Chapter Text
One of the greatest truths universally acknowledged among all Drive users is that life began with a single point. In the instance this singularity traveled in a straightforward path, all matters of sentient things sprang forth. Creatures such as us. Although many human beings are opposed to change, all things follow the ever-flowing constancy that created man in the first place, no matter how unaware they might seem.
And as much as we hate to admit it in our steadfast longing to remain grounded in what makes us happy, so long as this infinity courses throughout space and time, life will continue to rapidly progress with or without us. Eras will rise and fall. Man shall inevitably be driven by their ambitions, emotions, beliefs, and temptations. And yes, even something as dark as revenge. These are the purest form of Drive — that infinite line — from which manifests the truest nature of ourselves.
– Espoir on the theory of the Pulsus Perennis and the Pendulum Effect
Derelict buildings lined the streets, merging into an array of colorful neon lights in the downtown area — Prodigal Heights, a bustling locale nestled just on the southside of Skid Row, the urban Parisian wasteland.
Crowds chattered indistinctly, street performers entertained, steam billowed up from skillets and deep fryers. Unbeknownst to anyone ambling through the market, an ominous individual out for blood rode as passenger in the taxi soaring overhead. Jet black waves swept over his left eye, resting mere inches from the shoulder, and a shaved arrow in his temple pointed at the back glass. Now and again, he’d catch the driver peeping at him in the rearview mirror, deepening his annoyance.
“So, what’s your name?” the driver asked.
“Moncestierre, if you must know,” he replied, staring at a gradient of purple blending into the midnight sky.
“Oh. Can't say I've heard that one before. Mine's Kennedy. Just out of curiosity, you wouldn’t happen to be in one of those gangs, would you?”
Moncestierre’s jaw tightened.
“I mean, judging by your appearance and all, you seem the type. No offense.”
“For your information, I’m a legionnaire. You don’t know the first goddamn thing about me, so keep your shitty comments to yourself.”
It was as though the clapback hadn’t fazed him one bit. “Whoa-ho! The Legion?! You? Nah, you’re shittin’ me. Must be serious business for you to set foot outside the capital then.” Kennedy coughed into his fist and continued speaking, as if Moncestierre cared for every word spewing from his mouth.
“Y’know, my cousin was in a gang once. I get it. Gotta keep a low profile if you want to avoid the prefects. But you’ll probably want to use a better excuse next time. Impersonating the Imperial forces is, heh, not a wise move.”
Can this man just shut up already…
“I used to work in the prefecture. Had to bring my cousin in for drug possession. Doesn’t mean I didn’t keep some of that stuff for myself, if you know what I mean.” He laughed. “God, he was such a loser. Not long after he went to jail, the Prefét de Police replaced me with an A.I. Goddamn scraps… world would be a better place without them, am I right?”
Moncestierre’s eyes glared into the rearview mirror, daring him to catch his ire if he looked back.
“That’s like that military branch with the cyborgs and shit. You have to be brain dead to give up being a human-being to serve the seven nations. I don’t respect any man that takes that path. They’re all sheep.”
A peculiar, tiny white glint burned in the center of Moncestierre’s pupil. “Just let me out here.”
“You sure? We’re almost where you —”
“I said let me out here.”
Kennedy shrugged. “Eh, alright. If you say so.”
After the vehicle landed securely on the side of the street, Moncestierre exited the taxi and shut the door. Every building had a specific characteristic that stood out. Broken windows, doors that had been boarded up, and vulgarity spray painted along the cement walls. Another no man’s land by the looks of it. Moncestierre started up the sidewalk when the taxi horn blared, startling him.
Kennedy poked his head out the window. “Hey! Aren’t you going to pay me for the lift?”
Moncestierre turned his eerie gaze back to the cab, feigning a sincere smile. “Ah, sorry. My mind was somewhere else.” He took out a square drive from his pants pocket and handed it to him. Placing a palm to the console, as he leaned in and handed it to Kennedy, something unusual transferred from his hand and into its leathery texture. An insidious gleam flashed in his eye.
Kennedy inserted the device into a slot on the dash. Whether that was truly easier as opposed to ancient ways was always an interesting topic. Physical money had been rendered obsolete well over a hundred years ago.
Ping
An A.I. voice sounded from the dash. Transfert Approuvé. Merci pour choisant les services de taxi Skid Row.
