[attr="class","monbody2"]Kizua catches surprise, anguish, and then a mixture of the two when his mask faces back. A splatter of red taints the air in an unruly water show, nearly shrouding the hand that moves to shove his brother.
There's a "no!" before he collapses back, powerless.
His older brother; rough gurgling, and an unsuccessful attempt at eying his sibling one last time.
But Tadaaki seems to be pumping with vigor, still — hesitance slow to override his senses— and when Kizua watches his attention dart onto the child, his feet plant.
He swings forward, the blade at his side maneuvering; coordinated, unlike before.
There'd be a two-step-maneuver to his own person, one; Kizua's foot is in the air, finding the closest abdomen to shove back (Nomura), and two; a spin followed by a single step forward, and the edge of his katana cutting the air in half — seeking the back of Tadaaki's neck before he tries anything on the younger cloud.
-
[attr="class","montag"] notes cloud npc dead, shoves his lil sibling away, kizua tries 2 kick nomura away then behead tadaaki
[attr="class","monbody2"]Tadaaki reacts seconds too late. He's still eying with the same surprise that Nomura garners, and unbeknownst to either of them, the cloud is working a flurry of steel. He's also preparing a few words of his own, perhaps to add to the unintentional distraction.
Kizua catches the cocky smile in them;
"Haha! Can't take fair numbers?!"
and it works a nerve.
(It seems like nobody heeds his warning. Or this country, really.)
A blink — Kizua's sleeve is grappled, pulled. His weight carries him with the wind and it isn't clear where his vision trails but it doesn't seem to be the ground for the foot that levers forward is successful in its attempt. And yet
as the motion invites his body to a comically graceful side-roll, Kizua mumbles an audible;
"your dance isn't very pretty."
There's no time to offer something better. When his body reigns aside, something dark appears. Again, reflecting with threat and launching forward in an attempt to slice the mist shinobi.
Shuriken — Nomura should be the first to catch them as he appears the closest. However, Tadaaki is already on the run. Nomura would only have to take a single step back to allow his teammate to cover for him.
[attr="class","monbody2"]It suddenly hurts. Yes, like it always does —
his pleas make it worse —
and the end of his brows knit together with a flinch, threatening and opposing the stillness that sweeps his form, but, ironically, it doesn't seem like anything more than a bark.
Fueled with nostalgic dizziness, the man is slow to realize what is happening. Far too slow; the Inuzuka's face is suddenly at Kizua's wrist — the same wrist that burns in pain, in revolt — and to this, Kizua lets out a quiet noise of
fear.
Like a kid that had just gotten slapped across the face.
The old man looks uncertain. Concern strings his lips shut for a very long moment. After he's feigned contemplation, he spins on his heel. Makes a very convincingly slow show of it and walks away. (Or so Kizua sees it.)
Pretense. It's all a facade. How Kizua hates them. How Kizua hates them all, how he —
the towel slips into his hand, and he brings himself down to where sharp debris and hot liquid settles. He thinks how degrading, but says;
"leave."
For it is much more degrading when he is being watched.
[attr="class","monbody2"]It levels too low — he levels too low, and Kizua is now reading it, and perhaps he reads in too much but if that blade strikes at a certain angle, with certain haste then —
clink
something silvery reflects, leaves dance with the wind — (with the mist shinobi's word) — and when Kizua's lowered crown appears, he's eyeing Nomura behind the safety of his own blade.
It's pleasant, this noise that rings when swords crash against one another.
It loses its appeal, however, when collateral damage risks taking the form of a smaller boy.
Kizua doesn't realize this. Not until he finds himself lodged between the mist and the cloud (and his sibling) and so little stops him from practicing further irrationally and saying this next;
"I believe there are harsh repercussions for what you are trying to do."
[attr="class","monbody2"]It comes to him first; the urge to click his tongue, feel the gratifying emotion of irritation, and — maybe, possibly — let it show.
No such thing happens. Dread eats at his skin the moment Kizua's wrist is caught in the air.
(And would Kegawa look in time, he'd even catch a flinch.)
"How arrogant."
His words are soft, unlike the relentless sharp that settles upon his eyes.
"How — "
impervious.
"... let.... let go of me. I don't want your filth rubbing off on me."
"Let go or else."
"Is everything alright?" rings a gentle voice to the side. A heavy towel sits in the hands of the old man.
It suddenly settles like a holy prayer;
please look away, please look to the distressed expression behind you, look away, look away, look away —
[attr="class","monbody2"]Deeming the situation inelegant does more harm than good, Kizua thinks to himself. Tries to shove his pride somewhere deep and endure what is (generously) offered to him.
But it's difficult. He cracks, says;
"I — "
well, attempts to. Is bluntly cut off by capsules invading his throat —
and so he coughs instead, the words long-buried behind a set of heavy drugs soon to wear his senses down. Not soon enough for his voice cries out in pain once or twice to the prodding that Nikkotsu so kindly delivers.
Perhaps he should have died on the road instead.
"I'd like to ask you the same," Kizua's scratchy throat rings in response.
"But I don't think it matters now."
An eye wanders.
His tone dies down to something soft.
"Hey — "
"isn't this risky?"
Because where the man donned furtive attire and masks to conceal identity, he also treaded in the opposite direction of where settlements lied. Nikkotsu has one part down — wouldn't say it's pretty in any shape or form — but Kizua finds it curious that her workplace is amongst lawful persons.
