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Matthew West

"Whatever happens, Jaz. Remember to duck."

0 · 251 views · located in Terra

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by NotAFlyingToy

Description

Rise Against wrote:It kills me not to know this
But I've all but just forgotten,
What the colour of her eyes were,
And her scars, and how she got them.

History

>/loginuid: westmatt

[[[ID ACCEPTED. COMMAND:]]]

>/start endynecor.exe

[[FETCHING SERVER INFO]]

>/serverinfo 132.121.67.8

[[PATCH IN?]]

>/y

[[[PATCHING endynecor.exe AT 132.121.67.8]]]


>Loading files...
...
..
.
>Files loaded. Loading images....
..
..
.... [[[ERROR- IMAGE CORRUPT]]] Reconnecting...
>...
>..
>Reconstruction failure. Attempt re-reconstruction? Y/N
>/n

>Image Upload cancelled.

[[...Hacking...]]


[[...Decoding...]]


[[...Validating...]]


Username: [[telsayj]]
Password: [[*******]]

>Logging in...

=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

>Welcome, Dr. Telsay! What can we assist you with?
1) Current Projects
2) Endyne Corp Relations
3) Last Page Visited
4) Corporate Ladder

>/3

>Loading Subject Smite... Please wait...
>Loading files 142/142 at 123 kb/s.
>....Done

[DETECTION ALERT: ISOLATING SOURCE]

>/init actscan

[[[DETECTION NEUTRALIZED. ACTIVE SCAN INITIATED]]]


>Project Name: Matthew West, ALIAS: Smite

Specialization: Long Distance Reconnaissance/ Retrieval team, SSGT.

Credentials: The BK400 Project, The Defiance project, squaredid23 squaredid28, and ***CLASSIFIED*** project.

Successful Missions: 42/42

Retrievals: (89) Retrieved, (1) pending

Biography: Special Agent Smite was born on January 26th, in the year XXXX. Currently employed at Endyne Corp as field agent specializing in retrieval of runaway projects, currently tracking project 0000136. Was a sniper in US Army for three years, honourable discharge. Residence unknown. Parentage unknown. Public Identity: Matthew James West, accountant, British Columbia.

Appearance: !ERROR, IMAGE FILES CORRUPT. PRESS C TO CONTINUE

>/c


>Whereabouts: Currently unknown; out of country. Smite has special ops training in every climate, including tundra/arctic camoflauge training. Subject is considered dangerous.

>!WARNING: The following files are CLASSIFIED to all subjects below seclevel 8.2B. Enter passcode to continue.

>/init passcd.exe/burner

[[DESCRAMBLING PASSCODE...]]
.
.
[[[...DONE. PASSCODE 18023571996]]]

>/ 18023571996

>Passcode accepted. Seclevel clearance ALPHA Granted.

> Warrant: Currently a Warrant out for Smite’s arrest into Endyne for breaking regulations regarding hunting and capture for experiment 0000136, under law ZETA-GAMMA, stating capture within FIVE (5) months. User being tracked with total of 6 RECON teams, all under orders; shoot – kill. Commanding officer one Bridges, Julius A. Commander, RECON State alpha. Bridges personal tie to Subject Smite, better results expected.

> Equipment: Smite utilizes Sniper Rifle, X-32 Caliber, Titanium Alloy. Sidearm is Kaden 5.26 mm, Melee is dual edged combat knife. Secondary weapon MP5 Elongated SMG. Total rounds of ammo: 180 (12 X-32, 18 5.26, 150 SMG Ammo)

> Uniform: Riot Helmet, marked with a gold blotch on the crown, kevlar vest, combat boots; black. Camouflaged standard thermal uniform.

> Personality: WARNING: VOLATILE NATURE UNDETECTED. Fit for combat is questionable.

>!Continue to Analysis?

>/c


>Analysis: Dr. James Webber, PhD.
Subject Smite seems too calm for normal existence inside Retrieval squad. Instead is laid back, sarcastic, humorous. Has been known to joke around and feel empathetic towards his targets for retrieval, subject’s behaviour is unerratic and professional. Injections into subject seem to be ineffective to increase anger/rage, suggest stronger dose.

