[CHIRP ♪♪]

It’s the day before Chugen.

Now… Gabriel has a sneaking suspicion that Lonewolf doesn’t remember him. There’s something that self-absorbed, narcissistic attitude of theirs that makes them put their wanton desires above true, unwavering friendship. They were cut from the same cloth. They might not have come from the same parents, nor have they grown up together, but they are brothers in some sense. Their quirks are twins. A few months between their birthdays means nothing.

So, what does Lonewolf like more than anything else? Fishing! Gabe… thinks? If anything, he’d like the novelty of having one of these weird, giant fish that happen to litter the bay. The sharks have to be eating something, right? And it seems that their choice of prey was something super-duper-pretty!

But not anymore.

Unfortunately, things have escalated since the last time he checked in. And due to that escalation, he’s now being chased by a bunch of fish with human legs that are way too muscular. A school's worth, it feels! And without a way to combat them, he’s, uh, yeah…

Running.

“Okay, think Gabe.” Oh, he’s thinkin’, alright. “Are there any banana trees around here — no, stop. Dumb idea.”

---

𝐒 𝐀 𝐋 𝐄 𝐌

[𝐒 𝐀 𝐋 𝐄 𝐌]

НЕЗАВИСИМО ОТ СТОИМОСТИ
( потому что что еще остается? )

Old men squabbling over economics and greed. Truly, is there anything more droll, more stupid, or more headache-inducing in this world?

In Tokyo Bay’s hottest (most gentrified) waterfront restaurant, in an ostentatious (tacky) and grandiosely decorated (more gold filigree paint than concrete and sense) private dining room at the top of the stairs to the second floor, a young woman is standing to the right-hand side of — as far anyone else in the room is concerned — her seated ‘boss’. She stands primly and properly, hands folded respectfully in front of her. Her eyes are respectfully downcast. She is the very picture of calm, collected, and professional deference.

She is, quite frankly, going to imminently either snap and murder half of the men in this room or fall asleep where she stands.

And yet, just as her patience begins to reach its breaking point, at last, a blessed interruption:

Shouting.

From beneath the second-story deck of the beachside restaurant, tourists and locals alike are clamoring. She can hear them, even through the floor and the walls. Even an expensive, privately rented dining room can only do so much to block out the noise of at least fifty people - and all of them crowding around the same spot: tall glass windows painted with murals of aquatic wildlife, providing what is likely usually a tranquil view of the open waters of the bay.

As well as, incidentally, the chaotic scene taking place beyond the glass: one blond man, running at full speed, perhaps even for dear life, away from a group of… human-legged fish. …. Hm.

“Petya,” the woman murmurs, low enough that no one else can hear her (though with the way they’re squabbling, it’s unlikely a single one of the old men is paying any attention to the two of them regardless), “Will you be alright if I step outside for a moment?”

The man beside her blinks, then relaxes. He may not have to step between his sister and an imminent massacre today after all — praise be. His mouth barely moves as he responds to her: “Gods, please. One of us should get to before I fall asleep in this chair and destroy all hope of reaching that peaceful, diplomatic, mutually beneficial agreement Ksyusha stressed to us about over the phone.”

Careful - she cannot laugh in front of these men, lest she attract their attention (again, that is; and what is it with old — very married — men and their leering whenever a woman half their age treats them with the absolute baseline of respect and cordiality). Instead, she bows her head again, respectfully, and withdraws from the privacy of the room to descend the stairs. Back into the public area of the restaurant, past the throng of baffled patrons, out the side entrance, where enough people aren’t paying attention. Enough privacy, at last, to take her hair down out of its suffocating updo, remove and set aside her suit jacket, roll up her sleeves, and pull a small army knife free from the confines of her pocket— all so that she might finally, finally slice clean through the several feet of hair that have been weighing down her head all damned day.

Once freed, the strands weave themselves quickly and cleanly into a simple snow-white rope — hardly long enough to bridge one side of a canyon to another, but long enough to suit her purposes. Held together with the strength of her will, neither should the strands snap or give out before she desires it so. She sections off a length of the rope and ties it, a makeshift lasso completed quickly. It is the work of seconds. It will suffice.

