Description: The world is full of random meetings, giving birth to new friendships. France and Turkey come together to harbor in a new era of peace and harmony...and then France has to go and insult olive oil. Hakan proves his passion for his trade, pitting his oils against Ash's flames.
Another day, another dollar. Isn't that usually how it goes?
In Hakan's case, the dollar is worth many, many times more than that, of course, and he never rests in expanding his oil empire. He's been in Chinatown for the last few days, trying to get the shops here to change over from highly inferior peanut and sesame oil to his wonderful, fragrant, exquisite, life-enhancing virgin olive oil! He never ceases to come up with new fact and praises for the stuff, a talent that has gotten him banned from a number of businesses already. Granted, a lot of those bans are due to his yelling and insulting people and their stubbornness, but ah! It's just business.
At the moment, the red giant is taking a bit of a break. The usual flood of people is pretty thin today, give him ample room to sit upon a bench. He takes up a great deal of the seat, and the wood creaks in its attempt to hold him up. "Really," he mutters to himself, looking over a much-folded map of the city. There are even more red crosses on it than there were when he met Cammy a couple of days ago, but more circles as well! "You'd think they'd /want/ something to make their fried cat taste better!"
... Seriously? Fried cat?
Having visited many of the fine (and downright dodgy) eateries dotting the Chinatown strip, never in all these years spent wandering the streets of Southtown has the likes of Ash Crimson ever seen something so peculiar on the menu.
Mind, even if he did, the flamewielder draws the line at cat. He'll eat cooked snails, he'll eat frog's legs, he'll even try haggis, but not cat. That's just too weird, even for him.
A pleasant chime sounds from a nearby bookstore, and hopping down the stone steps, package wrapped in brown paper underarm, the aforementioned Frenchman has arrived post-rant. His chosen attire today is coordinated to maximize warmth, rather than style, with a heavy fleece jacket of black and a newsies cap atop his length of platinum blonde hair. Adjusting the red scarf around his neck, white shoes take to the sidewalk in a leisurely stride that actually doesn't carry him very far. He stops near the bench, staring at the occupant stressing the wood, then sashays right around to the front.
Why does he bother? Because this could be interesting. Little does the freckle-faced fighter know that he's about to talk to someone he'd rather not meet.
"Aren't you cold, mon ami? It's November." Free hand twisting some of the white cream-coloured hair around one long finger, he stands at ease, looking down with shrewdly narrowed blue eyes and a faint smile... That slowly fades. Or does it transform? That neat, nitpicky personality trait kicks in upon closer inspection of Hakan. What's wrong with his skin? That's not healthy at all. He's not the type who judges others, but Ash's lips still purse together and twist into an openly expressed frown.
Something isn't right here. It's as though some sort of great aura comes from Ash when he's coming close. Something pink and...frilly. How odd, that a man used to digging through other mens' pants gets a case of the goosebumps running down the back of his neck?
Then again, perhaps it's because he's attracted the attention of someone far beyond his league in many things.
"Haaaah?" Looking up from his map, the man sits upright, properly. The bench creaks out a fresh complaint at the movement, then again as he reaches over to snap open a brushed-metal case sitting at his side. Within it are a bunch of bottles full of transluscent, yellowish-green liquid, seen only for a moment before the map is thrown instead and the thing snapped closed again. "Oh, no! No, my friend, this is nothing!" He lifts his left hand, a massive thing indeed, and slaps it a couple of times against his right shoulder. The sound of flesh smacking against flesh is...off. It sounds a little wet, even, though there's no indication of his skin being so. "I am well protected from whatever comes my way!" Well...maybe this creature is a decent person after all!
That's it. Pink and frilly? Better watch out, because it's on like Donkey Kong! Ash just FREAKS OUT, right then and there, flipping the ben--
Hand drifting from his hair, he offers it in a friendly gesture, "Je m'appelle Ash. Ash Crimson." Head canting to the side, his smile widens, eyes closing, "And what might your name be, mon ami?" Of course, if Hakan would prefer, Ash can just continue to call him what he calls anyone who is unfamiliar or whose name he happens to forget, because the Frenchman is something of a jerk. Unless an extreme impression is made, he doesn't care to keep tabs on such unimportant things!
Hakan's French is rudimentary at best. He's heard a couple of phrases, learned just enough words to get by in the airport while flying through. It's a filthy country, one that he doesn't like to spend much time in. Trips through France are always followed by excessive bathing.
"Ah! You may call me Hakan!" The offered hand is soon trapped within the larger man's grip, big thick fingers curled both over and under. What's worse is that the /other/ hand claps down against the back of Ash's as well! Trapped in an ocean of skin, it's soon evident just how /warm/ Hakan is. After that, the weird texture really comes to light. It feels...it feels not quite unlike dipping one's hand in a tub of vaseline, only the tub isn't letting go. Instead, it shakes vigorously!
"Just Hakan, my new friend. Tell me, what is a lovely young lady like you doing out here by herself?"
For sure, because Turkey is way better.
Oh wait, it's not. ZING!
Honestly, France may not be perfect, but it's by far an improvement over many places in this world. Take England, for example. That's something they both can agree on. It's filthy over there - the streets, the people, the buildings. His distaste doesn't exist because he's French and feels slighted by the English due to their historical treatment of other countries, but because Ash cannot stand the sight of such things. He cares very much for his appearance and overall cleanliness, and the dirt and grime of England gets everywhere.
Speaking of dirt and grime, or in this case what feels like shoving his hand into a bucket of vaseline, Ash somehow manages to stop himself from jerking his hand away in disgust. His whole arm is shaken, shoulder protesting, and the friendly smile is frozen to those freckled features uncomfortably. It is in this moment that he has come to understand the reason behind the sound, the contents of the case, and the colour of Hakan's skin in one fell-swoop: It's... grease. The Frenchman would liken it to cooking oil, or maybe butter, and he finally slips from the hold, keeping the tainted hand away from his body and clothes. UGH.
