[ She says Where should we meet? and Hei almost smiles. Almost. This whole affair is such a precarious thing; the moment he's sure of one detail, ten questions pop up around it, a funhouse mirror with reflections warped in slightly different ways, everywhere his eye turns. Yet it's so strange, how in-the-moment Korra can be. Not overthinking every angle for hidden threats. Not chewing the fabric of her thoughts into threadbare patches. She just goes with the moment. Hei can't do that. He's always catching himself tripping over his gnarled idea of home truths. It's something he can never seem to stop, even when speaking out interferes with his pleasures. ]
[ Putting the thoughts aside, he takes only a moment to reply, ]
The marketplace. [ The one barely a block from his safehouse. ] I'll be outside the teashop.
[In the moment, that's Korra. It's not that she's incapable of thinking; it just so rarely does her any good. She gets too caught up in doubts and fears and what-ifs and it shuts her down completely. Better to just do and then deal with the consequences.
She doesn't bother responding; he knows she's coming. She just changes into a simple outfit and, in short order, heads down to the teashop. (It still feels weird, wrong, to leave Naga behind, but the polar bear dog is dozing --out of habit, not need -- and doesn't seem like she'll be lonely for company for awhile.)]
[ The teashop (tea stall is a better descriptor) sits in the middle of the crowded boulevard, under the shade of ugly tamarind trees. The tables, the plastic stools, the tea glasses are all doll-sized and generally grubby. At this hour -- the night crowd not yet in full swing until 8 o'clock -- there are very few other customers. Just a pair of men playing xiangqi and smoking. Hei glances up from his greasy glass of tea and condensed milk -- and spots Korra in the shifting crowd immediately. Not like it's hard. Whether in the gloom or in dazzling light, that body strides like a wave cutting through the distance. Always this same first impression of Korra: not of sight but energy in fluid motion; then, with the first glimpse of her face, the surprise at how sweetly innocent she looks. ]
[ He doesn't smile. But there's a lightness in his gaze as she approaches. ]
I guess I don't need to ask if you were busy.
[ He sounds like he's ribbing her. But it's evident to anyone who knows him well enough that he's glad she showed up. ]
Like you would. [She rolls her eyes at him as she slips into the seat across from his. There's something affectionate in her sarcasm. Resting her chin on her hand, she takes a peek at the menu (in a familiar script, thank goodness -- there's a reason she loves this part of the Underground).]
[ Picking up the glass, Hei swallows the last of the thick, milky, darkish syrup, before setting it aside. There are still a few shrimp dumplings in his plate; he pushes them Korra's way. Forty-watt bulbs hang from a cord on the corrugated roof, hot yellow light touching his head and seeming to break in spears across the floor. Cobwebs are suspended like silken parachutes in corners beyond the light; somewhere in the dark, a gecko trills. ]
[ He ignores all that, focusing on Korra. His smile is genuine, if small. ]
I'm taking you to a muay thai match.
[ Hope you're in the mood for violence and testosterone, Korra. ]
I have passes for the ringside view. [ This morning, he'd nearly tossed them in the garbage along with the wadded up tissues and chewing gum wrappers in his pockets. Honestly, he had no plans to attend. Has no idea what changed his mind, except for a dim murmur in his subconscious: Korra might enjoy this. It should be a mental exclamation mark, the fact that he's begun thinking of her so casually. But it isn't; it shifts with the well-oiled cogs of his brain and fits against them, quite simple and quite extraordinary. Not slowing him down. Not impeding his thought-process at all. It almost seems to balance him. ]
[ Strange. ]
[ Brushing that off, he dips his gaze, reaching for a dumpling and swallowing it in one bite. Standing, he brushes the crumbs from his jeans, before extending a hand to Korra. ]
It's probably about to start. If we make it there quick, we won't miss the first round.
[She shoves the last dumpling in her mouth -- it'd be a shame to let good dumplings go to waste, and she is still maybe not venturing out enough to have a particularly varied diet -- and jumps up. Taking his hand at this point seems completely natural; they don't often walk together, but when they do, their fingers are almost invariably linked. The warm little thrill she feels is so familiar, she doesn't even register.]
