Match of the Millennium

Description: ".. Is just professional courtesy. That's what I expect from Howard. And you know, for the most part, it works out. Until one of you muffins decide that means you're invincible. That you don't have to know your place. That's where you went wrong. You assumed bravado would be enough. That a title's gonna protect you."

Downtown Southtown. 11:48pm.

With the sun having long since crept its way into the folds of the distant horizon, Southtown has slowly but surely begun to crawl its collective self into bed. Far fewer cars roam the busiest roads of the city, and foot traffic has long-since died off, dwindled down into a few random men and women here and there. They are a rare breed at this time of night; everyone else is busily readying themselves for the next day.

But for women like Shihong, it's just another busy day come to a surprisingly early conclusion. With her day spent overseeing various wheelings and dealings on behalf of the Syndicate, her evening was left relatively uneventful. A few upscale clubs and drinks later, the woman is without amusement. Her feet hurt, her head ache, she's a bit tispy from a little too much liquor and with her clothing reeking of stale cigarettes, all she wants is to get home and crash as quickly as possible.

In front of a tall, sprawling condominium complex a taxi rolls into view at its lavish front doors. Emerging from the back passenger's seat is the woman herself, who pauses only to hand over a wrinkled fifty. The driver thanks her, but she ignores; instead, she crawls out, heels clumsily clicking against the ground, arms outstretched as she moves toward the front doors. With a muted thud her hands collide with the glass doors. A security officer within looks up, baffled at first, but buzzes her in when he recognizes her face.

"Evenin' miss Mao."

"E...evening," she replies.

"Everything all right?"

"Y-yeah, just fine, Marcus."

With a tip of his brimmed security hat, the middle-aged guard lets her on with a smile. She moves quietly toward the elevators, summoning the third highest floor of the complex. Waiting with her shoulder propped against the frame of the elevator, one hand fishes absently through her purse for her keys as the elevator crawls from the middle floors toward the lobby. With a soft 'ding,' it arrives.

A few minutes later, the doors open again, and staggering out, Shihong moves along quietly with keys jingling in hand through the dimly-lit condominium floor. Finding her door, she idly fumbles with the lock before it clicks and she gives it a nudge open. Into the darkness the woman moves, her purse tossed aside to the nearest counter top. The sprawling den, lit up only by the luminescent glow of Southtown's downtown skyline, she looks for the nearest lamp.

Old habits are a little hard to shake.

Admittedly, in the downtime where the bean-counters were trying to figure out who went where, Yamazaki felt himself getting frosted over. He never really liked that feeling, a kind of manic urge settling deep inside his brain and making everything taste a little bit more like blood the more he tried to relax.

It wasn't that it bothered Yamazaki.

But have you ever tried to do a Sudoku puzzle when all you can think about is the person next to you who is breathing loudly through their nose? Yeah. That sort of thing just gets annoying after about the third pencil.

As someone whose proclivities on sitting still for too long were well known even up to the highest echelons of the Southtown Syndicate, Yamazaki simply just didn't have time to wait around on Wolfgang to get his act together. Though someone like Yamazaki isn't going to be held to any particular piece of paper stating his willingness to fight in the upcoming tournament, he was entertaining only the briefest of asides. He'd return, if only because... well. Aside from Southtown, there were fewer and fewer places nowadays where a guy like him could really have a little bit of fun.

As he thought on it though, even Southtown had started to lose its appeal. When you reach a certain point of control in the city, it starts to seem like anyone worth anything is already under a particular banner.

There is such a thing as 'too much control.'

Case in point.

There was this particular set of Syndicate divas...

There will never be any real record of exactly how Yamazaki got into the complex. That was one of his particular unadvertised talents. People tend to have this image of Yamazaki being an uncontrollable maniac. When looking for him they look for the trail of bodies, the missing walls and the trees snapped in half. That's why most people who come looking for Ryuji Yamazaki never find him. Because somewhere along the way--the trail goes cold.

Marcus'll never remember the guy who checked himself in as an accountant of some person who never existed.

Security'll never really find out what happened to the penthouse stairwell door and why it looks like it was almost ripped off its hinges--then replaced, with almost picture-perfect precision.

At least, they'll never find out in time, anyway.

There's a million different ways in and it doesn't actually particularly matter which one was actually taken. Nobody really ever pays attention to things like that offhand. Even if it's their job. People lose sight of the little things. From the day to day... so long as they check out fine at first glance, you can collect your paycheck without feeling guilty. In the end, it's the missing bolt all the way in the back of the racking that nobody thinks to check.

That's why people who didn't know any better had a hell of a time finding Yamazaki.

It's easy to pigeonhole.

But when Shihong fingers engage the lamp, there's not even a hair of her house out of place.

Well, scratch that.

When Yamazaki broke in, he did get a new pencil.

And now the massive debatably sane mercenary is aggrievedly whiling away the time finishing his Sudoku puzzle on her couch. Or trying to, based on the intense frown he displays at the page just before lowering the Strolheim newspaper, giving the tipsy enforcer just the lightest of pretentious expressions. At least his face is looking better. His eye is still off color by a couple shades, though. To hear him greet Shihong, he's perfectly fine.

"...Evening precious."

/perfectly./ /fucking./ /fine./

His grin can be a sobering thing.

Somewhere, further down the line--perhaps months later--she may wonder the hows: how did he get in, how did he bypass security, and how the hell did he get into her condominium? But for the moment, all is right and well in Shihong's world. The day has come and gone, and with it a new set of troubles slowly arise...troubles she remains unaware of--at least for the time being.

Quietly the key is slipped into the lock, and casually the door is pushed open. She staggers in, moving a bit clumsily about through the foyer of the lavish upscale housing with little care in the world, save for a possible hangover come morning. Right now, in that dim glow of the cityscape beyond the wall of windows facing the city, the last thing on her mind is the Orochi-bloodied mercenary. After all, the last she'd heard he was in some big, fancy tournament in Strolheim.

What reason is there for someone as insignificant as she to worry?

Pale, slender fingertips fidget and grope with the lamp's twisting switch. Eventually, the light snaps on, and a light, airy sigh of relief escapes the woman's rouge lips as warm light ignites the den. Black eyes drift absently from the lamp toward the kitchen--

They would have, rather, had...something not caught her peripherals.

Almost instantly the woman's head snaps to the side, black eyes wide. No way.

That voice gives it all away in a single instant. It's...

"What are you doing here?" the woman snaps with surprising calm in her tone. A soft frown edges its way over her thin red lips, black depths--once wide-eyed and frightened--slowly drawing into a hooded fashion. Suspiciously the woman takes a few, cautious steps backwards, stiletto heels clicking quietly on polished wood.

In a moment everything becomes clear. Alert and on edge, the Chinese Syndicate woman is very much sober at the sight of the imposing mercenary on her COUCH doing Sudoku puzzles. A funny sight it would be, were it anyone else's house. But it is HERS.

And he likely harbors no good tidings for the woman.

"You're certainly looking better," she dryly comments.

Such a reasonable response.

After all, most people would be reasonably perturbed at seeing a strange man in their house. But no, first there was shock, and then there was calm. Then again, Yamazaki and Shihong were not exactly strangers, were they? Oh, on a superficial level, they were really just coworkers. If you could call it even that. And though Yamazaki didn't exactly like this 'Asura' business, he was more or less content to let the primadonnas do their own .. little .. thing.

He doesn't answer her first question.

The smile turns fake the moment it hits the newspaper again. Shihong steps back, and you know.. that reasonable response doesn't mean an awful lot when you're trying to reason with something that can hear your heartbeat from across the room. He sits there languidly in the plush upholstery up to his shoulders, his legs splayed all about and sheathed in expensive black denim. Literally, it seems as if for all time, Yamazaki is completely relaxed, and owns the place--

He viciously and suddenly throws the newspaper, getting pages upon pages of the periodical all over, and probably coming just shy of knocking over one expensive thing or another.

"It /stinks/ in here!" he snarls, suddenly.

Therein lies the point of insignificance.

See. Most people think of Yamazaki as an enforcer. But they'd be wrong. Yamazaki is a mercenary. There is a difference between an enforcer and a mercenary. One is a job. The other is a career. The difference is, when you are an enforcer, you depend on your employer to sign your paychecks for you. Regular-like, on time, as part of a regular business agreement. When you are a mercenary, you're handling customers. Customers each individually have their own accounts. Each of them will owe you a certain amount of money, and that's really something you have to keep track of. Customers tend to have this idea that their account is always the smallest amongst a proper businessman's number, and that they can get away with failing to pay up.

..Doesn't work like that in the real world.

That's when you have to turn off their lights.

Another popular misconception, Yamazaki /is/ a proper businessman.

And he /always/ has an eye on his accounts.

So when the market crashes.. well..

"I just don't fucking get it.."

Apparently intent on pursuing his own train of thought, the mercenary just short of launches himself out of the sofa, tilting it out of the alignment it enjoyed with the rest of the furniture. He stretches out his back lazily, working a kink right through his neck and out like a cat.

He spreads his arms wide as the papers settle.

"Nice place. Nice full fridge. No roaches. No gas leaks. Nice comfortable bed. Nice," the word nice is getting progressively more and more emphasized as he goes on, "slinky, wardrobe. Nice plush bathroom. At that point.. I'd have called it a day. I'd have went out and bought me a nIcE dinner and a pair to look at. But no. You gotta put that nasty shit in here too."

He sniffs again, and makes a face.

"What the hell is it, even? Incense?"

He's apparently really offended by that smell.

Hidden in black eyes is a mix of emotions. Disbelief, annoyance, fear, uncertainty; they're very real emotions that gnaw at her, despite the calm she exercises. She's seen first-hand what this man--this freak of nature--is capable of doing. He nearly took out Ayame and took out some strange priestly-looking guy without batting a lash. She's also seen what he does on televised events.

In short, it's not really a good thing when you have the Orochi mercenary's attention.

The silence that lingers between them is unnerving. Her eyes never once leave the man on her sofa, intently observing as he turns his gaze back to the newspaper sprawled out before him. Like some feline he seems content to simply take up space on something that does not belong to him. It irritates her, a grating sensation burning at the back of her mind. How DARE he?

But he's not angry--that is a good thing, right?

In a heartbeat the man's seemingly relaxed, comfortable posture shifts, the broad-shouldered man alive and flailing. The newspapers scatter, causing the Chinese woman to flinch and recoil instinctively, thin lips pulling painfully tight across her pale face as she observes. It stinks, he cries. Shihong's lips pull into a ghost of a frown. She would love to talk back...but that probably isn't WISE.

Instead, the woman remains quiet.

With a scream of wooden pegs on wooden floor the sofa moves, and from it the blonde rises. Almost instantly Shihong's shoulders tense beneath the expensive blazer hanging off her form, fingers once lax slightly crooked. She doesn't dare sigh, as much as she'd love to; instead, she breathes slowly, not daring to set the man off even more.

It's like staring at a bomb with wirecutters in hand. You just don't know which wire will set it off.

But the Orochi-blooded mercenary elaborates, and the longer his 'nice' list becomes, the more obvious the look of uncertainty on Shihong's face becomes. What can she even say? He's been going through her shit while she was out? How the hell did he even get up here--

The woman shakes her head, eyes drawing shut. There's no point in pondering. He's Ryuji Yamazaki, after all. Should she be surprised? Really?

"Candles," the woman replies. "Aromatic candles. I burn them to keep the place from smelling stale."

Half-turning on her heels, the woman glances aside, finally letting that breath out of her lungs. A bit less tense, her gaze falls upon the fridge before, slowly, her eyes wander onto the man several feet from her. A brow arcs over a solitary eye, lips pursed faintly before she asks, bluntly:

"Is this your way of asking me on a date? Because, really. I have a cell, you know."

"Stale," he repeats, his gravel, alcohol-burnt voice incredulous.

"See, that's it. What I'll never get about you primped pomps..." he states this mildly. One could almost imagine him amiable at this point. He shoves his hands into his pockets, the massive claws not doing well at all for the fit of his pants, but it gives him something to do with them other than wave them around nonsensically.

Seeming to calm from the sudden and random outburst, he adopts almost a snakelike countenance, sliding easily from around one of the endtables. He lurches over as he moves, as if the spacious apartment was still a few inches too small for him. His blonde hair sticks up just a bit like jackles, or the teeth of a buzzsaw. The newspaper crackles and rips underneath his boots as he trods over them to approach Mao, a slow deliberate pace put in his step, to punctuate every word with a foot of lost space.

"You rise out of the din. Drag yourself out of the slums." He doesn't need to know the story. There's only a couple of ways into the Syndicate. "Make a story of yourself. Somethin worth lookin twice at. But then you adopt all this .." he makes a face.. "...this /pretense/. Like you're anything but a rat at the end of the day."

Yamazaki gets a little closer to Shihong. Catches /her/ scent in specific. A little alcohol. A little cigarette smoke that muds up the residue of those fine aromatic candles the rest of her clothes were absolutely soaked in.

"That's a little more like it," he murmurs, deadly quiet.

Yeah, he went through her things.

But it's a little worse than that... isn't it?

See, again. Looking at someone like Yamazaki. You'd think him to have at least knocked out a wall or something, judging from his SNF fights. Torn the place open like a buffalo. He's certainaly capable of it.

