Description: On the Burmingham Express, Pacific Resistance's Preston Alistair Wellington the II and Marisol O'Connell square off against one another on the train's roof. Amongst high speeds and roaring winds set against a scenic red mountain landscape there's plenty of offensive remarks and aggression to be had. But who will come out on top!? It's certainly not Starscream, because he sucks! (Winner: Marisol)
"Dick."
"What?!"
"Dick, sir. The spotted dick."
"Ooooh, you're a filthy bastard, aren't ya? Comin' up here, callin' me all kinds of names, thinkin' ya so good ain't ya?"
In another land entirely, Preston Alistair Wellington the II mumbled in his sleep as the passive chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga of the Burmingham Express as it hurried across the scenic slopes of wherever-it-is the train actually runs. Presumably from point A to point B. Inside the cabin, two combatants have shared a journey to this point in time. They live in the same building, just one floor away from each other. They attend the same classes for the most part. They train together, they wear the same team colors, if only said colors existed.
To say that this Saturday Night Fight is bringing together two strangers would be a complete understatement. They shared a ride to the airport together, and the tinier of the two likely fell asleep with her head against the broad Brit's shoulders on the flight across the Pacific.
No, this fight is bringing together two teammates -- two friends -- to a scenic, dangerous locale to do one thing and one thing alone; beat the ever-living shit out of each other all in the pursuit of ratings and money.
Time draws nigh, and thus one of the rooftop doors to the -- surprise! -- roof of the train is thrown back, allowing access to the elements outside. "Boy, it's fuckin' windy," Preston calls down to his opponent, crawling out as the train runs through a scenic set of canyons. Red mountains rise to each side, and a quick glance off the side of the train confirms that, yes indeed... it's a long way down if either of Pacific Resistance's members takes a wrong step!
Clamoring right out, the Brit makes his way down the train, swinging his oar to limber up now that he's actually got room to swing it. Shirtless since it's so damn windy outside and also because he doesn't like wearing shirts, he turns to look back towards his teammate, his friend, and today -- his victim. The grin that spreads across his face isn't entirely friendly.
If there's one thing Marisol doesn't particularly enjoy, it's the long, agonizingly dull chugging along of an archaic locomotive. No, Marisol O'Connell far prefers the likes of fast jets and airplanes as forms of travel, as well as the occasional car trip or two. But a train? Come on.
"Who RIDES these things anymore?" she wondered, stuck in a cabin for the night. Sleep was an almost impossible feat; the idea of fighting ON the rooftop of a fast-moving train. There's the danger of falling off, the high winds whipping about and, of course, the horrible pollution of steam from the smokestack to ruin her clothes. It seems a common occurrence in these SNFs.
She'd really thought she'd learn by now. But with her designer jeans, a beige and turquoise paisley patterned boho gypsy tunic top and a pair of cozy cork heel sandals and her hair pulled into a (tight) ponytail, she looks more ready for a photo shoot than a fight.
But that's the last thing on her mind.
"No shit, Sherlock," the girll calls back to the burly Briton as he crawls onto the waiting rooftop. Traversing the iron ladder, the girl is almost immediately greeted by the horrible ninety mile-an-hour winds whipping across the train rooftop. "Ha ha ha," she replies nervously.
"Hooooly shit."
Scrambling cautiously onto the roof, the girl makes a sour face as she gets into position opposite of the British oarsman. And when she gets a good look, he's giving her some weird look.
"What the hell is that face?" she asks, peering questionably at the bulky Brit. A shrug follows.
With the fighters assembled and into place, there's only one thing left: the fight to begin!
A loud BZZZZZZZZT echoes across the windy rooftop of the train, signaling both fighters that they are allowed to get the show on the road--quite literally! Lifting her hands, Marisol cracks her knuckles with a smirk, gray eyes half-lidded as she sneers. "I hope you're ready for an assbeating, Preston," she offers.
And then she charges across the rooftop, making surprising distance and swiftly hurrying along, despite wearing three-inch heels. And when she nears the girl reels back, a particularly fierce and readable motion, before she swings it swiftly toward the center of the burly Brit's chest for a meaty impact of muscle and bone!
"HYAAAGH!"
COMBATSYS: Marisol has started a fight here.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Preston has joined the fight here.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Preston
COMBATSYS: Preston endures Marisol's Fierce Punch.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|==-----\-------\0 Preston
Standing there with the wind whipping around him, Preston feels somewhat vindicated in all of his choices; no shirt to drag him down, no long hair to smack him in the face and no... well, for once he is wearing boots, because it's difficult enough to keep one's footing on this thing without going barefoot. Time will tell if he remains clothed for the remainder of the fight. Marisol is no doubt glad that he's at least not wearing short-shorts. Yet.
