Description: Preston tries to take a load off, only to get attacked by puss in boots! What an opening attack...
It's been a long day. They all are, really, when you've got revenge on the mind and vengeance in your heart. And smoke in your lungs. "Man I should quit," the Brit says to himself as he snuffs out his cigarette, before clearing said lungs rather messily. A wet spit later, and he's actually stepping out of the cold and into the building itself. The main school building; squat by comparison to the other schools, but it's to be expected. This late at night, it's a wonder that it's open at all -- but some kids like to make use of the library after dark, to further their stifling educations.
Preston could really care less. He's tired, weary in the very bones -- his uncle has been at him after school, a long and annoying training session with one of the masters of the Ancient Maritime Arts, and returning to the dorms... he just doesn't feel like it, not just yet anyway.
That's why he stalks through the school, oar slanted across his shoulders. A walking wall of muscle, he somehow finds his way towards the rooftop -- where some students still loiter, staring up at the sky. The astronomy club, all three members, is in attendance on an otherwise clear night. There's even a couple off in the shadows, enjoying some private time.
For his part, the Brit simply finds a vacant bit of rooftop and plunks his ass down on it, a weary sigh leaving his bones as the oar is rested beside him. The burden is heavy sometimes. He's tempted to reach for his smokes.
Where Preston goes, people stop and look. It comes with the territory of hefting a massive oar around with you wherever you wander. And when you're going to school at a place like Pacific High, you're going to have a hard time keeping to yourself and not sticking out like a sore thumb. That's just how things are.
Through an otherwise vacant school the Brit wanders, and eventually his feet lead him to the top of the school's roof. Here, he finds himself a bit of peace and quiet after a particularly long day, save for the mess of students scattered about. They could care less about the likes of him, however imposing he may be. Everyone else's interests are far more invested in the likes of...well, whatever the hell they're doing, be it stargazing or making out.
Or smoking.
Finally, Preston has peace and quiet. Finally, he can take a moment to simply relax and be at ease.
"Hey, Fish n' Chips," a voice, particularly feminine, chimes up from behind.
A kick to his head follows.
At least the peace, however brief, was good while it lastest.
COMBATSYS: Marisol has started a fight here.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Preston has joined the fight here.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Preston
COMBATSYS: Marisol successfully hits Preston with Medium Kick.
- Power hit! -
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|==-----\-------\0 Preston
[OOC] Marisol says, "So Preston's weakness is his head, not his balls."
[OOC] Marisol takes notes.
[OOC] Preston says, "which head did she kick"
[OOC] Marisol says, "Ummmm"
[OOC] Marisol says, "THE ONE ON HIS NECK?"
[OOC] Marisol says, "AND BY NECK I DON'T MEAN SHAFT"
[OOC] Marisol says, "JUST TO BE CLEAR."
[OOC] Preston says, "i don't follow"
The chance for some peace and quiet was indeed too tempting to pass. That's why he sought the floor, to simply sit and enjoy the relative calm -- to give his mind a chance to unwind so that he may forget the day and actually allow his body to rest. The discussion there, at his uncle's area of training -- the lower decks of a ship -- had been heated. In fact, just sitting there, thinking about that topic of conversation, causes his fists to tighten and his--
'Hey, Fish n' Chips!'
The call turns his head. Has someone actually found a place in this town where the much sought after meal can be obtained?!
His initial flurry of hope turns into something else as a shoe impacts into his cheek, causing his head to reel from left around to right. He actually spits in the motion, saliva hitting the ground as he nearly falls over in his seated position.
But even seated, it seems the Brit has trouble in toppling. A hand stops his descent, and he spends a moment simply staring at the ground. Then, annoyed by the copper taste in his mouth, he spits fresh blood onto the pavement.
The astronomy club is watching. "What... the hell was that?" he questions, mildly angered gaze turning towards the owner of the boot. Preston doesn't get up, not just yet.
