Venom: On Missing Limbs
a Worm x MGSV crossover 'oneshot'
by fallacies
Three months after she...
a Worm x MGSV crossover 'oneshot'
by fallacies
Three months after she...
[Worm x MGSV] On Missing Limbs
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Index
fallacies
Puyo Mage
Venom: On Missing Limbs
a Worm x MGSV crossover 'oneshot'
by fallacies
Three months after she was found in her locker, Taylor Hebert wakes up in a hospital room.
oo. Prologue: Visitor
o1. Awakening
o2. Present Status
o3. On My Mark
o4. The Short Mile
o5. Armsmaster
o6. Close Quarters
o7. Dogs of War
o8. Sleeping Bees
o9. After-Action
1o. Oil Rig
11. [Reunion] The Patriot
12. Epilogue I: Philosophers
13. Epilogue II: Valkyrie
Ex. Truth: Daniel Robert Hebert
Notes:
This is to be a sequence of short scenes, unbetaed and unedited. It's meant to be largely humorous, despite how it might look. It also isn't a fic where Taylor triggers with an alternate set of powers.
Regarding the plot: There is none. This is just a random romp thing. There aren't going to be big fight scenes or tragedies or evil lurking conspiracies that Taylor actively thwarts. If you feel that something like that should be included, note that this fic is up for snippet contributions and/or adoption.
Have fun!
Special thanks to Souffle, Ataru, and Biigoh for concepts and input.
This fic is now archived at fanfiction.net.
An entry regarding this fic can be found on TVTropes.
a Worm x MGSV crossover 'oneshot'
by fallacies
Three months after she was found in her locker, Taylor Hebert wakes up in a hospital room.
oo. Prologue: Visitor
o1. Awakening
o2. Present Status
o3. On My Mark
o4. The Short Mile
o5. Armsmaster
o6. Close Quarters
o7. Dogs of War
o8. Sleeping Bees
o9. After-Action
1o. Oil Rig
11. [Reunion] The Patriot
12. Epilogue I: Philosophers
13. Epilogue II: Valkyrie
Ex. Truth: Daniel Robert Hebert
Notes:
This is to be a sequence of short scenes, unbetaed and unedited. It's meant to be largely humorous, despite how it might look. It also isn't a fic where Taylor triggers with an alternate set of powers.
Regarding the plot: There is none. This is just a random romp thing. There aren't going to be big fight scenes or tragedies or evil lurking conspiracies that Taylor actively thwarts. If you feel that something like that should be included, note that this fic is up for snippet contributions and/or adoption.
Have fun!
Special thanks to Souffle, Ataru, and Biigoh for concepts and input.
This fic is now archived at fanfiction.net.
An entry regarding this fic can be found on TVTropes.
Last edited:
oo. Visitor
fallacies
Puyo Mage
oo. Prologue: Visitor
[It isn't your fault,] she said. [You couldn't have known.]
Through his mask, Colin stared at the comatose girl in the bed.
"No," he said. "I could've found out. It's only because I made a conscious decision to let Piggot have her way that I didn't."
Dragon didn't reply, but her expression in his head-up display laid bare her discomfort. She was kind by nature, and believed the better of him -- even when he didn't necessarily deserve it. His lie detector indicated as much.
"Shadow Stalker was under my command," he said. "If I'd gotten on Piggot's case for superseding my authority in the management of the Wards, I might've picked up hints of the events leading up to this. Instead, I wanted to see Piggot hanging by her own rope."
Colin was a man driven by ego. All too often, self-benefit was the rule that shaped his course of action. This was a character flaw that he was all too aware of -- and once every so often, the consequences of his choices would come back to bite him.
[The PRT /will/ be running an inquiry on Piggot,] Dragon softly replied, as if making a promise.
If it didn't happen, Dragon probably intended to put pressure on the organization until they complied. This, however, wasn't a carriage of justice that inherently did anything for the victim. It was too little and too late, and Shadow Stalker was still at large for her role in the girl's crippling injuries. The handsome indemnity paid to the girl's father did nothing to alleviate her past or current suffering, or resolve the ongoing threat to her life.
"If she wakes up," said Colin, "I'll make it up to her somehow."
[If she wakes up,] Dragon replied. [But I don't think it's healthy for you to obsess over this. The doctors indicated that cerebral hypoxia went on for long enough that it's a miracle she's even alive. Sections of her frontal and parietal lobes have been reduced to mush, and she barely scores a four on the Glasgow Coma Scale. At this point, we can't even tell if she possessed a corona pollentia or not -- and that's a fairly distinct structure.]
None of this was new information; Colin had exhaustively familiarized himself with the girl's condition, and had forced himself to absorb several years of graduate-level neuroscience in the process.
"Are you familiar with the concept of compensation via neuroplasticity?" he asked.
[I'm aware that it's said to be the basis of the phantom limb syndrome in amputees,] Dragon replied. [But no, I'm not specifically familiar with it. Why?]
"The cortical pathways in the human brain remap themselves in response to injury," said Colin. "There was a case in 1943 where a woman was recorded to have fully recovered from a coma induced by a bullet wound to the brain. It's not entirely out of the question that something like that could happen here."
Within her camera feed, Dragon frowned.
[It's an astronomical improbability, Colin,] she said. [Please, don't be like this. You're just setting yourself up for disappointment.]
Colin grit his teeth, lowering his gaze to the sleeve at the girl's left.
"She's already given us one miracle," he said. "Another shouldn't be so far out of reach."
[It isn't your fault,] she said. [You couldn't have known.]
Through his mask, Colin stared at the comatose girl in the bed.
"No," he said. "I could've found out. It's only because I made a conscious decision to let Piggot have her way that I didn't."
Dragon didn't reply, but her expression in his head-up display laid bare her discomfort. She was kind by nature, and believed the better of him -- even when he didn't necessarily deserve it. His lie detector indicated as much.
"Shadow Stalker was under my command," he said. "If I'd gotten on Piggot's case for superseding my authority in the management of the Wards, I might've picked up hints of the events leading up to this. Instead, I wanted to see Piggot hanging by her own rope."
Colin was a man driven by ego. All too often, self-benefit was the rule that shaped his course of action. This was a character flaw that he was all too aware of -- and once every so often, the consequences of his choices would come back to bite him.
[The PRT /will/ be running an inquiry on Piggot,] Dragon softly replied, as if making a promise.
If it didn't happen, Dragon probably intended to put pressure on the organization until they complied. This, however, wasn't a carriage of justice that inherently did anything for the victim. It was too little and too late, and Shadow Stalker was still at large for her role in the girl's crippling injuries. The handsome indemnity paid to the girl's father did nothing to alleviate her past or current suffering, or resolve the ongoing threat to her life.
"If she wakes up," said Colin, "I'll make it up to her somehow."
[If she wakes up,] Dragon replied. [But I don't think it's healthy for you to obsess over this. The doctors indicated that cerebral hypoxia went on for long enough that it's a miracle she's even alive. Sections of her frontal and parietal lobes have been reduced to mush, and she barely scores a four on the Glasgow Coma Scale. At this point, we can't even tell if she possessed a corona pollentia or not -- and that's a fairly distinct structure.]
