Opponent
Challenger picks the arena. Both combatants are prepared for combat. No power limits, but you can only use what I can see. If you have powers not in the characters profile, state them here ahead of time or don't use them.

No godmodding, four day posting limit. If disagreements cannot be worked out via discussion, a request for a neutral third party judge will be sent out.

Can you beat this?

Do you mind someone that hasn't sparred, or really even written, in over a year? If not I'm in, gotta shake off some rust.

Sure, if you feel up to the challenge set. This guys not easy. And I fixed the link to his profile.

Sweet! I'm at work using my iPad atm, so can't hash out an intro right this second. The arena I choose shall be Chicago, as it will be fun to destroy if it comes to that. I will be using Victor. http://you.fallfirst.com/Victor.html


I will write up and post an intro tonight!

I found his updated bio! http://www.roleplayersrealm.info/index.php?title=Victor (just so you know I didn't just write new shit up). Not sure why or how it's there, I just put part of my profile in google and it gave me that page, thankfully.

Their voices screamed through his mind, reverberating from the past where they remained forever suspended in the unnatural time of their deaths. Questions and accusations, mournful wailing of children and the unborn, each almost unintelligible syllable pounded into the corners of his psyche. The battle with that… that god-like creature had almost been his demise, had almost torn from him the very essence of his soul and loosed the Nevryn.

Too close, his thoughts whispered, the words swimming among the multitude of sounds cascading within him. A few moments more, and all would have been dust, including me.

He couldn’t allow the power to control him as it had that day; couldn’t loose the memories that would push him over that fragile edge.

His eyes were locked on the black leather of his gloves, head bowed slightly and brow furrowed. The hands housed within the fabric had been the instrument of all those deaths, an entire world torn from the fabric of time simply because he lost control. A single bubble of accelerated time, so simple in its creation and use; to age his enemy past the point of eternity, resulting in his death within a matter of moments rather than millennia. It had grown though, and continued to grow until the field consumed everything

“Sir?”

He wouldn’t use it again, not until he could study it, far far away from anyone that could be hurt. His job since childhood had been to kill, but never the innocent, never like that.

“Sir? I-“

Open hands became fists, the leather creaking softly with strain, eyes widening slightly at the birth of his silent promise.

“Umm, are you read to order sir?”

Victor blinked and lifted his head, his dark vision clearing to see that it was his turn to place his order. With a chagrined smile he stepped forward, one hand reaching up to comb through his short dark hair, the other resting on the counter top as his green eyes swept the menu behind the perky young girl behind the register.

“I’ll take a regular beef, dry with juice on the side, an order of cheese fries, and a root beer,” he said as he brought his gaze down to rest on hers, emerald meeting sapphire. She smiled shyly and blushed, the red flush creeping up from her throat to paint embarrassment upon her cheeks.

“A-anything else?”

He shook his head and took a folded ten dollar bill from the front right pocket of his thigh-length black coat, then laid it gently on her waiting palm, letting the tips of his fingers lightly brush her warm flesh. The blush deepened and she hastily slid his money into the open drawer and returned to him what was left.

Ten minutes later he left the corner deli, a white bag gripped in his left hand heavy and fragrant, his right hand filled with a twenty ounce styrofoam cup. He had not been to Chicago in several years, but it was always one of his favorite places no matter if it was a job or not. This time he had no contracts to fulfill in the city, and truth be told had travelled from his home in Italy just for the beef. His plan was to find a nice rooftop and watch the sun set over the western suburbs, drown his self-disgust in au jus, and think about his next move while waiting for the sun to rise over Lake Michigan.

He was five blocks from the deli when his day dived even further into hell, without benefit of so much as a swan dive as an apology. The sound of spray paint abruptly cut off as he passed a darkening alley, and only seconds passed before men appeared, gang bangers by their looks and attire. Several boasted lengthy pipes with cloth wrapped around one end for ease of gripping, others chains, and still a few more hoisted wicked looking knives. His progress halted and he sighed.

