> Decision
>
> >1 - Taunt him one final time. Buy that last few extra seconds! (Risk)
> >2 - Clamp onto him. He’s not running anywhere! (Risk)
> >3 - The police will get here soon. They’ll chase him if need be. (Roll, 1d100 DC60)
>
> Meta
> >2 - Clamp onto him. He’s not running anywhere! (Risk)
You didn’t endure all this only to risk him getting away!
If he manages to make a run for it and elude the police, then it might be days or maybe even weeks until before he’s caught again.
And that’s only if the police even have the manpower to spare for such a search.
Until he’d be caught, Handa Ako would be looking over her shoulder at every turn.
Never truly feeling safe. This has to end now!
The police sirens continue to close in and it there’s no doubt that this place is their destination.
Whatever hopes the man might’ve had that the police are actually passing by are shattered.
In his search for an exit, his gaze lingers on a chain-link fence just beyond the bleachers.
After scaling that, he could disappear into the maze known as neighbourhoods without urban planning.
Long, twisting streets filled with alleys and sidecuts.
The sound of the police sirens cuts out.
They must’ve pulled into the club’s parking lot.
The blonde-man draws the same conclusion with wide-eyed panic.
He’s going to make a run for it.
You won’t let him.
The pain in your stomach is severe, your every instinct telling you to ball-up on the grass.
You do the only thing you can do and, ignoring all your body’s pleas, lunge forward the short distance toward the man.
Then wrap your arms around his lower leg.
It looks like a poorly executed sleeper-hold just below the calve.
“Wha-!?” shouts the man, looking down, “Let go you crazy bitch!”
With you clinging on from behind, the worst he can do is stomp on your back or kick with the heel of his shoe.
He tries and all you can do is set your teeth and bear the pain.
However, with the strange angle, he can’t seem to use his full strength.
He won’t be getting away before the police get here if you manage to slow him down like this.
> Need a 1d100 roll for hanging on
> No hard DC, just degrees of success.
>
> Rolled 100 (1d100)
Like hell you’ll allow him to get away with this!
Try as you might, your attempts to conjure up some snazzy one-liner prove unfruitful.
Your organs are no great supporters of the previous attempt at rearrangement and now this sudden flexing of the abdominal muscles.
The audience of idols will have to settle for you wheezing at him – menacingly.
You’ve got your arms locked around his leg and you’re not letting go.
It might not be a lot, to some it may even seem like a bit pathetic.
Wrapped around his ankle like this being all you can do.
But you may as well be holding a gun to his head.
When the police arrive, his life as he knows it will be over.
You look up with your one good eye, the other gradually swelling shut.
While you’re on the ground and hurt and he’s practically unscathed, you’re smiling and he’s not.
The man’s face twists in anger, trying to aggressively yank out his leg, “Let go, you freak!” he cries.
Fear within him bubbling up higher by the second.
The man plants his free foot down, then tries to yank his other one from your grasp as hard as he can.
Your upper body actually leaves the soft grass beneath you, but your knees are still down.
With a grunt of effort, your flex your already suffering core muscles and bring the leg back down.
The man nearly stumbles, but finds balance.
He looks towards the other end of the field and his eyes widen.
You’re afraid to follow his gaze, as if spotting the police yourself will infest you with a sense of relief that’ll sap your strength.
Hang on, Miho! They’ll have to pry him from your grasp.
Fuelled by sheer panic, he begins to trash his leg wildly.
Light-headed, you feel the man’s foot turn underneath you.
But your arms are still wrapped around his leg.
He’s now facing towards you.
His options have increased.
A solid right hook.
Kicking you in face with his free leg.
All things easily accomplished from this new angle.
He tries to yank out his leg one final time.
His entire body leaning away from you, adding his body weight to the attempt.
It’s working. He’s getting away.
The sharp metal eyelets of his shoe leave bleeding scratches in your arm as he work to free his leg.
You don’t have the strength anymore.
You do the only thing you can do – and help him out.
His stance was already awkward.
His body tilted.
His weight off-balance.
The moment the foot escapes your hold, your place both your hands underneath the shoe and push upwards with all your remaining strength.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
From your place on the ground, it feels like toppling a giant.
Your hold onto his foot for good measure, preventing his reflexes from saving him.
Arms flailing, the man topples over. His head bounces off the cold, hard dirt.
A move resulting in a daze that’ll buy you maybe ten seconds at best.
The man lies there, groaning and clutching the back of his head.
But it’s enough.
Three police offers arrive on the scene, two men immediately apprehending the man.
The final one, a woman, looks you over with concern, then speaks into some kind of device strapped to her vest.
It’s hard to see what kind.
One eye’s swollen shut and blood from the cut on your face is seeping into the other one.
She’s standing right beside you, but might as well been a hundred feet away.
Everything sounds distant, overpowered by a sharp ringing in your ears.
You probably looks like a mess.
How are you suppose to represent your idols like this.
The fan is flailing wildly, determined not to go down easy.
They’ve got him face-down on the dirt and they’re trying to put cuffs on him.
Doesn’t seem like the fan will be going anywhere.
Ah, the idols.
You turn your eye towards the girls.
Some of them stand at a distance, a hand covering their mouth as they take in the state you’re in.
Others are trying to get close, only to be waved away by the police offer – gesturing for them to give you space.
One of the police offers holding down the fan looks you over and scowls, unfiltered contempt.
He loosens his grip, allowing the fan to break free.
The other officer is caught off-guard and pushed to the side as the fan scampers to his feet and tries to take off running.
