Arena Alpha

Glyde's left eye stared down the barrel of Marksman, looking through the sights. His left hand, sweating, but cold all the same, held to the handle. Were this a normal gun, there would have been a trigger located around this area. That was the advantage he had over a normal sniper though. Were there a trigger, he'd have probably slipped by now, and a shot would have been prematurely fired. But Marksman, and Quick Shot for that matter, would not open the attack until his heart said so.*His right eye, being his weaker eye, and a mere bother if open, remained shut to maximize the vision of his left. His right right hand steadied the weapon from the bottom of the barrel.

Here, he aimed for the sweet spot just above the head of his target. This was for the sake of compensation. If he aligned the sights on the head, he'd be shooting more towards the neck. Hence, aiming above the head would ensure a clear kill. He wanted this shot, this kill to be his statement in this tourney. Nothing got people worked up like head-shotting an opponent after just a few minutes. And a feared reputation like that would be apt to give him the edge in the coming rounds. Then, picking off the flustered opponents would be made all the more simplistic.*

But what is this little doe doing down there? The slim looking young man seemed to be in state of concentrated thought. From the way he looked, to the way he seemed to be moving, it seemed like he was calling upon some external force... No. He's searching. He knows there's something that ain't right. This was a target that was more than a mere man. He was more like a deer, or a wolf. He was making use of an enhanced sense of a more sensitive portion of his being to read, and interpret his situation. Then, even more like a deer, the man fled, or rather, flew from the open plaza. Glyde tracked him along his path, keeping his aim at a spot just ahead of his movements. But his mark drifted out of sight, beyond the frame of site allowed by the open window.*

Well, there goes my chance for a fear factor. Disappointed, albeit mildly, Glyde slid off of his 'chair', touching his heavy army style boots onto the wooden floor. Pulling at his neck, he tore off his white-brown travel cloak, ditching it on the crate he had been sitting in. Stepping to the side, he hugged the wall, and inched forward through a wall in his 'fort'. At the end of this corridor was a single crate, which he used as a prop, aiming Marksman out the window. His new spot gave him an angled view, looking out at the side streets of the plaza where his target had fled to. His aim listed steadily up to the rooftops of the line of shops across the way. I can wait here all night mang. * * * *

 

It was the waiting game. On one said of the field, the hunter sat readied for the shot that would be taken. He was placid in body, and in mind. His sight ample enough through the window of old wharehouse. Come out little one. It'll be over very soon. That, I can guaruntee. On the other side, in the mental scope of his persuer, the prey rested in wait for it's escape. Glyde felt even more at home than ever here. Like pickin off game back in the meadows. Just gotta be patient and it'll all work out.*

But it was hardly so simple. This much, to some extent, he realized. It was no standard hunt in the forest. It was no drill at The Academy. This was the real thing. If, in any instance, his 'prey' were to turn hostile, the field would change. In the passed few minutes it had already changed drastically. The other man was onto him. Of course, as of yet, he didn't seem to know his exact location. Glyde on the other hand knew exactly where to watch for his foe. His visioned wandered in order along the rooftops on the side of the plaza. Quickly je cut a glance bakc down at the street just in case. But...*

Ho ho. We've got a toughy. From some distance away, a figure rocketed into the night sky. It was the same tall, slim figure that Glyde had seen in the plaza just a minute or so prior. And the prey reveals himself! Now the fun can really begin. His aim followed closely behind his target's movements, stopping just as it rose beyond the available openning in the window. For a second he thought the man had fled, but the sound of the wind, so suddenly turned savage forewarned him of the impending, tentative burst.*

His reactions were swift, and cleanly performed (well, as cleanly as one could hace hoped for when in the need for decisiveness). He was over the crates of his fortress walls, and in the pane of the window, having not fully come to terms with his conscious actions. Everything seemed be running in impulse and instinct. The next thing he knew, he was airborne, having lept from the window to intercept the force of air. With a single, muttered, and gasped incantation of an air based spell, drawing forth a high pressure current woven into a shielding bubble. His shield met with the pressurized concentration, siphoning its air into its content. With a second, more ambitious whim, Glyde pushed the current to his feet, and in its last breath, pushed himself to a higher altitude, and further from his former hideout.*

But why stop here? As he ascended, reaching the peak of his jump, he repoised Marksman for his counter offensive. He aimed quickly, but precisely, considering he was in motion. He was a literal jet fighter, soaring in dead run on his nameless foe. From his stock pile of spells, he pulled the one that he needed most. "Halt," he muttered under his breath. The stopping spell was immediately placed upon the vicinity of his target, and the spacetime fabric compressed compressed in upon him, giving him no dimensions in which to move. Then, summoned forth from the end of Marksman's barrel, a shot of *a silver, light-based magical energy bolted across the gap between hunter and prey, moving at speeds over twice that of the average bullet. Show me what you've got. For real.** **

 

Take what you can… The once glorious motto of the Caribbean pirates passed through Glyde’s head as he pushed through the air. Some unwinding force drawn out from his opponent’s essence had broken through his spell. But then, on the bright side of it all, his shot had done at least some measure of damage. What sort of power it was remained as information that was beyond his scope of knowledge. But he knew that such a force would only hinder his operations here. Such power had to be dealt with using extreme caution. If he could not stop him in his tracks, he’d have to force his power against him, some how.

The push from his previous aero spell had given him a boost clear to opposite side of the plaza. He’d have been able to strike his foe with Marksman’s bayonet, if he hadn’t moved so quickly. But the alternative was just as friendly a thought. His landing brought him onto the roof of the clothing shop. Prior to contact with the surface, he tucked in his body, knees bent to absorb the shock. To achieve greater balance in his landing, he ditched Marksman for the time being, leaving him with four points contact. Then came the landing, angled acutely, his arms and legs splitting the brunt of the impact. He slid several fee, nearing to the other edge of the roof before returning to a standing position.

