driftfleet | (no subject)

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

[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.]

[This, Steve thinks privately, is above his paygrade. Maybe it's not Jim he needs here, but Sam. Still, listening for the kid's heartbeat, he nods eventually and holds up a hand, index and middle finger raised.]

Two more minutes. Then we're done.

[Two minutes is an eternity when adrenaline and hyper-vigilance rule your conscious mind. What bruises Steve's sustained in the fight (and there are a few, the kid hits hard for someone his size) are already healing, he's neither winded nor tired. He does, however, make a mental note to reduce the speed of his striking a further thirty percent to accommodate for the kid being tired. Being self destructive is never safe, but at least Steve knows he isn't going to seriously hurt him.]

[two minutes, he can agree to. in the field, his brawling fights usually lasted much shorter than two minutes, so he's not taking that amount of time lightly. he nods once, intently, before buckling down to getting back into a fighting state.

he's annoyed to have to amp back up, running through the tedium of the initial, largely-useless strikes. but he's eager enough to get back to working toward his goal--outrunning or beating or being beaten by whatever's in his head--that he powers through it.

and, another testament to how much pure survival is usually bound up in his fighting, he's good at hiding (or outright ignoring) his own weariness. it's no wonder that Steve somehow missed it before, really. there's no reason that the kid should be covering his own weakness like his life depends on it here, but he totally does-- pushing himself right past what should be his limits without thinking twice about it.

he doesn't accept the fact that he's tired. when he kicks up into proper fighting gear again, he pushes himself exactly as hard as he'd pushed himself before, if now more a little more desperately fierce about it. as if he's trying to provoke the much larger man into fighting harder than he had before, instead of less.]

[The provocation does nothing. Steve's not impossible to goad, but once he's drawn a line in the sand it takes nothing short of a miracle to get him past it. He keeps the rest of the match very keenly refereed, and blows he lands are done to non-essential areas and well away from any organs, and when the two minutes is up (he doesn't bother with a watch or a clock, his grasp of passing time is just one more thing the serum flawlessly imparted) he steps back and away, gives Coil a short, respectful bow.]

Thank you for the match.

[It's maybe a little formal, but he thinks there haven't been many people in the boy's life to treat him with actual respect, and it costs him nothing to give.]

[what should be taken as respect seems to only be read as patronizing, as a brief flash of anger crosses Coil's face. before the abrupt end of the fight, he'd at least been holding onto some hope that the match could be dragged out, without some obvious way to keep track of time around them. he hadn't guessed that his opponent basically had a clock in his head.

not winded but at least breathing heavy, and perspiring from the exertion, he can't hide the fact that he's tired now. but, it's apparently still not good enough.

another huff of frustrated breath, and he motions for the man to come at him again. forget his earlier agreement. just a little bit more.]

[He shakes his head.]

I understand wanting to fight your way into exhaustion [he doesn't add, with someone who'll beat you bloody, but he's thinking it.] but I'm not going to be that guy for you. I'm sorry.