Yer Shittin me...(Open to 1)

[Miehm]

Dull brick houses rise around me. I know this place. Irongate, the crumbling townhouses of my adoptive hometown's "ghetto". The green and white roadsign confirms my suspicions, Irongate Way, the corner of the Ghetto and Sudley Road. I am home. Ish. I reach behind my back and feel the knife that has been my constant companion for two years, strapped to my hips were my preferred weapons, a pair of deadly knives, to crush bone, and tear flesh. "Yer shittin me..." The scene flickers, I didn't blink. I know the truth. This is just a place drawn from my mind. Yet another job from yet another employer. Find a fight in the arena, and give him a good show. Payment contingent on his enjoyment. Very well. If he wants blood, he's got it. I walk over to a nearby car, and draw my Spike. The sound of shattering glass goes unnoticed in the parking lot. It's Irongate. Somebody stole a car. The electric bill's due tomorrow, and we need milk. It's not news. A pair of wires tapped together a few times, and the old Chevrolet is sputtering to life. The radio plays a few bars of a trashy rap song, and I curse. "Fucking trash." I change the station, and the thunder of rock and roll fills the parking lot. Three cars later, and the volume suits me. I sing along, waiting for an opponent to arrive.

"Frail, this skin is dry and pale, this pain will never heal, and so it goes back to the remedy, clip, the wings that get you high, just leave 'em where they lie, and tell yourself you'll be the death of me." I haven't heard good music in so long. The best I can hope for downtime is a bard that can keep up with Battle of Evermore, and even that is rare. The song ends, and I sigh. Roche has taste. The next song begins, and I start to sing again, flipping a throwing knife out of my arm sheath and into the air, before catching it between my fingers, flipping it again, and reversing it five or six times, before it disappears into the sheath again. "I'm not the one who's so far away when I feel the snakebite enter my veins, never did I wanna be here again, and I don't remember why I came."

I have no talent, but I like to sing nonetheless. Voodoo suits my mood, and I know that's the only reason I'm hearing it, but I sing along as I wait for my opponent. A license plate catches my eye, numbers I know, after all these years. I pull the key off of my belt, it's still with me, and open the door of my pickup truck. Everything is right. The can of rustbreaker behind the seat, the lugwrench, easily seized from my seat, ready to swing as I stand and exit. The knife between the cracks, I'm tempted to take it, but it doesn't matter. I just want the music. Thunder plays over my speakers, and I sit in my camoflagued seat, soaking in the rich sounds of my world. Maybe this job was worth it after all.

[Psycho Chef]

The doors looked at him. He looked back curiously at the doors. He had been on Althanas for a few hours and already a mugging had almost taken place. He had been sitting behind the Citadel, scribbling away in his journal, trying to find solace in at least one familiar thing.

He'd need to find a stove soon as well.

"'Ya goin' in or what?" A gruff voice demanded.

"Huh? What?" Vincent turned to look at the inquisitor.

"Inside. Damn moron." The scarred man said. He pushed past the cook and opened the doors of the Citadel. Some things in life were not like movies. Vincent had been a chef for quite a while and he had yet to seduce a girl off her feet with a plate of exotic foods and wine. He had seen his fair share of violence but no car chases with explosions and flips. And sadly no giant orgies that lead directly to gun fights in the nude.

He did make a muffin grenade...so he figured that might even the scales a bit.

He followed the man inside, careful the note that it was clean and full of life (in the same way that a prison is full of life), but also mentally jotted down that he'd better watch his back. He had already lost a page of his journal from some would-be thief who was now laying on the ground behind this building, maybe still pop his shoulder back into place.

"And what can I do for you?" A man in robes said. He looked like a monk of some sort.

"Uh, yea. I think so. Um, I'm kinda new here."

"Oh? New to Corone?"

"Yea...sure." He said sideways.

"Well this is the Citadel."

"Got that." He said directly. "I kind of want to go home..."

"Say no more! We have just the place for you!" The monk said with a genuine smile.

"No way! Really? That's great!" He exclaimed. A few heads turned to look at who was yelling.

A bit embarrassed, he ran a hand through his black, short hair and let out a deep breath.

"So when can we go?" He smiled. The monk said right away and so they went. Down the hall, up some stairs, and then down some stairs; it wasn't much longer before they were at a worn, aged door. Maybe oak. Maybe cherry. He was never very good with woods.

"Step through and you'll find yourself in a much more familiar place." The monk said with a pleasant grin.

"Thanks!" Vincent shook his hand and pushed open the door. As soon as he had, the door closed and he wished he'd have broken the man's fingers instead.

He looked like he was far from the west coast and still just as far from home. Perhaps he should've asked what the purpose of the Citadel was. Too late now. Time to figure it out.

There's a problem, so there's a solution.

Music. Sounded like rap. He frowned for a second and heard a curse. It switched to rock and he nodded in approval. The old homes around him silently stared as he just as silently listened to the changes in music and car engines. He was a little uneasy about stepping out into the open. He'd been dropped in the front yard of a home with a large oak tree (cherry?), so he used it as cover. He peeked quickly around it and saw a man a few years younger than him, listening to music in a truck.