He waved. “Well, see ya around, monkey chest hair.”
Moncestierre stood by on the sidewalk, taking a whiff of the night air as the taxi began to make its ascent. Watching it soar off, its form grew smaller with distance. Typically, people would go about their business after paying a cab driver, but Moncestierre remained standing there, still watching and waiting for the shitshow that was bound to unfold.
Kennedy chuckled to himself. “Legionnaire… yeah, right. What a loser.”
Maintenant approchant votre destination, the computer notified.
“Not anymore,” he said, canceling the route. “Idiot. I don’t see what the big hurry was that he couldn’t just wait for me to drop him off up here.” He shifted in his seat to get comfortable, laying his forearm against the console. Sinister energy seeped into his skin, and when he removed his arm next to make a turn, an ominous, gold arrow-cross appeared near his elbow. Near each tip of the arrows, smaller inverted ones pointed back to the center. It gave off an eerie glow and vanished from sight.
The car suddenly snatched in the opposite direction, leaving him barely any time to react. Instead of using his foot to slam on the brakes, his right foot pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor. Impact against the edge of a building reeled his brain. Turning in the intended direction was transparently vivid in his mind. Still, the steer veered adjacent. Fear expanded in his chest. A loud screech carried up the street as the car’s exterior dragged along the cement walls.
If his foot could smash the accelerator any further, it’d puncture the floorboard. Continually attempting to turn the vehicle in the desired direction, the car whirled out of control. Death in the form of an oncoming commercial transport encroached. Horns blared. Eyes widened. Headlights beamed directly through the driver’s side window, and a shrill howl of terror sealed Kennedy's fate.
Moncestierre drank in the pleasure of watching that intolerant jackass get his just desserts. Turning his back on the scene, he muttered, "See you around, Kennedy."
He began to make his way opposite of the wreck. Hearkening to the sound of gunfire, he stopped and looked up at a monitor on one of the buildings across the street. Violent images displayed all-out war: gunfire, grenades, the whole she-bang. It was as if he was back serving France on the frontlines in Egypt. Look at them all. Ruthless criminal scum ruining the lives of innocent people. Just as they did to his wife and child.
An ill-conceived anchorman by the name of Iommi Legrand hadn't realized they'd gone live as he sprayed nasal decongestant up his nose. His hair was crimson, gelled back with sprigs neatly poking upward throughout. There was a faint, white shimmer to his gray business suit. The studio went awkwardly silent just after the news intro finished; to their ever-recurring impatience, Iommi's face twisted. His mouth opened wide, partly diagonal as his opened eyes rolled up with his lifted brows.
"Aughh..." He blew his nose into a handkerchief and looked into it with a scrunched face. "Eugh, that's concerning. Hey, uh, Steve," he said to the anchorman next to him. "What does it mean when your snot's green? That's bad, right?"
A woman barely made a whisper, mouthing: You're live!
Iommi's face blanked, noting her hands waving and the inaudible live mouthed through the look of horror. "What? Oh. Oh!" He cleared his throat, pocketed his nasal spray, and composed himself. Iommi forced a smug smile as if he hadn't committed faux pas in the first place. He laced his fingers together and placed his hands on the desk, speaking through his stuffiness. "Good evening, Paris. I'm Iommi Legrand."
"And I'm Steve Ennui."
Iommi smiled. "And you're watching INN — Idol News Network at 11. Earlier today, citizens of Royaume Béton bore witness to one of Skid Row’s most shocking gang wars within the past two months. Fourty-three people have been pronounced dead with gunshot wounds to the face, chest, and pelvic region. Though what can only be described as severe radiation burns were also uncovered on the scene as local officials formed their investigation. Reports say the gunfire began around 3:00 p.m. this afternoon, though what sparked the incident currently remains under inspection. According to the Préfet de Police, there has actually been numerous concerns of strange phenomena occurring in Skid Row as of late, as if crime rates being at an all-time high wasn't bad enough, am I right, Steve?"
"Seems gang violence is all the rage in the outer districts these days," he commented. "Not that it comes as a surprise."
