Post by Deleted on Oct 2, 2014 6:12:18 GMT
NOTE: I would like Iggy's starting PL to be 50, if it isn't any trouble.
Everything hurt. The taste of blood in his mouth was overpowering. Through his blurred, shifting vision Iggy could only barely make out the shape in front of him. He struggled to raise his arms, defend himself, fight back. It was of no use. He didn't feel the next blow, and as he crashed to the ground once again, he thought back to how he had gotten into this mess in the first place.
It had been a miserable day, the sort that makes you just want to crawl back into bed and pretend it had never happened. The clouds hung so heavy in the sky it looked as if they held a rain of anvils, and thunder boomed ominously in the distance. And yet the rain refused to come down, which was rather disappointing because the parched earth could have used a couple of anvils right about then. Iggy didn't like it, the weather made him nervous. Most things made him nervous, thinking about it, but this weather in particular made his hair stand on end in a way he could only hope wasn't static electricity. It was a bad omen, pure and simple, and this was not the day for it. The tournament was today, the one he had left the comfort of his home town and traveled hundreds of miles cross-country to take part in. If it rained, the matches would have to be postponed, but it was as if fate itself was in attendance and didn't like the idea of a delay. Iggy fidgeted with his cloth belt, a pure white to match his gi. There was a dark spot where his school patch had been, but... well, at least they had let him keep his uniform. Iggy observed the room around him, making sure not to make eye contact with any of the other fighters. It was an adequately appointed little waiting room, with long benches lining the walls and a lot of floor space for warming up. In the corner opposite to Iggy and on the left was a little sitting area, with a leather couch and a few chairs sat around a TV playing the local news. From the looks of it, they were talking about the tournament. Little town like that, the annual tourney was probably the biggest event around. After it was over, people would probably be celebrating in the streets for days. Too bad he would probably miss the festivities, laid up in the hospital or something. Shuddering, he tried to think about something else. He found himself thinking back to the letter, the one that had been slid under his door early that morning. It had been fairly straightforward, "Stay home" written in a neat, heavy hand, along with a rather crude picture of a man being stabbed to death. Yeah, message received buddy. And yet here he was, though he was beginning to regret showing up anyway. The whole 'threat of death' thing wasn't sitting so well with him, to be honest. Why would they want him out of the contest anyway? He was no threat, of that he was sure. But no, he couldn't back out now. No matter what people said about him, he would never let them say he didn't try.
Iggy shook his head and tried to change the subject again, to no avail. He couldn't stop thinking about all of the various ways he was likely going to be destroyed. "Why is it taking so long?" he muttered under his breath, knowing full well that it was because they were making sure it wasn't going to rain. Still, though, they were taking quite a while. It's not like they could predict the ra- Beeeeep! "Fighters Friar and Hayabusa, report to the ring. Friar and Hayabusa, to the ring." the PA system rang out, the energetic voice of the announcer scratchy through the old microphone. The first round?! He was going to be eliminated in the first round?! Damn! He hadn't held out any hope of winning, of course, but he had at least been hoping he would at least get to watch some of the fights first, he might have learned something. As it was, though, he was just going to get beaten down right off the bat. He nervously looked around the room to see his opponent stand up, and was treated to the sight of a middle-aged man, shorter than himself with close-cropped black hair graying at the temples and calm eyes. He didn't look like much, but Iggy knew how little that really meant in the grand scheme of things. In fact, in his experience it was always the little smiling old man that cracked the most ribs. But this guy didn't even walk like a fighter, his stiff, straight-backed stride more at home in a stuffy office than a ring. I suppose I'm not one to talk, Iggy mused, I'm not exactly the toughest-looking guy around. And it was true, tough-looking he was not. But Iggy didn't have any hidden strength, no exceptional skills hidden behind the timid mask. To be honest, he was really only good at staying conscious. Which, he supposed, was a good start, but he didn't really have anything to back it up. And in a profession where being careless would lead to being beaten to a pulp, this was not exactly a good thing.
