[Round 2] Roen vs. Jace

[RRRRRrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrr.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abLcIiyXBPs)

Heads turned in the crowd, their collective gazes following the obnoxious, deafening roar of a motor as it pressed in around them. What the -- who the hell was making all that damned racket?

"There!" cried one of the anonymous spectators, pointing east to a black speck riding the crest of a shallow wave. As they watched, the dark splotch on the horizon seemed to grow in size, until one could almost make out the shape of this mysterious craft. A flat bottomed, narrow hull that tapered to a tip at the bow like a motorboat. Some of the audience members murmured to each other. Have you ever seen a boat like that in your life? What is that on the back, it looks like a giant fan!

Airplane propeller, actually, but given the rounded metal cage that kept the massive, spinning blades in place, it was understandable where the fanboat got its nickname. Jace had nearly fallen over himself when he spotted the cruiser in the local marina, tucked away near the back, neglected. Most of the competitors would be snatching up fancy speeders left and right to get them to their next destination, some perhaps might opt for the more family-friendly pontoon or even an old-fashioned rowboat, but the familiar shape of this swamper held a special place in the Cajun's heart.

~~~

"Ah don' believe't," Jace had cried with a growing smile, jogging to its side and running his hands over the glossy exterior, admiring the modern detailing. "Now where did chu get yo' hands on a sweet airboat such a' dis?"

The tournament representative accompanying him cleared his throat, tugging auncomfortably at his collar. "Er.. no one ever rents that one, sir. In fact, no one really knows what it is."

"Mais, that 'cause it don't belong in a place like dis, ami. She fo' get'n around t'e swamps, not t'e ocean. We u't to fix dese'n up out'a spare parts!"

"So, shall we pick out a more suitable--"

"No no no no, Ah'll take 'er!"

~~~

A synchronized cry of dismayed surprise rose up from the mouths of the crowd as Jace closed in, pulling a tight curve the sent a spray over the spectators, as if they were sitting in the front row at a Sea World exhibition. A few of them laughed and applauded, music to the Cajun's ears as he gave a wink and a little two-fingered wave. News of his victory in the last round had made the bayou-dweller even cockier, it seemed.

The boat pulled in to a stop at the side of the platform, and moments later the tall Southerner climbed out and made his way up the short ladder to the stage. He still wore that marbled leather jacket, the hem sweeping his lower thighs, and had his favored crowbar in a sling around his back. Those steel-toed boots thunked heavily against the hardwood, the sound causing a bit of a hush to befall the spectators as they tensed up in anticipation.

A gloved hand delved into the inner flap of his jacket, withdrawing a small bottle that remained mostly concealed by the curve of his palm around it. Jace twisted the cap off and gingerly shook a white Dilaudin dose into his palm, before lifting it to his mouth. He crushed the tablet between his teeth as the pill bottle disappeared back into the confines of his inner coat pocket. Cool, cobalt blue eyes scanned the perimeter of the arena platform, but saw no oncoming watercraft from any direction.

"Always t'e early bird, eh? How unfashionable." Jace raised his voice a bit, the chuckling lilt carrying out to the spectators. He reached over his chest, cupping his palm over his right shoulder and giving that arm a roll to stretch and loosen the joint.

The crowd's welcoming cheers around her soon turned at the sigh of the devil, sneering in disgust at the man as he approached his boat, some shouting their explicatives while others resigned to spitting and muttering. She herself grit her teeth, her hands balling into tiny fists so tight her knuckles turned white, her tail rigidly twitching in restrained rage.

The armed woman beside her blinked, vibrant red eyes shifting to stare down at her in wide-eyed wonder through her ruby-lined black masque. "Ah...Little Master..." she murmured, black-gloved hands instinctively moving nearer the hilts of her katanas, one strapped to each side of her hips.

Daria's words did little if anything to soothe the child's emotions, and soon the girl was running forward, pushing her way through the crowd to the shore. Her hands shot to the air, waving slightly, and she called out as loud as her sweet voice could, "DAD! DAAAAD!!!" Her feet met the water's edge, but she didn't care, further splashing through the water until it was up to her knees, getting as close as she dared to the boat drifting away. There, she would stand, hands cupped about her mouth, tail suspended precariously above the terribly cold waters, and yelled, "I LOVE YOU, DAD!!! DO YOUR BEST, WE BELIEVE IN YOU!!!"

