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Post by rain on Nov 8, 2011 18:24:00 GMT -5
Forests were so creepy...
And this particular forest was not the exception to the rule. There was an eerie mist languidly slithering about, seeming to have no source, like the sudden amount of smoke in a room when a group of people all briefly light their cigarettes. The trees were withered and blackened, as if stained by the ether they produced, and in a way that was close to the truth; the qualities of the mist was draining them of life, the sheer power they demanded being too much for the forest to withstand. With a certain black cat gone, there was nothing to stem the wanton flow of magic within the forest, and so it had come along in leaps and bounds, each step strangling the vegetation in its vicinity. The magic needed something to play with..something with more bite, more will; something more interesting.
Well, something magical was certainly about to occur...
"Where the fuck is he?" The sound of an irate voice at the edge of the forest seemed to pervade the mist, somehow being bounced around the many arboreal statues like a wooden speaker system. Rocket's tall muscular figure stood out, bursting with life; a heavy contrast to the dead tree on which he leaned. He was waiting for someone who most people would call a "meister", or "partner". However, such cooperative words were seldom uttered from the rock and roll guitar's mouth. He'd refer to the dark skinned teen as a lackey, or minion, or guy-who-swings-me-around-while-I-kick-arse. Eloquent and pleasant, all of his terms were not. But in Rocket's mind, they got the job done. The person in question was a Cameroonian meister by the name of Wasaki -- someone he'd met in some unusual circumstances, the details of which included breaking out of jail, and multiple attempts on his life. Of course, Rocket being Rocket, had actually enjoyed the threats; his extremophile behaviour was something to be fascinated over -- how anyone could strive to put oneself in the most perilous of situations unnecessarily was beyond the common man's understanding.
However this was Shibusen. There was no such thing as the common man.
And Rocket'd be damned if he let anyone give him such a pedestrian label. Hell, he'd be damned if he let anyone give him any label. Such was his dislike for authority, the Oriental Shibusen student rejected any attempts to "cage his creativity"; something that sounded like an excuse an incompetent parent uses to defend their little ne'er-do-well's behaviour.
He tapped his wrist as if he had a watch there. To be honest he actually had no clue what time it was. In all actuality he was probably late. But that didn't stop him from huffing and puffing, and the second he saw Wasaki you could bet your bottom dollar that he'd give him a piece of his mind. Everyone knew the universe revolved around the boy with outrageous hair. Time was whatever he said it was -- clearly everyone else was wrong!
Conceited and bratty?
Yes.
But in Rocket's own words, "You can shove your fancy words where the fuckin' sun don't shine!"
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Post by wasaki on Nov 9, 2011 15:22:15 GMT -5
Whether in answer or simply by happenstance a dull drone crawled through that eerily horror-story nurturing fog setting around the forest. Even though the clawed fingers of the sickly, gnarled trees narrowly missed severing—or simply brushing past his head a single image cut against the eerie night. One with a bobbing head moving to a sinuous beat that stirred the soul and boiled the blood, one that seemed to be a bit alien in form as two large cysts bulged from its humanoid shaped head.
Enter Wasaki Tafari.
Each footfall squelched in the marshy soil, but he couldn’t have been more removed from the feeling of wet swamp worms slithering beneath his toes. In fact he was oblivious to the blanket of night, the muggy humidity, or even the fact that eyes seemed to open and shut more frequently than could be considered normal at this time of night. No, the simple beat-boxing beat thumping loudly through his oversized headphones took up too much attention for him to be aware of any of these things. In fact he might have missed Rocket had the spitting image of a Greek God not looked so diabolic against the more natural creepiness of the forest. After minutes, well minutes after the appointed time he was certain of that, he shuffled over to where the lummox stood sultrily peering out into the night as if he’d been stood up for a date.
I guess that isn’t all that odd…his game could use some work. Wasaki thought, but didn’t bother to voice it as he ambled over to his…trainer?
Strangely enough power was something that earned respect and at this point, the heavy metal magic weapon was certain head and shoulders above his own capabilities, something he couldn’t abide by any longer. In fact the thought was so vexing that it almost started a regression back to his old self…the more…violent and ill-dispositioned student who couldn’t learn anything. Like a lucid drawl, the flow of music seeped into his bones once again making right whatever animosity lay between him and unbeknownst to him a likely candidate for his weapon partner. Of course it never dawned on the short haired youth who looked nothing like the dread locked menace the hard faced Shibusen attendee would recognize so without preamble he coolly slid into view, “Yo.”
