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So...we still on? o_o
I'm here when the shooting starts
Man, I am really starting to despair of any kind of enforcement on that 48-hour post time limit rule in the actual fight threads.
“JEEZ this party is dull!”

The shout came from the direction of the food courts, where one of the early arrivals had re-emerged from her self-imposed Food Exile. Ryoko Nocity was standing in the doorway, giving the gathered crowd of weirdos, wankers, and wannabes the gimlet eye. Under her left arm was the head of one of the busboys in the food court area; the frantically struggling man was letting off a constant stream of muffled profanity as he tried to get out of the headlock Ryoko had him in. Dangling from the fingers of her left hand was a Burrito Bonanza bucket, with three remaining Extra Large rolls of seasoned meat, beans, and sauce in Authentic Corn Flour Tortillas™. Out of twelve. One could see the distended bulge in Ryoko’s gut where the nine previous burritos were awaiting their final fate, and one could almost feel the remaining three quivering in fear of this unstoppable burrito Chupacabra’s insatiable appetite.

If one was sensitive to the emotions of food, anyways.

“Everybody just standing around being furtive and unassuming…COME ON! Isn’t this supposed to be a show? Do you all seriously think anybody’s gonna get a leg up on anybody else by sitting in a corner around here and watching? Fuckin’ stupid! Don’t you think so, Horace?”

“My name is Jeremy you crazy bat!” the busboy tucked under RYoko’s arm squealed, shoving hard to try and get away. Ryoko, in turn, only brought her other hand up and gave the boy a noogie hard and fast enough that smoke rose from his head, his squealing redoubled, and there was a shiny, polished bald spot on his head where Ryoko’s knuckles had been when she pulled her hand back. “Sure, whatever you say Horace. See? Even Horace here agrees. So c’mon! Do something worth me spending my time here to watch instead of just napping in a prep room somewhere!”
Exsqueeze me, Stumpy. Y'all ain't the only cowpoke at this rodeo. Hardly my fault nobody's gone for a snack so's Ryoko can harass them properly. A girl can't be expected to abandon her Burrito Bonanza Bucket just to go and give the Bearded Lady what for.

Calm ya moobs there, Lee. Shooting Violence Murder Hoedown 2018 will commence when it commences. In the meantime, feel free to join me for a bite to eat.
There were many different expectations for an event like this, when it came to the fighters who would come and try their hand at the prize. Hulking men in metal suits, covered in steel and bearing thews most heroic, seeking to overwhelm their foes with main strength and heroic resolve. Wiry men in darkened leather with slender daggers and shifty eyes, tricksy rogues who eliminated their targets with the quiet whisper of an unseen blade. Hides-clad woodsmen with bows in their hands and wildlands predators at their side, wizened old men with beards down to their knees and eyes crackling with power. Occasionally even great bear-like champions in nothing but a set of shorts and a pair of padded gloves, the promise of a world of pain in their eyes for anyone who underestimated their ability with the empty hand.

One expectation that was not common, however, was tall, teal-skinned, point-eared women with old-fashioned bolt-action rifles. And yet that was exactly what stepped off the arrival pad in the lobby mere moments after a confused mountain man, papers held loosely in one hand.

The woman’s name was Ryoko Nocity, a mercenary of some repute back in her home regions. Her registration papers called her out as a ‘Wild Elf’ and she certainly looked the part. Bright, energetic teal skin, impossible to miss at any distance. Blue-tinged white hair, trailing in a loose tail down to her waist. Beguiling violet eyes that regarded the room their owner found herself in coolly, frankly, and very judgmentally from behind a natural mask of stark white skin stretching over her face; the band of color encompassed her eyes, the bridge of her nose, and her long, sharply pointed sylvan ears, like a robber’s cloth strip or a set of overlong eyeshades.

She was beautiful, but she was also unmistakably a warrior; over six feet tall, with the toned and sculpted musculature of someone who knew the precise balance between strength, agility, and endurance required of a soldier and strove to maintain that balance. Her skin bore its fair share of scars, old wounds from old jobs. Her right arm bore intricate, spiraling tribalesque tattoos, covering it from the back of her hand all the way to and over the shoulder, flaring out into a web of markings over her shoulderblade.

She was dressed in an outfit that did not at all jive with the usual tone of such events. A black leather halter top preserved her feminine modesty without restricting the motion of her arms at all, bearing the entirety of her back and shoulders to the world. A wide, heavily tooled and reinforced belt circled her waist with a handful of pouches and packs hung off of it, including the holster for a snubby pistol peeking out from the small of her back, hung for left-handed draw. Below the belt, a set of loose, beat-up dark grey denim pants, worn through in spots and clearly past their prime. The legs had been cut short, hems stopping just below the top of a pair of very metal boots. Heavy black leather, reinforced with enough plates, buckles, and studded straps to count as light armor in its own right, the boots bore a set of spiked studs over both their toes and along their heels, promising swift regret for anyone who gave the mercenary riflewoman cause to give them the boot.

Her hands were partially encased in a set of fingerless shooting gloves, studded over the knuckles with short, drill-shaped spikes akin to the ones on her boots. Wristbands of the same material hooked up to the gloves, liberally festooned with a triple row of similar spikes. More drill spikes hung from her ears, a single pair of earrings decorating her head, while a handful of other decorative charms dangled from the occasional clip or buckle on her belt and boots.