The Masked was hobbling after her, pushing off aggressors and shooting glares at any that dared to approach The reckless Little Master. She, too, splashed a little ways into the water, only then stopping to turn her head to gaze across the waters and register what it was The Little Master was doing. Quickly catching on, The Masked began beaming, and soon her fist shot into the air, soon followed by the bold declaration, "THE MASTER WILL NOT DISAPPOINT!!!" ...it...was her own special way of saying "good luck."

The Devil's daughter and maid, standing proudly at his side (or, as close as they could, anyway), throwing caution to the wind, boasting their alliances for all to see. Let them see, and let them judge. It was well worth it to show The Darkened Devil, Roen Jaeger, that no matter what had happened or what had been said...

...he was not alone.

(empty)

They settled down, their arms fell back to their sides, and their faces beamed with warmth. Faustina, for one, was all but swooning, her face fixed with a content gleam brought on by her father's acknowledgement, his pride, his acceptance of her efforts, and the returned happiness that came with it. That alone made the outburst worth it, empowered her to continue challenging the people that might scold or ridicule her for supporting and loving such a "heartless monster."

No more hiding. No more denial. No more shame, and no more regret. Faustina would wear her garnet eye, her auburn hair, her slithering spaded tail with pride, if for no other reason than to bring her father happiness.

The Masked, on the other hand, was rather oblivious to all of this, her intentions instead concerned with the angry beach-goers that the two had pushed aside and knocked over, or that simply didn't approve of their support of the Devil. She hesitated but a moment, then all of a sudden her glistening ruby eyes took on their wild gleam, her hands flexing in preparation by the hilts of her katanas, a wide grin slicing clear across the full of her mouth. The insane look alone was enough to dissuade most of the would-be aggressors from advancing, but The Masked remained prepared, keeping a periodic eye on the crowd as she and The Little Master watched the fight, just in case someone got too cocky--or too drunk--and decided to start something with the two ladies.

"For the Bloody Seer."

Clenching his sword-calloused finger-tips around the wire-wrapped hilt of the World Splitter, Roen furrowed his eyebrows and began a grim advance upon his opponent, one foot carrying on after the other as he cut the distance between down foot by foot with an almost implacable resolve. If Jace wanted to entreat the Devil, then it was in the Devil's nature to oblige, he never being one of the morose defensive sorts.

And while Roen began this hostile advance, he racked his mind and spirit for reason, anger, and resolve. This was common place during the initial motions of combat, he always finding it hard to get the juices going. Fortunately, there was ample excuse to ignite the hearth of rage in his chest. First, he thought of the police and his incarceration, and then tangents took over. That haughty interrogator, the incident at Puerto Diablo, and then the reasoning behind it. Like a Wyrm devouring its tail, his tangents fueled his rage and carried him to more heights of it.

By the time he reached the five foot mark between both he and Jace, Roen was quite close to spluttering his outrage and frothing at the mouth, his mind nursing his innermost demons while his demons nursed his fury; the prime example of some circuit fed by the mind. So long as Roen had things to be pissed off about, there could very well no end in sight to the heights of anger he could reach, but he didn't need that much fury lest he be blinded by it. He stirred his blood up and now he let it simmer, letting that thick smog of bad emotion out of his lungs with a subtle release of air.

It was time.

Upper lip curling into a snarl, Roen raised his arms and grabbed the last few inches of his sword's hilt as he hefted the weapon over his head into a high-guard while his chest rose with an inhale. Six feet between them, Jace was within the bite of the World Splitter, but Roen was out of Jace's crowbar's reach. These inches, not very much, meant the very distinct different between safety and danger. The Devil would rely on them more than anything to ensure his victory in this battle. Pausing with the hand-and-a-half sword overhead, Roen slid his right foot back and bent his elbows, muscles tensing before finally--

He swung downwards, aiming the last few inches of his weapon to the very center of his opponent's cranium.

So long as Jace continued to throw his despite into the Devil's teeth, no quarter would be given to the Cajun.

Following the impact of sharpened metal against the thick shaft of his opponent's crowbar, the Devil relented, and chose to pull back of his wire-wrapped hilt instead of contesting the strength and resolve of Jace's defensive push against the sword. Whether or not this would disrupt Jace's own balance was irrelevant; Roen was going to go through the motions of battle regardless. Chest rising with the delicate intake of breath, he slid his left foot back and watched as his opponent advanced, eyebrows knitting in concentration as he watched the minute details that were the signs of his opponent's next move.