[ He doesn't miss the unabashed enthusiasm as she gobbles up the dumplings. There's a moment to wonder if she's simply hungry, or if all she's been eating lately is fish. Probably option B. (He could, he supposes, send her a meal now and then. Hell knows, there's enough snacks in his refrigerator. But he'll deal with that later.) Her palm is soft, slightly damp in his, radiating a welcome warmth compared to the chilly air. He slips both their clasped hands, by instinct as much as habit, in his coat pocket. Guides her through the streets, cool and gray, the scent and color of smoke. ]
Just outside the Arena.
[ The pavement is cracked and gritty beneath his shoes. His senses are always alert, whether in this portion of the City or elsewhere. But it's the half-synchronized rhythm of their footsteps that feels both strange and familiar to him. They've done this enough times. But for Hei, it's always a novelty. Because here, he can do these things on purpose -- go on outings, take strolls, make impromptu plans. Because here, he can pick and choose the method and way of his life, in small degrees. And he'll never, ever stop feeling like that's worth something. ]
[ Tangles of electrical wires, like comatose snakes, drape heavily across the alleys. The food vendors around the arena are gearing up for their evening traffic; the rich, acrid smoke of grilling meat hangs in the air, mixing with a faint stench of urine and the cloying stench of both fresh and rotting durian. The high gates enclosing the outdoor arena seem not so much buildings, as a world of smoke and milling bodies and loud voices. Resisting the kneejerk urge to flick his gaze from side to side, to try to match sounds to people and people to sounds, Hei nudges his way toward the entrance, making liberal use of his elbows. ]
[ Looks like they're in time. The spectators are still gathering. ]
[For just an instant, her mind flashes not to the Arena in the Underground, but the bright gold, glittering stadium in Republic City. She's been here so long, been separated from her friends for so long, it hardly even seems real. Like maybe the entire thing had just been a dream.
She tenses a little as they get deeper into the crowd. She doesn't press against Hei like some kind of timid flower, but she stands as straight as she can, trying to take up as little room as possible. The crowd feels overwhelming after a month of hermitude, and there's a part of her that wants to clear the area around her with some airbending and then bolt for calmer ground. A smaller part of her actually enjoys the noise, the energy and reminder of life.
Mostly, she just really wants to see the match. She's itching to learn and observe and try something new.]
[ 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. ]
[Tall as Korra is, she's even standing on tiptoe, peering over people's heads, taking in every detail of her surroundings. She's practically vibrating with excitement and excess stimulation.
She doesn't actually hear his question, too wrapped up in her surroundings and the noise to register his words.]
[ It's like that time he took her clubbing. The excitement is infectious, seeming to zing off Korra, crisscrossing in luminous spiderwebs across the room. From the stands, he watches a small band of wizened old men in shabby violet uniforms. They pick up instruments -- java flute, drums, tiny glittering cymbals -- and begin to play music that, in its own way, is a cacophonous nightmare. The horns are shrill and crazy, weaving in and out of each other's trance-inducing melodies. The resonating gongs, the thumping drums, interspersed with the delicate tinkling of chimes -- they're like snake charmers on death row. The music slithers into Hei's brain -- makes his head as well as his heart pound. ]
[ Casually, he sidles closer to Korra. Positions her so she's standing in front of him, his arms draped over her shoulders like a flesh-and-bone barricade. The crowd around jostles and elbows them; but their eyes are on the bright ring where the two sinewy boxers are receiving the blessings of their stable masters. They wai deeply to their trainers, and then to the judges, before leaping into the ring. Festooned in their multicolored head ropes, garlands dangling around their necks, they perform the formal, individual wai khru ram muay -- the fight prayer dances. ]
[ Hei watches with a critical eye as they step, knee, step, knee their way around the ring. Each boxer chooses his own way to express loyalty to his fight stables through body-language, stopping here and there to pose in an emulation of mythical creatures. One dips in a bow to one knee, arms rising into the air as a bird. The other sways side to side, then expands his chest and arms wide like a snake. Meanwhile, the music clamors on, piercing through the rumble of the crowd. On a practical note, the wai kru is a narrow window to observe your opponent's abilities, via their ritual dances. ]
[ But Hei focuses on other details. Placement, center of gravity, favored footwork, weak points in muscle telegraphed by subtle movements. Resting his chin on the top of Korra's head, he says, ]
[He wraps his arms around her and she leans into him -- for a moment. Then they start doing poses and she's leaning against his arms as she tries to get a better view.]
