Description: Soiree has the unfortunate circumstances of choosing to raid one of the Syndicate's operations at the docks that their very own lieutenant, Duke, is overseeing. Things begin to rapidly devolve, until Soiree learns just /why/ Duke is so feared amongst his underlings. Also, PEOPLE DIE. Or do they?!?! Yes, yes they do.
Nighttime at the docks of Southtown's pristine, beautiful harbor has always been a perfect time for one thing in particular:
Crime.
For years now, Southtown's docks have served as the perfect spot for criminal dealings, from drug sales to money deliveries, to taking care of some poor sap who couldn't find the money to pay off his debts. For as long as can be remembered, these comfortable, cool docks have played host to all manner of illegal deals. The cops won't stop it, and likely can't -- both from a lack of evidence, and due to the fact that many are likely on Geese's payroll. And so, business flourishes, unobstructed for many a year.
Tonight is, in large part, no different. The sea is rough, the waves crashing fiercely against the shoreline as a powerful wind whips through the docks. It's always inevitably cold when you get closer to the sea, even during the summer nights. The winds are strong, and biting, and typically unpleasant. Many of the men here today are accustomed to it; they've worked here for years, and have grown used to the harsh winds and some of the harsh /sights/ they've had to experience in this trade. They don't care for the wind... but at this point, they've learned not to notice it.
Today, the docks are the cite of an import deal -- illegal imports from South Africa. Maybe diamonds, or ancient relics. Who knows. The men who work here certainly don't, nor do they care; their jobs are just to move the heavy crates with the forklifts off to semi-trucks that wait off in the distance. They do their work dilligently, just as they are paid to do. And as they do? A single man watches them, overseeing the work and ensuring nothing untoward happens to the cargo. A tall man, with dark skin and an elegant crimson and black attire, his dark eyes watch the going ons with a certain sense of boredom as his hands roam over a long, jagged scar across his neck.
"Hmph," Duke breathes out a snort. He's never enjoyed this kind of grunt work. But he still has a way to climb yet to supercede this kind of nonsense. "Hurry it up, eh? You're wasting my precious time."
"Figured I was right. Never a dull day at the docks, boys!" Soiree's voice isn't a guarded one - anybody within a city block would be able to hear the young man's words bouncing off of empty harborside buildings, around the warehouses and loading fixtures studding Southtown's coastline. PINPOINTING the sound might be a bit harder -- but this is made quite a bit easier once you take a look around the place. Nobody's really there, except for Duke's men. Still, whoever spoke just now isn't nearly gruff, or jaded enough to be one of Duke's goons. Or, for that matter, Duke himself.
Oh, wait, there's some movement over by the outskirts of the warehouse district, there. A group of five men saunter (it is a saunter, definitely) down the street, four trailing behind the first in an even "V" formation, clad in delightfully seedy clothing and threatening, if honest, scowls. The first of these men is the one talking, and anybody with EYES is able to tell that he's the ringleader, merely by the way he dresses. You don't dress like that without labelling yourself a Main Character, seriously.
Soiree Meira, the man with the plan, leads the group of four FATE gangsters to the entrance of the particular dockyard Duke is using for his nefarious deeds. He pauses at the chain-link gate leading into the place, studded with barbed-wires at the crest of its 15-foot height, and leans forward to get a better look at exactly what's going on. There's a smile on his face -- the wry, anticipatory type. The smile of a guy who really doesn't know what he's getting into. Or, more accurately, doesn't really care.
"Yeah. Definitely them. You guys work on getting in here, I'm gonna go tell Alba what's up. Give me a sec, yeah?"
With one jaunty, self-assured toss of his hair, the flamboyant man saunters off some twenty or so feet, pulling a cellphone from his pants pocket during his trip. Within seconds he's on the phone. Meanwhile, the four FATE gangsters work on getting something soft (one of their shirts) over the top of that barbed-wire fence, to act as a blanket for the crossing. Duke, perceptive motherfucker that he is, probably can't miss this one. There's a LIGHT over them, for chrissakes.
