Cerin Cornine
Cerin took a deep breath and kept his air shield up while he let the visions dance in the other's mind. He knew that his air shield was dangerous to hold for too long, but he also knew that he needed to take an attack. He wasn't stupid as much as stubborn. After all, when it came to stolen powers, he knew that sooner rather than later they would portray. He could have learned the elements, he could have been taught by his father, but he had refused and now all he had was a mix of both his father's powers and ones he stole from a person who controlled elements. Neither was happy to be used
He had learned early on in obtaining these powers that air was the one that did the least damage to him when he stopped using it. Fire was a slow burn to him, quite literally, leaving behind scorch marks that would heal over time. Water took water from his blood and made it so he needed to replenish fast.
When it came to the earth, it took all to stand after using it. Air was simple to use as it often lead to short breathness and needing a few moments to recover. He however never did test the limits and was certain that if he tried something drastic, it would come back to hurt him. Short breathness was bad in a battle, but it was better than being easier to kill.
He had taken the moment to make his double appear in the arena and moved out of the way of any attack. Sadly, the air shield wasn't something that he could double with him, but it was not like he had done nothing.
He hadn't expected him to make a sword, but he also hadn't expected to be exhausting much of his abilities in the first fight. It was ironic that he had gotten the hardest opponent on his first go, but it was about to get worse. He knew what he had to do, but he also knew that it was stupid and dumb. Then again, living up to his name had been something he had dealt with his whole life. Cerin Cornine. Cornine meant fighter, manipulator, devil or angel depending on the circles you traveled in. But Cerin had a different meaning. One that was simple and perfectly exemplified him.
Cerin was an old Gaelic name, one that his mother, Lily had given him. She was not the nicest lady and wasn't opposed to abandoning children. She had abandoned him like his three before him. But his name were her last gift. Cerin quite literally translated to Little Dark One and boy had he lived up to the name.
Cerin let him be hit as he knew what it would do. The air shield bounced the attack away from them both. But what came next was something he had only ever done one. He moved towards his doppelganger and quickly part way at the same time, concentrating on the dissapiated air, making it heavier and harder to breath in around Cole. Yes, it was easy to dodge, But it wasn't what he was doing. He crushed the air, cutting off al the oxygen fast. It might kill him, but if it didn't, well Cerin was a man of many tricks.
" Stiles Stilinski" Void Stiles( Nogitsune)
" Stiles" did not take the hand and looked at him. "
One, Steven, my name is not kid. It's.. you know, at this point, it doesn't matter to anyone now. Mason has already figured out that I'm not his Stiles. You may call me Void Stiles," he said, for anyone who was listening, noticing that there was a change in tone. The voice didn't even sound like Stiles. The Nogitsune looked over at Mason, deciding it was worth it to see his reaction if he was paying attention.
Void Stiles wished he was home to summon the Oni to make this battle better but alas, it was not to be. He would have to use what he had and whatever was near him. It was fun while it lasted though, but like all good things, he knew that if he wanted to win the fight, he was going to have let his full power be released. Thankfully, he wasn't as weak as before it would seem.
He was happy that at least there was someone who he could feed off of nearby. He looked over at him and didn't even bother to blink or respond to him as it would seem.
Void Stiles teleported out of the way and behind Steven. "
Mr. Armstrong, I don't believe that anyone has ever had anyone like me," he said, letting the illusion of the form of Stiles Stilinski. Where there had once been a teenage boy, now stood a creature that looked like it had stepped out of a horror movie.
" You really shouldn't charge before an unknown enemy, you assume you know what I am, but you couldn't be wrong, Mr. Armstrong," he said, changing the environment around them to be more of an abandoned office building. " For one, you assume I am a boy and that's your mind strong enough to not be broken, but where are we now? Is the environment what changed or am I in your head?" he replied, before picking up an abandoned chair and throwing at him. The chair was not real, but it would allow him an opening to punch the distracted Armstrong if he was successful.
@Cromartous
The vacuum drained the air from Cole's chest with nothing more than a gasp, sending his body into a crippling state of shock. No matter how hard he had attempted to guard himself, from Cerin's attacks, he seemed to have a habit of catching him off guard. Cerin had become more than just the warrior- he was the tricker, the jack, drawing cards from the bottom of the deck while his fellow gamblers counted their chips. Even his defensive strikes seemed to be incredibly calculated; while Cole had been playing checkers, Cerin had been playing poker and had been staring at Cole's cards while he had futilely tried to move his pieces.
