driftfleet | (no subject)

Entry tags:

coil lenn,
syeira

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Who: Coil Lenn
Broadcast: Text (and not anonymous, for once)
Action: Iskaulit, in the gym
When: Morning

[it is a rare day indeed that Coil sends out a message with his identification attached to it, but he figures it's probably hard to convince someone to fight with you when they don't know who's asking. and he takes time to write the thing up properly, like putting an ad in the paper.]

Looking for sparring partner-- hand-to-hand or melee weapons. Experienced combatants only. Iskaulit Gym.

[and he just tosses the communicator off to the side for a bit, after that. he'll return to check his messages after he's beaten the shit out of a sandbag for a while.

and whether or not they've caught his message, anyone can find him haunting the gym--either moping around like he doesn't know why he's there, or whirling a quarterstaff around and clobbering a sandbag with single-minded focus. just a combat-oriented teenager in a bad mood.]

(ooc: and for anyone who isn't really into tagging fight threads, but still wants to spar with him, we can handwave or gloss over some things.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[His being in the gym is completely coincidental. When he tires of doing endless laps on the Bloodsport, or of abusing (and on more than one occasion breaking) its meagre gym supplies, he comes to the Iskaulit. He comes in, brings his bag and seems - to all intents and purposes - to be content with ignoring everything else going on in the gym in favour of a gymnastic-styled warm-up.

It's not until Coil busts out the quarterstaff that Steve actually looks at him askance and at length,]

Up for a partner?

[It's a casual offer. The kid obviously knows what he's doing, but Steve knows pent-up anger when he sees it, and that sort of thing's best not taken out on a bag.]

[and this is one of those wells of anger that runs deep. his hounding focus is interrupted when he's spoken to, but that look doesn't go away. it just goes a little quieter and shifts--glancing over to consider the man and his offer, sizing him up instead of the punching bag.

he looks a little hesitant when he nods, but it's only because the guy is a total stranger. and kind of... big.]

[Not a hard thing to interpret, and Steve gives him a bit of a wan smile and holds his hands out, palm-up to show they're empty.]

Promise I'm not out to hurt anybody.

[That much has never changed. It still bothers him, to be taken as intimidating. Not as much as it used to, but-- five years in a body that can bend steel doesn't have much marketable currency against two decades to the contrary.]

But I am stronger than a normal human, so don't be afraid to come at me, either.

[He sweeps a hand at the sparring mats to indicate that's where they should go, and precedes the kid there. Steve has no real intention of fighting back, he'll stick to blocking and dodging. He never takes a swing at anyone he doesn't already know can take it. Especially a kid.]

[really, it's that second comment that convinces him. a subtle light glints in the kid's otherwise tired-looking eye, and he nods again. sounds good to him.

after propping his staff to the side, he meets his opponent on the mats.

and Steve might not have any intention of coming after him, but after Coil rolls his shoulders and falls into balanced, ready stance, he gives a little beckon toward him. the big guys gets the first move.]

[He raises an eyebrow when the staff gets set aside-- he'd sort of intended for it to come along, but he won't argue, either.

He does huff a bit at the kid's expectant little gesture. Deliver him from people, no matter how talented or experienced, who consider him a welcome challenge. But, with a put-upon but ultimately obedient little sigh, he nods. Give him a second to size everything up and to slip sideways into a headspace that's less fighting for his life than usual. The only person he spars with regularly back home is Natasha, and she's never once let him hold back.]

Before we start-- is there something I can call you? I'm Steve.

[he hesitates a little when his opponent asks a question instead of making a move for him, especially since he needs his hands to answer with. it throws him off his game a bit, but he obliges.

he fingerspells out his name--C-O-I-L--and then shrugs somewhat apologetically, because he never actually expects anyone to understand him.]

[Ah. Mute, then, rather than simply quiet. The name is unusual enough he's not sure if it's a product of being out of practice with his ASL (unlikely, his memory isn't one prone to forgetting) or maybe a variance in dialects, but:]

Coil? Is that right?

[he nods and draws a spiral shape in the air with one finger-- yes, 'Coil,' like a rope or a snail's shell.

however, as pleased as he is that he's found another person that has a hope of understanding him, he's feeling a little impatient for much gratitude. so, he forms the sign for 'now?' just in case the man has any other questions he wants to get out of the way first.]

[Slow your roll, tiny child. The impatience is almost endearing, and Steve shrugs and signs back, after. Then, obligingly, he shifts back into a fighting stance.