Iommi replied imprudently, "Well, that's the hierarchy of Paris for ya. You keep the trash," — he made a pushing gesture for emphasis — "outside the capital. 'Cause if you mix the classes together, you have a heterogenous catastrophe. That's why the androids thrive here so much. You don't have the working class rioting through the streets, demanding the A.I.s give their jobs back. That's why the city is structured this way. Common folk have a bunch of screws loose. They expect the government to fix all their problems when they don't even bother to fix their own."
Iommi's team rolled their eyes. One of the members behind the camera shook their head, making a neck cutting gesture.
A growl rumbled in Moncestierre's throat. Those 'common folk' he spoke of were him and his family, thank you very much.
"Know what I'm sayin'?" Iommi asked Steve, who nodded along with a casual yeah. "Because the working class have this 'hatred' for androids. And they always have. So, what? My uncle lost his leg in a freak accident and got a cybernetic replacement. Are you gonna hate him, too now? Pfft, come on. There are jobs out there, don't be daft. Stop blaming the rich for all your problems! It's not like we're all at fault here. Like me for instance." He laughed.
Iommi finally glimpsed his team desperately urging him to shut up. He scrambled and seated himself as a professional as if the tangent didn't happen. "Our reporter, Trisha Clé, took to the streets of Skid Row to ask the residents about their concerns this evening. Though the responses were, well, let's face it, not as unusual as the everyday Parisian would think. I mean, come on. It's Skid Row we're talking about.”
The camera footage cut to an interview with one of the local residents of Skid Row. An older woman in a bathrobe took a drag from her cigarette as a cyan snake nonchalantly hung from her shoulder, and slithered along her arm. Its eyes were a striking hue of magenta.
“I was just sitting there painting my toenails," the woman spoke in a frail voice. Her milky eyes stayed unfocused in a completely different direction of the camera. "Then this gunfire just came out of nowhere. I thought I was in one of those simulations kids these days play. We never did any of that when we were young. Why, my generation were reclusive little shits — sitting in our room all day, talking smack on social media.” She took a drag from her cigarette and blew smoke from her nostrils.
The interviewer, Trisha, chuckled awkwardly. "What about the mass shooting earlier, madame? What are your concerns? Weren't you scared?"
The woman flashed a crooked-toothed smile and laughed, dabbing ash on the ground as the snake's physical form faded out of sight. “Are you kidding? Me and my girlfriends were taking bets on who would hit the asphalt next. Screw bingo night. Sign me up for the next turf war, baby!”
Turning slowly to the cameraman, Trisha stared back into the camera speechless and pale with embarrassment. Just then, one of the dangling light fixtures from the damaged streetlight crashed to the pavement.
Just standing there watching the report made Moncestierre sick. Every bit of what he was seeing only served as a painful reminder of what he once had, and now was lost because of these criminals running amok. His fist clenched and a welling emotion built up inside of his chest, climbing to his throat. Images of his little boy flashed through his mind like a projector at a theater playing a motion picture on the big screen. In his thoughts, he relived the past. Some of the happiest moments he never expected would one day haunt him to the ends of the earth. Now that was gone; ripped from his grasp and shredded to bits by these heartless bastards.
Iommi's voice pulled him away from his painful memories, bringing his attention back to the screen. And it was as though he was meant to hear what was being said. Images of a young man in the midst of action was captured and plastered all across the news report for the world to see. God damn the 240p resolution! He wanted something clearer, dammit! Then, Moncestierre froze. Watching with wide eyes as the images swapped over to mugshots that had recently been taken of a group of gang members within the past few years.
Name: Léon Polnareff. A young man of slim muscular build, indigo eyes, and combed up, spiky silver hair. He was wearing a black, denim jacket with a broken heart emblem on the back, as well as a red choker; he showed no fear in giving authority a bras d' honneur gesture.
Moncestierre’s eyes were glued to the pictures, taking in every last detail as was possible with photographic memory. Bars loaded over his corneas. Images were uploaded as a group of files to be accessed at any given time via his computerized cortex.
Iommi took out his nasal decongestant and resprayed it up his nostril. “Auuughhh, whew! If you or anyone you know have any information regarding these murder-- I mean individuals in these photographs, report them to your local authorities immediately. You're watching Paris's Idol News Network. This is Iommi Legrand --”
"And Steve Ennui —"
"Will you just shut up and let me say it?!" Iommi hissed. He then side-eyed the camera and forced a smile. "Signing off. Goodnight."
