Vs. Self-Duplicating Fallen

His own faded duplicates swarmed me, hands and faces and the press of the physical. They came at me hard and fast, like they were propelled away from him by some motive force. When they made contact, they weren't strong.

But I felt myself losing even though the strength wasn't all that.

Where they overlapped.

I met them with the Wretch, pushing them off and away with some violence. I struck at the overlapping portions, where one swing could hit multiple.

He'd broken free of my grip in the midst of the storm he had created. Now he backed away. He moved his hands, and all around me, mailboxes, light posts, trash and individual pieces of a nearby car broke away, becoming a storm of shadowy projectiles.

Were it one projectile, I could have dodged. Were it a handful of meaningful ones, it would have been easier. As it was, it was a hundred inconsequential projectiles, and where they converged or overlapped, they were solid or more solid.

I was forced to fly at an odd course, up, back and away, so I wouldn't fly into any of the incoming images. The stream changed course, everything flying toward my new location. I moved from point to point, to make getting a bead on me as hard as possible.

And between me and him, it was a veritable wall of flying images, concrete and glass peeling away from the sidewalk and nearby windows like paper from a stack that never ended. Only these papers crashed and shattered on impact.

- Pitch 6.8