11-06-2015, 06:42 PM
The blitzball struck Dante dead in the chest, but the white-haired man rolled his body right before impact, dampening the blow. He plucked the blitzball from out in front of him as if it were a boggled coconut, and palmed it in one hand.
Wakka’s eyes rounded. “Are you serious?” he muttered, and then groaned.
His lungs had no problem gulping down air, but once they filled to a certain capacity it felt like a pair of pliers pinching at his side; his chest trembled with every breath he drew. Saying it hurt would be an understatement. The pain squeezed him so viciously that the discomfort in his achilles all but evaporated. Same with the hole in his shoulder. He firmly rested his hand over his side, and felt around. A rib was definitely cracked, probably three.
No wonder he caught da ball,” Wakka thought, can’t get no umph behind it.
He slumped his shoulders in defeat; all his opponent had to do was fire off a few more rounds from his pistol (three or four could dig Wakka’s grave). In his current condition—swelling ribs, sizzled chest, injured achilles, punctured shoulder—he was in no condition to continue fighting. And without his ball, he had no means to defend himself. The only option available was to become another spectator in the coliseum, and watch Dante’s next move.
The crowd burst into a roar, and chants of “kill him, hill him!” emitted from various pockets of the area.
Instead, Dante kept his pistol in its holster, and gazed upon the surface of Wakka’s ball. With a wide grin, he twisted it atop his index finger, and watched with mild amusement as the ball rotated perfectly, without teetering.
“Well, if you’re so sure, let’s see ya prove it, eh?” Dante mocked, switching the ball from one hand to the other. It never lost its axis.
He glanced over at Wakka, and then gestured his head towards the blitzball.
The blitzballer gritted his teeth; now he was being toyed with. “Gimme ya best shot,” he retorted.
Dante pulled his hand from under the blitzball and allowed it to fall down to his midsection. With a whip of his hips, the white-haired man spun around and kicked the blitzball back towards Wakka. It was a good kick—solid for an amateur—and cut through the air like a spear.
Wakka had many counters in his toolbox of tricks, but none of them would work in this circumstance; his body was unable to generate enough power for them. He was never a master of the phenomenal, acrobatic shots—that was Tidus’ realm. If only Tidus were here. He could pull of one of those one-legged, spin-around kicks, which would send the blitzball flying.
Hell, not like he had much of a choice. It was either try some one-ina-million trick shot, or get killed by his own weapon. He knew it would hurt like hell, but he gurgled down moan and shifted his weight onto his good foot. The blitzballer jumped, contorting his body as he reached the (cringeworthy) pinnacle of his ascension. His next action was foggy, even to himself. He had watched Tidus perform the maneuver at least twenty times; all the same way, twisting around twice before kicking the ball. Except none of those occasions involved kicking the ball with your plant foot. Wakka had a small conundrum on his hands, for only his unscathed foot could provide enough umph to make it worth the effort. He’d have to one-up Tidus—twist around three times, to give himself enough time to flip his plant leg back out towards the ball.
He twirled around once, and his ribs cried out against his wishes. Wakka clamped his eyes shot, and pushed himself through the pain. Even as tears leaked through his eyelids.
With his eyes shut, he lost his positioning during the second spin. The platform that levitated under him was now behind him, and the only thing keeping him from descending into the pit of chemicals below was his own will to execute the trick shot.
Wakka’s eyes rounded. “Are you serious?” he muttered, and then groaned.
His lungs had no problem gulping down air, but once they filled to a certain capacity it felt like a pair of pliers pinching at his side; his chest trembled with every breath he drew. Saying it hurt would be an understatement. The pain squeezed him so viciously that the discomfort in his achilles all but evaporated. Same with the hole in his shoulder. He firmly rested his hand over his side, and felt around. A rib was definitely cracked, probably three.
No wonder he caught da ball,” Wakka thought, can’t get no umph behind it.
He slumped his shoulders in defeat; all his opponent had to do was fire off a few more rounds from his pistol (three or four could dig Wakka’s grave). In his current condition—swelling ribs, sizzled chest, injured achilles, punctured shoulder—he was in no condition to continue fighting. And without his ball, he had no means to defend himself. The only option available was to become another spectator in the coliseum, and watch Dante’s next move.
The crowd burst into a roar, and chants of “kill him, hill him!” emitted from various pockets of the area.
Instead, Dante kept his pistol in its holster, and gazed upon the surface of Wakka’s ball. With a wide grin, he twisted it atop his index finger, and watched with mild amusement as the ball rotated perfectly, without teetering.
“Well, if you’re so sure, let’s see ya prove it, eh?” Dante mocked, switching the ball from one hand to the other. It never lost its axis.
He glanced over at Wakka, and then gestured his head towards the blitzball.
The blitzballer gritted his teeth; now he was being toyed with. “Gimme ya best shot,” he retorted.
Dante pulled his hand from under the blitzball and allowed it to fall down to his midsection. With a whip of his hips, the white-haired man spun around and kicked the blitzball back towards Wakka. It was a good kick—solid for an amateur—and cut through the air like a spear.
Wakka had many counters in his toolbox of tricks, but none of them would work in this circumstance; his body was unable to generate enough power for them. He was never a master of the phenomenal, acrobatic shots—that was Tidus’ realm. If only Tidus were here. He could pull of one of those one-legged, spin-around kicks, which would send the blitzball flying.
Hell, not like he had much of a choice. It was either try some one-ina-million trick shot, or get killed by his own weapon. He knew it would hurt like hell, but he gurgled down moan and shifted his weight onto his good foot. The blitzballer jumped, contorting his body as he reached the (cringeworthy) pinnacle of his ascension. His next action was foggy, even to himself. He had watched Tidus perform the maneuver at least twenty times; all the same way, twisting around twice before kicking the ball. Except none of those occasions involved kicking the ball with your plant foot. Wakka had a small conundrum on his hands, for only his unscathed foot could provide enough umph to make it worth the effort. He’d have to one-up Tidus—twist around three times, to give himself enough time to flip his plant leg back out towards the ball.
He twirled around once, and his ribs cried out against his wishes. Wakka clamped his eyes shot, and pushed himself through the pain. Even as tears leaked through his eyelids.
With his eyes shut, he lost his positioning during the second spin. The platform that levitated under him was now behind him, and the only thing keeping him from descending into the pit of chemicals below was his own will to execute the trick shot.