03-19-2017, 06:59 PM
The next minute passed by in a blur more intense than the last minute. More laser bolts screamed past the devil hunter's head, the rays of heat threatening to paint scorching lines across his features. Enough of this bullshit, Dante swore. This operation desperately needed a thrashing, and the son of Sparda would have to provide it full-force.
Dante ducked under another shot and somersaulted into the air, rolling out a steel-clad heel kick. The unfortunate darkling caught under it felt his skull give way for only a moment, before his helmet caved in under the assault. Obsidian flinched away as the kick followed through, legs buckling and body doubling over from the force.
He didn't even realize Dante sheathed his sword during the jump until his empty fist plunged into his face a moment later. The impact popped open the commander's jaw and rapped against his windpipe, killing his next order before it could come out.
Shifting his boot leftward, the devil hunter threw a flying roundhouse towards the synth holding up Rod. A desperate attempt to shrug away from the attack only produced a sickly snap from the metal grave crushing his shoulder. Dante's foot barreled the two injured Darklings over each other, reducing them to a heap on the battle-torn floor.
That left the Romulan, leaning gravely on the side of the totaled van, the crooked and holey steel pressed against his back. Dante hunched down, winding up a punch- expanding a pile bunker from his glove and igniting a pair of thrusters. The soldier Darkling fought a small battle to raise his weapon, against the protestations of his burning chest. In the moment he could nearly taste victory, the Romulan had it robbed by the blazing fist of Gilgamesh, his molten wound tenderized and then impaled by the pneumatic spike.
The Darkling cringed, his lungs filling with tainted blood. The pain he felt was a mere pittance, but the raw damage rippling through his torso spoke volumes of his condition. Dante looked up, and found himself just in time to receive a spit of fluids hacked forth from the alien's sputtering throat. His ensuing sneer could not properly express his inner disgust.
Obsidian flipped a switch, sending voltage flowing through his electric baton. His attempt at a battle cry only generated a throaty rasp, but it did not deter him from his attack. A wild swing met Dante's arm just too late to deflect it, sending a lethal shock though his body and into the Romulan's as well. The son of Sparda yanked himself away, shaking off the tremors rocking his nerves. As that near-dead alien slumped to the ground in defeat, Dante ruminated for only a moment if such a shock might've fibrillated him.
Another swing from the commander attempted to connect with Dante, but the devil hunter proved himself too deft for such wide strikes. He ducked under one, dodged aside another, and then thrust his head forward, flattening Obsidian's nose against his own forehead. The effort didn't do much in the way of damage, but it was debilitating enough to send the man reeling for a moment. That would be all the time Dante needed to draw Rebellion and rake it down the Darkling's ribs in a single motion.
So he did, to the tune of shredding mesh and crackling bone. Obsidian could only cough forth a muted cry of anguish in response. While he attempted to hold his ground, Rod and the Synth both propped themselves upright and readied their blasters again.
Dante already had his counter-attack planned: with both hands on Rebellion, holding the hilt high and the blade forward. With a swift heave of the arms, the half-devil's blade spun from his toss wildly. The plan worked- the Darklings flinched from the sight of the flying blade, relaxing for a mere moment when it seemed to go wide to their left. That was the moment where Rebellion changed its path, sweeping back into the pair as their eyes followed in renewed horror. All the flesh, bone, and military-grade hardware did little to stop the runaway propeller of a demon sword, dark blood spilling from the deep wounds drawn across their necks.
Obsidian, fancying his luck, took note of the onslaught and attempted a combat roll under the approaching blade. Despite the crushing objections of his crippled chest, the corrupted commander's clumsy flop of a dodge managed to duck under the spiraling weapon.
His simple victory would be short-lived. The Darkling picked himself up, winding another swing with his electrified baton. Dante remained steadfast, his link with Rebellion drawing the demon sword back towards him. The business end crashed right through Obsidian's back, spearing through the read side of his ribs and punching through the wound carved on his chest. He hesitated, stumbled forward, and landed right in Dante's vengeful grip.
