[BATTLE] DEVIN VS. MISTY & BYRON

[The Crash Man Ω]

ROUND 3
DEVIN VS. MISTY & BYRON
BATTLE COMMENCE

[byron]

byron

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[atrb=valign,top] Hauling rubble was hard work, hauling by yourself was even harder, it even left a person covered in dust. He had help in the beginning, but whoever that guy was that he was helping ditched him. At least that's what it seemed like, it was possible that he was also caught in some rubble and Byron didn't even notice. "Hope that guy is alright, if he's under some rocks that is. But if he left me there alone, when I get my hands on him I'm gonna-" The man let out a grunt of pain and quickly placed his hand on his shoulder and rubbed it. "Dang it, must have really banged up my shoulder." Holding up and pushing away slabs of stone with it will do that do a shoulder. Byron's entire body ached with pain, making hard to move around, if he didn't find a place to rest, who knows what would happen. Problem was, there wasn't really any good place to just sit and take a breath. The city had turned into a war zone, so no place was really safe. If he wanted to take a breather, then he would need to choose the right place. Though, everywhere was crawling with fighting, rubble, or scared citizens, all not really decent places. "Guess I better trudge on through. It's probably just some sprained muscles, nothing too bad!" He winched as he tried to pump his arm, as much as he wanted to imagine the pain wasn't too bad, reality was still there to knock some sense into him as he walked through the streets. [STYLE=background-color: 2c2927; color: f1f1f1; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: -1px; overflow: auto; height: 20px; padding: 5px; text-align: center;]tagged misty and devin ● notes buff man in need of medical assist [/style]

made by made by minnie of neverland

[misty]

Pain is in the mind.

Kasumi is unharmed, but wounded.

All is fair in love and war, a younger Misty – naiveté, a ghost of her innocence, a ghost of her innocent past – would whisper underneath sun rays slipping through palm trees, bouncing off white sand, mingling with the white, foam-tipped shore. Days earlier, in bed with an unwilling lover as her boat rocked with the passing waves she’d repeat the same words; all is fair in love and war, but she had not experienced war. Nor - if one trespasses the fourth wall to reach the omniscience of the author behind her life’s script- love.

Life was cruel, and you had to play with the hand you’re dealt.

Cursing, face flushed with a distinct lack of color, Kasumi looks back into the alley behind her. Duo, the astute Slowking, had just finished healing an impatient raichu. The psychological damage as a byproduct of watching her pokemon buffeted against the ground by harsh winds was by far more scarring than the pokemon’s actual damage, wounds, or pain.

See, in her blue eyes were once depthless passion nestled fear waxed and waned instead. Shallow as the shore, as exposed as clear, blue water, she felt naked though a gun rested on her lower back tight in its holster. Still wet, still soaked from the earlier shower of rain her pokemon summoned, she felt heavy; she felt far too much, far too many things that fell on her shoulders. She was no titan, no atlas, she understood as she signaled her pokemon and stepped into the main street.

Behind her, Slowking followed in a patient waddle while Minnie rushed to her side, skipped about and around her trainer while its tail swayed and wagged. Shallow eyes fall on a distant figure, chapped lips part to utter a warning but her voice is meek, far too shy to come out. Scared, perhaps.

The sea can often be quiet, patient, soothing; the rocking of waves against the shore, the laughter of waves against the soft shore, fluffed cotton foam. Sometimes, it’s rough, aggressive, waves crashing against shore in a flight of white feathers, liquid and insipid, foam, as if the transgressions of humanity fell upon the seas and the oceans retaliated their anger against the shore.

Anger, confusions, stirred in her chest and a sea within her raged. She sees a man approaching, or maybe she was approaching him; details tend to be blurred in retrospect. She won’t be able to recall the moment she reached out behind her, or the second a lithe fingered brush touched her gun’s barrel, or undid the holster’s hold.

She can’t say what brought her to it, but she held the gun as she had been trained, and aimed.

Duo stopped a few steps behind her, tilting its head, with an curious expression.

Minnie wagged her tail, working up some nasty plot.

