Description: The sky blotted out by a murder of crows, the earth wracked with seething fire, their final battle begins. Frei Tsukitomi-Renard, elemental sage, in choosing to protect the people of this world, sought out the heart of the conflict: the weapon to institute the Law of Nirvana, Katsuten. Alma Towazu, scarred angel, emerging renewed from the void into which he was cast, the thrice-born hero whose salvation was his beloved friend, returns from the limits of the world to fight for an ideal he now fully understands. And Rako Saze, the White Blade, possessed by what seems the last forbidding trace of Seishirou Ryouhara, whose deathlike grip upon this world will not be released, intervenes to cut them down. Who will be chosen by the Will of History? Is there, in the end, such a thing? These three, the embodiments of their ideals -- and more -- clash once and for all, to determine the fate of this world. All of humanity's spirit, all of this world's power, will be brought to bear in their exultant conflict. This story must end. But warriors such as these ensure: it will end gloriously.
After he and Nahid parted ways, there wasn't much left for Frei to do but move forward. Between Rolento's attack with the Apache helicopter and the fight afterwards showing exactly what the people involved were capable of, the resistance from government forces between him and his objective: the lowest parts of the Nenzhao facility. What little information Hotaru was able to pass on to him only said that braving the destruction at the lowest levels of the facility would lead anywhere of notice. Certainly, it was where Jiro was likely headed before contact was lost... and the path to the Katsuten chi bomb as well. Viewed in tableau from a distance, the red-haired fighter is surrounded by dazed or unconscious Chinese soldiers, his wooden sword now held against the back of another's neck while Frei stands next to him, looking markedly impassive.
"Forgive me," he says quietly, before spinning and slamming the bokken into the man's head, knocking him out cold, "but I'm in a hurry."
Now he is faced with a red-orange river of molten metal, the churning flow the major barrier between him and his destination. It doesn't help that as Frei stands there, he suddenly pitches forward and puts his hand against the wall to steady himself. Outside, in Taizhou's chi-saturated air, it was bad enough... not, perhaps, as debilitating as it was for someone like Kain Heinlein, but certainly enough to give the chi-sensitive sage a growing feeling of nausea and disorientation. This close to his destination, the warp in the weave is like a physical thing, slamming into him like a hammer. Yet at the same time, it turns out to be his salvation. Formless and shapeless, human will can 'convince' chi in the air to temporarily be something else: fire, lightning, sound. Even, for a moment, the coldest of ice. And while Frei is no Kula Diamond, he's always had an affinity for the elements of water and earth. Staring down the river of metal, he forms a plan.
In a normal situation this would be impossible, but this is anything but normal. Bursts of icy chi flash-freeze rock-like stepping stones in the flow, or simply create large enough chunks of ice and frost that they themselves are briefly just enough to walk on. Concussive bursts tear chunks from the wall, falling pieces of masonry and stone just large and stable enough to support a foot, a push off, a jump. Using all of the athletic ability he can muster, Frei half leaps, half surfs down the fiery iron pathway from the surface to the gantry below, the resting place of the Katsuten. He is keenly aware, leap-frogging as he does, that this is a one way trip. Such tricks won't work on the way out... once he's down on that gantry, that's where he stays, by hook or by crook.
In his view, it's worth it.
In Frei's mind, he came to Taizhou as an arbiter. Neither representing 'good' nor 'evil', 'law' nor 'chaos'. If anything, he tried to represent the voiceless, people who having no power like those who fight in the tournament, are denied their say. He had hoped that there would be an explanation for all this, a good reason that might mitigate -- not justify, but at least mitigate -- the destruction needed to produce it. That this Nirvana, this revolution, might have an ends that could make the means make some sort of sense. If that were the case, then he could accept it. Not... like it, but accept it. Knowing nothing of the Shiraha, however, or of Kagero or Seishirou's ultimate plans, he only knows of this terrible, destructive beast below, waiting to devour life and land themselves. Once that became clear, everything else became secondary. Something must be done, and he would do his best to accomplish it. As he told Rolento, the clash of ideals is over for Frei.
Now is the time for dealing with reality.
And then, there he is. Standing before it... the massive, sigil-carved metal sphere of the Katsuten, an immense globe wombed in the fiery below like some sort of demonic embryo, ready to destroy Taizhou in its birth pangs. The haphazrd gantry surrounding it twists and t
And then, there he is. Standing before it... the massive, sigil-carved metal sphere of the Katsuten, an immense globe wombed in the fiery below like some sort of demonic embryo, ready to destroy Taizhou in its birth pangs. The haphazrd gantry surrounding it twists and turns, railings blistering hot from the surroundings, but that's not on Frei's mind as he pitches forward again, both hands on the railing, and is violently sick for a brief moment.
When he can stand, green eyes dart to the walls, the grounding seals taking on the bursts of barely-contained force. No single human being could have done this... not even a collection of the most powerful and most skilled. The scope of the energy contained in the asymmetrical sphere, lines of scarlet searing across it like cracks in a demonic eggshell, is tremendous, as if it's feeding on the very planet itself.
Such terrible energy, compressed into that space. Let loose, their power would be beyond cataclysmic, and in his heart, Frei can hear the very song of nature itself screaming in tortured disharmony. This... thing... is, to him, an abomination.
"Seishirou Ryouhara..." Frei breathes, barely able to even speak. "What have you *done*..."
Only one man could feel nostalgia for hell.
He stands framed against the horizon, looking down from the crumbling peak to the molten river below, at a land atremble with the coming apocalypse. Shadowed tassels whip silently in the dusty wind, the leavings of bandages torn away by a body in the throes of death. And die he did, or came close enough, when his soul was sheared from his tortured body at last in the act of purging the last of Ryouhara's wayward essence from this insufficient era. That final, explosive meeting of ideals should have been the end of him, of a spirit that had swelled beyond its limits, of a story that should have ended while it still could be understood. And now...
There's a gentle breeze at the end of the world.
~ Thank you, Jiro. ~
Alma Towazu is smiling.
~ Goodbye. ~
That terrible energy that drew him here, resonating both with his own power and the curse of the seal emblazoned within his very breast, has grown only more intense, but it cannot overcome the peace that now soothes the Radiant Angel's once tormented soul. Having seen even his own ideals from a distance now, the desperation and defiance at the root of this warrior's incandescent passion lie at rest, even in the face of a great evil.
Seishirou Ryouhara is dead.
Alma Towazu is still alive.
It doesn't prove anything. The will of history chose neither of them.
But destiny is an elusive thing--
He closes his eyes.
He remembers when he first entered that place, and the vicious foe that he only narrowly overcame in search of the nefarious scheme of his perceived nemesis. Driven by his ideals, driven by what he had become: not only living proof of his beliefs, but a guardian on the world stage. A bittersweet memory of a task too great for a man smaller, and simpler, than he was able to understand. Much has changed. That was the beginning of the end of his story.
Maybe if Jiro had been there, then--
But history has decreed: the story of Alma Towazu, Savior of the World, is finished. What is left is a man who remembers how he began, and may thus act with certainty.
His eyes snap open. A military helicopter approaches. A familiar presence makes his move. And that incredible force pulls at him, straining, howling at his indomitable will. Renewed power glints within those hazel orbs, flecks of familiar cherry-blossom pink and royal indigo. There remains too much energy in the vicinity for his soul to safely utilize without shattering himself once again, but his healed body is less vulnerable to its depredations. Before his limits lie the force he needs. He knows this with all the doubtlessness with which he knows what he must do. What he wants to do. What it takes to be who he's been, ever since the day his story began.
His story is over. But this tale here-- one last chapter remains.
He will do his part to end it right--
Abruptly, that shadowed, half-bandaged form flickers and vanishes.
--for the sake of Ryouhara himself, if no one else.
"Frei."
He will step out from behind that metal sphere as if he had been there all along, on the opposite side of the Gantry, seemingly unpreturbed by the contortions of the sizzling metal around him. His expression will be Alma as he always was before, the Alma of the YFCC, the Alma of Jiro's counsel, mild-eyed and serious, gentle and pleasantly restrained. His stance will be the same, posture straight and limbs relaxed. He will not even take time to regard the seals scrawled across the walls, the terrifying hellfire above which they stand, the abomination before them. He will seem as though he has been here before.
He will be covered in sickening burn scars. His hair will be shorn completely, shaved to a blond stubble, patchy in places. Upon his chest, above a lower torso and upper legs still wreathed in bandages, will be a stunning mark of blackened flesh, atop a mound of scar tissue: the seal of the Ryouhara, permanently seared onto his body. His face will have a cresting wave of mottled pale cutting up diagonally, an undisguisable disfigurement.
He will not be smiling.
"Be careful."
But he may still, strangely--
"They're coming."
--be beautiful.
It is then that the ceiling disappears.
'Disappears' is a kind euphemism for the ungodly roar that accompanies the barrage of rockets that annihilates the roof of the Gantry, Rolento's decidedly unsubtle approach no less effective. As he shields his eyes from falling dust and debris, looking up at the military helicopter lowering its clamps to secure the Gantry itself, Alma sniffs once, blinking into a sunlight tortured by its mingling with the flames below. His composure is a little less impressive here, since, after all, he knew this was coming. He considers briefly, with a faint sense of surprise, why he didn't simply attack from a different angle, why he allowed himself to be drawn here. Rationalizations emerge conveniently: only the Katsuten allowed him to move as he just did, and in time. Here, he'll be able to attack from below. Here--
Here is Frei, with whom he wanted to be.
The scarred angel tilts his gaze over to his friend, still shielding his eyes, chin tilted upward, and begins to smile, as the world begins to end around them, and everything goes to hell.
"Thank goodness you're okay."
Yeah... about that.
But Alma just smiles.
It's somewhat disconcerting, being inside of a building as it gets slammed into by rockets from a combat helicopter. The roof is blown apart, cement caving in, raining down on the Gantry. No real damage, as the greater parts of what would possibly damage Frei and Alma are either vaporized by the explosive force of the rockets, or rain down on Katsuten proper. Katsuten seemingly not disturbed in the least by this, continues to simply throb. It shows no signs of concern as clamps hook onto its scaffolding, and simply yank it up through the recently made hole. The Hiroshima Type is absconded with by a military madman, and it seems not to care, for all Katsuten is, is destruction.
That leaves the Gantry. Dust settling. A presence, now gone. Empty. Hollow. There is nothing left in Nenzhao except for melted steel and lava. There isn't even death in this place, at least not any more... though one might be able to find the corpse of 'Ullr' still around.
