Description: A pleasant evening in downtown Southtown sees the 'chi guru', Frei Tsukitomi-Renard, gain the attention of one Balrog. Clawed killer, psychopath par excellence, and apparent philosopher. Blood is drawn, but it's words that truly cut to the quick, and the two wildly different men seem to reach a compelling stalemate. Could this be the start of a beautiful friendship?
Night begins to close upon Southtown, tainting the air with a brisk chill. Coats have been buttoned, scarves tightened about preparing necks, and in the darker parts of town weapons have been checked and loosened on those who are paranoid; or those who have no need to be paranoid, when the danger in their lives is so very real. It will be some time before crime can secure a familiar grasp upon the downtown area, but fighters and ordinary citizens alike are ready.
That being said, it is not an unpleasant evening to be abroad in the city. Despite the faded sun, waning moon and ample streetlights do a fine job of lighting the way, and the streets retain an element of bustle. Not everybody becomes so wary, so quickly. Here and there, couples carry home their early Christmas shopping, children run along with laughter on their lips, and those temporarily freed from the shackles of employment make their grateful way toward clubs and bars. It's a time when people prepare to indulge their favourite interests, tackling the issues that matter most to them - beyond any concerns imposed by society. And at the edge of an alley, one such individual makes his way out onto a major thoroughfare with a light-footed gait, head held high and smile upon his lips.
"Oi, mister. Spare some change?" His supposedly carefree thoughts are abruptly interrupted, and the man turns his gaze sidelong, to regard the interloper with cool blue eyes. It's a boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, dressed in the ragged motley of the down-and-out. A frown mars the man's brow, otherwise free from blemish or wrinkle, and he reaches into a pocket of the long, deep purple coat protecting his perfect body from the cold. A pause as he rummages, then withdraws his hand, palm upturned in apology. "I'm sorry, I don't have a watch," he replies, in Spanish, before starting back off down the street. Not two steps are taken when he suddenly laughs, a deep and rich sound coloured with an edge of dark, cruel mischief. Without breaking pace, a second glance is shot back over his shoulder, taking in the puzzled disappointment on the young urchin's eyes.
Ladies, gentlemen, wild ones of all ages; I give you Balrog, in one of his more kindly moods.
It appears that he garners enough enjoyment from this simple exchange, and without further action toward the pup he continues onward, mouth lapsing from cruel mirth into a more comfortable half-smile, his eyes resuming a slow scan of the street ahead. His purpose tonight? A social call, a small meeting he desires as he happens to be passing through town... with one who may pose a more amusing distraction than the usual victims of his idle torments. A stone's throw away lies the Young Fighters' Community Centre, and given the hour it may be a perfect opportunity to drop by. He has chosen the more direct route in case he happens to miss one or more the possible person's this appointment may lie with. There is more than one interesting soul who frequents the adorable little charity, so ravenously devoured by Igniz and his hired band. Fate, may just be kind...
You can say this about the YFCC now: it has a door.
Although the time period in which it *didn't* have a door is quickly fading into memory, it's not so distant that as Frei stands outside it, looking in through the glass at the pale security lights throwing a ghostly white glow over the Center's interior, he can't recall the events that removed that door in the first place. Indeed, they still live large in his mind, and only just now is his place of work -- and in many ways his second home -- starting to return to normality. Of course, the young chi scholar is somewhat insulated at the moment from the events of others in his social circle... and maybe if he wasn't, he wouldn't seem as at ease or carefree as he does right now.
One hand goes into the pocket of well-worn jeans, faded slightly at the knees, and withdraws a keyring. Something causes Frei's head to tilt a moment to the left, as if considering some point just inside, before he puts the key in the lock and brings the Center's workday to an official close. In a slightly showy move, he spins the ring around his finger for a moment before putting it back in his pocket and then turning to go. To look at him, it would be difficult to see him as anything but, perhaps, one of the Center's high school-aged frequenters rather than a 27-year-old instructor; black and white running shoes, comfortable jeans, and a dark cobalt-colored hooded fleece over a white turtleneck. The dark colors of his outfit stand out against the white of the shirt and the fiery red of his hair, making him easy to spot even in the darkness.
Its' not far from here, to where he lives; a loft in Southtown Village, his only considerable monetary expenditure in what is an otherwise accidentally frugal life. And indeed, downtown in one of Japan's largest cities is not exactly the safest time and place in the world, but as a professional fighter Frei does indeed enjoy a certain degree of confidence in his safety... though it may be that even were he completely incapable of fighting, his general faith in people would make him equally confident. Thus he isn't exactly looking out, or paying too close attention, as he gets to walking. He even has the affrontery to put his hands in his jacket's pockets and whistle as he walks, as if it were perfect daylight, as if there were crowds of people walking about, as if everything were normal.
He keeps whistling as the homeless man scuttles, crab-like, from the alley and moves away from his former position, clearly unnerved.
It's almost the kind of scene that even someone in total control of their faculties would just want to RUIN for the sake of ruining it. Were this a film, there would already be people in the audience, taking bets on how long the red-haired, freckled innocent would last...
It's amazing what a person can miss. The most wise and enlightened individual still possesses a very solid ability to simply drift past his own destiny, harmless thoughts in mind, a song upon his lips. Such it is that the blissful monk strolls past Shadaloo's sneaky lieutenant, without a single effort on part of the latter. Balrog is dressed disarmingly enough, his designer coat falling to a bare inch or two above ground level, only that strikingly handsome face, framed by sleek golden hair, setting him apart from the drifting masses. Sadly, prettiness - by itself - is oft not enough to draw the eye.
But the Spaniard halts, and does begin to turn, as Frei ambles past.
It is true, indeed, that one might well assume the monk were a pupil at the nearby centre, or indeed any of a hundred thousand other kinds of 'innocent' bypasser simply en route from A to B. But with sufficient foreknowledge, might one not also assume he is exactly who he appears to be? Clothing is not the measure of a man; with enough force of personality, any garment or accessory worn shifts to the style of the wearer. Particularly among warriors, great in soul and bold in spirit - a glance at many past champions attests to this very fact. Ryu, Sagat, Terry Bogard, and Kyo Kusanagi in his boy's uniform. Frei Tsukitomi-Renard has made his own mark, carries his own soulfire. Besides... Balrog is looking for him.
Cold eyes sparkle, with the simultaneous spreading of a wolfish smile, as they settle upon the dimunitive man's back. An individual like Alma Towazu, Vega might be pleased to receive a report on, but in the case of this one there is a personal interest. A sense of intrigue. Mild perhaps, but distracting enough for the time being, and it is with an animal's sharp curiousity that Balrog begins to quicken his pace, feet falling gently, near soundlessly, upon the paving stones. He closes distance as casually as the situation demands, intent concealed amidst the background thrum, before levelling his pace to match Frei's. A hand nonchalantly, surreptitiously reaches into a pocket, deep in the breast of his high-collared, all-consuming jacket.
