Highlander: Pariah by Noah "The Spoony One" Antwiler

[VoiceOfReasonPast]

Except peeRod. He skips descriptions and world-building and goes straight to action, because describing things is hard.

Also writing is hard, so better get the story over and done with with as few pages as possible.

Also, where is that second book of his? He said two years ago it's nearly ready to go.

Dude has been very radio silent regarding this, until some announcement a few weeks ago that this book release is probably gonna happen after all.
Why the long wait? I assume his vanity publisher was demanding too much cash.

[VoiceOfReasonPast]

Chapter 1 - The French Connection
(Or: Glistening in the Anemic Urine-colored Light)


The chapter title made it really enticing to use The French Mistake instead, but my artistic integrity compels me to stick with Queen, or at least actual Highlander tunes for this one.

It's on. After no less than two prologues, we've finally arrived at the first actual chapter.
No idea why he did it like this. Usually prologues are a bit detached from the main narrative (something that happens before the story instead of just being the start of the story), but I can't imagine these two prologues not directly leading into the first chapter.

RecapShow

We follow the events of the first prologue from our actual MC Quint's perspective.

Quint turns out to be eerily similar to post-meltdown Spoony, in that he's a sad miserable jerk who loves being a sad miserable jerk.
He goes to this church and meets Brian aka "Bri" aka Token Black Friend for reasons that have yet to be explained, though apparently it involves angsting around alone for at least half an hour.
The angst session gets interrupted when the great acoustics of the place cause him to have a divine vision. And then that gets interrupted when The Super Keats Bros. arrive.

The scource of the immortal world (I assume), this demented duo exclusively communicates using poems and poem titles of the great John Keats, and seemingly never find themselves in a situation where they can't quote/paraphrase his work.
Okay, I'm slightly exaggerating. The French guy of the duo is allowed to say famous Highlander catchphrases as long as he does them in Frech. A bit weird that he only seems to speak French (what with immortals being polyglots by necessity), but being an annoying prick appears to be the name of the game here. And it seems every chapter needs some guy spouting something in Not-English.
I hope this poem shit is gonna be the most obnoxious character quirk in this fanfic. At least I'd hate to think of something even worse.

The antics of these two chucklefucks trigger Quint to his very core. Not just because they're probably the most insufferable cunts he's ever met in his long life, but also because his dead waifu loved to recite Keats too, and he can't stand vile men appropriating her Keats privileges.

The fight starts, and it immediately becomes clear that Quint is kind of a dumbass and shockingly badly prepared for this shit, even if you consider that this fight breaks out on holy ground (which btw. hasn't been explained or justified beyond "Atheism, bitch!").
You see, he does have multiple swords, apparently. But they're all stuffed in his fucking duffel bag. That duffel bag is also full of other junk, so he needs to sift through it for at least a hot minute or two before his mittens actually find a sword. So even with access to his bag he's kinda fucked and has to rely on improvised weapons.
And when Brian does find a sword for him, it turns out to be a gladius.
Are you like for real? Everyone else is rocking some actual duelling sword, with better reach, handling and more often than not leverage (what with two-handed swords being pretty popular in this community). And this guy insists on sticking with a glorified Iron Age dirk that has got to be around 2,000 years old?
This is such a Spooony thing to do. I can easily picture him sitting in some old pub, rolling his eyes in utter contempt as his acquaintances try in vain to get him interested in new-fangled bullshit like a zweihänder or katzbalger

Though even with a real weapon Quint is no match for French Guy, who has seemingly predicted DSP unbeatable strategy for any Soulslike: Mash the attack button while counting on your ridiculous stamina build to facetank any hits you end up taking. Seriously this guy is like a Terminator or something.
In desparation, Quint pulls out a fucking gun and puts some lead into French Guy, which I'm sure was another reason why his fic got "mean reviews". It's technically never event hinted at that immortals aren't allowed to shoot each other, but it also never really happens so it's probably an unspoken rule.
Hilariously enough, this stunt does fuckall to change the tide of battle in his favor, so he does his defenestration trick from the previous prologue.
After getting run over by a car, the passengers - with the help of Brian, apparently - drag is mangled carcass into the car.

ChapterShow

Bellarmine Hall Dormitory, Seattle University
Seattle, Washington
October 22, 2004 - 11:55 PM

“It's nothing like you see in Lone Wolf and Cub,” Quint muttered with his lips pinched around a cigarette. With a trembling right hand he tried to work the disposable lighter, but his right was his off-hand, and Quint was already well into shock. His left hand was occupied, stuffed into his coat pocket so his shattered arm didn't hang uselessly at his side and alarm the woman on the other side of the bed. Before he embarrassed himself too much, she finally reached over and lit the cigarette, exhaling her breath out loudly enough to convey a mixture of anxiety and frustration. Quint grunted in gratitude and breathed in the smoke like an asthma patient's first truly free breath after an attack.

