Description: Two teammates are pitted against each other, because the match coordinators are cruel, cruel people. The Pao Pao Cafe serves as the backdrop for this particular SNF, where Marisol faces off against the wall of meat known as Preston. WHO WILL WIN???? The answer is... right next to the desc! (Winner: Preston)
Pao Pao Café has seen its share of sanctioned fights. From League Fights to SNFs, the popular restaurant has become a hot spot for fighters and the general public alike. And yet, somehow, Marisol has yet to eat here. Fortunately, Howard Enterprises has helped the half-Spaniard discover this little treasure, nestled in the Village Mall.
Tonight, the restaurant is busy, teaming with life as people mill in and out. Unfortunately, seating here is painfully minimal; a good portion of the restaurant's center floor has been set aside for the fight to be. And seated on the outside of the makeshift fighting "ring" is Marisol herself, eating idly at a zesty salad, free of charge, courtesy of the SNF crew.
But she doesn't seem thrilled. The contrary, in fact; nestling her cheek into her palm, the girl just pokes absently at the large shreds of lettuce haunting her bowl. Sighing heavily, gray eyes are fixed on the ceiling, as SNF crew mill about, putting the finishing touches on the room. Cameras are set up, the crew is ready to go. All they need is one more person before this show can get on the proverbial road...
And all Marisol can think is that Howard Enterprises STILL has a cruel sense of humor.
A cruel sense of humor, or simply a good sense for the pivotal battles in one's life? Pitting teammate against teammate, it seems that the organizers know precisely what they're doing; they are, after all, always keen to improve on ratings. This fight, at the Pao Pao, has been promised to the fans as quite the pow-pow, a fight between friends that has been trumpeted up in the media, on talk shows; the up and comer O'Connell, the leader of Pacific Resistance, against the would-be subordinate who's reached for the gold and clasped it, stepping past the line.
The truth is another story entirely though; the two combatants haven't really spoken about it, but it's likely that they're both uneasy. Marisol's fussing at her plate tells a story, but there's another waiting to unfold this evening.
Howard Enterprises know precisely what they're doing. Precisely. Every subtle nuance that can be milked from a scenario will be, for maximum ratings and maximum profit; it's the way of life. Amidst the hustle and bustle of the café, a set of eyes watch and wait, bright and eager for the festivities to begin.
And begin they shortly will, as a slight stir starts in the crowd. "The champ is here!" one fan shouts, and a bit of hooting and hollering by the diners starts, as a massive mound of muscle makes its way through the crowd of spectators.
He stands above them all, head and shoulders above the rest, and simply by existing, Preston Alistair Wellington the II makes an entrance. While he may be wearing a shirt for a change, it's entirely unbuttoned -- much to the liking of the female fans, several bold enough to request autographs in the oddest of locations.
The Brit himself simply takes it all in stride, slow and methodical as he makes his way through; the fans are ignored, the stoic nature of his country shining through much to the delight of those avid fans who have, for some odd reason, taken a shine to the oar-wielding wonder.
That very oar is held over his shoulders, slanted as always, with one of his monstrous forearms resting across the shaft to keep it in place. There's no gold about his waist, the title not on the line. But to judge by his face, he seems bored already, although a little of the tedium seems to fade as he clears his way into the little area set aside for the fight. Immediately those clear eyes begin assessing the surrounds, and it becomes rapidly clearly to him.
There's barely enough room to swing an oar in here.
"Fuckin' charming," he growls... and then he waits, for the girl he knows will come.
As pivotal or moving as such an engagement may or may not be for either fighter, one thing is for sure: this is an awkward setup, and it was only a matter of time before something like this was TO happen.
Regardless of circumstances, Marisol is here, and she has no choice but to step up to the plate and give it a go. There's a good reason why the likes of Preston, Luc and Pás have since been recruited onto the unlikely team: they are no pushovers, and have considerable talent. That means this fight will not be so easy. But never was Marisol to give up and throw in the towel before a fight.
