Description: Luise goes to an opera house to see an opera. What she doesn't expect... IS TO UNVEIL AN ALIEN CONSPIRACY?! --No, she doesn't, but it would be pretty freaking sweet if she did. Instead, Duke beats her up reel gud and that's just as sweet. Featuring: NO SUCCESSFUL REACTIONS!
The Damnation of Faust. A story retold in the form of eloquent opera, composed originally by Hector Berlioz. Originally born of the man's frustration from a lack of opera comissions, it has since then become one of the more popular compositions in contemporary opera houses.
The story is one of a popular German legend, of a man who makes a deal with the devil for the sake of love. A popular tale of romance, it was originally written with what could be considered a 'good ending': Faust is redeemed and his life is saved. Yet, Berlioz took a different twist on this story. A darker one, but still a story of love. Faust, striking a deal with the devil in order to save his love, Marguerite, finds himself tricked, blindsided by his desperation. Yet instead of finding his love... Faust finds only damnation at the hands of Mephistopheles.
The story approaches its conclusion, as orchestras sing out the tragic end of Faust, dragged down into the pits of hells amidst orders of demons who praise Mephistopheles for his work. The note is disturbingly dark and perhaps depressing; a favorite amidst the rich with 'class.' It is a story they love, and sometimes find almost comedic. Pompous upper class typically do. After all, it's hard to relate to such a tragedy when you're as corrupt as them.
From one of several V.I.P. boxes scattered throughout the top tier of the opera house, a certain man watches. Dressed in a fine black suit, and red tie, the man known as Duke certainly does not seem the type to indulge in opera. Yet there is a certain, distinct sort of interest in his eyes as he watches, leaning back against his chair and arms folded in his lap. He comes here often, to enjoy himself. To relax. To think. The Damnation of Faust is one of his particular favorites. He doesn't care for the beginning. The end, however? The tragic damnation of Faust brings a certain sense of amusement in him. But as Faust is damned, Marguerite, his love, is saved; executed for the murder of her mother, she ascends to heaven as Faust suffers in Hell. A fittingly dark twist.
He likes to think of it as a 'happy ending.'
A deal with the devil... sitting in her balcony seat -- a luxury paid for by money that the occupant even now has creeping doubts about -- Luise Meyrink takes it in. A part of her, a detached part, is absorbing the technical beauty of the performance, and there is a certain cold beauty to pure performance. The orchestra, the vocalists, even choices in lighting, costume, set design... but somewhere in the back of her mind, Luise doesn't wonder if she is observing the beauty of an exquisitely crafted sword right before is slices into her flesh.
The Faustian bargain... someone with a noble goal who gave up everything to achieve it and merely caused more harm than good. The triumph of desire over will and redemption. Unlike the man in the VIP box, Luise feels nothing but sorrow for Faust, a man who acted foolishly out of love and paid the ultimate price for it.
Considering she came here in the first place to get away from thoughts of her missing father, the outing appears to be a colossal failure on all fronts.
There are precious few people who can attend grand opera in black leather, black silk, and silver-white lace, but as she rises from her lone balcony seat and begins descending the spiralling staircase to the lobby, even dressed as informally as she is the white-blonde beauty shines like the North Star in a sky of upper class clones. Yet as she walks, her face is set with an expression of resigned sadness, her psychic abilities letting her head the poisonous thoughts behind the gracious smiles of all in attendance. A woman so deeply connected to humanity can feel nothing but sorrow for the close-minded individuals here tonight, and it is not for the first time that she wonders if coming at all was worth the expense and effort.
While he'd never admit to it, the story of Faust is one that rings a little too close to Duke's heart. If he had not already grown beyond such things, if he hadn't already given up most traces of humanity he once had, he might find this opera to be... tragic. It's too bad, then, that he feels nothing of the sort when he gazes down upon the dramatic epic that unfolds beneath him.
