Match of the Millennium

Description: Luc and Marisol and Preston fight. Preston wears little hotpants. No one knows why. REAL LIVE ACTION TEAM BONDING RIGHT HERE.

Today is a gorgeous day, what with the sky a rich shade of cerulean blue, the clouds spanning the sky, floating aimlessly across like ducks across a glassy pond. Though school may be over and done for the day, students still linger and mill throughout Pacific High's campus, killing time and enjoying the company of friends. More particularly, students seem to linger more around the athletic fields and nearby beach. After all, the weather is getting warmer, and what better way than to hang by the ocean?

Meanwhile, Marisol O'Connell is seated by her lonesome on a bleacher in the football field, one leg propped up on the bleacher before her, the other flat on the cement beneath her. With a hand on her knee, the girl idly paints her nails, a large, pink-colored tote resting at her side, its flap laid open. Inside, a few textbooks and magazines spill out. It's nothing important, really!

Pausing on her nails, the redhead idly lifts her gaze to the distance, toward the shoreline as a gaggle of girls squeal and run around, chased by a flock of boys. It earns them a lazy stare, the young woman's features less-than impressed before she exhales in mild annoyance, turning her attentions back onto the hand on her knee. Overall, she's having a pretty good day!

Especially since she and Luc beat the crap out of Team Ghetto on teevee. Er, Team Guardian Kings!

School's out. Most sane people would leave at this point. Only idiots and socialite airheads would stick around afterwards to watch the clouds float by and talk about how pretty it is, or how that football captain Roy is just SO hot, or if anyone's going to the next snobby rich person party where everyone snobs and drinks alcoholic beverages their mommies and daddies bought them. In short, sticking around school typically isn't something Luc Schroedinger deigns to do, having more important things to do than gab away about worthless, stupifying crap. And yet --
"Why do you waste time with all that girly crap?"
--And yet he's still here.
It's not that he particularly wants to be. In fact, standing at the edge of the bleachers, he looks rather unhappy. He's dressed in what might vaguely be school uniform -- a white button-up shirt with the top buttons unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a tie worn with a lazy looseness around his neck. Blue slacks are replaced with black, however, and beneath them he wears plain sneakers; no bright, polished shoes for the German today. Green eyes stare up at Marisol, squinting against the bright light that floods down from the sky. He frowns. He should be happy, having just won his last SNF and all. But Luc isn't particularly easy to keep content for long.
Instead, irritably he ascends the bleachers, metal clanging noisily through the air as thick-soled shoes slap against the seats until he finally makes his way to wear Marisol sits, looking almost blankly at the textbooks, and the nail polish. "..." He scratches at his right ear in an idle gesture. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Staring at the other people like some kind of stalker freak?"

It's hard to really leave campus when you LIVE on it. Case in point, most of the student body of Pacific High, Marisol included. That might explain why the girl is seated in the bleachers, idly painting her nails. Heaven forbid she crack open a book laying at her side. No, she'd rather prettify herself and tend to the girlier elements of her person.

...even if others might question this.

Idly, Marisol lifts her gaze, a slow and lazy gesture that ultimately finds itself fixed on the young man down below. For a minute the redhead just stares back, looking bored and unimpressed at best before she softly scoffs and looks back at her nails. She resumes idly painting them.

"Why are you always askin' stupid questions," she replies, not bothering to look toward Luc, even as he begins to ascend the bleachers and close in on the girl. It's almost surprising he's wearing A uniform, as opposed to his silly threads he's usually seen skipping around in. It brings a broad grin to her lips, but she says nothing. If she points it out, he might go back TO wearing that awful thing!

"I'm killing time," she says, rolling her eyes briefly before she leans forward and blows on the last of her nails. When contented with their look, she closes the bottle and idly tucks it away into the tote at her side. "Besides, why would I wanna stare at people? They're just noisy and got my attention." She jerks a thumb toward the beach.

"But whatever. What's with your attitude? We beat up those Gedo tards. You should be thrilled. What's your problem?" Furrowing her brows, she glares up at Luc. It's far from hostile, but it's not all that pleasant.

It's easy enough to leave campus if you don't really care about things like 'getting back to campus in a timely manner.' Compared to this stuffy hellhole, the rest of Southtown as a place that Luc much prefers to wander. At least there's a better opportunity of finding more interesting people to beat up outside school grounds. And that's typically what he'd be doing. But instead, he's here, standing on the bleachers and staring blankly towards the shore near the school. He offers a scoff to Marisol's words, flicking away invisible dirt from his fingertips.
"Maybe because you keep doing stupid things," Is Luc's irritable reply. Even if they're not technically stupid things, they're stupid to him -- and in the end, that's all that matters. It doesn't ever really enter his thoughts that it's not uncommon for girls to do girly things like paint their nails. Marisol's a fighter, after all, so it clearly makes her more manly than most other girls.
Green eyes refocus for a moment, looking towards the students that Marisol gestures towards, rolling his shoulders in a shrug, "I dunno. I dunno why you'd waste your time painting your nails either, though." Marisol's line of logic escapes his simplistic thinking, clearly.
Sliding his hands back to interlace fingers and lock them at the back of his head, the German boy frowns a bit more deeply at Marisol's glare, dark brows furrowing. "Who cares? Beating those hobos wasn't anything special." He's already gotten over it, evidenced by the dull look in those green eyes, "That doesn't matter at all now. I'm bored." Which just about sums up any attitude problems he might be expressing -- even if they're not any more than usual.


(OOC: PRESTON'S BEST POSE EVER.)

"YEEEEAH!"

High up in the sky, a magical dragon flies! "You're a little heavy, Preston!"

"YEEEEAH!"

The dragon shifty-looks back at the rider. "We're going down!"

Unceremoniously, the dragon plummets from the sky, sliding through the atheletic field, with the Brit upon its back. Oar held high, he seems hardly perturbed as they plummet a good dozen feet deep.

"Yeah!"


(OOC: THE END OF PRESTON'S BEST POSE EVER.)_



Scoffed at, Marisol does little more than shrug her shoulders, exhaling a soft breath of annoyance past her lips. "Whatever," the girl retorts, rolling her eyes slightly before she again admires her nice-looking nails. Yeah, that'll do, she assures herself before she glances away, looking toward the distant ocean. Luc is ignored for the moment. He has very strange, ignorant logic. She wouldn't expect him to understand.

"Anyway," she retorts, cutting off his comments rather swiftly. As if she wants to listen to him prattle on about how "stupid" her habits are! She's a girl, this is part of what girls do. Part of her almost wishes she had a girl friend on her team, someone who understands her habits. But alas. She'll deal.

"You should care. It just means we're better! And we humiliated them on television. They lost in front of thousands and thousand of people. It just proves that we're the superior team, even if we're not throwing blood or waving swords or throwing people around." Not that she has as much of a beef with Hakuya as she does Tenma! But that's besides the point.

"You're bored. And?" Looking up at Luc, Marisol's pink lips pull into a long line across her face, brows furrowed. "Don't you have hobbies? Or better yet, don't you have some homework to do? Haven't you beaten people up today?" She pauses, furrowing her brows before she adds, "Oh yeah. What's this rumor I heard about you beating up some doctor?"

Oh hey look, there goes Preston!

The muscle-bound lad is actually running, stripped to the waist as he tends to be, making his way around the athletic track itself all by his lonesome. For some reason, he's actually moving pretty quick despite his size, and clearly he has some stamina to him -- despite that size! It's nearly implausible. A kid as ripped as he is should be suffering heart failure after simply walking down a flight of stairs, let alone up!

In this case though, the teen is wearing shorts that are just a wee bit too small for him, not that a certain gaggle of onlookers, mostly girls, really mind. "God, just look at him," they say from where they watch, at the bottom of the bleachers. By comparison, the running track doesn't get a lot of use, but in this case, well.

In this case, that tower of muscle is using it to his advantage, puffing along to the heavy glisten of muscle and the rather fluid way his definition heaves with every stride.

And yes, that's an oar he's got over one shoulder.

"Preston, Preston, here's your towel!" one of the girls shouts as the Brit ambles to a halt at the bottom of the bleachers. He squints down at her. Then he extends his oar and takes it, keeping her well at bay. She squeals nevertheless.

"That was a little fuckin' weird," he mumbles to himself, as he towels off.

"Maaaan..." Luc drawls out irritably, squinting at Marisol, "... what are you, dumb?" His hands move out to either side of him in a stretch as Luc yawns; though apparently, he's still intent on speaking through it, his voice a bit muffled through the exhale.
"Of course we're better than them."
Apparently, Luc didn't really need the SNF for him to believe that. Even if they did lose to the Ghetto Team the first time around. "Che. They're nothing special. Next time around, though... I'm gonna kick that emo blood-using bum's ass." That seems to be the only lasting sentiment that's come from Luc through this whole rivalry; a desire to stomp Tenma into the ground. Maybe one day he'll bother to learn the boy's name.
But probably not.
"Huh? Hobbies? ... what d'you mean? Like fighting people?" Luc's simple-minded words come with an honest curiosity for a split second, before all Marisol's words are waved off. The whole 'hobbies' thing is pretty simply, well, ignored. "Nobodies been worth fighting. Everyone here is a goddamn wuss." And here he flops backwards, unceremoniously falling into a sitting position on the bleachers and likely disturbing Marisol's tote, unless she's careful. He seems content to just stare out at the sky, until--
"Huh?" Green eyes blink, and Luc once more looks momentarily confused, until Marisol's question hits him fully. "--Oh. That. Some idiot was prancing around in a lab coat saying he wanted to fight people, so I beat him up. He offered me a job or something afterwards, too; said I could fight a lot of strong people." He pauses here, expression thoughtful. "I thought doctors were supposed to heal people, not beat the crap out of them. Maybe he got his doctorate in beating peo--..." His sentence trails. Green eyes stare fixedly on one thing; Preston, wearing some sort of short shorts, frolicking across the track.
"... all my teammates are fucking girls."

