It's not over? [Bucket, Deman, Idoc]

[Smiley]

Sinking him had worked! Well, for the few moments where they both slammed underwater, until the point where Bucket would inevitably realise that the man behind the helmet is actually a fishman who is somehow racist against other fishmen. A headache on its own, it only worsened when he revealed that his movement was unimpaired, having a fist slammed into the shell of his head.

The big man was forced to let him go, being pushed back while in the water, a few good amount of shards floating away from his head. A bit of his slimy, nautilus head was revealed, with that one visible, beady red eye stared right at him. This Ensign Havard, who just kept saying bullshit, kept pissing off the already pissed off Bucket. Every word he said now angered him, every action, every movement. Remembering his smarmy grin made him even angrier.

"Let's make a deal. Every word that comes out of your lips is an extra kick to the nuts I'll give you." 
Honestly, this was just a way to make Havard's annoying words something incredibly fun. It wasn't like the marine had a choice in the matter either, it wasn't even a threat, it was a promise! 
So, with that said, he prepared himself to show just why he liked to go underwater so much against annoying enemies.
Water got quickly sucked into his back, a compartment that was kept close to the top of his spine, having it inflate to its full size in just a moment. In a single moment, all of it was expelled out, with enough force behind it to send the Nautilus Fishman blasting off at an almost unrivaled speed, way past Ensign Havard.
It only him a moment to slow down a slight bit to suck up water once again, dashing off yet again, this time, directly at Havard. 
He swung his fist directly at his face, a quick, powerful punch aimed at his helmet, one with enough force and speed to send a shockwave right after the punch, acting very much like an "after-shock" sort of thing, but the after-shock is a projectile.

---

That confidence, the endless smarm, the self assured greatness. It all went away once Monsieur Laskt realized that the rube of a buffoon was learning how to keep balance in their shaky flooring, knowing well that his quick and vicious Fencing Style would likely lose to him if he lost his mobility advantage. In fact, it was imperative that he kept this advantage present, as well as making sure that the defiant rebel wouldn't become a big problem anytime soon.

"Quiet, petulant child." Snorted out Laskt who, by this point, had reached into his cape yet again, using that skilled off-hand of his to throw yet another knife directly at Deman, who was using his blade to keep himself balanced, aiming specially at his right knee. A nice, quick way to make it so that even standing is painful. 
Of course, he made sure that he didn't stay still for too long. Holding the blade high, slightly angled down at Deman, Monsieur Laskt dashed straight at him, assaulting him with a flurry of weaker, yet painful jabs, not even trying to hide his strategy: as a refined man, who was knowledgeable in various things, he knew that the body could go into shock or, worse, an adrenaline rush if he put him through too much pain. 

So he was making sure that Deman felt it like a rain, instead of a crashing wave. Either way, both can eventually make him drown.

[pepsi]

-- CHAPTER 4 // IT'S NOT OVER

Deman knew that taunting his enemy could have put them at a disadvantage, another disadvantage piling up against the already sizeable stack of his handicaps. Nevertheless, he was a tiger: his roar was what distiguished him from the rest. And just like the tiger, his pride would have never lost its balance even in a situation as hard as that.
Taunting was a relevant tactic, one that Deman emplyed time and time again in his fights: sometimes, it forces the opponent to retaliate, and in doing so they lower their guard and become wide open.

And so, the enemy decided to test Deman's balance again. "I know he's going to prevent me from taking a solid footing," Deman thought, looking at the hand of Monsieur Laskt reach behind his cape, "he'll throw a knife at me again."
The first time, Deman was caught off-guard. But this second time... this second time, he knew how to move away from the attack.

He just needed to pick the perfect moment.

...



Every oscillation has a frequency. A chain, tied by its extremes, may oscillate like this...



Or like this...



And so on, increasing the speed of the oscillation. Some points on the chain are special, because for a given frequency they don't move at all. When different frequencies are superimposed together on the same chain, however, finding where they are is no trivial feat.
In fact, when the oscillation is more complex... it becomes extremely difficult.

However, Deman needed to do it right then and there. He needed to understand how to move along with the chain, how to move his feet so that they'd stand precisely where the chain was mostly stationary.
The movement needed to be perfectly timed, and accurately performed.

"Right now!" he uttered, moving his foot backwards. The knife, aimed at his knee, flew right past it and missed the target by an inch; the quick sweeping motion of the leg didn't unbalance him at all.
He had walked over the stationary points, dancing atop the crest of the chain's wave. If only for a brief moment, he dominated it.
He gloated on his accomplishment for just a second, before feeling a sharp pain in his right shoulder.

The enemy wasn't going to give him another chance to get used to it. The Frenchman began his assault, and punctured his shoulder with the rapier; after the initial shock, Deman was forced to scramble backwards in order to avoid the flurry of blows that followed.
"Damn it," he voiced in his mind, "I'm not fast enough yet...!" He nearly avoided most of the attacks, when suddenly he found no more chain under his foot.