At that point, his smile still remains, no longer frozen, but politely there and with an added edge to it. The flamewielder will NEVER EVER shake hands or touch Hakan again, if he can help it. "Ah, enchante, Hakan."-- What?
One would think that after all this time, the flamewielder's face still somewhat known around the world, this gender-confusion would /STOP HAPPENING/, buuuuut... It won't. Perhaps his mannerisms and style are to blame, yet that's part of who Ash Crimson is. Oh well, cut one's losses and go, I suppose. At least Hakan states it outright, unlike a certain model named Benimaru Nikaido. It's the stupid shootfighter's fault for assuming, so why he has to blame Ash, the Frenchman will never know. How is he supposed to correct such things when it's not brought to his attention?
"Aha~ I'm not a woman, actually." Lovely, sure, that can stay... And even if he understands the reasons behind the mistake, that doesn't mean annoyance can't find itself present in his tone, "So I suppose that would make traveling by myself all right." ... He needs a hankerchief or something to get this gunk off. For now, Ash rubs his fingers together and against his palm, trying to single-handedly get rid of the oil upon it.
Were Hakan the sort to be able to watch as much television as the common man, he might have heard of Ash Crimson. Instead, he's busy doing more important things like...running a business, raising a family, being a good husband. Though, if he could mistake Ash for a woman, what must his wife look like?
"No?" Hakan looks surprised at first, and then he hunches forward slightly. His thumb and forefinger stroke at his bare chin featureless white eyes squinting. He takes a lot of time to look at his hair and face, even from various angles. The man is obviously not convinced. Still, he stands upright again, bringing out a hand in an attempt to slap the Frenchman on the shoulder! "My apologies, Mister Crimson!" His r's roll off of the tongue as he takes great care in pronouncing the name properly. And so long as he can get that hand on Ash, it doesn't leave. My, but doesn't that coat look so nice?
"Here." His other hand reaches back behind him, and...oh god. From /somewhere/ back there, he pulls out a smallish bottle of olive oil. It has a great Turkish label on it, probably the nation's icon or something. Who knows. The bottle itself even seems shiny and quite nearly glistens, while the oil within swirls around as he moves it. "As an apology, have some of my famous olive oil on me!" Oh ho. 'On him', it is to laugh.
Hakan's wife must be a monstrosity. Either that or a ma--wait, no, how would she be able to spawn children? It's a good thing none of that is said outloud. Ash's brain would explode in his skull trying to picture Hakan's offspring.
At the scrutinizing, the Frenchman appears to be at ease. He's come to accept this as a natural outcome to such events. Thankfully, there's no checking of his chest, because that would involve the Turkish giant touching himAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! The big hand connects with his shoulder, likely leaving behind whatever it is on his jacket. Ash visibly stiffens, his back straightening, blue eyes wide. The apology falls upon deaf ears, and suddenly there's a bottle of olive oil hovering in front of his face.
Normally, the flamewielder would kindly decline the 'gift', but he responds to his first impulse instead. Shrugging that shoulder up, he rudely escapes the man's grasp, stepping back and away from Hakan's reach. His features contort with obvious displeasure, which the lean fighter boldly attempts to reign in while quickly regretting having bothered with this meeting. Next time, he'll think twice about approaching random people on the street because they look interesting! ... Nah, no he won't.
Still trying valiantly to keep his manners in check, Ash forces his eyes to the red man, away from his coat that will likely now require drycleaning. "Ahaha," The laughter is forced, "Non non, that's quite all right. I don't think I'd honestly need it for anything." He reaches up to scratch at the side up his cheek with one neatly painted fingernail... Hold it! That's the wrong hand! Young Crimson thinks better of this, and despite somewhat recovering with a half-smile, anyone with one-third of a brain would know that he's mentally crying out, 'Yuuuuuuck!'
Truly, most normal people would find Ash's reactions unusual at best. But Hakan? His social graces are of a different nation entirely, one where men can hug without being acused of slipping away for more illicit deeds behind closed doors. No, to him, the laughter is a good sign! It just makes him seem like he's just trying to be polite. ...Which, really, might be true, but for allt he wrong reasons.
"Let me show you." The oil baron stays where he is, thankfully, save for the uplifted finger; the 'wait a moment' gesture. It then grips the top of the bottle that he'd offered, giving it a sharp twist. The crack of aluminum and the pop of the cork herald the release of the dreaded liquid, and then the bottle is presented to Ash! Held just before his face, the open mouth is shaken back and forth to let the queasy smell of virgin olive oil waft into his nostrils.
While this whole spectacle takes place, the people walking back avert their eyes and try to avoid the two a /very/ wide berth. Normally, a well-built shirtless man courting a dainty young lady would be a good thing, but it's just so...so damned /weird/ that their instincts tell them to just keep walking.
And then it gets worse.
"And look!" Doing the unthinkable, Hakan lifts the bottle up over his head and...turns it over. Oil spills free and lands upon his odd helmet-hair thing, splashing gently about as it trickles down his skin. Face, ears, shoulders, everything is peppered with oily rivulets. And then, he goes a step further: with the bottle empty, he RUBS IT ALL OVER HIMSELF. Gross!
May I point out that most normal people wouldn't clap an oily hand on someone's shoulder? Ash's reaction is to be completely, one hundred and twenty percent expected, in any culture! This has nothing to do with hugging. He is okay with platonic hugging! Just not with anyone like Hakan.
