Sollux Captor ♊ twinArmageddons (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onthelii2p) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-08-11 02:47 pm
onthelii2p) wrote in thecapitol2014-08-11 02:47 pm
Entry tags:
« open » how does using your hands to fight even work
Who| Sollux & whoever!
What| Look at this nerd trying to train.
Where| The training center.
When| Late evening/early night? Like a day after his intro maybe.
Warnings/Notes| No warnings, but if you want me to not type out his lisp in replies to you, let me know and I can do so!
Believe it or not, you cannot sulk life's problems away. Sollux had tried after his initial, angry post to the network, having holed himself up his room for the majority of his time. Any trips out were quick, with district mates ignored (past the initial one Dave had drug him on), and to the point. He hadn't even left his floor yet. But the main problem remained.
He was stuck here, for worse - there was no 'for better' when he was subject to an impending murder game - and he had not the faintest clue how to get out of it. Had he his psionics, he was sure he could have blasted a way out and fled wherever the hell he wanted to. Instead, their absence left him with a cloying sense of weakness, of powerless futility.
It extended beyond his new living situation. Being stuck in a building with the other tributes was one thing, but what about when the so-called Hunger Games happened? He'd have nothing to fight with. No way to fly out of harm or catch anything headed his way, no lasers to blast or psychic powers to throw things for him. He'd have to rely on his own body, his own hands, and it felt fantastically hopeless to try to imagine them serving him well.
Still, if he went in without learning anything, it would help him no more.
It was that thought that on the second evening finally pushed him from floor nine. Grumbling, unhappy, he headed on down to the training center, where he... promptly shuffled around. He'd never used a weapon directly; he'd had no need. Heavy things were out of the picture. Projectiles might be easier, and under that line of thought he eventually found himself some throwing knives and a target. It was awkward: he was unpracticed, and aiming with an arm was a bit different from aiming things with his mind. It didn't help that being a psychic nerd didn't lead to much in the muscle department.
Ultimately he'd be hard to miss: grey skin couldn't be that normal, and even among trolls his eyes (one solid red, the other solid blue, behind matching shades) and double set of horns would stand out. Now and then a soft curse would hiss under his breath, sibilants marred by the lisp his large fangs caused.
What| Look at this nerd trying to train.
Where| The training center.
When| Late evening/early night? Like a day after his intro maybe.
Warnings/Notes| No warnings, but if you want me to not type out his lisp in replies to you, let me know and I can do so!
Believe it or not, you cannot sulk life's problems away. Sollux had tried after his initial, angry post to the network, having holed himself up his room for the majority of his time. Any trips out were quick, with district mates ignored (past the initial one Dave had drug him on), and to the point. He hadn't even left his floor yet. But the main problem remained.
He was stuck here, for worse - there was no 'for better' when he was subject to an impending murder game - and he had not the faintest clue how to get out of it. Had he his psionics, he was sure he could have blasted a way out and fled wherever the hell he wanted to. Instead, their absence left him with a cloying sense of weakness, of powerless futility.
It extended beyond his new living situation. Being stuck in a building with the other tributes was one thing, but what about when the so-called Hunger Games happened? He'd have nothing to fight with. No way to fly out of harm or catch anything headed his way, no lasers to blast or psychic powers to throw things for him. He'd have to rely on his own body, his own hands, and it felt fantastically hopeless to try to imagine them serving him well.
Still, if he went in without learning anything, it would help him no more.
It was that thought that on the second evening finally pushed him from floor nine. Grumbling, unhappy, he headed on down to the training center, where he... promptly shuffled around. He'd never used a weapon directly; he'd had no need. Heavy things were out of the picture. Projectiles might be easier, and under that line of thought he eventually found himself some throwing knives and a target. It was awkward: he was unpracticed, and aiming with an arm was a bit different from aiming things with his mind. It didn't help that being a psychic nerd didn't lead to much in the muscle department.
Ultimately he'd be hard to miss: grey skin couldn't be that normal, and even among trolls his eyes (one solid red, the other solid blue, behind matching shades) and double set of horns would stand out. Now and then a soft curse would hiss under his breath, sibilants marred by the lisp his large fangs caused.
(1/2)
So when Sollux looked back to him, turning really, Eridan stared at him expectantly, waiting for some explanation--