Description: An explosion rocks the Boys Dorm at Pacific High. Young Preston Alistair Wellington the II has vanished in the night, taken by a mysterious figure! Intrepid adventurer Marisol "I Like Dags" O'Connell ventures to discover the identity of the mysterious, Spartan-like figure! Will she come out alive? Will Preston be found?! Will these questions never cease?!?!
The dormitories of Pacific High have proven a festive place, given the time of year. Christmas has gone by with a myriad of gift-giving and stolen kisses and adolescent hormones have seesawed as couples unite and others are broken. Some students have even been lucky enough to go home for the holidays, but not everybody has been so fortunate.
The New Year beckons; it's an end to the old and the start of something new. It brings a chance for people to take up a resolution and change their very lives.
But on a dark and snow-laden night, Japan has been greeted under the guise of cloak and dagger by a man from the Her Majesty's Kingdom.
Naturally though, cloak and dagger cease in a cacophony of violence.
That's all the talk within the dorms; that there was a big nasty fight in the boy's dorms, down near the big guy with the oar's room. A fight so violent that the dorm itself has emptied, all the boys out in the lobby in the wake of the giant swell of chi that billowed down the halls and sent textbooks -- typically thrown in the boy's dorm anyway -- flying.
Also of note is how utterly short the fight proved. Those with an affinity for the feel of chi would have felt that massive swell, and a brief retaliation, before it all stopped as suddenly as it started. The muttering by the boys in the hall is that the fight barely seemed to last a minute.
"Heh, I bet that guy got his ass whooped," the Chad says, standing tall and proud in his singlet and boxer shorts. His arms crossed over his chest, the footballer is clearly an authority on what happened. The other footballers nod their agreement, before they start talking of just how lame that British guy with the stick was anyway.
Who the strange offender was... there's no talk of that though. There's only the mystery of what lies within the boy's dorm.
When something happens on campus, word travels fast. Especially living in the girls' dormitory.
Not even a day passed before word reached Marisol's ear. If the damage alone wasn't to draw attention, the surge of chi and the very presence of it in abudance that night was. It was enough to bother the half-Spaniard girl in her studies, the boom of explosion only icing on the cake. In short, it has been a mess of sorts.
So, with that fresh on her mind, the girl has taken it upon herself to do what she believes is the right thing in this situation: look into the problem herself, and find out what the hell happened. Why? Because it involved one of her teammates. A friend, no less.
Not an unfamiliar sight in the boys' dorms, Marisol O'Connell marches along, gray eyes flickering about, everywhich way as she surveys the hall. There's nothing of particular note that she can see, and in response the girl seems mildly annoyed, if anything.
That's before she catches ear of Chad and his arrogance. It makes her angry.
Without missing a beat, the redhead storms toward Chad, standing there in his airy boxers with his football buddies. There's neither smirk nor frown on her lips; instead, the girl just looks expressionless. Whether they see her or not, well. It matters little to Marisol, for a moment after she approaches...
...she punches him without hesitation right across the face.
"Alright, douchebags," the girl says, glaring from Chad before she shuffles her gaze between his cronies. "First of all, he could probably knock the ever-loving fuck out of you three without so much as batting a lash. You might want to think twice before you talk about Preston like that. Secondly, I'm looking for answers, and you're going to give them to me."
Pausing, the girl inhales, eyes narrowed as she gently furrows her brows.
"What the hell happened, and who the hell was here in his dorm?"
A mess indeed, the building having shook rather violently during the cacophony that took place downstairs. And the inquisitive half-Spaniard is on the scene swiftly, in search of answers, as the weather outside darkens. A rumble of thunder, ominous to some, gives the conversation of the footballers a momentary pause.
And leaping into that empty air is Marisol, the girl punching the Chad rather smartly across the cheek. His face smooshes to one side, you know the look. Kind of like >o> as he falls to the ground, seeing stars.
The rest of the footballers are startled, the unexpected and rather violent entry from the fiery-mane girl just that. The vice-captain of the team, named Lance for some reason, stutters as the defense of young Wellington comes fast and furious from the leader of Pacific Resistance. His attempts to get a word in edgewise fail in the wake of her demands.
But with a pause to the litany from the girl, he has that chance. "H-he was in a fight with some dude in a suit, and-and-and it didn't look like it was goin' so well," the youth explains, hands held up in hopes that Marisol won't thank him with a punch to the face.
As if to divert her attention, he shoots a hand out, fingers pointing further down the hall. "He's prob-probably still down there, go see for yourself! Let's get out of here guys," he adds, as two of the other footballers seek to drag their fallen leader away. Lance himself starts backing up, the youths all intent on entering further into the lobby and away from the back of the dorm, where the room of the foul-mouthed Briton is located.
That hall seems dark down that end though, the hanging lights all blown; shards, remnants of the bulbs that once hung there, litter the floor. And there's a definite breeze coming down the hall, sending a few loose leaves of paper to float down towards the half-Spaniard...
Chad's fate is of no concern to the girl, as her fist crashes harshly into his cheek. He falls, relatively out of it and detached from the world, giving her a chance to get her word in edge-wise. She wants their attention, and they will listen to her. And if they don't want to oblige the half-Spaniard's whims, well.
They can take a second look at their buddy Chad. That should be clue enough she means serious business.
Eventually, one brave soul chooses to speak up, and immediately those gray eyes shoot toward the young man. Staring with considerable interest, the redhead purses her lips as explanation comes. But what's said to her. ..makes her loft a brow, puzzled.
"A 'dude in a suit?'" She doesn't expect a response. Even as the young men point toward the Briton's dorm before hauling ass, the redhead just peers, her thoughts wandering, mulling over the information she's gleaned thus far. "Hmm." She pauses, glancing over a shoulder as the young men hightail it out of the dorms.
"Tch! Cowards."
Despite the ominous air which lingers over the dormitory hall, Marisol seems none too phased by this potentially bad situation. For the moment, the redhead's interests are invested in the well-being of her teammate. More particularly, his fate. Is he still here, or..?