He had miscalculated a step, and under the pressure of his enemy, he slipped. "No!"
The other foot followed the first, and Byakko's weight dragged him down towards the deep blue of the sea below. "No!..."

"I am the first and last line of defense."
"I am their leader, now..."
"If I fall... Everything will be lost...!"

Only his left hand found a stable grip on the chain. He clutched it as if not only his life depended on it, but the lives of everyone else.
It was time for him to clench his teeth even harder than before, and hang on.

The impact was tremendous. The natural speed of a fishman in water, combined with the natural gift of Bucket's genetic heritage, summed up to a terrifying amount of explosive force.
His armor caved in, and some of the rivets that held it together snapped under the stress; the breastplate and the helmet detached from the rest, leaving the muscular build of Havard out in the open.
He was covered in thick scales and, without those, he was certain he might have been destroyed along with the armor.

And under that layer of metal, he looked just like Bucket. A hulking fishman, with a burning pride - it was only a misplaced one.
Through his pointed teeth, and gray lips, he declared: "I'll put you in chains, like the inferior that you are."

He bent up his knees again, ready to unleash another attack. A Soru, for sure, but this time delivered inside the water: another aspect in which the two Fishmen were similar, the fast and explosive movement of their fighting styles. "[Soru]!" He yelled as his feet propelled him forward at a speed comparable to that of his opponent, his fists charging up another strike.

-- NAME // Deman Reeves

-- CLASS // E

-- TECHS USED // None.

[Smiley]

"Buk, c'mon! You're way too talented to just drop out!" 
Cried out a young guy, a fishman, in his late teen. Sixteen or seventeen, the uncertainty over the age being a byproduct of his flimsy memory. He was pleading with a younger-looking boy, with a bucket-shaped shell adorning his head, dressed in the school's outfit of a white Gi and, most importantly, a black and white belt - awarded to juniors who have the skill of an "initiate" black belt, though not the life experience of one. 

The young Bucket stopped and looked back at the slightly older student. The Nautilus fishman had already grown taller than him, his muscled physique already showings it first signs of truly settling in. A frown showed on his face, one that he always held, day in and day out.
"I can't, man. Even though we train, we still cannot actually fight them off any better than the elders. ..I'll do something else, instead." 
Not a moment later, he left the school, leaving behind, once and for all he thought, the life of a Fishman Karate practicioner. 
To focus his life in making everyone else smile. 
A smile that he, eventually, adopted as well. 

...

"Inferior?" 
Bucket asked, keeping a close eye on the Ensign, the stupid fool who had reneged his very own race and, now, worked hard in keeping them under chains, suffering, miserable. The detestable idiot who would now have to suffer for his trangressions.
Ironic too that he thought himself superior, when the proud fishman had, during their fight, already figured out something interesting about him - as Bucket knew about Geppo too, he knew that it was quite amazing when it came to mobility: that trainee he saw could use it and the sudden changes in trajectory were interesting, though he never actually managed to replicate them. Soru was interesting too since, though it pained him to admit it, he himself couldn't turn all that well when going super fast - hence using it in short, straight bursts.
The important thing was: it was slow. 
So, when Havard charged at him yet again, he decided to go for a quick gamble and a guess that people who hadn't fully developed those techniques, trajectory control was difficult. 

He pushed himself down. Just a bit, out of his trajectory, cocking his right arm back, opening up his right palm, preparing it for a proper strike: timing couldn't be more perfect as, should his theory prove right, he'd launch it out with full strength and no mercy, hopefully smashing directly into Havard's gut.
"NO ONE'S SUPERIOR TO THE HYPE MASTER!" Roared out the proud fishman, as that blow spread out through his entire body and beyond: a violent technique, one that made his blow stronger and affect a much wider area, one even more destructive than his punch, it could easily launch Havard noisily rocketing out of the water, internals damaged, hopefully screaming.
"Let them hear, you race traitor! YOUR SCREAMS!~"

---

The situation seemed to sour even further when that old-looking young boy, who could be 20 and 50 at the same time, actually dodged his dagger, when he actually started getting a proper foothold and get in tune with the way that the chain oscillated! It was the start, Laskt identified.. first, they mentally took notes and learned how things move and, eventually, it becomes a natural process, much like the chicken, who can keep its head still and body moving along with the higher forces.

Thankfully, his follow-up worked beautifully and, in no time, he had dropped their leader into a precarious position, holding onto the chain by one hand. He'd like to gloat, obviously, but being an efficient fighter, as well as someone who wasn't some kind of idiot, he decided to finish the job AND gloat at the same time.
Quickly enough, he moved his right foot, his leather boot, straight onto Deman's unprotected fingers, cruelly grinding his shole against the knots of his fingers, laughing sadistically, full of satisfaction over his victory.
"The cub tried to step up and, now, the truth is hurting him!~ How long can you hold, upstart? How much can that "devotion and justice" make you ignore the pains of defeat?" He asked, still grinding his boot against his hand, waiting, KNOWING, that it'd be just a simple matter of time before he fell to his doom.. where, surely, Havard would be ready to jump in and take his next prey.

