2022-04-13 - A Hoppety Choppety Rom-Com

The bright pink flowers adorn the branches of the sakura trees, reaching with gnarled fingers for the bright blue sky overhead. Tiny white clouds of fluff drift across heavenly pastures like celestial sheep on a spring day. Hanami is the Japanese term -- to go and view the cherry blossoms as their millions of petals clutter the skies, the breeze, the wind like endless gusts of pink, scented snow. Today is not the day of the cherry blossom festival, though. Today is just a beautiful day during sakura blooming season.

The dojo walls are made from paper. They are slid aside, opening the room to the mild and pleasant wind. A crumpling old stone wall, waist high, surrounds the building. A number of macaques sit on the wall, doing what macaques do -- picking lice and ticks off one another, munching on whatever it is they've found there on the gravel path, sleeping in the sun, and in case of one couple and a jealous younger cousin, procreating. Macaques have few concerns and no modesty.

Ravn Abildgaard watches the macaques doing macaque things and macaques, and smiles vaguely to himself. He leans on a tall stick that he doesn't know the name of, but it's obviously some kind of fighting implement. He's wearing some kind of pleated black dress-pants that he remembers are called hakama though he does not remember from where. He's not certain whether the white shirt is called a shirt or a kimono or whatever. He's already kicked off the sandals because wooden sandals? Not for his ankles, not without knowing how to walk in them.

It's going to be one of those Dreams, is it? Take a bloke who knows next to nothing of things Japanese or martial arts -- kung fu is Chinese, isn't it? Must be something else. Aikido? Hoppety-choppety? Hell if he knows -- and toss him into a setting that is obviously the premise of a hoppety choppety movie, see what happens.

He's about to get his ass kicked, that's what. He smiles. At least it's a familiar premise, and a simple one. Far better, these straight up humilation Dreams than the ones where others get hurt because of his choices.

If it's going to be one of those Dreams where the bloke who knows next to nothing of things martial arts gets some sort of wisdom from someone who does?

Dream-maker missed the premise.

There's the sound of sudden scuffling above on one of the support beams and a high-pitched, indecorous "EEEP!"

It's Ariadne in what appears to be some sort of...ninja-esque get-up, save for the fabric itself isn't black -- it's eye-searing safety-orange -- and she's clinging to the beam like a sloth now while she figures out what the fuck is going on. One moment, she'd been peacefully napping. The next, balanced crane-style on one foot on a beam no wider than three inches. SURPRISE.

Angling her head to look down at the tall guy from where she hangs, she sighs. "...Ravn. Ravn. I need you to know that I take issue with the abruptness of these things." These Dreams.

Ravn looks up. His blue-greys widen a bit -- because that is not who he expected to see, nor the outfit he expected to see them in, and definitely not the position. "Hang on -- you're going to go Super Saiyan at me? Let me save you the effort, Son-Goku -- I don't have the dragon balls. I'm not a dragon. I haven't even seen the show."

He smiles and then takes a few paces to the side -- if it's going to rain colour blind ninja in here, he'd prefer to not stand where any of them land. "I had hoped this would be a Matrix affair, where any damage sustained isn't real. I like waking up without broken bones."

"I haven't seen the show either," notes the barista slung from the beam, blinking still a little owlishly down at her comrade. "Too much screaming though. Borrrrrrrring." Now that Ravn's out of the immediate way, she can be seen to consider how to drop down. It's not far down, it's a matter of landing without jarring the knees too badly. Maybe a rolling landing.

The beam creaks complaint as she releases her crisscrossed ankles to simply hang there like an enterprising kitten. Just a little, back and forth, she starts to swing her weight, listening to the wood for signs of structural distress.

"Also, you won't know it's the Matrix until you wake up, so...I can't think of any way clever to test this." She does sound apologetic about it. Wood CREAKS. With a yelp, the young woman lets go. She nails the...concept...? -- of the rolling landing at least, though it's nothing fancy or Matrix-like in any way. Limbs tucked: mostly. Head spared from impact on the dojo mat: mostly. She ends up on her side and then lets herself finishing out the motion to her back. "Seriously...motherfucker," comes the irritated grump.

Ariadne must be fine since she lifts her head and squints. "Where'd you get your bo staff?"

Ravn glances at the staff. "Is that what it's called? I had it when I found myself walking in here. Along with the dress and the funny sandals. I left those by the door because I like having ankles, and I'm pretty sure you're supposed to go barefoot in a dojo. Which this obviously is, I've seen Karate Kid II."

He grins slightly. "So, if I am the guy in black and I have the weapon, and you are the ninja intruding through the roof, does that mean I am the villain? I think this may turn into the most disappointing boss fight in the history of martial arts epics, just saying."

With another long grunt, the barista sits up and rubs at one of her shoulders. She lifts brows at Ravn before looking to his staff and his get-up. His observation about the potential stereotypes is enough to make her smirk back.

"You're wearing what I think is a kimono -- please don't quote me on that, research is needed. If I'm the ninja..." Ariadne plucks at the fabric and wiggles her toes at the end of her outstretched legs. These split-toe sock-shoe things are just so novel...and ORANGE. "I think there's an element of humiliation involved here, maybe to accent that I'm not nearly as sneaky as I want to be. Or never will be. Or maybe that if one can't beat a ninja in fluorescent orange, it's some insult. The fabric's only orange because it's the only wavelength of color being reflected back. Who gives a fuck about the color of the outfit. Also, why do you have to be the villain if you wear black? Van Helsing wore black and he's not the villain," she notes philosophically before getting to her feet.