(OOC note: anime rules, she’s ending up with the kind of cut Rapunzel from Tangled did when Eugene did his thing and not the disaster that would realistically result from this move.)

All preparation complete, she strides further out onto the bay, clears her throat, sticks both little fingers in her mouth, and whistles — high and sharp enough that it was as if she’d done it through a metal toy instead of through her lips.

”You, there!” Hopefully it will have been enough to get the blond stranger’s attention. ”Come this way!”

CHIRP ♪♪

by sixsmith.

[googlefont="Roboto"]

[CHIRP ♪♪]

“Just your lucky day!” Gabriel looks back at the creatures chasing him. There are about fifteen, maybe twenty blue tang fish the size of refrigerators with enough human musculature to make Olympians jealous sprouting from them. If this were a war of attrition, then he would have lost. His only chance would have been his keen mind — a mind that has studied enough cinema to make it to the other side of Freytag’s Pyramid.

That was until help arrived. It was an assumption on his end, it always was, but in a war predicated on two opposing species fighting over the same territory, who would assume a proudly human whistle would come from an enemy?

If this was a trap, they got him hook, line, and sinker.

But the thought doesn’t cross his mind. Instead, he wastes valuable seconds running backward as he waves goodbye.

“I’ve got a hot date, looks like.” He says. “Shame 'cause I would’ve had to kick all your asses.”

A lie followed by the emptiest of threats. His only solace was that this hero would be able to take care of the monsters on his behalf. And if not, he’d have to come up with something. He’s not letting someone else get hurt in his stead.

“Love the rope.” He makes his way to her, jogging in place. Ready to move if the situation calls for it. But her stilted expression is more interesting than everything in that damn ocean. “How’re you so calm in a situation like this?”

He stops jogging and sticks out his hand.

“It’s really not the time nor the place, but who am I to deny an introduction to my hero?” He winks. “The name’s Gabe. The pleasure is all mine.”

---

𝐒 𝐀 𝐋 𝐄 𝐌

[𝐒 𝐀 𝐋 𝐄 𝐌]

НЕЗАВИСИМО ОТ СТОИМОСТИ
( потому что что еще остается? )

‘Gabe’. A distinctly un-Japanese name, paired with a distinctly in-Japanese manner. (Not to mention introducing himself by his first name.) Most definitely a foreigner, then. (It would be hypocritical of her to judge.) She herself has little claim to the land of the eternal sun (was that the right epithet?), what with having only discovered half a lineage tracing back to this place a few scant years prior.

But the mouth on this man. It’s impressive, almost. It reminds her of someone, a name and a face on the very tip of her tongue — but no matter. That brief moment of familiarity must, albeit temporarily, be set aside in favor of altogether more currently pressing matters. Such as the school of giant blue fish with legs still currently charging directly towards her. (There was an old movie that had one of these fish in it, wasn’t there? Locating Meno?)

“One question at a time, please.” She cannot shake his hand - both of her own are occupied with the makeshift lasso in her grasp. Nonetheless, a glance can be spared; both a greeting and an acknowledgment in a single flick of the eyes. (A stretch, and she knows it. She’ll make up for it later, if she can.)

At her side, the snow-white lasso begins to spin; half physical handiwork, half a product of the mind. Then up it goes, soaring through the air, to fasten succinctly around the legs of one of the unfortunate fish out of water at the front of the stampeding herd— and she pulls, the muscles of her shoulders and back flexing with strength that may perhaps be surprising considering her deceptively slender frame. Her target goes crashing to the ground. A test of intellect: is the school of mutants clever enough to run and/or jump over and around their fallen vanguard, or will they behave much like dominoes, and go crashing fins over heels, one over the other?

(She still hasn’t introduced herself. Very rude. She’ll have to treat him to something to make up for it.)

CHIRP ♪♪

by sixsmith.

[googlefont="Roboto"]

[CHIRP ♪♪]

“It wasn’t—” Gabe tilted his head. “It’s not—”

It only took a moment to figure out the root of the misunderstanding. Gabriel was fluent in the language, so if there was a miscommunication with the subtext, i.e., a rhetorical question, it must have been because she was foreign. Gabe didn’t have anything against foreigners. He was one! Plus, she didn’t look Japanese to begin with. And he’s been staring her up and down since she showed up to make sure. Wait, let him double-check one more time — okay, yeah. Not Japanese.

