Give Up The Funk! A Tourist In the Yard!

[Tori Tori Chopper]

Tap.. 

'Nope.'

Tap...

'Nooo-..'
Tap..

tap... 

tap..

'Raaaain, mercy..'

taptaptaptaptaptap!

'Alright-alright! I'm up..'

An arm flailed about the shack, aiming for drapes to cover an otherwise door-less frame, a petty attempt from her bed to shield herself from the sudden downpour that clattered and clanged agaisnt the numerous surfaces outside of the small abode. She sat up, rolling her jaw and half-assedly patting her foot about the carpet, her toes a claw to pluck stray clothing. It was too early for this shit.. The smell of fused metal and sparks still lingering from her welding mere hours ago, its hiss as the warm yet colder than a billion degrees water doused the orange tinted structures outside. A quick hand escaped the hut, gauging how many layers of clothes were required, emerging with the bare minimum regardless none-the-less, knowing full well the weather patterns of this place. The ambiance was always like an aftermath in Funkyard, that rare window of sundown to sunrise where everyone was either setting up or so out of it for the evening before you'd not hear from them till the afternoon. At best hearing the bells of trade ships letting groggy watchmen know they were docking in the distance. Meanwhile, Cog's Hollow was serene.

She stumbled down the plateau of bits and pieces which elevated her minimalist home, rubbing her eyes, breaking the silence with very lady-like snorts and coughs to get the air-waves clear, occasional limbs reaching out with an assortment of clicks. In natural passing a similar house of a slightly grander design, further down the roller-coaster of metallic debris, emerged a lanky furred limb, without any intangible speech the arm and her exchanged at best.. Grunts? In which was understood by both parties. Eventually reaching a central point of the numerous locales of the same appeal, workshops and make-shift stations scattered the what was presumed ground level, the girl walking to her own little zone, taking a backpack and wrench, hoisting them over her back while squinting into the distance towards more organised civilization; if it could be called that. Neon challenged the slowly emerging daylight rays that overcame the gray tones of cloudy skies.. She stood motionless, almost hesitant to leave, as if something ritual was about to occu-

'... DEFENDER ONLINE, ENGAGING WEAPONS SYSTE-'

CLANG!!

The novelty Wrench pressed the robot frame that rose from one of the workshops firmly back into the dirt with one solid swing.

'ERROR: SHUTTING DOoooooowwwwn...'

.. Peace, weapon ready and waiting for any follow-ups, nodding to herself in content before a sharp inhale pushed her towards the other side of the island, albeit still sluggish and dragging her large tool through the dirt and rubble, occasional bangs and clanks from it smacking objects along the way. A rather powerful voice echoing out from the shack owned by the sentient limb that greeted her prior, otherwise known in his entirety as Pan.

'Morning, Dee!'

'Whatever!'

Mud turned to green, green to metal, metal to wood; The sure sign that you were in the outskirts as the man-made extensions took over the natural landscape and nothing became 'straight forward' with the sudden out cropping of buildings in all shapes and sizes.. The rear end of the city never really tended to as far as appearances were concerned, giving it that real half-done vibe. Drunken and lazy bodies littered the wider streets, narrow pathways wedged with store supplies kept out of the general havoc of late night Funkyard, people slowly arriving in order of how quickly they'd need to set up shop to do business.. The deeper into the city and towards the shore you'd go, the more you'd find the Yard's never sleep slogan in full throttle, being this close allowing its music and activity to challenge the rains volume.. A place happily avoided while running on a few hours sleep and breakfast being the only goal.

Queue The daily routine, a montage of market crawling and stockpiling of fishing goods just hauled in, the only trustworthy food around these parts, fresh and not yet tampered with. Throwing in yesterdays collected scrap haul while browsing for shiny things, and a final pit stop at the only place she'd ever get any bread based products, the gremlin sized woman giving Drea her signature wave off that made her nearly take flight, vacuuming half of a loaf down within moments and leaving the other half dangling before passing gossip central.. The Old Guard living in the outskirts who observe the cities structure all the way down to the shore, making good use of the high ground that splits.. Well, Funk from the yard.

'Mornin' Lass.'

'Fellas'.'

'Take a chair, Stitch's boys 'r tryin' their luck again.'

'Down on Roller turf?'

He stretched out a literal double jointed arm, Drea taking the scope from his lanky fingers, propping it on the railing and settling amongst the group. A general past-time for people past their prime yet still have a hand in trade like the Old guard is watching new blood. Outside of the two major factions many-a-party attempt to take land or business, to such an extent that only the most home-grown locals or those of their respective districts know of their own current gangs. Funkyard has its own thriving ecosystem of both organised and disorganized crime, many using the pirate era as reference, with people on a whim arriving here or rising from their occupations to try their hand at reaching the top of the food chain. Drea looking onto an across the way tussle of two such groups.. A such common practice that she and other observers keep track and take bets.

