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MgRonalds, District 7


In fairness, a negotiation was never Karasawa's strongest suit. He had made more than a token effort, but anyone that knew him knew that talking one's way out of things was against such a brawler's nature. He had been convinced for a long time now that knuckles did a better job of convincing than words ever could. It was inevitable that it would turn out this way, and thus, he was ready.

The glass shattered.

Shinjiro Karasawa was always a man of action.

He launched forward as the Bazooka-Brandishing-Beyblade freed herself from Pompadour's aim, building up speed with one, two long strides. This guy needed to be taken care of quickly if he intended to be gettin' in his way, because Shinjiro didn't plan on lettin' ANY of the bozos escape.

How quickly, you ask?

Steam rising from his pores, his third stride was one that took to the air, springing off of his rear leg while chambering his front, knee almost rising to chest. Though the flying side kick was a move he'd been taught for fun rather than competition within the specific ruleset of Kyokushin Karate, Masutatsu Oyama would doubtlessly approve of one of his wayward former students using it against that which put others in danger. Sailing through the air, the apex of this leap ended up directly in front of the man with extending hair—


And in another moment of synchronicity, our unruly hero's foot lanced out like a piston, driving his heel straight towards his opponents chest with all that weight, momentum, and raw physical leg force behind it at the exact same moment as his compatriot did the unthinkable by firing the RPG.

"What the fuck— What the hell is wrong with you!?" he demanded after he'd returned to terra firma, "You tryin' to get people killed!?"

Unfortunately for her, he was a simple high schooler from a simple high school. He did not share her knowledge of propelled explosives, for to laymen such as himself the subject was esoteric beyond what a video game could teach you.
MgRonalds, District 7


Shinjiro Karasawa was, by all means, the straightest of shooters. He spoke his mind to a fault, was quick to dispel any put-upon airs he came across,and despised foul play as a concept entirely. Integrity was a virtue he held in high esteem— if you infringed upon your words made in confidence, you were worthless as a man.

All that said—

"Easy, easy." he said in a voice that was thick with tension. "Let's not get hasty now."

It didn't mean he didn't know how to play along with something. Especially if it wasn't even untrue.

"My associate here is gettin' pretty impatient. I think we can all agree that nobody wants to get blown up today, so... y'know. Normally I can't control her..."

You'd have to know someone to be able to do that.

He left the rest up to their interpretations, but the implication was made abundantly clear as he tapped the floor in front of himself with a toe.
MgRonalds, District 7


For his part, the rough-and-tumble esper took the ensuing whirlwind of chaos essentially in stride, only raising a quizzical purple brow at his unexpected comrade's theatrics. He'd seen dabs with better form and context. Situational context and context within a routine both, in fact. However with all that said, she'd succeeded in taking the bazooka off of the thug's hands.

"Nice goin', Helicopter." he growled in approval, offering the strange young woman a thumbs-up without taking his eyes off of 'Chief'. His jaw tightened in malcontent. Sure, with the sirens approaching fast, he and Helicopter could stall these wackos out for probably another 30 seconds before things were a done deal...

"We just be havin' lunch, ya see?"

But he really wanted to knock 'em a few blocks uptown if they kept acting like they could con their way out of this right to his face.

"Yeah, havin' lunch. No funny business whatsoever. Which is why you've got the rest of the damn store quivering behind your groupie. Ha! Y'know what?"

There was no humor in that laugh.

"Think I'll have lunch too. Obviously you ain't in any rush, but I've been waitin' on line for ages now. Hat-chan!" he called out to the blonde behind the counter. "Ring me up a Big Mig in the meantime once you kill the AC, would ya?"

He had come here for a good old-fashioned cheeseburger, after all. It'd be a shame if he went hungry after getting himself into something like this. A damn, damn shame— the fuzz'd probably have the place on lockdown once they got here, too. May as well get some servicable food out of calling the bluff.

God forbid he resort to this street's bodegas. All awful.

"Looks like we're all tied up for the minute— I don't suggest you go eatin' that on the run, either." he indicated the bag of MgChickens. "You ever seen Supersize Me?"
MgRonalds, District 7


The air seemed to grow thicker as the two wiseguys stated their case. Perhaps they, in their leather jackets, were just feeling the summer heat— in spite of MgRonald's having an industry standard AC Unit that was functioning perfectly moments ago.

