Grief 7.1c
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Greg's arms flailed wildly as he toppled backward from the edge of the seven-story building, the ground rushing up to meet him.
In a split-second reflex, he twisted in mid-air, reaching for a flagpole in a desperate bid to halt his descent. But his fingers only slipped off the metal, seemingly greased slick, sending a jolt of panic through him. What the…
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He crashed onto the pavement below with a resounding thud, the impact reverberating through his body with such force that he felt something inside him crack. "NGGGH!" The air was knocked from his lungs, and for a moment, the world was nothing but a blur of pain and disoriented lights.
Gritting his teeth, Hardkour pushed against the cold concrete, forcing himself to sit up. "My back!" He groaned out loud, frustration mounting. Why do I keep getting knocked off buildings? It was a fair question, if a rhetorical one, as this was the second time in about a week or so. It just wasn't fair, honestly.
Stumbling back to his feet, Greg scanned the street, his gaze sharp. This side of downtown was quiet — Coil's territory, he knew that — and that was the usual for it. The Empire and the ABB usually stayed clear of it, but people also knew not to loiter around past dark either. Who the fuck is this guy? His eye twitched a moment later. Oh right, an assassin, duh, he told me.
A sound caught his attention and a flicker of movement caught his eye. Hardkour spun, fists raised, just in time to see Slique casually skating down the side of a building, leaving a faint, oily sheen behind him. The villain's lanky form was a blur of motion as he slid, whistling and sounding as happy as a clam.
What kind of jumped-up Me bullshit is this? Greg thought, his eyes narrowing behind his mask as he watched Slique's unnatural movement. Dude's copying my fucking Adhesion, but better?
Slique landed with a soft hop, squatting on the wall with a casual ease that grated on Greg's nerves. He cupped his chin, eyeing Hardkour with an amused smirk that was audible even through his featureless mask. "Man, for the price of this job, I thought you'd be way harder to put down."
Greg's hand twitched, itching to draw his katana from his [Inventory]. He resisted the urge, knowing that revealing his hand too early would be a rookie mistake. Play it cool, Greg. Let him think you're just another mook.
"I wouldn't get ahead of myself," Hardkour rasped, his voice taking on the gravelly tone he reserved for his edgier persona. "You knocked me down, not put me down."
He couldn't see it but he felt like the bastard across from him smiled. "Well, the night's still young," Slique drawled, his voice dripping with condescension.
Greg grinned darkly under his own mask. Oh, you wanna play, huh? Let's play. "And so am I!"
"You'll die that way, yeah," Slique retorted, his tone still infuriatingly casual.
Hardkour tensed, ready to charge, only for his eyes to widen again the instant his feet pushed the ground. He stumbled, arms windmilling as he found himself barely able to pull his feet from the pavement. What the hell?
Slique seized the moment, launching from the wall like a missile. Both feet connected with Greg's chest, the force of the blow sending him skidding back across the street.
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He collided with the side of a parked car, the metal buckling under him with a loud, grating crunch. Slightly gasping for breath, Greg pushed off the crumpled metal, muttering to himself, "What. The fuck?"
He shook his head, trying to get back in the game. "Focus, dumbass," he scolded himself, "You can take harder hits than that."
Okay, Friction Coefficient Modulation. Greg wondered, his mind whirring as he tried to piece together Slique's power. Definitely a Shaker considering the range. Making things slippery or sticky at will?
Slique was already on the move again, ricocheting off surfaces with inhuman agility. He bounded from the wall to a streetlight to a mailbox, each surface seeming to propel him faster, his movements erratic and unpredictable.
Hardkour fully freed himself from the dented car, ignoring the protest of his chest and screaming back. You're fine. Nothing broken. His eyes tracked Slique's movements, waiting for the right moment to strike. Gotta time this just right…
As Slique zoomed in low for another strike, Greg jumped, the force and timing of his move allowing him to clear Slique's attack. He twisted mid-air, aiming a vicious axe kick at Slique's head. Eat this, you slippery son of a—
But Slique moved like oil.
The gray-suited bastard altered course mid-motion, sliding under Hardkour's attack with impossible grace. Greg landed hard, and before he could regain his bearings, he felt a sharp tug at his back as something struck him — a backwards glance had him growl in frustration at the sight of a grappling hook stuck fast there.
"Got ya!" Slique crowed, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "Get over here!"
The Scorpion-wannabe tugged hard, and Greg found himself reeling backwards like a fish on the line. Physics was a bitch, that much was true. Here he was, able to lift about two tons even without reinforcement and he was being treated like a prize-winning haul in a fishing competition. "Son of a-"
"So, tell me about yourself; streets are saying you're a gang lord?" The villain darted in as he spoke, a fist connecting solidly with Hardkour's jaw, and sending his head snapping back. "Holding territory, really? In this city? What's the point?"
