Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Edge of the Blade ❯ Feuer Frei ( Chapter 1 )

A/N:

Many thanks to DarkOne ShadowPhyre for betaing this story!

Also many thanks to Maldoror for inspiring this piece of work.

WARNINGS: quite graphic yaoi lemmon, cutting, S/M

 

 

The Edge of the Blade

 

Getadelt wird, wer Schmerzen kennt

Criticized are those knowing pain

 

The razor bit into his skin, freeing the warm, red liquid contained by it. He watched the rivulet trickle down his arm, dripping steadily from his elbow into the washing basin. Studying the warmth that snaked itself along his forearm, he found that it looked just as it always had, red, just a tiny bit more sluggish than water. It still tasted like the memories his brain provided, a warm, metallic flavor mixed with a grain of salt, starting to congeal even as he watched it make its way down the drain.

 

Vom Feuer, das die Haut verbrennt.

Of fire that burns the skin

 

It wasn't the first time he had cut himself, nor would it be the last, the tiny crisscrossing scars along his forearms bearing proof of the relief he felt when he saw that he was still human, still flesh and blood instead of the metallic robot Dr. J had wanted him to be. Some days, he doubted his human heritage, which had definitely been tampered with beyond anything the colonies or the earth had ever seen before. On those days, it was almost a pleasure to know he could still feel, even when Dr. J had gone through everything imaginable to cure him of useless emotions.

Of course, as perception of pain was an important trait for survival rooted deeply in the brain stem, not even the doctor had completely eradicated all notice thereof; however, he had gifted him with enough mental programs to deal with it, ranging from simply dulling sensations over blocking them out to using them as fuel for a berserker rage where he would leave a wide path of destruction and dead bodies behind.

Luckily, he had not been forced to use the latter so far.

But everything else that was not needed for killing or piloting had been taken away from him, leaving him empty and hollow. On those days, he had to assure himself that he was still human, no matter how alien he felt.

 

Ich werf' ein Licht

I throw a light

 

Discreetly leaning into the half opened door, Duo was watching his partner mutilating himself in the bathroom, by now having guessed through thorough observation why Heero was doing it. It wasn't the first time he had watched his partner in similar situations, marveling at the absolute concentration the Perfect Soldier gave to the small patch of skin that had been laid open above the sink.

Because he didn't want to appear in Heero's field of vision, he stayed right where he was beneath the door frame, watching Heero's back together with a slight view of his profile from the side as the door was not completely opposite the washing basin mounted right beneath the faucet jutting from the tiled wall.

The harsh, white light originating from a single bulb dangling at the end of a badly isolated wire was illuminating his face in pale contrasts, making his skin seem waxen as if his life-blood was trickling from the cut. But Heero wouldn't do that; he was a master of self-destruction, but he would not waste his life without purpose.

 

In mein Gesicht,

Into my face

 

In a jerky movement, Heero looked up, and their gazes met in the mirror installed right above the basin, just a little bit too low to comfortably use it for brushing one's teeth. It saddened Duo how stricken Heero's eye darted away, the perfect soldier being ashamed of his perceived weakness. For long moments, they were trying not to stare at each other, an uncomfortable silence stretching between them with the occasional drop of blood hitting the white porcelain in a sharp reminder of Heero's humanity.

 

Ein heißer Schrei:

A red-hot scream -

 

Suddenly, the tension between them was broken by the staccato beeping of Heero's laptop, and after a moment, they recognized the code that was signaling the arrival of a new mission. Both of them had dropped into a crouch and swiveled around to look into the direction of the sound, then Heero looked down at his bleeding arm that was staining the floor with little splats of red.

“I'll get it,” Duo said in a deceptively normal tone, turning around and closing the door behind him.

A minute later, Heero exited the bathroom, his face totally blank, the only sign that he had cut himself a white piece of cloth wrapped tightly around the wound on his forearm. “What are the mission objectives?”

His voice was as calm as ever, but Duo wasn't fooled by it anymore. There were times when even the Perfect Soldier was human - at least as human as could be expected from what Prof. G had told him Heero's training under J had been like. Only now, there was no time for human thoughts and feelings, so the perfect soldier had masterfully locked them away. But he was not the only one. In that category, Duo had found his own way of coping with the emotional side of his personality.