And yet, despite the lack of death, the crows come.
Despite the sudden explosions of rockets and the lifting of a massive, unnatural bomb from the Gantry, acts which would have scared ANY wild life at quite a large distance off, the birds come flapping in, cawing and screeching. They land on the new sky lighted ceiling, they land on the skeletal structure of steel girded beams that were left when the concrete they supported fell away or was destroyed in the blast. Hundreds of crows, the noise they make is deafening. They squawk, protesting something, perhaps the lack of Katsuten, perhaps murmuring their approval that it is gone. More crows, unable to land inside Nenzhao, fly overhead, circling omniously, so many that the sky seems to grow dark.
But the crows are not crows. They are birds of flame, black flame, all of them. They stare at Frei and Alma, squawking and fluttering. Until all of them fall silent, turning to look at the new arrival.
Beyond the entrance through which Frei used, the only means of entry into Nenzhao is through the new ceiling.
Rako Saze used neither. She simply appeared, some place in between the beginning of a blink and the end of it, standing in the place where Katsuten once was.
The White Blade of Nirvana is different from the last time Alma saw her. To begin with, the armor she wears is damaged, badly. Cracked, chipped and torn in places, it can hardly be called armor any more. The helmet is torn half away, revealing part of the woman's face, just over her left eye, down to her chin, revealing most of her mouth and the left side of her nose. She looks as if she has been through hell. And considering she weathered through someone dousing her in molten steel, perhaps she literally has.
But this isn't all. Her armor has completely lost its color, looking to be black except that black would define it as some sort of color; this armor has the complete lack of anything. The only splash of color would be the non-color of white veins running through the armor like a literal nervous system. Her one exposed eye is gold. Her sword, the massive blade that would take most normal men both hands and a strong back to lift which she wields easily with one, is pure white, much as her nickname, and yet it seems to burn with black flames. Similar black flames pour from the seams in her armor, trailing behind her especially at her hands, her feet, her back.
Her chiaroscuro appearance is only the visual change. The real change comes from when she speaks.
"Alma Towazu. You are the representation of this world's corruption. You are the poison that infect the veins of Nirvana; you are the flames that would burn heaven."
When she speaks, two voices come out. Rako Saze's.
And Seishirou Ryouhara's.
Rako lifts her blade, the air shimmering as she moves, almost like she moves too fast to properly follow, and the eyes make up for it by displaying after images. As if the colorless nature of her armor, of her herself, bleeds the world around her dry of color, and once she moves, color has to seep back into that part of the world.
"I will not allow your poison to continue. You will be stopped. Here. Now."
And then with that little introduction, she attacks. One foot moves, plants. Her body twists. She slices the blade through the air. She is no where near Alma. But the colorness nature of her blade seems to infect the air, and a wave of energy slams out from the arc of her blade, flying straight towards the Scarred Angel, as if intent on cutting him in half.
COMBATSYS: Rako has started a fight here as a boss!
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|---------------
COMBATSYS: Alma has joined the fight here.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|---------------
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Frei has joined the fight here.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|---------------
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Frei 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Alma
This... is a lot to process.
Frei's not even going to ask how Alma got here; from the moment he saw him in the burned-out hospital in Huangyan weeks ago, he knew that there was something working behind the scenes in Taizhou that involved the Soul Phoenix, though from the looks of it now, the process of molting in searing flame took slightly more of a toll on Alma's body than one might have thought. So while the sudden appearance of his friend does not surprise him, his appearance does, and the red-haired fighter makes no move to hide his shock. For a brief moment, there is nothing but a tableau of them across the gantry from each other, staring at their opposite number-who-isn't.
"Well," Frei says, taking a deep breath... far deeper than it feels like he needs to. The confining seals, the Katsuten itself... it's like the air is made of burning lead yet he still had to fill his lungs with it. "I'm alright, but you look--"
This is effectively when a salvo of rockets takes out the ceiling, the roaring sound of explosions, rocket propulsion, and falling concrete makes talking pointless. Yet amazingly, Frei's calm isn't broken at all. His head tilts to the heavens, and he spies a helicopter.
A tantalizingly familiar helicopter. The first thing Alma might hear, when the proverbial smoke clears and human senses become useful again, is Frei's voice saying in a level tone -- even as his eyes narrow in annoyance -- "I thought we blew that up."
Then he brings his head down to look at his friend, and a smile does come back to his face as he finishes his thought: "...human."
It's about the highest compliment Frei could give, at the moment, considering the circumstances.
But there are other issues at stake here. Primarily, that Rolento -- it can't be anyone but, considering Frei's experience on the way IN here -- is about to take the giant chi-fueled bomb out of the room with the protective stasis seals that are keeping it from going spontaneously nova. Frei isn't a Ryouhara; he doesn't understand chi as a technology, but he can sense its flows, and the dampening sigils doing their work. His teeth grit as he watches, more or less helplessly, as the Katsuten is dragged away. "That fool has no idea what he's doing... he thinks this is just like a really massive grenade and that's not--"
This is when the crows start, and it appears to be Frei's fate to be interrupted by the entrance of figures marked in some way, having been through fire and flood, having emerged as something not quite what they started. Unlike Alma, he doesn't recognize Rako, but he *does* recognize the voice of Seishirou Ryouhara once it speaks... and his words with Ayame back in Shanghai suddenly come back to haunt him.
'Seishirou Ryouhara is dead!' Ayame had shouted.
'His body, maybe,' had been Frei's reply.
"Black and white," the sword-sage murmurs, glancing at Alma to gauge his reaction, before looking back at... whatever chimaera has come to greet them. "Fitting."
When Rako speaks of Alma as poison and corruption, however, Frei's emerald-green eyes fill with flame, reflected by the literal hellfire and brimstone surrounding them. It drives him nearly batty, perhaps because even looking at Rako is making his filling rattle and a piercing pain is starting behind his eyes somewhere. "No," he says sharply. He's unable to get to Rako in time, unable to help Alma, but his hand drops back to the carved hilt of the bokken slung through his back belt loops, and rather than the slow burn he tends to employ in this sort of situation, the wooden blade erupts in a nimbus of wind, the blades of air tinged with vibrant green to make them visible. Corruption...
He can feel it. Rako is the venom, the poison. Katsuten is the poison. What the Ryouhara engineers did was take life and *bind it*, somehow. But that's not how life operates, not in Frei's eyes.
Life is freedom.
"You who pervert the natural cycle," he intones officiously, looking at Rako square, "I will put to rest your corrupted power."
H
He charges, and getting as close as he dares, twirls and looks to slam the wind-empowered wooden blade right into Rako's chest, knocking her clear across the gantry.
COMBATSYS: Alma dodges Rako's Rat Killer.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|---------------
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Frei 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Alma
"Yeah..."
Against a backdrop of devastation and the thunderous fulminations of the helicopter above and the groaning fire-sworled edifice below, Alma smiles back at Frei.
"I feel human."
That smile soon fades.
Only one act could shatter the tranquility fostered in the Scarred Angel's soul by his passage through purgatory -- that repeat of the moment in which he first acquired his spiritual powers, though while there had been no one but himself at the end when he began, this time, at the end, there was Jiro -- and history, in its capricious will, has found it. The voice of Rako Saza, White Blade of Nirvana.
The voice of Seishirou Ryouhara, who would end the world to save it.
"You--!"
Alma's eyes widen, his body unabashedly tensing up, displaying the same shock at this sudden appearance that Frei did at his own marred features. It is not merely the sight of the one who unflinchingly eviscerated him. No, hardly--
"You yet remain in this world!?"
His tone is less one of righteous indignance and more one of genuine dismay. He thought he had finished with Ryouhara once and for all in his dream, had scattered that last shadow. But that man yet finds ways to cling to this world. Or perhaps his being is simply not so easily purged, having touched too strongly those around him. That is something Alma can comprehend. Even when the page of history turns, the black of that ink shows through the other side...
But these conspiracies have gone on long enough.
"Huh!"
For all that Alma appears taken aback, in the split-second before that space-distortion tears through his body, his eyes narrow with a preternatural glint. Glowing with the primal energy in which they all now bask, he /phases/ to the side, his form blurring without the need for something so plebian as physical motion, and the wave passes him by neatly. It is quite clear: they have both changed since their last battle. Significantly.
"You're right," he replies calmly. "I am the representation of this world's corruption." He sweeps one hand to the side, highlighted by the hellfire beneath. "I make sense of what is absurd; I find meaning in suffering. I have faith when it is unjustified; I am defiant in the face of despair. I am a human; I live in /this/ world. And so: You who would end the world of man-- you who would bring about Nirvana, and cast aside our fruitless and eternal struggle--"
That hand explodes, violently, into a surging, unrestrained, incredible flame.
"I'll gladly pit my life against you."
He flashes forward-- then to the side-- and then above, dropping, twisting like a tiger, to land neatly behind Rako, an instinctive pincer movement with Frei's own aside in an attempt to corner their opponent as he drives that fist of white flame toward the warrior woman's back, driving her into his friend's assault.
"I've no use for your heaven!"
COMBATSYS: Rako dodges Frei's Unbalancing Draw.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|---------------
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Alma
COMBATSYS: Rako dodges Alma's Self Expression.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|---------------
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Alma
This where Rako Saze and the Ryouhara differ. Seishirou might like to throw Alma's ideal back into his face as being stupid, silly, the sycophant's speech in the court of the tyrant. Rako, however, does not throw the ideal back into Alma's face. She just tries to cleave said face in.
She already declared her intent. Now she must carry it out.
They both declare their counter intent, and attack. Rako's reply is to stay silent, then move. Or try to move. Like color was being shifted around, it seems like she moves a lot slower than she does, the wooden sword and the radiant flame striking at the woman in damaged armor. Only the image, of where Rako -was-, remains, and that image is dispelled as the dual blows land on the color-distorted air. But it seems that the color itself doesn't quite get restored fully once the armored woman leaves the space. Instead, it surges outwards, starting from the center of where the image was. Black flames pour out of the void of color, and attempt to slam outwards - fortunately, only in Alma's direction, the White Blade seeming to almost ignore Frei entirely. After all, it was her stated intent to stop /Alma/, she probably didn't care about Frei... unless he became a nuisance to her goal.
5tEither way, Alma's face is en route for a kiss with a wall of black fire.