[ Hei dips his head to hear her over the clamoring music and the indistinguishable hubbub of the crowd. Lips near her ear, he says, ]
It's a prayer dance. It's called wai khru ram muay. A way to pay tribute to the fighter's teachers, and to consecrate blessings on them. Each camp has their own styles. [ He indicates to the boxer in the blue shorts, a dreadlocked kid barely seventeen years old. Bare-chested, his arms are ropey, leathery. Tattoos crisscross the ribbed musculature of his stomach; dark curlicues encircle his extruded bellybutton, giving it the look of a monster's eye. ] That one's taking on the style of a demon bird called Garuda. [ Then, pointing to his opponent, in red shorts -- a whippet thin twenty-something, hair plastered to his skull in black ropes. ] That one's emulating the Naga -- a cobra-like beast that supposedly spits fireballs.
[ There's an understandable dryness in his tone, because this sort of ritualistic superstition has no place in Hei's life. He watches the fighters meet in the center of the ring, where the cigarillo-smoking promoter runs down the stakes. The sharp, sinuous music cuts through the noise like barbed wire. It’s faster and more frantic now, designed to pump up the boxers, to spur on their aggression. ]
Naga doesn't spit fireballs. [Yes, yes, she knows, not the same Naga -- but the coincidence is enough to make her smile.
She's entranced by it -- not just the moves themselves, but the whole ritual. It reminds her of her bending training, the few moments where she came close to feeling some kind of spiritual connection. When she used the most ancient moves & techniques, it was like she was connected to her past lives.]
Are the tattoos part of it? [They remind her of the airbending master tattoos...]
[ Hei's never been an enthusiast of body-art. For his profession, he's honed every point of his musculature into a weapon, not a decoration piece. The symbolism, the safeguarding powers, the storytelling behind the tattoos -- all that is lost to him. In the past, his training catered more to the grapple-and-grunts mindset: kickboxing, krav maga and the full-contact martial arts such as judo and jiu-jitsu. Very little of it dealt with abstractia: choreographed forms -- dancelike katas -- intent only on perfecting the technique, and in understanding the spiritual history behind the motions. The same went for the supernatural elements associated with the arts. ]
[ Still, he has a basic knowledge of the sak yant. ]
The idea is that the tattoos offer the fighters protection. Good luck. Success. All that. Traditionally they're done by monks using bamboo needles. It's considered bad luck to get a tattoo from someone who doesn't grasp their significance. [ A beat, before he amends, ] Those fighters would know more about it than me.
Cool. [Korra's always liked the look of tattoos, and secretly thought it was too bad that she couldn't get the airbending master tattoos. (Even though the Avatar had to master all four elements, only Avatars from the Air Nomads got the mastery tattoos.) The Southern Water Tribe's tradition of body art had pretty much died out after the Fire Nation attacked.
She quickly forgets any thoughts about body art when the fight actually begins. She grabs his elbows, squeezing them in excitement as she strains to catch every move, trying to get a snapshot of each one to imitate and incorporate into her own style later.]