Now or never.

He fished into his backpack and pulled out his two modified weapons; chef knives attached to nylon rope. He tucked both knives at his side in his belt. They'd be safe for the moment. Chances were he might need them in a minute. He left his gear near the tree and stepped out into the open boldly. Maybe too boldly.

"Hey! Sorry to bother you, but I have a question. What part of town are we in?" Vincent said as he stepped within fifteen yards of the man and his truck.

[Miehm]

"Irongate." I answered his question, and added a quiet murmur to myself afterwards. "And now I'm going to kill you." I exited my truck, keeping my weapons sheathed. Walking towards the man, I made a quick assessment. Taller than I am, but also lighter, no armor, so no need for my spike. I could hit him with a knife from here, and open things up, but that wouldn't be the show my employer wanted. I sighed, and addressed him again. "Where are you from? I can tell you're not from Corone." I noticed a slight glint coming from his belt, knives. A pair of kitchen knives, I almost laughed at the absurdity. Most people assumed that a knife was a knife. Anyone who fought with them knew differently, kitchen knives, in my opinion were weapons of absolute last resort. I would hit them with a hammer before I stabbed them with a chefs knife. Behind me, an air raid warning screamed, the volume put out by a nice pair of 6X9 Jensens was impressive, and I could clearly hear David Draiman's voice pounding out over the parking lot. I jerked my neck from side to side, audibly popping the joints, before reaching behind me and cranking the volume on both MP3 player and stereo to maximum, some 100 decibels. It was no longer sound, it was raw physical force, vibrating me to the core.

I started to sing along, disorienting my opponent, and readying myself for what I knew was coming soon. He had to ralize that I was the other challenger in this match and react soon. He couldn't be that stupid, I hoped. "I am Indestructible, Indestructible, determination that is incorruptible, from the other side a terror to behold, annihilation will be unavoidable, every broken enemy will know that their opponent got to be invincible, take a last look around while you're alive I'm an indestructible master of war!" I smirked and waited for the inevitable, as the silence seemed to drag on at the end of the song, truthfully it was simply exactly what I wanted next, a quiet guitar riff grinding out over my speakers, presaging the horror to come.

[Psycho Chef]

Vincent was a little more than uneasy about this man. He had said Irongate and then mumbled something under his breath. When he'd stepped out of the truck and asked where the chef was from, Vincent replied, "Uh...shit."

He realized he wasn't back home. The man had said Corone just like the monk did. No one on Earth new about a place called Corone and certainly wouldn't ask him such a specific question.

This was like a dream...or its own alternate reality. Funny how his hobby back home would prove to be his downfall. He should've just stuck to making orange chocolate fudge with chopped pecans on the weekends for friends. Oh no, he just had to go and learn about alternate dimensions.

As his mind continued to argue with itself, he saw a look in the man's eye. It reminded him of his sparring partners back home. When they'd try and fake him out with a casual stance before trying to lock his legs up or bend his arm around in an awkward angle to gain leverage. This man wanted to fight. Or did the pair of knives on his belt signal that the cook really wanted to fight, therefore prompting this stranger into combat?

With strategic interest, Vincent began to quickly list off his options in his head. Plenty of cars to use as obstacles. Mailboxes, wildly growing lawns, a few fire hydrants, one empty lot filled with junk and more growing weeds, some as high as a couple of yards. The overcast sky didn't provide a lot of sun and it might've already at least been noon, but it could just have easily been four in the late afternoon. The various types of aged trees gave branches to climb on, but weren't very leafy, so there wasn't much cover. His best bet might to take the fight into one of the crumbling brick houses and maybe bury his opponent in an east coast, white trash makeshift tomb. If he could find a bottle of it lying around this place, he'd pour a couple of shots of Jim Beam on the grave as respect for a fight well done. Assuming he lived through this of course. And also on the assumption that this man liked bourbon whiskey.

Ok back up, let's deal with the here and now. He thought as he reached for his knives.

"So, you can't hide it you know." Vincent said calmly. "I know what you're up too. You can cut the bullshit." His words carried on in the deserted town with such force, he began to wonder what kind of reality this really was; and if he'd actually survive this place long enough to try and get back home.

Baking seemed like such a great adventure now.

[Miehm]

"And what exactly am I up to?" The quiet, accentless question gave no hint of what I was planning, I hoped. My right hand flashed, and the throwing knife was back in it faster than thought, or so it seemed. Before his hand ever touched one of his knives, I had my arm cocked back to throw, and my bowie was out in my left hand. "You have no idea what I'm up to. You only think you do. Maybe I'm here because I want to go home. Maybe I'm here because I'm being paid, and maybe I'm here because I like the killing." I snapped, suddenly I was angry at this man, so obviously from my own time, and yet so pathetic and ignorant. We were obviously in a similar boat, but he was so out of place, so disoriented, I wanted to beat him. It made no sense at all, and yet the strongest impulse I had was to jump on him and begin pummelling his face with my brass knuckled hands. "You don't know anything about me."

