London, Westminster – Year 2xxx
"Langley—"
Utterance of that name carries through the air, aloft on a young woman's breath. It sets out to retrieve its bearer from the sullen dreams of a black consciousness. The young man, Langley Ewyn, who doesn't acknowledge the call.
Until the weight of a palm to cheek exchange reconfigures his bearings, and hands grab his collar.
"—Langley. Have you got the balls to ignore me now? Unbelievable. I thought you were some limp noodle but no, you learned how to mess around.
Am I a pushover?" No response. "Come on, say something."
Where they are, it's in a stark veil of raindrops; never-ending of reach, touching on all sides about themselves. Langley, and Carter, whose slick bodies press against one another's as that's the true representation of space, a breath's distance. In this space, there are two sides. Left and right, no forwards nor backwards unless one reorients. On the left, deepening darkness. On the right, clarifying light that reveals somewhere else.
It's an alleyway under thick rainfall.
Bodies in blood pools encircle their feet, leaving no room to stand except for infront of the other. Closer inspection reveals deep bruises, missing teeth, claw marks at depth as though an animal's been through to maul them. Young men, young women. That mix is what lay there on the asphalt. What one is seems to not matter to whichever perpetrator did this.
'Camlann Cross' Written across the breasts of their torn uniforms' blazers.
Under the rainfall laughter is listenable over the groans, Langley's. Langley Ewyn, in full. He's eventually come to but doesn't look to be all there. Carter, seeing that, instinctively tries to pull away ––only by inches given the space— but Langley denies it with a closing move, crowding the space by her face.
'Well bred' in the literal sense best describes Langley. Features sculpted; not to say they are sharp. To say they are rounded in the 'correct' places; sharp in the 'correct' places. Eyes, nose, and lips obey this 'correctness.' Such that if one were to try describe him they'd not put together a coherent image in words. That of himself which is discernible are the black sheets of straight hair touching on shoulder length set against the pallor of his face; its freckles dotting its whiteness as flies in milk do.
It isn't known whether the rest of his body follows the same 'correct' condition since it's overlain by sleeves of fitted chainmail moulded to his silhouette on all limbs with armour plates serving a minimal duty.
One piece on his upper torso bound by leather straps, covering up to the chin, collar, and one part of the chest. Over the sum length of his lower back to ankles where an articulating joint is -second after the first by the knee- there are another two pieces of sleek architecture linking to the heeled boots qualifying the intricate metalwork.
Logically it would follow that, underneath it all, there is a 'correct' body, credulity to the counter-fact impossible to imagine.
"—Oi, don't zone out now. You wanted to talk shit to me, so don't start acting scared."
He lightly smacks Carter's face around; she avoids eye contact.
"I don't give a damn about what you think of me or what anyone thinks. I don't have to pick a fight with every person I see from across the road unlike you. I'm not your bodyguard nor do I have to do what you say." His arms block any escape; Carter moves close enough for a kiss instead, withholding it and not the aggressive look she's giving back.
Face creasing on all extremities.
"I'll let you off once..." From Carter, her face dirty by scuff marks. "Not my bodyguard? Who do you think you are but that?" She squeezes a finger out from between their torsos, pointing down at the bodies. "They're barely breathing, I told you to not use your breath.
You did, and now we've got problems you fool. Want to get us expelled cause you killed them all? Huh?"
Langley backs away, letting her free. "I held back enough."
"Is that all? I don't enjoy spelling it all out for you, me letting you off means you have to do as I say. It's not only I who can make life difficult for you, but my family also—" Carter's body lifts from the ground in Langley's arms, ending up on his shoulder in an upright sitting position.
"Yeah, you're a queen or whatever. Let's get out of here." As he turns to leave, he almost trips over; It's a male student from Camlann Cross grabbing his ankle whose last words are:
"T-This isn't over, everyone from Penwith Circle is dead," The student's breath runs low, so he uses it to make the proclamation:
"Lyle... Lyle Aston, that's whose coming for you." Lyle's collapsing body isn't let to fall by Langley's stiff arm, forcing him to look up to Carter who looks down to him, her smirking mouth in motion: "Is that so Lyle? No offense, but Camlann has no chance against us. It's just that we're too different. We're who people think of when someone says 'Knight'.
No one thinks of Camlann."
Carter speaks from her throne, Langley's shoulder. "We'll take the honour and glory, and we'll let you live on in our shadow. We're the chosen few—"
"Ha." Lyle's breath is deathly weak in his laugh. "Chosen? It's all a sham anyways." That response doesn't please Carter; Langley doesn't seem to be affected much. Only insofar as taking amusement from her anger.
"Say it Carter, and it'll be done. I'm not sure he'll live though." He releases Lyle to fall, placing a foot onto his rising chest.
From her: "Penwith Circleis where God is, God is in Penwith."
Formless layers of translucent liquid immerse Langley –breath-; it is thin and unstable, able to raise follicle from his scalp... No swing, his foot moves down as a piston that crushes the student, Lyle's, chest and the ground beneath it.
It sounds like a thunderclap. In reality, it's the failure of bone structure against an immense force wringing blood from the body as one does from a cloth. That to say, they don't burst, preferring to squash as fruit.
"God is nowhere else." From him, bloody face cringing at the sight.
On that note, rainfall ceases. The darkness lifts, dissolving away into light. It's all been a simulated environment; they truly stand at the centre of a grand stadium upon a square stone slab with restless crowds encircling them from the adjacent stands.
Most cheer. Others jeer.
"Knight Academy, Penwith Circle defeats Camlann Cross with the peculiar power known as breath! This is the first time it's been shown to England's public, and it's as fearsome as they say!
That concludes the final match of the Grand Inter-Academy Tournament!"
Blaring through the P.A system.