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((Mmk!))

Hyronai was pratically dragged by Bull-San. His shoulder fell better but throbbed all the same. He could tell it was swollen and he could also tell that forearm was cracked. A large black bruise had appeared signifying that veins and arteries in his arm hard broken causing a large bulging heap of platelates and blood to pool under the skin.

As Bull-San carried him Hyro could feel the compassion that he hid deep within. It was an odd contradiction to his rough and "bull" like exterior. Hyronai would have prefered to get to know the other Bull-San first but Hyronai understood the implications of having to be "tough" and authoritive.

((There is no compassion in dragging somebody. I just don't want my Squad Members out of commission because I injure them too badly.))

[[Character entrance from the hot springs]]

Svetlana entered the training grounds a comfortable and clean young woman. She had walked here, leisurely, taking in the sights of the Sereitei. She had been scheduled for a training match-- one she desperately needed. She'd accepted the challenge in no time; it was something she desperately needed. Part of her was nervous. This would be a match not only to determine her abilities, but to work on her physical form. Those mistakes from earlier today would begin to be rectified (theoretically).

She licked her lips as a sandaled foot stepped onto the training grounds. A light beeze whipped her hair around her face, marring a clear view of her expression.

The truth was, she had no idea what to expect. She had fought matches before, yes, but never with her Zanpaktou, and never with Kido. This worried her-- her Kido skills were far from stellar, and she knew from experience what sort of damage simple binding spells could cause. She exhaled slowly, quietly requesting her heart to stop beating so quickly.

The first step would be for her to reach out with her mind, locate and grasp her opponent's distinctive energy signature. On her second slow exhale, she honed in. Watson. The Sixth Seat. She allowed her eyes to close for a minute. Svetlana herself had never met Clare Mai Watson-- but there were plenty of individuals whom she had yet to meet. She was aware of Clare Mai Watson, of course, but had never actually seen the woman in any sort of situation, combat or otherwise.

Thus, she had no idea what to expect. All she knew was that Watson was a good seat above her, and that Watson was a woman. She blew out a breath, swiping windblown hair from her face, moving at an amiable pace to the location Watson had chosen. It was a bit of a hike, and part of her wishes she had set out earlier to locate her opponent, if only to catch her breath and not appear looking like a fool.

Her fears (if they were enough to be called such) had no grounds, however, as years of physical training kept her muscles from feeling the strain of a long, flat walk. The topography here was gentle, and Svetlana was able to visually locate Watson soon enough.

Her first impression of the girl was just that-- Watson was femenine, and attractive as far as women went. Clare was taller than Svetlana, a bit more waif-ish. Her hair, too, was longer and unbound (Svetlana wondered if it would get in the way at all), and her eyes-- Svetlana couldn't see the woman's eyes at all. What she did see, as a whole, was a woman incomplete. Curious, was all the thought Svetlana put towards it. Her opponent's history was, at this time, irrelevant. She would learn what she needed to by engaging her in combat.

A friend of her father-- a good Party man, a former colonel-- once said that the best way to get to know one's enemy was to engage them physically. He had enjoyed retelling the tales of the Glorious Revolution, in which he had engaged the White Army with Red Star Infantry, crushed the Borgeious under his uniformed heel. He claimed to have known what it meant to be an Enemy of the State after that battle, though he was usually so far gone on Vodka by then no one could understand him anyway.

Svetlana doubted that Watson was any enemy of the state, and was sure this match would be quite different. Even so, with another slow exhale, she gathered her wits about her and approached.

"Clare Mai Watson," she spoke, her voice lilting over the field, "greetings." She gave the woman a small bow at the waist. She was, after all, her superior.

Svetlana's face remained cool and composed, her mouth only twitching slightly as Clare's speech patterns slowed down to accomodate the awkward syllables of her patronymic. Her mouth didn't move in amusement nor did it move in disapproval. She was so used to these people shortening and butchering her names that it no longer bothered her. She would answer to almost any name by now, having been tempered by the Sereitei's speech patterns for years. Truly, it was the surname from hell to these Edo-style individuals, and the irony was more than apparent.