But what is that look he's giving her? The camaraderie is there, but there's that malicious glint that sometimes enters his eyes when he's destined to really ram his oar into her face, if not elsewhere.
Instead of giving her a reply, it seems that the buzzer beats him to the punch -- instead the Brit simply puckers up, blowing Marisol a kiss as she questions his readiness for an ass-beating. She charges at him, and he simply stands and waits for her fist to hit him.
As her fist thunders forward and would likely have caved in any lesser man's chess, the oar clears his shoulder. "Funny, never figured you the type to be wearin' fuckin' heels; always figured you'd be more the kind to fall over in 'em instead luv!" Where he finds the time to simply chat after her fist thundered in so mightily is another story entirely. The sound was sickening, and eerily reminiscent of hitting a brick wall, albeit less likely to rupture the skin across her knuckles.
Thereafter he heaves a breath, the oar fully lifting into the air as if to herald the oncoming of pain. With the half-Spaniard so close, he seeks to mar her sun-kissed skin and turn her a brighter shade of red. "Here, let me help you get the fuck down anyway!" he roars the words as he narrows the gap between their heights.
Bringing the full forth of his vertical base down towards her, along with his massively meaty arm and the big wooden oar held in his grip, Preston seeks to thunder the shaft down onto her shoulder with enough force to crumple her knees if not simply send Marisol flat onto her round, half-Irish potato arse!
COMBATSYS: Marisol blocks Preston's Fierce Strike.
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Marisol 0/-------/------=|==-----\-------\0 Preston
Gritting her teeth lightly at Preston's chiding, Marisol snorts lightly in response, her head tossing lightly before she simply takes into action, a fist aimed for his chest. Impact is disgusting, a meaty slap of flesh and bone on flesh and bone. But the Brit is made of far tougher stuff than that, and hardly budges as her knuckles crack into skin. It only serves to annoy her slightly.
"Then CLEARLY you don't know me well enough!" the girl finally barks in response, gray eyes half-lidded as she shoots a glare at her teammate-turned-opponent. SNF are cruel people, they are, pitting friends and teammates against one another. But hey, it's training, right? A learning experience for both??
"You wish!" Marisol replies sharply as the oar is hefted skyward in a menacing fashion. Rather than risk a dodgy bob and weave, the half-Spaniard simply lifts her arms and intercepts the blow, a light grunt escaping past her clenched teeth. Her arms shove upwards shortly thereafter, to disarm and unbalance the Briton before she hops back, sliding a few feet along the steel rooftop, no thanks to the high winds pushing her along. A frown crosses full lips.
Dropping her arms, the girl summons tendrils of dandelion yellow in her palms, gray eyes widening as a sneer edges over her lips. "Maybe I should push YOU off the roof instead and take the win, eh?" she calls across the roaring winds, daring to let a laugh escape her as the energies swell and churn in her palms. "I'm sure you'd manage the fall off, you wall of meat--!!"
Slapping her hands together, the half-Spaniard collapses both, the small singular swells in both hands now one in her right. In one swift and fluid motion the girl lifts a leg lightly and reels the chi-wielding arm back before she slings it forward, launching a churning sphere of dandelion-yellow energies soaring right for Preston's bulky chest with a roar.
COMBATSYS: Preston blocks Marisol's Rolling Star.
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Marisol 0/-------/-----==|====---\-------\0 Preston
It may be a learning experience that could end in recriminations and underage drinking afterwards, but that's neither here nor there. After bringing the oar down into her crossed arms, there' a sour grunt from the Brit as she falls to issue an ass-shattering kaboom. Well that's not nice of her at all; he took her hit, she should be nice and do the same! Instead she pushes the oar back and bounces out of range.
With a slight smirk on his face, Preston lifts the oar up and slants it across his shoulders. Already he glistens, the sun shining off of his water-sprayed chest because that's what makeup decided to do just prior to him climbing out into the nice weather. "Chest's kind of cold," he laments quietly to himself, hoping it doesn't become a two-month chest cold instead.
Is his mind wandering? She said something, and his hazel eyes become clear as he watches her sling that sphere of energy at him like something out of a fighting game. "Ahh, fuck," he laments, lifting the oar up in its direct path. The energy slams into the flat blade of the oar, the weapon pushed back into his body as the force of it seeps beyond the broad wooden block and across his arms and back. Even his pants seem to be hit, some of the threading coming undone at the seams.
"Oooh, that's a saucy one," Preston calls out, pulling the oar to one side to reveal his face once more. He admires his lightly smoking weapon of choice, and waves a hand in front of his face. "You been eatin' too much asparagus though, luv? Your balls stink."