That and the accompanying head nod was apparently more than enough background information for the pair to quickly come to familiar terms—at least in Wasaki’s mind it was. While his teacher had taught him to how that falling into the rowdiness of youth wasn’t the past path to take in every situation, he was certainly ready to dance at the drop of a hat. It didn’t even matter whose hat it was. Hands tucked away into his pocket he scanned the distance realizing that this was an especially private session making him wonder what the other’s motives were; one-on-one in a field with a man much larger than himself…the odds were definitely in his favor.
“So what’s the plan?”
(OOC: Posting as I'm running out to work, please excuse the unusual crappiness)
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Post by rain on Nov 12, 2011 17:23:35 GMT -5
The uncanny mist was exhaled from the forest, advancing like soldiers towards the two gathered under the moonlit night. Rocket, being stood the closer to the edge of the forest, was the first to fall under the mist's spell; his appearance became more sinister, with his hard chiselled features now jutting out like knife edges in a weird angle: they all pointed straight down, as if the ground was the subject of some strange ritual that included being impaled on five spikes...
Oh, never mind -- Rocket was just looking down.
His dangerously haired head rose up as the familiar voice of the dark skinned teen known as Wasaki Tafari reached his ears. He stopped himself from smiling; any sign of ebullience would totally ruin his self-built image of complete badassery and toughness. The rock and roll axe guitar was, although he'd never admit to anyone, not least himself, excited to get the chance to spend more time with the Cameroonian meister. Ever since their "encounter" in ChupaCabra's, Rocket had been nigh on obsessed with meeting him again. Not because he particularly liked the guy -- heck, Rocket didn't particularly like anyone -- but because he had demonstrated the ability to actually wield him, where so many others had failed before. Even someone as caught up in their own conceitedness as Rocket could notice that something wasn't right. Weren't weapons and meisters paired off by soul wavelength? What if Wasaki had the same one as he did? Or a similar one? He wouldn't be unique any more!
It didn't bear thinking about.
And yet it was all he could think about...
With some effort, Rocket stopped himself from allowing his frustration to come to the boil. He wasn't here to beat up Wasaki. Not without reason, anyway. Speaking of the dark skinned teen, he started to speak. Arrogance -- or discipline, which ever one made him more awesome -- keeping him off of the tree for now, Rocket replied.
"The plan? Simple. You learn to fight like a real badass. If you're gonna be wielding someone as awesome as I am, then ya've gotta be able to at least look like you come close." He said. Somehow, Rocket had actually formed a plan in the few minutes he'd been near the tree. The mist seemed to have some kind of beneficial effects...or maybe the vast knowledge of TV he possessed was bound to throw up something useful once in a while. At any rate, the Oriental weapon knew what he was going to instruct Wasaki on. And this little excerpt had come from a particular favourite of his...
"You must start by cleaning these trees. I've got three packs of wood varnish and a cloth. Gonna have ta use your own water, though." He said, an explicitly evil smirk on his face. Sensing that he'd have the chance to let his sadistic side loose, Rocket had prepared for some Miyagi-style training with the dark skinned teen he'd someday call his meister. Throwing the cleaning tools to Wasaki while his smile grew ever larger, the lean mean rockin' machine cracked his knuckles in preparation to enforce any ridiculous training regime that came to his head.
A magical night indeed...
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Post by wasaki on Nov 13, 2011 17:54:17 GMT -5
Catching airborne cleaning materials—especially given that the stated packs were probably cans of varnish was…well, it was a bitch. Three cold thumps to the chest only gave him enough time to flail his hands uncoordinatedly to snatch at the falling items. Impressively he managed to keep all three including the cloth airborne for two successive juggles before everything—except the cloth splooshed into the murky ground below, Shit…
Shooting his wonderful sensei a hot enough glare to pickle the paint off most walls he examined one eerie tree barely visible through the sheet of water vapor hanging between him and it…and everything else it seemed.
“This guy…” he muttered shaking his head in defeat. It wouldn’t do much to argue, but logic couldn’t work its way no matter what vantage point, Wasaki examined the situation from. Grudgingly picking up the can, which sloshed loudly only incensing him further, his childhood disdain for that noise of liquids inking into the foreground, he moved towards the very first tree before remembering the quintessential third portion of the equation. Rather he remembered there was a third portion. “Can…cloth…what else did he say…” wondered the boy aloud, by now a bit out of hearing range unless the demon guitar had sonar capacities added to the self regulated list of badassery he carried on his tongue.