There are certain things in this world that could be deemed careless, like not ensuring a rogue element entering your controlled situation was properly. Certain others could ascend to the moniker of reckless, such as directly engaging that rogue element when it is suspect of being volatile. A harrowing step up for sure, but it too paled in comparison to the final tier: insanity. This was reserved for not simply engaging the rogue, volatile element, but doing so through the implication of force.

Make that "The best damn city in America"n, broad.

So saying, Shinjiro Karasawa and the confessed bazooka-wielding goons were two parties of a kind: Both out of their damn skulls.

The classic MgRonald's was set up to have the bathrooms nearest to an entrance point, serving as convenience for those unfortunate drivers who needed a quick break on the road or before their meal. This meant that when the trio sprung into action, so too did their purple-haired obstacle, immediately body-blocking the doorway.

An observant and keen-eyed witness would note that in addition to the strange pulses of heat that were beginning to radiate out from that corner of the room, the glass of the doorway was beginning to fog behind him.

He would normally need to apologize to the girl behind the counter once this was all said and done, but picking a fight with some East High schlubs was about a world removed from doing the same with armed criminals.

Especially those that were terrorizing other customers.

Especially those that were pulling a fast one on him like a ten-year-old.

Lying fucking terrorists! This was civic duty!

"You come into a MgRonald's with a fuckin' bazooka and you expect me ta just let you by!? Quit bustin' my balls! Those sirens are on your asses, I wasn't born yesterday!"

And they were just begging to have their faces pounded into the pavement. What kind of New Yorker could resist?
MgRonalds, District 7


MgRonald's was by no means a ceremonious establishment. Even in its homeland of America, the mecca of meat and grease, MgRonald's was never seen as fine dining, only a quick and easy fix of that classic stars and stripes staple: a burger. To most that lived outside the States, it was simply another form of fast food, one that had a particularly bad reputation for your arteries thanks to a certain documentary. For one resident of Academy City, however, those American roots were still a drawing point in the time of greatest need. They were ,ore than a simple trivia tidbit about the chain's history— They were an anchor to home.

I'm gonna die if I eat another bowl of Woodles.

Yes, sometimes "home" was represented by a choice in lazy fast food. A reminder of one's upbringing, food of the homeland's masses. Something that encapsulated the heart of the people. And for a certain transplant from New York, that heart was in the "fast" part of "fast food".

"Are these slow assholes done with their order yet?" a gruff young voice sounded from the obscured hallway, heralded by the rough close of a door and the muffled sound of working plumbing. The wholly unconcerned tone clashed so jarringly with the atmosphere of every other customer's fear that, in a way, it would have been funny. "I hate tourists."

But going between the Karasawa the Delinquent, Noriaki North High's School's Student Council Secretary, and his burgers was no laughing matter.

The purple-haired ruffian, clad in a nondescript dark grey v-neck and tan shorts, walked into the scene with a knit brow and a frown. He surveyed the suddenly desolate eating area, frown deepening for a moment in confusion, before he caught sight of the clientele's location— huddled around a girl wearing a frilly white dress, boredly scrolling through her smartphone.

...She didn't look like she was some out-of-towner in cosplay for Kanacon, or anything attention-getting like that.

As a matter of fact, the attention-getting one...

"You guys got a problem?" he demanded testily of the assembled group, challenging their confused and frightened looks with a snarl. "A guy can't use a public restroom?"

Just because some damn Instagram celebrity, or whatever she was that was soooo interesting, was here! The fuckin' nerve!

He took a step forward to continue, before some large dark splotches appeared his peripheral.

He turned his head, and locked eyes with the two men currently still ordering. He heard sirens approaching. He heard the hushed horror of the crowd. And he saw the cylindrical shape strapped to one's back.


We have one for the previous iteration that Crimmy will probably throw up soon
thought you'd never show
@ERode - Sounds reasonable enough if she caught him in the middle of something that's spiralled out of control, but just to clarify, Noriaki's the name of Karasawa's High School. Sorry for the confusion, I'll whack that out of the hider.
oh those poor young women.
clearly, Normal High School Boys would be way too powerful in this setting in the first place
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