Pentagon Festival [10]

There was Diana, in the perfect setting for a noir film, except for the fact that the only thing smoking there was the tension. Exposed pipes, lighting that would make any firefly feel like the sun, and of course, the almost palpable presence of a danger that would rather be anywhere else, but there it is, about to start a show.

"I'm going to have a lot of fun with you," said the man who made an expression of someone perverted, with the confidence of someone who clearly never had to deal with a customer service. As he removed his glasses, he revealed eyes so red that you could swear the man was on a crying marathon watching sad movie endings - or maybe it's just the evilness.

And Diana? Oh, she was not shaken at all. With the serenity of someone who decides to do a hairstyle in the middle of a hurricane, she simply drives her sword into the ground and starts to fix her hair. The bow that she takes out of her pocket and puts in her mouth - a masterful touch, by the way - could very well be the cherry on top of a cake of "I'm about to take you down, but let me get pretty first".

The villains stood there, dumbfounded, as if they were expecting a stand-up performance instead of a confrontation. But as soon as Diana holds her sword again, ready for the dance, it's as if she said, "Ready for the show, ladies and gentlemen?"

And so the battle begins, not with a bang, but with the promise of being more fun than playing hide and seek in a minefield. "Shall we start then?" Diana challenges, with the grace of a rock star on stage, ready to deliver the most epic guitar solo in history - if the guitar was, you know, a sharp sword ready to find new friends.

"Oh, now I get it… Those real blond hair and those sapphire blue eyes… You are Princess Diana, right?" Oliver tries with a line that, honestly, sounds like a cheap pick-up from a fifth-rate romance.

"My name is Oliver. I'm the leader—"

"I don't care who you are." Diana cuts, sharper than the blade she wields. "I don't care about your name, what group you belong to. You are a villain and I will kill you if you don't surrender." Her voice, a winter that not even the warmest of coats could fight, makes it clear that she is not there to make friends or exchange business cards.

And then, as if the universe decided to add a little more spice to the mix, Oliver's employee, dropping the poor wounded man who looked more like a prop than a person, decides to enter the stage. "I'll teach good lessons to this stuck-up, boss." Ah, the classic henchman threat, as predictable as a happy ending in romances.

Ah, the plot thickens more than the plot of a prime time soap opera! Diana's serenity, contrasting with the rising tension, is practically the calm before the storm. The princess, with the tranquility of someone who chooses cereals in the supermarket aisle, seems almost distracted by the grotesque spectacle that unfolds before her.

The henchman, in a move worthy of a poorly planned twist, decides that it's time to shine - literally. Ah, his confidence, thinking that he could simply activate his innate ability as if he pressed an "easy" button on a video game. But, oh, the irony! Before he could turn his bravado into action, he receives from his own boss a punch that would make any professional boxer blush with envy. And so, the poor guy's head explodes, a scene so dramatic that even Tarantino would find it exaggerated.

Diana, surprised? Yes, but only slightly, as if she were contemplating a particularly bold choice of costume at a formal event. After all, it's not every day that you see a boss dismantling his own henchman with a blow so disproportionate that even violence itself would ask for moderation.

"She is mine," declares Oliver, annoyed, as if he had just broken his favorite toy by not knowing how to play properly. "Damn, I should have controlled my strength." The body of the henchman, now reduced to a headless mannequin, collapses on the floor, a macabre reminder that, in this game, the rules are as volatile as Oliver's moods.

Diana, in front of this theater of the absurd, can't help but think about the ephemerality of loyalty among villains. "Well, that simplifies things,"

Ah, Oliver, always trying to find a way to polish his own image, even when the only thing that shines is his lack of skill in team management. "He died because he was weak. If he was strong he would have dodged my blow," he murmurs, trying to convince himself more than anyone else. The classic excuse of "it's not me, it's them". Diana, on the other hand, is probably rolling her eyes so hard that she could generate wind power.

