Description: From the annals of history comes a fateful meeting between the youngest of the Knights Templar and Southtown's scarred hero, Alma Towazu. Though Amy is tainted by the stolen power of Orochi, their dalliance in the gardens of the YFCC is almost so much more, until the apparition of an older, wiser woman sets a change in the course of proceedings... and threatens to unleash the power dormant within the Englishwoman. (Log incomplete because Alma is a horrible flake who needs to stop playing around in Disney games and come back already!)
He doesn't come here often enough.
Spring is arriving, and the YFCC's new rooftop garden is approaching full bloom, several stray petals fluttering through the air borne by an errant breeze. The tall blond figure, so often seen poised and self-possessed, is caught in an image of rare repose, laid out along a rough-hewn stone bench gentle shaded by recently transplated cherry trees. Developed during the YFC4 extravaganza, when the possibilities of his community center seemed almost limitless, only a small engraved marble obelisk in the midst of the undergrowth reveals the true purpose of this place: a memorial to those who fought, suffered and were lost during the Southtown Invasion.
A rememberance of what has passed.
Cradled by the late afternoon sunlight and the memories of the departed, the Scarred Beauty lays down the weight of his responsibilities and rests his head upon it. Half-slumbering, his discolored but finely-structured face almost child-like, free of his at times inscrutable expressions, the passionate phoenix is for now a mild-mannered man, even his finely-tailored and slim-fitting suit almost at odds with his relaxed visage. Einherjar, and the quest to defeat Orochi, the ultimate tyrant; the new role of the YFCC in Southtown and Sunshine City; a letter from Portugal; a friend he has not forgotten and will never forget. So much roils through the elegant young man's subconscious, integrated and sustained by his resilient will, that the only thing he cannot recall is the last time he took a moment like this.
You could call it meditation, or some form of communication, but really, it's more like a nap. At least, that's the way it looks, anyway.
His subordinates know he is here, and likely anyone who is looking for him will be quickly directed here -- but they are respectful enough, and aware enough of the hours he puts in, to not disturb him themselves.
Loss. Sacrifice. Honour.
To those who attend to its numerous needs, this place represents far more than a very functional name would suggest. There is a beauty not only in the surroundings themselves, but imbued into the very walls, that finds its blossom in the very heart of human kindness. The community centre has been built not solely from thick-grained wood and hardened stone, but with great love - for those that are, those that have passed, and those yet to come - and also with faith. Bright, gloriously-intentioned, and pure.
The same quality that the youngest of the ancient Order of the Knights Templar has glimpsed within Alma himself. But then, are the walls here not his own, a manifestation of his will? An extension of a wondrous ego? As the woman approaches now the sun-touched garden, her boots clattering in gentle, graceful rhythm against the boards underfoot, the thought draws her lips upward into the quirk of a smile. An expression which only broadens when she steps into the light, and beholds the man in rare repose. His life has reached a halt so seldom found, and it is a feeling she knows well...
But do those with vision ever truly stop moving? Motion is in more than the seeing. It is thought, and intent. It is said that there is no rest for the wicked; and neither in their turn must the righteous tarry, lest their path be beset by the very horrors they seek to prevent. Lest the deep fog of despair be allowed to draw across their dreams. Amy knows this well. And as she pauses just beyond the doorway, stormy blue eyes drinking in the welcome view of the silent model, she is consumed momentarily by the guilt and uncertainty that has touched her for so many weeks. Has she herself tarried too long? Even now?
A hand drifts to her brow, drawing back a sleek curtain of raven-black from the fringe of her sight, tucking the wave surreptitiously behind her ear, as though in clearing this non-obstacle she frees herself from a deeper darkness. A deep breath is drawn, her breast rising and falling as she releases it, allows herself to enter the situation - the moment - once more. This is not about her misgivings. She is accepting an invitation long-made, meeting a man who intrigued her with but a brief meeting...
And yet in many ways she's not sure why she /has/ come. Has she deluded herself?
"Excuse me, Towazu-san."
The honorific does not sound natural as she speaks, and it comes out soft; perhaps too soft, the lady knight forced to clear her throat immediately after. This noise is harsher than she intended, jarring in the peace, and a faint blush meanders across her cheeks for the instant it takes her to cross the threshold, stepping fully into the warm rays. They strike off her dark-clad form, highlighting the pallour of her flesh, the freckles upon her cheeks, and yet the light seems to linger, an unnaturally golden haze dancing in a corona about her. Playing even in those otherwise gloomy eyes.
Since last they met, changes have come over the Templar.
She does not imagine for a moment that her unwitting host will notice.
Alma's eyelids flutter faintly, long eyelashes a diaphanous veil through which the sunlight gleams, beckoning toward wakefulness. The voice that stirs him is far from unpleasant. His thoughts, having at last shed his obligations and ceased their natural and fruitless meandering about his current projects, had passed to family, that which he had thought himself bereft of. When his parents were lost to him, he never ventured to consider what other relations he might have, being far too distant from them -- and much more involved in his own self-discovery, and the powerful friendships he had begun to forge. But he has grown and changed, and both his successes and his failings have let him to assert his own order less earnestly upon the world, to embrace instead that which the world presents him with. Though he did good work in Taizhou, his organization works now more close to home, in Sunshine City; so too has Alma's vision, however complete his ideals remain, settled upon what is right before him.
The letter he's received, it...
It reminds him of what he has thought little on in quite some time, of opportunities he quietly resigned himself to having lost. This strangely familiar woman's voice, which he cannot immediately place, is like a soothing cradle, and for a moment he does not stir, still half-asleep even as his eyes begin to open, imagining unbidden that these are the intimate words of someone close to him.
But as quickly as that warm sentiment, that child-like hope, arrives, it is disrupted by a certain dissonance that swiftly becomes apparent -- and Alma is reminded at once that he is an adult, living in an adult's world, and he has no desire to dwell in a cradle. Consciousness streams in, and he recognizes the voice, blinking once before smoothly rising to a seated position upon the bench, faintly sleepy-eyed but otherwise unruffled. He does not notice that his hair is somewhat askew. "Miss Johnson," he murmurs, smiling warmly up at her, his eyes sincere despite his faint fatigue. "What a pleasure to see you again." He rises to his feet, moving with a relaxed slowness, not making any effort to pretend he wasn't sleeping, but seeming unpreturbed at being woken. He promptly gestures down toward the bench itself. "Please, sit with me."
Only upon seeing him in sleep is the transition obvious. For all his authenticity, in the mildness of his composed expression is a certain self-restraint, a reservation forgivable in its seeming guilelessness. In fact, however, in moments like these, it provides a useful inscrutability. "Have you been well since we last met?" he continues softly, and though the question might be merely polite, his gaze, in contrast to his tone and features, is intent upon her face, direct enough almost to embarrass.
He does not suspect she has been.
~ Amy... ~
This is unfortunate.
~ ...are you, too, a victim of the shroud upon this world...? ~
Miss.
Almost a pleasure in itself, to not be referred to as anything more than what she is, beneath the constricting tendrils of fate and prophecy. The messiah's burden is great indeed; another weight she suspects is known by this man. And there again is an insistence from that nagging doubt, that she attends this place at this time because she wishes to gratify her decisions. Perhaps she is here for purposes that are not in the least selfless, not drawn by the desire to aid or the simple keeping of a promise lightly made, but for absolution. Where he has received mysterious letters, she has been prey to an espousal of ideals not of her own making. Ideals she must forge, that she even desires to.
But where, in desire, does one draw the line between purity and ambition?
Breathing in once more, Amy meets Alma's astute, lingering stare with a proud toss of her head and the almost regal bearing that so well suits her; the frame of a fighter, the stance of a champion in spite of her relative small strength, carrying her far more forcefully then deceptively sweet features suggest. Yet her accompanying smile is as warm as his own, an open gesture all the more curious against a sudden toughness of demeanour. It would take an observant man, and not a psychic, to know that her answer to the courteous query of the Phoenix cannot be a wholly positive one.
"I'm well now, I think."
Her tone is crisp, still holding a gentility in spite of the mask it wears. That she expresses her uncertainty is a betrayal of self that causes her to hesitate, a single beat in time passing wherein the Templar's pleasant mien is threatened by the makings of a frown. But she settles, her body visibly relaxing far more than it even seemed to tense as she accepts Alma's invitation with a cant of her raven-haired head. She does not speak whilst she moves, relocating in her almost boyishly brisk stride from entrance to bench, slowing as she nears to take a seat with much more gathered grace.
A sideward glance catches the model's eye, that golden haze still playing within her own stormy depths, actual flecks of light seeming to dwell between the shadows. Dancing like fireflies. No illusion of the sun, though he may be forgiven for thinking that it is as she looks quickly away, heaving a sigh.
"I've been meaning to visit sooner, after we met in Sunshine City, but my path has erred more than once. I remained with Father Elias for a time, until--" Her back arches as she leans back against the hardwood, rolling her gaze upward and then to Alma, the breathless look of the beleagured possessing her. Teeth sink rabbitlike into her lower lip, as she slowly nods, seeming to stare straight through the scarred beauty. "Something happened. Something terrible."
