Description: Alan, pinned to the Bantiankong Chemical Building by Kula's spear, is finally found by the one thing he prayed would never find him.
The sun finally sinks over the horizon. The lurid colors of the fading light refracting off the ice coating almost everything drift away like the last moments of a dream. All that's left is a sullen blue glow from the ambient light, and a faint crackle on the wall next to the door.
Alan R.B. takes another shuddering breath, hands wrapped around the ice spear stuck in his side, narrowly missing vital organs but still agonizingly painful, agonizingly immobilizing. He gasps with each shift of his feet on the slick ice beneath, jostling himself around the spear, blood trickling out. He's lost all sense of time - how long as he been here? It could be an hour... it could only be five minutes. His blood stains the wall behind him a dark red, splattering on the ice beneath him, running down the front of his expensive clothes.
Grasping the shaft with both hands (this is getting good) Alan comes to some kind of resolution, plants his feet ahead of him, and attempts to slide himself forward. Agony rips through his body, and he loses his nerve, head slumping forward.
Above, thunder booms across the sky, a nearby flare promising another one of Taizhou's chi storms.
The last weeks have been a confusing, fiery whirl for Vice, who almost since arriving in Taizhou has been feeling the full effects of her supernatural blood. The fire has burned most of her away in that time, leaving her with little more than its lingering, destructive caress in her breast and an insatiable lust for untainted blood.
Aside from the memory of her partner, something like a mission to find and retrieve Alan R.B. managed to survive the licking fires of the Riot--of course, what was, initially, an imperative to locate the lost agent and bring him home has... changed, in the last few weeks. Been purified, one might say.
After all, bits of hair, of blood, of torn clothing have been all the trail that Vice has had to follow, and after so long hunting Alan as a predator might, what better way to treat him once he's found than as a predator who's just cornered her prey?
Not to mention that the moments when violence is in the air, when combat is at hand are the ones when the pain is at its nadir; so what if a club or two, some restaurants, a birthday party, some fighters happened to be between she and he? They've all done wonders for her overall well-being and served as appetizers for the last meal to come.
Speaking of, Vice is on the hunt right now, following a particularly fresh olfactory trail through increasingly frigid surroundings. The chill muddies the scent somewhat, but with her blood-heightened senses and overall familiarity with her target, keeping on track is, regardless, an achievable goal. She's been at it for maybe half an hour, and by all rights is nearing the point where faint thoughts of barging into some empty or filled home or school or something and holing up for a few hours to rest and recover are entering her mind; as it is, she is lurching through the streets of Taizhou like the walking dead, and is never far from a convenient wall or street lamp to provide her with stability in the moments when her legs threaten to give way beneath her.
It is when she rounds - and leans against - a street-corner and begins to rapidly flick her bleary eyes about in search of shelter that things seem to be looking up for her, though.
Thunder booms across the sky.
A few blocks away, drops of blood fall against ice too stubborn to show signs of melting away any time soon.
Lightning, or chi, or both split the sky, casting unearthly shadows across Vice's form as she forces herself upright.
An awful, bestial howl spreads across the neighborhood.
And footsteps coming too hard, too fast to be properly human advance on Alan R.B., hanging like Odin, like captured prey, like a madwoman's first, last and best meal.
Taizhou is gripped in an ever-increasing lock of chaos, except for the area directly in front of the boxer. Serene blue stretches out, the cold prickling his skin, but the relative peace that others might find relaxing, Alan has come to see like the stillness of a tomb.
"Vice was in town. Any reason she'd want to bite your dick off?"
"No, no, ahhh, shit, dude. They /just/ sent her? Mature wasn't with her?"
"Just her."
Something in the back of Alan's mind /knows/ that the last thing he wanted to happen would happen here, when he's least able to deal with it. Delaying Kula seemed like a good idea, but now... not. So much. From blocks away, Alan somehow manages to hear the crunch of a step and the faint groan of a battered lamppost. He glances up, a flash of lightning limning his face with yellow light - and then the howl. His life flashes before his eyes.
------
Graduation day, and Alan Bertrand can't go, can't face the crowds while the girl he wants to be with is here, wasting away in the hospital bed. He's lost several pounds pining for her, his now merely pudgy frame giving the hospital chair a bit of a workout as he stays by Tricia's bed like a sentinel. She slipped into a coma a few days ago, and he isn't sure he'll ever forget the sound of her oxygen. For just a moment, he takes her dramatically thin hand in hers, bringing it to his lips.