"Can't you ever say anything nice?" Her reply is rather out of the blue, but Marisol's look is mildly annoyed at best as she glares up at Luc. Exhaling heavily, the girl's shoulders sag, arms lifting as she offers an idle shrug. "Anyway, I know we're better. I just thought it was insult to injury we beat ‘em on television. And we got paid to do it." SURELY Luc can appreciate that much, right? As for Tenma, the girl offers a light smirk.

"Yeah, you two are made for each other." The thought passes, however, a hand shooting out to secure her tote as Luc all but plops himself down rather noisily on the bleacher nearby. Another sigh slips past her. He's such a hassle.

She blinks at the clarification, though, looking mildly surprised before she sports the tiniest of smirks. "Really now. He came looking to beat people up here?" Glancing forward, she pulls her knees up slightly, leaning against them as she idly bites her thumb. Maybe things are beginning to pick up after all. Though, at the mention of being offered a job, the girl snorts. "You didn't accept it, right?" she grumbles, shooting a glare toward the German. "That guy wasn't tryin' to recruit you for a team or somethin', was he?" She'll be pissed, damn it!

But, oh! Look, no one noticed until just now!

Blinking once, Marisol's smoky gaze lifts slowly from the young German downward, toward the small flock of eager girls down below by the track. For a moment, the redhead's look is annoyed. Since when were they here? And what are they being so stupid about? That's when the girl looks elsewhere, down toward the athletic track itself. Particularly, the young man running around it.

Hey, he looks somewhat familiar. Squinting a bit, the redhead leans forward, to try and get a better look from her vantage point. Isn't that..?

Then the oar becomes apparent, strapped there over his back.

Leaning to one side, Marisol idly slugs Luc in the shoulder. "Shut up," she barks, casting a brief glance toward him. "At least he's doing something productive!" Standing up, Marisol rises from the bleachers, ignoring her tote for now. Pushing off, the girl leaps down, hopping from bleachers in-between before she lands on the track proper. Only then does she glance toward Preston, hands on her hips.

"There you are!" she exclaims. "Where've you been?" Pause. "Besides running track..." Glancing toward his shorts, she blinks before she looks back up. "...in really short shorts." A few of the nearby admiring girls swoon.

The conversation between his apparent teammates at the top of the bleachers earns no input from the Oarsman below. He's too busy being the center of attention to the gaggle of girls who are rather impressed by his physique alone; his rugged looks and bad boy attitude likely help as well, but while the sea is churning with fish, it seems that the Brit isn't throwing in hooks. Yet.

Initially he seems more occupied by simply toweling himself off. The oar is actually handed off to the girl who gave him the towel -- and she staggers under the weight of it, falling onto her rear with a heavy oof.

The Brit goes without notice to this event, as he's present too busy drying his rather hairless head -- well, not that hairless, as he feels the rough contact of the towel upon his dome. He needs to give it another buzz; he adds that to his to-do list.

It's amazing that another of the things on his to-do list suddenly pops down in front of him. Marisol's voice is what he hears first, and the rub across his noggin ceases. Moving the fluffy towel to one side, a single hazel eye squints across towards the owner of that voice.

Removing the towel entirely, he wears a broad smirk as she makes note of the state of his shorts. And as he turns to regard her front-on, it's very... very clear that Preston is in need of a bigger set of shorts. Luc should consider himself lucky if he stays to the side; he might not lose an eye, or want to carve out his own. "What, somethin' wrong with my fuckin' shorts?" he queries, reaching down to collect his oar from the girl who's struggling to breath. Rolling his eyes, he shoulders the oar and drops the towel across the other.

Still, he glistens. "And what the fuck do you mean 'where've you been?' Where the fuck do you think I've been? Furthermore, what the fuck are you doing out here?" Let the girls swoon as they will; he seems remarkably oblivious to it all.

Say anything ni--? Luc's irritable expression melts away into something of mild surprise at what Marisol says; it's a look he quickly snaps out of, letting out a quick 'hn!' of annoyance before his gaze diverts towards the field below. "Yeah, whatever. I guess that was pretty cool." He says finally in resignation, muttering it out unpleasantly as his arms cross indignantly over his chest. "... you did pretty good. You didn't suck." He TRIES to be nice, at least. It's some kind of strange compliment, but then, it's probably the best he can muster.
"Naah, he wasn't asking me to join a team. I'm already on a team anyway." Luc's focus begins to shift down the track as he speaks, shrugging, "Like I'd join a team full of losers, anyway. He wanted to hire me for some kinda job or something, I dunno. He said there'd be interesting people to fight." Something about money too, but what does Luc need that for? "Apparently some girl is gonna get in contact with me soon. She's his boss, or something." That's all he knows, however, and before he can say anything more...
... there comes Preston, sparkling with youthful vigor.
Luc can only register the slug to the arm with a sudden grunt, pushed back a little from Marisol's effort. "..." His eyebrow twitches, lips tugging into an even deeper frown. "Productive? Running circles around a fucking field is supposed to be productive? That's stupid." Luc trains all the time -- definitely not by running in circles in girlshorts out in public. Still, as Marisol gets up, the German begrudgingly follows after, hands shoving into the depths of his pants pockets.
"They make me wanna puke. You look like a moron." Luc snorts, green eyes staring incredulously at the female swoon squad. "... man, girls are weird." Productive, his ass.

Was that...a compliment? For the briefest of moments, the girl seems mildly surprised. Why, she even sports a particularly incredulously looks, however faint it may be. But then she snorts softly, eyes hooding before she replies, "Yeah, same to you. It was fun." She definitely knows she made the right choice in asking him to join her team! Why, the thought alone causes a smirk to crawl over her tanned features. As for their team, she nods her head once, the smirk melting into a small grin. Though...

"Job? Bosses? What the hell?" Sparing a glance, however, she considers the Brit before she states, "Hold that thought. C'mon, dork." That being said, she springs into action, descending the bleachers swiftly and approaches their third teammate, the strange British transfer student with his trusty oar!

It's strange how the Brit has become the center of attention! Still, it doesn't seem to phase the young redhead; she pauses, glancing over toward the swooning gaggle of school girls before she simply rolls her eyes and lets them settle on Preston once more. He's far more interesting, anyway. Particularly, those really short shorts.

Furrowing her brows ever so slightly, she hears his remark, but doesn't immediately comment. They're...so short, those shorts. How did he even FIT into them? Does she really want to know? Or find out? Shaking her head idly, Marisol's gaze narrows as she shoots her eyes up and looks the Brit straight in the eye. "Yeah, you need to get some that actually fit you!" she argues back.

It's little concern, however. Watching as he collects the oar from the struggling girl, Marisol offers a soft scoff before she draws her gray eyes to a close. Folding her arms, the redhead curtly replies, "Well I was looking for you the other day, but you were nowhere to be found. I figured you had run off somewhere." A solitary eye snaps open, glaring up and toward the oar-wielding Brit. She scoffs.

"I'm killing time, that's what. What the hell does it matter what I'm doing here??" She pauses only to glare at Luc, shooting him a mildly annoyed glance before she barks, "It's about as silly as that silly dress you used to walk around in!" But anyway.

Looking between the sweaty Brit and the sourpuss German, the girl considers things before she draws her eyes to a thoughtful close. "Anyway, I've been hearing rumors. Preston?" Glancing up at him again, she regards him directly with those deep grays. "Are the rumors about YOU getting picked on by some doctor true, too?"

Whether it's youthful vigor or something else entirely, it's fair to say that the Brit indeed sparkles. And in short order, he finds himself joined by not only Marisol, but by the rather sullen -- by comparison -- Luc as well. "Sauerkraut," he says by way of greeting, with perhaps the tiniest of smirks. It's kind of witty, if one twists it sideways.

Still though, it seems all the talk is on his shorts. "Look, can we stop talking about my fucking shorts then? They shrunk in the wash. Are you getting enough of an eyeful there, you fag?" he shoots the latter at Luc, before that clear gaze of his cuts across to the more feminine of the two; "And what about you? If you're that interested, you can fucking well come back to my place while I shower, how about that for a gracious offer, eh?"

The moment passes though, and talk turns instead to their recent activities. "The other day? What, you mean when I was getting my fucking arse handed to me by some halfwit Jap over in England? I thought you were into this whole fighting circuit thing. I would have anticipated that you watched every single moment of footage you could get your hands on, Mari," he begins the start of what could be a rather lengthy rant -- he even goes so far as to take a deep breath, his intent clear.

But instead, there's another question! "What the fuck is this, 20 Questions time? Wait..." Clearly, a lightbulb goes off for Preston; he looks between both of his shorter teammates. "You two met that fuck as well? I fucking kicked his arse is what I did, he wanted to offer me some kind of job. Not the brightest fuck; doesn't he realize we're fucking loaded?"

The vulgarity only draws that gaggle on. One of them faints into the arms of another. Preston lifts the towel from his shoulder, and wipes at his chest. Oh, look at those muscles!

Sauerkraut. Luc furrows his brows, and stares blankly at Preston for a few long, silent moments. And then?
"Geeze, everyone thinks they're so damn witty." Yeah, he gets it. He sees through Preston's clever use of words. And he frowns. He's not so easily confused!
But the matter of the shorts are quite eagerly dropped, save for a simple, "I'm not the one prancing around in hotpants, queer." And then, in a move of wit of Luc's own, he follows up with, "You look like you belong in the..." His sentence trails. What was it, again?
"... Sirkee de Sawleeuhl."
See, he can be witty too.
Disregarding Marisol and Preston as they continue on about SNF and blah blah blah things he doesn't care about, Schroedinger levels a harsh sort of stare to the girls. Squealing, giggling idiots. He grumbles something about how airheaded the lot of them are, before his lazy gaze falls back towards Preston and Marisol, just about in time to hear Marisol actually talk to him. He frowns.
"Shut up." He says simply enough; he likes that outfit, but rather than try and figure out what all the 'mime' jokes were about, he decided to ditch it. His lips pull into a straight line, conveniently coming back into the conversation not only to hear the insult... but also, a conversation that he actually has some mild interest in.
"He's a doctor, they're supposed to be smart," Luc begins with a deadpan, not even remotely sarcastic; that's why they're doctors, after all. "The ass offered me a job, too. Who cares about the money? He said that the job involved fighting strong people." And the flicker in Luc's eyes, that spark of life, is enough of an indication that this prospect is all he really cares about. Who needs money? Food is overrated. "His boss is supposed to come by the school. Some girl." And that's the extent of his knowledge. "The guy hit pretty hard for some kinda science nerd, though."

