Weather forcast; a flurry of fists, a chance of blades and 90% chance of gunfire

[Willard, Lord of The Shrubs]

Willard reached for his glass as Floyd talked, but his vision blurred violently, causing him to nearly knock over the drink. Something was very, very wrong. He felt his fingers wrap around the glass before he raised it to his lips, felt the cool liquid pool in his mouth, tasted it before it slid down his throat, silently tickling him. He couldn't see past a foot in front of him. Soon he almost couldn't anything, either. Focusing on the only thing he could feel, his metal ring, he pulled himself back into reality bit by bit, trying to grasp onto what Floyd was saying at the same time. When he said that he didn't know where the other man could be, Willard finally regained his vision, along with the other senses. This was not the first time this had happened, and Willard knew that it would not be the last. He wouldn't be so lucky.

Such was his curse! Willard's grasp on reality was very shaken, as if he were going to sleep, although he knew that was impossible. The first time he had that feeling, he foolishly assumed it was rest come to claim him. Instead he was met with visions, both wonderful and terrifying. A great knowledge which seemed to link everything in existence together, everything and everybody! Yet when he 'awoke' from the experience, he couldn't articulate, even to himself what the meaning behind all it was, or even what it was to begin with. Just like a dream barely remembered, it none the less left a heavy impact on Willard's haggard soul. He felt as if he were still hallucinating; how would he know the difference? Maybe his whole life was just some hallucination. He couldn't be sure. All he could muster the strength to do was to continue his revenge, fake or not. It was the only option left to him. Feeling detached, he wondered if there was anyone alive who thought these kinds of things, if he were the only person alive at all.

Willard looked directly upwards, toward the slanted skylight above where snow was steadily piling up.

He thought he could detect a shadow.

[Spring-Loaded]

Spring had lip-read enough. If he could, he would try to retrieve the briefcase. That was a subsidiary goal, however.

Foremost, he would once again cross paths with the case's current owner. Willard's cellular degeneration was obviously overcoming him; Spring would have only a few scant moments to act before Willard returned to a stable state, which would serve to be a challenge. If he was going to experience the bliss that was facing an equal opponent, he would have to strike at that moment.

The remote charges were already placed in the explosive gel on the skylight by the rational, clear-thinking side of Spring. It was if that half of his psyche was acting separately from the reawakened, blood-thirsty part of him. Sane Spring was indulging his counterpart. Both noticed Willard's gaze rise upward to their position.

If you just try to punch through the glass, you'll only break your hand. Surely you thought of that, as well as to why you're here?

"Shut up," Spring told himself, practically salivating in anticipation. "Just let me in there right this second."

His now submissive, sane side sighed, just before flipping the switch on the detonator. The concussive blast created no heat, yet the surge of energy from the explosive gel was of such that every thing directly below was showered in slivers of glass, steel, ice and concrete. In that moment before the snow hit the floor, amid the debris was what appeared to be a longcoat-clad figure falling through the air, past each floor of the bar to the open center area, descending directly upon the only two patrons who did not flinch, as if to strike.

Spring prayed for an immediate response. He expected nothing less of the only one to ever land a blow on him.

[Willard, Lord of The Shrubs]

It was the man who his superiors had given the case to on that night so long ago, and judging by the look on Floyd's face, this was the same man he had just spoken of. The briefcase no longer held any interest for him, if he could just talk to him! But even though Willard dodged the falling shrapnel, he did so with more of a staggering slouch than a leap. The numbness had not yet completely faded, his vision was still plagued by fuzziness; the visions were returning again. He tried to step back, but something within him opened it's own eyes through Willard, and they saw red. The mad instinct had returned, along with the grin snaking its way across his face. He felt his blood begin race, as if it were pumping so fast through his veins that the friction between liquid and flesh were heating him from the inside.

"This is too good to be true. I'm sorry Floyd, but it looks like I have a new source of information. Try not to kill him, if you can," Willard laughed at the audacity of trying to tell other people not to kill. Still waiting for his vision to return completely, he activated the runes on the back of his hands.

[Spring-Loaded]

Spring's coat hit the floor along with the debris. It crumpled to the floor for no one was inside of it. For a moment all that was heard was the whistling gale coming in through the roof. The wind pulled snow from outside into building, causing it to swirl through the main bar. Patrons on the upper floors lined the railings. All were looking down at the scraggly man, Willard and the crumpled bodies of the ones Willard dispatched earlier. The others who hadn't left the bar when Willard displayed his skills were now stumbling away in fear.

Spring's boots pierced through a window on the first floor, directly behind Willard. He unlatched from his belt the grapnel line he had used to swing off of the roof.

having taken advantaged of the element of surprise, coupled with Willard's briefly weakened state, Spring hurtled through the air, enshrouded in a cloud of shattered glass, before hitting Willard in the back with both feet. The blow sent the man straight over the bartop, past the bartender and into back room. The attack would slightly inconvenience Willard, giving enough time reacquaint himself.