As it is, Duke's interest is not nearly so preoccupied with Berlioz's interpretation of the story of Faust, as he is with some of those gathered in his opera house. He knows well enough the people of note who enter his house, though they themselves typically don't have the slightest clue; here, he keeps a watchful eye over all proceedings, watching the comings and goings of the rich and the high-class with a vacant sort of attention. What gains his notice, though, is when people markedly -unique- come to watch his operas. Like, perhaps...
... one Luise Meyrink.
Ther opera comes to an end, and the masses pour out to the atrium, many commenting blandly of how 'boring' and 'uninspired' the opera was, though 'that Faust person was really quite remarkable, wasn't he?' Duke ignores the majority of their ramblings, making his way down the stairs into the lobby below and cutting past the swarm of people as they make their way to their exits. Duke's focus, his destination, is simple; he follows the woman in the black leather and white lace.
Hands in his pockets, the Syndicate enforcer seems intent to follow behind Luise with a calm pace to the outside world. He makes no attempts to mask himself. If Luise is the individual he thinks she is, then she should have no troubles at all picking up on the sensation of being followed. He hopes she takes it as a note. His intention is simple. He will follow her, at least until she comes to a place less crowded -- less -public-. And then? Wait for her to respond to him. It's something of a test. After all...
... someone as skilled as her, should know when men of ill-intent are following close behind her heels.
The night air of Metro City is refreshing on Luise's face as she steps out of the opera house, instinctively turning her face toward the sky. Frown lines crease her features for just a moment as she is rewarded with the orange glow of light pollution... not shocking in a city of this magnitude, but distressing nonetheless. A far cry, certainly, from the clear skies of Bavaria, where as a child Luise would spend late nights with her father, staring up into the heavens with his telescope, charting the movements of stars and planets.
She almost doesn't catch it, preoccupied as she is with the impressions of the opera, memories of the past, and her annoyance at the crowd. However, Duke's mindset is very much that of a predator... focused. Most human minds are a jumble of conflicting thoughts, neurons firing in all directions. Trying to discern a pattern is like trying to catch air in your bare hand. But focused minds push much of that aside, keep one thing at the center of thought. Even nonchalance is a sort of focus, a 'deliberate' mindlessness.
The feeling of being followed isn't new to Luise. Even before her meeting with Zero and the deathmark he put on her, the woman's inquiries into her father's disappearance attracted all the wrong sorts of attention. Few were ever bold enough to do anything overt; those that tried, she was able to elude thanks to a combination of old fashioned common sense and her own psychic abilities.
The question, of course, is what this PARTICULAR follower, whose sense is more curious than adversarial, seems to want.
Gliding through the crowd, Luise is ever-watchful for opportunities and the densely-packed buildings of Metro City don't disappoint. She is barely a quarter of a block from the Opera House doors when she finds an alley in which to secret herself, walking in backwards so that anyone following in will find the Dancing Butterfly's piercing, midnight-blue eyes staring right at them.
It always comes, eventually. A fighter of any decent calibbre will always have an inherent sense of paranoia -- whether or not it's enhanced by an understanding of chi or, in this particular case, psychic power. A decent fighter can conceal their movements as well, if they don't want to be noticed. The fact that Duke does not do this, that he so blatantly follows Luise with a trek that promises nothing but ill-intent, should be the first clue to the woman that, whatever he wants -- it likely will not be pleasant.
And so, Hell's Executioner follows at a reasonable pace. His gait is calm; casual; self-assured. He knows that she has noticed him by now. At this point, it's merely a waiting game. Polished shoes slap across worn-down concrete as Duke advances, dark eyes trailing the black-clad woman's movements intently. There is a sharp twist, a pivot of the woman's heel, and then there it is. The turning point. Luise resigns herself to whatever and whoever might be following her, and as that blue gaze watches on... a large, black form obscures her gaze.
Duke turns crisply on his right heel as he advances upon the alley, taking in the sight of the young woman now facing him fully and expectantly. There's no shock on his features, of course. Instead, there's an almost calm sense of satisfaction, and a dull spark in the large man's eyes as he looks down upon the woman. His target.
