[hr] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/4kQDpyB.png[/img][/center] [right][b][code]The Reception Room.[/code][/b][/right] [hr][hr] [Colour=Yellow]"Oh, sorry."[/colour] [Colour=Yellow]"S-sorry!"[/colour] [Colour=Yellow]"S-'scuse me, sorry; thanks, sorry!"[/colour] It was a science, weaving in between crowds of people at great speeds while narrowly avoiding collision and apologising all the while, as if his mere presence were something he needed to atone for. Lucas Miller squeezed his way past groups of Nomads, media, security, fans and just about anyone else packed into a reception hall because they couldn't wait for the show to begin. [b]"Are you at the desk yet?"[/b] A strangely high pitched but unmistakably male voice rang into the boy's senses from a small earpiece nestled in his left ear. [Colour=Yellow]"N-no, just give me a second."[/colour] Lucas Miller replied to his father on the other end of the line - "Showtime" Perry Miller - trying not to collide into anyone as he did so. [b]"Don't take too long, Champ, if ya don't register then they might give your spot to some two-bit who couldn't lace your BOOTS! SOMEBODY WH-"[/b] Perry's voice faded into the void as Lucas turned down the volume on his ear piece, recognising his father was entering "promo mode" and would likely be talking for, minimum, seven minutes without pause. He managed to barely wedge his way past a group of Nomads who appeared to consume a diet solely of protein shakes and forty ounce steaks but beyond them there it was: the front desk. Manned by a clearly uninterested young woman, who signed off bizarre Nomad after bizarre Nomad without so much as looking up at her phone. "Name?" She bluntly requested, before Lucas was even at the acceptable distance to engage in conversation. [Colour=Yellow]"Uhm. L-lucas Miller. Lucas Tony Miller."[/colour] "Nope." [Colour=Yellow]"Uhm. W-what?"[/colour] "We have someone named Lucius, someone named Luke and we have a LEWIS Miller, but no Lucas Millers." Her half closed eyes barely seemed to move as she processed all of this information from her computer. [Colour=Yellow]"O-oh… Could you c-check again, maybe?"[/colour] Her gaze darted back to the screen for the length of a half-second. "Nope." She confirmed. [Colour=Yellow]"Oh."[/colour] They stood there in silence for a few moments, the sounds of every other Nomad and event in the building being sucked out, replaced by the Receptionist’s incessant gum chewing. [Colour=Yellow]"A-are you sure? I, uhm, I've been active for a few years now?"[/colour] No response. [Colour=Yellow]"Uhm, I won the preliminary exhibition at the Philadelphia Invitational?"[/colour] No response. [Colour=Yellow]"Uhh…"[/colour] his voice dropped to an embarrassed whisper, [Colour=Yellow]"[i]I was the guy that said "I'm going to Bizby Land”[/i]”.[/colour] The smallest ghost of a smile appeared on the Receptionist's face "Oh yeah." She began tapping on her computer. "They logged your name wrong. You're all set." [Colour=Yellow]"Thank you."[/colour] "How was it, by the way?" She asked, not even looking up from her phone yet delivering what felt like an equal gut punch than any Nomad. [Colour=Yellow]"F-fine, thanks."[/colour] Lucas muttered under his breath. He shook his head and listened for his dad - who still sounded to be trapped in a web of his own insanity - and was prepared to slink out and hide at the bottom of the stairwell to change like usual, but then… [Quote] [color=DarkViolet]”I’ve told you vultures that you can fuck right off.”[/color] [/Quote] Time seemed to slow, the rap music pounding from the speakers became more and more muffled, any little girls floating in the air faded to the background. The witch lady with the shaggy black hair and glasses downed an entire can of go-go juice in one gulp and let out a majestic belch that seemed to echo in the reception hall. [Colour=Yellow]"Wow."[/colour] Lucas said to himself. He clicked off his earpiece, silencing the ramblings of Perry Miller and, before he even knew it was happening, he was walking towards the witch girl and her bat friend with the thick New Jersey accent. [QUOTE] [color=Tomato]”Say, we should have a bit more. Y’ever try one’a them hot dogs filled with whipped cream?”[/color] [color=DarkViolet]”What, like with a pump or something…?”[/color][/QUOTE] [Colour=Yellow]"It's actually more like an injection."[/colour] Lucas butted in, with the confidence of someone who was not Lucas Miller. [Colour=Yellow]"They take a syringe of whipped cream and inject it directly into the hot dog. One time I wrapped one in a jelly pancake like a giant burrito, it was pretty sweet."[/colour] And just like that, it was over. [Colour=Yellow]"Uhm, s-sorry. I overheard your… I didn't mean to interrupt, I just, I o-overheard, yeah, I- sorry."[/colour] Both Lucas' confidence and sense of speech began dribbling out with every word. He stopped babbling and inhaled, extending a shaky hand like you are supposed to do when you are normal and can be trusted around normal society. [Colour=Yellow]"M-my name is Lewis- no, [i]Lucas[/i]. My name’s Lucas. It- uhm- it's nice t-to meet you..."