"Where were we?" Oliver asks, releasing his murderous intent as if he were throwing confetti at a party. But wait, what party is this that no one asked for an invitation?

And then, as if the scriptwriter of this madness had decided to press the button of "increase drama", an explosion throws Diana, our fearless heroine, through walls as if they were made of papier-mâché. Bleeding, but never broken, she rises, ready for the deadly dance that announces itself.

Oliver, clearly not understanding the concept of "fair fight", hits Diana with a punch that launches her to the skies, in a choreography that would defy the laws of gravity. "You were going to kill me, huh?" he asks, jumping behind her like the villain of a low-budget action movie.

Diana, however, is not one to give up so easily. Repositioning herself in the air with the grace of an acrobat, she defends herself from Oliver's attack with her florette. But, oh disillusionment, the blade that has seen many victories today finds an opponent to match. Or rather, blade-proof.

"Is this a skill? No, no… It's your power. It's much stronger than me." Diana realizes, as the two exchange blows in the air, in a dance as old as time itself. Oliver with his hands, Diana with her sword, in a battle that promises to be as epic as questionable in terms of physics.

The confrontation is a spectacle in itself, with movements so fast that even the most advanced camera would ask for a break to keep up. It's a mix of ballet and boxing, where each blow carries the promise of pain, but also of determination.

And while Diana and Oliver continue their duel in the skies, a thought occurs to our heroine: "If the blade of my florette doesn't work, maybe my innate ability will work?" Ah, yes, because if there is one thing that Diana has plenty of, besides a resistance that would make a Nokia look fragile, it is a cunning and tricks up her sleeve capable of making Sherlock Holmes take notes.

The fall of the combatants on the ground marks not the end, but a new chapter in the dance of swords and fists. Oliver, with the confidence of someone who never had to admit defeat, throws a straight punch that Diana, our agile heroine, avoids with the elegance of a cat. But the cat and mouse game doesn't end there; a knee strike comes next, only to be dodged again. "You are fast with dodges, huh…" Oliver murmurs, in an attempt at compliment that sounds more like a complaint.

But oh, the surprise when he discovers a knife stuck in his knee, an unexpected gift from Diana. "Where did you get that knife from?" he questions, as if the presence of the weapon was more shocking than the pain it caused. The coldness with which he pulls the metal knife out of his knee is blood-chilling, but not more than the heart of our fearless Diana.

And then, as if they were in a duel of magicians, two more knives fly towards Oliver, who dodges them with the grace of someone who already expected more tricks. "Is this a skill of yours?" he asks, still trying to understand the rules of this game that Diana so skillfully controls.

Diana's answer, however, does not come in words, but in action. Putting away her florette, she reveals her true strength. "I only use my innate ability when I can't handle my blade," she declares, a harbinger of power that makes the air around vibrate in anticipation. And then, as if she invoked the very essence of war, she materializes a metal sword, forged instantly from her empty hands. "War Queen," she murmurs, a worthy introduction of her ability, as she assumes a combat pose that promises to be the prelude of a devastating symphony.

Oliver, with the bloody knife in his hands, enters a moment of introspection worthy of a philosopher in crisis, contemplating the reality that his theories about durability were as solid as a house of cards in a hurricane. "It pierced my durability?" he wonders, perhaps realizing that the power game that he so dominated now had new rules, written by Diana. He deduces, with a glimpse of admiration mixed with fear, the nature of Diana's innate ability: to create weapons capable of piercing even the most resistant armor, a talent that would certainly consume an astronomical amount of mana.

While Oliver weaves his theories, Diana, indifferent to the ramblings of her opponent, advances with the determination of a storm ready to crash on the shore. He, on the other hand, waits with a smile that borders on challenge, perhaps believing to have some advantage not yet revealed. "Let's see how you will cope when I activate my abili—" His words are cut off, not by Diana's sword, but by an unexpected and dramatic interruption.