Dredging Shinigami from the place where he was caged in between missions, Duo replied with the manic grin he had turned into his trademark. “Seems that `Fei has gotten himself into trouble. We are supposed to get him out of a base somewhere in Greenland and destroy all evidence.”

 

Feuer Frei!

Open Fire!

 

Heero nodded sharply, tucking his laptop under his injured arm without giving any sign if the fresh cut hurt or not, and together, they hurried for the hangar that was close-by, warming up the machines while doing the pre-flight-checks. They did not waste time with packing; there was an emergency duffel in their Gundams, and they didn't need anything else.

What Heero's contained, he wasn't sure; it was something like an unspoken agreement between the five of them that they wouldn't ask each other. His own was packed with a first aid kit, some water and dry rations, two spare sets of clothing, a heavy wire cutter if somebody needed quick unshackling, an assorted collection of lock picks of all kinds, a few detonators in case he miraculously found explosives or had enough time to spare to cook some up, and several not-so-legal documents of identification.

Together, the two huge giants took off, carrying the 2-man rescue team north to Greenland.

 

Bang, bang,

 

Of course, as important as the duffel was, proper armament was even more important for his survival. The few items of his personal weapons assortment that he couldn't secret away on his body were securely stashed in another box in Deathscythe. He'd learned a long time ago that more wasn't needed in war life, because all pictures and homey touches that would furnish a room would be a threat to them if OZ found them. That stuff just revealed too much about the personality behind. Also, so many things would be too difficult to lug around if they had to leave on short notice.

 

Bang, bang!

 

The edge had stripped them down to the bare core necessities. Either they'd succeed in their mission objectives, or it wouldn't matter anyways. If they were lucky, they'd be dead.

 

 

 

 

Geadelt ist, wer Schmerzen kennt

Ennobled are those knowing pain

 

Quatre's normally light blue eyes were dilated to near black, scrunched up in pleasure, but at the same time trembling in anticipation of the pain that would soon come to release him. His teeth were gritted to hold back the guttural pleas and moans that wanted to spill over them, and his back was striving to arch away from the mattress he was currently stretched out on, trying to get closer to the body on top of him.

Through the small slits his eyelids left open, he saw the solid form of the L3-acrobat leaning over him, holding him down by a single forearm pressing against his short-ribs in a way that made even breathing a task of its own. The circus performer was kneeling between his spread legs, watching almost dispassionately as he started moaning in desperation. Finally, the knife that the acrobat was handling with pinpoint accuracy in his free hand bit into skin, dealing out the fire he craved.

 

Vom Feuer, das in Lust verbrennt.

Of fire that burns in lust

 

The blade was etching symbols of possession into his body just as he was currently being entered by the stoic L3-pilot, edging the fire within him higher and higher until he started writhing mindlessly. His flailing limbs were securely shackled against the four bed-posts, leaving his vulnerable skin bare to the hurtful blade dancing over his flesh.

The formerly nameless pilot knew exactly how and where to place the cuts to gain the right amount of pain mixing with pleasure, a skill which Trowa didn't want to tell where he had gained it from. But at the moment, it was of no importance to him, lost in a high of endorphins as he currently was. A long time ago, he had given up thinking when he had let the other take over control.

 

Ein Funkenstoß

A burst of sparks

 

Looking down at the flushed body writhing on the increasingly crimson sheets, he had to exert iron control to do nothing more than flex his hips ever so slightly, keeping him and - … - his lover - … on the edge without sending them tumbling over. It would not do to make them plummet down before the mind-blowing catharsis that only the completion of the mind-altering series of cuts would give his - lover - .

 

In ihren Schoß,

Into her lap

 

His hand on the hilt never wavered, no matter how desperately he was holding himself back. A tight grip on the knife let red lines appear on almost white skin, striving with an iron will to finish the pattern he had started.

The time he had spent with the mercenaries had taught him many things, how to cut a mind free through the right stimulus of pain and pleasure being only one of them. Of course, as he had been too young for games of that kind for most of the time he had spent with them, he had only watched, and that only if he had no other choice but stay in the room or freeze outside.

