Crow raised his forearms just in time to catch the latest blast of air, the impact sending shockwaves through his body and shaking it down to the bone. His body toppled backwards and was plucked free of the ground at the same time. Moments later he felt the familiar sensation of breath being driven from his lungs as his shoulders crunched into the ground, sending great ripple patterns across the face of the sand.

While his upper body appeared content to lie still after meeting the solid surface, his legs were not so inclined. They continued sailing backwards, folding him over and spinning his body onto its front all the while the momentum from the attack kept him sliding along the dirt. He imagined that, were it not for his magically augmented durability, the friction would have torn the skin from his entire body. As things were all he had to deal with was a cloud of granules he kicked up spraying into his face and forcing his eyes shut.

When Crow finally came to a total halt, he was quite convinced that for whatever reason the world had turned upside down and gravity was pulling him into an enormous sandy ceiling which had appeared in the sky. By the time he’d rolled over onto his side and got something close to his bearings, the familiar rippling air which spelt imminent harm was already shooting towards him. He was just able to open his mouth and feel his stomach lurch with despair before a wall of sand formed between him and the blast, breaking the shockwave against itself like waves on a cliff and sending a spray of dust in all directions.

He scrambled to his feet, glimpsing the tan skin and glinting jewelry of his temporary ally through the rapidly thinning filth clogging the air. There was a strange rushing noise, then a sudden pop followed by yet another ripple- and the sand-user’s feet left the floor as he hurtled backwards, clearing Crow’s field of view immediately.

Desperate not to be caught in a one on one with someone as powerful as their foe, Crow scrambled to his feet. Alkatif was powerful, very powerful. He’d heard they had Gladiator scale mystics in their ranks, even rumours of Paragons, and given the destruction they had caused in some of their attacks he believed it. The man before him probably wasn’t that strong, but he was far above even most adults. Then again, so was Crow.

He activated his future glimpses and rushed forward, his enemy being nearly fifty feet away meant that the weakness of close-range attacks he’d recently been informed of would hopefully not be something he needed to worry about. Crow glimpsed himself being ragdolled at the bore of a torrentous ripple, and he flattened himself against the ground just in time to avoid it- wincing as he was pelted by a cloud of sand dragged along in the attack’s wake. He began pushing himself up, only to see yet another glimpse of himself being struck.

He instantly lurched to one side, avoiding most of the impact yet painfully jerking to one side as his left shoulder was grazed. Crow spun around, then spun again. His body half rolling and half flying backwards. His mouth filled with sand, and his head began to spin, yet he still waited not even a moment before bringing himself up to a stand- his only chance would be to attack quickly and attack constantly.

Just as he was expecting to glimpse yet another attack, the ground in between him and the enemy reached upwards like a great fist- then exploding towards him. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw his ally was back on his feet, both hands outstretched with a look of considerable concentration. Crow didn’t waste another moment, disabling his future glimpses to conserve power and continuing onwards in his charge. He didn’t know the tanned boy, but he also didn’t have much choice but to trust him to cover his assault.

Crow rushed forwards, having managed to trim a quarter off the distance between himself and his enemy. The terrorist hadn’t attempted to widen the gap, so he was either confident enough to think he didn’t need to or making use of an ability which was more effective at ten metres than it was at fifteen. Crow really hoped it was the former, his forearms still throbbed from where he’d blocked the first attack. There was a grinding noise as another jet of sand appeared in front of him, this time having blurred into place from behind his line of sight. And yet when it exploded now, it was followed by the same invisible blast of force it had been thrown out to block. The shockwave wasn’t as powerful as a direct hit, but it still nearly sent Crow to the ground and rocked his balance by suddenly reducing his forward momentum. He had just enough time to recall how his ally couldn’t actively control sand outside a fifteen metre radius of himself and realise how much harder that would make it for him to produce an effective shield, and then he was back to top speed and staring down another attack.

