An incident with a man bearing a stick
Apr. 5th, 2016 04:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aaaaaaaagh_skyIt was supposed to be grassland. The light between the trees? It was daylight when Ellen saw it first. She left the cave (it smelled, it smelled so bad, and that was without the burning) and she went into the forest and there it was, down at the end of the trail. Daylight.
But, uh. This wasn’t daylight.
This was- well, it was bright and it was high above and that was fine, but it wasn’t the light of the sun. This was the light Ellen grew up with- fluorescent light. The faint bluey tinge, the flickering, all very familiar. Almost homey. Almost. The Vault was never this cold. This was- this was as cold as the big blue room the past few months, or as cold as the Anchorage sim, almost.
Vault light and this kind of cold didn’t match. It’d be like sun shining off steel walls.
She turned around. No forest. Just cinderblock walls and rows of seats and a scoreboard shiny and new as a picture.
She turned back. There was a wall in front of her, half Plexiglas, half something solid. Segmented, like an old wire fence. It went on to the left and on to the right, but in front of her it was only as high as the top of Voodoo’s head had been. The Plexiglas was scratched and foggy and when she tried to follow a crack in it downwards, she found a latch.
There was someone on the other side, moving, a man sliding along as fast as a bead of water over hot oil.
She looked over her shoulder again. Still no forest. Past the wall- past the gate- the man was sliding about in a circle.
She looked down. There were skates lying against the wall, black and silver. There was armor, red and white, and a helmet, open-faced. There was a stick as long as she was tall.
Over her shoulder, one more time. No door behind. Just the door ahead.
She was not very surprised to find that the skates fit perfectly.
It was ice below and mist above on the other side of the gate. Smooth ice, at least. Not like the lake. The Bar’s lake had ripples and lumpy places and cracks and you had to be careful of them or you’d fall. This was smooth as glass. It had marks, but they were under the surface and they were straight edges or perfect circles. It had long thin slices that arced away in perfect graceful pairs.
It had a reflection-
You have to know what you’re doing to stay on your feet on the ice. A stick to prop you up, even a nice long L-shaped one, won’t do much if you let things startle you and start flailing.
Then again, hitting the ice and rolling away probably hurt less than the alternative. The ice just hits you all over at once. A stick whooshing through the air with a sound like a baseball bat? That’s just bad news.
And it’s never really any good at all when somebody wearing that much body armor with a huge red winged wheel painted on the front bends over you with the biggest grin in the world and holds out a hand. . .
There was no clock on the scoreboard. She wished there was. Someday she’d have to tell Paladin Gunny about this (if she ever figured out how), and he’d want to know just how long she managed to stay on her feet, on ice, while trying to pound an armored man into unconsciousness with her bare hands.
(Getting away wasn’t an option. You had to know how to skate properly to do that.)
Okay, not bare hands. Gloved hands. Nice big gloves so thick her fingers looked like Fawkes’. But they were gloves, not power gauntlets, and he had a freaking stick. Hers had broken the first time she tried to fend his off. So, yeah. Bare hands.
(He never said a word. Never so much as let out a sound.)
Bright side was, nothing was stopping her from pulling him down with her when she fell except that stick. And if she lunged in at him fast enough she could get under said stick’s swing and manage a couple of punches before they both hit the ice.
(And he just. Kept. Grinning.)
Not so bright side, he had no problem with the same tactic. He was a lot heavier than she was. And he was faster. Stupid physics.
Huh. Something else she’d have to tell Gunny. Blood bounced on ice.
It was a good helmet. Her skull was still in one piece. Her face was bleeding and she was pretty sure only one of her eyes could open enough to work, but her skull was still in one piece, and she hadn’t passed out. So that was something.
Getting up from the ice- well, that was going to be a little tri-
No. No, it wasn’t. ‘A little tricky’ implied that it was possible. This was more of an ‘it’s not going to happen’ kind of thing. You needed less broken arms to do that.
She let out a breath (hey, she still had her teeth intact- Painless was going to be very sad at not getting to work his dental arts on her, but Oh Well) and got that one eye to open. The winged-wheel man was standing over her, leaning on his stick, his grin replaced by a sober look.
He didn’t say anything. After a while he held out a hand.
She wriggled her jaw, tried not to wince. “Not-“
Not after last time, it was supposed to be. He seemed to understand; he gave a small smile. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not a dirty player. No more fighting.”
“Ah.” She closed her eye again. “You won.”
“Mmmyep.”
He sounded pretty happy about that. Big surprise.
“You fought pretty well, though. I mean, for your first time out.”
She opened her eye again.
“Look,” said the man, all sober again. “Sometimes you can’t win. The other guy’s bigger, or stronger, or better. Sometimes he’s all three. “ He rapped padded knuckles against his armored chest. “Like me. You were never going to win.”
She didn’t know how to answer that.
“You get into a fight you can’t win, you fight anyway,” he said. “You fight hard. You put everything into it. You still have something to fight for even if you’re never going to win.”
“Hn?”
“Respect,” he said. “The next time you can look yourself in the mirror, you’ll be able to look yourself in the eyes. You didn’t lose because of something you didn’t do. You were just outclassed, and you fought like hell anyway. You can respect yourself after a loss like that. Fight like that, and even if you lose, the crowd’s gonna respect you for it.” He tapped his chest again. ”I’m gonna respect you for it.”
“Oh.” (Anything else would have too many consonants in it.)
“Tell you what,” he said. “I can patch some of this up and you can take the rest of it to a doctor you know. Trust me, I know how to set a bone or stitch up a cut- done it for myself plenty of times. And take this, will you? You lost, but I owe you something for giving me a good fight anyway.”
