I'm in with a fourth project this time. Wonderful. I won't say anything on update dates, as I've learned by now I can't stick to a plan worth a crap when it comes to those. But I will say this is intended to be short: it will last five to six chapters at most.
And as you'll probably figure out, this is indeed a Dragon Ball Z fanfiction. Enjoy reading...
[[Alleyway]]
Jordan Durham ducked down, barely avoiding the sharp edge of the blade: if he had been a few seconds slower, it would have slid clean through his neck. Instead, only a small tuft of his thick red hair was caught, and he lost that with little to no problem.
The attacker swung his sword a second time, and Jordan fell back to dodge this one. He felt his white, weighted cape dig into the muddy soil along with his hands and felt a pulsation of panic as he realized it might not serve as enough leverage for his plan to work: but it did. He held himself up for a split second in the mud, allowing his legs to thrust outward, his bare feet slamming into the attacker's stomach.
It wasn't all that effective, as Jordan had expected, but it provided the time necessary for Jordan to flip himself over and push off the ground, leaping high enough to grab onto the ledge of a nearby building's window.
The attacker looked up and saw Jordan. Even from the distance, Jordan could see the look of glaring excitement in his eyes. He imagined the attacker was enjoying this hunt. He leaped up to match Jordan's height with relative ease, his blade extended in front of him.
Jordan let go of the windowsill and felt himself begin to fall. He imagined it would hurt a bit, and as his legs sunk into the soil, he realized he was right. But he forced his legs out of the sinkholes he had created, and began to move for the south.
The rain poured down on his body, water-logging his already heavy clothing. His breath was running short, his chest burning, feeling like it was about to explode.
A bit behind him, Jordan heard the sound of his attacker plopping down to the ground. He shut his eyes for a moment, and made his decision. He came to a stop, and turned around to fight.
The attacker caught up to him, and stopped as well. For a moment, the two of them stood almost face to face, only the sounds of their heartbeats and the pouring rain. Then, the attacker stepped forth a bit.
“This is the end of you,” he said. “I have direct orders from the King.”
“You've told me before,” Jordan said. His voice was gruff, thick with emotion. “Fight it.”
“...The only thing to fight is you.”
The attacker swung his blade, and Jordan jumped back, narrowly avoiding being cut in half. The wet thud of his bare feet into the mud was a blessing to him; it cut away his choked sob. The rain hid his tears from the opponent.
“You can dodge only for so long! You're mine!”
Jordan extended an open palm, fingers spread apart. He let loose a small bit of what was left of his energy, a pathetically small ball of glowing red energy floating from the palm, towards the attacker.
The attacker merely lifted up his blade and allowed it to take the attack. It seemed to disappear into the stained silver surface.
“I have orders from the King! Direct orders. There's no use in fighting!”
The attacker ran forward and sliced the blade diagonally. Jordan slipped to the right in order to avoid it. He hit a wall. The attacker took advantage of this, and thrust his fist toward Jordan's face.
Jordan slid along the wall as swiftly as he could, despite the cry of his muscles and his mind to let it all end, to avoid the punch. The attacker then made a stab with his sword, and Jordan slid along to dodge this too. It continued on as a pattern until the two of them reached the end of the wall.
The attacker made a thrust of his blade toward Jordan's arm in order to pin him. Jordan slid further, only to realize there was no longer any wall for him to slide across. His body instinctively tried to move toward the wall again, and despite his mind's screams not to, he did move toward the wall once more.
“No use in fighting!”
He let loose a choked cry of pain as the blade slid into his shoulder. He felt a warm liquid (an odd contrast to the rain's coldness) began to flow from the wound, trickling down the right side of his body. He felt his consciousness begin to drain.
“Direct Orders from the King!” the attacker cried, and Jordan could have sworn for a moment there, it sounded like he was trying to reassure himself.