None of this was new information; Colin had exhaustively familiarized himself with the girl's condition, and had forced himself to absorb several years of graduate-level neuroscience in the process.
"Are you familiar with the concept of compensation via neuroplasticity?" he asked.
[I'm aware that it's said to be the basis of the phantom limb syndrome in amputees,] Dragon replied. [But no, I'm not specifically familiar with it. Why?]
"The cortical pathways in the human brain remap themselves in response to injury," said Colin. "There was a case in 1943 where a woman was recorded to have fully recovered from a coma induced by a bullet wound to the brain. It's not entirely out of the question that something like that could happen here."
Within her camera feed, Dragon frowned.
[It's an astronomical improbability, Colin,] she said. [Please, don't be like this. You're just setting yourself up for disappointment.]
Colin grit his teeth, lowering his gaze to the sleeve at the girl's left.
"She's already given us one miracle," he said. "Another shouldn't be so far out of reach."
Last edited:
o1. Awakening
fallacies
Puyo Mage
o1. Awakening
In my first minutes of consciousness, time seemed discontinuous -- distorted.
The nurse adjusting the flowers on the table beside my bed noticed me moving about, and said something unintelligible -- coming in close as if to confirm that I was awake before running off.
The next that I was aware, a balding man dressed like a doctor was standing at the right of my bed. The nurse from earlier looked on from a polite distance.
"Can you hear me?" he asked, speaking in an unplaceable accent -- possibly Indian, or Middle Eastern.
I tried to respond, but my throat was dry and uncooperative. More noticeably, it felt as if there was something wrong with my right eye. I could open and close my eyelid, but I wasn't seeing anything through it. Had I gone blind?
"Are you having trouble speaking?" he asked, louder than necessary.
I opened my mouth, but when I failed to properly respond, he asked, "Can you move your head?"
I moved about, but it apparently wasn't enough to convince him that I was aware.
"Just nod if you can hear me," he said.
With colossal effort, I complied, bending my neck. It felt as if everything was far heavier than it should've been.
"Look up, please," said the doctor, making a hand gesture.
As I again attempted to comply, he put his hand to his chin in contemplation. I wasn't successful. After a few seconds of tilting my head, the muscular strain grew to be too much to bear, and I gave up -- collapsing back to the mattress and panting.
"Very good," said the doctor, nodding with approval. "How do you feel now? Can you speak?"
I grunted in reply.
"What is your name?" he asked. "When were you born? Can you recall?"
"T- Taylor ... Hebert," I said. "Nine ... nineteenth of June ... 1995."
That much I could remember -- but how had I arrived here? I assumed I was in a hospital of some sort. Brockton General? Why was I in a hospital?
"Good," said the doctor. "Now, then -- please try to relax. There is plenty of time."
Plenty of time for what?
"I need to tell you something," he said. "Please listen, and try not to panic." He turned, pacing to the foot of my bed. "You've been in a coma for some time now."
A coma? I'd been in a coma? For how long?
The doctor noticed me straining to speak; maybe he saw the panic in my eye.
"Yes, yes, I know," he said, gesturing reassuringly -- somehow, in a well-rehearsed manner. "You'd like to know the details." He paced to my left. "Not to worry. It hasn't been that long. You've been in my care for a bit over three months. It is now the twelfth of April, 2011."
April?
Over three months?
That meant I'd gone into a coma in January...
... the locker. The goddamn locker.
The memories flooded back -- of Madison, giggling across the hallway; of Emma, smiling quietly.
Of Sophia.
The pounding of my heart grew loud, and I struggled to get up; to get away, by any means possible. Dimly, I was aware that the doctor was shouting something at the nurse, but I couldn't make it out. I couldn't focus on the present.
"Calm down," somebody said, as I faded out. "Please, calm down!"
Rushing to my side, the nurse injected a syringe into the IV hanging above me.
"Don't panic," said the doctor. "Just keep calm. We're here for you."
An unnatural lethargy began to settle over me. It was a bluntness -- like blanket of stillness that spread through my limbs. Unable to keep my eyes open, I succumbed.
Then, I was lost again in the month of January.
In my first minutes of consciousness, time seemed discontinuous -- distorted.
The nurse adjusting the flowers on the table beside my bed noticed me moving about, and said something unintelligible -- coming in close as if to confirm that I was awake before running off.
The next that I was aware, a balding man dressed like a doctor was standing at the right of my bed. The nurse from earlier looked on from a polite distance.
"Can you hear me?" he asked, speaking in an unplaceable accent -- possibly Indian, or Middle Eastern.
I tried to respond, but my throat was dry and uncooperative. More noticeably, it felt as if there was something wrong with my right eye. I could open and close my eyelid, but I wasn't seeing anything through it. Had I gone blind?
"Are you having trouble speaking?" he asked, louder than necessary.
I opened my mouth, but when I failed to properly respond, he asked, "Can you move your head?"
I moved about, but it apparently wasn't enough to convince him that I was aware.
"Just nod if you can hear me," he said.
With colossal effort, I complied, bending my neck. It felt as if everything was far heavier than it should've been.
"Look up, please," said the doctor, making a hand gesture.
As I again attempted to comply, he put his hand to his chin in contemplation. I wasn't successful. After a few seconds of tilting my head, the muscular strain grew to be too much to bear, and I gave up -- collapsing back to the mattress and panting.
"Very good," said the doctor, nodding with approval. "How do you feel now? Can you speak?"
I grunted in reply.
"What is your name?" he asked. "When were you born? Can you recall?"
"T- Taylor ... Hebert," I said. "Nine ... nineteenth of June ... 1995."
That much I could remember -- but how had I arrived here? I assumed I was in a hospital of some sort. Brockton General? Why was I in a hospital?
"Good," said the doctor. "Now, then -- please try to relax. There is plenty of time."
Plenty of time for what?
"I need to tell you something," he said. "Please listen, and try not to panic." He turned, pacing to the foot of my bed. "You've been in a coma for some time now."
A coma? I'd been in a coma? For how long?
The doctor noticed me straining to speak; maybe he saw the panic in my eye.
"Yes, yes, I know," he said, gesturing reassuringly -- somehow, in a well-rehearsed manner. "You'd like to know the details." He paced to my left. "Not to worry. It hasn't been that long. You've been in my care for a bit over three months. It is now the twelfth of April, 2011."
April?
Over three months?
That meant I'd gone into a coma in January...
... the locker. The goddamn locker.
The memories flooded back -- of Madison, giggling across the hallway; of Emma, smiling quietly.
Of Sophia.
The pounding of my heart grew loud, and I struggled to get up; to get away, by any means possible. Dimly, I was aware that the doctor was shouting something at the nurse, but I couldn't make it out. I couldn't focus on the present.
"Calm down," somebody said, as I faded out. "Please, calm down!"
Rushing to my side, the nurse injected a syringe into the IV hanging above me.