'Stitch has to have gone through like, three posse's by now?'

'Rollers have potential.'

'You say that about everyone.'

'You say that about everyone.'

'Besides, Ba-.. Wait..' Her eyes diverted, a single gleaming colour tearing through the typical drab vessels. A golden patterned Frigate surrounded by the usual and suspected pale and dimmed blue's of common marine boats. Leaning forward to the point of nearly going over the railing entirely, as the long-armed associate instinctively held her from immediate decent by her back-pack. 'The hell's that kinda royalty doing here outside of Pay-day.' A term used to indicate marine officials emerging from respective shadows to check their underground circuit, the glorious design of the ship having Drea like a moth to flame. 'I 'gotta get a closer look~' A fanatic to say the least when it came to the construction of anything, ships most of all, she practically released all element of weight on her with a shrug of her shoulders. Supplies collapsing by her feet in a fairly organised thud as she without eye-contact motioned for her company to take the spyglass, scaling the knee high roof edge that built into the wall and slowly descending the shanty-town structures towards to docks as her spectators glanced on, a unified shrug spreading like a Mexican wave amongst them.

The morning might just be interesting after all.

[Terminally Chill]

Woof!

Woof!

Woof!

The rasping barks spilled from the darkness of one of many grimy alleyways carved through the dilapidated land of debris dubbed Funkyard. Within the confines of the dusky backstreet the outline of the noisy canine could perhaps be picked out by a discerning passerby, matted fur jet black camouflaged in the shadows of early morning. Upon closer inspection, the mutt's ceaseless barking was being directed to one particular, sleeping passenger on the floating junk heap. There was nothing particularly distinctive about the man, slouched in sound slumber against one of the alley walls and wrapped in a mess of shabby and patched garments. The brim of a wore out hat shrouded many of his features, made only more difficult by a shaggy mess of brown locks. A rustic and handsome staff jutted from his sleeping mass, resting still against his shoulder. The man was murmuring indistinguishably under his breath, evidently dozing heavy enough to not notice the increasing intensity of the dog's repeated yapping.

GASP!

The sudden exclamation sputtered from the awoken man's lips, startling the once-noisy dog into submission in an instant. Chest heaving heavily, he attempted to reign in his first ragged breaths of the morning. The man noticed the shaking mutt cowering before him as the great swells in his chest diminished. He wiped at the cold sweat dotting his brow with a dusty sleeve.

“Aw, I'm not upset with you! If anything, I should be thanking you,” the man said warmly, slowly reaching out toward the top of the dog's head. “You woke me up from a terrible dream, one I have not had for a long time...”

The mutt accepted the hearty handful of scratches with an excited bark and wagging tail. The moment was undoubtedly sweet between man and beast as they exchanged an understanding unburdened by judgment. Despite the stark line drawn by their differing species, they undoubtedly related to one another. After all, they were both strays. While his disheveled and dirty clothing may have strongly stated otherwise, the man could claim no roots within Funkyard's scrappy shantytowns.

He was simply a wanderer.

The vagabond continued indulging the dark-furred dog's playful energy with one hand, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the other. He peered upward to gaze at the slender strip of gray, cloud-stricken sky afforded to him by the two rusty rooftops hovering above.

“Ah, looks like–”

BOOOOOOOM!!

The explosive rumble shook the sky as a bright streak of lightning crackled across the clouds. The canine comrade tore down the alley with a flurry of frightened yapping, disappearing around a sharp corner nearly the instant the thunder collapsed to the earth. The wanderer's gaze lingered momentarily on the spot where the mutt disappeared, smiling slightly. The single moment they shared was enough – he was accustomed to the solitude of solitary travel. Company was a fleeting pleasure to be treasured.

“... Rain.”

The storm's ominous announcement proved to be overstated, a mild patter of rain drops gently arriving. Shifting against his oaken staff, the wanderer hoisted himself upright to greet the drizzle. The rain's fresh scent was a welcome mask to the usual stenches permeating the floating junkyard as he stepped out of the alley–

“Hurry the hell up, will ya?! We gotta get to the 'Skirts!”

“Yeah, you wanna miss Stitch and the Rollers goin' at it?!”

“C'mon guys, wait up! I didn't get to catch the last one!”


–And stepped right back in as two adolescents splashed through the slick shantytown street at a frenetic pace, a third set of footsteps audibly sloshing in a labored attempt to keep up with his two comrades. The wanderer emerged from the alleyway more cautiously in case any additional teenagers hoped to mow him down on the way to whatever conflict was brewing. The meaning of the boys' urgent excitement may have been lost on the drifter, but there was a sense of opportunity pulling him to follow the path of rippling puddles.

“Let us see what answers this strange land of garbage has to offer,” the wanderer murmured, shouldering his staff and strolling leisurely through the steady shower.