Still fussing at her remains of salad, the half-Spaniard girl just sits there, looking the perfect picture of boredom and uncertainty. The fork idly stirs, but there is no real life to much of her doings; it's particularly uncharacteristic. But she has reason to be uneasy - since the announcement of the match, she has pointedly avoided her teammate, outright ignoring him since that "fateful" day. Whether he has been particularly bothered by it, well.
Marisol is certain he's managed just fine.
The bustle from the distance earns the redhead's attention, a gray eye wandering toward the movement across the room. He stands out quite obviously, from his height and imposing presence, to the oar slung across his shoulder; where he goes, people are bound to notice. The sight causes her lips to pull into a lopsided and weak smirk. Pushing her hands flat down and onto the table, the girl rises up and makes her way toward the sectioned-off "ring."
"Well, well, well," the girl says, lifting her chin a touch as she finds her place in the center of the floor on one side. Bored though he may be, the redhead seems distantly amused. "Aren't YOU the popular one, Preston?" Her head jerks sharply to one side, eyes hooded as she sports a harsh, albeit comical, sneer. "Ho ho, and fans, too. So your infamy stretches beyond the school grounds? My, my, my."
Gray eyes flicker aside, toward a gaggle of Japanese girls and their camera phones, bubbly and giggling like mad as they watch the towering Briton.
"Such a following, too. I think that Sada girl might get jealous~!" But whatever!
Those eyes narrow a touch, her expression darkening a bit as she offers him a serious and particularly studious look. "Don't think I'm going to go lightly. This isn't sparring. This isn't some random fight, Preston. I'm going to take this a bit seriously, and I refuse to embarrass myself like before, in that fight with that Gedo filth. Just a warning."
Her teeth glint as she offers a devilish grin.
"Heh. You ready~?"
COMBATSYS: Marisol has started a fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Marisol 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Preston has joined the fight here.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Marisol 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Preston
COMBATSYS: Marisol focuses on her next action.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Marisol 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Preston
As the crowd parts to allow the opposition, his very teammate, through, it is not without a certain fanfare of her own. Boys love Marisol, and for some very obvious reasons; she extrudes confidence, she seems a born leader, and her looks are simply to die for. Suffice it to say, there are posters waiting to be signed, and photos begged to be taken, but how she handles that...
Preston doesn't really care.
His musings trail off as the half-Spaniard makes her appearance though, that mane of red hair bemusing as always. As she instantly sinks her teeth in though, the verbal barbs coming fast and furious in the direction of his fans, a slight hush develops. Did the Brit just get served, and on top of that, did Marisol just reference some Asian chick he kicked the crap out of? "Shut the fuck up, it's not like you don't have your own fans jackin' it to their televisions right now, Red," he replies, gruff as always.
Those clear eyes show a bit of the humor that paints his face though, her warning and devilish grin only getting back the smirk that's practically the trademark for their team. "I was fuckin' born ready," he replies, following through with the cliché to the utmost as he lifts the oar clear.
The blue button-down he wears remains on, for the time being at least, as he spins the oar in front of him. Thick fingers prove remarkably nimble on that length of wood, passed hand over hand as he lets his staff-fighting background show, however stylized and dramatic he's turned it. The promise of pain is clear, and Marisol knows well the sting of that weapon.
"I wouldn't expect you to be fuckin' playin' around on the big stage anyway. You know I won't be givin' you any slack either!"
Since it seems clear to him that he's to take the first move, he does just that. Calf and thigh flex within those dark pants as he pushes forward off the front foot, clearing the ground and what distance is between them. The oar threatens, coming out of its twirl held under one arm -- and it darts forward, the length of it seemingly moving straight for Marisol's head.
Yet it's a simple diversion, a feint to get her moving, right into the path of his meaty right fist. Curled fingers bulge, a white-knuckle sandwich heading straight for her middle!
COMBATSYS: Marisol fails to interrupt Medium Strike from Preston with Red Clover.
- Power fail! -
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Marisol 0/-------/-----==|-------\-------\0 Preston
Whether she CARES or not is an entirely different story altogether. For now, her whole purpose here seems to be to fight with her teammate, as scheduled. Aside from eating a salad, of course. And ignoring pretty much everyone around her, save the occasional SNF official, of course. But even they were blown off.