She tilted her head slightly as the opposite woman spoke, brown hair catching the breeze and brushing against her cheekbones. It was useless for her to be reminded to go 'all out.' She had yet to give anything less than her all during a match, and certainly wasn't going to begin slacking off now... especially when her opponent had a definite strength advantage. Squad ranking was efficient ranking, and she had a gut feeling that the captain put his members into that order for a reason-- whatever that reason may be. Svetlana wasn't about to be defeated simply because she viewed Clare as an equal opponent.

They were not equal. On this field, they were anything but equal. Svetlana was intimately aware of where she needed to improve, and the knowledge was daunting. She felt so insignificant in so many different ways, and yet she knew that this was only the case because as a daughter of Yegor, she was a harsh judge of her abilities. She exhaled slowly, purifying her mind and body of her negativity, determined to run this battle on talent and wit, not emotions.

"I would not dare refer to you by your Christian name so early in our relationship," she remarked, her voice floating over the training grounds' dry earth, seemingly carried by the wind. "Please allow me to see who you truly are first." With that, she drew her own Zanpaktou, the metal a cold extention of her arm, the blade glinting dangerously in the sunlight.

She blinked once. Twice. Her clear green eyes settled on clare as she turned her blade over in her right hand, holding it in a reverse grip, her elbows slightly bent and her feet moving slowly to a comfortable position. A third blink, and she allowed her body to be hurdled forward, opening the duel with a broad sweeping stroke. It was the type of maneuver generally meant to ward off multiple opponents, but instead would be serving Svetlana's purpose of a quick and aggressive opening cut. The swing was strong, perhaps strengthened even more by the rock-like stance and toned arm wielding the weapon. Svetlana wet her lips, and as her blade moved, a ghost of a smile graced her features.

[[Combat post 1.]]

Svetlana's gaze was steady as her eyes flickered from Clare's head to her feet, reacting to her opponent's smallest shifting of her weight. Clare had blocked Sveta's opening move (she had expected nothing less from an opponent), and her counterattack was crisp enough to warrant her respect. She allowed her sandals to dig into the sand and threw her weight to her left side, twisting herself to a sharp roll, and in time, moving her feet to regain her balance, now a good ninety degrees from where she had stood moments before. Such reflexes! Beneath her porcelain expression, Svetlana was almost giddy. To be pitted against talent was truly the greatest gift she could receive.

She moved her torso ever so slightly, her free hand keeping watch over her chest as her sword-hand shifted its grip. From her angled position, she punched out a quick flurry of jabs with her blade, feeling her muscles as they moved, keeping her mind aware of her own body.

She was yet clothed in her shinigami garb, having forgone stripping herself to her undergarments. One never knew when battle might befall her, and she needed to compensate for the increased friction and resistance caused by such flowing fabrics. Comfortable as her kimono was, it was not the garb she intended to wear as she fought. The sleeves... they were too wide. The waist, tied tightly as it was, was loose enough to warrant even looser pant legs. She knew the design of these clothes were meant to hide the movements of the body, but... what good was that if she couldn't get one good hit in?

No matter. Svetlana's movements were crisp and practiced, as if she had spent the vast majority of her free time going through these motions in front of a mirror. Svetlana knew she herself was no pushover. Logic would follow that Clare Mai Watson should be even less of a pushover. Even so, Svetlana couldn't help but hope that Clare would parry or dodge her jabs. Svetlana didn't want her opponent to fall so early. She could only hope that Clare would live up to her seating number.

Her eyes gave a shark-like glint as she noted the slightest intake of breath. Now was the perfect time to strike--

[[2]]

The pressure eased on Svetlana's sword. Clare's biceps tensed. Her breath drew slowly and evenly. Her opponent's feet were planted firmly on the ground. She is preparing an attack, Svetlana noted. It wasn't unusual. It was, after all, Clare's 'turn.' Even so, she seemed to be planning something different. Something... forward-thinking. But what? Svetlana drew her sword back to a basic defensive position, ready to simply strike again with stinging force, but Clare had already moved to attack. Svetlana leapt backwards as she lowered her blade, allowing herself to fall onto her free hand. Close, she mused.

