Hey John, it's me

Red versus Blue, technique, over one another. Even in melee mode. Dropping at the hurt of one great kick, or living to survive the conquest of 24 others on the same Field of Flames.

Deserted in an approached mountainside with a small monastery hailing from above, Derrick climbs. That beaut half up giving his way a small break, but duty serves him better.

Derrick, a strong Navy Seal, recuperates and runs the gamut up to the bounty of his thoughts. His mind is arched on that talon grip stone at the top. He'll be chasing it the whole time. Stubborn hills have little for exploration but are always defeatable to the righteous in the soul.

This, the grip he pulls up on is finally helping him settle on the top of this bookcase mountainside. Not much for the wary. "Were here," he says to himself. Along with the hand of a Buddhist, who has welcomed him to the support of solid ground on the mountaintop, he looks down. Just seeing the casting of where he just came from is indeed great, and exhilarating. It's an uncommon point from most people's vision, darting through life on the streets. But Derrick was trained to remain alive.

The world itself is far away. The gratitude of people here being so kind is so good to feel, now that he is there. Derrick, the SEAL Team leader begins toward the Temple. But 2 Monks begin to eye him. With tattoos on him and a gun. One goes into action.

Less than a second later, Derrick is on his guard. Stripped by a raking utensil, the gun was now unattached from this fight. They engage. Within 50 seconds, they both are making their combos count. but Derrick is hardly up to this caliber of fighting. It's beginning to feel like an upset. He goes for one more strong punch and wildly misses. He breaks to his knees and files off he cannot beat the Monk.

Derrick asks, "Why did you attack me?"

The monk replies, "I saw your weapon, there are no powers here greater than a God's, so you may not play as one."

Derrick sits on the ground. "I can completely agree with that. Seeing you in action was probably the best fighting I'll ever be against. It's a taste that will stick with me. And I don't see anyone going that far or fast with me. I'm still kinda burning. But I don't want it from you. You've shown me mercy. I thank you."

The Monk politely bows and goes back to his work with a smile.

Derrick states to the Monk who brought him to the mountain top, "Can I still rest here? I see that there's a path down this way. I wanted to know if that fight meant I'm expelled or not."

The Monk replied, "So you are."

Derrick, knowing the size and shape of things, ignores his doubts and smiles, walking by his gun and to the Temple as the two Monks who greeted him smile at him. They can see Derrick meant no harm.

Dadash, a historian at the Temple, is the first to wire towards his being. Dadash hugs the newcomer, after Derrick bows. Dadash then shows him to a seat of favor and declines the affirmation his presence is unwanted. His story, some might never get to see here, is an interest. The towering monastery over the ravine before and below him as if a portal from the other side is too far seemingly to be the greatest thing that could be faced.

Willing to take the chance he sees a temple class studying their Shaolin art form. This is the crown jewel of training. The peak and unobtainable perfection of fighting. All of the time martial arts will lengthen and go on, the premise of the skill has been articulating the heart and the mind, body, and soul into one weapon. To force out all pain, and to retrograde opponents without effort.

The art form originated as a form of protection for monasteries, to be conducted against east or west, and at no other time. It has been the greed of other nations however to epitomize control over the Tibetan sanctuaries.

No matter to Derrick the conditions of being supernaturally held in awe at the permanent state of this place, seemingly untouched for centuries. He laughed, his expression taking on wild wonder as if to say his speech would have struck the attention to the Monks who commonly looked at the landscape of this territory. As to say the most important thing is to congeal the mind around the substance of this hideout. That world no one has been given a look to certainly gives you an idea of how the ideas of writing and reading had begun up here. The very visceral and revolutionary iron palm was created in places like this. The brick smashing, the laying out in freefall to jump again straight in the air. All these things -- projections of what Buddhists do best. Kick. Ass.

The glaring sound of a bell goes off and all walk toward the ridge. The gospel is not written as truly remarkable as the beautiful look into the detail of the glorious housing of that chime. It was sentenced around with molding, and engraving of pictures, language, symbols, and secrets. Without therein the smock of genius to be outfit with. This be warned on its side, "Knowing truth, will take you to knowing you are the truth." Its face is written on the chain-laced circumference of its many beveled casing. The hammer's pilot to the side's reach chaining out a full course of dissent to any unlucky glider, rider, or monster who would like to take an order of aggressive pain in this palm of privacy. That is the ego here.

Truly written into the monasteries everywhere, this global connection is known throughout to be the most well-adjusted in temperament and justifications. the judgment here is to be known for good. Not to trifle with disease, to manifest arching juggernauts, though they could. Beyond the repel, though, down where Derrick was hidden from this monstery, someone else was hiding. They had a rough day and were camping out. Hardly spotting the installed temple, which was built into the mountain.

Davi and Corta, a couple of friends were scathing along through the ravine on BMX motorbikes. Taking a flash from the sun and being temporarily blinded, Davi hit the radio and told Corta that the path was going to be a second from finished since the blinding. Davi, who minded not the ride, but wanted to be safe just got Corta's attention, and looking back she noticed him stopped. "Cee! I'll miss you! Where ya going?!" He laughed into the radio. Corta stopped and backed it up.