“I’ve brought no money with me, only a credit card and enough cash to buy this beef sandwich and fries. I’ve been thinking of this sandwich for a year at least, and it is basically the only thing of value on my person, and probably not worth your time.” His voice was low and soft, seeking to give off no threatening sounds or motions, as he really only wanted to eat his food, hot.

“O man, look ‘ere boyz! Him jus’ wan him sammich,” One said, walking around Victor and grinning, a pipe slung across one shoulder.

“I thought he looked like a bitch that belongs ina kitchen,” another said, laughing.

“Yeah, he done fucked up, cause I loooooove me some beef man,”

“In yo ass!”

“Fuck yo motha, bitch”

“Naw man, ima fuck his motha,” still another said, pointing at Victor, who stood in the midst of them, his face calm and belying nothing of the rage that roiled beneath the surface of his fragile visage.

“Gimme yo coat man, that looks nice!”

“Man I want dat sammich!”

“Oh shi, he got a drink too!”

One of them reached for his back and Victor jerked his hand back, pulling it just out of his reach which elicited a bout of laughter from the men surrounding him.

“Look, you can have the drink, but the food is mine.”

“Dis white boy gonna get killed over dis sammich man, cause we hungry,”

“Yeah,” the first said, still holding his pipe across his shoulder. Victor took him for the leader, such as there was. “You wanna die for that food, foo?”

The man stopped and something in the depths of his brown eyes changed. Gone was the teasing, the fun that he was having at poking a white man. Now a light shone there, an internal fire that bordered on mad, savage glee. His dark hand tightened visibly on the cloth-wrapped steel pipe and without another word, but with a ragged growl, he swung the weapon off his left shoulder, held with his right hand, and brought it up and back down intent on crushing Victor’s skull to bone-flavored mush.

He stepped to his right and felt the pipe missing his body and knew the gangster would be off balance even as his body turned, sensing another thug moving. The second to move had a knife and struck for Victor’s chest as he turned, but his right hand, holding the drink, flashed forward and slammed the cup onto the blade, dark fragrant drink gushing forth. He released it and gripped the straw as the man’s eyes opened wide in surprise. Faster than could be followed he continued his spin, hand lashing out with the straw to punch into and through the thug’s eyeball. The man screamed and fell to the ground.

Victor continued to move, jerking the straw out of the spurting socket, holding it so only two inches protruded from the bottom of his fist, making the thing stronger than it should have been.

The first man recovered his balance, but the white man was already turning back to him, spinning to his left this time, right leg coming up and snapping out. Rather than a normal kick, Victor caused his leg to blink. It seemed to be at his side one moment, then appear at the man’s temple, more force than was possible snapping his head around with a loud crunch. As he fell Victor turned, now pissed.

“I-“ He spun and crouched at the same time, his right hand lashing out to embed the tip of the straw in an advancing man’s inner thigh. Blood began to gush from the portion of the straw protruding from his flesh, and even as he fell Victor was rising, striking out with his right leg to send a pipe that was swung toward his face smashing back around to crush the skull of a stunned thug.

“Just-“ The sound of a chain whistling through the air caused him to turn, knees bending, the motion captured and expelled to send him spinning into the air, right leg stretching to catch the chain and disrupt its swing, followed by his left leg to crack the wielder’s jaw.

“Wanted my-“ Another knife toward his back, spin and blink, right hand to the assailant’s wrist before the motion could register, expended energy released through the tendons and joints of his fingers, bones breaking in his grasp.

“Food.” The last remaining few ran.

Victor looked down and sighed at the sight of his root beer mingling with the rapidly growing pools of blood. Thankfully though, the entire affair had only taken a minute, two at the most, and his food, though chilled more by the wind created by his various spins, was for the most part warm. He began walking away from the dead and the groaning, and looked back once only to say, “Try stealing my pie, then I’d be upset.”

He was sure to find a rooftop, preferably empty and without anyone seeking to steal his beef.