Looking down the can of varnish nearly disappeared from sight, but it was of a hefty enough size where there’d be no need to make trip for one of the other cans. A good thing too granted he couldn’t see where they were sitting with how thick the fog had become; he could practically taste its swampy bitterness in his mouth. Perhaps the only thing keeping him from simply throwing a fit and slinging a baleful of the toxic refining material back at his personal “Mister Miyagi” was that he couldn’t see said target. What don’t kill a man make a man. he told himself as forgetting about the final component of the process he snatched the cloth and made to pry the lid from the can.
Only to fail.
“Yo, you’ve got blades right? Come here a second” he called into the mist.
It hadn’t been more than a breath of a second before his head snapped in the direction that something rustled in the pumpkin field nearby. Stifling the gasp that had been on the edge of his lips he knelt to see if he could manage to pop the lid off the varnish can—he wasn’t going to give that bastard the satisfaction of seeing him in need. Plop!
“Nice!” he cheered a bit louder than he’d meant. Who said he needed a big haired idiot to help him out with such things—he was his own hero. All smile he turned his attentions to the tree now looming darkly over him, its limbs branching out like spidery arms at the very end and thickening well beyond the size of even a frequent pill popper in the gym. I called him over, I might as well make it look like I’m not scared. Cuz I’m not. Willful to the very end he snatched the cloth and set to work dipping it into the clear oiliness of the can.
Head craned back he came to realize just how large the tree was in comparison to himself. Sighing he attacked the blackened truck with as much vigor as he would…class? Unforgiving splinters jabbed him at every swipe and it wasn’t much longer after the first swipe that he was getting ready to throw in the towel, err…cloth in this instance. “So…you gonna tell me what your names is now that I’m cleaning your wood?” he asked in a low growl, his voice powered by the malice laced undertones of his speech.
…
“Not even gonna point out how awkward that is…” he murmured embarrassed.
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Post by rain on Dec 4, 2011 14:42:04 GMT -5
(OOC: Completely forgot about this thread -- so so sorry!)It always begins with a scream in the night...
Although to be fair, it was less of a scream and more of a beckoning call; one that demanded his presence because the source of the noise was much too weak to deal with whatever it was screaming about by itself, in the first place. The one that Rocket loved to respond to because, in some convoluted logic, it meant that whoever was yelling -- and in this case he knew who it was that needed him -- was inferior to him. And, this being the case, it meant that the demon weapon was superior to them. Of course, the boy with the dangerous hair would seize any chance to lord over anyone else with an obnoxious but equally steeled fist -- iron was much too malleable for his tastes. The rock and roll demon weapon instantly moved through the mist, doing his best to ignore its eerie nature by using his conceited nature to forget it was even there; for the few moments it took for the muscled marauder to arrive at his location the world was only him, and the prospect of appearing to be better than someone else.
"Nice!" He heard, the word putting him slightly ill at ease as Rocket had never witnessed such a pleasant adjective used about his person. Someone like him was much more used to 'badass', 'delinquent' or other, more pejorative terms. Not that he minded the pejorative terms -- hell, you could say he revelled in them. In fact, he rather missed them; around these parts the only people that'd say something bad about you were the ones you were about to kill, and Rocket hadn't really met that many Kishin -- if you discounted Wasaki, and quite possibly himself, then he hadn't met any other humanoid he could legally put an end to. Some would say this was nice, and it was for that reason the rock and roll axe guitar frowned at the word whenever he heard it; regardless of who or what it was referring to. Thankfully, the word appeared to have been used in some sort of exclamation of joy; the dark skinned teen under his 'tutelage' -- if you could call it that -- had achieved some sort of task. Upon further scrutiny, it wasn't the task he had set him, but a task nonetheless...
"So...you gonna tell me what your names is now that I'm cleaning your wood?" A familiar malice would have put Rocket at ease if it weren't for what followed afterwards.
"Not even gonna point out how awkward that is..." At least the dark skinned teen had had the decency to be awkward about it. Rocket's sails floundered about before drooping dejectedly, all the hate-entwined wind having stopped pushing him onwards. Why had he even sent that guy over to clean trees anyway? That was stupid...The demon axe guitar sighed. Maybe it was the eerie mist, maybe it was his lack of prowess when it came to plans, but suddenly he felt like the dark skinned teen before him shouldn't have been doing what he was doing. It wasn't like he was going to stop him, heavens no, but still...
