Description: After her wacky SNF hijinx, Marisol goes AWOL. Naturally, a teammate goes looking for her and finds her in the local hospital downtown. But on second thought, perhaps tracking down the girl was a mistake, because Luc Schroedinger soon finds himself regretting ever coming by. Home of the awful accents. (Social Scene)
It's been a few days since the fantastic SNF bout between five up-and-coming fighters and the likely infamous Geese Howard, curator of the SNF matches themselves. The fight itself went off without any real hitches, aside from bickering between the leader of Gedo's Guardian Kings and Pacific High's leader and teammate. Still, perhaps most surprising was its conclusion - Howard's last ditch attack before admitting defeat.
The result? Well, after running on pure adrenaline, Marisol passed out. And, what's more, Marisol didn't really wake UP afterwards, even as she was carried off by SNF officials.
In fact, since that fight, rumors have been buzzing around Pacific High. Is she in a coma? Did she die? Is she in critical condition? Who knows?? Furthermore, her teammates haven't seen hide nor hair of the redhead; then again, are they really going to go out of their way to find someone as annoying and bossy as Marisol?
Whatever the rumors say, they're far from the truth. Seated up in a cushy hospital bed in downtown Southtown, Marisol glares out of the adjacent window, looking none too pleased. Tougher stuff, she is, Marisol isn't dressed in casts; instead, bandages are wrapped around her arms and some band aids on her face. Likely mild precautionary measures.
Either way, the girl looks unhappy, hardly admiring the lovely blue skies from inside.
Rumors have been circulating around Pacific High School as of late on one Marisol O'Connell, a girl who's become infamous in the school; rumors that she's in a fullbody cast, that she had to have extensive plastic surgery because of the wounds she took. Even some rumors that say Geese reduced her insides into liquid and now she's long dead and gone. Suffice to say, the students have been abuzz with murmurings. As of late, though, those rumors have begun to die down.
Mainly thanks to Luc Schroedinger rather abruptly tossing students out windows for what he perceived to be 'worthless, retarded rumors.'
Having been there when the fight actually occurred, the German knew that Marisol would be fine; or at least, it's what he's been telling himself. Thus, rumors to the contrary rather swiftly built up his irritation to the point that, unsurprisingly, those circulating said rumors around him became the butt of an unpleasant degree of abuse. The rumors were annoying, and untrue. After all -- Marisol wouldn't be so terrible as to die from some old geezer's attack.
Which is inevitably what brings the young German here. He had resolved himself simply enough to track down the Pacific Resistance team leader, confirm she isn't dead, and then possibly drag her out from wherever she had been hiding herself. Where he ended up wasn't exactly encouraging; green eyes stare up at the hospital entrance with a narrowed gaze and a small frown. It's to be expected, but even so--
"Man, this is sad."
The statement is made bluntly as Luc opens the door leading into Marisol's hospital room, his right hand shoving itself deep into his pocket. He looks to her, and then to the window, lips pulling into a thin line. "....I guess you're not dead." Which is good. Because that would have really irritated Luc to no end. "What the hell are you doing wasting time here? Did he hit you that hard?" Because really... just how hard can a person hit?
Sadly, the heroics of Luc Schroedinger and his adventures through Pacific High have yet to grace the redhead's ears; instead, she has had to listen to the awful soap operas the mounted television has been spewing all afternoon. Even the sports channels have been slow. A distant part of the girl wishes she was actually in class. At least there's more excitement at school.
Exhaling noisily, albeit carefully (because damn if her ribs don't ache), Marisol lifts her head, chin aloft as she continues to eye the gorgeous clear skies outside. It's like nature itself is mocking her, taunting her for getting hit like that. The thought alone draws a swift frown over full lips, eyes snapping shut like a trap. Irritated, she turns her head away.
And just in time, too. The door opens, and immediately those eyes open. For a moment, Marisol seems surprised to see who enters. His words fall upon deaf ears in that passage of time, her jaw slack as she eyeballs the youth. Then she scoffs.
"Yeah well, what the hell do you expect?" she barks at him, again shutting her eyes in annoyance. "The guy has probably a hundred years of experience on all of us combined. I'd love to see YOU stand up after getting hit like that." A hand drifts from her side, long fingers idly plucking at the sheets.
"The SNF people said I should be here for at least a few days." She states, opening a solitary gray eye to regard the German. "They weren't sure if I had a concussion or whatever. I don't know; I wasn't awake 'til last night anyway!" Scoffing, the half-Spaniard glares elsewhere.
"Why're you here anyway? I figured of everyone, you'd be the last person to stop in and say hi."
Well enough that his exploits haven't come to Marisol's attention, because Luc really doesn't feel like explaining them to her and in the end, it'd just get him angry; and then he would have to explain why he was punching some poor hospitalized girl (even if poor is hardly an appropriate word for Marisol), and he doesn't feel like doing that, either. It'd be a vicious cycle. Instead, he's left standing at the entrance to the hospital room with nothing really to say other than 'this is sad.' He thinks it's an appropriate enough statement.
Given her response, though, it seems that Marisol doesn't agree. Thin, neutral line becoming a much more distinct frown at her words, Luc just scoffs in response, pushing the poor closed behind him. "Whatever! I probably would've held up better than /you./" Probably not, but it leaves him wondering just how many more fighters there are in the world that could hit like that. It's intimidating -- but more specifically for Luc -- it's incredible.
"That was still kind of badass, though." He offers up plainly as he strolls across the room, settling himself into a chair with a lazy plop. "... You're a dumbass. Who cares what the SNF people think? They don't know crap, they're all a bunch of morons. You look fine to me." Aside from the bandages and all of that. Luc handily disregards these things as he locks his hands together against the back of his head, brows furrowing. Why is he here?
"... What does it matter?" The German grumbles out his answer almost dismissively, "Those idiots at school were going on and on about how beat up you must be so I just came by to prove it wasn't true." A pause.
"You look real pathetic lying around like that."
Likely, Luc would find himself talking to the authorities if he were to start something with poor, bed-bound Marisol. She's hurt, even if her outward appearance might not necessarily show it! Can't her teammate have some sympathy for her? Probably not; probably never.