Well, he supposed he had kept them waiting long enough. He rose from his seat, making sure to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and not think about where they were leading him. As he pushed open the double-door he was greeted to the roar of applause from the audience, previously blocked out by the sound-proofed walls of the waiting area. He wasn't surprised, he had been to tournaments before. They weren't really concerned with who it was that came through the doors, so long as they bled as well as everyone else. As he walked his way up to the ring proper, he felt his head swim with fear and tension. He had gone beyond fear into that state where one becomes almost calm, and he tried to take a deep breath to calm himself. As it was, his chattering teeth made it difficult. He took his place opposite his opponent, who was staring at him with those calm, impassionate blue-gray eyes. The announcer, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his shirt pocket, coughed into his hand and then raised the microphone to his lips. "Laaadies and gen-tle-men!" he bellowed in his odd, clipped accent. The crowd went quiet, and the announcer continued "We are here today, to view an athletic spectacle unlike any other!" You couldn't help but notice the accent, it was so thick and yet indistinct, like even he couldn't decide whether to sound foreign or not, and settled somewhere in the middle. "Before me, dear spectators, are two men that have come here to fight! And fight they shall! Now, let us begin!" Again, the roar of the crowd. The announcer's hand raised above his head. Okay, Iggy thought to himself, you can do this. His gameplan was simple. He was going to try and stay back, hurling energy blasts as fast as he could. Manipulating one's ki wasn't rare, not these days, but they wouldn't expect him to go all out right from the start. Usually the first part of the match had the fighters feeling eachother out, trying to get a sense of their opponent's skills.
Then, the announcer's hand came down and the gong was rung. The match had started. Preparing to leap back and put his tactic into action, he was suddenly faced with the fact that his opponent had somehow closed the distance between them in the time between watching the announcer's arm fall and looking back. And, would you look at that, there was a fist protruding from his stomach. Well, shi- he began to think, but then he felt the impact. Most punches- and he had taken enough of them to know- came with a sort of dull thud as their impact was relegated to the small area that the fist could cover, but this punch was like being hit everywhere simultaneously, the force reverberating throughout his entire body and making his jaw clamp down with a click. He could feel himself doubling over as the force of the blow literally knocked him off his feet, rising almost half a foot in the air before beginning to tumble over backwards, moving horizontally at an alarming rate. He landed on his stomach heavily, his hands scrabbling at the ring's floor to stop himself sliding off the edge. As he began to slow and eventually stop, his brain began to catch up with his body and he was treated to a thudding blast of pain making him curl up on the ring floor. His breath came in brief, choking gasps. Well, on the bright side, he had done a pretty cool backflip. And those butterflies sure were pretty. He struggled to roll over onto his stomach, his limp, shaking limbs failing to lift him from the floor. He would say that it felt like something was broken, if he could tell whether or not he still actually had bones. There was no count from the announcer, it had happened too fast.
Iggy shakily rose, his entire body quaking from uncontrollable muscle spasms, almost making him fall over again. He looked back at his opponent, who was merely watching him. Still just looking at him with those damned eyes. Had he even moved? Was it a figment of his imagination, and had he just tripped or something? No, certainly not. The throbbing pain welling up from his gut was proof enough of that. And yet, it was as if Hayabusa had never moved. Iggy shook his head, trying to clear his vision, and forced himself to stop shaking. His opponent was giving him a chance, and he wasn't going to waste it. Back to the plan. Twin spheres of incandescent, pale blue energy burst forth from Iggy's fingertips as he leapt back, creating even more distance between them. Hayabusa didn't even flinch, walking forward as if he was out on a leisurely stroll. He was dodging them, definitely, but he barely moved. It looked more like the shots were dodging around him, rather than the other way around. Iggy loosed two more shots, still backing away slowly. The crowd was silent, enraptured by the dominating performance of Hayabusa. At least they weren't booing this time. No matter how many blasts he threw, none of them hit their mark. None of them even came close. Suddenly, his foot stepped off the floor and into thin air. Off-balance, Iggy desperately waved his arms around trying to regain his footing. He had hit the edge of the ring. Suddenly, his opponent was upon him, and grabbed Iggy's flailing arm with a steely grip. Now he would be thrown out of the ring, he was sure of it. And yet, it was not mowed grass that his face impacted seconds later, but the cold hard concrete of the ring. As his head impacted the ground, something clicked and his vision went dark. He was aware of his body slowly catching up with his head, falling over onto his back. There was a pressure on his back, and his arm was being wrenched behind him in a submission