I fought the urge. My arm snapped forward, launching the small steel knife across the distance between us, and I dived to the right as soon as I knew the throw was good. He'd have to dodge, and an enemy who is dodging can't be attacking. Not very well at any rate. I hit the asphalt hard, and thanked God for my leather jacket, I wasn't used to being on such hard surfaces anymore, or ones that could tear your skin open either. My hand was cut from my landing, but it wasn't serious, and I groped at my side for my knife trying to get back to my feet, draw a weapon, and roll to cover all at once. It wasn't working very well, but I gave it my best shot. I was supposed to put on a show anyway, and it doesn't get much more dramatic than mistakes, especially when there's danger involved. I made a mental note to find my employer in a dark alley some night, and then forgot all about it, focusing entirely on my enemy. Who knew, this might just be a facade. I didn't know it, but at least one of my enemies assumptions was right. It was past 4:00 in the afternoon, and the sun was going down behind me, casting a lengthy shadow towards him, despite the clouds. A slight breeze blew as I regained my feet, and I realized I had lost track of this strange little man for the barest of seconds. "Fucking hell..." I started to look around slowly, watching for the movement that would betray him to me, and let me hack him down.

[Psycho Chef]

Apparently Vincent had struck a nerve. So much that the man began to just snap before his eyes. It was almost comical. He started off slowly, like a pebble tumbling slowly down a snowy hill all the way to a full blown car crushing hazard at the bottom of it. The throwing of the knife was the ball of ice slamming into someone's cozy cottage.

He moved as the same moment he saw the flick, diving awkward to his right so as to not pierce himself with his own knives. He scraped along the pavement and scrambled to his feet, ignoring his stinging forearms. Just some minor road rash. He'd live.

Taking refuge behind a thick, weather worn "white" picket fence, he peeked around a small crack. No sign of the man. This wasn't too good, since it looked like he was hiding just as much as the chef was; why he wasn't sure. Judging from the explosion of words, his opponent was either very confident in his abilities or a nut case. Either way, Vincent was at a disadvantage.

He needed a way to grab his attention while he made his next move. The house that claimed the yard he was squatting in looked fairly run down, its windows all but a memory. The ruined avocado paint had obviously seen slightly better days and like the rest of the neighborhood, every second Vincent crouched on the lawn he risked becoming a lawn gnome. Seriously, how can a yard get so out of hand? He barely needed to crouch to sneak around these lots.

He rummaged quietly in the tall grass and found something hard and about the size of a baseball. Oddly enough, it was a lawn gnome head. It was missing an eye but still had a cheerful smile. Clearly man could learn a thing or two from the ever optimistic ceramic gnomes. Silently hoping it would keep its happy grin, he chucked it across the street into the next yard. He heard it knock against cement and took his cue. He blazed past the tall grass as low as he could and ducked inside the open front door. He quickly moved from room to room on the bottom floor (there was a total of three rooms) and found what he was looking for; a liquor cabinet. He looked for a bottle that was still at least three quarters full and opted for a nearly full liter of vodka. He twisted a rag tightly and shoved it down the neck of the bottle. Shaking it upside down a few times, he got it damp enough but was still missing one last thing.

Fire.

Only problem was, he had some lighters in his backpack near the tree half a block away and still in the original package. He'd need a good twenty seconds of free time just to light the damn Molotov cocktail. His only option was to find something in the house. A match, lighter, working stove.

Sure hope the gnome is keeping that guy busy.

[Miehm]

Bad luck. I heard the thud across the street, but I saw the flash of movement from the other yard, and now I have a quandry. Which yard is he in? No way to tell, but it won't take me long to check. A flash of inspiration, and I pull a lighter and a can of rustbreaker from my truck before I investigate.

My bowie is riding at my back again, and I have my improvised flamethrower in hand, a flick of the bic, a few sprays of fluid, and a section of the yard is burning merrily. A few more sprays and more of the yard is involved. "Shiney." Walking back across the street, I spray a few more patches of yard, ensuring it's enough to get his attention whichever yard he's in. Then I step back out into the middle of the street and wait for him to show. The wind is whipping up now, and the sky is darkening. Rain coming in, heavy. I shiver a little, but I don't leave my position. Fighting in the rain is going to suck, but I'll hopefully still have the advantage. I think I'm faster than he is, and he hasn't displayed any weapons yet, so at the moment we're even on that count. A gust of wind blows down on me, and I hear the flame roar in response. It's spreading. I can feel the heat on my back. I almost hope he isn't in that yard. I won't get paid if the fight ends now. He needs to show himself and stand like a man, but I'm not surprised that he won't. No one fights the way I do anymore. Maybe that's why I manage so well in this brave new world. It's worth a thought anyway.

[Psycho Chef]

Perfect. Vincent thought as he held a dusty, faded yellow lighter. It felt nearly empty, but shaking it by his ear proved there was enough inside to do what he needed. He'd just investigated the "kitchen" area that lacked a working stove. Searching through the drawers proved fruitful.