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[devin]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true] when you can't climb your way out of such a hole, you tend to crouch down and call it home

[STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; border: 5px #996633 solid;] Team Magneton, Spheal, Joltik Heracross notes [/style] [STYLE=font-size: 9.5px; margin-top: -25px; font-style: italic;]Made by Amb. Tanz [/style] She's looking at a mass of paws and claws, all tinged a faint pink. Blood still drips sluggishly from her nose, is still caked around her eye. Her spheal and Joltik do their best to wipe it away, do their best to keep from panicking as their trainer sits dumbly on the ground, perhaps fifteen feet from a hospital she'll never consent to enter. The evidence of her ordeal vanishes into the snow as they wipe their paws clean, but the trembling of her tired body can't be removed so easily. She struggles to get a footing in the fresh snow, boots striking and sliding on slick ice. When at last she's able to stand unaided, her shoulders slump, her body hunches, and she lets out a little gasp of a laugh that fogs the air. She takes measured, vigilant steps away from the hospital, each one steadier than the last. There's snow clinging to her coat and pants, and some lingering in her hair as well, but what's a touch of winter when one's used to tasting frigid elixirs that dig down into your very bones? The tepid bite of mingling fluids can't compare to the cutting chill of a gelid needle, and both sensations are far more intimate than the kiss winter plants on everyone who crosses its path. Yet despite the weather both outside and within, Devin finds herself sweating through her clothes. Her gloves are tucked into her pockets, her hood removed, her coat unzipped, and still the uncomfortable heat refuses to dissipate. By the time the hospital's out of sight, it's no longer an unshakable flush, but an insuppressible conflagration that threatens to devour her. She bends, leans down towards the snow as her stomach heaves, and throws her arms out blindly, grasping for support. None comes; Devin's left to maintain her balance as best she can while she chokes out blood, bile, and acid. It's hot, so unbearably hot, and she lets her feverish eyes sink closed momentarily. A sip of water removes the foul taste from her parched lips, but does little to cool her sweltering stomach. It's far too familiar, remniscent of old days locked in a dusty classroom with a brazier of coals, of running her hands over open flames, of staring into the maw of a fireplace as tall as her and five times as wide. She's in Suicune's territory, but it's Entei's wrath that runs through her. Or if she's particularly unlucky, Raikou's. Devin doesn't believe in Gods, doesn't believe in the Trio anymore, but the god of death seems a fitting emblem. She's in withdrawal, and the heat, the sickness are not the worst she'll suffer if she doesn't pause soon for another fix. As soon as she stands upright once more, weakly pulling hands and head from where they hang near her knees, her stomach rebels a second time. Finally, the retching stops. Devin shakily pulls herself up, turns and stares into the cold, judgmental eyes of her Heracross. Anja's eyes stare back, seeming dull and vacant, a facsimile of life, a vibrant body accompanied by an apathetic mind. There's none of the usual concern and affection, but rather than dwell on this, she simply walks on. Her other Pokemon follow on her heels, quietly chattering among themselves. Anja walks past her, taking the lead, and turns back, raising a hand to halt her trainer. Their eyes lock once more. You're one of the few bugs without compound eyes. What you see is akin to what she sees, though your eyes are unclouded and set in a sturdy frame, where hers roll weakly at the forefront of a withering mask. You've heard enough to know what most humans think of Pokemon's mental capabilities. There are dozens of books and pseudo-memoirs 'through a Pokemon's eyes', and each is a mesh of simple short sentences, a mass of physical sensations unblemished by any analytical components. Shapes and colors and heat, sounds and taste and the feel of soft hands, of hard floors- they will concede that you have a mind, but deny the presence of a soul. You've seen enough to know what Devin thinks. The body she left behind, the Leavanny's body, unmourned and even unnoticed, is proof enough. You feel the faint chill of the winter air, feel the snow compacted beneath your feet, hear the howl of the wind, hear the softer sounds of movement off in the distance. But it's not merely a matter of engaging the dumb senses that allowed you to detect the presence of others in the area. It's the observation of the pattern of broken branches on the sparse trees, the fresh footprints which have yet to be snowed over, it's the rubble shifted from where it was that morning. Always cautious, Magneton shimmers with the glow of iron defense. You're not a fighter, not usually, and hesitant to take any such precautions. Joltik and Spheal are similarly alert, primed and ready, standing so close to Devin there's a danger they may accidentally trip her. The first thing you see is a gun. You draw back, startled. Your trainer is slow to react, but she retreats a few feet as well, hand slipping towards her belt. She removes her gun from its holster, keeping it aimed at the ground, but in hand lest she prove to need it. It's almost funny, the similarities that once left you feeling close, feeling connected to your trainer, now leave a sour taste in your mouth. You're both observers, both watchers, but while you have a fundamental dislike of fighting, your trainer simply prefers a mental battle to a physical. No, prefers to tackle problems with no risk to herself, prefers to approach them in a sneaky fashion rather than head on. It's an excellent trait in a spymaster. It's a poor trait in someone who allows themselves to be talked into joining a traditional battle. She might not believe, but you do. You unfold your wings and bow your head, slightly praying that the woman with the gun won't notice you.