Always seeking to get under Marisol's skin, the burly Brit barrels forward, his boots thundering and yet barely heard over the roar of the wind. Behind him, a tunnel looms, but that isn't about to stop Preston -- especially when he can't see it!
Instead he seems intent on narrowing the gap so he can slam his oar forward, making use of the massive reach that his oar and arm allows for to do Marisol a very important favor -- get her flat on her back so the tunnel doesn't do a number on her!
COMBATSYS: Marisol endures Preston's Bunting Tosser.
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Marisol 0/-------/--=====|====---\-------\0 Preston
"Then find a damn tailor to make you shirts that fit! Quit complainin' about the weather if you come out here not wearing a damn shirt, you idiot!" the girl calls back, gathering that energy before she slings it forward, sending the singular sphere rolling toward the Briton. But rather than get in a clean shot, the half-Spaniard finds...he stops it with his damnable oar. Gray eyes narrow as full lips ease into another scowl. Damned SNFs. Damned trains!
Yes, Marisol is cranky. She hardly got any sleep the night before, with Preston in the cabin. He snores, after all--and loudly, at that. She also swears he grinds his teeth, but that's not really a concern.
She'd rather try to smack him off the train and get her another victory. She's getting stronger, yeah?
"That is so disgusting, Preston!" the girl shouts back, shoving a finger forward. "Where the hell did you get your vocabulary, anyway? I know it wasn't your father. Your mom, then? Seriously. Asparagus??" Her head shakes once, fiercely as she wrinkles her nose, eyes drawing shut.
"And what's your obsession with balls, anyway..?" Her eyes open. There's a tunnel coming up...
And Preston is suddenly coming for her with his oar. Rather than again try to dodge aside or just stave off the oar assault, Marisol instead lets the attack strike true; as result, she's swept off her feet. The girl offers a light scowl before she pulls herself up swiftly and attempts to snap a leg out and sweep the Brit off his feet.
"Get DOWN you Neanderthal! You're gonna get your ass killed!"
COMBATSYS: Preston endures Marisol's Strong Throw.
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Marisol 0/-------/--=====|=======\-------\0 Preston
There's a simple laugh from the Brit as she questions his logic and the rather disgusting turn it took; he doesn't need to explain it, because it seems that in addition to getting stronger that O'Connell is also getting better at following his somewhat large leaps in reasoning as far as the joke itself goes. Regardless though, while she may be stronger there's a definite desire to catch up there in the Brit's eyes, both in the gap between their respective power levels and also the gap between them.
So after he hits her with the oar, she reciprocates, seeking to draw him out of harms way whereas he simply wanted to hurt her. Preston is a definite card like that. In this case, it seems that the Neanderthal that he is won't be killed, because she sweeps the Brit off his feet as only a half-Irish half-Spaniard half-Spiderman teammate can!
"Ahh shit," Preston declares as he's kicked in the ankle, in turn falling. The tunnel itself clips the back of his head though, but given that it's the second meatiest part of his body he's likely to shrug it off in just a moment. The train enters the tunnel. There's an innuendo in that somewhere.
The darkness recedes as the tunnel exits out the other end -- innuendo?! -- and the Brit is groggily pushing himself back up. "What the flying fuck, did you just stomp the back of my skull? This isn't fuckin' 'American History X' and I ain't fuckin' Birdie!" It seems he's getting angry. And everybody knows that you won't like him when he's hungry.
With a roar, the burly Brit seeks to take out his anger on the highly racist Marisol O'Connell. The roar cuts off suddenly, a heavy snort leaving his nostrils as he springs forward to thunder his forehead down at her middle, aiming to snap her clavicle or motorboat the poor girl in a vicious gore upon his proverbial horns!
If successful, Preston seeks to scatter the debris from his not-so-proverbial buzzcut and deliver a blistering uppercut with his free arm. Now that they've got some clear air, it's time to use the train, and she may well land a carriage back!
COMBATSYS: Marisol Toughs Out Preston's Bull of Barney!
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Marisol 1/------=/=======|===----\-------\0 Preston
"Get OFF your FEET!" the girl roars, as the train speedily approaches the black, gaping maw of the brick-laid tunnel waiting for the two rooftop-bound fighters. As much as she wants to beat him, there's a fine line between wanting to maliciously gain a competitive edge and fighting fairly. Marisol likes to think she's a fair fighter where her friends are concerned.
In any case, the Briton is felled, his leg swept out beneath his bulky body and, in turn, the Brit hits the rooftop with a loud thud. Below in the cabins, an elderly couple looks annoyed as they struggle to sip their afternoon tea. Damn kids and their fighting and their SNFs!
