Ding! It's the Second Round {Vergil}

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

Rose was going to kill her. Or maybe laugh at her, one of the two. Maybe both. Neither of which Tramp was looking forward to. Her mother had dared to call Rose’s house, and proceeded to chew Tramp out for what she had left in her now barren room. And that was pulled up carpets, and spray-painted walls with obscenities. Her mother even went so far as to start bad-mouthing Rose, which elected a vulgar response from a shaking, thoroughly pissed Tramp.

This was her new home, and Rose wasn’t as bad as everyone made her out to be. When it came down to it, Tramp looked up to her older cousin—even if it was fun to pick on her. But regardless—Tramp had stormed out of the apartment past curfew, simply stating she was going for a walk. And that walk had lead her right to the Alleyway—a fight club with no rules. No papers, and best of all. No ID. It was a shady, dark place that seemed to suit her just fine. Despite the looks she got, Tramp walked in like she owned the place, and signed up for a fight.

Her opponent was another girl, not much bigger than she was. A little on the muscular side. Bets were placed against the messy haired blonde, and the bell went off signaling the beginning of the fight. Tramp had a single moment of regret when the other girl lunged forward. She easily side stepped, and dipped down, her fist making contact with Muscle McMeat for Brains’ stomach. The other girl stumbled back, before lashing out with a kick that met right with Tramp’s side. Then the claws had come out.

Tramp leapt forward, and grabbed the girl by her tanktop, and twisted to the side, using the momentum to throw the other girl off balance. She then sat on her waist, and her fist made contact with the girl’s eye before Tramp was thrown off, and promptly kicked again in the side. While she stumbled to her feet, gasping for breath, Meaty Brains gave her the ole one-two. One in the cheek, and one in the kisser. It resulted in a split in her cheek, and a crack in her lip that coated her teeth with blood. Tramp then called out.

It wasn’t the best way to get out of a fight, but she was intending to walk home, and not give Rose a heart attack by looking mangled. So the loser of the fight meandered to the bar without slinking, still holding the swag and saunter of someone who had just won. The rush helped her get her frustration out, and her throbbing face sobered her from her mother induced rage. She retrieved her flannel over shirt from the bartender, shrugged it on, and retreated back to a table with a beer in hand.

She slid into one of the old booth type seats, secured against the wall. She reached into the pocket of her shirt, pulling out a tiny grinder, and small sheets of paper. She hunched forward over her table, lining of the ground up green onto the paper, before rolling it neatly and tightly. Her tongue slid over the rice paper, gluing it to itself, before she leaned back, and kicked he boots up on the table, lighting the end of her joint. She grabbed the napkin off the table, and pressed it to her cheek, drawing it back to see how much blood was still coming from her face, before glancing up at the club again.

It was a dirty place, filled with smoke, blood, drugs, and in a few corners—what appeared to be sex. And she liked it. Her tongue flickered out to lick the blood off her lip before wrapping her mouth around the end of her joint, sucking in, and holding, while she continued to peer around for something…someone interesting.

Tags: Zelda / Vergil / Olley / Tramp
Notes: KINDA got an idea. If you want me to alter anything, lemme know.
Outfit: Click meh.

[longjohn]

There was something, something in the thrill of the fight, that moved him.

It moved something deep inside him, something violent and angry and scared. It rocked him, it filled him, it emptied him, it eased him. He was so, so good at control that sometimes he forgot about those dark places down in the lost crevices of his mind. He couldn’t lose it. He couldn’t ever lose it, not completely. So he had to keep it quiet, keep it together, all the time. Long John helped him with that; the old pirate had always assisted him in keeping himself together, pulling the pieces of his shaken and broken psyche back into place. And 99% of the time, Vergil was calmer than a catfish.

But here.

Here, with the smell of blood and alcohol and musk in the air, he became a predator.

He didn’t fight fair. Never fair. His opponents seemed to think that he would be easy to fell because he had a fake leg and he wasn’t the bulkiest man in the room, but Archangel was more than capable of taking down two men twice his size in a fight. In his line of work, hand-to-hand combat was a necessary skill, and Vergil liked to flex his muscles at a place like the Alleyway.

He’d already fought tonight, and won, as he usually – but not always – did. Sometimes he lost sheerly out of a lack of skill (in which case, he often took to more personal training). However, other nights, he simply let himself be beaten. For all his terrible experiences, there was a part of him that felt like he deserved to be destroyed there was a thrill in being wailed on that he couldn’t replicate. The adrenaline, perhaps. Pain reminded him he could feel things. The adrenaline was addictive.

Humming an old pirate shanty that Long John had taught him, he sat in the corner, flipping a coin into the air and catching it, flipping and catching it. There was a bruise forming on his cheek, and a bit of blood leaking from a split in his lip, but he was happy. He’d spent some of that restless energy and emerged victorious. Tonight, he hadn’t been in the mood to lose.

“What do ye do with a drunken sailor, what do ye do with a drunken sailor, what do ye do with a drunken sailor early in the mornin’?” he sang quietly under his breath. His bottomless eyes scanned the room with a level of cool disinterest; he was more focused on that pleasant ache in his muscles. The leather jacket he usually wore was draped over a chair to his left, leaving him in only a black wife beater, slightly battered skinny jeans, and combat boots. Leaning more heavily against the wall and crossing one ankle over the other, he glanced towards the bar.

Perhaps he would be able to find someone interesting tonight. Or a sale. He could often make a sale here.