“Ton of s*** in the way,” he continued hoarsely as he fumbled at the tab to a can of Wicked Ale, “not the least of which being the spinal column. It's just...” Quint trailed off as he saw the woman turn a paler shade and shake her head in disdain. She lit her own cigarette and Quint felt compelled to speak again. “I've never seen one go off clean before. Not in one shot.”

“Look,” she started, but Quint was on a roll and cut her off.

“Especially not with that Roman or medieval-era stuff. Most of the time they're not even all that sharp. It's all about leverage and weight. Impact.” He was losing her. She looked away, out the window to the nighttime skyline. “You nail a guy with a 4-foot length of steel and he's gonna be f***ed up. Broken bones certainly. Internal bleeding something fierce most of the time. Might even lay your skin open pretty good if they do catch you with a sharp edge. But those samurai movies? Bulls***.” Quint paused for breath, a drag, and guzzled half the can before continuing. Shock blurred his sight and turned his voice into a dreamy monotone, and the concussion had ceased hurting and turned into a dull, numb throbbing in his head and the rising bile in his gut.

“Usually takes, a half-dozen...nine. Hell I'm not even really counting...makes me sick. It’s never clean. Never clean.” Quint finished off the can and stared into the blackness within it, as if it contained some Nietzsche-like abyssal insight. He was really just trying to block out the pain, or at least blunt it.

“Is this supposed to impress me or something?” the woman said, looking confused. She was probably trying to work out exactly how much trouble she was in. Whether or not Quint was going to kill her. She fiddled needlessly with her hair-tie and re-tightened her ponytail in [sic] back. Her hair was red, Quint thought, but for some insane reason she had chosen to dye it to black and streak it with violet highlights. Who would dye red hair? Two long strands of bright purple hair were carefully-arranged to dangle over her face—the only hair not ratcheted back in a ponytail to what seemed to Quint to be a painful degree.

She looked like she was running the tail end of a second shift, clad in a sweaty mockup of formal usher’s attire from a movie theater. It was stained with sweat, salt, and butter that would never wash out. A disgusting greasy cummerbund hung off her waist with an ill-fit. She was pretty, Quint thought, but seemed mired in a phase to deny natural beauty in favor of shopping at Hot Topic and the novelty of damaging her hair with Kool-Aid. She wasn’t pretty now, but nobody is after a double-shift and a car accident. He decided not to judge; she won the beauty contest by virtue of not having to pick broken glass out of her face.

Quint snorted out a laugh that soon turned into a wide grimace as his broken ribs howled in furious protest. “I’m sorry,” he winced, reaching for another can, “I’m not trying to sound like I’m hardcore on the off-chance it’ll turn you on.” He paused. “Does it?”

“No.”

“Worth asking.”

“Look, I’ll take you to the hospital,” she bargained. She seemed desperate to get out of this, and Quint didn’t blame her one iota. “They can help you. You can’t stay in my dorm room. There’s no room, and you’ll bleed to death, and it’s filthy here, and—“

“It won’t—“ he interrupted her, and searched for the words before restarting, “I don’t need a hospital. By morning all that’ll be left will be scars. Would be faster but someone hit me with their Pacer.” The woman shook her head and started to protest, but he quieted her with a consoling wave. “It’s cool. You saved my life back there.” Quint leaned back and reached into his coat. He withdrew an old .38 as nonthreateningly as possible and checked the ammunition. He swore under his breath, spun the chamber, and closed it against his leg.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Quint murmured, “I don’t care what you saw, because you don’t know what you saw. You can tell anyone you like once I’m gone. Just not tonight. And your dorm is fine.”

The woman looked about at the wasteland her dorm was. The bed dominated the tiny room, and the scant floorspace that was available was taken up with a mini-fridge, piles of clothes, a bookshelf, a television that had seen the Carter administration, and a pile of pizza boxes that almost resembled a shrine to our lord and savior, Papa John Himself. “It’s a s***hole,” she finally declared.

Quint popped the second can of ale with an agreeable nod. “Yup. Terrible underfoot. Cramped quarters. Small. Low ceiling. Beautiful.”

She hoisted a single eyebrow at the sincerity of his tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?” But Quint’s eyes widened in surprise and he seemed to tense up all at once, like a cat prickling up for a brawl.

