Description: After finding a devastated Marisol, Pas -- the Brazilian Connection of Pacific Resistance -- goes hunting for the man responsible with revenge on her mind. But revenge is a dish best served in the nurse's office! Special guest star: a limousine!
It's still bad weather out, or as the Japanese would put it, it's still bad weather out genki.
In any event, that does not stop one tall, broad figure from striding with the utmost confidence through the light snowfall, clad within the comfort that only the finest of suits can offer. A long stride hastily takes this figure away from the administrative building and towards the parking lot.
The last of the paper work has been finalized, and a cheque for damages written and signed in full. As far as the likes of Preston Alistair Wellington are concerned, his work here is complete; and he even got to break the arm of an uppity little girl as well.
All things considered, it's enough to make the tall man smile.
And thus he does, as he steps from the pathway amidst snow-covered grass and onto the clear and salted asphalt of the parking lot itself. His ride is the obvious one, the engine already running; the long, black, stretched limousine, complete with little Union Jacks hanging limp at the fore and aft of the vehicle.
This was hardly meant to be a mission of diplomacy, but the figure thinks he's made his points very, very clear to those who stand in the way of what he wants.
His footfalls continue across to the vehicle...
Pás is on a hunt. Down the dormitories, through the courtyard, and into the main buildings, she follows the scent of the spreading rumour.
Word spreads like falling dominoes throughout the Pacific campus. Random students point out the path of the mysterious, suited man, giving directions to the Brazilian on warpath.
Her hunt almost goes cold when she reaches the school's office, that finally seems to be closing down. There's two possible exits she could take. There's out the front and out the back. Just when she seems inclined to hurry up to the roof to take a survey of the entire grounds, a wide-eyed, hush-voiced student is talking to her, obviously one of many that recognizes the exotic fighter.
He calls with little preamble: "You're looking for the guy who beat the crap out of O'Connell, right? I think he's gone to the parking l--"
Pás is already gone.
The front door kicked open, she steps fiercely outside the school, her seething breathe misting visibly on the night air. Snow falls around her, and she peers through it, searching almost solemnly for the figure she's been pursuing. It's dark, but she swears she sees something. She's not sure it's him. But there's only one way to find out.
Swiftly, intently, she starts forward, her bare feet leaving footprints in the snow. Pás doesn't even seem to notice. Her eyes fix on the man's turned back. Her jaw grits down tight. Her hands clench at her sides. Every last bit of her bleeds vengeance.
A lone groundskeep for the school spends the quiet night shovelling through the snowfall, working hard to keep the main walkways pristine and free of any ice -- that is, until, out of nowhere, a certain student reaches out and robs him of his shovel. Before he can even protest, she thrusts it down and kicks it ruthlessly at the neck, suddenly and viciously separating the shovel head from the handle in a crunch of wood.
Pás lifts the broken handle into one hand. She doesn't even pause. She doesn't even stop to think. Still walking forward quickly, furiously, she hurls the splintered weapon like a javelin, aiming to put it right through the limousine's window.
That should be enough to get someone's attention.
Should it bore through Wellington's car with an explosion of glass, should he look back to see from whence it came, there the Brazilian girl stands, with dark skin, bare feet, and murderous eyes. Falling snow clings to her long, inky hair, and it moves in the cold wind. It is freezing out, but that doesn't stop her from shouldering out of her bloodied hoodie in angry, determined movements, her breath ghosting visibly in an angry hiss as she rips her arms free and throws the article of clothing to one side, dressing down to a tank top and jeans.
In a school that caters to the global community, hers is a universal gesture if there ever was one. It's the signal to throw down.
"Ach, no respect for Willy," the poor groundskeeper complains to himself, left with nothing but the head of the shovel with which to continue clearing the pathway. He fades into the background though, forgotten instantly in the sudden thoughtless actions of the Brazilian fighter.
That telltale sign of a perfect throw, the sound of it, graces the ears of the suited figure as he reaches for the door. That splintered wood crunches into the passenger's side window of the limousine, cracking the glass like a web as the item is wedged into place.
There it hangs, and it is eyed with a deep hazel gaze.
Straightening, the Duke's hand falls to his side as he turns slightly, casting that stare over his shoulder towards the lithe form that hatred has taken this evening. A cursory lowering of his gaze follows, as he eyes off this girl in her tank top and jeans. Hardly pressed for the weather, and he can all but feel her intent to harm.
