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"Superpowered Kung-Fu Fighting (and Other Hallmarks of Modern Youth)" Windermere Institute Nonstudent File Tracking. Access restricted. Account:
WINDERMERE K_KAREN
Confirmed.
Searching.... Search complete. Detected server network JUSTICE_ACADEMY, Baxter Hardware 1999. Access restricted. Access JUSTICE_ACADEMY network. Mask connection - route through Baxter Schwansee network satellites: code Cygnus_0, Cygnus_3 Routing through satellite Cygnus_0 CATASTROPHE... please wait. Complete. Routing through satellite Cygnus_3 ENVY.... please wait. Complete. Network contact confirmed. Network accessed. search: Kurow Kirishima File found. File access restricted. Akira Kazama had had a kitten once. Big brother had brought it home one day from god-knows-where, with matted fur and mirror eyes. Its fur was off-white and tattered - a chunk had been taken out of its left ear and the road had been unkind to its tiny paws. But they weren't able to afford a real cat from the pound all spayed and neutered and groomed and tagged and shot full of twenty drugs. So it had done, until it bit her, and they'd had to go to the hospital for a tetanus shot. The nurses had pinched her arm a bit. They were in a rush, though. And Daigo had had to drag her down there on the bus by himself, so they weren't really supposed to officially be able to sign insurance slips anyways. it was too bad that they'd had to take it to the pound - where it would indeed be tagged and prettied up for some nice rich family with real cat food instead of the meat scraps they had. At the time, though, she'd been rather sad. The girl had missed it crawling down her arm, leaving tiny pricks of white-dead skin. Kittens, like this specimen caught in the headlights, had claws. Kazama hadn't noticed him strap them on, really. It was dark out - so very dark, under the gathering clouds of a September sky spawned of some chillier wind escaped from October. The darkened haze that was the world beyond her visor was severely screwing around with her vision, and it had taken an outright flash of stainless steel to capture the young biker's attention through the wall of plexiglass that turned her world black and white and grey all over. "Oooooh.... are you supposed to be threatening or something? How quaint." the boy grinned, stepping out of his sad prefabricated vehicle, with its sad prefabricated prettiness. Its tires had left faint rubber marks on the roadway, and their collective beams illuminated but a smattering of the perfectly rectangular white lines that should have been a far more comfortable blur right now. The wind was slower too, than normal. Forearms protested the comfortable numbness that they had once enjoyed, surrendering to a more natural, more teasingly lesser cold. And she? She was in no mood for blades that glistened, caught in the afterglow of vehicles that lay at a right angle - equally black. Or was she, now? Or was she? It had been a long day. And he was smirking like some fucking Gedo freshman on that first day of class when yes, they can maintain the private little illusion that they are the masters of the universe, their own fate, and a badass homeboy attitude. People like that were annoying. People like that were naive. People like that had made her job fun. "You got no fucking manners, prettyboy?" coffee-tinted eyes struggled to adjust to the swiftly darkening sky, and a speck of water fell to carelessly slice into her view. Another, more subtly, found its way to the back of a hand that was efficiently lifting her away from her motionless steed. Rain. Goddammit. The air was clammy. She should have bloody known. Rain always had that special air of things to come. If they were not Akira Kazama and a guy with claws on his hands they might have worked it out. Exchanged insurance numbers just in case, or maybe a few curses and the finger. But they, alas, were Akira Kazama and a guy with claws on his hands. And the sky was smoked over a charcoal grey, and the trees around them whispered benediction in the dying wind. A solid wall of the wooden element, restricting the world to a road and a stance and an island of light that belied the dark promises of those closely packed leaves. "I save them for people who weren't brought up by a pack of wolves," he was out completely now, and leaning against the... thing. The biker realized belatedly that he was playing music. Leather-clad claw-wearing prettyboy playing classical music and trying to get her the hell killed on her road. The longer she lived, the less this world made any goddamn sense. ".... classical?" the rider