More grunts. One 'ow'. "I also have no bo staff and I got news for you, mister. Your reach with that thing is longer than my body if you want to get down to it. You've got more ability than you think with it, even swinging it like a lunatic. I'm currently...weaponless." Pat-pat-pat of body. Yep, weaponless. "Other than my body itself."

"A pretty lethal weapon from what I've seen," Ravn says, eyes sparkling with amusement. "But if I know my Hong Kong hoppety choppety flicks, the tall guy in black with the weapon is the villain, and the hoppety choppety kid who can't even get a proper outfit is the plucky hero. Mind you, I'm all for skipping the humiliating beat-down. Want to play tag instead?"

He tries to swirl the bo staff in a figure eight pattern. He should not have tried to swirl the bo staff in a figure eight pattern. At least he doesn't drop it.

"See, if this was the kind of affair where Van Helsing would walk in, and I do assume you mean the original character, then I would indeed not be the villain. Because you, my dear, being a woman in a bizarre outfit, would obviously be the erratic one, the disturbance to society. A vampire's servant, no doubt. And given it's Dracula, that probably means you're a Very Evil Jew, trademark."

"Pfffft." Ariadne still laughs. Pretty lethal weapon, sure. Still rolling that shoulder, she glances over at the open wall allowing the mild breeze through. A few cherry blossom petals flutter in almost as if flirting with the idea of intruding. The macaques? They're not just flirting. WELL. Lifting brows, the barista looks back at Ravn again.

"I'll be the erratic disturbance, thanks, and probably push the old guy down a hill if he shows up and tries anything. He was old enough. Gravity sucks when you're old." She grins in a manner markedly more troublemaker now. "But you think I am the villain? Oh man. I never get to be the villain. Hmm." Dear god. Enabling the prankster. "What am I supposed to accomplish though...?" Musing aloud is probably meant to spite the Dream. Being the villain and having no nefarious plans?! "I honestly have no idea. Beat you at tag?"

Ravn flicks the staff a few times like a riding crop. Marginally more success. "I'm honestly not sure what Dream this is. Barring the very romantically inclined macaques there, we haven't really gotten any hints. I suppose the point could be fighting until the cinematic pause where we stare deeply in one another's eyes and then kiss fiercely but in that case -- well, maybe the Dream should have cast someone who can fight, and who doesn't think the idea of fiercely anything sounds like torture."

Having briefly put fingertips to her lips, Ariadne returns her regard from its squinted aim at the ceiling. This was her not tittering like a fool at the blunt observations.

"Fiercely anything. I don't know, you fiercely expound on things sometimes. Is that torture?" Grandiose shrug with hands lifted at her sides, her grin now cheeky. "I know, pedantic. I think...maybe...I'll take your bo staff. Maybe if I take it, I win? It's a good place to start. Also, just giving me your staff doesn't count, that's not how the clichés go." Finger waggle. "Maybe we'll suddenly be able to do Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon super-leaps and stuff...once we get going...? I mean, I'm not going to lie, me getting down from there wasn't pretty. I don't have faith in it happening."

Support beam gets a flat look.

"You will try to take my bo staff," Ravn corrects -- because she's got a point. Just handing it over won't work. At least not unless this is the kind of smart-arse philosophical movie where the plucky and unlikely hero outsmarts the villain, Labyrinth style:

No one may cross this bridge without my permission!
Well, uh, may we have your permission, then?
... Yes.

He doesn't try to twirl it again. Suffice it to hold it like the wooden training sword it isn't. He tries to remember the few fencing classes he was forced to take at boarding school. This thing is a hell of a lot heavier than a fleuret. It's got more reach as well. Finna smak a ninja girl.

Ravn corrects and he'd sure as hell better take a readied stance because Ariadne laughs and now?

Now it is just a little villainous, the kind of laughter where a certainty of eventual victory buoys up confidence. "Oh, no, m'friend. That staff is mine," the barista claims and grins again, taking up her own readied stance in turn.

A few cherry blossom petals blow in and across the floor of the dojo. Loose hair from her tightly-bunned up-do lifts and falls as she watches Ravn's chest rather than his face. The macaques outside find a few more delicious bugs after they overturn a stone.

And she moves, taking off into a zigzag approach to see if she can tease a knee-jerk swing of the bo staff. Either way, she needs to abruptly dodge because AHH, SUDDEN STAFF!

"En garde!" The staff sweeps in an angle because as it happens, a fleuret is a piercing weapon, and when you try to pierce with something that long, you end having to follow through and pull back. Tscwhiiiiiiip!

Unfortunately that also means it's very easy to see where it's going, and hence, to avoid it. At least Ravn stays on his feet, that's something. And these pleated skirt-pants are surprisingly easy to move in, too.

A couple of macaques smack their foreheads. Loser.

Barista dodge a staff.

Barista drops low and has to put a hand down on the dojo mat because her attempt to stop with her Most Awesome Split-Toe Sock-Shoes works quite well despite her misgivings. Pushing off, she comes at Ravn from an angled behind and goes to grab the staff. Her palms wrap around the seasoned wood and she then continues forward along his side against what's likely the weaker set of arm muscles. Nobody really works at isolating those triceps unless they're a weight lifter or professional athlete.