Such a lovely show of comradery Pacific Resistance displays! They're the best team EVER!! ...Even if their only audience for the time being happens to be a swarm of young girls pining over the mysterious, bad-boy Brit with an oar. Regardless, Marisol's own lips quirk into a half-smirk in response, Preston's pet name for Luc kind of amusing. The moment passes, however. Things get even more amusing.

Sparing a glance toward Luc as he's insulted by Preston, the girl lifts a hand and utters a soft "oooh," almost mocking. It doesn't last long, however; a moment later she's being pinned, his remark causing her to stare at him with disbelief, before her full lips pull into a sneer. "As if!" she cries, "I've got better things to do, like wash my hair! How can you even FIT in a shower??" That being said, Marisol's arms fold across her chest. A glance is spared between the bickering boys, her expression vaguely annoyed.

"You two, stop flirting with each other. Forget those stupid shorts. And yeah, I saw the fight. I dunno what happened, but you seemed to lose pretty hard to a girl you probably weigh four times more than. But shit happens." An idle shrug follows. She won't tell him she's already interested in seeing what this girl is made of. "But I meant before that. It doesn't matter. You're here now, so I can ask."

And ask she does. "So they were true? And he offered you a job too?" Furrowing thin coppery red brows, Marisol's smoky gaze shifts toward the ground, where a bright white sneaker idly and rapidly tap-tap-taps. The fainting girl is ignored; if anything, it causes the half-Spaniard's brow to tick idly in annoyance.

"Well apparently he's not smart if he's pickin' fights with you two. Any idea what this guy and his boss want?" she asks, sparing a glance between the Brit and the German boy. "I haven't met this "doctor" yet, but if you two can handle him fairly well, then I don't think they pose much of a threat." But she's left to wonder, and she does aloud. "Any idea why they're interested in you guys?" Luc clarifies a bit, however, and it causes the redhead to pace a few steps back and lift a hand to her chin.

"Fight strong people, huh?" she asks, gray eyes drifting toward the skies above as she considers. "It seems interesting, but I don't like the idea of working for some weirdos running around like doctors. Dunno about you two." Looking back, she glances between the two once more. "Any idea when this chick is supposed to come traipsing along?"

"I don't think I even caught what the fuck you were trying to say there, son," Preston responds to Luc, going so far as to scratch at the side of his head. With a shrug, the matter of nicknames is dropped, in lieu of other topics. Such as his shorts! Or rather, him fitting into them; "If you're that curious as to how I fit, like I said; stop by later," he informs Marisol. Unrepentant at such a rather blatant offer, he at least has the good grace to move on.

The talk of his fight, for instance. There's a rather sour sounding grunt from the Brit with regards to his loss. "She's meat if I ever see her again," he announces rather simply, the hand that grips his oar shifting, tightening; clearly, he's a little pissed, even if he doesn't show it as far as his features go. The bandages on his side seem to indicate he's not entirely healed from the encounter though.

"I didn't get the feeling he was a real doctor. He was too busy trying to make sarcastic little quips -- and he has no care for life." That's probably the longest sentence he's said in either teammate's presence without an f-bomb of some sort being dropped.

"Any random fuck can put on a coat and call themselves a doctor. Doctor's don't fuckin' go around randomly punching people in the middle to test them, either." The talk of fighting strong people though, and the way Luc speaks of it, earns the shorter boy a glance. "Are you fuckin' interested?

"You are a dumb cunt, aren't you? They want to throw you to the fucking lions. I'm not interested in the videos, but I've heard enough of the top tier fighters. The way this fuck described it, he's more interested in simply throwin' you in there to gain information on the opposition. What's the fuckin' point of that? You want to get paid to get your face caved in by some monstrous Russian fuck?

"Why bother with that, when I'll do it instead?"

The smirk on Preston's face fades though, as it seems Marisol might be interested also. "You, too? You two are fucking psycho. Have either of you actually been in a fight with someone who can fuckin' cream you with one hand tied behind their back? It's not as fun as it sounds, fuckin' believe me."

A piece to the mysterious British puzzle? He fails to elaborate, instead starting down the track, oar shouldered high.

Luc pauses. He listens. Sort of. He listens to Marisol, and he fades in and out of Preston's ranting, green eyes lifting up towards the sky in a squint as he chews on the inside of his right cheek in a gesture of boredom. Preston keeps talking, and talking, and about a little more than two thirds into the rant, Luc pipes up abruptly.
"Blah blah blah. Fuck, how big of a whining loser are you, you pussy?"
Frankly, Luc is tired of even halfway listening. Instead, he spits at the ground, rolls his neck, and levels a half-lidded, bored gaze straight on Preston. "Geeze, shut up. Complain anymore and you're little fangirls will stop swooning so much." Scratching idly at the base of his skull, his interest in Preston dulls at this point, his gaze wandering over the field.
"I don't really care," He says simply; that's about it. "If they give me interesting people to fight, then fine, I'll do it. But if they turn out to be worthless trashbags then I'll just punt them out. That's it." Luc doesn't think about these things as extensively as Preston, apparently; or maybe, more likely, his philosophy about these things is really just that simple. Regardless, his right hand falls to his side, curling inwards into a tightly compressed fist. Preston makes another complaint. And to it, Luc finally grins for the first time in the entire conversation, his eyes alight with battle-lust and crazy. Has he fought anyone who can cream him with one hand tied behind their back?
"Yeah. Isn't it awesome?"
Apparently Preston doesn't think so, since he's begun walking away. Luc doesn't bother following him; that would require a level of effort he's not willing to expend on Preston right now. "What a wuss." Is all he says, looking back towards Marisol. "Who knows? That doctor freak said that she'd be around soon, but she hasn't come to see me yet. Whether she comes to find me or not, I don't care; the doctor said she was kind of strong. That's all I care about."

Stepping to one side briefly, Marisol lifts a hand up from her side and gently rests it on Luc's shoulder. Eyes draw shut, lips pulled tightly across her lips before she simply exhales through her nose, nostrils flaring. "He's a little slow," she remarks, lifting her hand up and ultimately releasing poor, abused Luc. It's all in good fun though - she's even grinning!

At least until Preston presses the issue. "Oh drop it already!" At least he does so. Moving on.

"Awwww," A wry grin crosses the girl's lips, a hand rising up to idly brush her hand across her forehead, pulling stray locks of hair from her eyes. "She's just a girl, Preston. You shouldn't say those mean things, or threaten her like that." The corners of her lips twitch lightly, eyes hooding before she swiftly adds, "You'll get another chance soon, I assure you." She notes the bandages and his demeanor. Yeah, he doesn't seem happy about that. The matter isn't pressed.

"I don't know many doctors who beat the hell out of kids in their spare time. In fact, I don't think doctors have much time TO learn how to fight." Furrowing her brows, Marisol's expression seems stern albeit thoughtful. Preston has a point, however. "So yeah, I agree. I doubt he's a doctor." Her thoughtfulness falters as Preston barks at Luc, going off at him as he's wont to do.

Then he's singling HER out. "ExCUSE me?" the girl growls, eyes going wide before she narrows them rather dangerously. "Have I been in a fight with someone who can cream me? Yeah, I have. Some asshole throwing grenades ambushed me and some psycho Korean in the middle of Southtown. Don't talk to ME about "top tier" fighters. Where do you get off on being high and mighty, anyway? Huh?" She even goes so far as to lift a hand and jab a finger against his abs. But it leaves her to wonder. How WOULD he know, anyway?

She figures he won't elaborate. Instead, the girl's eyes draw to a close as her arms again fold over her chest.

"Luc, don't be an idiot and do what they say. Before you know it you'll be forced into favors and shit. Do you really want to be some lapdog of a weirdo doctor and his girlfriend? If you wanna fight strong people we'll continue to sign up for SNFs and stuff. How the hell are we supposed to be a team if you're runnin' around don' whatever, huh?"

For once the girl sports a harsh frown. Is she a little offended? Maybe. Rather than press matters, however, she turns her gaze elsewhere, toward the beach. An awkward silence fills the space between the three.

It's broken with a cough into Marisol's hand. "Anyway, look." Lifting her gaze back and toward the two, the girl sports a stern look. "We're a team, and I think we should start ACTING like one. Luc, quit being a bitch to Preston. Preston, quit being a bitch to Luc. You two? Stop being dicks to me." She pauses, taking a moment to collect her thoughts before she sports a wide, wolfish smirk.

"If you two have a problem, maybe you should punch ‘em away, huh?"

Despite the way that the German tries to speak over him, the Brit is hardly perturbed -- and he doesn't stop, until finally he's done. And by then, he's got a grinning Luc still eager for the challenge, and an angry Marisol poking him in the abs. She's more likely to break her finger than cause any hurt.

All told, it's such a situation that he decides to just bail on it; he shoulders his oar and walks off. The little jibs from Luc aren't precisely enticement for him to stop, but there's something in the way Marisol speaks that at least makes him linger.

Maybe there's a chance she has some leadership qualities after all. The Brit stands there with oar on shoulder, simply staring in the direction he was walking off towards. The beach, as it turns out. "Punching shit is your answer to everything, huh?" he says over his shoulder.

Well, there was that momentary hope that it was Marisol's leadership that caused him to stop. "Leopards can't change their spots, luv. It's you two with the experience at teamwork. So just what are you suggesting, we all just throw down to bond? I'd say that sounds a little gay, if not for the fact you're involved, Mari."

That said, he turns his head forward again. "If you want to fight, fight on the beach. It's more of a workout that way." He didn't get a body like that by being lax with his workouts, or by eating unhealthy; no doubt he's in the best shape of the three of them, even if he is obscenely muscled. He starts off again towards the beach.

