The memories recuperated, a storm of fallen stars coming back at their owner, their sky and getting their revenge, shuffling themselves in a stuffing that overwhelmed, exceeded in exaggeration far beyond concern, beyond requirement. It had begun with a single tear of sky, a speck of memory, and that memory wound to another memory, and that one led to another, then another, until the many recollections strung and wound themselves into a resistant reminiscence. Walter strained, extreme mental pain eating at him, chewing at his emotions, his soul ever since his encounter with White Cloak. He cried out like the cease of night to morning, despaired wails tight with certain wrenching of voice, demise of heart and spirit he wished would end. But it never did.
"Walter!" Teresa declared his name to snap him from his agony. It was no use; he continued to clutch his eye as if he had been stabbed there, wincing horridly as if hiding his eyes from danger, hiding his vision so he wouldn't see, touch, feel the pain anymore for it stung too much, it hurt too much. Teresa locked herself in a worry, trying to support him, looking at unease as if she did not know how, or where to start. She just stood over him, watching him in his pain as he lost his readied stance. White Cloak watched, somewhat amused. Eric did the same as Teresa, watching for an opportunity to help. Something's wrong… Teresa noticed. Walter continued to stammer, too deep in pain to speak, to move normally.
"Walter, are you…" Eric let his voice trail off. It seemed as if Eric's voice brought Walter somewhat back, back up on his well-rooted feet. Walter stared up, up at White Cloak accusingly, painfully as he shuddered his left eye open, the other half of his face engulfed in a defensive hand. His now only eye seemed to break beneath bounds, quivering unsightly, uncontrollably, as if a twitch of abnormality, a habit of hermit. White Cloak smiled unevenly, darkly and secretively beneath his shadowy mask of hood and white. How Walter began to despise that white, that poor excuse for norm, for purity; they were all lies, lies! Then, he winced again, bent in pain. That shuddering closed eyelid let out nothing but a single tear, a tear of strain, of difficulty, as if showing that the insides of him had given up; they now allowed everything that went against him intervene and dominate him, call him their own. His ground teeth chattered with no noise, no cold. "Walter…" Eric spoke his name with concern. He watched his teammate's tear slide slowly down his cheek and seemed to stay there, solitary, alone, just like Walter had been, just like Walter had willfully proposed himself to be, according to him.
"Eric…" Walter spoke through clenched teeth, a strained voice. He seeped a deep, sharp breath inside It was jarring to hear, fragile to ears. It was obvious all ready that he was in deep pain, agony of mental sort. Eric and Teresa just wondered what, but even so, the boy's name who he had called out to leaned in closer, as if he readied himself to help the other. "I…" Walter began, his words unclear, cracking like unstable lightning from his non thundering voice. "I… you can't help me with my problems… you can't; I'm sorry, but you just can't," he stammered out uncontrollably, skin and outline twitching everywhere, teeth and voice shuddering, face distorting in unease and pain. Eric stared, surprised, a shock that would later become defiance, disbelief.
"Walter…" the red clothed Minor said sympathetically. His face became a wanted empathy. He just stood there, no longer looking ready to help the Minor by him, so he stared, stared sadly.
Before them, White Cloak began to drag attention. Looks like the images are finally getting to him, the raspy-voiced being thought. "Walter…" White Cloak rasped to him beckoningly, creepily, as if calling out to him in a sign of false help that seemed blatant and typical to the Minors surrounding Walter, as if protectively, parent-likely. Teresa and Eric turned to White Cloak, staring meanly, crossly, unforgivingly as if they knew what he had done to their teammate. "You did not believe me when I said that being with the Minors will gain you nothing. You did not believe me when I told you that you were weak," White Cloak began in a scrape, his voice grated unevenly, crookedly. "That's why… I will prove to you now how strong I am."
"Not a chance!" Teresa snapped angrily in a growl. White Cloak did not seem to falter. "Not with us working as a team, you can't," she said, scowling.
"Oh, really?" White Cloak begged to differ. He shifted ever so slightly, so evilly effervescently, that it seemed to make Teresa nervous, worried. "You've changed quite a bit," he referred to Teresa. Teresa made a sneer, as if to say that White Cloak had not even known her at all from the beginning. "I can tell that your confidence is fresh, new," White Cloak admitted, staring deeply into the girl's eyes. The Minor soon felt invaded, revealed to the world; there was nothing left of her now. "It's almost like a flower of dawned spring, that hasn't even blossomed yet…" he said with a raspy, quiet passion. "However," his voice turned stern. "All flowers wither away one time or another."