Really, Crimson just jerks out of reach because he values the cleanliness of his possessions and person, because he's certainly not in the middle of a fight right now, and it's completely knee-jerk impulse. At least he doesn't storm away offended, instead maintaining a proper, polite demeanor as best he can. Rude though the action may have been, the Frenchman wasn't raised in a barn. He has a certain dignity to uphold.
A dignity that Hakan seems to have noticed as well, with horrifying results.
Jaw dropping slightly, what evil has he wrought?! The bottle of olive oil is uncapped, and the Frenchman can't even begin to fathom what will happen next. How will he regain control of the situation so it doesn't go spiralling wildly out of control? Or maybe it already has. The flamewielder goes comically cross-eyed when the brim of that awful oil is shoved under his nose, putrid smell wafting in, and he can't help it. Ash gags. "Mon dieu!" He coughs, backing up again, package slipping from under his arm to the pavement. Hurk!
If that was bad, nothing prepares the pale-haired man for what happens next. Hakan upends the bottle over himself, drenching his face and the like with virgin olive oil, rubbing it all over... Ash gawks, and feeling quite green (perhaps even looking it, too), he squeaks out an ill-sounding, "Oh, I see."
As if wholly unaware of Ash's disgust, Hakan goes well on his business! Dropping the empty bottle on the bench, he uses both hands to work the oil into his skin, heightening the sheen and the way that it glistens. It's so smooth, so flawless! "Twice a day like this," he starts, working his arms back and really just getting it /everywhere/. Hell, at one point, he tugs on the front of his leather pants and--oh god. Like it's been said, /everywhere/. "And you'll have clearer pores, smoother skin, whatever you need!"
Once he's got his whole upper body (and them some) all nice and oiled up, that's when he offers his hand. It mimicks Ash's handshake offering from before, only now there's so much...oil. The coating is thin enough that it's not dripping or anything, but it's still plain to see that he's covered. "Tell me, isn't it the greatest thing that you've ever seen?" He asks with such enthusiam, his smile so big and wide! How could anyone ever hurt his feelings like this?
There are many options available to Ash in this situation. The question is, which one will he choose?
The first is to simply light Hakan on fire, and as much that would satisfy him on many levels, the Frenchman isn't prone to acts of cruelty for no reason. ... Or, well, not when it involves someone he doesn't really know, anyway.
What of the second? Likely the most mature of the three, it is to simply walk away. If the Turks' actions are enough to disgust him, and he's had about enough, why stick around and force himself to tolerate more?
Which brings us to the third, and the unfortunate winner. Against his better judgment, rooted to the spot by forces unknown, the flamewielder is still here. He's not feeling well, being utterly, /UTTERLY/ GROSSED OUT GOD DON'T PULL OUT YOUR PANTS LIKE THAT! Clearer pores and smoother skin is definitely not a good enough reason to lather one's self up in olive oil. No way, no how.
So why does he stay? What's the point? Okay, so maybe he'll change his mind and just leave instead. It would be impossible to steer this instance anywhere back into the realm of normalcy, and Ash isn't the type of person to bang his head against a brick wall. The slender, effeminate man reaches down to pick up the dropped parcel, about to deliver some glib remark that'll effectively excuse him when... it happens. Hakan offers his hand, looking all proud, basking in his own glory, and the Frenchman's face fails to return the enthusiasm.
"Saa, I'm not sure that's good for you." He's not intentionally lashing out or anything, just being pleasantly honest. Maybe if Ash would've just started out by voicing his opinions about the colour of Hakan's skin, the Frenchman could've escaped sooner! "I don't think it's very clean." Okay, now he's kinda being a bit of a jerk, but all sneaky like. Wanting to leave, his disgust, AND being annoyed over the slime on his jacket? It makes the likes of Crimson a little unhappy, enough that it's going to start overriding his upbringing. That and he's starting to lose interest, having seen enough to fulfill his curiosity.
It's bad enough that Ash rejects Hakan's hospitality, as it were.
It's even worse when he utters a disparaging word about his oil.
The change in Hakan's countenance is sudden and drastic. The smile completely falls off of his face, replaced with thin lips and a mild frown. His eyes, once glowing with delight, now...well, it's still hard to tell what they're full of, being nothing but white orbs stuck in his head. "Now, look, you!" His voice is much lower, stern, anger clearly held back. "You can say what you like about me, but don't you dare say such a thing about my oil! Why, you couldn't possibly understand the great many things that olive oil has done for mankind!"
In the blink of an eye, the entire scene changes. The feeling of happy, sweet sugar dumplings once present has vanished, giving way to the utmost seriousness. It's a somewhat welcome change, by far an improvement over the previous horrifying situation that the Frenchman was trying to escape from. Perhaps there's something interesting to be found in the Turkish red giant beyond his strange obsession with oil and weird skin, seated all by his lonesome in November without proper clothes, after all?
Who knows.
He's is a little surprised by the sudden 360, truth be told, because is what was said so wrong? The Frenchman just wanted to leave.
... Actually, since he's figuratively 'kicked the dog' already, there's no going back. If Hakan's angry with him, that's just fine.
"Ahaha, no need to get upset." Assuming previous demeanor somewhat, his smile returning in full-force, the flamewielder is behaving a little differently this time. There's an underlaying insufferable quality to him now that many find downright infuriating. He doesn't sound very consoling or apologetic, either. "It was just an opinion." Oh, Ash. Why couldn't you just apologize? Although such things would likely wind up with him right in the middle of what he was trying to initially flee from, once again.
Ash is a nice person, when it suits him. Now, it is time to show his true face. There's no reason to play this game anymore.
And by the way, it's true that the freckle-faced one couldn't possibly understand, because in order to do so, he'd have to care enough to listen in the first place. Maybe one day, in the far and distant future, probably after the second ice age. Meaning never.
