[ Closed - Finished Log | They say you've got a hold on me ]
Characters: Kisame and Tenten
Date: February 10th
Location: Tenten's shop; Lower Tier, Slums
Rating/Warnings: G/VERY slight flirting
Summary: In a not-so-stalkerish kind of way, Kisame tracks down his mystery woman to a quaint little shop in the Lower Tier
There was a point in time in which certain people decided certain things such as: what they wanted to be when they grew up, who they wanted to look like, which college they planned on going to, so on and so forth. (This was the part of the story that did not make sense. That, in which most beings provided to be useful to society in someway- shape or form. There were oddities in which enveloped a perfect world into reality and those were the type of entities which served to be the complication- the very pinnacle for a complete story.) Kisame was none of those. (Hoshigaki was even less of a name. He cast it aside like a perfectly wasted piece of unused paper.) From the very tips of his messy-styled hair to the soles of his black 'Italian-style' shoes was the making of a useless creature which served to be nothing but the minor trouble in which society claimed as small rodents and antagonists quickly pushed to the side of their rampage.
This was the future of Kisame's once highly stylized life. (Apart from the luster of his sword- sheathed in a smooth case attached to his side, he was a rather troublesome rodent. The Seven Swordsmen had long since died out and Spirix was no longer what it used to be. Kisame was a shadow of himself and preferred it to be that way. Nonetheless, it didn't stop him from-)
He was already receiving looks from the sidewalks- glistening eyes attaching themselves to the smooth cotton of his pressed button-down shirt (the t-shirt he wore underneath was black. He had long since decided that he didn't care what he wore, because it all looked good on him, and that if he were to step in front of a mirror, perhaps even Itachi might have approve. Because, very rarely did anything matter to Kisame. This must've been-) An occasion where he put his knowledge and skills to work. No doubt, it was all for a woman. No doubt, he was walking towards the best metal-smith shop in the entire lower tier; perhaps the best in the entire Spirix. (Then again, Kisame did not push aside the sliding door because he was judging her craftsmanship.)
It was a beautiful (fake) day outside.
Though hours had passed since her return from the sweltering fields of the Wastelands, sweat still clung to Tenten's lithe form. It was a normal feeling, and for at least two days out of the week, it was something that the young woman suffered through with unending patience and tolerance. After all this time, it had become nothing more than habit and routine that her week would proceed as such. These were the tasks that needed to be done in order to ensure that her business stayed afloat. To be certain that she would be able to live long enough to serve her purpose in the Underground organization. And perhaps whatever other purpose the young woman might find in the future.
Because Tenten was the last, frayed string of an almost dead legacy.
With her limited means as well as a strong decline in the profession itself, Tenten could not afford to mine for her own metals. Nor could she muster enough of an income to be able to constantly buy the needed materials to support her ever inventive mind off the open market. For someone with her social and economic status, such things were rare and thus expensive to obtain. Hence Tenten's trips to the Wastelands.
'One man's trash is another man's treasure,' as the saying went. And while it was a big hassle to trudge through the piles and piles of discarded garbage, it was well worth it if Tenten could find enough scrap metal to work with. For that, she could live with the distinct smell of baked flesh, sweat, and grime that clung to her skin. That mingled with the sharp scents lingering in the shop. Considering the poor conditions of the Slums, she was a rose.
Huddled over her workbench with only her breathing filling in the silence, it was not hard to hear the approaching sound of footsteps along the broken roads. Good, Tenten thought as she carefully pinned another wire into place. The shop had been slow all afternoon. Another presence would be a nice change. Then again, that would probably have to depend on the person.
He grinned a sheep's grin (really, though, it was-).
"Damn, fox, you're so hot you're burning yourself up." Kisame snicked underneath his baited breath while he searched the shop, piling through the archives of scrap metal fashioned into both oddities and somewhat-masterpieces- for when the craftsmen felt artistic, he supposed.