He was busy trying to flick it on when shadows began to dance in front of him. Distorted images of the fence, window frame, and various pieces of decaying furniture performed a ballet on the cracked wall. He turned around cautiously and sighed.

Fire.

Oh for fuck's sake.

The yard was ablaze and quickly spreading through the bountiful feast that had been left for the flames. Within seconds the fire was already licking at the doorway, threatening to enter his humble fortress. He quickly assessed his options. Run and hide some more, but risk being caught in the same situation. Stand and fight, but caught in the open around the flames. He could sneak out the back and flank his opponent; which would work great if he knew were the bastard was. Head upstairs and look for an exit through a window, but that only proved as useful as the running plan.

He kept at the lighter while his mind raced.

His eyes darted back and forth in a near blur. He was calculating his throwing distance, the time to turn and run or leap and slice with his knives. He still had additional weapons but they weren't on hand so he couldn't really count them in the equation. He had the element of surprise but so did his enemy. And his enemy also had fire.

When in doubt... He thought reluctantly.

The flame clicked alive and he could feel the heat on his thumb, which now felt a bit raw. He stepped out into the backyard through the kitchen exit and slid alongside the fence. As he did, he kept the flame close to his body and the Molotov far from the yard that was now wrapping its fiery arms around the house. Smoke began to filter into his little lane, stinging his eyes, filling his lungs. He bit down and resisted the urge to cough. Following the path of the old fence, he came across two missing slots and thanked the Lord for his blind luck.

Still holding his breath, he crept up to the front of the yard of the next house and peered over. His heart slammed like a sledgehammer in his chest. He had played games of paintball before, out on man-made fields of beach, forest, desert, and jungle. He remembered the rush of crawling on your belly, waiting for just the right moment to fire his marker, emptying the hopper of all its glorious little spheres of color onto his opponents. Risk there was minimal. At worst you sprained your ankle from tripping over a piece of wood or got a nasty welt from getting shot.

He exhaled slowly and licked his lips with a dry tongue. Hooray for redundancy.

He wasn't used to such life and death situations, but as he slowly lit the rag and watched as it quickly consumed its fuel, he got just high enough to throw the bottle over the fence, directly at the feet of his enemy. As it sailed through the air with awkward grace, he drew both his knives and ran through the front gate, ready to make a stand. Dying didn't sound like much fun, but being hunted wasn't any better. He hardened his gaze, blinked away a drop of sweat that was teetering over his left eyebrow, and controlled his breathing. In a fight, everything was about control.

[Miehm]

"Oh shit..." The house was engulfed, and steadily burning to the ground. It wouldn't take long, not as dry as it was. That wasn't what had my attention. The molotov cocktail burst at my feet, and the aged liquor burned, but not as well as it might have. I flung myself on my back, dropping my improvised flamethrower, avoiding the worst of the splashing alcohol, and rolling to smother my now blackened jeans. "This is what you get for using cheap liquor!" The bottle of Skye had spilled a puddle of flaming alcohol at my feet, but it wasn't high enough proof to drench me in flames like a molotov was supposed to. It was however uncomfortably licking at the soles of my boots, and I rolled again, coming to my feet quite a ways away from where I was standing, and wincing as I rose. "Shit." My fall had tweaked my back, and it hurt worse than the burns on my lower legs did.

"There you are." I tried not to show just how badly I was hurt. The bowie knife that had so often saved my life had jammed deep into my back when I landed, and I was having trouble standing up straight. I slowly took my trench knife off my belt, and beckoned him closer with the knuckles. I didn't know why he had cord running from his knife handles, but he had to get close enough to hit me in order to hurt me, and if he closed, I might still have a chance. I dropped into a crouch, slipped the grip of my spike into my hand backwards, and waited for him to make a move. I didn't think I could run to him, and even dodging might be hard now, but the gathering dark was my ally. The falling sun and clouds moving in were rapidly reducing this to a close range fight. Lightning crackled from the clouds above, and the scene stood out in stark relief. The burning buildings lit the street with an eerie flicker that toyed with the shadows and made shapes less distinct, the first drop of rain, dotting my knife blade, was just the icing on the cake. A storm would reduce visibility even further, and even a light mist would help if I had any hope of living. Here we go, for the hundredth time...

[Psycho Chef]

With little else to do but keep a careful eye on the man who had quickly rolled out of the flaming booze, he started counting in his head. He started at one and slowly made his up. As if counting the seconds that went by, gone forever into the past.

The past...his past now really truly forever gone. He wondered if this new world had a decent kitchen to cook in.

Things that made sense comforted him. Counting from 214 to 215 was easy, full of logic, and far from trying to eviscerate him. This whole day had been one big storm of surprises. Trapped in a new dimension, no way of knowing if he could get home, hungry, and still unsure of why he was fighting some man in a ring of fire.

Damn you Johnny Cash. Now the song was stuck in his head.

When the remark of using cheap liquor exploded from the still rolling enemy, Vincent was ruffled. It wasn't like he selectively bought crappy vodka with the intent to use it as an incendiary device.

