Welp, I finished my spar for the monthly.
Didn't turn out how I had envisioned, but then again things usually don't.
The banging on the wooden door send
s the artist into alarm, the sheets over his chest flying onto his lap as his body jerks upward toward the sudden noise. Well aware that he is already awake, the person on the other end of the door mercilessly strikes the barrier to Winston’s room once more, the creator of sticks literally flying into a rage as he leaps from his bed and rushes the entryway.
“
What is it?” He starts in a raised voice, the only thing containing his groggy wrath being the face of Sanctuary’s head, the incarnation of sin himself, Sencarn, who gives the artist a look of sarcastic sympathy as he enters without permission.
“As much as I understand how painful it can be to be awoken from a pleasant dream, you’re technique is required for an important assignment.” The monocle-wearing revolutionary swipes the wild, brown hair from his face, his hands covered completely by the sweater at least a full size too large for his medium stature. His pants, riddled with holes yet neatly ironed for whatever reason, only accentuate the idea that the only incarnation Sencarn consists of is that of a lazy man in a legend’s body.
“Calling a couple stick figures with labels on them a ‘technique’ isn’t the type of flattery that gets me immediately on-board these days.*What is the assignment and why me? You have a cyborg with chainsaws at your disposal, after all…or has he yet to show you the chainsaws?” Winston takes a seat on his unkempt mattress; the jeans on his legs and the wrinkled yellow t-shirt with faded letters slapped lazily on his bony chest.
“He has a variety of things on his plate as it stands, as do the other members of Sanctuary. Truth be told, the task itself is one easily accomplished: just a quick spar to keep those limbs of yours limber in the event we decide to make a move-”
“Yes, because that happens often.” Winston interrupts, apologizing afterward but in a more half-assed way than believable.
“- against the RHG system. The real weight of the mission comes with your sparring partner: one of our two captives here in Sanctuary, Bridget Greene. All you have to do is come at her with everything you have, hold nothing back, but make sure she exits that room alive and well now that she is in our custody. ” Winston’s leader debriefs, obviously skating around important details as he allows the artist to consider an offer that, in all honesty, he cannot refuse.
“And just where is everyone else at at this hour?” The dark-skinned male doubts, looking at the suddenly spectral Sanctuary commander with a skeptical raised brow and contorted mouth.
“Sparring one another, seeking out ACR targets, or, in Joyce’s case, following the trail of some kidnapped family members that, if we’re being honest, take priority over some basic combat training.” The ghost replies, supposedly fiddling with an invisible filing cabinet as its ghastly digits flick about. In a matter of moments, the phantasmal Sencarn becomes corporeal once more, the tangible body presenting Bridget’s recently recovered file to the reluctant Winston, who simply stares at the dossier in his comrade’s hands.
“None of this seems… wrong to you at all? We’re forcing a kidnapped person to fight to the point of exhaustion against someone she essentially doesn’t know at all. Is she even aware of the whole situation? Does she even know who is holding her hostage?” Taking the file, Winston cracks it open and gives the girl’s details a quick skim.
Feed’s the poor? Helps the sick? Rescues the lost? Even her weapon is non-lethal by itself. The Desired Outcome section is scratched out absolutely, and that insignia on her equipment... Just who is it we’re holding prisoner?
“Yes, she is and does. I’m not going to try and justify the course of our actions, Winston, but I am going to tell you that what we are doing is in fact necessary in the grand scheme of things. If you do not fight her, I will, and I can guarantee you that only one of us will be walking away from that battle with our mortal coils intact. Do I have your cooperation?”
"Claims he won't justify his actions, then tries to justify them," The virtuoso grunts, opening and closing the file at random intervals in contemplation. "You've got me, but I want to know everything about what she's doing here after this is over."
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My father told me more often than I can remember that getting caught up in the wrong crowd was not the path I wanted to walk down. He told me that I, as an individual, was “greater than any group or clique could ever hope to be”. He also preached entrepreneurship, and the idea that all I needed to succeed, if I was really dedicated, was me, myself, and I. My own vision my own fervor. He was the man that escorted me through some of the toughest years in my life, and walked with me hand in hand through some of the easiest. Then, that man who I had grown so close to, the man who had every one of his plans dedicated to me in some way, got gunned down trying to protect me on our way home from a local college tour. He was a huskily built middle-aged man, far too old and far too lumpy to be an effective barrier against fate, but he was wise. Wise enough to realize we all weren't walking away alive. The murderer confronted us without a mask and didn't even look once to see if we held anything valuable, he just cursed and shot. I lunged at the gunman, catching a couple slugs to the shoulder in the process, but I managed to get my hands on him. In a matter of minutes, I was the one in control. I don't remember how or what happened, but in the end it was I who could decide whether or not I avenged the death of the only important role model in my life.
