thecapitol | Call It What It Is [Open]

Entry tags:

Call It What It Is [Open]

Who| Shepard and Anyone who crosses her path
What| Various things in and around the Capitol
Where| See the following options
When| Both before the reveal re: the "Gas Leak" and before the actual event portion of the event gets underway
Warnings/Notes| Probably cussing, violence, and reference to violence

♦ The Training Center:

Shepard has made a terrible habit of confrontation throughout her life, and it's earned her more than one broken bone. As it stands, she does tend to lie around insulting people a lot, and while ordinarily she exhibited that hobby by lounging at the edge of the sparring ring and mocking her fellow tributes, she wasn't feeling that playful today. No, today finds her with the punching bag, sweating and thinking, remembering another time, older days, with a friend now far beyond her.

…Also this is the second bag, she's already destroyed the first. Look, there it is, bust seams and leaking sand, just to the side. You feelin' lucky, punk?

♦ Out And About:

The nicest thing about being a bloodthirsty bitch was that when they paid you afterward, they paid you well. And that meant that when you wanted to sit on a public park bench and pull directly from the bottle, no one could stop you. No one.

But it was a nice evening, and a pleasant vintage, and anyways if these Capitol idiots had a problem, they could cross the street to avoid it, like good little patricians. She didn't have time for it. Besides, thanks to Cerberus, it'd take more than this to put her over the limit, however loose her personal standards for such a limit might be.

♦ The Gas Leak:

If anything had prepared her for the utter two-facedness of every living creature in the galaxy, known or unknown, it had been her work as a Spectre. And here, she was both pleased and chagrined to discover, was no different. But of course it was no surprise that the kind of people who achieved prominence in a society that felt blood sport was an acceptable substitute for war-debt reparations were less than honest to those over whom they held power. It was just so damn tiring, after all this time.

"Just once, I'd like to have someone screw up, and then just fix their own damn problem," she muttered, watching the grainy security footage for the third time. It was the same as the rest; a loose formation of peacekeepers, a black shadow, and then it was over almost before it had begun, and all that was left was blood and corpses. Given the circumstances, they should probably consider themselves lucky the damn things hadn't taken them alive, not that she would call that 'luck'.

If anyone wants to approach her about this, she is the picture of an open-door policy, spread out in one corner of the tribute center's main commons room.

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Lucky. He's always wanting for someone to hit. The feelings are mutual. Rage is better than balance.

His eyes narrow and he throws his hands up.

"PERHAPS HE JUST THOUGHT TO CALL AGAIN ON HOOFBEAST SHIT, Spilled forth from her unfortunate maw in wasted words. A GIRL INSISTS AT GETTING AT A MOTHERFUCKING STRIFE IS ALL TO BE A WASTE OF FUCKING TIME AND YET HERE SHE IS. Wasting. PERHAPS SHE CAN DO SOMETHING ALL OF USE. Tell at him; DO YOU GOT INTENT TO BE UP IN MY GODDAMN QUADRANTS? Because if you motherfucking don't, you need at to stop using that name RIGHT THE FUCK NOW."

Well now, that's just asking for it.

"I don't see how I answer to your authority, Kurloz. I prepare for a fight however the hell I please, and call people by whatever name I please."

It was, upon reflection, likely to her benefit to have made a habit of enticing people to fights as a matter of course. The Peacekeepers had seen her go too far once before, but...

Well, this wasn't exactly out of character, now was it?

She didn't know the reference, the only quad-anything she could place was a Krogan quad, and he would be far from the first to try that brand of macho posing. Shepard wasn't above petty insults to gain reaction and she stepped back past the painted line onto the padded sparring ring with hands spread wide in a sarcastic mockery of helplessness.

"So if you don't like it, why don't you stand the hell up and make me?"

No one is to use a wriggler name lest they be quandrantmates-those otherwise close- or childhood friends who wouldn't know otherwise, and really, most trolls known in childhood were dead ones. But those are the rules. Everybody knew them. It's a secret, a gift given only to those deemed close. And yet, again she uses it. She spoils that gift not just by using it herself when she's got no right to but saying it out loud where others can hear it.

He knows three who have it; his moirail, the Neophyte-- his partner from his future, and the Signless. He knows damn well which one has the hardest time keeping his flap shut. He knows that same person has no respect for this particular rite. And doesn't that just fuel the goddamn fire.