As they move away from busier climes, the street growing faintly darker and a great deal quietier, Vega's snake prepares to move closer; close enough that his presence would become inescapably clear to a man with Frei's abilities. The first possibly obvious step coincides with a smooth motion of the arm, eyes flickering rapidly left and right to scan the surrounding area for interference - finding none - before a flat, white object is raised to the blonde's face. His mask is donned with practiced ease. A hand, no longer that of a mere cruel and beautiful playboy, falls upon Frei's shoulder. Unless Balrog has vastly underestimated his prey's mindset, the shock will most likely be immediate.
"Don't be afraid." The words cut in with insistent calm, a squeeze of long, powerful fingers expressing at once why fear might feel so tempting, and why it would be unwise to express it outwardly. The voice is low, compellingly pitched close to the ear, and carries that measured amiability associated with disciplinary officers and career criminals everywhere. "We've not had the pleasure of meeting before, but you've had recent business with some acquaintances of mine and I wish to speak with you." With a subtle shift, Balrog's grasp seeks to guide Frei off to the left, down a sodden alleyway and into a small, dankly lit yard at the rear of a derelict building. It doesn't bode well, but struggling may well bode worse. That decision is left in the prey's hands.
Surprised? Sure he is, some guy just grabbed his shoulder, and is wearing a mask. It's pretty surprising no matter who you are. But lately, and especially where the YFCC is involved, Frei has been finding his surprises entirely unpleasant. A woman with... interesting hair, determined to make a Zorro-like mark in his hide so the message will get passed on to K' and Maxima. A young girl with phenomenal power over frost -- a power that gnaws at Frei simply for its difference from the norm -- intent on quite literally killing someone to make a point. Igniz and company wading in the front door. A man wearing, of all things, an old-style haori with an 'interest' in the place that Frei has sworn to protect.
If he were a less kind soul, the sage might be willing to call them a parade of lunatics.
Of course he tenses up when someone grabs him, stops moving. It's hard to fight the impulse to turn and strike back, to grip the gripping hand, to do *something*. In that sense a fighter's instincts work both for and against him; part of his experience says he should immediately and without hesitation defend himself, that nothing here is right. But the part of him that teaches at the Center, the part of him that has in the past far too often put his throat right to the blades of others to make a point, also says: this could be someone random and you are strong enough to really, really hurt them. The two impulses become irresistable force and immovable object, the result his freezing up. It is to his credit, perhaps, that the response in his body -- the involuntary, hindbrain response -- has control of his musculature for a mere fraction of a second, just enough for Balrog to get some degree of... acknowledgement? pleasure?... out of the recognition, until the shoulder under his grip untenses. Hm.
The red-haired head swivels to the side, the appropriate shoulder, and in true cinematic fashion follows the arm up. It's a practiced movement; at 5'6" the half-Brit is used to turning his gaze up slightly to see who he's talking to. What he sees... is a white mask. Expectedly, the emerald green eyes blink once in confusion... but then his entire head tilts to the side as he regards the bone white face covering with something akin to scholarly interest. He even opens his mouth to speak, then immediately shuts it, brain taking his intended response -- Fezzik's asking of Westley if he wore a mask because of being scarred by acid -- and locking it away somewhere. Joke when you know what's going on, Frei.
"I'm not, really." It's true. Someone like Balrog undoubtedly has the tools to read a person's body language with pinpoint clarity, and Frei isn't afraid. Confused, sure; wary, even more sure. But afraid? Not so much. Whether that works in the Spanish Ninja's benefit or not, however, remains to be seen. "And I feel like I'd remember... you," he finishes, even squinting a little at the attempt to remember. But on cue, he shrugs -- slightly, on the shoulder with Balrog's hand clamped down on it -- and turns toward the alley, walking at a reasonable, if careful, pace. "What acquaintance would that be?" Lord knows there's been enough of them, lately...
Were Balrog more informed about these past visitors, in relation to Frei himself, he might brand them not lunatics; but fools. Failures. Warlords punching water. Their purpose has been betrayed by unnecessary action, plots becoming blunders with all the subtlety and even-handedness apparent in screaming infants. He does not consider himself a fool, however, and from his own perspective it appears as though there is a great deal more to the monk than meets the eye. He is a calm epicentre, though with some drive of his own; why else would he challenge the berserk Bison, on equal terms?
It is this latter factoid that fuels the satisfaction felt from Tsukitomi-Renard's pang of conflict. Pleasure comes in many forms, and ever does the masked blonde savour the surges of emotion in those he accosts. Violence and bloodshed have their place, but it is not these upon which he thrives; they are the tools, a means to an end. A way to nurture the depth of emotion necessary for true satisfaction. This minute taste, this aperitif, is none the less sweet for its size. Human weakness is a marvellous thing.
When Frei's gaze meets the Spaniard's, glittering sapphires shocking in dark sockets, this momentary enjoyment has already passed. Those eyes are cold, dead, things of shallow beauty. Others wear their accessories, shape them by their being, but Balrog is his mask; the mask is Balrog. Their relationship is synergetic, the two inexorably bound together by necessity and by desire. Viewed together, it makes an eerie kind of sense. Perceptions shift and alter - and what might once have been a very human voice is filtered through the inhumanity of that visage.
"Wonderful," the mask speaks, rolling the three syllables with such care as though they might be the last ever spoken, "Fear is always best when genuine. Matured, fuelled by the betrayal of one's rationality, it is all the sweeter." A chuckle follows, booming from behind the mask yet coming /from/ it, from a mouth that does not exist. Frei's pace is matched by his abductor, no attempt made to quicken nor slow their progress. "You're.. an interesting case. Usually I have one piece of business with a person, and one piece only. A focused mind is sharper, a focused blade more accurate. To this end, I shall cut to the point."
For a moment, walls enclose them on both sides, and Balrog pauses before the final step is taken into the yard. Then his grip tightens considerably, pressure applied to shove Frei forward and wrench him around at the same time - a test of sorts, to see if he trips, stumbles, or comes about to face the Spaniard with little hesitation. On the latter's part, the extended hand is withdrawn smoothly but with considerable speed, coming to his stomach as the other dips into his breast. The coat is discarded in a deft flicker of movement, wafting to the damp, filthy stone underfoot as though it were a trifling thing. Meaningless for all it's monetary worth.
