Akuma - The Village At the End of the World

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Description: Compelled by the whispers of his patron, the punk icon Crock goes hunting for the Raging Demon and has the misfortune of finding him.


That's the sound that pierces the ruins of the village. It comes from a brown-skinned man, dressed in ragged jeans, black for the pants, green for the jacket vest. A red mohawk of long dreads sticks from his otherwise shaved head. Hung around his neck by a strap was a rusted electric guitar, dinged up and scratched far from its red paint. His ragged combat boots kicking up dust with every step, he clings to a handle of hard, cheap baiju, aggressively taking swigs as he walks down the old town road. And between each swig, comes the same word. "Fuck." It was a constant fucking that poured from his mouth, the punk looking around. The scuttlebutt TOLD him where he would find him. Akuma. The raging demon. But there had been a lot of false starts so far. A lot of caves and islands, a lot of desolation. But no Raging Demon. The word from the priest man was that he was doing good but he needed to seek out the Raging Demon. He had to. He was vital in the end times. HE had to be. But Crock? Well. He liked the location, the blasted out village. This -was- his vision after all. The end times. THe destruction of civilization. He could handle this, he wanted to handle this. But he takes another long, slow swig, his heart trembling in fear if this lead actually played out. What happens when he finds him? What happens to him? What happens to HIM? He stops, taking a longer swig this time. Pulling it from his lips, he gives a gasp.


From the howling darkness beneath the skin of the world, they called.

Through mountain valleys and across oceans, they called.

Down in the molten bowels of a volcano, they called,
and the Raging Demon listened.

Once, there was a village hidden in the remote depths of a forest evolved beyond base mortality. Once, there was a god of storms who sheltered it in his harsh and loving embrace.

And once, there was an emperor of sin who brought it all crashing down in roaring fire and steel.

In the ashen hollow of that blasted oasis, the Demon tastes the Devil on his tongue and rolls it against his palate. At his feet, about half of a bloated, distended manikin of sticks and mud - a creepy doll meant to thrill little children with a safe, huggable image of the strange soft hairless creatures who lived beyond the village - stares up at him with a gleaming obsidian eye and wide, dead smile. Three out of four walls hide him from casual view; measured breaths and meditative focus shroud his spirit from higher senses.

And yet--

-- the closer Crock comes--

-- the louder he FUCKs--

-- the more the world seems to rhythmically contract from his proximity, then expand back into its natural shape with each passing moment.

Each breath.

Each step taken towards walls that refused to fall, as if they knew they'd have one last soul to house before their time was done.


".... Hm."


-- In--

-- -- Out--

-- -- In--

Crock's mouth is dry, as he feels the jolt of pressure.

He stumbles, almost mindlessly following the oppressive nope radiating from within the heart of the village. His instincts tell him fear. Crock takes the fear, and turn it into hate. Contempt. Rage. Every step he takes, his terror was feeding a building anger. It's so small. It had to be small. But the tanned punk felt small. It's just another cockroach scuttling across the planet. Deep within, there was the faint flame of the forbidden power. But it was faint. Crock shuts his eyes a moment, trying to draw from his rage as he approaches. It's there. It's not empty. It's there. The rumors were true. His body begins to freeze up. He takes another swig, and swallows miserably.

Glowering, he -screams-

"HEY! FUCKER! What's your name, I might be LOOKING FOR A FUCKER LIKE YOU!" He doesn't wait for a proper response. HE feels the rhythm of the earth, the inhalation of exhalation. And he rejects it. He takes another swig.

And he spits it in the direction of the Raging Demon, before hurling the bottle in the same direction.

"I said what's your NAME shithead!"

It isn't that he catches the bottle.

That's not so unusual, really: it's a bottle.

And /whoever/ this shithead is, the gi and prayer beads and gloomy surroundings suggest some degree of martial training-- either that, or an extreme degree of cosplay.

So catching a drunken punk's hurled debris? Not a particularly big deal.

What's important here is:

The moment the glass touches his palm, the baijiou spray freezes in mid-air, inches or less from the earth.

What's important here is:

Baijiu is 110-proof. Baijiu is flammable, and each individual mote of the stuff bursts into vivid purple flames, forming a scintillating arc that terminates a few feet from Crock's lips.

What's important here is that the fucker Crock might be looking for looks AT him, head turning at an agonizingly slow pace until a single thrumming eye's locked upon the ophidian punk.

