AN: Hey, all, it's the author here! This is just a little heads-up to let you know that the content of this preview chapter is subject to change before the full release of PF7. That means there's no guarantee that this scene will even be present in the final draft of PF7 (though it probably will). However, I thought I would let you guys see what I'm working on, because it's a long way until PF7 is done and I think you'll really like some of the new characters featured here! Have fun!
The banners over the stage claimed that Michael Wilson was "the candidate America needs." The branding felt somewhat unoriginal to Kick, like something that every politician could say. But Michael did have a point, in a broad way. He needed to be the everyman, to appeal to everyone. That was the only way he could bring together the most disparate group of people imaginable. What Kick found so remarkable about that was that "disparate" was a word, and that it definitely rhymed with things. He would have to start incorporating it into his lyrics.
"Yo, five-oh. You gotta watch?"
The armor-plated man standing next to him rotated his head with a mechanical whir, locking his lifeless visor down at Kick's eyes.
"The time is 3:47 PM," stated the cyborg policeman.
"Then I'm up in three. Wish me luck, homes."
Kick raised a hand for a high-five, and his friend complied.
"A'ight. Smell ya later!"
"Stay out of trouble."
"Hey-hey, whatever, man!"
Kick began to work his way around the stage, climbing the access stairs to thunderous applause. Kick smiled, but the victory felt hollow. He finally had an audience, but no one was there because they were really fans of his. These people didn't exist a few hours ago; there was no way they could have been following the Big K, or have listened to the few mixtapes he had dropped back in west Philly. They were clapping because someone they had been told was a star was onstage. He had to wonder if people in the real word acted that way, too. It was a scary thought, and Kick knew the world was full of other thoughts that were just as scary- but he had a show to put on. As he walked up to the podium, the applause grew louder still. He adjusted the microphone, and began.
"Here I am, back in the place where I come to let go," he half-laughed. "Miami, where the bass and the sun set low! Yeah!"
This got a cheer from the audience, though again Kick contemplated how hollow it must have been. He looked up into the clear blue sky of their streetside venue. "It's a beautiful day… but not quite as beautiful as all of the ladies out there in the audience, am I right?"
This produced a sizable "woo!" from the crowd, which was a good sign.
"Hey, y'all know it! Now, I'm afraid I'm not here to put on a concert for ya. But I've got the next-best thing! Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to introduce the man Miami needs, the man America needs, President Michael Wilson!"
The cheers that followed were just as enthusiastic as they had been earlier, which was also a good sign. President Wilson waved to the crowd as he took the stage, stopping to shake Kick's hand in the most visible way possible. Wilson was a stoic-looking middle aged white guy; typical politician in Kick's books. But he was much friendlier and down-to-Earth than his appearance suggested. He was the kind of man you wished was your mayor, which must have translated very well into higher offices.
"Look at this talented young man!" he smiled. "What a guy! It's kids like this that are going to lead America to a bright future!" He leaned in closer as the crowd cheered louder. "Great job, Kick. It told you it'd be easy."
"Ain't no thing, Prez."
"Stick around up here for a bit. I'll roll out with education first."
He took his place at the podium, and Kick hovered at his side.
"Only in our great country can a kid come from nothing and end up with the world! That's a value the Wilson administration has tried its hardest to protect! And now, in my second term, I'm planning to push that dream even further, with a comprehensive education reform bill!"
A "four more years" chant began in the audience, who had quickly become stalwart Wilson supporters.
"That's what true justice is! A system that works for everybody!"
Kick nodded along, clapping and smiling, hopefully encouraging the audience. Wilson's plan was smart in a roundabout sort of way; any doubts Kick had, he blamed on his impatience. It was going to work, even if it took a while. Of course, not every maneuver in their strategy would be completely effective. For example, Wilson's last statements seemed to have confused at least one member of the audience, who was not clapping. Instead, a gloved hand was raised above the sea of cheering faces.
"I think somebody's got a question, Prez," whispered Kick.
"Good eye, Kick," Wilson whispered back. "You there! I see your hand! Hold on just a second, we've got a mic coming to you," he said into the microphone, waving an usher into the crowd. After struggling their way through the sea of supporters, the usher reached the raised hand, tapped on the handheld mic to assure that it worked, and handed it off to the girl who had been politely waiting for her chance to speak.