"GIVE IT!" Ariadne shouts as her war-cry.

Ravn should have seen that coming. The perfect opportunity for an epic tug-of-war. The taunting, the pulling, the eventual falling on butts.

What he gets is sudden touch on his side.

Fire.

He lets go of the stick with a yelp and presses his hands to his side, gritting his teeth as the pain washes over him and bleeds away. And out there, on the stone wall, a couple of macaques reach casually down behind the wall, only to sit back up with red and white striped cartons of caramel popcorn. Assholes.

Victory! The maybe-villain has the staff!

Ariande also has a metric shit-ton of momentum -- and hearing the sound of discomfort from Ravn has her pivoting with her newly-acquired staff. Nobody's watching the drag of these things in a semi-panicked moment like that. It catches on the mat and viciously throws off her trajectory. An attempt to regain her feet becomes more and more of an example of limb-flailing Newtonian physics.

SHKRRRIP!

Through the paper wall and it's only because of planting the staff that Ariadne saves herself from a tumble down...you guessed it...a hill. Like she'd threatened earlier of a non-present Van Helsing. At least there would have been a pond at the bottom? Clinging to the staff planted in the earth, nearly planked in her desperate success to stop, she mutters to herself in Hungarian after stopping her wide-eyed stare. Oh, look, a duck on the pond. It quacks up at her with a wiggle of ducky tail-feathers. Quack?

"Uh." It's becoming rapidly apparent that, at this angle, she's going to need assistance from the hero to avoid a humiliating demise. She's...kind of stuck clutching the planted staff in her current poise. "So, oh heroic Ravn. I might need your help! Take pity on a lost, confused soul?!"

This script has terrible dialogue too, what is this.

"Coming." And Ravn is -- because if there's one thing he's learned in this life it's to grit his teeth and carry on. Pain comes. Pain washes over you. Pain fades. Nothing he does really impacts it so not a whole lot of reason to sit and cry about it, either.

He manages to straighten himself out and follow Ariadne out there, eyes widening a little at the display. "That's -- quite remarkable. I thought I was bad at this kind of thing but you've got me beat. Hang on, am I supposed to make some quip about be the duck here? Be the water lily, grow your way back to shore?"

He steels himself and reaches down with a hand for her to take hold of. "Hidden Splash, Crouching Goldfish?"

A macaque hands another one (1) popcorn. A bet must have been lost.

Ariadne, still planking away with her white-knuckled grip on the planted bo staff, replies, "I swear to god, if you quote some actual proverb at me about water lilies or goldfish, sir, I will just...keep your staff!"

It's like it was going so well! It's like there was maybe a chance for a redeeming arc! Maybe the maybe-villain was going to turn around her awful staff-stealing ways and become good! The hero was going to be yet again heroic!

Please.

Releasing her grip with one hand to see about taking Ravn's offered hand in turn means the misplacement of balance. Staff tips. Staff loses anchoring in earth. Ariadne yelps. Ariadne whiffs her attempt to grip on kimono fabric. Hill is at a markedly-tilted angle. There goes staff, there goes barista, over and upsot-tea-kettle and SPLASH! Duck cries insult loudly as it flutters away across the pond. A koi fish jumps in a surprised glimmering of gold-and-white scales. At least the pond isn't deep? Only to Ariadne's ribs as she sits up, coughing water and retching slightly.

"Oh my god -- fuck YOU, DREAM!" More coughing and spitting pond water.

A couple of macaques hold out their hands palms up. A couple of other macaques grudgingly place popcorn on them. The palms, not the macaques.

Ravn blinks.

Steel grey eyes the size of saucers.

And then he laughs.

Christ on rollerskates, does he laugh. Not loudly because nothing Ravn Abildgaard does is usually loud. He folds his arms across his chest and howls almost silently with laughter. Give him a moment. Also, take that lily pad off your head.

Is that duck across the pond laughing? It sure as hell sounds like it. Ariadne whips around and points, saying something blistering in Hungarian before she realizes that there's a fucking lily pad on her head like some erstwhile, limp-dick beret. Whipping it off of her soaked hair, she then hucks it at the foul waterfowl. The bird stops laughing to dodge the plant and seems to realize that laughing at the human isn't such a good idea. Double standards! Why is she letting the other human laugh?!

"And you too!" A point up the little hill at Ravn. "Stop laughing! I still have -- have -- "

There it is. She grabs the floating wooden staff and goes back to pointing! "I still have your staff, hero! So I win!" Another cat-like hacking sound and a spit off to one side. "Shut up, Abildgaard!" Ariadne doesn't sound especially mad at Ravn; more than she's caught up in soggy safety-orange clothing and embarrassed about it.

Ravn really, really tries. And after a few more moments he manages to bite it back. "I'm sorry," he murmurs through his teeth, eyes glittering with obvious amusement. "It's not -- I mean, yes, you look pretty funny, but that's not -- it's, I thought this would be another look how funny it is that Ravn is utterly useless at anything that isn't brain work, and then it's you who end up on her arse in the duck pond. You, who do all kinds of hoppety choppety kung fuck you. Not me."

Sorry. He's laughing again.