Whatever it was, the Devil would be prepared. Releasing the last few inches of the wire-wrapped hilt of his sword with his right hand, Roen drew the weapon away while twisting his torso to the left and stepping back once more, effectively moving him outside Jace's left flank just as the Cajun lifted his left foot to send a powerful kick into the Devil's torso. Instead of meeting flesh however, the man would find that he could only molest air, for standing before him just a few feet away and outside his left flank was the grimly determined Roen.

Off balanced, over-extended, and easy pickings, Jace stood at the Devil's mercy. Unfortunately for the Cajun, the Devil was not feeling very merciful. Lifting the World Splitter, Roen crisply snapped the Daemon Weapon down single-handedly on top of Jace's extended left thigh. It was only obvious what a blow like that could do; but certainly nothing close to dismemberment.

Roen was an agile fighter; a gentleman fighter. Finesse, prose, deft swipes of the sword, he lived and breathed these things. Just as before, he never committed full-power to any swing he was not certain of, and it showed in his delicate footwork and deliberate movements. Though there was rage and bloodlust, it was tightly controlled and regulated.

Situation assessment: With no rise of Jace's left thigh came no opportunity to strike it, and with no limb to mutilate, there would be no swing from a sword taking place. As was, at the end of the movements initiated between both Devil and Cajun, Roen stood several feet off of Jace's left flank with his sword at his side while the Cajun began gearing up to shove the curved end of his titanium crowbar into his opponent's face.

Cocking his chin and narrowing his deep-set garnet eyes, Roen watched with no evident pleasure as the curved end of his opponent's weapon came down to greet his face. Vain person that he was, he didn't fancy having his nose broken, and thus moved to step away. It wasn't that the Devil was faster than Jace, mon ami, it was just that Roen had years and years of training and battle experience under his belt. Jace, uncomplicated human that he was, was outclassed when it came to both knowledge of weaponry and tactical fortitude.

To the right and around Roen went, oily in his footwork as he fluidly slid from one position to the next, until he was watching Jace's crowbar narrowly slip passed where his nose should have been. It was once again a matter of range, leverage, and better skill between the two, and the Devil by means of his hand-and-a-half sword excelled in all three. He could continue dancing around his opponent for hours, inflicting the most minimal of injuries, and infuriating the human beyond belief. But what kind of fun was that?

A duel was never a joy unless both duelists had a sword, and Jace's crowbar, though formidable, was hardly what Roen called a workable blade. The father of lies and the author of atrocities had some semblance of honor to consider, after all. Flourishing his Daemon Weapon along his left flank and deftly catching the hilt in an underhand grip, Roen promptly stabbed the weapon into the ground before raising his hands to the buttons of his dress-shirt. And while the Devil went about the tedium of only Seer knew what, his deep-set garnet eyes watched his opponent with dreadful intent.

"Put that toy down," he murmured in a quiet voice, his rich voice well modulated against the wind that blew off the waves around them. "I'm getting bored with swinging metal around." Tossing his shirt to the ground and rolling his shoulder blades, the Devil revealed to both his opponent and spectators a predictably toned -- and surprisingly hairy -- physique. His Peskett CQC weapon was also discarded, disarming Roen entirely of bladed weaponry. Then, in a gesture as old as time, Roen removed the cestus from his right hand and threw it to the ground at Jace's feet, the metal of the gauntlet jingling as it hit wood.

"Have at you," Roen breathed, eyebrows furrowing while he stepped forward and raised his fists. It seemed the Devil was initiating hand-to-hand combat, and judging by his advance, it was an offer Jace wouldn't be able to refuse.

Implacable.

If Jace thought he was going to run the Devil down by way of superior height, the Cajun would be sorely mistaken. When committed, Roen did not back down. At risk of personal injury, he maintained his advance, and refused to even consider batting a lash of his leading right hand was knocked aside. Concern for himself was secondary to going for the most devastating punch in his personal arsenal - a left hook.

