Description: Preston and Luc are hungry, hungry hippos! They love to feed their face! They're hungry, hungry hippos, in a cafeteria brawl! What do you mean that didn't rhyme?
Pacific High's lunchroom is an almost perfect example of why this school costs so much money for students to attend. A pristine cafeteria that appears more like a lounge room or a food court than a standard high school lunchroom, it is peppered by students throughout the day, especially during the lunch periods in the middle of school; wherein hungry students pour into the cafeteria relentlessly in search of a respite from work and a chance to sate their craving for food. It's a place for students to relax.
"Get /outta my way/, asshole!"
Most of the time.
The loud voice bellows out from a single boy, dressed in attire unsuited for the Pacific High standard uniforms; he seems unconcerned about this, and teachers have long ago learned not to question him about his distinct lack of proper uniform. Already, the young man has begun shoving his way through the host of students in line for 'American' food, rather forcibly cutting his way through the line. Most people know better than to stop him.
When Luc Schroedinger is hungry, after all, he tears down anyone who gets in his way.
Over the years, Luc has established himself unintentionally well throughout the whole of the high school as a person to be feared and -- most importantly -- not trifled with. The reason for this soon becomes clear as he pushes his way through the lines of people, grumbling irritably and knitting his brows together in annoyance. As he trudges through, a single hand comes out to stop him; a large young man -- part of the football team, in fact, giving a smugly self-assured look as he stops the young German. "Hey kid, you can't just go cutting through line like tha--"
The big man's lecture ends the moment that Luc's fist strikes his face. It's hardly even a forceful gesture; for the German's part, it appears that he only extends minimal effort, lazily slugging the man as a distinct spark of black energy crackles in the space between them. But the effect is clear: blood flies from the other student's nose as he stumbles backward, collapsing into a small group of people in an unceremonious heap. Luc stares down at the young man, and scoffs.
"... che! Anyone else have a problem?!" Silence.
"That's what I thought."
And with so many flavors to choose from, it's a good thing they allow extended lunch breaks; particularly for students who are relatively new to the whole ordeal of deciding which cuisine to try for the day. For a student still in his first week at Pacific, it's somewhat of a dog eat dog kind of affair; but there are whispers concerning this one, both high and low, rumors and innuendo that are bound to contain a smidge of truth.
Some claim he's part of the Royal Family from Britain. The name is pretentious enough, but repeated Google searches have revealed very little on him in particular. For those who actually did their research, they would know the truth; and for some reason they're not speaking it, which might be a little odd.
Maybe not so odd, as Preston Alistair Wellington the II enters the cafeteria itself. And he has to enter it sideways, given his bulk and the fact that a small group of girls want to leave at the same time. Half stare up at him. He is pretty big, particularly for his age. But it's the other feature of him that draws more eyes; the fact that, clutched and leading from his right hand, is an oar. Three yards long, with a blade at the end, it's definitely an oar. And Pacific High isn't known to have a rowing team at all, which makes it all the stranger.
The blazer he wears, while definitely school regulation, is a little on the small side for him. They've no doubt had a little bit of trouble finding one in his size, so far. But with a couple of books under one hand, and the oar slung over his shoulder -- after bumping it into the roof, raining dust down on a group seated nearby -- he finds himself staring at the various lines for each of the cuisines. And there seems to be some commotion at the American line. "Well, who wants to eat American anyway? Nothing but fat and fat there," he says with a shake of his head, the words for himself but for some reason spoken aloud.
Instead he remains standing there, near the exit to that particular serving area, mulling over his choices as he turns his attention from one queue to the next.
Who wants to eat American, anyway?
The voice that speaks up after Luc makes his proclamation is one that catches his notice; mainly because he said what he said in order to make everyone shut up and stop complaining -- yet it seems someone has the nerve to add their two bits in. Green eyes swivel around, his head twisting to look behind him at the source. He loves over. He pauses. He blinks. And then... he looks up.
"... heh."
