Training

by Turles 9/2/2012, 11:30 pm

Training

Turles' body rolled to the right, chunks falling from his battered body armor as he moved across the flooring, which was itself, scarred. Their battle had been going on for mere moments, he knew that. Yet, it felt as if he'd been fighting this man for an eternity, it felt as if he'd been mired down in every effort to get an offensive going. Every strike had been parried, every blast had been batted aside without much difficulty. Why was it so hard to get an edge up on this man? Cobb was not invincible, he knew that. However, all evidence was trying to make him think the opposite.

”God damn you!”, his voice was more of a growl than anything else as both of his wrists slammed together. His left knee was still firmly on the ground, his right boot planted beside it. He was not about to let himself go out quietly into the night. He would fade after a bang, not a whimper. As his muscles struggled to hold together, black tendrils of energy seemed to mass at his fingertips. This shit was getting ridiculous; he knew he'd been outmatched, but he shouldn't have been suffering a deficit like this. Whereas his armor was broken and battered, Cobb looked like he was in fine shape.

The shoulder piece to Turles' chest plate fell off, clanging violently against the ground as the black spiral conglomerated into a single, weighted mass. Cobb's body faded from view once more in the distance, signifying the futility of his efforts. Whenever the man faded or vanished, some form of assault had followed it up. He'd proven that. His pattern was easy to recognize, in truth; wait for your opponent to attack and then use his superior speed to counter. So far it'd been working well, and despite the simplicity of it, the former pirate had been unable to find a way around it.

“You sound mad, Turles. I thought you were supposed to be the calm one?”, Cobb's taunting voice rose over the roar of primed energy as he reemerged behind him. The challenger rolled forward now, his body twisting as his back hit the ground. Both legs went into the air as he moved, his hands thrusting outward to meet his freshly arrived opponent. So far, nothing had managed to catch him off guard. All of his blasts had been rebuffed, every single one; he'd fired off everything he could think of. While he wasn't one for repeat tricks, he couldn't see much of a solution in the current situation.

The recoil from his blast sent him sliding backwards along the ground, the top of his usually bed-headed hair flattening against his skull. Meanwhile, the black wave ripped it's way through the short distance between them, bathing the rest of the training room in a grim shadow on it's way to the commander. Face lacking in any discernible expression, save for the traces of bitter distaste, Cobb's left hand came whipping in from the side, smacking Turles' blast against the reflective surface that constituted the walls. He was initiating the second round of a game Turles would rather have not played.

Grimacing, the Pirate sprang to his feet, regaining his stance as he kept an eye fixed on the wave of light that was now bouncing wildly from wall to wall. He knew his own attack was still dangerous to him; especially in this scenario. Cobb had clearly charged it with a portion of his own energy in the smack, which was clearly visible in the traces of red light trailing in it's wake. It wasn't often that his blasts were tainted with the power of another; it was an easy distinction to make. The benefit of having a colorless aura was that any changes to it were easier to spot.

Suddenly, a cuirass obscured his vision. His jaw fell in almost slow motion as his eyes flickered upward, locking on to Cobb's indifferent face. Distant indifference; the sign of a true professional. Even when beating the hell out of his own men, he didn't give a shit. The man's fist rose up quickly, a sharp uppercut with a whip-like after effect. The former pirate already had various welts and bruises decorating his body, souvenirs of their battle so far. As the blow rose from Cobb's waist, Turles' hands rose in his own defense.

Both hands united beneath his chin, coming together in a cup to reduce the damage of his opponent's strike. While he wasn't owner to a glass jaw, he didn't want to risk the chance that Cobb would shatter it with the same ease. He felt his feet leave the ground as a bee-sting like strike collided with his makeshift guard, and then bounce backward into place. From the look in Cobb's eyes, he was about to strike again, with vicious force. Bracing his body, Turles' closed his eyes. He knew exactly where this strike was about to be placed.

As he thought, a hook-like missile sank it's way into his midsection, forcing him to curl forward. In succession of the first, already insanely painful strike, Cobb's body suddenly surged upward. His knee extended toward Turles' exposed chin, which had become uncovered after the second strike. It was like his entire defense was falling apart, without much trouble either. The taste of copper and coin filled his mouth as he was rocked backward once more, his body flipping through the air as he struggled to get a grasp on himself. What had he done to deserve this? Well, he'd slaughtered his squad for one...

But no, this was no vengeant force. This was his own fault. He had failed to see each of these things coming. No, he had seen them coming; he had failed to prevent them. Turles' was more of a tactician than he was a regular fighter. Most would have argued that there was nothing he could have really done. However, as he landed on his ass, he knew that wasn't true. While he had always been an egocentric warrior, he knew that this was his own fault. He would atone for those mistakes now. It was tempting to stare directly at the lights, swimming above him on the ceiling so tauntingly, but he wasn't a dog.