The moment sunlight breaks the darkness, Marisol swiftly scrambles to pick herself off her feet. Frowning at the Brit's remark, Marisol offers a light 'tch' and lightly tosses her head to one side, hands resting on her curvy hips. "There's not a polite bone in your body, is there?" Pause. The girl's eyes widen as she thrusts a finger at his face.
"And don't you DARE make a perverted joke. I swear--"
But before the words can escape the girl's lips Preston is suddenly thundering forward like an angry bull. Gray eyes widen as the girl watches her 'angry' teammate charge, attempting to gore her with his pretend bull horns. What a weirdo!
Still, Marisol holds her ground. Struck, a loud grunt escapes the girl's lips, gray eyes wide as she attempts to send a glance down and peer at her teammate. She knows what comes next: the painful uppercut. And sure enough, it comes. It sends the half-Spaniard soaring into the windy skies..!
Around the redhead the wind blows heavily, her ears filled with the sounds of roaring air and the angry whipping of her shirt. Tranquil and serene, the redhead forgets her dislike for yet another SNF premise she's been shoved into. Rooms filled with nerve gas. Rickshaw scrambles. Horrible fashion shows. Giant see-saws with her rival and best friend...
"HRAAAAAAAAGH!"
Her body shimmers suddenly, an aura of dandelion yellow chi shimmering around her body. Legs whip into action, kicking around and swinging the girl into an upright position, her knees curling inwards as she curls midair.
"You call THAT a HIT!? THIS--!"
A fist curls back, fingers clenched tightly as she descends.
"--IS A HIT!!"
Landing with a fierce THUD of heels on steel roof a few feet in front of the Brit, the fiery half-Spaniard--flaming from head to toe--punches the train rooftop. Initially, nothing happens, save for a gradual swell of energy broadens atop the roof beneath her fist.
It grows. And grows. And grows.
And then without warning does the large circle of yellow erupt, steel groaning and twisting and flying upwards from the sheer, unrestrained force of Marisol as energy roars forward. A fiery pillar of yellow blazes right for Preston, with every intention of knocking him off his feet--!
COMBATSYS: Marisol successfully hits Preston with Shoot the Moon.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|=======\=------\1 Preston
And it seems that Preston is suddenly finding himself in a pickle of a jam, and that is indeed another innuendo! His forehead plummets forehead, he sends her skyward, but before he knows it the girl is showing just how bad a case of crabs she is -- fiery irritation from head to toe -- and is sending a pillar of energy flying at him!
"Ahh fuck, she's usin' superior range," the Brit laments the strategic advantage that the half-Spaniard has employed yet again, nullifying the substantial range that his oar provides by simply peppering him from outside of it!
As it stands though, she does more than simply pepper him. The asparagus-fueled pillar rips through the top of the train and square through the Brit--!!
His pants fall away--!!
Tumbling backwards wearing nothing but short-shorts, it seems that Preston Alistair Wellington the II has been put through quite the wringer by his buxom teammate. He lands on his ass and he bounces twice, but he's not quite flat on his back yet. With a grunt, he shakes his head, considering whether or not he really wants to get back up and let her pummel him some more.
But then a grin spreads his face. Preston is always glutton for punishment, and he proves it as he painfully pulls himself back up to his feet, leaning on the oar for a moment before he heaves his manly girth upright. "What the fuck was that, Mari? Did you just queef?" he questions her, eyes narrowed down into a squint. He's definitely asking for it, isn't he?
Perhaps instead he simply seeks to drive her off-balance, as he reciprocates the favor and continues this horrible idea of their chi being related to watersports. Preston's proves to be literally that though, as he leaps into the air -- higher than Marisol presently is! Is the reason simply to draw her eyes up, to distract her?
The already butchered roof of the train bursts again beneath young O'Connell however, as a remarkably wet geyser of blue-white chi collates and explodes, aiming to send her skyward in a rain of water-based chi, bent steel, and three passengers from inside the train who were wondering what all the noise was about!
And if she's incredibly unlucky, she might just find Preston in the air, ready to slam her out of the air with the butt of his oar as another tunnel approaches--!!
COMBATSYS: Marisol blocks Preston's Azimuth Circle.
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Marisol 0/-------/------=|=------\-------\0 Preston
When the energy subsides--
Preston is wearing his never-nude shorts.
"Jesus Chr--" the girl spits before her hands whip up and cover her face, eyes averting to the side to avoid the sight of Preston barely clad in a pair of pants that cling desperately to his legs. Shaking her head, the half-Spaniard girl just exhales as she rises from the ground with a grunt. Drawing her hands together, the girl cracks her knuckles, as Preston pulls himself to his feet.
