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Juniper Bough Ch. 10
🕑 Added 2021-12-01 14:00:11 +0000 UTCIt was said that the Vessel was the crucible of change, the furnace that refined the sparks of divinity from the Fallen World and gestated it into a pure and holy world that would banish all darkness before it. It was also said that the Vessel was the container that would fill with the ocean of blood shed in her name and by her hand, that she was a crucible of human misery and suffering that would separate that blood like milk and cream, skimming off what was pure and letting the impurity of the world sink into the abyss. It was also said that she was nothing more than a theological hitman, the personal enforcer of the Temple Elders, a madwoman of insatiable bloodlust who wore a mask so none could see the glee she took in senseless violence.
Pyrrha was not supposed to be aware of what was said about her. It was the chatter of the Fallen World, the lies that would seek to cling to her and drag her down into depravity. It was Jaune’s duty to hear it, leaving Pyrrha wondering if anyone had any concerns about what he might be dragged down into, but she knew not to speak her mind too freely. The last thing she needed was for the Elders to think to deafen her as well as blind her.
Every footstep echoed as her soles hit the cobblestone. The regular, sharp thump of her spear against the ground made the whole world bloom into clarity. She heard people scurry out of her way, whether from word spreading of what she’d just done at the Winchester warehouses or just because she was a masked figure carrying antiquated weapons and wreathed in fury, with every corner she turned. Her approach was not stealthy. The Ruby Masque would know she was coming.
It didn’t matter.
She was drawing close. The city was known to her, even if it was the Fallen World she was supposed to be so far above that she needed her Sacristans to guide her through it. Every night, she would run her fingers over a map Nora had created, the textures raised to show the blocks of buildings and show her the face of the city she lived in. Every night, she would explore the city, imagining herself freed from her room, her enclosure, freed from the spiderwebs that her Sacristans spun over every street she walked. She had rehearsed doing this very thing, this exploration of the world beyond the Temple, so often that even as she felt the whirl of panic and rage swirling in her gut as though she might vomit fire, Pyrrha could walk with utter self confidence. Even into what could only be a trap.
Nora hadn’t given Pyrrha much description to work off of, but she knew the city. Off the Quarter, on Signal, by the river, a safehouse, it all narrowed down to one place, a little square created off Signal proper, a little bubble of paving stones ringed by buildings that wanted a bit of privacy from the busy street. Pyrrha had experience as the point of the spear, smashing through fortified positions held by street gangs, so she could already imagine every trap they had set, every trick up their sleeve that wouldn’t be defanged by her Sacristans.
It wouldn’t matter.
She heard the clang of a gate shutting behind her. In its echo, the world flashed before her, the walls and bricks and cobblestones that framed the space. Beacon was a city of clutter, and this little plaza was created by that. All the wealth and refugees and cargo that flowed into the port to be distributed further afield got trapped, causing the town to bloat and deform, tenement buildings swelling up to choke out the streets around them, money sloshing carelessly and spilling to the floor where criminal gangs snatched it up and grew powerful. Created tight spaces like this, the odd corners beyond the sight of the constables, where evil festered. But Pyrrha, even in this misshapen and corrupt world, was of something else entirely.
“I’m pretty sure you can see me,” a loud voice boomed towards her. A woman, a confident one, her words wrapped in the lazy self-assertion of a bruiser who knew what she was capable of. Pyrrha had heard voices like that before. “But if you haven’t noticed, you’re pinned in and we’ve also got a sniper on you. Wave hi to the lady, Rubes!”
Pyrrha had no sense of where the sniper might be, but she could guess where she might be placed, particularly from where the loud woman directed her voice. A mistake, but an understandable one. She was counting on Pyrrha’s blindness being feigned, a show prop, just like someone would expect when they’d explored how much of Pyrrha’s identity was just lies. So of course, she could already see the woman with the rifle, and giving her place away was just a way to say I know you’re a fraud. The rifle was a complication, but… not anything Pyrrha couldn’t overcome for Jaune’s sake.