While usually, Luc would be more inclined to just give a stare and then go on to get his food -- being particularly hungry today -- there are a lot of things about the large outspoken British man that catches his attention. Mainly, the size of him; easily larger than Luc by half a foot at least, he's not a type of person that one would consider 'weak' by appearances. That in and of itself isn't enough, though. Large people have never particularly impressed Luc. No, it's not so much that Preston is a big guy, as much as it is the simple fact... that he carries an oar.
An oar. A big, freaking oar... with a blade on it. Luc doesn't know the first thing about rowing or oaring or whatever it's called; he doesn't even know if there's a rowing TEAM here, nor does he care enough to pay much attention to the student body and their little drama and rumors. What he DOES know, and what really matters, is one thing: he's carrying a giant, bladed oar, and that means--
"You use that thing to fight, don't you?"
The question comes as Luc rounds about to turn and face Preston fully. Hands in his pockets, he looks upon the large Brit apathetically, lips pulling into a vague frown. "So," He continues, shoulders lifting in a roll, "you like to fight, then. Are you any good?" In other words, what he really wants to know is--
"You're not a piece of crap fighter, are you?"
[OOC] Preston says, "he loves over eh"
[OOC] Luc says, "just 4 u"
[OOC] Preston says, "sweet"
That's the difficult part about being so tall; you get used to people staring at you, eventually, and when the more... interesting types do stare, you don't really notice them. Case in point, the fact that while Luc turns around to stare at him, it isn't until the little German boy opens his mouth that the Brit turns his gaze down.
And down. And down a little more.
Hazel eyes squint as the other boy starts up on him, those words, that way his mouth moves while speaking. They're all making him a little... itchy. His mouth sets into a line, but then he's opening it. And a diatribe follows, all delivered in a gruff British accent. "No shit, sunshine. Why else do you think I would carry around a bloody great big oar, if not for fighting with it? My, the apple did not fall far from the tree in this case, I'm sure. Your father must be the Minister of Stating the Fucking Obvious."
He brings the oar about. It's not bladed literally; more the fact that the end of it is indeed labeled a blade. It's emblazoned with some kind of coat of arms, as well as painted in green and white. The colors don't suit his tones. "Now as far as your other questions go, while they are indeed charming and repetitive, I happen to think that, no, I am not some piece of crap fighter who just walked in off the streets. You don't carry around a fucking oar unless you happen to know how to use it, and use it well. It draws too much attention. It leads to punk kids getting up in my grill, and thinking they can start a fight."
Setting the oar down on the cafeteria floor, he leans forward slightly. "You see where I'm going with this, don't you, son?"
There it is with the insults. Everyone thinks their the masters of wit. Luc asks simple enough questions and they have to provide an essay on why they think he's stupid. Luc? He likes to keep things as simple as possible. Which is why, as soon as Preston's done with the first part of his tirade, he says one, simple statement:
"You're talk way too fucking much."
But apparently, Preston isn't done. Luc leans back a little, slipping one hand from his pocket to scratch at his ear, rubbing the digit around in a seeming effort to pass the time as the large Brit speaks. He's really not listening, only offering a simple response to the big man's overblown questioning: "Maybe you carry it around because you row and you're a fucking idiot." Who knows. Luc certainly doesn't care. This guy is talking and he's getting bored, beginning to think of other things. Like food. Like a big cheeseburger oozing with grease, just waiting for him to take a big old bite out of it--
Eventually he snaps out of his daydream, pulling his finger from his ear and flicking away some errant wax. 'You see where I'm going with this, don't you, son?'
"Whu...?" He looks up. His fist clenches. And, with one fluid movement, Luc simply SWINGS that hand forward to crush his fist into Preston's ribcage, accompanied by the deafening BOOM of black-violet chi rupturing in its wake.
"No, I don't. Shut up."
COMBATSYS: Luc has started a fight here.
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Luc 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Preston has joined the fight here.
