Sol's world blacked out. Seconds before, he had struck down Ky Kiske in a fiery rage, leaving him face down with his pale blue eyes wide and blank; and that, by the rules of the competition, should have been the end. Where were the ending credits? The reward? He straightened up, the sound of his shoes on the stone echoing emptily.
"Did I save the world?" he managed. His tone was cynical, sarcastic, but there was genuine worry behind it. Then Sol's world lit back up, but in shockingly different hues than ever before.
As his heart hurled itself against the entrapment of his ribcage over and over in shock, a tall black silhouette straightened itself to nearly its full height, somewhere to his left, a few yards away.
The fog which had been hanging low to the ground, was swept up in a violent wind.
Behind a veil of long black hair, a startlingly red eye opened; and a vicious smile split the white face from ear to ear.
"Sol.. . ." the voice . . . voices. . . one high and one low . . . were overlapped in a mockery of human existence; and, as he brushed the hair from his eyes, his inner workings whirred in a travesty of human motion. He inclined his head toward the bewildered champion. "There is . . ." he hefted his scythe over one shoulder, shifting his weight, "one more sacrifice to be made."
Sol's chest heaved, and he readied himself for the last encounter. "The rules . . . you asshole. This wasn't in the rules." He straightened, pushing back the headband which had slipped below his line of vision slightly.
"Rules." Testament spat, the illogical winds whipping his skirt about his pale legs. He laughed, more a two-octave sound of scorn and amusement than anything else.
"The rules said . . . I deafeat everyone in this tournament . . . including that holy knight Ky, and I get my deepest desire." Sol tested the weight of his sword, not without meaning.
Eying him carefully, the towering androgyne offered, "You killed him, didn't you? You're the best, aren't you? Isn't that deep enough for you, prototype?" His eyes narrowed, but the smile broadened.
" . . . ." Sol digested this for a moment, thoughts visibly flickering through his mind. After a moment he shot out, "Then why bring me here?" He seemed on alert. This contest was suspicious.
"Because. ." Testament crooned, tilting his head with the pitch, "you were needed. You were all needed." He nodded slightly with mock respect.
"For what?" Sol smiled painfully now. He understood. This was no contest, but a trap, a fix ---- a mass murder and a deception, of which he had been an unknowing tool.
"Thank you." Testament backed away from the blow just in time to deflect it with the handle of his scythe. "You defeated them to complete the tournament, and their discarded life was tapped for good use. Infact, your very energy was tapped, and here I am, strong as ever, ready," he cast his scythe forward, grazing Sol's side with the blade, "to fight."
On the surrounding columns, the torches suddenly flared into life, playing horrific tricks with the contours of the Gear's face. Sol did not wait for more ominous imagery, but instead leapt at the androgyne as soon as the first torch cast its light.
"Gyeahhh--!" he bared his teeth, jamming his sword between the joints in his opponent's left shoulder. Rewarded with a squelching cry and a spray of vivid blood, he struck again, and again, and again. Soon, he noticed that the sounds were not those of pain, but more tinny, semi-human laughter. Testament held the blade of Sol's sword stationary in one hand, blood running in streamlets from between his fingers.
"Huh--?" Sol had time to be surprised before the scythe swept him up from behind, lifting him into the air. He was hurled at an impossible angle before crashing to the ground, vision tinted red and the bottom half of his torso burning with the poisons from the blade.
And Testament pushed against him, heavier than he should've been for his insides were steel. The hands were cold. Sol's wavering vision caught a flash of a smile, and then the lips were pressed to his ear, whispering excitedly, "There is another reason why I wanted to end this tournament myself..."
Sol groaned. He did not have the capacity at the moment to catch the not-so-subtle offering. "You're dying." Testament hissed at him, then erupted into unnerving laughter.
Sol tried to steady himself. But-------- there was a hand; and it was clamped hard on an organ that should not have responded but somehow did. (Maybe the poison . . . an unnatural reaction . . .. somehow triggered . . .) His thoughts broke up as the cold white hand pulled at him hard. "Nngh..." he managed, eyes closing tight.
Seeing the horrible beauty of this situation, the pale machine bent himself double, touching his tongue to the tip of Sol's accidental revelation. The effect was instantaneous; he arched upwards and Testament caught his shaft in his mouth.
The hallucinating hero thrust into his enemy's mouth again and again, a curtain of black hair framing the pretty picture and tickling at his thighs. Testament couldn't help but laugh, and the convulsive movements of his throat caused the hero to writhe and bite his lower lip. Better, Testament thought, to let him have a little of his strength back, so that this alone doesn't kill him. And so he did.
God, Sol thought, as conscious awareness crept back upon him. Feeling was returning to his limbs and---- someone was. . doing something very nice to him. He arched against them, taking a handful of their hair and forcing their mouth down on him hard.