COMBATSYS: Preston focuses on his next action.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|==-----\-------\0 Preston
Alas, all good things must come to an end, and Preston's comfort is clearly no exception. A harsh mistress, Marisol O'Connell likely tracked the young Brit down when he first reentered Pacific after a long day of working like a dog. Not about to let him just slack off, she makes a particularly bold and daring move.
She kicks him square in the head with surprising impact. That alone, coupled with the dramatic twist of his head on his broad shoulders, draws a few errant gazes toward him, surprised. Then they look to his assailant. Oh. It's HER. Business resumes as usual for some, there upon the rooftop of Pacific High.
Lifting her hands from her sides, Marisol rests them gently upon her curvy hips, lips split into a broad smirk as she looks down at the young man. While not toppled, his clumsiness is enough to amuse the fiery half-Spaniard, eyes hooded in delight. What the hell was that, he asks of her. Marisol simply lifts her chin and turns her head to one side.
"It's payback for last time," she states. A strange pause follows, her expression mildly puzzled before her eyes flare a bit and a finger juts forward, straight for his face. "Not to mention it seems to ME that you think you're too good to join my team." Her gaze is as stern and attentive as his, those gray depths peering intently down at the Brit.
"And I don't really like that."
COMBATSYS: Marisol focuses on her next action.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|==-----\-------\0 Preston
Instead of getting up and immediately retaliating, the Brit sees fit to simply return to resting. His hands go back behind him, and he rests his weight onto his arms. His gaze falls upon her, eyes briefly wandering as they're prone to do with this one. "Payback's a bitch," he says rather simply, the implication clear; she's the bitch.
The momentary wittiness draws a smirk to his face, and he cocks his head to one side. "You ever get that thong of yours back?"
But with that look on her face, and the way she's staring at him, he can see where this is going; he pushes himself back up to feet, grumbling all the way back up to his impressive height. Wearing his coat instead of the blazer, he sighs and strips that off. Carefully folding it, he places it to the side, and then undoes several of the buttons of his shirt. "You've got a team, do you?
"I'm all for gay and lesbian rights, but seriously; I don't bat that way. What's your name again? I think that foot of yours must have knocked that particular detail out of my head..."
He might be playing dumb, he might be trying to distract her -- or maybe he simply doesn't know. All the same, he cracks the knuckles on one hand, and then reaches for her with the other. Preston just wants her wrist, then he's going to throw her into a very hard object. His chest.
COMBATSYS: Marisol fails to interrupt Quick Throw from Preston with Rolling Star.
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Marisol 0/-------/-----==|==-----\-------\0 Preston
Meeting that hazel gaze of his, Marisol looks amused, albeit her demeanor is arrogant and cocky at best. Even his remark earns him little more than a broad smirk, nostrils lightly flaring as she snorts. "Indeed," she replies. Yes, she knows she's a bitch. No one ever said Marisol was a NICE person. Ask anyone.
As for her thong? "What makes you think I had my panties raided?" she retorts, her eyes hooding briefly before she shrugs her shoulders in a casual roll. "Furthermore, what makes you think I'd let them get away with it?" She was looking out for the girls on her floor, you see.
Her attentions seem a bit bemused as he readies himself, however, brows knit as he begins to unbutton his shirt. "What the hell?" she observes, tossing a hand idly about at shoulder level. "You don't need to undress yourself if you're going to retaliate." Pause. "BeSIDES, I'm not the least bit impressed." Take that!
"Yeah, a team. The one I kind of recall inviting you to join as you decided to lumber away there, Gigantor." She begins to talk civilly, but oh. He just has to be an asshole. Frowning sharply, the young woman's fist begins to illuminate in the darkness. "Here, let me remind you," she begins, as he comes charging forward. Just as she begins to swing her hand forward he snares her wrist, causing her to growl quite audibly.
Before she grunts, impacting his chest rather forcefully.