What's important is that fear and hate are just different vintages of the same blood-red wine seething in Akuma's belly.

"Hrrrm," rumbles deep within his throat and the world pulses in time with it.

That baleful eye then turns away; the mercy of /telling/ Crock that he may leave might just be a waste of valuable time spent in contempla--

"Your blood boils with misbegotten power, little serpent," he flatly observes, each word resonating down to the bone.

Fear to hate.

He tries to stand up to the surging flames. He's fought people before. He was able to annoy Heihachi. But Heihachi was a corporate whore. He was a piece of trash. He was everything he hated, the keystone cog in the vast machine that was devouring the planet. But this was- this felt like he was hunting an animal. A beast. AS the jet comes at him, his composure breaks. Almost instinctively, almost as an infantile reaction, Crock averts his eyes. He begins to strum on his guitar, the electric instrument silent. "So you can sp-speak English y-you- yo-"

Water builds in his eyes.

Turning away more, he stares down, his finger tips strumming faster and faster, soundlessly. "I'm not a FUCKING SNAKE! The name is Crock! That's C-Rock, f-fuck- fuckhead." His voice drops, then stops. Crock was trying to swallow, swaying, trying to get his composure back. Eventually, he can barely bring his eyes up, surging with contempt amongst his quivering fear. A chest is thrust forward, a chin raised as he snarls. "I asked for your name you lion-headed -FUCK!- -FUCK!- Were you born that FUCKING UGL- Ugl- ugly- See, I'm looking for some RAGING DEMON SHITHEAD named AKUMA so I can BEAT his FUCKING HEAD IN!" His voice cracks, but the shrill chokes continue. "So either you're that SHITHEAD and you're being a FUCKING PUSSY, or maybe you aren't. Are you -AFRAID- of me? Are you SCARED?" Crock doesn't move, his knees trembling. His face twitches slightly, as his stomach begins to heave. He was trying so hard not to vomit. ANd if he needed to?

He'd have to aim for his target, wouldn't he.

Akuma's nostrils flare.

The world around him -- around them -- shrinks, drawn into the bottomless well of fury in his breast.

"I speak the language of destruction, little pebble."

The world /flees/ when he exhales, rushing to snap back into the illusion of safety and calm.

"... and thus far, your accent renders you unintelligible. /Go/."

The only move he makes is to crouch and scoop that manikin girl from the wreckage, cradling her like a child with glass skin. The air twitches, distorts, then starts to writhe in the heat that leaks from his spirit as his interest turns from the man gamely playing at bravery towards the doll that played at being a girl.

"This is a place of death and punishment, fangless one. Whatever you came here seeking, that is ALL that you will find."

Another breath in--

-- and out.

Another measured look brimming with fire.

"Who will sing for C-Rock," he wonders, soft and seething, "when he's naught but a screaming memory...?"

Who will sing for Crock?

Crock continues to strum mindlessly, desperately. Silence. Silence from it all. He winces, his cowardice revealing itself with every twitch, every breath. This was an insect, a worm on the carcass of weakness. He was shrinking into a simpering heap, cringing down as the pure weight of the Raging Demon was threatening to simply -crush- him by presence alone. "G-g-good! Because all I -want- is DEATH and DESTRUCTION." The insult comes off as more of a whine. THe only thing that was keeping him here was the cheap liquor courage. He needed liquid courage. He snarls, scratching at the scar on his forehead with one hand, tears running down his cheeks. "I want your HATE. I want you- I want it from you! But you got to take it from me- I-"

And suddenly, a sound begins.

It draws deep from within the earth, a cacophony. A deep drone, humming with a cataclysmic baritone. The guitar begins to sing, the voice of the planet, or something deep within the planet coming forth. An unseen wave of energy passes out from him, a wave of dissonance. IN a flash, Crock's fear fades, as his very bones begin to tremble from the rising strength. "Oh... Oh FUCK YEAH. YEAH. YEAH! Oh -FUCK- do you feel that?" He coos, Crock suddenly gripping the neck of his guitar as the energy flows deep. The wave was coming back. Crock was waiting with anticipation as he stares back at Akuma, finally and truly stares into the Raging Demon as that strange power deep within was now blazing at the surface. Earth and Sound. The echo now returning back.


He feels that.

He feels it, and - worse still - he responds by turning like an ancient statue that only just learned /how/, to face Crock in full for the first time.

"... ah," falls from his lips once his eyes set squarely on Crock's.

"The Serpent bellows..."

