Colosseum - Round 2 - Wakka vs Dante

[Storyteller]

Wakka, who realized by this point that he wasn't in a blitzball competition, glanced at the Coruscant-themed armory behind him.

On the other side of the series of elevated platforms was Dante, who stood before the standard of Diablo.

With the sound of the gong, the fight began.

Judge –Caira/Gildarts

Dante posts first and may do so at any time after 10 PM CDT.

Description of fight area and other information can be found here - <!-- l --><a class="postlink-local" href="http://omniverse-rpg.com/viewtopic.php?f=28&t=4362">viewtopic.php?f=28&t=4362</a><!-- l -->

Please refer any questions to that thread.

Word Limit: 750
Posts: 3
Time Limit: 48 hours
SP use is enabled. SP does not regenerate between rounds. Injuries may occur. Neither injuries nor SP use are factored into judgment, only the quality of writing

[Simon]

"Always gotta side me with the demons," Dante complained, staring rudely at the sigil of Diablo. A moment later, still staring, he recalled the apparent context of this fight that he had been briefed on. So, technically, the demons were the good guys? For what, kicking the Empire's butt? Fine, whatever.

That said, it wasn't as if Dante's particular siding came without benefits, he noted when turning his gaze to the armory of demon-flavored weapons. Hellfire cannons, volcanic polearms, a jet-black whip... nothing he personally recognized, but all tempting nonetheless. That artillery gun looked awfully powerful, but the devil hunter doubted he would turn to it even in a pinch.

The brass ring of the gong sounded, and Dante broke into a run. Ultimately, the armory wasn't worth it; he'd forge his own path to victory. Here, though, came the tricky part: fighting reliably on this asteroid field of metal surfaces and stations. It reminded him of one of the first hells he visited, a white void like the Nexus with many stone chunks to walk on - and very little else. The nephilim made the same promise to not fall off, and he threw himself forward off the first platform. At least, he was fortunate in his super-powerful ability to jump, only barely whiffing the threat of the roiling clouds below before planting his feet on the next metal surface.

On the other side of the battlefield, Wakka shared some of Dante's sentiments, but not his maneuverability. Scrambling to regain his balance, the blitzballer managed to fall onto the actual platform of the steeled edge he had jumped for. Any doubt the athlete had left about this event was long gone, replaced mostly with anguish. This rank gray battlefield was a deathtrap in and of itself, even without an opponent to fight. It was so much that Wakka had actually forced his hands to slip a couple of the foreign weapons to his belt. Just in case, he kept telling himself.

"What kinda fool comes up with 'dis crazy stuff?" The blitzballer lamented out loud, crouched under four metal sheets vaguely arranged into a sort of shelter. He peered out the card-slot of a window cut from one of the walls, eyes quickly darting to peek at the battlefield. The red-coated man, his match for this round, was hopping and running across the metal plates with relative ease even to the athlete. Wakka tightened the arm holding his blitzball, silently praying he didn't lose it so soon...

Closing the distance between himself and the shelter he saw his foe dart behind, Dante held up for a moment to bound dramatically into the air. Spreading his arms into useless wings, he aimed for the shacked platform with the cheers of his renewed supporters. With Dante out of Wakka's sight, the latter wisely assumed the worse and backpedaled out of the shack- just as the devil hunter crashed down feet-first on the roof.

"So, what's your deal?" The half-devil asked, as if they weren't enemies and he hadn't just super-jumped onto a metal shelter. Wakka quickly doubled back, leaping back to the lower platform where he came - and in response, twisting around and chucking the sport ball into Dante's face. As his opponent cried out in painful shock and stumbled off the roof, the fire-haired man punctuated that fall with a catch of his rebounding sphere.

His accent called to Dante, "How's that fo' ya'? A Blitzball don't taste so good, eh?" On the far side of the metal shack, Dante's head lay dangling off the rim of the platform. In any other fight, he might already be down there, regretting a lot more. Gazing wide-eyed into the murky abyss, heaving up the scent of arid fumes, his resolve realigned itself.

