The Finale

	The winds of change were upon the world...

	If only he knew who to thank.

	Scene's eyes slipped open, the memory coming through despite his urge to block it. Generally, when thinking of something he had seen, he liked to place himself in the position of the accused. Of course, he blended in small memories of his own past to make it interesting. He stood, placing his hands in the pockets of his rather fashionable tuxedo as he made his way through the front gate, blending rather admirably into the crowd, who stared at his outfit with strong concentration, trying to figure out who exactly he was. The soldiers watched him too, frowning slightly at having never seen him before. He ignored them, eyes on the spires that rose above the city. He grinned.

	Stooping low, he brushed his bandaged fingertips through the soot and dirt just inside the city walls. It felt beautiful through the thin cloth. It covered his entire body, from foot to head. He wore classes over his eyes, which were the only part of him that remained visible besides his mouth. Full lips, bright green hues. The only telltale as to an identity he refused to reveal. The pseudonym he invented for himself- Scene- was not a name most would choose. It wasn't terrifying, or struck fear into the heart of villainy or the heroic. But it was his name, and he had worked with it for so long. A man with his past needed identity to be something of a last resort- thus the. He stood, adjusting his jacket calmly before he continued walking, wondering what it was that happened to the state of california these past few days. Something of a virus outbreak, of the sort.

	Not that it mattered, what with where he was heading.

	Right into the shoulder of a passing man, who immediately turned around with four other men, bucking up to the masked individual as though this was an everyday occurance. Everyone parted, and gave wide birth, the soldiers turning a suddenly blind eye. Scene adjusted his coat once again, giving the man a nod.

	"Excuse me." He said in a strangely polite tone.

	"Screw you, freak show."

	What a response...

	Scene stared down at his tux, which now had two filthy hand prints on it. He looked back up at the man and stared behind his shades. Glancing over the other three, he ignored them while he reached up and brushed off his jacket calmly. He said nothing, stepping forward quite slowly. the other man glanced behind him to make sure his friends were backing him up before looking back, only to find Scene stooping directly in front of him so their eyes met. He reached up, slowly removing his glasses and staring directly into the mans eyes for twenty seconds. Thirty. And ticking. The guy started to sweat. Finally, Scene spoke, a whisper so only the man would hear.

	"Did you know that I could kill you, and sleep soundly at night?" He said, hands in his coat pockets. The tone was almost a quiery, as though to seriously ponder the mans knowledge of the subject.

	The mans pupils dialated perfectly. Scene straightened and replaced his shades, in a very strange, calm manner. He wasn't an evil man, but the punk was a coward. Scene knew how to deal with cowards. A show of force would provoke, but a few well placed words and actions pushed the right buttons.

	"Sorry once again. I'll be on my way."

	He moved through the circle unceremoniously, heading toward the car he had his last remaining lifeline to this place leave for him. Sitting plainly behind the wheel, he fired the engine and took off, heading in the direction of a particular house he had left to someones care. That man was now on the move, to the location he had designated weeks ago. Once this matter was settled, he would leave California forever, finally. And thus would begin the next step in his journey.

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	One match was all it took. From one match to several well-scattered gallons of flammable liquid, to a bonfire that roared and reared like a beast reaching to the sky. It was the largest fire Vespyr had ever set or seen in her life--so intense that she had to watch from a mile away, for the towering flames created a firestorm that all but inhaled the trees surrounding it. The blaze had devoured the entirety of the mansion and clawed upward with a torrid hunger, billowing hot black smoke into the night sky.

	At a considerable distance Vespyr had paused by the the road to gaze at the last remaining link to an era of her life, now up in flames. It was midnight and she was a mile away, but she still wore sunglasses and the sharp outline of her body was illuminated by the brilliant red glow. Her hands were in the pockets of her uniform--something resembling that of the SS, but obviously altered to suit her tastes. She fingered the collar of her trench coat a little bit, still feeling the warmth from the forest fire, a trickle of sweat there.

	The corners of her black cherry lips twitched into a grin and she turned away once more, continuing up the road, over the hill, into darkness.

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 	"You always had the flare for the dramatic."

	His voice seemed to whisper out of the shadow of the trees, like a scent carried up through a breeze. It seemed masked, muffled. Perhaps discernable but more than likely, unrecognizable. The voice seemed to come from every direction- thoughsuch a thing was physically impossible, but the light touch in which it carressed her skin seemed to pour from the earth like the bloom of freshly planted flowers. Scene walked among the overgrowth, a tux among the blackness, sometimes visable in one place, then appearing in a totally new.

