Today it's:
Abbas, The Lion of Palestine
Vs.
Declan "Mirage" Stoddard, The Vulture
CnC is appreciated on both ends and remember to vote fairly!
Spoiler (Click to Show)
Traversing the rooftops, Abbas found himself dipping two fingers into a substance all too familiar to him. He raised the now dripping fingers up to his nose and sniffed, picking up subtle traces of iron.
Blood.
The Immortal stood and searched the rest of the rooftop and, finding no further trail, silently cursed to himself. The individual he was chasing had been smart enough to stop the bleeding and prevent a trail from forming in his wake.
Even if he had, the amount of blood-loss he had suffered was obvious, and that much gone would cause a lot of problems for Abbas’ unfortunate target. He wouldn’t be moving fast, as hastily as possible to evade another confrontation, but not fast enough.
Abbas scanned the rooftop once again, looking for any hint of previous movement, and spotted something small, nearly invisible in the darkness, on the roof’s north face. He strolled over, getting as close as possible to observe, and found a faint, but recent, scuff mark.
The Immortal glanced over the edge, spotting a possible, but very treacherous, way down from the roof, without use of the fire escape. He immediately followed the same path, taking hold of the various bricks as he descended, nearly falling once or twice due to some loose clay, before landing silently upon the concrete.
Other than the ambient sounds of the lights buzzing, the street was all quiet, no noise at all. Abbas moved with care, taking soft, rolling steps to ensure a quiet landing of his feet, all the while keeping an open ear for anything suspicious.
The crook had evidently taken the most difficult and unlikely path to try and throw Abbas off, but to no avail. As obviously skilled as he was in how he covered his tracks, the Immortal had five millennia of experience that he didn’t, as far as he knew at least.
The man didn’t have anything to patch up his wound, a glancing cut across his left shin, just deep enough that would cause severe bleeding. He’d wanted to kill him sure, no criminal like this one should be freely walking the streets, but when you’re kicked out a second story window, you can’t take the time to aim, you just have to swing and hope to land a blow.
The waste covered alley floor had hit hard, but Abbas had turned on his back, where his freshly equipped shield had been, and absorbed most of the impact upon it. It hurt, no doubt, but his defensive piece of weaponry had pretty much saved his life.
He’d held tight onto his newly chosen sword, an Arabic sword, sometimes called a saif or shamshir depending on the era, with both hands, refusing to lose his grip. The blade was thick at its base, tapering to an extremely sharp point. Unlike traditional shamshiri, saifs, or scimitars however, this sword was straight, forming a long, triangular shape with its cutting edge. Around two feet in total length, with a handle wrapped in leather and a pommel that curved inward, the blade was excellent for thrusting, parrying, and most everything else a sword would be used for.
The Immortal had taken his time recovering from previously mentioned fall, a drop of around twenty feet, knowing that pursuing the crook too quickly may prove detrimental to himself. He checked over his body, seeing if he had broken anything, and found his lower back flaring up in pain whenever he twisted. Abbas felt around the area, but couldn’t find any evidence of broken bones, and continued in his chase.
The wound he’d inflicted had proved helpful. While not deep enough to be potentially fatal, it had been deep enough to cause fairly consistent bleeding. The man hadn’t taken notice of said wound until he’d stopped on top of a roof to stop the flow. Without any delay, he must have used something to make a tourniquet, cutting off the blood to his leg.
Now, sneaking along the sidewalk in downtown Los Angeles, Abbas glanced over at the building he had just descended from, and squinted, trying to peer through one of the many windows. Nothing stirred inside, or so it seemed. Suspicion arising, Abbas slunk into the small gap between said building and another, and discovered a door, one whose door knob had been forcibly broken off, allowing entry inside.
The Immortal slipped through, making no sound, and slowly drew his sword, the steel quietly grinding off its leather scabbard.
No warning, a wall materialized in front of him, out of what seemed thin air. He stopped and was instantly on alert, a scuffling noise to his right catching his attention right off the bat. Sliding his right foot behind and to the left, Abbas turned swiftly, avoiding a swing from the crook’s weapon, its pronged head smashing into the wooden floor.
The Immortal swiped with his sword, to which the criminal ducked, narrowly dodging the blade, and stepped back, bringing his armament, a man-catcher, into both hands once again.
