The System
Title: The System
Originally posted: 2/23/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 1,600 words.
Characters/Pairings: Russia, America, England, France.
Premise: The Europeans are practicing their fencing, and then America catches Russia at something rather unusual.
Time period: Modern.
Smuttiness: 1/10
Funnyness: 5/10
Wrist slashiness: 0/10
Lolhistoryness: 3/10. Systema is a Russian martial art developed for Spetznaz, which is so effective at unbalancing and redirecting one's opponents that when it was first demonstrated in the West, many accused it of being a tool of Soviet propaganda, and not a fighting system at all. To an outside observer, attackers approaching a Systema master often look like they just fall down for no reason.
Violence: 4/10
Would I like it?: It's candy for Systema fans, but there's also plenty of America being a smartass and enduring unresolved sexual tension with Russia. Fans of fencing might also get a kick out of it.
"This is stupid," America complained.
England replied, without looking at him, "Would you shut up?"
They stood shoulder to shoulder in silence for a few seconds. America folded his arms.
"This is stupid and boring," he clarified.
"It's neither stupid, nor boring; it's fencing. And I'm trying to keep score."
They watched France and Russia dance back and forth across the courtyard, their weapons making sweet click--click--click conversation. America shifted his weight from one foot to the other and sighed loudly. The only interesting thing was that Russia was using that stupid pipe of his instead of a rapier, and was flipping and tossing it around like it was made of plastic. He hadn't hit France yet, which was a shame, since that would be the second interesting thing.
"I can't believe you guys still do this. Who cares about swords anymore?"
"It's an ancient and noble form of self-defense." England sounded just a touch affronted, but didn't he always?
"I don't know if anybody's told you, but we have guns now."
"You would certainly know about that."
America scratched his jaw and watched the match for a little while. France did something that looked a little like a kung fu strike mixed with the electric slide. Russia barely jumped out of the way. "How's France blocking with that tiny little sword, anyway?"
"It's an epee, not just a sword; and he's parrying, not--"
"Doesn't epee just mean 'sword?'"
England gave him the briefest glance. "I have no idea how you know that."
"Neither do I, man, except you keep trying to teach me about this shit, and I guess every so often it sticks, and I remember something you said, instead of something useful I might actually need someday, like who's the president of Guam."
"I didn't think Guam had a president."
"I don't even know if Guam is a fucking country, and I'm pretty sure I own it."
England sighed. "An epee is heavier than a foil or a sabre. And the purpose of parrying is to deflect the weight of the weapon, not meet it directly. And France is the superior fencer. It's not so uneven as it might at first appear. That just then was a ballestra lunge--"
"Whatever." He gave a sigh of his own. "I can understand you and France prancing around and whacking each other with sticks, since you're all desperate to relive your glory days, but I thought Russia had more sense."
"…Russia has been a student of Western fencing since the seventeen hundreds, and was that a compliment you just paid him?"
"He's not in earshot," America answered absently.
"And I am not desperate to--there, did you see that? A circle-six followed up by a stop-cut, and now Russia's on the retreat--"
"This has got to be the only possible scenario where France could beat Russia in a fight. Napoleon should have tried this."
England gave a reluctant smirk.
But now the fight was actually getting good; Russia was retreating--his footwork faltered, and he stumbled to one knee. He brought up his pipe in a strong guard, but even America could see that he was just a bit too slow; France lunged, slapped the back of his hand with the flat of his blade, and had the tip of his epee at Russia's throat as the faucet clattered to the ground. Russia held up his hands, his eyebrows slightly raised.
They were both breathing hard. England and America ambled forward as France grinned, "Yield?"
"As you can see," Russia rumbled. He lowered his hands as France lowered his sword. As he picked up his pipe and climbed back to his feet, France half-turned back to him and flicked his wrist. A thin line of blood opened on the Russian's cheek.
Ivan blinked slowly. He traced the cut with his fingertip and collected a drop of blood. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. "France?" he questioned.
"Just a lesson," France replied airily. "You'll never really excel until you learn to control your balance."
"Hardly sporting," England remarked, as they drew even with the pair.
"You're such a dick," America agreed. Then added, "Even if it is Russia."
"My friends are so good to defend me," Russia said placidly. "I don't mind. It is a good lesson." He held out his hand to France.
France shook it. They nodded to each other. France released him and turned away.
America wasn't quite sure what happened after that, but then France was on the ground and catching the asphalt with his face.