As uneasy as he is jumping into sparring with a stranger without clear groundrules or knowledge of the other's capability, at least he's well aware of his own. So he steps forward more gracefully than his size suggests and goes for a leg sweep at a roughly baseline-human speed. If he knocks Coil down, he'll know he has to scale back, but it shouldn't cause undue harm.]

[it's easiest for him this way. the introductory niceties and establishing of groundrules just makes him feel awkward, and throws off his focus. so this, jumping right in without having to get to know the person, feels the most natural to him.

while it might be different on some other day, he's not looking to hone his skills and meet people, this time. there's an entirely different goal behind this particular fight.

at least the kid seems capable, to start. a leg sweep is easy to clear; plenty of warning. and he doesn't dance away and wait at the edge of what he imagines is a pretty considerable reach. he's used to fighting things bigger than he is, so he ducks right inside Steve's range as he comes up from the sweep, and throws a few short, hard jabs towards the softer, nervy places up on the sides of his opponent's ribs.]

[He doesn't dodge or even try to - he wants to know how hard Coil can hit. He does tense, though, as the blows connect against his side. It's enough that his exhalation is not entirely voluntary, and by the third one he drops his left elbow down to block and crosses his right arm over his body, intending to smack his wrist down against his opponent's to drive him off.

If he's successful, he'll follow it up with a light cuff to the shoulder, fast enough that it's hard to track but without much power behind it.]

[Coil lets his arm be knocked down, but he just turns the momentum into into deflecting the shot away from his shoulder. this, he can do easy. this is still a warmup; his skill level is still somewhere above this.

and he proves it--almost with an edge of annoyance--by bringing a kick back with him as he pivots back in from the deflection. this one is one of those sharp, close, mean ones aiming the hard edge of a shin at the outside muscles of the thigh. it's one of those things used to weaken and wear down stronger opponents, so he at least knows that much.]

[No time to block, so Steve opts for the faster option- pivoting so the blow skims against the outside of his thigh and hits solidly on the anterior. To his credit, Steve is solid muscle and his bone density is no joke, so while it stings it's not about to do any permanent damage.

In retaliation, he grabs at Coil's calf and is going to do his level best to flip the kid backwards. Another test: how's his grappling skill?]

[his regular partner had been a pretty solid guy, but he doesn't compare to the man he's facing now. even though his goal in this fight isn't actually to try and bring him down, Coil is still beginning to feel the frustration of it. picking apart impervious targets without resorting to more lethal techniques is not his specialty.

though, he can handle grappling. with a garrote being his go-to weapon, he needs to know how to twist around and keep an upper hand in close combat. so, he rolls with the momentum instead of fighting it, landing so that he can spring up fast. and he comes back fighting, striking fast for central places to hopefully keep his opponent defending instead of keeping him at a distance, so he can get close again.]

[The smaller you are, the more you have to rely on speed and precision. Steve has the curious luxury of having been both in his life-- though really, he was never fast and he was only ever precise with withering sarcasm and India ink. But he understood, in theory, how to fight. The reality of it simply didn't coalesce until much later.

He wonders idly if this kid has met Natasha, and how much he'd benefit from doing so.

Steve lets him in close without really trying to keep him at bay, and settles for blocking the conveniently conspicuous hits and just straight-up taking the ones that aren't. One strike takes him in the solar plexus hard enough to catch him off guard and he steps back, one hand held up. It's nothing he can't fight through in a serious match, but-- well, being able to stop when your opponent concedes is another important point.

He signs,]

One second, need to breathe.

[and that point may be one of the kid's weakest. maybe he isn't used to having to halt in the middle of a match, or is simply too wound-up to want to stop. either way, it takes him half a beat longer than it should to stop his approach, and the breath he huffs out is more than just catching his breath.

he's frustrated. and impatient.

he's pausing as instructed, but it's clear in the way he flexes his wrists and shifts his weight that he doesn't want to slow down.]

[He rubs his palm across his sternum, and then drops his hand away. Took him a bit, but he did stop. That's what counts. So. He straightens up briefly.]

All right, thanks. All good.

[And, letting that serve as sufficient verbal warning, he nods to Coil and then resumes his posture. Once he's been given the signal to continue, he'll fall right back into the fight. Only this time around, he's gauged what he needs to about his opponent and will be looking to give him a real challenge.]

