15.
Rabbit & Tiger
Roufas Ernst scratched his chin impatiently. He sat in a rear booth
within the The Vanguard, an old-fashioned bar in the slums of Enmetropolis, the
designated location of the next Belmarcian Tournament. It was dirty, with far
too many bright lights and loud, artificial music. The Vanguard was blaring
some strange noise right now which Bruce had once referred to as techno. Roufas
considered it to be a frivolity created by lazy fools who lacked the talent to
compose true music.
The Rabbit cradled the violin that leaned against his waist in the booth.
Running thin, calloused fingers up the neck, he caressed the familiar strings. D'Ambrosio.
He received it as a present for his sixteenth birthday, over 50 long, bloodstained
years ago, after he had shown a deep interest in music as a child. Roufas
hadn't been spoiled, however. His father was a professional bassist who often
played in an orchestra, traveling across the country and entertaining millions
with classical masterpieces. It was his father's passion for the symphony that
pushed Roufas's dear mother Odessa to make the expensive purchase.
It was then that Roufas discovered the joy of playing a musical
instrument, learning all the fantastic things one could do with a violin – with
the help of psynergy, of course.
The violinist's train of thought was suddenly derailed as Bruce Wernhart's
gruff voice cut through the atmosphere. "Hey!"
To call Bruce a large man would be an understatement. He was imposing,
muscular, and stood a towering seven feet tall. Smooth bald strips and lines of
buzzed-down hair lined his scalp, and even in murky bars such as this, he always
kept his sunglasses on. Bruce sat next to Roufas, who was a mere twig in
comparison, and took another swig of his eighth beer.
"Well, is he coming or not?" Bruce complained. "We’ve
both got better things to do than sit in this trashy bar all day. What’s the hold-up,
Roufas?"
"Have patience, Bruce," Roufas whispered. He pushed a grey
strand of hair from his wrinkled face and turned to his partner. They were a
complete mismatch – Bruce with his silk collared shirt and billowing jeans, and
Roufas, with his sophisticated light blue suit and dark purple tie. "And
remember the protocol. No using names of any sort unless absolutely necessary."
Bruce took another violent swig of his beverage and slammed the mug
down on the table, creating small cracks in the wood. "Again with the protocol."
He snorted. "Averyl's been gone for the past three days, and you're
talkin' to me about protocol."
Roufas' sunken blue eyes coasted around the room carefully. "Now
is not the time."
People of all types filled the room, from short men with cybernetic arms
to tall, cloaked warriors with long, flowing hair and even longer blades. Most
bars in any civilized dimension had a set of rules about combat and violence,
and the Vanguard was no exception: when a customer had a problem with another, they
almost always took it outside.
Some establishments also employed their own enforcers to make sure such
rules were upheld, and Roufas had already identified the two guards who were on
duty based on the intensity of their auras. One was a tall man with a steel jaw
that wrapped around the bottom of his face. A heavy red robe shrouded his body,
revealing little of his golden-brown skin. He clearly hid a weapon under his
clothing, and from the shape of the psynergy streams flowing in that direction,
Roufas surmised that it was made out of metal.
The other enforcer stood by the door, just as inconspicuous as the
first. He had lush green hair that spilled down around his ears, nearly overtaking
his face. Between the goggles and the ornamental bandanna that covered the lower
half of the man's face, little could be seen of him. His armor of choice was a
thick navy blue battlecloak equipped with shoulderguards. The darkness of the
fabric combined with the dim light of the room prevented Roufas from getting a
decent idea of what the man was packing, but his aura was poignant.
All this Roufas sensed instinctively. In new environments, he always sought
out the strongest psynergy signals and made note of them for future reference.
He’d been an assassin for the past 45 years of his life, so sensing psynergy
had become as effortless as breathing. Skilled individuals who could cloak their
true psynergy auras could cause some difficulty, but he doubted that men of
such caliber resided around these parts.
The violinist's eyes were drawn to the door of the bar, which had
opened slightly, letting a sliver of light pierce through the darkness. It
swung open wider, and the figure of a young man appeared, blotting out the light.
Greasy blond hair framed his sweat-covered face, and he stumbled into the bar,
looking around frantically. In his hurry, and possibly due to the darkness, he hooked
his foot around the leg of a chair, slipped, and lost his balance. Trying to
secure himself by pulling on the top of the chair, he managed to lift his body
up far enough that he began to fall forward instead of to the side.