"Not my fault your little hick-town buys shit! I'd bash your face in with a bottle of gasoline if I could!" Vincent shouted back.

As the man got a little awkwardly to his feet, the cook knew something was different. He had lost his confident swagger. That stance of boredom as if his skills were being wasted. He now chose a defensive stance, like a wounded animal. A droplet of rain landed on his eyelash, making him blink quickly. Sight was also important in a fight. Keep your eyes on your target no matter what.

The sky was dark, but he knew the clouds were still there. They were obese with moisture. So far into labor that it was too late for anesthesia at this point. Mother nature was going to take its course. This could prove good and bad, but Vincent decided to let his subconscious work that out. He had to make a move before the stranger did. A wounded beast might be defensive, but that also made them even more dangerous. The stakes were higher. Fear of losing or death was now a very real factor. He might as well be a nervous cop with Parkinson's disease holding a cocked gun in an earthquake while standing in an unstable building.

He dropped his left knife from his hand and caught a bit of rope before it hit the ground. It recoiled a bit, dancing in the fire's light. Reflecting in flashes of orange and yellow, happy to be here. He slowly swung it around, vertically, letting momentum take its course. End over end, it gathered speed, slicing the air sharply.

Let's see what happens.

He moved forward while the ground still had some traction left for his sneakers. Rain began to dot his black jeans, which meant it wouldn't be too long before he was soaked and heavier than ever. He released the weapon at peak velocity, holding firm to the rope, watching it slice a path to the man's upper chest. He had to know what kind of condition he was in. A close range fight could prove just what the doctor ordered, but he had to know he could make it work for him rather than walk straight into his death.

[Miehm]

That was new. I hesitated just a moment too long, before bringing my right arm up to block. The steel creased the leather of my jacket, and left a line of cold fire along my arm, but he wouldn't get a chance to do it again. My hand closed on the line he flung out, and I pulled hard, putting everything I could into it. The rope set oddly with the knife in my hand, but my grip was solid, and I tried to twist it to bring my blade against the rope and really remove the weapon from play. Even if he only fell off balance frfom my action, every moment he stayed at a distance, a tiny bit of the pain in my back eased. It didn't hurt as much as it had before, but it wasn't much better, and I had absolutely no intention of trying to move closer to him until I felt even better than I did now. The rain started to fall slowly, a drop here and there, but I could tell it was going to pick up quickly. More strokes of lightning split the sky, heralding the storm to come, but I barely noticed. It was almost over. One of us was going to take a temporary trip into death, and the other would win, and that would be the end.

[Psycho Chef]

Well aren’t you a quick sonofabitch... Vincent thought as the nylon rope was snagged in mid-air. He knew was what coming and braced himself for the pull. Seriously, what other option besides dropping the rope or using it to pull yourself to the opponent did you have? Judo training aside, he was had common sense to rely on as well.

He held his stance firm and the pull came like he predicted. Yet by then, the ground had gotten moist enough that he slid along the pavement right into a dry spot, effectively propelling him straight onto his chest. He landed with a diaphragm knocking thud, but still held onto his end of the rope. He twisted his hand around it quickly, layering it a couple times and gritted his teeth in anger. Now logic was taking a back seat quietly as rage piloted his body. He got to his feet quickly, ignoring the scrapes on his knuckles and the pain coming into his head. He probably slammed his jaw against the road when he touched down.

The rain began to flow a bit more steadily now, a soft almost pleasing sort of thing. Time seemed to slow down as the fires raged across the houses, consuming them in their gluttonous fury. He could feel his heart pumping like pistons in a hot rod, just racing well above the healthy limit. Adrenaline fueled his body like never before in his entire life. Was he excited? Was he terrified? Vincent didn’t know what to make of these new feelings, but he decided to make the best of his energy that was screaming to be released.

He pulled back hard on the rope, making sure to put his whole weight into it and kicked solidly straight in front of him, hoping to plant his shoe right on that guy’s formerly smug face. No one used his own cooking utensils against him and got away with it.

[Miehm]

The pull came, and I didn't resist. I pushed off with my back leg, and launched myself towards him, bringing the thick steel spike out towards his chest, and letting the slack in the rope drop from my hand, before bringing my knife around to slash across at eye level. The kick hit me in my chest, but I was already out of perfect position, and it didn't have the power he had hoped. It hurt, but now I was close enough I cloud bring my bulk and close range weapons in to play to end this fight for good. In the background I dimly noticed that there was still heavy metal blasting across my speakers, Disciple, Game On. It was a total non sequitor, but my brain noticed it anyway. It was fitting. The rain, the music, solid steel in every hand, and an enemy about to go down under my boots, it was the way things would be it seemed.

[Psycho Chef]

The speed at which his opponent flew at him was a bit of a surprise and when his kick landed firmly in his chest without knocking the wind out of it or even stunning him, he was slightly more curious. He was a tough one alright.

A odd looking mutant of brass knuckles flew at his chest, a large spike racing to pierce through his sternum. He twisted to his left instinctively, but missed the slice for his face which cut shallowly across his left side in a diagonal as his head had been turned. He growled in his human nature to survive, angry at his mistake but so mad that he took little time to console himself. Blood flowed freely with the aid of the growing rain and he struggled to see out of his right eye.