See, now. Duke was hoping that some idiot might come along to make this a more interesting diversion than the dull, dragging experience it was.
He just wasn't hoping it came in such a loud, obnoxious voice.
It's that shrill declaration that first catches Duke's attention; loud enough that it even causes the workers to pause and look around at each other in abject confusion. Their work is paused, and for now, Duke doesn't really notice that. His dark eyes are too busy rotating around, glancing around him to pinpoint the source of the noise. Not one of his men, none of his people sound like that. So where--
--Oh.
It's just a bunch of sewer rats.
Duke's expression becomes a touch more thoughtful at the sight of that group of what appears to be 'gangsters,' in the loosest term possible. Like something out of West Side Story. His lips peel back into a grin that reflects both the amusement and annoyance in his eyes -- especially at the sight of the boy at the lead. There's no recognition in Duke's eyes at the sight of the would-be cowboy. He just thinks the young man dresses like a clown, and it amuses him.
Even so, Duke lifts a heavy hand towards his thugs, gesturing for them to continue their work. "Keep it up. I'll take care of this. And the work better be done by the time I get back... or you're all going to regret it." The statement is delivered with a severe meaning behind it, and the thugs, knowing Duke's brutal reputation, get straight to work. In the meantime, the Southsynd lieutenant makes a calm, almost casual stride towards the chain-link fence that cuts off the docks from the rest of the outside world, his polished shoes slapping against concrete quietly. Tucking a hand into his pants pocket, the dark-skinned man quirks a brow at the groups actions, waiting patiently until they've all so deftly crossed over the gate before he speaks. Coolly. Ominously.
"I imagine you all are supposed to be some sort of punk gang, right?" he questions thoughtfully, rolling his neck.
"How's it feel to know you're all going to die here?"
"Yeah yeah, man. I think it's the Syndicate." A pause in Soiree's not-so-quiet conversation, while Duke calmly threatens the FATE members working their way over the fence. Four pairs of eyes fall upon the SouthSynd lieutenant, and the set belonging to the man are, perhaps to their credit, the very first to widen in fear. The rest naturally follow, and all of them make their comically slow path, aided by the swiveling of four necks, towards Soiree. Back turned to this entire ordeal, shoulders heaving in a laugh.
"Haha, yeah, man. You tell her I said hi, alright? I'll try to bring her some coffee or something later on. She's nice." Pause. Laugh! "Yeah, talk to you later." Soiree sets the cellphone back in his pants pocket, cracks his neck once, twice... and turns to face his boys.
This is where shit goes topsy-turvy. At the sight of Duke threatening his men, the fact that one of them is almost /over/ the fence, Soiree's got to raise one silvery, prettyboy eyebrow. Duke's given a quick lookover -- it's not hard to tell that the lieutenant's far more than a match for Soiree's men. Interestingly enough, there's no recognition past Soiree's initial reaction of 'strong guy'... their shared history is, for the moment, lost within the memories(cleavage, probably) of a British assassin.
Meira motions his men down, off of the fence, and lifts his chin even -further- before slowly approaching the chain-link seperation between himself and his yet-unknown nemesis. "'Scuse me, man."
Soiree's got one of those smiles. It's either a heartwarming thing, or one that gets the blood boiling in -just that way-.
"I was on the phone. What'd you say?"
Soiree's gang seems to get the clue right off the bat, which is good for them; Duke doesn't enjoy killing people who can't put up a fight unless he has to. Instead, he watches with calm eyes as the men look to whom he assumes to be their leader... who is currently talking. Talking on a cellphone. And completely ignoring Duke's presence.
Lesser men might be thrown into a fit of uncontrollable rage at this. Duke, for all appearances, seems to take this fact well and silently, his lips pulling into a neutral line as he watches Soiree speak, and speak, and speak. "... heh," his chuckle isn't so much pleased as it is amused... and dangerously close to angry. Duke is a patient man. But he's not so patient when it comes to cocky idiots like the one that's now smiling at him as if the two of them were pals.