If the chair had been empty, the ragamuffin would have fallen on to it
and escaped the mishap with little more than embarrassment. But as fate would
have it, the chair was occupied.
And so the boy went crashing forward, bouncing like a feather off a
robust man whose thighs spilled off the meager wooden seat. The man in the
chair was clad in dirty blue overalls and a metal helmet with a drop-down face
guard raised up above his head. He looked to be some sort of industrial worker,
done for the day and relaxing at his favorite bar.
The big man didn't budge as the youth went flailing down to the ground.
At this point, the bar grew silent, and everyone's eyes drifted over to the developing
scene.
"That's our man." Roufas pointed to the slumped greaseball on
the floor.
"You gotta be kidding me," Bruce sighed. "He's the one
who’s got the info on the tournament complex?"
"Apparently, he helped to design it." Roufas noticed the silence
and lowered his own voice. "Not only will he show us how to get within the
complex, but he'll tell us where the committee and the clock will be located."
"Alright, so what should we do?" Bruce grumbled, moving from
the bench.
"Wait just a moment." Roufas placed a wrinkled hand upon
Bruce's bicep. "Not yet."
The worker heaved himself off the chair and turned his flabby face to
look at what had just disturbed him. The informant sat on the floor, rubbing
his arm. Eventually, he raised his head up, and for the first time, the two made
eye contact.
"Ya bumped into me," the worker spat, slobber glistening from
his thick lips. "Ya gotta say sorry."
The messenger staggered to his feet, craning his neck to look up at the
man’s face. "S-sorry."
"Sorry my ass!" the fat man shouted. "You think you can
push around Earl Majester?! I'm the 10th-time arm-wrasslin’ champion
in Enmetropolis, boy! I'll make fish paste outta you-"
"Earl, calm down," a middle-aged man with a brown handlebar
mustache called out. "It was an accident."
"The little prick tried to push me outta my seat!" Earl dribbled.
"He's drunk," Another man Roufas couldn't see spoke up.
"You know how he gets when he's drunk."
"I'm not drunk!" Earl shouted, banging his fists on the counter.
"I'm not drunk, it's this little pissworm's fault! He–"
With Earl distracted by his own tirade, the messenger had moved to
escape. He was nearly out of arm’s reach when Earl whirled back around.
"Where d'ya think you're going, huh?!"
Earl's fist swiped out at the tail of the young man's jacket and quickly
yanked him backwards. Plates and glasses went shattering to the floor as the
messenger's body took their place on the counter.
"You're dead meat now!" Earl's fist gripped a silver knife and
raised it high above his squirming victim. "You little–" Then, a hairy
hand reached out, and he froze.
"Earl, settle down, now." It was handlebar mustache. During the
commotion, he’d moved behind Earl and somehow managed to restrain his hefty
friend. "It's not worth it. You'll get more than you bargained for,
buddy."
Earl struggled to pull the knife down, and handlebar mustache flexed
his own muscles in return, keeping the man at bay. "Earl! Don't do this, man!"
The messenger didn't miss this chance. Gripping the table with his
hands, he slid off the rough surface and sprang to the floor.
"Oh no you don't!" In an amazing feat of agility, Earl turned
his gut sideways and heaved handlebar mustache over the width of his back. His
friend went soaring across the table, crashing into three other men sitting
against the wall.
Earl looked straight ahead to the boy, who darted into the crowd of bystanders
on the opposite side of the room. The arm-wrestling champ lumbered forward, intent
on reclaiming his prey.
Roufas ignored the scuffle and instead focused on the two enforcers,
who still remained motionless. Neither of them had done so much as twitch the
entire time, yet he was sure they weren't copies or fake bodies due to the way
psynergy pulsated out from within them.
Meanwhile, the three men against the wall sprung up from the ground,
along with the mustached man. The four of them caught the lumbering drunk
within a matter of seconds.
"Earl, just settle down!" Handlebar mustache began grappling
with Earl once again, this time with the help of the other three. They all
growled like they were trying to keep a stampeding elephant at bay, but kept losing
ground.
A tall, handsome teenager with red hair stood up from the table next to
Earl's. "There's four of you, and you can't even keep that fattie down?"
He looked around the pub, raising his hands in mock confusion, then turned back
to the five men. "Allow me to do everyone a favor and silence that noisy pal
of yours."
From his back the boy pulled a silver broadsword painted with golden
inscriptions. As he held it with both hands, a fierce red aura appeared,
bathing the sword in a fiery glow. "This attack has slain many a dracone
in Midgarde," he said proudly. "If it could take down those beasts,
it should be more than enough for you!"
