Chrono Trigger Omega
Episode Zero Zero One
Act Two – "Night Wind"
Within the blink of an eye, the fierce yet, Amazonian gargoyle pounced at Max Ramnarine with blinding vigor. Her outstretched, finger-like talons promising to shred him to ribbons on contact. Her lunging and lean, muscular form ready to crush him mercilessly with superhuman strength. Her radiant, yet fiercely glowing red eyes giving the young man the intimidating impression that he was face-to-face with a live demon, straight out of Hell.
However, from the perspective of "Nightrunner", Demona's rushing advance might as well have been in slow motion. The phenomenon occurred around Ramnarine as if it was second nature to him; standing calmly before her while time itself appeared to slow to a crawl. Her menacing dive was no more a threat to him than if a snail charged at him, smirking at the fascinating color her blurring trail in time was leaving behind her. It was a mix of the aquamarine pigment of her skin, the soft white of her primitive tunic, the earth tone of her loincloth, and the vibrant red of her wild mane. The artist inside of him took the time to savor it up until the point her closest, outstretched finger became a fraction of an inch away from his nose. To his chagrin, his brief reprieve had ended.
Demona swiped her claws violently, and her fingers found a cacophony of discord as they slammed into piano keys. It took less than a second for her to register that he was no longer anywhere within sight, rising off of the grand instrument. However, her gargoyle-enhanced sense of scent still told her that he was still in the room – this time, to her far rear, inspiring her to spin around post-haste.
Before either she or Macbeth could ask each other what was happening, Ramnarine stepped from behind the Scotsman with phantom-esque flair, addressing him as he walked to Macbeth's side.
"You'll find an armory in the south wing of this place – on the second floor," Max sighed, sounding disappointed at the outcome, "if we can't talk this out like rational adults, then we'll play it your way. The 'girls' informed me about you being a swordsman, by the way," Macbeth was taken aback by the cavalier way Ramnarine referred to the "Weird Sisters" as he continued, "which means you're in luck. There's more melee weaponry up there than in Camelot…" he started to walk away, putting his hands in his pockets and making his way out of the room.
"Where are you going?!" an enraged Demona demanded to know, walking cautiously after him while he was still in the music room.
"After I finish 'dancing' with the 'missus' outside, they'll be plenty of time for a proper duel, highness," Ramnarine spoke as if Demona wasn't even in the room, only incensing her further as the pace of her steps picked up, "Oh…and don't worry about bringing a weapon for me. I've got that taken-" Ramnarine was cut off as Demona darted at him, swiping at his back. Much like before, he vanished again in true ethereal fashion.
"Shit!" Demona cursed, punching the door frame of the room entrance. The polished wood cracked severely sending shattered pieces spilling to the transparent marble floor. Sensing a faint trail of his scent, she spied him many yards ahead of her walking calmly to the main entrance of him home and exiting to the courtyard.
"Can I convince you not to take him on without me?" Macbeth asked in futility, knowing that her rage was already getting the best of her.
"Find the armory, old man," she sneered, "If he isn't dead by the time you find us, feel free to step in!" and with that she sprinted on all fours after Ramnarine with murder on her agenda. Macbeth only shook his head as he ran out of the room after her, making a detour for the grand staircase.
Bursting through the double door entrance of Nightrunner's mansion, Demona arrived to the courtyard in grand fashion, almost tearing the doors off the hinges as she plowed them open. Locating Ramnarine was easy, finding him directly ahead of her and seated on the edge of the fountain pool. The water springing from it was illuminated from soft blue lights within the artistic, concrete structure as he stood. As the sky grew darker, the shine of the trio of moons behind him combined with the luminescence of the fountain, left him completely covered in shadow, leaving the usually fearless Demona feeling a slight chill down her spine. She started to wonder if she was getting in over her head as the ominous feeling radiating from Ramnarine started to shake her confidence.
"Neither your speed or brute strength are going to help you win this," the Nubian stated clearly, "I hope you have more in your arsenal than what I've seen so far."
"Then stop running!" with an inspired boost in speed, she cleared the distance between them in record time, attempting to put a crushing vice grip on him by embracing Ramnarine. At the absolute last second before she made contact, Demona found her wrists in the grip of Ramnarine's hands. Not only did he manage to brace himself from the weight of her tackle, her frustration mounted when he successfully fought back against her inhuman strength. She seethed as he smiled profoundly, beginning to push her back despite her attempt to lock her position with the claws of her feet.
"This is a joke, right?" he snickered while Demona struggled, "You come from a proud warrior race, and you're telling me that this is all there is to your fighting ability?"
His questions come as a devastating blow to her ego, raising her anger to new heights. In her fury, she tried to throw her weight into him with her feet, but Ramnarine used her momentum against her, pushing himself away from the gargoyle as she flipped onto her feet. As she stands again, Demona was bewildered by his strange evasion, realizing that Nightrunner was left completely unharmed by her powerhouse kick.
Ramnarine returned to a relaxed state, putting his left hand back in his pocket as he slowly approached her. Although he considered her level of fighting technique to be mediocre, the sight of her with her wings spread standing before him was a magnificent image to drink in. She stood at 6'1" in her gargoyle form, her wingspan reached about the same and the long tail that swept the ground behind her happened to be two feet short of her height. Dodging her limbs wouldn't be a problem, but how she used her tail would certainly be an nth factor for him, not finding many opponents in past battles that wielded a extra limb. Max's ideas of gargoyles were far more monstrous than her voluptuous form demonstrated, actually finding the otherworldly woman as sexually appealing as she was in human form. Not to mention, familiar…
"No more tricks from here on out," he spoke again, walking into a range close enough for her to punch him, "I promise. If you want a straight-up fight, you've got -"
The fiery redhead had a penchant of cutting Max off in mid-speech, delivering a shattering right hook to his left cheekbone. It was far from the first time she slugged someone, but it was the first time she had put so much focus into a killing blow. As his body spiraled off and towards her left, spinning from the impact, it was then that her hand realized something terrifying. The reverb from her punch barely registered.
Stockpiling more onto her state of shock, Nightrunner gracefully pirouetted to his feet, with his back facing her and his hand on the cheek she struck.
"Remarkable…" he faced her with a genuine smile that truly spooked her, "You're unbelievably strong. To be honest, I had a hard time holding you back when I grabbed your wrists earlier," blood trickled from the corner of his smile as her eyes widened in surprise, "if I hadn't rolled with it in time, that punch could have finished me, baby." Removing his left hand from his pocket, he gestures with a beckoning finger, "now only if you had focus like that all the time…"
The glow of her eyes exploded to inferno intensity as Demona wasted no time in running him down.
The sound of the door creaking slowly cuts loudly through quiet mansion, echoing down the hallway Lennox Macbeth journeyed to. After trying other rooms in the South Wing of Ramnarine's compound, the Scotsman finally found pay dirt, arriving at the Armory.
Despite his dislike and distrust of Nightrunner, it was clear that he wasn't lying about his collection of weapons – ranging from an assortment of melee weapons to vehicles of warfare. Some of the pieces on display in the room seemed to be composed of advanced technology he never knew existed. One such item was a futuristic looking aircraft, detailed mostly in blue, with highlights of white, black and cherry red & seated on a massive pedestal rising three feet off of the floor. The sign on the platform, displayed the name of the aircraft as he started to read it aloud –
"MSZ-006, Zeta Gun-," the sight of something glowing distracted Macbeth of his observation, turning his attention to his right where he found something remarkable. The aesthetic of the radiating find made him smirk slightly as it reminded him of something of Arthurian legend.