	"You must think it means the end of everything. Such a desire for the destruction of the past...it's almost repulsive. Yet... I suppose i should be thanking you."

	His voice, still light and airy, unafraid to approach yet wisely keeping his distance. He knew what the girl had done with his mask. What she had done with her memory of him. Why she hated him- this too, he knew. Such a restructuring of ones self gardard the need for rejection of fear. He, in many ways, was the physical manifestation of his fears, and perhaps her own. Though, as he would likely hear her tell it, he was the last thing she was afraid of. His hold on her had broken, or so she thought. She fashioned herself a prisoner, with him the evil jailer, locking her to his hip out of an emotional need, or perhaps a sick desire to see her die a little inside. Perhaps she was right, on both accounts. Even he had trouble recalling the thoughts surrounding his purposes with her. Still, he knew her to be his reason for return, and the destruction of his mansion meant little to him- it was but money, and he could burn that for years and still be considered wealthy.

	"So eager, are you, to be rid of my memory?"

	He stood behind her, about fifteen feet, distance enough to avoid an attack, but close enough to speak freely. This was the last he would need of her- and even this was not something to request, something for her to do. He was giving her what she wished, at least for a time. Perhaps his death at her hands, should she wished it.

	They would see.

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 	She promptly stopped walking as the voice reached her ears. The self-serving grin faded away, and behind the dark glasses her violet eyes were suddenly frigid with…

	Determination.

	“I suspected you might show up here.”

	A pale hand reached up and behind her head, slipping beneath the trench coat collar at the back of her neck. Withdrawing slowly… nimbly gripping the handle of a long blade that slid vertically from within the coat—a sword. She held it at her side as she turned to face him, half of her face illuminated by the blaze, the other half in cold darkness. Her eyes were obscured from view by the flames reflected in the black lens of the glasses.

	“After all, no one misses the finale,” she said, her voice tinged with a dark grin. She moved forward with casual ease, gently tapping the silver tip of the sword on the ground with each step. Gravel crunched beneath her boots. If Scene would let her, Vespyr would advance as far as to stand at a normal distance—two feet or so— from him without making any hostile movements. It wasn’t time for that, yet. The femme placed both her hands comfortably atop the hilt of the long blade with its tip to the ground in front of her.

	“The finale,” she spoke again, quietly, “is what makes the show worth watching. Ties up loose ends. Closure.”

	She glanced, unseen, at the mansion collapsing beneath the weight of its own burning remains. Then back to Scene.

	“I can’t move on without that closure. How can you?”

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	Scene moved a single muscle, his hands in his pockets casually. He flexed his forarm muscle as she got nearer, a nine inch blade pushing readily against the collar of his wrist. It would be incomprehensible, to her eyes, he was sure, since the tuck was not fitted as a skintight suit. He reached up with his other hand, removing the glasses amiably, revealing his bright green eyes that looked at her in a sort of twisted feeling of longing and cold calculation. He knew she planned on killing him from the moment she reached up behind her back. It didn't matter to him, really, as he watched her plant the tip of the blade solidly in the ground. They had fought on many occassions, and on every one that he had fought back, she had proven little match for him.

	Much changed, in the past few months however.

	"Closure, for me, doesn't mean the erasing of everything that made an impression on me." He folded the glasses, placing them in his pockets. "Even if it wasn't something i desired to be shown or led to." He took a deep, heavy breath, the bandages covering his form giving ample breathing and body manipulation. "Closure for me is taking the next step forward, not crushing the steps i hailed on my path to the present." He flexed the forearm of his left, the blade held there as mechanically as its brother shifting forward, ready to tear through the fabric at a moments notice. Unfortunately, he would allow her to take the first step. Reaching forward with his left hand very slowly, he gripped a leaf that clung to the side of her hair, pulling it from her calmly and watching her eyes the entire time.

	"What you should be asking is why you do as you do?" He shrugged, and if she had let him take the leaf without shifting, he would spin it in his fingers calmly. "For fear of the past repeating itself? Out of anger? Out of a commitment to the present? Because you hated it? You hated what i was, am, and will be?" He dropped the leaf, letting it glide sofly to the floor. "Perhaps all, or even none of the above. I suppose it doesn't really matter." He relaxed, an easy smile coming to his lips.