[byron]

byron

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[atrb=valign,top] The chill air brought a slight shiver to the man's body, something he wasn't quite used to. The only time he ever felt freezing was with piles of cold earth around him as he dug for mere hobby. Even then it wasn't as bad, probably a bad idea to be wearing a tank top all around the world, unless you had a cape, which he forgot at home. Byron wasn't the type of man to remember to get fully clothed. As he continued to walk down the streets he noticed a figure in the distance, with another one slowing fading into view. The first one seemed to be looking right at him, while the other looked like it was blindly following the first. Maybe they were citizens, and one of them was hurt and the other wanted to find help. As every decent man knows, you never let those in need simply go without help, so Byron approached the two as fast as he could. As he got closer, he realized that he made a giant oopsie. The two figures were both women, pretty young ones compared to his gruff face. Each holding a gun, one held by a blonde and one held at Byron by an orange head. "Whoa whoa whoa ladies," he said as he raised up his hands, "Lets just all calm down here..." It didn't take long for Byron to see blood on the blonde's face and her Pokemon seemed battered as well. He hoped they weren't in the Pokemon Center when he was there. "Both of you put your guns down, no need to fight, besides this lady needs help." he said and walked up to the blonde and placed a hand on her shoulder, "You okay? What happened to you?" [STYLE=background-color: 2c2927; color: f1f1f1; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: -1px; overflow: auto; height: 20px; padding: 5px; text-align: center;]tagged misty and devin ● notes little girls shouldn't play soldier [/style]

made by made by minnie of neverland

[misty]

Pale fingers tighten, paler knuckles blush in pink, red, scarlet. Chapped lips are peeled into a snarl, and behind her Duo arm’s tense, though its tiny hands remain crossed behind it. The psychic would speak into its trainer’s mind, but it was thick in confusion and emotion that further blurred the lines of communication between two different entities; human, pokemon, master and beast.


Ladies, he says.

She frowns.

Plural.

Slowking shifts, attentions and energy directed at the third being of influence in their direct proximity. Kasumi shifts too, drawing one foot in an arc dragged across the road, widening her stance, gun travelling the man’s path as he approaches a second woman.

No need to fight, he says while a hand reaches out, cutting across the distance between the male and the female.

She needs help?

Lips part, breath hitched in her throat spills past gritted teeth, tumbling across the humid scene in the form of nearly inaudible words. Psychic

[/i], Duo complies with eyes closed. He doesn’t need to see, not by conventional means. Psionic energy pours into the atmosphere, waxes and wanes like sea unto shore, and pushes forward like a bullet towards the poorly dressed male.

Kasumi’s gun is still aimed, settled on the blonde. She reminds her of her sisters. She was beautiful, as they always were but without their frailty, without the fragility that came with their vanity. She wants to smile, but she frowns instead.

The gun is cold against her palm, the metal cold against her tense fingers. She hopes her psychic’s psionic manifesto would humble the man’s musculature, and from there on she could maneuver the given situation. The gun was still in her hand, only now she held tighter and felt even more powerless.

Raichu’s fur prickles. There are other pokemon around, and she expects retaliation; an answer to the question the Slowking’s psychic imposes. It leans forward, tail stops moving and now stands in salute, on edge, behind it; cheeks crack, snap, crackle with electricity, sparks dance their phosphorous white light across the fur, over the road beneath.

The hairs on Misty’s arm stand.

This is war.

One hand remains on the gun, while another reaches for her pokeball belt.