The Gilgamesh gauntlets curled their fingers into a fist, creaking with pressure. Holding the Darkling by the neck, Dante punched him in the head.
The first strike cracked the skull under his knuckles. Each faint spike adorning the joints of Dante's demonic gauntlets created a new wound in the man's head, with vicarious dark nectar flowing from them. The devil hunter scowled.
The second strike struck the same place, creating an audible crunch under the offending fist. The Darkling's bodily functions shut down, his eyes glazing over and his weak body finally giving out. Only Dante's angry grip on his windpipe kept the corrupted man upright.
The third strike came astray of the cave-in of the skull, instead raking across the dead face. As if Obsidian's featured were not scarred enough already. As if he would care, at this point.
The fourth strike made a compromise, crushing the right side of the man's face firmly under the wrathful punch.
The fifth punch followed suit, ramming straight into the flow of pummeled flesh and fragmented bone.
The sixth punch got a speck of blood in Dante's eye, and he flinched.
The son of Sparda could feel the furious expression he was wearing. His frown stretched his face to the limit, his mouth hung heavy, his breathing more ragged. Had he been yelling? Dante went to wipe off his eye, and nearly got himself a whole eyeful of blood from his gauntlets. He recoiled, the sudden stench invading his nostrils and sending a shiver through his upper body. What was he even doing? What kind of problem would beating a dead horse solve?
Why do you care? It's what they rightfully deserve.
Right. This again.
His eye still stung, but the ghostly glow had now faded from it. Dante let the mangled corpse of what was once a commander drop from his hand. Obsidian fell to his knees, then flopped forward onto the devil hunter's boots, painting them with flashes of gore and impure body fluids. The landing rung in Dante's ears a moment, above the dull roar of several blasters embedded in his hearing. He waited for silence, even an eerie one, but it never came.
There was a creaking somewhere. The source happened to be the remains of a broken ceiling fan, swinging by a single thread left. Dante regulated his breathing again, tried to calm himself. Yes, indeed, this battle had been quite the ordeal, and a detriment towards everything he had been working towards. Such a conflict never would have stopped him before, though.
Dante raised his gloved hand again. The hell-steel that composed Gilgamesh had already soaked up the blood marring it previously, the trace iron deposits spent refacing the weapon. He wiped at his eye with the bade of his thumb, alleviating the sting somewhat after a few strokes. The son of Sparda sighed as he removed his hand, placing it on the upright hilt of Rebellion.
With a single firm yank, Dante wrenched the sword free from its dead pedestal. He looked around, propping the sword on his shoulder. Death was the most pervasive smell now, beating out the must of the old shop. What shocked Dante, however, was the unnatural nature of the smell. Ever since they had entered the plce, each of the soldiers carried with them some foreign stench- the scent of some foul evil, if the hunter had to venture a guess. It was a shame they had to die, surely, but if they held the fresh drops of some new dark force, then there could be little other fate for them.
Dante's thoughts turned back to the beginning of the battle: his visit from three missionary robots. They made an offer, and he had refused. And of course, like any violence conflict started in his office, it ended in total destruction. What had they said, again-?
A groan pierced Dante's recollections, and he looked up from from where he brooded. Pushing away broken timbers and stepping over murdered aliens, the leader of the Heel Navis lurched forward. His torn-open chest sparked and crackled with electronic pain, the motors in his body creaking and moaning with every shift and step. One robotic hand was outstretched, dripping black fluid from the fingertips.
"Y-You are m-m-arked. You cannnnot-ot-ot hide. We-we will... de-sssssstroy. F-for-or... nnn-Nebulaaaa..."
Grateful for the message of what he would be up against, Dante plunged his sword into the robot's head. The steel folded under Rebellion's overhead slash, sending the machine alight with static and sparks. His functions gave out, and he collapsed in a heap of scrap on the ground.
