Dan Sagittarius (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hallelujahjunction) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
goneawayworld2020-10-13 01:49 pm
hallelujahjunction) wrote in goneawayworld2020-10-13 01:49 pm
Entry tags:
The Bad Idea, or Me Befallen By It?
Who: Dan Sagittarius and Guts
What: Sparring and practicing with swords. Homoerotic tension. A truly incredible height difference, too.
Where: Training Area
When: After their conversation on the top deck, but before the night attack on Dave and Wash.
Warnings/Notes: Foul language, firearms.
[Dan has once again, for the second time in about six hours, forsaken the buddy system everyone’s supposed to be operating under, in spirit if not in law. He feels guilty about it, knowing that the others are going to stress out at having an uncooperative flake heading off on his own habitually, but the rig is claustrophobic enough without feeling like he’s being babysat all the time. He was starting to get so worked up he was adding shortness of breath and tinnitus to the residual post-electrocution muscle spasms and jitteriness, so he gave the group the slip, grabbed that Mac guy no one trusts to find his way out of a paper bag, and headed down to the training area.
If the fresh air on the top deck wasn’t enough to calm his nerves, maybe refreshing the skills he may imminently need will help. First is the shooting range. Dan’s carried a firearm since he was six, and not having one on him has been one of the many disorienting and permanently frustrating things about life on the rig. The shooting range here, thankfully, has a nice selection of weapons, and after setting Mac up with over-the-ear protectors and a Nerf gun (he wouldn’t trust that man with a flyswatter), Dan works his way through target practice with a hunting rifle, a handgun and a revolver. He’s always preferred the revolver; something about having to keep careful track of how many shots you fire makes you more thoughtful, more respectful of the fact that you’re wielding a weapon that could end a life in a split second. When you have limited ammunition before a reload, you have to think before you shoot, and it’s always good to think before you shoot.
Following that, he dismantles the guns and cleans them himself for the next person, not because he got them messy or doesn’t trust the cleaning practices here, but because it feels good to take something apart with his hands. And when he’s still feeling strung-out and twitchy, he decides to work on his hand-to-hand combat skills. See if some physical exertion resets his nervous system. He makes sure Mac’s still in eye- and earshot, then sets up some droids.
The training droids are useful, but after about thirty minutes it becomes obvious that they move in a particular pattern and have certain tells before they make a move. As they become predictable, Dan gets in closer, blocking hits and counter-striking until his forearms are bruised and knuckles are bloody. His technique is artless, utilitarian, trained by experience instead of theory, but it’s effective.
He’s still occasionally drooling on himself, but the muscle twitching has significantly receded, so clearly this is working, beating the tar out of a droid to deal with the frustration of being so goddamn helpless while something’s running around torturing kids, of having a monster to hunt and people to protect and absolutely no way to go about doing that, on this stupid craphole of a moving Tonka Truck, under the thumb of a bunch of tie-wearing jackasses who don’t seem to value anything Dan values.
Facing down another droid, he grabs a machete from the rack of weapons.]
What: Sparring and practicing with swords. Homoerotic tension. A truly incredible height difference, too.
Where: Training Area
When: After their conversation on the top deck, but before the night attack on Dave and Wash.
Warnings/Notes: Foul language, firearms.
[Dan has once again, for the second time in about six hours, forsaken the buddy system everyone’s supposed to be operating under, in spirit if not in law. He feels guilty about it, knowing that the others are going to stress out at having an uncooperative flake heading off on his own habitually, but the rig is claustrophobic enough without feeling like he’s being babysat all the time. He was starting to get so worked up he was adding shortness of breath and tinnitus to the residual post-electrocution muscle spasms and jitteriness, so he gave the group the slip, grabbed that Mac guy no one trusts to find his way out of a paper bag, and headed down to the training area.
If the fresh air on the top deck wasn’t enough to calm his nerves, maybe refreshing the skills he may imminently need will help. First is the shooting range. Dan’s carried a firearm since he was six, and not having one on him has been one of the many disorienting and permanently frustrating things about life on the rig. The shooting range here, thankfully, has a nice selection of weapons, and after setting Mac up with over-the-ear protectors and a Nerf gun (he wouldn’t trust that man with a flyswatter), Dan works his way through target practice with a hunting rifle, a handgun and a revolver. He’s always preferred the revolver; something about having to keep careful track of how many shots you fire makes you more thoughtful, more respectful of the fact that you’re wielding a weapon that could end a life in a split second. When you have limited ammunition before a reload, you have to think before you shoot, and it’s always good to think before you shoot.
