10-19-2015, 06:09 PM
Wakka cringed and snarled as the rhombic arrowhead punctured his right shoulder. He motioned to yank it out, but upon the first jerk, he could feel the cold sensation of air breathe into his wound. It would have to remain in for now. With both hands, he grabbed the arrow close to its head, and snapped its neck.
Damn Machina user, he thought, shooting his a glare towards the woman. She stood across from him, on the far side of their battleground, latching down the string of her crossbow; another bolt was being loaded into it.
Fuck.
Wakka’s head swiveled around as he looked for his Blitzball—jarred from his grasp by the recoil the arrow landed with. It was back behind him, and out of arm’s reach. By the time he’d be able to reach it, he could have another two arrowheads lodged in him.
“Lemme try that again,” she exclaimed. “Mind if I have the name of the guy I’m shooting?”
Wakka looked over at her, and then back over towards the Blitzball. He was just a guy trying to use his favorite hobby as an escape; so far, nothing in this new dimension connected with his home world, and every action he made only seemed to push him further down the rabbit hole.
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Mr. Unlucky, it seems like,” he replied, “ya?”
One of the woman’s brows furrowed under the curtain of her slanted bangs, but the aim of her crossbow never faltered. She curled her finger around its trigger and prepared to pull.
Wakka would just have to take the risk. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. He made a dash for his ball, nearly face-planting on more than one occasion as his mind forced his legs to barrel faster than they could.
The whistling of bolts—he counted three—ripping through the air whizzed by Wakka’s flanks, barely missing their marks. Dirt debris splashed up with every head that drove into the ground, dusting his sandaled feet.
The one caught him. He felt the burn from an arrowhead slicing over the side of his ankle. The hit was not direct, but it was a hit nonetheless. Wakka staggered, and collapsed to one knee. He went to return to his feet, but the pain from his ankle shot up his calf, and put him right back to one knee. The woman had caught part of his achilles tendon, he was sure of it; athletes know their bodies.
He pulled his head over his shoulder and glanced back at the woman. She readied another bolt into her crossbow, forcing the string to latch back once more.
Looks are deceiving with her, he thought. Most Machina users, specially da women, rely on their technology, but she doesn’t; she’s a trained killa.
He glanced back towards his ball. It was so close to him, yet so far away (if only he had the requisite mage powers to draw it closer to him). With his new ankle injury, he couldn’t just dash over there and snatch it. If only. He’d have to limp his way.
Wakka pulled himself erect, wincing as his ankle screamed with every additional pound applied to it. He dragged the entire leg, and proceeded towards his ball by hauling forward with his left haunch.
Then, somewhere in his mind, the clicking of the crossbow’s bolt into place echoed. It sounded like a small stone hitting the bottom of a well. DROP!
Wakka hooded his neck and crown with his arms, immediately dropping to his stomach. The woman’s arrow glided through his mohawk, and planted itself directly in front of his Blitzball.
He flinched; had the bolt dipped two or three inches before reaching him, he’d be dead.
“I wont miss the next one!” she yelled; Wakka imagined her already loading another arrow into place, and even adjusting her sights, to assure a direct hit.
But he was close enough now. He reached an arm from over his head, and swatted the arrow in front of his Blitzball out of the way. A small clump of dirt popped from the ground as he did. With the edges of his fingers, he tipped the ball towards him, and cradled it once it rolled far enough to him.
He hadn’t lost just yet.
Damn Machina user, he thought, shooting his a glare towards the woman. She stood across from him, on the far side of their battleground, latching down the string of her crossbow; another bolt was being loaded into it.
Fuck.
Wakka’s head swiveled around as he looked for his Blitzball—jarred from his grasp by the recoil the arrow landed with. It was back behind him, and out of arm’s reach. By the time he’d be able to reach it, he could have another two arrowheads lodged in him.
“Lemme try that again,” she exclaimed. “Mind if I have the name of the guy I’m shooting?”
Wakka looked over at her, and then back over towards the Blitzball. He was just a guy trying to use his favorite hobby as an escape; so far, nothing in this new dimension connected with his home world, and every action he made only seemed to push him further down the rabbit hole.
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Mr. Unlucky, it seems like,” he replied, “ya?”
One of the woman’s brows furrowed under the curtain of her slanted bangs, but the aim of her crossbow never faltered. She curled her finger around its trigger and prepared to pull.
Wakka would just have to take the risk. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. He made a dash for his ball, nearly face-planting on more than one occasion as his mind forced his legs to barrel faster than they could.
The whistling of bolts—he counted three—ripping through the air whizzed by Wakka’s flanks, barely missing their marks. Dirt debris splashed up with every head that drove into the ground, dusting his sandaled feet.
The one caught him. He felt the burn from an arrowhead slicing over the side of his ankle. The hit was not direct, but it was a hit nonetheless. Wakka staggered, and collapsed to one knee. He went to return to his feet, but the pain from his ankle shot up his calf, and put him right back to one knee. The woman had caught part of his achilles tendon, he was sure of it; athletes know their bodies.
He pulled his head over his shoulder and glanced back at the woman. She readied another bolt into her crossbow, forcing the string to latch back once more.
Looks are deceiving with her, he thought. Most Machina users, specially da women, rely on their technology, but she doesn’t; she’s a trained killa.
He glanced back towards his ball. It was so close to him, yet so far away (if only he had the requisite mage powers to draw it closer to him). With his new ankle injury, he couldn’t just dash over there and snatch it. If only. He’d have to limp his way.
Wakka pulled himself erect, wincing as his ankle screamed with every additional pound applied to it. He dragged the entire leg, and proceeded towards his ball by hauling forward with his left haunch.
Then, somewhere in his mind, the clicking of the crossbow’s bolt into place echoed. It sounded like a small stone hitting the bottom of a well. DROP!
Wakka hooded his neck and crown with his arms, immediately dropping to his stomach. The woman’s arrow glided through his mohawk, and planted itself directly in front of his Blitzball.
He flinched; had the bolt dipped two or three inches before reaching him, he’d be dead.
“I wont miss the next one!” she yelled; Wakka imagined her already loading another arrow into place, and even adjusting her sights, to assure a direct hit.
But he was close enough now. He reached an arm from over his head, and swatted the arrow in front of his Blitzball out of the way. A small clump of dirt popped from the ground as he did. With the edges of his fingers, he tipped the ball towards him, and cradled it once it rolled far enough to him.
He hadn’t lost just yet.