He had quickly learned that there were some who regularly needed relief from daily pressure building up until they were ready to explode, and although he had never felt that kind of need, he had learned through observations and later on through hands-on practice how to help them with their burden. And lately, as long as he had been helping his - lover -, he had found out that it even gave him some satisfaction he hadn't known before.

 

Ein heißer Schrei:

A red-hot scream -

 

Studying the pattern that had come into its final stages, he instinctively searched to deepen the contact between them, heightening his already almost precognitive ability of foretelling the other's twitches and flails to a new level. It took a lot of concentration to keep his hand steady through the need generated by the body desperately twisting towards him, taking immense care to not let the blade slice any deeper than he meant it to.

He never realized that he was shaking and trembling with his own need, too caught up in his work to let himself be distracted. Together, they were moving as one, the bottom half bucking up, the top half pressing down.

After a few torturously slow minutes, the last flowingly red line finally came to a conclusion -

 

Feuer Frei!

Open Fire!

 

- and the world burst into color for the short, dreaded seconds they had so longed after, making them tremble together through the long shudders wrecking their bodies as they went over the edge …

 

Bang, bang,

 

For a few blissful seconds, they were able to cling to each other, momentarily forgetting all about the harsh reality of war, but eventually, it caught up with them and left them stranded on the bed.

The body beneath him was sobbing quietly as it hung shackled to the frame, releasing the sorrows that had been weighing down on it. It was the catharsis his - lover - had so desperately needed after all the horrors he had seen - and been forced to commit in the name of peace.

 

Bang, bang,

 

As he gently removed cuff after cuff and carefully cleaned out the vicious red streaks on his - lover's - chest, the sobbing gradually subsided, leaving the room deadly silent. Cradling the blond head with his arms, he was not surprised when his - lover - curled around him, seeking human warmth after the abyss he had just faced within himself.

He watched the efforts his - lover - made in pulling himself together, out of the trance that had translated every sliver of pain into streaks of pleasure. It was unsettling to watch how the formerly exhausted features torn by the sensations ripping through them were gradually being composed into the angelic little-boy-face everybody expected from the Winner-heir.

That was why he himself never let the mask down. It was just too hard to put it on again, and as long as the war lasted, he needed it.

 

Feuer Frei!

Open Fire!

 

Finally, Quatre extracted himself from his arms, giving a tired nod and a sad smile towards his own emotionless façade. “Thank you. I didn't know it had been that bad.”

The acrobat/pilot/clown/spy only nodded once in acknowledgement, not feeling the urge to say anything else. Also, there was nothing he could have said in face of that statement. It spoke of wounds too raw to be touched yet, so he kept the silence he had become so good at.

 

Bang, bang,

 

A beep from the com placed on the nightstand made both of them start towards their guns with reflexes drilled into them seemingly forever. For a split second, the soft, angelic Winner-heir was gone, letting show through the strategic mastermind whose only focus was the current situation and all its implications. Having reverted to the Sandrock pilot, 04 gestured for him to take the call.

“Yes?”

 

Bang, bang,

 

Crackles of static heckled by garbled words came through, but that was one of their codes. For the two pilots, it read as clearly as a plain-text-message.

“02 here. Incoming at +1h. 05 heavy injuries, requires immediate attention.”

The situation must have been bad for Shinigami to loose all maniac mirth. He also sounded a little bit breathless. Concerned, Quatre asked, finally back to the loving, caring pilot they all knew: “And your status?”

Some more static and gibberish. “01 and I are fine, no major injuries. Prepare for landing at +58 min. 02 out.”

“04 out.”

 

Feuer Frei!

Open Fire!

 

The com drifted to silence once again. Looking at each other, they knew their short moment of peace was over.

War had found them.

 

 

 

 

Gefährlich ist, wer Schmerzen kennt

Dangerous are those knowing pain

 

When consciousness sluggishly returned to him, he almost wished he was still out because the pain of burns, broken bones, bruises, and twisted ligaments rose together with his awareness.