Perhaps to his benefit, Frei doesn't slow as he effectively passes through the air where Rako was, landing in a crouch on the opposite side and slipping the wooden blade back into place with expert deftness. It would appear that all that was needed to kick his muscle memory of a youth of training into overdrive was an actual need to use those battoujutsu skills in earnest combat... and it might be that, on a fighter whose career to date has relied on perhaps a more haphazard, momentary style, the sudden precision looks very alien... not unbecoming, but strange with the shock of newness.
He stands up and turns. Rako's not there.
Distressing.
"I heard that this was supposed to be a revolution of sorts, wasn't it?" he says evenly, but his eyes are scanning the area. Ninja are experts at hiding, but at this point, there is something... shifting in Frei's perception. Nenzhao is a wound, now; an open sore on the planet's surface, and with the Katsuten gone, it gapes bloody to the sky, seeking healing, looking to recover. The chi of the bomb was artificial, terrible, bound... but into the void flows something else. Renewal. New life. As surely as death and life follow each other, so here too, like an immune reaction of sorts, does new hope start to swirl in the air.
Rako's distorted, terrible energy is like a blot of black ink on a pure white page to someone with the right sight. She couldn't hide from Frei even if she were invisible at this point.
One hand comes up, and Frei's green eyes track and then lock on Rako's position. "'Revolution' is just another word for 'cycle'. A circle, that loops forever with no end and no beginning. I hope you enjoyed thoroughly messing up the destruction part of the cycle. Consider this looping back around to start."
It's no more than a gesture, a flash of blue-white from Frei's palm, and then the air itself freezes solid around Rako in a brilliant, crystalline prison. Momentary, but all the more vicious for it.
COMBATSYS: Rako successfully hits Alma with Burn the Traitors.
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|----------=====
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\0 Alma
The crows shriek as though in triumph as Rako, now merely melting colors, evades their attack as though by sorcery, her body seeming to slip like some primordial ooze between their strikes. The effect is no doubt illusory, but it is no less disconcerting for that. Alma's aura sense, fine-tuned though it remains in the overwhelming presence of Katsuten -- thanks in part to the purification ritual that was his effective rebirth -- is of little aid in anticipating this. He grimaces slightly, a bead of sweat forming on his brow, as he twists his head, seeking with his eyes and his heart for their elusive foe.
Life itself is the tyrant Ryouhara wished to overthrow.
It's not to late to show that, if he has the strength--
But great strength indeed will be required to face this enemy. She is even more formidable than she was on that fateful day. Alma, who should have an edge of experience here over Frei against this enemy, still cannot repeat his performance of a moment ago, unable to predict where the attack will issue from. He is a mere moment too late, and is all the worse off for realizing belatedly, and turning face-first into the storm of black flame that awakes him, a heat to cleanse the poison from a beleagured system.
They each wield heat; they are each one another's poision.
But this is a heat like none other, even coming from one who wields a unique energy like Alma's. It is as though a thousand crows are pecking at his flesh, tearing at his eyes and scarred face. He cries out in agony and staggers back, reaching up to protect his head, stumbling against the railing and attempting to regain his balance, but the pain sears too deep-- he slips, rests one hand against a red-hot railing, singes himself and pulls back, takes one false step off the edge of the scaffolding, and slips off toward the magma below--
Only for his image to blur as he reappears to Rako's side, still clutching at his face with one hand, teeth grit against the pain but concentration restored. The sheer power at this woman's disposal is not to be underestimated. "Frei," he says, voice tight, "whatever has possessed her has endowed her with even greater strength than before. The forces at play here are tremendous. Watch yourself--"
And then he is moving, as Frei does.
It is, quite frankly, a spectacular display of improvized teammork from two old friends with much experience fighting side by side. As the air begins to freeze around Rako, Alma darts in and begins to blur with a series of quick punches, the halo of gathered Soul Power about the phoenix's form obscuring the nature of his blows until they impact. Even as ice begins to form, Alma punches through the cracks that remain, quite literally punching /around/ Frei's attack until it is completed, maximizing the potential damage they are able to incur together without interfering with Frei's assault.
If they both successfully connect, even if Rako is able to mitigate the damage, Alma will likely follow up with, roaring with rising passion, a final hammering blow to shatter the ice that has encased Rako and transfer the brunt of the force through her frozen frame.
COMBATSYS: Rako dodges Frei's Hatsuyuki.
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|----------=====
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\0 Alma
COMBATSYS: Rako blocks Alma's Spring Shower.
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|---------======
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\0 Alma
Indeed, her dodge carried her all the way to the outer edge of the scaffolding where Katsuten was kept. Not out of fear, but likely to escape her own attack from backfiring. Or perhaps just tactical positioning. After all, she /had/ been surrounded. The flames slam into Alma, making him stagger, but there is no laugh of victory, no words of mocking, not even a smile. Rako Saze looks over towards the two fighters with cold, golden eyes, impassive, nothing at all given to indicate her mood. Her intention was made, and there's nothing but cold will to carry it through. Alma will be stopped.
Frei and Alma attempt to counter her again, and as the chi sage tries to freeze the colorless armored figure in with a flash freeze, Rako simply... steps through it, the ice forming seeming to melt as it contacts with the flames burning around her armor. It isn't sufficient enough to overcome her armor, it seems. And then Alma is there. This time, Rako doesn't blur. Perhaps because of the obscured nature of the punches. She holds up the hand not holding her sword, and catches Alma's punches, one after the other, with an open palm. Undoubtedly it places some pain shooting up her arm, but it doesn't seem to slow her down any.
Alma's final hammering blow -isn't- caught however. Instead, Rako steps forward, shifting her body subtly to allow the parts of the armor not destroyed to get impacted by the fist, likely not much of the force transferring through. Why did she allow this? So her hand can reach for the giant .61 caliber flintlock-looking pistol at her hip, raise it, and attempt to press it to Alma's sternum. She'll pull the trigger. And rather than a bullet impacting against him, a /massive/ wave of chi will slam into him like a freight train filled with dynamite and bees.
"I know what those forces are," Frei says calmly, bringing his hand back and tapping one toe against the gantry walkway, even as Rako appears to burn through his icy attack. Fire triumphs over ice? Sure. Not unexpected. But the elements move in cycles, unpredictable ways, generating and destroying each other. Water, for example, generates wood... and wood is also the element of storms and clouds and thunder. The blue-white frost flows seamlessly into an aura of purple-blue lightning, swirling around his hand. "But the warning is appreciated."
If she wants to focus single-mindedly on the mission of destroying Alma, then he'll have to work all the harder, and interestingly enough, her decision to stay point-blank and shove a wave of chi in Alma's face works to Frei's advantage. From afar, and with the pair of them split up, they're divided and easy prey, unable to reinforce each other, unable to assist. Up close, he can at least interfere, get in the way, and perhaps draw the armored warrior's attention his way. Thinking on how to do that, he glances down at the nimbus of lightning around his hand, then back at Rako.
He grins, faintly.
He all but charges her at this point, but there's a lightness to his step; his footfalls don't hammer on the metal walkway with the weight of a forceful run like they should, but instead it's as if he's barely touching the ground, sprinting across the distance buffeted by some unseen zephyr, looking to wrap his arms around the cracking armor and twist Rako's free arm into a quite painful position behind her back... but this is only a precursor, a way to find an in. What he's really looking for is a crack in the armor around her back just big enough to poke his hand at.
A lightning-charged hand. If he can get it in there, perhaps crack the shell, then the electrical chi explodes outward under the armor, across her entire body.
COMBATSYS: Rako successfully hits Alma with Saija Danjuu.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|-----==========
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/-------|=======\===----\1 Alma
He cannot remember what it was to breathe.
Alma is flung across the walkway, sliding across hot metal as he cries out in agony, hands clutching at his chest. The seal of the Ryouhara burns like a-- well, like a gunshot, as though the bomb once buried within him has exploded all over again. This time, however, the attack came from without-- and it was equivalently spectacular, the terrifying beam, dwarfing the weapon from which it emerged, able to fling Rako's opponent back as though he were a child, his limbs too numbed from pain to prevent his inertia from carrying him to the brink of the flames above.
Still, even before his quivering lungs can draw air once more, even before his body sheds pain's piercing needles, the phoenix reborn is propping himself up on one hand, grimacing with determination at the exponentially more powerful enemy facing him now. As Frei sees to move in and capitalize on Rako's blind spot, he reaches out with that other hand, and accesses the swell of power that permeates their environment. This is no time to hold back. Not with the energies at play here. Not with so much at stake. They may not be able to stop Katsuten themselves, but they must neutralize this threat. No, more than that--
They must purge Seishirou from this world once and for all.
"Enough!"
The cry is ripped from now-bloodied lips.
"White Blade--"
His hand spasms with the energy gathering there.
"--with this flame--"
And he slams his palm down upon the walkway, sending a streak of light shooting across the metal. Whether or not Frei's electrocuting strike unbalances Rako, the warrior woman may find herself standing in the path of that zigzaging, darting trace. And as soon as it seems as though she is in range, the scarred angel will snap his trembling fingers.
"I'll banish you from this world!"
Screaming, he unleashes the fullness of his power, the undeniable strength of his convictions: a geyser of scintillating light rising up from the metal, causing the whole of their precarious battlefield to quake and quiver.
COMBATSYS: Rako dodges Frei's Improvised Throw.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|-----==========
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Alma
COMBATSYS: Rako blocks Alma's Full Confession EX.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|--=============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Alma
Point blank shots, especially from a flintlock wildly redesigned to infuse bullets with chi, and especially when the wielder's chi is being insanely reinforced, are nothing to laugh about. As Alma finds out. The energy impacts him and sends him flying, and before Alma is even hitting the ground, the flintlock is breaking open along its action, the old shell being ejected, a new one from a strap in Rako's armor being produced and loaded, all within a second or two. As rapid a reload as one could imagine. The gun is then holstered - and Frei is on her. That helmeted face, the golden eye revealed, turns towards the chi sage, but her arm is already grappled, twisted - and then she twists it herself, going exactly the way she needs to, by chance more than skill, to tear out of Frei's arm lock. Then she dances away with a few nimble steps, the electricity crackling into the air where she had once stood, the hand with that electrical charge missing her.