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[lou]

BYRON DEFAULTS

keep going without him

[devin]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true] a miserable collection of little secrets, that's all any of us are

[STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; border: 5px #996633 solid;] Team Magneton, Spheal, Joltik Heracross notes [/style] [STYLE=font-size: 9.5px; margin-top: -25px; font-style: italic;]Made by Amb. Tanz [/style] There’s a gun pointed at your face, and you’re smiling. Smile. Pull your lips back, show those glistening white teeth, pray they don’t look at your eyes. You layer them in three colors of eyeshadow, line them with tints of black and grey, but you can’t fake the pull of the muscles around them that comes only with true happiness. Not many people can fake a Duchenne smile. Once the photographer aims, he won’t wait if you aren’t ready. This gun isn’t here to blow another hole in your soul, it’s intended to blast one through your body. Now you frown, and that’s a more appropriate reaction, that’s the best pose for this shoot. You’ve never been camera-shy but you waver, you turn sideways to present a smaller target, and you pray she won’t shoot before you can talk your way out of this. The wind makes your eyes tear. Your mouth tastes like vomit. You step over the man (body?) on the ground, you put that behind you. Then you stop, keeping a safe distance between yourself and the orange-haired woman. There are two pokemon beside her. There are four with you. But there’s more to a battle than numbers, and your head’s too cluttered, too scattered to focus, to work out the odds. You catch a glimpse of shining steel, the reflection of a second iron defense of your Magneton, but you can’t think of any orders to give. You’d be shocked if you could see yourself from another’s eyes. Just twenty two, but you’re bent over like an old woman suffering from ague. Your hair, loose and tangled, flutters weakly in the wind, brittle strands entwining almost painfully as they’re whipped together and then pulled apart. And you’re shaking. You aren’t sure if it’s fear, or the effects of withdrawal. Her hair is the color of Entei’s beacon. You can almost see it, off in the distance, and it takes a long moment to realize that’s because you’ve let your eyes fall closed. Snowflakes build on your lowered lashes until you flick your gaze back up, until you try to make eye contact with this woman. “Thank you.” Because there’s a man at your feet and you don’t doubt his intentions were war-like, you don’t doubt that this woman has saved you at the least the trouble of fighting him yourself. It’s a perfect opportunity to ask for information, but you merely lick your cracked lips, and stand shivering between your Heracross and your Magneton.

[misty]

The attack was brutal, pervasive, caustic. It dealt dissonance in the form of instability, a tremor in the mind, a quake in the subconscious, a tsunami flooding the nerves, muscles, and skin with signals, with pain that made the mind succumb and the body to kneel. The man’s body was a work of art, of muscles and testosterone, flailing in an eccentric dance as awkward as the foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth, white as the teeth veiled behind his red lips. A convulsion was never so satisfying, so releasing, relieving, and impacting as the man’s descent unto the stone dressed street beneath his feet, coated in the same dirty snow that would fall over him soon enough. Chagrin of the mind – byproduct, and result of Duo’s psychic attack – tore away at the strings that held the man’s body upright and standing, until he fell dancing like an untethered puppet to the ground below.

Kasumi didn’t want to vomit, but her stomach rumbled in disagreement with her steeled resolution.

Swallow hard, she whispers to herself… or maybe it was Duo, standing adamant, cold, and detached besides her.

A hand was at her pokeball belt, ready to release a third pokemon unto the fray. The opponent the woman she had just ‘saved’ –loosely using the definition of the word, adjudicating its concept of heroism to a brave, and harsh attack unto a well-meaning man- stood there, four pokemon out, with a heracross and a magneton at either side.

Calling a third pokemon out herself would be a defensive measure, but against what? Surely, against the possible threat that stood yards from her, but her defensive measure could be seen as an transgression of unspoken trust between the two women. It would make her vulnerable to attack by inciting it, so she withheld for a moment. Duo and Minnieh were more than capable to take on an initial onslaught of attacks, if it came to that.

Or, maybe, deep down Kasumi meant to harm… and the battered sight of a woman – beautiful as she was, as familiar as she seemed with the beauty, or frailty, of her sisters – lowered, diminished, and exorcised the fire within Misty that raged, and danced to the rhythm of war drums.

Frowning, vulnerable, she curses and a command is spoken.

“Duo, Heal Pulse.”