But only a second later, a dark joy suffused him from head to toe, and in his sudden change of spirit, he had to concentrate hard to not show that he was awake.

For the first time since his capture, his arms were unbound, and there was an incautious person sitting next to the surface he was lying on. From the feel of the room, there was only this one person here, and he or she was totally relaxed, no tension lining the atmosphere. Holding back a derogative snort, he marveled at the stupidity of OZ-personnel. The situation couldn't be better. This was the moment for which he had waited so desperately during interrogation.

Without tensing a muscle or opening an eyelid, he gathered ki in his body, focusing his mind on the single move that would leave the person next to him a lifeless rag-doll with a crushed throat and a broken neck on the floor.

 

Vom Feuer, das den Geist verbrennt.

Of heat that burns the mind away

 

Just when he was one in body and soul, a voice interrupted him, its familiarity shattering his focus into a thousand hurting fragments. “No need to worry, Wufei, you are safe here. Duo and Heero got you out of that place. I'm quite sure you know the damage done to your body, so please try and don't move too much, you have to heal first.”

Only 04 would be so innocent to sit right next to a trained killer waking up from a coma in a foreign location. Only 04.

Oh, and of course OZ guards. That was how he had gotten out of a few jams before this one, faking unconsciousness until one was close enough to feel the wrath of Justice.

 

Gefährlich das gebrannte Kind

Dangerous is the burned child

 

But none of the other pilots would dare move so close into his proximity where reflexes acted long before the conscious mind realized the threat - or the lack thereof. Not even the jester 02, as suicidal as he seemed hanging around the Perfect Soldier, riling him up until his glare reached new heights.

But Shinigami understood what he was messing with, knew exactly how far he could go without getting hurt in the process. And Shinigami had his own set of reflexes that were quite lethal. All of them were dangerous in a way that Winner couldn't quite comprehend, not having had to fight as soon as he could stand on his own feet.

 

Mit Feuer, das vom Leben trennt!

With fire that parts from life

 

Playing with fire was just as dangerous. Especially when it had a will of its own and could turn around and surprise you from behind. But it was what the four of them did best - no, the five of them. They all had been hardened in the crucible of war.

As comparatively harmless as Winner's fighting skills and his space-heart were, he was an expert, too, although more in strategies and quiet command of people. Winner always knew how to strike the enemy with the most damage and the least loss of life, chasing terror into the heart of OZ with the insight his space-heart gave him.

 

Ein heißer Schrei - bang, bang,

A red-hot scream - bang, bang

 

Sudden alarm exploded into the dark, screaming its anger at a possible intruder. A moment later, he realized that it was no more than a soft beeping sound coming from Winner's pockets, but it clearly was a proximity alert. He watched Winner draw out a com-device, talking into it rapidly, something about OZ following them from Greenland.

Then, Winner started cursing in Arabic. From what little Arabic Wufei knew, he managed to gather some information about how unsavory the intruders' sexual practices were; apparently not even life-stock was safe from them.

Managing to ignore the wrapped burns on his arms and the two broken ribs, he hoisted himself up into a half sitting, half reclining position together with Winner's help. Just when he was working on putting his broken leg that had been immobilized by a more or less professionally wrapped cast down to the floor, the door resounded in a loud knock before admitting Yuy into the room.

Without any comments, he was picked up as if he weighed nothing, but instead of protesting against the indignity of being carried, he rather swallowed the pain that spread through his body from the ungentle treatment of his wounds. Time was a deciding factor right now, and he knew he was too slow moving under his own power at the moment.

Holding on to Yuy as well as he could, his eyes widened as Yuy headed straight for Wing, never hesitating in grabbing the line attached to a powerful winch above Wing's cockpit. Having never seen Wing's cockpit from the inside, he wondered why Yuy was now admitting him to the sanctuary he shared with nobody. Probably Wufei's inability of piloting his own suit that was hopefully still hidden in the place he had left it at before the mission in Greenland.

Depositing him right behind the command chair, Yuy started on getting Wing operational as fast as possible. Within a minute, they burst forth from the thick canopy of the forest.

 

Feuer Frei!

Open Fire!