The door to the rooftop burst open and two footsteps indicated the presence of a man in a biege full body suit, covering every inch of his skin. A mask rest upon his face to hide his facial features. Afterall, he was not one to let others know who he was. He seemed to be dignified in nature and he sounded a touch snobbish and upperclass as he casually spoke;
"I saw what you did to those men, and I feel I must object."

Two more steps, bringing him out of the shadows of the doorway and into the sunlight, fingers flexing slightly. He was unarmed, so it seemed, no weapon on his person as he stalked forward with slow and careful steps. His glare was unshaking, eyes only barely visible behind his mask, shadows cast hiding whatever skin colour or consistency he might possess.
"After all. Those men only wanted something to eat."

Now several steps from the door, it slowly closed as if by a mystical force, locking the two of them on the building rooftop. Two more steps forward and Balthazar brought his hands together to crack his knuckles.
"And you could stand to lose a few pounds."

The last comment was clearly said with a sneer, despite no mouth being seen in the shadows of the mask.
"And after that display, I do hope you don't disappoint me."

The building before him had an old, long-abandoned feel to it, and in the gathering shadows of the coming twilight seemed to hulk against the intersection of side streets. Looking up, he could see that it was at least ten stories and would serve his purposes nicely. He could have, of course, simply made his way further downtown, to Willis Tower perhaps, but there wasn’t a good beef joint around there for miles.

Several minutes and a broken window later found Victor cresting the last flight of rickety stairs and on the rooftop, pigeons and seagulls alike taking offense at his presence and lighting for other nighttime roosts. He found a spot on the raised ledge not covered in multi-colored shit, and had a seat, his gaze taking in the dying light of the sun. The purples, pinks, and dark red hues spilled across the low clouds in the distance, fanning out from the epicenter of the suns last rays, refracting in the emerald of his eyes and causing him to squint slightly, sighing in pleasure at the same time.

Still regretting the loss of his beverage, he dug into the bag and unrolled the foil that held his Italian sausage trapped within, the bread now soggy from the latent juice the meat held within it. Savory aromas of the spicy beef wafted upwards, bathing his nostrils in what he knew heaven should smell like. He brought the sandwich to his mouth, lips parted wide and white teeth glinting with the darkening sunlight… when the door was thrown open.

"I saw what you did to those men, and I feel I must object,” the man said as he found his way onto the rooftop.

Victor’s mouth slowly closed, his teeth fairly grinding with frustration as his hands slowly lowered the sandwich back onto the foil which sat unfurled upon the roof ledge.

"After all, those men only wanted something to eat."

I only wanted my fucking sandwich, Victor screamed within his own mind, seeing no reason nor cause to voice the words out loud.

"And you could stand to lose a few pounds,” the as of yet unknown savoir of degenerate, misbegotten whoresons of bitch-fathering low-life sandwich stealing- Victor realized his rage was becoming unchecked, even though outwardly his body had made no motions other than those involving the lowering of his dinner. It was irrational to become this way simply over food, and beneath it all he knew there was an undercurrent of fear, yet at the same time a desire, a need to feel that…thing.

He wiped his gloved-hands on a wet napkin he had set out earlier, clearing the black leather of the au jus that had so lovingly decorated them.

"And after that display, I do hope you don't disappoint me,” the man said in that annoying voice, the one that reminded Victor of men long dead. It was that same type of voice that would offer you triple your payment, just to take the stiletto from your throat.

As the words ‘disappoint’ and ‘me’ were being birthed on top of the roof, their invisible waves of sound-energy moving inexorably toward Victor, his left hand had moved. Once that invisible period had been applied just after ‘me’ his hand was returning from beneath his coat, one of two P-14 pistols held within its moist grasp. Without turning his head to so much as glance at the man, aim, or give a fuck, he pulled on the two-pound trigger. There was no safety to speak of, nothing to disengage before the guns would spurt their lethal injections, so at that implied period Victor added an exclamation mark.

Sixteen rounds exploded from the pistol, the gun itself somewhat bouncing around as he was in no way within a shooters stance, or taking so much as a semblance to care where the bullets would hit. Casings flew from the chamber and spun, danced, dazzled in the fading light as if to show off their beauty, spent as it was.

