Description: Yes, yes, I know. It's another fight in a bar. But no, this time we have well-dressed young men in a rather more high-class establishment. With music! And a brawl in which the music doesn't stop, the lights keep going, and the people just keep MOVING. This is MoTM the DANCE MUSICAL, baby. Or just, you know, wanton violence. Whichever first.
Today has been a good day for swindling. Roland skittered around the city, managing to gather ten here, twenty there; the sort of sums nobody would care about, yet made up by the number of scams. And when it comes to expendable income, the quality has always been dependent on a hard day's work. A hundred? Why, he's come to a sleek joint, where entry is dependent on a nice tip; He got through with a ten, given his looks and unique dress... with a bit of smooth talking, admittedly. It's a psychotropic affair that he immediately is irritated with, colored strobes going at a pace that might inflict seizures on the perfectly healthy; sound is mostly deep bass, obscuring whatever techno remix happens to be on. Everything tends to be somewhat disorienting to him, and all the drinks have rather retarded names. His anger has had little outlet at the cramped bar, hunched over three empty glasses. "Th' hell ya able t'call this a Jazzed Alcatraz?! I ain't barely b'no jazzed at all!!" He's down to his last twenty and already shitfaced; lacking anything better to do he's complaining, really. "Oye. Bartender. Hey!" Once attention is gained, "This place f'cking sucks. Jackass." ... "Gimme a Chocolate Orgasm." The twenty is flicked in his general direction. "Extra-" *hic* "-orgasm."
"Oi, oi," drawls the guy next to Roland, "you want someone suck you is it?"
The voice is somewhat muffled, seeing as hoe the man is sprawled mostly face-down on the bar counter, his face pressed to the polished surface - stained somewhat by a pool of stale lager.
"Sorry lah," he continues, slurring the words as he hauls himself upright, swaying on the stool, "I don't think this place have that kind of service, ah?"
Ter turns his head, giving Roland a look. The flashing ambient strobes of the establishment cast a kaleidoscopic glow over his features, clashing horribly with the already loud colours of his Hawaiian shirt and the blonde streaks dyed in his hair. He leers at Roland, flashing a smile.
A gold tooth glints in the spotlights.
It takes some long moments for Roland to realize he just got talked to; he twists at the waist, reeling slightly with one gloved hand balancing him upon the counter. Eyes widen then narrow, and when the second comes he finds... he's been insulted?! A fire bursts into narrowed green eyes, a hard grin exposing his teeth, in an almost predatory way. "Ya sure? Y'look the type to suck off a man f'five bucks. Huh? Too high?" One hand thrusts out stiffly, trying to give Ter an awkward and pathetic shove upon the shoulder; the kind some weakling who's all talk might manage, if successful actually hefting himself away further. "Get outta my face, if y'know what's good for ya. Place is worthless enough without yer f'cking ugly mug in my periph." With that, Roland would turn back to the front of the bar. "TH' HELL IS MY ORGASM?!"
It might be an awkward and pathetic shove, but given his precarious perch on his stool, it's almost enough to send Ter toppling to the bar floor. And would have, if he hadn't caught his balance against the edge of the bar. As it is, though, his flailing arm smacks his glass off the counter, clean off the coaster. It topples to the floor, shattering in a spray of crystaline shards laced with flecks of residual alcohol.
Ter slides off the stool. The soles of his shoes crunch over the broken debris with an audible sound, the distinctive noise of glass against a hard floor.
The chaotic background lighting gives Ter's face an almost inhuman cast, bars of multi-coloured illumination streaking across his face as spotlights turn in the far distance - suitable, really, given how his eyes are bugging out, his lips pulled back. Enhances the effect, don't you know? And the roaring bass backbeat and sound from the dance floor gives a nice percussive counterpoint as Ter raises his voice in a roar:
"YOU WANT---"
He makes an exceedingly illustrative gesture, a masterpiece of the mime artiste's craft.
"---IS IT?! HAAAAAA? YOU /GAY/ IS IT?!"
The quality with which Ter stresses the word makes it clear he considers the orientation somewhere along the lines of Neo-Nazism, except with worse haircuts and even more piercings.
