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Post by Ghost Horse on Jun 28, 2016 4:01:34 GMT
 The tension was palpable in the Oricon center. A tournament of strength, power, and speed - and a single winner to gather the title of “The Best”. Or something. Ghost Horse didn’t care for the specifics - he was just looking for a challenge. He’d found a flyer about the King of the Cage event after he had stabbed a hobo for trying to steal his coke, and had decided that it was a worthy trial for his skills.
The entrance was packed with officials, small wrestling rings, and potential participants: burly men, strongly built women, and even kids in kimonos - at which Ghost Horse couldn’t help but squee in delight, before popping a gangsign and strutting away - had filled the waiting area, expecting their own turns into the arena: a large circular cage, a real thunderdome.
Ghost Horse wore a boxer’s helmet to protect his floppy rubber jaw and mixed martial arts gloves. Other than that, he streaked in his tighty witheys and purple crocodile shoes (with no socks on). Class and sass.
As Ghost Horse waited for his own turn, reading a woman’s magazine (the recipe for the cherry pie looked particularly lovely), some participants uneasily stared at him. The… Thing known as Ghost Horse was known fairly well in the seedier parts of Kingsport, as a very volatile and dangerous enemy. Well… It couldn’t use firearms, so it wouldn’t be that dangerous.
Right?
“Number 352! Number 352! You’re up against participant 14, Comic, the redhead dynamo! Go straight to arena 7, and prepare for battle!"
Ghost Horse raised his eyes from the magazine in a startling jerk, looking around excitedly. By that point, he had turned the magazine sideways, as if looking at a centerfold - he'd effectively gotten a stiffy. The sitting contestant next to him saw that a double-page of cherry pies was pictured, and started sweating nervously. Ghost Horse got up and skipped along joyfully towards the allocated door, into the jaws of the beast.
Comic
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life is hard and then you die
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Post by Comic on Jun 28, 2016 4:32:21 GMT
 she has stripped down to only whats necessary.
her hair is pulled back, tight tail, to keep it out of her face. she has removed her suit, her jacket, her hoodie, favoring instead a simple black tank top, a simple pair of shorts. mobility, freedom of limbs, freedom for fists. bandages wrapped around her wrists, her feet, to help with the blood, the grip. it wasn't her blood.
she had been here all night. this was going to be the third fight in a row. she wiped away the blood from her lip; a bite into her tongue from the last guy. a speedster, from best she could tell, but all she needed to do was take a few hits and wait for him to catch her fist. once you knock them off once, the less experienced ones fell easy.
marisa was just getting started. she paced the ring-structure itself, watching the darkness of the stands from her illuminated area. it was filled with spectators who were filled with money; high-grade gangsters, business owners, all of those sorts. there were, of course, more mundane folk filling the area, here to bet their last bit of money on getting to see a meta brawl.
Number 352!
the number is all she really hears in her world view. she's got both eyes set on where he'll enter, set on watching him enter, set on the feeling of her knuckles cracking. she's wondering who she'll fight this time; she's already taken out a speedster, another melee combatant, and someone who she had no idea what they could do.
and in a moment, she's even more confused about who she is fighting than before. a man in... boxing gear... but also, a drunken ensemble of mask and shorts. comic is certain she is fighting a crack addict at best, and a nightmare at worse. her mind tingles at the idea of who he is, of how familiar it seems, but she is focused, focused on the taste of blood in her mouth.
Ghost Horse
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Jun 28, 2016 21:59:30 GMT
Post by Ghost Horse on Jun 28, 2016 21:59:30 GMT
Cheers of happy betters swarmed the room in which the small, cage-like dome sat, and inside of which only three persons stood: A woman that Ghost Horse did not recognize, himself (of course, he was always where he was, what a silly question), and the ref, who stepped away from Ghost Horse with a few steps between them - which the horror filled, staring at the ref, until it was told to go sit on one side.
“In the left corner, with a 3-0 record, Comic, or Marisa Sans! She’s a real dynamo, and she’s gained all of her wins through hard knock outs! She’s a little engine that could, can, and WILL kick your ass! In the right corner, some bloke who goes by the name of: the Ghost Horse, weighting at 95 pounds with the gloves on! He looks like a twig! My money’s on the girl!”
