Warsman vs Fluffy Lockhart

Somehow, the days seemed shorter.

He sat among the corpses on the eighth floor, letting the all-too-familiar stench of blood drill into his nostrils and the buzzing of the countless flies ruin his perception of reality. They were in sync; nothing could stop their rhythm. It was how he felt when he murdered. The room was black, dark from the night outside and from the lack of power within. To exact his gruesome crime, electrical devices needed to be made useless; the air made cold; the reserve power removed, effectively taking away any chance of doctoring the fatal wound that would cause the downfall of some poor unfortunate sacks of meat.

Warsman tasted iron in his mouth and thought: "The police aren't going to be here for another few hours." Such was the desperate isolation of the compound that the nearest source of police or security were supplied by an underground warehouse of weapons and training rooms, all of which were caked with gore and the result of what Warsman had in mind to do. He deliberately let a survivor roam free, his clothes soaked in blood, to warn any others in the area. He wanted a fair fight. However, that was three hours ago.

Benches thrown awry in the struggle, chairs flipped over and the subsequent tables shattered, walls dented, floors cracked, lamps overturned and the shades thereof stained with blood, this was the setting and one actor was already in place. He was merely waiting for another to surface. In that patience, he stared at the remains of a window where he had tossed a few of the so-called "guards" out of; it was made into a grotesque hole of sharpened and reddened cutting tools, the last memories of the previous beauty of the glass perhaps being the cries of terror from men whose sole fear was death. Yet, they gave death to many people before. Warsman took a standing position and descended the staircase into the living quarters on the fifth level, finding the piano still intact even though he had broken a man's skull upon it. Sweeping the body aside, he took a seat and began to play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata on the crimson-stained keys, humming the notes he simultaneously played out.

The city lights were a kaleidoscope of colors, bright and eventful, obscuring the night sky. Even still, red eyes, dark and intelligent watched the trillions of stars that twinkled, as all demons eyes are cursed with. The luminescent night sky hangs above the fortius world, overlooked by the silver moon like silent guardian. Prying away from such scenery, his flawless strides through the city seemed to help him focus, reminiscing about the past, the present and for what’s to come within his cursed existence. A 12 miles walk, his red eyes fixated on a certain building.

It would be pitch black if a normal human entered. Darkness, the smell of blood and gore seemed to penetrate the air and his nostrils flared in annoyance. Whistling to keep the boredom off his mind, he roamed around the building, finding dead bodies and no survivors. One strange smell in particular caused him a pause. As he walked towards the nearest steps, he followed the smell that led him to the fifth floor. Hearing the music, he followed the sounds of the beautifully played song instead. Stopping by the archway of the door, he took in everything of this particular human…if he was a human. From the calamity that appeared within this building, he was certainly no human. This man was at home in violence. A dangerous foe. Far more dangerous then he might have faced before.

All that never applied to Fluffy as he took out a cigarette and ignited his lighter. Inhaling deeply, he clapped for the wonderfully played music. “Nice! I wish I played like that.” He replied, his mouth curled into a grin.

Aha…not really good with playing instruments.” Fluffy stated, as if he was talking to an old time friend. He leaned against the side of the door, crossing his legs and arms. The grin was still in place and watched the being before him with mild interest. “Soo…what the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

Amid the notes, the frothing of bloody foam from the nearby body, and his own muttering, it was difficult to decipher the footsteps of another adversary. He twisted and turned to the rhythm, becoming a marred version of the deceased genius he was impersonating. However, an incessant clapping broke his concentration; he knew it to be the second actor of the sick little play he had put together, the protagonist to his antagonism, the returning Caesar of Rome to his mad and tyrannical Caligula. He calmed himself, straightening his posture upon the bench, and silently turned his face to this new attraction.

The man, almost too lean to be called such, was not even tall enough to reach Warsman's chest if the latter stood to meet him. He was pale white all over; hair, nails, teeth, and skin. However, this pattern was broken whence one looked into his eyes, for they were red. Not only red, though, a certain shade of the color that Warsman knew well and could never forget; it was the shade of blood, swirling, massing around every corner, circling the opposite end of the pupil until they drained into the black iris. It wasn't necessarily mesmerizing, but it provided Warsman an ample reason to raise his eyebrow intuitively and ask:

"Who are you and why did you interrupt me?"

The question was ignored and the opposing piece of flesh possessed the audacity to continue their conversation with another question to replaced the aristocrat's.

"Soo...what the hell are you doing here, anyway?"