Teresa stared, blanked out for just seconds only. "No!" Eric jumped in. "Not if you believe it doesn't!" Teresa snapped out of her daze, stared at Eric and his angry scowl of confidence, determination. His flower had never withered away, she realized. It had been there in cold, hot, heaven and hell. It never ceased to amaze her. White Cloak seemed a bit dazzled too, at how he was so quickly interrupted by Eric's charging voice. It took lots of guts to stand up to this secretive enemy.
"A quite strong group of children, aren't you?" White Cloak croaked. "Well, then. Let's see how well you do on the battlefield," he proposed. Walter seemed to strain, trying to say something, but couldn't just yet. His voice was still lost, his tongue was still misplaced.
"Go," Teresa called to Eric, dragging his attention from the Minor who was still in pain. "I got your back," she assured in a cross, friendly motion. She nodded to him; he nodded back. Their eyes seemed to twinkle at each other, filling them with sureness, certainty. Walter whispered something, something under his breath. His voice was bare; no one could hear him.
"Go!" White Cloak declared in his chafed language of tongue, leaning forward just barely as he dispersed into nothing but an invisible blur. He was faster than Zack. His presence disappeared and slipped out of sight in an instant. Eric caught the movement in the corner of his eye, crying out as he, too, blurred into his own agility. Teresa kept to her promise, holding her hands out and crossing her eyes deeply, strongly. She gave a low scowl; her hands began to glow eerily with their purple light of night. The slight hum of her energy told watchers that she meant business.
The two dashes met each other at a point, clashing each other with different attacks. Eric, getting the first chance began to strike flaming fist after flaming fist. They all missed, dodged easily, skillfully by White Cloak. Then, it was a flaming kick of spin, also dodged. When she saw her chance, Teresa smacked the ground beneath her feet with a luminous hand, rising the ground with uplift and erupting the earth, slowly; she could not do it as well as Mark. The two fighters jumped away, for the ground had separated them. "That Eric guy…" Walter's voice suddenly began to rasp just as eagerly, crookedly as White Cloak. Teresa seemed surprised to hear his voice so well for the time that had passed. Meanwhile, Eric fell back to the ground, not knowing, or hearing their conversation, all eyes on White Cloak, all alarm focused on that one man.
Teresa jerked her head, eyes wide with shock. She peered to Walter's bent position towards the floor; he had continued clutching his eyes, for his pain did not falter a bit. He still strained, his voice and face was still distorted in despair, despair of the night, of the past sunset that he thought he had reached, but turned out that he had only stared that wishfully, and had not actually got up to it, and felt it. Everything was falling apart for him, just because of one realization that led to another and another. Eric continued fighting beyond their eyes. Walter continued to speak, straining his syllables, stressing them at the wrong time. "He really helped you…?"
"No, not just that," Teresa admitted. She stared off to the guy, who was fighting despite his weakened condition from his encounter with Hibiyomi. There were many flaws with his fighting style at the moment; White Cloak just seemed to be going easy on him. "He saved me; he saved my life, in an emotional way. Maybe he could save yours, too," Teresa suggested. She stared with nothing but awe at him as he continued to fight. He had lots of heart. "You should give him a chance," Teresa said a bit too scornfully.
The images in Walter's mind cued themselves once again, flashing in noir, speeding in the ultimate slideshow of pain, blood, hate, murder, suicide. The random faces of people he didn't know and the pain they went through and expressed with their distortion of faces – he felt it, he felt it all. He experienced it all, the sadness, the pain, the hurt, and the tears that he wanted to shed. It was all too much; and he hadn't even gone through the things that he saw, that he took from image.
He made complete effort not to stumble mentally. "No," Walter denied Eric's abilities. "Nothing can help me," he told himself, as well as Teresa. "Not now, anyways." He continued to strain himself over the floor, just inches from the cool surface of dying night and rising morning, the surface of interface which he had all ready been netted in perfectly due to the hands of time, the old, ancient, immortal fingers that sewed the web of numbers and minutes and seconds and days and events – it was the most important thing to us. But now, it seemed so confusing, so wrong. Everything seemed wrong. The world seemed wrong, through Walter's eyes. It was a change of perspective that caused him to think that, from the images. They were beginning to make sense, too.