"Don't panic," said the doctor. "Just keep calm. We're here for you."
An unnatural lethargy began to settle over me. It was a bluntness -- like blanket of stillness that spread through my limbs. Unable to keep my eyes open, I succumbed.
Then, I was lost again in the month of January.
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o2. Present Status
fallacies
Puyo Mage
o2. Present Status
The cycle of waking and unconsciousness continued, until I began to come to terms with the changes in my body, and grasp the state of my life without falling into a panic. Each new revelation was devastating; a fresh lesson of loss, as if my prior suffering held no meaning or weight.
A week after my awakening, I had arrived upon a rough understanding of the how and what of my present circumstances.
The Trio had confined me to my locker on a Monday in January, and left me there to rot amidst the filth and used needles that they'd gathered. At some undetermined point soon after, I suffered a psychotic break, and attempted to claw my way out -- banging my head against the metal surfaces of the compartment to draw attention. The doctor wasn't certain as to how long this went on, or why nobody came to help, but I ended up injuring myself severely and bleeding to unawareness.
My father arrived home that evening to find me absent, and he'd immediately called the Barnes to see if they knew where I was. Predictably, Emma claimed that she hadn't seen me, and so he'd informed the police. A search was conducted, but there wasn't any indication as to where I'd gone. A cursory search through my bedroom and belongings uncovered evidence of bullying, and the cops began to build a case that I might have run away or committed suicide.
The following day at noon, a janitor making rounds had noticed a strong stench emanating from one of the hallways. Approaching, he noticed fluids dripping from the base of my locker, and cut through the padlock to have a look inside. Finding me, he'd called for the ambulance.
The tissue in my left arm was entirely necrotic by that point, and I sustained brain damage from physical trauma and blood loss. Owing to some combination of that, I'd lost the use of my right eye -- despite it being technically uninjured.
Winslow received word of my condition before my father did. With an uncharacteristic efficiency, a lawyer under the school district's employ ambushed my father with a very premature out-of-court settlement just as he arrived at the hospital.
Somehow, Dad managed not to injure the lawyer. The settlement was tossed out, and he'd pressed the cops for a thorough investigation. As useless as the Brockton Bay PD typically seemed, in the subsequent weeks, they managed to actually dredge up results. Witness testimony was secured, and a court date was decided.
Then, Sophia went missing, and things became complicated.
Apparently, she was a Ward under the Protectorate East North-East. It wasn't hard to guess which one.
"They made me sign a waiver," Dad explained, seated at my bedside. His voice was low and soft; tired, much as he appeared. "Pretty soon, they'll probably have you do the same. We don't get a public trial, or really any way to refuse their terms. In return, they've agreed to meet any of our demands -- within reason."
"What are their terms, exactly?"
"Simply put, we accept twenty-four surveillance and a PRT officer posted at our doorstep. We don't talk about this Hess girl at all, to anyone. Emma and the Clements girl /will/ get what's coming to them, but no details regarding the case can be made public." Dad turned his eyes aside. "Fucking bureaucrats."
"Why the surveillance? Is it because of Sophia?"
"Yeah. They think she could try and do something. I'm not sure what sort of difference they think a single unpowered PRT goon could make if she actually has the guts to turn up at our house."
"You don't think she will?"
"You'd know better than I do," said Dad, exhaling and leaning back into his chair. "Personally, I don't think it's likely. They have her on the run. It'd be far easier for her to just disappear and never come back. She is a known fugitive, after all -- and disappearing is her power."
I frowned. The threat of arrest never seemed to stop any of the major parahuman criminals. I couldn't imagine it stopping Sophia if she really wanted to harm me.
Her power wasn't disappearing. It was to harm others without being harmed.
Dad decided to change the subject.
"Panacea agreed to come and heal you, by the way," he said, "but only if you personally consent. For whatever reason, she wouldn't let me request healing on your behalf. If you want, I can ring her up. She said that she can give you back your arm."
I looked to my left, lifting what remained of my missing arm. It had been amputated from the elbow down, but muscular feedback somehow hadn't gone away. I could feel my fingers when I thought to flex them; feel the blunted pressure of muscular strain as they invisibly bent.
"I heard that she doesn't do brains," I said.
"Yeah. She told me as much when I asked if she could wake you. I think my attitude might've offended her."
Panacea wouldn't be able to correct my vision, in other words.
"I wanna ask her to help me recover my muscular tone," I said, "but not to replace my arm."
Dad shot me a perplexed look.
"Why not?"
I met his gaze with my eye.
"I've learned a lesson," I said. "I don't want to pretend that it never happened."
The cycle of waking and unconsciousness continued, until I began to come to terms with the changes in my body, and grasp the state of my life without falling into a panic. Each new revelation was devastating; a fresh lesson of loss, as if my prior suffering held no meaning or weight.
A week after my awakening, I had arrived upon a rough understanding of the how and what of my present circumstances.
The Trio had confined me to my locker on a Monday in January, and left me there to rot amidst the filth and used needles that they'd gathered. At some undetermined point soon after, I suffered a psychotic break, and attempted to claw my way out -- banging my head against the metal surfaces of the compartment to draw attention. The doctor wasn't certain as to how long this went on, or why nobody came to help, but I ended up injuring myself severely and bleeding to unawareness.
My father arrived home that evening to find me absent, and he'd immediately called the Barnes to see if they knew where I was. Predictably, Emma claimed that she hadn't seen me, and so he'd informed the police. A search was conducted, but there wasn't any indication as to where I'd gone. A cursory search through my bedroom and belongings uncovered evidence of bullying, and the cops began to build a case that I might have run away or committed suicide.
The following day at noon, a janitor making rounds had noticed a strong stench emanating from one of the hallways. Approaching, he noticed fluids dripping from the base of my locker, and cut through the padlock to have a look inside. Finding me, he'd called for the ambulance.
The tissue in my left arm was entirely necrotic by that point, and I sustained brain damage from physical trauma and blood loss. Owing to some combination of that, I'd lost the use of my right eye -- despite it being technically uninjured.
Winslow received word of my condition before my father did. With an uncharacteristic efficiency, a lawyer under the school district's employ ambushed my father with a very premature out-of-court settlement just as he arrived at the hospital.
Somehow, Dad managed not to injure the lawyer. The settlement was tossed out, and he'd pressed the cops for a thorough investigation. As useless as the Brockton Bay PD typically seemed, in the subsequent weeks, they managed to actually dredge up results. Witness testimony was secured, and a court date was decided.
Then, Sophia went missing, and things became complicated.
Apparently, she was a Ward under the Protectorate East North-East. It wasn't hard to guess which one.
"They made me sign a waiver," Dad explained, seated at my bedside. His voice was low and soft; tired, much as he appeared. "Pretty soon, they'll probably have you do the same. We don't get a public trial, or really any way to refuse their terms. In return, they've agreed to meet any of our demands -- within reason."
"What are their terms, exactly?"
"Simply put, we accept twenty-four surveillance and a PRT officer posted at our doorstep. We don't talk about this Hess girl at all, to anyone. Emma and the Clements girl /will/ get what's coming to them, but no details regarding the case can be made public." Dad turned his eyes aside. "Fucking bureaucrats."