The air was stale and wound in tight lines. (The bow's hair was not plucked from horses.) The very pluck of it was pitched sharp. Kisame recoiled back into his shell and breathed out carbon dioxide- smoothly built to a ragged stance. He hated being here. He hated the way the people cries from their towers and he hated the way he stepped on the streets. The slow build-up of disgust exploded into nothing when they reached their maximum height, however. (Kisame has dealt with a psychopath's rage before. His is far below that bar.) Everything reminded him of-
The
Old
Days.
(Those were words he thought of on rare occasions. Instead, he was occupied with slang and sexual slander.)
"Where do you keep the good stuff?" He spoke, breaking the noise of her heavy breathing. (Cantbreathcantbreathwhat the hell?)
Even at the distinct sound of his voice and the way it broke through the quiet stillness that had settled in the shop -- the way his chosen nickname for her landed harshly on Tenten's stiff, feminine pride as well as her ears -- the young woman still did not bother to glance up from her work. Her concentration, she decided, would be better spent on the task at hand. Especially when she was so close to completing the modifications on the portable infra-red scanner. Weeks of tests, failures, and hard work to ensure that everything would run as expected. Considering (assuming) he was going out of his way just to show up this far down in the city, he could wait another moment.
After all, Tenten already knew who it was. Or at the very least, she had a good idea of who was standing at her door. There was only one person who had used such a name in reference to her. A recently made acquaintance of sorts, if he could even be called such. They had not even exchanged names, nor discussed much else beyond their shared interest in blades and live steel. Although if the young metalsmith had to take a guess, he had a fairly good grip on technology to be able to track her to the Lower Tier through the Network.
"Tch," she scoffed quietly, "Like I'm gonna tell you..."
And even as she spoke, Tenten was securing the last of the wires and tapering off the excess material so that nothing could go awry. That done, she deposited her tools in their appropriate drawers and set the scanner aside before approaching the new arrival. And though the young woman knew that it would be best to at least be courteous to a potential customer, there was no helping the attitude. And the suspicion. "What are you doing here?"
Putting aside a small trinket back on it's respectable shelf, he smirked as he lifted eyes to her working-body.
"I don't break promises, fox."
(Kisame is such a good liar.)
He walked- prideful, strideful steps when he looked to his left- up to the counter so examine the dated-machine. (Air was robbed of him with so brutality that it threw his system off track, fighting to catch his breath and make it soso even. How far from the Spire was he?) His finger poked at the exterior with his brow lifted in feigned-curiosity. Boring. Terribly boring, he decided, that the lower tier was so inefficient with their timing and their culture. Everything was far too slow here for his likings. It was as if time slowed the further away from the Spire he got to. He hoped that his bike wouldn't be stolen out in the edge by the likes of people such as Herself.
(Borderline disgust concealed underneath snarky remarks and a cooled outlining.)
He had removed his Akatsuki ring from his finger.
The way he eyed her project did not go unnoticed. Hardly. Especially when the man did not even bother to make a great show of hiding his reaction to everything. No matter. Let him judge everything as he would. Her appearance in reference to her character. The condition of the shop in accordance to the quality of her products. The more convinced he and others were with what rested on the surface, the easier it would be come to prove them all wrong. After all, it was the advanced modifications on a Hyuuga scanner that had given Tenten a job with the big corporation as well as access (albeit, extremely limited) to the company's information mainframe.
"And what promise was that?" the young metalsmith inquired, biting yet still with an air of indifference, "To amuse yourself with tracking down my humble little business?"
True, things in the Lower Tier were not exactly up to speed with the standards in the higher tiers. But they all made due with what life had given them, and worked hard to earn their survival just as much as anyone else in Spirix. Perhaps even moreso. No one could take that sort of pride away. "I'm sure you have better things to do with your time."
"Correct in all but one area." He raised his eyes to the fluff above her forehead and glanced at her focused-eyes down on her project.
(Akatsuki had many goals and many areas of interests.)
It was then that he leaned down and whispered, as if hiding from someone. He exaggerated his attempts to seek out any means of false play and eavesdropping. He whispered in such a harsh tone of voice that the sorts of the paraphernalia that he made efforts to avoid would certainly pick up on his voice. (Kisame played far too much, Itachi said.) Through sharp teeth and baited breath he whispered, "I'm hiding from my boss."