The heart monitor emits a single, piercing tone.
---
At the age of 21, Alan has whipped himself into shape, filling his time with little but. He hasn't seen his friends or shared more than a few words at a time with his family in years, just putting in a crappy job and down at some poker game or another. He cracks his first (legal) beer with his father on his birthday and gives him a steady look. "Teach me how to fight. I wanna do what you do."
---
Three years ago, Alan R. B., successful prize fighter, slips his cheap sunglasses up onto his forehead to read the letter that's just been slipped under the door of his cramped apartment. 'R' invitational? Sounds interesting.
------
Fear impacts Alan with more force than the spear ever did when the Orochi Shriek pounds into his head. "Shit!" He rasps, boots suddenly sliding, hands fumbling the spear. He falls, the wound tearing a little more, eliciting a shriek of unexpected pain. Alan's head thumps on the wall, his feet splay, and images of everything play through his mind.
He realizes, in absolute terms, that he will die here - as will the one thing he's ever wanted: the chance to make sure what happened to him can never happen again.
The chi storm hits, and a bolt of lightning smashes directly onto Alan, flooding his body with agonizing chi - and what passes for hope in his mind flickers, kindles, and he bellows one defiant roar. Vice arrives at the Bantiankong courtyard just in time to see the bolt hit, and hear a single sharp crack.
Alan's free, the broken ice shaft on the ground, hands pressed against the wound, blood pumping between them. Electricity dances around his body, surging through his arms, flaring with a blinding light around the wound. Blood trickles from his mouth, and he locks his eyes on the approaching Vice.
Vice's eyes are way, way too big, almost like they're staging an invasion on the rest of her face; they are also thinly rimmed with fresh blood that matches the trickles pouring freely from betwixt teeth bared in a perpetual rictus-grimace of anger, agony, exhultation and death. What does not simply stick to her teeth and stain them pink pools behind her bottom lip, where it eventually runs over and falls away in long, sticky threads that trail along the ground or break free to spin backwards through the air for a few feet before landing in long spatters.
Vice, in her time before joining 'R' had rather an unexpected life of domestic bliss and matrimonal normalcy, but it's rare for her to ruminate on such things /normally/, much less when Alan R.B. is standing there, right there, lit up by lightning that she feels as something akin to carbonation in her bloodstream. No, all she thinks on is his nearness, of the time without reckoning she's spent seeking him, of how she's longed to have him, to hold him, to devour him, to feel him squirming beneath herself and be warmed as the fading pulsations of his heart's beats bathe him in his life.
She is running on two legs--/just/ two, for all her primal ardor and the distance between the two is shrinking. She no longer remembers why she wants him, needs him, only that she does. She doesn't know why he's bleeding, why he's electrified, why there's so much ice around, and it does not matter.
He is hers.
She is hungry.
A whole world away, Mature feels an awful chill pass through her body and only dimly knows why; right here, right now, Vice's right hand snaps towards Alan's throat because she is nearly nose to nose with with the boxer. The air around her is thick with the coppery tang of blood and the small, persisting snarls rumbling in her throat.
If her movement is true, though, Alan won't be exposed to this for long, for Vice means to throw the lost R'perative across the street, through a car's window so that maybe he can again be left hanging and waiting for her to tend to him properly.
COMBATSYS: Vice has started a fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Vice 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Alan has joined the fight here.
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Vice 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Alan
COMBATSYS: Alan blocks Vice's Gore Fest.
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Vice 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Alan
Alan can't move, not yet, not until he's finished with what he's doing - but, luckily for him, he can see everything with a perfect clarity despite the haze at the end of his vision, like unconciousness could jump at him at any moment, leaving him a heap for Vice to do with what she will. That's a galvanizing thought. He lurches to his feet when she draws near, not removing his hands from his wound, trying to take one step back, but the hand locks around his throat.
