Description: In which Ayame discovers what it is like to star in a horror movie.
By the world's standards, Metro was a young city - a prominent location in a young country of only a couple hundred years. It had had its ups and downs over the years, to be certain, and in the last decade, was even the location of a major nuclear threat. It had its dark corners, its slums, its abandoned subway tunnels... but it lacked the dark myths of older cities around the world. It was too modern for such dark tales.
Money and power were available in abundance to those who knew how to seize either and thus the metropolis had always been a lure for the seedy and corrupted. But it seemed that whenever the worst was happening to Metro, there were a number that would risk life and limb to set things right. Heroes, answering the call to action by the world renown brawling Mayor, would flock from around the world to be a force for justice, each in their own way.
The lithe girl skirting the shadows, navigating nimbly over fence, railing, and wall, would certainly never consider herself among their number. Heroes were suckers who were were too bad at math to know that for every low caliber crimnal taken off the street two more would take his or her place; for every madman chased down and captured, another would be inspired by such brazen rejection of social norms and follow the horrific example. Such a waste of time, she would snort, any time the subject came up.
The girl leaps down from the second floor of a parking ramp to slip into an alleyway, her pace brisk. While the night air is far more crisp than the Spring day that came before, her clothing is light, not interferring with her agility in the slightest. She finds herself in a bit of a hurry, though as she thinks on it, she isn't sure why. Normally, the night would hold no fear for her. If anything, she was the sort people needed to watch out for! But not tonight. She isn't out hunting for easy targets. Recent NDP winnings have her living easy for a while...
But that doesn't mean she's given up her information brokering ways. Something is changing in Metro. At first it was a subtle, nagging thought in her mind. Some details weren't exactly right, some pieces to the whole puzzle were misaligned, only just slightly, as if someone with the power and influence to change the ebb and flow of the entire city was at work. Whispers and echoes have hinted at some movement within the criminal element. If she can get details, someone will pay for them. Someone always pays.
She rounds a corner. The street lamps are busted. "Tax dollars at work," she muses with a quiet smirk. There had some noise about a big restoration project in this area of town lately - something about cleaning it up, fixing the broken windows, maybe some pot hole filling. Whatever it was, she was certain it was just another excuse to soak the denizens of Metro. And people think the people of the night are the criminals... have they checked their sales tax as of late she wonders with a quiet, wry grin.?
She pauses beneath the only working light on the block. It hangs over a length of wall mostly overtaken by tall, thick bushes. Her figure is lean, fit, and her movements almost cat-like. She glances over her shoulder through the shadows surrounding the lone cone of light she stands in. Did she hear a sound behind her?
She's more than armed... common thugs wouldn't be a threat. But there has been something uneasy in the city as of late. Something was coming - it felt like change, and not a good one at that.
Sharp eyes peer intently but nothing moves. She's not easily worried, but caution is rational. She has been poking around a lot. Someone might not like that. A shortcut through the park should lose any potential tail...
Bracing, she sprints forward and leaps, gripping the top of the wall and flipping over with ease to land within the park, feet touching down lightly, long hair falling into place against her back a half-second behind.
The moment that Ayame lands within the confines of the park, there is an immediate sensation of something dark and dangerous. There is none of the maybe-maybenot subtleness of her recent pause in the light. But a shortcut is a shortcut, and a mild sense of unease is likely no deterrant to your average vigilante. The sky is dark, moon barely a sliver and casting the world into shades of black. The faintest halo of silver is between the inky shadows, which could conceal almost anything. The occasional chirp of a cricket rings through the air, freshly awake in the coming spring. The grass is lone, and the few lamplights work no better then might be expected. Now and then a halo of orange gleams like a star, only managing to make the rest of the park seem all the more barren.
However, Ayame would see something that catches her eye. In the palette of browns, greys and greens, there is a vivid splash of red. A crescent arc and splatter. The distinct gleam of blood. And the fact it gleams means it is still fresh, not yet dried and coagulated in the cool air. There is no sign of an attacker, or a victim, the latter perhaps more surprising given that whatever wound created it was large, and doubtlessly struck an artery.
If she snuck closer, there is a heavy stream of splattered blood moving into the shadows towards a small pond. A ragged handprint upon a tree. The person attacked fled... far enough to not be visible from the site of the largest splatter. But to investigate such a thing would be the area of foolish heroes, would it not? A mugging gone bad perhaps. Or a hapless innocent in the wrong place. Either way, hardly Ayame's problem.
Upon landing, she stands upright, both hands lifting to brush errant locks of hair from off her cheeks to rest over her ears where they belong. It had always been a curious point of pride for the girl to wear her hair so long when otherwise she was known to doggedly pursue the pragmatic approach. It could, at times, be a liability, but it had been a long time since a certain Capoeirist had taken a knife to the copper lengths in a fit of what Ayame would sum up as 'revenge over a particularly petty matter.'
It is as she lowers her hands back down to her sides that she becomes aware of something not right within the park. With the vegetation-consumed fence behind her, she need only glance to the right and left to confirm no one seems to be in her immediate vicinity... yet all the same, there is that unshakeable unease. Eyes glance at the cloud-cast sky overhead. The moon will not be an alley tonight. Lowering her attention to the park itself, she slips forward, cautious steps that sink into the soft, sound-obscurring grass. She sticks to the shadows - which, presently, is almost easier to do than staying in the light. Her eyes search for an explanation for the disquieted sensation she feels.
Her search isn't in vain, either. Her steps become even slower, breaths forced to be quiet. She has, at times, infilitrated secure compounds in pursuit of information or items of interest. The young spy approaches this situation with no lesser degree of caution. Her scrutiny pays off at the sight of crimson every bit as red as the tie that hangs loosely around her neck.
One eyebrow slightly raised, Ayame moves nearer. No stranger to blood, it's what oft times follows its release that perturbs her. If there is a killer, that's information. Someone will pay to know. Careful steps bring her around the trunk of a tree, careful not to touch anything with her fingers. This area will no doubt be canvased come morning when some hapless citizen comes across the gruesome scene. And then she stops, exhaling softly, dropping into a crouch in the shadows as her gaze follows the flow of blood in the direction of what she knows from memory to be a pond. She didn't hear anything when she had approached the park. No scream, no sound of violence. Did this happen before she was within range? Or is the reason for that far more sinister?
Keeping low, she steps through the grass, moving over along a hedge grown somewhat out of hand. She isn't here to help anyone. But there may still be opportunity all the same. Her right hand rests against her widest belt just over the sheath hidden there.
The trail goes on further then might be expected. If someone had inflicted a mortal injury, then why did the victim not get finished off? Certainly a peculiar question. Maneuvering around an overgrown and untended bush, there is a more shocking sight. Two more splatters of blood, and grass crushed as if by a body upon it. But there are signs of a vicious, hard struggle. Again, whatever took place here did not end with this second battle. A heavier trail of blood leads in the direction of the pond, silver surface a mirror of the sky. It vanishes to the left around a number of trees.
There's a sense of intense passion here, as if the attacker were in a very violent state of mind. But given the obvious 'loss' on the part of the victim, Ayame might have to come to an unsettling conclusion that they have been allowed to live, rather then being finished off. Like a cat playing with an injured mouse... if not for the seeming brutality of it all which breaks a simplistic mould.
There is something there, however. Something around the tree, where that terminal streak of blood leads. Like she was looking into a great well of darkness, the bottom of which Ayame could not see. It feels almost like chi, but something different then normal. The cold edge of a knife incarnate, a purity of violent murder that lacks even good or evil.
Every fight or flight survival instinct would say to not go near it. But this event would taste almost supernatural, and at the very least entwined with a person of significant ability. The culprit is assuredly close by, if she dared to press on just a little further...!
She pauses at the new sight, staying crouched near the rough corner of the untended hedge. Eyes take in details with precision, missing nothing. This was a fight. She has been in enough of her own to spot the telltale signs. Her mind fills in the pieces that are missing from view, especially that most conspicuous lack of a body. Her senses are on edge, fingers flexing and unflexing as she forces herself to stay calm. A healthy sense of self-preservation urges her to slip away and leave the deceased to their hell and the killer to its passion. But morbid curiosity is a stronger force for now. This wasn't a mugging gone wrong, a clumsy killing in a fit of panic when a victim didn't respect the threats. Have there been reports of anything like this as of late? Her mind races, piecing together any tidbits from news reports or hushed rumors. If there have been other scenes like this recently, she would know about it.
Staying crouched, she moves forward, pausing near the indentation in the grass, getting a fairly good idea of the size of the person who laid there not long before. Her focus follows the trail of blood. The body must be near. The killer? Most assuredly gone, right? Eyes narrow, the skirt-clad girl stares toward the tree that beckons. A hand lifts to brush back her hair again, only it hasn't actually fallen out of place since the last time. It lowers to her neck and adjusts her loosely tied tie a little next. She then begins to adjust the fingerless leather glove over her left hand only to catch herself.
