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Faustite set his glass down on his desk, and the loud thock of it nearly had him flinch. If he blinked too quickly, moved his head too fast, the world tilted for the barest of seconds. He could press his lips together and taste the remnants of saccharine peppermint on them if he ran his tongue across. but he thought he'd stopped at a good time.
Holding his hands out before him, they remained solid and unwavering. He raised his right straight above his head, his fingers coiling around into an o shape, and in the moments thereafter, his shotel appeared like a warning on high. There it waited, heavy in his hand, until it disappeared again. That was enough, Faustite decided.
No — that was perfect. That was exactly where he needed to be.
Beckoning to the empty space before him, Faustite summoned the incorrigible Headache into his office. The collection of fireflies buzzed in consternation before before reforming in Faustite's perfect visage, whereupon it sat with crossed legs upon the edge of Faustite's grandiose glass table. And while it watched Faustite expectantly for answers, the General-Sovereign responded in kind by signing a set of instructions to the amorphous creature. Once he was satisfied that Headache understood both the literal instructions and the intent behind them, Faustite waved it off once more. This time, Headache exited by way of the office door.
Its mission was simple: go to Borax's office and invite the boy to a fight. General versus General. No starseeding or teleporting allowed. But anything else? Free game.
He fully expected he would win. So he bid Headache off with a wave of his hand, with the message that the interested party should meet him in an open clearing in the Sunken City, and then Faustite himself was off in but a fragment of a fragment of a thought.
Holding his hands out before him, they remained solid and unwavering. He raised his right straight above his head, his fingers coiling around into an o shape, and in the moments thereafter, his shotel appeared like a warning on high. There it waited, heavy in his hand, until it disappeared again. That was enough, Faustite decided.
No — that was perfect. That was exactly where he needed to be.
Beckoning to the empty space before him, Faustite summoned the incorrigible Headache into his office. The collection of fireflies buzzed in consternation before before reforming in Faustite's perfect visage, whereupon it sat with crossed legs upon the edge of Faustite's grandiose glass table. And while it watched Faustite expectantly for answers, the General-Sovereign responded in kind by signing a set of instructions to the amorphous creature. Once he was satisfied that Headache understood both the literal instructions and the intent behind them, Faustite waved it off once more. This time, Headache exited by way of the office door.
Its mission was simple: go to Borax's office and invite the boy to a fight. General versus General. No starseeding or teleporting allowed. But anything else? Free game.
He fully expected he would win. So he bid Headache off with a wave of his hand, with the message that the interested party should meet him in an open clearing in the Sunken City, and then Faustite himself was off in but a fragment of a fragment of a thought.
Borax, for his part, was busy enjoying the spoils of his relatively recent promotion. That was, he had a bigger office now, and it didn't take long for him to desire to populate it. While it didn't look as grandiose as his office at work did, it was getting there. He bought some luxurious rugs, found a place for copies of his diplomas, and even had a special place reserved to store particularly interesting starseeds.
The noise he let out as he let his fingers glide along his glass-topped desk might've had some different connotations to the right ear. Perhaps it did, a tad.
It was a reverie that was easy to bring himself away from, though, when he heard a knock at his door. Borax called, “Come in!” clearing his throat of anything else suspicious within a moment. He hadn't been expecting Faustite, or Headache-as-Faustite, anyway, and he might've straightened his back out of the lackadaisical ease faster than intended.
A general-on-general fight with Faustite?
Borax was no coward, even if his instinct told him that Faustite certainly had more experience than he did. By the same token, though, did he? The shotel he wielded was relatively new; it wasn't as new as Borax’s trident, but for using weaponry they were likely equally as storied. He needed to not let his ego step before him in this case, though. Even if their time with weapons had been equal, Faustite was the sovereign.
“Alright.”
Borax wasn't going to say no, though. It was the same reason why he easily accepted sparring against Hestia even when their tanks were unequal. He needed to prove his own ******** self. There was also the fact that his assignment back when he was a lieutenant had included intentionally letting himself get beat up.
It was how he had learned his tactics, after all. That was how he had gotten as skilled as he was.
And so, that was how General Borax headed off to the Sunken City, working to locate the aforementioned clearing.
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Soon after Borax left the Castle to embark on the path to the Sunken City, a swarm of bright orange fireflies passed over his left shoulder. They arced as one on their flight, each blinking asynchronous with the others, while they ventured down the path. They moved at a slow cruise — slow enough for Borax to follow.
Headache did not care to speak in its native form. Any noise from it came as tonal buzzing, something akin to a cadence, though it meant little to anyone but the other youma. Its purpose was evident enough without understanding it, however.
