed.
"What I called you in here for was to tell you that you stopped an immense assassination plot of our Enforcer friend."
"Yeah, he seemed quite grateful." Vor commented under his breath.
"Anyway, what you need to understand is that I don't believe, that although that was a very critical, and dangerous battle, that it's over." He sighed and repositioned himself in the chair, "You see, I can sense a presence that may be hostile to us. They break a balance. Thing is, I thought those assassins were that presence."
"They weren't." Jim was right again.
"No, anything but. However, they were linked to it somehow."
"Some of them weren't found. At least three of them ran from us and their team, either out of fear or justice." Vor pointed out.
"That's only a small worry of mine. We need to be on the lookout for something greater, harder to find. A hunter of men, perhaps."
"A bounty hunter? Training assassins? I thought they were banished." Jim said.
"They were." Vor, however, wasn't focusing on the conversation anymore.
"Vor, what is it?" Tren asked, tensing with his sensory.
Vor's eyes scanned the windows. One of them was darker than the rest. "We have a shadow."
Jim started to stand, but Steven shoved him back down, explaining, "Not in your condition."
"Vor, can you handle it?" Tren asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes." He dashed out, all the windows the same light.
The roof was black, just as the sky, giving off a blue tint from the moon. A lone figure, hooded, had just fallen upon it, sulking around on edge.
Vor dashed up the winding, dark hall, stopping under a small hatch. With the push of a switch upon his armor, the hatch slid open and extended a ladder. The Elite scaled the bars quick as a raven and disappeared into the darkness.
The center of the rooftop emitted a small speck of light, which proceeded around in a circle. When the circle had formed, the pad descended into the dark innards of the Exodus building only to rise again with Vor on top of it. When the circle/elevator had reached its origin, it faded away with stealth.
The Elite drew his claws. A presence other than his own was still there. What his eyes not see his ears could just barely pick up the soft scraping of boot against brick.
Vor's slice came down on the edge, nearly missing gripping fingers, the cloaked figure letting go just in time, plummeting straight down. He motored his legs, however, miraculously running up the wall, then leaping over Vor, turning in the air, and landing to face him. The hood of the cloak had fallen. It was one of the assassins, the boy with the scythe.
"I didn't know anyone could do that." Vor observed, drawing his other claw.
"Not many can, unless they've trained." The wind blew hard, and he let his cloak catch the air. Unlatching it, he let it fly away with dragon's wings. It was a boy, no more than 23 years of age, roughly.
Vor took the action as invitation and sped forward at the assassin. The boy only reached behind him, grasping the scythe that lay on his back in a curved sheath. A spinning, gray flash of death from interchanging fingers occurred the moment the boy brought his arm back up, the scythe whirling vertically. Vor pulled his upper body away first, then stepped back to his previous position.
"But I don't want to fight you. Especially one who defeated the others." The boy explained.
Others? Vor remembered the fight, but he did not remember the boy. He understood anyway. "Assassin!" He charged forth, slicing madly.
The boy whirled the scythe up, down, side-to-side, blocking and averting the dual blades, at each strike cascading sparks onto the blacktop. Their dance was short. The crescendo of strikes entered a finale: Vor leapt/dashed in from the side, claw-swiping diagonal down. The two blades landed on the top of the curve of the scythe, and continued to ride down till the tiniest point, raining down a constant shower of yellow pixels. The scythe-carrier whirled and swiped down Vor's arms, then butted him back with the shaft. Vor proceeded to retaliate, looming over the boy, who ducked down and rolled under the leap.
Both combatants rolled aways in their own directions, then spun to their feet to face each other again. The moon was full, with only one obstructive cloud.
"I've heard of you," Vor breathed, "You're Scythe. I've heard from Arsen."
"He's alive?" Scythe loosened.
"You're surprised?" Vor asked.
"We're taught to eliminate ourselves even with the slightest chance of total capture."
"He tried, give him that, but I turned the gun on myself."
"Oh, how honorable of you." Scythe mocked.
Vor was unmoved, "Since you don't wish to fight, I trust, then, you would go quietly into custody?"
"And however appealing that would sound, no." Scythe returned with tranquility.
"Then, I apologize, but I will take you by force." Vor wasted no more time. He ran, jumped, and let his claws take flight forward. If Scythe's shaft hadn't stopped his knuckles, he would have been impaled. Scythe rolled onto his back and punted the Elite over his head.
Vor then realized the importance of the scythe. I must disarm him, that thing is a part of him.
The Elite decided to play "Chicken" and rush the assassin. Scythe stood his ground, an obvious strategy plotting. He was going to begin his action by spinning the scythe. Vor guessed right. One claw came down, the other swung up, both locking onto the scythe shaft. Scythe was helpless. His action could not be done. And Vor's wasn't finished.