What is she doing? Hoping she looks presentable to a corpse? As if anything about her appearance matters right now. She's stalling, and she chides herself for it! Still. She isn't about to follow the blood trail directly. She'll back up a little and start working her way around and back toward the tree from another angle. It's certainly a longer route, but even her curiosity doesn't deafen her to easily observed caution. She's not gotten this far in life without it, after all.
There has not been a single errant murder or missing person that did not seem out of the ordinary for Metro City. Muggings, gang scuffling, the sort of thing that happens when the city is kept on the cusp of sanity by the angry pectorals of a former wrestler Mayor. That makes it all the more peculiar, however. Is this the first? It might be hard to decide whether Ayame should feel special or not if that is the case. Navigating around, the very trees and bushes that obscure the sight also offers a very good vehicle to be concealed. Coming into it from a less predictable angle, she would manage to worm into the midst of the deep black shadows. There is a very small clearing between the bushes and trees, which offers her a nearly invisible sentry.
Although when she gently brushes aside the branches, Ayame might wish she had not decided to take a look. The remnants of a body are sprawled in the middle of the grass. However, they are so drenched in blood, it's impossible to tell what color the clothing they once war is. And more gruesomely, the gender is impossible to tell either. The body -- one assuredly no longer living -- has been cracked open like a lobster's tail, with violent arcs of blood for meters in all directions. Someone tore into them like a rabid dog for some time, a shocking spectacle that even most fantastical crime shows never show. That oppressive aura still hangs in the air, but no sign of the killer would be seen. It is deathly quiet, the scent of copper and nature mingling in an unnatural menagrie...
"I couldn't find what I wanted..."
A smooth, deep voice directly behind Ayame. So close, the wash of Freeman's warm breath would tickle her ears and hair. It is only after she would react that the stink of blood from the lithe, tall man rushes out. From fingertips to the middle of his biceps, Freeman is heavily covered in deep crimson. His black spandex shirt looks like a butchur's apron, staining down his stomach and upper thighs. Yet his limbs hang limply at his sides, head bowed and obscuring his face in cheaply dyed crimson hair. He has absolutely no presence to him. Like a ghost or a shadow, some kind of silent horror that might vanish with an errant blink. And that includes hostility... in both aura and stance, there is no hint of anger or aggression. Yet that hellish, dark pressure is assuredly coming from this man.
"They tried so hard to live... why did they try so hard...! I tried to make it fast, but they wouldn't let me, they just...!" Trembling hands lift up to Freeman's face, gripping his cheeks and staining his pale skin with paint-like streaks of red. It's hard to tell if he's talking to himself, or Ayame. "When they died... what I wanted was already gone... no matter how deeply I searched..."
Nestling into the narrow space afforded between trunk and bush, the young scout is given a glimpse of where the violence had culminated. There, in the open, is the carcass of one who was a living, breathing individual not too long ago. Brown eyes blink twice slowly as the sight is recorded in her impeccable memory, a gruesome photograph that she immediately regrets. She had seen bodies before, but they weren't like this. Stone cold, stiff, resting in peaceful repose if one didn't think too hard about the utter, futile finality of it all.
The mangled remains she sets her eyes on now aren't like that. Ripped open, ribs torn from their place, extending above the corpse, dripping with still moist blood. 'Oh, you poor damned fool', she muses to herself, breath held, eyes glancing to and fro in search for any sight of danger. Many people survived to the Final Solstice, the late winter of their lives, avoiding the many traps and snares that could have claimed in all their long years. But others, it seemed, were fated to depart so much earlier than that. When often hearing about accounts that lead to the demise of the young, she could snort and pick out the part of the story that would be the last error that lead to the end of their life. Maybe they were driving drunk, perhaps they went alone where they shouldn't, or it could be that they put themselves to the test of the natural world and were found fatally wanting. In almost every tale, Ayame could point out the moment the individual made their Final Mistake, the moment beyond which they were without hope.
What had been this individual's moment? The moment they walked into the park alone? The moment they let their guard down enough to be caught unaware? It was a game Ayame would play in her mind - her way of sorting out the randomness of death. 'Death will not find me so easily,' she had often reasoned, 'For I do not make the same mistakes fools do.' It was her way of coping with the question of death and the horrible unknown that lurked beyond it. Her senses are on edge and that should provide some small element of comfort. After all, her atunement to the ebb and flow of chi was beyond skilled, and her ability to sense and read others a talent she was particularly proud of...
'Well, whatever their mistake was, I'm not about to repeat it,' she tells herself. It's time to go. She's seen more than enough - no, too much, already. Very rarely had she felt as nervous as she does now. A monster was here and it may still be near. Her hand goes to her collar and tugs at it a little. It's not very tight but for some reason it feels like it constrains her breathing all the same.
She was supposed to be a miko, descended from a proud family of spiritualists. Perhaps, if her life had taken a different path, she would be seeking out whatever demon painted this nightmare in blood and bone. Maybe she would have been a 'hero', out to save others the fate suffered by this lost one. But that's not her destiny, she's quite certain. Her destiny is to run from things like this, and she's quite fine with that. What true hero ever dies of old age like she hopes to?
That's when she feels the voice and breath. It's already behind her! Pushing forward, she whirls, a flick of wrist and steel, and a sharp butterfly knife is in her right hand. The gender of the creature registers later than she would have expected, his form misleading with how limply he stands, his face hidden from view. His words are of searching and have a strange tone of long, yet she can't see it in him. Why can't she read him? Someone who had executed such violence moments ago should be as plain to understand as printed word. When the Southtown Syndicate brute had caught her in an alley, she had not the slightest problem reading his intent. But this inscrutible shadow is something entirely foreign! "I don't know anything about that," she replies, already taking a back step. She knows where the body lies and will not veer toward it even as she surrenders ground. She's fast and has escaped many before. His skin so pale, it seems as deathly as the bodies she had seen before now. He traces blood on his cheeks with stained fingers and Ayame takes another step back, already plotting the route of her flight into the dark alleys to lose him. "I'm not like that one. I don't make mistakes." she tries to warn him off... or reassure herself.
"...mistake?" Freeman suddenly states. Slowly his head lifts, and a single eye peers from the shrouding bangs. In that moment, a crushing wall of sheer, malevolent chi. Something that almost seems tangible. The focus of this beast is overwhelming to one so sharply attuned. And no matter how hard she searched, how deep she probed, there is nothing remotely human within. It is violence. It is death. Those two chords echo loud and repeated, struck in a cacophony of differing intensities. Even a mundane person would feel the oppressive menace from this man! And she pulled his attention, for better or worse.
"Yes. You are one of them. Those who grip life with desperate fingers. You are like the one I tore apart...!" Freeman reaches out a hand towards Ayame, as if he saw something, and grasps the air. Pulling it towards himself, he opens his bloodied palm, although it's utterly empty. He still seems sluggish, like a lion bloated on meat who lacks the inclination or capacity to react quickly. Even that initial burst of malice has faded, and Freeman is once more a peculiar void, notable only by it's lack.
"You are exactly like them. Exactly. 'I won't die!' A ridiculous mantra they chatted while choking on blood...!" Slowly, Freeman takes a step towards Ayame, lolling heavily to the side as if the action might send him tumbling to the ground. "Your mistake is thinking the world... is a thing of rules and reason... that sometimes... you cannot just be very... very..."
Freeman spreads his arms, arching his back slowly until his head sharply snaps backwards. Facing the branches overhead, as bloodied fingers curl like claws. He laughs, something disturbingly deep and melodious.
"...unlucky...!!"
That force that emanates out from this one causes her to suck in her breath. A shiver courses through her body, her nerves on end. She had oft heard the casual term goosebumps, a rather silly word by which to refer to what are more scientifically named 'kutis ansterina': a reflex reaction to strong emotion that causes hairs to stand on end and small bumps to form in the flesh at the base of each follicle. She knew the latin for the term, knew the medical reasons they exist, knew the evolutionary purpose of the reaction. But she had never felt them before. For a moment, she becomes alarmingly aware that for all her attempts to squelch the fear building in her, she can't stop her body from under going such a pointless reflex reaction. She lacks the long fur of a cat or dog that could make her look larger when stood on end, after all.
It takes effort to force her thoughts away from the foreign experience taking place on the bare skin of her arms and back to the more pressing threat. She shakes her head at his first assertion. No. She's not like the dead thing behind her, to the left! When he pulls his hand back toward himself and searches his palm, Ayame actually glances down at herself for a split second, as if expecting to see something taken away from her. But reluctantly, she lifts her eyes, forcing her to focus on him. Don't give in to fear, she tells herself. Fear is irrational and not helpful here. Seize the moment - run.
