Description: "In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, who, squatting upon the ground, held his heart in his hands, and ate of it. I said, 'Is it good, friend?' 'It is bitter - bitter,' he answered; 'But I like it because it is bitter, and because it is my heart." - Stephen Crane
Weeks had passed since then. By chance, in his wanderings, he had come upon his Ayame in an alley with another man. The man was hurting her. That couldn't do. Though he had tried to stop the man, there was a real difference in power between them, and though Ayame tried to help, in the end they were saved by some woman whom he had never met.
But that didn't matter to Saint.
As much as he confessed love for Ayame, something... else, had distracted him. Safe in the knowledge that his beloved was safe, the priest had walked away, staring at his hand, lost in thought. From there, he had simply disappeared, as though he had never existed. He never went back to the home he 'shared' with Ayame, though the plastic cards he had given to her so she could buy things never seemed to run out of money, continually restocked. He never left her notes, or gave any indication where he might be. Had Saint actually gone away for good? It seemed almost likely, as the weeks went on.
And then, a rumor.
There is a small church - a chapel, really - on the outskirts of Southtown. This chapel, though not abandoned, has recently not been used very much, the local parishioners having stopped coming... though they could not tell you why. A sense of unease, perhaps, that made them want to get away from the small church and go to a larger one, the one in Southtown proper. Strange things had been happening there. People getting flashes of terrible, horrible visions. Ghostly singing. A sense of evil - but more than that, a calculated, cold evil that intended on doing them harm, specifically. Combined with the murders in town, the parishioners had felt it necessary to move away.
And now, that same chapel sits alone, its lights turned off. This evening, a fog has collected, reducing visibility to several feet. Objects appear as little more than shapes until one approaches them. Stillness. Far too still at this chapel, this little one-room, white-painted building that had only room for the meager congregation to sit and pray on Sundays and little room for anything else. A playground sits out front for children to play at while their parents talk matters of faith, and the whole thing has a white picket fence around it. Cozy, it would appear in any other setting, but now lifeless, devoid of faith.
But, for all that, it is not quiet.
Approaching the chapel along the road, one would hear the high-pitched squeak first. Metal scraping against metal. The sound comes infrequently, without a rhythm. Listless. As one drifts closer, however, another noise joins the first. Indistinct at first, but closer still, the noise turns into words, occassionally punctuated by the metal scrape. The words are not spoken, however... but rather sung, a fine, clear tenor of a practiced voice.
"Is it a sin? Is it, a crime? Loving you dear, like I do?"
Finally, stepping past the gate, one would find the source of both noises. A miniture carousel, the kind where children cling to the bars and another pushes, is being pushed along by a single occupant. No child, this man is tall, dressed in fine clothes - a white coat over black priest's clothing, a black derby atop his head. He sits upon the carousel, cross-legged, a cane in his hand occassionally pushing at the ground to spin himself around, causing the metal to squeal. Though he sits alone in the fog, he still sings to himself, a voice of mixed happiness... and yet tinged with loneliness.
"Maybe I'm wrong, dreaming of you. Dreaming the lonely night through... but if I'm wrong, then I'm guilty, guilty of dreaming... of you..."
The last several months of Ayame's life have been a whirlwind of chaos, ongoing investigation, and puzzle piece gathering. Rebuilding a life forgotten, rediscovering secrets thought burried or impossible to find, relearning how to fight from the ground up by trial, error, and studying her various publicized fight videos... Ayame's life has not been dull in the slightest. But all along the way, there's been certain questions nagging from the back of her mind. Questions about her mysterious benefactor, to be exact.
She had gone to thank him after his intervention on her behalf. While he may not have been able to single handedly save her from the raging, bloodied Yamazaki, he did step in just in time to save her eye. An eye the mercenary had intended to take in exchange for putting a bolt through one of his. A fair trade in his mind, no doubt. And for his interference, Saint became the target of a violent, brutal beating.
Amoral as she may be, she still understood the concept of gratitude. When someone gets crushed like that on your behalf, a token expression of thanks is the proper, civil thing to extend. And so she had returned to where she knew him to live; the place they had shared until she had moved out to dwell with Shihong Mao. And there she waited... time and time again, to the point that she was practically moved back in. But he never showed. Strange, she had pondered. Maybe he was fatally wounded by the damage incurred by Yamazaki. Maybe he had walked away only to die. It's not like anyone would know to contact her if he was found dead. In truth, they barely knew each other, or so she figured.
She was surprised at the strange emptiness the thought of his demise left in her. It was nice thinking that out in that cruel, broken world, there were at least two people who cared that she existed; that seemed to want to see her do okay. It was too bad he went and died saving her. Just goes to show the price of helping others, she had decided. Well, the least she can do is enjoy his debit cards until the banks cut them off. That was the plan, at least.
But they never ran dry. Not that she had gone out of her way to tax them fiercely. Food, clothing, and basic supplies had all she had charged to the cards, behaving strangely responsible for a girl who so regularly went out of her way to part others from their precious money. But she would have expected that with no one making payments, the funding lenders would have pulled the plugs eventually. Maybe the accounts had fallen through the cracks somehow, she had come to ponder. Or... maybe they're still being paid.
She started the search for him again. It took time; the leads were few or non-existant. Saint was not a man easily tracked. Even with her skill in such matters, nothing came to light for the longest while. Then came the rumors. She had dismissed them as irrelevant at first though she found the accounts curious. A bunch of ghost stories. Paranoid people, nothing more. Until her encounter with at creature born of nightmare a scant few weeks prior, Ayame would have been firm in her believe that there's no such thing as ghosts or demons - only people, with their warped existences, taking on the forms thereof.
But now? Now she has to wonder. And as she finally lands spare time between hassling Gedo kids, helping Shihong move them both into a new condo after their last two places were trashed when their pasts caught up with each of them in turn, Ayame decides... what's the harm in looking? The fog makes it seem later than it really is, though the fall of night is not far off either. A taxi rolls to a stop out on the road, breaks, overdue for changing, squealing in protest.
A passanger slips out of the back; brown Doc Martin covered feet planting firmly on the gravel on the side of the road. The fog mutes the exchange of voices - the driver asking if he should wait, his customer insisting she'll be fine; the driver reluctantly acknowledging her request to move along. "No place..." the words drift through the mist, "... leave a girl." He doesn't want to go; insists he'll be in town for a little while and that she should call him to come get her once she's finished her business here. The car door closes, the engine revs, and the taxi's tail lights vanish into obscurity.
In truth, Ayame isn't a fearless girl. Her very life has been driven by a strange mixture of paranoia, unrelenting greed, and curiosity that knows no bounds. But there's something about the feel of the place. Something that tells her she should be here. She can barely make out the chapel itself as she walks away from the road. The fence leaps out at her, almost blending too well into the fog until she's almost tripping into it. Her hands find the gate and nudge it open cautiously. She isn't alone there. There's a voice and a noise; metal creaking, a piteous whine carried across a distance that is difficult to make out in the cloud.