"I know I asked for it, but damn..." the devil hunter spoke in mild surprise, then with more firmness, "No fooling around, then."

Wakka was about to taunt his opponent again when the sudden shriek of metal-on-metal rang out. Cringing at the shrill noise, the athlete grit his teeth in expectancy. What he wasn't expecting was the metal shelter being cut in half, and the top half being kicked at him. The blitzballer dove in panic off to another platform, scrambling spreadeagled to the center while the metal plates crashed along the surface behind him.

Daring to look up, Wakka witnessed Dante walking out from behind the lower remains of the shelter, brandishing Rebellion in challenge. "Wanna try that again?"

Wordcounter.net: 749 words, 4355 characters.

[Red]

If not for the toxic fumes, provided by the sweltering substance of mysteries, Wakka may have taken to the pool below like a fish—they smelled liked rotten seafood, fucked and stuffed with expired eggs, wrapped in diapers. Instead, he hopped from steel platform to steel platform, evading the white-haired man in pursuit of him.

The man who chased him wore a crimson trench coat, and (as of now) wielded a broadsword, which appeared much too large for a person of his slender stature. He swiped it through the blitzballer’s platform, but failed to draw blood; Wakka backflipped, and receded to a rhombus-shaped platform.

This man was deadly serious. He emerged from one of the shelter’s halves, and glared towards the blitzballer. “Wanna try that again?” he said, throwing his sword over his shoulder.

Wakka smirked. “Why not, ya?”

By now, if Wakka still harbored hope of a Blitzball match then he was a fool. A damned fool.

In any other circumstance, he would have forfeited (bloodlust was not a hobby of his), these circumstances were different; he needed information. Baron Victor von Magnus—a burly man, aged like fine wine—appeared to be a man worth meeting, if Wakka could survive the tournament. Step Two of that process began now.

He rolled his blitzball down from the cradle of his arm, palming it in his right hand as he shot his eyes towards to his adversary’s hand. It worked last fight. He overhand pitched his ball, intending to jar free the sword from Dante’s (if Wakka heard the pre-fight announcement correctly) grasp.

It failed miserably. Dante took his sword and smacked the Blitzball away like a pestering fly. It darted back towards Wakka, and hit him right in the chest, sending his ass into the steel under him with a clang and thud. The bliztball sunk his head between his legs, and gasped for air.

“I told you no more fooling around,” the white-haired swordsman reiterated, bringing his blade back over his shoulder.

He jumped to a neighboring platform, and then to the edge of the rhombus-shaped on Wakka sat on, pulling his sword above his head after he landed.

Wakka felt the killing blow hovering over his body, sweeping down to split him in two. But this was not the end. Not this early. He grappled his hands around the back of Dante’s feet and yanked back as if they were the last two mugs of ale on a counter. The white-haired man groaned as his legs were taken out from under him, and he fell backwards, plummeting towards the cesspool below. And he would have, if not for his quick wits to reach his free hand out to catch the ledge of the platform.

[Simon]

With Dante's one free arm now barely holding him away from the abyss of pestilence, the one thought that came to mind was, "That was an embarrassing mistake." Returning his trusty greatsword to it's place behind his back, the devil hunter paid attention to the space above him; his newly empty hand fell below his waistline in anticipation.

In the moment of respite gained from his sudden reversal, the blitzballer picked himself up. No longer about to die, and with air back in his lungs proper, Wakka's scarlet plume of hair whipped about several times as he searched for his ball. A lump very quickly rose in his throat when he realized it could've fallen away, but the athlete was more relieved to find it at the opposite end of the metal diamond he stood on. Behind his vision, however, the red-coat man was grunting, in some effort to pull himself up.