Vor administered equal force to both arms. Sooner or later the assassin had to give in. Or attack. He did both, letting go of his scythe. Just as it flew into the wind to land a few feet away, Scythe kicked out, knocking the Elite a few inches back and propelling himself a few feet more.
"No!!" Scythe yelled. Vor dashed, leapt, and soared at him, almost horizontal in the air, both claws out but one closer than the other. Without his scythe and too slow for his blaster, Scythe did what his training had never taught him. Held out his hand, fingers outstretched and palm forward.
Vor's flight slowed, then halted in the air. Sweat had suddenly drenched Scythe's face, but he had already succeeded in something he never knew possible. An awkward moment settled over the Elite soldier frozen in the air and conscious assassin holding him there. But the moment was short.
Scythe whirled away, and Vor continued flight, the assassin escaping with only a slash through the cloth across his left arm. He hastily retrieved his scythe and whirled to block away several mad slashes before jumping back to a safer distance.
"What the hell did you do?!" Vor screamed to him.
"Just another advantage I had over the others." He replied breathlessly.
Vor roared and jabbed with his left, then right. Scythe blocked both, flipped once, twice, three times backward, touching at every execution, then sidestepped back until he straightened on the outer edge of the roof, one foot on its toe. He's daring me. He wins. The Elite barreled up, with both arms spread to block escape to either side. Two steps away, Scythe hadn't budged. He's mine. But the assassin vanished in a flash upward and Vor's arms crossed over each other. His eyes went wide as he went over the edge.
There was a glimpse of the neon yellow and orange spectacle ranging below before a primal instinct resurfaced. Out of his control, his left arm shot out and the claws dug into the brick. His legs went to overdrive, moving faster than he thought possible, but, then again, he wasn't really thinking. They were constantly pounding against and gripping across the red. He moved, arching his view back to the moon. His claws continued to slice through brick, sustaining the action and completing a grizzly dual arch.
One leg hit nothing; the other pushed off the last remaining piece of footing. Vor launched over the assassin, high into the night sky. He executed 16 horizontal revolutions before landing and immediately taking to his knee, using his unused hand for balance.
First thing he noticed as his human instinct returned was the shocked look on Scythe's face. "Just another advantage I had over the others." Vor copied.
This time Scythe roared and rushed forth. Vor blocked every blow. Right now he was overcome with a new understanding of his abilities, boosting his concentration and sensory. For some reason, he thought of the training center, with the probes...
Realizing his loss of edge, Scythe let his weapon be knocked away, but he was not harmless.
Vor felt the charge sear into him, dangerously close to his heart. The rest of his body numbed, amplifying this new pain. He was speechless as he fell on his back, breathing in short gasps.
Scythe dropped his own gun. It was simply a last resort. It was his assault gun, it had more than one shot. He could have finished him. But the boy ran, disappearing into the night.
Leon sat in his legendary recliner, contemplating life and Jeremy's constant absences. He had taped his notebook back together using scored of duct tape. He noticed it, alone upon his table. Walking over, he noticed the package mailed to him by Direct Postage. He still hadn't opened it.
"Aw, what the hell." He murmured and tore away the packaging. It was an engraved case. The carved illustrations reminded him of a vineyard. But, as he looked closer, the vines grew into another shape. A griffin.
Leon opened the case.
The contents were covered by a crimson and gold banner; the colors of the Surveyor. There was note on top of that. It read: "Thanks again for your help with the Demonstration. I told you we might have some of these in stock for you."
Aidam. "Hmm, a sword? That might just come in handy." He talked to himself. "What the." He said it fast, locking his eyes to the door. He had heard a noise. Only a simple tap against wood. The door was leaking a sliver of light into the hall.
Cautiously, Leon walked over and, annoyed and confused, shut it and locked it.
The boy worked his way back into the living room, heading straight for his notebook. Leaning back into his recliner, he opened up to a blank page. His pen scratched over the paper.
"Writing your life story?" Leon bolted upright, eyes wide and mind racing. The voice was a whisper, but male and half-raspy. Leon saw movement in the shadows and stood before his table. A dark man in a long, black tunic and trench coat, with a half-cloak layering over that, rose from the darkness. He held at his side a sword taller than himself and continuing on. A scimitar. "It might sell very well soon."
"Who the hell are you?" Leon was testing the durability of his table.
"Your beholder." The dark man said.
Leon wasted no time, flinging the table at the intruder. In a blurred execution, the table was in shreds. The youth then grabbed the case he had just received. The dark man's scimitar was coming down.
The case blocked well, even though the sword went halfway into it. "There's something strong in there." The dark man grinned. "Oooof!" just as the case connected with his jaw, then his gut, then up to his chin.
Leon hastily set the slaughtered case down and opened it, swiveling out the Templar blade and holding it firm before him.