Duke hates smiles like that.
So instead of replying at first, Duke just gives a smile of his own. It's one of those smiles. The smile that's either foreboding, or the one that gets the blood ice cold. It's the one that promises pain on the horizon. Duke's right hand slowly tightens into a fist, fingernails scraping up against his palm.
"Oh, my apologies," he replies; he doesn't mean it. It should be obvious from the acidic quality that drains out of his voice. "Let me repeat myself: How does it feel..." And as he speaks, Duke pulls backward. In one, fluid motion, he untenses his body in a forward fling, his right fist snapping out like a piston. It snaps through the chain-link fence like it was made of paper rather than metal, tearing through it in an attempt to sock Soiree right across the jaw.
"... to know you're going to /die here/?"
COMBATSYS: Duke has started a fight here.
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Duke 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Soiree has joined the fight here.
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Duke 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Soiree
COMBATSYS: Duke successfully hits Soiree with Strong Punch.
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Duke 0/-------/------=|====---\-------\0 Soiree
"Dammit, Soiree! This guy's too mu-!" One of the FATE gangers is just thrown out of his sentence by the violence Duke releases on that poor, charismatic gang-lieutenant. It says a lot that the guys aren't immediately turning tail and fleeing, though. In fact, they simply fan out and take up positions in a semicircle around the two combatants, encouragement on their lips and readiness in their eyes.
One might assume it's not the first time Soiree's picked fights he can't handle. Chalk it up to eagerness.
As for Soiree? It's not like he didn't see this coming. The guy's face began to fall the moment Duke shot the yin-smile to his yang-smile at him, and really, there wasn't much crossing his mind, there. Soiree's the kind of guy who needs to -know- he's getting into a fight before he's got his kick on, there's a... warm-up. He's gotta get a beat in his head, a dance on his feet. Clearly, Duke is not.
The implication of this is that Soiree catches that bodyblow square in the chest, the fence's sudden explosion sending wicked claws of thin metal raking across the bare flesh of his chest, enough to create an almost pretty picture of one impact-whitened circle of flesh(along his sternum) surrounded by several crimson lines and shredded vest material... a macabre sun, perhaps?! The cowboy lands on his back with a wordless grunt, sprawls for a moment or two...
And gets back up. His expression's worsened - the grin's become a grimace, a determined grit of the teeth, while his eyes have hardened into brown pools of BURNING DETERMINATION. Without preamble, Soiree immediately launches into a full-tilt run, without any sort of regard for evasive maneuver. As he nears the area where Duke decided to PUNCH HIM WITHOUT WARNING, the FATE enforcer's quick to execute a forward leaping-roll, one that culminates in him popping up with arms extended -- the goal here is to latch on to Duke's shoulders with those tassel-gloved hands, drive a knee into the man's gut, and throw him - violently - into the very hole he'd just created.
"LET'S DO THIS!"
COMBATSYS: Duke endures Soiree's Ein Punch.
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Duke 0/-------/----===|=====--\-------\0 Soiree
That look. That look of determination that burns in Soiree's eyes as he drags himself upwards from that sudden blow. Duke frowns as he sees it, his arm pulling away from the fence to idly straighten out his elegant suit. A dark eye brow twitches.
"That kind of look... I really..." The ambitious gangster's hands slide out of his pockets fully now, both clenched into fists.
"... I really /hate/ that look."
But it seems it doesn't take too much provocation (apparently for Duke punching someone in the chest is not a lot of provocation) to get the strangely-dressed young fruit to fight. Which is really all that he needs, some good old fashioned entertainment. The fact that Soiree doesn't just crumple from that blow alone is promise enough; the fact that he moves so quickly shortly afterwards, even moreso. As Soiree bounds through that hole in the fence, Duke deigns not to move. Instead of establishing a defense, he keeps himself quite firmly attached to the ground, arms spread wide and almost /welcoming./ "Show me what you've got, boy. Try and hit hard... I don't want to be bored to dea--"
SLAM. Soiree hits the Southsynd lieutenant's shoulders and the large man staggers backward a single step. The knee to his gut causes him to lurch, but as he's thrown? Duke seeks to snake out with his right hand, and grab Soiree firmly by the face to bring him along for the ride. And if he should get a firm grip...