Loss. Pain. Despair. It is not quite trauma, but the Templar speaks of an event the memory of which is so tightly bottled up within; she will not face it any more than she will vocalise it in this moment. With a sudden, dismissive smile she looks away, focusing upon the calm splendour of their surroundings, the tension leaving her frame for the third time already. Conflict dying before it can begin to rage in truth.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, attempting a laugh that comes out deadened, too short and blunt to be real mirth, "Yet haven't the times been hard on us all? I came here because I'd intended to help people, not to seek counselling from a man I barely know." Her stormy eyes veer back toward the model, watching him past the ebon fall of her hair, unable to harden her innermost as she can the out. Baring a soul that at once wishes to be soothed, and wants to take flight. There is a drive there that barely keeps her seated. She wants to break away, and yet the quiver in her voice as she speaks again... "How about you, Alma? Has your own path become unclear?"
Alma's smile does not falter, but his eyes do soften, alleviating some of the ambiguity to his gaze without fully revealing his concern. Perhaps it would only be odd, not untrue, to accuse Alma of being a secretive man. But it is not himself the psychic hopes to protect by, for all his willingness to discourse at length, his silence on the plenitude his rare sight reveals.
~ I wonder... ~
But he only inclines his head, hardly seeming dubious of the woman's courageous, almost defiant, claim. Whatever she has undergone, it would be disrespect to press too hard. Better to pave the way. Such is Alma's style: removing boundaries, one by one, until what is within flows forth. "I am glad," he says softly, seating himself again next to her. In his typical intuitive sense of personal boundaries, he sits a little closer than might be customary between strangers, placing his hands upon the bench and turning toward her as though his whole body is attentive, in a manner his instincts and empathy suggest is inviting, not invasive. "Had you not arrived soon, I might have sought you out myself," he adds, his smile widening, his eyes still gentle. "Your sincerity and determination were evident. As I said, I would be pleased to have a woman such as yourself by my side."
Yeah, Alma, and you still somehow don't really--
Caught by an unusual light in her eyes, the Scarred Angel's smile fades slightly, his lips parting as his eyes refocus upon hers, attempting to examine them again as she glances at him sidelong. He desists in his pleasantries. Perhaps aiming to make her comfortable is not what she is here for. Indeed, the shadows-- for the first time since awakening, Alma begins to feel faintly unsettled again. His lips twitch, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The feeling is faint, and he is not sure what he is detecting. But it is reminiscent of other darknesses he has encountered before. That lurking poison, that heralding of self-destruction, a parasite that devours the spirit from within -- this is the hint of a damaged psyche. For one as resilient as Amy to have suffered so--
~ What on earth happened to her? ~
The words of Adelheid and Seishirou echo in his memory. Mind control. A demonic curse. Could it be something like that? But he finds it too hard to believe. Amy Johnson wouldn't fall prey to something like that. No, this world is wrapped in shadows now, and she must have experienced the effects. What he detects here feels more like conventional, so to speak, emotional damage... he thinks.
Either way, perhaps he can be of service.
"Please do not apologize," he says quietly, his concern now evident upon his feelings, having no reason to pretend otherwise or help her save face. Her laugh is as troubling as her words. "We must also aid one another, yes? Those who serve need not be stronger than those that are served..." But his own words seem trivial to him in comparison to the misfortune that seems to plague the ebon-haired knight. Once again, he resolves to dispense with philosophical consolation. "What happened to you, Amy?" Alma continues, his eyes narrowed. "These days are dark, and strange workings are afoot. My path--" He smiles slightly, almost grimly even, and shakes his head once.
"Those who tread my path with me seek to combat a hidden threat," he continues. "If what has harmed you is aligned with that darkness -- no, even if it is not -- you do me a service to tell me of it."
His smile then widens, if only slightly more.
"My path may have broadened and... branched... since I began walking it," he adds, "but it remains clear to me. I am fortunate to retain the strength to walk it. So... please do not hesitate." He inclines his head slightly, a ruby-tinged golden lock of hair falling to half-obscure one of his hazel eyes, through which he gazes down at her.
"There is certainly room on it for you."
Would that the Templar were a mere preybeast, drawn in by gaping maw and scathed by rending teeth - left emotionally raw and blooded by a thing that sought to destroy her. This is a world of parallels, and in the vicious cycle of man these run much darker and more sinister than the eternal dichotomy between the hunter and the hunted. There lie a full gamut of charcoal shades, leading perhaps to such evil that all spectral reckoning loses meaning. And yet for every work of the inhumane there is a beautifully human, fantastically many-coloured opposite, so bright as to be impossible to fully conceive.
Indeed, Amy's plight is touched by more than the snatching claw, her soul laid bare to more than just the chill countenance of malice. The words and the manner of the Phoenix serve to brush aside the influence of the lattermost, the uncertain tremble of her desperate question giving way to laughter, this time as bright in tone as she would wish it to be. His proximity does not go unnoticed, his too-frank, impossible open bearing striking a chord within the troubled woman that seems to thrust her cares aside.
Though she does not blush, where a lesser creature well would; and should.
"At your side?" She echoes, amusement tickling her tone even as the note of an erring sadness creeps beneath. Her gold-flecked eyes scan his, drifting to the stained flesh that surrounds one side of his face before returning to centre. Somehow there is a lot that Alma 'doesn't really', and it is all the more compelling. How can such a man be so... naive? Is that even what he is? Wonder plays in her gaze a moment before she leans back, not uncomfortably - happy to be otherwise close, moving only to capture the scarred beauty in a broader frame, the cant of her head casting him from a new angle.
"I'd be flattered if I wasn't so sure you meant it..."
Dark lashes flick downward, the lowering of her gaze casting away the mirth into the depths of thought. The reborn hero of Southtown holds a quality she cannot fully place, speaks in riddles she cannot entirely solve, but it comes from a heart he at once wears upon his finely tailored sleeve. He instills her the sense of awe that a precious few have; he is one of the solitary amongst this world that she could see herself be inspired by, unpossessed of the distance she can maintain from so others. Perhaps that's why she's here.
When he directly asks her to elaborate upon her circumstance, upon the reasons for her lingering upon such thoughts, Amy's gaze lifts with the careful, measured lull of a person trapped between another and themselves. Wanting to speak, feeling forced to, and yet not sure what she should say. Freckled cheeks draw paler as he continues, and she is rapt upon his speech, realising the import in his words before she realises she is holding her breath.
"I--" The syllable barely registers, the last of the air leaving her lungs in a faint gasp. Lips quirking upward, self-admonishing more than embarassed, she swallows and breathes before rejoining. It comes in Alma's own hesitation, and she catches the fallen lock, the glint of his eye. Without thought, on instinct alone she suddenly reaches up, the lithe fingers of her hand uncurling toward the model's deeply marred visage. Their tips come within a delicate inch of brushing his ill-recovered flesh, an overly familiar gesture that belies emotions of which she is not fully sure, nor even acquainted.
The moment lingers as he speaks his last, beyond. But then her hand closes with a snap.
"You do me a kindness I'm not sure I've yet earned," she offers, eyes slipping shut as her very aura stirs about her. So faint, almost indiscernable in the light of the sun, a golden haze blooms from within, lighting the Templar in a curious pulse. Alma cannot know that it comes in tandem with the beat of her heart. But the power it exhibits, perhaps he may see is not her own... it draws a shudder that she conceals admirably, for it runs the length of her spine before she turns back to the model with a rallying smile. It is not un
"You do me a kindness I'm not sure I've yet earned," she offers, eyes slipping shut as her very aura stirs about her. So faint, almost indiscernable in the light of the sun, a golden haze blooms from within, lighting the Templar in a curious pulse. Alma cannot know that it comes in tandem with the beat of her heart. But the power it exhibits, perhaps he may see is not her own... it draws a shudder that she conceals admirably, for it runs the length of her spine before she turns back to the model with a rallying smile. It is not uncertain; warm and well-intentioned, touched by his words despite anything else they may stir. "You know what I am, I think..."
She does not wait for an answer, shifting upon the bench to draw herself simultaneously a notch closer, yet leaning to the side to set her head toward the monument beside them. Her arm upon that side lifts, bracing against dark locks of hair as she blocks out the world around them. This is intimate. It has to be.
"I'm a seeker, but I'm a knight; and I've taken vows to that effect. I'm supposed to be a protector, Alma. Not as strong as those I should guard, but stronger. Capable enough to shield them from the harms of the world." She meets his eye for the first time in several moments, mouth open and slightly pursed as she considers her next point, considers her burden, "But in this task I have failed. A child died in my arms, murdered because the total of my being could not protect him. /Murdered/," she all but spits it, though her voice does not raise, remaining at a volume intended only for the man before her and beside her. A shake of her head before she continues.
"I... almost allowed it to break me. A friend saved me." The smile that brushes her lips is sad and distant. "A friend who would see me freed from my endurances. And yet, I believe I have found my path anew. I know I have. It's brighter than ever; and I wish I could share it with you. I wish our journeys could entwine, as you ask, but how do I leave such a thing behind? Whether I walk alone or alongside those I trust... how could I ever ask them to trust in me, Alma? How would I even trust in myself?"
Alma finds it strangely difficult to breathe.