There's a soft laugh from the Brit as he rises. "Well if they weren't stolen, they're in a bunch anyway. Presuming you even wear anything under that," he adds the latter, giving a nod to the outfit she wears. Hey, he doesn't mind, really.
As for his undressing, he simply rolls his eyes. "You're here to settle a grudge. I'm tired as hell, but I'm going to indulge you--but I'm not going to do it in my damn coat." Is she not impressed? He doesn't care; he knows he's somewhat of a spectacle anyway. His body's a temple; sadly, it comes with a smoking chimney. Unbuttoning his top does reveal just how buff he is beneath, after all -- plus clearly, it does give him a broader range of movement.
When she starts calling him names though, it seems he's had enough. He lashes for her, his broad hand encircling her wrist, and simply slams her against his body. Her grunt is echoed by his own, but for the moment he simply holds her in place -- and then tilts her chin up to look at him.
"I've got a name, bitch. Consider using it. Now what the hell are you on about with this team nonsense?" Perhaps he's not playing as dumb as he may appear; perhaps he genuinely does not understand the implications. He's British, after all.
And since he already has her in the palm of his hand, he abruptly winks down at her -- and moves to grab her by the collar, to abandon her wrist for this new grip instead. Lifting her clear of her feet, he strikes more directly than he has previously. Water erupts, but from behind him -- a splash of it aiming straight for her shirt!
She's caught him in an odd mood, definitely.
COMBATSYS: Marisol interrupts Cape Horn Fever from Preston with Iron Butterfly.
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Marisol 0/-------/---====|=====--\-------\0 Preston
"Oh, a real comedian, ha ha! Let's all laugh at the comedy Brit!" Tipping her head up, she presses a finger to her nose and pushes it up, a "stuffy" and arrogant (and clearly stereotypical) gesture mean to bite into his heritage. "Ho ho ho, gov!" A brief moment later she's got her arms at her sides again, rising up into a boxer's stance. Those gray eyes never once leave him. He could almost take it as flattery, were she not so seemingly intent on punching him in the face.
"Who CARES about your coat?" she barks, smoky grays hooding in irritation before her fist catches fire with chi. Just as she's about to strike out against him he snares her and simply uses his body as the nearest solid surface. It seems entirely effective.
The moment he's got her looking up at him, however, he's met with an annoyed glare. "Yeah, it's Red Coat," she quips. As for the team, "You know, a goddamned team. We stick together and beat up people, potentially for fun and profit. Don't you know ANYTHING?" Her head jerks sharply to one side, freeing her chin from his hand.
Water. Again with the water. Well, Marisol had a remedy for that before, and she'll show it to him again. Her free and capable hand jerks up, fingers glowing as she swipes a swath of energy at his person. Those fingers make contact and, upon doing so, encase him in chi as the waters strike her. Snared, the energies within suddenly spike inwardly before they erupt into a display of numerous little chi butterflies, which flutter into the night. It'd be pretty...if it didn't sting.
"You ASS," she growls, lifting a hand to grab at her shirt and yank it outward, to look at the water on it. "I just had this CLEANED. I didn't need a second wash, you pervert."
The attempt to slam his heritage hardly seems to matter. "You look like a pig when you do that," he informs her, before it all unfolds. It isn't long before she's been slammed by his sudden burst of water, and he in turn is encased in a yellow bubble -- and then spiked, pain lancing through his body.
As the butterflies flutter away, Preston takes a step or two back, the grimace on his face plain. There's hurt upon hurt now, his uncle's prior handiwork only compounded by the expert use of chi from the girl across from him. "Stop flattering yourself," he informs her simply, letting those clear eyes roll as he appeals to the heavens.
"You're nothing special. If I wanted a perv, I'd go after any of the other girls in class." He calls it as he sees it, heedless of whether or not Marisol will actually be hurt by his words; he doubts it. She's made of sterner stuff than that, he's sure. "And it's just water-- manifested from chi, no less. You'll be dry pretty damn quick."
