Chapter Three: Extreme Volleyball; or, Sand Wars- The Nagi Strikes Back
(In Which The Aforementioned Seriously Injured Crab Is Introduced Properly; The Beach Volleyball Tournament Is Begun; Omi Devises Diabolical Schemes Against Nagi; Nagi Devises Diabolical Schemes To Counteract Omi's Diabolical Schemes, And Farfarello Takes Matters Into His Own Hands)
This chapter is dedicated to: Lain, and all future members of the Anime Club. [It's Otakutastic! XD]
You should now read this while listening to: Summer Days by Do As Infinity. (Give Me A Freakin' Break!)
((AN: I know, this is late. Really late. But it's here. Thanks for the encouragement, chummers. ^__^
In response to Kyra's comments: Thankyou. I appreciated your constructive criticism. No, I don't know much about Farfie's past. My knowledge of the Japanese language does extend some way beyond 'kawaii' and 'sushi', but since I'm writing in English, and the characters are (mostly) speaking and thinking in English, I have a tendency to anglicise and thus put the names in the English order. Yes, Rammstein kicks ass. And the valley-girlesque beginning of the first chapter is, er, something of a personal joke. ^^ Hai. On with the fic.))
Damn, it was quiet...
Nagi picked a long strand of seaweed out of his hair and thwapped it moodily onto the ground. He'd become quite used to the chaos that was life in Schwartz. Silence was a blessed, elusive thing, usually found only at three o' clock in the morning when he sat at his computer with a mug of instant misoshiru. Experiencing it anywhere else made him edgy.
He almost regretted not taking part in the volleyball match. It could have been fun. His chibi looks and dark, soulful eyes might have attracted the interest of some of those Random Fangirls. Maybe Weiss would have even forgotten that he was telekinetic, and put their devastating loss down to superior skill on Nagi's part.
Then again, maybe not.
He dipped a toe into the water, mentally shaking himself. C'mon, lighten up. You got your wish! You're at the beach! Sun, surf, sand! Hurrah! Fun fun fun for everyone whose name isn't Bradley J. Crawford!
Hn.
If crickets ever appeared on the beach in the middle of the day, they would have been chirping right now. Sadly, these crickets had no sense of narrative convenience.
Maybe he'd go collect some shells, undisturbed by the distant crowd, and then take a leisurely swim in the sun-warmed waves. That sounded like a good idea. A small smile crept across his lips as he stood and surveyed the domain that was, for now, his and his alone. Crystal sea, golden shore, blue unclouded sky, trail of fragile shells and driftwood sketched along the coastline, rapidly approaching sand dune, graceful gulls winging their way across the...
Wait a second. Approaching sand dune?
"FIRE IN THE HOLE!!"
Pop.
Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat.
"GOTCHA, SCHWARTZ!"
Fwump.
Blink.
What just happened?
Well, he was wet. He was alone. There was a ragged hole in the sand in front of him. Scraps of what appeared to be brightly coloured rubber littered the ground. And someone, hidden from view yet uncomfortably close by, was giggling madly.
This could only mean one thing.
He'd just been waterbombed, by Omi Tsukiyono.
Nagi pivoted fast, his battle senses rising up around him like a shield. Goddamn it, he was a dripping, angsty, wet, psionic-power-slinging bishie bad guy. To hell with fighting fair. He was going to tear that little Weiss punk apart.
...Except he'd have to do it, well, kinda slowly, sort of thing. Because not only was Tsukiyono out of sight and possibly armed, but he'd apparently constructed a vast network of underground tunnels. And tearing through the place like a telekinetic cyclone would land Nagi under six feet of sand very, very quickly.
He brushed his hair out of his eyes and the sand off his damp black T-shirt, summoning Bishie Expression #40- Knowing Smirk. He was alone behind enemy lines, confronting a known and hated foe, avenging the honour of Schwartz. He did not need a weapon. He was a weapon. This mission called for the silent speed and ninja stealth of the Mayfly.
Nagi dived down the tunnel Omi had recently vacated.
Mwa. Ha. Ha.
(~*~)
Wild applause.
The self-appointed referee, a tanned Japanese girl in a pink string bikini and matching floral shorts, blew a long fweep on her whistle for silence. "Ladies and ladies, may I present to you- Ken..."
Mock bow, charming smile.
"...Yohji..."
Pose. Suggestive wink.
"...And Aya..."
The deep, enigmatic, soul-searching stare that was every bishie's well-rehearsed Expression #1.
"Team Weiss!"
Wild applause.
"And on your left, we have Brad..."
Ooh, shiny glasses.
"...Schuldig..."
Casual hair-flick. Someone in the crowd whistled.
"...And Farfie..."
Well, the creepy manic grin was almost obligatory.
"Team Schwartz!"