But inspecting the place.. aside from the clear weight impression and squashed pillows Yamazaki inflicted from swimming in the furniture, Shihong will be hard pressed to find anything--anything at all--that's moved even an inch from where she put it last.

"See," he mentions to Shihong lightly. "Just more of the same..."

Right now he's really close. Just enough that Shihong can smell that sewer he calls a mouth. She can hear him even whisper. "Even you ought to know it by now. Don't you feel just a little.." he looks her down, "...wild when you breathe that smoke? When you lose that control over your body. What what you think. Over the air you're breathing?" --he laughs once, barely audible but visible in the sudden shake of his barrel chest. "See. I'm kind of a sentimental type..."

He leans in.

"And when it comes down to it.. when I want you to /party/..." he snarls, eschewing the word 'date' entirely, "Don't remember thinkin' I'd ask at all."

Some women are entirely too slinky for their own good.

"But if you're inviting me, now..."

His hips shift. An audible sound like gunshots emanate from his left pocket as he cracks knuckles, shortly followed by his jaw. With that and the almost humbled look in his eye, he is the very image of patience.

Slowly but surely, Shihong's brow rises in a fine arc over a single black eye.

Why? Because this is rather odd behavior coming from someone who would just as soon murder his own mother because he just 'felt like it.' It's impossible for her to know what someone as unstable as Yamazaki is thinking. Some people are easily read; others are just too fucking chaotic to make sense of, like a deranged Rorschach test.

For all the calm, almost casual tone and demeanor he employs, Shihong Mao is just not buying it. Instead the woman's nerves remain on edge, her shoulders tense, almost painfully so, beneath her clothes. Part of her remains incredibly annoyed. First he breaks in, scares the shit out of her--now he preaches?

Behind a set of deep rouge lips her jaw clenches a bit.

His approach is observed as keenly as possible. The slow, casual, confident gait he wields is mentally sneered at, her eye lids twitching discreetly as he speaks. He thinks he knows her. He obviously doesn't; and that's why she can't help but let her lips cut into a lifeless, cold smirk across her porcelain-like features.

Pretense, he calls it.

The woman lifts her chin a fraction, black eyes flickering with the faintest hints of red as her gaze meets that odd, off-color gaze of Yamazaki. The lifeless smirk remains on her lips, but little more than an empty ghost of its former self. He makes her angry with his confidence. She wants to stab her steel stiletto heel right into his face--

But she can't. Even she knows her place in a well-preserved hierarchy she doesn't dare disturb. Not with her ambitions and aspirations. She has to just endure, persevere and keep moving forward...

'See,' he tells her. Those eyes fix entirely on the man before her. Yes, she listens, despite the close proximity the Orochi-blooded mercenary dare take in the woman's presence. Her throat tenses, aching sore as she holds her breath for fear of setting him off. But she's resolved--resolved to stand there and stand up to his intimidating being. She's done it before.

Surely she can do it again?

Her head tilts just slightly after he speaks, black eyes half-lidding slowly and progressively as she looks up at the barely-stable blonde. "Lose control?" she asks, sounding genuinely bemused. A moment after the words have thoughtfully lingered, she softly laughs. Screw her place.

"Why would I want to do that?"

Despite their proximity, the woman half-turns from the man, a single eye still fixed on the much larger man. "What smoke?" she asks, lifting a hand to rest it gently upon her cheek. "I'm afraid I don't follow you..."

But then, unexpected, is the lean forward. Her hand immediately drops, the smirk on her lips fading as she just stands there, watching with muted disbelief. He is impossible to gauge--and that's what makes him so damn deadly.

Shihong's eyes shift as Yamazaki's knuckles crack with disgusting sound. Her mind wanders, mulling over a response. And then, slowly, a smile crawls over her lips, the corners of her mouth pulling like a Cheshire's grin. Inviting him?

"I'm flattered. Really," she replies, exercising impeccable cool, despite her frayed nerves. "That you're so interested, that you'd go through all this trouble for me." Pausing briefly, the woman lets her black eyes hood slightly, hands drifting to her hips as she stands her ground. "But I'm left to wonder--

"Why are you so interested in a 'rat' like me? Don't you have bigger prey to dig your claws into?"

Not that simple.

Oh, Yamazaki is providing all the cues. That slithering confident stride of his, chalked with the cold, chill disposition of someone utterly convinced in a truth that is comically false. It's almost hilarious, if you look at it right. Infuriatingly hilarious. As if in mind of that, Yamazaki seems faintly--cynically amused.

"Heh. Don't be dense, precious. You know why.."

See. Yamazaki's the image of patience, taking Shihong's laughter in stride. This isn't a battle of wits or will, after all. There's nothing Yamazaki has on the line. As far as he seems concerned, he was simply arguing with Mao for the sake of argument. Not that one could ever guess Yamazaki to be the overly debatable sort. Or even agree with it. But his outlook on the matter...espoused in the lurch of his form. He drenches Shihong in shadow, his massive form blocking out the light sources of her apartment.

Chaotic intimacy is kind of Yamazaki's forte.

"..After all. We all get a little crazy from time to time. We do it for a lot of things. We do it for money. We do it for fear. Hell.. even when you just /do it/..." he rambles, grinning wide and oily, "...we go a little crazy. Doesn't have anything to do with what you want. It's just. human. nature. And that's the thing about human nature. You can't take it off like that rancid top you're wearin'. You don't have control over it. Not at all."

He lifts his shoulders slowly.

"... It's in your blood. You're a fighter. We abuse ourselves daily.. And you'd be a fucking liar if you said you didn't like that adrenaline. When it feels like your heart's about to leap out your chest--" click.

The point of a very thin switchblade clicks open, held in Yamazaki's hand like an artist holds a paintbrush as he lifts the tip to the paper of Shihong's throat. He's gonna press it until he can feel the vibration in her voice. It'll turn slightly, the steel warm from being in Yamazaki's jeans for so long. He's still calm, still absolutely lucid.

But the point of that blade is aching to draw blood..

"Why don't you feel it a little bit. For me, now," he begs dispassionately.

"My point is..." he mentions roughly, his breath slowly rising despite his tension. He can stay under control for as long as he wants. As long as he wants.. "We're all the same--all animals, lookin' for the next thrill." his eyes slide half-shut. "and as I remember." His voice drops to a growl of silken iron, "One particular animal said somethin' about me coming to her straight if I ever wanted to have a little fun.."

What you have to ask yourself is..

Does he actually care about who Shihong really is?

Don't be dense, the mad Mercenary tells her.

Silent still, Shihong observes from the swallowing shadows his imposing form casts upon her, black depths flickering faintly like dying embers as she gazes up. She doesn't dare try to read him in any fashion; she's afraid of the consequences. Instead, she listens closely--carefully--to his words, watching his every movement. Because, any second...

He could just snap, and Shihong doesn't really want that.

Absently, Shihong's feet stir beneath her, heels carrying her a fraction of an inch away as she keenly hears Yamazaki out. A smile edges its way carefully over her pale face, black depths slowly hooding as she continues to meet his off-color stare. Most sane people would be scared; Shihong seems to take it with an almost casual approach.

"Well, I can't deny that," she replies. After all, it was likely craziness that threw her in-between her teammate and the mad man. It was probably madness that had her spewing threats at Yamazaki. The smile grows just a bit, thin red lips curling just so at the corners of her mouth. "And of course I like the rush. I wouldn't have--"

Whatever thought was there instantly vanishes.

...because Shihong's heart very nearly DOES leap out of her chest. In a blink of an eye there's warm steel against her pale throat, the Mercenary's infamous blade unsheathed and threatening. Black eyes once half-lidded in a casual manner are suddenly open wide and sober, the sharp and unforgiving tip of his switchblade pressed, daring to draw blood. She doesn't want to breathe. She doesn't want to swallow. She doesn't want to speak--one wrong move could suddenly open her throat like some sloppy tracheotomy.

Barely, just barely, can she hear him speak over the deafening drumming of her heart in her ears. Were he anyone else, she would likely call his bluff. But Yamazaki is a loose cannon if ever there was one, and despite being on payroll within the Syndicate, he still seems to do as he damn well pleases. Like breaking and entering Shihong's condo.

Slowly and most carefully does the woman breathe, her throat barely moving beneath the tip of the man's switchblade. Animals, he says, looking for the next thrill. Inwardly, the woman scowls. Doesn't he get enough thrill under the employ of Howard? Within the fighting circuits?

But Yamazaki doesn't forget, and swift is he to remind the Chinese woman of her words.

A cold chill races down Shihong's spine almost instantly, black eyes widening with disbelief. He remembered. He actually remembered, and it would appear he's quick to cash in on her bluff. Yes, she is intimidated, but damned if she'll lose her cool--she can't.

Carefully, Shihong's throat moves beneath the blade, as she cautiously swallows. With her gaze still focused entirely on the giant of a man before, she asks, calmly:

"And..?"

Oh, she's strong.

It's expected. Shihong Mao is not someone who would be hired by the Syndicate if she didn't play as good a game as she talked. Every movement of the woman was taken with the utmost confidence. In that case, it's arguable if even death itself would really even shake her. Should she have no other choice, would not a woman like her choose to die with dignity, with a whisper on her lips, not a whimper? With her mascara not even mussed?

Oh, that's why she's worth it.

So worth it..

To make a point, Yamazaki could make anyone in the city disappear if he wanted to badly enough. It's just that there are so few people out there even remotely worthy of anything more than a skulljob and a scattered handful of change. Everyone is.. pretty content to live their lives without even thinking about the kind of things Yamazaki could do to them. And that's sort of annoying, but really. Yamazaki isn't a /maniac/, is he?

...yeah...

"HeEh. You feel it now. Doncha?" he asks simply, the point of his knife pressing deeper. For all of Shihong's concern, Yamazaki was like a surgeon with that switchblade. She wouldn't lose a single drop of blood unless he wanted it.

Does he?

Knife arm slackening, he takes a step further, slithering without care past the point where his presence could be considered only somewhat suggestive. She can no longer just feel his whisper, his presence not a thing of casual and professional familiarity, but the sort of thing that can't really be described as at all professional. At all casual.

Everything seems drenched in crude oil when Yamazaki fixes Mao with that darkened off-look. Thick and foul-smelling are his clothes and even his very nature, the almost but not quite burning smell of a corpse that drank too much acid. That's the kind of smell. Greasy. Foul.

But.. the furthest...possible...thing from stale.

His heart beats that crude. This close, she can hear it--his own, see it--his own, in the veins that pulse beneath his wrists. It was a powerful thing, each twist of the muscle producing a heavy, violent thump like a kettle drum in his chest.

It beats steady.

"You feel it. Yeah?" he repeats. "It's right there, in that little breadbox you call a chest. Even tho you don't have a ghost of a chance. You still feel it. That juice that gets you going. Fuck. You want it so bad right now. My blood that is. To cut me.."

His knife hand starts to quiver noticeably, the point coming just shy of nicking Shihong's throat. His voice is silken, tempting.

"Think you can cut me?"

Thmp. Thmp. "Cut me until I look like a turkey after Christmas...." Thmp thmp. "Even if we beg and scream." Thmp thmp thmp thmp. "Still cutting.." Thmpthmpthmp "Cutting til there's nothin left at all.." thumthumthumthum "even then cutting you up..." ththththththth "--remembering that scream every fucking day--" thhhh--....

Abruptly, the new blood drains out of his bad eye.

thump... thump...

Yamazaki breathes restlessly, as if invigorated. "... I think," he starts, reaching an arm behind Shihong to take her by the waist. "...That you'd like that." He grins. Call his bluff? He's almost counting on it.

"....Wouldn't ya?"

There are many, many thoughts racing through Shihong's mind in this moment.

Her primary thoughts linger on the blade and, more particularly, the unstable man holding the switchblade's immaculately sharp tip at her pale throat. Any wrong movement could slice her throat open; hell, any wrong movement could provoke the madman. She cannot afford it--not while he has the advantage here. She has to remain cool. She has to stay calm. Most importantly, she has to stay strong-willed.

Otherwise...

Though he speaks, she cannot reply--not immediately, at least. Before she can even gather a thought the blade presses further, black eyes immediately flinching in response to the stinging pain that threatens her prone neck. That's something she doesn't even want to think about.

But reprieve, however scant, comes as Yamazaki takes a confident, imposing step forward. Black depths remain entirely fixed on the man as he closes, relentlessly sealing what precious little space of comfort remained. It's far too close for her liking, far too...unnerving and wholly unsettling. There are no words to describe what he's dared, and it grates in the depths of her mind. Her posture grows rigid and stiff as he stares down at her, her heart beating heavily in her chest as she holds firm to her ground.

How dare he..?

He speaks, his words oozing with venomous madness, despite the calm he otherwise maintains over his unstable mind. Every word is heard, every syllable noted and the slightest variation in tone keenly observed. He's mad. He's crazy. It's no wonder Howard keeps a fiend like Ryuji Yamazaki on retainer. In the calmer part of her mind she can rationalize he has his uses. She can see it first-hand. It makes her angry.

...and he seems more than aware of it.

Slowly she blinks, black depths slowly widening as she just stares in sheer disbelief. She thinks herself the sort of woman that prides herself on her calmness and professionalism, disturbed and bothered by little. She has seen much and endured hardships and a wide array of troubling situations. But this..? There are no words to describe staring madness incarnate dead in the eye. It's...

Frightening.

