01-11-2010, 12:48 AM
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He could hear Patriot, almost as clearly as if the twisted werewolf was right behind him, whispering. “Emotion’s your enemy, Snake. The perfect soldier is the one who isn’t influenced, doesn’t give in. You can think and see so much clearer. Empty yourself, kid—lose them all. They will only cause you to suffer.” And so he had, those months ago. He had shed his emotions as a fledgling might purposefully pluck all the feathers from its body, all in the thought of surviving longer. He became a creature ruled by instinct and quick thought—sharp and fleeting as the crack of a whip. He allowed himself to be angry for Vieira to be in this situation, for her to feel the pain she felt now, but that was it. Now it was impersonal; a duel between wolf and coyote that would end in blood, blood, blood.
Snake knew he had made the wolf angry, sent it spiraling over the edge into fury. Anger was good sometimes—it leant strength. But Snake had been taught against the berserker style of fighting; he believed in speed and planning. He just had to find the path to defeat for this stranger, though the difficulty of that was not in sight at the moment.
The stranger was taken off-guard by his tackle, sent sprawling onto the ground a few yards away. As Snake struck his defensive position, knife sideways in his right hand, the wolf got up. His face was twisted in a hideous snarl, blood dripping from his claws as his golden eyes darted between Snake and the wounded Vieira behind him. The wolf went on the offensive, as Snake hoped he would, darting to and fro. He was quick on his feet; Snake tried to make the impression that he was not. He remained rooted to the ground, finding his center as the wolf closed in. He could see contempt, self-righteousness brimming in his eyes. Snake did not abhor killing—death was something that did not upset him. But that was the death of a worthy enemy. Snake did not kill innocents; that was the thought that was abhorrent to him. He did not gain any pleasure from it; it made him sick. You would only dull the sharpest blade testing it against materials not to its caliber.
Snake’s focus became as keen as a razor’s edge when the wolf drew close enough to fight. He watched two things—the movement of the stranger’s shoulders and arms and his eyes. The muscles told him what would happen, and those eyes told him where. He judged that the wolf was going to punch in a certain place, so he tried to time a side-step to match. He moved sideways, making himself a smaller target as he tried to avoid the punch. Then he darted forward like his namesake, striking with the edge of his blade. He guided it towards the wolf’s shoulder, that of the punching arm. He knew the sinews and muscles that tied the arm to the torso, and he wanted to disable those.
He knew that, size-wise, he was at a disadvantage. But, if necessary, he would take the wolf apart piece-by-piece.
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533
He could hear Patriot, almost as clearly as if the twisted werewolf was right behind him, whispering. “Emotion’s your enemy, Snake. The perfect soldier is the one who isn’t influenced, doesn’t give in. You can think and see so much clearer. Empty yourself, kid—lose them all. They will only cause you to suffer.” And so he had, those months ago. He had shed his emotions as a fledgling might purposefully pluck all the feathers from its body, all in the thought of surviving longer. He became a creature ruled by instinct and quick thought—sharp and fleeting as the crack of a whip. He allowed himself to be angry for Vieira to be in this situation, for her to feel the pain she felt now, but that was it. Now it was impersonal; a duel between wolf and coyote that would end in blood, blood, blood.
Snake knew he had made the wolf angry, sent it spiraling over the edge into fury. Anger was good sometimes—it leant strength. But Snake had been taught against the berserker style of fighting; he believed in speed and planning. He just had to find the path to defeat for this stranger, though the difficulty of that was not in sight at the moment.
The stranger was taken off-guard by his tackle, sent sprawling onto the ground a few yards away. As Snake struck his defensive position, knife sideways in his right hand, the wolf got up. His face was twisted in a hideous snarl, blood dripping from his claws as his golden eyes darted between Snake and the wounded Vieira behind him. The wolf went on the offensive, as Snake hoped he would, darting to and fro. He was quick on his feet; Snake tried to make the impression that he was not. He remained rooted to the ground, finding his center as the wolf closed in. He could see contempt, self-righteousness brimming in his eyes. Snake did not abhor killing—death was something that did not upset him. But that was the death of a worthy enemy. Snake did not kill innocents; that was the thought that was abhorrent to him. He did not gain any pleasure from it; it made him sick. You would only dull the sharpest blade testing it against materials not to its caliber.
Snake’s focus became as keen as a razor’s edge when the wolf drew close enough to fight. He watched two things—the movement of the stranger’s shoulders and arms and his eyes. The muscles told him what would happen, and those eyes told him where. He judged that the wolf was going to punch in a certain place, so he tried to time a side-step to match. He moved sideways, making himself a smaller target as he tried to avoid the punch. Then he darted forward like his namesake, striking with the edge of his blade. He guided it towards the wolf’s shoulder, that of the punching arm. He knew the sinews and muscles that tied the arm to the torso, and he wanted to disable those.
He knew that, size-wise, he was at a disadvantage. But, if necessary, he would take the wolf apart piece-by-piece.