TACO Run
Chapter 36
It didn't come out of nowhere.
It felt like it did, in the same way any moment of being blindsided felt that way. But it didn't. One moment Naomasa was lingering outside of the entrance to the batting cages, waiting for Olberic to catch up to him. The next moment a tingle of not-quite-static had the hairs on the back of his neck rising, and the stoplight flickered, and something huge and dark erupted from a side-alley and would have crushed Naomasa to paste against the brickwork, if Olberic hadn't interposed himself.
He shouldn't have been able to stop it, Naomasa realized later. The attacker outmassed them by at least an order of magnitude, and had inertia in its favor, and Olberic was Quirkless. But the warrior had set and braced himself, sheathed sword between him and the enemy, and though sheer momentum had let the attacker force him back until the side of his boot hit the wall and Naomasa was pinned roughly between the bricks and Olberic's broad, blue-clad shoulders…
They weren't crushed. Naomasa was fairly sure the impact wouldn't even leave him with bruises.
Then Olberic's shoulders bunched, and he heaved, his weight briefly forcing the air from Naomasa's lungs as he forced their attacker back enough for them to escape the pin, and there was suddenly so much more to deal with.
Their attacker wasn't alone.
Naomasa didn't know how many of the little black gremlin things there were, but they were small and numerous and aggressive and already attacking civilians. No more than forty-five centimeters tall, only vaguely humanoid, with too many teeth and fingers that tapered into claw-like points, they weren't particularly strong or swift or agile, but there were dozens of them at least, and they didn't seem to have anything resembling self-preservation, if the reckless way they skittered and swarmed was any indication. People were running and screaming, and Naomasa scooped up a four-year-old who'd tripped over his unlaced sneakers and shoved him back into his mother's arms, kicking viciously at the little gremlin-thing that tried to bite his shin. Pain in his left calf made him shout, and he spun to kick that little Villain directly in its oversized mouth, panting from adrenaline.
No blood on his leg, and the cloth wasn't torn. Their teeth and claws weren't any sharper than children's safety scissors. He saw another one try to bite down on Olberic's left leg, and be thwarted by the heavy leather of his boot.
Olberic shook the creature off without even looking at it, and leveled his sheathed sword at the Villain before him, which had used the weight of its heavy tail to lever itself up onto its hind legs to loom over him. "You," he rumbled, voice hard as stone, "shall not pass." His voice rose. "Guard the civilians, Truthseeker! See them to safety. I shall fight as best I may."
"Already on it!" Naomasa was no stranger to directing panicked, fleeing civilians out of danger during a Villain attack, so as he did his best to restore order and protect the people, urging them to alert the police so he could keep his hands and voice free, a corner of his mind remained clear enough to recognize that even if heavy cloth was enough to stop the little Villains' claw and bite attacks, all it would take was for someone to be wearing shorts or a skirt, and their bare legs would be vulnerable. Or if someone fell, the softer tissue of their throat and eyes. He caught those who stumbled, guided those who were blinded by panic, and kicked any little Villains that came within reach.
Were there… more of them, now?
There were, and Naomasa caught a glimpse of one—cut into quarters by a panicked man's Quirk activating—reform into four smaller gremlin-Villains and start clawing up asphalt to devour it, their size rapidly increasing with the intake of tarry gravel until they matched their brethren again.
Electricity cracked again, rolling down the glowing lines on the Villain's flanks to leap from the end of its tail, shattering a window and making the transformer atop a power-pole explode, causing more panicked shrieks as any electrical lights in the vicinity went abruptly out.
It was daytime. Not night, when they would have been plunged into deadly darkness. But the tactic and the enemy were so familiar that Naomasa turned away from the fleeing civilians just long enough to shout. "Teruo! Unagisawa Teruo! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"
The Villain didn't react to the name, didn't even seem to hear it, just slammed an oversized hand—only three fingers and a thumb, not four, and only two beady black eyes, not a row of three down each side of its head—down on Olberic's sheathed blade, long, heavy tail lashing and flipping a nearby parked car onto its side.
No wailing about Pop Step.
Naomasa went back to directing civilians, heart hammering. Unagisawa was a repeat victim of the masterminds behind the Trigger Villain and Next-Level Villain crime waves. He was simple, gullible, and not a bad person despite the trouble he'd so often been caught up in. But no matter how he'd been twisted by drugs and words and experiments, no matter how his form had changed, one thing had always remained constant, and that was his fixation on the underground idol vigilante Pop Step. Even when reduced to barely verbal, the one word he'd always managed to get out was 'Pop'.
That's not Unagisawa.
Even with the form and Quirk being so similar, that wasn't Unagisawa, and Naomasa didn't know what that meant for his case, but it couldn't be good.