The switchblade shudders as his pulse quickens, that deadly tip wriggling against her prone neck. Behind rouge red lips the woman's jaw sets tight--painfully tight--as he speaks. Over the thud of her heart she can hear the quickening pulse, the jackhammer-like force with which his mad heart races with anxiousness. She doesn't breath--she can't breathe. She doesn't even dare to move a fraction of a millimeter, despite how her body aches and screams as anxious muscles lock into place.

But just as swiftly as that madness in Yamazaki mounted, it quickly dissipates.

She wants so desperately to breathe a heavy sigh of relief--but she can't. God she just can't.

Without warning an arm serpents its way around the woman, black eyes widening considerably as she's drawn close. She blinks once, but when he grins her jaw suddenly locks tightly, molars grinding. Tilting her head just a bit, and terribly mindful of the blade still threatening to cut her trachea wide, the woman briefly relaxes, shoulders slouching gently as her gaze narrows ever so slightly up at the Orochi-blooded mercenary.

"I think..." she says, calm and quietly. "It would be a bad idea."

She pauses, briefly, a stern expression on her pale face.

"I really wouldn't want to ruin the floor."

"Oh..?"

That bizarre grin never fades. A grim hallmark to Yamazaki's state of mind--a twitch and it's the gnash of trash compactor-like jaws. A flinch and it's a savage grimace. But as he is now, that whip-thin shit-eater of a smile is just that, and little more.

He drinks it, you see.

The tension.

You could cut it with a knife very much like the one he holds to Mao's throat even now, feeling her pulse with a daring kind of twist underneath it--as he forces every bit of that scent of his into Mao's clothes. Lightly at first, then then more firmly, it's no wonder why his blade recedes from her, surrendering her throat and her breath back to the younger enforcer.

After all. Crushing someone utterly is more enticing than slitting them.

He twitches noticably when she brings that much up. "A shame you think that way.." he mutters, licking the fine edge of his switchblade until it draws a line of blood from his tongue. It's that blade he dangles far over Shihong's head wonderingly, like some kind of sick mistletoe. "I could really get to have some fun in a place like this.." He seems less speaking to Shihong than to himself, fixated on his blade and what would happen if he rammed it a few times into someone's eye socket right here and now.

Blood--his--spatters down past her chin. It never lands on the ground.

"...ha, ha..".

"But you take yourself so /seriously,/" he complains, wiping and clicking the switchblade shut on the shoulder of his shirt.

And as suddenly as that, his embrace breaks. The blade retreats into a pocket. "Do yourself a favor. Break something precious once in awhile. Oh. I'm gonna cash in on what you owe me," he reminds, his voice waxing promise, "Don't think I won't... But!"

:D

"--Even someone like -me- knows the value of good alpaca," he assures brightly.

Oh?

Shihong nods her head once, barely, mindful and careful of the steel that threatens to cut her open. She speaks truthfully--that much is clearly visible on her pale face and in her coal-black depths. She says not a word; instead, thin red lips pull thinly over her cool features, thin brows furrowing slightly. She can't even begin to guess where Yamazaki will go from here--he's that wildly unpredictable. It's damnably frustrating...but oddly intriguing at the same time.

Just when she had begun to think the blade would never leave her throat, the madman withdraws it from her pale neck. Almost immediately a soft, hurried sigh slips past her lips as her eyes briefly pinch shut. She doesn't care about the proximity of the Orochi-blooded mercenary, or even the odd scent that permeates from every inch of his being. No, Shihong is just glad she can finally breathe.

However, the man's grip remains, and with each passing second grows infinitesimally tighter and restricting. Like a snake his form constricts her, drawing from her throat a strange, muted croak as he crushes tighter. Without even thinking her hands reach up, palms pressing flat against his barrel-like chest in a vain attempt to pry him further away.

When her eyes manage to open, the blade dangling overhead is noted before, swiftly, her gaze turns back onto the wondering blonde. Fun? Here? Not a chance, she privately swears, though her expression briefly darkens, a faint scowl edging over her rouge lips. Bastard--

Blood falls, a dark speck of red staining the woman's forehead as it drips from the Mercenary's wounded tongue onto her. Flinching immediately, she squirms before he deigns her worthy of release. Stumbling back a few steps with a click of heels on polished floor, a hand snaps up from her side to brush away the stain. When her hand falls to her side and with the blade out of sight, her pale face is seized with disgust. His threat seems to yield little from her, save that. Disgust.

And anger.

"Do you take me for a fool?" she asks, her tone venomous and sharp. "Do you think I work for the Syndicate for a living because I need it? Hah!" It's a bitter bark of a laugh. Without a shred of fear she takes a step forward, her blood-smeared hand curling into a fist.

"No, I joined because I ENJOY this lifestyle. I enjoy the vice, the lack of virtue, the illicit behaviors and the thrill of getting caught. And wouldn't you know it? I LIKE to hurt people. I could have had an honest living--I tried. I was given the chance, and I sincerely tried. But this nature has been in my blood since childhood."

A cold, empty smirk crawls over the Enforcer's lips.

"As they say in China, crows everywhere are equally black."

With a slight shift of her weight the woman gracefully half-turns, a solitary now-red eye glaring at the man nearby. "Cash in what I owe you?" The smirk on her face suddenly cuts wide.

"Just don't underestimate me again. You seem to have a nasty habit of doing that."

He's just looking to be on his way out.

And he almost seems a little disappointed about it.

The massive man lurches around Shihong, apparently satisfied with leaving it at that, his boots making a hollow sound as he moves across the floor. He grips the knob, turning it just until the latch clicks. It's noticeable that Shihong is already speaking as he does this. Once again, Yamazaki doesn't particularly care to hear--whatever--it is she thinks she is. Whatever she thinks justifies that life of hers. No fear?

That doesn't confuse him in the slightest.

All of her blood was still in her body.

But her admission--her love for the gory fatale of the Syndicate?

Knuckles cracking with tension, his hand.. twitches on the knob.

His blood.. never fails.

"Heh... heheh.."

The latch clunks inside the mechanism.

"Ore no.. aijin."

(think you can cut me?)

"I knew you had it in you."

(even if I start to bleed out?)

Door latches are held in place around the door by two two and a half inch machine bolts. They are secured inside the mechanism with thick iron rifled tubes welded directly into the exterior-side body of the knob. Each of these, and the central pin-and-arc (in most cases, a long crescent-shaped piece of steel and a thin slice of metal inside) of the knob insert through the five-inch long strike mechanism. Anchored by the two bolts, this prevents potential burglars from simply yanking the knob out the door bore to gain entry.

Both bolts, the arc and the pin break inside the bore with harsh metallic snaps as Yamazaki twists the knob unthinkingly.

It's exactly what Yamazaki wants. That blood of his--it's kind of like a natural drug. Only for pain. He wants her riled up. He wants her to think she has nothing to fear. That if she continues acting calm like she does, that she has the upper hand. He wouldn't have anything less. Now, she's dropped all that pretense Yamazaki was chiding her for, earlier. Does she really have the illusion that Yamazaki even cares about anything else? "I knew you wanted it..." His teeth squeal as he grins, facing away from Shihong still. "...to hurt people." He wants her riled. He wants her as close to rioting as a little plaything like her can get. "In your blood." He underestimated her? "See, I respectfully disagree." He wanted to taste that confidence. That false bravado. See how far it could stretch til it snapped.

Well. It's what Yamazaki /wanted/, anyway.

"Let's make a vow. Two animals like us.. can do a lot of damage together. Let's pledge.. to hurt everything and everyone. Let's hurt them all."

Now, Yamazaki wants..

"Let's hurt..eVEryoNe..together."

He begins to choke audibly, as fists of blood red chakra leech off his boot, crawling up denim. You can hear him struggling, drowning in intense rage like it was literally a thing in his massive gullet, strangling him alive. And he loves every minute of it.

"Fuck it. /let's just hurt/..."

Every window in the place cracks and shatters from the ensuing explosion. But the massive cityscape bay windows stand in harm's way the most of all. If Shihong doesn't move fast, Yamazaki will blow his own leg almost to pieces stomping her in the gut and throwing her bodily through that window. -- What floor is this again? How high up are they? Three, he thinks.

Shit. Doesn't matter.

"Yeeeeeeeeeeahahahahahahahah!!!"

She knows he doesn't care. Though she speaks, she knows in her mind someone as callous and insane as the Orochi-blooded mercenary wouldn't give two shits about her life story. But she doesn't care. She wants to talk, to justify her anger and disgust. She needs to hear herself say it--because, down inside, it makes her feel better. It reminds her that, one day, she'll surpass someone as unstable as Yamazaki.

Shihong Mao has come this far, after all. There's NO turning back.

However, it would appear the man is going to take his leave. His hand is on the door knob. Her lips twitch just slightly, black depths hooding a fraction as she watches his imposing form at the threshold before the closed door.

But...that door never opens.

Slowly a thin brow crawls up her forehead, pale features mildly bemused as the smirk on her lips fades a bit. Like before, Yamazaki has her undivided attention as he addresses her from the doorway. Her feet move slightly, feet stirring beneath her figure as she takes two small steps backwards, away from him. It isn't much, but...it helps just a little.

She's that much further from him, after all. That's comfort enough.

The Enforcer doesn't reply--she can't, really. Without warning Yamazaki defies logic as he twists the knob clean off of the face of the door, metal screaming beneath that Orochi-blooded might coursing his veins. Her feet draw her a step backwards, further from him as he addresses her more directly. He knew, he boldly claims. He knew she wanted it. Did he really? He knows nothing about her. Nothing, save for the countless judgments he has likely passed upon her. The thought makes her jaw tighten.

A smirk struggles to pull over her pale face as her eyes affix on his broad back. She begins to speak...

But he swiftly cuts her off.

A pledge, to hurt everything and one. A frown briefly crosses her pale face. "People have their uses," she insists. "Not everyone is useless or breakable. I--" She doesn't speak any further--she can't. He's choking on...something. Slowly her eyes flicker a dim shade of red as she merely observes. What the hell is WRONG with him? How is someone so /fucked up/?

With a sudden, startling and deafening shatter of glass her bay windows explode outwards, a shatter of millions of shards raining into the evening air. Instantly Shihong whips her head around, her porcelain-like face seized with disbelief and surprise at the sight that awaits her. So much power...

/What/ is he? She hasn't felt anything like this before--not even from Howard. He is DIFFERENT.

Giving her head a swift shake, Shihong's gaze snaps back toward Yamazaki. He's coming right for her, fueled by...whatever the hell it is within him. She's not sure, but damned if she doesn't want to find out. Later though--because right now, he's looking to kick her fifteen stories to the ground by snapping his leg right for her stomach.

Behind red lips her jaw seizes, biting down painfully on her tongue. Without thinking the Enforcer jerks her body aside and drops low, her body moving by its own accord, fueled by adrenaline and traces of fear. That powerful kick sails dangerously past her face, the sheer force enough to widen the woman's eyes as she's nearly staggered. A ragged gasp escapes Shihong's red lips, a red welt angrily surfacing where his leg nearly missed. He's that strong.

But there's something else there inside her pushing her. Anger.

Think you can cut me, he said. She'll damn well TRY.

As a child, Shihong grew up on the mean, poverty-stricken streets of Shanghai. Cast out and without a family, she found refuge among thieves and pickpockets. They welcomed her and accepted her. She became a part of their family, working the streets alongside them for countless years. She was good--really good. Until she met that man...

In a frenzied flurry Shihong charges right at the blonde with every intention of driving a shoulder into his sternum. Likely, a direct blow would do precious little to the Orochi-blooded mercenary. However, in tandem, a hand snaps for

In a frenzied flurry Shihong charges right at the blonde with every intention of driving a shoulder into his sternum. Likely, a direct blow would do precious little to the Orochi-blooded mercenary. However, in tandem, a hand snaps for his pocket, attempting to withdraw one thing: that switchblade.

So she can stab him in the thigh with it.

It's not something that has to do with raw power.

It has to do with feeling. It has to do with force. See. Yamazaki wasn't under any kind of illusion. When it came to parties, Geese Howard unmistakably threw the biggest, his raves the kind of stuff they wrote about in the funny pages for weeks thereafter as a metaphor for failure. They even had a website dedicated to generating photo manipulations with his Raging Storm. It was something like http://www.youfuckedup.net.

Somethin' like that.

So, Yamazaki didn't know anything about power. But that's just the thing. Sometimes it doesn't have to do with power. Sometimes it's about just plain going wild.

Yamazaki's giggling shriek is cut by the deep bass thwoom of a mountain of flesh and denim parting air. Yamazaki's leg stretches out almost impossibly long as the berserk mercenary kicks out in a blow meant to defenestrate Shihong immediately, punctuated by the staccato explosions of red chi that surround him. He balances only on one heavy boot, seeming unbalanced in the extreme but simply not falling over at all.

It's about chaos. It's about force.

These kinds of places, expensive as they are, are mostly about tenants valuing privacy above all. Some level of sound damping is usually used in constructing the walls and floors.

But when Yamazaki's boot lands on the ground, people in the apartment underneath /will/ hear it, however faintly.

The maniac is slammed into by the shorter, lighter woman not unlike a boulder is budged by a car. He shifts backwards with a soft grunt, the bleeding from his leg (the blast hurt him too?) forcing his soles to slick across the wooden floor, squealing.

