Dante's Abyss 2007 Sign-Ups

[Deo]

There wasn't much to say at this point, things had been going as they were expected, as they were constructed and as they were planned. You entered the room, stood in line like a chicken walking to slaughter, signed up all your personal information (which, in the right hands, could probably leave you a victim of identify theft) walked and waited some more, and then were released into a 'holding pen' where you waited for your turn to get your head smashed in, ripped off or blown up. T'was the majestic circle of life, it was. At least, it was when you were part of one of several races that seemed to make a habit out of having blood shed more often then tears. Murder and violence was about as common place in the Saiyan history books as..well...pages in the Saiyan history books. One would be hard pressed to find a page that didn't have 'murder' 'war' or 'violence' on it one, or multiple times.

This wasn't something most people would be proud of about their heritage, to be descended from what most would call 'barbarians' or 'animals', but Kollifum knew otherwise. To be part of such a history and survive, persevere, evolve to the point where such a pastime was no more then a daily exercise. To them, enemy battalions were simply local neighbor kids pulling pranks whom needed a firm smack on the ass and to be sent home crying. Yeah, he hated the military, everyone who knew him knew it, despite the fact he was wearing an augmentation of their armor, and had one of their weapons, that was all they shared. The morals, the ideals, the concept of invading instead of defending your own home, it was where they fell apart. He was all for these sorts of contests, where everyone knew what they were getting into, they all knew the risks, put themselves there willingly, but when a bunch of heavily armed, well trained military men blast a civilian settlement from orbit because they SUSPECT enemy troops may be hiding there? That wasn't something he would ever want to be a part of. Which was why he was here, to get his mind off those issues, to enjoy himself with some mind numbing violence. It worked most of the time, anyways.

He stood in the line, his tail twitching with a hint of impatience swagger, he wasn't one to stand still for long and it drove him nuts at tournaments. Forced to sit on the side lines and watch people beat each other senseless for a good hour before getting in the ring for maybe a total of ten minutes, rinse and repeat. Tournaments were a patient man's war, and Kol had patience, but not when it came to war. The line snaked along like an inch worm trapped in a pool of tar, slowly and painfully. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was starving and this was the line up to the cafeteria, and on some level, that was probably true. He rolled his shoulder, and the joint popped and cracked lightly as he moved forward one more space. This was almost like an exercise. To know how to restrain your aggression until it was appropriate. In something like this, letting fury get the best of you and taking it out on anything that moves may be an appropriate response for some fighters, but not the ones that don't want to be taken out first shot of the day.

He knew he wasn't the biggest fish in this competition, and odds are, he wouldn't make it to the finals. The returning runner up, and more then likely the champion were returning and would probably have a repeat of last year. He'd be lucky if he made it into the top twenty, really, and wasn't killed along with a small group in some faceless miniature mass murder. But damn it all, he wasn't going to take that long walk into the night quietly, he wasn't going to go without a fight, or a sound. He'd go down swinging, tearing, gnashing. If it came down to it, he'd bite if he god damn well had to. It was the way he had grown, the way he had brought himself up without a family, to claw and scrape for every scrap of food, and belongings you had. There were just two of them now, he and his sister, and no one to have protect them as they grew save for each other. They had to be strong, stronger then anyone else their age, stronger then anyone else they knew, anyone could turn on them at any time and all they had to depend on was one another. It was their way of living, their little clan and it would survive.

A fight is not won by one punch or kick. Either learn to endure or hire a bodyguard. Forget about winning and losing; forget about pride and pain. Let your opponent graze your skin and you smash into his flesh; let him smash into your flesh and you fracture his bones; let him fracture your bones and you take his life. Do not be concerned with escaping safely, lay your life before him. This was how he lived, and this is how he would fight. Safety was always an illusion, one could die at any given moment at any given day. And while he had the goal of winning, a goal is not always meant to be reached, it often serves simply as something to aim at. His skin goose bumped and he moved forward another step. He could see the counter now, only two more entrants to go. His tail rippled with excitement, and his arms at his sides would twitch their fingers. It had been too long since he'd been in a position where he was fighting to stay alive in place of fighting to win. That sort of fighting, there was no comparison for it. No replacement.

The line moved again, it seemed to be going faster now, or maybe his mind was just over active and making it seem that way, but no matter the case, he was one man away from signing away his life. And he couldn't be more ready, willing or able. He patted his side, where the ki rifle he had gained not so long ago resided. A fight like this, stamina could be a victory giving factor, and using artificial weaponry to fire off his ki instead of his own reserves could be an enormous advantage. If...it was allowed. When you fight, if it is a real fight, use every tool that you have, use your whole body. Use your fists, your legs, your fingers, your head if you have to, and hit them in every vulnerable spot, the balls, the eyes to win. A weapon in a war should be no different then a fist, but for some folks, this wasn't true.

As the last man finished his registration, Kollifum rose to the call, and placed his hand down to take the page from the receptionist. His hand almost snapping one of the pens in half as he forced his name down across the page in a manner that resembled over stimulated chicken scratch. "...There!" He barked, slamming the pen down onto the table, actually splintering it this time, ink oozing into a pool where he had left the remains of the writing utensil. As he placed his hand back to his side, he moved to leave, taking his first stride. But a less then caring, more so agitated throat being cleared caused him to slow. Damnit. What now? As he turned, the receptionist pointed at his ki rifle. "I'm sorry sir, but personal weapons will not be permitted for this tournament." She responded almost like a recording, with pre-scripted lines and tones.

The Saiyan blinked, once, then looked down to his weapon. His jaw locked as he clamped his hand down over it, yanking it from the hilt at his side. "...Woman." He spoke flatly, placing it on the counter in front of her, making sure to keep it out of range of the ink that was slowly enveloping it's corner of the surface. "...even if I die, I want this weapon buried with me...understand?" He explained to her with the most restraint he could muster. Things, even death, had a way of being undone, and it would royally piss him off to find out some ass had gone and sold his weapon after he had died. Life seemed to come and go a lot easier then a weapon like this. "....understand?" He asked again, getting only a nod in response. Pressing his index finger down to the weapon, he spoke again. "...say it, so I know you heard me."

"Even if you die, we'll see to it that the weapon is buried with whatever remains of your corpse." She repeated, placing her hand onto the butt of the weapon. Kol withdrew his hand as she did and turned on his heal, facing the entrance to the back rooms he placed his hand to the mess of hair behind his head and twisted a length of elastic around it, bunching it behind him. His tail erect and almost rigid, his stride hiding how much his nerves were on edge. "....practically like my last will and testament." He mumbled, vision locked on that of the elevator. Barracks, more like a cage for the lions. He let out a little flick of his tail before walking towards the lift in question, and sighed. Knowing is not enough, you must apply; willing is not enough, you must do. Words to live by, and he intended to do just that.