"You interest me," the masked psychopath resumes as though he had never broken his flow, revealing with a flourish the rather disturbing new addition to his right hand; three long, deadly lengths of polished, sharpened steel, attached to the back of the hand by means of an elegant bracer. "Such a calm figure, yet strife erupts around you. Where above you hangs a beautiful, blazing light; a man who seeks danger, seeks the darkness to spread the light, /it/ comes to /you/. As though sailors were to spot the pole star, and decide instead to follow the nearest, merest," he gestures with the claw, slicing the air in front of the monk, "Most unimpressive pinprick of light they could ever hope to find."
Balrog's frozen gaze gleams then, "It is simply icing upon the cake that you have seen fit to directly challenge one of the most brutal, barbaric men it has been my uncertain pleasure to meet. What /are/ you, Frei Tsukitomi-Renard? What do you /want/?"
Hm, yep. The eyes prove it, alright; he crazy. They're not called the 'windows to the soul' for nothing, and in the recent past Frei has gotten a good deal of practice reading those intents. He is reminded, with *distinct* displeasure, of the amethyst eyes of his very own brother months ago, coldly smiling, but mad with the need for vengeance. Considering the fallout of THAT little affair, the dull blue eyes, shining with their own brand of delicate madness, would certainly give one pause, wouldn't they?
One of these days he's going to need survival instincts, Frei is. Or so they say.
An offhand comment was at first bitten down, but a little part of him is resentful after the rough treatment; he's too experienced, too balanced to stumble, and instead he carefully shifts his weight and turns *the other way* compared to Balrog's intended force of rotation, a tiny act of defiance to assassin and physics both. It gives him time to step back while Balrog withdraws his claw, hands brushing down his jacket, head bowed, before it comes back up. The claw... it dominates his attention, yet at the same timeit doesn't dominate his *vision*. Internally, the sudden ramping up of the danger factor pounds against the inside of his head in time with a naturally quickened pulse, but outwardly he gives it a glance for an appropriate amount of time, like someone in flashy dress entering a crowded room, before turning back to the mask. He did, after all, ask a question.
"Right now," he admits, "I could do with hot chocolate." It's the stupidest, most inane answer, and something about his posture suggests he KNOWS that's not what Balrog wanted to hear, but there is also a bizarre purity to it. It's the *truth*, an unassailable reality: he WOULD like some hot chocolate, maybe some cookies. It's as if he's holding on to that thought because the truth of it is something uncontestable, in what is sure to become a conversation -- or worse -- where such statements aren't even visible with a high-power telescope. He could beat this man senseless, he could be cut to ribbons, they could end up playing *backgammon*... in the end, though, it is undeniably true that Frei wants some hot chocolate.
One hand comes up over his chest, palm down, fingers spread apart, and Frei looks off to the side for a moment, voice still casually friendly. "I admit, I had to puzzle out who you were talking about. But, when I thought about it, the clues were all that. 'Brutal and barbaric' plus 'directly challenged' could only mean... Mike Bison. Am I right?" he finishes, turning back with a curious expression, as if he'd just tried to respond on a game show and is waiting for Balrog to confirm it. At least, that's the appearance, but indeed he goes right on talking afterward, crossing his arms over his chest and shrugging a little. "If you mean why did I try for the Warrior's Belt on Saturday Night Fights? Well... he's strong. Very strong, as I think he proved pretty well. I wanted to test myself and my skills against someone I knew would... probably be stronger than I am. That's all."
A pause, and then Frei's head drops a little, but eyes upturned, looking at Balrog; if he wore glasses, it would be obvious that he was observing the Spaniard over their rims. "The second time we met, well... you might know more about it than I would, since I found the entire affair... a little inexplicable." Giving away secrets? Not exactly. This man clearly knows Bison, and you'd have to be under a rock not to know the YFCC was attacked recently.
A brief pause, and then he adds: "Frei, by the way, is fine." The question of 'what /are/ you?' is left carefully unanswered.
So simple, so direct, so obvious why the pedestrian intimidation is failing to have more desirable effect after that initial shock. Frei possesses a frank practicality along with a gently deprecating sense of humour that would make him seem truly unworthy of the attention he receives... if not for the passion present in some of his actions. The resolve behind it all, the emotion lurking behind his own mask. The monk is an impure specimen by Balrog's particularly shallow standard; red hair, skin pocked by orangey-brown blemishes. Yet, so much bother, so much fuss. So much significance. With different drives and ambitions, could he be so much more?
Curiously, seeming in spite of the ghastly visage, a snort of amusement greets Frei's declaration of hot chocolate. One among so many base pleasures. That wavering claw lowers as Frei's hand subsequently lifts, and the Spaniard himself relaxes, taking a half-step backward - conveniently placing himself between the YFCC instructor and the yard entrance - with the dangerous arm at his side, the other hand set to his hip. His attention remains fixed on the monk as he responds in full, the only instant response a soft forward cant of the head when he questions his accuracy. The insistence upon a name free from honorifics may or may not be ignored, though Balrog does wait until this piece has been said also, before his voice rises in response.
"Young Michael Bison, indeed," he begins softly, staring into Frei's eyes as the condescending repetition is offered, expressing a little more of his exact feelings regarding the boxer, "Another man with whom I need words. His presence at that.. altercation surprises me, considering how little has come of it." Amusement creeps in, plain and unhidden, and more than slightly mocking, a birdlike flex of the neck drilling that psychotic gaze against Frei's own, "Such a high-profile assault on an organisation with only symbolic value. Terrorism, wouldn't you say? You must have seen it for what it was. And yet there you were, at the forefront, defending an ideal that can surely only die /if it is defended/. You and your allies proved only that the symbol matters more than what it stands it for - that precious lives can be lost, and torn apart, in order to preserve the facade of an ideal."
The clawed hand lifts, index and middle fingers curling up and outward from an upturned fist, pointing toward Frei along the trio of blades, "So, why? You speak of strength, of skill, of tests, but you fail the greatest of them all. A man as wise as others appear to think you are would take a step away from it all. But you don't. Nor have you done anything to stop me bringing you here. You haven't tried to escape. You haven't fought back. Why? Do you seek simply to learn and experience, without intent or ambition? A man without those things would not place himself before the eyes of millions, fighting another who would be only too pleased to kill him with a stray blow..."
A damn good question, one the young sage has been grappling with himself lately to very little success; his introspective mien at having it asked, from such an unexpected individual, certainly gives that much away. Why compete? The drive has certainly burned in his heart, lately, to not only improve himself but also to prove to *others* that he has qualities befitting his level of experience; that he's not just some very lucky, surprisingly hardy dork with a pretty lightshow. Something that started when he was forced to face his past, both his brother and his mother, to reconcile with a family history of puissant martial skill. Not for the first time does it strike him that it could be it's in the Tsukitomi blood, for sure; the DNA of a fighter that drives someone unbidden to pursue bloodsport for their own ends. Another bit of Isis that lives on in her eldest.
