Little Bird — Roleplayer Guild

Seated at the back most end of the hold, Zena Mavrofos' ears lost each of Valentine's words to the droning roar of The Angelo's massive engines. 

Every inch of the girl's body, for one reason or another, was noticeably tense. Her red-brown hair had, of course, been woven into as tight of a bun as the youngster could manage, a habit of hers ever since her first day of training back at the Academy. Yet today, that weave seemed to pull the rest of her along with it. Her skin, usually quite the comfortable fit, felt stretched, like a too-small shirt compressing against the muscle beneath it. Those very muscles in turn felt cramped and constrained under the stretch of skin. Still, the extremities of her hands feet retained a sense of restlessness. Fidgeting at the ankles she tapped her feet in uneven rhythm upon the metal floor. With her hands, she performed a contraction-relaxation motion; where her right hand remained empty, her left hand bore a yellow, smiling-face stress ball.

To her lack of fortune these minor exertions of motion did little to quell the tempest brought about by the day’s reality: there was a fight rearing into the picture. In spite of the fact that she could only scarcely hear her assigned leader’s speech, the young girl’s eyes stole legitimate glance toward him, splitting their attention between him and the hold’s ramp, which would, in mere moments, open out into a maelstrom of furry fury. Her mind was only half on the mission as it was; the other half devoted solely to the pursuit of fighting, and letting off the tension that had been welling the entire ride. Can we just land already? Even as the carrier reached into the infancy of its descent, Zena had risen to her feet. Though she fell from turbulence nearly a dozen times, she continued to rise back to her feet. As the hold opened out into its opening, she pushed her way through her squad to a more ‘forward’ position. 

Almost immediately, she was in the thick of action, surrounded, with her team, by gathering of Faunus that had come to engage them. A lone voice from the surrounding ring bellowed the order for Depth Strife to disarm… 

The order became the Faunus’ first mistake of the day. No sooner had the command left his lips did the strike force retort with its most uncivil disobedience. Not one to be left behind amid the fray, Zena bull rush the ranks of Faunus directly in front of her, whipping out Tesla Arc in the process. Metals clashed and clanged as her blade parried a strike from a canine adversary’s gauntlet. Tugging her hilt with one hand while grabbing hold of a somewhat thinner strand beneath, she removed her pistol, already loaded with a standard round, placing a debilitating shot into the dog Fauna’s chest. 

Whipping the blade away from the gauntlet she flourished it out to her left. The blade-turned-chain grabbed hold around a charging feline. With a heaving tug, she pulled the feline in, just out of the range of its weapon. A second shot from Tesla Arc’s pistol pierced the adversary’s face, leaving its right eye socket a bloody gash. 

Releasing the collapsing cat, Zena spun a ninety on her toes. Just as she came about, her bicep met a grazing blow from a rifle shot, ripping at the edge of her skin. Her glare threw forward, bearing teeth in a angered grin at the sapient, rifle-wielding Faunus that had dared to shoot her. “Bad choice!” she yelled. In a fluid motion she reattached the pistol into the blade’s hilt. “My turn.” Blade-whip in the left hand, her right hand cackled, a spark of electricity gathering at the tips of her index and middle fingers, pointing toward her third victim. “BANG!” The bolt flew like lightning; even the quick, animalistic instinct of the Faunus couldn’t keep up with the force of nature. Not a second later, the monkey was left a zapped, charred heap upon the ground he had stood. 

“S’what you get,” Zena spat.
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Wings On the Wind

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