"...."

He slides his hand into his pocket.

"Let's do it, then!!"

--?

"Ah?"

An instant later, his own switchblade clicks open and drives into his thigh, sending up a spray of crimson with the electric sense of nigh crippling pain. One would think Yamazaki would cry out, or fall over. But at that point, he catches something. Something beyond the scent of the cloying aromatics of the room, a more pervasive and provocative smell overpowering his fine, fine senses. It overpowers his mentality.

She cut him..

It's the scent of his own blood.

Yamazaki doesn't move for a time as a shiver overcomes him. Every muscle in his body stands tight, the blood weeping around the warm steel freely with the increased pressure. Pressure that forces his blood to pump into constricting veins, pressure that blackens his vision, pressure that vises his throat and chokes him on that rage of his, pressure that forces the air out of his chest, pressure that forces his jaw to tighten and that rictus grin to widen, pressure that can't be contained at all, amazing pressure, intense pressure, unbearable pressure, pressure...

His arm sways loose in hypnotic rhythm as stray froth drips from Yamazaki's jaw.

- See, he might not have the biggest in town. -

His hand is like thunder. Not sparing the one in his pocket by any measure, his claw opens in a whipping blur faster than a snakebite, crossing the intimate space between them instantly. His arm seems as if it has at least two extra joints it just shouldn't have, arcing bonelessly and just about twisting on itself as Yamazaki flicks that claw out almost casually into Shihong's guard.

"See, that's a much better smell.."

- But Yamazaki? -

Most people would think the first thing to go for would be the throat. After all, it's one of most people's favorite targets, and by far the softest. But no. Yamazaki has already decided. Today? He likes it hard. Like an offended scorpion, Yamazaki's hand blurs to impale Shihong not once, but five seperate times through her chest, through the soft parts of her ribs, punching with enough force to knock all the air out of her lungs upon landing. His fingers will sink in before the momentum does, to hold her still. And he'll lift her off her feet. He's got the height to spare.

He's not so much trying to impale her with that blow, like he was K'. She'll shortly find if he manages.. he's trying to crush the softer cartilage at the front of her ribcage.

He's trying to grab her by the heart.

"Should have quit while you were ahead..." the mercenary all but purrs.

He's trying to strangle her heartbeat to nothing.

Yamazaki's just a whole hell of a lot more -fun.-

No longer does Shihong think. Acting purely on instincts and adrenaline, her body whips into motion. Narrowly that jackhammer-like kick misses, windows exploding outwards from sheer force of strength that, were she not careful, would have sent her out the window. But she refuses--she won't lie down and let the madman insult her any longer. Not in her own house. Not in her lifetime.

With a collision of her thin, feminine frame Shihong crashes into the mercenary, to little effect. But it was mere distraction, a simple rouse; in mere seconds her fingertips have wrapped around the well-worn grip of his familiar switchblade. And with precision and years of finely-tuned skill it's spirited from his pocket, unnoticed. With a push of a button, the blade unsheathes with a barely perceptible 'click.'

Beneath a veil of lock, straight locks obscuring the woman's pale face, a cold smile appears.

Jerking her arm as forcefully as possible the dangerous piece of steel lodges its way straight into his thigh, a deep and piercing gesture that is swiftly remedied as it is withdrawn. A spray of red erupts, coating her hand as she pulls away, but she pays it no mind; instead, Shihong staggers backwards, the blade held out at her side. She firmly stands her ground with that same, lifeless smile on her face.

He dared her. He dared her to cut him. Could she?

Well, she thinks she just proved herself. The scent of blood outweighs the scent of sweet candles.

But she doesn't care. Not anymore.

His reaction is one she'd expect of someone so obviously disturbed. That arm lingers at his side, swaying like a limb in the breeze in an almost pointless fashion. She makes the mistake of turning her eyes away from it and, instead, stares the monster straight in the eyes. Barely can the howl of wind beyond her shattered bay window be heard over the hammering thud of her heart in her ears. Her pulse is racing, her nerves wired and on edge. She can't--

She can't even THINK.

Without any real warning a claw-like hand slithers forward, slamming into the woman's chest with a jarring thud. Like a freight slamming into her body it sucks all the air from Shihong's lungs, a loud and startled gasp croaking past her lips. Immediately she stumbles back, eyes wide and disoriented. It doesn't happen once. It happens multiple times. The first was just the proverbial warning shot.

With each successive slam fingers dig beyond the blazer on her body, past the cigarette and booze-scented black blouse on her frame. It digs beyond flesh and muscle, the stinking smell of red blooming from the wound that forms, blood spraying every which way. And the fifth?

It sinks straight INTO her chest, his paw-like hand grabbing that vital organ without mercy.

The pain is indescribable. It's like nothing she's ever felt before. Her heart struggles, followed by the entirety of her body, the woman writhing like some animal held by its throat. A sharp, cracked cry escapes her bloodied lips, eyes wide and horrified as her hands snap up and claw like a vicious beast on his arms. Through thick muscle her nails dig, to pierce flesh and grab hold.

"F...ff..." The pain is just too much. She can't speak--she can't even really THINK. Slowly, she can feel her body suffering, slowly losing seconds of life. She's going to die, she tells herself. This is it, this is the end. Everything she's ever worked to achieve will crash down here and now, no thanks to some madman? Yes, it's all over--

No, not here. Not now. Not like this.

Beneath that hand, her heart thumps heavily. Her body shudders violently, long nails sticking into flesh. Securing her grip, she seems determined to lodge her nails there. And briefly her eyes look up, piercing, glowing red depths meeting that off-colored stare of Yamazaki as he holds her there.

She once told that man when she gets close to people, they die. She didn't understand then what she knows now. Shihong Mao did not realize what the power within her was. Certainly, hers is different from most she comes in contact with. This power is her strength, fueled by her passions.

Red energy crawls from every inch of Shihong's body, motes and tendrils of pure power curling around her arms and legs, spiraling upwards. That energy grows and expands, growing strong as it consumes her like hungry flames, whipping her long hair around and about like an angry Medusa. Even someone as mad as the Orochi-blooded mercenary knows what it is. It certainly isn't chi.

Without warning and with little more than an ear-piercing scream, that energy suddenly explodes in every which direction, to consume everything in its path with that soul-burning energy with Shihong at its center.

See, that's kind of the thing.

The way Yamazaki works, most stuff in the workld is just ripe for the picking. Even the Syndicate could be likened to an apple tree full of fruit. There's a reason why he was able to act like a ranking officer in the group without any of the comensurate responsibilities. It's called power. It's called fear. The knowledge that one of the worst things Geese could do to you is make you take your pink slip to him. The knowledge that one of the few things keeping Yamazaki in check being his bargain with that man, an unwritten contract Yamazaki tends to follow as a matter of honor.

Unfortunately for Shihong, Geese neglected to pay Yamazaki's full tolerance fees.

It comes down to this: The second Shihong stepped in on behalf of Ayame, as far as Yamazaki was concerned, she became another account of his. The debt was just passed on from Ayame, to Saint, to her. Each transfer, it collected a little interest. And now, as far as Yamazaki is concerned, for getting in his business, Shihong belongs to him.

And you know, by extension, most of her property also became his.

So it's not really /her/ house as much as it is /his/ house.

"Welcome to the jungle!" Yamazaki cackles darkly.

Grinning in that lazy and lurid way, Yamazaki holds Shihong aloft, his fingers plunged past her blose, through ther skin, through cartilage and adipose and just plain /meat/ until they hit muscle. She struggles on the end of his arm, eyes bugging out like a speared fish. Blood slicks around his hand, drooling in thick Her nails dig into his arm, and it just makes the vise plowing through her flesh and closing in on her heart that much tighter. There's not a lot that could even hope to remove his arm at that point--even if she stabbed it with that knife, the best she could hope for is a quick end as his arm reflexively contracted.

"We got fun and games...!"

Even Yamazaki had to suppose, somewhere in a rational part of his mind, that this was going too far. Even for someone who backtalked him. Unfortunately, the reptillian consciousness of Yamazaki doesn't really register that on any useful level that would result in Shihong living beyond the next few minutes. Instead, he attempts to think about this logically.

He would, he rationalizes, have to apologize to Geese.

But he would wait after Ayame received the head in the mail.

They call that 'foresight.' Yeah?

--He raises a brow at the vermillion energy that wraps itself around Mao's body like a cloak. He barely gets a chance to grunt disapprovingly. Fuck.

The mercenary's wrist is sheathed in the red miasma of force curling around Mao, crawling with electric intent up the thick tree trunk that is his arm, forcing Yamazaki's wandering attention front and center just before blowing the two free in a cataclysmic blast of force that sends all 200 and change pounds of the Orochi-blooded freak flying into the wall, his massive frame colliding with force enough to shake the floorboards.

A few moments later, one of the lamps tips over and falls off the table.

"Grugh.."

He digs himself out of the drywall a few moments later with one free hand, the other still sheathed in that pocket of his, his body lurching unnaturally with each step and especially on his worse side, his breath hard and packed tight with anger. But his voice is something else entirely, flecked with only dark amusement as he vocalizes wordlessly, wiping blood from his face. Noticeably, his arm is already coated to the elbow in a mix of Mao's and his own blood, so all he manages to do is smear it all over like a ridiculous war paint mask done by a clown. He also looks to have taken quite a bit of damage bodily from the attack, his shirt shredded and torn.

Yamazaki doesn't seem to notice.

It was a good shot, but his eyes are rapidly filling with blood.

"We got everything you want.."

The arm sheathed in his pocket, begins to twitter wildly, as his own grinding red chi forms fine lines surrounding it, whistling and chirping as his own energy revolves around his arm. Faster and faster it orbits, beginning to harshen from its formerly pleasant sound. Now it's more of a deadly grind, causing bits of drywall to erode away as the shredding aura passes it. Slowly, his hand slides out of his pocket, the mercenary's stance sliding wide, that weird sheathed fist dropping low, his eyes dark with intent.

"Honey, we know the names..."

Lemme show ya somethin about the house that Yamazaki built.
Briefly, Shihong wonders, somewhere in the distant recesses of her mind...

Will she survive the night long enough to see another day?

The thought quickly disperses as her emotions surge, fear and panic and anger coursing through every inch of her body. Suspended in the air, she can do little more than desperately claw into his meaty arm as it remains secured in her chest. Slowly but surely, that firm, unyielding hold he maintains drains the life from her core. But she won't give up.

That energy, the rich red that oozes from every inch of her body is fueled by that fear and determination. Pushed into a tight corner, she acts as she only knows how: to simply let all that energy from within her body out. Everything be damned; if this is the end, then let this be her swan song.

With a fierce, concussive burst of psychically-charged vermillion flames the two are instantly dislodged. The fiery burst slams into the mercenary hard, sending that broad, imposing mass of muscle and meat into the nearest wall he makes contact with. It frees her from that tight, deadly grasp, giving her heart a chance to beat furiously once more and make up for lost time.

But that's not on her mind right now.

Right now, she can't think of anything. Wreathed in that odd psychic energy of hers, Shihong hits the floor with a loud, wet thud, hands barely cushioning the blow and keeping her face from slamming into the floor. Like a fish out of water she gasps, desperate to swallow air as her body struggles to recover from the trauma inflicted. It's seemingly an impossible task--but she's a fighter. She WILL pull through. So help her...

Her arms shudder, elbows buckling as the man pries himself out of the drywall. Barely propped up by her elbow, Shihong fights to keep from falling face-first and, as she perceives it, giving up. Red eyes struggle to view clearly, a fine haze veiled over her sight as she watches the man rumble forward. More particularly, that arm is observed. MORE particularly, the way the wall shreds away around it.

Shihong's eyes draw shut.

It's an uphill battle, the fight against her body. Shuddering and shaking like an autumn leaf, the Enforcer relies on sheer willpower to move. Her arms tense, stiffening as best they can as she pushes forward from off the stained, blood-splattered floor. Pale hands press down, palms flat as she--despite the weeping of blood from the mangled hole in her chest--struggles to stand on her two feet. Like some undead abomination she rises slowly and awkwardly, her body jerking oddly from within the red aura that hangs and crawls from her body.

But finally. Finally, Shihong finds her feet, however unstable her footing may be at this point.

"S...stop," she manages, a bloodied arm struggling to reach up and forward, palm held out toward the mad mercenary. Though she hates it, even Shihong Mao knows when she has to swallow her pride. "Just...s-stop t...th...this." She pauses, gasping for breath before her eyes slowly open, red depths peering out from chalk white, blood-stained features. She looks like a ghoul.

"Wha...what do you want...f-from me..?"

"Mnnnngh?"

The sound was probably meant to be light, effacing, the curious tone of a cat whose attention had been teased for what was perhaps the first time of its life. Still, as Yamazaki was involved, it was the furthest thing from that, the kind of low hostile groan that comes from one's pipes in the middle of the dead cold night, when the 10 year old radiator first kicks on.

Only /happy/.

"Hell're you talking about..'stop'.." Yamazaki grumbles darkly, lurching his bleeding mass to a ready stand, his fist composed of killing, about fifty thousand watts of it orbitting the limb as it sways to and fro, grinding lines in the drywall and wood flooring like a dremel.

"One of these days, you kids are gonna learn," he tutors from the end of a shotgun, "it ain't about who's more clever, or who's got the bigger pair." He grins. "At the end of the day, it's about who throws the better party. Who's afraid of who."