Wakka had to think fast. His blitzball wasn't proving as effects as he had hoped this time, and though he worked with it best, the athlete was left with little other fighting options - besides those at his belt. No, he had to end this fight now, even if the implication was. He turned back, and stepped up to the edge Dante hung over.

Before he could even dare to kick the man away and into the pit of roiling toxin, however, the shine of gunmetal met Wakka's eyes and they went open wide. The nephilim didn't even crack a one-liner, simply sporting a fittingly demonic grin. The blitzballer let loose some guttural expression of panic, and immediately dived back as Dante pulled the trigger.

A projectile narrowly split through Wakka's hairdo, followed by several oppressive shots that kept the Besaid man scrambling back. Satisfied with the results, Dante planted both arms on the ledge and pulled himself up with a stylish somersault. The fantastic comeback was met with Wakka winding up another throw with the sport ball. Surely, Dante couldn't counter it at this range - but he did, sniping the orb right out of the athlete's grip with a deftly-placed bullet.

The lump in Wakka's throat instantly migrated to his heart. Left toppling on his misplaced center of gravity, he paddled through the air in panic to reclaim his footing- physics soon claimed him, however, and the poor man began to drop. In a final act of desperation, Wakka used what footing he had left and kicked off the surface in a backwards leap of ill faith.

He had just about surrendered to the untimely fate when his back painfully slammed on a cold steel plate, painfully crushing the breath in his chest. Wakka sighed, and he wasn't sure it was for relief. Being alive was nice, but he was also losing, and had most certainly lost his blitzball now. What was he to do? Forcing himself up again, Wakka glanced around on the platform he had landed on: small and circular, but large enough to hold him and- a freaking artillery cannon.

No, this isn't a dependence, the ex-Yevoner insisted for himself, this is emergency. I just need this now; just now-

In other news, Dante found himself just about to plant a foot up his own ass. Albeit inadvertently, he had knocked this otherwise fairly chill guy (from what Dante guessed) into a horrific void of venomous slog- and that wasn't the kind of thing he would wish on most anyone. It occurred to the devil hunter than this whole arena, actually, was supposed to represent the industrial nightmare of Coruscant; but Dante couldn't blame the Empire for this, right here. They didn't make this arena, some madman here did, and with the intent of brutal death.

The devil hunter paced up to the edge where Wakka topped over, and suddenly it was his turn to be caught off-guard. A futuristic weapons battery wasn't exactly was Dante was expecting or looking for, but it was there, and the blitzballer was behind it.

With the shoe most definitely on the other foot now, Dante could only reply, "Touché."

He turned tail, sprinting away from the ensuing giant rays of green-flavored annihilation. Beneath his boots, the iron island was easily razed apart by the onslaught of the Empire's advanced weaponry, and Dante leaped for his life. In the whipping wind came the cry of the bloodthirsty crowd, the scream of the powerful lasers, and the yell of an over-hyped Wakka.

Now this is getting crazy!

Wordcounter.net: 747 words, 4254 characters.

[Red]

May Yevon forgive him, for he had sinned. All of his beliefs denounced Machina use (even his brother died after folding under temptation), but it was necessary.

Wakka took to the turret like a soldier providing retreat fire. He grabbed each handle of the mounted gun, swiveling the gun over to Dante, and pressed his thumbs down on the buttons conveniently placed at the top of each handle. Elongated ovals of green energy shot from the gun’s barrel in rapid succession, pewing as they darted towards the white-haired man.

“AHHH!” Wakka roared as he struggled to guide the gun’s aim. His arms shook with each kickback of the turret.

He finally felt the power of Machina, and it was real. He could hardly maintain his control of the weapon. It shot wildly into the air—the green beams evaporated upon contact with the virtual ceiling—until he coralled it, and brought its focus to where it was intended.

Dante’s eyes shot open. He murmured a word but it came out inaudible to the blitzballer, quelled by the whistling laser rounds and the buzzing vibration of the turret’s handles against Wakka’s closed palms.