Lifting her chin, the girl's eyes hood, a dark expression crossing her tanned features before she simply bites at her bottom lip. Marching forward, the girl makes a path for the room of her teammate, despite the crackling pops and fizz of busted electronics, or the breeze that sends leaves of paper brushing against her bare legs.
When she approaches the doorframe, a hand moves forward, resting gently against the edge. Curling her fingers, the girl hesitates only briefly, brows knit in a vaguely thoughtful. ...Then she snorts.
"Preston!" the girl calls, suddenly appearing in the doorway. "What's this shit I hear 'bout you getting your ass kicked anyway??"
Are they cowards, or exceptionally wise beyond their years, to be fleeing away from the dreadful air that lingers at the far end of the hall. Down it, heedless of her own peril, the half-Spaniard walks. Her feet are soft against the carpet, and the wandering papers hardly bother her; a cursory glance would prove them to be notes taken in the burly Briton's neat scrawl. They do not matter though; what does to her, is the need to know just what the fate of her teammate is.
And so those calloused fingers curl around the door frame, and she musters her courage to stare in and be her typical boisterous self.
The question is answered by the sudden peal of thunder, followed sharply by the crack of lightning nearby. The figure standing in the room enters stark contrast, standing tall and proud, clad within a suit just as the youths who have fled indicated. So easy it is to see him there, the dark silhouette outlined by the large hole that was once the wall of the Briton's room and the window that led into the world beyond.
The air within the room is humid, the feel of spent chi heavy -- and the room is a sheer mess. The dresser is broken, pieces of wood that were once a desk litter the floor, books and odds and ends are everywhere.
As the lightning fades, that figure can more clearly be seen. Tall, a small ways past the six foot mark, close-cropped black hair with a healthy dose of five o'clock shadow to darken his tanned features. The only source of light in the room is by the nearest path lamp outside.
The figure itself seems to be thumbing through a book, one of the missing Briton's own -- and there is indeed no sight of the rugged, racist rascal to be had, the lad entirely missing from his own room.
And slanted across the shoulder of this suited man rests the signature weapon of the Resistance member, that long oar.
"Leave," the figure commands.
Having slanted his head slightly, the suited man spends a moment staring at the red-headed Spaniard in the doorway, her outcry given that simple response. Those eyes pierce, as another strike of lightning flashes outside. A moment later hail begins to fall outside, landing lightly in the grass and across the paths that crisscross the school grounds.
Those eyes leave Marisol and return to the book. This man has given an order.
The sudden crack of thunder alarms the redhead instantly, a muted yelp slipping past her lips as bright light blinds her. Her response is to briefly recoil from the loud source, flinching in response as her hand grips the doorframe. It is most definitely unexpected, as she slowly opens an eye a half-second after the lightning flashes. Was that a figure..?
Surely it was Preston!
"Idiots," she murmurs. He's right there, plain as day. Who else is as tall and imposing as the Brit?
Still, something is clearly amiss. Turning her head, the girl makes a slow motion to gaze upon the room, eyes surveying the mess amidst the spiritual residue of exhausted chi energy. It's stifling, but hardly disconcerts the redhead. She's felt worse.
A lot worse.
With a sigh, the redhead lifts a hand, tucking stray, wavy coppery red locks back behind an ear. Regarding the figure - clad in a suit? Does he have a date? - the half-Spaniard girl sports a lopsided smirk, clearly unaware of the situation before her. At least in that moment; a beat, and the girl swallows hard. Something isn't right.
Despite the oar, despite the stature and despite this figure's presence, it doesn't add up.
When the man speaks, it becomes crystal-clear. Those boys, they weren't full of shit.
Instantly the girl's demeanor shifts, her features paling as she just stares with a look likened to disbelief. This guy? He can't possibly be who she thinks he is. And yet, here he is, standing in the Briton's room as if he owned the place. What's worse, he's commanding her to leave. Not asking politely, not even suggesting - he just flat out commands her to leave.
Smoky grays meet piercing blues, as a flash of lightning erupts in the silence between them. Despite his order, the girl doesn't move an inch - not even a muscle. Instead, she stands, arms limp at her sides as she occupies the threshold of the destroyed dormitory. And then - THEN - he has the gall to ignore her?
A smirk crosses Marisol's full lips.
"I dunno who the fuck you are," she begins, lifting her hands from her sides and popping her knuckles with a loud, morbid crack. "But I think it's pretty safe to assume you're an unwelcome, uninvited guest here. Me? Leave?" Pausing, the girl arrogantly tosses her head, her red mane cast over a shoulder.
"I think you should be leaving. But not 'til you tell me where Preston is."
The moment that voice speaks, it becomes rapidly clear that the person within the room is not the man she was looking for. Rather than the near-shaven youth, there is a broad, handsome man with a wealth of stubble, dark hazel eyes digging deep into her skull as he simply looks at her, and gives her a simple command.
Leave.
He judges her insignificant, that much is clear; the look he gives her as he tells her that speaks the words for him. And so his attention drifts elsewhere, seemingly ignoring her -- expecting her to do as he commanded, to leave the damaged room to the shadowy figure within.
Despite the order she fails to comply, again instead working that annoying mouth of hers. A quiet sigh escapes the figure, but he does not look up from the book. Instead, he asks a question. "Boy's dorm, isn't it?"
The question is rhetorical, but should she seek to answer he'll speak right over the top of her. "I doubt you've a penis under that skirt, but then, who knows with you Spaniards, right?" There is no smirk, there is no mirth. The book snaps shut, fingers of his left hand poised upon the heavy, weighty tome of knowledge as he twists slightly. The oar comes off of his shoulder, and he gives it a shake; an experienced eye would tell, even in the dim light, that he's testing its weight.
"Despite your bravado, you are right in at least one thing; uninvited, I am. Unwelcome, far from it. The boy who used this room is no longer a student here, so really, O'Connell. Don't worry yourself with his welfare."
He knows her, it would seem. Whoever this man is, he's not about to back down on a command he has issued though. Shoulders go back, and the chest puffs forward; the air becomes heavy with chi just waiting to be unleashed, with yet another ominous crack of lightning landing nearby.
"I am not a man who is used to repeating myself, but you uncouth jackanapes are entirely too impetuous for your own good. You will leave.
"Now."
Leave.