Alan has just enough time to start rebuilding his unflappable shell, though it's a futile task, giving the horrific Vice a bloody cough and a weak sneer. "So /this/ is you without makeup."
fling
Vice throws him with tremendous force, and he whips through the air like a smashed baseball, twisting himself in midair to present his feet to the car that is en route. He impacts it, tearss it up from the road, all four tires getting the fuck out as it skids right up onto the sidewalk - with Alan braced against its side, feet-first. He drops with a grunt, thighs aching - just aching!? - and finally pries his hands free. His palms are still covered in chi, a yellow so bright it hurts to look directly at, and it seems he's burned his wound closed - a nasty matched set of knotted red flesh has replaced the ruin left by the lance. Drops of blood set on fire from the chi focused into his hands fall to the sidewalk, sputtering away. "So," he rasps, "one step outta line and he sends you to just blot me out? Ha! Haahahaha!" He's feeling a bit delirious. "Thank god I never tried /embezzling/!" Alan staggers for a moment, and lifts both hands in classical fingerguns, thumbs pressed against middle fingers.
"But, seriously... I got shit to do, fuck /off./" He snaps the fingers of his left hand, and then his right, sending two bolts of lightning leaping across the distance Vice has thoughtfully made.
COMBATSYS: Vice endures Alan's Lightning Strikes Twice.
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Vice 0/-------/----===|====---\-------\0 Alan
Vice doesn't avert her eyes from the chi building around Alan's hands, so much as her head lolls down and prevents her from being able to see it. The glow still evident at the corners of her vision, joined by the heat surging through her veins give her a strong inkling of what is coming anyway, so there's little /need/ to watch as it happens.
Vice also doesn't engage in any sort of witty repartee with Alan, so much as she lets a raspy, agonized sound somewhere between laughter and snarling fall from her lips.
Vice also-also doesn't dodge around the incoming lightning, so much as she walks directly towards it.
And she doesn't fall or stagger, so much as she keeps right on the hell walking.
There /is/ an ugly, cauterized wound in the center of her chest all of a sudden due to this, but it is /visibly/ knitting itself closed; a high pitched shriek of annoyance and some harsh grunts that cut into the laughter are about the only signs she gives that she even realizes she was just struck by lightning.
Of course, she isn't advancing very quickly, now, and given the way she barreled onto the scene like a maddened rhino, /that/ might be proof of her having been injured, or--
The air around her is sizzling, all of a sudden. In fact, the air around her is /shimmering/, it's gotten so goddamn hot somewhere in the space between one second and the next.
And then the air around /Alan/ is sizzling.
And then she stops, she exhales with enough force to send blood arcing from her mouth in a thin line, and the air around Alan -- or perhaps, the air where Alan /was/, if he is quick enough -- explodes in a pillar of violent, skull-embossed purple chi.
COMBATSYS: Vice successfully hits Alan with Come And Try My New Parts.
- Power hit! -
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Vice 0/-------/---====|=======\=------\1 Alan
Alan's eyebrow twitches downward, and he grits his own bloody teeth. His infamous trash-talking is as much a combat tactic as it is a rad psychological defense mechanism - against someone like Vice in the full grip of BLOOD MADNESS, both of those are stripped away. He falters back a step.
Chi dances around his skin, electricity questing out into the air around him, and that's his only warning. His legs twitch, his body flickers, and then he's exploded up into the air, unable to move fast enough. He rides the pillar like a stairway to heaven, falling afterward like a spiral to hell, landing nearby more or less on his side. "Pffhhnnngh!"
His vision swims, and once again, the tempting thought rises up to let himself swim into oblivion, so he won't feel what Vice does to him. The silver bracelet on his wrist dislodges from his arm, peeking out from the bottom of his sleeve.
------
A doctor solemnly pulls Tricia's blanket over her head, Alan Bertrand's father and mother at his side, holding him back as he makes the occasional token, fitful effort to burst back into the hospital room. A poor hospital, they need the room as soon as they can, and start wheeling Tricia out right past the stricken young man. A jostle causes her arm to slip out from the sheet, a glint of silver at her wrist, and Alan cries out, "Wait--!"
------
Body smoking, Alan R. B. pushes back to his feet, right hand clasped around his left wrist, feeling the simple silver chain. He /can't./ Taking a long, shuddering breath, Alan turns toward the nightmare thing continuing to approach, and /blurs./
With a burst of speed, Alan dashes past Vice, burying one ring-clad hand into her stomach, reappearing the other side just for a moment before he blurs again, swinging at her short ribs. Back and forth, from several directions, Alan flashes back and forth, leaving trails of electricity along the ground. Thunder rumbles overhead as Alan appears one last time in the air directly in front of Vice, making a pulling gesture with his right hand - his chi is pulled back to him, lightning crackling as he slams down for her jaw, bellowing.