When Ter smacks the glass into the ground, Roland bursts out into a laughter that's really more comical then the event that just took place; many heads turn warily to the brewing crisis. He doesn't stop, trying to stifle it by biting his thumb. His eyes are actually watering. No apparent fear of the now standing man; a self confident arrogance of someone who believes himself with no peer. Mayhaps they are too similar, in some areas; they could probably each beat up every single person in this bar, except potentially each other. Fate is amusing sometimes. "...!!" Roland's expression goes :O!! when he finds that... he was OUT MANEUVERED. "Wh--" He fails at a response. He... lost. "Shut the hell up!" is stated, stumbling off his own stool. Realizing he only is digging his whole deeper, he does the only thing he can to regain some lost ground. He grasps his stool, and tries to bust it over the top of Ter's head. With a deceptive amount of force. "How 'bout I break her f'cking spine so you can suck yerself off all ya want?!" People ripple away in a tide, the music and lights going haywire amidst the startled and interested faces. Fighting here, ergo, isn't uncommon...
COMBATSYS: Roland has started a fight here.
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Roland 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Ter has joined the fight here.
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Ter 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Roland
COMBATSYS: Ter interrupts Random Strike from Roland with <censored>.
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Ter 0/-------/=======|===----\-------\0 Roland
This is Southtown, after all. Fighting capital of the world, no matter what those upstarts in Metro City say. Already, the crowd's moving like a well-oiled machine, wordless consensus as people shift back, clearing a space around the bar and dance floor nearest the two combatants.
All that goes unnoticed by Ter, though.
He's too busy dealing with a bar stool crashing into his skull.
The impact rings above the music like a gunshot, wood and steel meeting unyielding bone. But the Chinese man is still on his feet - the blow didn't fully land. An arm's raised, lifted over his head. His forearm meeting the striking surface of the stool, and one hand wrapped around the nearest leg. Ter's limb trembles. The collision /hurt/, but...
...with a sudden RUSH of heat, flames flash to life from empty air, a flare of energy bursting from Ter's hand, travelling up his forearm in a plume of light - bright, so bright that it outstrips the glare of the club's flickering strobes. The fire ignites the stool, consuming it as chi-forged flame sparks of very real secondary blazes from the heat alone.
Unless Roland's fast in letting go, it's gonna get hot in here.
Ter doesn't stop, though, as he takes advantage of the element of surprise to just swing one foot straight up. Kicking through the fireball. Hardly bothering to even chamber the kick. He strokes the other man's pubes with the delicate sole of his running shoe.
It's a sign of love. Really.
"**** YOU," Ter screams, at the top of his lungs, "THINK YOU **** IS IT?! I **** YOU UP THEN YOU KNOW! ****! YOU WANT TO **** AH?! I **** YOU!!!"
Alright, this is a first. Roland's used to these. He's a scrapper, and a damn dirty one. People pisses him off, he hits them, they go down, he cools off. That's how it's supposed to go. He doesn't slam into them, get a look of 'wtf?', then get bathed in a wash of chi-infused agony. Even by Ter's own limited standards, that was probably a pathetically easy hit. And Roland's completely floored. Most people would get up cursing. All this guy's doing is curling into the fetal position, hacking and coughing with the occasional tremble. "...!!" One hand snaps up and grasps the edge of the bar however, and in a smooth jerk he gets up with murderous intent in his eyes. "You...!!" And then his own leg swiftly shoots out, trying to catch Ter right between the legs as well. Hard. His boots are steel tipped. Regardless of such, this follows with an awkward grapple, trying to catch his head and twist to hurl him across the bar, hopefully in a cascade of shattering half-quaffed drinks and liquor. "Ghehg!!" He still can't talk properly. Or stand up straight. Give'm a few moments.
COMBATSYS: Roland successfully hits Ter with Coyote Ugly.
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Ter 1/-----==/=======|===----\-------\0 Roland
It does, though, look like he's gonna get those moments. Because Ter goes flying across the bar, smashing into bottles and cocktails and ashtrays as he skids a merry path across the polished countertop, eventually crashing into one of the beer taps at the end and coming to a painful boneless halt.
Groaning, he uncoils, flopping off the bar and falling to the floor - getting entangled with the nearest bar stool in the process. Liquid drips from Ter's sodden hair, the mingled dregs of beverages mixed in ways they were never designed to be mixed. A slice of mangled lime slides down his face as he cracks on eye open, glaring balefully at Roland.
"I WHAT," he growls, beligerently, "WHAT, WHAT, YOU LOOK SMALL ME IS IT?!"
COMBATSYS: Ter focuses on his next action.
