The woman is taciturn for once, completely and wholly uncharacteristic for the bombast which she usually commands.

She pauses, thinking.

Then, "... Why not all three?"

She suddenly remembers herself, and adds, "That is-- if you're willing, Underboss."

In any order would suffice. She didn't think the underboss would deign to answer her at all, let alone reward her failure by answering any one of them. It was brash to ask for all of them, but neither would she refuse him if he was offering.

Thank you for the amazing year and a half I've spent writing with you guys! It's been super fun, I've met a lot of cool people, and even if my hours are so odd I don't really get to see many of you around and hang out in vc much without ending up a zombie, I always love your writing!!! Shiv, and Crow, and Teal, and Spiral, and everyone, really, you've built a really special community and I love being a little part of it, thank you so much!! <3

Also, I'm taking a Toxic pack on Hana hehe : )

The blade was metaphorical, but it seemed the Harbinger decidedly wasn't. Whatever conception of her words must be true. There was nothing left to hone. She didn't deign to think otherwise. He was, after all, the (under) boss.

"Sure thing, Harbi... nger," she answers, the last half of that word muttered nearly under her breath. Her grin doesn't falter. Whatever conception he has of himself, it was serious. He was a serious person. Not a joke, a meme, but a very serious man who deserved to be called by his proper title.

"Your mind's a blade. Pretty sharp, too. Consider it like that! Eh, eh?"

Two pokemon emerge from the cloud of ash, and Hana tosses out her Skarmory. The iron bird whips up a storm that spins the pokemon around with a whirlwind, tossing a ball at the smaller of the shapes as it tries to focus on its surroundings.

Prey skulks.

She is no prey.

Her heart skips a beat as she meets the white of his eyes.

The wrong color eyes.

They should be the color of forged steel, sharp enough to cut her at a glance. Her heart sinks, and she grits her teeth.

This is not the Warrior.

The realization stays her hand for a mere moment, and then her swords leave her, arching towards the man from two separate angles cutting noiselessly through salt-air as he gives his lecture. Like some professor, she thinks. Or an elder, convinced of his righteousness. Talking down to her, as if she and him weren't eye to eye with the height of the dunes.

"Society? That's what they're callin' it now?"

She lets out a haughty laugh, flashing her teeth, a wild look in her eyes. They look more like fangs in the fading light, glimmering with the last light of the sun.

Even if he is no Warrior, he still has a Hero at his side. This'll be a good fight.

The woman pulls her blade in the nick of time, raising a shower of sparks. They illuminate her attackers grin, relishing the clash of steel on steel as she presses into the attack.

A roar behind her, and the knight balks and pulls away. She turns and raises her empty hand to the dragonfire as the cleft of her heart glows a deep violet. The flames overhead are dyed the same amethyst hue as they circle the two swords women grappling with interlocked swords, threatening to burn them both before rounding on their origin.

"You're a long way from Sootopolis, 'peacemaker'," the woman snarls over the crackling of flames.

She hadn't noticed the identity of her prey until now, aglow in the forge of battle. She was the woman the emerald drake had laid claim to, the source of Walsh's peace.

Her eyes grow wild at the realization.

"What, peace grow too boring for ya?"

She shifts her weight on the sword, trying to break through. The blade in her hand hums angrily, hungry for the taste of blood... and she as well.

This really took the cake. The perfect route for harsh training.

Ash, twisted brush, rocky crags... they suited her skarmory perfectly. The iron bird careened through the air recklessly, loving the harsh wilderness that threatened her with every turn, scratching her wings along branches and canyon walls and adoring the showing of sparks.

To Hana, it reminded her of two blades clashing. She instantly understood the appeal.

"Almost there, makin' record time..."

They turned the last blind corner of the canyon, the giant bird's powerful wings flapping wildly, slicing the air like a dozen blades.

"What if bein' petty and killin' kids are my hobbies, eh?"

They were not. But she bets on the kid not knowing that.

Her sword does not meet its purchase. She pulls it from her own shadow with a shrug of her shoulder, readying it to defend against an attack, but instead, she's only met by a wall of perfume. She looks down, expecting it to have some foul effect on her blades. The one in her left hand seems to have some strange pull towards the bird, a faint anomaly, but nothing else.

Swords cannot truly fall in love. Neither can objects who are not biological be poisoned.

Hana looks at the dancing bird with a sigh, shaking her head. There's someone else.

"Nice moves, now check mine!"

Then, she leaps nearly ten feet into the air, blades seeming to carry her on the wind. Quick as a sparrow, she darts downward and brings both blades onto the newest addition to this little party. Her left sword seems to tug at her wrist as she goes, trying to get closer to the bird faster than the other.

She lets it, carrying all her momentum with it.

She breathes the scent of brimstone, out of place in the rain, and turns.