Leave?
Clearly the half-Spaniard girl knows not the meaning of his command, neglecting this mysterious man's demands without so much as hesitating to do so. How dare he talk to her like that? How dare he think he can demand she do as he so pleases? It draws her jaw tight beneath full lips, slender hands curling into taut fists at her side. And when he utterly ignores her, opting instead to return to his book in hand? Well.
That settles it, the half-Spaniard decides. As hot as he is, this guy is an ass.
And he's got to go.
And yet, despite this thought, the girl humors him, in that she listens as he speaks. This man, the similarities; is there really any doubt? He has to be related to the oar-wielding Brit, she presumes. They both have god-awful mouths about them. But this 'teasing,' as it were, doesn't have the life that Preston's does.
This guy is just a douchebag. And somehow he knows her name.
Gray eyes narrow, her jaw square and tense as she just fixes her gaze on the older man. But what he says...something doesn't settle with her. He's no longer a student at Pacific? Can she honestly believe the words out of some stranger's arrogant mouth? A sharp laugh breaks the silence around her.
"You're a funny guy but, really. I'm tired of your shit." Rolling her shoulders, the girl lets her gaze linger on the imposing well-dressed figure as he just stands there. He's not moving? Good. Neither is she. "If you think you can scare me off with your arrogance and pompous demeanor, well. You're a fuckin' moron."
Pausing, the girl purses her lips, biting off a smirk. It fails; a huge, Cheshire's smile cuts its way sharply over her tanned features, brightening her face with arrogant delight.
"I'm not afraid of you."
The emotions pass, and with it the girl simply waves her hand, dismissively. "And you're not worth my time, aside from telling me where the hell Preston is." Dropping her hand, she rests both comfortably on her hips. "So tell me. Where is he?"
Leave? It's not likely she will at this rate.
It would seem that despite the severity of the situation that the young half-Spaniard has found herself into, she's undaunted by it all. Like the color her hair, her fiery personality seeks to pull her through the danger and to discover the answers which elude her from this stranger.
Instead she chooses to be precisely as the figure describes her; uncouth. And furthermore, she turns vulgar, which earns another quiet sigh from the tall, dominating figure.
Naturally though, by the time she's well and finished with her speech, when she's labeled him a moron and indicated how unafraid she is, how tired she is of his excrement... Well, Preston Alistair Wellington has had enough by that stage.
There are no more words exchanged; he knows the cut of her jib and knows precisely how to deal with this reprobate.
The oar snaps into position, and he's across the room in the blink of an eye. The suit proves no encumbrance as the gap vanishes and the rounded end of the weapon is driving for her middle with an aim to lift her clear of the ground and up against the ceiling, utilizing his size to drive the breath right out of her!
"Enough, child! I will not be spoken to this way by my lesser!"%
COMBATSYS: Wellington has started a fight here.
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Wellington 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Marisol has joined the fight here.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Wellington
COMBATSYS: Marisol blocks Wellington's Crow's Nest.
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Marisol 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Wellington
It takes a lot to drive fear into the heart of Marisol O'Connell. However, uppity, arrogant British men with piss-poor attitudes is, however, not one of the things the girl fears, if anything whatsoever. Despite this man's attempts to command her and order her to leave the premises and leave him be, the girl insists otherwise. She won't leave.
Not until she has some answers.
The sigh issued from the older man earns him a harsh smirk, gray depths amused as she glares his way. "What's the matter?" she asks, jutting a hip to one side as she holds her ground in the face of the likely-irritable Wellington patriarch. For all his attempts, she just can't care or respect his demands - or even the man himself.
But then, unexpectedly, the man blurs to life. Lunging toward her, the half-Spaniard is initially stricken with a look of utter shock and disbelief. How is it possible for him to move so fast, she wonders, eyes wide in that instant. But then, swift are those smoky gray depths to narrow harshly, focusing on the Briton as he thrusts the oar at her stomach.
Shifting a foot, the girl braces herself for impact, hands dropping instantly from her curvy hips. The moment the rounded end of that infamous oar blazes for her stomach she jerks her hands forward, intercepting the weapon midstrike. Impact with her hands alone nearly winds her. But those eyes narrow, mere slits as she glares up at the man in front of her.
"I'm going to ask again. Where is he? Where is Preston?" the girl asks, sporting a lopsided smirk.
Whether he is forthcoming with her answers or not, the girl attempts to shove the oar aside, deflecting his improvised weapon as she steps in with one heavy stomp of her foot. In that moment a fist flies forward, aimed for the man's abdomen for a particularly savage low blow. Fortunately it's above the belt.
For now, anyway.
COMBATSYS: Wellington interrupts Fierce Punch from Marisol with Act of Grace.
- Power hit! -
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Marisol 0/-------/-======|==-----\-------\0 Wellington
The moment that oar strikes into her hands, the dark figure knows precisely what's going wrong. His eyes narrow, nearly to a squint, as he stares down at the girl who glares back up at him. Yes, he sees precisely what the problem with fighting with this cumbersome weapon is, and it's that which occupies his mind for the moment instead of the prattle that continues to spew from the mouth of the girl.
"Ask all you want; you'll never find him," the figure suggests, perhaps the first indication that -- other than the fact that the room is in ruins -- that the disappearance of the boy who truly wields the oar was not entirely peaceful.
That heavy fist of the half-Spaniard's hurtles for his midriff -- and to his older eyes, it travels at such a ridiculously slow speed. By the time it brushes his body, he's already in motion again, leaning forward to absorb the brunt of her strike.
It's the oar that she should worry about. Using it again by the rounded end, he clips her legs out from under her -- and with her flat on her back, spins the weapon neatly to drive the blade down into her stomach before simply striding right past her.
"The weapon is not weighted correctly," the figure notes his thoughts aloud, whether for his own benefit or Marisol's remains unclear. "No wonder the boy finds himself overwhelmed so easily. And to think, that he follows someone as dreadfully slow as yourself.
"You fancy yourself a leader, don't you, O'Connell?" he questions, looking at her from the edge of his peripheral. "So far you prove how right I am to remove the boy from your 'care,' girl. Do yourself a favor and stay down."