The path bore them down into a plaza, where a great fountain once stood in the center of what should have been a town square. Scattered wreckage of buildings facing a large circular path walled off many of the offshoot streets, rendering them too dangerous for the curious agent. The desecrated remains of a fountain sat at the very center of stonework that curved about it, but it had long since dried up. Headache simply skirted around it, orange light reflected on the faded and pockmarked stonework, then kept on down the only path clear enough to travel.
The clearing wasn't far from there. After traveling roughly two blocks down the winding stone path between buildings and residential craters, the stone flared out in another intricate circle that completed just before an emaciated old church. Its stained glass windows were a vanished memory, and much of its spire had crumbled with loose stone collecting on its gables, but the structure still stood.
Beneath it, partially obstructed by its reaching shadow, was a brilliant hooded figure. Beneath the draped red hood and its sumptuous golden weights were a pair of flame eyes looking out at Headache. Of course, the figure's identity was easily discerned by the roaring fire in his middle, which was poorly restrained by a Victorian-style metal grate.
He hadn't waved; he reached out and beckoned with a slow, expectant flair. They had the space and Borax had the rules. His only words were meant for Headache and delivered on deft fingers.
The host of fireflies collected into the form of Hestia, who responded in a demure voice. "He invites you to go first." Not-Hestia smiled warmly at him.
Headache did not care to speak in its native form. Any noise from it came as tonal buzzing, something akin to a cadence, though it meant little to anyone but the other youma. Its purpose was evident enough without understanding it, however.
The path bore them down into a plaza, where a great fountain once stood in the center of what should have been a town square. Scattered wreckage of buildings facing a large circular path walled off many of the offshoot streets, rendering them too dangerous for the curious agent. The desecrated remains of a fountain sat at the very center of stonework that curved about it, but it had long since dried up. Headache simply skirted around it, orange light reflected on the faded and pockmarked stonework, then kept on down the only path clear enough to travel.
The clearing wasn't far from there. After traveling roughly two blocks down the winding stone path between buildings and residential craters, the stone flared out in another intricate circle that completed just before an emaciated old church. Its stained glass windows were a vanished memory, and much of its spire had crumbled with loose stone collecting on its gables, but the structure still stood.
Beneath it, partially obstructed by its reaching shadow, was a brilliant hooded figure. Beneath the draped red hood and its sumptuous golden weights were a pair of flame eyes looking out at Headache. Of course, the figure's identity was easily discerned by the roaring fire in his middle, which was poorly restrained by a Victorian-style metal grate.
He hadn't waved; he reached out and beckoned with a slow, expectant flair. They had the space and Borax had the rules. His only words were meant for Headache and delivered on deft fingers.
The host of fireflies collected into the form of Hestia, who responded in a demure voice. "He invites you to go first." Not-Hestia smiled warmly at him.
Borax, almost obedient, followed the blinking lights to their destination as well as he could. It was easy, at first, an easy path that was at least transversable. The fountain was a difficult portion; the fireflies of course had an easy way to deal with it, but at his height of six-foot-five, it was a little harder to bend around the edges. He ended up taking the harder path, climbing the fountain and landing on the other side.
He could admire the fact that his new strength meant that didn't make him break a sweat.
Borax didn't let himself stick in the temptation to gloat. He needed to lock in.
Faustite was a dangerous figure. Even in his general form, Borax could tell he was hiding strength behind those eyes. Inviting him to take the first move was smart on his part; let him know what to expect from Borax and how to calculate for it. It was something he did himself; waited for senshi or knights to attack him before making his move.
The question was, did he intentionally fake Faustite out or did he assume the fight would be fair?
Borax summoned his trident, letting himself balance it in his hands for a moment. Alright. He could do this.
Assuming a fair move, the first thing he did was jab the trident forward, keeping himself at the distance allowed by the benefit of a polearm.
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Faustite had fought polearm users before. Labyrinthite was the first to come to mind, what with his ridiculous-looking scythe from when Faustite was a Captain. He preferred weapons that must be swung far more than ones like Borax's that could be thrust forward, affording far less reaction time.
Borax did the sensible thing, of course. Faustite would be damned if he would let himself be skewered on the first move, however.
Borax's uniform sat loose on him, so Faustite had to watch for that telltale reel back of his arms to know that the boy was going to strike. Unlike Borax, Faustite's pants betrayed even the finest twitches of muscles under the skin. There was thus little way to hide that he was going to jump, but the least he could rely on was that his intended destination was less readable.