“You have taken something from me. You will give it back.”
Not a trace of her anger, her fear, her fury could be found in her words. The mask Pyrrha wore was nothing compared to the mask she was, and she had long trained not to show what was inside her. But in her words, she did not hide her true intentions. “You have taken something from me.” Not from the Temple. From her. She was not here on Temple business or Temple orders. She was here to get Jaune back. She would not be stopped.
“Well, ain’t that a bitch,” her opponent casually drawled, “Seems everyone in the world thinks when they’re missing something, that someone must have taken it. And that leads them to us. Ain’t that a bitch...”
Her opponent wasn’t alone. The second didn’t announce herself, she stepped as quietly as a cat, attempting to circle around Pyrrha. But her footsteps stopped—not because she’d gone truly silent, but because she broke off her approach. Did she know that Pyrrha knew of her? Did she doubt Pyrrha’s sight, or did she detect that she had failed to sneak up on a woman who could not see?
Perhaps she was more than Pyrrha had anticipated. Guns and toughs, she’d dealt with, but these were thieves, and she’d always had her Sacristans to handle such things.
“But no matter what you think we’ve done to you,” her opponent continued, her voice slow and measured. Buying time. Getting her estimation. “You’re outnumbered and outgunned. And whatever your ‘Temple’ says you are, you’re no goddess. Y’can’t win here. You never could. Put the spear down and back off—last thing we want is to make you a martyr. Have enough problems already without a bunch of zealots trying to avenge you.”
“Return Jaune.”
She didn’t give a damn about what this woman was saying. She didn’t need to measure up her opponents. She knew what she was up against and knew what she wanted. The crack of the authority in her voice caught her foe off guard, knowing nothing of who Pyrrha truly was. She had no idea that this wasn’t a matter of the Temple, wasn’t a matter of faith. It was not belief that beat within her breast, and so her enemy misjudged her. Which gave her an opening.
She sprang forward, spear in hand, going right for her opponent, faster than she could do a damn thing to protect herself. Maybe she was facing too many, maybe she’d gone beyond her limits, maybe she was nothing without her Sacristans supporting her, but doubts were of a world Pyrrha transcended. If she lived, if she died, it didn’t matter. They had Jaune. She had a spear. It’s point was closing in on her foe, the task which always fell to Pyrrha’s bloody, exquisitely experienced hands.
It had never mattered.
BLAM!
LINE BREAK RUBY
Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum.
Ruby’s trigger finger eased back as she let the tension slack after the squeeze. She heard the click of the hammer resetting as she felt the thrumming of her heart in her ear, regular, slow, and steady. She didn’t like that she could keep so calm and collected that her heartrate didn’t even rise as she fired her rifle, but it was one of the many things that made her a real sharpshooter. Even the slightest tremor could throw off a shot, and Ruby always hit exactly what she was aiming for.
Pyrrha Nikos, the Vessel of the Juniper Bough, had been dropped flat on the ground. But there was no blood, no spray of brain matter, none of the other things people associated with a sharpshooter. Because Ruby always hit exactly what she was aiming for.
Even if what she was aiming for wasn’t what people associated with a sharpshooter.
Sluggishly getting back up, staggering to her feet from a blow she’d likely never experienced before, Pyrrha’s mask sloughed off her face and tumbled to the ground with a heavy thunk as she rose back on two feet. Beneath the mask was a broken nose, a thin trickle of blood leaking down, as well as a clean, white blindfold, embroidered with what had to be sacred texts.
The blindfold surprised Ruby. Surprised her a lot. Because it meant there weren’t any tricks to the mask, no secret peepholes or eyeslits like Ruby was convinced existed. Everything Ruby thought had to be there under the mask wasn’t, because Pyrrha wasn’t like what Ruby was thinking she was. Because… because she actually fought blind. Everything she did, she did with her eyes closed.
Which was making Ruby a bit nervous, her heartbeat gaining a hitch as she wondered… maybe she’d made a mistake in just shooting her mask off.