"Hoppety choppety kung fuck you," the barista nasally and snidely echoes as she watches Ravn devolve into laughter again. Using the bo staff to get to her feet again, she stands there a moment and tries using one hand to wring out her clothing. It works. Not really. Not even the staff tucked beneath an arm and two hands is going to get rid of her soggy state.

So, with all the wounded dignity of a mostly-drowned cat, she takes the staff in-hand and makes to stomp back up the hill. One can only stomp so effectively against the incline of the hill. She's still a thunderous if fluorescent figure on approach.

"I still got your staff, so I win, buddy -- and you're lucky I'm not villainous enough to pop you in the foot for laughing so hard because that's a dick move and I know better!" she claims with a point of finger into his face as she swans past with head held high and back through the ripped wall of the dojo to its inside.

"I win," Ravn murmurs. "Because for once in my fucking life I'm not the one everyone's laughing at."

Look at them. All those macaques. Even that couple stopped what they were doing (each other) to laugh. One flicks a popcorn (1) at Ariadne as she steps back in, dripping all over the dojo floor planks.

He doesn't try to grab the bo staff back. Fair's fair. She yoinked it, and it is hers. He's probably going to get his ass kicked with it in a minute. "So, do you need -- a dry shirt? I'll let you have this kimono thing. You are not getting my new, awesome MC Ninja pants."

Feeling more pond water drip down onto her hand, Ariadne flicks it off irritably. So what if she's going to leave a puddle wherever she stands? Spite. Spite is actually this young woman's middle name.

"Ravn. My ray of sunshine. Sweet Dane." He gets a level, dry look. "Why did you think the Dream gave me ninja underwear? That would be way too kind of the Dream. Apparently, it thought underwear would be restrictive under the clothing."

Macaques giggle.

Cue Ravn taking on a speculative look.

Is he picturing Ariadne wearing nothing?

Nope. Historian is trying to recall what little he knows about Japanese traditional clothing. "I'll admit I haven't got the first idea what you're wearing under that thing. I seem to be wearing some kind of ... weirdass loincloth, under this. Maybe you are, too. Either way. You can have the kimono, it'll be drier than the jacket you are wearing. And if you got nothing under there, I can turn around."

Ravn gets a flatter, drier look. "I can feel there's nothing under it all."

A sharp, harsh sigh. Macaques giggle again. She suddenly points the bo staff at them. "I'MMA COME AFTER YOU IF YOU DON'T KEEP IT DOWN, PEANUT GALLERY!"

Returning her attention to the Dane, she rubs a hand down her face and groans. "But...fine, yes, I will take the kimono. Better than soggy...not-underthings. And yes, you'll have to turn around." Extending the bo staff towards him, it appears it's an invitation to hang the kimono upon its end, all the better to be retrieved.

Ravn opens his shirt -- kimono -- and pulls it off. This at least is not difficult; a simple strap in front opened and there we go, no obi with this outfit. He hangs it on the bo staff and then, with a smile, very pointedly turns his back and takes a few paces towards the door and the popcorn gallery.

He's got scars. He's said as much. Even as he stands there, back turned, there is a red starburst where a bullet exited his lung -- the one that should have killed him, had someone not been nearby with healing powers. There are other scars; a few white stripes almost as if he had been whipped at some point. The cleft in one arm where a meat cleaver once embedded itself in bone. Another gun shot wound, same arm. This town leaves marks.

Kimono-on-staff is then retrieved. Ariadne is grateful for how tall Ravn is; a kimono cut to fit him is more than enough fabric to cover all of her and then some, down past her knees as far as stoppage of hem-line. She still pauses and holds the garment, watching his back at first with inherent suspicion. A second passes. Another. About seven seconds later, she's determined he really isn't going to turn around and begins divesting of her own soaking wet safety-orange clothing.

Macaques titter.

"You mind telling those fuzzy little assholes to fuck the fuck off?" growls the barista while she shrugs the kimono over her shoulders, back now facing Ravn's back in turn. A glance over her shoulder lingers because she hadn't missed the sight of the scars the first time. She's no medical major, never worked in the ER, never dealt with wounds like those, but those are scars and she can extrapolate their intensity by how vibrant they are. A silent wince.

Regardless, locker room changing concepts apply. She doesn't need to unwrap the now-belted kimono to remove the pants. Indignant flick of foot and they flip-splish off to one side. Ew. Now for the sock-shoes. It takes unwrapping the binding about her shins first. "You weren't kidding about how rough it is around here," she then notes more quietly, seemingly sobered by the permanent proof of wounding.

It's the tone of Ariadne's voice that tells Ravn what she's referring to. "The one that almost got me wasn't a Dream," he notes and reaches up to touch the scar in front with a fingertip. "This was the shoot-out at the flower expo. I've made that point a few times -- hell isn't Dreams, hell is people. Thank you, Jean-Paul, Sartre."

Then he waves a hand at the macaques. "Fuck off, you guys. It's a woman changing clothes. Two of you were literally boinking a minute ago, you're not impressed by someone getting naked. Wrong species anyhow. Shoo."

The macaques fall silent. They look at him, almost as if they pity him for a sucker. And then they laugh as only monkeys can, with grins all the way up to their ears showing plenty canines. They're not moving an inch. One of them throws a few buttered popcorn at the Dane -- here, positive reinforcement, keep on entertaining us.

"You have to wonder," Ravn notes. "What kind of sadist dojo owner places the duck pond just outside like that? Is the point here that any student who gets a little too cocky can be punted out an open wall for a cooling-off? Because allI see is a million opportunities for the big kids to make the small kids miserable."

