Description: Concerned at the state of Sunshine City, seeing a parallel to the harsh rigours of his youth, Andy Bogard decides to take matters into his own, exceedingly capable and deadly hands. Though he ends up freshly bruised and bloodied, a day spent on the mean streets soon yields a result that takes him right into the supposed heart of the troubles plaguing the city. To an audience with the infamous Zaki.
A few days have passed since one Andy Bogard had suffered his near-defeat in the ongoing tournament. The event is big news in the city, headlines constantly swapped between its battles and the ever-encroaching stench of crime that's been festering toward its shining center. His face has healed considerably: most of the bruising has faded, though blotches of violet still mar cheek and jaw atop stubborn welts. He can breathe through his nose once again--always a plus--and has regained his complete sense of depth perception in the absence of a swollen brow. His time in the outpatient ward has been frustrating to say the least. Andy doesn't like to sit still and waste time; he has to move, he has to do -something-. Finally unable to take being idle any longer, he'd checked himself out. It didn't matter that they wanted to check him for concussions and the like; he had to GO.
But now that he's out...what should he do? Realizing that his purpose for coming across the ocean was no more, he briefly entertained thoughts of going back home. He isn't especially fond of the city anyway; it's too cramped, too loud. Finding himself gravitating toward the suburbs and outlying sections of the city, the shift in quality is nothing short of startling. It's easy to see which lands are being protected by law enforcement and which lands have simply been given up in lieu of supporting more valuable, densely-populated areas.
It reminds him a bit of the Southtown of his youth in its dichotomy, though Sunshine City's dark roots don't seem as evenly blended. There are posters and warnings labelled liberally upon ratty walls, police tape stretched across porches and busted windows but often torn apart wherever there might be something worthwhile inside. It's terrible; there really is no kind way to describe the state that things are in. The city is dying.
The realization returns memories of being stuck in such an environment: children running in packs, scamming and robbing for necessity and fun alike. It brings a heavy furrow to his brow and a deep frown to his lips. To think that even a generation later, people are letting things like this happen. Two and a half miles out of the safety and warmth of Inner Sunshine City, Andy's meandering comes to a stop in front of a bar long since looted of its fermented bounties. The wire-impregnated safety glass still seems intact, a strength not entirely untested given the busted stools laying on the floor beneath them, just in sight from the sidewalk. It's here that the recent wanted posters are most heavily plastered, Zaki's mug staring out through more than a dozen frames, each declaring her the catalyst of this problem. The blonde man takes one down, ripping dual lines against each mounting staple. Even now, he only has the most rudimentary knowledge of what's happened: crime has always been a problem, but it's only recently that it's been so terrible. Like a stick driven into a hornet's nest, people are saying that this girl, this thug, has dug up the city's underworld and sent its filth spilling out into the streets.
If nothing else, Andy now has an idea how to use his newfound free time.
The afternoon is spent in a way that may not be the most productive, but is, at least, the most enjoyable. Still frustrated with his first-round loss, it's the creeps and thugs about the outer city that have to suffer. Crooks are found in dark alleyways, ambushed in abandoned shops made temporary hangouts, strung up from ceilings and sent tumbling down fire escapes, the Human Weapon vents himself upon them. After the first half-dozen or so, he starts asking about the wanted girl: who is she? Where is she? It's knowledge that nobody actually seems to have; there is little organization to be found, as though lowlives simply swarmed from around the state and pile upon the city like flies on a rotting fruit. Even now, he's in the process of questioning some poor, corpulent scum that's been strung up by his feet. A smattering of blood on the old brick wall beside him--coupled with a broken nose and rivulets of crimson rolling from septum to temples--shows that he may not be cooperating as earnestly as the Bogard would like!
Humans are cruel and stupid beasts. To deem Sunshine City's plight by any means uncommon would be a mistake; the younger Bogard knows well that such social decay spreads far and wide, infesting every corner of the globe, driving those who can be broken into utter defeat and elevating the vultures and cockroaches that prey upon - and within - the ignoble race of man. For every vagabond who discovers a new fate and a better world, a hundred are rendered unto nothing; a lifetime of nothing, the idea of achievement moot. Their existence void.
So what can 'good' people do? Those responsible for plastering the predatory visage of Aoi Himezaki's infamous persona believe they're doing the right thing by drawing attention to a probable source of this town's problem, but the truth is that she's a scapegoat - a convenient consequence of the tendrils spiralling outward from the heart of Sunshine's rot. The men responsible aren't doing anything, merely pointing a finger. Shifting blame.
Johann Gallo's tournament would seem a bright spark in the mess, too, though Zaki herself would condemn it as further evidence that those aware of the trouble are only too willing to divert attention from it. In seeming to act, in pledging a desire to act, they only draw further from the shadows, retracting the light that must be cast for fear that to explore those deep, dark crannies is to render their own existence somehow worse...
In short, people are afraid to act. Afraid to be responsible lest a burden fall upon their shoulders.
The sukeban's philosophy sadly does not extend to every one of those who profess to follow her, and Andy's inspection of Outer Sunshine has led him past much of their handiwork; including the devastated bar, those discarded chairs part of a game played by vicious-minded schoolgirls out to make their mark upon the chaos. He picks his targets poorly, but he comes close all the same, missing by inches the interrogation of those who really matter to this mess - but why would anyone turn to a figure five feet tall and cute as a button when they can see the surly, leather-and-denim-clad bulk of a traditional gang-banger just a stone's throw away?
The sad irony is, Andy has been missing his target because he's too good a man.
Fortunately, some targets want to be found. Perhaps because they deserve to be targets.
"Hey, blondie!"
The voice is coarse and heavy despite belonging to a girl who can't be any older than sixteen. But she's tall, for someone speaking in perfect (if slang-rich) Japanese, well over five and a half feet and muscular with it; a glance around from Andy's prey to his apparent predator should confirm why she's so unusual though. Her deeply tanned skin, green eyes and dark, braided hair mark her perhaps South American in origin. The uniform though... that's distinctive in a whole other way. It's definitely Seijyun, even with the midriff exposed and a heap of colourful bracelets racked up on either arm, the school badge is unmissable to anyone who's spent time around Southtown - even moreso if they've had a prior run-in with Zaki's band of idealistic delinquents.
"You're on my turf, and it was my turn to play 'punch the fat man'. You gonna clear off..."
Hawking and spitting to one side, the girl unfurls a wrist at her side to send a length of chain jangling to the floor, quickly gathering in a heap of tarnished metal. Her subsequent grin is savage with the promise of violence, eyes aflame in a way not entirely unlike the figure depicted on those posters.