accused, as only woman wearing leather chaps and a death's head motorcycle helmet rightly can. With a probing impunity. The tendons in his hand flexed, and she saw another something silver glimmer forgotten in the vehicle. "You have a problem with that?" She had a problem with him, that smirk, and some girl with a violin. That, in the end, was close enough. "Pansy," she verbally challenged, in that age-old invitation to the clash of warring bucks. She'd been a boy in this body, and sometimes she acted like a boy in this mind of hers. "I think..." the pale, vested youth replied with a yowl, stretching. "I think that I'm tired of you. So maybe you should fucking leave, hmmmm?" He would not back down, because he knew that if he did he'd get run over before he could venture a white-lashed prettyboy blink. He knew this game. How.. amusing. They played it in Gedo all the time. Had the best team in the country, as far as she knew. They knew how to straighten, and throw around their posture and their height and their eyes pointed strait forwards like battering rams. They knew how to stare into submission, or stare for survival, and the thousand-and-one hints of dominance that those stares could pick up. Tiny, minute adjustments in body language and raison d'etre. Akira Kazama's invisible eyes and the Yurika boy's mirrored wine reflected back the stance of the other. Leaning. Tensed. Relaxed and waiting tight as a bear-trap. "Maybe," the rider took a step forward, disregarding her visual handicap and the thickening spawn of the heavens. "But... girly men need to learn how to stay out of my way." Kazama hated games. So she made it a rule to play to win. runpgm backdoor.exe Confirmed. File locks bypassed. .......... File downloaded. View File? y. convert to wind_style.tmp format and save Confirmed Student Identification Code - abcwTQuV
It smelled.. rather oddly in here. That was really the only thing Yurika could come up with, thoughtwise, besides the expected surprise. Akira Kazama - mousy.. Biker Goddess. But she'd not been surprised - not really. Kurow did his homework on these things, and having spent the previous year at Justice Academy Yurika had seen enough of the girl's.. sortie. Or at least heard of it. At the time, it hadn't been their concern. Hyo Imawano was too powerful for his or their own good. Yurika had left Justice because she thought they were hypocrites. Kurow had stayed because he thought they were hypocrites. Funny, though. She'd though it was just a role. Or was it a role? Fascinating, really. Kurow played roles all the time, but he had spirit gum and an excellent tailor to match them. Which was probably the reason he hadn't been expelled for Justice years ago. It smelled.. rather odd in here. But after a while, one became used to the dueling bittersweetness. Used as one was not to Saori Isami. "Sooooo...," the taller girl settled herself on top of some kind of metal stool, "what're you here for?" "Hmmm?" Yurika looked up from her chosen leaning perch on the wall. They'd not spoken much since they'd been locked, in, which was probably for the best. Kirishima knew all too well how much she'd mishandled this. She, like, Kurow, was a performer.. but she had never much enjoyed enacting dramatic principles. Too much hassle. Too.. inelegant. "I'm not stupid, you know - I am here on scholarship," the student continued, kicking her feet in place a bit, acting like she knew the world. Which perhaps she did, trapped in this spacious little tribute to the Kazama's tomboy tendancies. "There's gotta be a reason a girl kinda girl like you is hanging out with a chick like Akira, and since you're gonna tell her you might as well tell me." When one met Saori Isami's pupils, it was like looking into a well. There was a bottom, but you didn't know exactly where it lay or what manner of passage twisted there. She had... stage presence. "I'm afraid you might not understand," Yurika, ever-cautious, knew well enough to tread the waters carefully. "Typical," Isami replied shortly - without malice. "What do you mean?" "Typical," the chemist continued, starting to bounce in place a bit on the swiftly warming formica, "Most of the girls here won't give me the time of day since I'm some stick with Gucci shoes. So.. you're typical." Oh dear.. she hadn't meant to mishandle this too.... this was quite simply not her day. "I'm sorry.. I didn't mean it that way." "No.. it's okay. I just get a little stir-crazy, y'know? Don't like closed-in spaces. Weirds me out. " "Of course. So.. tell me about this plan you were talking about..." And so they started chatting. Odd. Yurika did not usually