COMBATSYS: Vice interrupts Storm Front from Alan with Nail Bomb.
~ Cruel hit! ~
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////// ]
Vice 0/-------/--=====|=======\======-\1 Alan
Alan /not being there anymore/ puts a stop to Vice's advance, and from that point it takes her a while to really get a grasp on what's going on. The first few seconds are all dull impacts against her upper body, each of which rocks her and sends her falling away from the incoming blows; she is limp all the while, listing to and fro like a ragdoll and letting small grunting noises slip from her as the air is driven from her body.
And then thunder rolls across the sky and Alan makes the mistake of placing himself right in front of her. Whether he took a split-second longer than the other instances, or whether Vice just plain adjusted to the tempo is a matter of debate, but regardless of the cause, when /this/ punch comes with all the fury of a storm welling around it, Vice is ready. The Orochi madwoman catches his fist in her hand as a sensei might a student's, and as threads of violet chi lick hungrily from her body to suffocate the lightning, the corners of Vice's mouth manage a very subtle upturn before her lips briefly press together.
When they part again, the grimace does not immediately return; instead, a mouthful of hot, sticky blood sprays from somewhere deep inside her to spatter over the boxer's visage should he be caught unawares, and afterwards he is wrenched abovehead by his waist - when did she grab his waist? - and held for a split-second before Vice runs a few steps forward to throw him like a big, fleshy brick towards a storefront window.
Afterwards, she slouches forward, /way/ forward, as if the act of standing straight is too much for her to bear anymore, or at least for the nonce.
Alan's knuckles crack in Vice's grip, crackling chi pluming out behind him as he's halted cold. He hisses, teeth bared in a rictus, ripping his fist away and waving his right hand toward his left. A bolt of lightning connects his hands for a split second, and the chi is transferred.
At which point Vice spits in his face. Some gets in his mouth. This is fucking terrible.
Before Alan can react, Vice is hurling him through the air. Totally off-balance, he goes crashing into the storefront, shattering right through a cheap jewelry display and onward to land in a pile of mannequins. He cracks his head and a rib, but the most important one - the impale wound - remains closed.
It takes a moment for Alan to shove himself back to his feet, kicking glass over as he slumps from the storefront. "No," he growls, more to himself in defiance than anything else. "I'm done. Completely done with this garbage, with living in this... /fake-ass/ world when there's a chance I can make a different one." Thunder crashes, another lightning bolt slamming down near Alan, electricity connecting the two of them. The sky erupts, rain suddenly torrenting down onto the two of them, slowly washing the blood from Alan's face, from his clothes, and completely ruining his hair, the lock of hair usually kept styled as a lightning bolt hanging limp down the left side of his face.
Alan pulls up his fists, glaring at Vice over his knuckles, taking one deep, shuddering breath. "Fuck you. Fuck Rugal. Fuck this world. Fuck the dollar."
COMBATSYS: Alan gains composure.
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Vice 0/-------/--=====|=======\=====--\1 Alan
Vice barely notices the rain falling against her back, probably because it isn't doing anything at all to cool her off, and being soaked to the bone is, by now, just something that Vice has gotten used to after weeks of sleeping in dilapidated ex-buildings. It's just something that happens, one that isn't particularly good or bad, pleasant or un.
What she /does/ notice are the pink whorls pooling at Alan's feet as her blood is washed from him, and as she slowly looks up his body she realizes that with that impalement wound closed, he's pretty clean of the stuff now.
Another thing she notices, as Alan speaks and she slowly advances with her head tilted up to take him in: his carotid artery, standing out just so in all this chaos and outlined by the sluicing rainwater. From that point on, her eyes are screwed on his neck and nowhere else, though as Alan finishes speaking she is practically forced to pay it some mind due to there having been so /many/ words.
"Poor you," she rasps in a voice that leaves her throat like it's coated in barbs, "Money, women, drugs--anything, everything you could want, and it ain't enough for you." Every word is slow in coming and deliberately spoken, more because of the effort required to form each than out of any desire for enunciation.
"Boo--"
She is upon him, or at least before him then with a fist screaming for his stomach.
