Categories > Games > Street Fighter
There's nothing better than an early summer morning with nothing to do but play out my board--wheels on cement and a sharpness in the air that you know won't last, but who cares--and my brother sleeking along just behind me on his blades like a fine red wind in this concrete jungle. Somewhere far away all my worries are waiting and calling for me, but I'm not caring, not yet. This is bliss. This is now.
"Hey, Yun. Hang a second--I wanna try that railing."
People have called us reckless, but we're better than all that; we're young and cool and in perfect harmony with our surroundings. Yang almost personifies that as he hops onto the railing and effortlessly pulls a perfect slide on his skates. A lost-looking old lady gasps, "Well, REALLY," as he skids down and slams to a perfect stop about half a meter in front of her. He flashes a sort of grin--which is maybe a little disconcerting, as his face doesn't lend itself well to that sort of expression, and it tends to look more like a grimace--and bows neatly to her.
It's pretty cool to see him loose enough to do that. He used to flip out if something like that happened. I guess these last few months of nothin' but fighting have taught him something after all. But time and Yang won't slow down for me to think about it too hard, and on we go, our wheels grinding out a song of speed.
One cocked eyebrow is all it takes to challenge my twin to a race through the market, through the obstacle course of the vendors setting up, crates being unloaded, and trucks maneuvering through the packed streets. My kind of fun. We pause, making sure we're even with each other--it wouldn't do for one of us to have an unfair start--and then we're off.
At first he's faster, because his wheels are strapped to his feet and dodging for him is as easy as moving, but I'm a god on my board and know exactly where to take jumps and how small I can scrunch down to scoot under some of the larger trucks that Yang has to go around. I lose track of him for a minute and almost panic, but then he smashes down a few meters behind me, his wheels just clearing the old man who sells humbow on Sundays. The old man starts to flip a tantrum, but we're already gone. Soon, too soon, we're screaming out onto the arterial and have to slow down. We're both sweating like pigs and panting like dogs; my baseball cap is tilted, and Yang's carefully-gelled shards of hair are mussed, but it still doesn't matter. The glance we exchange says it all. Adrenaline is the true king, but I won that race, so he's buying the sodas.
Later we move slowly down the street, icy colas in hand, surveying our hometown with the grace of emperors, which we kind of are. There's no one else who fights like we do, or skates like we do, or is as tough as we are. No one else in this city could have _survived_ the Street Fighter tournaments. And like any good leaders, we understand our responsibilities, both to our home, and to each other.
But we both know that beyond all that, ignoring all the hype and the fuss and serious things--it's about the fire, the blood in our veins, and, above all, the speed.
"Hey, Yun. Hang a second--I wanna try that railing."
People have called us reckless, but we're better than all that; we're young and cool and in perfect harmony with our surroundings. Yang almost personifies that as he hops onto the railing and effortlessly pulls a perfect slide on his skates. A lost-looking old lady gasps, "Well, REALLY," as he skids down and slams to a perfect stop about half a meter in front of her. He flashes a sort of grin--which is maybe a little disconcerting, as his face doesn't lend itself well to that sort of expression, and it tends to look more like a grimace--and bows neatly to her.
It's pretty cool to see him loose enough to do that. He used to flip out if something like that happened. I guess these last few months of nothin' but fighting have taught him something after all. But time and Yang won't slow down for me to think about it too hard, and on we go, our wheels grinding out a song of speed.
One cocked eyebrow is all it takes to challenge my twin to a race through the market, through the obstacle course of the vendors setting up, crates being unloaded, and trucks maneuvering through the packed streets. My kind of fun. We pause, making sure we're even with each other--it wouldn't do for one of us to have an unfair start--and then we're off.
At first he's faster, because his wheels are strapped to his feet and dodging for him is as easy as moving, but I'm a god on my board and know exactly where to take jumps and how small I can scrunch down to scoot under some of the larger trucks that Yang has to go around. I lose track of him for a minute and almost panic, but then he smashes down a few meters behind me, his wheels just clearing the old man who sells humbow on Sundays. The old man starts to flip a tantrum, but we're already gone. Soon, too soon, we're screaming out onto the arterial and have to slow down. We're both sweating like pigs and panting like dogs; my baseball cap is tilted, and Yang's carefully-gelled shards of hair are mussed, but it still doesn't matter. The glance we exchange says it all. Adrenaline is the true king, but I won that race, so he's buying the sodas.
Later we move slowly down the street, icy colas in hand, surveying our hometown with the grace of emperors, which we kind of are. There's no one else who fights like we do, or skates like we do, or is as tough as we are. No one else in this city could have _survived_ the Street Fighter tournaments. And like any good leaders, we understand our responsibilities, both to our home, and to each other.
But we both know that beyond all that, ignoring all the hype and the fuss and serious things--it's about the fire, the blood in our veins, and, above all, the speed.
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