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It stung, sure, but wasn't really a hard hit.
Guy barely hits harder than a regular person, Hardkour thought, more annoyed than hurt. It's the damn slipping and sliding that's the real problem.
The ninja teenager lashed out blindly, his enhanced speed allowing him to catch Slique with a glancing blow. The villain danced back, clearly not wanting to trade direct hits. "Come on, it's no San Francisco or New York. It's a shithole."
"It's my shithole, shithead!" Hardkour snarled, his voice rough with anger and exertion. He lunged forward, his fist aimed squarely at Slique's smug face. "And I'm the only one allowed to call it that!"
Slique laughed, the sound grating on Hardkour's nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He slid to the side, Hardkour's punch passing harmlessly through the space where his head had been a moment before. "Ah, I get it. Dog wanting to eat its own vomit situation," Slique said, half-laughing. "How noble."
Hardkour growled, low in his throat. He unleashed a flurry of punches and kicks, each one missing the mark as they slid off the assassin, but forcing Slique on the defensive all the same. "Less talking, more getting your ass kicked!"
For a moment, it seemed like he had the upper hand. His speed and strength allowed him to press the attack, keeping Slique on his toes and unable to retaliate.
Then Slique touched the ground, and suddenly Hardkour's momentum worked against him. His feet slid out from under him, sending him face-first into the pavement with a painful crunch.
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Fuck! Hardkour thought, tasting blood in his mouth. Okay, that one hurt. Guess Sure-Footed doesn't apply when some fucking cape is dicking around with fucking friction as a whole.
Biting down his frustration at the uselessness of one of his most useful Perks, Greg rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding Slique's follow-up strike. The grappling hook slammed into the pavement where his head had been a split second before, cracking the concrete. Hardkour scrambled to his feet, only to find himself stuck fast to the ground.
"What's wrong, bossman?" Slique taunted, circling him like a shark. "Having trouble keeping your footing?"
Hardkour snarled, straining against the invisible force holding him. His enhanced strength allowed him to slowly pry his feet free, but Slique wasn't about to give him the chance.
The villain darted in, spinning his grappling hook like a lasso and slamming it over and over into Greg's legs.
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Each hit was precise, targeting already bruised areas and sending shocks of pain through Hardkour's body.
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Gotta break free. Gotta smash this dickhead into the ground.
With a roar of effort, Hardkour ripped one foot loose. He pivoted and spun, using the momentum to pull the other one free. "You're gonna pay for that, you slippery son of a bitch!"
Before Hardkour could close the distance, Slique darted towards a nearby fire hydrant. What's this slippery fuck up to now? Hardkour thought, eyes narrowing behind his mask.
Slique slapped his hand against the hydrant, seemingly doing nothing. Then, with a powerful kick, he easily knocked the suddenly unstable hydrant clean off its mounting.
Water erupted from the broken connection, gushing onto the street in a powerful spray. In an instant, Slique's hands were a blur, touching the wet ground in a wide arc. The flooded area transformed into a massive slip-and-slide as Slique manipulated its friction.
"Oh, come on!" Hardkour yelled, his voice equal parts frustration and disbelief.
Hardkour's boots skidded across the slick pavement, his enhanced reflexes barely keeping him upright. Slique was everywhere and nowhere, not too fast, but so all-over the place that he defied prediction. The villain's laughter echoed off the buildings, taunting him.
"What's wrong, tough guy?" Slique called out, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Having trouble getting a grip on the situation?"
Cocky piece of shit, Hardkour thought hypocritically, gritting his teeth. He planted his feet, fists raised, trying to track Slique's movements. The villain was skating along walls, bouncing between surfaces with impossible agility.
Hardkour lunged, aiming a haymaker at Slique's smirking face.
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Frustration boiling over, Hardkour conjured a fireball in each hand. "That's it, Katon: Kutabare no Jutsu!*" He hurled them in quick succession, the flames illuminating the alley with an angry orange glow.
Slique nearly froze for a moment, but the bastard's reflexes were uncanny. He bent backwards, limbo-style, the first fireball singing the top of his costume as it passed overhead. The second he avoided with a graceful sideways twist, the heat of it barely grazing his costume.
"Ooh, spicy!" Slique taunted, righting himself.
Hardkour growled, smoke curling from his clenched fists. "I'm just getting warmed up."
He lunged, a growl on his lips, but at the last second, the ground beneath him turned frictionless. His punch went wide, momentum carrying him face-first into a dumpster. The impact left a Hardkour-shaped dent in the metal and sent a spike of pain through his skull.
