Description: There is a strict, detailed plan. It was a long journey for an executive of NESTS. There were a large range of uncertainities. There was a high degree of risk. But outcomes outweighed risk, and pride outweighed uncertainities. And for a man like Krizalid, outcomes were always guaranteed, plans were always certain, and pride was indomitable. But as he travels along the Noro Express in a private car, a lone stowaway disrupts the most carefully laid out of plans to see a man about nature's call...
The Express is dark tonight. There are relatively few people on the locomotive as it streaks into Southtown carrying a load of freight--something about a shipment of fruit due to the local markets. As far as passengers, only the topmost of the social elite got to book a ticket on this comparitively leisurely cruise on the legendary bullet train. Mostly because every other available seat was bought by an unknown benefactor, agents of whom line the booths of the train from the engine to the cabins. Men in dark vests sit on every row, seeming eyeless with dark visors pulled over their faces, some wielding assault rifles and others bastard swords. None of it seems so ostentacious as the makeshift booth held up near the very back of the train's compartments.
Men in white coats swarm around his seat, making measurements and testing tolerances. Wires run from his coat and underneath it through to the equipment behind his chair, the steel-lined and tubule-riddled thing seeming more a great throne than any simple bench. He himself is a great white-haired creature esconced in the luminous glow cast by myriad screens and readouts from inside and outside his own body. He offers no reluctance nor welcome to the attentions bestowed upon him by his cast of handlers. To the contrary, he is as silent as the grave.
/!\ 47 minutes away from destination.
It is said that of all the great things in the world, fools are the first to act.
Whether this is a moment of greatness, or of foolishness, means little to the hellion that cracks the mold, that twists the greatest of plans for the smallest of reasons. Where there are freights, there are the homeless, the lampreys of life that cling to the mobility of trains across the country. Where there is mobility, those with homes and few principles latch on. Countless schemes were shaken when little men do little things for the miniscule reasons.
For even for the littlest of men, the foundations of nature sigh.
The door to the train car slams open. Whether it was locked, or simply stuck was little matter to the intruder. He had business. He had to act. And while he had low standards already, he was not going to take care of his business in the corner. The Spaniard strides across the car, an arrogant swagger that befitted his outfit. Orange button down shirt, unbound upon his chest, was combined with a roaring rack of abs. The Hispanics gaze to the suspicious men was fierce, no doubt about that.
In fact, he dared them to rise.
For all the guns, for all the legendary claymores, Miguel only dared them. The could rise in the presence of the true manly man. They could rise up, and challenge him. But any sane creature, with a minimum function brainstem, could see that challenge a human like Miguel was daring a straight punch to the face. Miguel strides past white coats, swaggers past the armed guards, with hardly a care across him
%Because he just had to hit that john.
Miguel wasn't a damn hobo, you know.
For the most part, the strategy of boldly going forward is completely ingenius in its simplicity and wholly successful as well--as the Latino strides by with purpose, the armed thugs barely pay him any mind at all, perhaps overlooking him as a member of their own, disbelieving that anyone would be silly enough to stride right into their midst with nary a care in the world or a single pause at their armaments. Perhaps some of the smarter ones are cowed by the raw machismo displayed amongst men of high purpose such as the one that drives through their cars without a care in the world.
Unfortunately, it's going to take a lot more than that to get him to the actual bathrooms not ruined or otherwise occupied by misogynistic seat-raisers and germophobe hover-sprayers. There are greater powers at work, and some of those greater powers simply do not like to be disturbed. Unfortunately, in light of that little wrinkly, there is no amount of chiseled stubble in the world that's going to get Miguel aboard Krizalid's car unmolested.
The moment he gets a little close to the door marking the invisible 'red line' between him and the otherwise forbidden car, a black-sheathed hand checks him square between the pectorals, and a bald unarmed man larger than some football teams stops Miguel square on. Wearing the same uniform as the rest of the soldiers, the man, named Renton, stares. You'd never really notice, behind those shades. "Hold it right there, amigo. What is it about the term 'private car' that you silver spoons don't seem to understand?" he asks, coldly. "Listen, I don't care which Banana Republic you're heading to, you're gonna wanna put the car in reverse and head back wherever it is you came from." He seems about ready to pitch Miguel off the train at the first sign of uppity behavior.
Sometimes, the trouble was that you had standards.
Miguel is non-plussed that his isn't triggering security. That's part of the reason you just do things. People expect a certain pattern in life, no matter how esoteric that life gets. There is something expected. Miguel expected that his confidence and swag would carry him to a clean, unoccupied restroom. But along the way, occupied restrooms. He just needed an opportunity, nobody would muster up the effort to stand between him and relief, he thought.
And sometimes, Miguel apparently was wrong.
As the Spanaird strides through the car, he stops moving. Confused briefly, the brawling stowaway realized that someone was in his way. Focusing a moment, he finally recoginizes the checkpoint that he had stumbled across, at least in partial. As he is stalled by Renton, the Hispanic brawler idly rubs his manly chin, as the guard explains with great empathy why he had no interest in letting Miguel past. The Spaniard listens. He understands.
And Miguel just starts laughing.
The brawler covers his mouth, he starts laughing so hard. "Hahaha, oh man, oh man amigo, I'm so sorry." He starts, still sputtering into his hand as someone stops him from finding a proper restroom to his meager standards. Rapping his knuckles a bit, the notable portion of standing up to a man build like a truck is that Miguel doesn't stop moving. The laughter stops shortly.
And promptly, he hurls out a clean knockout punch.
"Man's got to have a pot to piss in, amigo." He mutters softly as, whether or not the punch actually knocks out, he just keep moving forward. Sure, some people might get put off by him punching out potential security officers. But at this point? He was considering it a grace that he wasn't picking a fight with every single clown between here and his restroom. And frankly, even if the sucker punch doesn't leave Renton in Seventh Heaven?
Miguel was still dedicated into hitting the cars until he is content with a restroom's condition.
