[ Jónsson's got some style. Even knows how to play the crowd up, something Ephemera doesn't bother with. He fights to win and it gets him paid because he's brutal and hits hard, dishes out as good as he gets. A few of the other fighters have suggested he play it up a bit, lean into the scars and what not, but that's not the point for Ephemera and so he never has. But it makes for a good show when other people do it, even Ephemera admits that, and he's grinning as Jónsson fights.
Goddamn, the man's strong. Got a good center, knows how to it. Knows when to soak a blow and when to dodge, too. Keeps it up until there's only one opponent left and then he cracks his knuckles. Cracks his neck. Gestures his opponent forward. Ephemera's good eye goes wide and then very narrow.
The world goes a little sideways. It hurts to breathe.
No. No, no, no.
Ephemera reacts on instinct—his good eye on the ring, on Jónsson, on Agent fucking Maine—as he draws the knife up his sleeve. It's almost unconscious, training kicking in when he realizes the full extent of the threat in front of him
Get a weapon. Get a fucking weapon. Pistol would have been better, he could have made the shot from across the room before anyone realized. Knife means he'll have to get up close with the crowd pressing in on all sides and Maine already in fight mode. The fucker will be prepared, ready to counter. Adrenaline pushing through the alcohol when Ephemera's drunk enough to notice. Could try throwing it but it's a moving target and what if he fucking misses? He's not like the sarge, not like Chica, he can't do her tricks.
His breath is coming in hard and fast and it hurts, pain in his throat and chest, spreading down to the joints in his fingers. You stupid fucker, he thinks, furious at himself. You stupid motherfucker, look what you did.
It's like with Washington all over again. Same goddamn failure. He should have clocked the threat immediately—a soldier that big, from his home?—and he should have fucking dealt with it like he promised the others. Shouldn't have let his guard down. Shouldn't have tried to make friends.
The hurts most of all, the fact that he'd liked the man. An abject, awful betrayal of his family.
He's shaking all over. He realizes it when his grip slips on the blade and he nearly cuts himself. Stupid. Stupid. And there are so many people pressed in close around him, so many fucking bystanders, and he cannot.
He cannot do this here. He made promises.
Ephemera sheathes the knife and then he bolts, not caring who can see. Exit, exit, have to get out. Away from the crowd, from the noise, from the fuck who killed his sister. He manages to get out before he loses his shit complete and ducks into the nearest alley, clamping a hand over his mouth so he won't fucking scream.
no subject
Goddamn, the man's strong. Got a good center, knows how to it. Knows when to soak a blow and when to dodge, too. Keeps it up until there's only one opponent left and then he cracks his knuckles. Cracks his neck. Gestures his opponent forward. Ephemera's good eye goes wide and then very narrow.
The world goes a little sideways. It hurts to breathe.
No. No, no, no.
Ephemera reacts on instinct—his good eye on the ring, on Jónsson, on Agent fucking Maine—as he draws the knife up his sleeve. It's almost unconscious, training kicking in when he realizes the full extent of the threat in front of him
Get a weapon. Get a fucking weapon. Pistol would have been better, he could have made the shot from across the room before anyone realized. Knife means he'll have to get up close with the crowd pressing in on all sides and Maine already in fight mode. The fucker will be prepared, ready to counter. Adrenaline pushing through the alcohol when Ephemera's drunk enough to notice. Could try throwing it but it's a moving target and what if he fucking misses? He's not like the sarge, not like Chica, he can't do her tricks.
His breath is coming in hard and fast and it hurts, pain in his throat and chest, spreading down to the joints in his fingers. You stupid fucker, he thinks, furious at himself. You stupid motherfucker, look what you did.
It's like with Washington all over again. Same goddamn failure. He should have clocked the threat immediately—a soldier that big, from his home?—and he should have fucking dealt with it like he promised the others. Shouldn't have let his guard down. Shouldn't have tried to make friends.
The hurts most of all, the fact that he'd liked the man. An abject, awful betrayal of his family.
He's shaking all over. He realizes it when his grip slips on the blade and he nearly cuts himself. Stupid. Stupid. And there are so many people pressed in close around him, so many fucking bystanders, and he cannot.
He cannot do this here. He made promises.
Ephemera sheathes the knife and then he bolts, not caring who can see. Exit, exit, have to get out. Away from the crowd, from the noise, from the fuck who killed his sister. He manages to get out before he loses his shit complete and ducks into the nearest alley, clamping a hand over his mouth so he won't fucking scream.
Hah. This is perfect. This is fucking perfect.