The Captain isn't ending the fight. The handlers are getting if not restless, then dissatisfied. The Captain can feel it, feel their looks like knives between his shoulder blades. They want him to end it in a decisive strike. They know he can. He knows he can.
But he doesn't. He stops the Soldier's advances, and then he twists him up in a hold, and then he lets him go to try again. It's not exactly an even fight, but it's the closest thing he's had that he can remember, which maybe isn't saying much, but it's got his blood going. It's got his mind moving fast, got his adrenaline up. He's almost — almost — enjoying it. He wants to see what this Soldier can really do.
But he also sees, the longer this goes on, the cracks that start to emerge. The metal arm is the Soldier's greatest strength, but it's weakening, bit by bit. With every minute that passes, every punch the Soldier delivers, with every twisting hold the Captain puts him in, the arm gets louder and louder, the whining hums and whirs change pitch. It's starting to falter and the Soldier is compensating with desperation. The Captain is torn between two emotions that are honestly impossible for him to identify: disappointment and anxiety.
He hears the handlers and techs start to murmur; they're not his handlers, so it must be about the Soldier. They've noticed the weakness, too.
The Captain's got ahold of the Soldier again, after another fierce bout of blows; he's sweating, hair matted to his head and skin slippery as he rolls them on the mat, aggravating several hairline fractures and deep, deep bruises littering his own body. He's not bleeding, but he's still sustained damage, knows that when the adrenaline fades, there will be pain and fatigue. He hears murmuring again, but this time it's voices he recognizes: his own handlers. They're unhappy with his performance. He should have ended this minutes ago. He rolls and puts one knee to the small of the Soldier's back, forcing him to flail backwards if he wants to reach the Captain at all. The metal arm doesn't seem to want to move the right way, catching at the shoulder with an unnatural, almost sickening click every time.
o7 He can dislocate the flesh arm in your tag if you want or I'll definitely do it in my next one!
But he doesn't. He stops the Soldier's advances, and then he twists him up in a hold, and then he lets him go to try again. It's not exactly an even fight, but it's the closest thing he's had that he can remember, which maybe isn't saying much, but it's got his blood going. It's got his mind moving fast, got his adrenaline up. He's almost — almost — enjoying it. He wants to see what this Soldier can really do.
But he also sees, the longer this goes on, the cracks that start to emerge. The metal arm is the Soldier's greatest strength, but it's weakening, bit by bit. With every minute that passes, every punch the Soldier delivers, with every twisting hold the Captain puts him in, the arm gets louder and louder, the whining hums and whirs change pitch. It's starting to falter and the Soldier is compensating with desperation. The Captain is torn between two emotions that are honestly impossible for him to identify: disappointment and anxiety.
He hears the handlers and techs start to murmur; they're not his handlers, so it must be about the Soldier. They've noticed the weakness, too.
The Captain's got ahold of the Soldier again, after another fierce bout of blows; he's sweating, hair matted to his head and skin slippery as he rolls them on the mat, aggravating several hairline fractures and deep, deep bruises littering his own body. He's not bleeding, but he's still sustained damage, knows that when the adrenaline fades, there will be pain and fatigue. He hears murmuring again, but this time it's voices he recognizes: his own handlers. They're unhappy with his performance. He should have ended this minutes ago. He rolls and puts one knee to the small of the Soldier's back, forcing him to flail backwards if he wants to reach the Captain at all. The metal arm doesn't seem to want to move the right way, catching at the shoulder with an unnatural, almost sickening click every time.