"Have at thee!" Thuds, grunts, and a wet howl of pain or annoyance or something else said that size or no, slime or no, blade sheathed or no, Olberic was at least managing to keep the Villain occupied. If they could only keep things under control long enough for someone to alert the police—the on-duty police—who could then alert a Hero, then things would turn out alright—
Naomasa's earpiece crackled. "Outta my way." A purple-tinged shadow darted past him, sprinted up a bent light-pole, and vaulted up onto the hulking Villain's shoulders. Metal glinted, and two long knives plunged hilt-deep into the Villain's eyes.
Blood gushed. The Villain howled, thrashing, and flung its attacker off. He backflipped in the air, landing in a skidding roll that ended in a ready crouch, dripping knives still gripped in bloody fingers.
Who— What—
"Therion!" Olberic's shout was jubilant. "I've missed you, my friend!"
"Good to see you, too," the white-haired knife-wielder panted, a smirk half-hidden behind a purple scarf, relief glittering in green eyes. "I haven't talked to anybody in ages."
Therion. One of Olberic's friends. The thief whose skills he'd openly admired, legal or not. "Look out!" Naomasa shouted over the fleeing crowd. The number of civilians had thinned dramatically, but there were always onlookers who lingered as soon as they thought they were out of immediate danger. "Something's wrong!" The Villain still howled, newt-like hands covering its bloody eye-sockets, but already Naomasa could see the blood creeping backwards beneath its fingers.
"Tch." Therion's smirk vanished into a scowl as the blood coating his knives rippled and lifted away, accelerating towards its owner. "Worse than the Devourer of Men."
"Indeed." Olberic's expression turned stony as he faced the Villain again, sheathed sword in hand. "Though I shall fight all the better, knowing you are at my back again."
"…hmph. Yeah. It's nice having someone I can trust." The thief slipped forward, into Olberic's shadow. "Let's get this over with."
Olberic grunted when the beast's heavy hand came down on his sword again, bracing himself so that while the creature strained to overcome him through sheer might, Therion could dart forward, swift and low, in an attempt to hamstring its exposed hind legs.
A howl, and a heavy, lashing tail, and Olberic skipped back two steps as the beast's left leg gave under its own weight, taking the chance to breathe.
"What's with your sword, anyway?" Therion darted back again, panting, blood already lifting from his daggers to return to its original place. "It's not like you to keep it in its sheath."
"Peace-bonded," Olberic got out grimly. "So that I might not draw it without the permission of the guard in this city." The Truthseeker held the key, but they hadn't the time to discuss the matter, or fumble such a small thing between them. Especially not with the smaller, swarming monsters skittering about underfoot.
"…give it here." Therion held out one of his knives, hilt-first.
Olberic didn't hesitate, trading weapons with the thief immediately. His promises to the Truthseeker were nothing, compared to the lives of innocent civilians. And the creature was powerful, but lacking in skill—he could last a few rounds against it, even armed with a weapon he did not favor.
The wound sealed over, and the beast lurched to its feet again, howling, and lunged forward.
Olberic braced himself, gripping the knife by the hilt and cupping his other hand behind the pommel, point lifted to meet the center of the monster's palm as it thrust itself at him. He grunted, half the air gusting from his lungs as he was forced back a pace.
Small claws tugged at his boots and the hem of his surcoat, trying to wrest him off-balance, and from the corner of his eye he saw Therion scramble up the bent light-pole again to escape the little monsters, at least for long enough to work on Olberic's blade unimpeded.
Belatedly, he realized that unlike himself, Therion wore no sturdy boots that would protect his feet and legs to the knee. Instead he wore simple shoes, and strips of cheap muslin wrapped around his feet and ankles in place of socks. He would be uniquely vulnerable.
Then the monster's other hand swung at him sideways, almost a slapping motion, save that when it landed against his right shoulder it had the strength to near-dislocate it, and heave him three paces sideways bodily, as he had had no chance to brace himself against it.
Therion's blade was ripped free of the creature's right palm by the force of the blow, and Olberic somehow managed to keep his feet, though it was a near thing.
Then an eminently familiar voice rose in a shout, and Olberic felt a fierce, toothy grin stretch across his face.
"Therion! Olberic, your Lordship! Hang on, ol' Alfyn's on his way!" Something small hurtled past, erupting into a noxious cloud amongst the chittering horde—to no avail, for it seemed that whatever foul beasts they were, they were immune to the apothecary's poisons.
The greater beast, however, recoiled from the cloud of injurious dust. Screeched, faint lightning sparking along its flanks ineffectually.
Ah, so it can only strike with elemental might a few times, before its strength is spent.