That wickedly forked weapon struck at him, and Faustite leapt in narrow avoidance. He corkscrewed in the air, half-expecting the weapon to follow his trajectory, then landed on the ground behind Borax with a stumble that cost him precious time. He told himself it wouldn't matter, though.
Faustite reached for the back of Borax's neck, though the other man was much taller. It didn't matter so long as he touched bare flesh; the sear of his grip should be enough of a distraction. Then he kicked at the back of the General's knee, hoping to destabilize him. Better if Faustite could get him to rely on that polearm as a crutch and spare him no time to truly weaponize it.
It was a good start. His blood had already begun pumping in his ears.
Borax did the sensible thing, of course. Faustite would be damned if he would let himself be skewered on the first move, however.
Borax's uniform sat loose on him, so Faustite had to watch for that telltale reel back of his arms to know that the boy was going to strike. Unlike Borax, Faustite's pants betrayed even the finest twitches of muscles under the skin. There was thus little way to hide that he was going to jump, but the least he could rely on was that his intended destination was less readable.
That wickedly forked weapon struck at him, and Faustite leapt in narrow avoidance. He corkscrewed in the air, half-expecting the weapon to follow his trajectory, then landed on the ground behind Borax with a stumble that cost him precious time. He told himself it wouldn't matter, though.
Faustite reached for the back of Borax's neck, though the other man was much taller. It didn't matter so long as he touched bare flesh; the sear of his grip should be enough of a distraction. Then he kicked at the back of the General's knee, hoping to destabilize him. Better if Faustite could get him to rely on that polearm as a crutch and spare him no time to truly weaponize it.
It was a good start. His blood had already begun pumping in his ears.
He was unsurprised when his strike didn't quite land, though it was nice to at least graze Faustite. His eyes watched what Faustite was doing, pulling his weapon back when the other dodged and then jumped. Where Faustite was going was answered when the other landed, and Borax glanced over his shoulder before starting the process of swirling around.
Watching his six was something he had also learned fairly quickly. Blocking him in from behind was a good strategy; Faustite would do that, of course–
And jump to burn his throat.
Borax knew he won the height game here and ducked his head forward when he felt what Faustite was reaching for. The heat at his back was uncomfortable but not impossible to deal with, though he knew he needed to get away from it soon. The kick at his knees was also uncomfortable, and it did destabilize him, but not enough for him to grab at his weapon as a stabilizer.
Instead, he stepped into the destabilization, using it to push him forward and give himself momentum to swirl around to throw Faustite off of him entirely. The polearm was useful here, again; once he got himself turned around, he used the staff to block the front of his body while he backed up.
Once again, he stabbed forward, though this time with a left swing he hoped would throw off what his motion was.
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Clever b*****d, trying to gain some distance. Faustite let go, let him spin, but kept after him to foil the General's range. He drew a fist back as he approached, ready to pepper him into the defensive —
But in his periphery, he saw the polearm coming back at him, too quick to circumvent entirely. Gripped too close to its fork for Faustite to deflect by gripping the staff and redirecting the attack over his head.
With no room to pivot, Faustite turned himself to take the hit at an angle. The metal sang through its grate, pealing out its twisted song, while the impact of it rattled to his teeth. Seldom was the hum of broken metal pleasant to feel up his bones. He could still feel his legs, however; the worst possibility had been ********>, he mouthed as smoke followed in lieu of words. Felt like the trident was jammed solidly in his grate, so Faustite reached for the narrow staff for more leverage. As he gripped it, his fires grew bolder, brighter, a vortex so hot that Borax's trident began to glow at the edges. The heat dripped down his arms and into his fingers, molten in his veins, brilliant at his fingertips as he clutched the staff.
He had but one free hand. It was enough. Smart boy, he signed, smiling.
But in his periphery, he saw the polearm coming back at him, too quick to circumvent entirely. Gripped too close to its fork for Faustite to deflect by gripping the staff and redirecting the attack over his head.
With no room to pivot, Faustite turned himself to take the hit at an angle. The metal sang through its grate, pealing out its twisted song, while the impact of it rattled to his teeth. Seldom was the hum of broken metal pleasant to feel up his bones. He could still feel his legs, however; the worst possibility had been ********>, he mouthed as smoke followed in lieu of words. Felt like the trident was jammed solidly in his grate, so Faustite reached for the narrow staff for more leverage. As he gripped it, his fires grew bolder, brighter, a vortex so hot that Borax's trident began to glow at the edges. The heat dripped down his arms and into his fingers, molten in his veins, brilliant at his fingertips as he clutched the staff.