It's too late now. Hakan's precious oil has been insulted! If his skin wasn't already red, then it surely would be now, due to rushing blood and adrenaline. Oh the tremble in his jaw, the fire in his eyes, the clenching of his fist!
Somehow, the man manages to restrain his (wholly justified) rage. Instead, he turns around, his feet pressing on the ground with great big heavy stomps. Hell, his body is...it's /steaming/ in the cold! Once more clicking open that case, he pulls out a fresh bottle--no, two fresh bottles of oil! Holding one in his left hand, he extends the right one, bottle somehow secure in that oily palm, toward Ash. "If you're really sorry, then give it a try. Refuse, and I'll just ram it down your throat!"
God, what the hell. It's just /oil/, isn't it?
Somewhere barely visible just behind Hakan's left shoulder as he makes the perfectly reasonable offer, Ryuhaku Todoh can be seen cowering atop a mailbox clutching a box of brightly colored breakfast cereal. Rabbits are gathered around the mailbox, standing on their hind legs and sniffing. The old man seems too terrified to come off of the mailbox.
But, more importantly...
This man is very passionate about his oil! But Ash's disgust reigns supreme. Given the smell from earlier and how he doesn't have the slightest desire to coat himself in such filth, his answer should be obvious. He's not sorry, and going so far as to threatening him, suggesting that it'll be rammed down his throat, probably also isn't wise. It triggers the worst reaction from the lean Frenchman /in addition/ to his response: his arrogance. "Non, merci." The last word is intentionally drawn out with a chilly, level gaze fixed upon the taller, larger Turk. "Would rather not."
Confident pours from his small frame, because he is very aware of his own strength. The flamewielder will not back down. Hakan does not frighten him, even if Ash is unaware of his abilities. Maybe he'll get to see them through this strange turn of events. From introductions to fighting, what an odd day.
At that moment, suddenly and without warning, a 'threat' is delivered in turn, depending on the interpretation. Veridant flames explode to life on his 'tainted' hand, bubbles burning the residue away from his fingers and palm, causing it to evaporate instantly. Once purged, he carelessly snuffs the churning mass out, satisfied. Now Ash can brush his hair back, tucking the length of bangs behind his ear under the brown cap. Ready whenever you are, his posture seems to impetuously say.
What's with the hobo afraid of rabbits over there? Oh well.
Not only has Ash besmirched the good virtues of Hakan's oil...but he even burns it up right in front of him! His eyes grow wide and his jaw drops. He just...he can't believe what he's seeing! And to outright deny his noble request?
"I have /never/ been insulted so in my life!" Both of his arms lift up over his head, shaking with obvious rage. "That is it, Mister Crimson! I will not stand such words!" With naught but his thumbs, both the seals and corks of both bottles are cracked and sent flying. One of the corks pegs the mailbox behind him with such force that it dents the side! The other knocks out one of the kids gathered around it, denying him his fruity (or perhaps marshmallowy) balanced breakfast. In any case, the bottles are tipped upside-down, the contents left to drizzle down on top of the red businessman's head. It Ash thought it was bad before, he can SEE how it makes rivers on his skin now, mixing and soaking into the pores, leaving everything shinier...even his leather pants, ensuring a difficult grip to be sure!
COMBATSYS: Hakan has started a fight here.
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Hakan 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Ash has joined the fight here.
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Ash 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Hakan
COMBATSYS: Hakan gathers his will.
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Ash 0/-------/-------|====---\-------\0 Hakan
There are some people in this world who make absolutely no sense. Hakan would appear to be such a person. To be passionate about the things one loves is understandable, but logically, to say that after trying to force it on another, that they have never been more insulted! Psh, what is this, I don't even!
Despite the outburst and the Turks refusal to stand for such words, he's going to have to, because Ash isn't taking them back, nor is he running away - a wise choice, likely regretted later on, damn his arrogance. The preferences of others should be respected though, unless it's the Frenchman himself callously disregarding them, so maybe Crimson is actually the one who should be offended here? Nah, he doesn't care too much.
Hardly surprised by the sight of two bottles, that doesn't mean he isn't still disgusted. The bridge of the Frenchman's lightly freckled nose wrinkles, recalling the smell of the olive oil... Ash is shocked that Hakan can be so scent-desensitized, much less want to drench himself in it. Gross. /GROSS/!!! The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he shivers unpleasantly. If that's the way it's going to be, then the flamewielder will be making every effort to avoid Big Red. Grabbing is right out. He will dodge the oil fired from flexing pectoral muscles!
Can Hakan do that? If not, he should learn.
Appearing quite relaxed, facial expressions and closer analysis of his posture aside, the thin man places a hand against his hip and loosens his scarf somewhat with the other. His eyes close to block out the view and he mutters, "Aaa~aaa, I hate being called 'Mister Crimson'. I'm really not that old." Ash does nothing otherwise, focusing silently. If there is a God, may he or she preserve the sanctity of the Frenchman's jacket.
COMBATSYS: Ash focuses on his next action.
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Ash 0/-------/-------|====---\-------\0 Hakan
That's something to think about. Should Hakan indeed learn to squirt oil from himself, just to make the already mortifying encounters even worse? No, no! He's not like that. Any awkwardness that comes from his beloved oil wrestling is purely incidental! It's not like it was /designed/ for maximum groping. Right?
Once the bottles in his hands are emptied, Hakan drops both of them on the ground behind hm. They're thick, sturdy things; no breakage to worry about, just the pleasant sound of hollow glass rattling on concrete. The crowd has also changed! Whereas before, people were avoiding the two, they're now spreading out in a wide circle to watch. Even if Ash wants to leave, he'll have to go through a whole sea of Chinese immigrants to do it. At least they're short.
"It's a term of respect!" the big guy yells out, so loud and boisterous despite the informative response. Each of his hands slaps at his shoulders, sending droplets of oil splashing off...and then he lunges forward, arms wide open!