 

Holding on to anything he found, Wufei gritted his teeth at the g-forces tugging at him, hoping that Yuy would not have to engage in air combat. When more and more time passed with no sudden detonations shaking Wing or other quick movements being forced from the machine, he slowly relaxed. Yuy would take them to another safe-house, of that he was certain, but it would be a location far away. During the flight, there was nothing to talk about, and the chance of studying either the backside of Wing's command chair or the bottom side of Wing's control panels quickly lost its appeal, too, so he spent the time occupied with his own thoughts.

 

 

Dein Glück

Your happiness

 

There was an undeniable connection between Winner and Barton, both of them drawing strength from the other. Although none of them had said it out loud, it was an unspoken truth that Winner and Barton were very happy in each other's presence, and possibly even in love with each other - at least as much as one of them could fall in love. They kept each other stable during the confusions of war.

 

Ist nicht mein Glück,

Is not my happiness

 

He himself did not have some special person like that, but he consistently told himself that he didn't need weak emotions like that. They would only hinder him in his missions. Well, once he'd had a … he didn't know what to call his former wife Meilan. Love was definitely not the right word for the arranged marriage both of them had been forced into. Friendship? Partnership?

 

Ist mein Unglück.

Is my undoing

 

As he was a perfectionist, he kept searching for the right word, but he couldn't find it. Instead, it evoked memories of the agonizing minutes when he'd held her dying body in his arms, full of hatred for the soldiers who had dared hurt her that much. At that moment, when it had been already too late to save her, he had realized that she had grown to be a constant in his life, one he had incorporated without being aware of just how much she had meant to him. Forcibly, he tore his thoughts away from the pain rising together with the memory.

 

 

Dein Glück

Your happiness

 

Yuy and Maxwell certainly did not have any relationship like Winner and Barton, and they weren't moping about it, either. But they shared something else, an understanding between them that went so deep that it was almost entirely unconscious. And that was the reason why Maxwell and Yuy were able to spar without serious damage ensuing to both parties. Even when a surprise hit landed, the other's reflexes would not immediately switch to `kill the enemy', preventing death, or at least heavy injury.

The few times he had watched them, he hadn't been able to do anything else than admire the ease with which Maxwell's street moves that bore remarkable similarity to Krav Maga, an old Israeli fighting technique, coupled with some Capoeira elements, evaded Yuy's deadly combination of Filipino Escrima and Kali offense, Israeli Hisardut defenses, and Muay Thai boxing in between (1), (2).

He thought he had seen Yuy do some Dim Mak pressure point moves, too, but that could have been some elements of Hisardut as Wufei's knowledge of the Israeli martial arts only went as far as recognizing a few techniques and knowing that they were derived from street combat to provide the most efficient defense against attacks of all kinds, from being grappled to being held at gun point. Their way of fighting was no-holds-barred with downright dirty attacks and best used in association with weapons, but in war, that was the most efficient way. It was either kill or be killed, no medium ground.

 

Ist nicht mein Glück,

Is not my happiness

 

And Wufei itched to try his more traditional Kung Fu and Chin Na forms against Yuy, just to see whose techniques were the more efficient ones. He had mastered the Dragon style, one of the most unpredictable Kung Fu styles, and the way his clan had combined the linear, outward Wing Chun forms with the inward focus of Chen Tai Chi had served him well so far (3).

But Wufei was not part of the connection between Maxwell and Yuy, not part of the unconscious understanding, no matter how much he craved a fight with Yuy to test his skills. No, instead of pitting his strength against the Perfect Soldier, he had to keep practicing his forms. Alone.

 

Ist mein Unglück.

Is my undoing

 

Especially in the close confines of the cockpit of Wing Zero, Wufei could see the tension of Yuy's shoulders as a small part of Yuy's attention always stayed on him, ensuring that he did no damage to either Wing or its pilot. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but deep inside, he envied Maxwell and his ability to slip past Yuy's mental guards, getting to learn more about the deadly cocktail of fighting styles J had brewed.

 

Bang, bang,

 

However; one thing, all five of them had in common: they were living on the edge of the blade, each for their own reasons and in their own way. All of them drew from it the strength to fight and survive another day of this hellish war.