"You shouldn't be so sure," Teresa scorned. Teresa continued to watch Eric.
He fought, powerfully, meaningfully. He dodged few attacks, for White Cloak made few attempts. "You're as weak as Walter," the foe rasped in a crooked voice. "However, there's something about you," he continued to croak. Eric charged a flaming fist. White Cloak caught the punch at its wrist; the flames sizzled out and began to smoke with white frothiness. "And I don't like it," he hissed sternly. He reeled in a punch. He charged; Eric could not escape. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Walter forced himself between the two, and charged a fist into White Cloak's body without him noticing. It had happened to fast, and his eyes still showed signs of mental despair he hadn't completely finished going through. However, it had recovered somewhat. The fist against White Cloaks body began to fizz, hiss with water, until the liquid burst and sent him soaring and crashing to the next tree.
"Why should you be the one to only get at him?" he turned to Eric crossly and coughed meagerly, falling to his knees. It hurt to breathe; it hurt to speak. It hurt even to move, but his condition was slowly getting better, and he didn't know why. All he knew was that he was feeling better, getting better. That was the only thing that mattered now. Eric quickly tended to his need. Walter brushed him off. Eric would not stop trying. And so this cycle would continue for the rest of their Minored lives.
"Are you defying the truth now?" White Cloak lifted himself from the wooden trees. Their bodies crumbled under his lifting weight. "No, matter," he croaked. "I have told you enough; you will come to realization soon," he promised. Then, the body faded; he was out of sight now. No presence seemed to be there, yet you could feel it there, sense it. It was around there, lingering around you, spying on you and you knew it, you just didn't know where he was. So you look around, confused, filled to your brim with your own paranoia that seemed to deteriorate you of your capabilities, your clear-thinking that used to save your life.
"Where are you?" Walter said, turning his head this way and that, his eyes jotting to every side, every corner he could see and sleuth and examine and take into his own eyeing hands. Everything seemed normal; nothing seemed out of place. So where was he?
"Inside your head…" a voice rang on, a deep godly yet devilish voice. It was demonic, it was holy, it was of great command yet a horrid influence. It wasn't even neutral! So what was it? Walter strained, bringing a careful hand to his head, feeling a searing headache take over him. He cried out in pain. Voices of Eric's assistance called out to him, mouth-less, wordless sentences. The images began again. Walter faltered.
"Walter!" Eric cried out. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm-I'm good," he stammered. His voice was unsteady, untrue. Eric knew he was lying, but he really, really didn't have enough time to care for him. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, White Cloak rushed from the shadows and began striking at Walter while he was weak, with a long, protruding blade of bone from his skin. He cried out, overtaken by the sudden event. The Minors could only watch in their shock. Walter was forced to back up; it was the only way he could dodge. Teresa and Eric called out to him at the same time. It was no use. Somewhat blinded, Walter seemed to search around, feel for presences. He began to catch on, but would he be fast enough?
"I don't have patience for you anymore!" White Cloak called out to him as he continued to slice at him. Walter dodged each one barely.
"Damn it!" Eric called out to him. He dashed to an agile blur. He made a kick that just nicked White Cloak as the Minor made his way between Walter and him. His kick shot out flaming sparks; White Cloak had dodged with a clothed forearm. A look of annoyance spread beneath that shadowy hood. Then, Eric cried out, out of pain. White Cloak had not even touched him. It was the pain of his last battle with the Council member kicking in. He really shouldn't have been fighting, or walking, for that matter. One could wonder why Hanabikai let him off the hook. It was a secret, all right.
"Don't get in the way!" White Cloak called out as he brought a barely charred arm and knocked Eric in the head. The Minor was sent rolling upon the ground, rolling to a distance. White Cloak resumed his string of attacks.
"Eric!" Teresa called out to him. She rushed to his side, almost immediately, trying to examine his condition. She bent on her knees and looked over his body, which was sprawled on its side. He barely spoke, he stirred. "You're still weak from your fight from Hibiyomi! You shouldn't move!" she scolded him with bare tears. She cared for him too much to let him hurt himself. But unlike some people, she had the power to do something about it. And she'd do something about it whenever she wanted to, whenever she was needed to.
"Your friends are annoying," White Cloak croaked. "How about some privacy?" he suggested. A string of invisible lines began to radiate around them, circling them and closing in on them into a transparent dome of trap; an encasement to ensure that no one would get in, and no one would be able to get out. White Cloak couldn't help but smirk, smirk in his own assure victory that only he knew would win. Walter scowled, somewhat.