[and Coil leaps back into the fight with nothing but eagerness, and for a minute or two seems genuinely satisfied to (finally) be challenged. this is what he'd been looking for. he skips the throws and grapples that would just slow things down, but he isn't shy about trying to use strikes that would seriously hurt a less-worthy opponent. he wants to prove himself here, if only to get the much larger man to stop coddling him.

because, the kid fights like someone who has been trained to actually use his skills, instead of learning for self-betterment, self-defense, or any other non-vital reason. he's used to fighting things that are bigger and stronger than him; he wants to prove that he can take it, so he can get what he wants out of this fight.

which, turns out to be more than just expending energy.

once he starts to tire, he does everything he can to hide the fact. he should have paused at any point--taken a breath, slowed down--but he stubbornly refuses. so, the first sign that he's starting to really slip comes as quite a blow.]

[in the heat of things, a roundhouse comes barreling around from the side he can't watch well, and he botches his attempt to block it. the blow hits and buckles him. with an audible cough of breath--the first sound he's really made yet--the wind is knocked clean out of him.

and he can't come back from that one without pause, as much as he would love to be able to. he's staggered back, arms wrapped around his hunched-up middle, and he sucks in breath through a spasming chest.

but, by the way he's immediately trying to straighten up and reset his stance, he's not considering this fight over. whatever he'd wanted out of it, he apparently hasn't gotten it yet.]

[All it takes is one miscalculation. He's spent the entirety of the sparring match being careful, calculating exactly the force to put behind his blows, where he wants to hit, what he wants to block. The kick in and of itself is nothing spectacular, but it was fast and Coil wasn't where the patterns set by the rest of the fight predicted he'd be. Steve pulls the kick too late, and at the pained gasp-- (not to mention the way the kid immediately tries to get back into the fight) he stops up short, comes out of his stance. Accidents happen, sure, but they happen to him so rarely that he's irritated at himself for not taking better care.]

Hey. You okay?

[and Coil seems just as irritated that he'd been winded by the blow. he should have seen it coming. if this had been a serious fight, he'd be in trouble right now.

and even more than that, because of him, the fight is grinding to a halt. so, as Steve is stopping short to check on him, Coil is waving a dismissive arm, trying to motion for him to forget about it.

it's okay. he's okay. he can keep going. he's almost caught his breath--it's fine.]

[Steve watches him with a very faint frown, and then he crosses the room to the water fountain and comes back with a flimsy paper cup of water, which he presses into Coil's hands.]

Hey. [Gently,] I can tell you've been in plenty of real fights, but this ain't one.

[The ones where you have to scratch and scrabble and panic and pray just to stay alive. Steve's never met anyone who could hide that in a fight, it comes through in the way you move, the way you breathe, the way you take a hit. This kid can't be much older than sixteen, and already it's a lesson he's learned too well.]

We can keep going if you want, but you're taking a breather. Captain's orders.

[That's a bit of a self-deprecating smile there as he says it. He doesn't really think they should keep going, but when you've got that much of a chip on your shoulder-- hearing that doesn't help. They can wind the rest down, end on a better note than an improperly pulled blow, and Steve can make sure the kid gets a good meal afterwards.]

[the frustration around the kid is palpable. the last thing he wants in the world is for the rhythm to be broken, the adrenaline to fade, but it's too late. he can already start to feel aches beginning to bloom where he hadn't been able to notice before. and the fact that he can't talk, or express himself much beyond a tense sigh when a cup is pushed into his hands, just makes the feeling worse.

he drinks the water though, despite the fact that he starts coughing near the end. drinking is one of those things that you need to take your time with when you're missing most of your tongue, but he's in a hurry.

it's pretty clear that as soon as he's done with his water, he fully intends to try and pick things up where they left them. just trying to outrun his own cooling muscles and lowering heart rate.]

[Talk about mirrors. There's a brief furrow between his brows as he recognizes the source of the coughing (there were enough people in Europe who'd suffered similarly) and that it's not just due to natural mutism. Ah, Hell. Steve has a brief, desperate wish for Jim to walk through the door-- he's always been better with kids, let alone traumatized ones, but it fades.]

Not quite what I'd call a breather.

[It's softly chiding, rather than corrective. But he does shake his head.]

I meant it.

[now that he's over his coughing, he takes in a big breath and sighs it back out, as if that might suffice as the 'breather' the man wanted for him so badly.

and he rolls his shoulders, shakes his arms out, at least attempting to loosen the tension from them. they hurt, though. he can feel what are going to color into bruises later. it keeps that anxiety rolling high.

impatiently, he signs that he's 'good now,' and the rise of his brow that goes along with it is almost pleading.]

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