And he did. Ghost Horse looked, to Marisa, as if he’d be falling down at the first punch. He had a flimsy build, and his positioning in the boxing stance he was using made him look crooked and brittle. All in all, he seemed like an easy win. The audience couldn’t help but laugh… Except for a few, who suddenly went very silent. Then, a rush towards the betting stand, and a sudden influx of tickets for Ghost Horse’s win. Most of the newer believers were criminals. They KNEW Ghost Horse, maybe even “intimately”.
No, not in a good way.
“Are both of you ready!?”, said the ref: Ghost Horse simply screamed a steady “AAAAAAAAAA” in response, and returned to his flimsy stance, which made the poor man flinch. “W-well then! Err. No rounds, no pause, fight until knock out or surrender! Powers allowed! Ready!?”
And the bell rang.
Comic
(OoC note: FUCK HIM UP) |
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life is hard and then you die
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Post by Comic on Jul 1, 2016 2:41:06 GMT
 the only words that hit her mind when announced are ghost and horse, particularly when used together in conjunction. she knows this urban legend. its passed around akrham quite often; new gang members are often told this as an equivalent to a spooky story, to get them to behave.
now now, old chap, keep your toes in line and follow your orders to a tee, or else ghost horse will rise forth and have words for thee, in which people go on to explain that words is a play on gunpowder and acts of violence.
marisa has never bought into it, much. she figures its too easily explained by vigilante activity and rival gangs; when guards go missing, people just blame ghost horse for it, rather than the actual facts. no one wanted to admit they were losing, after all, so they made up a boogie man to do so.
she just happened to be fighting someone who tried to take on the moniker, that was all.
she preps and crunches her fists, lowering into a stance, feeling her blood pump, eyes focus, bell rings - comic is moving forward as the tone rings out, pulling her torso back, fist back, aiming to slam it right into the center mass that made up ghost horse.
Ghost Horse
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Post by Ghost Horse on Aug 1, 2016 9:17:58 GMT
He reels under the blow as it strikes him right in the solar plexus - the air - and strangely, saliva as well - comes out of his horse’s mouth, and he neighs in affront, falling on the ground.
The crowd goes wild.
“What a blow, ladies and gentlemen!”, the announcer roars in the microphone, his voice distorted through the cheers. “First strike from Marina Sans and it IS a doozie, isn’t it! I don’t think Comic’s adversary can get up from such a blo-”
But then he gets up. Unnaturally fast, too. Blink and it’s gone. His equilibrium is weird, legs posed to hold his backwards drooping head, and a thin line of… Rainbow-like, shiny, liquid substance slathers down his wife beater. His plastic eyes couldn’t be even more vacant, but somehow that’s what it looks like - he’s staring at nothing, his arms hanging limply on the side.
And Ghost Horse pounces.
Nobody sees it coming, an audible gasp runs through the crowds. His punch comes crashing in Comic’s face with an almost audible crunch, and he follows through - pushing her right against the harsh wire of the cage they’re in. The abomination readjusts his headband, and goes into a boxing jumping stances, offering a few practice hooks. And no one in the crowd speaks, with how shocked they are.
Comic
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life is hard and then you die
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Post by Comic on Aug 5, 2016 6:17:27 GMT
she's sure she took him out in a single hit; its not fufilling, but its what the guy gets for trying to dress up like a spooky legend and acting tough. the dude's frame made it look like he hadn't seen a fight all his life; one of those guys from a poor 'hood who thought that listening to white rappers made him tougher, or something.
she had already dropped her defenses, let her shoulders relax a moment, when it happened. the motion caught her eye, but her arms didnt come all the way up before the fist is kissing her face. her mind blanks on what could have possibly happened as body gives away to the suprise momentum and slams her into the cage side. it takes another long second as she drops a bit, to one knee, and catches herself.
hands shoved into the cage wiring, she pulls up, and marisa's face is a mix of confusion and frustration. that was a weird party trick, but she wasn't here for that stuff. a doubt ran down her spine about this being the actual ghost horse, but she just pushed that away and settled for the fact that this dude was just going to take a bit more to put down.
she spits, a bit of blood mixed in, and wipes her mouth. "alright, let's dance." she offers up her own crude stance - comic never had real, formal training - and waits a moment before running forward to offer a series of punches at ghost horse's body. she has no real sense of aim, no direction, just trying to put her fists on his body and give him what he deserves.
Ghost Horse
mood music cuz wynaut
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