"Why the surveillance? Is it because of Sophia?"
"Yeah. They think she could try and do something. I'm not sure what sort of difference they think a single unpowered PRT goon could make if she actually has the guts to turn up at our house."
"You don't think she will?"
"You'd know better than I do," said Dad, exhaling and leaning back into his chair. "Personally, I don't think it's likely. They have her on the run. It'd be far easier for her to just disappear and never come back. She is a known fugitive, after all -- and disappearing is her power."
I frowned. The threat of arrest never seemed to stop any of the major parahuman criminals. I couldn't imagine it stopping Sophia if she really wanted to harm me.
Her power wasn't disappearing. It was to harm others without being harmed.
Dad decided to change the subject.
"Panacea agreed to come and heal you, by the way," he said, "but only if you personally consent. For whatever reason, she wouldn't let me request healing on your behalf. If you want, I can ring her up. She said that she can give you back your arm."
I looked to my left, lifting what remained of my missing arm. It had been amputated from the elbow down, but muscular feedback somehow hadn't gone away. I could feel my fingers when I thought to flex them; feel the blunted pressure of muscular strain as they invisibly bent.
"I heard that she doesn't do brains," I said.
"Yeah. She told me as much when I asked if she could wake you. I think my attitude might've offended her."
Panacea wouldn't be able to correct my vision, in other words.
"I wanna ask her to help me recover my muscular tone," I said, "but not to replace my arm."
Dad shot me a perplexed look.
"Why not?"
I met his gaze with my eye.
"I've learned a lesson," I said. "I don't want to pretend that it never happened."
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o3. On My Mark
fallacies
Puyo Mage
o3. On My Mark
I realized that I'd triggered back in the locker on the Saturday after Panacea healed me, when the hospital finally took me off the cocktail of sedatives they'd been feeding to me intravenously. My power was subtle, and definitely not a capital-P /Power/.
I could track people. So long as I established a direct line of sight to a target and concentrated, I could obtain a persisting 'awareness' of a person's location -- allowing me to 'see' them through walls and other visual obstacles. The awareness lasted only so long as I maintained consciousness, and only if the target stayed within a certain range of my body -- maybe a few hundred meters. Beyond that, I would lose my 'grasp,' and a returning target would have to be processed anew.
Binoculars would probably be useful.
My power didn't work with inanimate objects, but with a little experimentation, I learned that there wasn't a limit to the quantity of targets I could simultaneously track. I also wasn't strictly limited to humans; the birds outside my hospital room window could be located out of sight as well -- but trees or other flora were out of bounds. The 'target' had to be an animal of some sort, it seemed.
I decided to call the ability 'Marking.'
Per PRT classifications, I now ranked as a low-level Thinker. It didn't feel as if my power would give me an edge in a fight -- but defensively, it had some definite potential. If it turned out that I could pierce Stranger abilities with tracking, escaping from Sophia in the event of an attack wouldn't be problem.
Imagining at the beginning that Dad would somehow be assured of my safety if he knew that I was a parahuman, I gave some serious consideration to a full disclosure. Thinking through it a bit more, though, I realized that he already had far too much on his plate to deal with something like this. There was an often-quoted statistic about the life expectancy of a newly triggered cape, and I knew that he knew about it.
There wasn't a good rationale to tell him about my ability just yet. More to the point, I wasn't sure if I was mentally ready for any kind of adverse reaction to my power on Dad's part. I could put it off until I was through with physiotherapy, at the least.
The knowledge that I was a parahuman did firm my resolve, however. I had a goal in mind, now; a path to follow. Even if I didn't exactly possess what it took to walk the walk of a costumed cape, I'd had quite enough of turning the other cheek to the myriad abuses the Trio had dished out. I would never knowingly put myself into that sort of situation again.
Maintaining the moral high ground had gotten me stuffed into a locker. Ergo, 'being the bigger person' could go fuck itself.
I would make myself stronger -- strong enough to strike back.
Taylor Hebert would be as diamonds.
I realized that I'd triggered back in the locker on the Saturday after Panacea healed me, when the hospital finally took me off the cocktail of sedatives they'd been feeding to me intravenously. My power was subtle, and definitely not a capital-P /Power/.
I could track people. So long as I established a direct line of sight to a target and concentrated, I could obtain a persisting 'awareness' of a person's location -- allowing me to 'see' them through walls and other visual obstacles. The awareness lasted only so long as I maintained consciousness, and only if the target stayed within a certain range of my body -- maybe a few hundred meters. Beyond that, I would lose my 'grasp,' and a returning target would have to be processed anew.
Binoculars would probably be useful.
My power didn't work with inanimate objects, but with a little experimentation, I learned that there wasn't a limit to the quantity of targets I could simultaneously track. I also wasn't strictly limited to humans; the birds outside my hospital room window could be located out of sight as well -- but trees or other flora were out of bounds. The 'target' had to be an animal of some sort, it seemed.
I decided to call the ability 'Marking.'
Per PRT classifications, I now ranked as a low-level Thinker. It didn't feel as if my power would give me an edge in a fight -- but defensively, it had some definite potential. If it turned out that I could pierce Stranger abilities with tracking, escaping from Sophia in the event of an attack wouldn't be problem.
Imagining at the beginning that Dad would somehow be assured of my safety if he knew that I was a parahuman, I gave some serious consideration to a full disclosure. Thinking through it a bit more, though, I realized that he already had far too much on his plate to deal with something like this. There was an often-quoted statistic about the life expectancy of a newly triggered cape, and I knew that he knew about it.
There wasn't a good rationale to tell him about my ability just yet. More to the point, I wasn't sure if I was mentally ready for any kind of adverse reaction to my power on Dad's part. I could put it off until I was through with physiotherapy, at the least.
The knowledge that I was a parahuman did firm my resolve, however. I had a goal in mind, now; a path to follow. Even if I didn't exactly possess what it took to walk the walk of a costumed cape, I'd had quite enough of turning the other cheek to the myriad abuses the Trio had dished out. I would never knowingly put myself into that sort of situation again.
Maintaining the moral high ground had gotten me stuffed into a locker. Ergo, 'being the bigger person' could go fuck itself.
I would make myself stronger -- strong enough to strike back.
Taylor Hebert would be as diamonds.
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o4. The Short Mile
fallacies
Puyo Mage
o4. The Short Mile
According to Panacea, my flesh was restored to the point where I theoretically possessed a 'normative' strength and endurance for a teenage girl of my age, height, and overall build. Assuming that she hadn't miscalculated anything, and wasn't lying, it seemed that I might have accidentally stumbled into a secondary power.
Four minutes ago, I'd arrived at the campus athletics field at Brockton Bay Community College for my first mile-long run since December -- something that I'd planned as a simple measure of my progress toward a full recovery. Twenty-five seconds ago, I reached the conclusion of four complete laps about the four-hundred meter Olympic-standard running track. Seated now upon the bleachers, I've managed already to mostly catch my breath.
