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The Wait [Part 2]

 
Lance Striker's picture
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                                  "You cannot hide from who you are."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  "You may choose to stop believing, to ignore it, it never leaves."

                                      "There are no crossroads in your life, you will always walk the path."

    "Will you take the initiative? Can you strike first?"

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              "You will drown. You cannot escape."

"You cannot hide from who you are."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       "He is coming"

"He is coming."



Striker stepped out of the car slowly, three men closed in around him, their katanas thirsting for his blood. Leaning back against the car door, he pressed it shut with his weight and ignored them.

 

"You are not welcome here, murderer." One of the men warned, lifting his sword paralell to his shoulder. "Leave now or suffer the penalty."


Striker continued to ignore them, searching his surroundings, Haven seemed somehow different than he had remembered.

 

"Are you deaf, black one? I said leave."


    The men were edging closer, inch by inch, their gleaming blades poised for his neck. He looked at the smallest of the three, he must have barely been in his early twenties, a boyish look about him.

Striker tilted his head slowly to the side, a dull spark of orange ignited in his eyepieces, slowly growing to form two rings. The three men twitched, he could sense their fear. He took a sharp breath,

the mask had worked it's purpose, the men flinched at the sound of his breathing and he struck. Grabbing the sword-arm of the tallest man, he pulled him closer, thrusting his knee hard into his gut.

He dropped to his knees, clutching at his stomach as Striker barely ducked a horizontal slash at his head from another man. He bode his time, waiting for the right attack to come; an overhead slash

that he neatly sidestepped, the blade grazing the thick leather of his jacket. He grabbed the man's arm and pushed a palm into his shoulder, spinning him on his feet and smashing his head against

his car, he went out cold. The first man he'd brought down was breathing heavily, making an attempt to clamber back to his feet when Striker's heavy boot went rocketing into his jaw, his body quaked

from the force and went limp, resting on the floor as a baby might sleep.


"I-I'm not afraid of you." The younger one stuttered.

 

   Striker looked at him with a sense of pity, though his mask hid it. A shame, he thought, that he might have to rob the young man of his life simply because he was doing his duty. Even through the

dimmed light of his mask he could see his entire body quivering, he reeked of fear. He focused on the young mans blade and with but a thought he sought to exert his influence over it, the result

was almost instantaneous. The man was visibly struggling, his attention snapping between his sword and Striker, frustration and confusion were evident in his expression. He groaned, wrestling with

Striker's thoughts, the blade rattled and sung as it was ripped from him and rested in the hand of it's new master. The man was exhausted, he leaned over with his hands on his knees, gasping for air

as he felt the cold steel of the blade resting on the back of his neck.

 

"Sorry kid, looks like you just became insurance." Striker said, his voice demonic and rasping, warped by the mask.

 

    By now there was a small army of Lightbearer's forming a ring around him, edging in slowly. He forced the young man to his knees and held the blade firmly at his throat. He twisted his head in every

direction, they were everywhere, he'd fancy his chances in an urban jungle but out in the open he was as good as dead. Suddenly there was a commotion in one direction, voices... movement... Almost

as soon as he'd caught sight of it his breath was being torn from his lungs, his heart raced, sweat was streaming from his body. He struggled on his feet, the blade became too heavy to carry and clattered

to the ground. He dragged his feet a few steps forward before momentum and gravity brought him to the ground, he looked up seeing a pair of immaculate bare feet, they were small and feminine, he knew

who they belonged to.

 

"I thought I told you to never come back here again, Striker." The woman said firmly. "Why are you here?"

"Kyleena... I... need your help."

 

To be continued.

~



 

 

 

 

Comments

Lost Bride's picture

(( Seriously good. Also - I love what you did up there with black on grey voices in his mind. Very appealing visually. ))


"There was a girl, a girl named Lost. Her eyes, they were like frost" - from the infernal journal of Zane Gore

Lance Striker's picture

(( Thanks ^__^ ))

Lonely are the brave...



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