"Jesus Christ, your lips are cold," he murmured, forcing himself down their throat. He was swiftly recovering, apparently being fed his strength from this outside source. And then he opened his eyes.
One side of Testament's face was completely sheared off in the moment of rage that followed, his eyes wide with extreme surprise as Sol shot straight up onto his feet, roaring, sword in hand.
"You. . . goddamned ... queer!!!" he screamed through his teeth, forcing his sword into the androgyne's stomach up to the hilt, again and again and again. Something short-circuited, and if Sol had been touching the blade, he certainly would have been electrocuted. White sparks showered out, backlighting a fan of blood so dark that it was almost black.
He bore down upon him until they both sank to their knees, Testament's arms outstretched feebly as if to grasp his enemy for support. Eventually, Sol tired of this, and stood, backing away as the Gear slumped down against himself.
"There." Sol choked out, panting hard. "You're down. You're fucking out. Recover, I dare you." He was wearing more of a grimace than a smile of triumph.
"As I said . . ." the Gear whimpered, clutching his emerging insides and then looking up at Sol with his ruined face, "There was supposed to be one more sacrifice." Miraculously, he smiled. "That sacrifice is me." Eyes wild and blood trickling from his mouth, he strained to keep consciousness.
"But . . ." Sol was bewildered.
"Justice." Testament savored his last word, tasting it on his white lips, before pitching forward on his face.
And the world went black.
. . . except for a small fleck of white against the nothingness. A fleck of white that grew and became a glare. It was the glare of metal, and the metal of the towering specimen that was the God of the Gears reflected painful light into Sol's eyes. The sacrifices . . . Testament had stored all this energy not for himself, as Sol had first imagined, but for Justice. And Sol had once again delivered power into the hands of his enemies.
Justice stood unmoving.
Sol was in no condition for yet another fight. And besides, he wasn't a good guy. Saving the world was not a priority on his agenda. He hadn't even gotten his wish after winning. He'd been violated, tricked, and now . . . this.
Violently, he threw down his sword with a clatter of metal on stone. He spat.
"Take me, you hulking fuck." And only then did he smile.
Startled into action by the movement, and possessing no remorse, Justice immediately sucked all light and energy from his surroundings with a charge that nearly drew Sol toward him. In a split second, Sol was engulfed in a blinding, searing, endless light-------- a massive beam of sheer eruptive power.
Heavy desu, Sol thought, and his world went white.
~fin~
"Did I save the world?" he managed. His tone was cynical, sarcastic, but there was genuine worry behind it. Then Sol's world lit back up, but in shockingly different hues than ever before.
As his heart hurled itself against the entrapment of his ribcage over and over in shock, a tall black silhouette straightened itself to nearly its full height, somewhere to his left, a few yards away.
The fog which had been hanging low to the ground, was swept up in a violent wind.
Behind a veil of long black hair, a startlingly red eye opened; and a vicious smile split the white face from ear to ear.
"Sol.. . ." the voice . . . voices. . . one high and one low . . . were overlapped in a mockery of human existence; and, as he brushed the hair from his eyes, his inner workings whirred in a travesty of human motion. He inclined his head toward the bewildered champion. "There is . . ." he hefted his scythe over one shoulder, shifting his weight, "one more sacrifice to be made."
Sol's chest heaved, and he readied himself for the last encounter. "The rules . . . you asshole. This wasn't in the rules." He straightened, pushing back the headband which had slipped below his line of vision slightly.
"Rules." Testament spat, the illogical winds whipping his skirt about his pale legs. He laughed, more a two-octave sound of scorn and amusement than anything else.
"The rules said . . . I deafeat everyone in this tournament . . . including that holy knight Ky, and I get my deepest desire." Sol tested the weight of his sword, not without meaning.
Eying him carefully, the towering androgyne offered, "You killed him, didn't you? You're the best, aren't you? Isn't that deep enough for you, prototype?" His eyes narrowed, but the smile broadened.
" . . . ." Sol digested this for a moment, thoughts visibly flickering through his mind. After a moment he shot out, "Then why bring me here?" He seemed on alert. This contest was suspicious.
"Because. ." Testament crooned, tilting his head with the pitch, "you were needed. You were all needed." He nodded slightly with mock respect.
"For what?" Sol smiled painfully now. He understood. This was no contest, but a trap, a fix ---- a mass murder and a deception, of which he had been an unknowing tool.
"Thank you." Testament backed away from the blow just in time to deflect it with the handle of his scythe. "You defeated them to complete the tournament, and their discarded life was tapped for good use. Infact, your very energy was tapped, and here I am, strong as ever, ready," he cast his scythe forward, grazing Sol's side with the blade, "to fight."