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Ter 1/-----==/=======|===----\-------\0 Roland
"...You've got a few moves... but I've got a million!!" Roland snarls, and yanks off his hat. He begins to twirl it upon a finger, before suddenly yanking a cord. From all about the rim, a half inch of gleaming, razor steel pops out. "CATCH!" is snarled, as he rears inwards and hurls it almost exactly like a discus or frisbee; yet the force and speed at which it rockets out is rather massive, throwing his entire body almost into a tornado upon his face from the reckless force. A literal blur of brown; if the hat misses or even hits, it's likely to barrel through and hit the mirror behind, sinking in with a detonation of gleaming fragments catching in a kaleidoscope of colors. ...It's actually a really good trick. He's done it a lot! Realizing how many people are observing this only stems Roland on further. He's not about to be outdone in a fight by Ter. ...he's already lost the insult war. That alone is a startling fact.
COMBATSYS: Ter fails to interrupt Blackjack from Roland with No More Heroes.
-* CRITICAL FAIL! *-
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Ter 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Roland
Ter grins from ear to ear. "You making move on me, is it," he taunts, sneering at Roland, "ha, I knew you were---"
And that's when the other man whips his hat off and sends it spinning at Ter in a blur of sartorial slaughter. The Chinese fighter's eyes widen fractionally, as the crazy-quilt lights from the club catch and reflect off the spinning steel rim, a dancing shimmer of lethal promise. Ter moves almost instinctively, slamming an arm back - the arm he caught the bar stool with earlier, the arm that blew it apart in a sphere of chi-forged flame. That hand's been dancing with faint traces of heat all this while, and now it spikes once more into full-fledged flame, torching the ground beneath Ter with a blast of unleashed fury. This throws him into the air, his body spiralling...
...too slow.
Maybe it's the bad lighting. Maybe its the fact he's drunk off his ass. Maybe it's the fact Roland just managed to /throw/ that thing with superior skill. Whatever the case, the razor-lined hat slashes into Ter, crashing into his torso, intersecting his flight path with a bladed storm. Ter /shrieks/ in an overly high-pitched manner as he peels backwards, recoiling. The jet of flame he was propelling himself with goes crazy as he loses control, sending him spinning behind the bar and into the rack of bottles and coolers. More glass shatters in a ear-splitting atonal symphony, jarring against the backbeat of the dance floor bass.
"...you mother son," Ter moans, weakly, from a mixed puddle of blood and alcohol.
Ah. That's better. The hat usually sets people straight for Roland. He pants heavily, hefting up a hand and then yanking air; like magic his hat tears free of it's bindings, and returns to his hand. "Hah... hah... see? You're... pretty pathetic!!" He then flicks it up, spiraling once and landing pristinely upon his head. One finger pushes the brim up just enough for gleaming emerald eyes to narrow down towards Ter, stance spreading as he begins to slowly circle. "Regret pickin' a fight yet, you worthless piece of crap?!" He slithers in, attempting to savagely kick him in the stomach before he can rise; or at least make said stagger more uncomfortable. He's poofing out his chest, showing off for the crowd. There's no denying that success after all; and he's milking it for everything it's worth.
COMBATSYS: Ter dodges Roland's Light Kick.
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Ter 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Roland
But Ter rolls aside. It's not a graceful evasion by any stretch of the term. No, it's about as elegant as a fish flopping out of water, with a fisherman looming nearby with bucket in hand. But it gets the job done. The kick crashes into a drinks cabinet, Roland's foot staving in the clear glass front to reach the refrigerated racks inside. Somewhere, the Aztec God of Alcohol weeps for this sacrilege inflicted upon the sacred booze, an increasing puddle spreading on the floor.
"Oi, oi, oi," he protests, spittle spraying from his bruised lips, "you think I small shit, ah?"
The edge of the booze puddle -flashes- into flame, the whole patch of spilt drinks igniting in a blue fireball - courtesy of Ter's fingers, themselves flaring with the distinctive red spirit-driven power of his chi talent. Ter explodes off the floor, his fist trailing fire as he slams a brutal punch at Roland...the backwash of the flaming arm so great that it actually blasts him off the ground like a missile.
"I /BIG/ SHIT, YOU KNOW!"
COMBATSYS: Roland interrupts 888 from Ter with Cha-Ching.
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Ter 1/-----==/=======|======-\-------\0 Roland
"Ya ain't done nothin' worthy of even medium shit, ya wannabe..." Roland grunts, dancing from foot to foot with his hands raised up akin to a boxer. His mouth twists into a sadistic grin, seeming to be in his element; against a man unaware of his capabilities, and not well-equipped to react to his myriad tricks and cheap maneuvers. As the other man advances, his eyes narrow, ignoring the flash of fire... and he sees it, like a big splashed target. Twisting his wrist, one hand clenches. Erupting from his billowing sleeve is a foot long blade, erupting in a rasping hiss like a disturbed viper. Two steps forward take him into range; green hues ripple across his weapon as he twists, the punch grazing -- and what a graze. But he savagely slashes Ter from hip to shoulder, entire body shimmering emerald in the motion. Adding a significant amount of power to the enterprise. "....Ow!" he finally manages, stumbling backwards and grasping his ribs. .oO( The hell would that of been if he hit full force?! ) "Ya think yer good? I've fought yer type for years... you're in my world, shrimp!! And ya ain't go the skill to get outta it!"
