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The grip of the blade shakes beneath his fingers. It’s natural that his motor skills are somewhat lacking after so long spent in the Dreamscape, but to think he can’t even manage to hold a lightweight sword steady… He forces down the shame and bile that rise in his throat. It’s because he’s this weak that he now has nothing left.
He must repair himself. That starts here, in this practice room. The illuminated circuitry of the walls seems to watch him with innumerable eyes.
It shouldn’t be possible for a robot to look bored, but SAM manages it. “Pathetic.”
There is a bite of satisfaction to the distorted voice. Sunday suppresses another wave of nausea. That much he deserves. He must bear it.
“Wrong.”
Blade, his other instructor, approaches from behind him. The man has the presence of a monster—hulking, looming, and dark, as if he walks forever in shadow. It would be wrong to say that Blade frightens him (he doesn’t find much of anything frightening anymore), but around him, Sunday’s skin crawls of its own volition. There is something about Blade that is deeply unnatural, as if the waking world itself longs to spit him from its mouth.
“Like this.” Blade demonstrates with his own sword. Ah, his positioning is quite off. Sunday corrects his course, and the pain in his wrists is reduced considerably.
Blade’s voice is steady, emotionless. “Too tight.”
Too tight? But if he releases his grip, the sword will fall. It is still quivering between his fingers, weak and feather-like. He can’t just release it.
Seeing no change, Blade lets out a low groan—or is it a sigh? His tone is gruff, indistinct; it is difficult to tell. He sheaths his sword, apparently having given up on Sunday, but instead—
“Let go,” he growls, pulling at Sunday’s clenched fingers. Sunday shudders at his touch, even through his gloves. To be touched at all is foreign enough, but this closely? He struggles valiantly with his feeble arms, begging them to tear away quickly enough to evade his pursuer.
Blade, of course, is much stronger, and much faster. “Useless!”
But as soon as Blade pries a finger away, Sunday clamps down again. Thankfully, he is at least able to resist this much, but it is not enough to deter Blade.
At his wit’s end, he throws a desperate glance in SAM’s direction, briefly, forcibly forgetting that Firefly has no will to help him. Alas, she has already departed their lesson space, forsaking her part of the responsibility. He can only rely on himself.
That is how it has always been.
“What are you doing?! Unhand me!”
Upon his outburst, Blade, thankfully, seems to awaken to the fruitlessness of his endeavor. The man looks down at his hands, his eyes giving the impression of someone lost at sea. Sunday expects him to stalk off, but Blade only shakes his head, muttering incoherently under his breath.
“Take off your gloves,” Blade finally says, coming to a decision. He does the same with his own coverings, revealing a mess of tangled veins and scars beneath. It’s as if the skin has grown over upon itself, coagulating into a mass of ravenous waves.
Sunday is so startled by the gesture that he doesn’t think, in that moment, to do anything but obey. He places the sword back on its stand, and his gloves beside it.
When he looks back, Blade has retrieved his own sword. “Feel my hands,” he insists.
“What?” Against his will, Sunday’s voice betrays his frustration.
Blade scowls. “Do you wish to die? Do as your master tells you,” he demands, in a voice that is not quite his own. Sunday’s position within the Harmony may be disgraced, but he can, miraculously, still wield some measure of power—and something is present in Blade’s words. It could be many things, but Sunday suspects only one: a memory of words once heard, and therefore, a call for help.
It is enough to pique his curiosity. Though his body remains hesitant, Sunday reaches out. He has only ever held hands with his sister. Gopher Wood was never a particularly affectionate man.
The tips of his fingers tremble, afraid (or resentful) of touch.
Blade’s skin is not weathered, but soft, despite the heaving knot of scar tissue. He is too warm, perhaps possessing a low-grade fever, though he does not appear to be typically ill. And yet… his hands may be misshapen, overgrown with flesh, but Sunday can feel no tension within them. It is a grip he finds himself classifying as ‘trusting,’ in spite of himself. So this is how a master swordsman wields his blade…
Blade’s expression, in that moment, is impossible to read.
“Your turn,” he says, abruptly, as if it’d slipped his mind entirely.
Sunday pulls the sword from the table again, finding it cold against his bare hands. The worn leather grip of the hilt is rough, scratchy. Later, his skin will blister, and he will wonder at the pain—a pain which Blade must re-experience every time he takes up his sword.
But now, he still clings, unable to find the same ‘trust’ in his hands.
Trust, he supposes, is something he has forgotten—or perhaps never held in his hands at all.
“What if I drop it?” he voices, hesitantly.
“Then you drop it,” Blade answers, “and try again.”