Closed RP You Don't Talk About Fight Club

This RP is currently closed.

“Jesus fucking christ, man. The remaining guy flinched away and ran, passing Sam as she stood up. She would have gone to stop them, to kick the shit out of them the way Spork had just done, but she noticed something and stopped. Spork was standing still, their expression blank, their foot on the head of the man who they had taken down.

Sam’s smile faded as she saw what was happening. Even drunk, she knew Spork was about to crush the man’s skull in with their foot. That needed to be stopped. Roughing up the guys who tried to assail them was one thing, a fun thing. But killing them wasn’t. That wasn’t right.

With slow, even steps, Sam started to move closer to Spork. “Hey, Spork. Why don’t you take your foot off his head, yeah? Whatever he’s done, it’s not bad enough to kill him. Just take it a bit easier, okay?”

She made it to their side, and very carefully put a hand on their arm, looking up at them. Why they were about to kill the man didn’t matter. It could have been a lapse in judgment. It could have been the drinks they’d had. Whatever the reason, she was hoping that touching Spork, gently, and pulling lightly on their arm, would make them withdraw their foot. She didn’t want to spook them, with whatever was going on right now.

For a moment, something flashed through her head. A time when she wouldn’t have cared if the man had lived or died. When paying for your crimes didn’t always leave people alive. Forty-one. Forty-one people she’d killed. She swallowed gently and looked up at Spork again, a small smile that their friend wouldn’t see on her face.

“I know that feeling. I know that instinct. But it’s not right, right here and now. Let it go.”​
 


Someone is speaking, and their voice sounds familiar, almost, but Spork tunes it out, because if it isn’t Kitsune then it probably isn’t important.

Where is Kitsune? Did they get separated from her on purpose, or on accident? They can’t remember - everything feels foggy and far away, like they aren’t quite settled in their own skin. (And something tells them this isn’t the first time this has happened, but the thought is just as fleeting as everything else, trailing off into wherever things go when they aren’t thinking about them.)

Well, whatever the reason, they know how to fix it. They’ll just check where she is, and then they can get back to it. They make the gesture that should tell Miku to hurry up and give them an update, and wait for the status report to filter through the fog.

Nothing happens. They frown slightly, but before they can try again someone touches their arm. Miku didn’t even tell them the person was approaching, so they startle badly, a whole-body flinch that knocks them out of their frozen pose. Their boot leaves the target’s head and lands hard on the ground just behind him as they swivel to face the new threat, tearing their arm away from the reaching fingers.

(And there’s something wrong about the expression that paints itself across their face - more confusion than anger in the twist of their brow, their lips only barely parted in a scowl that isn’t half as threatening as their usual bared-teeth grin.) (It doesn’t suit their face - it’s more question mark than mask.) (Where is Kitsune? Where are they? (Are they even awake, or is this just another dream?))

“It isn’t personal,” they say, and their voice sounds strange, too, strange enough to make them pause, touch a hand lightly to the base of their throat, and back away another step. Dead grass crunches under their heels, and that- (that isn’t right. Where are they?)

(Something like panic, bubbling under the surface. (Push it down, don’t let her see, if they don’t think about it then it isn’t happening, right? If they forget as soon as it happens then it may as well have never happened. The truth is what they make of it. Whatever is happening to their body, it can’t touch them from over here.) The thoughts stutter, then repeat, looping somewhere closer to the surface than the rest of them is allowed. Their breathing evens out, even as the rest of them remains coiled tight.)

 
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Sam flinched back and away from Spork at their quick movements. She took a moment to assess. It was difficult, with the excessive buzz that she was still experiencing. She swallowed as she tried to process what was happening. Spork was acting like they didn’t know her. Why? What had happened? What had changed? It was the first time she’d been drunk enough for this kind of thinking to be a problem. She didn’t know Spork as well as she did some others, but this was off for them.

This was the first time they’d fought with someone who wasn’t the two of them, wasn’t it? She’d never actually seen Spork fight someone who wasn’t her. Last time, they’d been the one who pushed for it, even. She put a hand to her head, wishing she could think more clearly.

Okay, so something had clearly happened in the last weeks since they had seen each other. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it only mattered that Spork was snarling at her like she was their enemy. Sam took a step forward, and raised her voice loud enough to be understood, but not loud enough to startle. Maybe they just needed to be reminded of where they were? It was worth a try.

“Spork. It’s Sam. Remember? Samantha Walsh. Your friend. We’re at the park walking back to my apartment. I drank too much. We got bothered by some idiots. Do you remember?” She kept her hands low, but ready to move if she needed to. Sam didn’t want to fight Spork while they were like this, but if it knocked them out of whatever was happening, she was prepared to do it.

