00: dance in dubai

The strum of rain was oddly soothing in such a tempered place. Dubai wasn't the coolest of areas, for certain, and at the will of his councillor Asbel had accepted the offer of taking a one-week vacation in the dead of summer, all expenses paid, to see the university who had been on him to join them since early of last year. He had met with the headmaster, spoke about the programs they had, about his lovely scholarship with boarding and bed included. However his vacation was for a week, and the time he spent on the grounds was hardly three days, this being on the later end of fourth. He had been wandering around and checking out Dubai for the better part of a day and a half and he still had well over two days to see what was left, considering his plane left in the midday, rather then blindingly early like the one which took him here.

Yet the strum of rain was the very last thing that would help people. It came in a flash, a thunderous roar that nobody seemed to hear. They came, blindly blue bolts, almost like lightning, over the cusp of the skyscraper, plummeting down with a thunderous force that gravity brought with it. The sky was completely bright-blue for half of a second as Asbel took his gaze up, mouth agape, as if he was seeing the sky for the first time.

It took not even a second for the bolts to hit the ground afterwards, if not less then that, and within a second, everything changed. The ground split from underneath Asbel, a flurry of dust and stone rising up as the bolts made impact. A thunderclap of effect breaking away the ground underneath his feet, his shoes hovering in the air for just a moment before he felt gravity take over and throw him into the concrete again, his face forced onto the rough of the broken stone, breaking open his lip, drawing blood and bruising his chin.

There was a blinding pain from the rough impact of his skull against the ground, a disorientation not unlike that of a concussion in his skull. A blinding headache brought him fully to the present though, a feeling as though one of the bolts had split itself through the area between his brows brought him up. His fingers clutched that part of his head, which bled from the fall, drops of crimson falling onto the ruined pavement as he bolted upwards, the jarring switch nearly causing him to fall again. Asbel regained his balance, however, and as quickly as he had thought the worst to be over it came resurfacing.

All around him people found themselves pinned or bloodied on the ground, their bodies tattered. Some of them were missing parts of themselves, perfect holes in shoulders, stomachs, and even heads. Others were missing entire limbs, which had been severed due to one of the arrows cutting it off entirely. Asbel wasn't sure why his gaze flickered away to the crowd and to his now ruined umbrella, but he felt worse once he saw it. It was a husk of an umbrella, torn to absolute shreds, showing just how close he had come to losing his own life, all of the holes that had penetrated through the umbrella giving a heavy sense of unease, which seemed to even dwarf the pain and dizziness which wracked his body after every second.

Yet Asbel could not allow for this sort of thing to just continue on, and do nothing to help. No matter how much he called 911, there was only so much people could do. People, a voice in the back of his head bit into his psyche as he slurred forwards, digging his feet through the broken concrete to move to the most wounded, who were in generally the same people. You don't even think of yourself as Human anymore, do you? The thought was unsettling. What was he? He wasn't a hero, he was a failure, some two-bit loser who couldn't even stand up for himself, yet here he was, with half a breath left inside of him, moving to the most wounded so that the potency of his ability would not go to waste.

"Cosecha." For the first time since he had left his apartment that morning, Asbel spoke. It was not like anyone could hear him, over the sound of crumbling concrete and screaming. But the screaming stopped, just long enough for his wings to break through the jacket on his back, the huge white wings standing ominously over the group of people, akin to a grim reaper tolling the souls of the dead. Then the screams began again, confused screams. People moved away from the boy with wings, but he did not care. He didn't care if the very university who wanted him for so long disowned this "mutant" for what he was. He didn't care anymore, not like he cared to begin with regardless.

"Primavera." Asbel continued, his wings molted and twisted. It was painful, somewhat, the nerves on his back churning painfully as he focused his reiatsu, not bothering on the sensations on his head which nearly forced him asleep. His wings spread into branches, and began to bare life. It was not like it was not spring already, so there was no drastic change, but the area around them teemed with life, the twisted reality having tufts of grass through the broken concrete, long vines twitched out from underneath bodies, and flowers bloomed. Some people screamed demon, others dropped to their knees and prayed for the 'angle' in such an act of blatant manipulation. If only you knew. Asbel thought bitterly.

"Go get help now! Call 911! I can't keep them alive for too long!" Asbel broke back into the present with a command highly out of his nature. It hurt to ask or demand, but the people did not care, most flipping open phones or sliding them open to dial 911 furiously, while others took pictures, videos, his face plastered over several pictures with his wooden wings of life.