A little slow? "Huh?" Luc says, eyes narrowing at the hand placed so lightly on his shoulder, "... Maaan, go to hell." Rubbing the back of his head irritably, Luc's shoulders roll the moment that Marisol's hand lifts. Despite the irritable words, if he were really upset he would have likely headbutted Marisol straight into the bleachers by now -- a fact that she's probably well aware of by now. All in irritably good fun.
It doesn't stop him from speaking unpleasantly to Preston, though; but being blunt is also just the way Luc is. Staring at the other man with a harsh gaze and a harsher grin, he seems more than happy to let Preston go -- though there is a brief moment in time where he considers picking up one of the oarsman's adoring fans and chucking them at him. It's a serious consideration on his part, until Marisol pipes up once more. Her words break him out of that thought process, instead causing his grin to fade as his eyes dull once more.
"What, do you think I'm stupid? I'm not that retarded. I just wanna see how strong this girl he was talking about is. They're probably a bunch of jackasses, anyway." Luc says with a frown and a spit to the ground, hands shoving into his pockets. Not dejected, however; simply annoyed. "Once I beat her up then I don't really care. I'm not interested in their money."
The German says little else, however, only snorting at her mentioning of not being such a jerk to her and Preston. Eyes roll towards the now-paused Brit, arching a brow. "What, am I gonna hurt his sensative feelings? ... Give me a break." But that's all he says. Until, of course, there is mentionings of the one thing he really, really cares about--
"--A fight, huh?" Bonding? What the hell are they talking about? But the young Schroedinger heir doesn't really care about that. Punching is a good way to solve anything; as evidenced by the eagerness now in his eyes. "C'mon." He says simply to Marisol, intent on grabbing her by the arm and dragging her along to the beach proper. She suggested it, after all; it's only fair that she partake.

There's the faintest expression of uncertainty as Preston shoulders his oar and begins to trundle off, away from the pair. Following him with her smoky gaze, the half-Spaniard just remains quiet, perhaps surprisingly so. He's walking off, huh? Does it mean he doesn't want to be a part of her team? Faint is the tiny little frown that begins to cross her full lips, even as he stops and they're given little more than his back to observe.

"Not always," she replies coolly. "But sometimes it helps." A ghost of a smile passes her.

Pausing, however, the redhead turns her attention toward the other teammate, eyeing the German closely before she offers a tiny smirk. "Oh? Bah, if you kicked his ass I doubt whoever they've got lined up next is worth a crap. You'd beat ‘em, hands down. I'm tellin' you, Luc." It rests her a bit, knowing Luc wouldn't just up and abandon their team - so much so she smiles broadly thereafter to reassure the Schroedinger heir.

But soon those gray eyes are back on Preston as he again resumes his walk. "More or less," she replies, slowly lifting her chin as she smirks. "It might do you two some good. Besides, I don't think you two have properly introduced yourselves to one another. Fighting might actually ease this obvious tension between you two. I can hardly stand it!" Snorting softly, she tosses her red mane, eyes snapping shut. "Really, I swear you two fight more like boyfriends than comrades." Opening a single eye, she offers a wry grin to the Brit at the latter. "Thanks.

"The beach, eh?" She's momentarily contemplative, but soon she has no choice; accosted by Luc, Marisol is drug by the arm toward the nearby beach, gray eyes wide. "W-what the hell?" Tugged behind the German, she follows clumsily behind. In tow, Preston's girl squad follow, doe-eyed and giddy at the prospect of seeing their favorite oar-wielding Brit in action!

Once on the beach proper, however, she tugs her arm free of Luc's grasp and steps back, folding her arms over her chest. "Alright, listen." she states, looking between the German and the Brit. "Let's consider this practice, and a means to get used to one another's fighting styles. This might do us some good, so we know how each of us fights. That way, should we be paired up in a tournament or what not we know what to expect of one another." Pausing, Marisol purses her lips tightly, brow furrowed before she offers a broad, wolfish grin.

"Three for all. Every man and woman for him and herself. Got it?"

COMBATSYS: Marisol has started a fight here.

[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-------|

COMBATSYS: Luc has joined the fight here.

[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////////////////]
Marisol          0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0              Luc

COMBATSYS: Preston has joined the fight here.

[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////////////////]
Luc              0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0          Preston
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-------|

COMBATSYS: Marisol takes no action.

[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////////////////]
Luc              0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0          Preston
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-------|

Leading the way out onto the beach, the Brit really has no care for the conversation that goes on behind him -- although those keen gray eyes may see that he flexes slightly at the mention of Luc and him being more than simply acquaintances, and more along the lines of mad lovers.

Yeah, someone's gonna get spanked for that remark.

But once out on the beach, the Oarsman almost seems more in his element. He actually kicks off his shoes to one side, hunkering down to pull off his socks -- and giving the little squad that follows after his would-be teammates something to swoon over. Once he's barefoot though, he wiggles his toes in the sand. Much easier to move like that -- and with his affinity to water, he's bound to be right at home.

"I think we already know each other's styles fairly well," he counters to Marisol, straightening to his full height. Yeah, he does kind of dominate the group as far as height goes, and with his oar over one shoulder, and his bare muscles glistening, he's almost a bit of a showoff. He should really put a shirt on, so other guys don't feel inadequate. "If you're wanting to develop some kind of signature team move though, you can consider me out. I'm not into those fancy little fuckin' things where everybody hi-fives at the end and we all perk each other up."

No, no; he does know one way to perk up though. "So, Kraut. Should we just beat the shit out of her now or actually play by her rules?" The oar comes off his shoulder, and it's seized in both hands. He begins a slow twirl of the rather long stick, hand over hand as he keeps it raised in front of him. For all his bravado and the epic strikes he makes with the oar, his underlying style remains the same. Those clear eyes glance from one teammate to the other, as he forms the point of a triangle between them. Yes, this should be most interesting...

COMBATSYS: Preston takes no action.

[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////////////////]
Luc              0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0          Preston
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-------|

Fight more like boyfriends than...?
"..." Luc scratches his head. He frowns.
"... I don't get it."
And that's it. Shoulders are lifted in a shrug, and Marisol is brought along for the ride as they make their way towards the beach. Green eyes look harshly towards the girls as they follow, frowning distinctly. "Do your little groupies have to follow us?" He asks, jerking a thumb towards them. "If they get in the way, I'm gonna kill them." The way he says it makes it hard to tell if he's being serious or not, and that's probably intentional; given his reputation at the school, the girls should know well enough to stay back. Or he really might beat the crap out of them.
And he really might enjoy doing it.
Once they're there, though, Luc is more than happy to release Marisol's arm at the tug, slipping his hand back into his pocket. His free one, his left, pushes through black strands of hair, giving a derisive snort as Preston and Marisol speak. "The more we beat the crap out of each other, the more better we can beat the crap out of other people?" He sums up in a question, looking to Marisol. Slowly, he rolls his neck with a distinct cracking noise. "I think I can live with that."
Preston's complaints go relatively unheeded. Instead, Luc looks between the two of them. It seems they're both hesitant to start out the fight. And so? Luc's body tenses as he goes about loosening his tie even further, the entire thing looking like it hands precariously together now. "'Kraut'..." He mutters, rubbing his neck irritably. In one, single motion he leaps FORWARD, swinging his body around distinctly through the air as he intends to deliver a single, simple roundhouse kick straight into the side of Preston's head, his entire leg flaring with distinct, black-blue chi.
"WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN!?"
It looks like Luc's decided on who he wants to start out 'testing the fighting style' of.

Yes, despite her brash and overly-confident nature, Marisol is more astute than she'd leave...well, most anyone to believe of her. Knowing well the remark would unnerve or irritate the two male fighters, she sports the most impish of grins as Preston twitches. Luc? Well, his remark is as expected - it earns him the faintest of sighs regardless. Poor, hapless Luc! Can he ever get a grasp or clue?

Whatever. Dragged behind the German student, Marisol is pulled along, before the trio ultimately end up on the sandy shores of Sound Beach. It's a place she's more than familiar with - she's been here on her free time, and it's where she lost her first League match. It earns the pair a twitch of her brow, the memories enough to irk her mildly. She shouldn't have lost. It was the dumbest loss in the history of her career. Why, if she gets a chance to do it again...

With a shake of her red mane, Marisol dismisses the thoughts easily. Casting a glance from Luc to Preston, she waits til they're comfortable before she states the rules and reason. There's purpose to all of this, right? Of course! That, and it's a chance to get in more training. They could use it, she figures. The groupies are otherwise forgotten, even as they keep distance and visibly swoon as Preston readies himself. He's so drea~amy~!

"Be nice, Luc," she remarks, eyeing the German briefly before she grins broadly. "They're just puny girls. Don't forget that." Pausing, she considers Preston for a moment.

"Perhaps, but not as well as we could," she replies, shifting her gaze up toward the Brit before gray eyes hood, her expression mildly amused. "And no. I'm not aiming for that, you dumbass," she sharply adds, her tone lightly scathing. A swift smirk seizes her lips; she didn't mean it entirely. A moment later she lets a breath slide past her full lips, eyes drawing to a close before she smirks.

"Ah, don't get ahead of yourselves," she assures the pair, lifting her arms up and sliding into a loose boxer's stance. A moment after Luc's leaping into action, aimed right for Preston. Considering this, the girl keeps her distance and watches closely. She's fought them both, but they haven't fought each other.

This could be interesting. And amusing.

COMBATSYS: Marisol focuses on her next action.

[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////////////////]
Luc              0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0          Preston
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-------|

COMBATSYS: Preston interrupts Medium Kick from Luc with Weapon Jab.

[   \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  ///////////////////////////   ]
Luc              0/-------/------=|=------\-------\0          Preston
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-------|

"Huh?" Preston airs the question after Luc brings up the topic of his would-be 'groupies.' "Oh, them. Yeah, don't ask me, they just follow me around for some reason." Is the Brit as truly oblivious as to their cause as he seems? Considering the way he acts sometimes about the so-called 'leader' of their team, likely not.