Renton, the thug with the heart of gold and the biceps of bloodletting steel, seems entirely unimpressed with Miguel's devil-may-care attitude about the whole situation, as he laughs right in his face. The man's voluminous lips form a long, grim expression across his chiseled face. Entirely unamused, he continues, trying to get a word in edgewise over the raucous laughter. "Listen--maybe you still don't get it, but you're not gonna have a good time of this--so just think about it a little." He rolls his bare shoulders in the socket, as if stretching. "Is this the sort of thing you want to do right now? Why don't you do yourself a solid--buzz off." Miguel keeps moving. And Renton gets annoyed.
"I _said_, buzz of--"
They're the last words Renton gets to say this scene, because he's then violently introduced to the taste of his own teeth. All 260 pounds of brawler is laid out nigh instantly by the haymaker, slumping his body across the ground. This, of course, gets the attention of everyone in the car, and several guns are instantly ponited at Miguel, along with violent orders for the rogue to put his hands behind his head and probably several more rude commands across several languages. Of course, Miguel's not really gonna listen, is he? It doesn't take long of course for the soldiers trail off, and take cover. Not because of Miguel, though.
Because of the electric feeling in the air.
The moment Miguel touches the handle to the door leading into the next car, he might notice an uncomfortable tingling sensation, like static electricity building up in the handrails. Black spiderwebbed light jumps from his fingertips to the doorknob, which quickly grows warm to the touch, if not outright painful to a tough vato like Miguel. That sort of thing won't really stop him for long, will it?
It's not really meant to.
An instant later, the door shatters into fragments, scattered aside by a dark bolt of energy cutting through it like a buzzsaw, with enough force behind the bolt to spray the room with debris and scatter any soldiers close enough to the impactt point of the place so as to be rendered relatively unlucky by the sorcerous blast. In its wake stands its origin, an eerily tall form who doesn't entirely seem human, claws and limiter coils crackling and trailing that same darklight electricity as he walks forward on heavy boots. A thin, deadly gaze rises over a tall standing collar between a great mantle made of plucked crow's feathers, as if to emphasize a deep, deep sickness seen only in dark teartrail-marked eyes. A stride that is two inches too long snaps off, carrying the executive--who is still trailing some cables and other assorted equipment apparently still connected to his body--into the car. If not impeded in any particular way, he'll step over his comrade quietly, as if uncaring, or instinctively knowing the man to be uninjured.
"First person who doesn't explain loses a whole year's worth of pay," Krizalid hisses, angrily.
He really doesn't like to be disturbed.
It looked like Miguel was in a spot now.
Miguel didn't even have a ticket for the train. Unlike most of the fine and dandies on the train, Miguel traded out any dandiness to be pure fine. He had a brutish swag around him as he levels the man with a knockout punch. Guns train on him, the entire train car was riled up into a murdereous counter-attack. But what does the Hispanic brawler do in response.
Miguel just shrugs.
The brawler is already reaching for the door, beginning to step over the downed Ranton. It's almost like punching Ranton was the norm for the man; if they wanted to escalate this, Miguel had plenty of punches, and a quickly impatient bladder. Unfortunately, he doesn't get the opportunity to stride over the downed man.
Krizalid beat him to that.
Miguel was not impressed. Thrusting a chin out, he sticks a tongue in his cheek, bringing a fist to the palm as he casts a look down the man. Miguel doesn't even notice the soldiers behind him; behind him is where the bathrooms are NOT, and past Krizalid, is where his business was. Inspecting the strange, almost supernatural human, a glimmer of dim realization was beginning to cast over him. This was... this was possibly trouble. And he down into the eyes of bio-mechanical -thing-, a smirk coming back over his face.
"Nice muffler."
Miguel looks around Krizalid, passing a glimpse around the shoulders of the man. Oh, Krizalid was tall. Miguel was just taller. The brawler was sizing this up. And what does he do for the benefit of the man he punched out, the soldiers? Why he defends them, of course. "Apologies, senor;" He begins, not backing down as he tilts his head to the side. "I was just looking for the restroom." He states with a devil-may-care tone; he wasn't joking, and he was growing impatient. "If you just step aside, I can take care of that." He mutters briefly, under his breath. "Tengo que miar que mis dientes flotan..." Straightening his head back up, he cracks his knuckles, giving a little nod to the strangely-garbed... well, strangely-everything'd man. "Course, you could just keeping standing there." He offers kindly, looking down on Krizalid.
"I mean, if you're curious to see what happens."
"I see. It's like you all want to work for free.."
The crowd was tense, unsettled, unsure of what to do now that the NESTS executive had made an appearance. As if unsure of how to handle Krizalid, silence descended. Nobody really said anything within the few moments the man in the dark coat alloted, so mesmerized and confused were they by the cavalier mien exuded by the Spaniard. At Krizalid's open annoyance at being ignored, several shift uncomfortably, and it's very clear that no one wants to to be the first to offer an excuse to the man so clearly in charge. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Speaking of.
Krizalid stares sharply at Miguel, an unblinking and jagged gaze settling on the Spanish rogue as if he were a particularly annoying fly that had settled on his nose. The man's smirk isn't mirrored in the executive's repose, not even when he mutters to himself. The executive stares coldly, not moving at all. If you look extremely close, you can see lighted text flashing just on the interior of his pupils.
"Caucion, senor..." Krizalid minds, expression unchanging. "....Tu dientes son en mas peligro mas que de flotan. Los pasillo es cerrado... permanentemente." He apparently has excellent hearing.
Of course, the moment passes relatively quickly. He thinks nothing of what he says, rattling the words off as if reading them from a book. But even as he does so, his claws, sharp things made of tungsten, flex absently. The mien is that of some great jungle predator staring down prey even as Miguel towers over him. For a moment, Krizalid seems moved to oblige as Miguel explains himself, some trappings of dark humor giving him leave to bid Miguel passage. That would have been the story of it, at least until Miguel utters his last, the sort of thing that causes several of the men behind the Spaniard to groan audibly--at least, until silenced with a glare from the NESTS officer.