"Luise Meyrink... right?" he begins slowly, his right hand slipping out of his pocket. "Did you enjoy the opera? Not many people can appreciate the tragedy and sacrifice." As he speaks, Duke's right hand lifts up, fingertips brushing across his concealed neck -- tracing something underneath the collar of his shirt, spanning the whole circumferance of his neck. He says nothing for a second longer, and then:
"Though I imagine someone going after an organization like NESTS can understand seemingly senseless sacrifice of life."
To her credit, Luise doesn't lose a beat. She is surprisingly hard to intimidate, or perhaps she is simply very good at concealing her emotions. Either way, she simply fixes her gaze on Duke, taking the man in. He moves with surprising grace for his mass, something the Dancing Butterfly notes, and the movement of the hand to his scarred neck seems to be nervous gesture or habit more than anything else. She certainly has movements of that stripe of her own.
Case in point: her long-fingered, slender right hand is pressed against her hip, the pale skin and deep blue nail polish contrasting starkly with her loose black slacks. "I wouldn't call it 'going after' them," she says, almost conversationally. It's true; her meeting with Zero was more happy accident than anything else, a byproduct of Luise's meeting with Tiistai elsewhere in Thailand previously. That it ended the way it did is simply... fate.
A fate there's no sense in concealing, either, so Luise doesn't bother. "But I won't deny we have some past association." She rakes Duke with her eyes again, mind flickering briefly to Seth, who also seemed to know everything about everybody. Is it possible that Duke is in league with that mystery informer? A bright spark of curiosity flares and dies in the dark sapphire gaze as the thought rises, and is pushed to the side, a mere curiosity for the time being. "To answer your question, I felt the performance itself was wonderful... though I find Berlioz's grim take undervalues the redeeming power of love, even in the face of grave errors in judgment."
To be truthful, the knowledge of her 'pursuit' of NESTS, coincidental or not, isn't really of much interest to Duke. NESTS in and of itself is so mysterious an organization that even a man so high up in the ranks of the Syndicate like him only knows the basics -- and he likely knows just about as much as anyone else in the Syndicate, or in any other organization. He doesn't carre about that. The fact is just something that adds to the intrigue that surrounds Luise. If she is pursuing, or is pursued, by something like -that- organization... certainly she must be something unique.
He says little at first. There's small reason to say much of -anything-. Instead, he waits out patiently to hear her words, her ambiguous explanation as to her nature with NESTS, a fact only brushed over and tucked away in the distant corners of his mind. But then she mentions something else; the opera, once more. A small smile creeps across Duke's lips. It is a distinctly -wry- one. "You think so?" he questions.
"I think it's a nice, chilling touch of reality."
His hand drops to his side, but notably does not return to the comfortable, casual position tucked within his pocket. His left hand similarly departs the confines of his pants pocket as he rolls his neck in an easy gesture; a movement of preparation. "Sometimes people need to be reminded that reality isn't so nice as they want it to be. But I don't really care about all that. NESTS is pursuing you for some reason." He stops here, levels his stare directly upon Luise.
"I want to see what it is about you that makes you so special."
It's not as if she expected anything else from Duke, in regards to the opera. Indeed, his question seemed to give his opinion on the matter all on its own. A part of Luise, however, is thankful for what he says, because it is, at the very least, something different from the ambiguous confusion the masses these two individuals left behind. While she might not agree with his point of view, Ms. Meyrink values passion rather than ambivalence, vivacity over apathy... misdirected though it might be.
He's also nice and to the point, and all hopes that this is... a chance meeting, a mistake, or perhaps some agent of Seth sent to keep watch evaporate. Luise's face is a mask, now a concentrated effort at keeping her emotions hidden despite the sudden thudding of nervousness and confusion in her own heart. He is not with NESTS, this is clear... and while it's possible he is with Shadaloo, something about his demeanor doesn't seem the type, at least compared to Vega's agent Tiistai, who himself reeked with borrowed Psycho Power. No... Duke is some third agent.
