Life was real. One knows this by the perceptions that get filtered by their brain into their consciousness, whatever that really is. Scientifically speaking, everything there is to be seen or sensed is just a pulse of electrons interacting in many millions of different and phenomenal ways. The mind is a powerful force to be reckoned with for it is what grounds sentient beings--that which transcends the divine and eternal universe and allows one to exist in the realm of the dead and dying. To the extent to which one is trapped in one's own mind, who is to be sure that any specific instance of experience is real or just artificially conjured mental sensations?
Ace writhed in a tangle of blankets, planted his head deep in the comfort of his pillow. For years following the war he had had trouble sleeping, uncontrollable insomnia. His regrets and recollections caused his mind to race, ever faster and ever more uncontrollably until one day he snapped. Something in him broke, an attachment that allowed him to still consider himself human despite all the death he had witnessed or been a part of. After that his gaze was empty all the time, his mood lethargic or depressed, his temperament irritable and the company he kept scarce. He lived alone in a picturesque mountain landscape, a log cabin perched upon a high precipice that scraped the clouds. He could sleep now but it was intermittent and broken, his dreams crowded with unsettling images of times past. Often times he'd wake up right at the point of the inevitable conclusion: his own death. Nightmares had become more real and frightening than anything he'd experienced in life.
He found himself now in a misty snow blanketed valley. Massive spruce trees and towering redwoods made a maze of the forest floor. Behind him, the terrain took on a steep upward pitch and the tree cover became more sparse as they struggled to survive on the edge of the rocky crags. In front of him, Ace could make out little between the broad trunks of trees. Wildlife chatted loudly all about him. He could feel the coolness of the mist that hung about him and smell the decay of leaves buried beneath a dusting of snow. But in his lightweight black gi and mobile combat boots he did not shiver. He fingered the frost covered hilt of his blade, Elegant Demise, which he did not remember removing from his cabin. In fact, he did not remember at all what he was doing here. Conflicted and confused, he scanned the landscape curiously for a sign.
OOC: Love the opening – it's poetic and fun to read without being over-flowery or confusing. It paints the scene simply and beautifully and is still to the point. And what's more, it's a setting that is all-too-perfect for Strike to enter.
The wind, or what breeze blew thereof, halted. Ace looked to the sky, which was clearing, the snow clouds scattering to the whims of a powerful sun. Yet another point of light shon in the blue curtains of the heavens – like a stubborn star which refused to blink out with the coming of day. This was me, Strike, Guardian Angel and bringer of Heavenly Retribution.
Below me; my charge. Ace; a fantastic warrior whose bravery and stature have been proven many times in the past, now faltering under the memory of violence and destruction. I must say, I knew something on the subject. I knew how the scenes of blood and screams of the dying haunt the dreams of the innocent man who had seen the unspeakable. Therefore, it is I who answered the call of heaven to this charge.
I descended like a comet to the ground, a small explosion upon impact blasting snow and earth into mounds around the mini-crater at my feet. The warmth of my entry (having just blazed harmlessly through the atmosphere) caused drifts close by to steam from the contrast, billowing about me in thick misty clouds.
A simple gust of wind took care of that. Ah, now I could see him clearly. I looked across to the warrior himself, all decked out in jujitsu fashion with combat boots. 'Ah, memories,' thought I to myself. Meanwhile, I should have thought of something better to say, because he stood there staring awkwardly at me.
[color=lightgreen]“Er... Hi.” I said. See what I mean?
“I perceive in your dreams and thoughts that you are battling against something within, and I have been sent to help.”
“What makes you think I need your help?”
“Come now, we all need help. This isn't something you got into yourself, and it's not something you can deal with on your own either. Take it from me, I know.”
“Oh? You know, do you? How could you? How could you even fathom the regrets, the constant whys and what-ifs that pick at my brain every time I relax?”
“You'd be surprised.”
He looked at me, and though I'll admit my argument was lacking in a way, something about the eye contact we shared seem to change his mind slightly.