“Get in the bathroom,” Quint groaned out as he climbed back to his feet. His muscles and bones protested and threatened to go on strike. “I don’t believe this guy.” The woman started to voice a question when a booming voice sounded from outside, loud enough to shake the door.

“Quint! Temps de mourir, tricheur!”

The woman spun around towards the door and ran for it, shouting for help. She flung the door open and pointed into the room. “You have to help me!” she shouted, “This guy—“

A tall man shouldered the door open, nearly knocking it off a hinge. He wasn’t large and muscular, but instead lean and tough. He was unshaven, and his light hair was in disarray. There was a manic wideness to his eyes that filled Quint with the feeling that there was true hatred behind his actions. He put his hand up against the woman’s face and ushered her violently backwards. She tripped over her old laundry and fell into the bathroom anyway. The Frenchman spun his sabre by the hilt, the mercury lights outside glinting off the steel and Quint’s own blood that decorated it. It was an impressive Napoleonic-era affair, probably an infantry officer’s sword.

“Did you see that?” Quint motioned to the bathroom in disbelief. “She totally sold me out.”

“Maintenant, Quint.” The Frenchman demanded, pointing at Quint with the end of his sabre. Quint could see blood staining the front of his clothes almost completely, and the sticky red footprints he left in his wake. Three small holes perforated his trenchcoat, highlighted by the wet blood glistening in the anemic urine-colored light. The last two wore trenchcoats as well; it served as one of the only wardrobe options useful to conceal samurai weaponry. Being seen with such things tended to make people think you were either insane or from a Renaissance Festival. If there was a difference.

“Come on, Pepé Le Pew, I already kicked your a** once tonight.” Quint said with a weary false bravado. He wasn’t ready for this. “I got a TV. Let’s watch Voyager and drink tranya.”

The Frenchman moved into the room to come after Quint, lowering his sword to waist-level. He took a high step over the pile of laundry in front of the door and stumbled. He kept rushing in and made an off-balance stab at Quint, who threw himself against the opposite wall away from the point of the sword. The sword punched clean through the cheap powdery drywall, and nearly sent the Frenchman flopping straight onto his face. Quint made a grab for the sword arm, but the Frenchman was surprisingly agile. He rolled through his fall, wrenched the sabre back against his body, and made another upward thrust towards Quint’s face. Quint twisted aside and downward, dropkicking his opponent squarely in the face. The bed broke Quint’s fall, and he sprung back to his feet.

The Frenchman crashed against the back wall of the dorm and hurried back to his feet. Quint gained some distance by backing up near the door, withdrawing an old, notched marine KA-BAR knife from his coat.

“What did I do, man,” Quint smirked. He went over to the bathroom and pulled the door shut just as the young lady within was just regaining her feet.

“Is this over Freedom Fries? I had nothing to do with that.” The Frenchman either didn’t understand or didn’t care. He shouted and rushed forward again. He raised his sword, presumably for an overhead chop of some kind, but the long blade clunked into the ceiling. He abandoned this attack and tried to thrust once more, but the wasted attack bought Quint more than enough time, and he was already on the move. Quint moved in and clung tight to his opponent, powering him up against the wall.

Quint smashed his head into the teeth of his taller opponent and jammed his knife up under his armpit. He did this twice, and then a third time. The Frenchman’s long weapon was useless here, and Quint didn’t concede the range needed to use it effectively. The sabre clattered to the ground as Quint rendered the sword arm useless. In desperation, the Frenchman tried to punch Quint, or to grapple him in a headlock, but Quint was relentless. He hooked a leg around the Frenchman’s knee joint and twisted, wrestling him to the floor. Quint pushed his knife against the Frenchman’s throat.

“Why?” he shouted. He grit his teeth and dug the blade into the man’s skin. “Pourquoi?”

“Vous devez mourir,” the man wheezed.

“Laissez-moi faire!”

The Frenchman tried to speak through a lung full of blood. He gagged and retched, and blood bubbled over his teeth and down his chin. He clenched his eyes shut and sprayed from his mouth as he shouted "Jamais! Vous allez causer notre perte.”

“What?” Quint was incredulous, and the Frenchman used the brief moment of surprise to lunge up. He clubbed Quint in his injured arm and tried to pull him over with it. The effort was feeble, and Quint drilled him between the eyes with the reverse end of his KA-BAR. Almost knocked out from the blow, he still resisted with all his strength, even when Quint replaced the knife at his throat. “Is this the way you really want this?”

The Frenchman’s eyes bulged as he attempted to cling to consciousness. His fists clenched at his sides.

“Don’t make me.” Quint dug the knife into the man’s throat. “Don’t make me do this, goddammit.”

