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DownRight Fierce -1-

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A/N: Since my Kickstarter to create this concept as a graphic novel failed, in order to stay productive and continue trying to write new, original fiction, I've begun work on writing out DownRight Fierce as a prose novel. My hope now is that I may eventually have two versions of the story -- a graphic novel and a prose novel. Or perhaps they may end up getting hybridized in some way. In either case, here's the first chapter.

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DownRight Fierce
Act 1 - Chapter 1

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The fire always started in her gut, building up, hotter and hotter, until she released it through clenched knuckles. That moment of contact – her fist against their face – never got old. The way her heart was left pounding, her breath ragged – her body would be empty but her spirit would feel full. The stink of sweat, the trickling of her victim's blood down her knuckles, the pitter-patter of red droplets tapping the floor in the still of the aftermath – it fed her.

And, of course, the fire. That was the best part. Always. The searing flames, swallowing up her hands, fueled by the energies flowing from her heart through to her fingertips. The heat bubbling in her gut, pushed outward through a racing pulse.

Everything about fighting was intoxicating. Arousing. Invigorating.

"Don't you ever get tired of it, Nishiko?"

"Fuck no. It's what I live for."

"What you live for?" her little brother grumbled, unsatisfied with her reply.

Nishiko ignored her sibling's holier-than-thou attitude, unzipping her duffel bag and unceremoniously shoving pairs of pants into it. Her back was turned to him as she hovered before her dresser.

"What do you mean?" Keiji asked his elder sister.

Nishiko shrugged, regretting being so bold with her remark. What did she live for? Fighting, of course. But could anyone understand that? Nah, they'd just think she was crazy. She probably was crazy, but...yea. That could be her own business.

Not paying heed to the sounds of Keiji's stupid video game, Nishiko was trying to decide which bras were worth taking and which were better left behind. Bleh, that blue one was really tacky, though, and uncomfortable, to boot. The black sports bra, though, that was a 'yes.' Fuck it, she'd probably have enough room to bring all of them, anyway. Nishiko was light on variety of clothing – a week's worth of laundry was about all she needed. Or bothered to keep, really. She cared about fashion only in as much as two factors: 1) what was comfortable and efficient, and 2) what might make her look like a bad-ass. Or, at least, the particular definition of 'bad-ass' that she had in her head. Which included copious rips and tears in denim, evidently, based on the state of all of her pairs of jeans.

An athletic eighteen year-old Japanese American, Nishiko Shimomura was a high school senior trying to survive her..second senior year of high school. Having flunked the first time around, she'd begged her parents to just forget about a high school diploma. They gave her an option: make it on her own with a real job, or go back to school. Nishiko had taken the latter choice, opting to endure the mundanity of classes over the mundanity-multiplied-by-exhaustion that would've been a full time job without an education.

However, Nishiko didn't get along with authority any better than she did manual labor. And even more problematic, she always seemed to end up taking on the role of resident school bully, no matter what institution she wound up in. Being able to jump six feet in the air shoot fireballs from one's fists had a tendency to make the whole 'bullying' thing far too easy, and far too dangerous for any public schools to tolerate. As of that afternoon, she'd been expelled twice in a matter of three months, after having switched schools during the summer, after having flunked the year before that. Before she'd even gotten home, arrangements had been swiftly made to have her transferred to Windy Pines Academy, some kind of boarding school for students who had the kind of power Nishiko did. Under normal circumstances, the Shimomura family wouldn't have been able to afford such an institution, but near as Nishiko was aware, some kind of government funding had been put on the table.

At this point, Nishiko was determined to finish high school more out of spite than an actual desire to learn anything academic. Everything was a battle, and for her, in that moment, high school was the reigning champion she was dead-set on taking the fucking belt from, no matter how many times it sumo-wrestled her out of the goddamn ring.