It's singing. Here? Male. Young, but rich in tone. There's something familiar about it even when she can barely hear it. The air is cold. Her shoulders bare, she folds her hands in front of her, rubbing them a little. She should have dressed warmer rather than donning her typical rebellious teen girl attire. It didn't seem so chilly when she had left Southtown. How was she to know?
Her right hand moves from off her left shoulder, lingering at the base of her throat, fingers closing around a thin chain dangling there. Blinking, she glances down, opening it again in some surprise, only to find a silver cross resting in her palm. A trinket she'd worn as an ironic decoration - like spitting in the eye of all those religious nuts she's always harassing. "Che." she grunts, releasing it to go back to resting against her chest.
Biting back reluctance, she steps in through the gate and enters another world. A man in his twenties lurks there, spinning gently, slowly on a Merry-Go-Round. His coat conceals him from sight at first, but his voice leaves no doubt. It's with a mixture of unexpected elation and mostly expected nervousness that Ayame sets eyes on Saint again. She had pictured confronting him with her questions in her head a hundred times. Boldly challenging him, throwing what she had learned back at him, watching to see if he squirmed as it became clear that she might be on to him about something.
But now that she looks at him, she feels differently. The girl with a thousand masks finds herself at a loss for words. "Hey." she speaks up, breaking her silence, making her presence obvious. Should she be angry? Grateful? Does she even know enough to /know/ how she should feel? Confusion reigns where uncertainty can't be found. "We need to talk."
Vaguely, through the mists, there can be heard a car rumbling by. Those aren't uncommon, particularly since the chapel is right next to the road, only a small dirt path between the front gate and the road itself. But what is uncommon... is this one stops. The engine idles. A door opens, and some words - indistinct - are spoken. The car door closes again, and after a moment, the car travels on. That metal squealing is heard in the interlude between the car driving off and the Doc Martins crunching on the dirt path, and another line of the song is sung.
"What can I do? What can I say? After I've taken the blame?"
Again, the squealing noise. But now the owner of those footsteps is opening the gate, and stepping through into this world. The world of 'horrible visions' and 'ghostly singing' that drove so many people away from the chapel. A world where, apparently, a twenty-something year old man in a priest outfit can push himself along on a child's toy without concern for what might be thought of him. Where he can sing jazzy lyrics about love... but a twisted kind of love, that only he would understand.
No... not 'only' he.
There's a greeting, and the cane the man is holding digs into the ground, stopping his motion mid-turn. His face can be viewed in profile, those all too narrow eyes seemingly closed, though difficult to tell even then due to the derby perched on his head. His long, almost silver hair is a bit mussed as well, but otherwise he looks quite fine. The man named Saint is silent through the greeting, and his position suggests that he might not even believe he heard anything, though he does not strain to hear, nor does he look in the direction of the sound. Once more the girl talks, and then Saint lifts his head, turning to look at the girl in the faux-goth outfit. Expression neutral. Eyes hidden. But then, after a moment, he smiles.
"Ah... my dear, dear Aya," the man says. Then, "You're too soon."
Another push with his cane sends Saint twirling once more, making a full revolution and partway into the next, now his back facing the girl. "I had hoped a week more... perhaps two, before I was able to look upon you again. You've no idea how lonely it has been, hiding out from you. Yes... yes, indeed, my loneliness is much like this chapel. Though in my case..." There's a slight push, and now Saint wheels about to face Ayame fully. His cane then settles straight into the ground, both of his hands perched on top of it. His smile still remains, even more cheerful than before. "In my case, I was not the one abandoned. I was the one who abandoned you. I'm quite sorry for that... you really, really must understand that if nothing else. But I had to... to heed the word of God. He chose to show me a new way..."
A gloved hand lifts, and he extends it towards the girl, his smile ever growing... and softening. "A new way, to love you, my dear Aya."
She watches him with no sign of impatience. She spoke loud enough to be heard, even through the sound dampening mists that enshroud the duo. Interesting, she muses. The road was not far off yet she can see no trace of it now. As if it another world all together. The seconds pass and she fidgets idly, right hand coming up to brush a length of her long hair back over her shoulder before dropping back to rest at her hip. When he sets his eyes upon her, Ayame is staring back, eyes unwavering in their attention paid to him.
He smiles, but she doesn't return the expression. She looks nothing but serious. She's come a long way in the journey to this very moment. Months of wondering, thinking, investigating, guessing, fighting, surviving, and learning. He has something she wants though. She can feel it. That nagging sensation in the back of her mind that drove her to this point. The why? she cannot fathom. Nor the what or how. But this is who she needed to find.
When he speaks, her brow furrows. Aya? Is that some kind of pet name he's adopted for her? If that's all it is, why does it resonate so strongly with her? It seems more than just that. "Too soon for what?" she asks directly, not one for riddles or puzzles now. She's had her fill of those this last half a year. But rather than answer immediately, he spins, sending himself on another magical twirl around the merry go round, until he comes to a stop facing away from her. He speaks of his loneliness and the chapel, and Ayame glances to the side, eyes coming to rest upon the erstwhile sacred building turned something else entirely in its abandonment.
"I don't understand," she murmurs, eyes shifting back to Saint. By then he's facing her again. She didn't even notice the rusted squeak that brought him back to her side, which is why she blinks once in mild surprise. "N-no..." she shakes her head suddenly, though her mind reels in confusion. Why is she feeling like she shouldn't have him feeling sorry? "It's okay... you were still taking care of me, ne?" The cards, used sparingly perhaps, never did run dry after all.
He mentions following the word of God and her mouth quirks into a faint shift. She pictures, for a moment, those religious hypocrits that have oft times driven her to anger with their self-deluding fantasies. But Saint... he isn't really like them. "God, eh. Seems like he'd be bummed about you scaring off his little flock here." she remarks with an irreverant grin.
But then his hand lifts, extending, his tone shifting, and Ayame falls quiet, her cheeks losing a little of their color. "W-what does love have to do with anything?" she stammers, looking visibly taken aback. "There's a lot you didn't tell me before. About how we fought in some recorded match. About how you aren't just some normal clergy guy like you present yourself."
Her right hand slips from her hip to tap the side of her head. "More importantly... you should tell me..." she frowns slightly, taking a step closer, "Why it is..." her eyes narrow into an accusatory look, "I've got some of your memories bouncing around in here."
Her confusion, her aimlessness, her awkwardness all of it is apparent to him. He watches her with those all-too-narrow eyes of his, and he can /feel/ it, just as if her emotions were happening to him. They stab into his heart, his very soul, and he wishes nothing more than to stand and go to her, to hold her. To reassure that all was well. Surely in half a year, she was comfortable with who she was now... right? He had provided her with her new life, started her over. It was unintentional to begin with. He had intended only to show her the purest form of his love - and His love, as well. Perhaps that would have killed her, but he would've been fine with that - for his dearest Aya would have been taken to God, wherein she would've been happy, and eventually, he could join her.