"Like hell I won't," the girl practically spits, shrugging a shoulder and driving the oar he temporarily wields to one side. As far as she can tell, it's a success; the oar moves to one side, and clearance is had. All that remains is for her fist to lodge itself into his stomach and that will be that.
But something isn't right. When her fist crashes into him, alarms go off. She's made a mistake.
She took her eyes off the oar.
In an instant the oar swings toward her legs, drawing behind her and sweeping her off her feet. She hits the ground with a muted thud, flinching softly in response before those gray eyes swivel up. When she finally catches glimpse of the older Wellington, he's driving the bladed end of that oar right into her stomach. Hard.
Very hard.
A loud gasp escapes the girl, gray eyes wide with shock and grief. But in that moment the girl catches herself, that weakness she displays, and immediately clenches her jaw, eyes squeezing shut. Gasp becomes grunt, as she bites her bottom lip. Though Wellington laments of the weapon's weight and his son's style, the girl just pulls herself carefully from the ground.
Stay down?
"Leader?" she asks, tilting her head to one side...before she laughs a breathy laugh at the Briton. "A team is nothing without members. I do not 'fancy' myself any better than the others. Leader is a big word. I prefer to think of myself as the one who 'instigates' things, that's all."
With a hand clutched at her stomach, the girl seems unwilling to lay down and oblige the elder Wellington. Instead, she continues to grin, looking more amused and humored than anything else. "Overprotective, much? What are you doing, stalking after some legally-adult relative, anyway? Crazy uncle? Spurned older brother?" The girl turns her head, tossing her head arrogantly.
"You're just pathetic. Can't you leave a grown man to mind his own business, and do with his life as he so pleases?"
Shifting her weight, the girl's legs move beneath her, spreading out to shoulder's width. Lifting her hands, she briefly closes her eyes, lips pursed tightly as she seems to focus inwardly. Between her palms a spark of yellow energy erupts, growing wildly in size between her hands, coalescing and churning furiously, forming a visible sphere in front of her.
"You make me sick!"
'Grabbing' the sphere with one hand, she twists her body, drawing the energy back behind her before she swings her hand forward, slinging that furious ball right for the man's face.
COMBATSYS: Wellington dodges Marisol's Rolling Star.
For someone who does not fancy big words, the figure notes silently, she certainly employs them when she chooses to. An instigator then, he decides; she's certainly instigated the pain that now courses her body, and with luck he hit her hard enough to prevent any chance of this whelp ever procreating.
Such thoughts remain in his mind, as the girl gets back to her feet and instead remains flippant. This girl thinks that the spawn of his seed is a grown man? Why...
It's enough to make him squint.
Rather than label the connection between the two, he instead watches as that ball of energy bursts into existence, sending loose bits of paper skittering around the room with the sudden eruption of power.
The girl isn't worth any additional effort, the figure decides. He looks downright unimpressed with the size of her ball, and when she throws it at his face, his response is simply to utilize that speed of his. The sphere of chi passes him by as he charges forward at her, slamming into the wall with an emphatic explosion of power; there's more collateral for the school to deal with after, but the elder Wellington figures that it's nigh past time to put this girl to sleep.
"Be quiet," he commands her, as his free hand seeks to do what so many have only dreamed of; to cover her mouth and silence the words that she'd seek to utilize. But that's only the beginning, of course.
Should the girl prove that unlucky, she will get a taste of the sheer strength that the man contains within his very body. With that one hand alone, he'll send her to the place of her dreams. High, high into the air, her body to crash into the ceiling -- before slamming her down onto the already messy bed that Preston once occupied, with enough force to break the furnishing right down the middle.
COMBATSYS: Marisol dodges Wellington's Bitter End.
For all the effort the girl gives, it just doesn't seem enough. Despite the amounts of power she invested in that sphere of energy, the man does precisely opposite of what she anticipates; he simply avoids the burst altogether, the yellowy sphere of chi instead crashing into the distant wall, opening another hole to headache the faculty with in the near-future. But she doesn't care. That's the least of her concerns.
The situation frustrates her, drawing a hiss of annoyance from between clenched teeth as she stares the elder Wellington down. At her sides, slender hands curl into tight fists, knuckles snow white as she just glares with a gaze most heated. How dare he come here and try to take charge of someone else's life?
"No, I won't!" she cries, as he charges, commanding her to silence herself. Reluctant and stubborn to the bitter end, the girl observes as he charges forward, a hand extending to grab at the girl. But when it seeks to clamp down over her mouth...
Marisol suddenly and quite sharply weaves aside, avoiding his incoming appendage altogether.
Pulling her full lips over her teeth, the girl sharply pivots and reclaims her footing, turning to face the elder man with a snarl. "You're an asshole!" she cries, lunging forward at the man. Whipping a hand up from her side, the half-Spaniard attempts to grab him by the throat or whatever she can.
"An arrogant asshole! Your son or nephew or whatever he is to you is a grown man, yet you treat him as if he were seven! You should be utterly ASHAMED of yourself, coming here, trying to take back what isn't yours!"
The opposite hand swings up, should she maintain grip, her palm's heel suddenly aglow with chi energy. Driving it forward like a spike, she seeks to drive the chi into his midsection and let it explode, to send the elder British man fly for the nearest wall.
"Hyaaaaargh!"
COMBATSYS: Wellington endures Marisol's Moon Sling.
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Marisol 1/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Wellington
The girl proves spry; that mildly irritates the figure who seeks to assail her, but it, like the girl itself, is little more than a minor annoyance. She's an irritation that he will soon rectify, even as she evades his attempt to capture her and silence that running mouth of hers.
The half-Spaniard moves onto the offensive with more than just her words, using violence as she continues to scream her defiance for the apparent treatment that the missing Preston has received. What does she hope to prove though, the elder Wellington wonders; surely she doesn't think she can... win?
When that spike of energy manifests, the Duke decides that it is indeed time to end this tragic little love affair. To his aged hazel gaze, the truth of this defiance is as clear as an oversized flag flapping in the wind.
His son has been diddling a mongrel.
