[Log]Dante Sparda, Kenpachi Zaraki
Title: Are You Impressed Yet?
Characters: Dante Sparda (gogochan), Kenpachi Zaraki (kellenanne)
Timeline: April 11, 1950
Rating: PG
Summary: Kenpachi can't help but notice the young man making himself comfortable in the dojo.
Kenpachi had been reduced to actually sweeping the damned floors. None of the rubes that passed for employees had done their jobs and he refused - refused, damn it all - to let Yachiru even try. He'd have to replace the floor and that made him more irritated than sweeping it. So, he'd gotten the broom out.
He'd gotten about halfway through the job when he'd been waylaid. His shoulder had bumped a punching bag and that was it: the broom went to the floor and the bag got beaten.
Far more entertaining than sweeping dirt anyway, and fuck if sweeping couldn't wait for one of his employees to actually do something. Maybe he'd get to beat on one of 'em with the broom.
Three punches with his right - he really needed someone to hold the damn bag - and then a quick jab from his left. Few more sets and he spun, handing the bag a kick, and frowning. Damn thing may be more entertaining then sweeping, but it was far from the real thing. Right, right, left, whatever. The sets didn't matter anymore. He was just hitting it to hit something.
It had been easy, really. Too easy. The dumb mug had been packin' some strange heat. Not just roscoes, but make-shift Molotovs and other cracker-jack explosives. Not to mention the three attack dogs.
Dante hadn't wanted to plug the pooches. Doin' so just seemed cruel. Wasn't the doggies' fault that their master had worse aim than a one-eyed pre-schooler with a bad case of palsy. Wasn't their fault that he'd already taken one slug to each shoulder and one through the wrist, effectively severing his right hand. Wasn't their fault that Dante was the surest shot this side of the Ozarks. Hell, come to the think of it, the gutsy, gunslingin' gumshoe might be the best shot in the whole wide world. He could squirt metal into those snarlin' mutts with his eyes closed.
But where was the fun in that?
"C'mere, Fidos, c'mon..." he'd taunted, bouncing back and forth in a boxer's stance before taking a few stabs at the air. "Time for your walkies~" The dogs had crept closer, moving together as if they were truly one beast and not three. Dante had grinned, pleased as rum punch that the night wouldn't be a complete waste nor the job a complete bore.
Two dogs lunged as one. The first took a pistol-whip to the windpipe, prompting a strangled cry as it hacked and coughed to catch its breath. The other took a hard cuff to the jaw, followed by the butt of Ivory smashed between its yellow eyes. A strong kick for the coughing one, and a quick shot to blow off the other one's tail had both whelps yelpin' as they limped to safety.
The third mutt had slunk around to Dante's back. The sharp-shooter knew it was there, and had swung around just as the fleabag made its move. The first two had gone for his arms. This hound aimed straight for the white-haired hellraiser's throat. In that instant, instinct took over. Dante sighed as the big canine crumpled at his feet, its bright eyes registering pain and shock for a brief moment before registering nothing at all.
The insolent Sparda twin had shoved the girls back in their holsters and trudged over to where his mark lay bleeding, the punk's lifeblood nearly invisible against the dark grain of the dirty street. Dante hadn't needed to see the fear in the man's eyes. Hell, he could smell it.
"I don't normally take these kinda gigs," he'd said, kicking the palooka's severed paw across the alley, just because he could. "But I needed the money." Dante pulled the odd, prickly weapon from the queer's other hand and gave it a few cursory swings. Nunchuckas? Hmm... Not like any he'd seen before. "...And you needed killing."
"Who are you? What are you?" The low-down, no-good gee had asked, having enough sense, or at least enough pride, to not grovel for his life.
"Who knows?" Dante had answered with a smirk and a shrug. "I'm not even sure myself, sometimes." What he did know was that this dirty dog wasn't even worth another of his bullets. Nor did he want the bo's filthy blood all over his sword. The normally loquacious libertine was in no mood for conversation. A heavy stomp on the sicko's larynx had shut him up for good, allowing the young Sparda to rifle through the scumbag's pockets in peace. He grabbed the goon's gat, a long shiv, and anything else that could be pawned, along with his wallet, to prove that the job had been done. The nunchuckas he'd be keeping for himself.