Abbas reached over his shoulder with a free left hand and brought his shield into his grasp. The Immortal placed it in front of him, covering both his chest and lower neck, while keeping his blade extended out from behind the defense.
The man growled like a cornered animal and lunged forward, swinging his weapon in a sideways blow. Abbas reacted accordingly, bringing his shield up to block said blow, steel banging off steel. Once the weapon rebounded, bouncing off and away from Abbas’ defense, the Immortal surged forward, slamming his shield into the man’s chest, sending him tumbling backwards onto the floor.
Abbas advanced quickly, bringing his sword up to impale his opponent through the chest, but was greeted by yet another wall manifesting in front of him. The Immortal stopped dead in his tracks, the barrier taking him by surprise and, out of arising inquiry, reached out to the touch the wall with the tip of his sword.
Just as he suspected, the blade passed straight through it, as if it were never there at all. It was a mere illusion, a trick of the mind. This man could erect mirage’s if he so chose to befuddle opponents, but Abbas could now see right through it.
The Immortal advanced through the image unflinchingly, sword and shield steady in hand, ready for another ambush of any kind. The building seemed to have been a sort of apartment complex before being abandoned, the lobby Abbas now prowled in covered in a fine layer of dust to prove so.
Broken benches, a decrepit front desk, and a run-down elevator tucked off into a corner were the only things that decorated the long forlorn room. Abbas pulled his scarf up over his nose, as to prevent dust entering his mouth or nostrils, and continued forward. The perp couldn’t have gotten outside, and even if he could, Abbas would be able to follow, the dirt coating the floor provided an easy way to keep track of footprints.
Even now the Immortal had already found a set of prints, the soles identical to the boots his target were wearing. He proceeded after them, holding his weapons tight in hand, waiting for any sign of his enemy. The footprints trailed behind the desk within the lobby, into the room behind it.
Abbas approached the doorway with caution, ears open underneath his cloth covering. Footsteps echoed from behind the entrance, the shuffling of feet ringing off of dust coated wood. The Immortal took another step, only to have a floorboard creak under his feet.
Out of nowhere, the crook’s polearm, the man-catcher, appeared from seemingly within the wall of the office itself, swinging in a vicious arc straight at Abbas’ face. Barely able to, the Immortal lifted his sword to block the blow, its pronged head catching Abbas’ blade on the internal spikes and ripping the weapon from his grasp.
Abbas stumbled to the left, attempting to reacquire his sword, when a boot-clad foot stamped onto his back, sending him flying forward over his weapon. The Immortal hit the ground and rolled, popping back up onto his feet and turning to face his attacker.
A sweeping motion flew towards him, he ducked, avoiding another swipe from the man-catcher, then sprang back up, a thrust aimed for his throat nearly catching him off guard. Abbas side-stepped, avoiding the deathtrap, and chopped his newly free hand into the man’s throat. He retched, bending over and clutching at his throat, immediately greeted by Abbas’ knee smashing into his nose.
He staggered up and backward, blood already streaming out of his nose and over his lips. The Immortal struck him in the stomach with four half-bent fingers, traditional Black Tiger Fist hand coordination. The blow made him keel over once again, allowing Abbas to flip over his back and leap for his sword.
The Immortal kicked the blade up off the ground into his hand, turned, and charged towards the man once again.
By then the crook had almost recovered and, alert to Abbas approach, flashed his pale yellow eyes, causing another wall to appear in front of him. However, Abbas had already figured out his parlor trick, and lunged through the illusion, yelling in defiance.
The man’s eyes widened, first in shock, then in fear, and in a last ditch effort to stop Abbas, thrust his man-catcher up at the Immortal. Abbas extended his sword, grinding the blade upon the weapon’s handle, all the way until he had the sharpened edge on the man’s throat.
He spit in the Immortal’s face, sneering in defeat, and feebly tried to raise his weapon. Abbas smashed his shielded arm into his, smacking the polearm onto the ground. With a single deft motion, Abbas stepped back, brought a shin to his stomach, and as he bent down in pain, swung his sword in a brutal arc, slicing through flesh, bone, cord, and finally erupting through the other side of the man’s neck in a shower of blood.
As the head rolled, ichor spilling from its previous home’s stump, the Immortal stepped away, preventing any of the remains to stain his clothes, cleaned the sword’s edge, and sheathed it along with his shield.