hold. Well, that was unnecessary. And then there was a sickening pop as his arm was wrenched from its socket. He could dimly perceive the sharp pain emanating from his shoulder, but he was far too out of it to really care. He heard a grunt of pain, most likely from himself, and then suddenly the weight on his back was gone. His mind remained muddled for a few seconds, but then everything came back all at once. A whimper escaped his lips as the agony of his dislocated shoulder caught up with him, and his vision came back. There were a few odd things that caught his attention. One, he was back on his feet. Second, his opponent was staring at him with a rather annoyed look, and bleeding from the arm. And then he felt the lump of flesh fall from his slack jaw. He had bitten Hayabusa? Gross. And yet, not illegal. Iggy had lost, this was clear, but at the very least he had done something to make his opponent's upcoming matches a little harder. Although he hadn't really intended on it, Iggy was far too concussed to feel guilty. After all, everything hurt. The taste of blood in his mouth was overpowering, and at least some of it was his own. Through his blurred, shifting vision Iggy could barely make out Hayabusa's silhouette. He struggled to raise his arms, defend himself, fight back. It was of no use. He didn't feel the next blow, and as he crashed to the ground once again, he thought back to how he had gotten into this mess in the first place. But then Hayabusa was back on top of him. This time, a voice snaked its way in through the darkness. "I warned you to stay at home. When I found out we would be fighting, I wasn't sure if I could go through with beating down such an obvious novice. But you came anyway. You have potential, young man, but this is growing tiresome. We may meet again. Please accept this parting gift." There was a pressure at the base of his neck, a thumb pressed to his spine. And then, crack. Lightning strikes of pain arced from all over his body, making his eyes roll back into his head. Iggy passed into the bliss of unconsciousness, and was no more.
Iggy's eyes snapped open, his mind racing. What? Where? When? ... Oh, right. The tourney. The horrible slaughter that was the tournament. He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. The curtain surrounding him slid back, and a stocky man in a doctor's coat stuck his head through the gap. "Awake, are you? You were pretty messed up when they hauled you in here. It was a tough break you got paired with that Hayabusa guy, fella breezed through the best fighters in the state like they was nothing. If it makes you feel any better, you lasted longer'n anyone else."
It didn't, but he supposed he was glad that he didn't fail alone.
Everything hurt. The taste of blood in his mouth was overpowering. Through his blurred, shifting vision Iggy could only barely make out the shape in front of him. He struggled to raise his arms, defend himself, fight back. It was of no use. He didn't feel the next blow, and as he crashed to the ground once again, he thought back to how he had gotten into this mess in the first place.
It had been a miserable day, the sort that makes you just want to crawl back into bed and pretend it had never happened. The clouds hung so heavy in the sky it looked as if they held a rain of anvils, and thunder boomed ominously in the distance. And yet the rain refused to come down, which was rather disappointing because the parched earth could have used a couple of anvils right about then. Iggy didn't like it, the weather made him nervous. Most things made him nervous, thinking about it, but this weather in particular made his hair stand on end in a way he could only hope wasn't static electricity. It was a bad omen, pure and simple, and this was not the day for it. The tournament was today, the one he had left the comfort of his home town and traveled hundreds of miles cross-country to take part in. If it rained, the matches would have to be postponed, but it was as if fate itself was in attendance and didn't like the idea of a delay. Iggy fidgeted with his cloth belt, a pure white to match his gi. There was a dark spot where his school patch had been, but... well, at least they had let him keep his uniform. Iggy observed the room around him, making sure not to make eye contact with any of the other fighters. It was an adequately appointed little waiting room, with long benches lining the walls and a lot of floor space for warming up. In the corner opposite to Iggy and on the left was a little sitting area, with a leather couch and a few chairs sat around a TV playing the local news. From the looks of it, they were talking about the tournament. Little town like that, the annual tourney was probably the biggest event around. After it was over, people would probably be celebrating in the streets for days. Too bad he would probably miss the festivities, laid up in the hospital or something. Shuddering, he tried to think about something else. He found himself thinking back to the letter, the one that had been slid under his door early that morning. It had been fairly straightforward, "Stay home" written in a neat, heavy hand, along with a rather crude picture of a man being stabbed to death. Yeah, message received buddy. And yet here he was, though he was beginning to regret showing up anyway. The whole 'threat of death' thing wasn't sitting so well with him, to be honest. Why would they want him out of the contest anyway? He was no threat, of that he was sure. But no, he couldn't back out now. No matter what people said about him, he would never let them say he didn't try.