"Ahem," she began. "Mr. President, I think that your education reform bill is a great idea. But my question isn't about that."
"Oh, well, that's all right," replied President Wilson from his podium perch. "What is it, then?"
"What I'd like to know is your stance on nuclear proliferation."
Kick saw the President gulp down air at those words. Whoever this girl was, she wasn't here to play nice. She knew.
"As President, I guarantee that I will use the power of the great United States of America to prevent our enemies from attaining-"
"That's nice," she interrupted. "But what I'm more interested in is why you would bring two nuclear weapons to a campaign rally."
One of her gloved hands reappeared above her head again, this time bearing a squat, orange box. She raised her microphone aloft to meet it, and a series of haunting clicks began to crackle over the loudspeakers.
"This is a Geiger counter," the girl explained, bringing the mic back down. "It sure is reading a lot of radioactivity around here. Perhaps you'd like to explain."
The crowd made a rapid transition from listening quietly to fleeing loudly. President Wilson hung over his microphone, pale with fear. He covered his own mic with his hand.
"Get ready, Kick."
Within a few seconds, the venue was deserted, save for a few scatter pamphlets. In the center of the wasteland stood the girl, still holding her microphone. The Geiger counter had been handed off to her companion, a disinterested-looking boy with bizarrely dull platinum-blonde hair and a scuffed letter jacket.
"Just look at that, Maka," he remarked with a lecherous laugh. "As soon as you start talking smart everyone clears out. You bored 'em to tears."
She gave him a stinkeye and returned her attention to the incumbent President. "Looks like we're alone," she said as she gestured to the empty square. "Let's get down to business. I'm Maka Albarn, here for the Hunting Guild." Maka patted down the sides of her coat and cinched up her tie, attempting to emphasize her professionality. Kick just saw a funny-looking kid in a nerdy outfit, and he wasn't going to have any of it.
"Ay, yo! I ain't never heard of no wickety-whack Hunting Guild! Whatchu tryin' ta pull?"
"Our organization doesn't like to broadcast its existence, but I can assure you we are very real. Just as real as the bombs you've got stowed away backstage," she continued, her pigtails drifting in the soft breeze.
"So this is about the bombs, then," growled Wilson.
"Precisely," smiled Maka, shielding her eyes from the Miami sun as she looked up towards the President. "They're simply too unstable. As a threat to the orderly procedure of the Grand Combat, I'm afraid they must be eliminated. If you surrender them peacefully, no harm will come to you or the rest of your team. If you do not…"
"We'll rip you a new one," said the boy.
Wilson turned to Kick. "Go for it."
The stage nearly splintered under Kick's feet as he executed a thirty-foot dive into the air, racing to the top of his arc like a howitzer shell. His fall from the sky was far less graceful, but the sight of the track-suited young man's two-point landing was still quite impressive. Maka acknowledged this by taking a step back, and tugging her companion back with her.
"I take it that President Wilson is declining our offer to surrender the bombs?"
"That's right. Now, if y'all don't want to leave with broken bones, I'll give ya a chance to turn tail and run."
"Heh. You really think we'd come this far just to back down?" laughed the boy. "You're crazy."
"Now, Soul, I think Mr. Wilson's lackey here is perfectly sane," countered Maka with a devious grin. "But I have some concerns about his intelligence. After all, challenging us directly is not what I would consider smart."
Kick shuffled his feet on the pavement, his sneakers skidding along in a precisely-defined path until they arrived exactly where he wanted them–- shoulder-width apart. By stuffing his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit, Kick completed his fighting stance.
"I don't care what y'all nerds consider smart. What you did back in the rally looked pretty dumb to me! If you wanna kick a beehive, the bees are gonna kick back!"
Again, Kick burst into the air, but did not gain much altitude before he rocketed forward foot-first into Maka's chest. She tumbled backwards, taking the fall with her back and shoulders before transitioning her momentum into a somersault that put her back on her feet. Despite her nimble recovery, Kick could tell that the attack had an impact. She coughed into her gloves and began to gasp for breath.
"Ha-ha!" Kick bellowed in triumph. "If you can't handle the heat, stay out the wild, wild southeast!"