[/colour] [hr] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/8dMMVUC.png[/img][/center] [right][b][code]Outside Arena[/code][/b][/right] [hr][hr] "How long is that [b]fool[/b] going to take?" Parker Carroway asked, his permanently annoyed expression somehow worsening as he stood out in the Brazil sun - shielded only by a giant new stadium amidst a pornographically poor district. "He's been in there for at least five minutes!" Patti Buchanan added with a snort. "If he'd sent in the help, we could've just stayed in the car." Her voice dripped with snide contempt as she brushed off some dust from her blouse. "If he's not here soon then I say we ditch. My throat’s drying up here!" Moaned Darlington (yes, just “Darlington”). He shakes the flask inside his blazer pocket and murmurs something at the rattle of a few miniscule drops of bourbon remaining. [Colour=PaleGreen]"Fellows![/colour] An opulent young man emerges from the building with a smile as the sun catches his immaculate visage, seemingly sparkling both of his eyes and his teeth like this were some sort of advertisement about the greatest man alive. "What kept you so long?" Parker demanded, crossing his arms in annoyance - partly out of being mildly startled by Florian Wessington's sudden appearance. [Colour=palegreen]"It's rather frenzied in there at present."[/colour] Florian sighed. [Colour=palegreen]"It would appear someone has commandeered the sound system. It’s quite difficult to even hear one's own thoughts with such a heavy bassline!"[/colour] "Did you get them!?" Patti held out her hand. [Colour=palegreen]"Ah! Yes of course![/colour] Florian produced four laminated passes labelled "VIP". Technically speaking, they meant very little. Beyond the fact that the group was authorised to use the upper stands and sky boxes in-between their matches for the day. Florian had wanted to see the inside of a "real" locker room but that idea was quickly shot down by the rest. Patti, Parker and Darlington snatched the passes and fastened them securely around their necks, beginning to feel a bit more at ease now that there was a clearer distinction between them and everyone else. Darlington let out an expectant cough. [Colour=palegreen]"Oh, yes, almost forgot, Darlington![/colour] Florian reached into his coat pocket and produced a small bottle of alcohol. Seemingly so expensive that it didn’t even carry any kind of label. "Much obliged!" Darlington exclaimed, grabbing the bottle and almost immediately gulping down a quarter of it. [Colour=palegreen]"You should pace yourself my friend! It would be unwise to indulge too much before competing against some of the top level competitors in the world!"[/colour] “He’s fine!” Parker retorted, pride still wounded at the indignity of being mildly caught unaware. “Now, shall we be going?” [Colour=palegreen]”Indeed! The buffet has just opened, it’s an excellent chance to interface and mingle with some of our fello-...”[/colour] Florian trailed off at seeing the expressions on his colleagues' faces, as though he’d just asked them to devour a plate of human excrement. “We’re not going to do that.” Patti flatly stated. “Shoulder to shoulder with those kinds of people would only [i]lower[/i] our performances, Florian. We’re going to the nearest yoga spa to limber up and then returning here on the dot for our fights in order to minimise the amount of time spent in this ghetto.” Parker explained, annoyed expression shifting into one of condescension, his other main emotion. [Colour=palegreen]”I disagree!”[/colour] Florian replied with a smile. [Colour=palegreen]”I think there’s a lot of value in today’s event beyond the spirit of battle and I intend to reap every possible reward from the experience.”[/colour] Florian almost pirouetted towards the door, such was his grace and drama, ignoring the scoffs of his group as they began vacating the premises [hr] [right][b][code]Reception Room[/code][/b][/right] [hr][hr] The shift from a mostly sedate sunny day in Brazil to the inside of the World Fighting Carnival, wall-to-wall with Nomads of all sizes and stripes doing all manner of bizarre things, hit Florian with a wall of visual stimulation. Nearly stunning him with the sheer sensory overload. He quickly recovered, naturally, starting to take stock of everything as he sauntered deeper into the hall. A tall, brown haired person with quick eyes scanned the room, cameras flashed around the recently christened Justice Rider Blaze. Florian considered walking over to introduce himself to the media but decided that to be a bit gauche, they’d come to him eventually. His attention instead turned to a minor hubbub happening elsewhere, where multiple people began floating in the air to the mild interest of some spectators. Florian had seen flight, of course, but typically it was with the aid of some fantastical construct created by Minerva’s engineering departments. This was more spiritual, more “nomadic”. It made him rather excited about everything, truth be told. [Colour=palegreen]“Bravo!”[/colour] He said, chuckling while lightly clapping his hands at the sight. With his mannerisms, outfit and general enthusiasm, he looked more like an entertained child than the serious competitor scoping out the competition that he imagined himself as.