The fires slowly began to lose their power as the rain picked up speed. Which meant the surrounding area was getting darker by the passing second. He still held onto his end of the rope and noticed his blade lying on the ground behind the hillbilly bastard. He still held the other knife and yanked quickly in a upward motion, with enough force to snap the blade back to life, aiming to cut the his arm holding the very large blade.

He caught the handle a second later, so used to the motions it was like walking to him. "Let's see what you got!" He grunted.

[Miehm]

I was done. My arm burned from the slash I had received, my back hurt like fire from whatever injury I had done it, and my eyes were filled with a view of my enemies shoes... Maybe I wasn't done, my mind raced, and my hand holding the spike raced for the soft uppers of his shoes. The slick pavement was darkening as the fires dimmed, but the fight was effectively over. My enemy was standing over me, I couldn't stand, I couldn't muster another attack. I might manage to attack again, to even make the kill, if only I could put him out of play with an inch diameter spike through the top of his foot. For some reason my hearing was fuzzy, and I was having difficulty breathing, but my eyes were still clear enough to see what I was doing, and my hand was steady. "Eat shit and die motherfucker."

[Psycho Chef]

Mature drops of water splashed ruthlessly now, making visibility almost a myth. Legends of an ancient time when the world wasn't covered in water that fell from the sky in a never ending wave of fury. The steadily increasing lack of fire also helped to blanket the area in a hollow darkness that swallowed Hickville slowly.

The upside was that the water had cleaned his wound a bit, which now ached tremendously. He'd need stitches before he tried to do anything. Infection and a possible bleed were none to far fetched probabilities. On the note of wounds, he turned his attention to the hostile stranger.

The slice from his chef knife had proved to be a fight ending strike. Now he felt almost silly for grunting a battle growl, but he could feel embarrassed later. The cook had to figure out how to get the hell out of this place and eventually back home. He was sure his stove missed his touch and the whisk might be eloping with his favorite stainless steel mixing bowl and half way to Australia by now.

Vincent stood there for a moment, watching his enemy. He still had to be alive, but why strike him now? The threat was over, at least on this man's end.

Rain fell in torrents over them, creating an illusion that the asphalt was boiling. He was so drained of adrenaline, so tired, and scared that he hardly registered the movements of the recently downed redneck.

Jesus tap dancing Christ... He thought as the spike skewered his foot.

Pain erupted from his toes to his hip, sending a small surge of energy and anger into a volatile mix. Murder in his heart, he gripped his chef knives tightly and dropped to his knees, stabbing manically at the man's upper and middle back.

[Miehm]

"Bitch, this ain't it." My knuckled hand flew upwards as the first blade penetrated my back. The agony was intense, and my knee gave out under me. Nothing but the arm pinning his foot to the asphalt was holding me up. I wheezed, and coughed, feeling the blood froth from my lungs. My eyes clouded with pain, graying about the edges as I sank farther and farther from life with every tearing thrust of my enemy's knives. My arm lashed into his gut again, but the strength was leaving my muscles with every passing second. I pulled the spike from his foot, and jammed it hilt deep in what I believed to be his thigh, before I collapsed, bleeding out on the asphalt, and dragging the spike awkwardly through whatever I had punctured. The rain washed the blood away, and I blinked as my eyes clouded over. "Damn, I guess this is it." I coughed again twice more, before everything went black, and there was nothing left but the pain.

I awoke to the cessation of pain and the completion of yet another contract. "Never again." My employer stood by my bedside, and tossed my pay onto the bed.

"It was an adequate show. Are you free next week, I'm having a party and I could use some live entertainment." His clean white doublet and deep red trousers made me hate him all the more for how I had died. How I had suffered.

"I said never again." I stood up out of the bed and checked my belt to make sure everything was in place, before shrugging into my jacket and readying to leave.

"I'll pay double next tiagh..." His words cut off in a horrible gurgle as my bowie knife sprouted from his throat. The crimson tide washed thickly over my hand to stain the floor and his clean white doublet. I didn't care. I had just died for that man's entertainment. Shit like that wasn't fit to live. The last thing he ever saw was my size ten and a half boot crushing his skull.

"Damn, now I guess I have to wash the blood off again. I did say NEVER again." Oh well. Another day, another death, maybe it was insane. Maybe it was immoral, or as I preferred to think it amoral, but my loyalty went no farther than my contract required, and it never required me to die in agony for this wretched piece of slime. Maybe if he was lucky the monks could heal him, and he could remember as I always would what the end of his life looked like. I prayed to a God I barely believed in that the Monks would heal him, and he could remember till his true dying day just how it felt to be killed. I knew I would.

Maybe tomorrow I'd be up for a permanent stay beyond this world, but tonight, I would be free. I walked from the Citadel, singing as always, poorly. "When the lights go up and the game is on, are you ready for me cause I'm ready for you. When the bell rings out and the fight is on, are you ready for me cause I'm ready for you." Yes, tonight it seemed I was free.