Even worse than a smile, Akuma makes no expression at all; his joy in the face of destruction simply /is/, radiant and cruel.

"... and in its echo, the pebble has found a voice."

Akuma makes no further movement at all; his readiness simply /is/, distorting and raw.

"Very well, C-Rock:"

Akuma makes no further movement at all; he simply ceases to be.

"Now that you've struck the first note, allow me the pleasure of reveling in your final dirge!" echoes all throughout the ruined hut.

COMBATSYS: Akuma has started a fight here.

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Akuma            0/-------/-------|

COMBATSYS: Crock has joined the fight here.

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Akuma            0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0            Crock

The wave was coming back.

Crock stares into the shifting form, the raw, reality breaching power of the Raging Demon before him. Crock was going to die. He saw the death, it wrapped around him. BUt the fear was descending into madness and power. The strength filling his blood. Shuddering, he keeps playing, his eyes becoming bloodshot as his stomach spasms. "PEBBLED? Fuck I'm STONED SHITHEAD! FUCK YOU AND YOUR NOISE!" Crock snarls, as the wave comes back at him.

And he slams his hand on the guitar again.

Once again, the sound rips through the air, shuddering the earth. The hut shakes now, as the shockwave continues to pass out to the distance, rattling the other ruined buildings before it cascades to the distance. He still continues to strum as he looks at Akuma, his entire body trembling. But his expression was almost lustful, manic. Panicked. He babbles, as he is exposed, waiting for the echo to return home. "Snake! Serpent! He wants you! HE NEEDS YOU! You have to- THE MARK OF THE SERPENT! You SEE HIM! Taste him. HEAR HIM!" Ranting, as fear and madness seizes into action. Inaction? He is blind to Akuma, as his hate radiates. "Tear me OPEN and TASTE his BLOOD! Let it FLOW and BREED with the promise of the ULTIMATE VIOLENCE! These are not my words, FUCKFACE!" FInally, his mouth waters. Finally, the drool comes up over his piercings as he vomits, he vomits over himself as he strums. HEaving, he keeps the strumming, as the buildings begin to rattle again. The echo returning. IT was becoming stronger. Still heaving, he forces out the words. "FUCK! FUCK! I- WORDS! WORDS! Don't you want it?"


They could /never/ be /his/ words. Crock is a musician; a gutter punk who strokes the ids of screaming fans the world over when he isn't busy fighting for the sheer, ribald joy of it.

The Serpent is the Serpent, an ancient check on the ambitions of mad gods and arrogant humanity.

The one could no more speak for the other than an ant could invest in stocks; than a flood could wash over a village and leave it dry;

Than a Raging Demon could countenance a tasting the blood of a punk without the seasoning that Serpentine menace brings.

"You are but a vessel, C-Rock."

Each word comes with a flickering image of the Demon bouncing around every angle of the other man's perception-- save for the last.

That one's right behind him.

"Richard Hensley," he whispers in the guitar strangler's ear. The name's punctuated with a ripple of infernal muscle terminating in a violent forward thrust, driving a steel-hard palm towards the base of Richard's spine.

"The Lure of Orochi."

COMBATSYS: Akuma successfully hits Crock with Ashura Rengoku.

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Akuma            0/-------/-----==|=====--\-------\0            Crock

IT's the name 'Richard' that hits as hard as the blow to his spine.

Crock can't keep up. It's physically impossible for him to keep up. He doesn't even recognize the impact when it comes, the name still rattling in his ears. He doesn't even get knocked away, as a faint whimper is released. Collapsing to his knees, he falls over face down, prostrate before Akuma as he lets out a whine. An automatic response, followed by a heaving whimper, as his body crumples. Breathing hard, the wave of sonic energy cascades back. He grips his guitar with one hand. He digs it down, to push himself up.

"I'm not a FUCKING DICK!" Crock suddenly shrieks as the wave surges at him. Something broke the madness. A personal insult, and EGO in that sea of purpose. He can't steady himself out, as his bones suddenly jolt, threatening to explode in his very body. Feebly, he moans as he slam a crab hammer fist down. Once again, the echo is unleashed again, the hut shuddering down, buildings cracking as the wave grows even stronger. But the punk staggers up, his back cracked, his spine barely able to keep him up as his tone shifts. "I'm CROCK! I'm C-ROCK! I'm not some FUCKING DICK!" He repeats again, a strange force pulling out from inside. "I'm the MOST IMPORTANT GOD DAMN THING ON THIS PLANET! Better than YOU! Better than the FUCKING DEMON LADY! I'm the GOD DAMN REAPER!" He suddenly grips his guitar and slashes bloodied fingertips across the strings. The earth yawns, the timing off as the area right before him, right where Akuma should be- had to be explodes into a hornet's nest of stone shards, the blast of the earth ripping upwards before collapsing into a shallow pit. There was no sound now, no moan of the guitar.