This time the jet of sand had even less of an effect to reduce the force, thankfully Crow was also expecting it. He’d raised his arms and held them in front of him, elbows pointed out like a battering ram to meet the blast head-on. The sudden jerk of the impact still rattled his teeth and churned his stomach, but he was once again able to remain standing. And as he parted his arms to look at his attacker, he saw the man was shifting nervously from one foot to another. Crow was within a half dozen paces now.

The terrorist’s arms were lifted up, the tell-tale rippling of the air right in front of him becoming more visible by the second, and then a spray of sand cascaded down onto him from above. It didn’t hit hard, nor was there very much, but the effect was immediate and vital all the same. The man’s arms shot upwards and covered his head and torso, he bent down slightly as though to make himself a smaller target and aimed his head straight at the floor- apparently thinking the shower of dirt was a larger threat than it was. Crow felt a grin pull at the corners of his mouth. His ally must have thrown a jet of sand upwards and angled it just right to land on the enemy, ensuring he wouldn't see it coming and shocking him into interrupting his next attack. It gave Crow just the window he needed to close in on him.

Had the man’s face not been covered by his ridiculous mask, Crow would have had just enough time to read whatever expression it made before impact. Regardless, he didn’t need to directly see said face in order to slam his right elbow into it with his full body’s weight. The bone connected with an incredibly satisfying jolt, though one that sent a twinge of pain into his wounded forearm, and sent the recipient stumbling away. As Crow had thought, he was a ranged attacker. Beakie’s head remained attached, and so he must have had some degree of durability enhancement magic, but it was clearly not the focus of his powers. In hand to hand combat Crow had a chance.

While his enemy focused on righting himself, Crow sidestepped and attacked from the right. His right punch was met with a guard, something he had seen coming. Snaking his left hand around the block, he yanked his opponent towards him by the elbow and sent another right to meet them- this time an uppercut aimed at the sweet spot where chest met stomach. It folded them over, and he heard a strained gasp from behind their mask. Brief memories of his sparring matches with Astra flashed in Crow’s mind, mixing with the adrenaline to paint a shockingly real mental image. And all his frantic mind could focus on was the need to prevent his enemy from putting more distance between them. He’d gotten in close and taken the upper hand, there would be little chance to regain it if he gave it up.

He threw a left cross into Beakie’s jaw, knuckle meeting chin and tilting their head to one side with a satisfying jolt. He saw the tell-tale wobbling of disoriented legs and knew the opening waw there for a finisher. He raised his right elbow and prepared to bring it down on the back of their neck- then hesitated. This was a dangerous move, not one he’d ever practiced on a living person due to the incredibly high risk it carried for causing permanent injury. And then he remembered who he was fighting. He remembered what kind of scum it took to turn magic on those who couldn’t use it themselves. He remembered seeing the results of that sin personally, a cloud of red mist where there had once been people, his uncle taken from him, and that grinning bastard looking around at a job well done.

Crow slammed his arm down, the heavy bone of his elbow landing hard but missing the vital spot in the spine- bouncing off the trapezius muscle. The missed impact knocked Crow off balance, and by the time he’d righted himself his enemy had taken two steps out of reach and turned back to him. Arms raised, the air beginning to ripple once more. This close he wouldn’t have time to guard, and the power would be greater than any attack he’d taken so far. He doubted that he’d survive, yet couldn’t quite bring himself to close his eyes either. He’d failed.

And then there was a blur of motion, and Beakie disappeared under a wall of sand. The speed and force with which it enveloped him stopped Crow from registering it for a moment, and by the time he’d processed what had happened his ally had already lifted the mass of granules into the air. Crow glanced over at the tan boy, seeing his face was sharpened with concentration, and winced as he brought Beakie crashing back down.

For a moment he could see nothing, save for what was within a metre of himself. The air was saturated with silicate particles, blocking even the harsh light of the sun as though he were standing in a yellow cloud. A few tense seconds passed while Crow waited for it to settle, each beat of his heart sounding like a cannon shot as the airborne sand gradually settled back on the ground. And after what felt like hours he could once more see the terrorist.

