GT2008 Round 1: #2 Spencer versus #25 Sakurazaki

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First post: Sakurazaki
Restrictions: None.

Please remember to be mindful of the Official Tournament Rules.

• There will be a 30 day time limit on all matches.
• There will be a 3 day response time limit on all matches.
• If an opponent does not show within the first 7 days, they will be replaced.
• Actions will be voided if the poster can not accurately explain them within the post.
• All participants will display sportsmanlike conduct.

All matches will take place in a nondescript (and mostly destructible) ring 30 meters in diameter, made of the same flat white marble as the rest of the GT Dimension's buildings. An additional 10 meters of grass extends outward from the edge of the raised ring, finally meeting a 10 meter wall which rises into the stands surrounding the ring. The descent to the ground from the ring is a mere meter, and serves as a clearly defined boundary between the out-of-bounds area and the actual combat arena.

At no point in time are the competitors permitted to touch the ground at any point outside of the ring, or the match will end in a ring-out, declaring the remaining party the winner. Transversal outside of normal four-dimensional timespace (or, at least as normal as the GT Dimension can be) as well as backwards transit on the plane of time will result in the offending party being disqualified.

The stands surrounding the ring are filled with spectators that will have arrived just prior to the start of the tournament (by just a few days). At no point during a match should harm come to the audience, else the immediate disqualification and forceful removal of the offending party will become the primary focus of the GT League staff.

As the sun came parallel to the white marble floors that it gleamed off, wind began to make its entrance. On the 1st of july, the day of Grand Tournament had seemed to become relaxing, the crowd only to chatter to themselves to discuss upon the fight of Spencer and the newcomer; Akira Sakurazaki. The time had passed by where the sun slowly made its move to have shade cover some portion of the grass. An arc to the height of six meters was into the walls, soon a young male at the age of seventeen began to make his appearance into the grassy arena. Making his way towards the marble floor of where his adversary and he would duel at.

His snow-like figure only to be drifting along the cut-grass, where the smoothen edges of his sandals made it easier to glide against as the bases of his gata sandal had appeared to be made out of a carbon alloy…Suddenly, as the audience began to lower their voices as Akira had made his entrance. The light-brown bangs of his hair would only cover the milky glaze of the male. To be blind, he only used the current energy and senses to make his debut, on the fifth step he made he began to release a harmonic tone, his voice to be heard out as the dialect of his language would not be English but Latin, “Os iusti meditabitur sapientiam, Et lingua eius loquetur indicium.”

A graceful smile to hide the disarray force that was hidden deep within the encrypted mind of the shinigami, singing in Latin as he made his way towards the glossy arena. His harmonic voice to fill up the arena and the audience would only hear,”Beatus vir qui suffert tentationem, Quonium cum probates fuerit accipient coronam vitae.” As the wind began to circulate around his body, the hakama would drift along the cut grass as the a swastika emblem would sway along with the wind. A trench coat was over his jacket, slowly to motion both arms backwards as the piece of attire began to pull off his form. Escorting himself into the ring, only two meters away. His hands were the last thing to come out of the trench coat, the fists were covered with black gloves that had opening ridges for his fingers and palms. His fore-arms to be clothed by a black set of hand guards were above the gloves he had wore protecting the outer surface of his knuckles.

“Kyrie, ignis divine, eleison..” His right foot step to lift his structure onto the flat surface of the marble arena. Smiling, the wind began to slowly engulf his form, revealing the blacken jacket that had matched with his hakama. He had worn the emblem of Xenom in pride, joyous to be in the first round of the Grand tournament. He gave out a simple bow to the audience, to reveal his weaponry; At the back of his waistline was the sheathed Shirasaya Wakizashi; Megumi Sakura. The left side of his hip would be attached with his main weapon, Shirasaya Katana; Katsumi Ayama as the secondary weapon on the opposite side was his Shirasaya Odachi; Hitomi Hana. Slowly as his arms came to drift to the side, he began to channel the energy within the body to create chi as he would start to generate his aura for the fight he would partpicate in.