"Oh, as if," the redhead swiftly retorts, furrowing her brows before she simply frowns at the German. "You would have probably exploded the moment his elbow touched you! At least, I think that's how the attack started..." Lifting her chin, the half-Spaniard puts her fingertip to said chin, her expression thoughtful. Really, she can't remember much of what happened when the old man was charging at her like a bat out of hell.
Rolling her shoulders, albeit cautiously, the girl exhales and shrugs. "Well, whatever; you would've folded like a house of cards." Lips curl at the corners of her mouth, her grin devilish. Is she egging him on? Maybe; but she doesn't really look like the sort to be getting into a skirmish with the Schroedinger heir.
The compliment earns him a faint exhale, her ego a little mended. She says no thanks; instead, those gray eyes stare at her feet from beneath the covers, the wry smirk a bit softer. That all does not explain why the heck HE'S here paying a visit, though.
"It makes sense now," she says, finding clarity in that moment as those gray depths sweep up, toward the young man. "You're just here to pick on me while I'm down, aren't you?" Her eyes avert, a brief glance spared to the doorway before she looks back at Luc. She looks pathetic? She's sad? Why are such awful words being spit at her? For a moment, the girl almost seems hurt.
Then, like the wrath of God or something, Luc will find himself suddenly pitching forward in his chair, a force like none other smacking him against the back of his head.
"Ye daft idiot!" a gritty voice barks, thick with an accent. "The fuck're ya doin' pickin' on me granddaughter for? Who th' fuck are ye, t'be comin' in here, prattlin' on like ye're the best fighter out there" Behind him is a rather tall and imposing man, his head aflame with surprisingly red hair, features wrinkled and weathered by the sun. He's likely in his sixties, but the man is spry. The air around him is without a doubt imposing.
"And what th' hell're ye doin' in me chair, you upstart?!"
"Who cares how it started," Is Luc's simple reply, leaning back in his seat. "It still looked awesome." Even if it probably wasn't all that awesome to experience for the O'Connell girl. Any sympathy the German has only comes in ways he's capable of expressing it in; usually, that means calling her stupid or pathetic. The words are filled with good intentions. ... for the most part.
Still, Marisol's words are burshed off in the wake of a derisive snort, green eyes rolling as the heir to the Schwarzerde style just frowns. "Tch! Like you know anything. Stupid girls." And that's it. Growled out unpleasantly, Luc simply shifts his position on the chair, his right hand scratching the back of his head in an irritable sort of expression.
Silence overtakes the room for a few moments, and Luc is left to move his gaze towards the window, observing with a thoughtful frown and little other words to provide. Instead, he just opts to try and enjoy the sights; he has a hard time doing it. Nature is boring to him. And so, the young man fidgets in his seat just a little in a sign of impatient boredom--right about when Marisol speaks again.
"Whu?" He begins, swivelling his stare back towards the half-Spaniard with a look of disbelief and, even further, annoyance, "... What the hell are you talking about? I just--" He stops, closes his mouth, and frowns. This is getting him angry. "I just came to see if you were oka--"
Any words with actual meaning behind them are skillfully cut off at that point when Luc suddenly finds himself in an informal greeting with the floor, face-first. Right cheek greeting solid, cold floor with a decided THUD, he's left staring at a pair of shoes and hearing a thick, unpleasantly Irish accent. The shock fades from his eyes, and instantly they narrow, his right hand clenching into a fist. "Someone wants to get their ass kicked--?!"
As Luc twists up into a sitting position, he's left to stare at one tall, angry, Irish geezer. "..." He pauses, and scratches at his head, staring at the old man almost blankly. And then?
"Who the hell are you supposed to be, Father Time!? Go to hell, geezer! It's not your goddamn chair! And I wasn't picking on anybody! Who do you think you are?! Stupid senile old freak!" Probably not the wisest of words, but then...
... Luc isn't really known for tact.
"I care!" she retorts swiftly, eyes wide. "How the hell am I supposed to get better if I just stand around watching people flip and punch and kick aimlessly?" What she means is, improving by paying SOME attention. Berserker tactics don't usually pan out very well. Her eyes flicker, gray depths shooting a glare toward the window before she simply exhales, nostrils flaring.
"Wow, is that all you can come up with?" she swiftly retorts, clenching her jaw a touch before she rolls HER eyes in return. "I expected better outta you, Luc." When he stirs she offers him a brief glance, gray eyes uncertain. The silence that falls upon the pair is likely awkward, if not uncomfortable. Even Marisol looks a little uneasy, fingers fidgeting atop the sheets before she eggs him on. It works precisely as planned.
Then, smack. The tiniest of grins haunts her lips.
She shifts her weight as he hits the floor, however, eyes peeking over the edge of the hospital bed to see what became of the youth. Flat on his face; yeah, that's how he should be, especially for what he said to her. The nerve!
Fortunately, the shoes Luc's left to stare at are really nice ones. Probably expensive, not that it matters to someone as easily-angered as the German. When he twists and climbs to his feet once more, he's left staring at an older man who is likely a few inches taller; five, in fact. And the old man doesn't look like he's in any mood to want his ass kicked. His broad jaw squares as Luc stares at him.
Then words. A lot of them, in fact. And spiteful! For the longest moment, deep, lively green eyes bore down at the young man as he rambles and prattles on. Who is he? This causes a brow to tick. Marisol lifts a hand, hiding a grin that just itches to come out on her tanned features.
A large, calloused hand whips out, as fast as a snake's maw. Snaring the German boy by the collar of his uniform, the man pulls him off the ground and right into 'Father Time's' face.
"The name's Shamus O'Connell, an' I'm this lass' grandfather," he states quite clearly, for Luc to hear. "An' I don' appreciate ye comin' in here'n harassin' my granddaughter like that, y'wise-ass punk. Who the hell're YE? Some classmate? Or some stupid no-talent punk? Eh?"
Releasing Luc, he drops him in the chair.
"He's a teammate of mine," Marisol states, cutting the awkward silence.