With disappointment coursing his body, the figure steps forward as the spike drives forward into his mid-section. To say that the explosion is vast is an understatement. The problem that Marisol faces, even as the energy splashes clear through his body, is that it doesn't lift the man from his feet. His suit is barely ruffled as he willingly takes the strike, glaring disapproval down at the girl he towers over.
The half-Spaniard's hand is practically against that soft, expensive suit as he lets his disappointment fuel his actions. The weapon he holds in his right hand, the signature weapon of his son, comes into play in a fashion most brutal.
The suit he wears expands, threatening to tear as he bulges, every muscle in his body adding strength to the blow he seeks to unleash at such a disastrously close proximity to Marisol. The redhead had best be wary, as that oar ignites into a wash of yellow-white chi, burning bright as it nears--!!
COMBATSYS: Wellington successfully hits Marisol with Man of War.
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Marisol 1/-======/=======|=====--\-------\0 Wellington
Crackling as it nears, the smell of humidity is overwhelmed with the sudden approach of ozone as the oar sizzles through the air. With a strength bordering on the insane, the elder Wellington brings his son's weapon through in a tight circle, aiming to clip the redhead across the side of the head and send her staggering, dazed.
And it should place her in prime position for punishment.
The jolt from the weapon, like a shock in the dark, is nothing compared to what follows. Rearing up, the tall suited man lifts the oar high above his head. The blade of it graces the ceiling, brushing against the surface, as he charges up for an emphatic blow.
Bringing the oar down with utter fury, Wellington does what had so often seemed impossible. The weapon's shaft encounters Marisol's shoulder with a sickening thud, the length wobbling as he seeks to drive her down further.
Again the weapon rises, and again it slams down, another chi-infused strike added with just a little more grunt.
And for a third, final time, the Duke of Rutford seeks to express his disappointment in his wayward son and this uppity vagrant, allowing the weapon to slide in his hand as he takes a grip closer to the blade.
Sizing her up, the figure seeks to silence her once and for all; the oar's blade chops through the air, the broad expanse used to paddle her face in a strike with enough force to send her cheeks wobbling like water, if not to send teeth flying.
Such is the force that he uses, that the makeshift weapon, upon contact, explodes into a spray of wood chips and broken chunks, scattering past Marisol's face to embed into the far wall, near the hall.
Holding little more than the smoking ruins of a pole in his hand, Wellington stares down his opponent, to see if she'll dare rise after such a display of sheer unadulterated violence.
How wrong the elder Wellington is. It's just a good thing Marisol isn't a psychic. She would probably explode at such awful accusations.
But that is the least of her worries. Rather than focus on herself, the half-Spaniard is thinking about something else - someone else, her teammate. Preston, Luc and Pás; it doesn't matter which of her teammates it is. She'd do the same for them all, no matter the outcome. Chances are the girl knows she's well in over her head. But she just doesn't care about the consequences. She'll always fight...
Because her teammates - no, her friends - mean that much to her.
Despite their close proximity, there is nothing but anger and rage consuming her sun-kissed features. The girl glares, as the chi explodes between the pair, daring to sing his garments - or worse. But it would appear the patriarch of the Wellington name need not worry. His initial movements draw a mildly perplexed expression across Marisol's face.
The stench of ozone draws her attention, and gray eyes swivel hurriedly toward the oar awash in chi flames. It draws a scowl over her pretty face, eyes narrowing dangerously as she futilely seeks to lift her forearm and block the attack altogether.
He overpowers her. Sheer impact causes her forearm to issue a harsh crack, eyes widening as an unfamiliar pain surges through her arm almost instantly. The bone, broken, her arm falls instantly to her side. But she hasn't time to cry out in grief; instead, any response is cut short as that flaming oar crashes into the side of her head, dizzying the half-Spaniard and sending her stumbling, her good arm clutching her abused temple. Surely that's enough..?
Hardly. Clearly enraged by the reluctant redhead, he lifts the oar high above his head. From the corner of her gray eyes, the girl catches sight of the motion, and immediately her eyes widen. But there's no time to react - not when she is so dazed. Thus does the oar descend, cracking fiercely into her shoulder, another now-familiar burn and grief surging through her torso.
Marisol crumples forward instantly, a racking cough escaping her as she stand prone, simply trying to catch her breath and recover. However, the Duke of Rutford exercises no mercy for the girl. Instead, he grips the oar's blade and drives it into the side of her face with enough force to splinter solid wood and send the girl spiraling through the air, her flight only halted as she crashes into a wall, leaving a crater in the wake of her impact.
A split-second later she falls to the ground in a heap.
Somehow, the girl is still breathing. And somehow, her good arm twitches, long fingers curling against the carpet, nails digging into the floor. Struggling desperately for one good, deep breath, the girl uses that arm to slowly but surely pull herself forward along the carpet. Gray eyes lift upwards, slowly but surely locking on the imposing figure that stands before her, one eye forced shut by the copious amounts of red that stain her face from the deep wound on her forehead.
And yet, despite her obvious condition...
The girl smirks.
"I've...felt worse," she comments, taking a deep breath before she shakily rises to her feet, supporting her weight by gripping the edge of the bed. It takes considerable effort for her to rise, her legs shuddering and quaking with grief as she stands, defiant as ever.
"Much worse, in fact! You call that a hit! HA HA HA!"
Her laugher dies instantly, those eyes wide as she sports a toothy sneer.
"IF YOU'RE TRYING TO SCARE ME, YOU'LL HAVE TO HIT ME HARDER THAN THAT!!"
Running off of pure adrenaline, the girl suddenly lurches forward, her one good fist coiled at her hip. With her hand blazing with dandelion-yellow chi, she drives a path for the Duke of Rutford, attempting to drive a mean hook for the side of Wellington Senior's face...
COMBATSYS: Wellington fails to interrupt Cloud Nine from Marisol with Extremis.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////// ]
Marisol 0/-------/-----==|======-\-------\0 Wellington
With an arm out of commission for the girl, she has to improvise here.
The initial, chi-kissed hook erupts against the man's face, drawing a morbidly delightful smile across the girl's full lips. She follows up not with a second hook with the opposite arm, but instead opens her hand and tenses it, her hand as hard as steel as she draws it the opposite direction, slamming the side of his face with the back of her hand.