consider herself someone to which the word 'chat' applied. Maybe conversation... but never 'chat'. She'd been raised not to chat, but to banter, converse, and flatter. Mother had called it an art, not an amusement. Their whole family adored the arts. This would be an interesting exercise. A new game to play. It doesn't matter if you win or lose or how you play. Form is everything. Campus: Justice Academy In lieu of blood, a little thing called pride ran in the Kirishima veins. Yurika would never say that, because Yurika was too polite. Her brother had never seen the need for an excess of politeness - exceeding the bounds of usefulness was just.. well.. not useful. At all. And Kurow? Kurow thought big. Kurow had ambitions. This? Oh, this wasn't stupid. This wasn't stupid at all. This was matter of pride, you see, and having pride as a rather vital component of his being the Justice Academy student understood that very well. The facts were clear. The stage was set. And this belligerent moron was clearly at fault. Real villains are never at fault - though villain really was an ugly and awkward term for practicality, if you asked Kirishima. He had decided that it was so a while ago. Kurow decided who passed and who didn't. Kurow decided who ruled and who fell. Kurow decided most everything he could - including, as a 'super-elite' Justice Academy student, his day plan, meal plan, living plan, and academic training down to the most minute lesson. And he wouldn't have it any other way. But Justice, for all it's freedom, was very restrictive. Or at least it had been since he'd been shunted into the system by his parents a precocious two years ago. No leaving campus, for you must stay to learn the principles of HYO'S HONOR! Whatever. Screw that. Kurow had enough skills to get the hell out of 'super-elite' land whenever he damn well wanted to. So there you had this situation. Crazy nutjob biker tries to ram him off the road... or if not, close enough that he didn't give a fuck what her excuse would be. But she had not given an excuse - clad in some trashy leather chaps, a helmet riven by threads of water trickling down it, and a blue-and-white t-shirt that combined to scream something approximating Low Class. She had no right to be here. This was his road, his drive, his night, and his steadily growing rain that was starting to run down the mesh at his shoulders into his very bones. He did not like it when people took things that were his. It.. irked him, like a bad cord in the middle of the 1812 Overture that no one else is able to notice over the banal grandeur of it all (which wasn't to say he didn't like the 1812 Overture - but that such triumph should be perfect or not at all). An itch at the base of his spine, if you will. Yurika's handouts he'd never had, and he wasn't about to start now. There'd been a reason he'd applied to stupid candyland Justice instead of the male Windermere clone two prefectures away. So he'd done what he did best - stared her down, and gave an unstable little chuckle here and there. But she.. well... if she didn't know any better, short little girl that she was, then who was to blame? Not Kurow Kirishima, that was for damn sure. Taking blame is for the weak. Honor his ass. And so he'd have to show her. Show-and-tell. Hah! (but of course I'll never do it you simply can't pull it off why the fuck do I even try something always always will go wrong) It had taken a split second to adjust himself to the contrast the lights made on the pavement. Neither of them was moving - that would be weak. He wasn't going to move - she waited, but he was not going to move. Let her move.... Into the puddle of luminescence that disturbed the crisp night air and petroleum fumes which flavored it. When the high-intensity beams manufactured in Germany lanced across her compact muscles, and out into the surrounding midnight of trees and transparent raindrops and the musician's quickly dampening hair falling into his eyes. But she refused to be studied, this wraith of the open road. Inexorably, the biker's boots made their way over the moisture-spattered pavement to the place where he'd tried to sink into shadow. Yes, the pale student was aware of the impossibility of white trying to submerge itself in black so deliberately. But one step back, and she'd have already won. The villain of the piece does not back down. Stopping to laugh again - this might as well be amusing as well as bizarre - Kurow caught himself from flinching as the girl's face started directly into his. Well... face-mask. And when he looked down, Pride sounding its challenge in the breath that