Thread: Matrix Spar: Oneironaut vs. No-Name

The metallic ring of a silver Zippo, flicking open, provided a subtle din to the otherwise quiet, white tile hallway. Oneironaut held the lighter's golden glow to his face, sparking the last half of a blunt that he was sure to include in his inventory before jacking in. A thick stream of white smoke billowed out from beneath the brim of the white Atlanta Braves baseball cap sitting with a slight twist on the top of his head. He wore a black, sleaveless shirt which hung low, covering the top portion of a pair of baggy designer blue jeans. On his feet were snow-white sneakers, matching his hat and standing out at a stark contrast agains the darkness of his shirt and pants.

The lighter clinked closed, and he slipped it away into his right pants pocket, his hand slipping away behind him and reaching into his back pocket. He produced a small black pouch, roughly the size of a deck of playing cards, and held it down beside him, drawing little - if any - attention to it.

There was little light shining in the mall hallway. It seemed as if they were set to an after-hours atmosphere with just the back-up lights running, their subtle hum now filling the silence that followed the sound of his Zippo's hinge, moments ago.

"You ready?"

Having the utmost confidence that his opponent was more than ready, Oneironaut cupped the black leather pouch in one hand, tightening his lips and inhaling through his blunt, taking the smoke deep into his lungs. His free hand was already tucked over the top of the pouch, fingers digging within. A shard of metal then launched out of the pouch with a flick of his wrist, glittering through what little light surrounded them, on its way toward No-Name. Obviously, what he held in his pouch was his weapon of choice - a deck of metallic, razor-edged playing cards, one of which was en route to its target, just as twin streams of weed smoke jetted out from Oneironaut's nostrils.

It was a 3 of clubs which went hurtling through the air. It was flicked with a gentle twist of his forearm, making it catch the dense, mall air and curve downward. What once seemed as if it was headed straight for No-Name's face was now headed down toward his right foot. Sure, it would sink through the man's shoe like butter, but it was an attack more meant to provoke movement than actually ensure victory.