But the last statement she makes, if not the way she makes it, catches him off guard.
She has... /his/ memories?
If he had been shot, Saint could not have shown more shock on his face.
Red eyes widen until they are clearly visible, his face otherwise frozen in a mask. The priest stares at Ayame, without blinking, for several moments. The silence is nearly as thick as the fog. But then, slowly, Saint returns to himself. At first, he blinks rapidly. Then his face falls, and his extended hand moves back in, to pinch the brim of his derby, eyes once more obscured. "My, my... Aya. Do you truly have my memories? Did they replace your own? If that is the case, then..." He pauses a moment to push with his cane, half-heartedly making a quarter turn, so his face is seen in profile. "Then, I am truly... truly sorry for you."
How could one understand what he went through? Saint was not stupid. He understood something: he understood that, viewed from the outside, people did not understand /him/. Could not. Did not WANT to. If they suddenly gained access to his memories, poured through them like one reads a book... how could they even guess what it was like? And he did not think this harshly, no. He had already made his peace with people not truly understanding him, nor what God's truth was like. The expression went that 'love hurts' and many people avoided hurt. It was natural.
So now, here was the girl he had declared his love for, with all of his memories. How could he not be viewed as a monster by her?
Saint sighs, and for moments more is silent again. He seems to completely miss her question as to 'why' they were there. Instead, he's focused more on the implications of it. First, being sorry that she had to experience so much 'love'... even when he touched her, as he had that night, it was not nearly the amount of 'love' one could experience. His touch brought about a lifetime's worth of love within a moment... but in the end, all it was was a moment. Compared to a full lifetime of experiencing it... ...and yet...
"...And yet, you did not die. Nor did you lapse into a coma. What did you do...? You lost your memories... and inherited mine. ...I see... yes... YES! I see! Aya!"
In a burst of jubilation, the priest suddenly presses his cane to the ground hard enough to twirl him about several times, and in the process of this, he stands up, casting both of his hands out to make a Y, looking excited like a little kid might if they were playing on the merry-go-round. "Do you not see what this means, my dearest Aya? I was scared... for but a moment, I thought the worst. How could you live with my memories?" He steps off the go-round, then takes several long strides towards Ayame, not quite within striking distance of his cane, but he does hold out his hand. "Can't you see what this means, Aya? Do you see WHY you were given my memories?" Not why they were there in the first place, though.
She had thought it had been something he had done on purpose. To what end she couldn't imagine. But it seemed too unlikely to be something he didn't know about on a very personal level. After all, how does one accidentally imbue another mind with their own thoughts? It's not like tripping over a shoelace and stumbling to the ground atop someone, like happens in every single manga known to man. It's not like 'Oops, I accidentally shot some memory into your head, sorry about that.'
But when he stares back at her, eyes widening, revealing that unnatural hint of red in those lenses, she is forced to question her assumptions. Silence rules the night as the two stare at each other, the strawberry-blonde so not expecting any kind of reaction like she sees in him now. Is he trying to play her? Something tells her that he isn't. Intuition - it doesn't fail her often. He recovers, calm working its way back into his eyes once again hidden. What was that? Why did he react that way? He speaks, asking her questions, and she stammers, "I-I don't know about replaced, exactly... I don't have a lot of them... they kind of come and go..." Like dream-breaking nightmares that scatter with consciousness, those memories have been hard to grasp hold of when they've come. Fleeting but tormenting while they lasted.
He apologizes and she buttons up. She didn't expect that either. Ayame stares as he turns, her hands resting against her sides as if she were completely disarmed. She tried to confront him, expecting to get some kind hostile or defensive reaction from him. Instead she gets his sympathy... She stares at his profile, recovering her own composure a moment after he turns away. Why is he sorry? This isn't something he meant to happen? What DID happen?
In truth, she had never hated him for what she had seen. She /understood/ a lot of them. The sense of betrayal. The confusion at hostility from others. The experiences resonated with her as if they had been her own. They didn't seem foreign at all. She didn't even feel revulsion at the deaths seen... /done/ as if they were her own. They had it coming then. But what she never felt, never saw, never understood even to this point, was his epiphany. God is dead. He isn't sharing any love; he isn't giving anyone any guidance. There's no such thing. To that postulate she had directed her life and philosphies.
"Don't be sorry." she mutters. "It's not the worst thing that could happen." The wracking pain in her nightmares, the frequent headaches in the aftermath of random, unpleasant flashbacks... yeah, they were pretty terrible. But if he didn't intend for her to have them, she finds it hard to react with hosility just now. "I just want to undo it, that's all..."
Her voice trails out, leaving him to muse quietly. His words are, well, interesting. Observing that she's not dead; that whatever slumber resulted was not as permanent as a coma... He speaks up, slipping to his feet after another spin. "W-what?" she stammers as he rises, his voice exhibiting a certain level of excitement that she isn't sure how to place. "I don't know what it means. You tell me!" she exclaims, her own voice rising now.
But then he steps forward, his hand outstretched, and Ayame takes a step back in turn, keeping the distance between them roughly the same. He's an unsolved mystery. That makes him a bit dangerous, even though her often reckless courisity is battling hard to keep her from retreating too far. There's too many things she has to know, too many questions to answer, too many riddles to solve.
In a way, Saint /had/ purposefully injected her with his memories. Yes, that much was true. But the difference in this case was, not once had he had an experience where the victim of his touch, even the 'intimate' touch he had given Ayame, had ever left them in a lingering sense. Not 'replaced with' she says, but simply... phantoms that come and go, like a lingering nightmare that refuses to go away. It was fine to flirt with his memories, because once implanted, if only briefly, they faded away, and people could only remember their own experience with what had happened - the vague impression of being swarmed by mosquitos, or feeling like they had been burnt when really they had not.
Here, now, however, was someone who wasn't merely 'flirting' with his memories, but were being tormented by them. And more than that, it was the one person in the world who, Saint felt, could indeed understand him. Because she was - or indeed, was, in the past sense - so much like him. Now she was a different person... someone who could be better than she was. He hadn't even asked her how she'd been fairing so far with her memory loss, instead now focusing on these issues, as exciting as they were.
And they were exciting. After all... why would this be happening, if God had not willed it?
If Saint finds the motion of stepping away from him to be disheartening or negative in any sense, he gives no indication. And he doesn't press forward towards her, either. Instead, he casts his hands to either side in another Y, apparently extremely happy. "Not once... not ONCE has this happened, yet here, you, YOU! My dearest Aya, YOU are the only one who has ever obtained my memories... and, as you have just said... they are not the worst thing that could happen. So kind, my Aya," the priest says, his hand extending once more, hand turned up, fingers spread. It's less a gesture of wanting her to grab his hand and more a theatrical one. A flourish. He could not merely contain his excitement to words.