"Or do I get to play with you instead? You look like you work out. Could be fun."
What sort of ninja allows himself to be snuck up upon? The girl can't be trying to cover herself well at all; perhaps the coarse steps of a callous girl simply don't warrant special attention? Nevertheless, once Andy finds himself in greater company than the unfortunate, fleshy pinata, he ceases all 'pleasantries' with him. Holding onto a handful of flab in one hand to keep the guy from swaying in misplaced hopes of escape, "blondie" turns to look upon the new guest.
And his brow just makes this awkward, confused arch over one eye, then both.
A few silent moments are given before the slob starts up a tirade. "Get me away from 'er!" he yells, struggling despite Bogard's grip on him. He's apparently met up with the girls before. The fit doesn't go unnoticed, though! Why on earth would such a large man be so eager to get away from...from...
"Wait, are you--?" he starts asks with clear curiosity and no small amount of incredulousness. He leans toward his prey and, without taking his eyes off of the girl for a moment, brings both hands about his chubby neck. There's a moment where his fingertips press into the pudgy flesh before he gives the man's head a hard turn. There's no snap to be heard, but his body is suddenly and utterly limp. The meager creak of air and the slight bulge of fat-encumbered lungs shows that there's still some breathing there. Regardless, he shouldn't be a problem for a little while.
He stands facing the girl now, a hand upon the top of his head and slightly favoring the side. The heel of his palm presses to his head just above the ear with fingers curled and tips scratching lightly at the gilded scalp. Her manners leave a lot to be desired. Do girls dress like that nowadays? Is spitting a "thing"? Ah, but the chain answers these questions in part. Though he hadn't had the benefit of public schooling, there are some tropes that even the most thick-headed of children come across. Weaklings acting tough and wielding weapons is not any one city's exclusive problem.
"Put it down," he commands, gesturing toward the limp links of metal with his other hand. "You're going to get hurt and that'll just make it harder for the authorities to get answers out of you." There's a brief lapse in his words as he draws his fight foot back. You know, just in case. "But first, I have to ask: what made you do this? Why stir up guys like this on good people?"
The Shiranui ninja's estimation of the uncouth creature before him is predominantly apt; right down to her identity as a probable weakling, though like all of her type she hides it beneath weighted layers of arrogant belligerence and cocky swagger. It's unfortunate, then - for her self-important image - that he maintains his gaze upon her as he finishes off his current 'victim', dropping the man like so much dead weight with a manner that from this small distance might appear like casual, easy murder. Most gang toughs will profess to have taken lives in their nonchalantly deadly step, but very few actually /have/...
Especially when they had their 'Sweet Sixteen' birthday parties less than six months ago.
Zaki's muscular enforcer blanches at the sight, though quickly turns it into a sneer, tipping back her head and raising her chin in a manner that would also be startlingly familiar to anyone who'd met the scarlet-haired sukeban. Brown braids swish about her dark-tanned chin, trailing back over her ears like writhing snakes as the snake at her side makes a similar motion in obedience with the roll of her right wrist. Bracelets clank and rattle about her forearm, an effect that's probably meant to seem quite intimidating.
Most of the time, it well might; but there's not many people on these streets who punch at Andy Bogard's weight, even with his recent injuries and the blindsiding to his pride. Perhaps that even makes him more dangerous-- a true warrior, after all, learns from experience and only gets better.
"Hell," grits the would-be leader of the Ladies' Team, releasing a snorted breath and tossing her head, making those braids lash out again before re-settling, "No." Her initial response - to the order that she lay down her weapon - is an indication of her feelings about 'authority' even if the uniform and her apparent status in this slum didn't give it away to begin with. "And who are you to ask me questions, blondie? I'm /Nakano/ and this street is /mine/; though for all you know, so's this whole city. We're here to retaliate against people like you-- people who believe they can exert control just because they can throw a fucking punch."
That expletive is in English despite the otherwise free-flowing Japanese. It's a 'thing'.
"What are you here for? Looking for a piece of the Sunshine apple pie, or fighting in the tournament?" Suddenly she emits a heavier snort, one foot sliding forward to simultaneously place her in a sturdier fighting stance, but also sent rubble skittering across the ground. It's something like a bull pawing the dust. "Maybe you lost to someone better and now you think picking on a few useless idiots might make you feel better. You 'heroes' are all the same; blathering about 'good people' and 'justice for all' while all you really want..."
She grins, baring startlingly white teeth against tanned flesh, "Is to justify your own petty existence."
Unbeknownst to the slob, it's quite likely better for him to have been forcibly slipped off to a land of unconsciousness. The air between Andy and this new girl is thick with tension, a heavy air between stubbornly-repressed anger and forced, skin-deep bravado. The man's eyes catch a lot in terms of the physical; there's that brief revulsion that belies her guise. There's no way that such a girl could be who he thought, that she'd be able to drive out the city's unwanted to the surface. Oh, she might easily be able to take down the rank and file one at a time, to enjoy a bit of fun at their expense, but there are serpents the likes of which would consume her with but minimal effort.
Or so he assumes.
"You're not in charge of this city." He finally voices his suspicions aloud. Realizing that she is, in fact, not Zaki herself seems to bleed much of the tension from his shoulders. They pull up immediately, however; even if it's not the girl in question, it doesn't mean that she may not have the capacity for danger. Even the weak show amazing vitality when confronted with life-and-death situations, and if she truly believes him to be a portent of the latter, well...
In truth, for a few seconds, that may indeed be a real possibility. For all of her blather, her words are littered with terrible barbs. The tournament is still fresh in memory; he'd managed to work out some of his frustration on the people in his little search. His bruised cheek flushes with a pumping of blood, a surge in his heartrate. That nerve is still very raw indeed. His arms tense and his fingers curl up into thick, stiffened fists. His brows furrow, his frown deepens. The ire is apparent, percolating dangerously close to the surface.
It takes tremendous willpower to keep from lashing out at this Nakano. Despite a trembling jaw, he forces out a breath: long, slow, and wispy. Deep down, the flames are pushed, stamped, forced down into their tiny jail. All the while, his eyes never leave the girl's, not once. It's almost creepy how fiercely he stares down at her and when he speaks, each word is slow, deliberate, and cautious. "If you think that I'm a hero, you are -terribly- mistaken." He tried, of course. He wanted to be. If the girl only knew how carelessly she was trampling upon tender wounds! Had she not, she might only have to deal with Andy the Uncomfortably Awkward. Now?