When her teammate ARRIVES, however, that is a different story altogether. A touch more animated now, the girl postures herself as always, grinning a toothy smile as she saunters forward. Did he just tell her to shut up? Tilting her head a bit, the girl's smirk widens a bit as she swiftly cuts back with, "Are you jealous?
"And don't fucking call me that," she then responds, her eyes widening a bit as she all but snarls. "That jackass Tenma calls me that, and don't you go off using it either. Are you TRYING to give me a reason to kick the ever-living shit out of you?" Ready or not, however, here he comes. And clearly the redhead is not as ready as she presumed herself TO be.
As he unshoulders the oar and takes it into hand, Marisol already makes her move in and at him, to stop him in his tracks. However, the oar and half-Spaniard meet halfway, and its blade cuts straight for her! She's ready for it, her shoulders tensing as she begins to weave.. .and runs right into his fist.
Struck, the girl staggers back, momentarily stunned before those gray eyes swivel up, staring at Preston in disbelief. Is she mad? Is she upset? Is she hurt?
"That didn't hurt. You hit like a girl," she chides, still smirking all the while.
Is he jealous? "Jealous of what?" he is quick to question, perhaps a touch too quick, although Preston's delight broadens, that smirk growing, as she explodes at the name. "That kid from Gedo? You mean your boyfriend, right?"
Clearly he must be giving her reason to be angry, and he's employing the tactic he always does with his mouth; he riles her up, he stokes her anger. He wants her blinded by rage, and initially it seems to pay certain dividends -- although that may simply be luck. His initial feint works a treat, and he feels his knuckles threaten to bruise as he drives them into her, forcing her back.
The crowd reacts. A sharp hiss from one side, and a cheer from the other, the cheering sections most definitely segregated. Meanwhile, the quiet exuberance of a girl watching her idol continues, a pumped fist and a sharp 'yes!' swallowed up by the clamor of the crowd.
In the afternoon, she chides and she smirks, but the Brit does not rise to the bait. In his lexicon, his mental scoreboard stands with him one over her, for this fight. Their training exercises, their rooftop encounters, the score is actually in favor of the half-Spaniard -- but will the tale of the tape truly go her way this eve?
Giving his fist a slight shake, he goes along with her joke. "You're right, I think I chipped a fuckin' nail. You stuffin' ya bra again, or was it your mannish jaw I just hit?"
Time and time again, he seems to ask for it, his mouth digging the hole he could well fall into deeper and deeper. Leaning on the oar, he does not press the attack -- but nor does he beckon, seemingly taking a break already. But those hazel eyes watch her, every inch of her, momentary elevator eyes drawing that grin to his face that only appears after he's let himself roam the buffet cart, as it were.
"Tonight you're 'Red,' you're not Mari. Get used to it, luv."
His lips pucker, and he blows her a kiss.
COMBATSYS: Preston focuses on his next action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////////]
Marisol 0/-------/-----==|-------\-------\0 Preston
"He is not my boyfriend, you idiot," the redhead sharply retorts, her eyes all but hurling daggers at the Brit as he stands before her. Despite the blow to her stomach, it's not enough to hinder her in the least. If anything, it was a warm-up and a warning: she needs to get her head in the game, if she wants to win this. Narrowing her eyes, the girl just stands there.
Rubbing idly at her wounded midsection, Marisol stands there, just watching the teammate with an eye of scrutiny. Will this bad start of hers pay off? Will he think himself to be the victor here, or will it blind him and cause him to make bad decisions. Already, he's making them. He's calling her a man.
Hands curl into tight fists at her sides, eyes mere slivers as she glares at the man. Any more glaring, and she just may learn how to kill him with that stare. "You...fucking...asshole," she growls through her teeth, her knuckles white as she holds her ground. Then?
Charging forward, the girl attempts not to punch him in the stomach, but punch Preston right in the groin with a hook. "YOUR ASS IS GOING DOWN!!"