Thankfully, its electrical attacks had been wild, and aimed at destroying property rather than people. He could withstand such energies if necessary, but they were painful even when not debilitating.
"Over here!" Therion swung down from the bent light-pole one-handed, dropping into a crouch as he landed and slashing out with his remaining dagger at the nearest enemy. It screeched, giving him the space to rise and dart over to Olberic's side. "Take it," he said shortly, holding out the sword. "Simple lock."
"Thank you, my friend—"
"Therion!" Alfyn arrived at a dead run, and didn't even attempt to slow himself down, both arms slinging around the thief's shoulders. "Man, am I glad to see you two!" He let go again before Therion could regain the breath to object, and laughed as the thief darted away to tumble beneath the great monster's belly and slash at the tendons of its ankles. "You holding up alright, your Lordship?"
"Aye—" Olberic moved, shouldering Alfyn aside to block the blow of a slippery hand. One leg had gone out from beneath the beast, but its sheer mass lent it strength regardless, and he would not have Alfyn be struck by such a blow, even durable as the apothecary was.
For a moment, they stared at each other, beast and man. Slime dripped from webbed fingers, thick and viscous over the reinforced leather of his blade's sheath. The Truthseeker had called out a name, before. Demanded to know why he acted as he did. Was this beast a man, then, despite its monstrous form?
Olberic braced the blocking sheath with his left hand, and drew the sword itself with his right. Beast or man, this creature sought to destroy, and to harm the helpless who had not wronged it. "Standest thou against me?" he thundered, feeling strength flood through his veins. The strength of his comrades, here and absent, and all the foes they'd fought before. "Then be hunted!" A powerful blow cleaved the straining hand from its arm at the wrist, and it threw itself back, howling in rage and pain. It would mend itself soon enough, but for now they had a moment's breathing room.
Alfyn cackled, slamming the edge of his axe down through the head of one of the chittering enemies assaulting their flank. "Channeling H'aanit there, huh?"
"Aye!" Olberic agreed, blood pounding with the thrill of battle. He thrust the soiled sheath through the straps at his hip, so that he could have both hands free as they should be. "And would there be any stronger than she, with a monster such as this before her?"
"Not likely!" the apothecary agreed, his own broad grin fierce and toothy. "Trust you to find the best fight in this whole weird place, though!"
"I'm not certain that's a compliment, my friend…"
"Me neither!" Alfyn laughed, and dodged another swipe of tiny claws. "But you know what? I feel a storm comin'!" A crook of fingers, and lightning crackled, arcing over the tiny monster at his feet like the talons of a great raptor. A shriek, and its torso burst into a rank and bubbling slurry of black liquid, from which roiled a noxious black smoke. "Eugh, gross!"
Olberic would have agreed, had he the time or breath to spare for it. But the greater beast had found its footing again, and lashed out with a thick and slimy tail like that of a great salamander, and he was nearly forced back by the weight of the blow despite deflecting much of the force upwards with his blade.
A flash of white and purple and glittering steel, followed by a howl and spurting blood, said that Therion had struck a critical blow. But even as the beast staggered, the slash across its soft underbelly healed, and the thief was sent tumbling by a glancing, almost accidental blow of one foot.
Olberic set himself grimly, voice rising in a shout to incite the beast, draw its attention to him, that his companions would not be targeted. "Come, if you dare!" Worry tightened his grip on his blade's hilt, as Alfyn ran to aid Therion, before the horde of little black monsters could take advantage of his fall.
How was the Truthseeker faring against the vicious creatures?
Naomasa stomped the tiny creature clawing at his leg directly between its little curved horns. Its skull shattered beneath his heel, making his stomach lurch—but that was not brain matter, or blood, or bone shards. Whatever odd, gooey grey-black substance it was, it bubbled and rippled and started oozing back together, and he frantically shook it away and backed up two steps, looking to make sure no more civilians were in immediate danger.
There's no end to them. We need a Hero here ASAP. Olberic and his friends were holding their own against the main Villain, but none of them seemed to have crowd-control or area-denial abilities. At least, not ones they could use under these conditions. If one of the civilians managed to call 110—
Wind howled across the intersection, a typhoon of lashing gusts that sent tiny Villains tumbling, and briefly drowned out the screams of the civilians who'd lingered close enough to be caught in that wave of tiny claws. Naomasa gasped when two of the small black bodies struck him in the chest and abdomen, throwing him back against the side of the abandoned car he'd been standing near and knocking the air from his lungs. What the…?!