While he couldn’t pinpoint her ancestral lineage, he could pinpoint every muscle she flexed on her shoulders and back as she hogties a fish and brings it to the ground. A few trip over it, unable to stop in time. A few more because they thought they could jump over it (they could not). And then, when there was a wall of fish, it physically began moving toward them as the last line of offense sought to crush the two with overwhelming, albeit slower, force.

One question at a time. Chirp can’t sit back. She’s clearly stronger than him, and a more skilled fighter by the looks of it, but he’s got to do something. If there’s anything he can do, it’s think. It’s always been his mind at the forefront of his skillset. Whether it’s creativity, detective work, or strategy…

He steps up next to her and grabs the rope. He takes the lead because she needs to be the muscle in the back, rooting them.

“Can you help me pull?” He says. The one fish is at the base of the wall. If they destabilize it, they’ll fall onto each other instead. “As hard as you can.”

Who knows, though. Maybe she didn’t need the help.

---

𝐒 𝐀 𝐋 𝐄 𝐌

[𝐒 𝐀 𝐋 𝐄 𝐌]

НЕЗАВИСИМО ОТ СТОИМОСТИ
( потому что что еще остается? )

Ah, she knows how this goes.

An old song and dance by now — the once-overs, the weight of a stare over her skin, the proximity. (There is a chance she’s reading it all wrong… but she never does.) She allows him to step closer, to grab the rope fashioned from her own body, and there is no line of tension across her shoulders nor down her spine. No nausea trickling into her stomach. (All that has been well trained out of her by now.)

Instead she smiles, and she nods, and she follows instruction. (As if she wasn’t going to do this anyway.) It’s not hard, yanking the rope taut; making the poor mutated sea creatures tumble over each other, like an avalanche of fins and scales and truly strangely well developed knees and hamstrings. Child’s play, truly. (Like the games she plays with the little ones, when she can visit. When she can make time. Tug of war, she thinks it’s called.)

It goes quickly, after that. A thought is all it takes to see the… fish… are all neatly trussed up in cords of separated yet deceptively thin cords of the now-diminished rope she’d fashioned.

“Thank you,” she makes sure to say to the blond stranger — Gabe, he had called himself — once the work is done. What lie to gift him, for safety’s sake, in exchange? “And a pleasure to meet you. I am Yulia." The lie comes seamlessly, without so much as a hitch of breath. Practice, as they say, makes the master. A glance around them reveals no other mutants lying in wait. A moment of peace, enough to make conversation, at least. "What has brought you here today, hm?”

CHIRP ♪♪

by sixsmith.

[googlefont="Roboto"]

[CHIRP ♪♪]

Oh.

Gabriel did nothing.

His meager strength in comparison to hers might have been more of a hindrance than anything. With a giant smile, impressed as ever, he turned to her and gave her a sincere apology. Even if his boisterous, excited tone betrayed the fact.

“Wow, you’re super strong! Didn’t need me at all, huh?” Yulia introduces herself. It’s excessively formal, which makes sense given the context. But he can’t help but notice it speaks to her character, too. Gabe has been nothing but informal, meaning she was actively rejecting the invitation. A guarded one, huh? He laughs to himself. “No need to thank me, you did all the work. Maybe, I can make you a cool little trinket sometime.”

Gabe’s speaking to himself, thinking aloud, trying to show his gratitude but also digging into who this person is. People don’t publicly flex their strength for no reason. Whether it was a compulsion or the need to enact violence, he was interested. Very.

“There’s been a lot of reports on activity by these parts. I wanted to see what was happening — why the hell would all these fish be here, y’know? Turns out, bigger fish were chasing them. Chasing us.” He quickly added. “Humans, in general, I mean.”

A few thoughts cross his mind and he goes for it. Never hurts to be bold!

“What about you? Why are you here?”

---

𝐒 𝐀 𝐋 𝐄 𝐌