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Flying Solo: Night Patrol; <Seigi Sentai>
Topic Started: Nov 10 2011, 06:58 PM (29 Views)
Mjölnir
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The man flails and writhes, his arms going in every direction wildly, trying to find something to grab ahold of. His legs kick out from under him; they're trying their hardest to find something to touch to give his body some kind of support. The pressure that's applied to his throat squeezes it, refusing to allow any air into his lungs to keep his body going. Slowly, so very slowly his body refuses to acknowledge his commands, his mind goes fuzzy and his vision fades till...

The thug's body hits the ground with a thud, being released from the choke hold Skull had applied on him. It had been a simple task; the man had been a novice, using a knife about as big as an index finger on a lovely couple. They had decided to take a back alley short cut after getting out of the movie theater after seeing some American translated trash. That had been a mistake of their part; he had been waiting for someone there, anyone that looked like they had cash.

His second mistake, besides his choice of weaponry, had been his inability to silence the woman. One loud, shrieking scream and he knew where to go while on the roof tops before the thug had the chance to yell at her to be quiet. That's his third mistake, not keeping his anger in check, making a bone headed mistake like getting loud. He might as well have handed this to the masked man, it was that easy to know where they were & what was going on.

The fourth mistake is an easy one, he hadn't counted on anyone trying to stop him, and he kept his eyes only on the couple. It was all too easy to leap down, kicking the knife out of his hand before he landed in-between the lovebirds and him. This allowed him the advantage, no need to worry about their safety, the thug could no longer get to them. The sole leverage that this punk might've had was taken away from him, and any threat he could've presented stripped from him as well.

The fifth mistake was having no redeemable skills in hand to hand combat though that one is a little bit more forgivable. So few he's encountered are willing to take the time for something like that, something that could save them from moments like this. It's a combination of laziness and arrogance, arrogance that they're invincible and that nothing can touch them in this situation. As if it's impossible that someone could remove their weapon from their hand, making them just another person.

Now look at him, another fly swatted.

PS: [Call the police.]

Three little French words are all he's willing to give the coping couple, his words as icy as they ever are. His attention tries to shift to the fire escape, ready to scale up it and get back to his perch in the sky, to search out more danger. Something catches his glowing eye though and he turns to his right, just in time to see a glimpse of someone turning the corner. The scowl grows deeper; he can't shake the feeling that someone had been trying to watch him and that...

...Were they wearing a maid's outfit?

It must be his imagination.

Spending too much time with the kid, it's going to his head.

Like an animal in it's natural habitat, Skull jumps, grabbing hold of the steel bars & he pulls himself up onto the fire escape. Rather than run the stairs, he simply scales up the side of it and throws his body over the ledge onto the roof top. For a normal man, this is strange behavior to say the very least, for him, it's a Tuesday. He's back up on the roof without breaking a sweat, the night is young and he's not going to tire out before he has his way with it.

The match weighs heavy on his mind while he jumps from building to building, keeping a watchful eye on the city below. It's an important match, it's a strategic match, a victory here is key for them to keep the faith of their team going into Violence Fetish. Christian Cruz isn't going to be a factor then, this is true but Rurik Krychek is, and he's who their team mates are going to be watching this Sunday. It's who the locker room is going to be watching this Sunday, to see who the better team is, who they should want to hang their hat with.

Rurik Krychek's already called their leadership skills into question, cast doubt on them for the locker room to ponder on. It's little more than a cheap ploy from a cheap politician, the irony of which is not lost even on someone as dead inside as Skull. The man who is known for rallying against the governments of the world, the big brothers, is using the same tactic they're infamous for. Though in a way, there is a parallel that can be drawn between elections and this campaign, so it fits in an odd way.

Yet for somebody who loves the sound of his own voice so much, Skull would think Krychek's able to see it. The glaring flaw that is in his argument, the flaw that makes the entire thing unravel if one were to simply tug at it even a little. It isn't like the man, given the research he's done on him, for him to make such a simple &, frankly, stupid mistake. One could almost wonder, growing paranoid, that Krychek's purposely left it out there in the open, a carrot to lure them into the box.

Is he going to nibble?

Or is he going to play it safe?

Sometimes the advantage is only gained by taking calculated risks.

Sometimes even calculated risks are the downfall of one's plan too though.

The air rushes against what little flesh is exposed to it with his mask on and it revives him, refreshing him every time he feels it. It's the only trace of the weather he can feel on this cold French night, the chill as bitter as some of France's grapes. The rest of him is immune to the cold, being dressed as he normally is and he's ever been seen on FIW television & promotional materials. His body's so tightly covered up that he feels fine, snug in his trench coat and even his hands safe from the weather with the gloves he's wearing.

He hasn't been in France in years; the last time he was it wasn't what he would consider exactly a good time. There had never been much in the way of fans in amongst his peers, and he knows with what he's done, there's even less now. Then one considers what Kamen's done, what he's brought upon them all, and he knows it's best to keep his distances from the others. It's why he's tried to plan his own route based upon the routes he's aware of that the others, the natives, are taking tonight.

Better safe than sorry.

Christian Cruz...

Skull still remembers the last time they met the FIW Dual Crown Champion in a match, and what was said beforehand. Cruz overlooked them, ignoring the threat they presented him and the Seigi Sentai did as Skull said they would to the Young Lion. They were the first scratch, the first wound; the first dent in his armor that so many are in the belief of is invincible. The great leviathan that's eaten its far share of challengers and that so many fear, worried they'll be it's next meal.

However since their last encounter, things haven't been going well for Cruz and his reputation. He beat that fool for another championship, only to be bested by somebody that Cruz & his associates would usually consider below him. Then he's gone on to lose that very championship he just won to another masked new comer. This is ignoring last week, where the champion below him showed himself Cruz' better by being the winner of the four-way match.

Course, he's well aware that the FIW Dual Crown Champion cares very little most likely about the losses he's suffered. They're prices he's willing to pay for what he foolishly calls art, the very notion of which still makes Skull sneer at the thought of it. The concept that he has debated already and in his opinion, is utter trash from a man that attempts to make himself feel more important than he is. Fighting is many things but art is not one of them, if anything, fighting is more like science than it is art.

All one big equation.

That's all.

Not that he'd expect somebody like Cruz to even begin to understand that.

Those disgusting thoughts make him feel dirty and it's almost like he can taste the bile in his mouth they produce. His scowl grows deeper and he growls against the wind, it's all nonsense, all petty & moronic garbage, the entire lot of it. The two talking heads are directed at them this week rather than each other & he can already hear them. Their voices ringing out as they stroke their egos, filming this form of masturbation they constantly put on to attempt to display their intelligence. As if they need to justify it to all on a constant basis, afraid that if for one moment there's silence that some may forget just how darn smart they are.

Probably because they aren't.

They aren't tortured. They aren't brilliant. They aren't an artist and a revolutionary.

They are two punks with over inflated senses of worth.

Delusions of eloquence. Delusions of grandeur.

Christ, he needs to beat up some thugs to get this bad taste out of his mouth.
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