Balthazar was not careless. He had seen what the man had done to the other in the street and was coming up to the roof entirely prepared for a fight. However, a hand reaching into a shirt? That meant guns, and there was no way in hell he was going to stand for a mere moment when a gun was drawn. Immediately he swept to the side, breaking into a run, body beginning to fade rather rapidly in the sunlight until he became entirely intangible. His opponents actions were all too kind, the apparent laziness in which the man aimed leant much room for Balthazar's rapid escape. However, he was unsure if the gunfire was meant as a threat or a genuine attempt to kill him.

Afterall, who opened fire on an unarmed man making threats with his fists on a rooftop when they could just threaten a man with a gun?

"Was that an attempt to kill me?" Called Balthazar's voice from one corner, the grind of shoe on gravel coming from the same place as he pivoted. "Because if it was that was really rather sad." This was accompanied by the sound of his chest being brushed off and footsteps heading back towards the roof top door, which was now sporting multiple bullet holes in a most fashionable way. "Or I suppose it was a threat."

If uninterrupted, the door would slowly swing open.

A sigh escaped Victor’s lips as the last sound of bullets splitting the air ricocheted off the rooftop and out across the other buildings in the surrounding area. He was about to simply replace the gun within its holster and carry on with his meal when the sound of rapid footsteps and that same annoying voice added its own melody to the echoes.

Instead, he stood up in a single fluid motion, which wasn’t too difficult giving the high ledge of the roof, and swung his left arm back. It vanished under his coat and hit upon a slim pack strapped to his back, a soft ‘click’ following as he pressed the butt of the pistol against the reloader, causing an arm to slide from the bottom, holding several full magazines and spaces for emptied containers. In a matter of three seconds his arm swept back from beneath his jacket and was tracking the movement, finger holding the trigger at precisely one-point-five pounds, needing only a twitch of his finger to once more spray bullets into the air.

The first thing he noticed was footsteps, but no body.
Oh, great, he said with an inner groan.

"Was that an attempt to kill me?" The voice called out, drawing his eyes to a corner of the roof several yards from where the man had last been known to speak from. "Because if it was that was really rather sad." Victor agreed, mainly because in complete honesty he didn’t care if he’d hit the man or not, he had simply hoped the bastard would leave him alone, seek his vigilante-type justice elsewhere, perhaps in preparation to protect the Salvation Army Santa come the holidays. "Or I suppose it was a threat."

Victor was not in the habit of doling out threats, they made life too predictable. As the door began to swing open, his gun never having wavered from that point after reloading, he opened fire and fed each new round but one into the rickety wood, sweeping from right to left in the center of it and effectually cutting it in half.

As the wood began to fall he brought the gun down, muzzle pointed at a spot only a foot in front of his position, and he pulled the trigger for a final time. Rather than let man-made nature take its course, Victor let his power loose through the weapon. The motion of firing pin striking primer within the casing, the ensuing explosion, all went as planned, but from the first moment the bullet began to leave its shell and travel down the barrel of the P-14, it was his. He wrapped it within his power over velocity and sent it hurtling out of the gun at twice the speed, causing it to [/i]blink[/i]. The round appeared once halfway to the floor of the roof, but was thrown back into its path of accelerated motion instantly.

The result was the single round punching into the rooftop so hard that it continued through the foot of concrete and slammed into the floor beneath. The subsequent energy of its travel though, left behind when it blinked, crashed into the roof with a loud CRACK!, sending dust and debris clouding upwards for several feet. As it did so Victor caught it within his will, for even that clouds’ motions had velocity, and he changed them. Instead of pluming upward he altered their course and increased their power of flight, sending the bits of concrete and dust fanning out before him in a large swathe that would travel at least ten yards before being loosed from his control.

Wooden debris exploded in Balthazar's face, arm carefully extended up and over the doorway to hold it open. He was predicting his opponents enthusiasm to fire at the doorway, afterall, most people did, and the point of being invisible was it gave the distinct advantage of not having your location known, so revealing it was always a downright silly idea. Mostly, he was testing his opponent, both their mentality and their tools. He needed to know everything he could about them before engaging in an actual fight.