Rarely are his emotional ventures so rewarding; rarely do those who he seeks to commune with so openly embrace intimacy and trust, whether or not they perceive the nature of his efforts. He can tell at once that she is affected by his presence and words, yet she is not overwhelmed. It is encouraging, and he feels he does not need to restrain his passion for closeness with others, for the intertwining of selves with those also of fighting spirits, those who for him are both beacon and anchor. In a breathless moment he feels as though his sincerity is truly grasped -- as though his social approach is more than just mitigating the potential effects of a personal power that, so cultivated, can overpower others, but is instead carving a deeper channel, channeling all the more. He can feel it. A woman so willing to bare her soul. He can feel it, the fire within him beginning to roar, exposed to the sweet fresh air of her glance, her smile, her words.
D... Did the sunlight become warmer up here?
The younger man, for all his own scars and experience, for all his adult speech and adult responsibilities, reveals his youth in his slightly widened eyes, his unself-consciously parted lips, hardly noticing that she is so easily able to drift her hand upward toward his marred face because he has leaned in slightly, instinctively seeking to share this moment. Who is this woman? What is her mission, truly? Amy may give the angel too much credit. He can sense only her conviction, not its direction, though he believes too that it is affirmative and not nihilistic, whatever its other metaphyiscal characteristics. But it is enough. That is enough. A kindred spirit, with similar intensity, unafraid of the power of these moments, seeing the rewards of closeness infinitely outweighing the risks, he feels he must--
Her hand snaps shut, and it is though the spell is broken. Alma's head shifts back slightly, a subtle motion that in their proximity is nevertheless obvious. He blinks once, only now conscious of what they shared; he swallows quietly, finding his throat to be dry.
~ What a fascinating woman. ~
Indeed, she is kind enough now to inform him of some-- specifics. He listens at first with interest, even as he regards the vibrant pulse of her aura, the entralling image of her own vitality, even as he revels in its glory. A power he believes to be with many, but so few with a purpose to heighten it, so few with the courage to reveal it to his vision. His lips part again, as though to respond -- know what she is? there's plenty he could say, but it's probably not what she means -- but it soon seems better to remain silent. And all such thoughts, however intuitive, evaporate again as now /she/ leans in, becoming his whole world. His eyes soften, and he only just resists the odd temptation to close them, to bask in this sensation and experience only her voice. But now-- this isn't about his satisfaction. For her sake, or so he feels, he continues to meet her gaze, and acknowledge directly her words.
Then she admits what has occurred, and he cannot help it.
Squeezing his eyes shut, mouth tightening, body stiffening, he remains silent until she has finished. "...Amy..." That is all, at first, her name breathed quietly, a tone of great sympathy, no, of empathy, of a man who seems now, almost deliberately, to be reliving an experience of his own if only to grow closer to her, to be as close to her as possible now that she needs him. "...You need not ever... leave that behind," he murmurs, his eyes at last opening again, his gaze profoundly sorrowful. "Those we have lost, and those we have failed, they intertwine inextricably with our beings. What are at first weights and chains become weapons and armor. What is at first penance becomes redemption." The scarred beauty speaks as though from experience. "Though righteousness brings power, and true passion cannot be denied, a lack of power cannot mean a lack of truth." A paradox, or even contradiction, that Alma himself has struggled with, in facing evil forces of tremendous strength. "It is sustainable power, resilient to the depredations of despair, that goodness brings, I believe. But that power is not-- always adequate to the task."
He lowers his chin, and his lips tighten again, his gaze now immensely, unabashedly pained. "For those of us," he almost whispered, "who have seen ourselves as saviors, to resign ourselves to this painful truth is unimaginably difficult." Messiah. He is not even fully aware how much his own experience parallels, in its own strange way, Amy's. "Perhaps we can never fully embrace it, defiantly in opposition to the senselessness in this world... and perhaps our way is as futile as it is necessary." To make sense of the senseless, to imbue meaning within an inhuman world; futile indeed. "But the more I have learned, the broader I have seen the way of righteousness to be, the more paths I see converging along it, traveling in the same direction."
At last, as though he simply cannot do anything else, he lifts his hand to clasp Amy's own, his hazel eyes shining, bright, damp.
"So long as we both seek salvation," he says quietly, with sincerity and intensity, "however distant our paths, we should walk in time. Even if I cannot bear your sins... allow me to aid in forging the way toward the future you aspire to. Partake in my strength. I promise you..."
Briefly, his hand tightens upon her own.
"...you will not lose yourself."
There are oft words that pass unspoken between passionate souls, those who construe so much from so little; yet speak relative little in turn. 'Becoming his world'. If she could hear that, the flush of the Templar's cheek would only echo the fierce-burning heat within her heart. Of late she has wavered so in her focus, swaying through the madness of misery, afflicting herself with guilt and regret, before finding - in these last few days - the renewal of purpose that she speaks of now. But purpose is not understanding, and in the presence of this messiah, who has already walked so far, and fallen even further in his own questing, the still-reigning clouds of confusion do begin to part in truth.
The closing of Alma's eyes does not cause her further doubt, nor break the flow of Amy's speech, a soft cant of her head betraying her innermost reaction at his display of compassion. When she speaks the word, that which tastes so foul, it is oddly tempered by a gentle undertone - of gratitude and a subsequent request for forgiveness. They both know what obstacles they face in their paths, separate or together, but she had thought to face this alone; she is glad not to, yet saddened that she must share her pain.
Her question hangs in the air, and for a long, night-intolerable moment it sits upon her like a leaden weight. She wets her lips, the drawing of tongue's tip across too-dry flesh coming too loud, unsettling her. She starts even before he breathes her name, stormy eyes widening a touch as she answers him immediately - unthinking, as though unaware of grace or etiquette. A shy little girl.
"Yes?"
Just one word, drenched in expectation. In hope. She catches the breach in her defences the moment he continues, settling herself with a drifting sigh, shoulders falling back to a relaxed state and gaze lowering from his. She had been staring; though she had not meant to. She nods, slowly at first, then more surely as she looks up to meet sorrow-struck hazel. That moves her as much as his words - though in what direction, it is outwardly tough to discern. Quietly enraptured, subtly so now, she watches him with but the faintest updrawing of her chin as he continues to speak. Weapons, and armour. Penance, and redemption. Power. Truth. Such simple syllables, easily spoken, draw her in. They hold the promise that she seeks; and indeed, the truth she needs to hear.
His hand grips hers, and she responds only by accepting it.
She examines his eyes, intent and bright in her passion. Is he... crying? A flash of golden glitter streaks through the whites of her own, a fleeting flash of a sacrosanct inner light. Her lips play into a smile, her other hand slipping from where it rests beside her brow to reach out with an unfurling finger, this time not stopping short of the man's face - but touching it. Alighting, briefly, tenderly, in an arc beside the soft and responsive flesh at the eye's outer curve; dipping downward as though disposing of an errant tear.
"No," she utters into the air, so warm and still between them, "You're right. There is too much before me, that I should lose myself in what has past..." And there she trails away, not through lack of foresight, not through uncertainty, but because she can. Silence is allowed to reign in the time it takes to slowly draw her raised hand away, shifting to place a thumb against her bottom lip as her smile broadens, setting her gaze aflame in the most natural and beautiful way. A moment later, she speaks once more, a shake of her head sending raven locks bouncing as she laughs.
"Spoke upon the lips of any other man, your words would ring empty, Alma Towazu," she draws his name out to the fullest, a lilt in her tone that resounds with a good humour in no way divorced from the utter belief she holds in what he has said; it is precisely because he has spoken so that she can relax enough. Allow herself to be human. She allows amusement to float away, however, releasing it with a breath, becoming aware of the hand pressing against his. Shifting her own to entangle their fingers. "But I believe in your path, and in your salvation. I hope it is the same as mine; that we can come to walk together, that your strength--"
She hesitates, biting on her lip before the smile returns, with a touch of pride within it.
"/Our/ strength, should be capable of guiding us both. You're right that this world can be so senseless; and the struggle to save it would be deemed futile is such a natural thing, so easily done not merely by the mouths of fools. It's difficult, not giving up," she shifts her gaze suddenly, glancing upon the nearby doorway leading into the community centre - briefly tearing herself from their intimacy to reflect on what lies beyond. Within and without. "But--" she haltingly turns back to him, feeling as she does that she turns toward a light which so echoes the one within her, that it feels as if she has known it forever. Twice, she reminds herself, they have spoken twice.
She decides it does not matter.
"I'm not ready to. I will not lose myself, and, as presumptious as I'm sure it sounds," she cants her head away, to one side, watching the scarred model from beneath dark lashes, the dimpling of her cheeks branding her - once more - as much the schoolgirl as the crusader. Though she is present too, stirred within the breast and burning behind the eyes. It's this that prevents Amy's tongue from faltering as she finishes her thought, unrepentant and forthright. From the heart.
"I will not lose you."
From the soul.
"...thank you, Alma."
She is safe -- she is safe.
He cannot save this woman. His words and actions might influence, inspire, or overwhelm. His ability or status might offer succor or effect change. His power might create, might destroy; his sight might pierce through to the heart of the matter. But Alma Towazu, in his struggle to be a hero, lives the paradox of the psychic: able to see the darkness with another's heart, but unable to change it without stripping from them their very identity. He cannot look without being tempted to remake others' broken selves in his own image; he cannot close his eyes without forsaking responsibility for pain he might ameloriate.