Turning the rest of the way, Wellington's features sink into place; he looks patently unimpressed by her actions, arms crossing to pin his suit jacket in place as he speaks to her in a droll, not-amused voice.
"I'm going to do you a favor and let this slide, de Santo," he informs her, looking very much the father figure who's just caught his child doing something she should indeed not have done -- and rather than tattle to mother, he's letting her get away with it, potentially without a hand across her backside.
"Now turn and walk away," the Duke adds, giving her every opportunity to avoid a similar fate as her teammates thus far, the heavy tone of authority and command sinking into his accented voice.
Pás holds her ground, looking every bit the avenging angel as she faces off with Preston's own father. He brutalized Marisol, and still he looks close to untouched. But does this worry the Brazilian?
Hardly. She's not even thinking about that. Pás is mentally unhinged like that.
Under Wellington's fierce and fatherly stare, she props a hand up to her hip and hoods her eyes, defiantly meeting his with her own. Her expression see-saws between angry and bored. Obviously the concept of frightening father figures is lost on her.
Her patience runs out a moment later.
"Põe no cu da mãe," the Brazilian fighter spits back, sharply, angrily, in her native Portuguese. Suddenly, she stalks forward, her voice deepening as it switches back into a lower, but crisply-worded English. "That means: up your mother's ass, you coward son of a bitch gringo. You think that I'm afraid of you? I am not here for your favours. I am here for your fucking blood."
Her last step suddenly transforms into a dash, her wiry body building momentum out of thin air. Quickly, sharply, she throws herself into a front handspring through the falling snow, pushing off her arms and thrusting forward at the suited Briton. Twisting her back and violently swinging one leg by, Pás returns the Duke's generousity with a foot aimed at his throat.
COMBATSYS: Pas has started a fight here.
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Pas 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Wellington has joined the fight here.
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Pas 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Wellington
COMBATSYS: Wellington dodges Pas' Medium Kick.
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Pas 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Wellington
It would seem that there is a trend amidst the girls of Pacific Resistance, Wellington decides as he stands there. He lacks the considerable bulk of his son, but there's a definite strength of character to him instead; as if rather than bulking outwards, he has instead bulked inwards.
No doubt the man's heart could crush another man's throat with its bare valves. A story he may yet recount to those present, but another time.
That expression darkens to match the five o'clock shadow he wears as the Brazilian provides a translation for her flippant use of another tongue. It readily becomes apparent that the nubile girl has every intention of making this another violent affair; the restorative coffee that he had while speaking with the headmaster of the branch has only allowed him so much leeway since his last encounter.
The foot she offers his throat very nearly catches him. Instead the Duke becomes a momentary blur, sliding out from under that encroaching appendage with a beguiling speed. If she's lucky, her feet will hit the window she so callously broke moments prior.
Thus represents a problem. The makeshift javelin is no longer jutting from it.
Rolling through to his feet, Wellington spends a moment to give his suit a flick, clearing it of any caught snowfall. "Very silly, girl," he informs her, voice heavy with warning. Her murderous intent is matched, as those dark hazel eyes snap back to lock onto her lean frame.
Fairly warned was she, says he. Closing the gap between them in two long strides, he reaches out with a large hand, seeking to grab onto the girl any which way he can; a wrist, a leg, the front of her tank top, the scruff of the neck. How he grabs her doesn't matter -- the end result is what will.
If she's truly unfortunate enough to be caught, Wellington will exert a sizeable amount of strength to hoist her up over his head -- and then slam her down onto the hood of the limousine! All with one hand.
COMBATSYS: Wellington successfully hits Pas with Medium Strike.
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Pas 0/-------/----===|-------\-------\0 Wellington
Pás, who never seems to take her fights seriously, who regards her entire world only with her infuriating smiles and sleepy boredom, snarls out when her swung foot misses the man. Her teeth grit, her striking features lit with a poisonous rage. Her heel takes out the rest of the window. Landing to her feet, she twists to try to face him, her eyes flared, her hair fanned over her shoulders, the look on her face already revealing the mistake she's made. She's expecting him to capitalize on her error. But she's not fast enough to avoid it.
