first match | accidental voice → text

[mouthbreathing]

[The microphone rustles on to a light hiss of breeze and distant city sounds from an open window. One can just about hear fingers skidding across buttons, manipulating the NV. And then, almost from nowhere, it begins:

Ko… ho…

Ko… ho… ko… ho…

A slow, heavy, mechanical breathing- air forced across metal vents and through steely chambers, released in a guttural rush.

It’s difficult to imagine it coming from anything living, but there’s also something off-puttingly human about it in its steady regularity, like the pulse of a heart. The sound continues for around a minute before catching, just for a second, and then being suddenly and unceremoniously switched off mid-breath.

Around twenty minutes later, a text message appears on the network.]

Where would a robo-choujin go for repairs?

Comments

[mouthbreathing]

[Right where he'd feel most exposed. It's what he expected, though, so he can hardly complain.

With a short nod, Warsman closes the door behind him and stands still in the center of the room; it's like having a pre-match medical exam. Part of him expects Dillon to whip out a tape-measure and a set of scales, though now that he thinks about it, he isn't entirely sure what the boy is even going to do.]

[orderfromchaos]

[He circles a few times, observing carefully, asks Warsman to move a a joint or flex an arm. He breathes out slowly, and lets his power well up. It's not an effort, it's the opposite, relaxation and respite: briefly opening the damn he spends so much effort holding the power back, so that the little constant spill over the edge grows to a wave of life, order, newness. The edge of his nail taps once or twice, here and there, on Warsman's armor, sending little patterns of vibrations through his machinery that are configured just right to make all the cogs that are slightly askew fall back into place. After a minute he cuts it off, doing his best to reign most of the rejuvenating force and impossible chances in. He's learned too well how easy it is to go overboard. He runs a hand through his hair and smiles hopefully, slightly and suddenly shy. He feels oddly exposed too, sharing what he does.]

That feel better?

[mouthbreathing]

[At first Warsman isn't sure what Dillon is doing, or if he's even doing anything at all. It's only after a moment or two that he begins to register it- dull vibrations through his body where he taps, sending sensations through him he can't quite place. It's a tightening, almost, a sharpening: he's never been awake during or concentrated on his repairs before so he isn't sure what they're supposed to feel like, but it's almost what he could imagine. In a distant sort of way he can see loose wires reconnecting and sparks flickering, an abstract picture of his own body in flux.

He breathes out slowly. It's subtle but unmistakable; he feels better than he's felt in months. If he hadn't fully recovered from Mammothman's ambush before, he's definitely there now.

When Warsman turns to Dillon again he's faintly wondering, head to one side as if looking at him from a different angle might explain all.]

How did you do that?

[orderfromchaos]

[He grins, a little self-consciously, the curl of his mouth askew, higher on one side than the other.]

Like I said, it's just what I do.

There's - there's a pattern to things, an order, and I just...help things get there. Or get back there. Or something.

[mouthbreathing]

[Warsman can only watch Dillon for a little longer, trying to make sense of it- it's not the strangest thing he's ever heard, but at the same time...]

I think I understand. [He gives a short nod. At times like these he'd like to be able to smile, but it goes without saying that the kind of smiles he specialises in could never work outside of the ring. Instead he does his best to soften his tone, to sound grateful even if he can't look it.] Thank you. You've saved me a lot of worry. I don't have very much to repay you with, but I can cook for you or do housework- whatever you'd like.

[orderfromchaos]

[He laughs a little, shoving his hands into his pockets.]

As fun as the image of you in an apron is, don't worry about it, man.