He would not roll over and succumb to the volition of fate. Snarling now, he slammed his fist off of the tiled floor beneath him, while his body struggled to it's feet. He was now missing the entire left portion of his chest armor, and the midsection's plating had been cracked... But his body was still in good enough condition to stand and fight. There was no way he would let himself fall prey to his damage when his body was still capable of going further. Someone could say all they wanted about him, but they'd have been lying if they'd said he was one to respect limitations.

His heart rate slowed as much as it could, while he stared forward at the warrior before him. It was true, the rumor. Commander Cobb's form was one hundred percent unique. He'd never seen anything like it. It looked as if there were holes everywhere, but it afforded him just enough space to cover them without any effort. Now, as Turles' dropped into his own stance, his jaw clenched. He needed to remember his training. The Saiyans had acquired their fighting style through years of practice and victory. Cobb's had been created on the fly.

His left fist clenched tightly at his waist, while his right hand outstretched in an open palm position. Both boots were planted firmly on the ground, which, somehow, seemed shakier than he was. Tentatively, he inched forward, the room still spinning as blood rushed from his head to his heart. He had to get himself under control or he was most definitely going to be the most recent accident to occur during a training session. Cobb's eyes narrowed as he watched Turles' move, offering the former pirate a foreboding sight before he dropped from view once more.

Hadn't he come from behind, last time? Turles' elbow, which had been resting at waist level, jerked back to meet a firm set of flex weave. A 'whoosh' of air shot past his ear, as his eyes closed. He needed to rely on his sense, not his senses. Cobb's body vanished once more, with a solid rapport as his boots slid across the ground. Now that he was focused, not on the shaking in his legs, but on the battle... He could sense the motion. He could feel everything changing and shifting in the air around him. How had he not noticed this before?

His eyes were wrenched open as Cobb's body materialized on his side, fist cocked and face still indifferent. Turles' head lowered, letting the blow sail over him, before thrusting his only remaining shoulder guard into his opponent's gut. The force of the strike sent Cobb backward through the air, at which point he promptly vanished for the second time. Face filled with sadistic fury, the former captain regained control of his fate. His open palm shot to the right, releasing a whip-like volley of blows, all of which rained down upon Cobb's guard, like strikes of lightning smashing into dirt.

He had managed to gain pace. Cobb's body vanished once more as a blow almost shot by his guard. Black energy was now rising around Turles' in snaky wires, winding their way around his limbs as they formed his aura. Now that he was building up some momentum, he could finally land a fucking strike. It was slowly falling in to place; his confidence and perseverance was finally paying off. Energy amassed in his fingertips as he jumped backwards to avoid the obviously incoming frontal assault. So far, Cobb had managed to fit all of his patterns; he wasn't going to change now.

The energy that had begun to channel it's way toward his fingertips suddenly expanded to surround his entire body, encompassing him within a flaming amalgamation of blackened energy. Both his fists connected together, thumb to thumb in front of his chest as his energy shot forth from them. The heat of his blast tore through the air, coating everything in a massive layer of heat haze; this brought him more than mere warmth. Satisfaction washed over him as the wall of energy plowed forward toward it's target, the unprepared Cobb.

The warrior's body emerged just in front of the blast, both arms firmly crossed. Releasing a mighty roar, the elder man gripped the blast with both hands, struggling to hold it off as it advanced. He hadn't anticipated Turles' to be able to produce a blast so powerful, and in truth, he normally would not have been capable of such a strike. However, crisis was the father of opportunity, and many cultural symbols considered them to be the same. This was Cobb's fault; he should have seen it coming. He should not have let his guard down so readily.

For several seconds he struggled, before spawning a red current in both of his open palms. For a moment, everything seemed to hang silent and still; however, before long, the black blast began to abate. Cobb's red energy was absorbing it into it's own, sucking all he could into his body. As it ate up the smaller blast, the commander's right hand was forced into the air, where it released a second, lesser wave of energy. It ate through the oxygen around his hand voraciously as he channeled it, watching as it slowly began to fizzle and fade into a shower of crimson sparks, which fell around the pair.

Turles' chest was rising and falling, each breath was heavy. Though he had managed to change the pace, he was quickly tiring himself out. He was a powerful fighter, that much was true; but he wasn't capable of continued output like that.

Cobb's gaze fell upon the warrior, his hands burned and charred from the heat Turles had produced. Though his face betrayed nothing, his eyes showed it all. He was both angry and confused; for certain, he had never displayed that much power in any combat mission or training exercise. What was it that had provoked such a powerful outburst? What was it that had allowed him to regain his composure so suddenly? Eyes narrowing, the man let his hand drop to his waist.

“We're done for the day.”

WC: 2,090