Warsman scoffed his opponent's ideas of peaceful interrogation and stood at his full height, drawing ever muscle to show themselves in full and unrestrained intimidation. In his mind, this question was as good as an insult.

"My business is done with. You have no reason to ask me otherwise."

Laughter rang out with clarity, loud and filled with nothing but amusement. The cigarette fell to the floor, not at all noticed by Fluffy. His grin ever so present when the laughter died, leaving an echo behind. It has been a long time since he met a being like this one. So strong. Powerful indeed. Far stronger then himself. Breathing out, and he sighed lightly. This being stood majestically, dark and foreboding, causing a presence that shows something larger then life. An illusion of fear, the thought came across his mind.
Suddenly, he bent down and looked to the floor where the cigarette was and eyed it closely, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. The smoke still alive and dissipated into the air. He mummered incoherent words, eyes wide and focused.

Slowly standing back up, he leaned back and eyed the monstrous figure before him. "The name's Fluffy, big guy!" Fluffy stated, grinning like this was the most wondrous thing he has ever seen. "And...i err...am sorry about the whole interrupting you thing. I couldn't help it. You played good. You should really try out for the orchestra. I'm sure the old pretzels there would love to have a big guy like you're self around." He carried on his conversation as if the black figure isn't going to smash his face through the wall any second. Crossing his arms, Fluffy leaned in a little and said, "You might want to change the outfit through. Seems a little cliche. Sides' it's a little emo."

His hands went for something inside his back pouch, "Ah well. It's okay. I'm just here...for you're head. Catch!" Fluffy tossed a small pebble to the man before him. Even before the  pebble left his hand, his feet carried him far away from the scene, laughing all the while. Already, he jumped out the window across the hall and out the building just as the explosion took effect.

The entire fifth floor was gone and the entire building, still standing looked like it was ready to fall apart if another explosion such as the last could occur. He landed on top of snow, without sound nor footprint to show. Looking back at the site, he wondered if the hit had been this easy.
 

Laughter: it was everywhere. The man was supernatural, Warsman was unnatural. It was a perfect match-up for the perfection in destruction and the opposing principle of building, construction, life. Everything natural was to be destroyed in their battle; it was required for the play to reach the end, the climax, falling action, and resolution. It was needed. It was law.

"It is a sin to disobey law!"

Warsman reached out for the pebble, considering it to be useless in terms of attack, and he meant to fling it elsewhere. Oh, sweet temptresses of fate, how could you be so evil to a man without anything to live for? Warsman was lost to a cloud of fire and his sight faded into a descending elevator to Hell. It was memorizing and terrifying; terror, it was a new concept to the killing machine.

The man was annoying. He never stopped laughing, even after the explosion. His speech was tied to and was consumed by an invisible humor. Warsman contemplated what he needed to do amid the smoking embers, his body hardly even scratched beyond a horrible burn on his hand. He needed to approach this man with caution; the explosion was to be lethal if Warsman was completely unarmored; exposed. His psychosis was to wait. He leaped from the building's remains, which stunk like a burning graveyard, and he landed in front of his retreating opponent.

"Going somewhere?"

He lashed out with a quick jab, having the impact reinforced with a fierce and burning energy from his knuckles. It sparked this way and that, leaping like tongues of flame as he closed in on his foe's face.

The thought process never stopped; constantly thinking of what could happen, how its body could die. Warsman looked upon the barrel of the gun without much interest. It was metal. It could be destroyed. It was meant to be destroyed. Warsman's eyes flickered with the same destructive force his fist had blazed with earlier, unleashing a pair of beams from either pupil into the weapon that faced him. The bullets would be destroyed before they even left the release mechanism, such was the madman's aim. They would destroy the gun, make it useless, or make the user's hand useless from the intense heat and burns.

He would tilt his head slightly if this action worked, cover his upper body with his arms if it failed. Either way, there was always an option; there was always something to do. To lose against this clown, jester, fool, idiot, b*st*rd, S.O.B., was not part of that option. It was annoying, the laughter. The smile. The swirling red eyes. The confidence. He had everything that Warsman did not. Warsman only fought to kill, to feel pain, and to live off that pain. It was fuel; this person didn't seem to have a fuel, just confidence. Warsman would violently jerk his neck in the opposite direction, popping it and sighing.

"Come on. Hit me. I'll give you one chance. You have three seconds."