The movements she makes are subtle, owing to natural grace, but the hands move to the side, fingers pointed at the ground. A leg shifts back almost impercetibly, the jaw sets, the features harden. She is prepared to defend herself, 'trapped' though she is in this alleyway, the rooftops of Metro City looming above her. "I am no more or no less special than any other person," Luise says, and in a way she means it. To her eyes, Psycho Power is no greater than the ability to draw, or write, or do complex biochemical experiments... a talent, but no more. "So you may be disappointed."
A difference of opinion, but one that's to be expected. Luise's demeanor, her bearing, even the way she -stares- at people speak to a different methodology and philosophy that Duke prescribes to. Duke recognizes this to be an annoyance he finds to be one of the worst of all: a strong moral backbone coupled with a persistent will. Her thoughts on the play, that strong stare all speak levels she does not flat out say. That stare... Duke hates that stare.
Beyond the sea of perpetually burning, expertly contained rage that rages on inside of Duke constantly, his eyes and lips are largely impassive, expression changing into one of a deep frown at her words. Disappointed? Of course, it's not because of her talent with Psycho Power that Duke sought her out today. Unlike some, he has no interest in that rare and mysterious power. Instead... he's just here to witness her -talent-.
The fingers of the enforcer's right hand twitch for the briefest of moments as Luise explains. "... heh," he breathes out in a small sign of amusement. "Don't worry."
Within an instant, Duke is surging forward. His right hand lances out, seeking to grip a handful of Luise's clothes by the front. If the grip is secured, he will simply proceed to -heft- her from her feet like a ragdoll, before twisting and slamming her -sharply- into the ground beneath them in a fast and simplistically brutal display that sharply contrasts with the man's elegance.
"-I'll- be the judge of how special you are."
COMBATSYS: Duke has started a fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Duke 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Luise has joined the fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Duke 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Luise
COMBATSYS: Duke successfully hits Luise with Quick Throw.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////////// ]
Duke 0/-------/-------|==-----\-------\0 Luise
She should be expecting it. She IS expecting it, but part of Luise wants to believe that Duke moves as slowly as his bulk demands, as inexpertly as the anger she can feel roiling below the surface suggests. Neither is true and the Dancing Butterfly pays the price for it, misjudging an attempt to duck farther back into the alleyway out of the way of the grab. It doesn't work; the pale, black-clad form crashes to the ground in a heap.
However, the 'free shot' (as it were) is all it takes to heighten Luise's awareness, to drag her to her feet. He wants to see if she is 'special'... well, now's the time to find out how 'special' she can be. Getting up, the woman suddenly glows faintly with a brief flash of deep blue sparks, and her toes -- formerly flat to the ground -- point, as she floats above the alley floor, turning her gaze to Duke. She is not angry... there is no anger in her. Only regret and, perhaps, disappointment that things so often go this way.
"If you insist," Luise says softly, before skimming across the ground and feinting a blow at Duke's torso before snapping a hand to his arm; if she can get a grip, she makes a waltz-like turn and hurls Duke into the wall of the alley. Turnabout might be fair play.
COMBATSYS: Luise successfully hits Duke with Quick Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////////// ]
Duke 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Luise
Floating? Observing calmly as Luise reorients herself, Duke notes with a dim sort of surprise that the woman is actually -floating above the ground.- While not impossible for some people, it usually takes some extraordinary amount of control -- or power. She seems to do so effortlessly, however, and this is something that the Southsynd enforcer notes with a cold sort of interest, lips parting briefly in an unsettlingly calm smile.