Before one noticed any of that though, they would notice the monumental rifle slung over the woman’s shoulder. Almost as long as Ryoko herself was tall, the weapon was built on the long-obsolete bolt action pattern, positively archaic in its construction. Hardwood and steel throughout, with a permanently fixed bayonet making up over a foot of its length past its muzzle. There were some people out there who wouldn’t have even recognized the antique thing as a rifle at all, but Ryoko doubted anyone invited here today would make that mistake. As delicious as it might have been.

“Nocity, Ryoko. Preregistered. Here,” she said, tossing the packet of papers she’d been carrying on the receptionist’s desk as she sauntered past, ignoring the rather dazed-looking individual who’d gotten there just in front of her.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to wait until – “ the woman started, only to be met with a faintly annoyed wave of the still-moving mercenary’s hand.

Meehhh. You’re the official, figure it out,” Ryoko tossed off as she wandered past the reception desk and into the lobby area proper. The letter she’d received from some poor sorry depressed fucker named El Chappo was tucked in her hip pack, but she’d already committed the map attached to it to memory. A quick glance around showed that she seemed to be the second actual tournament fighter here, or perhaps the third. A succubus-looking thing in a business suit was hanging around while Captain Confusion dealt with the receptionist; she wouldn’t be the first individual RYoko’d encountered who fought in a business suit, nor honestly the first succubus-type thing that had tried to start shit with Ryoko…but the riflewoman just didn’t get that sense of edge from her. Not yet, anyways.

Disappointing. She was supposed to be learning shit in this part but fuck if she was gonna learn shit without anybody here. She wasn’t about to stand there and ogle someone doing their paperwork looking for deep secrets of their fighting style; until people actually showed up for real she basically had the run of the joint. Oh well. She could already smell the food courts from here, and where there was gnosh to be had on somebody else’s dime, Ryoko would be there. She changed course, sauntering with slightly more purpose in the direction of the eating areas. She was going to order the shit out of some of that Mexican, because fuck off if some dickless weenie in a letter was going to tell her what to eat or not.

“Time to get me some burritos. Woman can’t fight without a burrito or six in her,” Ryoko muttered to herself, caring not a whit for the innuendo or the inevitable sneakycams recording the whole thing. That was just part of the job this time, and Ryoko intended to get herself paid today.

We're done here.
We are not.

It is my growing personal conviction that there's a culture clash between this place and our particular group. Every single time we've tried to engage with people here, it's ended up exploding in our faces. I'm woman enough to admit that some of that is likely on us - no one in the Alliance is a particularly meek or amiable personality on the best of days (there's a reason I act as the group's spokesman), but a larger part of it is on folks who seem to be surprised that we're not willing to job our faces off to inflate win counts around here and grovel at the feet of Da Champs until we've 'earned our place'.

RPGuild's Arena doesn't really seem to enjoy the sorts of fights we do, and we don't enjoy the sorts of fights we keep finding here. Everyone in the Alliance cut their teeth on a tier of combat where star systems were legitimate targets, and we all like savoring combat and drawing out a fight for twenty, thirty, or more turns over dozens of exchanges. A true display of each fighter's versatility, adaptability, inventiveness, and perseverance in the face of unrelenting, unflagging war. One Punch-y instagib five-post fights are not considered marks of skill or distinction for us; they're considered marks of scorn for a player considered beneath the attention and effort required of a proper fight.

We've decided it would likely be for the best for us to withdraw from play here. You don't want us here, and we don't particularly feel like being here anymore. Why keep pretending otherwise?
So. Let's do this properly.

First of all: I've been specifically asked to handle this in Tezcatlipoca's stead, as I am nominally the thread GM and also because I'm far calmer and more able to deal with horse manure than Tez is. You're talking to me now, not Tez.

Second of all: Decoy, Keileon, all you other TZDL guys? Kindly stay the fuck out. This has nothing to do with Mobius' tournament, and your input is neither required nor desired.

And thirdly: Xavier, people who are interested in resolving issues honorably do not write disgusting, "I am literally shitting down the other guy's neck" autokill posts without warning, on the thin and flimsy justification of 'my opponent won't talk to me anymore, and I don't like how they're treating my powers!'. You posted that pile of moose dung knowing full well it would provoke anger, arguments, and Problems; you don't get to play the injured fucking party here. You had the same option LeeRoy executed back when his fight with me turned sour - simply stop posting and move on. LeeRoy got to keep his dignity, nobody remembers or cares about that old fight anymore, and furthermore he gets to take another crack at us because he hasn't shown us blatant disrespect and flung filth in our faces.

Saying "I know this will cause disagreement but I don't care" doesn't resolve you of having thrown the first pooball. Tez was perfectly willing to just let this thing fade away unremarked on. Now she's not. Now I'm not. Twice before, I argued Tez down when you made grievous errors that should have earned you serious damage, counseling moderation in the interests of a clean fight. Your hand-to-hand is sloppy, your timescaling issues are severe, and now your honor is deeply in question.

Tez gets to write one post doing whatever she likes, because hey - you got to write one post doing whatever you liked. Fair is fair. After that, someone's going to tell me how to close this thread because nobody needs or wants another Negatomsk vs. Doc three-page shitfest. You, Xavier Bloodbayne, are off our radar forevermore. Don't ever bother asking for another fight with us, Luchalliance or otherwise. Don't bother Rilla trying to cry to Papa that the mean nasty masked guys are bullying you - this is an off-the-books unranked fight nobody cares about save you and us, the man has better ways to spend his time than being dragged through the mud a second time for this crap.

What you can do right now is simple - shut your mouth, let Tez have her post, then go and be about your life. Don't argue, don't yell, don't throw more fits in public. Just shut up and go away. We'll do the same.
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