Dante moseyed through the dark streets, swinging the nunchuckas almost casually, surprised at how easy it was to bend the formidable, pronged weapon to his will. "Too easy~" he muttered, spinning around as he twirled his deadly new toy with increasing confidence. Yeah... These nunchuckas would be fun to play with with. Too bad he didn't have a playmates nearby. Or maybe he did...
Before the white-haired, whip-tongued gunslinger knew it, he was at the door of Zaraki Dojo. Perfect.
"Hey there," he called, after letting himself in. "I heard this was the place to be if you're dizzy for a fight. Or a spar. ...Whatever you wanna call it." Dante slung the nunchuckas over his shoulder, smirking as the white, metal prongs clanged against the cold, hard steel of his over-sized sword. "I got a new toy that's needs tryin' out. If anyone's game to play..."
Someone came into the dojo, and Kenpachi paused in his workout. Bag could probably use the rest, anyway. He gave it a disgusted glance; almost no use hitting something that couldn't defend itself, but it was better than sweepin' the damned floor. He stepped to the side, shaking out his hands, and gave the newcomer a once-over.
Heh. Young. Confident. Brash. Kenpachi knew the type. Half a dozen a week came into the dojo looking for action. They usually left cryin' for their mum. If they could still speak, that was. This one carried a bit different weaponry than most others - sword, nunchunkas. Prob'ly had a gun or fourteen stashed under that coat.
Kenpachi crossed his arms, perusing the man from head to toe and back. Maybe. Prob'ly not. "Prove ya can play," he said, "and you might get a seat at this table."
WOW. Just...wow. Dante had heard rumors about Kenpachi Zaraki; all sorts of things, really. Like...Kenpachi was a blood-thirsty, berserker giant who lived to fight and felt no pain, that he wore blades in his hair and eye-patch over one eye, and that the fierce ex-cop was unapologetic anarchist who laughed like a devil whenever he got shot or stabbed. People said that the owner of Zaraki Dojo was different, eccentric...and definitely dangerous.
All in all, he sounded like Dante's kinda guy.
Not that kinda guy, you perv. Get yer mind outta the gutter! More like Kenpachi Zaraki was good people--a man with guts and honor. The kinda man a sword-swingin', gunslingin' guy like Dante Sparda could respect. And now that the sarcastic sharp-shooter had gotten a good look at him... Well, in terms of appearance, the man definitely lived up to the legend.
Zaraki was huge. Huge! And sure enough, he was wearing an eye-patch. Just like a pirate! Or, like a blood-thirsty, berserker giant who lived to fight and felt no pain.
But his hair... It was nearly indescribable. Long, stiff, jet black spikes stuck straight up in the air, almost as if Zaraki had gotten electrocuted, and his hair simply decided to stay that way. Dante couldn't take his eyes off it. He scanned the strangely spiky locks for evidence of blades, knives, shivs, shanks, or anything else that brings forth blood. Hell, even a diaper pin was dangerous enough when held correctly and jammed with force into someone's eye.
Ooh. And there it was. Or, rather, there they were. Something...silver and shiny at the very top of each spike. What could they be? Ever the curious man-child, the new nunchukas were temporarily forgotten by the novelty of something, well, novel. And shiny. Dante couldn't resist inching closer and cocking his head to get a better look. The fact that he was staring, wide-eyed and slightly slack-jawed, didn't cross his mind.
Those silver things... Were they ampules of poison? Maybe. Come to think of it, the wild hairstyle didn't look so different from a porcupine's quills...
Wait. Did the big guy's hair just make noise? It was faint, but... Holy shit. There it was again: a pretty sound, like a wind chime, or when a pampered cat shook her well-bred head.
No. No way could this guy, Mr. Supermasculine One-Eyed Ex-Pirate Anarchist Warrior, be wearing bells in his hair.
"Hey," Dante said, tapping a long, calloused finger against the smooth skin of his chin, "Your hair... I like it! But, uh, those aren't bells, are they? Up on the top of each, um..." The bounty hunter wrinkled his fair brow for a moment as he searched for the best word to describe the dojo owner's coiffure. "...Chunk? Spike? Quill?"