At least… at least it was still 3 on 1. And she had to know that she had a sniper on her so she’d know to back-
Pyrrha lunged faster than Ruby had ever seen anyone, even Blake, move. She was off like a shot to spring onto Yang in her attack, her sword drawn like a flash of light as it sprang into her hand. Yep. Definite mistake to just wing her, but Ruby could beat herself up later. Yang had managed to catch Pyrrha’s sword with her saber, but Ruby could see the way her muscles strained, revealing that Yang was facing a foe that hit as hard as she did. Trying to keep a bead on her, Ruby was continuously denied a chance to take a second shot as Pyrrha stayed close to Yang and somehow knew how to stay in her shadow, even though she fought with a freaking blindfold on!
Really, how could she- Blake dove in from behind, her knives out for a quick cut, but even as silent as Blake was, even with the distraction of Yang, not to mention the sniper, Pyrrha deflected Blake’s attack like a fencing master who’d invited two of his beginner students to try and use numbers to beat experience. And she was doing it all blindfolded.
Ruby had been worried when they first got wind that Pyrrha was heading for them, on her own, no escort. A madwoman was dangerous in ways sane people couldn’t even dream of, and as Ruby’s scope tracked the wild, jerking frenzy of her movements, she could see how true that was. Blake had long prepared for such an attack—not against anything like Pyrrha, of course—and Yang was delighted for the opportunity of a fight—though she’d never before fought anything like Pyrrha, of course—and they’d ventured into their positions with a confidence Ruby could no longer remember as she struggled to get a bead on Pyrrha’s movements. She was fighting two experienced combatants with an antiquated sword and shield while a rifle was trained on her and she was winning.
Don’t let her get in your head, Ruby reminded herself, she’s trying to panic you; it’s how she fights! If she really was Invincible, she wouldn’t need her Sacristans to be fixing things for her!
Though… though they didn’t know that for sure, and if she really was...
Ruby saw a chance and fired, her finger squeezing automatically even as her thoughts were dazzled by Pyrrha’s ability. Not a chance for a killshot, or even to hit Pyrrha, but because she knew that Pyrrha was fighting blind… which meant that she was really not set to deal with sudden loud noises.
Bingo. It didn’t end the fight—Yang and Blake both jerked back at the sound of a gunshot—but it threw Pyrrha off her rhythm as Ruby lined up another-
Hell, she was fast! But what’d saved her from a bullet had been too hasty to save her from Blake, who dove forward to catch Pyrrha on her imperfect strike. It wasn’t a lethal strike, no artery pierced and sending blood spraying like a fountain, but the tip of her dagger still scratched Pyrrha across her unarmored forearm, a long red line, as brilliant as her hair, appearing upon her olive skin. It was nothing, Blakes daggers were for penetration, not slicing, but it made Ruby’s eyes go wide to see it.
So she could get cut.
And if she wasn’t a goddess… then she was one woman. Fighting three experienced killers. And as good as Pyrrha was to make it a square fight, Ruby knew the mathematics of this equation even better than she knew how to calculate force. There was only one way this fight ended, and Ruby’s thoughts cleared as she solved it. The mass of a bullet times the acceleration of the propellant measured against the inertial force and structural integrity of the human skull...
Pyrrha jerked back, but too far this time. No longer cloaked by Yang, she was just a target down range of Beacon’s best damn gunslinger. Time slowed down as Ruby’s rifle slid upwards in time to put her head directly in her scope, no further, Ruby’s finger moving automatically to squeeze… but not fast enough to not notice that Pyrrha’s body twisted, her shoulder, her arm already moving even faster than Ruby herself was to- to raise her shield? That wouldn’t- OH!
AWK!
LINE BREAK JAUNE
Slipping from his bonds hadn’t been easy, but Jaune had practiced, regularly, in escape artistry. It was an old hobby of his, a fascination with knots and ties, the ways to bind someone and the way to escape those binds. The sort of thing that helped focus his mind, helped him remember that the mastery of any subject came with a counter-mastery of undoing what was known. And learning how to keep prisoners meant learning how to escape captors.