"YOU WANT FOR HE TO MAKE YOU? I ain't even know your title! AND FUCKING FRANKLY HE CAN'T SAY HE CARES ENOUGH AT TO ASK FOR IT! If you think at he'd want to kiss YOUR FOUL HEATHEN FUCKING MOUTH you are out of your goddamn pan." He glares at her and steps up into the ring. "BUT IF YOU WANT FOR A MOTHERFUCKING STRIFE, BRING IT THE FUCK ON, BITCH." Faster than any person of his size should have any right to move, he swings a kick at her.

And she met it with silence and open hands, took the blow in her shoulder and ribs with a rush of breath, a sacrifice in pain and grim pleasure to gain position. She had him now by the ankle, and threw it back, reacting to his advance with equal fervor.

Now she could strike fast, even blindly, for if there was anything to know, it was that one shall always know where their body is, if you have her opponent's limb in your hands. And she did, full extension, like an uncoiling snake.

Teach you to underestimate me. That'll teach all of you, to ever underestimate me!

Somewhere deep, through the anger, he's impressed. She's got some skill to back up her talk. An arrogance with some purpose.

But she's still sorely mistaken if she thought he'd gotten to where he was, made it so many sweeps with the particular aim he held in his mind at all times, without knowing how to carry himself in a fight. Without knowing how to utterly destroy people in a strife and take a few hits himself. Certainly, how to get out the stickier of positions. (And frankly, considering he currently had no holes in him, he'd say this was one of the least sticky ones.)

He takes the blows with grit teeth then drops backward onto his hands, swinging his free leg up as he arches back. He brings it up to connect with her, pin her, then twists. The spin will cost him five seconds but her slam to the mat should cost her at least ten. It would need to be enough.

He was aggressive as hell; it wasn't bravado, it was viciousness. She liked it, being met with rage. He fell back, and that was a retreat; his foot came up under her guard. Damn it! She'd been too long among Turians, who never hit low, and James Vega, who was about as fast as a dead husk, compared to this guy.

Well fine then, advantage to the troll; she ducked enough to spare herself the concussion and lunged with it, too late. That was going to bruise, and it took them both down, but only for a moment. He wanted free so damn badly? Fine. Shepard let go, rolled to her feet and was up again before she could even properly breathe. You didn't spend a year letting brutes hammer on you without learning to bounce back. This was just about to get good.

Here he was. This was natural. This was his element. All he was short of was his clubs and whatever weapon his opponent would bring and probably some blood goddamn everywhere. He grew up doing this. He breathes it like scripture.

He rolls and leaps back up and at her. No shock she's up again, just a smooth flow of movements just a like a motherfucking dance but with every bet up on it, more alive. He goes at her with fists and palms and raking claws. Spin, duck, swing, and parry.

Too damn static. He wanted to her learn something. He wanted make her hurt.

He moves fast, making like to move to her side and then just a bit past. Bring his leg back, up and around, then hook her again. At least that's his plan.

She could see it, in the fluidity of his movements, when he stopped thinking and fell into the rhythm, moving like an animal. He was a snake, uncoiling with venomous fangs tipping each strike, hit like a hammer, moved like a cat. It was like fighting Vorcha without armor, a creature that didn't care what it gave, so long as it took back it's own in equal measure. When she looked back and remembered it, Shepard would be impressed. Right now, she only saw the seam between art and artistry, planning and reaction. A grey fight, with red edges, pain bringing focus.

It wouldn't work a second time; she ducked the leg backwards and turned with the momentum, bringing her shoulders down to pass the return. Rage burned cold; she was three steps ahead, Skyllian Five had always been a favorite, and it was all about bluffing, small lies told inside bigger ones, all strung together like pearls. She let her elbow fly backwards, blind, hoping to strike a kidney, but pain wasn't her real goal. He was tall, but she had momentum, and she could reach, open-handed for the easy grip that grew from his head.

Her elbow hits and in that split second lurch between wincing, teeth grinding, and rebalancing himself, he feels his horn fall to her hand. A flash though his mind; the shellbeast-man wrenching his horn, the sharp snap in his ears, all his nerves on fire as pain he'd never even known lit him up from inside starting from the stem to his skull, broken right at the base where every single nerve was. The thing with fighting like a creature, being one, was that he reacted like one too.