The winds died as abruptly as they'd come, and Naomasa sucked in a breath, thrusting himself upright and looking for the source of the tempest. There aren't any Heroes in Tokyo who control wind right now—
There. Rushing directly onto the battlefield, a leather-bound book clutched gamely in one hand and what looked like a broom handle in the other, was the handsome young man Makoto had shown him a picture of. In his wake came a swarm of little Villains, screeching hate. "Olberic!" The harried-but-delighted shout carried across the battlefield easily. "Some assistance, if you would!"
Olberic was already turning to meet him, a look of such fierce, bright joy on his face that Naomasa briefly forgot all about calling Dispatch. "Cyrus!" Three mighty strides forward, and he swung his sword low in a level slash that his friend anticipated and jumped over gracelessly, tumbling to the ground behind him as the wave of little Villains practically disintegrated under the force of the blow. "That was reckless," he said, holding back one hand for Cyrus to grab hold of, eyes darting from the slowly reconstituting horde to the bigger Villain currently being distracted by his other two friends hacking at it with axe and daggers. "The midst of a melee is not your element!"
Cyrus himself was practically laughing as Olberic hauled him to his feet, "Ah, but as always, my friend, the safest place in the world is right behind you!" A bloody scrape marred one cheek, but he barely seemed to notice. "Therion, Alfyn, well met!"
"It's about damn time," Therion grunted, spring-boarding back off of the big Villain's arm as it attempted to swat him again, and skidding to a stop not far from them. "Where in the hells is the robe I gave you?"
"It met with an unfortunate accident—"
"Guys! Not the time!" Alfyn's voice rose in pitch, as he tossed something small in the Villain's face, making it screech and thrash briefly. "Professor, those little monsters aren't gonna stay dead just because they got squished!"
"Indeed?" Cyrus dusted off the legs of his trousers—were those buckled leather knee-breeches?—and eyed the rippling puddles of not-flesh that were slowly reforming. "Then if you three would buy me some time, I will do what I can to see that they do, indeed, stay dead."
"Heh." Therion smirked faintly from behind his scarf. "Time to teach them a lesson?"
"Most definitely. Eyes and ears, gentlemen!" Cyrus strode boldly forward, shirtsleeves billowing as he let his fingers dance nimbly through the pages of his book.
Naomasa saw Alfyn backpedal hastily out of the main Villain's range as all three of Cyrus' friends covered their ears and presumably closed their eyes. He hastily followed suit, but despite the hands clamped over his ears, the earbud clearly conveyed Cyrus' next words.
"Nothing can quiet the storm! Oh thunder, ring out—Tonitrus Canere!"
Even with his eyes closed, Naomasa was almost blinded, thrown hard against the car again by sheer concussive force as what seemed like all Heaven's thunderbolts crashed down. His heart stuttered and windows shattered from the triple-crack of thunder, and Naomasa tasted ozone and burnt—hell, burnt a lot of nasty things. Daring to open his eyes, already feeling the ache of what would be bruises later, he saw that all but a very few of the miniature Villains had been fried to half-melted, half-burnt husks. It was impossible to tell what blackness was char, and what was melted asphalt, and what had been the rubbery flesh of the creatures.
Those few that had survived, though, immediately began cannibalizing their fallen comrades, clawing half-melted rubbery flesh from the ground and devouring it like starving animals.
"Aw, that's sick!" Alfyn yelped, disgusted. "What the hells!"
Movement—big movement—tore Naomasa's eyes away from the grisly sight. The main Villain had been briefly stunned by what was essentially the world's biggest flash-bang grenade, but it looked like the electricity itself hadn't so much as singed it. It shuddered, and then reared up on its hind legs again, screeching to the sky as miniature lightnings crackled over its skin.
It was the thief who put it into words, utter flat exhaustion underlining his voice.
"That is so not fair."
The Villain slammed back down again, one hand coming down where Cyrus would have been, if Olberic hadn't shoved the spellcaster aside and taken the brunt of the attack on his sword, bracing the heavy blade with the gauntleted back of his other wrist. Electricity crackled down the blade, ripping a short yell of pain from him, but as the slimy, swampy-black hand tried to close around his weapon, he gave an inarticulate roar and heaved with his whole body, cutting right through the grasping hand and causing the Villain to stumble back with a howl.
"It's a regenerator, Professor!" Alfyn said urgently, grabbing the slighter man's arm and hauling him back out of melee range. "Like the little ones, only kinda different, since it's got real blood and bones and such!"
"On the contrary, Alfyn," Cyrus replied distractedly, grey eyes watching the severed half of the Villain's hand lift off the ground and reattach itself, blood seeping back through the cut edges of the wound before they sealed themselves. "Regeneration indicates the creation of new flesh, so this creature's ability would fall more under the purview of reconstitution, or perhaps re-assemblage—"
"Aeber's eyes, Cyrus!" Therion snarled, dodging a sweep of slimy tail. "No one cares about the terminology! How do we kill it?"