Frei's attack may not have worked, but it forced Rako into a kind of tactically disadvantageous position, for Alma is attacking at the same time from another direction. The gold eye turns to regard the Scarred Angel as he screams his defiance towards her and releases the energy her way. There's only one thing for her to do at this point. And that's to flip her sword around, and slam it into the ground point-first. Then she braces... and the explosive wave of energy /slams/ into her, only partly redirected with the blade slicing into it. A grunt of pain from the black-armored, black flaming Rako Saze, and then she untenses as the energy passes. The armored woman shifts her position, standing up, then pulls her blade from the ground, swiping it through the air.
"Enough. Your rage is weak. Surrender your soul, Alma Towazu. Or I will rend it from you." And with that, Rako lifts the blade, one-handed, to hold it vertically in front of her face, the other hand coming up in a kind of hand gesture. Even as the two watch, the white blade with the black flames begin to both turn red, a crimson, primal red.
COMBATSYS: Rako stills her mind. "I am the Cold Will."
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|--------------=|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Alma
His hand draws back, and Frei does not seem particularly perturbed over it. The blue-white electricity soon becomes something else; the power seems to flow backward back onto his palms, changing mid-flow from electric energy to tongues of scarlet fire. Someone with enough knowledge of Asian mysticism would realize he's slowly and carefully moving the chi around him through the five agents generation cycle. As water became wood before, now wood fuels fire. Perhaps more to the point, the sudden break in the action as Rako is forced to retreat gives the sword-sage an opportunity to duck back across the corridor, interposing himself between the White Blade and her quarry.
A somewhat faint smile starts to spread across Frei's face as he assumes a defensive position, taking a deep breath. His stance is almost archaic in form; his torso bent forward slightly, his right hand back and gripping the carved hilt on the wooden sword slung through his back belt loops. His left knee forward and bent, right leg back, the other fire-swathed hand making lazy circles at his side. It's battoujutsu, the sort of precursor to iaido, sword-drawing. Compared to the massive and clearly supernatural blade wielded by Rako, it seems like a child's toy, but if Frei is aware of that, it doesn't seem to bother him much.
"You sound like a puppet," he says to Rako, tilting his head a little, the entire statement having the tone of academic curiosity. He doesn't know why it is that this woman -- who he suspects messed up Alma the last time he was here -- is speaking with Seishirou's voice, nor why it is she -- they -- want Alma dead quite so badly. Maybe it is, as Alma said, that the two are simply opposite numbers, and in the end there can only be one, like Highlanders. But something about this situation is gnawing at him. "You're the Cold Will? Whose Cold Will?" he asks, conversationally. It's a question that bears answering.
He doesn't really give Rako time to answer, though, before offering his own suggestion, watching the armor-clad warrior intently, ready to pounce at the slightest movement. "If you're consistent with the rest of this... Nirvana... the answer is some long philosophical treatise, maybe about 'the people' or change or revolution. I'm sorry to say that I don't buy it." Green eyes narrow. "I won't let you take anyone's 'soul', nor make the people of this city suffer any more than you already have."
COMBATSYS: Frei focuses on his next action.
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|--------------=|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Alma
A bead of sweat trickles down Alma's brow.
The exposed scar on his chest, the Ryouhara seal permanently emblazoned upon that bronzed skin, throbs with an agony unparalleled even by the scorching blast he just endured. That man is present here. He cannot deny that, not even after his dream. And as he kneels there, legs still partially wreathed in the stray bandages that clothe him singing against the hot metal, the scarred angel knows that Seishirou Ryouhara will still be here, even if Rako Saze is destroyed: in the ruins of the city, in the wasteland about them, in the mark that his ill-begotten dreams have made upon this land. None of them can truly be wiped from the pages of history; even when only one remains standing, the other's footprints will remain indelible in the ground. But as much as the people of Taizhou must be defended, and as much as justice must be done to protect this fragile world from those that would prey upon it--
Alma Towazu realizes this does not matter, that Ryouhara's curse remains.
What matters is that he takes his stand.
Gently, as his friend speaks, his glowing fingers trace the design upon his sternum; softly, his eyes flutter closed, breathing deeply of the steam-cloyed air. The faintest trace of a smile -- likely to be missed -- stirs at Frei's words, at the man that Frei has become. A sage once seeking to be one with nature, now, of all things, a man of the people. Yet Alma, too, has surrendered his heaven. No longer is this a contest between one paradise of ideals and another. Now they are men, seeking to stave off apocalypse. So that this story will go on.
"You can't take my soul, White Blade."
Even without them.
"I've seen the heaven you seek--"
Alma opens his eyes.
"--in my nightmares."
The Cold Will-- the Will of History, inhuman and yet human, all too human. But none may call themselves its master. Even if he is annihilated, even if he is forgotten, the bonds he has woven in this world will necessarily endure. Even if both he and Jiro disappear into the darkness--
"And my soul rebels against it."
Still, in the world they protected, even as nameless dust they will remain.
Alma rises from his knees.
In his hazel eyes glimmer a sense of purpose that cannot be ignored, a warmth and a certainty that can arise only from the most tested of faiths. As if of its own will, the world unfolds before him, its ways unmitigated even by the oppressive power here.
He will fight. To the end.
COMBATSYS: Alma opens his heart to the flow of battle.
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|--------------=|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/-------|======-\-------\0 Alma
Rako has already stated her intentions. The last plea was simply to give Alma a chance. Who is she to complain if he refuses? However, as they both state their intentions back, again, and declare their defiance, again, the White Blade shakes her head.
"You both talk too much."
She doesn't bother to respond to anything else. There's nothing more to be said, now. She wants Alma gone, that's all. She doesn't much care about the other one in this encounter. And so, even as Frei calls her a puppet, she ignores him. All three of them seem to be ramping it up, and as such, Rako is entirely free to begin to fight anew, striking first. She moves forward and brings that newly red blade up. Then, like before, she slams the blade into the ground, but this time rather than trying to deflect energy, she is imparting it. Energy begins to coalesce around the phoenix, matrices forming in the air. That matrix will close in, constricting about Alma, before imploding... and coming out the other side, as if attempting to rip the very essence from Alma, as if Rako were attempting to rip the very soul from him just like she promised.
COMBATSYS: Frei interrupts Kaitaijutsu from Rako with Reiki.
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|-----------====|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/---====|======-\-------\0 Alma
Hm. Encircle and defeat, right? Attack Alma from all sides and even Frei standing right there isn't going to do much to help him defend himself, will it?
The Ryouhara don't know Frei very well.
The redhead doesn't bother to shout a warning, or anything of the sort, because it would be pointless; only his ability to perceive chi on a high level means he can react to the shatteringly powerful attack at all. Setting his jaw and letting go of the hilt of his bokken, Frei ducks back a step so that he's practically on top of the Scarred Angel, the hand wreathed in fire coming up in front of him, palm in. "Blaze, heavenly wings of flame," the sage intones, and the fire on his hand erupts outward to the take the shape of a phoenix, the totem-god Suzaku, whose fiery wings surround both Frei and Alma, the fiery heat of the chi splitting the air in a sound almost like the keening cry of a bird of prey.
The bolts of matrix-formed chi, created by Rako's seal-bound ninkou technology, start to arrow in toward the pair, but with sweeps of the bird's wings, the chi is... for all intents and purposes absorbed into the wings, the color and shape of it filling the chi-phoenix's form, until all of the attack has been swept up.
But there is always a price to pay. Part of Rako's attack visibly tracks its way through the flame construct, seeping into Frei's body, causing him to grit his teeth in pain as the attacking energy tears at his own aura painfully, eroding it... but the lion's share remains contained in the Suzaku-form, which hovers now between Frei and Rako. "You don't understand that power," he says evenly. "You wield a child's toy version, trapped and servile. Allow me to instruct you in its proper use."
The phoenix spreads its wings wide with another cry, and Rako's attack -- tinged with the scarlet flame of the dissipating firebird's chi -- is sent right back at her, unavoidably fast.
As soon as Alma detects that swell of power, he knows what he must do.
Though he can feel Rako's surging energy attempting to surround him, bypassing what might otherwise be an intercepting gesture from his less-depleted ally, he too bears witness to the response that Frei prepares. How could a man known as the 'Soul Phoenix' not understand? Rather than gather his power for a defense of his own, intuiting what is to come and having invincible faith in his friend's strength, Alma takes another deep breath, the intensity of his battle permeating his very veins, repelling the otherwise overwhelming aftereffects of the Will of History, and thereby enduring the agony that lingers from that 'poison to fight the poison'.
"Frei..."
Alma, scarred and beautiful in the light of Frei's flame, is smiling.
"You're incredible."
How far-- how far they have both come, despite it all.
How could a world such as this not be worth protecting?
He leaps. Having not been compelled to expend precious time and energy fending off Rako's assault, Alma jumps up and to the side, able to move to counter-attack even as Frei's counter-strike aims to consume the sword mistress. Bandage-swathed feet travel the heated length of the railing, blurring so swiftly that he fails even to feel the burn, ignoring the dangerous way in which the walkway screams in protest at their battling. Aiming to take advantage of Rako's field of vision being obscured by that rising phoenix, Alma then jumps straight up, angling up and over their opponent-- and torquing his body such that he spirals upside-down, moving with all speed to strike from a most unprecedented perspective. Thrusting his hand down, still roiling with glimmering white flame, a dart of Soul Power lashes out as though of its own accord, aiming to impact atop Rako's skull, penetrating what remains of her shattered helm.
Admittedly, her complaint is fair. In this case, though--
"Hmph!"
Alma Towazu has nothing more to say.
He'll attempt to land neatly on Rako's opposite side, theoretically resulting in a pincer with Frei, but as for the rest--
History will decide.
COMBATSYS: Rako endures Alma's Sacred Wave.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|--------=======|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Frei 0/-------/---====|=======\-------\1 Alma
Unexpected, perhaps. Rako might even call it skillfully done. But she's a bit too busy being ubered by it. Her matrix is distrupted, absorbed, largely done away with. And not by the target she had chosen, but rather by the other involved in this fight. Rako has a moment to glance towards the chi sage as he intercepts the attack, and has the opportunity to see that the move, which isn't even her own, manages to inflict pain even as it is absorbed. And then all she can see is flaming wings descending upon her. The phoenix slams into the White Blade. It bowls her over with the simple force of the attack, knocking her flat onto her back. And yet... and yet, she's still going. Not a moment after the black armored Rako Saze is downed, she begins to get back up again, grabbing the pommel of her stuck-in blade to help her. She turns her head, and spits blood. Perhaps just the tiniest of recognitions that Frei's attack was a good one.
