Windsong had asked him to meet her, and she did come, though not alone. "Good evening," she said. First, she wanted to make sure. "Were there no insurmountable difficulties?"
"Nothing insurmountable. I believe they will fit in well. Though I will need to speak to teh Cadre about behaviour, it is difficult to organise the Freed while their rolemodels are misbehaving like newly released aethja."
He spits the word, then clenches his teeth. "It is not acceptable. It makes transferral difficult."
She nods. "Yes. That will have to be dealt with. The leaders of the next battalion will be better prepared. I may go speak with some of them now, unless you object." She then looks at Spiral. "In the matter I wished to discuss, although it will undoubtedly seem strange to do so, I wish to defer to Spiral."
Time meant nothing. Just blood and blades and motion. Star was unaware of anything but the combat, his body racing him to kill or be killed, ignoring the small attempts by his conscious mind to wrestle control, to tell him this is a lost battle.
Lost it may be, but he does not go down easily.
Finally, he has no idea how many hours later, splattered with blood (mostly his own, but not only), he feels the moment his reserves give up.
The hormones stop. His pupils expand again, face going pale, paler still for the bright blood on it. The last injuries close sluggishly and then stop, scarred over and not fading. Not now.
He has nothing more to give. He's run out of agression, out of reserves, out of healing and out of energy.
His collapse is almost graceful as his body shuts down in protest of the punishment it's taken. A small jerk and he's toppling sideways, eyes rolling back in his head, already out before he hits the ground, bounces once and falls still.
*standing there, her clothes ripped, helmet gone, sweating and liberally splattered with blood. Both his and her, she calms her breathing while holding one of her swords casually over her shoulder as she looked at his crumpled form. Long and elegant even in battered exhaustion, a true smile come to her face then. He was strong! Her heart swelling with pride, very few being could have lasted against her for so long, even with he playing it "safe"*
*she came over to squat next to his large supine form, laying two three-fingered hands on him one on his shoulder and one gently against his pale handsome face, a loving smile on her blood-splattered face*
You are not weak, far from it. A true warrior you are, your blood hot and your spirit unbreakable! If the arena had scene you this day. All fights would be forgotten in shame before your skill and might. And the crowds would chant your name till they could chant no more and all other gladiator would hide their faces in shame.
*Using her senses, three of her hands came to hover over his form. Making sure he didn't have any broken bones or had suffered any permanent damage, seeing that he didn't she let her hands drop. She then turned him over onto his back, prying the swords from his grasp before gently picking him up in her arms and rising up from her previous squat as if he weighed nothing. Because of his heritage and hollow bones he was much lighter then one would think for his size
( ... )
Later, after the streets of Mutant Town (ex-Mutant Town) have settled down and the blood is washed away, Rictor comes home to find the battered and sleeping form of his lover in their bed.
He covers him with a blanket, kisses his forehead, and calls Moira.
A month ago, he would have panicked. Now, he's merely relieved 'Star came home at all.
Ric gets a sleepy mumble in response and one eye cracking open to peer at him. Then 'Star sighs and settles himself back into the bed instead of waking up more.
Ric fixes six peanut butter sandwitches, per Moira's orders, and puts them and a glass of orange juice and a glass of milk on the bedside table for when 'Star wakes up. Then he takes a shower (and better that 'Star not see the blood he washes off as well) and curls up next to his lover to sleep.
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He spits the word, then clenches his teeth. "It is not acceptable. It makes transferral difficult."
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Time meant nothing. Just blood and blades and motion. Star was unaware of anything but the combat, his body racing him to kill or be killed, ignoring the small attempts by his conscious mind to wrestle control, to tell him this is a lost battle.
Lost it may be, but he does not go down easily.
Finally, he has no idea how many hours later, splattered with blood (mostly his own, but not only), he feels the moment his reserves give up.
The hormones stop. His pupils expand again, face going pale, paler still for the bright blood on it. The last injuries close sluggishly and then stop, scarred over and not fading. Not now.
He has nothing more to give. He's run out of agression, out of reserves, out of healing and out of energy.
His collapse is almost graceful as his body shuts down in protest of the punishment it's taken. A small jerk and he's toppling sideways, eyes rolling back in his head, already out before he hits the ground, bounces once and falls still.
His four fingered hands are still clutching his
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*she came over to squat next to his large supine form, laying two three-fingered hands on him one on his shoulder and one gently against his pale handsome face, a loving smile on her blood-splattered face*
You are not weak, far from it. A true warrior you are, your blood hot and your spirit unbreakable! If the arena had scene you this day. All fights would be forgotten in shame before your skill and might. And the crowds would chant your name till they could chant no more and all other gladiator would hide their faces in shame.
Be proud, Gaveedra.
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He breathes. That's more than many of her opponents.
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He covers him with a blanket, kisses his forehead, and calls Moira.
A month ago, he would have panicked. Now, he's merely relieved 'Star came home at all.
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