Caught between power and powerlessness, between salvation and futility, Alma can only extend his hand. He has perfected the art of offering up himself, sundering the boundaries between minds, without seeking to manipulate that which lies within. In that strength, he is worthy to bring disparate souls together under a single banner. But he can never be certain. To follow this path, he must embrace uncertainty, in the face of his own unflinching convictions. He must believe in his passion, that righteousness offers meaning that wickedness cannot, that true passion cannot be denied. But--
"...Amy..."
No matter how true his passion, he cannot save anyone from themselves.
"...you..."
And he has failed so many times.
"...you are a strong woman... a good woman."
And yet no matter how many of his loved ones are torn from his breast, he will continue to allow them into his heart. No matter how many injuries his enemies inflict upon him, he will stand until his body is a mess of scars. Until his very soul becomes the funeral pyre that marks his demise, this phoenix will rise, and rise again.
"I..."
He will defy the lurking senselessness of this world. He will take up the pitifully futile human enterprise. He will love that which is doomed to fade, clutching at life until its last withered petal falls -- and only then, with grace, retire.
"I will stand by your side."
Only then -- when it all is dust in the wind.
For now...
%For now the sun shines bright upon them, a celestial embrace that draws the young man and woman together in intimate proximity. He does not release her hand as she reaches up to brush the faint trace of a single tear from his bedewed eyelashes, his steady voice belying his intense emotion. This is yet another person that will be torn from him someday, to whom he swears his loyalty, in whom he sees a kindred spirit. This is yet another person who someday -- maybe tomorrow, maybe years from now -- he will lose, and for whom he will fight until he can fight no more. He feels that. And someday, perhaps, he will be too old for this, his heart will ache too much.
But today, the sun is so bright, and she smells so sweet.
Th-- the garden-- the garden smells sweet.
The abrupt realization that he cannot distinguish the floral aroma of the memorial rooftop garden from his acquaintance's own scent intrudes upon Alma's pristine consciousness, and almost light-headed, he blinks, his discolored cheeks unifying again under a faint flush. His effortless flow disrupted, the otherwise elegant youth clears his throat, conveniently in line with Amy's own final words.
"Um," he manages, as though struck, "you're... you're welcome."
She's really close, isn't she?
It's always like this, he reflects, his expression humorously taking on, of all things, a faintly baffled look. He phases out and keys in to their spiritual intimacy, which is all well and good when physical intimacy -- their closeness -- is symbolic of their social closeness. Physical closeness, well, it's like a useful tool. Until, you know, it starts to seem more important.
For perhaps the first time, Alma wonders seriously whether there are some people who attempt the opposite strategy, and use social or emotional closeness as a means toward physical closeness.
That would be strange.
Her breath tickles his cheek. He never noticed her dimples before.
Well--
Maybe not /that/ strange.
"And thank you," he manages, reasserting his usual composure though his flush does not fade, "for trusting in my sincerity." That is what it is, after all: trust. He cannot compel her to take this risk, only encourage her. The choice was hers. "I am grateful... to be of service... to one such as yourself." The thought reminds him of what he truly values, and for a moment, he forgets his predicament. His faint smile returns, and still-damp hazel eyes warming, the hand not intertwined with her own rises to rest upon their interlocked fingers, cradling her hand in both of his own. "No matter how separate our fates, I have faith we will walk this path together. I will always-- always be a resource for you."
His smile broadens, the scarred beauty's eyes narrowing faintly.
"Though I am sure I would benefit much from your services as well."
Um, Alma.
If there -is- to be physical intimacy between Amy and Alma, it might not be today. This is perhaps not by design, but by the whims of Fate. Actually, given who is about to show up, it might even be just by design--who can say? In any case, that intimate garden moment is about to be disrupted. Alma may not even realize it--he's powerful and skilled but Rose is a /master/ of Soul Power. Hiding her presence comes naturally. The doors to the roof ease open and, suddenly, voices.
"Miss Rose, why are we up here?"
"Why, because it is a truly beautiful day, and some training in the garden is just what is called for. It will open your mind to your potential."
The first voice is young, bright, both hesitant and eager.
The second voice is tinged with exotic flavor, amused, bemuesd, calm, and patient.
Alma will recognize both voices, perhaps immediately. Either voice would likely be enough to break the moment forming--both shatter it like a hot windshield sprayed with icewater.
For it is indeed Rose, the 'founder' of the YFCC... and the energetic young YFCC trainee who goes by the improbable name of 'Banana'.
"Banana, it will be fine. The garden's beauty will calm your nerves." And then, serenely, with just a touch of surprise, feigned or not.
"Alma, hello. I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were up here." Thaaaaaaaat might be a lie.
Safe. It's not a word that would ever have occurred to the raven-haired young woman, sent tumbling from an oft-empty home into what seemed far more the chaotic maelstrom than it truthfully was - a world upon the fringe of enlightenment and understanding burdened by the staggering weight of religious expectation, and of the inner and outer doubt that accompanies such. She has never once felt an air of safety, moving through the world as though hunted by the very things that compel her, by the insurmountable height of her goals.
But that is perhaps a part of it; those goals never entirely her own. In this journey, she has been lost since she took her first step -- from then until now, perhaps, ever-dubious, ever-dwindling, carried through only by a determination to succeed no matter the cost. Buoyed by her faith, because she could be carried by nothing else, and that alone is not enough. Faith without points of grounding, without touchstones for the wandering soul, is a lonely and shallow thing. A pool nine tenths empty. A firm concrete base with a layer of cloying damp upon it... not enough to float, nor enough to sink.
Is she strong? She has believed it because she had to.
Is she good? She has been driven, purposeful, willing to sacrifice... but for what, and for whom, have been ever in question. Serving two masters is an impossible task lest those two strive for the same purpose. Her own failure has settled upon her only because she has tried too hard to fulfill the dreams of others - without daring to confront her own feelings, her own ambitions. Even the life of a messiah, even the life of a martyr, must have some inherent selfishness. To not serve oneself at all, is to be merely a slave. The regret that Alma feels is selfish - as is her own - in spite of the underlying compassion. Perhaps even because of it. Helping others, helps oneself.
That truth is essential. Amy knows it. She knows as she watches the graceful man before her, views her effect upon him. Her pledge is not merely to do what she feels she must, to achieve the purpose she has finally found to be her own, but to assist him in his; whatever that may be. There is a connection here that she does not wish to break. On the contrary, she wants it to grow stronger, but to effect him in this way...
It's gratifying. It's almost overwhelming. Before Alma can find his balance again, she is laughing, soft and almost breathless, unwilling to broach this moment with the needless interruption of noise. She manages to stop herself, though the dimples upon freckled cheeks are now pronounced indeed, deep recesses over the broadness of her smile as she maintains her own composition only because she is less surprised - perhaps more able to deal with these emotions than she believed a moment before. But then, she does not believe she will lose everybody. Here and now, she believes the very opposite. She will keep those she loves, save them from the world and from themselves.
Because with this man at her side, with his power and her own - with the golden light that brews within - she is capable of that much. Her hand retightens about his own, free from the mild sweat of nervous lovers, she is confident and unfazed by their proximity. Not because she has engineered it...
But because it has come about for a reason.
His hand settles atop hers, and she breathes in, that same intermingling scent not ringing with her own perfume. But with his. It's almost a shame that he's still speaking, because as the wonderfully cloying air settles in her lungs, she begins to lean forward, once more with the soft compulsion of instinct. And then he makes his final promise. And the Templar cannot stop her laughter. It comes out as a sharp, sudden giggle, bright but somewhat delirious - too frenzied for the atmosphere - enough that she is forced to clap a hand to her mouth, swallowing it back hard with an unflattering moan. Her cheeks are awash with crimson as she contains her mirth, eyes glittering with it as she stares upon Alma with stormy eyes wide open, and unshadowed.
"I--" she clears her throat, pulling her hand away and shaking her head as she regards the model with some difficulty. Eye contact only makes her want to laugh more, her gaze slipping away constantly as she struggles now with her composure. "I'm not sure you..." Can speak so beautifully and then stumble into self-ridicule. But alas, it's not a sentence she gets to finish. Biting back another giggle - literally, her teeth coming down upon her bottom lip near enough to bruise the fragile flesh - she is cut off from further attempts to voice her feelings by the opening of doors, the bluster of a youthful voice...
Amy does not pull her hand away from Alma's immediately, though she does look away and around, reaching with the other to sweep back her long, dark hair so she can sight through the warm glow of the sun toward these two approaching, unfamiliar voices. She releases breath she did not realise she was holding once she recognises the tall, beautiful Italian woman, glancing sidelong to the man beside her and gently, uninsistently worming her fingers free. Because it seems appropriate, because it seems... kindest...
"We'll have to talk again later," she offers, almost a whisper to him, still unable to stop smiling as she then presents herself to Rose and the unknown youngster, drawing herself upright and proud as she begins to stand. Once she is up, she executes what may well be called a bow - though it is not quite so formal as that, a crunch of the waist and a dip of the chin. "If anybody is intruding here," she says more loudly - clear and self-assured in that crisp English accent, "It is me, Madame Rose."