COMBATSYS: Preston blocks Marisol's Medium Punch.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////////////// ]
Marisol 0/-------/----===|=------\-------\0 Preston
That stare slides right off of him, the proverbial bull becoming a duck -- and that feathery down simply rolls the water off. That glare has no effect on him, it would seem, the Brit simply too stoic to let something as simple as those sharp gray eyes pierce him so. Every word is sculpted from him, the supposed whining he makes in-effect the very goading he wishes to employ, and it works a treat as anger gets the better of her.
She labels him an asshole, and then she charges -- and initially, Preston simply prepares to receive it, until he notices that her arm is going a little too low for his liking. "If you want it that bad," he declares, as he lifts a leg to guard his privates, absorbing the punch into his meaty thigh.
"All you have to do is ask. How many times I gotta tell you this?"
Sure to create a miniature tabloid frenzy with such a stark admission, the Brit goes one step further. His right hand lunges, aiming to capture the front of Marisol's top and hoist the half-Spaniard high. "This one's for your fans," he announces, momentarily amused before his gaze turns sharp and his concentration peaks.
Materializing behind him, chi manifests swiftly in the form of blue-white lines, points of light that dart past the Brit's burly shoulders to strike at Marisol in a decidedly wet fashion. Splish splash, it's time for her bath.
COMBATSYS: Marisol interrupts Cape Horn Fever from Preston with Iron Butterfly.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////// ]
Marisol 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Preston
As confident as the Briton may appear, there is likely to be a chink somewhere in that defense of his he attempts to hold before her. He does well to earn the ire of the half-Spaniard girl; offering him a glare, the girl offers her opinion to him, whether he likes it or not. Then she charges, without hesitating, a fist aimed for his goods.
"Shut UP!!" she hollers, eyes going wide as she glares up at the tall Englishman. "This is a fight, you idiot! Stop thinking about your junk and FIGHT already!!" Tabloids or no, those such trivial publications are the least of her concerns - particularly when he snaps a hand out and grabs the redhead by her blouse. For a moment, she seems surprised.
Then those tanned features just look irritated.
"And this is to disappoint your fans, you oaf," she hisses. What does she mean?
The chi which manifests behind him is noted, and in response her free arm jerks to life from her side. Cutting a swath of vibrant yellow energy between them, that energy "veil" intercepts the majority of that watery chi, but its purpose is twofold. A second later, however, that chi roars to life, capturing the Briton within.
Pushing her heels into Preston, the girl pulls herself free and distances herself. The yellow energy, on the other hand, cocoons him before it explodes in a furious display, to rock him back and away. Marisol, on the other hand, rubs her collar absently as she glares his way.
"That's for trying to wet t-shirt me in public, you dirty fuckin' pervert."
The attempt by the Brit certainly goes awry as the outrage of the girl comes to the fore. Even that spectator in the crowd finds herself a little quiet by the tone that her idol takes with his opponent.
As soon as that veil manifests though, Preston knows he's in for a bit of trouble -- but at such range, there is nothing he can do to evade what follows. His strike is intercepted mid-flight, the majority turned aside as the table turns. As she backpedals, he is caught and captured, the cocoon exploding into a flutter of butterflies as he's driven back, bare feet skidding on the café floor.
Nearly, he falls. Steadying himself, he gives a sour grunt back at the half-Spaniard, eyeing her off from across their makeshift ring. "Dirty fuckin' pervert eh..." he echoes her name-calling, leaning his oar up against one of the café's support pillars for the moment. That blue button-down is grasped, and shed in one smooth motion, revealing little but lightly tanned skin and an abundance of definition. He bulges; he knows no other way.
While it may draw a cheer from certain members of the crowd, particularly as he bunches the shirt into a ball and throws it to the masses, it would seem that he may take a piece of her advice now... and take this just a little more seriously.
Taking the oar back in hand, he gives it one neat twist as his entire body shifts with it. Fancy footwork closes the gap, two steps forward taken before he lashes out with the massive range his three-yard weapon affords him.