He had but one free hand. It was enough. Smart boy, he signed, smiling.
That sound was awful, honestly, but with it came a moment of victory. His attempt had landed, to a point; perhaps Faustite was the one with more experience, but Borax had enough under his belt to throw him off. He saw Faustite mouth something; he was fairly sure by the emotion behind his smoke and his expression that it was a fitting swear.
Probably ********, honestly–
But letting himself get deep into theorizing what Faustite just mouthed would be distracting, especially as those flames grew brighter. <********, that was hot.
The compliment had a way of warming his blood in another way and served as a potential distraction all its own. It wasn't hard to bury that down under the heat that he felt rolling off Faustite's body and his grip toward him. Warmth was fine but heat was not; would that melt his staff? He couldn't risk that. He could summon it back even if that happened but that would lose him time. He could do the same now but that would free Faustite.
“Thank you,” Borax’s even tone hid the thousand places his mind was going, and his even further how much he wanted to revel in the compliment from one of the only people who might have any influence on him gaining further influence, “learned with the best.” Either way, he needed to think fast, before that heat melted his fingers instead. Attempting to use the leverage he had, he attempted to throw Faustite to the side.
… And if that failed, he would simply desummon the weapon and back up to summon it again.
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Look at him, dispensing with politeness in the midst of a spar. Wasn't letting go of his weapon, either, so Faustite imagined his heat wasn't sufficient to travel down the metal. Wasn't sufficient to melt it, either.
Disappointing. Embarrassing, really.
Then he was traveling, cursing his own meager weight, and scrambling for purchase on the pitted, gravel-stricken plaza. He stumbled, fell. Letting go of the staff portion of Borax's weapon, Faustite instinctively broke his fall by putting his hands out to catch himself on the ground. Steam rose from his hotter hand.
The trident was thoroughly wedged in his grate now, unwilling to pull away nicely. Let the boy continue holding onto it. See what that pride got him.
Then, flame burst out of him in a hateful, whorling meltdown. The storm of it lifted and straightened its hair, the heat causing his eyes and middle and the golden details of his uniform to glow bright and bold in the vortex that tumbled around him.
He hoped Borax enjoyed getting caught in that.
Disappointing. Embarrassing, really.
Then he was traveling, cursing his own meager weight, and scrambling for purchase on the pitted, gravel-stricken plaza. He stumbled, fell. Letting go of the staff portion of Borax's weapon, Faustite instinctively broke his fall by putting his hands out to catch himself on the ground. Steam rose from his hotter hand.
The trident was thoroughly wedged in his grate now, unwilling to pull away nicely. Let the boy continue holding onto it. See what that pride got him.
Then, flame burst out of him in a hateful, whorling meltdown. The storm of it lifted and straightened its hair, the heat causing his eyes and middle and the golden details of his uniform to glow bright and bold in the vortex that tumbled around him.
He hoped Borax enjoyed getting caught in that.
Success was not something he was going to let himself lose himself to, as much as he was tempted. He couldn't. Faustite knew what he was doing, and had likely sparred against those with a polearm before.
A trident? Perhaps not, not with the triple forked way it had wedged into Faustite's grate. His hands burned with the proximity of that heat even if there was a relief in using the sheer length of the staff itself to push Faustite further away.
Of course, that wasn't the end of that.
Anything else was fair game, and that included Faustite's magic, an ability he couldn't touch as fully human. Borax liked his body right where it was and without the third degree burns, and so his only logical move at that point was to back up quickly and drop the weapon. That was what he did, though not without a catch.
Faustite’s grate was fully freed as Borax summoned his weapon back to himself, taking on a defensive position again. There was still some residual heat on the blade, but after intentionally injuring himself in pursuit of his promotions that was easier to ignore. For now.
“Well played,” rasped Borax, and that was why Faustite was dangerous.
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Couldn't catch the boy in his fire, but it acted as enough of a deterrent that Borax backed off and retrieved his weapon. Handy for him, but Faustite's grate was a mess. In the safety of his own blaze, he examined the damage. Twisted metal was bent inward with some pieces sticking out the side, exposing more of his spine and fire than necessary. Were it not for the fact that he lacked those organs, he'd have likely bled out and died.
Faustite wrenched some of the twisted metal back into an approximation of what it was, then ripped out the broken pieces with only loose screws holding them together. He'd had a handful by the time he was done removing the worst of it.
His flame wall began to dissipate, the heat banking down as his fire retreated back within the confines of his broken grate. And while Faustite tried to stand tall, the mangled mess in his middle pulled him forward a margin, so he had to hunch slightly. With the return of his fire came a certain weariness that was impossible for him to fully ignore, much like when he neared the end of his three-hour stints playing human. Faustite breathed a sigh, loosing a curl of thick black smoke with it.