His eyes go wide and red, his pupils constrict, and from his throat comes a terrible shriek of rage.

One hand shoots out like lightening to try and wrap around her neck as the other raises high, formed to claw, formed to tear with each wicked sharpened yellow nail.

This, she'd been expecting: bloodrage— ha! He really was fighting like a Vorcha. Free hand up as if to block the strike and she had his wrist. The lateral twist was a deflection, and she had the proverbial bull by very real horns now. But that was the advantage; pull your hands apart, apply weight and counter with your own momentum. It was a neat little twist that she'd practiced often with Garrus or Wrex or even Thane. You could use it to get a gun out of someone's hands, with a little modification, but she wasn't looking to break a grip.

It was simple; either he would bend his weight to her will, or he'd lose his damned horns, and she could bet that he'd bend before breaking. Her weight bore him to the mat with her on top and she exchanged hand for boot so that she could keep him pinned and grasp after the flailing claws. It was in grim silence that she managed that, and for her trouble red blood bloomed on her knuckles and forearm where he scrabbled. Brat.

Tall and heavy, fast and strong, but if she'd learned anything fromt his little dance, it was that Alternians carried their weight high, and so she had wagered the fight on that she could pin him by the horns and thus make him helpless.

If nothing else, he was helpless for the moment, and that bought her room to breathe, even if it meant she was all but standing on him.

His mind is still reeling, trying to catch up to where his anger left him lost. She has him pinned, back exposed, neck exposed-- a blade to the neck? A slice to the nerves of the spine, a stab in between the joined bone, decapitation; no wraith raised, no daywalker, guaranteed death. She's not done it yet, she's slow-- or gloating? Rubbing it in, his moment of being downed. Maybe she intends to raise that boot of hers and stomp it down, break his bones first, maybe his wrist or his arm, then go for the neck. He's got no voodoo, he can't crush her that way. He can break his own arms or--

He can save that. He sucks a breath. He's got this and then he'll have to brace for pain if it fails. That's fine. He's broken bones before, it's fine. And this? This is what he practised for. As fast as he can feasibly manage he brings his foot up, bending it back like a contortionist to kick her forward. Off balance, off of him. All he needs.

But she wasn't stupid, and with her hand pinning his wrist back, she felt the flex of his muscles and shoved mightily, wrenching his head back like a scruffed kitten to counteract the damned circus-act.

"Settle, you little psychopath," She grit out and threw her weight into it for good measure, pinning him more bodily to the ground.

It was an odd little wrestling match, but she was on top and he could wriggle, but he sure as hell wasn't winning free. It put her face down by his ear, which was convenient to Shepard's needs because this was getting old.

"You want to know my title, Makara? I'm Commander Shepard. I'm the Butcher of Torfan, the Hero of the Citadel, Champion to the Krogan people, so let me make myself clear," she punctuated it with a little jerk on his horn, as if to assure an attention that couldn't have possibly been anywhere else, "You can get behind me or be ground under my heel, but you will respect me, and no one stands in my way."

It wasn't graceful, the retreat, but it was fast. A heave, two steps, and out the ring, dusting off her hands with a glance for the nervous peacekeepers. You see? No trouble here. None at all.

"We're done here."

Edited 2013-11-21 00:33 (UTC)

That bitch. That bitch. She had the gall to call him by his name, insult him, and then she wanted to get him to settle? If she papped him, he was going to fucking rend her a new goddamn waste chute, rule or not.

He's just about to wrench free-- let his hand break, let his whole goddamn arm break, so the fuck what? He can kill her-- when she steps off him.

He's up in a second and then his leg is shooting out to trip her down. Fuck the ring, fuck the peacekeepers.

"Fuck you!" He shouts as the peacekeepers startle. "I STAND BEHIND NO ONE! And least of all will I stand at behind hypocritical, ignorant, contumelious, over-fucking-familiar, godless fuckers like you! I AIN'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT WHO ALL YOU ARE, SHEPARD, BUT IF YOU WANT AT TO USE MY NAME, IT'S YOU WHAT NEEDS AT TO EARN MY DAMN RESPECT! Now we're motherfucking done."

He glares down, waiting for her to rise, and all but spits.

Edited 2013-11-21 02:21 (UTC)

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Call It What It Is [Open]

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What hath science wrought

No using the 'S' word Do:<

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hope this is okay :x