A girl with hair as white as the purest snow and eyes that reflected the emptiness of winter appears between them, a ghost in flesh and bone that seems to defy the very laws of reality. Diana, already in full motion, sees her attack, which carried the promise of decision, being stopped with a disconcerting ease. The girl's hand, bare and seemingly fragile, holds Diana's blade with a firmness that contradicts her delicacy. The impact, which should be tremendous, is absorbed without the slightest effort, and the girl's cold gaze carries a silence more eloquent than any word.

The air is charged with a tension that would make the bravest of warriors reconsider their life choices. Oliver, whose confidence seemed unshakable, now finds himself in a position of vulnerability before Nivea, a figure whose mere presence is enough to change the course of the winds. The reverence with which he kneels, his trembling voice as he pronounces her name, reveals a hierarchy hitherto unknown in the power dynamics. "It is always an honor, To be under your presence: Nivea."

Nivea, with a calmness that contradicts the storm around her, dismisses the flattery with a disdain that only the truly powerful can flaunt. Diana, in turn, realizes the magnitude of the threat before her. Her instinctive reaction to retreat, leaving her sword in Nivea's hands, is the tacit recognition that she faces something beyond her comprehension. The weapon, an extension of her will, now looks like a toy in Nivea's hands.

"Hmm… Interesting innate ability you have, you know?" Nivea observes, analyzing the sword that, moments ago, was ready to deliver a mortal blow. "If I hadn't stopped your attack seriously, you would probably have managed to make me bleed." These words, although uttered with a casual simplicity, carry a weight that sinks Diana's heart. The recognition of her ability by someone as formidable as Nivea is both a compliment and a warning.

Diana, although she maintains her facade of serenity, faces an internal storm of doubts and fears. "She is dangerous, too dangerous. She can kill me at any moment, what do I do? Should I expand my ability and run away?" Her survival instinct, sharpened by years of conflicts and battles, screams for action. But what to do when existence itself seems to hang by a thread as thin as the blade of a sword?

Nivea, then, turns her attention to Oliver, bringing to light the gravity of his actions. "The princess of England is off the hunt. To hurt her is to break a direct pact, Oliver. Do you realize what you have done?" Her words, laden with unquestionable authority, not only reprimand Oliver, but also reveal the complexity of laws and agreements that govern their world. The mention of a "pact" suggests a web of alliances and obligations that even brute violence cannot ignore.

Oliver, with surprise stamped on his face, seems genuinely unaware of the pact involving the princess of England. Confusion gives way to terror as his body begins to betray his apparent invulnerability; eyes stained with blood red, a scarlet river running down his nose, his skin acquiring a hue of purple despair. He falls, a king dethroned by his own ambitions, agonizing in pain and regret. "Forgive me! I didn't—"

"Didn't know?" Nivea cuts, her voice carrying the cold judgment of an unforgiving winter. "That doesn't matter. You broke the rules and the punishment, which is made by me, is death." Her words are final, a sentence pronounced without hesitation, the verdict of a goddess among mere mortals.

Oliver's desperate plea for a trial, an appeal for mercy in the court of the last chance, is denied with the same ease as one refuses an unwanted invitation. "Trial request: Denied." The sentence is delivered without emotion, a formality fulfilled without regret.

And then, the light in Oliver's eyes goes out, his life fading away like sand between his fingers. He falls, no longer a fearsome villain, but a dark reminder of the rules that govern this hidden world and the consequences of breaking them.

Diana, a silent witness of this abrupt end, finds herself in front of a reality where justice is as volatile as the magic that permeates the air. Nivea, the impassive executor of this justice, remains as an unshakable force, a guardian of the laws that not even the most powerful can ignore.

The revelation falls like a bomb, transforming what was just a battle into an intricate plot of pacts, rules and lineages. Diana, still trying to assimilate the shock of Oliver falling lifeless, now finds herself wrapped in a conversation that could very well define her future.