Shrimp? Yeah, Roland's got a few inches and a good thirty pounds on Ter, but where does the fatass white guy get off comparing him to seafood, huh?
Ter lies crumpled against a far wall, smashed through what was once a large TV - it's now sparking and crackling, the frame twisted and the LCD screen punched in. Of course, given the eye-twisting epileptic nature of the video that /was/ playing before Ter slammed into it, that might well be an improvement. Not that Ter himself is liable to think so, though. He's too busy bleeding. First from the initial horizontal cut nearly bisecting his torso, and now from the new slash diagonal across the front of his jeans (though thankfully not near the crotch) and up through his abdomen and chest. Blood soaks the fabric of his t-shirt and the crumpled Hawaiian shirt thrown over it. The acid-trip lighting of the club gives the blood an almost glimmering cast, reflecting dark in the shifting illumination.
Ter claws back to his feet, using the wall for support. The flaming mass of energy rising from his right hand scorches into the surface, setting off secondary blazes as it soaks through the paint and into the plaster.
He regards Roland.
"You think you so good, IS IT," Ter growls, "got stupid HAT, got GINSU knife..."
He snorts, exhaling through his nostrils.
Then he thrusts an arm forward, bracing it with his other, normal hand. Pointing his fiery palm in a straight line right at Roland. His legs flex at the knees, stabilizing his body.
"...BUT I HAVE GODHAND," Ter roars.
As he opens fire.
A scream of alarm goes up from the crowd as Ter cuts loose, a wide area explosion erupting towards Roland...and pretty much everything else that happens to be in his general direction.
COMBATSYS: Roland blocks Ter's Die Die Die.
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Ter 0/-------/------=|=======\-------\1 Roland
"You done bitchin' yet?" Roland snaps back in response to the comments about his chosen weaponry; Still holding one rib, coiled arm looking like the wing of a wounded bird. This is his most intense fight in recent memory; assuredly the first since his arrival in Southtown. Is this the kind of people that inhabit this city? It's insane to even contemplate. What exactly 'godhand' entails is met with wary curiosity... but the less then subtle eruption of chi is intercepted by both arms being thrown up. Regardless, he's sent skidding backwards, teeth gritting as eyes clench shut beneath the scorching light. And when it cuts off, Roland's still there, singed but damnably alive. He shakes his hands, which are lightly smoking, and slaps a smoulder from his sleeve. "Godhand? What kind of weakass god you got roosting in there?" is snorted in a blatant lie, spitting in Ter's direction. "God of sissy slaps? Or just the god of--" Intimate masturbation descriptions. "I don't need no divinity to deal with a rat...!" With that, Rolento advances suddenly, Before yanking out something from his trenchcoat. A sticker. It is a big, six-inch yellow fist. It reads 'YOU GOT PWNED!' on it. He then tries to slap it on Ter's chest. ...immediately after, it would detonate in a meter-wide, condensed crash of green chi.
COMBATSYS: Ter dodges Roland's Roulette.
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Ter 0/-------/------=|=======\-------\0 Roland
But the blast doesn't consume Ter. When it goes off, it goes off in mid-air, the smaller man's body already twisting away - the adhesive from the sticker almost catching on Ter's sleeve before ripping away. The force of the explosion staggers the Chinese man, but it doesn't -quite- drop him. Somehow, somehow, he managed to twist away at the very last moment, with the brain-addled speed known only to those with reflexes twisted by alcohol and other substances.
Ceiling panels drop from above, stirred by the rolling force of the two powerful chi-laced detonations. Behind the bar, more broken bottles settle, amidst the remains of what were once mirrors and nice modern metal fixtures. The bass pounding through the club almost skips a beat, the electrical system shaken. Overhead, lights flicker.
Ter whips round, /glaring/ at Roland.
"YOU," he shrieks, "I HAVE GOD OF---"
Ter stops.
For a moment, an odd look crosses his face, as he quite visibly attempts to dredge coherent thought out of the intoxicated morass that is his brain. Neglected grey matter churns beneath the unaccustomed strain.
That -is- a good question actually. Which god?
"---uh..."
Well, his parents were rather fond of Quan Yin, but having a Fist of Mercy doesn't sound like it's altogether that cool.