He’d give the Schnee some credit, though. She was good at this. Better, much better, than any street gang Jaune had been expecting. Even more than he figured they should be with Schnee money backing up the experience Belladonna brought to the table. Smart and sophisticated, blending high and low society work and contacts, they were a foe that could make a real threat to the Temple if they were hired by the right person.
But, of course, as far as the Temple knew, they weren’t. Because Jaune had assessed organizations in and around the Quarter, had combed through the information he and Ren had been able to acquire, and they figured Belladonna and Xiao Long were involved in their issues because of the personal issue between them and Ilia Amitola. They’d found an answer that made sense, that they’d accidentally blundered into a spat between former comrades, and it had given them tunnel vision. Now Jaune could piece together the real story, that Belladonna and Xiao Long were employed by Schnee, who’d been hired by someone to target the Temple. But he was the only one who had the pieces together, the only one who actually knew what was going on, and that meant rescue wasn’t likely unless he got lucky.
Which was why he had to do things the risky, unpleasant, personally aggravating way.
Rubbing his sore shoulder, Jaune knew that it wouldn’t be much of an asset in getting out of here. Xiao Long had bruised the back of his knee damn good before knocking him out, but the shoulder he had done himself. It had been necessary to dislocate it—painful, but Jauen was a Sacristan of the Enlightened Temple of the Juniper Bough. Pain was just the grip of the Fallen World around the untouchable soul, and no clergyman could claim true belief unless he had trained his mind to disregard what was little more than the body’s feeble attempt at dominion. And while Jaune’s faith might have cooled, he’d been well trained in enduring any amount of mortification of the flesh, whether in heat, cold, starvation… or pulling his arm out of its socket. But even if pain had no hold on him, his arm was of the Fallen World—and its injury rendered it less effective than he’d like for an escape.
Moving carefully from his “cell,” obviously a converted room in the safehouse, Jaune knew that just getting out of his bonds wasn’t going to be enough. Even getting out of the building might not be enough. Belladonna didn’t seem to hold turf like most gangs, since she had Schnee money and business connections to turn to for income, but she wouldn’t put her safehouse somewhere she couldn’t consider friendly territory. And he really wasn’t in a condition to sprint. But once he was out, he could orient himself to the city, and from there-
Footsteps.
Jaune ducked behind a table for concealment. They didn’t sound like Belladonna from what Jaune noticed from the interrogation, and the step was far too light to be someone like Xiao Long’s… Jaune didn’t have a good grasp of what he was up against, and there were a lot of things that could go wrong, but it seemed like the quiet option was going out the window no matter what he did, so right now, it was time for a high risk move.
Rushing forward, his heart leapt at the sight of Weiss Schnee, by herself, unguarded and no longer standing over a bound prisoner. She might be smart—might even be smarter than he was—but Jaune had experience with violence that an aristocrat slumming it in the streets couldn’t come close to. Even in his state, he had every advantage against an unarmed, alone aristocrat. And she would make an excellent hostage.
Confidence rising in his chest, Jaune grinned and said, “Looks like it’s-”
Before hurling himself out of the way.
Reflex had kicked in as he watched Weiss’s hands move, not to cover her face or protect herself as any regular aristocrat might respond to a criminal leaping at them, but instead, her hand moved to her waist and-
BLAM!
The explosion of the gunshot boomed in Jaune’s ear, far, far louder than the small caliber of her sidearm should actually be. It was the sound of shock and surprise, of being a second from getting caught off guard, his hearing sharpened by adrenaline as the bullet whizzed just an inch past him as he tumbled behind a table. His fist jerked upwards to flip it over into proper cover, the clatter and crash of everything on it tumbling to the ground as Jaune swore at his own stupidity.
Twice now, twice he’d underestimated the white-haired girl who looked so ridiculous in her faux-city getup. The first had let her cut him deep, the second nearly killed him… but Jaune didn’t have time for self-recrimination. Weiss had a gun and knew how to use it. Jaune still had the upper hand.