“O quam sancta, quam serena,” The blind sadist began to smirk cruelly as he would await for his opponent, the shinigami began to switch his kindest formally to something more paroxysm. He was the god of death, nothing more to be the patriarch of Thanatos. The grim reaper to be earthbound along the marble flooring, he would only tap the foot to await his adversary. His harmonic voice to slowly fall in volume, “quam benigna, quam amoena.” Becoming devious, his presence would only show the ominous force that would perch into the darkness of his form. The grim reaper, the patriarch of Thanatos awaiting for his adversary, the next prey that would decide his fate. Opposite of his hand where Akira would look down, the obscure sadist had revealed the watch of despotic smite that told the time of one who was sent to their sepulcher in this cruel world that humans alike call life. “O castitatis lilium” Those were his last words where he came into a silence that would seal his grantee of what he had signed himself up to seek competition and prey..Shortly, he would slowly inch his right hand to the mask that was made out of carbon fiber, his digits touching the silts only to softly grasp the mask that he would use in their fight..The mask only hanged on his shoulder blade, where it would be revealed to show where all of his energy was kept as he had kept channeling chi throughout his form.. "I'll be waiting for you, spencer.."

He had risen late, dressed hastily, and, amid cries for gore that swept the otherwise serene meadow, come to some striking realizations: this entire affair is of a vastly more grisly nature than his predilection that it be some form of pleasant athletic event and, of perhaps greater gravity, that his bladder was edging dangerously near a quite spiritual expurgation. With the more forceful objective of acquiring relief, he had dove into the nearest of the privies located in the outer walls of the stadium, and was in the midst of appropriate activity for such a setting when his name was shrilly cawed on the broadcast system.

SPENCER OF CAREO FAS, REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO STADIUM NINE.

“Rats,” Spencer grumbles, an oath he does not grace with so much as an unceremonious flush. Instead, he immediately snatches his rifle from the metal jacket hook on the poorly-constructed stall door, bursts through, and rushes for the broad cylinder at the facility’s center. Dirty blond coils sweep and bob erratically before his sharp, algous eyes as he finally makes his unpunctual ascent onto the marble slab. However, while he contemporaneously ensures the upward integrity of his zipper and musters himself to face his opponent, he trips, barely manages to land on all fours, and his rifle clatters onto the merciless stone where it discharges in the direction of an individual opposite Spencer some twenty-five meters away.

Sometime between the reverb and the humiliation, Spencer thanks God that, if the charge misses his foe, it will strike just under the lip of the protective wall encircling them. With that as a comfort, he snatches his rifle and stands up to survey the damage. The first thing he takes in through the crosshairs of his monocle-like rifle site is the huge crowd, presently speechless from his antics, but showing signs it will soon explode into laughter and, no doubt, unleash a hail of fetid fruit, vegetables, and maybe even legumes upon his head. For the second time that moment, Spencer thanks God that not only is his armor - in appearance, more like a charcoal-colored pant, t-shirt, and jacket set with gloves and a ball cap to match - secure from low-caliber munitions and able to mimic his environment in less open settings, but also waterproof.

An odd thought passes through Spencer’s skull as his bare feet adjust to the cool platform: What was it Tersan called it the first day we met? Oh yeah, modern-day mythril. Then he sighed and said I should learn to read. Still not sure how the prick knew…

(Note: Akira-Sakurazaki allowed me to include the edit mentioning Spencer is barefoot. <3)

Rather disappointed with the lateness of his adversary; Spencer. Akira stood opposite in the direction of him, only to be twenty five meters away from him in distance. He drew his hand to face palm at the idiocy of his foe. In that sincere moment of disgust and wondering what kind of an idiot opponent he had went against, his ears would appear from cranium to hear the falling of a weapon. His eyes opening as his head was within the curved surface of his palm, he would immediately duck down even if the plasma rifle’s energy shot has only a meter away from hitting his head. Ducked, he would only shake his head, keeping his head in the face palming moment…”Never play with guns at home, children..”

Akira began to clear the mutual feelings he had for spencer , doubting their fight he would understand the valuable concept of not to underestimate any fighter that stood in the uptight ring with him. “Well now, let us stance up so we can decide who can go to round two of this tournament.” The rather feeling of anger and angsty towards his opponent starting to fade away from the head, he would return to his chaotic mood. That same sinful smirk that had crept onto his visage as he wanted to smell and taste the blood of his adversary, his mind was becoming a ticking bomb. To release a light laughter, Akira’s hand would draw the mask that gave him re-enforced protection.