"But there isn't a place on this Earth that the girl behind this will be able to hide." Is it a bluff? It's hard to tell whether he honestly feels that he speaks the truth or if he's simply blowing hot air to ease his wounded pride. He certainly looks plenty angry, whichever the case.
Where Andy's ire raises, and runs to deep soul-scars they may never heal, the girl's does so in response to his own less-scathing words; that she doesn't run Sunshine's criminal underbelly is no insult in reality, simply a statement of simple fact that would be obvious from spending more than ten seconds with the girl. As strong of body as she appears, she indeed lacks the overwhelming aura of those who truly rule, and even the disposition is lacking - that she'd balk at violence, even murder, at least visibly...
No, she's not in charge, but she dearly wants to be. His statement causes her lip to curl, a shudder of her own shoulders almost pre-empting a forward charge-- she only stays her instinctive, angry rushdown because of that same casual act she's witnessed moments before. A man who could do that to a brute she'd at most leave sobbing and bloody isn't one with whom she should tangle lightly. But his words sting. Nakano is convinced of the need to believe herself Zaki's equal, that one day she'll surpass and usurp the scarlet-haired sukeban. Her hands close to fists in near-tandem with Andy's, her stare intensifying as she stubbornly maintains eye contact.
It costs her, though. She'd never admit it, not ever, but she's /shivering/.
"If you're no hero, then you must be just another stupid adult standing in our way! Another misguided, egotistical bastard who wants to push his ideals on us. What are you gonna do, big shot?" The demeaning nature of her words isn't carrying convincingly in her voice, but she plows on anyway, even taking a jolting step forward - though maintaining her solid stance, "Take down me, then Zaki, then Abobo? You're going /backwards/, old man, because I'm the one! I'm gonna be bigger and badder than all of them! Am I hiding, huh? Am. I. hiding?"
Spittle flecks her lips now, and she's gaining courage through surging emotion alone, shaking her head wildly.
"Even that dumb bitch isn't hiding from anyone. Maybe she should, to keep away from creeps like you, and the people who put up these posters. We're trying to make this world a better place... and even if she can't carry that on her shoulders, I'll carry it on mine soon enough. Men like you, and men like Abobo, who try to stamp us down and make the rules we should live by, you'll all be under /my/ heel soon enough!"
Suddenly she's lashing out with that chain, coils glinting under the smog-blurred sunlight as they sing through the air toward the Shiranui ninja-- either plowing through him or slamming into the wall behind, it doesn't matter terribly to Nakano; either way she over-extends the blow, too incensed to use proper technique. She's not even treating this like a fight. Simply lashing out, because she's run out of words.
What is he -doing-? Andy Bogard, brother to Terry, adopted son of Jeff... Is this what it's come down to? Nakano's trembling is enough to snuff his flames like little else, for it brings to light the fact that he's staring down a pompous, self-inflated little girl. He's scaring her. The realization is overwhelming at first. His expression softens, his eyes widen. It's a terrible time for the shift in visage, because it just makes him look taken aback by her boastful words. It gives her an edge and, it seems, the bravery to do something very, very stupid.
The flash of metal comes across like a living thing, links clattering as they pull their bretheren along. At nearly the same instant, so too is Andy in motion! His left arm all but disappears from its place at his side. Reflexes, instinct. Call it what you will, but his body responded to the threat faster than most people can blink. His fingers are straight and held together, his palm upward at the end of the outstretched limb. The girl's weapon is curiously light, so much so that it may be disconcerting. Why had it not wrapped around the man? Why is his arm not burdened with the steely grip of chained links?
It takes a couple of seconds for the jingle of chain to be heard behind him as the bulk of the weapon rattles to a stop. In Nakano's hand hangs the remnants of the weapon, its end sliced cleanly. But how? He bears no weapon to be seen. His expression is stern, now masked with a complete absense of whatever emotions may be roiling beneath.
"Go." The single word is spoken with such gravity, such overwhelming confidence. He doesn't -want- to fight her, not anymore, but she doesn't have to know that. "It's not worth it."
Such is the dichotomy that the streets of Sunshine - of any city so stricken by the chaotic warring of troubled children, young and old - forces upon a creature like Nakano. In her hometown she'd be a social irritant at least controlled by her proximity to the place she cares about, deep in the heart she tries to hide from the world; but here, fighting a misguided battle against authority on ground she holds no love for, she wears the mask of an unchained beast over the fragile reality of a girl in search of her identity.
Ironically, her ranting and raving about the men trying to keep her down is accurate. In their passive-aggressive targeting of Zaki and her band, those proclaiming to keep order only worsen the situation, make monsters of the very innocents they purport to protect and serve. She's not a nice person by any stretch, Nakano, just another awkward teenager lashing out at anything and everything, albeit under the tenuous leadership of one who's more distinct amidst the seething pack. But in spite of her demeanour, she's a victim.
It's a fact she may be aware of, beneath it all. And it drives her to ruin.
The chain severs so neatly as to have the desired, alarming effect-- if it took Andy any notable effort, perhaps this would be lessened, but the gesture is so casual in its power that it robs any momentum the raging schoolgirl may have gained from even a misdirected strike. He doesn't simply defend; he removes all possibility of offense, it's a figurative castration that leaves the would-be tough girl stricken.
"I... It..."
But she's got that underlying passion, the drive that won't be denied. A desperate animal doesn't give up and run away-- when cornered it keeps fighting, until the gritty, bloody-nailed last. This accounts for Nakano's sudden, incoherent yell as she throws herself into the same over-extended step, entering a delirious, undisciplined stagger that carries her within striking range of the impassive Shiranui ninja. Her eyes never leave his, watering and bloodshot with uncertainy fury as she throws the scattered remnants of her chain forward along with her fist, a wild blow that's not even aimed for his face; ineffectually it blasts toward the strong muscles of his upper chest, at best landing with a thud that's merely jolting.
"It's always worth it," she gasps out, trying to keep spirit in her tone, "You wouldn't understand!!"
It's this. This is exactly what he was trying to be mindful of earlier. He had fully and truly hoped that his display would get the girl running, but she's too stuck in her quagmire. Sometimes, one just gets so abused by their environment, by people, by themselves to realize that they're on a desctructive path.
It's something that Andy's had to deal with time and again. It's why he spends so much time on his own! Changing oneself is the most difficult thing that he can imagine; it needs constant attention, endless dedication. It also needs an external stimulus to get it moving. For him, it was the height of criminal scum, a monster by all definition. But for Nakano, what could help her? He is not so egotistical to think that he can do it.
