Swordsmen Aren't My Type [Catherine, Isamu]

A pair of perceptive eyes recognized the woman immediately. Even from afar, the familiar image of her slight frame would have sufficed. Skilled as he was in remembering a face when one compared it with his ability to recall the minute details of the female form, there was no contest.

Hyperbole aside, he chuckled as he passed through the door. Despite the old odor and dated decor, telltale signs of an "old joint", Isamu found it reminiscent, calling to mind memories of halcyon days spent celebrating with his old gang.

Turning to a waitress, he placed his order for a few appetizers - Yakitori and a plate of dumplings - before finalizing his order with a bowl of ramen. Humorously, he pointed to his table of choice, grabbed a chair and an empty table, and set his coordinates for Catherine's location. Setting it down opposite her table, turned at an improper angle, Isamu languidly leaned against the top of the chair.

"Long time no see, Cath."

"You're still as mean as ever, aren't ya? Wrong idea? What? Afraid to call me a friend, Cath~?"

His flamboyant tone, a stark contrast to his deep timbre of a voice, echoed across the table with playful nonchalance as he heeded none of her instructions. No stranger to the familiar hostility, he simply waved his hand in casual dismissal. At least she wasn't attempting to shoot a fist across the table in an attempt to level his jaw. When her meal arrived, so too did Isamu's plate of appetizers. Drawing one of the Yakitori sticks to his mouth, Isamu chewed into the first line of grilled meat at the top. Maintaining his languid position, cocking his head to the side, Isamu answers her inquiry with ease.

"Nah. I'd be a terrible hitman if the first thing that kills me is some random hollow. As for why I'm here, well, beyond this being my homeland, work's been kinda' dry lately. Blood money's runnin' kinda low. Typical stuff. What about you, Cath? What brings our cute Irishwoman to the land of the rising sun?" He questioned with a grin.

"Careful. Don't go croakin' on me now. Can't meet your end to a ramen noodle, Cath. You know I'd never let you live it down in the afterlife."

That small error brought him no small amount of laughter as he ate away at the Yakitori on his plate. His languid, unprofessional stance remained largely the same while he listened to the woman lay into him. It wasn't anything he was unfamiliar with, nor did it particularly phase him in the slightest. No, if anything, it reminded him of those mean felines that were ready to attack at the slightest inconvenience. Mockingly waving a hand to her pompous response, Isamu still his laughter as he regarded her with a curious gaze.

"Yeah, yeah. What can I say? A man's vices are his worst enemy. Work, eh? I don't smell the scent of blood on you. Must of been a simple enough task. Or was it a hollow, maybe? That's usually my go-to when my pockets are cryin' for salvation. Depends on the size of those bad boys, though."

He wasn't exactly expecting her to expound on her exploits, but he posed the question anyway, for no particular reason other than to annoy her further. Why? It amused him greatly.

Son of a...

Bitch. A voiceless insult. He didn't find much desire in voicing it, though. If anything, he simply played it off with a grunted chuckle as he lifted his knee backward to rub against it. Honestly, he'd been hit by far worse, but that didn't make the stinging emotion any less painful. Turning the chair around while flashing her the middle finger, he sat properly.

A moment or so after, his bowl of ramen had arrived. Breaking apart his chopsticks, he leaned against the chair as he took a moment to reflect on her words. If there was an afterlife, he certainly doubted he was going anywhere nice, unless the spirits were willing to excuse the mountain of bodies he'd built over the years. Maybe.

"Heh, and you think I'm destined to go anywhere better? If my spirit's allowed to pass on into that nice place up in the sky, somethin' is genuinely wrong with the system they're runnin'. Whatever it looks like, I don't imagine it'll be pretty. Look at you, though. Cute ginger talkin' about rottin' in hell. Pretty scary stuff."

"Mm..."

Isamu pondered his philosophy on the matter, blowing away the clouds of steaming heat that rose from his fresh bowl of ramen. Reflecting on his past for a momentary instant, he recalled a time when he wished to rise to prominence as a swordsman of great import, where in his childish youth - compelled by delusions of grandeur - he vowed to be some symbol of valor that fought beside those soul reapers in vanquishing the same hollows that terrorized him and his mother long ago. That felt like such a distant memory now. He was a far cry from honorable now. His blade only knew the familiar taste of blood.

"What? I'm just callin' it like I see it. If ya want to make a scene in this lovely establishment, then by all means, be my guest, Cath. It's adorable seein' ya talk so ill about those soul reapers. Interesting, too. Can't imagine what led you up to this point in life, but... it's still interesting to listen to you go off on em."

A momentary pause followed as he slowly enveloped the beef-flavored noodles within his mouth, savoring the nostalgic taste of broth that layered his tastebuds with a symphony of flavors. This, too, was a familiar taste he rarely grew tired of. Pointing a chopstick in her direction, he posed a question. Two, to be exact. First question went first, though.

"What did they do to earn your ire exactly? As our so-called "balancers" of the realm as the books call them, It's rare to see anyone regardin' them with such vitriol. They fuck you over in the past or somethin'?"

It was worth the venture.