“No!!” the college girl screamed from the entrance. She rushed forward and threw an arm around Quint’s throat. She pulled at him and grasped his knife hand. Quint’s weight shifted to the side, and with a roar of agony and defiance, the Frenchman lurched up and retrieved his sabre. He swung with his last remaining strength, aiming high.

Quint stopped resisting the woman’s pull and instead flung his weight backwards, which sent them both tumbling to their backs. The sabre arced high and wedged itself solidly into the opposite wall. Quint squirmed free of the woman’s grasp and plunged his KA-BAR into the Frenchman’s throat, just under the right ear. It went in smooth and silent, eliciting a low, sticky gurgle from deep in his chest. Quint ripped the knife to the left side. This was not smooth, and it was not silent. The woman made no sound, and only watched on in pale horror, transfixed by the grisly act.

Quint scrunched his face so that his eyes were almost closed, and he wrenched the knife away. For a long time, the only sound in the room was of a haunting, airy bubbling and the small scratching of muscle spasms against the floor. Quint tossed the knife away and sat still for a long while. He was staring into the eyes of the man beneath him, glassed over and sightless, but still looking squarely at him. He scrubbed his hands on the man’s clothes and stood. With a sudden intake of breath, the woman plastered herself against the wall farthest away from Quint as possible.

He went to his duffel bag propped against the bed and nudged the buckled flap open with his foot. He stooped over and carefully withdrew a weathered hatchet. He stared at the tool for another long moment. “You know what’s weirding me out more than what I’m about to do?” he said, his tone wavering. He turned his head to look at the horrified young woman with tears blinding his eyes. “I never learned French.”

With that, Quint bit his lip and almost threw himself back on the floor. He chopped at the Frenchman’s neck with grim precision. After four blows from the hatchet, Quint flung the hatchet next to the knife on the floor with a sharp ring of metal-on-metal. Quint closed his eyes. “It’s never clean.”

The air suddenly went dry, and Quint felt as if he had been doused with a bucket of sand. The world seemed to tremble, but it might have just been his heart’s throbbing. Against all reason, a swirling wind rose in the tiny room. The stack of pizza boxes collapsed, proving that it was the world that was trembling more. The television flickered to life, and the alarm clock near the bed hummed and tuned itself to the Top 40 station. The wind calmed, and then madness was unleashed. Electricity sprayed from the wall sockets. The television image shrank to a piercing white point, then the glass cracked and the electronics within burst all at once in a spray of sparks. Smoke and the smell of charred insulation filled the room, and every light in the building burst at the same time. Unseen hands seemed to pluck Quint into the air and he hung there unsupported as a maelstrom whirled around him. Chaos became tangible and dove into Quint’s eyes and blasted through his spine. He thought he was screaming, but he could hear nothing aside from a shrill ringing in his ears.

Quint’s hair felt like it was burning, and gravelly chunks of shattered and powdered glass ground into his knees. His muscles felt like they had been ripped from his body, stretched, abused, and stitched back onto his bones with fishing line. But he stood. His vision was grainy and washed-out, and his heart seemed to have a hard time coping with his sudden transition to standing. The woman sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, staring at him with an eerie, calm silence that signified she was well past her insanity limit for the week. He pulled her up to her feet. She was stiff and deadweight, but her legs dropped down heavily to the floor and she kept her feet.

“Lady.” Quint said. “Hey lady.” Her head jerked over to look at him.

“Kelli,” she breathed.

“Come on.” Quint buckled up his duffel bag and hauled it over his shoulder. He pushed her out the door, hoping that she still remembered how to run. Broken glass covered the entire block, glinting in the moonlight like fresh rainfall.

RiffingShow

Bellarmine Hall Dormitory, Seattle University
Seattle, Washington
October 22, 2004 - 11:55 PM

Seems the "establishing shot" for the chapters has a new format. It's now multi-line.
Also this is a mere 25 minutes after the beginning of the last chapter. That fight and dashing escape happened fast.

“It's nothing like you see in Lone Wolf and Cub,” Quint muttered with his lips pinched around a cigarette. With a trembling right hand he tried to work the disposable lighter, but his right was his off-hand, and Quint was already well into shock. His left hand was occupied, stuffed into his coat pocket so his shattered arm didn't hang uselessly at his side and alarm the woman on the other side of the bed. Before he embarrassed himself too much, she finally reached over and lit the cigarette, exhaling her breath out loudly enough to convey a mixture of anxiety and frustration. Quint grunted in gratitude and breathed in the smoke like an asthma patient's first truly free breath after an attack.

It's been like, what, 5-10 minutes since your broken ass got rescued, and you're already smoking with some hot chick while musing philosophically about Lone Wolf and Fucking Cub?