Macaques flinging snack food get a narrow-eyed squint from Ariadne as she straightens from unwrapping her shin. There's still the other foot, but her back needs a moment. Ow. At least the close wrap of the kimono is soft and warm and dry. Little wins. She rubs at her lower back for a moment longer before bending to unwrap her other shin.

"I don't think I see that. A dojo has a master who wouldn't allow that kind of shenanigan -- or, at least, it does in theory. Doing something to make someone deliberately miserable isn't honorable. Besides, think about a kid coming here to learn. Either they chose to, which means they've at least accepted most of the tenants, or they've been made to at some threat-point or another, so if they get tossed out? Dishonor. Shame. Not a good thing. The pond is probably decorative or a place to sit by and meditate. Maybe the duck is to up the difficulty. Ducks chatter. I bet it would be a lesson to ignore useless words or something like that."

Wrapping unwound, she steps out of both sock-shoes and leaves the whole soggy pile where it lies. A few more flicks of feet and a 'hmph' and then there's an Ari standing next to Ravn now, bo staff in her hands. Black compliments her to an extent; it brings out the brilliancy of her hair and its dye at cost of accenting her naturally lighter skin. "You gotta duck more, bud," she then murmurs, glancing over and up at the taller man. More cherry blossom petals float past them in a cyclone of light sweetness.

"... So does that mean I need to chatter more to interrupt your meditations?" Literal Ravn is literal. And a little distracted admiring the scenery because regardless of what else a man may think of Dreams and the judges' panels of popcorn-flinging macaques, there's something to be said for the sheer colours here -- galaxy blue, deep black, pink sakuras, bright blue sky. He's not a painter but he is a photographer, and a part of him really wants his reliable old Canon here. Go stand there. Strike a pose. Keep looking great.

He grins down at the shorter woman (they're all shorter women). "So are we doing another round, or do we take up pond side meditations? This is a remarkably beautiful set for a Dream, I'm almost not in a rush to wake up."

Snort. Literal Ravn earns himself this sound and one of those familiar little purse-lip smirks. She gets the play-on-words. Looking away towards the curl of path down and out of sight, surely leading down to the pond itself, she hears the distant quacking of the duck again.

"A good thing I don't meditate. Too busy for that," she replies, sounding thoughtful nonetheless. Her golden-hazel eyes return to Ravn again; the waterproof mascara and eyeliner are earning their keep today, whew, no sad clown face. The Dream can't have that win, neener-neener. "But we can try if you want. Or if you feel the need to eat some dojo mat, I can always oblige you." The barista thumbs over her shoulder towards the interior of the sparring room, cool but not too cool even with the lingering damp of pond water. "I hear it's delicious." Smirk.

"Honestly? I know I should but I can't say I particularly want to. This kind of entertainment hurts." Ravn makes a face -- and then flips off a macaque with a particularly annoying laugh.

He turns and walks back in on the grass mat all the same, barefoot and bare chested. "I guess it's up to me to see if I can get the staff back from you, then?"

In flipping off their popcorn-eating audience, at least, Ravn has support. Two hands of middle fingers' worth of support. Ariadne sneers too as she turns and follows him back into the dojo, having transferred the bo staff from leaning against her shoulder-crook to her grip again. She takes up a stance opposite of the taller man in his gi-pants and sighs, brows lightly knitted.

"I'm sorry it hurts. I wish it wouldn't. If I could do something, I would, but I remember what you said about trying to heal big things that are or have been for some time and that's not where my powers lie, it looks like. I can try not to let it hurt. Don't know what else to do." Her shrug does contain its apologies. She then rotates the bo staff behind her line of person, its cant angled, readied, at least appearing to seem like it's ready to be used in a knowing manner.

Spoiler alert: she's probably going to hit her own shin here.

"But...I guess it's up to you to get the staff back, yep, if you want to pursue an emboldening arc of heroic redemption!" Fisted hand of dramatics before her chest and temporary Movie Announcer Voice. Returning to her normal dulcet tones, the barista continues with, "I mean, all I can say is...sucker, betcha can't get it back." Grin. Tongue slowly stuck out. Nyeah.

"To the best of my knowledge, there are limits on what can be healed -- particularly if it isn't broke. My nerve system is wired weird, but not necessarily broken. Much as I hate it, I do not think it can be healed. I think even Dr Brennon realised that -- at least she's not mentioned it since her clinic blew up in the attempt." Ravn nods his agreement. He hates it. Doesn't mean it's broken.

He watches that staff -- and the woman attached to it -- intently. Several reasons.

Martial arts-proficient woman wearing just a kimono jacket. No objections on his end, to watching a lot of toned leg. Not going to let it distract him because a man has his bloody pride. The macaques, laughing.

The math.

He's not the one this dream is trying to embarrass. It dawns on him as he glances at the dampness in Ariadne's hair, and hears the silence from the audience, interrupted only the occasional rustle of a popcorn paper bag.

The math is simple. He's going to throw himself at her, and somehow, that's going to end in a tangle of embarrassing limbs and even less clothing.

How about no. If someone's getting undressed they should get undressed because they want to -- not to entertain a flock of furry assholes. There are other ways to take back the bo staff than using brute force.

He holds his hand out and beckons back, Matrix style. Come to daddy, bo staff.