[Tori Tori Chopper]

'Ship 'o that size has 'gotta have at least thirty plus cannons per side..'

Roof to roof, the frantic figure skipped about the available platforms.

'Must be polished steel, no way they'd use actual gold on a ship like that..'

Vision fixated on the vessel, her memory of the housing layout pushed her onward.

'You'd need at least a fuUuop?!'

She didn't recall a house not having a roof, however.

Funkyard architecture changed all the time, with the sheer numbers of people coming and going of varied class, houses were very often removed or added in masse to make way for larger, or an assortment of smaller abodes.. Just never usually in this district. Her stomach rose, a quick attempt to grab anything to halt the fall had her flailing in the air before landing with a squelch unto what was essentially a mud-slide, the rain loosening the clay and building materials to form a river across metal and wooden surfaces. She filled the air with colorful vocabulary, quickly coming to a stop in what was a short slide, thankfully. Picking herself up from the sludge pile of concrete paste forgotten and formed into now a quick way to get down a couple layers of the city's infrastructure were it not death to your apparel.

She stumbled out of the muck and grime, giving herself a quick pat-down to much dismay, any hopes of removing the thicker layers of this gunk would have to be actually bathing, a practice ill-looked upon by such a busy individual. None the less the rain aiding in slowly going back to a 'slightly clean' appearance. Thankful she had left the majority of her things behind, saving her having to take stock of her person, she quickly turned back to the direction of the dock, only to freeze mid-turning to mimic the still scene she had apparently fallen into. Two groups, one massively outnumbering the other, all looked toward her harsh and evidently loud introduction, only on inspection realizing she had brought all manners of tools and building apparatus with her in her attempt to stop her initial decent.. She made a massive mess in simple terms.

'Drea, failin' to free-run on Roller turf, how far you've fallen, babe.'

A bug-goggled, tattoo ridden man to her left side sparked a wave of chuckles.

'Fallen.. Really? The walking art exhibit resorts to a freakin' pun?'

'Pff!'

'S-Shut it!'

'Don't ignore me, Skidz! We've got unfinished business!'

Barked the company to her right, a lanky man layered in bandages and Stitches, appropriately named such.

The Roller leader looked back to his competition, waving out his hands as if to passively express his distaste in violence. 'Bro, how many times we 'gotta do this till you realize this ain't your district no more? Time's twice as fast in Funkyard, keep up or get out.' The humble poetry on the islands outlaw-ish nature didn't exactly soothe the teeth grinding opposition, if the guy was slouched any closer to the ground his knuckles would be touching the floor. Despite the Tattoo clad man known as Skidz cool composure, it was obvious the was looking at four men to every one of his own ahead of him, Stitch known to be very smooth talking.. Or to be more exact very loud-mouthed with false hopes and convincing dreams of gold and glory, enough to attract increasingly more followers in his defense.

'See what I mean?! The kid thinks he's got something we don't, and we've been here twice as long as any of them! And what to they do with their 'turf' ?! Shelter and protect what could be making us millions!' A cheer amongst a variety crew, people of all shapes and sizes, comically so in that half of Stitches company wouldn't last two seconds running a district, even one this far up the city, none the less his strategy had him a significant mob backing up his trash talk.

'And don't think you can get away with defusing the situation, Gearbox!'

Only Stitch had noticed the girl slowly creeping away from the open favela arena.

'Oioi, you leave the Princess 'outta this!'

'D-Don't call me Princess you dunce?!' 

Her official nickname and title of the outskirts and even deeper within the city, something slowly jaded with its origins becoming more of a joke than its original serious addressing of her original royalty, lackies of the Stitch mob turned to block her escape, having her back up into her position of being between the two groups, eyes frantically darting about her surroundings in attempt to find some sort of escape to the docks as men pulled in onlookers and blocked off easy ways out. Hardly frightened by the circumstances, a smidgen of anger began to boil. While entertaining to watch gangs duke it out from afar, Drea would never take sides, meaning while present she'd be a one woman army.. To top it off, who know's how long that ship was going to stay in port, heaps of information could be gathered from the design of that one ship.

It was so sudden, seemingly spitting in an act of disgust and impatience, Stitch motioned his troops forward while also retreating back. Typical, ready and willing to rally peoples ambitions, but quick to fade into the masses to avoid any real harm, despite him so used to taking his fair share. The Rollers however, true to their name and reputation, didn't simply charge in response. Though small in number the party split off, quickly vaulting and hopping around their domain as if every cart and stand were placed specifically for their theatricals, quickly taking high ground and momentum to the inexperienced and befuddled front line with a storm capoeira styled barrages.. The guys mimicked the rain-fall, constantly hit-and running the masses, that was the Rollers for you.

