[ Hei doesn't have anything against sports training as such. It has benefits for the practitioner. However, none of these matches are proper self-defense. Hei's interest is in pragmatic methods to eliminate a target, not in showmanship or competition. Any Contractor is devoted to realistic self-preservation, not to whatever ego gratification MMA enthusiasts feed on. You can learn from them, sure. You can tweak your style and amp up your fitness. But the techniques Hei considers worthwhile aren't based on sports competitions. Assassins don't waste their time with them -- because they have nothing to prove to anyone. ]
[ Killing isn't a match between two equals; it's a spontaneous test in the dangers of real life, which include the presence of weapons, of cheating, of traps, and the necessity of battling on less-than-ideal terrain. ]
[ Still, he can feel Korra's energy buzzing along his flank. It overlaps with the vervy hum of the crowd, making the atmosphere surreal. Gripping her hand, he weaves through the tide of humanity, converging on the octagonal stadium. A hand-lettered notice says Beware of Pickpockets -- obviously a joke, considering the Underground's populace. Walking up to the ticket collector, he shakes hands (or maybe there's tickets and betting money passing from one palm to the other; it's hard to tell, isn't it?) The tin can of the stadium is bright golden. Inside, it's chaos. Jostling, chattering, laughing spectators perch on rickety chairs on the concrete stands that surround the illuminated ring. High on the ceiling, fans spin furiously to stir the thick air. It reeks of sweat, tobacco, incense and a beady-eyed, greedy kind of hope. Every human ingredient. ]
[ Squeezing Korra's hand, Hei guides her up concrete steps to a pathway lit by forty-watt bulbs set behind meshed screens. Sure, they could have seats ringside, but that's not the real world of this place. From the stands, you can see everything from the glittering sprays of blood to the whites of the fighter's eyes. ]
no subject
[ Killing isn't a match between two equals; it's a spontaneous test in the dangers of real life, which include the presence of weapons, of cheating, of traps, and the necessity of battling on less-than-ideal terrain. ]
[ Still, he can feel Korra's energy buzzing along his flank. It overlaps with the vervy hum of the crowd, making the atmosphere surreal. Gripping her hand, he weaves through the tide of humanity, converging on the octagonal stadium. A hand-lettered notice says Beware of Pickpockets -- obviously a joke, considering the Underground's populace. Walking up to the ticket collector, he shakes hands (or maybe there's tickets and betting money passing from one palm to the other; it's hard to tell, isn't it?) The tin can of the stadium is bright golden. Inside, it's chaos. Jostling, chattering, laughing spectators perch on rickety chairs on the concrete stands that surround the illuminated ring. High on the ceiling, fans spin furiously to stir the thick air. It reeks of sweat, tobacco, incense and a beady-eyed, greedy kind of hope. Every human ingredient. ]
[ Squeezing Korra's hand, Hei guides her up concrete steps to a pathway lit by forty-watt bulbs set behind meshed screens. Sure, they could have seats ringside, but that's not the real world of this place. From the stands, you can see everything from the glittering sprays of blood to the whites of the fighter's eyes. ]
[ Pitching his voice clear and low, he asks, ]
Okay?