Advancing the spectacle ever so cautiously, the Scotsman hesitated for a moment before finding the guile to reach out for the ornate handle of an expertly crafted broadsword, deeply lodged into a much smaller pedestal.
"This can't be Excalibur…" he stated, feeling the warmth of a strange power pulsating within the sword. Suddenly, believing that his mind might be playing tricks on him, he could hear the voices of children calling his name momentarily. That is, until he immediately released his grip on the blade, 'What is this sorcery?' he thought, warily taking a few steps back from the "sword in the stone", 'It has to be a trap Nightrunner must have intended-'
" Lennox…" the breathless whisper derailed his thoughts as a voice he hadn't heard in ages uttered his name. The sound of her call made his hair stand on end as the aura of the sword grew even brighter.
"Gruoch?" stunned, all Macbeth could do was recognize the owner of the disembodied voice before the entire room exploded with the sword's enchanting light.
From a distance, one might mistake them as dance partners. After all, Nightrunner was no more then a foot away from Demona and her violent maneuvering. With grace and split second timing, Ramnarine was indeed dancing…all around her attempts to render him harm.
"Fight me, you jack-ass!!!" again she seethed, attempting to grab him but coming up empty as he spun out of the way. His delighted smile continued to taunt her as took a moment to rest and contemplate her next plan of action.
"Well, you definitely have some 'rhythm'," Max observed, constantly moving yet standing before her. The fighting style he used was unmistakably Jeet Kune Do, but he had yet to inflict any damage on her person, strangely hesitant despite the danger a lucky strike from her could do to him. In a circle around her, he started to sidle her form, making Demona paranoid about his next move, "but you really have to work on your pace."
"This isn't some soirée'!" she countered, throwing her wings around her like a living robe. The sight of that amused Ramnarine even more, speeding up his sideways-jog around her and turning up the tension, "The only dancing I'll do is on your corpse!"
"Talk about ambition!" he snickered, continuing his round-about, "Wish I still had that…" suddenly a memory popped into his mind, prompting a question, "by the way, aren't you more accustomed to fighting with a weapon?"
"I don't need one to take care of you," Demona remarked, doing her best to keep her eyes on him, "is that more insight about me from those 'witches'?"
"Not at all, 'my fair redhead'," Max teased, continuing to interrogate, "you've got a penchant for firearms, correct? Laser rifles, especially-"
"Enough games!!! What are you getting at?!" to her amazement, her question brought his prancing to a sudden stop. His disposition migrated from playful to something far more serious.
"Simple, Demona," the serious look in his eyes actually shook her confidence a bit as his next statement blew her mind, "this isn't the first time we've met."
They were as green as he remembered. There he stood, standing again on the plains of his home country, Scotland, as a warm breeze blew locks of his auburn hair into his face. In absolute disbelief at the sight of his hair's rejuvenation to its youthful color, he suddenly realized that he was holding the enchanted sword in hand. The sight of his reflection in it's sharp, double-edged blade left him awestruck as the old man known as Lennox Macbeth had now magically reverted in age to a thirty-something.
"I'm glad you came, Lennox," warmly spoke the voice from before, now very close and emanating from behind. Spinning around with viscosity, he discovered a vision of beauty and a sight for his sore eyes.
"Gruoch…it is you," he gasped, drinking in the sight of her. There she stood, no more than 3 feet away, adorning a mauve dress that exposed her shoulders and clung to her like a second skin in some areas while flowing freely in others. It was of a regal design and resembled something a woman of high stature would wear in medieval days. Her long, orange-reddish locks played in the breeze, framing her beautiful face and welcoming smile. He wasn't sure if it was the shock to his system that left his perception of time waylaid, but before he knew it, the woman was embracing him, "how…how is this possible?" the Scotsman asked, as he recovered from his awe and lovingly squeezed his long, lost wife.
"I wish I could explain, but I don't have much time," Gruoch began as he held her, noticing a structure behind her in the not-too-far distance. In the backdrop he spied a castle on the landscape and not just any castle. It happened to be same one that he had once ruled from almost a millennium ago, standing as majestic as it did in his heyday.
"I don't understand, m' lady," Macbeth insisted, "what makes this reunion-"
"You HAVE to help defeat 'it'," desperately interrupting him, her sudden request jarred his attention, "when the time comes, promise me that you'll help destroy the 'Beast'."
"The Beast?" he loosened his embrace enough to see the fear in her normally soft eyes, troubling him as well, "What is it?" he asked as the serene sky above swiftly grew darker.
"A powerful force that threatens us all," she continued, her words more urgent than before, "this sword will guide you to those with the same dest-"
Macbeth pulled her close in reaction to the abrupt and violent trembling of the earth beneath their feet. Dropping the mysterious sword, it took every ounce of his willpower to remain standing, bracing the both of them and witnessing something unholy unfolding behind Gruoch. The structural integrity of Castle Macbeth began to unravel, crumbling as if it was made of sand. All the while, the skies above were at their angriest, thick as pea soup with clouds the rays of the sun had no hope of penetrating. However, rays appeared from elsewhere, as pillars of light that exploded from the site of the sinking castle.
In the stead of the disappearing castle, a shadowy mass arose from the depths of the terra-firma. It appeared to be massive, rivaling the size of the estate that was once before him and its shape resembling that of a turtle shell adorning hedgehog quills.
"You have the means to defeat it," Gruoch managed to say while Macbeth held her head to his chest, however her voice sounded absolutely different as if another young woman was speaking, "the Masamune will help you," she said before lifting her head to look him in the eyes again.
Macbeth almost lost his footing as the face of the woman he embraced did not belong to the person he treasured dearly. It was if Gruoch had switch bodies with another alluring female within a split second and without him noticing. Her short brown hair was long enough to frame her divine face, and her teal eyes had completely bewitched him for a moment.
"The future lies with you…" the mysterious woman he held uttered amidst all of the chaos around them. A horrible, monstrous cry shattered the air, erupting from the monster before him. It's wretched howl shook him to his core of his soul, never hearing something so demonic and overwhelming in all of his years. "see you soon-" without warning, the woman throws her arms around Macbeth's neck and kisses him passionately.
A second later, Macbeth opens his eyes to find himself on his hands and knees, on the armory floor before the sword's pedestal. It takes a few more for him to realize his surroundings and that the handle of the weapon in question was in his right hand, pinning the sword to the floor. Recovering from what he deducted was an intense vision brought on by the mystic power of the enigmatic weapon; Macbeth slowly rose to his feet still shaken. He couldn't help but notice that his reflection again in the sword's blade, finding that he still retained his youthful physique from the dream – much to his amazement. Materializing out of thin air and around his waist, a belt and sheath fit for a king appeared, and a moment later, the sword transported from his hand into its snug hip-case.