condensed on her helmet only to be quickly washed away, he was still able to see through the almost-deluge to catch a glimpse of a... swan. Oh, fuck. "Oh I get it..," not about to let some stupid schoolgirl psych him out - Pride gets what it wants - Kirishima stepped forwards, forcing her to stumble back a bit. Which was his aim, of course. That fight was lost... hah! She was smaller than he was, and they both knew it. But.... (I can't do it I've never been able to I'll fail I know I will one hundred thousand things go wrong and always always it's always my fault it's a fluke if it goes right I tell you.... ) Fuck, fuck, fuck..... "Yurika sent you, right? That's just fucking great. " "Yurika?" he found himself stopped short by her crossed arms, two metal-reinforced leather gloves barring past. Oooooh - kitty has claaaaaaws. "Kurow Kirishima," he held out his bladed hand for the shaking. This could be.. amusing. Amusing. That was the word - amusing! Villains were supposed to be amused at fights, and Kirishima respected tradition. And already he could feel the rivulets of water seeping in at his shoulderblades and causing the custom-fitted leather uniform to gel uncomfortably to his body. The raindrops running into his eyes blurred them to a startling clarity. All in all, Kurow Kirishima was clammy, and wet, and hungry, and he wanted to get the fuck home, and his goddamn sister was had sent some lunatic after him.... "Kazama." "That Kazama?" He'd been a Justice Academy, you know. Of course he'd heard of that Kazama. Well, then. It appeared that he was to be made miserable in this crap-ass weather not just by a lunatic, but the lunatic. Won-der-ful. "Get your trash bike out of my way," the Justice student pushed her leather-clad shoulders. "You get out of my way," the girl shoved his back. As if. "Make me." Which was good, because from what he could see in the harsh light and shadowed interrupted by nature's own static, she had her fist cocked back. An instrument of the inevitable driving into his now-drenched gut. "You talk too much," a dull pain blossomed in Kurow's abdomen, as he pulled back and quickly launched himself behind.. well.. what he hoped was the other side of the vehicle. It was pouring now, and the musician had to squint through the water pooling on his lashes. He wheezed once or twice, forcing the air back into his lungs, before trying to make out the Kazama's position. And... and... and... he was not going to be manhandled in the middle of the highway by some girl! That could not be allowed at all. "Well fuck you too." Games of skill and change and logic were all the same. Skill did not matter - but who made the rules. Status: placement: fourth secondary form
It had to be an optical illusion - something strait of Escher. You know, since walls can't move and all that. Especially not walls the color of clotted cream, with shining racks on them and lots of wires she had absolutely no clue of how to use. Now, if the walls had wheels or something.. well, that would be different. But this was not some Alfred Hitchcock phobia kind of movie, and the walls were not pushing the white and blue van that sat forlornly across them (proud, in it's be-logoed status) forward over dove-grey concrete. Nope. Not at all. The fluorescent light was to harsh, too modern for effects like that. And the serrated barrier of the garage shutter was not on active duty. Rain, if it was rain, was crackling along it on it's own. Pushing it in toward her too. It should not, having been constructed to hold three vehicles, have felt so incredibly, amazingly, mind-numbingly small. Especially with all that stuff Akira left on the floor. .... at least her voice wasn't echoing. "Well, it's all about the drugs see.. just like I said," that's it, Saori.. you can do this. Just keeeeeep talking.... this rich girl can't hurt ya, and the walls are not closing in. "Really, I could prolly make alot of them myself with the right equipment and supplies but those are so not things I have. So.. why not hook up with the famous Kazamas, right? I mean, they run a good operation and all from what I hear. Has my cousin in Gedo scared shitless at least, and that's pretty much good for everybody if you know what I mean. I mean... I guess you could say that Daigo is like my entrepreneurship hero... 