"Is that so?" Krizalid asks, neck going slack in his suit, dipping chin into collar in a gesture of consideration. "You know," he asides, "it just so happens that I am in a curious mood...." his tone meanders as he says it, before his boots set, and an electric trail crawls up the limiter coils around his wrists, black energy seething at his beck. "....I've gotta say.."
Krizalid doesn't move.
"I'm dying to find out."
There was something unnatural about this man.
Miguel had all the outward confidence. Inside, though, he suspected that he might have gotten way over his head. He was starting to pay attention to the car now, the others. This guy was clearly the boss of this gang. Miguel instincts begin to take over, as he strengthens his footing, adjusting his stance. The response, the warning from Krizalid doesn't comfort him either, even in his native tongue. He didn't like this man at all. It would be, it could be easier at this point to back down, and simply find a corner to handle affairs in.
Miguel never could take the easy way out, though.
"Eh, Caca de toro." He mutters, tsking a bit. "Nothing is ever closed for good." Miguel's expression and presence was shifting in small, subtle ways. The bravery was turning into bravado. Miguel wasn't acting like he was tearing through a bunch of thugs and mooks. He was starting to carry himself as a man who had more than enough chips on his shoulders, and found the man to knock them clean off. As the electricity flares up, as Krizalid's curiosity flickers, Miguel lets loose a short peal of chuckling.
And once again, a punch comes.
The punch is not a straight to the jaw. At least, not at first. The sucker punch for Ranton was intended to knock out without a fight. It was a sense you had with certain people. Krizalid was not going to be a guy that Miguel was going to take down in one clean punch. He could feel it.
No, it's a body blow.
A low punch rises up with the right, a firm underhanded smash aiming squarely up into Krizalid's gut. A stunning blow, and a clean test to see just how much this man had. If the NESTS executive was all feathers, no substance? The gut punch would almost certainly knock the wind right out of him, and leave him a vomiting heap right on top of Ranton. The gang would get demoralized, Miguel gets free reign of the cars, and then the whole bathroom business would be handled cleanly. However, if Krizalid was actually just as tough as the brawler was sensing? If he deftly caught that punch with those clawed hands, or nimbly evaded it?
Well, he might not have time to react to the second blow.
Whether to right connects clean or not, the left has business of its own. Miguel would step in, the Spanish hellion's pure power shifting as he takes the momentum of the gut punch, and stops it dead. With strength and speed merging together in unison, the left would explode in that anticipated punch toward the face, a straight aimed to the jaw. Explosive power would roar out, as he would aim this punch to knock Krizalid flying back.
And possibly slug him right into the next car.
COMBATSYS: Krizalid has started a fight here.
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Krizalid 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Miguel has joined the fight here.
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Krizalid 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Miguel
COMBATSYS: Krizalid just-defends Miguel's Fierce Punch!
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Krizalid 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Miguel
The monstrous blow lands square in Krizalid's middle. Immediately, the NESTS executive crumples around the fist. He doesn't make a sound more pronounced than the clang of a metal substructure shifting quickly as he skids back on those heavy-seeming boots, the drape of his coat shifting with the motion. But it wasn't the same. Everything felt wrong, and slugging the executive in the stomach was no more satisfying nor substantial than punching a wadded-up bunch of leather. For a second it's hard to think that there's really anything in that all-consuming coat of Krizalid's, but that the momentum of the second blow lands square in Krizalid's clenched talon. There is an audible hum, and a crackle of force brakes off in dark branching, snapping lines from the coils around the dark-skinned Japanese man's wrists. For a time, there's only the rolling of the tracks below to be heard as sound.
Every pound of force was absorbed away into the alpha's frame, without even an ounce lost.
And worse, Krizalid is now looking up at Miguel, a readout flickering across his right eye.
He's not laughing. But he is smiling. And no smile could ever look more deviant.
"Hope you don't fuck like you punch," Krizalid notes coldly. "....otherwise I'd have to disagree. You'd probably know of quite a few things that were closed for good." No, it's definitely not going to be a knockout for someone like this. For Krizalid, there's no other alternative but a fight.
There is a sudden and livid heat around the executive.
If only Miguel could recognize the fires of a Kusanagi.
"Let me show you."
Krizalid rolls forward into Miguel, his limbs seeming inches too long for his frame, as he tries to sink claws into the Spanish rogue's fist. His attempt is to hold him still, lock him in place, just long enough for him to open his other palm at his hip and just above Miguel's belt, over his kidney, energy traces flashing down the length and snapping audibly around the circumference of his limiter coils. Suddenly, the blast that erupts from between his talons blows his coat back, Krizalid looking to release Miguel at the same time that he blows out every monitor in the room just behind him, the cables he trails with him snapping and cracking off of his coat and out from under it with a cacophonous series of audible shots, thrashing about behind him and spraying stray voltage and fluids about like angry snakes. The electricity crawls across the deck of the railway car and across Krizalid's boots, causing the entire side of the car to gain a sudden and horrific light as he ejects power violently square into the region of Miguel's kidneys. If he doesn't slip free, Miguel will be lucky to go flying back the way he came.
With where Krizalid was aiming, Miguel will be pissing blood for a week.
COMBATSYS: Miguel blocks Krizalid's Negative Anguish.
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Krizalid 0/-------/-------|==-----\-------\0 Miguel
Oh, this was trouble.
Despite Miguel's arrogant swagger, Miguel was focused on this stranger. The bravado concealed the blend of intuition and perceptive awareness of a skilled and experienced street fighter. Certainly, in his younger days, he was simply big. But he could see, after the first punch, this was very close to his weight class. The man wasn't reacting right. He could hear that hum.
By the second, the smirk was now a snarl.