COMBATSYS: Soiree blocks Duke's Treadmill.
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Duke 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\0 Soiree
Tugging Soiree violently along with him as he goes flying, Duke sails through that hole, widening it even further simply due to his side; metal bends and breaks off of the fence, but as he lands he reorients himself, landing smoothly on his feet. Soiree held by his face, high into the air, the lieutenant doesn't spare any time waiting. With a simple downward /thrust/, Duke seeks to slam Soiree straight into the ground before he rears back, lifting his right foot high into the air. It looms over Soiree's head for a moment, before the heel thrusts -down- to smash into the FATE enforcer's neck with such force that it would easily crush any normal man's throat. But--?!
The feel of his knee slamming into Duke's rock-hard gut isn't necessarily a good one, but it's not the worst in the world, either. There's a good deal of simple satisfaction in knowing he's giving the guy a challenge worthy of somebody of his (presumed) ability... and, well. Soiree really just doesn't like the man. "Bored to death?!" Soiree's voice is incredulous, even as he's leaning back, attempting to avoid the counterattack. It's not such a lucky thing -- Duke's enormous palm clasps over Soiree's face and has the prettyboy emitting muffled protests.
And then they're flying! Duke manages to land on his feet, and were Soiree A) Able to see/talk and B) On better terms with his opponent, he might very well compliment the Southtown Syndicate sub-boss on his talent. Unfortunately for Soiree, neither of the two apply, and his head is brutally thrust towards the ground, despite earnest struggling.
Unfortunately for Duke... Soiree manages to pull his body up in a sort of kipup, taking the full damage to his head but avoiding most of the whiplash-damage that might be afforded his body. While his feet are still in the air, and Duke's rearing his foot back for that undoubtedly -painful- stomp-kick, Soiree puts a bit of his own ability to use: His hands press to the ground, and in a dynamic, heartstopping display of agility, both of his handtooled leather boots are sent whirling about in a Rising Tackle-esque corkscrew-kick, one delivered to Duke's chest, chin, and face along with a heavy upwards push from Soiree's arms. The capoeira artist manages to twirl around in a fashion nimble enough to avoid Duke's shoe slamming down onto his neck, but the ground isn't so lucky!
hat shit crackles from the force. It's enough to send shivers down Soiree's spine.
COMBATSYS: Duke blocks Soiree's Medium Kick.
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Duke 0/-------/---====|=======\-------\0 Soiree
Nimble. It seems that whoever this brat is, he has speed and agility on his side. Duke will keep that in mind for later. For now... he deals with the fact that, due to Soiree's nimble avoidance of his own attack, the young man likely has some sort of counter in mind. And it comes, quite predictably, in the form of a spiralling kick. While some might find this nimble, or amazingly skillful, Duke... finds it predictable. Easy to see, to track, and ultimately -- easy to effectively /deal/ with.
And so he does. That corkscrew-kick rises up, and instead of meating chest, or chin, or face, it meets one massive palm, stopping the kick short without even a flinch or motion on Duke's part. "... hmph. Weak. Keep trying." It's not really encouragement so much as it is a demand. After all -- there's Soiree's personal wellbeing at stake in this fight. One has to wonder how much of a gambler the young man is.
A moment after impact, Duke releases Soiree's foot. Again, his leg lifts, but this time for entirely different reasons. In one smooth, amazingly swift motion, Duke SLAMS that polished shoe against the earth. Concrete cracks even further, and the force of the blow is so great that the ground around them trembles violently as if in the wake of an earthquake. The tremors are meant to unsettle Soiree in his handstand as, only moments afterwards, a large /wave/ of fiery chi sprouts up along the cracks in the ground, sprouting and flooding forward in a circular wave meant to -blast- Soiree away. "GRAAAAAAH!!"
