swordhardy | NOCT OVERFLOW

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NOCT OVERFLOW

OVERFLOW & EVENTS

[ Despite his unfamiliarity with blades, he listens with the rapt attention of someone who’s genuinely interested. Swordplay is a type of training that various individuals have offered to teach him over the past year and a half of dimension-hopping, though Stiles has continuously rejected each offer; the idea that he’s too clumsy and absentminded to wield such a lethal weapon has been ingrained in him by society. Still, many of his otherworldly friends rely on swords during combat. For that reason alone, he’s intrigued about the make of Rokurou’s blades. How would they compare to Sasuke’s?

Siam, kukri – the words may mean little to him now, but he tucks these details away for future examination when he can ask someone about them. For the time being, he simply nods as if he knows exactly what Rokurou is talking about.

The sorry state of the stores along the path distracts Stiles long enough for him to tear brown eyes away from mismatched ones. Scanning the shops, he carefully affects an expression of distant curiosity, like he’s only just arrived to Filia and possesses no knowledge about the general insanity of the night before. Surely he and Rokurou weren’t responsible for any of this…? Brows furrowed, Stiles glances through the receipts to ascertain none of the store names match the shops they pass. Fortunately, they don’t. ]

What, seriously? [ A pendulum swinging between conflicting stimuli, Stiles whirls back on Rokurou. ] You haven’t even found them yet, and you’re already gonna offer them to some random guy you woke up naked next to on the beach?

[ A pause. He considers all the reasons why he’s avoided handling swords until now. Curiosity trumps common sense. ]

Sure. Why not? [ Naturally, that’s the moment when Stiles trips over debris littering the path, nearly falling flat on his face. ] I mean, besides the fact I could seriously maim myself or you. You got life insurance, by the way? Totally unrelated, I promise.

[ It’s automatic—Stiles stumbles on debris and Rokurou’s arm cuts out across the younger man’s chest to catch. But Stiles doesn’t actually fall, leaving the swordsman’s arm awkwardly strapped across his front in half-catch limbo. Mismatched eyelids flutter once, twice, before that smile turns sheepish. ]

No life insurance, [ what’s that, sounds fake, ] but I’m not worried about a few more scars.

[ He turns that arm over to share its underbelly, uncurling fingers at the same to offer his palm. A thick scar beds at its center, marring fortune and life lines—a mark mirrored on the back just beneath the rough ridge of his knuckles. Below his wrist zags another in toward his elbow, old and faded into white contrast against olive tone and tan deepened beneath sweltering sun. There are others scattered here and there, some with tender pink heal and others a darker pigment in midlife settle.

Dropping his arm, he follows along the row of buildings as they grow more faded and dusted; lighted signs flicker with low hum and signage grows more weathered. The pufferfish bikini girl pinup plastered against the next window they pass seems right. ]

I did say I’d owe you one for helping me find them. Besides, I don’t think I can really explain their value—some things you just have to feel for yourself.

[ As for Stiles maiming himself … a distinct possibility, but high risk high reward? As long as he remembers to direct the pointy side outward, it should be fine.

Speaking of risk—the GPS stops them outside a rundown hovel off the main strip. A strained metal twang is the only warning before the i in the “fish” of Jellyfish Stripclub sign plops sadly on the ground in front of them. ]

What do you call a fish with no “i”s? [ he mutters the old joke while rubbing his neck, not looking particularly impressed with the joint. ] Honestly, I’m not really into places like this. Is this somewhere you’ve been before?

[ It’s not a particularly pointed question; he’s known Stiles for all of 30 minutes, but he feels like that’s a no. Yet memories stir no clear answer, still as dark as the night of a lunar eclipse.

Reaching out, he tugs on the handle to the front entrance—unsurprisingly locked given the daylight hours. Rokurou looks contemplative for only a second before promptly deciding, ]

I guess we have to break in.