	"I suppose you expected me for a reason, and that blade isn't just for show?"

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	The smile merely grew wider as he spoke, eyes glinting strangely. For once, it seemed, she was not disagreeing with him, arguing back, or resisting—merely accepting.

	“And that is how you and I differ, I’ve come to realize. What I do and why may be destructive and without reason, but what’s the point in trying to find reason in a natural disaster? You can’t prevent it. You can’t change its course. You must let it… burn out on its own.”

	The last phrase was uttered with an inconspicuous trace of bitterness. Vespyr tilted her head as the leaf fluttered to the ground, a gust of warm wind blowing it away. She twirled the sword beneath her palms, glancing at the leaf contemplatively.

	“No, it’s not.

	You are the last remaining piece of the picture.”

	She removed her glasses, folding them and tucking them into her chest pocket with one hand. Her expression had changed—from grinning and glaring with devious mirth, to a visage of complete placidity. Vespyr seemed to be at peace with herself, with Scene, and the current situation.

	“I’ve already thought this entirely through. No matter what happens tonight I will have closure, whether it is your death or mine. The former is more probable because, as we have seen, I cannot necessarily be killed. But I will fight you to the death if that is what shall ensue.

	I am not angry and I am not seeking revenge for anything that has happened to us in the past. The past will be gone after tonight. Whatever existed in you for me to love or to loathe is gone now, and all that remains is your body.”

	She took a step back, outstretching her arm and lifting the sword off the ground slowly, with finesse. The tip, if he would allow it, would come to rest at Scene’s chest—not to puncture, merely serving as a tangible distance between their bodies. Her violet eyes were cold and fixated on the brilliant green hues ahead of her.

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	Scene was Silent through her rant before taking a deep, slow breath, closing his eyes as he let the air come through him, pour through his veins. It was a euphoric feeling, a strong tremor of accomplishment. He slowly ran his tongue over his lips, excited at the prospect of the fight soon to come. He spoke, maybe for the last time.

	"Well. Before you...end me, as you like to put it, Know this. You can erase the physical impression of the past, but the memory will remain. Buried, shoved aside- you can't completely eradicate it, or me. I am a thought, and though you may disdain my physical representation, you have already accepted my teachings." He gestured to her blade. "After all- those many years ago, there was no way you could posses and enforce your convictions with so much passion, was there? You have taken control of your life. That was all i ever wanted."

	A grin.

	"Now your more of me than i myself could have been." Likely a very confusing statement, yet truer words to him could not have been spoken. He unbuttoned his coat, shrugging it off to reveal the white dress shirt and red tie, the blades still hidden in his sleeves. He loosened the tie and watched her calculatively.

	"I am ready to dance with death, So it is your move, my love."

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	The moment the last words rolled off of Scene’s tongue, the killer instinct sprung swiftly to life within her blood.

	Vespyr pulled the sword away as if to strike with it, simultaneously pivoting on her right foot—but with snake-like reflex would kick Scene square in the chest with her left. She grasped the sword in both hands as soon as her left foot touched the ground and would lunge forward, bringing all of her weight into a downward diagonal slash, right to left, aiming to slice clean through the man’s torso.

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	Scene's eyes lit up with the contest. The foot slammed into his chest violently- far stronger than she use to be. Goood...He was forced back a step, a low grunt erupting from his throat. As the blade swept around in a violent arc, Scene brought up his left arm, turning it outward so the bottom of his wrist faced toward the incoming blade. The long knives shredded through his dress shirt violently, attached to his forearm by an intricate series of straps and levers. A resounding clang would erupt as blade met blade, Scene pressing the vantage of surprise.

	Hell, if he had the vantage. He wasn't sure anything could surprise her anymore.

	He surged forward, striking with his right arm as the blade tore through there as well, hoping to cut her lightly across the left cheek. His peripherals remained locked on her sword, the masked man ready to defend should she decide to continue attacking him. He, unlike herself, knew the outcome of this fight. He knew, though he kept it gaurded, that he couldn't destroy his creation. If it came to it, he would disable her and leave, but he knew with her regenetive abilities that wasn't likely to happen. The thought made his pulse quicken.

	Scene was going to die.