Ariadne nods. "Don't fix what's not broken, right?" She grins, encouragement and satisfaction in the expression. Good. 'Broken'? No. Just self and she's glad to hear Ravn frame it like that.

But like the Dream would let such a thing as Glimmer use stop its intention. No wonder ninety-nine percent of Grey Harbor's shiniest occupants hate them.

It's easy to spot the rough patch of scarring on the barista's ankle where the rattlesnake bite had nearly cost her the limb. The bo staff moves in her grip simply because she breathes and shifts her weight a little when she sees his hand rise. Is she going to have to rap some knuckles? But then the Dane is evincing Morpheus and --

-- there goes the bo staff! It's about as impossible to resist as earth metal magnets. That bo staff is RETURNING TO RAVN, zero questions asked, even if there's a whoop of shock from Ariadne and two-hands' gripping on the weapon. No! It's hers! OH GOD, BRACE FOR IMPACT.

Ravn's blue-greys widen. The old H. C. Andersen fairytale comes to mind: A dog, guarding a treasure chest, with eyes as large as saucers. (The dog, not the treasure chest. H. C. Andersen had not heard of Mimics). He stares, in a fashion reminiscent of a cow staring at an on-coming train.

She was not supposed to hold on to the staff.

But she does.

And the result is one body slamming into another, and at least one of those two knocked flat on his backside.

At least I saw it coming, he thinks as the world blinks in and out of existence a few times and stars explode behind his eyelids. Imagine what it'd have been like if I didn't.

A macaque grudgingly counts out popcorn and hands them to his mate. Another gives a thumbs-up. Continue to entertain us, mortals. Your antics are most hilarious.

Newtonian physics again apply in this Dream. No Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon here.

More like "Wobbly Barista, Whalloped Dane" instead.

Ravn ends up on his ass, Ariadne ends up bouncing off of him like a bird from a windowpane save for her surface gives. He wanted the bo staff back. He got it back! Ariadne ends up in a dazed flump along his body with half her wind lost; she inhales sharply and tries as quickly as possible to extricate herself from atop him, knowing it's likely hurting him.

"Fuck! Sorry!" Cough. "Should've let go, fuck, sorry! Sorry! Sorry!" Is she red-cheeked? Very. "Are you okay?!"

Slow applause from the popcorn gallery. Some hoped for more dramatic action. Some admire the speed with which the barista determines which limbs belong to whom.

"Teach me to be a smartass," Ravn murmurs, face down, through gritted teeth -- and laughing at the same time, because yes, it hurts like bloody fuck but at the same time it's bloody hilarious. He can kind of see it from an external camera angle. Pull. Eyes go wide. Splat. Yipe. Yipe.

He manages to pull himself up into a half-sitting, half leaning on his side position, still holding the bo staff in one hand. "So, what I usually do is move things away from me. Like, throw something at somebody. Not move it to me."

Once she's determined Ravn's laughing and not crying, she dedicates a crystalline-long moment of very angry bird-flipping at the popcorn-eating audience. She too on one hip sits there, pulling the kimono back into place so nothing's on display save for ankles. Again, there's relief that the garment was sewn for someone 6'3" and not 5'8".

"Well, you sure as fuck got that bo staff back, so clearly, your idea worked even if the execution was unexpected?" Ariadne still winces through her uneven grin. "Congrats, hero, you've completed your redemption arc and got your weapon back. Whatever will I do as the maybe-sort-of-villain?"

A pause. "I have no idea." Her laughter is exasperated.

"Judging from what we've seen so far? This whole setup?" Ravn makes a face and stoically ignores his own discomfort; Dreams are too serious business for him to afford to withhold information just because he finds it embarrassing and awkward. "I'm going to venture a guess that it's a beautiful and romantic setting, we have one set of clothing between us, you're already artfully disheveled from your trip in the pond, and the audience seems to applaud every time we touch."

He half-turns without getting up, admiring the whole-lotta-bird-flippin'. "Sorry, guys. The whole she falls into his arms and they are carried away by a moment of incensed bodies and unbridled passion thing kind of doesn't work when one half of the equation is more prone to screaming and accidentally flailing hard enough to put somebody's eye out."

More bird flipping from red-cheeked barista.

"Friggin' set-up. Tropes and stereotypes. Seriously," in angry exasperation at the audience of popcorn eaters. More popcorn is thrown at her, though only six (6) pieces make it onto the dojo mat along with the smattering of cherry blossom petals. "Have you no shame?!"

She's asking this of the audience who was quite recently doing it like they do on the Discovery Channel. Did one of those monkeys actually boo at her?!

"That's it, I'm shutting the door. Y'all catch watch that." Getting to her feet in a flurry of black kimono, she goes over to the sliding paper-wall door and grunts as she tries to pull it slid closed. Tries.

"Dirty minded bastards," Ravn murmurs. He doesn't try to get up yet. His skin is still trying to convince him that it's on fire in places, and not in that fun kind of way the audience seems to be hoping for.

The sliding door slides; it's something. The wall is paper thin (because it is literally paper), and it does not take a monkey's sharp hearing to tell if something goes on inside that isn't the grunts and oofs of sparring. Having a conversation and not be heard from the outside? Not going to happen.