“Ton of s*** in the way,” he continued hoarsely as he fumbled at the tab to a can of Wicked Ale, “not the least of which being the spinal column. It's just...” Quint trailed off as he saw the woman turn a paler shade and shake her head in disdain. She lit her own cigarette and Quint felt compelled to speak again. “I've never seen one go off clean before. Not in one shot.”

• Oh, so this musing is about beheadings.
• LMAO. Nigga, why the censorship?
• Technically true. There's a reason why executioner's swords are closer to something Guts would use.
• On the other hand this is fucking Highlander, where this shit happens a lot easier:

(WTF. This guy from the animu that came out after this also used a gladius.)

“Look,” she started, but Quint was on a roll and cut her off.

“Especially not with that Roman or medieval-era stuff. Most of the time they're not even all that sharp. It's all about leverage and weight. Impact.” He was losing her.

Me too a bit. I mean, WTF is this, Highlander: The Deconstruction?

She looked away, out the window to the nighttime skyline. “You nail a guy with a 4-foot length of steel and he's gonna be f***ed up. Broken bones certainly. Internal bleeding something fierce most of the time. Might even lay your skin open pretty good if they do catch you with a sharp edge. But those samurai movies? Bulls***.”

"Samurai movies are so unrealistic!"

Quint paused for breath, a drag, and guzzled half the can before continuing. Shock blurred his sight and turned his voice into a dreamy monotone, and the concussion had ceased hurting and turned into a dull, numb throbbing in his head and the rising bile in his gut.

At least he's not bitching about the booze.

“Usually takes, a half-dozen...nine. Hell I'm not even really counting...makes me sick. It’s never clean. Never clean.” Quint finished off the can and stared into the blackness within it, as if it contained some Nietzsche-like abyssal insight. He was really just trying to block out the pain, or at least blunt it.

I think you're just really bad at your job.

“Is this supposed to impress me or something?” the woman said, looking confused.

Why do these IN self-inserts think it's cool to weird out / annoy strangers for no reason?

She was probably trying to work out exactly how much trouble she was in.

A lot.

Whether or not Quint was going to kill her.

I think she has a pretty good chance of kicking his ass instead.

She fiddled needlessly with her hair-tie and re-tightened her ponytail in [sic] back. Her hair was red, Quint thought, but for some insane reason she had chosen to dye it to black and streak it with violet highlights. Who would dye red hair?

Holy shit the gingers are hiding among us!

Two long strands of bright purple hair were carefully-arranged to dangle over her face—the only hair not ratcheted back in a ponytail to what seemed to Quint to be a painful degree.

Do I sense animu hair in my Highlander fanfic with scientifically-accurate sword damage?

She looked like she was running the tail end of a second shift, clad in a sweaty mockup of formal usher’s attire from a movie theater.

Interesting fetish you've got going on here.

It was stained with sweat, salt, and butter that would never wash out.

A disgusting greasy cummerbund hung off her waist with an ill-fit.

(I've never been in a cinema with ushers. Is that still a thing in the US? Even in filthy, greasy rundowm shithole cinemas?)

She was pretty, Quint thought, but seemed mired in a phase to deny natural beauty in favor of shopping at Hot Topic and the novelty of damaging her hair with Kool-Aid.

I know you assume Hot Topic because of the hair, but her usher getup still makes it weird.

She wasn’t pretty now, but nobody is after a double-shift and a car accident. He decided not to judge; she won the beauty contest by virtue of not having to pick broken glass out of her face.

Would Rachel win the beauty contest against Current Year Spoony, I wonder?

Quint snorted out a laugh that soon turned into a wide grimace as his broken ribs howled in furious protest. “I’m sorry,” he winced, reaching for another can, “I’m not trying to sound like I’m hardcore on the off-chance it’ll turn you on.” He paused. “Does it?”

“No.”

“Worth asking.”

“Look, I’ll take you to the hospital,” she bargained. She seemed desperate to get out of this, and Quint didn’t blame her one iota.

Even he knows he's insufferable.

“They can help you. You can’t stay in my dorm room. There’s no room, and you’ll bleed to death, and it’s filthy here, and—“

Why didn't you drive him to the hospital in the first place?
And shouldn't you have noticed by now that the guy doesn't need a hospital?

“It won’t—“ he interrupted her, and searched for the words before restarting, “I don’t need a hospital. By morning all that’ll be left will be scars. Would be faster but someone hit me with their Pacer.” The woman shook her head and started to protest, but he quieted her with a consoling wave. “It’s cool. You saved my life back there.”

If only it was that easy to help Spoony...