As the punch is caught cleanly in ones talon, Miguel wasn't slowing down. His right was already winding back, ready to keep heaping pressure on the executive. You get pissed off? You take that anger, and shove it down his throat. As the right readies up, he tries to wrench his left away... and fails after the sharp jerk. His eyes go wide.
And he feels the flames.
Miguel could not recognize the fires of a Kusanagi, but he knew what it meant when a martial artist started tossing fire around. The claw comes forward, pinning right into his abdomen. Miguel had been on the wrong end of tasers before; he could feel the shock coming at the very least. But his mind was racing. It was some kind of... super suit, maybe? His mind was focused on the outfit. He was not fighting like a man his build should; and he was acting unnatural before. This was all new to Miguel, he had never fought a man like this. But considering the circumstances? He does remarkably well. Oh, this was gonna suck, no doubt about it.
But no one apparently told Miguel that.
The hook comes, as Miguel unleashes the punch into clawed hand at his torso. It was more defensive than any shape of offense, the strike breaking contact as he feels that lightning roar in. The electrical energy bites harshly despite the break, snapping at his knuckles as the crack knocks him reeling across the car. The arc of lighting belts out from his arm, a vessel on the arm exploding through the skin as his arm becomes soaked in blood. The lights of the car dim as the bluish lights illuminate the interior. The tall frame of the brawler finally stumbles to a rest a good ways down the car. There is, for a moment, silence.
And there is a groan of pain.
Miguel was, at least, still on his feet, standing by some of the NEST guards. But unharmed? That was not his benefit. His right arm was spasming violently, shuddering like a fish, blood dribbling down in a pool on the train car's floor. His left hand? Oozing blood from the fight against the talons. And that was the hand that kept him up; grabbing a nearby seat for balance, to keep him stable. He stands by as the lights begin to return. He struggles, trying to rip free the paralysis from his body.
And he launches a single straight with the left towards the nearest NESTS jaw.
The trembling ceases sharply, the strike shocking him back. "Madre de Dios!' He exclaims as he wrenches himself forward, lurching back across the car. He smashes his left fist into his right, a sneer over his face as the swagger returns. "Not bad. Too flashy though; you must fuck like a showgirl! You bring it out good though." He didn't like having to reinitiate the fight. The electric charge threw him far off balanced, he had hope the sucker punch would have bought him much needed momementum. Closing in, Miguel begins to whip up a leg back as with his last step, readying a kick straight for the executive's midsection. "But you are better, how you say..."
"Better at catching than pitching, amigo."
The windup stops short. The wound up kick seems to just die, the force interrupted by a sudden, preemptive surge. Miguel was taller than this man, and while he had seemingly unnatural reach (and Miguel was looking at that technology), Miguel had the natural advantage. Not just because he could reach further, though. Because he had control. The kick slams downwards straight for Krizalid's ankles. For a weaker man, that would be an attempt to trip the man. For the Hispanic Brawler, however?
This was an attempt to shatter his shin and ankles.
COMBATSYS: Krizalid blocks Miguel's Medium Kick.
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Krizalid 0/-------/------=|==-----\-------\0 Miguel
With that black lightning still trailing off of his sharpened tungsten, Krizalid straightens unnaturally as Miguel slams into the floor of the car from his energy bolt. An acrid-scented mist is beginning to build on the ground from the severed cables and hoses, forming a dense carpet of pale green across the floor, shifting and flowing around the executive's boots.
There is a certain mien about the NESTS commander as he watches the Spaniard bleed. Every sense of his seems amped up and twisted to its utmost sensitivity, and though he breathes agonizingly slow, there is an explosion tension in his whipcorded frame belying his otherwise entirely languid demeanor.
He knows that Miguel won't fold after that much. If he had, he would have killed the downed guard at his boots for wasting his time before they reached Southtown with a trivial affair of some random unshaven hobo. No, this was a real brawler. If he cared enough, Krizalid could count the number of action cues outlined in his augmented vision, a veritable constellation of tells that show that his rough-and-tumble opponent is well enough seasoned for him. A few of the guards don't quite get that--and one is simply crushed when he gets a little too close to the star of the streets, his body slamming hard into the side of the railcar and causing the entire thing to shake perceptibly, forcing Krizalid to loosen his tawny lion-like stancing, taking one step and lowering his arms. Always, those eyes watch Miguel.
He laughs darkly into the expanse of his standing collar. It is a subtle sound at first, the warm chuckle of a man conceding defeat, a man chastised by Miguel's quick wit. So genuine does he seem that even a few of his attendants start to laugh with him, a meter and tone which he encourages. For just enough time to silence one with an icy glare. By extension, the rest of them get the hint. Silence descends, giving space for his next words.
"Que es no que tu 'mami' dijo ... anoche ... amiga."
You can't see it. But Krizalid grins.
The battle begins awkwardly, with Krizalid stepping hard towards Miguel as the taller, more dominating rogue throws in his lot behind first a midsection kick, but then switches momentum at the last moment. Krizalid pays the utmost attention to the twisting, rhythmic movements of the Spaniard, and any lesser person would have been easily fooled by the change-up. As it stands, kicking Krizalid, even full force with the intention to kick through his shin, is a lot like kicking the steel frame of a car--there's a lot of strutwork running along the edges of his boots, making it seem very much like the executive is esconced in some kind of a leather-and-metalwrough exoskeleton. Even so, the struts fold underneath Miguel's blow, and even crouching to lower his center of gravity and take some of the wind out of the attack, the executive still skids back across the carpet from the sheer weight and force of the Spaniard's attack, eliciting a muffled grunt of effort and irritation behind the blow, when it lands. It's the last defense Krizalid could put up in the face of the stunning and fluid footwork displayed.
He snarls, audibly.
Then the executive leaps for Miguel's throat.