"...And precious?" That mako shark grin gets wider.

"I know I ain't afraid of /you/.."

His shoulder raises as his bicep tenses, Yamazaki clearly struggling to control what is effectively his own personal doberman composed of killing rage at the end of his arm. Screw it--it might as well be a whole pack of dobermans, for all the metallic grinding noise that whirling force is making as it tears long riflings into the floor. Right now his eyes were shot through with red, coherency only coming with a deadly ease despite the fact he's about ready to tear this entire place open. He lifts up the red killing mass with an eerie silence, he takes a step forward--

-what does he want?-

...Hell kind of question is that?

".. and Geese pays you this much? Thought you'd have figured that out by now."

It's all Yamazaki will even bother to say. He's had enough of playing around. He's gonna show Shihong exactly what he wants. Whether she likes it or not. He snickers, leaning over, his midsection relaxing.. ..ghk..choke..

Oh yeah--

...

"Shit. Lost my place."

...

"Fuck it."

He'll skip right to the good part.

"I.. I wanna HEAR YA SCREAM!!"

There are battleship cannons that have released less force than Yamazaki's body does right now, his entire midsection lengthening in an explosion of motion as he lets the puppies off their chain, an entire pickup truck loaded with fury crashing through what seems now to be a rather pitifully small apartment, shredding papers, candles, pictures, furniture, and--if Yamazaki has his way, Shihong's head--to bits. The force coalesces and gathers all around one huge, massive cannonball of a punch, accentuating it, sharpening his fist until it's not just a blade.

Yamazaki doesn't so much cut through the walls that he collides with.

He grinds them until they collapse.

When you have a drill that size... there isn't a whole lot you can do to stop it.

If Yamazaki has his way, he'll probably go clear through the wall and just not stop--barreling through whatever is in his way, until he hits the far side of this adorable little burg of womanhood. Preferably he'll have left a lot of blood in his wake.

If not.. eh.

He just wanted to do something about the smell.

Yamazaki cackles wildly the entire way.

You have to imagine what the downstairs neighbors are thinking right now.
Still Shihong struggles for breath, the nasty wound in her chest like some mangled maw drooling blood. It stains her black garments and the very floor beneath her feet, a morbid mess of gore. She doesn't want to think about the costs of getting this place out of disrepair--or she would, were her mind not intensely focused on trying to stay conscious so she can stay alive.

It's about who is afraid of who, the Orochi-blooded man informs her.

Slowly, a ghost of a smile manages to pull its way over her pale, blood-stained face. He's not afraid of her? "I never...expected you to be. In fact, ...there is likely no one you are...afraid of. Because you...you're that far gone." She pauses, but not because she wants to, but instead as a horrible, wet cough racks her body, blood flying from her lips.

"I can...admire that."

But her eyes drift once more, red depths falling back onto the odd behavior of his arm, that odd grinding and whirring that whips around it. Pure energy? Of course it is. But like that? She's never seen it that way before. He takes a step forward, but her words cause him to pause. "Of course I haven't," she comments wearily, eyes fluttering a bit as she sways. Seconds after she catches herself, giving her head a shake. Fuck she's lost a lot of blood.

"And what is...w-wrong with you, a-attacking your employer's subordinates..??"

Seconds later he explodes into action, a shrill escaping from the man's lips as he drives forward. Within moments the woman's aching heart explodes into a flurry of beats. He's going to try it. He's really going to try and bust her head the hell open like some cheap watermelon. All because, what? He's fucking crazy?

Well, that was a given.

Fueled by adrenaline, the woman lets her body move by its own accord. When he moves she moves, a flurry of black and white as she does everything in her power to outright AVOID that incoming fist and the odd energy whirring around it. Biting down hard her jaw seizes as she fights her body and the surge of unbelievable pain that nearly overwhelms her. But she can't stop. She can't give up, no matter how much the relief of just DYING would be right now.

As he and his massive fist close in, Shihong finally makes her move. Whipping aside with all the strength and agility she can muster, she drops low and springs forward, whipping to the outside of the drill-like arm. Sheer proximity is pain enough; it whizzes past, shredding what remains of the back of her blazer, past cloth and against flesh, a burst of red splattering forward as it grazes past. A cry escapes Shihong, a pathetic sort of sound as he whips past and continues forward, through a distant wall and beyond.

The woman staggers, her feet shuffling awkwardly across the floor. By now, who the hell knows what the neighbors are thinking, but it's surely nothing good, evident by the distant cry of sirens beyond the exploded bay window. But she can't hear them--all Shihong can hear is the deafening beat of her heart in her ears and the sound of drywall exploding and things shredding and tearing apart. He has made one hell of a mess. Hasn't he..?

"That...is e-enough," she manages, defiant. Her legs shudder, knees wobbling before they mere give way beneath her, sending her collapsing to the floor. She knows it won't mean a thing to someone mad like Yamazaki, but she won't give him the satisfaction of having her beg and plead.

Again she struggles; clawing her hands into the floor, she struggles to pull herself to her feet as her teeth grit and gnash together. The pain is unbearable, enough to make her nearly black out as she fights to stand upright once again.

"What reason...what purpose...d-does this even serve?"

On bloodied hands and knees, Shihong still fights to grasp onto her consciousness. "Yes, y-you...you're stronger. You've proven that. W-what...what MORE do you want?" Looking up, red eyes glare heatedly at the man, bloodied teeth bared in a scowl. "I am a COLLEAGUE for CHRIST'S SAKE!!"

The yell--the effort--takes its toll. A sudden splatter hits the ground as a racking cough consumes her, deep red, almost black, blood hitting the floor as she coughs and coughs and coughs until her arms give way and Shihong hits the floor, wheezing like some dying, decrepit animal.

He ends up somewhere between Shihong's bedroom and the bathroom by the time he runs out of steam. By the time he sees anything--anything--other than the bleach-red view of the inside of his own eyeballs, he's looking at a fractured image of himself from around his fist, slammed up to the wrist of his fighting glove into a mirror, spilling the medicine cabinet's contents out into the sink, whose faucet is spraying a light mist of water into the air. It wets Yamazaki, giving a muddy kind of disposition to the mercenary, his bleeding body just about covered in long-dried joint compound and bits of drywall.

He looks a wreck, really--bleeding, battered, his arms split several different ways--from his own chi, from her own chi--that is anything but. His shirt is all but ripped completely open from the tensions and frays that are simply standard to him when fighting, an outfit worth at least $500 reduced to penny rags over the matter of minutes.

But Yamazaki?

Looking into his own grotesque face, he doesn't see anything but the reflection just past his side; the series of gaping holes he made charging through walls like an ox. And more importantly, at the limp form laying just beyond, and the droning buzz that he could only just barely make out as words. He yanks his bleeding fist out of the crumbled mess that used to be a cabinet an instant later. He frowns, chewing a piece of drywall that got stuck in his teeth momentarily as he thinks it over.

He spits a great grey gob to one side. He missed.

God damnit.

A moment later, the mercenary steps out of the hole that be believed ultimately was at one point some kind of a kitchen but may be mistaken, past the curtains of water spraying down from the water pipes he just busted, he seems like he limps quietly from some great unknown maw of unspeakable horror.

Combing his hair.

"No reason. No purpose. That's the point," he rumbles. Getting the stray bits of drywall out of his yellowed mane, Yamazaki's eyes are almost rolled into the back of his head as he lurches into view. He dusts (what's left of his shirt) off before stepping around the wheezing dame.

"You got it backwards, precious.."

Yamazaki leans over, his arm reaching out.

--He picks up a piece of bloodied stainless steel sitting next to Shihong. A switchblade. -His- switchblade, in specific. His. Not Mao's. Wiping it clean on a handkerchief, he'll explain.

"It's enough when -I- say it's enough. Don't take on silly airs you don't have the authority to back." Closing the knife, he slides it into a pocket grudgingly--where it should've stayed all along. "See, Geese isn't my employer. He's my client. A lot of your Syndicate kids don't get the difference. He pays for my time. Not my loyalty. So what I give to little dumplings like you..."

He'll drop one of those thick heavy boots on Shihong's head. If she doesn't fight back, he'll do so lightly at first. Just enough to hold her down if she thinks about getting up. It's for her own good, after all. If she gets up, he might have to hit her proper. And she doesn't want that.

".. Is just professional courtesy. That's what I expect from Howard. And you know, for the most part, it works out. Until one of you muffins decide that means you're invincible. That you don't have to know your place. That's where you went wrong. You assumed bravado would be enough. That a title's gonna protect you."

He leans on that outstretched knee, his boot slowly weighing down on Mao's skull as he shifts his weight.

"Think about it. You think Geese really cares that much if one of his employees gets killed for being an idiot? That's what I meant. About being animals, that is."

He snickers. The sound recalls a bird drowning.

"If I remove the chaff from his payroll... I'm just making his business that much leaner. That much better, doncha -think?-"

He punctuates the word with the press of his boot.

"See. We're not colleagues--"

His voice cracks, the gunshot staccato.

"You fucked that up, moment you got in my business--"

"Moment you mouthed off--"

Eheeh. ".. You .. /owe/ me."

"And I'm gonna have a little test to see how smart Geese's pets really are..."

The weight he expresses on Shihong's head doubles. If she has another trick like she did before, he'd like to see it. It quadruples. All of a sudden, Yamazaki weighs -that much more- as far as Shihong's head was concerned. And inexorably, he continues to exert more and more force.

Come on. Give him a reason. Any reason.

Yamazaki is literally daring Shihong to fight him.

It's either that, or..

"...Give daddy a whimper, now..."

By now, Shihong Mao's world is dimming, darkness threatening to consume her vision and steal her away into a deep slumber. For all her bravado and boldness, she's carrying herself on threads by now--barely conscious, barely ALIVE. Somewhere, amid the pain and suffering, she knows she didn't stand a chance. He's strong, powered by some strange, surreal force and he's fucking crazy. A volatile combination, but a damn good one.

Even Shihong knows that.

As he reemerges from the destruction he caused a room and a half over, give or take, Shihong just struggles to hang on to her consciousness. The floor beneath her chest is stained with deep red, a small halo of blood pooling beneath her once-white blouse and tattered remains of the black blazer dangling off of her lithe figure. She looks like utter shit, but that is to be expected. She doesn't care, though--all she cares about is enduring this madman's whim. If she can do that much...

His words barely register. Instead, the Chinese woman pinches her eyes shut repeatedly, struggling to keep conscious as she just barely hears his voice over the thump of her heart in her ears. It's a miracle she hasn't gone unconscious yet, and she knows it. But she can't press her luck. It'll only get her so far with someone like him.

Moving her arms, pale, ghost-like hands struggle to press flat on the ground at her shoulders, to give her a weak and feeble push upwards. But it's all cut short by a thick sole suddenly coming down upon her skull, pinning her fragile form to the ground like a butterfly on display. She struggles against it, but barely musters the willpower.

But beneath a veil of black, blood-matted hair and rubber sole, her pale face is weakly twisted in anger. He thinks HE'S invincible in his contract with Howard? The woman rumbles lightly, shoulders weakly shuddering as she offers a weak chuckle, barely audible. She thinks he underestimates. Maybe she's right?

Maybe she's wrong?

Shihong doesn't know--doesn't care, and more so as, unexpectedly, that boot suddenly grows more firm in its pressure atop her skull. Her struggles revive, body squirming like an eel, but otherwise says not a single word. Instead, an arm twitches at her side, slowly snaking its way backwards, down the length of her body.

"Y-your..." She speaks--barely. "Business...became mine...when you t-tried to kill that girl."

She coughs viciously, another spray erupting from blood-stained lips.

"We aren't y-your...property...or...playthings. I owe you?" If she could look up at him, she would. "O-owe you what?"

The pressure slowly but surely becomes greater, the bulk of all two-hundred and whatever of his muscled form bearing down upon her like a boulder. A startled crack escapes the woman's lips, her form far more lively as the impending threat of his foot crushing her skull becomes far more viable and frighteningly real. Struggling, she flails one arm weakly, her legs kicking against wood floor as that other arm at her side crooks fingers and claws at the ground. She knows he can damn well pop her head like a grapefruit if he wants--and likely will if she doesn't do something. Anything. But what CAN Shihong do?

He wants a whimper?

"F...fuck...f-fuck you," she manages weakly from beneath his foot. Her vision is white, the pressure great. But...

Screw it, she'll go out with a bang.

The clawing hand suddenly erupts with brilliantly glowing, emotionally-charged vermillion energy. Like a flaming lance her arm twitches viciously to life, moving like some irritated cobra for the Orochi-blooded mercenary's supporting leg. With all the strength and might she can muster that hand jerks forward, long, manicured nails intently on digging into the inner side of his kneecap like claws. But that's not her intent. No, Shihong's real intentions are clear as all that flaming energy travelling the expanse of her arm launches itself forward with bone-jarring force, to plow into the man's inner leg--and possibly through his knee entirely.

You know, it's amazing how fragile a fighter's body actually is.

There's a lot of contemporary knowledge laying around--they've verified this in scientific tests done on lower level fighters--that people who practice traditional martial arts are measurably more capable of resisting physical trauma than someone trained in a more contemporary fighting method.

You know, Yamazaki's never noticed.

It doesn't matter what name they have. Or what they use.