Quint leaned back and reached into his coat. He withdrew an old .38 as nonthreateningly as possible and checked the ammunition. He swore under his breath, spun the chamber, and closed it against his leg.

You sure know how to put her at ease.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Quint murmured, “I don’t care what you saw, because you don’t know what you saw. You can tell anyone you like once I’m gone. Just not tonight. And your dorm is fine.”

"So there was this time I ran over a guy, but he was totally fine after just a few minutes..."

Yeah, I don't see her telling anyone about this.
But if she's not in the know, why the hell did you suddenly start sperging about beheadings? Do you want her to be creeped out?

The woman looked about at the wasteland her dorm was. The bed dominated the tiny room, and the scant floorspace that was available was taken up with a mini-fridge, piles of clothes, a bookshelf, a television that had seen the Carter administration, and a pile of pizza boxes that almost resembled a shrine to our lord and savior, Papa John Himself.

Is that you, PUR?!

“It’s a s***hole,” she finally declared.

Quint popped the second can of ale with an agreeable nod. “Yup. Terrible underfoot. Cramped quarters. Small. Low ceiling. Beautiful.”

Smooth change of topic there.

She hoisted a single eyebrow at the sincerity of his tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?” But Quint’s eyes widened in surprise and he seemed to tense up all at once, like a cat prickling up for a brawl.

“Get in the bathroom,” Quint groaned out as he climbed back to his feet. His muscles and bones protested and threatened to go on strike. “I don’t believe this guy.” The woman started to voice a question when a booming voice sounded from outside, loud enough to shake the door.

“Quint! Temps de mourir, tricheur!”

(That means "Time to die, cheater!".)

I don't think that's from Keats, but then again Keats seems to be more of a hobby of French Guy's buddy.

And does Quint have a tracker on him or something? Those Super Keats Bros. are fucking fast.

The woman spun around towards the door and ran for it, shouting for help. She flung the door open and pointed into the room. “You have to help me!” she shouted, “This guy—“

I see Quint's charm has been working wonders on her.

A tall man shouldered the door open, nearly knocking it off a hinge. He wasn’t large and muscular, but instead lean and tough. He was unshaven, and his light hair was in disarray. There was a manic wideness to his eyes that filled Quint with the feeling that there was true hatred behind his actions. He put his hand up against the woman’s face and ushered her violently backwards. She tripped over her old laundry and fell into the bathroom anyway. The Frenchman spun his sabre by the hilt, the mercury lights outside glinting off the steel and Quint’s own blood that decorated it. It was an impressive Napoleonic-era affair, probably an infantry officer’s sword.

Oh, it's French Guy. You should've said that earlier. I almost thought this was someone else.

“Did you see that?” Quint motioned to the bathroom in disbelief. “She totally sold me out.”

Could you try taking this seriously? This guy tried to murder you in cold blood less than half an hour ago.

“Maintenant, Quint.” The Frenchman demanded, pointing at Quint with the end of his sabre.

(That means "now".)

Quint could see blood staining the front of his clothes almost completely, and the sticky red footprints he left in his wake. Three small holes perforated his trenchcoat, highlighted by the wet blood glistening in the anemic urine-colored light.

Fucking weak-ass piss lights. I demand proper lighting for peak glistening.

The last two wore trenchcoats as well; it served as one of the only wardrobe options useful to conceal samurai weaponry.

It's a Napoelonic sabre. No one has busted out a katana so far.

Being seen with such things tended to make people think you were either insane or from a Renaissance Festival. If there was a difference.

And yet you still dated April.
Could be worse, though. People might think you're a weeb.

“Come on, Pepé Le Pew, I already kicked your a** once tonight.” Quint said with a weary false bravado. He wasn’t ready for this. “I got a TV. Let’s watch Voyager and drink tranya.”

(Tranya is some kind of booze from Star Trek.)

I'm sure pissing him off will get you out of this predicament. Why do these IN self-inserts think it's cool to annoy the fuck out of their opponent using dumb pop-culture references?
Well, at least this isn't an isekai story, so there's actually a chance that French Guy knows WTF he's talking about.

The Frenchman moved into the room to come after Quint, lowering his sword to waist-level. He took a high step over the pile of laundry in front of the door and stumbled.

Friendly reminder that this lady lives like a fucking pig.

He kept rushing in and made an off-balance stab at Quint, who threw himself against the opposite wall away from the point of the sword. The sword punched clean through the cheap powdery drywall, and nearly sent the Frenchman flopping straight onto his face.

That's an awful lot of momentum. Did he do a Psycho Crusher or something?

