LOST & FOUND.

          “I don’t need your help,” she spits immediately; true, though she could certainly use it.  But she can stand, and she can drag herself back to her shitty apartment, and that’s FINE as far as she’s concerned.

                  The inquiry has a dark brow raising as she wipes some stubborn blood from her lip with her thumb --- not many CARED that much about where they had learned so long as they got to watch them BEAT THE SHIT out of each other.  She leans against the wall { partly to appear more casual, partly because her head is spinning } as the girl offers reply, tone SLIGHTLY less toxic than it had been a moment ago.

      Response summons suspicion, loathe as she is to admit it.  Not that his outfit or GENERAL DEMEANOR is one which inspires boundless trust in strangers.  Hands cross, brass knuckles conspicuous in such a pose, as she speaks with too much nonchalance.  A WARNING.

Interest remains true, but it’s suspicion that reveals itself next; knitting its way between his brows and narrowing pale lids, tightening the line of his mouth into something subtly wary. He should be used to this, by now. An undesired reputation had managed to build itself behind his back, away from his desires and attempts to keep to himself, the Committee the cause and his friends the enthused. Fighting besides them during their last great battle had woven something between them that had felt somewhat lost during his time away; a previous alliance that had never really faded, a recognition of good that the darkness within him riled against. 

And if anything, he cannot agree to appreciating being known by others before he knows of them. It felt wrong, pressuring“ breeding expectations and assumptions before he’d been offered a chance to set them true. He was a private man and always would be, but he's no less logical to the way the minds of others could work. There's lingering doubt that she’d meant discomfort in her introduction, and he nods languidly, cautiously, opting against uttering the conflict he knew he could form. 

Instead, he allows muted curiosity to stain his words and draw his gaze.

    “You remind me of someone.     Where did you learn?”

        Oh --- has she done something wrong already?  For she watches him draw into his skin, into his shell { when you are hurt enough, skin hardens and it becomes all the same thing, really } with eyes too sharp for one so young; she has never been taught but she has learned all the same to catch the minutest of hidden things, for how else could she imitate those who FELT THINGS the right way?  And she sees him withdraw at the sound her words and berates herself for making him do so, berates herself for her ABNORMALITY.  Why does she always do this --- ?

                     But he continues on, and she tailors her responses so as to keep from bothering him more; expression remaining peaceful with false serenity even as her entire form seems to shrink.  A mental checklist --- the smile is still there, correct, neither too wide or too weak?  Yes.  Posture?  Check.  All is well.  Or, at least, she looks as though it is, and that is as close as Yori ever GETS.  Perhaps she should merely walk away?  Oh, no, that’s got to be ruder yet.  Smile, girl, and SPEAK!

        "My mother, when I was young.  I’ve been teaching myself for a few years."

               Gentle smile --- it isn’t in Yori’s nature to be cruel to KIDS, after all.

       “Nah, it’s alright.  The scarf is already falling apart.”

       ❝ Can’t help it if you’re lookin’ for faults. ❞

       ❝ Who said I had a grudge? I just asked because you               remind me of someone I knew who lived there before. ❞

       Silence follows after the girl, whom appeared to be around her age, had spoken. She paces, a little towards the left, a little towards the right, and with one hand cupping her chin—thinking.   Brawlers, it was the first time she had ever heard of such a thing. Ah, but she doesn’t want to give up. Baffled, she doesn’t want to believe that she had never heard of brawlers before—why she knew the secrets of people she had never even spoken to (who told them to speak so loudly)!

        It must have been that pan that fell on her head the other day—that must have erased some memories, surely. However, pacing back and forth and putting a hand on her chin wasn’t going bring back what was lost (neither was assuming the position of ‘The Thinker;’ oh, she saw that small box and thought about it, but didn’t go through with it in the end—the box was covered in bird poop).  

                               [………………….]

           Alright, Yuffie Kisaragi… Let’s break this one down… take away the –ers and we’re left with brawl, and brawl means fight… hmm…. I don’t remember beating anyone up lately… well… Leon… but he didn’t know it was me, and putting a banana peel doesn’t really count as beating up…

       A reputation amongst a group she was not aware of… well, she did claim to be great… perhaps she shouldn’t be too surprised that those who she was not acquainted with knew about her existence.

       “—Oh!” a little rude to give no immediate response to the one she was having a small conversation with, it was not intentionally, but a little bit of guilt was felt. “Yori, Yuffie, Y, Hair; Two things in common, huh? Don’t think I’ve seen you around before—are these ‘brawlers’ friends of yours?” curiosity got the best of her; well, wouldn’t it have been better if she had asked the girl from the get go than to waste time trying to jog her own memory?

          Long silence has brawler wondering if she ought to leave or --- something?  Okay, yeah; Yori is bad enough at human interaction as it is, let alone with another so unskilled { if in a VASTLY different way } taking her place as the opposite end of the conversation.  Confused expression upon the ninja’s face is mirrored upon the battler’s, though one is confused about titles and the other about this entire conversation.  Fighting is such a part of dear Yori’s existence that others unaware of it rarely crosses her mind; though such is perhaps naive.  Not as though underground brawling is immensely popular.

      When Yuffie FINALLY replies, it summons a brief respite of relief; oh, good.  Yori had feared she’d said something wrong.  Head titles, blonde wisps spilling onto dark cheeks.  A thick brow raises --- friends?  Oh, she thought --- !

                  “No, it’s more like --- sometimes I fight other people, and people pay to watch, and the winner gets munny.  When we --- the other fighters --- aren’t fighting each other, we mostly just talk.”

          Nearly unwelcome pride enters syllables at the mention of her prowess; well.  Not a true mention, but a REMINDER.  Yori rarely loses, a fact which gives the scarred child MUCH NEEDED confidence; lacking the stuff is she.  Truly, she ADMIRES the other before her; around the same age, but so different.  Yuffie seems like she is ALIVE in a way that is lost to Yori; she is honest, she knows what she feels and she expresses it as she sees fit.  Hands press together behind her back, and a wider smile plays across only just barely unsure lips.

       ❝ Sorry for the mix-up, then. ❞

       ❝ Hey… you’re not from Wutai, are you? ❞

   “I’m hunting. Y’know, a job?”                          Raising his rifle, the magazine is instantly replaced and he places it away. Pointing at the felled monsters laying atop the ground with freed hand, he scoffs.                     “S’ppose it’s trainin’ if you look at it as experience, though.                     If you wanna train, go ahead. But I’m killin’ anything wearing                     a trash can, you got it? One of ‘em ‘s gotta have it.”

         She eyes the fallen creatures with measured distaste; nevertheless, curiosity { and worry, though can’t place why } gives her cause for inquiring further instead of merely taking his offer and leaving it at that as she normally might.