"That night... half a year ago, when you and I met at your apartment," he says. The night she couldn't possibly remember. "When I touched you... you felt every pain that has ever been inflicted onto me. I reserve that touch... only for the ones I KNOW are ready to experience all of God's love. And you, Aya, dearest Aya, you did not die. You did not remain asleep forever more. You awoke, a new life given to you, yet with pieces of my memories. This truly is a sign from God, my dearest Aya, that you and I are meant to be together! Because now you can understand... understand what it was like to be me, throughout all these years! As I already know you... or KNEW you, perhaps... we can now be as one."
Laughing in as gaily a fashion as a man ever could, Saint turns away, spinning in place, nearly dancing as his hands lift into the air again, his cane bobbing to some invisible tune. He seems not to realize that he had simply spilled the beans on what happened - that HE was the one who took her memories. Or rather, he seems not to realize that there's any problem with this.
After all, God had seen fit for it to happen, right?
She makes her demand - that he explain himself, then falls quiet. No weapons are shown to try and encourage him to stay back. She isn't baring her proverbial 'teeth' yet. She knows nothing of his power. His way of expressing himself to others. Love he may call it. Horrific violation just about anyone else would call it. Her new life given was full of opportunites; some frustrating, as she struggled to remember crucial details that could keep her safe. Some interesting, as she watched those who had known her for her more malevolent acts deal with her as the person she is now.
As whimsical and capricious as she may be a times, that void in her mind was always a constant nagging anti-presence. A hole that needed to be filled. His curiousity in her plight is impossible to miss. But what he's concluding from it she can't quite figure out. She doesn't have all the clues he does. "The only one that... What have you done?" she asks. Is she the result of some mad scientist experiment? He certainly seems crazy enough.
But then she falls quiet as he continues, her mind absorbing his words perfectly. He speaks of being at her apartment. That's a memory she doesn't have. Her eyes narrow in concentration and focus as he continues. He touched her. He made her feel something. Not just something. /Every/ pain he had ever felt all at once. Of course, she realizes... her mind has always been a steel trap. Images, sounds, ideas, and thoughts... each of them locked forever in her head. That is, of course, until she forgot everything no thanks to the young man standing in front of her. She must have retained his memories - those flashes of pain, both physical and emotional, the anguish of betrayed trust, the writhing agony of unspeakable wounds done to the body... memories imprinted on her mind, her own thoughts lost, possibly forever.
"Did..." she's putting it together now. She doesn't know what happened there, but she can imagine it, her sharp mind piecing every clue, every word, every intution, combining to give her a possible picture of what he is describing. "...did you do that to me... and you didn't even know what it would DO?!" She could have died? Could have gone into a coma? Ws this some kind of test for him? To see if her brain cells could take it? She tenses up now as he starts to speak of the metaphysical. God wanted this to happen? "T-together?" she stammers, chestnut brown eyes widening slightly in disbelief.
This time another step back is taken. Unconscious, unplanned, an urge to retreat. "I know what it was like... because I had no choice..." Her eyes narrow as he spins away, blissfully unaware of the surge of mixed emotions rising in the typically unemotional girl. Hands clench, eyes following the movements of his cane idly. It's a weapon. She knows that from the video of their recorded fight. He can fight... There's no denying that. But so can she.
There's one thing she hates above all else - the loss of control, the surrender of power to another. And right now, the man twirling in front of her, put her through all this. His touch - whatever it was - whatever precipitated the events that lead up to it - caused /all/ of what she's gone through to happen. The feeling of being lost, helpless, dependant upon others, needing others to guide her through things she had always done herself...
"How do you say that we can be together?! You've never asked me what I thought about it!" the girl exclaims, shaking her head, tightening her fists at her sides. She's going to hurt him. She decides that in that very moment. He's said enough to confirm that it's all his fault. There's only one course of action to be taken now. He has to pay! She hasn't figured out that pain is love by the time she bolts forward. She has no idea how he might take it when she swings for him, her right hand first, aiming to strike her benefactor solidly against his cheek even as he spins should he not prepare himself in time. Her left hand following up with a blow toward his stomach, aiming to crumple the priest-garbed man enough for her to get a grip on his right ear and literally spin him to the ground by yanking it hard.
"All this time you've known what you did. And did you think you were going to get away with it?!" she exclaims, her temper, rarely active like this, escalating in light of this distressing revelation.
COMBATSYS: Ayame has started a fight here.
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Ayame 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Saint has joined the fight here.
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Ayame 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Saint
COMBATSYS: Ayame successfully hits Saint with Random Combo.
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Ayame 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Saint
Ah... he spilled the beans. Caught up in his own rapture as he had been, he'd neglected things. First, he had simply laid it out, precisely, how he'd taken her memories. He'd told her something else when she awoke in his home all those weeks ago - a lie. Though a well-intentioned one, from his own perspective... nevertheless, he hadn't meant to say it quite so simply. Second, he HAD neglected her feelings in this matter, that was true. And third, he had neglected what her reaction would've been to this sudden revelation of her life - her past life, and what had triggered the new one.
It's perhaps surprising that it's the second one he picks out of all of these, to be the one that interrupts his happy mood.
"Ah, you're right," the priest mutters, a frown crossing his features as he pauses his twirl, his gloved hand raising to catch the brim of his hat and tug it low as he considers. "I'd simply assumed... after all, we two are alike. Were alike, at the least... and now that you've seen my memories, or what flashes there have been in your mind... I assumed that you would see how alike we are. In every aspect." The priest turns, his head rising as he looks to Ayame - whose fist, at that very moment was a mere inch from his face.
The fist impacts without him being able to even parse he was being attacked. He hadn't even processed what she was saying was a declaration of attack, simply perhaps some momentary anger. He supposed he deserved /that much/ at least, which is why he never thought she'd be attacking him. But he'd sorely underestimated her rage. And, as a result, he gets staggered with a single punch, then is knocked completely off-balance by the next blow, and thus is completely unable to defend when his ear is grabbed and hauled on to throw him to the ground, thumping down roughly against the grassy lawn roughly, driving the window from him.
And the very next second? He's up again, springing to his feet as if the blow had meant nothing to him, despite the fact his footing is wobbly as he stands, and as he speaks, he sounds breathless. "'Get away' with it? My dear Aya... 'getting away with it' is what you say to someone who has done something bad." He pauses a moment to stoop, snatching up both his cane and his derby, and perching the latter back on his head. "Yes... yes, those nights ago, I did visit you. I did take your memory. And so? You speak as though you never wanted it. Tell me, then, my dearest Aya... during your time spent, desperately trying to reclaim who you were... did you LIKE the things you found?"