Left hand already drawn back and setting his jaw to the palm strike, the Devil braced himself -- locked his jaw and tensed his neck -- for the inevitable blow while swinging. Now, while untrained when it came to professional boxing, Roen knew very well how to throw his weight into a punch. Not only did he advance into Jace with the hook, but his entire body twisted into it. From his knees and feet which pivoted, to his hip and torso which twisted to the right, the Darkened Devil exposed himself most dangerously to the Cajun's upward palm strike to take full advantage of his opponent's exposed face.

One-hundred & eight-five pounds of mass coordinated right through a ferocious left hook; a hook that would land, if Roen's aim was true, in the lateral point of Jace's mandible on the right side. Roen's head snapped up, his neck lurched, but it did nothing in the ways of impeding the strongest punch the Devil could possibly muster that should impact within the sparse second of contact between palm and chin. He could knock the Cajun out right then and there, but Roen had faith in this human, and expected nothing more than a stumble. All in all, Roen wanted to show this man that he would not win a fist fight with a devil by throwing himself into the fray.

Crack!

The Devil, for some odd reason or another, could never get punching down pat. For several reasons, chief among them being not knowing how to properly punch, Roen had the tendency to break his hands on the skulls and faces of others, the last known case being Vansin and his stupidly thick head. Regardless, the sharp twang of pain that ran through his left fist more or less fit the memory of all prior experiences, and it was with great chagrin that the Devil realized he had done it again.

There would be time to worry about that later, because it looked like he was dealing with the real Ragin' Cajun now. Dropping his chin after his previous venture into being a life-sized Pez dispenser, Roen took the brief interim between their blows pull himself back into a southpaw stance. His legs and torso righted themselves appropriately while his arms drew in, his right hand going for the lead while his left pulled back for obvious reasons. To Roen's everlasting displeasure, Jace did not take the hint and pulled away, but seemed to instead being jarred into some senseless rage, and at that very moment plunged into the Devil's 'personal bubble'.

Roen didn't like that one bit. The way Jace was moving could very well knock the Devil onto his posterior if he didn't back down or step aside, which didn't fit his type of character at all. At the risk of reiteration, he was committed, and would not back down to the mud monkey who took leave of his senses. Still, there was something advantageous to having some silly human rush into the fray in a total rage very much unlike the Devil's own, and it would be sillier still if said Devil didn't take advantage of it. They tried using toys, and Roen excelled in that area. Boxing? Well, Jace was more of a brawler than a boxer, so that wasn't going to work out too well for both sides.

Pausing, Roen wondered if the Cajun had any proficiency when it came to grappling...Let's put it to the test!

Grinning enthusiastically much like a child in a candy shop, the Devil quite literally lunged forward and jump into Jace, shoving his right arm over the junction between Jace's right shoulder and neck, and putting the two -- devil and human -- flush. To be concise, this inadvertently destroyed whatever leverage the Cajun hoped to posses to wring the Devil's filthy neck right hand. The rest was quite simple, really. As soon as his right arm went over that junction, Roen manipulated it to wrap around the back of Jace's neck, groping from a tentative and classic over-headlock while at the same token going to wrap his legs around the man's waist.

The rest was rudimentary. Once the Devil felt secure in his lock around Jace's neck and body, he'd jerk back and use both his weight and Jace's momentum to send the two of them to the wooden ground. All very, very smooth. If everything worked, both devil and human would find themselves on the ground, with the Devil's left hand going for his opposite right to finish and secure the hold.

OOC::

Minor edit.

From rage induced irrationality to perfectly sound thought, Jace seemingly warbled between the two depending on present circumstances. Fickle, the Devil thought, much like himself. Despite being enemies, Roen was growing fond of this mud-monkey. As far as the current situation went though, he couldn't quite understand how the Cajun went from going through the motions of advancing and lunging for throats to raising his knee, but that was neither here nor there. The only thing that mattered was that it did indeed happen, and Roen had to compensate for it.

Releasing air from his nose, the Devil tightened his abdominal muscles, and took the drive of his opponent's knee with good graces. It hurt and bruised the muscles, but did not have the desired effect of harming the internal workings of his body or 'knocking the wind out of him'. As Roen landed back on his feet after his failed jump into Jace, he removed his right arm from anywhere near Jace's body and pressed it low to cover his stomach, glowering at the human. Well, he was out of ideas. What did the Cajun have in mind?

Flexing his limited control over magic, Roen thought that he should at least get ready.