Berserker tactics work just fine for Luc, except in those rare times he finds he's not able to build up that signature rage of his. Usually not a problem. Which is exactly why he can just lift his shoulders up in a shrug, "Psh, whatever. You're like, years away from understanding a technique like that, ass." Of course, Luc says nothing for himself; he's in the same boat. Geese was just moving /way/ too fast to keep up with at his level of skill. Not that the German would ever admit it.
The silence is unpleasant, but fortunately it doesn't last long. Before Luc can finish saying something he'd likely regret saying immediately after, he finds fate smiling down on him in the form of an ornery old man flipping him over onto the floor. There is a grunt on his part, a sudden expulsion of hot air from his lips... and then he's brought face to face with an angry Irishman.
If Luc had common sense or even a practical sense of security, he might not be so inclined to yell at the old man. But Luc would tell off Geese Howard if he flipped him out of a chair, and so an old man he hasn't even seen before receives the exact same treatment. And what does it get him in the end? "I outta kick you right out the window, you worthless, old--"
It gets him gripped by the face and lifted up like a ragdoll, words halted once more as he's left to only glare angrily at the old man. There's all the signs of that berserker rage there; fortunately restrained by the fact that Marisol would probably get angry and hit him and then reopen her wounds, and he'd never hear an end to the bitching. So instead he's just left in the very uncomfortable position of dangling off his feet, with a really old guy gripping him by the face.
"Mmph olph ffeeffer mmph foo!!" He growled out in the midst of Shamus' lecture, eyes darting over to Marisol. and then the old man. And then Marisol again. And suddenly the similarities are all too clear.
With a thud and a sudden release of air from his lungs, Luc coughs and glares up at Marisol's grandfather, rubbing his throat unpleasant. "What the hell?! I'm in the same team as Marisol, you..." He considers, and then just lets his sentence trail, giving a 'harumph' and crossing his arms as he looks back towards the window. "You didn't tell me you had a grandfather." He states bluntly. The answer to that should have been obvious, but then again -- Luc is feeling uncomfortably awkward and not really listening to what he's saying. "What's he doing here, anyway?"
At least now he sees who Marisol gets her wonderous personality from.
Try all he might, it's possible that the old man, currently holding poor Luc up by the collar of his school uniform, would put some serious hurt on the German boy. Meeting his gaze with fiery greens, the weathered old man just glares. There's the fires of hell itself staring the kid in the eye, and it's a fearsome sight to behold. Fortunately, he won't have to bear witness long.
"Yer threats are idle, ye daft monkey," he grumbles, that aged, gritty tone unpleasant. "Lookit ye, yer just some little punk, barely in yer prime. And t'hell're ye, to talk t'me about kickin' me ass." He laughs, making pointed effort to do so in Luc's face before he simply deposits him in the chair the old man once claimed was his.
Meanwhile, Marisol shoots a gaze toward Luc as he falls. The similarities ARE surprising and creepy, but she seems oblivious. Instead, she just keeps quiet. Until she clarifies, aiding poor Luc. They're teammates? The old man's head swivels to the side, peering at his granddaughter uncertainly.
"The hell!" he cries, "The hell're ye hirin' morons for, Mari? This kid's about as smart as a bag o' potatoes!" Lifting a hand, Marisol's response is simple: she smacks her palm against her forehead with an audible slap. A groan escapes her shortly thereafter.
"Yes Luc," she replies. Her mouth opens.
"The hell kinda name is Luc," the old man interjects.
"Grandpa!" she cries, shooting him a look. The old man sports a wide grin.
"He's here because--"
"Because me granddaughter got hurt!"
"GRANDPA!!"
Exhaling loudly, Marisol sags her shoulders, gray eyes wide as she gives the elder man an incredulous look. He laughs, a rough, gritty bark before he moves to the window, casting his green gaze toward the ground below.
"I also decided after that particular scuffle me Mari needs a bit more of a positive influence in 'er life." Glancing aside, he looks toward Marisol, whose face is buried deep into her palms.
"And where the 'ell did ye learn to use that flashy yellowy shit!"
Man, Luc can already tell -- he's not going to like Marisol's grandfather one bit. It's not a hard thing to really accomplish, though; the German's dislike is established solidly the moment that Shamus begins to talk extensively. Essentially, the moment that Shamus makes his presence known. And the dislike just keeps piling up, the more the old man starts to rag on him. Green eyes narrow, and his right fist clenches dangerously in his seat, fingernails digging into the palm of his hand.
Until, finally, he manages to release most of that rage in a rare display. Instead of punching the old man in the back of the head as he was intending to do, his fingers uncurl, lift to the side of his face... and just scratches the inside of his ear while an irritable expression soaks over his eyes and lips. "Maaaan, whatever, you geezer. You don't scare me." And he really doesn't. Just like with all people more talented than Luc, the very prospect of it... just makes things more interesting.
"Who're you calling a moron?! She didn't 'hire' me you jackass, I joined a team with her! She's not the boss of me." Barked out irritably, Luc slumps back in his chair, eyes half-lidding in an expression of dull annoyance now. Hired. This guy knows just what to do to really get Luc going.
It probably runs in the family.
"..." Instead of actually responding to any of the words that are exchanged between Marisol and her grandfather, Luc just watches on with disbelieving eyes, combining a look of surprise with one of annoyance. He's not accustomed to family interaction on a level like this, and it shows in how he watches the two speak to each other. Instead of offering any words himself, the young German merely grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets and sinking even lower in his chair. But then--the old man says something that catches his ear.
"Positive influence?" Luc mulls over this, and then he frowns. Deeply.
"What, are you gonna give her a lecture on not getting beat up by old martial arts masters, or something before you leave?" He stresses the leave. Very, very deliberately.
But at least Shamus shares similar feelings as Luc on /something./ "I think it looks retarded." Yellow chi. Terrible.
Clearly the feeling is mutual. Luc does not like Shamus, and Shamus does not particularly care for Luc it would seem. Those old green eyes look to the kid with a gaze of scrutiny, his dry lips pulled into a thin line across his sharp features before he simply discards of him. The anger is noted, evident by the slowest rise of that thick brow...but ignored.