"Hmph," he grunts out as Luise speaks. He attempts to prepare for her coming in, but -- apparently -- is just a second too slow. Slender fingers wrap and squeeze along his thick arm, before he is summarily -struck- against the wall with the briefest cracks along the surface of the building, small dribbles of rock and dirt falling to the ground with a soft clatter. But--
--But, for however quick Luise may be, Duke is swift to recover as well. His right foot lifts into the air, almost immediately after he strikes the wall, eyes narrow and alight with a cold, controlled fire. He would for all intents and purposes seem to be going in for some sort of stomping kick to the midsection... save that his foot strikes the -ground- instead of Luise, and with such force it literally shakes as if in the wake of a miniaturized earthquake. The tremors are meant to unsettle Luise as, only a moment after, a circular -wave- of fire blazes out from Duke's foot, seeking to overtake and blast Luise backwards in a sudden, explosive burst. "GRAAAARGH!"
COMBATSYS: Luise overcomes Seismic Impact from Duke with Sharp Quartet.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////// ]
Duke 0/-------/----===|===----\-------\0 Luise
Perhaps she saw it coming, but Luise's response to the sudden burst of overwhelming power is almost insulting in its nonchalance. Her right hand begins to glow with a nimbus of that same blue power that licks her form like brief flashes of faerie fire, the glow reaching a fever pitch as the woman suddenly floats backwards through the air a fraction, her hand sweeping forward in one crescent-like movement. "Hah!"
The blue glow leaves her hand, takes a form... a butterfly, composed of nothing but barely substantial but brightly-glowing blue light. The flame circle approaches but the butterfly lances through it like a diving hawk, the sudden burst of fiery power parting like a wave crashing on a rock, spilling harmlessly to the side and licking the brick walls of the alley as the butterfly, weakened but unbroken, flies on toward Duke, almost comically small and quick compared to his massive frame.
Luise, meanwhile, puts her hand to her chin in thought. The fiery rage that has suddenly expressed itself as real, tangible power... the unusual scar... and his knowledge beyond normal people's. Truly, Duke has some secrets of his own to share. "You appear to be a 'special' individual yourself," Ms. Meyrink observes, watching her opponent carefully. "Are these the same hell flames that consumed Faust, I wonder?"
COMBATSYS: Luise successfully hits Duke with Sharp Quartet.
- Power hit! -
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////// ]
Duke 0/-------/--=====|===----\-------\0 Luise
Non-chalant, focused -- and fast to respond. That's good. The blaze is just a test of sorts. Fast, but not overly powerful to most people. A fact that Luise gets to see when she so definitely eliminates it. Eyes narrowing at the sudden, simple light shatters through the sudden onslaught of his power. His body tenses. He begins to spring to the side --
-- far, far too late. Weakened wings of light strike into Duke much harder than could be expected from such a simple display, and it is enough to send Duke staggering backwards a step or two before he clutches against his still-smoking chest in a thoughtful stare. "... not chi, is it?" That's interesting. So she must be one of those 'different' ones.
This revelation, of course, does not nearly stall Duke. Her response to her words is simple: the man known as Hell's Executioner rushes forward in a surging blur of black fabric. "My fire isn't born from Hell..." His right fist thrusts -out- in a sudden motion, seeking to DRIVE itself straight into Luise's midsection in a sudden, mighty jab, to launch her back several more steps away from the enforcer.
"... I don't need hellfire when I have a raging inferno inside me already. HRAAGH!"
COMBATSYS: Duke successfully hits Luise with Quick Punch.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////// ]
Duke 0/-------/-======|======-\-------\0 Luise
The Dancing Butterfly had hoped to buy herself some time with her attack, give her some breathing room. Sadly enough, it doesn't work. Her face is a mask of impassiveness at Duke's question. She barely has all the information on Psycho Power herself, and as Seth emphasized it's a danger simply to know about it. Plenty of reason to keep quiet.
Well, that and the hammerblow punch that arcs into her midsection as she attempts to force a forearm into its path one second too late, the light body -- aided by her typical, floating stance -- sailing backwards down the alley, coming to a stop only when Luise rights herself and descends, landing in a crouch. She slowly stands, not pressing the offensive. Duke is a man to watch... and a man to be evaded, not fought head-on. The counter to rage is always reflection, the counter to brutality is strategy. Or at least, that's what Luise tells herself.