Regaining his confidence on his feet, he recalled Marksman as ‘the birdie’, as he was now calling his target, shouted down at him. The words alone held no significant meaning to him. He had no clue what an aura user was, though his assumptions on the matter lead him to seeing it just another form of magic. “Give nothing back,” he uttered audibly to the birdie as he prepared his attack. But this blast of air would find itself block and confined. With a flourishing push of his Keygun, he cast a third spell, along with a fourth, though they were both the same. The Reflectega, cast twice simultaneously, formed a protective sphere of solidified light magic within a radius around the birdie.

Both spells encased him, and his air blasts, one having been forged about a meter outside of the other. One of two possibilities existed for the fate of both spells: Either the reflects would hold in the air, trapping the birdie in his own high pressured tempest; Or, if said birdie was a luckier, or more powerful man than expected, the busts would break through, though their force impeded by the barriers. In any case, Glyde didn’t stick around to see the fruits of his labor. He waited some two seconds, firing off another shot from Marksman, and stepped off of the roof. It was only a two, maybe three story drop, but either way, landing crouched again allowed him to keep his body more together.

He looked down the alley to his left (going to his right would have only put him back in harm’s way), and faced down the large doors at the other end. HE surmised that they would lead him to another section of town, where he could again seek out the cover of a vantage point. There was no questioning it, and without a real second thought on the matter, he dead sprinted toward the doors. Marksman, now pointed to the sky, and over his shoulders, let loose a volley of shots. He had no intention of actually hitting anything, though if he did, he’d have gone with it just the same. B;ut in truth, these shots were meant to be warding shots, to keep his foe on the move, were he in pursuit. In seconds he had reached the doors, and slid through them after opening a narrow gap into the next district.

He was now in a plaza so different from the previous that to have assumed them in the same town was almost laughable. Neon lights seemed to pop out from every window and doorway. It was like the entire place could just burst into a party at any given moment. As he edged through what little shadows there were to be found in the plaza, he placed his free hand into a pocket near his knees. From here, he pulled out ether, of which he took a sating swig, feeling the spent life force from his spell casting return to him in full flow. It was of two that he didn’t leave behind with his travel cloak, though he really wouldn’t need them so much. If his last maneuver had worked as it was meant to, he’d have the rest of this battle down pat.

Sadly, the lot of the vantage points within this portion of town was high up, and well out of reach without another blast of air to accompany an aero spell. But that one may have been a one in a million move. If only them boys from The Academy were there to see that one. They’d have been pissing themselves a lake. With no real place within his reach, nor in any sort of safety, he opted on a different strategy. His foe was dominant in their air, and there, he could dish out the most damage. That left one option: Ground him. If he could be forced from the sky, and into the necessity of melee combat, the playing field would be evened. I suppose I couldn’t stay hiding forever.

 

He stood in wait, anticipating the arrival of the birdie into the midst of the neon lit Third District. Marksman was held firmly in his right hand wrapped around the handle. The barrel was pointed down at the ground, and slightly forward. Any stray shots, fired out in surprise, would clash against the seemingly synthetic stone ground. If the birdie showed his face again, the gun was at the ready, able to be raised to firing position as soon as the situation called for it. Decisive action is the crux of the soldier’s power. A man who cannot take the shot, cannot call himself a man at all. Only mere boy is such a person that cannot take the shot. That is what separates boys from men… my son. The Academy had served him well to teach him these words, as well as to have called him their son. And he had done well to remember it. And he was even better off to be using it in the current predicament.

As the time seemed to wane away, his thoughts wandered back to The Academy, wondering what they’d say if he let the guy go. Jaq would be pissed as hell if this guy slipped out of my fingers. They’d probably chuck me out of the guard tower. This would have been a half true statement. The Academy was, after all, a militaristic boarding school, of sorts. It fell to the same faults as any other military educational institute. Hazing, gifted down from the older classes unto the younger ones was prevalent in all magnitudes. The daily regimes that persisted through each week, except for Sundays, had been made to tear the students apart, put them back together, and tear them apart again. Failure, even amongst those pure of heart, was not something that was taken lightly. They all had jobs to do. This was just one of those jobs. He was…. Just like anyone else.

It had felt as long as an eternity, standing in the center of the plaza when the birdie showed up gain. He was less spent looking than Glyde had been banking on. Or maybe it was more that he had taken to cloaking what expenses in energy he had taken. Regardless of what truth dictated, the possible lie that was being told was more than effective. I suppose now it’s just down to the mettle of our hearts in this one. Although the birdie was drifting gracefully down from his perch atop the roofs, the hunter’s sun stayed clear. He wouldn’t forfeit the pleasure of having a melee battle come out of this. It would appear that my mark has been thinking along the same lines as me. A good old fashion dual to the end. Wasting few words, his foe was upon him, a rarity in the battle thus far.

He had not time to respond to the statement, though the stance he took upon it was a viable indicator of his preparation. Using the few seconds between the initial charge, to the striking motion, he anticipated the downward striking motion. A deadlock would have been inevitable under normal circumstances. Yet this was not a normal set of circumstances. Banking, to a point, on the nature of the reflect spell’s workings, Glyde raised his blade parallel to the ground in blocking position. Augmenting his line of defense, a spatially limited, yet dense barrier of a reflect spell cast itself along the front of the gun, inches from the actual weapon. The blade and the spell collided with each other just as Glyde ducked below the spell. He let off another round in the then vacant spot around his target’s abs; and then a second shot, placed similarly. Culminating the combo was a lurch forward, accompanied with forceful forward thrust of the weapon, bayonet first. He… hehehe…