"Yer right, 'whatever,' ye goofy idiot! And don't ye be correctin' me, sonny! Ye're a bit too ignorant t'be runnin' yer own team." Squinting Luc's direction, the man again gazes at him with an inquisitive glare before he scoffs, loudly at that. A large hand lifts from his side, waving idly. As far as Shamus O'Connell is concerned, this conversation is through.
Instead, he rags on Marisol as she desperately tries to inform Luc of her dire situation. Embarrassed thoroughly, the redhead just keeps her face hidden in the palms of her calloused hands, the tiniest of groans escaping her. While this may be relatively new to the odd young German, it's nothing really out of the ordinary for the girl.
It's just that she's never quite gotten used to the embarrassment.
"ALRIGHT, GRANDPA!" the girl barks, dropping her arms harshly at her sides, atop the sheets of her bed. Wide-eyed and irritable - but far from sincere in feeling that way - the girl just gawks at the old man, who laughs in response. He begins to speak, but Luc pipes up, causing both redheads to look at him squarely.
"He's not going to lecture me about getting beaten up!" escapes Marisol at precisely the same time Shamus speaks, barking, "She's in dire need of getting herself better trainin'!" Both pause, turning their attentions to one another. Both start talking again in unison.
"I didn't get beat up! I miscalculated, and that's all! It was one hit!"
"Ye're gettin' rusty, hangin' out with no-goods like this Luc lad!"
Again, both pause and look at one another. Eventually the half-Spaniard huffs loudly, tossing her head to one side as arms fold over her chest. "It's called 'chi,' grandpa," she informs him. Though, when Luc adds his two cents in she glares.
"Oh, like your 'chi' power isn't? What the hell? Bruised colored chi? Who the hell uses bruise-colored chi anyway!?"
Shamus shoots a glance toward Luc. "What, ye use that shit too? Bah, ye fookin' kids with yer chi and willy-nilly!"
Whatever Marisol tries to tell the German, it seems to be lost in the wake of Shamus' ranting. The man talks even more than his granddaughter; he talks even more than LUC when he's pissed off. It's all in all, if not a humbling experience, than a downright stupifying one. One that leaves Luc just staring at the altercation between the pair before he ultimately deigns to speak.
His words, apparently, just inspire them to talk even more, and the Schroedinger heir is left fuming quietly for a few moments as they discuss. "Geeze... I hate old people," he groans out, eyes rolling up to look towards the ceiling. "Senile old morons who don't know what the hell they're talking about." Luc? No-good? Thankfully his ego doesn't even consider this a viable criticism; he knows just how good he is!
But then they just keep on talking. He mutters something about the Irish under his breath, though whatever it is, is likely something completely fabricated. Like Luc ever pays attention in class to know anything about any country. Rubbing his forehead, he continues to watch until they once more turn their attention upon him, and he finds himself at the end of two rather biting comments. He stops. He stares. He frowns.
"Oh, go to hell," He starts irritably, crossing his own arms over his chest, "the chi is part of my family, they've been using it for hundreds of years or some shit." It seems in this he's rather well-versed; a rare thing for Luc indeed, "At least I didn't choose to make my chi look like flowery crap, you asshole!" Apparently Marisol's grandfather being in the room doesn't stop his vulgar language. Luc is irreverant to a fault.
"What, do you just punch people? Whatever; don't get all pissy if you can't use it." Luc says in response to Shamus' commentary, brows lifting at the old man, "How could you be a fighter and not know anything about chi? Do you live on another planet or something, grampa?"
You see, Shamus would have likely had little more problem with Luc, had he learned to keep his mouth shut. But no, that is not the Schroedinger boy's style. Instead, he speaks what he feels, and right now he feeling a little hate-on for old people. For a moment there's an odd silence hanging over Shamus. He glares at the kid, his features as cold and hard as the steel supporting the hospital. The old man blinks. Like a veil lifted from those forest green eyes, his anger seems dispersed.
Shamus just ignores Luc. Instead, he opts to argue with his granddaughter. As the two go at it the young man is left in an awkward situation, clearly forgotten by both Irish folk present. At least until Luc opts to speak up again. You'd think he'd learn by now to keep his mouth shut around the pair.
"Oh, that sounds real intelligent, Luc!" the girl remarks, sporting a wide smirk as she lifts her arms and folds them over her chest. "You use the stuff, but you've never really investigated or bothered to learn your family's history? You're so worthless!" Arms cautiously lift into the air, lightly flailing. Then he rags on her chi and its color.
"What the hell, Luc! I didn't precisely PICK the color of the chi. You really ARE a moron!" The elder man steps away from the window at this point, moving around the bed before he gets near Luc. There he swoops a hand in again and seeks to snare him, pulling him up from the seat and into the air. More specifically, in his face.
"Do ye kiss yer mom with that mouth o'yers!?" the man barks, right into the German's face. "An' furthermore, do ye want me to punch ye through the wall?" He even lifts a hand and points to the wall behind Luc. "Moron! I know what 'chi' is!" Gray eyes from the bed drift toward the young man as the bed-ridden Marisol adds, "I was being smart."
Huffing, Shamus drops Luc into the chair once more, turning away from the boy. Marisol, on the other hand, yanks the sheets off, revealing an oh-so flattering hospital gown (yes that was sarcasm) and long legs. The redhead turns, letting her feet touch the floor.
"Anyway," she remarks, breaking that moment of odd silence. "Grandpa saw my 'performance' on television on Saturday and decided...he's going to live in Southtown to make sure I get more proper training." You would think it was a death sentence, what with how grave her tone sounds.
Shamus picks up on it and whips his head toward her. "Ah, cheer up! YER the one who bugged me as a wee little girl to train ye! Stop blubberin'! Ye could use th' pointers. Yer style is shameful!"
Marisol just hides her face in her hands once more and groans.
