Knees. Get it down and its range is limited; true of any enemy, machine or no. In them Loki can sense a power, whatever it is that powers them, but it's obscure, fogged. Predicting its motions based upon that won't be possible. That makes them dangerous. Organic creatures they are not; they won't, he doubts, give themselves away.
That really only makes the whole thing more interesting, though he remembers, remembers quite clearly, the last time he encountered something of this general shape. This is easier. This doesn't frighten him. Those blank and featureless faces hold no malice for him in particular.
And so there's no hesitation when he slides in close, lets a palm splay against a metal chest and starts the ice spreading with one hand while the other with its encasing blade of ice strikes at the side of the knee.
With a beast of metal, no blade, however sharp, is likely to be of any use, and this isn't much better -- but that much is to be anticipated. What it is is brittle. The ice shatters in a violent spray, lessening the direct impact against Loki's knuckles. Still, it is jarring. He can still feel the bones of his hand grind against one another with the incredible force of the impact.
Another strike, a third; no time to remake the protective coating, and then away, back out of range of those metal fists. Loki's knuckles come away split and bleeding a sluggish, oddly viscous, dark red, which itself freezes over as the ice begins to reform itself around his fist.
Three. Three of them. Dancing like this, in and out, taking care, he thinks he can handle two, if nothing else keep them busy enough to distract them from pummelling the less resilient members of the group. The third he leaves to Sharon, lets it slip to the back of his mind while everything narrows down to this, just the fight. Just the slow, slow pounding of his own heart, the taste of his own blood and the sharp blossom of pain when one of the machines does manage to land a blow, knocking him back.
It's alright. A calculated loss. As long as his stamina lasts, Loki can wear them down, spread ice slowly, by increments, over their surfaces, creeping towards the joints. First, if he can, he'll get them still. Then they can worry about getting them open.
no subject
That really only makes the whole thing more interesting, though he remembers, remembers quite clearly, the last time he encountered something of this general shape. This is easier. This doesn't frighten him. Those blank and featureless faces hold no malice for him in particular.
And so there's no hesitation when he slides in close, lets a palm splay against a metal chest and starts the ice spreading with one hand while the other with its encasing blade of ice strikes at the side of the knee.
With a beast of metal, no blade, however sharp, is likely to be of any use, and this isn't much better -- but that much is to be anticipated. What it is is brittle. The ice shatters in a violent spray, lessening the direct impact against Loki's knuckles. Still, it is jarring. He can still feel the bones of his hand grind against one another with the incredible force of the impact.
Another strike, a third; no time to remake the protective coating, and then away, back out of range of those metal fists. Loki's knuckles come away split and bleeding a sluggish, oddly viscous, dark red, which itself freezes over as the ice begins to reform itself around his fist.
Three. Three of them. Dancing like this, in and out, taking care, he thinks he can handle two, if nothing else keep them busy enough to distract them from pummelling the less resilient members of the group. The third he leaves to Sharon, lets it slip to the back of his mind while everything narrows down to this, just the fight. Just the slow, slow pounding of his own heart, the taste of his own blood and the sharp blossom of pain when one of the machines does manage to land a blow, knocking him back.
It's alright. A calculated loss. As long as his stamina lasts, Loki can wear them down, spread ice slowly, by increments, over their surfaces, creeping towards the joints. First, if he can, he'll get them still. Then they can worry about getting them open.