Utilizing it like a spear, he thrusts the blade out flat to pierce her belly and catch her. "Consider me takin' this seriously," he announces, intending to lift her from her feet -- and then hurl her backwards, mixing up his usual routine in an attempt to show Marisol just how much her fans love her -- by throwing her into them!
COMBATSYS: Marisol blocks Preston's Bunting Tosser.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////// ]
Marisol 0/-------/-======|====---\-------\0 Preston
As far as Marisol is concerned, there are no spectators here - there is only her Briton teammate, and the redhead herself. No cameras, no fangirls, no pervert boys hoping for a peek at some half-Spaniard thigh, no salads: only Preston and Marisol. It helps her focus and keep her mind alert, and she sorely needs it right now.
Watching as he nearly falls, the redhead just sports that dark look, even as the last of the chi-manifested butterflies drift aimlessly toward the ceiling. Showy, yes. But she doesn't seem to care. Instead, she just centers all her attention on the imposing young man before her as he grumbles. She flinches only slightly when the button-down is ripped free of his form.
Then she smirks.
Then she hoods her eyes a touch more.
"You're such a fucking showoff," she chides, as the crowds around them erupt in an assortment of girly squeals and cheers, and more so as the shirt is thrown into the crowd. Girls scramble and scream, fighting amongst each other in desperation to get a piece of Preston. Really, he should be flattered. Likely he is. It only makes the redhead scoff and toss her head.
As he moves, however, the redhead is suddenly ready. Her hands twist, dropping from her sides to intercept the blade of the oar in her hands. Wincing in discomfort at the contact, Marisol bites her teeth before she does what is potentially the unthinkable, considering the height and weight differences between the two.
She attempts to pick the oar up by its blade she holds and the young man attached to it, picking them both up high...before she turns and attempts to slam him head first into the ground of the café with a roar of strain.
COMBATSYS: Preston interrupts Medium Throw from Marisol with Queen's Regulations.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Marisol 1/------=/=======|=====--\-------\0 Preston
"I don't hear you complainin'," the response at being called a showoff. He very well may be, but he does not bathe in the affection of his fans; if anything, he seems more interested in his own body. Without a doubt, he's aware of how much of a spectacle he is, the simple fact being that he is indeed a mountain of muscle made flesh.
The fight progresses though, his darting oar captured willingly by the half-Spaniard. And then, she does indeed attempt the unthinkable. And quite soon, it proves impossible.
Her strain is epic, the weight of him simply massive despite what she benches during her own training. With him alive and kicking -- and actively resisting -- she may well be likely to hurt herself in the attempt.
But whatever pain it may bring, she actually does it. She lifts his feet off the ground, right on down that length of oar, utilizing strength from deep within in an attempt to... showoff in turn, to show the Brit that he is not the only one with ample strength. Her frame belies that strength, but she brings it to the fore in their fight. He teeters there in the air, scant inches off the ground, floating close to the edge of the ring. Will she manage it -- will she truly lift him all the way?
"Not so fast!" he declares as he is lifted though -- and releases the oar, the shaft of it striking him in the shoulder on the way through. It stings, and momentarily without his weapon of choice, he opts to improvise.
Gripping a wooden stool, he rips it out from under a spectator and brings it to bear against Marisol. The half-Spaniard will witness grace, as he lashes out at her not once, not twice, but thrice -- culminating with a sweep of her feet off the floor, a moderate volley into the air. It's the landing she need watch out for.
"Looks like you need a break, luv."
Speed belies his form -- the two almost seem opposites, the beauty and the brawn, both strong and yet oddly agile. It's that very speed he employs with such quick handwork, setting the stool down and kicking it forward up so that she may simply land upon it, seated.
Being a gentleman, in the midst of bashing her with a stool?
It takes considerable focus and effort on Marisol's behalf, but for all the effort, she proves to really benefit from it. Concentrating on focusing inwardly to muster the strength to lift Preston off the ground, he instead doesn't allow himself to be taken for a ride; dropping the oar, she's suddenly stumbling a bit, blinking once before she looks toward the opposite end of the oar.
"What the fuck?"
