". . . and that's when you came in."

It had been a lecture of sorts, all fallen upon the deaf ears of a man temporarily between consciousness and the lack thereof. His vision was blurring in and out, but it was coming back--and it was those words that he'd finally hear. How long he had been like that was anyone's guess, anyone's except the man before him.

They were within the tower of steel, at the very peek floor, held up by a surface of marble, and surrounded by glass on every side--and beyond that, steel catwalks, all looking fifty-seven floors down on a city whose lights were once said to never extinguish. Now, that was a rumor both factual and false. This was a dead city, a land bathed in a light most malicious, but illuminated as a stark contrast to the dark sky. The sun may well have risen upon the city, but the night sky was blaring. The world trembled subtly, but noticeably--a potentially on-going earthquake that seemingly ignored the steel tower, and yet, it continued to shake like a frightened child.

"I'm not going to tell you that you spoiled anything or anythin'," he stated with a shrug of his shoulders, "Especially since I'm willin' to venture that it was your plan all along."

One man was drifting back into consciousness, set in a chair at the far end of the lengthy, bare floor with a skyline view, while the other stood upon the opposite, staring out at the sky, observing the sea of light that bathed the once densely populated city of Preznok, Greoul. He stood with his back turned, arms at his sides, and a bent lead pipe still in hand--still smothered with traces of blood. Very little could be discerned about the man, though, sans his clothing and stature. He was tall, six foot even, with a white, button down dress shirt, untucked and left to drape down just a bit over his black slacks.

"What I'd like to say, though," he paused a moment, "Is that I'm gonna spoil the hell out of your day."

The slumped man was large in stature, his clothes old and war-beaten, in contrast to his captor's dress. His clothes bore rips and tears where his body had been pierced or cut in pursuit of some unknown goals, and apparently, he had failed in whatever he was attempting. At least, he had failed in preserving his own safety. His other goals... Well, the man in the chair, Cyril, was a goal-oriented person. If he had to take a beating, which was often the case, he'd take it. That was a matter of taking responsibility for his actions.

Cyril spat out a mouthful of blood, trying to clear himself of the pooled flavorful substance in his mouth. The back of his neck and head was little more than a large swollen bump. He didn't know how long he'd been out. He didn't really know who the other man was. He had clues, of course. Some educated guesses, perhaps. He certainly hadn't expected an attack that was so... base. It was homey. Down-to-earth. Lowbrow. He enjoyed that. It wasn't some lofty and overplanned attack. A lead pipe to the back of the head...

"You know, I never really was a religious man, when I could help it. Even now, it's still sort of strange. I'd have to be stupid not to live through all this mess and not gain a bit of religion. It's hard when the universe itself is at stake..."

Cyril placed his hands on the chair, pushing himself up. His head, shoulders, and much of his back seemed to throb in synchronized terrible pain from the blow, but it wasn't incapacitating now that he'd regained consciousness. His opponent still wielded the lead pipe, which was a concern, but then again... He'd gone down once. He wasn't dead yet. It was doubtful that he could ever be friends with the man who so diametrically opposed him, but there was no reason not to be civil...

"I've got a bit of faith, now. I'm still alive, which means it's out of my hands. Nothing else I can do to stop you, really. That also means it's out of your hands too, though. You got the first shot, but even if I killed you now, it wouldn't change anything. If so, you'd have just bashed my head in when I went down. So how exactly are you going to spoil my day? Spoiling my day would have been teasing me along a little longer. Letting me fight a hopeless battle against your plans. Beating me to death with a lead pipe? Please, I could use a rest at this point. One of us already won the real battle..."

Cyril hadn't assumed any sort of fighting stance. The headache threw him off a bit, in any case. He didn't expect to win. That didn't mean he wouldn't try... Dying without making every effort he could was a violation of his obligations. He was obligated to everyone who had helped him get this far, kept him alive during the difficult times. Wasting that life was pointless, but he wasn't going to fret about things he couldn't control. He didn't control much here. He was overmatched, in enemy territory, and most crippling of all, ignorant of some important facts. He could always control his attitude, though...