[ Shooting a belatedly appreciative look at the arm that was flung out to catch him, Stiles pats the man’s impressive bicep in gratitude. Much like shinobi, Rokurou reacted to his stumble with the casual celerity of a trained warrior. It makes him wonder, really – does his current companion possess unnatural abilities and powers too? There’s definitely a story buried in the blighted markings crawling up half the swordsman’s face, a story that may also be reflected in the scars shown to Stiles now. With no small measure of curiosity, he studies the displayed arm in thoughtful silence. Assuming the hand was impaled, a scar such as the one knotting the flesh over Rokurou’s palm surely would have caused severe nerve or muscle damage, wouldn’t it? But the man has stressed multiple swords, a possible indication that Rokurou is still ambidextrous despite the healed injury. Or maybe Stiles is grasping at straws here.

Any questions on the subject are forestalled by their arrival at the strip club. Brows disappearing into his hairline, he gazes at the decrepit building before turning brown eyes on the surrounding area. The neighboring shops appear to be in similar states of disrepair; over the passage of time, the salty air has eroded the storefront façades, signs nearly weathered to the point of illegibility, roofing peeling away to a slow, withering death. Locals seem to be avoiding this particular area, faces turned away from the two strange young men outside the strip club after hours. ]

Oh yeah, I drop loads of cash on strippers, [ comes the sarcastic response, lacking any real bite. ] I’m a regular, can’t you tell?

[ Digging into a pocket, he pulls out his travel-size lockpick set and kneels down in front of the door. ]

Stand behind me, would you? Just block line of sight.

[ It doesn’t take long to break in; the lock isn’t robust. After taking time to return the lockpicks to their appropriate sleeves, he slides the kit back into his pocket, stands, and pulls open the door. Sunlight pours through, illuminating a dark, dank room that reeks of fish. ]

Ugh, god. So not ready to be sick twice today. [ He pulls up the collar of his shirt to cover his nose and mouth before glancing toward Rokurou. ] You first, dude.

Oh? [ well, look at that! ] Didn't realize I picked up a rogue. Lucky me.

[ Stiles tells him to stand behind and he obeys without thought, stepping in to block the sight of the younger man crouching with an unexpected lock-pick kit. Arms crossed, he scans up and down the street—nothing else seems open either, with metal shutters drawn and locks slapped across doorknobs. Even the offshoot alleyways seem quiet, though the daemon knows better than to trust silence for what it is.

Quick work—Rokurou nods in approval when the lock peels away and the door opens, but it's admiration quickly replaced with recoil. Heightened senses are a damn curse when sporting a hangover; the stench burns right into his sinuses, rust and sweat and moldy old seaweed. The odor earns a generous nose crinkle of distaste, eyes beginning to water slightly. ]

Ugh... I'd kick last night me's ass for this if I could.

[ With one last big inhale of fresh air, the swordsman strides into the unlit expanse of the club.

Despite the narrow lean of outside buildings, the inside of the club is sizable. A wide open space with a long coral-jagged bar on the left, backlit with a stagger of brightly colored bottles and paneled with mirrors. Mosaic tile spans outward toward the stage and stripper poles in curls meant to mimic waves, and lining every wall and dipping into the stage's curves are tanks filled with jellyfish. Blue, orange, pink, purple—a meld of colors float and stream together in the water. Scraggly paper is taped to the tanks every few feet with handwritten big block letters sprawled: DO NOT JUMP INTO JELLYFISH TANKS!!! DO NOT TOUCH JELLYFISH!!!!!

Suspiciously, Rokurou glances back down to the red marks that along his arms with a vague sense of dread. Oooooohhh. Maybe? ]

.... I think I know what my nefarious jellyfish behavior was. [ though it doesn't quite explain the scratch against his scalp; it's a small piece of the puzzle. ] C'mon, let's look around before someone comes. I'll check over here, you look behind the bar.

[ He'll start on the farthest end, crouching around the stage in search of his missing weapons. Swords—swooooooords? No, just g-strings, stray garbage, and glitter. When Rokurou pokes up from a different part of the stage, he's half body glimmer and still swordless(ss). ]

This place ringing any bells for you?

