Welcome to Gaia! ::

Terra's words that intruded his mind caused a slight surprise in his face, then a relieving mood followed. To hear her voice, even mentally, was a soothing motion to him. However, the words "as well" caused his hand to squeeze on the swords even more. Terra would feel a sense of unsettled emotion within Z, and not the content kind.

The glass doors were opened, Z stepping forward into appearance. He carried a hostile mood with him as he approached the talking pair. His eyes glanced briefly at Terra, but then they switched immediately back to Doji. Stopping a distance away, he spoke up.

"Doji Kurohito. It has been too long."

His right hand reached across his front, grabbing hold of the handle of one of his katanas, the white blue-banded one, he drew the blade from its handle, letting the shiny steel be exposed to the surrounding light. His left hand pressed its palm against the pommel before twisting around and grasping the rear of the handle, taking hold with both hands as he held the sword vertically to his right in an upright ready stance, sliding his left foot forward to spread the distance between their feet.

"Draw your blade. Your deeds will not go unpunished."

His eyebrows furrowed in a more determined looking frown than before. Anger.

He was surprised to see the Algerian to begin with here at the GTB, considering the ten years that had passed since they last fought together side by side. His own brow shot up in surprise when the sword appeared in front of him followed by the command for a duel.

With a groan he stood from the bar stool and looked to Z with an angered, almost annoyed look. "So what gives you the right to come into a commercial place and challenge me to a duel for no reason?" For Doji honor was no longer an issue he faced. Over the past twenty years on Gaia Prime he had learned that honor was nothing but a construct that held one back from achieving power and personal wealth. His mind told him that he could simply snap his fingers and have the aggressor torn to pieces by the dragons. His heart told him nothing, because it was a non-thinking organ and thus was chained to moving blood through his body.

Regardless, he felt he owed it to the man to humor him as he grabbed the handle of his own blade and turned for the door. "If you feel the need to fight me, then we will do so away from here. Last thing I need is to pay for cleaning up in this establishment." His eye looked to both Damien and Terra "Are you going to come with us?"

The two dragons were standing now at their table, Hoon grabbing for his own sword as Ciyn started to stretch and process his internal sacs that allowed him to use his Sleeping Gas breath weapon. In the shape changed state, his breath weapon had a charge time in order to prepare the chemicals needed to generate the mist.

Had she missed something?

Terra watched, confusion etched onto her face, and gold eyes glancing between the two. Her lips parted, as she was about to say something, but was stopped short when Kurohito actually stood from the bar stool, then put a hand to the handle of his own blade.

With a exasperated sigh, she got to her feet, "What is the reason for this?" She asked, glancing at Z.Kuro.

Her husband was older and so she was not very found of the idea of him fighting, more so against a person she considered a good friend. Hearing Damien speak up, her gaze slid to him, annoyance glimmering within her gold eyes when she noted his smile. She was clearly not amused by the situation.

Two weeks ago, Aekea..

The dull scratch of a razor being scraped against skin punctuated the bubbling undercurrent of noise in the private office suite of Jocasta Tower. The eponymous owner stood in front of a mirror, the sink full of clipped and shorn hair as the fighter slowly, methodically dragged the thin sliver of steel across his scalp, banging it against the inside of the sink to knock off the hair before beginning again. There was a strange crackling noise as the razor subtly shifted shape in his hand, contouring to the shape of his skull with each stroke.

"We've got information back on the tournament. It's practically full. What do you want to do? We could probably buy out a slot--," Deitric's adviser suggested from behind, holding a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"I read the info. Don't bother. Not worth it unless it draws more fighters like it did in the past," Deitric explained tersely as he continued his work, trimming and cleaning the last vestiges of hair from his scalp until only a sharp, militant shock of black stood out, a black line running from the base of his skull to the front of his scalp, "Send in an application for Cyrus. He needs the experience."

Farragut stiffened at the suggestion. Of all the Thunderguard, the monk was both the youngest and perhaps the least experienced - a relative idea when dealing with a cadre of warriors from a dozen different worlds and timestreams, but nevertheless true. "Are you sure? What aboute Lucius or Ahenobarbos? They've been with you the longest, I'm sure they'd make a good show of things, wouldn't they?" he suggested.

"No, I want them with me. The rest have their duties elsewhere. It'll be good for him to see how these things run," the warrior said with a note of finality. Johnnie shrugged; he knew that Cyrus could fight well enough, and that would have to be enough to get him through the tournament. "What are you gonna do when you get there?"

Washing the razor clean before setting it aside, Deitric picked up a towel and ran it across his scalp, dusting off any clinging hair. His mohawk was momentarily ruffled, but seemed to rise again of its own accord, thanks to a little jolt of static electricity. He threw his jacket over his shoulder as he turned away from the mirror.