COMBATSYS: Duke successfully hits Soiree with Seismic Impact.
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Duke 0/-------/-======|=======\==-----\1 Soiree
Foot grab. "Jesus!"
This Duke guy is RIDICULOUS. The earlier threat about 'dying here' is starting to become just a little more sinister with each passing moment... and Soiree's own determination to continue the battle is waning about as quickly as his consciousness. The moment Duke lets his foot go, Soiree's rolling backwards, cowboy hat momentarily forgotten in the name of Soiree's life being just a BIT more important to him than paltry things like fashion (which is second best). The roll, however, is not enough to get Meira out of the way of hateful, trecharous chi.
Just like in the game, Duke's Seismic Impact seems to have every base covered as it shrieks across the pavement and towards Soiree's own rapidly evading form - in the middle of a roll-cum-handspring, the forceful energy catches up to him and /explodes/ violently, which of course sends Soiree tumbling through the air towards his own men. He hits the ground hard, caught on his shoulderblades and neck... and kinda slumps.
There's a lengthy pause, now... but eventually, Soiree's able to get up, to shake his head and clear his thoughts a bit, and refocus on Duke. Several bystanding FATE members are pretty impressed by this -- Duke might hear them muttering amongst themselves while Soiree's busy getting back into things. It's all dispelled when the cowboy drops to a knee, gives Duke that fantastic, camera-friendly determined look, and announces:
"Lock onto this, loser!"
It's more than a sprint forwards, here: Soiree literally /leaps/ across the distance between himself and Duke, tumbling into a rapid roll halfway across the span, executing several somersaults before planting a single hand on the ground and whipping his body - legs extended - around in a tight, quick loop. Both of Soiree's legs are intended to slam into Duke's thighs and probably send the guy directly to the ground, and in all it looks pretty tame, but you need to understand. There is an AFTERIMAGE.
"SCHLAU OUTBURST!"
COMBATSYS: Duke interrupts Schlau Outburst from Soiree with Tall Hammer.
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Duke 1/------=/=======|=======\=======\1 Soiree
Beyond his interesting way of fighting -- something like breakdancing, maybe, or Capoira -- Duke is finding himself swiftly able to predict his opponent's movements, which is NOT promising. In fact, it downright irritates the Southsynd lieutenant as he watches Soiree go rocketing backwards in the wake of that wave of power, muttering something unpleasant under his breath as he rubs at the back of his neck. As soon as Soiree lands in a slump, he looks towards him with an arched brow.
"Don't tell me that was your best, boy," he grumbles out with an unfriendly smile. "Because if it is, you're even more pathetic than I thought you were."
But then there's that look. It makes Duke's blood boil, and that smile swiftly becomes an ugly scowl. His right hand lifts, his fingertips pressing roughly against that long, ugly scar that mars the entire circumferance of his neck. "You don't have a chance if this is all you have. C'mon. C'MON!!"
And so Soiree does, with that bold dare of his. Duke watches as Soiree leaps with a mildly entertained stare, that tumble coming in so fast -- even after taking that vicious blow the larger man had just doled out. But not fast enough. Duke locks on, just as requested, and as Soiree rolls, he ducks down... and moves INTO the strike.
"You call this /FAST/?!"
The moment that Duke yells out that last word, Soiree's legs impact his thighs. Duke continues moving forward though, undeterred as he aims his fist in an upward swing -- SLAMMING into Soiree's jaw in a vicious uppercut that will launch him straight into the air like a ragdoll. "GRAAGH!!" Several afterimages of Duke follow after him as he surges forward to greet the descending Soiree with a SECOND uppercut, aimed at his ribcage with crushing force -- intent to simply knock him straight into the air once more.