"The exact terminology is important, you know, Therion—" Cyrus' reply was calm even as he backpedaled hastily away from the Villain—was he wearing heels?—and flicked through his book with the thumb of the hand holding it. A neon-green nylon bag dangled from his left elbow, weighing down the arm until he hitched it back up onto his shoulder. "—as accurate analysis of a foe's abilities is paramount to discerning how to defeat them!"
"My apologies, Cyrus," Olberic grunted, blocking another heavy blow, "but in this, I agree with Therion."
The thief snorted and slid under the Villain, whipping what looked like a store's noren around one of its back legs and its tail, tangling them up enough to prevent it bringing its full strength to bear for a moment.
"How 'bout you think the right words, Professor, and just tell us what to do?" Alfyn suggested, hefting his fire-axe. "You can give us the whole breakdown and analysis later, when we're not fightin' for our lives."
Cyrus laughed at that. "A fine plan, indeed! In that case, my friends, I would suggest focusing on keeping the beast contained and yourselves hale whilst I determine its weaknesses, whatever they might be."
Olberic gave a short nod, blocking another blow and turning it aside with a grunt. "Consider it done. Therion!"
"Come on," the thief sighed, darting around the edges of the battlefield. "I've got better things to do."
"Such as?"
"…" The thief made no reply to that, simply snatched up a length of broken pipe and tossed it in Olberic's direction. He caught it with his off hand, holding the Villain at bay with his sword in the other.
"Think it's weak to cutting edges," Alfyn said, shoving Cyrus gently over against the car next to Naomasa. "Problem is it just heals up once it's cut. And you saw that electricity doesn't do crap—might even help it heal faster."
"Yes, I did see that," Cyrus agreed, seemingly unperturbed, as Olberic used the length of broken pipe as a makeshift spear, jagged end prodding the Villain off-balance with rapid thrusts. "And it is far too massive for even the strongest wind spell to do much against it. Have you tried ice? It appears to be somewhat amphibious or possibly reptilian in aspect, so it might be exothermic. And if nothing else, the cold might stiffen or congeal that disgusting slime."
"Not yet." Alfyn's grin was all teeth. "Figured me an' Therion needed to focus on the little ones, since his Lordship's got something of a handle on the big guy."
"If you would test that, then, I shall attempt to finish off our more minor antagonists in the meantime." Cyrus nodded sharply, and raised his voice. "Therion! If you would be so kind as to lure the smallish enemies away from their larger companion, so that I might have a clear line of attack?"
"Why am I the bait?!"
"Because, my friend, I have utmost confidence in your ability to get out of anything you wish."
A white forelock fluttered in the wind as the thief juked and dodged his way across the battlefield, green eyes laser-narrow as he let the flicker of his cloak draw the tiny Villains' anger. "If you catch me in the crossfire again, Cyrus, I swear to Aeber I will rob you blind."
"Come now, Therion, it's been years since I singed your mantle!" Cyrus chuckled, absently handing Naomasa the… yes it was actually a broom handle he'd been using as a makeshift staff. "A bit further from the others, if you please—lovely! Oh flames, turn all to ash—Ignis Ardere!"
Naomasa gasped, air ripped from his lungs as fire roared, engulfing the side of the battlefield that the remaining little Villains occupied, the stink of melted tar and other awful things burning in his nostrils. If there were screams, he couldn't hear them, and when the flames died nothing was left of that area of street except bubbling slag. Even the post box was twisted from the heat, blue paint scorched away as it sagged under its own weight.
Naomasa's heart raced as he gasped for air, choking on the smoke, eyes watering as he searched for a flicker of white or purple, anything to tell him that the thief actually had managed to survive the conflagration.
A glint of silver caught his eye instead, as Therion ducked away from his left side, twirling a pair of stolen handcuffs around one finger. "I trust you won't be missing this," he drawled, and darted back into the fray, skittering around the part of the street that was basically a tar pit.
"Hm. Fire seemed effective against the little ones, but as they seemed to be made of a substance other than actual flesh, it's unlikely that they shared any weaknesses with their larger comrade," the professor mused quietly. "I shouldn't have expected it to do quite so much damage to the street, but I suppose this odd substance isn't proper cobbles." The toe of one elegant leather shoe tapped absently at the asphalt beneath his feet. "As for ice—ah."
Naomasa blinked over at the part of the fight that didn't involve Endeavor-level elemental power, to see a spike of ice the size of a human torso erupt from the ground, piercing through one of the big Villain's feet and pinning it briefly in place.
"So the cold itself does little, but the physical damage is quite effective," Cyrus observed clinically. "Not permanent, unfortunately, but it does seem to be having difficulty restoring itself with the ice still in the wound… Oh, I see."
