[The Way of Air] by potadd!! & Armorien - The Dazzling Lads

The air above the city is frigid and thick. Streets sprawl like splitting rivers beneath Kasumi’s feet, and sometimes the wind rakes through her hair far too forcefully, but even though she is this high above the world, she does not tremble, does not falter. The winds are her friend, the empty air her sole confidant; wherever she moves, a thin sheen of it trails after her, a second shadow after her own heart.

With her legs dangling over the edge of the tower, she waits. Somewhere in downtown, a balloon wafts like smoke from the streets, followed by the screech of a wailing child. Kasumi watches the balloon—blood red in colour—and mutters something scathing under her breath before bracing her hands against the concrete. 

She leaps from the tower, and for a brief moment, she is flying. 

For a brief moment, she could be air.

Her fingers slip around the balloon’s tether. The winds rush to meet her descent, a cocoon of biting ice and cotton. She lands on the pavement softly, her eyes fixed on the child, her lips curved into a gentle smile. The balloon bobs slightly, invitingly.

It is only when the child does not raise her head to greet Kasumi does she realise that something is very, very wrong.

Instead of eyes, the child has a pair of glossy buttons, threaded tightly with grey string that penetrates the skin. Kasumi stares intently, studying the figure. The child—or rather the doll—is not alive. It remains still, unmoving, and repeats cries of help as though it is automated.  

A new voice erupts from the child; quiet, but perceivable. It is baritone in its pitch, as if spoken by an adult.  

Kasumi’s immediate reaction is to scout her surroundings. And upon gazing upwards, she sees it: a figure, stuck to the interior of the balloon, watching, fingers interwoven in intricate signage, an ancient threnody to the gods—

Kasumi does not wait to act. She flares a wad of air from her feet, propelling her far into the skyline and onto a nearby rooftop. Her landing is awkward, and she is sure that her heel will be bruised tomorrow—but for now, she searches through the crowds for the balloon. 

It is no longer there.  

When Kasumi glances back up, she sees that the balloon is floating in front of her now, close enough to reflect her visage on its shiny skin. And beyond that reflection, the woman in the balloon twists a wicked grin.

Then—scalding white light. 

As her vision teeters back into focus,  Kasumi is faintly aware of the presence of fire—a second later, and her worst fears are confirmed. The woman from the balloon now hovers before her at full size, her body wreathed in silver flames, her hands closed daintily around a folded parasol. Kasumi can feel their heat from her vantage point; it is not a comfortable feeling.

She sighs. A heaviness weighs down on her body. For a second, she imagines her own body alight with flames, but catches herself and dismisses the thought. She stands motionless, her right arm frozen taut.

Unaware of her enemy’s capabilities, Kasumi bides her time. Her eyes trace the ash-covered fingers of the woman before her, watching for any semblance of movement. The air is paper thin; any movement would shatter the tension in a moment.

The magician’s hand twitches.

Quick to the draw, Kasumi swings her arm forward. Something in the air cracks, wavers like sunlit oil; a crescent of vacuumized air shuttles through the sky, sharp enough to slice steel. It is not meant to kill, only maim, but the magician only steps forward as though she is ascending a flight of stairs. She is untouched—and smirking. 

Kasumi grimaces.

She whirls and sends her power whipping forward again. Her enemy is there for a second; then her form smudges into the sky. When she reappears—a bit further from Kasumi now, still smiling—she is once again unharmed. The woman unfolds her parasol and extends an arm. Beckoning. Closer.

With the winds rushing at Kasumi’s back, she takes a running start and leaps off the edge of the building.

The woman, in the meantime, performs several more gestures. And while Kasumi prepares to deflect any incoming attack, what she sees instead disarms her. A ruler materializes in the woman’s hands, and as though it is a blade, she thrusts it towards Kasumi. Her left-hand cycles through gestures—Kasumi recognises these as numbers instead of magical signage.

On the woman’s face is a wretched smile, and on her mouth is the silent whisper of a number. And though Kasumi is uncertain of precisely what these numbers entail, the woman’s eyes speak for themselves.

No hesitation—Kasumi sends herself hurtling forward with a quick burst of air. Her body screams at her as she passes five meters in half a second, then ten meters in one. 