Soul waggled a finger in the air. "I wouldn't celebrate just yet. Maka's not very strong on her own."
"Homes, that sounds like a great reason to celebrate, whatchu talkin' 'bout, man?"
"Because when she works together with me, she's pretty much unstoppable."
The boy broke off at a sprint towards his teammate, leaping into the air as he approached. Kick watched in wonder as Soul's body began to glow a vibrant blue, before warping its proportions into a recognizable silhouette. What landed in the girl's silk-clad hand wasn't a kid at all, but the snath of a gigantic scythe. With a flick of her wrist, Maka twirled the oversized weapon like a baton, somehow ignoring its mass as she let it drop to her shoulder, its huge, raking blade dugigging into the pavement past her right foot.
"Part-time rapper Kick, your soul is mine."
"Damn, girl!" exclaimed Kick. "If you wanted to mix things up, you coulda told me first! Guess I'll have to break out my Big K freestyle, knowwhatimsayin?"
"No, no I don't. No idea, really," shrugged Maka.
Kick stormed forward in a shallow dive, his leg muscles firing like spring-loaded cannons. A twist at the waist flung his right foot forward on a collision course with Maka's face. The girl continued to ignore the weight of her weapon and ducked under Kick's sneaker. Kick did not let up on his assault, and planted his right foot to swing his left out in a wide roundhouse. This succeeded only in grazing one of Maka's pigtails as she rolled out of the way. Frustrated, the part-time rapper opted for a closer-range attack, springing his right foot up in an axe kick aimed for a devastating blow to Maka's chin. His foot was stopped by his shin's collision with the horizontal snath of the scythe.
"Nice try," smiled Maka. "Now it's my turn."
Using the leverage afforded by her two-handed grip on the weapon, Maka shoved the bladed end forward, striking Kick across the face with the scythe's oversized ring. She followed with the opposite motion, adding a jab from the snath's tail end. Using the length of the weapon, Maka then shoved Kick back–- she needed the distance. Now she was free to use full swings of the mighty Soul Eater, which she promptly drove ring-first into Kick's stomach. Maka adjusted her footing for the follow-through, sending Kick flying back into the stage. The platform heaved under the impact, ceding structural integrity to the projectile that was Kick's body.
The eye embedded in the scythe's ring turned its gaze on its wielder.
"That didn't take long," chuckled Soul's disembodied voice.
"It's not over yet," Maka murmured, tightening her grip on the weapon. Confirming her suspicions, the earth began to tremble. The pavement around them began to buckle and shift, causing Maka to lose her footing. As she stumbled back and forth, she caught a glimpse of something darting up from the stage's rubble. Soul saw it, too.
"Maka! Look out! He's jumping again!"
"This ain't no jump," roared Kick, several stories above them. "This is a dive!" He extended his right foot out ahead of him, lining up the toe of his sneaker like a crosshairs. "And this is a Divekick!"
The arc of his jump came to an abrupt end as he accelerated downwards, his foot like a comet; his body the ethereal vapor trail. The astronomical impact it produced rang out like a thunderclap, scattering the pamphlets and causing further distress to the ruined stage. Kick smiled at the smoky crater underfoot.
"How y'all feelin' that New Angle style?"
The answer Kick received was not the kind he had expected- something beneath his footing shifted, and he fell into the smoking pit. In front of him stood a mostly-unscathed Maka, holding her scythe above her head. She had blocked the attack.
"Oh, we're feeling it, all right," she smirked, and booted him in the face.
"Parents just don't understand," moaned Kick weakly before collapsing.
"That's one down," Soul murmured.
"Now for the bombs," grunted Maka.
Maka leapt out of the crater and into the settling dust cloud. A wave of her free hand helped to clear away the interfering particles, with the added bonus of revealing the cyborg marching towards her, pistol raised.
"Drop the weapon. You are under arrest." Its voice was partially synthesized and entirely terrifying, but Maka was not so easily persuaded. She twirled her scythe back over her shoulder.
"I don't think that's going to happen."
The cyborg halted, centering his sights on the hunter. "Dead or alive, you're coming with me."
Maka snapped her arms into action, swinging Soul's blade between her center mass and the three-round burst that had intended to turn her into Swiss cheese. The bullets failed to pierce the magical metal, and instead fell to the pavement like a sprinkling of tiny lead mushrooms.
