Description: A blood-red seal upon white and words. One man rises from the ashes of battle, another from the mists of obscurity. The time is right for one, but what of the other? Upon the sunlight streets of Paris, France, drawn together by chance, need, and the beginning of a legendary tournament, two old acquaintances meet once more and choose to confront each other -- and their respective destinies.
A familiar scene, but an unfamiliar feeling...
Alma Towazu, seated in a wire-frame chair, gentle music wafting from the open doors of the sidewalk cafe. Delicate teacup held aloft in burnished-bronze fingers, pressed against lips that have spoken both love and war. Tailored top of snow-white, designer jeans and polished shoes, a young man of some consequence, confident enough to not be conspicious. Blond hair shorter now, growing back, bangs still tinged with red at the tips. A PDA in his other hand, Chinese in origin, battered as though it too has survived many battles, from which he reads the news. Elegant, poised, a mild kindness in his hazel eyes. They still turn and stare.
Not for the same reason.
Scars have sheared away at the even tone of his skin. His open collar leads to the beginning of what was once a terrible wound upon his chest. The First Hero of Taizhou is as striking as ever. Arresting; breath-taking, even. But, as a man who has treaded the lines of sanity and wields the power to push people beyond its boundaries knows, the line between awe and terror is easily blurred.
It is the aura he radiates, more than anything, that prevents him from being grotesque.
He has come from the Musee d'Orsee, on the banks of the Seine, a tourist for the first time in his life. He slips his PDA back into his pocket and extracts from his small leather satchel a white envelope, placing it upon the table unopened, examining the blood-red seal -- distinctive even to those who do not recognize it -- with a melancholy air.
~ ...Frei... ~
The King of Fighters.
~ ...Jiro... ~
Should he?
There is still time to think.
His faith in his convictions no longer extends to the belief that he will, inevitably, come to a satisfactory answer to every important question. It is strange that he no longer has any clue what his eventual response will be, that for now he simply has no way of knowing. Even the path to an answer has not made itself known. Or rather... it is strange that he does not feel this loss of direction is strange.
And perhaps that is because he is confident that, whatever he will chooses, he will leave happily, his heart at peace.
Still-- a question he would have never before asked emerges.
What use is fighting to him now?
There comes a time in every human being's life when they finds themselves lost. Regardless of what scenarios the mind provides or confidence in the outcome, regardless of eventual conclusions or descent into madness, they are not true answers. Merely thoughts and idle musings. What use fighting happens to be to Alma will come in time; he'll just need to discover it on his own. Maybe, just maybe, a fateful meeting might cause the beginnings of truth to emerge, but who is to say that Ash is the harbinger, the one with the solution?
Brushing one slender hand through his lengthy platinum bangs, a lean young man by the name of Ash Crimson enters the... what was it called? Truly, the location really matters not. This particular cafe simply caught his interest, what with the gentle, pleasant chime of music, and without anything better to do, he ventured inside. The door is left ajar, as it was when he arrived, and Ash surveys his surroundings with a steady, blue-eyed gaze. Waitresses, a waiter, some patrons, and an empty table, right across from Alma himself. Deciding that he'll just seat himself, the man sashays to an identical, wire-frame chair and plops down comfortably, folding one leg over the other.
A waitress approaches him immediately, and frowns in a disapproving way. Clearly, people are meant to wait until they're seated here! But Ash lazily smiles, turning to his reflection in the window and says, "Cherie, just a tea. Any kind will do." She looks rather annoyed at this, denied any chance to lecture him on being so rude, but leaves all the same to fetch his order.
Blue eyes travel to their limits, taking in the sight of Alma, and suddenly a strange chord rings within him. Does he... know this person? It was so long ago when Ash left Southtown behind for reasons of his own. Was it to become stronger? Was it to travel? Who knows, but suddenly the flamewielder takes in the sight of the white envelope, identical to the one left ignored on his dresser table, and his poor memory gives way to recollection of who this individual, regardless of however much he's changed, happens to be. Ash didn't want to be found, but with the King of Fighters fast approaching, why not make himself known again?
Rising from his seat, the Frenchman takes two steps to cross the short distance and smiles, bending down slightly, at the fair but scarred fighter's table. "Bonjour, mon ami!" He says in a cheerful singsong, and though Ash has probably forgotten the other's name, he can at least place the general time of their last meeting, "It's been years, hasn't it? Ahaha."
Lost. It's a feeling Rock has known before--that unmistakable sensation of not knowing where to look, where to go, what to do. He felt it early on, before his life was given direction by anger and rage and other negative emotions, and he'd felt it after, realizing that he could not, yet--maybe *ever*--stand up to his father in the way that he wanted to--the way that, he felt, was the only way to make his father acknowledge his wrongdoing. So he's been there, before.
But Rock doesn't need a reason to wander. His wanderlust was inspired by Terry, and while Rock tends to maintain a more comfortable lifestyle overall, he's slept rough before. That, however, is not how he's traveling Europe--honestly on his way back to Southtown from a fight in the north of Europe, on the deck of a ship off the coast of Finland. He decided to just take a detour--particularly after getting his own white envelope with that blood-red wax seal.
So, ashore, he bought a bike, and has been riding through Europe, thinking about that thing--the King of Fighters. Yes, that thing. Does he want to enter? Past tournaments have been nothing but trouble--but can he afford -not- to enter... the rules state teams of four this year, minimum. There's Terry, of course, if he can be roused, or maybe Adelheid and whatever he's got going... somehow, Rock's thoughts distract him; he's ridden down the coast, but from Arcachon, he traveled inland, to Paris. Pure happenstance sees him pulling his bike up along the street, doffing the helmet he's wearing and shaking his head to clear helmetheaded hair, and hanging the helmet on the handlebar of his bike.
He's here for a simple, single reason: He's hungry. He hasn't yet seen Ash or Alma, somehow--approaching from the opposite side.
Just like last time, Alma doesn't sense him coming.
"Y-You..."
The young phoenix looks up in genuine surprise, not the most common sentiment for an empath and psychic. His fingers instinctively press down upon the seal of the unopened letter-- and then settle as he smiles gently, overcoming his mild shock. "Mr. Crimson, wasn't it? Duo Lon's friend." It's been quite some time since Alma has seen that enigmatic old friend of his, and much longer since he was soundly defeated -- well, toyed with, frankly -- by this powerful, equally mysterious warrior. Alma's the last person to underestimate the flamboyant, and something has always chilled him slightly about this man. Fundamentally, though, he's never worried too much about Duo Lon's dangerous friends. They never seemed the type to hurt anyone they weren't interested in, and they never seemed to take much interest in him.