If she had been smart, she would have backed up, maybe called for help—though the gunshot would have been noise enough to let everyone know, so… she was by herself, that was why. She was closing in to finish the job because she was making the same mistake he had. A single-shot self defense gun, but she was probably carrying a second, which meant…
Jaune vaulted over the table. Weiss was expecting him, but not the tablecloth he flipped up—damn lucky it hadn’t gotten pinned when he flipped the table—and as the white sheet flew up like a morning mist, she pulled the trigger too soon—BLAM!—a bullet hole appearing in the sheet, but not nearly close enough to even graze Jaune’s body as he carried forward and lunged at his captor. His foot hit the ground. She flung the pistol at him, but Jaune deflected it, smacking it out of the air with his arm. He pushed off for-
Another dodge. For as ludicrous as her city outfit was, it apparently hid two pistols and a knife, this one long and serious—maybe a gift from Belladonna? If so, she’d also gotten training in it—as Jaune had to loop away from the quick slash. What the hell was this girl’s deal? Were all the Schnee daughters sent to military academies? Or was she just training for the inevitable patricide?
Still—she wasn’t really a fighter, and this was clear. Better than what Jaune thought she was capable of, but Jaune wasn’t thinking of her like a spoiled brat any longer. She had good gear and had spent time learning it—the benefit of deep pockets—but she wasn’t of the streets. Didn’t have the experience honed by years of living on the skin of your teeth. Jaune had fought enough people who had, and even if he wasn’t sharp like Nora or Ren were, he knew how to win.
And Weiss just didn’t have that.
Seizing up the tablecloth to use as a net, he charged back at the aristocrat, looking to really make her regret leaving her manor house and thinking she could match wits with real criminals. It was easy enough to tangle up her blade and leave her defenseless as Jaune’s fist—and damn did it hurt to take a swing with his recently dislocated elbow!—caught her across the jaw. It wasn’t much of a punch, but she wasn’t used to taking a crack across the face while for him, pain, like faith or fear, was just another currency a Sacristan traded in.
They tumbled to the floor together, Jaune doing everything he could to keep her from getting a good opportunity to use her knife while she demonstrated that even a spoiled princess could scratch when cornered, her perfectly manicured nails raking Jaune’s face. Scarcely an attack at all, but it was aggravating proof to Jaune that she wasn’t going to stop fighting! Still, they were in close, close combat and Jaune was just bigger and heavier than she was as he slammed her against the floor with his forearm.
And that got the result he’d been hoping for. He saw on her face that this was the first time she’d ever found herself between a desperate man and his freedom, and he savored her fear. Weiss, he’d give her credit, was better in a fight than he’d expected. Didn’t freeze up, didn’t stop fighting. She might even be smarter than he was, a rare compliment from Jaune. But right now, she was out of her depth, and every advantage Jaune had he now leveraged against-
WHANNN-NNNNN-NNG
The blow to his head took him by surprise, but Jaune was on too much of a tear to let it stop him. But it still forced him to roll off of Weiss to get some distance from his sudden attacker. A Faunus girl, her skin giving her away as likely Ilia Amitola, holding a silver tea tray in hand and a look of wild determination on her face. She… she might be a journalist, but she was ex-White Fang. Just like Belladonna. Gritting his teeth, Jaune saw as Weiss also rolled back on her feet, a little unsteady, and the same fear in her eyes, but still determined to fight. Two on one now, and the advantages weren’t on his side. But Jaune had gone too far now to surrender. This was it, everything on the line. He could still take Weiss as a hostage could still… there were still options here.
And if there weren’t, well, if they thought they were going to take him alive...
LINE BREAK YANG
“NO!”
Yang cried out as she heard the sickening sound of Pyrrha’s shield striking Ruby, the clatter of her beloved rifle falling from the rooftop. Pyrrha had moved so swiftly, so fluidly, Yang hadn’t realized what she was doing as she fell back until the shield was already being hurled like a discus.
