Ninjas of Love

Down For The Count

Charlie crumpled to the floor, having been knocked out cold by Cardin's vicious right hook, reminiscent of a Caucasian, douchebag version of Mike Tyson, Muhammad Ali or Sugar Ray Leonard. Another tear rolled down Emily's cheek, which was now a deep red, streaked with pale tear-stains, making her face look like a frying pan full of cheap, American-style bacon- as she watched her closest confidant and her most trusted ally fall in a passionate bid to protect the name and dignity she had.

With his face contorted into a grimace of vengeful, wrathful anger, Kerian stood up from his bench and threw off his tracksuit jacket to reveal a set of stiffened, tangerine, leather armour that sat across his chest and abdomen- protecting him from any blows the jock managed to land on the scrawny transfaunus' front torso. He walked towards Cardin briskly, but he was sure to pace himself and not break into a hell-for-leather run like his teammate had- and suffered for. As he approached his target, Cardin swung at him. Kerian ducked it, and felt the edge of the enclosed fist brush the top of his Will Byers-esque hairdo. "Shit, that was close." The hunter mumbled to himself, as he made a wild, clubbing swing of his right forearm around the legs of Cardin Winchester, serving- evidently- as little more than a minor inconvenience, at worst, to the large, orange-haired hunter who grabbed Kerian and pulled him upright by the chest lip of his leather armour playing, which looked- to the uninitiated- rather more like a mediaeval BDSM getup than it did an effective method of stopping blunt force trauma and sharp objects from piercing Kerian's aorta and/or sternum.

Cardin winded his fist back behind his head, ready to unleash his full Lynx and Monster-fuelled force onto poor, unassuming Kerian Furry, but all of a sudden felt someone holding onto his right arm to prevent him punching the scrawny, weedy "Arctic Fox". He struggled in an attempt to out-strength his assailant, but could not free himself before she kicked him in the little Winchesters. Hard.

"Perfect. Form." The wispy-haired street fighter congratulated herself on the aggressiveness with which she had rammed the tip of her school uniform boot into Cardin's bifurcation, with the same ease with which she completed all her dust studies homework. After all, it's pretty hard for your family to break the rules about dust use when they're the people that make the rules.

"Miss Schnee!" Port shouted, audibly peeved with the altercation that had just erupted in his classroom. "You cannot assault other students. But good work, that'll scupper his plans with a nice young lady like you for a while."
"And why aren't you shouting at him?" Weiss asked the professor, pointing one open hand toward the ginger student, who had now curled up in a foetal position, hands clutching his crotch as if he had been hit in the testicles by an Aggregat 4 rocket rather than by a teenage girl who ate her lunch most days at the local Pret A Manger (which, in this author's humble opinion, is just Greggs for Tories. And Tories are bad, mmmkay?). "Well, Miss Schnee, don't you think he's rather suffered enough without me reprimanding his reprehensible behaviour?"
"While I do agree with you to an extent, Professor Port, I also believe that the impression I have made upon his testicles will not have the same effect as you giving him a real form of discipline, such as a detention with Professor Goodwitch, or banning him from the Vytal Festival Tournament."

"Do those two speak in some kind of foreign language?" Billy asked Emily, moving close to her ear and whispering so as not to further anger Weiss. "No hablan en una idioma de la extranjera, mi amigo, entonces no entiendo que hablas."