Quint made a grab for the sword arm, but the Frenchman was surprisingly agile. He rolled through his fall, wrenched the sabre back against his body, and made another upward thrust towards Quint’s face. Quint twisted aside and downward, dropkicking his opponent squarely in the face. The bed broke Quint’s fall, and he sprung back to his feet.

Why do these IN self-inserts always end their fights with a kick?

The Frenchman crashed against the back wall of the dorm and hurried back to his feet.

Oh, I forgot this guy is a Terminator.
But still, Quint brings shame upon the Linkaran School of Kicking.

Quint gained some distance by backing up near the door, withdrawing an old, notched marine KA-BAR knife from his coat.

He had a knife with him this whole time?!

“What did I do, man,” Quint smirked.

You're both immortals, but there can be only one?

He went over to the bathroom and pulled the door shut just as the young lady within was just regaining her feet.

Boy, I sure love slapstick comedy in my Highlander fight scenes.

Her protests were only barely muffled by the cheap door.

Friendly reminder that she's white trash.

“Is this over Freedom Fries? I had nothing to do with that.”

Boy, I sure love it when these OC self-inserts can never be serious, even when their life is in danger.

The Frenchman either didn’t understand or didn’t care.

It's totally the latter. Why would he play along with your stupid wisecracking? Maybe that other guy with his Keats obsession, but French Guy doesn't seem to be a very jolly fellow.

He shouted and rushed forward again. He raised his sword, presumably for an overhead chop of some kind, but the long blade clunked into the ceiling.

>tfw the apartment is better at fighting this guy than our hero is

He abandoned this attack and tried to thrust once more, but the wasted attack bought Quint more than enough time, and he was already on the move. Quint moved in and clung tight to his opponent, powering him up against the wall.

And then they kissed.

Quint smashed his head into the teeth of his taller opponent and jammed his knife up under his armpit. He did this twice, and then a third time.

One might say he did it thrice.

The Frenchman’s long weapon was useless here, and Quint didn’t concede the range needed to use it effectively.

Keep hugging the French Guy with all your might, Quint!

The sabre clattered to the ground as Quint rendered the sword arm useless. In desperation, the Frenchman tried to punch Quint, or to grapple him in a headlock, but Quint was relentless.

If you have enough room to punch him, you should also have enough room to bash his head in with the pommel of your sabre.

“Why?” he shouted. He grit his teeth and dug the blade into the man’s skin. “Pourquoi?”

(That means "why")

“Vous devez mourir,” the man wheezed.

(That means "You must die")

“Laissez-moi faire!”

(That means "Leave it to me!")

I'm not sure this was the answer you were hoping for, but sure, why not.

The Frenchman tried to speak through a lung full of blood. He gagged and retched, and blood bubbled over his teeth and down his chin. He clenched his eyes shut and sprayed from his mouth as he shouted "Jamais! Vous allez causer notre perte.”

(That means "Never! You will cause our downfall.")

I hope this guy dies soon. This constant French is getting annoying to look up.

“What?” Quint was incredulous, and the Frenchman used the brief moment of surprise to lunge up. He clubbed Quint in his injured arm and tried to pull him over with it.

How did that happen? You're sitting on him cowgirl-style, and your knife is embedded in his neck.

The effort was feeble, and Quint drilled him between the eyes with the reverse end of his KA-BAR. Almost knocked out from the blow, he still resisted with all his strength, even when Quint replaced the knife at his throat. “Is this the way you really want this?”

Why are you so hesitant to just kill the guy?
They're gonna have multiple duels throughout this fanfic, aren't they?

The Frenchman’s eyes bulged as he attempted to cling to consciousness. His fists clenched at his sides.

I call bullshit on a bonk to the head being enough to get past his ridiculous stamina.

“Don’t make me.” Quint dug the knife into the man’s throat. “Don’t make me do this, goddammit.”

"The author doesn't want to come up with even more immortals for me to kill!"

“No!!” the college girl screamed from the entrance. She rushed forward and threw an arm around Quint’s throat. She pulled at him and grasped his knife hand. Quint’s weight shifted to the side, and with a roar of agony and defiance, the Frenchman lurched up and retrieved his sabre. He swung with his last remaining strength, aiming high.

Women: They ruin everything.

Quint stopped resisting the woman’s pull and instead flung his weight backwards, which sent them both tumbling to their backs. The sabre arced high and wedged itself solidly into the opposite wall.

Once again, the apartment's defensive play is impeccable.

uint squirmed free of the woman’s grasp and plunged his KA-BAR into the Frenchman’s throat, just under the right ear. It went in smooth and silent, eliciting a low, sticky gurgle from deep in his chest. Quint ripped the knife to the left side. This was not smooth, and it was not silent. The woman made no sound, and only watched on in pale horror, transfixed by the grisly act.