The semi-Kishin egg resolved to smother any doubt with malevolence. It was his plan B. And, for that matter, his plan for the rest of the alphabet. Still, it had saved him before; it had made people scared of him, before. And so he adopted the face of every evil villain, every truly evil villain, and spoke.
"Name's Rocket. Rocket Fuerza." He said, with careful ignorance of the exposing of the awful, awful innuendo the dark skinned teen allowed to crawl from the recesses of his mind and into the now tainted bowl of reality. Rocket's voice was gruff with the weight of the evil he tried to convey, and yet there was the slightest hint of it being restrained, almost as if he felt remorse for having to lie about his name. But the boy known as Aizo Yun Feng had died...hadn't he? The rock and roll axe guitar sure hoped so. He wasn't one of those pussies that had a change of heart. He wasn't one of those pussies that had a change of heart.
...He'd had to repeat it.
Fuck...
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Post by wasaki on Dec 5, 2011 15:03:22 GMT -5
“Name’s Rocket. Rocket Fuerza.”
Maybe it was the context in which it was spoken or perhaps it was simply the evil, invisible imps of mischief that goaded him on. Whatever the agitator, Wasaki stopped mid-Miyagi swipe and rose to his feet, annoyance furrowing his countenance as dropped any and all cleaning materials in his possession; somehow the vaguely amiable approach to which he’d taken to this entire training endeavor had crumbled before its zenith. In truth that was all fine and dandy with him, what with lyrical violence still distantly shouting for him ‘gut a muthafucka’ and to ‘whoop that trick’ all in the same breath, but his desire to do bodily harm was more pragmatically based.
“What kinda dumb ass name is Rocket Fuerza?” he asked as he turned around. Edges of sawed off, dusty brown hair hung just out of his bubble of vision—somehow those pissed him off to; he had loved his dreads before coming to this place. I guess it isn’t cool to call him out like that, I’ll rein it in for now. After all I wanna get stronger, it doesn’t really matter how. He staved off the cringe he felt coming. Not for the first time tonight he’d admitted that this…Rocket surpassed him in combat capacity, something he prided himself on, and it was for this reason that he was out here in the fog, in a pumpkin patch trying to learn how to improve upon himself. Brushing aside the stupidity of a name which he deduced was made up—no parent would sanely name their child that in his mind—he proceeded to give in his introduction. After a good amount of sighing.
“I’m called Wasaki Tafari. Reppin’ West Africa, ya dig?” he asked half heartedly, but his mind had already wandered elsewhere. More precisely the presence of the tree behind him became more discernible even without his having looked at it. The sheer size and weight of the behemoth of a tree only fermented the notion that had been brewing for what seemed a few weeks when in reality it had been nothing more than a few seconds; he wasn’t going to polish some damn wood for no damn body. This wood thing is kinda pissing me off… he thought. Sniffing to hide his shame at having thought about the lewd social faux pas again he shoved a bit of his advice in the direction of this half wit guru, ‘Rocket, right? How ‘bout you show me the basics of your fighting and then I’ll come up with the rest on my own?”
It had to be better than what he was doing now…again the image of him cleaning ‘wood’ with a happy smile on his face made him want to kill something. HOW LONG WITH THIS DAMN JOKE RATTLE AROUND IN MY BRAIN?!
Such was the mind of Wasaki Tafari. [[OOC: End it when you want to end it. Just need something concrete showing I got some training in. Discount is the goal, after which we can roll with a mission should you so desire.]][/size]
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Post by rain on Dec 5, 2011 17:06:40 GMT -5
(OOC: Okay then, here goes -- PM me about any mission you think looks good, 'kay?)
“What kinda dumb ass name is Rocket Fuerza?” Oh how the fists would fly. It was almost instantaneous; as if Rocket had predicted what attempt to chip away his hard exterior -- although he'd tell you that it wasn't an exoskeleton; he was a badass through and through! -- and had proceeded to plan around it. His hand was suddenly poised to deliver a reality-rupturing chop on the neck of the dark skinned teen over whom he loomed, and actually came close to deal said prophesied blow to the person in front of him. Were it not for an ounce of restraint flashing across his peripheral, a silhouette of something drifting through the fog, he would have done his utmost to cleave through Cameroonian flesh with nothing but his callous palm. But he hesitated, again -- the trend was really starting to annoy him, as a matter of fact. His self-assuredness seemed to relinquish all integrity when he was around the unusual teen...as did his ability to stop people from wielding him effective. Maybe it went deeper than that...