Jordan's vision was now grainy, the entire world around him a mass of gray. He heard the sound of his attacker's wet thuds as he stepped back in the mud. He recognized that he needed to move, but the link of body to brain seemed to be cut off now, perhaps pierced by the sword.
The sword. It hit him. He recognized that no pressure was on the handle anymore. The attacker had let go of it. Jordan lifted his hand up and grabbed the blade, putting pressure on it and pulling it forward. He cried out in pain as it slid out, but he let it fall to the ground. Blood began to flow faster. Jordan didn't care.
He opened his mouth to try and speak.
“...You know it... it isn't necessary... fight... f-...fight it... please...”
Jordan's mental senses were going wild. Energy was gathering in a place in front of him, these senses told him. He could hear the whir of it over the rain.
“Direct Orders from the King!” the attacker repeated.
Jordan's consciousness was about to die away. He watched as gray darkened to black, and all sounds except for the whir of energy and the dull rainfall disappeared. Even the pain he felt, the exhaustion coupled with it, had faded away.
He felt his face hit mud. Breath escaped him. Then it came back. He felt something shoved into his mouth, and his jaws forced to open and close. He instinctively swallowed.
The world began to return.
He felt his wounds begin to mend, skin sizzling as holes in it that were not supposed to be there were sealed. He felt his energy begin to renew itself. The world around him grew to grayness, and then to a picture of perfect clarity.
He saw black hair clinging to a familiar face, and smiled sadly.
“...You saved my *** again, Catherine,” Jordan whispered.
Catherine smiled in return, and Jordan felt her trying to help him sit up. He did it himself instead of making her help, and then got up to his feet. He let his dirtied cape slide off, shrugging a bit to try and get some feeling back into them.
He turned to see the dead body of his attacker. “...I wish we didn't have to do that.”
“...Me too, Jordan,” Catherine said. “Me too.”
The two of them hugged each other and wept silently. They were not prepared for what they were to do now. But it was now or never; they both knew it. They would either go in at their peak, or suffer for the rest of their lives.
With each others hands in their grasp, tightly squeezing, brother and sister began to walk toward their destination, only their bond and their prayers keeping them standing.
And as you'll probably figure out, this is indeed a Dragon Ball Z fanfiction. Enjoy reading...
summersville
Chapter 1
[[Alleyway]]
Jordan Durham ducked down, barely avoiding the sharp edge of the blade: if he had been a few seconds slower, it would have slid clean through his neck. Instead, only a small tuft of his thick red hair was caught, and he lost that with little to no problem.
The attacker swung his sword a second time, and Jordan fell back to dodge this one. He felt his white, weighted cape dig into the muddy soil along with his hands and felt a pulsation of panic as he realized it might not serve as enough leverage for his plan to work: but it did. He held himself up for a split second in the mud, allowing his legs to thrust outward, his bare feet slamming into the attacker's stomach.
It wasn't all that effective, as Jordan had expected, but it provided the time necessary for Jordan to flip himself over and push off the ground, leaping high enough to grab onto the ledge of a nearby building's window.
The attacker looked up and saw Jordan. Even from the distance, Jordan could see the look of glaring excitement in his eyes. He imagined the attacker was enjoying this hunt. He leaped up to match Jordan's height with relative ease, his blade extended in front of him.
Jordan let go of the windowsill and felt himself begin to fall. He imagined it would hurt a bit, and as his legs sunk into the soil, he realized he was right. But he forced his legs out of the sinkholes he had created, and began to move for the south.
The rain poured down on his body, water-logging his already heavy clothing. His breath was running short, his chest burning, feeling like it was about to explode.
A bit behind him, Jordan heard the sound of his attacker plopping down to the ground. He shut his eyes for a moment, and made his decision. He came to a stop, and turned around to fight.
The attacker caught up to him, and stopped as well. For a moment, the two of them stood almost face to face, only the sounds of their heartbeats and the pouring rain. Then, the attacker stepped forth a bit.
“This is the end of you,” he said. “I have direct orders from the King.”