Uncharacteristic of herself, she speaks loud enough for her voice to carry her intent (well meaning intent) across the distance between them. She meant to harm, and the command was one of healing, reconciliation, of a certain friendly deference unwelcomed in war but expressed nonetheless.

Kasumi – or Misty, or woman, or child, or boy, or soldier; it doesn’t matter in war – lowered her gun, but still held firmly unto it. Minnieh, however, raised her tail and it remained stoic; unlike her trainer, she did not her guard down.

Duo stood off to the side, having waited a few moments after her master’s command was spoken before executing the order. It closed its eyes and lifted its tiny arms, as a warm light descended unto the woman, as soft as the snow that danced in eddies at her feet.

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[devin]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true] They didn't just live with secrets Secrecy surrounded their entire lives

[STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; border: 5px #996633 solid;] Team Magneton, Spheal, Joltik Heracross notes [/style] [STYLE=font-size: 9.5px; margin-top: -25px; font-style: italic;]Made by Amb. Tanz [/style] What do you remember? The soft sounds of piano music melt down from your brain into your ears, and you squeeze your eyes shut. There’s that familiar warmth, that comfort you associate with the soft sounds of your mother’s fingers on the keys, the sound of home and family drifting up the stairs as you drift off to sleep. Your mother hasn’t played piano, not in years. You haven’t cried in years, but you are now, just a little. There are tears at the corner of your eyes, and suddenly, part of the fog surrounding your brain lefts. The ache behind your eyes fades. The implacable conflagration devouring the rest of your body does not. You cough, and a little clot of dried blood dislodges itself from within your nose. The body at your feet feels too familiar. You’re sure you didn’t kill him, so why do you feel as though- as though there’s something- and why isn’t Anja at your side? She stands two feet away from you, the loss of her presence, her body heat, startling and impossible to ignore. Your Joltik and Spheal, your Magneton, are beside you but it isn’t the same. Why can’t you remember? You open your eyes, blinking away your tears. There’s an orange haired woman with a Pokemon. It’s healed you, or at least, done its best. “Thank you.” You’re not sure you mean it, but you say it anyway. Without Anja, you’re suddenly horribly aware of how alone you are. Your first instinct isn’t to reach for one of the mildly illicit substances in your pockets, or even for a needle. What you want is a beer. You don’t understand why this woman is helping you. It’s unclear whose side she’s on. It’s unclear whose side you’re on. It’s unclear whether anyone has allies on this battlefield, or whether the barely-organized fighting has turned into a free-for-all, a disaster where one kills anyone they see lest they themselves fall under the knife. You shift your feet, changing your stance. You were securely planted, now, you waver. You turn your eyes deferentially from the woman’s, you slouch your shoulders, you bow your head. A proper thanks is owed if she’s lux, a chance to secure information is within reach if not. It’s funny how naturally this comes to you, how easily you slip into whatever role is required to reach your goal. Victim comes just as easily as victor. You let yourself shiver (though you’re not cold, but burning hot) and you slowly, timidly approach. “I’m trying to find my niece. I need to get her out before the fighting reaches her.” Your mother never told anyone why she ceased playing the piano. She never so much as gave a false excuse. When asked why she no longer played for the church, she simply smiled, and looked away. When asked why she no longer played for the family, she pursed her lips, and walked away. You’re still holding the gun, though it’s not aimed at your helper but at the ground. Your pokemon stand, alert, beside you. You’re not so much at a stalemate as at a crossroads. Can’t one destroy an enemy by making them a friend? You can accomplish your mission just as successfully by befriending this woman as by shooting her. And it hits you in that moment- the blood, the sickness, the body you left behind, behind a little lost girl in the snow. You freeze, and it’s a credit to your training that you don’t drop the gun. Suddenly the loss of Anja’s presence by your side makes sense, suddenly the concern of your pokemon, suddenly the empty ache in the pit that was once your stomach- It wasn’t your duty, wasn’t your job, wasn’t even necessary but you pulled that trigger without a second thought, you pulled that trigger without an awareness or even a care as to what you were doing. What’s done can’t be undone, can it? You aren’t sure you want to undo it, aren’t sure you can muster the care for a stranger, for someone fighting against the world’s best chance at equality and safety, but you aren’t sure you can live without Anja, either. Your Heracross won’t look you in the eye, and you can’t believe that such a fragile looking blue bug who’s barely past your waist can have such an impact on you. And then you see her wing, you see the missing elytra, you see the damaged, dangling wing that was once covered by a hard blue cover, and you don’t know how to address the matter- you don’t even know how to avoid it. You’re used to secrets, you’ve lived a life of them beginning with discovering your brother’s stolen sermon, but this isn’t something you can pretend not to know. A secret is gossip, is a rumor you lock away, is potential kept shelved unless the time comes, but this isn’t something you can put aside. This is a part of your life You can’t remember the details, not clearly enough for any sort of judgment, and you cling to that. Rather than a weakness, your loss of memory becomes one last hope, one more chance. Your earlier actions are like a lottery ticket, by the time they’re fully in your possession and comprehension, it’s too late for you to affect the outcome. Either you hold a winning ticket, or you don’t. You can’t change the result, you just scratch away the cloudiness covering the surface and hope for the best. You’ve gambled in this fashion so many times. Your mother, your brothers, your first job, the third dress, the fetus- baby- But you remember the good secrets, too, you remember the times it worked. You remember your father’s father, with the distinctive harsh scent that burned your nose, with his wrinkled clothes and his three day stubble. You remember your own father, standing before an old, chipped sink with the lights low at half past eleven, slowly and carefully pouring a bottle of amber liquid down the drain. Every week, you’d watch eagle-eyed as your father brought in a six pack along with the groceries. Every week, you’d watch from the hallway, crouched behind the corner in your thin pajamas and scratchy slippers, as the sudsy foam dribbled down into the kitchen sink to the drain, and be reassured that his father’s vice had no such hold over him. “Her name- her name is Kayla.”