>Subject Smite is one of 16 Retrieval officers. 5 MIA, 11 KIA.

>/run shutdown.exe

[[[SHUTDOWN COMMENCING]]]

[[WIPING PRESENCE]]

[[[WARNING! DETECTION IMINENT! SHUTDOWN HALTED. ISOLATING...]]]

>Thank you for choosing Endyne, Dr. Telsay. Or, should we say, Mr. West.

!DO NOT HACK US AGAIN.!

[[CONNECTION SEVERED. DAMAGE: SEVERE. POWER SAVING MODE ACTIVATED]]

----------LOG TERMINATED--------

So begins...

Matthew West's Story

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Matthew West stood behind Jaz, watching the exchange, before taking a slight step forwards, towards the two talking. He rolled his left shoulder and scowled at the man. "She's got that right, boyo. She's a tough cookie to crumble." He scowled at Jaz briefly. "How are you, Conner?"

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Matthew West nods, slightly. "Yeah, you did. And it was more than two thirds of my squad. But hey, who's counting, right?" He took another step forward, his face hard, dirt caked all over it, mingled with the blood of his backup. A deep cut on his abdomen was bleeding into his navy blue hoodie. Suffice it to say, if looks could kill...

"So, You know why I'm here. I'm just hoping you try something drastic so I can use all of my tricks on you." He held up a pair of handcuffs, watching her closely.

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Matthew West glowered slightly, glancing her up and down, before stepping slightly closer, keeping the same amount of distance between them. "You're going to come with me, Jaz. And you're not going to fight me this time. Would you like to know why?" He winced slightly as more blood seeped out of his wound, and his eyes hardened. This was his last tactic before heading underground, and he was pissed off. Nobody gets away from Matt West.

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Matthew West stood stock still for a moment, looking her up and down, inwardly admiring her form while putting a face of anger on, a mask to hide the way that sometimes, she stuck in his head far too often than was healthy. "I know where she is, Jaz." He grumbled, low, his eyes darting around the bar. "If you don't come with me, I'll let it slip that she raised you, cared for you..." His facade slipped slightly beneath the lie. He DID know where Jaz's 'grandmother' resided, true... But he'd never sic the dogs on her. He wasn't that desperate.

Yet.

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Matthew West nodded in mock understanding. "Of course you don't, Conner." He said, reaching for a portable radio. "So if I just told them to head for 167 Western street, on the fringe of New York, you wouldn't stop me. If I told them that she was armed and dangerous, shoot-on-site target, you wouldn't try to defend her." His voice lowered. "Or do you think that a government lap dog won't have the guts?"

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Matthew West nodded decisively, and scowled up at her. She was right, though he tried to ignore it. He really had stooped to a new low. It was just business, he told himself. Merely a ruse to get her to come with him...

"You really think I'm going to expect you to just allow yourself to be handcuffed and led out of here like a puppy? Jaz, I thought you believed I was smarter than that." He reached into the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out a blood soaked vile, hissing slightly. The radio dropped from his hand, and clattered on the floor, shattering like glass, making a sound like porcelain breaking. The fake radio was hollow, with a battery rolling around in it's remains. Matt slipped to one knee, the blood loss finally catching up with him. Busted, he thought, as he gripped a nearby table, fighting to keep his eyes open.

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Matthew West growled slightly, leaning back against the table and squinting up at her. "Yeah, well, I guess I met my match, huh?" He tossed the vial at her, his eyes rolling backwards. "If you want to keep up this... chasing game we're doing, here, you'd better leave soon. My signs are tied to a locator... you know what? I doubt you're interested." He rubbed his hands over his eyes, smearing blood under them. "I look forward to seeing you next time we try to kill each other." He said dismissivley, the edges of his vision closing in on him. He believed the conversation to be over.

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Matt rolled his eyes. "Trying to get you out of here, Jaz. Anyone ever tell you you have a knack for trouble?" With one hand he freed his revolver, making sure to point it away from the woman. He leaned down, to be heard over the pandemonium. "Look, I know what this looks like. They aren't here; they aren't coming. You're safe as far as I'm concerned. I just needed to... I need to talk to you."