Not much time to dwell on that, however. Alma comes. Impressive acrobatics, coming from an angle that Rako cannot adjust to so easily. And yet, when the Soul Phoenix strikes, the White Blade is not caught totally unawares. Whether she lets Alma hit her, or whether she doesn't expect it and simply rolls with it, who knows. But even as the dart lashes out, Rako raises her free hand to try and grab Alma. By the throat. Should it succeed, unfathomably strong fingers will curl into the soft flesh there, crushing. And then, she'll just slam Alma into the ground as hard as she can. Hopefully the walkway doesn't mind too much!
The flame dissipates, some of the last remaining sparks hovering around Frei's outstretched hand, the cycle of transformation continuing as the fiery motes become invisible, a haze of force like heat shimmer, the invisible crushing hand of pure force, the element of Earth. Flame's ashes enrich the soil, and even destruction by fire is part of the cycle of rebirth... within reason.
It's not what Frei's thinking about.
"...thank you," is all the stunned-looking redhead can say. In a weird way, it's the first *direct* compliment of that stripe he's ever received from Alma. Which isn't to say that Frei feels Alma hasn't had that *sentiment* until now, but it's the first time the sage can remember the Soul Angel ever SAYING it that way. His shock recovers fast enough, turning into the vaguest of smiles, but he knows that Alma -- in his own way -- feels the sense of both deep gratitude he feels, and the sincerity behind what he says aloud. "If I've learned anything from you, Alma, it's that occasionally, having something to protect brings out the best in people."
He turns back to Rako and does not attack, even when the Cold Will decides that she'll try her damndest to finish her mission regardless of what is said or done. The sort of smoldering, cold anger he's been feeling, in a weird way, suddenly turns to a bit of pity in his eyes, even as he brings his hands together, resonating his aura with the chi around him. It's an entirely different approach than ninkou technology. Ryouhara seals bind, trap, ensorcell. It's terribly effective, even Frei -- philosophically opposed to it -- would admit that. Frei's attempt is more organic. Just as Alma's Soul Power resonates with human hearts, the chi sage does not 'control' things. He persuades. He asks, he bargains. In return, there is something... different about it.
He calls and the elements answer.
He turns green eyes to the barely visible part of Rako's face, beneath the cracked armor. "Whatever happens here," he says quietly, "I hope that someday, you'll be able to break free of what binds you... and I don't mind that armor."
COMBATSYS: Frei gathers his will.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|--------=======|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Frei 1/------=/=======|=======\-------\1 Alma
COMBATSYS: Alma dodges Rako's The Order from Nirvana.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|-------========|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Frei 1/------=/=======|=======\-------\1 Alma
This time, his heart is steeled -- and his mind is free.
Alma Towazu's agility is magnificent, but the swift judgment of the Will of History will not be denied: Rako Sake reaches out with an unforgiving grasp, reaching out to pluck the phoenix from the sky. In a moment she will crush him relentlessly-- yet something is amiss. Some swell of power-- some glint in the scarred angel's eyes as his gaze shifts, turning upon the vessel that contains the remnants of his erstwhile nemesis.
He melts from her grasp.
Blurring, much as the warrior woman herself did before, having attuned himself entirely to the overwhelming power that yet surrounds them, Alma phases out of his opponent's grapple at the very instant before which he would have been choked unto oblivion, avoiding his own demise and the possible collapse of the walkway beneath them. His torquing motion continues as though uninterrupted, allowing him to land neatly opposing Rako once more, poised in a three-point crouch.
"We cannot make you free..."
As he rises, what seems a brightening halo becomes flames that wreathe his very form.
"But we can shatter the shackles -- and the spirits -- that bind you."
As they have done before. In the end, that girl made her own choice. But even now, Alma would maintain-- only the immense impact of souls such as theirs could have cleared the path for her to do so, could have severed the necessary break between her present self and the past. Rako Saze, whomever she may be, may not take advantage of such an opportunity. But whatever possesses her--
"No... we must."
Either way, they must confront it.
Mirror images of gathering force, on one side a storm of natural energy and on the other the essence of the righteous human spirit, Alma faces his adversary opposite his friend, eyes becoming fields of light.
COMBATSYS: Alma gathers his will.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|-------========|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Frei 1/------=/=======|=======\=====--\1 Alma
Even though she had attempted to hurt, Alma had been too far out of reach. And he's quick besides, melting out of her armored fingers before any harm can come to him. No matter. Already she is moving into an offensive position, the hand not attempting to grab settled onto her implanted blade, and pulling it free from the ground. It seems she intends on striking again. But as she moves forward towards the chi-summoning Frei, who is quickly joined by Alma, Rako pauses in her stride, tilting her head to curiously regard the two. Then, rather than attacking, she eases back. She sets her sword point back onto the ground, then sets her hands on the pommel, leaning against it. The one gold eye visible beneath the cracked helmet regards them both calmly, not a single bit of doubt, or really, emotion behind it.
"Are you two going to simply throw more pretty words at me? Or will you actually back your words with action? Fight me, cowards."
Is she phased at all by all this talk of her being a puppet? Of her being 'shackled'? The answer is simply no. Because nothing of what they say means anything to her. So, she leans on her sword, and calmly waits for them, while provoking them at the same time. This is the part of Rako that is still Rako; the part that understands ideals, and wants to know how well these two can actually hold on to those ideals.
COMBATSYS: Rako gains composure.
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|---------======|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Frei 1/------=/=======|=======\=====--\1 Alma
This is a fight of high ideals, for some. For Rako it's servitude to the highest ethic of Nirvana, of Jinchuu itself. The fact that she's here despite the departure of the Katsuten is proof enough of that. Alma has similar gravitas; he is here to stop what he feels is a true evil, expressing a personal obligation to face down the man he views as his antithesis in every way. And Frei?
'Fight me, cowards!'
He shrugs. "Okay."
It's almost comical, the way he walks toward Rako, calmly, slowly. He's not in any hurry. Everything in his body language says: if you're going to try and hit me, go right the hell ahead. It's not exactly a saunter. It's more of a stroll. It also gives him time to speak, because deep down Frei knows that the storm of words is *bothering* her. Words have a way of doing that... worming deep down in the heart, pulling strings we don't know about, driving us mad on inflection and tone alone. "I mean, I can do both. I'm pretty sure Alma can too, as a matter of record. Not that it makes much difference, I guess... other than your devotion to... whatever, it doesn't seem like there's much you care about at all, is there?"
Presumably unmolested, he reaches relative striking range, and stares at Rako for a second.
With a shrug, he raises his fist, still trailing the barely-visible aura of concussive force, and looks to slam it right into Rako's face in a pretty basic right cross.
For all his emphasis on words--
"Heh."
Alma's power is ever more eloquent than he.
Ultimately, he is as he ever was in that regard: all else paves the way for the clash of souls, and the revelations that almost necessarily emerge from that intimate confrontation. Only in the void left behind by that blistering, soulful force are the many unblessed with spiritual sight given the opportunity to witness the fragmentation and subsequent reformation of their very selves-- only then may they face themselves, the other in melding with them becoming the mirror of their own essence. A mirror, as Alma, standing on the opposite side of their adversary, mirrors his friend.
Naturally, Alma's chuckle is sincere, and far from sardonic. His eyes, though glowing with potency, soften, even as the light they radiate casts flickering shadows across his damaged face. Cowards, huh? The two of them may be many things--
"So be it."
But that could hardly be one of them.
For all that Alma and Frei have grown, their reactions are almost typical: the sage practically casual in his approach, almost provocative in being unprovocative, and the champion surging forth with all requisite righteous passion. Despite his apparent greater effort, however, Alma weaves such that he times his arrival in accord with Frei's own, intending it such that Rako will be distracted by her opponent on one side -- Frei's straight-forward strike -- and fail to be able to respond to a rather unusual attack from the scarred angel: a flame-imbued leg that lashes up in a kick yet instead seeks to wrap about the knight's throat in a surprising leg-grapple, quite possibly holding the warrior in place while Frei's strike impacts. Whether or not Frei does solidly hit, though, if Alma is successful in his grapple, he will hurl Rako against the railing and release the full intensity of his gathered Soul Power as he does so, causing the armored warrior to erupt in illusory flame, trailing white traced with pinks and purples.
"Uuuuraaahhh!"
If he has to hurl her down to the hell below itself to purge her--
He may just do it.
COMBATSYS: Rako blocks Alma's Sea of Flame.
RAKO
[ |||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|--------=======|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Frei 1/------=/=======|=======\=====--\1 Alma
COMBATSYS: Rako endures Frei's Fierce Punch.
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||| ]
1|-----==========|===============
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Frei 1/-----==/=======|=======\=====--\1 Alma
Frei accepts her claim, and as he calmly walks over... she doesn't move. She doesn't lift her blade. She only looks at the chi sage, staring directly into his eyes as he regards her from no less than striking distance. He speaks again, and she actually seems to sigh. Which is why, when he punches, she's not really paying attention. No effective defense could be added, so it was all Rako could do to simply -take- the damage. The punch slams into her jaw, and her head turns to the side with a short grunt. Her eyes closes, and she makes a short 'heh' noise, opening her eyes to regard Frei again. The sword is lifted out of the ground, as if the White Blade is ready to fight again. But then, as always... Alma cometh. Right on the heels of Frei's punch, to the point that Rako almost doesn't successfully block.
Alma's leg hooks around her, and she seems a bit surprised. Frei would even see her eye blink. Then, she's being thrown - but the path is wrong. Rather than being lifted up, Rako manages to turn her weight in such a way that the awkward grapple serves as more of a fierce shove into the railing. White flame explodes around her, but she seems to shrug it off, the armor, though damaged, managing to protect her this time. She turns as the white flames roar against her black flames, her black armor, and she regards the two. Noticably, her blade is growing red once more. "Your words are as hollow as your weak strikes. Die."
She raises the blade up over her head slowly. Then, setting her feet, and seeming to tense every single muscle in her body, she suddenly slashes, her blade like a falling waterfall of steel. It's not just the blade. It's not just the sheer, unimaginable force that is put into it. It's the red chi that explodes out of the blade, increasing the area of the strike, making it harder to dodge. Hit or missing Frei and Alma, the blade would simply /slice through/ the remnants of the Gantry, splitting the remains of the building in half.
The noise from the crows protesting is as loud as the explosive sword swing.
COMBATSYS: Frei endures Rako's Tonbo Tsukigiri, Stones Asunder.