"No," she insists verbally, matching his step forward with a backward step of her own. His next sentence gives her pause, however. "How did you-" ... did he read her?? Did he pull her story from thin air? She's always been able to manipulate her aura, to make others see something that wasn't there, to find in her the exact personality she wanted each individual to find. Even those not sensitive to chi could be subliminally fooled... But that doesn't matter here. A shake of her head, her mind processing a number of possible outcomes, predicting various branches, identifying the best course of action. 'Don't go into the park.' the thought flickers to the top of her mind. Yes, that WOULD have been the best course of action, this dark night. But she forces it aside to settle on the best for now. /Run./
And so she does.
A being of such simplicity is capable of many feats. There is no deception there. Just as everything about Freeman is out in the air, all of the walls, barriers and careful misdirection Ayame normally builds does nothing. Within the annuls of that purity of death lies a sharp insight that is nearly supernatural. A talent one cannot learn. A price paid with his soul, perhaps, to whatever demons lie beyond. Hidden within her simple sentence, her decalaration of making no mistakes, laid a story clear as day to Freeman. Fear is a language to him, something he can smell, breathe, touch, feel, taste... and it turns out Ayame is not able to completely hide such from the creature!
She runs, and the park seems to zoom behind. There is no sense of being chased. No sound of rapid breathing, hurried footsteps, breaking branches, everything that she is accustomed to in her life when it comes to people wanting her head. But Freeman might want something more insubstantial then her life. Yet if she ever glances behind, dancing in the shadows and darkness, glimpses of red from his hair and the covered blood. She is being followed, with all the silent consistency of her own shadow in the sunlight. Every twist and every turn he follows with a dogged determination and no apparent effort. She is incredibly fast even by the measure of those blessed with strengths and abilities that armies can only hope to emulate with machines of war, and still...!
And then there's a sharp snarl from behind. If she looked, there's nothing there. Because Freeman is in the air now; rearing back his arms, entire body coiling like a serpent with the moon imposed behind, like the twisted wings of a fallen angel. Descending like a comet towards Ayame, fingers snap together in a bright flash of chi. There is plenty of time to evade it, but the ground is split open into a large X. Grass parted neatly, with no sign of it being churned or broken. Just how sharp are those surgical blades he created? He is not panting. He is not tired. Some horrors cannot be outrun.
"You are a fighter. A good one." He chuckles, deep and amused now. "How interesting... the very thing you might call misfortune... I call luck myself...! I will open your eyes, girl. To the sheer terror and ecstacy of the reaper's face...!!"
Through the park she sprints. She's evaded capture so many times a lessor mind would easily lose track. But for her, each and every trick of the trade is easily recalled. How to lean into a sharp turn without slipping on the dew-dusted grass. How to time her steps so that she lands on her left foot just in time to push off with enough force to vault a low level hedge. How to break line of sight when opportunities present themselves, taking the chance to potentially lose a pursuant in the shadows of the night. Yet as she runs, she notices there is no sound of one being right on her heels. She would normally take that as a sign of relief - that the killer had chosen not to give chase - but her instincts scream otherwise.
A furtive glance behind is afforded when she has a clear stretch ahead. At first nothing, but then she sees it - a flash of deep red is all she notices before she must focus ahead once more. She drops into a slide, slipping beneath a low opening between to bushes to come out the other side in a skid of dust and small snapping branches, and resumes without pausing. At last a noise from her assailant and she whirls, feed sliding on a patch where the grass has been beat down into the dirt, kicking up dust.
She's almost too late - for an instant thinking him invisible and the next instant realizing the truth of it - but she manages narrowly to kick back with her feet just as the blades slash the space where she had stood. It was close and in the wake of her dodge a slice of the long, black ribbon she wears in her hair drifts to the ground, cut through cleanly. Seeing that proves more alarming than one might expect - for only Ayame would know that a thin carbon wire runs through that ribbon, making it highly resistant to cutting via conventional means. She can also see that covering the length of the park took a greater toll on her than him - the source of that nerve wracking chuckle seems as composed as if he had just finished a nice evening stroll.
Ayame swallows, hunched a little, bracing for a fight that she wishes beyond anything that she could avoid. Somewhere in the chase she has slipped sharp knives into each of her hands. Now that she knows she can't just run, she's forcing herself to study the dark enigma. She needs to be able to read him somehow. Inspecting his body, trying to gauge his strength, trying to get a glimpse of those eyes hidden by the long, dyed hair... if she can see his face, maybe she can understand him enough to predict him. She mentally fights back at encroaching dread that refuses to be easily compartmentalized in her mind. "And why would you do that," she replies, her face framed by long hair coming to rest against her cheeks and against her shoulders. "Seems like you've already done enough of that for one night." A picture flickers in her mind of the bloody carcas back near the pond but she forces the thought out. She doesn't want that to be her final state.
"Death is a thing of beauty." Freeman suddenly speaks with a soft voice, one full of meaning and intensity. His shrouded eyes looking to the bloodied palm, painted from the essence of another being. He could be a deep poet or artist; there is a transient quality to his voice, soft and terrible like a razor's caress. "It only happens once for each person... no matter if they are alone, or being watched by a million souls, it only happens once. Within those seconds, I see the true meaning and essence of existance..."
Slowly, he extends his arm, pointing towards Ayame. "You will be a canvas for me. Rough, perhaps. But within you is the pure essence of the death I desire... a block of wood. I only need... to carve it out...!"
He then begins walking towards Ayame. Arms seem completely limp, listlessly flowing to the left and right like a pendulum. His muscles are not contracting normally. That flow of movement, the center of balance, neither is evident. It is like he is being manipulated by strings, making every motion seem alien and wrong, twanging against thousands of hours of training and experience. He is not moving like a normal human should. Not even like an eccentric fighter should. There is no guard, no stance. Yet for all that, the feeling of danger would rise and rise, in sheer contrast to what the eyes and senses say.
Freeman leans back a moment, still too far away to effectively attack. And then, snapping forward in a blur, he *moves.* Truly, that is the best way to describe it. A loping motion, entire body moving so slow to the ground his cheek nearly brushes the grass. How he is moving so quickly defies logic. Fingers splay, and the world flashes crimson. Grass tails in the wake of a violent motion, aiming for Ayame's body from hip to shoulder.
"Dance with me, girl... we can find the heartbeat of mortality together...!!"
COMBATSYS: Ayame has started a fight here.
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Ayame 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Freeman has joined the fight here.
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Freeman 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Ayame
COMBATSYS: Freeman successfully hits Ayame with Nightmare.
Glancing Blow
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Freeman 0/-------/--=====|=------\-------\0 Ayame
Words are a weapon every bit as a blade can be. Trying to get someone to talk can reveal more about them than they might intend. The more one talks, the more one is likely to betray a bluff. The more you can get someone else to think about what they're saying, the greater chance they will be distracted at a key moment. Often Ayame doesn't actually have to focus on the words she draws from the chatty mouths of her opponents. She knows what they're going to say before they do since they're saying what she /wants/ them to. But this time? She didn't expect to find herself more unsettled by the answers she drew forth than what she had already been through. She was wrong.
"Then this ritual is for you." she replies. It's the best she can muster, the gears in her head working overtime to parse his words and make sense of a physique that shouldn't be. How do you predict something so alien? Does he even have a bone in his serpentine body? He advances on her as if inviting her to attack him, his stance open, unguarded, yet she senses that it isn't as simple as that. If it was that easy, he wouldn't be standing her before her now. He's done this before. He knows she's a fighter - maybe even has a preliminary read on her capabilities - which means he's stalked others before tonight. "How many times..." she asks, "Have you painted?"
He approaches and though she takes a couple hesitant steps back, she knows by now it is futile, merely a reflex of self-preservation that she has to consciously combat. When he leans back, she's even more confused. What could he hope to do from over there? And the next instant, she is dodging for her life! The direction of his attack makes it hard to counter, herself, and the small blades in her hands are hardly the weapons by which to parry his.
She doesn't even feel the blade passing her as she leans back. Instead, the success of his strike is confirmed as she presses the side of her hand against her tummy and feels the moisture of released blood. A quick glance down reveals the extent of the damage. A narrow slit through her skirt shows where the attack grazed by while the gash into the base of her grey camisole shows where he actually connected with flesh. It looks worse than it truly is, as now Ayame is decorated in speckles of Freeman's previous victim. How did he do that? Her mind races to comprehend the way he moves - it will be necessary to survive.
"Ink," she muses quietly as she looks away from the damp, then shakes her head. She has to get her act together fast! She responds with those knives, leaning in low as he had, though not nearly so far. The stray blades of grass from his slashes are just beginning to settle when Ayame's counter attack comes. Her left hand slashes up, holding the knife backwards, hoping to draw a defensive reaction from him or barely draw blood. Her hand is more direct, holding the knife upright, going for a more traditional stab, targeting his right thigh. If she can cripple him, she can get away, she tells herself. Of course, extending herself like this is risky - she is well within his reach now, her speed can't fail her now!!
COMBATSYS: Freeman fails to counter Quick Strike from Ayame with Strong Punch.