[Psycho Chef]

Even with his blades sinking deeply into the man's lungs, there was enough fight in him for one last attack. When the spike tore through Vincent's leg, he couldn't help but connect the sound to when he'd butcher chickens. The sound of flesh being torn and muscles ripping apart came as a pain so intense, he went into a slight state of shock.

His knives clattered to the floor as he fell back onto his ass and slammed against a car. Rain poured down onto the now lifeless body of a young hillbilly and the lost chef. Blood poured freely from his leg, which looked useless now.

Without warning, he began to cry. At first silent, dry sobs but soon the stinging tears came and he was heaving hard. He was alone in a world unknown to him. Friends gone. Family worried. His girlfriend probably calling around frantically and screaming at the police to find her beloved man. Who else would cook her Eggs Benedict with just the right amount of fresh ground pepper?

He sniffed a few times and spat out rain. The pain from the slice over his eye throbbed intensely, but he tried to ignore it as best he could. He was still sobbing slowly, trying to control it. Darkness had swallowed them now and all he could feel was the cold asphalt beneath his hands. He was wet, freezing, and dying.

I wonder if I'll get to go to Heaven....or am I stuck going to whatever afterlife there is here?

His breathing slowed second after second, as the weather poured on, pummeling his face relentlessly. Eyes closed so he wouldn't have to look at his mangled limb, he noticed there wasn't any pain anymore. He was actually feeling ok. But then he noticed he couldn't feel the ground beneath his hands. Then he felt nothing at all.

Oh....shi....t....

***

"AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Vincent screamed wildly as his eyes snapped open and he flew out of the hard bed. He slammed into the cool ground and scrambled for a corner, eyes wide with fear. A monk had been standing at the front door, looking out. Now he turned in and held back a grin. Poorly.

"First time I take it?"

"For what?!"

"To feel death. To feel rebirth." He said with as straight as a face as he could muster.

Vincent's breathing began to return to a normal pace. "You mean....I really died and....was brought back from the dead?"

"Yes." He bit down on his tongue to stifle a laugh.

"Like a zombie?"

A short gasping laugh escaped the monk. Vincent stood up, very annoyed.

"I'm sorry, it...it just never gets old!" The monk was laughing hysterically now.

"They made you rehearse that line didn't they? The rebirth crap huh?" The chef 's fists were balled up in growing anger.

"Hahaha, they sure did! Does it sound fake?"

"Yes." He said through gritted teeth.

"Oh well. I'll need to work on that then. Your stuff is right there," he pointed at the foot of the bed, "Hope we see you again....zombie-boy!" The monk left the room snorting and giggling the entire length of the hallway.

Vincent was still in a state of shock. He looked down to examine his body and couldn't believe it was just the way it had been when he left his home that morning. Was this what made the Citadel? The inability to truly die? Could you live forever here? Was it a place for the dreamers? The creative? The perverted? His mind went back to its comforting place of thinking as he picked up his backpack and chef's kit.

He headed for the front door awkwardly, unsure of where he'd go next. Would these people know what he was talking about if he asked to go back to Earth? Would they try and take advantage of his naivety? His heart slammed in his chest as he took every step towards to large double doors of the mystical building. He hadn't even been in this place an entire day and he'd managed to get himself killed and resurrected.

How long would he last outside the Citadel?

[Taskmienster]

For the sake of ease, I will be putting both of your stuff together in the rubric at times, and separating other things that deserve to be noted alone. I will also be putting Miehm’s score in RED and Psycho Chef’s score in BLUE. If you have any questions feel free to ask me and I’ll be happy to elaborate with more in-depth commentary. I’m available by PM or IM most of the time.


STORY (18/30)(16.5/30)

~ Continuity ~ {5} {5}

~You both had pretty good, solid backgrounds that you displayed throughout the thread instead of just at the opening. A little bit here, a little bit there, the stuff that was necessary to understand the character as the reader worked through the thread. However, the information that wasn’t there, the stuff about how you both got here, as well as other stuff from the background. Just work on the stuff that isn’t necessary to explain only the continuity of the story if it is necessary to explain things, but think of it more as a way to assist the reader as well as the judge (since continuity plays into your reactions to settings, dialogue, action/reactions, and personality).

~ Setting ~ {7}{6.5}

~Some of the best, simple use of setting I’ve seen in a long time. It wasn’t overly done; it wasn’t epic in its use. The simple way of writing by both of you, coupled with the depth that you used certain things was truly well done. Unlike most judgments were I say use the setting, I can’t say that here. The reverse is true though, you need to help engulf the reader in the surroundings by taking a little more time to describe things as you go. You don’t need to have deep, paragraph after paragraph of descriptions to make the setting come to life though… a little more than what you did and it would have been great. Just don’t forget that saying the way the house looks in one post means that the reader will remember that throughout the thread.

~ Pacing ~ {6}{5}

~I really don’t have much to say about pacing, since it was a battle the pace was a little quick but that’s what it’s supposed to be like. I will say that the really short posts by Miehm seemed to keep the pace, but detracted from the overall appeal by not adding ‘enough’ to the pace. Other than that it was well done, especially for a battle which can be tricky in the way to try and not write the pace too slow at times.