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Preston 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Luc
COMBATSYS: Luc successfully hits Preston with Medium Punch.
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Preston 0/-------/-----==|-------\-------\0 Luc
If Luc was trying to say something through all of that, it seems that Preston just wasn't listening in turn. No, no; he seemed to have been caught up in his rather abrupt rant, his ramble, and by the time he's finished -- it seems that the German intends on doing just that, starting a fight! They're always the same, those Germans. For his part though, the Brit with the Oar simply stands there, the blow coming in to catch him in the ribcage. The impact is nasty; his blazer presses in, the chi-laced fist crushing into row upon row of heavy muscle. It's somewhat like hitting a really, really hard wall.
The Brit with the Oar is forced back a half-step. He grunts. "That was a nice little love tap you just supplied to me there, son, but I am afraid you will need to do somewhat better than that."
And no doubt, with the history that Luc has at the school, it isn't the first time he's heard that. Conversely though, has he ever fought a man with an oar before?
Lifting the butt of it off the ground, his response proves remarkably simple. He lifts it rather high up, and aims to just poke the other student with the blunt end, the butt. It shoots out swiftly, the boy using his considerable muscle, like a blunt spear aiming to force Luc back into the students behind him, if not right into the serving area for that fine, fine, FINE American cuisine.
COMBATSYS: Luc endures Preston's Medium Strike!
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Preston 0/-------/-----==|==-----\-------\0 Luc
Not the first time he's heard someone say his attacks were weak. He knows better. In fact, just yesterday--
--It doesn't really matter. Despite the tough act, Luc feels the blow strike cleanly despite what resistance Preston's massive body may provide. Chi crackles black lances of power around Luc's fist in the aftermath of his strike as Luc takes a single step backwards, looking rather unimpressed with Preston's reaction. What a big shot this guy thinks he is.
God damn Brits.
The oar swings. It might be the first time Luc's fought someone using an oar, but to him, a weapon is a weapon is a weapon. There's not real difference to this than a hammer or a knife; it's just as pathetic. Instead of trying to move out of the way of the strike, however, or even attempt to establish a decent guard, the young German rushes straight INTO the spearing oar. It strikes somewhat harshly, yet despite it Luc moves fluidly with the strike, maneuvering around so that it strikes his side rather than the dead center of his chest. He plows right through the attack, perhaps somewhat recklessly. But Luc doesn't care. He's just doing this for love of the fight.
"WEAK!" Roaring out, Luc extends a single hand, attempting to deliver a haymaker straight into the large Brit's face. If it connects, a sudden EXPLOSION of black-red chi follows it, lancing out to consume the oar-wielding fighter. Soon afterwards, Luc flips deftly into the air, seeking to strike powerful feet into Preston's chin in a flipping kick.
COMBATSYS: Preston blocks Luc's Riot Revolver.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////////// ]
Preston 0/-------/----===|==-----\-------\0 Luc
It seems that his opposition has somewhat of a fetish for harm. In fact, Preston would lecture his opponent concerning that, if not for the fact that Luc is surging on, instead of being hurled back. The oar clips his opponent's side, and it's out of position as the youth comes screaming in, fist first.
And what a violent little strike it proves to be, the fist impacting right into the Brit's face. He's rocked back as the explosion rolls out over him -- but still, he maintains his footing, even as he reels ever so slightly from the force of the blow. But as Luc flips up into the air, attempting to further insult him, those feet come into contact with something that isn't his jaw.
The oar stops the follow-up, and for a moment the Brit with the Oar simply stares up at the German as he's suspended in the air, momentarily held aloft by his sheer strength and the oar itself. "What was that about being weak?" he asks quietly, brows lifting faintly.
As gravity starts to set in though, the Brit lashes out. He pushes Luc off the oar -- and swings it about neatly, driving it upwards in an attempt to catch the Kraut square in the stomach, a vicious stab. And should he be unfortunate enough to be caught, he'll promptly be tossed over Preston's shoulder, towards more students and their tables.