His hip flexes, his foot an increasingly leaden weight.

He wants to hear it.

She knows what.

That, or he'll hear skull crack.

Either way, he'll be satisfied.

Getting back to the point.

"See, that's where you're wrong, pumpkin."

Yamazaki's never really noticed the difference between ripping a car to pieces and someone's head. Someone's head and a 'fighter's' head. These fruits who think that because they learn a few cute old-school Asian words that it makes them superhuman. At the end of the day, when his vision clears, it doesn't matter who he fights. He sees the same thing.

"Until you prove it, you can say that you're not my own personal Fisher Price toy all you want. You can say whatever big boy words you please. You can do whatever you want!"

He shoves, hard.

"You get involved in business of mine, you pay the price of the accounts. That's the rule."

Through haggard, dim eyes, Yamazaki is still remotely sane. He's used to people flailing about, limbs flying everywhere. Normally, he pays it little heed. But her actions are rhythmic, a pinned snake beneath his heel. And certain actions stand out to Yamazaki--like the snapping of a wrist towards the back of his knee. He explodes back on one foot reducing the impaled leg to a opened slash across the side, stumbling comically and knocking pictures off (what's left of) the walls as he goes, but as her arm lights up with crimson again, the mercenary just snarls.

He drops his boot.

Catching the energy off her hand, the rich poetic flow of crimson fire licks at and bucks against the rubber sole of his boot. But it doesn't burn him. It doesn't cut him open. It doesn't explode him. See.. he's seen this trick before. And the only thing that's going to stop Yamazaki from ramming it right back into her hand where it belongs to pin every nerve of her thin, delicate fingers beneath the heel of his boot is distance. That is, how far Shihong is going to get before Yamazaki shatters her wood floors beneath the thunderous cacophonous bass boom of him quashing her shit flat.

There is only one cobra here.

"... And until you settle that debt," Yamazaki continues aggrievedly, sliding his belt free of his pants, three feet of sinuous black snakeskin leather, "you only do what I /let/ you do, sugar. No more, no less."

Far as he's concerned? You're all made of wet paper.

Oh. There are a million things Shihong would really love to say to the Orochi-blooded berserker.

Unfortunately, she can't think too clearly--not with the rubber sole of his expensive shoe threatening to grind her skull and all its insides into the expensive wood floor of her wrecked condominium. Instead, Shihong is rife with panic and anxiety, fear threatening to overtake her. But--somehow--she reminds herself she's better than that. She has to be. She's been through worse in her life.

She's stronger now. Better. Faster.

Beneath the impending doom his heavy sole dares upon her, the woman grunts and writhes, a hand slowly but surely snaking its way from her side. Let him speak--it keeps him occupied and distracted from her. If he's busy trying to prove how inferior she is by comparison, she'll damn well do what she can to take advantage of that.

The harsh shove draws a strangled cry from the woman, her vision blurring, first white, then black, before the world slowly returns to the dark grays and the distant glow of yellow from the city horizon. A ragged, barely-audible and ghost of an exhale slips past dry, blood-stained lips.

She wants to sleep so badly. So badly...

His accounts. His rules. His. It's all him; that's all she can parse from the insane Mercenary. Him. Him. HIM. He's selfish. What he says, goes. It's the law according to him. It disgusts her, but not because of his selfish nature.

Because in a way they're rather alike. It makes her a little sick with anger.

And it is that precise thought, along with other emotions, that fuel her psychic fire. Fierce vermillion energy licks across her arm and over fingertips and her hand as it thrusts forward, to try and impale his knee with that burning energy and get him OFF of her. But he's more aware than she's bargained; he moves, just in the nick of time, as it were.

But he's off of her--her head is free. He can't crush her skull anymore. Not yet, at least. She's bought time, however precious little remains for her. Consciousness is fleeting, as her vision blurs before, slowly, refocusing. She has precious time now, and she refuses to waste it. Rather than lie there, as much as she would love to, she moves sluggishly but surely, rising to her hands and knees before carefully and cautiously pulling her blood-soaked wiry figure from the busted floor.

A raspy, wet cough escapes the woman, her body shuddering as she slowly rises to her feet. And slowly do fiercely red eyes slide up from the floor, fixed entirely on the imposing figure that menacingly removes his belt, the length of leather unwinding, a threat laid bare before her.

She can't help but offer a slight, weak smirk in response, despite the taste of anger on the tip of her tongue, the seething rage that bubbles in the pit of her stomach at the audacity of Yamazaki to come here as he has. Her vision blurs, red eyes dilating before she pinches them shut and tiredly shakes her head. Her feet stir, her body shuddering as she struggles to maintain her footing.

"What...debts? I owe you...nothing, like I have s-said," she argues, reluctant between labored breaths and a lingering, looming urge to fall face-first to the floor and shut off like a light.

But her tone changes, sounding somewhat amused. Casual.

"But f-fine. You know what..? I...I will humor you." A pause follows, red eyes narrowed as they affix on the length of leather dangling freely from his grasp.

"How, in...your upset little m-mind, do I 'repay' you? Just keep...the others...the girl especially...o-out of this."

That's exactly it.

That's the point... exactly what Yamazaki had been trying to get across the entire time. It's ironic that it took a beating for Shihong to really get it. Power and animalism go hand-in-hand. And he could taste that raw protective instinct coming off of Shihong, the thrill she gets from skirting death. That rage that boils in her stomach like a rotting ulcer. The audacity at him coming here? No.

It's powerlessness.

That powerlessness that keeps Yamazaki standing while Mao peels that delectible figure of hers off the floor before she starts to stain the floorboards any more than Yamazaki's already ruined them. That's real powerlessness. Exactly what Yamazaki is talking about. She hates that, doesn't she? Thing is, Yamazaki's past the point where even that bothers him, anymore. There's no pinnacle to achieve with him. There's no tenacity. No audacity. There's just him. Her. And this. And for once, nobody came to interrupt his fun.

Kind of says something about Mao, doesn't it?

See? She could've been his sister!

Yamazaki folds the belt over, looping the buckle about his hand once, only barely paying any attention to what Shihong is really saying, fully and almost hypnotically into cinching that leather tight. The snakeskin draws tight over his hand, squealing leather over his fighting glove like turning a distressed mouse one last time. He grips the belt tightly.

"Not what you said that evening, precious."

He taps his temple once, for emphasis.

"Think I wouldn't remember someone looking a lot like you agreeing to take on the account that kid ran up. And a lot like the teenager that gets ahold of your phone, she ran up quite a bill."

His eye is still an offshade of green from when he got shot in the eye.

(How the hell did he even recover from that?)

"So I think she was about to be enslaved..."

He takes a step closer, sliding a book of matches out of his pocket. He actually doesn't bother to pick any individual one out of the set--he just snaps the entire set of heads across the rolled up belt in his hand, turning the thing into one huge flaming tinder bundle. This he holds up with some measure of glee. "You don't work like that like that though, do ya? You've got a little bit too much priss and pomp built up. A little too much fight in you. That's hot for a night in some dingy spot in Thailand. But it's pointless for a slave. That's got a lot to do with that pride of yours.

Brightly. "But I can fix that!" :D

Yamazaki flicks the pile of fire onto the couch.

Wonder how much everything in this place cost..

Same motion--his hand whips out, crossing a bizarre distance to crack somewhere past Shihong's shoulder--there is a hiss. A swipe. And then Thor's Hammer itself cracks when he snaps the tail end of that belt right after Shihong's mouth.

"--AND, if you ever fucking talk to me like that again, it'll take me a YEAR to mail you all of that little girl's parts!!!" the mercenary snarls.

Who the fuck does she think she's talking to!?

There's precious little in this world which upsets Shihong Mao. But someone like Yamazaki, someone as bold, brazen and utterly mad...has the honor of being a part of that small, precious little minority. His existence makes her angry. His audacity infuriates her. His predatory nature makes her sick with disgust and rage. Every crazy, insane fiber of his being inspires wrath.

...because, somewhere in there, a part of her is jealous. Why?

Because, that's IT. She's powerless. After all her hard work, after all her blood, sweat and tears, after all the time and dedication she has devoted into crawling from obscurity and trying to make something of herself...

He comes along and decides he'll fuck it up. Well, at least try. He's doing a good job so far.

Struggling at this point to even stand on her feet, Shihong keeps an eye upon the Orochi Mercenary, despite the seeming inattention he pays her. She's not surprised, really; why would he listen? He hasn't bothered thus far, and everything is in vain. But he seems calm, for the most part. At least he's not trying to kill her anymore.

Well, for now.

Red eyes narrow slightly as he replies, her gaze drawing off the tightly-coiled snakeskin belt on his fist to meet him in that odd, off-color gaze he still wears. Briefly a vague expression of disgust crosses her ghost-white face, bloodied lips pulling discreetly over her teeth before, swiftly, it draws into a thin line. Precious? Disgusting.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" she asks, bluntly.

Quickly she amends.

"'Enslave her?' Really?" She pauses, turning her head briefly to cough into a hand, a dark smear of red across her skin as her hand slowly and shakily withdraws to fall limp at her side. Pinching her eyes fiercely, she recovers enough to shake her head and offer a weak smirk. At least until he withdraws matches. GodDAMNit. He takes one step closer. Shihong takes two steps back.

His words, however, earn him a weak smirk. "F-figured that...that would be your kind...of gal."

As if trashing the condo was bad enough, the flaming book of matches is cast carelessly, albeit gleefully, aside. But Shihong doesn't scream or cry; instead, a heavy, labored and put-upon sigh escapes her, red eyes rolling to the left. At this point the damage is done--at least her insurance covers a fire. That comforts her somewhere in the back of her mind. It's also the furthest thought, as her eyes drift back onto the blonde.

A split-second later a resounding CRACK echoes between them, leaving the woman blinded briefly by a flash of white. Then, pain, as her senses cascade back, her face numb and her lanky form sent reeling into a nearby wall, her hands clumsily catching her before her knees buckle slightly. Somehow--be it sheer determination and willpower or support from the wall--she stays on her feet.

"G...ge..." Struggling at this point, the woman pushes her body as best she can from the wall, her bleary eyes slowly moving over the burning leather sofa toward the arsonist adjacent. Her jaw seizes, clenching painfully as she forces her battered, aching body to move, feet scuffling across dusty wooden floor. She moves toward, her features lacking expression--save for agony--as the fresh wound across her lips and cheek bleeds.

Shakily she lifts a finger, shuffling slowly forward.

"Ge...get..." Shihong pauses, a horrid cough rattling her lungs.

"G-go. J-just go already...you...have done enough a-already." Her movements, slow and pathetic, sorry like her state of being, carry her toward the door. She can't stay here--especially not when she wants to fall face-first and pass out. She's so very, very tired...

"M-my pride," Shihong advises, weakly. Her mouth is numb. "...you clearly...underestimate. But that's okay..." Her feet pause, a ragged, weak breath escaping her bloodied lips as she again pinches her eyes shut. Bloodied, bruised, sore and aching...but not broken. Shihong refuses.

"R-really though. F-flattered you like me so much. All this...trouble...for me..."

"_AH_," he growls appreciatively.

"I love the smell of burning silk in the morning..."

Flames creep around fast.

The stuffing in that couch melts like butter. Didn't you ever notice that? That.. the more expensive something is, the faster it seems to go up? It's almost like the destruction of a thing is simpler the more time and effort a person invests in making it.

The industrial revolution has teeth, babe.

Yamazaki seems to snap out of his rage as easily as one might flick off a light switch, taking only the slightest effort to feign surprise when Shihong remains standing. That's kind of the way he wanted it--it wouldn't be any fun at all if she just passed out right there, would it? No. He wanted her to hurt. Hurt until she couldn't even think anymore. Hurt until she couldn't even breathe without being reminded. Hurt until Yamazaki was satisfied.

And you know?

He's never really satisfied.

Not _really_.

Beating her to within an inch of her life, almost tearing her condo in half along with her, and he's still not satisfied. Cold, with that viper's grin plastered across his face, Yamazaki seems to rise noticeably when Shihong begins to cutely shuffle her way out of the inferno.

Aw. Isn't that nice?

BUT IT'S WRONG!

"NOT THAT EAzY!"

The man explodes into motion in one moment, his leg, his body spilling blood and Yamazaki truthfully _not caring_, as he whips out an arm tipped in a claw truthfully larger than Shihong's head. This is the inevitable part: He's going to sweep the little stick-figure right off her pedicured feet. He's going to eat her space, the bubble of comfort she's worked so hard on building throughout this little transition. Pick her up with him like the cowcatcher on a freight train and SLAM her into the wall. As she's learned what seemed like days earlier, Yamazaki's hardly shy about this. She'll feel every tawny line of muscle in his body, as if he's trying to just crush her right there. Zero space to move, zero space to use to fight him off. She doesn't need something like that though--

But once his claw sinks into the wall, once his claw finds the wound in her back where his -drill- shredded her blazer to pieces, clamping down tight until Shihong can feel her blood tasting the leather still cinched around his hand, it'll be permanent. She'd literally have to tear through him to escape, if she hasn't at that point.

That's a harder job than it sounds.

"See.." Yamazaki will continue. "I keep telling you, I'm the one who gets to say when enough is enough. It's because I'm stronger. I'm better. And... you know..."

He grins that shark's grin of his.

"Maybe I'll survive this."