'cause I mean, Justice aside, when is it that people like us get the chance to get out of the ol' gutter unless we pull ourselves up? And lets face it, no matter what those Imawano people say, ya just can't come from a background under middle class and expect to get into Justice. I mean.. hello - it's Justice Academy. Future elite force of goodly goodness or whatever. And if you ask me, liberal idealism is totally not your forte when you've been on social assistance and stuff." Her arms had been moving alot when she said that, and her nylon-covered legs were playfully banging on the stool's metal rung. God.. not a headache, not now. She felt like a package of crushed-up Ichiban, but without the spicy flavoring. Completely and totally jumbled, without any redeeming flavor. Keep yourself together, Saori Isami. Babblebabblebabble. You're good at this. Yeah, you tell her your damn life story. Just see if she cares. Why can't you just stop talking for once? Why can't you just stop trying for once? Hasn't this made itself pointless by now. Another year, another plan, another you alone in the lab with that crazy chick that's on two brands of ritalin and sneaking prozac on the side. Closing. The walls are closing in. 'Course Yurika didn't want to give you the time of day, and was all not talking much and stuff. That was to be expected. 'Cause... look at her. Look at you. Yeah baby, that's just the way it is. So talk loud and strong and proud of what you are, and play with the wrench-thingy in your hand and do not think the walls are closing in on you. Because they can't be. Nope. Not at all. And if she ignores you that's her loss.. just like it's the others. Tell yourself that. You've never been a good liar. "I.. see," her fellow prisoner nodded slowly. "But surely you don't need..." And it hadn't been two hours. Noooooooo indeed. No two hours there. With walls. Walls of cinderblock. Walls that closed. Not at all. There were much more positive things to talk about. "Oh but I do! I totally do. You just watch me," Saori played with her watch. "Next year, this time right next year, when everybody walks into the hall and they all prance around with their little Ibiza-bought Hermes handbags leave ya all alone in the corner to ponder your inferiority... that's gonna be me. And I'm gonna love eeeevery minute of it. You would too." She winked. And she would. Simple as that. In a room. A room without cream walls. A room that was not closing in on her. "I hardly think..." Why weren't there windows here? Augh! Windows, windows, imagining windows, thinking of windows.... Yeesh. This Yurika girl was so full of bull. Polite bull, but bull. But then polite is always bull, so whatever. Talktalktalk. Take your mind off this, Saori Isami. If she tells, they'll think she's lying anyways. They'll think you're lying too, but nobody cares when you lie. With her they wouldn't expect it. "Sure you can. You looked alone last year to me. Unless that was some other white haired girl in the corner with a low-cal.." "I prefer not to associate with those who do not share my interests," light blue eyes looked away from her. There's nothing wrong with that. " Oooooh - helloooo denialsville. This would be such an easy sell. And pretty Yurika Kirishima could be places that dumpy Saori Isami could not. ..... what? All's fair in business and war. But not love. Love's not fair in any way at all. Love is for people with expense accounts and a fairy shipping-magnate godmother to pay for the debutante ball. Love's too much work if you don't have that kind of time on your hands. Windows, windows, trees, windows, noooot fidgeting, not at all, moving legs and windows, windows, windows.... "'Course there is. That's why we need Akira." And there, ladies and gentlemen, was the midnight pitch. Wasn't any darker in here, but it felt like night as night so often did. And after two hours of nothing (including windows) Saori Isami had worn her prey down. Finally thrown the coup de grace, as it were. Akira Kazama - brand name and catch phrase and juuuust like her. "What do you mean?" Here, boys and girls, was the sale. Yurika Kirishima.. opportunity number two. The roof, though.. with that fan... oh goodness... out of here... "Easy." One deeeeeep breath for the road. "Akira's just like us... out of the loop o' superbeings. But she's got the mad power in those lil' bags of powder, see? So next time you go in there.. it's THEM that's not gonna be allowed to sit with YOU." Closing. They were closing. She couldn't let them... Oh great, get all bitter again. That's just great. But what do you care? "See - those rich, girls they don't get it. YOU might get it, so that's why I'm all telling you this. They think they're gods. They act like gods, on their pretty little olympus pedestals that we mortals don't get to sit at. They're pretty like gods. And all those servants of theirs? They think they're gods too. Silly little wannabe celebrities and models and idol singers; they think that we all looooove them, that we'd all kill to be like them ." Saori's left hand drifted to clutch at the hem of her skirt - clawing into the Windermere tweed standard and rendering it fit for the iron. Hate is like that, sometimes. The world's not fair. Let's crrrrrryyyyyyyyy and scream and be Cynical. Stop being stupid, Saori. Stop thinking your problems are part of a life any thing less than ordinary. Or-di-nary. Do you feel it, that word's cloying heat? It lives in cavern without an entrance. Closing. Rage against it. Rage against the death of an open door. "But you know what? I'm - no , we're, if I can convince Akira - gonna be BETTER than them. 