America asked of no one in particular, "What was that?"
"He tripped," Russia replied.
"France, you clumsy idiot--" England went to stand over his neighbor as France shook his head and pulled himself back onto his knees.
"He didn't trip--hey!" America started after the trio as they hauled France back to his feet and started towards the building. "Hey, wait! Wait, wait, wait. Wait. Russia."
Ivan looked back over his shoulder. "Da?"
America grinned. "Do that again."
Ivan let go of France and turned back to him. "I did nothing."
"He didn't trip."
England realized that he was the only one still supporting France and immediately dropped him. France barely kept his feet. He pressed a hand to his forehead. "I didn't trip," he agreed dazedly.
"See?"
Russia began, "America, you must be imagining--"
"No. Nuh-uh. You guys have bored the piss out of me for the last twenty minutes with your sissy fucking dueling, but believe it or not, I was paying attention. You can do it on me, if you want! I just want to see!" He dropped his hands to his sides.
Russia shook his head. "You're excitable--"
"Sosi ebanataya suka," America fired off.
His accent was terrible, but his meaning seemed to have gotten through clearly enough, because suddenly gravity switched directions. There was a moment of intense vertigo, and then he was on the ground with a red pain in the pit of his left knee. He boosted himself up on his elbows, spat blood, and crowed, "Now that is a noble form of self-defense."
England could only respond, "Since when do you speak Russian?"
"Ah--shit--" He staggered to his feet. Russia took a step back, his eyes narrowed. "I just memorized a few phrases I figure'd be good for starting a fight. I don't even know what I said."
"I won't translate," Russia growled.
"Probably better not. With France here, I think we count as 'mixed company.'"
"Baise toi."
"You don't have to translate that, either," America replied. Then, to Russia, "What's that called?"
Ivan took another step back. He flexed his pipe in his hand. "My people call it systema."
"'The system?' That's a terrible name. How's it work?"
Russia appeared to consider for a moment, then tossed the faucet aside. It clanged and rolled away over the blacktop. "It is better to demonstrate than to explain."
That suited America just fine. France and England exchanged a glance, then shook their heads in sorry synchronicity and continued on in to the building.
America spent the next half hour getting knocked flat on the ground.
It wasn't that he was bad at fighting. America was great at fighting.
It wasn't even that he couldn't hurt Russia. He did hurt Russia--whenever he could keep his feet long enough to hit him. Russia had a bloody nose, a black eye, and probably half a dozen bruised ribs. CQC--the Marine close quarter combat system, what they called semper fu--was deadly stuff. It was the best self defense system the American military could develop.
And it did nothing to keep Russia from kicking his legs out from under him again, dropping a knee into his chest once he hit the ground, and waving a fist over his face in a casual gesture that said, "If I had a knife in my hand right now, I'd unplug your eye sockets and you could guzzle Coke through an extra two holes in your face."
When his head stopped spinning and the little white flashing lights faded from his eyes, he rasped, "Your system is bullshit."
Russia smiled and drew a finger across his throat, in a gesture that said, "And here's where I'd put your second smile."
America jerked his chin away. "Who came up with it, anyway? Your KGB assholes?"
Ivan reproved, "Ah-ah, that's a secret."
"Yeah, well." He struggled to sit up. Ivan dug his knee into his solar plexus in response. "Let me up, already."
Russia tipped his head. Something glittered in his eyes. "Do you yield?"
America's lips thinned. He glanced towards the office complex. "It's getting late. I'm tired of this."
Russia leaned forward and caught his wrists. "Too tired to fight?" His voice was dark, rough silk. "Then yield."
America jerked against him. "Go fuck yourself."
Russia pinned his hands above his head. The ends of his hair hung almost in America's eyes. "Yield."
America fought for leverage; he tried to kick Russia off; Russia remained as he was, immovable as stone. He glared into that amused, alien, violet gaze, until Russia murmured, "I think I like you like this."
His eyes dropped away, and he flushed. "Fine, I yield," he spat. "Now let me up."
The next few seconds made him dizzy to think about: Russia just smiled at him, and did nothing. Then he pushed off of Alfred and rose. He picked up his pipe from several feet away, swung it over his shoulder, and strolled off towards the high rise, whistling to himself.
America scrambled to his feet and wrapped his arms around his aching chest. He felt ashamed; and, somehow, without knowing what it was he had expected or hoped for--still tingling from those last few seconds of silence--he felt horribly let down.