And yet...
"We live in a symbolic world," he says at last, fixing Balrog with an even gaze. It's been some time since someone asked him about these events in such symbolic terms; Seishirou Ryouhara was the last, and his words were not the same as this coldly beautiful individual's are. The ninja spoke in certainties, not questions; demands, not opportunities. It is what it is, the self-assured Ryouhara had assured him. Just because you think you can defend something doesn't mean you can. And then there is Balrog, asserting that just because the symbol was upheld doesn't make the assertion universally true. Ideas that both have merit.
And yet...
"There's nothing about any of us, or our world, that makes anything elementally so. The 'universe' exists because we use language to give it names. So I don't see the harm in defending a symbol, even if the reality doesn't always match up." His tone, as he speaks, is surprisingly light, even airy... yet even as he says it, the aches of wounds incurred in his many attempts to defend the center from those who would do it harm still gnaw at him from time to time. "More to the point, I don't know why they decided to attack us. If anything, it was like... a man on fire, who only knows how to scream and thrash. I didn't give it much thought. I know I wanted to stop them and defend the things important to me, to the limit of my ability. I did that, so even if in the end things I didn't like still happened, I can be satisfied with that."
Again, the claw demands attention yet not vision; green eyes flicker to the blade, then back to the man. A sword, even held to a throat, is no more threat than the wielder. He may not remember the fine points of battoujutsu, but the simplest rule of any blade-using duelist is to not watch the weapon, but the wielder. He's the 'mind' of that claw. The claw itself is pointless.
Surprisingly, though, just as his statement of wanting hot cocoa 'emboldened' him with its truth, so to does the honesty of his reply to Balrog's final questions. He speaks with honest, clear humility the things in his heart, open about what troubles him and what doesn't. "Well... grabbing me, dragging me down a dark alley, pulling a weapon... yes, they're a little rude even by fighter standards," he admits, inclining his head a bit to indicate the allowance. "But if I were to cut people who were rude to me, ever, out of my life I'd probably be very lonely, for one. And it could be you have something very important to say, so why run away? And perhaps most importantly... if you really do know about the things you've been asking about, then you know I'm not exactly helpless, either. If it comes down to that, of course I'll defend myself. But deep down I have this... belief."
Here, he smiles at Balrog, a genuine expression of mirth. "I believe in people, overall. Not in my importance, nor their charity. Until proven otherwise, though, I like to think human people have human hearts."
Symbols lurk everywhere. As their wildly different outlooks burn into one another once more, each stands as a living example of this in similarly alternate ways. They may even both see the ludicrous in what they do, what they personify through their actions or - in Balrog's case - through his appearance, even through his very existence. Even through that he once had, before the mask was forced to take over and save a dying soul. But seeing does not mean acknowledging. Much as Frei must remind himself of the promise of violence in this situation, that the tool holds the danger and yet requires control to operate, so too must the wisdom-seeker constantly remind himself that his actions are themselves pointless; it is the meaning behind them that matters.
Beyond all the bloodlust, and the pursuit of such, that so consumes Balrog, beyond the madness lurking in that well-formed skull, he understands this much. He can hear the truth and the clarity in what the monk imparts. It draws a nasal titter, more high-pitched and unhinged than previous expressions of his amusement. Frei, working to his ability's limitations... doing so out of what, love? Faith? The psychopath's eyes narrow, his stare intent upon the other man as he continue speaking, confirming his suspicions. More than suspicions; conclusions he might have wished to hear from this calm figure.
"It's /instinct/ that drives you," Balrog speaks insistently, eyes widening with the emphasised word. He leans forward, a graceful movement of the feet carrying him into close proximity. His right arm bends at the elbow, to rest the forearm against his bare, tightly-muscled abdomen. This gesture brings gently scythed claw tips to rest bare inches from Frei's cheek, tickling at what little air remains between the two men. "And that truly is what it means to be human; to feel, to act on those feelings. It's why a man like Bison can be so strong and seem like such a fool. But you? You over rationalise and over empathise."
In a sudden movement, the claw lashes forward, one blade's edge seeking delicate purchase in Frei's cheek. Seeking to slide down, through flesh, hooked end piercing before the whole is pulled away with a violent outward lashing of the hand - force enough to propel the young monk back through sheer shock, if nothing more. Balrog's voice rises to a clear, mocking boom as he drops into a battle stance, prominent muscles exploding with tension, "To be human is to be cruel! To coerce and conquer through brutality! The soul is an ugly, violent thing, Frei!"
COMBATSYS: Balrog has started a fight here.
COMBATSYS: Frei has joined the fight here.
COMBATSYS: Frei blocks Balrog's Random Strike.
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Frei 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Balrog
To say he wasn't prepared for it to happen would be wrong; even still it's surprising the speed with which Balrog acts, a reminder to Frei that he really has no idea what this claw-wielding maniac is capable of. If he considers himself a contemporary of Bison, however, it is likely that he's... quite powerful. Certainly, moreso than the young sage himself is. But he's also ready, and despite the quick movement on Balrog's part the YFCC instructor barely seems to move at all; one arm whips up, elbow bent 90 degrees, and the claw slams into it like hitting a pole. The force of it stings; the tines of the claw dig into his forearm. But, at the very least, he takes no cut to the face. Perhaps more important is showing that he is not exactly defenseless.
For a moment he stays that way, arm and claw resting against each other, betraying nothing other than perfect calm as he speaks in a reasonable, measured tone. "I don't deny that humans can be brutish and awful, selfish and violent. You're right that it's part of our nature, sometimes, to seek profit in the loss of others, to act... on instinct." At the end of that statement, he shoves outward with his forearm to push the claw away and steps backwards a little as he does so. Curious, at least, that rather than try to position himself to escape -- despite Balrog's cutting off of that route -- he is content to take a moment to compose himself.
And then it's Frei's turn to adopt a defensive stance, taking a deep breath and pushing his hands out in front of him, tai chi style. As he does so, a flickering aura of various colors surrounds him, like a haze of faerie fire, outlining him against the darkness and then disappearing. He keeps his gaze on Balrog, calm and collected, knowing that staying that way is probably his best chance at getting out of this intact.
"But people are equally capable of great good, and compassion, and bravery. That's the marvelous thing about human beings... we stand so carefully between the light and the dark, tipping into one side or the other, exploring that dual nature. That's how I maintain my belief, even in the face of that dark side. I've accepted that part of me, just as much as I've accepted the part that strives for the light. Without both, I'd be... incomplete."
COMBATSYS: Frei gathers his will.
