DISCLAIMER: See Previous Entries

Pre-Note: Not much Vlad-related plot this chapter. I wanted this to come off as reflective, but it's probably a but funnier than usual. The end has some more Alan-based content, although I'm sure some of you are tired of boxing by now. Please do not drink anything while reading, unless wearing noseplugs or your keyboard is spillproof.

I never really hated rain when I was growing up. Sure, it meant I had to stay inside and practice sounding out words all day, but I didn't stare out the window scowling like most kids. That was the only positive thing I could come up with, I didn't hate rain.

The scenery. Or what's left of it. A recently emptied market place, consisting of several dozen wooden stands. Each displaying their merchandise from hanging hook above the counters. If this wasn't enough of a giveaway, every bit of writing in the square ten-block area was written vertically and comprised of the brush-stroked symbols Chinese alphabet. This was a cozy little part of town reserved for Asians who were new to the 'Golden Mountain' and were saving money to send the rest of their family over.

Every sidewalk and stand was abandoned. Thankfully the locals had enough sense to clear out when the trouble started. Judging by the fact every piece of fabric or weaker piece of wood was slashed or broken, leaving most of the stands in shambles, it was a smart move. The place looked like a hurricane came through and stopped by the local chainsaw outlet right before. From my perch atop the tallest and least battered stand, I surveyed the wreckage and watched for any sign of movement. Nothing but flapping banners and an occasional board falling onto its side. He was still out there.

If you thought the view was bad, you should have seen my clothes. My pants were mostly intact save a few strips of tan where a nail-filled board had torn against my leg, highlighted by a few lines of bright green blood staining the fabric. My jacket was in shambles. Slash marks all over the back and sleeves, my left wrist bare and my right showed green seeping through the insulation and even the cracked leather. Most of the slashes just exposed my shirt underneath, but a few had gone deeper and the broken skin was visible, the blood blurring the outline of the clean slice that had produced it.

Normally the remains of my jacket would have fallen off and left me in the tee I wore underneath it. Except at the time, I was soaked to the bone and not drying out anytime soon. The sky was a dark gray, casting shadows over the damaged area while it bombarded every flat surface with a torrent of rain drops that came down at a steep angle. Filling the silence with a never ending sound of crashing water and echoing metal from the pots and pans strewn in one of the wrecked stands.

I was crouched down to the slanted roof of the remaining stand, one palm pressed down against the boards between my bent knees while the other hovered at my side with a small green flame flickering from between my spread fingers. The rain pounded against my flexed back, cascading down my ruined jacket and pooling at my feet before sliding off the roof like a rooster's egg. I hadn't notice the green tint the shifting water had to it, by now the sight of my own blood was second nature. Green or red.

My white hair was soaked and darkened to dulled silver. My flowing bangs were pressed flat over my forehead and just draped over my brow barely high enough not to block my eyes. Which were burning out of my rain-splattered face at the surrounding destruction, waiting for him to pounce. I saw a pile of boards shift. My legs tensed, and a second later I was hovering a slight ten feet over the roof. I watched a silver and green blue streak by, and watched the roof I'd been standing on collapse into itself before crashing into yet another pile.

I crossed my arms, looking down as my foe finally appeared in the open, landing on his feet as his attack ended with his weapon extended behind his shoulder. I once again bit my tongue as he spun on a sandaled foot to face me, looking up with a face that barely looked human. His jaw was a perfect triangle stemming between two wide cheekbones. His black eyes were perfect rectangles set next to each other on both sides of a nose that was just a small triangle jutting out of his flat face with a single slit for nostrils.

His clothes would have been equally out of place. Impossibly baggy robes that simply hung on his skinny frame by no visible means. And sandaled feet that should have fallen off but stayed on his feet despite his amazing physical feats. To top it off, he was he same shade of bright green from top-knotted head to sandaled feet. He was holding what looked like an extremely oversized sword of possibly Asian influence, complete with feathers hanging from the hilt. Unlike its glowing green owner, the blade was all silver and looked very real compared to its master. It was held before him in both green hands as he yelled up to me in monotone, clear English despite his somehow Asian profile.