Yuy was using the blade as a reminder, the blood he was drawing bearing proof that he was still human. Without that knowledge, Yuy would probably have caved in by now as J either hadn't managed to completely brainwash his lab rat or hadn't counted on the effects of being in the steady company of other pilots in the same age group.

 

Bang, bang,

 

Maxwell lived with a different kind of blade, daring his luck against the Perfect Soldier, cackling madly when he had once again evaded the wrath of Yuy. He used the rush of adrenaline like a drug, dancing on the edge of death at every occasion possible. And Shinigami's blades always hit dead on, be it the physical ones or the verbal ones. As harmless as he seemed with his ridiculously long braid, as perfectly targeted were his caustic barbs and honed daggers. They never missed their mark.

 

Feuer Frei!

Open Fire!

 

Together, Maxwell and Yuy made an excellent team, their ruthless fighting abilities meshing in a way that did not leave any survivors within a large radius.

 

Bang, bang,

 

With Barton the blade wasn't immediately visible, but it was there, just not in the physical sense. Every time he slipped into another role, another human mask donned onto his face, he cut himself loose from his old life, severing all ties to former habits, ways of talking, social class, posture. Everything to impersonate somebody else. That was what made him so good as infiltrator; however, it was no wonder that he was so blank in the mean time. Did Barton even know what he was without the personas he wore like clothing?

 

Bang, bang,

 

Winner also used a blade to cut himself loose, the heady mixture of pain and pleasure temporarily freeing his mind from the burden of responsibility. Winner had the most ties of the four of them, a whole enterprise waiting for him should he survive the war, and 29 sisters that were more or less concerned about him. His amiable personality just wasn't suited for battle, and so he had to rely on the blade to cut all the things weighing down on him away. It was not often, but the old marks barely had time to vanish before new ones were carved into skin that desperately needed the freedom of not thinking.

 

Feuer Frei!

Open Fire!

 

Wufei did not know how Barton could give his lover what he needed, but together, the two of them kept each other sane.

 

Bang, bang,

 

And last but not least, there was Wufei himself. He'd been living by the blade of his Lung Chuan broad sword (4), the sword of his clan, ever since his wife had died. He had forsaken his scholarly life to take up the sword he had mastered together with the open-handed arts. It was in memory of her that he had moved forward until he was posed on the edge, dealing out justice to both sides.

 

Bang, bang,

 

The edge of the blade was what was connecting the five of them, kindling their spirits to burn brighter in destructive harmony, ensuring their survival where others would have perished a long time ago. It kept them sane, reminded them of their humanity, and made them transcend their limits. It kept them balanced, helped them defeat their enemies and their personal demons. So it was only fitting that the edge became the sole focus of their lives.

 

Feuer Frei!

Open Fire!

 

The only question was: what would happen to them when the war was over - always presumed that they survived despite all odds. But even that had a clear answer, given to them by the edge they couldn't live without anymore.

 

Bang, Bang!

 

 

 

A/N:

I don't own GW, and “Feuer Frei!” belongs to Rammstein. I think everybody knows the drill, so I won't tell you that I don't make any money from this story.

 

(1)

The Israeli styles have been developed in the middle of the 20th century, both coming from Jewish origins.

Krav Maga (translates to “contact combat”) was designed in the forties, when the independence movement in Israel started and carrying weapons was illegal. It was later refined on the battle field, and is mainly used against armed assault. There are no Krav Maga competitions because it is meant to be used only in self-defense, where everything is allowed and the goal is to take down the enemy as fast and permanently as possible.

Krav Maga is currently being used by the Israeli Defensive Force; Hisardut (Hebrew for “survival”) is being taught to police and SWAT forces and armies all over the world. Hisardut is not so much a martial art as an all-around survival system where all ranges of engagement are taught. Nonetheless, both styles are also used by mainly Israeli civilans for self defense.