The girl's assault is straight-forward, simple. There's an urge to catch her fist, to hold it and send an elbow into her own. Joints are easy to overextend; it's not fatal and when done right, eventually heal. Another option comes with her side. If he can hold her wrist, he'd be able to bring his elbow under it instead. Shattering ribs is usually very dangerous; the shards can puncture lungs and lead to an agonizing, sometimes lethal span of hours. In short, there are myriad ways that Andy's been trained to destroy a body. Retaliating in a way that is not so debilitating is much more difficult.
When one can't (or won't) fight back, the opposite is not always to flee. Turning in a haze of white, red, and blonde, Andy takes a step back and to the side. His heel pins on the dirty ground and both hands clutch the jiggly mass of the man still strung up behind him. He swings the poor slob in Nakano's direction, offering a soft, if disgustingly plush place for her wild swing to find purchase. Ripples abound under his shirt, arcing outward from the point of impact. At the same time, a rope finds itself slung about her wrist, thick and white and made of new nylon. Andy moves about her with all haste, attempting to sling the bonding's length about her body, over her shoulder and down to the other side. If he can manage to bind her so, a pull on the rope will draw it tight, tugging her chain-endowed fist back over her shoulder and down by her spine. The force of such a position is strenuous on a shoulder's socket indeed, especially if a man so intimately knowledgable of destroying a body puts just a little pressure on the captured elbow.
"Go home," he commands now, pushing the girl away before she gets it in her mind to push herself further. He backs off himself, backing up to the wall before squatting low. A mere push of the legs sends him bounding up a story's height, high enough to grip the fire escape above with both hand and foot. Another leap brings him to the roof's edge, his loose hair lifted and pulled by the elevation's brisk wind as he looks down at his previous prey. A hand lifts up to his heart and his arm sweeps out anew, much like before. The rope that had held the fat man tied up is severed in an instant, dropping him to the ground in a miserable heap. In the meantime, Andy is out of sight--but not gone.
It's time to see where this girl goes. She made it seem like there's a lot more to what he thought seemed like a simple thing.
Fight and flight are extremes; often simply impulses, at all the wrong times. When one's life is consumed with idealistic crusade, painted and defined by its violence - however well-intentioned or disciplined that pursuit may be, it still amounts to battle. War never changes. With blatant disregard for the Law of Conservation of Ninjutsu, theoretically providing Nakano with more of a chance than either Bogard or the Seijyun vigilante might imagine, a -second- ninja observes this meeting with more than a passing interest.
For the past week, since his arrival in Sunshine City, Imawano Hyo has made the mazelike slums and industrial zones of Outer Sunshine his home away from home. Behind enemy lines, at least as far as the shinobi (for Justice!) can draw those lines, so far. Ironically, Sunshine City's current plight is nothing if not grey and foggy, as far as the swordsman can see; not that that's stopped the deceptively young warleader from drawing and acting on his own conclusions and hypotheses, though his own action remains decidedly lower impact than that of most 'heroes' stepping into the conflict.
With the exception of a prevented death here or there, Hyo has barely lifted his sword against Abobo's minions, not yet. Instead, he watches them.. and those who fight them. Learns movements, behaviours, perhaps something of motives of those who are so maligned, yet to this falcon's eye... not at all the core of the city's sickness. As evening presses in, promising another night of shadows and shadowy actions, the afternoon sun dropping lower on the horizon, the skyline is broken only in the most subtle of ways, against the setting sun.
One would have to look directly into the nuclear furnace of that accursed daystar to have a chance of catching a glimpse of the meeting's quietest participant, clad in purest black and crouched low upon the edge of the somewhat taller building bordering the one which Bogard uses to effect his vanishing act. Narrowed brown eyes track him through the blurring motions no lesser fighter could /hope/ to follow, settle on the blonde ninja for a lingering moment as he considers Andy's own presence here; presence, alongside the less famous but similarly skilled Bogard's likely motives and his choices this afternoon.
Nakano wouldn't be the first of Zaki's vigilantes that Imawano silently shadowed back towards their nexus, but with Andy Bogard's intercession, it becomes a journey that interests the shinobi once more. It may be a chance to learn more of the chessboard laid out before him, and the myriad of hands eager to move pawns... or overzealously cross the board under unseen guidance. Plus, intersecting ninjutsu -demands- polite, professional curiousity, right?
Passionately delinquent as the Ladies' Team are, they're not completely untrained; even the least of them is taught basic self-defensive techniques that they might survive better on the rough n' tumble streets than if they'd never crossed Zaki's path. The scarlet-haired sukeban doesn't advertise how much she honestly cares for the young women in her seemingly-dubious care, but her own time spent training is habitually focused not on bettering her techniques for her own purposes, but that she might better impart wisdom to others. Nakano's opposition to her leadership renders her less likely to take on board such lessons, but she remains capable; at least when she has her wits about her. Any warrior with sufficient experience knows...
A fight is won not on skill alone, but with one's faculties at their full potential. Allowing emotion to control a blow, forgetting proper technique in favour of desperate violence, these things contribute to render even the greatest martial artist meek and unthreatening. At least by comparison.
The nauseating, wobbling slap as Nakano's fist finds only corpulent flesh packed over a undercurrent of barely-toned muscle is distraction enough in her current state that Andy's ministrations are granted easy access to her person. She's bound and strung almost before she can blink, loosing a whimpering snarl at the punishment inflicted on her striking arm-- but while she may know a little judo to supplement her brawling ways, the muscular schoolgirl can't compete with such excellent control as Bogard has honed in himself.
His command rings in her ears, eliciting a fierce flush of her cheeks as she stumbles and almost falls over the downed form of the flabby thug, barely avoiding a crash into him and subsequently the wall with a scuffing, stumbling writhing of her form. It's undignified and enraging, and she doesn't know when she's beaten. Snarling and cursing, she tries for several, painfully long minutes to free herself, ultimately taking a knee, tears pricking in her eyes and teeth gritting hard enough to send the sharp scream of rubbing enamel through the air.
'Go home'. The crux of this entire issue is.. she's not at home. But there's only place she /can/ go.
Within ten minutes her mind is made, and shaking and stumbling she makes her way through the most abandoned spots she can, slipping through alleyways and across rugged wasteground winding gradually toward the ruinous outskirts of Sunshine's industrial district. In Andy's pursuit across the outer city, he's bound to have heard whispers of the danger lurking there; the fighting has been thickest and most brutal, and nobody on the 'right' side has been able to penetrate more than a scant few yards without disappearing or being forced to retreat. Which makes it all the more alarming that, when they start to approach the gutted building apparently identified as 'home' by the hog-tied South American girl, it's scant yards /from/ the reputed Danger Zone.