Her knuckles stung from their cuts and bruises as she weaved her hands through articles of clothing. That fight she'd gotten into earlier that morning – the one that had warranted her immediate expulsion – hadn't been a flawless victory, but the worst of the damage had been to her hands. Partially from the impacts they'd sustained on her victim – er, opponent – and partially from the unrefined Ki Flow she'd utilized. Even so, she was a quick healer, thanks to the same phenomenon that let her set things ablaze. At the rate her body was fixing itself, her bruises would be hardly visible in a couple days. This would especially be nice in regards to her swollen right eye, black from a dirty blow she'd probably deserved. It had been the one full shot she'd endured from her opponent – some jock whose name she hadn't even bothered to remember. Fucker shouldn't have touched her, shouldn't have said what he had.

What had he said, again? Nishiko couldn't remember. All she could recollect was how angry it had made her – how her blood had boiled, and how it had all flowed out into her fists, literally igniting the sap until she could smell his singed jacket. The fire hadn't really burned until he'd touched her headband. Her prized possession, Nishiko kept kept a white headband on her person – or within arm's reach – at all times. A white band she'd received a couple of years prior, it was a symbol she refused to disconnect herself from. A constant reminder of why she'd started fighting in the first place, and what she strove to become. That was why she had to graduate, get out of school, and start a real life for herself.

"Hello? Earth to Nishiko...?" Keiji grumbled from the other side of the room. He was evidently still expecting clarification regarding his previous questions: 'What you live for? What do you mean?' As Keiji waited for his video game to load, he tilted his head at his sibling, who was lingering in front of her dresser, in some kind of stupor.

From behind, Keiji deduced that his sister looked not unlike some character from the game he was playing: her karate-like headband dangling from her crop cut hair, her hand balled in a fist at her side, and her jersey-like athletic shirt, emblazoned with three Japanese characters down her spine.

竜- 'dragon'
花- 'blossom'
拳- 'fist'

"Nishiko," Keiji sighed. "Why are you doing all of this?"

He just didn't want to drop it? Fine, she'd be upfront.

"I'm a fighter," Nishiko blurted out with an irate huff. "I fight. It's not tricky, I'm not being sneaky, there's no fucking...secret meaning. I'm a fighter. That's it, that's all."

"You're a high-schooler," Keiji retorted, slapping around the buttons and stick on the arcade controller in his lap as his next match started. "Being a school bully doesn't make you a fighter. And neither does being Ki-Gifted."

"Yea, 'n neither does playing a fucking video game, Keiji."

"That's why it's a game, Onee-Chan," Keiji remarked with saccharine aggression as he played. "No one actually gets hurt, so it's all about-...rgh-...the fun...!" He was devolving into grunts as said game was distracting him.

Nishiko rolled her eyes at her little brother, opening the top left drawer of her dresser. She hated when he called her 'Older Sister' in Japanese, especially when he used 'chan' instead of 'san' or 'sama.' Of course, right then he was just trying to get under her skin. Little brothers, right?

She watched her little brother wrap his little fingers around the arcade controller. Fucking thing was a monstrosity in his skinny lap – why would anyone want to play a game on something so big and clunky? He'd tried to explain to her one time how much more efficient it was for fighting, but to her, it was over-complicated. Why bother with an electronic box tied to another box tied to another box with a stick and buttons when you could just...use your fist? Actual punching was so much more satisfying than a...punching simulator. Of course, Keiji wasn't Ki-Gifted like Nishiko was. He couldn't get mad and summon fire to his fingers like she could. Naturally, the game was his way of compensating for that, right? It's what she chose to believe, anyway. And his increased downer attitude toward her power was, in her mind, a sign of jealousy. He had the good grades, but she had the real power, as far as she was concerned. Mommy and Daddy's approval and perfect test scores wouldn't count for much after school was out, but being able to smack a bitch? That had applications regardless of age or location.

The over-enthusiastic announcer cried out from Keiji's TV, ["Will the tide of battle turn?! Fight!"] and Keiji was right back to battering his overblown controller with vigor.

"No one does get hurt playin' games," Nishiko recanted her brother's recent point. "N' that's what makes it boring," she added with a tint of sadism.

"I guess getting expelled for the second time this semester isn't boring, either," Keiji retorted.

"Nope," Nishiko bitterly played along.

"What're you even going to do with yourself at Windy Pines?" posed Keiji, eyes still focused on his fictional fight. "They're-...gah!...They're super strict there."