The laughter of macaques grow a little less loud at least as darkness claims the room. It is not the kind of deep darkness where you can't see a hand in front of your face; too much light bleeds through paper walls. It is at least a merciful darkness where faces and expressions are hard to read, and a man can wince quietly to himself at how much that hurt, and how much he hates this entire set-up.

It's anger inducing. And embarrassing. And mean.

It is anger-inducing and embarrassing and mean.

And it means Ariadne simply sits down after she grunt-yanks the door closed. No more popcorn flung. No more monkeys making faces. No more pretty cherry blossom petals and mild spring air. She sits there, roughly crisscrossed of leg, and looks down at her ankle. The scarring is an old friend, cranky now that it too took abrupt impact. She draws a fingertip on it and lets her head hang. Her hair still drips in places and is slowly leaving a spreading wet patch down the back collar of the kimono.

Maybe she's guarding the door in her anger. Try it, monkeys. Try it.

Maybe she's guarding the door in her anger, and if she is, she's going to need the communal weapon. She's probably better at using it anyway. Ravn hauls himself up into a crawl and sidles over to lay it next to her hand before plonking himself back down. "At least we're good for a laugh?" he ventures. "Humiliation dreams aren't so bad. At least no one gets hurt."

"Yeah, I guess."

Her voice is quiet and retreated into herself. One can see, even in the dimmed lighting, how she glances over at the bo staff. A soft huff of air through her nose as she acknowledges its presence and presumed use. Indeed, guarding the door. Like she can really do jack-shit with it, but it's the thought which counts. She goes back to tracing over the known roughness of the ankle scarring and refuses to make eye contact. "I prefer nobody get physically hurt."

"A bruised ego doesn't require a stay in the ICU. It's something." Ravn pulls himself up in a sitting position and leans against the door post. "Maybe we can just wait half an hour, and then, I don't know, mess our hair up a bit and pinch our cheeks so we look flushed, and they'll let us go."

Snort.

"Ravn," the barista chides with no real heat. Another glance up at him from her tucked chin, through her lashes, is only seen because of the gleam of light glancing off her eyes. "My hair's already messed up anyways...and I don't need help blushing. This won't go away for half an hour anyways. It's a curse." Her tone is still fairly leaden even if she's trying to inject some levity into it. "Runs in the family. Thanks, dad."

She winces as she finds a particularly sore spot on her ankle, where delicate tendons insert to bone. Sullenly, she mutters, "I hate this."

"I'm sorry. I won't tell anyone about it. Besides, it's not like anything has actually happened, regardless of what the bloody monkeys think." Ravn looks at nothing in particular; maybe he's trying to picture, in the dark, what the dojo would look like, full of students. "I guess I'm lucky -- for a pale bloke, I don't blush easy."

"You are lucky. It does seem to be common otherwise in you Scandinavian folks," the barista agrees before she reaches to rub at her own cheek. Like that's going to make the blush away. Oh well, it's cathartic, at least. "And yeah, doesn't matter what the monkeys think. Little shits."

Another shift in place where she sits and pained grunt as she stretches her leg out to let her ankle be more naturally aligned. "Look...I'm really embarrassed because they keep trying to use me to make you uncomfortable. I'm sorry. I'm mad that it's me. I don't know if that's selfish or what, but it's ridiculous. I know you don't want that right now. I've said I'm too busy settling in to deal with it, too new around here. It's just...really fucking mean." Throwing up her hands, she lets them drop again and scrunches up her face, still not looking at Ravn.

"It's hardly your fault." Ravn hitches a shoulder lightly. "It's not your decision so you don't get to take the blame for it. They do the same with Perdita, for what it's worth. Though with her, it's some kind of twisted game of look, she's more of a man than I am, ha ha, very funny. I hope to God she never realises because she deserves better. As for me, well, I've never felt insecure about my gender so it doesn't really take. I look funny in a dress. Yeah, so does anyone else, if it's a faux-medieval corset affair that would get you laughed out of a Renaissance Faire."

He shakes his head again. "The best way to tackle these mind fuck games is to just -- be honest about it. Yes, it's embarrassing. But it's also not real. Nothing has happened -- on multiple levels. You still get to be too busy settling in, and when you're not, you don't have stuff you need to sort out with me first."

A moment of silence and then, "I'll admit, it's frustrating. That's why it works for them. Because it does get to me -- not a lot, but a little. Enough that sometimes, my smile is a little strained when tonight's flavour is yet another version of haha, Ravn doesn't know how to do relationships. But that's all it is. Mean kids in the schoolyard."

"It is mean kids in the schoolyard and I never put up with their shit back then too," the barista growls, her gaze now averted to make very certain Ravn doesn't get strafed by her glare. He's not the target of her anger, after all. "I dealt with it. And it's really fucking frustrating to not be able to deal with it now. I swear to god, I'm learning how to backslap a Dream. Or its maker. Somehow. Some...back-tracing trick where I can send some spite."

It's probably an impossible thing, but hey, it's very nice to think about when one's mired in a simmering pool of irritation.

"But I don't want to just accept it happening to me. It's stupid. It's all stupid and mean." Now she just sounds plaintive, like she's running out of steam to be mad in the first place.

"I don't accept it. I only accept that at the moment, I can't do anything about it." Ravn nods in the dark, well aware that Ariadne probably doesn't see. "I hate that this happens. I hate that it happens to people I like and care about. I hate that it makes me feel as if I'm the one who came up with this poor excuse for a jiu-jitsu rom-com, and forced it on you. But it's not real, and no one needs to know about it anyhow. It's not as if I'm going to see you having a conversation with someone you like a month from now and sidle up all, yo, beybeh, remember when we made out during the sakura festival."