But the Radiant Angel has grown much, and endured much, since then.
"Ah, where are my manners-- please, join me." Alma rises as well, abruptly emerging from his brief reverie, graciously pulling out the chair opposite his for the man with the green flame, and smiling with slight embarrassment. "What an unexpected pleasure." He sounds like he means it -- as he always does -- and it's true; given his current considerations, another fighter, however familiar, is a welcome sight.
"I'm currently contemplating the new King of Fighters tournament," he continues softly, taking up his tea once he is again seating. "They never do seem to end well, do they?" The scarred beauty's smile expands into a soft grin. "I have to confess, after the events of Taizhou, I'm not as eager as I used to be to throw myself into battle-- not when I can help it." Whatever Ash may think, Alma has little qualms about honesty. If anything, the fact that he can talk about Taizhou without flinching seems, to him, a sign of his own growth as a person.
That's something he's always valued.
"And you? I hardly imagine you weren't invited, Mr. Crimson."
A man to never reveal much about himself, who knew how sneaky Ash could be? Slippery, like a serpent. Walking in shadows, surprising unexpected pretty boys at their tables. His smile broadens at the recognition, and the expression is a warm, welcoming one, but his gaze is shrewd and calculating. Or it was, because the Frenchman's eyes close and his head cants to the side. Mr. Crimson? "Saa, Ash suits me just fine. No need to be so formal." Reaching up, he twists strands of near-white hair around one finger, brushing the recently trimmed ends against his thin lips in contemplation.
The fact that Alma is kind enough to pull out a seat for him means perhaps civility is permanently ingrained into this one, so the flamewielder's words might make little difference. Oh well. In the grand scheme of things, it matters little... Just makes him feel kinda old. Ash seats himself primly when he can, accepting the offer and relaxing instantly, making himself comfortable. "It certainly is a surprise seeing you here in beautiful France," Eyes opening, the Frenchman looks from the seated Alma away across the room. Rock is in his sights now, but Ash can't tell who the young man happens to be from the back. "How do you like it so far..." But he trails off with a blink.
Attention returning fully, it's true that this particular man never paid much attention to he who sits an arms-reach away. Alma was just someone who entertained him briefly - maybe saying that he was regarded as a toy is a very accurate statement. Still, Ash offers nothing to suggest what the truth may be, only laughs lightly at the mentioning of the King of Fighters tournament and its outcomes, then remains silent for the rest, listening and observing with some consideration.
"Well, mon ami, you can always decline." If Alma was invited, then he has become someone now worth Ash's acknowledgement, a potential hinderance to his plans that lie with the discarded letter. The boy has indeed grown much to register on the Frenchman's radar. "But the choice is yours." He chirps in conclusion, entirely unhelpful, clasping his hands together and setting both wrists onto the table. "Are you looking for a reason to fight? Maybe you don't actually need one. Some of us fight just to be, because that's who we are." His thin shoulders rise in a dismissive shrug.
"I think I have an invite for something around somewhere. Might be for a party, though. I don't really keep on top of these things." Ash is nothing if not lazy, or that may just be what he wants everyone to think. The King of Fighters is a very definite thing to him, and something that he plans on pursuing no matter what.
While the two are having their dodgy talk, Rock is dealing with a French maitre d'. Or rather, a waiter who fancies himself a maitre d'. "Look, all I want is a table, a Coke, and something to eat." While not quite the picture of the boorish American, Rock isn't straying too far from type, either; he's just less aggressive about it. Hell, he doesn't know French, why should he? After a few more gestures and some words, another waiter comes up. "Would an outside table be okay?" Rock looks up, at the sky, as if to confirm that it isn't raining, then nods.
"Sure, outside's fine. I'm hungry. You guys do burgers?" Of course they do. It's not like he's asking for tete de veau, after all. "Very well then, this way please." Rock actually disappears, going inside the establishment with the other waiter--only to emerge about ten seconds later, with the waiter, back outside. Somewhere along the way, he's picked up a bottle of Coke--and a bottle of Orangina--and is opening the Coke bottle as the waiter leads him to his seat.
Howard, however, stops where he is. "Ash Crimson... and Alma Towazu. Huh..." He stands there, almost in the way, staring at the other two fighters with his red eyes. What -are- they doing here...?
Alma's smile widens, smooth brow wrinkling slightly as his eyebrows -- faintly red-tinged as well, it appears upon close inspection -- lift a little: an expression three parts friendly, one part indulgent. "Ash, then." The Frenchman's flippant nature is still well-known to him. "And please, call me Alma." It doesn't occur to him that his renewed acquaintance might have forgotten his name.
He nods at Ash's comment about declining, and his lips part momentarily to assent, but he chooses instead simply to listen as the young man continues idly, sensing an odd cunning behind Crimson's nonchalance. Invitation to a party his own letter may indeed be-- the Frenchman does not seem to be reacting to Alma quite the same way he did years ago. The cues are subtle, as is the man himself. But Alma is attunned to subtlety, and even if he has no grasp at all of the man's own motivations, he has a sense that he may have...
"Ha... I see."
...grown interesting.
A dangerous prospect, but not one that fazes him-- yet.
"It's true," he murmurs, gaze softening as his smile fades, "that I could simply decline. I first fought to experience the intensity of combat; I've always perceived a kind of intimacy in the heat of battle, in which so much about a man is revealed." He speaks calmly but with self-possession, easily, as though this is something he has already thought much about in advance. "Then, when my passion coalesced into goals, and my new friends' own goals arose as worth protecting, I fought to use power in a meaningful way. But..."
He sips his tea, leaning back slightly as he sets the cup down, and folds his hands in his lap. "Lacking a noble goal, and having already gathered so many precious moments, I wonder if perhaps now is not the time for such heated pursuits. Even if I'll never stop fighting, or never doubt my own motivations-- it's a question, I suppose, of what my own circumstances truly are. Not who I am, but... where I should go from here..."
The Scarred Angel trails off as well, glancing down at his unscarred hand.
He looks hesitant, but--
~ I know what I want to say, but-- ~
Soon he comes to a decision.
~ Well, I didn't get where I am today by being intimidated. ~
"Ash," he says, looking up into the other man's eyes. "If I might trouble you... would you face me in a bout?" He pauses momentarily, the mildness leaving his gaze, leaving his eyes calm and serious, that redoubtable spirit sometimes obscured by outward gentleness revealed. "Would you push me to my limits, here, as I am now?"