Macbeth had encountered many strange things in his life, but his experience in the armory was almost too much for him, tacking on the journey he just had making his way to Ramnarine's mansion. He soon realized that there was no time to dwell on his encounter when Demona probably had her hands full fending off Nightrunner. Equipped with an enigma, Macbeth pulled himself together and made his way out of the armory, hoping to reach Ramnarine before serious harm could come to her…and himself.
"You sure?" he took one step towards her, pointing at his own face, "I know I look a little different, but if you try hard enough, I'm sure it'll come to you."
"No, I don't," Demona admitted, highly annoyed by the enigmatic line of questioning, "nor, do I care."
"Heh…well, it'll probably surface in time," Max smiled, slightly, "besides, I'd hate to ruin the surprise," with hands in pockets he turns his back on her, walking away to one of the many groupings of roses in the courtyard.
"Where are you going?" the buxom gargoyle snapped, observing his cavalier behavior as he crouched down to observe the flowers and apparently forgetting about their fight.
"Fight's over," he decided, much to her contest, "there's loads of potential in you, but your fighting sense is a mess," he turned his head to spy her walking over to where he was crouching, "on top of that, you're unlike any gargoyle I've ever met – and that just confuses me."
"Met? You know other gargoyles?" Demona was honestly intrigued by his statement, wondering if it happened to be any clan outside of her realm of knowledge.
"Not personally, but I've had some run-ins with some," he explained, "never fought one but I've seen them fight. Shit isn't pretty, to say the least, but effective. Especially when the victim is a human," Ramnarine plucked a blood red rose and slowly rose to his feet, finding himself face to face with Demona. Less than six inches apart, most would find being in close quarters with a hostile gargoyle absolutely unnerving, but he felt right at home. Demona on the other hand seemed more uneasy around Nightrunner, as the reality that he might be more than your run-of-the-mill-human finally began to hit her, "speaking of which - if you don't mind some more honest insight – to me…you seem more like a human in a gargoyle's body instead of the other way around."
"Come again?" the fire returned to her eyes as her pride took a merciless blow from the young man only inches away from death incarnate.
"Seriously…" he continued to tease her, "You've got this sensual stride that's as sweet as a 'vanilla sundae'. And, on top of that, this self-hating disposition that might be a secret desire to be what you hate the most. Maybe you've despised humans for so long that you've subconsciously become one," he could feel the daggers bearing down on him from her nightmarish glowing eyes. However, Ramnarine's disposition retained as casually cool as ever, "come on, admit it!" he added with a playful smirk.
"Don't try to psychoanalyze me, boy…" Max didn't have to be a genius to tell that Demona was at a height of rage that even she probably couldn't believe that she was enduring. Her voice had reached such a deceptively calm tone, that he knew it took what little was left of her composure just to keep from screaming.
"Fair enough…" a momentary chill washed over her as she had witnessed Ramnarine shift emotional gears from jovial to unfriendly in an instant, "but don't you ever call me 'boy' again," Max said sternly while beginning to remove his glasses.
"Sure…would you rather I call you-" Demona suddenly rushed him when she observed him taking off his spectacles, her hand positioned to gut him with the claws of her thrusting right hand "-a dead ma-"
It was if the world had stopped rotating. Feeling a sensation emanating from the pit of her stomach that shook her equilibrium to the very core of her being, Demona felt her entire body become numb as she dropped frontward onto the unforgiving cobblestone of the courtyard walkway. Fortunately for her striking beauty, she had descended on the side of her face, but that was the least of her concerns as the gargoyle had come to the realization that her body was completely stunned.
"GET UP!!!!!" as her still form began to shiver in atrophy, the menacing form of Max Ramnarine stood above, displaying a look of absolute disgust. In an explosion of pure anger, the young man she had once thought to be forever calm and collected had become completely unhinged – at least from the sound of his voice. All she could see was his foot as he started to lift her head with the tip of his left shoe, "KILL ME, YOU FRAUD! JUST LIKE YOU SAID YOU WOULD!!! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!!!"
'What…did he…hit me with?' the question slowly manifested in her shattered mind. Demona desperately fought with every fiber of her being to force her body to move – even if it were just an inch. All the while, she desperately searched her memory of the few seconds that passed and brought about her humiliation at the deceptive hands of a human being. With all of the frustrations of the day stockpiling upon her, Demona had far surpassed the recognized thresholds of negative stress and was on the verge of a total emotional breakdown.
Her recollection barely could piece together what transpired during the 3 seconds that brought about her fallout, but she successfully connected the dots as feeling began to slowly creep back into her limbs. Whether it was slight of hand or genuine magic, Ramnarine had managed to divert her attempt on his life when her fingers were only an inch away from his stomach. Demona's memory became fuzzy after the successful evasion when the left hand of Nightrunner crashed into her abdomen with merciless velocity. The very air in her lungs vacated post-haste, throwing the gargoyle into the start of her journey into pure anguish.
However, it wasn't so much the punch that rocked her world as what came next. She hardly could remember it, but Demona was convinced that she had witnessed a wild phenomenon during the impact – a flash of overwhelming light that started as blinding neon blue and faded into a sparkling red, disappearing from her returning eyesight as she swore she spied vanishing arcs of reddish-colored electricity in her vision. Accompanying the unseen strike was a brief but encompassing and unpleasant sensation that transitioned into numbness, instantly rendering her constitution limp.
As her senses returned, the body of the winged darkstalker felt as if it had been swallowed by an inferno. The smoke she could smell and see rising from her outstretched hand confirmed just that. Suddenly, she felt her eyes subconsciously blink and the index finger of the hand in question twitch. Finally, life was returning to Demona, although taking far too long for her taste. She could never guess that she find motivation to move from the most unlikely of sources.
"A FUCKING PATHETIC DISPLAY!" Ramnarine seethed, letting her head drop heartlessly to the cold ground as he turned to walk away, "YOU'RE AS WORTHLESS AS YOUR WORDS!"
Max Ramnarine paused in the middle of his third step. Without looking, Demona's assailant knew the climate had changed – and in a heartbeat. However, glancing down at the ground and witnessing the sight of the shadow quickly casting upon him from behind confirmed his suspicions. Turning around to face his opponent, Demona stood before him with a look in her eyes that immediately struck him as odd. He caught the glint of something amazing, if only for a moment, but it was enough to tear Nightrunner out of his fit of acrimony towards her.
"This is a surprise…" he smirked, observing her quivering form. Her knees were totally shot, shaking just at the task of holding her upright. A moment later, Demona had doubled over and her empty stomach managed to turn up a mixture of fluids from its troubled depths. Devoid of whatever dignity she was clinging on to, the once proud gargoyle wiped her chin, glaring at him with a mixture of hatred, resilience, defiance and a hint of curiosity, "for someone to endure that for the first time and be able to stand is an amazing feat. I want you to know that…" he said sincerely. Ramnarine strained to hear the retort that leaked from Demona's breathless, bloodstained lips, not able to make it out the first time, "What was that?" he attempted to decipher her inaudible speech.
"…said…you're…full of shit…" she whispered, accenting the insult with a cough. However, her voice was slowly returning as she swallowed the bile in her throat that impeded her speech.
"Look…" in a vain, but honest attempt, Max began to level with her, "you're in no condition to continue this. Its ov-"
"FINISH ME!!!" her electrified words genuinely shocked him, "This doesn't end…until you're dead, understand…" Max's heart sank as he could see the tears welling up in her piercing eyes, but what amazed him more occurred next as Demona made the incredible maneuver of stepping forward. One step was all that her body had left, however, and Ramnarine knew it, "DO IT!!!"