He-
(died.)
-laughed.
(Hard.)
All the world's a stage. Kisame is simply an
actor.
And like a careful dance between partners her body shifted in accordance to his movements, taking a small step back as he leaned forward to whisper so carefully in Tenten's ear. Like some intimate secret -- some great joke -- shared among friends. Lovers. But in this life and in this world, there were few that she could consider worthy of trust. With lives. Or something as simple as a piece of machinery. Him, probably least of all. Why this stranger would even bother to travel all this way was a mystery at best. Suspicious at worse. To meet with someone he had only spoken with once over the Network. Indeed, there was a great cause to be cautious. And even though there were no signs of hostility, it was better that she took no risks until his intentions became more clear.
"Next time you wanna hide from your boss, look elsewhere." And with that, she snatched up the scanner from the counter, intent on placing it out of his line of view. The less time he had to study it, the better chance Tenten had that he would not end up stealing it. Out of curiosity. Of amusement. Or simply because of some sick notion that it would give him a reason to come back. No. There would be no chances for any of that. "This isn't some playground for you to use and waste my time."
Shifting her stance just a fraction, Tenten easily pressed her knuckles to the soft curve of her hip. A simple gesture, but one that fully conveyed the woman's attitude towards him. "Now, what exactly is it that you want, here? Because if this is just a social call, you might as well turn right back around and leave."
The man sighed, leaning back away from the counter and presenting her defense with his surrender- hands near his chest with palms faced towards her. He pushed the non-existent air away from him (toxic, terrible thing) and towards the metal-smith. (The purpose of Akatsuki was of no concern to Kisame, no matter his level of intelligence on the premise, nor his level of partake. He was there to exist and to be carried by the waves that swept the rest of Spirix off of it's feet. The only main course that set his path away from the others was that he wasn't going to be the one destroyed. If all the world is a stage, then Kisame is a flicker of a spark in the massive fire that burns down the earth. He was neither kind nor unkind.)
"Alright, alright. I've been looking for a blade. Something primal, a base that can have room for upgrades but still function without them. You got anything like that that'll be somewhat of a use to someone who uses it too often?"
(Shopping.)
Definitely a-
(liar?)
Tenten sighed as well, though probably for a different reason than his. At the very least, his little game seemed to be over. Or simply placed on the back-burner to be picked up another time. No matter. He was being serious now, and the promise of a potential customer easily swept the young woman's previous disposition aside. And from the sound of it, the other seemed to know what he was talking about in regards to blades. So, that was enough to stay Tenten's fraying nerves. Or at least distract them long enough to get through the rest of this encounter.
Regarding him for just a moment more -- skepticism was a hard beast to tame -- the metal-smith shifted gears into business mode. With relative nonchalance, she touched the pad of her middle and ring fingers to the appropriate patch indicated in the fabric. And in an instance, the electric impulses that lined the seams of Tenten's fingerless gloves blinked into action, bringing up a holographic screen in the palm of her hand.
"I don't have anything like that in stock, at the moment," she replied, easily moving through the menus and applications, "But if you are willing to wait, one can be made for you."
Which meant that he would have to come back at a later time to pick it up. And this painful experience would only be followed by another. A great price to pay to keep her business running. But one Tenten was willing to suffer through. Especially since the last two trips out into the harsh reality of the Wastelands proved unfruitful in the least.
"What do you have now?" He smirked. "And do you have analyzation charts for each blade you've made? I want to know what the fuck you're melting down there besides hearts, fox."
Kisame took strides around the store, searching for anything that might've been to his interest. A glass display-box encompassed a small, gleaming dagger. Everything white in the city was prized. Everything that held luster was held up to the sky and the big (fake) sun to shineshineshine all day long. Perhaps this was why he had such of an affinity for darker metals. It was the only thing that could receive such little attention that could hold such secrets in store. The sheath he kept at his side was bandaged in white wraps. It could only mean- (-red. His blade was red. Stained forever in his victims' blood that he so carelessly shed on the occasion that he was let off of his leash. This was his-) Best Friend.
