Though generally easygoing, Greg's facade was beginning to crack under the wave of jeering stereotyped being forced upon him. Just when he felt as if his carefully-constructed bubble was going to burst, he saw a new expression on Kano's face: boredom. No glee, no impunity, no audacity—just a lack of interest. Kano's big-eyed gaze finally left Greg, who immediately felt as if a blinding spotlight glaring down upon him had been extinguished. He was mentally relieved though physically he remained still; he didn't want to seem [i]too[/i] comfortable around this guy.

Just as he was plotting his next move, the second blessing arrived. Abruptly, Kano made his exit, apparently having been so caught up needling Greg as to miss his stop. Greg's gaze was nailed the other boy as he cajoled the bus driver into pulling to a stop to let him out. After a quick, friendly parting comment, Kano started down the steps, and Greg saluted his departure with a genial wave. And just like that, the irritating, in-your-face attitude was gone. It felt like putting down a weight after a rep on the bench press; a lot of stress evaporated in an instant. However, Greg immediately wondered if he had been too hard on Kano. Despite his vile mannerisms, he didn't seem like too bad of a guy, and Greg's intention was never to make others feel bad. 

The feeling stuck with Greg until he arrived at his own stop, after which he was more concerned about getting to his family's apartment. Once he had entered the stately gray building, he climbed the stairwell to the third floor -the stairs, though compact, were a far less crowded and a far more productive route than the elevator-. He opened the door, took a step inside, and was greeted by his little, outgoing terrier mutt Joseph, who slipped in happy barks between ecstatic licks of her favorite human's hands. “Hey, doog,” Greg told her, who wagged her little tail with gusto. Next, he found his mother in the bedroom, lying on the bed with a laptop. They exchanged a warm hug before Greg shrugged out of his jacket and went to hunt down his novel. Homework could wait a little while.

-=-=-

Ironclad was taken somewhat aback by Scarlet Thorn's sheer disregard for propriety. A perfectly good fight had ended in utter disappointment as the effeminate ego slipped away, decrying Ironclad's fighting style in the process. There was no joy to be had in such a victory. “Next time I won't play with you, freak,” he threatened the forest. In response, a pair of eyes opened in the gloom, heralding the return of the negatives. Rather indignant, Ironclad sheathed his blades with a bit of a flourish before continuing on his path as if there had been no skirmish at all. Now, though, Ironclad left the occasional burning drop in his wake, and he moved somewhat quicker. The forest's edge was not far at all, but it seemed far longer, and with every step he took he felt his world shrinking. After watching his contention with Scarlet Thorn, the negatives knew this steely brawler could be taunted, battled, and hurt, and with that knowledge came the absence of fear.

After what seemed like hours, Ironclad passed the last of the dense autumn trees onto a yellowed, boulder-stewn field. In the distance was a fort, wood and stone and steel, harboring allies. With no shadows to hide them from Ironclad's wrath, most of the negatives stayed behind. One, however, did not. Its footsteps could be heard behind him, and he knew that to try to outrun it would be both futile and self-detrimental. He turned to fight, and got his first eyeful of the negative.

It was fearsome thing. Easily twice his height, its ebony form was dominated by anthropoid legs and gaping, ragged jaws. Even as it roared at the metallic warrior, however, Ironclad scoffed. “You. Thought you might stay dead longer this time around. Don't feel like you're worth the effort, but who am I to deny a slobbering sack of scum its deathwish?” The afternoon sun glinted off his blades up as he removed them from his back and locked them into Zweihander form. “Quit hissing and come here.”