Originally posted: 2/23/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 1,600 words.
Characters/Pairings: Russia, America, England, France.
Premise: The Europeans are practicing their fencing, and then America catches Russia at something rather unusual.
Time period: Modern.
Smuttiness: 1/10
Funnyness: 5/10
Wrist slashiness: 0/10
Lolhistoryness: 3/10. Systema is a Russian martial art developed for Spetznaz, which is so effective at unbalancing and redirecting one's opponents that when it was first demonstrated in the West, many accused it of being a tool of Soviet propaganda, and not a fighting system at all. To an outside observer, attackers approaching a Systema master often look like they just fall down for no reason.
Violence: 4/10
Would I like it?: It's candy for Systema fans, but there's also plenty of America being a smartass and enduring unresolved sexual tension with Russia. Fans of fencing might also get a kick out of it.
"This is stupid," America complained.
England replied, without looking at him, "Would you shut up?"
They stood shoulder to shoulder in silence for a few seconds. America folded his arms.
"This is stupid and boring," he clarified.
"It's neither stupid, nor boring; it's fencing. And I'm trying to keep score."
They watched France and Russia dance back and forth across the courtyard, their weapons making sweet click--click--click conversation. America shifted his weight from one foot to the other and sighed loudly. The only interesting thing was that Russia was using that stupid pipe of his instead of a rapier, and was flipping and tossing it around like it was made of plastic. He hadn't hit France yet, which was a shame, since that would be the second interesting thing.
"I can't believe you guys still do this. Who cares about swords anymore?"
"It's an ancient and noble form of self-defense." England sounded just a touch affronted, but didn't he always?
"I don't know if anybody's told you, but we have guns now."
"You would certainly know about that."
America scratched his jaw and watched the match for a little while. France did something that looked a little like a kung fu strike mixed with the electric slide. Russia barely jumped out of the way. "How's France blocking with that tiny little sword, anyway?"
"It's an epee, not just a sword; and he's parrying, not--"
"Doesn't epee just mean 'sword?'"
England gave him the briefest glance. "I have no idea how you know that."
"Neither do I, man, except you keep trying to teach me about this shit, and I guess every so often it sticks, and I remember something you said, instead of something useful I might actually need someday, like who's the president of Guam."
"I didn't think Guam had a president."
"I don't even know if Guam is a fucking country, and I'm pretty sure I own it."
England sighed. "An epee is heavier than a foil or a sabre. And the purpose of parrying is to deflect the weight of the weapon, not meet it directly. And France is the superior fencer. It's not so uneven as it might at first appear. That just then was a ballestra lunge--"
"Whatever." He gave a sigh of his own. "I can understand you and France prancing around and whacking each other with sticks, since you're all desperate to relive your glory days, but I thought Russia had more sense."
"…Russia has been a student of Western fencing since the seventeen hundreds, and was that a compliment you just paid him?"
"He's not in earshot," America answered absently.
"And I am not desperate to--there, did you see that? A circle-six followed up by a stop-cut, and now Russia's on the retreat--"
"This has got to be the only possible scenario where France could beat Russia in a fight. Napoleon should have tried this."
England gave a reluctant smirk.
But now the fight was actually getting good; Russia was retreating--his footwork faltered, and he stumbled to one knee. He brought up his pipe in a strong guard, but even America could see that he was just a bit too slow; France lunged, slapped the back of his hand with the flat of his blade, and had the tip of his epee at Russia's throat as the faucet clattered to the ground. Russia held up his hands, his eyebrows slightly raised.
They were both breathing hard. England and America ambled forward as France grinned, "Yield?"
"As you can see," Russia rumbled. He lowered his hands as France lowered his sword. As he picked up his pipe and climbed back to his feet, France half-turned back to him and flicked his wrist. A thin line of blood opened on the Russian's cheek.
Ivan blinked slowly. He traced the cut with his fingertip and collected a drop of blood. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. "France?" he questioned.
"Just a lesson," France replied airily. "You'll never really excel until you learn to control your balance."
"Hardly sporting," England remarked, as they drew even with the pair.
"You're such a dick," America agreed. Then added, "Even if it is Russia."
"My friends are so good to defend me," Russia said placidly. "I don't mind. It is a good lesson." He held out his hand to France.
France shook it. They nodded to each other. France released him and turned away.
America wasn't quite sure what happened after that, but then France was on the ground and catching the asphalt with his face.
