Here is the first half of chapter 2, and the entirety of the M v S fight scene. Figured I'd post it and update the working title to keep the momentum going. This is by no means completed in itself, and because I plan on doing quite a bit of revision feel free to criticize constructively.
Chapter 2 (Part 1)
The realization that she was under attack had come within perhaps a second of the gale's impending impact, and Samus relished the precious split seconds before disaster in combat. She had seen enough of them in her lifetime to understand what true gifts they were. Her perception of time slowed and her engaged muscles fell habitually flaccid, allowing her to fall nimbly backward toward the beach. She thrust her heels out as she neared the ground, hurling herself over the cliff's edge. Watching the piercing edge of the black wind rush over her she began her descent, pulling herself into a graceful backward somersault that landed her square on her metal feet below.
She immediately aimed her cannon at the cliffs after landing, ready to fire as soon as she saw or sensed the source of that gale, whatever he, she, or it was. She reflected dourly while she kept her vigil.
What luck today. The first sign of possible intelligence on this frozen chunk of rock would decide to attack me. I'll be damned if they're all that reactionary around here.
And what of that attack? Samus had never seen anything like it before. It had seemed distinctly non-physical, but also did not have the properties of an energy or a distortion attack. Yet it was so foreboding, so fearsome. She had the impression that, had it struck, it would have burned or frozen her very soul. She decided that she could not risk being subject to another attack of that nature as she steadied her arm cannon and her mind.
The tides within him had calmed. The act of sending the gale at his returned nemesis had appeased the darkness within, but he could not stop. Nor did he want to, really. There was too much to be settled with this nuisance even without the new turbulence amiss.
He had watched his opponent go over the cliff, and had heard the frightening metallic impact on the ground below. He wondered what he'd see below if he looked over the cliff. How had Dalton fared after the fall? There was no hint of death on the breeze, something for which he had an creepily keen sense. He gleefully imagined Dalton laying injured on the rocky shore for a second, then he realized he had not heard a scream that would indicate such a possibility. He's lying in wait, the masked man thought, wondering if his identity was known to his opponent. Surely Dalton would relish testing his strange metal contraption on an old nemesis.
There was no telling what to expect from him now, so the masked man decided to test the waters. He muttered an archaic incantation and talked in bold, mathematically precise hand gestures to the ether. An invisible barrier surrounded him, dulling the crisp ocean breeze. He walked with a taunting, sauntering stride toward the cliff edge, retrieving and ornate sickle from beneath his cloak with which he was ready and very willing to deliver a swift gouging blow despite his liquid outward demeanor.
What he was not ready for was the sudden violent eruption of dozens of feet of cliff edge and a towering white-hot plasmic blaze before him. The monumental explosion sent debris from sand to small boulders ripping through the air in his direction. He leaped into the air, hoisting his cloak like an updraft in his free hand and closed his eyes. He became a mote of dust carried on a chaotic wind removed from the passage of time until he emerged from the air out of harm's way, and not a moment after he had disappeared. He landed a safe distance behind a where he once stood, and watched a rain of formidable rubble form a considerable pile upon that spot, appreciating that his barrier would not have withstood the onslaught.
So, Dalton had almost pulled one over on him. He was astonished that, for once, he had actually underestimated the self-righteous twit. He was also very surprised at the sudden need for strategic consideration in this endeavor. It was possible that Dalton did have the upper hand with regard to firepower, which meant he needed to rely on the element of surprise. He hatched a devious plan to frighten his opponent into submission as he sped over the snowy plain to place adequate distance between the two of them.
She had caught the sight what looked like a blue lock of hair blowing on the breeze when she had decided to decimate the cliff edge. She was fairly certain that what she had seen had been her attacker, but as to the nature of her attacker she was still uncertain. The wisp of blue could have been etheric or material, but whatever it was it had just been in the path of an immense trail of heavy debris. She would have to go up to investigate sooner or later, so she rushed to do it while she had a potential upper hand.
