tags: mild violence, maybe; sci-fi AU Word Count: 1,144
The readouts at the edge of Oikawa's vision are all flashing red, visual warning bells signaling that he's nearing the end of what he can take. The ache of his muscles is very real but the battlefield is not; the virtual training grounds stretch off to his either side, featureless and black, interrupted only by the arena where Oikawa stands.
They're fighting hand to hand; he ought to know as well as a computer where his limits really lie.
He blocks Kageyama's next strike, ducks around him, swings back up at his right side to toss a blow in counter. They're practiced movements, patterns of strikes and blocks, of counters and evasions, quick motions of their hands as they duck in and out of each other's sphere of personal space. Kageyama has lovely hands — Oikawa noticed as much during the one contest they'd had before, when Kageyama was first accepted into the program.
Kageyama is quicker now, and sure, flowing through the drills with perfect form. It's only Oikawa's diligence, the way he's hammered each of these movements into muscle memory through repetition after repetition after repetition, that allows him to keep up. His vitals hover before his eyes, red and blinking numbers that insist to him, you're falling a step behind.
The computer keeps count, pitiless and deadly accurate, of every point, every strike, every touch they each make.
Oikawa keeps his own count: of every touch he misses, every point he loses, every time he is the one who was just a breath too slow. Kageyama is constantly in his face, eyes narrowed in concentration, moving as beautifully as a simulation. Those other readouts hover over him in yellow and blue, flashing at Oikawa, giving him clues. He hisses between his teeth because those numbers are only a tool; it is his brain that must pick up the slack.
The count hits due, Kageyama's fingers around his wrist, the blade of his opposing hand against Oikawa's gut, and the entire simulation cuts out around him as if the power had been disconnected.
Oikawa's open eyes twitch in their sockets; the vision of the training grounds that's been fed directly into his brain gives way to the earthly reality fading in around him. The VR capsule he's standing in is slick and sterile, a mess of monitors set into blue and white polycarbonate walls, mass-produced and sectioned together. He's covered in cables, all manner of hookups connected to a myriad of monitoring equipment. It barely registers.
He'd been losing ground for minutes already and yet it takes a long, long moment for it to sink in that, he's lost.
Oikawa wrote half the book on the program's virtual reality procedures, picking them apart from the inside and rebuilding them into something cleaner, smarter, more efficient in how it taught inductees to think and react. Physical training is one thing, but the body wears out easily. It runs down, gets winded, goes breathless. It takes it so long to imprint drills into its muscles, to sink those techniques into one's bones.
Virtual reality is cleverer. The body goes longer, farther, everything coming down to mental strain. Long after muscles and nerves might give out from the exertion, the brain keeps going, fights for as long as it can.
Oikawa didn't need virtual reality to figure that much out.
He rips the sensors off to the sound of little pops when the connections break free of his skin. They dangle from the walls, secure in their moorings; the heart monitor he chucks onto the capsule's slim, polycarbonate shelf. The main cable comes last: Oikawa reaches around the back of his neck and jerks it out of the port in one swift motion, light blossoming behind his eyelids as the computer forcibly disconnects from his brain.
He's a little unsteady as he pushes out of the capsule. He covers it up, pushing his hair back from his forehead with one smooth sweep of his fingers, slapping himself on both cheeks to ground himself again in physical reality. There's sweat on his face, much as most of the exertion was mental. He ignores that, too.
Kageyama steps out of his side of the chamber looking far too pleased with himself, if Oikawa is any judge of the matter.
"Tobio," he says, making his voice come out even and sure.
He can't quite force the smile to rise to his lips, foregoing the usual flippant twist of his mouth that he wears as a mask, a camouflage. His lips twist down instead, disobeying his needs and contorting into a far less pleasant, sour look.
"Oikawa," he's greeted in turn. Thankfully, Kageyama remembers his manners and affords Oikawa the respectful nod of his head which Oikawa's rank deserves.
He is still Kageyama's senior, still has a leg up on him in the grand scheme of things. Part of him wonders, for how much longer will he hold onto that advantage? Will his contributions to the program secure his authority, or will that give way before a level of skill that's still forming, growing, that somewhere deep in his gut, he questions his ability to counter or exceed?
"Don't be too pleased with yourself," he tells Kageyama. "That's only your first victory against me."
Kageyama shrugs his shoulders, a gesture that might appear careless, if not for the too-intent way his eyes focus on Oikawa's face. The joy of victory is still written into his features, with adrenaline pumping through his veins and keeping his energy up, his eyes bright, his cheeks faintly flushed. The sweat on Oikawa's brow has cooled to a clammy dampness; all of his energy fed into the rigidly-held lines of his limbs as he keeps his chin raised.
"I'm not," Kageyama says. "I'm thinking about what I can do better next time."
That's the absolute worst part of it — the fact that Kageyama isn't cocky or overconfident. He's careful and studious, devoted to the improvement of his techniques and more than willing to work hard. He couples talent with determination in the worst possible way, leaving Oikawa no choice but to keep his own training on the same brutal track.
"Who says there's going to be a next time?" Oikawa asks, with a careless little laugh. "You assume too much, Tobio."
"I—" Kageyama starts to say, his brows wrinkling in confusion, then drawing down with anger. "Of course there will be a next time. You're the best in the program. There's no one else I want to face more."
Oikawa pretends, badly, that the flattery means nothing to him. "Guess you'll have to keep working hard then, Tobio! Because I am the best, and I only take matches against the best. I hope that you stay good enough!"
Judging by the look on Kageyama's face, that much Oikawa hardly needs to worry about.