Does he care?

"Don't know so much about you tho.."

He chokes a little bit, from his own anticipation. It won't be the first time he's been on fire.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I do like you. You're a lot more fun than the little one. But one animal to another--you still haven't taken that pledge with me... You know how to make me leave. But you just /won't/. Will ya? So I'm gonna make it simple."

"You can beg me. Or ..let's just see what happens."

The fire spreads, getting into the kitchen now, creeping across the living room, the haunting and crackling light encroaching closer. There's only one difference between Yamazaki and everyone else at this point. Right now, no doubt the entire complex is getting evacuated. But Yamazaki isn't even lucid enough not to care if the entire building collapses on him.

How about Mao?

Right now, all the Shihong Mao wants is to leave. If he won't leave, she'll make the efforts to claw her way from the burning mess he's made and do it herself. Her belongings, her hard-earned things--everything here be damned. It's replaceable; she can buy it all over again. She'll rebuild her hard-earned empire. Broken and shattered though everything in her life--including herself--may be, she's not defeated.

This is but an obstacle. Just one hurdle she has to overcome--she's done it before.

She'll do it again. She'll crawl out of the ashes and rebuild everything.

The woman in bloodied black shuffles along, stiletto heels scuffing against the floorboards. In the back recesses of her mind she wonders: how much blood has she lost? Surely a lot; more than she should--she can feel it. Her body is slowing itself down, her mind numbing and everything around her barely comprehensible.

But her willpower drives her. It fuels her onward. It keeps her on her feet.

It...only seems to further instigate him. She just cannot bring herself to care anymore, and she certainly doesn't notice him rise up as she turns her back to him, a likely foolish mistake. But she just. Doesn't. Care. Not even when he screams at her from behind. Rather than argue, or even attempt much of anything...Shihong's eyes just draw shut. She would sigh, if she had the time to.

Regardless of his wounds, the man explodes like a bullet of flesh and muscle aimed right for her poor prone, battered figure. The two forces collide in an instant, his bulky frame crashing like a freight car into her wiry figure, the two carried forward by the momentum which carries him forward. In less than a second she's closer to the mad Mercenary than she'd ever wanted to be; a split-second after, her world goes white as she collides painfully into fractured drywall. She gasps a choked, startled sound in response, red eyes wide--soon after, blood and spittle fly from her lips.

Through a haze of smoke and flame she can barely make out the form of Yamazaki looming upon her, his broad figure pinning her painfully into the wall. But it pales as his hand slinks its way around and digs its fingers deeply into the wound on her back, the pain startling, her vision blurred with white as a cold, gut-wrenching pain shoots every-which way through her poor body. Startled, she offers a strangled, pathetic sort of cry, the sound swiftly cut short as she chomps down on blood-stained teeth and grits them.

Harshly.

He'll survive it, maybe, he tells her. And though her eyes are pressed shut and her ears are throbbing with the sound of her beating heart, she knows precisely what he's threatening. He'll let her burn alive--along with him. That is...if she humors him.

Weakly she squirms, her body wracked with unimaginable grief and pain as he holds onto her wounded back with the impossible force of an angry pit bull latched onto its favorite toy. She knows he won't let go. She knows there's little she can do at this point to get him off. Shihong's mind is so weak and tired, her body in unspeakable agony that letting her anger guide her and fuel her...is likely an impossible feat. Exploding him with pure psychic fire took a toll upon her and, more importantly, her mind. Can she afford to risk it again..?

He speaks, and somehow she barely manages to listen over the fires that crawl through the apartment, the crackling of flames as they find tender and gain strength. It's a matter of minutes, she wagers, assuming the smoke doesn't get to them first. But there is one simple solution to all of this.

She can swallow her pride and live. Maybe. Just beg him for her life and she'll be free.

But her pride is all she has...

Red eyes blink rapidly, eyes welling up--both out of pain and irritation from the smoke that slowly begins to fill the busted condo--before squeezing shut. It's the worst thing anyone could do to her, stealing away her pride. Shihong has worked desperately and tirelessly for all she's achieved. But now? Now some crazy-ass for-hire mercenary in Howard's employ wants to fill his fancy, all because of what?

He didn't get his way?

The fires grow behind him, his form cast in an odd, almost eerie light. With a tired, half-lidded and barely-conscious expression she regards him as coherently as possible, meeting him in the eye. Some tired semblance of a smile edges weakly over her busted lips.

"W...what good is all of this...if w-we're both...dead in the end?" she asks.

"Y-you wouldn't survive."

Well, the truth is, Yamazaki can have anyone's pain that he wants. A few minutes with him and everyone bleeds. Everyone. Without exception. That's his one rule that he adheres to without fail. The one true thing he'll bother to believe in. That is.. doesn't matter who it is.

Everyone bleeds.

But that's the whole problem. Getting pain out of someone--anyone--is easy. Getting their pride. Now that's the hard part. Some of them, like the little silver-headed brat, didn't have any to start with. The worst you could do is make them feel worse about themselves. But coming up against a tough nugget like Mao here, she'd almost rather die than give up an ounce for Yamazaki.

And she was tough...

She squirms against him, a worm baited on a hook. And like a boa, he just riled tighter against her, pressing the young agent into the wall, every bleeding muscle in his body seeming held just shy of wanting to crush Shihong until she couldn't breathe anymore and became food. Oh, Yamazaki knew she might be able to pull off some more of those fancy explosions of hers, but in her kind of condition, he was extremely doubtful she could pull it off with the force necessary to dislodge him, escape, and avoid him tearing off her head all in the process.

So it was his game here.

Like it always was.

Only now she wasn't dealing with his whim. She was dealing with force. His against hers--and his happened to be backed up by the destructive chemical burn of flame threatening to take both of them up.

"Cus. You don't seem to recall just who's in charge here. See, I'm not just some random dime on Howard's payroll that will just fold, you give them enough of that schoolgirl _charm_ of yours.."

The wall cracks loudly. Whether it's from the fire or from Yamazaki's hand being sunk into it is debatable.

"...I'm a big fucking deal. I'm the guy who does all the little things you

"See, even amongst animals like us. There's a thing called a 'HIERARCHY.' It determines who's in charge. Who gets that last scrap of meat off the carcass. And for the time being, Howard's at the top. But you and me? We ain't the same. One of us... is the weaker animal. And I'm gonna find out who, even if I have to watch you roast alive."

He wants that pride. He doesn't care if he burns to a crisp in the process. She's going to be his, no matter what. Either she's going to beg him, or she's going to beg the fire. One of the two. Is he gonna die? What's it all matter?

"See, that's the thing about animals."

He starts at her collarbone. Meted out with delicious savor, he licks a long, hot, wet, slimy trail up her jugular vein to her jaw, catching bits of blood and salt and god knows what else has been sticking to Shihong this whole time.

His breath is composed equally of heat and rot, like a fucking soggy trash compactor in the summer.

"They never bother to think that far ahead.."

Yamazaki says, "wow"

Struggling in vain, Shihong weakly fights against the bulky, bleeding form that pins her like some butterfly behind glass to the fractured drywall behind her. She knows for all the effort, it'll accomplish little--but she does it anyway. He's done so much damage to her, after all; the hole in her chest, the wound in her back and everything else has begun to take its toll. Even if he lets her live...wouldn't she die anyway? Surely he'd abandon her here to burn alive. Or she'd die from her wounds...

It's a gamble, one that eats away at what consciousness she has left.

A feeble cough erupts from bloodied lips as the pressure grows, his barrel-like chest exercising crushing force as he further pins her there. Desperation begins to seize her; though she IS bloodied, busted and broken, she has her will, and that odd power of hers. It got him off of her once before. But now? If she uses it, will her mind fracture? She's never relied on it so much--not since THAT day.

But if her mind fractures, she may as well die. Could she live like that? Could she live like HIM?

--no, she won't. She can't. There has to be some way...

"T-that's just...it," she argues weakly, one eye pressed shut as the other red eye peers at the off-color stare meeting her. "Y...you're not in c-charge. H...Howard is. In the e-end...you...me...we both...we both answer to HIM." Another cough breaks her words, a mist of red flying from her busted lip. Briefly, her vision goes black, consciousness fleeting.

But, fiercely determined, she recovers just enough.

"In the end.../Ryuji/," Like Hell she'd regard him by his surname. He doesn't deserve it. "Y-you /will/ a-answer to...the animal in c-charge. Howard." A small ghostly smirk edges its way weakly across her pale, blood-stained features. "Which means...in the end...you're still w-weaker than someone." Pause.

"L-like me."

Her head lulls to one side as she weakly groans, eyes pinching shut as she struggles to hold off the inevitable. The broken bay window buys her time; much of the smoke is sucked out like a vacuum through it, into the evening air high above Southtown. Right now, her biggest concern is the fire that spreads, devouring everything in its path.

Can she survive...and, more importantly, keep her pride?

Or will she..?

Something damp and sticky snaps her from her thoughts, once-black eyes now red snapping wide open. It's instantaneously obvious WHAT it is, and her pathetic squirming begins anew. It's gross and disgusting--and it's infuriating. How DARE he?

"Animal," she echoes softly.

"Animal..." Again.

"Animal!" Once more she cries, red spraying from her lips.

"Animal! Animal! ANIMAL!?"

Pissed off, red eyes snap wide, pupils dilated as she lets adrenaline rush her like a drug. Squirming viciously, those eyes stare incredulously at the Orochi-blooded madman, her body shivering with anger.

"Is that your pathetic excuse?! That you're an a-animal?? Is that how you justify it a-all? No...no Ryuji, you're not an animal. You..."

The adrenaline begins to wear off, her body shivering more than ever, from pain and anger and fear, all palpable as she remains pinned to the wall, leaving a bloodied mess all over fractured and cracked drywall. The fire continues to burn, to spread behind the imposing form of Yamazaki, but right now that remains the last thing on her mind.

"Y-you," Red eyes pinch shut as Shihong bites painfully at her broken lip.

"...y-you're a...a monster."

Slowly her head lifts, her expression exhausted and weak. Breathing is a difficult chore, not only because he's got her pressed painfully into the wall, but also due to her body slowly but surely spiraling toward shutting itself down. But she meets his gaze without falter or hesitation. She stares up at the man she's labeled a monster.

And she weakly grins.

"H-how do you think...Howard will...would feel...about you personally destroying his assets...and investments?" Cough. "D-do you honestly think...he would praise you for k-killing me?" Hooding her gaze slightly, the woman's grin lingers, a calm effort that borders on the brink of madness.

"A...and am I...really worth t-this? D-dying here...with you? You'd prove nothing...gain nothing...

"Now t-tell me...is someone /weak/ and /pathetic/ like myself...worth it all, to someone a-as powerful...a-as terrible...as strong...as you?"

Will he buy it? Will her gamble pay off..? Or...

Will she be forced to sacrifice her pride..?

By now, fire alarms are blaring all over the complex, forcing evacuations, and a city response. By now, fire trucks are on their way, a veritable army of firefighters on their way to resuce the bourgeoisie and high-rolling inhabitants of the condo complex and their expensive possessions from burning to the ground. But you know... sitting here like this? Right next to the fire?

It makes Yamazaki all the lazier.

A fed lizard content to sleep in the heat, the heavy man pitches his weight against Mao as she squirms like a pinned worm against him, in any attempt to get away from him, any attempt to regain the freedom which he has taken the ironic liberty to steal from her. The revulsion was palpable. He could almost taste the bile rising in her throat. He could, in a more literal sense, you know. If he wanted to.

She's not going anywhere. No. Not unless he says. And right now he says...

"Now, see, darlin'. I've already explained that," he growls out in that bile-drenched manner of his. "So. If the business confuses you, don't fill your empty head with things that don't concern you."

"See, right now? This is pleasure."

The grip he sinks into her soft flesh tightens, drawing blood.

"Ghkeh.."

His grin goes a little bit wider when she calls him Ryuji.

You can see his pupils contract.

His grin was sick, sinister before. Now it's just savage.

"..Monster, eh?"

His blood boils.

"...I like that."

One hand yanks roughly out of the wall. Is he really going to let Shihong go?

"But... I don't expect Howard to do a fuckin' thing..."

His grip slackens, just a bit, though every part of his weight and his body is still forged of dark iron pressing into equal sums of the scrawny woman's frame. He takes a step away from the wall, that same tense relaxation slipping into his gait and his voice as he steps away from the wall, a loaded gun held lightly to the forehead. His fingers are still sunken into her flesh. If she moves, she'll lose a kidney.

He takes her with him, his steps taking a jangled rhythm to them, steps like a scarecrow automata. Free hand lifts to gently rest at the back of her neck, tousling her slick luxuriant black mane of hair.

"I kill. That's what I do. And," he breathes hotly, "I'm fucking good at it."

His hand snaps tight, like a vise, pulling hair straight.

He steps towards the window, into the flame in that poorly coordinated rhythm, lurking dangerously close to the heat. Dangerously close? He's in it!! Fire creeps up his pants, baking his flesh to a crisp almost immediately. First degree. second degree. Third degree....

Yamazaki begins to sweat, a perceptible vein leaping out of the side of his head.

His words take on eerie pitch. A fervence not even natural consuming them. "EvRr hear about the guy that killed a hundr'd people? EH?! He became a fucking /DEMON/!!"

