When the World Ends (Mao)

[Salem Norongachi]

Her forehead met his in a spray of crimson. Reflexes made him recoil, his life's blood coating the ceiling of the office. It was hard to remember how it came to this. It only took a second to forget that 700 years had passed. A loss of focus was all she needed to take him by the throat. He struggled for breath, the instinctual urge of his body demanding oxygen. The force abandoned him, driven from reality by the virtue of the Lizards.

He choked, he gasped. His throat a territory he was being denied as she pulled her arm taunt across his airways. Panic was the logical conclusion. This was the moment where the higher and the lower brain fought for control. He didn't panic, didn't waver, he felt the life being sucked from his throat and acted.

The flash of metal, an expected guest to their reunion. Hands lashed out to meet it, they struggled, the point dancing millimeters from his flesh but her determination gave way to error. A knee rose up at the side of her body and with the conjunction of arm and leg, he pushed her aside, turning the status quo on its head. The blade danced in the void between them, fingers coiled around the the hilt trying desperately to court its favor.

 

[Mao]

[member="Salem Norongachi"]

Floor met her back. A grunt went ripping from a silver throat. Hair longer than that he'd seen her last, streaked blue and damp with the red of blood went fanning round that familiar face.

Silver went dancing between that void, and between the rollercoster of emotions and the desperation both felt, one would wonder just where Fate's favor would court this day.

Cobalt oceans would lock upon emerald slate. That familiar face. The rage that would follow. The sorrow as her bloody slippery fingers would fight for that hilt. Emotion. That bloody emotion that would rear its head like a snake to inject that poison that would alter a solider's will. Thought process.

Things were far easier in the past. There was no doubt. No second-guessing. No hesitation.

He'd done this to her.

She hated it.

What was worse? This was the part where, as her hand would grip upon the lower half of that blade, that she was looking at a mirror. Ironic that. A voice inside her head, that predator he'd fought along with, caught the glimmer of gunmetal gray at her peripheral. The blaster from before.

Focus, Mao. Bloody frakin' focus!

Pain brought reality. Truth. The blade sliding between them, slicing her hand as it went into his care, the blade slowly turning between their straining grasp. He now held the advantage, both in mounting and the blade. Her hands, one now slick with her blood, would attempt to make for his wrist, applying pressure to try and get him to release it.

But the bulk of the fight wasn't there in her anymore. Maybe it was the realization at the rear of her mind of just where she was now. How she got here. And what it all meant.

After all what were they in the end? Two lost broken souls who never truly expected a life beyond the trenches. Mao had nearly bled out on Exis Station eight hundred years back. She should have been dead.

Perhaps, she should have stayed dead.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

Blood. Her blood. It jarred him, ripped away with shredding claws at the dark creature that was instinct. The root of all he was, the killer, was momentarily shunned. It were like a fog had lifted, a brief reprieve in the crimson mist that clouded his vision as soon as that first shot had fired. The pressure released, the handle of the blade already slick with molten ruby, was suddenly wrenched from one of his hands, as she brought a disarming wrist lock to bear.

Now he was almost arms spread wide, looking down upon the woman he, they, he...had loved and saw nothing that Sal Norongachi had not seen since the moment the feelings had begun to stir. This was the reckoning, the train wreck, that awaited all Norongachi's at the end of the gnarled road where only madness and loneliness lay, its surface formed of corpses of the fallen, the damned, and the sacrificed in the genocidal pursuit of an ideal.

The roar that slipped from her lips was deafening, the rawness of it brought the hammer down on what this really was. This was not hate, this was not killing for killings sake- This was two terrifying creatures, denied what they were owed after all the terrible things they had been through, the one chance at something beyond the killing fields of the Galaxy.

It was two people expressing their grief in the only way they knew how.

A knee rose up and hammered his spine, a pointed blow that brought pain from his lips and jerked him backwards. It was all the space she needed. If you gave [member="Mao"] an inch, she could conquer a planet, or shatter a cheek bone. She rose up letting his wrist slip free and hammered a crimson fist into his face, knocking him aside.