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Freeman 0/-------/---====|==-----\-------\0 Ayame
Freeman glances to his fingers in the aftermath. She would expect him to press the assault, but instead he has become fascinated by the new streak of crimson on his fingertips. It is slowly brought to his mouth and licked, manner curious and tentative. He then suddenly twists backwards, the initial slash barely evaded... running a line up his stained spandex top, revealing the unusually lean muscle beneath. His hand flexes upwards and extends. For a moment, Ayame's few is nothing but the splayed fingers of his bloody palm, about to grasp her by the chest. It is most eerie because he did not move particularly fast... an eeriely smooth, premediated motion.
And then her other knife sinks into his thigh. There is no reaction. No expression of pain. However, she manages to duck away as his fingers snap closed, possibly with an errant brush against her bangs. "How many?" he suddenly asks. No sign of limping or otherwise being crippled; despite a bloom of dark red running down the leg of his pants. "I used to count. To try and appreciate every ecstatic masterpiece... but after a few years... only the sensations remain. Does an artist remember every splash upon a canvas they ever made? No. Only that exquisite act of creation...!! And, of course... the masterpieces..."
It was close. But just as she is not the first he has stalked, he is not the first she has fought. The girl's form is nimble as she weaves in under his extending hand, risking close battle with one she has yet to properly read. The knife sinks into the meat of his leg as intended before being pulled swiftly out. It's sharp enough to not have created a jagged wound, instead slicing in, cutting skin, muscle, and arteries, then pulled back out smoothly, without a sound. That should do it, she tells herself, a tiny flicker of relief ignites somewhere deep in her psyche.
It's only after she has completed her attack, slipped beneath the hand reaching for her face, and slid to the side that she realizes he doesn't even seem to have noticed what she did. He doesn't care. All that for no reaction at all? That flicker of relief dies without further adieu. Brown eyes shift to his chest where her distracting slash had gone. Lean muscle, the likes of which body builders would be envious of, yet she's confident this one isn't to be found at the gym often. She stands up straight, flicking her right hand, the butterfly knife closing, before she slides it into the sheath in one of her belts.
"No, I don't suppose they would," she replies as he speaks of the strokes of an artist's brush against the canvas. His words tell her everything yet tell her nothing. They confirm what she didn't want confirmed - that he was wholly consumed by his work. Such dedication might be admireable if it was /art/ rather than murder, she considers briefly.
Ayame's right hand goes up to her neck where a loop of chain dangles. "Isn't there anything else you might want?" the girl asks. "I can get things. Money... I have money, maybe you want that, yeah? I'm not worth anything to you! Maybe I could find someone else for you!" Who hasn't, when staring into the face of the reaper, considered trying to bargain their way out of death? A press of her finger in the right place releases a hidden clasp in her chain, allowing it to slide from off her neck into her hand. It seems each end is bearing a small weight.
Moving her arm in small, circular motions, she whips the chain into a blur at her side. "I'll never be a masterpiece," she insists, "I'm no good at dying!" When she whips her arm out, it is with a sudden force, her arm tensing, her shoulder shifting. Her assailant will find that weighted chain spinning toward him at near neck level. For her part, the copper-haired girl is already starting to backstep away.
COMBATSYS: Ayame successfully hits Freeman with Hijacked.
-* CRITICAL HIT! *-
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////////// ]
Freeman 0/-------/-======|==-----\-------\0 Ayame
"...?"
Freeman looks curious, but in a vague way. Something she said appears to have snapped him from his somewhat single-minded reverie. And then she capitalizes on that moment. He bared his neck, and Ayame tore at it with all the ferocity of a predator. He is struck dead center in the adam's apple. His head snaps forward, entire body bending backwards. A dull thump, a spatter of blood into the air, limbs going askance in all directions. Down he goes, Freeman crashing upon the grass. She hit him as well as she could have ever hoped. That much is obvious. Perhaps he is not so dangerous a predator as she thought... all those openings are easy to exploit!
But then his knees pull up, and splay outwards. The toes of his shoes dig into the soil. And with an impossible motion, he slowly pulls himself to his feet with arms hanging down like a zombie. He ends up fully upright once more, bowed forward with his crimson hair again concealing his face.
"Whether you are good at dying or not... it comes for you the same." he finally offers. A few drips of blood from his chin. She hurt him, but stil... it's as if she didn't. And then he's snapping forward, entire body flowing in another odd motion. Before he swiftly snaps out his arm, at the apex a flash of that red chi aimed. It's striking towards her own throat now, letting out a monstrous snarl more befitting his actions thus far!!
"And our dance has just begun..."
COMBATSYS: Freeman successfully hits Ayame with Vision of Death.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////// ]
Freeman 0/-------/=======|===----\-------\0 Ayame
That was just the window of opportunity she needed. Maybe she won't be able to bargain with him, but perhaps some other power answered her call... As if she believed in any of that stuff. When the chain left her fingers she had hoped to distract him at best. Instead, she completely lays him out. He isn't even trying to stop her attacks. The killer can bleed... and he seems to be wide open so far. Maybe she can crush him after all? But each time she's been close to him, she's brushed dangerously close to getting greviously injured or caught by a snap of his hand... Can she keep this up?
He thuds against the ground like a corpse, not even trying to catch his fall. He lands with all the grace of a boneless sack of meat. Did she knock him out with that? Already her gears are spinning. If he's out, she could capture him. There would be a reward, no doubt, though she couldn't claim it personally, what with her own 'issues' with the law. There would have to be an intermediary... her mind quickly iterates over her contacts. This will be risky but it could pay off-
Then he moves. First a leg, then his toes, and then he's standing, rising up from lying on his back with a smooth motion that she can't believe she just saw. He doesn't seem slowed in the slightest! Ayame's previous backsteps vanish in a rush of motion on the part of the slayer. She tries to react as before, weaving out of the way a split second before he can reach her, but judging his actual range is almost impossible with the limited sample she has to work with. "Ah!" she exclaims, eyes widening at the whip-like snap of his arm.
There is a metallic 'clink' as Ayame staggers backward, her right hand going to her throat and finding blood there. Already it bleeds into her tie, darkening the already crimson fabric. The black collar at her throat is already shorn, dangling around her neck, held by a few threads. His slash was precise and quite potentially lethal. She could be a dead girl walking, depending on the extent of the damage.
But all it would take is to notice the source of the metallic noise when his bladed chi cut her. It seems a small chunk of steel in the knot of her tie has been exposed by the slash... no doubt it deflected just enough of the cut to spare Ayame a fatal wound. It's clear she realizes just how close she came to being lethally cut by the way her complexion pales against the blood seeping down her neck. "I'm not a very good dancer," she murmurs, sounding a little disoriented by the knowledge that her throat is bleeding. 'You'll survive this', she tells herself over and over in her mind, shoving /that/ fear away in a corner for now.
Taking another step back, Ayame lets the knife in her left hand fall limply to the ground next to her foot, the blade sinking in such that it stands upright. Her left hand slips into the pouch affixed to her belt, withdrawing from it a half-foot long metal tube. "And I don't know the song too well," she adds, fingers slipping over the surface of her collapsed staff. She's never killed anyone before. 'Death' is just one of those things Ayame does not mess with... she doesn't know what lies beyond, and what she can't know she fears, though she would never admit to it. A finger-press at the right place is all it takes to extend it to its full six foot length. Maybe she can fight him with the reach of her most believed of weapons, after all, and keep his sharp chi away from her neck. She just needs more power... fortunately, for the likes of her, energy is available in abundance all around her.
A faint crimson aura builds around her feet, subtle at first but becoming increasingly vibrant. Building, it changes from crimson to violet, to blue, depending on what level one focuses on. It carries with it a rush of air that swirls around her, lifting her skirt a little, tousseling her hair, and tearing free the remnants of her slashed collar. Gritting her teeth, fiery, crimson chi flows along the length of her staff, deep blue runes glimmering into view on its titanium surface. "But I'm a quick learner." she insists. She idly hopes that none of /his/ warped chi infects that which she's taking in now...
COMBATSYS: Ayame gathers her will.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////// ]
Freeman 0/-------/=======|=======\-------\1 Ayame
Yet again, Freeman does not press the possible advantage behind his slashing attack. A flick of his fingers sends a spatter of Ayame's blood on the nearby grass, before fingers flex and relax slowly. His breath is coming faster, chest swelling before he exhales out a long stream. Shoulders and arms shudder in the midst. He is building up a rhythm of sorts... although what Ayame might best describe it as is the monster beginning to awake.
"Do not be afraid... fear will ruin the experience of death. I will help you find the melody. You will beg for it, wish for it... and that final moment of release, your personal armageddon, will be exquisite...!!"
He then begins to seethe with energy himself, although the visible result is unnatural. The nearby shadows darken, and he seems covered in a veil of shadows that cling despite being within the midst of the crescent sliver of moon overhead. There is a sense of something else. Something beyond Freeman. A gateway to something horrific, the maw of an abyss for which the serial killer is merely a harbringer. "Come, little girl. Fight the inevitable to your heart's content."