Yang prayed that Ruby was okay. That she was alright, that her sister, the one person who truly mattered wasn’t-
But the fear that rose up within Yang’s gut was far too flammable to survive as it erupted into yet more of the boundless wrath that brought her saber up and set it whirling towards Pyrrha. The girl was good, but she wasn’t any fucking goddess, just a woman who hurt Yang’s SISTER!
She felt the ring of metal against metal all up her arm as Pyrrha blocked her blade. It was almost funny, seeing the antiquated Mistralian blade dance in her hands. No shield, and yet, she fluidly switched her style as though she’d never even had one in the first place. Fine—Yang had fought plenty of fencers in her time. Yang’s sword was good for it, more modern than Pyrrha’s, an officer’s cavalry saber that she’d acquired off a military man who discovered his command of military matters didn’t translate well to his overseas business ventures. It was a very nice piece of work, solidly constructed and well forged—damn heavy to boot—an expensive piece that had the cold, hard practicality of a tool devised for parting men from their blood. The way their blades crossed, ancient and modern and both in the exact same task as it had ever been…
But Blake was the poetic one. Yang was the muscle. She swung, hacked, really, delivering the brute, brainless strength that would exhaust this so-called Vessel while Blake would get her chance to introduce a stiletto to Pyrrha’s kidneys. And maybe “goddesses” like Pyrrha didn’t get tired, but the furnace roaring inside Yang told her she wasn’t going to get tired either!
It was too much to keep inside. Snarling into a roar, Yang bellowed, “You’re no goddess! I’ve seen you bleed, just the same as any of us in the gutters!”
Pyrrha didn’t rise to it, spinning away from Yang’s strike just as Blake moved in on her attack. Clearly, she was trying to get the two of them to trip each other up, but Yang had fought with Blake long enough that they were like her own right and left hands. Stepping back to bait an attack from Pyrrha, she swung forward, not a slash, but using the guard like a set of brass knuckles to clock the bitch in the face.
No luck, but it did force Pyrrha backwards, an opportunity Blake leapt to take advantage of. This time, not trying to stick Pyrrha with her dagger, but rather, to trap her sword between her blades. It would be nothing for Pyrrha to fight off—lady was as damned strong as Yang was from the way she swung that sword!—but with Yang pressing her forward, Blake was able to flip the blade out of Pyrrha’s hands, sending the metal skittering across the paving stones.
She might have been unarmed, but not too long ago, it was three on one with a rifle having the drop on her, so Yang only really bellowed “GIVE!” because she needed something to yell. The way Pyrrha fluidly morphed into an unarmed fighting stance—another gods-damned Mistralian brawler—gave Yang her answer even before she whispered, “Never.”
Yang swung again, but Pyrrha switched up her approach, instead turning her attention to Blake, still in close from disarming her. A solid kick met Blake across the thigh, lashing out faster than Yang had ever seen in the Pits, and before Yang could do a damn thing, Pyrrha took a swing at Blake’s throat. Yang forced her off before the hit could properly connect, but it still left Blake bruised and winded, just in time for Pyrrha to keep up the assault. Yang wasn’t fast enough to force Pyrrha’s attention back to her, but the hell if she wasn’t-
It was then that Yang realized that Pyrrha’s attacks had been a feint. Blake had never been her real target, but as Yang was focused on getting Pyrrha’s attention and controlling her movement, it left Yang blind to what Pyrrha was really moving towards. A roundhouse kick passed through Yang’s unprepared defenses to smash into her chest and send her toppling backwards, her saber falling from her hands as all the air rushed from her lungs.
She would have sworn if she had the ability to say anything. But with Yang falling flat on her ass, it was now one versus one… where one was some kind of freakshow in antiquated armor and the ability to just smash through whatever the hell she wanted to. Yang tried to throw herself back up on her feet, but now Yang’s body felt the effects of going all out earlier. Adrenaline waned as her muscles screamed in protest. And either way, no one alive could move fast enough before Pyrrha launched a series of precise, powerful strikes leaving Blake crying out in pain as her stilettos dropped to ground just as easily as the rest of the blades had been so discarded.