The man with the suitcase hadn't reacted to any of the commotion, as Spring had hoped. The man's unflappable nature was still intact.

Spring said the man's name, almost breathlessly.

"Floyd."

[ganonfloyd]

First and foremost, Floyd secured to briefcase to his belt. His coat seemed to conceal it in an unending, infinite darkness once it was there. The rain of debris was easily avoidable, and there were moments where he could have launched himself up to meet his foe head on in the air. But he wanted to wait. He needed to see him face to face for the first time in years.

Floyd had heard Willard say something, but Floyd didn't hear it before the assailant sent him hurling away. As much as Floyd had found Willard to be a kindred spirit of sorts, even a possible ally, he was glad to see that it was now just the two of them, if only for the time being. The man standing in front of him, despite the years that had gone by, was ever as resourceful, cunning and efficient as he had ever been. The one man to ever truly take Floyd to his absolute limit.

The name echoed through the bar almost.

"Spring."

[Spring-Loaded]

There was no need for further words between the two.

Spring had landed a few yards from where Willard had stood. He took a step, followed by another. With each step, he could feel the glass and ice against his boots. The grit caused his feet to slip ever so slightly, yet he kept moving forward. The wind from above blew against him and out the front doors as the criminal clientele who had come to their sense rushed out of the bar. The air pushed against him slightly as well; it was as if some higher force was trying to keep Floyd and Spring apart, for the result would be unthinkable.

Spring's lips curled into an elated smile for he knew there was no "higher power". There wasn't even a bar or dead mayor, or a corrupt city that needed cleansing.

There was only the coming fight.

In a few scant seconds, Spring was in a run directly toward Floyd. His right hand was clenched into a fist, reared back and crackling with electricity.

[Willard, Lord of The Shrubs]

Just before he felt he was able to launch an attack, Willard felt his spine snap as Spring smashed into him from behind. Now, lying down in a heap in the next room, he felt he was able to laugh at himself more thoroughly. He underestimated Spring, and although he was yet to return to full strength, he had a front row seat to the performance. Sitting up as his vertebrae re-aligned and connected, the smile had not left his face. In the few moments it would take to stabilize completely, he would observe the fight at hand, wait for an opening.

The still activated runes burned more fiercely through his hands. As he thought that maybe it was time to start taking this a little more seriously, he sighed and closed his eyes. Placing both hands over his heart, the heat in his body intensified again as the world seemed to tremble ever so slightly around him. Upon opening his eyes, he found himself on the rooftop, looking down at the scene below. He would let Floyd have his fun before interrupting; this seemed to be a battle years in the making, and Willard had always loved watching professionals do their work.

The eyes that had opened within Willard disagreed, they pushed him forward; he lurched, barely coming to a stop before the edge. His own eyes widening madly and his smile replaced with a grimace, he reached around for a small compartment attached to the rear of his belt. Withdrawing his hand, he fumbled with a twist-switch situated on the top of the black cylindrical tube until a sharp needle snapped open on the opposite tip. He raised his arm, attempting to stab it into an artery in his right leg-- it was too late. Willard stood there, poised to strike for a few moments before dropping the needle. It bounced and rolled, and after teetering on the edge, fell into the hole toward ground level. Now standing straight and looking skyward, he struggled to remain in control, carving into his palms with his nails in a futile effort to drag himself back to reality.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the inner struggle was over. Blood leaking out from between his clenched fingers, Willard looked back down at the city with utter disdain. He could hear sounds of a fight below, but didn't think twice before walking to the edge of the building. Seeing people fleeing the area in the streets mainly by foot, he raised his arm. Flames leaped from his fingertips towards the crowd of people trying to escape. The sound of screams accompanied by the foul, acrid smell of burning clothes and flesh raised to the clouds above. A car tried to pull away in the opposite direction; Willard turned the blaze upon it instead, causing a chain reaction of exploding cars around the block. Inside his own body, Willard was screaming. Outside, chilling laughter was all that escaped his lips.

Jumping down from his vantage point, he grabbed someone he had not managed to burn. Willard's grasp burned the man's face as he screamed for his god. Quickly bending forward, he threw the unfortunate soul into a nearby building, which also began to disintegrate. The effect was just enough to turn the whole building to ash, leaving a large crater in its place, filled with what ash wasn't swept away with the wind. There was a break in the clouds- the crescent moon was now fully visible, it's cold light illuminating the scene below, highlighting the destruction. Once again looking skyward, Willard stood in the middle of the road, still and resolute, surrounded by the burning bodies and machines. Hearing the continued sounds of battle, he turned his attention towards Spring and Floyd.

[ganonfloyd]

(Apologies for the long absence, last week was filled with complications of various sorts.)

Floyd had no time to reminisce on the cackle of electricity he saw come forth from Spring's hand. It was a sight that was synonymous to the man who stood before him, every bit a part of him as Floyd's tools were to him. He sprung into action, moving at his fellow combatant with the anticipation and drive that few men had ever known.

