Description: Unannounced, Alan R.B. sneaks his way into Marisol's cabin. Considering their past encounters, Marisol presumes the worst, and reacts to him like the pervert she thinks he is! Unexpectedly, however, Alan proposes a deal, but things do not go precisely as he planned them...
The Suiryuu has set sail, gliding gently through the waves. Right now there is a strange bang every few seconds - something in the engines. They say it's under control. Alan R. B. is confident he can get a helicopter to take him - and certain others - off the boat if it starts to explode horribly.
He has this confidence because he is a member of one of the Big Evils. Maybe not as big as some, but still up there. He is an agent in good standing with "R", and does not advertise this fact. Few people really know. He's certain the shadowy ninjas in control of this tournament know, but he'd rather keep it from spreading much farther. That's why he's here.
Sitting in a completely dark room, hands clenched on the arms of the chair, teeth pressed together. The only way for him to keep hidden on this ship, where lights flash with any kind of chi, is to keep a very, very tight leash on himself. Every muscle in his body is tensed. No electricity crackles over his form.
So, when the person for whom this room is actually assigned walks in, they'll hopefully just see more shadows where shadows are expected to be.
It would be a lie to say she isn't having second thoughts about this tournament.
Now, it has nothing to do with the fighting. That's the whole reason she enlisted in the tournament. It helps her train, as well as test her skills against fighters of all caliber, from all walks of life. It's something new and different. Saturday Night Fights can get old sometimes.
No, Marisol's regrets stem from the fact the tournament is held on a boat.
It's taken a bit of work, but some sleep and lots of medication later, Marisol is holding up fairly well. Well enough to mingle on the promenade deck, chatting it up with a few foreigners - like herself - before thinking of calling it a night. The new matches were announced, after all. She has to rest up and get herself in shape before confronting her new opponent!
But it just doesn't help the ship seems to be falling apart. Worried? A little, yeah. But she hides her concerns well enough, distracting herself with an obnoxiously pink Ipod in her left hand, earbuds nestled in her ears. Her head bobs as she listens to a song unheard, save only to herself. Unbeknownst to the half-Spaniard, she's in for a surprise.
Fishing a key from out of the back pocket of her jeans, Marisol eases it into the lock and twists, letting the door groan softly as it opens by its own accord. Meanwhile, the unaware redhead tucks the key carefully back from whence it came and, with a half-hearted push, opens the door. A hand moves to the side, groping around the wall for the light switch.
Success. Light floods the cabin.
Still oblivious, the girl hums idly to herself as she enters, eyes drawn to a close as she absently moves forward. The agent of "R" remains unseen, even as she shuts the door upon entering with her pump's heel. Why, she even moves her hands to the hem of the shirt, ready to peel it right off. Is that pervert Alan going to get his very own peep show, courtesy of his ninja skills?
Gray eyes absently drift to one side, peering over a shoulder. They're looking right at Alan and, for a long, awkward minute that includes Marisol's shirt half-pulled up, she just looks at him.
Then she belts out a loud scream and turns for the nearest decorative vase, which she attempts to hurl right toward him as she cries, "Oh my god, you really ARE a pervert! GET OUT OF MY ROOM!! What's WRONG with you, YOU CREEPY ASS!?"
Under any other circumstance, Alan would be leaning on the arm of the chair, an insouciant smirk on his face, letting events play out. But this time, the only reason he sees Marisol's shirt half-off is because she was just so ready to strip the moment she came in. Marisol's seen enough of the man to know the other Alan, the businessman, is the one here tonight.
All at once, he relaxes, his right hand whipping up to catch the vase with almost superhuman reflexes. Electricity doesn't flood out of him dramatically as if pent up, it fitfully crackles across his skin as though finally let back in. The blonde sets the vase down. This would've been so much more dramatic if she hadn't turned the light on! The few mystic seal lines in this room obligingly flash as the chi returns. "Maybe if you hadn't been so eager to get out of those clothes... what're you, babe, a nudist?"
Boots thump on the floor as Alan stands up, and slowly takes his shades off. He stares hard into Marisol's eyes - they don't wander as they normally do - but pale grey isn't exactly the best color for intensity. "Now just calm the hell down right now. I'm not going to try to talk business with a hysterical girl."
Businessman or no, there's no excuse for him sneaking into her cabin unannounced. Clearly flustered and bothered by his presence in the only place on this godforsaken ship she's meant to have privacy, she acts irrationally, which includes her hurling a possibly expensive vase right at him. She'd rather pay for it later than have him pulling stunts such as this.
However, for all her best attempts to smack the blonde in his face and give him a nosebleed, or possibly worse, he simply catches it. It's to be expected, really. A part of her is thankful. That's money saved, at least.
But it doesn't excuse him.
Frowning, the girl frantically smooths her shirt back into its proper place, she regards him with a set of angry gray eyes, thin brows furrowed as she glares. It would seem that, for the moment, she has otherwise calmed herself down, if only to clench her hands into fists at her sides. A pervert Alan may be, but she knows well in the back of her mind that he's not so low as to sneak into her quarters with a nefarious purpose in mind.