Rolling his right wrist, he considers his options. Really, he should collect his oar; it's just over there, on the floor. He holds off on that though. "So you want me to join a team with you and that Kraut? I don't fancy being a third wheel, you know what I mean?" Does she? He won't elaborate, if she doesn't. "Let me get this straight though; you want to form a gang?"
Lifting his own dukes, he assumes a rather bad mockery of her pose. He even dances from one foot to the next, before striking out with a foot, aiming to kick her in the calf.
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Marisol with Light Kick.
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Marisol 0/-------/-======|======-\-------\0 Preston
His insult falls upon deaf ears - by now he's being snared by yellow chi, introduced to an interesting world of pain. Backing off just as the sphere explodes, she sports a wry grin, eyes fixed on the tall Englishman before her. Maybe that will learn him to keep his fat mouth shut, she wonders. He talks too much. Like Luc.
"Flattering myself? What ARE you talking about?" He explains. She's not special. He'd go after another girl in the class if he wanted to. Smirking to herself, the girl's eyes narrow considerably, her jaw locking into place briefly. Is she mad? Upset? Angry? It's almost difficult to discern; she's like seeing double-vision with her half-angry half-amused sort of expression on tanned features.
Then she laughs, rather sharply at that. Right at him. If she were near, she'd likely do so in his face. "You? Good luck trying to SNAG yourself someone interested in a behemoth like you, buddy. You'll need it." She can fling them back - she's proven herself to BE tougher stuff than that.
"Uh, did I say a gang?" she replies, though his mocking gesture earns him a harsh glare, followed by a sharp frown. Kicked in the calf, she jars a little. It stung, yeah, but it was nothing to write home about. Instead, those eyes roll up to meet his. "Let me show you somethin' I've been trying to perfect," she states...before she lashes a fist into his gut. Should it land she'll try to grab him by the face and show him her knee.
Somehow.
COMBATSYS: Preston endures Marisol's Fierce Punch.
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Marisol 0/-------/=======|=======\-------\1 Preston
When she retorts, he kicks her. That's how it works, isn't it? You show a girl that you like her by causing her physical harm? Luckily, this isn't preschool, and Preston actually just means to try and lower some of her mobility; he knows she's the faster. She should be, considering that he's something like twice her weight.
As he's about to respond though, she lashes out; the fist plummets into his middle, meeting some rather unforgiving abdominal muscles before she lifts her knee right up into his face. It causes him to take a step or two back, the pain momentarily blinding. "Fuck," he exhales, the grimace on his face plain; getting hit in the nose hurts, even when your body is coated in muscle.
He spends a moment rubbing his rather sore nose. "Nice combination, I guess," he says, since she did indeed show him something. It suits her, he supposes; she's a relentless little fighter. Kind of like a beaver.
Preston has been remarkably civil thus far -- normally he's swearing up a storm, or running his mouth. The hand at his nose lowers, his fists still held up. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, but we both know there are girls interested. Come on, do I need to flex these things? Even an ice queen like you has to admit it's an impressive physique." Just as he threatens to do just that, to lift his arms and actually flex his muscles, he relents -- and instead closes the gap, attempting to bury a meaty fist into her midriff.
"It's nothing personal. You're just not my type. So what's your gang going to do for profit? Shake the other kids down for their trust funds?"
COMBATSYS: Marisol interrupts Medium Strike from Preston with Red Clover.
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Marisol 1/-----==/=======|=======\====---\1 Preston
Fast or not, his intentions follow through rather successfully. Struck in the leg, the girl staggers, but she does not fall or cry out. Instead she simply grits her teeth, biting back the sting as those smoky depths narrow. Swinging her face up, she meets his with a resolved expression. She will make him fall. Mark her works, she assures herself.
She starts by introducing him to a little number he seems willing to take head-on. It surprises her a bit, but she doesn't show it; instead, the half-Spaniard follows through by grabbing his face and showing him her knee. It's a very involved process with Preston, as it requires her to actually leap OFF the ground to do so. That seemed to do the trick.
