11-03-2015, 06:15 PM
May Yevon forgive him, for he had sinned. All of his beliefs denounced Machina use (even his brother died after folding under temptation), but it was necessary.
Wakka took to the turret like a soldier providing retreat fire. He grabbed each handle of the mounted gun, swiveling the gun over to Dante, and pressed his thumbs down on the buttons conveniently placed at the top of each handle. Elongated ovals of green energy shot from the gun’s barrel in rapid succession, pewing as they darted towards the white-haired man.
“AHHH!” Wakka roared as he struggled to guide the gun’s aim. His arms shook with each kickback of the turret.
He finally felt the power of Machina, and it was real. He could hardly maintain his control of the weapon. It shot wildly into the air—the green beams evaporated upon contact with the virtual ceiling—until he coralled it, and brought its focus to where it was intended.
Dante’s eyes shot open. He murmured a word but it came out inaudible to the blitzballer, quelled by the whistling laser rounds and the buzzing vibration of the turret’s handles against Wakka’s closed palms.
Dante got the hell out of dodge. He escaped to a nearby platform—crashing and rolling from one end of it to the other—just before the plasma beams turned his prior one into a rendition of swiss cheese. Bullets followed his evacuation, dotting his crimson coat with cigarette-sized holes as it wrestled with the air. Wakka kept firing away. His entire being rattled with the constant recoil of the turret, but he guided his shots best he could. Soon as Dante made it to his new platform, the blitzballer was already grating the end of it with a sleet of green.
The white-haired man took refuge at another slab of steel, finding one with a shelter constructed on it, and dipping inside of it. The barrage followed, but took a wild turn downward first, sinking shots into the cesspool. Dante made good use of the moment, and whipped out his pistol. He pointed it towards Wakka and snuck out a couple of shots towards him.
The first shot ricocheted off of the face of the turret, and flew off into the distance.
The second shot must have been guided by Luke Skywalker himself; it drove down the barrel of the turret, and lodged into the back of it.
Wake had no time to react. The turret exploded into a spectacle of green and red, and sent him flying. He finally came to a landing, slamming against the surface of another platform, two-handful of yards away. He grimaced, and reached for his side. Broken ribs? Possibly. Definitely felt like something was broken; pain grabbed him under his arm, and squeezed away at his lung.
“Almost had me there,” Wakka heard Dante shouted, a subtle chuckle complimenting it.
That’s what I get for using Machina, the blitzballer thought. He kicked himself for not spotting the karma lurking, and anticipating him around next corner.
He rolled over to his good side, and looked at his chest. The front of his overalls had been singed and blackened. He didn’t dare look at the skin underneath. He could already feel the sting of burned flesh, and imagined it was boiled over, ready to peel.
Then he saw his blitzball—it teetered back and forth like a drunk, on a platform to his right. Fuck weaponry, Wakka was an athlete. Ball was life, and life was ball; he’d either live or die based on his Blitzball skills.
With a ripping groan, Wakka pulled himself up and took a lunge for his ball.
Wakka took to the turret like a soldier providing retreat fire. He grabbed each handle of the mounted gun, swiveling the gun over to Dante, and pressed his thumbs down on the buttons conveniently placed at the top of each handle. Elongated ovals of green energy shot from the gun’s barrel in rapid succession, pewing as they darted towards the white-haired man.
“AHHH!” Wakka roared as he struggled to guide the gun’s aim. His arms shook with each kickback of the turret.
He finally felt the power of Machina, and it was real. He could hardly maintain his control of the weapon. It shot wildly into the air—the green beams evaporated upon contact with the virtual ceiling—until he coralled it, and brought its focus to where it was intended.
Dante’s eyes shot open. He murmured a word but it came out inaudible to the blitzballer, quelled by the whistling laser rounds and the buzzing vibration of the turret’s handles against Wakka’s closed palms.
Dante got the hell out of dodge. He escaped to a nearby platform—crashing and rolling from one end of it to the other—just before the plasma beams turned his prior one into a rendition of swiss cheese. Bullets followed his evacuation, dotting his crimson coat with cigarette-sized holes as it wrestled with the air. Wakka kept firing away. His entire being rattled with the constant recoil of the turret, but he guided his shots best he could. Soon as Dante made it to his new platform, the blitzballer was already grating the end of it with a sleet of green.
The white-haired man took refuge at another slab of steel, finding one with a shelter constructed on it, and dipping inside of it. The barrage followed, but took a wild turn downward first, sinking shots into the cesspool. Dante made good use of the moment, and whipped out his pistol. He pointed it towards Wakka and snuck out a couple of shots towards him.
The first shot ricocheted off of the face of the turret, and flew off into the distance.
The second shot must have been guided by Luke Skywalker himself; it drove down the barrel of the turret, and lodged into the back of it.
Wake had no time to react. The turret exploded into a spectacle of green and red, and sent him flying. He finally came to a landing, slamming against the surface of another platform, two-handful of yards away. He grimaced, and reached for his side. Broken ribs? Possibly. Definitely felt like something was broken; pain grabbed him under his arm, and squeezed away at his lung.
“Almost had me there,” Wakka heard Dante shouted, a subtle chuckle complimenting it.
That’s what I get for using Machina, the blitzballer thought. He kicked himself for not spotting the karma lurking, and anticipating him around next corner.
He rolled over to his good side, and looked at his chest. The front of his overalls had been singed and blackened. He didn’t dare look at the skin underneath. He could already feel the sting of burned flesh, and imagined it was boiled over, ready to peel.
Then he saw his blitzball—it teetered back and forth like a drunk, on a platform to his right. Fuck weaponry, Wakka was an athlete. Ball was life, and life was ball; he’d either live or die based on his Blitzball skills.
With a ripping groan, Wakka pulled himself up and took a lunge for his ball.