so many are they that face off against one another at the place they call shibuya. they gather at the lines in patient hoards, not one of them moving before the war cry sounds. they hold.
and when it comes, they surge forward as one; defiantly advancing in vast numbers towards inevitable, clashing calamity. but as they meet, the strangest thing… they merge and then pass, fluidly in choreographed unison.
and when the battle is ended, more gather at the lines to begin the dance again.