COMBATSYS: Freeman gains composure.
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Freeman 0/-------/-======|=======\-------\1 Ayame
'That's mine.' the thought flickers in her mind when he scatters droplets of her blood against the grass. 'That's mine and you can't have it!' she would say if her less impulsive side didn't point out that he already has taken it, and if she doesn't keep her wits about her, he'll take far more than a small sample of her blood. Instead she forces herself to focus on him. She can't fight something she's literally afraid to look at.
Surrounded by her prismatic circle of swirling chi, she feels more confident for the moment. It feels good to have her trusty staff in hand, its cool metal warming to her touch. But as the girl forces herself to focus on the entity she's trying to fend off, that glimmer of self-assurance begins to wane. Shadows darken in stark defiance of the light that exists around her - a forboding sense of crushing presence washing over the corner of the park she has been forced to make her desperate stand.
Chi manipulation is something she understands on an instinctual level and she has only gotten better at it over time. She also understands it well. She's seen corrupted chi before. She's been targeted by that sickly, miasmic energy that issues from those who taint the world simply by moving through it. But even then it wasn't like this. For a moment, her mind begins to wonder if the man she sees before her is merely an echo of something even more monstrous, but she forces that idea out of mind immediately, worried that if she pursued that thread of thought, she would become even more unraveled! No, focus, she reminds herself. "I wonder if you've ever had someone try to kill /you/. To pursue you with murderous intent."
Gritting her teeth, her feet shift in the dust as she adjusts her stance. She pours her thoughts into her staff, remembering all the times the weapon has saved her before. It can do so again - her precious Anathema. When she darts forward, she almost seems like the warrior priestess she was meant to be. Charging, staff gripped tightly in hand, the energy she had built up following after her, being absorbed into the now brightly glowing weapon, infusing it with a burst of potential, it seems as if a greater power than her own is aiding the girl.
A memory flashes into her mind of blooming cherry trees, a walled in shrine compound, the bark of a man - her father - as he forced her to repeat one specific technique over and over. When she launches into the combination of strikes, her feet are never far from the ground, the girl rooted in place as she brings her shimmering weapon swinging around, her entire body spinning with each strike. This was her father's signiture technique and it has served her well. First a violent swing from the right, hands nearer the center of her weapon. Then a second from the right, putting her whole body into the motion, and finally an overhead, crushing smash from her weapon that will crater the ground where hits if it doesn't connect with Freeman's body as she intends.
Of course, the attack isn't as pure as it was when her father instructed her in it. The staff was the preferred weapon of choice for not drawing blood from an opponent... But Ayame never bought into that philosophy. At each end of her staff where the chi is most concentrated, the crimson hued energy has been forced into vorpal edged energy. "Let's see how you like it!" she growls defiantly while mid-strike. She intends to splatter Freeman's blood across the ground. The chi from her own weapon scatters after the impacts, becoming small motes of drifting energy seemingly blown by a gentle breeze before vanishing.
COMBATSYS: Ayame successfully hits Freeman with Requiem For Fallen Blossoms.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////// ]
Freeman 0/-------/=======|=======\-------\1 Ayame
Perhaps shockingly, Freeman simply opens his arms, and closes his eyes. Those whirling slashes tear into him exactly like Ayame wished, cutting deep into his pale flesh and ripping asunder his already stained and cut spandex shirt. Whirls of dark chi seem to make him rather disturbingly hard to hurt, weapon brought to bear on something much more immobile then it should have been. As his blood once more flows, Freeman's eyes suddenly snap open. There is an anger there now.
"...you dare speak of killing me... only to use such a half-hearted attempt...?!" He sounds genuinely disappointed, lips peeling back to show grit teeth. "Maybe you are not as interesting as I had hoped, little girl..."
And then he is moving towards her. All of what she has built on Freeman is suddenly contradicted. He is incredibly agile, and suddenly intensely aggressive. Fingers loosely spread, slashing twice in her direction. Lazy arcs of red chi follow behind, liable to send a spray of angry sparks if her staff gets in the way...
Only for him to suddenly hurl himself in a short, listless arc into the air in Ayame's direction. It seems utterly suicidal -- until he snaps out one hand, creating a sudden, intense flash of red energy. Then he whirls around like a top, his other hand similarly arching down and flashing another, intending to land in a deep crouch.
COMBATSYS: Ayame blocks Freeman's Crow.
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Freeman 1/-------/=======|=======\==-----\1 Ayame
There doesn't seem to be the expected amount of give as each of her strikes hits home. A wispy figure like his, shouldn't he be recoiling? Ayame isn't the most muscular girl around, but she knows how to swing a staff, leveraging momentum, angles, and every muscle in her body to deliver slams with it that can break concrete when struck with full force. Yet as she smashes and shreads her unresisting target, the feedback she gets along the length of her weapon is as if she was striking something far more durable than what her eyes tell her. The bursts of chi at the points of impact seem muted, as if the coiling darkness surrounding him are consuming them glimmers of light energy, and even the cuts and slashes she carves into his flesh seem hardly to draw any reaction at all.
Retracting from her overhead slam, Ayame tries to make sense of it - she's leveled far sturdier looking foes with that attack than the crimson-haired monster in front of her. When his eyes open in anger, she's even more surprised. Normally that's exactly the reaction she /tries/ to provoke in targets. Anger can strengthen blows but it can also weaken defenses. But... she usually /knows/ when she's angered someone. This seems to be more out of no where, and for a moment she feels like she has to defend herself, "I didn't expect-" Expect him to just stand there and take it. But she catches herself before going any further. Why should she care what the fiend intent on killing her thinks?
It's probably for the best, or else she might have been distracted in that critical moment when she has to defend herself. His previously languid approach to attacking her is gone and an entirely new aggression has exploded to the surface. It's all she can do to draw her staff up, shifting it into the critical angles at just the right moments. Even her formidable aura is only able to ward off so much of the bladed chi carving against her.
Loud sparks indicate her successful deflection of the first two attacks, though the cloth wrapping around her right arm peels away, thin red marks visible beneath it, where her defenses were not precise enough. Strapped to her now exposed forearm is a six inch long blade, nestled in some form of spring-loaded contraption. No doubt a hidden fallback weapon for skewering the unwary. Her skirt, vest, and hair don't escape unscathed either, as scattered small scraps of black cloth are joined by severed strands of strawberry blonde. A small needle slips out of one of the slashes in her red/black plaid skirt and lands in the grass... How many more hidden weapons does she have? She almost takes a mis-step after the initial two sweeps of his hands, shifting her staff, getting ready to strike back in what she perceived initially to be a window of opportunity. But she snaps back into defending at the last second when he takes to the air, her staff once again intersecting what was meant for her, leaving her suffering only a thin cut on her cheek.
The cut at her neck is still bleeding measureably, and she knows that if he lands any more slashes, she'll be growing weaker by the moment as a result. Well. he did call her bluff, in any case. She's never killed anyone before... A true killer like him would be able to tell. But she doesn't need to kill him to survive this. He bleeds, he can be knocked over... is there a limit to his resilience?
"You're right," she admits in a rare moment of complete honesty, "I've never crossed that line." She's crouching lower now, hands moving to the center of her staff where she twists in opposing directions as she charges forward. Her weapon comes apart at the center, becoming two three-foot long poles. The chi flowing along the lengths of her two weapons becomes golden colored. "But I've never needed to!" He hasn't tried to ward off her attacks thus far... as such, she decides to aim for more vital strikes. Coming in low, she jams one half of her staff up, aiming for the center of his throat. The second strike comes as she pulls her weapon back, spinning on one heel while remaining crouched, as she attempts to crack both weapons into the back of his left knee.
COMBATSYS: Freeman blocks Ayame's The Sunrise Of Broken Dreams.
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Freeman 1/------=/=======|=======\===----\1 Ayame
Freeman does not relent this time. If Ayame is expecting another pause for dialogue, she would be dangerously wrong. A swift hop forward brings him closer to Ayame as she unwhirls her staff, turning his side towards her and flicking out another dismissive snap of limp fingers that promptly explodes into chi. A forearm sweeps up, striking the first blow aside and glancing across his throat. Ducking down, her second blow misses home as well, instead thumping a slender thigh. And he's close now... very close. Fingers splay, before he swiftly strikes out, attempting to sink his hand into her stomach. And /grip/; it would be an incredibly unpleasant sensation, if it works! "..." No comment this time. Simply that concentrated killing intent, leveled entirely on the small female opposite!
COMBATSYS: Ayame blocks Freeman's Quick Punch.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////// ]
Freeman 1/------=/=======|=======\===----\1 Ayame
Now that he choses to defend himself, Ayame is finding that he's actually quite capable at it. Her strikes are defended against flawlessly with seemingly just the right amount of effort and little more. She's tiring, she knows, she can't keep this aggression up non-stop. Already the chi coursing over her weapon flickers and dies as she choses to conserve her strength a little longer. His counter attack is swift, brokering no room for evasion as he aims for her stomach with his fingers that have already been seen to slice substances far more durable than her unarmored midrift.
