Fight Scene

The Fight Begins

As she was only inches from the man able to see the slight freckles on his face, the blood she had commanded was blown away to the side at once. It splashed against the building and vaporized in a moment, no longer under her control. Demille paused for a split moment in shock, eyes wide.
I'm already this close, but I can't afford to hurt my arm like that again- even if he cuts me loose.
She swerved her body to the left, away from the building, and threw out her leg again, keeping the momentum by leaning her torso downward and pressing her right hand against the ground. She almost made contact with the man's neck when suddenly she was spun around on her heel, pushed to the side like a puppet by seemingly nothing.
"Air-type, huh?" She muttered aloud, switching feet and kicking again at his head from behind this time. He ducked, rather than push her leg away, and another burst of nothing- a gust of wind, she suspected now- struck her chest and knocked her backwards. She went along with the motion and stumbled back a few steps, steadying herself and putting on a nonchalant act. He was standing upright again, turning his head slightly to look at her. "I get it, then. You worked on your wind blowing and figured that was enough, yeah?" She looked the man up and down, taking in not for the first time his weak build. "That's why you think you can fight me like... that." Dragging a finger up and down, pointing at the man to exaggerate her point, she painted on the nastiest smile she could manage. She silently thanked the people who have done the same to her for teaching her the art. "You'd look right at home in the sick ward of a hospital, honestly."
Demille hoped that she had provoked him enough to make him angry, lash out, and in turn be sloppy. But his facial expression didn't have any noticeable changes, save for a slightly furrowed brow. It sent slight chills down her spine how he was so neutral, so calm, so emotionless while fighting. The two stared at each other for a moment, each trying to read the other, before the man finally muttered a response.
"I look sick? Huh." His head tilted to the side again, and his lips dropped slightly at the ends, but his eyes were sharp. Focused. "Then should I train? Form muscles like yours? No, because I'm talented with my fighting style. I trained the part of me that I can best use to fight my opponents, and by your..." He looked down at my knee, no longer bleeding. "Lack of skill, per se, with your own ability, you trained your body. In other words, you also trained the part of you that can best destroy your opponents, same as me, for whatever reason. You're a hypocrite, miss."
His arm swung outwards again and a gust blew Demille closer towards him before she could move out of the way. Her body fell forward, her eyes snapping wide open with surprise. Instinctively her arms went up to block her face, but the man smacked them down. His other hand twisted the top of her jumper around his fist, sticking her there in front of him. She willed her body to move, to get away, but a flash of fear froze her in place. He was taller than her, she noticed, and had a surprisingly strong grip.
Get out.
"My body's weak, so I trained mercilessly with my ability. While you..."
Get out!
He looked her up and down, brightly lit eyes not trailing lazily like she expected but with sharp focus. "Your ability is weak, so you trained with your body. We're two sides of the same coin, really." His eyes bored deep into hers, making real contact for the first time. Demille squirmed, uncomfortable under his gaze that seemed to penetrate her entire being.
GET OUT!
She knew she could toss him to the ground, easily, but she couldn't break free from his stare. It was hypnotic, yet terrifying at the same time. Chills run through her entire body and her mind blanks. All of the training she had been doing vanished from her mind, leaving her practically defenseless. Her arms dropped at her sides.
He's right, she thought, what does physical strength matter when nothing can push you down anyways? Then what should physical strength matter when everything can push you down? Memories of training came to her mind again, but instead of recalling how to break an opponent's grip she remembered all the times her strength wasn't enough. Burned by fire, nearly drowned by water, trapped by the creation of a welder, stuck in a loop of torture by a perception-type. Her strength couldn't get her out of these situations, and neither could her ability. So why would it be different now?
The man's grip loosened and he let go of her, shaking his hand again at his side as he put his arm down. His eyes wandered away from her as he backed up. Demille's mind whirred, her feelings of helplessness from years ago resurfacing fresh in her mind. Wounds not quite bandaged, bleeding the insecurities she's held back with determination for years. Memories of time's she's failed spear her, sharper than the best sword a blacksmith could dream of creating. The sharpest and most blood-filled memory is of that pivotal point where her life took a turn. For better or for worse, she could tell no better than a child could tell why the world revolved around the wrong people. Power hungry monsters, using the human shape only as a disguise, flash through her mind. Them raiding Remiskv, (A.N: Demille's home town) burning down buildings, holding friends captive to ultimately use or murder them, all the while the only thing she could do was hide and watch.
But not this time. Now, Demille stands.
It's different because I've changed. I lived, and grew.