This does serve to confirm one thing: that this man doesn't feel fear in the same capacity as the rest of us.
I pull my arm back suddenly when I feel it graze against flesh, the edge sharp enough that most skin hardly puts up resistance; the action is, indeed, as reckless as any other I could take. I don't know that I can afford to hold back with a fighter like him. I don't know that I'll get another chance to land a hit solidly in the early stage of this fight. I hold back for no better reason than the fact that I know the effect adrenaline has on a man, and even if he doesn't feel the pain now, that might only worsen things as blood flows free, crimson bright even against darkened complexions.
But as he throws another punch, I catch a glimmer in his eyes, not quick and rising only at the dig of my heel into the ground, but lingering. And I know that he's enjoying this.
I feel my blood start to boil.
The punch lands, but whether or not he means for it to hit closer to my shoulder, that brief glance of time is enough for me to dodge; the blow ends up glancing. A look at my uniform should make it pretty clear that it would take a great deal of effort to hit through the armor, but I have no intention of letting on just how much. Most masked men, vigilante or villain, don't rush around with kevlar covering the majority of their body. It's bulky, cumbersome. But if you can learn to carry it correctly, suddenly, doors once closed will open.
"What does this make you," I challenge him, and if my nerves weren't worn ragged before, they certainly are now. "A guard dog? This isn't your business."
Better to stay my ground than to let him guide me elsewhere, even if it means taking a few more hits in the process. Grounding myself, I feel my feet grating against stone as I throw a punch, aimed at his right side, free arm reaching for my lasso. Maybe he's looking for a good, grounded fight.
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Date: 2011-11-12 02:34 am (UTC)I pull my arm back suddenly when I feel it graze against flesh, the edge sharp enough that most skin hardly puts up resistance; the action is, indeed, as reckless as any other I could take. I don't know that I can afford to hold back with a fighter like him. I don't know that I'll get another chance to land a hit solidly in the early stage of this fight. I hold back for no better reason than the fact that I know the effect adrenaline has on a man, and even if he doesn't feel the pain now, that might only worsen things as blood flows free, crimson bright even against darkened complexions.
But as he throws another punch, I catch a glimmer in his eyes, not quick and rising only at the dig of my heel into the ground, but lingering. And I know that he's enjoying this.
I feel my blood start to boil.
The punch lands, but whether or not he means for it to hit closer to my shoulder, that brief glance of time is enough for me to dodge; the blow ends up glancing. A look at my uniform should make it pretty clear that it would take a great deal of effort to hit through the armor, but I have no intention of letting on just how much. Most masked men, vigilante or villain, don't rush around with kevlar covering the majority of their body. It's bulky, cumbersome. But if you can learn to carry it correctly, suddenly, doors once closed will open.
"What does this make you," I challenge him, and if my nerves weren't worn ragged before, they certainly are now. "A guard dog? This isn't your business."
Better to stay my ground than to let him guide me elsewhere, even if it means taking a few more hits in the process. Grounding myself, I feel my feet grating against stone as I throw a punch, aimed at his right side, free arm reaching for my lasso. Maybe he's looking for a good, grounded fight.
I'm looking for a quick one.