10-14-2015, 04:27 PM
This was no Blitzball tournament—there were no goals, no scoreboard, and no giant water bubble, containing the competitors. Not even a damn referee. This was some twisted gladiatorial slaughterhouse, filled with carnivorous spectators, whose mouths flooded with saliva like a dogs staring at a half-eaten leg of meat. They roared and chanted, mostly in drunken, partially understandable slurs, as the windowed-in competitors fought just for the right to survive.
Wakka took a huge step backwards, retreating the proximity of the female’s scythe. The multi-faced weapon ripped upward, kissed the top of the invisible barrier—with a scrape that ignited a flare of sparks—and arced back over her red cloak, resting onto her shoulder. It missed its target, but not without striking mild fear into the Wakka. She had almost stripped him of the balls that really mattered, leaving a clean cut on his trousers, which ran from between his legs up to his belt buckle.
“What the—“ Wakka dipped his head down (thank Yevon) and let out a sigh of relief, as he saw the whole in his pants. But he couldn’t pay it much attention; the sound of a foreign, yet familiar, caught his ear.
His female enemy (something Wakka would consider blasphemous, if not for her attempt on his life) smashed a box-shaped clip of ammunition into the bottom half of her scythe. She preferred Machina—fancy hoo-ha technology, forsaken by Yevon’s teachings—and wielded it like a true devil.
From past experiences, Wakka knew firsthand how powerful Machina was, and could be. But, those who invested in Machina also relied upon far too heavy, almost protecting it like a baby . . . or an abused drug. Yes, that was the term Wakka meant, the latter.
If he could strip the woman of her drug, she would undoubtedly go after it, by any means; that’s what addicts do. He stared at how she maneuvered her weapon, and how she controlled it. Like a sword, or like a paintbrush—firmly, or loosely. Her grip appeared relatively firm, but she did tote it with a touch of grace. The question really was it by design, or a flaw in handling.
He glanced over towards his Blitzball, which had returned to him, rolling next to his right. He grabbed it, and curled his fingers around the nodes of it, so he could possess the ball with only his right hand.
One good shot, that’s all I need, he thought as he reanalyzed the woman’s handling. Accurate enough to hit her hands, but strong enough to drill them, and pry that all-in-one Machina from her grasp.
Time was running out, though; she motioned her scythe’s butt against her shoulder, and then it began its transformation once again, into a long-nosed, distance-based Machina.
The time was now! Wakka reaffirmed his mark, but right before pulling the trigger, he took a gander at the fissure that ran jaggedly next to the right of to the two. If he could pitch his ball into the trench, without it losing the curvature to hit the woman’s hands, he could knock the weapon from her grasp in a stealthy way. Wakka was never the type to go against his instincts. With a cock of his arm, he shot the ball through the fissure, and watched as it progressed towards his foe.
Wakka took a huge step backwards, retreating the proximity of the female’s scythe. The multi-faced weapon ripped upward, kissed the top of the invisible barrier—with a scrape that ignited a flare of sparks—and arced back over her red cloak, resting onto her shoulder. It missed its target, but not without striking mild fear into the Wakka. She had almost stripped him of the balls that really mattered, leaving a clean cut on his trousers, which ran from between his legs up to his belt buckle.
“What the—“ Wakka dipped his head down (thank Yevon) and let out a sigh of relief, as he saw the whole in his pants. But he couldn’t pay it much attention; the sound of a foreign, yet familiar, caught his ear.
His female enemy (something Wakka would consider blasphemous, if not for her attempt on his life) smashed a box-shaped clip of ammunition into the bottom half of her scythe. She preferred Machina—fancy hoo-ha technology, forsaken by Yevon’s teachings—and wielded it like a true devil.
From past experiences, Wakka knew firsthand how powerful Machina was, and could be. But, those who invested in Machina also relied upon far too heavy, almost protecting it like a baby . . . or an abused drug. Yes, that was the term Wakka meant, the latter.
If he could strip the woman of her drug, she would undoubtedly go after it, by any means; that’s what addicts do. He stared at how she maneuvered her weapon, and how she controlled it. Like a sword, or like a paintbrush—firmly, or loosely. Her grip appeared relatively firm, but she did tote it with a touch of grace. The question really was it by design, or a flaw in handling.
He glanced over towards his Blitzball, which had returned to him, rolling next to his right. He grabbed it, and curled his fingers around the nodes of it, so he could possess the ball with only his right hand.
One good shot, that’s all I need, he thought as he reanalyzed the woman’s handling. Accurate enough to hit her hands, but strong enough to drill them, and pry that all-in-one Machina from her grasp.
Time was running out, though; she motioned her scythe’s butt against her shoulder, and then it began its transformation once again, into a long-nosed, distance-based Machina.
The time was now! Wakka reaffirmed his mark, but right before pulling the trigger, he took a gander at the fissure that ran jaggedly next to the right of to the two. If he could pitch his ball into the trench, without it losing the curvature to hit the woman’s hands, he could knock the weapon from her grasp in a stealthy way. Wakka was never the type to go against his instincts. With a cock of his arm, he shot the ball through the fissure, and watched as it progressed towards his foe.
Quote:Attempting to knock Ruby’s weapon from her hands. You can play it how you want—knock the ball away, dodge, or lose the weapon temporarily and retrieve it, or whatever comes to your imagination. :)