So, these people could have killed his family for all he knew; any one of them could be the culprit. All he knew was that someone in a Parisian gang murdered his son, and Moncestierre was bound and determined to weed out each and every last one.
“Royaume Béton…” he mused. Maybe he’d plant some more arrow-crosses for when they came through that part of town again. Most likely. And if he did, Léon would be on a one-way trip to hell.
QUARTERFLASH
Drops golden arrow-crosses that stick to the user and manipulate their coordination. Once they have attached themselves to the target, the sticker disappears and causes the target’s brain to send inverted signals to their arms and legs. The target’s head is free to move about as it normally would.
A triad of laughter filled the nearly empty gas station parking lot, while a stray cat was poking around the dumpsters. There was a red tint in the indigo sky, stars twinkling above the city. Two of the three sat around on the seats of their motorcycles, taking in the night air and enjoying each other's company.
“Whew!” came Avdol’s voice as he took a shot from a metal flask. Judging by the look on his face, the drink in question had a particular kick to it he didn’t care for. He winced, pressed his lips together, and shook his head handing the flask over to Léon. “I don’t see how you drink that shit!”
Léon retrieved it, snickering at him. Damn, he loved getting these kind of reactions from people. “What, too stout?” he asked.
“Nah, it’s just… ugh…” Avdol shuddered. “I’ll stick to tea and Company B beverages, thank you very much.”
Léon chuffed. “Wuss.”
“Speak for yourself, Roxette.”
Léon’s eyes came wide open mid sip. The very mention of Roxette's name made him choke and cough. Liquid splattered on the concrete. Trying to speak over his wheezing, he sat back up scowling viciously. “Who the fuck told you…” he demanded.
Avdol laughed. “Your sister.”
Of course she did. “Sherry…” Léon squeezed the flask in his hand and pursed his lips. “I told her not to tell anyone about that. Look, we're just friends, alright? Now let’s drop it.” He turned up his flask and took a long sip.
Laughter rumbled in Avdol’s chest as he shook his head and closed his eyes. “Ohhh, Léon, you kill me.”
Amidst their conversation, Tenmei sat on the curb, his fingers clacking away on a keyboard. Thin, translucent lines, forming a cube, projected a flat image of two video game characters duking it out in a fight. The image would appear to be the same no matter what side the person was standing on. Tenmei’s face was hard focused. He couldn’t talk right now. There were much more important matters at hand, like beating his opponent in a battle tournament.
A moment of silence formed between them, allowing them to hear the city sounds in the distance: whirring transports, sirens, and faint — very faint — music from one of the nearby clubs. “Well, I’d better be getting home. I need to check on my grandfather,” Avdol said.
Léon’s face was less condemning as he raised his head and looked his way. “Oh, yeah. How is he?”
“Doing good.” The look in his eyes said differently. Léon didn’t fully believe him, but he didn’t feel it was best to pry. “Alright. See you guys tomorrow.”
“Later,” Léon said. “Don’t run over anybody.”
Avdol turned the ignition on his bike. “Don’t worry,” he returned with a cheeky smile. “I’m not reckless like you.” With that he twisted the throttle and eased out of the parking lot. Léon tried to shout over the engine, but Avdol was already pulling out onto the highway and heading home. The engine roared off down the road, leaving him to sit there and relish in the tranquil silence.
It was relaxing just sitting there smoking a cigarette and listening to Tenmei’s fingers clack away at the keys. “Come onnnn…” he urged, as if the characters could hear him. “Yes… no… no! Noooo!" Gripping his hair in defeat, Tenmei shot up to a standing position and threw his head back. “I was soooo clooooose!” He slouched back onto the grass and stared at the game with a sulky look on his face.
Poor guy. Always taking his games so seriously. Léon just looked at him. The thought of striking up a conversation about the match came to mind, but what was he supposed to say? Tenmei pouted, sticking the console back in his backpack and zipping it up in a sullen manner. Léon took one last puff on his cigarette, gathered saliva around his tongue, and put the cherry out on it before tossing it to the ground. He recalled how his maman was always getting on his case for leaving cigarette butts floating in plastic cups or littering the front yard back at their apartment complex.