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Frei 0/-------/--=====|-------\-------\0 Balrog
Solidity where there should be fluid consistency, tautness where there should be give! The possibility that his victim would mount a guard was distinct, nay likely, and the ninja is in his turn prepared. Tight, corded musculature erupts against the other man, the force at impact maintained - enough to drive back a lesser foe. It is testament to Frei's skill that he remains level-handed, stance solid and words so measured. Neither of them shifts even fractionally past that initial burst of movement. Beneath the mask, Balrog grins widely, tongue's tip pressing to the back of pearly white teeth as he remains locked in a face-off with the speaking sage.
His attention is rapt, no signs of unease or a will to move betraying him. But as the subject of his focus thrusts back in a sudden show of strength, the Spaniard demonstrates that his caution has not wavered. Intent lies in the eyes, after all, emotional expression at the head of all things. Mindless and yet fully mindful of the arm itself, he sways back with borrowed momentum to step gracefully away, replying to Frei's defensive stance in predatory fashion. He begins to move in an oscillating half-circle about the tight confines of the yard, long legs crossing one over the other, each step easy yet calculated. Claw, raised. But there is no rush; Frei is allowed to summon his energies, allowed his soliloquy. The hunter is not here in search of a quick kill. Entertainment is to be savoured.
"There's something in what you say." Balrog's reply is suitably considered when it comes, some moments after the other warrior finishes speaking. Despite the menace inherent in the situation, they could well be sitting at a table, mugs of coffee warming their hands. "But your point is emotionally flawed. You concede to a general sense of balance, that symbols and their accompanying concepts - 'justice', 'right and wrong' - are facades in themselves, and you claim," he flicks his bare hand dismissively, "That you are a complete being. Yet the fact remains that you are as much a part of what happened as anybody is. /You/ choose a side in conflict, siding with those who skew the balance by striving to defend ideals rather than pursue meaningful goals, and evolve to the best of their ability."
"In all honesty," here the masked man comes to a halt, holding only a semblance of his stance as a palm upturns to either side of his torso, expressing a loose, helpless shrug, "You confuse me, Frei. If you saw the world as you claim, then you would thrive; you would experience pure enjoyment, free from remorse or sadness of any kind. You would not need to defend anything... because there /would be nothing to defend/." At the last, his voice raises once more, anunciating each word with something bordering on anger. Perhaps, finally, he is losing patience. A flicker of movement further betrays this...
...and before the senses can fully attune, the unorthodox ninja has surged into motion, a blur of myriad colour soaring in upon Frei with startling speed. Polished steel flashes even in this scarcity of light, distracting the vision and the mind, while the true danger comes from the opposite side of the body. From Balrog's shoulder to the monk's chest, ready fingertips descend, closing for unforgiving purchase around and between the ribs.
COMBATSYS: Frei interrupts Stardust Drop from Balrog with Light Kick.
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Frei 0/-------/--=====|===----\-------\0 Balrog
"You make a mockery of yourself... of those you defend!" The words are barely hissed, playing at the edge of hearing while that grip is secured and Frei is pulled closer with a none-too-surprisingly brutal wrench of bone and sinew. From here, he is to be hauled about the spinning frame of his aggressor, and flung face-first toward the waiting brickwork of the nearby building - hard stone adding further injury to the insult.
He'd like to reply, but the threat of the ninja's second assault is much more pressing, all things considered. Perhaps fortunately, Frei is already on the defensive... and it's an advantage he's going to need. The description of Balrog as a blur hardly does his speed justice; the hand gripping for his torso is upon him much faster than he'd like. However, the knowledge that avoiding that fate is impossible becomes a powerful piece of knowledge to the YFCC instructor; rather than fight something he cannot avoid, he moves with it, tightening his focus, watching for openings. When Balrog moves to hurl the man's body -- surprisingly light, given that iron defense moments before -- he sees it, and takes it. Just as he is about to be flung, one leg lashes out, sheathed in crimson fire, looking to merely tag Balrog in the midsection before he's out of range. It also has the nice, secondary effect of giving him 'push'; in point of fact Frei *increases* his velocity by effectively kicking off Balrog's body... but it's a rotational increase. By the time the wall is near, he's righted himself, landing against it feet-first rather than head-first and, rebounding away, steps gently to the floor.
Grimacing slightly at the pain in his ribs, he nonetheless stands his ground, turning toward this rather unusual man. If he wants to draw a distinction between himself and Bison, well... it's done. Bison is all explosive power, a man of few words and obvious lusts, straightforward. Balrog, so far, has proven exactly the opposite: subtle, acrobatic, conversational. Amused, Frei even allows himself a quiet smile at just how the two clearly related individuals represent the principle he just mentioned. For every action, an opposite and equal reaction.
"What about choosing sides," Frei asks conversationally, green eyes tracking Balrog carefully, should the violent dance continue, "means giving up balance? If anything, it maintains it. Think of what happened at the very basic level. People with those 'meaningful goals' came to us, intent on destruction. In defense, we rose to oppose that. The result was balance. Some destruction was inevitable, but why let it run unchecked, as if inevitability were something that couldn't be mitigated?" He pauses, closing his eyes a scant second, taking a breath, hoping that the questioning tone in his voice will keep Balrog interested long enough to wait and hear the rest.
Shaking his head, he drops back into a fighting posture; if nothing else, a physical sign that he's not going to lay down and die just to prove anyone's singular point of philosophy. Not for his friends, certainly not for complete strangers. In his own mind, Frei would like to think that his insistence on keeping to his principles is one of the things that those he calls friends respect in him. "I won't say I have no regrets. I've done foolish things. But I did them because I wanted to do them, and I accept that I did them and all the consequences that result. So my only 'regret' is that maybe I made a choice that I might not have known was bad, at the time that I made it."
Speed begets speed, power begets power, and one 'good' turn deserves another. The explosive velocity of Balrog's approach was chosen in order to balance out the likelihood of a successful counter-attack - such as the one Frei successfully makes partway through. His shrouded leg draws a glowing crimson line across that tattooed chest, flickers of energy dancing about as the acrobatic Spaniard is sent into a quite unplanned backward skid. He recovers at about the same time, and cold blue eyes narrow, focusing across the yard to stare at Frei with an expression that says it all; he has proven already his worth as a foe, proven that this meeting is not a waste of time.
There follows the singing of metal, clear and purely shrill, as with a soft 'hmph' Balrog rises to his full, considerable height. The dance does not continue, for the moment, though some might say it never ends; violence, the intent of or the readiness to defend against, underlies all arguments. Even all debates and conversations. A beast lurks round every corner, the savagery of the human condition ready to spring - only the choices of an individual can prevent /that/ inevitability. It is Balrog's choice to wait just slightly longer, though he shows a measure of impatience now, pacing back and forth with a hungry stare upon his prey.