COMBATSYS: Luc blocks Preston's Bunting Tosser.
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Preston 0/-------/----===|===----\-------\0 Luc
Well, at least this British punk has an interesting way of fighting. This is something of a boon for Luc. After all -- kicking the crap out of worthless losers all day gets kind of boring after a while. So, as he feets his foot crashing against a solid oar instead of Preston's jaw, Luc doesn't look startled. In fact... he looks very, very pleased.
He doesn't have much time to maintain this look of delight, though; grinning still, Luc knows that Preston is going to be preparing a counter to his strike in relatively short order. There are hushed murmurs amongst the cafeteria goers. Luc picking fights isn't uncommon. People lasting more than a single hit, however, is.
But, just as he begins to fall, Preston predictably launches his assault. Luc, however, is a bit quicker to react than Preston might think or hope. As soon as that oar swings around to lance into Luc's gut, two hands are swift to snap out and intercept the strike; grasping onto the oar with both hands, stinging just a little as he gets a solid grasp onto the weapon.
As soon as Preston swings to launch him, though, Luc moves with the momentum, releasing his hold on the oar in a split second. He arcs over Preston, seeking to get a solid grasp on the big man's head. If he makes a successful purchase, he'll use his own momentum as he falls forward to fling Preston RIGHT over HIS head, charging the man full of chi to send him flying through the air and crashing into the nearby tables instead of Luc himself. "I said... YOU'RE WEAK, YOU BIG ASSHAT!"
COMBATSYS: Preston endures Luc's Quick Throw.
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Preston 0/-------/--=====|====---\-------\0 Luc
It would seem that Preston is destined to last more than just the one hit; he's built like a brick shithouse, after all. Although an incredibly well muscled one! It would seem that Luc is predicting the course of events though, and that just won't do. So while the intended strike doesn't quite go to plan, the Oarwielder feels it. The shift in weight on the end of the oar, as the German makes his grab.
He anticipates in turn, and opts to see where it's all going to go. As he heaves Luc's weight backwards, it all unfolds; the other teen flips, gripping him by the back of the head, and sending him on a tumble of his own.
Momentum assists in shifting all of that weight. The Brit with the Oar is sent through the air, but he flips in the middle of it. All the same, he lands, crashing through a table, still sizzling with the chi he's been charged with. Rising from a three-point stance, he slashes with the oar to one side, dissipating the chi that Luc imbued him with. "Cute, you channel your energy quite well there, son," he says, smirk broad on his face. Is he really weak? It's a little too early to determine that, he thinks.
Lifting the oar, he starts a swift charge, particularly for a man of his size, towards Luc. The distance closed, he lashes out with the oar itself -- but it's intended to miss, to drive the German wide as his other hand lashes out to grip the boy by the shirt and lift him high! Should that succeed, there'll be a geyser of blue water to lift the boy even higher, into the roof of the Cafeteria.
COMBATSYS: Luc endures Preston's Cape Horn Fever.
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Preston 0/-------/=======|=======\-------\0 Luc
Marisol has arrived.
[OOC] Marisol STUMBLES IN DRUNK WOO
[OOC] Marisol says, "HEY GUYS DON'T FORGET I AM DURNK ROFL"
There. THAT'S more like it. THAT'S what he wants to see, Preston fighting like the massive mountain of a man he is, not like some prissy little squirt. Luc is all too pleased when the other man literally moves WITH his attack, daring to take the full force of that infusion of chi. Luc can feel it, and he knows well enough what's going to happen next. There is a moment's pause, as soon as the German releases Preston, for Luc to consider what the other man says.
"What the hell are you, forty? Who uses the word 'son'?"
There's really no time for the question to be answered, and Luc isn't looking for one. Preston charges like a madman, crashing into Luc with his oar -- but missing? The German looks perplexed for a moment as he moves to the side, just in time to be gripped and lifted into the air. Yet, there's no resistance. None whatsoever as Preston lifts him up nice and high. As soon as that geyser of chi-infused water blossoms out of seeming nothingness, Luc lets out a single, mighty bellow:
"GRRRRAAAAAAAH!!"