"See what?" Naomasa managed to croak out, throat raw and feeling ash-caked.
Cyrus didn't even seem to hear him, attention fully focused on the battlefield before him. "If it simply regains lost flesh, rather than regenerating, then flesh which is actually destroyed rather than parted from its body cannot, in fact, be returned to its proper place. Ice is more of a preservative than a truly destructive force in the short term, and if its hide is impervious to the heat caused by a lightning strike, then it's likely resistant to fire as well, at least to some degree… very well!" He straightened, flicking through his leather-bound book again. "Clear the field, my friends!"
First wind, then lightning, then fire, Naomasa thought dazedly, clinging to the car to remain upright as the other men backed rapidly away from the Villain, who was busy still wrenching its foot free of Alfyn's icicle. He's basically mobile artillery! What next?
The answer wasn't long in coming.
"Oh light, be heaped upon my foes—Lux Congerere!" Light—not lasers, but actual pillars of light—slammed down on the Villain like the fists of an angry god, searing grey-black flesh where it struck.
But only searing.
The angry scorch-marks remained visible against its flesh, not healing, but obviously not particularly debilitating either. The slime oozing from the Villain's pores had hardened near the edges of each sear, and cracked and flaked away as it thrashed with rage, leaving its skin temporarily dry before slime began seeping out again.
"Hm, so the beast isn't weak to light either?" the professor mused, seeming mildly annoyed at most. "Its hide and slime seem to be acting as protection, perhaps being resistant to most elemental energies… ah, but what's this?" He leaned towards Naomasa as though requiring an audience or sounding-board for his observations. "Do you see how it limps, favoring its left hind foot? That wound had not yet healed from being pierced by Alfyn's Icicle when my spell struck, and seems to have taken more damage than the rest of its body, despite being somewhat shielded by the bulk above."
Naomasa tried to reply, but started coughing and hacking instead.
That got the professor's undivided attention, dark brows snapping together with concern. "Oh dear. Alfyn!"
"Kinda busy, Professor!" the blond gritted out, blocking a blow from the Villain's tail with the haft of his axe, and being shoved back three stumbling steps in the process.
"I can see that, but your medical expertise is called for!"
Whatever Alfyn's reply might have been, Naomasa didn't hear it, because he was coughing so earnestly that he could barely breathe and his vision had gone splotchy-dark, his eyes feeling like they were trying to push out of his head from the pressure.
He almost thought he had the coughing fit under control when a warm, strong hand rested against his upper back, startling him into gasping and starting to cough anew. Vague muttering, including what was probably a few curse words, penetrated his brain, and then a glass bottle was pressed to his lips. Thinking it was water, Naomasa gulped it down, and nearly choked on the flavor of—was that honey and garlic?—that assaulted his senses. He coughed so hard he almost retched, and some kind of slimy wad hacked up out of his lungs into his mouth, which he spit out on the ground nearby. Another mouthful of disgusting slime later, and he could breathe freely again, though his throat was still a little raw.
"That'll do 'er," Alfyn's voice said approvingly, seeming relieved. "C'mon, buddy, drink this next; it'll soothe that roughness away." Another glass vial touched Naomasa's lips, and he instinctively recoiled from the prospect of more whatever that was. The hand on his back moved to catch his jaw in a gentle grip, though, and Alfyn tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth before he could verbally protest.
This time, the liquid was cool and sweet and strong, like grape juice concentrate thinned with amazake instead of water, and it soothed his rough throat just as promised.
He was gasping out a thank-you, just starting to straighten up, when the sky went dark.
"Oh darkness, conceal all before me—Tenebrae Operire!"
Naomasa watched, gaping, as a purple-black tornado of darkness erupted from the ground at the Villain's feet, spiraling up into the sky to briefly blot out the sun.
Oh my god. Forget mobile artillery, he was a walking tactical nuke!
"Not bad, Professor!" chuckled the blond currently supporting Naomasa on his left side. "Don't think it did much, though."
"I didn't expect it would," Cyrus said grimly. "However, as you can see, the damage done to its left hind foot has yet to heal, and in fact grows worse with every elemental attack which touches it, unlike the rest of its body. I would posit, therefore, that while its hide is extremely resistant to elemental damage, its internal organs, bones, and flesh are not. It also seems to possess little more than bestial intelligence—" He glanced aside at Naomasa, brows still drawn together in concern.
"I'm fine," Naomasa stated, straightening up, and it wasn't a lie. The civilians were all out of the way now, and with as loud and flashy as Cyrus' magic was, a Hero would be here within minutes anyway. "I assume you have a plan?"