He reached into his coat, putting his hand into a darkness that never seemed to end. He found exactly what he had needed and pulled forth his hand. From the darkness of his coat, held tightly in his clenched fist came a wire that could be misconstrued as the string of a bass guitar to an outside viewer. Made of a metal known to few, it coiled briefly in the air before lashing out to meet with Spring's reared fist, moving as if it too had a mind of its own and a desire to meet with an old foe once more.

[Willard, Lord of The Shrubs]

[That's alright. Hope everything is going ok?]

Something was wrong.

Twisting in agony on the roof, Willard heard the people below run, unburnt and terrified. Screams permeated the air instead of the thick, billowing smoke of his nightmares, while the cold light of the moon created a sharp contrast between the boiling blood pouring from Willard's hands and the rubble-littered concrete of the broken rooftop. He couldn't last much longer, he had to strike before it was too late. Hallucinations or no, he at least had the clarity to realize that sooner or later he'd crack, and then there would be no end to the chaos. The needle now smashed far below, Willard instead reached for his pistol as he saw Floyd tangle his wire around Spring's fist, saw them begin to grapple with one another. His grip loose from the blood, he took aim and readied the hammer. Closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger.

Blasting a hole through his left palm, the destructive rune was destroyed by the modified bullet.

The eyes within glazed over and closed as Willard opened his own.

[Spring-Loaded]

Spring's punch carried with it such force that it managed to only be stopped a few centimeters from Floyd's face. The sentient chord and coiled around his arm, so as to not risk coming into contact with the high voltage gauntlets. It seemed to be continually emerging from within Floyd's coat as at least twenty meters of it was suspended in the air around him. The way it slowly undulated, snakelike, as it held Spring's arm in place, would terrify a most for it was as unnatural as could be. Spring gave it no mind. To him, it was merely an old acquaintance.

And Spring was too busy staring at Floyd. Aside from the sounds of Willard thrashing around somewhere inside the building, the buzz of electricity was all the could be heard inside the bar. The place had been evacuated by all those willing or able. The only movement was that of the chord and the falling snow. Spring's eyes glinted; the passage of time had slowed for him, as it surely had for Floyd as well. Such combat brought about that feeling, one he had deprived himself of and distanced himself from for so long. He smiled.

The sound of a gunshot rang out from where Willard had landed and the chord violently yanked Spring upward toward the skylight.

[ganonfloyd]

A few stray sparks from Spring's gauntlet flicked outward and landed on Floyd's face. Their brief shocks seemed to force old feelings and visuals into his mind. He never flinched or even twitched as they made contact; it was not that he no longer felt the pain or shock, but that his body had simply become accustomed to them over the course of previous events.

The sound of the bullet and the sight of Spring sailing into the air forced action from him. Almost as instantly as it had wrapped around Spring, the cord was now latched onto a part of the upper ceiling of the bar, pulling Floyd upwards. So many questions flitted about his mind like gnats. In his concentration on Spring, he didn't know who fired the bullet, who the target was, or whether or not he should now be worried about Willard. The answers would come in time. Instead, he focused on the now.

Spring now flung into the air, but it would only be a moment before his composure would return and a counter strike would be made. Floyd swung from the ceiling, using his cord to guide him, aiming himself towards Spring, his boot searching for Spring's back.

[Spring-Loaded]

As Spring's boots make contact with the ceiling, he looks down in time to see Floyd using the chord to rise to his position. In the instant before he lost momentum, he wrapped grabbed hold of the chord with his free hand and pushed off, heading straight downward.

Spring knew from past encounters that whatever metal the cable was comprised of, it conducted little electricity. Instead of sending a current through the wire, he pulled it with his ensnared hand, feeding it through is other. Floyd was yanked upward by the makeshift pulley, his kick cutting through the air right past Spring's face. Spring continued downward until Floyd's weight balanced the pulley.

The sudden pull sent Spring swinging around the bar at about the same level as Floyd. As he strode along the walls and railings on the second floor, his eyes never left Floyd. The fingers of the hand from which he wasn't swinging from curled, resembling a claw.

[ganonfloyd]

Once he had control over his momentum, Floyd landed on the first floor of the bar and watched as his foe used his natural finesse and agility to move around the second level. He pulled back on the cord, which on cue returned into the void of his coat.

He wouldn't wait any longer than that to meet his foe, as it would be a disservice to both men. Rather, he leapt up onto a nearby table and kicked off it which as much force as he could. The jump took him up to the second floor, his eyes almost completely glued to the figure running towards him. There was no time or desire to go for a tool in the coat.

A cautious or rational man would have taken this as a cue to try and flee. Rather, Floyd rushed forward to meet his foe once again. His hand to hand style wasn't quite as precise as Spring's, but it hit hard and got the job done. As the distance between the two combatants disappears, he clasped his fists together, readying himself for the coming collision.