He wonders, sometimes, what it would be like to spend his life distracted by irrelevant things. It would be a short life, he’s sure.
He should probably be ashamed of exploiting their weakness—a martial artist doesn’t pick on the weak—and they are pathetic about it. Even his beloved calls him a “master of hidden weapons,” as if being seen is essential to a weapon’s existence. He is a master of weapons: knives and bombs and roped hooks all snug against his body, at all times. (His opponents always, always pause to look at the training potty, opening themselves up for a conking).
It is this childlike trust, this mistaking a tool to know something exists for actual existence, that makes them say, “Put your glasses on, stupid”—and he does, when he wants. But to think he needs them is their weakness. He doesn’t need Ranma’s face to thwack him with an iron ball; he doesn’t need the curve of Shampoo’s jaw to drown in the Ang Jiu of her eyes.
Fill: Untitled (G, ableist language warning)
He should probably be ashamed of exploiting their weakness—a martial artist doesn’t pick on the weak—and they are pathetic about it. Even his beloved calls him a “master of hidden weapons,” as if being seen is essential to a weapon’s existence. He is a master of weapons: knives and bombs and roped hooks all snug against his body, at all times. (His opponents always, always pause to look at the training potty, opening themselves up for a conking).
It is this childlike trust, this mistaking a tool to know something exists for actual existence, that makes them say, “Put your glasses on, stupid”—and he does, when he wants. But to think he needs them is their weakness. He doesn’t need Ranma’s face to thwack him with an iron ball; he doesn’t need the curve of Shampoo’s jaw to drown in the Ang Jiu of her eyes.