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	The piercing sound of the clashing blades did not so much as stir a wince from Vespyr, who was now completely focused on her task. It was a state she did not sink into lightly—not for the joy kills, or the so-called ‘life-or-death’ situations she often found herself in. It was not an adrenaline high; it was complete nirvana. As Scene’s hidden blade darted toward her face, she leaned back and twisted her torso to the right, supported by the wide lunging stance. Before he had a chance to move his arm away from its course, she would swing the blade again in an attempt to chop it off. If that missed, she would slice back the other direction without a moment’s hesitation, either across his gut or to meet his other blade, whichever happened to be ensnared in the sword’s path.

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	A simple pull of the arm would bring the blade he had tried to cut her with, back and directly into the path of her strike. Had she gripped his arm first, he would have been forced to throw his other knife in the way- luckily, as they met, he had another use for it. Lashing out as the blades would clash, he used his free knife in an attempt to strike her forearm and draw first blood. He would then pull it back while leaping back in a vain attempt to avoid her slash at his stomach. The sword would slice through his shirt, undershirt, and very lightly through the stomach, a thin line of blood tracing across his chisled abs.

	He looked down, smiled, and reached up, grabbing the front of his dress shirt and tearing it off unceromoniously. He now wore a white t shirt, the cloth only torn where she had cut it. He would roll his shoulders and speak, if she gave him the chance.

	"You do know killing me will solve nothing, don't you? I don't want you anymore- my work here in California is finished." His smile would widen. "Or did you not wonder why i should thank you for burning down my house?" He would wait for a response, or for her to press the vantage.

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	Scene’s other blade hit its target as she swung to the left, but first had to slice through her trench coat and uniform before ineffectively nicking her arm. It went unnoticed as she swung right, grazing Scene’s stomach in what appeared to be a minor gash. At this point he had stepped back to escape the blows, and spoke.

	“If this is your attempt at a peaceful negotiation, you’ve changed even more than I initially thought.” Vespyr responded, her voice distant as if she were somewhere else, only leaving her body here finish things off. The rampant wildfire's reflection danced across her eyes eerily, concealing the cold violet hues beneath.

	In other words, the issue was non-negotiable from Vespyr’s end. Without a moment to pause, she dropped down to her knees and swung the long blade in a low horizontal arc that would most likely meet with one or both of Scene’s shins, while keeping itself out of reach of being effectively blocked by his blades. She leaned back as she did this to keep her own body out of reach, and used the weight of the swinging sword to aide her in a swift roll—her right elbow met the ground and she tucked herself, rolling to Scene’s right flank and past him a little bit. In one fluid movement she would raise to her knees again and repeat the same movement as before, slashing at the tender area at the back of his knees.

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	Scene's eyes came down in a scowl.

	"Your mistaking me- i simply-"

	He was cutoff by her charge. Scene stepping back almost gracefully, assuming the weight of the blade and commitment of the motion would cause her to continue with the strike. After hopping back to avoid the slash, he lunged forward whipping his right leg back and aiming a violent kick directly to her chin with the desire to crack her jaw. He wouldn't kill her, but he never said anything about maiming.

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	Crack!———

	She let her body twist backward as Scene’s foot met her jaw, lessening the force of the blow slightly, but barely. A flash of pain jolted through her head for a mere moment before it all but disappeared; one advantage to experiencing death over and over again was that certain things, such as the weakness of feeling pain, stayed dead.

	She turned back toward Scene, her glare fixed on him almost expectantly. The corners of her lips were slightly raised as if in mild amusement; her tongue flashed to taste the blood that trickled slowly from one corner of her mouth. Though they were shrouded in near darkness, there was no mistaking that the blood was several shades darker than normal—black, even. But no matter. Vespyr rose to her feet, outstretching her arm once more, holding the sword at full length. Being approximately three feet long at the end of her arm, a length of about 2 and one-third feet, she would be all but out of the reach of Scene’s blades.

	She lunged forward in a piercing strike, aimed to stab Scene through his chest if he had turned around, or through his spine if he hadn’t. She would continue to advance on him swiftly, holding the long blade stiffly ahead of her, keeping him at a distance but also keeping him in constant danger of being impaled.

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	Scene, his foot having made contact, realized one thing- she was determined to stray down this pointless path. His death, or hers. He came to terms with it. She wasn't going to listen to him, she wasn't going to accept the possibilities he would present her. He lowered his hands, letting them hang at his sides as she licked her lips. He would speak into the nothing.