The moment he strikes the roof, something occurs. Energy ripples out from Luc's body in an uncontrollable wave of red and violet power, bursting from him in a shockwave that disperses the water; even evaporates it upon contact. Rubble falls from the roof as gravity overtakes Luc, his omnidirectional blast of chi spreading out to crash RIGHT into Preston in a most unpleasant way.
COMBATSYS: Preston fails to interrupt Heatwave from Luc with Queen's Regulations.
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Preston 1/------=/=======|=======\-------\1 Luc
There's a lack of resistance that Preston feels, as he hefts Luc up into the air, and it's almost... unnerving. But he's British; they don't get unnerved. "Your funeral," he states simply, verbally noting his opponent's lack, before the geyser bursts out, sending the German up into the ceiling. It's what follows that proves a little less by the book. The ceiling-bound boy lashes out, escaping his would-be prison with a blast of his own.
And that blast comes down for Preston, whose eyes widen just slightly from their usual squint. "Oh, bollocks," he states, hefting the oar once more. His intent was simple; to knock Luc and his would-be blast of chi right out of the air, but it doesn't quite pan out that way. The blast proves a little too fast for his reaction time, and instead the Brit is struck.
Knocked back, he slides to one knee this time. "Nearly knocked me over that time," he states, coming back to his feet, the oar held in front of him. That smirk remains. This isn't proceeding according to plan -- but then, his plan was just to get lunch.
HIS plan was to eat a good, juicy cheeseburger, but then Preston had to go and be big and use a giant oar. If that isn't giant flashing neon signs screaming 'FIGHT ME NOW PLEASE,' Luc really doesn't know what is.
Whatever the British boy was trying, it's just too slow. Luc lands solidly on his feet in a brief crouch, his eyes closing as he mutters some small, annoyed noise from deep within his throat. His fists clench. Preston is talking, making some boast. He doesn't really hear it.
Instead, the German is running in a mad dash across the the space created from his sudden outburst of chi. His shoes slap soundly against the carpetted floor as he becomes a blur of motion, leaping midway through with a single foot extended.
"What the HELL IS A BOLLOCKS?! Are you making fun of me?!" What is WITH people and their trying to use hard-to-understand words as insults?
Leg extended, Luc seeks one, simple thing: to jump-kick Preston right in the damn chest. It won't hit hard, but it will certainly hit fast, and it'll be accompanied by a sudden, lancing burst of black-blue chi to sear into the other student's sternum with the crack of his kick. "HRAGH!"
COMBATSYS: Luc successfully hits Preston with Light Kick.
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Preston 1/-----==/=======|=======\-------\1 Luc
It will be duly noted on the record that Preston simply ranted; he did not start this fight! Then again, the way kids are starting to ease out of the cafeteria, there might be further notes on records impending for both foreigners. "What the hell is bollocks, he says," the Brit echoes the words of his opponent with a slight shake of his head. With all of that momentum that Luc is building up, it's clear that a linear strike is inbound -- and indeed it does.
Once more, the youth fails to move. If anything, he accepts that Luc is coming right for him. The foot strikes him in the chest, and once more that chi lashes out -- but again, it hardly seems to faze the Brit with the Oar. He rocks back onto his heels.
"Look son, if I wanted to make fun of you, it'd have more to do with the fact that you're a fucking Kraut more than anything else," Preston replies, smirk broad on his face. The oar is brought about once more, as again time seems to stand still -- with Luc simply floating there in front of him, foot still in tight against his chest.
Naturally, the Brit lashes out in turn. He lifts his own foot, and aims to return the favor, lunging forward to force Luc back and then boot him square out of the air. For a big man, he sure can lift his legs pretty high!
COMBATSYS: Luc endures Preston's Light Kick.
