Disclaimer: Solitary Shadow has been writing (campy) Klonoa fics since the December of 2005, but officially does not own them and never will. The authoress makes no profits out of any of her works.

Author's Note: This is a still-life, present tense description of the second fight against Guntz. It's in Klonoa Heroes, first boss, Breezegale. It's a twisted account, yes, with my own imagination sprinkled over the details, and I am very proud of this particular piece. The whole thing takes place in that battle ground with the trees and where the sun is setting.

The action is laid out, contrary to the minutes the fight takes. All this, if your Klonoa is at a high level, in the game wouldn't take much longer than a few minutes. I've set the fight to taking about fifteen minutes in the story, because that's realistic.

But still, fifteen minutes is not a long time if you're fighting against a homicidal hunter who would gladly shoot you and laugh. You would spend most of that time dodging.

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Two figures lash out at each other as the sun sets.

If Klonoa had been a normal resident of Breezegale he would probably be dead by now. But he is the Wind Child after all; he is not normal, and as his opponent shoots a couple of bullets towards him he can parry them, he can deflect them away. The opponent is on a motorcycle, but Klonoa's on his feet. And he's holding out well. Not dead, dying, desperate, or despairing. He's not normal or some other kid you find, and he reminds himself of that constantly as he dodges another rush of bullets. His opponent's gun flashes and he lunges forwards, and Klonoa blocks and parries and spins. It's poetic, almost beautiful in the dimming sun, illuminated brilliantly in a shade of orange. Klonoa has to find an opening in the constant firing of bullets and the sound of his own sword slashing, and remind himself again and again that he shouldn't be appreciating this fight; any other resident of Breezegale wouldn't have found anything to appreciate, would probably be surrendering now, like Chipple, or perhaps Popka (who's fierce in his own way).

But he's no ordinary resident of Breezegale.

He's not even out of breath.

This is no duel, it's a performance. And there's only them onstage, fighting, blocking, whirling again and again. The wind dances by them, the cool evening breeze beginning to set in. Klonoa is momentarily chilled by the sudden gust of wind - as he's only wearing very short clothes - but the rush of adrenaline warms him up, and he defends himself at the nick of time, and launches an offensive towards his opponent. The attack hits the motorcycle, and it's rendered useless. But his opponent is not even shaken, and quickly jumps out to continue with the fight. As disappointed as the cabbit is with the destroyed motorcycle not even affecing the other, a small part of his mind is glad that this performance, this work of art can be continued for far longer.

They crash into trees and bushes, Moos scattering here and there. Klonoa respectfully and skillfully dodges around the little scurrying creatures, also jumping over thick branches. His subconcious respect for nature unwittingly creates tension in the performance, his nimble footwork providing more gaps and guiding him. He never misses a step, parring, trying to knock the gun out of his opponent's hand. His opponent, however, does little of the sort; as Klonoa sidesteps, leaps, avoids his attacks, of course he doesn't care. Branches are crushed beneath his heavy boots, the grass stalks bent and broken. He doesn't care the slightest, of course, and he just focuses on his target, occasionally shooting, most of the time dodging skillfully and trying to get an accurate mark. Klonoa is inwardly amazed with the way that the performance is going, how his opponent stares so calmly with sapphire blue eyes, his breathing perfectly synchronized with the cabbit's own, how fast he moves even with his weaponary and heavy clothing. His opponent smiles cruelly, knowing that his height and more experience in duels serves to intimidate; and Klonoa knows that he's bluffing, he's just putting it all on, but can't help flinching every time he does. The cabbit can't help it, can't help it at all.

His opponent is a hunter, Klonoa knows that all too well. But he has no idea what truly lies beneath this young man's appearence, of the fights he'd won, of the scars he'd recieved. Naturally he would not know why - after so much effort - he is losing. He is losing and there's so little he can do to alter that.

Suddenly the hunter slips and stumbles, gasping for breath. He regains himself, expression barely altering, but Klonoa's too fast; he's left a defence open, he's vulnerable, and the cabbit eagerly takes his chance. The blade comes swishing through the air, and the hunter has to block it with his handgun, throwing the blade off with force. But he's stunned, he's still open, and Klonoa is determined not to fail. He steps forward quickly, his boots making no sound, and then launches an attack on the offensive. He's on control and he's confident of it.

Klonoa's just a boy, so no blows of his can be particularly forceful; but the hunter chooses not to risk his handgun a second time, and twirls around so he is behind the motorcycle. The blade barely grazes his long ponytail. With a quick decisive movement he is directly behind, pointing the still-fuctional missiles of the motorcycle at the cabbit, ready to set it off if needed.

The hunter is such a fool in this moment; Klonoa can see that this is yet another bluff, built of lies just like the foundation of the hunter's life, as he noticed earlier that the button for setting the missiles off are nearer to him and therefore the hunter can't set it off. He's a fool, and Klonoa's still in control of the situation. He jumps up on the seat of the motorcycle and swings the blade directly above his opponent's head. The hunter jumps and spins away from the blow, gun held away from his body. There is no way he can defend himself in that posture, Klonoa knows, and it's just so utterly stupid.

So, so utterly stupid. The hunter knows what he's doing.

He knows all right.

