Ran

The Lean. The Mean. The Pit. The Ghetto.

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Ran

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You know how sometimes, in life, you give yourself little challenges, to mark progress and whatnot...?

That.

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Ran

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The Bison Priest is like a man-shaped heap of glass. Rough on every edge, but secretly vulnerable nonetheless. So, he maintains sharpening habits to harden himself against the regular life-threatening activities of being a living weapon. Beware! He is a beast that crawled out the pits of America's ghettos. A problem-starter, who prays at the altar of black magic and blood spill. He's "The Quiet Man" in the echos of the underground, but in Downtown Los Angeles, he had hoped to become something else...

Another sunny day in LA, followed by a chilly night downtown. The Quiet Man emerges from the shadows on his soundless chopper. The one that silently makes the asphalt quake and bones rattle.

Tonight's mark was a career racketeer, moonlighting as a politician. Same 'ol, same 'ol. The Quiet Man rumbled through the bowels of the parking garage on South Olive until he found his mark in the underground levels. Where the air is the thinnest and you can hear the white lights hum. The mark brought backup- eight killers - with a few bludgeons and snub-noses between them. Nothing new. The Quiet Man even recognized a few of the pistols that must've been looted off of the dead bodies that lay in the wake of his previous work. The Quiet Man pulls his sword from its sheath. It feels heavier than usual. He'd trained himself not to ponderer on the effects his work has on the city too much. Nothing is new under the sun, not even in a new city or in the pits of humanity.

The politician boasts, and the wagers. The usual- turn away while you can- stuff.

The Quiet Man still smoothly steps off his chopper, with the blade in his hand stabbing the ground before either foot. The ground is cursed in smoking incantations that stretch between the 20 feet separating this 8-on-1.

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Then, the politician boasts again. Everyone in the parking lot knows firing a gun will blow this whole operation up, so it's obviously a last resort, but The Quiet Man is here, so every desperate soul in the room with a gun, pointed their barrels towards the face of the beast with a sword. The Quiet Man doesn't flinch and that is when the politician thought, oh shit.

The biggest two out the eight killers hired by the politician attempt a blitzing brass-knuckle and steel-bat barrage on the Quiet Man. He catches the bat coming down over his head and keeps the brass-brawler at bay with the edge of his sword.

In one swift sway; The Quiet Man lobs off the hand of his opponent with the bat and repurposes the bludgeon to sweep the other off their feet, where normally, they would then fall to the ground, but this opponent fell into a black magic wormhole. A blinding spiral dimension he summons every blue moon to transport victims into the nexus of life and death that stretches into infinite helplessness. The long fall that overrides all logic and jettisons the brain into panic mode several times over. Over the crest of this wormhole was basically cosmic madness on earth. Bystanders to the scene of the fight questioned everything peeking into the unfathomable horrors that just engulfed one of their own. The screaming of both fallen killers now seemed infinite in the pit of the garage.

The Politician is the first to snap out of the mind-numbing shock. There's another wager in the form of a quiver, so it is mostly lost in the guttural screams. The politician can tell his killers were willing to do "hard time" for the pay, and they may have even expected to die, but not like that. No one thinks about the mental ramifications of battling the unknown unknowns until things get horrific.

The fighter that lost their hand swallowed some screams for a moment to witness the Devil in their pool of blood. In the red reflection, there was The Quiet Man extending the business end of the bat towards the Politian's crew.

"I've been meaning to try something new here, starting with-"

Gunshots roar in the belly of the garage. The chopper shakes the earth. The streets chatter behind many masks as usual, but people at the epicenter feel a difference. They just don't know what to make of it yet.

The other end of the black magic wormhole opens up in the cold, thin air of the night. The continuous screaming acts like a siren for its dreaded arrival. The other end of the wormhole opens up on Skid Row.

To Be Continued... (?)

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Ran

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Thanks, man. I think imma invest those xp points into this character's [Substance] meter and try to take him to the next level.

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Ran

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#5  Edited By Ran

@rosso

The Bison had already broken down the game theory in his head for two brackets of decision nodes. This is were reflexes bargain for more opportunity out of each passing second. Were the Crimson to throw a punch, he would have responded in kind. Where she to try another kick, he was going to try his best to absorb it.

The first kick, a non starter, met with minimal interruption.