After Cyril spoke, there was a bit of silence on the other end of the ensuing conversation. This was such a climactic event, and it was occurring on an almost normalized level. That in of itself was amusing, but Cyril's reactions were the most amusing of all.

"You have your faith and you have your assumptions, but . . . heh. Nah," he shook his head, "Nah, what's going to spoil your day is learnin' the truth."

The man then turned around. Before Cyril stood a young man who could in no way be any older than himself, but also no younger. He had a slight goatee, with a patch of facial hair below his lip--but no more facial hair than that; he was otherwise cleanly shaven. Brown eyes stared at Cyril with much interest, and the slim young man with short, dark brown hair furrowed his brow--yet, all the while, he seemed to be grinning. He even wore a pair of small, rectangular framed spectacles. Unlike Cyril, the only blood on him was not his own, and that was only in the form of a bit of splatter upon his shirt, though not much.

"Before Reflection collapsed, the Exile gave you all the hints you needed to find me," the man grinned, extending his indrex finger up towards the ceiling and wagging it back and forth, "And here you are. But why do you think it gave you that much? Because Levis convinced it that what they were supporting was wrong in some way?"

He took a step forward, his boots ringing an echo throughout the blank expanse of a room. Those seemed to be the only examples of excess that he donned: not only were they thick, steel toed boots, but they even had a steel plate drilled into the front.

The young man stopped when he was ten feet from Cyril. That was adequate distance; not so close that they could start throwing punches, but close enough that they wouldn't have to yell. Indeed, despite the fact the stakes were high--with the chances bordering on impossible--there was no reason why they couldn't be civil about this.

"I didn't want a shade or a lumen, or even someone like the Exile or Levis to do you in," he began, tapping the lead pipe upon the floor as a background rhythm to his words, "You're way too important for that. You're the key, man. When you die, the Harbinger loses all reason to hold back. You're a loose end that I wanted to take care of personally."

Cyril didn't react very strongly, but the fact that he didn't have a ready answer was reason enough to assume he was affected. Flattered, perhaps, was the right term. This man, or whatever he may be, was telling him flatly that at the moment, the fate of the entire universe rested on his shoulders. Worse, he didn't really have a reason to lie about it. Pumping up an opponent's sense of importance was fine and all, but it didn't really serve a purpose in this case.

"If... That's really the case... Why? What's your angle? You're just angry? What would you care? If I was dead, you wouldn't be able to enjoy your satisfaction for very long, anyway... And what? You're saying the Exile was just obeying orders from you the whole time?"

Cyril breathed out sharply, his differences from the other man plain. Cyril bore several days of facial hair growth on his face, and was, quite obviously, deeply tired. Saving the universe, or at least attempting it, had proved exhausting. Worse, he couldn't possibly stop to rest yet. If he did, it would all be over. If everything went according to plan, and he actually survived... Then would be the time for rest. He'd find a hospital somewhere with a wide array of pretty nurses, and just give up for a while...

"I'm flattered, really. With all this at stake, you wanted to risk everything so you could meet me face to face. You and your lead pipe aren't exactly what I'd want to face ideally, but there's more things I'd rather not be seeing right now. What if I killed you here and went to go meet Edii?"

That was his plan, in fact. He didn't bring much into the situation. At least, nothing of true value. He didn't have a good plan. He didn't have any real information. He didn't know much about this person, and possibly couldn't ever understand. He wasn't exactly going to fall over, though. As tired as he was, as much as he just wanted to throw in the towel and let the universe go to its own fate, he still had energy left in him. He still had reserves of strength that ran deep, and more importantly, he still had his mind about him. Cyril was alive, and ready to take what his captor could give him...