Wh-- What's so funny?
Alma, immersed in Amy's radiant aura, almost drunk with it, blinks, startled by her sudden mirth, and in that moment senses an all-too familiar warm presence intruding on the margins of his psyche, hinting at its own approach. Already confused, the at times grandiloquent young man momentarily speechless, his lips left parted and eyes faintly dazed, the hapless hero glances back toward the door leading back into the community center from the bench on which he sits, now utterly at a loss. Wait-- is that really-- it can't be--
As soon as the lady psychic makes her appearance, Alma rises to his feet a little too quickly, unfortunately making himself seem all the more flustered. "S... Sensei!" he manages, breathless for more reasons than he himself is aware of. "Rose-sensei, you've returned. I-- I've been--" He trails off, bereft of his usual self-possession as his eyes, their mildness still tinged with bemusement, roam from woman to girl to woman.
Something's off about this.
"Alma-san," the short, slightly pudgy girl who has arrived at Rose's side says, her eyes twinkling with an only slightly malicious mirth, "I think that lady wants you to let go of her hand."
Blinking again, Alma glances down, only to then see that poor Amy has been attempting to untangle, as delicately as she can, her fingers from his. "Oh," he says, easing her awkward task by relaxing his fingers. "I... I apologize. It's just that I haven't seen Rose-sensei in--"
"Don't tell her it's because of other women!" the teenage girl interrupts, crossing her arms in front of the panda design on her pink shirt. "Alma-san, you're terrible with girls."
The emotion drains from Alma's scarred visage, leaving him deadpan as he turns a stern gaze on his volunteer. "Banana-chan," he murmurs, his posture straightening as his poise returns along with the hint of quiet authority in his voice, "children shouldn't spread their misunderstandings. We were having an adult conversation." It's going well enough, but for some reason the presence of Rose seems to be throwing Alma off a little bit; as though embarrassed to be taking his usual leadership role in her presence, his expression flickers as he glances back at his teacher.
And, as though smelling weakness, the smirking Banana is having none of it. "Oh, it was one of those adult situations? I guess I wouldn't understand. But you should have your adult moments in private, Alma-san." She waves her hand dismissively. "Meanwhile, I'm Miss Rose's new favorite student. You were supplanted while you were busy with girls!"
By this point, Alma is shielding his eyes with his hand, slowly shaking his head back and forth. "No amount of training," he murmurs, "will make you tolerable." But when he lowers his hand, he is smiling, and little Banana is grinning back at him as he turns to look at Amy again. "Sensei," he continues, at last seemingly comfortable again, "have you met Amy Johnson before? She is a knight, on a spiritual quest." Presumably we're all used to this sort of thing by now, and no caveats are necessary. "Amy-san, this girl is Banana, one of our most spirited volunteers. She has a lot of potential."
"I'm stronger than Alma-san," the girl says casually. "He's scared of me."
"I am," Alma agrees, straight-faced.
Those violet eyes of Rose's twinkle slightly. "An adult conversation, is it?" she inquires of the poor besieged Alma, before turning to Amy and acknowledging the Templar with a smile and a nod. "Please, just Rose is fine. 'Madame' makes me feel... old." She chuckles, just in the slightest, as Alma is neatly taken apart by Banana. One wouldn't've guessed the wit that lay in that slightly pudgy frame; it makes her eyes twinkle all the more to see it.
"It seems she does have you at a disadvantage, Alma... surely a tactical weakness you're working on?" she inquires, mildly. Banana interjects with a viciously wry, "It looks like he was trying to work on it just now," causing Rose to give her an admonishing, if smiling, glance.
"Now, now, Banana. Alma is deserving of your respect, is he not, as your teacher? One of them, at least. Simply because we've caught him in a... compromising position isn't any reason to abdicate that respect."
Her gaze is turned more feully on Amy, a piercing, searching gaze, measuring but not judging. "On a quest, hmm? I see." If she really does, that's left aside, her expression placid.
"And Alma here is helping you with that quest? I see." Then she turns to Banana.
"You see? It's a perfectly reasonable explanation as to what they were doing here. Now then, Amy... I'm wondering if you might do me a favor. Banana here has asked me to help her train, due to Alma's supposed business with 'girls', as she put it... but I find myself wondering..."
"Might you engage her in battle? I feel as if she would have much to learn about facing a new opponent..."
Some would say that the seeming smallest kindnesses can be far and away the greatest, a light touch upon the soul becoming the moment that changes everything. But this particular act on Amy's part is denied, a fact she becomes increasingly aware of as she offers her brief, otherwise well-composed and considered words to the arriving psychic. She cannot help but flicker her gaze toward the man beside her, opening her mouth with the faintest of gasps carrying on still-smiling lips only to find any words cut off with prompt efficiency by Rose's younger companion.
"It's... not so much that I want you to..."
She starts to explain, smile twisting distinctly into a lopsided grin, a rather rakish gesture that somehow befits her - and is naturally inspired by Banana's direct assault upon the poor young man. So full of wise words, startingly, breathtakingly compelling in his depth and sense of insight, and yet such beauty is maintained through a natural innocence that sets him so open. But open is not the thing to be around teenagers cunning beyond their years. She feels his pain; too much, a considering glance bouncing between the two as she decides - in retrospect - that at one time she might have been just a bit like this curiously-monikered girl.
'Sorry,' the Templar mouths to Alma, lightly shaking her head as she turns away from the ongoing teasing - leaving him to fend for himself, taking instead a moment to consider the near-legendary figure before her. She makes no show to conceal her interest, head canting to one side as she examines Rose quite carefully, meeting the other woman's eyes when she finds herself subject to the same. And that gaze! It almost makes her stumble, though she can detect nothing in the form of a palpable aura; perhaps a sign of power in itself, she wonders, swallowing tightly and offering another bow of the head.
"I've not shared my full purpose with," she hesitates, so subtly it's almost indiscernable, "Alma, not yet. But, he has a gift for insight, I think." Looking sidelong, she smiles warmly, and nods. Her choice of words is not so much carefully considered as honest; as honest as she can make it under the circumstances, without causing further embarassment to the beset model. "He has helped me find myself, and /convinced/ me of my purpose."
"Besides," she adds to Banana in a rather obvious stage whisper, leaning forward to grace the girl with a sudden wink, her nose wrinkling rather cutely as she does so, "You know what it means when a boy says he's afraid of you, don't you? Romance never blooms sweeter than at the heart of a rivalry..."
Seamless, as though she never interjected thus, she turns back to the erstwhile 'headmistress'.
"And Rose, please, if anything, you make me feel old. You're--" She bites the sentence off, waving her freed hand beside her and uttering a short laugh, raven locks dragging against her shoulders as she shakes her head back and forth. "If you're a day beyond thirty, you wear your age as well as any could ever hope to. And I'd be honoured to do as you ask - though perhaps in turn, you might one day show me the depth of your own talents? We are all still pupils, after all..."
"Yes," Alma murmurs weakly, "a... tactical weakness."
He's not even sure what manner of battle he's fighting.
His gaze remains on Rose as the others speak, his expression settling as he regards his teacher with soulful eyes. Though it has been some time since they have lingered in one another's presence, he has never doubted his teacher's care for him, and his loyalty to her is cemented. If anything, her aloof mystique is an ideal fit for one of his unrelenting conviction; she guides him only gently, rarely deigning to intervene, and allowing him to follow his own path. For him, it is a sign of her trust in him, and her respect for his own choices. Whatever the specifics of his path, he will not turn to a darker path, and will never cease to be her ally in the battles to come.
Having no doubts, he has asked few questions of her.
But-- as his fingertips unconsciously reach up to the seal burned forever upon his breast, the root of the scarring and discoloration that has overtaken much of his upper body, Alma realizes he does have much to /tell./ While she does not need to be burdened with the operations of the YFCC, the discussion he had with Adelheid and Seishirou on the deck of the Sky Noah -- their assessment of the darkness that now plagues the world -- is worthy of being shared. And perhaps she will have something direct to offer him. He is glad she revealed herself now.
No doubt this, too, was for a purpose.
Rose works in mysterious ways.
He is at last distracted from his soft-eyed gazing as his tutor in Soul Power by Amy's compliment, glancing over at the templar before smiling mildly and inclining his head, as though to demur. Before he can speak, of course, her follow-up causes his lips to pause where they are, his eyebrows lifting faintly.
Oh, boy.
"Oh, yeah?" Banana is saying airily. "I don't know. Alma-san is a bit of a ladies' man. I'd watch out around him, frankly."
"In what way," Alma replies, sounding pained as he glances sidelong at his irrepressible volunteer, "am I a /ladies' man/?" As far as Alma can remember, he hasn't had a girlfriend since-- well-- she was more of a pseudo-fiancee, really, but--
"Don't be silly!" Banana exclaims, smiling widely. "You're still very popular among the volunteers. You don't have to worry. Lots of girls -- well, people -- still have crushes on you, even though your face is all messed up now."
"Thank you, Banana-chan," Alma replies mildly.
