Welcome to Gaia! ::

It had taken a while to narrow down the list to the handful of people that remained. A long time to painstakingly cross out name after name of those she knows will not want to cause her pain, that will hold back, that will make it a joke, that she would feel horrible facing with what she has in mind. It takes longer set the plan to motion, because the person she selects is dangerous, and predictably unpredictable, and even a rank below her, still strong enough to beat her.

A text, devoid of banter, or bullshit. She stares down at it while seated on the crumbling edge of a building in the broken heart of the abandoned town. No one has bothered repairing this far out yet, it's old, forgotten businesses and nothing else. The ruins of foundations that are nearly unrecognizable for what they might once have been if not for the signs and skeletal awnings that hang over them

<This is a bad idea, Peyton.>

He used her name, a sure sign of worry, but she ignores him, and sends the message anyways.



It has to be him. Because he is predictably unpredictable, he is dangerous,, and, even a rank below her, he is strong enough to beat her. She needs a challenge, She needs someone she isn't afraid to damage, and she needs someone that is not a wild animal, but a calculated survivalist.

She snorted, laying back against the cracked concrete with one leg dangling over the edge. There was a fifty fifty chance he'd take the bait, because as much as he liked to pretend she didn't matter, the Sun had struck a cord. He'd proved as much when he'd attacked her in the common room, unprovoked.

The second message was ignored entirely.

A minute ticked past, then another, and she lifted her phone again, sending another message, this time to America.

Peyton was a stupid b***h with a welcome target painted on her little face, but it was just another Chris fight to him: if he got to beat the tar out of her he'd definitely feel great, and if she somehow managed to nut up and beat him, even better. Maybe she'd re-break his nose and put it back in place, do something that's nice for once.

He strode into the center of town, whistling.There was a purple bruise evident around his jaw still, and his blond hair was tied back since it was starting to get in his way, but he kept on walking because these were not signs enough to him that something was wrong. Gone was the broody look of someone who sulked in his room: in public, he was Jack ******** Hawthorn, and it was time to kick a** and piss someone off while doing so.

Spotting Peyton by her hair first, he lazily made his way over, a smarmy expression greeting her and America. He might have been ready to join them for some beers and exploration rather than a brawl. "Ladies," he said with a slight incline of his head. "What'd I do this time that's got you in a violent mood, Creedy?"

"What, don't recognize your handiwork?" Jack thumbed the crooked bridge of his nose with an easy grin, like they were sharing a joke instead of baring teeth at one another. If she wanted him angry, she needed to try harder "I already was a sexy ********, but this just made me a bad boy version. Girls swoon over that s**t."

He made a vague gesture at Peyton. "So, what gives? I won't pretend you don't know your way around martial arts, but what's the point of calling me up here when you've got plenty of other suckers you could rope in? Unless..." He snapped his fingers in a sudden revelation. "'Specialty training', is that a euphemism for 'your superiors finally noticed you couldn't even beat a Lifer in a fight'? Is that what this is?"

America was given a significant look at her parting comment, before she was moving off to make herself comfortable. Peyton hadn't expected an audience, but there was no denying her presence as a fail-safe wasn't a good idea.

Pale eyes trailed his thumb along the bridge of his nose, and the tiniest smile graced glossed lips. Petty, but satisfied. "No. I figured you'd have healed that up no problem." Honestly, she hadn't given him, or his busted face, a whole lot of thought after the shock of the incident had faded. So long as he kept away from her she didn't give a ******** about him or his nose.

She was expecting to have to explain herself, so his questions, up to a point, were met with a nonplussed expression. It faltered, just a touch, right there at the end, but she turned it into a grin. "You're not the only Lifer on this rock, Jack."

Expecting to walk away from this absolutely filthy, the Sun hadn't worn her jacket. She faced the now blonde in her usual cut off shorts and a dark colored tanktop. Simple and light. Unless he'd paid any sort of attention to her during the last mission they'd all been forced into he wouldn't know she'd been promoted. "I'm in it for the patch, and the bonus money," she said by way of explanation, before expanding. "My specialization centralizes on versatility in combat. Using weapons effectively, and knowing how to hold your own when you're unable to access them." A small hand gestured around them at the crumbling, busted scenery. "Using your environment, for instance."

She crossed her arms, weight shifting to one hip. "Your here because I know you have absolutely no reservations about hurting me, nor I you." Eye narrowed up at him. "This isn't a spar. This is a brawl, and there are no rules." Just like last time, in the common room.

"Are you in?"

"C'mon Pey! Don't let him out sass you!"

America considered herself more a peanut gallery than a failsafe, all said.

He barked a laugh. "Sorry, two cent whores just don't do it for me anymore." V was proof of that, and she was dead, and he was alive (he was alive) but needed help feeling like it sometimes.

Fighting Peyton was his favorite mistake thus far.

He gave her a knowing grin: he was very aware of what the little Sun was like on the inside, whatever upbeat b***h facade she put up for her friends. Maybe he'd get to draw that out again today. He wanted something ugly to look at for once, he wanted her to remember that whatever might have happened since they last met, that part of her wouldn't change. That part of her he had control of.

Jack didn't have any formal training in close combat, so he simply took a defensive stance like he would with his weapon and put up his fists. He'd just have to mimic and learn on the go. "I think that you're going to regret this," he replied.

She knew what she was doing, and she leaped right into action. The toe of her boot snapped against a baseball sized chunk of concrete, flipping it up in a soft arc, and she snatched it out of the air, whipping her arm back to throw it at his face with everything she had before taking off, down the sidewalk, towards a the collapsed remains of a business wall.

There was rubble everywhere, the ground was a veritable mine field, where one wrong step could mean a twisted ankle and a busted skull. Peyton picked her way carefully, quickly, but Jack's legs were almost twice the length of her own and he'd be on her quickly.

She was aiming for a length of rebar, small hand outstretched, fingers reaching.


HP: 50
DMG 2 Shield: 1