Smiling, the mask that his digits were glued onto was nothing more than made out of the material of carbon nano-tubing fiber, the same like existence of his foe’s armor. Yet this was a solid that could have the compound mixture to be hard as a diamonds. The zeolite within the material to be harder than any surface, making it practical that his mask was something special.Just as if it was one of the compounds that compared with titanium alloy, being lightweight. The silts were suitable, as his optics came into view, revealing the same milky optics to his foe. His smirk began to disappear, where a pro founding source of such animosity began to emerge around his form to complete a full aura that was mixed with the chi he had generated within the body. His mask assuming to be a metalloid form that was nothing more than mixed with steel proved his mask was one of a kind.

The eyes to give out a glare of mixed emotions that had enlarged with vengeance, retribution, arrogance and apathy. He was almost at that stage to go into the next level, “Genesis.” The sclera of his optics only to become black as the mask he had worn, the only thing was the pupil that kept white. In the middle was also becoming black, the pupil to show the reflection of Spencer. “Tell me, Spencer…How long do you propose to live for?” This hate breed began to grow intense, smiling at his prey the aura began to allow the attire he wore sway within a violent passion, only to crouch down he would refer to the methods of battou jutsu…

Akira, being the student and users of the swordsmanship styles, Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu, Chuuten Banzen Ryu and Kyoto Shinmei Ryu. He would choose the style of Chuuten Banzen Ryu to go into his sword-drawing posture. Slowly to separate his feet apart from each other, he began to angle the left foot away from the right in a ninety degree. His right hand slowly arching to hover the palm and digits over the tsuka of his Shirasaya; Katsumi Ayama. His right foot to step forth in front of his form, he had chosen the correct style to use “Chuuten Banzen Ryu; Battou Jutsu.” His left hand only to come backwards to between the scabbard of his Shirasaya and the hilt of his Wakizashi. Smiling, he slowly would assume the other stance to get ready for his adversary; Spencer as he would make the decision to use the second drawing technique; Kurogane Mamori. His muscles relaxed as the aura that mixed in with the chi. He was focused on this fight and making his way though his debut to prove to himself that he had advanced within the ways of swordsmanship and fighting for his own life…”Spencer, as Heinrich Himmler once said, “My honor is my loyalty.” I am loyal to my blades, I hope you be honorable to them to allow Katsumi to slice that skin of yours..”

Satisfactorily adjusting his zipper, Spencer refocuses his attention to the calibration of his rifle. Given his analysis of the arena - with its ring of jeering spectators, minute enclosure, and utterly boring lack of trappings - he decides to adjust the weapon’s cornea to its largest diameter of five centimeters. In that state, when it unleashes its charge, the falloff will diminish to a harmless amount should it reach the stands some thirty-six meters away, much like the function of attenuation over distance diminishes volume. However, the area of effect will broaden immensely, making it quite difficult for his opposition to avoid by means of leaps and bounds.

Meanwhile, listening to his enemy ramble nonsensically about stancing up, whatever that entails, Spencer hears something he can respond to regarding his plan of maintaining longevity: “Well, I was thinking,” begins Spencer, but the cat-eared creep interrupts him with some irrelevant, obscure monologue on Heinrich Himmler. In irritation, Spencer trains his rifle dead-center at the furry’s chest, its site a degree or two less than level with the ground, and shouts, “You know, it is pretty darn rude to ask a question and not give the person an opportunity to answer it.”

Without another thought, he depresses the rifle’s trigger, unleashing a convex plane of blue-violet coruscating fury. If, at expulsion, the charge is equal in circumference to the rifle’s gaping maw, and its surface is expanding at a rate of twenty-three-percent per-centimeter traveled, with a velocity of one-hundred centimeters per-millisecond, how fast and how far does Spencer’s target have to move before being exposed to temperatures reaching several thousand degrees Celsius? Stay tuned to find out!

Smirking afterward as he had interrupted the answer of Spencer, Akira would offer a docile smile behind his mask. What was processed is that he had enough energy (chi) built up around his body and within the form to enable various attacks, at the very moment that his opponent would aim for the center of his structure he would whisper, “Gamisoku.” To motion his left foot against the marble’s pavement he would use the energy built up in the legs to dash to center-side of the arena with ease, his speed giving him enough momentum and stature, his body was bent down for that technique in usage for his counter.