'Cause they don't understand that it's not them that makes the world go round... it's money, money, money. Money was there before they got here. And money'll be around a loooooong time after they wander off to some stupid socialite dimension and disappear into the pretty rich-girl crowd." Closing. They were closing. Don't be so impassioned, Saori. Go with the flow and you'll make it. 'Cause you have the skills. You know you do. All you need is some backup, that's all. And you've never shied away from risks. Do this right, Saori. 'Cause you have nothing more to work with than yourself. Babblebabblebabble. Tell yourself that, Saori Isami. Like you always do, before the angels push you back down to the ground. "You've thought about this alot, haven't you?" Closing. Not gonna get her... "I made some charts! And a logo. Here, I'll show you..." Closing. Closing. Closing? Saori Isami wanted nothing more than to play the game on that wide-open walled-off field. But the were closing.... Closing in. Medical: Birth Defects - partial melanin defficiency
Some battles are legendary. Filled with an unearthly race and punctuated with the gunfire crackle of magic. The world shakes! The air itself is sundered in twain by the swords of gods and angels! Every step is a dance one stride away from the legend Barishnikov, every punch is in the spirit of the Hammer of Thor, and every strained muscle bears the burden of Atlus himself. Those are fights that decide the fate of the world. The fate of nations. The fate of men. Matches that go down in history with no need to embellish the lights or score the music. Conflict above the clouds, which feels the earth below it but does not need to care about its turns. The combatants scream their profound rage, sharing the with world the wisdom of some war-torn second. Good versus evil or just skill versus skill, combining to perform the greatest little apocalypse on earth. Some battles... some battles are beautiful. The situation at hand consisted of two very moody, antisocial, bitchy teenagers trying their damnedest to beat the crap out of each other in a ditch. This was not one of those battles. This.. was nothing special at all. Except of course to the two combatants, to whom this had become a matter of the world, the moment, and other pertinent blood-boiling things. "Bitch! Just move the fucking bike!" The sneer was more a sound than a look... and a sound filled with static at that. The rain, though not having the courtesy to be anything approaching an orderly drumlike, nevertheless beat a tattoo on rustling leaves and dead asphalt. Not to mention creating a waterfall veil around Kazama's already-darkened helmet. Between the darkness and the water, she could barely see a bloody thing. But she still knew that claw-boy was sneering. "Not in this lifetime, prettyboy." So kicking him in the shins really was her only option, before falling back into a solid Kung Fu stance. "Maybe," Kazama started, falling back onto her ankle on the slippery roadside grass. Everything was dark now.. the world a sea of silhouettes and reflections. She could not see the earth below her, or feel the air but for a pounding presence. As momentum carried her backwards into a defensive stance, all Kazama could make out against the backlighting was a silver-tipped shadow blocking electricity's murky blaze. Kitten had a flair for the dramatic. Damn prettyboy. "You should..." the biker whirled to the side as the aforementioned claws lashed out at her. He'd recovered quickly, launching into an all-out assault, and it was all she could do to deftly step to the side before he he took to her torso like a scratching-post. "...move your..." She - she would continue, even if he rolled blindly forward and under her arm her - half-covering himself in mud and grass clippings, and coming up just behind her for a kick that lanced across the backs of her knees. Taikyou-ken was all about stability and balance, so