Soothing music drifts from the doors. The sun is shining bright.
It is a beautiful day.
A beautiful day for a fight.
How different these two are, right to the very core. Alma is so open, so honest... To him, this must in some way be cathartic, especially his closing request. Ash, on the other hand, guards his intentions, his hopes, his goals, his dreams... But he hears the other man quite clearly, and if sympathizing were something the Frenchman were capable of, he would on some level. At least Ash understands, and at the very end, to the trailing question of 'where', his expression becomes serious, "Why not just be free, and live life how you desire until then? Let things happen as they will, as is their wont. You'll likely find your answer there."
Many, many years ago, Ash had said something similar to the God of Battle, Shenwoo. He questioned why the man was living like a dog, being treated like a dog, acting like a dog... and not finding meaning in his life beyond it. It's not often the likes of Crimson offers advice to anyone, but his words are now extended to Alma, and while they're simple and possibly not what the other man needs to hear, maybe he'll be able to take something from them. Ash lives a life beholden to no one, and in his opinion, everyone else should do the same. He has ambitions, he's found his meaning, and this is the way that works best for him.
That and if everyone were to do so, it creates disorder and an inability to cooperate properly. Ash knows the system of the world very well, and what freedom provokes in structured socities. The opportunities it would provide for him to get what he wants are endless.
The request to fight may come as a surprise to him, but Ash just grins in a feral way, comparable to that of Shenwoo, even if he hasn't seen the likes of which for far too long. Perhaps he should head back to Southtown sooner than planned. "It's been a long time," rising from his seat, his height isn't impressive, but the platinum blonde-haired man casts a formidable shadow, confidence radiating from his thin frame, "but I doubt it'll be an issue. Shall we, then?"
Just as he turns to lead the way out, there's someone in the way with red eyes and blonde hair. Though he forgot Alma, this person is far more difficult to disregard. "Ah~, mon petite homme! Comment ca va? Quel suprise!" Run away, he's babbling at you in a strange language, Rock! And this is a very odd experience for Ash. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of a recognizable soul for nearly a year, but two in one day? Well, it can't be said that the Frenchman doesn't roll with the punches. He nods his head politely in greeting and seizes the loose strands of hair between two fingers once again.
Rock gets an odd look on his face. What is it..? Oh yeah. "The hell are you sayin', Crimson? I know you speak English." _That's_ what the expression says. And Rock's voice, as he's hardly ever shy about voicing his opinions. Hell, Ash may be some freaky sort of popinjay, but Rock remembers not only seeing him fight, but fighting him himself. Being a poof is no preclusion to being a good fighter.
Rock's tone indicates that he's not too serious about what he's saying, and he moves forward, waving the waiter off. "I'll take that burger to go," he says, over his shoulder, which probably frustrates the waiter, but it's not like Rock cares. "Heard you two talkin' 'bout a fight. Hope you don't mind if I watch," says the Howard scion. He isn't gonna mention the King of Fighters, not yet, though he's working some possibilities in his head--thinking things through. "Assuming you're gonna fight in the street, and not, you know, in here. Lotta people 'round. Wouldn't want to disturb their meals overly, right?" He grins, not quite as ferally as Ash, but there's a touch of the... wolf, shall we say... in his grin all the same.
"So don't let me hold you guys up. I'm just off a fight myself, had some two on two match with Adelheid and one of his pals. Teamed up with that French chick... Shermie? Man, what a flake... but she's a pretty good fighter." Casually, he grabs one of the iron-work chairs and hauls it up, tossing it over the low railing so that it lands on the sidewalk. "Gotta get those front-row seats, y'know."
This one, Alma does sense.
Where Rock's grin has a tinge of the wolf in it, Alma's smile, perhaps mysteriously to the others, contains only a hint of nostalgia. He first met Rock when they were both a little younger, in the days when romance was an altogether unfamiliar prospect to Alma's unready heart. Though Howard never once guessed his motivations -- and how could anyone, given Alma's usual character -- in fact, the still-stuttering Towazu felt the need to prove himself against his fellow bishounen, unknowing recipient of Li Xiangfei's affections. He was only able to put a name to that emotion much later -- jealousy -- and cannot remember ever experiencing it again. But it reminds him of how, though he so often seems to live on an utterly different paradigm from others -- he, ironically, who would have been champion of mankind -- there are many who have brought him down to the common earth.
It feels like such a long time ago.
"Rock," the Hiten-ryu scion says in simple greeting, inclining his head to a fighter he knows to be strong, still smiling. "An honor to see you again," he adds, his mildness taking any stuffiness out of his formality. "Please, by all means, be our witness."
~ Testify to our strength. ~
The risen phoenix follows his soon-to-be adversary out to the street, waiters and patrons alike turning as they recognize one or the other, and then Howard himself. Passerby stop on the sidewalk; cars pull over on the street. The gentle music, the smell of the nearby Seine.
"Thank you for this opportunity, Ash."
Facing Ash Crimson as an equal--
"Please... do your best."
Yes, he can feel it, as ever. That stirring within his breast.
Alma Towazu is scarred, has grown, has loved, has lost, has learned.
But this has never changed, never. This passion. This yearning.
This fundamental love.
Heels of his dress shoes grind firmly into the cobblestones, limbs relaxing, back straightening; bangs that once were long enough to shield his eyes now simply mussed across his brow. All the elements around him seem to fade -- the sound, the sights, the people, the place -- cohering into one sole experience, his soul the churning engine that makes them all his own. Fuel for the fire. Substance for the gift he has to offer back.
His identity itself, on the line. Always.
One hand raises, wreathed in white flame, gleaming in his eyes.
"I go!"
And at once he lunges, body moving with a rhythmic grace, radiant with purpose, the flames exploding like a lance of pure and righteous light about his fist as he strives forward, image flickering to disguise the unrelenting speed of his movements as he aims to plow this divine weapon directly into Ash's chest, striking at his slim opponent without any seeming reservation.
COMBATSYS: Alma has started a fight here.
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Alma 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Ash has joined the fight here.
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Ash 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Alma
COMBATSYS: Alma successfully hits Ash with Self Expression.
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Ash 0/-------/------=|=------\-------\0 Alma
Ah, Rock. Clearly he's never paid much attention to the saying, 'When in Rome...' Ash is quite accustomed to the reactions a more civilized tongue earns, so he just giggles in his strange, unsettling manner, hardly offended. Even if the Howard scion were one hundred percent serious, say with his fist raised and about to knock the Frenchman to kingdom come, the reaction would be the same. And Ash isn't a poof, by the way. Really. I mean it. ... Cough.