"Uhhh," Nishiko's eyes slid to one side as she jammed rolled up socks into her duffel bag. "I'm gonna keep fighting? Obviously."

"And get yourself expelled from there, too? Then, what?"

"Well, if this school actually does what it's supposed to, then I'll learn how to use my Ki right – and how to fight better. But if it doesn't work out? I'm eighteen now – if I wanted to, I could go off on my own."

"Ha! Yea, and-...C'mon-...And you wouldn't know how to take care of yourself, so...-"

"I'd figure it out," Nishiko impatiently spat. She dug through her pants drawer, picking out a few pairs to take. "I don't fucking care what you think, OK?"

"Yea, I noticed," Keiji sighed, flicking his joystick in circles.

"Good," snipped Nishiko, stuffing unfolded jeans in with the clump of clothes. "I just said I don't care."

"You don't care about anything."

"Puh...-!" Nishiko shook her head to herself as she slipped on her converse sneakers.

"Fine, you never listen to me, anyway."

Real productive direction the conversation had taken.

"I'm three years older than you, Bro," Nishiko grumbled, tying her laces. "Stop trying to fucking lecture me about-"
["K.O.!"]

"Aw, really?!" Keiji roared at his defeat. "Really?"

Keiji scoffed at his screen as his character hurtled off to one side, shouting with the agony of defeat.

"Dang scrubs," Keiji sighed to himself, dumping his clunky controller onto his bed to his right. "You made me lose," he blamed his sibling, shooting her a glare. "That was ranked, too...Now I've gotta go back to-...Urgh."

Nishiko rolled her eyes.

"And I'm wasting my life?" she grumbled. "Least it's not on a stupid game that doesn't do anything in the real world."

"Because punching people a lot is such a better hobby," Keiji countered with disbelief. "So much more productive. You're going places, Onee-Chan – like boarding school. Or prison."

"Beats sharing this room with you." Nishiko spitefully zipped up her bag and worked it over her shoulder. She bragged primly, "Anyway, I was in an actual fight today, and I won, so...-"

"Yea, you 'won' a one-way trip outta here. And I 'won' this room to myself."

"Good for you," Nishiko sighed, taking her leave, her back turned.

"Wait, it's not time to go yet, is it? You're not even going to say good-bye?" Keiji called out.

"Nope!" Nishiko blurted with pride as she slammed the door.

"Hey!" Keiji's muffled cry came back through their door. "...Fine!"

But Nishiko was already on her way down the stairs, her weathered sneakers squeaking against the wooden steps as she slid down with a rhythmic flow.

Her portly mother was standing in the kitchen, stir-frying a bunch of veggies in her favorite blue wok over the stove. She was donning a simple summer dress with leaf and flower petal patterns – that particular dress always reminded Nishiko of the summer afternoon when she'd first discovered she was Ki-Gifted. It was the dress Mom had been wearing when she'd taken lemonade out to the backyard, only to see her daughter accidentally igniting a patch of grass on their lawn.

Nishiko lingered at the entrance to the kitchen, waiting for her mother to notice her. She waitied for the inevitable volley of frustrated remarks, scolding, and arguing that would commence, as it always did between the mother and daughter when this sort of thing happened – when Nishiko had done something out of turn at school.

But it didn't come. Nishiko's mother simply continued cooking, adding some sauce to the mix without even turning to observe her daughter, standing feet away.

"Hey, Mom," Nishiko mumbled with as much neutrality as she could.

"Already packed?" Mom asked plainly, not even turning around. It was a question loaded with a somberness that made Nishiko's stomach turn. Mom had been very...quiet...that week, amidst all the commotion. Especially so on that day, since Nishiko's expulsion. It was worrisome. Mom wasn't typically the quiet, weak-willed sort. She was usually the most vocal when Nishiko had fucked up. And yet on that day, Nishiko's mother barely said anything.

Almost like she'd just...given up on trying.

"Uh...Yea," Nishiko replied to her mother's question after a startled moment's hesitation. She dropped the duffel bag by the entrance to the parlor room. Tousled her hair. Took a deep breath. "Uh...All set."

"Your father's on his way home," Mom noted, her voice barely overpowering the sizzling of the veggies before her. "He'll take you."

