@dastardlydapperbastard:
Spy spat a tooth into his hand and casually slipped it into his pocket. He sucked his lip and swallowed the excess blood with a grimace. Spitting took too much time and highlighted injury, but the taste was still unpleasant. Good hit, boy. He could barely feel the throb at this point in his pain tolerance career, but that did not change the damage or solid placement. Scout could always be counted on for that. Except, there was still that one little problem: It was non-fatal sparring. Spy, trained in keeping people just enough alive, still had full access to all four limbs.
“I would give you a four. Just to be generous.”
Spy relaxed his demeanor and put a hand to his mouth as if still trying to process his missing tooth-almost seeming to ignore Scout’s presence like a usual snub-
-Before his footing shifted and Spy fell forward into a lunging sprint. He feinted left: pulling right and attempting to drive his elbow into Scout’s solar plexus. Fast and vicious in hand to hand, Spy planned to follow up immediately with a dislocating strike to the batter’s dominant shoulder.
That was the plan, anyway.
“That’s, uh--” On second thought, he wasn’t going to comment on it. Could respawn regrow lost teeth? He’d often woken up after taking a hit to the jaw with a mouthful of chompers, as strong and clean as ever, but he’d always assumed it was because he’d died immediately after having them knocked out. If they kept fighting, and Spy didn’t die and go to respawn, maybe they’d stay that way forever. And sure, he hated this guy’s attitude, the way he carried himself like he was better and smarter than everyone else, like he knew you just from looking at you, but did that warrant leaving him looking like a jack-o-lantern for the rest of his life?
--well, yeah, maybe a little bit.
And there he was, doing it again, acting all nonchalant like he hadn’t just gotten the pearly whites beaten out of his stupid snooty face. But Scout had learned a thing or two, fighting in the gravel pits. Like how fast he could really run when he had that intelligence strapped to his back. Or how high Soldier could fling himself in the air by shooting his own feet. Or how these rat bastards liked to play dead until they jumped up and stabbed you in the back.
“Heyheyheyhey-- whoa!” Sadly, knowing was half, but not all of, the battle. He expected the strike, but that didn’t mean he could react quickly enough to avoid it. Instead, he half-turned and caught the elbow in the hip, the palm strike in the meat of his arm -- which, rather than dislocating it, had the unpleasant effect of thrusting his entire body sideways, nearly giving him whiplash. Rattled and a bit nauseous, he recovered quick as a flash and swung again, this time aiming for the Spy’s center mass. “You’re a sneaky prick, you know that?!”