Uncoiling from his crouching position, Krizalid's weight is several times what one would expect from someone of his displacement, but he still vaults as if shot from a longbow, trying to knock Miguel back down to the ground using his body weight leveraged against some subconscious calculation of Miguel's center of gravity. It wouldn't be hard to believe that there wasn't a targetting reticule focused on Miguel's neck the moment Krizalid decided to jump on him. It's almost like he knows Miguel is reliant on maintaining the aggressive stance--and is trying to force him unwillingly to be the defender underneath him. If he lands on Miguel, he'll pin down the rogue, and try his level best to strangle him while simultaneously excoriating him viciously with steaming hot tungsten talons.
It's gonna get messy...
COMBATSYS: Miguel Toughs Out Krizalid's Demon Landing!
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Krizalid 0/-------/----===|=====--\-------\0 Miguel
This was a bit much to use the bathroom.
Rejuvenated by the punch into the bystanding guard, Miguel was asserting his presence. He was even a bit flattered by this man coming out to deal with him. But ultimately, the gesture was so meaningless to him. He just wanted to use the bathroom. These guys were making some big deal about it over what, privacy? Secrets? Miguel didn't give a damn. He almost would be ready to roll over right now if it meant to use the bathroom. But his hot-blooded pride was getting in the way of diplomacy right now.
He wanted to humiliate this stranger in front of his men for wasting HIS time.
"You have a small army, you throw fire out, and you still rely on 'your mama' jokes?" The Hispanic fight sighs as the slamming kick is met with the strutwork of the suit. His mind was working through. Krizalid's skill wasn't discounted; he was showing a great deal of reflexes and responsiveness. But focusing on the hide and strutwork, the idea of a car does come to mind. Knocking Krizalid back, the hot-blooded keeps up the slow, but articulate footwork, striding after the fighter. Shaking his right arm, the spasms die down, control back in his corner. Grimacing, he stares down the fighter, readying to slam the limb into Krizalid.
But he doesn't have time to reach him.
Krizalid pounces on the brawler, latching on the titan's throat. Miguel stumbles back, choking a bit. He WAS much heavier than he seemed. TUrning as he falls, Miguel seems to fall over as his hip, his left arm stretching back to keeping him from falling prone and spreadeagle for the rampaging NESTS executive. Krizalid begins to rip into his throat as he roars into his form like a rabid cat. Miguel gives out a grunt.
And ponderously, Miguel straight back up.
Despite Krizalid clinging to his throat, despite the executive ripping into him, the brawler just hefts himself back upright. As his hide endures against the talons, blood begins to ooze and scatter. But Miguel himself doesn't even seem phased by the assault. Only inconvinced. Body tensed, he keeps in those close quarters as Krizalid seems to be attacking something Miguel doesn't even seem concerned about. And with the tall man on him, his eyes stare down as the man ripping into him. Oh, it was getting messy.
But Miguel wasn't scared of messy.
With Krizalid still up close. Miguel hurtles out a jab with the right fist, aiming another body blow into the man frantically roaring into him. With the left, he hammer a bloodied jab straight around to the exact same point: If the first hit was like hitting a car, the second would be punching through that chasiss. You don't break a wall by hitting different parts, you break it by hitting the same spot over and over again. He was fighting to assert control over the momentum;
And that meant scraping him off.
The first two were to stun, and the last was to finish. The right arm comes back around. Whether the jabs landed, whether they were blocked, or even if Krizalid pulled away, the third strike was coming. The overhand haymaker comes roaring down, aimed squarely for the muffler-wearing stranger's collar. Should it land, he was well and intended to hammer him straight down through the floor.
And maybe even into the tracks.
COMBATSYS: Krizalid blocks Miguel's Spring Hammer.
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Krizalid 0/-------/---====|======-\-------\0 Miguel
"Oh, I'm sorry," Krizalid snickers.
"Did I hurt your feelings?!"
The comeback might not be noticed, because Krizalid is hissing it in Miguel's ear as he tries to tear his throat into a series of very festive ribbons. In that sort of a scenario one could be excused for not paying much attention. In close quarters, the man is unconscionably vicious, all weight and rending talons. But even a lion will have trouble with a buffalo if the buffalo is old and wizened enough. When the rogue lifts from his position, Krizalid finds his boots drifting from the ground, dragging along as Miguel titanically rights himself, leaving the executive scrabbling for purchase against his flesh and tearing long shreds of his already-disheveled clothing.
But truthfully, the only way the grip of four hands can be broken is when Miguel slams a fist into Krizalid's middle again, checking him and causing the bizarrely-constructed man to cough violently as Miguel drives him back by force, stunning him just long enough for the second to land as well, and by this time, Krizalid feverishly grasps for purchase on the rogue's outstretched arm--there is an audible crack in his midsection, and it is clear that he felt, at least, that singular blow. The clone is brutally thrown back, for a moment following Miguel's rhythmic plan of attack perfectly, giving him just enough room to stride into the opening to deliver that haymaker punch--!!
The blow is cataclysmic--the plates of the flooring beneath them buckling as Krizalid's boots crumple it beneath the doubling of his weight by route of Miguel's deadly force. But Krizalid himself doesn't move. Miguel's fist is bunched hard against the flat of Krizalid's palm, the executive locking his elbow into the crook of his other arm, bending his intervening limb at a right angle to absorb the blow from Miguel's right into his frame and all the way through to his boots. Beyond the collar, only Krizalid's deadly serious eyes can be seen. He breathes slowly, evenly, despite a churning pain in his midsection. It takes some time for him to speak, for him to find the breath to do so.
"You know," the executive begins, conversationally..
"I don't think you've been hurt enough yet to realize what sort of trouble you're in."
He shrieks suddenly in a battle kiai of resolve, the executive abruptly exploding into motion. He shoves Miguel back by his own haymaker brutally, suddenly stretching a leg wide to throw out an angled roundhouse kick at such a high declination that it would never had hit Miguel even if he had been at point blank range. The feat of flexibility is not just for show, though--a curve of wind slices through the nominally still air following Krizalid's boot, and becomes a charged energy twister between the two, a vicious whirlwind that shreds the weave of the dense industrial carpetting beneath their feet, and churning the mists hanging at the hip into a visible cyclone, ripping tables and chairs in half and throwing unwitting guards to the ground in shreds and tatters as Krizalid throws off the massive car-filling power-charged tornado from his kick right down the aisle towards Miguel.