Dante got the hell out of dodge. He escaped to a nearby platform—crashing and rolling from one end of it to the other—just before the plasma beams turned his prior one into a rendition of swiss cheese. Bullets followed his evacuation, dotting his crimson coat with cigarette-sized holes as it wrestled with the air. Wakka kept firing away. His entire being rattled with the constant recoil of the turret, but he guided his shots best he could. Soon as Dante made it to his new platform, the blitzballer was already grating the end of it with a sleet of green.

The white-haired man took refuge at another slab of steel, finding one with a shelter constructed on it, and dipping inside of it. The barrage followed, but took a wild turn downward first, sinking shots into the cesspool. Dante made good use of the moment, and whipped out his pistol. He pointed it towards Wakka and snuck out a couple of shots towards him.

The first shot ricocheted off of the face of the turret, and flew off into the distance.

The second shot must have been guided by Luke Skywalker himself; it drove down the barrel of the turret, and lodged into the back of it.

Wake had no time to react. The turret exploded into a spectacle of green and red, and sent him flying. He finally came to a landing, slamming against the surface of another platform, two-handful of yards away. He grimaced, and reached for his side. Broken ribs? Possibly. Definitely felt like something was broken; pain grabbed him under his arm, and squeezed away at his lung.

“Almost had me there,” Wakka heard Dante shouted, a subtle chuckle complimenting it.

That’s what I get for using Machina, the blitzballer thought. He kicked himself for not spotting the karma lurking, and anticipating him around next corner.

He rolled over to his good side, and looked at his chest. The front of his overalls had been singed and blackened. He didn’t dare look at the skin underneath. He could already feel the sting of burned flesh, and imagined it was boiled over, ready to peel.

Then he saw his blitzball—it teetered back and forth like a drunk, on a platform to his right. Fuck weaponry, Wakka was an athlete. Ball was life, and life was ball; he’d either live or die based on his Blitzball skills.

With a ripping groan, Wakka pulled himself up and took a lunge for his ball.

[Simon]

To hell with it, even Dante would admit that was a damn lucky shot- especially so when considering that the devil hunter's paw skill had been dampened by his entrance to the Omniverse. Still, taking the brunt of an explosion like that looked terribly painful to such an otherwise plain individual as Wakka. Dante's pistol arm returned the weapon to its holster, partially contemplating how he was going to win this match without actually killing the guy.

How faithless.

That... it couldn't have been the nephilim's inner voice. Or rather, the voice that actually reflected his being.

What do you mean? I am a perfect reflection of you... boy.

Really not the best time, Dante lamented angrily. Of course, there had to be a reason he was starting to enjoy the Colosseum, a conglomeration of powerful fighters beating each other to a pulp with little restraint. The 'dynamite kid' had synced with the half-devil so well in their determination and imperfections; before Dante now lay just an athlete with his favorite ball. His disposition turned grim, Dante started his next beeline across the platforms to Wakka.

Not gonna kill him, the nephilim chanted the mantra in his mind, more in defiance than reassurance. Exactly how was Dante going to not murder this man when he was halfway there already and still refusing to use nothing more than a sport ball as a weapon?

No, wait, that was a good point. Actually defeating Wakka, have him lose the match by being unable to fight. Then, it was time to prove if the athlete truly poured all his faith into his blitzball...

As Dante rolled the idea over in his brain, the Besaid man painfully staggered onto the platform where his weapon laid. With a heave of his burning muscles, he leaned over to reclaim the ball, turning to face his approaching opponent. With a new note of determination sparking in his voice, Dante taunted, "Still trying to use a ball as a weapon? Dude, you could at least slap some spikes on it."

"It ain't broke, don't fix it, ya?" Wakka retorted, lurching back with his arm ready to catapult the ball into his foe. As the devil hunter made no immediate effort to counter-attack, he seized the moment and hurled the sphere with as much vigor as his battered body could yet summon. Ever the one to shake things things up, Dante received the blow head-on - or chest-on, as it were. He only recoiled back to dampen the shock (so that not all of his own ribs would break), but it was still quite clear the intention: catch the ball.