And what comes out of his mouth is as charming as ever. The redhead groans.
"You are disgusting!" the girl exclaims, hands resting firmly on her hips as she glares the Briton's way. "I'm trying to fight you seriously, and all you can do is just be a perverted ass about it! Same as always!" Her arms flail into the air as gray eyes snap shut, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. Men. Preston!
But once more, when gray eyes open, she's greeted by the sight of Preston airborne with his oar in hand. Moments later it erupts loudly, a burst of watery chi launching the girl into the air. Defensively she curls her body, arms crossed over her face as she shields herself from chi-water and steel. But just as she begins to lower her arms, Preston is descending upon her, oar swinging. Those arms go right back to where they came from--over her face.
It launches her into the top of the train's roof, back first before she rolls twice. From her lungs emerges a loud, deep exhale, gray eyes wide as she stares upwards upon second roll. What a jerk!
Rolling once more, the girl scrambles to her feet, hands curled into tight fists. "You know, one day I'm going to dare you. How long CAN you go without insulting someone so terribly? I'll even make a bet with Pás--fifty bucks says you can't go an HOUR." It's small talk. Is it a suitable distraction?
She'll find out--breaking into a jog the girl attempts to close in on Preston and deliver a mighty hook punch aimed for his meaty jaw! "HYAAAAAAH!"
COMBATSYS: Marisol successfully hits Preston with Hook Punch.
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Marisol 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Preston
It's an unsatisfying smack of his oar into her arms that really sours the way the Brit has seen this fight go. Has he even really hit her cleanly? His short-term memory must be suffering from that massive strike she delivered to him moments prior, because he's pretty sure he hasn't. He's also pretty sure he had pants on a moment ago as well. There's a growl as she successfully deflects the emphatic thump of oar and fleshy, meatier body parts.
As always, he's definitely a charmer, and it just goes to show that being a charmer will ultimately only get you one thing in life; a girl's fists into your jaw. He reels to one side, threatening to become unbalanced -- but he won't fall. Let it be a lesson to all the men out there who think this kind of thing is cool. The More You Know~
After the final strike, it seems that Preston is destined to fall down, instead of off the train. His vision swims, but still that grin remains. "What, me change? You're dreamin' luv, but make whatever bets you want. I know you like me just the way I am." It must be the concussion talking, but he skirts around what could otherwise be a dangerous topic between the two. It's time to make the most graceful bow out of this fight he can muster, particularly as that tunnel approaches.
And with that, he sweeps a bow -- following through with his oar in an attempt to clip her legs out from under her. He follows through further -- and thankfully not in THAT fashion -- falling through the heavily damaged top of the train and into the depths within, to leave Marisol the lone victor, be she standing or otherwise!
COMBATSYS: Preston can no longer fight.
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Marisol 0/-------/-----==|
COMBATSYS: Marisol interrupts Queen's Regulations from Preston with Medium Throw.
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Marisol 0/-------/---====|
A satisfying crack erupts between the two teammates-turned-opponents by cruel SNF officials, the resulting impact of Marisol's fist across the burly Briton's jaw. It sends him reeling, but it ends as it's wont to do: without Preston falling. A low grunt escapes the girl's full lips. "Ass," she mutters beneath her breath, peering up at the much-taller Englishman.
"You heard me!" the girl calls back, despite the grin on Preston's face. But when he boldly claims she likes him 'just the way' he is, those thin red brows knit slightly, furrowing in bemusement and mild embarrassment. What the hell..?
"What the hell is that supposed to mean??" the girl blurts, looking at the Brit as if he grew a second head on his burly shoulders. But before she can attempt to pry further into what the hell he's on about, Preston is moving into action, sweeping gracefully forward before he snaps his oar into her legs. She falls, a loud 'oof' escaping her lips. But before the Brit can fall through the rooftop and escape--
The girl snaps a hand out and miraculously catches the heavy as sin Brit by his oar-wielding arm.
"D-don't think so. Don't your r-run away, you c-coward," the girl grunts, as the tunnel roars closer. But her grasp isn't that powerful; as result Preston's bulky muscular weight pulls her forward, sending both fighters tumbling into the depths of the chugging train, leaving a couple trying to enjoy a lovely romantic lunch puzzled as their table breaks and two high school fighters suddenly appear.
Marisol just buries her face on the floor.
"Never riding a train again. Ever."
COMBATSYS: Marisol has ended the fight here.
Log created on 08:41:26 06/27/2008 by Marisol, and last modified on 12:57:10 07/05/2008.