His bicep stands out, his arms locking against eachother as he tries his damnedest to pull Shihong's head back until it snaps over his arm. Of course, given that he's currently in seven shades of agony right now, it might not be a complete success. But it's the thought that counts--"HOWARD?! SCARE ME?! FUCK THAT SHIT!!!"

"I'LL TASTE THAT RAVE OF HIS AND THEN I'LL COME BACK AND GIVE YOU WORSE--RRGH--"

Flames heat up Yamazaki's belt buckle until it glows, the man stumbling through the inferno, kicking something aside that used to be a coffee table.

He chokes it back.

It's almost like he doesn't even hear Shihong's mindless sycophancy, for the words she speaks. He doesn't WANT THAT. "Call me Ryuji!?!? Think you can just play games with me and get away with it--?! I'll--ghhnkgh--I'll bend you until there's nothing left, bendin ya til ya break, bendin' ya til WE BURN AND WE'LL SEE WHO'S THE WEAK ONE!! WHO'S THE PATHETIC ONE!!"

He howls, halfway between pain and laughter.

He takes another step.

"ghk....love the smell of roast beast in the mornin...."

Oh, you can bet he's salivating for it right now, honey..

Right now, the last thing on Shihong's mind are her possessions, the condo, the view; everything.

Right now, all Shihong can do is writhe and suffer, eyes watering in grief and agony as she's pinned to the wall, fingers digging savagely into flesh. Her body has begun to slowly wind itself down, despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins; consciousness is something she desperately clutches on to. She has to--she can't let him have this. She mustn't!

But is her pride really worth more than her life? Surely she can salvage it? Repair it? Rebuild it..?

She listens, whether she wants to or not. Held in place with the imposing likes of Yamazaki bodily pinning her against fractured and bloodied-up drywall, she can't help BUT to hear every word in all its intimate, anger-inspiring details.

This is pleasure, he says. This? Pleasure?

She almost laughs. Almost; instead, she coughs hoarsely, especially when fingers draw blood. Soon, though, the woman is given reason to be suddenly fearful once more for her well-being. The fires behind them aren't even noticed--for now. She doesn't even talk back. Shihong just struggles to listen over the roaring of flames and the ringing in her ears.

"w...wh...what?" It's disbelief. Howard won't do a thing? That's foolishness!

Isn't it?

The pressure relieved, Shihong folds a bit as she coughs, blood spilling from her wound and from her lips. While he's otherwise freed her from being crushed by all two-hundred and who the hell knows what pounds of muscle, that hand remains lodged painfully. But even that is numbing, as consciousness becomes less and less a real thing to the woman.

Still, though, Shihong Mao does not move. Instead, she remains lax as can be, bloodied, bruised and suitably broken, some puppet at his command, so long as that massive hand and digits remain fiercely lodged in her backside. It hurts so damn much...

When he moves, she moves. Stumbling, barely walking, she is forced along with bleary eyes, red depths foggy and barely aware as she is drug along. She doesn't even feel the hand at the back of her neck agitating blood and dust matted hair.

But what she DOES feel is the sudden tension when he pulls hard, her head forced painfully back in an unnatural fashion. A cracking, startled sound breaks from her busted lips as she's forced along, her eyes wide and body suddenly just a fraction more resistant and animated. She doesn't want to follow his lead anymore. She doesn't want to get any nearer to the fire that he...walks into?

It's hot--it's unforgivingly hot. Just being NEAR the open, angry flames is enough to rouse more motion from the woman, despite her conditions. She squirms and struggles as he screams and yells, his madness palpable. He's crazy. This man is fucking crazy. Stupidly crazy. Is this what power does? Is it true, that power corrupts? Is this what she'd become, if she were to get strong?

--NO!

"L-Le...let me g-go!!" she demands, as fires dare to consume her as well. "S-stop this, fu...fucking STOP this already!" Squirming in vain, she reaches back, attempting to futilely dig nails into his arm, something--anything--to get him off. But it won't work, and she knows it. Why? Because she knows what it'll take to end this.

One. Simple. Thing.

Pride.

"..."

Despite the pain, despite everything...she can't feel it. Not right now. All she can feel is anger.

Frustration.

Rage.

Disgust.

Helplessness.

Fear.

And most important--

Shame.

"Stop it," Her words come, barely audible but filled with pain.

"J-just stop it. This. I...can't take t-this...n-no more..." It's now or never.

"L-leave...the girl, the others...alone. I-It's all...it's all I ask. P-please," Her words are pathetic, ragged and weak. Red eyes flutter, pupils dilating before she pinches them shut, her throat choking and nearly suffocating on smoke and emotions. Her eyes water, but not only out of pain and choking heat. All she has to do...

"I..."

It's the hardest thing she has ever done.

"I-I am b...b...begging you for my l-life."

Somewhere, inside her, something breaks.

The inferno doesn't so much as burn the denim off his legs--no, scorching the tough cotton textile will take a little bit longer than that. But Yamazaki's skin is a different story. The snake's skin peels--melting into the fabric of his own jeans. The flames are easily to his waist now, the sheer skull-splitting eardrum-popping mind-twisting agony of being completely consumed by fire from the boots up bringing tears to the brutal mercenary's eyes.

.. tears ..

And a fervent smile to his face.

Wouldn't be the first time he's been set on fire..

Holding her to him as if genuinely not satisfied with cooking her alive as much as snapping her in half against his chest, Yamazaki doesn't speak so much now as snarl, giggle and scream all at once, his voice pitching high and low alternately, modulating between the dark low of a man who just doesn't care into the high girlish keen of a 13 year old boy who's just had a nipple torn off.

Darkly.

"Doesn't stop.."

A flaming boot slams into the ground.

It's shortly followed by the other, alternating.

"DOESN'T STOP!!!"

Hand still entwined in her black mane (now in mortal danger of being scorched off her skull) but no longer intent on breaking her in half, he begins to dance with the woman from Shanghai. The image conveyed is less one of a ballroom blitz but a rodeo. Not that he can reasonably expect her to dance, but then again, since he has her about a good foot and a half off the ground, there's also not a whole lot stopping him from doing it either.

Yamazaki's not much for dancing, of course...

But you'd be amazed exactly how flexible you can be when you're on fire.

Rambling fully now, Yamazaki continues jumping around in the fire, beginning to lose his sense of pain underneath the agony. The vitreous humor in his eyes is probably boiling by now, judging from the intense flush in his face, the sweat pouring down his face and chest, and the searing just behind his eyeballs. "I don't know! Who knows-- WHO FUCKING KNOWS WHEN IT'LL END!?"

Her soft compliant voice reaches his ears--and it's almost not enough. Yamazaki almost even paying attention anymore, rampaging in the inferno without even an ounce of fear. Not even an ounce of panic. He's not interested in Howard's reprisal at all. There's no such thing as a credible threat to someone like Yamazaki, someone who, peaking here in the midst of pure mayhem, simply doesn't know reason. There is no reason to this. There can't be, when someone pushes him this far over the edge, ally or enemy. That's the rule of the streets. Either you're crazier than the next person in line, or you lose your lunch. And Yamazaki's survived it all. Dancing in fire is just another day at the office for him. Survival... survival -- is more of a concern for Mao than him.

Which is why a single drop of blood in the water is enough.

"! Oh!!" he notices.

"The beetle rolls over..."

After beating her to within an inch of her life, tearing her apartment in two, trying to snap her in half, tearing her apartment in two, and finally getting started on the path to just burning her alive, the mercenary hears consent. A hand closes about Mao's throat. Granting her sovereign from the inferno that has even now begun to crawl fully up his chest, Yamazaki suspends the enforcer above the flames in one steel claw of a hand, attached to an outstretched limb that might as well be steel for how it's holding up to the heat.

Around the rictus grin of tension, he snarls, forcing his voice to normality despite burning alive (you'd be amazed at how hard it is to talk at all when your skin and fat are boiling off your body) hefting Shihong high.

"...You must know the way I like it, sister..."

Around that steel arm, whirling force seems to come easily, churning the fire away from Yamazaki's chest. That same chi that almost tore Shihong in half earlier, focused now around a hand that threatens her throat even now. Someone who's studied some of the most bizarre murders Southtown has to offer will note a string of people killed by decapitation. But you know, decapitatation is usually something done with a blade, or an axe, or even simple mechanical force.

But when you're missing your jaw and a large section of your ribcage, the only conclusion police can come to is that you choked on a hand grenade. It's hard to imagine someone simply having their head drilled off their shoulders. It does happen sometimes..

The shrieking groan of yon -drill- is everpresent.

"...Cus right now, I'm likin it..."

But he can't really dawdle, can he?

Kind of a shame. He likes to see her like this.

The fun he could have..

"Likin' it.. HARD!"

Whipping Mao into the air, Yamazaki's fist cocks back in the air like the chamber of a shotgun, and then it goes off, in an intense blast of wind and ripping force that almost tears Yamazaki's shirt right off his body. He does nothing less than throw his fist at the ground in an inferno-churning torrent of pure elemental rip as he sinks into the carbonized floorboards, chewing the underlayment and vapor barriers and rebar concrete substructures into kibble. The force of Yamazaki's blow actually sucks most of the air out of his general vicinity into his fist, ripping fire off the ground and his body in long strips before the heat is simply on Yamazaki's side.

Ten and some stories is his final count.

He was higher up than he thought.

Crash after thunderous crash, going fast the entire way, Yamazaki eats through floor after floor in the condo, dropping down the whole way based on the heat and tearing force of that one howitzer-blast of a punch alone. He'll probably stop when he hits solid earth. At some point somewhere underneath the lobby.

Who knows what'll happen then?

Now that he knows /she/ knows whose side she's on, Yamazaki doesn't care. Shihong is free to ride him down the whole way, to relative safety and the hands of some skilled paramedics. Elementally, Yamazaki howls the entire the entire way down.

Some of us like it loud, too...

The shrieking cries of morbid...whatever from the Orochi-blooded Mercenary is barely audible to the Enforcer by now. Her ears ring sharply, a dull but constant ringing that nearly drowns out his voice and the roaring of intense flames around them. And the pain; oh, the pain! It's horrific and abysmal. It's the worst. But to escape it all--to escape everything--she need do one thing:

She just needs to sacrifice her pride. That's it.

And she does precisely that.

Numb and hollow, she remains lifeless in the painful embrace of Yamazaki as he hops and jerks about the fires, fires that lick and burn at flesh, fires that make her flesh feel like melting off muscle and bone amidst the chocking heat and smoke. Her lungs burn fiercely now, eyes pinched shut as she lets every muscle in her body just relax.

Maybe she'll wake up, she wonders in the twilight of consciousness.

Maybe she'll wake up in her warm bed to a fine morning, and this nightmare will be over and her pride will still be hers and intact. Why does he so desperately want it from her, anyway..?

His words fall upon deaf ears. Even as a hand clutches like some unyielding claw around her thin, swan-like throat the woman says nothing--she doesn't even react violently. She squirms weakly at best, the wound in her chest oozing a bit as she's merely dangled before him, legs barely submerged in flames beneath her. Oh, it hurts. She still feels the pain. It's just that her body fails to really react anymore.

Even that grimly familiar whir of unnatural energy around him fails to stir Shihong as he maintains his grip. As far as she's concerned, it's all over. She's given her pride up for sacrifice. She's betrayed herself, for what? To spare her life? But what has she now? Anything? Not only that, he has he taken her material possessions away in his madness.

Maybe...death isn't so bad..?

An eye stirs, barely, beneath her hooded gaze. She regards the madman briefly from her slant gaze, a single red eye fixed entirely on Yamazaki as he lets the energy build around him, a menacing, threatening force with its shrill, ear-piercing whine. How does something...sound so twisted, anyway? She's never seen anything like it?

But her gaze--she doesn't care. Right now, her gaze is hollow. But briefly, behind that red eye, a flicker of emotion can be seen. Briefly, her eyes express one, simple message, dimly lit in that odd-colored gaze. It says, 'One day, I will kill you.

'And I will enjoy it.'

Sudden and unexpected is the sudden, bone-jarring whip of his massive arm, her body tossed upwards like some limp and pathetic ragdoll. A ragged breath escapes her busted lips, air sucked into her broken lungs before she struggles to exhale. Beneath her the ground literally explodes as his fist slams like the wrath of God into every inch of material that once was the condo's floor. It decimates everything in its path, clearing way for all two-hundred and fifty-plus pounds through each story of the tall, fiery building now crawling with panicked residents and firemen. It's a mess.

It's all a goddamn mess, and for what? Why?

Because Ryuji Yamazaki is fucking crazy. She almost laughs. Almost.

What goes up, however, must come down--and Shihong Mao is no exception. Her limp body falls freely just after his, through the massive hole the crazy Mercenary bored into her wrecked condo floor. Where he falls she falls through as well, passing through unfamiliar sights of others' houses, now utterly wrecked as well. He defies all logic. But then, he IS Yamazaki.

Consciousness fails her several stories down. Finally, she gives up. Finally, she lets her body shut itself down, after struggling fiercely to keep awake, despite EVERYTHING. Let him cushion her fall--all the better. But now, more than ever, she decides in that swiftly-fleeting moment, she has to become stronger.

She has to kill him.

Then, Shihong Mao's world goes pitch black.

Log created on 23:05:51 10/26/2008 by Yamazaki, and last modified on 18:35:45 12/30/2008.