"Coward! Why do you evade? Do you fear the blade of a true samurai?"

I rolled my eyes up at the water-giving sky before scoffing down at him in a similar yell.

"…You honestly think you're a samurai? You're just jumping around like a cartoon character!"

With that I swung my shoulder, sending my wrist out around my torso and letting the flame it held arc down at where he stood glaring at me. Sadly, the rain pouring down through the air it traveled through seemed to slow it down to a softball's pace and by the time it landed he'd triple back-flipped four feet away. A bit much to work with, but either way I missed. He taunted.

"Why hide behind your powers? Duel me like a real warrior!"

…I'd laugh, but this little piece of animation still was going to drive me over the edge. First he trashes the market for no real reason despite showing off. Then he dodges everything I throw at him. I'd get physical and snap him like a pretzel rod, but he'd holding a giant kitchen utensil. Even if he's just an overpowered idiot, these aren't paper cuts. Why is it always the idiots who get the unnatural powers or endless talent in poorly written epics? Does it provide comic relief, or just leave room for character development? And why the heck are anime characters always missing a parent? Is it an angst-ridden orphan thing or is the divorce rate that high? His suggestion lowered my dripping brow.

"…you sure about that?"

He yelled back, still not a trace of any kind of Asian dialect.

"Come on! I'll show you my true power!"

…that's one cliché too many…he must be stopped before he turns out to be my long lost brother. Who supposedly died in the racing car crash. And became Racer X. Although I don't know it yet. I swooped down to the cracked concrete, uncrossing my arms as my feet touched down on the wet stone. I cracked my neck, asking the arrogant little son of a…stupid vow of verbal celibacy…

"Well, you seem to be poorly educated about swordsmanship…"

His eyes widened as my concentration peaked and my outstretched right hand was now holding what looked like a perfectly generic, green sword that would do any Japanese restaurant wall proud. Nothing flashy or unique. Just a beautifully crafted and well-sharpened Japanese long-sword with a leather-like diamond-wrapped hilt. Compared to his sacred steak-knife over there it looked like a toothpick. I tilted the gently curved blade, examining the sharpening pattern and asking.

"…tell me, ever heard of kenjutso?"

I looked up from the simple blade to find my opponent staring at me blankly, his eyes becoming thin slits in a cartoon-ish manner. I smirked, putting my other hand on the hilt and taking a stance with the curve of the blade angled across my chest.

"That's reassuring…"

He violently shook his head, hiding his confusion as he leaped impossibly high into the air, yelling out his rage as he held his shovel-sized blade over his head with his eyes locked on where I stood. In…eh, slow motion. I'm not joking. He was hanging in mid-air, slowly moving toward me while screaming and holding his sword like that. And I'm just standing there in my stance, waiting for him to reach me. I even tapped my foot impatiently against the wet ground, still holding my little sword in a blocking position.

I think he expected me to jump up and cross steel with him in the air. This is the difference between real sword use and the stereotype this guy is living by. One's a fighting art, the other's a way to fill thirty minutes and keep a thin plot going at the same time.

When he finally floated down to within a few feet in front of me, yelling even louder as he swung his shovel-blade down at me in a baseball-bat smash. Only to touch down on center of my blade as I held it in a horizontal block that I'd had three and a half minutes to set up. The metallic collision rang out for a few seconds before the actual impact kicked in.

…was I nuts? No, I just knew my basic physics from high school. Think about it. He was just floating in the air, not generating speed force for the strike. He just swung down when he got close, meaning the only power came from just his arms. And his weapon struck down onto mine as it was held in a very stable block, with both my feet on the ground. So, what happens when a guy hanging in mid-air defying gravity whacks a fixed object with comparable force?

…he bounces off like a Polish person's head walking into a doorway that's too short for him. Did I mention this is the kind of physics you learn from throwing rocks at a bigger rock out of boredom? I call it the Fenton Theorem of killing time when my parents have guests over. With rocks.