(Kisame despised all things that gleamed in the sunshine. Everyone knew far too much about things that were interesting.)
His interests were
much
much
deeper.
"Whatever you see around here on display, for the most part," Tenten responded, gesturing to the daggers and sheathed swords mounted along the walls and encased behind unbreakable glass cases -- ignoring the comment he made in reference to herself -- "There are some more in the back, but none of them are finished."
To her, metalwork was an art-form. Beautiful. Sinful. And impossibly difficult with the amount of heat that was required to melt down the material into the various alloys. The amount of patience it took to fashion each and every piece specifically to perfection could very well crack the most hardened of resolves. But as she had discovered long ago, it was a profession best suited for her. And Tenten held on to that knowledge with pride.
"It might not seem all that impressive, but not many people in the Lower Tier have a great need for pretty things... as you've probably have noticed." Indeed, most if not all orders that Tenten received were for simple blades with a basic handle and a paper-thin edge that would be able to endure through the test of time in between sharpenings. Practical. Understandable. What was the point of crafting a clean, pristine weapon when it would only be soiled by use? -- By the blood and death of others? -- No one down there had the luxury of wasting their hard earned money in such a way. "As long as it strikes hard and lasts long, they could care less."
(The Japanese Business-Card.)
"Here. Call me when you get something finished. I can't commission you if I can't see anything." Kisame's calloused fingers slapped a very thin piece of steel on the counter with a number on it. "We'll talk later about metal and materials. Prepare a sample, will you?"
(That's what the old language called it- meiji.)
A brow lifted into his forehead, the creases below his hairline were defined. He was not young. But the build of his body said otherwise. Too many doses of vitamins and steroids tightened his skin and made him impervious to paper-cuts. (What a strange woman, that Konan. He vowed against her gaze and the paper flower that was kept in her hair. He vowed against the Uchiha languge and opted to obey his commands. He vowed against his tongue and against Spirixian ideals. It was not a wonder that not one woman would stay with him for more than a night.)
"Name your price~"
Like silk.
Dark
Egotistical
Silk.
And even before his hand lifted from the counter, she was already reaching for the thin metal plate. It was certainly an interesting way to pass along his business. The uniqueness of it alone was enough to catch anyone's attention. And perhaps keep it there. But then again, nothing about this man so far seemed all that typical in Tenten's eyes. The way he spoke -- flirted -- was the same as many others that had come into the shop to find a female owner, yes. But it was effortless. Annoyingly so. However, unlike the majority of those who walked through the door, he seemed to know when to cut his losses. Or at the very least when to save himself from a violent rejection.
For the briefest of moments, she felt -- not the brush of his fingers, Tenten would not be so girlish as to even allow that to happen accidentally -- the faint whisper of heat that radiated from his body. That radiated from all bodies. In the overwelming shadow of the Slums, the sun's rays were shielded from them because of the plates that housed the tiers above them. That was why flowers never grew there. That was why the air was always a few degrees colder than the other levels.
But in that split second when the little prickle of his presence brushed against her own, Tenten could not help but take note. A lack of trust in others meant that human contact in general were few and far in between. Reserved for the brief exchanges between customer and seller. The thought was quickly pushed aside however -- such romanticism had no place in Spirix -- and she continued without pause. "My price depends on what you ask me to make. Some items need more attention to detail than others. Some blades... need rare metals that are hard to find." A clean sweep of her hand and Tenten picked up his card and quickly scanned over the number etched in the smooth surface. "But we can discuss that when I actually finish the other pieces."
He winked.
"I'll keep in touch, then."
Kisame knew when to leave.
"Oh, I'm sure you will."
'Know when to cut your losses,' Tenten thought. And with that in mind, she could not keep the little quirk of her lips from forming into a small smirk. Smart. Or maybe that was simply part of his tactic. Either way, the experience was... less difficult that what she initially thought it would be. After he stopped trying, in any case. "But thank you for coming."
For a moment, the young woman just watched as he walked away. But before he reached the door, she had the incentive to call out to him -- people always said that she was a masochist -- "By the way, my name's Tenten."