"Am I merely a convenient outlet for your rage as well as your curiosity?" she asks, unable to stop herself. The sense that there is so much under the shifting crust of the surface Duke is gnawing at her, and his curiosity about her 'specialness' isn't helping. Perhaps this meeting was foretold... but she must know why.
COMBATSYS: Luise focuses on her next action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////// ]
Duke 0/-------/-======|======-\-------\0 Luise
With a single, solid -crack-, Duke sends Luise flying through the air, his hand swiftly snapping back like a fluid motion of fabric. The man is far faster than his large presence gives him credit for, and despite his scarred features, it should be clear to anyone that he isn't just some simple brute. A fact that Luise deduces immediately, it would seem. His hand snapping back easily to his side, the ambitious Southsynd lieutenant is silent at her words for a brief moment, eyes slanting a touch in a distinct lack of amusement. Whatever expression was there, though, fades less than a second later as he speaks, "... don't flatter yourself." Scoffing, the man lowers himself once more into a crouch. "Your talent is the only thing that matters here." His legs tense, in preparation. "Though, if your not careful... if you're not -strong-..." And in that moment, he springs.
"... that rage might just be your ticket to hell."
Duke leaps, in an impressive display for a man so large. He lands with a collosal -THUD- only scant feet from Luise. In a matter of seconds, the man's right leg is snapping outward, lancing forward in an attempt to catch the woman in a singularly mighty kick... before following it up with a rising knee to her solar plexus, to lift them -both- into the air. "GRAAAAAGH!!"
COMBATSYS: Duke successfully hits Luise with Light Kick.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////// ]
Duke 0/-------/=======|=======\==-----\1 Luise
So many ways to measure strength. Duke's titanic physical power is certainly one of them. The air actually blurs for a moment as, in a flicker of blue, Luise moves with almost superhuman speed to the side. The thrust kick passes her by... but she very badly misjudges the incoming knee, sending it not into her stomach but into the small of her back, the blow crashing into her spine rather than her gut and causing considerably more damage than the two-kick combination could ever have accomplished on its own.
Gasping for air, Luise recoils, catching her breath. She knows this fight is lost, but she is determined not to let it pass by without determining the large man's reason for seeking her out... and as she collects herself, she draws on some reserve of inner strength to keep her going despite the punishing blows Duke has been raining on her with seemingly no resistance whatsoever. "You're no Machiavelli," the Dancing Butterfly says placidly. "And there are more ways in the world to be 'strong' than you can ever dream of."
COMBATSYS: Luise gains composure.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////// ]
Duke 0/-------/=======|=======\-------\1 Luise
While the blow didn't go as intended, the end result seems the same -- if not a touch more brutal than even Duke had anticipated. Not that it matters; Luise has proved herself to be tenacious if nothing else. And that strange power, too. This is proving to be more of a learning experience than Duke had anticipated. So, instead of outright surging after Luise relentlessly, he pauses as she seems to refuse to press an offensive once more. His dark brows furrow a touch thoughtfully, legs spreading.
"You're making a bold assumption there, girl," he retorts simply -- confidently. "And I hate it when people make assumptions like that." Despite this proclamation, Duke seems to be -unnervingly- calm. For all the rage inside of him, he keeps it contained with unbelievable restraint. It's simply his willpower. Something that surprises nearly everyone he meets. "But I wanted to see how useful you are, and right now?"
Duke's right hand snaps forward, swinging outward in an attempt to grip Luise -securely- by her throat.
"You're -disappointing me-. Show me something MORE!"