Like I explained, he shot back like he'd ran into a wall, dropping down to the puddle-covered ground like a rag doll. His ridiculous sword clattered down next to him, he'd lost his grip when the shockwave went through his wrists. I lowered my own weapon and tossed it over my shoulder like a small wig, letting it vanish before it hit the ground.

I slowly stepped over to where my foe lay face-down, rain bouncing off his strangely drawn form. I carelessly kicked him in the side, rolling him over with my foot and securing the toe of my shoe gently against the center of his perfectly smooth throat. He gasped painfully as his colorless eyes shot up at me, losing their cool edge in favor of a more begging expression. I just lowered a dripping eyebrow as he blinked rainwater out of his eyes before continuing the silent plea.

I just sighed, betraying the badass appearance my torn clothes and soaked hair gave me.

"…you're not a samurai…you realize that…"

His head jerked up and down as my shoe threatened to crush his windpipe. I nodded back.

"…you're just some little white guy who watched too much anime."

He closed his eyes and whimpered. Because that was the truth, not because I could have snapped his neck and made his afterlife rather uncomfortable. I went on in a harsh, sharp tone.

"…and you decided to show off by terrorizing innocent people, hoping you could take some on just like…geez, probably some character you drew pornographic pictures of for kicks."

He went to correct me, either that or claim his innocence like he had o his mother when she found said pictures. I pressed my foot an inch farther into his throat and shut him up.

"Hey, I'm talkin' here!"

I knelt down, my eyes flaring green as I couldn't help but growl.

"…you make me sick…if a single person here loses their family business because of your shit, I'm going to hunt you down and spit-roast you on that stupid sword…speaking of which…"

I glanced over at his oversized blade, narrowing my eyes as I cocked a finger-gun at it and fired my thirty second energy blast of the day at it from point-blank range. And since the ever-falling rain slowed the blast down considerably, the stupid kid had a good five seconds to whimper as his prized possession was struck head-on and instantly melted with a low hiss. The rain drops bounced off the quickly cooling molten metal as I took my foot off his throat and stepped away from him, but not before muttering to myself.

"…you make things a lot harder for all the other nerds, you know that?"

A few minutes later I walked away from the site of the 'duel' with my hands in my pockets and my collar flipped up to keep the rain from getting down my back any more. I ignored the squealing protests of the kimono-clad ghost, who I'd left hanging from a hook by his underwear. Judging by the tag on the back, his name had been Herbert. It was when I was approaching the border of the Asian section of town when I saw another sign of life.

Well, saw is jus a formal term. More like jumped out in front of me like a bat out of hell. I was passing a covered alley when all of a sudden a sopping wet figure literally hopped into my path, making me snap my eyes up from the brown sidewalk cracks just to check if it was Skulker, a teenage ghost hunter in a robotic exoskeleton, the one guy made out of licorice, or just some guy wearing a trench coat and not much else.

I nearly did a double take as I had to ilt my neck down to see a little Asian girl in cutoffs and a purple vintage tee with lettering I couldn't understand. I'd usually dislike rattling off racial details and height, but the truth is it was an Oriental girl who barely came up to my chest in high heels. I'm not sure how old she was, it's hard to tell with her hair clinging to the shape of her head and some make-up running down rounded face. As she stared up at me without a word of explanation, my shyness kicked in despite my being in full ghost form.

"…hi there…?"

She mumbled something that was both too quiet for me to hear, and not in English. I signaled with my hands that I didn't understand, and she quickly sopped speaking and looked down as if embarrassed. I just stood there with my wrists jammed into my pockets to keep dry, waiting for her to look back up. When she finally did, she leaned over to look behind me, at the remains of the market.