Always one step ahead. Always one step behind.
Before he had the chance to accept the gravity of the situation, Cole's thunder began to flicker out like the last sparks of the night's campfire. His hands still remained blue, though this time they pulsed from starved bloody and not pure power. His rug had been pulled out from beneath him, and with it, fades the warm glow of his excess electricity; should he fail, the light in his eyes would soon join the light of his body.
Almost at an instant, his vision began to blur, red steeples of crimson piercing the corner of his eyes like the roof of a cave, robbing him of his focus. Soon his balance joined his vision in hell, played off by the violent cracking of his ears. He was drowning on land, every noise rattling deep into his head like whale song. Only one dreamed filled his mind; the shadow that pursues all dreams, death. He felt its warm embrace engulf with, the reaper holding him in her arms like a mother would her babe. It felt like coming home. Like warm cocoa on the tongue. Like a lullaby to his ears. It beckoned him to give in. The let the world follow its course. To let the river take him to where he needed to be. He tried to speak out to her with crackled lips, but his words fell on deaf ears. The Maradona understands not her babies cry, but she hears the spirit behind them. He felt a ghostly hand stroke his cheek, wiping the tears of fear and anguish from his eyes. He reached out for it but felt nothing but the void. The number of his fingertips seemed to mix in with the air. He seemed to become one with the world again. From the dust he came, and dust he would soon be.
Lighting strikes bright, but it never strikes long.
But in his dying moments, he knew that lighting would strike twice.
His final heartbeats let the mists of vapor dance from his fingertips, cascading from his trembling hands and off into the darkness of his clenched eyes. With each silent cry, his whispered tears seemed to rise from his face, gliding sky-bound like birds from next. Every pore seemed to open wide and weep, their gaping mouthings spilling more frosty smoke in mourning for Cole's coming passing. From every nook and every crevice, misty tears seemed to creep and rise, joining their brethren on their father's cheek.
And beneath those dying eyes, one might see... a flicker.
A sparkling light calling out from a deadman's cheek, glowing for a heartbeat before fading once more. A trick of the light. A trick of the eye. An illusion.
Then came another, brighter than before. Lingering like the swan song of a distant star, reaching out across the cosmos long after its collapse. Then came another, leaping from one cheek to the next like salmon against the current, living twice as long as its predecessors. Then came another, and another, and another.
Until the dam broke.
Light rippled through the cloud at Cole's face, letting the vapor erupt with light, and soar with more rigor and life that one might have imagined. As if possessed by some distant force, the vapor became a man alive, leaping as an Olympian into the quivering lips of the passing soul. It reaches out to prying eyes even from deep within the Tomb of Cole McGrath, willing his frosty body with a newfound warmth and heart.
With the suddenness and the star it had once been, the vapor reached critical mass, flooding the fallen titan with newfound might. He was reborn from the brink of passing, with boat caught at the mouth of the river Styx. Motion returned to his statue. Lighting coursed through his veins once more. The Electric Man rose to his feet and spoke with a voice of thunder.
"It takes a lot more than that to kill the Electric Man!" He boomed, his flesh alive with purple thunder. "I've been playing with the weather for years. I wouldn't recommend hitting the ball into my field"
All the fragility had faded from his system. Lost in a sea of cloud, Cole let himself become a titan of thunder, his glowing figure reaching through the smoke and fog. Death had been denied her prey by a sudden burst of air and resuscitation in a storm cloud. The trick wouldn't work twice, and death always dealt a new hand. He let his facade shine true, the glowing figure casting the shadow of a storm across the battlefield, with icy white lightning woven between each black cloud. The light that had granted him a rebirth, and raised him back from the brink of defeat granted him a final blessing; a minefield of thunder dancing from above, keeping his foe at bay, and a veil of fog to save his dignity.
His facade of might aside, his body desperately cried out for rest. Mere moments ago his heart was ready to whisper out its final song; he was in no condition to defend himself, let alone launch a counter attack. His body had been broken and tossed aside by the elements he had just wrestled control over, and although his Ionic storm could protecting him for now, he prayed to God for more time. Every second he was graced with feeling like a lifetime, as he summoned the winds to funnel more oxygen into his lungs and more lightening to his bones. Though threat to his life may have passed, and the air now bent to his will once more, but he now had to place his faith in lighting. May its strikes keep Cerin at bay, and may its clouds spare him from the gaze of evil.