[attr="class","monbody2"]Kizua decides right there and then that he despises this man.
And the thought isn't rational, brings no flavor to the situation, and — as his father would say — doesn't matter. But he decides this regardless.
(As if a meek decision shackled behind his spiraling mind holds any weight in this situation.)
If his voice reigns any power by this point, Kizua's saying this;
"then please let me pick them up myself."
Manners, manners, manners —
"after all, I was the one who — "
clink
and the air cuts in half;
Kegawa would see a single line zip in front of him. Behind the piece of shard; Kizua's twisted, wide expression as he attempts to slice the Inuzuka's face horizontally.
But his grip is hesitant, driven by panic. The stranger would have all the time to stop it, or...
[attr="class","monbody2"]A lone blink and then Kizua's frozen in place. Unmoving when a face invades his side of the table.
"That's... not what I was implying."
Good, his voice doesn't waver. (And yet) —
eyes fluttering back shut, he then moves to mimic the other, grabbing at his nearly-empty cup and sipping. It is the brightest example of an attempted display, shoving nerves back while trying to keep the cool that sways at the finger of his tips.
It is all such a heavy reminder, and Kizua doesn't understand why.
But those words —
no point in attempting to sound polite when you reek of displeasure —
why do they sway him so? Penetrate walls and upset his, now, hesitating digits? He's got this under control, right? He's got this —
CRASH
shards of ceramic explode onto the table. Kizua's breath catches in his throat.
"Sor... sorry," he says out of habit.
"Young man, are you alright?" asks the innkeeper, and his voice doesn't feign upset, it doesn't tremble and ring with frustration.
So why isn't the widened gaze rising from the table?
[attr="class","monbody2"]Creatures chirping, the stretched whites in the sky, and a penetrating light that sparks a new burn. Those are the three first things that Kizua sees. Those, and — after a moment's delay — a blur. No — a spin. The world spins now.
Or maybe it always did.
Regardless of what games his vision plays on him, Kizua decides to heave himself up, and — as expected — it isn't such a good idea.
"Ugh...!"
Knitted eyes, a clutched fist pushing him off the terrain below. He looks up, and —
"ah — " blinding. Still very blinding.
And he's stepping forward once, twice — (and gods, what is this insufferable sting?) — until;
"young man!"
Kizua halts.
"Young man, you're bleeding! Come, quick, quick!"
A meek arm curls around his own, and he's pulled along side a shorter, frail lady. Pulled and pulled, and she seems to worry and fret —
over what? —
"you'll get help here, don't worry! Just come!"
When Kizua blinks again, he finds himself before a woman's (familiar?) face.
In turn, Nikkotsu would find him obliterated. Cuts, bruises, and a rib broken underneath the shredded pieces of red-tainted fabric.
[attr="class","monbody2"]They step through a wall of fog, and twenty minutes suddenly make sense again.
What arrives next is the plethora of faces; rough, edged, sharp — experienced. The whole package. One that vouches for the reported sightings of pirates, and guarantees the fact that you are now traversing their domain.
Ironically enough; this promises a more secure death than protection.
If the question is aimed for him, Kizua gives a nod, yes.
Sure.
(Does he appear that unfit for the road?)
And to the third (and even louder party), Kizua's lips purse in a gentle, static manner and he says;
"Kizua Chi — " nods to her in greeting before adding; "just yuzu. I'd be happy to send a bottle if it's of any interest."
[attr="class","monbody2"]Kizua isn't sure what the other says so he ignores it.
Easy as that.
But then he's looking in Kaguya's direction again, and — perhaps, perhaps — levering an unusual stretch to his eye that seems to ask;
really? You think I'd deserve it?
because as much as his body wills him to swallow down what is essentially childish, and a dream (which is just as ridiculous), Kizua listens not — plays by his own rules whether he admits it or not.
Alas
it dies down when he remembers the escort has never seen his designs before.
[attr="class","monbody2"]Though he could pretend to be surprised that the escort knows his role in this job, he doesn't. Offers silence for an OK instead, and begins stepping along.
(Limited options, unfortunately.)
But he soon learns of the headache that the twenty minutes will bring, and he all but contemplates it. And who's to blame him? Said limited options will toss needless chatter at him that Kizua knows better than to openly ignore. Something about business etiquette, even if the party involved lacks it. But he puts up with it for the sake of... well.
There's some hope in the outcome. Will it put me fifty meters from you? — he wants to ask.
Says this instead;
"I'll be fine. Venturing on sea is a worse position to be in."
[attr="class","monbody2"]It's the widened curve that enters the stage first, renders the shinobi still from their clash of blades. Kizua steps in next, or —
in better terms — too late.
But he's a safe distance away, and he realizes his presence hasn't been picked up on yet when words begin to spill and none of them target his person.
Said words are loud, by the way, and gritting;
"another Mist, huh?" the Cloud shinobi.
"Wha... ?!" Tadaaki. To the new face.
Stumbling expressions and fretting movements, but Kizua's mind strays elsewhere. To the brother of the Cloud that scurries behind his elder sibling.
"Whatever, you're here now — let's teach him a lesson," says Tadaaki, and it's clear the newcomer's words have slipped the dense structure of his mind.
Still, this could easily prove a match successful if the newcomer realizes he's got grudges to act on.