Watching the exchange between Alma and Geese Howard's son is observed with interest briefly, but he gets distracted, and the return of the waitress with the Frenchman's tea causes his head to turn away. As much as the relationship between the two other fighters is something to ponder, this must be attended to. The flamewielder smiles politely and waves a hand at her, "Not right now, cherie. Have other matters to attend to. I'll be back soon, and would like a fresh cup then." Her jaw drops and... And! ... Ash Crimson, you horrible! You evil! You rotten! The pretty girl inhales deeply, sets the tray down, and it seems to take every ounce of willpower she has to NOT start shouting at him. The Frenchman himself just returns his attention and, sensing that the reunion is over, Rock tossing a chair out so he can sit, continues to the centre of the street.
It really is a nice day for a fight. Shielding his eyes, Ash first looks skyward, but drops his gaze soon enough. Gotta love how people clear the way, watching from the sidelines. Even Rock! He's honoured. "Let's see how much you've changed over the years, Alma." Chuckling, the stance the lean fighter takes is relaxed and unassuming. His hands slip casually into the pockets of designer jeans, and his vest flutters gently in the wind. Perhaps the other may not be treated like an equal after all?
Watching the other charge in, preparing to casually spring out of the way to safety, he miscalculates and is struck soundly in the chest. Ash, he notes to himself, is rusty... Shen moves far more like a speeding bullet, and the Frenchman has faced him down, gone toe to toe with the brawler's near-demonic Gekiken. This should be nothing! But absorbing the hit the best he can, shoes scraping the road as he's pushed slightly back, the strike stings, and it winds him just a little.
Assuming that Alma draws back somewhat, Ash remains hunched over. Coiled. Ready. "Ahaha, good to see that you're willing to give this your all." Though he expected nothing less. The question is, will he be so kind as to 'do his best' and return the favour? Leaping forwards, that relaxed posture is just a thing of the past, and one long arm extends, fingers with their manicured nails reaching for the young phoenix's collar. Should Ash be successful, punishing hits will follow to the chest, a knee to the solar plexus and a final uppercut to the jaw, meant to send one flying.
COMBATSYS: Alma interrupts Vendemiaire from Ash with Divine Intervention EX.
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Ash 0/-------/---====|=====--\-------\0 Alma
Alma Towazu, willing to give a fight his all?
Definitely.
The otherwise good-natured young man grimaces slightly upon impact, the psychic feedback a confusing mismash. He cannot deny that he was a little curious what, with his improved abilities, would be revealed when he struck, what would emerge from the depths of Ash's mind. Yet it is as though he has reached in the dark in a haunted house, grasping at something he cannot recognize, that could easily and eerily be mistaken for something more nightmarish than what it is. Though his empathetic abilities strain as his soul reaches out, he cannot make heads or tails of the nature of his opponent's heart, of what fuels his fighting spirit.
Strange, indeed.
Nevertheless, the will he faces, however enigmatic--
"Hm!"
--cannot be discounted.
Ash may or may not be doing his best. Alma, who can normally tell, cannot-- not yet. But the grab attempt and series of strikes that blur toward him are no less blindingly fast than he remembers, his adversary's flippant attitude in no way slowing or weakening his blows. Their last battle was so long ago that the Radiant Angel hardly knows what to expect.
He trusts in his heart.
"Haa!"
And sees it through.
He cannot slip away from the grip, but braces himself upon the ground to weather the first strikes, turning into them and successfully guarding, until one aims a little high-- and Alma seizes the chance he's sought, parrying the blow as, in a single smooth motion, that hand ignites and he thrusts it forth. A beam of light erupts all at once, seeming to pierce the Frenchman through, psychic energy cutting through to the core of his fighting spirit. The physical perforation is purely an illusion-- or rather a metaphor. The force is no less real: it may be enough to send Alma's opponent hurtling back.
Attempting to penetrate the inner workings of Ash's mind is like looking into a black hole. From afar, it will bring you no harm, but the closer you get to the epicentre, one may very well find themselves at more than just a loss. It's a bit crazy up there, that's for certain, and makes him dangerous and unpredictable.
His entire body committed to movement once the onslaught of strikes has begun, pencil-thin eyebrows knit together in faint disappointment as Ash's scythes upwards through nothing but air. This leaves him wide open - something that never bodes well mentally, physically, or any other conceivable scenario. Thus, the strike is true and he's overwhelmed with this... The Frenchman isn't sure what to call it. Experienced once before, but long forgotten, he'd liken it to Alma forcefully flinging his own spirit at him. It hurts, and the power behind it practically explodes the flamewielder away, but it doesn't burn. No, there's no elemental qualities to it. ... Interesting!
Crashing onto his back, perhaps it is by instinct, or just knowing that roadrash is extremely painful, that Ash barely connects both hands with the asphalt to spring back up onto his feet. Rocks still grind under the soles of his shoes as inertia carries him a full two inches further, but that's it. The platinum blonde haired fighter runs two fingers through his tangled bangs, combing out the knots therein. "Ahaha, maybe I should get another haircut." Spoken blithely and to really no one, he fusses for a moment longer until satisfied.
Of course, this means that Alma's probably standing there, waiting for him. Ash always fights on his own terms, because he's a bit of a jerk. The young phoenix won't be kept for much longer, though. Green flames collect around the Frenchman's fingertips, winding around slender digits until they engulf the entirety of his hand. It bubbles up sickly, like oozing emerald acid, illuminating his freckled features for a scant few seconds until his arm snaps back. Ash slashes through the air once, then follows it up with a second. Unleashed, the burning crescents of flame seek forth their victim, consuming everything in their path inbetween. The flamewielder snuffs out the remaining, checking his nails for any chips or cracks in the polish.
COMBATSYS: Ash successfully hits Alma with Ventose.
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Ash 0/-------/-======|=======\==-----\1 Alma
$r Rock whistles. That was quite a hit. He knew Ash had powerful chi techniques, but he figured Alma could deal... well, he probably still will. Been a pretty even fight so far, to Rock's eyes, as he unwraps the burger he ordered and starts chowing down. The first bite causes him to look at the burger in surprise.
"Huh," he mumbles, around the mouthful, "Not too bad. I expected worse, from the French..." Well, hell, a burger is a uniquely American thing, so why not? Keeping his eyes on the action, the young Howard opens his bottle of Orangina, taking a long swig to help chase the burger down. He'd shout encouragement, but he's not really rooting for one side or the other--and his mouth is full.