COMBATSYS: Luise fails to counter Treadmill from Duke with New Moon Nocturne.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
Duke 1/------=/=======|=======\====---\1 Luise
One solid motion is all it takes to sweep Luise straight off her feet and into the air, lifting and applying such firm pressure on her throat that it may actually cut off her airway for a brief moment. "... hmph," is all Duke grunts before he puts a 'merciful' end to his vicious strangulation, twisting his body around before SLAMMING Luise roughly into the alley floor with such viciousness it cracks the ground beneath her. His fingers release, cease to apply pressure...
... just a second before Duke is suddenly -slamming- his foot down against Luise's sternum. In an act of uncanny brutality and horrendous force, he begins to -grind- his heel directly into her body viciously, beginning to apply -so much strength-... that it all overloads in one explosive moment that somehow, someway, LAUNCHES Luise into the air, and sends her crashing into the ground behind Hell's Executioner as he watches on, impassively.
There's no need to rehash Duke's brutal assault, but as she stands up and once again takes 'flight', Luise is unbowed, unbroken, though her bleeding and bruised body might suggest otherwise. In fact, if anything, she is more defiant in the face of Duke's taunting, the red lines across her pale face taking nothing away from the nobility and grace she carries herself with. It is something internal, something unbreakable... the steel with which the lace is threaded.
"And what if I say no?" she asks, almost sounding genuinely curious. "What will you do? Break my body? Useless. Physical power is ephemeral, lasting an eyeblink in the eyes of the cosmos. It works only through fear." It's the mind killer, in case you hadn't read that particular book.
The dark blue eyes train themselves on Duke, almost daring him to finish what he started, to snap the supple lines of her neck, to bring it all to an end. He's certainly displayed that he could, if he was of the mind. Luise's unspoken word, of course, is that this accomplishes nothing.
"And I'm not afraid."
Break her body? Kill her? Rip her limb from limb? Her questions draw an honest pause from Duke. The enforce stops and stares directly at the woman, almost incredulously. And then, something rare happens.
He laughs.
It's not a laugh, so much as a dry chuckle, really; a rasping, unpleasantly gruff sound that escapes from his throat as if it hadn't been in use in such a way for years. He closes his eyes, shakes his head, and then, slowly, -slowly-... he comes to a stop, almost as soon as it had started. "Break your body? What do you think this is? Some mindless brute beating on someone to get some sickeningly sense of self-satisfaction?" It's more than Duke normally allows himself to talk -- especially in a fight.
"... No." Duke's hands lift, coming to his black dress jacket -- one reserved for times he attends the opera. Slowly, calmly, he unbuttons it, leaving a red dress shirt and black tie beneath before that, too, is removed. The collar if his shirt is unbuttoned, revealing more of that scar partially concealed beneath. Not for intimidating.
He just doesn't want to ruin his nice suit for what's to come next.
"I don't want you to be afraid, and I don't want to break your body. I want you to hit me. Right now." Duke's right hand lifts, beckons.
"As hard as you can."
COMBATSYS: Duke focuses on his next action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
Duke 1/------=/=======|=======\====---\1 Luise
Well... he did ask for it.
As she brings her hand to her chest, clasped together, Luise is not exactly sure what drives this man. She does not believe that there is not something of the brute in him, because she can feel it... a sort of joy behind his fists. Even if it's nothing more than adrenaline, a sort of violent runner's high, it is THERE. She can sense it. But much as before she felt that there was something here she could not sense before, something under the surface, she considers this carefully.
There's no need to explain what she does, in Luise's mind; the end result should make all apparent. Her hands remain clasped over her heart, almost as if in prayer, and the woman's body folds up in midair, still floating, her feet pointed toward the ground. The blue glow around here, the intermittent flash of starlight, becomes something altogether different: a halo, an aura. The distinction between body and power evaporates and, for a moment, Luise herself is the dark blue hue of the midnight sky, the piercing white of the full moon, the silver twinkle of stars.
When her head comes up to observe Duke again, it is with a look of utter sadness. Her eyes are pure blue. Her voice echoes as she says, simply: "Consider this, then, my overture of farewell."