But when push comes to shove, they're going into the fight itself. "Look it up sometime, you ignorant fuck," the Brit with the Oar replies as the German barrels towards him. Even as that boot threatens to come into contact with the side of his face, he attempts to mitigate the damage by leaping back. As a result, Luc's chi-laced leg catches him in the shoulder instead, the limb raised defensively -- and the oar thrust forward on the offensive!

The wide blade of it stabs through the air to catch and otherwise stop the flight of the German armada! The two strike each other, and the Oarsman stumbles back. His feet dig through the sand as he maintains his footing; it's a little more difficult for him on this surface, but he'll manage. "Don't just stand there and gawk at us, Mari; get involved, you stupid slut!"

He even says it with a grin; he wants to rile her up and get her involved, and what better way than to suggest she is both lacking in intelligence and prone to spreading her legs? He keeps the oar raised, his defense clear as he awaits the next trial.

Well, getting a tap of the oar through his kick isn't exactly expected -- and this much is noted through the widening of Luc's green eyes and the sudden expulsion of air from his lungs as the blade slams into his gut. Airborne as he is, he can't really sustain footing on the insubstantial; as such, as the blade smacks into him, he goes soaring down like a fly hit by a fly-swatter -- or, alternatively, a giant oar.
Luc is quick to recover with a grunt, twisting through the air as he lands hands-first into the sandy earth, creating a spray of land through the air before he thrusts /off/ his firm handstand, flipping easily back onto his feet. He's grinning as he lands, not showing much in the way of pain; he's more exhilerated than anything. "Heh... still pretty interesting, ape-dude." They HAVE fought; in fact, Luc introduced them to the team. Too bad Marisol wasn't around to see it. He was being proactive.
But, even so, he doesn't stand still for long; having tested PRESTON, he's more than happy to give Marisol a run for her money; especially after Preston so helpfully calls out to her. Head turning to regard her silently for a moment, Luc makes a sudden and easy twist, bouncing on his heels beore he launches through the air in another kick-up of sand. If Preston wants to just verbally assault her, fine; Luc is going to physically assault her.
"GRAAAAAH!!" Bellowed out as he runs, Luc intends to charge... right /past/ Marisol, stopping with a drag across the soft beach before he spins around, seeking to plant a single, heel into the small of Marisol's back -- accompanied soon after by a sudden, explosive BURST of power.

COMBATSYS: Marisol fails to interrupt Light Kick from Luc with Medium Punch.

[   \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  ///////////////////////////   ]
Luc              0/-------/-----==|=------\-------\0          Preston
[   \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/------=|

Alright, alright. So she forgot they HAVE fought before. But, hey! It was a long while back, and she only heard about it. Seeing is, as they say, believing. So if she can see the two of them go at it first hand? All the better. The very thought draws a smile to her pink lips. This should be interesting, yes indeed.

As for the lackeys, Marisol lifts a brow slightly at Preston's reply. She'd expect Luc to be a bit ignorant when it comes to something like that, but the Brit? For a moment, she offers a half-hearted smirk, eyes narrowing a touch in his direction. He's just feigning ignorance, she's sure. Likely to irk the likes of Luc even more. Maybe it worked, too? But no matter the offense, Preston's defense-cum-offense seems entirely effective; swatted out of the air, he's sent flying back. He recovers swiftly enough; Marisol grins.

Until she's called a stupid slut. For a moment, the young woman's brow twitches, her eyes hooding dangerously as she glares toward Preston. For the moment, it seems she despises him. It fades swiftly, doubly so as Luc charges toward her. Lifting her arms, she feints a block, expecting a frontal attack. As he passes, however, she pivots, but too little, too late; struck, she's sent stumbling forward, staggering forward through the sands with a grunt and a harsh frown.

With Luc running off to fight Marisol, it seems that it's Preston's turn to seemingly take a breather and draw focus -- but to hell with that, this is a chance to trounce the hell out of both of his comrades.

The momentary hate that is sent his way from the half-Spaniard simply earns a slight smirk in return as he stands there, buff and unrepentant in his name-calling, his mud-slinging. It's her own fault for standing back to watch; if she wanted to do that, she should join the gaggle of girls who followed along to watch the proceedings. All the same though, he watches as Marisol is sent for a stumble, and he offers the slightest shake of his head.

Again he twists the oar, this time tucking it behind one arm. Even still, thanks to its height, it extends well out behind him; it really is a massive weapon, even by the standards of most stick fighters. And that's despite his impressive height. His physique ripples as he pushes off the soft sand, closing what distance there is as he brings the oar out in front of him. He sees an opening. Like a knight upon a horse of his own mammoth legs, he seeks to drill the oar into Luc's middle right as the teen turns to strike Marisol in the back!

"Concentrate less on the sound of your own grunting, and more on your own back!" he growls the words out, perhaps the longest sentence he's issued so far without some kind of curse interspersed. On the flip side though, should Luc be unLucy (ahahaha), he'll be skewered and summarily dumped overhead into the sand. At least the landing is soft?

COMBATSYS: Luc endures Preston's Bunting Tosser.

[       \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////////////    ]
Luc              0/-------/---====|=------\-------\0          Preston
[   \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/------=|

Preston sees an opening? Than it's an opening that he's fooled himself into believing is there; Luc isn't a stupid fighter by any means, regardless of how he acts outside of a fight. Dense though he can be, his instincts are keyed in to the entirety of the fight. And he can see Preston coming in from a mile away. As Marisol stumbles, his gaze is already shifted onto the charging Preston, letting the Brit know he can see him coming, letting him know he can launch a defense to the attack that's to come. So what does he do?
He takes the entire attack like a man.
Despite the fact that he has time to, Luc doesn't bother to mount a defense. Instead, he rushes right into the thrust of the oar, letting it slam into his gut. "What are you talking about..." He growls out through the strike, and the moment that he's lifted overhead... he jerks his hand forward, right into the front of Preston's face.
"Concentrate less on TALKING and more on FIGHTING LESS LIKE A MORON!"
The moment that he says this, Luc snaps his fingers. From his fingertips, a black spark of energy is ushered into existance, preceding a large, spheric /burst/ of power that launches forward to slam into Preston's face at point-blank range the moment that Luc lands in a simple, light roll, laughing the entire way.

She wasn't standing back! She was putting a strategy out, planning her attack! Regardless, a brief glare is spared toward Preston when he slings an insult toward her, but otherwise it rolls off her shoulders easily. It's little concern; there's other things to worry about. Like Luc, who gets the better of her, regardless. Mildly annoyed, she's stumbling forward, but collects her wits and maintains her footing easily. When those gray eyes sweep up, they're given sight to Preston, who just charges past her. Hmph.

Pivoting sharply on her heel, the girl spins around, to face the duo as they launch their attacks. Grinning slightly to herself, she takes note of the attack Luc takes head-on, lifted up before he's dumped toward the sand. In the wake of the toss, however, he's launching HIS attack. Seeking to capitalize on this, the redhead dips down and attempts to snare Luc by the throat before she swings her opposite hand forward, to send her palm's heel burying into his gut - and an explosion of energy to send him flying in Preston's direction, lest he moves!

COMBATSYS: Preston endures Luc's Explosive Round.

[        \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////////        ]
Luc              0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0          Preston
[    \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-------|

COMBATSYS: Luc fails to interrupt Moon Sling from Marisol with Tyrant Strike.

[              \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////////        ]
Luc              0/-------/--=====|====---\-------\0          Preston
[    \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-----==|

So maybe his charge forward was a little too linear; does it really matter? One supposes it does when one is summarily blated in the face by a burst of power, the chi impacting roughly with the Oarsman. He staggers back, even as the circus goes on about him, with Marisol darting in to send a German in his direction.

Luckily, by the time that happens, he's able to see clearly again -- although through a growing haze of red! If Luc is indeed coming at him thanks to Marisol's thrust, then the Brit will do the sane thing -- he drops down and rolls to one side, coating his glistening body in sand much to the delight of the onlookers.

Coming back to his feet, he rubs at his singed face. "Nice little party popper you have there," he compliments Luc, presuming the boy has enough will left; after all, berserkers tend to lose their will before long. Considering his next action though, he decides it's time he inflict a little bit of pain on Marisol. He still owes her for their last encounter. Shifting the oar in his grip, he gives it more the appearance of a rather broad-headed javelin. "Catch!" he calls, hurtling it at his not-so-illustrious leader.

There is a distinctive surge of energy that Marisol should be familiar with by the time that she reaches Luc; a spiral swirl of black, firey chi that wraps around the young man's leg in a preparatory herald of pain to come. Yet, just as Luc swings? He's caught by the throat in a rather unpleasant grip. "Grrk--!" The power diffuses before Luc can complete his swing, fizzling out into nothing--right before he's strick and blasted backwards in the wake of a rather unpleasant strike.
Luc goes flying through the air once more thanks to the concussive force of that yellow chi; Preston helpfully moves out of the way, leaving Luc to continue flying until gravity sends him on a downward track straight into the ground, impacting once roughly before skidding unpleasantly across the sand. By this time, those annoying grainules have gotten all in his hair, in his shirt -- more importantly, in his shoes. Grumbling, he rolls into a sitting position, beginning the arduous task of taking OFF his sneakers, his socks... and beginning to just dump all the sand out of either shoe. Annoying.
"Che... yeah yeah, whatever." That throw was a sobering enough experience to get his wits back into place. But instead of pressing an attack, he instead works on standing up again -- after all, Marisol and Preston are busy with each other at the moment.

COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Marisol with Large Thrown Object.

[              \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////////        ]
Luc              0/-------/--=====|=====--\-------\0          Preston
[         \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/--=====|

For the moment, Marisol's attentions seem entirely fixated on the German boy. With him prone, it's ample time to snare him by the throat and pick him up. Slamming her palm's heel into his gut, the burst of chi enough to launch him back and away, before he can smack her with that annoy chi of his he seems in abundance of. It brings a broad grin to the redhead's face, but she doesn't gloat; soon after, she's simply dusting her hands off.