"It takes a bold man to admit his regrets," the reply follows immediately this time, as the pacing continues, "But a weak man to turn them into excuses. To call anything 'inevitable' is, in the first place, the most grand of all foolishness. Hindsight is not necessary - with enough foresight anything can be achieved. To learn from a mistake is to have made the mistake in the first place; to have been inadequate. Do you think those injured in war, those who lose loved ones to the struggle against violence, should merely shrug their shoulders and accept that they could do nothing? That their superiors in the effort made the choices they /had/ to make?"
Balrog laughs, a short and callous bark hardened further by a shift in posture. He sinks upon bent legs, back arching, assuming the position of a hunting beast ready to spring. "My point is that there should exist no 'sides' in the first place. Only through opposing one another, and calling that balance, do we utterly fail to better ourselves. Mankind has been grossly idiotic, and you - those like you - are merely the heirs to that idiocy. You allow me to accost you without knowing my goals, nor my name. You fight me because... why?" The mask tilts to one side, eyes glittering, and the answer is delayed. The former noble slings himself off tensed legs, releasing that tension into a headlong sprint that would seem to be bringing him in for impact with the monk.
This is not the case. Perhaps Frei may react, foolishly, or perhaps he will pass a further test - either way, the ninja sways forward to plant his left hand upon grimy stone. The pressure is enough to turn his sprint into an impossibly graceful flip, long ponytail following the ninja into a spin that sees him land, catlike, upon a dusty first-floor window sill, his impressive frame spread cruciform an inch from the glass. His face is upturned, rolled back upon his neck, attention seeming not in the least trained upon Frei.
"Because," he concludes from his perch, tone as grandiose as his flamboyant pose, "You believe that I, with my cruel sense of reality and my cold steel blades, must be a man on the opposite side of the scale. A villain, perhaps? Someone who intends to hurt you with words or violence. If you deny this," now he glances downward, toward the sage, pupils screwing to maniacal pinpoints, "Why have you not questioned my intent? For all your philosophical bluster, you are as easy to read as your peers. Just as foolish, just as embroiled in petty acts of heroism. Childish /games/, Tsukitomi-Renard!"
COMBATSYS: Balrog calculates his next move.
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Frei 0/-------/--=====|===----\-------\0 Balrog
"If I were difficult to read," Frei says with sudden, disarming honesty, smiling pleasantly, "I'm doing it wrong."
Balrog's question is not so different from one Ayame posed to Frei once before, with her fists if not her words. Why do you go this far? Why do you fight? What's the point of putting someone's blade to your throat? Kula seemed equally confused by his need to defend Mizuki from an icy onslaught, knowing he would be hurt at best and severely injured at worst. What drives that? Why do we do anything?
But despite the danger doing so presents, he shakes his head sadly at Balrog after that small, flippant statement, eyes downcast. He's not angry; if anything, he's *sad*, upset that a person who he sees as having great ability has put it to the service of a philosophy he finds self-defeating. But that singular statement, the need to be clear, to be transparent in how he thinks and feels... it drives Frei onward, powers his words, gives him voice. Gives him courage. "Getting caught up in details can sometimes be problematic," he says softly. "Of course only a fool doesn't think of SOME things in the long term, doesn't consider the future. But... to be perfectly honest you tried to cut me in the face," Frei says, looking up at Balrog with an even expression. And as before... the pure *honesty* of it, if nothing else, makes him bold. The man DID try to claw him in the face. "It's a violent act. And yes, at some point I need to spend some time thinking about why. Hell, maybe you'll just TELL me. But not everything has some grand philosophical underpinning. Considering you talked about instinct, it seems like that's an idea you could get behind, isn't it?"
One hand comes up, palm down, hovering just over his chest. With a surprising suddenness, it bursts into a halo of blue-white frost, snowflake-like patterns drifting from it in the night air and then disappearing as rapidly as they came. "If you want me to know your goals, or your name, then tell me. Right here, right now. But if I'm supposed to wait until I know those things before I defend myself from someone trying to injure me, then... that's a rule I intend to ignore. I don't know that you're a villain. Other than the basics I get from my five senses, and the words that come out of your mouth, I don't know anything about you other than that you seem to want to do me some kind of harm. So... that's what I respond to."
The movement of his hand is almost... lazy. The wrist turns, the palm faces out, the blue-white glow vanishes. Perhaps the fall air is already too chill for it to be immediately apparent, but Balrog didn't get where he is by having merely 'average' instincts. The air around him chills, the only portent of the sudden arrival of a burst of frost onto the scene, spikes of it manifesting from all directions at the Spanish Ninja.
COMBATSYS: Frei successfully hits Balrog with Hatsuyuki.
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Frei 0/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Balrog
That flicker of sadness, of disappointment, is not lost upon the statuesque bullfighter. It is the sole trace of negative emotion displayed in his tormentee, after all, the only concession that somewhere his play has a willing audience in Frei's psyche. But Balrog does not deceive himself so easily - this thoughtful surface-naive is proving a more apt sparring partner than perhaps any he has faced to date. Most are so easily led and distressed, posing little in the way of challenge or added satisfaction. Violence so often becomes the most delectable part, when it should be the metaphorical dessert; sweeter, enjoyable without overshadowing the more deeply, subtly satisfying main course.
Indeed, Frei is a surprise. A quite astonishing one. It shows how great the arrogance of the Spaniard that he does not become more wary at this revelation, watching and feeling the coming assault without trepidation. His instincts are keen, indeed, his power potentially as great as his opponent judges it to be. But hubris shall be his downfall. The prickle of blossoming energies is ignored just a moment more than it should be, and when Balrog chooses to move he does so belatedly. His body begins to curl from its perch, legs flexing against the stonework underfoot, muscles taut, but an instant before he springs an insiduous nail of ice-chill intensifies beside his abdomen. It pierces deep, garnering a sharp intake of breath, a clenching of the teeth.
Those that follow are met with more active intent, as the leap is made in the very midst of the attack, glistening shards drawing streams of blood that spatter glass and stone. The pain is ignored, the ninja already gone - potentially beating sprays of crimson back to earth as he allows his body to freefall downward, once more painting an aerial crucifix, this one speeding in upon the grounded sage. "Patience, Frei!" He calls, unleashing coiled tension and frustration in a searing inward swing of the arms, bare hand clenched to a fist and designed to barely skim the top of the monk's head. The other, set to bring those claws to bear against the back, raking deep, bloody gashes along the spine.
COMBATSYS: Balrog successfully hits Frei with Flying Barcelona Attack.
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Frei 1/----===/=======|======-\-------\0 Balrog
With the impact, Balrog curls his frame in the air, rotating about the striking claw to tease himself toward the ground. The grace involved is enviable; he even avoids the searing lashes of blood that emit from the younger man, legs lowering with considerable control around a nearly stationary torso before both feet are allowed to settle upon the ground. Leaving him in a half-crouch, so enticingly close to Frei.