Snagged by her neck, the Brazilian gets swung up and put down hard on the hood of the limousine. It dents inward under the impact. And, for a moment, she simply sprawls, feeling every last bit of it. It hurts. She already tastes a bit of mouth in her mouth.
It's not a good start. But Pás is far from defeated. The image of Marisol brutalized and left to bleed on the floor is a galvanizing one.
Her eyes open. Still strewn across the hood of the limo, Pás suddenly curls into a backwards somersault, then uncurling once her feet brace against the windshield. Her toes splay against the glass. Then it groans, webbing with cracks as she recoils against it, thrusting herself outwards and trying to catch the Briton in her furious trajectory. There, she tries to fist one hand into his lapels, one leg kicking up to try to make a foothold out of his chest, as she leans in to try to crack her skull off his face.
COMBATSYS: Wellington blocks Pas' Zidane's Revenge.
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Pas 0/-------/-----==|-------\-------\0 Wellington
Definitely not a good start, and a telltale indicator -- the sheer strength that he displays, far exceeding that of his son's -- that Pás may yet find herself joining her half-Spaniard teammate in the nurse's office, if not the hospital.
With the girl dispensed with for a start, Wellington steps away from the damaged vehicle, already tallying up the costs; he can likely get the school to pay for this, since it was one of the students responsible, but he's not entirely fussed. After his near-call with the other Resistance member though, he's not going to underestimate what this slip of a girl can bring to the table.
Closely does he watch as she comes back to life, curling up against the windshield. An educated man such as he is swift to deduce her intent; using the surface as a springboard, as she escalates towards him.
One hand catches his lapel, and those feet catch his chest -- her forehead plummets for his face.
There's no satisfying crack; no break to his nose. Her skull catches his open palm, as he keeps her at bay with his meaty hand. "You won't spill a drop of my blood," the Duke informs her, a promise as opposed to a display of arrogance. With her momentarily poised in such a convenient position though, his fingers seek to clench about her forehead and dig in, to grab her by the very bones that sculpt her pretty Brazilian face.
An incapacitating hold, if she fails to pull away, and either way he reveals just where that shovel's shaft has ended up; in his other hand, as he seeks to knock her senses back in by clubbing her upside the head with the makeshift weapon.
COMBATSYS: Pas endures Wellington's Crow's Nest.
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Pas 0/-------/--=====|=------\-------\0 Wellington
The girl hasn't even time for outrage when her impetuous attack is stopped, her skull trapped in the Duke's large hand. His fingers dig down, and she can't help but seethe against it, the crushing pain making her eyes sting. Still, they force themselves to stare at Wellington, no sheer amount of agony dulling their fury. When he speaks to her, declaring that she won't ventilate him a drop of his blood, those expressive eyes only crease at the corners.
To him, it's a promise. To her, it's a dare.
He strikes. And Pás, despite trapped by his excruciating hold, this time does not try to twist away. She accepts the broken shank of wood across the head, a deep gash opening up across her temple, her neck snapping to one side from the sheer force of the blow. The shock gives her enough momentum to attempt to escape his crushing grip, and almost immediately, her dormant body reanimates back like a live wire. She curls her back and tries to swing her legs up; for a moment it looks as if she's simply trying to escape him.
But, as Pás twists, she tries to catch herself by her hands against the icy pavement, blood dripping down upon it from her bleeding face. Suddenly and deftly gone inverted, she tries to swing her legs in to catch the Duke by the neck between her hooked ankles. If she manages to, her skin already feels like scalding. Her flesh is red hot. Sparks begin to crackle and hiss from her soles, the humming energy tasting distinctly of chi. It builds. Then it just explodes.
COMBATSYS: Wellington interrupts Sanduich de Calabresa from Pas with Extremis.
- Power hit! -
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Pas 1/------=/=======|==-----\-------\0 Wellington
It's the fact that the Duke draws blood which makes him release her skull from his digging fingers, as if the prospect of her tainted, foreign blood may in some way taint him; who knows, after all, just what this girl may be carrying? Rumor has it that she's quite promiscuous! The way she gallivants around wearing barely a thread on global television speaks volumes for her character.
And yet Pás is fueled by vengeance. Her skull freed, she drops away and onto her hands, only to latch those legs about the tall figure's neck. She's warm to the touch, if not more so -- and indeed, his hands grace her calves, already taking a firm hold.