"Show me something /STRONG./"
Soiree meets Duke's fist almost immediately after his feet connect with the other man's thighs - bad move, Soiree, putting forth that LAST DITCH attack like that! However, it's not entirely to Soiree's disadvantage to have gotten in so close like that. While the cowboy is battered and beaten past a point where he'll be able to go home and play it off as 'a bad fight', there's a split second wherein he's able to catch a good, close look at Duke's features. The eyes, the hair, that goatee.
...The scar. At the last one, Soiree's eyes light up, and somewhere in the back of his mind, that information is filed away for later pondering. He'd heard something about a gangster that was supposed to be dead, a scar 'round the neck... who'd have thoug-
*PAMF* goes Duke's fist into Soiree's manly, squared jaw. The colorfully-dressed combatant goes from crouching to airborne in a split-second, and Duke's quick to follow that up with a second, aerial punch that puts him even FURTHER up. There's a long period of time, during the next few seconds of simple flight, that Soiree's not able to think coherently. His eyelids are fluttering uncontrollably, air is being gulped like he were a drowning man just barely surfaced, and his body's CERTAINLY not doing what it's supposed to be, which is basically kicking ass. But, as with any near-death moment, there is an epiphany of sorts.
In mid-air, Soiree re-orients himself, and allows himself to rocket downwards, head-first. Diagonally. Towards the place Duke's inevitably chosen to fall. While one eye is rapidly swelling shut, the look of determination from earlier, that sneering set to his jaw -- it's all back. He manages a curt: "Yeah!? Well..." before flipping forwards and sending both feet around, clockwise, towards Duke.
The goal here is to hit the guy in the head -- immediately afterwards, without missing a beat, Soiree'll hit the ground, stumble, quickly, and lash out with a second, scooping kick towards Duke's midsection, followed by a second kick meant to boot him further into the air. Here's where the air begins to turn blue -- Soiree follows his opponent skywards, and spins 'round to follow that second kick up with a third, foot practically crackling with a bluish energy. Upon impact, this will explode into a dramatically large sphere of turbulent blue, the dull roar of Soiree's energy almost totally drowning out his cry of:
"BIIIIIIG WEDNESDAY!"
COMBATSYS: Duke endures Soiree's Big Wittwoch.
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Duke 1/---====/=======|======-\-------\0 Soiree
Here and now is where Soiree gets to make his final impression on Duke, where the Southsynd lieutenant will decide whether or not he's worth keeping alive for the sake of sheer entertainment value. So far, the man has not been impressed; and with that bellowing cry for something /stronger/ he smacks Soiree even further into the air, waiting to see just what he'll be offered. He comes to an abrupt halt, kicking up dirt and dust in a swirl around his feet just as Soiree begins to descend -- right towards him.
In that instant, Duke's lips split into a grin. Instead of trying to bring his arms up to prepare for a defensive, he instead... spreads his arms /out/ to either side of him, to welcome the incoming blow. "SHOW ME ALL OF YOUR STRENGTH!" The command is given in a booming voice as Soiree lands, and the moment he attacks...
... Duke does not budge. The foot strikes cleanly against Duke's midsection with a solid, meaty thud. The second kick launches him skyward as intended, just as he notices that unusual hue that tinges the air. He frowns briefly, peering all around him -- until he is struck -again- with a painful thud, feeling chi crackling at his stomach. Whipping winds of sapphire chi wrack the man's body and send him ultimately blasting into the ground with a sudden, deafening -BOOM- of impact. Dirt and rock EXPLODES everywhere in that moment, and as Soiree descends, there is silence...
... just before clapping fills the air.
"Much better! I'll let you live, boy. But your friends..." The voice comes from the clouds of dust, as Soiree might note the fact... that Duke is almost literally /burning./ Flames lick all around him, reflected in the overwhelming intensity of his gaze. "... your friends are all dead." His hands lift. And Duke's lips peel back into a rage-filled snarl.
In a single moment, Duke's fists SLAM into the ground. They strike it repeatedly, thrashing against it violently in a series of titanic punches. And as he does, the very ground all around them begins to form cracklines of glowing, fiery red. A split second later, it all -EXPLODES- into a terrifying inferno of chi-laced flames, rubble shooting everywhere as Duke roars above the fury. "GRAAAAAGH! HAAAAARGH!!! GRAAARGH!!!" It threatens to consume, to burn Soiree with unrivaled intensity. And not only him...
