It's Declan "Mirage" Stoddard(Kamiroo Wolf)
Vs.
The one and only Dermot O' Sullivan!(PitchEnder)!
Remember to vote fairly and that CnC is always accepted/appreciated!
Spoiler (Click to Show)
"On this day we both mourn the death and celebrate the long life of Cal-Abbas..."
Friends, descendants, associates, and even sponsors gather under the unbearable mid-evening sunlight. Each man and woman draped in black with his or her head hung low as to honor the fallen warrior, veteran, and-in his final moments- avenger. A few combatants silently pass their prayers in hushed breaths, the surrounding trees swaying with the gentle breeze. Behind this crowd of grievers and gladiators, a towering boy hangs back, his lanky frame leaning against a hardened oak tree as a lithe woman takes the stand to give a few words.
While Dermot was not a member of the RHG sytem, he felt obligated to attend due to his lack of participation in the defending against the attack. While most capable fighters sprung to action regardless of affiliation, it was his own indecisiveness and lack of confidence that spurred his absence.
What good would my abilities be in a fight like that, Was the reason he had sold himself, What if Ivan attacked the gladiators?
Convinced he would have done more harm than good, he secluded himself from the violence- only for the police to discover the corpse of Cal-Abbas just a block away from his hiding place. Even now the guilt hangs from the stubble on his chin. The very idea lies as though a lump of sour milk in his his gut- just the thought that an honest man might be alive today if Dermot had merely mustered the courage to step out of his apartment.
"I'm no hero, damnit. I know my limitations- my exceptions..." Emotions- though basic, raw, and pure in nature- were a complex subject that Sullivan never quite managed to grasp. They were simple as simple came in such a convoluted form, and it was this characteristic alone that tended to drive Dermot mad with contemplation.
Now, the service was coming to an end and people were beginning to disperse. Abbas, though relatively fresh to the gladiatorial scene, had garnered quite the number of allies during his timeless lifespan, and was well known for many more fields than combat. Collectors and historians, namely, reminisce with one another the contributions Cal had made as Dermot turns and stepsnaway from the funeral. He tugs his black collared shirt free from his matching dress pants, both articles of his clothing billlowing with a passing gust as he makes eye contact with another funeral-goer outfitted completely with an ebony tuxedo and orange tie.
They both watch a congregation of disheartened fans pass between them, the stranger's mouth appearing to move slightly as he starts in the direction of Dermot. He appears to scratch his ear and tuck something in the pocket of his suit, Sullivan only noticing the large guitar-shaped baggage locked in his grip when he actually commences his motion. Dermot's muscles tense in the full presence of the stranger.
"Can I help you?" The boy, head titled downward and one foot carefully placed behind the other, stands as though poised to flee if necessary. Dermot's eyes shift and look down at the shaven head of the man before passing a glance to examine his weak, yellow eyes. Every aspect of his appearance proves predatory, Sullivan only able to hang his hands at his sides as the stranger lifts his case to point in the direction of the mausoleum dedicated to Abbas. The true body had been expedited to his homeland days prior, but that information was best kept under wraps for those grieving.
"Not really, just watching you watch the party from afar." The newcomer begins, now leaning on the very same tree from which Dermot steadily retreats. "What's your story with ol' Abbas? Friend? Foe? Relative?"
A slight shakiness to his speech, the boy attempts to ditch the conversation without rudely bolting from the stranger, "Ah, well. None of those really... just here to... you know... pay respects and what not. You?"
"Mm. Acquaintance, for the most part. I suppose you could say we were rivals of sorts, though I admit to being pretty shit in that department. Only ever fought once. In a way, I kind of blame myself for his death."
"Really... why's that?"
"Maybe he would have stood a better chance against those terrorists with just a little more experience. Guess only God knows, yeah?"
"...Right..." It is only at the mention of the city's attackers that Dermot take notice of the newcomer's attire, stepping back. The orange and black color scheme raise minor flags in the boy's head as his company, too, steps from his spot against the tree.
Certainly someone else must have said something about his colors. Perhaps it is just a coincidence.
The stranger mentions something about Abbas' resolve, but the attempt to continue the conversation falls on deaf ears as Sullivan's arms fold reclusively. The stranger splays his fingers and stretches his arms to use the immediate area to paint a picture, but Dermot can only take notice of the sudden lack of background noise.