For more information go to

http://www.hisardut.com/hisardut/index.htm

http://www.krav-maga.com/

 

(2)

Capoeira comes from African slaves working in sugar plantations, and has been developed in Brazil in the 1500's. Trademark is the constantly shifting footwork that almost never stays still and the rhythmical, dance-like moves. Attacks are very acrobatic, almost solely relying on kicks and sweeps, hands mainly used for balance and minimal blocking. Defense consists of evasion for the most part. Many break-dance moves come from Capoeira.

Escrima and Kali are native martial arts of the Philipines, both of them developed to fight armed Spanish invaders (during the 1500's), thus resulting in the blade and stick techniques they are known for. In higher levels, the stick techniques are also performed without weapons, an adaptation to the possibility of being unarmed.

Muay Thai goes back as far as the 13th century. It demands high physical conditioning, and in contrast to western boxing, knee thrusts, elbow strikes and kicks are allowed. Before the 1940's, virtually everything was allowed, and the fatality rate of full-contact sparring was quite high. Today, Thai boxing is the most popular national sport in Thailand, especially among young men.

Dim Mak is an ancient Chinese art of striking vital pressure points and nerve centers to cause injury, unconsciousness, immediate death, or delayed death. Highly lethal martial art form derived from acupuncture.

For more information go to

http://www.capoeira.htmlplanet.com/

http://www.escrima.com/

http://www.muaythai.com/

http://www.dimmak.net/

 

(3)

Contrary to popular belief, Kung Fu is not a martial art style in itself, but a system of martial arts. There are many different styles and systems that belong to Kung Fu, e. g. all the animal styles, Tai Chi, Wing Chun.

Legend says that Wing Chun (popular practitioner: Bruce Lee) was devised in a meeting of several Shaolin masters who thought that the 15 to 20 years it took to produce a proficient fighter with the current techniques were entirely too long. By sticking to core principles that are drilled in over and over again, good Wing Chun fighters can be trained within 5 to 7 years. It is probably the only traditional Chinese martial art that was passed down by a woman, Yim Wing Chun. Wing Chun uses hard, low kicks and fast hand movements, and is very effective in close range. In contrast to Escrima, only advanced students learn weapons techniques, which are extensions of the unarmed techniques. Also spelled Wing Tsun.

Dragon Kung Fu is one of the old animal forms. It uses explosive, twisting, high-speed attacks that mimic the strength and agility of the highly revered Chinese dragon. The waist is used as main power house to get force behind the attacks which consist mainly of hand techniques. Although beginner training resembles the hard, external styles, it also incorporates internal chi techniques.

Tai Chi (or Taijiquang, Tai Chi Chuan) focuses on the unobstructed move of Chi (or Ki, life force, energy) through the body, mainly consisting of very slow, graceful motions. It is believed that correct motion can only come from complete stillness, generating the power from the bottom up (the big muscles in thighs, hips). Different styles of Tai Chi are Yang Tai Chi and Chen Tai Chi.

Chin Na are “capture skills”, the art of gaining control over an attacker through locking joints, pressure point moves, twisting limbs, and blocking respiration and circulation. More or less all Kung Fu styles apply chin na techniques in different variations, but they can be learned separately. Closely linked to Dim Mak, allows for disabling many attackers, largely without rendering much harm to them.

For more information go to

http://www.wingchun.com

http://www.shaolin.com/s_dragon_martialarts.aspx

http://www.taichichuan.co.uk/

http://www.h2omt.com/chinna.html

 

(4)

Lung Chuan swords are made in Lung Chuan, a Chinese province famous for its quality swords during past centuries. The broad sword is not as curved as a Japanese katana, being slightly S-shaped. It gets a little bit thicker to about a hand width from the point. Then while the cutting edge curves in the lower half of the S towards the tip, the upper ridge is cut in a mostly straight line and sharpened towards the tip (kind of like a saber). Length: 30” to 36”, weight depending on whether it is made from spring steel or combat steel.

Good pictures at

http://www.extreme-swords-for-sale.com/stbr.html

http://www.gungfu.com/pics_info_pages/swords_chinese_double _broadsword.htm

Why I gave Wufei a Chinese broad sword? Well, first, he is Chinese, not Japanese, and the sword he points at Trowa during Endless Waltz looks rather like a broad sword to me, not like a katana.