Where Spencer had shouted back and claim no mercy upon his non-furry body, he would whisper out “Muhyo Getten” as he was using that built up speed from before, barely using a major percentage of his current energy, the preparation was good enough. His right hand slamming down onto the hilt of his Shirasaya; Katsumi Ayama, with the left hand gripping onto the hilt of the Wakizashi; Megumi Sakura. To be first using the speed; Gamisoku of Chuuten Banzen Ryuu and Kyoto Shinmei Ryu’s Muhyo Getten, he had made a counter defense. The speed enabling to unsheathed the Katana with the right hand, using the hilt to slam down into the floor at the moment, ice began to form over his body as if it was a ice cocoon.

Though releasing the katana, he used cold surface of the marble to ultize his own aura into mere ice that would be inches thick, at the final seconds the ice would fully consume his body into a shield as he had be in the center side of the arena meters away, his left hand would arch the arm downward to unsheathed the wakizashi from his rightful scabbard, using the momentum and speed he had built up to fling the sharpen tipped towards the barrel of his sniper rifle but seeing how the gap of ice closed over his form as the Wakizashi left, the strings of his aura would be connected with the ice. Ice building up onto the hilt as it was connected with this ice cocoon that gave his body protection and shelter, allowing both to dodge the incoming blast by ultizing the speed of Gamisoku which had surpassed god’s speed.

Then using a counter attack from the throwing of the Wakizashi and using the speed he had from Gamisoku to bring the sharpen tip in seconds into the range of Spencer to slice the barrel of the rifle, as ice was forming behind it to give a straight hold and accurate cut. At the end, he was capable of doing this by the mask, which enabled the technique of Kyoto Shinmei Ryu’s shingan, (Eye of the heart) He didn’t need the vision that he was born with, but the vision that he would work and grow with in the heart of a warrior. Peering out from the inside of the ice-cocoon towards Spencer as the Wakizashi came in at rapid speeds to the portion of where his barrel was connected to the main portion of the rifle’s structure. He had dodged the incoming blast of the plasma rifle as this was mere seconds of performing by what he had built up in the energy from his body and that mask that he proudly wore. He had caught the man off-guard.

By the time the plasma charge is a meter in front of Spencer, its diameter has increased to 11.5 meters (5cm(100cm @ 23% per-cm)), an expansion of 2,300-percent! He briefly hears matter boiling as the super-hot torrent careens across the smooth marble, forming a frothy, wave-like pattern that the once-pristine arena rock mimics. As the crackling ground immediately before him settles back to its normal state of solidity, halfway across the slab, some fifteen meters away, the entire breadth has transformed to a burning swath of destruction. He can only assume by the approaching drum of footsteps that Akira has run straight into that ephemeral wall of fiery death.

In under half a second, it is over, and not even the hazy violet of the plasma residue lingers in the air. The grass surrounding the slab is now smoldering, soot begrimes the lower part of the retaining wall, and there is a flush on the faces of the nearest onlookers. A gentle breeze reminds Spencer that, were it not for a momentary downdraft at the instant of his firing, those very onlookers to his left and right, about 30 meters away, might be in a frenzy of flaming clothes after exposer to temperatures of almost 300 Celsius. Thankfully, nature had mitigated such damage, instead swirling the intense heat around like a whirlwind over the grass.

“Like a toilet bowl,” mutters Spencer, simultaneously dropping his rifle to his side and turning his attention to his opposition.

Just before he was to step forward, he hears a high-pitch whoosh, and sees the Wakizashi carving apart the air were his rifle had just been, a rigid arm of ice supporting the handle. Without a second thought, he hefts the barrel back up, shattering the stiff limb of ice and sending the blade clattering to the arena floor with the rest of the frigid fragments. Rather than picking the sword up, but making a mental note to retrieve when this match is over, he looks toward the figure within a tomb of ice that is no doubt melting away from the inside.

“That shell of ice may have saved his life, but he won’t be fighting anymore today,” remarks Spencer.

(The following diagram and conversation is to help clarify some of what happened in Akira’s post. Blue line represents Akira's movement. I can provide numbers for the half-life decay, but since I never provided a starting max, that is a bit pointless. However, we can assume that since Akira closed the distance between himself and the charge, he was well-within its effective range.)