He leaned backwards to look her in the eyes, trying to convey his sincerity. Behind him, it appeared that the bouncers were beginning to find the shooter, combing through the dance floor. The big lug to their right seemed to believe he'd been shot, rolling around, groaning, clutching his perfectly functional ear. None of it mattered, like colour bleeding out of a black and white film. All that mattered was her.

Making her believe him.

The setting changes from gambits-bar to Side Alley

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Matt followed closely behind her, slipping the revolver back into his shirt holster, looking around the alleyway. He was silent for a while, squinting in the relative darkness outside of the club. He shoved his hands in his pockets, wary, suddenly, of what he would say to this woman, who he suddenly had to convince that he wasn't trying to take her into a white washed cell and draw out her brains with a drinking straw.

"Did you want to go farther away from the scene of your assault, or is here good?" He piped. That's great, shit for brains. Open with a joke about her. That'll lighten the mood.

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Normally, when one was faced with a gun, there were several options of responses. The witty approach, though dangerous, often led to great results that could lead to the upper hand in the encounter, if you didn't mind sounding like James Bond. There was also the aggressive tactic, where you draw your own gun and engage in a shouting match, the dodge tactic, the hurt and convincing tactic. All these scenarios ran through Matt's head, and finally, finally, he gave a response.

"Muh..."

...Not his best work.

"Uh, okay." He tried again. "How about the fact that I just hunted you across a country, found you in a club, saved you from murdering innocents, and didn't attempt any kind of attack, kidnapping, you name it. So tell me. What, exactly, out of all the things I've done tonight, constitutes as a reason to kill me!?"

Huh. Or the angry, wounded puppy approach. That wasn't on the list.

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Matt huffed, shaking his head as he walked towards the bike, his footsteps slow and measured. He didn't like motorcycles. Not since he had wiped out on one when he was fourteen. Something about the fact that it was open air... startled him. But he was not a man to show weakness, especially in front of a woman.

Doubly so for this woman.

He swung one booted foot over the bike behind her, and for a brief moment wondered what to do with his hands. Opting for the dont-touch-the-super-lady approach, he circled his arms around her midsection so that they were resting on the gas nozzle, scooching his backside backwards so that there was inches of air between them.

"Where exactly are we going?" He said, his voice calm, not like the quakiness that was inside his chest. Where the hell is this coming from? He wondered, wrinkling his nose, itching from how close it was to her copper hair.

The setting changes from side-alley to Main Street 1

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His cellphone was dying, in the sense of that slow, deep drain where you stare at the battery life in horror as it goes from 10% slowly down to 8%. He supposed that he should be lamenting more on the fact that his life had become uninteresting, so much so that he was actually watching his phone die, rather than being angsty and waxing poetic over the dying itself, but he quickly shoved that thought out of mind and continued walking at the brisk pace through the nearly deserted town's square, eyes trained on his phone.

He liked the rain; so much so that he often found excuses to plunge from his often-times boring - and always uninteresting - office building and into the streets with nothing but a coat on, just to feel the shocking wet flap of the raindrops against his skull. Being soaked to the bone when he returned from a too-long break was a common occurence in his building, and it happened often enough that eyebrows were no longer lifted and he had enough of a history to not be asked why he submerged himself in water. If he really deconstructed it, he'd conclude that the people he worked with - good, old fashioned, simple, boring people - were a little afraid of him.

He didn't blame them. You don't go working with an ex-retriever of dangerous criminals and be all buddy-buddy with him.

He continued walking, cell phone at six percent, when he suddenly noticed a shock of red hair and a lowered body, sitting in a darkened alleyway. He almost passed her by but for the strange familiarity he saw there, in her. As he thought about it, his mind, still the weapon it had been when he'd worn a badge, began sifting through files, searching databases he's read, coming to conclusions that he didn't even consciously realize.

He needed more data, more experience with her.

And that's why he approached her, with four percent battery, on that rainy day. "Hey there," he said, pushing his glasses up green eyes. "Can I help you with something?"

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He scuffed at the ground, snapping the phone shut with one hand and shoving it deep into his pocket, his eyes traveling from the device to her shoes, to her face, the way she looked at the smattering of liquid on her palm, bright red and swiftly diluted in the fat, slow paced drops of rain. His blond strands darkened and matted against his skull, water dripping over his eyebrows and onto his cheeks, rolling moisture.