"Don't mention it. My point is, Miss Amy," the girl continues, turning her glittering gaze on the knight, "you've got a lot of competition. Now that he's not a model anymore, he's, like, a little more accessible, you know? I think now it's this sort of one-two, right, where his being all scarred awakens their maternal, protective side, but he's still very confident, and that's--"
"Thank you for the analysis, Banana."
"--I guess a lot of girls are still into that, I mean, at least when you spend a lot of time around him personally, that's the sort of--"
"/Thank you,/ Banana."
"So what I'm saying is," the short girl concludes, her eyes still sparkling merrily as she steps forward toward the taller woman, "you'd better be tough, if you're interested in Alma-san. Tough enough to take down your rivals. If you think you're tough--"
And with a melodramatic flourish likely ripped from a recently-watched anime, Banana points toward the knight almost twice her age, her nostrils flaring.
"I'll take you on!!"
Alma, bearing his mortification with dignity, exhales quietly.
"You certainly have found some spirited students, Alma," says Rose, as she sidles off to the side, taking up a spot on the opposite side of Alma from where the Templar was. She leans back, casually, her hair flowing in an unseen, unfelt wind, lazily. And she means it; there's teasing in her voice but sincerity as well.
"Banana is quite a find. Her spark is quite amazing." And she smiles again, twisting her scarf around her arm.
"But you... you look as if you have much on your mind. I have to admit that I do as well... particularly concerning the events surrounding the King of Fighters tournament. Now that my team is out of the tournament... I'll have to focus my efforts more strongly on finding out what's going on."
Then an admission from the Mistress of Soul Power, one she makes quietly and a bit reluctantly. "I wish I knew what Chizuru was thinking."
Meanwhile, it seems Banana is stretching, important before serious exercise, and Rose's gaze turns to Amy. "She is a rare find as well, Alma. Your capacity for finding unique individuals continues to amaze me."
Even without psychic sensitivity, there is challenge in not feeling overwhelmed by this collision of strong auras and stronger personalities. Alma's deeply pulsing, endlessly heady serenity is made all the more distracting - already playing through Amy's own stormy affliction - by the jagged, dissonant energy of his YFCC protégé. And this says nothing of the suppressed gravity well that Rose presents; if the phoenix has 'depth', the beautiful Italian is an abyss running to the very core of the earth. Impenetrable, inestimable, and awe-inspiring.
But, much like talk of knights and spiritual quests, such sensations become customary when one strides amongst the giants of this earth. Amy can feel her own energies reacting, not least now that the promise of battle is upon her, but she remains outwardly controlled. Only the faint aureate gleam in her eye intensifies to the common view; whilst within, the turbulent amalgam of Dragon's Breath and Anemoi's inherited Rage twist into a springlike knot.
The Templar's gaze slowly drifts to alight once more upon Alma as his self-proclaimed superior delivers her analysis. The dark line of her left eyebrow arches, prompting a similar tweak from the same side of her mouth. Banana's incessant, insidious pestering of the poor model draws her empathy and her amusement in equal measure. When the scar upon his face is mentioned though, her fingers prickle at her side, tensing momentarily against the air before they close inward against cool palms. It's the first time she has truly considered how deep that wound might run...
Yet outwardly, she softly laughs, reaching to brush at the young man's forearm with an easy sway of her left arm, stepping closer as she does so. She continues past him, meeting her brightly-clad opponent - her 'rival' - in the space between Alma and Rose. The pointing finger stops a scant foot short of her freckle-brushed nose, though she focuses past it, upon the young and vigorous face that so challenges her. Her mouth lashes into a broad grin.
"So this is where mother and maiden meet?" She smoothly questions, sliding her left foot forward and loosening her shoulders with a comfortable, well-accustomed roll. Releasing a long, calming breath, she lifts her hands to rest in a loose guard, still smiling past her readiness - even as golden light spills in a rolling corona around her, as though she has just now stepped into the warming rays of the sun. "If that's what you're saying, Miss Banana..."
"I must step forward." Digits unfurl against the air, her wrists circling as she reverses her palms, presenting the backs of each hand to the girl. Her eyes though, track to the right, and she twists gracefully at the waist to glance back over her shoulder, seeking that twin blaze of hazel. She knows his light will not have dimmed against the playful onslaught, and she knows he can take one more tease... "I will fight to defend your honour, fair Alma."
She almost laughs, her nose wrinkling as she turns back to Banana.
Subtly, oh-so-faintly, between their eyes dance indistinct strands of grayish-white, hanging like the errant threads of a broken web as the Templar's aura burns, breaking her tenuous control upon it.
"What I'm saying is... I accept your challenge."
COMBATSYS: Amy has started a fight here.
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Amy 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Amy has awakened to her Rage.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Amy [E] 0/-------/-------|
Though Alma's expression is long-suffering, he hardly seems in danger of losing his composure. Even his well-practiced, mild-mannered deadpan cannot preclude the slight upward quirking of his lips as Banana's lambasting continues ad nauseum. It is a pleasure to have the odd student who does not regard him with a distant awe, a sentiment useful in his day-to-day leadership of a complex and sometimes amorphous organization but difficult for a man who strives toward intimacy. But his mien serves its purpose, perhaps, in weeding out those who lack the spirit or conviction to produce truly resonant fighting spirits.
He'll never allow himself to put fighters on a higher pedestal than the masses. He'll never think of them as gods or heroes born. But their responsibility is greater, he firmly believes, and in that duty there is a unique potential. The light that shines upon their souls is clearer, illuminating more to his vision -- even if their souls are not superior. That brings them together. They serve as examples of the bonds that unite us all. And in that conviction--
"Hm?"
He forgives himself the simple pleasure he experiences from being in the presence of others like himself.
There is that, of course, as well.
Stirred by the faint tingling on his arm as Amy brushes him, passing by, Alma emerges from his momentary reverie to meet Rose's eyes, blinking once before inclining his head and swiftly approaching his teacher, moving toward the sidelines. "Thank you, sensei," he says simply, the scarred beauty's smile now widening unobscured, at her sincerity as much as at her words. "I agree. It is thanks to the tireless efforts of my partners that our students have grown so much." Frei and Hotaru do more of the day-to-day instruction than anyone around -- and not just because Alma spent quite a bit of time in the hospital.
It's rare to hear Rose express any doubt or regret, and Alma seems visibly startled by her words, if not shaken. It's a little embarrassing, then, at how gratified he feels at her trust in him. Not that he ever doubted it, you understand -- just as one never doubts a parent's love. "Sensei," the younger psion then says, his tone serious and posture straight, "if there's any way in which I can be of aid to you in the tournament, I am at your service. Team Einherjar will be advancing to the next round." His gaze briefly flickers; Crimson, whatever he might pretend, can't be happy about that. Why does he keep feeling as though Ash is more important than he seems, even when the man exudes no aura to inspire intuitions? "Although... speaking of which..."
He turns toward the edge of the roof, his features growing almost stern, latent intensity rising faintly to the surface. "The younger Bernstein and the scion of the Ryouhara, the leaders of Einherjar and the Kagero terrorists, are joining forces to investigate the rising darkness that has surrounded this tournament." He speaks softly now, as Banana stretches (mostly by pointing at Amy in various ways). "There is a taint spreading that inspires an evil and senseless fury. I have yet to confront it myself, but based on Ryouhara's intelligence, we've inferred that it might be vulnerable to... our power." He glances sidelong at Rose, briefly. "Some entity is operating behind the scenes to arrange this affair. Ryouhara believes it not to be human."
The phoenix tilts his gaze up, closer to the sun.
"He called it... Orochi."
He pauses briefly, before, grimacing faintly, his hand rises as though of its own accord. It stops, and twitches once, as Alma's eyebrows -- regrown not so long ago -- quiver once; then, sighing, letting down some hidden guard, he allows himself to place his palm upon his chest, upon the seal that he has been so cruelly scarred with, now hidden by his dress shirt.
"It is difficult," he confesses weakly, for the first time, "to work with these people. To destroy in order to create-- perhaps that is what my power does, in tearing down the walls between people. But I struggle to persuade myself I am like them.
"That I can stand side by side with Adelheid... and Seishirou."
Facing away from his student, back turned to Amy, visible only to his teacher, the young phoenix reaches up to caress the discolored skin of his still fine-featured face. "Have I grown from the boy I was?" he murmurs, "A simple dream it was, to live well. This righteous path... it led me to Hell. I returned... but my friend remained. Now I dream on, and wonder when this flame -- the need that drives my struggle -- will consume me at last." He pauses long. At last, he turns his gaze back to his teacher. Those sorrowful eyes reveal a tremendous exhaustion, obscured by the vibrancy of the moment he shared with Amy moments ago. Reminded of what he still bears, the weight of it hits him like a hammer. Even his poise, almost eternal, fades, as the young man's shoulders slump.
But--
"Sensei... forgive me my doubts."
They are not the eyes of a broken man.
"And please, forgive me if I fail."
Though tight, Alma's smile remains.
"Even now, my greatest tests may be yet to come."
A man can only make sense of the senseless for so long before his will crumbles, and his mind shatters. But Alma's will is resilient, and his mind is fortified by the substance of his convictions.
And he is not alone.