And with a customary wave, a small smile, she watched him disappear.
Date: February 10th
Location: Tenten's shop; Lower Tier, Slums
Rating/Warnings: G/VERY slight flirting
Summary: In a not-so-stalkerish kind of way, Kisame tracks down his mystery woman to a quaint little shop in the Lower Tier
There was a point in time in which certain people decided certain things such as: what they wanted to be when they grew up, who they wanted to look like, which college they planned on going to, so on and so forth. (This was the part of the story that did not make sense. That, in which most beings provided to be useful to society in someway- shape or form. There were oddities in which enveloped a perfect world into reality and those were the type of entities which served to be the complication- the very pinnacle for a complete story.) Kisame was none of those. (Hoshigaki was even less of a name. He cast it aside like a perfectly wasted piece of unused paper.) From the very tips of his messy-styled hair to the soles of his black 'Italian-style' shoes was the making of a useless creature which served to be nothing but the minor trouble in which society claimed as small rodents and antagonists quickly pushed to the side of their rampage.
This was the future of Kisame's once highly stylized life. (Apart from the luster of his sword- sheathed in a smooth case attached to his side, he was a rather troublesome rodent. The Seven Swordsmen had long since died out and Spirix was no longer what it used to be. Kisame was a shadow of himself and preferred it to be that way. Nonetheless, it didn't stop him from-)
He was already receiving looks from the sidewalks- glistening eyes attaching themselves to the smooth cotton of his pressed button-down shirt (the t-shirt he wore underneath was black. He had long since decided that he didn't care what he wore, because it all looked good on him, and that if he were to step in front of a mirror, perhaps even Itachi might have approve. Because, very rarely did anything matter to Kisame. This must've been-) An occasion where he put his knowledge and skills to work. No doubt, it was all for a woman. No doubt, he was walking towards the best metal-smith shop in the entire lower tier; perhaps the best in the entire Spirix. (Then again, Kisame did not push aside the sliding door because he was judging her craftsmanship.)
It was a beautiful (fake) day outside.
Though hours had passed since her return from the sweltering fields of the Wastelands, sweat still clung to Tenten's lithe form. It was a normal feeling, and for at least two days out of the week, it was something that the young woman suffered through with unending patience and tolerance. After all this time, it had become nothing more than habit and routine that her week would proceed as such. These were the tasks that needed to be done in order to ensure that her business stayed afloat. To be certain that she would be able to live long enough to serve her purpose in the Underground organization. And perhaps whatever other purpose the young woman might find in the future.
Because Tenten was the last, frayed string of an almost dead legacy.
With her limited means as well as a strong decline in the profession itself, Tenten could not afford to mine for her own metals. Nor could she muster enough of an income to be able to constantly buy the needed materials to support her ever inventive mind off the open market. For someone with her social and economic status, such things were rare and thus expensive to obtain. Hence Tenten's trips to the Wastelands.
'One man's trash is another man's treasure,' as the saying went. And while it was a big hassle to trudge through the piles and piles of discarded garbage, it was well worth it if Tenten could find enough scrap metal to work with. For that, she could live with the distinct smell of baked flesh, sweat, and grime that clung to her skin. That mingled with the sharp scents lingering in the shop. Considering the poor conditions of the Slums, she was a rose.
Huddled over her workbench with only her breathing filling in the silence, it was not hard to hear the approaching sound of footsteps along the broken roads. Good, Tenten thought as she carefully pinned another wire into place. The shop had been slow all afternoon. Another presence would be a nice change. Then again, that would probably have to depend on the person.
He grinned a sheep's grin (really, though, it was-).
"Damn, fox, you're so hot you're burning yourself up." Kisame snicked underneath his baited breath while he searched the shop, piling through the archives of scrap metal fashioned into both oddities and somewhat-masterpieces- for when the craftsmen felt artistic, he supposed.
