Emil pushes off your shoulder as you come up from your bow. Landing on the floor with a muffled thump. He pads over to the door and pauses and plants his haunches on the ground. Tail swishing back and forth as he looks up at the runner. He waits. He butts his head against Fenrir's greaves. Slowly, Fenrir stoops; curved, clawed fingers spreading wide. He stops. He strokes Emil's head with a slow, exaggerated motion. Carefully digging the tips into his pelt, just behind the ears. Minding the small, shaved patch and white bandage at the base of his neck. The fox growls somewhere in the back of his throat; eyes half-lidded, hindleg scratching the air.
The furry little traitor. Can't even stay to watch you get murdered. Although....
You tear your eyes away from your fucking fox and you swallow. Try to stifle the sound of your gulp, it still echoes in your head. Nyx is tall. You didn't realize how tall until she was standing; how statuesque she seems. She looks lean and lithe but that's only by proportion. A trick of scale. You see little struts and sinew-cords burrowing into the black bar of her clavicle; merging into the synthetic slopes of muscle at the other end. Her shoulders are broader than yours and better built.
Yeah.
Murdered might be too light a word for what's about to happen to you. Smouldering coals in your chest, anger waiting to be kindled into a raging inferno: it doesn't matter. The infected throb in the back of your head, the lingering fear: it doesn't matter. The soft, sibilant whispers: it doesn't matter. None of it matters. You know you're going to get murdered the same way you know water's wet, sunlight's warm, and how delicious charred meat tastes.
Swords up into mirrored guards; you match her she matches you. The blades are kendo -no, kumdo, Gahm make that really fucking clear- equipment. Juk-To, just like at the Sze gym. A little spot of familiarity. You center yourself around it the best you can; you brace yourself against the the brown, faux-bamboo polymer. The air between the two of you is cooling. The tension winding, invisible wires drawing tight until the negative space hums. The Drake is there, winding and coiling through the meat of your mind. His golden scales waiting. All you need to do is reach out: touch it, take it.
But you don't. You can't.
She circles you, you move. Never crossing your feet. Never pulling your eyes from the tip of her sword. Trying to watch her hands, her face; gauging them in the periphery. Waiting for the twitch, the tell, as you tap into the river. Trideo likes to play up fighting as a frenzied flurry but that only happens among peers. When it's too close to be settled in more than a handful of seconds. Most of the time it's like this. In all your hundreds and hundreds of practice bouts it's almost always been like this. Pacing. Circling. Seeking. Waiting for that flash of decisive vio-
She moves.
"Hrk."
The thwack of plastic on pliable flesh. You stumble and stagger, the welt already formed on your throat. Your sword half-twitched towards a proper block, more meek muscle memory than anything else. You come back up, rubbing the red mark; you eyes wide. She's already back in a guard position. Flowing smoothly, liquidly, from one stance to the other. You just stand there, tip of your Juk-To resting on the ground and mouth cracked open, trying to rewind the events in your head. It wasn't that she was too fast to see. You could see it. All the parts, every stage; the step, the sweeping slash. All of it textbook. She was just too fast to stop.
Emil growls from Fenrir's arms. Paws planted on reinforced plate, fangs bared. Fenrir ignores him, he's too busy watching the pair of you. You can feel Glowworm's eyes on your back. The room is thick with anticipation. You can almost taste it.
"Again."
Back in a guard. This time you don't wait, you don't linger, you just seize the qi and lunge. Powering forward off your foot, the world tipping, the carpet slipping, as you flick out the first of a series of short, sharp-
"Guh."
You can feel the tip of her sword in your stomach. Feel it denting your abs; putting a dimple in your gut. So far in it's like it's tickling your spine. You slump over the plastic length. Wheezing, staggering back as she withdraws. The Drake makes a sound in your head that sounds suspiciously pleased. You don't know if it's spite or if the beast in your brain is actually enjoying the abuse.