Saint brings his cane up, held with both hands, one gripping the top half, the other the bottom. Then, he slowly pulls - and Ayame is treated to a new sight. The official match they participated in recorded him using his cane as two weapons, a blade and a blunt cane. This cane, however, is quite new. Black laquered wood with silver accent, it splits in the middle rather than the top, and separates into two distinct blades, one held in a reverse grip, the other held normally. He extends either blade out to his side, as if throwing his arms wide to accept whatever Ayame may have in store for him.
"Do you know why I say we are so alike? Because of who you were, my dearest Aya. You were a girl who trusted no one, who used everyone for your own advantage and then discarded them once their usefulness was at an end. You knew that being with other people would simply cause you pain, so you caused them pain first and sent them away. You stole, you lied, you seduced as you would. And for what? From how you acted during the match you seemed quite interested in money. But alas... such things are too fickle. Aya, Aya, my dearest Aya... did you like that person? Do you still want to be her?"
Lowering his arms, the priest holds his blades in more or less a fighting posture, but it's easy to see the older man has no official fighting method... simply a 'pain' method. Tsking softly, Saint shakes his head sadly. "If you call what I did bad... destroying that other person,
Lowering his arms, the priest holds his blades in more or less a fighting posture, but it's easy to see the older man has no official fighting method... simply a 'pain' method. Tsking softly, Saint shakes his head sadly. "If you call what I did bad... destroying that other person, giving you the opportunity to be a new person, capable of loving, of being loved, and knowing the one who loves you most... then, I can only say it must be sad for you, my Aya. Come... you may take your aggressions out on me, should you so desire. Until you realize..." He trails off, his head dipping, as he simply watches Ayame with his usual, patient, charming smile, and his red eyes that echo none of those things.
COMBATSYS: Saint focuses on his next action.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////////// ]
Ayame 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Saint
Her initial aggression is metted out in a quick but painful three hits. Without warning, without hesitation, she struck, like an assassin in the fog but without the efficient, killing instinct to back up her attack. No. She's not aiming to kill him. She's trying to hurt him. Scare him, perhaps, if such a thing were even possible with what he's been through before...
But after the combination, she stands back, breaths coming a little faster now, hands clenched, expression a bridge between frusratingly confused and a hostile temper. As he gathers himself, she doesn't charge him again, as if generously giving him a moment to explain himself. And a chance, it would seem, to turn it back around on her. The person she was before; an invsetigation months in the making has not revealed it all. But it has told her some. Treated with suspicion or derision at almost every turn; never knowing who to trust... she discovered a life of crime, questionable associations, and a track record in theft, kidnapping, and countless other transgressions...
He throws his arms wide, having produced twin blades where she had suspected only one. "Liking it or not doesn't matter," she replies, eyes hooded as she clenches her hands, "It doesn't change the past. People don't get to chose that..." She doesn't answer the question. Did she like what she found? Did it make her sigh with regret or groan at the troubles her actions had caused? She doesn't even know. She hadn't even considered whether she should, relentlessly pursuing every detail possible about her history without ever stopping to think if she /should/. He answers her with an expression of pity; pity that she would be angry over what he had done, that she would morn the lost past, and Ayame grits her teeth.
She can't deny his observation though. She would challenge him - tell him that he didn't know what it was like to trust no one, to push all away, to close himself out to others. But she knows better. She's seen too much in those fleeting glimpses into another life her mind harbors. An infernal curse of unwanted understanding was put upon her that day in her apartment.
"Why..." she growls, her breaths coming faster, "...are you so obsessed with me?!" Ayame exclaims. Why, why, why indeed. Her left hand drops to her side, slipping into the black leather pouch kept there before drawing out her collapsed staff, Anthema. In the mist it looks dull, lacking its normal metallic sheen. "What do you care what I make of this opportunity?! Do you think that I needed some kind of chance? That I care if I'm loved or in love?"
A hydraulic hiss heralds the expansion of that weapon of hers. Crafted by her hands all in order to continue the style inherited by a father she can't even remember, the metal is comforting in her hand, lending her confidence and steeling her resolve.
A crimson aura floods the surface of the weapon, moving almost like a liquid that coats it, casting a dim glow into the fog as Ayame stands still, the weapon extended at her side. He tells her to take out her aggressions upon him. "Believe me." she states, her body hinting at her intent to attack as she tenses up just a moment prior. "I intend to."
While her opening assault against him was almost thuggish, her next attack is anything but. Graceful as she steps in, swinging her staff up over her head in blurring speed, before bringing it back around to crash toward Saint's side, she wouldn't stop there before springing backward with the rebound to bring it sweeping back toward him with crushing force. The final strike would be a direct blow with one end of the staff toward Saint's chest, aiming to slam him backward harshly. Each possible point of contact would result in an explosion of that red energy, sending particles of it into the air to rain down around the two of them. By the time she would finish, the girl would bring the weapon back to bear, tucked under one arm, her other hand grasping the end of it, the energy coursing over it cooling gradually as it faded.
COMBATSYS: Ayame successfully hits Saint with Requiem For Fallen Blossoms.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////// ]
Ayame 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\1 Saint
She gives him the chance to speak, and he does. And yet, despite the question, she doesn't answer. The confusion is too much, he fears. Ah, but alas, he has no experience dealing with this kind of thing. Could it be that his guidance was not adequate enough? He'd taken a lighter touch on her, allowed her to find for herself who she had been, so that she could compare her new life to that old one. But she doesn't answer whether or not she liked what she found of that old life, evading the question. Could it be that... she did want to return to it? That she liked her old life? Or was it that she knew, in her heart, that he was right, yet was too angry to admit it?
Yes... it must be the latter. He was so /certain/ he knew her, that he understood her. Yes... Saint could see it now, stopping to think it through. She was angry, because she had not had a /choice/. No matter what his dearest Aya's failings were, she was an independent girl who relied solely on herself - even now, in this 'new life' of hers - and having that ability to choose was most important to her. Not that he had taken her memories with full knowledge that that would happen, of course... but regardless, wasn't a relationship built on understanding and honesty?
She asks him, why he's so obsessed with her. And to that, he merely shakes his head slowly, eyes hidden by his derby, still holding out his blades. "Aya, my dearest Aya. Have you not been hearing me? Now, more than ever, you should understand why. It's not whether you cared. Certainly, your feelings play into the matter, yes. But why I look after you, why I care for you, why I love you, Aya... is because you know what love is. Don't you? You have been hurt. You have been pained. And therefore, you know more than anyone what love is." Saint's eyes, then, come into view, and he regards the strawberry-blonde girl with a soft smile... that manages to somehow touch those unnatural red eyes.
"Just like me."