But even a second proves to be too long. Within the span of that time frame alone, the woman's hands intertwine, completing yet another series of gnarled gestures. 

White glyphs, luminescent as molten metal, curl at the woman’s throat; shortly after, an exhale. The fire-wreathed woman sends out a gust of wind from her mouth, sending both Kasumi and her wind blade back.

Her muscles tense, and her jaw tightens involuntarily, but nothing can prepare her for the pain of her own petard. Her vacuum blade slices deeply into her bicep. She makes an effort to stabilize herself, but she is a puppet left wavering in the air, guided by wires of wind and sent flying of its own accord. 

In the end, she is thrown back onto the rooftop. Her shoulder collides with hard asphalt, then cold glass, then frayed carpet. When she twists to roll, some of the broken glass cuts into her skin.  In the air, the woman continues her strange dance. Kasumi observes for a brief moment, catching a glimpse of the gestures used, and rushes through the nearest door shoulder-first.

She is greeted with a flight of coiling stairs.

With the wind at her back, she hurtles down like a bullet without its barrel. She stops on the second floor, peers outside, then opens, enters, and shuts a door as quietly as she can. She is shocked to see a dimly lit room instead.

At this hour, daylight should still be visible, and yet through the black-tinted windows, Kasumi sees only faint slivers of light. There are workbenches, tools, and mannequins; that much is evident, though minute details are lost on her as her eyes try and fail to adjust to the dark.

Her thoughts begin to gather. She mulls over a plan, resting pride in her analytical prowess. Thoughts of the woman’s abilities come to mind, and Kasumi ponders over any way to exploit them. She is lost in contemplation against a wall, when a sound disturbs her—when she turns her head towards it, she does not see a wall or a closet or an empty space but an ensemble of mannequins instead. She draws her hand whip-fast, and the mannequin at the front falters, then falls apart cleanly. 

The tentative grate of wood emerges. Kasumi makes out six mannequins shifting in the dark. As she prepares for her attack, however, Kasumi spots a figure, just shy of a wall, preparing another spell. 

This time, she smiles. The signs have become routine. Kasumi engages her full focus, and though she is not fully confident, she nevertheless bets it on her ability.

The next instant, all that is around her are submerged in brilliant silver flames. Burning for three seconds, the once mobilised mannequins are scorched black, and Kasumi herself is gone. 

The woman struts onward. Clearly pleased, she smiles at her own prowess, perhaps wondering if her fires were really that powerful. Humming a soft lullaby, the woman playfully inspects her work and looks down at her creation.

There, from within the crevice of stacked mannequins, appears a hand. Uncharred and only slightly burnt. And on its surface, a thin but visible layer of air. Almost like armour. 

The wind trails her like a second shadow after her own heart. Her sole confidant.

For one ingrained in magic and the other scientific virtue, this outcome could only be fate. Kasumi follows with a swift draw of her vacuum blade. The attack, faster than the woman can possibly react, whistles through the air and sinks into her neck. The magician’s body wavers for a split second, still standing—

—then crumples to the ground with a thud. 

Kasumi glances down at the now toppled body of her enemy, sighs, and stands with triumph.

She makes her way to the outer rim of the room, dusting off any remains of ash. While in the process, she stops after just two paces and sighs again. Behind her, a meter away, rises the woman again, wobbling on her legs like a threadbare scarecrow—a headless abomination spurred by magic. In its bloodied hand is a palmful of dull flame and a shard of wood that has long since splintered into debris. 

Kasumi says nothing, keeping her right arm ready; she anticipates. As long as she is alive, she believes herself to surpass her enemy in close range.

The woman lunges. Kasumi’s lips curl into a smile. She retaliates, sending a clean graceful blow to their hand, cutting it clean off. The woman follows with a futile thrust of her other arm. That, too, is cut clean off. Then a right leg. Then a left. In the end, the result is the same. All that can constitute a limb are removed, dissected with perfect precision.

By the end, all that is left is a torso, a wretched husk of a human.

Only then, does Kasumi commence her final farewell, sending a blade strong enough to send the woman out the window. And with it, a calling card, a demonstration of the consequences of opposing her.