Marisol grins to herself. It's a fleeting expression.
"Thanks," she states. "I was saving it for you." She's a little liar. Nevermind she used it against that annoying-as-hell teacher at Justice High. But that's beside the point. It's the thought which counts, she wagers.
"What do you care about girls anyway," she asks, rather bluntly. "There's more important things to worry about. Like beating me up right now. If you're not careful, you're going to get in trouble. Understand?" If he doesn't, she even bends forward and points a long finger at her temple. "As for your physique, maybe. But muscle ain't everything."
When he steps in to punch her, Marisol meets him by suddenly bursting forward. The punch lands. ..but she suddenly jerks up and at him, a foot clipping him in the jaw before she lands. Punching him thrice, the last ends with a hook to his face and blast of chi, to send him flying in the direction her fist was traveling.
"Beat people up. Fight in tournaments. Like I said. Stop thinking about girls and pay attention, you oaf." Her grin widens as she bends forward, hands resting on her hips again. It's a devious expression she sports. "See? I told you that you would get in trouble."
It seems that, indeed, Preston may have his mind on other things -- or he may simply be too tired to actually fight her properly. That wet t-shirt probably isn't helping him either. "I'm flattered," he replies to her declaration, or bold faced lie, that the move was saved just for him. The sarcasm is hard to discern from his normal, dry way of speech. It flows on to the next topic of conversation though; "Why would I want to beat you up again? You're much more amusing when you're conscious."
Amusing, is she? It would almost seem so, from just how neutral his expression remains; he doesn't even smirk. It's better than a frown. And while he may ask the question, he nevertheless moves in to strike at her.
Again though, he finds himself on the backwards foot. She moves in to meet him, softening his blow by forcing him back with a foot to the jaw. That only sets him up to another of her quick little combos -- fists rain into his middle, and then a vicious hook sends him skidding backwards along the rooftop.
He grunts, and once more there's a wet spit to one side. "If I need some dental work after this, I hope your daddy can get his cheque book out..." he warns her, before cracking his neck rather loudly. With a heavy sigh, he finally limbers his arms up -- and then kicks his oar up into his hands.
And with it in hand, he simply leans on it for the moment. "Tournaments, huh? What if I don't want to be seen on every television across the globe?" It seems that, despite the way he acts, he's at least somewhat familiar with the topic of conversation. The fight takes a backseat as he gathers his breath. Really, he's tired; can he be blamed? "You gotta understand, I might be here for a reason, toots. What's the benefit to this team thing that I can't get by my lonesome?"
COMBATSYS: Preston gains composure.
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Marisol 1/-----==/=======|=======\==-----\1 Preston
Something has his mind elsewhere, and that is not a good thing.
"Good, you should be," she counters easily, grinning broadly. As for beating her up, "Because it's fun. Because I came up here and kicked you in the head. That's reason enough, right?" Besides, a fight never hurts, she figures. It'd do him some good - and makes her feel better for their last encounter. That was embarrassing, to say the least.
Amusing, though? That earns him an odd look. It passes quickly. Her mind is elsewhere when he lashes out at her; erupting into action, she kicks his face before she punches him swiftly, the final blow kissing his jaw with a burst of yellowy chi. He goes flying, but he does not fall. It's ALMOST frustrating.
"Quit whining already," she groans, slapping a hand to her forehead before she eases into her stance. Ohhh, is he getting serious now? The fact he picks his trusty oar up seems to be a good sign, and brings a wide, delightfully thrilled grin to her lips. That's more like it!
But he is such a mood killer. "Then I guess you won't amount to anything with your talent, huh?" she asks, hands falling to her hips as she lifts her head to one side. "I guess fading into obscurity with all that hard work is what you would like as an existence." Her hand moves, a thumb jerking to her chest. "Me? Not so much. I'm going to prove myself to the world, and I'll gladly bring people along with me, those who want to get stronger, fight stronger people and prove themselves. We'll work together to achieve that."