The funeral area stirs with a heavy rush of wind, a bead of sweat forming on Sullivan's brow as he realizes there not to be another soul anywhere nearby. None but the stranger, anyway.
"-You know I never managed to catch your name..." Dermot interrupts his acquaintance mid-sentence, to which the stranger cracks a sinister grin. A slight, singular chuckle rolls from beneath his breath as the case-wielding creep shrugs.
"My name, Mr. O'Sullivan, is Declan Stoddard. Perhaps you've heard of me. Perhaps you've heard of my employers. I'd like to think we're taking the city by storm."
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While the client's dossier did not specify as to whether or not they desired Dermot to be recovered alive, a twinge of saltiness runs down the breadth of Declan Stoddard's tongue as his man-catcher hovers around the boy's exposed throat. A foul taste forms in the pits of his cheeks, and the vulture reluctantly reels back from his position behind a still oblivious Dermot.
I'll at least give the poor sap a fighting chance, The hunter decides, placing both hands on his polearm as he patiently waits for O'Sullivan to realize his predicament.
Sure enough, the stray stretches his neck to first check over his shoulders, then past the false image of Declan, and even the sky for another sign of life. Unsatisfied and noticeably unsettled, Sullivan asks the name of the stranger- to which the decoy responds in a melodramatic manner menacing enough in its pauses alone to make the original proud.
Well, that's enough dick-sucking for now. It's game time. Declan assumes a batters stance, adjusting his footing and lifting the prongs of his polearm over his head as Dermot slowly makes the connection. The colors, the name, the ill presence. He backsteps at the very same moment Stoddard's mirage begins to dissipate, only to catch the brunt of the vulture's weapon to the back of his skull at full force. The fall is swift and sudden, O'Sullivan crashing face first into the tear-stained grass of the funeral grounds.
"We can do this one of two ways, Sully. What's it gonna be?"
A period of silence passes.
"Sullivan?"
No response.
"Oh, fuck, seriously? You can't tell me that actually killed him?" Mirage approaches the body and lowers his weapon. With a gentle kick to the boy's torso, Declan heaves a sigh of disappointment before crouching beside the body.
"What the fuck are they making you kids out of these days, paper?" The kidnapper assumes and brings two fingers to the throat of his victim as he waits for a pulse. He quietly rants to himself on the subject of fragile fighters, but the mist rolling in around him cuts the internal argument short. Declan jerks his hands from the body of Dermot and leaps back into the grass just as a shadowed face consumes what Stoddard had assumed to be the corpse of O'Sullivan. Inch by inch, the haze swallows the now convulsing target, the Vulture only able to raise his man-catcher to absorb a fraction of the blow as a flying punch sends him tumbling into the earth.
"Careful what you wish for, I suppose." Declan quips and his body fades the second a stomp sinks through his ribcage. Just enough time passes for the vulture to leap to his feet and project another image, which is in turn torn to pieces by a furious backhand from his attacker.
Taking a wild swing as his original form solidifies, Declan manages to connect the prongs of his pole with what he can only assume to be the arm of his enemy. The point of contact tenses and a rapid grip closes around the neck of his man-catcher, Declan only able to shout obscenities as he is unceremoniously flung through the mist and into a collection of chairs still remaining at Abbas' funeral site.
The thumping of grass resonates through the dense fog, and Stoddard quickly climbs out of himself to dive into thick of the mist.
"Two can play at that game..." A lumbering figure falls from the sky and crashes into the now mangled and scattering steel chairs below. Declan's decoy barely manages roll from danger and spring to its feet, yet the large figure halts to regenerate a bit of stamina. Its star-like eyes burst from the shadowy visage concealing its face, but from what the observing mercenary can gather, the attacker still appears to be Dermot. Same lanky figure. Same hopeless ass haircut. The only thing that appears different is the attire, with the "new" enemy sporting a poncho and shorts on top of newfound strength as opposed to O'Sullivan's wrinkled, collared shirt and dress pants coupled with utter meekness.
Suddenly, the twisted form of Dermot rushes from his position, kicking up both dirt and a gaggle of chairs as it's extended palm brushes past the face of Declan's clone. Though the mirage wavers, it holds its figure as it continues to occupy the feverish ravager. A furious right hook follows a powerful downward jab from the assailant, the original Mirage only able to scan the attacks for an opening as his counterpart weaves and ducks blow after blow.