I was exhibiting what Earth Aleph comics referred to as 'peak human physicality' -- or some approximation of it, anyways.
A 'perfect' mile was nothing to scoff at. To the best of my knowledge, the four-minute barrier hadn't yet been surmounted by any female athlete objectively proven not to be parahuman.
If I wasn't entirely certain I was cheating my ass off, I might've even felt proud.
Rehydrating myself with a cold sports drink and looking on as the other runners passed, I vaguely wondered how the power worked; it didn't seem as if I was much stronger or better conditioned than before, and I definitely wasn't more muscular in appearance. The last time Panacea examined me -- three days prior -- she hadn't verbally made a note of anything unusual about my biology.
Was this therefore a power that selectively operated during intense physical activity? Did it, for example, improve muscular efficiency or reduce the buildup of tissue acidity? Or was it maybe a result of there being something terribly wrong with my perception of pain and muscular stress, caused by brain damage? I'd heard about non-parahumans with situational hypoalgesia performing Brute- or Mover-like physical feats.
If something like that were in play, though, why was my awakening in the hospital so difficult? Why did I still feel pain in my left arm?
I didn't know if I would find any real answers, but clearly, more experimentation was required. I had to define the practical limitations of the physical abilities that I now possessed -- simply to pin down the reliability of my body as a defensive instrument. It wouldn't do for it to betray me unexpectedly.
'At the least,' I thought, taking another gulp from my bottle, 'I've just confirmed that we won't be receiving another bill for physiotherapy next month ...'
According to Panacea, my flesh was restored to the point where I theoretically possessed a 'normative' strength and endurance for a teenage girl of my age, height, and overall build. Assuming that she hadn't miscalculated anything, and wasn't lying, it seemed that I might have accidentally stumbled into a secondary power.
Four minutes ago, I'd arrived at the campus athletics field at Brockton Bay Community College for my first mile-long run since December -- something that I'd planned as a simple measure of my progress toward a full recovery. Twenty-five seconds ago, I reached the conclusion of four complete laps about the four-hundred meter Olympic-standard running track. Seated now upon the bleachers, I've managed already to mostly catch my breath.
I was exhibiting what Earth Aleph comics referred to as 'peak human physicality' -- or some approximation of it, anyways.
A 'perfect' mile was nothing to scoff at. To the best of my knowledge, the four-minute barrier hadn't yet been surmounted by any female athlete objectively proven not to be parahuman.
If I wasn't entirely certain I was cheating my ass off, I might've even felt proud.
Rehydrating myself with a cold sports drink and looking on as the other runners passed, I vaguely wondered how the power worked; it didn't seem as if I was much stronger or better conditioned than before, and I definitely wasn't more muscular in appearance. The last time Panacea examined me -- three days prior -- she hadn't verbally made a note of anything unusual about my biology.
Was this therefore a power that selectively operated during intense physical activity? Did it, for example, improve muscular efficiency or reduce the buildup of tissue acidity? Or was it maybe a result of there being something terribly wrong with my perception of pain and muscular stress, caused by brain damage? I'd heard about non-parahumans with situational hypoalgesia performing Brute- or Mover-like physical feats.
If something like that were in play, though, why was my awakening in the hospital so difficult? Why did I still feel pain in my left arm?
I didn't know if I would find any real answers, but clearly, more experimentation was required. I had to define the practical limitations of the physical abilities that I now possessed -- simply to pin down the reliability of my body as a defensive instrument. It wouldn't do for it to betray me unexpectedly.
'At the least,' I thought, taking another gulp from my bottle, 'I've just confirmed that we won't be receiving another bill for physiotherapy next month ...'
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Taylor as Big Boss? A low rated power that does not look much on paper but will play merry havoc on the battlefield with proper application. Cool.
- Location
- Nowhere
Taylor not wanting her arm grown back really hammers home the point that she's suffering from severe brain damage.
- Location
- VA
Mixed feelings about this one. Taylor choosing to remain crippled is a facepalm moment, her giving up her pacifist ways is good though.
I'm wondering what miracle armsmaster spoke of, the one she had 'already' given them.
Does her not having an arm make her more like whoever 'Big Boss' is?
I'm wondering what miracle armsmaster spoke of, the one she had 'already' given them.
Does her not having an arm make her more like whoever 'Big Boss' is?
TimeDiver
Herald of Dis Lev
- Location
- In-between the parallel worlds...
Well, odds are she'll opt for a prosthetic replacement limb at some point, plus an obligatory eyepatch...
Still, that makes her the resident Venom Snake / Ahab, if we're being really specific.
Whatever the case, this will still be fun. This is as close to a Badass Normal Taylor that I've seen in a while, and it's more than likely that Armsmaster and/or Dragon will be the ones to equip her with an efficient prosthetic limb.
It will be interesting to see how far she goes.
- Pronouns
- It/They
nothing in worm is even close to skull face in terms of bastardry.
I was just looking for an excuse to use the line.
Now I'm picturing both Taylor and Sophia in a Jeep having a long and epic stare off while being driven somewhere...
- Pronouns
- It/They
Now I'm picturing both Taylor and Sophia in a Jeep having a long and epic stare off while being driven somewhere...
not the jeep ride, ill take the lalilulelo bullshit over another jeepride, i'll sit through another armstrong social darwinism rant… but please not another fucking jeep ride.
... I have no response...really I don't. Sorry, but you are making me laugh, thank you very much. I never had any issues with those things when they came up in the games, granted I enjoyed the amount of cheese and ham from the series so I had a interesting set of lenses on whenever they did happen. A favorite of mine, for example is Jack's "Let it rip!" from Metal Gear Rising: Revengence
.
- Pronouns
- It/They
... I have no response...really I don't. Sorry, but you are making me laugh, thank you very much. I never had any issues with those things when they came up in the games, granted I enjoyed the amount of cheese and ham from the series so I had a interesting set of lenses on whenever they did happen. A favorite of mine, for example is Jack's "Let it rip!" from Metal Gear Rising: Revengence
oh don't get me wrong, i like the ham two, but the jeepride was just stupid, not even the fun kind of stupid like the other examples i brought up.
Understandable, I think I need to apologize though. So, if I offended you at all when I told you "you made me laugh", I meant that as a good thing. I've been stressing for a few weeks over a health issue and you helped me de stress a little. so, thank you very much for that
.
Blackkyuubi6
Excalibur was first.
I will admit I am now playing the who's who in the MG6/Worm mash up.
o5. Armsmaster
fallacies
Puyo Mage
o5. Armsmaster
The Protectorate and the PRT put a visible effort into making amends, if only to cover themselves. At the end of the month, costs were waived, and the bills were magically taken care of, as if the people in charge thought that throwing money at us would make their oversights with Sophia somehow go away.
Dad, who distrusted the establishment as a rule, warned me repeatedly that nobody was this nice unless they wanted to bleed us for concessions down the road. When Armsmaster paid us a house call to personally apologize, he was very nearly turned away.