As she stumbles her way through, figures pop up from the rubble outlying the one notable structure, variously clad in imitation facemasks or modified Seijyun uniforms, brightly-dyed hair and cheap weapons in mass evidence as curiosity - and the need to defend their territory - brings the Ladies' Team forth. There are perhaps a couple hundred of them, certainly enough to overwhelm anyone seeking entry by force through sheer weight of numbers alone; it quickly becomes obvious how they must be holding this position. Attrition is on their side.
Beyond the thronging, pubescent horde lies Castle Zaki.
A gutted ruin decorated about its broken roof with swathes of tarpaulin held down by nail and brick, it's certainly nothing pretty to look at. What few glass remains in the windows has mostly been broken to allow easy sighting throughout the upper floors, where more faces peer out from the gloom within. The neighbouring buildings seem empty, and one even allows access through a crumbled wall; though of course, it's guarded. Aoi may not be playing a subtle game here, but she's not /stupid/. And Nakano at least is watched all the way.
The sukeban herself occupies a room on the middle floor of the building, sitting in brooding silence with an emptied bowl of rice before her, mask in place and booted feet kicked up as she reclines in what is somehow a predatory fashion. She's alone, insofar as direct company is concerned; and for the first time in days, too, which is why she's simply thinking. Despite her ever-present demeanour of scarcely-contained ferocity, she is actually mellow and relaxed, half dozing even as the cries go up around her makeshift headquarters.
If anyone were going to get close, in her territory, it may be the best chance they'll get.
Following somebody through a section of city infested with idle hands is not exactly a simple thing. Impossible? Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Andy's dear master Hanzo would have been able to stay a step behind Nakano without her ever knowing, he's certain. Obscuring buildings, underground tunnels, hidden doors; none of these tricks would have meant a thing to such a great man. It's a shame that Andy is not yet big enough to fill the man's shoes. Time and again, he thinks he's lost the struggling young girl. He stays on the rooftops, as they seem least plagued with errant ne'er-do-wells. He has to focus almost entirely on her to the point that he doesn't appear to notice the presence of a third player in the ring, and so long as he doesn't interfere, it's likely to stay that way.
The trip toward the Industrial District lends credibility to the reports and stories about the area. The state of buildings and roads grow increasingly worse, but it's nothing once the actual District itself comes into view. Standing at a height of two stories up now, Andy can see firsthand the dangers within, how the streets are thick with gangers and makeshift barricades. How surprising, then, to see poor Nakano move ever closer to it! It seems folly to consider such an environment to harbor a girl like her. The wreckage about her destination ensures that he has to stop more than a buildings' width away from the Castle's concrete-pitted exterior, tucked behind the cover of his roof's ridged brickwork.
Girls. Of course it's girls. A teeming, endless sea of schoolgirls with bright accoutrements and most likely attitudes to match. Bogard lets out a puffy sigh as he sees what he has to deal with. He scans through narrowed eyes, gradually making his way toward the next building over. From rooftop to rooftop, he keeps himself hidden from view as best as he can, taking in the base of operations from all angles. The state of the surrounding buildings is surprising; the obvious point of entry even more so. Are they simply a vanguard? Why are they set apart from the rest of the trash so apparently?
Ah, but these questions aren't going to answer themselves. The sight of the nearly-empty middle floor and its sleepy occupant offers to him a plan. As soon as he thinks it safest, he drops from the rooftop he's on, over the back edge that's away from Her Highness' castle. A cotton-booted foot kicks off the opposing building on his way down, vaulting him into the open window that was just below his vantage point. Slinking about corners, sticking close to the floor, Andy makes his way through the empty building. Abandoned furniture--at least those not wrecked in the violence plaguing the area--offer plenty of places to hide, to peek out from. He eventually comes to the hole torn between buildings: the easy point of entry. The presence of guards, while not entirely unexpected, is frustrating. The man's brow furrows as he considers how to get past the trio. He knows that he can take two out, but the other could easily cause havoc and bring the whole group coming down on him. But again, if these girls are anything like Nakano, he doesn't want to hurt them too badly. What to do?
His patience is rewarded by what sounds like an urge for a bathroom trip. As one student goes, the other two are left alone. It's a chance that may not come again for some time...so he capitalizes upon it! Blazing out from about the corner, the blonde man rushes one of the girls elbow-first in a haze of shadow-obscured white and red. Strands of hair drift over his shoulder as his rigid joint presses in on one of the girls' throats, compressing her windpipe beneath it. Stopping before cracking her neck is not an easy thing; unfortunately, it still hurts like hell. In the same moment, his other arm snaps out, gripping the other guard's neck. The heel of his palm pushes against her throat as well, but the tip of his thumb digs into her carotid artery. The combination of oxygen loss to both the lungs and brain bring a much faster trip to dreamland.
After both girls are down, the infiltration can actually begin. Slipping through the gap between buildings, the Human Weapon sticks low and slinks quietly. Slipping from corner to corner, using the cover of rubble to his advantage, he soon makes his way to the very room that the wanted woman has deemed safe enough to rest in. En route, the occasional guard is disposed of similarly to the first two, but the man should be quick. It won't be long before they're discovered. A peek is taken through a doorway before he slips in. His steps are silent, even given the ruined state of the floor beneath him. His target is closer, closer...
With luck, the first thing that will clue Zaki in to Andy's presence is his hand before her mouth. If he can get his other hand to her throat, complete with fingertips pressed against her artery, then he may find himself in a position favorable to him.
"Stay quiet," he says in a harsh whisper. "We need to talk."
[1;34mZaki drops Zachsplosion.
Again, such relative scant training as these mere girls have is very little use compared to the sharpened technique of a warrior like Andy Bogard; his additional decade of experience well mounting to more like three considering the unerring focus he places upon his studies. There are very few fighters in the world, period, who can compete with him on a purely physical level, when all that matters is trained instinct and absolute body control. On more level terms, perhaps the two could slow him for a few minutes, but here...
Two dull thumps resonate around the building, easily lost in the rabblesome uproar as Nakano is brought back into the lower level and hurriedly untied amidst the cruel cajoling chortles of her gangmates. The news has already filtered to Zaki by means of all the yelling alone-- in her solitudinous chamber she can hear most of what happens in the building, and thanks to the miracle of acoustics even some way outside of it. It plays against her here, because she sees no reason to rise; knowing well that this will come to her, in time.