Iggy shook his head and tried to change the subject again, to no avail. He couldn't stop thinking about all of the various ways he was likely going to be destroyed. "Why is it taking so long?" he muttered under his breath, knowing full well that it was because they were making sure it wasn't going to rain. Still, though, they were taking quite a while. It's not like they could predict the ra- Beeeeep! "Fighters Friar and Hayabusa, report to the ring. Friar and Hayabusa, to the ring." the PA system rang out, the energetic voice of the announcer scratchy through the old microphone. The first round?! He was going to be eliminated in the first round?! Damn! He hadn't held out any hope of winning, of course, but he had at least been hoping he would at least get to watch some of the fights first, he might have learned something. As it was, though, he was just going to get beaten down right off the bat. He nervously looked around the room to see his opponent stand up, and was treated to the sight of a middle-aged man, shorter than himself with close-cropped black hair graying at the temples and calm eyes. He didn't look like much, but Iggy knew how little that really meant in the grand scheme of things. In fact, in his experience it was always the little smiling old man that cracked the most ribs. But this guy didn't even walk like a fighter, his stiff, straight-backed stride more at home in a stuffy office than a ring. I suppose I'm not one to talk, Iggy mused, I'm not exactly the toughest-looking guy around. And it was true, tough-looking he was not. But Iggy didn't have any hidden strength, no exceptional skills hidden behind the timid mask. To be honest, he was really only good at staying conscious. Which, he supposed, was a good start, but he didn't really have anything to back it up. And in a profession where being careless would lead to being beaten to a pulp, this was not exactly a good thing.
Well, he supposed he had kept them waiting long enough. He rose from his seat, making sure to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and not think about where they were leading him. As he pushed open the double-door he was greeted to the roar of applause from the audience, previously blocked out by the sound-proofed walls of the waiting area. He wasn't surprised, he had been to tournaments before. They weren't really concerned with who it was that came through the doors, so long as they bled as well as everyone else. As he walked his way up to the ring proper, he felt his head swim with fear and tension. He had gone beyond fear into that state where one becomes almost calm, and he tried to take a deep breath to calm himself. As it was, his chattering teeth made it difficult. He took his place opposite his opponent, who was staring at him with those calm, impassionate blue-gray eyes. The announcer, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his shirt pocket, coughed into his hand and then raised the microphone to his lips. "Laaadies and gen-tle-men!" he bellowed in his odd, clipped accent. The crowd went quiet, and the announcer continued "We are here today, to view an athletic spectacle unlike any other!" You couldn't help but notice the accent, it was so thick and yet indistinct, like even he couldn't decide whether to sound foreign or not, and settled somewhere in the middle. "Before me, dear spectators, are two men that have come here to fight! And fight they shall! Now, let us begin!" Again, the roar of the crowd. The announcer's hand raised above his head. Okay, Iggy thought to himself, you can do this. His gameplan was simple. He was going to try and stay back, hurling energy blasts as fast as he could. Manipulating one's ki wasn't rare, not these days, but they wouldn't expect him to go all out right from the start. Usually the first part of the match had the fighters feeling eachother out, trying to get a sense of their opponent's skills.
Then, the announcer's hand came down and the gong was rung. The match had started. Preparing to leap back and put his tactic into action, he was suddenly faced with the fact that his opponent had somehow closed the distance between them in the time between watching the announcer's arm fall and looking back. And, would you look at that, there was a fist protruding from his stomach. Well, shi- he began to think, but then he felt the impact. Most punches- and he had taken enough of them to know- came with a sort of dull thud as their impact was relegated to the small area that the fist could cover, but this punch was like being hit everywhere simultaneously, the force reverberating throughout his entire body and making his jaw clamp down with a click. He could feel himself doubling over as the force of the blow literally knocked him off his feet, rising almost half a foot in the air before beginning to tumble over backwards, moving horizontally at an alarming rate. He landed on his stomach heavily, his hands scrabbling at the ring's floor to stop himself sliding off the edge. As he began to slow and eventually stop, his brain began to catch up with his body and he was treated to a thudding blast of pain making him curl up on the ring floor. His breath came in brief, choking gasps. Well, on the bright side, he had done a pretty cool backflip. And those butterflies sure were pretty. He struggled to roll over onto his stomach, his limp, shaking limbs failing to lift him from the floor. He would say that it felt like something was broken, if he could tell whether or not he still actually had bones. There was no count from the announcer, it had happened too fast.