COMBATSYS: Ash dodges Hakan's Hakan Throw.
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Ash 0/-------/-------|====---\-------\0 Hakan
Uh huuuuuh. If such empty words are what helps Hakan sleep at night, then he might as well just keep telling himself that.
Trapped in a circle of onlookers, as a seasoned fighter, this isn't be the first time. The crowd barely even registers to him anymore, unless they're actually in the way. Hopefully that won't happen. The consequences of involvement would be dire, especially with those green flames the platinum blonde-haired man wields. Now, if he wants to escape, that's a completely different story indeed! Yes, they're thankfully short, but can Ash jump that high? Stay tuned to find out!
Blinking blue eyes back open, the Frenchman can't help exhaling a snort of laughter. "I know that," He says in reply, soon giggling girlishly, "But there's no point in being so formal." This situation doesn't warrant it, at least not in the sense that someone senior should be calling a junior 'mister'.
Right about then is when the Turkish giant comes a'lunging, and from split-second deductions, perhaps Hakan is some sort of grappler? Ash isn't entirely sure, but ahhhh! He wants absolutely no part in whatever's to come. He has a plan, and twisting gracefully out of the incoming oiled-up blur's path, the slippery (not literally) Frenchman is so far sticking to it.
He winds up off to the side, perhaps even behind Hakan, fenced in by the lemmings who flocked to the street-fight. Frowning faintly, what should he do? There's always the obvious, the tried-and-true method... But if becomes he's too predictable, his opponent could quickly earn the upperhand. Hm. Drawing the scarf-adjusting hand from before back, fire surges to his fingertips again. "Take this!" Ash brings that arm cutting through the air before him, releasing a long plume of his unique emerald flames before following it up with a second. The two merge together, and are sent charging down their target.
That olive oil won't burn too much, will it?
COMBATSYS: Hakan interrupts Ventose from Ash with Oil Slide.
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Ash 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\0 Hakan
"Hah?"
Hakan's arms swing together, crossing over so that it looks like he's giving himself a warm, fuzzy embrace. Ash slips away far too easily for his tastes, but he is certainly not the first slipper man he's ever fought. That is, figuratively; the whole point of his style is /literally/ wrestling slipper men, after all. He's about to rush forth again when he sees the spark of flame ignite once again. The short charge is immediately aborted, his heels squeaking on the concrete in a failed attempt to stop. "Oh, crap." He knows what's coming. Oil and fire never go well together. All he can do is cross his arms and take it!
Only, it doesn't really work as Ash may have planned. The impact sends gouts of flame across Hakan's body, but he doesn't ignite. No, the oil simply steams as he's pushed back, the oil on his feet making him skid back toward the bench despite standing still and straight up! The moment that the backs of his legs bump against the bench, he kicks off of it, lunging forward with his arms out and feet trailing behind him! "My oil is not so flammable!" he proclaims, obviously very proud of the fact. The speed with which he returns is like a bouncy ball slung against the wall, only this ball is all oiled up and when it slams right into Ash's midsection, it bowls him over. Much like a giant red slug, he leaves a thick trail of olive oil over 'Mister Crimson' from head to toe as he slides right over--and past--him.
One moment, things were okay. Sure, his jacket was a touch slimed on the shoulder, but that was about it. The Frenchman managed to avoid what looked like the most unpleasant of hugs and was on his way to awesometown. Also the drycleaners.
Next second, he's flat on his back, uncertain of how he even wound up there. Hakan bursts through the remains of green flames like an oily bottle rocket, proving that repetition is entirely unnecessary to gain the upperhand, and Ash. Is. Screwed. AUGH!
Body snapping up to sit, like a wooden board broken in half, the flamewielder looks down, horrified, at his outerwear. "Ugh." He says, hardly aware of even uttering the words, possibly fighting the urge to /shriek like a girl/ and /run away in tears/--Ha ha, kidding. Hand coming to his face, he drags those long fingers down his cheeks and nose, wiping away as much of the olive oil as he's able. It doesn't help much; he can still feel the grime, but that's probably as good as it will get.
Rising, scowling, blue eyes narrowed dangerously, Ash whispers decisively, "That will be the last time." He deftly unbuttons the heavy fleece jacket, pulling it from his shoulders with flourish. The cold air immediately hits him through his long-sleeved, button-down shirt, and even the vest doesn't really do much to protect the Frenchman from the elements, but damnit! He will suffer, because his jacket is ruined, and he won't wear it like that! Ash is sad forever.
Flinging his equally covered in yuck hat to the ground afterwards, probably about where he left that brown paper parcel from earlier, blonde hair spills out over his face and shoulders. God, why have you forsaken him?! He might as well get some final use out of his coat too, if it's garbage now. With an idea in mind, Ash hurls the article right at Hakan, wherever he ends up, then leaps forwards, attempting to jump on the Turk and punch him. Hard.
COMBATSYS: Hakan fails to interrupt Medium Punch from Ash with Oil Slide.
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Ash 0/-------/----===|=======\=------\1 Hakan
After sliding over the irritable Frenchman, Hakan sort of...well, his arms and legs spread out, each extremity finding little purchase on the ground. His lower body slows less than his upper body does, skidding him around like a car drifting into a wicked 180 and revving up for more. The plan here is to bounce back and tackle into the man again, to soak oil into him until he submits, until he admits that olive oil is the greatest thing in the world. No! That HIS olive oil is the greatest thing in the world!
Things aren't going exactly to plan, however! As the oil mogul springs into the air again, his world of obscured by the jacket thrown at him. His arms bend, hands trying to wrench it off, but...oh. It's not soon enough. Ash's fist can actually gain friction on it, slamming the punch right into the man's face. He bounces back immediately, landing on his stomach with arms all akimbo, his head still covered by that damned jacket. He's...he'll just lay here for just a little bit...