"I've got some ideas."

[2/???]

In the now, the GTB..

A sleek, black car pulled away from the curb in front of the fifteen floor resort hotel, leaving a quartet of men standing in front of the building. The crowds had thinned considerably from the first few pre-round days; the media had slunk away to plan how best to get exclusives and the fans had dispersed until fight time came. The four figures were not, however, media, and they weren't fans.

The leader of the group led his fellows along, a tall, mohawked man garbed in black leather, his eyes hidden behind opaque shades. The man to his left was even taller, wearing crisp fatigues and a long leather jacket, a weapon of some sort strapped across his massive back. The man at the leader's right hand looked a little less imposing in his gray-on-blue militant uniform, a sword dangling at his side, slapping against his hip as he walked.

The figure in the rear was the most plain, wearing a pair of shorts, sneakers, and a hoodie, his features obscured by reflective aviators, hood pulled close around his face. He seemed less confident in comparison to his compatriots - or, rather, more in awe. He had the definite look of the tourist about him, but he followed the leader of the group wordlessly as they entered the hotel lobby, making a straight line for the front desk. Behind them were the hushed rustlings of voices and the sight of pointed fingers as lingering reporters fervently dialed in a sighting of the elusive GTB II and IV champion who had been missing for a year and more - in the company of a trio of other fighters, even.

Deitric set a small plastic card on the receptionist's desk gently, sliding it forward to the young woman working the desk. "Reservation's Jocasta. Five rooms, seventh floor," he explained. The receptionist stared for a moment then, as if struck, jerked in her chair and reached out, mechanically taking the card and swiping it quickly before handing it back with a stack of room cards.

"Have a nice stay, Mr. Jocasta," she offered. The tribesman offered her a wave as he turned away, heading towards the elevator.

"Lucius, Ahenobarbos - Exhibition Arena. Cyrus, go check your room, then take Johnnie his key," he ordered, as he handed out the four extra cards to his men. They acquiesced soundlessly as he disappeared into the elevator, silvery doors shutting him off from them. Keys in hand and orders in mind, the two older men departed, leaving the young man in the aviators with his own card, turning it over in his hands as he peered about the lobby curiously.

Never had Z ever spoken to her in such a manner in all the years she had known him. It took her by surprise, her golden eyes wide and mouth agape.

When they began to move out of the hotel, Terra shut her mouth, and silently followed them. Her gaze constantly shifted from Z to her husband, trying to think of what had happened between the two to result in such anger from the young man who always watched over her when Kurohito couldn't.

That's when it clicked in her mind what the reason behind this could be, and she hoped she was wrong.

She wanted to say something to try and stop this foolishness, but knew in the end it would do no good.

A forest setting: too fitting for the two men of the eastern sword style. All they needed now was the falling of sakura leaves and this would be a scene straight out of a kung fu sword flick. Kuro kept his sword low to his side, the tip nearly touching the ground as he walked a stranger's distance behind.

"You laugh, Doji? You laugh after the atrocity you committed?"

Terra was unfortunately right why Z was angry. He was her guardian: when she was sad, he was sad. Not only was he there to protect her body, but also her feelings. And when she was sad, it was his duty to make her happy again. And that meant taking care of whatever placed upon said problem in the first place. And Doji was primarily the problem for many years.

Z came to a stop, staring straight at Doji, finding their spot bearable enough. His eyes shifted to Terra, then to the two following guardians. So they were here for Doji, after all. He should have realized that.

"It doesn't matter. There is no need for us to explain the obvious. Raise your sword and face karmic justice for your dishonour. I highly doubt seppuku will mend your sins at this point. Only my blade will clean your soul."

[Purple-lit room]

Dim indigo lights plagued a dark room. The features within revealed a table, a chair, a lava lamp emitting the only dim light within, and another table. Aetyra lied upon said table, the life slowly returning to her eyes. Other than her eyes being able to open to this dimly lit light, she still could not feel anything beneath her neck. No way to move her hands, no way to move her arms, nothing at all. Her entire undead body was lying there. Naked. Barely sustained. Somehow, she was being kept alive. And if she wanted to, she could speak, though it would be with a scratchy voice.

Someone walked toward the table from the left. The purple light reflected off a white lab coat that covered this mysterious figure, followed by eyes coming into view next as the glow of light reflected from them. Finally, the full features came into view, showing a man with a beard lining from his side burns and along his jaws. The sleeves of the lab coat were rolled up to reveal tattooed arms that had marks that were decorated in tribal-like shapes and curves. A grin decorated his face.

"Wake up, sleepy-heeeeeead."