But then words cease, as Ayame seeks to vent her frustration again. And this time, he is ready for her. It wouldn't do to simply stand there and get beaten on. Oh sure, he wouldn't /mind/ that. But Ayame undoubtedly wished some kind of resistance... some kind of validation of her anger. And so he tries to give it to her. His blade drops, and he seeks to interpose it between Anathema and his own body for the first blow, but the sheer power of it overwhelms him, and his block is negated, instead the staff slamming into his side with a burst of power, staggering him. The second blow comes, and his other blade just barely knicks the finish of the staff, unable to even get between it and his body at all before it's crashing in again. The final push of the staff isn't guarded against at all, and instead he's sent flying a foot or two - right into the carousel he was on a moment ago, landing roughly and making a comical spin.
"Rrgghh," Saint groans, obviously in pain. But then he laughs a little, a foot thumping on the ground, dragging along to make the carousel stop. He pushes to his feet again, a hand lifting to straighten his derby. "Well... Ayame. It seems as though your frustration and anger is true. For what it's worth... I am sorry. I did not know, nor intend, that I would be taking your memories that night." He turns back towards his would-be lover, and advances on her slowly, blades once more held out to either side. "Your choices were taken from you... and that I did not intend. I merely thought I would see the silver lining in the cloud." He stops just short of the staff's attacking range, looking cooly down at the young girl. "So here is a choice for you. I believe that I can return your memories to you. All I need to do would be to repeat the events of that night. Shall we give it a go?"
And then, without waiting for an answer, Saint returns the attack, apparently getting a head start on re-enacting the events. His blade, held in the normal grip, lashes out, seeking to make a fast, shallow strike across the girl's chest, followed by two more, darting qu
And then, without waiting for an answer, Saint returns the attack, apparently getting a head start on re-enacting the events. His blade, held in the normal grip, lashes out, seeking to make a fast, shallow strike across the girl's chest, followed by two more, darting quick. Should any land, the energy flows through his blade and into the wounds, embedding the memory of being burned, of flesh on fire, hot and torturous.
COMBATSYS: Ayame endures Saint's Salem Horror.
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Ayame 0/-------/--=====|=======\=------\1 Saint
She unleashes the combo she's practiced thousands of times, not missing a step, a target point, or a spin as she goes through the graceful yet punishing sequence. By the time she stops, three solid blows had been delivered, and the mist around the two has taken on a redish hue from the falling energy particles discharged from every point of impact. They drift down toward the ground, fading eventually, returning the duo to their world of grey, where nothing can be seen clearly except each other.
She isn't sure if she should feel happy about the attacks or not. She attacked first in anger, and then secondly out of provocation and determination to make him hurt for what he had done. But as he expresses sorrow, she pauses, her certainty diminished slightly by an apology that comes across every bit sincere. What started as confused, conflicted feelings is only made moreso by the contriteness of his demeanor as he steps forward, standing just beyond the length of her titanium staff.
Brown eyes stare back at him silently, the expression on her face revealing even more confusion now. She came seeking the villain to blame for what had happened to her and she finds only a man who, in his own... disturbing way, wants her to be happy. The girl's head cants to the side slightly, the gears clearly turning in her head as she studies him. Usually she would take someone behaving like Saint to be a sucker. Someone she could soak for their last penny and not feel the slightest remorse in the prospect. What to someone might be their life savings is to Ayame only a conquest that needs taking...
But tall half-breed of a man is different, somehow. She doesn't feel like robbing him blind or taking advantage of him. For all the hostility she dished out upon him, she finds herself hesitating now. What DOES she want out of this exchange now? He touches upon it as he speaks, arriving at the conclusion she didn't even expect from him. He offers to restore her memories.
One narrow eyebrow archs just slightly. He's taking a chance with that. What if she remembers something about she felt about him before this all played out? What if amongst the memories that would be restored existed bitter revulsion or antipathy toward the priest-garbed man? He's willing to take that risk? Were it anyone else; were it any other circumstances, she would be suspicious of intent. After all, it sounds as if he intends to flood her mind with the same agony that caused this whole ordeal. Agreeing to that would be madness, wouldn't it?!
But as he makes his move, Ayame doesn't budge. His sharp edge makes contact across her chest, slashing cleanly through the fabric to slice a thin line of red in her flesh. The second scores a line on her side, and the third a gash lower, across her ribs. The pain of the cuts alone would be enough to justify the wince that crosses her features at first contact. But the cry that comes after is not one born of physical slashes but the memory, seemingly far too fresh this time. The sensation coursing over her newly slashed skin isn't one being implanted in her this time... it's being dreged up from with. "AH!" she starts, recoiling as the final wave of that tormentor's flame passes over her senses.
"You would," she stammers, biting back the pain, "You would do that for me?" She wants to recreate the events. Play it out like it happened at that time. A memory sparks, linked to the burning agony he just put her through. Another memory comes to mind - an image of slashing into the young man with one of her most vicious, infamous attacks. She can picture it in her head - the corner of her apartment, both of their blood sprayed across the floor.
Ayame bleeds; but in spite the pain, she feels something beyond it. A glimmer of a grin tugs at the corners of her mouth. It's more than simple gratitude flowing through her. It's something more. Images, locked away, start to drift back into her mind's eye. "If you are willing..." Her jaw clenches, hands tightening over her staff as the weapon once again flairs to life with crimson chi. "That is what I want."
The energy pouring over her weapon collects heavily at each end flares, taking shape in the form of a red scythe blade at either end as Ayame charges forward. She's no longer fighting him in her mind. She's cooperating with him. Helping move things in the direction she desires but he's willing to help her get to...
Of course, to another, it would seem quite different, what with the way she sweeps that staff up into the man at a sharp angle, aiming to gouge and slash with that scythe'd blade. The motion would transition smoothly into a second upward slash as Ayame rides the momentum she's already created into a second, deeper smashing hit. A third hit is aimed as she takes to the air, whipping the staff up over her head like a two-handed axe... This isn't the first time she's done this to him. They've crossed this bridge before!
COMBATSYS: Ayame successfully hits Saint with Harvest's Reaper.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////// ]
Ayame 0/-------/--=====|=======\=======\1 Saint
It isn't surprising that anyone dealing with Saint would be confused. In some ways, he is aware of this. He is aware that his message, his thoughts on God's true message, are confusing to people. After all, after years - MILLENIA - of people preaching of God's love as a form of kindness, of forgiveness, those same people are so intuned to this concept that God is this benevolent being, that it is impossible to understand what Saint preaches. But that doesn't mean they aren't confused by it. After all, the evidence is THERE. Look at all the suffering, all the pain that God brought upon His people. Job is a perfect example: going through such hardships, only to be rewarded at the end for his endurance of the pain inflicted upon him. What else is this but God showing his love? Love is pain.
But there's more to it than that, that Saint doesn't recognize, and likely could not.