Maybe because there was some part of me couldn't get over the fact that one of my childhood heroes had come to visit, I intervened.
"Let's just hear him out, Dad," I said.
"Taylor. We talked about this."
I drew my lips into a line and gave Dad a look. After what felt like an entire minute, he relented, and invited Armsmaster inside.
The black case that Armsmaster was carrying looked like it was designed for some sort of brass band instrument. Directed to have a seat in the armchair opposite of us, he set the case down upon the coffee table.
"I'm here as an individual, and not as a representative of any organization," he said, undoing the clasps and lifting the lid. "I'd like it if you could accept this as a token of my sincerity."
Within, there was a prosthetic arm -- a matte red robotic-looking limb whose design made very little effort to appear natural or lifelike, unlike the variety that the hospital had presented me. It wasn't precisely crude in appearance, but it gave the impression that aesthetics had been sacrificed for functionality.
"You're giving this to us for free?" I asked, slightly bewildered.
A decent myoelectric prosthetic cost between twenty-five to thirty-five thousand dollars, and Tinkertech models were at the least triple that amount. Given that Armsmaster was considered one of the foremost Tinkers in the country unaffiliated with Toybox, a personal creation of his was likely to be bank-breaking. Maybe there was a bit of merit to Dad's concerns about excessive charity.
"No, not for free," Armsmaster replied. "You've paid for it already. I'm giving it to you because my ego and vanity would demand no less."
I opened my mouth, but didn't know what to say. The fact that a charitable act was being performed out of ego wasn't something that a normal person would admit to a stranger.
"What about maintenance cost?" Dad asked, still suspicious. "This /is/ Tinkertech, isn't it? You expect for us to pay you when it breaks down?"
Armsmaster shook his head.
"It isn't Tinkertech," he said. "It's a replica I built of a titanium-alloy prosthetic developed by DARPA in the 1980's. Might be a bit of an antique, but you won't find anything on the market capable of matching it per latency-free interpretation of biosensor input. Use is entirely intuitive, and just about identical to controlling a flesh and blood limb."
Ignoring the clear mistrust in Dad's expression, I lifted the arm from its case. It was surprisingly light, and where there weren't exposed electrodes, the tube of the arm socket was lined with soft, breathable foam. Setting it on my lap, I rolled up my sleeve, and picked it up again, sliding it over my stump. It made for a comfortable fit.
"Hold down on the release button near the rim for a pneumatic lock," Armsmaster supplied.
I did as he instructed, and the lining inflated with air, securing the socket over my bicep. Experimentally, I tried to open and close my fist, but the response was disappointingly unsteady and arthritic. I was, however, in direct control.
"It'll take a few days for you to get use to it," said Armsmaster. "I would suggest closing your eyes and concentrating on the movement."
"You didn't answer my question," Dad interrupted, leaning forward. "What do we do if it breaks? Even if it isn't Tinkertech, there's no way we can just fix something like this without expertise."
Armsmaster's mask and helmet exposed only the lower half of his face, and going on the expression of his mouth alone, I couldn't tell if he was annoyed or not.
"I don't have the time today," he replied, "but the next time I visit, I'll demonstrate the procedures for basic maintenance. If at any point you find that the prosthesis has been damaged beyond your capacity for repair, just bring it to me, and I'll resolve the issue without charge."
Propping his elbow against the armrest of the sofa, Dad rubbed fingers to his brow and exhaled.
"The next time you visit," he repeated in monotone, giving a brief, humorless chuckle. "Tell me, why are you doing this? If you'll excuse my language, I don't buy this crap about you being here to apologize. If it were just an apology, you wouldn't need to bribe us with something so far in excess of the indemnity we already received."
"I'm doing this for personal reasons," said Armsmaster. "Just accept it at face value. There isn't a hidden cost, or anything I'm expecting in return." He turned to me, and I had the distinct impression that he was making eye contact through the opacity of his mask. "I've witnessed the considerable effort that Ms. Hebert's put into her physical rehabilitation, and for my part in the events three months ago, I felt that I owed it to her to offer my support as necessary; to ease things along as my resources permit. All that I ask is for you to indulge me."
He'd observed me running, I realized.
He knew.
The reason that he'd come today was to communicate his understanding, and to indicate his desire to sponsor me -- presumably as an independent hero. I had obvious reason to hold a grudge against the PRT and Protectorate, and so he'd approached me only in his capacity as a private individual -- forgoing the predictable overtures of organizational recruitment. Moreover, as he suspected that I hadn't yet revealed my trigger to Dad, he'd kept it as a secret on my behalf.
Armsmaster could be trusted, I felt; he was a hero, and it didn't seem as if he was positioning himself for blackmail. Likely, I could refuse, and nothing would be lost. On the other hand, I /was/ very much interested in bolstering my defensive capabilities. Even if I wasn't cut out to be a cape, it would be a lie to claim that an offer of miscellaneous support didn't hold any appeal.
It didn't take long for me to decide upon my course of action.
The Protectorate and the PRT put a visible effort into making amends, if only to cover themselves. At the end of the month, costs were waived, and the bills were magically taken care of, as if the people in charge thought that throwing money at us would make their oversights with Sophia somehow go away.
Dad, who distrusted the establishment as a rule, warned me repeatedly that nobody was this nice unless they wanted to bleed us for concessions down the road. When Armsmaster paid us a house call to personally apologize, he was very nearly turned away.
Maybe because there was some part of me couldn't get over the fact that one of my childhood heroes had come to visit, I intervened.
"Let's just hear him out, Dad," I said.
"Taylor. We talked about this."
I drew my lips into a line and gave Dad a look. After what felt like an entire minute, he relented, and invited Armsmaster inside.
The black case that Armsmaster was carrying looked like it was designed for some sort of brass band instrument. Directed to have a seat in the armchair opposite of us, he set the case down upon the coffee table.
"I'm here as an individual, and not as a representative of any organization," he said, undoing the clasps and lifting the lid. "I'd like it if you could accept this as a token of my sincerity."
Within, there was a prosthetic arm -- a matte red robotic-looking limb whose design made very little effort to appear natural or lifelike, unlike the variety that the hospital had presented me. It wasn't precisely crude in appearance, but it gave the impression that aesthetics had been sacrificed for functionality.
"You're giving this to us for free?" I asked, slightly bewildered.
A decent myoelectric prosthetic cost between twenty-five to thirty-five thousand dollars, and Tinkertech models were at the least triple that amount. Given that Armsmaster was considered one of the foremost Tinkers in the country unaffiliated with Toybox, a personal creation of his was likely to be bank-breaking. Maybe there was a bit of merit to Dad's concerns about excessive charity.
"No, not for free," Armsmaster replied. "You've paid for it already. I'm giving it to you because my ego and vanity would demand no less."
I opened my mouth, but didn't know what to say. The fact that a charitable act was being performed out of ego wasn't something that a normal person would admit to a stranger.
"What about maintenance cost?" Dad asked, still suspicious. "This /is/ Tinkertech, isn't it? You expect for us to pay you when it breaks down?"
Armsmaster shook his head.