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Preston 1/----===/=======|=======\==-----\1 Luc
People always gloating over him, pretending to be bigger than they really are. Luc, personally, is tired of it, and it shows in the absolutely irritated expression on his face when he strikes Preston right dead-center against his chest. The blow strikes clean, and Schroedinger is intent to simply push /off/ the other man and flip easily through the air... but it seems that the British oarsmen has other plans.
Plans that involve his massive foot being rammed right into Luc. The surge of motion is noted, but not defended against. Luc is seemingly trying to make a point here; he neither defends nor tries to outmaneuver (how the hell do you dodge in midair, anyway) the kick. Instead, he takes it full on to the dead-center of his chest with a massive grunt of effort on his face. But it's not one of pain, and if Preston were to look, he'd find the young German isn't expressing any torment, but rather...
... he just looks really, really pissed off.
"I--" Luc's body tenses the moment that Preston's freakishly large foot strikes him, "--am--" Black-violet chi surges around his leg, causing his entire form to waver, "--not--" Luc goes flying backward, and at the moment that backwards force begins... "--your--" He lashes out with a single boot aimed to sling itself into Preston's chin with ungodly force.
"--SON, YOU MORON!!"
COMBATSYS: Preston blocks Luc's Anschlag Ereignis.
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Preston 1/--=====/=======|=------\-------\0 Luc
It's amazing how fast one can move when one really wants to! In fact, let's look at what's just happened!
The German dropped his boot square into Preston's chest, who somehow had the time to heave Luc back and then kick him out of the air -- and at the same time, the latter still had time to bring his own boot into play once more, to strike at the Brit's jaw! It's amazing what they're able to do, as time seems to slow for both of them!
But wait, there's more!
That boot comes in, and it's blocked by the Brit's forearm. Catching Luc at the shin with it, he deflects most of the would-be blow, but that chi still crackles out and strikes him anyway. It stings, it hurts, it aches; and the Brit with the Oar might just be realizing that he's on his last legs. "Moron, eh?" he says, staring at the German as they somehow still manage to remain nice and tight with one another. "That's a big word; did your mother teach you that one?"
Insult or no, it seems that Preston decides it's time to make a stand. "Let me teach you something in turn." And in this case, making a stand means he's suddenly whirling in the other direction, the oar held wide. It cleaves the air with a violent whoosh, the blade held flat to allow it to slice and gain speed. And as the Brit completes his spin, it's that very oar that is twisted, the flat of it aiming to catch Luc square in the back -- and send him sailing clear into next week!
Or, well. Into the closest available object, be that student, table or fine American cuisine!
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Luc with Man Overboard!.
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Preston 0/-------/------=|======-\-------\0 Luc
[OOC] Marisol says, "Wow Luc. That seemed to hurt. D:a"
[OOC] Luc says, "Just a li'l."
[OOC] Marisol bandages Luc. D:
That's no good; the fact that Luc's assault is preemptively cut short by Preston's large forearm sends off 'oh shit' signals all across Luc's brain, making his brows furrow as the other man starts to... spin? Luc lands roughly in a crouch, looking at the other man as he seems to make a massive fool of himself by spinning around like an idiot. So what does Schroedinger do?
He rushes RIGHT INTO Preston.
It's not particularly smart, but then, Luc is prided more on his instincts than anything else. And it seems that today those instincts are not going to quite pay off. At least, not in this case. Because instead of powering straight through that swing as was his original intention, he's instead swatted like a big fly, sent flying like a ragdoll and crashing into a table. And then a chair. And then a student. And then another chair. Eventually the chair, student, table, chair combination help to stop his momentum, sending Luc to a crashing hault many feet away from Preston. Blood dribbles down his lip.
Now that... that actually HURT. Just as much as Preston, Luc is verging on his last legs now, slowly stumbling back onto his feet. "... guh... no, mom's dead." He finally says with an almost casual ease, spitting out blood and wiping his hand across his face. He pauses, stares at Preston. "That was a nice shot." And then...