She finally looked back up at my face again with a cat-like tilt to her head. Her dark eyes flitted between the side she'd been looking and at my face, probably implying she'd seen what happened. I'd guess by the way she carried herself she was probably older than she was tall, either a preteen or older judging by her modern fashion tastes. I would have rubbed my neck if it wouldn't have gotten my hand soaked again. I just looked away and shrugged slightly, not sure how to act. She did the same, not sure whether to splash me with holy water or give me a hug for obviously having superpowers of some sort. How would you honestly react?

As my eyes settled on a window display across the empty street I felt something grab my hand. By the time I snapped my head back to see what she was doing, she was gone. And there was a sound of frantic footsteps echoing from the alley she'd came out of. I spun to look after her, seeing only a brick wall at one end. No sign of the girl. How's that for an awkward conversation?

I stared for a few seconds, wondering what just happened before realizing I was holding something in the hand she'd grabbed. I glanced down to find what looked like a coin on a chain pressed against my palm. I raised it in front of my face, squinting to make out the symbols on it through the rain polling on it before just shaking my head to myself, pocketing the odd souvenir and turning to continue my walk. I would have flown, but I don't like rain at high heights.

…of course, right when I looked back down at the sidewalk, I saw a rose sticking straight out of the concrete as if some one had landed it like a dart. I stared blankly at it as I suddenly heard some one standing on a building nearby start a dramatic monologue directed at where I stood. Obviously the same guy who threw this thing. I just slowly closed my eyes, stretching out my left arm and firing a single energy shot angled up at the rooftops without even looking to see what I was aiming at.

I kept my eyes closed, hearing the cookie-cutter monologue go on for a few more seconds before it was cut off with a cry of pain. My aim had improved, at least. Followed by the sound of a guy falling off the roof, bouncing off a cloth canopy, landing in a stocked fruit cart before finally rolling down a short flight of steps. Then silence.

I kept my eyes still closed, waiting for any more sound effects before opening them and continuing my walk without a glance at the victim. I purposely crushed the trademark rose under my foot as I walked off into the mainstream part of town, mumbling.

"Undead nerds…pfft, all that wasted time…"

…I mean, if I wanted to take out all that frustration I could have walked up to some creepy chubby kid in the adult section of a comic shop and gave him a wedgie. But, oh yeah, I'm half ghost. Such fun. Do you think that girl ran off because the blood dropping down my jacket was neon green? Or did my shyness play into effect?

Two Hours Later, Around Noon

The moment I swooped in through the barn's roof, I sighed at the fact I wasn't being rained on for the first time since I'd been pulled away from dry room to go investigate the Chinatown thing. As I appeared, fully human and completely dry, sitting in a bean bag chair in the slightly furnished loft Kirby didn't even look up from the guitar she was strumming from her seat on another bean chair.

She was clad in the same outfit she'd had on that morning, one of my blue hooded sweatshirts and a pair of her old patched jeans. She hadn't bothered with even brushing her hair, it hung in tangles in the pouch of the hood behind her neck as she flicked her fingers across a continuous country note.

After she started strumming an actual chord, her emerald eyes slid up to where I was sitting with a smile before she noticed a few stains where the remaining cuts were bleeding through the green tee shirt I'd put on that morning. Without even bothering to welcome be back home, or even ask what had happened she dropped the folk guitar onto the rug and reached behind where she was sitting, pulling out a black metal case she kept first aid supplies in. I winced at the mere sight of the box, standing up from the chair/sack and holding my palms between us as she stood up also, opening the box.

"Whoa…these are just glances! They'll be gone in an hour, you how fast I heal…?"

She just lowered her unpainted eyelids down before raising back up again like a windshield wiper. She wasn't budging. She had the open case in one hand and a white tube in the other.

"…that's enough time to get an infection. Just take your shirt off and pretend I'm any other girl…"

I eventually broke, taking off my shirt and turning to the wall, crossing my arms and closing my eyes. It's not the way the cream stings that makes me hate this ritual. It's the fact Kirby insists on it. I'd do it myself, but I can't reach my back like she can to get every cut. As she started applying the balm to the worst of the gashes, she began the usual string of questions.