"Sure…" the sympathetic man said with a half-hearted smile, as if he had deciphered what he could out of her 'last request', "Someone has to put you out of your misery, right?…"
Cursing the size of Nightrunner's estate, Lennox Macbeth completed his hurried descent down the grand staircase of the main hall, bolting for the foyer as fast as his now-younger legs could carry him. As the entrance grew closer, the Scotsman could spot the back of his enemy, Nightrunner, in the distance through the clear glass panes of its doors.
The Scotsman could easily see that the sun had almost finished setting, but it appeared that it was relatively bright outside. As his feet slid to a stop at the foot of the entrance, Macbeth thought that his eyes might be playing tricks on him, spying a strange phenomenon from a familiar place on yonder. In the distance beyond the courtyard before him laid the forest that he and Demona trudged through, and he clearly remembered the dense darkness of being beneath its canopy of onyx foliage. Not that he cared to acknowledge it, but if it was not for the nocturnal vision of his immortal nemesis, they would have never navigated their way through that nightmare. As he peered at it through the double doors, Macbeth could see that his current vision of the forest was contradicting his lasting memory of it.
The leaves of every tree that formed the massive forest were all glowing with a warm light, as if in defiance of nightfall. The youthful Scotsman couldn't explain why, but he put the happenstance on the backburner of his thoughts along with all of the other strange occurrences that he had seen first hand today. Besides, there was something much more important that required his attention.
Lennox Macbeth reached for the latch and had every intention to settle things in the courtyard when, yet again, something unexpected happened.
The courtyard outside erupted in a vibrant blue light, accompanied with a violent explosion. Although too far away to be a victim in the blast, an unseen force hurled Macbeth right back the way he traveled and with tremendous momentum. In rag doll-esque fashion, he careened and flipped through the air backwards, his face destined to crash into the foot of the grand staircase he had just raced down. Left to the whims of physics, all the Scotsman could do was brace his mind for impact, throwing his arms in front of him. The collision could very well kill him, he surmised, frustrated that it would delay his opportunity to put Ramnarine in his place for his crimes.
An aura of soft white energy exploded around the body of Lennox Macbeth, as he was only a few feet from where he projected his tragic end. He had no clue, however, thanks to his eyes squeezing shut out of reflex a second before the enigmatic event took place. It only added to his disorientation as he forced them open a few seconds after he predicted impact, lowering his guarding arms to find the edge of a stair a foot away from the bridge of his nose. He had come to a complete stop in mid-air, levitating magically over the foot of the staircase.
Before he could take full notice of the aura radiating from his floating body, it popped out of existence much like a bubble and he dropped clumsily onto the junction of steps and marble floor below. Collecting his senses and trying with all of his might to not dwell on the mysterious instance that just occurred, Macbeth spun on his heels and returned to his duty to Jasmine.
'Damn…' Nightrunner tried to suppress an inappropriate chuckle as his stood within a nearby bed of roses. Actually, his current location happened to be thirty meters from 'ground zero' – when he had granted Demona's request, 'Maybe I went overboard…' what he had been observing was the still and peaceful form of his female opponent, as he noticed that his last attack had completely incinerated her tunic. She laid there innocently bare-breasted for the entire world to see, 'at least she's still breathing. I have to admit, she is a sight for sore ey-'
"Nightrunner!!!" Ramnarine's perverted thoughts were placed on hold as his next guest had finally arrived, calling out to him with regal authority. With a deep sigh, Max removed his sports coat and laid it over her exposed chest. The Scotsman observed his enemy, and though he couldn't see the unconscious body of his "partner" from where he stood, Macbeth quickly tabulated the inevitable outcome, "So she couldn't even hold out for reinforcements…"
"The girl's got spunk, I give her that. Too bad I hate spu-" in the midst of turning to face the old man, Ramnarine had cut himself off to find that Macbeth was no longer old, "Wow…who's your plastic surgeon?" even from 15 meters away, Ramnarine could tell that his adversary had gone through an amazing rejuvenation.
Unlocking what was strapped to his back, Macbeth removed a long sword resting in a elegant, yet practically designed sheath. As Max slowly approached, the now-younger Scotsman kicked it across the courtyard and over of Ramnarine, who in turn casually inspected it. A sick feeling momentarily graced the pit of his stomach as he pulled the sword out of its sleeve enough to see the all-too familiar glimmer of the Rainbow Katana. He cursed under his breath, tossing it – sheath and all - into the same patch of roses where Demona lay sleeping.
"What are you doing?" Macbeth demanded to know, "I brought that-"
"So you'd have a clean conscious when you execute me, right?" Max smiled in spite of his situation, "After all, when it comes to the way of the sword, I've gotta' tell you, I don't have an ounce of talent."
"Simply put, you would be completely defenseless – am I correct?" hypothetically asked Macbeth, "Exactly like all of your victims when you enslaved and tortured them."
"That's a pretty big accusation, my judgmental friend," Max gestured with palms out for the Scotsman to slow down, "What was this chick's name, again? Wait, wait…Jasmine! That was it-"
"Either you are diabolically conniving or unbelievably stupid," Macbeth seethed, "I find it hard to believe that you would forget the name of the woman that you so ruthlessly killed."
"I don't know what you experienced out there that's given you so much of a hard-on to kill me, but it must have been one hell of a show," Max stepped a few feet to his right, putting him at the center of the stretch of courtyard walkway between them, "but like I said before, I don't personally know anyone named "Jasmine". Nor have I ever had any guests in my home that went by that name. Oh, and here's the kicker!
"I've never tortured anyone in my entire life," tired of the accusations, Ramnarine's disposition became reasonably serious, "sorry if this is breaks your heart, but you've got the wrong guy."
"Death is not something that I am a stranger to, Nightrunner," explained Lennox, "Of all those I have witnessed in their last moments, there is one consistent truth.
"The dying do not lie," with his statement, Macbeth pulled back his coat, grabbing the handle of another sword strapped to his waist.
"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Max said with a sigh, as he watched the Scotsman reveal what sword he had chosen. Ramnarine almost lost his breath when his eyes caught glimpse of the glowing blade, "Holy shit!" he exclaimed, "I can't believe it! You were able to get it out of there, huh?"
"I did not know it was such a feat," Macbeth admitted while gazing at the enigmatic sword that he held.
"Well, I'm sure you've heard about the "Arthurian Legend, ri-"
"Legend?" the Scotsman smirked, "Those were more than stories, lad."
"Oh…you've probably waited all your life to say that," Max beamed, "but seriously, that 'troublesome thing' must have heard about the 'Sword in the Stone' and got jealous. After it tricked me into bringing it here, it created a 'stone' of it's own and rooted itself in it – and without even asking first. And right in front of the Zeta too…"
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but this sword is called the Masamune, is it not?" Macbeth genuinely asked, readying it in both of his hands as he prepared for battle.
"I don't even want to know how you found that out," reaching behind his back, Ramnarine pulled out the trusty silver rod he had unveiled during his bout with the "Weird Sisters", "but you're right. The full name of it is the 'Masamune Granddream' -and to be chosen as its owner is a great honor, much like the Excalibur," charging the rod with his signature blue flames, the weapon extended to it's full length while engulfed in fire.