The man was lying on his back, beak mask askew and chest barely rising and falling. One of his arms and legs were twisted at unnatural angles, resembling a broken matchstick alarmingly well. It was a strange sight, almost hard to believe even when right in front of him. Crow had known a human body could be mangled in such a way, but that hadn’t nearly prepared him to see it done right in front of him. And by a single attack no less….

He whirled, levelling his gaze at his ally and feeling his hands curl into fists. The tan boy was looking at the terrorist impassively, as though doing no more than appraising a job well done. His dark yellow eyes flickered back to Crow’s.

“In the words of the great philosopher Darognat, teamwork makes the dreamwork. Eh kid?”

Crow took a second to realise he’d been spoken to. His brain taking some time to flick it's switch from combat to conversation. When he did answer, it sounded sluggish and strained even to himself.

“Uh, isn’t that a quote from the Princess of Olympus? On those advertisements in the newspaper for the Sieve?”

The tanned boy blinked, then frowned and nodded slowly.

“Hm… yeah, yeah it is actually. My bad. Well anyway, teamwork did make the dreamwork in this case regardless. Provided the dream was hospitalising a terrorist. Which, if you don’t mind my saying, is a rather limited dream in the scope of things.”

Crow laughed despite himself, feeling the tension begin to ease away. He still glanced back to their incapacitated enemy, but if nothing else he no longer wanted to run away on instinct alone. His ally seemed to think for a moment, then turned to one side and began walking away. He kept his gaze on Crow as he did so.

“My name’s Ra by the way. I figured, since you helped me beat someone who, frankly, was not a great opponent for me, I ought to introduce myself.”

“Nice to meet you Ra. My name’s Crow.”

Ra did some strange sort of half-salute, then made to look away as he carried on walking. Crow felt himself relax, he’d really rather have not continued having to fight him. Then he paused and called after his former, temporary ally.

“You could’ve handled that guy alone though, couldn’t you?”

Ra didn’t bother looking back before answering, just kept on walking.

“I figured you could use the credits, and fighting alone is dull.”

Not having anything to say to that, Crow simply watched the boy leave. He was well aware that Ra could easily have beaten him had he felt so inclined, and it was for that reason that he believed completely that the boy wasn’t attempting to trick him. After all the time it would take Crow to let his guard down was probably more valuable than the slightly increased ease with which he’d have lost in such a state.

Of course once Ra was gone, that left Crow alone with the broken form of the terrorist. He looked back at the man, his stupid uniform torn in multiple places where it had been pelted with sand, and felt his blood start to boil all over again. mystics shouldn’t use magic on Inepts. That was what he’d been taught by Galad, and that was what he’d learnt on that fateful, haunting day. The sheer destruction a mystic could bring to someone who didn’t have magic of their own was…. It wasn’t fair. Like an adult beating a child, only a thousand times as severe. It felt almost unnatural to think of.

And the bastard lying a few metres from him had not only done it, but he’d done it with glee. There was pain in Crow’s palms as the fingernails of his fists dug into them, and he took a step closer to the beaten mystic. Beakie didn’t have magic of his own now, did he? He was beaten and unconscious, or barely conscious if anything. Slightly more vulnerable even than the innocent people he’d delighted in killing. Maybe it was about time he tasted what it was like on the bottom of nature’s ceiling.

Crow took another step, this time glancing his gauger out of the corner of his eye. Reflexively he read the numbers displayed on it.

Credits: One thousand

Team Credits: Two thousand five hundred

Team Position: Third

Time left: Three hours thirty minutes

Gritting his teeth, he turned away from Beakie and set off walking once more. He had a mission. No, he had a calling. Something more important even than the sacred principles the scum he’d just fought had beaten. And Crow couldn’t let himself think about anything but that, no matter how revolting or unforgivable it was.

He had to kill a God.