Despite all his numerous faults that probably even the most skilled of people couldn't keep track of, there is one thing that Luc knows very well, and that's fighting. It's like second nature to him, and so when the topic of things like chi come up, his words are surprisingly knowledgeable -- if not flavored with that trademark Luc douchebaggery he just can't seem to shake. And it certainly doesn't stop even with Shamus' presence. Luc is what he is, after all; and that is frequently, a blunt jerk.
"I know all about my family, you idiot." He states with a deep frown, shoving his hands back into his pockets, "And sometimes you can change the color of the chi that you use if you--" But Luc's own rare moment of actually lecturing about anything at all is cut off completely as soon as he feels the presence of that annoying old Irish man once more. He looks up. He blinks.
"Oh, fuck no--"
But despite his protests, he's once more grabbed and thrust RIGHT into the air again, where he's left to grip at Shamus' hands with his own, flailing about like a little child being lifted by someone they think smells bad. But it's all a futile gesture; Shamus has years on Luc and he can't get himself out of the grip the other man holds him in. And then... he's berated. As if he were Shamus' kid. This is not going to go over well for him.
"No, I don't!" He returns with an equally unpleasant tone; he'd add the fact that he doesn't because his mom is dead, but he doesn't want any potential pity from either of them. It's just a hassle. "Tch! Put me down, old man!"
But he's just lectured even more and threatened, until finally, FINALLY, the old man deigns to drop him into his chair once again, his clothing jostled and his look exhasperated. He is not liking this meeting at ALL. So he can only be happy that it's just a one-time thing--
(... he's going to live in Southtown...)
"... What." Luc's eyebrow twitches, noticeably.
"WHAT."
For a long, silent moment, Luc stares at Shamus. He says nothing. He just gives the most blank look one could imagine, scratches his head, and blinks. And then, after several seconds of this, Luc states, quite clearly:
"Ah, crap."
"You sure don't sound like you do!" the half-Spaniard retorts, those gray eyes hooding as she sports a rather uncertain glare. With how lax and lazy he comes off as, his intelligence and wit often suffers as result. "Or maybe," Pausing, the girl lifts a finger to her cheek, pressing it thoughtfully against her chin. "You're just not smart enough to form coherent words or sentences to explain it?" This earns him a laugh from Shamus.
The laughter doesn't laugh. Picked up by the old, spry man, those fiery greens peer into the mildly bemused youth, who grumbles in the old man's face. They fall upon deaf ears. Instead he growls in the German's face, causing the poor guy to flail and fluster in retaliation. He wants to be put down? Releasing him rather unceremoniously, Luc is left to fall into that chair.
"Good! Yer mom would be ashamed o' ye mouth if she heard ye!" he all but spits, those eyes rolling back toward Marisol as she eases herself a bit out of the bed and puts her feet down. Then, exposition.
And it crushes poor Luc under its weight.
"BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" The old man suddenly blurts out a loud laugh, his head pitching back as he slides his hands into his pockets. "Ye bet! That'll give me plenty o'time to get to know Mari's teammates. We can learn to bond, sonny!" Marisol just hides her face in her hand before she sighs.
Pushing off the bed, the girl glances toward Shamus as she talks to Luc. "I swear he's not this annoying when you get to know him," she states, turning her attention back onto the German. A smile slowly eases its way across her tanned features. "Besides, you two seem to get along just fine. I'd almost think he likes you."
Lifting her long arms up overhead, the girl stretches, yawning loudly before she exhales contentedly. "Much better. Hey gramps, go check me out of the hospital? I think I'm gonna leave now."
"Alright," he replies, offering a lopsided grin before he turns his eyes onto Luc. "Later, shortstuff," the old man remarks, walking past him...but not before smacking him idly upside the head and cackling as he exits.
Marisol sighs again. "So what'd I miss?" she asks.
"Maaan, shut up," Luc says irritably at Marisol as he's dropped once more into his seat, his expression one non-too pleased, and clearly looking as though he has been thrust into some sort of strange bizarro world. A bizarro world with stupid Irish grampas who keep on laughing in his face and insulting him. It's like having to endure an older male version of Marisol. One of them is enough. Two of them is overkill. And this one even has a horrid accent.
It makes Luc wish Shamus HAD punched him through a wall.
His mother brought up again, he simply frowns, offers up a simple, "Doubt that," keeping it vague and close-ended enough to end that subject right then and there. And just in the nick of time, too, because just as he finishes... he gets to hear the horrid news.
His blank stare is disrupted by annoyance as he's suddenly assaulted by boisterous laughter from the elder O'Connell, the surprise of the sudden, explosive laughter causing him to jump /backwards/ in his seat. And that just makes him even more annoyed. "..." Fingers twitching against the arm of his chair, Luc opts to remain silent. At least -- until he's thrust back into the conversation once more.
Rubbing his ear, though this time to see if he can even hear anything from it, the German looks towards Shamus, and then Marisol. "Bonding, huh? ... Great." The sarcasm is masked only by irritation as his gaze once more shifts to the younger of the two Irish boxers, "... hmph. Whatever. As long as he stops picking me up and shaking me like I'm some little kid." His tone is somewhat dejected, resigning himself to his fate. He sees a lot of annoyances in his future.
One of those annoyances, fortunately, leaves the room, even if only for a little while. Luc's eyes peel away from Shamus, and he makes a crucial mistake there; because as soon as he does, he feels a large hand cracking against the side of his skull. Head rocking to the side, and eyes wide, they almost instantly narrow a second later as he twists his head to stare at the retreating Irishman. "Old sonuvabi--"
But he's gone, and Luc is left once more with his fellow teammate. Letting out an unhappy growl, he slips down into his seat once more, and stares at Marisol. "... not much. I kicked that hobo's ass after the fight with Geese." About right after she passed out, in fact. Too bad she missed out on the fun. "... I also met that freak you got to join the team." He pauses, silent. He frowns.
"She's okay," he admits, but quickly adds, "but she's weird." Another person Luc finds annoying and frustrating. At least he has decent reason, this time.
The two are alike, and it's probably Hell itself for Luc in the tiny little hospital room. Still, it seems to be no skin off the backs of either Marisol or old man Shamus; the two, if anything, seem to delight in making the German's life a living Hell. This is punishment, for all those times he ruthlessly punched the girl, his teammate. Secretly, a part of her likely delights in his grief here.