"It isn't Tinkertech," he said. "It's a replica I built of a titanium-alloy prosthetic developed by DARPA in the 1980's. Might be a bit of an antique, but you won't find anything on the market capable of matching it per latency-free interpretation of biosensor input. Use is entirely intuitive, and just about identical to controlling a flesh and blood limb."
Ignoring the clear mistrust in Dad's expression, I lifted the arm from its case. It was surprisingly light, and where there weren't exposed electrodes, the tube of the arm socket was lined with soft, breathable foam. Setting it on my lap, I rolled up my sleeve, and picked it up again, sliding it over my stump. It made for a comfortable fit.
"Hold down on the release button near the rim for a pneumatic lock," Armsmaster supplied.
I did as he instructed, and the lining inflated with air, securing the socket over my bicep. Experimentally, I tried to open and close my fist, but the response was disappointingly unsteady and arthritic. I was, however, in direct control.
"It'll take a few days for you to get use to it," said Armsmaster. "I would suggest closing your eyes and concentrating on the movement."
"You didn't answer my question," Dad interrupted, leaning forward. "What do we do if it breaks? Even if it isn't Tinkertech, there's no way we can just fix something like this without expertise."
Armsmaster's mask and helmet exposed only the lower half of his face, and going on the expression of his mouth alone, I couldn't tell if he was annoyed or not.
"I don't have the time today," he replied, "but the next time I visit, I'll demonstrate the procedures for basic maintenance. If at any point you find that the prosthesis has been damaged beyond your capacity for repair, just bring it to me, and I'll resolve the issue without charge."
Propping his elbow against the armrest of the sofa, Dad rubbed fingers to his brow and exhaled.
"The next time you visit," he repeated in monotone, giving a brief, humorless chuckle. "Tell me, why are you doing this? If you'll excuse my language, I don't buy this crap about you being here to apologize. If it were just an apology, you wouldn't need to bribe us with something so far in excess of the indemnity we already received."
"I'm doing this for personal reasons," said Armsmaster. "Just accept it at face value. There isn't a hidden cost, or anything I'm expecting in return." He turned to me, and I had the distinct impression that he was making eye contact through the opacity of his mask. "I've witnessed the considerable effort that Ms. Hebert's put into her physical rehabilitation, and for my part in the events three months ago, I felt that I owed it to her to offer my support as necessary; to ease things along as my resources permit. All that I ask is for you to indulge me."
He'd observed me running, I realized.
He knew.
The reason that he'd come today was to communicate his understanding, and to indicate his desire to sponsor me -- presumably as an independent hero. I had obvious reason to hold a grudge against the PRT and Protectorate, and so he'd approached me only in his capacity as a private individual -- forgoing the predictable overtures of organizational recruitment. Moreover, as he suspected that I hadn't yet revealed my trigger to Dad, he'd kept it as a secret on my behalf.
Armsmaster could be trusted, I felt; he was a hero, and it didn't seem as if he was positioning himself for blackmail. Likely, I could refuse, and nothing would be lost. On the other hand, I /was/ very much interested in bolstering my defensive capabilities. Even if I wasn't cut out to be a cape, it would be a lie to claim that an offer of miscellaneous support didn't hold any appeal.
It didn't take long for me to decide upon my course of action.
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o6. Close Quarters
fallacies
Puyo Mage
o6. Close Quarters
"This is Lieutenant Joseph Iriomote of the Brockton Bay Police Department," said Smith -- mispronouncing 'lieutenant' as 'leftenant' per usual. "He'll be assisting me with your final assessment."
In the instruction of modern close quarters combat, there weren't any formal rules of engagement, but out of habitual politeness, Joe nodded slightly as he sized up his opponent.
She was a tall, slender girl -- gangly, with just enough build that she couldn't be mistaken for an emaciated runway model. By facial features, she wasn't particularly ugly or attractive, but her missing arm and the plain black patch over her right eye set her aside in a category of her own.
Smith, being the prick that he was, had informed Joe beforehand only that he was sparring against a 'promising new trainee' introduced by an acquaintance -- and somehow, he'd neglected even to hint that the girl was physically disabled. If not for the fact that he'd made it a personal rule never to back out of anything after giving his word, Joe would've briskly exited the gym without a second glance.
He didn't like being made to play the bully.
In the first place, he didn't understand why somebody of the girl's disadvantages would want to be trained in the hand-to-hand component of CQC.
If it was purely for self-defense, there were other disciplines more suited to her body type and disposition -- without the explicit expectation that any opponents engaged would be armed and dangerous. Outside of applications in the special forces and police or PRT crisis response, there weren't very many venues where training like this was absolutely necessary. The organizations that designated CQC as a mandatory skill of the trade preferred, after all, to acquire assets that weren't missing an eye or a limb.
Smith had probably requested Joe's presence only because he found it amusing to see his best friend utterly mystified.
"Don't hold back on me," said the girl, nodding at him in reply.
From female sparring partners, Joe had occasionally heard the same words spoken flirtatiously; or with an undercurrent of heat, as a response to a perceived slight. Neither was applicable here. The statement was delivered as an earnest request -- as if the girl were promising not to complain about having her face beaten in during the match. The attitude somehow rubbed Joe the wrong way.
If no holds barred was what she wanted, Joe would oblige. Maybe it would teach her not to take her health for granted.
"The match will go until one side surrenders or is unable to continue," said Smith. "Any questions?"
The girl shook her head to the negative.
"In that case, begin."
Speed of action was the concern of highest priority in CQC; Joe was upon the girl almost as the Smith gave the word. Under ideal circumstances, an opponent would be eliminated before they could formulate an appropriate response -- overwhelmed by the abruptness of an attack. Taking advantage of the girl's blindness, his weapon of choice was a clean left hook to the face.
His fist should've impacted without allowing her an opportunity to retaliate -- but without missing a beat, the girl pressed into his guard, taking ahold of his forearm. The urgency with which he'd committed his weight was now turned against him; and using his own strength, she performed an over-the-shoulder throw.
'She can see through the eyepatch?' he thought, turning his torso in mid-air and landing on his feet.
Breaking away, he smoothly drew the padded training baton strapped to his belt and swung it at her left in a wide horizontal arc. The layers of foam that coated the weapon would undoubtedly blunt the blow, but Joe had put enough force into the swing that the metal tube within could still fracture a bone on direct collision.
He'd expected her to dodge and to provide him with an opening. Instead, she placed the stump of her left arm into the path of the arc -- moving with blow as it impacted, and guiding the inertia away from her. Twisting her body along his angular momentum, she spun outside of his swing and slammed the elbow of her good arm into the back of his right shoulder.
Stunned by the blow, he found his neck suddenly encircled from behind by the crook of the girl's arm. For a moment, it seemed that she would try for a one-armed choke-hold -- but a leg-sweep stole his footing instead, and a force was applied to his trachea, wheeling him downwards into the floor-mat.
-
A splash of water brought Joe to consciousness.
"Wakey wake," said Smith. "It's closing time."