Damn it! Walter cursed his luck. I'm trapped inside; there's no escape…. He peered all around him, watching, looking for a weak spot. He found none. The glassy exterior trapped them, and suffocated them, slowly, draining out all the oxygen in the room. Then, he looked ahead, and saw nothing but White Cloak, stepping forward, casually, cautiously. And Walter gulped.
PoVS
"All right, it's time to finish this fight," Rick said with a clever smirk, knowing that he had a trick up his sleeve to pull a win out of the hat. His hand remained patted on the opponent's back. It glowed eerily with that yellow electricity. And Minoshi, he just stared in disbelief, knowing that the fight could not end so quickly, so irrationally. It just didn't make sense. Nothing led to anyone's victory at the moment, nothing lead to any loss. It was just in the middle of the battle. While they waited, the birds chirped eagerly, twittering their lyrics of song and harmony for the arrival of morning. The trees began to whisper early morning gossip, gossip of the sun for it had not awaken yet, it had not been able to notice that there were rumors spread about it, dark rumors, deep rumors. The winds carried the words in their jubilant scrambles of breeze. The syllables sifted through the grass, the secrets carried through the branches and hid themselves behind a curtain of whistle and bristle. All seemed to be unnoticing, unacknowledged of the fact that there was a fight going on, a fight that was soon about to end in it's non-built up hype.
"What!?" the opponent defied. A lock of disbelief carried over his face, his rumor, his gossip, as if he had just heard a horrible one about him. "I'm not going to lose that easily!" he declared. He struck his sword at Rick's position. Rick disappeared, and reappeared before him, pat him on the shoulder with that electric finger. It didn't sting at all; it didn't hurt, so the opponent wasn't really sure what he was trying to do. Was he trying to attack? It didn't work. He needed to work on it a bit more, then, thought the enemy. The enemy noticed his quick, unexpected dodge. His surprised face soon turned to a resentful scowl. "You brat!" he mocked, and swung his blade again, uselessly, mindlessly. Rick dodged once more, fading into nonexistence and returning to his side now, patting him on the arm with that electric yellow hand that did not buzz or give any sign of damage or hurt or power at all. They seemed to be useless attacks. Oh, if only Minoshi knew.
Minoshi sliced again. He cut nothing but air, again, and Rick came back, to pat him on the side of his body, again. This time, feeling invaded, he sliced once more. Rick appeared randomly in another direction, and patted him in a different place each time he reappeared. Another scowl from Minoshi.
Then, from far away, Sound Minor Marissa watched, full of awe. She stared past her tree of defense, of secrecy, and watched Rick continue to tackle him in the clear, somewhat lit up waters. How can he manage to use that technique on the water? She thought about it. Is he really going to use that move here? Marissa thought. She had a sudden flashback of when he had invented the move. It was when they were still in the Swamp of Mystery, and they had not found any opponents yet. Rick said he had gone to the next forest to train. But, she remembered clearly, that when he hadn't come back for almost two hours, Lance and she began to get worried for him, especially her. So when they went to check up on him, there we was, lying on the ground, tired marks all over him, barely breathing. The are was stiff and thin with electric current; the trees were all broken, limbs and sticks and twigs all over the ground as if they had been carefully sprinkled on by the decorative, creative fingers of wooden ornament tree. Lance had to treat his arms, and even his fingers, too, because he had trained so hard, despite Lance's warning not to
Also, the ground was sizzling hot; it was like he had burnt the ground beneath it, and not on top. White smoke hissed everywhere, and the stiff air was bound to attract enemies, so we had to move quickly. Any signs of what the new move was, exactly, were left behind. The only thing that could keep Marissa guessing was that his arms were horridly limp, weak, in fact. They seemed to have gone through some crazy type of move that would wear them out so much. Also, sparks seemed to jump from place to place around his arm, sizzling and hissing every now and then. It took a few hours of moving to have them wear off.
Yes, Marissa remembered it clearly. And now, she looked past the trees, into the lake so she could clearly see him use the move that he had made up, for it seemed clear to her that it was the time for him to use it. He really was going all out. That time, Marissa thought. He was really worn out when we found him. She sighed, secretly, to hide herself. Don't hurt yourself, Rick. And the slicing went on. And the electric yellow patting of hand on body continued as well, mindlessly, usefully.