The air was stale and wound in tight lines. (The bow's hair was not plucked from horses.) The very pluck of it was pitched sharp. Kisame recoiled back into his shell and breathed out carbon dioxide- smoothly built to a ragged stance. He hated being here. He hated the way the people cries from their towers and he hated the way he stepped on the streets. The slow build-up of disgust exploded into nothing when they reached their maximum height, however. (Kisame has dealt with a psychopath's rage before. His is far below that bar.) Everything reminded him of-
The
Old
Days.
(Those were words he thought of on rare occasions. Instead, he was occupied with slang and sexual slander.)
"Where do you keep the good stuff?" He spoke, breaking the noise of her heavy breathing. (Cantbreathcantbreathwhat the hell?)
Even at the distinct sound of his voice and the way it broke through the quiet stillness that had settled in the shop -- the way his chosen nickname for her landed harshly on Tenten's stiff, feminine pride as well as her ears -- the young woman still did not bother to glance up from her work. Her concentration, she decided, would be better spent on the task at hand. Especially when she was so close to completing the modifications on the portable infra-red scanner. Weeks of tests, failures, and hard work to ensure that everything would run as expected. Considering (assuming) he was going out of his way just to show up this far down in the city, he could wait another moment.
After all, Tenten already knew who it was. Or at the very least, she had a good idea of who was standing at her door. There was only one person who had used such a name in reference to her. A recently made acquaintance of sorts, if he could even be called such. They had not even exchanged names, nor discussed much else beyond their shared interest in blades and live steel. Although if the young metalsmith had to take a guess, he had a fairly good grip on technology to be able to track her to the Lower Tier through the Network.
"Tch," she scoffed quietly, "Like I'm gonna tell you..."
And even as she spoke, Tenten was securing the last of the wires and tapering off the excess material so that nothing could go awry. That done, she deposited her tools in their appropriate drawers and set the scanner aside before approaching the new arrival. And though the young woman knew that it would be best to at least be courteous to a potential customer, there was no helping the attitude. And the suspicion. "What are you doing here?"
Putting aside a small trinket back on it's respectable shelf, he smirked as he lifted eyes to her working-body.
"I don't break promises, fox."
(Kisame is such a good liar.)
He walked- prideful, strideful steps when he looked to his left- up to the counter so examine the dated-machine. (Air was robbed of him with so brutality that it threw his system off track, fighting to catch his breath and make it soso even. How far from the Spire was he?) His finger poked at the exterior with his brow lifted in feigned-curiosity. Boring. Terribly boring, he decided, that the lower tier was so inefficient with their timing and their culture. Everything was far too slow here for his likings. It was as if time slowed the further away from the Spire he got to. He hoped that his bike wouldn't be stolen out in the edge by the likes of people such as Herself.
(Borderline disgust concealed underneath snarky remarks and a cooled outlining.)
He had removed his Akatsuki ring from his finger.
The way he eyed her project did not go unnoticed. Hardly. Especially when the man did not even bother to make a great show of hiding his reaction to everything. No matter. Let him judge everything as he would. Her appearance in reference to her character. The condition of the shop in accordance to the quality of her products. The more convinced he and others were with what rested on the surface, the easier it would be come to prove them all wrong. After all, it was the advanced modifications on a Hyuuga scanner that had given Tenten a job with the big corporation as well as access (albeit, extremely limited) to the company's information mainframe.
"And what promise was that?" the young metalsmith inquired, biting yet still with an air of indifference, "To amuse yourself with tracking down my humble little business?"
True, things in the Lower Tier were not exactly up to speed with the standards in the higher tiers. But they all made due with what life had given them, and worked hard to earn their survival just as much as anyone else in Spirix. Perhaps even moreso. No one could take that sort of pride away. "I'm sure you have better things to do with your time."
"Correct in all but one area." He raised his eyes to the fluff above her forehead and glanced at her focused-eyes down on her project.
(Akatsuki had many goals and many areas of interests.)
It was then that he leaned down and whispered, as if hiding from someone. He exaggerated his attempts to seek out any means of false play and eavesdropping. He whispered in such a harsh tone of voice that the sorts of the paraphernalia that he made efforts to avoid would certainly pick up on his voice. (Kisame played far too much, Itachi said.) Through sharp teeth and baited breath he whispered, "I'm hiding from my boss."