Slightly hesitant applause.
"Tokyo rules. First team to fifteen points wins. The score stands at zero." Her smirk would have put Nagi to shame. "It's playtime, boys."
Fweeeeep, went the whistle.
She threw the ball into the air.
(~*~)
July 21st, 1300 hours.
War is hell.
Can't say for sure how long I've been down here- down in this dark, twisting, endless maze of passages. The heat is cruel. In hindsight, might have been unwise to attempt this mission without proper supplies. Thoughts of unopened pack of strawberry Pocky threatening to drive me insane. So smooth, so sweet, so creamy, so...
Damn it, Nagi. Be strong.
Have sighted the enemy. Despite being unarmed, endeavoured to engage him in combat, only to watch him turn tail and run- like the coward that he is. Shrewdly attempted to follow tracks left in the soft sand. After observing tracks crossing over, suspected enemy was following me at a distance. After observing tracks crossing over themselves several times, now suspect tracks to be mine.
Need. Water.
(~*~)
Ken was off like a shot, running with the speed and agility of a former J-league superstar, intent on the spinning white sphere that seemed to hover, motionless, above the lurid orange net. Time slowed as he leapt skywards- his face set, eyes narrowed in fierce concentration, lips parting slightly as if to form the word "Kase"...
Almost a shame, really, that Farfie beat him to it, causing him to face-fault into the ground.
"First point goes to Team Schwartz!"
Cheers.
"Destroying people's fantasies hurts God."
Fweeeeep
Ken spat out a mouthful of sand, an unlucky crustacean and a collection of words unsuited to a G-rated fic.
Brad took the ball, his shades flashing silver, standing poised a moment under the harsh sun before launching it towards the far corner of the crudely marked court. Yohji, however, had apparently forseen this move with Crawfordian accuracy, three easy strides positioning him directly below it before a sound punch sent it spiralling into the air. Schuldig leapt into play inches from the net, spiking the ball almost vertically downwards where it seemed doomed to splatter into the sand, but Aya rose up like an angel in avenging boardshorts, his spectacular save eliciting a tumult of spontaneous applause from the watching fangirls. Farfie made a desperate lunge for the ball, missed, slammed into Schuldig, then bounced off against the net as the ball landed smugly on Schwartz's side.
"Point for Team Weiss!"
Cheers.
"Nice work... Fujimiya."
"Hn. Hard luck there..." does this guy even have a last name? "...Schuldig."
Schu dusted the sand casually from his bare shoulders, meeting Aya's gaze through the bright lattice of the net. "Well, it's not over yet."
The two exchanged a long, cold stare.
"Not by a long shot."
Aya allowed himself a smile. "I'll take my chances."
The whistle shrilled again.
(~*~)
July 21st, 1307 hours
Losing track of time. Resolve weakening. Plagued by thoughts of strawberry Pocky. Narrowly avoided enemy ambush by tripping on strategically placed rock, followed by swift tactical retreat. Judging by artillery range, suspect enemy has somehow fitted bombs to crossbow.
Tried to dig for water in abandoned tunnel- found it salt. Set out in one last, desperate search for daylight, risking the dangers of paths untravelled. After two minutes, tripped in previously excavated waterhole. Tunnels more fiendishly complex than Maze of the Minotaur or Alleyway map in Counter-Strike. Should have brought water and Pocky; also long piece of string.
A lesser man might have lost hope long ago. Conversely, despite present situation, have since formulated plan to bring about Tsukiyono's destruction.
Mwa. Ha. Ha.
(~*~)
"Half time, and the score stands at nine to seven- in favour of Team Weiss!"
Cheers.
"We'll take a short break now, see you all back here in fifteen minutes. Until then, a message from our sponsor, the Pocky Patrol..."
Neither trio of assassins were giving much thought to their youngest members, locked in deadly battle beneath the dunes a hundred metres away. As much as they denied taking any of it seriously, Crawford and Schuldig were hell-bent on breaking their rivals' tenuous hold on victory, while Aya, Ken and Yohji were equally set on standing their ground. Farfie didn't really care either way. He'd been here for hours without seeing a single penguin, orange or otherwise. This was a matter for concern.
The fangirls, for their part, had their bishies to watch- hot, tired, and angsty as they were, touchingly grateful for their cold drinks and shoulder massages. So it was that no-one paid attention to the small red crab that had been toiling its slow, furious way across the sand since its unfortunate encounter with Ken. By some miracle of narrative convenience (a concept which crustaceans, unlike crickets, are all too familiar with) this was the selfsame crab previously injured by Nagi's careless actions a mere chapter or so earlier.
This crab's name was Steve.
Regrettably, Steve was not a crab that would be easily pushed around; verily, not a crab who would silently submit to abuse and neglect.