For a moment, Wakka's eyes widened at the prospect of what might ensure. With Dante's signature grin smacked right back on his face, both fighters squared off as the half-devil began twirling the blitzball in his hands. "Well, if you're so sure..." The cocky fighter mocked, sarcasm gilding his tone, "Let's see you prove it, eh?"

One could practically see the hesitation radiating from Wakka's posture. Any other day, the athlete would gladly accept such a challenge, but within the Colosseum proved neither the best place nor time. Lungs straining against their broken cage, he took a gulp of air and then released it, gritting through the unbearable burning pain in his lower body. Wakka wasn't even sure if he could kick the ball proper with those scorched legs, but the Aurochs would be damned if he didn't try.

"Gimme ya best shot," the blitzballer fought back verbally, determined not to be put down so easy with what was on the line. Compliant to the challenge, Dante let the ball fall into one hand, then flung it into the air. A violent skyward flip followed it, as the nephilim lined up a powerful roundhouse to put the orb Wakka's way.

Now, this might turn out awesome- unless his ball skills, too, were dampened by the Omniverse. Oh well, only one way to find out now.

[Red]

The blitzball struck Dante dead in the chest, but the white-haired man rolled his body right before impact, dampening the blow. He plucked the blitzball from out in front of him as if it were a boggled coconut, and palmed it in one hand.

Wakka’s eyes rounded. “Are you serious?” he muttered, and then groaned.

His lungs had no problem gulping down air, but once they filled to a certain capacity it felt like a pair of pliers pinching at his side; his chest trembled with every breath he drew. Saying it hurt would be an understatement. The pain squeezed him so viciously that the discomfort in his achilles all but evaporated. Same with the hole in his shoulder. He firmly rested his hand over his side, and felt around. A rib was definitely cracked, probably three.

No wonder he caught da ball,” Wakka thought, can’t get no umph behind it.

He slumped his shoulders in defeat; all his opponent had to do was fire off a few more rounds from his pistol (three or four could dig Wakka’s grave). In his current condition—swelling ribs, sizzled chest, injured achilles, punctured shoulder—he was in no condition to continue fighting. And without his ball, he had no means to defend himself. The only option available was to become another spectator in the coliseum, and watch Dante’s next move.

The crowd burst into a roar, and chants of “kill him, hill him!” emitted from various pockets of the area.

Instead, Dante kept his pistol in its holster, and gazed upon the surface of Wakka’s ball. With a wide grin, he twisted it atop his index finger, and watched with mild amusement as the ball rotated perfectly, without teetering.

“Well, if you’re so sure, let’s see ya prove it, eh?” Dante mocked, switching the ball from one hand to the other. It never lost its axis.

He glanced over at Wakka, and then gestured his head towards the blitzball.

The blitzballer gritted his teeth; now he was being toyed with. “Gimme ya best shot,” he retorted.

Dante pulled his hand from under the blitzball and allowed it to fall down to his midsection. With a whip of his hips, the white-haired man spun around and kicked the blitzball back towards Wakka. It was a good kick—solid for an amateur—and cut through the air like a spear.

Wakka had many counters in his toolbox of tricks, but none of them would work in this circumstance; his body was unable to generate enough power for them. He was never a master of the phenomenal, acrobatic shots—that was Tidus’ realm. If only Tidus were here. He could pull of one of those one-legged, spin-around kicks, which would send the blitzball flying.