This continues for what feels to be hours, Dermot's channeled demon too furious in its attack to take notice of the seemingly infinite energy its prey possesses. Despite the undeniable power and ferocity of the assailant, his strikes lack focus and tact. All he appears concerned with at the moment is his momentum and how to sustain it, all but aware that his attempts to harm grow increasingly predictable with each shot executed.
Finally the false and the true images, unison in both thought and coordination, ditch the course of patience, with Declan's clone side-stepping a reckless uppercut to the gut. It desperately lunges for the exposed arm of Dermot, successfully wrapping its own self around the brute's muscle before dropping all its weight. Before it can even finish its onslaught, however- or even make contact with the ground, for that matter-, the purely defensive apparition fades in a fit of ripples.
Dermot attempts to catch himself on his way down, but jerks as a sharp pain pierces and spreads through his calves. The ivory eyes of the beast narrow as it slams face-first into the grass, and a reactive donkey kick rips through a false image as the true Declan reappears at his side in strives to brings his staff down on the savage's spine. The failure echoes throughout Stoddard's body with a frustrated groan as his polearm rebounds off the grass.
"So it can fucking teleport. Peachy. This is why I should just kill shit right off the bat..."
A soaring chair breaks through the thick vapor, Mirage's image eating the blow before the vulture himself reappears just an inch or so away. One after the other, a salvo of steel seats repeat the process, Declan growing tired of the games before rushing into the mist. Sprinting at full speed, he breaks in the direction from which the most recent projectile originates, only for his fake self to collapse in the palms of Dermot's ambush.
"Your own fucking medicine!"
A false image of Declan hurls a chair from afar as the true assassin forms in its wake. Dermot swats away the chair with little effort, feigning a jab to what he assumes to be a false foe as Declan rears his man-catcher back and catches the attempt to flinch. Once more the brunt of his polearm smashes into the skull of the enemy, but this time its the shade-shielded jaw of Mirage's victim that is sent spiralling. Dislocated and reeling, the ravager suffers several desperate jabs from the man-catcher before a swing to the ribcage officially shifts the momentum. However, Declan quite literally springs to capitalize on his advantage.
Staggering, O'Sullivan's summoned help can only throw his hands up in time for his fingers to fruitlessly caress the heel of Mirage's dress shoe just moments before it crashes into the center of his target's sternum. They both plummet into the grass and scurry to secure an advantage over their enemy, but its Declan who scrambles to his feet first before charging and punting Dermot clear in his already dazed temple. The shadowed figure stiffens, limps, and rolls over, arms still bent as though attempting to fight back despite the very apparent state of unconsciousness.
Heaving, Declan drops his weapon amidst the waning mist, his tense muscles hunching and torn tuxedo slumping as he rests with hands on knees. A breath of relief emerges among those of exhaustion, and his trembling fingers fiddle over a small Bluetooth device that lie stashed behind an orange pocket square in his suit jacket. "Bring the car around before I decide to kill this fuck."
A voice coated in unnecessarily positive energy breaks through the speaker, the frown on Stoddard's face peaking upward slightly at the thought of his four proteges. He glances down to the motionless body of Dermot until the fog around them completely dissipates, then examines the ruined graveyard. A few chairs lie at the base of Abbas' dedicated mausoleum, flakes of the desecrated and cracked walls cascading to the earth as a reinforced military vehicle breaks over the horizon, mowing down tombstone after tombstone in a mad beeline toward Mirage and his contract.
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"Well?"
"What do you mean 'well'?"
"How'd negotiations go? Buyer must have paid a pretty penny and a blowjob for a piece of work like Sullivan."
Twirling his orange ear buds in one hand with his other fist tucked tight into his uniform black and orange jacket pocket, Declan Stoddard employs a swift nod upward to greet his supposed superior.
"Buyer didn't pay shit, Mirage."
Tilting his tan face encrusted with emeralds in order to form a head of hair and goatee, the top of the Vulture Division, Diamondback, returns the gesture. He folds his sapphire encased arms and spreads his ruby reinforced legs shoulder-width apart, expression flattening with eyebrows furrowing as the thought of the exchange sours his mouth.
"Fuck you mean they didn't pay?"
"Official RHG business. 'You'll get paid when your checks roll in', the commissioner said."
Declan's nose wrinkles.
"So we got screwed on this, basically?"
"Basically. We should wait for the totals, though, just to be sure."
"And here I was betting on a change of scenery. All that just for a new gladdy?"
"If even. Remember, your work is just another day at the office for them. Who