'Guys, come on, there's a cool marine escort at the docks? Like this badass ship, I mean woooah!~' They didn't seem to be listening, at this point the Mexican stand-off prior looked organised in comparison, devolving into some circus act of hooligans punching residents, lookers on and gang members alike in a headless chicken attempt to reclaim the area. A larger man cracked his knuckles on approach, others taking a step back as to not get in his way, seriously? The guy's had no class.

It was quick, whilst not exactly flattening the guy, the man retreated as quickly as he advanced.. clutching a reddening fist mark impressed into his jawline, the spectators confused, the guys figure so large they didn't even see her throw a punch. It was only when his composure gave way and the punch had to have him take a knee did the lack of experience show, the group taking a step back as the girl with the twitching clutched fist was revealed, still frozen at the end of a solid swing, reached down to acquire an iron pole from the cluttered construction equipment.

'One morning without having to beat down some dweebs, is all I ask..'
A drawn out sigh escaped her chest, tensing her grip on the weapon.
'Maybe tomorrow.'

---

Drea - #ca97e6                            
Skidz - #c0e697                                                                        
Stitch - #fc9254        

[Terminally Chill]

Funkyard assaulted every one of the wanderer's senses in one fell swoop. He shielded his eyes against the bright jolt of neon sign lights and the continuing drizzle to make an attempt at comprehending the scope of the man-made monstrosity. At least one peak of towering scrap lorded over the crowd's head, with countless huts ans shacks jutting from the hillside of junk. A stampede of chatter contended with the rain, the junkyard residents out in the shantytown streets without a single care for the light storm tapping against the wood and metal.

“Ah, no thank you!”

“N-no thank you!”

“Noooo~ thank you!”

The drifter deflected the steady stream of merchants with as polite of a tone as he could muster amid the melee of trade. He even demonstrated his lack of funds by turning out his worn pockets, much to the dismay of scowling junk dealers. Even if the wanderer did have coin to spare, there was no way he could recognize what piece of scrap was valuable or not. Besides, material possession weren't exactly on the top of his priority list.

The scope of the land of landfills was dizzying. The wanderer was sorely missing his quiet alleyway within the shady corner of abandoned hovels, wading through the clamoring sea of commerce. Just a single dog barking sounded like complete tranquility compared to the Funkyard din. Whoever Stitches and the Rollers were, the wanderer had lost the three boys in the crowd long ago and his interest in their destination had nearly waned completely.

“I wonder if every place I end up is truly my destination,” the vagabond muttered with full knowledge not a single soul in Funkyard could possibly hear him. The junkyard island was certainly an unexpected stop on his journey across the western sea, brought on by a certain ship captain's realization the wanderer was flat out broke. He was swiftly kicked off the vessel in the middle of the night, finding refuge in the colossal scrapheap.

With a great deal of effort, the wanderer pushed through the teeming walkway and managed to escape to a less-populated side street. There was still a whirlwind of transactions taking place in the new street, but there was at least enough space to breath. He took the breather to enjoy the morning shower dabbing against his face, the fresh scent a welcome change to the musty stench of over-packed bodies. The moment of peace was painfully short-lived, as was customary in Funkyard.

“TTTHHHHIIIIIEEEEFFFF!!”

The wanderer looked toward the source of the accusatory exclamation with a sense of hesitance. He could barely register the first figure barreling toward him at breakneck speed, catching the slightest glimpse of a man's thin face and rusted red hair. A rotund man made a strained effort at chase through the watery walkway, two intimidating men in black suits flanking him on each side.

“The hell outta the way, newbie!” barked the thief to the oblivious drifter, slamming into him roughly with a shoulder and batting him out of his path like a rag doll. The wanderer was shocked as his wooden sandals slipped against the slick street, grasping at thin air with his free hand before tumbling backward before a jagged hole in a busted-up wooden fence. He was suddenly rolling backward uncontrollably down a hillside of discarded debris, descending roughly as he bounced between scrap-piles and shabby markets. Cruel relief to the fall came in the form of a wooden rooftop, which the wanderer SMASHED through in a cloud of splinters.

“Aaaaaah...” the vagabond seethed in pain as he tenderly pushed himself up from the floor of the shanty shack. A wash of neon light flooded through the hole above like rays of artificial sunlight, a shining stream of raindrops soon to follow. After a great deal of assistance from his staff, the wanderer was again standing on two feet. With a curious glance, he reached inside his coat and retrieved an item not present on his person before the nasty fall. In his hand was a handsome leather bag, exquisitely crafted and emblazoned with what looked to be a dangerously curved talon. The traveler examined the leather container, assuming he was now in possession of whatever treasure the rusty-haired thief was after. He shrugged and pocketed the sack once more before walking lightly toward the shabby house's door.

“Really sorry about your roof,” the wanderer said with an embarrassed smile, stepping over a drunken man slumped against the wall. He responded to the apology with only intelligible grunts and snorts, too ripped to register the state of his home. The wanderer opened the door to a completely different scene.