She's no psychic, and no ninja. There is the background hint of a footfall just before the blonde shinobi's hand appears with abrupt, seamless grace before the shrouded lower half of her face, but even as her muscles tense to react to /that/ it's far too late. Zaki is fearless only because she's aware of her own strength-- there are limitations there too, but the number of men who could simply end her in one stroke are perilously few in number, perhaps as few as might leave Andy in the dust. Still, there's a flash of alarm, vulpine blue eyes flashing sidelong as her heart pounds heavy in her breast. Her raised legs slide down, clamping to the ground instinctively before halting any further movement, whe nshe becomes aware of the pressing fingers.
And another heartbeat later, she lets out a dry, dark chuckle.
"And what if I don't?" Her voice booms deep behind the thick leather of her mask, uninhibited by Andy's palm-- the material is too tough, the buckles binding it warding off any external stimulus from her face. It's the source of her amusement, though this is aided only further by her carelessness at the danger she's in. For Aoi Himezaki, life is a battlefield; one more moment in peril does not scare her in the slightest. "Even with the power to threaten me, you're surrounded. Or am I supposed to believe all those voices I hear belong to dead girls? Tch." She sounds almost casual, as though she were seated in the canteen with an annoying acquaintance.
"Talk, then. Last I checked, this was still a free country. You Abobo's man?"
Whoever he is, she's decided, this is the most danger she's ever going to be in. If he wanted to do more than talk, he'd be doing it.
The moment that Andy's hand came across Aoi's mask, a fleck of panic gripped him. Now knowing it impossible to shut her up completely, every muscle in his body tenses, waiting for the inevitable scream and the following swarm that would pour into the room afterward. But it's her fearlessness, her desicion to do completely the opposite is what's truly unnerving. The infiltrator knows full well that he could have the whole place coming down on him. At best, he might be able to escape out a window and make a run for it. With luck, he's faster than the group. Such a commotion would surely draw the attention of the rabble congregated mere yards away, sparking a skirmish unto himself.
Perhaps he should have thought a bit more about this, but the strands of fate seem to welcome his whims...at least today.
Even so, he maintains his grip on the girl's jaw, even going so far as to pull her head back more. If nothing else, he can try to keep her from rising up. Ah, so optimistic! "I'm...not here on anybody's behalf." Despite the tension, there's a hint of wavering in his words. He's here...but now what? Does he really think that he can drag this girl back to Inner Sunshine? Oh, no. Not on his life. He lets the matter of living and death pass. Time may well be of the essence. "I want to know what happened. You're wanted for starting this city's death, but it doesn't make /sense/. I met one of yours and she's not the kind to start a criminal uprising."
[1;34mZaki drops Hamada.
Hesitance. It's not precisely what Aoi would expect from someone who's crept into her inner sanctum, bypassing at least several dozen over-eager young women - likely more - and slipped a hand around her mouth. Which incidentally isn't something she's entirely pleased about, but she makes no sign of attempting to actually say that; that she's already rattled her would-be aggressor by being so utterly careless of his presence is all part of the game, as is the slow, languid movement with which she allows her head to be pulled back. Beneath the mask, she's even smiling, though it doesn't reach her piercing, baleful stare. It very rarely does.
"'Criminal uprising', is it?" She echoes reflectively, voice as bizarrely calm as it is forbidding. Even in such a predicament, Zaki manages to sound utterly convinced of her superiority, as implacably strong as Geese Howard or Wolfgang Krauser. "Perhaps you should stop looking for 'sense' and start looking at what's around you. Half my girls attend Seijyun High, in Southtown; if you'd care to look at me for a second from the /front/ you'd see that I do, too. A man who does his research... he'd know exactly who I am and wouldn't need to look."
She clears her throat, a basso rumble ill-suited of a mere seventeen-year old girl. Even one with such a darkly defiant dress code, wearing a well-greased steel chain to keep back the jagged sweep of her crimson ponytail. There's nothing quite right about Zaki, especially in this light.
"The authorities don't read between those lines because they don't want to. They need scapegoats, they need to pretend this city's problems can be resolved with a couple of overbearing adults and a jail cell. Maybe a few bloodied teenagers sent packing back to their wealthy parents. But do you /really/ think a pack of girls just learning to deal with their fucking period pains," Confrontational in the extreme, she knows she's going somewhere most men just aren't comfortable with, and she revels in it, "Could bring a city to its knees? Heh. If you do, you'd be right; but that's not why we're here, Ninja Gaiden. We're here to fight back."
Slowly she tips her head back even further, straining against his grasp just enough - if she needs to - that she can at least let him see her blazing blue eyes in the darkness. She doesn't care what he looks like; just needs to be sure that he sees her, the conviction and the inner flame. The savage resolve that drives her through life, and will get her out of this no matter what he intends to do next.
"You want to try and stop us removing the rot from this pus-drenched sinkhole? Give it your best damn shot. If you're some kind of misplaced Samaritan and really give two shits about the people of this city, then back off and take your retarded snap judgements with you. Hell, try for a career in politics; last I checked, governments love a guy who stamps down on the new and the outrageous without stopping to think."
Ninja...what? Andy's brow furrows at the phrase. She thinks that this is some sort of side story? That what's happening here isn't important? Half of what Zaki says doesn't make sense; it reeks of misplaced (though not exactly undeserved) anger. On that emotion, at least, the two seem to share some common ground. The man realizes that holding his 'captive' back bears no more meaning once she leans back to stare at him. His array of bruises has grown in number since the beginning of the day; some lucky pipes have found their way to his features more than once, not to mention more bruising beneath his clothes. The shared look tells volumes, though, more than outward bravado can say.
Releasing the leader of the crude girl-gang, Andy draws his hands away. He takes great care to slip out of arm's reach, however, keeping himself between Zaki and the nearest point of exit. It's easy to see him now, with eyes accustomed to darkness; his bright outfit stands out more than a little. The distance, however, helps to calm his nerves. When he speaks, the waver in his voice is gone.
"I know that. I /know/. Southtown was once the same way. A city doesn't rot like this in the span of a month, or even a year." He speaks as low as he can; always keeping the door on the edge of his vision. He doesn't want people to hear -him- speaking. He continues, staring back at the masked princess with the best look of utter stoicism that he can manage, unconsicously answering the girl's mask with one of his own. "I didn't say -anything- about stopping you." There's a moment's pause as he mentally gathers what he'd seen from outside: the division of forces, the state of the buildings, the crude bandages adorning some of Zaki's apparent fighters. Anyone with sight and the most rudimentary of intellects can see the problems piling upon themselves. If nothing else, this girl is surprisingly forthright. He had imagined needing to dig harder. Perhaps it really is just a problem of sweeping things away, and if that's the case, then...