She ran quickly up her chosen path to the high ground, and first turned her attention to the rubble pile she had created, hoping to see a dazed... something. She panicked when she saw no sign of life by the blast site, and quickly scanned the surrounding terrain until, for the first time, she got a clear but distant view of her opponent. Across the snowy ground she spied what was indeed a humanoid wearing a dark heavy cloak and sporting long flowing blue hair. He or she (or it) was facing away from her, but Samus did not get the impression that she was being let off the hook. The humanoid stood perfectly still, so still that --
Samus whipped around to catch her opponent poised for an attack behind her and raising – was that a scythe? Her expression when she gazed at him must have mirrored his expression when he realized he'd been caught. Her mouth gaped and twisted beneath her makeshift scarf. Her goggled eyes squinted as she tried to hold on to the fleeting moments when she could see his masked face before he vanished. Astonishment rushed over her. He was practically a human, but at the same time more like something born of the imaginations of humans. Depictions of mythical elves and the legendary Erl-king sprang to mind, which she quickly chased out as she commanded her attentions to survey the ground once more, then the sky just to be on the safe side. Her feet nimbly rotated her to survey all angles, maintaining a wide combat-ready stance. The thorough visual scan yielded nothing. He had really vanished.
She had seen similar phenomena from beings who, by strange twists of evolution, extraordinary cosmic events, or advanced technology had a far reaching command of matter and energy. But the appearance of the masked man had unleashed long resting superstitions in her subconscious. She wondered if she was facing something, someone more sublime. More real. Her wondering set her more on the defensive, her panicked survey resumed. She hoped that it would not be too late when she next caught sight of him.
He watched with some satisfaction the panic in Dalton's movements as he surveyed the landscape, pointing that dreadful cannon in whatever direction his suspicions commanded him to observe. Still, the fact that he had now been caught off-guard twice by the wretch sat about as well with him as spoiled meat. He felt his inner monster seethe again, releasing a steady stream of hatred into his blood. He was relieved to feel the familiar black tide begin to rise again. It was becoming increasingly clear that in order to subdue Dalton he would have to employ a more ruthless tactic.
Veiled from the view of his opponent, he walked gingerly in the snow to a new point of onslaught, keeping the sound of his foot steps well below the decibel of the breeze. At the onset of his dash he knew his magic veil would be lifted, and Dalton would get a clear but hurried shot in before he would vanish, reappearing elsewhere to repeat this tactic until exhaustion or confusion set in for his opponent. Then he would unleash what he hoped would be the final nail in the coffin, so to speak; the vicious attack that would finally subdue Dalton. He still had no intention of killing Dalton, but he also had no intention of letting this opportunity to have a great deal of sadistic fun at his expense to pass by untapped.
Before lunging into the initial dash he stopped to get another good look in at his target. The poor fool still had that cannon extended, twitching this way and that on a whim. He was probably begging for mercy inside. Mercy, unfortunately, would come later. For now he would have to live with being a much appreciated plaything.
The masked man readied his scythe to look appropriately menacing. He then charged ferociously, accelerating at such a pace that his vision quickly tunneled around his target. His target had taken notice of his sudden appearance quickly, hoisting that cannon so that he found himself staring down the barrel. But at the first hint of illumination in the now poised cannon he swiftly employed his disappearing tactic, riding the chaotic wind wherever it decided to take him. He set down, quickly found his opponent, and began another swift dash, disappearing in a similar fashion when he observed a similar cue.
He worked at a pace he could easily maintain, and to his relief he found Dalton's reaction time slowing. He could strike when he found himself in a suitable position behind his wearied nemesis. Far sooner than he had expected, he suddenly found himself dashing conveniently toward the back side of his unflinching opponent. He prepared to unleash what would be an ineffective strike against the metal skin compounded with a wicked perceptual attack, until he noticed that the metal skin for which he was aiming suddenly began to glow a fearsome shade of violet. Instead of completing his hovering dash, he promptly halted and threw himself on the ground, hurriedly whipping his cloak over any bare patch of skin. It seemed like his cloak, along with the magic shield, did little to lessen the unpleasantness of the release of stored energy from that contraption. The masked man could barely keep his composure as waves of burning, distortion, and electrical shock rushed over and through him. But, this is even better, he thought himself as the energetic storm subsided. He won't expect it now.