The feel of chi definitely swells, and sparks begin to fly as a potentially lethal discharge from SOMEWHERE on Pás' body draws into firing position. In this case though, the tall Briton simply sports a dismissive smirk, likely unseen due to the Brazilian's twisting body.
As the explosion seeks to rip through the Duke's face, he flexes, brawn used to snap her legs open and away from their locked position on his neck. Lifting her clear of the ground, he hurls her away like the trash he thinks she truly is, aiming to slam her right into the side of his already banged-up limousine.
"What did I tell you? Step away now, before I send you to join your friend," Wellington warns, straightening after the exertion. He flips the broken handle in his grip, awaiting what he hopes will be a sensible, sane decision.
Not very likely, is it?
The chi detonates harmlessly from her feet, the fiery heat burning water out of the falling snow. As his hands grip down on her legs, her attack already gone forfeit, Pás widens her eyes, her hands scrambling for purchase against the icy earth. But, again, with a consistency like clockwork in the face of this mysterious Briton, she finds her body failing her once more.
Hurled aside, her spine cracks against the side of the limousine. It makes a horrible sound. The Brazilian crumples on the spot, coughing raggedly, leaving behind bloody stains that stand out brightly against the snow. There Pás sags, her breathing shallow and broken, her fingernails digging against the icy pavement, trying to turn her pounding head to watch Wellington out one dark eye. She can't even touch him. Is this all that she amounts to? Is this what she's meant to be? She failed her mother. And now she's failing Marisol.
You act like it's all a joke, Estella, she tells herself. Maybe you've become one.
But Wellington's voice cuts through the one in her head. His implies Marisol. And Pás suddenly feels a rage she never thought possible. For a moment, she goes eerily silent.
The next, she is snarling mindlessly into the night air, tearing herself off the ground and turning to launch herself violently at the Duke. She leaps, catching the front of the car by one foot and ricocheting cleanly off it, hurtling herself through the air in the attempt to intercept him with a wicked roundhouse. If it hits him, she doesn't stop there.
Fuelled by sheer burning hate, Pás twists aerially, swinging her other leg up to impart Wellington her second heel before she descends rapidly back to the earth. There, she swiftly catches herself by both her hands, upside-down and already forcing herself into wild motion. She crosses hand over hand as she turns, trying to meet the man with lashing kick after lashing kick, her feet suddenly lighting up with crackling, searing chi among the flurry of strikes. As she gains momentum, she pushes off into a fierce handspin, widening her legs to try to riddle the man with a rain of fierce, fiery kicks that seem to go on and on.
But not for long. At the very end, Pás twists inside her inverted handstand, her feet suddenly blasting their last firework explosion as she launches up from her arms, giving a last ditch attempt, through all her will, fury, and blood, to end it with a double-footed mule kick straight at the ribs.
COMBATSYS: Wellington blocks Pas' Catherine Wheel.
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Pas 0/-------/------=|===----\-------\0 Wellington
The warning was very dire, very promising of the pain that young Estella Maria de Santo will continue to feel. That tingle up her spine proves a hint, the fact that she's still able to twitch her big toe and move her legs a blessing. Next time, he may just cripple the poor girl.
When the Brazilian straightens, Wellington inwardly sighs; the girl won't take his advice, will she? They never do. Kids these days, he privately laments, are in dire need of the strap.
Must he set another example?
The youth pushes off the car and comes for him, that first roundhouse crashing down into his raised forearm. Braced for the blow, the second heel catches him across the face, breaking his previously split lip thanks to Estella's teammate. Despite the sting of pain, he remains ready as she falls to the ground, incorporating energy into the whirling series of strikes.
Deep hazel watches her clearly, telegraphing each move, meeting almost every kick with the sturdy block of his forearms. They take a battering, but it's much better that his meaty arms cushion the blow than his chest.
That mule kick and the sheer force behind it still drive the Duke back though, and his arms windmill as he keeps himself upright.
This time, he sighs outwardly, straightening his suit once more. As he stands there, waiting a moment as he considers his best course of action. While he does so, a trickle of blood falls down his chin, a scarlet trail from his split lip.