"No, I think that you have the right idea. You have to have a better plan than this." Ah, the nerve! To sneak into someone's place, threaten them, and then insult their tactics? Aoi certainly must have a kind heart if she doesn't turn on him outright. A hand comes up to cup his chin, the thumb dragging back and forth along the cheekbone that still hasn't regained its feeling.
'Grow'. That's what Aoi Himezaki was told to do by the staggeringly powerful, obsidian-skinned foe she faced atop a raging volcano; it's the strangest circumstance from whence one could hope to gain insight, but such as it is, it's served her well. Tasting a string of bitter defeats at the hands of men she could not hope to stand with much more than she did - a span more flatteringly measured in seconds, not minutes - has only enthused the scarlet-haired sukeban with a greater strength of purpose. Where she was content to sit and smoulder in Southtown, a big fish in a small pond, when trouble came calling...
Well. She was forthright. That's served her well, too, from the extension of her foray into Sunshine City to the allies she has won along the way - every victory, however dubious that tag may seem in the now, has brought to closer to realizing the dream she's held for many years. Since donning the mask. Keeping her ideals shrouded beneath a choking veil of leather and steel does her no favours, brings her no nearer to the future she wants. Throwing it into the light of day, though, to the right person at the right time?
It's made every bit of difference so far. It won't be easy, but this is the way.
On the outside, however, she seems more implacable still than her words have suggested. When Andy releases her, she just barely shifts for the sake of comfort, waiting for his distance to be gained before standing in a single, lithe upthrust of her toned frame. An acrobat's carefully sculpted muscle shifts beneath the dark veneer of her uniform, the ludicrous heels she wears creaking a gentle protest as they take her weight. She's large, for a Japanese schoolgirl, actually standing an inch above Bogard on those stilettoed boots.
It only adds to her aura as she stares at him sidelong, considering with a hard, unyielding gaze.
"No," she says then, voice surprisingly soft and the word delivered with a disarming air of concession, rather than denying the truth of his words. "We can't win like this." A gloved hand swoops outward, sleeve flapping as it comes to rest beside her, fingers unfurling to gesture about the room-- but she clearly means the building, the outlying girls, everything. Her arm lowers, and vulpine eyes flare with something halfway between defiance and amusement. "But this isn't the 'plan'. This is a staging ground. Beyond this point is where the fighting's been thickest, where the man at the heart of this trouble skulks, surrounded by too many scumbags to simply /beat/ into submission. We tried that. I tried that. The cost was..."
She pauses, sucking in a breath between her unseen teeth.
"Too high. Would've been worse, too. I fucked up. But see, I've got something dear to my heart, and that's a fixation on making this world /better/; everywhere I look, people grind away for nothing, forced to assume roles they don't want out of some perceived necessity. Out of greed and selfishness. The way the world is run, the way it's kept stagnant and unchanging, is wrong. You don't change that by sitting and waiting. Same as I'd never have made a difference to anywhere - Southtown, Sunshine, it doesn't fucking matter - by standing around moaning about it. When Abobo's men struck out, I struck back. I've bloodied their nose. That's stage one."
Suddenly she takes a step forward, hands swaying to her hips as she lifts her chin, staring down at Andy as she steps - should he not mirror her motions - just inside easy striking distance. It's an arrogant show of how unafraid she remains, and of how little she cares for his comfort.
It's a show of dominance.
"Stage two? We're working on that. You think all I've got with me is a few hundred children in need of some direction? Right now, there's people combing this city for answers. There's not as many of us as there could be, but no revolution ever started huge. It only takes a few people to change the world; the rest follow suit. So what about you? You want to remove this taint, you want to 'help'? Beneath this city, there's a lurking power that runs to the very heart. Something old, that shouldn't be disturbed. Black wings unfurl."
Beneath the mask, her mouth curls to a bleak smile, her eyes creasing at the edges in response.
"You're telling me a person like you can't feel that? And you come here telling me /I'm/ the stupid one?"
There is just something not right about this whole thing. Roughing up some unsavory sorts? Stalking a schoolgirl? Slipping into a well-protected fortress and meeting one-on-one with its glorious leader? That's fine. It's a day in the life of spies and sleuths. But Zaki, her...her presence, her attitude, her speeches. Everything feels rehearsed. It is certainly not the speech and outlook of a high school girl. At least, not any high school girl that he's met or read about. Come to think of it, he doesn't actually know that many high school girls.
Were it not for the fact that her overbearing demeanor is actually working, that it's something that Andy doesn't feel comfortable dealing with, well...the previous is a thought that doesn't make itself known. He stands up as she comes closer, even taking a step back with the intent to stay just out of harm's reach. He, of all people, shouldn't fear this woman, but the danger surrounding him coupled with her pushy attitude have got his tension high, his caution maxed. He tries his best to keep his neutral expression, but there's a crook of his brow, a twitch that threatens to tug down on the corners of his lips that betray him.
Nevertheless, he remains silent throughout her speech. This is exactly what he came here for: an explanation, a meaning. Granted, it is not a meaning that's the most helpful; it's just a piece that's fallen into place, an indication that things are so much larger than was expected. "Stop," he says suddenly, bringing a hand before him. He means to keep his personal space personal, even as the door looms ever closer behind him. His other hand rises to his temple, his fore- and middle fingers touching against the edge of his temple. There's a slight wince and a wet, sharp sucking of air between teeth, however, as he'd forgotten about the purple splotch marring it still. "This 'Abobo'. Where can I find -him-?"
Andy does not seem to be one to take the roundabout route so lightly. There is obvious comradery here, in a sense, but can the Bogard brother be made to see things that Zaki does? It's a task that's only hampered by her yammerings of black wings and old powers; these things are but legend, stories, and only make him wonder if this delinquent may be cracking under the stress of her situation after all.
"No, I--what? I didn't call anybody stupid. I don't know what you're talking about." He takes another step back, eager to retreat. With increasing evidence of the lady's imbalance, the dark room--usually a comforting thing and useful thing--threatens with malice.
Rehearsed, and well, indeed. Thousands of hours spent in moody teenage solitude before a mirror have honed Aoi Himezaki into the domineering, vicious shadow she presents to the world, time spent deepening her voice and working on projecting each booming syllable just right-- on making her stare piercing in just the right way. It's a triumph amongst conceits, though, rarely bettered by anyone at such a young age; and for all the work that's gone into it, it comes naturally now. It takes work to be anybody else, even for a moment. Her insistence on using the shortened form of her name, those two heavy syllables, is inspired by more than pride.