Only after Luc touches ground does her gaze lift, stirring and landing back on Preston. Though he might compliment Luc, she seems arrogant nonetheless, lifting her chin a touch as she smirks. But just before she can make a remark on the moment she's being struck in the gut with the oar's blade, causing her to exhale rather loudly. Staggering back, her knees buckle slightly before she catches herself, hands resting on her knees. That...hurt. And was utterly uncalled for. But it leaves him weaponless for the moment.

Shaking her head lightly, the redhead offers a light snort before she curls her hands into fists. Charging forward, she closes in not on Luc, but Preston; sweeping a leg up as she comes in, she seeks to deliver a kick straight to his gut with the heel of her sneaker.

COMBATSYS: Preston endures Marisol's Medium Kick.

[              \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  ///////////////////           ]
Luc              0/-------/--=====|=======\-------\0          Preston
[         \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/--=====|

With Luc sent for a tumble, it's the oar that proves to be a rather deadly projectile -- it hits Marisol harshly, and the owner wears a smirk on his face. Uncalled for? Hardly, it's a fight!

Preston spares a glance in the direction of the German though, watching as sand is poured from shoes. He gives a slight shake of his head, and regards Marisol again -- just in time, as it turns out, as her kick shoots up like an arrow into his middle. Those abs tense, and it's much like kicking a wall -- and the Brit is barely rocked by the blow. Covered in sand, he flexes in front of the Spaniard, lifting both arms wide as he gives her the full display. "So this was what you had in mind, was it? For all of us to beat the shit out of each other and go get milkshakes afterwards?

"Sounds a little too after-school special for me, luv!" A barefoot lifts, and he simply aims to kick her down -- so he can jog over towards his fallen oar!

"Man... you whine so goddamn much."
This is muttered to Preston as Luc finally pulls upward from his sitting position, rolling his neck irritably as he looks to the exchange of blows between his two teammates. "Just fight and enjoy it, you jackass. You think too much." Which might just be wise words; who thinks THAT MUCH in a fight? Instinct is all you need. The Schroedinger boy scratches at his ear in an idle gesture as he observes, some sand falling out. He looks down to his pantslegs. Pulling out his pockets and finding them pouring forth sand, Luc frowns.
"I hate beaches."
That's all he offers. He says nothing else, instead taking a moment to catch his breath and watch the altercation between Marisol and Preston with an odd sort of fascination. He'll be back in soon enough, and probably preempted to join; for now, though, he just furrows his brows and squints at the two. Fighting with oars. How ridiculous.

COMBATSYS: Luc gains composure.

[           \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  ///////////////////           ]
Luc              0/-------/---====|=======\-------\0          Preston
[         \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/--=====|

COMBATSYS: Marisol fails to interrupt Light Kick from Preston with Iron Butterfly.
- Power fail! -

[           \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  ///////////////////           ]
Luc              0/-------/---====|=======\-------\0          Preston
[             \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-======|

For a moment, Marisol almost - almost - looks like she's going to spill her lunch. Frowning sharply, she shakes her head before she collects her wits about her. Lifting those deep grays, they catch sight of the smirk. It makes the frown grow. Even more of a reason to kick the shit out of Preston.

Breaking into a jog, the redhead closes in and kicks her leg into his gut, though it does little to stir him. It hardly concerns her; instead, the half-Spaniard glares up as he mocks her, flexing in her face with his proud body. "Careful," she says, "you might cause a few of your fantards to pass out." Nodding in the direction of the girl, one looks angry at Marisol for receiving the show, while another staggers and fans herself like an idiot. The rest just squeal.

"And who said anything about fucking milkshakes?" she spits. Her hand flares to life with chi, but her movements are too slow; struck, she's sent staggering back as he kicks her. For the moment, Luc is ignored; he's minding his own business anyway, after all. Instead, the girl tries not to horf on the beach. Really. Did he have to kick her where he threw the oar at her?

Does he really think too much? There's a remarkable little amount of thought needed for Preston to run his mouth, and if his running commentary gets under the nerves of his opponents, then it's clearly to his advantage, isn't it? Thus, he simply directs a smirk over at Luc as the German takes a step back.

In the meantime though, he drives his foot into Marisol's middle, and then jogs past her as she staggers. In short order he retrieves his oar, giving it a quick twirl to shed any excess sand. "You think it's whining, Luc? You should look at it a little closer." The German should also look at this, as the Brit rears up to his full height. With the oar held up high, he gives a rather heavy grunt as he drives it down into the sand in front of him, embedding it a good foot or two deep.

And then, he rips the oar up with another grunt, sending a cutting swath through the ground underfoot, a wave of rising turf and blinding sand shooting upwards as the swath progresses in on the German! It's a move he's yet to show either of them, and it's clear; it's Preston's milkshake that brings all the girls to the yard.

COMBATSYS: Luc blocks Preston's Devil Seam.

[             \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////            ]
Luc              0/-------/--=====|=======\-------\1          Preston
[             \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-======|

"Nah," Luc says clearly as his green eyes narrow into dangerous slits. It's like some sort of a prelude. The Wave of sand and turf flies straight towards Luc...
"I know it's shitty, stupid whining." ... and the moment that it SHOULD hit Luc, the German almost casually thrusts his right foot out to intercept the veritable land-based tidal-wave, almost thoughtlessly dispersing the entirety of it without so much as a blink.
Muttering something under his breath in the aftermath of the strike, Luc shakes loose sand from his pantsleg; it stung upon impact, but little more. Rolling his head, he gets himself prepared. And then, he looks between Marisol... and then Preston.... before making a breaking run straight for the Brit.
What should be a straightforward enough rush shifts just about as soon as Luc leaps STRAIGHT into the air just in front of Preston; at the apex of his leap, his arms snake out, hands seeking to get a firm grip on Preston's head. If successful, when the German lands, he uses his own momentum to send Preston straight over /his/ head in a short, sudden toss. And as soon as he does... he jerks out with a single hand, generating a churning BURST of black-blue chi to knock Preston even further away.

See, the problem here is Preston's arrogance is going to work against him. So far, he has insulted both Marisol and Luc, and that will eventually he's going to irritate both to the point they're BOTH going to turn against him. For the meantime, however, Marisol attempts to catch her breath after being kicked in the stomach. After being struck with an oar. Seriously - that shit hurts when one follows the other.

Slowly, Marisol recovers. Twisting her neck slightly, she shoots a glance toward Preston as he retrieves his oar from the sand. What arrogance! ...he fits the team perfectly. Smirking to herself, the redhead rubs her knuckles over her lip, straightening her back before she clenches her hands into fists. As the ground suddenly erupts in sand and dirt, soaring at Luc, Marisol starts moving forward, pausing only when Luc blazes past. Whatever happens, she'll follow in to suddenly and fiercely dig those tight fingers straight into Preston's stomach.

COMBATSYS: Preston dodges Luc's Quick Throw.

[             \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////            ]
Luc              0/-------/--=====|=======\-------\1          Preston
[             \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-======|

COMBATSYS: Preston dodges Marisol's Fierce Punch.

[             \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////            ]
Luc              0/-------/--=====|=======\-------\1          Preston
[             \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-======|

The problem with two people charging at him sequentially? It gives Preston time to actually plan his defense, as he rises back to his feet. Is thinking truly a bad thing? He doesn't think so, not as he stands there awaiting the first of the two. Luc, the squat German... by comparison anyway. And Marisol, the top-heavy teen...

Those clear eyes narrow, and he does the sane thing -- he sweeps the oar down into the sand, and HEAVES a whole lot of it up into the air. In the confusion, and no doubt the stinging eyes, he simply disappears from his location -- the attempt to grab him catches nothing, and even Marisol's tight little fingers fail to find pay dirt.

"Shitty whining, is it?" As one would expect, since that's how the cliché goes, Preston's voice comes from behind the German. That's just how the cliché goes!!!

And something else goes. The oar itself, with the blade slamming down for the German's face.

COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Luc with Medium Strike.

[                 \\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////////            ]
Luc              1/-------/=======|=======\-------\1          Preston
[             \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-======|

Fingers clutch nothing? See, Luc really doesn't mind that in the slightest. These things happen, and in the end, he remains unperturbed. Instead, he wheels around just as Preston speaks, and offers only a wide grin. Shitty whining, is it?
"Pretty much, dipshit."
And his opinion doesn't change. It's what it is, why would Preston dodging his attack make it any less shitty whining? This kind of logic escapes Luc completely; instead, he sees the strike coming, and intends to take it head on; not even bothering to mount an assault, he instead thrusts INTO the sudden strike, letting it slam into him face-first. It strikes cleanly, but with more force than anticipated, sending Luc staggering back one step... and then another. He grins.
Blood running down in small lines from his nostrils, Luc doesn't seem to care. Instead, he focuses his concentration on the other, larger man and his whining and his big oar. He rears back a single hand... and then he just seeks to punch Preston straight in the throat. It's simple, and perhaps doesn't pack too big a punch to it in comparison to the other man's large physique. The lancing explosion of black-violet chi that occurs afterwords, though? That might burn. And the entire thing has one intent: to just stifle the large man. Fighting isn't time for talking.
Fighting is time for FIGHTING.
"GRAAAAH!!"

The moment that fist of Marisol's parts from close to her body and right at Preston, he's already on the move. Swinging sand up and at the pair, they're momentarily blinded, causing the girl to growl through her teeth. Fucking Brit and his goddamned oar. But the growl bleeds into a smirk. Slowly, those gray eyes widen.

Yeah, these are shitty odds against her, but she's liking them more and more.

Rather than hold her ground, Marisol continues forward, through the cloud of sand. Passing beyond as the last of it falls, she swiftly pivots and faces the pair, just as poor Luc is smacked in the face with that oar. Yeah, that can't feel too swell. A sympathy wince is given before the girl steels her jaw and snaps her gaze back onto Preston. Luc's making his attack, and there's a lot of chi. So what does she do?

Grinning wide, Marisol's face glows with delight. "Ah ha ha ha!!" Sprinting right at Preston, Marisol suddenly leaps at him, attempting to smack the Brit right in the face with the sole of her shoe...

COMBATSYS: Luc successfully hits Preston with Medium Punch.

