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[kiss prompt] shindrift -wrist
The new gauntlets start acting up the moment Shin slips through the Invasion Portal. Drifter’s been monitoring the feedback through some channels but the real telling note is when Shin’s right hand jerks like he’s been burned and the end of his hand cannon dips off-target before snapping back in place to take a shot.
Shin’s Gambit suit and Ghost aren’t giving Drifter anything but the basics — increased heart rate, increased respirations. Nothing Drifter can’t figure out himself.
A Sentry goes down, burnt to ash by a well-placed bullet.
Damn. And still that bastard doesn’t miss. Drifter drums his fingers against the table, watching his collection of monitors light up as Shin goes hunting for more, swapping the gun to his left hand.
A second later, he puts down the opposing Invader as easily as he did the Sentry. Shin flicks the hand cannon to reload, and Drifter catches it — Shin’s fingers grazing over Trust’s cylinder, spinning it, loading in fresh bullets by muscle memory — a single fumble that leaves eight in the chamber instead of nine.
The missed bullet drops. Shin slams the chamber shut. Drifter wonders if Shin had noticed.
At the third opponent Shin tries to down, Drifter gets his answer.
Shin shoots eight times; body, barricade, wide, body, head, miss, body — miss, miss, hit, and dry.
Shin’s surprise at the empty click is palpable. His arm drops by a fraction, chin jerking up like he’s cursed off the comms, and his trembling hand grips Trust so hard it starts to spasm.
A Collector ends up putting an arrow through his head, sending Shin to the grave.
Drifter yoinks him back on the Derelict before he can transmat back into the game, then slips in a benched player in the queue to keep the teams balanced.
Shin drops on his feet, stumbling. Trust clatters to the ground and Shin makes a move to pick it up before he realizes where he’s at. There’s a brief pause where his shoulders go rigid, alert, and then he relaxes. He leaves the gun on the ground and opts to strip off the gauntlets instead.
At first glance, Shin’s hands look fine, but Drifter can hear Shin suck in a breath as he throws the gauntlets aside and shakes them out. Flecks of embers and dark ash fall from the skin around his wrist, almost like a burn if Shin’s flesh had been paper.
“I’ve got some real strong opinions ‘bout these new gloves of yours,” Shin growls, stalking over to him. His helmet gleams in the dim light, red snake fangs flickering.
Drifter ignores him. Damned gauntlets didn’t work and he’s wondering if he fucked up the math or the design or the wiring. He hadn’t anticipated any kickback from going through the Invasion Portal. Then again, maybe the opposing Exotic energies from the Darkness and the wearer just don’t play well with each other. Must’ve been the cuffs then, since that’s where the energy circuits —
Drifter holds up Shin’s wrist to look at it. Sure enough, there’s a thin line of Taken energy seared into Shin’s skin. When Drifter brushes his thumb across it, it sets off a cold throb through his nerves like he’s touched a mote of Darkness.
Shin’s fingers twitch, the pulse at his wrist fast and bounding.
“How’s that feel?” asks Drifter, his grip tightening. The bones in Shin’s hand creak, tendons and muscles shifting under the pressure, and the thin line around Shin’s wrist sets off sparks of dark starlight and warps the dimensions around it.
“Numb,” Shin replies. “Can’t feel a thing.” He pauses and tries to pull away. “But I know if you keep that up, you’re gonna break my hand.”
“Hands are fucked anyway,” Drifter says, thoughtful. Shin doesn’t try very hard to get his wrist out of his grip so Drifter turns over the numbers in his head again, along with Shin’s hand in his. What a waste. No wonder Exotics are so damned difficult to craft.
Shin watches him, expressionless because of the helmet. He’s gone still — not like he’s wary, not like someone who really thinks he’s been put at a disadvantage when his hands have been rendered useless. Drifter clicks his tongue.
He doesn’t know why he has to do it this way. He’s got the hand of the world’s fastest draw in his clutches, gun on the floor, wrists threaded with Taken energies. Drifter lifts the one wrist close to his mouth and lets out a warm breath that could’ve fogged up glass, superheated it, and then cracked it to pieces.
Solar fire flits across Shin’s hand, though the taste on Drifter’s tongue is cold and numbing ozone. Wisps of Taken energy fill his mouth, heavy smoke a tangible weight, and Drifter pulls with his teeth, snapping the threads away.
By the time Drifter leans away, Shin’s hand has become a fist, clenched so that his knuckles are stark white.
“Still not feelin’ anything, eh?” Drifter asks, brushing his thumb once more across Shin’s wrist. There’s only an indent now of where the gauntlet’s cuff had bitten deep.