1/1

Looking through his peripherals, the Devil made a quick mental note of his immediate surroundings. First, where was his sword? After moving around so much and getting so caught up in the fight, he more-or-less lost tracked of the Daemon Sword. Outside Jace's right flank and several feet behind the man stood the lone weapon, motionless and undisturbed.

Secondly, what were the pigs doing? Behind Jace, and off to the left of the man's flank, was the speed boat that brought Roen into the arena, officers watching the current fight with rapt interest. Then, of course, there was the fight at hand. He didn't need peripherals for what was happening right in front of him.

Looking at Jace with what could only be described as a very neutral expression, Roen continued coddling his injured stomach, even though the adrenaline took a great deal of the pain away. He wanted to keep up appearances, and perhaps lull the human into thinking he did more damage than actuality. Apparently, it worked, because it looked like Jace was gearing up to throw a heavy-handed punch.

Chest rising and falling with a dramatic heave and subsequent release of breath, Roen calmly slipped his left hand up and casually dismissed Jace's punch with a negligent parry from his wrist, sending the Cajun's fist off and to the side. A haughty gesture to be sure, but after getting kneed in the stomach, the Devil felt it was time to reassert his superiority.

Simultaneous with said haughty gesture, the hand that was coddling his abdomen reached out with a quick snap, and went to not grab but simply brush up against Jace's jeans/trousers/what-have-you. It worked on Caelan once upon a time, and Griff suffered in Heaven or Hell from the more-or-less same disposition. All in all, people who were on fire generally didn't have cocky smirks. Channeling his gathered reserves of magic and shaping them with the appropriate intent, the Devil released with no sense of sympathy an enchantment on Jace's pants if and when his hand brushed against the man.

"Dance, monkey."

Roen Jaeger's Spell List Wrote:

> Dark Fire - > > Channeling Abyssal Mana into an object of his choosing with his hands and applying the appropriate mental intent, Roen can conjure a black flame, void of light, to spring forth from the intended object. The effect feels like a regular flame, but it does not give off any visible illumination nor does it consume oxygen. Any cautious fighter that approaches the object enchanted with Dark Fire will be able to feel the heat and possibly avoid the danger. Flammable items that come in contact with Dark Fire will be consumed in visible flames as if lit by a normal flame. The magical fire does not consume the item it is enchanted to during the duration of the spell. If the item enchanted is flammable then at the end of the spell's duration the object will be consumed in visible flames and will burn normally. Attempts to cover up or hide the object with Dark Fire will not quench the flames. Submerged objects will continue to produce heat and will start to boil the liquid (water or some other liquid with a similar boiling point or lower) it is in within reason. This spell is not a light spell and will not counter or dispel darkness. Creatures with darkvision or low-light vision are not affected by this spell. Creatures that rely on heat-vision can see the heat given off the object in a 5-foot radius. The object enchanted is not considered magical and will not hurt creatures that have damage resistance against normal attacks. Roen cannot put his hands on someone's body and ignite it with dark-fire. Roen can put his hands on their shirt, pants, or underwear and enchant them with dark-fire, with the aforementioned effects. The duration of this spell is two posts with one post for casting. Typical burning temperature of Dark Fire is at a relative 500°F.

"It won't go out," said the Devil in a clinical note of detachment. "You have to take your pants off." Advice for his opponent? No, not exactly. Jace ceased being an opponent the moment Roen took into consideration the placements of both his sword and the officer sent to secure his extraction once the fight was over. Right now, Jace was a fighter in the Gaian Tenkaichi Budoukai, and Roen--well, Roen had it in his mind to escape. Stepping around Jace as the human went about the tedium of trying to put the supernatural fire out, Roen took his time going to his sword, his right hand reaching up to rub his broken left hand. It hurt, of course it hurt, but it was nothing he couldn't hand.

Several bones clicked ominously as he squeezed his hand every now and then on his approach to the idly positioned World Splitter. Sighing and reaching over, Roen wrapped his sword-calloused fingers around the wire-wrapped hilt and drew the weapon out of the wood floor with his left hand, flourishing it along his flank with a negligent flick of the wrist. As always, it was so very nice to hold his weapon, an easy smile coming to his face despite the dark thoughts going through his mind. Looking over his shoulder to Jace, the Devil sucked his teeth, regarded the man's fiery pants, then turned to look at the suspicious cops.

