Fight Scene

The Enemy is Here

Someone's there, thought Demille. She stopped running and took a breath, every heartbeat a devastatingly heavy blow against her ribcage. Her short red-dyed hair was frizzled, and the pretty black and blue spotted jumper she had put on this morning was now scorched and stained with dirt, beer and blood, the earthy, metallic taste lathered throughout her mouth. Partially a result of biting her tongue when the restaurant first collapsed. Now she was separated from the heart of the chaos, on the outskirts of the once-bustling city. Her hand came up to shield her dark green eyes as they followed the figure on the still standing building's rooftop, who looked nonchalantly over the raging fires below.
"Don't you think it's boring?" A male voice, light but deep, just barely audible over the sounds of chaos surrounding them. "You put different kinds of people into the same situation. And yet..." he trailed off, glaring at the sun as he held his hand over his eyes. His words were paced strangely, with a hint of an accent Demille thought sounded familiar. She couldn't tell what any of his features were as he cut a stark silhouette against the setting sun behind him. It seemed to smother him in hot red and orange flames, which was fitting if he's really the one who destroyed everything. Demille was certain he was.
Then, without warning, he jumped. He cut straight through the air without a sound, becoming more visible as he dropped. His hair flew up out of his face, dark curls flattened out slightly by the wind. Demille started to shout, surprised, but the sound caught in her throat and came out as a quiet gasp. A result of all the screaming she did and her still aching tongue. The strange man paused in the air, only a few feet behind Demille, and floated above the ground. "And yet"- he continued, as if he hadn't just jumped off a three-story building, "they'll always react in one of four ways." Demille spun on her heel at the sound of his voice to face him again, slightly afraid of losing sight of him. He held up four fingers, dragging his arm up and along as if he were too tired to move it any faster.
An air-type? She wondered, trying to place the man's ability. No, he could be using something I can't see. A building or perception-type possibly. She kept her face as neutral as she could, fear and frustration battling in her mind as adrenaline still pumped through her veins. As a distraction she starts looking the man over, trying to notice anything and everything she could that might give her an advantage. He had on everyday clothing, free from any dirt or scorches. A baggy tan sweater rests over a black button-up and dark blue jeans, practically black. Not the best battle outfit, but not the worst either, especially if he's a distance fighter. She had the advantage there, her jumper giving her body access to move however she wishes without strain. His loose hair fell just above his shoulders, a curly brown mess that covered most of his ears which were pierced with simple rubies. Unless he could control how his hair moved or tied it up away from his eyes, Demille had the advantage there too. Neatly trimmed brown brows rested above his light green eyes, and dark bags rested underneath on his otherwise pale face. He bore a very tired expression that reminded Demille of the smart-but-boring dad from a cartoon she used to watch as a child. Whether he was sleep deprived or it was his natural face Demille couldn't tell, but she believed she was equal with him if not higher in energy after the collapse.
She needed to stall. "Tell me, then." She prodded, inquiring about his earlier statement. "Which category do I belong in?" Her voice was strained, the words choked out. Her throat was still sore from screaming. But she was able to do this much. She had to be able to.
The man rolled his eyes, a quick motion, and absentmindedly shook his hands at his sides as if he were drying them. "I haven't decided. Yet." He spoke calmly and smoothly, despite the situation. His feet finally touched the ground, worn desk-job type shoes clacking softly against the cracked concrete. With a slight glare he muttered under his breath, the words clearly pointed at her. "Gakktu hægt um gleðinnar dyr." (A.N: Do not yet walk through the doors of joy- or 'don't get too excited and hurt yourself)
Iceland. Demille thought at the back of her mind. She recognized the language from her short visit a few months prior, while doing stamina training. That only frustrated her, though, as she had struggled to understand the language herself.