... ah, hell with it. "gooo crimson!!" comes his muffled shout. Ah, wait. "gooo towazu!!" There. Now he's free to continue munching.
Alma might have made it.
With his opponent forced to recover from the phoenix's fierce eruption of psychic energy, Alma has the opportunity to either hold back, mustering his energies once more, or pursue, seeking to maintain his hold on the momentum of this battle. But while he seems to have gained an initial advantage, he can tell -- somewhat unsettlingly -- that Ash does not seem unbalanced or overwhelmed, neither physically nor mentally. His grip on the flow of this battle is tenuous at best. But he's excelled in more precarious situations than this. He can surely keep pushing if he keeps his head.
Alma, as he so often does, plunges forward.
And his first evasion is impressive enough. The first wave of sickly flame sends a warning shudder through the angel's soul, and with fabulous grace he twists through the air, torquing even as he lunges to swirl about the assault, protecting even his clothes from singing, buoyed by the force of his will. Yet the singular motion of Ash's attack partially disguised, from Alma's perspective, that a second impact was awaiting behind the first.
"Guhh--!"
The blow does more than take Alma off his feet. It flings him bodily back, his form spiralling wildly out of control, the raw power of Ash Crimson's flame unendurable. With a second grunt of pain, the Hiten-ryu fighter barely manages to catch his fall, slapping his palms down to roll into a crouching position. Clutching at his abdomen, seemingly winded already by the incredible force of that attack, he shakes his head wearily -- or perhaps in disbelief -- but when he looks up again, though his posture is slack, his eyes are clear and shining.
"Ash Crimson... such power..."
His legs shiver once.
"Ag... against such strength..."
His hands begin to tremble--
"I can't hold back!"
--before erupting in shimmering plumes of white flame, laced with vibrant cherry-blossom pinks and rich royal indigo. Where Ash's flame seeps like ooze, Alma's burns bright and ethereal, clearly no natural element at all, but burning toward the heavens nevertheless. With a mighty cry, those hands clench--
"Uuuurahhhh!"
--and plunge down to the ground as fists, slamming there to channel his gathered passion into a single line of light, a darting dot that zig-zags its way unpredictably toward Ash's feet. Whereupon, if he does not evade in time, from that focused star will emerge a supernova, a mighty geyser of scintillating Soul Power wide enough to potentially consume him utterly.
COMBATSYS: Alma successfully hits Ash with Full Confession.
Glancing Blow
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Ash 0/-------/=======|=------\-------\0 Alma
Nowadays, a fight would hardly be considered a fight at all without people that had no real point or purpose in being there happening by. And if there were anywhere in particular that Terry Bogard would seem out of place, France would be very near the top of the list. But aimless wandering being what it is, the denim-clad blonde picks his way through the Parisian streets, slipping between people every now and again as he weaves his way through the crowds. Every once in a while, he might accidentally bump into someone, accompanied by a mumbled apology before he was off on his way again.
Aimless wandering being what it is, it wouldn't be too horribly long before Terry's weaving in and out of wandering crowds would bring him within range of one of the city's many, many quaint little cafes. The gathering of people around it was paid little heed until his vision was damn near overwhelmed by the flaring up of multi-colored flame. "What in the.." Carefully, he pushed his way past people, working to make his way to the front of the crowd so he could get himself a better view.
For a man who may not have fought a single battle in over a year, nor wielded even but a smokey puff of his emerald flames, their blazing intensity has not faded. Perhaps the strange, unearthly fire has become even stronger than before.
Hardly interested in the outcome, his attention only returns to the phoenix once it's over, curious as to what the beautiful but scarred young man may do, hand returning to his side. Cower before his opponent and concede defeat? Give up? Press onward to victory? Ash is pleased to see that no signs of surrender are present, which allows the Frenchman to properly gauge the other's ability. That and people who run off like beaten dogs aren't worth an ounce of his time. What conviction do you have to walk your own path if unwilling to take the first step? Show him the strength of your soul, Alma.
Smiling brilliantly once again, he laughs a bit at Rock's divided cheering, yet his blue eyes are narrowed, and the young man who faces him is screaming. The energy rising around Alma is palpable, and for a moment... There's an unwanted face in the midst of white flame. A woman's face. The bridge of the flamewielder's freckled nose wrinkles, and he viciously squashes the mental image, but the split seconds spent doing absolutely nothing cost him dearly.
Or do they?
The line, unable to follow due to its unpredictable pattern, finds the mark of Ash Crimson, but the explosion of energy does nothing but graze him. Having stepped to the side, his hair flutters upwards with the force, the strange, unexplainable soul power consuming three quarters of his right arm, but otherwise leaves the flamewielder largely unharmed. "That's it?" he wonders, wriggling his tingling fingers, feeling gradually returning to them, "You'll have to do better than that, mon ami!"
Unless Alma has the good sense to get out of the way, Ash crashes through the remains of psychic energy, running straight for the phoenix. His left hand draws back, and the flames are there once again, gushing forth from unknown origins, summoned by his very will. Long fingers then attempt to lock themselves onto the young man's face in a move Rock would definitely recognize, once he's within range. Should it all go according to plan, Alma will see green for a week. Might have his eyebrows singed for a bit, too.
Ash will say hello to you later, Terry. For now, the Hungry Wolf goes unacknowledged in the crowd.
COMBATSYS: Alma blocks Ash's Brumaire.
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Ash 0/-------/=======|===----\-------\0 Alma
He got him.
"Hmph!"
Rising to his considerable full height, Alma Towazu snaps his hand up into a fist once more, the last of the white plume of flame dispersing from about his hand. The grunt is one of acknowledgement and satisfaction-- he could feel the impact of soul against soul from deep within, from meters away. The powerful aura that has emerged from within the crowd seems to go unnoticed, so entranced in the flow of battle is Alma, so completely have the energies about him been churned into fodder for his incandescent passion. And now--
"Wh--"
That's not right.
The psychic is startled once again. His usual sensitivity remains off with this Ash Crimson. Who is this man, really? There is no time to ask: his inability to perceive the contours of Ash's being caused him to be mistaken. What he thought was an impact was hardly that, a mere skimming of his opponent's frame. The uncharacteristic -- otherwise impossible, even -- error almost costs him dearly, shock flickering within his shining eyes as his arms snap up instinctively to guard his face.
It's been burned quite enough already, thank you.