Then those gray eyes snap toward Preston - just in time to see him bearing down on her with not his trusty oar...but a bar stool. A bar stool. And he beats her repeatedly with the damn thing, Marisol's form ultimately sent soaring into the air above. And, ever the British gentleman he is, he kicks the stool up for her to land on.
And she does. For a minute, the crowd goes silent. What the hell?
And the uncertainty seems apparent on her face, as she just stares at her teammate. "What...the fuck is your problem?" she asks, shifting her weight on her newfound seat. It doesn't last, however; his generosity all but dismissed, Marisol hops off the stool and snaps a leg out behind, to send it flying.
"Stop being such a moron," she warns, the ground around her feet suddenly springing to life. Air seems electric with energy, the faintest hints of yellowy flames dancing around her feet, motes of light slowly drifting upwards. Her hands curl, features dark as she holds her ground.
Has she bitten off more than she can chew? Never.
"A stool? A fucking stool? How goddamned insulting can you be?"
COMBATSYS: Marisol gathers her will.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Marisol 1/--=====/=======|=====--\-------\0 Preston
While it may seem an act of generosity, the Brit hardly seems to agree. The way he sees it, he's dominating her, and he knows her. He thinks he knows her at least, and he's pre-empting what he was certain of -- that she would take a moment to gather her senses, and try to rid herself of some of the affront that he's slung at her thus far.
She surprises him, but not in a good way. That tell-tale burst of energy about her, yeah, he knows that all too well as well. "I think I've been pretty fuckin' insultin' so far. Want me to rattle off a list?"
And what, give her time to fully harness her power?
Bereft of a weapon, the Brit is again forced to improvise. Wherever did his oar end up, about the time he started wailing on her with that stool? Briefly do his eyes search for it, but it does not last as he stomps his way up to her. A field of energy? It seems like as good a place as any for him to drive his bare foot, aiming to kick the half-Spaniard square in the face and interrupt her little session.
COMBATSYS: Marisol endures Preston's Light Kick.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Marisol 1/=======/=======|======-\-------\0 Preston
Dominating, indeed. But Marisol is too stubborn to give up. Holding her ground after discarding the stool to the emptiness behind her, the redhead holds her ground, energies springing to life. He knows well this particular skill of the half-Spaniards. It isn't anything new to him, but it's ominous nonetheless. The corners of her lips are haunted with the tiniest of curls, a ghost of a smirk lingering on her tanned features.
"You have, but what else is new?" she asks him, eyes never once leaving him as he stands there before her. As for a list, well. "No thanks. I'm not particularly in the mood to listen to you fucking rant, Preston Alistair Wellington the second." It's only then her mouth pulls into a quick smirk.
His weapon discarded, it has since ended up behind the girl. She stands between him and his cherished weapon now, glowing with that faint energy as she stands there. And he, on the other hand, seems intent on plowing through her, if only to reach it. Charging forward, he lifts a leg and swings a foot for her face, and it hits.
But Marisol doesn't move. Instead, she smirks harshly, her eyes going wide, manic, even.
Then she swings a chi-laced fist at his jaw.
COMBATSYS: Marisol successfully hits Preston with Cloud Nine.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
Marisol 0/-------/---====|=======\==-----\1 Preston
The first swing kisses his jaw, striking harshly with a small burst of chi. But it doesn't end there; another fist swings, another burst of chi. Then another, her fist hooking him across the jaw, followed by a burst. But it doesn't end in three; instead, the girl suddenly twists her arm and lets her fist connect by way of uppercut, striking the Briton fiercely in the jaw. It's meant to stun, you see.
As he recoils from the blow, however, Marisol snaps a hand out and grabs the young man by his throat, bringing him close, but not itimately so. Instead, her forehead meets his, a harsh headbutt delivered before she releases him, before adding insult to injury. Another uppercut delivered, harsher than before, exploding with energy, enough to send the young man flying back and away.
And leaving Marisol panting for breath.
It all turns to shit about the moment his bare foot, a touch blackened by all this walking around on dirty floors, comes into contact with her face. After that, well, he's seeing stars.