"Good to know…" the sight of the burning silver staff Ramnarine wielded was an intimidating one to the Scotsman, witnessing his enemy's "rei-ki" for the first time. However, Macbeth was confident in his skill and if the sword he held was in fact, on par with the sword of Arthurian legend, he had a powerful ally to assist him in defeating a powerful foe, "En Garde, Nightrunner."
"Whenever you're ready, your highness," Max held the staff, prepared to take what Macbeth was about to dish in his direction.
With rejuvenated vigor, the Scotsman charged Ramnarine. He expertly swung the sword with his right hand to which Max logically and narrowly responded with a parry. Contact from the mystically glowing blade to the silvery staff illuminated the air between them with a concert of sparks and a sharp clang. However, the force of the attack was not something Nightrunner was totally prepared for, as the impact sent him sliding slightly backwards across the courtyard cobblestone.
The first slash Max had parried sent vibrations throughout the flaming staff, tickling his grip on the weapon as he braced his legs in lieu of the next powerful strike. Macbeth was good, his opponent observed – actually, better than most swordsmen he had come across in battle. Ramnarine found it hard to counter Macbeth's "well-intentioned" and precise swipes, and would have to wait for him reveal an opening. That is if there was one.
Max realized quickly that there was next to nothing that he could teach Macbeth when it came to improving his sword technique, already finding it challenging to defend against numerous attempts on his life. Granted, Ramnarine knew of other individuals that could hone Macbeth's potential, but he knew for certain that candidate wasn't himself.
That was when the Nubian had noticed something peculiar. The flames of his weapon began to diminish as the glow of the Masamune had only increased in illumination. To his increasing discomfort, it didn't take long for Max to encounter the realization that if he continued to be on the receiving end, he wouldn't have a defense left.
Bringing the sword down harder on Ramnarine, it took all Max had to block it with the center of the staff, pushing against Macbeth's larger, more powerful frame. As the rod's fiery aura exploded in a weak attempt of a show of strength, Nightrunner used it as a distraction to kick his assailant in the midsection, succeeding in pushing Macbeth back.
Macbeth wildly sliced upward in retaliation, and in return, Nightrunner sidestepped with a dancer's sprightliness as he broadsided his opponent's ribcage with his silvery staff. Macbeth reeled from the impact, taking a few steps backwards to regroup his senses. In the meanwhile, Ramnarine wasted no time spinning the staff violently fast before pressing forward. Despite being far longer and much more volatile, the twirling of his burning weapon reminded the Scotsman of a circus performer using a flaming baton.
The lightning quick swings of his staff placed Macbeth on the ropes quickly. What Ramnarine didn't have in power he made up in speed as attacks came from every angle. Somehow, Lennox was able to deflect every shot but he wasn't sure how long he could keep it up. To the horror of the Scotsman, the speed of Nightrunner's assault was only increasing.
"Your move…" Ramnarine casually remarked as he accelerated the revolutions of the staff around his body. Macbeth grinded his teeth in quiet fury as he went on the defensive, cursing the fact that his adversary had become so relaxed with the swordsman's skill that he was performing a kata only a few feet away from the edge of his blade. It was a display of arrogance in the Scotsman's eyes and an act that irritated him, "looks like you want me to lead. Well, if you insist-"
A barrage ensues from Ramnarine as Macbeth struggles to block every swipe from his staff, but again, the aggressor spots an opening. At high velocity, Max threw his left knee into the Scotsman's abdomen accompanied by an uppercut from his right.
It was then that Ramnarine made a fatal error, changing the trajectory of his next crashing blow to an awkward one. Macbeth saw this as his chance to change the pace of the battle significantly and drove the Masamune towards Max's heart, which was wide open. Ramnarine could only smile as he barely avoided the blade and shoved the end of his staff into the stomach of Lennox Macbeth. An explosion of blue flame accompanied the decisive blow a split second later, making it a devastating one.
A strange occurrence changes Ramnarine's satisfied disposition, however. The Masamune exploded with light suddenly right before Macbeth was blown back from the impact, while the arm that wielded the weapon began to act independently. As if it had a mind of its own, the Scotsman's possessed arm sliced across his front, opening up a slight gash in the back of Max's right forearm and hand. It was so incredibly fast that the young man almost didn't catch sight of the countering strike and pull back his arm enough in time to avoid its filleting.
The precision of the blind attack and the sharpness of the mythical weapon was enough to make Max Ramnarine leap back in instant trepidation. Witnessing the unnatural response of the Scotsman's successful strike and the reaction of the sword before it, brought the staff wielder to one conclusion-
Flying back and sliding along the courtyard cobblestone, Macbeth rolled to a stop and onto his stomach. To add insult to his bleeding injury, Max was amazed to find that despite taking the tremendous blast, Macbeth's hold on the sword never relaxed. His astonishment mounted as the Scotsman struggled to rise again and within a few seconds, had accomplished just that. His fighting stance may have been shaky, but Lennox Macbeth wasn't ready to throw in the towel just yet.
"Shit…" cursing under his breath, Nightrunner pocketed a grip on the rod under his arm as he reached into his left pocket. Withdrawing a white handkerchief, he tied it around his right hand with his left and his teeth. Doing so was his best attempt to prevent his hold on his weapon to become slick with the river of scarlet running down his damaged arm. 'What's it going to take to disarm this guy?' Max thought as he made a few steps backward until his legs pressed against the raised pool of the illuminated fountain at the center of the courtyard, 'He's not leaving me with many options…'
At the same time, Macbeth regained his balance and focus, nursing a split lip and spotting Ramnarine almost thirty meters away. As his opponent finalized the knot in his handkerchief, the Scotsman finally came to his senses enough to spot where Nightrunner had made his stand.
"Nice one, Lennox!" Max raised his voice, incidentally helping to bring the Scotsman back to reality, "But you should have a talk with your 'partner'," smirked Max as he gripped the staff in both hands again, "it's beginning to second-guess you."
"What?" Macbeth shot back, trying not to be bothered by his enigmatic words. Nonetheless, the swordsman knew for certain that he was in no condition to do what he did to Nightrunner at the time it happened. Adding to the disorientation of being punched, feeling his right arm tense and go into action without his guidance was something that disturbed him more. Before "autopilot" engaged, Macbeth recalled feeling an enigmatic tingling in his arm that ignited his reason for concern in the first place. Not that he wanted to believe it was possible, but the Scotsman had become convinced that the Masamune had everything to do with the damage done to Ramnarine.
'Dammit!' Macbeth thought as he wiped some of the trickling scarlet from his lips, standing at the ready. Sadly, he wasn't prepared at all for the magnitude of Nightrunner's mysterious powers, as the pain from the blast wreaked havoc throughout his entire body, 'This must be how he defeated Demona so easily. Is it magic?…No, for that one would have to conjure or summon a spell, and he is not doing anything remotely close. How is he able to create those flames?' Macbeth's thoughts began to border on panic even though he wrestled to keep his composure.
"Don't feel too bad, 'king'," Ramnarine continued in a poor attempt to find common ground with Macbeth, "that damn sword did that to me too when I first found it. When it manipulated me to bring it back here, it decided to root itself until its next intended owner would claim it. The Masamune must have known all along that you were coming."