"Yes, ma'am," Diana replies, her politeness speaking louder than the confusion and fear that grip her. "Ma'am? Do I look that old? I think I should have put on some makeup before…" Nivea's inquiry about her own appearance, a touch of humanity amid the chaos, catches Diana off guard. "No, you don't look old at all, your highness." She tries to appease, each word a careful step in a minefield of diplomacy and perception.

"Highness no. Judge," Nivea corrects, with a simplicity that carries with it the weight of centuries of order and law. "I apologize for the inconvenience on behalf of the high court and on behalf of your father." The words weave a new layer of complexity in the tapestry of Diana's life, revealing threads of connection that she never imagined having.

"My father?" The question escapes from Diana, a whisper of surprise and confusion. The idea of her father, a figure until then distant in the shadows of her history, as one of the pillars of the high council, is an earthquake that shakes the foundations of her existence.

Nivea, with a patience that belies the urgency of the situation, clarifies the scenario. "Oh, yes, you don't know? Your father is one of the most important members of the high council. To hurt a member of his family is to break a pact. To break a pact is to break one of our rules, and the punishment for that is death." Nivea's words, although laden with a cold logic, reveal a world where power and politics dance in a ballet of deadly consequences.

Diana, still stunned by the revelations and the supernatural spectacle before her eyes, barely has time to anchor her thoughts before reality takes another turn. Nivea, the figure of imposing authority and unquestionable power, transforms before her, not into a threat or a warning, but into something ethereal and beautiful. The formal suit, which outlined her figure with an almost intimidating elegance, now gives way to an even more enigmatic manifestation of her power: the camellia, a white flower that carries with it the purity and complexity of her essence.

"I'll be going then. The high court apologizes for any inconvenience." Nivea's words, pronounced with a coldness that barely conceals the heat of their implications, echo in the air, leaving an indelible mark on the texture of the moment. And then, as if reality itself bent to her will, Nivea dissolves into a spectacle of white flowers, the camellia becoming the last testimony of her presence. A trick worthy of the most fantastic stories, performed not to entertain, but to underline the power and mystery that surround her.

Diana, still trying to understand the magnitude of what she just witnessed, barely has time to gather her thoughts before familiarity and concern invade her world once again. "Diana! Are you okay?" Sam's voice cuts through the silence, bringing Diana back to the tangible reality, away from the intrigues and pacts of power that the high court weaves in the shadows.

She turns to find Sam, Ellie and Chloe running towards her, a sight that, after the supernatural events and shocking revelations, seems like a beacon of normality and safety. The worry on their faces, the sound of their hurried footsteps, everything serves to anchor Diana back to the world she knows, a world where friendship and loyalty still have a tangible meaning.

---

On the hospital terrace, under a sky that quickly changed its blue blanket for a gray cloak, Dean found himself in a moment of deep introspection, perhaps seeking answers or simply a moment of peace amid the chaos that surrounded him. His calm countenance, with closed eyes, contrasted strongly with the storm that began to form around him, as if nature reflected the turbulent currents of power and mystery that flowed through the city.

As the first drops of rain began to draw wet patterns on his dark hair, the weather closed in even more, the dark clouds swallowing what was left of the daylight. A thunder, powerful and resounding, announced not only the physical storm, but perhaps also a storm of revelations, marked by the sudden appearance of an enigmatic figure: a woman with white hair and eyes as pale as snow, wearing a suit that clung to her like a second skin.

Her cold gaze, however, carried a spark of curiosity as she fixed on Dean, as if, in that man, she saw something that defied her expectations or perhaps confirmed her suspicions.

"Oh, yes… Good afternoon, Nivea? Or would it be Alva? Forgive me, you are identical and it is hard for me to memorize who is who," Dean spoke, without opening his eyes, keeping his back to her. His voice, although calm, vibrated with a note of implicit challenge, a game of identities where knowledge, or the lack thereof, could be as sharp as a blade.

[...]

Author's note:

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