For once, she seems ALMOST like a leader.
A grin passes her full lips as she shrugs helplessly.
"Buuuut, hey. I guess if you don't want something like that you can always just go back into fading away into obscurity as little more than a dainty British boy with his trusty oar. Nothin' more."
Almost.
COMBATSYS: Marisol gains composure.
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Marisol 1/-------/=======|=======\==-----\1 Preston
"Hitting a woman might sound like fun for you, but that's probably because you've been hit a few too many times around the head, girl," Preston informs her simply, that smirk reappearing momentarily. He otherwise leans on the oar. "You're a worry, you know that? I can think of much better things to be doing with a girl than fighting her." She's not his, type right?
It seems they both take the time to take a little breather, and otherwise chat about what it is she's offering him. And he listens, to all of it. Right down to the bitter end. "Some leader you'd be, with a mouth like that," he drolly informs her, those clear eyes rolling again.
He chews on her words though. It's an interesting proposition, he must admit; although he's not so sure about the Kraut. "What possible reason do you have to prove yourself?" he asks her. It's a rather serious question, and he's fully aware of it; it's why he delivers it with a downright serious expression on his face. A mood killer? He sure can be, but it seems that that is the question he wants to ask her, if she's so intent on recruiting him onto this team of hers.
But with the oar in hand, he opts to finally use it. He lifts it overhead, and starts twirling it above him in a slow circle. "Let me show you something then. Marisol, right?"
What he'll show her will be something rather nice, if she's unable to pick up the sudden swell of chi DIRECTLY beneath her. Abruptly it bursts upwards, a geyser flushing up to catch her--!
COMBATSYS: Marisol blocks Preston's Azimuth Circle.
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Marisol 1/-----==/=======|==-----\-------\0 Preston
Looking briefly stunned by his remark, Marisol's jaw drops slightly before she purses her lips tightly, gray eyes narrowed. "And what precisely does that mean?" she argues, tilting her head slightly before she simply tosses her head, coppery red locks spilling past her shoulders. "Pft, if you're calling me dumb you're going the wrong way about it. If anything I'm tough." The latter, however, gives her reason to pause before she - again - narrows her eyes. "And I'm a worry? Stop worrying about ME and worry more about yourself!"
Even after all that "pep talk," Preston seems to have a mouth on him, and that remark causes her to simply scoff, slender arms folding across her chest. "I'm a perfectly fine leader," she argues, lifting her chin arrogantly. "Luc doesn't seem to have a problem with me, and why should you. You like to fight, right?" A finger thrusts forward, pointing square at Preston's chest. "And if you join the team, you'll get to do a lot of it, for profit, too. And fun. And to train. What've you got to lose?"
As for proving herself... Marisol scoffs. "Why not? I want to prove that I'm just as good as any of the famous fighters out there, because someday I'M going to be famous. You just wait and see. And you'd be a fool to not believe me." That said, the girl slides a foot back and lifts her arms, fists clenched.
Then he moves. The oar twirling overhead, Marisol looks mildly bemused before she picks up on the swell of chi beneath her feet. The initial geyser noted, Marisol leaps back just as the waters rise, the energy stinging slightly, but not damaging her. She's out of dodge. For now.
"Why do you care why I want to prove myself anyway??" she cries back, eyes hooding as she glares at the Brit. "Well?!"
COMBATSYS: Marisol focuses on her next action.
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Marisol 1/-----==/=======|==-----\-------\0 Preston
"What don't I have to lose?" comes Preston's response, the smirk residing on his face perhaps just a touch playful; this is certainly better than the last conversation he had with her. Even if he's still tasting blood. "You're wanting me to throw myself out there on television; like I said, what if I'm not alright with that?"
It proves a question of little consequence though, as he twirls that oar overhead. Despite her response, he holds off on answering -- instead he beckons worth a considerable swell of chi, erupting it beneath her in a geyser of somewhat epic proportions. It's like a fountain -- but sadly, she's too keenly aware of the shift, and makes good in her evasive backfooting.