"A clever man does not play all his cards at once, nor does he always speak the truth." The claw is pulled abruptly to the side, a foul sound of shifting ichor made as it is cleaned by the motion. "But I can tell you that I hold no grudge, nor do I act on behalf of anybody that does. I may tell you who I am, however," he adds, raising his other hand, thumb and index finger stroking the lower curves of his mask, "If you continue to act so impressively." The hand lowers, a battle stance is adopted, and again his head tilts, punctuating the subsequent invitation, "Your move, I believe?"
And yet, even as he realizes his sudden attempt to push Balrog outward, to keep him from getting that behind shot, have failed, the only thought in Frei's head is: I *liked* this shirt, god damnit.
It is, as one might expect, kind of a write off now.
The actual visual of it is quite dramatic: the red-haired fighter's back arches, eyes and mouth open from the sheer, undeniable pain shock of having your flesh literally rent. His body seems to hang suspended for just a moment, defying gravity, before inertia takes over and he slumps forward like a puppet with strings cut, taking one ragged and steadying step, then another. Then another. Finally, however, he straightens, hunched forward and taking a deep breath, before turning to face his attacker. In truth, the damage is not as bad as the visual of his blood on the ground, the slashed cloth of his fleece and shirt make it appear; he's felt far worse than that. But there is a... quality to it that makes it seem nastier than it really is.
The young sage lacks the languorous grace of his opponent, but perhaps he has more a solid resilience in return. Balrog's words are not necessarily meant to reassure, but they do anyway; while he still believes the NESTS attack was motivated by the many mysteries of K' and company, he is never *quite* sure... and after his experiences with Kataki targetting his friends, Frei is all too aware of a personal need to keep innocent people that have nothing to do with it from being hurt because of his problems. "Well, that's good, at least," he says with a faint smile. "Nice to know I'm not annoying too many people who might want to see me garotted or worse."
His move, huh... indeed. The Spanish Ninja has all but promised to answer the questions Frei has admitted to wanting answers to if he can continue to be 'entertaining'. Well... alright then. Entertainment it is. "I expect I'm lied to all the time," Frei says casually, circling Balrog at a decent distance, legs carefully interweaving as he sidesteps, hands at the ready. "Mostly because I choose to take people at their word. Which I'm fine with, really. I know the consequence of that, but I choose to do it anyway. Important thing, overall, choice. Personally I think it's much more important than people give it credit for."
And then he's kicking off the ground, looking to close the distance between himself and Balrog in one fell swoop, one hand grasping for the wrist of the clawless hand. If he can get that grip, it suddenly becomes a painful and immobilizing arm bar, putting Frei behind the Spanish Ninja, his other hand glowing purple-blue with controlled lightning, a sphere of electric force which he proceeds to all but shove into the small of his opponent's back before letting go of the locked wrist, pushing the two fighters apart once more.
COMBATSYS: Balrog interrupts Shunrai from Frei with Scarlet Mirage.
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Frei 2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|==-----\-------\0 Balrog
Choices. Everything is a choice, from the tiniest decision - when to get up, whether or not to catch the latest movie - to the almightiest moral dilemma. Just choices to be made, really no different save in the perception; and yet it is this that proves so crucial, creating conflict and indeed dilemma where there should be such an ease of movement. Life should flow, but it grates. Too many are too concerned with their decisions, brewing storms in otherwise harmless teacups. Frei... Frei makes his choices from the very core. It would be heartening, if Balrog had a heart.
Watching the sage past narrowed slits, the suave murderer chooses once more to save his words, allowing the unfolding battle his utmost attentivity. At this moment, nothing less is adequate. His 'prey' has proven himself far more effective and tactically brilliant than Balrog initially assumed. This is not the kind of dance he studies for; this is plain enjoyment, and mystery heightens the reward. But he believes he has the man's measure now - a fact attested to by the casual shift of his hand, seemingly innocent, innocuous to Frei but damaging to the Spaniard. Unwitting or no, he actually /presents/ himself to the grapple, cold eyes flaring as the true attack unfolds.
But when his arm is dragged behind him, clenched tight amidst a practiced hold, enough would appear to be enough. A subtle deficiency was created in the initial shift, a couple of fingers squirming free with admirable ease. It's sufficient to break the grasp a moment earlier than intended. Crackling chi barely spreads against Balrog's back, meeting a powerful ripple of impenetrable muscle as the taller warrior spins around with a guttural hiss, his claw cutting through the remaining energies a beat before his feet rise in perfect synergy to crack harshly against Frei's chin.
No escape. A full flip is turned, arms outstretched to form a pivotal line that allows for the second and third. Fully six impacts in all, each foot smashing home an instant after the last, driving the clashing pair through the yard toward yet another waiting wall. It takes the space of two seconds, and then - at the close of the third rotation - an alarming shriek emits from the Spaniard's lungs. If Frei has by some miracle retained his footing, it will be blasted away now as a fourth spin erupts, a final dizzying cascade of colours ripping past doubtless dizzied vision. This time Balrog rises off the ground with a redirection from the arms, a single piercing high kick driving his philosophical opponent into the air.
He will land in the yard's entrance, between the two meeting walls, only to be greeted by his foe's perfectly composed voice. "And now, you have a choice to make." The smug smile Balrog wears, though concealed beneath the mask, is audible in his tone alone. He brings his feet together and draws himself up, laying bulging biceps across his chest, framing his visage between fist and claw. "You may walk away, learn nothing, but perhaps save yourself injury. Or stay, show me more, /strive/ to make me understand why I should take you seriously. The decision is yours, Frei, and yours alone."
Subtlety is not Frei's strong point. He's unused to applying it, and as Balrog shows, even less adept at dealing with it. Believing in the basic honesty of people means that you tend to trust others even when you shouldn't, and while this isn't exactly opposite to subtlety, it certainly runs perpendicular at best. He barely even has a second to look surprised before the flowing storm of blows sends him slamming into the wall with a crackle of settling, cracked brick, red-haired head chin-up and then slumping forward. Even for a fighter as surprisingly resilient as the young sage happens to be, Balrog's precise and crushing power is nothing to be trifled with.
"The important thing..." he mutters somewhat, slumping forward off the wall, dust and chips of shattered brick flowing behind him from his point of impact. "...the important thing is to consider the consequences... of those choices." With a deep inhalation, he stands up, wiping an arm across his face, flicking a small flow of red blood from under his nose. "And... the alternatives. It's not as if this... is uncommon. Right? 'Show me your strength'. But you've already decided how things are going to go, haven't you? If I threw out a 'great technique' or not, you'd still be assured that you're stronger either way. So, you see..." Frei says, with a faint smile, "this actually isn't a choice at all. The consequences are the same either way, aren't they? In that case I choose to conserve my strength for other purposes."