"Yowch!" groaned Soul. "Warn me before you do that!"
"I'm pretty sure in the time it would have taken me to say, 'Oh, hey, Soul, could you maybe do me a favor and let me use you to block those bullets?' I would have died three or four times," retorted Maka. "So no, I'm not going to warn you. Now lend me a hand, if you don't want to block any more bullets for me."
"All right, all right," grumbled Soul. "We'll nip this in the bud, right here!"
Maka shifted into a wider stance, and RoboCop adjusted his aim accordingly.
"Your move, creep."
"How polite," smirked the girl, before raising her voice and calling out, in unison with her weapon, "TAMASHII NO KYOUMEI!"
A sudden squall erupted from beneath Maka's feet, creating a mirage of raw power.
"Matched wavelengths stable," Maka stated. "Initiate technique Witch Hunter."
The energy surrounding Maka flowed into the scythe, which began a second metamorphosis, pulsing with the same blue glow as it grew in size and developed an even crueler curve. Maka hefted her absurd new weapon back, then slung it forwards. As the blade touched the ground, the energy burst forward in a narrow wave that sliced apart the pavement in a single, violent surge. The wave raced towards its target, who, while quick on the draw, was not one for dodging, and effortlessly severed the cyborg's weapon arm from his body. Having completed the technique, Soul shrunk back into his standard form.
"Let's keep moving," instructed Maka, setting off at a sprint for the stage.
"What use is it, telling me that?" asked her scythe as they ran past the disarmed Robocop, who was still in the process of losing his footing. Maka rolled her eyes and carried on, using the length of Soul's snath to vault onto the rickety stage. For a moment, it seemed as though the platform would not support the force of her landing. The strained particleboard sagged beneath her feet. Its dull groans were punctuated by the sharp cracks of pressure fractures. Just as Maka was certain it was about to collapse, it fell silent again.
"Whew," sighed Maka, wiping the sweat off of her brow.
"You said it," agreed Soul. "I thought for sure it was gonna-"
Huge metal cylinders plowed through the curtains and smashed the stage into splinters, causing Maka and Soul to fall into the rubble. Above them, flickering in the dust, was a solitary pinprick of red light.
"Don't you understand?" echoed the voice of President Michael Wilson, tinny from its transmission through a loudspeaker. "I'm trying to help everyone! And that includes you!"
As the dust thinned, the hulking frame to which the light belonged became visible. It towered over them, squat and bulbous, layered with armor plate and thrusters and binders and ventilation. Protruding from its back were two long storage pods, both emblazoned with the Seal of the President of the United States.
"The people- us fighters- need someone who can stand up to the Master of Games! Someone they can unite behind! A leader! We need a full-blown revolution, or we're going to be stuck here forever! I can do it, I've done it before!"
Maka picked herself out of the rubble and dusted off her coat. "Do I have to repeat myself? I don't care about you. I'm here for the bombs. Hand them over and there won't be any more trouble."
The mini-mech took three steps backward, revealing two dull-grey boxes, one tall and wide, one short and narrow.
"If you want the bombs so badly, you can have them." Wilson's mech depressed a flat panel on top of each box, then blasted away on its collection of maneuvering jets. Slowly, the boxes began to open.
"Oh, man, Maka- I d-don't think we should stick around," stammered Soul, cold and clammy in Maka's hands.
"What's the matter?"
"T-the b-bombs, Maka… they've got souls! T-too many!"
"Well, duh. They're living bombs. Of course they have souls. Though, that does make me think, why on earth did your parents name you Soul? I mean, knowing the profession you got yourself into, it strikes me as rather unfortunate. Like if they named a mailman Parcel. You know?"
"That's not what I- Maka! Just- just look!"
The bombs that emerged from the boxes- which Maka realized were meant to resemble coffins- did not look much like bombs at all. The taller box produced what resembled a bald man of considerable girth, clad in a blue suit and matching hat. The shorter box contained a snow-haired kid, hands stuffed in the pockets of his matching jacket. They squinted against the light, the larger of the two blocking the sunlight with a hand, exposing a seared-black palm.