"If that is true, then it has decided wisely," Macbeth's confidence was slowly resurfacing as he could feel the energy that the sword emitted flowing through him, "I couldn't leave something as special as this in the hands of a villain like you."
"Now we're getting full of ourselves," sighed Nightrunner, "with things the way they are, I don't think I'll be able to straighten out this misunderstanding unless I get that sword out of your hand first. But despite the futility in attempting to dissuade you from this, I can't help but try –"
"There is only one outcome to this, Nightrunner," Macbeth interrupted, "and that is for one of us to die. Face your fate and prepare to answer for your crimes," again, the Scotsman positioned himself and the Masamune to charge their adversary.
"Believe me…" Ramnarine started another set of revolutions around his body with his enflamed staff as his demeanor saddened slightly, "death wouldn't do justice enough…" he said solemnly. Those words of self pity caught Macbeth off-guard for a moment as he was about to rush Max, leaving Lennox to process their meaning for a moment. The conclusion the statement brought him too had only enraged him more.
"You audacious bastard!!!" The Scotsman snapped, practically fuming, "Now that Jasmine is dead, you have the nerve to feign regret for what you did to her?!"
"I have no clue what you're talking about, jack," Max scowled at the hostility in his voice and decided to take action first, as the staff that the fire trailing around it began to revolve around him at unbelievable speeds, "but I'm bringing this exercise in miscommunication to a close!"
Not only did it appear that Ramnarine had surrounded himself in an orb of blue inferno, he had been twirling the blazing weapon so quickly it defied physics and made his movements blur within the rippling heat waves. Macbeth couldn't believe his eyes and his first instinct was to find cover before his nemesis did the inevitable and unleashed his unholy flames upon him. It was not to be so, however as he found his legs suddenly immobile while the glow of the Masamune washed over his body and locked him in suicidal stance of contumacy. Witnessing what was to come next, the Scot's eyes widened to the terror-filled sight of hell unleashed.
"AURA-" Nightrunner had bellowed as his revolutions came to a head. In an act of bursting the sphere of blazing blue spiritual energy (or "Rei-ki") swirling around him, Max violently swung his staff in an arc upwards and above him with all of the strength and the speed he could muster, "-SOUNDWAVE!!!!" he shouted the name of his technique upon execution. The motion tore the bubble and threw it into the formation of a crescent shaped wave rocketing across the cobblestone and towards its intended victim – the unfortunately frozen Lennox Macbeth.
Max smiled as he watched his assault race towards the Scotsman, thinking it had been all too long since he had even performed that maneuver in the first place. He had also expected Macbeth to avoid being hit by it entirely, hoping that his opponent would come to his stubborn senses and admit defeat after seeing such a display of power. However, to Ramnarine's own terror, he was astonished to find that Macbeth hadn't moved and inch, provoking Max to even cry out for concern.
"What the hell are you doing?!!!" the Nubian martial artist managed to yell a few seconds before impact would take place, "MOVE!!!" all the while, Ramnarine's concern should have been directed elsewhere as the ground beneath his feet began to eerily glow with the same luster as the Masamune Granddream.
Too immersed in the thought of being consumed by the flaming wave of neon azure filling his view, Nightrunner's last second advisory didn't even register in Macbeth's ears. The intense heat only grew as the spiritual projectile closed in on him, prompting Lennox to sweat more than he had done from the tension of being a sitting duck in the first place. Macbeth's life would have flashed before his eyes right before contact with the "Aura Soundwave", but after facing death so many times today, he just didn't have the energy left to do so again.
Nightrunner decided to take matters into his own hands as he closed his eyes and focused his mind on one simple, yet naturally impossible, objective. When he opened his eyes a moment later, he found that the wave of fiery destruction still coasting after the Scotsman with increasing viscosity.
'Why didn't time st-' he began to ask himself in frantic thought as he looked down. The sight of the mysteriously glowing spot on the cobblestone halted his self-inquiry and the instinct to move overwhelmed him, 'What the hell is this?!!!' unable to move his legs and free his feet from the spot, Ramnarine's brow beaded with sweat as the realization of what was going on slowly hit him.
On the other side of the spectrum and with less than three seconds before he endured a relentless blue hell, Macbeth mentally readied himself for the fury to come. It wouldn't have been the first time that he had faced a hopeless situation, but a literal trial by fire ranked very low on the list of hardships he ever had wanted to face. About to close his eyes in acceptance, they only widened further as Lennox Macbeth witnessed another incredible sight.
Exploding with luminance rivaled only by lightning, the Masamune had manipulated Macbeth into swinging the enigmatic blade into the "Aura Soundwave", instantly transforming it into a massive fireball the size of a sedan and burning pure white. The deflection was as simple as a game-winning homerun, sending it back at Ramnarine at speeds thrice-fold.
Macbeth could only watch in amazement, although control of his body had at last been returned to him and his adversary was left with no choice but to play a human statue. Max Ramnarine still found his legs still locked in place on the magical spot that glued him to the ground he stood upon. He laughed to himself quietly as he put his glasses away in his pants pocket, gazing at the comet of white hot death making a beeline to his position.
'Hoisted by my own-' Nightrunner managed to tell himself with a smirk before the fireball crashed into him, swallowing him while crashing into the fountain behind him.
Upon impact with the spectacle, the Scotsman witnessed its explosion as it shattered the construct and rained water and concrete all over the courtyard. When the last of the debris touched down, all that was left of the fountain was a demolished pool that hosted at its center a geyser of cold water from the wrecked piping where the structure had once stood. Sprawled out in the wreckage of the pool, Macbeth also spotted something else as he began to amble towards ground zero.
Reaching the edge of the demolished pool, the swordsman found exactly what he expected. The body of his adversary, Nightrunner, laid face up in the shallow water as he emanated steam from his still, unconscious form. Macbeth found it as amazing as he did aggravating that the deflected, not to mention, far-more-powerful-than-initially-intended "Aura Soundwave" didn't finish Ramnarine as he'd hoped. It wasn't difficult for the former king of Scots to realize that the water from the fountain must have played a major part protecting Ramnarine from mortal danger. Regardless, the Scotsman could clearly see that Nightrunner would be stirring anytime soon and decided to take advantage of the situation.
"This is not how I wished for your life to end, Nightrunner," Macbeth said remorsefully as he stood over Max's body. His actions however were far less forgiving of Ramnarine as he positioned the tip of the Masamune directly above the heart of it's victim, about to deliver a downward thrust that would surely liquidate the young Nubian, "Despite being a tyrant, every warrior should die on their feet. However, that is a luxury I cannot afford and one you clearly do not deserve..." the Scotsman raised the blade slightly, giving him more leverage for the final blow.
"Mar sin leibh, Maximillian..." with his final farewell said, Lennox Macbeth wasted no more time and commenced with the execution.