Yes, a flaming backhand to the arrogant Wellington's face.
Only after this does the girl clench her hand in a fist once more, delivering a third hook to his jaw. Instantly she draws her hand back, long digits snaring the man by his suit as her eyes widen, her smirk harsh and predatory as she meets his gaze.
Then she drives her forehead harshly into his face with a guttural yell.
"Where the FUCK is he!?" she cries, releasing his collar and recoiling, her good arm tense, muscles twitching and bulging, chi surging along her arm. "Tell me what the hell is going on here!"
Whether he tells her or not, well. The girl drives a painful, chi-kissed uppercut right into the man's jaw.
What utter violence descends down onto Marisol. A broken arm, a crippled shoulder, and a face full of oar. The latter should be a feeling she's well accustomed to, but the strength outputted by this mysterious relative from Preston's past exceeds that of the true wielder by spades.
With the weapon broken across her face, and left holding little more than a stump, Wellington simply smirks as the girl draws herself back up to her feet.
He drops the broken weapon to the floor, as she laughs; he awaits her, knowing that she's going to do something foolish.
Thus when she charges for him, seeking to drive that fist up into his face, his hands move swiftly to grab at her and redirect her rage and her energy into more constructive means; defeating her. It doesn't go right though.
Instead she succeeds, her rage allowing her to barrel through and deliver that fist to the side of his face. Surprised more than injured, the elder Wellington is driven back further as she follows it up -- that backhand, making it a vicious combination, leading up to another hook to the face and a swift headbutt to follow.
By the end of it all with the uppercut delivered, the figure is driven well back, his suit a touch ruffled. And from the corner of his mouth, a trickle of red falls. "Cute," is all he says to her, straightening his outfit with a sharp tug.
"Your arm is broken," he advises her, knowing full well why it hangs limp at her side. "And you've a clear boxing style. I'll break the other in a moment," Wellington adds, not making it a threat. It's the simple truth that he directs to her, as he ignores her question entirely.
"My son is a fool, and so it's no wonder that he, ah... 'hangs' with you and that motley crew you call a Resistance. He is returning to England with me, and you are stepping into territory you should retreat from."
Despite her wounds, and regardless of the pain and sheer power the man wields, Marisol chooses not to back down, but instead stand up and fight until she cannot fight anymore. Her body aches and her head is throbbing, but she'll be damned if she just gives up. She won't - not until she has the answers she wants.
And her friend back, of course.
That's why, when she has her footing again, the girl charges Wellington Senior, her fist blazing with chi. Despite his attempts to intercept her mid-attack and stop her cold, the girl pierces his defenses and delivers her series of attacks. It might not put him out of commission...but it makes him bleed.
The redhead pants, shoulders rising and falling heavily as she gasps for breath. Despite his chiding words, the girl just stares him down, smoky depths alight with a mix of anger and sardonic delight. His observations all but amuse her to no end.
"No shit," she hisses, the corners of her full lips twitching into a cold smirk. "It doesn't take a genius to figure out that my arm is busted and I'm a boxer." His threat, however, draws a sneer, gray depths suddenly hooding, her features darkening. "Excuse me..?" She turns her head and practically spits.
"You can try."
But the girl's arrogance and stubbornness fades, as the Duke of Rutford elaborates. Widening her eyes a touch, her smirk fading as she just stares with mild disbelief. "So," she begins, gray eyes drawing to a close. "You're his father?
"No wonder he would get so pissed off when I'd tease him about you. You're kind of an asshole. But, as for returning to England, and this not being 'territory' I should step into, well."
Gray eyes suddenly open, fixed on the elder Wellington.
"You're wrong. He's our friend, and our teammate. He's a grown man, old enough to decide for himself. He's not some five-year-old you can drag home by the arm and scold!" A sharp laugh follows, her eyes widening briefly, before she again bursts to life, despite her wounds. Closing in, she attempts to sock the man sharply in the gut with her good arm and, should it hit, she'll deliver another - this time with chi - before seeks to hook him across the face, before delivering a chi-laced backhand (again) to the side of his face.
"So FUCK OFF already, you goddamned bully!"
COMBATSYS: Wellington endures Marisol's Red Clover.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
Marisol 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\1 Wellington
"What?" the elder Wellington questions when the young half-Spaniard shows disbelief. "You can't see the resemblance?" Dark hazel eyes stare down at the girl though, as she again prattles on. Clearly, he just didn't hit her hard enough.
The girl comes for him again, and once more it seems that the tall suited man is simply unwilling to step aside. While earlier, he showed a remarkable speed, now he instead weathers the blows that she offers; the fist to the stomach, followed by a chi-laden strike right on top that threatens his plexus, if not for the impressively hard set of abdominal muscles that guard his stomach. Akin to punching a steel wall, if his son were a brick; but it's unlikely that, at this stage, the young girl is feeling any pain.
In a land beyond it, she strikes him across the face and then delivers a backhand. A heavy snort of annoyance leaves the tall man, who through it all has taken two steps back. Bereft of a weapon, Wellington instead stares down at her, offering her a somewhat charming smile.
"You repeat yourself too often, dear child. Your tantrum is deserving of a nap."
Thus, he seeks to drive her under. His hand seeks out that shoulder he struck moments prior, and fingers strive to dig deep into her flesh and further disable the socket. It's only the beginning; if she's unlucky enough to be caught up in that paralyzing pain, he'll seize her throat -- and then slam her down into the bed as he tried to do earlier, his heavy frame destined to follow for at least half of the trip before he lets her go, likely in the shattered remains of the furniture.
COMBATSYS: Marisol endures Wellington's Chock-a-Block.
[ \\\\ < > ///////////// ]
Marisol 1/------=/=======|=======\=------\1 Wellington
"Of course not, you fuckin' moron!" she exclaims, glaring at the elder man with a scowl. "I figured you were just some creepy uncle out to steal your brother's son or some bullshit. Now I just see you're some creepy, overprotective father with obvious familial issues." Tossing her head to the side, the girl scoffs, giving the elder Wellington a disgusted look.
