sirenspull | Entries tagged with !: warsman

[It's obvious that Warsman is still at the gym, sitting side-on to the camera; behind him viewers can see a sepia poster for a classic Port boxing match, and, next to him, the corner post of a boxing ring rises up over his shoulder. Even more telling is the steady thump and grunt of men exchanging blows behind him.

Warsman himself has a towel over his shoulders and one leg pulled up on the bench while he adjusts the kneepad around his calf, fingers deftly working the straps, so that he doesn't have to look directly into the camera.]

You've probably seen the notices on the network over the last week or so- before it went down, anyway- but it doesn't hurt to remind people that we're still accepting donations for the charity drive at the Newcomer Community Center. We'd really appreciate extra volunteers, too; just contact either Ella or I and I'm sure we could work something out.

[He pauses, glancing sidelong at the screen. In the background someone hits the mat, but his thoughts are obviously on something altogether gentler; his mask creases softly around his eyes, and when he speaks it's in a lower, almost confessional key.]

I know a lot of you understand what it can be like to have very little. It would mean a lot if you could help make things just that little bit easier f-

[There's a battle-cry from the ring and suddenly, like a plummeting zeppelin, a man comes flying over the ring-ropes and crashes into Warsman; the bench upturns entirely, sending him crashing to the floor with a painful thunk. His NV rolls along the ground and comes to a rattling halt with an awkward close-up around his chest before, finally, his hand fumbles into the shot and switches it off.]

mouthbreathing

[As he switches the feed on Warsman seems closer to thoughtful than his usual melancholy, which already might seem a change for the positive. Stretched across a rather faded and too-small sofa, his balalaika is in his lap again while he tunes it. Having something to do with his hands seems to soothe his camera-shyness; he may be naturally soft spoken, but over his strumming his voice is calm and even.]

Have you ever noticed how some people have distinct ‘sounds’ that remind you of them instantly? It’s a little sentimental, I know, but I feel as though music brings me closer to the people who aren’t here. Even before I got here I spent a lot of time by myself, so I had to find ways to remind myself of the people I missed. But then, everyone has their own way of remembering people, don’t they? I’d be interested to know how other people manage it.

[He glances back to the window off-camera with a soft, peaceful sigh.] With the rain in the background, too… it’s nice, isn’t it? Though maybe some of you prefer sunnier weather…?

[The strumming pauses as he shifts on the cushions, and one might also notice scratch marks across his bare chest, which he absently pulls his poncho down to cover- inadvertently drawing attention to the twin scratches on his forearm in the process. He's stretched the preamble as far as it will go: time to get to the main point.]

There’s- there’s something else. I know it isn’t possible to leave the island, but does anyone know if it’s possible to retrieve objects from home? I lost a photograph a long time ago, before I even got here, and I guess I just started thinking about it again this past week. It’s a long-shot, but if anyone could help I’d appreciate it.

mouthbreathing

[It’s around midnight when Warsman switches his NV on to perhaps a slightly confusing sight: his helmet, illuminated by the stark, flickering light of his bedside lamp. After a moment he turns it back towards him where he’s sat on the bed and runs a hand through his newly-exposed hair, a feathery white-blond and tousled from sleep, or a lack thereof. It makes for a curious contrast to his mask and the glow of his eyes.

But even now he doesn’t look directly at the camera for long; his attention seems divided between the window off-screen and some unidentifiable point in his lap. The hollow ko… ho… of his breathing offsets the silence until he suddenly speaks.]

… how do you deal with nightmares? I thought I had them under control, but that video… [The sentence peters out. He’s not sure how to explain himself without seeming childish or attention-seeking, making another man’s misfortune all about himself, regardless of what it's reminded him of. He tries again.]

When I was still in Siberia, I used to take night walks to distract myself; the snow seemed to soften things. It always seemed more peaceful then. I’ve been patrolling Sector 10 here instead some nights, in case other people get caught out in the Darkness, but…

[A pause- the longer it lasts, the more obvious it becomes that he’s hesitating, building himself up to a confession.]

It’s a little lonely.

[With that, he ends the feed.]

mouthbreathing

[Today Warsman’s mask seems a little less oblique; something about the way the light falls across its smooth planes is softer, something in the tilt of his head gently curious in an almost catlike or avian way. With his usual self-consciousness in tow the effect is intensely earnest.

As he sits back he toys with a worn balalaika sat in his lap, strumming it absently as he speaks; one might recognise the opening bars of Lara’s theme.]

I don't know how many of you came to watch the qualifiers at the weekend, but I made it through to the Siren’s Port City Slamfest quarter-finals.

[Both he and his playing falter for a moment- he’s not really supposed to say anything on the matter until Wednesday night, once it’s officially aired, but he’s not quite in the mood for complying.]

I’ve been told I need walk-on music for my matches. I’ve never bothered in the past, or if I have, Robin Ma-- my coach arranged it. I’m not sure what sort of thing I should choose- but the producers have told me that they’ll use this one for me if I can't decide.

[He’s cringing a little as he stops playing to tap something in and hits play. It’s not that he’s not comfortable with his robot side being so freely advertised- he’s always been and always will be the Fighting Computer in the ring, and it’s a title he’s come to be proud of in his own way- but they don’t have to be so embarrassingly blunt about it. It seems almost crass.

Perhaps a little hastily he turns the music off and strums out a little more of Lara’s theme, as if as an antidote.]

Does anyone have any suggestions? I only know a little music up to around 1984.

mouthbreathing

[For the first time since his arrival, Warsman switches the device over to video mode- he’s been in the Port for a good while now and knows enough people that keeping his appearance private seems pointless, particularly given the reason for posting the message. He’s acting in a professional capacity in a way, as a choujin and a wrestler, rather than a personal one.

He sits calmly and without any obvious trace of self-consciousness in the weights room of the gym, perched on the rowing machine and watching the camera with the look of blank intensity seemingly inherent in his mask- one of the few perks of constantly hiding his face, because the truth is that he feels incredibly conspicuous. A towel has been slung around his neck and the bulk of his shoulders, which gleam faintly with a gloss of sweat. Behind him one can just about see and hear the usual hustle and bustle of gym regulars.

The sound of his own voice- mechanical, almost electronic- does not surprise him anymore, but he is nonetheless very aware of it when he starts to speak. It gives him away.]

On Friday I’ll be up against a Port fighter at the Knot-A Fight club, on the edge of sectors eight and eleven. My first scheduled fight.

[He pauses for a moment, choosing his words. What he’d like to do is ask for support- it’s unlikely that he’ll have much of a turnout under the circumstances- but it seems crass and irrelevant somehow. He didn’t need anyone cheering for him when he started out back in Leningrad so it shouldn’t be any different here now that he’s (un?)officially a rookie again, yet he’s become accustomed to having someone watching. Someone in his corner.]

Look for The Warsman versus Dwayne Perry. It should be an interesting match: I haven't had much of a chance to seriously try out the fighters here, so I'm curious to see how much of a challenge they pose. I'm not sure how much the local crowd will appreciate a Newcomer victory right now, but... [another awkward pause- it's not just the delicacy of the situation, he's starting to feel shy] That's... all.

[And with that he switches the feed off. He’s not particularly expecting much in the way of a response, and he’s got a shower to take.]

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?