But Rocket wasn't one for deep meaningful chats, or 'real talk' -- those were the kinds of things people who weren't perfect did; people who weren't of his level...
“I’m called Wasaki Tafari. Reppin’ West Africa, ya dig?” Said the teen, in a tone that suggested that his mind had also went on an excursion during the short exchange between tainted, although strong, wills. Maybe they weren't so different -- under any normal circumstances Rocket would have seized upon the chance to belittle whatever 'rep' West Africa purported to have with a derisive blow of breath through tight lips and contemptuous and uneducated words. But he remained taciturn. He wondered...and then he worried...and then he relaxed.
" ‘Rocket, right? How ‘bout you show me the basics of your fighting and then I’ll come up with the rest on my own?” An opportunity to return to normality presented itself. Rocket smiled -- or smirked, as was more appropriate with him -- and without warning brought that hand down in a vicious chop with intent to floor Wasaki. He'd never taken it away, he wasn't comfortable enough for that, but as he followed through with his primary intent he decided to retreat slightly: fresh meat needed some time to mature before it became truly fine. He pondered -- something of a rare activity for him -- which was the fresh meat; Wasaki, or the fight?
Time would tell...
__________________ Wasaki and Rocket trained in the claustrophobic clutches of Pumpkin Patch Forest was the day waned and the night waxed...and coincidentally the trees appeared to become more effulgent as time passed; perhaps the dark skinned teen's labours hadn't been in vain. But then again only something as twisted could occur with the two corrupt souls at the wheel; their off-the-rail minds alone could steer the course of history to something a little more unorthodox.
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Post by wasaki on Dec 8, 2011 8:53:29 GMT -5
They clashed and warred for such a time. When fighting everything else seemed blurred and just out of sight. The world outside the struggle ceased to exist except for the ground which your feet struggled to gain an advantage from or your arm which flailed against any obstructions to its swing. Such thoughts were what occupied Wasaki, his mind an abyss of malicious intent as he gave himself wholly to the notion of putting a dent in this kung fu savvy villain that dared to mock him with that smug air of superiority.
A right! A left! Chase him back! Chase forward! Scar! Kill! Destroy!
Logic rarely breached this inner world, no, this alternate reality that existed in the brief moments of euphoria that the youngling swam in. Never in his life did he relish the taste of it, the flavor of living that is, rarely was he able to attain and when he did it was only as the thudding drum solo of his heart racing, the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the agony of each failed blow as his torn hands struck bark or some other infernal nuisance.
He didn’t care though.
Through space and time they battled. Darkness became light which became darkness again. Around them odd faces filled with pulpy pumpkin fruit watched the pair whirring in action. A connection was forged however benign it was in that setting, but something had extended from Rocket and latched itself to Wasaki before fastening the pair tightly together Somewhere beaten the eye gouging or the counter-roundhouse kick to the dome, destiny, fate, God, Shinigami, magic…whatever it was had chosen to intertwine the two as weapon and meister. Surely an accursed union for one could tell looking at the coarse command of the English language wield by one Rocket Fuerza that he was certainly not a demure fellow nor had a the dashing sort of flair that only made you want to listen more. How could such a person be paired with someone equally as bad if not quite so vocal about it?
Maybe it was all a joke. The sort of cosmic comedy that made it possible for a known adulterer to be a Death Scythe or a doctor attuned indiscreetly with madness of the darkest kinds. Neither shared words once they emerged from the ethereal pumpkin patch, but words were not required—in fact with men such of themselves it was discouraged. On they walked! Up the stairs before sharing a smoldering glare towards one another, the sort of gaze that was so filled with bile it made innocent bystanders want to wretch from the tension. One last look before the doors of the bound rebel heroes slammed with a lucid ring through the hallway of their dormitories. Flopping into his bed after seventy-two odd hours of training at the hand of a dastardly n’er-do-well, Wasaki stared at the ceiling, feeling his body’s pains yet in a masochistic way relishing in the ache that coursed through him like a troubled river.
He was trouble. Now he’d share that gift with the rest of the world. Starting with that dagger-head,
A plan so simple and sweet, it nearly sent him into diabetic shock. Good thing Africans don’t suffer from diabetes… Do they?
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