driftfleet | red fishies

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red fishies

Who: The Red Fish crew, and any trespassers
Broadcast: Probably not
Action: Aboard the SS Red Fish, and the planet's surface
When: For the remainder of the month

[Red Fish is the party ship! yeeeeah!

...no, I lied. really, does anyone on this ship know how to have fun at all? like, really have fun? does anyone here gamble or go dancing or party all night long?

maybe the Red Fish just have fun in unconventional ways-- like reading, or sipping tea, or constructively beating the crap out of each other.

who needs a worlds-famous casino station when you have simple joys like that, right?]

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[Coil hasn't bothered to keep track of who has picked up any bits of sign language around the ship so far--who has been paying attention, or who Zhas may or may not have been teaching--but that does not stop him from acting as if they all must have. he only ever stops to write out communication when it's something he considers important, and that happens so rarely. more often than not, he either throws lazy signs around, or avoids the situation entirely.

and today, as he walks into the cargo hold and straight toward where their newest crewmember is beating the daylights out of the punching bag, he starts signing. he's spelling something out, and not really waiting to see if she's following along.]

[Cassandra stops when Coil approaches, out of politeness. Not that she has any expectation that he'll show her the same courtesy ever given his attitude when they first met, but two wrongs don't make a right. Her brow furrows as he's signing, uncertain for a moment before she realizes he's trying to speak to her in some capacity, and she holds up a hand.]

I don't understand.

[...he sighs, a little. it's not an audible thing; just a visible rise and drop of his shoulders as he stops signing. and while he might have just dropped the whole topic as well, some other time, he's currently wired and overly-focused enough to forge on ahead.

that planet really has him buzzed. even under the lights of the cargo hold, the subtle glow of his eye is noticeable.

so, trying a different route, he points at her, mimes falling into a ready pose while holding something like a sword (or a baseball bat, really), and then traces the shape of a question mark in the air with one finger.]

[She watches him pantomime, trying to communicate his meaning from his earlier signing.]

You wish to spar?

[Cassandra raises a skeptical brow, looking him over. He may have endured a great deal, but she's questioning his ability to keep up with her. Cassandra has decades of training and experience on him regardless of what his training may have been like. Assuming, of course, that he's had any. That's something Cassandra finds herself doubting as well.]

Very well...

[and regardless of what skills he may or may not have, he at least has a wealth of determination, and considerable amount of confidence. he doesn't seem anything but excited about the potential match. he doesn't smile, but closest she's seen from him yet happens when she agrees.

he is apparently so ready for this.

so, he dives into another pantomime. this time, he makes a fist and points between the two of them, and then mimics holding a weapon and again points between them, following it up with another traced question mark.

he wants to know if she wants to fight with fists or weapons, but who knows whether or not she'll follow.]

[This pantomiming is a little less straightforward and clear. She gets that there's fists and weapons involved, but what his exact question is lost a little in translation. She arches a brow and decides to somewhat gloss over his question.]

Have you any skill with a sword?

[he's used to shortcuts and near-misses in conversation, so this will do. in answer, he shakes his head without hesitation, and then steps over to where a quarterstaff is leaning quietly in the corner.

who needs a sword when you have a stick?]

[She follows him with her eyes.]

Ah, quarterstaff then. It's been a while since I've trained with one, but no matter.

[It's confidence, not arrogance. Cassandra doesn't think it will be a landslide victory on her part give that it's been a while since she's two-handed anything, but she can still hold her own at least passably.]

[as he hefts the staff up into his hands and begins to warm up and run through a few quick stretches, he hesitates.

he looks at her, and then over where he retrieved the staff from... and at the distinct lack of a second staff anywhere around there.

it kind of hadn't even dawned on him that she might want to use the same sort of weapon that he is. and he definitely only knows of the one staff on the ship.]

[Disgusted. Noise. Why is she not even remotely surprised? While he's standing there looking stupid (in her opinion), she simply folds her arms.]

You haven't thought this through at all have you? Either break the staff in half or we fight hand-to-hand.