"Yeah yeah," the girl remarks, flippantly waving her hand about at shoulder level before she crooks soft, full lips into a lopsided smirk. "Anyway, it's pointless arguing about this crap." This is said while poor Luc is dangling, of course. Then he's dropped, and the old man laughs, nearly deafening the poor German.
"Aye, Bondin'! We'll be sure t' do plenty of it, sonny! Gwahahaha!" Thoroughly amused at the prospect of being able to punch Luc in the face - likely repeatedly - the old man cheerful begins to pace toward the door, but not before smacking him upside the head. It's all in good fun, right?
...right?
It seems pointless when Shamus finally leaves. Contented now, Marisol relaxes a bit, flexing her arms before she curls and unfurls long fingers. Eyeing her arms and the bandaging work done, she furrows her brows before she idly begins peeling them off. "Oh?" she replies, tossing the bundled mess onto the bed. "Sorry about that." She offers little - truthfully, the fact her strongest attack did precious little to Tenma...bothered her. It makes her mad.
The jaw clenching might just be a clue.
It passes easily enough as he mentions the odd Brazilian girl, the team's newest recruit. Swift is the wry grin to cross Marisol's tanned features, gray eyes clearly delighted. "Sounds like she kicked your ass," the redhead observes.
"Stupid old geezers that think they're so great because they're old." Luc utters as he watches Shamus go. There's too many of those out there, and Luc can't wait for the day that he's good enough to just punt them all out the top story window of a very tall building. But there's nothing more to be done. The old man has left, and it leaves the Schroedinger heir with the other O'Connell. Annoyed though he may be, it could always be worse. Who knows what the rest of her family is like.
Rubbing the area of his head that Shamus cracked his hand against, Luc grumbles something likely incoherent to Marisol; a slur of German words as his gaze returns to Marisol. She asks what's happened; the answer isn't much of interest, really. She hasn't been out for too long. All he can offer is what happened after that fight. If he were more interested in it, he'd bring up the war going on in Thailand... but he's really not, and so it goes to the wayside.
Instead, they talk on matters more interesting to him; fighting matters. His gaze strays from Marisol as she apologizes, entertaining himself by looking towards the television. "... Stupid." He says at last, frowning. "What the hell are you apologizing for? You got the crap beat out of you by some crazy old man, you couldn't help it. Don't apologize, it makes you look like a jackass." Of course, this is all meant to be some sort of comforting; it's the best that Luc can manage in that situation. "That prick just got lucky."
But something else catches his attention. Her next words make him peel his lips back in a sneer. "Who cares about losing? That just means I can get stronger. She's a good fighter," He states plainly, but his sentence begins to trail off at this point as he focuses even more pointedly at the TV. "... ... but she cheated." And that's all he says. Damn girls. They're all so weird.
When Shamus leaves, it seems Luc's problems ease a bit. The response alone earns him the slightest of smirks from the girl, before she simply exhales through her nostrils with a sigh. "Whatever," she ultimately replies, lifting her hand up to idly rub the back of her thick red mane. "I think he's just glad to see me again. And to see I've got strong people to hang around with." Though sincere, the girl doesn't seem to express sincerity on her face; the words are executed as casually as she would anything else. Gray eyes drift toward the doorway.
But when he calls her 'stupid' the girl blinks once before she scoffs. Though she begins to speak, she is cut short by his 'sincerity,' causing her to leave her mouth slightly ajar. She finds her confidence swiftly enough; scoffing once more, she tosses her head absently to one side, folding her arms over her chest. "I wasn't completely out of it yet," she insists. "It's that asshole Tenma. He was always in my damn way!" It's good to know Luc kicked his ass; it's a shame she could not see it, however.
There's always something thrilling about Tenma getting his ass kicked.
She dismisses the ideas with little more than a roll of her head on her shoulders, gray eyes snapping shut. She'll move on from that humiliating 'finish' and strive to improve, she assures herself. And with her grandfather in town, what better opportunity than now?
But...it would seem Marisol has hit a sore nerve. His words and demeanor are definitely telling. "Cheated, huh?" Walking forward as he stares at the television, closing in. Only as she nears does she weave around and peer at him, even going so far as to grab his face and force him to look at her.
"What happened?" she asks with the most devilish of smiles.
"Glad to pick up and swing around people he's never met before, too," Is said bitterly as Luc rubs the back of his neck. In any other situation he probably would have punched Shamus, which just makes his situation all the more irritating. "Che!" And that's the last that the German has to offer on this particular subject, signalled by the drift of his eyes to the television. They'll probably have plenty of opportunities to talk about how great old Shamus is at completely frustrating Luc.
He's looking forward to it.
"That hobo is just a worthless sack of crap," he plays off his teammate's words dismissively, grunting as he looks boredly at the TV, his disdain for the Gedo boy clearly evident in his tone, "he can't even make a decent contribution in a fight. He's pathetic." He skillfully overlooks Tenma delivering the final blow on Geese; for Luc, all that amounted to was pure luck. He stole the last blow right from underneath the German, and that just makes him even angrier.
His rage is quickly shut down, however, as he feels hands clasping to his face and twisting it around so that green eyes stare directly at--"Whu--?!"--directly at Marisol's face. He pauses, and narrows his eyes. He has to remind himself that she's injured and it technically wouldn't be appropriate to punch her -- or even something he'd feel good about doing. And so, he is left in the awkward position of just staring at her, silently, trying hard not to look flustered.
There's silence between the two of them for nearly half a minute before he finally speaks. "Goddammit, you're a bitch," he starts out growling his aggravation for this entire situation, his face contorting into an odd, smooshed sort of frown, "She... she messed up the whole fight. She /kissed me/," And he doesn't sound happy about it, either, "and..." His sentence trails. He mutters something German once more under his breath. "... she wasn't wearing a top. She /threw me off/! She was cheating!" And therein lies well-deserved aggravation, in Luc's mind, "Who starts out a fight like that?! Next time I'm going to kick her in the head before she can play any stupid tricks!"