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Shitty fuckin' thin-ass helmet! "Fuck!" he spat, tasting more blood. He whirled around, only to catch a glimpse of Slique disappearing around a corner, his mocking laughter trailing behind him.
The ninja-boy gave chase, his speed letting him close the gap. Fuck it, what can I use? Cryo? No, not enough range? Electro, same. Aero's fucking out. His right eye twitched behind the mask. Mana Glitter? Sure, yeah, that'll fucking do something.
Growling, he decided to go for the tried and true.
Hardkour's fists ignited, wreathed in flames as he rushed in. "Let's see you slip away from this, you greasy bastard!" he snarled, hurling a fireball at Slique's retreating form.
The villain twisted mid-air, impossibly agile, and the fireball sailed past him. It struck a nearby dumpster, setting its contents ablaze.
"Shit!" Hardkour cursed, immediately absorbing the flames back into himself. The fire died down, leaving only scorched metal behind. Can't let it spread.
He burst forward as Slique laughed again, ducking into another alleyway.
Hardkour frowned as he rounded the corner at full tilt, only to leap up, the raw instinct of his Danger Sense screaming at him to avoid the sweep of the grappling hook's gleaming tines taking out his shins. But, the momentum of his sent him right into a wall. Unable to stop in time, he slammed into it, feeling like he'd hit industrial strength flypaper.
"Nggh!" The air left his lungs in a painful whoosh as he stuck to the wall, completely immobilized. "Oh, this is just great. Fan-fucking-tastic."
"Question, ninja brat..." Slique taunted, perched on a fire escape above, looking down at Hardkour with a tilted head and a smug grin that was audible in his voice. "Having fun yet?"
"Son of a motherfuckingshitfuckfuckFUCK!" Hardkour roared, muscles straining as he tore himself free from the adhesive wall. Chunks of his costume remained stuck to the surface as he reared around to face the gray-suited villain, his eyes blazing with fury behind his mask. "I loved this costume! When I get my hands on you-"
"Big if, musclehead," Slique interrupted, dropping down from his perch on the fire escape. He touched the metal structure as he fell, creating a frictionless slide that let him glide to the ground with ease.
Hardkour charged, unleashing a flurry of punches and kicks that would have put a kung-fu movie to shame. His enhanced strength and speed should have overwhelmed Slique, but the villain was always just out of reach, dodging and weaving like a damn ballerina. Every time Hardkour thought he had him cornered, Slique would alter the friction of a surface or himself and slip away, leaving Hardkour grasping at air.
Anger built in Hardkour's chest, burning hotter than the exertion of the fight.
With a roar of rage, Hardkour focused his power, compressing the flames into two dense, white-hot spheres. A second later, he thrust both hands forward, unleashing a cone of searing flames that filled the entire alley. The fire roared hungrily, consuming oxygen and scorching everything in its path.
For a heartbeat, Hardkour thought he'd finally nailed the bastard. But then he spotted movement above the inferno. FUCK! Cackling in a way that Greg found infuriatingly familiar, Slique swung from a fire escape, flipping in the air as his grappling hook retracted back to the baton held tight in his grip.
He was stronger, faster, tougher - but none of that mattered if he couldn't land a solid hit. Slique was running circles around him, quite literally at times, leaving Hardkour flailing and off-balance like a rank amateur.
"You're gonna eat my fist!" Hardkour snarled, his knuckles cracking the brick wall where Slique had been a split second before. The villain had already slid away, his mocking laughter echoing in the alley.
"You really don't know how to fight someone more agile than you, do you?" Slique taunted, skating up the side of a building like he was taking a leisurely stroll. "You've gotten better, though. You were literally shit against that ninja guy in that video, you know?"
Oh, I'm gonna tear you apart. Hardkour's eyes narrowed to slits behind his mask. He bent his knees, channeling all his frustration and rage into his legs, then launched himself upward with all his enhanced strength. For a moment, it looked like he might actually catch Slique mid-air, his outstretched hand inches from grasping the villain's ankle.
But Slique was ready. He touched the wall, the ground beneath him suddenly losing its friction and sending Hardkour sliding right past him and over the rooftop. Hardkour barely managed to grab the ledge at the last second, his fingers digging into the concrete hard enough to leave grooves.
As he twisted to pull himself out of the impromptu handstand and land fully on the rooftop, muscles burning with the effort, Hardkour saw Slique waiting for him, that infuriating grin still plastered on his face. "Gotta hand it to you, kid. You just don't quit, do you?"