"Why?" he asked as he tilted his head to the side a bit, before shrugging his shoulders. "Spite, really. What satisfaction do I get in killing you before I get the chance to tell you that you've had the weight of the world on your shoulders all along? I mean . . . you've caused me so much trouble. It's only fair, don't you think?"

He turned just a bit, starting to walk, but soon stopped himself. He was about ready to pace, as he had quite a speech to provide Cyril, but he stopped himself. For now, at least. There was a good chance that he was just going to give into temptation and let himself walk circles around Cyril pretty soon.

"You're the kink in my plans. There was only supposed to be one person with Edii Terkins--and that was the gypsy boy. You . . . you were supposed to be dead by then. It always boggled me mind, man. See, you're one of those people who just . . . seems to completely ignore fate."

In such a scenario, it would have only been Edii and Maladi traversing through Oblivion, and without the manpower that Cyril offered--as well as the interruptions of existing between the two--not only had Maladi and Edii been saved from peril several times, but Edii was kept from ever becoming so close to Maladi that were Maladi to die, he'd completely lose hope. Rather, because Cyril was there, Edii had developed mutual friendships with both he and Maladi--throughout it all, they could all three be considered some of the best of friends, even if they had their differences. This split the load. And it just so happened that Maladi was in a bad place right now . . . and as far as Edii was concerned, presumably dead. Therein was a truth that Cyril was aware of, and Edii was not.

"Wherein, you were supposed to die on that boat so many years ago. But something tipped you off--somehow, you knew you were supposed to die that day--which is specifically why you left your sister, brother in law, mother, girlfriend, and niece on that boat. I'm right, aren't I?" he seemed to be relatively dramatic in the way he talked, regardless of how calm he was, moving his hands and arms while he spoke, and making a conscious effort not to start pacing. "And from that point on, you had no more fate--no more destiny."

Then, the personal blows--but not purposeful. Cyril may or may not have felt emotional stings with them, but as far as the young man before him was concerned, he was just stating facts, a further unveiling of the truth. Whether or not Cyril accepted it was to be seen.

"And all it took was for you to be in the wrong place at the wrong time," the young man stated as he held out his lead pipe, holding it straight out, horizontal, parallel to the ground, and aimed at Cyril--yet, not attacking. He was still just standing there. "So, if you kill me and walk on out to meet Edii--well, I guess you save the world. But if I kill you, well, you have the joy of knowing in your last moments that you'll have failed every person who's ever put trust into you."

"Wow..."

As the man spoke about Cyril's past, the words did cut deep. This, from the sounds of it, was a man that knew everything about Cyril. That was a sobering thought. Cyril had a lot that he wasn't proud of. That day, in particular... That was something he regretted perhaps most of all. He'd thought way too much of his intelligence, and imagined incorrectly that he knew everything. He knew the attempt on his life was coming in the most literal of ways. That was why he'd feigned being too busy to attend. Too busy to attend the celebration of his own sister's birthday. And there... The inept attempt on his life claimed the life of his sister and the livelihood of her husband and his mother. And then, after a while, it claimed his self-respect...

"Spite? You're here just to rub that in my face? To kill me slowly and painfully... All for being in the wrong place at the wrong time to ruin your plans? That's just... Petty. A lot pettier than I ever expected you to be..."

His opponent was, perhaps in the most literal of senses, the highest power he'd ever encountered. And yet... Here he was, pipe in hand. And he wanted Cyril to suffer. Not just in a physical sense, but in every possible sense. Worse, his words sunk deep. He claimed Cyril had control, but in truth... How could he have? Cyril had tried to exercise control over his own life. It had failed in the most profound of ways. The child he would have had was dead. He lost the girl who was going to be his. He hadn't even claimed revenge on the man responsible. Fate did seem to have a plan for him. It wouldn't let him have the life he wanted, which was probably what he deserved...