AIM Convo wrote:[17:06] Circ: The order of things is also important.
[17:06] Circ: For example: speed-dodge plasma, and then turning into ice once it has passed; right?
[17:07] Akira: Well.
[17:07] Akira: 1. Gamisoku "Speed-dodge or went out of the way from your rifle/aim."
[17:07] Akira: 2. Unsheathed the first katana to make ice cocoon.
[17:07] Akira: 3. THrew the Wakizashi before the ice cocoon completely covers me..
[17:08] Circ: But between 1 and 2 he had already by-passed the plasma; yes?
[17:08] Akira: Yep.

On his knees inside that very cocoon-like tomb of ice, he was still alive almost half-dead though the temperature was cooling down the burns of his skin that he had achieved from the plasma..Smiling underneath the mask as the aura of ice he used from that technique “Muhyo Getten” had protected him first before anything else..He would concentrate the focus of energy along his body once more to repair the body slowly, but seeing how he was at the verge of becoming “Genesis.” He would only motion his right hand that held onto the hilt of his partically damaged Shirasaya; Katsumi Ayama. The blade wasn’t damaged because it was able to stand up to such temperatures yet the hilt’s end was burn off, still able to grasp it. Smirking as he would slowly breathe in the ice that sheltered and cooled down his body, his energy was barely used but now a bigger portion of that mask to be used upon his body to gain it back up to some usage. He would only lift up the Shirasaya and his left hand along the walls of the ice that he had been in, with shingan at its full usage of first stage; he began to glance where his foe had been walking to.

“Nice weapon, but I’m still not dead yet, Spencer..” With a arch of his left hand coming off the wall of ice as his right hand would allow the the sword to build up the ice again but this time thicker, he gripped the left hand into a ball to thrust it out quickly as an arm would emerge from the tomb-like structure of ice, the rigid shape of the ice would come faster towards his direction. As Spencer had attempted to knock away the weapon, the broken shards of ice were remained on it..To freeze onto his barrel, as strings of his own chi were connected to the tomb of ice that Akira hid behind in, he would use the broken pieces from the wakizashi to drift into water particles from the heat of the marble but to use it as ice against over his bare feet, he had trapped the male within his own ice seeing how it was made of his own Shirasaya..

Not one to linger needlessly, Spencer abandons his position by the wakizashi with the speed and grace inherent to a street busker, effortlessly avoiding the ill-conceived entrapments of ice. Before his opponent utters the premature announcement of survival, a delusional outcry elicited from temporal relief of skin-on-fire bequeathed by the algid sarcophagus, Spencer has taken up a different position. Whatever ice may be clinging to the arena floor is, by now, far behind him.

Nevertheless, during his circumnavigation around his opponent to an area aft, Spencer manages to conjure up a few thoughts of his own. Memories, really. During his childhood on Careo Fas, he had numerous opportunities - if one would call them that - to witness severe burn victims writhing in agony; those who were foolish enough to venture to the planet’s bright side. They weren’t quite sunburn victims, inasmuch as people normally look at sunburn, but individuals who had quite literally caught fire beneath an errant ray of celestial wrath.

Akira’s symptoms are no different.

Blood blisters are already rising beneath his pelt as capillaries expand to gush a steady flow of endothelial cells upon the damaged subcutaneous tissue, an reaction inevitably leading to hypovolemic shock. As each mound of flesh scrapes mercilessly against the interior of the ice tomb, raw nerves will send torrents of pain roaring into his brain and his blisters will rip open. Where the heat emanating from skin does melt the ice, water will drip back down, tiny rivulets steadily shredding away the flesh now absent of its molecular integrity. Nausea, faintness, and fever almost have him in their stranglehold, and his musculature is becoming lethargic from the inundation of blood brought on by internal bleeding. There will soon be hemorrhaging and trembling, and that will only further eviscerate what is left of his forsaken hide. Deeper still, the burning air he surely inhaled scalds his lungs, making breathing increasingly difficult as the bronchi disintegrate and ultimately cease to function.

Indeed, as Spencer swings the butt of his rifle at the back of Akira’s head, through the now-brittle, porous ice shell now more prison than protection, he considers it the most merciful thing possible. With any luck, if Akira wakes up from the blow, he would be enjoying the strongest analgesics available.