I bet her Hot Topic ass is into this kinky shit.

Quint scrunched his face so that his eyes were almost closed, and he wrenched the knife away. For a long time, the only sound in the room was of a haunting, airy bubbling and the small scratching of muscle spasms against the floor. Quint tossed the knife away and sat still for a long while. He was staring into the eyes of the man beneath him, glassed over and sightless, but still looking squarely at him. He scrubbed his hands on the man’s clothes and stood. With a sudden intake of breath, the woman plastered herself against the wall farthest away from Quint as possible.

Where's the Quickening? You killed him, right?

He went to his duffel bag propped against the bed and nudged the buckled flap open with his foot. He stooped over and carefully withdrew a weathered hatchet.

Oh, he isn't quite beheaded. Got it.
And does Quint have any weapon that's not old and decrepit? I feel like other immortals take better care of their stuff.

He stared at the tool for another long moment. “You know what’s weirding me out more than what I’m about to do?” he said, his tone wavering. He turned his head to look at the horrified young woman with tears blinding his eyes. “I never learned French.”

With that, Quint bit his lip and almost threw himself back on the floor. He chopped at the Frenchman’s neck with grim precision. After four blows from the hatchet, Quint flung the hatchet next to the knife on the floor with a sharp ring of metal-on-metal. Quint closed his eyes. “It’s never clean.”

Except when every other immortal does it.

The air suddenly went dry, and Quint felt as if he had been doused with a bucket of sand. The world seemed to tremble, but it might have just been his heart’s throbbing. Against all reason, a swirling wind rose in the tiny room.

It's happening!


(Phew. Almost feared we had to suffer through multiple chapters with French Guy.)

The stack of pizza boxes collapsed, proving that it was the world that was trembling more.

Friendly reminder that this is a filthy pigsty.

The television flickered to life, and the alarm clock near the bed hummed and tuned itself to the Top 40 station. The wind calmed, and then madness was unleashed. Electricity sprayed from the wall sockets. The television image shrank to a piercing white point, then the glass cracked and the electronics within burst all at once in a spray of sparks. Smoke and the smell of charred insulation filled the room, and every light in the building burst at the same time. Unseen hands seemed to pluck Quint into the air and he hung there unsupported as a maelstrom whirled around him. Chaos became tangible and dove into Quint’s eyes and blasted through his spine. He thought he was screaming, but he could hear nothing aside from a shrill ringing in his ears.

Quint’s hair felt like it was burning, and gravelly chunks of shattered and powdered glass ground into his knees. His muscles felt like they had been ripped from his body, stretched, abused, and stitched back onto his bones with fishing line. But he stood. His vision was grainy and washed-out, and his heart seemed to have a hard time coping with his sudden transition to standing.

Sounds like something Spoony would complain about on social media.

The woman sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, staring at him with an eerie, calm silence that signified she was well past her insanity limit for the week.

Silly woman. Thinking she can recovery sanity loss if she doesn't see too much Eldritch shit in a week.

She was stiff and deadweight, but her legs dropped down heavily to the floor and she kept her feet.

“Lady.” Quint said. “Hey lady.” Her head jerked over to look at him.

“Kelli,” she breathed.

Kelli with an "i" at the end? Is that even a thing?

“Come on.” Quint buckled up his duffel bag and hauled it over his shoulder. He pushed her out the door, hoping that she still remembered how to run. Broken glass covered the entire block, glinting in the moonlight like fresh rainfall.

It's not like this whole area was very quaint to begin with.

Next Time: Time for a road movie featuring Spoony and PUR!

[wulfenlord]

Every single one of these people writes as if they just want to be making a movie instead. Just eeeeendless descriptions so the reader could *perfectly* capture the image in their heads. Rather than just writing it like a book, with proper pacing and dynamic prose.

Except peeRod. He skips descriptions and world-building and goes straight to action, because describing things is hard.

Also, where is that second book of his? He said two years ago it's nearly ready to go.

It's a great time to grab the collector's edition for twofiddy

I don't even care about any book promise, it's like wanting Gay Arr Arr to finish Winds of Winter, what I care more about is him not owning up that he didn't receive even one cosplay entry - he had a written deadline, that's dishonorable to not just take the blame.

[VoiceOfReasonPast]

I don't even care about any book promise, it's like wanting Gay Arr Arr to finish Winds of Winter, what I care more about is him not owning up that he didn't receive even one cosplay entry - he had a written deadline, that's dishonorable to not just take the blame.

You can tell he doesn't actually have a fanbase, 'cause no one was calling him out for memoryholing this "big" event he promoted multiple times.