Yet he does understand Ayame's confusion. A palpable sense of frustration, confusion, perhaps even fear. Who was this man Saint? They barely knew each other, even /before/ Saint had taken the girl's memories. And yet here he was, with such unconditional support. He professes love for her. He professes he means only the best for her. Indeed, he could be termed a 'sucker'. But somehow, the sheer, single-minded sincerity of it is something Ayame cannot understand. But Saint does. It's really quite simple. He knows (or at least thinks he does) what Ayame is like. And why she feels the way she does. And because he went through something of the same, he feels they are similar. Yet where they are not similar is how these things affected them. In Saint's mind, he came out better for it, whole. In Saint's mind, Ayame did not... which is why she requires his love, his guidance.
The swipes of his blade makes contact, biting into the girl's chest and illiciting that wince. But there's more to it, of course, as there always is with the priest's attacks. The wounds burn, and inspire imagery of something long ago happening that felt the same way. And THAT is what the true form of his attack is. The true form of his power. But it's worked through, as Saint notes with approval. She doesn't back down, she doesn't writhe in pain. This was precisely why he liked Ayame so much.
Stepping back from his attack, he swipes the blade through the air, minor blood splattering from the metal and onto the grass some distance away. And quietly, he waits for the response to his offer. It's not surprising she would accept it... and not surprising she feels confusion at the offering itself. Lifting a hand to his hat, he tucks the brim of the derby down slightly to hide his eyes. "Of course, Aya... I am sincere when I say I did not wish to take your memories. Certainly not to deprive you of your choice... and if your choice is this, then there is but one recourse."
And then, it happens exactly as it had that night. The staff becomes a scythe of scarlet, and she attacks. And he stands firm. Though despite his stance, he nevertheless gets slammed hard by the slices, his defenses despite his intimate familiarity with pain shot through. "Rrgghhngah!" He cries out as the red blade slices into him, cutting through his clothes and flesh and bringing forth more red, a splatter of crimson to accompany the scarlet. A second blow comes, slicing into the man again, and more blood comes. Already, he's staggered, nearly falling on his own. But it's not enough that he's too weak to support himself: he has to be slammed into the ground! The third and final scything blow cleaves into him, and he's sent face first into the grass with a thud and a wheezing cough.
For a moment, he is still.
Then, like before, there is a low laughter, the sound tinged with wheezing, pained air. The priest's hands settle onto the ground, and he slowly pushes himself up, getting his feet under him and then standing, shakily. All the while he laughs, despite the fact the savage blows were not kind to him. His front is stained a sickly reddish color, which doesn't show up well on his black preacher's cloth, but does on the pink, scarred flesh below it. His derby has been knocked from his head, and indeed his hair has come loose from the braid he typically wears it in. Blood comes from the corner of his lips. His breathing is haggard. His cane, gone. And yet, the man laughs.
"What can I do?" Saint sings, his fine tenor voice ringing out through the gray fog that envelopes them both. "What can I say / After I've taken the blame?" Slowly, the Romanian lifts his hands up, and his singing is paused momentarily as he bites the tip of one finger, tugging the glove off with his teeth. That black glove is pulled away to reveal his hand - that decrepit hand that tells that tale of Saint's life, the torture, pain and hate he had to endure. The glove is peeled away, and then spat out on the ground. The second glove is dealt with the same way, revealing a hand mirror to the first. And then... he begins to slowly step forward, his red eyes focused entirely on Ayame. This is what she wants, after all.
"Honey you, say you're through, you go your way... but I always feel, just the same."
Step closer. His hands extend towards her.
"Maybe I'm right, maybe I'm wrong... loving you dear, like I do..."
His deformed hand hovers just in front of her face - and then his other hand shifts backwards, towards himself.
"If it's a crime, then I'm guilty. Guilty... of loving you."
His hands touch her face and his at the same time, and both explode into a world of pain. A world of love.
COMBATSYS: Ayame endures Saint's Wake the Sleeping God EX.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////// ]
Ayame 1/----===/=======|==-----\-------\0 Saint
Her mind tells her that she should be able to fight back the memories. The pain - it's an illusion, a deception of mental and sensory faculties, something that can be controlled. But try as she might, even the lingering of that sense of immolation continues to pain her as she lands, feet touching down upon the holy ground. Her staff is at her side, the crimson energy over it receding to the lower end like blood. Only, the drips that fall from the end of the titanium weapon aren't illusionary chi but the real thing, splashing gently against the blades of grass.
She stares at him then, studying him with what might pass for clinical detatchment but for the intensity in her eyes. Her technique was vicious. Striking hard from multiple angles, capitalizing on momentum, force, and vorpal edged blades of energy in a combination she has adopted as one of her most practiced, dreaded attacks. It's not a friendly attack by any means - one she would never utilize against someone she liked... or tolerated at least, in the slightest. But against him it was the right thing to do. Not simply to recreate the past. The pain... the bleeding wounds, aching bruises... those carry a different meaning for the young man fallen before her than they do anyone else.
But maybe she went too far though. He might not get up from that. In fact, she starts to become so certain that that is indeed the case, she starts to dust her skirt idly, lowering her head, preparing to find a comfortable place to sit - like say, the merry go round, and wait for him to recover eventually. They'll have to try this again. Next time she'll hit light-
He laughs. Not a clear, merry sound. Something on the border of a pained gasp perhaps, but he's most definitely conscious. Her hand goes back to resting at her hip, her other holding her staff horizontally out from her side. This is insane, she muses. She's asking him to... to put her through what he did before? He begins to sing. If she didn't think she was in the midst of an insane dream before, she certainly does now...
Her intense gaze continues to rest upon him, eyes flicking to his hand as the glove is pulled free by his teeth, revealing the evidence of a history she has unwittingly come to know about the now bloodied man. First one, then the other follows, exposing his other hand. He means to touch her with those - of that she knows with a certainty. But as he steps forward, she doesn't budge. The aches of her previous contact with his can will be nothing compared to what she's about to voluntarily go through. Caught up in the moment, she feels a wave of trepidation wash over her. Can she really go through this? Emotions, concealed behind a well practiced mask, struggle fight their way free. She should flee. This is madness.
Nightmare is all that awaits her if she goes through with this. If she forgets it all, she'll have to start over. All her moments of small triumph, episodes of emotion, small defeats or victories of the last six months lost forever. Can her mind take it? Can she handle this? His ruined hand is held up in front of her face and his alike. It's not too late. She can run. She could think about this some more. Maybe forgetting her old life isn't so bad!
And then the contact is made. She doesn't even have a chance to know what hit her. What broke her bones or mauled her body. It feels like hours pass in which no breath is taken. Countless horrors fill her mind as the darkness of two lonely souls is shared for that fleeting moment. All that pain... that terrible pain. It isn't just the physical agony but the hurt that exists on other levels too. Pain she wonders if he snuffed out in his lust for self-inflicted torment. The faces of others from his past flash before her, each and everyone of them trying to kill him, and now /her/, with their eyes.. The rejection and hatred would be enough to make even the most hardened weep. She may see a million faces over the course of her life ahead, but she will never forget those faces from his past.