Or so she hopes.
Her frown sharpens as he initially speaks, drawing gray eyes open wide before she begins the attempt to bark at him even more. But when he rises and removes his shades, there's a bit of uncertainty haunting the redhead. She doesn't say what she was going to. Instead, Marisol just watches him closely. Carefully, even. Does she trust him? Probably not.
He snuck his way into her room, after all.
But he wants to talk business. For a long moment once more, the redhead just peers uncertainly at the agent of "R," full lips pulled into a thin line across sunkissed features. Then, slowly, she tilts her head to one side, gray depths hooding as she further expresses her uncertainty, asking, "And what business would a guy like you have with a seventeen year old?"
"You reminded me of something the other day. A little incident, just a bit embarassing, but the fact that I was covered in delicious produce isn't important. The point is, you saw my boss, and I try to keep who I work for quiet." Now, it's occurred to Alan that Marisol may actually have no idea who Rugal is, only that his boss is a tall porno-looking guy with a robot eye. But it's best to be safe.
Alan's right hand darts into his vest, quick as a striking snake. If he was going to conceal a gun for easy reach, that's where he'd do it - and neither of the people here are probably at the level of toughness where they can eat several high-caliber bullets to the face.
But it's not a gun, in fact, it's basically the opposite - money. "The same business most people want with teenagers - I want you to shut up." His finger runs across the billfold - it's no chump change. "Two thousand dollars, and you don't breathe a word of it to anyone, no other strings attached." He tosses the money forward, the clip thumping as it hits the floor between them.
"Reminded you?"
Her response is simple enough, and her confusion more than clear, as gray depths peer at the boxer. He's worried about the fact she saw his boss, so long ago? For a moment the half-Spaniard remains puzzled, even going so far as to fold an arm across her chest thoughtfully, slender digits cupping lightly at her chin. All she remembers of the guy is that he is, in fact, a tall porno-looking guy with a robot eye. You don't really forget that sort of face.
Even if you try to.
Only is she distracted when he moves, pulling from the inside of his vest a wad of cash. While most girls her age might get wide-eyed at the prospect, Marisol looks on with an expression of impassiveness. It doesn't seem to stir her in the least. In fact, she eases up a bit, slender hands easing their way into the side pockets of her comfortable jeans, a tiny smile worming its way across her smooth face.
"You want me to shut up, do you? For two grand? No strings attached?" She moves, half-turning on her heels with that same smile, eyes drawing to a close as she exhales. Briefly does she seem thoughtful, mulling over the prospect. Her hands even leave her pockets, folding easily over her chest. Tossed though the money may be, she makes no moves to pick it up.
Instead she opens her eyes, a devilish look on her tanned features.
"You didn't do any of your homework, did you? Money means nothing to me, considering my heritage. I go to Pacific High School for a reason." She moves, facing Alan once more as she moves a foot out, the toe of her black pump lightly kicking the clip back at him. "In fact, most kids AT Pacific are wealthy brats. So if you think money's going to keep me quiet, you're sorely mistaken." Lifting her chin, her grin widens to Cheshire-like proportions, gray eyes narrowing to mere slits as she gazes upon him, thoroughly humored.
"What else can you offer me, in exchange for keeping my mouth shut about your employer?"
Alan rolls his eyes, a tortured, theatrical sigh bursting forth from his lips. The students always drop their school name like it matters. His hand goes to his vest again, two more billfolds dropping with the first. "$6,000. And at this point in the proceedings, it should be obvious that if you do not accept the deal, you piss me off. If you piss me off, you piss off my boss." The smirk finally creeps across his face, and he suddenly takes several steps forward, a hand coming to rest on the wall behind Marisol as he leans in.
"He punched me into a fruit cart, and I bring in the big bucks. What the hell do you think he'll start doing when he gets unpleasant?" This close, the flashing lights of the seals throw shadows over his face, suddenly giving the boxer a very sinister cast. Is he talking bullshit, or is he fully prepared to bring down some hammers?
Despite her attempts to otherwise indirectly explain she has little to no interest in whatever money he wants to give her, it would seem that Alan is persistent. Fishing from his person another chunk of change, he adds it to the pile between them, to the humor of Marisol. Her lips twitch, the beginnings of another smirk tugging at the corners. But she makes no move to greedily collect the proffered currency.
Instead, Marisol lets her shoulders sag, her smile cocky and easy as she stands there, arms folding neatly across her chest. "So...if I do not accept the money, I will piss you off? And, in turn, piss him off? And why is that? Why is it SO important for it not to be known by anyone you work for some weirdo with his own helicopter?" But when Alan moves, however, the girl's arms drops, the general air about her a touch defensive. What's he planning..?