Finally, Ravn manages to get something closer to an honest laugh out of her. It's half a huff, but he'll catch the lighter note in it.

"You wouldn't ever say something like 'yo, bay-bee' anyways, bud. Or be that brash. You just wouldn't." Her silhouette can be seen to shake head back and forth, making a loose strand of damp hair swing. "You also wouldn't come up with anything like this to make your point. You'd do something else...like on your boat. Or on the beach or something. This is a Dream and way too likely to get twisted if you had good intentions." She then sighs and rubs at her cheek again. Probably still blushing, check. There's a small part of her grateful that she isn't cold, not just yet anyways, and hateful for this gratitude existing.

Another glance over at him. "...when I'm not busy settling in, huh?" she asks quite gently, no judgement or demand in tone. Simple, straight-forward curiosity.

"I'm too busy settling in to deal with it, too new around here." Ravn quotes Ariadne's words back to her, verbatim; look, he does in fact pay attention.

Then he smiles a bit in the dark. "You're not wrong, though. To get any kind of ideas of this nature in a Dream? That's a recipe for disaster. It worked for Una and you because you were obviously just following the script. If you decide at some point to make more of it? Do it out there, yes. Not in Dreams. Dreams will fuck it up for you, somehow, that's the whole point."

It's too dark to see the finer details of the glance Ravn gets in return. Ariadne then looks away towards the door again, maybe seeing in her mind's eye what's beyond it minus the annoyance of their primate audience.

"Yep," the barista sighs. "Why even try in a Dream. Not worth it. They're all fucked up anyways."

A barrage of popcorn hits the outside of the paper-wall panel and a few of the macaques screech.

"FUCK OFF, PEANUT GALLERY!" she shouts back sharply.

Ravn's social skill boils down to [https://tenor.com/view/you-dumbass-missed-point-stupid-gif-5785598](very little) when it comes to certain issues. He knows this to be the case. He knows better than to try to give advice on things he knows he does not understand. And even he can tell, from the shower of popcorn hitting a paper wall, that what he said was not what the audience wanted to hear. If this was a live theatre performance, a smart greengrocer could make a killing with yesterday's over-ripe fruit.

The macaques are making it pretty clear what way they think the story should go -- do things, humans, that will embarrass you both when the Dream ends! Long term investment! Feeding off waking world embarrassment too, dessert! Score!

The only way through a story is through. But rom-coms aren't the only stories. "If this is about embarrassment and humiliation -- and it certainly has been so far -- maybe we should just give them what they want so we can go home," he says after a moment. And stands up.

Ariadne can, again, be seen to give Ravn a glance when he starts moving. His height means her continued look results in a craned head and angled neck and now there's a funny little twist-purse of her lips.

"...look, I'll inform you that my kissing skills are nothing to be embarrassed or humiliated about, so I refuse to give them that point. Spite. Help me out with this spite. Now, your earlier point about mussing up hair and pinching cheeks? That'll do great. And you know what else I'm going to do?" She stands up too after she picks up the bo staff. "I'm going to bust through this wall like the Kool-Aid Man and whup me some monkey ass with your staff. Because scattering that popcorn-throwing, furry, lecherous little mob will go a long-ass way to making me feel at least a little better. Does this sound like a plan?"

Ravn can't help a short laugh. "I was not about to propose we make out. I was just going to walk through that bloody door and offer to remove the stone wall under anyone who wants to crack more jokes. Tell them a few truths about how funny they aren't being and suggest they go back to fucking each other instead of worrying about who you and I are or aren't fucking. So basically? Yes, it's a plan. Let's do it. You have the staff, I have the wall they sit on."

"Fuck yes, it's a plan." Shifting the stick in her hands, Ariadne hefts it with a shifted two-handed grip. Looks like she might tear through the wall with a swing of it and then continue forward, probably screeching at the top of her lungs in vented frustration. "Here, just muss up your hair real quick for ultimate spite." A quick grin at her friend and then, sighing in readiness, she moves.

And goes through that paper-wall with all the tearing ferocity of her earlier pop culture reference.

Screeching, in fact, at the top of her lungs.

Swinging that bo staff like each little popcorn-munching asshole is a furry baseball meant for the stands. There's no grace. All fury. Woe betide.

Ravn quickly runs a hand through his hair which, let's be honest here, doesn't actually make much of a difference; he usually looks like he just stepped out of bed and hasn't found a comb yet. Then he pinches his own cheek for a nice blush because why the hell not, and follows her out.

That's a sight. Angry girl with a stick, flailing amidst primates jumping and scattering in every direction. Popcorn bags, buttered and caramelised, go flying amidst angry and surprised chattering.

They'll get their bearings soon enough. Macaques are not considered dangerous. Unless you go pick a fight with them, in which case they are actually quite big, have quite nasty claws, and even nastier incisors.

That tide is going to turn as soon as they remember just how much they outnumber Ariadne.

Which they won't, because the very crumbling stone wall that they are sitting on and leaping about on -- blows. Not up because an explosion, or the effects of one, would take a hell of a lot of effort. Blowing out the bottom stones on the other hand.

And the walls come crashing down.