Another split-second round of decisions concluded: he'd reply tit-for-tat either way (punch or kick).

So she goes for the inner leg, which he has less difficulty dodging because of his modified stance. Rosso's overhead follow-through was a narrow miss though as he was preparing to launch a low kick, but abruptly had to weave.

His facial expressions always become more blank in heated situations. The Bison see's she wants distance and he considers letting her have it. This recess in the middle of match now saw The Bison pulling at cage behind him. Using the steel to exercise some frustration. The malleability of that chunk of metal in his hand was soon put to test as he pulled it forward between thoughts.

The Music shifts.

Loading Video...

F*ck it.

0% | 80% | 20%

He marches right towards the opponent once more. Just beyond arms reach the Bison launches his lead quad up midway for a kick, but preforms a swift switch aiming his right ankle for her head. Upon landing, he'd attempt a full stance switch to southpaw were he was clearly waiting for her to try another kick against his faster right hand.

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Ran

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@darkchild:

"Well, Nobody... I'm crazy, obviously."

As the Bison rips into the soil of Alfada Waleuzla, the volume of black smoke exalting from his mask increased. A slight aroma accompanies the fumes — like burning pine — like clearing old grounds.

His next few words sound like they come from a deeper set of lungs, "Look, I'm not here for trouble. I got enough of that every time I look up. I— I just need to bury this kid. I just need to do something other than kill for a change."

The Bison never set his sights on Nobody, but he imagines the man addressing him has issues with defacing the island. The Bison wouldn't be surprised if this started another problem, however, whatever man Nobody turned out to be, the Bison would handle Hammurabi-style. Nothing more, nothing less — and he would not take any aggression personally, such is the privilege of being born again through black magic.

"I'm actually the Quiet Man. The Bison Priest. I'm... i'm also, nobody, I believe. I'm a tool."

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Ran

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Avatar image for ran
Ran

1646

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Marvin Gaye Plays in the Private Room

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(I want you) I want you/ The right way

The Bison Priest lights two duffel bags of cash on fire. Minerva sticks her head in the heart of the flame and pulls him in to meet lips the way that leads to bites. The way that can trigger either love or lust. The way she always kisses him after a successful heist.

(But I want you to want me too) Want me too

The smoke smelled like intoxicating palo santo wood sticks in the heat of their black magic. Red fumes emerged from the fire on the drink table between them and looped around their bodies like the lashing winds of a tornado. The walls of the lush private room were dark, the color of sangria, to conceal the sins of whatever should occur within them, which that always seemed conveniently appropriate during their turning-ritual.

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Ooh, it's too bad, it's just too sad/ You don't want me now

The turning-ritual. The source of the Quiet-Man's black magic. The conversion of the power vested in currency back into tools for twisting reality around the wills of dark brokers. A ritual that bargains earthly wealth for elemental riches. It is no small wager to deal with powers beyond man's full comprehension, however, all the Quiet Man had to lose in this bet was meaning in all the bloodshed and flames. And all Minerva had to lose was her immortality. Possessions bound to madness anyways.

But I'm gonna your change your mind/ Someway, somehow, oh, baby

No Caption Provided

When the heat clears the room, Minerva dances to the next track. Something new. Something over a trap beat about shaking a*s. Both of them would ponder on who should say they should get going first, but neither spoke because they didn't want to come off the wrong way. The Bison grabs his swords and armor. Minerva slips him a vanilla folder on the next mark.

They part the way lonely souls do, without ever having said a word to each other for better or for worse.

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Ran

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@rosso

*Ptt*PKK*

The inner leg shot could be worked through with adrenaline, but the heavier impact of the kick to his lower left quad made his combo whiff.

A'ight then, he'd think, just beyond arms length of the opponent. The Bison indulges in the sweet science of this fight. Which looks looks like him shaking out his longer left leg for a second in response to The Honey Bee. Then he's back in.

0% | 70% | 30%

Steadily chasing down his target with a series of purposely sequential half and full-extended straight left jabs, the Bison seemingly looked to put the zoner up against the cage walls. However the placing of his foot work was noticeably closer. The positioning of his right block waited just below shoulder range. His core, more neutral with his hips. His face, calculating–counting.

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Ran

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Not for nothing, but all of this rough-housing's got me me wanting to watch Megalo Box again.

(๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