Now, that- that actually felt satisfying. Sheathing the blade behind his back, Dante managed another smirk as he turned and walked out of the gaping doorway of his ruined shop.
Dante ducked under another shot and somersaulted into the air, rolling out a steel-clad heel kick. The unfortunate darkling caught under it felt his skull give way for only a moment, before his helmet caved in under the assault. Obsidian flinched away as the kick followed through, legs buckling and body doubling over from the force.
He didn't even realize Dante sheathed his sword during the jump until his empty fist plunged into his face a moment later. The impact popped open the commander's jaw and rapped against his windpipe, killing his next order before it could come out.
Shifting his boot leftward, the devil hunter threw a flying roundhouse towards the synth holding up Rod. A desperate attempt to shrug away from the attack only produced a sickly snap from the metal grave crushing his shoulder. Dante's foot barreled the two injured Darklings over each other, reducing them to a heap on the battle-torn floor.
That left the Romulan, leaning gravely on the side of the totaled van, the crooked and holey steel pressed against his back. Dante hunched down, winding up a punch- expanding a pile bunker from his glove and igniting a pair of thrusters. The soldier Darkling fought a small battle to raise his weapon, against the protestations of his burning chest. In the moment he could nearly taste victory, the Romulan had it robbed by the blazing fist of Gilgamesh, his molten wound tenderized and then impaled by the pneumatic spike.
The Darkling cringed, his lungs filling with tainted blood. The pain he felt was a mere pittance, but the raw damage rippling through his torso spoke volumes of his condition. Dante looked up, and found himself just in time to receive a spit of fluids hacked forth from the alien's sputtering throat. His ensuing sneer could not properly express his inner disgust.
Obsidian flipped a switch, sending voltage flowing through his electric baton. His attempt at a battle cry only generated a throaty rasp, but it did not deter him from his attack. A wild swing met Dante's arm just too late to deflect it, sending a lethal shock though his body and into the Romulan's as well. The son of Sparda yanked himself away, shaking off the tremors rocking his nerves. As that near-dead alien slumped to the ground in defeat, Dante ruminated for only a moment if such a shock might've fibrillated him.
Another swing from the commander attempted to connect with Dante, but the devil hunter proved himself too deft for such wide strikes. He ducked under one, dodged aside another, and then thrust his head forward, flattening Obsidian's nose against his own forehead. The effort didn't do much in the way of damage, but it was debilitating enough to send the man reeling for a moment. That would be all the time Dante needed to draw Rebellion and rake it down the Darkling's ribs in a single motion.
So he did, to the tune of shredding mesh and crackling bone. Obsidian could only cough forth a muted cry of anguish in response. While he attempted to hold his ground, Rod and the Synth both propped themselves upright and readied their blasters again.
Dante already had his counter-attack planned: with both hands on Rebellion, holding the hilt high and the blade forward. With a swift heave of the arms, the half-devil's blade spun from his toss wildly. The plan worked- the Darklings flinched from the sight of the flying blade, relaxing for a mere moment when it seemed to go wide to their left. That was the moment where Rebellion changed its path, sweeping back into the pair as their eyes followed in renewed horror. All the flesh, bone, and military-grade hardware did little to stop the runaway propeller of a demon sword, dark blood spilling from the deep wounds drawn across their necks.
Obsidian, fancying his luck, took note of the onslaught and attempted a combat roll under the approaching blade. Despite the crushing objections of his crippled chest, the corrupted commander's clumsy flop of a dodge managed to duck under the spiraling weapon.
His simple victory would be short-lived. The Darkling picked himself up, winding another swing with his electrified baton. Dante remained steadfast, his link with Rebellion drawing the demon sword back towards him. The business end crashed right through Obsidian's back, spearing through the read side of his ribs and punching through the wound carved on his chest. He hesitated, stumbled forward, and landed right in Dante's vengeful grip.