He was an angry crab. He was a crab with connections.
And he wanted revenge.
(~*~)
Anyone who was even casually acquainted with Schwartz's flame-haired telepath would tell you that the German liked to drink. Vodka, sake or Berlin schnapps for preference, although Schuldig had also been known to consume scotch, beer, various good wines, ouzo, tequila, martinis (both shaken and stirred), bourbon, cognac, Spanish rum, and other assorted alcoholic beverages, often within several minutes of each other.
But he couldn't remember the last time any of these had tasted as good as this bottle of clear, fresh, ice cold water.
Apparently winning wasn't everything- that, or some of these girls made a habit of supporting the underdogs, because the flock beside Schwartz's umbrella was equal in size to the crowd milling around Weiss. Schu reclined in a deckchair, aforementioned water bottle in hand, a damp towel slung around his neck, while a blonde in a black one-piece worked some of the tension from his shoulders.
He had to hand it to himself. This volleyball game had been a really good idea.
Crawford was receiving similar treatment, outwardly calm and sleek as a cat, but his eyes were uncharacteristically nervous behind his impenetrable black sunglasses. In the midst of the game, he'd been hit by a sudden wave of jumbled predictions, gone as quickly as they'd come. But the sense of stark horror that lingered in his mind had been enough to make him miss an easy shot and cede a point to his enemy. The precog had seen many terrors in the course of his life, and he'd always come through unscathed. But this was different. This was... unthinkable.
He glanced reflexively down at his bare forearms.
Calm, Brad. Stay calm.
He needed a distraction. Something to clear his mind.
Maybe he'd enlist a little help in applying his sunscreen.
And Farfarello stood apart, stared out into the waves, pushed a small object absently back into his pocket, and waited...
(~*~)
July 21st, 1330 hours
Last stage of plan finally complete.
Back-breaking, tedious work much advanced by careful use of telekinesis. Enemy remains out of sight, evidently oblivious to brilliant strategy currently in progress. V. good.
Fortunate news. Edges from brink of darkest despair, fell skilfully through poorly constructed wall and discovered cache of enemy's emergency rations. No Pocky; however, granted new reserves of strength by life-giving Gummi Bears. Broke at last into daylight just outside enemy's main defences, but returned to the underdark after short reconnaissance mission and brief period of sun-worshipping. Incas, Aztecs etc. possibly on to something.
With all pieces in place, preparing for final gambit. Commencing Operation Mayfly.
This is a battle I intend to win.
(~*~)
Fweeeeep
"Point for Team Weiss! Twelve points to eleven- Weiss still leads!"
Farfie blinked up at his teammates from the sand and managed, somehow, to shrug.
"Farfie, for Go- for Chri- for Takatori's sake, can't you try and pay attention? What are you looking at out there anyway?"
"DID YOU SAY TAKATORI?"
"No need to make excuses, Crawford. You want to call the match off, it's up to you."
"Yeah, you wish, Hidaka. Want us to really start playing?"
"Bring it on, ya red-headed freak... You really expect us to believe that's your natural colour?"
"Oho, going for personal comments, are we Kudou? 'Least I don't have to spend forty-five minutes with a hairdryer in the dressing room every morning..."
"Wha? How'd you- Son of a- "
Fweeeeeeeeeeeeeeep
The tension ran like a current through the stifling air, through the crowds of breathless fans, crackling almost perceptibly. Aya slammed his opening serve through the gap between Schuldig and Farfie as though the soft, innocent globe was Takatori himself. But Crawford moved too fast, the sun blinding against his immaculate white apparel, lips curled into a cold smile as he parried the Weiss leader's blow. The ball shot back and forth between them almost too fast for the eye to follow, Crawford's shades glinting, Aya's red ponytail whipping dramatically in the wind. Schuldig deflected a long shot from Aya with a confident header that threatened to escape Ken entirely, but Yohji leapt valiantly into the fray, swiping at the ball for all he was worth.
Only there was a little too much pent-up, hairdryer-inspired anger behind Yohji's strike. The much-abused volleyball buried itself in the sand a full metre outside the lines of the court.
"Out! Point for Team Schwartz!"
Cheers.
"Twelve points apiece, as we reach the final stages of the game. That means that the first team to score three more points will be today's champion."
Three more points.
Fists clenched.
Eyes narrowed to slits.
The atmosphere could have been cut with a knife.
All...
Or nothing.
"Clichéd tiebreaker standoffs hurt God."
--Stay Tuned For Chapter Four: Mission Improbable; or, Crustacean's Revenge!--
(In Which The Beach Volleyball Tournament Is Concluded; Penguins Ensue; Schwartz Meet Their Match; Crawford's Worst Fears Are Realised, And Stupid And Implausible Things Happen)