[misty]

Her resolve was wavering, and instead her doubt solidified.

Kayla?

Kasumi doesn’t care. She’s skeptic, to be honest. The team of pokemon around the wounded women seem to be on edge, but not paranoid; alert, but unafraid. Maybe, Kasumi was wrong and it was an error in judgment. War hardened the soul, and hope diminished until only hate and skepticism remained. Did she lie? Kasumi wouldn’t know, not now and maybe not ever; sides didn’t seem to matter seconds ago when Duo rendered a man useless and broken at the feet of the blonde yards from her. Now, would sides, ranks, ideologies matter? She was looking for her niece, cousin, sister, whatever; she was looking for someone, disoriented and wounded, pokemon at her side.

She chose not to trust, not to believe. No, moments earlier she was attacked by a kid with a shitty, green haircut and rather vicious bug types. No, perhaps it wasn’t anything personal and the notion of being friendly was never considered as plausible. They were enemies from the start, but she misjudged, she let her guard down. The gun remains cold against her palm, but the distinction between the metal and her skin is now surreal; the tool of murder sinks into her flesh, and becomes an extension of her arm and will.

She frowns, for a moment…

Then, her resolve hardens, much like her lips pulled into a tight line; an expression of uncaring, chilling cold. She breaths out, mist caking her nostrils with a billowing cloud of humidity; or maybe, the cold within her lungs was escaping. She was a dragon whose breath is ice, instead of fire. The flames were solitary to their confinement atop her scalp, a mess of jutted wisps of fire, tongues of flame, dancing when her red locks bounced. Her hearth throbbed, as quick as wildfire, apparent in her tossed hair and burning, blue eyes. Misty was a contradiction, a walking paradox; here she stood willing, ready to kill, but unable to carry across her actions.

Go on then, she hopes to say without words and only through the implied understanding of body language and gestures. She steps back, and waves to the street with her gun as if allowing the woman to pass, to move on, to go on with her day; as ravaged by war, as fucked up as it could be.

She won’t involve herself unnecessarily in affairs that would speak to her sentimentality. No, she’d rather go back into the fray, into the fighting, in the senseless spilling of blood and karma.