"Oh." Nishiko scratched the base of her neck, staring at the bun on the back of her mother's head. "I thought...you were going to...-"

"He'll take you," Mom repeated, a hint of her aggression leaking out. That was the Mom that Nishiko was used to, but she only showed herself for that fleeting moment.

"O-OK," Nishiko muttered. "Uh, is that...dinner?" she pondered aloud.

"For your brother and me," Mom stated. "You and your Dad will have something to go on your way to the airport."

"...Ah." Nishiko let her arms sag at her sides. She was befuddled. She'd been expecting – no, wanting – to have it out with her Mom before she left. Duke it out, so to speak, with angry words. Try to explain herself in the only way she could to her family – boisterously. But Mom wasn't going to have that today, apparently. Mom was frighteningly plain and pleasant. Nishiko didn't know what to do with it. She never picked fights with Mom – only retaliated when she felt under attack. Mom was probably the only person Nishiko didn't pick battles with.

A few seconds of tense, unspoken disappointment hung like a cloud of fog. Baffled and in shock, Nishiko fumbled her way to the coffeemaker. She was much more in the mood for booze than caffeine, but she knew she couldn't get away with the prior in that instant. She found herself hesitating at the coffeemaker.

"Can I...-?" she murmured, glancing over to her mother, who had still refused to make eye contact.

"Suddenly in an 'asking' mood?" her mother observed. She was glaring with voided eyes down at the meal she was preparing. "It's not like I could stop you even if I wanted to," Mom mumbled.

Sheepishly, Nishiko went about opening the half-empty tin can of coffee grounds. Just the smell made her heart skip a little at the prospect of a stiff black drink. Nishiko lingered with the wide can in her hands, contemplating if she really wanted to have an 'upper' kind of drink right then.

"There's saké in the fridge," Mom blurted out, practically reading her daughter's mind.

"I'm...-" Nishiko started, a bit puzzled by this being pointed out.

"-...not supposed to?" Mom passively reposited. She turned the stove off, shaking the vegetables about. She at last looked over to her daughter from across the counter.

Mom didn't even need to say it. The message was clear in those deadened brown eyes.

That hasn't ever stopped you before.

Nishiko could only endure a second or so of her mom's ice-cold stare before glancing away, back to the coffee grounds. She hastily prepared enough for a single mug's worth, nearly spilling grounds across the counter. Her mom just kept staring at her the whole time, not saying a word. Nishiko's chest was tight from the tension. She was no good at this kind of shit. She felt paralyzed by the lack of words, the lack of anger, the lack of aggression. Whoever this was, it was not her Mom. Which, Nishiko figured, was probably the whole point.

With her hands stuffed in her jean pockets, Nishiko could only watch the steaming machine drizzle black droplets into the glass pot as her mother – probably still shooting frigid stares at her daughter's back – scraped rice from their rice cooker onto plates and laid vegetables over top.

The stillness of shame weighed down on Nishiko Shimomura's shoulders in that instant, heavier than it had in a long time.

Her mother, having finished setting up a meal, gracefully made her way up stairs. The house was so quiet that Nishiko could make out their speech, muffled by the distance and walls.

"Keiji."

"Yuuhan?"

"Hai."

Sullenly, Nishiko sighed to herself. There was a pit – a blackened, grimy pit – burning in the furnace of her gut. The coffeemaker inches in front of her face gurgled, its tiny water tank empty. Nishiko spoonfed two small scoops of sugar into a plain black mug from the cupboard, and poured herself coffee as her family members solemnly came down stairs.

Hunched over the counter, Nishiko nursed her cup of joe with small sips while savoring the steam. Her younger brother and mother sat at the cramped kitchen table and began partaking a meal together. Nishiko slowly repositioned herself, leaning against her counter with a tired but casual slouch. Her mother's back was toward her, while she and her brother exchanged a quiet, uncertain gaze as he finagled his chopsticks around a clump of rice.

Keiji paused just before he took a bite of his food.

"You're still here," he noted to his sibling.

"Mm," Nishiko hummed in reply, sucking in a warm gulp of her drink.

