(no subject)
Who: Spike Spiegel [ 7livesleft ] & Namae [ feverhound ]
What: A match. Of sorts.
Where: The docks.
When: Shortly after [ this ]
For as long as he can remember, it's always been a matter of staying alive, surviving, proving his strength, tearing everything apart to keep himself in one piece. No more weaknesses, no more cracks, no more leaving his back towards people who could too-easily stab him. And so, for Namae, this city and all its peace-addled idiots really does nothing more than piss him off.
Which is why this little challenge might be a decent little change of pace. Not that he knows much about the white knight that called him out -- but what does it matter? Names, identities, shit like that doesn't count for much in the long run -- all that matters is the outcome, right?
And so Namae waits at the docks, seated on one of the concrete stumps that are meant for people to tie their boats to. Watching still water is second only to sitting on high rooftops on Namae's list of 'good ways to waste time when there's nothing entertaining going on,' and so he waits quietly, cigarette smoke wafting past him in ribbons. Idly tapping the end of the familiar lead pipe against the edge of the dock, maintaining a tight one-handed grip at its base.
What terrible manners, to keep an opponent waiting like this.
What: A match. Of sorts.
Where: The docks.
When: Shortly after [ this ]
For as long as he can remember, it's always been a matter of staying alive, surviving, proving his strength, tearing everything apart to keep himself in one piece. No more weaknesses, no more cracks, no more leaving his back towards people who could too-easily stab him. And so, for Namae, this city and all its peace-addled idiots really does nothing more than piss him off.
Which is why this little challenge might be a decent little change of pace. Not that he knows much about the white knight that called him out -- but what does it matter? Names, identities, shit like that doesn't count for much in the long run -- all that matters is the outcome, right?
And so Namae waits at the docks, seated on one of the concrete stumps that are meant for people to tie their boats to. Watching still water is second only to sitting on high rooftops on Namae's list of 'good ways to waste time when there's nothing entertaining going on,' and so he waits quietly, cigarette smoke wafting past him in ribbons. Idly tapping the end of the familiar lead pipe against the edge of the dock, maintaining a tight one-handed grip at its base.
What terrible manners, to keep an opponent waiting like this.