The shield of his aura flares up about him, his mind and body steeled against the power of the strike. This time, Ash's energy, though as explosive as ever, does not send Alma to the ground. Indeed, though the burning pain is undeniable, the phoenix's eyes do not even flinch; no, he grins through his guard, eyes narrowed with recognition and determination. "So I see!" he responds resoundingly, serving almost as a battle cry as he breaks away to lash out suddenly with a flame-imbued kick. Without even jumping per se, the energy that suffuses him buoys him up into the sky, and if the first scything kick connects, so too will Ash, thrust up by a series of four roundhouse blows. Each impact erupts in a plume of that scintillating flame, before Alma twists to drift gracefully through the sky.
This passion... this energy... even without a 'clash of souls.'
~ Like fighting Ryouhara... ~
He could never give this up.
COMBATSYS: Ash fails to interrupt Rising Fury from Alma with Nivose.
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Ash 1/-----==/=======|====---\-------\0 Alma
Blocking? Hmph. It really is a shame, all that energy condensed into his bare hand, summoned forth by its master, but with nowhere to go. The only thing his fire can do now is burn away at the protective barrier merrily until released, exploding outwards on each side into nothingness... Although rogue bubbles of green flame somehow manage to escape, floating away as Ash's hand retracts. He pops a particularly large one with a long, black fingernail, giggling in an unnerving sort of way. Just because he can. "Ah~, c'est la vie." Ash shrugs, his movements nonchalant.
Perhaps the way the freckle-faced Frenchman conducts himself, at ease with even the denial of his own strike, will confuse Alma even more. It's certainly been throwing the phoenix off thus far. ... Or maybe he'll receive a moment of clarity, because as the kick is coming towards Ash, a cunning smirk graces his sharp features beautifully. His body twists and he crouches, plumes of green flames sparking to life at the heel of his right foot, but something goes wrong.
Even Ash isn't sure what it is, what caused it, or how... He just gets kicked before the retaliation begins, and his feet leave the ground. Higher and higher the lean fighter goes with each hit delivered in succession, before he's left partially stunned and hanging as if suspended from nothing in air. Or that's how it feels, in any event. It takes Ash a second to realize that he's falling.
He hits the pavement heavily, but rises in a dignified manner, considerably shorter than Alma, but when has height ever mattered? "It's not over yet." Flipping his hair back with a gesture of the head, Ash tangles fingers in the platinum strands for the umteenth time, twirling them casually around and around. "If I lose, I hope we can have a rematch before the tournament." The smile the Frenchman shares is an honest one, for he knows... that he will be stronger by then.
But everything also depends on if Ash even ADMITS defeat, first.
Alma's precognition may not be functioning as flawlessly as is his norm against this formidable adversary, but, as the phoenix drifts back to earth trailing the afterflames of his assault, he is certain of one fact.
He just dodged a bullet.
He can't feel the man's emotions. It throws him off, to be sure. But it's far from the first time he's been in such a situation, and perhaps to his own surprise, the experienced Alma realizes that he's compensating for this lack automatically. The little quirks of Ash's eyes, the tensing of his body-- his opponent is subtle and sinuous, but a deeply perceptive person with the courage and ability to remain attentive even in the midst of brutal danger can pick out the hints necessary to maintain the slightest of edges.
How strange--
"Yes..."
--that losing his ambition, the vessel of his passion, has made him stronger.
"I would fight you forever."
Towazu's eyes, bright with latent energy -- that seemingly endless sea of flame within -- are utterly sincere. Another fighter might become quizzical at Ash seemingly hedging his bets, seeming to imply he might already be losing moments after asserting he is not-- but Alma, though he cannot peer into this man's heart, seems to understand.
"Nevertheless--"
With unflinching conviction, he steps forward.
"I'll end this now!"
And with a sweep of his hand, the First Hero of Taizhou unleashes a burst of white flame, a spiralling dart that pierces through the air between them, cutting through like a beam of sunlight through darkened clouds, aiming to weave through Ash's defenses and impact against his lithe body once more.
COMBATSYS: Ash blocks Alma's Sacred Wave.
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Ash 1/------=/=======|=====--\-------\0 Alma
Even if he didn't understand, the explanation is simple: Ash is strange and mercurial. He will commit to one thing, and change his mind a million times through-out or abandon it altogether. Some might call this being flexible, others might say he's a flake... But the Frenchman has some considerable foresight. He's very aware of his own abilities, and he knows not to bang his head against a brick wall. What may look like his day just isn't today - it's frustrating sometimes, but that's really how he can go from one thing to another so easily. ... Not to mention that he isn't very attached to the outcome of this. The prospect of a match interested him, not the results.
"Oho?" Is all he has to say of the fact that Alma would fight him forever, and while a lesser, more normal person might take such sentiments as a truly thoughtful compliment, upon deeper consideration, to Ash, wouldn't that get boring? The flamewielder himself couldn't even fathom facing one person for the rest of his days. He can't understand how the Kusanagi and Yagami clans have been killing each other off for generations, battling constantly amongst themselves. It sounds like a bother. One person, just... Well, he doesn't say anything about it, only continues to smile, as usual.
The arm belonging to the phoenix comes cutting in front of him, and a spiralling dart is sent forth. Isn't that peculiar? There's an odd number of abilities that this young man has, fascinating weapons at his disposal... But Ash doesn't linger much on that. Although the aim of the shimmering light is certainly true, sometimes there are the darkest clouds imaginable in the sky to be accounted for. Ones that even the sun has no ability to shine through. The Frenchman's own hand drifts away from his hair, and he coldly cuts through the strike, slicing it in half.
With his fingers left tingling, an afterthought occurs to him that maybe he should have used something else to block the strike, but no matter. It's too late. Flexing the lengthy digits with their intricate nails, Ash says, "Try again," There's something very odd happening to the lean fighter, a dark wind blowing in, stirring his hair, his energy gathering. The fierce aura that surrounds him is tangible, even to those standing nearby. They back up further, some get completely out of the way. "Show me all the power you possess." Alma, are you brave enough to find your reason, to discover just 'where' to go from here?
COMBATSYS: Ash gathers his will.
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Ash 1/--=====/=======|=====--\-------\0 Alma
Beads of sweat appear unsolicited upon Alma's brow.