>> Decisive Hit!! <<
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|--------------=
[ \\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Frei 2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|=======\=====--\1 Alma
The blade rises. Rako's fury hath, at last, been unleashed. She dismisses their attacks, their words, all of it. The sword comes up and presumably, all shall be rent asunder by it.
Frei looks up into the attack and smiles.
He doesn't even attempt to get out of the way. For starters, that would probably be insane. The blazing blade of scarlet chi, as well as the massive sword itself, are moving at far too fast a clip for this to be a sound strategy. But if he is lucky, Frei just might be able to survive it. Maybe. He's resilient, but there's an impossibly oppressive murderous power in that sword strike... as evinced by the aftermath, once it strikes its targets. But the chi sage is unafraid. He turns to Alma for the briefest of moments, a nanosecond of gazes meeting, and then turns back to his fate, for better or for worse.
It's more pain than he ever thought he could endure.
Physically the assault simply hammers him into the ground on his back, straight out. The sword has its own force; the chi is like an atmosphere, a gravity source, some sort of terrifying red star looking to eradicate Frei and Alma entirely. For a second or two, he's able to keep himself conscious, but eventually, as the attack fades, so too does his grip on being awake and alert. But it's a tricky thing, awareness... what seems like a fraction of a second in objective time is a week, a year in the mind's eye.
Mimiru hovers over him. 'You're a neck of the Orochi! Admit it!'
Sakura eyes Frei's brightly-colored chi fireworks even as she dodges them. 'Wow, it's like the Fourth of July!'
A drunken Tran, hurling a park bench at him. 'Jerk!'
Talking with Hotaru on the steps of the church.
Alma, on the dance floor of a Metro City nightclub, offering a handshake before a match. 'Please... do your best.'
No visual... but the voice of Jiro Kasagi. 'This is Ullr... no, Jiro. Signing off...'
He gets up.
He not only looks like he should be unconscious, the man looks like he should be DEAD. But he gets up. Slowly, in jerky angles and halting steps, but eventually he forces himself to his feet, staring at Rako, blood running down his face, shirt and jeans torn in places. His footing is unsteady. But there is something insane and defiant about his posture... as if he could not be moved from that spot without some sort of tactical nuclear device at this point.
"You're trapped, bound. Seared into steel, cut off from the world. And we've stood here and let you bleed us out, let you turn your cries for something more, something greater, into violence against us. But you cannot break what we represent. Not with a thousand ninja seals, not with a million chi-powered guns, not even with a massive chi bomb."
His hand comes out, parallel to the ground, palm up, and in it spins a globe of chi-formed water, a sapphire blue color of intense saturation, swirling in a chaotic but contained pattern. "We are the flow of the seas, the cycle of the tides." He drops the water ball into the ground, where it forms a blue-black seal, from which arises what can only be called a spirit beast... a serpent-twined tortoise of flowing watery chi.
Tracing a path with his finger, a droplet of blue water becomes a spark of green lightning, arcing out of it around Frei, creating a circular path. "We are the wind and the rain. We are the leaves on the trees." The lightning crackles in a bolt that strikes the ground, resolving into a sinuous blue dragon of chi that curls in the air, roaring.
A third path traced, the lightning becoming scarlet fire, which blossoms into the firebird from before... no mere shadow of itself, but a phoenix-shaped inferno. "We are the consuming flame. We are the cycle of destruction that cleanses the dead and makes way for growth."
A fourth line, and the energy becomes green-gold, plants and flowers erupting into life before a unicorn-like Kirin, golden horn shining, rises from them. "We are the soil, the crops, and the people."
The circle completes itself with a shining sphere of white-
The circle completes itself with a shining sphere of white-silver-gold, resolving into a massive tiger, the air humming with a sound like multiple tuning forks being struck, a resonant harmonic. "We are purpose and resolve."
Frei finally brings his hand back and clenches it. In a terrible rush, the spirit beasts disappear, but in their wake, tremendous elemental energies of all kinds -- fire, lightning, frost, wind, rain, even raw bursts of concussive force -- rage together, twining in perfect harmony around each other in a prismatic tempest, looking to center on one particular spot. Not on Rako... but somewhere near Frei instead. For the second time this day, the Katsuten's resting spot resonates with the chi of the planet, but in a very, very different way indeed.
The light of a million nature spirits casts a glow on Frei's even, patient face as he looks at Rako. "We are life itself. Against such a force, a puppet like you is without appeal."
COMBATSYS: Rako successfully hits Alma with Tonbo Tsukigiri, Stones Asunder.
>> Decisive Hit!! <<
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|--------------=
[ \\\\\\\ < > ]
Frei 0/-------/---====|>>>>>>>\>>>>>>>\2 Alma
The stones about them sunder; the metal beneath them is sheared away. Around them, the earth itself cries out against the injustice wrought, and the flames rise up to proffer judgment, consuming that which collapses in the wake of Rako's mighty, unstoppable blow. That incredible power defies even the sheer quantity of energy gathered here, the explosive wave that emerges briefly dispersing all else, devouring her opponents as it does the very edifice. The sky is obscured by dust and debris. Senses are smothered by darkness and noise. Frei Tsukitomi-Renard stands against this utter oblivion. And Alma Towazu--
He is gone, as though he never were.
Wiped from the pages of history.
Indeed, as the sage begins his mesmerizing intonation, with each chant the darkness brought by blood-crimson chi thrust back by the gathering light, the scarred angel, despite his formidable presence, might even go forgotten. There is that much clamor: a veritable cacophony of too many shatterings. The walkway beneath them is henceforth doomed; already it is giving away under the final pressure from the White Blade's devastating strike, and it is as though only Frei's gathering forces, pulling all towards them in their intensity, are now keeping this precarious battlefield aloft. Dust obscures the farther reaches of their surroundings, making it unclear whether or not the framework is even connected to the gantry any longer-- and given what is left of it, prospects are unlikely. In the face of Rako's yet-unbroken sword and yet-uncracked shell, with hellfire boiling up to annihilate them all, the savior of souls is nowhere to be found. And amidst the chorus of voices that emerge from the sage's open channel to the cosmos, his is unheard.
But the fulminations have begun to fade.
And the dust has begun to settle.
And as if on cue, as the last of the walls fall away, sunlight pierces through the heretofore inpenetrable shroud of destruction, a single rapturous ray beaming down upon the magnificent surge that Frei's will has brought forth, as though nature itself has acknowledged the guardian's plea-- as though heaven has joined forces with earth.
"Bear witness."
And he is there.
It is possible to see his form blur into existence, incarnating /within/ the power that Frei has summoned, as though birthed by the energy itself, emerging fresh from the essence of the planet. His scars, while present, are now invisible. His features, while visible, are blinding to look upon. He is aglow, great and terrible, a messenger to bring this last, final message.
"This is the union of man and his world."
Refracted through that godly mirror, his form seems to be disintegrating.
"This is the essence of an ideal."
But his voice-- never before has it so resounded.
"This is our eternal story."
He is a vessel, as he always was, one open to and turned towards the light that filled him as passion. Yet though he now speaks with a million voices, his very being swelling with countless fragments of hopes and dreams, Alma Towazu's own words ring out true. Though he speaks for many, and though they stand firm in the name of the world itself, he is the one, more than any, who speaks for himself. That light is eye-searing, yet what can still be seen is his face-- and his eyes, those hazel eyes, ignited as ever with an infinite faith, and an unrelenting will.
"Our mission-- and our destiny."
He believes it, with all his heart-- and more. With all that has been poured into his heart. Alma has trained since the beginning of his days as a warrior to extend further and further the boundaries of his self, to push ever farther the limits of his own identity, to make yet more room for the overwhelming force that would acquire, by passing through him, his name. The energy called his soul embraced the world, and its inhabitants, with only greater furor. Here, in Taizhou, those limits were finally, at long last, shattered. But having returned from the void renewed, and having returned to the roots of that ancient mission--
Perhaps this was what he prepared for all along.
"This world--"
In this instant, Alma Towazu bears the weight of the world.
"--humanity!--"
Every spirit that Frei has mustered is Alma's own.
"In its name--"
He is an angel. But he is no representative of heaven descended to earth. No--
"--beyond all ideals--"
He has arisen from the earth, to rise up to the heavens.
"I compel you!"
And make of it what it should be.
He moves or is thrust forth. He reaches out or is made to. No sensible delineation can be made any longer. The limits of his self, at this juncture, are beyond coherence. And yet coherent he remains, even as the image of his body seems to still be falling away under the brunt of Rako's release, and that all too recognizable face yet shines. Is he master of this power or mastered-- such a question ceases to make sense. Master and slave, hero and villain, good and evil-- to represent all of humanity, even the most vital distinctions fall away. If his individuality seems to remain, it must be because the core of it is what resonates with the whole: that a species condemned to meaning will not countenance a world without it.
It is the lesson he was born to learn, and born again to impart.
It is a sword, a lance, a magnificent crowning jewel; it is a hand outstretched, open and beckoning, or to release some wonderous captive. It is every truth they have at their disposal. It is beyond any further expression.
It is coming for Rako Saze.
And it may well consume them all.
But as for Alma--
He will let the beauty carry him away.
COMBATSYS: Alma prepares to take his last stand against Rako!
RAKO
[ ||||||||||||||||||||| ]
0|---------------|--------------=
[ \\\\\\\ < > /// ]
Frei 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Alma
COMBATSYS: Frei and Alma successfully hit Rako with Beyond Good and Evil.
RAKO
[ ]
0|---------------|===============
[ \\\\\\\ < > /// ]
Frei 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Alma
The crows caw as the dust settles from the massive sword attack, looking agitated. The Gantry has been split in twain. It's barely a building at this point with all that has happened to it; no other structure in Taizhou has suffered as much damage. And yet with the new skylight courtesy of Rolento and now the remaining walls being destroyed with a massive split, it is as if the forces of heaven are looking down upon the arena of combat. With godly beings now free to watch along with the crows, who will come out the victor in this match?
It's a near thing, but it doesn't look like the black-armored and black-fired Rako Saze would be one to win.