"Shit, that reminds me. I gotta get a new ashtray." He'd misplaced the last one in his junky room not too long ago and hadn't made a point to stop procrastinating about cleaning it yet. Sitting there on his bike, listening to the city ambience, he noted the sound of Tenmei’s stomach gurgling. Hell, he was feeling pretty hungry himself, actually. Then he had an idea.
“Hey, Tenmei.”
Tenmei glanced up.
“You hungry?”
He nodded, folding his arms over his stomach. “I was hoping we could stop by Cherry Bomb Cafe, but I think they’re closed now. It’s already an hour 'til midnight.”
Léon checked his banking account. Spending the last of his currents felt pretty tempting as he stared at the amount. If he was going to spend it, he couldn’t spend much. His maman needed help paying off the debt his stepdad kept sinking them into. Fucking asshole. But it was a gas station. Food in there shouldn’t be that pricey, he thought. Pocketing his device, he gave Tenmei a pat to the shoulder and smiled reassuringly.
“Just stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He strolled across the parking lot and into the gas station, his eyes adjusting to his reflection on the glass door before entering. The bell dinged and he traipsed through one of the aisles, crouching in front of a box of pastries with cherry filling. If he knew Tenmei, he’d eat it for sure. Léon heard the bell over the door ring again. Did Tenmei come inside? He peeked his head over the aisle to get a look and see.
Standing near the entrance was a lanky man with a black arrow-cross over his abdomen. He quietly stepped around the store, moving things around on the shelves like he was interested, but kept putting everything he thought he wanted back. It was hard trying not to pay it any mind, as it was beginning to make Léon feel a bit unsettled. Mostly because he seemed to stay to an aisle behind him the whole time. Maybe he was overthinking it. He shook it off and looked on the shelf for the price tags.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he whispered to himself. “1200 U's for a bag of candy?” He added up both prices in his head coming roughly to 1652 currents for it and the pastries. He couldn’t believe this price gouging shit. Wages had been increasing drastically since he was a kid. Hell, since the 28th century even. By now, 100 currents were the equivalent of 1. Something as simple as a bag of candy costing 1200 was ridiculous. “Man, fuck that.” He placed them back on the shelf and went to stand up. In his periphery, he noticed someone beside him.
Léon’s blood stilled like ice. Black hair cascaded over one of the stranger's eyes, keeping it a complete secret, but the other glared daggers into his very soul. Unnerved, Léon stared into the white glint of his pupil. Whoever this man was, he seemed to have a serious problem with him, but it didn't make sense as he never saw this man before in his life. He broke eye-contact and walked away, still feeling the chilling gaze on him. What a fucking weirdo, he thought.
The more Léon scoured the aisles for cheap snacks, his bladder made him antsy. Merde! Every time I look for something, this shit happens. Crossing his legs together, he tried to rush himself and pick something. But what about the prices? If he just picked any ole thing, he could possibly risk spending too much. Ah, fuck it! I can't take this anymore.
He dashed to the back of the store, looking for the men’s restroom. No big deal. He was pretty sure Tenmei wouldn’t care for waiting a moment longer. Approaching one of the urinals, Léon proceeded to do his business, trying his best to ignore the foul scent wafting from one of the stalls. The bathroom door squeaked open, made a loud creak, then clicked shut.
“You better not stand next to me, asshole,” Léon muttered, not bothering to look their way. Boots clomped across the tile, toward the urinal furthest from him. Léon shifted his eyes, turning his head just slightly to get a glimpse of the man that walked in. When he perceived the same black arrows on a sleeveless leather shirt, he rolled his eyes. Not this weirdo again.
He convinced himself that he'd just finish up and leave, then he wouldn't have a damn thing to worry about. The man sauntered past, bumping his shoulder on his way to the sink. It was enough to foment anger. Not even so much as a 'sorry' or 'excuse me'? Léon leered over at him, internally daring him to start something with him. Prick. Now that he was finished, he could get out of there and back outside. Or so he thought until he took a small step back on something gold. But it didn’t make a sound. It disappeared under his boot like it was never there. Léon went to zip his zipper up, but he was pulling the zipper down. So, he kept trying. Still the same result.
“What the fuck…” Léon whispered, brows furrowed.
Again, he tried to pull the zipper up, but it just went the opposite direction. In the midst of his bemusement, the man at the sink snickered. Oddly enough, the water wasn't running; it hadn't since he approached it. Weird as that was, what the hell was so damn funny? It was like fuel to Léon’s present irritation. Like poking a swollen abscess only to irritate it more. “The fuck you laughin’ at?”