"So what, then? You want me to punish myself some more? I've given up on the life I wanted. I gave up on the happiness I could have had, didn't try to pursue it again. Fate may not control my actions any more, but I bet it controls my happiness. I let that go. Maybe after all this is done, if I'm alive, I'll just remove myself from the universe. Die a hero, you know? What are you going to do? Beat me to death with that pipe? Where's the sport in that?"

Cyril watched and waited, not yet planning to strike. It wasn't for the sake of a fair fight. Cyril didn't believe in fair fights. He was willing to take advantage of whatever opportunity presented itself. All that mattered was the cause and the end result. Hell, giving this... Person... A fair fight was immoral. After all, it seemed at this point that the universe itself rested on his shoulders... Anything that made him less likely to survive was like loading another chamber in the gun pointed at everything...

"Petty? Hah!" the young man laughed, not hurt by the statement--

--why would he be? It wasn't like he hadn't heard worse. It wasn't like Cyril was lying, either. Everything Cyril said was true. This was petty spite. It was some of the best kind, too. Rubbing it in Cyril's face that if he died, he'd have let the world down . . . it just felt so good to say. Regardless of how close to a tangent he was, it was clear that he was enjoying this. The man was smiling.

"This world was supposed to belong to me," the young man announced as he lifted his hands, motioning to himself in an almost frantically dramatic state, "That was supposed to be my happiness. That was all I was going to live for! But--but, you saw for yourself how that turned out. You traveled through the worst of the worlds--the complete bastardization of this place."

"Betrayed by my own flesh and blood, beaten, pushed aside, hunted, forced to live dormant in the dark, always on my toes because some enemy could exceed my expectations and blindside me. It's almost uncanny how alike we really are."

"And all I wanted was to be a just and kind ruler. The only God of this world. Under me, there would have never been all this fragmentation. Multiple plains? Multiple realms? No--there'd have only been one. One world. Utopia. That was all I'd ever wanted from this place. And why not? Hell, if it weren't for me, none of you would have ever had the opportunity to flourish. All I wanted to do was make the perfect society." the lead pipe was aimed out towards the rightmost window; the young man motioning outside, "And this . . . this world is no Utopia."

Indeed, he had been set off onto a bit of a tangent, but it didn't seem to matter to him. Why should it? They were standing off at the end of the world. Nothing that happened here could be held against them and actually matter. But he soon calmed from his speech and set the lead pipe with its base against the marble floor, and both of his hands set on the very top of it. He leaned forward a bit, letting the lead pipe be his source of balance. It wasn't some sort of tactical maneuver, though; he was simply relaxing.

"You had a plan for happiness, too. So, tell me something," he audibly calmed, now, "If it were Shin Shiden in this room with you, not me--do you think you'd be standing in my place right now? Would you still want to die a hero, or would you be the one burning the world down?"

"Yeah, well, it didn't happen that way. Even if you did create this world and all of us... It's not yours any more. It's ours. All of us. You and me and everyone else who exists here... We all own part of this world because we exist here. The world split and fractured, but really... That wasn't necessarily your choice to make. Once you made it, it existed for itself, no matter what you wanted for it..."

It seemed almost... Childish. The man couldn't have society exactly how he wanted it, so now, he wanted it all destroyed. Maybe he planned to start over with something new. Maybe something new would be a place of eternal happiness and love. That wasn't fair, though. This world had to continue existing. Everything he knew, everyone who fought for the world, all of history and all of the future... It wasn't perfect, but it was.

"I agree. I've been through the worst of it. Hellish places. It isn't a Utopia, I agree. But you know what? I don't think we want a Utopia. What's the point of that? Maybe life is conflict and randomness and cruelty. You know what else? I like it better than the alternative. Why would I want a happy, preplanned life? Why bother to live in something so disgusting and repulsive? I want to fight for my happiness, and be sad for my losses. Live for myself, rather than for you or anyone else. There's no point in living in the Utopia. I'd rather have a Dystopia..."

