Very few things are annoying to a Master Physical Adept. An Adept's mind and soul are as honed as his body; his inner eye is always open but sees nothing, his inner self is never moving but feels all. The flow of energy through his body is as slow and natural as it is for any other human, but he knows where it is at all times, notices every ebb and flow and moves with them all. A Physical Adept has magic that cannot be detected by any device or mage because it is magic that every human possesses. Magic that so few realize how to grasp.
The end result of this is that very few things are annoying to a Master Physical Adept. Full awareness dulls annoyance, as one cannot focus on annoyance for very long without seeing the inner harmony of what it is that annoys. Emotions, however-- including annoyance-- are a human necessity. A true Master Physical Adept cannot be fully free of annoyance without ceasing his humanity and therefore ceasing his Adepthood. Some forget this and are calm at all times, but Marc Smirks-at-Fate never could. It was honestly too satisfying a luxury to allow himself every so often.
In fact, his salad dressing was far too oily, and Marc Smirks-at-Fate glared at it resentfully. For the first time in years, the signature homemade salad dressing of The New Atlantean Deli was too oily. Marc was forced to conclude that they had hired a new “Sandwich Artist” who (Marc thought) obviously had arranged for his artistic license to be faked. With a weary sigh, the Adept lowered his salad tongs and picked up his second wad of salad, shovelling it unceremoniously into his mouth. It wasn't so bad when the excessive oil wasn't a surprise, he decided as he chewed thoughtfully. He would still have to turn in a comment card about it, but at the very least he found himself able to put away the urges to take the offending server aside and lecture him. He chewed and swallowed, unconsciously aware of where every leaf that he had chewed ended up, slid down his throat. He could feel it in his belly, heavy with too much oil. Damn.
Marc was about to take another tongful of salad when the voice he had been waiting for came from behind him. “Marc Smirks-at-Fate."
Marc didn't look up, instead grabbing more salad in his tongs and putting it in his mouth. “Mrh?” he grunted, mouth full of food.
The voice almost wavered. “Marc Smirks-at-Fate. I am speaking to you."
Marc made more noises through the mouthful of salad, examining the stranger without his eyes. Five-eight, shaved head, caucasian facial structure. Probably a pure-strain Washingtonian by his accent and face. Simple clothing and tight movements marked the stranger as a fellow Physical Adept.
"I am Peter Shatters-Mythril. I challenge you."
Marc swiveled in his chair, as though just registering that he had been addressed. He was chewing somewhat slowly and ostentatiously, so his mouth was still full of partially-pulped greens. He looked up at the Adept called Shatters-Mythril with a confused expression. “Mmmf?"
"You heard me, Smirks-at-Fate. I challenge you to a duel. Do you accept?” Annoyance crept into the edge of the Adept's voice, but Marc decided to be gracious and wait until he accepted, which he did. After canting his head for a moment, chewing thoughtfully and eventually swallowing the mouthful of salad, Marc shrugged and nodded his head. “Yeah, sure.” He then turned back to his salad, though he knew that the moment an Adept duel was accepted, it had begun. He sighed internally as he felt the Adept behind him freeze for a moment in confusion, and let that opportunity go as well. He felt like a bully doing otherwise. After an unacceptable quarter-second of delay, the Adept fell into an amalgamated Jeet Kune Do battle stance and Marc felt a surge of annoyance, this time unbidden. He hoped to God that he would be able to finish this the way he intended.
"I am ready,” said Peter Shatters-Mythril. Marc bit into another tongful of salad, waited a quarter of a second, and turned back to the Adept with an even more confused look on his face. “Mmm?” he asked, as though to say oh, wait, you mean a DUEL?
The last flash of irritation painted itself on Shatters-Mythril's face and he spoke out. “Can't you--” and he froze, seeing the subsequent change of expression on Marc Smirks-at-Fate's face. The two remained completely still for several moments, stuck in a tableau where any movement that Peter Shatters-Mythril made would, in a true fight, mean his death. Any movement at all. After nearly three seconds spent as statues, Marc Smirks-at-Fate turned back to his salad and Peter Shatters-Mythril relaxed, trembling.
His annoyance let go and passed by his inner self, his body fully aware, his interest in the salad only passing, Marc Smirks-at-Fate felt the disgraced Adept behind him bow deeply, shamed, and walk backward out of the Café remaining in the bowed position as he backpedaled. Smirks-at-Fate took another bite of salad and wondered, without preference, whether he would find the need to strike in the next duel he fought.
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