[ Hei's lips twitch as she grips his sleeve. Korra's energy is a warm sensation, the color and temperature of a burnt orange conflagration. It matches that of the crowd -- but without the acrid shades of greed and voyeurism. He places his hands on her hips and brings them around, fingers knitting over her bellybutton. In the ring, the first succession of the fast, vicious shin strikes begins. The music ratchets up as the fighters clinch and tug at each other's necks, trying to force their opponents' head lower. Sharp knees jab to connect with ribcages and the vulnerable points of kidneys. Torsos flex and protect just before impact. Around the stage, the air shimmers, shards of filigreed luminescence from the spotlights raining down like shiny foil in a tickertape parade. ]
[ He watches the boxer in red dry-gulch the blue, a hard sucker punch glancing off the high ridge of cheek, splitting bone. The blow drops him to his knees, blood dribbling -- but he's back on his feet in a twinkling. Hei admires the resilience, the finesse, the blind dedication. But this isn't his field of interest. Combat is about treachery and deceit as much as about courage and skill. ]
[ Still, part of him is envious. Reach a certain experience level, and you can tell who fights for a reason -- and who fights because he has nothing to lose. These men are dedicated to something. It's beyond the money or the rush or the fifteen minutes of fame. It's something much more intangible. Something almost fiercely serene. ]
[ Glancing at Korra, Hei feels, dimly, like she has the same emotion glowing in her eyes. ]
[She squirms a little as he moves his hands, inadvertently tickling her. Don't distract her -- she's trying to memorize their moves! It's interesting to watch the sheer violence of the fight. It's much more up close & personal, you could say, than the fights she's been in. In a bending fight, you not only attack with your element, but you negate the damage of it; one of the first things she learned as a firebender was how to keep fire from burning her. The probending matches could get rough, but that was all bruising. She's not disturbed by the blood & bone by any means. It's more a reminder of how much more she needs to learn, and can learn, to protect herself & the people she cares about without her bending.]
[ The fabric of Korra's shirt -- the heat radiating under it -- makes Hei's palms tingle. He keeps his arms clasped around her, drawing her closer against him. Their bodies don't fit together the way his and Amber's did; they cut into each other at unlikely, intimate angles. It's good, better than Hei could have ever expected it to be. Keeping one hand splayed on her belly, he slides the other across her hip, scraping his thumbnail along cloth and denim, until his thumb is hooked neatly in the waist of her jeans. Around them, no one notices. The spectators hurl cheers and insults as the fight continues. On the edges of the ring, bright orange, flashing halogen discs are screwed to the horizontal beams. The intermittently blinking lights brighten the spectators' faces in ghostly yellows: a pack of bloodthirsty crazies waving money. ]
[ High above, moonlight pours through holes rusted in the roof, silver shafts gilding the crossbeams and glossing feathery shapes roosting in the latticework. The hypnotic sound of music underlies the hollering crowd. It matches every muscle poised; every strike of elbow, of hand, of shin, of knee; each place the blow lands and leaves its ruddy mark. ]
[ Wrapped around Korra, Hei is lulled by the crowd's buzz and frantic ocarina music. Watching the diminutive but deadly bodies -- machines more than men -- and the thrill of close combat. The pureness of it all. ]
[ But perhaps equally mesmerizing is the look on Korra's face. Her eyes, he thinks, are the blue life would be, if it got to choose a color. ]
[She doesn't notice the tingle that runs through her as he tugs her closer. She's wrapped up in the fight, cheering loudly as each one lands a blow. It's the same thrill she felt the first time she actually got to see a probending match, and a part of her wants nothing more than to dive into the ring and join in.]
[ Hei wonders if this is how symbiotes feel. Cold needle-mouths latched against the heat and energy of a host. Korra's excitement oozes into his pores. The world rushes in his ears, then crystallises. Hei exhales quietly, and eases Korra tighter against him, feeling everything come together. Lines sharpen. Shadows clear. Even the spotlights in the ring are a hundred watts more brilliant. ]
[ It's what she does to him. Everything cold and shuttered, she brightens. A certainty he can't ascribe, but here is ample demonstration. ]
[ He massages the jut of her hipbone with the pad of his thumb, then dips lower. His eyes stay on the luminous ring as the third round begins. It explodes with swiftness and savagery; the boxers maintain enough distance to fire lightning shin blows to the arms and chests. Blue goes low, knees flexing, delivers a submarine shot. Red grabs him, pulling their bodies flush. Blue's gloves are high on Red's chest but he can't push him off. He brings them up into Red's face, rubbing the scratchy laces across the cheeks and eyes. Red reacts by bringing his left knee up into Blue's side beneath the kidney. Blue lets out a grunt. Red knees him again, putting all his weight into it. The crowd rises to a quick roar. In close, Blue shoves against Red's face, gets some separation and brings an elbow up into the gap, shearing it across Red's chin. The blood is a glittering ruby spray as it arcs in the spotlights. ]
[ Any minute now, Hei thinks. The match is going to end with a technicolor bang. ]
[The thumb sliding down from her hip -- now that manages to pull away Korra's attention, at least for a moment. She doesn't want to take her eyes off of the fight, but does squeeze his arm as a sign of Don't think I didn't notice that, buddy.