Their little battlefield was starting to smell quite a lot like copper, salt, and gunmetal. Particularly now that he singed the ground with his little stunt and left Borax crispy around the edges.
When he was able to see his sparring partner again, Faustite signed back to him. Curious way to say 'you fight dirty'.
He looked to Headache, then, who still posed as Hestia on the sidelines. She was nigh expressionless, as if Headache had forgotten to keep up the façade, or as if it couldn't quite remember how Hestia looked when she had something on her mind. This copy of the senshi maid held her hand out straight, one finger raised. She waited. Built the tension. Then tipped her finger toward Borax.
Faustite responded with two fingers of his own.
Gathering his breath again, Faustite reset his stance. Then he sprinted toward Borax, feinted to the side, and aimed a strike at his ribs with a handful of his own twisted metal.
Faustite wrenched some of the twisted metal back into an approximation of what it was, then ripped out the broken pieces with only loose screws holding them together. He'd had a handful by the time he was done removing the worst of it.
His flame wall began to dissipate, the heat banking down as his fire retreated back within the confines of his broken grate. And while Faustite tried to stand tall, the mangled mess in his middle pulled him forward a margin, so he had to hunch slightly. With the return of his fire came a certain weariness that was impossible for him to fully ignore, much like when he neared the end of his three-hour stints playing human. Faustite breathed a sigh, loosing a curl of thick black smoke with it.
Their little battlefield was starting to smell quite a lot like copper, salt, and gunmetal. Particularly now that he singed the ground with his little stunt and left Borax crispy around the edges.
When he was able to see his sparring partner again, Faustite signed back to him. Curious way to say 'you fight dirty'.
He looked to Headache, then, who still posed as Hestia on the sidelines. She was nigh expressionless, as if Headache had forgotten to keep up the façade, or as if it couldn't quite remember how Hestia looked when she had something on her mind. This copy of the senshi maid held her hand out straight, one finger raised. She waited. Built the tension. Then tipped her finger toward Borax.
Faustite responded with two fingers of his own.
Gathering his breath again, Faustite reset his stance. Then he sprinted toward Borax, feinted to the side, and aimed a strike at his ribs with a handful of his own twisted metal.
Borax, slowly, was getting better with sign being exposed to it more regularly. Faustite's signed response still took a moment for Borax to fully mentally parse, but he snorted in short order once he did. “We're the Negaverse,” he responded, mentally noting and then shoving down the observation that Negaverse definitely needed a name sign, “of course we fight dirty.”
Wasn't that the whole thing? They had, after all, figured out control of the planet as a whole. That did not happen without a dirty tactic or fifty.
The same that led to the both of them being on opposite ends of this clearing again, though Borax was aware it wouldn't last. Headache-as-Hestia did signal that Borax had won that round, and he nodded in respect to that, but he couldn't let himself get distracted. Faustite was already ready to go again.
He sprinted toward him and Borax grit his teeth, shifting with the expectation of having to bear the brunt of the force. The sudden feint was well-played, then, throwing off some of Borax's attempt to defend himself. The metal to the ribs hurt, and for a moment reminded him of the way Cybele's magic came for him.
Continuously exposing himself to pain in an effort to do what he needed to do to advance came with its own benefits. For one, he was able to ride above the shock to his system that might've been two years ago. It meant that he was able to yank focus out of the temptation to scream, swinging his body around to gain sight of Faustite again.
This proximity made it harder to use his polearm beyond as a defense or as a downwards jab. The downwards jab had worked well for him before, but he also wanted to get away from the fire. For the moment, Borax opted for the defensive, using the fix in the way he was facing to lift the end of his trident and shove at Faustite bodily.
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By now, Faustite had decided, <******** that weapon. It was a troublesome thing, with all those ******** points, and Faustite would've thought it too unwieldy to balance by holding it so close to the fork. Should've picked some plot in the woods so anything he tried to do with it would bash into a tree and foil him.
Next time, then. If there was a next time.
With the fork coming down at him, Faustite let go of the twisted metal in his hand and reached for the horizontal bars between the tines. If he could catch hold of them, he could avoid getting stabbed in the face. And with enough leverage, if his General's strength was enough, perhaps he could bend those tines downward to render the weapon less effective.
But it was hard for him to find purchase against which he could brace. Given that he was significantly smaller, Faustite knew that he wouldn't be winning any standoffs. Better to bend that metal fast — if it would give.