Then, of course, she moves, delivering a four-fold attack to the man, despite the way her body screams and begs for her to stop, and the sheer strength and power contained with the older man. Yet, despite this, the girl remains determined to beat the crap out of him as best she can. It's the least she can do at this point.
When all is said and done, those gray eyes sharply narrow glaring at the Briton. "Fuck off," she snarls, stepping FORWARD as he actually reaches out and drives his fingers into her wounded arm. It draws a growl and hiss from the girl, her teeth clenched painfully tight as she endures the agony. Even as he grabs her by the neck, the girl perseveres through the grief her body endures.
She needs one opportune moment.
One.
When he drives the girl for the bed, that's when she makes her move.
From her side, a leg shoots up, attempting to lock around the man's broad arm and pin it in place. Holding him there, her only good arm reels back before she swings it harshly toward his face, attempting to deliver a harsh blow straight for his chin. She's on a wing and a prayer here.
COMBATSYS: Wellington fails to interrupt Fierce Punch from Marisol with Azimuth Compass.
[ \\\\ < > ////////// ]
Marisol 1/------=/=======|=------\-------\0 Wellington
And so, the girl is lifted and slammed down into the bed -- but even as she goes, she seeks to do something remarkably agile for a girl who should be more concerned with pain than continuing this pointless battle.
The leg snares his arm; the response from Wellington is immediate, an uprising of chi that banishes any remnant of darkness in the room as it swells upwards from the bed itself, where he's still slamming her towards!
But oh, that half-Spaniard; she's a tricky one!
Instead she delivers that harsh blow to his chin, and Wellington is sent reeling instead of delivering what should have been a finishing blow to the girl. The swell of chi dies off as he shakes out of her hold instead, sending her on the journey to the bed as he recoils, privately cursing his foolishness for underestimating this whelp of a girl.
"You won't find him," he informs her presently, a hand lifting to wipe the trail of blood off of his chin. He smears it between two fingers, a brief crackle of chi eradicating the blood from existence. She's put up quite a fight, but is she really going to push her luck?
He gives her a moment, to see what her next move will be.
She should be in pain, but damned if Marisol will simply roll over and accept defeat. Instead, the redhead opts to fight tooth and nail, biting back excruciating pain for the sake of learning more. Where is the foul-mouthed Briton she calls a 'friend?' And why has his father come looking for him - more particularly, why has he come to take him back home?
His answers are unacceptable. Therefore, the half-Spaniard girl keeps on fighting.
Snaring him, she pierces his defenses with a particularly curious maneuver, locking his arm down and into place by winding her long leg around him. Driving a fist - the one good one she has left at this point with which to fight - she plants it right into the elder man's face. The hairs stand on end on the back of her neck, that swell of chi that could have been, noted.
Once released, the girl rolls to the side, pulling herself free of the sheets of the half-destroyed bed and hitting the floor with her knees. Exhaling loudly, the girl struggles for breath, shoulders rising and falling notably with each inhale. Inwardly she aches, her broken arm screaming at her, the fractured collarbone aching miserably. She needs a doctor.
But not yet.
"L-like hell I won't," she snaps, those smoky grays lively and angry as she glares at the elder Wellington. "If you're here, chances are he's still in the country." Pulling herself to her feet, the girl staggers softly, her good arm clutching gingerly at the busted forearm dangling lifelessly at her side.
"If you won't tell me, I'll beat the answers out of you. Haven't you had enough yet?"
Her words draw a sharp smirk to her lips, the redhead clearly amused at the situation she finds herself in. She makes no immediate move; instead, Marisol exhales raggedly and pinches her eyes briefly shut, trying to calm her nerves and just get a grip. If she's going to get her answers, she needs to give herself a moment's rest...
COMBATSYS: Marisol gains composure.
[ \\\\\\\\ < > ////////// ]
Marisol 0/-------/=======|=------\-------\0 Wellington
The amount of scorn that the man feels for this whelp of a girl multiplies dramatically as she points out utterly obvious facts; Preston was taken half an hour ago at most. Where was she expecting him to be by this stage?
The figure rolls his eyes, noting the way she remains on the back foot and fails to approach him. What must be keeping her up by this stage, he considers. Sheer desperation no doubt, with her body as ravaged as it presently is. Wellington decides that, yes indeed, he's simply had enough of this girl.
So he turns his back and strides out towards the hole in the wall, intent on venturing out into the still-falling hail outside. "You've his broken oar," he informs her as he breaches the gap. "I suggest you hold onto it, if he means that much to you." In short, he believes that's the last she'll have of him, unless she's perverse enough to rummage through the room for another keepsake.
The Duke is intent on leaving. She's got one chance left.
COMBATSYS: Wellington gains composure.
[ \\\\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Marisol 0/-------/=======|-------\-------\0 Wellington
The roll of Wellington senior's eyes noted, Marisol scoffs lightly, her lips twitching into a wry smirk as she just stands her ground, resolved to just press this as far as it can go. Her friends mean a lot to her, and he thinks he can saunter onto Pacific High's campus and kidnap his brethren as his whims demand, well.
He's sorely mistaken.
But then...he chooses to leave? Blinking twice, those gray eyes look positively bemused as he turns his back and seeks to exit through the hole he likely made thirty minutes prior. For a moment, it would appear Marisol does not seem to have any intention of following after the man. Only when he blames the broken oar on her does she suddenly twist her expression, eyes alight with anger.
"No," she states with surprising calm.
"YOU did."
Rushing for said oar, the girl scoops it up into her hand and, reeling her arm back, attempts to throw the busted piece of the shaft straight for the back of Wellington's skull.
"I don't need no goddamned keepsakes!" she shouts. "He's not going anywhere!"
COMBATSYS: Marisol successfully hits Wellington with Thrown Object.
[ \\\\\\\\ < > //////////// ]
Marisol 0/-------/=======|-------\-------\0 Wellington
What she's in dreadful need of, Wellingotn decides, is to have her ears cleaned so she can hear him correctly -- and a very lengthy grammar lesson. Out he strides into the driving hail, only to find him struck in the back of the head by something that's a little more sizeable than the falling ice; that piece of wood.