"Fat Man and Little Boy," said Maka slowly and clearly, as much for herself as for them. She swung Soul ahead, pointing the length of the scythe downrange. "On behalf of the Hunting Guild, I have been sent here to terminate you."
With blank faces, they returned her gaze.
"Hey, Maka, before they do anything, let's just get out of here, okay?" whimpered Soul. "You don't have to take this job! There are others to pick from!"
"No way," snarled the meister to her weapon. "These two both are X-class rated. If I can take them out, I'll shoot straight to the top of the Guild."
"I don't think you get what I'm trying to say, Maka- these guys… they're something else. I don't think we're ready for-"
"So this is what we get," mused Fat Man. "Released from prison, just to be executed." Maka and Soul stopped their bickering and listened.
"By an odd couple with a death wish, no less," Little Boy added.
"You would assume that fate would be courteous enough to provide someone efficient."
"But it's always two idiots. Two idiots every time."
"Two idiots too smart for their own good."
The eye embedded in the scythe's ring glared at Maka. "You see? That's the kind of thing that you hear when you are in way over your head! Just apologize and run!"
"No!" she snarled, committing to her attack by pouncing towards her targets. "I'm not giving this up!"
The scythe ate nothing but pavement on its first swing, which narrowly missed Little Boy. He was more agile than Maka had anticipated, rolling out of the way even in his starched suit. She began to pluck Soul's blade out of the ground, and was assisted by a clothesline from Fat Man, who much to Maka's dismay, was exactly as heavy as she had anticipated. Both weapon and meister clattered to the ground.
Fat Man staggered forward a few feet before he was able to stop himself. He put a hand to his stomach and gasped for air. "It feels wrong… to hurt someone like that."
Maka sprung off the ground, solidifying her stance just as Little Boy drove a tiny fist into her midsection. The impact did little to hurt her, but the temperature did. She threw herself backwards and clutched at her stomach. Her neatly-pressed coat had been scorched.
"We've done a lot worse than this," replied Little Boy to his brother, wringing out his hand. "Of course, you'd like to pretend we haven't."
"Don't- don't be like that," whimpered Fat Man while he unbuttoned his jacket.
"I can't believe it," Maka murmured. "They're so dysfunctional… but still coordinated enough to overwhelm us. "
Little Boy cracked a mischievous grin. "And overwhelm you is exactly what we're going to do. Wilson was keeping us cooped up in there, and we didn't like it."
"Now that we're free, we can do whatever we want. We could see the sights!" suggested Fat Man. His brother rolled his eyes.
"You'll do no such thing," snarled Maka, rushing forwards. She worked her arms, twirling her scythe in methodical arcs, an oversized turbocharged lawn tiller that chewed at the pavement below her feet. Little Boy rolled again, but kept a foot close enough to Maka to jab into her ankle. With her upper body occupied in the sweeping movements of the scythe, her balance was quickly compromised. Maka stumbled backwards and adjusted her footing. He wasn't going to escape again. She raised Soul, preparing for a single slash, when a knife of white light from the left caught her attention. Fat Man's coat and shirt hung open, exposing not only his prodigious gut, but also the snub-nosed revolver he gripped in his trembling hands.
"Heads up, Soul," she warned, and swung the blade to block another bullet.
Soul howled in protest, and violently wriggled out of Maka's grasp while transforming back into his human form.
"Would you just stop that?" He shrieked, clasping an apparently-wounded arm to his body.
"Soul, now is a really bad time to-"
"F-f-freeze!" screamed Fat Man, waving his weapon between his old target and the new one. "You're not bulletproof anymore, so don't think about trying anything!"
Maka raised her hands above her head, knowing the bomb had a point. "Dammit, Soul, you lazy little…" She said several things under her breath, most of which were too complex for Soul to be offended by. He shrugged and placed his hands behind his head.
"Get them on the ground," grunted Little Boy, picking gravel out of his suit. Fat Man clumsily moved behind them, gesticulating with his weapon until weapon and Meister knelt beneath the brother bombs.
"What now?" asked Fat Man, wiping sweat from his brow. "We kill them and run for it?"
"No, I've got something better in mind," Little Boy smirked. He opened his right hand, and a blue flame erupted in his palm. "Why don't we kill a few million birds with one stone?"
