[ It's been a long time since he's received instruction like this.
Freelancer, maybe, when he fumbled with the weapons that he pretended to not know, when Carolina had taken a moment when she was sure that no one else around, here, rookie, let me just help you, tried to guide him into positions that Wash already knew. A few times when it was Connie, so much more blunt than Carolina, more mocking, but no less kind in her intentions, no, rookie, you really shouldn't hold a knife like that, let me show you. Maine just eyeing him critically, moving forward, shoving him off balance with a simple push to his shoulder, Wash falling over to the ground, don't pull that shit with me, rookie, you aren't even standing right. I know you know better than that.
This is different from all of that, even, reminds him of something even further back, his first weeks at basic, bright-eyed and eager to do his part to protect the only life he knows. The sergeant's eyes, approving enough but critical, and he sees that in Lakshmi's eyes, a gaze that's trained and sharp enough to pick out everything about how he stands, how he moves, that can tell how unfamiliar he is with the sword just from the way his fingers rest over the hilt. He doesn't bother nodding, just starts to shift his feet to move immediately into position. The sandals are strange, still, but hey. People train with weighted limbs. He'll start with glitter and Cetagandan robes.
Fear that, respect that. The sword is a weapon. He's had that lesson drilled into his head a thousand times, has said words about the same to his own trainees, the next time you wave that around like that if you don't accidentally blow your own foot off I'll fucking do it for you. The stance itself is not entirely unfamiliar to him, similar enough to what they'd use just unarmed close quarters combat, but he shifts his weight from foot to foot slightly with the sword in his hand, tries to feel that out. It's different. Of course it is. ]
-- It's light. [ Obviously. But you start with the obvious, extrapolate from there, and he starts with small movements, rolling the hilt in his hand to feel how it settles against different parts of his palm, rotates his wrist just to feel for the swing it has. There isn't much weight. A talwar, at least. ] Something with more weight would swing better.
[ He needs something with swing. Wash imagines Maine, imagines how he fights, vicious, up close, personal, closing the distance. Wash himself has never quite fought like that -- he can overpower most people, sure, but just in Freelancer among the others he learned quickly that he was outclassed in brute strength, that he'd best rely on other skills. Speed, adaptability, maneuverability. ]
Speed and finesse, keeping just far away enough -- more about thrusting, pointed strikes, less about strength and swing. [ A few experimental swings, an experimental jab -- that's what the length of the blade seems to say to him. He frowns, looks back at her. ] Just -- my guesses.
[ The cut stings slightly in his palm as he tightens his grip over the sword. His sword, now, and he means to learn -- it's clear enough from his expression, he's hanging onto her every word. ]
no subject
Freelancer, maybe, when he fumbled with the weapons that he pretended to not know, when Carolina had taken a moment when she was sure that no one else around, here, rookie, let me just help you, tried to guide him into positions that Wash already knew. A few times when it was Connie, so much more blunt than Carolina, more mocking, but no less kind in her intentions, no, rookie, you really shouldn't hold a knife like that, let me show you. Maine just eyeing him critically, moving forward, shoving him off balance with a simple push to his shoulder, Wash falling over to the ground, don't pull that shit with me, rookie, you aren't even standing right. I know you know better than that.
This is different from all of that, even, reminds him of something even further back, his first weeks at basic, bright-eyed and eager to do his part to protect the only life he knows. The sergeant's eyes, approving enough but critical, and he sees that in Lakshmi's eyes, a gaze that's trained and sharp enough to pick out everything about how he stands, how he moves, that can tell how unfamiliar he is with the sword just from the way his fingers rest over the hilt. He doesn't bother nodding, just starts to shift his feet to move immediately into position. The sandals are strange, still, but hey. People train with weighted limbs. He'll start with glitter and Cetagandan robes.
Fear that, respect that. The sword is a weapon. He's had that lesson drilled into his head a thousand times, has said words about the same to his own trainees, the next time you wave that around like that if you don't accidentally blow your own foot off I'll fucking do it for you. The stance itself is not entirely unfamiliar to him, similar enough to what they'd use just unarmed close quarters combat, but he shifts his weight from foot to foot slightly with the sword in his hand, tries to feel that out. It's different. Of course it is. ]
-- It's light. [ Obviously. But you start with the obvious, extrapolate from there, and he starts with small movements, rolling the hilt in his hand to feel how it settles against different parts of his palm, rotates his wrist just to feel for the swing it has. There isn't much weight. A talwar, at least. ] Something with more weight would swing better.
[ He needs something with swing. Wash imagines Maine, imagines how he fights, vicious, up close, personal, closing the distance. Wash himself has never quite fought like that -- he can overpower most people, sure, but just in Freelancer among the others he learned quickly that he was outclassed in brute strength, that he'd best rely on other skills. Speed, adaptability, maneuverability. ]
Speed and finesse, keeping just far away enough -- more about thrusting, pointed strikes, less about strength and swing. [ A few experimental swings, an experimental jab -- that's what the length of the blade seems to say to him. He frowns, looks back at her. ] Just -- my guesses.
[ The cut stings slightly in his palm as he tightens his grip over the sword. His sword, now, and he means to learn -- it's clear enough from his expression, he's hanging onto her every word. ]