"Well," he said conversationally as he crossed the arena behind Jace on his way to the policemen, Roen holding his sword at his side casually. "It looks like Jace Benoit is clearly indisposed. Incidentally--" Stepping down the ramp and into the speed boat, the police made way for Roen. Predictably, the count-out started, but Roen didn't care. Deep-set garnet eyes looked at each of the four police officers, ages ranging from early twenties to mid-thirties, all doing their jobs to the letter. Clean shaven, handsome, possibly family men. "--I'm forfeiting."

"We need your weapon."

"Certainly."

It was over fairly quickly, if that was any consolation to the families of the dearly departed. Standing amidst twitching limbs and listless faces, Roen did pant, gore smeared and displeased with crime he was forced to commit. Gunshots had startled the crowd, and the helicopter above was most certainly on its way, but that was of no concern. Freedom was far sweeter than going from the arena to his jail cell to back to the arena and repeating ad nauseum. Stabbing the World Splitter into one of the weakly struggling bodies on the floor of the boat, Roen did make his way to the control console of the speed boat to start the engine when retaliation struck him from behind.

A cop, a paragon to the force, squeezed a round off into the Devil's exposed behind before expiring. Right through the bullet went, forcing Roen to double over, yet he would not be dissuaded from leaving. In a body bag or with his life, he was going. Slipping the throttle forward and reaching beneath him for the steering column, Roen did indeed sail off and into the high waters with a helicopter overhead, having no need for a spotlight to track the fiendish killer. To the beach Roen went, taking his sword with him after running aground, spectators fleeing his menacing stagger as he made his way to more densely populated areas. Go, go, go..

Roen Jaeger was gone.

Faustina's eyes widened in horror as chaos broke out all around, her impulse kicking in to sprint forward towards her father's boat. Her legs and tail fought ruthlessly against the water, no longer aware of its aggressive cold, and her youthful voice cried out in sheer alarm, "Daa--!!!"

The Masked was quick to act, one hand shooting out to grab and subsequently pull the girl down into the waters, interrupting her scream and only very narrowly dodging a few bullets that had veered astray from The Master's assailant. A few moments later, she pulled herself and The Little Master back up from the brief submersion, the latter coughing and hacking up water. The Masked, however, as far too preoccupied with the surrounding events to spare much care, screaming an order at The inexperienced Little Master as her guard rose in protecting of her young ward. "Retreat!!! Make for The Hotel!" Her right hand snapped down to her side and wrenched out The Red, its crimson blade already dripping in wild anticipation and bloodlust, The Masked moving into position between The Little Master and the boats, aiming to protect her from any more stray bullets and any assaults that might come their way. "The Masked will cover The Little Master!!!"

At first, every bone in Faustina's body wanted to protest, to stand her ground and aid her father, but the wild--and alarmed--gleam in Daria's ruby-red eyes were more than enough to convince her that now was not the time. She bit her lip, eying Daria's one of two bizarre katanas, and at last reluctantly turned to flee towards the screaming crowd, struggling through the waters to eventually fight her way back to the hotel. "But what about Dad?!" she cried over her shoulder, the anguish already building inside of her. "He's under attack!!!"

The Masked pressed on behind The Little Master, head turning periodically to check the situation behind them, The Red already melting and contorting into its malleable whip-like form to slash down stray bullets. Her teeth grit, and she hissed in reply to The Little Master, "The Master can handle himself! The Masked must keep The Little Master safe! The Masked and The Bodyguard will find The Master later!!!"

It was as good of an answer as she'd ever get, the best that Daria could make. For now, she'd have to accept it, and do what she could to keep her hide alive.

Distress, and the subsequent tears, would have to wait until later...

Rhoslyn didn't bother doing anything to stop Roen. As little as he liked letting the devil get away, he wasn't in any particular hurry to kill someone with their kids around. It was cruel, and more importantly, he didn't want to have someone gunning for revenge.

Most importantly, he had a chance for good PR. Rising to his feet, the fey teleported himself with a sharp crack and kneeled down next to the worst-looking cop who was still alive. With a sigh, the fey reached out and put his palm flat against the man's chest, thrusting his power into the man's heart to keep it beating. Kind of a shame he couldn't help the rest, but that's what the paramedics were for. He'd remain kneeling and working his magic on the man, fighting to keep him alive.

(Comment: It was bullshit.)