He cocked his head at her, silent, contemplative. His eyes continued to wander her, taking in her features, the tone of hoarse anger in her voice, defiance in her gaze. He knew her from somewhere; within the cracks of his brainpower, but he still couldn't place it. His own weapon was in its holster; his coat rapidly molding to fit the holster, printing hard, but he ignored the sensation for now.

"I'd rather you didn't either, actually," he drawled, shuffling his feet, one hand reaching up to sift through the darkened strands, sending water flying into the air to mingle with the fatter drops and dissipate. "But you can't hide the fact that you're sick. And in the rain. Not exactly a good combination in my experience."

He nodded his head towards the alleyway. "We can both get out of the rain for a while. I'll buy you something warm." He held his hands out, fingers spread wide.

"And before you get on me for trying any funny business; I know what it's like to be out of home. I'm just trying to offer some company, maybe a respite."

He didn't think she was homeless. He wanted her to think he was just a concerned citizen, attempting to help what he saw as a homeless woman making her way on the streets.

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He shrugged, a violent shake of his shoulders, and began to walk, figuring that she'd follow. "Nobody really is," he said, keeping his tone light. At the back of his skull, though, he itched. Her familiarity was buzzing to him, teasing him. He was very good with faces, so his lack of of knowledge about her-

A flash of a girl with red hair, glaring up at him as a huey pulled away, her face smudged with dirt, blood, and debris. He remembers those eyes, blue and vivid, that strange quality to them, holding him. He remembers the feel of his gloves, the weight of the automatic rifle that rested in them. He remembers checking the windspeed, what kind of shot he'd have to take, where to place the gun on his shoulder.

He remembers thinking about putting a bullet between those blue eyes, knowing instinctively that she was a huge threat.

But the huey had taken off, the gaze had been broken by height and angle. In his mind, she had stayed there, locked away in some secret corridor that only opened when he relived his time in the war, what he had done to people within it. Among the smoke and the wounded cries and the death, she was there, holding the arm of a soldier she'd once been allies with, glaring up at him.

There, on that street, with the rain pouring down, he fixed her with the same expression he'd worn that day, glasses low on his nose, his eyes fixed upon the tilt and line of her shoulders, neck, face. He was silent for far too long, but he barely noticed.

He felt trapped. Because he came here to escape his past, and here it was, chasing him. Boxing him in.

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He straightened against the wall, back flat against the brick, his eyes widened, trained on her face. If there was any doubt that the girl on the ground could be anyone but her, it flew away rapidly. His pulse was calm, a little more spiked than usual, but still fairly measured, slow-moving, still. He hadn't realized that he was still very good at his old job until now, and it scared him, a little. He let out a gust of air, stepping off of the wall, looking towards the man.

Face first in a rainy puddle. The cracks of the gunshot against the slow rolls of the thunder probably wouldn't raise too much suspicion, but he decided it was better safe than sorry. His mind raced, looking through the eyes of an assassin. If it were him, he wouldn't want just one man. He'd want at least a pair.

Two shooters.

He drew his gun, taking three quick steps until he was at the end of the alleyway, quickly peeking around the corner. No real targets. A man washing a window had looked up briefly, but had been satisfied that nothing had been out of place. A woman was peeking out of a shop in the plaza across the road, looking scared. Another man in a top hat had hidden in his car, windows locked, peeking out of the back seat.

He turned to look at her, whistling slightly with his teeth. "Gotta check his ID," he said, simply. "Cover me?"

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He swore under his breath, the gun following his movements as he took a step into the open. Instinct told him to look behind him at just the right time, a man in a dark green cloak jumping the gap between two buildings, landing on the opposing roof and rolling. He measured the distance, and didn't even bother giving chase. He memorized the cloak, the dark hair, the scar behind the ear that trailed and disappeared under the green collar, and moved on, two-stepping with the gun moving with the rest of his upper torso.

He reached where the body had fallen, and with a quick look around, bending to touch two fingers to the wet cement. There was a stitch of fabric, dark crimson staining the cloth and the puddle surrounding it, that he pocketed quickly and efficiently . But his conclusion from far away was no different than when he was close: the body had disappeared.