the biker fell hard. "....goddamn..." Not that she'd let him know that. Oh no - she'd recover to a crouch after the initial wobbliness caused by moisture, trying to make out her adversary's for by the meager light refracted off of his claws. The trees, brooding above, were growing closer. So round and round and round they went. Akira was cautious. And Kurow was not in his element. "...pansy-ass prettyboy.." Kurow Kirishima was going down with her. If she could just see.... Sliding forward, staying law, the biker took an ineffective rush at his jaw with a now vaguely numb elbow. Damn, it was cold. "....prefabricated foreign scrapheap!" And when she missed, brought it down hard on his shoulder. "At least I can afford a car!" Slash. Cut. In a few blinks of the modern eye, the claws of his unharmed left had skittered across the metal guards on her biking pants. If there hadn't been rain, there might have been sparks. If there hadn't been rain, more ambitious attacks would have been possible, and this might very well have been over. But there was rain, so instead the Kirishima shook his pretty little watercolor head and took a sideways knee at her gut. What the... fuck! She shouldn't have been distracted. If that had been one of his hands... "What, you don't even know how to fucking drive out of the way? Awwwww... poooor little girl...." Well that settled it. Kitten needed to be declawed. "You wouldn't know a good bike if it rose up from hell and bit you in the ass!" If you can't see someone, then make your way by hearing. If you can't hear someone - by virtue of the inevitable storm - then make your way by touch. Neutralize the threat. "Now get the hell out of my way!" the girl barked. Kirishima took another lightning stab at her, this time just barely scratching out what visibility she had left through her visor. Quicksilver light darted in and out, as the biker turned her head at the last minute to hear the skittering screech of metal on enamel. The force almost took her down a bit. No. NO. Taikyou-ken is about stability. Find your center. Fall... back. "Move the bike." Down, to the ground. Fall to into a crouch on those mud-daubed legs and do the only thing that might possibly work on this half-lit night full of strikes you can't see and body-language you can't read. "NEVER!" If Akira Kazama had been another woman, she probably wouldn't have fought quite like this. Female fighters of most any persuasion had a niche in this soaked little world of theirs. Women are all about speed, they say. Women strike fast and hard, like the legendary Chun Li. Women were clever and craaaafty - they knew pressure points, or dressed up in revealing confections to distract, or used long-range weapons calculated to titillate or terrify. Some of them were deceptively strong too. But Akira Kazama was none of those things. She was not graceful. She was not exceptional... really, in any way. Nor terrible either. She did not run circles around her enemies or pound them into the ground. She had no style, no flair, no sexually-charged gimmick. And so she saw no problem in swiftly lauching herself forwards at a patch of white-and-darkness, barely finding purchase on a ground quickly tearing from all their predatory circlings. She also saw no problem in forcing prettyboy to the ground by grace of having leapt somewhere in the vicinity of his his solar plexus. Or using his body as a pillow as they fell, forcing the air out of his lungs and causing wickedly-sharp hands to fall limp and unprepared for one crucial second. Or, for that matter, employing the dirt as the second half of a little teamup technique that in Gedo they'd liked to call "Gang Buster". Residence: Justice Academy Residential Complex #23, Room 6-3. Closing. Closing. Closing. Saori Isami did not have claustrophobia. She was handling this perfectly, perfectly, well. Perfectly well! Tra-la-la. See, she wasn't even babbling anymore. Nooooot at all. Just listen to the rain, Saori Isami. Focus on the sound, using your developed mental... Oh, hell. "That is it," don't start pacing again - take action Isami. Haul Yurika to her feet. " I am so getting out of here. C'mon." "...." Yurika allowed herself to be dragged. That was not a ringing endorsement of Saori's powers of .. escaping stuff. "What?," the chemist dropped Yurika's hand, scanning the floor for implements-o-liftage. "I mean, you've gotta think we can get those door up somehow. Just think positive!" Because if you don't, you'll go mad crazy instead. "..." This wasn't one of those 'don't say anything at all' things, was it? Saori m'girl, ya gotta nip that at the bud. "What's wrong?" Saori blindly grabbed at a piece of metal that looked like it had potential. "Hey, cheer up! This .... ummm... jack ma-thing is gotta get us out of here." 