Language barrier or no, apparently Cyrus could tell he wasn't going anywhere immediately, because he frowned and pulled a—that was an actual phone where had he gotten one— out of some kind of embroidered leather pouch at his hip, tapping swiftly at its screen with one elegant finger as Alfyn gave him a puzzled and interested look.
"Where'd you get one of those things, Professor?"
"From a shop, of course—ah." He spoke rapidly—Makoto had said it was Latin—and then held the phone out towards Naomasa.
'A pleasure to meet you, sir. From your manner of comporting yourself, I would deduce that you are an authority of some kind. While your presence is appreciated, the battlefield may be getting a bit dangerous for one who is unarmed with either weapons or magic, so I would suggest that you remove yourself until the battle is done. Unless you have one of those amazing 'individuality' abilities which might be of some assistance?'
Naomasa blinked down at the words, and then looked back up at Cyrus firmly. "I don't have a combat-capable Quirk, no. But someone with authority has to be a witness to what happens here, and I'm it. As long as you keep from roasting me, I think I'll be fine standing back here with you."
Cyrus read that, and then nodded sharply. "A man of admirable courage!" he said. "Very well. Alfyn, I will require your expertise in slowing our foe's movements for a time. If you would leave me one of your stamina-replenishing concoctions, and trade off with Therion so that I might explain the plan to him safely, I would be most appreciative."
"Got it, Professor." Alfyn dug another glass vial out of his leather satchel, this one filled with an opaque garnet-colored liquid, and then hefted his fire-axe up again. "Time to roll up our sleeves!" he grinned, and charged back into the fray.
"Such enthusiasm!" Cyrus chuckled, and then popped the lid on the vial to slug back the drink. "Ah—inspiriting as always. And I do believe the flavor has improved!" With renewed vigor, he turned back to the fight scene, where Olberic was grimly holding the line by dint of hewing the Villain's limbs from its body repeatedly. Therion had somehow managed to use Naomasa's cuffs to shackle its hands together by the thumbs despite the slippery slime coating its skin, limiting its ability to attack sharply, but as soon as Alfyn returned and shouted something up to him, he skidded his way down the Villain's shoulder to the ground and darted in Cyrus' direction.
"This shit better come out," he grumbled as he approached, and then peered up at Cyrus sharply. "You got a plan?" Slime coated his clothes and shoes, tar and ash liberally speckling his hair, hands, and shoulders.
"I do, and it requires your skills above all, my friend…" Quickly, Cyrus outlined his plan, and Naomasa found himself staring at the sheer audacity and grisly nature of the idea.
Therion just grunted tired agreement, though. "Olberic's been going at it since before I got here," he said quietly. "Give me and Alfyn a minute to spell him, let him catch his breath while you set up." He chewed his lip briefly, the first bit of nervousness Naomasa had seen on his face. "You think Alephan will answer you?"
Cyrus just smiled confidently. "I am no cleric, Therion, but the Scholarking has never failed me when I needed him. For like fair Primrose, my faith is my shield."
"That's not what I… never mind." Therion sighed. "Wait for my signal, alright?" Grimly, he tugged his scarf up to his nose. "I'll make this quick."
"I have the utmost confidence in you, my friend!" Cyrus called, as Therion darted off again. Closing his book firmly, he took a deep, deliberate breath, and spoke in the tone of reverent wonder and conviction Naomasa had heard from monks at temple. "Oh Alephan, Lord of Learning, enlighten me, I pray."
And for a moment, something flickered around him, something ethereal and larger than life. A brief, brief image of a tallish, dark-skinned man in flowing, gold-edged black robes and headscarf of vaguely middle-eastern design, a staff of twisted desert wood in one hand and a papyrus scroll in the other. Naomasa couldn't see his face, hidden as it was behind a half-mask of darkened glass, but the figure dipped his ox-horned crown in an acknowledging gesture, mouth curved in the faintest of smiles before he vanished.
Cyrus opened his eyes again, dark grey burning nearly silver with the light of conviction. "Now," he said confidently, "the true lesson begins! Therion?"
"I'm ready," the thief called back, a rasping snarl in his voice as he dropped into a sprinter's crouch, daggers gripped in each hand. "Are you?!"
"Hells yeah!" Alfyn cackled, heaving aside a clumsy, two-handed blow from shackled hands with the handle of his fire-axe, and pitching something small into the Villain's mouth that puffed into greenish powder, making it choke. "Here's your poison!" he quipped, and threw himself back out of the way as Cyrus lifted a hand, book fluttering open in a sudden, chilling breeze.
"Oh ice, close over my enemy—Glacies Claudere!" Spears of ice two stories high erupted from the ground, piercing through the Villain in several places and enveloping it in a ten-centimeter-thick layer of glittering, perfectly clear ice.