He sensed the machination turn to face him, and knew it would soon annihilate him with a blast from that cannon, so he drew up his cloak and rode the chaotic wind once more. With considerably less gusto he fell out of thin air behind his opponent, but he had just enough of a grasp of the moment to send the scythe edge into Dalton's armored side, watching it slide ineffectively along the metal skin, but hearing a scream that indicated his opponent perceiving a gouging fatal slash through the abdomen. He would now only have to disable that atrocious cannon as Dalton flailed, struggling to hold on to his supposed last moments of life.
But “Dalton” did no such thing. In fact “Dalton”, instead of crumbling and panicking, launched into a graceful backwards arcing jump, gliding masterfully over the head of the masked man who knelt rather ungracefully in awe that he had not yet won this battle. And now, in retrospect, the masked man realized that the scream that he had heard from “Dalton” had sounded distinctly feminine. A razor sharp pain erupted in his left temple, and he found himself suddenly on all fours struggling to hold on to his consciousness as he heard the feet of his mysterious opponent set deep into the ground behind him. That dreaded cannon was aimed right at him; he knew it.
He now solemnly awaited his burning hot demise at the hand of this mysterious worthy adversary, half welcoming what he felt to be a suitable fate. After he had traded his blessed serenity for vengeance on a phantom trespasser, and had subjected an undeserving woman to his fiendish design, he wondered if there was really any hope for him in this life. Even if he had wanted to hold onto it, guilt coupled with injury and exhaustion weighed him down too heavily for him to try to escape. He spread his limbs and allowed the whole of his being to sink into the snow, relishing the sensation of the numbing powder melting against his skin. He sent a sole silent prayer into the ether as he prepared for his end to come.
Schala, forgive me...
Samus had suspected early on in the fight that her attacker had not wanted to end her life. She had known that he was been holding back for some reason, and when she had felt the distinct hideous sensation of a psychic slash cut through her, she had realized that he was trying to not only subdue her, but to break her viciously for some terrifying unknown purpose. Although she had been in a great deal of pain following his psychic attack, she knew that the best way to catch him off guard in return would be to execute a maneuver that let him know that she was not going to be fooled that easily. She reeled back into the arcing jump, emphasizing her awareness that her abdominal muscles were in tact. As her feet passed overhead and she spied her dumbstruck opponent on the ground, she felt the time was right to add injury to insult and knocked him roughly across his head with her arm cannon. She stuck her landing behind him, straining slightly against the added momentum from her swipe, and waited for him to attempt another bold move so she could feel justified in blowing him to kingdom come.
Unexpectedly, her opponent had just settled face down and spread-eagle in the snow, as though he had no intention of even trying to get up. She caught herself letting her guard down, but then quickly realized that this could be his new tactic. She had to let him know that she wouldn't fall for his trickery this time around either, so she ripped the scarf from her face and lashed an abrasive, but honest verbal warning.
“Don't think I'll stop at giving you a concussion, or making your life flash before your eyes, or knocking you around for my own damn amusement! I'll blow your head off, you sick son of a bitch!” She hadn't expected him to be able to understand her, but felt that the air surrounding her words would drive the point home well enough. Still, he remained a picture of death in the snow. She began to wonder if she had really hit him on the head that hard.
“Are you going to kill me?” came a deep, barely audible whisper from the man in the snow.
She physically jumped, electrified. Her stomach churned nervously. Now was not the time she had expected to be caught speechless, but she couldn't help but reviewing the arsenal of possible replies to what she could have sworn was a discernible question. She settled quickly on a pragmatic one.
“Are you going to fight me?”
“No,” came the soft spoken and solemn reply..
Her guard was like a stone wall. She fired back, astonished, angry, and demanding, “What?!”
The strange man now moved slowly, gathering his splayed limbs to his core, and very carefully turning on his side so that he could attempt sitting up and facing her. He managed a seated posture more suitable for addressing her, and removed the mask that had covered his cheeks and brow. His red eyes pierced her in a way she knew few sets of eyes could.
“I am not going to fight you.”
He had spoken this assurance with almost haunting sincerity, but Samus could not help but keep a biting cynicism about her when she asked him a perfectly reasonable follow-up question.
“Then what in the hell was all of that about?!”
His steady countenance remained unperturbed. “I thought you were someone; a man...”
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I'm still deciding on how Samus should react when she hears she's been mistaken for a man on top of everything else.