The man's question was rather personal. Shin Shiden... Cyril wouldn't have suffered him to live if it could have been helped. And if he had the opportunity to destroy the world to eliminate Shin... He couldn't. He would give everything to eliminate Shin. Everything in his own life, anyway. He couldn't give that which he didn't own...

"I hate Shin as much as any man has ever hated another. He'll never repay the debt he owes me. Even his life wouldn't suffice. But I wouldn't burn down the world for it. I'd rather live in the Dystopia, Shins and all..."

There's no point in living in the Utopia. I'd rather have a Dystopia.

The words rung out in the young man's mind. It wasn't something he expected a normal person to say--it made no sense him. Who would want to live in a world like that? A world where someone like Shin Shiden could live and go unpunished, a world which practically existed to make all lives unfair.

Yet, at the same time, the thought did more than just confound him: it gladdened him. This seemed . . . perfect. Here they were, one man fighting for Utopia, and the other fighting for Dystopia. The world could only want two things: it could wish to thrive and live on in perfection, or it could wish to fizzle out in a slew of chaos and destructive choices while keeping what could best be described as "free will." As it was, it seemed as if they were on equal grounds--both men more than willing to act upon that which was real and natural. No magic, no special powers of any sort . . .

"Well, I guess that's just how it has to be," he shrugged his shoulders.

Now, though, he wasn't nearly as relaxed. He tensed up his grip upon the lead pipe he had been using for balance, as if readying himself to draw it up at any point. He didn't, though, and rather than assuming any sort of fight-ready position, he began to walk--pacing.

"It feels right, though. Here you are, representative to chaos, and me," he made sure to point to himself, talking with his hands again, "Representative of order. The age old battle, started between that godforsaken Seer and I. But, you know, I like you a hell of a lot more than her. You're a much better representative. I mean, she did it just because she was a pompous bitch; she didn't want to die, and knew I'd kill her once I have control again. You . . . heh. Here you are, standing at your noblest. And I the same . . ."

He finally stopped pacing. Cracking his jaw and neck with jagged motions of his head from shoulder to shoulder, he began to loosen up. With one hand, he reached up to unbutton the collar of his shirt, loosening it up quite a bit. His spectacles were even removed, but rather than simply set aside neatly, they were tossed away, left to break on the floor. They weren't important, anyways.

"And to be honest with you . . ." he bent his spine down just a bit, presumably setting himself into a position where he could move better, ". . . I don't think there's any better way to put this story to rest."

"Noble... Thanks for the sentiment, but I'm not sure it really applies. You were at the top, in the most literal of ways... You created everything, or so I'm told... Of course you're going to thrive in the order. And me... I thrive in disorder. Too much order makes me crazy. It's all selfish. We're just two guys fighting for what we want, with an awful lot at stake..."

Cyril didn't really entertain notions of being a noble hero. He just tried to live his life in a moral way. It was just usually made easier by a few things. The first was that he wasn't afraid for his life any more. He hadn't ever achieved the things in his own life worth fighting for, and if he ever failed in a situation, the consequences wouldn't be that dire. The second was that he'd always managed to befriend just the right people at just the right times to scrape by whatever situations were at hand. It just so happened that right now... He had nothing. He had to stand alone for the first time in a long while. And the consequences could actually be so great that he couldn't fathom them...

"This story... We're talking about so many years that I can't even imagine them. And you want to end all of them this way? I'm touched..."

Cyril loosened his knees, sinking down slightly into his own body as he watched his opponent. He didn't have the luxury of a weapon or any sort of supernatural fighting skill. A battle of wits, he wasn't afraid of. If he had a weapon, there was little to fear. He had a lot of strength to draw on, still, but realistically... If the situation didn't change quickly, he was out of luck. His opponent could reach several feet farther. He could hit a lot harder while he had his weapon. Cyril could endure perhaps a few blows, if he was lucky. Each one was just going to make the situation more dire, though... He had to wait for his opponent to move before he could act with any hope of success...