Might as well just let him stare. Kenpachi stood quietly, arms crossed and definitely ready to defend his person should the young man decide to be stupid. (And weren't they all stupid?) They'd stare anyway, and it wasn't like it bothered Kenpachi any. Hell if he didn't actually like it sometimes.
Everybody stared. Nobody asked.
'Cept this kid. Now that was different. New and different and almost fun, if only because it hadn't really happened before.
"Course," he answered, uncrossing his arms. If the boob couldn't figure out why, he wasn't explainin' nothing. He gestured vaguely toward the man. "Nunchunkas and a bright red coat, eh, kid? What look you going for?" Looked like John Wayne sporting more 'n just bad hairpiece. The city was full of strange folk, but Kenpachi wasn't sure what Numb-chuck here was trying to pull.
"What game are you playing?"
Dante treated the big man to an impish grin.
"What game?" The spirited chuckle matched the sparkle in his eyes. "My own game, of course." Two steps back as Dante reached for the nunchukas at his shoulder. The white metal felt good in his hands, and swung fluidly, easily, over his head. "Dante Sparda's Game of Life. ...I play it every day."
The new weapon twirled and arced, as beautiful as it was deadly. Not the same as his guns, of course. They were his babies; his girls.
As cocky as he was, the white-haired hellion wasn't trying to show off. Not really. Dante didn't need an audience to make a scene. Here and now, he was just a boy, testing out his new toy.
One arm of the nunchukas fwapped against the small of his back. A shift of the shoulder, a turn of the wrist, and then another hit with a slap against the thick of his thigh. Defensive maneuvers...though Dante would have to learn to defend himself from the lethal prongs that turned each end of the nunchukas into a medieval-style mace.
There it was again: the faint jingle of bells. The bounty hunter stilled his weapon and let it slip from his grasp to the floor. Sky blue eyes narrowed, crinkled, and then beamed.
"For whooom the bells tollll..." Dante crooned in the overly ominous voice common to low-budget horror flicks. Cheesy delivery aside, the Sparda brat looked right pleased with himself. "My brother would be proud...or amazed, maybe, that I remembered that line."
His attention returned full force to the silver edges of Zaraki's hair. "Speaking of my brother..." Dante took a step forward again. Mischief sprung from his voice, creeping up his fair face to dance in his eyes. "He's my twin--identical. Though I'm better looking, of course." Could never resist that last line...
"His hair is just like mine, but he wears it back--whoosh!" A gloved hand raked through baby-fine hair. One second, maybe two, and the soft, moonlit strands gave in to gravity. "He must use a quart of pomade a day..."
Dante fished an old flask from the depths of his coat. "I came here lookin' to fight. And I'd love to know if the rumors are true--'bout that eye-patch...and you." He took a long draught from the flask, letting the hooch roll under his tongue. "But I'd settle for the secret that's hidden in your hair."
A half-cocked grin slid across his face; his signature sly Sparda smile. "The bells...spikes...the whole kit n' caboodle. Vergil works s'damn hard to look different from me--his twin."
Dante offered the flask to Kenpachi. "If I could get my hair to whoosh back, and stay off my face like his, but have it look, hehehee, like yours..."
No more words, just the slap of a knee and the bright peal of laughter.
The kid certainly couldn't focus on one thing, and Kenpachi couldn't help but grin widely when his gaze kept wandering back to the bells in his hair. The bells were doing their job.
He took the flask, shaking his head lightly - more so because it was an excuse to move the bells - and motioning to the nunchukas the kid dropped on the floor. "Ain't no way to treat a serviceable weapon."
He met that sly smile with his own wide, toothy grin. Kid walking in, playing around, enjoying life; Kenpachi ain't gonna mock that. 'Sides, there seemed to be enough mocking going on, what with the kid going off on that twin brother of his. Not that Kenpachi cared one way or the other, but he had to admit that this kid strolling in and laughing and asking about his hair was quite the change of pace.
He took a quick drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So... Ya' wanna know about the bells, huh?" He rolled his neck, setting them to jangling again, and laughed loudly.
Dante laughed right along with him. "You bet I do!"
He took the flask back and gave it a quick shake, frowning slightly when he realized it was gettin' near empty. "Although," he said, "Between you, me, n' that punching bag, I'm bettin' this secret warrants more booze."