Then Olberic stepped forward again.
"My blade," the warrior rumbled, seeming to have caught a second wind, "is UNBENDING!" He lifted his sword two-handed in preparation for a mighty strike—
Once again, something flickered, an image hovering behind him like a hologram. Naomasa got a vague impression of a man at least twice Olberic's height, maybe more, and built even more broadly, dressed in a faded, blood-stained blue tunic under battered, heavy Western-style armor, face concealed by a visor of heavy steel with vertical slits to see through. He had a spear slung across his back, a sword sheathed at his left hip, and one enormous hand reached down to briefly touch Olberic's shoulders.
—and Olberic brought his blade down with a roar. "I wreak havoc upon thee!"
The Villain split in half from head to tail, a thunderous shockwave radiating outwards and throwing the two halves of the body in opposite directions, shattering the encasing ice in the process. Not very far, barely a meter, but enough that blood and viscera splattered the ground and splashed both Olberic and Alfyn with gore.
And even as the two halves parted, a dirty streak of purple and white shot forward, faster than should have been possible for any human without a speed-enhancing Quirk. As the two halves of the body struck the ground, Naomasa could see a blood-soaked Therion skidding to a stop in a slick of blood, slime, and evaporating ice shards, a pulsating mass of muscle clutched in his hands. A faint, faint flicker of dark purple and black swirled around him, a glimpse of a silver filigreed half-mask over a toothy smirk that would put Eraserhead to shame, there and gone again so quick that Naomasa would almost swear he'd imagined it.
Naomasa nearly retched, watching as the thief grabbed the discarded length of broken pipe he'd tossed Olberic earlier, and used it to pin the Villain's still-beating heart to the ground. He then threw himself out of the way, snarling something Naomasa couldn't make out from this distance.
"My focus," Cyrus intoned grimly, fierce triumph burning in his eyes, "is unparalleled! Oh flames, turn all to ash—Ignis Ardere!" This time, the conflagration was so intense it burned almost white, and instead of melting the entire street, concentrated itself on the Villain's disembodied heart.
When at last the flames died, all that remained was a hole, even the length of iron pipe having evaporated from the heat. For a brief, tense moment none of them moved, waiting to see if the plan had succeeded, or if some horrendous twist of biology allowed the Villain to survive even without its heart.
But no. Although the remaining flesh quivered a few times with post-mortem muscle-twitches, it soon stilled. In the relative quiet that followed, both Therion and Alfyn sat down abruptly, plainly exhausted beyond the ability to stand. Olberic's shoulders were heaving with exertion, and he planted the blunted end of his sword against the cracked and broken ground, both hands atop its hilt as he forced himself to straighten deliberately.
Cyrus shuddered briefly next to Naomasa, a subtle thing that barely made his skin quiver, and then began determinedly picking his way through the rubble and gore towards his friends.
Naomasa swallowed back bile, the lingering sweetness from Alfyn's concoction turning sour on his tongue. Fumbling his phone from his pocket, he was amazed to see that despite a badly cracked screen and case, it was still functional. He shakily swiped it open and hit the speed-dial for Chief Tsuragamae. Someone else would have already alerted Dispatch—he needed to focus on damage control.
A/N: The big Villain/Monster really isn't Unagisawa Teruo, but a proto-Nomu made from his DNA, the precursor to the one who uses EMP to block phone calls in the Sky Tree arc. It has energy-resistant skin, is immune to electricity specifically, and has a 'reconstitution' Quirk that lets it essentially undo any physical damage that doesn't involve a state-change of the damaged tissue. The smaller Villains have true regeneration, combined with 'mitosis', the ability to divide themselves into smaller forms, each of which has the same regeneration ability as the original, and which can rapidly regain their 'original size' by consuming petroleum-based products such as asphalt or gasoline. They vaguely resemble a mix between the generic Heartless from Kingdom Hearts and the Miniblins from Legend of Zelda: Windwaker.
A/N: 110 is the Japanese equivalent of the American 911—the emergency police contact number.
A/N: Amazake is a sweet, low-alcohol-content fermented rice drink.
A/N: In this story, each Octopath Traveler character can only have one secondary job, period, as it requires them to get the blessing of that particular deity—and rotating jobs at will like in the games makes no sense. However, they can get some of the passive skills of other jobs, by associating with the primary characters who have them. For example, learning Surpassing Power by spending a lot of time around Olberic, as that's a warrior-specific passive skill. So in this story Olberic, Cyrus, and Therion all have Surpassing Power as a secondary skill. Normally, max damage from an attack is 9,999. With Surpassing Power, it's 99,999.