For the drone was surging back again, the very earth shaking with this next pass.

COMBATSYS: Akuma endures Crock's Howling Hole The Whole Wall.

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Akuma            0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0            Crock


-- -- and out.

Akuma's left foot slides from his right while the earth quakes beneath them. The hut crumbles, a terrestrial cacophony which culminates in a billowing sigh of pulverized stone.

The world melts underfoot,

and Akuma breathes, weathering the storm with the grace of a lion perched on the cusp of a kill. Earthen shards shallowly embed in his body from ankles to neck without a drop of blood; one rippling salvo of flexing muscles later, they crumble out of place and shatter on the ground.

"You are sound and fury in search of meaning," cuts through the haze of disaster.

"You are boiling venom in need of fangs," reverberates in the ruins.

"You are a refrain desperate for a verse." renders the cloud a swirl of dust, revealing ragged holes in a gi blacker than Heihachi Mishima's heart.

"And here you stand, howling."

One sandaled foots mounts the edge of the pit.


The other plants itself just beyond.

"Strumming your eight measures of emptiness ad infinitum."

With or without the Serpent in his ear, coiled around his soul, Crock can track the blur of motion that leaves Akuma looming eye to eye with the Duke of the Debased, skirting the edges of perception.

He can /feel/ the breath escape Akuma's nostrils,
and the sneering curl of his upper lip.

"Tell me, little serpent; puppet minstrel; pebble of violence: what possessed you to seek the hand of the Demon...?"

/This/ hand, the cupped right one he raises demonstratively in the space between them.

The one which snaps towards towards Crock's sternum heel first.

"What whispers beneath the earth compelled you to search for your own end with such ZEAL?"

COMBATSYS: Crock blocks Akuma's Fierce Punch.

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Akuma            0/-------/----===|=======\-------\0            Crock

It wasn't the right gift.

Lashing out, energy flows. BUt it's not tainted by the strange power. No. And he was already moving. There was no way Crock could humble this demon. BUt he wasn't meant to humble him. But the rage lashes out. "Stop FUCKING telling me about ME! FUCKFACE!" Was the best he can rebutt with as the staggering force comes. For once, Crock's instincts serve to protect him, and the guitar comes up. The metal frame takes the full brunt, the impact cracking his bones and ripping his flesh. BUt he's not destroyed, as his spine screams.

His guitar is though.

For a moment, fear comes as the shockwave begins to roll in. The energy below was surging up, and now, it was clear it was too much for the punk. It was destroying him, his skeleton starting to splinter within as the deep tones run through it. A groan comes, as he takes the two halves of the guitar, held together by the strings. Crock drags his foot on the base, and tears his fingers across it. He begins strumming, as the cacophony howls all around him. He plays, as the sound of the planet washes over him. The echo is unleashed again, as the bricks and mortar and wood and glass is sent whirling around, the village now utter remains, even the doll was becoming ripped to pieces, the wave unfocuses but towering. And he speaks.

"I hate this world, fucker."

He growls, transparently exposing why he would throw himself at one of the most dangerous forces of nature on this planet. "This whole planet has this human virus, this DISEASE that is driven by the OLIGARCHS that RAPE this world for PENNIES and POWER! Spewing RANCID POISON, a heaving choking VENOM to ROT in their CONCRETE MONOLITH, those IMPRISONING SPIRES that drive like STAKES in her FLESH. I want it to end. I want it ALL to END, those SCUTTLING BEETLES in the CORPSE of SOCIETY, to BRING us ALL into the BEASTS we OUGHT TO BE! To be those animals, to be free. I want this maggot ridden mistake to all end. And so. I present the gift from the one who sent me." The wall of noise comes howling back, the deafening sound rolling like a tsunami upon what was left of the village. Crock stands fast, tearing his nails across the makeshift sitar as he struggles to keep the power from imploding his very body.


COMBATSYS: Crock charges his next attack!

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Akuma            0/-------/----===|=======\=------\1            Crock

"The rage of a wounded planet SINGS through your veins...!"