Scarred visage, ruined maw, she barely comprehends what she sees at first before the reek of blood and fire hits her and fills her with terror.

A weight reaches out, then, pressing on her mind like a hand on her shoulder.

A long time ago it was commonplace, a sensation she'd since regarded less and less as time went on. But even now, her protector intervenes when necessary to assure her of the danger and fill her with resolve. She silently curses, thinking she'd excised all the fear from her a long time ago, but even so, she appreciates her gardevoir's concern.

A hand falls to her hip, and she draws her swords as silent as she can. One flies in the air next to the fae, the other clutched tight in the woman's hand, but both clash like the symbol of an X as they teleport from the mist and strike at the dragon with all their fury!

"RAAAGH!!"

Hana shouts at the top of her lungs, a battlecry they both share.

Hana's eyes linger on the biggest one. A brute of a man. Probably one of the League's 'best and brightest', if she had to guess. She can see the resemblance to a Slowpoke in his expression...

"Why? What'd they do wrong?"

She turns to her beer and downs it in one sip, but all the while, she keeps on eye on the table, growing rowdier. They're shouting at the top of their lungs about something. A round of laughter. Battle, if she'd have guessed.

But then, a man's rude gesture betrays them. One extended index finger on the right hand, the other meeting the left's thumb.

They're talking about women.

Then, she watches some of the men take short glances at her, quickly averting their eyes when they saw she was staring back.

Ah.

Eyes make contact with the man across from her.

"... Actually, now you mention it, I'd love to kick their asses."

She stands, hand reaching to her hip and finding her sword.

"Hah! To each his own!"

Hana pivots, flames singeing the ends of her favorite kimono. She hardly notices. All her focus is on the dance, the steps, the exchange of blows. Even as she's struck back, she cuts his wrist good. The blood smokes as it hits the ground, and sizzles. She laughs.

"Me? I'm havin' a BLAST!"

She lunges, suddenly, devil-may-care as she stabs her blades straight at the monkey king, an iron head aimed right at his heart. Whatever he might do to her, it didn't matter. Not if she won.

And if the truth of her sword's no guard ability was not put into question, she would not lose!

"Hah, confident! How unlike you!"

The woman had taken some effort to hide any distinguishing qualities, but Hana had not. Her ostentatious yukata was dazzling as ever, ornaments jingling in her hair. And the swords, always two swords at least, on her hip. A ninja might blend in, conceal himself, but she was no warrior of shadows.

"You ain't the least bit frightening to me, Lev. But that other thing? Well, embrace it, that's what I say!"

She rebuffs the woman's comments, assuming she was complimenting herself. Whether it's willful or not, it's impossible to say. Any wry smirk is lost in the dark.

The scream steals their attention, leaving any attempt to clarify behind them as they enter the alleyway. The blade in Hana's hand flickers in the dim light, shadows themselves playing off its edge. It seems to guide her through the dark, toward the sudden chaos.

"Right on cue," she whispers, as if she'd known something would happen. Invite two warring factions to the same town, and whatever 'peace' they held was temporary.

As they creep down the alleyway, she hears two men's voices. One laughs at the other's joke. Then, she hears the distress of a woman, calling a man's name. The man on the ground isn't moving. Presumably, the work of one of the larger men's Marowak, standing at his side, hefting a large femur up and down.

"A civvie?" She creeps closer, leading Aurelie closer to the men as she tries to catch a glimpse of the injured man's face. "Or d'you recognize him?"

She looks straight at him.

All she can see is her own reflection, staring back at her in his shades.

She is sure if he removed them his gaze may even be half as sharp as the Warrior's. She might even relish that, longing for the sensation of it like a junkie looking for her next hit. A poor imitation of Navy 's, a look she couldn't steal but once in Sootopolis, but the desire to feel something, anything still remains... a hand runs along her stomach, feeling the phantom pain where her blade should be embedded right about now.

It's too bad that he does not remove them. Will never remove them.

But then, could she settle for even a pale imitation at this stage?

"Yes," she responds obediently to his warning.

And then.

"So it was a promise. Quaint."

Eyes linger on the bead of red at the end of his cigarette. A single, smoldering ember falls, white and spent, unable to take the heat and withering at the touch of flame.

She takes stock of herself before she adds,

"Only been here a short while, but even I know there're a hell of a lotta Rockets who've let their ideals fall by the wayside, if they'd ever had 'em to begin with. Whatever justification you've got, Harbie, glad to see you ain't one of 'em."

He was no ruthless Walsh, or cutthroat Monroe. Perhaps it lie deep down in the crushing abyss somewhere, but he had a heart. He was still human. An aberration, something you weren't meant to be anymore when you gave your sword to Rocket, from everything she'd seen and heard. A true wildcard.

But now she was sure, she could pledge her sword to this kind of Rocket at least.

"What comes next?"