(no subject)

[2goodarms]

Time seems to flow the same way physics does around here: like it dove headfirst into an uncut barrel of kronole. Curtis can't tell if it's been a few days, a few weeks, or even longer. Maybe it's just because he doesn't know what to do, how to tell time, without someone else raising and lowering the artificial lights.

Once he had that realization, he desperately needed to punch something.

Luckily, while wandering around today, he found the gym. Half the machines in there are too unfamiliar to be of any use, but punching bags look pretty similar across all times and universes. They had one in the tail, just an empty sack people would stuff their blankets into before waling on it for a while, but it didn't offer much resistance. Not like these bags. These bags make a good solid thwack when you punch them, and it feels a little like punching a brick wall if you pick the heavier ones. Nice and satisfying.

Curtis' knuckles are going to be bruised to hell tomorrow, but it'll be worth it.



[ooc: slowtime will be in effect once 11:15 PM ET rolls around.]

Comments

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

There are parts of the Bar that Ellen doesn't ordinarily bother with. The stables, for example, or the garage. The corridor that leads to the staff area is one she also avoids, since the only door back there that she recognizes is the one to the infirmary, and she doesn't really need to go there very often. That's what stimpaks, Med-X, and gritting your teeth are for.

'Course that doesn't mean much to Dogmeat, who occasionally takes it on himself to go exploring. Then Ellen has to chase him down before he bothers anybody.

You know, like the man in the gym who's beating up on the heavy bag like Paladin Gunny told him it was a greenskin that kidnapped his grandma or something.

[2goodarms]

He had enough strength and endurance to make it to the front, taking down a good chunk of people along the way. Unfortunately, that doesn't quite translate to beating the shit out of a hundred-pound bag for god knows how long. At some point, he has to stop, brace himself on the bag, and catch his breath.

...which is when he notices the dog.

Humans are one thing. Dogs -- any animal -- are entirely another. It'd been enough of a shock to see the aquarium car and the racks of slaughtered meat en route to the engine.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Dogmeat, get out-" It'd be a hiss, but there's no sibilants in it. Ellen darts after the dog and grabs him by his collar.

('Collar' is pushing it, frankly. It looks like somebody hacked a piece of leather off an article of clothing and attached a buckle by trial and error. Old leather, at that, cracked and faded under the Wasteland sun.)

She looks up at the man and offers a small, worried smile. "I'm sorry, sir," she says. "I didn't intend to interrupt. He gets away from me sometimes if I'm not paying attention."

[2goodarms]

"S'okay," says Curtis. He drags his arm across his forehead to clear some of the sweat, eyeing both the dog and the woman by turns.

And the collar. It's not unlike what someone might've made in the tail, if they'd had dogs.

"Haven't seen one of those in a while."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

She's short- 5'2", maybe, although the boots make it hard to tell- and for all that she sounds young, her hair's steel-grey. There's a couple of scars of various ages and degrees of fading visible on her face, and a few notches missing from her left ear; the Capital Wasteland's not a good place for people who didn't bring their own helmets. Frankly, her clothing- the dark green uniforms the Brotherhood found packed into the basements of the Pentagon when they reclaimed it years ago- looks like it's been through less of a wringer.

"Not very common where you come from?" she says. "Dogmeat, sit- we didn't have any animals at all where I grew up, so I'm never sure if I'm really handling him properly."

[dejah_thoris]

Once Dejah had gotten used to staying in Milliways, she'd made working out here a part of her daily routine. Her workout gear was as great deal more casual than anything she'd wear at home, and that was just fine with her. She wore a simple sleeveless bodice, a short skirt made of soft leather, arm braces, half gloves that were more rags than gloves, and soft-soled boots. The outfit showed more of her clan markings and a few scars to boot.

She'd spent so much of the last few days in research mode, she needed to move, get the rust off her bones. The problem still haunted her thoughts, so she wasn't even paying attention to who was working the bags. She headed straight for the mat and began stretching out.

[2goodarms]

For his part, Curtis is too absorbed in slamming his fist into the bag, over and over, to notice who just walked in. This clearly isn't practice for a sparring session: exhausted as he is, the unbridled fury is impossible to mistake.

Years of barely adequate nutrition don't do your endurance or strength a whole lot of favors, though. Eventually, he has to stumble away from the bag and brace his hand on his knee, gasping in air -- which is when he finally spots Dejah.

As soon as he can talk: "Dejah. Hey."

[dejah_thoris]

She hears him approach and looks up from where she's sitting on the mat. Her face lights up before he gets a breath to speak.

"Hey." He's looking better than when she'd left him a few nights before. There's more color in his cheeks, and he looks like maybe he's slept between now and then. "I was going to come see you but, I thought," she hesitates, and looks down to tug nervously at her half-gloves, "maybe you needed some space."

[2goodarms]

His mouth quirks; Curtis rubs the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yeah, a little," he admits.

And it's probably for the best she didn't see how much his room changed, between when she shepherded him upstairs and now.

"How've you been?"

[dejah_thoris]

She honestly wouldn't have minded the changes, as long as he was comfortable. Beneath the surface, they would have made her angry, but not at him.

It's not difficult to see that the question surprises her. "I am -- well, thank you for asking. I've been doing a lot of research. Decided I needed to come down here and get out of my head for a little while." She glanced over his shoulder to the still slightly swinging bag.

"And you?"

[heatherandsteel]

Quentin needs to get better with his fighting, Toby shouldn't have had to save him. That's why he's at another one of the punching bags improving how he's hitting.