Akuma's eyes bleed raw, incandescent murder; at no time is this more true than when they fly wide, whether in shock, rage, or something worse.

Like now.

Like this moment when screaming realization his lips back far enough to bare sharpened canines.

"Perhaps you aren't a pebble after all-- perhaps you're no mere garter snake--"

Akuma breathes in. Anchored by the barely-coherent fury of the Earth harnessed by sheer, rebellious FURY, Crock finds himself in the eye of push-and-pull: the world gently shudders, but it neither contracts nor flees.

"-- perhaps you are a clay serpent straining for purity in the burning heart of He who made you. Is that it, C-Rock...?"



Each iteration's quieter than the last until a two whispered syllables ring like gunshots in a village filled with ghosts.

"/Is/ it?"

Akuma's eyes bleed raw, incandescent murder; at no time is this more true than when every last lumen beyond them's swallowed up by the writhing darkness pouring from the Demon's heart. Bronzed feet spread and stone-bared knees bend; pure, killing shade roils around his body, reaching greedily for a taste of the warmth and life thrumming so temptingly beyond Akuma's grasp.

"/SHOW ME/ the measure of a boy cast in the image of Orochi, or be shattered and left on your maker's floor with the rest of His failures...!"

COMBATSYS: Akuma enters the iron horse stance, red chi rising from him...!!!

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Akuma            0/-------/-======|=======\=------\1            Crock

Crock continues to build in the face of the Raging Demon's own power.

The words of Akuma disgusted Crock instinctively. He could never understand his disgust, only the raw reaction of those who acted superior, who acted stronger, who acted wiser or better. It was the instinct that drove his rebellion against the world, that drove his rebellion against everything and anything. THe raging contempt that hissed from his breath. But as the wave returns, as he stares into the yawning abyss of the shadow of Killing Intent, he grips the remains of his guitar, making the wind up. As the sheer force of energy finally returns, the last wave, he shrieks over the noise.





And he tears across the strings.

All the energy is captured, trapped into a narrow bolt of pure sonic force as Crock begins to play, begins to harness the escalating energy. Stones rise, shards whirl. It thrusts hard, moving in motion with Crock's own thrust as the cacophonic surge attempts to stun Akuma, to try and carry him up...

COMBATSYS: Akuma fails to interrupt Empowered You're Harmful To Minors Mister Yuck from Crock with Empowered Gou Shoryuken.

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Akuma            0/-------/=======|===----\-------\0            Crock

... And the music begins to play.

Carrying Akuma up into the sky, the song of the planet roars, whirling around as Crock begins to play. The music unleashes from his body, from his soul, from the very bones of the punk musician. Weaving the notes and cacophony, the unhallowed din pours directly into Akuma's body and soul as stone shards whirl and whirl, a shattering hornets nest of stones mingling with the riotous. The song of the planet screams. It screams and screams as finally, the music stops. The energy releases Akuma, as Crock collapses, the remains of his guitar falling down. He falls to his knees, his bloodied, rended fingers digging to the earth. The song ends. THe music stops. Crock breathes hard, vomiting on the ground. The song had ended. BUt that spark, that flame, the sound had a new home now.

Deep within, Akuma would begin to hear the foul power deep within him now too.

Faced with the rage of a dying planet, Akuma breaks from his iron horse stance into a lunging sprint with every intention of meeting it head-on. Dark violet fire swaths his fist well before he's in range of Crock; his knees begin to bend--

-- and as all good songs do, Crock's sweeps him from his feet and captures him in its thrall. Rocketing up a column of pure infernal ultrasonics, Akuma's body twists and writhes against buffeting sound, living fury, and the venom seeping into his blood.

Daring his heart to pump, to spread hatred with its every rebellious beat.

Mingling with Killing Intent to brew something old and terrible which drives pulsing veins to the surface of his skin and fills them with crimson chi.


Akuma's eyes bleed raw, incandescent murder.

"-- rrrrrgggh--!"

At no time is this more true than when the Serpent's teeth sink deeply into his soul. Bloody radiance sweeps the village in broad, opposing swaths; spit stretches and flies from widely bared canines.


A /scream/ inspires full retreat from the world around he and Crock.

The Killer and the Punk.

The Patron and the Muse.

The Demon, wreathed in swiftly building layers of violet chi which render him a roaring comet-- just in time for the song to reach a crescendo and leave him at his apex.