A panicked flinch gets her right hand up in time, her staff fragment catching in the space between his thumb and pointing finger, her muscles flexing against the force his seemingly simple strike had behind it. If she had been a split second later, his blade-like hand would have sunk further than the grazing scratch he managed, but fighting these kinds of attacks are beginning to tax the girl.
She springs back then, having risked close-quarters with his dark presence for longer than she would have liked. Just being in proximity of the undying stalker is unnerving. Sliding on her feet where she lands, Ayame jams the ends of her staff together and twists, turning it once again into the full six-foot long weapon she's the most experienced with.
Her hand lifts to wipe the back of it against her cheek where he had cut her before, but that injury was only a nick. Her hand moves to her neck, pressing against her cut there. That, too, seems to be slowing. She sucks in her breath, getting control of it. And then she's on the offense, knowing he's not giving her much time to work with now. A streak of blood is left on the length of her staff as she slides her dampened hand from the middle toward the end then takes to the air, whipping the titanium shaft up over her head.
The attack is simple, direct, and poweful, and admittedly a touch reckless, as she aims to bring the length of the weapon crashing down against Freeman's skull with bone splintering force!
COMBATSYS: Freeman fails to interrupt Power Strike from Ayame with Overkill.
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Freeman 0/-------/-----==|=======\====---\1 Ayame
Freeman continues to press forward, standing tall with his arms hefted slightly at his side; tense, rather then loose as he normally is, fingers curled. The stance seeming almost vampiric; a sort of dark nobility to it, the tatters of his heavily stained spandex shirt flowing behind. Darkness wells up from the grass, as his mouth slowly opens. Indeed, Ayame would be able to confirm it now... this energy doesn't seem to completely come from /inside/ the serial killer. He is drawing it... but from where? If his chi was simply in the area, shouldn't she be able to tap it, too, or at least better sense it?
Yet the keen eyes of a predator see an opening at last. He suddenly crosses his arms, and then snarls. There is a blinding flash of crimson. Ayame has a miniscule microsecond to shift herself... and it is enough. A guillotine-like arc of cutting energy has erupted from around the man, arms blurring as they shape the path for it. The ground splits clean for two meters in either direction, narrow but disturbingly deep. A better opportunity to analyze the style shows that he has shaped this assault perfectly. The edges are crisp and clean, the energy compact. It would take countless training to manage even a smaller feat... or countless practice.
In the momentary second that a second moon hangs in the night sky, pale blood rather then pale silver, Ayame's staff strikes down and impacts him in the top of the head. He is doubled over, crouching down deep, back of his hands striking the grass to either side of the perfectly straight line carved upon the soil. And then he begins to laugh, slipping backwards a step. He grins, through new streams of blood visible on his chin. "Better... that was better... the spark of life is strong within you. Fight for it!!"
It was so close, she saw, that moment of energy given form, intent on cleaving her in two. How many has he killed with that move, she wonders, realizing only then what he meant by actually fighting to kill. Her nimble body twists just in time, giving her a much closer vantage point of his attack than she would have liked... still, the information her sharp eyes glean from that split second in time is insightful... and disconcerting.
She, of all people, would have the ability to appreciate it's terrifying precision. Weaving bladed chi into some of her attacks isn't unusual, but it's rough, taking on the approximation of weapons without having the form down flawlessly. What her sharp eyes saw in that fleeting instant was far beyond what she can accomplish... and she considers herself a genius at chi shaping!
Her staff strike hits true, if somewhat at a different angle than she originally intended due to the split second evasion necessary in the end, and then she's landing in a half-crouch off to the side. Can she defeat this demon? She had wondered the same thing when the Devil of Koga came to claim her due, but she narrowly fought her off. Will she be as fortunate here, or has her gambles in life caught up with her at last? But now his voice has shifted in tone - is that a grin visible beneath his hair? Why is he amused now? Does he like to see her struggle? That doesn't seem right to her. This isn't a game to him, and it most /definitely/ isn't a game to her. "I'm not doing it... for /you/," she spits the words.
Gritting her teeth, she bolts forward again, this time going low rather than taking to the air. Energy flows into her weapon again, taking on a fiery red-orange hue that lights up the park around her. Her vector of attack is to lunge from low, going for his neck again, this time aiming to jam her staff into his throat horizontally. Maybe she took that slash for her throat personally with how she seems so fixated on his neck now? The girl would try to use her own momentum to flip her up and over him, trying to come down behind him, yanking the chi-infused pole against his throat with both arms. Behind him, she would take advantage without hesitation, trying to drive her knee into the small of his back while pulling back on her staff. Does he need air to breath? Does he need a spine? Ayame seems intent on finding out!
COMBATSYS: Freeman dodges Ayame's Charged Combo.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////// ]
Freeman 0/-------/-----==|=======\====---\1 Ayame
"You fight for life... you do not wish to die... it is thrilling. To be able to take that away from someone. The choice of existance... it is like stealing one's soul... grasping something insubstantial..." Freeman's voice remains melodious, spreading his arms almost invitingly as Ayame bears down on him. Crackling with energy, her staff thrusts at his throat with decisive force. But he hurls his entire upper body backwards, just barely outpacing it. The sudden acrid smell of burnt hair, and a brief moment able to lock with empty eyes, that seem so devoid of color they cannot even quality as black or white.
Still, vaulting over can be managed, given the alternative is being completely open to the horror. But he still tracks her, and despite being in such a bizarre position twists yet again! Her knee strikes only open air, and in a whirl that seems like it should have snapped his spine, Freeman finds himself in a crouch facing Ayame. Before bolting forward low, scrabbling his fingers across the grass and then striking out viciously with one hand. A guiding flow of chi goes along with it, before he fluidly snaps his other arm, a diagnal slash towards her midsection. Loosely his arm then curves upwards before lancing down, with a much larger slashing motion. Yet there is no sign he enjoys the act of fighting. There's a seeming neutrality, like this is something getting in the way of what he truly wants... whatever drives him forward is not passion for battle.
COMBATSYS: Ayame fails to counter EX Vision of Death from Freeman with Midsummer Fantasy.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////// ]
Freeman 0/-------/---====|=======\=====--\1 Ayame
If Freeman moved like a normal man, she would have had him. Her forward lunge for his throat was angled to catch him even if he leaned back, clipping his chin at the very least. But he bends in ways that shouldn't be and no amount of predictions based on normal human anatomy will allow her to secure the hit. She passes close to the face of death, eyes locking for one regrettable instant, before she continues her upward vault to land behind him, twisting in mid-air to land facing toward him. She goes for the knee strike anyway, yet his body contorts once more.... She wonders if octopi have anything on this guy!!
Pulling her knee back, she's got a trick of her own reserved for getting rid of someone diving in so close as to render her staff an ineffective means of defense. A half-step back, her left hand releases her staff and slams forward, palm open, fingers splayed. A shimmering pale green discus of chi forms just in front of her palm, intending to be a barrier against which Freeman will crash before she detonates the chi to blast him away!
But succeeding in this counter defense relies on knowing what angle to place the barrier. In spite all she'd seen so far, she still can't predict the angles of his attack well enough. Her barrier ends up being too high, his initial strike slipping just beneath it, cutting through her skirt into her upper thigh. Unlike his previous attack where she didn't know she had been hit until after she felt the flow of blood, this one /stings/. A surprised yelp escapes her lips, her prepared barrier equally shattered as her concentration, leaving her vulnerable to the two attacks that follow.
The diagonal slash cleaves one of her multiple belts before cutting into her side, the chain-length dropping to the ground at her feet as Ayame staggers back a step in shock. The downward slash shreads her grey camitop and black vest, the latter garment falling to the ground once it's no longer held closed to stay in place, leaving her with the tatters of her top and a black bra worn beneath. But it's the injuries that leave her alarmed as the girl stumbles back another step then drops to a knee, her hand coming to rest on her cut thigh where her skirt parts around the injury. She hisses a breath in through her teeth, her cheeks flushed a touch red at the sharp pain in her leg, side, and stomach. The bitter thought flashes through her mind that she'll be slowed because of this - in a contest where speed has been everything. He, on the other hand, doesn't seem slowed in the slightest.
Ayame gasps for breath, keeping her staff across her lap, forcing herself to look at Freeman directly now. There is no use in shirking or recoiling. As horrific as he is to look upon, she can't afford another mistake. "Is this it, then?" she growls, shaking but trying to ignore it. "Is this what you wanted? What you were looking for back there?" She sucks in her breath, "Well come and get it then!!" she exclaims defiantly, raising her voice to the volume of a yell.