... his friends will be burned alive in the wake of Duke's overwhelming rage.
COMBATSYS: Soiree endures Duke's Ground Zero.
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Duke 0/-------/-------|=======\======-\1 Soiree
Rugal goes home.
Lien heads west to downtown.
Here and now. Soiree makes his stand and falls to the ground afterwards, on his hands and knees. He's breathing heavily, but there's a definite sturdiness to his actions and focus. His eyes are on Duke, his ears are tuned in to everything the SouthSynd gangster has to say -- and each word is driving itself into Soiree's mind. There's no denying the way Duke's words have the prettyboy double-taking, quickly getting to his feet. "...What about my friends?"
*CRACK-BOOM*
Soiree hears the damning words over the flare of his opponent's rage, and... well. That determination from earlier, that bitter, hardline desire to /save/ people, to make a difference, all that good stuff... it's back. It's probably pissing Duke off, more. But does it matter now? The guy's caught up in his own attack. Even as that angry red begins to swell out from around Duke's foot, Soiree's running forward, every other step a limp, but sturdy nonetheless.
"No! You're not! This isn't something that involves them, they're just here to make sure we're /all/ coming back! AaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAGH!"
Blue begins to surround Soiree's form. It's that same fantastic color as earlier, and, as it stands, enough to push back the force of Duke's attack. Blue intertwines with red and effectively clears out a pie-slice of the circle of DEATH radiating out from Duke's feet -- enough, perhaps, to save some of the FATE gangsters surrounding the two combatants?
Even though his aura isn't nearly as blue as it should be, and every movement is, indeed, /painful/ to Soiree, it doesn't stop him from launching a fierce, spinning roundhouse kick at Duke's head, followed by a dizzying combination of sweeping kicks, straight kicks to the chest, a bunch of fantastic, spinning attacks that have Duke being beaten about the shoulders and head like some kind of angry toddler's plaything. At the very end of this combination, Soiree's fantastic end-cap is unfortunately stolen from him by the way Duke's chi overcomes the protective aura surrounding the FATE enforcer... blue is overtaken by red, the resultant explosion consumes Soiree and radiates out towards - but not /touching/ - the watchers behind him, and doesn't dissipate until long after Meira is sent, smoking, out of the thing.
He lands on his back some twenty feet away, definitely out of the count for the moment...
COMBATSYS: Soiree has reached second wind!
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Duke 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Soiree
COMBATSYS: Duke blocks Soiree's Extreme Leidenschaft.
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Duke 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Soiree
And, after perhaps ten seconds of shocked silence from the surviving onlookers, Soiree manages to move A HAND. Fingers clutch at the ground, the gangster struggles upwards... and, defiantly, sits up to a kneeling position.
"Hnh... nn. You hit hard, man. But it's gonna... it's gonna take more than that...!!"
"Shut up, Soiree," one of the living onlookers says. "Let's get the hell out of here, you're outta your league!"
The result is... unexpected. Duke's raging fury smashes into Soiree like a freight train, yet there's something wrong. Something that Duke doesn't realize until midway through the attack, when Soiree advances upon him. Through the storm of his rage, those dark eyes lance upwards to see the approaching form of the FATE enforcer. And, even channeling his power into the ground as he is... Duke is still prepared for what comes next.
Annoyed to the point of fury over his point being so suddenly halted by Soiree's strange, self-sacrificing technique, Duke is nevertheless aware of his surroundings. Soiree lashes out in a combination of brutal kicks, and for each one, the ambitious Southsynd enforcer intercepts with a single hand, his left. His right is still -slammed- deep into the earth as he knocks away each and every one of the young Meira's attacks with his left, causing little more than a dull aching sensation across his arm, even in the wake of Soiree's tremendous fury. In the end, though, before Soiree can even finish it all off, the power Duke exerts sends him flying away with a sudden expulsion.