[                 \\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////                ]
Luc              1/-------/=======|=======\===----\1          Preston
[              \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-======|

COMBATSYS: Preston dodges Marisol's Red Clover.

[                 \\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////                ]
Luc              1/-------/=======|=======\===----\1          Preston
[              \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/=======|

"Gyuuk!"

That's the sound of one hand clapping, if you happen to be holding a talking fish in that hand. It's also the sound that Preston makes as the fist of Luc catches him right in the throat; but as expected, it's the discharge of chi that causes the true pain, and sends the tall lad staggering. Back he goes, one hand reaching for his throat -- when he sees Marisol coming for him.

On instinct, with her jumping so high, he does the sane thing; he ducks under her leg, and comes up the other side, doing something even saner -- he gives himself some space from the pair of them, since they're so set on double-teaming him. With his throat currently constricted though, he's in no mood to go swearing at them about the rules; it would come off as whining, after all!

Instead, he gets a bit more room on the two of them, and then turns to regard them both. The oar sweeps a line through the sand, and he simply smirks at both of them. Clearly, he's asking one of them to step over the line. For the now, he remains on the other side of it.

COMBATSYS: Preston focuses on his next action.

[                 \\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////                ]
Luc              1/-------/=======|=======\===----\1          Preston
[              \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/=======|

Well, if Preston is /asking/ for someone to cross over the line...
Luc is many things. He's dense, he has poor anger management skills, he's vicious and he's a berserking battlemonger -- but he's definitely not someone to back down from a challenge, no matter how foolish it might seem to accept it. So, when Preston staggers backwards, Luc rolls one shoulder, and then the other. He takes into consideration the man, and the line he makes. And then he asks a single question:
"Is that supposed to be dramatic, or something?"
It's clear that Preston is preparing for something, and preparing for something big. Luc... really does not seem to care much. Instead, he clenches his right hand into a fist. His legs tense on the sandy earth. And, having been challenged...
... he leaps right at Preston.
His movement is fast, like a blur monochrome colors. He lands JUST over the line that Preston sweeps, lifts his hand... and then swings it. In a single action, hand infused with chi:
He seeks to backhand Preston.
"HRAAGH!"

Again, she fucking misses a guy that's nearly seven feet tall and as broad as a barn. Upon missing and soaring over his head, she tucks and rolls, letting her body slide across the sand before she unfurls and leaps to her feet. Almost immediately the redhead whips around, looking none too pleased at the tall Brit and his oar, even as he postures himself and bides his time. Step over the line?

Marisol smirks harshly. As if. Instead, the hotheaded redhead holds her ground, letting those long digits curl into tight, white-knuckled fists at her side. Beneath her the sand suddenly whips around, the earth itself igniting to life. Yellow energy springs up, circling around her feet in small flames, which gradually leave the ground itself, rising into the air like yellow fireflies. Both know it well. She's gathering her energies.

"What's the matter, Duke," she asks, prodding at his heritage, red locks whipping wildly about her head like angry flames. "All worn out? Doggy gonna bark all day, or is he gonna bite?" Clearly Luc is. Let him get into the fray. Marisol will continue to bide her time.

COMBATSYS: Marisol gathers her will.

[                  \\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  //////////////                ]
Luc              1/-------/=======|=======\===----\1          Preston
[             \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          1/----===/=======|

COMBATSYS: Preston fails to interrupt Jab Punch from Luc with Azimuth Circle.

[                  \\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  ////////////                  ]
Luc              1/-------/=======|====---\-------\0          Preston
[             \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          1/----===/=======|

Having swept that line, the expectation is clear; Preston WANTS someone to come across the line and meet him. And unsurprisingly, it's the teammate with the balls who does it... although they're not going to squabble over Marisol's gender at a time like this. In this case though, stepping over the line is intended to be a mistake.

Of course, when Luc comes through and attempts to simply backhand the Briton, he finds his attempt to manifest a massive upwelling of chi going slightly awry.

His head tilts back slightly. Then he just squints down at the grunting German. "Was that it?" he questions, finding his voice again. Really, the Kraut is more likely to break the delicate fingers in the back of his hand than do any serious damage to the Oarsman. The ribbing from Marisol about his heritage, his birthright, will simply have to wait; he's got Luc to deal with first.

Was that it? Preston asks it as if Luc didn't even touch him. The effect is clear, though, and in the challenge, Luc comes out on top. So all he can do is give a condescending sort of smile to Preston at the inquiry. "Yeah," He responds, "That was it."
And it worked, too, so one can't argue the effectiveness of it; but that's about it. Despite the fact that he's been going for Preston this whole time, he hasn't forgotten about Marisol. Luc is simply compelled to respond to challenges; it's in his nature. However, he leaps backwards and /away/ from the Brit as soon as he makes his statement, landing solidly on his heels as he looks almost expectantly towards Marisol. Instead, he finds her conjuring up more of that yellow chi, and he frowns.
"Che," He starts, spitting at the sandy earth, "That shit is so stupid. Get your head out of your ass and fight. C'mon!" He lifts a hand, makes a beckoning motion towards Marisol; the tried and true motions for her to totally 'bring it on.' Beyond that, he does nothing -- much like Preston before him, he seems to be preparing. A rare sight indeed for /Luc/ of all people.

COMBATSYS: Luc focuses on his next action.

[                  \\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  ////////////                  ]
Luc              1/-------/=======|====---\-------\0          Preston
[             \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          1/----===/=======|

And all the while Marisol does what she seemingly does best: lingering back and watching. Shifting her gaze from Luc to Preston as he lunges in and otherwise bitchslaps him, the redhead snorts idly and shuts her eyes. While effective, it was a pathetic attempt at best. Alas, Preston's swell of watery chi was thwarted. He'll likely get over it easily.

Those deep grays only open when she's growled at by the German, to whom she offers a lazy smirk. "You're just jealous," she muses aloud, "Because you wish you could do this." And, as if to rub it in, the ground swells brightly beneath her feet, the air around her whipping up as motes of yellow float about. Those full lips swiftly cut into a broad, cocky smirk.

But he wants her to fight him? "Feh." Glancing elsewhere, the energy seems to subside as she slides into a stance once more. "You're so fucking impatient," she observes idly, before lazily rolling her head on her shoulders, those eyes locking on Luc. He wants a piece of her?

"Fine."

That said, Marisol breaks into a run before she skids to a halt. Zeroing in as she slides, a fist rises high before it descends, punching the earth near his feet. As result the ground explodes into a plume of yellow chi and earth, all of which is aimed right for the young man!

With Luc bounding away, and his attempt to beckon forth his chi-laced water fountain from the start of a hit TV show in the 90's, Preston is left with little recourse but to stand there and bide his time. Then he gets over it.

Clear eyes observe as Marisol gathers her will, and he knows that it can't lead to nice things for any of them. For the moment though, he opts to let the two go at each other -- and takes a nice, long breath, resting on his laurels, with the oar rising to rest against his shoulder.

Let the other two fight for the now. He'll just stare out at the ocean.

COMBATSYS: Preston gains composure.

[                  \\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  ///////////////               ]
Luc              1/-------/=======|==-----\-------\0          Preston
[              \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-----==|

COMBATSYS: Luc endures Marisol's Shoot the Moon.

[                         \\\\\  < >  ///////////////               ]
Luc              1/--=====/=======|==-----\-------\0          Preston
[              \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  <
Marisol          0/-------/-----==|

Wishes...?
"Don't be a dumbass, I don't need that crap to win fights."
It's stated matter-of-factly as Luc rolls his neck irritably, looking between Marisol standing still... and Preston standing still... and even WORSE, staring out at the ocean like some sort of mental case. So what's Luc to do? He does the only rational thing he knows -- he incites activity in the fight again, even if it's technically not the brightest thing to do after Marisol pulls something like she's doing now. It's alright, though. He has a plan.
%tThat plan? It's running STRAIGHT at Marisol as she runs at him cutting off her intended distance just a little too short. She punches the earth in a spray of sand, and only moments later, a giant pillar of power ERUPTS forth from the beach beneath them, the heat of it causing sand to glass over into shards that cut across Luc's cheeks, lacerates his shirt something unpleasant. And yet? And yet, he doesn't even try to mount a defense. And by all indications, he very likely could have; withstanding the brunt of that assault, it's clear that if he had bothered to establish a guard, he would have managed it. And yet he doesn't. Instead, he just takes the hole thing.... and in the wake of the explosion, he goes blasting through the air. And where does he land?
Right between the two of them.
"Hah... hah..." Luc pants slowly, his left hand gripping tight into a fist. Smoke rises from his body, cuts forming all over him from the shards of sand-melted glass, and blood slowly pouring from nose and lip, but... he's smiling. A smile that shifts into a grin as he lifts his right fist into the air, glowing intensely. "C'mon..." He mutters, his hand crackling with black and blue chi. And in one mighty motion, he swings that hand STRAIGHT into the sandy beaches.
"GET SERIOUS!!"
Even across the soft mounds of sand dunes, what happens next is plainly visible: four lines of glowing violet energy spread from the point of impact of Luc's fist in a cross-section, long enough to encompass both Marisol and Preston between the four of them. Marisol should know this, at least by seeing it. Now, she might just get to experience it first hand. Those lines remain suspended for a moment, harmlessly across the ground -- and then, they all EXPLODE, all four of them, into massive /walls/ of black, violet and blue chi, crackling with power and intensity. Those walls, easily far taller than even Preston, begin to swirl across the beach, rotating at increasing speeds until they just become a blur of energy, a literal /storm/ of chi that threatens to pick up Preston and Marisol and send them along on an unpleasant, rotating voyage before they're /both/ knocked away in the wake of a single, powerful explosion.
"GRAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!"

COMBATSYS: Luc can no longer fight.

[              \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  < >  ///////////////               ]
Marisol          0/-------/-----==|==-----\-------\0          Preston

COMBATSYS: Marisol endures Luc's Demiurge Trigger.

[                       \\\\\\\  < >  ///////////////               ]
Marisol          0/-------/=======|==-----\-------\0          Preston

COMBATSYS: Preston blocks Luc's Demiurge Trigger.