Disarmed, overwhelmed, and on her own, Blake was powerless to defend herself as Pyrrha’s hand shot forward to catch her by the neck and show how much taller she was as she lifted Blake off her feet, leaving her boots dangling in the air.
Her hand shot forward, too clumsy for Pyrrha not to dodge it, but… but she didn’t realize what Blake was reaching for. Even as Pyrrha’s head bobbed backwards, the trailing tail of her blindfold was there for Blake to seize on as she yanked upwards and ripped off the blindfold, revealing Nikos’s brilliant green eyes… that were utterly unprepared for the sudden appearance of light.
Yang didn’t have an opportunity to take advantage of the moment, but Blake suddenly delivered a savage and unexpected kick, her body moving too fast for the stunned Nikos to handle, right into the Amazon’s stomach. Her grip loosened, Blake pulled backwards, tumbling to the ground on unsteady legs, but Yang realized that the reason Nikos seemed to be getting bigger was because Yang was charging forward, catching her foe in a full on tackle and knocking her to the ground.
Nikos was taller than Yang, but now that Yang was on top of her, it didn’t matter. Raining down blow after blow, savagely punching the absolute shit out of the so-called demigod, Yang punched with wild abandon, no sense or direction to anything she did other than a desire to inflict pain as a last ditch effort to stop her foe. She felt her knuckles turn wet from blood as she slammed fist after fist into-
A sudden, sharp pain in her side made Yang cry out, followed by another blow directly into her solar plexus. Unable to balance, Nikos easily threw her off, sending Yang tumbling to the ground as Pyrrha staggered up to her feet. But no matter how tired Yang was, no matter how good this bitch was, Yang was spattered in proof that this was no goddess. This was a mortal human being, maybe one who was strong as hell, but still someone who was bound by the same rules any other human lived with. Rules about what was and wasn’t possible, about how everyone had someone stronger than them. How everyone met their match eventually.
Raising up her bloodied fists, Yang glanced to Blake, even more exhausted and bruised than she was, but just as resolute as the both of them launched forward, doing what they could to just eke out that last inch, to bring her down and just end this! But as Yang swung, she was too clumsy by half, Pyrrha’s forearm catching her inside the elbow as her knee rose up to smash Yang’s abdomen. Blake dodged a punch only to take a kick to the head that dropped her like a stone. And now that Yang was in the one on one…
Well, the fuck she was going down easy.
She swung, bellowing in rage and pain as blow after blow missed. Pyrrha had lost a step, she wasn’t some war goddess anymore with blood running down her face, but she sure as fuck wasn’t going down just yet. A part of Yang knew the fight was lost before Pyrrha’s fist smashed her nose, a part of her pleaded for Yang to give up before the uppercut cracked her jaw, and a part of Yang stopped responding entirely because her brain didn’t work so good when fighting someone as strong as she was, but she kept on- kept on swinging.
She managed to get a good hit in, something hard and sharp enough to break Pyrrha off her assault as Yang gave her a black eye, but Yang didn’t have enough juice to give her the followup. All she had the energy for was to keep her arms raised up, manage her stance… while her center of balance roiled beneath her like she was standing on the deck of a ship.
“You’re not...” Yang panted, trying to stay steady on her feet, “y-you’re not so… tough.”
But it was just words. Yang’s body just didn’t have enough to
“You’re no goddess,” she croaked out, hardly any air in her lungs for words, “J-just human, n’ human means you’ve… means someones always better’n-”
She wasn’t given the chance to finish her sentence. Nikos strode forward and simply shoved Yang aside like so much garbage, the undefeated champion of the Ring crumpling into an insensate heap without so much as a last word. Because Nikos didn’t care to talk, didn’t care about what rules the world worked by, didn’t care about anything of this world other than the man they had in their hideout.
It was the last thought Yang had before she blacked out.