He-
(died.)
-laughed.
(Hard.)
All the world's a stage. Kisame is simply an
actor.
And like a careful dance between partners her body shifted in accordance to his movements, taking a small step back as he leaned forward to whisper so carefully in Tenten's ear. Like some intimate secret -- some great joke -- shared among friends. Lovers. But in this life and in this world, there were few that she could consider worthy of trust. With lives. Or something as simple as a piece of machinery. Him, probably least of all. Why this stranger would even bother to travel all this way was a mystery at best. Suspicious at worse. To meet with someone he had only spoken with once over the Network. Indeed, there was a great cause to be cautious. And even though there were no signs of hostility, it was better that she took no risks until his intentions became more clear.
"Next time you wanna hide from your boss, look elsewhere." And with that, she snatched up the scanner from the counter, intent on placing it out of his line of view. The less time he had to study it, the better chance Tenten had that he would not end up stealing it. Out of curiosity. Of amusement. Or simply because of some sick notion that it would give him a reason to come back. No. There would be no chances for any of that. "This isn't some playground for you to use and waste my time."
Shifting her stance just a fraction, Tenten easily pressed her knuckles to the soft curve of her hip. A simple gesture, but one that fully conveyed the woman's attitude towards him. "Now, what exactly is it that you want, here? Because if this is just a social call, you might as well turn right back around and leave."
The man sighed, leaning back away from the counter and presenting her defense with his surrender- hands near his chest with palms faced towards her. He pushed the non-existent air away from him (toxic, terrible thing) and towards the metal-smith. (The purpose of Akatsuki was of no concern to Kisame, no matter his level of intelligence on the premise, nor his level of partake. He was there to exist and to be carried by the waves that swept the rest of Spirix off of it's feet. The only main course that set his path away from the others was that he wasn't going to be the one destroyed. If all the world is a stage, then Kisame is a flicker of a spark in the massive fire that burns down the earth. He was neither kind nor unkind.)
"Alright, alright. I've been looking for a blade. Something primal, a base that can have room for upgrades but still function without them. You got anything like that that'll be somewhat of a use to someone who uses it too often?"
(Shopping.)
Definitely a-
(liar?)
Tenten sighed as well, though probably for a different reason than his. At the very least, his little game seemed to be over. Or simply placed on the back-burner to be picked up another time. No matter. He was being serious now, and the promise of a potential customer easily swept the young woman's previous disposition aside. And from the sound of it, the other seemed to know what he was talking about in regards to blades. So, that was enough to stay Tenten's fraying nerves. Or at least distract them long enough to get through the rest of this encounter.
Regarding him for just a moment more -- skepticism was a hard beast to tame -- the metal-smith shifted gears into business mode. With relative nonchalance, she touched the pad of her middle and ring fingers to the appropriate patch indicated in the fabric. And in an instance, the electric impulses that lined the seams of Tenten's fingerless gloves blinked into action, bringing up a holographic screen in the palm of her hand.
"I don't have anything like that in stock, at the moment," she replied, easily moving through the menus and applications, "But if you are willing to wait, one can be made for you."
Which meant that he would have to come back at a later time to pick it up. And this painful experience would only be followed by another. A great price to pay to keep her business running. But one Tenten was willing to suffer through. Especially since the last two trips out into the harsh reality of the Wastelands proved unfruitful in the least.
"What do you have now?" He smirked. "And do you have analyzation charts for each blade you've made? I want to know what the fuck you're melting down there besides hearts, fox."
Kisame took strides around the store, searching for anything that might've been to his interest. A glass display-box encompassed a small, gleaming dagger. Everything white in the city was prized. Everything that held luster was held up to the sky and the big (fake) sun to shineshineshine all day long. Perhaps this was why he had such of an affinity for darker metals. It was the only thing that could receive such little attention that could hold such secrets in store. The sheath he kept at his side was bandaged in white wraps. It could only mean- (-red. His blade was red. Stained forever in his victims' blood that he so carelessly shed on the occasion that he was let off of his leash. This was his-) Best Friend.