"Are you ready!?" Banana shouts, loudly enough to stir even the Radiant Angel out of his emotional outpouring. Seeming relieved to have been able to voice his /own/ doubts, Alma glances, blinking, over his shoulder, to see the short girl stamping her feet, whirling her palms about. The variation on kenpo she appears to be adopting seems, to a trained fighter's eye, to be largely inspired by Hotaru, but her well-centered stance is reminiscent of Frei, and the faint rhythm to her moments is one inspired by constant observation of Towazu himself. Surrounded by strong and experienced fighters, this young prodigy has garnered whatever she can. Alma can't help but smile wider, his eyes softening at last. Rose-- she is the only one who he would ask to absolve him, to forgive him his sins against his own faith, so to speak. Because she is-- really, he thinks of her as--
Hm?
Unsettled, the Scarred Beauty's brow abruptly furrows, his eyes glancing toward Amy as the two warriors prepare themselves. Wait a minute. This is-- he didn't recognize this, in the moment they shared together. This is different from the trace of darkness within her inspired by her pain. Or is it? Did he mistake this for psychological scarring? Now that her intensity rises, he can see that-- no--
"Amy...?"
What is this feeling?
COMBATSYS: Banana has joined the fight here.
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Amy [E] 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Banana
If there's any one person who Rose might entrust with the knoweldge of her doubts, it's Alma. He is, in many ways, rather a smaller image of who Rose is--a leader, both deliberate and inadvertent--thrust into the middle of something much larger than he is. She absorbs what Alma says, watching Amy and Banana get into things, as it were. Or at least, preparing.
"Ah, I shouldn't dismiss their efforts either, it's true; that was remiss of me." Rose doesn't fidget, but her scarf flows slightly, forming an obscure loop and winding around her; she pays it no attention. "Einherjar's continud presence will certainly be of benefit. And speaking as your teacher, Alma--I hope you win, although surpassing Team Oyaji will be quite a feat. They represent a great deal of experience and power." At the mention of Orochi, Rose quirks an eyebrow.
"I've heard of Orochi before. From Chizuru. She didn't talk much about it... it was one of her secrets, and she was as entitled to them as I am to mine. So perhaps Ryouhara's beliefs are true. I know not the extent of the powers of this Orochi but..." But Orochi was to Chizuru as Vega is to Rose--the antithesis, the nemesis...
"One would think that they would be targeting people like us. Adelheid is a powerful fighter; what I have seen of Seishirou suggests that he is powerful as well. That they would join forces, in turn, suggests much." And nothing good.
"Have you grown? Most certainly. Someone once said that those who don't grow are dead. Even I am growing... if not quite at the same -rate-." She smiles, briefly.
"Alma... I would worry most if you did not have doubts. Only the foolish are certain all the time. So too are those who base their assessments purely on success or failure. The most important thing is to give your all to what you do; success is secondary. In fact, success is the natural outcome..."
Upon a pedestal they stand, these four; Banana included. For all the inward questing for identity that her mien and manner betray, she undeniably possesses the confidence that only comes through being elevated. Through being blessed. Unlike Alma, it is a position that Amy has come to see as inescapable, though she tried - in what might be branded by others a failure of ambition - to place herself amongst the number of those ungraced by such talent. They are different. Once she believed this in her arrogance, but now she has explored her feelings and concluded that they must be.
Why?
To stand against such darkness as that of which student and mentor speak. Already prepared to face the plucky youngster before her, the Templar's only other focus is upon her breathing, upon maintaining her readiness. It leaves her free to overhear the discussion, and though she takes care not to devote herself entirely to it... she is at once fascinated and repelled by the name that Alma ultimately speaks. A dark frown clouds the Templar's visage as she feels, in conspicuous tandem, the rearing of her own harboured energies.
The faint traces of mist before her twist and spread, tendrils multiplying, mass thickening. The fog ebbs and flows with the rhythm of her breath, which has quickened, and it blossoms fully six feet around in mere seconds. At the outer limits, chill gray fingers reach as though to clasp at the psychic pair, tips clawing sinuously against the warm air.
There is a hunger here. But it does not lie in the mist.
Alma speaks of the righteous path, of Hell, and an all-consuming fire. His words echo in the pit of a soul set aflame, work their magic in a mind filled with whispers from within a shadow so deep as to be impenetrable. But she has seen within; she knows what she will find when she draws the shade aside.
If only he knew. If only they all could know.
"The question isn't whether I am ready," Amy speaks quietly, though her tone is clear and serene. Her gaze has fallen to the ground, something swimming in the stormy depths of her eyes beneath dark, concealing lashes. "It's the world around us that should be prepared. My path has been chosen. How about yours, Banana?" She draws her chin faintly upward, meeting a youthful, exuberant gaze with one of the utmost resolve. She is no longer smiling. "This is about more than boys and girls. Show me your future. Show me the truth within you..."
"Show me your conviction. Show me your strength!"
Suddenly she is sweeping forward, the heels of her boots seeming almost to float across the ground as she moves with such speed and grace as for each outlying motion to be indiscernable from that at the centre. Around her very own being she steps, turning through a full double crescent before she leaves the ground in a tightly controlled leap, leading with a thrusting knee.
"And I shall show you /mine/!!"
If the power within was at all veiled before, it bursts free now. A blaze of searing gold shrouds her striking limb as her foot extends, striking the gathered mist with the howling shear of a gale rising as one with the empassioned cry of her final word. But the blow falls far short of Banana, and the Templar continues to turn, leaving in the wake of her kicking leg a broad, unsettlingly hot swathe of that golden energy. The mist is carried with it, though the two energies seem to play against one another, conflicting in a chaotic maelstrom as they roar in uneasy alliance to impact her foe.
It is Rose's words that carry through to Amy's landing, her low posture with loose, flowing guard ever-present carrying now an intensity that was not quite there before. She has already voiced her doubts, and had them settled; this is a warrior giving themselves fully to the flow of battle. Perhaps too much. What was sleeping, has awakened.
COMBATSYS: Amy successfully hits Banana with Raven's Wing.
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Amy [E] 0/-------/------=|====---\-------\0 Banana
"...Thank you, sensei."
Alma's sincerity is rarely called into question. He has never thought of himself as a secretive man. But, like Rose, he has had leadership thrust upon him as much as he has chosen it -- and he cannot bear to have his own doubts undermine the efforts of his fellows. His conviction, his reliable sense of purpose, is what his friends and subordinates turn to again and again. For the most part, he defies his own moments of uncertainty, and hopes thereby to inspire. This--
~ I never understood why Jiro told me... ~
This is something he needed.
~ ...that I don't share my feelings with others. ~
To speak his mind without thought to whether or not it is constructive; to indulge himself with his useless fears. An open heart, an open soul, are all well and good -- but the phoenix's thoughts are deliberately expressed, and sometimes carefully guarded. To take a moment to not think in terms of purpose, of what is being built towards or what cause is being championed -- perhaps, ironically, such moments of weakness do more for building intimacy than anything.
"I won't disappoint you."
...When necessary, anyway...
"I promise."
The scarred beauty, smiling gently, gazing sidelong at his teacher, inclines his head, profoundly grateful. In the end, being the manner of man who can keep his promises -- he can bear any other weakness, as long as that remains.
"Chizuru... then is Kagura Enterprises involved with combating Orochi? ...Oh." Sighing suddenly, Alma reaches up to clasp his forehead, shaking his head slightly. "At last I think I begin to understand. Kagero assaulted Kagura Enterprises not long ago, for unknown reasons; he sent a minion who attempted to neutralize me during that time. He's developing technology to limit psychic abilities -- the man is relentless." Eyebrows lifting, he turns toward Rose again. "Perhaps everyone is concerned about Orochi in their own way, and no one has shared enough information to know who is friend or foe. Ryouhara may have been seeking information on that very subject. I... should have asked."
He parts his lips as though to say more, but a thunderous fulmination draws his gaze away from his teacher, and Alma watches calmly as Banana, emitting an almost eerie keen, tumbles away from the blast point, landing slumped on her back, her eyes glassy and dazed. Her arms, flopped to the side, suggest the block she attempted was simply torn asunder. Grimacing, not sparing her teachers a glance, the short girl struggles to her feet, glaring at her adversary. "Ugh... that was... well, I didn't expect..." Cutting herself off, Banana pounds her fist into her palm. "Hey!" she shouts, eyes narrowing. "You sound like Alma when he's saying things that I don't pay any attention to! Stop trying to make me space out! Is that your ploy!?"
Rushing forward, drawing her hands back, the pudgy girl roars (sort of) with burgeoning intensity, a wildness to her eyes that seems to respond to the unexpected ferocity of that attack. "It won't work!" she continues, plunging toward Amy. "/Your/ path, or whatever, is going only one way!" And, leaping, the younger volunteer aims to plow into the templar's midsection, knocking her off-balance before grappling the woman's legs and heaving to pitch her down onto the roof, potentially knocking the back of her head against the ground.
"DOWN!!"
Alma, unfazed by these various outrages, watches the proceedings with an expression that has grown faintly clouded. "Sensei," he murmurs. "Does Amy seem... a little different, now that she's begun fighting?" Though the younger psychic is by now fairly seasoned, his uncertainty is evident in his deliberate speech. "You must have felt the light she radiated in the moment we shared," please don't tease me sensei, "but this is-- as though there's something--"
He can't be certain, but he can't remain silent, either.