Without a trace.

He sniffed at the air, the smell of gunsmoke and baby powder hanging in his nostrils, and he brought the fabric to his nose, breathing in. Nothing but the rust of blood and the scratchiness of the cloth greeted him. He cursed, softly and under his breath, repocketing the evidence and rubbing a hand on his jaw.

Someone had just tried to kill him, he thought, disturbed.

What was more disturbing? He was okay with it.

He began the walk back towards the woman, hands loosely at his sides, gun still drawn and cradled. His mind began to work once more, the expression on his face dark. He had just met this woman, began talking to her, and suddenly there were people shooting at him. He wondered for a moment about who the real target was between them. It was convenient - damn convenient - that she would show up the day a shooter was going to take the shot.

As he approached her further, he didn't put his gun away. He eyed her, warily. "About that coffee." He said, voice tight, eyes hard.

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He nodded curtly, turning to face the brick wall, his hand coming up to rub his jawline, stroking the fine hairs that he found there. He hadn't shaved in a day - didn't really believe in looking his best nowadays. He was thankful that he hadn't, now. It gave his hand something to do as he fidgeted, working all of this through in his mind. His dark green eyes flicked from the wall, to the place where the shooter had lain, and finally back.

On her.

"Are you, now." He said, flatly. His voice had the tone of disbelief to it, his fingers tapping the handle of the Sig Sauer in a rapid motion, finger-by-finger. "Interesting how someone comes to take my life the same moment you arrive in it."

His gun moved in front of his waist, and his other hand snapped down to grip it, two handed. His stance widened, eyes sharper, focused directly on her.

"Not every day I see an enemy of the state in my town, is it?" He mused.

It made sense. Her bedraggled appearance, her lying low, her obvious skill with a firearm, the blood that she coughed up. While it was a shot in the dark, it was an educated one. Either she had cancer, another infectious disease, or she was experimented upon. Add that fact to his certainty that he'd seen her in a warzone, and he had enough information to take a blind shot.

"I think you owe me some talk."

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He smiled bitterly, the taste of it deep at the back of his tongue. "Saved my life? How do we know this wasn't a hit on you? How do you know that the laser wasn't on my head this time because they didn't want any witnesses? You want acknowledgment? Fine. Thank you for looking out for your own interests, and thank you for preserving my suspicions."

He didn't comment on her accusation that he liked to pick fights. He did, for a long time, and that still stuck with him today. The fact of the matter was, he was good at fighting. It made him stronger, made the others around him weaker. He had been a prominent member of the uprising because of it.

He was good at disturbing shit.

"And don't fucking start with this difference-of-opinion bullshit," he growled, the metal between his palms quivering. "You may have been bought; you may have been sold. But there are herds of men slaughtered like cattle in unmarked graves because of people like you."

The gun stayed low, and he was amazed at his own strength. "But if you're not with them now, and if you're hunted or I'm hunted - it doesn't matter. We can bark and snap at each other all day long, but the fact of the matter is, there's a man who just shot at me to kill one of us. Which means that I want some answers."

He took a step - backwards, giving her a little air. "Who are you."

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He listened to her words, her accusatory tone and stiff posture hinting at her passion behind the words that she spoke. He was intrigued, somewhat - he'd never met a person who'd been so passionate for the other side since the guns had stopped firing. The cease-act had stated that freedom of speech and will were now widespread in the country, but few spoke up against the new government.

But whatever his reply would be was shut out by the fact that she was coughing, a sick and ugly sound that he felt deep within his chest.

His instincts drove him to move close to her, grabbing her gun and backing away with a quick and light step backwards, putting the older and worn-out gun into his own waistband. He flicked the safety on as it was snugged against his skin.

Then paused. Sighed heavily.

Despite it all, he really couldn't not help her. She was obviously very sick, very heartfelt, firey and passionate, and he found himself wanting to know her story. As an added bonus, there was the whole, "someone-tried-to-kill-me-in-your-presence" thing to consider, too. With a grim nod, he decided that she wasn't going to leave his sights for a while.

"Give me your arm," the words came out of his mouth softly, slowly, as he walked to stand near her. "Let's get you out of the rain."