"Quit? You mean, die?!" Hardkour lunged, his fist aimed squarely at Slique's smug face, but the villain was already moving. The gray-suited bastard's hand brushed the ground again, effectively turning the rooftop into an ice rink. Hardkour's feet nearly went out from under him again, but he was starting to get the hang of this, tightening his core and keeping firmer control of his legs, desperately maintaining his balance so he wasn't just sliding helplessly across the gravel-strewn surface.
"This is almost too easy," Slique chuckled, casually strolling across the frictionless roof like he was taking a damn walk in the park.
Easy? I'm easy?! Hardkour twitched in indignant fury, but the anger nearly destabilized him, arms windmilling as he tried to stay upright. He had all the power in the world but no finesse, no control on this slippery fucking ground. Slique, on the other hand, moved with the grace of a figure skater, effortlessly gliding circles around Hardkour's flailing form.
In a desperate move, Hardkour threw himself at Slique, hoping to use his body weight to pin the slippery bastard down. But the dickhead sidestepped at the last moment, sending Hardkour careening over the edge of the roof once more.
This time, there was no ledge to grab. Hardkour plummeted, the wind rushing past his ears as he fell. He crashed through an awning, the fabric tearing like tissue paper under his weight, before slamming into the pavement below. The impact left him dazed, vision swimming and his ears ringing.
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As he struggled to his feet, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he saw Slique sliding down the side of the building, again, that damn grappling hook in hand.
Fuck it, Hardkour thought, his patience finally snapping like a frayed wire. Am I gonna have to burn down the whole block just to get one dickhead to back down?
Fire erupted from his hands, no longer constrained by caution. He hurled a massive fireball at Slique, the heat so intense it warped the air around it. The villain barely dodged, the flames scorching his suit as they passed.
The fireball slammed into a parked car, instantly igniting its fuel tank. The resulting explosion rocked the street, sending shrapnel flying in all directions. Hardkour didn't flinch, his eyes locked on his target.
"Oh, so now the kid wants to play rough?" Slique taunted, though there was a new edge to his voice.
The teenager responded by yelling and unleashing a torrent of bright orange flames, sweeping them across the street like a flamethrower. Slique was forced on the defensive, frantically sliding and leaping to avoid the inferno. He was still fast and hard to predict, but so were Hardkour's attacks.
A stray flame caught the edge of Slique's costume, and for a moment, Hardkour thought he had him. But the villain quickly slapped out the fire, somehow able to smother it instantly with a single slap.
"Missed me!" Slique called out, and before Hardkour could rush him again, he struck.
The villain's rope whipped out, the metal hook glinting in the dim light as it wrapped around Hardkour's neck. In one fluid motion, Slique slid past a nearby street lamp, looping the other end of the rope around it. With a touch, he effectively welded the rope in place, the fibers practically fusing to the pole under his power.
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Hardkour's hands flew to his throat, clawing at the rope as it tightened, cutting off his air. His strength should have been enough to snap it like a thread, but even with Reinforcement and Adhesion on his hands, it seemed to do nothing; Slique's friction manipulation made it impossible to get a grip on the outside while the inside latched tight to his throat. It was like trying to tear a greased steel cable with his bare hands.
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"Looks like you're all choked up," Slique quipped, watching Hardkour struggle with a sadistic glint in his eye. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before-"
The villain's taunt was cut short as Hardkour let out a primal roar of rage, his eyes blazing with fury behind his mask. Suddenly, flames erupted from the hero's body, engulfing the rope in a brilliant inferno. The fire seemed to come from within him, bursting out in a wave of heat and light that lit up the night.
Slique's eyes widened in shock, the villain stumbling back as the flames licked at his costume. "What the f-"
He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. The rope melted in seconds, the metal fibers warping under the onslaught of Hardkour's pyrokinesis. The flames didn't stop there, though. They spread rapidly, threatening to engulf everything around them in a hellish blaze.
"God, fuck, damnit!" Slique screamed, the heat singeing his costume. He turned tail and ran, disappearing into a nearby alley. "This isn't over, flame boy!"
As quickly as they had appeared, the flames vanished as Hardkour clenched his fists and pulled them back in towards him, leaving him on his knees in the middle of the scorched street. He gasped for air, his throat raw and aching.
The acrid smell of burnt metal and melted asphalt filled his nostrils. Hardkour looked around at the destruction he'd caused - scorch marks on buildings, melted streetlights, and the smoldering remains of the braided-wire rope that had nearly choked him out. This is what I was worried about, he thought bitterly. Can't be wrecking my own city everytime I fight!
He let out a growl, hands on the ground as he stared at the pavement.
Did I just lose to some fucking non-Brute wimp? The thought burned almost as much as his neck. Hardkour took another ragged breath, then slammed his fist into the ground, leaving a small crater in the asphalt.
"Fuck!"
* = Fire Style: Fuck You Technique!