The Gilgamesh gauntlets curled their fingers into a fist, creaking with pressure. Holding the Darkling by the neck, Dante punched him in the head.
The first strike cracked the skull under his knuckles. Each faint spike adorning the joints of Dante's demonic gauntlets created a new wound in the man's head, with vicarious dark nectar flowing from them. The devil hunter scowled.
The second strike struck the same place, creating an audible crunch under the offending fist. The Darkling's bodily functions shut down, his eyes glazing over and his weak body finally giving out. Only Dante's angry grip on his windpipe kept the corrupted man upright.
The third strike came astray of the cave-in of the skull, instead raking across the dead face. As if Obsidian's featured were not scarred enough already. As if he would care, at this point.
The fourth strike made a compromise, crushing the right side of the man's face firmly under the wrathful punch.
The fifth punch followed suit, ramming straight into the flow of pummeled flesh and fragmented bone.
The sixth punch got a speck of blood in Dante's eye, and he flinched.
The son of Sparda could feel the furious expression he was wearing. His frown stretched his face to the limit, his mouth hung heavy, his breathing more ragged. Had he been yelling? Dante went to wipe off his eye, and nearly got himself a whole eyeful of blood from his gauntlets. He recoiled, the sudden stench invading his nostrils and sending a shiver through his upper body. What was he even doing? What kind of problem would beating a dead horse solve?
Why do you care? It's what they rightfully deserve.
Right. This again.
His eye still stung, but the ghostly glow had now faded from it. Dante let the mangled corpse of what was once a commander drop from his hand. Obsidian fell to his knees, then flopped forward onto the devil hunter's boots, painting them with flashes of gore and impure body fluids. The landing rung in Dante's ears a moment, above the dull roar of several blasters embedded in his hearing. He waited for silence, even an eerie one, but it never came.
There was a creaking somewhere. The source happened to be the remains of a broken ceiling fan, swinging by a single thread left. Dante regulated his breathing again, tried to calm himself. Yes, indeed, this battle had been quite the ordeal, and a detriment towards everything he had been working towards. Such a conflict never would have stopped him before, though.
Dante raised his gloved hand again. The hell-steel that composed Gilgamesh had already soaked up the blood marring it previously, the trace iron deposits spent refacing the weapon. He wiped at his eye with the bade of his thumb, alleviating the sting somewhat after a few strokes. The son of Sparda sighed as he removed his hand, placing it on the upright hilt of Rebellion.
With a single firm yank, Dante wrenched the sword free from its dead pedestal. He looked around, propping the sword on his shoulder. Death was the most pervasive smell now, beating out the must of the old shop. What shocked Dante, however, was the unnatural nature of the smell. Ever since they had entered the plce, each of the soldiers carried with them some foreign stench- the scent of some foul evil, if the hunter had to venture a guess. It was a shame they had to die, surely, but if they held the fresh drops of some new dark force, then there could be little other fate for them.
Dante's thoughts turned back to the beginning of the battle: his visit from three missionary robots. They made an offer, and he had refused. And of course, like any violence conflict started in his office, it ended in total destruction. What had they said, again-?
A groan pierced Dante's recollections, and he looked up from from where he brooded. Pushing away broken timbers and stepping over murdered aliens, the leader of the Heel Navis lurched forward. His torn-open chest sparked and crackled with electronic pain, the motors in his body creaking and moaning with every shift and step. One robotic hand was outstretched, dripping black fluid from the fingertips.
"Y-You are m-m-arked. You cannnnot-ot-ot hide. We-we will... de-sssssstroy. F-for-or... nnn-Nebulaaaa..."
Grateful for the message of what he would be up against, Dante plunged his sword into the robot's head. The steel folded under Rebellion's overhead slash, sending the machine alight with static and sparks. His functions gave out, and he collapsed in a heap of scrap on the ground.
Now, that- that actually felt satisfying. Sheathing the blade behind his back, Dante managed another smirk as he turned and walked out of the gaping doorway of his ruined shop.