Wherein the mind takes control and the vividness of imagination incorporates itself in our minds. The bludgeon of reality often distresses us from seating ourselves too close to the fire. These fires around us are completely ill-gotten. They fade us from reality and into the darkness. Once on the moment. To come together the great kind of perpetuity, the resistance of mind to elevate comes from low addresses to those in your vicinity. The proximities are distances away from where we stand. And that was the fire that controlled these two. Their exhibition is a nuance of greater means than the stories of Never Never Land. Giving a tome to their recess along the popular trek they were taking. And they knew they'd be safe. They were both guided in a hand-to-hand combat called Capoeira.

The Capoeira they learned involved the dancing they had inherited. Something the two knew well, having descended from rhythm makers with strong hands in the music industry. This gave them the ability to travel and became the reason for learning the art straight from Brazilian black belts. They were constantly in love with each other and the seismic motions of graceful movement entwined them with battle concepts hardly focused on in other styles of the world. Theirs was definitely harder to get a good lesson in, and that was as simple as their creed.

The dark sky rolled in. There'd been some news of a flash storm coming into the area, but not much because of the remote detailing of the place. But it would be known to the Monks, high above Davi and Cee. The desperation of the concourse this late, and this dangerous with the winds and rashes of lightning through this crease of land abundantly was creeping on everyone. There were going to be swirling clouds. There were going to be funnel clouds. But none would know that these adventurers and the Temple keepers were going to be lit up tonight by a faction of what the most greasy and disgustingly pirated thoughts would conspire to be. A race of head hunters. A race of alien assortment.

They were touted from outside this dimension. A reality one could not cure from existence. Well, not until the day would come to destroy the God from it. And it would not be likely. Even in their world, the only thing that could capsize would be a bit of nerve from their people to drive it away, but they knew not the exertion of tumult without being branded as good and sagely to conform them to their God's evil wishes.

This pariah of inhumane nature was a coffer of regret and single-handedly was the plain of existence for the dead of the world to go where they would be trapped in limbo. They were not comforted by this. And almost always, they conceded that their pace was to be found the most vile and reviled. And the more they came out, the more they came on. They were the totality of the worst people. The reason for their existence still, without perishment, was that they were tricked into their being in their previous life.

Their courtship with the heavens was not holding on. It was beginning to melt away. Soon enough it was time for revelation and the second coming. But first, the seals had to come down. And Derrick was at his best at the moment, learning some new tuck and roll motions from the master, Dadash. It was from here that the first contact from his position was beginning to denote the outside interference. It was trekking down the ravine and sadly was giving up the reins to the godless limbo held pirates from which were incoming. This fairness was taught at the level of the monastery with some types of scribbling or art on earlier forms of tantamount scathing. The Kibbet was found to be the best-buried secret in the eternalized world. It was the foundation of limbo. And it was for each that it should be the type of dismay that life in a cage, unknown of, or to horrify, or unheard even in screams. A true limbo.

These were not those that could possibly pass into heaven, for the scorn of the just was writhe with this. The most gated community, was the most welcome, and that was hard to come to. Because those on earth would scorn them, unjustly. The wisdom was to follow them, but they would ignore the passages. They were hard at work, ignorant that they actually were working themselves to death on Sundays, chiding, gnashing, and filling their lives with future poison which would eventually crumble them to little beats of arrested combinations of skin and teeth, among themselves. So their beauty was impossible to see, in a way between gates and the pits of Hell.

The sinister heathens we were going to see tonight, the Monastery keepers chanted, were the hardest of evil that resumed in some form of soul. They knew of the sacrifices of their many, but it wasn't enough to charge them the other way. It was a surmount of their perpetual downfall. All without lost vision, they could see the world, but they couldn't change what they should've. And all they knew that day they died, was what they would know forever. They were mission-failed.

Davi and Cee were in the ravine taking shelter under a forged cave where water had been running for ages. It went into a well far beneath the mountain peak. But it would little hide what was coming. They stay brushed from the back where the well began, it didn't look like a shortfall. It looked ridiculous. Very deep in freefall.

Now by deciding he'd better take a look outside, to step into the rain to see what was going on, the storms were opening a portal in the sky, a purplish haze that would conceive the difference between light and dark. Inside it was a mirror. And beyond that a water world that should've never been active. But down on the earth, Davi was getting too curious. It seemed he'd needed something to look into, and it was well thought out that the beginnings of this storm would be the worst.

When Davi opened his look into the darkness of the sky, he prayed and hoped that his little venture, this far, just a little into the eye of the storm, would not vanish him, considering the beauty of it all. The mirror in the sky was looking icy now. A chilled looking-glass. And now, the entirety of it was cracking. Nobody said a word. And suddenly, 22 ghouls and ghosts of the past dropped to the ground. The siege had begun.

This was the now. It was not going to be fun and flies, it was going to be hell on earth. The monsters from the airlocked side of the dimensional divide were using it to conjure their forces into fight formation. They, each showing characteristics of the art forms they learned on Earth, before death.

Then, a random cloudburst of lightning rifled through every being in the scene. It juggled their styles and reinserted a different style than any of them had known, but they then knew how to conquer each other in the new gifted styling.