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Character Portrait: Matthew West

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He followed her, his stride easily longer than hers, but he paced it so that their movements matched, that she was always ahead of him, hiding her front from him. Now that he had her gun, he felt a little better about his predicament. Still, he didn't doubt that she had a knife in her boot, or somewhere else on the wiry body of hers. That wasn't even considering what other power she contained within her body, and he had seen quite a few on the lines.

But that was a year and a lifetime ago. He had it marked; three days after his nineteenth birthday, the guns had been dropped. The war was declared over.

As he moved next to her, he pointed towards a small restaurant, tucked away from the quiet plaza, now a ghosttown with the gunshots and rain coupling for a day that doubled as a warning to stay indoors. "Matt." He said, simply. "Matthew West. And yours?"

The setting changes from main-street-1 to The Ruins

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His hands twitched on her back his fingers curling against her clothing in a tightening embrace. His hands rubbed in small circles on her spinal column, fingers seeking to comfort and protect her. He had always longed to protect her, even when he was stalking her down in dark alleys and pretending to drunkenly knock poison out of her grasp. He had wanted to protect her even when loading a rifle to kill her.

He was a complex individual.

"Oh?" He murmered, resting his chin on her head, not quite knowing what to say. When she tensed against him, he pulled her tighter. It was a constant tug of war; she needing, he giving, and then vice versa. Their relationship was a careful tugging of ropes between them.

"How do you mean?"

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A laugh chuffed out of his throat, vibrating against her lips. He loved it when she was warm and affectionate; he could recall a time not too long ago when she wanted to rip his head off and would gladly shove it where the sun didn't shine. He found himself sending up a silent prayer in thanks that they were here, they weren't giving up.

"I think you're right, Jaz." He said, amusement colouring his tone. He pulled back from her, his hands shifting from her back to her arms, rubbing the skin there affectionately. "She was a wild one, wasn't she. And a fantastic judge of character."

He ducked his head, looking deep into her in the way that she once said bothered her. "You okay, Jaz? It wasn't the best way to say goodbye."

What he was referencing was shaky ground, but he didn't care. All that mattered was her.

The setting changes from the-ruins to Gambit's Bar

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He followed her in, his tactics demure and obvious, for he was through with stealth today. His hands were coated with rubber that ended mid-forearm, the thick gloves lined on the inside with leather and steel joints that flexed when he flexed his knuckles. His only weapon was a pistol and his mind, the only true tools he would need tonight if he was going to survive a round against her. Rolling his neck on his shoulders, he spotted her.

Her.

He didn't want to speak - he'd had enough of yelling at her, trying to get her to see reason. What he figured she needed was what he needed; a good old fashioned, no-holds-barred sparring session that would leave them both bruised, winded, and the pain they were both feeling. Sadness that weighed them down.

They needed to beat it out of them.

And that's why he approached Jaz, and tapped her on the shoulder. That's why he knew she would just get it when he didn't speak, just raised his fists towards her. That's why he threw the first punch, a right-hander, straight at her jaw.

Let the games begin.

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Character Portrait: Matthew West

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Her bomb of a fist connected with the side of his face, and he slackened his jaw just in time. Still, he physically felt his teeth loosen. He didn't care. The pain - physical pain - was far greater than this blooming storm cloud that had eaten them both from the inside. Rather than duck the blow - they both knew they were capable of dodging blows - he responded with a rabbit-punch combination - first striking her on the right shoulder, then stomach, in an effort to put distance between them.

His punches weren't calculated; his balance wasn't firm. He was throwing punches for punches sake. And god damn did it feel good.

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Character Portrait: Matthew West

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Matt caught the stick as she walked towards him, taking a single step backwards - the only retreat thus far in the fight. He was worried now. Maybe he shouldn't -

And then she said she hated him. Challenged him. Dared him to not let her win. His eyes narrowed, and the sentences distracted him so much that the lashing across the face caught him by complete surprise. He warded off a second blow, and glared, his cheek beginning to redden.

Challenge accepted.

Grunting, he danced forwards in a fencer's strut, giving her a solid thwack on the right shoulder, putting the force of his elbow behind it.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

cron