"No." Freeman states, matter of factly. "What I wanted back there was much more simple. An appetizer. You can be a full course instead..." Freeman mulls out, spreading his arms before launching himself forward once more. Continuing to press his advantage, closing the distance... and then twisting around, leveraging out a mulekick at Ayame's torso. An incredible amount of force is managed for it, aiming to hit her in the chest and send the smaller fighter flying backwards. It is a rather simplistic motion, although that does not make it less savage and quick; if hands had been on his eyes too much, the threat of those long limbs might have been underestimated...!
COMBATSYS: Ayame fails to counter Heavy Kick from Freeman with Final Solstice.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /// ]
Freeman 0/-------/--=====|====---\-------\0 Ayame
COMBATSYS: Ayame can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Freeman 0/-------/--=====|
Blood collects on the ground, dripping from the underside of her thigh and running down her side. Her breaths are more haggared, her shoulders moving with each one as she tries to fathom the situation she finds herself in. Ten minutes ago, it was a normal night of poking around Metro, getting into little trouble, staying out of major trouble, the usual thing. And now she's reeling, facing someone who has already butchered at least one tonight, if not others, and she's getting weaker by the moment. Her clothing is damp with her blood and where she wiped her cheek moments ago, her hair has become matted there as well.
But she thinks she can get him with one final counter offensive. It will take everything she has left, but she has to try. She has everything to lose here, afterall. Her hand finds the spot near the center of her staff, a small spark of energy at her fingertip all that is necessary to activate the chi-driven device within. A ring of needles just out from each end of her staff, almost impossible to see in the shadows. Laced with poison, it's her final option. All she has to do is follow his movements and strike... It's been hard to read him, but she's seen those whip-like movements of his arms enough to know roughly how to react to them now.
And when he slides forward, she's certain she has her chance, lunging up to meet him, twisting her staff in such an angle that it would be almost impossible to reach his arms around to cut her again. A few sweeps - one or two would deliver enough numbing poison to give her an edge, wouldn't it? But what she never expected was that he would kick her. It seems almost too mundane for her to measure when he twists, swinging his foot out hard, slamming past her staff into the girl's chest with crushing force. 'He /kicked/ me?' is the tought that registers through Ayame's mind as she falls back hard, staff lost at her side, sliding a few feet across the grass before coming to a stop.
It was a clean hit and she's rolled onto her side, already pushing herself up a little, eyes wide as she tries to get her lungs to start cycling breath again, the organ stunned into innaction for a long moment. They start again with a sudden coughing fit, but unsightly coughing is the least of the girl's concerns now, as she finishes turning and begins to crawl. Disarmed of almost every weapon in her arsenal, bleeding, winded, she's no longer fit to fight, but that doesn't mean she isn't going to try a desperate scrambling all the same!!
The desperate scrabble forward would likely find Ayame thumping against bloodied shins and fine English loafers. Standing directly in front of her is the looming shade of Freeman, staring down at her through his veil of hair. Shadows cover his eyes, but the expression he gives is a light frown. Almost chiding, and certainly disappointed. "You are not getting up?" he asks, almost as if concerned. He would allow Ayame to maneuver around him, or start skittering away. But it is the play of a cat with a mouse. If she tried to fully regain her feet, a light press of his foot would send her back down. And he would always seem able to place himself precisely where she's trying to go. "Will you beg me, little girl? Will you bargain...? Certainly, you cannot truly believe you are to die here...?" He sounds earnestly curious. Almost innocently so. For all the wounds, he still seems rather brisk and able. All of her efforts were not able to push the creature near his limits...
COMBATSYS: Freeman has ended the fight here.
At first she seems to be trying to test his level of interest. She knows she can't fight him and he'll figure the same thing out quickly enough. Maybe he'll get bored? She flips over, crab-crawling backward from him, only for him to be behind her. She pushes to her feet then, trying to unsteadily make a break for it, but he drops her back to the ground with literally no effort. It doesn't stop her from trying, though. She's particularly not interested in what he has in mind for when she /stops/ moving! The futility of it all certainly crosses her mind, but what else does she have?
She starts to push up again when her foot is nudged out from under her and she falls hard to the dirt once more with a gasp for breath. She puts no thought to how she deserves all this. How many times she's stood over others she's bested, how many she's wronged unfairly. To believe that this is karma collecting its due would be to credit her with too much faith in the unknown.
Whirling over to face up again, she starts to scramble desperately back over the ground from the looming figure. He's speaking to her now, asking her questions that she doesn't have the wherewithall to process at first. "Is that what the other one thought?" She never did figure out whether the mutiliated remains belonged to a man or woman, "I bet they begged too, but it made no difference, did it."
She's a dirty, bloody mess, and all the scrambling on the ground isn't helping that any. "I would do anything," she states, her voice a tremor, unable to look up into his face now. "Anything at all. If begging would work, I would do that." Is this just more of the art to him? More of the sum total experience he is looking for? Does it matter what she says if the end is the same? She has no shame so it's not like the thought of groveling for another five minutes of life is beneath her, but only if she can figure out the next step. "How can something like you care what I think?" she challenges back. How can anyone else even matter to him? Almost no one matters to her and he's far more broken than she is, isn't he?!
"Desperate, desperate." Freeman mumbles with a slow sigh. "That is not the sort of beauty I look for. Cease it. You are ruining it for me." 'Ruining it'. She might have another flashback to that wrecked body of a human. It was obvious they had resisted intensely, and that such was quite a dead end in terms of survival. "I will grant you a beautiful gift..." Freeman lifts his arms once more, seeming like nothing more then a tattered, bloody scarecrow in the ambient silver of the moon. He walks over to her with sudden resolve. A foot lashes out to kick Ayame to her back, before he quickly shifts to straddle her stomach. A moment later and he grasps for her chin, moving to tilt it away and bare her already damaged throat. Her arms are left free. It might be a cruelty; giving a ghost of belief in further sturggling. The fingers of his free hand clench slowly, then flex out with a loud series of popping joints...
It's hard for her to decide if 'ruining it' is good or bad. She turns on her side and begins to crawl away again, mind racing. 'Come on,' she insists, 'You've gotten out of bad spots before.' But anything like this? She survived Yamazaki's rampage because of Saint's fortunate intervention. She lived to see the sun rise again when Marise came for her because sheer terror forced memories of her training a child - memories of how to combat a demon - to the surface of her mind just in time. But this killer isn't a demon, like Marise. And he isn't a raging brute like Yamazaki. She crawls a little further only to feel the force of his foot in her side that kicks her onto her back.
His foot hit her where she was already cut and the pain blinds her for a moment, a grimace that passes in the blink of an eye, but by the time she's looking, he's already seated on her stomach, completely overpowering her. It takes a split second for her to realize her hands are free to move. The only infuriating thing is that her last resort weapon is strapped to her back - a mysterious dagger that she's never used before - and now she might not live to, seeing as how her current circumstances leave it beyond her reach.
So all she can do is bring her hands up, trying to get them in the way, trying to grab hold of his sinewy wrists, writhing beneath his form, chiding herself inwardly for her own big mistakes to end up in this final scenario. There won't really be anyone to grieve for her, she knows. She isn't sure how she feels about that. It would be nice, she supposes, if one person would care... More likely, the reaction of any who heard and had dealt with her before, would be that she got what she deserved in the end. There's a certain grim resignation in that thought, for her. His hold on her chin bares her neck, the movement slightly re-opening the cut already present there. This is it.
Aggravatingly strong. Pushing at his face and battering at his chest does nothing useful. Even if scratched or struck, he simply leans momentarily away to evade the reach of those short arms. Freeman's bangs finally shift away, revealing his eyes. Dark, sunken, and not those of a human. It is the first long look that Ayame has had on them. For a few long seconds that seem to drag on forever, stretching thinner and thinner into eternity. Perhaps that is death. A relentless, eternal perception of those final moments that never quite ends. And then his hand slices down, just as would be expected. A cold, wet pain in her neck. Yet he stops, after barely pushing past her skin. Her arteries are all receded, and not nicked by the motion. But she might have truly believed that was the moment she died -- and that might be exactly what Freeman was after. "Did you see it?" he asks, voice barely a whisper. "The face of death...?" Of course, with his hand where it is, only a few pounds more pressure would make it a much more intimate visit...
Initially, her struggle against him was like one who still held hope of fighting off the inevitable. His chest is covered in smeared, bloody handprints, and at times she's tried to grip his sinewy arm only for her hand to slip along it without finding secure purchase. But the longer he sits on her, the less she's able to keep it up. She's lost a lot of blood in the violent skirmish that came before and she isn't getting any stronger.
She would look away if she could. She had never thought about what she would want her last sight to be. She had never thought about dying at all, actually. That was something other people did when they screwed up or got old. What's her excuse? She has to look at him. It's that, or leave this world with her eyes closed. She actually mentally debates the merits of that choice for a moment, deciding that if there is an afterlife, she'd rather go knowing the face of her murderer than not. And thus she looks back up at him, hands still on his arm, though the violent struggling has subsided.