"Hey, it's just like you said--" he began, grinning, "We're just two guys selfishly fighting for what we want most. It's been that way since the beginning, for me--and between the two of us for the last year. The Seer was no threat; she meddled here and there, but nothing that couldn't be repaired. I've had all the help in the world, and for the last year, I haven't been able to get rid of you or fix anything you screwed up for me."

The admittance of that was almost a means of acceptance for him. While he may have managed to keep a leash on most situations, there was a discepency with Cyril. Namely, he couldn't repair "damages" done by the man. If anything, that actually set Cyril as his greatest adversary. It was truly funny, too. All Cyril happened to be was a man with no discernible fate, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"All that help's gone, now. I've used 'em to their extents. Hyle's gone, FATE is on to me, and the Yuurei may as well be AWOL without their real leader," he narrated as he slid his foot back, "And both of our trump cards are the same man. We're just men, here, men with everything to gain and everything to lose. Why not end it that way?"

And then, he moved. The lead pipe was held in his right hand, and he took off by springing forward with his right foot. He ran like a sprinter, but not a trained one; no, it would be clear to anyone who had seen a trained runner before that he was inexperienced.

But he still had his weapon--all he was doing was clearing distance, anyways. As soon as he hit a certain point, just four feet from Cyril, he dug his right foot in, causing himself to stumble forward with his left foot; he couldn't just stop like that. Still, it was the opportunity he needed and intended to use: to slow down when he was in range, and swing his weapon down at Cyril's shoulder, particular where it met his neck.

Cyril took a few steps backwards as the man talked, his foot eventually brushing against the chair he'd woken up in. He couldn't move backwards any further without some awkwardness, would could mean the end of the battle already...

"I'm glad you thought of me so personally... It wasn't exactly easy ruining your plans, I promise you. You know what, though? I'll let you in a secret... We don't operate that differently... I use my friends just like you use your minions. I admit it. There's a big difference, though... I actually care about my friends, and I'll do the hardest job myself. That's why I've been so successful here..."

As his opponent rushed forward, Cyril hunched down, his left arm facing the man in a defensive way. His right arm was stretched out behind him, the primary arm that he was going to need to accomplish anything. His left was likely to be mush if he blocked even a few blows, but he could still win with the right. Watching the man carefully, he had to wait for a good moment to strike. Even here in the middle of an outmatched battle, he could still win if he kept his wits about him...

"You're the reason it has to end this way!"

Cyril would strike as the man reached the end of his stride. His right arm, just above the back of the chair he'd been sitting in, would grip the top of the piece of furniture, flashing forward quickly. He wasn't using it to block, though. As it came forward around his body, he would simply send it on its way with the speed it had gathered. The chair would fly, if awkwardly, generally at the man's shoulder. The chair legs, whether they struck the man's face or chest, tangled his weapon arm, or forced him to swing early or abandon the attack, were likely to give Cyril the best chance he'd get. As soon as he gained his balance back from the throw, Cyril would be in hot pursuit of it, for whatever short distance could remain between the two combatants. His own body would be similarly propelled through the air with a jump, intending to slam his opponent's chest with his full size...

No matter how much he wanted to retort, the time for talking had all but ended--at least for this one moment. He had a bigger problem on his hands, namely Cyril's chair being used as a weapon. Once he hit the end of his stride, he had stumbled a bit; there was no way he could dodge it or anything of the like. The only thing he could do was hit and stumble some more: strike at Cyril as intended, and lose balance when a chair suddenly broke into his shoulder. It was just an old wooden chair, though; it wasn't anything that was going to hold up for any abuse. In the best case scenario, pieces of it could be used as weapons, but the chair as a whole was guaranteed to break apart after the first instance of abuse. Not that it had been planned or anything--that much was just coincidence.