Slate was already there, slashing for the head. Leon was already fast, ducking low and slashing into the knee. The assassin stumbled, his sword making a longer streak through the wall and Leon bolted into the hall.
Leon's heart was doing overhaul, but Slate's was beginning to pulse. That slash to his knee was an unexpected hindrance, but it did not stop the adrenaline now pulsing for the challenge.
It was nearing 6:30 and the sun was only starting to set. Countless officers were questioning the durability of the clocks, while others questioned their own consumption of alcohol or coffee.
Tom, unlike his colleagues, sat alone in his quarters, leaning over the documented questioning of Arsen. "Now," he talked to himself, "He says he does not know who his accomplices are even with a truth serum." He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling but not really looking at it, chewing on his pencil. His blond dredges tickled his forehead. "Damn it. These guys were trained to kill themselves if captured. But they were still prepared with immunities to even our truth serums." He put his elbow on the desk and rested his head in one hand. "Where is this all leading." He whispered.
[MORE LIKE WHERE ARE YOU LEADING YOURSELF.]
"Holy!" Tom flew backward from his chair to the floor, then was back up, hand on his gun. "Who's there? Who's the joker?" he stammered.
[LISTEN MORTAL]
"Jeez!" but Tom shut up after that, and calmed himself, suddenly accepting this voice coming from within him; it definitely wasn't his.
[GO TO THE HALLWAY] Tom did, slowly getting up and hesitating, then throwing his caution in training to the wind. [YOU MUST HURRY...I HAVE NOT MUCH TIME] Tom's eyes narrowed at the mention. [DAYLIGHT IS A DIFFICULT PRICE TO PAY FOR TRUE SIGHT] What?
[GO OUTSIDE, NOW!] Once again, Tom did as he was told, now alert for more of this voice. [NOW, GO RIGHT. NOW LEFT. KEEP GOING] Tom did not stop to think how this voice was following his every move. [STOP NOW!] The officer nearly fell over as he skidded to a stop. [THE...DooR...GO....to the dooor] Tom looked around for what the voice was telling him. When his eyes brushed over the tan wood, the voice screamed, [THERE!!]. Tom locked his eyes on the door and cautioned over to its lowest step. He listened for further direction.
No more direction came. Tom waited for several moments, then gave up. He was here for a good reason, of this he was sure. Slowly, he ascended the stairs and leaned his ear close to the door.
Tom heard the sounds of clashing metal and instinctively armed his gun. He leaned his ear once more to the door, then flew back and kicked the handle in. The door gave way for him as he rushed in, heading into the first room he saw; the living room.
It looked like a war zone. The television was in shreds. The walls were lined with clean gouges through to the outside. What happened.
He heard noises behind him and whirled around to the hallway. Something was pounding over the floor panels and rocking against the walls. It was also coming very, very fast.
Two figures emerged in the wide opening into the living room; one, a young man, was driving the other, a dark man, toward the door. Both their swords were locked into each other, proceeding to carve into the adjacent walls. But just as fast as they had appeared, the young man had succeeded in his action.
Whatever was left of the door shuddered and was launched into the brisk wind. Slate flew from the door to hit and skid over the sand-covered road, his scimitar emitting sparks each time it clanged over the shredded rocks. "Strong kid." He observed.
Leon hung at the door. Tom appeared behind him, "Look out!" and shoved him and himself from the step. Slate was level in the air and swiped another great slash, splitting the doorframe halfway down.
That was it, the house had had it. The closest section fell a few feet, then dropped backwards, caving in on the farther half.
There was a pause for the event. Then Tom turned his gun down to "2" and fired to the assassin. Slate blocked two shots, then leapt over a third, which exploded into the killed house. Slate was in the air, sword coming down with a yell. Tom and Leon rolled away in different directions and the sword struck through pavement, sending dust in either direction.
The dust settled. Slate had to rock his scimitar back and forth seven times to uproot it from the earth. He then slashed around him, warding off his doubled enemies. He vaulted to Tom first, striking hard and fast with a punt. The officer flew back with a crunch. Slate brought the scimitar before him and got into position to swing down.
Something snapped. It was small, but something flared. Leon remembered Cinder, with his desperate slash. He remembered the time again against Cinder, with the reflected blast. And then, his rage and adrenaline rose and his grip tightened upon the hilt.
Slate felt a gust of wind from behind, and, turning, noticed Leon sprinting toward him with fire in his eyes, "Oh dear..." he muttered.
Leon sprang into a volley of slashes, perries, thrusts, and swipes. Silence filled the air, save for the sound of two pairs of shuffling feet and constant clinking of trading swords.