A heavy grunt leaves the body of the suited man as he is struck, an embarrassment on top of what has rapidly become a rather arduous task; this girl doesn't know when to quit. Deciding that he'll need to put her down in order to leave, the man turns as chips of ice bounce off of his suit.
He has no further words for her. The Duke closes the gap with that speed of his, and heedless of the projectile that's knocked him a little groggy, seeks to end her. Again.
The right hand streaks through the air, fingers poised as if to dig right into her face -- but he seeks not her face, but rather that red hair of hers. Should he get a sizeable grip on it, he'll do the simplest thing he's tried so far; he'll pull it, and slam the girl down into the floor of the broken dorm room.
COMBATSYS: Marisol endures Wellington's Quick Throw.
[ \\\\\\ < > ////////////// ]
Marisol 1/------=/=======|-------\-------\0 Wellington
As the wood hits its mark, a smug and truly delighted grin eases its way over full lips, gray eyes lighting up with morbid glee. When he turns around to face her once more, her expression grows even more delightful. He's not leaving yet? Good; she wasn't finished talking with him yet.
"Where is he!?" she demands, as those gray depths lock onto the man's hazel depths. "I'm fucking tired of asking you over and over again. Do you want me to beat it into your face a few more times? Maybe THEN you'll understand the words coming out of my mouth!" That's when he moves, his speed surprising for a man she presumes to be much older than the son he's after.
Snared by the red locks on her head, she's yanked harshly by the scalp, her face introduced to the carpet and concrete beneath. But something seems...off. A cursory glance is clue enough - her one, good arm has braced her fall considerably. And almost immediately those gray eyes snap up to meet the man's own.
"I won't give up," she warns darkly. "Never."
Moving swiftly forward, the half-Spaniard drives in, a punch aimed low - real low - as she attempts to sock the elder Wellington right. In. The. Nuts.
COMBATSYS: Wellington endures Marisol's Uppercut Punch.
[ \\\\\\ < > ////////// ]
Marisol 1/------=/=======|==-----\-------\0 Wellington
When she doesn't fall down with an earth-shattering kaboom, Wellington's hazel gaze cuts down sharply to see her braced and staring back up at him. Briefly, a thread of worry flares in his mind, particularly as she brings that fist to bear against him.
And despite the empathic thump of her fist into his undercarriage, the man remains standing; and he actually grins down at her.
"You think your puny little fist can hurt my package? Girl, you've got a lot to learn about this family," he informs her rather levelly, perhaps showing that family resemblance; this is where Preston gets it from.
She won't give up? He can almost admire that, if not for the fact that by this stage she's proving herself to be a hindrance. The information that she do desperately seeks won't be given, not when she's in such a predicament in front of him.
"You reek of desperation," the Duke adds, his eyes plainly judging her.
With her so well placed in front of him that dour expression slides into a smirk as he raises both hands up, palms to the ceiling. That's right. He's raising the roof.
And raising the roof is his goal indeed, as a brilliant blast of chi erupts from under the fallen Marisol, a pillar of sizzling electrical light rising to give her a significant jolt if not send her back up into the girl's dorms through the most direct route possible; right through the ceiling!
COMBATSYS: Wellington successfully hits Marisol with Mizzenmast.
[ < > ////////// ]
Marisol 1/--=====/=======|===----\-------\0 Wellington
The grin is met with a sneer, gray eyes hooded with muted amusement as the young redhead glares up at the elder Briton. Despite the chiding her punch to his bits earns her, the girl just flashes a too toothy smile. "Small target," she states, shrugging.
"Easy to miss. Your heritage has nothing to do with it."
However, when he passes judgment, the girl sports a brief sneer, eyes widening before she just scoffs, gray depths snapping shut. "Says the man who can just barely keep his own against a girl half his age. I can only imagine how much trouble Preston gave you." A single eye opens, even as he lifts his hands up toward the sky.
What the fuck..?
Quite suddenly a pillar of chi energy blasts the ground underneath her, sending her crashing upwards toward the ceiling. Through it, in fact! Impact draws a cry from the girl, her body on the verge of simply giving up on her. Sleep sounds so wonderful right now, her sore body shivering as it's driven upwards. Gray eyes start to close...
Gray eyes snap open, wide.
"RAAAAAAAAAAGH!!" With one, last burst of adrenaline and raw energy does the girl twist her body, driving herself forward and falling with purpose toward the ground once more. Through the massive hole made by the man's blast of energy does Marisol descend, her body suddenly igniting with chi from head to toe. Her only remaining arm in commission tenses, knuckles white as she drives a line for the floor, with every intention of punching into it and exploding the very foundation and earth beneath the elder Wellington's feet by way of a massive gout of vividly yellow chi energy.
COMBATSYS: Marisol can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\ <
Wellington 0/-------/----===|
COMBATSYS: Wellington blocks Marisol's Shoot the Moon.
[ \\\\\\\ <
Wellington 0/-------/---====|
Having successfully raised the roof and pierced it with the body of the half-Spaniard, the Duke of Rutford actually considers this affair to be over with. "What an annoying little brat," he notes to himself, as above in the room of some other girl the redhead is gathering herself for one final assault.
And like manna from heaven, she falls all ablaze, swiftly driving her fist deep through the carpet of the room and into the ground beneath. The speed of the assault is enough to surprise Wellington, his eyes momentarily wide.
But aged is he, and much more wily; he feels the swell of chi beneath him, and he leaps into the air, legs and arms braced for the strike that comes. The floor explodes upwards, energy washing over him, pieces of concrete and carpet striking his body, driving him backwards through sheer force.
Landing, he shakes off the tingle of pain in one swift movement, pausing to look over towards the redhead and see if she's got anything left in the tank. Once he's sure that she's down, he'll finally relax, and straighten that suit one final time.
"I don't know what my boy sees in you," Wellington may well be speaking rhetorically now, eyeing off the girl before he shakes his head dismissively. He makes no comment on how the fight went, instead gathering the book he had earlier and striding out into the night.
He's done here. The boy is taken, and that's all that matters right now. The operation is complete.
COMBATSYS: Wellington has ended the fight here.
Log created on 23:36:34 01/03/2008 by Wellington, and last modified on 22:41:48 01/08/2008.