"…this from the East Side?"

I just grunted, pretending she was a blonde or a redhead. And not my cousin. She made a curious chirping noise. I felt her breath on my back as she leaned closer to one of the cuts, causing me to wince in pure mental pain.

"…are these…?"

I sighed.

"Yeah, a sword…the guy was straight out of a comic book. One nostril, big sword, bad catchphrases."

She nodded, accompanied with a light groan of understanding.

"These are just nicks. What'd you do, take him barehanded?"

I kept my eyes closed, staring at the back of my eyelids as I admitted.

"At first…well, mostly. Then he challenged me to a 'duel' or something."

She actually let out a guffaw, sill dabbing my back with the sterilizer.

"HAAA! Oh, God…No offense, but you with a sword…"

She broke down laughing again, doubling over and forgetting the crossword of wounds she'd been treating. I let my eyes crack open, keeping them narrowed.

"…don't start that again…"

…Kirby has a bit of a joke left over from our days as my aunt's dojo students. Mainly the fact when she had us practice modified kendo with wooden swords, it turned out to be my weakest form of combat. Sure, after a few years my form straightened out but I'm just not a swordsman. Never found a reason to be. It's an incredible waste of free time.

It's a useless skill to have, a dead art with no clear goal. And combining gymnastics with it only makes it even less practical. My hands just couldn't handle a blade like I could two fists. Did also I mention Kirinia took to it like riding a bike? And dominated it like Lord Armstrong himself? Whenever my aunt has a dinner party with the family, these two step into a back room to have a quick match with two bokkens currently had hanging on her wall.

She recovered after a few minutes, continuing her task and leaving me wanting to elbow her off the edge of the loft. As she finally finished, capping the tube and dropping it into the metal box she joked.

"I'm out of lollipops, but that book you ordered is…"

Before she could finish, I had dove into the second bean chair and was tearing the brown paper off a hardcover book I'd ordered off a vintage biography website.

"…is…was, on the table…"

She giggled to herself as she sat back down, taking her guitar back against her chest as she positioned her fingers along the depressed ridges along the wooden bridge.

"What is it, anyway?"

I admired the bare cover.

"It's an inside account on V-Man Senior…"

I looked up to find her still holding her guitar but staring at me with her pencil eyebrows creeping up here forehead. I nervously chuckled.

"Eheh…um…Jack Fenton always called Vlad that."

She nodded slightly, not lowering her eyebrows as she just shook her head down at her guitar, plucking a single string and beginning to tune it. I went on, cracking open the stiff binding.

"This guy probably disappeared after writing this. Heck, he actually told some magazines Masters had developed an extremely abnormal obsession with ghosts."

She stopped tuning the old harp before she even started, gaping at me with a slack jaw and wide eyes as I sat there flipping pages.

"…Crocker Syndrome?"

I cleared my throat, examining the picture on the back cover of the head scientist at Vlad's old company.

"…that's where a guy's obsessed with something that's not real…"

She leaned forward, suddenly deep in the conversation as I was stepping out of it.

"Yeah, yeah! Ghosts, aliens, fair…"

I cut her off quickly, raising a hand as I kept flipping pages looking for pages.

"…Kirb'…Cousin Kirby…fairies aren't real. Neither are gnomes, pixies, ant-fairies or other mythical creatures."

She scoffed.

"Yeah, right! Come on, ghosts…why not the rest?"

I sighed, snapping the book shut and staring at her blankly.

"If it's real, I've seen it. All I've seen are ghosts, and that unicorn that jumped out in front of my bike that one time."

"…that was just a deer…it lost an antler when you hit it, thank God it was okay."

My eye twitched. I forced myself away from that. I rambled off, not thinking before I said.

"Like I was saying…weirdest thing I've seen besides ghosts were those two ferrets…"

Of course, Kirby begged for details on what was so scary about a pair of ferrets Kerri had when she was a kid. I pulled my shirt on as I explained.