Although the Frenchman still suffers from immense displeasure at losing a quality winter jacket and likely needing to buy another as soon as possible, he is still capable of satisfaction. The jacket covers Hakan's head, fist connecting soundly with the red giant's face, and there's absolutely nothing that can be done to save him. It makes Ash smile briefly before he springs away, movements quick and sudden, landing not far from where the Turk winds up.
Collecting his arms around his thin form, hugging himself for warmth, the flamboyant flamewielder waits patiently, struck by a very strange thought... If he had been a spectator for a fight like this, wouldn't it be quite comical? Just LOOK at Hakan! An oil-covered, fully-grown man, sliding around on the ground like some sort of wonky something or other. Sled? But it's actually how the Turk fights! C'mon, anyone would find this hilarious, were they not trapped in such a situation.
But Ash is trapped in it, for now. Or maybe not. Hakan hasn't gotten up yet.
"Oh, is that it?" He shivers, weight shuffling back and forth from one foot to the other, "Are we done?" The Frenchman certainly doesn't have any problems with that. Hakan can enjoy his nap - Ash will go home. He'll call a cab, take a delightful shower, maybe treat himself to some caramel pecan flan... And then head back out to the mall for some disgruntled shopping. Sounds like a plan! But will it happen?
COMBATSYS: Ash takes no action.
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Ash 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\1 Hakan
What will... Will it happen?! Oh, no. Ash, it is far, far too late to get off scot-free! Already, there are oil tracks on the ground, shiny things that refuse to either freeze or burn readily. And yes, Hakan is down, but not for good.
"HOOOOOooooly smokes, that HURT!" His words are muffled as he jumps back up to his feet, one big hand clenching the fabric of the discarded jacket in order to pull it off. The thing is dropped to the ground with a damp noise, but nothing more. To the oil baron's credit, his face doesn't look much different than it had before getting beaten head-on. His hair is a little mussed up, with those rings no longer perfectly round in some places. His lips shift between pursing and spreading out while a hand helps shift his jaw back and forth. Hm. Well, nothing SEEMS broken...
"No, sir, we are not! Not until you apologize for your egregious insults!" The man moves quickly from where he'd fallen down--almost sliding forth, really, with one hand lifted up and back before it slings forward. It looks like he's just trying to knock Ash down... At least he's not trying to grab him again.
OR IS HE?!
COMBATSYS: Ash fails to interrupt Hakan Throw from Hakan with Rapide Ventose.
?!? Weird Hit! ?!?
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Ash 0/-------/-----==|=======\=------\1 Hakan
IT SEEMS HE WAS.
Rushing forth like a giant on ice skates, Hakan slams his big, oily, meaty hand right cown on Ash's head. It's not so much a strike as he's just...pushing him down to the ground.
And that's when his hell really begins.
With the flamebringer prone, the oil wrestler is in his element. "Here we go!" His left hand reaches over across Ash's shoulder, bent at the elbow as his hand grips the smaller man's chest. Fingers are spread and curled, and he's just got a /hold/ of that pectoral. "One!" Hakan's right hand reaches low and bends in between Ash's legs. That hand also bears spread, curled fingers as he gets a firm grip on Ash's...his... Well, he can say for certain that Ash is male now.
"Two!" The count is loud and obnoxious, not a hint of hesitation in his voice as he manhandles another man in such a way! And then, the man's body is lifted up, tossed skyward and behind hm, over the heads of many an onlooker and letting gravity drop him wherever it pleases. "...THREE!"
With a last and final shudder, the flamewielder turns to a parting crowd. He will leave this fight with his head held high. Hakan's words barely even register to him at this point, but the Turk's rising is acknowledged by the slight flicker of blue eyes to their corners. Seriously? It's when the surge of the red giant's fighting spirit takes hold of his senses that Ash truly understands that this isn't over. As much as he'd like it to be, he'll have to see things through.
"Fine." The Frenchman mutters, irritated, whirling back around right when the red monstrosity has rushed into his personal space, meaty hand hovering threateningly above him. His own arm draws back, summoning yet another coiling mass of veridant flames, and with a yell, he thrusts the burning bubbleblob forwards. It misses spectacularly, oily weight heavy upon his head, and Ash, stilll caught in a fading battlecry, would be a complete and total idiot if he didn't know why. He's forcibly bent over, there's a hand on his chest, and...
This is the most humiliating day of Ash's life.
No, really.
Elisabeth Blanctorche could probably regale the entirety of Southtown about the things the Frenchman used to do as a child, were she the type. From wetting the bed, trying to run away from home at five, and crying because he thought there was a monster in his closet... Some of these stories would be mortifying, but they do not compare. This should not be acceptable wrestling! "Ahhh! Qu'est-ce tu fais?! Ne me touchez pas!" Ash cries in shock, thin legs kicking as his lean body is lifted in the MOST UNCOMFORTABLE manner, thrown overhead and away.
Stunned, it's hard to really recover from such an invasive toss. The flamewielder lands quite ungracefully on a bunch of onlookers, knocking them down like pins met with a bowling ball. "Ngh..." He starts to rise from his feet, looking resentful, "Salaud." Ash Crimson needs an adult.
Ah! The exhiliration, the thrill! Hakan remains with his arms up for a couple of seconds after sending poor Ash flying. The 'oohs' and 'aahs' of the people around him support his actions; they now have a taste of the superiority of Turkish oil wrestling!