Both Alma and Frei get sheered by the massive blade and chi, and it looks as if Alma is out of the fight entirely. In a more literal sense than perhaps Rako had first thought, even. The armored form of the woman from Nirvana shifts after the attack, having to recover slowly from such a blow. It wasn't something to be used lightly. Hell, it hurt -her- to use it. Her head lifts first - and that golden eye settles on Frei as the only combatant left to her immediate vision. And Frei isn't backing down. He looks like he should be dead, but he isn't. He's going to attack. The woman works to free up her body of the incredible strain placed on it, moving sluggishly, too much so. She has to attack again before Frei can get whatever that is summoned--
And yet he's too fast. The elemental explosion goes off, and Rako flinches. But the explosion isn't centered on her, it seems to be centered in air. That is, until Alma appears. Momentarily thinking him vaporized, it's seen all too clearly that he had merely done some trick. Perhaps he had moved fast. Or... or maybe he was being reborn. Sure. That made sense. Whatever the case, Rako might even appear a little surprised at this. And while Alma talks, she still works to straighten. To move. But it's too late- the will of the world is upon her. Unable even to bear through the pain, the attack scours her. It burns her. It rends her. It does a lot of things, in fact, some of the sensations she's not even familiar with. That's what happens when the whole of nature is slammed upon you. The armor chips. It cracks. It breaks entirely. The sword might even snap straight in half.
When all is said and done, an oddly tall, muscular Japanese woman lies on the floor. She has short hair and cold blue eyes, distorted to gold by the chi within her. She wears only the black bodysuit that was an underlayer of padding between her and the armor. She groans, writhing on the floor a moment. Then: "The Will of History seems to lie with the tyrants and the whores. A pity." The now halved white blade slams into the ground, and Rako pushes herself up onto her side. Then to her knees. And then she stands. Her hair looks as unnatural as her eyes, as if black flame itself, wispy in a sudden wind that picks up. "But... I refuse to submit to that history. I refuse to submit to /you/." The woman says. And then...
Suddenly, she is at Alma. Wearing all that heavy armor and then suddenly having it taken away means that woman is going to move /fast/... though hindered some by the fact she is hurting. Golden eyes stare straight into Alma's from only a few scant inches away. And then the blade comes up, slashing for the Angel's midsection, seeking to sever him. Hit or miss, however, an odd thing occurs as Rako flies towards Alma. Her form, clad all in black bodysuit, seems to distort as she moves towards the Phoenix, becoming like a living flame itself. Even the blade distorts like this. And, as she nears, her body's lines are all... wrong. The slash might connect, it might not. But afterwards, Rako Saze disappears as though a candle flame burned out, and is no more.
The crows scream their opinions, unclear as to favor or disfavor, and all at once, take flight.
COMBATSYS: Rako can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\ < > /// ]
Frei 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Alma
COMBATSYS: Alma dodges Rako's SOLDIER no Mai EX.
[ \\\\\\\ < > / ]
Frei 0/-------/---====|=====--\-------\0 Alma
Alma is on the verge of disintegration.
To open his heart to all the elemental energy of this world -- everything that inspires awe or terror or glory or tranquility -- was the pinnacle of his technique, and the final manifestation of all that his Soul Power represents: the /power/, for all the challenges, that can arise from one's self being inextricably intertwined with one's world. There are certainly those who believe, even (or particularly) those who practice Alma's art, that the mind can fully transcend the body, that psychic energy is distinct from chi because it is generated from a force outside the world. Alma himself brushed with this possibility -- one that his ideals would never otherwise allow him to countenance -- when, in his mad dream, he seemed to abandon his mortal form entirely, and achieve a kind of perfection. Yet even then, it seemed to him, his heart, though crystalline and godlike, remained in frozen state the culmination of a multitude of relationships and legacies; such 'perfection', transcending his world, seemed to lose its sense even as he lived it. No, he has never doubted that his ideals, however shining and ascendant, arose from all-too-human needs. To him, that is their very force; that is their significance. Without this transient world, even his faith, otherwise unconditional, would have no place or meaning.
Thus Alma's view of his own abilities, much as his uniquely vibrant view of all the souls that surround him, has been one of seeing beyond boundaries rather than solidifying them, of respecting them in a new and strange way: by transgressing them, if only to show that this is from whence the light he sees derives, but not to the point of dispersing those fragile walls entirely. Thus Alma's eternal struggle to blur the lines between one soul and another, between the self and the world it inhabits: to show that what might seem inadequate or miserable about suffering, or senselessness, or fundamental disorder can be empowering; that the task of making-sense or forging-order is as much humanity's magnificence as its absurdity. Thus Alma's opposition to any ideal that would deprive humanity of the void -- the contingency of history -- that, though paradoxically the source of all its uncertainty and weakness, is the underlying premise behind all urgency and integrity.
And thus has Alma pushed himself to the limit of that project embodied by 'the clash of souls': to extend to an impossible limit the boundaries of his own self, and still be able to call it himself. Within his heart were a million voices; within his body raged an apocalyptic storm. The earth, to which Alma is otherwise deaf, took on a human voice through Frei, and in its name he cried out against the atrocities committed here, against that weapon and that man. In the end, even his ideals seemed destined to perform this /function/: to train his mind and heart to endure, to shout out that even when an entire world inhabits him he is still himself, and cause the fire within him to burn all the brighter, and not be snuffed out.
Renewed by Jiro, guided by Frei--
The universe itself was his fuel.
His power will never be greater than now.
And a single mote more of it would destroy him.
His edges seemed to be falling away even as he spoke, with infinite assuredness, from within the resplendant surge that Frei invoked, and only now that the light has faded and he stands alone is it clear that Alma Towazu is, once again, barely alive. Though he stands, his legs do not support him; though his head is high, his eyes cannot gaze. He at first seems to be trembling, or spasming-- until the sickening truth is clear: his flesh is blurring out of existence. He is not moving at all: he is threatening to implode. As though reality can no longer support him. As though, after a feat of that degree, his transgression of his limits was simply too great.
Some boundaries are unwisely crossed.
The disfigured beauty parts his lips as to speak to Rako, but no voice emerges. Yet though the scars upon his face swim as though living, his body almost rearranging itself in a desperate effort to evade collapse, his expression is gentle, even hopeful; his eyes, though clouded unto blindness, seem an appeal, a supplication. Now is the time, Rako Saze. The woman's armor destroyed, that tormented spirit that has possessed her rebelling, the opportunity has been granted. As with the last frigid assassin these two faced, Rako has been 'slain': her present cut off, briefly, with her past, the weight of her burdens dispersed by the light of countless stories. This is her opportunity: to take her stand, to cry out her true desires, to put forth, in one final act, what her ideals are, and what her destiny will become. With her world in tatters around her, she has no choice but to choose, of her own accord.
And choose she does.
Alma Towazu seems to sigh, though it is impossible to tell, as his eyes flutter closed.
In the end, all he can do is reach out. Kula Diamond might have turned away from them even after Alma's terrible crime, even after Jiro's sacrifice. The clash of souls is no guarantee of renewal -- or no, rather, renewal is no guarantee that another person's integrity will be in accord with Alma's own. It remains ever possible, when one's self is seen as necessarily bound up in the world, that two worlds themselves can clash; that two histories become, even if just by the vagaries of circumstances, truly incompatible. Even if Alma can assert in defiance that true passion cannot be denied--
The fruits of passion are not always sweet.
So-- this time, he failed to save her.
A year ago, he would be aghast. If his 'murder' had not turned Kula, if Jiro's sacrifice had not moved her icy heart, if Frei's protestations had meant nothing-- though Alma might claim to be able to relegate her outside of humanity, to conclude with certainty her monstrousness, he knows now he cannot truly bear that. He cannot look at Rako and pretend she is otherwise than human, cannot simply call her mad. And neither can he make her accept him. Here, finally, as he has accepted the Ryouhara seal now permanently emblazoned upon his chest, so Alma has accepted the limits of his power. They are vast limits indeed. The power to express the world itself; to power to move the hearts of millions.
But not everyone. And not always the ones that count.
And now, finally, he will die.
'I learned,' he hears himself saying, long ago, 'that it does not matter how strong you are, that you cannot always save the ones you love.'
Alma Towazu opens his eyes, to face his fate.
~ And to live in a world like that, I made that knowledge its own strength... ~
"So be it," he whispers.
~ And I never turned away. ~
The choice is, and must be, hers.
"I've... no regrets."
And he realizes, to his own faint surprise, that the old line is really true.
That sword sweeps up to cut him asunder. He cannot possibly move; cannot even think of movement. His body is barely intact, barely able to keep itself contained. The prospect of phasing out of the way of her strike is beyond imagining. He has fought with all his passion-- he has taken full responsibility for his actions-- to prevent Ryouhara from instituting his age of heroes, he became what can only be called a hero. But to act now would be beyond any human limit. And Alma, given the angel's choice between earth and heaven, chose to be human. There is nothing to be done. He stands fast, and the clouds in his eyes clear as that melting white blade rises, and Nirvana reaches out to claim him once again.
And for all his faith, and all his will and courage, in the last instant--
"Jiro--!"
Alma flinches, as despair wraps black tendrils about his heart.
And history decides.
All at once the crows take flight. The blur of black will obscure Frei's vision, only Alma's final cry for his beloved friend piercing that deathly shroud. The cacophony will fade with the darkness, the sunlight finally piercing through the shattered walls of the once formidable Gantry, the molten metal beneath them sizzling quietly, as though even it is now at rest. The metal walkway creaks in the wind, somehow holding fast.
And Alma Towazu stands, blinking, his eyes wide in shock.
She vanished, an instant before she would have cut him through.
She faded, a split-second before she could take his life.
Luck.
It was just luck.
Does the universe, encompassing the entirety of material creation, have a 'soul'? Religious or not, it seems as if the common thread of human belief is that there is something -- a consciousness -- inside people, living beings. If Psycho Power, Soul Power... any of those are taken to be proof, then thought and consciousness flow together. Cogito, ergo sum: I think, therefore I am. But the cosmos doesn't think, and if it did, would it think in ways that mere humans could understand? Likely not. So humans have 'souls' but -- and, philosopher that he is, Frei has always wondered -- does the world?
Watching Rako give her last desperate stand, hurling herself wrapped in flame at one of the agents of her destruction, Frei has time to think this over in that strange dilation of temporality that such moments induce. He lost his connection to nature... but if anything, the way he got it back proved that it wasn't nature that had fled from him, it was his own thoughts -- his 'soul' -- that had pulled back, crushed by the enormity of what he had processed. It didn't resolve that conundrum.
Standing now, serene, he thinks he's found his answer. And because of that, he can safely not try to force his battered body to move, taxed beyond the limits of endurance by the forces for which he served as conduit. It seems insane, seen from inside his own head; shouldn't he make one last attempt to save Alma, to fight off Rako? To establish the 'Will of History'?