She regained her balance, and swept her leg out to bring herself back into an upright position. Her eyes only left Clare for a moment in order to survey her surroundings, to make sure she didn't pierce her hand on a sharp rock. In an instant, however, her gaze was locked back on her opponent. Clare's landing was... clumsy.

Was she not prepared for this? Did she view Svetlana as nothing more than a joke? She was prepared to go all out, to give her everything in pursuit of technique... but Clare Mai Watson, she wasn't. She was... distracted.

Sveta felt her jaw muscle clench. She hurled herself forwards, then spun on her left foot to allow her right arm and the sword it held to arch in a ribbon-like movement towards Clare's midriff. It was a blow she normally used for killing. It was a sort of final strike. To use it this early wasn't overconfidence on Sveta's part, but rather a gesture of brevity. She could skip the battle's foreplay and skip straight to the power punches.

To compliment her attack, Svetlana's left hand moved behind her to steady her stance as her right leg followed her left to kick her opponent backwards.

Her aim was impeccable, but the fact that Clare was not operating on any particular stance or pattern made it difficult (if not impossible) for Svetlana to predict what her opponent was going to do. How very frustrating, she thought.

Even so, it was a bit thrilling. To be outmanned like this by her opponent. It was like a game. It was a suprise, to see if she would be able to avoid painful injury or not with each movement. The combination of Svetlana's physical blows and the amount of energy it took to create them brought a full-fledged smile to her face.

"Do you mock me, Clare Mai Watson?" her voice rang out across the field as she moved to strike. Her feminine chords were strong, even in the midst of combat. Were her words a bluff? Svetlana knew that strong words could betray a weak body... but not today. Not right now. This wasn't far enough into the battle to even worry about bluffs from either 'contestant.'

[[3]]

Graceful, Svetlana thought dryly, watching as Clare biffed another landing. She opened her mouth-- to taunt, to encourage-- who knows?-- but closed it almost immediately as she recognized the time to move in for the kill.

It was these kinds of moments which Svetlana treasured most. Her opponent was reeling. Bleeding. Perhaps crying. At the academy, at any training exercise, now was the time in which Svetlana would ruthlessly push forward to punish her opponent for ever even considering that she could hope to match Svetlana Yegorovichna. Now would be the time in which Svetlana would raise her zanpaktou, bring it down hard on her opponent's shoulder, swipe it to the side to draw blood, signify death. She would kick her opponent into his back, stomp down on his throat, hold her sandal against his jaw and windpipe, denying him oxygen. Now would be the time in which she would cause the most pain before the officiating individual intervened.

Such dreams were not to happen yet, however, as something seemed to click in Clare's being. She seemed to... snap to attention. Svetlana's eyes narrowed and she tilted her head ever so slightly, drawing her sword back to its original reverse position again as her opponent spoke. She was... bringing up her date of death? Fool!

Svetlana felt her eyes narrow even more, her mouth drawing itself into that familiar thin line. Her smile was gone. These sentiments and feelings Clare felt the need to incorporate were ruining the jest. Svetlana's death had been instantaneous. It had been relatively painless. A little heat, then... nothing. Svetlana had nothing to compare it to. Her death had been nothing more than an unexpected gateway into this world, where she had spent years acclimating herself to this strange far-eastern climate.

"Your death is in the past," she remarked lowly, her hand coming out in front of her to give her a steady balance. It was preparation for whatever move the young woman needed to make next. "The past is the past. It cannot be changed." Normally, the young Russian girl would not allow her opponent time to speak. Was this any sort of real battle, she would have been in to tear out Clare's windpipe by her third word.

In fact, it was almost difficult for her to remind herself that this was a training match, nothing more. It had been a... friendly gesture, perhaps, on behalf of the squad. She bit her lip hard to keep her muscles in check, and found herself lapping up the metallic taste of her own blood.

Svetlana had expected Clare to mope around for a short while longer, and thus it took her a few moments longer to react to the woman's sudden charge forward. She grunted something obscene as her opponent powered up hado.

