Nothing's ever really come easy for Rude, and he doesn't suspect that it would suddenly change now that they are working with a small window to get their preparation in. Even though fighting came naturally to him, it was something he had to work at to get to this point where he can do complicated moves with so much ease. He remembers crying when his (now deceased) father told him to stand up and fight back instead of soaking up punches like a sponge. Taking a punch was his only real skill when he finally got over his fear of hurting anyone and it turned out he was a natural at martial arts, boxing, you name it. Naturally talented, sure, but not without learning, practicing, and busting his ass to get there.
This wasn't different. Being able to fight in this altitude would be another bullet point on his resume that no one would ever have to read. Just like the time the three of them tried to "practice" not drowning in Rufus' pool. The loser was the one who'd pass out first. He didn't loose, and he came out of that exercise a little more deadly than he'd come in.
The less oxygen that gets to his brain the more his thoughts cloud his focus and then he's not thinking much of anything at all besides about making sure his fists connect as hard as possible with their targets. Tseng takes the punch like a fucking god, and so Rude doesn't falter. He keeps going straightening up again, arms up, hitting his mark, blinking away the haze. His breathing is the variable that he changes, making sure to take full deep breaths to keep the oxygen demand met and it works. For a while.
The next time he hits Tseng it's in a similar spot. A mean right hook to the jaw. Was that even part of the rotation? He doesn't know. Just every time Tseng so much as lifts his hand his brain's impulses take control and he strikes. No oxygen for thinking, only for fighting. Only one brain cell was needed to do this sort of training, it seemed, and eventually Rude loses himself, trying to dodge Tseng's hands and get past them to hit him in the face again.
The face always gave more points.
..is the last thought he has before he starts to get light headed again. Right. Breathing. Maybe two braincells would be better.
no subject
This wasn't different. Being able to fight in this altitude would be another bullet point on his resume that no one would ever have to read. Just like the time the three of them tried to "practice" not drowning in Rufus' pool. The loser was the one who'd pass out first. He didn't loose, and he came out of that exercise a little more deadly than he'd come in.
The less oxygen that gets to his brain the more his thoughts cloud his focus and then he's not thinking much of anything at all besides about making sure his fists connect as hard as possible with their targets. Tseng takes the punch like a fucking god, and so Rude doesn't falter. He keeps going straightening up again, arms up, hitting his mark, blinking away the haze. His breathing is the variable that he changes, making sure to take full deep breaths to keep the oxygen demand met and it works. For a while.
The next time he hits Tseng it's in a similar spot. A mean right hook to the jaw. Was that even part of the rotation? He doesn't know. Just every time Tseng so much as lifts his hand his brain's impulses take control and he strikes. No oxygen for thinking, only for fighting. Only one brain cell was needed to do this sort of training, it seemed, and eventually Rude loses himself, trying to dodge Tseng's hands and get past them to hit him in the face again.
The face always gave more points.
..is the last thought he has before he starts to get light headed again. Right. Breathing. Maybe two braincells would be better.