'Kay, so she hadn't expected for Yurika to look like there actually was something wrong. But hey - work with it. "My brother should have been here by now to let us out," Kirishima started looking at the floor.. kinda like Akira. But.. less permenant. " He was driving out this way tonight to meet me. He's.. I mean, he's kind of off sometimes but he's my younger brother and this storm...." ... eeew. Well that sucked. Almost as much as staying in here. Well Isami, time to get yourself up and in-gra-ti-ated. "Ouch. Well, time for plan B, I guess!" "Plan B?" Yurika blinked up, obviously a little... concerned? Tense? A lil' annoyed? Yeah. Kirishima wasn't gonna go for anything visible with her whole 'lady' thing going on, but Isami knew the scare. "You can tell me if he's hot in the van," Saori tossed lightly over her shoulder, nervously fiddling around with the winch-thingy with already semi-successful results. Who'da known that Physics wasn't always a useless crap course? "The van?" "We'll we've gotta drive something tout into that storm to save your baby brother, right?" Interests: - music, classical and instrumental
Ow. A fist drove into his gut, driving him into the ground like some kind of thrice-damned demonic jackhammer. He couldn't fucking breathe because of the rain running into his gasping mouth, and she'd pinned down his arms with her metal-plated.. boot.. pant.. things. And he couldn't move and it was cold and wet and it fucking hurt. Ow. Ow. Blooming pain in the abdomen.. yep, OW. The student would not give her the satisfaction of screaming like a girl. Slowly, oh so slowly, Kurow focused past the skull-shaped blur that was half-sitting on him, and flexed his left claw just a bit. A little, tiny bit. Ow. Ow. Ow.. fuck! That must have been his kidney. Slooooowly.. she couldn't know he was slipping his hand out of the red leather glove... Oooooooowwwwwwww..... Hair plastered over his left eye, the student maneuvered his now free left hand at the patch of dirt he'd been using his claws to lightly scratch at, while Kazama tenderized his chest. Call for mercy? Ow. Oh, never. That's it.. mush it up a bit. Small, subtle movements - these are musician's hands. OW! Aaaaand... it's go time. With a flick of his unarmed but highly free wrist, a pale hand rose from the dirt to smear a good of particularly oozing mud into the stupid biker girl's face. After which the prone Kirishima was more than happy to exercise some pain control on the pulp-like mush of his insides. "Malice claw!" the cat crowed - sibilant. With a smirk-laden thrust of his faintly glowing right claw deep into Kazama's once imprisoning shoulder. A silver light which seemed to disappear within her, merging with the flesh about it and draining out the energy within. The blue-white threads he could just sort of... well.. no see. Or sense. But he knew that they were there. And he knew that they were healing him. A fuzzy kind of feeling in his chest that spread-out to warm a skin that had begun to do more than look dead at the hands of the elements. Pulling her gloved former instruments of pain to her chest, she looked like a drowned mouse. At his mercy. His mercy. Kurow Kirishima was back in control. Soon... "I astound even myself sometimes..." "SKULL AURA!" Soon... She'd fling out the rest of her energy, stinging wine-colored eyes too used to darkness with a blinding death's-head light. Soon she'd have shattered up newly-healed saplings of bones, in a blunt, merciless impact with the side of his convertible. A faint throbbing building to crescendo in time with the music at the back of his head, pulling him down into the earth just like the water feigning teardrops down his face. He could feel the concrete softly scratching into his cheek. And the musician could see Kazama sinking to her knees, with what he hoped was at least a glazed look. Had they locked eyes? Stalemate.. no.. he had to.. stalemate isn't good enough... Sometimes Kurow Kirishima hated being a control freak. Sometimes.. he hated being himself. But then he remembered that he was Kurow Kirishima. And then? Why, then he passed out. Further Notes: n/a add Please type further notes.
Designate candidate for the SP Project.
SP Project Selection justified on: - social mobility
Further commands? Designate file classified. Security lock K_KAREN File security locked to User K_KAREN. Running encryption... Encrypted. Further commands? Quit
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