“You've told me before,” Jordan said. His voice was gruff, thick with emotion. “Fight it.”
“...The only thing to fight is you.”
The attacker swung his blade, and Jordan jumped back, narrowly avoiding being cut in half. The wet thud of his bare feet into the mud was a blessing to him; it cut away his choked sob. The rain hid his tears from the opponent.
“You can dodge only for so long! You're mine!”
Jordan extended an open palm, fingers spread apart. He let loose a small bit of what was left of his energy, a pathetically small ball of glowing red energy floating from the palm, towards the attacker.
The attacker merely lifted up his blade and allowed it to take the attack. It seemed to disappear into the stained silver surface.
“I have orders from the King! Direct orders. There's no use in fighting!”
The attacker ran forward and sliced the blade diagonally. Jordan slipped to the right in order to avoid it. He hit a wall. The attacker took advantage of this, and thrust his fist toward Jordan's face.
Jordan slid along the wall as swiftly as he could, despite the cry of his muscles and his mind to let it all end, to avoid the punch. The attacker then made a stab with his sword, and Jordan slid along to dodge this too. It continued on as a pattern until the two of them reached the end of the wall.
The attacker made a thrust of his blade toward Jordan's arm in order to pin him. Jordan slid further, only to realize there was no longer any wall for him to slide across. His body instinctively tried to move toward the wall again, and despite his mind's screams not to, he did move toward the wall once more.
“No use in fighting!”
He let loose a choked cry of pain as the blade slid into his shoulder. He felt a warm liquid (an odd contrast to the rain's coldness) began to flow from the wound, trickling down the right side of his body. He felt his consciousness begin to drain.
“Direct Orders from the King!” the attacker cried, and Jordan could have sworn for a moment there, it sounded like he was trying to reassure himself.
Jordan's vision was now grainy, the entire world around him a mass of gray. He heard the sound of his attacker's wet thuds as he stepped back in the mud. He recognized that he needed to move, but the link of body to brain seemed to be cut off now, perhaps pierced by the sword.
The sword. It hit him. He recognized that no pressure was on the handle anymore. The attacker had let go of it. Jordan lifted his hand up and grabbed the blade, putting pressure on it and pulling it forward. He cried out in pain as it slid out, but he let it fall to the ground. Blood began to flow faster. Jordan didn't care.
He opened his mouth to try and speak.
“...You know it... it isn't necessary... fight... f-...fight it... please...”
Jordan's mental senses were going wild. Energy was gathering in a place in front of him, these senses told him. He could hear the whir of it over the rain.
“Direct Orders from the King!” the attacker repeated.
Jordan's consciousness was about to die away. He watched as gray darkened to black, and all sounds except for the whir of energy and the dull rainfall disappeared. Even the pain he felt, the exhaustion coupled with it, had faded away.
He felt his face hit mud. Breath escaped him. Then it came back. He felt something shoved into his mouth, and his jaws forced to open and close. He instinctively swallowed.
The world began to return.
He felt his wounds begin to mend, skin sizzling as holes in it that were not supposed to be there were sealed. He felt his energy begin to renew itself. The world around him grew to grayness, and then to a picture of perfect clarity.
He saw black hair clinging to a familiar face, and smiled sadly.
“...You saved my *** again, Catherine,” Jordan whispered.
Catherine smiled in return, and Jordan felt her trying to help him sit up. He did it himself instead of making her help, and then got up to his feet. He let his dirtied cape slide off, shrugging a bit to try and get some feeling back into them.
He turned to see the dead body of his attacker. “...I wish we didn't have to do that.”
“...Me too, Jordan,” Catherine said. “Me too.”
The two of them hugged each other and wept silently. They were not prepared for what they were to do now. But it was now or never; they both knew it. They would either go in at their peak, or suffer for the rest of their lives.
With each others hands in their grasp, tightly squeezing, brother and sister began to walk toward their destination, only their bond and their prayers keeping them standing.