Eyes fixate on where his should be and she tries to shake her head against the grip he has on her chin. Whatever he is, he isn't a man. She becomes more terrified of his visage with each passing second, her struggling beginning anew. How long it lasts, she can't be sure. She begins to regret her decision to even look at him, but it's too late now.
And then his other hand moves and all of her mistakes, regrets, or thoughts cease to mean anything at all. This must be it. Pinned as she is, she has no idea that he stayed his sharp hand just shy of delivering the finishing wound. Of course, at this moment, it's a debate between the slightest bit of pressure or not. But she doesn't know that.
Ayame inhales then. Everything she ever did, everything she ever was, has come to this final moment. There's a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. She thought she would do so much more. She exhales slowly, what she thinks to be one of her last breaths. She wishes her parents would know of her passing. At least they might grieve a little provided they didn't hate her for running away and abandoning everything they taught her. The disappointment in her melts to regret. She would have liked to see them one more time. They never did wrong by her, she was just too... too... too stupid, she decides. Yes, she was a stupid, stupid girl who thought herself too smart for her own good.
She actually releases a short, gasping laugh at the incredulousness of it all. She's still looking into his face when the somewhat garbled sound escapes her lips. Her hand slips, fingers lingering for a moment against his arm before the limb flops against the ground with a bit of a squishing noise from the blood pooling there. Her eyes have lost their focused edge, however, as if she's looking at something just past Freeman. The delirious moment of surrender passes after a moment, however, her expression becoming more sober and ashen. She blinks once, refocusing on those sunken pools of darkness where eyes should be. He asked her a question. The face of death? Did she see it? Isn't she looking upon it right now? Surely the mythological personification of death couldn't be as horrific as his intense vision so close to her own face. "I do." She thinks she'll fade from here. She knows the medical process of blood not getting to the brain - it will shut down soon, she reasons. Maybe another minute at most. "Yes."
"...Hmm."
Suddenly Freeman pushes up to stand. His hand snaps out from her neck. The flow of blood is much more subdued then Ayame would have expected, for having her jugular and arteries severed. It might take a bit of self assessment to confirm she wasn't just fatally wounded by the man. Although there is no hint of sympathy or mercy on his features. Whatever the reason might be, she would likely have no delusions that she moved him.
"You said... something interesting to me. I only wanted simple fulfillment this evening. Although my first victim ruined the experience... I think you sated my hunger for now." However, his foot listlessly shifts, to press down on her solar plexus and apply enough strength to make breathing difficult. He leans down, resting a forearm across his knee. "Under one condition. A life for a life... you will give me the name... of a non-fighter. And they will be my next victim. You can try to be coy if you wish... but I do not want a fighter. I want a lamb. Do you know the name of any lambs, little girl? If you do not, then there is no reason to let you live..."
Eyes regain their focus as he stands. It's hard to make out his features, silhouetted as he is by the traces of moonlight breaking through above. They follow his arm down to his hand. She expects it to be covered with crimson life, the last of her. But it isn't. He'll see the confusion in her eyes. She can tell his act is hardly one of mercy. What then does he want? Is he going to cut on her some more? Drag this out? Why would he delay her death, isn't that the moment he was after?
His foot comes down hard on her and she gasps for breath at first, but manages to draw in air though it is a struggle. He's leaning back down. Is he going to kill her now? The panic that hed melted away in her aceptence of death starts to claim her thoughts once more. But then he speaks of a condition and all of her focus is once more on his words. Right now, they're the only thing that matters. He asks for a name. He specifies someone who can't fight.
Her brow furrows as the magnitude of his demand sinks in. She did say she would do anything to survive. And right now, all he is asking is for her to voice a name. It should be simple, right? There's a countless number of names she could cough up as a sacrifice to save herself. But as she tries to pick a name at random, her mind goes blank. Everyone she's dealt with repeatedly has been a fighter capable of depending themselves moderately well. They may do better or worse than she managed against this fiend, but they would be a fighter nonetheless. She considers many of the thugs that she encounters in her tours of the slums in pursuit of information. Are they fighters? Even the worst of them is at least a scrapper in a pinch. No... those aren't lambs either.
Even her parents flash into her thoughts, as atrocious as that might be to consider. They would be fighters too. Then a name comes to mind and, try as she might, she can't shake it. She feels something in her die. How could she even do this? Is she so far gone as to utter the name of a harmless lamb like he demands?
Ayame swallows, a shudder coursing through her. "There is a girl..." she begins slowly. "She... was a fighter before, but is no longer." Shut up, her mind screams, you can't possibly doom her to this fate. She was never anything but nice to you! "She will be found in the downtown district Southtown Hospital."
She pauses, clearly struggling with second thoughts before she closes her eyes and forces herself to continue. "She is already dying, that is why she is there. She will never leave there alive." Please already be dead, Ayame thinks to herself. Maybe she is dead already. Ayame isn't sure. She was alive not long ago... Please, please already be dead. Don't let her suffer under this creature's touch. "Her name is Kiyoko Fukakami. If any person might be called a lamb, it is her."
It would be easy to see the remorse in her eyes - it backs up the truth of her words. She said she would do anything to survive her encounter with him, even if it means sacrificing one of the few people in the world that tried to befriend her.
Freeman simply stands there, completely motionless throughout the thought process of Ayame. There's a sort of cold, cruel patience to it. There's little benefit in rushing her, after all. The proper thought must be given to a sacrifice, if it's to satisfy him. After the very end, the serial killer tilts his head to the side, still leaning down on her solar plexus. His free hand lances down without any warning. It might take a moment for Ayame to realize that it's now sunk deep in her shoulder.
"You wish me... to cut short the journey of a girl as she accepts her own death? That is a ridiculous cop-out..." His hand pulls out violently, along with a frightful mist of blood that the girl may find herself lacking more and more. "Ridiculous!!" It snaps down again, striking her in the side of the ribs. Deep enough to feel the sharp pang of it making contact with a rib. "Ridiculous!!" A final strike into her collar begins, but stops short. Freeman is slowly panting, hand trembling with an urge to continue. To rip her apart like the other, mayhaps. Teeth are bared with a growing snarl, before he pushes to his feet and steps away.
"I want to give the gift of death to someone who does not expect it. I will give you some time... yes. I might regret... ripping your insides out right this moment..." It seems he is purposefully putting distance between himself and Ayame to protect her. Hands grip the sides of his head, as darkness deepens over his lean features once more. "Find someone... an everyday person... someone who thinks they have a long life ahead of them. These are my demands... I will find you again, little girl..."
Slowly, Freeman bows. Deep, regal, perfect etiquette as one arm folds before his chest. Blood can be seen dripping from his hand -- Ayame's own. "I bid you adieu."
A disorienting sense of motion, for one in her muddled perception. When Ayame focuses on the surroundings once more, he is gone. The oppressive feeling hanging like swords in the darkness overhead vanishes as well. He is gone. She survived. And he promised to be back... to find her, and to get his name.
What might be most disturbing comes when she assesses her own wounds. Nothing vital was hurt or damaged. No nerves, and no arteries. Even her muscles were only lightly damaged. For all of that brutal fight, in the end he only drew blood from the girl. Her recovery will be swift and absolute, likely only a couple days. The cat is much better at playing with a mouse then she might have cared to know...
She cries out with each stab, a burning lance through her flesh, cutting deep. He's going to rip her to pieces now, she knows. She's so relieved he rejected her name that she she's sick to her stomach. When she looks up again, he's backing away, seeming to fight off the urge to tear her asunder here and now. He promises to return, giving her time to find him a name - a sacrifice for her life to continue. She can find someone, can't she? She struggles up to her elbows, allowing her to keep eyes on him as he offers a bow that seems so incongruous with the mood she saw in him only seconds before that she's only futher baffled by the engima of this man.
And then he is gone and Ayame collapses back down, sprawled, eyes on the sky above. The park seems to brighten in his departure though the lights are still every bit as much broken as when she had first arrived. Maybe the moon has just come out a little fuller since then...
Ayame rolls onto her side, pressing against her wounds, marveling at the precision cutting done to her. She isn't going to die here though she certainly looks the part if one didn't have her knowledge of physiology. She pushes up to hand and knees to crawl slowly over to where her staff fell, her mind racing. He will come for her again to get her answer. Is there anything she can do about it?
She glances around her. He isn't here anymore. The park no longer feels like a tomb. Using her staff, she pulls herself up to her feet. A lamb, he demands. She's weak but she's manage to move. She'll need to avoid running into anyone that might want to catch her though... She knows some safe spots to crash in. How to pick someone for him to kill though? Ayame begins to hobble, using her precious staff as a crutch. She exhales as she limps along. She's really stepped into trouble this time. This seems a lot worse than the last countless times...
Log created on 01:02:16 05/11/2012 by Ayame, and last modified on 12:20:16 05/31/2012.