[                       \\\\\\\  < >  ///////////                   ]
Marisol          0/-------/=======|====---\-------\0          Preston

When the energies subside and Luc reemerges, Marisol's gray eyes lift and fix on the young man. He's bloodied and bruised, bleeding from his face...but he's still standing. For now. "That's pretty ballsy, Luc," she remarks, tilting her head a bit, eyeing him with a smart-assed expression. "But I think it's over for you, hon." Her eyes flicker briefly, toward Preston. He's on the other side.

Oh. OH. It becomes quite clear what he's intending with this. That crackling energy is clue enough. So much she sports a savage grin, eyes going wide before she thrusts a hand forward. Curling her fingers toward herself, she encourages him to bring what he has planned. "Let's see what you've got!!"

Then a storm of chi and sand. Swirling and churning around the two fighters with Luc at its eye, the girl just stands there, taking it head on without so much as moving from out of its way. Even as the blast explodes outward, Marisol keeps her footing...even if her clothing now seems a bit worse for wear. Plus, she's bleeding from cuts across her face and bare skin. Sand hurts.

It leaves Preston, who also appears to be standing. "Heh. That was cute, Luc," she murmurs, just before her hands crack at her sides. "But you gave up too easily. S'okay." Straightening her back, the redhead lifts her chin high, her expression proud as she calls out, "Alright Duke, it's you and me now. Let's see if you can keep standing, huh?" And, with that she charges forward, her hand afire at her side. Only as she nears does she slam her glowing knuckles into his gut, where a burst of chi will erupt, to knock him back! "HAAH!"

COMBATSYS: Preston interrupts Moon Sling from Marisol with Queen's Regulations.

[                             \  < >  ///////                       ]
Marisol          1/-----==/=======|======-\-------\0          Preston

Tenma says, "tats"

Get serious? It hardly seems the time to get serious, as Luc engages his last right and starts a cataclysm through the sand itself. As the four lines lance out, he stares down at them with a slightly widened set of hazel eyes. He doesn't think he's seen this before -- after all, he doesn't follow Luc around to stare at him with doe eyes, unlike his not-so-illustrious leader!

So when the walls snap into effect and the sand itself starts to be picked up, the Brit does the sane thing. He draws on the Ancient Maritime Art of the Turtle, and holds his oar in front of him to face the first wall. Even as the walls circle about, the storm of chi and sand that encompasses all of the fighters present, he simply maintains his defense to the best of his abilities. The sand hurts, it rubs him the wrong way, and the chi itself, as it explodes, definitely stings... but in the wake of it, as all the sand comes falling down about him, the Oarsman remains upright. He returns to his full height, and turns his gaze from the fallen comrade to the livid Marisol.

"I'm going to guess you fuckin' Google'd me," he tells her as she comes at him, again sporting that title he will one day inherit; Duke. With a smirk on his face though, he intends to remain standing -- even as her fist erupts into his middle, he lashes out with the oar, to clobber her square in the side of the head before clipping her feet out from under her. Only then will he drive the oar into her middle, since he's been so intent on harming her there for the entire fight.

Then he simply looks down at her, leaning on the oar, keeping her pinned to the ground for the moment as he speaks on; "How about we drink some of that wine your family has its label on after this, huh? I bet its better'n the rice stuff they serve around here."

With the storm behind them, it gives Marisol a chance to face the Brit one on one and seek to put an end to this. Grinning broadly, she just eyes him with a hooded gaze, gray depths dangerous and excitable. Yes, she's enjoying herself very much, even if the odds may be against her now. But she just doesn't care. This is a chance to get better and improve. That's what all this fighting means.

"Not quite," she ultimately replies. "Your lineage isn't precisely some well-kept rumor around the schools. It doesn't take a genius or super-sleuth to figure out where you came from, "luv." However," Folding her arms briefly, she offers an almost cautious glare. "You seem kind of touchy about it." No matter.

Charging at him thereafter, she's intent on finishing this. Lashing out, that blast of chi strikes - but so too does that oar. Thrice, in fact; struck, her feet are ultimately swept out from under her, and that oar's blade pins her to the ground like some butterfly on display. Wincing visibly, she shakes her head a bit before she glares up at him.

"Idiot," she hisses, her breath wheezing. The pressure on her middle hurts, and it's difficult to get a full breath. "I'm not DONE YET!!"

See, the problem here is she has limited maneuverability. So how does she remedy this? Lifting her hand, she SLAMS her fist against the ground, causing the earth to rip open and that same gout of yellow chi and ground to slam up toward him. If anything, it'll get him the hell off of her.

COMBATSYS: Marisol can no longer fight.

[                       \\\\\\\  <
Preston          0/-------/=======|

COMBATSYS: Preston dodges Marisol's Shoot the Moon.

[                       \\\\\\\  <
Preston          0/-------/=======|

And get him off of her it does, as the signs are too clear for him. Preston abandons the effort of keeping Marisol pinned, leaping back just in time as that brilliant blast of chi and sand slams upwards.

As the sand rains down on his back, he heaves a heavy sigh and rubs his head. It's a good thing he keeps his hair so ridiculously short; he'd be shifting sand from it for the next week. "Well, is that it then?" he asks, apparently the last of the team standing. Leaning on his oar, he teeters slightly; yeah, he's not so far off from joining the others on the ground as well.

In fact, so close is he to actually falling over that he remains there, not assisting either up. "Was that the team bonding exercise you were after, Mari?" he questions the redhead, his smirk appearing as he looks to see where Luc ended up as well. Really, he feels no closer to either of them thanks to this, even if it has proved to be an interesting workout. If anything, their individual attempts to get under his skin, through complaint of his tendency to speech and talk of his lineage, is likely to drive him in the opposite direction.

Naturally he says none of this. The supposed victor, he simply leans on his oar and waits for his teammates to get up.

Out of the fight, but not out of consciousness or so out of it he can't stand; hardly. Luc is still quite capable of standing even in the aftermath of his attack, albeit still crouched; he's only just barely out of this fight, and it's readily apparent in the fact that the German's tell-tale liveliness is still quite present in his green gaze. Rubbing irritably at his wounds along his arms and chest, he stares at the tattered remains of his shirt, and frowns. "... you want me to wear this stupid shit and then you blow it up? Idiot."
That last shot of his seems to have drained any remnants of that berserker's edge he has; and by the fact that the other two are still standing, it seems he didn't channel quite enough rage. He'll rectify that next time around. Still, Luc stands to the back, away from the other fighters, irritably tearing off the remains of his shirt -- the little shreds that remain and the sand on them are irritating his wounds, and it causes him to wince in annoyance.
"Give up? ... What the hell do you know? I'm just having fun." A tactic that Marisol is clearly taking to heart as well -- even if Preston isn't quite so eager to follow suit. It doesn't /really/ matter. Next time he'll be more prepared for it. A spar he hardly needs to take seriously enough to even feel remotely bitter about the entire ordeal. Instead. he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, watches the exchange with a half-hearted sort of interest. His legs finally give out from under him, and he falls to the ground with a solid thump and kick-up of sand. Snorting at the end result of the entire exchange, Luc closes his eyes. "Maaan, you guys are losers. How about you stop rolling all over the ground with each other like a bunch of freaks, and let's get somethin' to eat. I'm freaking starved." Apparently, Preston's already done rolling across the ground. Good enough for him. Slowly, he struggles back onto his feet, whipes his pants free of sand. And then...
"Giving up. Stupidest crap I've ever heard. C'mon, let's get a pizza or something."

Bingo.

Pushing Preston away from her by way of huge chi blast, Marisol slowly but surely rolls to one side, a low, guttural groan sliding past her lips before she plants her hands against the ground. Pushing off, she shakily peels herself from the shores of Sound Beach, Marisol looks pretty awful at this point. Covered in sand and blood staining her pristine whites, the girl looks incredibly winded. Clearly she won't be throwing any punches anytime soon.

Luc doesn't seem to fare much better. Pausing, she turns her gaze toward him before she smirks. "Get used to repairing clothes, you wuss. Quit bitchin'. It's just a shirt."

Rising to her feet, Marisol begins sweeping her hands across her skirt and thighs, sweeping away bits of sand clinging to her. Is that it, he asks. Craning her neck slightly, she shoots him a glare of sorts before she scoffs.

"Who said bonding?" she retorts swiftly, curling her fingers tightly. "I said it'd give us a chance to get more comfortable with our styles. Get used to one another. I wasn't looking to forge some emotional attachments through punching you in the face, Preston." Scoffing, the girl shuts her eyes, lifting her hands to shake out her coppery mane. He thinks THEY try to get under his skin? He's being rather hypocritical if he truly believes that.

That's the spirit! Sparing a glance toward Luc, she offers a smirk before drawing those gray eyes to a close. "He's right. It was more to have some fun. You two are so fucking hostile toward one another it's sad. How are we supposed to work together if you two are always griping, huh?" Lifting her arms up, she folds them across her bosom. "But you both have the right idea about food. I'm starving. And if you want booze, you're outta luck." She's speaking to Preston. "I can't keep that stuff on campus. But I wager we can find a place around here that sells some."

That said, their "fearless" leader begins striding back toward campus. "Dunno about you two, but I'm cleaning up first. I'll meet you two at the gates. Ta, til then. And don't get sidetracked!" With that demand she lifts a hand and absently waves it over a shoulder before she moves onward, toward the dorms. They're like a dysfunctional family!

Quite the dysfunctional family, indeed. However hypocritical he may be, Preston simply remains poised where he is. "Food sounds good," he simply informs them both, before heaving the oar up onto his shoulder. It seems Marisol makes the arrangements, at Luc's suggestion. The Brit ambles away, back towards the dorms, no doubt to wash up himself much like their informal leader.

He'll see them at the gates, and they can have their little pizza party after that. Complete with milkshakes, and with less of the gaggle of girls that follow after him towards the dorms.

Log created on 02:26:55 05/29/2007 by Luc, and last modified on 15:33:47 06/02/2007.