The Serpent, vomiting up the stress of being truly HEARD by the prick foolish enough to dismiss him.

Crock was still retching, as Akuma's wrath rises.
He struggles, the wet heaves turning dry as he finally whimpers. The music stopped. His power was gone. The sound was gone and worst of all, he was.... Unarmed. He touches the remains of his guitar His back. His body. And his arms. Face. Hands. He struggles to rise up. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, blood smears in the bile. He was trembling, as the full force of presence descends over him. The spark of Orochi was, for the moment , gone. He was exposed, helpless. He grips the dust on the ground. Looking up at the demon of wrath before him, he impotently tosses the dirt at him.


For a few brief and terrible seconds, there is NOTHING beyond the Demon, the Serpent, and the swiftly approaching clash one means to engineer with the other. In the moments before impact, Akuma pulls his right fist back and the violent light shrouding him swirls towards it, coursing across the steel-corded lines of his muscles until every last erg is concentrated in his palm-- until all that's left is a radiant red band rippling from his eyes while a crash becomes an EXPLOSION of burning, violet rage potent enough to scoop out a deep bowl of Earth around the two.

Amidst the unfurling dome of destruction, those eyes ever so slowly tilt 'til they're screwed unerringly upon Crock.

COMBATSYS: Akuma knocks away Crock with Misogi.

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Akuma            0/-------/-------|=======\=====--\1            Crock

In that brief moment, Crock is almost, finally alone.

There is no society. No iron pillars and concrete towers. No boots marching down, no parasites, no rot. There is no sound, no Orochi. No rivals, no distractions. For a moment, Crock is almost entirely alone. There is only darkness. There is only Akuma.

And there is only pain.

Crock will never forget the pain. It is the pain of all his sins flayed from within. Torn apart with every fist, ripped messily out before returning again. And again. And again. Through the darkness . There is a sound. It was not the sound of the planet. It was not the sound of Orochi.

It is the sound of Crock's own screams.

There is more pain, then light. Shadow shapes as Crock collapses in a heap. His eyes was open but he couldn't see through the endless pain. He was collapsed by the remains of that clay doll, that shape. His body... How contorted was he? Why wouldn't he die? There are pieces inside him of metal, stone, and wood. Nails? He can't move. But he screams, he cannot stop screaming. Agony. The purest form.of agony, as he tries to writhe. Anything to stop the pain. It doesn't stop. It can't stop. Crock surrenders to the pain, to the darkness. He shrieks one last times, before he collapses into the nightmare of himself, the agony of darkness and pain.


COMBATSYS: Crock takes no action.

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Akuma            0/-------/-------|

COMBATSYS: Crock can no longer fight.

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Akuma            0/-------/-------|

Once more, Akuma falls still.

It takes time for the lingering light of murder to fade; longer still for the smoke to clear.

And through it all, he grips Crock by the throat.

He is crouched, breathing heavier than at any point thus far today.

He is /smoldering/, violet light shot through with red clay fury in seething bands sizzling the air around he and Crock.

And his eyes are /locked/ upon the screaming punk. There's nobody home but the consequences of Crock's actions; Akuma gazes at each and every one, weighing them in turn.

"... One day..."

The pebbles beneath them rattle through infernal bass; the soil surrounding them ripples and whorls.

"... perhaps it will be YOUR voice that I hear before the screams begin, little serpent."

NOW he moves, wrenching Crock's body with him as he rises.

Dragging the Gutter God along while he leaves this ruined memorial behind.

SLAMMING Orochi's tongue against the last remaining wall of what was the village elder's home and holding him fast. His other hand dips into his gi, fetching the half of that strange, lumpy clay girl he salvaged from the wreckage so he can press it just above Crock's head. Blood red eyes pulse and glow; "HEAVEN" thrums with blood and menace.

Killing Intent rises from within and without, briefly swaddling the Demon before it is drawn into the totem fixed above the Bloody Punk-- absorbed by the sole remaining witness to the slaughter Heihachi Mishima perpetrated.

Shackling Crock high above the village of ghosts with the weight of Heihachi's sins as a cautionary tale.

"I give you the gift of inspiration, Richard Hensley. Crock. C-Rock," he-- -- well, it /would/ be a whisper if it weren't so much like a /snarl/.

"May it guide you towards the fledgling song caged in your soul."

COMBATSYS: Akuma has ended the fight here.

Log created on 12:08:40 03/23/2022 by Akuma, and last modified on 21:03:31 03/24/2022.