The reality of the situation struck quickly and affirmed for the wanderer the door had definitely led to the strange land of garbage. A full-out gang brawl consumed the shabby streets of wood and metal leading to the docks, gangster and bystander alike caught in the fray. There were a few key participants in the battle the wanderer identified. First on the list was a lanky man covered in injuries, commanding a mob of riled-up thugs while desperately attempting to avoid receiving yet another stitch. He seemed to be running out of skin for them. The opposing leader was more impressive, clad in tattoos and flipping through the air with unmatched grace. His own gang was clearly outnumbered, but were just as clearly more skilled in physical combat. The third noteworthy person was surprisingly a young girl with bleach-blonde hair, beating the holy hell out of gangsters from either side of the conflict without prejudice.

The wanderer immediately slammed the door on the chaotic conflict.

“No thank you.”

[Tori Tori Chopper]

'Yo Dee!'

'D'you mind?! I'm in intense combat!'

'Be real! This ain't nothin' but mornin' exercise!'

The prominent Rollers leader, who above and beyond his understudies seemed to dance about the scuffle, each choreographed move and action had him bringing down one after another, hopping off objects or his allies, while also boosting his comrades into their own take-downs. A newcomer to the Funkyard scene, Skidz used free-running in the city outskirts to obtain turf, running a delivery service cross vigilante brigade that had even long-lasting gangs looking over their shoulders. His group was small, but when you have a troop this organised and combat effective, it was natural that he'd go from protecting a small part of the Favela into taking over districts for his own. He went agaisnt the grain however, picking up a lot of heat early for his noble causes, speaking of protection and unity in a city where its been every man for themselves as far back as anyone could remember. This kind of guy would emerge once in a while, Drea was seen in the same light by avoiding the darker dealings of the city as well as being from the Yard.. But in reality, despite his growing reputation? He was a speck on the map of crews that occupied this gargantuan island, only more prominent for his success story from the outskirts, a place not often seeing successful or even organised gangs; as Stitch showed all too well.

'What bring's 'ya to 'me home, Princess!'

'Falling, mostly falling.. And what'd I say about Princess!'

'Ha ha! Besides fallin'!'

Drea rolled her eyes, a moment out of the fray allowing her to dust off and wipe the blood from her chin, even stationary and without an opponent she still found it hard to keep track of Skidz weaving through the crowd like a fish in the sea. 'A ship! Navy! Golden!' Her eyes lit up, enough for the free-runner to emerge from the mosh pit for a moment, sliding to her side with his arms folded and head slightly bobbing to an imaginary rhythm, as if constantly keeping himself in a groove. 'Golden boat eh? Here I was thinkin' 'ya came to see me.' His body instinctively tensed, taking to the ground quickly for a effortless leg sweep towards a man running at him seemingly before even the combatant thought of running in the first place, Drea quick to slam the end of her pipe into his gut to keep him down. 'Golden ship. And besides, can't have me fighting all your battles for you.' A hearty chuckle escaped him, pushing his goggles to dangle around his neck, he whistled sharply in harmonic tones towards the cluster, whistles back giving him the go-ahead as he gestured Drea towards the mangled mess of bodies.

'Go forth 'me lady, 'ya chariot awaits.'

'Not like I even needed your help.. Jeez.'

You had to be fast in the outskirts, while the term manic pretty much described the entirety of Funk city, the outer-rim personified it that much more. If you wanted to go anywhere fast you'd have to be on top of the action, and that meant rooftops. A quick B-line through the horde had her looking for signs of assistance, swinging fists and skidding through legs to get to the other side of the fray. As requested by Skidz, a fellow Roller emerged from the group alongside her, his roller blades pushing him ahead and to her front. Still rolling backwards and then accompanied by another, they put out their hands to hoist her up onto the nearest building, as if she was a thrown stone to a curling squad. Despite the ease of those who threw her, she haphazardly leaped, causing the two to have to grind at a halt to catch her, even then with their hoist Drea was flung through the air.. Flailing once more into a crumpled heap atop the building; she wasn't the best at this whole free running thing. She patted herself down, passing a gesture of good will towards the conductor, Skidz giving her a light salute before rummaging back in to finish the typical turf wars he had come to expect.

Though this was the life in the City, something Drea used the mornings, usually to much more success than this and her own knowledge of the activity here to mostly avoid. And while in this case secluded seemed obscene for any hours of the morning for an angry mob to be summoned by an angry former district leader, it was simply commonplace. This was Funkyard, and you either jumped in the current of it all or avoided getting swept up in it.. A poor example in Drea's case. Though with a birds-eye view once more the shanty town layout visibly transformed from roof to roof, flat descending and level architecture shifted to wide streets and higher buildings, Neon prominent even with the rising sun and people already taking back to the streets for all manner of reasons.