“Having trouble with your pants?” Slowly, he swiveled his head, hands pressed to the sink, and eyed him over his shoulder.
“Pfft. Go fuck yourself." He went back to struggling with the zipper. Pulling for a couple seconds more, he gave up, feeling he was just going to get it stuck in the fabric if he kept doing that. “What the actual hell is wrong with me?!”
“Why don’t you use your left hand?” the arrow man suggested, standing ominously against the counter. There was something really off about him. His aura emitted danger signs left and right.
Léon questioned it for a second. Why did it matter which hand he used? It was a zipper. Plus, it felt kind of weird standing there with his fly down in front of a creepy guy that he was beginning to assume was some deranged stalker. Definitely not what he expected to be doing with his evening. Well, whatever. If moving his left hand mattered, he’d try it. He used it as suggested, but instead, he moved his right hand a little too swiftly, smacking it right into the urinal. He yelped in pain. Naturally, he’d hold it close to his chest, wincing.
Dumb idea. Trying to reach for his pain-seared hand with the other only led to more knee-jerk reactions with his arms. A dreadful lump plummeted down into the pit of his stomach and his face deepened in confusion. “What the fuck…?”
The man stood by casually, amused at the show unfolding before him. Thankfully, Léon’s eyes and neck were unaffected by whatever this power consuming him was. He looked at the devil adorned in arrows, jaw slackened. “What the fuck did you do to me?” Léon snarled. If his gut was right, then this guy really was a sinister character out to get him for some inexplicable reason.
Fire burned in his eyes as he stepped closer. An index finger pointed, condemning him. “People like you took everything from me.”
Léon’s face expressed incredulity. People like me? What the fuck is he going on about? I don't even know this clown.
With a swift motion, he kneed Léon in the gut. The wind was knocked right out of him. He gasped out, arms crossed over his stomach. He couldn’t even look at him for the excruciating discomfort he was enduring. His adversary yanked his head up by a fistful of hair, getting a good look at who he was about to kill.
“It was people like you that killed my wife and son. You drew first blood,” he elucidated. Artificial tears beaded in the corners of his eyes. “My name's Vincent Moncestierre. I enlisted in the Seven Nation Army many years ago to serve in the war. All I wanted was to get my family the benefits they deserved. Then they had to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time. I... I just wanted them happy! Now look at me!”
Léon became transfixed as Moncestierre reached up to his cheekbone and peeled his skin away from his bones. Wait. Not bones. There was a metallic luster underneath the epidermis. Synthetic flesh stripped away, revealing a fully round ocular attached to a metal skull. Circuitry was visible in some places, spurring a numbing fear to cultivate inside of Léon's chest. His enemy let the skin covering hang loosely from his face as if to make a contrast between one side and the other — man and machine.
“So, you see...” Moncestierre’s palm came up to his metal cheek, not quite touching it. “...I am less a man now than I was before I enlisted. I became this to give my little boy the future he deserved. You... you took that away from me!” He brought out a pocketknife, springing the blade.
“H-h-hey! Hey!” Léon’s eyes gaped at the blade in his hand, a lump forming in his throat. “Listen, asshole, I haven’t killed anyone!”
“Liar! Your face is all over the news. You took part in that shootout today, so don’t bother lying your way out of this one.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I wasn't even there!”
“Save it. Whether it was you that killed them or not, you're guilty by association. This is for my son!"
The entire time he’d been spouting off about his son and how he became some android, Léon had the time to think about his condition. If initially signaling to his left arm that he wanted to move meant he’d be moving the right arm instead, then it could only mean one thing. His brain was sending inverted signals! Which means if he had any chance of escaping, he had to make the opposite movement to get the desired action.
Moncestierre plunged his knife towards Léon’s face. Then he felt something clasp around his wrist, thwarting his attack. Léon's hand. His face contorted in shock. “What?!”
“Fucking dipshit,” Léon said, his indigo eyes gravely looking back into his. “It’s not like your power is impossible to figure out. Tricky, yes. But not impossible. Did you think I’d really just sit here and let you carve me like a rotisserie chicken?"