Next time, then. If there was a next time.
With the fork coming down at him, Faustite let go of the twisted metal in his hand and reached for the horizontal bars between the tines. If he could catch hold of them, he could avoid getting stabbed in the face. And with enough leverage, if his General's strength was enough, perhaps he could bend those tines downward to render the weapon less effective.
But it was hard for him to find purchase against which he could brace. Given that he was significantly smaller, Faustite knew that he wouldn't be winning any standoffs. Better to bend that metal fast — if it would give.
The size differential between Faustite and Borax, and Borax's weapon and Faustite, were nothing to sneeze at. It was right that Borax knew he carried some advantage here as long as they were both generals and weren't relying on other factors.
Faustite was still of fire, though, and he was still a general, and his weapon was still something that could give with enough push. There was one thing that would win out there, ultimately, unless Borax took the tactic of endlessly dismissing his weapon. An option, but then they would simply be wrestling physically.
An option. He probably carried the advantage there.
His brain tried to tick through the options as Faustite tried to bend the edges of the trident. When Faustite's hand found purchase on one of the tines, Borax opted for something completely different. They hadn't agreed to no magic. They simply said no teleporting.
Would feeling the boric effects really be enough to throw Faustite off? Borax didn't know, but he tried his best to channel it anyway, trying to wrench his trident in such a way it would scrape Faustite's hands.
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The tines on Borax's weapon were lengthy, unwieldy things that could easily bite and snarl if Faustite did not keep them perfectly isolated. Faustite expected that Borax would push ever forward, seizing the obvious advantage of size, which wouldn't sabotage his cause.
He must have somehow deduced Faustite's intent, though, for the b*****d jerked his weapon to the side, and the longest tine cut a cicatrice into the burning boy's cheek. Black blood began to seep in a thin, hesitant rivulet.
No sense in trying for a plan that had already been seen, Faustite reminded himself. His skin began to itch where he had been cut, but he thought little of it. Instead, he pushed the tines straight skyward with every intent to throw Borax off his balance. Then he stepped forward to pressure him with their proximity, and Faustite planned an uppercut that would send Borax reeling.
But as he stepped forward to deliver the blow, a sudden surge of sickness hit him, and he instead vomited a mass of boiling black bile at the boy.
He must have somehow deduced Faustite's intent, though, for the b*****d jerked his weapon to the side, and the longest tine cut a cicatrice into the burning boy's cheek. Black blood began to seep in a thin, hesitant rivulet.
No sense in trying for a plan that had already been seen, Faustite reminded himself. His skin began to itch where he had been cut, but he thought little of it. Instead, he pushed the tines straight skyward with every intent to throw Borax off his balance. Then he stepped forward to pressure him with their proximity, and Faustite planned an uppercut that would send Borax reeling.
But as he stepped forward to deliver the blow, a sudden surge of sickness hit him, and he instead vomited a mass of boiling black bile at the boy.
Borax felt a moment of victory when he managed to get that motion correct. Faustite was moving and lunging for the direction he had predicted. Perhaps the not-Hestia would reward him the victory quickly.
How many rounds were they going for–
The projectile vomit took him by surprise for more than one reason and he suddenly jumped back in a way that showed that. His grip on the weapon slacked, his eyes widened, and he muttered, “s**t!” Right. Nausea. That was also a thing. He didn't expect it to hit that hard and also didn't expect it to hit his clothing.
Borax's instinct was to tear everything off but he fought himself tooth and nail to keep it on. This was a spar. He was supposed to be fighting–
s**t, his weapon–
Borax tried to call himself back in despite the urge to strip or vomit himself. His eyes turned to his weapon to snap control back of it.
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With Borax so wound up about vomit on himself, Faustite took his opportunity to wrench the weapon away. With no interference, he tried to bend the tines proper, but lacked the strength as a General to do so. Metallia's weaponry was utterly impeccable in that way — seldom could anyone overcome a chaotic implement forged without flaw.
He didn't need to fight with such a thing, however. Didn't need the handicap. Didn't know how to use it, anyway, so he flung the weapon aside like so much trash that offended his senses. Heard it clatter about near one of the decrepit buildings.
Wasting my ******** liquor, Faustite thought as he wiped the bile from his mouth on the back of his hand.
Got what you deserved, he signed at the man as he approached. Still felt the itch crawling all over him, concentrated at his cheek, which he scratched absently.
Must've been hot, that bile. Faustite glimpsed its steam rising up off that uniform. While it was unlikely to have burnt him, he looked plenty panicked about it. And that was more than an opportunity by Faustite's measure — that was an invitation.