Barely twenty feet in he’s already clutching the side where Muratagi hit him during their fight.
The police officer gets up and adjusts his hat.
”He’s resisting!” announces the officer, taking out his police baton.
The other officer does likewise.
Both police officers give chase and easily catch up.
The fan probably wished he had stayed down.
----------------------------------------
A short while passes and you find yourself on a stretcher normally used for injured players, your purse and a bag with your clothing beside you.
The club had a first-aid kit and they’ve seen to the cut on your face and stopped the bleeding.
An ambulance is on its way for both you and the fan, who seems to have broken his arm when he tried to escape.
You told them you’re fine, if still a bit woozy, but they pressed that you needed to get checked at the hospital for internal injuries and a possible concussion.
The coach, Muratagi, is sitting on the grass beside your stretcher, an ice-pack pressed to his face.
During the fight, the fan got him pretty good and the side of his face is all swollen up.
Though he seems more concerned about you than himself, like allowing you to end up like this was a personal failing on his part.
“…How are you?” he says, after a long silence.
“I’ve …been better,” you reply, then laugh and immediately wince.
No laughing then. That hurts.
Muratagi frowns, but you can tell it isn’t directed at you.
He just seems like the kind of person that has a lot of pride.
Pride that took a big hit today.
You’re not sure how men would feel about taking a loss like this.
Hopefully it’ll be something he forgets about in time.
“How about you?” you ask.
Muratagi leans back, pulls away his icepack and touches the numb skin with a hand – still swollen.
”…I’ve been better,” he replies, managing a small smile.
“You going to the hospital as well?” you ask, looking over his injuries.
Muratagi shakes his head, “No, I’ll walk it off,” he says, “I’ve had worse.”
“…sounds like something that somebody whose been hit in the head would say,” you reply.
Muratagi gives you a look, “Look whose talking. You didn’t want to go either,” he says.
“Don’t like hospitals,” you reply, looking down, then look back up at Muratagi, “But you should still go.”
Before today Muratagi was a total stranger.
That he got beaten up because you asked him for help is bad enough.
To think he’d have lasting damage would be to horrible to imagine.
Muratagi sighs, “I’ll stop by the club’s doctor. Usually comes to help injured players get back on their feet,” he says.
You reach towards your purse.
Even though he lost, he did risk injury defending your idols from the fan.
The least you can do is have Matsuno Inc contact him to send him a gift of some kind.
If he could call in and leave his address, then you’ll make sure they’ll send him something.
> Decision
> >1 - Give Muratagi a card with Matsuno Inc’s general contact information
> >2 - Give Muratagi a card with your personal contact information
>
> This determines if Muratagi is somebody that I’ll start tracking affection for.
>
> Winner
> >2 - Give Muratagi a card with your personal contact information
After fishing in your purse for a moment, you finally find your business card holder.
There are two kinds. One for general contact and one with your personal information.
It'd be a bit weird to say you're grateful for what he did only to hit him with a courtesy call.
We here at Matsuno Inc. appreciate you getting your face beat-in for us, we do hope you'll work with us again.
You hand Muratagi the card with your personal information.
"Here," you say, handing the card, "Make sure to call so we can reimburse you for any medical costs and the like. It's the least we can do."
This is a ruse, of course.
You plan to send him a fancy gift in addition to covering any medical costs, but he seems like the kind of guy that would refuse something like that if you mentioned it outright.
Here in Japan, health insurance is mandatory, but the government will provide subsidies for those that can't afford it.
Nevertheless, often a portion of the medical costs aren't covered.
Depending on the care received, this can quickly ramp up to a few hundred dollars.
"Like I said," says Muratagi, accepting the card, "I'll just stop by the doc here at the club."
"Well, this is just in case he forwards you to a proper hospital, then," you reply.
Muratagi looks at the card for a moment, then nods. Insurances are good.
He's working as a coach at a Tokyo Shukyu-Dan, a seventh-level club.
If he even gets a salary here, then it won't be much.
In the event that he's hit with a hospital of several hundred, it probably won't be something he can easily stomach.
Offering this as a gesture of the company rather a personal gift is a little bit easier on his pride.
The ambulance arrives on the scene and the paramedics transfer you from the club's stretcher to a proper gurney.
Most of the idols present today are waiting beside the ambulance to see you off.
As is the middle-aged cameraman, who informs you that he'll give the idols some time to recover from what happened before starting up the stream again and giving the broadcast a proper conclusion.
Evidently, it's important to give it an ending otherwise speculation will run rampant and you'll have a dozen different rumours on your hands.
Enatsu stands beside the gurney, "Will you be okay?" she asks.
"I'll be fine," you reply, adding a smile, "This is all just precautions. If it was up to me, then we'd be driving back to the office together."
"Okay..." says Enatsu quietly, not entirely convinced.
You ruffle her hair, "Just take the rest of the day off," you say, "Me and Matsui-san will handle the rest of your idol debut later today."
The paramedics exchange a look, but don't say anything.
Enatsu nods, "I'm kinda worried, with everything that happened..." she says, "I did good, right?"
"You did great," you say, "Don't worry. Go celebrate your debut with your family!"
Enatsu's expression doesn't change much, your words of encouragement don't seem to have as much effect when delivered from atop a gurney.
Her eyes are particularly hollow, like she's carrying the weight of the world.
"You ready to go?" asks one of the paramedics.
You scan your surroundings for Watase Yoko, expecting another scolding, but she's nowhere to be found.
"Yeah," you say, concluding your search, "Let's go."
You're off to the hospital.