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The flash fire fwoom - concerning background noise with the imagined tingling sense of heat that followed it. Unable to fully envision what it would’ve felt like - the char broil and melting of flesh that would’ve followed if he’d stayed.

However hot Faustite got.

All the ways he was right about Senshi - soft ******** things with limited magics - annoying.

Albite tripped around the corner of some rough concrete wall, pressed his back there between piping and stonework. Felt overheated next to the ventilation pipings that ran down the side of it. The attempt to catch his breath for the barest of moments thwarted by the disorientation of the pendulum that ticked in the back of his mind - ever swinging in and out of his favor in all things.

Every time he thought he had a solution to Faustite - ‘poof’ - the whole of the idea up in smoke. A constant distraction, because he knew Faustite should’ve won five minutes in. With the choking scald of framed fingers around his throat; daggered and deadly. That was the moment he’d lost. Albite knew it with every dry, pained swallow.

That the rest of this was just a very deadly game of tag. Could’ve been hide n’ seek except for how he was as stealthy as a big rig in a chandelier store. A lesson in there somewhere he could’ve puzzled out if he were anyone else.

There was space before him. Space to run, a whole entire swath of dug out, paved out, dirt and gravel expanse to traverse. The the factories themselves, the warehouses. Sheet metal and concrete grids with large roofs. Storage yards full of equipment and parts. Choice overload, and he preferred facing things head on when he didn’t know the right thing to chose.

“Holy ******** is this so hard?!” words hissed like steam as he forced himself to move again. Out from the useless cover; into the open.

Forced himself to pick a point - a beige looking hanger - worn looking doors that were either red or rust in hue - that looked ajar enough. Made a break for it. Hated the grate on every nerve for being forced to run like this.

It was impossible not to note the sudden encroach of heat at his back. The way fire had a sound as it fed on air, sucked it in, ate it down and swirled into a storm.

The gap in the door lay ahead - a comet chased behind - Albite spun on his heel. Dug in against the motion with knees bent, arms drawn up defensively. Beathed the words “Binding Retribution!” and felt the drain for them - like the letting of too much blood.

Let the magic seek its prey - muscle memory inherent in the wait of it; the feeling of closeness. Let him in close, it didn’t matter anymore.

The specific kind of taught-ness, a cinching bind. He felt it take and fray against the power of his enemy, grimaced and yanked with all of himself against the tether once he felt it bite. Weathered the force of what he knew would put him on his knees.

Put him down.

The knowledge of that future pain paled in comparison to the singular thought of the fiery demon before him.

‘Pretty’ - Faustite was pretty.

Haloed blaze, that begged violence. The way the embers trailed; how his hair whipped with the fire all around him. A flashbulb of a thought, caught and crystallized just before the impact of it all.

Repercussions, and Albite would know them. Learn them with his flesh since they sloughed off his mind with such ease.

<******** hell when eternal' - the phrasing suddenly had far more meaning to him in the moments where his mind fled the blistering pain. ******** hell - a fun thought in hindsight; poor in immediate practice. Maybe reaching eternal would make him fireproof? Maybe he should've asked the merchant for a handy dandy cincher of his own..or a brooch..or --- and a joke about spitroasting fluttered and died somewhere in the mix of it all, gone up like a moth caught in flame.

Thoughts shattered glass as he registered he was on the ground. Saw the mess of himself from beyond himself --- where flames had singed through: cloth, hair, skin. Sticky wet red pull and blistered mess of new marks across his middle and ribs. 'Wonder if that'll scar' - and knowing he shouldn't have looked when the white hot shockiness crept in on his vision, everything silent except for his breathing; which rang too loud and harsh in his own ears.

"Faustite..." the word hssst, gasped breath against the flinch of muscle and overstimulated nerves as he tried movement; swiftly forestalled trying again. It was better to just lay there and breathe. Tilt his head just enough to see where the blazing atronauch had gone. Eyes alighting on the ifrit coloring - 'Oh...oh ******** ******** ********!" and the mantra of slurs shifted. Seeing Faustite down didn't feel like a win. None of it felt good. He'd ******** up, and he'd fix it. Except he didn't know the first thing about caring for someone torn between two worlds. His boss who bled black ichor and fire. Who could never have been taken to a hospital, and he was loathe to call for help - to add insult to injury by calling out to the negaverse in distress for his own stupidity.

Bad bad bad - ******** better be ******** okay, I didn't even hit you.." not that he remembered, but it was all sorts of black speckled blurred dimness and blinding fire at the end. The concern whispered, as he twisted against the pain and reached out. Careful of how he touched, gentle on Faustites face, his hair, shaking fingers at his throat - How exactly, did checking breathing and pulse work on someone who was half barbeque.

"I'm sorry, please..."

Strickenized

Fin -> Clay