The force of it throws Krizalid a little bit back. The whirling blast itself is massive, the size of Krizalid himself, and the viciousness and speed with which he throws it makes it clear that if he were to take any other target in the room other than Miguel, he could easily rip through the train car itself.
COMBATSYS: Krizalid successfully hits Miguel with Typhon's Rage "S".
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////// ]
Krizalid 0/-------/--=====|=======\=====--\1 Miguel
In raw physically, Miguel was dominant.
With the first two blows, he could see that the man was breakable. His defense was in his technique, his offense in the unnatural energy and augmented talons. But as Krizalid tears and hisses, Miguel is non-plussed. As long as it was a physical matchup between the two, the Hispanic brawler would win. He was too strong, too tough. Even as Krizalid catches the man's third haymaker, Miguel is not concerned. He felt the damage those two punches unleashed. Krizalid would eventually break if he kept taking those punches. It was still clear that Miguel was dominant for physical purpose.
But the chi?
That was another story.
The high kick comes, more flash than substance, and for the brawler, an opening. The kiai shout was the warning. The mists were the signal. And Miguel charges towards Krizalid. Chi, in many ways, was just like a man with a gun. You force yourself close. You force yourself in a position where it isn't pointing. And there, you disrupt it.
He was running to get past him. Miguel's strong body was powerful, and while most wouldn't call him nimble, he was fast. And he could run. He could sense the soldiers around him taking cover. There would be no cover behind him. Miguel leaps through the air, leaping towards Krizalid's right, Miguel's left. Diving for the wall, he lands a foot on it. With a great heft, he kicks off the wall, parallel to the executive. For that brief moment, Miguel tosses a gritted expression towards Krizalid as he tries to slip past the maelstrom of energy. His open shirt begins to ripples as the wind take hold. Grit turns to dread.
Before he is torn down the train car.
An arm lashes out to the sound of shattering glass and twist metal. The lights of the car go out, dead. The howling of the outside fills the car as a blood-stained wound is ripped open. In the fallout of the blast, the Spaniard collapsing in a heap of chairs and tables merely halfway across the car. The catch from his hand slowed down his travel, and made the distance less horrific. But the cost could be seen by the freshly soaked blood and open flesh of his left arm. Miguel writhes like a shot beast, a wounded animal cast into the remains of his peers. He grunts, he groans, with no real sounds forming.
But he rises again, stubborn as ever.
A short collapse comes after the first rise. He blacked again. As he goes into shock, his body responds the only way it knows how in a blood brawl like this. He punches tables, unconscious or even dead guards. He punches around viciously, blindly, wantonly, rising back up from a stand, before collapsing back down. He was punching to make it real, to make it exist. He was punching his way back into the conscious world. Every step he took towards Krizalid was a step into the darkness. But every blind punch was a step back into the light. By the time he reaches Krizalid, he was tenaciously into the light. And there, a rumble comes as Miguel opens his bloodshot eyes to focus down into his opponent's own. "Trouble?"
"Don't care, amigo."
Miguel wakes up with a lunge with the knee, his long and powerful arm sweeping in to get grips on the executive as he stabs it in. Should he make the grip, he will wrench that arm at both the elbow and the shoulder, dislocating as he tries to force Krizalid down. With the wind screaming into the car, he will then knee Krizalid in the face cleanly, and whipping his other leg around, hammer down his heel violently straight into the back of Krizalid's neck. And there, he will stand above him, glowering down.
After, of course, flipping him faceup with his foot.
COMBATSYS: Miguel successfully hits Krizalid with Bounty Beat.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Krizalid 1/------=/=======|=====--\-------\0 Miguel
Krizalid slowly lowers his arms, his claws flexing at his sides.
Of course, he had zero concern that the Spanish brawler would ever successfully make it to him. The number of people who even could circumvent the massive bone-grinding wave of his powerful sutra he could count on a single hand. The number of people who could withstand it were even fewer. Anyone short of his own superiors would be hard pressed to remain standing against the slicing formulation he let loose into the train, let alone guard against it. In any case, the situation proceeds exactly as expected.
The Spaniard collapses into a pile of furniture at the eye of his cyclone, as the charged energy rips massive twisting ribbons of metal from the roof of the railcar. And Krizalid doesn't even move an inch. In the dying wind, the clone's eyes narrow coldly.
"The masters of darkness don't abide fools. What makes you think there's anything less than an impassable chasm between our relative power levels."
It's not a question. "What makes you think that you get to leave here ali...?"
Krizalid trails off as the Spaniard rises, apparently by the pure will of beating the shit out of any inanimate object unlucky enough to be standing in close proximity. Several of his attendants get knocked over from scattering bodies and furniture, and several more trip over themselves trying to get away from the clearly-rabid Latino rogue as he rages back out of shock and into consciousness, to surge up over Krizalid, and into his face. The last thing Krizalid notices is not the bloodshot eyes of the prideful brawler, but the fear in the eyes of his subordinates eyes as they start to think that maybe the fighter was too much even for the executive officer.
That angers him.
Unfortunately, it also distracts him just enough to get kneed in the midsection, muscles finally felt beneath Miguel's blow simply by the sheer depth of his attack, a shattering groan filling the railcar as Krizalid's eyes roll back into his skull from the cataclysmic damage, the rest of the world blanking out except for the data flashing across his wired optical wetware. Myriad warnings and status indicators flash across his vision, with what is probably the first substantive readout of damage he's incurred since the fight began. Krizalid finds his cheekbone driven into the shredded carpetting by the back of his neck, and he hears for a moment what he is sure is the snapping of his own neck. But his body still responds to his whim, and when he's flipped, and Miguel towers over him, he focuses only dimly on the man.