(Kisame despised all things that gleamed in the sunshine. Everyone knew far too much about things that were interesting.)
His interests were
much
much
deeper.
"Whatever you see around here on display, for the most part," Tenten responded, gesturing to the daggers and sheathed swords mounted along the walls and encased behind unbreakable glass cases -- ignoring the comment he made in reference to herself -- "There are some more in the back, but none of them are finished."
To her, metalwork was an art-form. Beautiful. Sinful. And impossibly difficult with the amount of heat that was required to melt down the material into the various alloys. The amount of patience it took to fashion each and every piece specifically to perfection could very well crack the most hardened of resolves. But as she had discovered long ago, it was a profession best suited for her. And Tenten held on to that knowledge with pride.
"It might not seem all that impressive, but not many people in the Lower Tier have a great need for pretty things... as you've probably have noticed." Indeed, most if not all orders that Tenten received were for simple blades with a basic handle and a paper-thin edge that would be able to endure through the test of time in between sharpenings. Practical. Understandable. What was the point of crafting a clean, pristine weapon when it would only be soiled by use? -- By the blood and death of others? -- No one down there had the luxury of wasting their hard earned money in such a way. "As long as it strikes hard and lasts long, they could care less."
(The Japanese Business-Card.)
"Here. Call me when you get something finished. I can't commission you if I can't see anything." Kisame's calloused fingers slapped a very thin piece of steel on the counter with a number on it. "We'll talk later about metal and materials. Prepare a sample, will you?"
(That's what the old language called it- meiji.)
A brow lifted into his forehead, the creases below his hairline were defined. He was not young. But the build of his body said otherwise. Too many doses of vitamins and steroids tightened his skin and made him impervious to paper-cuts. (What a strange woman, that Konan. He vowed against her gaze and the paper flower that was kept in her hair. He vowed against the Uchiha languge and opted to obey his commands. He vowed against his tongue and against Spirixian ideals. It was not a wonder that not one woman would stay with him for more than a night.)
"Name your price~"
Like silk.
Dark
Egotistical
Silk.
And even before his hand lifted from the counter, she was already reaching for the thin metal plate. It was certainly an interesting way to pass along his business. The uniqueness of it alone was enough to catch anyone's attention. And perhaps keep it there. But then again, nothing about this man so far seemed all that typical in Tenten's eyes. The way he spoke -- flirted -- was the same as many others that had come into the shop to find a female owner, yes. But it was effortless. Annoyingly so. However, unlike the majority of those who walked through the door, he seemed to know when to cut his losses. Or at the very least when to save himself from a violent rejection.
For the briefest of moments, she felt -- not the brush of his fingers, Tenten would not be so girlish as to even allow that to happen accidentally -- the faint whisper of heat that radiated from his body. That radiated from all bodies. In the overwelming shadow of the Slums, the sun's rays were shielded from them because of the plates that housed the tiers above them. That was why flowers never grew there. That was why the air was always a few degrees colder than the other levels.
But in that split second when the little prickle of his presence brushed against her own, Tenten could not help but take note. A lack of trust in others meant that human contact in general were few and far in between. Reserved for the brief exchanges between customer and seller. The thought was quickly pushed aside however -- such romanticism had no place in Spirix -- and she continued without pause. "My price depends on what you ask me to make. Some items need more attention to detail than others. Some blades... need rare metals that are hard to find." A clean sweep of her hand and Tenten picked up his card and quickly scanned over the number etched in the smooth surface. "But we can discuss that when I actually finish the other pieces."
He winked.
"I'll keep in touch, then."
Kisame knew when to leave.
"Oh, I'm sure you will."
'Know when to cut your losses,' Tenten thought. And with that in mind, she could not keep the little quirk of her lips from forming into a small smirk. Smart. Or maybe that was simply part of his tactic. Either way, the experience was... less difficult that what she initially thought it would be. After he stopped trying, in any case. "But thank you for coming."
For a moment, the young woman just watched as he walked away. But before he reached the door, she had the incentive to call out to him -- people always said that she was a masochist -- "By the way, my name's Tenten."
And with a customary wave, a small smile, she watched him disappear.