Even the driest of hearts might bleed when torn asunder. But admid that rush of memory, something unlocks. Memories, suddenly fresh in spite their age flood the girl's mind. She might gasp audibly. She wouldn't know; the entire experience is a blur. The fight at the apartment that set it all in motion is played back in exacting detail and then Ayame finds herself awash in the past. Minutes turn to hours, hours turn to days, days turn to weeks, and weeks to years. Everything she had ever experienced from the dawn of her existence recalled, rewatched, in the space of a heartbeat.
And with that rush of experiences are emotions forever kept locked behind the prison walls of her tarnished soul. By the time she breaks contact and stumbles away, her staff has fallen to the ground with a dull, resonating thud. Blood seeps from her nose even as she starts to blink. Eyes are unfocused, as if she had just now awoken from a deep sleep. She looks startled for a moment but it passes quickly as Ayame exercises that one trait she has always had in spades: Control.
"I've heard..." she speaks up, her voice calm, somehow not reflecting the mind-splitting pain she experienced - and STILL suffers the lingering effects of - "The lasting measure of a man is not what society thinks of him but what his actions teach him that he is." The girl steps forward then, looking into those unnatural red eyes of the man that loves her in ways she never thought someone could.
"Love can be like the poetry of demons..." she hehs. No one can make any sense of it. And those who try simply go mad. She's moving closer still, careful not to come in contact with his hands, "Or maybe God just likes complex irony." Her own right hand is lifted, palm forward as she reaches toward Saint's face as if to execute the same action on him that he did to her.
She lifts her left hand, bringing it to rest in front of her own face, mirroring his gesture that feels like an entire lifetime ago. "My dear Saint, you gave life to a brand new me." Her expression is tender, eyes shimmering. "Thank you." Unless he has moved from her by then, his field of view will suddenly be awash in a field of cherry blossom colored chi that explodes from Ayame's palm into the young man's face. There's nothing pleasant to be found there as she attempts to blast him with one last shot of her chi. "...good night." she whispers, lowering her left hand from her face, not having blasted her own visage in the same way. Of course, if a field of pink is the last thing he sees before unconsciousness takes him, he would never know, would he?
COMBATSYS: Ayame successfully hits Saint with Midsummer Fantasy.
-+- CALCULATED HIT -+-
[ \\\\\\\\\\ < > ]
Ayame 1/---====/=======|=======\-------\0 Saint
His grotesque, twisted hand reaches out for her. And she does not back away. Every fiber of her being undoubtedly said to run. He knew this. After all, humans were wired to be adverse to pain. Pain was uncomfortable at the best of times, and excruciating, crippling at the worst. Saint's touch would, in fact, go beyond 'worst'. It would not be a moment of pain, or a lingering pain that refuses to quit. No. It would be a lifetime of pain. Repeated pain, everlasting pain, pain that most humans couldn't even fathom; and worse yet, it was a different kind of pain from moment to moment.
But perhaps the worst possible aspect of this touch would be the crushing, horrible knowledge, that every moment of that pain was inflicted by other humans. Every punch, every skewer, every burn, every shock, every bone broken, everything. All of it was done by living, breathing humans, leering faces that laugh, sneer and show complete indifference to your continued suffering - or worse, complete pleasure. Combined with this pain, the horrible images shown are its own form of torture. Combined, who could blame anyone for not wanting to experience it, not to mention for the second time?
And yet, she does not pull back.
To the outside world, the lonely, silent fog-shrouded chapel never is disturbed. There aren't any screams. There was too much pain for that. The two were sharing their endless hell, trapped there for hours, days, eternity, yet really only for a handful of seconds. And then, ever so slowly, that hell of pain, of horrible, crushing understanding and knowledge of what made Saint the man he is now, ends.
And yet, it is only the beginning.
In truth, Saint should have recovered faster. He'd been the one to experience all this before. He knows all the pains, all the faces. He relives them every single time he fights. His memories /are/ his method of fighting. And yet, despite this, despite Ayame being exposed to it fully, for a second time... she recovers a step ahead of him. Solid control takes over her body, steeling it. She speaks, but he doesn't hear her. He might've whispered something in response, or maybe it was simply a comment. But the words aren't heard. Instead, he staggers back half a stop, his hand lowering from his face... only to find it replaced with her own. He shows no surprise at this, no fear. In fact, to Ayame's eyes, she would see only his lips move. First, he smiles. Then his lips move once more, forming words, so quiet that even had someone been listening from only several feet away, it was easy to miss. Even Ayame might not hear the words.
"No... thank you, my dearest Aya. Pleasant dreams."
The red chi explodes in the priest's face, and he simply does not move. He's hit full on, his head snapping backwards. There is no staggering to catch his balance. No utterance of pain. The man named Saint simply falls backwards, crashing into the ground splattered with his own blood, falling with his face up to the gray-coated sky. No more movement except the shallow, somewhat pained rise and fall of his chest, his breathing haggard but quiet.
But for the breathing, the man would seem dead. For he lies on his back, looking to the heavens. His arms are spread wide, as if accepting of God's gaze upon him.
And most of all, the greatest thing that one could ever hope for, were they to pass from this world.
Saint's sleeping face holds a smile, and a look of purest serenity.
COMBATSYS: Saint takes no action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\ <
Ayame 1/---====/=======|
COMBATSYS: Saint can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\ <
Ayame 1/---====/=======|
Her hands drop to her sides. It is finished. Even as she seems to be staring at the now fallen man, her eyes dart back and forth, her mind actively trying to compartmentalize so much pain experienced in such a short time. Her brain races to sort it all out, decipher the memories, retrace the footsteps of her life all the way up to this very moment. Her mouth curls into a victor's smile accompanied by twitches as occasional flashes of all that recorded pain are relived.
She did it.
On unsteady feet, she crouches down to retrieve her staff from the grass before standing up straight. Blood coats the ends of it. She'll have to clean that off later. A soft hydraulic hiss accompanies the weapon collapsing back down, some of the blood dripping to the ground right up to the moment of her shoving it into the pouch at her belt. Head bowed, she brings her arm up to wipe across her nose again - a vain attempt at removing some of that unsightly blood.
Lifting her face again, she whips her hair back over her shoulder with a toss of her head and movement of her hand. At last she looks toward Saint, a frown tracing across her lips. What now? Will she ever see him again? Her left hand rests at her cheek, a contemplative look on her face. Even with all she had seen, all that she now knows of him, he remains an enigma - his facination with her... is it simply an extention of his madness? Is it real? "Is it ever real?" she asks out loud, her voice soft, muted by the fog. What of her own feelings?
"Hmph." Whirling on her feet, Ayame turns her back to the young man, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "We're both going to hell anyway." In three steps she becomes barely visible through the mist. Another three steps and she vanishes.
COMBATSYS: Ayame has ended the fight here.
Log created on 23:19:02 02/08/2009 by Ayame, and last modified on 02:27:37 03/25/2009.