" Stiles Stilinski" Void Stiles( Nogitsune)
" Stiles" did not take the hand and looked at him. "
One, Steven, my name is not kid. It's.. you know, at this point, it doesn't matter to anyone now. Mason has already figured out that I'm not his Stiles. You may call me Void Stiles," he said, for anyone who was listening, noticing that there was a change in tone. The voice didn't even sound like Stiles. The Nogitsune looked over at Mason, deciding it was worth it to see his reaction if he was paying attention.
Void Stiles wished he was home to summon the Oni to make this battle better but alas, it was not to be. He would have to use what he had and whatever was near him. It was fun while it lasted though, but like all good things, he knew that if he wanted to win the fight, he was going to have let his full power be released. Thankfully, he wasn't as weak as before it would seem.
He was happy that at least there was someone who he could feed off of nearby. He looked over at him and didn't even bother to blink or respond to him as it would seem.
Void Stiles teleported out of the way and behind Steven. "
Mr. Armstrong, I don't believe that anyone has ever had anyone like me," he said, letting the illusion of the form of Stiles Stilinski. Where there had once been a teenage boy, now stood a creature that looked like it had stepped out of a horror movie.
" You really shouldn't charge before an unknown enemy, you assume you know what I am, but you couldn't be wrong, Mr. Armstrong," he said, changing the environment around them to be more of an abandoned office building. " For one, you assume I am a boy and that's your mind strong enough to not be broken, but where are we now? Is the environment what changed or am I in your head?" he replied, before picking up an abandoned chair and throwing at him. The chair was not real, but it would allow him an opening to punch the distracted Armstrong if he was successful.
@Cromartous
The Senator laughed his first true laugh of the tournament. Unlike his previous scoffs or chuckles, this one hadn't been orchestrated or exaggerated to prove some obnoxious point; his laugh rang loud and true, a tremor from the deepest depths of his throat. For once, he wasn't laughing at someone around him. He wasn't laughing about some bizarre, overly optimistic policy laid down by the opposition. He wasn't laughing at the weekly protest, or even at the latest report from President Hamilton. He was laughing at himself, for what might have been the first time in his adult life. This 'Void' Stiles kid had really pulled a number on him. The world that stood before him- all rubble and rocks- was an entirely new battlefield for him to adapt to, real or not. Every step he took he risked falling down a new rabbit hole, or charging headfirst into one of the monuments standing at the corners of the old ring. Even his nanomachines weren't able to keep up with the illusion. He had to take his hat off to him for that.
"You've done well, kid. You've done 'well'" The Senator grinned, slowing his charge and regaining his composure. Even in his newfound humor, he had no intention of changing Stiles' nickname. Bandages or not, Steven knew that behind all the monsters and masks, there still hid a man scarcely old enough to stop worrying about his pimples. Steven had always lived by a devout creed, even in his own youth; respect was earned with time, and it took at least another decade of experience for the Senator to call Stiles by his given name. Besides, Void Stiles wasn't the only person who knew how to get inside someone's head; it was a classical debating strategy; the angrier someone was, the less directed their argument. Such a pity his was about to assault his foe with his own Achilles heel...
"Lemme start a round of applause for Harry Hou-fucking-dini. You're one step away from Harry Who-fucking-cares, son, but you're little magic tricks amusing at least. You gonna try pulling a bandage out of that mask o' yours?" He made a slow round of applause, each shoe tapping the concrete in a metronomic fashion. He let his nanomachines even out his pulse and lower his adrenaline levels, almost fully leaving his offensive mode and restoring the facade of the friendly State Representative. He needed to his opponent into a false sense of security to fully draw out what he was capable off; he had underestimated him once and let himself be made a fool of. He had no intention of repeating such a mistake. Letting his nanomachines stir and pace beneath his skin like soldiers in a barrack, ready for war. Should they need to, they could rush to arms in a heartbeat, turning his skin to steel again the moment they preempted an attack. His own early warning system was in play. Now all he had to do what wait and see what Nuke the Monster deployed...
"You've impressed me, I'll give you that. But if smoke and mirrors is all you're capable of, you might as well hope out of the ring now, lest you need some real bandages. This ain't little league, pal. You're gonna have to start pulling your weight before one of the adults kicks your ass right back to 7th grade, diapers and all. I hope throwing chairs is not the best you can do, pal" He cried, letting the wood shatter across his shoulder in a momentary flash of chrome.
"Because this ain't the playground anymore- in this world, rock beats paper"