[and that disdain reflects in him pretty fast. he'd sneer, if he was that given to blatant expressions.

he talks back immediately, in the only way he can--he starts to sign, before he catches himself in frustration, and rolls right into miming. it's all he has.

he points at himself, and then his staff. very deliberately; that is his weapon. after pointing at her, he does his best impression of wielding a sword.

he has his weapon, and she has hers. he doesn't see what the problem is.]

[Nope, she's not getting that pantomiming, Coil. She's arching a brow and waiting on a better answer than that. Mostly though, she's just getting annoyed. Which, so far, has summarized her experiences with Coil fairly well.]

[the feeling is mutual... and he may be taking the breakdown of communication as a count against her intelligence. and being that he doesn't have any other practical way to get across what he's trying to say, he loses patience. her quick annoyance is pretty contagious.

with a sigh, he plunks the staff back where it came from, and just... faces her again, and gestures hastily between them.

fine. they'll just do it like this. whatever. anything. he just needs to fight something.]

[Anger is a fairly useful tool in a fight, but only if it's wielded properly. When she was younger, it made her too brash and inflexible. Being an unyielding force has its advantages, of course, but an inability to move smoothly between defensive and offensive is costly. Cassandra's had a great deal of practice that it's not such an issue any longer. She's aware of it and aware of the spike of her own aggravation as he sighs at her.]

[Cassandra rolls her shoulders for a brief moment before she slides into a stance. She gives him only a few seconds to prepare himself (she's annoyed, but she won't be unfair) before she's coming at him with a fist.]

[he's out of practice. the only thing he has really faced in recent memory is Zhas, and it's been without the urgent threat of their crusade behind it. it might be vital practice, but it isn't really much of the challenge he needs.

with all those scars on his body, he isn't much suited for sitting around nicely on a spaceship.

so, he goes into this eagerly--not expecting to win, maybe, but definitely expecting to be pushed. whatever childish frustration he'd had before disappears quickly, and he focuses.

he's a little sloppy about it at first, but he's still fast. that much is clear, at least, when she goes to strike him. he ducks to the side, snaps an arm up to glance the blow away from his face, and he doesn't return the strike. not yet.]

[Speed is difficult to beat, but his sloppiness is telling. He lacks discipline and she doesn't imagine it will be long before he assumes that she's not much of a challenge. Then will be the time to unleash all hell and see if he can keep up then. But as it is, Cassandra remains restrained with a low follow-up strike.]

[he may be sorely lacking in discipline now, but that's neither his natural state nor his history. he is a meticulously trained dog that has been let off its leash for too long. he gets antsy because of it, acts out, tests limits... but when it comes down to it, being pushed back into needing to be careful and smart is what he really wants.

again, he deflects the strike and stays close, looking eager. he's waking up, so he can watch, ready and waiting to adapt.]

[The fact he remains close comes as a bit of a surprise, but that just means it's Cassandra who takes the step back. This time, there is no strike back. Cassandra is a formidable offense, but there's little point in sparring for either of their sakes if she takes the offense the entire time. Especially when he seeks no retaliation after his deflections and blocks.]

[he doesn't let the opening hang without answer. he doesn't press his advance much farther--he's not one to push a straight offense like that--but he does try to take advantage of it while he has it.

so, he throws a punch, just like he should. it's fast and has good form, but is lacking in power. it's just there to be blocked. it's thrown to set her up, because he's immediately striking with his other arm as soon as she does something to block or deflect.

it's this second strike, sent rapid-fire after the first, that is actually meant to stick. this strike is sharp and surgical, and goes right for whatever bundle of nerves or important joint in her defending arm is the closest when she moves.]

[Cassandra remembers old lessons about the importance of defense, that even a shield can be turned into a weapon. (Most likely the reason why hers was taken from her when she woke up here.) It's just a flash of a memory, but it sparks to life the moment she feels how flaccid his first punch is. As fast as his second strike is, he telegraphs his intention to her.]

[He doesn't leave her much room to react, but it's enough. As she's deflecting the first punch, Cassandra grapples onto his arm, twisting and pulling on his wrist to put his arm between hers and his punch.]

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red fishies

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