And with that, the sly Sparda pulled out flask number two.
Characters: Dante Sparda (gogochan), Kenpachi Zaraki (kellenanne)
Timeline: April 11, 1950
Rating: PG
Summary: Kenpachi can't help but notice the young man making himself comfortable in the dojo.
Kenpachi had been reduced to actually sweeping the damned floors. None of the rubes that passed for employees had done their jobs and he refused - refused, damn it all - to let Yachiru even try. He'd have to replace the floor and that made him more irritated than sweeping it. So, he'd gotten the broom out.
He'd gotten about halfway through the job when he'd been waylaid. His shoulder had bumped a punching bag and that was it: the broom went to the floor and the bag got beaten.
Far more entertaining than sweeping dirt anyway, and fuck if sweeping couldn't wait for one of his employees to actually do something. Maybe he'd get to beat on one of 'em with the broom.
Three punches with his right - he really needed someone to hold the damn bag - and then a quick jab from his left. Few more sets and he spun, handing the bag a kick, and frowning. Damn thing may be more entertaining then sweeping, but it was far from the real thing. Right, right, left, whatever. The sets didn't matter anymore. He was just hitting it to hit something.
It had been easy, really. Too easy. The dumb mug had been packin' some strange heat. Not just roscoes, but make-shift Molotovs and other cracker-jack explosives. Not to mention the three attack dogs.
Dante hadn't wanted to plug the pooches. Doin' so just seemed cruel. Wasn't the doggies' fault that their master had worse aim than a one-eyed pre-schooler with a bad case of palsy. Wasn't their fault that he'd already taken one slug to each shoulder and one through the wrist, effectively severing his right hand. Wasn't their fault that Dante was the surest shot this side of the Ozarks. Hell, come to the think of it, the gutsy, gunslingin' gumshoe might be the best shot in the whole wide world. He could squirt metal into those snarlin' mutts with his eyes closed.
But where was the fun in that?
"C'mere, Fidos, c'mon..." he'd taunted, bouncing back and forth in a boxer's stance before taking a few stabs at the air. "Time for your walkies~" The dogs had crept closer, moving together as if they were truly one beast and not three. Dante had grinned, pleased as rum punch that the night wouldn't be a complete waste nor the job a complete bore.
Two dogs lunged as one. The first took a pistol-whip to the windpipe, prompting a strangled cry as it hacked and coughed to catch its breath. The other took a hard cuff to the jaw, followed by the butt of Ivory smashed between its yellow eyes. A strong kick for the coughing one, and a quick shot to blow off the other one's tail had both whelps yelpin' as they limped to safety.
The third mutt had slunk around to Dante's back. The sharp-shooter knew it was there, and had swung around just as the fleabag made its move. The first two had gone for his arms. This hound aimed straight for the white-haired hellraiser's throat. In that instant, instinct took over. Dante sighed as the big canine crumpled at his feet, its bright eyes registering pain and shock for a brief moment before registering nothing at all.
The insolent Sparda twin had shoved the girls back in their holsters and trudged over to where his mark lay bleeding, the punk's lifeblood nearly invisible against the dark grain of the dirty street. Dante hadn't needed to see the fear in the man's eyes. Hell, he could smell it.
"I don't normally take these kinda gigs," he'd said, kicking the palooka's severed paw across the alley, just because he could. "But I needed the money." Dante pulled the odd, prickly weapon from the queer's other hand and gave it a few cursory swings. Nunchuckas? Hmm... Not like any he'd seen before. "...And you needed killing."
"Who are you? What are you?" The low-down, no-good gee had asked, having enough sense, or at least enough pride, to not grovel for his life.
"Who knows?" Dante had answered with a smirk and a shrug. "I'm not even sure myself, sometimes." What he did know was that this dirty dog wasn't even worth another of his bullets. Nor did he want the bo's filthy blood all over his sword. The normally loquacious libertine was in no mood for conversation. A heavy stomp on the sicko's larynx had shut him up for good, allowing the young Sparda to rifle through the scumbag's pockets in peace. He grabbed the goon's gat, a long shiv, and anything else that could be pawned, along with his wallet, to prove that the job had been done. The nunchuckas he'd be keeping for himself.