Fear, no-- it's not fear. Yet the raw intensity of the moment, of the incomprehensible power dwelling before him, cuts to the core of the risen phoenix. The energies ever in play about him pale into insignificance as his eyes focus upon the adversary before him, unable to pull his gaze away. He's been able to maintain an edge until now, avoiding the brunt of Ash Crimson's egregiously powerful flames, but he does not need to be a psychic to sense danger crawling up his spine. What will emerge from the man before him will not let Alma off lightly, however frivolous this wielder of sickly flame seems.
"Power..."
No surprise or frustration, that he could not end it with that sharp single blow; no shock, this time, when Ash simply sweeps it away. And neither any disappointment or sense of emptiness that there is, indeed, no 'clash of souls', as Alma puts it, here-- there is no intimacy between them. For all the strength that Ash puts forever, there is a great deal of himself he seems to be holding back. If there weren't, Alma is sure he would know more about this man already. There is a vast divide between them, and its nature is utterly mysterious to the scarred beauty.
"...my power."
Faced with this dark chasm, Alma Towazu has only one choice.
"I'll hold nothing back."
To illuminate the darkness.
"I'll strike you down!"
To make a leap of faith.
Blurring, leaving flickering afterimages -- halos of Soul Power -- in his wake, Alma surges forward, his limbs a sinuous, swirling puzzle. Strangely, the flames about him die: they flicker and vanish, as though drawn inward, as though a vacuum opened up within to starve them of their fuel. Yet what remains is a pulsing faery fire, a luminescent outline, that obscures Alma's blinding movements and leaves a confusing haze of intersecting stills behind.
He drives forward relentless, thrusting forward to break through any opposition. His twisting kicks are designed to provoke and confuse, all his ability focused on penetrating Ash's defenses. Everything about the assault, nevertheless, is intuitive, inspired, none of it consciously or tactically preplanned. With a rhythmic drive, like the beat of the waves, Alma Towazu is an endless stream.
"Ash!!"
A powerful and righteous current, to sweep his opponent away.
COMBATSYS: Ash blocks Alma's Stream of Consciousness.
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Ash 1/-======/=======|-------\-------\0 Alma
How kind of the phoenix to acquiesce to his request. Strike Ash down, if you can!
Ash doesn't much understand the power Alma controls; it's nothing that truly interests him, but maybe requires possible study later at his leisure, and so the changes of soul energy are observed with an expression that seems impassive. It lasts up until the point where the beautiful phoenix attacks. At that, the Frenchman's bottomless blue eyes vanish, his smile fixed firmly in place. It might now even be considered a sneer.
For each step forward that is taken, movements a blur and lost to him, Ash takes two steps back, submitting to higher senses like sound and touch, permitting them to be his guide until he can 'catch the light', as it were. The current connects, but the lean man weathers it through and surges towards his target. Provided that he can lock onto something that holds Alma in place - an arm, a shirt - the battlecry is lost admist the Frenchman's laughter. His head is thrown back, his back arches, and the chaotic symphony of emerald flames begins.
It circles the ground at his feet, searing the asphalt, and climbs gently up. While non-threatening at first, an engulfing explosion of green soon follows, the flamewielder's laughter lost to the deafening roar. He'd release the phoenix then, presuming that he had ahold of the other in the first place, embracing himself in the midst of it all, hair lifted, eyes still blissfully closed... until the very end.
COMBATSYS: Ash successfully hits Alma with Sans-Culottes.
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Ash 0/-------/-----==|======-\-------\0 Alma
The world is burning.
Alma Towazu is lying flat on his back, blinking up at the bright blue sky, the last wisps of green flame fading from his vision. Immediately his mind scrambled to piece together the shattered fragments of time that made up the last moments: his foe riding the wave of his momentum, flowing with his own moments, a single sudden grip the only contact needed. It had barely registered, that touch in the midst of Alma's own transcendant fury. He should have been paying more attention. He should have detected the spike in energy.
This man--
There's something special about him.
Abruptly, the fallen phoenix lurches to a sitting position, eyes sharpening as he momentarily regains his senses. His adversary is at last settling to the ground again, having indulged himself in a rapturous embrace. The complete immolation had flung Alma away after his assault, but the psychic knows well his own limits -- mind and body as one -- and knows without a doubt that he can yet stand.
His full power--
"Yaah!"
He has yet to reveal it.
At once the Hiten-ryu scion is smoothly sweeping forward, not even emerging completely from his half-prone position, shifting gracefully into a series of sweeping kicks to tag Crimson as he gets to his feet, the strikes almost seeming to unfold naturally as Alma rises.
There's no point in saying he's impressed.
He'll say so after he's triumphed!
COMBATSYS: Alma successfully hits Ash with Light Kick.
Grazing Hit
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Ash 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\0 Alma
The sudden burst of burning fury is quelled faster than pacifying an irate Shenwoo with a strong opponent. His hair falls gently into place, Ash's hands slide down the length of his arms back to their individual sides and the blue eyes reappear with an odd flicker. From that point, he merely waits. Alma's rising from his prone position soon enough, but the Frenchman isn't so disrespectful that he'd attack someone when they're still technically down. One eyebrow does lift in an unspoken question, but it's answered.
"Oh good. I was concerned for a moment." About what, though? If the safety of the phoenix were something to care about, Ash wouldn't have jeopardized it in the first place! He's a funny person indeed. Chuckling merrily, it is thankfully brief. As the foot tags his ankle, and following strikes meet his legs where they may, he doesn't fall, but it brings an abrupt end to this friendly session. Ash stumbles up onto the curb of the street and regains proper footing soon enough, walking forwards afterwards with an offered hand.
Ash hates to lose, so he never outright admits it. But to ensure that his intentions are understand, he makes certain that his expression can attest to them; the cheeky grin and gesture are definitely friendly and polite, with no malice or hidden motives attached, "This has been fun, mon ami. To continue from here would be pointless and exhausting." It's fitting - he asked for a rematch earlier, and this way the Frenchman can avoid saying, 'I lost to you.' "I hope you found some sort of answer." Or at least the beginnings of one, but Ash is just being nice.
COMBATSYS: Ash takes no action.
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Alma 0/-------/=======|
COMBATSYS: Ash can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\ <
Alma 0/-------/=======|
Alma pauses, blinking, poised with one knee raised.
It's certainly not how /he/ ends fights, that's for sure. But having been aware all along of Ash's necessarily different attitude towards combat, Towazu isn't as surprised as he might otherwise be when his adversary seems to abruptly end the fight, as though he had simply grown tired of it. The psychic is fairly certain that he's managed to overcome his adversary, and there's no better sign of his own dramatic increase in ability and strength over the intervening years than being a match for this powerful waif.