''Aight.. Down we go!'

A quick leap towards a wall

Sssshrk!
Quick skids

ssshrtck!

Off wall to wall

KRASHUNKBUNK

jingulinguhling...

And gracefully into a pile of trash.

Climbing never was her strong suit, despite it being a perfect way to travel around Funk City and beyond for those more attuned, Drea was only ever good at details with her hands, the rest of her body naturally clunking around like a cement block. She'd 'gotten used to it at this point, taking even the most fumbled of falls in stride, picking herself up and patting herself down for the third time this morning.. Not even close to the record. The city eased into her senses, slowly becoming aware of the bustling main street just beyond her alley landing. Groups wearing matching outfits of formality or notoriety passed by as often as normal city-folk, more prominently the dark purple tones of the group that seemingly watched the alley to stop people entering, not expecting people to descend from above.

'Lost your way, little lady?'

One was quick to approach to initiate intimidation mode.

'Control your pets, Moon.'

She didn't even make eye-contact, too busy cleaning herself up.

'Yooooou~ heard the Princessss...'

The initial aggressor turned, lowering his head in apology and clearing a path for her to advance towards the alleys exit. A fair number of white and purple donning jackets lent agaisnt the walls like a formation, their cluster hazed in second-hand smoke down to a bald man riddled in white-painted symbols. He turned, the skull image that donned his face shifting as he smirked and tipped an imaginary hat towards the Yard's famous engineer. 'Goooood.. morning...' His monotone voice was creepy in itself, an image and character Drea had never seen him drop.. Like bats his group sheltered in the day, and paraded at sun-down coated in glow in the dark paint. Drea had a knack for keeping track of the gangs, most locals knew only the top dogs or district leaders, Drea knowing that keeping in the largest loop possible sated her need for gossip and information, which in this case.

'Princess really catching on? Gearbox was dumb but..'

'Roooolls.. Off the tongue. Royalty.. Is royalty, even if your kiiiing.. governs traaaash...'

'Oioi..'

He slowly raised his hands the moment her glare sharpened, his lackies quick to retreat as opposed to put a foot forward to aid him, knowing full well what that 'Little Lady' was capable of upon identification. Drea peeked out, quickly gathering her bearings as to where exactly she had fallen, it being no joke as to how much of a maze the place couple become when slowly being consumed by ever-changing markets and hordes of faceless nobodies. Landmarks gave it away, she wasn't too keen on trying to find her way back up anywhere, but the alleys pick up where rooftops left off. 'Talons, any more then usual towards the other side of the city?'

'The Mooooon.. See's all under its gaaze..' Motioning for a moment, the man inhales steadily, but near unnaturally, near all the smoke that shrouded him vacuumed into his nostrils before sharply exhaling the fumes into the sky, peering into them like a prophet seeking answers. 'Resssstless... Does the Princess know of a coming tiiide?' Despite his persona being all creepy and cool, the impatient Drea this early in the morning had already grown impatient with the image of that dazzling ship at the back of her mind. Setting out into the street inches from the current of bodies, she shrugged. 'Fancy ship's in white 'n blue ain't a good sign. Cogs're up to something.' With a quick ruffle of her jacket, pulling down her sleeves and flicking up her hood, she sunk her hands into her pockets and vanished into the people. Rumors spread fast, last thing she needed was someone making a scene while she scoped out the escort.. And knowing Funk?

She was already on borrowed time

---

Drea - #ca97e6
Skidz - #c0e697
Moon - #a24bff

[Terminally Chill]

“Ow-ow-ooooowww~”

The wanderer grumbled in misery, holding the small of his back tenderly. Attempting to take his mind away from the pain, he began observing the new surroundings he'd managed to fall into. The bustling commerce of the junkyard city had melted away now, gaudy neon now only traces of shimmering clouds in the distance. The outskirts were not nearly as lively, comprised of a rundown expanse of shantytown stacked upon on another with little regard for structural integrity. Without the insanity of the city to overload the senses, the condition of the battered buildings became much more apparent. Only suburban squalor remained in the wake of a population unchecked by the rule of government or nature. Tilting the brim of his worn hat down, the wanderer considered his position amid the land of rusty scrap.

'Having possession of this bag has made staying here any longer quite difficult,' the wanderer pondered, gently winding through the scattered waves of people pacing the junkyard streets. 'However, I cannot leave in good conscience without returning it to the rightful person.'

The wanderer paused in his leisurely meandering, fingers rubbing across the smooth leather pouch in question resting in his pocket. A few moments of more intense deliberation passed before he evidently came to a decision, letting out a weary sigh. Setting his sights on a small group of rough-and-tumble residents, the wanderer's expressions quickly transformed from slightly irksome to cheery and bright as he approached the strangers.