Nishiko watched Keiji take a bite of his food. He watched her take another sip. Mom ate without incident.

"For the record," Keiji said, stirring his rice and vegetables around as he spoke. "I don't know if the place you're going to is going to help you, Onee-chan."

Mother intruded primly.

"Shizuka-ni shite-yo."

Nishiko's Japanese was admittedly pretty rusty – she'd rebelled against learning it, partially out of spite – but she'd been exposed to her parents enough to know what that one meant: 'Be quiet.'

Keiji bobbed his head in response his mother's gentle command, eating his food obediently. That was a critical difference between the two Shimomura children: Keiji did exactly as he was told by Mom and Dad, and Nishiko did the exact opposite.

Nishiko declared, across her mother's shoulders, "I don't think it's gonna help me, either, Bro."

Her mother's steady eating motions stopped. Nishiko pushed herself up off the counter and stood directly behind her mother's seat.

"But," Nishiko went on, staring at the bun on the back of Mom's head, "I don't...really got a say in it, so...-"

Keiji swallowed his food, looking a little pale at Nishiko's standoffish stance.

Nishiko clasped her half-empty mug in both palms, staring down at it as she continued.

"You guys are all scared of me, so I guess that makes it pretty easy to just...fuckin' ship me off somewhere else, right? Make me someone else's problem to deal with."

Mrs. Shimomura set her chopsticks down, the clacking noise of wood on wood deafening in that room.

She spoke with that eery calm:

"Watashitachi-dake-ni shite-yo."

Leave us alone.

"What was that?" Nishiko goaded her passive-aggressively polite mother. "I don't understand you."
She did, however, understand her, more or less.

"Nishiko...-!" Keiji gasped out, offended at the disrespect on display.

"Mö ii-yo," Mom barked, spinning her head around to her disobedient child.
Something like 'That's enough,' maybe?

Nishiko met her Mom's gaze. Ah, there it was. There was that spark of anger Nishiko had known was there in hiding all this time. Just more coercing and it would come out in full. They could have their awaited shouting contest, just like every other time – let all the steam fly, let it all out. Then would come the tears, then the hug, the apologies...

"I'm right, though, huh?" Nishiko egged her on. "You're scared of me." Her eyes glinted with a sadistic twinkle of pride at the way her mother's brow twitched. It was empowering, being able to draw that conclusion from this whole mess. Nishiko was being sent away because she was powerful, and her parents couldn't reel her in. Well, good. Fucking good. She'd be better off without a false leash, anyway.

"We're not scared of you," Keiji protested in earnest. This kind of irked Nishiko's ego, because she could tell he wasn't lying. And yet it also tickled at part of her insides at the same time. "W-we're scared...for you," he tried to explain.

"I have a fucking gift," Nishiko declared, her grip on her mug tightening. "And you all act like it's some goddamn curse."

"What?!" Keiji balked. "I never said anything like that. It's your attitude that-"
"Yamete-yo!" Mom was trying to get them to stop bickering.

"Instead of letting me figure this shit out," Nishiko yammered over top the other two. "You're just gonna push me off to some-"
"-if you would just listen," Keiji tried to speak his mind."But noo-ooo, you always have to-"
"Shitsukoi!" Stop!

With that command, Mom smacked her palm against the kitchen table, rattling the room.

Nishiko's hands were shaking, the coffee in her mug steaming up. Her fingers were burning. It was her fire, her Ki, flowing out from that furnace inside, out to her hands. The pressure was causing it to leak.

"Nishiko," Mom huffed, her patience waning. She pointed a finger to her left, toward the front door of their tiny house. "Go. Let us eat."

"What is with you?!" Nishiko growled, her eyes bubbling up with an involuntary dampness. "I'm your fucking kid and you're gonna just...-"

"I didn't want this," Mom insisted. "And you didn't want to listen. So...no one gets what they wanted. Now leave us. Please."

This was infuriating. Nishiko wanted to know what her mother really felt. She wanted that rage, the mutual fury, the honest remarks that the swell of a heated moment loosened out of their minds.

But instead, she was being given this stone-faced self-control she had never seen Mom give her. And she knew, as she endured her mother's trembling eyes, that it was warranted. She'd been given enough chances, fucked up enough times. Nishiko didn't know what to do with herself – and neither did her family.