Moncestierre’s horrified eyes shifted over to his hand. Or what used to be one. Everything from Léon’s hand down to Moncestierre’s fingers had been transformed into a thick wad of goop. He lifted his smooshy stump, stammering, the more-human eye bulging in utter terror. “What the fuck is this?!”
“Oh, so when I use my stand on you, suddenly it’s wrong and you want me to make it stop. Shoe’s on the other foot now, dickhead. Except, unlike you, I’m not going to waste time beating around the bush about my stand’s ability. I turned your wrist into clay, and that knife of yours while I was at it. But you know, that’s not all Rebel Yell can do.” Léon thought to himself to move backwards, and went to physically do so, allowing him to move forward and crawl away from the enemy. He managed to bring himself into a squatted position. Ghosting into plain sight by Léon’s side was a vermillion ifrit with glowing yellow-white glyphs on its face and body. Its eyes were solid black save for hot-red, vertical pupils. Tufts of brown fur rounded the base of its horns and around its neck.
He went to move his right arm, moving the other in its place. Fingers softened, flattening into one great big patty and reshaping itself into a sticky clump. Sharp clay broke through the globs of skin, thickening and hardening into brick. Léon’s fingers formed, and he rolled his weaponized hand into a fist, drawing the brick, dagger-like knuckles up to his chin. “I didn't kill your kid, alright? Not that you give a shit about anything I have to say. Believe what you want, it's the truth! I don't know you, and I don't care to. If you want to settle this in a fight to the death... then you better have brought your A game.”
Rebel Yell reverted Moncestierre’s hand back to normal, the knife still gripped tightly in his hand like before. He couldn’t just kick his ass and not give the pitiful bastard a fighting chance. Where's the fun in that? His half man-half machine face expressed astonishment at Rebel Yell’s ability. The reformed wrist rotated before his very eyes. "Who are you?" Moncestierre just had to ask. "Are you another android? Is that why you have this ability?"
What the fuck...? What do machines have to do with stand users? Also, what difference does it make who I am? "Look, I'm really starting to get sick and tired of dealing with scumbags like you every time I need to take a piss! Think you can cut me with that butter knife? Fucking do it then! My face is right here."
Moncestierre brandished his blade, getting into a fighting stance. "Have it your way, you arrogant punk."
If he had to do things the hard way, so be it. The two locked eyes, one studying the other as they anticipated what moves they were going to make. Thinking it'd be best to leap forward rather than back to dodge the blade aiming for his midriff, Léon jumped forward with the intent to do so clear in his mind. The knife made a swish, missing him as he hopped backwards. Again, the two warily circled each other. God, it felt weird stepping to one side only to step in the other direction. Weird and annoying. He lunged his fist towards Moncestierre's face with full intent to strike him there. Except his current predicament slipped his mind.
Shit! I was aiming for his face, not his stomach!
Grabbing a hold of Léon's wrist, Moncestierre pulled him forward. He seized the opportunity and sunk his knife into his shoulder.
God dammit! I got carried away. This guy's definitely got experience. On top of that, this stand of his makes close quarter combat easy for him. It's like Tenmei's games when he inverts the camera controls. Except this isn't a video game. Alright, Léon, think. I have to walk myself through this carefully. If I make one wrong move, I'm fucked. A lightbulb went off in his mind. All I need to do is focus on just using my right arm at the moment. That way the bones on my left arm will hit him where I want them to. Let's see. In order to free myself for a counterattack, it'll be... left arm withdraw, right arm low jab!
Léon's right arm pulled free from his grasp. Thrusting the bricked, spikey knuckles of his left hand, he penetrated his torso. Now he was getting somewhere.
Right arm withdraw. Right arm thrust to the left.
Again, his spikes landed a devastating blow, this time to the right of the chest.
Right arm slash! Left arm slash. Right arm low swing! Left arm uppercut. Léon's jagged fist caught Moncestierre under the jaw. Spikes penetrated his metal chin, evoking a loathsome snarl out of him.
Rebel Yell transformed the bottom of his heel, sculpting it into a spear head that ruptured through the sole of his boot. Right foot shin kick.
Lifting his heel off the tile, he gave a good, hard left kick to Moncestierre's sternum. It knocked him down, but he wouldn't relent. Utilizing his momentum, Moncestierre leapt back on his feet, flourishing his knife as if none of it fazed him.