She's not telling him to stop, though. Not by any means. The fight has her blood pumping, and each blow that the fighters land sends a spike of pleasure straight between her legs. It's almost as though they're touching her.
She rocks back, discretely rubbing herself against Hei.]
[ When she squeezes his arm and rocks back against him, Hei stops. But only for a moment. Licking his lips, he breathes evenly. His thumb presses lower, stroking the sensitive crease of Korra's thigh and groin. The rough pad rasps across the lace of her panties and her smooth skin, warm and faintly damp. No script or choreography to this: there never is, with them, and he should know better by now. Keeping one arm locked around her, he flicks his gaze across their surroundings. No one's watching. Everyone's focus is on the match. Korra will feel a draft of cooler air across her skin as he tugs her shirt casually free from her jeans. Then his hand strokes her belly before driving down, between denim and flesh, cupping her between her legs. His fingernails graze the material of her panties, just above her clit. ]
[ Knowing that Korra's revulsions are instantaneous, he's startled at how she stands grottoed in the warm cave of his body. The brutality of the fight should sicken her. The bloodsprays, the adrenalined tang of sweat, the quicksilver violence of each blow. Women, he'd been brought up to believe once upon a time, weren't into that shit. But of course it's a lie. ]
[ He enjoys the knowledge now. As if, in the middle of the overheated crowd, it's a secret for him alone. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Putting the thoughts aside, he takes only a moment to reply, ]
The marketplace. [ The one barely a block from his safehouse. ] I'll be outside the teashop.
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She doesn't bother responding; he knows she's coming. She just changes into a simple outfit and, in short order, heads down to the teashop. (It still feels weird, wrong, to leave Naga behind, but the polar bear dog is dozing --out of habit, not need -- and doesn't seem like she'll be lonely for company for awhile.)]
no subject
[ He doesn't smile. But there's a lightness in his gaze as she approaches. ]
I guess I don't need to ask if you were busy.
[ He sounds like he's ribbing her. But it's evident to anyone who knows him well enough that he's glad she showed up. ]
no subject
So. What's the outing?
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[ He ignores all that, focusing on Korra. His smile is genuine, if small. ]
I'm taking you to a muay thai match.
[ Hope you're in the mood for violence and testosterone, Korra. ]
no subject
Really? I've heard of it, but I've never had a chance to see one.
[When isn't she in the mood for violence & testosterone?]
no subject
I have passes for the ringside view. [ This morning, he'd nearly tossed them in the garbage along with the wadded up tissues and chewing gum wrappers in his pockets. Honestly, he had no plans to attend. Has no idea what changed his mind, except for a dim murmur in his subconscious: Korra might enjoy this. It should be a mental exclamation mark, the fact that he's begun thinking of her so casually. But it isn't; it shifts with the well-oiled cogs of his brain and fits against them, quite simple and quite extraordinary. Not slowing him down. Not impeding his thought-process at all. It almost seems to balance him. ]
[ Strange. ]
[ Brushing that off, he dips his gaze, reaching for a dumpling and swallowing it in one bite. Standing, he brushes the crumbs from his jeans, before extending a hand to Korra. ]
It's probably about to start. If we make it there quick, we won't miss the first round.
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Where is it?
no subject
Just outside the Arena.