When Curtis enters, he nods as he makes sure that he's getting the most damage from every hit. He's in jeans and a t-shirt with his human disguise up, his stance is good but his training is still mainly from swords.

[2goodarms]

Curtis returns the nod: cautious, as always, but not overtly unfriendly.

He peels off the outer layers of his clothes -- jacket, sweater, long-sleeved shirt, leaving only an undershirt behind -- and drops them in an unceremonious heap near another punching bag. And then he starts in, with no regard for form or skill: just the intense need to inflict violence on something, anything.

[heatherandsteel]

When Quentin rests he looks over and watches Curtis, he seems to fight like Toby does with the same intensity. He takes a drink of water before starting again, trying to put more of his body into the punches like Curtis seems to be doing.

His form is elegant, that's part of who he is and taught early and often but he does know where to hit, he's getting better at fighting dirty.

[2goodarms]

The thing about that kind of intensity -- at least for someone with Curtis' physical build -- is that it's only good in short bursts, maybe two or three minutes tops. Once minute two and a half rolls around, he has to step back, shoulders heaving as he catches his breath, and glare at the bag as if daring it to return a punch.

He never knew how the hell Grey did it, getting that strong and that acrobatic. Probably just because he was swinging from the bunks as soon as he could walk.

[heatherandsteel]

Its tiring and when Quentin next stops he says, "You must be dangerous in a fight."

[starrydome]

Elrond may not seem like the gym type (long flowing robes, long flowing hair, a face neither young nor old, and ancient, strait eyes), but he does come here at times.
The matts are incredible. And so well suited for their intended use.

Elves are not born strong and fast. Skills need to be honed, and while his fighting days are over (and let us hope it may ever be so) setting bones still take strength.

So there is an elf lord partly disrobing a little way away. After that, stretches and gentle warm-ups. After that, push-ups.

[2goodarms]

...Yeah, if you wanted to scream front any louder than that, you'd need a fucking megaphone. Or an air-raid siren.

Catching his breath after another round at the bag, Curtis eyes the newcomer sidelong, waiting to see what he's going to do.

[starrydome]

Once Elrond is done folding his clothes and carefully setting them aside (still wearing leggings we but with bare feet), he heads for a mat. Braiding his hair as he does so.

He gives the Man watching him a friendly nod before getting on the mat to stretch. He looks cautious, but that has happened before here and he rarely takes it personally.

Long, slow, carefully controlled movements, that flow into a handstand.

[2goodarms]

Curtis reevaluates his assessment: it's like if Grey had ended up in the front somehow. This guy's got the same easy athleticism that always surprised Curtis a little, whenever Grey demonstrated it: like his genes won out just enough to beat back some of the shit the tail threw at them.

...Which leads to thinking of the sauna. Of waking up to discover Grey's body, stabbed through the heart, the wound neatly bisecting the word Gilliam.

Gritting his teeth, Curtis turns back to the bag and delivers a punch so hard that it rattles the chain and sends the bag swinging out a good three feet.

[starrydome]

Elrond recognizes frustration when he sees it.
Anger.
Sorrow.

Attention from strangers is rarely welcome, but he decides to keep a discreet eye on the Man. He could hurt himself the way he hits. He is strong, but the bones in the hand are fragile. And in the heat of the moment, that might be forgotten.

He slowly comes down from the handstand and starts doing push-ups. Again, slow, controlled movements. There are old, old scars on both his arms and back and front. Most of them looking too old to actually be his. Faded to a degree where they are only visible when the lights hit them.

And then he moves back to sit on his heels. Ready to stretches.
Whenever he moves, he moves quietly, his breathing deep but soft.

[nerves_of_ice]

[ooc: invoking Millitime to cover certain time-space discrepancies....]

He hadn't expected to find himself here when opening the door, but after a half-second's hesitation, James accepts the silent invitation and slips through into the bar. Who the hell knows why this place does anything? Better to be safe and check it out like he would if he were running surveillance, just in case.

James cases the main bar briefly, does a quick turn outside, then drifts down to the gym, just to see. As he starts to enter the room, he freezes in his tracks, staring at the gym's other occupant. Adrenaline floods his system--

Steve--

-- but no. No. A second look is all it takes to be sure. Aside from the missing arm, this man isn't clean-shaven; this man's got the build of someone who's been a prisoner of war rather than a supersoldier.

He's attacking the heavy bag with grim, barely-bridled rage. James knows that kind of feeling.

Silent as a shadow, he steps into the room, moves to the side of the door, and leans back against the wall to wait.

[2goodarms]

That kind of intensity doesn't sustain itself well, especially when you've only been eating ground-up cockroaches for eighteen years. As fiercely as he attacks the bag, making the chain creak with each blow, Curtis has to stop after a few minutes to catch his breath.

He's about to pick up the routine again when he spots the other guy in the corner.

"Hey." Definitely out of breath. Curtis gestures to the bag. "You waiting?"

[nerves_of_ice]

(want to have a go, Buck?)

He shakes his head, both to clear it of his own thoughts and in negation.

"No rush."

There's a beat of silence as he studies the other man with intense focus.

"Hard to get used to boxing one-handed."

[2goodarms]

"Not really boxing," he says with a lopsided shrug. "Just beating the shit out of something."

Boxing implies rules and structure. It's not free for all violence like this.

[nerves_of_ice]

Something almost like a smile flickers at the corner of his mouth, there and gone in an instant.

"Ah."