It was, Ellen thought as she closed her fingers around it, an amazingly heavy stick.
But, uh. This wasn’t daylight.
This was- well, it was bright and it was high above and that was fine, but it wasn’t the light of the sun. This was the light Ellen grew up with- fluorescent light. The faint bluey tinge, the flickering, all very familiar. Almost homey. Almost. The Vault was never this cold. This was- this was as cold as the big blue room the past few months, or as cold as the Anchorage sim, almost.
Vault light and this kind of cold didn’t match. It’d be like sun shining off steel walls.
She turned around. No forest. Just cinderblock walls and rows of seats and a scoreboard shiny and new as a picture.
She turned back. There was a wall in front of her, half Plexiglas, half something solid. Segmented, like an old wire fence. It went on to the left and on to the right, but in front of her it was only as high as the top of Voodoo’s head had been. The Plexiglas was scratched and foggy and when she tried to follow a crack in it downwards, she found a latch.
There was someone on the other side, moving, a man sliding along as fast as a bead of water over hot oil.
She looked over her shoulder again. Still no forest. Past the wall- past the gate- the man was sliding about in a circle.
She looked down. There were skates lying against the wall, black and silver. There was armor, red and white, and a helmet, open-faced. There was a stick as long as she was tall.
Over her shoulder, one more time. No door behind. Just the door ahead.
She was not very surprised to find that the skates fit perfectly.
It was ice below and mist above on the other side of the gate. Smooth ice, at least. Not like the lake. The Bar’s lake had ripples and lumpy places and cracks and you had to be careful of them or you’d fall. This was smooth as glass. It had marks, but they were under the surface and they were straight edges or perfect circles. It had long thin slices that arced away in perfect graceful pairs.
It had a reflection-
You have to know what you’re doing to stay on your feet on the ice. A stick to prop you up, even a nice long L-shaped one, won’t do much if you let things startle you and start flailing.
Then again, hitting the ice and rolling away probably hurt less than the alternative. The ice just hits you all over at once. A stick whooshing through the air with a sound like a baseball bat? That’s just bad news.
And it’s never really any good at all when somebody wearing that much body armor with a huge red winged wheel painted on the front bends over you with the biggest grin in the world and holds out a hand. . .
There was no clock on the scoreboard. She wished there was. Someday she’d have to tell Paladin Gunny about this (if she ever figured out how), and he’d want to know just how long she managed to stay on her feet, on ice, while trying to pound an armored man into unconsciousness with her bare hands.
(Getting away wasn’t an option. You had to know how to skate properly to do that.)
Okay, not bare hands. Gloved hands. Nice big gloves so thick her fingers looked like Fawkes’. But they were gloves, not power gauntlets, and he had a freaking stick. Hers had broken the first time she tried to fend his off. So, yeah. Bare hands.
(He never said a word. Never so much as let out a sound.)
Bright side was, nothing was stopping her from pulling him down with her when she fell except that stick. And if she lunged in at him fast enough she could get under said stick’s swing and manage a couple of punches before they both hit the ice.
(And he just. Kept. Grinning.)
Not so bright side, he had no problem with the same tactic. He was a lot heavier than she was. And he was faster. Stupid physics.
Huh. Something else she’d have to tell Gunny. Blood bounced on ice.
It was a good helmet. Her skull was still in one piece. Her face was bleeding and she was pretty sure only one of her eyes could open enough to work, but her skull was still in one piece, and she hadn’t passed out. So that was something.
Getting up from the ice- well, that was going to be a little tri-
No. No, it wasn’t. ‘A little tricky’ implied that it was possible. This was more of an ‘it’s not going to happen’ kind of thing. You needed less broken arms to do that.
She let out a breath (hey, she still had her teeth intact- Painless was going to be very sad at not getting to work his dental arts on her, but Oh Well) and got that one eye to open. The winged-wheel man was standing over her, leaning on his stick, his grin replaced by a sober look.
He didn’t say anything. After a while he held out a hand.
She wriggled her jaw, tried not to wince. “Not-“
Not after last time, it was supposed to be. He seemed to understand; he gave a small smile. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not a dirty player. No more fighting.”
“Ah.” She closed her eye again. “You won.”
“Mmmyep.”
He sounded pretty happy about that. Big surprise.
“You fought pretty well, though. I mean, for your first time out.”
She opened her eye again.
“Look,” said the man, all sober again. “Sometimes you can’t win. The other guy’s bigger, or stronger, or better. Sometimes he’s all three. “ He rapped padded knuckles against his armored chest. “Like me. You were never going to win.”
She didn’t know how to answer that.
“You get into a fight you can’t win, you fight anyway,” he said. “You fight hard. You put everything into it. You still have something to fight for even if you’re never going to win.”
“Hn?”
“Respect,” he said. “The next time you can look yourself in the mirror, you’ll be able to look yourself in the eyes. You didn’t lose because of something you didn’t do. You were just outclassed, and you fought like hell anyway. You can respect yourself after a loss like that. Fight like that, and even if you lose, the crowd’s gonna respect you for it.” He tapped his chest again. ”I’m gonna respect you for it.”
“Oh.” (Anything else would have too many consonants in it.)
“Tell you what,” he said. “I can patch some of this up and you can take the rest of it to a doctor you know. Trust me, I know how to set a bone or stitch up a cut- done it for myself plenty of times. And take this, will you? You lost, but I owe you something for giving me a good fight anyway.”
It was, Ellen thought as she closed her fingers around it, an amazingly heavy stick.