“Excuse me, friends!” he called to them with a welcoming wave. “I've accidentally procured this... aah... erm...” the wanderer fumbled with the words for a moment, retrieving the stolen leather pouch from his pocket to aid in the explanation. “... Talon bag, you could say? I was curious if any of you might know the identity of the original owner.”

The reception of the junkyard hooligans to the wanderer was not warm in the slightest, some even baffled as to why the lone, strange man was approaching them in such a friendly manner. One particular thug stepped forward to meet the wanderer, a cigarette smoldering between his sneering lips. He dipped his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose, humoring the tourist with an examination but possessing every intention to simply mug him. Well, until the shades-sporting thug took a closer look at the bag. His cigarette dropped from his mouth to the artificial ground below in a moment of shock. He backed away from the wanderer, face paler than before. The other yard dwellers backed away as their own eyes rested on the talon-emblazoned bag. The wanderer tilted his head curiously as they looked up and down the street with worry-stricken faces.

“You're one crazy bastard tryin' to peddle that shit here,” the thug with sunglasses said in a low and grave voice to the drifter before he motioned to the others it was time to be moving on.

“R-right, okay... Thank you for your time?” the wanderer said with vague pleasantness, phrased more as a question to himself than a farewell to the passing Funkyard strangers. Scratching beneath his favored hat, the wanderer glanced briefly at the talon-shaped insignia adorning the bag and shrugged. He cut across the scrap-heap street to a woman leaning in a shabby doorway of her shack.

“Hello ma-am, I have this handsome talon bag here and I was–”
SLAM!

The Funkyard woman gasped and swung her door closed before the wanderer could even finish speaking, a similar look of shock as before crossing her features once she took a closer look at the stolen sack. Refusing to allow his spirits to be dampened and join the puddles underfoot, he moved swiftly to continue the exercise in futility.

“Hello there, I–”
SLAM!

“... Talon bag–”
SLAM!

“... I am only trying to–”
SLAM!

The wanderer stared blankly at the familiar sight of yet another door slamming shut in his face. No amount of cautious rephrasing was carrying his sentences forward more than a few words before he was cursed or threatened.

This talon bag was truly troublesome.

“I suppose I will need to seek out someone more knowledgeable,” he murmured, yanking down the brim of his patchy hat once again and setting off down the soggy streets of the Funkyard outskirts.

[Tori Tori Chopper]

'A boat?'

The drowsy DenDen queried, its face peeking out of Drea's V-neck.

'A big'n, not the mention the city seems a little more.. tense.'

The Minks warm laugh kept all it's quality even through the communicator.

'Always the cautious one~' A common accusation, through her eyes the urban jungle was a challenge as opposed to a refuge, the city was by others standards not the least bit intimidating; while the royal outsider walked it like an animal in a storm. Every other street had her strafing into alleys, her eyes peeking beneath a heavy hanging hood that tracked groups of gang members or Talon soldiers passing by until she pushed on, an element of espionage and secrecy that she'd never shaken off from her early years. It wasn't like she was afraid of these people, she simply found it easier for people to not know she was there, at least that's what she told herself.

'I'd wager it's an expensive trade.'

'All the more reason to check it out, right?'

'I'm a broken record, but Funkyard's is too big t-'

'To know everything, I know, I know..' She paused in the bustling street, stopping for a moment around the docks during trade side looked like a school of fish washing past you in an endless stream. A sigh audible enough for the DenDen to pick up emitted from her, a chuckle in response from the snail while she raised her hood for a better glance at the ship, big enough to tower over some of the shanty fisher housing. 'It's just!... Be content with the junkyard, Pan. Just don't expect me to follow suit. I can't lay about all day fixing scrap, there's 'gotta be more..' It was quite emotional, from an outsiders perspective. A Princess in the rain putting her heart on her sleeve rather than the fortress it usually resided in as she stared off into the distance.

'Snnnnrrrrrrrrkkk...'

The snoring sadly didn't help the scene. 

'I hope your killer machines pummel you in your sleep~' While falling o deaf ears, it was enough of a comment to feel the anger just sharply escape before she continued, stuffing the Mushi into her jacket and her hands back into her pockets. Her pace quickened, the gradual decent eventually levelling out as the island's geography returned to its natural flat-land. The docks were in rush hour, surprise-surprise in a city like this, but that didn't exactly mean the busiest atmosphere on solid ground. The ships were like traffic, despite the wide open ocean that played as their streets it looked like a constant game of patience as multiple tradesmen tried to unload their supplies in a limited amount of docking stations. More commonplace traders of renown had warehouses just a few hundred feet over, men easily three times the size of a normal human being lugging crates and barrels back and forth down the couple mile stretch that was the Funk City Docks. What made matters worse was what Drea could not see in full, and hot damn was it a sight to soak in.