(If you have any questions, please contact me for more information as to why I ignored the ice shards you claimed came into contact with the rifle and why I did not make more of a show in avoiding the other ice attacks.)

The pain distracting him from how he could possibly keep up with the fight without giving up, Akira would be upon his knees. His head tilted up to glance out at the sky, wondering if he had given it his best within the tournament. Sighing quietly, as he would blink, the silts of his mask to be consumed with darkness. He only felt the blistering pain to send messages to his brain though the nerve system of the damage he had accumulated…Not willing to give up yet within the fight between himself and Spencer, he was in the moment…”We are the final resistance..” Only to tilt his head to glance at the side, his pupils would widen at the incoming stock of the gun to come into the range. Lifting his left hand to the side quickly as the butt had came into the ice a second arm of ice consumed the gun within immense speed, his mask’s energy to drop from fifty percent usage but now to forty.

His ice kept the gun glued onto the tomb that the half-dead shinigami was in, seeing how Spencer had been in batting range of using his own weapon to chip away the tomb. He only smirked, drawing a rigid thumb of ice to the trigger of the gun to copy the man’s own cockyness, he would immediately pull back on the trigger without another thought, the plasma rifle’s cornea already at the measurement of five centimeter, he used the own gun of his opponent to give Spencer the same treatment back. The gun had been cooled down already from the cooling canister that he had on place, it was simply the gun’s power went from “its surface is expanding at a rate of twenty-three-percent per-centimeter traveled, with a velocity of one-hundred centimeters per-millisecond” How much longer did spencer had to live for as he was only merely feet away from battling range seeing how the man only had ¼ of the rifle within his own grasp..Akira only took ¾ of it making it practically his..The timing, the accuracy, the expanding plasma charge of his weapon would come into 2,300 percent range. Which only meant the explosion would consume Spencer fully and knock him out of the ring or simply kill him from the radiation and blast. The size was merely simple, he couldn’t leap or run the charge would consume him by the size.

AnimosityCreator (6:53:39 PM): Sure.
AnimosityCreator (6:53:51 PM): But still allows me to attack still.
AnimosityCreator (6:54:17 PM): But you're like side/behind me.
AnimosityCreator (6:54:18 PM): Right?
Feepit (6:54:41 PM): Within batting range.
AnimosityCreator (6:54:53 PM): How are you holding the gun exactly?
Feepit (6:55:07 PM): I'm swinging the butt at the back of your head.
Feepit (6:55:19 PM): Holding the shaft.
AnimosityCreator (6:55:52 PM): Fine with me.
AnimosityCreator (6:55:56 PM): I'll post in a bit.
AnimosityCreator (6:55:57 PM): Kk?
Feepit (6:56:02 PM): Okay.

Unfortunately, the force of the swing breaks the gun in half, and the triggering mechanism never fires. Spencer steps away from his opponent, scowling in annoyance, and watches as Akira's final exertion causes him to pass out.

Passing out for a few moments, he would only wake up and shatter out of the ice..HIs body healing, he would only admit defeat. "You win, Spencer." Stretching out, he was in the nude. He would only allow the ice to cover up his body. "Good match, so now I'm at 36-1-3."

“It’s not a party until something gets broke,” mutters Spencer dryly, narrowing his gaze on Akira.

There is not the roar of applause he has been expecting from the audience; nor is there silent awe. Instead, he hears coughing and sneezing as smoke, rising up from the smoldering earth, crests the containment wall and billows through the stands. Several particularly upset individuals fling curses down at him for his recklessness. He has certainly won, but he isn’t sure what that means, if anything.

“I’m leaving,” he says without conviction, after picking up the halves of his rifle.

Walking off in the direction from which he had entered this circle of enmity, he treads slowly, allowing the coolness recently returned to the marble slab to seep through the soles of his bare feet. He then feels something cooler, and glances down to see the Megumi Sakura, now laying in a puddle. Crouching down, Spencer lofts he ornate wakizashi, observing the world around him through its reflection, a view warping around the small drops of water still clinging to the blade. Several quiet moments later, he stands up and says, “With this.”

With that last sentiment, he steps off into the dirt, no longer soft with grass, and proceeds through the archway leading out of the stadium. He will spend the rest of the evening in his room repairing the damage to his rifle.