"You wouldn't!" Fat Man protested. "Have you gone mad? Think about- think about what happened the last time! Do you honestly want to-"
"Think about it… we'll take care of these two, and get revenge on Wilson, and win the round, whatever it is. These aren't real people here, anyway. Nothing of value will be lost."
The Guild file on the bombs had been extremely vague. D wrote all of the files quickly, mostly as notes for himself. It was his job to give his hunters the full details when they were assigned to a quarry. But Maka hadn't been filled in, because she had not been assigned to this mission. It was a dangerous ploy, and it was all backfiring spectacularly. These bombs were planning on annihilating the entire arena- the exact sort of disaster that the Guild was formed to stop. Now that disaster was rushing towards its fruition, and the blame rested entirely on her.
She weighed her options carefully. She was fast enough to take out one of the bombs, but not both. If she went for Little Boy, Fat Man could shoot her in the back. If she opted for Fat Man instead, Little Boy would no doubt execute his plan and explode. Soul would probably be no help at all. If there was a solution to her current predicament, it wasn't force.
"Not exactly nothing," said Maka quietly.
Little Boy turned his attention away from the wriggling flame in his hand to the girl kneeling in front of him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just think about what will happen if you do this. Yeah, you'll get revenge on Wilson. But what happens afterward? I doubt he's going to change his opinion on you. And just think of how the Master of Games might respond…"
"If you have a point to make, can you get to it?"
Maka slowly met the boy's gaze. "My point is, if revenge is what you want, we might be very valuable to you."
"What are you doing?" whispered Soul. Maka replied with an elbow to his face.
"Heh," chuckled Little Boy. "It's just like in the old westerns. As soon as the bad guy is on his knees, he'll say anything to beg for mercy. Why would we ever trust you? You came here to kill us, but now you say you'll help us. Forgive me, but I don't buy it."
"That's fine. You've got a pretty good reason not to trust us. But when you make everyone in the Grand Combat your enemy, just remember that you could have avoided it all."
Little Boy blasted the back of his left hand across Maka's face, catching her by surprise.
"I've had it with hearing your voice. Nothing you say matters. People like you are the lowest form of scum in the world! You and your cronies would hunt us down just because we're different… do you have any idea how sick that is? You probably don't. I bet you're so deluded you would never understand. But that's what me and my brother are here for. We were made so that people would be scared, so that people will listen. Now, you're going to listen to me."
Little Boy raised his right hand above his head, the flame in its palm as feeble as ever. At first, he seemed just as indignant as he had before. But the longer he held still, the more fear his face betrayed.
"So… this is what it's like to explode."
He swallowed hard, and flung his hand towards the pavement. Maka didn't bother closing her eyes, since there would be nothing left for her to preserve. Soul, as oblivious as always, was occupied with picking his nose. Not a block away, people ate their lunches while children played. Coconuts hung ripening on streetside trees, and music wafted out of tinny boomboxes into the sky. The hand, poised to interrupt it all, never did. It instead fell off of Little Boy's arm, along with a sizable portion of his wrist, and flopped onto the ground, inert. A gust of wind swept through the rally site, carrying more loose pamphlets to disenfranchised voters.
"Ahamm," gasped Little Boy, staring at his blood as it continued to pour out onto the asphalt. From each droplet, a blade of grass sprung up, ignorant of their need for roots to live. Little Boy joined Maka and Soul on his knees, darkening his crisp blue slacks into a dripping purple-black. Behind him, a cloaked figure loomed, a long, bloodstained blade at its side. With another inconceivably fast motion, the sword emerged from Little Boy's chest. He looked down, wheezed, and slumped forward. Maka heard something gurgle behind her, followed by a thump. She looked over her shoulder to find Fat Man had met a similar fate. The cloaked figure returned the sword to its enormous scabbard, and wiped its boots off in a new patch of grass.
"Maka," it said sternly. "I'm very disappointed in you."
"D, I c-can explain," stammered Maka as she rose to her feet.
"There is no need. You wished to eliminate these creatures as a means of inflating your rank within the guild. You knew I would not allow you to take them as your quarry legitimately, so you sought them out on your own." His voice was smooth, even, and deep, his diction not betraying even the slightest hint of emotion.