I beat him mercilessly, that assassin. I bloodied and broke his body all over, I screamed, I tore, I made sure the rest of his life would be a living hell, but I did not kill him. I ruined both of his kneecaps, left scars only he would be able to identify, and rid him of both his eyes with my nails, but I did not kill him. I left him there, next to my father, and ran… I just ran. In the middle of the afternoon, sun-shining, people watching, I fled the scene. Nobody helped him or me, nobody called the police, everyone just watched. Not one person came to my house to interrogate me, nor did anybody call to check if I was okay. It was as though the world had just died alongside the man who had raised me from birth. I was left, alone, to my thoughts. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to kill myself and see him one more time, ask him what to do next, but every time the blade met my throat it screamed at me. Every time the stolen gun’s barrel touched my temple, it yanked itself away.
Eventually, someone came, his neat and proper cubicle attire a heavy contrast from his wild and dancing dreadlocks. He apologized for my loss, and then apologized for not being there to stop it. I couldn’t do anything but sheepily ask him to end my life for me, even though I knew with all of my being that he wouldn’t do it. Instead, he picked me up and he carried me. I was too exhausted to fight him, I hadn’t stopped crying in hours. He placed me in the back seat of his car, laid a green parka over me, and we simply drove. He didn’t talk, didn’t make any offers, nothing. Just silence as we rode on and on until, finally, he made a hard right that sent me flying. He ripped me from the back seat of his car and carried me inside what looked like a tower still under construction, voices of worry and intrigue filling each floor as we ascended to the very top.
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“Lookie, Lookie, Winston! There’s the sexy little damsel herself!” The cobalt blue stick figure nudges its creator, the sunset orange stick at his side thwacking him upside the head as the automated, blast-resistant door on the opposite end of the grey room begins to slide open. In she walks, head high, back straight, legs firm, but wrists bound in a thick plate of steel. Her blonde ponytail sways behind her, the azure eyes in her skull piercing the artist as though to ask whether or not he agrees with what's about to transpire, whilst he goes to great lengths to avoid any form of eye contact. She shrugs off the rejection, taking it as evidence she isn't the only one who questions the ethics of her captors.
“I’d tell you to keep it in your pants, but there isn’t really much point when you lack reproductive organs, is there?” Winston swipes, the cobalt stick giving him a quizzical glance as the sunset orange stick turns and motions for the others to rise. Two crimson, three forest green, and a gold. In total, they number nine, Winston included, but only eight of the group stare down the opponent, those with weapons stancing themselves as those without begin a steady fit of breathing.
“No reproductive organs? Ha! How’s about you and me whip 'em out after this, Winston? If I win, you draw me a whole bathtub full of females ripe for th-” This time both the creator and the orange stick strike the potty mouthed creation, Winston turning down the offer without a second thought as the handcuffs collapse from Bridget’s wrists.
“Someone should really call Sencarn and make sure I'm in the right room. From the sound of it all, It looks like I've been tossed in the middle of some freaky adult film shooting.” The young woman jokes, bringing some liveliness to the party adjacent to her as the only human from the giggling gathering steps forward. In his grip lie her bow, well tended to and even polished after all of her time away from it. He offers it to her and she accepts, checking the ethereal string and quiver attached to her back as she pulls a single arrow from a wide assortment.
“Thank you, Mr…?” She tilts her head forward slightly, whipping around suddenly afterward and launching the arrow in the direction of the suddenly shut and sealed steel door. The blast is deafening, the echo blistering the eardrums of all within the vast room as no apparent damage appears on the surface of the only exit known to the captive.
“Winston, Winston Kitt. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Greene, but I gotta ask: just what in the hell that was for?” Shaking the ringing from his ears, the lanky male proceeds to fall back to his squadron of sticks.