Once again, his arm glowed molten hot. His veins turned to lava on that arm. Dashing forward, he aimed to uppercut that ******** in the jaw and send him off his balance for good.
He'll earn his ******** point, even if he had to crush handfuls of fireflies to convince Headache to give it to him.
He didn't need to fight with such a thing, however. Didn't need the handicap. Didn't know how to use it, anyway, so he flung the weapon aside like so much trash that offended his senses. Heard it clatter about near one of the decrepit buildings.
Wasting my ******** liquor, Faustite thought as he wiped the bile from his mouth on the back of his hand.
Got what you deserved, he signed at the man as he approached. Still felt the itch crawling all over him, concentrated at his cheek, which he scratched absently.
Must've been hot, that bile. Faustite glimpsed its steam rising up off that uniform. While it was unlikely to have burnt him, he looked plenty panicked about it. And that was more than an opportunity by Faustite's measure — that was an invitation.
Once again, his arm glowed molten hot. His veins turned to lava on that arm. Dashing forward, he aimed to uppercut that ******** in the jaw and send him off his balance for good.
He'll earn his ******** point, even if he had to crush handfuls of fireflies to convince Headache to give it to him.
Faustite was doing what Borax expected him to do when he wrested control of the weapon entirely, since Borax had dropped as much, and tried to bend it. The bend… Didn't seem to be working. While he knew dismissing it and resummoning it could help with any damage, it was nice to see that the move had failed as Faustite tossed it to the side. Gave him a good point of reference, if nothing else.
Alright. Meant there wouldn't be any problem getting it back, then.
Borax summoned the trident back to his hand to bring back the way to defend himself easiest. As he got his hand back around the trident’s staff, he noticed there was another rapidly approaching heat at the front of him that wasn't his ruined uniform.
s**t.
Instinct was all he really had time to rely on, and that was what he did without the time to calculate and recalculate as he tended to. If Faustite was trying to get high, well, Borax would try to get higher.
His concern with the weapon was quickly forgotten as Borax attempted to dart the uppercut by simply positioning over it. It was hard to dodge the warmth of lava, but there was an advantage to this being a clearing. Borax didn't have to worry about smacking a tree branch as he grimaced at the feeling of Faustite's uppercut getting him in the stomach as he took himself and his weapon up a jump that he remembered his general strength afforded him.
The landing was something Borax cushioned by bending at the knees when he did, turning around to hold the staff of his trident in front of his burning stomach. Borax tried his best to bite back the pain and the nausea of his own with a hard bite to the inside of his lip, though the way his top had reacted to being touched by that kind of heat would only allow him to hide so much.
strickenized
Borax had enough reaction in him to move, but it didn't spare him the explosive strike to his stomach. Must've hurt worse, Faustite supposed, but he couldn't relate. Instead, he hoped it gave Borax enough indigestion that he'd be shitting himself through time and space after this little spat.
He tracked Borax through the air, half-expecting to see something when he looked up that stupid skirt, then pressed forward before his advantage to get away from him.
Let the boy guard his stomach with that narrow ******** staff. Let him see how much good that did while the damned thing ached and churned. Faustite started at him again. Sprinted for him. Raced in to strike his throat with the flat of his blackened hand, if only to give the boy a reason to have avoided crying out so much.
What a waste. All the capability of a voice and none of the wherewithal to use it in the throes of a fight.
Insulting.
He tracked Borax through the air, half-expecting to see something when he looked up that stupid skirt, then pressed forward before his advantage to get away from him.
Let the boy guard his stomach with that narrow ******** staff. Let him see how much good that did while the damned thing ached and churned. Faustite started at him again. Sprinted for him. Raced in to strike his throat with the flat of his blackened hand, if only to give the boy a reason to have avoided crying out so much.
What a waste. All the capability of a voice and none of the wherewithal to use it in the throes of a fight.
Insulting.
Going for the guard was in part a way to give himself time to recalculate and retool himself before Faustite struck at him worse. He knew what he was dealing with, and distracting from the churning nausea in his stomach was the only way to make sure his focus stayed on the goal. Was he trying to prove himself?
His gaze darted over to Headache’s imagery of Hestia, but it was only a dart. In his periphery, he knew he needed to do something else.
He locked his gaze back on Faustite.
Borax found the layers of his outfit convenient in that it gave him more of an ability to hide his motions. Faustite couldn't necessarily. Which arm was striking out first–
Borax swallowed hard.