The fire was really burning now. Her hands, still clamping that coffee mug, were exuding wisps of red Ki – her body's fire was alighting her knuckles, still scraped and bruised from her encounter that morning at school. The coffee in her mug was steaming, fizzling, vaporizing within her grip.

With a gutteral growl, Nishiko did what she felt compelled to do: she whipped the ceramic mug to the floor. It split into pieces, and scalding coffee splashed about, eliciting a gasp from her mother and a tiny shriek from her mother.

Nishiko's heart was pounding at her ribs, her eyes were watering, but no tears would drop, as much as she wanted them to. Her fists were aflame, her body's twisted up energies oozing from her hands. She took in a deep breath, filled with a desire to just...fucking...flip that goddamn table. She instead puffed out a growling sigh

Keiji was cowering in his seat, in a guarded stance, but was gawking at Nishiko's savage display in a way that was equal parts curious and terrified.

Their mother, meanwhile, was starting to break down, but not with the strength and vigor and discipline Nishiko had wanted to duel. She was simply burying her face in her palms, moaning quietly to herself.

"Nande sonna-koto...shita-no?"

Nishiko was pretty sure she got the gist of it. Mom repeated a particular phrase through a stifled sob.

"Nande? Nande...?"

Why? Why?

Nishiko didn't have an answer.

It was a hot day out. Why wasn't her dad turning on the air conditioning in the car? Was it broken, or something? Nishiko could feel her forehead getting greasy from sweat. She lifted her headband up a little to wipe the sweat onto her wrist and scratch an itch.

"You didn't even give him a hug," her Dad said with a very audible sigh. He'd been rambling about how concerned he was, and crap. Like it wasn't a relief that she'd be out of his hair soon enough.

"He wasn't in a 'hugging' mood," Nishiko replied dryly, her head leaned against the passenger side window. She was watching familiar suburban neighborhoods slowly drift by, knowing this would be the last time she'd see them for some while.

"That's because you upset him," Dad puffed out. "This whole situation has put him through a lot."

"Oh, what-ever," Nishiko balked. "This has nothing to do with him. If he'd just keep his nose out of my business...-"

"He's your brother, Nishiko – what do you expect?"

"To leave me alone for a change would be fucking nice."

"You know he can't do that. None of us can."

"Sure..."

Dad shook his head with a grim sigh.

"And I can't even recall the last time I've seen your mother like that..."

Nishiko chewed at her lip a bit at this reminder. Less an hour prior, she'd...had that little incident in the kitchen. And that was the send-off she had to give to her mother. It hadn't been what she'd meant.

"Yea, but...I didn't-"
"You frightened her," Dad scowled. "And that is...not common," he remarked, obviously off-put.

Mom wasn't easily scared. Something had, like...cracked. Or snapped. Or something. And Nishiko knew she was to blame for it.

"We're all at our wit's end here with you," Dad explained as they waited at a red light.

"Why do parents say that?" Nishiko grumbled. "You've still got your damned wits..."

"Barely," her father sternly replied. "No thanks to the way you've been acting out."

"Maybe-" Nishiko protested, "-if you would give me some freedom I wouldn't have a reason to cause trouble."

"We both know that's a bald-faced lie."

Nishiko smirked at her father's correct assertion, though he didn't seem so amused.

"You're my daughter – I'm not going to just throw you to the wilderness."

"Why? 'Cuz you know I'd like it on my own? Maybe you're scared to find out I don't need you."

Nishiko tilted her head back to observe her father. She savored watching his jaws tighten at her rebellious remark. It was always easy to get Dad riled up despite his formality, made all the more entertaining by how he'd just keep rolling with the punches – at least that was one useful thing she'd picked up from hum.

"Let me be clear," her Dad stated, his eyes stuck to the road as the light turned green. "This decision wasn't just ours – IKCO stepped in and left us with little choice."

"Oh, god," Nishiko huffed, complete with complimentary eyeroll. That stupid government group was meddling with her life, now, too?