He would immediately count down in his mind; 3...; if the man attacked, there would be another searing energy attack waiting for him; 2...; if he waited, Warsman would lash out again with a second physical strike, one that would break bones, tear skin, anything to make this opponent bleed; 1...; the last frames of existing thought passed. It was similar to watching a movie in which two people try to kill each other for no reason. There was a reason. This wasn't a movie, and Warsman had been insulted. He lashed out with the physical embodiment of a thunderbolt, his improvised Muay Thai stance hurriedly produced, and both sets of limbs set on fire to strike.

The entire world felt it was moving in slow motion. The feeling of his heart beat, ever so slow intensified. One wonders how a vampire's heart still beats. That was nothing more then just a myth. Fluffy was the kind of vampire that had a soul. Having a soul means the blood flows, the heart beating like a jack hammer that reverberated through out his entire body. His instincts working overdrive, causing his grin to go wild in the ever present danger. Within the slow motion world, he eyed the beam, deadly and powerful being unleashed from his eyes. The gun, overstretched far away from his was engulfed right in front of the monsters eyes faster then even he could move away his hand and leave the gun to be destroyed.

Some of his fingers felt the blast from the beam, easily destroying it. Even the blood was consumed as it spilled. The missing fingers never crossed his mind as he being turned his eyes, his blast on his entire upper body from waist up. The flexibility of this vampire was incredible as he dropped to the floor with knees outstretched to the point where his face was almost touching the floor, completely dodging the beam. However even before the idiotic being let the beam drop, even before the man spoke, Fluffy lashed out with incredible force for an upper cut. His palm outstretched and aiming for his chin with enough velocity to possibly even break his jaw. However, what Fluffy didn't count on was that he "had" absorbed some of the blasts energy when his fingers got obliterated. Granted, it wasn't enough to stop the blast and re-direct it away from him since the power was too much but he instinctively absorbed some of it keep the energy and re-direct it through the fist. It was so strong however that the fist flew left a trailing shock wave through the air.

"I don't need 3 seconds" Fluffy stated, grinning.

His hands still aflame, Warsman's palm crunched against the brutality of the incoming attack. He was mesmerized by the ensuing colors, but focused again on his foe and stared into the pits of red leading into an abyss; it was cold, unearthly, and above-all disturbing. The color scheme broke Warsman's concentration for a split second and he was struck with an invisible force, which knocked him back several yards; ample distance for preparation room in the next series of attacks. The two energies below his line of sight compiled into a single entity and erupted, causing the killing machine's armor encompassing his left hand to crumple and break, reeking of burning flesh and hair. His under-body swirled into view and his former guantlet lay in pieces around him. He gazed at his crimson hand, which twisted and twirled in a neverending pattern of grotesque beauty. He fashioned a blade in his mind and it became such; a mace, and it was so in physical form in front of his eyes.

He breathed and the stink of burning flesh was sweet to him, even sweeter knowing that it was his own. Sighing with a minor quake of ecstasy, he eyed his opponent carefully, becoming himself defensive if necessary.

"He's not human...a shame to kill such a thing, that isn't what God planned within Adam..."

Smoke still rising from the ashen pieces of useless metal, Warsman looked ahead at his foe. He was looking at an impulsive being, someone who didn't realize the extent of the sh*t he was in. Warsman popped his neck and held his exposed hand forward. In that process of thought, he conjured a great hammer with spike opposing the smashing head.

Yelling an instinctive war cry, brought from the annals of Europe-born North America, honed in bloody Russia. Leaping after a bolting run, he aimed his hulking form at his foe, bringing the smashing surface down and swiping to the left with the spike. Quickly changing it to a blade, he attempted to stab, slice, gouge, really anything to hit the smaller fighter.

The atmosphere was burning up. The blood within his veins was boiling and he could feel every fiber of his being, every muscle within his body tensing up in anticipation. "Play time's over," he whispered. Things are starting to turn up a notch. This is more then just a battle for him. For them. It was turning into a bloody carnage that would scar the soul and render the loser humiliated. The black being before him started aflame and Fluffy forced himself to relax. His confident grin was still there. Muscle relaxed, he brought his heart back to normal speed and formed a stance. Fluffy positioned himself with left foot forward a step, right foot bent and the balls of his feet on a position as if he was ready to run. 

Lockhart took note of the being before him for a second, trying to pull everything into an image to decipher this being. This very being existed for destruction and devastation. The very black dot that consumes the whiteness around it. The very dot that could consume Lockhart. His smile slipped for a second and he thought about the destroyed gun. His favorite gun...mind goes blank. He could feel himself falling within the abyss of his own mind. Suddenly, he was dancing in a ballet recidal...ta te ta de da. Then an invisible blow stuck him, as if some invisible force uppercut him forcing Lockhart to look up into the sky. Eyes wide suddenly, he looked back to the being before him, still feet away with a weapon on his hand. Lockhart didn't notice the weapon, only the being.