"No, nope!" comes his voice, to left of the door way, "I don't think I'll be taking the steps, you've made that clear."

Not pausing for a moment, a sudden unnerving shower of sparks burst from the air just to the right of Victory. It was a cantrip, a literally harmless albeit entirely distracting spell and barely an ounce of effort to perform. However, the concrete dust did reveal Balthazar's position, footsteps now indicating he was charging to Victor's left, acompanied by the rushing dust clinging to his invisible suit. If able to get close uninterrupted he would promptly drop into a slide with one leg thrust forward, akin to a soccer player moving to tackle the ball from the feet of another player in a way that might be interpretted as targetting the player rather than the ball.

"No, nope!" came the voice once more, this time just to the left of the ruined door. "I don't think I'll be taking the steps, you've made that clear."

Keh, Victor spat softly. He began to ponder what his next move would be when the air to his right suddenly erupted into brilliant life. His head jerked toward it and his right arm came up, palm open and facing the sparks, ready to catch or rebuff an attack. At that next instant though he felt his opponent, or whatever the hell he was, entering the field of debris still on its outward course, fueled by his power.

His head whipped back around, eyes narrowed, right arm still extended out toward the disturbance. As the man ran further into the cloud of dust and pieces of ruined rooftop Victor relinquished his hold on them, giving them into the hands of nature and gravity. At once physics snapped back into reality and the ruined remnants of concrete began to drift down, but it only lasted a fraction of a heartbeat, for as soon as he released them back into the wild he grabbed them once more, this time using their already downward motion to cause the entire mess to blink.

For just an instant it would appear as though the cloud had simply vanished, but the rest of that second would birth realization. The velocity of the debris had been increased several hundred times over, so that it would now slam into the roof with enough force to crush whatever rocks remained among the dust. What had been something almost intangible and easily passable had in that instant become almost a solid object with a single force, that of devastating downward motion. It would be as though a pissed off giant had come to earth for the sole purpose of slamming his meaty hand down upon an annoying fly.

With the force of the surrounded dust Balthazar was indeed slammed to the rooftop, mask providing the same sort of protection a helmet might as he went straight down with a crash. His mask split slightly and with a groan he reached his fingers up to lightly feel the split that now ran down the right side. His invisibility fades and he rolls over onto his back, coughing and raising his right arm up to cover his mask. His identity was more important than his wellbeing, apparently.

His left hand reached out, apparently for the air, feeling around for something. In truth he was after magic, or any lingering forms of energies in the air. If they happened to be close to him, this search would reveal them, magic flickering from his finger tips to the air. It seemed to be a desperate bid to save himself after such a devastating blow by his opponent.

As many have come to learn, most of them long dead, Victor never wasted a single second while in battle. You would not find him firing off sharp quips at his opponent, or relish in a well-placed attack. He was a killer, a destroyer, and as such every motion of his body worked to that single-minded end. To him, a second wasted is a life spared.

In this same instance he acted accordingly, not throwing away a single moment.

As the field of debris crashed down with many times its original force, Victor was moving. His body came to fully face where his opponent had gone down, his knees bending, arms out to either side.

Second Seal, release.

Instantly a shaft of light erupted from the back of each hand, his left now empty of the pistol, and sliced through his gloves. If one were to look closely they would see that a single line was missing from each of the pentacles tattooed onto the back of his hands. With the dissipation of those lines, his Second Seal was broken, allowing fresh waves of Dark Grace to wash through his blood stream.

He pushed up, unleashing the power in his thighs, leaping into the air. At once he used his power to capture his own body and send it hurtling upwards, directly above the roof, for a hundred yards. He came out of the blink, hanging in the air for a moment before beginning to fall. As he did so his right hand reached to his right thigh, pushing the coat aside to grasp the butt of Kali, one of his over-sized revolvers.