And that punk Shen Woo has already claimed God of Battle, so that's no good.
"....ummmmmmmmmm..."
Well damn.
"IS POWERFUL GOD," Ter insists, swinging his blazing fist in a wild backhand, "OKAY?!"
COMBATSYS: Ter successfully hits Roland with Medium Punch.
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Ter 0/-------/-----==|=======\=------\1 Roland
Finally. Sweet vengeance has been exacted by Roland, and given his unabashed grin he's quite happy by it. "Thought so." is smugly put. Yet that doesn't mean he should underestimate Ter; That's a terrible idea. ...He did it anyway, mind. Trying to leap away from the fist, he's slugged right across the face regardless of the rather pitiable attempt. A sound much like. "BLUPEGH!" echoes in the room; he's lifted off the ground, spirals in an elegant dancer's move, and crashes upon the ground in a whore's sprawl of limbs askance. Blood pools from his face as he gropes blindly upwards, unable to see until he rubs crimson from the eyes. Are things supposed to sound distant and move in slow motion. "...enub mwessing 'wound!" is coughed out through sinuses oozing blood. Two daggers are procured, twirled in his hands. "TWAKE DIS!" They are both flung in tandem; Yet just prior, Roland is enveloped in green energy once more; his speed and power evolve a notch upwards, as he tries to have both sink into the man opposite like a stuck pig. Before eruptions of chi would ravage whatever they hit, well past twice the size of the sticker. Be it Ter, or the wall of abstract images behind!
COMBATSYS: Ter endures Roland's Deuces Wild!!
[ < > /////// ]
Ter 1/-------/=======|=------\-------\0 Roland
Behind the two fighters, the wall crumbles, painted mosaic and other expensive artworks reduced to debris amid drifting smoke and dust, the clouds catching and distorting the beams of light from the flickering strobes into even more eye-searing patterns.
In front of Roland, Ter stands. He's hunched forward, spine curled, legs bent...and the daggers are embedded in his torso, the knives pounded deep through the scant protection afforded by his thin clothes and into flesh. Blood begins to pool round the wounds, oozing through the badly stained fabric of Ter's Hawaiian shirt. Though the metallic scent of blood is covered by the more acrid stenches of sweat and the smell of alcohol from all those broken bottles and spilt drinks.
Ter's eyes are open, though, despite the incredible wounds. And he's looking at Roland. Straight at Roland.
If Ter and Roland were to sit down and have a halfway civil conversation, they'd realise they actually have a great deal in common. Like Roland, Ter is a relatively new arrival in Southtown. Like Roland, he's entered the fighting world not through formal training and discipline, but riding on the wave of raw and unrefined talent.
The difference, though, is that while Roland's made his way through intelligence and suave showmanship, Ter...
...only has bloody-minded stubborness.
The pain is /incredible/, but he ignores that. Ignores it so he can just lift his burning arm, heedless of how that only serves to drive Roland's embedded dagger deeper into his damaged muscle. To lift it and unleash a hissing spike of flame at point-blank range, straight into the other man's gut.
Before his consciousness fails completely, his eyes rolling upward and his legs giving way.
Sheer bloody-mindedness.
COMBATSYS: Ter can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\ <
Roland 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Ter successfully hits Roland with Big Hero.
[ \\\ <
Roland 0/-------/----===|
Alas, it seems the superior raw talent between them will not be solved this day. His grin of success is suddenly a frown as the man lunges forward; he had not expected this, turning what would be a laughably easy defense into a stuttering hesitation, resulting in him being blasted within the stomach. He's blown backwards, wind evacuating his lungs violently, spray of blood the last insult given to the collapsing Ter. A few unwieldy steps forward follow, trembling slightly, before his tenuous grasp on consciousness similarly fades. "...bastard..." is hissed out, first falling to his knees, and then planting his face upon the ground. Blood pools beneath. He's less then a meter away from his apparent rival. Whoever wakes up first is the true winner; of course, they will be deposited in the alley with a large bill and court summons. What's one more debt to run from?
Another thing Ter and Roland could agree on. Not that Ter's able to voice that thought, being laid out in a messy heap, bleeding copiously from dagger wounds...trails of smoke rising from his hand.
Responsible finances are for other people.
Hope the club's insurance is paid up.
The audience seems to appreciate the floor show, mind you.
At least until the sprinkler system, finally stirring to life from all the smoke left by the furious exchange of explosive chi...goes off.
Log created on 05:00:01 04/06/2008 by Ter, and last modified on 08:05:26 04/06/2008.