[ The pavement is cracked and gritty beneath his shoes. His senses are always alert, whether in this portion of the City or elsewhere. But it's the half-synchronized rhythm of their footsteps that feels both strange and familiar to him. They've done this enough times. But for Hei, it's always a novelty. Because here, he can do these things on purpose -- go on outings, take strolls, make impromptu plans. Because here, he can pick and choose the method and way of his life, in small degrees. And he'll never, ever stop feeling like that's worth something. ]
[ Tangles of electrical wires, like comatose snakes, drape heavily across the alleys. The food vendors around the arena are gearing up for their evening traffic; the rich, acrid smoke of grilling meat hangs in the air, mixing with a faint stench of urine and the cloying stench of both fresh and rotting durian. The high gates enclosing the outdoor arena seem not so much buildings, as a world of smoke and milling bodies and loud voices. Resisting the kneejerk urge to flick his gaze from side to side, to try to match sounds to people and people to sounds, Hei nudges his way toward the entrance, making liberal use of his elbows. ]
[ Looks like they're in time. The spectators are still gathering. ]
no subject
She tenses a little as they get deeper into the crowd. She doesn't press against Hei like some kind of timid flower, but she stands as straight as she can, trying to take up as little room as possible. The crowd feels overwhelming after a month of hermitude, and there's a part of her that wants to clear the area around her with some airbending and then bolt for calmer ground. A smaller part of her actually enjoys the noise, the energy and reminder of life.
Mostly, she just really wants to see the match. She's itching to learn and observe and try something new.]
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?
no subject
She doesn't actually hear his question, too wrapped up in her surroundings and the noise to register his words.]
no subject
[ Casually, he sidles closer to Korra. Positions her so she's standing in front of him, his arms draped over her shoulders like a flesh-and-bone barricade. The crowd around jostles and elbows them; but their eyes are on the bright ring where the two sinewy boxers are receiving the blessings of their stable masters. They wai deeply to their trainers, and then to the judges, before leaping into the ring. Festooned in their multicolored head ropes, garlands dangling around their necks, they perform the formal, individual wai khru ram muay -- the fight prayer dances. ]
[ Hei watches with a critical eye as they step, knee, step, knee their way around the ring. Each boxer chooses his own way to express loyalty to his fight stables through body-language, stopping here and there to pose in an emulation of mythical creatures. One dips in a bow to one knee, arms rising into the air as a bird. The other sways side to side, then expands his chest and arms wide like a snake. Meanwhile, the music clamors on, piercing through the rumble of the crowd. On a practical note, the wai kru is a narrow window to observe your opponent's abilities, via their ritual dances. ]
[ But Hei focuses on other details. Placement, center of gravity, favored footwork, weak points in muscle telegraphed by subtle movements. Resting his chin on the top of Korra's head, he says, ]
My money's on the one in blue.
no subject
What are they doing right now?
no subject
It's a prayer dance. It's called wai khru ram muay. A way to pay tribute to the fighter's teachers, and to consecrate blessings on them. Each camp has their own styles. [ He indicates to the boxer in the blue shorts, a dreadlocked kid barely seventeen years old. Bare-chested, his arms are ropey, leathery. Tattoos crisscross the ribbed musculature of his stomach; dark curlicues encircle his extruded bellybutton, giving it the look of a monster's eye. ] That one's taking on the style of a demon bird called Garuda. [ Then, pointing to his opponent, in red shorts -- a whippet thin twenty-something, hair plastered to his skull in black ropes. ] That one's emulating the Naga -- a cobra-like beast that supposedly spits fireballs.
[ There's an understandable dryness in his tone, because this sort of ritualistic superstition has no place in Hei's life. He watches the fighters meet in the center of the ring, where the cigarillo-smoking promoter runs down the stakes. The sharp, sinuous music cuts through the noise like barbed wire. It’s faster and more frantic now, designed to pump up the boxers, to spur on their aggression. ]
[ The fight's about to begin. ]
no subject
She's entranced by it -- not just the moves themselves, but the whole ritual. It reminds her of her bending training, the few moments where she came close to feeling some kind of spiritual connection. When she used the most ancient moves & techniques, it was like she was connected to her past lives.]