Fairly certain.
More meaningful by far, it seems to Alma, is that not being entirely sure whether or not Ash gave his all doesn't seem to matter. It doesn't drain the meaning from this victory; it doesn't belittle Alma's own effort and passion. Even if Ash is too cool for school, the phoenix doesn't feel the slightest trace of self-consciousness at having put himself forward so wholeheartedly.
Lowering his leg, letting down his guard as soon as he understands the gesture, Alma smiles in return, great fatigue evident upon his features as he accepts the offered hand warming. "It has been. Thank you, Ash."
He pauses briefly, before his eyes soften and smile widens.
"I think I have."
To know his path from here, he must continue battling. Yes, no matter what around Alma changes, no matter what destabilizes or falls apart, the intensity of battle attunes him to the most fundamental truths. Of this he /is/ certain. Even when combat is not a matter of personal intimacy, still Alma is able to see within his own heart, to test his own will against a mighty obstacle. He thrilled at this challenge. He surpassed himself to match and overcome a truly formidable adversary, one he is not necessarily confident of besting when next they meet. This hasn't changed, this day-to-day, fight to fight insight.
Is King of Fighters the best way to touch once more upon that beauty, that stirring spirit, that has continued to ground the angel in this world for all his days? Well, that depends. That depends.
There's only one way to know for sure.
"I'm sure we'll meet again..."
Alma Towazu will keep fighting.
"...and I'll be training until that day."
COMBATSYS: Alma has ended the fight here.
And so concludes this strange day, even by Ash's standards! Two known entities showing up within minutes of each other? After all the time that had passed him by since his last encounter with anyone recognizable, he'd not have thought it possible until now. Coincidence works in mysterious ways. Perhaps this is all the more indication that he should be returning to Southtown... Soon, in fact. He's neglected his goals for long enough, but for what purpose in having done so remains to be seen. There's also the King of Fighters to take into account. Ash needs to find Shenwoo.
His handshake is polite but confident before withdrawing, collecting both arms around his midsection and smiling pleasantly. "I look forward to it." Ash says, "Until then, Alma, I hope you enjoy your stay in Paris. You should check out the Louvre, Notre Dame cathedral and the Eiffel Tower," he ticks the three off one finger each, then pauses, "Hm~! A tour of the Seine River is also quite a treat." Nodding once, the Frenchman waves, "Adieu!" Wait, you're leaving? What about that tea, you jerk! The lean fighter affords a two-fingered parting salute to Rock. Then, he steps into the slowly dispersing crowd.
Quietly mulling over these new developments as he dodges the people around him, let us hope that this will not become an eventual hinderance. Ash glances down briefly at the street when it seems he's reached the end of the gathering... and nearly walks straight into the Hungry Wolf, too. Stopping, the Frenchman looks up at the taller blonde with a blink, "Monsieur Bogard?" Oh god, that's three in one day. He is flabbergasted.
The likelihood of Terry Bogard just happening to be in France at this time of day, in this particular location, was... questionable, to say the least. Especially with Rock Howard just across the crowd, sitting at a table. /Especially/ when his search for someone related to Rock was just beginning to get under way. Coincidence being what it was, though, the blonde was also rather blissfully unaware that the offspring of his most hated enemy was across the crowd; he could barely see the fight as it was progressing, let alone pick a single person out amidst the throng of people. When things were coming to a close, some of the people in his general area were leaving, also blissfully unaware that the Legendary Wolf was standing about three feet away. Eventually, someone happened to take notice, and while most of the crowd kept their attention on Alma and Ash, the older Bogard decided to sign a few autographs.
Amidst all his writing, he was just as oblivious as the Frenchman who apparently just bumped into him. Terry stumbles forward a step, blinking just the same before he looks back over his shoulder. "Oh, hey, Ash. One second." He finishes this last signature before passing the book across to the inquiring fan. Once that's done, he turns to face Ash a bit more fully. "Didn't even know a fight was going on here today until I wandered across, figured I'd stick around and watch. Guess I need to keep better track of the schedule, huh?" A slightly embarassed grin pulls at the corners of his lips; like it or not, he /has/ been out of it for a little while.
Out of it for awhile, you say? Well, the lone wolf likely hasn't missed anything important. Maybe about as much as Ash has. Taizhou, for instance... But perhaps that's for the better.
Mastering the expression of shock that had briefly washed over his freckled features, his smile then is charming due to the fact that a pretty fan of Bogard's turns the Frenchman's way, wondering just who is this individual that Terry appears to be friendly with. Clearly she paid as little attention to the fight as a certain legend himself. "Bonjour!" The flamewielder greets her brightly, and the girl nods politely, clutching the autograph to her chest, before she hurries away to join her friends. "Aaa~aah, it's been quite some time!" Looking over the wanderer, Ash notes that the American hasn't changed much since he saw him last, "There wasn't much of a schedule this time, ahaha. I like to do things on my own terms."
Because his mere presence seems to deter many of the remaining stragglers looking for an autograph from surrounding them, Ash is able to clearly take in their surroundings. He wants to sit again, being the lazy Frenchman that he is... But Terry's here and Terry is interesting. There's nothing else for it... He could suggest the cafe from before, but Crimson's no longer in the mood for a tea, and that waitress is likely waiting with a frying pan meant for his head. "Would you like to stop at a pub and grab a drink, Monsieur Bogard? I know there's a nice place about a block or so from here."
If it were important, someone would tell him what he missed out on eventually. Maybe. News took a while to reach Terry when the rest of his team were similarly missing in action, and both Joe and Andy were unaccounted for. Just imagine the reaction when he finds out that Geese is presumed dead after Long Live the King.
A quick smile and a wave is given to the scurrying fan as she leaves to join back up with her friends, and the blonde fighter turns his attention right back to the Frenchman standing before him again. "Been a while, yeah. Don't really get to see nearly as many people as I probably should, admittedly." He just laughs for a moment, then shakes his head as one hand pats the duffel bag at his side. "Travel time's terrible when you walk everywhere." It's true, he really hasn't changed much, if at all. Same clothes, same duffel bag. Somewhere, a TV producer is planning a special on famous fighter makeovers based on their never-changing wardrobes. At mentioning the lack of a schedule, this draws an understanding nod, but then the mention of a pub gathers his attention right up. Pub means pub food, which draws a hungry growl from his innards. "Sounds like a plan to me. Don't think I've eaten all day."
Log created on 19:35:17 10/10/2010 by Ash, and last modified on 02:27:26 10/20/2010.