On the surrounding columns, the torches suddenly flared into life, playing horrific tricks with the contours of the Gear's face. Sol did not wait for more ominous imagery, but instead leapt at the androgyne as soon as the first torch cast its light.
"Gyeahhh--!" he bared his teeth, jamming his sword between the joints in his opponent's left shoulder. Rewarded with a squelching cry and a spray of vivid blood, he struck again, and again, and again. Soon, he noticed that the sounds were not those of pain, but more tinny, semi-human laughter. Testament held the blade of Sol's sword stationary in one hand, blood running in streamlets from between his fingers.
"Huh--?" Sol had time to be surprised before the scythe swept him up from behind, lifting him into the air. He was hurled at an impossible angle before crashing to the ground, vision tinted red and the bottom half of his torso burning with the poisons from the blade.
And Testament pushed against him, heavier than he should've been for his insides were steel. The hands were cold. Sol's wavering vision caught a flash of a smile, and then the lips were pressed to his ear, whispering excitedly, "There is another reason why I wanted to end this tournament myself..."
Sol groaned. He did not have the capacity at the moment to catch the not-so-subtle offering. "You're dying." Testament hissed at him, then erupted into unnerving laughter.
Sol tried to steady himself. But-------- there was a hand; and it was clamped hard on an organ that should not have responded but somehow did. (Maybe the poison . . . an unnatural reaction . . .. somehow triggered . . .) His thoughts broke up as the cold white hand pulled at him hard. "Nngh..." he managed, eyes closing tight.
Seeing the horrible beauty of this situation, the pale machine bent himself double, touching his tongue to the tip of Sol's accidental revelation. The effect was instantaneous; he arched upwards and Testament caught his shaft in his mouth.
The hallucinating hero thrust into his enemy's mouth again and again, a curtain of black hair framing the pretty picture and tickling at his thighs. Testament couldn't help but laugh, and the convulsive movements of his throat caused the hero to writhe and bite his lower lip. Better, Testament thought, to let him have a little of his strength back, so that this alone doesn't kill him. And so he did.
God, Sol thought, as conscious awareness crept back upon him. Feeling was returning to his limbs and---- someone was. . doing something very nice to him. He arched against them, taking a handful of their hair and forcing their mouth down on him hard.
"Jesus Christ, your lips are cold," he murmured, forcing himself down their throat. He was swiftly recovering, apparently being fed his strength from this outside source. And then he opened his eyes.
One side of Testament's face was completely sheared off in the moment of rage that followed, his eyes wide with extreme surprise as Sol shot straight up onto his feet, roaring, sword in hand.
"You. . . goddamned ... queer!!!" he screamed through his teeth, forcing his sword into the androgyne's stomach up to the hilt, again and again and again. Something short-circuited, and if Sol had been touching the blade, he certainly would have been electrocuted. White sparks showered out, backlighting a fan of blood so dark that it was almost black.
He bore down upon him until they both sank to their knees, Testament's arms outstretched feebly as if to grasp his enemy for support. Eventually, Sol tired of this, and stood, backing away as the Gear slumped down against himself.
"There." Sol choked out, panting hard. "You're down. You're fucking out. Recover, I dare you." He was wearing more of a grimace than a smile of triumph.
"As I said . . ." the Gear whimpered, clutching his emerging insides and then looking up at Sol with his ruined face, "There was supposed to be one more sacrifice." Miraculously, he smiled. "That sacrifice is me." Eyes wild and blood trickling from his mouth, he strained to keep consciousness.
"But . . ." Sol was bewildered.
"Justice." Testament savored his last word, tasting it on his white lips, before pitching forward on his face.
And the world went black.
. . . except for a small fleck of white against the nothingness. A fleck of white that grew and became a glare. It was the glare of metal, and the metal of the towering specimen that was the God of the Gears reflected painful light into Sol's eyes. The sacrifices . . . Testament had stored all this energy not for himself, as Sol had first imagined, but for Justice. And Sol had once again delivered power into the hands of his enemies.
Justice stood unmoving.
Sol was in no condition for yet another fight. And besides, he wasn't a good guy. Saving the world was not a priority on his agenda. He hadn't even gotten his wish after winning. He'd been violated, tricked, and now . . . this.
Violently, he threw down his sword with a clatter of metal on stone. He spat.
"Take me, you hulking fuck." And only then did he smile.
Startled into action by the movement, and possessing no remorse, Justice immediately sucked all light and energy from his surroundings with a charge that nearly drew Sol toward him. In a split second, Sol was engulfed in a blinding, searing, endless light-------- a massive beam of sheer eruptive power.
Heavy desu, Sol thought, and his world went white.
~fin~