you're a right piece of work

[vvanquishing]

Characters: vvanquishing and 2ollux
Location: casualty communal lobby, and the general surrounding area.
Rating: probably at least pg-13 for potty mouths and brawling.
Time: october 22nd, HIGH NOON. or, well, sometime in the afternoon.
Description: fishboy and tholluckth have some unsettled business, for various reasons of their own. conflicting timelines abound

Comments

[2ollux]

Eridan Ampora was the sort of man who was impossible not to notice and even harder to simply ignore. When he walked, the masses knew he was there. Bright of eye, keen of sense, and glaring of fashion. There to catch the eye every day and any day. Elevators were beneath him, stairs far too simple for him. Grandeur! Panache! Pomp! Everything the Alternian aristocracy could ask for! A man worthy of sweeping down flights with cape a-billowing to his destined duel.

Sollux merely took the elevator down.

Perhaps it was why he found himself first to the lobby, alone and feeling a little bit like a tool as he cast about for his frilled frump of an opponent. Relaxing and lulling as the tinkling of elevator music was, that thing dropped twelve floors like no one's business. Dangerous territory, man. Dangerous territory. It left him with time enough to regain his bearings, to straighten out his bi-coloured glasses and map out his chosen battlefield.

A part or a deserted street might have done better, but improv was the name of the game here. Oh well.

He could have waited out by the doors, let the too-bright light frame his figure and strike an impressively impassive pose, but curiosity demanded some sort of satisfaction, and Sollux found himself drifting to the waiting staircase instead, peering up the ominous and unfathomable flight to the next landing beyond. He didn't really notice he was climbing the damn thing until he was on the second floor. God damn it.

Maybe he could take the fight to Eridan instead, and simply lurk around the corner in waiting. Yes, that seemed like an excellent idea.

[vvanquishing]

Okay, fuck stairs. They were wonderful for making grand entrances, but this was taking way longer than it needed to. Especially considering that the only person likely to see his veritable procession was the mustardblood himself, and fuck knows that he never appreciated his flair for the elegant. It wasn't like he only put in the effort to look impressive for himself, for fuck's sake.

And anyway, as he descended the stairs -- sneakily taking two at a time every so often -- it quickly became clear that Captor wasn't even in the lobby, unless he was lurking in a corner like the bellycrawling little wriggler he was. The bastard was late! All that! For nothing!

"I swear to fuckin' god, I'm goin' to murder him--" he growled to no one in particular, clenching his fists around imaginary lowblood necks. Second floor landing, now. Whirling and planting both hands on the guardrail (rings clinking merrily) he scowled down at the lobby, looking for any sign of his quarry.

[2ollux]

It was almost too good an opportunity to be believed, a gift from above. (Both literally and figuratively, how's them apples?) A motherfucking miracle, as much derision as the term incites. If Sollux had gods he would have been thanking them with gusto right about then.

Who gave a shit about things like cowardice and opportunism when such beautiful chances presented themselves like this? The cape was only icing on the cake, a bit of lace edging around the target.

"'Thup, Eridan," he quipped, minding to save his most witty greeting for the last minute, that last critical second before his foot was slated to connect with the aristocrat's posterior. The pull, the temptation was too great; it would take a troll of greater will than he to pass up so juicy a hit.

i died

[vvanquishing]

It really would have only taken him half a second to whirl around at the sound of that ridiculous, hateful lisp, but it seemed he was off his game today. He barely had time to register the voice (behind him, for that matter) and ready a suitable insult with which to greet it with before POW.

Eridan jumped about a million feet in the air, flailed his arms for balance and tried not to tumble headfirst right over the railing. His greeting instead came out as a sharp, interjectory "SHIT!" and he somehow managed to whirl around with both hands clapped on his-- rear end.

Needless to say, this wasn't how he planned his attack (not literally getting his butt kicked, for one) and he certainly did not look like the happiest fucking troll in Death City facing Sollux now.

"You lousy, underhanded, pissblooded waste of air," he snarled, still massaging his butt. Luckily for the other troll, he couldn't strangle someone and tend to his wound at the same time, so for now he was simply hurling righteous insults. "You think losin' your shitty psionics is some ticket to fight like a cowardly fuck?"

dat face

[2ollux]

If Sollux couldn't beat Eridan's buoyant, aquatic ass with handy-dandy psionics, he would have to rely on his own devices to get the job done. Feet did nicely, and he had to admit, there was something inexplicably satisfying about delivering such a mighty blow to the fellow's derriere like that.

Why, he could even do it again.

"Never thaid anything about a fair fight, Erifuck. A guy'th gotta do what he'th gotta do," he quipped, grin broad and accompanied by a flippant shrug of his shoulders. (No less smug or cocky, may it be noted.) Just gotta roll with it, let the harsh shit slide. Sollux was feeling immensely less jittery and somewhat more normal with each passing moment. Maybe it was the squawk that did it. "You're fucking late, bethideth. Ever hear of punctuality, thit-for-brainth?"

it's his "i really just got punted in the ass" face

[vvanquishing]

Holy shit, Eridan could just punch the lisp right out of this douthbagth's fucking mouth and fill the gap with fistfuls of his own stupid bees. This was exactly why he'd lost a duel to this guy, lost a victory that should have been in the bag had it not been snatched out of his beringed grasp by a goddamned psychic lowblood cheat.

