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Tac gave a smirk as his stance shifted, the two guns appearing in his hands from motions too fast for light to even reflect off his form. Now thats fast. His smirk seemed sinister as he leaned forward but an inch, "Break me." Familiar terrain data began to scroll on his visor as his grip tightened on the two firearms, light streaming from every seam along their length, casting Tacitus in a white flame that bubbled up from his hands to engulf him in a benevolent conflagration.

The weapon slips awat as the strike comes in, the right hand weapon back behind Tac's head aimed right between Darc's eyes, "Don't try that again, even though you won't be able to." His motions were one continuous blur, several packets of light literally hitting the same spot and reflecting back as he moved to stretch his visual appearance. The right hand weapon remained aimed as before, lest Darc should move, and the whole man would spin to face his opponent. All the while the words echoed through the arena, "Break. Me. BREAK. ME." Obviously Tacitus wanted this man to try to kill him to the best of his ability, something Tacitus apparently doubted was possible. Something seemed wrong with the two firearms, however. They did not fire, despite Tacitus obviously pulling the trigger at least once, and though blood ran from holes in his arms where it looked like invisible tubes were digging in, the weapons remained static.

((I may need sleep soon, if only to escape from the hyper chick on AIM who won't hesitate to call me if I block her.))

Each strike hits home, but instead of contacting flesh they are happy to meet with a series of grenades left in Tac's wake. The first to explode is a web grenade, but is too slow to trap Darc while above him, but not in the other two locations. The second is a Beacon Grenade, lighting Darc up like a Christmas Tree on the visual level of the temporal signature. The last is split open where Tac's throat should be, an antimagic grenade. A pulse of energy encompasses a five foot radius, temporarily disabling supernatural effects for approximately 30 seconds.

Standing upon an orange platform approximately fifteen feet up Tacitus looks down with some great interest. He's got a grand 'ole smile, "You really think you're faster than me. Aye, you might be faster in terms of movement at the moment, but my reaction time is faster than you'll ever be." Blood was now soaking along his shirt and dripping from lines on his neck, a crimson rain falling from his pedestal.

The fist would reach out and strike a solid wall build of nothing but air, a sheet of air stopped in time. Tac's voice would pulse around them, once at a speed fitting for conversation at high speed and one closer to normal, "That raises the question of how you avoid slicing yourself open on every last air molecule you pass. I won't pretend to care." The elderly man seemed to fade from view, and in his place spaced around the arena would rise twenty ghosts. Each was born of an ethereal mist, forming into a cloud of orange that took the shape of Tacitus. From each did he speak, "See, now this here is fun." None of them breathed. None of them made vibrations in the air. There was the same growing pattern of blood on each of them, and none of them gave a scent. These were shades of the present, multiple possibilities of the here and the now from the last second to the one not yet come.

((Yeah, I got work sometime today as well. No bloody clue when, but eventually. I'll check before I go to sleep, but yeah. Ending it with 'cage lol' would be great.))

((Damn, and I wanted a Darc-in-a-cage. XDDD >.> I was only going to experiment on him. <.<))

As the wall of ki impacts the benevolent conflagration around each of the twenty it is torn asunder. Energy is deflected in all directions as a series of twenty shadows are cast in towards Darc. When the light fades each of the twelve stand in magnificent armor, the first layer literally weaving through their skin while the main protective layer seems to be a sealed suit or full-plate armor. Streams of sand drift inward from the armor as the voice echoes, "Aye enjoyable. I was right, though, you lost by cutting our fun short." Each of the twenty turn to walk away, a bounce in their step and a laugh in his tone, "As if there was any doubt." Each passed into the same shades from which they had come, their projections having ended their usefulness.