Shaking his head, Preston mentally berates himself; he should have summoned that in faster. He's weary from training, he can feel it; this battle is rapidly shifting out of his control. So he opts to take another breather, and continue their chat.
"I care, if you can call it that, luv," he begins, "because you're wanting to what, be my leader? You can stow that idea right away. Nobody leads this bull, you get me?" The oar thuds into the roof beside him, and he takes to leaning once more. "And your motives are important, if you do intend on being this big leader figure. The Kraut though? Really? Him?"
He leans forward, and he actually grins; "You two knocking boots?"
COMBATSYS: Preston gains composure.
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Marisol 1/-----==/=======|=------\-------\0 Preston
"Like I'd know?" she quickly snaps, looking mildly annoyed at his response, despite the smirk that lingers on his face. HE might be amused, but it's clear that Marisol is finding herself increasingly disappointed in the oar-wielding Brit. "I don't even know much about you, aside that you're from England. And you wave an oar around. Seriously - why ask a question like that? If you'd rather just enjoy being alone, then you're welcome to."
She's not going to bother trying to persuade him otherwise. It should prove SOMETHING she seems mildly persistent on getting him to just give in and join.
"You don't HAVE to, you daft idiot," the redhead snaps again. "I was just saying. Teams do team stuff together. What, do I need to draw you a picture or somethin'? Use that fat head of yours for a little thinking some time." Tossing her head idly, Marisol lightly snorts.
As for the latter, however. "Whatever," she ultimately growls, before she lunges forward and attempts to kick Preston in the knee with the toe of her shoe, to take his legs out from underneath his body! "Shut up, stop being a coward and fight already!"
COMBATSYS: Marisol successfully hits Preston with Medium Throw.
- Power hit! -
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Marisol 1/----===/=======|===----\-------\0 Preston
The time for talk fails by the wayside, for the moment at least; she states her case, she calls him names, and then she's charging in on the attack. A meager defense is offered by the Brit -- but she's tiny by comparison, and he weary. She slides past it easily, driving the toe of her shoe into his knee. It causes him to stagger, the knee half-buckling -- but he does not fall.
Despite his size, despite his weariness, he somehow maintains his footing. And with her up close and personal, he does the sensible thing; he tries to club her into the ground with one of his arms.
There, in that pivotal moment with him attempting to regain his stance, he finds the urge to chat; "My fat head's no match for your fat arse, luv." And then he has it -- his feet find purchase, and he's pushing back towards her.
Surging forward with a brief bit of strength, he does more than simply find his footing -- he suddenly barrels forward, his massive right bicep suddenly attempting to clobber Marisol's pretty little head right off!
COMBATSYS: Marisol interrupts Running Rigging from Preston with Bee Sting.
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Marisol 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\0 Preston
Moving in, the fiery girl's foot whips out, intent on dropping the large man to his rear or, hopefully, back, but alas, his bulk does not allow. Instead, he staggers and buckles, ultimately keeping his footing about him. Stepping back, the girl sports a frown, her expression set in resolve. She looks determined for whatever unknown reason. Maybe she DOES want him to join?
She lingers close, however, fair, sun kissed features gazing upon the Brit with that same determined expression. His arm lashes out, but the girl lets it hit. She grunts upon impact, but otherwise holds her ground impressively against his brute force. "Ass jokes? Really, can't you do better than that, Preston?"
A ghost of a smirk lingers on her lips.
When he attempts to find his footing the young half-Spaniard whips a fist up from her side, sending it driving for his chest. What is interesting about it is the fact a surge of fiery, dandelion yellow chi is consuming that fist, forming a ‘point' around her knuckles. A point which she suddenly drives forward into his chest, the impact alone exploding, causing his body to fly back if he's not careful.