Dante moseyed through the dark streets, swinging the nunchuckas almost casually, surprised at how easy it was to bend the formidable, pronged weapon to his will. "Too easy~" he muttered, spinning around as he twirled his deadly new toy with increasing confidence. Yeah... These nunchuckas would be fun to play with with. Too bad he didn't have a playmates nearby. Or maybe he did...
Before the white-haired, whip-tongued gunslinger knew it, he was at the door of Zaraki Dojo. Perfect.
"Hey there," he called, after letting himself in. "I heard this was the place to be if you're dizzy for a fight. Or a spar. ...Whatever you wanna call it." Dante slung the nunchuckas over his shoulder, smirking as the white, metal prongs clanged against the cold, hard steel of his over-sized sword. "I got a new toy that's needs tryin' out. If anyone's game to play..."
Someone came into the dojo, and Kenpachi paused in his workout. Bag could probably use the rest, anyway. He gave it a disgusted glance; almost no use hitting something that couldn't defend itself, but it was better than sweepin' the damned floor. He stepped to the side, shaking out his hands, and gave the newcomer a once-over.
Heh. Young. Confident. Brash. Kenpachi knew the type. Half a dozen a week came into the dojo looking for action. They usually left cryin' for their mum. If they could still speak, that was. This one carried a bit different weaponry than most others - sword, nunchunkas. Prob'ly had a gun or fourteen stashed under that coat.
Kenpachi crossed his arms, perusing the man from head to toe and back. Maybe. Prob'ly not. "Prove ya can play," he said, "and you might get a seat at this table."
WOW. Just...wow. Dante had heard rumors about Kenpachi Zaraki; all sorts of things, really. Like...Kenpachi was a blood-thirsty, berserker giant who lived to fight and felt no pain, that he wore blades in his hair and eye-patch over one eye, and that the fierce ex-cop was unapologetic anarchist who laughed like a devil whenever he got shot or stabbed. People said that the owner of Zaraki Dojo was different, eccentric...and definitely dangerous.
All in all, he sounded like Dante's kinda guy.
Not that kinda guy, you perv. Get yer mind outta the gutter! More like Kenpachi Zaraki was good people--a man with guts and honor. The kinda man a sword-swingin', gunslingin' guy like Dante Sparda could respect. And now that the sarcastic sharp-shooter had gotten a good look at him... Well, in terms of appearance, the man definitely lived up to the legend.
Zaraki was huge. Huge! And sure enough, he was wearing an eye-patch. Just like a pirate! Or, like a blood-thirsty, berserker giant who lived to fight and felt no pain.
But his hair... It was nearly indescribable. Long, stiff, jet black spikes stuck straight up in the air, almost as if Zaraki had gotten electrocuted, and his hair simply decided to stay that way. Dante couldn't take his eyes off it. He scanned the strangely spiky locks for evidence of blades, knives, shivs, shanks, or anything else that brings forth blood. Hell, even a diaper pin was dangerous enough when held correctly and jammed with force into someone's eye.
Ooh. And there it was. Or, rather, there they were. Something...silver and shiny at the very top of each spike. What could they be? Ever the curious man-child, the new nunchukas were temporarily forgotten by the novelty of something, well, novel. And shiny. Dante couldn't resist inching closer and cocking his head to get a better look. The fact that he was staring, wide-eyed and slightly slack-jawed, didn't cross his mind.
Those silver things... Were they ampules of poison? Maybe. Come to think of it, the wild hairstyle didn't look so different from a porcupine's quills...
Wait. Did the big guy's hair just make noise? It was faint, but... Holy shit. There it was again: a pretty sound, like a wind chime, or when a pampered cat shook her well-bred head.
No. No way could this guy, Mr. Supermasculine One-Eyed Ex-Pirate Anarchist Warrior, be wearing bells in his hair.
"Hey," Dante said, tapping a long, calloused finger against the smooth skin of his chin, "Your hair... I like it! But, uh, those aren't bells, are they? Up on the top of each, um..." The bounty hunter wrinkled his fair brow for a moment as he searched for the best word to describe the dojo owner's coiffure. "...Chunk? Spike? Quill?"