A deep breath left her body looser than when she had first approached Spork. If she had to fight, she better be ready. All of her reflexes were going to be off with how drunk she still was. It was going to be far more difficult to keep up in this state.​
 


The stranger (interloper? threat?) takes a step closer, and Spork takes another step back. (They hate being on the defensive. It feels like ceding the initiative, and being slow is being dead in their line of work. So why aren’t they fighting her, already? (There’s a reason, somewhere, but they can’t find it anymore.))

Words are still taking their sweet time translating into coherent meaning, but they go still when they recognize their name. (Not their alias; their name. How does she know their name?) In an instant, their demeanor flips, confusion washed away under a sudden rush of defensive anger. (Because any threat to their identity is a threat to Mari’s, and- (where is she? Is she okay? Where does she go, when she-?) -they know, even now, how they deal with threats against their partner.)

A breath, (steady inhale, measured exhale), and then, (without any more warning than their mouth drawing into a thin line, their jaw set), they rush forward, closing all the distance they’d opened and striking blindly at the (friend?) enemy’s face. (They’d dropped their cane- (why do they have their cane?) -somewhere along the way, so their other hand is free to search for a handhold on her form, aiming to latch onto her shirt or arm so that she can’t make any distance of her own.)

(And all the while, they don’t say a word, their face nearly blank except for something dark and coldly furious behind their eyes.)

 

It took Sam too long to move. She would have avoided the hit if she had moved sooner. Chalk that up to her reflexes being dulled by the alcohol. Spork’s fist met the side of Sam’s face, landing a hard enough blow that she heard a ringing in her ear for a second. A hand wrapped around the shoulder of her shirt, holding her in place. She rocked back on her feet as she took the blow, knowing that was going to leave a bruise. She’d never come back with a real bruise from Spork. Not one so visible.

Something instinctual in Sam made her want to get away. There were alarm bells ringing in her head as her vibe checker clocked Spork as a truly hostile presence. At the same time, she knew something had happened. Something was off. This wasn’t the Spork she knew. And Sam, if nothing else, helped her friends. That was why she reached up, aiming to grab Spork’s neck, and went to slam her head hard into Spork’s nose. She couldn’t back up far enough to do anything else here.

“Knock it the fuck off, Spork!” Her words no longer slurred, as the adrenaline started to combat the effects. She was still slow, but even slow, she was as fast as a normal human, sheerly propelled by the shaking that was running through her whole body. “This is not Fight Club behavior!”

If she successfully landed the headbutt, she was hoping that it would give her enough wiggle room to back up, to regroup and prepare herself to have to really fight her friend. There was no way she was abandoning Spork, no matter how hard the alarms in her head were ringing.​
 


Their fist catches fabric, and Spork hauls the woman in close enough that they can smell the alcohol on her breath. Then, abruptly, they can’t smell anything, their nose breaking with a crunch of (metal? No, they aren’t wearing their mask- (which means a bigger mess for Mari to clean up, later, when she’s- (no)) -so it must be) cartilage.

“Ack-” they cut the exclamation off as quickly as they can, biting back on another as a wash of blood streams down their face, but their grip loosens, and they feel the woman starting to move away from them.

(She’s yelling something nonsensical, and - hang on - (the confusion returns, stronger than ever, because) they (feel like they should) know what she’s talking about. Fight Club. They know that movie. (Don’t they? (Why is that important? Is that important?)) They don’t see how it’s relevant, but (maybe it is? Why else would (-some part of them be grasping at the knowledge like a lifeline, like an off-ramp, like a hand reaching for the steering wheel-) they make note of it?) they know it.)

(It doesn’t matter.) Moving on pure instinct, they fumble to reaffirm their grip on her shirt, fingers digging into the skin beneath. Their other hand comes down to grasp at her wrist, and they turn, shoving their shoulder into her chest and pulling hard on her arm in an attempt to flip her over their hip and into the ground.

(Their head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, the pain from their nose less annoying than the way it's sending hot blood trickling down the back of their throat, so that when they breathe they taste copper on their tongue. It’s been a while since they’ve had a proper fight without their suit, without their mask. (Without the protections Mari piles on them whenever they go out, because (that’s how she shows she cares, and how they know it even when she won’t say it, because they know that she knows (-she’ll always watch stupid movies with them, even when she hates the ones they pick, and pick up where the audio descriptions leave off- (-! They found it, they solved it, but it’s slippery, and they can’t keep their grasp on it because the rest of their mind is fixated on how-)) someone has to watch her six, and they’ll be damned before they let anyone else do that, and) she’ll be damned before she lets them get hurt unnecessarily.) But, even without their kit, (even without their Kit), the muscle memory is still there, guiding them through the motions. (They’re so tired, but there ain’t no rest for the wicked. Not until-))

 
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