"Listen," she replies, dropping her arms to her sides, panting softly as she stands there. "If you weren't remotely interested in joining the team, you wouldn't have come to find me, right? Luc told me he sent you, and you did. Now you're sayin' otherwise?" A sharp frown crosses her lips. "I'm not sure what your goal in life is, but why don't you let us help you achieve it together, huh?" Pausing, the redhead exhales, shoulder sagging deeply, almost defeated.
"‘sides, you'd made a good addition to the team," she adds.
Despite the fact that his impressive bicep is screaming for her face, the girl is silly enough to stay in the path. He has to hand it to her; she's got balls. That would probably explain a few things.
But can he do better than that? It seems that he isn't to have the chance to respond, as he's suddenly struck deep into the chest. The impact, the force of her thrust, explodes across his body -- he is driven back, feet sliding across the rooftop. The only thing that stops him from falling is the hasty slam of his oar, the blade of it actually wedging into the pavers to stop his impromptu retreat.
The Brit sports a grimace, listening as she speaks to him. And listen he does, although he corrects her on one thing; "Toots, you sought me out," he reminds her, a hand lifting to poke at his cheek where she delivered that first substantial kick to him. "The fact that we ran into each other before? Pure happenstance. Now, the fact that your thong was stolen, perhaps not so happenstance, although I wager you're the kind to go commando..."
Despite his injuries, despite how weary he is, he can't help but give a little laugh at his joke. Rising to his full stature, he shoulders the oar. "If I didn't know you any better, Marisol, I'd say you were interested in me," he informs her, with another quiet laugh. It proves a hearty chuckle, and then he's shaking his head as the moment passes him by.
"You can't help me achieve my goal, but perhaps you can assist in the journey." A cryptic response, but he sheds no light on it. Instead, it seems that he's done, the teen turning away to collect his fallen blazer.
"You win this round. Buy me dinner and I'll join your fucking team."
COMBATSYS: Preston takes no action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Marisol 0/-------/----===|
COMBATSYS: Preston can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Marisol 0/-------/----===|
It's not balls - it's resolve and guts! The young woman is utterly determined to best him this go round, since the last time HE had the victory. It explains her sudden lunge forward, straight INTO Preston with a glowing fist. A fist which lashes out, that burst of chi striking him with an almost supernatural force. It hurts, yes. But it does not fell him. It seems NOTHING can.
Fortunately, Preston is a clever Brit. Using his oar, he prevents himself from falling off his feet. Marisol, however, holds her ground long arms held at her side. Unlike before, those slender hands are not clenched into fists. They remain open, fingers only slightly crooked inward toward her palms.
"Sought you? Says who? I didn't even know you EXISTED until you came crawling into the girl's dorms standing there looking like a fool. Only after was I aware that Luc ran into you after the fact! So quit flattering yourself already!" Pausing, her expression sours only mildly, brows furrowing as she narrows her gray eyes on the Brit. "And leave my panties and panty preference OUT of this!"
She exhales thereafter, slender shoulders sagging as she sighs, again in defeat. Lifting a hand from her side, she lets her long fingers pinch at the bridge of her slender nose, near the top between those gray depths of hers. Is she suppressing a headache? Perhaps! Either way, the moment passes quickly enough and with it comes revelation.
For once, the half-Spaniard looks mildly surprised and...a little pleased.
"Fine," she states, marching after him as he collects his coat. "I'll buy you dinner, but don't you dare go telling people it was a date, you hear me?" If the point wasn't clear, the girl lifts a finger and points it in his face. "Also, I hope you like Italian food, because that's what we're eating. Now, if you're hungry, let's go." Turning her back, the young woman begins to march away.
Her feet stop, however, those eyes shifting to her shirt.
"AFTER I stop and change." Glancing over a shoulder, she sports a huge grin. "And YOU put that silly oar up at your dorm or wherever you stay."
COMBATSYS: Marisol has ended the fight here.
Log created on 03:55:18 05/19/2007 by Preston, and last modified on 06:08:32 06/01/2007.