"--intertwined with her--"
His brow furrows with concern.
COMBATSYS: Amy dodges Banana's Teenage Dream Tackle.
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Amy [E] 0/-------/------=|===----\-------\0 Banana
Rose's smile is drier, a touch more brittle. "Indeed. Welcome to the real world, Alma... I suppose you could say that, in a way, you've graduated. I'm not sure -what- connection Chizuru has with this Orochi, but it must certainly be a deep one. It would merely be a guess to say she's invested in combating it... but I feel that you're correct."
She'd say more, but then Amy does her thing and--
Without thinking much, Rose raises her left hand, limned in a brief aura, and brushes the mist away as best as she can. There's -definitely- something in it, something wrong. "I don't know her, Alma. But I think there's something about your Amy that isn't quite right..." Ah, understatement, thy name is Rose.
"But let's not act too hastily. This might be an important lesson. For Banana and for us. And we can step in, should we have to..." Rose straightens, her lips set in a firm line.
"And I will /certainly/ want to have a talk with her afterwards." That is without question. Whether she can do something for Amy, in the here and now, that's another. Playing with someone's psyche is a dangerous game, a veritable minefield of potential harm...
"We need more information, Alma..."
"Your passion does you some credit..."
Amy's words drift distantly upon the sun-soaked breeze as she lies in wait, watching the recovery and rise of her opponent. Her intensity - bright as it has burned already - seems to waver and twist with the disturbed, oddly unsettled expanse of the Dragon's Breath. Usually so natural that it becomes yet more eerie, now the expansive layer of mist seems to pulse from an unseen-within. As though driven, as though compelled by another force entirely; a living thing under thrall that may even be painful.
"But you strike from a heart that lacks direction, and control."
And if the Templar is different from the woman professing love, belief and commitment but moments before, the change is in her demeanour and not in her nature. She is, as ever, one with the energy she commands. But that golden light, it seems to augment rather than obey. It flares beneath her fingers as she subtly tenses and relaxes her stance, a moment before Banana charges. Her lips tug with the telltale give of suppressed pain. Her aura blooms, like a flower, but it does so when it shouldn't. A blossom in winter.
"You remind me of myself."
The oncoming charge is negated with simple, yet beautiful grace, the raven-haired Englishwoman all but blurring around it as she bends at the waist and twists her full body into a swaying sidestep, a hand extending from its easy guard to send Banana on her way - maintaining that gathered momentum with the lightest, but most deceptively insistent of shoves.
"And oh," she smiles suddenly, releasing and drawing a rapid breath as she cycles her arms through a swift windmill about one another. They snap to the fore, the right leading with fingers raised as the other forms a fist. The raised digits twitch, and in response there is a flare of gold, scattering through the rays of the sun and penetrating the outlying mist with a shockwave that runs fully across the rooftop, reaching even the probing hand of Rose. Yet it is the gray-white tendrils that form the danger to Amy's vigorous opponent, darting away from the disruption to lash out, whiplike and unnecessarily, desperately cruel. A thick knot of the stuff solidifes upon impact, seeking to entangle her about the upper torso and spin her about, sent thundering toward the feet of the Templar. "But I was a fool then."
A cant of her head casts storm-wracked eyes down upon the girl. "I'm sorry, but you know nothing. Not yet."
Her words should be mocking, and yet she sounds almost... sad, despite her own conviction.
COMBATSYS: Banana fails to interrupt Quagmire from Amy with Elemental Intervention EX.
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Amy [E] 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\0 Banana
Alma's features settle, evincing self-restraint, though the faintly narrowed cant of his eyes attests to his continued concern. "Yes," he murmurs. Both in this specific confrontation, and in the battle at large. Always have they remained in the dark. If even the fortune-teller feels herself at a loss-- "Ryouhara has committed himself to seeking out further intelligence," he continues quietly. "I cannot trust him as a man, however ingenuous his ideals, but I do trust him as a source. When he locates one of these servants of Orochi, who appear to be the source of this taint, I have offered to pursue them myself, and test my theory on the viability of Soul Power." He smiles slightly, his eyes softening momentarily. "Whether I succeed or fail, that man will achieve an objective." Briefly, he glances back to Rose. "Until we know more about the nature of this taint, there is little we can do to combat it. I have not yet experienced it in person."
The Radiant Angel's mouth twitches, his gaze returning to Amy.
"At least... I do not think I have..."
Banana, meanwhile, grunts as she hits the roof heavily, her headlong charge missing its mark. Scrambling to get to her feet, moving with agility if not excellent technique, she raises her fists and hops several times to stir her own spirit, glowering at the templar. "Yeah, maybe you were like me, like, thirty years ago," she drawls, her voice feigning nonchalance even as her eyes harden. "Unfortunately for you, I don't need control--" And as the knight's arms cycle, Banana lunges again, drawing her hands back as she gathers a glimmering blue energy at her sides. Having benefited at the side of skilled chi masters, the girl, though unrefined, channels her power well. "--when I have-- guhh!"
To Banana's credit, she timed her attack well with regard to the flare of gold, snapping her hand out to unleash a piercing beam of chi. Unfortunately, those eerie tendrils emerge a moment later, one of which wraps about the girl's arm and jerks to the side, sending the lance of power thundering off toward the horizon, to soon dissipate. She only has time to widen her eyes before those lashes tear into her, whipping her body about before hurling her at the templar's feet. "Hnngh!" Grimacing, squinting one eye shut, the shocked Banana can only stare up at her elder adversary for a moment. "What!? You..." But she needs to catch her breath, at least.
Alma's mind is racing as he witnesses this. Nothing outside the limits of what could be expected, necessarily. And the knight's chi is already of its own peculiar signature, which renders processing this interference difficult. But yes, it cannot be denied: there is something particularly parasitic about this woman's energy now. Something that is emerging as they speak.
"Amy..."
If only he had been able to see her fight before...
Then he'd know for sure.
To Ryouhara, information is more of a necessity than food, air, water. It is his lifeblood. Rose has no doubt that he will find the information he wants and needs. But will he -share- it? That's another question entirely. However... Rose's gaze also turns towards Amy. "I don't know if I would be so sure of that, Alma."
She doesn't -know- what she's looking at, but it's obvious, from the way Alma is reacting, that something about Amy isn't normal. Is that, then, in turn affecting Banana? She can't be sure; she hasn't known Banana long enough. But she suspects something is going on, something that can't be seen on the surface.
"Banana seems unusually intense. I don't know if it's Amy or... something else..." Many fighters' personalities change when they begin a fight--and Banana's exhcanges have not gone in her favor yet.
"It's true there isn't much we can do... but be ready to intervene if we need to."
"Fortunately for you," Amy speaks again without a trace of mockery, that same melancholy undertone playing beneath the breath of her crisp accent as she slides a foot back, the other following suit to carry her a pace away from Banana, allowing the fallen girl space. Mercy. "Fortunately for all of us." For the world, is what she really thinks, her chest faintly but noticeably swelling with a pride ignited in part by Alma. By his trust and his beauty. By what they have shared. "I do have control."
It's a dark gaze with which she considers Banana now, through pupils that momentarily, quite explicably flicker toward the model and - by proximity - his statuesque mentor. As though unable to remain calm, the Templar wets her lips, and if he looks back she will find herself incapable of maintaining eye contact. She turns rapidly away after a moment, but it may be long enough to see or at least sense the renewal of conflict. She doesn't want to be merciful. She wants to teach this girl a lesson. To open her heart to something bright.
Bright, but perhaps terrible.
"Get up!" She almost barks it, and for the first time she loses the ability to maintain vocal composure, a distinct frayed edge tearing at the harsh words. A shiver runs down her spine, and her eyes flash with that impure energy, golden flecks bleeding into the very whites. It's an instantaneous, passing thing - but as the light fades, it does so in a rippling corona, leaving an imperfect halo about Amy's brow. Her raven locks stir in the faint gust that accompanies this phenomenon, and a second shudder wracks her entire frame. She disguises it with a second backward step, her arms snapping into place with an accustomed brutality around her, joints whitening as her fingers hook into talons.
"What do you believe in, Banana? What do you want to /be/? If you mean to master the nuances of your body, then you must first find the answer to that question. A warrior is nothing without a purpose; an aspiration, a dream. What is that drives you to harm another?" Cutting her barrage short momentarily, she tosses her head, swallowing as she allows her gaze to slip once more, fleetingly to Alma. "Violence is never an answer in itself. Understand that."
The cross about her neck taps against her, stirred by her motions, spinning upon the slender silver chain that binds it. It becomes in that instant a weight, straining to drag her downwards. Downwards. The one place she cannot go. Will not go. The warmth of the sun burns across her flesh, beckoning her heavenward, as the whispers of her dreams resound through her skull.
Her entire body is tense, boiling, a wellspring within seeking to burst.
"Find your resolve, truly find it, and strike me with the force of your faith!"
"/Do it/."
COMBATSYS: Amy strains her body to its limit.
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Amy [E] 0/-------/---====|=====--\-------\0 Banana
Log created on 16:58:35 03/10/2011 by Amy, and last modified on 21:48:00 06/29/2012.