"And they have been more than lenient," Dad continued despite the interruption. "So you can take your chances with them directly, if that's what you'd prefer. You're a legal adult, so we're not obligated to do anything. If you really want to take responsibility and make your own choices, by all means..."

And as expected, Dad was pulling the 'By All Means' card. Every fucking time they'd had a conversation like this, it went in this bluffing direction, for over a year now. And every fucking time, he'd back out when Nishiko called his bluff. He'd pull shit like what he doing right then – still hogging control over her life when he'd threaten to leave her twisting in the wind. Maybe it was because Mom and Keiji would throw a conniption if he actually did cut her loose, or maybe it was because he knew he could back out, because Nishiko was too much of a coward to actually go through all 'all means' she could.

"What if I did?" Nishiko posed with contempt. She knew she couldn't – she didn't know a damned thing about living on her own, and there wasn't really anywhere she could go to. "What I just said 'Fuck it!' and ditched this hellhole you're taking me to?"

"Then you'd have IKCO to deal with instead of boarding school. And I have a feeling they'd be much less accommodating, given your condish...-" Oh, what? What was that, Dad? About to say 'condition?' Like I'm sick? "-...your situation." Fuck you. Like that sounds any nicer... "This Ki stuff is...clearly difficult to deal with," her Dad went on, hoping to circumnavigate his verbal slip-up. "Your mother and I have been doing a lot of reading about it and...-" Hell, not this crap again... "-...we understand that your body is growing, and...and changing, and so-"

"Ki Flow isn't fucking puberty, Dad," Nishiko cut him off at the pass.

"No, it isn't," her father agreed. "It's far more dangerous."

Nishiko shrugged up one shoulder at that notion.

She remarked, "I can handle it."

"With proper education and guidance, yes," Dad agreed. "Which is why you have to take this seriously."

Nishiko puffed a sigh through her nose – loud enough so her father could hear it – and she gazed at the way she'd just fogged up the window with nasal vapors. By the time the damp spot on the window had dried, an awkward silence had presented itself.

"And you are going to take this seriously," Dad noted. Not as a question, but a firm if worried demand. "You've already put all of us through a great deal. Don't make us regret this."

Nishiko had nothing to say to that. In her gut – in that boiling, bubbling furnace – she knew she was just going to disappoint them again. What was the point in lying about it?

"Nishiko," her father pressed with some impatience as he made a turn onto the highway.

"What?" she grunted back, acting aloof.

"Promise me you're going to do your best."

Ugh. Promises. Nishiko hated promises. They were like lies dressed up in fancy clothing. Nishiko sucked ass at keeping promises.

"Yea, Dad," she mumbled, scratching behind her ear. "Sure, I'll try."

"All right." Dad sighed a deep breath.

It was like he was relieved to hear her say those words. But that was all they were – just words. Nishiko couldn't say for certain one way or the other how well she'd hold up such a promise. It wasn't like she was planning on defying or disappointing or whatever. It was never a planned thing. Shit happened, and Nishiko acted in the moment. She could swear up and down that she'd get on the up-and-up, turn over a new leaf, whatever flowery bullshit her family wanted to hear.

But that furnace inside boiled all the same. And the pressure built up, all the same. And it would always find a way to pour out, whether Nishiko wanted it to or not.

Chapter 2 ---> DownRight Fierce -2-

DownRight Fierce - [Sample Pg #1] by Destiny-SmasherDownRight Fierce - [Sample Pg #2] by Destiny-Smasher DownRight Fierce - [Sample Pg #4] by Destiny-SmasherDownRight Fierce - [Sample Pg #3] by Destiny-Smasher
Nishiko by Sakura-Rose12[DRF] - Nishiko Shimomura (hinokit) by Destiny-Smasher
Originally planned as a graphic novel, DownRight Fierce is a story I'm currently working on writing into prose format.