"…those things scared the heck outta' me. I mean, she carried them round everywhere and talked to them like they were people…"

By now she was tuning her guitar again, but nodding every few words to keep me going. I started digging through my pockets.

"Sometimes I was alone in the room with those things. I swear to God I heard people whispering to each other…and they were making fun of me…"

Kirby bit her lip to keep from laughing. I glared.

"I'm not kidding! And all of a sudden Kerri had all this great stuff…she said she got it off the web, but she doesn't know how to turn on a computer!"

I began pacing the loft, all the old memories flooding back.

"…and my allergies…I don't have any. My folks say I was allergic to ferrets, but would it allergy really cause abstract hallucinations involving giant rule books and a green-haired guy whose intellect made me look like Steve Hawking?"

As my cousin stared blankly at my rambling, we heard two sets of footsteps outside on the road. The rain had stopped pounding the roof, probably my sisters out for a walk. My speech peaked out at.

"…could these strange occurrences in Kerri's life and my hallucinations really be connected to those ferrets?"

My point was further taken as we turned our heads to the window at the sound of some one stepping on a rake and taking it to the forehead. As I walked over to look out and see if she was okay, I finished.

"…and Kerri's short attention span?"

I heard Kirby slowly take a deep breath and whistle.

"…Alan…two words…decaf."

The Next Morning

"Watch her left!"

As if I'd jerked the control stick of a game control, Kirby instantly crouched sharply away from the well-hidden but hardly invisible blue glove arcing around her opponent's shoulder in a makeshift left hook aimed in the general area of my cousin's clenched jaw. From my perch on the ropes on the corner farthest from the sparring partners, I could hear the whooshing scrape of leather on leather before they began trading blows between one-sided stare-downs. That hook had missed Kirby's head by an inch. The glove had just barely brushed her headgear, giving us that lovely sound-bite.

I uttered a mild curse under my breath a mere two seconds later, but by then it was ancient history to the fighters as they continued their combination attempts and footwork tricks. That was the third time my 'student' had make me break my vow of verbal celibacy since the session started. Where the heck did she learn to slip punches? I've just been teaching her to block, it's easier on the beginner but she keeps jumping ahead like this. Wasp has been too busy dogging me to get busy to teach her anything, and the real trainers keep their distance.

The time bell rang out from the corner, and both girls stopped in mid-punch and mid-dodge to tap gloves in farewell. Well, the pale girl in the blue gloves and yellow sweats just tapped gloves while Kirby lunged forward and wrapped her green-gloved mitts around her newfound friend's shoulders before bouncing off to my corner as her stunned rival just crept out of the ring looking around for reality show cameras.

"Thanks for the tip, Cuz'. But I saw her leg twitch."

I stopped stroking my chin, letting my hand fall against my knee as I glanced over her barely-slouched form. She was clad in a pair of somehow high-tech black gym pants that shrunk to the figure in an unflattering manner. Well, actually it'd be more flattering in Kirby's state of fitness so she wore her ultra-baggy and obviously oversized sleeveless tee down to hip-level. Resting against her well-hidden hips was a pair forest-green sparring gloves the owner had ordered by mistake. Instead of throwing them into the rental barrel, he'd given them to Kirby. I think he was just after the hug.

"…since when can you hear chin music?"

She just winked, never answering the question. She then grabbed the rope I was leaning against and flipped herself onto the floor without budging me an inch. I watched over my shoulder as she literally conga'd her way over to the locker rooms, her cape-like gray shirt wafting behind her like a flapper dress as she tapped her gloves to the beat in her head. No one looked away from their punching bags or training partners, nobody seems to mind the girl in the green gloves dancing around the gym. Who would complain?

For once, I was glad she was wearing one of my shirts. It's not the overprotective male relative complex some try to pin on me, I could care less about what she wears and what she doesn't. Yet while Kirb' has blended in as just another fighter in here very well, a lot more semi-regulars tend to stick around after their workouts to watch me train her.