FILL: TEAM MIYUKI KAZUYA/MIYUKI KAZUYA, T
Word Count: 1,144
The readouts at the edge of Oikawa's vision are all flashing red, visual warning bells signaling that he's nearing the end of what he can take. The ache of his muscles is very real but the battlefield is not; the virtual training grounds stretch off to his either side, featureless and black, interrupted only by the arena where Oikawa stands.
They're fighting hand to hand; he ought to know as well as a computer where his limits really lie.
He blocks Kageyama's next strike, ducks around him, swings back up at his right side to toss a blow in counter. They're practiced movements, patterns of strikes and blocks, of counters and evasions, quick motions of their hands as they duck in and out of each other's sphere of personal space. Kageyama has lovely hands — Oikawa noticed as much during the one contest they'd had before, when Kageyama was first accepted into the program.
Kageyama is quicker now, and sure, flowing through the drills with perfect form. It's only Oikawa's diligence, the way he's hammered each of these movements into muscle memory through repetition after repetition after repetition, that allows him to keep up. His vitals hover before his eyes, red and blinking numbers that insist to him, you're falling a step behind.
The computer keeps count, pitiless and deadly accurate, of every point, every strike, every touch they each make.
Oikawa keeps his own count: of every touch he misses, every point he loses, every time he is the one who was just a breath too slow. Kageyama is constantly in his face, eyes narrowed in concentration, moving as beautifully as a simulation. Those other readouts hover over him in yellow and blue, flashing at Oikawa, giving him clues. He hisses between his teeth because those numbers are only a tool; it is his brain that must pick up the slack.
The count hits due, Kageyama's fingers around his wrist, the blade of his opposing hand against Oikawa's gut, and the entire simulation cuts out around him as if the power had been disconnected.
Oikawa's open eyes twitch in their sockets; the vision of the training grounds that's been fed directly into his brain gives way to the earthly reality fading in around him. The VR capsule he's standing in is slick and sterile, a mess of monitors set into blue and white polycarbonate walls, mass-produced and sectioned together. He's covered in cables, all manner of hookups connected to a myriad of monitoring equipment. It barely registers.
He'd been losing ground for minutes already and yet it takes a long, long moment for it to sink in that, he's lost.
Oikawa wrote half the book on the program's virtual reality procedures, picking them apart from the inside and rebuilding them into something cleaner, smarter, more efficient in how it taught inductees to think and react. Physical training is one thing, but the body wears out easily. It runs down, gets winded, goes breathless. It takes it so long to imprint drills into its muscles, to sink those techniques into one's bones.
Virtual reality is cleverer. The body goes longer, farther, everything coming down to mental strain. Long after muscles and nerves might give out from the exertion, the brain keeps going, fights for as long as it can.
Oikawa didn't need virtual reality to figure that much out.
He rips the sensors off to the sound of little pops when the connections break free of his skin. They dangle from the walls, secure in their moorings; the heart monitor he chucks onto the capsule's slim, polycarbonate shelf. The main cable comes last: Oikawa reaches around the back of his neck and jerks it out of the port in one swift motion, light blossoming behind his eyelids as the computer forcibly disconnects from his brain.
He's a little unsteady as he pushes out of the capsule. He covers it up, pushing his hair back from his forehead with one smooth sweep of his fingers, slapping himself on both cheeks to ground himself again in physical reality. There's sweat on his face, much as most of the exertion was mental. He ignores that, too.
Kageyama steps out of his side of the chamber looking far too pleased with himself, if Oikawa is any judge of the matter.
"Tobio," he says, making his voice come out even and sure.
He can't quite force the smile to rise to his lips, foregoing the usual flippant twist of his mouth that he wears as a mask, a camouflage. His lips twist down instead, disobeying his needs and contorting into a far less pleasant, sour look.
"Oikawa," he's greeted in turn. Thankfully, Kageyama remembers his manners and affords Oikawa the respectful nod of his head which Oikawa's rank deserves.
He is still Kageyama's senior, still has a leg up on him in the grand scheme of things. Part of him wonders, for how much longer will he hold onto that advantage? Will his contributions to the program secure his authority, or will that give way before a level of skill that's still forming, growing, that somewhere deep in his gut, he questions his ability to counter or exceed?
"Don't be too pleased with yourself," he tells Kageyama. "That's only your first victory against me."
Kageyama shrugs his shoulders, a gesture that might appear careless, if not for the too-intent way his eyes focus on Oikawa's face. The joy of victory is still written into his features, with adrenaline pumping through his veins and keeping his energy up, his eyes bright, his cheeks faintly flushed. The sweat on Oikawa's brow has cooled to a clammy dampness; all of his energy fed into the rigidly-held lines of his limbs as he keeps his chin raised.
"I'm not," Kageyama says. "I'm thinking about what I can do better next time."
That's the absolute worst part of it — the fact that Kageyama isn't cocky or overconfident. He's careful and studious, devoted to the improvement of his techniques and more than willing to work hard. He couples talent with determination in the worst possible way, leaving Oikawa no choice but to keep his own training on the same brutal track.
"Who says there's going to be a next time?" Oikawa asks, with a careless little laugh. "You assume too much, Tobio."
"I—" Kageyama starts to say, his brows wrinkling in confusion, then drawing down with anger. "Of course there will be a next time. You're the best in the program. There's no one else I want to face more."
Oikawa pretends, badly, that the flattery means nothing to him. "Guess you'll have to keep working hard then, Tobio! Because I am the best, and I only take matches against the best. I hope that you stay good enough!"
Judging by the look on Kageyama's face, that much Oikawa hardly needs to worry about.