Klonoa hesistates for half a second or so, now pointing the sharp end of the sword away from his opponent, instead striking with the blunt end. The hunter falls down to the ground, and is immediately preyed upon by the cabbit, who pins his arm down and holds up his chin with the point of the sword. The hunter stays on the ground, eyes closed, never making a sound, not even flinching at the feeling of the cold metal upon his chin. His lips are parted a little, and he's breathing heavily. One hand is on his waist, where the blunt end had struck, and his chest heaves occasionally, but he still does not move. His handgun is a few meters away from him, and as he is stronger than the cabbit he could throw him off easily if he wanted. But the hunter does not fight back, his blue eyes do not open, and silence reigns supreme.

Stage moves belong onstage, and duel moves belong in duels - Klonoa is frustrated at how the hunter treats this like a joke, and sheathes his sword, turning away. But the performance is not over; far from it. As he turns away, the hunter swings out one of his legs - and his legs are rather long by normal standards - and trips the cabbit over. The sword falls from its sheath, and the hunter swiftly kicks it away. Klonoa, of course spins and falls down, winded. He feels like laughing, for being stupid enough to throw away his chance of attacking, and not realizing that the hunter had been playing him all along. The cabbit had never been in control. The hunter's waist is perfectly alright; what kind of damage could a boy, with precious little knowledge of weaponary, inflict on a bounty hunter? His jacket is not even torn, and the hunter is moving fast, for someone who looked so grieviously injured.

And then the hunter is on him, straddling Klonoa's waist, one gloved hand pinning down his arm. With the other hand he slowly traces the contours of the cabbit's face, his movements surprisingly gentle. Klonoa doesn't know what to do, how to react but to stay still; the heat of the hunter's skin, the sound of his breathing is affecting his ability to think straight. He looks up at his opponent, and his opponent stares back at him with calm, sapphire eyes, expressionless. They are beautiful eyes - they look cold, cruel, but there's a certain quality in those eyes that Klonoa can't exactly pinpoint. He has never seen such a beautiful shade of blue before.

The hunter leans in slightly, staring eye to eye with the cabbit, still calm and expressionless. His breathing is slow, controlled. His free hand slips beneath the cabbit's shirt and rests on the fur of his stomach, tauntingly hinting that it could slip higher - or lower, depending on his reaction. The sensation of the silky glove on his fur is almost too much, and Klonoa is meant to be - what? Aroused? Afraid? He would like to think it is neither, but the warm hand resting on his stomach feels too nice, and he can't help being quite turned on. A blush graces his cheeks, and the hunter notices.

The hunter leans in even closer, their noses almost touching, his silky, fine hair falling onto the cabbit's face and sliding down to the ground. He hardly notices, and slowly trails his lips down the boy's neck, provoking a small moan from him. Something like a grin appears for a second on his lips, but then the hunter's expression is clear again, and he looks up. Klonoa squirms pleasantly at the feeling of the fluffy neck fur of the hunter tickling him. He doesn't register the feeling of his shirt zip being pulled down, but the feeling of the evening breeze against his bare chest is too sudden to ignore. The hunter's gloved hand slips higher, now caressing the soft tuft of fur on the boy's chest. Klonoa moans again, louder this time, body trembling with emotions that are new to him. He attempts to sit up, but the hunter pins him down again.

In the slow, steady rise of the darkness, the hunter's lips brush against his own, engaging in a somewhat clumsy kiss. Klonoa's too shocked to even respond; but it feels nice, too nice, and he can't help but sink back down and return the kiss. The warmth of the hunter's body, the feeling of his soft lips against his own is intoxicating, as much as he hates to admit it, and he wants more. The kiss continues for a long time, their eyes closed, skin against skin. The air is heavy with the hunter's scent, and Klonoa shifts around, wanting much, much more.

Suddenly, the hunter pulls away. Klonoa is left lying on the ground, dazed and and his eyes glazing over, staring at the darkening sky. The young man pulls out a small budded flower out of his pocket. It's still whole and not even torn. He carefully presses the flower into the boy's hand, and gets up as if nothing has happened, walking over to his motorcycle. Klonoa gets up also, shaken, awkwardly zipping up his shirt, clutching the flower. The hunter is at the motorcycle, examining it. A few presses on a certain point, and a slight kick later, the engines splutter into life, and the hunter swings a leg over the seat, gripping the handlebars and ready to set off. Klonoa just looks on, dumbfounded, and the hunter turns around, tossing him a glance. The glance seems to hint that the hunter would see him again in the not-so-far future, and then he drives away.

The cabbit is left standing there, confused, not knowing what exactly has happened. His opponent's warmth can still be felt on the flower, and he raises it to his chest, holding it safe. His lips tingle at the thought of that kiss, the feeling of the hunter's lips still lingering, and he looks up at the sky - the first of the stars now studded on the pitch-black darkness - and wishes one thing; that he would see the hunter again soon, and that the performance of their lives shall be repeated again.

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Mmm. No dialogue. That's the thing that was so challenging. I was so tempted to make Guntz say something sassy/witty/cruel.

Not much naughtiness, but definitely descriptive... meh. That should really be enough.

-This story was completed 25th of August, in the year 2007.-