The gun itself was twice the size of a .357 magnum, easily the largest revolver manufactured on Earth, with most of its size displayed in its eight-round chamber. That chamber now spun, the black weapon vibrating with its own created motion. It halted at Victor’s command, and the round began to fall through the barrel, immediately grabbed and thrown by Victor. It blinked once and descended at a speed normal for most bullets, coming out of its tunnel of acceleration ten yards above the roof. At that instant it was cut in half by the will of the assassin, and exploded.

08: XN-PS: The Psychosis round. It was the one bullet in his arsenal NOT designed to kill, but rather to incapacitate. If hit, the victim would enter into a state of awareness mostly enjoyed by people on acid trips, resulting in immobile hallucinations, or simply a staring match with the sky. The one side-effect guaranteed was complete shut-down of the body.

If the man was hit, he would be out for an undetermined amount of time, but Victor would leave him alive, but only because he had forgotten to order mozzarella on his beef sandwich, and need to go order another one anyway.

With Balthazar's hand in the air he would desperately attempt to cling onto whatever magic his opponent had, but to his unfortunate nature his own magic it was a touch spell, unable to reach beyond his own fingertips. There was little he could do other than turn his head to the side and have the liquid splash all over his clothes and mask, thoroughly soaking him. He was rendered in an incapacitated state, one of deep lucidity and an inability to move.

Which left his opponent with only one thing left to do was leave. If he was to peer around the edges of the building, though, he would suddenly find the street seemed much much further down than it was not all that long ago.

The air whipped up and past Victor as he free-fell toward the rooftop from whence he had leapt, bringing with it the slight scent of the recently deployed Psychosis round. He could make out the body of his opponent laying on the ground still, so knew he would be under the effects of the stuff for some little time now. As he could not fly, and in his current state was still subject to the laws of gravity and physics, meaning what goes up must come down with bone crushing force, he slipped Kali back into the holster on his hip and with his right hand reached to his left side. The coat moved out of his way of its own accord, as it was billowing out around him due to the updraft, so taking hold and removing his remaining P-14 was no trouble.

He pointed the pistol at the ground roughly five feet from the head of the prone individual below, and began pulling the trigger. No sound erupted from the breach, no spark or flash from the muzzle, for at each point of impact as firing pen met bullet he caught the round, it’s sound included, and threw them all into a well of velocity that sent each shot to the floor of the ceiling almost instantaneously. Each slug exited from its blinked state mere inches from the surface, then punched through concrete and into wood and plaster below, sounding each time as though a man were taking a baseball bat to a brick wall.

Victor threw himself into that same downward streak, blinking and appearing a foot above the roof. At that same instant the kinetic energy that had been generated by the bullets travelling at such an insane speed exited the velocity well and erupted directly below him, its force crashing into the roof , followed by his own spent energy as he threw it downwards, effectively creating a cushion for himself.

The roof cracked as he went to one knee, left hand pressing against the cracking rooftop, pistol still clutched in his right hand but already moving to replace its spent clip, then to the holster against his left side. He quickly rose and took a step back, then up onto the ledge as before him the concrete continued to groan and crease under the weight of the power it had just been burdened with. He looked at the man a final time, turned, and was prepared to leap from the ledge and perform the same maneuver again; it was kinda fun after all, when he noticed that things were a tad bit odder than they had previously been.
Instantly he whirled back to the man splashed with Psychosis, his right hand reaching beneath his jacket to a pouch containing eight egg-sized black balls, crafted of the same material as Kali and Krios. He tossed one to his left hand and begun to spin them, the spin soon becoming a blur as he perpetuated their motion in the palms of his hands, waiting.

The actual Balthazar, who had remained the entire time in the safety of the stairwell with blade in hand, took utterly silent footsteps to peer onto the roof. It was regrettable, really, to see his adversary move to a different rooftop, as he himself possessed no way to persue, and judging by the distance his opponent would likely have moved on before he managed to descend this flight of stairs and follow up the next. With a dreary sigh, he let it go, conceding this victory to the other man. Likewise, his illusions of the structures height vanished and his duplicate even began to fade to nothing. Let the man be paranoid for a while. That would have to do.