(Untitled)

[martialartistic]

WHO: martialartistic and pacifister.
WHERE: Outside Danny's dojo.
WHEN: Morning.
WARNINGS: Melee talks like she's ghetto forever.
SUMMARY: A brawl ends in a draw; words are had.
FORMAT: Para to start, whatever afterward.

Comments

[pacifisted]

Not having any such water, Trowa simply shrugged out of the open button-down serving as the overshirt to the t-shirt underneath--ignoring the pain in his left shoulder for the moment as it twinged at him--and used it to gently pat some of the bloodier marks on his hands and arms into slowly-clotting submission.

It didn't matter to him how messed up he or his clothes had otherwise gotten since he'd ruined plenty over time during the war; anyway, there had already been a tear at one of the knees of his jeans. Acquiring another just meant he really would have to go replace them.

At least the chill in the air was soothing. This was more exhausting than he'd thought it would be; even when weakened, Melee was a terror.

"I have no desire to gloat," he said, letting the irritation wash over him and roll away again without being affected by it. Water, ducks, backs; all that. "You need to rest. That was all I wanted to prove."

[martialartistic]

Melee's eyebrows drew together, pulling her face into a stormy expression. Maybe in another life, she could have been more ordinary -- a normal twenty-one year old Latina, less muscle and more curves. Feminine, maybe even pretty. But in this life, there was an androgynous severity, something hard about her face, her build. Especially now, when she wore the sour look of a sore loser.

In a defiant, almost childish gesture, she flicked her wrist, squirting that last bit of lukewarm water out at Trowa in a way that was more petulant than even remotely friendly.

"Yeah, ain't that nice of you?" Melee responded irritably, lifting an arm to wipe water away from her face. "I don't need to rest. I need to train. Not beating a twerp like you fuckin' proves that."

too tired for html ahaha

[pacifisted]

Trowa calmly dried it off with the shirt, the same way he'd done the blood, taking it in stride. It was only water, after all; it wasn't as though she'd threatened to kill him. Or swung a beam weapon. Or shot him with a cannon powerful enough to destroy a colony. Just a mild annoyance, and an easily forgiven one at that.

"Nice...?"

It was almost amusing, in a way. For all her skills in and time spent fighting, she still hadn't learned to lose, even by way of tie. She had a long way to go in that regard--not that he was about to tell her so. Best to find out the soldier's price on her own.

"I don't care about you," he said, turning his head to stare at her with the one visible eye, the words unapologetically blunt. "I barely know you."

Trowa turned his attention back out onto the street and shifted the way he was sitting, hissing; a rock had been digging into one of the bruises on his thigh.

"But Abby does--she's worried. And I'm her friend."

aww, no worries, babe.

[martialartistic]

The girl had a big, glaring inferiority complex. Maybe it had something to do with growing up in the ghetto, in a big Mexican family. Maybe it had something to do with being a mutant, or the nicknames -- Princess -- she'd gotten at Camp Hammond. Maybe it was just the fact that she was a one hundred and twenty pound Latina trying to convince the world she was one of the greatest martial artists alive. Whatever it was, it made her take losing like a personal insult, a knife in her gut.

Melee was glaring now. Eyes dark and narrowed. She wasn't hurt by blunt words -- preferred them, most of the time -- but something about her mood was already foul, and the straight-forwardness of what Trowa said prickled at her nerves.

"Nobody was accusin' you of fuckin' caring," she retorted back sharply, head turning away. Her tone only softened slightly at the mention of Abby. "And Abby's gotta put a damn bandaid on that bleedin' heart of hers. She can't fuckin' worry about everyone. Why don't you tell her that?"