"You act like you're hurt," the redhead swiftly responds, tilting her head gently to one side as she spots an uncertain look. Sly, but uncertain nonetheless. "He's just an old man. Stop acting like such a baby, Luc." Shrugging her shoulders, Marisol eases herself up, stretching about before she seems content. Then, she smiles. Well, briefly.
"Well, yeah," she replies, regarding Tenma. "He's an idiot. And he slings blood around. That's just disgusting. There's no charm or finesse, but I guess the style fits HIM perfectly." Harrumphing, Marisol tosses her head to one side. It annoys her. How can he beat her so easily with a goofy style? "He cheats," she surmises aloud. "It's that stupid sword of his!" But again; whatever.
Before Luc knows it, Marisol's got his head in the palm of her hands. While she seems composed and calm, Luc seems just the opposite; he does well to suppress his uneasiness. It's not like what she does is grounds for a punching! And why would he want to, anyway? Instead, there is a long silence between both teammates...and it lingers long enough to make it almost awkward. Even Marisol's smile fades slightly, her fingers twitching. Isn't he going to talk?
Paydirt! "Yeah, yeah," she remarks, pushing on his cheeks a bit, to make the frown even odder as her lips pull into a wry grin. "I'm a bitch, so what. Details. Now." Just what will he say? Pás is a tricksy girl - she knows first hand. That's why she recruited her! Pás is an excellent addition - this Marisol is sure of. Also, she's a girl.
But then it comes, the scandal of all scandals. For the longest moment Marisol stands there, Luc's face in her calloused palms as she listens carefully to every word. She kissed him, he claims. She was topless, he swears. All in all, she was cheating, he assures. It would seem the redhead is stunned, proverbially floored by this revelation.
Then she laughs. Pulling her hands free the girl stumbles back, laughing long and loud, her arms folding across her stomach. It doesn't seem to end; she just laughs and giggles, barely able to breathe and hurting all over. Only after about three minutes does she begin to gasp for breath, trying desperately to collect herself, if only to reply to him properly.
Five minutes pass, and Marisol is more or less collected, tears in her eyes.
"S-so...Luc. T-tell me," she stammers, still trying not to giggle and burst into laughter again. "W...was she...was she your first kiss?"
Of course, all these things save for the matter of Tenma are ones that Luc only has a vague amount of interest in; and the subject of Tenma only brings to mind pleasant memories of how he beat the other highschooler into the ground. It helps him forget all his grievances over stupid old men and their stupid laughing and their stupid... stupidity. At least, for a short time.
"Cheating?" He echoes, scratching his head, "If he's cheating by doing that, then he sucks at cheating." The German concludes with a simple nod of his head, arms crossing over his chest. "Because he's still lousy." One of these days, he's just going to punt Tenma off a building or something and be done with it. But who knows if that would even kill the Gedo boy. He's like a cockroach.
But his fond memories are replaced soon enough, just like his irritated thoughts about O'Connells and how terrible they are, the moment when one of said O'Connell's places calloused fingers to his face and forces him to stare up at her. Silence. And then, finally, he reveals to her his flustering secret. He's not expecting sympathy. Maybe not even understanding. But while he expects what comes next...
... it doesn't make her laughter any less inspiring to violence.
"Go ahead and laugh, you asshole! She still cheated! She's not gonna have that on her side next time!" He spits out spitefully, glaring hatefully at Marisol as she continues to bark out laughter like some sort of an annoying hyena. The Brazillian WON'T get away with it next time, one way or another -- at the very least, Luc builds up certain tolerances quickly when not related to the many, many things that send him into bloody rages. "This is funny to you, huh? You're lucky your injured, or I'd kick your ass." And he probably would -- hospital or no. Luc has issues.
And then she says something that catches him off guard. Blinking, green eyes stare at her in a rare state of true surprise. "... what." He /states/ the word rather than posing it as a question, staring blankly at Marisol as all sorts of emotion drains from his features. "... WHAT! Why are you even asking that, you psycho?! Fuck you, I've kissed girls before her! First kiss, what the hell are you talking about?" Though with how little actual social skill he has and how much he detests being in contact with nearly everyone, it's probably a lie. His frustration and anger help to mask any uncertainty in his statements, though. "What's it matter to you, anyway?! Jackass!"
It would seem that Tenma has long-since been forgotten in favor of prying into Luc's personal life and his experience with the fresh recruit into Pacific Resistance. So he met the mysterious Brazilian student, and what's more...she seems to be the very bane of Luc's existence. The poor guy can't get a break, it seems. Not even from the team leader herself!
She laughs and laughs; his plight amuses her so thoroughly it would seem her soreness and discomfort aggravate, causing her to flinch and offer weak 'ow ow ow's in between gasps for breath and laughter. Luc seems forgotten - all she can think about is his frustration in regards to the strange girl. He lost because she was topless? Because he got kissed?
"Ah ha ha ha ha, I am laughing!" she offers as she does, in fact, continue to laugh. And it is clearly funny to Marisol. Staggering, the girl's arms fold tightly across her abdomen, pressing there to keep her from bursting at the seams. Eventually the laugher dies down enough for her to calm a bit, tears streaming from her gray eyes.
"Ah ha...ha ha...what's stopped you before?" she weakly asks. For crying out loud, he bludgeoned her with an arm rest once!
What is funnier to Marisol about this entire situation is the fact that it was very likely his first kiss. Hell, it was probably the first set of boobs he's ever seen in his entire life. His flustered demeanor and weak excuses only cause Marisol to howl with laughter again, bending forward at the knees with her hands resting atop them for support. "Wh...who are you kidding!?" she wheezes out, "that was your f-first. I'd put money on it!"
What does it matter to her? "Nothing," she states, rising up once more and calming herself a bit further. Those full lips are still pulled into a huge grin across her honeyed features. "I just think it's funny how a guy who pretends to be such a hard ass is so easily flustered by a little kiss. Or a chick without a shirt on." It's easy for her to say that, after all. She IS a chick!