In a flare, all that fiery chi is snuffed out, leaving a smoking, cracked, barren earth behind. It looks like the end of days in this little section of Southtown's harbor as smoke and the scent of ash override the ai between Duke and Soiree and his companions. For a moment, it seems like it's all over. But then --
--but then, FATE's young fighter proves more resilient than anticipated. The large, dark-skinned man arches a brow as Soiree struggles up. He can fight? He's still CONSCIOUS? Duke only considers this for a moment. And then, without even so much of a second thought, he advances. The earth cracks and crumbles as he walks, charred flora making sickening crunching sounds beneath his advance. He says nothing at first. Instead. he just swoops down, to grasp Soiree by the head. He'll lift, and then...
... just SLAM him back down into the burnt, still-hot earth.
"Like a -cockroach.- HMPH!"
COMBATSYS: Soiree dodges Duke's Quick Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////// ]
Duke 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Soiree
Soiree's not dumb. Anything but that. The young man's sense of street-smarts, combined with an already clear fighting ability, have told him that he is, indeed, /very/ much out of his league. In fact, the only -reason- he got up was to ensure that the survivors of Duke's assault - all two of them - are able to get home alive and well. He knows they've got families. He knows that they're good guys, since FATE really doesn't take scumbags. It's a goody two-shoes operation, honestly.
So Duke might find his attack failing him, given the way the burnt, /extremely/ injured cowboy rolls backwards, out of the way of Duke and into the arms of his entourage, waiting behind him. Hands are looped beneath his shoulders as he comes up from that backwards roll, and heft him up to a half-standing position, one that Soiree advances to the full, albeit supported, walk.
The FATE members are staring at Duke as though he is a tyrannosaurus rex. Soiree is giving him a dire look, devoid of a smile. Blood trickles from his lip, half of his face is discolored, an eye is swollen shut, his chest is purpled, and burn marks?? Everywhere. "I... I'm not gonna forget this, you know. You've got some new guys in town to deal with, Syndicate. And even though we didn't pull it through today, we're not gonna give up 'till you're all /out/ of here."
Soiree speaks while he's being pulled backwards... but is Duke really going to do anything? The victory here's pretty clear...
But anger hasn't ever really been known to see things so adroitly.
In a single, blurring motion, the dark hand of Duke sweeps outward for Soiree's face--
--and instead, his fingertips dig only into burnt and ruined earth.
Dirty and ash crumbles out between Duke's fingertips as he snaps backwards as Soiree rolls towards his remaining comrades. The man known as 'Hell's Executioner' straightens as those two men help the injured enforcer back onto his feet. There is a clear sensation of rage in Duke's eyes, but for the majority, all that anger, all that unfathomable fury, was drained out into the attack that has rendered the harbor such a mess. That anger is drowned out by a cold, calculating look that takes over the Southsynd lieutenant's dark gaze, and as Soiree speaks... a slow smile slithers its way across his lips.
"Then don't forget it. I'll try not to as well, but it's easy to forget trash like you." The FATE enforcer's words are wiped off with a single wave of Duke's hand in dismissal, before both hands shove into his pants pockets. "Don't forget this day. Those people were your friends, right...? Then maybe next time you won't be so weak that you can't even protect them. Get stronger, boy. Because the next time we meet..."
Duke turns here, presenting his back to Soiree under the full notion that he and his retreating friends won't attempt to stop him. He starts to walk away -- back towards the docks, back towards his shipments. As he walks? Duke looks over his shoulder with that intense gaze.
"... I'll personally escort you to Hell."
COMBATSYS: Duke takes no action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////// ]
Duke 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\1 Soiree
COMBATSYS: Duke has left the fight here.
[ \\\\\\\ <
Soiree 1/-------/=======|
COMBATSYS: Soiree has ended the fight here.
Log created on 00:54:19 06/24/2007 by Duke, and last modified on 05:23:05 06/24/2007.