He leans in, the palm of his hand hitting the wall behind her head with a muted thud. It causes Marisol to naturally lean back, keeping distance between herself and the strange agent as she listens closely. She does not interrupt him; instead, those depths of gray peer without hesitation into his own eyes, lips pulled in a thin line across her face.
A moment after he says his piece, the half-Spaniard seems thoughtful. Furrowing thin brows once more, she ponders to herself what's said. Then, and only after she is content, do those eyes hood, lips pulling into a delightful grin.
"Are you threatening me?" she asks simply, narrowing her eyes further. But she makes no move against him. She instead stands there, merely observing as she adds, "Money means little. I'm more interested in things of greater importance?" Just what does she mean by that, anyway?
Lifting a hand from her side, the redhead lifts a finger with a huge smirk, index resting on the underneath of his chin as she says, "How about I keep it a secret in exchange for a favor or two somewhere down the line? That way you keep your pockets nice and fat and I'm not needlessly filling mine, and I keep my mouth shut. I'm just a teen," She grins broadly, as she idly pokes at his jaw a bit more.
"So it's not like the favors I'm going to ask of you will be bad, right? So what do you say?" Whatever he's talking or threatening to bring, Marisol does not seem the least bit worried.
Alan R. B. just reaches up and swats the finger with the back of his free hand as it comes questing at his chin. It's a lot like sticking your finger in an electric socket, except it's more like the electric socket jumping around your finger. The boxer's face remains serious, but in his head he's punching his own face. Turns out the girl wasn't as wise to matters as he thought - all he's done is give her more information. She still doesn't know who he works for, but now she knows he somehow /matters./ Damnit.
In truth, Alan's real lack of experience doing anything aside from selling illegal things bites him in the ass here - for all the force he's putting out, for all the world it looks like he controls the proceedings, he just successfully jumped feet-first into Marisol's pocket, and he knows that. The next step is to gracefully concede without looking like a bitch, without showing weakness. Besides, if the favors chafe, it's not like he can't make a Faceless Goon do it. Or perhaps try to erase Marisol after this tournament, if it comes to it. It's a dangerous game.
Inner exposition ends all at once. "I figure you're not stupid, and know exactly what you're getting into." His hand drops, and he takes one step back to shrug in his vest. "You get one favor," he sneers, "and better not expect me to lie down or take a fall. You try to get in the way of me winning this thing, and believe me." His eyes narrow, and he emphasizes this next one with a point, head cocking so that the lightning bolt in his hair half-obscures his eye. "You will die."
Her hand, swatted. Normally this wouldn't be an issue, but the surge of electricity that bites at her slender digit gives her reason to flinch lightly and gently recoil in mild grief. It's annoying at best, but there's something particularly interesting at hand here. He's trying to barter and offer her a deal, if only she'll keep her mouth shut. But Marisol isn't interested in money...
Despite the swat, her smile lingers, as playful and devious as ever. Poor Alan has otherwise and unwillingly back himself into a corner, and he didn't need to. Marisol had no intentions of telling anyone about his associate. But now?
Still smirking as he thinks to himself, the redhead just looks at him. Let him think what he wants. The more paranoid and uneasy he gets, the more favorable the situation is for her. She's just a kid, right? Lifting her hands, she rests them easily on her curvy hips as she waits patiently for him to speak up once more.
And when he does, she grins brightly.
"Pfff, have you throw the fight? Take a fall? As if," Tossing her head to one side, the half-Spaniard lets a soft chuckle escape her lips, smoky gray eyes hooding in amusement as they slowly slide back onto Alan. "Nah, I'd rather proceed in this tournament legitimately. I'm not some pathetic loser looking for an easy win, you know."Scoffing softly, Marisol tosses her head before she lifts a hand from her side and swats one of his arms away, allowing her to weave past him and toward the center of the room.
"And I'm not about to just roll over and die, you know. So stop threatening me. Anyway, when I need a favor, I'll bug you. For now, don't worry about it." A hand lifts, moving over her lips as she fastens an invisible zipper.
"My lips are sealed. You can sleep easy." She smiles broadly once more.
Now that draws a particularly fierce sneer to Alan's face. He moves to let her pass, finally pulling a cigarette from his pocket, snapping his fingers once to light it. "Babe, I always sleep easy." The boxer takes a deep drag, burning at least a quarter of the stick away before blowing a plume of smoke that'll stink up Marisol's room for at least an hour. In the silence, the engine gives one more violent bang, and shudders back into its usual drone. Apparently it's been handled.
So it didn't go as well as he wanted. Alan R. B.'s long past the point where he'll dwell on a mistake. He can't exactly unmake it while still on this boat. "Now the question here is, can you?" He rolls his head once on his shoulders, sticking his hands in his pockets and spinning on the heel of his boot. "Be seeing you."
The lean fighter makes a relatively graceful exit. Not all comedy characters fall every time they walk out a door.
Log created on 00:20:57 09/01/2007 by Marisol, and last modified on 15:50:10 09/02/2007.