Of course, the chair breaking on his shoulder caused him to stumble back a bit, particularly harmful as he had just recently lost his footing, too, and hadn't yet the opportunity to get it back. The result was a good distance of forced backpeddling, wherein all he was trying to do was establish his footing.

Shi--

The thought couldn't be finished, as Cyril barreled into him with his shoulder, and for a brief moment, both of the men were in the air. It was but a fraction of a second, and ended when the man's back hit the floor, causing a loud cough as the wind was knocked out of him. His legs were still in the air when he first hit, with only his back upon the floor, but they quickly were dragged down, too.

Just because he was downed didn't mean Cyril had the advantage, though . . .

"Or maybe--" he coughed for a brief moment.

While on the floor and still coughing, he moved his arm a bit. Cyril, who had tackled shoulder first, would have his head under the man's armpit. This offered him the chance to try and get his arm around Cyril's head; get him into a headlock, at which point he could began wailing on his spine with his other hand, holding the lead pipe. This way, Cyril wouldn't be able to do too much damage until he was let go of. He would just beat on the man's spine until he had the chance to loosen up, if that . . .

All the while shouting, "--it's because you wouldn't fuckin' die when you were supposed to!"

The minor hits with the pipe were acceptable. Even as he felt the metal impact his back, Cyril was glad he wasn't receiving the brunt of a full swing. Rather than shattered bones or life threatening injuries, he was gaining lumps and bruises on his back. And he had the advantage of facing an opponent who was temporarily winded...

"If you think you can take it..."

Cyril had his head stuck under the other man's arm, but that didn't mean the rest of him was helpless. He could still maneuver his arms. One arm would reach around on the ground for one of the chair legs, his fingers eventually grazing the wooden implement without it quite being reachable. He couldn't remedy that until he was free of the grip, though... Unfortunately for his opponent, Cyril was completely fine with a dirty fight...

"...Let's finish it, then!"

Cyril's other hand would seek out a specific portion of his opponent's anatomy, his intent to get free of the man's grip serious. No dodging was really possible in such close quarters, and Cyril would grip his opponent's genitals with a grip that would have been difficult to break under the best of circumstances. The pain would be practically indescribable, and as Cyril squeezed his hand as tightly as humanly possible, the possibility of permanent damage would start to come into play. His opponent would simply have to address the problem, and that meant either releasing the pipe or releasing the headlock he had over Cyril...

Then, there came a sharp pain in the man's groin. Finding no explanation for it other than the obvious, he cringed and tightened up his muscles, biting his lip in pain. So many times before, he had seen the same thing done to members of his gender, but he never thought it would hurt that goddamn much.

And address the problem he would.

Instantly, he let go of Cyril's head, but not to push him away--not immediately. He still he had to get Cyril off of him. Rather than just letting go, the man would go so far as to grip the front of Cyril's face and push forward, allowing him the opportunity to beat the lead pipe into the side of his skull until Cyril loosened up. He'd go so far as to hold his head up, constantly bashing the pipe off of the side of his face and head, but given the current situation, he couldn't do much more than break his cheekbone and give him another concussion, albeit a somewhat more serious one. Enough to make him go limp, though. It'd be the only way to stop his strikes at that point.

It was only then that he'd push him off; assuming that he had hurt Cyril plenty enough, he'd be rolling a bit before he'd have a good chance of getting up. The same applied to Cyril's opponent, though. That was more than enough damage to have him on the floor for a bit--but after experiencing a few blows to the skull from him, Cyril may well have been floored for just a little longer.

He'd inevitably stand, albeit shakily, and slightly out of breath. His legs shook a bit, but this kind of pain could be abated; in fact, it'd just go away after long enough. He wasn't hurt too bad. Cyril, on the other hand, would have wound up paying the price for going that low . . .

". . . that . . . hurt a hell of a lot more than a thought it would," he wheezed.