"Get 'im, Tristan!" A voice called out from the crowd behind
the warrior.
"Dragonslay-" Tristan's war cry was interrupted, and his sword
froze in mid-swing, caught by the left hand of the enforcer with the red robe.
Roufas had watched the guard move briskly across the bar and in front of Tristan
as the boy was preparing his attack. Likewise, the green-haired enforcer shot
through the crowd like a dart, appearing behind his partner and creating a shield
between Earl's group and the others. Roufas couldn't help but wonder what had
taken them so long.
"This has gone far enough." The red-robed enforcer's metal
jaw vibrated as he spoke directly to the young swordsman. "No one shall make
another move."
Tristan struggled to push his sword down, incredulous at how the enforcer
had somehow caught it with a single hand. In a last-ditch attempt to save his
reputation, Tristan let go of the sword and ducked under it to administer a punch
to the enforcer's gut. Suddenly, out from the enforcer's red cloak came two
large steel balls that snaked out from chains within his clothing. Tristan's
hand connected with one balls and its chain, and his heart skipped a beat.
"Big mistake," the enforcer spoke calmly, pulling the chain
back. The steel balls fell over Tristan's outstretched arm, pulling the chain
taut around his wrist. The enforcer yanked backwards, and Tristan's hand was
severed from his arm with a bloody splurt.
The swordsman's fans cried out in horror as he stumbled backwards,
blood pouring from the stump on his arm. Tears ran down his face not from the
pain, but from the realization that his days as a dragonslayer were over.
"You monsters!" A girl with auburn hair and a birdlike face
stood up, clasped her hands together and produced a bright ball of psynergy.
"You're going to pay for that!"
"Put the slob out of commission and come back me up," the steel-jawed
enforcer called to his partner. "Now."
"53rd Seal of the Cursed Talon: Mind Crash." The
green-haired enforcer whispered as he placed his hands on Earl's body. The arm-wrestling
champ fell to the ground with a large thump.
"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?!" Handlebar
mustache shouted to the green-haired enforcer. "What did you do to
Earl?"
"17th Seal of the Cursed Talon: Red Hazard." As the
enforcer finished his second hand seal, crimson poles appeared from the ground
beneath the clueless men, sending them sprawling.
On the other side of the bar, Tristan's comrades had formed a large
circle around the enforcer with the red robe.
"You can’t win," the enforcer growled. "Suppressing violence
is our job."
Tristan had been dragged from the floor and was being tended to in a
corner of the bar by another comrade. "If you think we're going to let you
guiltlessly chop up our partners, you've got another thing coming!" the
fierce woman screamed out. "Get them!"
"Alright, I’ve had enough of this!" Bruce roared, getting up
from the booth. At this point, everyone had either already escaped from the bar
or joined up with the anti-enforcer mob, and Roufas was the only man who remained
still seated. "We need the info that kid’s got, right? You just gonna sit
there and let him get crushed in that lynch mob?"
Roufas thought for a moment. "He should be able to find his way
out. It would only make things more complicated and inefficient to get involved
with such weaklings."
"Not if I take ‘em all out at once," Bruce grumbled. "Watch
this, old man!"
The Tiger sprung off the table, shattering it to pieces from the force of
his leap. As he swung his legs out in front of him, psynergy burned around his
body like orange flames. A random man from the crowd was caught off-guard and
Bruce's legs hooked around him, driving his head through the stone floor with a
sickening smash. Bruce landed on his knees, but his fiery aura kept his skin
well-guarded.
"Sorry to interrupt." Bruce grinned at the mob. "Mind if
I join in?"
Some members of the crowd stopped to stare at him, but the rest of the
crowd couldn't hear him over the commotion and continued to rush the enforcer,
smothering him immediately.
"Hey..." Bruce growled, sucking in a deep breath. "Listen
to me, assholes!"
The Tiger's neck jerked forward as he opened his mouth wide and let out
a deep roar. Psynergy crackled; a smoldering fireball appeared on his lips and
quickly grew to a staggering size. Then, it exploded forward.
The fireball initially smashed into the backs of three men, turning them
into nothing more than smashed flies on the front of the flaming mass. The psynergy
blast continued its descent and crashed into the epicenter of the mob. As
burning bodies began running to and fro, chaos erupted.
Bruce heaved backwards and let out a deep laugh. "I warned you!"