Back in guard, mirrored positions. You ignore pain, burying it in the steaming water. You ignore the purring in your ear; the deep, flame-tinged rumble.
"Again."
A cleaving blow from your shoulder. Crashing down with all the force of your squirming sinews. You leave yourself too wide, she pushes you off balance with her blade and then steps in. Fingers close around your throat. Squeezing, tugging up, just far enough to let you know that she could lift you one-handed. The pads of her palm are cool against your skin. The machinery beneath is warm. Like living sinew caked in cold mud. She releases you.
"Again."
You wait. She comes to you this time. You try to sweep under her blade, pivot and twist. She powers through. Too strong to move, too strong to shift even with the qi. She takes you in the back of the thigh. A slice that would have severed tendons, rent meat in a gory spray. If it was her vibrosword she would have taken your entire leg.
"Again."
Too slow to dodge. Not fast enough to hit.
"Again."
Too weak to smash through her guard. Her blade bends under the force then she lashes out and her blade's bending against your skull. The blow rattling all your teeth in all their sockets. You try a trick move, dirty thing you learned in college. Feinting then dropping down to pierce her foot. Her sword's already jabbing into your ribs. Tip poking the artery. The power of the Drake's there, just out of reach. Taunting you with hissing rasps. Sounds that might have been mocking laughter.
"Again."
Sweat's dripping. Everything hurts. You shrug off the hooded jacket. You hear Glowworm snort in the background.
Again.
Again.
Again.
"Done."
You blink the stinging sweat out of your eyes; confused and bemused. And then your sluggish brain processes it and you half-collapse in relief. The weak trickle of qi already fading. You pass the Juk-To to her outstretched hand, her smooth black fingers clicking against the handle. You flinch away from the touch as you just stand there; hunched over and panting. Right leg shaking, begging to buckle. You can feel the Drake sprawled on your back. Its a tangible weight bearing you down. Crucified across you; luxuriating in the novelty, sunning itself in the pain. Your muscles ache. Your veins are swollen, snaking beneath the skin. You feel the impact points, tight knots of clenched sinew and torqued brawn. Tight and stiff; holding fast as the rest of you moves. You stagger over to one of the non-kicked couches and don't so much lower yourself as completely come to pieces. Exhausted and beaten.
"You are weaker than me. Adaptable but not imaginative." You'd say something sarcastic but your breath's coming in rough, raw, gasps and you feel more like retching than replying. She continues, unperturbed. "It's unfortunate. I was hoping for someone comparable to myself. Still. Many people in the shadows will not be formally trained, or well supported. You are both."
You tilt your head up and glance at her over the couch. She has her swords in one hand, the black case in the other.
"You will not be too much of a burden I think. It is not the best that could be hoped for. But it will do."
You grunt something that might be vaguely appreciative. You turn to sink back down when you hear a squeak. You twist back around.
Emil's spilled out of Fenrir's arms and planted himself in the doorway in front of Nyx. He's not snarling, not trying to bite her ceramic ankles, just looking. Green eyes bright. Tail twitching. He cocks his head and hesitantly pads forward. Sniffing her bare toes. The long leg-bones. He looks up at her, in that way he does when he's expecting pats.
Nyx just looks down at him for a second and carefully paces around. A few moments later you hear scrabbling at the back of the couch and a bundle of fur falls into your lap. Licking your hand. You absentmindedly stroke his head as you recover.
It's getting late. You still have time before Jiaolong returns.
[ ] Introduce yourself to Glowworm. There's no icebreaker quite like public humiliation. Plus: you won't have to get up from this couch.
[ ] Introduce yourself to Fenrir. This room smells a little too much like abject failure. You could use a walk and he seems more strong and silent.
[ ] Go to the Ships' Surgeon for a checkup. You're still pretty durable. But it's always good to know that you're not nursing a brain-bleed.
[ ] Go to The Captain for a proper introduction. Meet the mysterious...facilitator(?) for a group of Shadowrunners. Try not to sweat on everything.