Oh, hado-- her worst weakness. It pushed her backwards, forcing her to take intuitive measures to keep herself upright. It was like a stick being thrust in her bicycle spokes. Her rhythm was gone, and she drew back her body to avoid the downward slash.

Her reaction was not quick enough, however, as the blade caught her shoulder and tore her sleeve as it ripped through her muscle and tissue. Svetlana blinked at her wound for a moment, feeling the tingling sensation of pain and... pleasure? That smile of hers was back, tinged with a grimace. It... hurt.

Svetlana's eyes locked onto Clare's, and in a moment, she shrugged her shoulder (painfully) and twisted her flesh out of the metallic bite of the enemy's zanpaktou. Blood was pooling in the wound, leaking down her arm, but not at any particularly flast pace; her veins and arteries were safe. Because of this, so was her (second) life.

Her body now in a new momentum, she threw herself at her opponent. Her left arm came up to caress her open wound (which was so deep the nerve endings burned with such a rage that it was difficult to feel), and she flicked her own blood at her opponent. A taunt. A challenge. A... what exactly was that gesture?!

"It seems you've managed to draw first blood," she said, her voice much too level to belong to a woman who had just been stabbed, and one who was in the process of making another ferocious jab at her opponent. Instead of the chest, however, her zanpaktou was aimed at Clare's wrist. She aimed to maim the woman's sword hand.

[[4]]

Clare had talents, that much was obvious to Svetlana. The young woman was forced to admit that she would never in all her life actually use any part of her body to block a blow. Her zanpaktou sliced into her opponent's arm with a disgusting ripping sound. The blade divulged itself into the woman's palm, then wrist, threatening to split Clare's very arm in two. Svetlana's first instict was to pull out with minimal damage and inform Clare that this had gone far enough, that they need not tear each other to shreds. She did not get the chance, however, and was forced to take the immediate defensive, raising her bloody swordhand (that is, her right) to block a fist attack. Her left hand reinforced her right, and she gave no reply to Clare's verbal declaration. Svetlana no longer felt the need to distract Clare.

In fact, Svetlana wanted to give her opponent a good, healthy slap; to let her know that her thoughts should lie in the here and now. The worries, the fears, the demons held by Clare Mai Watson were irrelevant at this particular point in time, though she doubted pointing such a fact out to her opposite would do anything productive for either of them. Instead, she pursed her lips and said nothing, though her emerald eyes bore into Clare.

If looks could kill...

But killing was not on Svetlana's mind. She almost felt pity for the foolish woman before her, who was so blinded by... something. Her death, obviously, but something beyond that. Svetlana herself held no such convictions. Her death had been clean and unexpected. She had felt no pain, and left nothing behind. She had simply vaporized in the atomic blast with countless other individuals. In fact, the only reason she knew anything about her death was because she'd spoken with someone who posessed much more information about the bombing than she herself did. It was fair to say that the vast majority (if not all) of her knowledge came from secondary sources.

Irony, she had often mused.

Svetlana's block was successful, and kept Clare's fist from even reaching her torso. Svetlana blinked as she spoke, "Are you growing desperate?" It was an honest question. Either Clare's movements were frenzied and as a result growing weaker, or Sveta had simply made an extremely well-executed block. Both were possible, and Sveta posed her question with diligent curiosity. She flung Clare's wrist away, and at the same time tore the remnants of her sleeve away from her body. The fabric was heavy with blood, and the sound was thick. The sleeve hit the dirt with a sickening splat. She moved her shoulder in a slow circle, as if testing to see how much movement she had left.

She ended up noting that she had plenty of movement left for now; the wound was so raw it was nothing more than a sharp throb. Sveta had felt worse. Before too long, however, it would erupt into something extremely painful. High levels of pain seemed to disrupt the chain of movement in her body. Svetlana did not fare well when severely injured.

It was because of this that she wished to end this sooner rather than later. Her blade in her hand, she moved to sting a killing strike with her blade whilst kicking her feet up to hit Clare's bloody hand. She hoped the combination of distractions would be enough to throw the woman off balance, perhaps make her concede before either lost a limb.