Difference between revisions of "Blueshift"

Latest revision as of 00:06, 10 December 2012

Jasmine was as much driven onwards as repulsed by the sense of terrible Darkness closing in on Manhattan. With every passing step, the knives twisted a little bit further into her skull, stabbing pain matched only by the pounding of her heart. This was the exact opposite of what she'd been doing, all this time... running towards danger, instead of away from it, ahead of it. But the calamity she sensed in the making was too urgent not to respond to. She /had/ to go to it, to stand against it, to lend herself to that world, before it was too late.

To do otherwise never occurred to her; she could only be what she was born to be.

She only knew one path to Manhattan. Destiny's path, up the great mountain.

The Heartless were waiting for her there.

Someone had known she would come, would have to come. That this level of threat would lure her out of hiding, and set her on this exact road.

Darkness lapped at her ankles, pulled at her wrists, closed like a fist all around her. At the last moment, she hurled her robe, and the companion that rode with her, concealed within it, clear of the fight.

"Run, Junior!" she begged him, when she saw the hesitation in his woeful blue eyes. "You're not safe here! I'll find you again -- I promise!"

Tail between his legs, black spots churning with each white-legged pace, the dalmatian puppy fled. Behind him, the princess took a deep breath, centered her stance, and clenched her fists.

"You might think I fight alone," she warned the Heartless surrounding her, large and small. "But you're wrong -- my friends are with me." She's learned so much from so many; from their bravery, their kindness, and yes, their various styles of kicking ass.

The way she crouches, lean and limber, like Jean Faraven.
Then explodes into action with perfectly timed grace, like Quistis Trepe.
Erupting into the fray, her form is fluid, a blurred balance of offense and defense, reminiscent of Celes Chere.
When she mistimes a strike, she's hurled into a pool of clinging Darkness -- and tenaciously refuses to drown in it, hanging on with more strength than she knew she had, while remembering Riku.
There are only seconds to escape, but she follows the example of someone who kept his head and thought his way through seemingly impossible odds: David Xanatos.
Summoning the last of her endurance, she leaps gloriously out of the pit, dancing not with fury and desperation, but with an aspiration to see, create, and protect beauty, like Ivo Galvan.
She lands directly on top of the Heartless who'd summoned the portal, and the sheer defiance with which she delivers that blow is reminiscent of another tiny figure opposing anyone who's wrong, regardless of size -- Faruja Senra.
Riding this second wind, she lashes out with the aggressive efficiency of Angantyr Vespar.
But rather than charging back into the heart of the fight, she keeps her distance, allowing the Light to deliver her blows while she repositions, much as an eye once fell to Avira.
She guards herself with subtlety, the swirling, spring-stepped twirl of the pirate lord, Faris Scherwiz.
In an echo of an echo, she lets her feet find the earth it yearns to defend, drawing strength from every point of connection, like a memory of Light, the last spark left in a heart of unending Darkness.

Eventually her momentum is such that the Heartless fade before her blows rather than allowing them to connect; their departure is as much a promise of return with renewed numbers as a retreat. And then she feels it shudder through her, a dissonant chord in the symphony of Life, like a blow to her soul, a piercing of her heart. Another wound in the tapestry of the worlds, crying out to be healed.

Overhead, a star snuffs out.

"I'm too late..."