America asked of no one in particular, "What was that?"
"He tripped," Russia replied.
"France, you clumsy idiot--" England went to stand over his neighbor as France shook his head and pulled himself back onto his knees.
"He didn't trip--hey!" America started after the trio as they hauled France back to his feet and started towards the building. "Hey, wait! Wait, wait, wait. Wait. Russia."
Ivan looked back over his shoulder. "Da?"
America grinned. "Do that again."
Ivan let go of France and turned back to him. "I did nothing."
"He didn't trip."
England realized that he was the only one still supporting France and immediately dropped him. France barely kept his feet. He pressed a hand to his forehead. "I didn't trip," he agreed dazedly.
"See?"
Russia began, "America, you must be imagining--"
"No. Nuh-uh. You guys have bored the piss out of me for the last twenty minutes with your sissy fucking dueling, but believe it or not, I was paying attention. You can do it on me, if you want! I just want to see!" He dropped his hands to his sides.
Russia shook his head. "You're excitable--"
"Sosi ebanataya suka," America fired off.
His accent was terrible, but his meaning seemed to have gotten through clearly enough, because suddenly gravity switched directions. There was a moment of intense vertigo, and then he was on the ground with a red pain in the pit of his left knee. He boosted himself up on his elbows, spat blood, and crowed, "Now that is a noble form of self-defense."
England could only respond, "Since when do you speak Russian?"
"Ah--shit--" He staggered to his feet. Russia took a step back, his eyes narrowed. "I just memorized a few phrases I figure'd be good for starting a fight. I don't even know what I said."
"I won't translate," Russia growled.
"Probably better not. With France here, I think we count as 'mixed company.'"
"Baise toi."
"You don't have to translate that, either," America replied. Then, to Russia, "What's that called?"
Ivan took another step back. He flexed his pipe in his hand. "My people call it systema."
"'The system?' That's a terrible name. How's it work?"
Russia appeared to consider for a moment, then tossed the faucet aside. It clanged and rolled away over the blacktop. "It is better to demonstrate than to explain."
That suited America just fine. France and England exchanged a glance, then shook their heads in sorry synchronicity and continued on in to the building.
America spent the next half hour getting knocked flat on the ground.
It wasn't that he was bad at fighting. America was great at fighting.
It wasn't even that he couldn't hurt Russia. He did hurt Russia--whenever he could keep his feet long enough to hit him. Russia had a bloody nose, a black eye, and probably half a dozen bruised ribs. CQC--the Marine close quarter combat system, what they called semper fu--was deadly stuff. It was the best self defense system the American military could develop.
And it did nothing to keep Russia from kicking his legs out from under him again, dropping a knee into his chest once he hit the ground, and waving a fist over his face in a casual gesture that said, "If I had a knife in my hand right now, I'd unplug your eye sockets and you could guzzle Coke through an extra two holes in your face."
When his head stopped spinning and the little white flashing lights faded from his eyes, he rasped, "Your system is bullshit."
Russia smiled and drew a finger across his throat, in a gesture that said, "And here's where I'd put your second smile."
America jerked his chin away. "Who came up with it, anyway? Your KGB assholes?"
Ivan reproved, "Ah-ah, that's a secret."
"Yeah, well." He struggled to sit up. Ivan dug his knee into his solar plexus in response. "Let me up, already."
Russia tipped his head. Something glittered in his eyes. "Do you yield?"
America's lips thinned. He glanced towards the office complex. "It's getting late. I'm tired of this."
Russia leaned forward and caught his wrists. "Too tired to fight?" His voice was dark, rough silk. "Then yield."
America jerked against him. "Go fuck yourself."
Russia pinned his hands above his head. The ends of his hair hung almost in America's eyes. "Yield."
America fought for leverage; he tried to kick Russia off; Russia remained as he was, immovable as stone. He glared into that amused, alien, violet gaze, until Russia murmured, "I think I like you like this."
His eyes dropped away, and he flushed. "Fine, I yield," he spat. "Now let me up."
The next few seconds made him dizzy to think about: Russia just smiled at him, and did nothing. Then he pushed off of Alfred and rose. He picked up his pipe from several feet away, swung it over his shoulder, and strolled off towards the high rise, whistling to himself.
America scrambled to his feet and wrapped his arms around his aching chest. He felt ashamed; and, somehow, without knowing what it was he had expected or hoped for--still tingling from those last few seconds of silence--he felt horribly let down.