Time spins for a moment, and the executive appears insensible. The readouts, the piercing glare, all of it was completely insensible to Krizalid. He only saw his associates, being beaten. His guards, being knocked out. His dogs fearing someone else.
that won't do.
The rogue will notice that prior heat from before in the form of a single twisting ember, a bit of carpet fiber hanging in the air until it burst into flame and then glowing ash. For it to do so instantly is a curiosity, until the source hits him a moment later--the heat around Krizalid amps up until it becomes almost intolerable instantly, eating away at his coat, and causing his body to smoulder. Until he spontaneously combusts, his entire body becoming a deadly pyre of the hottest flame. It would be lethal to stand too close. For a moment, it's easy to think that some part of Krizalid's body went critical and caused him to burn up. Until you see movement in the fire.
Every limb is too long, his body a dark energy-laced shadow in the midst of the flame. The thing rises. There is no more coat, it being incinerated off of his body instantly in the conflagration, leaving only the dark black shell of his form-fitting suit, shot through with biomechanical augmentations and fibrous metal, light tracing from toe to talon with energy and data. Only that light can be seen, and the whites of his eyes, staring out viciously from inside the corona of heat. It burns everything in his vicinity--tables melt to slag, and his very presence vaporizes the carpetting beneath him. The heat melts Krizalid's boots straight through to the metal substructure, not burning through only because heat rises--and the steel skin overhead is beginning to flow like syrup, drooling glowing white droplets of molten metal down around him. In that twisting riot of fire, the black form of Krizalid can easily seem a demon--his white edged grin flashes in the dark.
To his guards and attendants, those that are still conscious; "Leave."
In less than four seconds, Miguel and Krizalid are the only conscious people aboard the traincar. It may occur to Miguel, in some part of his brain, that Krizalid banished his attendants for a reason. He's welcome to act on it, as the demon executive's sadistic grin fades away like a moth in the candleflame, to a more somber look. A temperature indicator in his display indicates a potential power overload, and that heat amps up. Krizalid's technology is unquestionable--he has managed to channel electricity, negative force, wind and now fire chi all within a few seconds. It's hard to tell what part of him even is natural--if any part even is any more. But this fire... it's clearly something on an entirely different scale than what he's been flinging around before. It's on a whole different strata. Krizalid didn't send them away to make sure they didn't see Miguel hurt him any further.
Krizalid banished his colleagues because otherwise, none of them will survive what he's about to do next.
"Burn this image into your eyes forever. And know who not to fuck with!!!"
Krizalid sets loose with just a taste of the Kusanagi power. His body goes into overdrive to channel the massive flame aura into a pair of rending slashes running cruciform across the entire length of the train car. Everything that flame touches melts away. Furniture is vaporized, entire walls are sliced in half, and the executive flays that entire half of the car clean open, as if gutting a gigantic fish. In a single flash of coruscating vicious light, Krizalid lays waste to everything. With the devastation coming just shy of threatening the adjacent car, soon there's not much left to stand on in this car other than the electrified axles and connective equipment of the bullet train, massive sections of molten steel bulkhead tumbling off into the countryside leaving trails of scorched grass and smouldering fires.
Everything behind Krizalid is mostly intact.
Everything in front of him is just about gone.
COMBATSYS: Krizalid successfully hits Miguel with End of Heaven.
>> Decisive Hit!! <<
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /// ]
Krizalid 0/-------/------=|=======\===----\1 Miguel
Miguel had plenty of pride, that much was certain.
Pride brought him back into this fight. Pride brought him into this fight. Pride was not something that was lacking between Krizalid and himself. Pride let him leave his family. Pride is what brought him back. He had only swallowed his pride once, and it was for the most important person in his life. He was rewarded for his modesty when she was murdered as a matter of incident. Pride and anger was what fueled him these days. Pride was what brought his rise.
And pride would be his downfall.
As he flips Krizalid face up, a coy smirk pulls at this side of his lips. The Spanish man had finally cracked the finesse of the man. For all his body armor, for all his 'supersuit' tricks, and for all his reflexes, Miguel eventually finds a way to crush it into dust. He was no god like Shenwoo. But he was in the same leagues as that hellion. Looking down at the executive, Miguel's guard was down, a limb loosely hanging forward. Gracefully, at least for the titan, he begins to ready a finishing heel drop, whipping his leg back.
But he takes it back when the flames come.
His foot retracts as he recoils away, the man seemingly combusting These were hot as a kiln. These weren't the fire. He backs up, street smarts coming in. This was not the same energy before. As the survivors file out, he just stares at the unnatural creature that had revealed itself in hellfire, that was rising from his ashes. Miguel express fades into rage. Rage, however, was only the mask for Miguel's true emotion: terror. He balls up his fists, mustering up enough bravado to ignore the face of the fire, and charge in with punches.
And then the ceiling begins to melt.
Miguel had not considered, through this entire fight, that his opponent was holding back. Whatever this was, this was NOT holding back. The fight for Miguel takes a dramatic turn within, as he realizes what he just opened up. This wasn't a fun brawl between some smart-ass boss. This was the Spaniard turning up a rock, and finding the devil underneath. This was a matter of life and death. The brawler backs towards the open gash, the wound he tore open earlier in the hull. There were scant places to go. Turning towards the window, the man casts a glance too quickly. Death or death. Miguel was looking at a choice between risk or certain death. The fires unleash down the car passage.
And Miguel leaps for it.
Jumping out of the window, he reverses himself around, clinging to the window sill as he dangles into the open air. The winds outside cut into his stony body, his arms tight as he clings to the side with dear life. It was the tempest again, in his head, only hotter. But the brawler underestimates the power of the Kusanagi. That much becomes clear as the rest of the car begins to turn to slag. His knuckles couldn't feel the pain anymore. His palms were beginning to go through the same cycle of pain into numbness. When he falls, Miguel will claim it wasn't because he wasn't tough enough. It wasn't because the heat of the slag was igniting his clothing.