“If we're going to do this right, we have to get some memories to resurface.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?”
“It means we're going to have a fight, and a d@mn good one I expect, from what I saw of your dreams.”
With that, and without warning, I rushed him. It was less of a rush you humans are used to, and more of a straight-line laser-type movement. You see, a film averages at about 27 frames per second. The average human eye can see well over 100 frames per second if concentrating. And my movement was probably contained somewhere within a single 1,000,000th of a frame, roughly. Exacts aren't really important here, my point is, it was fast.
I was upon him in a flash, the drawing of my katana (The Infamous “Order of the Rose”, my angelic weapon given to me upon crowning) and the slash were all one fluid movement. He barely got his own blade up in time, which meant as a deflect it was effective, but weak. I swiped it aside and got him with a solid boot to the ribs. I quickly reversed, spinning another boot into the ribs beneath his left arm with my right leg. I like to finish what I start, and I decided to wrap up this beautiful combo by following through with my spinning motion, leaping upward and landing a double-booted roundhouse to the neck.
There is a nerve in the neck which causes an instant shock to the brain upon impact, often causing a blackout or at least a whiteout. This nerve was utterly decimated as his body was thrown to the ground, Ace laying in a crumpled heap. I flourished my blade, holding it before me in a ready stance, awaiting his retaliation.[/color]
sorry for the delay. i've had too much time on my hands and then not enough, and i forgot about this. no worries, i am working on a reply momentarily and it should be up before you see this message.
Sweat drenched the man's brow as it furrowed in a wince of pain; his mind raced as his dream became more vivid. This was all too familiar and yet poignantly different. He at once recalled all his torturous fears, thought of the loss of life and limb he had encountered, and felt the disabling twinge of anxiety creep its way down his spine from his cerebral cortex to every last nerve ending in his body. In bed, his body became rigid and his breathing slowed.
In the valley, Ace's eyes flushed with white as he careened along a moss and snow covered embankment. He rolled over onto his hands and knees. Dazed, he plunged himself face first into the drift of snow his momentum across the forest floor had caused. He lay there for motionless for several seconds, hands and face buried beneath the surface. This was not typical of the warrior Strike knew, who was always quick in retaliation. Perhaps something really had snapped in his head? Cautiously Strike approached where Ace lay like a possum on the interstate. Suddenly Ace rose to his knees, facing the other direction. Strike froze.
"I forgot why I used do fight like this."
"Why is that?" Strike responded.
"Because it used to be fun!" Ace whipped around and unleashed a canon of a snowball with form that would outshine even the most prolific baseball catcher. Startled, Strike watched a heavily condensed wad of ice explode between his eyebrows, showering coarse granulated mist into his eyes. Wasting no time with the tide of battle at his advantage, Ace popped up to his feet and began a flurry of jabs to Strike's abdominal region. The man's well conditioned physique absorbed much of the impact but as his fists bruised his adversary's ribs, the continuous rocking motion of Ace's shoulders forced Strike to backpedal.
Blinking frantically to rid himself of the blurry dots that prevented him from defending this barrage, Strike was able parry a jab aimed for his left rib with his forearm. Aware that his opponent was still on his heels, Ace recoiled from the parry by shifting his weight backward onto his left leg then swiftly switching directions, thrusting his entire mass forward behind the sole of his leather boot. Left leg attacked a blindly vulnerable right side and the result was a heel to the chest for Strike. The thrust of the kick was such that it overcame inertia and sent Strike airborne into the the thick roots of a colossal, seemingly primordial tree. The angelic being struck the tall wood of the ancient root and slid down to rest in the snow.
Ace winced as he braced himself for Strike's rejoinder. He wasn't going to back down in the one, or bow out before the inevitable conclusion. He danced lightly on his feet, waiting and not thinking. There was nothing to do but accept what was to come, and he had as much control over it as anybody. But one thing was nagging him. His heart was still racing.
"Is any of this real?"
el bumpo