Shiranui Genma (teaguardian) wrote in strangergamesrp, @ 2012-10-14 12:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | closed, log, observable, shiranui genma |
[Solo Log] It's Just a Game
Who: Shiranui Genma
When: Oct 7
Where: Arena!
What: Genma plays a Game.
Warnings: Death. Nothing too gory or detailed.
Open or Closed: Closed
Observable: Yes.
He’d made a mistake.
Genma knew it the moment he stepped into the arena. He’d made a mistake, a big one, and he was now going to die. Or worse.
He should have listened to Izumo. He should have talked things over with someone more thoroughly. He should have settled himself in with the healers and given up the idea of fighting.
He should have found himself a warm body to share his bed, a comfortable niche in the more “civilian” population of this little prison, and left it at that.
Standing there in the Arena with the strange floating camera thing recording his every move, he didn’t betray any of these thoughts, of course. He stood with his feet spread, his shoulders slumped, his eyes heavy-lidded and bored-looking. The senbon between his teeth bobbed lazily, betraying no sign of his distress.
He was a shinobi. He would see this to the end.
But as he bobbed and weaved through the Arena, tossing out kunai and senbon and occasionally closing to hurl a kick or a punch, he began to become more and more aware that it wasn’t death that he was facing.
No.
The young man in the fight with him was strong, very strong, but he was inexperienced. His raw power was the type that would have been amazingly useful if they were in a smaller area, if Genma couldn’t run and use projectiles, if there weren’t obstacles to hide behind and utilize.
He would kill Genma within seconds on another course.
But the look in the young man’s pale green eyes each time Genma closed with him caused Genma to clench his teeth tight enough to have the senbon pointed upward, the thin needle stiff and unyielding.
Gut-twisting terror. Real, honest, desperate fear.
A kid who had perhaps been riding high on winning by virtue of his strength, now out-classed by an older, more experienced, more flexible fighter.
Someone who had most likely taken life without mercy, now facing a lack of mercy himself and realizing just how horrible his own acts had been.
Genma wanted to show mercy.
No, he wanted more than that. He wanted to knock the young man flat on his ass, sit on him, and give him a nice long moment to think about things. He wanted to talk to him, wanted to make him listen, wanted to explain how sometimes situations could be bigger than men, and how sometimes a person had to just look down at their blood-stained hands, wipe them off on their uniform, and keep on moving.
He wanted to remember the words his sensei had spoken when he’d done just that for him, when Genma was fourteen or so, and pass them on.
That couldn’t happen, here and now.
Genma wasn’t Izumo, with his collection of kids to teach sneaky trades to, with his secrets and whispers, with his intelligence and street smarts.
Genma wasn’t a teacher, wasn’t an intelligence officer, wasn’t anyone’s older brother or parent or mentor.
What he was, he showed quite clearly in his actions, despite the desires tucked away carefully behind his steady gaze as he closed for one last attack.
The kick that took the young man from his feet brought with it a snap of bone.
The elbow that caught him in the face carried a similar sound, sharp and jarring.
The kunai didn’t quiver, didn’t shake, didn’t hesitate.
And Genma, his hands covered in the stranger’s blood, backed up and strolled toward the doors he’d come into the arena through without comment, without stopping to check on what he knew was a corpse behind him, without his eyes losing that heavy-lidded expression.
No mercy. No regret. No hesitation.
He’d made a mistake.
It was worse than death.