This has, in turn, brightened his mood considerably. He shows no intention of chasing the tossed and violated man, no. Instead, he walks with heavy steps back toward his bench and the case upon it. Once more does he pull out a small bottle of oil (really, how many of them does he HAVE, anyway?) and twists the top right open. Before doing anything with it, he stops. "Salad?" He's quiet for a few seconds, brows furrowed and lower lip tucked in a thoughtful frown. "Why, are you finally ready to try my wonderful oil on salad?! This is great news!" Even though his misunderstanding the insult makes him think that he's won this argument, it doesn't stop him from pouring a small pool of the viscous fluid into the palm of his hand. That pool is lifted to his forehead, his hand rubbing back and forth against it as the excess spills down his features, dripping onto pecs and shoulders, and in turn working its way down to any dry bits of skin or clothing that he may still have. "Aaaaah, so exquisite! You'll really not be disappointed, I promise you!"
COMBATSYS: Hakan gathers his will.
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Ash 0/-------/-----==|=======\=====--\1 Hakan
If he wasn't just violated against his will, Ash may have found such misinterpretation of a more civilized tongue to be rather amusing. As it stands, pushed beyond annoyance and perhaps into the realm of actual anger, he ignores it, sending long fingers back through equally long strands of platinum blonde. Because of the olive oil's residue left behind on his head, his hair stays slicked back, leaving the young man looking distinctly masculine - a true rarity.
He looks down at the oily marks on his clothing, then back up at the red giant. Back to the handprint, back to Hakan... Twisting the fine hairs on his pretty little head around a slender digit yet again, he smiles horribly, "Ooooooh, certainly. But first, you'll pay for that." Okay, so the Turk hasn't quite made Ash angry yet, but there will be horrible vengeance. /No one/ humiliates the Frenchman like that and gets away with it... Turkish oil wrestling should be abolished! And he would never eat salad with olive oil!
Taking two rushing steps forwards, the flamewielder hits the coating of grease on the pavement and sliiiiides. This suits him quite well, because since the oil carries him across the distance, it allows the fruity, freckle-faced Crimson to spin around on the spot, leg coming up high while his upper body hovers low, attempting to plow into Hakan with his foot and stomp on the giant when he's down.
COMBATSYS: Hakan interrupts Medium Kick from Ash with Flying Oil Spin.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////// ]
Ash 1/-----==/=======|==-----\-------\0 Hakan
He's watching this, of course.
It's not like Hakan has his back turned to the Frenchman or anything. His eyes are open and he can see the man coming up, how incensed he looks. It's so strange! Didn't he just agree that he'd try the oil? So why, then, is he rushing forth with his leg up like that? It just doesn't make seH'OH SWEET MOTHER OF GOD.
Ash is in the perfect place to land a kick right in Hakan's mommy-daddy button, vengeance for being so thoroughly molested just a minute before! What's worse is that the giant /flies/. His legs are swept out from under him, body sent spinning end over end...and because of that oil slick beneath Ash, it's hard to stop before Hakan just drops right on top of him in some sort of belly flop. Giant arms coil around the smaller man's body, one hand gripping the other's wrist. Chest to chest, face to face now, the pair slide toward the other edge of the crowd, and boy... Does Hakan look /pissed/.
He really doesn't have words to convey his thoughts, not with his gentleman's gentleman ringing to fiercely in pain. Instead, he just rocks! Left, right, left...and then he, and the man he's holding, start /spinning/ like a drill upon the slick ground, a blur of red as the pair careen through onlookers, tossing them up into the air in their wake. They must eventually stop, however, and the upcoming wall should do the trick! ...If, perhaps, it weren't Ash's head smashed right into it. What's worse is that the pair don't stop at all! Hakan twists about, kicks off, and spins toward the next wall...and the next...and the next, beating the poor Frenchy's noggin to a pulp upon brick and wood and whatever happens to get in the way until they slow down enough for him to jump off the ride!
He thought his aim was higher, but apparently not. To hit the red giant ANYWHERE is certainly enough, yet it seems wrong somehow. It lacks that sweet sense of vindication... The larger man spins around, then flops hard on Ash, the Frenchman left open to attack since there's no way to halt his forward momentum on the oil-slicked pavement. Flailing under the excessive weight, practically squashed, the oil-man's hand is on his wrist, he looks REALLY MAD, and they start spinning.
Fast.
How this happens, how it's even physically possible, well... Ash can wield green flames, so perhaps he shouldn't question the abilities of others. His stomach lurches nastily due to the world's new rotation and overwhelming smell of virgin olive oil, and the lean fighter may very wind up attacking Hakan with a half-digested lunch! But later. For now, his head is bounced off a wall, and the pain that erupts in his skull overpowers his nausea. Instinctively, protectively, the Frenchman curls in the best he can. He's going to have one hell of a headache later.
When the wild ride is over, Ash can barely support himself, dizzy and wobbling even on his hands and knees. Perhaps he has learned his lesson and will cut his losses, before things get quite possibly even worse, but not until he has the last say. Once that happens, there'll be no reason for Ash to bother anymore. Holding his ground against threats, having his coat ruined and... and... THAT! It's a high enough price to pay for his pride.
All around him, the olive oil starts evaporating from the pavement, long before the heated flames of emerald emerge as large walls encircling the Frenchman. He slowly gathers his bearings and rises unsteadily to his feet in the centre, sucking in a steadying breath, then simply points. Nothing happens. The churning mass continues to boil angrily around him, harmless, and then Ash utters a single word, "Burn."
Suddenly, it crashes forwards at Hakan. A towering, frightening tidal wave, a falling wall, there is really no way to describe it. It lifts up into the air impressively, then crashes down to devour the intended target. If the red giant has any olive left on his body after this, he is a magician.
COMBATSYS: Ash successfully hits Hakan with Sans-Culottes.
?!? Weird Hit! ?!?