CHARACTER (18/30) (18.5/30)

~ Dialogue ~ {6.5} {6}

~Miehm: Be careful not to put too much dialogue into a paragraph devoted to action. The first half of the 5th post you removed a weapon and cocked your arm before your opponent ‘could reach for a knife’ but then decided to speak some monologue instead of throwing it. The time between removing it and talking would be ample time for your opponent to react. Other than that the dialogue was believable and realistic.

~Chef: Your dialogue was believable, but the monk’s seemed off. You had him come off as a goof, which felt that you made his station less than what most would. It’s not a bad thing, just something you don’t see often. It felt like his dialogue was written in the monks place. Other than that there was a small part here and there that seemed out of place, like you went from happy-go-lucky and non-serious to a little cliché. Just be careful not to overstep the personality and make it unrealistic.

~ Action~ {5.5} {6}

~Both of you showed very good action and reactions in this, not only in the fight towards the end but the realistic actions you took in the beginning. It was dead on. The only comment I have is that when it gets down to it, try and make sure that the actions you both write are concise and clear, easy to follow.

~ Persona ~ {6}{6.5}

~Due to the lack of a true background it was hard to figure out which of you was acting the way your character really did… however, the way you did continuity, putting it in as you go, was interesting and helped a lot. All in all you both did well. A little more show than tell would have helped, which is a good way to put in advanced techniques. When you have the opportunity to ‘sell’ the way you act with a little bit of something flashier. Though ‘flashy’ doesn’t really fit either of your styles, as it seems, it certainly wouldn’t help to spice it up a little and why not incorporate one category with another so that it helps everything? Right? haha



WRITING STYLE (19.5/30)(20.5/30)

~ Technique ~ {6}{6.5}

~Miehm: You write in a concise, deliberate way, but there are certain times when you can use advanced techniques to help spice up the reader’s interest in the battle. For your character I would suggest using metaphors and similes that are something akin to the modern world, instead of grandiose and flowing techniques that befit a more ‘high fantasy’ character, something about the way the cars looked, or anything relating to your past would fit well and easily. You also wrote in a first person present tense, with a style that is a lesson in brevity. It’s well done and I wanted to commend you, it’s a good example of how to write well without writing something super long.

~Chef: There were some good uses of advanced technique that you used, some of which made me smile others that I felt were somewhat ordinary… one stood out that seemed a little long winded though: “He might as well be a nervous cop with Parkinson's disease holding a cocked gun in an earthquake while standing in an unstable building.” You can shorten that easily and make it a little easier to read, or add in some commas so that it flows better.

~ Mechanics ~ {6.5}{7}

~Miehm: You have a small issue with when to separate your paragraphs, making them long and covering multiple ideas through each one. A little separation of ideas would make the posts easier to read as well as keep to a more proper way of writing.

~Chef: There are some problems here and there other than the ones I noted in the “general notes” section, but otherwise I didn’t see much else. Well done.

~ Clarity ~ {7}{7}

~Miehm: The end of the first paragraph in the first post you have a little about a car window smashing, and until you played with the dials I didn’t realize that it was you doing the breaking and entering. A little clarification on that and you’d have made it great. The other thing I notice is that your paragraphs seem a little long, and can easily be broken up to make things clearer and easier to read. When you transition from one thought to another it’s best to make a new paragraph, and when you write dialogue it’s good to normally start a new paragraph at the end of the words instead of putting them in the middle of a deep paragraph. You can see that in the first half of the 3rd post.

~Chef: The story was clear, the writing was clear, but there were a few things here and there that didn’t make sense. It was easy to read, but some things stuck out dealing with actions and reactions, such as when you both got into the close combat battle. A little bit more clear and it would have read and flowed very well.


WILD CARD!!! {7}{7}

~I haven’t tallied the score, but I feel that both of you did really well with this battle. Very different styles of writing, but engaging, unique, and interesting. It was a very good read and I’m very happy that I claimed it to judge. Hopefully I was helpful and I look forward to seeing more from either of you in the future! I particularly enjoyed the ending for both of you, giving a little bit more of an explanation at the end other than you just dying and that's the end.

AFTER THE FACT NOTE: Omg, a tie. I’ve never judged a tie. I think you both did very well though!


General Notes

Miehm

~ “He had to ralize that” [3]~ should be ‘realize’

Psycho Chef

~ “still pop his shoulder” [2]~ instead of ‘pop’ it should be ‘popping’

~ “His best bet might to take the fight into one of the crumbling brick houses” [4]~ after ‘might’ you should have had the word ‘be’… “His best bet might to take the fight…”




[b] TOTAL

(62.5/100)(62.5/100)


GAINS/REWARDS!

Since it’s a tie, I’m going to go ahead give you both the base reward for a win.

Miehm gains 500exp; 168gp

Psycho Chef gains 500exp; 168gp

[Taskmienster]

EXP and GP added!