He seems unaware of it. Instead he squints at her, awaiting her next action, never tearing his gaze off of her lean frame.
COMBATSYS: Wellington focuses on his next action.
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Pas 0/-------/------=|==-----\-------\0 Wellington
Pás can feel them. She feels every stopped kick, every dismissed strike cast off as though they, and she, were nothing.
They're starting to take their toll.
It's not the first time she's ever fought someone of his calibre, and not the first time she's had a stronger, more skillful fighter brush off her best attacks as though they were gnats. But that was fun. That was a game to her. This is different. This fight weighs with the cost of her best friend's dignity. Pás is not fighting this time to display herself against to world, to show off and seek her little amusements. She's doing this all for Marisol, a demonstration of loyalty and both the will and necessary ability to protect her people when they need it.
Pás is failing her.
When her last kick, however blocked, severs some distance between them, the girl pulls herself back to her feet, feeling cold and looking sobered. She breathes heavily, already tiring with her own efforts, and feeling her heart fall when her eyes tell her that it's all for naught. She hasn't even disheveled his suit.
Fury has a way of leeching into a person, never letting them be truly absolved of it. Even as the hot anger recedes, it has a distinct way of transforming into an icier despair, a sensation nearly foreign to the girl but still ever so able to make her teeter a little in her steps. She stares at Wellington, watching him with a pained disbelief. It's plainly there in her face; her spirit is suffering.
When she realizes finally that Wellington is not making his own attack, but instead waiting for her, Pás tries to steel what little will she has left. Her face takes a couple attempts to smooth its expression back to determination, and with or without her breath, she moves again, desperate to do what she had promised. She doesn't say a word, only lunges back at the Briton, throwing her wiry body back into the air. Both her legs whip up in a high round kick, aiming for a high target centered right in his face.
COMBATSYS: Wellington interrupts Change-Up Kick from Pas with Stonnacky.
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Pas 1/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Wellington
And well the lean girl's spirits should flag and falter, faced as she is by the might of the British Navy. An Admiral, a man who will give his life in the protection of his country, is what she is facing. Previous fights do not matter; this is something she will regret interfering with, because nothing about this is fun for either of them.
To Wellington, this is a waste of his time. The girl is not even offering him a proper challenge or inspiring any great feats of ingenuity from him. All he has used so far is his size and his brain, the most base of his abilities, to thwart her left and right.
Whatever promise that Pás made to her teammate, she's at least succeeded in making the Duke bleed. Still unaware of it, he waits for her, and she does not disappoint.
At least, in that she does not disappoint.
Her round kick fails to strike true; it clips his shoulder as he steps forward, thwarting her intended trajectory as he exerts his force over her once again. Those large hands of his catch her out of the air, seemingly a rather peaceful stop for what has thus far been a rather violent man from the other side of the world.
But the pain comes; how can it not, when she still proves so willful? Rather than simply deposit Pás back on her feet, the Duke swings her out in front of him -- and then drops her downwards onto his rising knee, driving her back into the air as his stern kneecap encounters her middle.
There he catches her, all but bouncing the girl as if she was a bobble or a ball, but there's no danger of her getting away from him.
His fingers lace through her hair, a painful tug given to lift her just that little bit higher... and then he seeks to do much as he did to the half-Spaniard. The boxer works with her fists; the capoeiristas works with her legs. Thus with the girl held high, he brings that shaft he holds into play once more.
A vicious strike is delivered to the back of her knees as he releases her hair, to send the girl for a spin and a tumble back to the unforgiving asphalt as the Duke turns his back on her.
"Leave," he orders.
It happens so fast. One moment she is lithely and gracefully aerial, and the next, her organs are rearranging themselves quickly to accomodate Wellington's knee.
The Brazilian barely has time to react his skillful interception other than the surprised, choked breath that gets let go when he knees her, her body doubling over from the blow. For a time, she can't even breath. She only coughs hoarsely and desperately, spitting up more blood, threatening to go limp on the spot.
But never for long; those big hands of his come in to helpfully deliver her from the frying pan and straight into the fire. She gives a good struggle in effort, but it soon dilapidates into feeble flailing when he gets her by the hair. Her head pulls up and back. Her face twists with pain, but even within it Pás still finds the strength to be angry at Wellington; her jaw grits, teeth flaring inside her sneer, and her defiant dark eyes never leave his.