"I mean, I did- I- well, I- yes," sighed the Meister.
"Unless I have overestimated your intelligence, I believe your failure here has illustrated exactly why disobeying our protocol is a poor choice. It would serve you well to learn from this mistake."
"But how am I supposed to advance my ranking? The targets at my level don't give me enough points!"
A glimmer of sunlight bounced off of a watchful eye beneath the wide brim of D's hat.
"Perhaps if you were to bring me two at once."
"Two… at once? You mean…"
"Don't act dumb, Maka," grinned Soul. "You know the ones he's talking about. The patchwork man, and his little playmate."
"…the girl with the scythe," Maka murmured. "If that's what you want, D, I'll-"
Maka looked for her superior, but the cloaked figure had already vanished.
"Man, have you ever seen D be that friggin' gracious? 'Cause I sure haven't," Soul pondered. "I wouldn't let it go to waste."
"Neither would I. What was her name again? Rose, right? Ruby Rose?"
"I'm pretty sure that's what it is."
Maka tightened her gloves and cinched up her tie.
"Ruby Rose… it's a dull name, if you ask me."
"I dunno, I think it's kind of cute."
Maka brought her fist down on top of Soul's head, causing him to wince in pain.
"Fine, forget I said anything, geez."
"I will try to forget that you said that," promised Maka. "Now, let's go hunting."
Kick awoke to soft light and a gentle breeze. He wondered, for a moment, if he was in heaven, before he reminded himself that death was not very eternal here. Opening his eyes revealed the blue Miami skies above him, his back resting along the bottom of the crater.
"Damn," he groaned has he slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position. "Girls ain't nothin' but trouble."
"You've got that right," said the girl sitting next to him. Kick bounced to the other side of the crater in fright, which did not do much to remedy his aching body.
"Pardon me if I sound a little rude, but the hell did you come from?" The girl held up a finger and took a gigantic bite out of a sandwich she held in wrinkled wax paper. She chewed noisily, dragged her sleeve across her mouth, and swallowed, before noticing a drop of mustard that had escaped onto her bomber jacket and wiping it up as well.
"Nowhere in particular. I was passing through because I heard a rally was going on and I figured that there would be free food, but it turns out there wasn't any. I was going to leave, but then you got on stage, and I thought there would be a concert, but there wasn't one, so I was going to leave again, and that's when everything went totally whack, so I decided to stick around and watch after all. Damn, you've got some illin' moves."
"Uh, thanks," muttered Kick.
She was young, younger than he was, with long, wavy brown hair and matching eyes. Settled on her head was an oddly-familiar blue cap. Her bomber jacket had been reinforced with a pair of metal pauldrons at the shoulders, and she wore a pair of ornately-stitched cowboy boots complete with spurs. Next to her sat a greasy white paper bag, which most probably contained additional sandwiches.
"Name's Max, by the way. I'd say I'm a big fan but I've never heard of you until today. But dawg, I think your rhymes are that perfect old-school kind of slick. Have you ever heard of DJ Jazzy Jeff?"
"No, can't say I have."
"You remind me of that kind of style. But I like the newer, hard-edged stuff too. That's how you know hip-hop is one of the good genres, right? Because it's constantly moving forward, evolving."
Kick stood up with some effort, and scratched his head. "I guess I never thought of it like that."
The girl removed a large-screened cell phone from her jacket's pocket, and began to thumb through her applications. "Aw, man, I almost forgot to send the video to Pit. He'd love this stuff."
Kick moved closer, peering over the edge of the screen. It was a short clip of the battle between him and the scythe girl, shot from what seemed to be a nearby rooftop.
"Oh, yeah, here's that bit, where you use the big Inazuma kick there, very nice."
"It's a divekick."
"Divekick, Inazuma, Hayabusa no Kyaku, I've heard it a lot of ways. It's legit no matter what."
She opened a social media app and selected the video before posting it.
"Well, dawg, it was nice meeting a real legend of hip-hop," she said, springing to her feet and saluting with the sandwich. "But now that I know you're all right, I gotta split. Vaya con dios."
She leapt upwards, sailing out of the crater in a single bound. Kick scratched his head again, and realized that his hat had left with her. He shook his head slowly.
"Nothin' but trouble."