But that does not stop Marisol from taking advantage of his agony. In fact, the girl steps forward and grabs him by the wrist, holding his hand up between them. For that moment, there is an odd silence between the half-Spaniard and the German. She stares into those green eyes, gray depths stern. Serious. Relentless. "How do you hope to improve, if..." she asks, sounding damnably firm.
"You can't get past something like this??"
Quite suddenly, Luc finds himself with a handful of Marisol's chest.
And an angry old man in the doorway behind him.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY GRANDDAUGHTER?!"
A bane, that's a good way to put it. And what do you do to banes? You kick them so hard they wish they didn't ever become a bane. And then maybe they die. Luc is already formulating a plan to prove his loss to be a result of the Brazillian's cheating ways. And if that doesn't succeed, well... he'll just have to exile himself into the mountains and train with bears for a year, or something. He hasn't quite gotten to that point yet.
Mainly, because any impromptu plotting is set off from Marisol's constant laughing and jeering at him. He's left to stare at her with a look that suggests that, very soon, he might just punch her if she doesn't stop. But it appears to be a largely impotent stare; if she's out of commission any longer, after all, it means he can't drag her along to beat up on people with him. And what good would she be then?
It leaves Luc kicking up out of his seat in an angry manner, the chair bowling over as he glares at the girl. "You..." He starts, slowly, "... you're such a no-good asshole!" He seems about ready to level a kick directly into her face, too, if not for what she says next. His first.
"What does it matter?! I don't want girls distracting me, anyway." Dismissing this with a sudden, irritable wave of his hand, the German proceeds to shove his left hand into his pants pocket, leveling an unhappy stare at the Spaniard. "People who care about kissing and that garbage are worthless, giggling little twerps!" And that's that. He's actually quite content over the fact that he's managed to avoid any girls kissing him up until this point. It made his life much simple. He liked simple. Because...
... things that AREN'T simple lead to this. An annoying girl laughing at the German as he does his very best to restrain himself. Anyone else, he really would have just taken the TV and smashed it over their heads. But as Marisol speaks, the only counters he can offer are through words -- and not even decent ones at that, coming out in an angry, aggravated tone. "What are you talking about?!" He begins, stamping a sneakered foot against the ground, "Fighting and... and that crap are two entirely different things! Who even cares, it's not gonna work next time!" He can act like a hardass all he wants in a fight, and it's just how he behaves -- just as much as, as much as it annoys him, these things tend to confuse and frustrate him.
Like now. Like when Marisol reaches out, moves forward, takes a hold of his wrist. He blinks, makes an initial tug of his arm, but little more. It's a testament to his own restraint that he manages NOT to flush. He's a man, dammit--"What are you doing, you weirdo...?" And then... And then...
... he feels his hand touching something very round, and very much--
"..."
He looks down at where his hand is, and he looks back at Marisol. "What--what the hell?!" His hand is paused at her chest, and despite himself he doesn't move it. "You trying to prove a point?! I don't care about this! See, I'll show you--" And just as his fingers start to apply pressure...
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY GRANDDAUGHTER?!"
"--For FUCK'S SAKE." He's dead. He's very dead. And the person responsible, he levels an even glare at.
"I... I hate you so much!"
And that said, Luc is going to desperately try to pull his hand away, and make a dash for the window. He's getting out of here before he gets his back broke by a crazy old protective Irishman.
Poor Luc finds himself with little mercy from his teammate. In fact, she's thoroughly amused at his plight, that he was so flustered by the Brazilian girl he lost. Though he lost, she's only positive it will encourage him to try harder to beat her next time. He just has to learn to get past...certain obstacles. It's enough to make her giggle a bit harder.
More so as Luc actually kicks himself out of his chair and rises into Marisol's face. Still tearing up in those gray eyes, the girl's hands press firm to her gut, trying desperately to make the ache go away. "Ow ow," she meekly mumbles, "it hurts to laugh. S-stop making me l-laugh Luc!!" But oh. Oh. He admits it.
Marisol just bursts out laughing anew. "I knew you were lying!" she all but squeals, lifting a finger to wipe tears from her eyes. "T-that is the most adorable thing e-ever!! Ah ha ha, that Pás...she's perfect for the team. I like her!" Even if Luc doesn't. Pás stays, as far as Marisol is concerned! But still is Luc caught in his frustrations and anger.
"Oh really?" the girl asks, rather calm now in comparison to a moment prior. Offering him a stern look, the redhead levels her gaze on the German boy. "If you lose a fight because some hot chick lost her shirt, or kissed you, then you have an easily-exploitable weakness." Key word: weakness. She grins at first, before she grabs him by the wrist.
It's enough to calm him momentarily, if only because of confusion. Maybe embarrassment. She's a girl, and she's touching him! This clearly cannot lead to good things for the hapless German, right? Whatever fate lay in store, Marisol's grasp is firm but gentle. It's enough to keep his wrist in her calloused grasp.
What is she doing? A devious grin crosses her lips. Introducing his hand to her bosom, Marisol just deposits it there, those gray depths peering at the German's greens. Even as he looks away, however brief, the redhead just looks right into his face. She watches closely his reactions, gauging the slightest nuances. Or she's just waiting to see what happens.
"You don't care?? It doesn't bother you??" She pauses. This is where Luc becomes a victim of circumstance. The moment Marisol closes her mouth with that nigh-incredulous look on her honeyed face, Shamus reappears, looming in the threshold of the hospital room. Near him is a tiny nurse, who also looks surprised. The old man bellows loudly, his voice booming as it carries through the entire floor.
Luc is in trouble. When those eyes return to Marisol, she just hoods her eyes and sports a devilish grin.
She lets his hand go immediately, allowing the young German to dash away and head for the window. Shamus, on the other hand, tears into the room with surprising swiftness for a man of his age, but misses the young man as he leaps from the second-story. Only when he's gone does Marisol burst into laughter again, bowing at the waist.
It seems the world is fighting against poor Luc Schroedinger.
Log created on 20:11:54 06/04/2007 by Marisol, and last modified on 13:50:21 06/05/2007.