As he lifts her, and by her hair alone, the pain becomes blinding. She grimaces, her face visibly twisting to weather it, to show no sign of affect to this man she detests. She forces herself to keep snarling, keep staring, keep standing her ground even if she can no longer feel it under her dangling feet. Just when she narrows her eyes and twitches her mouth, no doubt aiming to speak to him-- the broken handle comes down. Hard.
Her eyes widen. The anger falls off her face; no room for it with all the agony. She can feel the snap in her left knee, sudden and searing and unparalleled in its agony. She doesn't even get her moment to cry out at the pain of it; instead Pás finds herself with a faceful of pavement, yet again tossed aside and left skidding.
Almost immediately, she braces her hands down against it, trying to test her failing body. A few moments, she can do little but let herself be blinded and left almost drunk by sheer pain, tortured for a handful of moments before shock and adrenaline soon return to her. The Brazilian girl shifts her legs. She can barely feel them. Especially the left. She doesn't know if she can get back up.
But: 'Leave,' the Duke tells her, and Pás knows she has to. Grimly, she pushes her body back up, breathing shallowly, her eyes watering as she forces herself to walk on legs that shouldn't be used right now. Already she can feel her left knee swelling and locking up, so she knows that if she wants to move, wants to retaliate, she has to do it now. While she can.
"I'm... not finished," replies the Brazilian's rough, ragged voice, as she decidedly turns back on him. There she stands, bruised, bleeding, and wet from snow, limping as she drags her left leg along. Blood runs from the corner of her mouth. "You're not going anywhere. You piece of shit."
And in a testament to the power of sheer fury, Pás dashes forward on a fractured knee, the pain impossible but something she must ignore. With one last racing step, she pushes herself back into the air and at him, attempting to meet the man with a swung snap kick that aims high. Whether or not it connects, she drops down, and catching herself with one leg, immediately thrusts out the other. And there, she keeps going, trying to cross leg over leg and weave continuous whipping strikes, trying to move so quickly that her clothing blurs. There, pushing herself on a knee that risks permanent damage if it continues to be used, she suddenly cartwheels herself over with no hands, her body momentarily horizontal to the ground, trying to bring both heels over and straight down in one last damaging blow.
COMBATSYS: Wellington endures Pas' Dama Branco.
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Pas 0/-------/-------|=====--\-------\0 Wellington
What a sickening blow it proves to be, and how callously the tall Briton delivers it. An up and coming fighter, reduced to a state of agony with one swift strike to the back of her legs. Before she has time to fully consider the ramifications, she's eating asphalt and it is indeed tasty.
Standing tall and ordering the girl around; that's what Wellington does. And it's also what he does best. What an upbringing Preston must have had, with this man as his overbearing father.
But for the here and now, all there really seems to be is her agony. And through it, Pás pushes herself, rising back to her feet. With his back turned, he watches as she manages that amazing feat... and part of him anticipates that this one, through the hardship she's no doubt faced through the shade of her skin alone, will have the sanity remaining to pull out while she still can.
Ah, they never pull out in time though, do they?
The young Brazilian forces her way forward through gritty determination alone. With a slight shake of his head through... the Duke does her no favors.
He lets her come forward; he lets her exert pressure on her injured knee all for the sake of trying the impossible, of felling this British giant in the suit. The snap kick catches him willingly, and the flurry of end-over-end kicks striking him cleanly, one after the other. The final feat, that amazing no-hands cartwheel, brings both heels down against his right shoulder.
Very nearly, Wellington stumbles. He straightens the leg that threatens to buckle under the fury of the blow, and he's left standing there in front of the girl. If her legs hit the ground, that may well be a bad thing; that shaft comes into play for what may be the final time, aiming to clip the legs right out from under her and send her flat on her back.
If she's that unfortunate, it's going to get even better for her. Spinning the broken shovel in his grip, he drives the handle down into her middle as he strides right past her, intent on his vehicle. "Stay down, girl. You're going to be joining your friend now, whether you meant to or not." He considers this chapter closed.
COMBATSYS: Wellington successfully hits Pas with Act of Grace.
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Pas 0/-------/--=====|=======\-------\0 Wellington
Her feet trip up. Her twisting, flipping weight lands entirely onto the wrong leg and its wounded knee. And there is little Pás can do but have the audacity left to look surprised.