Aoi /is/ Zaki. Zaki isn't Aoi but in the most historic sense.
But for all her apparent need to intimidate Andy, she does stop, albeit a single step after she's asked. Just enough to keep him guessing, to force him to reassess his intent toward her-- toward himself. If he could see her face he'd see a grin spreading now that's almost Cheshire, though all that happens visibly is her eyes crinkle all the more, those blazing vulpine slits only growing in intensity. She could be getting angry.
"You don't find Abobo," is her reply as she halts, disregarding his final protest in favour of addressing what she feels matters. One hand remains on her right hip as the other lifts to the base of her leather mask, a thumb tracing what would be her jawline. "Because that's what we're doing. You want to try and make it through that metal hell out there? Then go, but I wouldn't advise it. If you're not good enough to make it past a single round in the tournament," her eyes flash-- is she guessing well, or does she have a finger on the pulse after all? "You won't make it through there alone. Take my advice and walk away, old man."
Slowly she exhales, tapping her index finger against a heavy buckle before her arm lowers, hanging loose.
"But I'm not getting rid of you that easily, am I? So I'll tell you what. There's a man in Sunshine named Daniel Jack; a detective, whose purposes just happen to match my own. You hunt him down and maybe you can do some good together-- without /either/ of you getting your damn fool selves killed. How does that sound?" That hangs there as her stare slips upward faintly, as though she were bored, though it's a means of sneaking in a proper sweep of Andy's frame. She hasn't really scanned him for detail yet - fixating on the eyes.
"You're hurt," she notes with a careless side-glance, the first time her penetrating stare has been diverted since she began advancing across the room. Her hand twitches out with similar nonchalance, gesturing toward the door through which girl's voices still filter. It's really a wonder nobody has come up here yet, though while it could be a deception of the mind... it does seem on occasion as if someone draws close. The question is, how protective are the sukeban's subordinates, and how far would she go to mollify them? One alone may be no match, two even, but with their numbers and the unpredictable element of Zaki herself...
If she's willing to go to any length to preserve her image, the situation could be dire.
"If you want help with that," her voice softens almost imperceptibly, carrying a languid undercurrent that still ultimately attests that she's not truthfully bothered about this powerful blonde man who's apparated into her company as though from thin air. "We've got supplies. Bandages, ointment, food and drink if you want it." Which seems to preclude immediate violence, though there's still a /glint/ in her eye, fierce and challenging as she meets his gaze with an inquisitive tip of her head, jagged ponytail lashing behind her.
The fact that she stops is enough. She's still close--closer than he'd like--but she did stop. His hand slowly draws back, the hand coming to rest upon his hip. Once before, just an hour ago in fact, another girl stomped right on his memory of the recent loss. In this situation, however, it's more a sobering thing. Deep behind the veil of his eyes can scarcely be seen an ire that he forces down. To his credit, there's not even a twitch of his brow at it's mention. If nothing else, the levelling of his emotional state helps to solidify the emotionless masque.
And who is she calling OLD?
Without even realizing it himself, Andy's posture has straightened. Standing at his full height, the digging of verbal fingers has helped to plug much of the seeping discomfort. "You asked what I wanted," he says quietly. His chest swells with a deep draw of breath. "I want the people behind this city's problems to pay." To suffer, maybe? That depends on the person, on the crime. In any case, there must be vengeance. There must be something to show others that would seek to undo such a paradise the price of their chaos.
"I'll worry about making my way around," he says, lifting his chin up as he rebuffs the offer of both warning and first aid. Never having been one to ask for help in the first place, his stubborn tenacity to move on his own could be the biggest mistake he'll make today...and considering where he's standing, it is certainly not the first. Even now, he ignores the threat of Zaki herself, thinking her not to be one to him anymore, and opens the door just enough to peer outside. As expected, a number of the girl's he'd incapacitated are already starting to rouse, though the fact that there hasn't been a clamor from others finding them knocked out is more than a little surprising. Just how much trust do these girls have in their leader?
"I'll take your advice, but only because this all needs to stop." As he speaks, he takes a long path around Zaki herself, heading toward the nearest window. Pulling aside the strip of tarp that's keeping the light out. "Just...don't do anything reckless." Hypocritical, of course, considering. Mere seconds later, he disappears from the broken portal, hopping to grip the ledge of the windowsills a floor above...and from there, it's a careful crawl to one of the adjacent buildings. He is obviously trying to attract as little attention as possible on his way out.
It's all part of the effect she intends to have, that digging, the insidious hammering of verbal nails. That Andy Bogard weathers it with such dignity speaks well of him-- though outwardly she shows no particular shift in her mood since this rather peculiar meeting began, Aoi has earned a degree of respect for him. Not enough to suggest an alliance, nor any greater assistance than she's offered. He's... not her type, not her kind, and without being pressed she feels no need even to explain this. He doesn't press. Doesn't push.
She appreciates that, even if she's not necessarily impressed.
"As you like," she murmurs unconcernedly, acknowleding his reply to her offer with a single-shouldered shrug that sets a gentle jangling in motion somewhere about her person, the faintest tinkle of polished steel links. As the shinobi turns away, she doesn't shift an inch, watching him with a roll of vulpine eyes, as placid and yet watchful as a lioness in repose. "Take care not to disturb anything. If they attack you..."
She lets that hang for a second or two before finishing with a snort, "I'll not stop them."
Why she feels that way is left as mysterious as so much else; either she wouldn't object to the ninja being rendered a non-concern or thinks her charges could benefit from a good workout. Perhaps she merely loves violence and brutality as much as rumour and the array of damning propaganda flooding the streets would suggest - this is certainly the kind of building where the worst of thugs would choose to lurk, gloomy and stained with deep rust, perfect for concealing the fresh smear of blood. For skulking away from society's prying eye. But there's surely more to Aoi than that, and it's what makes her incline her head at Andy's final bidding, before he takes his alternate route out; a wise and brave decision. Brave, not stupid. There's a difference.
"I won't if you won't. Fight well."
Her own farewell isn't mocking, despite the possible jibe toward his performance in the Trial of the Dragon; but she genuinely means it, for what it's worth. They may not be allies but they work toward a collective goal, they share a common bond forged in fire and steel. As a warrior, she has to offer him some due. There's an element of camaraderie ringing in her tone to reflect it, the closest Aoi ever gets to sharing pleasantry with one she has no particular love for. Which is as close as 99.9% of the population will ever come.
Zaki certainly isn't a nice person, but she may not be a bad one after all.
Log created on 13:12:07 06/19/2012 by Zaki, and last modified on 22:25:25 06/19/2012.