As the crows fly around him, the redhead simply closes his eyes. "History has no will," is all he can say.
If a 'soul' comes from consciousness, then a 'soul' comes from so many innumerable things that they cannot be counted. Thoughts and feelings, memories, impulses. Passion and fear. Experience. No one thing is ever 'one thing;' everything is made up of SOMETHING. To invoke such spirits as he did wasn't a matter of controlling a power. He made his case to the world. He burned his desires -- his personal wish -- into his will and opened it up to anything that would listen.
What answered were trees and flowers, wind and rain, earth and sky. So many things that surround him. In short: in gestalt, what he realized is that the soul of the world answered. If it had a will of its own, it was beyond Frei's human capacity to understand; but in the end, he finds it matters little either way. He gave it a path to follow, and human will -- his will, Alma's will, Jiro's will, expressed through the resplendent glow of Alma's power -- directed the result.
As the crows fly from his view... as the remnants of Rako Saze dissipate into black fire... Frei gives voice to the thoughts in his head. "'History' is a human concept. I don't think it has a will. But humans do, and perhaps that's the important difference. If the universe has a will, if it has a 'soul'... then its desire is to continue on its path. Perhaps our individual lives are all just the spark of a neuron in the thoughts of the cosmos. We play out our own desires, follow our hearts and live our lives, and in so doing we create the universe's will. Which is why we need the evil as well as the good, the dark as well as the light. Which is maybe why all this was necessary, but why our resistance to it was necessary, too."
He closes his eyes again and smiles, faintly. "Maybe in the end, our ideals weren't so incompatible after all."
Alma slumps to his knees.
His whole body seems to sigh, the torrential forces that had passed through him at last leaving something recognizable in its wake. Staring down at his hands, the young warrior's gaze seems oddly to flit toward his own half-bandaged, scarred abdomen, his brow furrowing faintly in thought. He tries to resurrect the memory of a moment prior, though he was consumed by his emotions. Did that sword simply vanish before it could touch him? Or did his body itself, roiling with incredible energy, as though of its own will melt away-- wasn't there a moment where he seemed to fold aside, as though, his will to live given full form, the very world responded--
But, after a moment, he lowers his hands, chin lifting to regard the sky.
He can't remember. He can't know.
Whether he was chosen, or whether it was chance.
Gently, a smile tugs the edges of his lips.
Whether it was the will of the cosmos-- or simply his own, making sense of this madness, that she and Ryouhara have vanished and he and Frei have been left in their wake, once again. The distinction, to be sure, is significant: prophets have built mighty traditions by choosing the former over the latter. And a man such as Alma -- and a man such as Seishirou -- is ever tempted to do so, even if it opposes the very content of their ideals-- to bind their passion to an inevitable destiny.
But in this moment-- his will, or history's will--
Frei's right. It's all the same.
"In another world," he says softly, "they might have lived."
Seishirou and Rako: heroes of invincible conviction.
Reaching up again, unconsciously, to trace the burnt Ryouhara seal upon his chest, Alma tilts his head toward his friend, hazel eyes clear but serious, even grim. The almost-shaved shortness of his hair makes the movement, which for years would cause his red-tinged bangs to fall fetchingly about his honeyed skin, oddly disconcerting to one who has known his long. But the scars have done nothing to obscure the statuesque structure of his face, the face of an angel, whose words and judgment will always bear weight.
"Frei," he says quietly, "Jiro is dead."
He has no doubt that Frei is not unaware. But it must be said.
"What... should we do?"
He looks out through the shattered walls. The helicopter that escaped the Katsuten is no longer above, and somewhere, a great battle is being fought for it; outside, innumerable contests are still engaged. But in this moment of peace, knelt upon hot metal, suspended as though by the hand of God above the becalmed hellfire below, Alma Towazu forgets the war they are winning, and lowers his head against the pain.
"Where... should we go?"
He fought to keep this story alive.
"Despite what I've said and done..."
But it's not clear--
"I'm not sure... I can go on like this."
--that he's still a part of it anymore.
Naked, hairless, bloodied, having just lost something precious and not knowing what the future is going to bring now. So we are all brought into the world, and this is the thought that runs through Frei's head as he glances at Alma, taking in everything that's happened. Getting up, muscles and bones protesting in pain as he does so, the sword-sage gingerly makes his way across the ruined Gantry toward his friend and, when he gets there, eases himself into a sitting position near the edge, letting his legs dangle over the side like a swimmer testing the water of a pool.
If you had the chance to have a newborn understand you -- to answer all its questions, address its uncertainty -- what would you say? In their own way, these three men formed a strange sort of tripodal balance. Alma with his fierce dedication to principle, Frei with his philosophical detachment, and then Jiro, an individual whose responses to things are firmly grounded in, well, practical reality. He did't agonize over the right decision, nor did he let inaction plague him. He looked at the situation *as it was*, and then reacted as his heart demanded. No more, no less. Elegant in simplicity, maybe?
Distractedly, he glances down at the magna and burning ground below, and tilts his head a bit. "What should we do, huh..." Not even the newborn. What do you tell the phoenix chick, sitting in the burning nest? Painfully aware of its grand destiny and without any way to realize it, bereft of guidance, sitting in fiery reminders of what was sacrificed to make this situation.
Frei takes a deep breath, and when he speaks, it's in a much deeper voice than normal, his best (and not entirely accurate) imitation of Jiro's aggressive shouting: "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, IF YOU FUCKERS DO NOT STOP HAVING ETHICS 201 DEBATE, I WILL TURN THIS FUCKING BUS AROUND AND SHOVE MY BOOT IN BOTH OF YOUR ASSES! I MEAN IT!"
After he does this, there is a moment of glorious pseudo-silence, the only thing breaking it being the metallic-tinged echo of Frei's voice ringing back thanks to the harmonics of the ruined Gantry. He lets it settle in, enjoying the sound of it, before he stretches his arms above his head, face scrunched up, as if he were just waking from a long and satisfying nap.
Turning to Alma, looking at him somewhat sidelong, he touches his index finger to the tip of his nose and smiles, genuinely. "Well, I say we go wherever we want," he says at last. "I don't think Jiro would have wanted us to sit here thinking about it, as cliche as that sounds. Maybe it's not meant for us to 'fix' all this. I don't even know what you COULD do with the Katsuten at this point. To be honest, I think it has to be one of the Ryouhara to deal with it."
He pauses, processing his own thoughts for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders again and breathing out heavily, somewhere between exasperated at the situation and resigned to not being able to do anything about it. "That's the problem with being a guardian. You can never be everywhere at once, never know everything at once. I think Jiro had it right. You handle what's in front of you, as best you can, and try not to blame yourself for things you can't do anything about."
Standing up, Frei shakes out his hands. He's always been a quick healer, and while he's probably not up to fighting a Rako Saze again, he's probably able to get out of here, at least. He extends a hand to Alma, either to help him up or give him a shoulder to walk on, but he IS smiling. "So, yeah. Let's go where we want, and do what appeals to us. Not in the sense of being... epicurial about it, but more like..." He pauses, thinking back. You have to remember, you're talking to the phoenix hatchling. Everything is terrifying. The prospect of a world alone when there is so much demanded of you for who you are, is terrifying.
What do you say to it?
"Being ourselves is enough. Who we are, and who we represent... that's enough, I think. I don't know much about 'Ullr', but I know he chose at the end to be Jiro Kasagi instead."
Gently, sweetly, through the shimmering heat and deathly stillness--
Alma Towazu laughs.
Not right away, and not at first. In fact, his lack of immediate reaction after Frei's impression might be yet more comical. Long moments of silence pass, as the scarred angel, still kneeling, remains with head bowed. But then his shoulders will begin to shake, and his head will tilt back up, and his eyes will open-- and will be filled with sparkling light.
"He did, didn't he?"
In the end, even Jiro, cut off from everything, chose to die as himself. Alma realizes that, strangely, the service he has sought to provide for his greatest opponents -- by the temporary shattering of their wills, giving them a moment in which to look with eyes unclouded upon their own destinies and freely choose -- has as though by accident occurred to them. His quasi-political ambitions were no adequate vessel for his messianic ideals. He is not prepared to express his love, as it were, on such a scale, and most likely never will be. But so long as he endures, nothing will change the nature of Alma's faith. And Frei, though he has reconciled with his past and regained, like Alma, the power that has helped to define him, is equally a master of his own art and ideals. Marked by their ordeals, scarred in their own ways-- perhaps they are complete, as much as they ever will be.
But, of course, that's impossible-- so long as they yet live.
"This world will continue to change," he murmurs, "and there will come a time when our ideals will be challenged, and called upon, again-- when our stories, and the lessons they have offered, will still be of aid, as we have wanted them to be. But this world-- I felt it, Frei, through you. It's much too vast, and I know so little of it. Only when my power raged beyond my own control did I come to see--" He pauses, his smile widening briefly. "I've never been more sure of who I am-- and of my limitations. Now, I... need time to reflect on my place in the world. And to know that, I must know better what this world is like through the eyes of others. Not simply those without the brightness of my sight, but those with... different sight altogether. If I can live on... that's what I'll do."
Slowly, he takes Frei's hand, and rises to his feet.
"But--"
Jiro and Frei-- their visions were always what Alma relied upon. Perhaps they were the ones that prevented him from becoming, after all, a prophet, with a world-defining vision like Seishirou's. Perhaps it is only thanks to them that it was not, after all, inevitable that Alma's all-consuming passion should become his funeral pyre. He survived, and so has his dream. Not only tethered to the world by their bonds of friendship, but able to put even his indomitable faith in perspective. They are a part of him, forever. But opening his eyes is only the beginning.
"--for now--"
Now he must see.
"--let's see this through to the end."
Upward turns Alma's gaze. The rubble of the gantry's walls has collapsed to form an ascending pile of rubble, leading up to the starkly bright sky. It forms a path to a vista, from whence the remains of the battle may be witnessed-- and, perhaps, the end of the world.
"I can't," he continues softly, "walk away just yet."
Even if Ryouhara is gone, the seal upon Alma's chest, throbbing, remains.
"But when this battle is finished..."
Alma Towazu, Hero Thrice-Born, turns his smiling gaze upon his friend.
"I think I will."
Log created on 22:40:41 07/01/2010 by Alma, and last modified on 17:13:29 07/31/2010.