Her spine smacks against the concrete. For a moment, all she can hear is the defeaning sound of her blood rushing past her ears. The pain makes her vision go blurry. She sprawls there, spread-eagled, back on the ground and bloodier than the last time she left it. Finally, her eyes open, and the Brazilian returns to reality seething. Her scraped hands grab numb, blocky handfuls of the pavement, and her body shifts, trying to get back up again with a deranged determination --
-- until the broken handle puts her down. It thrusts straight into her abdomen, and she curls against the blow, her eyes widening as she lets out a strangled cough. There, Pás just crumples, wrapping one arm around her middle as she turns over onto her side, choking until she manages to cough up a mouthful of blood on the cold concrete. Dark crimson drooling out her gasping lips, the girl can do little but sag, the last of her strength sighing out of her like an old ghost, leaving behind her battered body, bleeding limbs, the lame way her left leg flops, and the snow falling into her tangled hair.
Pás knows she's finished. She knows she's failed. She knows she can barely move her leg. All knows she's going to pass out. And, worst of all, she knows when she wakes up, Preston will still be missing, Marisol will still be hurt, and she will have failed them both. She couldn't even hurt him, not even once... she's let them down. She promised herself long ago that she would never be this person... someone who does nothing, who loses everything. Perhaps that is something she will never be able to overcome, no matter how hard she tries... you can't escape your destiny.
'Stay low and hide,' her mother had told Pás in whispered Portuguese before she was murdered.
"Stay down," Wellington tells her now, the language changed but the command the same.
Stay, her mind keeps repeating over and over, processing it in two languages, as the Duke of Rutford walks away. Stay. Fique aí.
Her dark eyes creak open, their gaze dulled and filmy, staring glassily off into nowhere. They harden. Her hands drive down against the pavement.
As Wellington steps back to his dented but waiting limousine, he is no longer pursued. The night is peaceful again. The snow falls with timeless patience. He is given as many minutes as he needs, or as he wants, to step into the back seat of the car and close the door behind him.
There is a single beat of silence.
Then, suddenly, the window on that very door EXPLODES in raining glass as Pás takes her running start and kicks both legs straight through it -- right at the Duke's head.
Both hands clutched on the top of the door to prop herself up, breathing raggedly, and with only seconds of consciousness, she makes herself find the strength to spit out a mouthful of blood and tell Preston's father, diplomatically: "Shiu... go fuck yourself."
COMBATSYS: Pas can no longer fight.
COMBATSYS: Pas successfully hits Wellington with Strong Kick.
- Power hit! -
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Wellington 1/------=/=======|
Unwittingly, Wellington has touched on the past for the young Estella; a dark place, a memory that brings nothing but pain for the girl who lies there on the ground and seems to obey the words of her better. Her bet-ter!
Thus, the Duke vanishes into the confines of his vehicle, into plush surrounds with a stern drink awaiting him. He believes that this misadventure is over with, and that he may now return to his homeland with his wayward son. God's in his Heaven, all's right with the world.
He informs the driver that they can leave, as he pours himself a stiff drink. The engine of the battered vehicle sputters to life.
The glass lifts upwards towards his mouth.
From his peripheral, he sees a thunderhead approaching with dire speed.
Within the supposedly safe confines of his stretched limousine, Wellington has little room to maneuver. Try as he might, he cannot evade what comes; both feet thunder through the window, shattering glass, bringing sharp shards along with her pointed feet as they drive into the side of the seated man's face. His face goes back, and to the right. It kind of looks like this: http://...
In any event, he's less than impressed with the outcome. He bleeds, and his drink is ruined. To make matters worse, as he groggily regains his senses, the girl has the audacity to spit blood and vitriol.
The Duke of Rutford looks sideways at the young Pás.
Then he just pushes her feet right out the window, letting her tumble to the pavement as she slips from consciousness. As she falls into darkness, that British voice issues orders; not for her, but to his driver.
"Get me a discrete doctor, there's no telling what that girl has in her blood.
"And let's go see that brother of mine."
COMBATSYS: Wellington has ended the fight here.
Log created on 21:07:06 01/09/2008 by Wellington, and last modified on 03:20:33 01/17/2008.