The fist collides with his jaw, time and time again, each with a release of chi that sends him staggering. It turns vicious; she uppercuts him, as stars start floating about his head, and then she capitalizes. His throat is seized, and then they're very, very close to one another, as she drives her forehead into his. A final uppercut, and she succeeds in lifting him clear of his feet.
Back he is driven, the force explosive. Gaining air as only a truly significant hit can against the Brit, he lands in the crowd, knocking a solid dozen fans over -- most of who are no doubt proud to have some of his sweat land on them, if not outright claiming it a religious experience.
With them to cushion the fall though, he maintains his footing, but just barely. "Oh, I love it when you play rough," he growls at her, touching his jaw with meaty fingers. No doubt he'll have the most charming set of bruises tomorrow. Idly, he plucks a cigarette out of the hand of a spectator, taking a long drag.
But the bruises are something to think about tomorrow. For the here and now, Preston pushes off from his crowd and charges back into the ring. Swift is he, not beating about the bush this time as he steps menacingly towards his teammate.
"Here, Preston!" the girl who's been watching all of this shouts from the sidelines, and does the unthinkable; she throws him his oar, as if it were nothing. Seeing the item flying at him, he snags it out of the air, brandishing it once in a neat twirl while the other hand holds onto that cigarette.
Puffing out the smoke he's kept in his lungs, he fails to thank his mysterious assistant as he nears Marisol. "Lights out, Mari," he boldly announces, aiming to swat her like the proverbial fly as he thunders the oar down from overhead, the broad blade seeking out her noggin.
COMBATSYS: Marisol fails to interrupt Fierce Strike from Preston with Red Clover.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Preston 1/---====/=======|
COMBATSYS: Marisol can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Preston 1/---====/=======|
Holding her ground, the girl stands there, gasping for breath as she watches the Briton. He rises from the crowd after a time, making himself known once more to the redhead. His chiding earns him a scoff and a glare, long arms folding over her chest as she turns her head aside. "Oh fuck off," she snorts, eyes snapping shut like a trap.
For the while, however, Marisol simply ignores the Brit. Even the crowd goes ignored by the girl, even as a young woman pining over the likes of Preston gives him his oar again. Could she care less? Probably so. Even as he twirls and postures himself for the crowds, the girl just ignores him. Standing there as he marches forward, she does little more than glare.
The blade lifts, but she doesn't move, save for dropping her arms to her sides, a fist curling tightly.
Then it comes, descending harshly. She jerks forward, but does not make it; struck, the blade crashes into her skull with a cruel crack, and briefly the girl is stunned, given cause to stagger back. Holding a hand to her head, she casts her gaze up at the Brit before she scowls, glaring up at her teammate.
For a brief moment, her dislike seems utterly sincere.
"Enjoy your fucking belt," she all but growls.
Over, done. Unable to persist further, the girl simply turns on her heel and - carefully - makes her way for the crowds, even as the cheers erupt for the young man and SNF crews scurry forward. Marisol? She seems intent on simply departing, leaving. Even as crew members come up, to see if she needs aid, she simply plants a hand into their chest and shoves them harshly away.
And it seems that with one simple strike, the fight is over. Dislike is directed up at him, and she makes her way out of the impromptu ring with a growl of disgust, disdain, disappointment. Not all directed at him, no doubt.
Away she goes, and the Brit is left alone there in the center. It becomes rapidly apparent that he is the winner to the crowd, and they threaten to swarm. Preston though, watches Marisol go, of two minds with this situation. Part of him tells him to seek her out and ensure she's alright; the other half tells him not to be a fucking idiot.
Moreover, he finds another reason to stay, as his mysterious benefactor steps forward and tugs on his arm. With one person forward, the rest of the fans rush and swamp him -- and for the time being at least, he does not pursue the departing half-Spaniard.
The officials declare him the winner rather loudly, and the night goes on, as nights tend to do.
COMBATSYS: Preston has ended the fight here.
Log created on 00:05:26 07/22/2007 by Marisol, and last modified on 12:39:50 07/23/2007.