Shin flexes his hand. His trigger finger twitches. He doesn’t say anything, but he holds up his other hand for Drifter to take.
This time, Drifter lowers his head to it.
Shin’s Gambit suit and Ghost aren’t giving Drifter anything but the basics — increased heart rate, increased respirations. Nothing Drifter can’t figure out himself.
A Sentry goes down, burnt to ash by a well-placed bullet.
Damn. And still that bastard doesn’t miss. Drifter drums his fingers against the table, watching his collection of monitors light up as Shin goes hunting for more, swapping the gun to his left hand.
A second later, he puts down the opposing Invader as easily as he did the Sentry. Shin flicks the hand cannon to reload, and Drifter catches it — Shin’s fingers grazing over Trust’s cylinder, spinning it, loading in fresh bullets by muscle memory — a single fumble that leaves eight in the chamber instead of nine.
The missed bullet drops. Shin slams the chamber shut. Drifter wonders if Shin had noticed.
At the third opponent Shin tries to down, Drifter gets his answer.
Shin shoots eight times; body, barricade, wide, body, head, miss, body — miss, miss, hit, and dry.
Shin’s surprise at the empty click is palpable. His arm drops by a fraction, chin jerking up like he’s cursed off the comms, and his trembling hand grips Trust so hard it starts to spasm.
A Collector ends up putting an arrow through his head, sending Shin to the grave.
Drifter yoinks him back on the Derelict before he can transmat back into the game, then slips in a benched player in the queue to keep the teams balanced.
Shin drops on his feet, stumbling. Trust clatters to the ground and Shin makes a move to pick it up before he realizes where he’s at. There’s a brief pause where his shoulders go rigid, alert, and then he relaxes. He leaves the gun on the ground and opts to strip off the gauntlets instead.
At first glance, Shin’s hands look fine, but Drifter can hear Shin suck in a breath as he throws the gauntlets aside and shakes them out. Flecks of embers and dark ash fall from the skin around his wrist, almost like a burn if Shin’s flesh had been paper.
“I’ve got some real strong opinions ‘bout these new gloves of yours,” Shin growls, stalking over to him. His helmet gleams in the dim light, red snake fangs flickering.
Drifter ignores him. Damned gauntlets didn’t work and he’s wondering if he fucked up the math or the design or the wiring. He hadn’t anticipated any kickback from going through the Invasion Portal. Then again, maybe the opposing Exotic energies from the Darkness and the wearer just don’t play well with each other. Must’ve been the cuffs then, since that’s where the energy circuits —
Drifter holds up Shin’s wrist to look at it. Sure enough, there’s a thin line of Taken energy seared into Shin’s skin. When Drifter brushes his thumb across it, it sets off a cold throb through his nerves like he’s touched a mote of Darkness.
Shin’s fingers twitch, the pulse at his wrist fast and bounding.
“How’s that feel?” asks Drifter, his grip tightening. The bones in Shin’s hand creak, tendons and muscles shifting under the pressure, and the thin line around Shin’s wrist sets off sparks of dark starlight and warps the dimensions around it.
“Numb,” Shin replies. “Can’t feel a thing.” He pauses and tries to pull away. “But I know if you keep that up, you’re gonna break my hand.”
“Hands are fucked anyway,” Drifter says, thoughtful. Shin doesn’t try very hard to get his wrist out of his grip so Drifter turns over the numbers in his head again, along with Shin’s hand in his. What a waste. No wonder Exotics are so damned difficult to craft.
Shin watches him, expressionless because of the helmet. He’s gone still — not like he’s wary, not like someone who really thinks he’s been put at a disadvantage when his hands have been rendered useless. Drifter clicks his tongue.
He doesn’t know why he has to do it this way. He’s got the hand of the world’s fastest draw in his clutches, gun on the floor, wrists threaded with Taken energies. Drifter lifts the one wrist close to his mouth and lets out a warm breath that could’ve fogged up glass, superheated it, and then cracked it to pieces.
Solar fire flits across Shin’s hand, though the taste on Drifter’s tongue is cold and numbing ozone. Wisps of Taken energy fill his mouth, heavy smoke a tangible weight, and Drifter pulls with his teeth, snapping the threads away.
By the time Drifter leans away, Shin’s hand has become a fist, clenched so that his knuckles are stark white.
“Still not feelin’ anything, eh?” Drifter asks, brushing his thumb once more across Shin’s wrist. There’s only an indent now of where the gauntlet’s cuff had bitten deep.
Shin flexes his hand. His trigger finger twitches. He doesn’t say anything, but he holds up his other hand for Drifter to take.
This time, Drifter lowers his head to it.