[pepsi]

-- CHAPTER 4 // IT'S NOT OVER?

Deman was hanging by a thread, almost literally. His sole point of contact with the chain being his four fingers and nothing more, he was one open hand away from failure.

If it were any other day, he would have doubled down over all of his mistakes. Choosing unfavourable ground, risking falling multiple times, and generally not being quite skilled enough to match up. He would have taken all of those mistakes, and figuratively cried himself over them - until they faded away in his memory, but not in his heart.
He would have done that, if he was alone. He would have done that, if he had nothing to lose. He would have done that, if he hadn't begun to write his story just a few days prior.

"If I fall... the spark that I have created..."

His enemy's sole ground against his fingers, and those in turn ground against the metal; it was a terrible feeling, and the pain that ensued was precisely what the Frenchman wanted to savor before taking his victory.

"All that I have done..."

Deman growled in pain, trying not to give to his opponent the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

---

At the very bottom of his heart, Deman knew that his mentor was too old and weak to get over such a terrible wound. The clash between the slave army and the guards left many a victim on the battlefield; it was only by pure chance that the sword missed Bryn's heart and vital organs. Deman stood by the side of his bed as the medics tried to tend to the man's wounds.
"Praeceptor... I don't want you to go. I'm not ready yet, I need to grow, and study and..." He sniffled, and rubbed his eyes; he didn't want to cry, but most of all he didn't want a reason over which to cry.
"What's going to happen to our Revolution if you don't make it? Your ideals..."
"Deman, fili mi. You see, ideals never die. They will keep living, walking and breathing with new people. Ideals are entrusted to the next generation." His old, lightly shriveled hand went to touch Deman's own clenched fists.
"And now, I entrust all I have to you. What matters now is that you fight, for if we stop fighting, we shall lose everything."

---

"All the people that gained their freedom... it would have all been for nothing!"

If in doubt, against a swordsman, make them lose the sword. Without their strongest weapon, swordsmen cannot fight as effectively - it is just not possible. That was the reason why Deman always came prepared, and like a samurai with his wakizashi or a rogue with his hidden knives, his clothing concealed a second blade. With his free hand, he subtly unsheathed it from its hidden compartment.
A dagger, that he named after the title of his mentor, Genbu. It had no particular quality other than being his last resort - if worse came to worse, he had to make use of it. And with a blade in his hand, Deman knew he had no choice but to play his last card.

Waves are an amazing phenomenon. They lie at the basis of most physics, and they often come into play in ways that one would not expect. He had touched the waves, he had felt them; he had controlled them - if only for one moment - below his feet. But there was another application of such a versatile tool, one that Deman himself had been trying to develop.
He didn't like the idea of having to use it that early in development, since it was still a little rough around the edges: double edges, for sure, since his most powerful attack could backfire and hurt him more than his opponent.

If it were any other day, he wouldn't have used it. If it were any other day, he would have kept it even a little longer, at the cost of losing a few fingers.

But it wasn't the day to hold back.

"白虎の..."
"[Byakko no...]"

The hand that held the knife started twitching. Soon, his fingers, and then the forearm whole, followed the rhythmic dance. The dagger was invested with vibrational energy, collecting the motion of his muscle fibers lengthening and contracting.
One last attack, going all out.

"轟然牙ー!"
"[Gozen Kiba!]"

He shot the clenched fist upwards, punching the air. All the massive amounts of energy stored in the knife violently projected onto the outside, investing the enemy in a thunderous explosion of compression and depression.
The roar of the tiger arose from the sea towards the sky, soaring through the air. Deman planted the knife in between two links of chain to get some support after the strenuous battle.
A ringing in his ears was all that was left from the attack.

"I am their leader... I won't let this fade away. He passed it on to me, the spark of the Revolution."

Havard should have seen it coming. He wasn't the best, when it came to Rokushiki; he liked them well enough because they weren't a puny Fishman Karate technique. Destiny would have it, with his characteristic irony, that he would have lost to a Fishman Karate practitioner.
The punch connected with maximum efficiency, and the bulky body of the fishman was shot up towards the interface between air and water; he didn't stop, and like a mullet he jumped high up.
Keith Havard's glassy eyes gave away his condition of utter unconsciousness; a terrifying defeat, being stripped of his armour and his pride after being defeated by a creature most hated.

He traced a narrow arc above the water before splashing again into it, face towards the abyss, hopefully still breathing.

-- NAME // Deman Reeves

-- CLASS // D

-- TECHS USED // 白虎の轟然牙 - Byakko no Gozen Kiba Though twitching of his muscles, Deman generates a series of pressure waves that propagate into the weapon or object he's holding. Then, he brings the weapon forward in a punching motion; the stored energy is released and amplified by the weapon, and is projected outwards in the form of a shockwave that blasts a large area in front of him.
Lighter objects and creatures that aren't tied to the ground can be pushed backwards from the blast's power.
Translation: "Roaring Fang of the White Tiger".