	"You know, i forgot just how young you are. Thinking of the world in terms that make sense, because you can't comprehend the vision of another." He watched her step forward, his face blank of emotion. "Would i ever try to stop a natural disastor?" Her blade sunk through his chest, clean and crisp. A slight crunch followed by a liquid suction was produced, since Scene stepped forward quickly as she struck, causing the blade to pierce clean through his heart and out his back.

	But he would get what he wished.

	While standing there, waiting for her to strike, Scene's hands would have come behind his back. Pulling a bottle from the back of his dress pants almost deftly, he would have poured the contents over his knives and taken that lunge, dropping the bottle as he did.

	His arms would whip up, the tips of the blades stabbing into her stomach, right at the diaphram. Covered in the tip was a calogen based hydrocloric acid, which would heal as her powers would wish, but would do so in the most excruciating way, and the scars would remain. The tissue, even if she cut it out, would be permanently damaged around it, repairing itself into scars. Blood would slowly pour from his lips, and he would speak once more.

	"No, because storms haven't a mind of their own. They are choiceless." If she fell back, he would collapse to his knees, shadows cast across his mask, hiding his eyes from view, his mouth in a smirk. "A persons true nature is revealed at the time of greatest Uncertaintly and adversity- a storm reveals its nature from conception." He would reach up, and touch the blade that was stuck inside him, before he looked back up into her eyes, a wide grin spreading across his face. "I wonder...what hell will be like?"

	Scene fell to the side, seemingly in slow motion, black smoke rising from his body as the mask burned off his face, the leaves scattering up around his body as it hit.

	And Scene breathed no more.

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	Vespyr felt the sword plunge into Scene’s body as if it had been her own hand piercing through his heart—the sword quivered with his dying heartbeats which she felt in the palm of her hand. In one blink of an eye she seemed at once present again, her visage placid once more, gazing into the bright green hues behind Scene’s bandages with bittersweet satisfaction. She expected the retaliation to come but did nothing to stop it as he lunged at her with his poisoned knives, but the ferocious burn in her gut barely made her wince in long-deceased agony. She let go of the sword as Scene fell lifeless to the ground, her eyes in the distance.

	As the fire engulfed the trees with its fury the acid continued to burn through her core, hissing menacingly as it destroyed her from the inside. Her abdomen was oozing with blood, the viscous black darkening her uniform. She fell to her knees beside the other body, and turned her head calmly to study it.

	She had never seen his face before.

	She didn’t recognize him at all… but she no longer needed to. Scene wasn’t there. Scene was gone. He was as dead as the hundreds of others she had murdered—thousands, perhaps. Millions even would have made no difference to the distance she felt between herself and the dead body on the ground beside her. She outstretched a hand and touched his face with vague curiosity, decided it was a useless action, and then let her body keel over beside his. The last thing she saw before she died was that face, but she would not remember it when she regained consciousness two days later; somewhere she had unconsciously dragged herself to escape from the flames.

	She also would forget that when her sword had plunged into Scene’s heart, she felt a piercing sting, brief as it was, in her own. The only remaining traces of their encounter were the two scars beneath her ribcage that would not heal, but in time those would be forgotten as well.

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	~Epilogue~

	" Thank you."

	The exchange was brief, and unnoticable to others.

	"Take care of the place while i'm gone- i expect vigilant attention to the goals i have outlined for you." He stared off, out to the ocean, where a massive ship railed its horn, signalling its departure would take place in mere moments. Ron leaned in, throwing his arms around the man before him without care. The male brought his arm up, patting the back of his partner. Bending, he picked up the bag, feeling the scar over his sternum shift with the movement of his muscles. He stared at Ron a final time, filling in the void with his voice.

	"Watch over her- she may think herself strong, and without cord to her past, but there will be a time when she realizes everything, and then..." He smiled, and turned away, walking off toward the ships ramp. Ron yelled after.

	"AND THEN WHAT!?"

	An arm raised in the air, waving back at his brother, his last living relative.

	"The world as we know it will end!"

	Those words were not shouted, yet still heard, earning a smile of knowing from Ron.

	And as the ship cast off toward the Sea, it carried with it the former Leader of Movement, the Conscience, the man behind the mask, Scene.

	Farewell, Andrew Black.