As Faustite tried to strike out, Borax snapped his left arm out to try and grab Faustite's arm to stop him in mid-motion. The right arm kept its grip on his trident staff, pushing the staff forward in an attempt to keep Faustite further away.
strickenized
Headache watched on, impassive. Only those most familiar with youma would be able to recognize the way Hestia's skin was limned as an expression of Headache's anticipation. But Faustite's back was to his youma; he had no forewarning of its cunning.
Faustite did not care to be interrupted. Though he drew his fist back as if to strike, Borax tried to intercept his leading arm — the one which was intended to do damage. Faustite was frustrated, weary, and overall, pissed at himself for his enduring inability to rise to the challenges that others posed.
His body flickered into flame, no longer able to be seized by Borax's hand or gored by his weapon. Likewise, he was free to pass through Borax to the boy's detriment — the feeling of burning, even if that feeling was merely a lie. Passing through him afforded Faustite a different angle with which to continue an attack. Maybe a kidney shot this time, or a donkey punch to the back of the head, or perhaps he'd barbecue the General wholesale with another firestorm —
But before he could seize the opportunity, before he could even transition back to a corporeal being, Headache was shaking its head.
What the ********>, a flamebound Faustite signed back.
"That's cheating," it replied simply, borrowing Hestia's voice.
His hands were a whorl of incensed flame. That's ******** preposterous! You're cheating! You're just calling it to ******** around with me! Should've asked ******** Cybele to dust you with extreme prejudice, you traitorous gaggle of pests! Faustite threw his hands up in incredulity, though none would bear witness to how he rolled his eyes.
He flipped off Headache a last time for good measure, then resumed his corporeality with a profusion of thoughts taunting him about his own insurmountable ineptitude.
Faustite did not care to be interrupted. Though he drew his fist back as if to strike, Borax tried to intercept his leading arm — the one which was intended to do damage. Faustite was frustrated, weary, and overall, pissed at himself for his enduring inability to rise to the challenges that others posed.
His body flickered into flame, no longer able to be seized by Borax's hand or gored by his weapon. Likewise, he was free to pass through Borax to the boy's detriment — the feeling of burning, even if that feeling was merely a lie. Passing through him afforded Faustite a different angle with which to continue an attack. Maybe a kidney shot this time, or a donkey punch to the back of the head, or perhaps he'd barbecue the General wholesale with another firestorm —
But before he could seize the opportunity, before he could even transition back to a corporeal being, Headache was shaking its head.
What the ********>, a flamebound Faustite signed back.
"That's cheating," it replied simply, borrowing Hestia's voice.
His hands were a whorl of incensed flame. That's ******** preposterous! You're cheating! You're just calling it to ******** around with me! Should've asked ******** Cybele to dust you with extreme prejudice, you traitorous gaggle of pests! Faustite threw his hands up in incredulity, though none would bear witness to how he rolled his eyes.
He flipped off Headache a last time for good measure, then resumed his corporeality with a profusion of thoughts taunting him about his own insurmountable ineptitude.
It was, indeed, to his detriment – feeling the sensation of burning stacking atop the nausea that was still threatening him was enough to be dizzying in its own right. The temptation to simply start tearing at what he wore increased–they were in the Rift, even briefly locking into his civilian side wouldn't have been smart–but Hestia’s voice startled him.
Oh.
Borax couldn't help the way his lip curled upward.
A win via a mistake of Faustite's that resulted in a disqualification was still a win caused by Borax’s actions, whether or not they were direct. Borax countered in a way that led to Faustite's frustration, causing him to make mistakes. Or, at least, to make mistakes in Headache's view of them.
Clearly a person who Faustite had trusted as enough of a judge to make it? Them? Him? The judge of this particular situation.
Borax calmed his expression as he turned around in his spot to watch Faustite's frustrated, tornado-swept response. He did catch the finger-spelling of Cybele, along with some other colourful phrasing, but he wouldn't pretend to understand enough at that rapid of a pace to do much other than stifle a snicker.
Even that was probably too much–
Well. He won. He ******** won then.
Holy s**t-
Technicality or not, he would take it. General Borax knew where his dreams lay, and he would be lying if they didn't just feel a bit boosted in those particular goals by the way he actually managed to have a victory against a greater general, of all people. Probably shouldn't gloat, though. That wouldn't get him anywhere. Faustite wasn't Albite, for example.
Borax did start idly disassembling his jacket, though. If the match was over, he was safe to make his movements far more predictable. The trident was similarly dismissed. “Good match, Faustite,” offered Borax, keeping all temptation of smugness under an easy nod, and further buried by pulling his jacket off as a distraction to himself.
Much better. “I'm up for that again sometime, if you are.”