"You’re making things worse!" Roufas cried from the other
side of the bar. "Find the messenger first!"
But there was no stopping Bruce. Three swordsmen had escaped from the fiery
mess and were zoning in on what had caused it. Wasting not another moment, they
dashed toward their assailant. Bruce merely grinned, waiting for his prey to
come.
One brave swordsman swung out at the Dark Zodiac, and Bruce smacked the
blade with a psynergy-padded palm. It shattered, and the Tiger remained unscathed.
Chuckling, Bruce kneed the man in the chest and then backhanded his
ally. This swordsman twirled, but kept his ground and prepared to strike. Bruce
lit his chest aflame with orange psynergy, and soon, another sword had
shattered. Laughing in the swordsman's face, Bruce punched out and sent him flying
backwards over the bar in a ridiculous display of strength.
Roufas shook his head in disappointment. He's getting too carried away.
I may have to act after all, if only to quiet him down. The Rabbit lifted
his violin to his chin. Perhaps an elegy would be appropriate.
Roufas pulled out a bow from the inside of his suit and set it lightly
on the strings. A soft, haunting melody floated out from the instrument. Roufas
swayed with the music, and his violin glowed softly with a pale, ghostly aura.
Little by little, the volume rose.
Bruce was in the middle of shoving an old drunkard's head through the
stone wall when he heard a voice behind him. Turning around and dropping the
lifeless body, Bruce came face to face with the green-haired enforcer that had
downed Earl. "Your madness ends here."
"You wanna go?" Bruce grinned. "I'm game if you are."
"20th Seal of the Cursed Talon: Air-" Before the
enforcer could finish chanting, a column of fire exploded from Bruce's palm,
leaping on to the enforcer and engulfing his body.
"You think that shit's gonna work on me?!"
"-Raid." The enforcer's voice was muffled from beyond the
flames and his own psynergy barrier, but Bruce still heard it. Staring upward,
Bruce spotted a dozen glowing orbs materializing above him.
Bruce snickered as the blasts moved downward, raising no hand to block them.
As the orbs neared their target, they merged into a spear-shaped beam, engulfing
him in light as the attack reached its climax. Some stragglers in the crowd who
were still standing near Bruce were sent flying simply from the excess psynergy
dispelled from the collision.
The fire died down around the enforcer as stray flames burned up the remains
of his battlecloak. He threw it off, surging psynergy around his body in an attempt
to minimize the damage. Strapped to the leather bodysuit underneath was an array
of easily-accessible knives.
The enforcer watched as smoke cleared from around Bruce’s body. The tall
man still stood with his head pointed up toward the sky.
"I told you..." Bruce waved the smoke away. There was a large
red mark on his forehead where he had taken the blast, but not a single drop of
blood had been drawn. "That shit isn’t gonna work on me."
Oblivious, the enforcer began chanting again. "41st
Seal of–"
He was cut off again, but not by the flaming Tiger. Roufas' chilling music
had finally become audible through the chaos, and everyone began looking around
in fear. Soon, the weaker of the crowd frantically tried to plug their ears.
"Aw, man." Bruce crossed his arms. "Old man's always
gotta ruin my fun."
Roufas' bow stopped mid-note and he opened his eyes. Psynergy spilled
out from his violin, and his stare was grave and firm. His mind was settled now.
No matter how peripheral, every single customer in this bar had played a part in
potentially jeopardizing the Dark Zodiacs' mission...an act that was not to be
forgiven.
"Now that I have your attention," he spoke in a different,
booming voice, "we can end this."
About half of the people were shivering in pain, clutching their heads
in agony. Then, Bruce noticed a scrawny young man with blond hair and a torn grey
jacket escape from the crowd.
"Sing, D'Ambrosio!" Roufas bellowed. His bow was merely a
blur on his violin now, surging with psynergy. "Blood Crescendo!"
Screams erupted from the center of the room as blood spurted out from
the patrons’ ears. Helpless against the leader of the Dark Zodiacs’ crippling
power, they fell to the ground, writhing in pain. The scrawny messenger reached
the door to the bar, inches from escaping, and felt a powerful hand clamp down
on his shoulder.
"Now, now, what's the rush?" Bruce leaned his face down to
meet the young man’s. "Don’t tell me you were about to run without giving
us what we came for..."
"S-sorry," the informant stammered. "I was just
scared..."
"Scared? Of what?" Flaming eyes burned through Bruce’s sunglasses.
"This party’s just getting started, man!"