Geez, at this rate, I'll be stuck in here all goddamn night, Léon complained internally.
Moncestierre let out a gravelly laugh. "I'm honestly impressed. Even with Quarterflash warping your control, you fight pretty well. I'm surprised someone with your skill hasn't enlisted in the Seven Nation Army."
Unbelievable. Like hell he was joining the Imperial Legion. Fuck that noise. His body's definitely built to withstand melee attacks pretty well, but the steel skeleton is kinda shitty, considering I'm able to penetrate it effectively. Huh. Maybe if I assaulted his brain? Or whatever's in there. But with my condition, and him being so damn fast, how can I pull that off? He wracked his mind for a solution. I think I've got it! It's gonna be stupid, but it's worth a shot.
Léon abandoned his need to mentally call out his own moves and proceeded to amble towards him in the usual way. Keeping 'forward' in mind, he stepped backwards and stumbled into the sink like he was in a drunken state. "Seriously?!" He hoped the sound of his voice was convincing enough. As he thought, Moncestierre was starting to think the tables were turning in his favor. Excitement mixed with the adrenaline coursing through Léon’s veins. It was thrilling as hell seeing that he could play things to his advantage if he just kept bumbling around like a buffoon.
He took a step with intent to the right, sending him tripping into the stalls to the left. One of the doors swung open where he tried to grab on to keep from losing his balance. Moncestierre took the time to gloat, tossing his pocketknife back and forth from one hand to the other.
“Well, well. Who's the dipshit now? Face it. As long as you’re under Quarterflash’s influence, no matter how good you are, I'm ten times better. Enough games. It ends here, you criminal scum.” He drew up his pocketknife, flashing an evil grin. Léon convinced him with that tired look on his face that the fight was as good as over. And it was. The closer he came, the better. Just a few more steps. A few more. Bingo.
Rebel Yell modified the bone just above the knee into a ball of puddy, shaping an extension into a hardened spike. Commanding his right arm to perform a lunging motion for Moncestierre’s lower stomach, the left arm rammed the hardened skewers through his chest, twisting deeper and deeper. His mouth fell agape, and his human eye widened.
“Wha… but… I...?”
Léon's guise of innocence darkened. “Idiot… you fell for it!”
Placing both hands around the back of Moncestierre's head, he gave his face a rapid, forceful slam. Simultaneously, he drew up his knee. Severed circuits sparked on impact. He staggered with a gaping hole in the center of his metal forehead, as his vision swam in a sea of glitches. Time to finish this. Rebel Yell untethered from Léon’s body. Three-fingered claws hurtled toward the enemy's face, dealing an unceremonious dent. Mourez! Then another. Mourez! Followed by a steadily increasing bombardment of punches and lacerations. The stand's cry, 'mourez', volleyed with every purchase.
Delivering the finishing blow, Moncestierre’s body flung back against the urinals, smashing one into porcelain chunks. Water jetted up from the pipe, dampening the indistinguishable remains of the android. Good riddance, whoever the hell he was. Léon took a second to assess the aftermath. Examining both hands, it became clear that Quarterflash’s inverted movement was perpetually negated.
But there was something else to consider. Léon knelt down and examined his remains, the android skeleton in particular. Shit was like something straight out of a horror movie. He couldn’t just leave the body there.
“Aw shit.” His eyes scanned the room, hunting something Rebel Yell could use to hide him from sight. So far, his only options were to mold his body into some decor, and he knew just the thing — an ashtray.
Rebel Yell ghosted away from Léon and worked its magic. Tearing Moncestierre's clay body parts into several pieces, they crumpled with ease in the ifrit’s palms, smooshing like dough into smooth round balls. They were small enough to take up space in his hand as he held one up and looked at it, combining the rest in the stand's jewels on its belt until later. As if the ball of clay could hear him, he finally delivered the answer to the legionnaire's question from before.
"By the way... name's Léon Polnareff. And no, I'm not a fucking robot."
Léon Polnareff and his stand, Rebel Yell
REBEL YELL
Has the ability to alter the chemical compound of its user - as well as its surroundings - into clay and brick, though only within a 10 ft. radius. Rebel Yell can remold the shape of its clay into any form the user wills it to be. Can haul up to 136 kgs/300 lbs of clay max on its waistband.