The room was dark, and half the lights on the ceiling were already off -- but the one LED lamp directly above his face was bright enough to make him squint.
"Shit," he said, shading his eyes. "How long was I out?"
"About two hours," Smith replied, squatting down beside him. "So. What do you think?"
Turning his face slightly, Joe deadpanned, "I think you look like an idiot, wearing those Ray-Bans indoors at night."
With the remainder of the water in his disposable cup, Smith splashed him again.
"I was talking about Anne, you arse," he said.
Joe chuckled.
"She's pretty good," he replied, slowly sitting up. "Way better than I thought."
"Comments or advice, at all?"
Staring up into the ceiling, Joe mentally reviewed the match.
"Some of those moves she has aren't really kosher. What was that last bit? A variant of the major outer drop?"
"Something like that. I don't know if it has a proper name in Judo."
"That thing could've crushed my windpipe if she didn't execute it just right. Get down to it, and it's just barely on this side of a non-lethal take-down. Not something she wants to use in a sparring match."
"Duly noted."
"And tell her to get rid of the fake eyepatch," Joe continued. "Thirty seconds into an engagement, and anyone with a decent amount of experience would know that her eyes are perfectly fine. It's just vaguely insulting that somebody as skilled as she is would resort to using cheap gimmicks like that."
"It isn't a gimmick, actually," said Smith, dropping to the mat on his rear. "She really is blind in her right eye, and until about three weeks ago, she never had any training in hand-to-hand combat."
Incredulous, Joe raised a brow.
"You're shitting me, right? She a cape or something?"
Smith just smiled.
"This is Lieutenant Joseph Iriomote of the Brockton Bay Police Department," said Smith -- mispronouncing 'lieutenant' as 'leftenant' per usual. "He'll be assisting me with your final assessment."
In the instruction of modern close quarters combat, there weren't any formal rules of engagement, but out of habitual politeness, Joe nodded slightly as he sized up his opponent.
She was a tall, slender girl -- gangly, with just enough build that she couldn't be mistaken for an emaciated runway model. By facial features, she wasn't particularly ugly or attractive, but her missing arm and the plain black patch over her right eye set her aside in a category of her own.
Smith, being the prick that he was, had informed Joe beforehand only that he was sparring against a 'promising new trainee' introduced by an acquaintance -- and somehow, he'd neglected even to hint that the girl was physically disabled. If not for the fact that he'd made it a personal rule never to back out of anything after giving his word, Joe would've briskly exited the gym without a second glance.
He didn't like being made to play the bully.
In the first place, he didn't understand why somebody of the girl's disadvantages would want to be trained in the hand-to-hand component of CQC.
If it was purely for self-defense, there were other disciplines more suited to her body type and disposition -- without the explicit expectation that any opponents engaged would be armed and dangerous. Outside of applications in the special forces and police or PRT crisis response, there weren't very many venues where training like this was absolutely necessary. The organizations that designated CQC as a mandatory skill of the trade preferred, after all, to acquire assets that weren't missing an eye or a limb.
Smith had probably requested Joe's presence only because he found it amusing to see his best friend utterly mystified.
"Don't hold back on me," said the girl, nodding at him in reply.
From female sparring partners, Joe had occasionally heard the same words spoken flirtatiously; or with an undercurrent of heat, as a response to a perceived slight. Neither was applicable here. The statement was delivered as an earnest request -- as if the girl were promising not to complain about having her face beaten in during the match. The attitude somehow rubbed Joe the wrong way.
If no holds barred was what she wanted, Joe would oblige. Maybe it would teach her not to take her health for granted.
"The match will go until one side surrenders or is unable to continue," said Smith. "Any questions?"
The girl shook her head to the negative.
"In that case, begin."
Speed of action was the concern of highest priority in CQC; Joe was upon the girl almost as the Smith gave the word. Under ideal circumstances, an opponent would be eliminated before they could formulate an appropriate response -- overwhelmed by the abruptness of an attack. Taking advantage of the girl's blindness, his weapon of choice was a clean left hook to the face.
His fist should've impacted without allowing her an opportunity to retaliate -- but without missing a beat, the girl pressed into his guard, taking ahold of his forearm. The urgency with which he'd committed his weight was now turned against him; and using his own strength, she performed an over-the-shoulder throw.
'She can see through the eyepatch?' he thought, turning his torso in mid-air and landing on his feet.
Breaking away, he smoothly drew the padded training baton strapped to his belt and swung it at her left in a wide horizontal arc. The layers of foam that coated the weapon would undoubtedly blunt the blow, but Joe had put enough force into the swing that the metal tube within could still fracture a bone on direct collision.
He'd expected her to dodge and to provide him with an opening. Instead, she placed the stump of her left arm into the path of the arc -- moving with blow as it impacted, and guiding the inertia away from her. Twisting her body along his angular momentum, she spun outside of his swing and slammed the elbow of her good arm into the back of his right shoulder.
Stunned by the blow, he found his neck suddenly encircled from behind by the crook of the girl's arm. For a moment, it seemed that she would try for a one-armed choke-hold -- but a leg-sweep stole his footing instead, and a force was applied to his trachea, wheeling him downwards into the floor-mat.
-
A splash of water brought Joe to consciousness.
"Wakey wake," said Smith. "It's closing time."
The room was dark, and half the lights on the ceiling were already off -- but the one LED lamp directly above his face was bright enough to make him squint.
"Shit," he said, shading his eyes. "How long was I out?"
"About two hours," Smith replied, squatting down beside him. "So. What do you think?"
Turning his face slightly, Joe deadpanned, "I think you look like an idiot, wearing those Ray-Bans indoors at night."
With the remainder of the water in his disposable cup, Smith splashed him again.
"I was talking about Anne, you arse," he said.
Joe chuckled.
"She's pretty good," he replied, slowly sitting up. "Way better than I thought."
"Comments or advice, at all?"
Staring up into the ceiling, Joe mentally reviewed the match.
"Some of those moves she has aren't really kosher. What was that last bit? A variant of the major outer drop?"
"Something like that. I don't know if it has a proper name in Judo."
"That thing could've crushed my windpipe if she didn't execute it just right. Get down to it, and it's just barely on this side of a non-lethal take-down. Not something she wants to use in a sparring match."
"Duly noted."
"And tell her to get rid of the fake eyepatch," Joe continued. "Thirty seconds into an engagement, and anyone with a decent amount of experience would know that her eyes are perfectly fine. It's just vaguely insulting that somebody as skilled as she is would resort to using cheap gimmicks like that."
"It isn't a gimmick, actually," said Smith, dropping to the mat on his rear. "She really is blind in her right eye, and until about three weeks ago, she never had any training in hand-to-hand combat."
Incredulous, Joe raised a brow.
"You're shitting me, right? She a cape or something?"
Smith just smiled.
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weeeeelllll shiiiiiiittttt.... this is getting damn interesting, I like that you are getting Taylor set up as Big Boss and explain how she has his skill set in a believable way. I also like that Armaster setting something up for her to be independent, it varies it up with other author's versions of Armaster.
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