Richard was done with this nonsense. And there's a way out, right past this chimeric thing. He wished that there were fewer people here. But then again, if Tyzias, Red, and maybe even Kuja weren't there, he wouldn't ever do this. He wished he could say that what was to happen next was entirely a matter of protective rage, but in truth, he was also tired of fighting and frustrated with yet another god damned thing in their way.
He could feel the Dragon Heart's loosening grip, so before the zombies went down in a blaze of horror and gore, he'd [Spirit Charge]d and pumped the mana into the batteries hoped that it was for naught.
It wasn't.
He dropped his spear into the ground and marched up like a predator. His movements were steady, punctuated by the unnatural twitching of his arms. Eyes hidden behind the rim of his fedora. Face tucked into a disgusted scowl. The seam of his trousers glowed brightly. And for a short time, the environment seemed to take on a faint blue pall. He stood in front of the beast and his head bobbed slightly, like he was looking at this thing three times his size and only finding something worthy of utter contempt.
And then it began.
It was a beat down. It lacked all virtues of proper fighting, every measure of politeness or reason was no longer participating. Richard had grabbed the Chimera's ears, dragged them down, and stuck his boot over the creature's head. There was a bright blue flash as his Gatecrasher let loose an explosion, a foot-mounted shaped charge usually meant as a breaching tool, now repurposed to drop a monster. In the midst of the smoldering, before the beast could even react, he grabbed the creature's mane, yanking it violently. Then he proceeded to just start pummeling it with clenched fists. At first it was somewhat normal, as normal as such an absurd picture could be. But then the blows increased in frequency into something utterly inhuman. It stopped being evocative of a man punching something and began to evoke a measure of a machine that required logistics to operate. A machine gun. A jackhammer. The piston off of an old engine in action. It seemed to go on forever, captured in the span of around an uncomfortable thirty seconds.
When Richard stopped, the batteries had stopped discharging. A very discerning eye could see smoke or vapor lifting off of his heaving body. He took a moment to catch his breath, then planted his boot once more into the creature's face, and shot it away with another explosive kick.
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He could feel the Dragon Heart's loosening grip, so before the zombies went down in a blaze of horror and gore, he'd [Spirit Charge]d and pumped the mana into the batteries hoped that it was for naught.
It wasn't.
He dropped his spear into the ground and marched up like a predator. His movements were steady, punctuated by the unnatural twitching of his arms. Eyes hidden behind the rim of his fedora. Face tucked into a disgusted scowl. The seam of his trousers glowed brightly. And for a short time, the environment seemed to take on a faint blue pall. He stood in front of the beast and his head bobbed slightly, like he was looking at this thing three times his size and only finding something worthy of utter contempt.
And then it began.
It was a beat down. It lacked all virtues of proper fighting, every measure of politeness or reason was no longer participating. Richard had grabbed the Chimera's ears, dragged them down, and stuck his boot over the creature's head. There was a bright blue flash as his Gatecrasher let loose an explosion, a foot-mounted shaped charge usually meant as a breaching tool, now repurposed to drop a monster. In the midst of the smoldering, before the beast could even react, he grabbed the creature's mane, yanking it violently. Then he proceeded to just start pummeling it with clenched fists. At first it was somewhat normal, as normal as such an absurd picture could be. But then the blows increased in frequency into something utterly inhuman. It stopped being evocative of a man punching something and began to evoke a measure of a machine that required logistics to operate. A machine gun. A jackhammer. The piston off of an old engine in action. It seemed to go on forever, captured in the span of around an uncomfortable thirty seconds.
When Richard stopped, the batteries had stopped discharging. A very discerning eye could see smoke or vapor lifting off of his heaving body. He took a moment to catch his breath, then planted his boot once more into the creature's face, and shot it away with another explosive kick.