He roared, fangs sharp and eyes focused and ran with speeds unlike he has never shown before. It was a day of reckoning as two warriors took off with a battle cries that promises far more then anyone....anything can contemplate. Lockhart reached this force of unnatural nature before the other did. And just as the hammer turned blade came at him with a full swing, he slipped under, using the concrete to slide with his back to the floor. His other gun honed in on the creatures groin just as he slid across the floor near his feet and bled bullets. Lockhart's subconscious mind wondered if this force of nature even has a "thing". And if he did, wonder if he is wearing armor down there?

As he passed him, Lockhart was up within a microsecond and unloaded more bullets into the creature back while backing away. "Come on! You can do better then that!" He knows he cannot compete him a straight out fist on fist. Which is why Lockhart has to compensate for that by being as tricky as possible. He is also faster, which gives him an advantage. "Oh and by the way, stop going easy on me." Lockhart yelled, still raining hundreds of bullets to his opponent.   

The creature was fast. That's what he was; a creature, beast, animal. He was no longer human. The exchange of battle cries confirmed this. Warsman was evaded, ignored, and thrust into a situation he never thought possible with any notion of honor under a human's skin. However, this thing was less than human. He was more than a mindless and wretched dog, downtrodden in the mud though. And this disturbed the killing machine.

Almost instantly, pain shot out from his groin and the mighty Russian crumpled and his hand bubbled and frothed with unconscious agony. However, his ravenous flesh dissolved the metal, devouring it whole. It became apparent his armor, his shell, was increasingly worthless against such an unpredictable foe. He himself needed to become unhinged, wild. His mind slowly broke the fabric of bondage. His vision was fading, his breathing heavier and louder.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!"

Suddenly, the scream of a bolt of lightning shattered the seemingly dead man. His body slithered from the imperfections of its shell and became hideous, red, humanoid and mocking God in His complexion of man and woman; what the deity had planned for humanity was insulted in this creature of watery flesh and congealed blood. It was horrid as he walked and danced and laughed, almost saying to his surroundings: "Here I am, and what are you going to do about it?!"

In fact, he nearly cackled these words in the demonic voice ensuing from his throat. Jets of crimson liquid frothed and streamed from his body like clockwork, like his physical form wasn't enough to hold back the pure derangement inside. It was like he had no skin at all. This monster, calling himself Warsman, leaped and glided across the ground, keeping low like a house cat and timidly racing around his foe with vicious intent, nipping up and hissing at his face and cackling, mocking every move he made. This fight was a joke now, a sick and twisted game Warsman would exploit for his amusement. His opponent had become a piece in that game.

There it is. Lockhart's grin became wild, eyes set on winning this through no matter what the cost. It was his cost he was willing to take. It was a bet he stacked up willingly to the highest bidder. Now it's time to finish this. He wilfully brought out this creature through anger and pain and he is going to end this miserable creature's existence. Erase it from the face of the universe and revile it on its end. Putting his gun away, he took out a three parts of metal that seemed far too sleek. They were hidden behind his protective gear to ensure the safety no matter what the situation calls for it. Each part was a in pieces to form a whole of three. Half a meter in length from each peace, Lockhart stacked them together, locking one another with invisible electricity that seemed to stick. together they formed a weapon of sorts that was almost two meters in length.

The weapon, a gun of sorts that seemed far too different and altogether more dangerous then one can comprehend. Lockhart called it "Black" for various reasons. He honed in on the monster before him. Lockhart eyed it, the creature and suddenly felt a chill unlike anything he has felt before. Its body was like the haunted nightmares of worst possible imagination, eyes as dark and felt like it belonged to the abyss itself. Lockhart shuddered. His heart intensified and locked on to the creature with his eyes, aiming. This weapon, he held is special. A one of it's kind rarity.

Lockhart felt a grin forming. This was it. The end of this fight is drawing near. Stages set, queens at ready and faced one another with rigorous vigour. He pulled the trigger. He felt a backlash, a force so strong it whipped cars behind him like toys. The building they met crumbled like a deck of cards and the very air shuddered. The weapon formed a miniscule black hole for just a second by ultra compressing the very space with very powerful psychokinetic. The weapon compressed the power itself to a minuscule, small sphere of white and gold the size of a bullet the microsecond a very powerful nova explosion occurred. It released, moving faster then the speed of light towards the monster, leaving destruction upon its wake.