Not the real fighters, of course. I mean the local teenagers in uniform white wife-beater shirts and brand-new gloves and gear. The older fighters, clad in aging but frequently washed clothes they'd worn for years and would wear for a few more, just laughed to themselves at her antics while they worked focus pads or the other veteran's kidneys. The wannabes saw her as a sex object, the vets saw her as a sharp little featherweight with a personality to mismatch.

Then again, nearly all of the real fighters in here have wonderful wives, girlfriends or even mothers back home waiting for them every night with a kiss and a warm meal that would make a super-heavyweight smile. I've been told Kirby's a dish, but I've also but any woman you love enough to marry is a full course dinner. But tell that to the teenagers sitting around on the benches pressed against the wall, nudging each other like idiots as she disappeared into the locker room. I slipped out through the ropes and landed on the wooden boards soundlessly, hoping my outfit wouldn't catch anyone's attention.

I can't say I was dressed as Kirby or the veterans. While my tan sleeveless and black sweats looked better than what the rookies wore, you're talking to a guy who trains in trunks. And shoes, they set up a petition last year that I have to either keep my shoes on or see a specialist about the sweat glands in my feet.

So I go shirtless, more or less. If people don't walk up to compliment on that tattoo between my shoulder blades, I'm probably not working out like a boxer. With my not exactly boxing-like sessions at my aunt's dojo becoming more frequent, I'd been working my old routine at home in the barn.

Unfortunately, a while back I made the mistake of getting my cousin hooked on the sport and in a way dragged myself out here every couple days dogged myself into asking around for female sparring partners. In a way.

As I moved my foot forward to walk away from the ring and let some one else use it, another sound joined the orchestra of leather and shouting and went straight for my eardrum. A low, pure whistle that swooped up at the end into a classic 'Over here!' signal. My eyes snapped open from their thoughtful half-squint as I spun my shoulders towards the whistler, who had been observing the day from a secluded bench between the sparring rings and the end wall.

Stretched out on her back with her knees crossed and a sandal swinging from between two toes, was a young woman that both stuck out like a thumb in traction and blended in as if she had a lampshade over her head. She wasn't dressed like a trainer or a fighter, the bleached denim shorts and white blouse made her look more like a model posing for a magazine ad in a grungy gym. And if her clothes weren't enough, the milk-pale skin and white blonde hair weren't exactly signs of a manual labor job.

She had her delicate-looking hands under her head, staring up at the ceiling from under a pair of designer sunglasses she was wearing. Indoors, on a cloudy day. She showed more signs of being asleep than having just called me over, but nonetheless I jogged right over as she continued swinging her sandal from her foot. When she heard my trainers touch down next to her bench her pink-painted lips curled into a small smile aimed straight up at the ceiling. Her voice was like some one plucking a harp in the attic over your head.

"…who you cornering over there?"

I ignored the question, crossing my arms at her relaxed form and looking down at her with a tilted head.

"What are you doing back here? It's been months…"

Her smile widened. The ceiling tiles probably blushed.

"Easy, Phantom…"

I felt my spine twitch at the old nickname I'd taken far out of context. thankfully she didn't see this as she went on.

"…I just stopped in to enjoy the AC and catch up with some old friends."

She slid the sandal back over her toes with her other foot, uncrossing her pale legs.

"And I happened to hear my adopted little brother coaching a girl with new gloves…about time you got leashed."

I rolled my eyes as she gave the ancient ceiling a pearl-lined grin. I sighed.

"…you wish…she's just a friend who needed a second."

She didn't miss a beat, harping up to where I stood.

"You're training some one. Don't dance around it."

I opened my mouth to respond but she must have heard my tongue move and continued.

"…she sounded good. What style?"

As she switched the subject from an awkward catch-up to something I could roll with, I broke.

"I started her out pure ringer. But she keeps doing her own thing, bugs the heck outta' me."

She giggled, causing me to glance over my shoulder at the oblivious gym behind us. Her next remark snapped my head right back around.