... he just leaps /right/ at the other man.
It's a single leap that sends Luc RIGHT at the feet of the other man, his body crouched low. Tensed up completely, Luc proceeds to leap STRAIGHT into the air in a straight vertical launch, aiming to smash a single, powerful boot STRAIGHT into Preston's solar plexus, followed by a bursting lance of blue-violet chi to burn flesh and send the large Brit tumbling back
COMBATSYS: Luc successfully hits Preston with Tyrant Strike.
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Preston 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\0 Luc
[OOC] Preston says, "'mom's dead eh, son. guess i rode her too hard'"
[OOC] Preston says, "oh things i can never have my characters say"
[OOC] Luc says, "whoa--so i guess you really are my dad"
[OOC] Marisol walks OUT.
[OOC] Luc says, "MARISOL MEET MY DADDY :)"
[OOC] Marisol gone.
Aaaaaaaand away Luc goes! The cleave of a strike is violent, to say the least, the impact rough and rather destructive for the surrounds. The crack of oar on body is almost deafening, and the result, well.
Preston leans casually on his oar, watching as the German tumbles on a ways before finally coming to a halt. In fact, by the time Luc gets back to his feet, the man is busy getting some dirt out from under one of his nails. Pesky little... But at the opponent's words, and then the seeming compliment, those hazel eyes glance up. There's no apology for the little shot at a deceased mother; there's no time for that, not as the boy leaps right down in front of him.
He'd half-expected Luc to stay down after that strike, but it seems the boy has other things in mind. Like that leap, and the shattering explosion of chi that comes with the impact of boot to stomach. Preston's eyes bulge as he's hit in a rather tender spot -- albeit at a bad angle -- only to have his body set alight. He staggers back, coughing thanks to his plexus being struck. But still, he does not fall. Just when is he going to lose his footing? The Brit has proven himself to be quite the tank of flesh.
The flames dissipate. Preston stands there, staring down at Luc, just as he did when this all began. "Been a fun fight," he states rather simply, giving his opponent a nod.
And then he brings the oar up, aiming to jab it square into Luc's junk.
Then, and only then, does he sink down to his knees, in need of a breather.
COMBATSYS: Preston can no longer fight.
[ \\\\ <
Luc 0/-------/=======|
[OOC] Marisol ROFL!!
[OOC] Luc says, "CLEARLY I MUST"
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Luc with Weapon Jab.
[ \ <
Luc 1/------=/=======|
[OOC] Luc says, "DAMMIT"
That's just about it, then. Luc delivers what he's sure is the final strike, plowing into Preston like a madman. He likely could have fought a bit more sanely, but really, that wouldn't prove his point. And besides -- it wouldn't nearly be as fun.
By the time Luc strikes, a good chunk of the right half of the cafeteria is in ruins, and at least one student is knocked unconscious thanks to the Luc Cannonball that Preston made with the gigantic swing of his oar. Luc, too, is on his last legs, wobbling just a little as he lands from his sudden, explosive strike. Yet, much like the Brit, he doesn't fall. He teeters, on the brink of it, and then--
--And then he's struck right in the balls.
There is a pause. Luc doesn't even register what's happened before he looks down at the oar shoved between his legs. He blinks once, than looks back to Preston. "What... kind of queer--" And then he topples. It's all pretty inelegant; Luc falls straight backwards, letting out a low groan of pain before falling flat on his ass, muttering several obscenities as he goes. He's done for, finished. But it seems like Preston's in just as bad a shape.
"Stupid... British punks."
There's a long moment of silence after this statement, before Luc pulls his legs up in front of him, crossing his arms over his knees. "... Yo. Ape-dude," He starts, looking to see if the man is listening -- or still conscious. Who knows. "this stupid girl I know is starting a team up. For, y'know, fighting. How about you ditch that rowing team or whatever and come join us? What do you say?" Apparently Luc still hasn't gotten it through his head that Preston really uses the oar for fighting rather than playing on Pacific High's non-existent rowing team.