“Just testing the strength of my only exit. Needless to say, I’m probably fucked.” Bridget sighs, lowering her bow and directing her total attention toward Winston, who now stands behind his crowd of soldiers, his arms folded in front of him with an expression unreadable as a bell sounds overhead.
“Fucked literally if I get my hands on ya, lass.” The Blue stick steps forward, the lumberjack axe tight in his grip flying upward and landing as an extension of his reach as he points and cries out to his allies.
“
Attack!”
With that, they charge, Bridget immediately turning back and charging the exit as Winston whips out a pencil and notepad from his back pocket. First he sketches up a basic black stick wielding a bow and arrow very much like Bridget’s in appearance, in addition to a quiver of actual arrows before going deep into thought, recalling all words to do with accuracy as pages of the Thesaurus his mother granted him fly through is memory. Then he sets to thinking, finally settling on the adjective "precise" before grabbing a bunch of papers from the book and tearing with all his might. Just as the crumpled stationery hits the dull, grey floor beneath his feet shoes, the stick emerges at his side, needing very little briefing as he spots his brother and sister sticks and their opponent.
Meanwhile, the graceful Bridget at last reaches the other end of the room, her boots flying up to her waist as she makes a floor of the flat wall and leaps, clearing her pursuers with ease before landing on the side opposite of them and flinging an arrow at the ground just below her feet. In an instant, various colors paint the wall as sticks are sent flying from the blast, a few of their bodies going limp as their skulls crash against the steel fortifications of the spar room. The sunset stick and the cobalt stick rise among a single crimson and two green, dazed, but otherwise functional as one of the greens point out the young woman attempting to close distance between herself and their creator.
The archer stick releases an arrow, his eyes following the projectile as Bridget deflects the shot with her own bow, stopping and releasing an arrow toward the sky as a sudden thread of amethyst finds itself strung across the battlefield. Without much time to react, she takes to the wire, using the string as a tight-rope as she rushes toward the roof. The stick figures in her wake halt, the cobalt blue stick swearing as he shatters his axe head against the sturdy cable. After a swift slap to the back of the head, the sunset orange stick takes to the wire as well, her eyes narrowing as she rushes after the female archer. Noticing a compromise atop her wire, Bridget whips around, launching a collection of needle-like magic arrows in the direction of her stalker.
As though she had seen the projectiles coming, the stick drops from the coil, only barely catching herself before yanking herself back upon the tight-rope, the amethyst thread wobbling but holding steady as the orange assailant continues to close the gap between herself and the captive. Though she would like to stop the charge, all the blonde can do is suck on her teeth as an arrow knicks the tight clothing covering her forearm, not dealing a vast amount of damage but sending a stinging sensation throughout her body nonetheless. The archer below prepares another shot, but Bridget is far superior in timing, releasing another deep purple thread and leaping onto it just as another arrow can whiz past where she once was. The orange stick follows, finally beside the prisoner as she attempts to sweep Bridget from her pedestal with a low, but disciplined kick. The good samaritan counters the kick with a leap back, rushing the stick and swiping at her from atop the rope with her bow as the creation ducks and weaves the strikes.
The other sticks and Winston alike watch the spectacle in awe, both of their forms holding fast as their spar is akin more to that of a dance. Suddenly, Bridget flings herself back with a one-handed cartwheel, releasing another strand toward the ground upon landing as her aggressor’s momentum becomes unstoppable. The sunset stick attempts one more lunge, her hands only able to skim the young woman’s ponytail as Bridget drops and uses the downward slope as a zipline, her body hitting the grey floor with a roll as the other sticks meet her in an instant.
“She’s very well trained for a girl her age.” The red-orange drawing drops beside Winston, landing on all fours as she begins to stretch her shoulder and leg appendages.
“All the more curious I am as to who the hell this woman is.” The artist confirms, delving once more into his grand drawing as the nimble figure departs to once more join the fray. The other stick at his side, keeping its eyes trained on the battle, seeks an opening as the girl fends off her attackers with timed, regulated strikes.
Only striking when she absolutely must create her openings, Bridget whips around many a branch and blade as she repels each and every enemy in her reach. The bow in her hand grows loose as the sweat in her palms accumulates, the once neatly kempt hair atop her head now dangling in her sight as she relies