The repeat of this happenstance was enough to make him almost grind his teeth to their breaking point. Finding himself locked in a frozen position again, Macbeth stood above his prey with the tip of the glowing Masamune touching the fibers of the shirt that stood between it and the heart of Max Ramnarine. Things only grew weirder as the light of the Masamune exploded washing over everything in sight with it's brilliance. As the sword vanished from the Scotsman's hands, he felt himself being pulled upwards as the magical luminescence condensed into a column of light with him at the center and stretching towards the heavens. Having no control over what was happening, Lennox found himself the total prisoner of the phenomenon as he floated upward to destinations unknown. The entire event lasted for only a few moments and ended as the column and Macbeth faded from sight and into the night sky, leaving his scream of helplessness and terror to echo across the valley.
Her screaming broke the silence that had settled in the room while her fingers clawed into bed sheets and her hands grasped whatever linen laid within reach. Completely disoriented by awakening in a strange bed and mentally unprepared for the transformation she was enduring, Demona still managed to push herself up from the soft mattress of which she was soundly sleeping upon moments before.
Directly in front of the bed, a few feet away and sitting in reverse on a chair, Ramnarine brushed the towel that was draped over his soaked mop of braids from his eyesight to get another good look at her torturous metamorphosis. Covering up the cut that he received from the Masamune, he had dressed his left forearm and the back of that hand with gauze and ace bandages. They appeared to be applied with the care and expertise of someone who had practiced it often.
Max was not one to have compassion for this woman, but realizing that she went through this agony on a daily basis did coerce him into feeling a brief moment of sympathy for the now-human Demona. Just as her transformation came to an end, the redhead collapsed back onto the bed in absolute exhaustion.
"I never get tired of seeing that..." Max smirked as he jested about her painful experience. The sound of his smug voice inspires Demona to turn onto her back despite the agony of moving even slightly, "one of these days, you've gotta' tell me exactly why a gargoyle that hates humans so much changes into one during the day. Seems like one big cosmic joke, if you ask me," he teased with a lecherous smile that only annoyed her more as she groggily sat up.
"No one did," she sharply retorted with all of the disdain her tired voice could muster, shortly before she noticed her current state of being.
"Aren't you cold?" he asked as Demona reeled in shock about her over-exposure, pulling the blanket quickly over her torso while blushing about her embarrassment. It tickled the perverted Ramnarine pink and couldn't imagine that fiery woman he faced off with hours ago could be so sheepish, "Hey, now...there's nothing there you should be ashamed of, darling. To be honest, most chicks would be envious of what you have," hanging over the back of the chair that he leaned forward against, he grabbed a t-shirt that was draped over it and tossed it casually.
Unfortunately, it parachuted onto her head and face thanks to her being too preoccupied with covering up to catch it. Max could see the hellish red glow of her furious glare emanating through the white t-shirt, which only made him snicker inappropriately. Totally frustrated at the awkwardness of it all, Demona dove underneath the sheets to slip into the clothing he offered her, additionally pissed that she was taking charity from a human. While underneath, she was relieved to find that at least her loincloth was still intact.
"It's not too hard to figure how long you were out," Max added, finding her rustling under the sheets rather humorous, "with your sunrise wake-up ca-"
"My clothes!" she snapped upon her sudden emergence from the depths of linen, "What did you do with them?!" Demona demanded of him.
"It's no surprise that you don't remember…" he said, "being knocked unconscious can do that. What was the last thing you do remember?" Ramnarine watched as the wheels in Demona's mind began to turn and rewind her last memory of their confrontation. After a few seconds, he began to give up hope that she retained any of it until she unexpectedly spoke.
"You hit me with something…" she recollected looking off to the side as she scanned her memories, "what I remember was your hand…" at that moment she slowly returned her eyes to him with an expression of fear and curiosity as the picture in her mind became clear.
"It was on fire…" Demona couldn't believe what she was saying, but that was exactly what she remembered from the night before, "…not regular flames either…They were blue…"
"You mean-" Ramnarine pointed the index finger of his left hand upward as a plume of his trademark "rei-ki" materialized above it, "-like this?" Much like the pilot light of a gas stove, the flame burned brightly and the sight of it left Demona speechless – but only for a few moments.
"Is that sorcery?" she finally found the ability to speak, asking the very question he predicted.
"Not at all. Magic and I don't have the best of relationships to begin with," he admitted, although the meaning behind his words were a complete mystery to her, "besides, sorcery is far too unpredictable a force to rely on, if you don't mind me saying."
"Then how in the world are you doing that?" Demona clearly wanted to know and wasn't hiding her interest in the slightest, surprising Ramnarine in the process. He could see that her eagerness to learn the answer was also bordering on impatience.
"Easy now, I was just about to tell you," he remarked as the flame suddenly vanished, leaving behind a phantom trail of smoke that in turn dissipated into thin air. The wonder in her eyes faded a bit on its departure but once he started talking again, Ramnarine had her full attention.
"All living beings emit a spiritual energy, or 'rei-ki', as it's said in Japanese," explained Max, "not to get too technical, but with enough practice and the right training, most anyone can tap into theirs and manipulate it into a tangible form that can be used in different ways. For instance, I can turn mine into flames when I fight, but I can use my rei-ki to heal injuries of people other than myself. Not extreme ones, but cuts and broken bones aren't difficult for me to mend at all.
"It was something I had considered passing along to you and Macbeth if I went along with what the 'girls' had to commissioned me to do," Ramnarine continued, "and judging from how our meeting went down yesterday, you two don't have much of a clue what that is exactly."
"I remember you speaking about those 'witches' hiring you to train Macbeth and I to work together," she recalled, looking around the room, "what did you do with him, anyway?"
"Not a damn thing," Max said, perturbed at her insinuation while keeping what happened between the Scotsman and him as vague as possible, "we had a falling out and he went his own way. Mac did leave me with this memento, though…" Ramnarine pointed her attention to the bandaged wound on his arm, grinning at his misfortune, "he actually was able to come a lot closer to taking me out than you were."
"I'm sure it was entirely luck," she dismissed his souvenir as well as the idea that Macbeth could be skilled enough to pull off such a feat, "so, are you saying that you would teach us how to properly use our…how did you say it? 'Ray-chee'?" she said with a bit of enthusiasm in her voice.
"Close enough…" Max sighed at her attempt at phonetically pronouncing "rei-ki", "I considered it, but at this point, I'm not sure if I should."
"And why the hell not?" Demona was quick to ask, somewhat offended at his apprehension.
"You've got to be kidding," Max slid the towel off of his head, hanging it over the back of the chair he sat backwards on, "When Macbeth was part of the equation, it may have not been such a bad idea since he's the only person around that can stop you permanently. But without him there to help keep things balanced, I'd only be helping to create a monster."
"I resent that, Nightrunner," Demona countered, pretending as if her feelings were hurt. It was obvious, however, that it was for the most part a sarcastic act in response to his harsh opinion, "don't act like you know me, because you have no idea who I am."
"Yesterday's first impression was enough, thanks," Max smirked in spite of his last experience with her, "Ask yourself a question. Would you help to develop a human that hated gargoyles as much as you despise humans into a genocidal weapon of mass destruction?" he waited for a response but after seeing the change in her demeanor from defiant to submissive, he knew he wouldn't get an answer that mattered, "Exactly. At least with Macbeth on the same learning curve, I'd have an ace in the hole if in the rare chance your skills did surpass mine."
"Do you…think I have that kind of potential?" in a surprising turn in character, the usually indomitable Demona revealed a hint of humility in her words, "I know it isn't any secret that I don't care at all for your kind, but you can't begin to understand what I've been through or for how long."