With the deed done, Abbas made his way out of the building and started on his way home, walking casually and sticking to the shadows. Along the way, the Immortal passed several sites, all sanctioned off by police tape, as well as swarming with police themselves. Abbas stopped at each site to observe, from a safe distance of course, and shook his head.
While the fiend has been slain, still they investigate. No rest for the weary, like the ancients said. He thought.
Continuing on his way, the Immortal eventually made it back to the dojo and headed down through the elevator, stopping at the first sub-floor and stepping inside. Riley was fast asleep on his bed, snoring away, while Levi was quietly watching the news.
Abbas plopped down on the couch beside the Hunter, breathing out heavily. Levi looked over at him and raised an eyebrow, “Productive night?” He asked.
Abbas nodded silently, “Riley was right,” He glanced over the couch back at the Operative, “Those women kept getting kidnapped outside of night-clubs, just like he said. Searched around for a few days, finally found the scumbag, hunted him down, and took his head.”
Levi raised an eyebrow, “You took his head? You decapitated him then?” He asked.
Abbas nodded, “World’s better off without a woman kidnapper/murderer don’t you think?” He replied.
Levi shrugged, “If you say so, Riley held onto that mentality for a long time until he figured out he was killing innocents. He changed his mind real quick.” He stated.
The Immortal shook his head, “I’ve lived too long to change my ways. Anyone who strays from the path of righteousness will be justly smote by God, if not directly from his hand, then by one of his vassals.”
Levi scoffed, “I haven’t lived with you for very long, but you never stood out to me as someone who would justify their killings as ‘divine acts of God.’” He scorned.
Abbas shook his head and glanced over at him, “I don’t.”
Levi raised his eyebrow again, “What?”
The Immortal grinned, “If I didn’t put the blame on someone else, all my wrongs, all my sins, would drive me insane. I’ve lived the greater half of my existence trying to put myself above humanity, but in the end, I’ve committed more evil than anyone who’s ever lived.”
Levi sighed and sunk back into the couch cushions, “I guess that makes sense.”
With that, they drifted into silence once more, watching in quiet tranquility as the news rolled on by.[/spoiler]
Spoiler (Click to Show)
"I told you she wouldn't be right for this mission. Coyote has no sense of timing whatsoever." The android ticks, her head bending unnaturally as the synthetic skin of her "throat" closes and melds back to its original state.
"Ol' gal got 'em, though, did'n' she?" Another voice, deeper and laced with a farmer's stereotypical accent, pipes up from behind Declan, the leading Vulture pinching the bridge of his nose as a hulk-of-a-man approaches from their original hiding spot. How he ever even managed to fit in the back of that van was beyond Stoddard.
"See? Thank you, Karmein! Hathor's just mad because she didn't think to drive their car into a building!" The young girl attempts to hide her pride by holding down her rabid ponytail, the toothy grin still plastered on her face giving the protegé away as her pearly whites practically reflect the late-summer sunlight.
The android, Hathor, neck patched and arms folded, scoffs at the assertion. Her rifle could have easily picked off the driver from the street if their driver had kept course as per the plan, but any sort of attempt at reasoning or logic was lost on Coyote.
Suddenly, the distant vehicles burst into flames, Coyote leaping behind Stoddard instinctively as though his sheer disdain for her would act as a protective wall.
"Well, I suppose dead is as good as alive, then. Great work, everyone. What could have been a quick, clean, and quiet extraction has turned into another fucking shit-show I'm gonna get blown-the-fuck-up for. Cheers." Mirage wipes his face with an open palm, the yellow in his pupils beautifully accentuated by the redness in his corneas.
As punishment for his failure to dispatch Doctor David Macbeth, Declan Stoddard was stuck supervising and mentoring the newest members of the Vulture Division- a sector of soldiers trained and orchestrated by a secretive organization that preferred to remain in obscurity. This same organization, not too thrilled to be scolding Stoddard for the umpteenth time, deemed his failure to be the result of a lack of motivation, something they decided could be rekindled through "councelling of the 'young talent'".
Declan. Fucking. Loathes the young talent, and they know that better than anyone.
The job was simple enough: locate and capture a known associate to the terrorist cell "Sanctuary", but even something as mundane as a run-of-the-mill extraction mission managed to blow up in his face. Normally, Stoddard had no issue with plans gone wrong. In fact, his whole character is based on unpredictability and spontaneous violence. The problem here is that, while Stoddard does not care for his paycheck or general well-being, he absolutely despises being assigned with