Whshintk! Whshinct! Soonk! Soonk! Soonchk, shoonchk, shoonchk, shking, shkoong, shhang, shoonk, sing, shangk, toonk, toonk, toonk, shhhhhhhink! Leon continued his relentless blows, driving Slate further and further down the road. The assault continued untouched. Ching, ching, kching, kinshk, wwwwhhhhhhhhwinksh! Their swords locked and a constant clicking of the blades sounded in some sort of syncopated time.
The fighters pushed off each other and Leon drove even more intently in. There were more constant flashes of steel. Somewhere between the rocking clangs and shifting feet over sand, a black tunic was slashed. Slate's widened further, his intensity skyrocketing to block. Leon's skill was multiplying, as if every slash were making him stronger. Another split-time moment: a slash rode across from chest to shoulder, turning red, but no real blood flow.
The slashes sped up dramatically, each swipe followed by a timed, "Ha!" from Leon. Slate lost his composure and put in out of synch, aggravated slashes. Leon noticed the split-second chance. His Templar carved its way down from the left shoulder down the arm, drawing blood this time. Slate bellowed and turned/stumbled back, revealing the arched back of his body.
Leon was not finished and leapt high, preparing to slice him in two. The assassin sensed it, and with seemingly his last ounce of strength lurched forward. The sword tip ran through black tunic, and blood sputtered from between the seams, but it was only a gash, nothing worse. Slate skidded to his knees, then chest, then face, and his sword arm, the scimitar flowing from his grasp a few feet. Leon tore to where he lay, sword held above him, pointing down.
"No!!!" Tom was behind him at once, cuffing him around the middle and pulling him back. They both fell onto the hard pavement, Leon's sword, too, being wrenched from his grasp and rolling a few feet. "He's beaten, kid, he's gone." Tom panted when he looked to Leon.
"No....he's not. Look!" Leon pointed. Sure enough, Slate had worked back up, sword in hand, behind them, about to slash.
"I got him." Tom whispered without turning to see, whipped out his gun, whirled and fired high. The scimitar shot out and up from between the pair of gripping hands. It soared over the clouds and landed as it always did, point in the ground.
Slate grinned stupidly, gesturing, What can you do? What, indeed. Tom had an idea. His arm came up fast and hard, knuckles slamming into chin. Slate stumbled aways, then routed himself and started up his feet in a rhythmic fighting stance.
Tom swiveled to Leon, murmuring hastily, "You go get my buddies at the Wing HQ, take my helmet for proof." And, as he turned back he added, "I'll finish this." Behind him, Leon took off down the street.
Tom rocketed forward without working out the situation. Obviously, his opponent had had martial training in some effective field, where Tom had only a lacking experience with tidbits of martial tactics and street fighting, perhaps even a little drunken boxing. That remembrance of the streets took over here.
Slate eluded his jabs and barely thought out hooks, then delivered his own series of chops, palm jabs and side/palm jabs. At last, he knocked back the officer. But Tom wasn't the type to give up. Now knowing what to expect, he hiked back up and kneed the stomach, causing Slate to double over, then kicked up, now hurling him back.
The fight became a dance of versatile jabs and arm blocks. Tom had found his footing, and any time Slate thought he could hit, Tom's forearm was there to take the blow, his other arm delivering its own. The assassin could not comprehend this simple, untrained detective matching him in combat. I am only wounded, not at my best, that is why.
Now see my best!
Slate blocked a jab, then swung his arm around and caught the opposing forearm, then copied the technique with the other hand. Using the arms for leverage, he leapt up until his knees were at level with Tom's chest. He swung his legs up and pushed off, letting go of the arms. Both combatants flew from each other, much like a rubber band snapping after exerting too much force.
Tom and Slate flew for a good four or five feet in the air before rolling onto the pavement. Tom was up first and realized his chance. He jumped forward while setting his legs to overdrive, sprinting with driven force. The speed was something beyond adrenaline, and he leapt at appropriate distance, letting a new battle instinct flare in his mind.
Slate found his opponent no longer dashing at him, but near to fifteen feet in the air. Oh, dear. Tom landed and slide tackled even before his knee found the ground, Slate back flipping out of its way, then turned on his knee, simultaneously standing, and kicked out. Slate got the blow in the chest, knocking him flat. He got back up, only to witness Tom's angry, but focused face as he brought back his flexed arm, then recoiled the muscles. The fist rode into his sight.
Fffwwootich!
Time slowed to the moment molded by the hit. Tom was frozen in a prepped battle stance, arm outstretched, fist clenched. Slate, arms limp at his sides, and feet nowhere near the ground, was arching unconsciously back from the force. For an instant, he had the sensation of drifting back to earth. It didn't last long.
He landed with a hard whunk on his back, moaning inwardly. Tom went back and retrieved his gun, leveling it on the assassin. "Ok, now I need back-up." He murmured to himself, grinning.