COMBATSYS: Luc can no longer fight.
[OOC] Marisol says, "HEY."
Somewhere, Marisol sneezes.
[OOC] Luc LOL
With the oar jammed right into Luc's junk, Preston decides he's going to need to clean that thing rather badly once he's... able to get back to his feet. Having fallen to his knees, the Brit remains there, heaving a few panting breaths as he attempts to recover. Pulling his oar back out from where it's been trapped, he leans upon it once more. He's far from unconscious, it would seem; and the only sign that he's really down and out is the fact that he's not getting back up. And the fact that he fell to his knees in the first place.
The Brit with the Oar glances over at Luc as the equally fallen opponent starts rambling on about something. "You serious? Starting a team up huh? For... what, precisely?" This would be the point where the needle screeches off the record. Is Preston... not aware of the whole fighting leagues, and all of that jazz? Or is he simply playing dumb?
"Furthermore, is this stupid girl you know cute?"
The important questions have been asked. Whether Luc will be forthcoming with the information or not remains another story entirely. "I might just meet her myself. And if you call me Ape-dude again, I will make it my business to ensure you never have children, 'son.' What's your real name?" He gathers himself enough to push back to his feet, although he's still leaning heavily on the oar.
What for, precisely? Luc stares silently at Preston for a long, unnerving moment as everything else around them seems to simply be blot out. He stares at Preston like one might stare at a crazy person, or one of the mentally retarded. Is Preston serious?
Slowly, he pushes himself back onto his feet, hardly looking worse for wear beyond the remnants of blood smeared across his bottom lip. He stretches out, letting out a brief yawn before he finally answers the British boy's question. "It's a team... for /FIGHTING./ Did you not hear me the first time? Geeze, you're dumb." Luc figures that should explain all of Preston's questions. It probably doesn't, but then again, Marisol would probably be more effective at explaining these things than him. To Luc, it's all just self-explanatory.
Luc starts to turn to leave, but something Preston says catches his notice. His question causes Luc to pause, turn again, and stare at Preston with a mildly flustered and irritated expression. "... wha? Why does it matter if she's cute? This is a fighting team, not a cute team." That sounded lame, even to Luc. So he just mutters, turns, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. No, Preston's not going to get an answer on that, either, except -- "She hits like a guy." And that suffices it.
"Whatever, 'Ape-dude,'" Luc's shoulder's lift into a shrug as he turns again, "Tell me your name and maybe I'll call you something different. As for me?" And then he starts walking. He's lost his appetite. "My name's Luc Schroedinger. Go see Marisol if you're interested." Because Luc doesn't particularly feel like putting forth the effort of explaining.
It would seem that Preston is indeed serious. So after the question is made, and Luc just stares at him... the Brit is left to roll his eyes. Particularly at the attempt to explain further. "Guess I'll just Google it," he says to himself, turning away in kind. But his further question gets an answer.
This girl 'hits like a guy.'
Then and there, he envision what this woman--Marisol, as he shortly finds out upon Luc saying the name--must look like. She must be five-ten, easy. Probably built all unsightly. Her hair's bound to be a mess. She probably looks like Hurley on Lost, he decides, and shudders for the thought. He's suddenly not so sure he wants to go and see this girl for himself, but it's a small school; it's bound to happen.
"Preston Wellington," he introduces himself over one shoulder. And with that all said and done, he strides off in the opposite direction, leaving the introductions at that -- and saying nothing regarding the team. It wasn't exactly nice to meet Luc, after all. And perhaps he's leaning on the oar just a little bit. If every meeting he makes at this school is going to go like this, it's going to be one hell of a ride.
[OOC] Luc says, "every other meeting will probably be flavored with colorful groinshots"
[OOC] Preston says, "OARSOME"
Log created by Preston, and last modified on 06:02:57 05/06/2007.