Iggy shakily rose, his entire body quaking from uncontrollable muscle spasms, almost making him fall over again. He looked back at his opponent, who was merely watching him. Still just looking at him with those damned eyes. Had he even moved? Was it a figment of his imagination, and had he just tripped or something? No, certainly not. The throbbing pain welling up from his gut was proof enough of that. And yet, it was as if Hayabusa had never moved. Iggy shook his head, trying to clear his vision, and forced himself to stop shaking. His opponent was giving him a chance, and he wasn't going to waste it. Back to the plan. Twin spheres of incandescent, pale blue energy burst forth from Iggy's fingertips as he leapt back, creating even more distance between them. Hayabusa didn't even flinch, walking forward as if he was out on a leisurely stroll. He was dodging them, definitely, but he barely moved. It looked more like the shots were dodging around him, rather than the other way around. Iggy loosed two more shots, still backing away slowly. The crowd was silent, enraptured by the dominating performance of Hayabusa. At least they weren't booing this time. No matter how many blasts he threw, none of them hit their mark. None of them even came close. Suddenly, his foot stepped off the floor and into thin air. Off-balance, Iggy desperately waved his arms around trying to regain his footing. He had hit the edge of the ring. Suddenly, his opponent was upon him, and grabbed Iggy's flailing arm with a steely grip. Now he would be thrown out of the ring, he was sure of it. And yet, it was not mowed grass that his face impacted seconds later, but the cold hard concrete of the ring. As his head impacted the ground, something clicked and his vision went dark. He was aware of his body slowly catching up with his head, falling over onto his back. There was a pressure on his back, and his arm was being wrenched behind him in a submission hold. Well, that was unnecessary. And then there was a sickening pop as his arm was wrenched from its socket. He could dimly perceive the sharp pain emanating from his shoulder, but he was far too out of it to really care. He heard a grunt of pain, most likely from himself, and then suddenly the weight on his back was gone. His mind remained muddled for a few seconds, but then everything came back all at once. A whimper escaped his lips as the agony of his dislocated shoulder caught up with him, and his vision came back. There were a few odd things that caught his attention. One, he was back on his feet. Second, his opponent was staring at him with a rather annoyed look, and bleeding from the arm. And then he felt the lump of flesh fall from his slack jaw. He had bitten Hayabusa? Gross. And yet, not illegal. Iggy had lost, this was clear, but at the very least he had done something to make his opponent's upcoming matches a little harder. Although he hadn't really intended on it, Iggy was far too concussed to feel guilty. After all, everything hurt. The taste of blood in his mouth was overpowering, and at least some of it was his own. Through his blurred, shifting vision Iggy could barely make out Hayabusa's silhouette. He struggled to raise his arms, defend himself, fight back. It was of no use. He didn't feel the next blow, and as he crashed to the ground once again, he thought back to how he had gotten into this mess in the first place. But then Hayabusa was back on top of him. This time, a voice snaked its way in through the darkness. "I warned you to stay at home. When I found out we would be fighting, I wasn't sure if I could go through with beating down such an obvious novice. But you came anyway. You have potential, young man, but this is growing tiresome. We may meet again. Please accept this parting gift." There was a pressure at the base of his neck, a thumb pressed to his spine. And then, crack. Lightning strikes of pain arced from all over his body, making his eyes roll back into his head. Iggy passed into the bliss of unconsciousness, and was no more.
Iggy's eyes snapped open, his mind racing. What? Where? When? ... Oh, right. The tourney. The horrible slaughter that was the tournament. He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. The curtain surrounding him slid back, and a stocky man in a doctor's coat stuck his head through the gap. "Awake, are you? You were pretty messed up when they hauled you in here. It was a tough break you got paired with that Hayabusa guy, fella breezed through the best fighters in the state like they was nothing. If it makes you feel any better, you lasted longer'n anyone else."
It didn't, but he supposed he was glad that he didn't fail alone.