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[devin]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true] It's in the anomalies that nature reveals its secrets

[STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; border: 5px #996633 solid;] Team Magneton, Spheal, Joltik Heracross notes [/style] [STYLE=font-size: 9.5px; margin-top: -25px; font-style: italic;]Made by Amb. Tanz [/style] You could walk on by. She’s willing to let you walk by. But isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for? A chance to talk without being held at gunpoint, a place where you can whisper instead of shouting over the sound of screams and bullets, someone who approaches you with intentions other than murder. You can’t be sure, but the lack of uniform makes you suspect this woman is nox. You can’t be sure, but perhaps her peaceful gesture means she thinks you’re Nox, too. “It’s… dangerous alone, and it won’t be easy to spirit a kid out of here, either.” You ignore the- fire? ice? Electricity?- running through you. You ignore the overwhelming urge to sink to the ground. You ignore the twitches of the muscles in your arms and legs. You don’t ignore your stomach, but while it’s churning, for the moment it isn’t trying to escape through your mouth. “Will you come with me?” You could ask what she’s doing here. You want to know, because while her gun and her posture betrays the basis, you’re not content with a shallow summary. You want every last detail. But sometimes, it’s not what you ask but what you don’t ask, and it’s not what you don’t ask but what you tell. “I fought here the first time,” you say with regret. “It was easier. She wasn’t born yet. When I saw the wall come down…”

[misty]

Kasumi wants to sigh, wants to bring a palm to her face in irony, frustration. Her discipline is stronger, and her skin is cold. She hadn’t expected the snow, and even as it still fell she felt alien standing on this arceus forsaken city of stone, and now fire, brimstone and blood.

A cold sweat dressed her reddened cheeks. She didn’t wear makeup often, today wouldn’t be an exception; and yet the sheen of that cold sweet over her skin made her look surreal, faint, unreal. Her skin was ivory, marble, with fire coursing underneath; a flush of scarlet over her neck, touches of red settled on her skin. The cold was getting to her, and it bothered her. She needed adrenaline to push her into action.


The woman across from her was right. It was dangerous, and very. Morality would dictate Kasumi accompanied the woman and provided support, or even protection; but there was one fatal miscalculation in the other woman’s arithmetic. Kasumi had no moral compass to speak of, but instead swayed like the sea unto shore as she pleased.

Her throat was nearly clenched with thirst, and her body demanded action. Minnie stirred uneasy at her side, her tail swaying, electricity still snapping over her cheeks, while Duo stood distracted, idle. They wanted to leave, they wanted nothing to do with the stranger across from them. Misty understands their apprehension, their dislike for humanity despite their love for her. She had dragged them into this, and they suffered the blunt of the consequences, the pain of battles.

“Move on.”

It breaks her heart to say no.

But, she had to stay in character.

“I can’t. You’ll be…”

Kasumi pauses, words stuck in her throat. You’ll be in more danger because of me, she wants to say. I ‘m one of those silly anarchist nox, she wants to say but she won’t. Not now, not ever.

She swallows saliva, swallows hard.

It hurts going down, and she curses biting her lower lip while waving the gun in the direction of the road.

Move! – She tries to say, her face one of disdain, hate, paranoia, anger, while the gun is waved like a flag in the direction where the wind blow, in the only direction the blonde stranger could take.

Duo lowers his head, understanding his master’s intentions.

Kasumi meant to go back to the front lines, even if it meant their lives.


And, without a doubt, her pokemon would follow.

[/font][/justify]

[devin]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true] Selling my soul would be a lot easier if I could find it

[STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; border: 5px #996633 solid;] Team Magneton, Spheal, Joltik Heracross notes [/style] [STYLE=font-size: 9.5px; margin-top: -25px; font-style: italic;]Made by Amb. Tanz [/style] There was once a time where you’d know what to say, where you’d have assessed and analyzed, you’d have come up with a plan as soon as you met this woman. But these days, you’re less focused on staying ten steps ahead, more focused on staying ahead of your tendency to be dragged down by the many hazards you’ve inflicted on your body. You’re positive that, given a bit more time, you could convince her to come with you. You could get her to open, get information from her. But you don’t have time. You’re sweating, freezing, suffering; your body demands immediate attention. Your body demands a fix, now. And you have one, have the needle ready in your bag, but it’s the next to last one and it’s not cheap out here. You slowly turn, start to walk past the woman, just a little closer than you should be. But as you reach her side, as you start to pass her, your treacherous hand reaches out of its own accord. You’ve never had a sense of honor- honor involves pride, and you take no joy in doing what’s human and decent. But you have- had- standards. And as you try to pick Kasumi’s pocket as you pass her by, you know that yours are dissolving into the morass that’s swallowed you whole.

[abyss]

VICTORY: MISTY

+500 WEP to Nox