"You sound just like him…"

My eyes shot even wider the first time, the awkwardness swung right back into my stomach rendering me silent as she stretched her arms over her head and pushed up into a sitting position. Her glass-shielded eyes cut into the far wall as she pulled her sandals past her heels, getting ready to leave. Her sandals touched down on the floor with two distinctive clacking sounds as she stood up to her full height, about up to my shoulder. She was built like a doll, very small and probably weighs less than a girl half her age. Which was going to be, hard to believe, twenty five next December.

As she started walking towards the side door near where we'd been talking, a new sound drowned out her clacking shoes and caused me to snap back to where I'd been before the snow-colored girl had called me over. The tiny woman stopped as her ear caught onto this, turning herself towards the footsteps but not bothering to turn her eyes. I heard a light panting beside me, followed by.

"Apesadumbrado sobre eso, había…oh, hey!"

The girlish woman raised her near-white eyebrows at Kirby's Spanish dialect before extending a hand in the direction where Kirby had danced up from. Kirby leaned forward and took the hand, stepping in front of me so I couldn't see her face but I could feel her beaming at her new potential friend.

"I'm…"

Her soprano meow was cut off by a harping smirk.

"…Kirinia, Cisne De Oro…Kirby for short?"

Kirby clapped both her tanned hands around the single white one, yelping at the trivia bit.

"Ha! Were you at the concert? A lot of people see my hair and…"

Once again, a harp dropped onto a cat like a piano on a duck.

"No, actually my room mate has your album. Your name doesn't really roll of the tongue, but your voice…"

She smiled again, but her sunglasses were angled towards Kirby's shoulder instead of her face. Kirby leaned back away from the much shorter girl, dropping her hands in confusion at the sudden compliment.

"…is just inspiring. It's worth the name. So, is Phant' here your personal trainer or do you just fall for the bad boys?"

Kirby nearly doubled over laughing, not noticing the unmoving pair of sunglasses. She probably thought she had said 'Fent' instead of the shortened 'Phantom'.

"Something like that…"

The ghost of a girl laughed back.

"Right…well, see you two around, and keep your right under your shoulder."

With that she turned and clacked out the door to the alley, leaving both of us staring after her. Kirby in confusion, me in a state of nostalgia. My eyes lost their glaze as she turned and asked with high eyebrows.

"Who…was that?"

I realized she hadn't given her name, much less an explanation for my out-looped sidekick. I shrugged, turning and walking towards the lockers and explaining.

"That, was Grace. Don't ask, it's a long story."

She stepped up beside me, keeping pace while trying to figure out what had just happened.

"…she knew my voice, but she never even looked at my face. What was that about?"

I ducked into the locker hall, stepping out a second later with my bag to find my cousin crossing her arms next to the door waiting for her answer. As we pushed out into the street crossing I remembered something and casually rattled off.

"Um…don't take that personally. She's blind."

I continued walking along the sidewalk for a few more yards before I noticed I was alone. I looked back to see Kirby standing with her bag over her shoulder, staring at the gym's entrance as if trying to hit the rewind button on what she saw. She caught my glance and jogged up to my side, lightly demanding.

"…well? Where's that little story you always have to keep my head on straight?"

I smirked on the side of my face she couldn't see.

"…it's a work in progress, ask me again later."

…this is what happens when my life starts to get normal. It makes itself abnormal all over again.

Author's Notes

...okay, now that I'm done trashing anime cliches...I'm sorry, but this is a trend in my stories. Idiots with big swords being idiots. And ever since I first flipped through channels and saw some guy in a tuxedo with a rose standing on a roof-top, I wanted a character to peg him with a thrown shoe or something. I'm sure the shows I've torn up have their moments, but I just had to. That coin the girl gave him will pop up in the next chapter, along with Grace's identity and how she knows Alan. No, she's not a love interest, I apologize. Oh, and Alan's out-of-place outburst about fairies? This is Butch Hartman, people! Figure it out! Next chapter, not just another rainy day and odd happening at the gym, I promise.