You can read a bit about DownRight Fierce here, you can see the full gallery of concept art, including sample pages so far over here.
If you'd like to follow updates on this project in progress, you can follow the FB page, the Tumblr blog, or the DeviantArt group.
:icondownright-fierce:
© 2014 - 2024 Destiny-Smasher
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Porecomesis's avatar

Sorry it took me so long to get to this. Time to review:


You italicise too many words. Such formatting is meant to be used sparingly; if you try to emphasise every third word, the emphasis loses all meaning. As the saying goes, the fastest way to spoil your pleasures is to make them routine. Bottom line, repetition reduces effectiveness.
In any event, count on the reader to emphasise the words in their own head. Writing is like hammering; you let the weight pound it in, not your arm. In this case, the ‘weight’ is in the words themselves rather than what you do to them. It’s like calling something “amazing”; if the something is indeed amazing, it will show through the writing itself. If it’s not amazing, artificial inflation won’t help it.
The book How NOT To Write A Novel (which I highly recommend any aspiring author to read, by the way) addresses this with its usual brilliance:


>Overuse of exclamation marks makes them dwindle in significance until they carry no more urgency than a period—but one that graphically pokes you in the eye as you reach the end of each sentence. They are even more of a liability while they remain functional, and the reader responds to every one. Then the writing appears to be engaged in frantic hand-waving, straining every muscle to convince the reader that the action is important. Where the action is not important, this will seem bizarre and random, like underlining the word “the.” Where the action is important, the exclamation points are like so many speed bumps: they pause your story to focus attention on the punctuation.
In almost all situations that do not involve immediate physical danger or great surprise, you should think twice before using an exclamation mark. If you have thought about it twice and the exclamation mark is still there, think about it three times, or however main times it takes until you delete it.
Other typographical conventions used for emphasis—italics, all caps, and bold—should likewise be used infrequently, VERY RARELY, and never.<


I understand your logic, though; graphic novels bold random words all the time. I could never really understand why but whatever. However, as you’ve said, you’re writing a prose novel. More tact is required.

More on that graphic novel comparison: I’m pleasantly surprised at the detail you’ve put into the narration. You didn’t just copy-paste the necessary parts of the graphic novel into a text format but you revitalised it with the proper clothing (barring the italics, anyway) as fitting for its new format. It took a while as I read through the chapter before I realised “Hang on; this was meant to be a graphic novel. This is incredibly detailed for a format shift”. Good job.

The name “DownRight Fierce” is utterly brilliant for something inspired by fighting games. I shared it with all of my friends and both of them loved it as well. However, the title implies a certain lightness of tone that your chapter is lacking. From start to finish, there’s a dreary feel draping over it all that’s a far cry from what the title and the premise of a fighting genre inspiration would have you imagine, and that’s not even touching on the themes and issues you intend to explore.

Not that you shouldn’t write a story about such issues and with such a tone. I would never dare suggest such a thing; Christos Tsiolkas’ Barracuda does more or less the same thing and it became a bestseller. The magical girl show Miraculous Ladybug, before its revision, was to tackle issues of teenagers (or something, I forget) and I would like to see how that would have gone. The premise you’re going with should never disqualify you from writing about a certain matter.
What I contest is the presentation. I’m not fighting game connoisseur but I know that fighting games are often known for their colourful, diverse casts and incredibly hammy action and feats of strength. “DownRight Fierce” as a title is in line with this. This chapter is not. Bottom line, I don’t think the title you have now is appropriate for the tone you’re giving us. Alternatively, the tone isn’t appropriate for the title. In any case, it feels more like I’m reading an X-Men story with the flavour of a fighting game; Nishiko’s family treat her like a mutant.


I don’t have anything against the story you’re trying to tell (at least, from what I’ve seen of it); combining the tropes of fighting games with your coming-of-age drama sounds like a great idea and I’d love to see it pulled off. You write the character interactions well—especially with Nishiko and her mother—and they carry a lot of nuance. My biggest problem at this stage is how your premise and title seem at odds with your story in terms of aesthetic. While I’m of the firm belief that you can use a bright and colourful aesthetic as a cover for the deep and complex themes you wish to address, you’re not doing that. I wonder who such a story would be aimed at: would it be aimed at the fighting game fans, who I suspect would feel this hits a bit too close to home or brings up its issues too directly and too soon? Or would it be aimed at the crowd that, while appreciative of what you’re going for with the personal deals, feel that the fighting game aspects are out of place?


I’ll get to reading Chapter 2 soon. I’d like to hear back from you.