Fuck. Was the only thing Asbel could think of as he hunkered down and waited, hoping that he could stay conscious as the police and ambulances came.

Sirens could be heard off in the distance. Dubai wasn’t known for its effective medical and police practices, but their attempts as rescuing the dead would serve as an ample distraction. The hunters after him were not like to attack him in the open as long as the city was bristling from what they would soon call another terrorist attack from Lakpa. 

But then something odd happened. Lakpa sensed not one, but two interesting spiritual pressures. The first was at the scene of the explosion, and it felt like nothing quincy or shinigami. A human? his thoughts questioned. Or a togabito. Lakpa turned to investigate but a hooded man stood at the mouth of the alleyway. 

“Shinigami,” Lakpa said at once. If not for the slight spiritual presence the man gave off, the zanpakutou on his back gave everything away. He had seen many of those in his day, and they always had an aura about them that no mortal weapon ever did. There was no point in waiting for his answer. Flicking his wrist, a blue light shot from Lakpa’s sleeve and materialized an unadorned bastard sword. Steam rose from the hot metal, like the great white breath of some beast. And then he was gone. 

Lakpa appeared before the shinigami in a flash, the mountain’s breath whipping around in an arc to divorce head from body. He hoped it would be a clean blow. There was no time to dawdle when there were more quincy approaching and mediums in the city. 

Lakpa’s strike missed and his right arm rose just as the katana came down. It cut through the wet suit underneath with ease, sending strips of snow-white silk fluttering into the wind. Underneath a pattern of dark red lines marked the skin where the metal had struck, though no blood was drawn and no cut was left. That was how the police, the second quincy, and the medium had found them. 

Alternating splashes of red and blue light dyed the alleyway again and again. The Dubai police officers were screaming in their native tongue--one that Lakpa knew, but did not care to understand for now. There were only nine of them. Nine men wielding weapons that traveled at supersonic speeds, but that lacked the force to hurt him. Humanity, as always, had no idea what they were dealing with. 

Lakpa pointed his blade directly behind him and at the quincy girl. Two wings of reishi, so thin that they were virtually just lines, unfolded and spread from the hilt. Arrows glistened along them, invisible to the police officers. Above, a helicopter could be heard. 

“Girl, are you a kingsmen or a Vatican dog?” Lakpa’s amber eyes never left the shinigami before him. Nor did the medium, who was just out of sight, ever escape his senses. 

Yusuke’s pretty emerald eye opened in surprise when his sword met the steely forearm of the Quincy. When the fabric of his targets shirt began to sail through the storm and the captain realized his slash was met with some iron defense, he hastily withdrew back several paces with a flash step. His eyes were locked with Lapka’s as he paced backward to stand before the winged boy.

“Those damn wings” he thought.

As soon as he’d backed to the medium, the boy began to fill Yusuke’s ears with his frantic cries. His plea went almost ignored while the ginger focused on the Quincy rogue’s words instead. This female, whoever she was, failed to answer his question; standing behind the man with her mouth closed shut. It was a weird statement for sure but just what did it mean. From the Lapka spat the words “Vatican dog” he must’ve been referring to the church…much like the Quincies who were sent to take him down. The only opposition Yusuke was aware of to the church were the anti-pact Quincy’s, but were the rogues calling themselves kingsmen now?

More and more light began to fill the dark walls as several more police cars crashed onto the scene. Seriously, why average human police officers would even attempt to confront some winged teen and a fight between swordsmen was beyond the Juubantai’s Taicho. Yusuke knew for sure if he was a human and passed two men fighting with swords while prepubescent Big Bird watched he’d definitely keep it moving.

He let out a quiet breath as their nonsense cries started to cut through the storm. These damn cops sure put more stress on the situation. If the winged teen made any movements they’d probably shoot at him forcing Yusuke to deflect the bullets, but Lapka would more than likely revel in the moment of opportunity to attack. Then there was that girl; as soon as he’d take his eyes away from Lapka there was no telling what he would do to her.

“Who are the kingsmen, eh Quincy? Let’s move outta here, it’s getting pretty stuffy.” If he made a move Yusuke was ready to counter with the boy at his back, but if he motioned to leave the scene the captain would follow suit.