Hell, not like he had much of a choice. It was either try some one-ina-million trick shot, or get killed by his own weapon. He knew it would hurt like hell, but he gurgled down moan and shifted his weight onto his good foot. The blitzballer jumped, contorting his body as he reached the (cringeworthy) pinnacle of his ascension. His next action was foggy, even to himself. He had watched Tidus perform the maneuver at least twenty times; all the same way, twisting around twice before kicking the ball. Except none of those occasions involved kicking the ball with your plant foot. Wakka had a small conundrum on his hands, for only his unscathed foot could provide enough umph to make it worth the effort. He’d have to one-up Tidus—twist around three times, to give himself enough time to flip his plant leg back out towards the ball.

He twirled around once, and his ribs cried out against his wishes. Wakka clamped his eyes shot, and pushed himself through the pain. Even as tears leaked through his eyelids.

With his eyes shut, he lost his positioning during the second spin. The platform that levitated under him was now behind him, and the only thing keeping him from descending into the pit of chemicals below was his own will to execute the trick shot.

[Simon]

The very time around them seemed to lag in anticipation of the shot Wakka found himself attempting. Viewers drifted to the edge of their seats to get that first glance of the outcome, while Dante found himself staring in wonder at the incredibly wild twist the blitzballer had thrown himself into. He had to admit, even for him, it was pretty cool. Perhaps something he should learn one of these days, Dante figured. If a man could pull it off with a pair of burnt legs, it couldn't be too hard for the nephilim to work out.

That being said, those thoughts were all assuming he would walk out of this alive. Wakka's kick strained through the air, his ankle pushed into the ball, and that ball went flying. The projectile being too fast to dodge, Dante resigned himself to putting up his dukes and bracing for the impact.

Nope, still didn't have Royalguard.

Wakka's marvelous, impossible kick defied the expectations and smashed into the devil hunter relentlessly. The very form of the blue-and-white orb seemed to distort before the force transmitted into Dante. He was sent recoiling right out of his guarded stance with a garbled cry of distress. As the nephilim tumbled back off the steel platform, the blitzballer who made the shot only had the briefest moment to witness and revel in his victorious effort. Then, his hang-time expired, and he too dropped like a stone into the murky pits below.

A pair of falling yells echoed from their section of the massive Colosseum, and all those who witnessed their fight were suddenly left stunned with conflicting emotions. The athlete called Wakka had made the shot, and in his final effort had also fallen. The stylish warrior who named himself Tony Redgrave had dominated the fight, and yet found himself defeated by his own hubris. Where bloodlust had thrived, disappointment now rocked the crowd.

Until Dante managed to regain his senses, and found that he was not falling into the abyss. Instead, the red-coat had been saved literally by own red coat, which had snagged onto an errant hook dangling off the platform. Recovering his composition, the half-devil glanced once again into the miasma of toxicity, and it stare right back into him, the haunting howl of Wakka's fall echoing in his brain.

Could a man survive a fall like that? It was hard to say. In the Omniverse, it seemed entirely possible - but then, what of the sinister chemicals that permeated the air? The athlete would be alive, yes, but left crippled and choking on pestilent gases until he was retrieved, if ever.

In those moment, Dante knew he was alive, but he was uncertain if he was truly living. For that matter, he wondered if he had actually really 'won' this battle at all.

You are alive. Is that not a victory? Do you not get to fight another battle?

Oh, shut up.

Groaning in exasperation (and strain of his aching muscles), Dante awkwardly reached up with one arm to grip the hook the hung from, and began to pull himself up. As his other hand pierced through the horizon of floating iron plates, the audience suddenly erupted into roars and applause, serving to indicate that yes, Dante had won this round. The nephilim heaved and flopped onto the platform, and groaned again.

Oh, don't tell me you're not enjoying this.

Shut. Up.

What if his next opponent was just pure evil, or something? Dante considered this hopeful idea as he finally picked himself up to haul his sorry ass back to the gate he emerged from. If he just fought someone with no redemption whatsoever, then perhaps he would have to feel remorse over killing them. It wouldn't make the two-sided half-devil feel particularly better, but at least he wouldn't have to feel so bad.

Wakka is still alive, but just unconscious/disabled at the bottom.