Following that, he dismantles the guns and cleans them himself for the next person, not because he got them messy or doesn’t trust the cleaning practices here, but because it feels good to take something apart with his hands. And when he’s still feeling strung-out and twitchy, he decides to work on his hand-to-hand combat skills. See if some physical exertion resets his nervous system. He makes sure Mac’s still in eye- and earshot, then sets up some droids.
The training droids are useful, but after about thirty minutes it becomes obvious that they move in a particular pattern and have certain tells before they make a move. As they become predictable, Dan gets in closer, blocking hits and counter-striking until his forearms are bruised and knuckles are bloody. His technique is artless, utilitarian, trained by experience instead of theory, but it’s effective.
He’s still occasionally drooling on himself, but the muscle twitching has significantly receded, so clearly this is working, beating the tar out of a droid to deal with the frustration of being so goddamn helpless while something’s running around torturing kids, of having a monster to hunt and people to protect and absolutely no way to go about doing that, on this stupid craphole of a moving Tonka Truck, under the thumb of a bunch of tie-wearing jackasses who don’t seem to value anything Dan values.
Facing down another droid, he grabs a machete from the rack of weapons.]
no subject
[If he permits, she wraps her hands around his on the hilt and adjusts them to demonstrate; if not, she demonstrates on the knife handle. Her emotional state, should he wish to filch, is of calm, happy focus, someone doing something challenging that they deeeply enjoy.]
So only your thumb and forefinger are actually gripping the hilt, see? The back three fingers are where you get your balance and control, but this grip here, these two - they should never leave the hilt. That's where it joins to your arm. You shouldn't be able to lose that grip anymore than you can lose your elbow.
no subject
[He says this after Saturday makes her observations, wondering distantly how he'd gotten to this point. Casca would be amused at the bull-headed vanguard captain suddenly acquiring the patience to teach.
Ah well. He supposes he should at least return the favor Dan had given him.]
no subject
[Yet another of those odd jobs to get enough to put gas in the tank. Dan's resume, if he would ever bother to put it together, would be like a CVS receipt in length.
He lets Saturday adjust his hands; his grip has been functional enough, but nowhere near as effective as it could be. And he's smiling. He's smiling because Saturday's smiling, and Guts is watching, and he himself is learning.]
So you're what, trusting momentum more than the force of putting your shoulder into it?
no subject
no subject
[Guts reaches for a longsword to strap to his belt. It remains sheathed, for now. He doubts they'd be ready for a full on sword duel on the first day, but a demonstration or two might be good. He'll spare them the zweihander end of the available blades.]
You were doin' pretty good switching it up with the bat.Not too different with a sword. You don't want to be predictable.
no subject
Most of the experience I have with a blade's about hacking at wild animals and through undergrowth if you get attacked in the woods. Deer-brush don't pick up in telegraphing that well. Swordfighting's mostly in the movies in my world.
[Not always.]
no subject
[And then a sword grows out of her metal right arm. There's no compartment, just a weirdly organic slit she pulls the hilt from as if it were an ordinary sheathe, smooth as if this was a totally normal bodily function. It's a two-edged, straight blade, with a well-worn grip and a simple guard. It's largely unadorned, well-cared for, and definitely doesn't look magic as hell.]
[She takes up her stance next to Dan, safely distanced, to demonstrate, wielding her blade one-handed.]
So there's a lot of fancy shit about like, angles and memorizing strikes and whatever but here's what it boils down to. Hit the other guy, don't get hit yourself. There's four basic strikes, and everything from there is variation. Head.
[She strikes an invisible opponent, with perhaps less force then Dan might imagine - it's almost a flick.]
Side.
[She strikes ones to the left, blade parallel to the ground. Again, her movement is quick, controlled, focused.]
Angle.
[Two more strikes, first one slashing down from invisible shoulder to invisible hip, the second from hip to shoulder]
Head. Side. Angle. Like so. See how my grip changes, but I never lose the control from my back fingers? Give it a try.
no subject
It'll start to make sense when you feel the movement in your body.
/drawing to a close?
He's not sure if it'll start to make sense ever, but he doesn't want to contradict his teachers, so he decides to trust them. He watches closely at everything that's happening, both as Saturday moves and as he himself moves; he's always been good at picking things up quickly, mostly because he's good at observing both the larger gist and details on the first round. It's a skill his parents drilled into him. He expects it'll help him out here.]
We ought to make a regular thing of this, if y'all are willing. I'm certainly getting more out of it than from Planker's exercises in sadism. [He shifts back out of a fighting stance, rolling his shoulder with a wince.] I think I wrenched myself on those monkey bars, though. I won't get then full benefit of your instruction right now.
[He's not looking for an out; he sounds, and is, genuinely excited by the idea of the three of them doing this again sometime.]