He will claim it was because the window sill melted in his very hands.
Tumbling off the side of a moving train is dangerous. Tumbling off a moving train that is clocking in at over 80 MPH? Suicidal. And yet, amongst the searing hot slag that rolls off the hill, the fiery form of a man hurtles off the now exposed car. Tumbling down the hill, it bounces too many times as it rolls. Miguel body was not apt for acrobatics like this, and even a man as tough as him blacked out at least twice during the fall. It would have likely been fatal if fate chose his landing poorly.
Mercifully, fate allows the form to come to a rest into a heap of brambles.
Most of the clothing was in tatters. The body? Well, at least the bleeding wounds were burnt over. The Hispanic brawler still manages to sit upright, after the tormenting tumble. He wasn't conscious set, he was building to that. He had an advantage, physical. He could have crushed that man in a fair fight. But that energy.... all that energy made a difference. Miguel throws out a punch. He catches nothing, and dips back into the darkness. He emerges again with a feebler punch, catching nothing. As the third comes, it gives up halfway as his arm goes limp. He was tired. He was weak. And as the blackness consumes him, the train shooting away in the distance, he musters his last word.
"Fine. I'll find a tree."
And with that, Miguel falls over on his back, passing out.
COMBATSYS: Miguel takes no action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Krizalid 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Miguel can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Krizalid 0/-------/------=|
Steam and smoke trail from every line of Krizalid's suit, remnants of the discharged fire still curling the edges of the railcar in spiritually-invoked heat. The smouldering trails of his Kusanagi's fire aftermath twist around him in crazy lines as he straightens, due to the vacuous whirl of the railcar. It is not at all the calm before the storm--it is the storm itself, as air floods into the suddenly-and-violently open compartment, chaotically sucking out what few papers and vestments that haven't been burned away in the cruciform fire that Krizalid tore the railcar in half with.
Despite the mayhem whirling about in the cabin, Krizalid stands straight, his face a contorted mask of steely and just barely repressed anger. Snapping in quick, lucid motions, predatory eyes scan the cabin, to make sure that the data being received off of his suit's telltales was accurate--that the Spaniard jumped out of the window just before his blades struck open the car. He was expecting it, had intended on laying waste to the entire car to make sure that there was no place to run to, no place to hide. He picks his way across the substructure of the car, kicking each strut purposefully, as if to test its tensile strength as much as it was to root out any potential worms. He didn't see a charred corpse or a preponderance of Spanish ashes and charred bones caught in the rails, so he only had to assume the fighter was still alive.
That annoys him.
Slowly running his talons across the wrists that formerly were sheathed in the burnt-away power limiting coils, Krizalid glowers as the data from the fight makes its way to his cortex wetware, trailing in slow deliberate lines from every sensor on his battlesuit. It would have been enough to completely annihilate the Spaniard. If it were a direct hit. Given that he escaped at the last moment...
Krizalid growls. A small beep chatters over the sucking din, the signal that an onboard communications array has been activated.
"Listen up. That was the price anyone will pay for worshipping a greater god than NESTS. Anyone who defies the word of the leader, anyone who fails to measure up... will get more of the same.." Krizalid hisses venomously across the array, his voice amplified across the controlled cars of the expressway.
"Come get those who haven't been burned away. I'm going back to my alcove. I'm _not_ to be disturbed until we reach Southtown..."
************Time Passes************
A police car and an ambulance is parked beside the train tracks. A local called in at the appearance of an explosion on the train tracks. Naturally, the reports from the Noro's denied any sort of accident. But Detective Zenigata suspected something was up. Explosions on the Noro were hardly the materials for a prank.
And frankly, he didn't even know what he saw.
The hardened slag at the side of the tracks was gingeringly picked up with gloved hands, and placed into the plastic bag. His partner, a local police officer, holds up the flashlight, shaking his head. "It's the strangest thing detective. It looks like an explosion happened here, but the train is all right. Any we've seen some scraps of clothing, and a few bones, but the remains are very badly burnt. Maybe it was a failed terrorist attack, or an arson that backfired?" As the police officer prattles on, the detective just focuses on the evidence. The scraps and remaining bones would be taken to the lab. But the whole thing was suspect. His eyes goes wide, his head turning towards the woods. And briskly, he silences his partner. "Hush!"
"Do you hear that?"
The detective raises a hand up, his eyes snapping to and fro as silence fills the grounds. And there it was. The sound of a hose running, pouring thick wet slaps against the muddy ground. The deep tapping that was idly filling the night air draws the detective rushing to the woods. A survivor? Or perhaps, an instigator. The police officer follows as the pair rushes into the forest. They force themselves past the brambles, still clinging to scraps of clothing. They go past the tree line, gingerly striding through the impossibly thick patches of crabgrass that was choking the ground. And the detective pauses. The police officer pauses. And there, they stare in horror.
The dark silhouette of a giant stands before them.
It's back was turned. But the smell was strong. It akin to a cross between blood and jet fuel, an acrid mix that was choking the very air. As the detective's eyes adjust to the darkness, he could see it's back was to it... and it was holding something. The pattering rush continues as steadily, the titan's arms begin to rise up, reaching high over it's head, as it lets out a horrific moan.
The police officer snaps a light to the figure.
The detective gasps as the titan turns around. And there, beaten and bloodied, Miguel stands tall, and finally fulfilled the act he had nearly been killed by Krizalid over. And he was not quite done yet. Hands still stretched out, it was freely hanging out in the open, working it's gorging gush with the force of a racehorse. As it begins to die down, Miguel's eyes were rolled back in his head. The man looked... looked well pummeled. But as he finally takes care of business, without missing a beat, he stares into the pair of men as he sighs.
"Hey! Can't a man do his business in peace?"
Log created on 04:44:00 07/12/2013 by Miguel, and last modified on 03:35:08 07/17/2013.