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Ash 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\0 Hakan
Even Hakan is a little dizzy after such a ride! He staggers a little after returning to his feet, each of those steps coming with a little pitter-patter sound like a child running after just getting out of a pool. He holds one hand against his head, then the other, trying to get the world to stop staring still. When it finally does, he sees Ash before him, still downed.
"Now you see, nothing can beat a good virgin oil!" He bears a wide smile, both fists resting on his hips. A victory pose!
But then the ground begins to steam. The aroma of the cooking oil is unmistakable--it's /glorious/ to his seasoned nose. It still doesn't explain /why/ it's being heated, however. And that's when Ash rises up, full of Frenchy rage! The single word suddenly engulfs his world in a torrent of snot-colored pain.
"Aaah! I'm burning! I'm burning!!" Hakan flails around as he tries to pat himself out, but he's surrounded, COVERED by flame! As soon as he smacks out a patch of burning oil, another one ignites! Ah, so terrible! His only respite comes in the great luck that some gracious onlooker is an angel in disguise. Out of nowhere, the man's metal case comes flying and smacks him clean in the head, bringing stars to his vision and a stagger to his stance. The case opens as it bounces overhead, sending bottles arcing through the air in a shiny display.
This is his chance.
Squatting, bending at the knees, the oil mogul launches himself skyward! ...Well, a few feet in the air, at least. Time seems to slow from his perspective as he scrambles, reaching for that nearest bottle of oil. Barely catching it between his fingertips, it's a moment later until he cracks it open and pours it over his head. The terrible burning gives way to a soothing, cold sizzle as the flames are snuffed. But, it's not enough! Still in mid-vault, he grabs another bottle...and another...and another, almost dancing upon fallen bottles to reach every last one. It takes them all to snuff the manifestation of the flamebringer's rage, that greenish coat dripping away until he lands before Ash, all sloshing and soaked and MY GOD, there's already a puddle where he'd landed! And he'd fallen so heavily too, that the concrete had cracked beneath his feet! Already, oil is pooling up in those little indentations.
"BEHOLD!" he cries out, his arms already opening as he tries to give Ash a great big MESSY manhug. "My oil is EXQUISITE!"
COMBATSYS: Ash dodges Hakan's Oil Rocket.
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Ash 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\0 Hakan
Though the foreboding pillar of flames has long since left him, sparkling bubbles of green remain, Ash standing alone, steaming, in the midst of it. The oil is still mixed in his fair locks of blonde hair, and residue still marks his clothing, but the worst of it is finally gone. His shirt and vest aren't made of fleece after all, so the gunk can't exactly seep in and leave him soggy, like his poor jacket. The man's thin lips purse together in a considering frown.
The crowd, once tightly knotted together, momentarily knocked back due to the pair spinning around like an oily rocket, are forced to retreat once more by the crashing wall that consumes Hakan. Yet, one brave individual deigns necessary to help the Turk, stepping in. The metal case soars through the air, Ash following its progress, and unlatches. What happens next, well... Hakan has covered himself with so much virgin olive oil that the Frenchman can smell it from where he stands. When the giant lands, his opponent is ready. Disgusted, but ready.
Glancing down briefly, perhaps in horror, at the growing puddle on the pavement, as the manhug comes for him, Ash slips both hands into the pockets of his dress slacks. He springs back, back arching, feet coming up over his head in an arcobatic backflip that carries him out of arm's reach. Touching down gently, the Frenchman flips his wet-ish hair back and laughs. He laughs because he's had enough, the ridiculousness of the entire situation! Oh god, the flamewielder is done.
Pivoting on the balls of his feet, still laughing, the sound is musical and effeminate, "Think what you want," Ash says carelessly, shrugging his shoulders in a dismissive way, "This is over." It seems that he'll need not leap over a bunch of short immigrants, because they quite quickly get the hell out of dodge. "It was interesting to have met you, Hakan. Adieu!" And the Frenchman starts walking. Of course, the red oil rocket man is more than welcome to try and STOP Ash, but he may not appreciate the consequences of doing so. The flamewielder is not a very happy camper at the moment.
COMBATSYS: Ash takes no action.
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Ash 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\0 Hakan
"...Hah?!"
Hakan has no idea what the devil is going on. Through all of his efforts, the original spark of anger has subsided, lost in the incredible battle of oil versus flames. He remains standing where he was, both of his arms crossed over his chest in a self-embrace, having missed the man he'd intended to send flying. "That's it?" It's so...sudden, to him. And yet, as he's left to his own devices, and only then, does reason start to creep into his thoughts. "Oh!" His arms unfurl and he stands upright, albeit still drenched. "The pleasure is all mine!" he calls off after other fighter, one of his arms lifted and waving in great, sweeping motions that send bits of oil to and fro. "Perhaps we shall meet again under better circumstances!" It was never personal; not /really/.
But that's when he realizes it: "Ah! My oil!" He's surrounded in empty bottles, his case lying off to the side and completely empty. "My samples! Oh, my wife is going to kill me...!"
COMBATSYS: Hakan has left the fight here.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Ash 0/-------/----===|
COMBATSYS: Ash has ended the fight here.
The list of things that Ash hates isn't very long, mainly because he cares so little... The cold, chips in his nailpolish, getting punched in the face, his plans being foiled, Elisabeth harassing him for answers... Really, it's not that exhaustive, and also doesn't tend to include anyone specific. After today, Ash notes, flagging down a taxi and oiling up the backseat as he gets in (SUCKER), there is a new thing to add to his top ten: Virgin olive oil.
He has no real beef with Hakan - okay, he kinda does, after being groped like that and the unsatisfying conclusion to a fight spurned by what, an opinion - but virgin olive oil is the DEVIL.
Log created on 15:49:43 11/06/2010 by Hakan, and last modified on 23:31:02 11/08/2010.