A frigate, easily if not more-so than that, clearly, custom fitted with additional spacing to make its frame hard to keep entirely in one's peripherals even at a distance. Its blue and white paint job immaculate, the dock only able to encompass its closest to the front docking station, in which is was riddled with. Along with Cannon platforms and build in bays across the bodies sides. This thing rivalled sea giants and had probably sent most running with its size alone. The motionless, mouth agape eyes wide Drea was only knocked back into her senses as a sack of grain whapped her across the back of the head alongside an apology from a pair of legs that wobbled in carrying it past her. Her revitalised senses quickly scanned the area around the vessels docking station to see Captains jackets on every marine, even what was presumably a half-giant that hoisted barrels much like the other tradesmen to a specific warehouse, causing those nearby to take a moment themselves to watch it stomp by with its exceptionally large jacket flapping in the fierce ocean winds like a marine flag instead of a piece of apparel.

Her body pulled, her mind only catching up moments later to feel herself slowly going into a dash across the docks, weaving around the pirates and tradesmen into a better vantage point of a now visible lanky figure that began to exit the ship with their own personal guard.. Royalty? Officer? She wouldn't even rule out a Noble with a ship like that. She calmed her thoughts, her mind would make more assumptions that real-time could keep up with if she didn't pay attention. But it didn't take long to see the person of interest fall effortlessly into centre stage. The rain didn't help, having to get closer and closer still to attempt to get even a word or two of the individual's multiple conversations, locking into place by numerous stacked supply boxes on the cusp of a border comprised of marine bodies encircling the section of the docking bay.

'-And command wanted to know of our arrival, remember. Which I'll let you handle.'

An equally formal though more sturdy and stunted marine lectured.

'How much longer must we have to Captain this voyage before they stop asking us to check in with them...'

The tall, lanky individual spoke with a clarity Drea hadn't heard in a long time but was none the less very familiar.

Thier appearance besides one being very tall and the other being fairly average was hard to muster, trenchcoats of gold trims and blue features concealed their forms, even their collars up like greasers masking their major features from Drea's angle. Their voices drifted, talking of stock and troop organisation while their troops, while not pouring from the ship that could probably house thousands, did noticeably begin to inflate around the area as if to predict every nook and cranny someone could maybe access that area of the dock from.. While the giant single-handedly dealt with any supplies that needed to be moved while conversing with soldiers who set up his massive hauls in a tone that was intangible, but droned over the rainfall and winds even at Drea's distance.

Splash!

Splash!

Splash!!

Drea's body locked up, ready to interact with hands that may be placed upon her as an individual came darting in from behind her, near skidding past and through the nearby marine wall with minimal resistance, Drea exhaling a sigh of relief sharply before slightly relocating herself in the commotion for a better angle in the Officer duo that glanced down at the scrawny man that caught his breath on his knees besides them. It took a glance to see the Talon insignia on that colour coded red and black apparel, speaking in thug slang and low tones amongst the officers that made it near impossible to understand. What was a Talon messenger doing with high ranking marine's though? Was it an olive branc-

BANG!

Drea didn't even see the smaller officer draw the flintlock, the Talon's plea not even fully escaping his lips before the trigger was pulled. Drea was speechless, eyes fixated on the event while her instincts kept kicking her to run while she still had the chance.. This had become more than just ogling a vessel now, she couldn't go until she had something to take with her, quickly picking up on the more disgruntled chatter that increased in volume with the situation. Those within earshot over the heavy ambience of morning trade had dropped barrels and turned heads, quickly getting back to business once they put two and two together, while even the marines around them seemed startled by the smaller officers choice of actions.

'Lowlife scum.. loses the package and still shows up.'

A sharp kick sends the body off at an angle, back towards the sea and into the water.

'Shame, I thought we were under some sort of understanding.'

A sharp whistle emitted from behind the high collar, a small squad standing to attention.

'Some Underground Boss, can't even control a messenger.'

He spat in the direction of the slowly sinking body had him straighten his jacket and walk back towards the ship's ramp.

'I'll find our contacts in the business sectors, see if we can reorganise the meeting.'

'Right, I'll hold up here, give me a shout when we're getting started.'

Getting started? Drea's mind tried to draw answers but was blank, quickly sliding down the surface of her cover as the taller officer and his entourage marched outside of the marine barricade, past her and down the docks to numerous glances and mumblings amongst the citizens. What the hell was that.. There wasn't time to piece it together now, pushing herself to her feet once the coast was clear and forcing herself into a casual jog that slowly increased in pace all the while scrambling inside her jacket for her DenDen. She cut through enough alleys and outside of the bay district to cut herself to slack, skidding to the ground and bumping into a wall already seated and gasping to catch her breath. The DenDen rang and rang, a blank stare towards its closed eyes as she waited for Pan to answer.

'I swear if you're still sleeping..'