She extends one hand, a perfect circle of eight clear spheres appearing around her outstretched arm... and from each sphere comes a lance of pure white light, the eight tendrils of starlight wrapping around each other in a spiralling blast of pure psychic energy.
COMBATSYS: Luise successfully hits Duke with Overture to Farewell.
- Power hit! -
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
Duke 1/-======/=======|-------\-------\0 Luise
He did.
What good is a test, after all, if you can't experience the full force of the subject's might?
Of course... Duke fails to realize just how -hard- Luise is actually capable of striking. He underestimates almost entirely how fast she can strike, how much of that strange energy she can put forth. He stands still, though, ready to accept her power completely. And so he does.
And it overwhelms him in an impossible manner.
Duke is drowned out in a veritable sea of psychic energy, tendrils of brilliant light slamming into him, devouring him, eating him in an onslaught of might that he failed to predict entirely. His form is obscured in the blaze of Psycho Power as it overpowers him. He loses his footing, his shirt beginning to burn up from prolonged contact as his skin is singed. And then, in a moment--
--Duke, Southtown Syndicate enforcer, a man called fearfully by the title 'Hell's Executioner,' goes blazing through the air like a ragdoll.
As he ascends, Duke almost stares blankly at the sky, enshrouded in pollution of all sorts and a thick veil of dark clouds. As he reaches the apex, he smiles. And then, he grins. His fists tense, he corrects himself in midair.
By the time Duke lands, he lands fists-firsts in a titanic, overpowering BOOM of contact. "GRAAAAAAARGH!! HRAAAAARGH!! GRAAGH!!!" His fists begin to literally strike the ground, pounding on it with such ferocity that his -knuckles- bleed. With such -ferocity-...
... that the very ground all around them EXPLODES.
The radius is massive. A single, simultaneous explosion of fiery chi and rubble, as if Duke had simply pounded open the pits of Hell and let the ground around them be engulfed in a terrible, unholy firestorm. He seeks to engulf Luise in it too, and let her taste it. This is everything. Every. Single. -Ounce.- Every bit...
... of his rage.
"GRAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!"
COMBATSYS: Luise fails to reflect Ground Zero from Duke with Treacherous Ballad.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Duke 0/-------/-----==|
COMBATSYS: Luise can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Duke 0/-------/-----==|
Long before Duke actually makes his attack, Luise *feels* it coming. She doesn't understand chi, herself, something the Dancing Butterfly has mused upon with some disappointment more than once. But she has seen it in use enough times to know the mental markers. Emotion and chi are obviously related... or perhaps more accurately, anger and chi are related.
Duke's anger and Duke's chi are not only related, they may very well be the *same thing*.
As the blast wave hits, Luise's hands instinctively spring in front of her, a blue disk of light forming with a musical arpeggio that would normally be audible but is simply drowned out by the immense shockwave ripping through the area. It's a defense, an attempt to if not redirect some of that force then at least absorb it, shunt it to the side.
The blue disk shatters.
There is just enough presence of mind in Luise to keep herself upright in a crouch as the wave of flame washes over her like a hurricane, searing skin, scorching holes in clothing; in fact, a thin barrier of Psycho Power is all that keeps her from being outright incinerated. Duke has made his point, this much is clear... but the Dancing Butterfly isn't in the mood to find out what, exactly, his rebuttal is going to be. Squeezing her eyes shut, she searches out with her will and finds a spot on a nearby roof. Not very far -- if he knew she were headed there, Duke could almost certainly follow -- but close enough for her to use her powers to effectively wedge a crack between 'here' and 'there', turning the intervening space from yards to centimeters to nothing at all.
When the smoke clears, only a flurry of tiny butterflies of blue energy remains, and Luise's voice in the night -- perhaps in Duke's head? -- whispering a goodbye: "Until next time... 'Mephistopheles'..."
COMBATSYS: Duke has ended the fight here.
Log created on 23:47:17 07/26/2007 by Duke, and last modified on 04:24:32 07/27/2007.