Are the tattoos part of it? [They remind her of the airbending master tattoos...]
no subject
[ Hei's never been an enthusiast of body-art. For his profession, he's honed every point of his musculature into a weapon, not a decoration piece. The symbolism, the safeguarding powers, the storytelling behind the tattoos -- all that is lost to him. In the past, his training catered more to the grapple-and-grunts mindset: kickboxing, krav maga and the full-contact martial arts such as judo and jiu-jitsu. Very little of it dealt with abstractia: choreographed forms -- dancelike katas -- intent only on perfecting the technique, and in understanding the spiritual history behind the motions. The same went for the supernatural elements associated with the arts. ]
[ Still, he has a basic knowledge of the sak yant. ]
The idea is that the tattoos offer the fighters protection. Good luck. Success. All that. Traditionally they're done by monks using bamboo needles. It's considered bad luck to get a tattoo from someone who doesn't grasp their significance. [ A beat, before he amends, ] Those fighters would know more about it than me.
no subject
She quickly forgets any thoughts about body art when the fight actually begins. She grabs his elbows, squeezing them in excitement as she strains to catch every move, trying to get a snapshot of each one to imitate and incorporate into her own style later.]
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[ He watches the boxer in red dry-gulch the blue, a hard sucker punch glancing off the high ridge of cheek, splitting bone. The blow drops him to his knees, blood dribbling -- but he's back on his feet in a twinkling. Hei admires the resilience, the finesse, the blind dedication. But this isn't his field of interest. Combat is about treachery and deceit as much as about courage and skill. ]
[ Still, part of him is envious. Reach a certain experience level, and you can tell who fights for a reason -- and who fights because he has nothing to lose. These men are dedicated to something. It's beyond the money or the rush or the fifteen minutes of fame. It's something much more intangible. Something almost fiercely serene. ]
[ Glancing at Korra, Hei feels, dimly, like she has the same emotion glowing in her eyes. ]
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[ High above, moonlight pours through holes rusted in the roof, silver shafts gilding the crossbeams and glossing feathery shapes roosting in the latticework. The hypnotic sound of music underlies the hollering crowd. It matches every muscle poised; every strike of elbow, of hand, of shin, of knee; each place the blow lands and leaves its ruddy mark. ]
[ Wrapped around Korra, Hei is lulled by the crowd's buzz and frantic ocarina music. Watching the diminutive but deadly bodies -- machines more than men -- and the thrill of close combat. The pureness of it all. ]
[ But perhaps equally mesmerizing is the look on Korra's face. Her eyes, he thinks, are the blue life would be, if it got to choose a color. ]
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[ It's what she does to him. Everything cold and shuttered, she brightens. A certainty he can't ascribe, but here is ample demonstration. ]
[ He massages the jut of her hipbone with the pad of his thumb, then dips lower. His eyes stay on the luminous ring as the third round begins. It explodes with swiftness and savagery; the boxers maintain enough distance to fire lightning shin blows to the arms and chests. Blue goes low, knees flexing, delivers a submarine shot. Red grabs him, pulling their bodies flush. Blue's gloves are high on Red's chest but he can't push him off. He brings them up into Red's face, rubbing the scratchy laces across the cheeks and eyes. Red reacts by bringing his left knee up into Blue's side beneath the kidney. Blue lets out a grunt. Red knees him again, putting all his weight into it. The crowd rises to a quick roar. In close, Blue shoves against Red's face, gets some separation and brings an elbow up into the gap, shearing it across Red's chin. The blood is a glittering ruby spray as it arcs in the spotlights. ]
[ Any minute now, Hei thinks. The match is going to end with a technicolor bang. ]
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She's not telling him to stop, though. Not by any means. The fight has her blood pumping, and each blow that the fighters land sends a spike of pleasure straight between her legs. It's almost as though they're touching her.
She rocks back, discretely rubbing herself against Hei.]
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[ Knowing that Korra's revulsions are instantaneous, he's startled at how she stands grottoed in the warm cave of his body. The brutality of the fight should sicken her. The bloodsprays, the adrenalined tang of sweat, the quicksilver violence of each blow. Women, he'd been brought up to believe once upon a time, weren't into that shit. But of course it's a lie. ]
[ He enjoys the knowledge now. As if, in the middle of the overheated crowd, it's a secret for him alone. ]
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