[ It's not difficult to get Maine in the ring. One look at him speaks to his qualifications, especially after he strips off his shirt. (A practical choice rather than an attempt to intimidate. He doesn't have many clothes, and he doesn't want his shirt to be torn.) The difficulty comes when Maine picks up his opponent and tosses them away from him like it's nothing. The crowd doesn't like it: they want to see a fight, and it's apparent that the match is horribly lopsided.
Maine agrees. Riles the crowd up, making a show of shaking his head and waving a dismissive hand at his opponent. He's learned a bit about showmanship in the past year. Whether that's because of the station's theatrical nature or because he sparred one-on-one with Carolina for nine months is up for debate.
In the end, they send in two other fighters. Three on one. Maine thinks of Texas. Thinks of fighting against a memory of her again and again and again while Church kept score.
He snarls and gets to work.
Ephemera might recognize the fighting style. Then again, he might not. Although Maine doesn't know it, he fights less like Maine now and far more like the Meta. He's brutal, and he's fast, and he doesn't appear fazed by the hits that penetrate his guard. He pays no attention to the crowd, keeping laser-focused on his opponents until they're just one left.
He cracks his knuckles. Cracks his neck. Gestures for them to come at him. And when he puts them in a headlock, and they tap out, he's … not sure how he feels. It was fun, he guesses. Enough of a challenge that it wasn't boring. But his chest never glowed, and he's not sure if he's disappointed or relieved.
One hand finds its way to the base of his skull. He rubs the port there almost idly, an unconscious sort of self-soothing, and looks around to find Ephemera. ]
no subject
Maine agrees. Riles the crowd up, making a show of shaking his head and waving a dismissive hand at his opponent. He's learned a bit about showmanship in the past year. Whether that's because of the station's theatrical nature or because he sparred one-on-one with Carolina for nine months is up for debate.
In the end, they send in two other fighters. Three on one. Maine thinks of Texas. Thinks of fighting against a memory of her again and again and again while Church kept score.
He snarls and gets to work.
Ephemera might recognize the fighting style. Then again, he might not. Although Maine doesn't know it, he fights less like Maine now and far more like the Meta. He's brutal, and he's fast, and he doesn't appear fazed by the hits that penetrate his guard. He pays no attention to the crowd, keeping laser-focused on his opponents until they're just one left.
He cracks his knuckles. Cracks his neck. Gestures for them to come at him. And when he puts them in a headlock, and they tap out, he's … not sure how he feels. It was fun, he guesses. Enough of a challenge that it wasn't boring. But his chest never glowed, and he's not sure if he's disappointed or relieved.
One hand finds its way to the base of his skull. He rubs the port there almost idly, an unconscious sort of self-soothing, and looks around to find Ephemera. ]