[ Thinking about it, he has no idea at what point he might have met up with Stiles, or why. ]

[ The sight of the club’s innards fails to impress him, though the wall of quietly bubbling tanks does draw a curious look. Drifting over to one unconsciously, he stares at the floating inhabitants with an untrustworthy gleam in brown eyes. Stiles is temped against common sense and warning notes to stick a hand inside. Some people tragically need to learn the hard way; he can often be one of such people.

Fortunately, he’s saved from the experiment by Rokurou’s comment on nefarious jellyfish behavior. Turning away from the tanks, Stiles meanders back to the man and follows the direction of his gaze. Ah, the swollen red markings! It makes sense. And, as he processes the connection, the glimpse of a black-and-white memory returns to him – of Rokurou flailing on the ground soaking wet, dark mop of hair plastered to his tanned face, limbs still twitching with the aftereffects of the jellyfish stings. Huh.

The bar is a goldmine of items confiscated by the bartender, though Stiles regretfully keeps his sticky fingers to himself. While he doesn’t find swords, he does discover his lost phone. With a whistle of relief, he powers it on to a dozen salacious messages from an unknown number – and oh god, that sure is a nude. Blanching, Stiles hastily blocks the texter. Just who the hell did he meet last night? ]

Nope! [ His voice cracks traitorously. ] Nada. Nothing. Zilch.

[ There’s a box beneath the register that doesn’t seem to hold any alcohol-related items in it. Intuition guiding him, he kneels down on the floor to pull it out, revealing a pile of discarded clothing. About midway through the box – guess last night was a busy night for the club – he finds the outfit he’d been wearing the day before and neatly folds it, tucking it beneath an arm. ]

Hey, any of these yours?

[ With a grunt, he hefts the box onto the bar surface for Rokurou to peruse. ]

[ Eyes gone narrow in suspicion of that clear lie quickly widen again when Stiles hefts the box onto the bar. Weaving back through scattered chairs and tables, Rokurou leans against the counter and reaches in to shuffle through the goods. Not without giving Stiles another glance, attention flickering to the folded clothing tucked beneath his elbow. ]

Yours? [ hey, if he's a rogue, he could just steal a decent outfit from lost and found, ] So we did meet here. Maybe you were dropping loads of cash on strippers after all, Mr. Regular.

[ The wad of clothing in the box proves to not be any of Rokurou's, not so much as a sandal, and it's soon clear that there are no swords wedged in. Disappointment is palpable; the daemon's bottom lip juts out in quiet sulk as he gives the box's contents another quicker rifle through.

Alas: it's not meant to be. A long-suffering sigh drags from his chest as he pushes the box back, a little bit mad at it for not housing his beloved weapons. ]

You're really not going to tell me what you remember? [ a probing question as he drops his ass down onto a stool and props his elbow onto the bar, resting hand beneath chin. hello, bartender. ] C'mon, c'mon. Was it me being so charming that you couldn't help but be drawn in?

[ Complete with absurd eyebrow waggle. ]

Or did I choke on a potato again?

[ A snort of amusement is all the answer that Rokurou receives in response to the title of “Mr. Regular.” This kind of place doesn’t interest him in the least; he’s watched one too many dramas about the harrowing lives of single-mother sex workers to ever be comfortable at a strip club. Not to mention, the idea of popping a chub over someone dancing for a room full of drunk assholes? Horrifying, in his opinion. Now, unless Itachi were up on stage – doing an exotic dance meant to tease Stiles and Stiles alone – strip clubs just aren’t his cup of tea. It’s almost a relief that he can’t remember his experience at this one, really. Though it does beg the question of what he was doing here.

The box seems not to have Rokurou’s belongings. Offering the daemon an apologetic quirk of the mouth, he returns the box to where he found it before turning back to the man. ]

What do you mean, again? Did you try shoving a whole potato in your face or something? Never mind, I don’t want to know.

[ While it’s tempting to serve a hair of the dog, Stiles instead fills two glasses with water, pushing the first over the bar’s surface to his companion before greedily knocking back most of his. ]

I don’t remember anything important, anyway. And there’s no guarantee that we met here – we might’ve come to the club together from somewhere else. We could try the tattoo place next. They might be open by now, and someone working there would definitely remember if you came in with swords last night.

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