Might as well just let him stare. Kenpachi stood quietly, arms crossed and definitely ready to defend his person should the young man decide to be stupid. (And weren't they all stupid?) They'd stare anyway, and it wasn't like it bothered Kenpachi any. Hell if he didn't actually like it sometimes.
Everybody stared. Nobody asked.
'Cept this kid. Now that was different. New and different and almost fun, if only because it hadn't really happened before.
"Course," he answered, uncrossing his arms. If the boob couldn't figure out why, he wasn't explainin' nothing. He gestured vaguely toward the man. "Nunchunkas and a bright red coat, eh, kid? What look you going for?" Looked like John Wayne sporting more 'n just bad hairpiece. The city was full of strange folk, but Kenpachi wasn't sure what Numb-chuck here was trying to pull.
"What game are you playing?"
Dante treated the big man to an impish grin.
"What game?" The spirited chuckle matched the sparkle in his eyes. "My own game, of course." Two steps back as Dante reached for the nunchukas at his shoulder. The white metal felt good in his hands, and swung fluidly, easily, over his head. "Dante Sparda's Game of Life. ...I play it every day."
The new weapon twirled and arced, as beautiful as it was deadly. Not the same as his guns, of course. They were his babies; his girls.
As cocky as he was, the white-haired hellion wasn't trying to show off. Not really. Dante didn't need an audience to make a scene. Here and now, he was just a boy, testing out his new toy.
One arm of the nunchukas fwapped against the small of his back. A shift of the shoulder, a turn of the wrist, and then another hit with a slap against the thick of his thigh. Defensive maneuvers...though Dante would have to learn to defend himself from the lethal prongs that turned each end of the nunchukas into a medieval-style mace.
There it was again: the faint jingle of bells. The bounty hunter stilled his weapon and let it slip from his grasp to the floor. Sky blue eyes narrowed, crinkled, and then beamed.
"For whooom the bells tollll..." Dante crooned in the overly ominous voice common to low-budget horror flicks. Cheesy delivery aside, the Sparda brat looked right pleased with himself. "My brother would be proud...or amazed, maybe, that I remembered that line."
His attention returned full force to the silver edges of Zaraki's hair. "Speaking of my brother..." Dante took a step forward again. Mischief sprung from his voice, creeping up his fair face to dance in his eyes. "He's my twin--identical. Though I'm better looking, of course." Could never resist that last line...
"His hair is just like mine, but he wears it back--whoosh!" A gloved hand raked through baby-fine hair. One second, maybe two, and the soft, moonlit strands gave in to gravity. "He must use a quart of pomade a day..."
Dante fished an old flask from the depths of his coat. "I came here lookin' to fight. And I'd love to know if the rumors are true--'bout that eye-patch...and you." He took a long draught from the flask, letting the hooch roll under his tongue. "But I'd settle for the secret that's hidden in your hair."
A half-cocked grin slid across his face; his signature sly Sparda smile. "The bells...spikes...the whole kit n' caboodle. Vergil works s'damn hard to look different from me--his twin."
Dante offered the flask to Kenpachi. "If I could get my hair to whoosh back, and stay off my face like his, but have it look, hehehee, like yours..."
No more words, just the slap of a knee and the bright peal of laughter.
The kid certainly couldn't focus on one thing, and Kenpachi couldn't help but grin widely when his gaze kept wandering back to the bells in his hair. The bells were doing their job.
He took the flask, shaking his head lightly - more so because it was an excuse to move the bells - and motioning to the nunchukas the kid dropped on the floor. "Ain't no way to treat a serviceable weapon."
He met that sly smile with his own wide, toothy grin. Kid walking in, playing around, enjoying life; Kenpachi ain't gonna mock that. 'Sides, there seemed to be enough mocking going on, what with the kid going off on that twin brother of his. Not that Kenpachi cared one way or the other, but he had to admit that this kid strolling in and laughing and asking about his hair was quite the change of pace.
He took a quick drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So... Ya' wanna know about the bells, huh?" He rolled his neck, setting them to jangling again, and laughed loudly.
Dante laughed right along with him. "You bet I do!"
He took the flask back and gave it a quick shake, frowning slightly when he realized it was gettin' near empty. "Although," he said, "Between you, me, n' that punching bag, I'm bettin' this secret warrants more booze."
And with that, the sly Sparda pulled out flask number two.