"--hoo--"
She is /behind/ him, trying to cinch her left arm around his stomach and her right around his shoulders.
"--hoo--"
And then, if he is caught, it'll be the last of her words, because she'll be occupied.
Occupied with sinking her teeth into his neck and freeing a fount of blood.
COMBATSYS: Vice successfully hits Alan with Power Throw.
- Power hit! -
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Vice 0/-------/-======|>>>>>>>\>>>>>>>\2 Alan
Alan is prepared to be thrown when Vice suddenly charges him, driving a fist into his abdomen. He takes it like a boxer, with a 'whuff', not dropping his arms instinctively when it's already too late, ready for an answering blow. His fist jabs out, and Vice suddenly loops around him, Alan imbalancing himself.
The throw doesn't come, and as he gets ready to twist in the air, instead Vice bites him in the GOD DAMN NECK. Blood bubbles out, seeking to surge - and even it is electrified. "Urraaaaaghh!" In a panic, Alan twists away, focusing everything /there./ The spurting blood brightens, each spurt crackling brighter and brighter, until suddenly there is a sharp hiss, and the smell of burned meat. Alan has just saved his own life, and it's totally bullshit, leaving an ugly red scar on his neck to match the one on his abdomen.
But, he's still in Vice's grasp. "Fuck," he gasps, "what I said I wanted." His left arm drops, bracelet falling to his wrist. Electricity builds in his palm, a small orb, typically the precursor to a bolt of lightning. "I just wanted to do something for /her/ with all of it!" Well, /that's/ just gibberish, but Alan always closely guarded his past from the rest of 'R'. Even Rugal may be unaware of the boxer's motivations.
This is it, Alan realizes. He's on the edge. The orb in his fist has grown to the size of a baseball, chi swirling, crackling, bucking up his skin.
Alan closes his fist on it - the chi surges into his hand and forearm, rebounding with the bracelet, forming a ring of white lightning around his wrist. He drives a single punch at Vice's stomach, a punch that seems... weak, compared to the lightshow.
"Vajra..."
Alan twists his hand, surges forward, and the electricity explodes out, a bolt rivalling those of Taizhou, erupting forward like an enormous spear.
"...YUDHA!"
COMBATSYS: Alan successfully hits Vice with For Tricia.
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Vice 1/------=/=======|====---\-------\0 Alan
Vice almost never goes for--
Vice doesn't often go for blood drinking, and certainly not in quality; sometimes, in the heat of the moment, it's a nice enough thing, and she certainly is not averse to the taste, but in all honesty it is mostly in the realm of 'things Vice does to freak other people out'.
This, though, this sensation of lightning sizzling and popping like molten, coppery soda against her tongue, she could have this every day, forever. If it weren't for Alan twisting away, she would have held on 'till there was nothing left of him or the steady charge of electricity proved too much for her body to take any longer, but alas, it is over almost as quickly as it began.
Shuddering as she tries to think of subding Alan so that she might have more of him rather than just ruminating on that brief taste, she is stilled, a few wisps of smoke rising freely from between her teeth; her tongue'll probably be better if she can manage to go a while without sticking it into any /other/ sources of electrified blood.
As it turns out, that first taste was not the best thing for her, because she's /so/ busy trying to put it behind herself that she doesn't realize she's being struck by an enormous lightning bolt until she's, well, been struck by an enormous lightning bolt; her body slams against one of Bantiankong's walls, leaving a cracked, shallow crater that she ends up sprawled just beneath.
Blood spreads from beneath her, mingling with the water and coming far, far too quickly to be attributable to the steady flow from her eyes or mouth. She isn't still, not /completely/, but she isn't moving /much/ because it hurts to do so, hurts in a way wholly distinct from the constant heat and hemorrhaging of these last weeks.
Suddenly, this is not as fun as it was at first, when it was all squatting in abandoned buildings and tearing at her own skin to try and relieve her persisting discomfort and going on killing sprees and to to retrieve and murder Alan R.B. Now more than /ever/, she wishes in the dull, distant way she's capable of wishing for anything at all that she were out of Taizhou, out of the fire, free to lay her head in Mature's lap so that her partner might nudge the ills of the world and her tainted blood aside and grant her the peace to exist as something akin to a normal human being.