In that, he knew, that the moment of clarity would leave and it did. He rolled with the blow, onto his side and then up onto his knee, blade held expectantly. No time to hesitate, no time to waver. This was his grief as well.

He Lunged.

 

[Mao]

The Firrerreo slid into a half crouched position, watching him through that fringe of blue black hair. Nicitating membranes would sweep over her oceanic eyes, clearing her sight just as he lunged.

Her body would scurry across the floor, her hand reaching out for the prone blaster. His body would strike hers moments prior, heavy weight knocking her back, her practiced body rolling as her arms would roll into a parry to block said subsequent strike. Block, grunt, parry, slide back, curse, shove.

All this and more within the ecstasy of steel and flesh. In that scent of muscle and rage. Sal's rage. Omega's.

Frak.

They were bleeding into each other.

Mao knew that scent. That rage. That flesh -- as intimately as her own. Oh, her rules of fraternization had prevented things going forward -- or more like her excuse of it. Her denial. Granted, Mao never got the chance to feel him above her, below her, or inside her in that carnal aspect.

But she did in this one. In as intimate a way as an Echani knew their sparring partner. Echani culture held the belief that combat was the only means to truly know someone….that it was a pure form of expression where words were swept away, allowing for action to reveal the true nature of the people involved.

Their duels were rituals, and it was important to follow etiquette, for that would allow them to read each others' stance and fight accordingly. In this manner, battle was seen as a form of communication similar to art. Exposing emotions in combat, however, made the duel a personal thing; engaging in repeated sessions was a courtship of sorts, in which one's favors were won through superior fighting prowess.

Funny, looking back, one would consider every single one of their fights a representation of their own bloody and twisted courtship.

One consummated in spirit than in the flesh.

Look at that Mao. You can think pretty --- ahh frak this.

Fingers slid and felt cold steel in a massive stretch, smearing crimson upon the buttstock of the blaster. He fell upon her again, that tangle of arms and legs. Pain bloomed upon her cheek in a blossom of fire, knocking her head back. The liquid metallic tang in her mouth grew thicker, and when she bared her sharp pointed teeth, they were coated in blood.

Phrik armor is handy, but it wouldn’t fully protect her. There were pockets of armorweave here and there, making her suit lighter and more melee combat effective. That also meant that were a strategic strike hit, it would pierce right through.

But she was beyond pain. At least the physical kind.

It was then the cool tip of her blaster went pressing up against his lower jaw.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

And the honed point of his knife pressed against her jugular.

Time has no meaning. It bends to the whims of the mind, in moments such as these. When thoughts surge past light speed, consequences weighed, memories recalled as brilliant flashes of feeling and emotion that brought into focus just what this meant.

End it now!

Don't let her go!

End it!!

Don't let go!!

End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!Don't let go!!End it!!

The blade snapped forward. Quick, so quick and in a near instantaneous motion his head as to the side, clear of the barrel. The feelings of a man having his very heart and soul ripped to shreds found voice in a cry that filled the room, reverberating time and again against metal walls as he fell toward her. He'd never forget that sound.

Of that blade meeting the floor millimeters from her skin.

"Don't. Let. Go...."

 

[Mao]

Mao could feel the blood drain from her face. She thought she’d been ready for this confrontation. Prepared. Determined.

Frak.

But maybe she would never be ready for it.

Her chest rose in shallow breaths, the resonating sound of that vibroshiv mere millimeters from her ear.

It would pale in comparison to what [member="Salem Norongachi"] would utter next.

“Don’t. Let. Go.”

For a split second, Mao caught a completely unguarded look in his eyes. That glittering gaze of hers went flat turquoise blue, opaque as a storm on Kaminio. Beneath her left eye, a tiny muscle contracted, smoothed, contracted again.

She felt like crying and she hated herself for it. Don’t let go.

Don’t let go.
Don’t let go.

Don’t. Let. Go.

Bloody damnit. Why. WHY?!

A fine trembling would come to her hand, that white knuckle grip holding that blaster like a supplicant to a tangible connection to a higher being.

The silence lengthened. Nothing but savage breaths in between. Mao inhaled, and caught herself straining for the scent of him, forced it back out. She had vices a plenty. Cigarras, whiskey, sex. A good brawl in the night.