"Try me…" Max retorted, leaning against the back of the chair again with arms folded, "I'm all ears."
"Can a mortal like you could ever comprehend how it is to live an endless life under constant persecution? An entire planet dedicated to the extinction of your race and being the only one alive that can save them," Ramnarine had never seen Demona as sincere as she was relaying her plight to him, "everyday, I have lived with my back against the wall protecting myself and my scattered people, so if there is something I can learn or do in order to tip the scales in our favor, I will do whatever it takes to make that happen.
"Even if it is admitting defeat to a human," she said with a heavy heart, "and becoming his student…or worse…"
"Worse?" Max asked, curious about what she meant, "Elaborate on that."
"I've already seen your handy work on the human the old fool and I buried on the way here," Demona explained as Max tried to make sense of it all, "you imprisoned a woman named-"
"Jasmine-" they both said simultaneously, with Max asking her name and sliding his hand over his face in mild frustration.
"Yes…'Jasmine', that was her name," the redhead went on, saying her name with the least bit of respect for the dead, "when I think back, I remember seeing burn marks on her body, including some in the shape of handprints. The violations you humans inflict upon each other-"
"Wait…wait…wait…I can explain…" Max sighed in defeat.
"Is that so?" Demona asked, slightly curious.
"Hell no, I can't," Max snapped, startling Demona for a moment, "it feels like the hundredth time that I've said this today, but I never heard about this Jasmine before until you two came waltzing into my home. Not that you believe me, but I had nothing to do with torturing any woman. Period."
"I honestly don't care," Demona admitted much to Ramnarine's chagrin, "the skeletons in your closet are yours to keep. But I meant it when I said that I'll do what it takes to get what I want," the femme fatale crawled from underneath the sheets with feline grace as she advanced towards the foot of the bed where his chair rested, "Being that I can't take your tutelage by force, I have no choice but to reduce myself to your whims," she spoke ever so sensually as she reached the end of the king-sized mattress, "whatever those may be…"
"Really?" Ramnarine said with a lecherous grin that disturbed her momentarily. However, she slipped back into her seductive gaze quickly, trying to play off her self-disgust of how low she had sunk.
"Anything…" she said in a breathless voice, summoning every ounce of charm and lust she could muster for a human in her bedroom eyes. Quite honestly, this was the single hardest act she had ever performed in her extremely long life.
"You're serious about this 'rei-ki' stuff, aren't you, baby?" he teased as he appeared to be interested. Her answer was only a simple nod, desperately holding her tongue in fear of revealing how much animosity she had towards this proposal. Little did she know that she would soon find release from the turmoil raging inside her, "Too bad I'm not into redheads, 'Scarlet'-"
"What?!" infuriated, Demona asked as her real feelings breached her act and rose to the surface.
"-otherwise I just might have taken you up on that offer," Max finished his statement with a smile that delighted in her disappointment, "Seriously, though, it comes down to one factor. You hate humans. I can't bring myself to empower a racist, no matter how tempting."
"What are you so afraid of?!" she questioned him as her blood boiled, "Are you that scared I might defeat you-" he suddenly tossed the chair aside as she could see a flash of rage in his eyes. Overwhelming her with the pressure of pure intimidation, Demona backpedaled on the bed until she found herself against the headboard, all the while followed by Ramnarine as he crawled after her on the bed and never broke his eyesight with hers.
"This goes without saying, but I have loved ones that just HAPPEN to be human," he spoke sternly, "I won't endanger them making them easier prey for your 'ethnic cleansing'. Of all of the things you actually remembered you forget to mention that I told you we had met before yesterday. From that experience alone, I have all the reason I need to not teach you anything," he grabbed her shivering wrist, locking it tightly in his hand but not squeezing it painfully. Demona was too enraptured in fear to fight back, believing that it was this kind of intimidation that Jasmine was probably subject too.
There was a strong feeling of Déjà vu that she couldn't shake when she peered into his furious eyes, as if she had gazed into that same glare of animosity another time in the distant past. The same phenomenon had hit her when she squared off with Ramnarine the night before, except that this time the feeling was impossible to ignore.
"Answer this question honestly for me," Nightrunner subtlety commanded, "and before you bullshit me, know that I already know the answer. Insult me with a lie and whatever slim chances you had to learn anything from me are finished," increasing the tension he leaned in slightly further as she found the heart to nod, "in all of your years, have you ever killed any humans that were unable to defend themselves?"
Demona couldn't explain it, but the striking anxiety she felt in the company of a menacing Nightrunner slowly faded as her own ire came into fruition. Confidence washed over her face as determination filled her eyes and she returned a stare of contempt. She smiled rebelliously as she honored his request and told him nothing but the truth-
"Do onto others as they do unto you," Demona snatched her wrist out of his forceful grip as she returned as much disdain as he gave, "those are words that you humans live by, right? Just as they shattered my people as they lay defenseless in stone sleep, I've returned the favor over the years. I'm not ashamed of what I've done to survive and I'll continue to stab your kind in the back until you no longer exist!" she seethed with eloquence. Seconds passed as both of them continued their glare-off in silence, finally not exchanging any words but both searching for something vulnerable in the other.
"I see…" Ramnarine was the first to withdraw, sliding off of the bed and walking over to the chair he knocked over, setting it upright again, "you'll find a few new outfits hanging near the entrance of the wardrobe closet right next to the bathroom," he pointed across the room to the sections in question but kept his back turned to Demona, "I'm sure I got your measurements right, but if not you can tell me tonight when we meet up."
"Where exactly will that be?" Demona inquired as she observed him walking over to his dresser and grabbing a navy blue windbreaker lying atop it.
"Behind this estate you'll find a waterfall and lake," he explained, donning the jacket that he acquired, "I'll rendezvous with you there at midnight with a decision about your training. Until then, get washed up and do what you want," as he straightened out the collar of his windbreaker, Max Ramnarine made his way to the door of his room as he looked to leave.
"Wait!" Demona pushed herself off the bed in hopes to pursue him, "Where are you going?" the sprightly redhead sprinted after him as he exited the room, closing the door behind him. It only took her a few seconds to cross the room and jolt into the hallway, but despite her haste, Nightrunner was nowhere to be found, "Mysterious bastard…" she cursed as she returned to the bedroom.
Demona leaned on the door after shutting it behind her, staring into the bathroom and catching sight of a luxurious tub that laid in waiting for her. A long soak would help wash away some of the vexation she experienced at the hands of Macbeth and Ramnarine that day, she thought. Without further ado, the redhead strolled inside the chambers of the bourgeois washroom with a smile of satisfaction, closing the door with the casual kick of her foot.
Downstairs, Nightrunner stopped at courtyard center as a cool breeze tickled the roses around him, carrying their fragrance. He reached into the pocket of his windbreaker as he removed something special from inside its contents.
'She did a great job with the fountain', Max remarked in thought as he took a moment to admire a miracle. The fountain that was utterly destroyed in Macbeth's counterattack hours before had been restored to its former glory as if never ruined to begin with. He opened his right hand to reveal what he had been carrying – a golden pendant made with an enchanting and ornate design. He held it up above his view of the fountain, staring at it intently, 'now for the million dollar question…
'How in the hell did Demona get this?...'