[img=http://i.imgur.com/sTnx7vd.png] ----- [b]Sound and Fury[/b] The Messron-220 Close Kill Projectile was a curious oddity of engineering. 10cm of machined steel and molded plastic that when taken together produced a small crescent blade attached to an ergonomically designed grip that fit comfortably within the palm of the average Oakridge Guardian's hand. It was not an ideal weapon for hand-to-hand combat, nor was it particularly well designed as a utilitarian tool. The CKP was designed for one purpose and one purpose only, precise, singular deployment of the weapon by throwing to maim, distract, or, as the name suggested, kill. Too small and slight for use by mundane soldiery, too large to be deployed in large quantity, spiritually augmented individuals were the only ones capable of using the curious device to any great effect, and even then it had never proven to be a great enough asset to achieve any sort of ubiquity. Nevertheless, there were a few amongst Oakridge's WARG operatives that found some function in the academies remaining stores of the discontinued product. Most of these were trained specialists, who valued the weapon as an easily concealed kill vehicle able to be deployed at some range. In the hands of such specialists, the CKP could be propelled with enough force to puncture all but the most dense and ungainly of personal body armor used in any of the various city-states of Cetra and beyond. as well as achieving enough accuracy as to precisely hit vital hit locations on a moving target, in some cases without line of sight. As such the weapon was occasionally perceived as a tool for assassins, having been used on more than one occasion in an attempt on the life of high-profile targets of interest. Remiel was not a specialist in the CKP, his career track did not include courses on the proper handling and deployment of the weapon. His education in it's application had been more personally. One of the many optionally training programs he had undertaken at the academy in his off time. He had achieve a class-C proficiency classification in it's use. The highest attained by a non-specialist. He carried a single CKP on his person as part of his elective kit allotment. He continued this trend before his WARG deployment. Nestled within his palm, the CKP had felt smooth and cold, still retaining the chill of the refrigerated erstwhile prison. His body had coiled as the muscle memory of ten thousand practice throws took sovereignty over his body. Nearly every part of his body tensing and laxing together in a synchronized, holistic union of muscle and sinew, focusing all of his bodies strength together for a single purpose, multiplied by the spirits within. It had only taken an instant, his arm flexed, his torso twisted, his legs turned and locked. The CKP had left his hand moving at 216.1 meters per second. The CKP had moved five meters since. It had passed between the heads of Remi's teammates, mere centimeters from Maggie's jawline, mere millimeters from Roy's nose. Now only 8 centimeters from slicing into the arteries and tendons of Samuel's neck. Sam moved. The blade sailed past. It struck and ricocheted ineffectually from the displacement device with a pathetic ping. Before most anyone could rationalize the event, Remi's body coiled again. This time turning his energy into launching himself. Vaulting over the heads of the group from his place at the back, Remi rotated his body around, turning all of force again into a single point, the heel of right foot, as he brought it down in his decent in an axe kick. There was 1378 kg of force in the heel of Remi's right foot. It was 7 centimeters from the top of Sam's skull. Sam moved. Remi's heel struck the floor of the catwalk. Metal plating twisted and dent, the cat walk tremored. Remi's body coiled. He rotated himself around the heel pressed into the floor, drawing his body into the spin, his other leg up to his chest, his back to Sam. Throwing all of his power into his other leg he lashed out at Sam's abdomen. 2408 kg of force in the blade of Remi's left foot. Sam didn't move. The force of the blow hurled Sam back several paces before his feet planted and he caught the railing. Remi's body coiled. Sam move. Remi coiled. Again and again in moments that spanned the breadth of a heartbeat. A flurry of scything limbs and blurred bodies. Remi lashed out with greater power and speed than he had ever mustered before. His place as the second-ranked hand-to-hand combatant at Oakridge seemed inadequate. Remiel knew with crystal certainty that there was no one he'd ever known that could best him in this moment, and though he'd yet to land a blow, even mighty Samuel could do naught but flag and retire in the face of his onslaught. Each strike came closer, each step constricted Sam's area of maneuver smaller. Remi coiled. Sam moved. Remi fell. It wasn't much, a glance of the hand against Remi's shoulder, a shift in focus. All of Remi's force turned against itself. His balance forfeit, Remi fell unceremoniously onto the catwalk, his weight and momentum focusing into his shoulder that struck the metal plating with an unpleasant pop. Remi pushed back off of the plating eyes narrowing dropping into a guarded stance. Sam didn't move. He stood mere feet away, still in the same relaxed pose. Remi glared. It was not chance. Remi would not best this simulacrum in quartered combat. That moment had passed. But he wasn't done. He had something left. Something that he knew even Sam didn't have. Remi had the hunger. He had tried to shackle it, restrain it at ever pass; ignore it's ache, smoother it's desire. He had feed it giblets through the bars of it's cage. Hoping to sate it's hunger. He had turned all of his will into a muzzle over the maw of that hunger. Remi took the muzzle off. The hunger devoured everything in it's path. It devoured the sounds around them. The hum of the machines. The whispers of panted breath. It devoured the sickly lights that flickered and blinked. It devoured the air and the heat. It devoured the background radiation and electromagnetism. But even now it did not do so indiscriminately. Remi had unmuzzled the hunger. But he still held the leash, and he turned it upon Sam. The hunger devoured the space between Remiel and Sam. It devoured the heartbeat time it took to reach him. It devoured the centimeters between itself and Sam. And with phantasmal jaws gaping wider than creation, it poised to devour the lie that called itself Samuel Valentine.