He doesn't move, doesn't attack. What surprises Frei the most is that some part of his heart WANTS to. He wants to unleash the fullest extent of his abilities on Balrog, to prove his point, to defend himself. And then the bright green eyes widen, in surprise, at a notion he hadn't considered, one he's been grappling with, and one he certainly didn't expect to find fighting this clawed fighter. "I've been fighting nothing but 'official' fights lately, you know," he says quietly, almost a murmur. "Fights where the goal is sport. To win, or not win. Maybe draw. I haven't had enough of... these," he adds, waving a hand to encompass the yard. "Fights where the entire goal is to make some sort of *point*. And I've been agonizing over the first, fighting my desire to win. Competitive spirit. And forgetting how comfortable I am... now. Fighting to make a point. Something that goes beyond fists and kicks and flashes of colored light."
COMBATSYS: Frei gains composure.
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Frei 1/=======/=======|==-----\-------\0 Balrog
"Marvellous."
It's a word spoken with passion, and lacking the crazed edge that taints so much of Balrog's more heartfelt verse. It might come from a previous age, when a gorgeous youth wowed the crowds of Spain with his impressive talents in the bullring. But never let it be said that the man is redeemable. With a long, deeply rumbling sigh he lowers his arms and calmly begins to stalk forward, hands coming together in a slow applause. He stops within striking distance of the sage, maintaining a steady, level gaze. Examining, drinking in the other man's expression for long enough it might become disturbing... and then he gently twists his right wrist, bringing deadly clawtips to his own neck.
"I promised you answers if you impressed me," he murmurs quietly, a teeth-chafing scrape emitting from the hardened ceramic of the mask as a blade's edge aggravates it, "And you have done exactly that. I can't say I'm pleased - in a way, you have thwarted the entire point and purpose of this exercise. Because all of this," he gestures with the bare hand, waving a line over Frei's bloodied and beaten frame, a wide semi-circle for the yard and a flamboyant downward chop to indicate himself; all the important parts of the fight such as it is, "Has only sport as its purpose. The average modern-day consumer believes that a 'sport' is something done for frivolous purposes, or simply to earn a wage and entertain a few punters. But the fact is, sport runs far deeper. It is a meaningful art form. What is philosophy but a form of sport, a game between men that provides enjoyment, and occasional revelation into one's nature?"
"And yet, at the same time I believe you realise exactly what has been happening. What needs to happen - even to make your recent conflicts more meaningful. Ideals and symbols only matter if you believe they do, and it is that belief that requires defence, and exploration of self creates these beliefs." A moment's pause, and then suddenly the Spaniard laughs, a less contrived sound than previous expressions of amusement. Which does not save it from the disturbing bass boom provided by the mask. "You think that I do not hold ideals of my own, or perpetrate a defence of mere symbols? Almost everything we deal in has some symbolic nature, whether as a result of it's existence or by the meaning we attribute to it. This /is/ a world of symbols."
"And," the claw drifts outward, ceramic clinking, expensive paint chipping. Elasticated material snaps, two frayed ends whiplashing about the mask's edges. The whole falls forward, to be caught in the clawed hand with a deft twist of the wrist. Most importantly, Balrog's face is revealed; beautiful, chiselled, godlike by his own hubristic standard. Delicately curved lips lift in a dark smile, "I am as much a part of it as you are." With a shrug of his shoulders, snake tattoo rippling with the gesture, the unmasked Adonis begins to stroll forward, barely brushing against Frei in the intended passing.
"My name is Balrog." It's announced as an after-thought, shot back over the shoulder without a turn of the head. "Simply that. And I work for an organisation -- a man, whom you have crossed in the past. You should hope we do not meet again in my official capacity." his voice, previously fading, sounds steady now. He has come to a halt, back turned to Frei's, a half length down the alleyway. "If we do, I hope you can make the right choice. I will hold nothing back. Next time, /I/ will not walk away."
COMBATSYS: Balrog takes no action.
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Frei 1/=======/=======|==-----\-------\0 Balrog
From the outset, Balrog had claimed that men act on instinct. In Frei's case, he actually wasn't that far from the truth. It's not that Frei is stupid; far from it, by conventional standards. But in most situations he finds being led by his intuition much more satisfying -- and often more 'correct'! -- than working things out logically. In this instance, he's glad he did; it's quite apparent that simply hurling himself at Balrog would have proven a point, alright... the wrong point, for sure. 'Sometimes the day is won by sheathing a blade': an old Chinese aphorism that the young sage finds especially apt right about now.
He'd been wondering about the mask. The idle comment from 'The Princess Bride' was not entirely idle; after all, Fezzik's question to Westley was genuine, if motivated by his childlike intellect, and indeed the young sage of the YFCC has been fighting the impulse to ask for this entire meeting. That Balrog chooses such a dramatic way of removing it does take him by surprise, but not so much as what is underneath. The Spanish Ninja may even get a fleeting moment of amusement at Frei's obvious surprise. To his eye, the purpose of a mask is to conceal, not defend... though in a way, the red-haired fighter muses to himself, it IS concealing something... just something a little more ideological than biological.
He's too tired to care about being brushed against; certainly, if Balrog wanted to inflict more injury, he wouldn't resort to such stupid trickery as all that. In fact the Shadaloo assassin has been surprisingly... straightforward, the entire time. It *does* give him a reason to turn and watch Balrog walk away, a hand dabbing at his formerly bleeding nose to make sure it's stopped. "Belief might just be the most powerful thing there is," he dares to claim, though he keeps his tone neutral. "And sport can be philosophy, if you think of philosophy as a sort of... crucible for belief." It's a reasonable-enough explanation, to his eyes. "After all, I learned to fight to give a belief more... solid form."
But then the clawed assassin is gone, and a battered but unbroken Frei is left to his own devices for a time, taking deep breaths and occasionally sucking one in through clenched teeth at the feel of chill October air on the exposed, bloody wounds on his back. Yeah, that's gonna sting in the morning. "'Balrog', huh..." he murmurs, mind instantly leaping to the fiery demon lords of Tolkein's mythos. What link do they have to the fair creature that just left his sight? The cuts across his back certainly speak to one similarity. An organization and a man he's crossed in the past...
It gives him something to think about on the way back to his apartment, at least. That... and where he keeps the Bactine.
COMBATSYS: Balrog has left the fight here.
COMBATSYS: Frei has ended the fight here.
Log created on 14:54:35 10/20/2008 by Balrog, and last modified on 17:37:35 10/22/2008.