Yeah, that was definitely going to bruise. Fuck. But at least now he had free use of his hands, a new luxury that he wasted no time taking advantage of.

"Let's get this over with then, mustardblood," he hissed, baring sharp teeth. "Seein' how you're so eager to get fuckin' pulverised here--"

He didn't even pause to throw down his cape (a decision he'd probably regret later; that was an important little flourish) but instead leapt at Sollux, hands outstretched to grab anything -- his stupid horns, his neck, shoulders, whatever. Anything to get him on the ground so he could get to mauling.

[2ollux]

One day, one fucking day, Sollux would impress upon the common and dim-witted masses that what his freakish mutant mind granted him wasn't psychic mind-reading hoo-ha, but simple, effective, and motht undoubtedly deadly telekinesis. There were differences, man. There were differences.

But that wasn't the point right then. The point right then was that Eridan was looking for an ass-kicking and Sollux's foot just happened to be hankering for another healthy kick to another welcoming ass. It all worked out.

"I'm jutht looking for a fucking warm-up, 2hrimpdick," he snarled in turn, raising hands as if to welcome the oncoming mass of troll. "Tho fucking bring it on--"

Sweeps of gaming had prepared him for moments like this entire nights and the all-dayers of fighting, action, tactical titles and more. Not that it did much good, but it gave him a general idea of how to proceed without the convenient assistance of his mind. Though what might have been the intent to gracefully sweep Eridan off his sea-dwwelling feet might have simply turned into quick and largely off-balance swats to keep ringed hands away from his face and horns.

Though he was distractedly pleased when one wayward blow looked to have the potential to connect with the aristocrat's glasses.

[vvanquishing]

Oh, he'd better believe he was going to bring it on. Mustardblood had this a long time coming. Yes, Eridan was going to rip those stupid horns right off that stupid head and gouge those stupid bicolored eyes out. Then he'd probably give two of them to Kerrigan as a trophy or somesuch, then use the other two and those stupid teeth as a xylophone and serenade he-- DOOF

"Bluh--" he replied. One lucky, flailing slap smacked him straight across the face; his glasses flew three feet and skittered across the landing. "Shit, hey--"

What the fuck. If Captor was even going to land a hit on him at all, he couldn't fucking make it something more dignified than a pussy little slap? Were they-- fucking-- going to fight like girls here?

The answer was yes. Sollux was practically a spinning death top of little girly swats, and Eridan knew the only possible way to retaliate without getting gross land-dweller hands all over his face was to try and beat those slaps with some of his own.

Also, he had rings on. Those should hurt. Face smarting a little from the blow, he kept at a safe arm's distance and unleashed a slapocalypse of blows on the unwitting Captor.

[2ollux]

Oh, it was on, man. It was tense. It was intense in the way only great battles could be. He could feel his vascular system working overtime, the adrenalin pumping in his magnificent, skinny, hacker body filling him with a greater confidence than simple dislike ever could; he could win this, he could slap Eridan into blissful nonexist-- PAP.

It was Sollux's glasses that took to the air then, spinning in beautiful arcs on their way to the floor. It seemed a fated thing, the way they skidded to a bumpy stop beside Eridan's own spectacles. One forgotten and unseen moment in the midst of great strife. It was probably deep and poetic in some way, but hell if Sollux took note. (Or even gave much of a damn in general.)

Face smarting, he snarled. This was a true battle, one that tested his mettle, his worth, he couldn't lose this now--

Oh who was he kidding? They had descended to the lowest level fo strife, to the most derisive and laughable levels of aggressing. Sure, Eridan had something of an advantage with his hipster rings and girly jewelry to enhance his blows, and Sollux himself had something of a reflex (idle thanks to that great moronic lump thatwas his lusus), but there was really no getting around it. They were slapping around like little girls and nothing was going to stop it otherwise.

Drastic measures were required, and he would have to be the one to troll up and do it.

So it was with a mighty yell and toothy snarl (it might have looked more like a mirthful grimace, though), Sollux gathered the fibres of his being in hand and leapt into the deadly maelstrom of slaps with arms outstretched. His aim: the fluttering and impressive Foppish Cape his opponent bore. His goal: to trip this shit up with everything he was.

I'M GLAD YOU MADE THE ICON, OTHERWISE I WAS GOING TO

[vvanquishing]

This battle was so on, you'd have to be Troll King Arthur to pull that shit out. A mighty blow connected and did away with the vile gutterblood's glasses the same way he'd been divested of his own; it was practically the epitome of poetic vengeance. He couldn't allow Captor the dignity of a counterattack, however: there was naught left to do but end this, and quickly. One more strike should be more than enough, an open-handed motherfucker of a slap that'd send those ugly bicolour eyeballs spinning in their fucking sock-- SHOOSH.

That was the sound of a hideous mustardblood sailing through the cyaneae insulae that were his limbs and getting a fistful -- armful, even -- of [Eridan's Magnificent Cape]. Its owner recoiled, swearing loudly, hands scrabbling at the neck of Sollux's shirt to try and throw the bastard off.

"You gutterblood-- scrawny-- shit--" he hissed. Scrawny little fuck the mustardblood may be but Eridan still staggered backwards, narrowly treading on both their pairs of eyewear, and unbeknownst to him began to stumble dangerously close to the threshold of the stairway downwards.