Vice is still face down in the street, but with that thought in her mind, she is able--/inspired/ to act; it's kind of subtle, really, just her right arm shooting forward and sending ripples through the water; it isn't until a viper-like length of fabric identical to the rest of her soaked sleeve tries to coil around one of Alan's ankles that the attack takes any kind of form, but at that point, if he /is/ caught, the length of cloth will be used as a tether to try and bring them near again.
COMBATSYS: Vice successfully hits Alan with Deicide.
- Power hit! -
~ Cruel hit! ~
[ \\\\\\\\ < > ]
Vice 1/-----==/=======|=======\==-----\1 Alan
For a moment, Alan actually thinks he's won. The absolute concentration of chi has burned away half of the sleeve of his already-basically-ruined silk shirt, leaving a corded forearm bare. The bracelet is taut, a perfect circle hovering around his wrist, rotating rapidly until it loses momentum, swinging back to its normal spot. A final crackle of chi dances up his arm and fades, the same effect as with his other technique, Mjolnir - he's used everything he has, his body needs to rebuild. The rain pouring down upon him, Alan sags, off-guard.
At the worst time.
"NO!" He shouts, seeing Vice's hand twitch out, knowing what's coming but already relaxed, bereft of the energy he needs to move. It catches his ankle and drags him down, closer and closer to certain death.
Desperation takes hold, Alan's hands scrabbling at the wrecked road, and soon, on ice. Plus, once he hits ice, his traction is gone.
Alan wheels his legs, flipping himself onto his back. "Goddamnit, goddamnit, come on!" He lets his right arm go slack, glaring at it. "Come on! COME ON!"
Spark.
Nature reasserts itself, and chi once again starts flowing through Alan, crackling down his arm. He glares down through his legs, and points his hand through. He has /one chance./
"STRIKE!"
A single bolt of lightning cracks out.
COMBATSYS: Alan prepares to take his last stand against Vice!
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Vice 1/-----==/=======|=======\==-----\1 Alan
COMBATSYS: Alan successfully hits Vice with Lightning Strike.
[ \\\\\\ < > ////// ]
Vice 1/----===/=======|=======\===----\1 Alan
Lightning strikes, lightning is conducted - visibly, with white worms of electricity crackling all around - through the water that Vice is half-submerged in, and finally it forcibly makes a number of abrupt and profoundly painful connections throughout her nervous system. She convulses, flopping all about like a caught fish too stubborn or stupid to know that it's dead, and all the while jerking Alan steadily forward, until--
--one last tug brings him skidding across the ice until they're face to face, at which point Vice--
--falls still.
And this time, there's no movement beyond the slight rise and fall of her body as she continues to draw breath, because for now, for a little while, she is at peace, until the /next/ time her body repairs itself and she stands to resume--her--hunt--
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Realize that, beyond all the odds, everything you've come to know and expect, like the world arguing against its one indelible truth... you're still breathing.
Alan R. B., unaffiliated criminal, turns, scuffing his way back to his feet with the kind of wariness you learn by watching horror movies. He is absolutely certain that Vice is going to get up again, suddenly lunge at him with some kind of hellshriek, and unlike every single other time Alan's stepped over the line back on the Black Noah, Mature isn't there to tell her it's not worth it (and then beat the shit out of him herself). Breath escapes him in a 'whhnnngh' as he gets to his feet, pain lancing through him whenever he flexes the muscles around his three new scars.
His electricity crackling along his skin, Alan forms another focused orb, presses his middle finger to his thumb, and points down at Vice.
Then, the orb vanishes.
Alan moans involuntarily as the adrenaline starts crashing on him, or at least that's what it feels like. It just might be the lease on strength he got from the chi storm has run out - perhaps he's just at his limit - perhaps someone is no longer watching over him. Alan's always going to wonder what happened to him tonight that let him go toe to toe with the only thing he feared enough to /show/ it.
Fears. Not feared. Alan's done with self-delusion.
"God damn," he rasps, wiping blood from his teeth and spitting to the side. He stands again, a hand on his side, and tries the orb again.
Nothing.
"F... fuck." The last thing he wants to do is leave Vice at his back, but like this, he has no choice. Starting at a shuffle, eventually making it to a trot, Alan finally makes his way into the Bantiankong Chemical Building, to catch up with his teammate. God save him from anything in between them.
Log created on 20:47:53 06/23/2010 by Alan, and last modified on 02:19:08 06/24/2010.