But there was no denying the fact that the man above her was her poison. She wanted to punch something at that undeniable fact. Lots of somethings. Starting with him -- again.

But that face. That blasted face.

There was nothing she could do to brace herself for that up and close bloody view of his face. It was older now. A few scars she’d never seen etched across it. The pain in his eyes would mirror her own. The desperation.

The question was, from whom?

Her heart pounded. Her eyes burned.

Don’t let go.

Don’t let go.

Fingers would twitch. A snarl would rip across her lips. And a frustrated cry would tear from her soul.

Don’t let go. ​

The sound of the blaster clattering upon the floor would come next. As would the sudden slid of her bloody hand as it would reach to grab his throat anew. It would slide against flesh, lubricated by her blood, just as her grip would tighten upon his nape where dark tuffs of hair would curl round.

Don’t let go.​

That was the problem. If she didn’t let go…. she would hold fast. Ride the wave. Hold on tight come the Nine Hells or the oblivion of death.

Don’t let go.​

Damn her. Damn him.

Her grip would tug him down as she would rise. She had to find out. She had to. One way or another.

Before her world ends.

Silver lips would lock upon his own. Hot, desperate, searching. Full of need. Anger. Sorrow. Her rage.

The taste of sweat, blood, and fury that would fill his mouth as Mao did exactly what he said.

She didn’t let go.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

The grief, the frustration. The dark tunnel that he had all but given up on finding the light as its end, opened up as their lips met. A fury was behind it, a typhoon of conflicting emotions. Of shock, of joy and love, pain and sadness, anger and contentment that he felt like it would be too much and that he'd be lost in the midst of this storm, only to wake up alone. To find that the terrible storm, the terror it filled him with, had been the echo of a dream.

So he didn't let go. If this was the want of a broken psyche, if this was all figment and false hope then he wanted it, he wanted to fall, to plunge into that fallacy and keep falling for as long as he could. Because he knew that when he finally did return to the real, it would never be the same. It would be colourless, a world of monotone with nothing left to offer.

The blade had become lost in this singular desperate act that had been centuries in the making, shaking and bloodied hands found her face and clasped it with all his might, their passions were as their lives had been together; Rough and reckless. Utter abandonment to the moment.

"Don't let go. Don't you ever let go!" A voice said, a voice so loud and so familiar that it were as if Sal Norongachi were standing right beside him, as if his son had come home from beyond the veil. "Keep her, protect her. Fight it! You can fight it!"

And then the counterpoint to the only good and true thing he had ever given the universe, brought silence and a coldness to his soul.

"What if you can't, what if you fail? Can't you feel it? Its slipping away. You know what you are. You know what you'll go back to. You won't protect her, you'll ruin her. Ruin her again and again and you'll have her come back for more. You are a monster. You are Omega." He had stopped kissing her, frozen in place as the realization set in. His eyes were wide, a picture of fear and then a whisper escaped his lips, just barely audible as he rested his forehead against hers and let the tears fall at last.

"Monsters don't get happy endings, Blue, they kill the girl and then they fall to the hero..." The blow was swift, precise, hitting the crucial nerve point on the side of her neck. Whatever retort, whatever words she had to say were lost to unconsciousness. She went limp in his arms, her dazzling hair falling across a face that would haunt him for eternity. A finger moved the strands away and he stood with her in his arms.

He raised her up, just high enough that her ear fell near his lips and his whispered three words. Three words that needed to be said, were desperate to be said. He did the only thing he could to fight and protect her, the only way he knew how, from the greatest enemy she would ever face.

The office door opened and as expected they were gathered there, waiting, Hardock was at the fore, his eyes full of malice and rage. Salem Norongachi ignored the rest, they weren't enough. Not for this, not for this gravest of tasks. No, he needed someone like himself but tempered by a different world, a different life and so he spoke his command and imparted to his brother the only thing he had ever cherished.

"She must never know, Hardock." Was all he said as the clone bundled [member="Mao"] into the freighter and the door sealed behind him.

As that ship pulled away, all the colours in the universe left with it.